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Bum Vote

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Defiling my Twitter feed this morning was the news that The Sun thought it a good editorial decision to run a front page frothing at the mouth about M&S deciding to change all of their Percy Pig sweets to vegetarian-friendly ones.  I suppose in one respect it was, because here I am, sat typing about it.  According to the BBC website, which is also allowing this story (I use the term loosely) to take up space on their webpage, people are complaining about it not being ‘normal food.’

I am not a vegetarian.  But first, what is the issue with changing from one product that includes gelatin from the boiled bones of pigs (which cannot be particularly good for anybody – especially the pig) that does not include this product?  Anyone?  Anyone at all?

Secondly, and I have to ask, because I have been wondering all morning – do they really not have anything more important to worry about? Because if they are that upset about a pink sweet, then where do you have left to go when something really important happens?  I cannot help but wonder if this is story was somehow a crass right-wing segway into trying to make this into an issue of sovereignty – damned EU, telling us we can’t have goo from boiled pig bones in our sweets.

So tomorrow, I hope that we are all off to vote.  And voting, no doubt, around the issue of what we consider to be sovereignty.  Females and people who haven’t voted before, I am talking specifically to you.  Women, because look at what the second female PM this country has done for feminism (yes, that’s right, nothing), and people who haven’t voted before, because your voice is every bit as important as those of us who have been trooping off to put crosses in boxes as soon as the law said we could.  And in three week’s time, we get another go.

Now, probably like you, I have been pondering as to how best to use my vote.  There are a number of messages I want to send, and given that nothing else seems to have worked on Prime Minister Tin Ears, this is an important opportunity for all of us.  Before she is removed in a second vote by her party.  I think it is important to note here that according to the government it is entirely democratic for the Conservative Party to vote on the same issue twice, and for Parliament to vote three or even four or five times on precisely the same thing, but undemocratic for the Electorate to vote on something that is an entirely different animal from the one presented three years ago.  I wish someone could explain that to me. I have asked my local MP to explain it to me – he either can’t or doesn’t want to.  Short words are fine.  I will try and understand.

The first message I want to send, because I am a Remainer, is to vote for someone who has unequivocally set their stall out to Remain.  Not “ it depends what our party gets out of it”, “can I keep my job if I do?”, “how much money can we have?” or “we’ll see”.  No ifs, not buts.  Remain. You may not feel the same and wish to vote in entirely the opposite way – absolutely fine with me.  However, I should warn you that if you think JRM and Bojo are destined for things higher than Strictly and you have a Nigel Farage calendar in your kitchen, then we are never going to be friends. 

The second message is for those currently in parliament, or more specifically, government, which is: “wtf?”  Not erudite, not clever, but I’m not sure how best else to describe the unfathomable shit storm that we have all watched in wide-eyed horror for the last three years.

Thirdly, a final point which I feel has been somewhat overlooked is the thing that John Lennon said about life happening whilst you were busy making other plans.  Apparently we, the Human Race, have twelve years. Twelve years before the natural world is in an irreversible decline. Sir David Attenborough phrased it much better, and I am sure he would never use such language, but I took twelve years to mean “by 2031, we’re fucked, people.”

It is symptomatic of the staggering and continuing arrogance of the Human Race that we think all of the nonsense that I have just spouted about is even vaguely important whilst our world is dying around us.  It’s not even a matter of a world we will be giving to our children – twelve years.  I’ve been married to the Man of the House longer than that.  Poor chap.  And it is us who are in trouble. The Earth will be okay until the end of time, which is actually a thing (as explained by Professor Brian Cox).   Nature doesn’t care about all the crap that humans concern themselves with and when it comes down to it, really comes down to it, neither should the humans.  And we’re coming down to it. Nature doesn’t care about the humans either, or the animals, or the environment.  Because it adapts to survive.  And survive it will. Charles Darwin taught us that. However, if I could make an appeal to your better nature; just because it doesn’t care about us, it does not mean that we shouldn’t care about it. Or the animals, or the environment, or goodness me, each other. That is, after all, what makes us human.

Finally, if that doesn’t appeal to your better nature, because you don’t have one, it is also entirely acceptable for you to cast a shameless vote to save your own arse instead.

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Chicken Run

eggs in tray on white surface
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For those of you who read my blog regularly you will know that my family and I keep chickens. I came quite literally face to face with my nemesis the other week. No, not my mother. A fox. As I came back from walking the Hound I encountered some feathers in the road. Not those of Speckled Jim, but feathers which looked very much like they had previously been attached to one of our speckled chickens. As I walked further up the hill I saw a bushy, black-tipped tail above the brow of a low hedge in our garden. I chased up the garden and the tail picked up speed to a light trot. I surmised that Mr Fox was still in the vicinity and his name was not Basil. I got to the top of the garden and Definitely Not Called Basil had reached the brow of the hill ahead of me. He stopped, turned, looked at me and then slowly walked away. If he could have flipped me the bird, he would have done.

At this point some of you may be wondering why I didn’t unleash the Hound. Those of you who have met the Hound will not be wondering. So for the benefit of those of you who have not been brought a shoe on arrival at my house, the Hound thinks he’s a chihuahua and is no match for a dog fox Definitely Not Called Basil.

So then began the grizzly and unpleasant job of securing the crime scene. As far as the Childerbeasts were concerned, we had six chickens in the morning and only two in the evening. That caused enough upset. The reality was rather more unpleasant. I found one headless body not far from the house, and whilst I was locating suspicious piles of feathers and trying to coax anyone hiding back out with some corn, my neighbour came round to let me know that she too had located an equally suspicious pile of feathers on her front door step. As her chickens were in, she had reached the inevitable conclusion.

Whilst I was in the garden with my neighbour, Definitely Not Called Basil, brazen bastard that he is, came back. His paw stopped mid-air as our eyes locked and in that moment we assessed eachother. He wisely concluded that he did not want to take me on and retreated.

After an hideous evening with lots of tears shed by the Childerbeasts, Man of the House spent an entire weekend trying to create a secure area for the chickens. We agreed that it would be unwise to create a buffet arrangement in that Definitely Not Called Basil could get in but the chickens could not get out. One of his suggestions was to put an electric fence around our entire garden. Tempting as that was to deter some visitors, I was not keen. Another would have looked like Colditz which might be considered a little too elaborate. So we have settled on some fencing. The enclosure is close to, and in the sight of, the house. And four new chickens have joined the two who came home on the evening of that fateful day.

However, the two who came home keep getting out. They jump onto a wall, sneak under the hedge and into the woods beyond. In order to try and limit the future carnage, I have put some canes across the top of the wall with some bunting to encourage the two escapees to stay in the enclosure near to the house. The bunting I have chosen is all twenty eight flags of the European Union. We have been having much Fun with Flags and they have been re-arranged several times to try and encourage the two chickens who insist on escaping, to remain. I am not suggesting that the other four will not be literally snapped up at any point, but the enclosure was made with their longevity in mind and one hopes it provides a certain degree of protection. However, there are only so many times I can re-arrange the flags and chase two chickens around the garden with a stick and some corn to try and save them from themselves before they get devoured. Therefore, I must prepare for the inevitable, which in spite of the efforts of the adults in the house, will affect us all.

It is almost as it there is some sort of analogy that I could draw with current events, if only I could put my finger on what it is.