Last time I promised you my review of the remainder of the Rotherweird trilogy, by QC and fantasy writer Andrew Caldecott. So I’ll begin with that, and then see how you like the segue into my catch-up on Covid-19 and our illustrious Government’s part in its downfall.
I’m tired. You’re tired. We’re all tired. Sick and tired of the three years and counting of Brexit. Fed up. Almost screaming to escape from backstops, blame games, borders (hard or otherwise), Boris, and Brussels.
Several times in the past week I’ve tried to write this post. Each time, events have roared past me. For a week I’ve been waiting for the dust to settle.
On Wednesday last week I met my fellow committee members of Malvern4Europe. We decided on wording for a new leaflet campaign, and resolved to crank up the frequency of our popular street stalls to every Saturday. That night I went home to hear the news that the new Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, had announced he was proroguing Parliament, to deaden debate and force through a No Deal Brexit on 31 October. Our leaflet went on hold, while we prioritised more urgent action to protest this undemocratic and unconstitutional diktat.
So then I wanted to share with you the noise and camaraderie of the flash #StopTheCoup march in
Malvern on Thursday evening, when hundreds of local people turned out on word-of-mouth notice to protest the Government’s actions. This whole thing was now bigger than Brexit – nothing less than a fight to the death for our Parliamentary democracy.
On Saturday there was our wonderfully successful street stall outside the Great Malvern post office, when over 95% of the people we polled rejected Johnson’s right to prorogue, and demanded a second referendum. Blog time.
But before I could settle to write that post, word began to filter through that a widening group of Remain parties and Conservative MPs – the Rebel Alliance – were working together to table a motion preventing prorogation on Tuesday, to be followed if successful by another on Wednesday to rule out No Deal Brexit at the end of October. The PM would be obliged to request a further extension to Article 50, unless he could pull of the legerdemain of negotiating an acceptable deal. This seemed very unlikely, given no-one was actually negotiating with Europe anyway.
No point in blogging, I thought, till I knew what would happen in Parliament on Tuesday. I then spent the entire afternoon and evening doing something totally unprecedented: glued to BBC Parliament TV coverage, wine glass in one hand, order paper in the other. We screamed and shouted and groaned, and by the end we knew Parliament had finally taken back control. We watched, fascinated, as Boris Johnson popped up and down at the dispatch box like a manic Tweedledee, aided by the arrogant sleeping Caterpillar, Jacob Rees-Mogg.
Since then, the dizzying avalanche of news has continued: Boris Johnson reeling as he loses three votes in the Commons; Jacob Rees-Mogg revealing how literally laid-back and reptilian he is; Dr Philip Lee, Tory MP, crossing the floor in the most dramatic way
to join the LibDems; Johnson sacking 21 senior Tory rebels, including two former Chancellors and the grandson of his hero Winston Churchill, thereby smashing his own majority into splinters; and today maybe the biggest shock of all – Johnson’s own brother Jo resigning from Government and party.
Add into the mix, somehow, the news that Theresa May’s much-hated deal has apparently been resurrected, and like the ghost of Banquo has materialised to join in the feast of delights that Parliament has become.
And now the prospect of a snap election draws closer.
So the right time for a considered reflective blog won’t happen anytime soon, and this is all I can offer for now. The dust cloud hasn’t settled, but instead risen into a raging hurricane. I sincerely hope it will be less damaging than Dorian; but right now we’re all up in the air, being whirled around by the tempest that is British politics.
All I can say for sure at the moment is: we’re not in Kansas anymore.
I’ve come a long way from the Malverns to conduct a bloodbath. My home for this week is the The Court in the tiny village of Sheepwash, Devon. Lovely hosts Debbie and Wendy run Retreats for You in this beautiful sixteenth century townhouse, mainly for writers, but anyone in need of utter peace can enjoy their splendid hospitality and the deep rural peace here.
The turkey’s all eaten, the Christmas decorations packed away in the loft, and 2016 securely seen out amidst much maudlin remembering of auld acquaintance.
Goodbye 2016, hello 2017. It’s New Year, the annual opportunity to turn over a new leaf and generally plan to live a fitter, happier and more productive life.
New Year, New Me. Time to change my life.
I’ll lose those twenty pounds, take up virtual boxing, learn Vietnamese, and create tofu cuisine. Just like January 1st last year, when I committed to learn German, enrol in spinning classes, eat more mackerel … and, er, lose those twenty pounds. Continue reading “Banish the New Year resolutions!”→