Not as funny as it used to be

Heading off to work this morning, I reflected on the fact that the world will end on Friday - not literally, obviously, or at least, not so as I know. What will happen is that the UK will leave the European Union, an organisation I have grown up with, studied in too much depth for sanity, learned to love as I came to understand its Genesis and gradual, tortured evolution and been so bored by that I have contemplated actions as extreme as actually doing some proper work while I was at university. The rights and wrongs of the momentous decision to leave the EU have been argued over for three years but, the visceral hatred of a certain neighbour of mine who blithely dragged us all into this rabbit hole of despair because he wanted to 'bring his party together' notwithstanding, it doesn't need to be argued over any more. The simple fact is that the UK is leaving the EU on Friday night.  My reflection was simply how I would mark this moment. "You stupid boy!" This

A friend of mine who is a gardener was bemoaning his workload to me and wondering how he was going to cope with the demands of the coming days. I mentioned that I was currently at something of a loose end and I could just about tell one end of a spade from the other (I would google it as soon as I got home) and he, perhaps rather foolishly, agreed to offer me some casual work. As a result of this chance meeting I appear to have become a gardener. Now when I use the title 'gardener', this suggests that I have some deep knowledge of greenery and a profound understanding of the land around me, which I do not.  I use this term to describe myself purely because I have done some gardening and therefore I can claim it in good faith. I have got the weals, bites and cuts to justify the title even if I remain a complete amateur.  I have cut stuff back, I have deadheaded roses, I have dug up roots, I have removed ivy, I have tussled with a bush whose name even now escapes me but it b

It's here again, the four yearly exercise in ambition, dreams, angst and eventual failure for anybody who takes an interest in English football.  I am a fairly poor fan, a former season ticket holder at Oxford United who nowadays seldom gets to a match but who talks a good game when required to in the pub and who follows their results with increasing surprise as they've turned into quite a formidable team.  The now obligatory affection for my team aside, as a resident of the central, south and eastern part of this island I am, of course, also a long-suffering follower of the most mercurial, frustrating, exhilarating team in the world,  the stuttering, infuriating but occasionally brilliant England. And it hurts. It hurts because England won the World Cup once. Because England have all the elements in place to be successful again: an established league system, a bunch of over-promoted, overpaid but also overly talented players, a football association equipped with the resour

My wife came into the front room brandishing a quiche which she held in front of me, declaring: "Look at that. That's a corker of a quiche, that is!" Now, don't get me wrong, it was clearly a very nice quiche - very colourful and clearly so full of healthy stuff that the loo is audibly quivering in anticipation - but how do you comment on that? How do you compare one quiche to another? I suppose there are some quiches which are poorly turned out. Should a feta quiche be inflicted upon you by someone who hates you, it will invariably be white, powdery and disappointing.  A Quiche Lorraine can be woefully devoid of bacon and thus ill-deserving the moniker. By contrast, a quiche may be too busy, as indeed my wife's chosen one was. It may taste wonderful but it may also just taste of loads of things which don't quite agree with each other. I don't know because I had already had my lunch. Plus, I can take or leave a quiche. I wonder if quiche rating is a

Waking up after election day always brings out mixed emotions for a Lib Dem.  We are conditioned to suffer, being in a small party which is perennially, depressingly squeezed between the two lumbering elephants of the Red-Blue coalition.   Our gains are normally moderate, our losses always seem worse but when those gains come they are the greatest of moments.   It is therefore such a joyous experience to have woken up this morning to see some really rather impressive results across England. Having been hammered in 2015, the Lib Dems have been fighting for survival.  That crushing defeat had one amazing outcome: membership of the party more than doubled within days as people angry at our treatment by the Reds and Blues decided to join up. This new membership effectively saved the Lib Dems and it has been so wonderful to see these new members falling into step next to those of us who've been  suffering  campaigning for decades.  What is so inspiring is that those thousands and th

For Mother’s Day, we (‘we’!) decided to visit a local National Trust property, a deer coursing lodge just over the border in Gloucestershire. The lodge was built in the 17th century for a clearly hideously rich man so that he could entertain guests with this sport, apparently a precursor to horse racing, being quite simply an opportunity to bet on one of two dogs chasing the unfortunate deer for a mile down a narrowing field. Interestingly, I learned that the deer usually survived, doubtless to be put through the same trauma again although on occasion it would become that evening’s dinner. The lodge was typically grand, kind of like a portable stately home with massive fireplaces, high ceilings and the kind of repulsive portraiture so beloved of monied people of old.  I once worked for an organisation which held meetings in a fancy chamber which had two vast Gainsboroughs displayed, allowing me ample time to peruse them and to conclude that they really were atrocious, with tin