|
People no longer believe politicians because we always say what we don`t mean. The smaller the justification for war or the evidence about WMD, the louder it`s trumpeted. The more Gordon hates the Euro or Tony gets fed up with the EU, the more they proclaim their enthusiasm. The more lost the government is, the more frantic its proclamations of purpose.
The more authoritarian the Home Office, the more it cleaves to liberalism. It`s bemusing for we poor footsoldiers, let alone the public, but at least the messier things get, the more interesting our lives become.
Monday 9 June
Non Euro day. Gordon`s job was to kick the Euro into the long grass and smother it with warm words to save Tony from himself, since a referendum defeat will destroy him and us. Yet greater love hath no PM than that he lay down his life for his Euro. So Tony forced Gordon into leaving open the possibility of a referendum next year, achieving the worst of all worlds. The referendum won`t happen. Yet it keeps alive the hopes of Mandy (who sticks his tongue out at me in triumph, though it could be a sign of affection) and the Euro Loons. At the price of destabilising the party and sustaining uncertainty.
Friday 13 June
Carers` Forum in Grimsby. Shona can`t be there, Social Services won`t. So I`m left alone in front of an angry crowd of carers, all of whom feel cheated by the benefit system, the lack of respite care, the transport of children to college, the difficulty of collecting benefits and a host of other questions to which I have no answer. Except that we`re better than the Tories. Sadly, most seem to have forgotten who the Tories were. So I twist in the wind for two hours, until the chairman announces that “Austin`s happy to have another session in the near future”.
Arrive back home to find that thieves have stolen most of the huge, heavy flag stones from my yard. Ring the police. “Oh, that`s happening a lot. They do it to order”. “But what can be done about it?” “You could write your name on the flag stones in invisible ink” Contemplate dying the flags red and engraving my post code on them. But it`s too late. The flag stones are probably even now being craned into some celeb`s palace. In the south.
Monday 16 June
One of six judges of the UK Seafood Championships where colleges compete to cook the best fish dishes. Eight brilliant teams from all over the country prepare superb dishes and we judge them on quality, colour, mis en place, safety, cleanliness etc. Three of the judges are French who take it all obsessively, seriously, and yammer away in French all the time. I just eat. Delicious, but bang goes my Weightwatchers routine for another week.
Wednesday 18 June
The Great House of Commons` Cycle Ride from Regents Park. After three lectures on heart disease from doctors, none of whom are taking part, we set out in stately phalanx. No police escort this year. They can`t be spared from the massive effort of escorting Tony Blair the 100 yards from Downing Street to the Fun Factory each Wednesday. So peers, bishops and backbenchers trundle slowly south, stopping at every traffic light down Regent Street, to arrive sweating slightly but feeling virtuous.
Saturday 21 June
Great Morecambe Bay Walk. Cedric Robinson, the Queen`s Guide, gets a full £20 a year plus a house to guide whoever wants to cross over the quick sands, tide and river flows and sandbanks of Morcambe Bay. He tells me the local council tried to include the duty of cleaning the toilets on the privatised railway station at Kent`s Bank in his responsibilities. He declined this with an angry flush.
This year he celebrates forty years in the job with a mass crossing of several hundred, like Moses leading the chosen people, though, in fact, most were Lancastrians and looked like the entire membership of the Liberal Democrats. The crossing is something I`ve always wanted to do, having been brought up on holidays in Morecambe. The district was totally unprepared. The train from Kent`s Bank to Arnside was too crowded for anyone to collect fares. Shops in Arnside were shut. The open ones were short staffed, with a hundred yards queue for the ladies toilet.
The walk itself was marvellous: good weather and wonderful views, making a brilliant day spent barefoot wading through the tides and the river. As we tramp the eight miles Cedric reminisces about tractors disappearing in a mere ten minutes, but I remind him of the time Yorkshire TV had to tow an old rusty tractor out day after day before it finally slowly sank so we could create a drama about a farmer escaping the quicksands. Today no-one sinks. Not even the obnoxious children and dogs who I`d love to see sucked under.
Sunday 22 June
Mayor`s Sunday in Grimsby. The Chain Gang of Mayors from all over Lincolnshire assemble to give our new Mayor, Cllr. Peter Barker, a good send off. The High Sheriff arrives in full rig, though Linda keeps asking if he`s going to stop wearing women`s tights now that Tony Blair`s attacked them. He repulses her with real dignity.
Thanks to John Prescott`s careful solicitude for Labour Councils and his willingness to listen to the warnings I`ve given him for years about the impossible financial position he`s put North East Lincolnshire in, Labour has been swept ignominiously from power. The Tories are the largest single party, and the Liberals, who should be called new Labour because half their councillors were once ours, now rule. So all the old familiar faces are missing, Labour`s shifted its caucus room to a nearby telephone booth and it all feels very strange.
I`d assumed that the new coalition wouldn`t want me to give my usual two hour harangue on the miracles Tony Blair and Gordon Brown are performing. So I`d not prepared a speech, but find that I am expected to speak. Tell them how I`ve not been invited to any Grimsby schools since my spectacular triumph on University Challenge, and explain that since I haven`t got through to Alistair Campbell I can tell them we`re going to increase their taxes. Stunned silence until my toast: “John Prescott, the architect of victory” is received with loud acclamations. Lunch is followed by a rush of questions about when I`m going to retire. Proprietors of various retirement homes give me their cards as I go out.
Evening Take my daughter, Susan, out to dinner for her birthday. Grandson, Sykes (10) sits there reading the new Harry Potter and never says a word.
Tuesday 24 June
The Mike Maloney Challenge for Lords Allenby and Carter and MPs Dan Norris and David Wiltshire, plus me as photo-groupie. Mike Maloney, former Mirror Group Chief Photographer, takes out amateurs and coaches and challenges them through two intensive hours photography. Then does a critique of their efforts which are published in Amateur Photographer.
Black Rod and the Sergeant at Arms have kindly agreed to let five go mad in the Fun Factory up to 10 am. I sneak in after 6 am to get ahead of the game. Then from 8.00 am we shoot everything in sight. I had to wrestle with a heavy tripod (the tripod won 4 falls to 1) but managed to shoot four times as many (free) films as anyone else. Only to have most of them junked by Maloney who gave the accolade of best photographer (and gymnast) to Dan Norris. Sulk all the way home. I`ll bet Cartier Bresson was never treated like this.
Wednesday 25 June
To Peter Hain`s wedding party at the Welsh Office. Peter wears an elastoplast over his mouth and each guest gets a voucher guaranteeing no tax increase for five years, or the end of Blair. Whichever comes soonest.
No wonder we`re going to break for summer early. I can`t stand this excitement for too long. Five oppositions, twenty opposition leaders, and all on the Labour benches, not to mention the Tories who do better in the polls the more IDS does his M. Hulot routine and the Lib Dems who`re trying to make a new career out of liberalism and decency. That should finish them forever. |
