Thursday, 30 May 2019

The Canning Manoeuvre

What can one make of the EU elections this week? Brexiters will rejoice that the Brexit Party won most seats. Remainers are quick to point out that Remain parties combined received more votes than the Brexit Party and UKIP combined. Nigel Farage insists that the Tory votes should be added to his column, because they are a Leave party, and this gives Brexit a win. But as someone who believes that the only democratic means of overturning the 2016 referendum is through a further referendum, I'd argue that these results should be viewed  through a Brexit v Referendum prism, and that Labour votes should be added to the latter group, giving Peoples Vote supporters the win.

Politically, the UK is a mess. Whoever takes the job on from Theresa May will inherit a can of Brexit, well beyond its best before date, and bruised from repeated kicking down the road. There are, as I see it, six potential options open to the new PM. It's essentially a Brexit edition revolver and the game - appropriately enough, given the various suggestions of foreign interference - is Russian Roulette. What should worry the incoming PM most, is that there is the distinct possibility that every chamber contains a live round.

The Withdrawal Agreement

Tory leadership candidates are shouting rather loudly that they'd renegotiate the WA. Alas, the current extension that the government signed up to expressly excludes any possibility of doing so and it is difficult to see the EU even entertaining the idea. A new PM could, however, simply try what May tried and failed to do three times and try his or her luck. Obtain a non-binding letter of intent from the EU, rebrand the WA as 'bold', 'dashing', 'brave' or 'adventurous' and bring it before parliament a fourth time. I suspect that the ERG and DUP will brand it as 'bananas'. It ultimately cost May her job. But hey - you don't know till you try...

General Election

Current polling suggests that a Tory PM calling a General Election anytime soon would effectively be handing in their notice of resignation. But what boost will a leadership change provide the Tories as far as the polls are concerned? If there is a significant lift in the numbers, might the new leader chance his or her arm and seek a fresh mandate to force through the Brexit of his or her choice? Risky? Yes, very...

Second Referendum

It's poisonous to both parties. But of all the available options, it's the one most likely to break the deadlock. It's the most democratic option. Long term, it's probably the least damaging option for the Tories. But the resistance to it from within the Conservative party would be huge, and the risk of being deposed by a flurry of letters sent to the 1922 Committee is high.

No Deal

If the three options above are too upalatable, or fail, then the new leader would be expected by the hardcore Brexiter group within the party to go for a No Deal exit. He or she might try. But the most likely outcome would be a vote of no confidence in the government being put forward and passed by parliament, prompting a General Election. An election that, for the Tories, would come off the back of a humiliating defeat rather than a positive bump in the polls.


It's unthinkable, isn't it? The new Conservative Party leader taking to the podium outside No10 to announce that the government is to revoke Article 50? It remains an option, but one I could only envisage occurring in the event of a very serious international incident. Serious enough to put Brexit on a back burner for another day.

Further Extension

You know what options 1, 2 and 3 all need? Time. A further extension is the most logical course of action. The reality of the situation demands it. Alas, reality and the ERG are not happy bedfellows. The opposition would make the most of it. And for any candidate elected to the role of PM on the basis of a pledge of  'Deal or No Deal, we leave in October', his or her position becomes a little untenable. Does it not?

Theresa May pushed for a couple of those options, flirted with a couple more, but settled for two Article 50 extensions. I expect the next PM to do the same. But without the benefit of the originally specified two year period of negotiation at the point of triggering Article 50, without even the possibility of renegotiation and in a political environment that is becoming more hostile by the day. It takes a very special kind of fool to even contemplate taking the job on, to be frank. Each of those possible courses of action could well lead to an early exit from No 10 for the new PM.

One of the above must come to pass. On which should a betting man put his money? Extension, of course. But there's a more interesting bet to be had that brings the title of the post into the conversation. George Canning became the British Prime Minister in 1827, at a time when the Tory Party was split between moderates and ultras, with members frequently switching allegiances to other parties. Canning himself was a leading opponent of the Concert of Europe, proving that continental scepticism is not a new fangled idea.

But the most interesting detail about Canning's time in No 10 was the length of his term in office. He took the job in April but was out in August, just 119 days later. No PM has 'enjoyed' a shorter tenure in the top job. His departure was not prompted by a vote of no confidence by parliamentarians who questioned his ability to do the job. It was necessitated by Death, who decided he had no further confidence in Canning's ability to continue breathing, and took the appropriate action.

Canning's 119 day record could well be under threat. With a timeframe of just a few months between a June/July accession and the expiry of the Article 50 extension on October 31st, the new PM might find his days are numbered when they're still in double digits. What are the odds? I do not know. But I imagine they are rapidly decreasing.

Thursday, 23 May 2019

Queen Mother

Given that it seemed like the Queen Mother lived for all eternity, it somewhat surprised me to find she's been dead for more than fifteen years. I only remember the last couple of decades of her life, when she closely resembled a breathing corpse. She would be trundled out on her walking frame to be waved at by an adoring crowd, before being trundled away again. Quite often to hospital to have a fish bone removed from her throat.

This statue is a recent creation, on display in Poundbury, Dorset. The Queen herself came on her Royal Train for the grand ceremony. Made from a fairly solid chunk of stone or metal, this Queen Mother may well survive for all eternity. Or at least, until the revolution...

EU Elections 2019

I'll vote in a few hours, probably Lib Dem, but possibly Green. And not simply because I believe that the UK should remain in the EU. Even if I were convinced that the UK would be better off outside the EU, I wouldn't vote for the Brexit Party. Or UKIP. Or the Tory party, while it's infected with a hardcore cadre of right wing infants.
I wouldn’t vote for them because I’m not a bigot. I wouldn’t vote for them because I fundamentally oppose fascism. I wouldn’t vote for them because I refuse to put my name to or in anyway support a group of people or an ideology that promotes hatred, violence and casual discrimination.
Politics might well be broken. But the likes of Farage, Rees-Mogg and company have more to do with the cause than with the solution. Their campaign of populist nationalism, entwined as it is with the creep of fascism throughout Europe, should be abhorred and opposed. Not given a thumbs up at the ballot box. No matter what anyone should think of the EU.
At every turn, the Leave side have lied. Money for the NHS? Sunlit uplands? Easiest deal in history? German car industry to the rescue! Global Britain. The Norway option. And then there were the ridiculous untruths spread about what the EU is and how it works. How gullible does one have to be to continue to swallow their guff? 
Fascism is a strong word. If one is minded to believe it neither exists nor matters until tanks have rolled into Poland, then one is not paying attention. It can arrive in sharply pressed uniforms with supporting troops of brown jackets. It can equally come dressed in tweed and bigged up by thugs in yellow vests.
Farage is a pound shop populist. The language and imagery he uses are unmistakable. The company he keeps tells its own story. The origin of his ideology has a documented history. If you remove the pretence of his oratory, what are you left with? I present as evidence, UKIP. A party that embraces the likes of Tommy Robinson into its ranks, albeit informally.
A vote for either Farage or UKIP is tacit approval of bigotry, discrimination, the deliberate dereliction of the vulnerable, the suppression of minorities and a future UK that no one should be proud of. Vote. Everyone should vote. But do think about exactly what it is you want to vote for.

Tuesday, 14 May 2019

Lost and Found

I have recovered another batch of photos from a recently rediscovered set of CDs that I'd long assumed were lost. This set featured three photos from our flat in Mexico City, which brought back memories. The remaining hundred or so photos were from a trip Mrs P and I made to see her family in Milwaukee. With a day trip to Chicago thrown in. The year? Twas 2005, a few months after I moved to Mexico.

The photo I've chosen was for more than a decade my most viewed image on Flickr. For a while it was used by Wikipedia, and can still be found on dozens of other websites. And it was published in a book about the architect Frank Lloyd Wright. It's hardly the greatest photo I've ever taken, but it is the most successful. For much of the last decade, I've had only a 640 pixel copy of it. Now I have the full size original again. Which is nice.

Wednesday, 8 May 2019

Egypt 2001

I visited Cairo in 2001. It seems a long time ago. It was a long time ago. The world has changed hugely since then. Shortly after a visit to the pyramids of Giza where this photo was taken, I learned that Timothy McVeigh had been put to death whilst I relaxed beside the hotel pool. One associated terrorism with white christian males back then. Either of the US far-right variety, or the Irish unionist/republican kind. 

That said, there has been an horrific Islamic terror attack on tourists at Luxor four years earlier which left over sixty people dead. But this was before 9/11, which changed everything. Anything before 9/11 was a 'one off' tragedy. The Arab Spring that rose up a decade later did the tourism industry of the Middle East additional harm. I visited Cairo at a good time. A simpler time. 

I took this photo with a 3.3mp Nikon  Coolpix 880. It was a great little camera that cost me a small fortune. I was impressed with the photos I came back from Egypt with. Sure, low light shots in the museums were a little blurry and grainy, but the ones taken outdoors were sharp and vibrant. They printed out onto A3 paper just fine. 

I recently found the CD I had the photos backed up on. I hadn't seen it for years. I wasn't sure I even had it anymore. I'm glad I found it, because my digital copies are all at small resolutions. I transferred them to my iMac and processed them. I learned that while the photos looked great on my old HD laptops, they do not look so great on a 27" screen with 4k resolution. Far from it. This made me a little sad. Still. The Nikon 880 was a great camera, back in 2001.

Tuesday, 7 May 2019

Lordification of Kings Cross

London has changed aplenty during my lifetime. Parts of the capital have been utterly transformed. Mostly for the better? That depends on who you ask and which part of the city you are referring to. It's a big place. Great swathes of the centre have undergone a process known as gentrification. Balham in the south, for example, where I lived in the late 1980s. And its neighbour Brixton. When I was in residence, if being kind, one would have described Balham as having character. 

If pushed, but remaining diplomatic, one would have described it as gritty. Between friends, one would have labelled it with more vulgar Trumpian language. As for Brixton, for most of the last two decades of the 20th century, the area was still best known for some of the the worst rioting London had ever seen. But times change. They have become smart, trendy places with a vibrant cultural  scene and skyrocketing property prices.
Then there's Kings Cross, the raison d'etre of this post, and a 'hood that Mrs P and I visited at the weekend. Twenty years ago, visitors to Kings Cross arrived for one of three purposes. To catch a train from either Kings Cross or St Pancras to elsewhere in the country. To engage the services of a cheap street hooker. Or to consume ecstacy and other illicit drugs whilst raving the night away at Bagleys, a night club set up in one of the disused railway warehouses. 

Nowadays, one can catch trains not only to elsewhere in the country, but to the continent too, courtesy of the Eurostar services. The unwashed ladies of the night have been banished from the streets, replaced by expensive escorts advertising their wares online. The last of the nightclubs shut down in 2007, as the grand redevelopment project began.The huge Grade II listed gasholders? They've been given a lick of paint and filled with pricey flats.

And, of course, there's a substantial area set aside for retail outlets and dining options in this prestigious N1 postcode zone. Granary Square opened a few years ago. Coal Drops Yard opened recently. The redevelopment is a clever use of modern design and planning to retain much of the old historic brick built warehouses alongside the new constructions and keep the industrial atmosphere alive and kicking into the 21st century. 

Unlike other gentrified parts of London, the shops and restaurants you'll find here will not include the likes of Prezzos, Olivier Bonas or Waterstones. Nor will you find any quirky, arty independent stores selling cheap tat. There is a Waitrose. Naturally. Granary Square and Coal Drops Yard are filled with high end stores selling high end goods at prices that only the nobility of the land could possible afford. Aesop sell a range of skin care products that will make your eyes water. A kitchenware store stocked a vast array of lethally sharp, ornate knifes, meat cleavers and axes. The display would make a murderous Saudi jihadi giddy.

A luxury chocolatier sells the most exquisite bars and jars of the good stuff. But what might cost £1 elsewhere costs 10£ here. Perhaps a scientific consumer study has shown that the incorrect positioning of the pound sign will make the price easier to swallow. I settled for a free sample. That went down nicely. Next door is a homeware store that sells the most fabulous set of copper light shades, polished so thoroughly that you can see your reflection in them. If that reflection displays anything other than a gentleman in top hat and waistcoat with a man servant by his side, then you can't afford them. Sorry. Welcome to the Lordification of London. Gentrification is just so last decade...

The dining options we looked at, however, were priced with the clear intent of appealing to a wider economic range of  clientele. We chose a suitable establishment, took our seats and prepared for a pleasant Sunday afternoon feast. With the date being 5th of May, there was only one establishment that we would consider suitable. A Mexican. To our delight, it turned out to be an authentic Mexican restaurant, selling barbecoa rather than burritos. With a mariachi band. An all female band, which was something of a novelty. The food was good. Very good. We'll go again.

Monday, 6 May 2019

London in Colour

If I have a complaint about London, it is that it sometimes lacks colour. Especially in winter. The skies are grey. The buildings are, more often than not, white or a pollutant inspired shade of grey. There are exceptions. The red bricked buildings of Kensington spring to mind. And now there is this marvellous creation near Kings Cross station. It's wonderful. I love it. We need more of this in our lives.

Thursday, 2 May 2019


This week I have ticked off an item on my bucket list. It’s not a terribly long bucket list. And truth be told, my bucket list is much like the British constitution - unwritten and largely made up as one goes along. Items are added and removed at the whim of the part of my brain responsible for remembering such trivialities. Anyway, I’ve always thought of bucket lists as the sort of thing for people who’ve just had a spot of bad news from their doctor and have an unexpectedly sudden and urgent need to get on with the fun things in life. I’m in good health, as far as I’m aware, so there’s no need to jot down a definitive list with pen and paper just yet.

But there are a few items worthy of inclusion on this notional list of mine. It contains the sort of things that I’d really quite like to do but are a bit of an aggravation to get done. Which is largely why they tend not to get done. But this week I’ve shown a little bit more determination. I went to see a session of snooker at the World Championships in Sheffield.

Where’s the aggro in this, you you might ask? Well, getting a ticket for one. You have to buy it a year in advance, and to be quick about it. Snooker has a small but mightily enthusiastic bunch of followers and the venue for the three week tournament holds less than a thousand spectators. If you snooze, you lose. Then there is the getting there and back, which involves a ten hour round trip on the train from Bournemouth to Sheffield. And how many people would wish to spend ten hours on a train in a single day? Actually, you’d be surprised - there’s plenty. But I’m not one of them. Which is perhaps why the years of intending to go have turned into decades of ‘not going’.

Nonetheless, this year I got it done. At a cost of about £100 all in, and with enough sitting down to provide my derrière with a taste of the rigor mortis that will eventually come when I do have that disappointing news from my doctor. I took my seat at the Crucible theatre to watch two grown men bash 21 coloured balls around a green clothed table with a pair of think sticks. Except....I didn’t. I sat down to watch the back of a giant man’s fat, view-blocking head. Behind which, out of sight, a game of snooker took place.

Sadly the greatest aggravation about the whole trip was something I hadn’t given any thought to at all. But even if I had, what could I possibly have done about it? I can choose my seat. But I can’t choose who gets to sit in the seats in front of me. Oh, how I yearned for the good old days, when I lived in Mexico and was guaranteed an excellent view over the sea of three foot tall munchkins between me and the stage.

One would really think in this day and age, at a time when passports are being rendered obsolete by facial recognition technology, that there would be a better way to fill a theatre. Something akin to a human version of the coin sorting machines at a supermarket, where you pour a jar of assorted change that you've been collecting into a slot, to exchange for a shopping voucher.

I'm envisioning a scanner at the front doors. Something that sizes everyone up as they enter. Casting a suspicious electronic eye over the punters. And then feeds the results into some clever software to allocate seats according to each persons physical proportions, and charges supplements as necessary. Mr Gigantor? Row Z, seat 56. Mrs Fatty McTwopies? We've got seats with extra width over there in Row H. Yes, they are twice the price, but you are bringing double the arse to the party, aren't you. 

Ah, you there sir. With the bald head. We're just going to move you a couple of seats along, away from the overhead light. There's a good chap. We don't want everyone blinded by the reflection. If the system were really clever, it could even weed out those persons whose 'tickly cough' sounds more likely to be late stage emphysema, and find them a seat in the basement.

There's only one downside to this cunning plan. At six foot three inches, my lofty frame will be sent to the back row every time. But if that is the price to be paid to be able to see anything at all, it's a price worth paying. I look forward to the day when everyone is allocated the seats they need, rather than the seats they want. Bring on the revolution. 

As for my rather lengthy day trip. Sheffield was quite pleasant. There's a nice shop selling Portuguese pastries. I saw Steve Davis and Stephen Hendry in the Winter Gardens. I watched, as best I could, Judd Trump demolish Stephen Maguire in double quick time. So quick, the partition was lifted so that I could enjoy the remaining three frames of the session on the far table between John Higgins and Neil Robertson. Will I return? I'd like to. The Crucible is a special place for a snooker fan. But there is no longer a bucket list obligation to do so.

Hotel Deals