Who wants to know?

The day we moved into this little cottage coincided with the 2011 census form falling on the new doormat. I opened and had a laugh as did many households. ‘Do you speak English?’ No, can you send me a form written in German? ‘This question is intentionally left blank’….One assumes they had forgotten the question they were intending to ask!

What I find quite confusing is the ethnic question. It seems one can no longer settle for being British. I have always been British and quite proud of it. The fact that I don’t live permanently in Britain is my choice. The fact that I don’t live in Britain also, I believe, exemplifies me from filling in the illiterate rubbish anyway. Am I breaking the law? Well catch me if you can, because if I don’t fill it in, you won’t know where I live!

 When it comes to Rugby, yes I support England because that is where I was born. But does that make me English? I don’t want to be English, I have met a lot of English people in France and I don’t like many of them. My grandmother was Welsh, does that make me Welsh? After all, my brother supports Wales in the 6 nations. But, on the whole, I dislike the Welsh as well. My surname, Frazier, suggests I am possibly from Scottish ancestry or perhaps French. My mother’s maiden name, McCormick, definitely originates from Southern Ireland. Do I have the right to decide what nationality I am? And if so, can I reserve my right not to tell anyone?

Because, to be frank, what the f**k does it have to do with them? I understand that the Doomsday book was necessary so that the new King on the block could work out exactly what it was he had just won. When tracing my own ancestors, I did refer to the 1881 census which fed me dome useful information, I agree. But if I fill in this one, I will give the government a bum steer because I am only living here for 2 months, I would rather be in France and I don’t want to be tagged by nationality or religion. Where is the question, ‘Do you like living in England?’ So I can answer ‘No, I think it is a shithole and the government are a bunch of overpaid tossers! They didn’t ask me that one, did they? Maybe that is the one that was intentionally left blank?

This is what I think will happen. This information will be used for the wrong reasons. Statistics will show that certain areas now have ethnic majorities and this will be used to fuel the uprising that is spreading from the middle east into some of our cities. Britain is sitting on an ethnic time-bomb and once all this information gets collated it will only help it tick a little faster. There, I have said what others dare not to and for that reason I am not about to tell anyone where I live.

Wellies on the ground floor

And so it is that we move house once again. This will be the 15^th house I have lived in. Most people live in two or possibly three all their lives. I suppose that classes me as some sort of nomad. It’s 3am. A cup of tea has calmed my nerves after waking in a cold sweat.

This is a tiny cottage by the river, idyllic you could say, nice and cozy for us two and the dogs. Walkies by the river, no less than 16 friendly pubs to drop into, a few nice bistros and a couple of Indian restaurants. It is also handy for the hospital where my poor sister still lies, allowing me continue my daily visits.

But here is the trap. The dogs are not allowed above the ground floor, we have signed a contract on their behalf to ensure this. I say we signed it, Wendy and I signed it, they didn’t. So poor Louis cannot understand why, after four years of access all areas, he is confined to the kitchen.

And the problem doesn’t stop there. You see this little cottage is in a small town called Bewdley and the little river outside the door is none other than the notorious River Severn. I say notorious, as many will recognise the name because every time we have a period of prolonged rain in middle England, the river Severn (to coin a cliché from the journalists here) bursts its banks, right outside our door. Fortunately, for the good people of Bewdley, flood defences were installed in this town a few years ago which now protect it from the worst of the carnage that flood water can bring. But that still relies on the council getting them in place, in time. My biggest worry is where do they get their weather forecast from? For instance, do they sit and watch “hopeless the weathergirl” blather on in her dimwit way on channel 4 each evening? Or do they get their information from the met-office, you know that over paid bunch of tossers who occasionally look out of the window to tell us its raining. The ones who couldn’t forecast a barn door banging in a gale. Possibly the council use a crystal ball or a time machine to make their predictions? It is all a worry.

Thankfully, this is a three story cottage, so we would expect to be reasonably safe were it that Noah was summoned to the fore at a moments notice. But what about those poor dogs, the ones we signed a contract for?

Let the nightmares begin. All last night I endured that recurring one where I wake up and see two defenceless pooches floating down the high street still asleep in their beds. Perhaps I should complain to the RSPCA? Or at least buy them some wellies and waterwings.

Good honest rant

Anyone who has been to Worcester lately will know, to their detriment, that there is maintenance being done on Holt Fleet bridge at present. So could someone please explain to me why the two traffic lights, one at either end of the bridge, require to be ‘manned’. When I say manned, I mean overseen by a rather unintelligent and bored looking chap watching the queuing vehicles, wearing a hard hat. A hard hat when he is nowhere near the building site? For what purpose exactly? Perhaps it is in case the traffic light falls on his head? Maybe a plane passing overhead might inadvertently drop a wheel or a peanut from the sky? No, we all know the real reason? It is yet another example of health and safety taken to a ridiculous level. The man is employed by building firm, hard hat compulsory, despite him being in no danger whatsoever, these are rules, black and white. Except, of course, if he wishes to wear a turban instead like one of his colleagues. But that is another issue entirely.

While on the subject of mysteries, could anyone enlighten me about the road sign at the entrance to the Birmingham hospital. It reads: ‘No entry, except for access.’ Why else would anyone want to enter if not for access? Access to what? Perhaps I would like to enter, do a little dance in the middle of the road again, and then leave without actually accessing the hospital? At least it is written in English, unlike some of the other signs around that district. Oops, there goes my xenophobic streak again.

I have very little interest in football and even less understanding of the game. However, it seems that the thuggish image it portrays has yet reached another highlight. I open the paper to see Wayne Crooney (names changed to protect the ..etc) has recently punched someone in the face, only to be allowed to play in a match the next day, unpunished. Even more of a dismay, one of the players on the apposing side has recently shot someone with an air rifle. The fact that the team is owned by a Mafia don has either gone unnoticed by the press or they are too afraid to make the connection. What next? The prevalent use of flick-knives for all premiership strikers to be sanctioned by the FA? Perhaps the goalie should be armed with an AK47? Is it any wonder that there is so much violence on the streets? As said, I have little knowledge of the game but did hear a rather amusing joke on the subject, possibly made by a rugby fan: When Ashley Cole shot that student with an air rifle, Didier Drodber rolled around on the ground pretending to be injured. I guess to some this may be funny although somewhat lost on me!

I couldn’t rant this month without a mention of that good old dictator, Colonel Mu-ammar Gadaffi. Possibly, by the time this goes to print, he may be no longer with us, in fact by the time I finish this sentence he could well have been terminated! He makes speeches saying: “my people love me….!” Ahem, and which people are these exactly? The ones he has ordered his army to shoot at per chance. The ones who are fleeing the country? The ones who are rioting to depose him after 40 years of oppression? And to think that after the carnage of the Lockerbie aircraft bombings we, the UK, has since been doing business with this maniac? My online blog carries the heading that “the lunatics have taken over the asylum..!”. I usually proffer this line somewhat tongue-in-cheek but this man really is one lunatic too many. Maybe we should send one of our football players to sort him out!

Having written this column for just over two years now, it would be remiss of me not to mention the annual battle of rugby that our nation has with the French this time of year, the result being 2 wins to one in our favour during that time. Shame I wasn’t in France this year on that winning occasion to wind up my neighbours once more. It is normally the only day of the year when the St Georges flag flies at chez nous and, dammit, I missed it!

Talking of rugby, the flags are still flying half mast in that home of the game, Christchurch, New Zealand. Having visited the city some years ago, with another trip planned this autumn, it was shocking to see footage of buildings and the cathedral falling to the ground. Thankfully, the few friends I have over there are all OK, but it certainly has rocked the country emotionally as well as physically. My heart goes out to those with friends and relatives caught up in the disaster. It is still our intention to go there in September, albeit the rugby games we were going to watch may be rescheduled elsewhere.

I was in France briefly this month to sort of some business. While checking on the sheep, I discovered that our head count has increased by one. A wandering minstrel of a ram has taken up residence amongst our flock, but from whenst he came I have no idea as there are no other sheep around us for miles. I considered keeping him but then, as I listened, I heard the very faint sound of a guillotine being sharpened in the village. Seemingly the death penalty is still in force for sheep rustling in France, especially if you are English, and particularly if your nation has just beaten the home nation at their national sport. So, in by best French, I declared the beast to the local Marie in some sort of bizarre French amnesty. The poor chap was quite confused as I attempted to describe to the creature in a combination of pigeon-French and sign language. “Un grand mouton monsieur” said I, waving my arms, “avec les grand ballons..!” I think he considered phoning me a doctor!

Someone the other day described my rantings as a bit “Clarksonesque”, another of those new adjectives that never found its way in Samuel Johnson’s original Oxford dictionary. I am not sure if this was a compliment or an insult but I was hasty to point out the difference between the great J Clarkson and myself. He is a foot taller than me for one thing. He is also infinitely more wealthy, witty and famous. On the other hand, I do have a little more chance of avoiding slander and libel cases than he does.  For instance, if I was to say that all Mexicans are lazy good-for-nothing so-and-so’s with droopy moustaches or what ever accusation he made on Top Gear, I would be far less lightly to be taken to task by the Mexican government for mentioning it in R&DN. I will not, of course, make those accusations at all. I met a Mexican once, he was a nice chap. Or was he Brazilian? Definitely from one of those peasant filled South American bandit countries anyway.

But herein hangs a point. TV and radio gets scrutinised by all and sundry and the BBC is forced to adhere to something near the truth. Whereas the press…well don’t get me started. How can they continually get away with printing blatant lies and half-truths just to sell newspapers, with no recompense whatsoever? I actually have adopted the attitude of believing the opposite of whatever I read in daily print to be the truth. With the exception of this quality magazine, obviously.

Anyway, I digress. This week, on a trip back from London, I encountered my first four pound sandwich. That’s a heavy meal, I hear you say. But no, this was not in weight but in money. Yes, the meagre sandwich has finally reached the four quid threshold. So it was, and this is where I feel I can name and shame, unlike the great JC, that I pulled into a service station called Welcome Break. Is it any wonder I was ‘Welcome’ when they charge prices like that? And ‘broke’ I surely would be if I visited them too frequently. So let’s make a quick analysis here. Two slices of bread – 10p, a slice of dry cooked chicken – 5p, some lettuce and mayo – 2p. Total cost less than 20p? And packaging, you say? Well I don’t want the packaging thanks, I can’t eat that. Or maybe it tastes as good as the product inside?  What I found really preposterous was that the company who makes said sandwich has the slogan “Good Honest Food!” What the..?  Where is the honesty in charging four quid for a sarnie? How honest is making 2000% profit in this day an age? Yes it had travelled all the way from Cornwall. Bully for it. It could have travelled by first class rail with its own private carriage complete with hand-maidens and en-suite butter-bath and still been cheaper! It is nothing short of an outrage. When cigarettes reached the one pound per pack threshold, I gave them up. Should I now consider giving up sandwiches too? Or at the very least I should revert to rolling my own.

Don’t commandeer the common deer

What on earth does the government think its doing selling off our forests? Yes, there are some examples of how privatisation of national assets has been a worked reasonably well in the past. Well, privatisation of sorts. More specifically, private companies running national assets with government funding. The NHS, car parking, the car industry, the rail network…? Actually no, there are not any examples of privatisation of national assets working well at all are there? They are all crap.

So why would the forests be any different? For instance, who would pay for all the fencing needed to keep people out of these lovely wooded areas? Because, if a private company buys a forest, it would surely want to charge folks to use it for, say, bird watching, dog walking etc. We would be expected to enter via turnstile and hand over our cash to a spotty pale faced vegan in exchange for a map of the muddy paths, with pictures helping us indentify blue tits, bluebells and edible mushrooms. Power crazed police wardens would roam the woods, competing for commission for penalties to be handed out to those who broke the rules. Wheel clamping would be in operation for not only our cars, but prams and bikes too. Fines would be handed out for dogs that barked, children that screamed and anyone who went for a tinkle behind a tree. In short, the government would expect the forests to be like their cities. Car-less and controlled by CCTV.

But what concerns me more is the animals. Will they be privatised too? Can you really buy a squirrel? Are they able to sell off our deer and wild boar? Because if you fence the people out then, by contrast, you surely fence the animals in? What if a couple of deer had gone off on an away-day while the fences were being erected and returned at midnight to find themselves separated from their families? It would be like Berlin in the 1950’s. In 30 years time, the fences would come down during some mass demonstration and the “free” deer would be queuing up to visit long forgotten relatives still living in hovels.

Or here is another theory, they could install animal turnstiles too. So the privatised animals would be allowed out at certain times as long as they were home by midnight. It would be like South Africa. Perhaps the owls would be trained as spies or wardens. The odd animals would escape and live as fugitives, being constantly followed and tracked down by the CIA and the Daily Star. In years to come, a bird verses quadruped hatred would evolve and eventually evolution would encourage four legged animals to grow wings.

You see, Mr Conservative minister, nature is something that happens outside Whitehall. Evolution may change the colour of your government, but mess with nature, you are messing with God, The Farmer and the Sunday Roast.

Queen Elizabeths biscuits - Feb publishings

Yet another interesting month in the life of a simple soul. A few quiet days after New Year, nursing my freezing ears, afforded me some time to enjoy a bit more of our Scottish surroundings. For a short while the weather picked up and some brisk walks with the dogs on the beach were a welcome change. I even took time to entertain myself by doing a jigsaw I found in the cupboard. It only took me a couple of days. I was quite pleased, it said 3-5 years on the box! 

On the good news front, the hair is now growing back after last months scalping, albeit a wee bit greyer than I was hoping for.

Then, from nowhere I get a phone call bringing bad tidings. More family issues, this time my sister in intensive care. I won’t include all the details, other than she is still fighting on, but for a while the odds were stacked well against her survival. Having lost her husband last year, life can be very unfair sometimes. Things like this certainly make you sit up and appreciate life.

When I was nineteen, my uncle died suddenly aged 60. He had worked hard all his life and amassed enough money to retire in luxury but sadly he never got chance to move into his lovely house on the south coast. A month later, I lost a close friend of my own age. At that young age, I made a few decisions. I was well aware of hard work but I also realised that work had to be fun, life had to be fun, because on that day I realised it could be taken away from you in an instant. I am no prophet or church minister with a point to prove, but from my current stand point, I thank my old uncle for inadvertently giving me that advice. People who proffer the words “life is too short” are those who have enough time to think about it. The ones who really advocate that statement are too busy cramming as much into their life as possible and enjoying every day as a result. Sure, when you are busy, life goes by faster, but if you are busy doing what you enjoy, logic says you should get more enjoyment from life. Here endeth the lesson, except to say thanks to all those who have privately and publicly prayed for Sarah and for all the good wishes received. We believe that she may now be on the road to a slow recovery.

There have been a few high points this month, England beating Wales in the 6 nations for example. The man from the French water board passing our planning application for a new septic tank at last. The remainder of our ewes lambing in France without aid. However, for the next few months I may exchange my rantings from a French farmhouse to those from a more temporary location as I endeavour to stay near my sister to help with her recovery.

But the rantings will go on, continually, for tis my job. Last week on the way for a hospital visit, we purchased a large packet of dog biscuits. A conundrum then arose. It is fairly obvious that we are unable to take our dogs in for hospital visits, but would we be allowed to take the dog biscuits in instead? If not they would be devoured by Louis (the pointless pointer) waiting eagerly in the car. As she is prone to do, Wendy came up with a sensible solution; we should put the packet under the car out of sight and collect them on our return an hour later. A wise woman, I hear you say. What she hadn’t reckoned on was that Birmingham, unlike south west France, is inhabited by thieves and charlatans. To our dismay, on our return, someone had stolen the packet of biscuits from us, a feat that would have involved crawling on their belly under the vehicle!  Louis was heartbroken, how could anyone be so cruel to deprive him of his dinner?  I was more intrigued as to who would be so desperate to stoop so low. Was it a fellow dog owner, surely not, they would have spotted our dogs in the car? Or a hungry homeless person surviving on canine food ? Or even another large dog on the scavenge? Only our dogs or the cctv cameras can tell us that. So maybe it will turn up on police 5 next week. Does Shaw Taylor still present Police 5, or I am showing my age?

It has been a while since I have travelled into south Birmingham and it was with a wry smile that I noticed Longbridge has now all but disappeared. That hub of manufacturing, once the car building centre of Europe, reduced to brown fields awaiting reconstruction. On closer inspection, I note the much of the planned new construction is for education premises and yet more universities.  That plus the infinite extension of the cities other two universities is a massive ongoing project, probably using foreign contractors. But who is going to pay for all this building I ask? Well you and me (alright not me, I live in France, but certainly you), the tax payer.

Does anyone else see the irony here? Kids in that area would have left school at 16 and worked at Longbridge, learning something useful, making something useful (well as useful as a Rover could be) and earning money. Now they leave university at 22, with degrees in ‘work-avoidance’ and remain unemployed for 3 more years, at our expense. Here’s a theory, Mr Cameron. Encourage the kids to leave school at 16 and learn a trade by going to work building universities. A simple and recursive solution. Soon you will have a land full of empty universities. Then you could charge overseas students to use them. That would pay the bills. You could even put the excess money into good use, like funding NHS and perhaps the Air Ambulance, so that I don’t have to get an annual head shave! Incidentally, their services were used recently to take Keyleigh Butcher to the Birmingham hospital from Rock in 6 minutes which is truly astounding. I hope she is recovering from her accident and I am glad my locks went to a good cause!

I would like to finish this month by congratulating the NCC unit in Birmingham QE Hospital for their outstanding service and thank them for all the help they have given my sister. I know the NHS comes under regular fire, but I can only speak as I find and they have been nothing short of brilliant. Bravo.

Farmhouse outpost

'The internet and mobile communications have revolutionised our personal and business lives?' Discuss:

It has now been just over a week since my sister had a severe brain haemorrhage that was extremely close to taking her life. That week has been nothing short of sheer hell. I was warned it may be a roller-coaster ride and that we all should hang on tight as her condition buffets us forwards, backwards and sideways. It has certainly done that in spades. 2 operations, prolonged coma, high risks of strokes, and absolute uncertainly have all added their degree of stress. The counterbalance to that has been formidable doctors, surgeons, nurses and facilities. I have to admit total admiration for the new Queen Elisabeth hospital in Birmingham, not just for its amazing modern architecture but for all its staff. We are not out of the woods yet and have been warned it may be months before we see any real progress from her current state. I and just about everyone else will gladly take that as a good result.

However, for the last week I have assumed the role of go-between. The project manager if you will, liaising with doctors, nurses, children, parents, friends, pets and family in a bid to keep everyone informed of progress and on the visiting rota. Not a problem, I am quite comfortable in that role, it keeps me busy and challenges me.

The real problem I do have is that I have been staying with my parents, both in their eighties, at the old farmhouse. This house not only does not have internet access, it also has very limited mobile phone coverage. To add to the problem, most of the rooms, including the one we are sleeping in, still have round-pin plugs! There are probably only a few people who even remember these things which were phased on in the seventies to be replaced with the square ones the rest of us have now. They stopped selling adaptors from square to round about 30 years ago. This is itself is very inconvenient, especially as I am trying my best to communicate to in excess of 100 people requiring updates on Sarah’s condition. As I am first point of call in an emergency, it has also been difficult to ensure that I am contactable 24/7. Mobile phones require charging. But I have managed and, with Wendy’s support, we are still managing, albeit somewhat displaced from our own comfort zones.

 We eat out every night as the cooker only has one gas ring, which is lit from a match. Also the gas oven frequently goes out which is slightly alarming. The house does have a TV, which is unable to show anything except films pre 1950, mostly starring John Wayne. Likewise, the radio only plays classical music in between adverts for mobility scooters and Zimmer frames, very loudly. The phone line is crackly, possibly still run on copper wire.

99% of the houses in rural France are more up to date than den of antiquity. All this would be extremely quaint were it not for my immediate need for enough technology to fulfil my liaising role, but I am not complaining, just coping.

What I do find incredible is that the family farm is still run from this outpost. Without internet in this day and age? Is it any wonder that Tesco buys all their food from overseas?

Broadband has now been ordered, but that will take a month to install. A month? Good old BT? So only one thing for it, I am about to order 500 carrier pigeons and keep them in the granary. Anyone know of a good website I can buy them from?

What does God really do?

I was baptised when I was an infant, nothing to do with religion, more to do with society. At school I went to confirmation classes, totally oblivious about what was being confirmed, by whom, to whom. All I knew was, at 13, we got free wine and skived off from prep.

I then spent 20 years married to an RE teacher, brought my children up as Christians and went to church at least monthly. During most of this time I had an element of confusion. God who? What about Darwin, Muslims, Cot Death? I never really gave it too much thought. To me, Man and Boy, God was God. He spurred jokes, caused wars and generally demanded money.

When we lost a son, still-born, a priest came and comforted us. He didn’t really take away any pain. He couldn’t, that was God’s job. God didn’t really help either.

The very same God let my fabulous brother-in-law die, he and the NHS. Aged 51. I asked him why, I reckoned I was entitled to do that? A 22 year old priest tried to help, but couldn’t.

So today, when my only sister, my strong healthy steadfast rock of a beautiful sister gets struck down, for no apparent reason, should I call God again?

As I sit on this bleak night, for hours watching her heart beat in green peaks on a screen, should I pray? Should I ask for something from this God who has given me some free wine and yet let me down so badly before? I will ask him, I have to. For the only person in the world I would exchange my life for, would die for, is my sis. If you can do it, I say, then do it now. I don’t really have a subscription, no real faith, just hope.

I know about hope and I believe in the power of belief too. “I think, therefore I am”, that is philosophy. “My god is better than your god, and if you say different I will kill you for it”, that is religion.

If she, my big lovely sister, comes though this should I thank God? Become a believer, get down on my knees? I do believe she will get through it. Medical magic and her formidable strength will underpin that. Is that down to God too?

If she dosent, which she will, but if she doesn’t, can I tell God, the Almighty, that he fucked up yet again. The priest, now 23, will tell me that God gave her a good life. Bollocks, she is fifty fucking one, that’s all. And she he already took her husband and soul-mate. He may say that God moves in mysterious ways. You can say that again, he sure got me baffled and I aint stupid. I can understand rules of most things, even back-gammon. So, this God fucker, isn’t it time he showed up now? Showed his hand? Come on Man, Ace are trumps and you hold all the cards.

I gave up on Santa and the tooth fairy a long time ago, and you I never knew. But help me now and I will find out what you really do all day. Because you or nobody else has the right to take my sister from me. Bring her back. Intact. OK? And then I will restore some faith and, when I have to, I will pay.