The Farage Farrago

 On 6th August the voters of Clacton will choose an MP. The by-election was caused by the resignation of their sitting member, Nigel Farage. Farage, no stranger to this column, was elected in 2024 with 46% of the vote and had a majority of 8,405. He wished to make a grand gesture of defiance to what he calls the establishment because he had been subject to parliamentary scrutiny in highly suspect financial transactions that appear to confirm what many have long believed: Our man is up to his eyes in corruption and is bankrolled by wealthy tax exiles with a deep contempt for multicultural, tolerant Britain. By resigning, Farage forced the investigation to go into abeyance pending his return.

 What Nige wanted was for the other main parties to run against him. His electoral victory would then show that he had the people behind him and would put his detractors on the defensive. But at this point the cunning plan failed.  Labour, The Conservatives, the Libdems  and the Greens declined to field candidates. Instead a vast number of independents are standing. Usually they would attract no attention but one of them is special. He has stood in many elections, and I encountered him as a candidate in 2019 when he stood against part-time prime minister B. Johnson in my own constituency of Uxbridge and South Ruislip. He runs as "Count Binface", wears a metal bucket on his head at all times and claims to be from a galactic civilisation far, far away.

 Binface's manifesto in 2019 featured a pledge to sort out the position of the hand-dryer in the men's toilets at the Crown & Treaty pub in Uxbridge. That, amongst certain other factors, got him my vote.

Usually Binface and the like attract little media attention and few votes, but somehow his candidature came at just the right time and an astonishing opinion poll a few days ago showed that more people would like him to win in Clacton than those favouring Farage. 

Source: Ipsos

 Binface has been endorsed by outgoing prime minister Keir Starmer and ex-Chancellor Rachel Reeves, and by LibDem leader Ed Davey. Let us examine his manifesto for Clacton in full

Source: Instagram

 

 Point 20 is the most important - the hand-dryer has not been forgotten. The good Count has not broken his promise made to me and my neighbours in beautiful Ruislip. Points 4, 5 and 15 are also worth noting.

Of course, given the nature of this by-election loads of others are having a go. In fact there are more candidates than at any election in the UK, ever. Here is the list:

Source: BBC

It will be fascinating to see if Binface can get more votes than all the other no-hopers combined. I don't expect him to topple Nige, although no less an authority than ABC Australia thinks he might

Source Youtube

 and you can watch for yourself if you wish.

Let us see what this week brings. 

 

Dr. Commuter advises ... Network Rail

 

Dr. Commuter writes: We are fortunate to live in a country where our transport signage is reasonably well-adjusted and coherent, signs that live quiet and responsible lives, happy to impart the information that we need with a minimum of fuss. But sometimes it is necessary to remove complacency and reinvigorate these soporific and hidebound indications, injecting fresh energy into them and contributing to the richness of everyday travel. It is not surprising, therefore, that Network Rail should seek to make their low bridge signs more confused.

There are several measures to be taken. Firstly, the low bridge signs should be removed and placed where the bridges are high, so high in fact that absolutely no warning need be given to any road user. This will achieve a double state of confusion - the signs themselves will be baffled as to why they are placed where they are useless and the approaching drivers will be scratching their chins, baffled as to why a railway bridge with 30m of clearance carries a warning. 

Another method is to paint the text of the signs in the same colour as the background colour. The sign is still there but its message is rendered invisible. 

If this has not created sufficient confusion, I recommend that a different message take the place of the original text. Thus "Beware of the giraffes" or perhaps "No bishops beyond this point". 

I trust there is sufficient here for the action to be taken and let's hope that low bridge signs up and down the country are rendered highly confused for the duration.

-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-%-

If you have any questions for Dr. Commuter, do please write to the usual address. We are able to baffle, bemuse and befuddle any sign, notice or poster for a small fee. Terms and conditions are available but are in such a deranged state that, quite frankly, it is not woth your time trying to understand them.

Roasting

 I've posted about heatwaves before. But this week is shaping up to be diabolical. Consider this forecast on the BBC on Monday 22 June for London.

Some other forecasters suggest highs close to 40c. Temperatures at this level are currently experienced in southern and central Europe and the bulge of extremely hot air is moving north.

It will be a little easier in beautiful Warwickshire where I now live and quite comfortable in Northumberland, where, by a staggering stroke of luck, I and Mrs C. happen to be on holiday. 

I shall update this post over the next few days and we will see if some of the more apocalyptic scenarios play themselves out.

Update: Tuesday 23

Very pleasant for us, touring around the Etal estate, the site of the bloody battle of Flodden and the almost chilly (when the sea breeze was blowing) Lindisfarne. The hottest part of the day (28c) was when we returned to our hotel in the late afternoon. 

Meanwhile in France: 42c in Bordeaux and 40 people said to have died from drowning caused by going into cold rivers and lakes.  At home, a violent electrical storm struck London, which did indeed reach the 36c forecast. Many schools are closed. And a man called Burn'em is about to replace Starmer as Labour leader and prime minister. Seems appropriate.

Update: Wednesday 24

We visited Alnwick Castle and Cragside (the most advanced house in terms of mod cons at the end of the 19c), and it was very comfortable sitting outside in the shade.

Meanwhile, here is the headline in The Guardian:

UK records its hottest June day, beating highs from 1957 and 1976

Temperature of 35.8C recorded in West Sussex, beating previous record of 35.6C, while France records hottest day nationally

Update: Thursday 25

A delightful day on the Northumbrian coast, with gorgeous sunshine and temperatures in the low 20s. We were at Bamburgh Castle with a little fog rolling in to obscure the sea view and then at Warkworth Castle where the stiff breeze almost made it feel chilly. 

And here is how the BBC summarised the UK at the end of the day:

• The UK record for the hottest June day has been broken for the second day in a row, with 36.7C provisionally recorded in Merryfield, Somerset
• It's also been the hottest day of the year so far in Wales (35.6C), Scotland (31.2C) and Northern Ireland (30C)
• Meanwhile, a hosepipe ban is introduced for around 850,000 customers in Kent, and at least six NHS trusts in England have declared critical incidents
• A red weather warning for extreme heat has been extended into Friday for London and parts of south-east England - the first time it has been issued for three consecutive days

Update: Friday 26

Warm and sunny up to mid- afternoon in Northumberland, then a distinct cooling, a strengthening breeze, much rumbling of thunder and finally rain and lightning to accompany our tea. 

 

Update: Saturday 27 

And so homewards, watching the outside temperature creep steadily up as we cruised down the A1 and the M1. The countryside seemed fairly normal for the time of year, maybe a few fields more bleached out than usual. Back to a very stuffy house and a rest.

And as a postscript, what the heat did to the tram tracks in Essen

 

The Man Without the Golden Boot

The Guardian

 

James Bond sat at his desk, contemplating an easy day ahead. Perhaps a long lunch, then take the Bentley down to Sussex and, after a round of golf, some relaxation with Felicity. Or Fiona. Or...the red telephone buzzed and he was instantly alert.
"Right away, please". It was Miss Moneypenny, M's fearsome secretary. Bond snapped to his feet and made his way to the eighth floor.
"Morning, gorgeous" he began as he opened the door but she was tight-lipped "He's waiting, James". Bond shrugged and went straight in to the room beyond.

"Sit down 007". M, a half-smoked cheroot held absently in his left hand, gestured to the chair and Bond, without a word, knowing that something very big was up, obeyed. "Now then, 007, we have a crisis. Last night the entire kit of the England football team was stolen."

"Surely that's impossible" Bond blurted and M nodded "As heavily guarded as the crown jewels but nonetheless it happened. CIA are clamping down on the news but it will break in a day or so. We've got to get that kit back before then or God knows what may happen. Big match coming up. You know what might follow if we lose. Smithers at the Bank of England thinks there could be a run on the pound, or worse. Bond, you're on the next plane to Miami."
"On my way, sir"

-&-&-&-&-&-

The big black car rolled to a stop outside the airport terminal. Bond took a seat in the back and the car moved off at once, expertly driven through the heavy lunchtime traffic. Bond turned to the short man in the grey suit sitting beside him
"Good to see you again, Felix" he said. His old CIA partner Felix Leiter smiled "And you, you old bastard. Now I don't know what they told you, James, but this thing has got us beat. Who the hell would take such a risk for some soccerball gear? FBI have found the truck and we're going there right now"

-&-&-&-&-&-

The U-Haul truck was by the side of the road in a deserted industrial park, back doors open revealing the emptiness within. Forensic teams were working in and around it. Bond and Leiter looked it over. 
"Anything?" Leiter asked the head of the unit. "Nothing sir, they just hijacked the truck, drove it here, used a jemmy on the doors and took everything. We're baffled"
Bond strolled around to the cab. His eyes narrowed and he reached in under the driver's seat.
"Felix, look at this"
"What is it James?"
"A book of matches. Marked 'Magumbo Club'. Know it?"
"I sure do, James. Hangout for every hoodlum and two-bit grifter in downtown Miami. Owner is a Mr Flobeld"
"Let's get over there. Pronto"

-&-&-&-&-&-

"So Mr Bond, we meet again". The man in the swivel chair was facing away from Bond as he and Leiter were pushed into the dark room at the back of the Magumbo Club, half a dozen guns held on them by the impassive, kilted and tartan-clad henchmen. It had been easy to penetrate the club and, while Leiter distracted the barmen with a simple conjuring trick, Bond had slipped into the corridor behind in search of clues, but it had been a trap.The henchmen were waiting for them.

"Again? We've met before?" Bond said, mind racing as he tried to think where he recognised the voice of the sinister club owner.
"We have, Mr Bond. I was going by the alias of Delflob then".  Bond, his eyes narrowed, narrowed them further "Lledbof. Angus McCameron Partick Thistle Lledbof. The man who wanted to flood England with fake porridge. The man who tried to steal the stone of Scone by replacing it with a rock of Crumpet.  I should have guessed. And these Scottish hoods - there was only one team that Scotland really worried about and stealing the England kit was the obvious way to unsettle them. You knew that, if they had to play in new boots, they would all get blisters."
"Precisely, Mr Bond. And I have also bet a considerable amount of money on England losing. Not only will I be well in with the SNP when they finally take power, but I shall be able to afford that little BnB just outside Arbroath that I have always wanted. But I'm afraid neither you nor Mr Leiter will be able to stay there. Ha ha. Ha ha ha"

Editor's note. The manuscript ends here. Did Bond escape? Did he manage to have a restful few days at the little BnB just outside Arbroath anyway? Did England win anything? Alas, we shall never know.

World Cup '26 - Our Exclusive, All You Need to Know, Preview

 World Cup fever is here again and the question that everyone is asking is, will our viewing experience be altered in any way by being hosted in the USA?*  You need not wait until the tournament begins because we have the answers right here, as we bring you the time-honoured tradition of the Ramblings Preview.

There will be more use of VAR ("Video assisted rubbish"), lengthy drinks-breaks  and some rules have been tweaked, notably the one that says the winning team receive a trophy. In future, the winning team will be required to present  the trophy to President Trump. As this is unlikely to be England, we won't worry about it.

I have a feeling that the TV coverage will be something like this ...

Wed June 17. England vs Croatia. Dallas

"...and you join us here high above the Irving C Feistershmeckel III stadium as the match begins. I'm Bob Bland and with me is Hiram Highslacker. Hiram, there's two teams out there but only one can win, right?
- Bob, that is so true. It's all about the goals. But it might be a draw if, say, they both score the same number of goals.
- Is that so? Sounds complicated. But as the umpire blows to start the match and one of the guys down there touches the ball, let's take a commercial break..."

.....

"...And welcome back to this soccerball ball game here in Dallas where it is a cool 90 in the shade, or at least it is for us here in the air-conditioned commentary room, I hate to think what it's like for the players down there on the field.
- Sure gonna be warm, Bob and you know, those England players, they usually play in the rain and the fog, this must be pretty damn strange for them. 
- Sure is, Hiram, and can you update us about the scores?
- Glad to, Bob, there's been a goal, maybe two, but before I give you the details, here's a reminder about Alvaro's Funeral and Pizza Parlour in downtown Dallas - the place to go when you need to bury someone but just gotta get something to eat first. Do it all at Alvaros.
- Thanks Hiram, and down there on the grass, seems like the umpire is holding up a red card and waving it around, what the heck is that all about?
- Probably a helpful message from one of the sponsors, Bob, I know that Tom's Taxis here in Dallas have all-red cabs and nobody has cleaner ashtrays than Tom's.
-That's good to know, Hiram. And stay tuned to this channel, folks, so you don't miss a thing but it's time for a commercial break....

Tues 23 June. England vs Ghana. Boston

"...Bob Bland with you once again coming live from the CleanerCoal arena here in Boston, sponsored by Cleanercoal, the carbon sulphur mix that is so good for your throat, and with me is the stats and play expert, Hiram Highslacker. How's it going down on the gridiron, Hiram?
- Bob, it's all happening down there. England have kicked the ball. Ghana have kicked it back. Then several players kicked it and it went up in the air and one of them actually hit it with his head. Can you believe that? Both of the quarterbacks have been in action, picking up the ball and distributing out to the linemen. Right now the play is halted because there is a VAR review about a comment one of the England team made to an assistant linejudge. I gather they have put out a call for a specialist in some strange language called Geordie. While we're waiting, I'll give you a full rundown on all the scores and plays, but first a word from Fatbuster Burgers, our special sponsors here this evening...

Sat 27 June. England vs Panama. New York

"...and as you rejoin us after that short break, it seems that Panama have scored again but we have to wait for the VAR review as to whether the celebrations went on too long, so while we are waiting, let's have a commercial break ..."

-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

* Yes, there are some trivial matches in Mexico and Canada but I've done the "slumped by the cantina" gag too many times and I can't think of anything worth saying about Canada.

The Camblanes Affair

BBC News Feb 6,2026

 My friend Hercule Poirot and I had been taking a relaxing motoring holiday in south-west France. The warmth of the air and the beautiful countryside did much to restore him after a number of difficult cases and his moustaches were in excellent fettle. Little did we suspect, as we proceeded down a long, tree-lined avenue into Camblanes et Meynac, what awaited us. 

Poirot was enjoying himself observing the locals as we drove slowly through the town towards the Hotel de Bristol. "See, Hastings, that man with the baguettes. And there in the square, the old gentlemen playing at boules, while across by the church I observe the ladies going to mass. Ah, all is as it should be...but sacre bleu this is very strange. Look there, Hastings"

I looked across the street as he directed but saw only a few townsfolk going about their business. I said as much. Poirot shook his head "Oh, my friend, you do not look, you only glance. But I have seen....well, let us await developments. It may be nothing at all". 

We arranged comfortable rooms at the hotel, enjoyed an excellent dinner and took a stroll in the late evening, walking around the old square as did others similarly inclined. Poirot raised his hat politely to those we passed but suddenly he gripped my arm. 

"There, Hastings, there. You see them?"
"Really, Poirot, I have no idea ...good lord. Those two!"
"Exactement, mon ami. Two men with pigtails, wearing the silken robes of the Manchu dynasty and holding chopsticks. They seek to blend in but they cannot evade the eyes of Hercule Poirot. Hastings, we have sinister Orientals in our midst!"
"But what on earth put you on to them?"
"As we came into town, Hastings. I mentioned it to you but of course you saw nothing. You did not see the huge radar dish on the roof of the Villa Marguerite. You failed to observe the cameras all along the Rue Faubourg, each marked CSA, the initials of the China Spying Agency. Nor did you see the barbed wire and watchtowers that protect the mysterious Chateau Mysterieux, nor that intercontintal ballistic missile cunningly concealed amidst the chimney pots of the Mairie. They did not fool me. I have made certain arrangements".

Even as we walked back to our hotel, there was a blare of sirens and several black Citroens full of gendarmes converged on the square. Within moments our quarry were apprehended. One of the policemen approached us respectfully.

"Inspector Maigret sends his compliments, messieurs, and will be round to join you for a cognac as soon as our birds are safely locked up and he has informed the press of his coup against these spies"
"Poirot, surely you will not let him take all the credit for this?" I gasped. My friend flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his immaculate cuff.
"We are en vacances, mon ami. Let some other fictional detective have some publicity, hein?" And he sat in a deep armchair, stroked his moustaches and smiled benevolently.

Winning in the Snow

The Olympic Winter Games begin this week in Cortina, Italy. There is much excitement about the prospects for the British contestants. Let us not get too carried away. In 1988 and 1992 Britain won no medals. We did win two in 1994 but did not surpass this until 2014 and also 2018 when five were clocked. But 2022 saw a return to form with just two again.

Credit: Lebedev Evgeniy 

It's just not fair.  We are used to a certain sort of weather which in turn produces a certain sort of ground covering (see above), and it is not the pristine, fluffy deep snow that the skiers seek, nor are we blessed with lots of lakes that freeze up nicely for the skaters. It is time that there was a sports festival based on conditions in which our gallant athletes can truly compete:

• Slushboarding - contestants race over a pot-holed, slush covered road, trying to avoid keep left signs, speed bumps, badly parked cars and wobbling pedestrians. 
• Skating on thin ice - open to politicians of all parties as they make promises they cannot keep, affirm adherence to codes of conduct and swear loyalty to their leaders.
• The Overpass Dash - sprinters must race up and over ice-covered bridges to make a train connection
• Snowball fights - for individuals or teams. Spectators observe at their peril. No putting lumps of ice in the balls.
• Building a snowman, with both speed and artistic quality events. Scarfs may embody national colours. Competitors must supply lumps of coal and carrots.
• Stamping on puddles - Points are awarded for the height of splashes. 
• Snow on the line - A city tube network is crippled due to bad weather. Contestants must find the path between two stations that maximises the announcements about extensive delays, has the least useful replacement services and the most time spent shivering on a platform waiting for trains that are terminated at the preceding stop.

Readers! Suggest new events for the Realistic Winter Games. 

The best suggestions will be forwarded to the organisers and any adopted will win a fabulous, no-expenses paid holiday to the first AirBnB we can find that will give us a free room in exchange for a plug in these hallowed columns. Send in your ideas to the usual address. Terms and conditions apply and, in accordance with the spirit of the Olympics, will be supplied in exchange for a massive backhander in a brown envelope.

 

Is it Art

 

source: Lynn News

 

A poignant drama played itself out this week in the Fens. Not the story about the idiot at Sainsbury's, the other one. The Banksy that wasn't. I imagine that all of Kings Lynn has been talking about nothing else.

If you are familiar with my philosophy of good art - Art - first expounded in this very column just 22 short years ago - then you will understand that I do not class Banksy or his imitators as producers of Art. Some of it raises a brief, wry smile which quickly fades. But others believe that, if a bit of graffiti is by Banksy, then it is valuable but if not, then it is just a nuisance to be obliterated as soon as convenient. That alone tells you his stuff is not Art, for surely if something is genuinely good art then it does not matter who created it.

Amongst the believers must be counted the authorities in Kings Lynn who, notified of the mysterious appearance of the defacement of a car park wall, rushed to protect it. I am amazed at their moderation. Surely the wall should have been instantly dismantled, brick by brick, and rebuilt in a newly created Banksy in Fenland exhibition in the Town Hall. The gift shop sales would have gone through the roof. 

Alas, protective screen or not, it appears that the hand of the master was lacking and the graffiti has been demoted. I have no idea how they can tell. I mean, they could have put up a discreet sign saying "Attributed to Banksy" or perhaps "School of Banksy" or "From the studio of Banksy" and no doubt the populace would still flock in. As it is, that screen must be taken down and put back in the cupboard labelled "Reserved for real Banksy's".

I don't how the whole process works. Are there inspectors snooping around town centres looking for works by the Master?  Do they have peaked caps marked "Art Warden" and the power to tell people to move along and not to obstruct the work of the screen builders? Indeed, once they find something that might be a Banksy, do they take up position, arms crossed and stern looks to the front, and wait for reinforcements?

How are the good folk of Kings Lynn coping with their bitter disappointment? Were the council in full session, back-slapping and broad smiles as they contemplated the massive corporate jolly that selling the windfall would produce? And then the grim faced town clerk sidles up to the Mayor.

"Not now, Albert, they're opening the next bottle"
"This can't wait, your worship. I'm afraid it's bad news. We've heard from the experts ..."
"Nay, lad, spit it out then. What has thou to say?"
"The Banksy - I - I can't say it..."

and a worried silence emanates from the two worthies that gradually chills the celebrants and the chance of a month visiting the twin town of Honolulu begins to fade. As they slip out into the night, in ones and twos, they can hear the clerk on his phone to the works department telling them to stand down.

It's a tough business, the art game, I'm telling you.

Sen. Cassius Unveils NewTriumphal Arch

 

 Cassius: "Hey, it's not quite as big as I thought"

 

Senator Cassius, Imperator and Pontifex Maximus of Rome, stunned onlookers at a gathering in the Temple of Jupiter yesterday by proclaiming his intention to knock it down and to replace it with a grand triumphal arch, writes our correspondent who is wondering if a life of servitude in the galleys would be a sensible career move.

Speaking to members of his Sycophant party, Sen. Cassius said "This is going to be the best arch in the world. It is entirely original and my own idea. Constantine, Trajan, Marble, that Gallic guy de Triomphe, they're all losers. All those other arches, whereever in the world they are, are just copies and I'm going to sue them all for stealing my design, which I own and what's more, it's mine"

Asked about the likely consequences of destroying the great and sacred temple of the ruler of the gods, Sen. Cassius said "I'm the most devout and religious man in the world, right, but that temple is occupying a prime piece of real estate, there's a deal to be done here with the priests of Jupiter and I'm the man to do it. They get five days to leave, and I, in the name of the people, take over the temple. There, everyone wins. Did I tell you that I invented this arch? Because I did and anyone who says otherwise is a traitor to Rome".

Senator Casca, in charge of the building of the arch, made a brief presentation. He said it would be named the Arch of Cassius, Saviour of Rome, in honour of the Senator's role in assisting J. Caesar to retire. He thought that others who aided in the transfer of power, such as himself, might also be named on the arch, perhaps somewhere round the back in very small letters. "I am not in any way envious" he said "I greatly admire my glorious leader. But, you know, it was my knife that he used on that fateful day and he still hasn't given it back, of course it is a great honour for me that he has kept it but actually it was a part of  a set and it would be nice if I could put it back in the box with the others, makes it complete, you know what I'm saying".

A special poem is to be written for the unveiling of the arch by Cinna the Poet. "He's not the best poet" admitted Casca "In fact he usually gets a lot of shtick for his bad verses but it seems all the real poets have fled to Parthia or Gaul so we'll have to make do. And he's cheap."
 

 

Sen. Cassius awarded Olympics Victor Ludorum Prize

In a suprising break with tradition, the organisers of the 2026 Olympic Games have awarded the coveted Victor Ludorum ("Winner of the Entire Games") award to Senator Cassius, Imperator of Rome, writes our correspondent hiding behind a pillar. The award was presented in a glittering ceremony yesterday in the Forum, even though the games are not due to be held until next summer.

Speaking to a specially selected audience of Praetorian Guards, the Chairman of the Olympic Committee said "There can be no doubt that Senator Cassius will win any event he chooses to enter. In fact, he will not be actually taking part but he has left me in no doubt that, if he wanted to, he could easily defeat any other competitor. Furthermore, we have been asked to consider moving the games to Italy, rather than taking place at Olympus in Greece as they have for the past three thousand years, because there are doubts about the security and in any case they all speak Greek there, which Senator Cassius does not speak, and he quite understandably said to me that how the hell could he know what they were saying about him when they all jabber away like that."

At this point one of the Guards was seen to whisper something to the Chairman whilst stroking the hilt of his sword. The Chairman drank some water, coughed a little and resumed

"As I was saying, the games will definitely take place in Rome, and any other cities in Italy that are pleasing to the gods, and Senator Cassius, as Pontifex Maximus, will of course inform me in due course of the gods' wishes.  In addition, all athletes from Greece, Macedonia, Parthia, Syria, Iberia, Dacia, Carthage (if it hasn't been destroyed by then), Gaul, Upper Rhine, Lower Rhine, Eqypt, and Britannia are disqualified for being foreign. The selection of the athletes to represent Rome and the Italian people will be made by Senator Cassius. The judging will be supervised by Senator Cassius and medals awarded to those who find favour in the sight of Senator Cassius. Long live Senator Cassius".

 In other news, Senator Cassius has been awarded the Golden Boot for the 2028 Football World Cup and declared as Man of the Series for the Ashes against the Huns (date to be arranged).

 

Name that Party

 Earlier this year Jeremy Corbyn, one time leader of the Labour Party but an independent since 2024, announced the formation of a new party, called Your Party. The cunning plan seems to be to propel himself and some like minded people back into power.

The Corbyn crowd are currently having a conference. However, the usual stuff of such get togethers - rousing speech by the leader, voting for composite motions and desperate scrums for the canapes at fringe meetings - have been entirely overshadowed by a huge row between Corbyn and co-leader Zarah Sultana about who can be a member. Such disputes are endemic to ultra left parties.

An even more fascinating question is what the party is to call itself: the monicker Your Party being something dreamed up in a hurry, apparently, and not necessarily intended to be the permanent name.

They have canvassed ideas and there is a short-list to be voted on. Whether the result will immediately trigger a split, a walkout or a furious media row is not yet clear. Up for grabs are "Your Party", "Our Party", "The Popular Alliance" and "For the Many". Rejected names include "It's My Party (and I'll Vote if I Want to)", "The Very Popular Party, Honest", "It's Party Time" and "The English People's Popular Front". The latter came under fierce attack from those favouring "The Popular Front for the English People", and a splinter group representing "The Peoples' Popular Front (England)" walked out in protest. Meanwhile, those favouring "The Party of the First Part shall be known as the Party of the First Part" attempted to walk in, but were barred for being too Marxist.

Questioned about his relationship with Sultana, Corbyn said he would be happy if she was co-leader but really he would be the main leader because, frankly, she was rubbish. Sultana said she greatly admired and respected Corbyn but if he thought she was playing second fiddle then he had even more screws loose than everybody thought. Corbyn announced an emergency motion that the Party owed a huge debt to Sultana and would she now kindly sod off. Sultana moved a composite motion to promote Corbyn to Honorary President and therefore to bar him from being leader. The debate continues.

Poor old George

 The following popped up on my tablet whilst I was browsing Facebook to see if any more people I had never heard of, and who had nothing whatsoever in common with me, wished to become "friends",  and as it seems to be important, I paid it a little attention.

 It is an advert but I have to confess that I don't know what it is advertising¹. The name is Penhaligon certainly, we've established that from the masthead, from the collection of boxes and packages being admired (in a rather creepy and smug way) by the smooth-faced young man and from the display of the same name embroidered on his sweater. But Messrs Penhaligon seem to be featuring the large bottle with the unfeasibly large, possibly quite dangerous, stopper which is named The Tragedy of Lord George.

The young man seems to be reclining on some sort of carriage in the outdoors, in a mountainous and snowy place. Perhaps it is the one-horse open sleigh we hear so much about at this time of the year.  

We are informed that the stuff in the bottle has "notes of warm rum, tonka beans and shaving soap". I think we can fill in the rest of the picture from here.

Scene: A raging blizzard engulfs Penhaligon Hall, time-honoured seat of the Penhaligons in deepest Cornwall. Enter young Lord George brandishing a bottle and old Tregorran, the family brewer

George: I've done it, Tregorran! They said I was mad, but I've perfected the formula. For years we Penhaligons have brewed whisky from the traditional ingredients of pasty juice and the runoff from tin mines. But now we have something to make everyone sit up and take notice.

Tregorran: Nay, young sir, you do be being headstrong. Tain't safe to meddle with the ancient formula. Handed down from father to son that be, and there's always been a Tregorran to make sure that naught was changed. I beg 'ee, sir, think again. Think of your father.

George: My father has always held me back, Tregorran. Laughed at my ideas. Scorned me in front of my friends. Well no more! This ends now. I'm taking this bottle to the brewery on Bodmin Moor and nothing's going to stop me!

Tregorran: Oh sir, there do be a raging blizzard a-blowing. The roads will be blocked. You'll be beset by enormous hounds, I shouldn't wonder, and they do say the Revenue Men be abroad on the A37. 

George: But I don't need the A37! I shall take the one-horse open sleigh. I shall skim across the fields and into the high hills, fortified by tots of warm rum, tonka beans and all the shaving soap I can stomach! Ha ha!  

He dashes off into the night leaving the faithful retainer aghast

Tregorran: Tis the curse of the Penhaligons! Alack that I should see this day. We'll be hearing no more about Lord George, that's for sure. Hmm, I wonder if I could turn his mixture into an Eau de Cologne or something similar. Could retail it for £245 to the fine folks up in London, I shouldn't wonder. Let's see, warm rum, tonka beans and shaving soap. Yes, just need to find a name for it...

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Note:

1. I looked it up just to be sure. Yes, it is a cologne sold to the fine folk of London all right. 

 

A Load of Old Rope

source: Stephan Friedman Gallery

 There was considerable media interest in the announcement this week that an exhibit of rope was on sale, under the guise of being an artwork, for £1 million (plus VAT). The artist, David Shrigley, said during an interview on the BBCR4 Today programme that he thought it suitable for the entrance at a bank's headquarters.

The piece was made to illustrate the old saying "money for old rope". There can be no gainsaying the concept - should anything at all be paid for it, then it will indeed be thus. 

The gallery exhibiting the pile makes the point that collecting, cleaning, preserving and arranging this load of tat took many months. 

I have to admit to being somewhat baffled as to how to approach this story. I analysed the meaning of "art" many years ago . Since then I have refined my views a little. I hold that anything that is made to stimulate the senses is art. But good art - Art, if you will - goes much further. It should transcend the medium (explained here) by which it is made, it should be original and it should fill one's head with ideas. Otherwise it is merely an exhibit.

This approach helps in thinking about a load of rope piled up on the floor. It does not transcend the medium - it is just a pile of rope, no matter how cleaned up and nicely coiled. Piles of old rope can be found (or used to be) in any fishing harbour or naval dockyard, not to mention the backyard of Arbuthnot Arkwright & Nephew, Ropemakers to the Gentry, Bootle.  Is piling it up original? No, because it is normal for rope to be coiled up in this way. Does it fill your head with ideas? Not really, except one might ponder having a nice spaghetti for lunch. Failing any one of my tests would disqualify something from being Art. This exhibit fails all three.

It is therefore not surprising that the artist hopes to find a bank as a buyer. They would have the cash, and the space, to spare and could treat it as an investment. Also they could reclaim the VAT. Probably their PR people would find elegant ways to use it in marketing - "We won't tie you up in knots with our executive mortgage" or "There's nothing ropey about our loans" or "Our accounts have no strings attached" perhaps. It is telling that all these cunning slogans are negatives - it is hard to find a way to make a positive statement that connects rope to banking. If you can think of something, do send it in to us at the usual address and, should we succeed in pitching it as the basis of a costly new ad campaign, there'll be a couple of sheep-shanks in 40mm Manila in it for you.

 

A Galactic Visitation

 

There has been intense speculation for weeks about the intruder into our solar system, the "comet" called 3i/Atlas. It has zoomed around the sun and is now on its way to who knows where. Many have speculated that it might be an alien spacecraft, on the totally reasonable grounds that everything we cannot fully explain must be of alien origin. 

Now the silence has been broken. A radio signal has come through, streaking across the ether, from this mysterious visitor.  Fortunately for science, the receivers here at Ramblings Towers picked it up loud and clear and we can reveal, exclusively on this channel, the contents of the broadcast. 

Signal begins .....

static.....And after the news, the Grabrlxfggs. Sz40 wants a word with Jorbajax and there's trouble brewing at the Dog and Snarklbeast. pip pip This is the 3iAtlas Radio news and William XXarble45 reading it. bing There have still been no signs of intelligent life on the third planet from the star we are currently approaching. Professor ZumbRk7r says that certain radio signals have been picked up but is unable to decode anything other than the meaningless words "Antiques" and "Roadshow" bing The evacuation of residents of the Cxlarbian sector is intensifying as it continues to evaporate into space bing Sports - the third test between 3iAtlas and Shoemaker-Levy has been abandoned as it seems that the visitors no longer exist....static

"It looks like you are running a business. Need help with that?"

 I've frequently had goes at Microsoft. There is something so intriguingly gauche, possibly even jejeune, about their advertising. They make highly sophisticated products but somehow the marketing people either do not grasp how they work or they just dumb everything down because they think their customers are dumb. The title of this piece recalls the horrible helper "Clippy" that at one time popped up whilst using Microsoft software.

In 2014 I analysed their ludicrous claims about helping F1 drivers to win races. A few years previously it was fun to demolish their email offering, or at least the anti-spam feature. And I have moaned about Windows often enough. 

But this is 2025. AI is the big thing. Everyone is doing AI. AI is going to solve all our problems. Although, for Microsoft, finding cures for diseases, improving food production, making stronger and lighter materials do not seem to be priorities. Assisting gormless business people making presentations and showing them how simple documents work, yes, that has been the key element of the ads that pop up on my screens. Here is a nice example of what I mean.  

 Microsoft's AI offering is called Copilot. In the example above, we see a casually dressed, youngish, man staring at his phone while apparently requesting Copilot to explain something to him. What, my friends, can we deduce from this picture? You know my methods - I shall now apply them.

The man in the picture is, it seems, studying an Excel spreadsheet cunning entitled "data". Yes, that's going to a be big help when trying to find it in a few months time. Those of us who have actually designed  finance related spreadsheets  would name this something like "Mfg Division, 2025 Q3 Projection" so it tells us what it is. But this is to nitpick a bit. The fascination this image holds is that our bearded friend cannot work out the structure or formulas from which the calculations of profit (or "profit driver" in MS speak) are made.

He cannot see them or get into the details of the formulas behind them because, although this must be a fairly complex document (or he would not need help with it), he is trying to make sense of it whilst standing up and using a tiny phone. No financial analyst does this. They work on a big screen, the bigger the better and they will do so sitting a desk where they can consult documents, make notes, perhaps work simulaneously on other computer applications. You cannot do this on a phone, however smart, because either they only display one thing at at time or your big sausage fingers make typing a nightmare. 

So it is no wonder that to him it is just a needle in a haystack job (and why he keeps a small haystack on his desk, where it is in danger of spilling over into his coffee mug, is surely a question for HR). He is like a mechanic who, trying to undo a bolt, selects a small screwdriver and jabs it randomly at the offending fixings. 

I hold that, if this guy cannot see where the profits are being made, then he should not be doing this job. There is a job he could do instead - sweep up that bloody haystack. 

 

Fun on the Farm

 Mrs C and I have been living in Warwickshire for two years, but only now have we accumulated sufficient rubbish to make a visit to the dump recycling centre justifiable. Back in beautiful Ruislip one simply turned up.  Our new local authority, Stratford-upon-Avon, takes a tougher line and one must book a time. No problem, I went online and chose a convenient slot for last Sunday.

The online booking system was provided by Eventbrite. I registered, received an e-ticket, turned up at the right time, drove straight into the dump without apparently being checked by anyone and emptied my car boot.

The end of the affair? No. Eventbrite do not seem to know the services provided by Burton Farm Recycling Centre (the clue is hidden in the name). They think I have been to a gig. They sent me this

I am overjoyed with their good wishes in hoping I "had a good time". I sure did, guys, one of the best "go to the dump, chuck broken stuff in a bin and get the hell out" times I have ever had. Sincerely. I loved every minute. So did Mrs C. 

But it doesn't stop there. They want me to follow Burton Farm Recycling Centre.  Because I might miss out on things - premieres, exclusive viewings, chance to go behind the scenes and meet the stars, parties with celebrity dumpers, photoshoots with piles of crap arranged by Tracey Emin, weekend raves getting high on the fumes from leaking batteries... who knows what glittering gatherings might be in store if I subscribe? And if I do, I shall find out first about the next happenings, it says. Won't the neighbours be impressed?

As to their "Let's make more plans" plea:- No, thanks awfully,  I don't make plans for the disposal of broken vacuum cleaners, used packaging, failed lamp stands, printers without cables and the like. They gather in small groups here and there in the dark recesses of the house and, when the time is ripe, we call them together and rehome them. This activity requires no plans, just a response to being unable to open the door to the spare room because it is crammed full of boxes, bits of wood, disintegrating cd stands and the like.

I suppose the next communication will be on the lines of "You had a wonderful time at Burton Farm, now visit other great recycling centres in your area."   I won't be bothering. They're rubbish.

 

 

Sizzling Summer

 Yes, we have had heatwaves before. We've had hosepipe bans, photos of drained reservoirs, packed beaches, melting road surfaces and, most memorably, a Minister for Drought who took office one day and was nearly washed away the next when the heavens opened [Some perfectly acceptable exaggeration there: Ed]. What is new about 2025 is that we have already had two and, as I write, are midway through a third. It is only July. And there is no sign of the traditional thunderstorms that would bring the current one to an end.

[Saturday night] We have our curtains and blinds closed and it is still 28c inside at 7pm. It will just about be comfortable by the time we go to bed. There was a nice breeze this morning and we managed to give the house a decent airing before the incoming air became warmer than the insides and we had to close the windows. We are lucky not to have to work and not to be living in a stifling city environment.

[Sunday morning] It is strange to wake in the morning, open a window and think "That's a nice, cool breeze".  Because it is about 24c outside, not cool at all in old money, the sort of breeze that would be thought pleasantly warm most days. Somehow we are getting used to sitting around at 28c.

Sporting note: The England men's cricket team achieved their traditional midsummer batting collapse at Lords this afternoon. Some things never change.
Update note: England won the Test. Exactly as I predicted. The fact that I also predicted a narrow loss, a heavy defeat and a draw are not in any way material and I demand that they be struck from the record.

Down the Black Rabbit Hole

 This is about the scientific idea of black holes. Not holes made by black rabbits: Ed

 

A typical YouTube page 
when searching for Black Holes

 

There has been much excitement, and speculation, in the physics/ cosmology community in recent months about findings that suggest our universe is rotating. Let me summarise:

• Galaxies normally rotate. This is thought to be because the vast clouds of hydrogen and helium in which they are formed were rotating. Such rotations might have been down to random movements of stuff when the universe was way younger and hotter than it is now.
• It had always been assumed that nature had no preference for the direction of rotation. Therefore roughly half of all galaxies should go one way and half the other.
• Recent studies, such as this, show that about two-thirds of galaxies go one way and one-third the other. This variance is far too big to be explained by random factors. It suggests that the entire observable universe has a preference for a rotational direction.
• If this is so, then something at the start of space-time ( the "big bang") gave the universe a nudge.
• This implies something that included the universe within itself.
• Black holes are known to rotate and the physics of these things, twisting time and space around their, possibly infinitely small, centres, is so weird I am not even going to try to understand it. But the point is, was that initial nudge from a rotating black hole within which our universe is embedded? 

And there we have it. It is being theorised that our universe is bounded by a black hole because only a rotating black hole could be big enough to impart enough spin to our universe. A black hole massively bigger than our universe.

There are obvious, massive, problems that must be faced. Black holes are things where gravity is so strong it crushes matter into a form we cannot currently comprehend. Vast jets of radiation and particles are hurtled into space from the stuff that approaches and then whirls around, the event horizon, the invisible sphere within which nothing can escape the pull of the singularity at the heart of the black hole.

Where then are the mind-blowing distortions of spacetime that the universe sized hole in which we live must create? The galaxy ripping jets of radiation from the hellfire of its event horizon?

However my question is a bit more outre. If we are indeed inside a black hole, then what is that hole inside? Do we have an unlimited number of universes, each containing black holes that in turn contain universes. There is no reason to think our universe is special so why not? And are there universes within the myriad black holes within our universe? 

Quantum mechanics has long had its "many worlds" interpretation of what happens each time there is a quantum event with more than one possible outcome.  It says that every possible outcome creates a new universe. Given that massive numbers of quantum events happen all the time, this would create a number of universes so big it is probably not possible to compute it. So an infinite (or, at any rate, pretty damn big) number of universes, each nested in one bigger, is a respectable idea, rather than the droolings of a chronically tea-deprived hack columnist.

Trouble is, all this is just speculation. The YouTube videos with their click-bait titles and fancy graphics, are exactly the same as medievalists arguing about angels and pin-heads. We have absolutely no way of knowing.

A completely different approach is to assume each black hole creates an equal and opposite white hole in a separate but connected universe. Matter and energy gush out of the white hole in such a way that intelligent beings eons later will interpret it as a big bang. It's fascinating and once more we have absolutely no way of knowing. No actual white holes have been detected - quasars used to be candidates but these are either rotating black holes or neutron stars. However, maybe each white hole creates its own, unique, universe so we should not expect to see one except, of course, for the one that started us. 

 

Meanwhile we are being told variously that time is an illusion, that time has three dimensions and is fundamental (but space is not), that gravity is quantum, that gravity cannot be quantized and that scientists have succeeded in "teleporting" things back in time and that time travel is no longer a mystery, just an "engineering problem". Back in the real world of engineering, the most advanced spacecrafts of our time blow up on the launch site. The casual onlooker (me) hoping for a greater understanding of science ends up more baffled than ever. 

I wrote this piece because the torrent of speculation on YouTube and other media outlets is incessant and increasingly irritating. No sooner has a new piece of data been received than it seems that a new theory will be dreamed up and popularised, often with the utterly misleading strapline "Scientists prove ....". Nothing is being proved right now. Observations may assist in rejecting ideas that don't work but they rarely prove anything outright. A few months of no new theories being breathlessly announced would be really refreshing.

Auditors Ahoy

 A few years ago I found some pleasure in the story of the Vatican needing to be audited. I could relate to it, based on my own experiences in that field (auditing, that is, not the office of Christ's vicar on earth). Today another news item seems to remind me of the good old days when I worked for a small partnership of Chartered Accountants. But with this one we are no longer close to heaven but all at sea.

The fee for the audit will be a very significant part of the total income of the new auditors, a firm with just two qualified auditors according to their own website. Who the other two people are that make up the four mentioned in the news clip is not clear. One news report quotes the firm as saying they can pull in lots of staff as required.  I think we have enough material to be able accurately to construct how this tiny and makeshift concern will tackle the mighty P & O job.

Scene: Offices in Dover harbour. Gulls wheel about. Large boats slide in and out of the docks. The traditional cries of immigration officers, such as "There's one, Henderson, after him, my lad!" and "Excuse me, sir, I can't help noticing there are several people looking out of the boot of your car", drift up to a dusty back room. 

Enter Mr Farquarhson, manager, George, audit senior and Tarquin, trainee ¹

Farquarhson: Right, here we are. Let's not waste too much time. This is a very important job for the firm and the client has made it clear that there could be more, if we do it right. KPMG couldn't hack it but we can! Now, they are bringing all the books here. There's no need for us to visit any other of their offices or to ask a lot of unnecessary questions of their accounting people, they're terribly busy and I know we can rely utterly on whatever the directors tell us. Of course, we must show we are totally independent and that might mean doing a bit of digging.

George: Seems perfectly straightforward to me. They run some ships. We just need to tot up the takings, check a few numbers and do the usual systems review.

Farquarhson: The accounts are here, on the back of this envelope. George, run them through the adding machine, make sure it all balances. Young Tarquin, I have a special job for you. We need to verify the assets. P & O say they have eight ferries. Keep a close eye out of the window and write down the names of all the boats you see.

Tarquin: Golly, sounds a bit tricky.

George: Use a clean sheet of paper, list each boat on a new line and tick them off...green ink, I think, for this one

Farquarhson: Good choice, George. Now, they have a lot of duty-free stock that we need to count. Their MD has asked me to come with him on a test routine of the single malt whiskies, so I shall be out most of the day. You two can do the beers and so forth tomorrow.

Tarquin: There's one!

George: Just write it down, Tarquers, we don't need to know each time. And watch out for duplicates,  those boats go back and forth, you know

Tarquin: Gosh, really? That is awkward. I can see why KPMG walked away.

Farquarhson: As I was saying, let's have a good look at the stocks, count the lifeboats, you know the drill. And, George, on Thursday, we could post Tarquin on top of the cliffs, just to make sure there aren't any ferries sneaking out of any secret harbours. I've brought some binoculars and a folding seat for him.

George: That is smart. Makes me wonder if we should nip over to Calais, do the same thing  there

Farquarhson: No need. You know the firm can always bring in additional resources if required. We've engaged Les Auditeurs Superbe of Boulogne, that's Jean-Claude Baguette and his uncle, to have a quick look.

George: Crikey, Mr F., the firm has thought of everything

Farquarhson: We may be small but we can mix it with the best, George. Now there's one very important matter that needs to be addressed directly. Tarquin!

Tarquin: Mr F?

Farquarhson: Mine's a black Americano, two sugars

George: Large latte 

Farquarhson: Off you go, lad, the cafe is on the upper deck of Maid of Kent, moored over there, and for God's sake get off before it sails.

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1. Yes, it is the same crew who did the Catholic job and I make no apologies, it takes effort creating these wonderfully realistic and well-rounded characters and I'm going to recycle them every chance I get.

The Winner of This Month's Insouciance Award is ....

In an age of increasing specialisation, when candidates for almost anything from a job to a TV reality show are expected to show "passion" and "110% commitment", how refreshing to meet a man happy to take on a severe physical challenge for no particular reason.

Source: BBC

 I have edited the story to cut out some of the guff and concentrate on the gist. Mr Lynch, a citizen of landlocked Wokingham, joined a team of presumably experienced sailors, declared himself to be "not the right man for the job" and went on that he only applied because it "looked pretty cool".  Thinking about the challenge of sailing round the world he commented "I've had no experience in sailing and no interest, which is strange"

I wonder how his application interview went

Scene: Back room in a sailing club. Anchors and narwhal bones above the door. The walls are lined with maps of the South Seas marked "Avoid this bit" and "bloody windy round here". A panel of blazer-clad nautical types put down their pink gins and welcome the latest prospect to join them risking life and limb in the oceans: 

Bill: Come aboard, landlubber. Name's, Bligh, Bill Bligh. I'm the skipper of this voyage and joining me are Harry Nelson and Jazza Cook. Tell us why you want to put your life on the line to go round the world with us on a tiny boat.
Lynch: What, all the way round the world? Blimey. I thought it was just a day trip round the Isle of Wight. I mean, I know f-all about sailing, can't hardly find my way to the bedroom door most mornings, but you know I always fancied myself hauling on the mainbrace or whatever, pretty damn cool, right?
Harry: Have you had no experience at all then? Never sailed?
Lynch: Had a plastic yacht for the bath.
Harry: As a child?
Lynch: Well, until last week actually. Thing is, I don't have a lot of interest in sailing but you know, watching it bob up and down when I poured water from the soap-dish over it, that was always exciting.
Jazza: Now look here, Mr Lynch, we shall have to work this 60 foot rigger in some of the heaviest seas in the world. You'll be on deck at all hours, soaked to the skin, freezing cold and being battered in all directions by massive waves. Up to the challenge?
Lynch: Bloody hell, sounds a bit of an effort, not sure if I'm the right man for this. But, thinking about it, I got pretty wet the other day in Wokingham High Street in a sudden shower and you know, when I got home, I managed to towel myself dry fairly quickly so, yeah, I think I can cope. If I can be bothered, that is, because like I say, I'm not that interested in it.
Bill: That might not be the right attitude for this voyage, Mr Lynch. I'm not sure...
Jazza: Bill, we do need to find one more and there isn't much time left.
Harry: He seems pretty sound to me, that story about the bath was top-hole.
Bill: OK,  I'm on board. Mr Lynch, You're in! I'm very pleased to offer you a berth.
Lynch: Well, I couldn't really care less but I've got nothing on next week so, yeah, ok.
Jazza: That's the spirit, shipmate.

I believe the BBC are to make a documentary following the progress of the yacht, and are inviting applications from film-makers, provided they have never held a camera before, really don't like making or even watching films, and who only want the job because they fancy having a canvas chair with their name embroidered on the back.