Immigration in the UK

I’m not anti-immigration, but it’s just not right. Put the pitch forks back on there black, white letter stamped pegs, douse the petrol fuelled taps of anger, it is to do with them being different from us and that should be championed. Allowed to grow just like every other prosperous nation has been before.

In a country where the average waiting time to see a GP is over a week, a health service thats over worked and underpaid. A Police force thats under a daily barrage of cuts, political warfare and glacial culture divides the needs of such desperate people can not be effectively met. We can’t even meet the needs of our own people.

Mental health waiting times are dangerously long, people coming from such terrifying conditions are going to have mental health problems and we don’t have the capacity to deal with it effectively. Housing is either too expensive or not available due to costs. This leaves many with little option but exploitation and potential squaller, all the while our ex serviceman and mentally ill wonder the cold streets searching for a place to sleep.There is a good reason they tell you to put your mask on first during the pre-flight safety briefing!

The why for many is clear, the how is murky, full of misdirection and fear; the reasons have become irrelevant though. Conservative cuts have severed many public service veins and the only option now is well orchestrated political surgery, we seem to be lacking in decent political ‘surgeons’ lately.

Years of tradition and heritage are being eaten away by megalomaniacal extremists and morally deficient dictators. Stories and methods of practice are being forcibly removed with every death, diesel fuel induced stupor and mental scarring that each person is being assaulted with. Art, sculptures, scriptures, legends and myths are being resigned to ashen dust because the need to survives greater than the need for education. The only thing for many to hold onto is faith, faith in their god, faith that the west will help and faith that somewhere over the water the grass is greener. Worrying is when their beliefs are bastardised by psychopathic interpreters of holy text, people who will speak of a utopian land, rich with spoils from noble conquests all preached from their pulpits of rubble.

We do a disservice to our children and grandchildren if we bury these different values and cultures under a mountain of dirt carved by daisy cutters, we are taking away their chances to share difference and open their minds to change. That leads to certain negative behaviours becoming entrenched, the marginalised will learn what it is to be hated and hate in return, whilst the idealised indigenous learn what is to offer indifference instead of compassion. Safety in numbers becomes an easy tool for survival and sections of the country become secularised breeding grounds for ill prescribed rhetoric and dangerous action.

This should be a damning wake up call to western politicians who wax lyrical about moral values and shared responsibility. Those words are now cheap, unavailable and inconsistent with reality. It didn’t have to be that way, but lack of clear exit strategies and support for countries left violated by governments and extremists alike, waging proxy wars has made it so. One day the belittled children of today will have to pick up the pieces and doggedly glue the world they once felt safe in back together, knowing that some cracks will never go back like before, some cracks will always leak and some handles will never hold a full pitcher again.

You can’t blame people for wanting to come to a land that destroyed theirs, if it has the power to ravage their life then it must be doing more than surviving, it must be edging ever closer to the utopia they were promised. A country with enough time and money to spare time they can make vast arsenals of weapons capable immeasurable damage, these countries will be safe from ever having to bear witness to atrocities like they have seen, at least for a while. Weary feet can rest, curious minds can wonder, creative hands can make and fractured families can work again to be whole.

If only it were that simple, they have to endure a new set of challenges, technology, methods and customs so alien its a life of chalk and cheese. They aren’t welcomed or honoured like invited guests. Help is hard to come by and they’re increasingly cast aside by a privileged few. Treated as parasites and likened to rats by nature as well as living conditions. A natural reaction is to revert back into survival thinking, they aren’t going to prosper and “pay their way”, it’s like offering to save a drowning person and throwing them a brick. People will still want to come though as it doesn’t matter how green the other sides grass is, if yours is all but gone.

Each £22,000 Pave Way and £105,000 Brimstone missile is £127,000 that could have gone into rebuilding rather than destroying, defending rather than obliterating and educating rather than diminishing. These weapons have their place but the time of ‘throwing rocks’ from a distance is finite, negotiation and planned assistance are in prominent need, not chronic ‘parti pri’ peacemakers with money on their minds and cyclonite in their pockets.


City of Lights Festival Truro

After a nerve racking year the Truro light festival went ahead and was superb. The theme “tell me a story” was encapsulated perfectly by the resident artists and attending school children alike, combinations of gigantic willow weaved marvels and gentle mood setting smaller pieces coming together for a procession of lanterns that is truly a sign of Cornwall residents creative flair.

Layered in between the lanterns were light lashed dancers, marching bands and even a lady twirling curved light batons as though she was a 21st century Samurai.

Huddled in bustling groups the spectators mingled an hour or so before the parade, the rows only got deeper and deeper as we waited. Old and young stood in the bracing coastal wind drinking hot chocolates, chatting idly and cuddling fur lined coat collars.

Funding difficulties had left the future of the twenty year event hanging in the balance. Costs of £42,000 for crowd controls and other costs had left the event looking like it wasn’t going to ‘be’ back in August this year, but with the injection of funding from local businesses and other notable outlets like the Truro City Council and the Business Improvement District it did, to the relief of many. An option had been floated earlier in the year to hold the event as a static festival in the local Victoria Park, although a pleasant location the theatrical brilliance of a parade is what makes this community event really special.

The support offered by the public for the parade was humbling and very much appreciated. I watched as a homeless, bongo playing gentlemen who had earned a few silver ‘nuggets’ stopped one of the bucket rattlers to offer his share towards the evening. Many revellers happily stopped to chat with the ‘Bongo’ man, stroke his dog and wish him well, his thanks was also touching.

Gazing around the scene in front of me the troubles of daily life melted away for this night and its message of beauty in tradition and the importance of creativity in adversity. Three generations of our family watched and were left with an indelible impression of the magic light and community can create, leaving us with our own story to tell many times over.

The City Of Lights Festival organisers are hopeful that the charitable donations from this years event will go someway to enabling its return next year. Much the same as this year it’s future is still uncertain, although hope remains that this fairly infant tradition will be around for generations to come, inspiring the children of tomorrow to realise the great big dreams they harbour inside their wonderful minds._dsc2679_dsc2688_dsc2721_dsc2743_dsc2735_dsc2754_dsc2757_dsc2761_dsc2765_dsc2771_dsc2785_dsc2779_dsc2788_dsc2790_dsc2796_dsc2804_dsc2807_dsc2824_dsc2829_dsc2838_dsc2841_dsc2847

Rowena Cade “O, brave new world that has such people in’t!”

On the cragged edges of an exposed cliff peak sits an agonisingly almost finished odeum, grand in stature and unassuming of nature. The Minack theatre has been a sought after venue for many productions, the unheard of aspire to play there and a venue of choice for more seasoned theatrical productions.

It has a story of success through adversity that would rival many of the great playwrights best efforts, a love story flecked with moments of quiet elation and equal parts bitter loss. The tame crescendo being a marriage of balanced books and powerful lasting memories. A journey covering 80 years of dogged grit and determination, culminating in something truly remarkable with an essence of eternal life.

Rowena Cade was a slight lady with big ideas and a knack for creating something extraordinary from the humblest beginnings. Born in 1893 to a cotton mill owner, she spent her childhood in Devon, a self confessed ‘tom boy’ the outdoors presented the perfect setting for an enigmatic mind. She told a story of climbing through her bedroom window onto waiting tree branches only to fall from top to bottom landing with a thump. Her first taste of theatre came when her mother cast her in a production of “Alice Through The Looking Glass”, it was a resounding success drawing crowds of 27 and 43 across the two performances, though a far cry from the sort of audience sizes she would later attract, it cemented her love of theatre and productions.

The Cade family moved to Cheltenham in 1906 when her father retired, they moved to a small village where James Cade bought a house that was previously owned by the great novelist Sir Walter Scott. It was considered inevitable they would move to there as her fathers brother was Headmaster at the Cheltenham Junior School and her mother was born there. They lived an idilic life, quiet, comfortable, nothing of any significance happened while there. It was the outbreak of war in 1914 that shattered life as they knew it, like many others the family was cruelly splintered. Rowena worked at the Sir John Gilbey estate as a selector and breaker of horses destined for the front line in France and Belgium. Her father went off to fight alongside his brothers in arms, sadly he didn’t return. The Cade family were left in mourning and missing its patriarch, her mother sold the family home and moved them back down to South West England, with a family line dating back some 300 years it seemed fitting to return. The next few years were fitful and restless, never staying long in any one place, renting all the while.

Whilst living in the village of Lamorna she came across a cliff top section of lower Cornwall, just a stones throw away from Lands end. She paid the relatively grand sum of £100 (around £11,000 in todays money) and she brought Minack Head. Rowena set about the building of a house for them using granite sourced from the local St Leven Quarry, she would later extend the house to accommodate her sisters return from Australia.

She joined a drama group, entertainment that far down south was mostly ‘homemade’ and they put on a production of “A Midsummer Nights Dream”. She didn’t have a speaking part in the play, instead immersing herself with all the important goings on backstage, decorating, sewing costumes, she had a flair for creative crafting. One of the plays faeries recalled a time when Rowena was in a field hurriedly altering costumes with her sewing machine nestled in the grass at the eleventh hour. The play was a success, enough to inspire them into putting on another performance the following year. With a new found confidence they decided on “The Tempest”, but having thoughts that the same venue might not have the same feel for this particular works and other potential venues being potentially too small, Rowena tabled using Minack Head. The serious, dramatic backdrop would be more fitting and space for seating was ample. Everyone agreed and work began creating the first theatre for their play. It took Rowena and the others six months to build their first crude staging, it was lit with car head lights powered by Minack House fed through long wires and whatever batteries they could find. Hurdles clambered over, another successful performance ensued. Rowena and her gardeners, Billy Rawlings and Charles Thomas, set to work building something bigger and more permanent. Rowena became an apprentice and labourer, together they ferried rocks, sand, soil and stone to create a seating area and the stages. Every winter for the next seven years Billy, Charles and Rowena would make progressive changes and touch ups to their ever evolving venue. Rain, wind or snow didn’t hinder the ceaseless growth of the Minack. Years of performances had earned a good reputation as a unique theatrical destination.  However, Rowena was to be dealt another blow as war had broken out again. She took on the role of billeting officer this time around, consoling children and parents alike as they were moved to relative safety outside of London. The Minack was in a prime location for mounted sea defences in case of German invasion, the land was seized and cordoned off to the public with barbed wire. A pill box was erected and manned constantly, if the opportunity presented itself she would crawl under the barbed wire and tend the grass. At the end of the war a film company wanted to use the sight for a new project they had. They had heard of the Minack prior to war starting and felt it would be perfect for their film “Love Story” with Stewart Grainger and Margaret Lockwood. They were plagued with storms and eventually abandoned the site in favour of a replica studio mock up with less problems to overcome. Prisoners Of War were sent in to dismantle and clear away what was left of the Armies defences. A combination of so many people and forced neglect had rendered the theatre almost unrecognisable, it was likened to its earliest stages of set up. Rowena and Billy were left with a shell and the prospect of starting from the beginning. Tackling it with the dedication and tenacity of sculptors they began the hard process of rejuvenating their labour of love. The reputation was spreading again with more visitors and many groups looking to perform there, it had become something of an iconic location for amateur dramatics societies. With its ever growing crowds Rowena and Billy decided that it was time separate the Minack Garden from the Theatre. A 90 step pathway was constructed that led from the shoreline to the penultimate head, huge granite rocks were hauled to the top throughout the early fifties, finally separating the two parts. Rising costs and dwindling budgets had left Rowena and Billy unable to afford more granite, ever the problem solver Rowena would carry sacks of sand up from the beach at Porthcurno to use in the cement. She had developed a technique of carving intricate patterns into the cement just as it was about to set. This method was applied to shape the many hundreds of seats that adorned the Minack, each had a title from one of that years plays and their respective dates.

Billy died in 1966, Rowena had a single seat with his name carved in by way of a memorial to her visionary assistant. Tom Angrove became her new builders mate, eventually retiring in 1993 some ten years after her passing. He recalled how she would carry bags of sand all day, in all weathers, only residing herself to a car in later life. One story he shared was of 15ft wooden beams salvaged from the shore at Porthcurno, it had washed up from the wreckage of a Spanish Ship. She carried each beam up by hand, again from bottom to top, perhaps attempting to reverse her childhood bedroom escapology attempts. Customs officials came asking after the wood, they approached Rowena and asked if she had seen it. She politely told them that she had and that she had taken it up to the theatre. She invited them to come up and see for themselves. They declined, scoffing that a “frail looking woman” such as herself couldn’t possibly have managed such a feat and they left. Whilst carving the wood for use as a changing room she remarked to Tom “well I didn’t tell them a lie now did I”.

Year on year the Minack was tweaked and changed, with every nail and step placed to better suit its performers and patrons. Her pioneering cement work is still in use today, a testament to her innovative mind. In the later part of her life Rowena brought a cottage and some land around the Minack, this gave the opportunity to build the ticket office and increase the parking again. She died in her mid eighties leaving all that she had created to a trust fund that had been set up for the Minack. She tried in vain to get the National Trust and a London drama school to invest in the Minack, but no one was biting due to the unattractive takings. She did manage to get a short period of help from The National Council of Social Services, but they withdrew support after three years of negative profits. She carved out her final years work on a meagre budget, using her determination and her acute sense of ‘the show must go on’ to continue.

Her work didn’t finish with death either, after she passed sketches and intricate notes were left. Ideas of how to cover the Minack during rain and other inclement weather were left in her stead. As of yet no one has taken up the plans and assert her final designs.

The Trustees took the reigns and built a coffee shop, ticket office and small story board history of this incomparable location. After many years of not making money, Rowena often had to top up the years takings with her own money, the Minack is earning it’s keep, opening up the venue to day time visitors has been a master stroke. With 150,000 visitors each year the venue and its many intricacies are marvelled at by young and old alike. In addition 80,000 people visit each year to watch a play, the backdrop of closing sun and rising moon, coupled with live music and a warm blanket provides a night of entertainment more unique than even its creator could have envisaged. It certainly would have been many a playwrights muse.

The enduring philosophy is to carry on the noble direction Rowena had journeyed, by providing good quality production that is varied and to a high standard. It’s open to anyone who will strive for perfection, whether a small unheard of amateur group or a large theatrical production. Its final goal is to keep the Minack a venue affordable to all, whilst still maintaining the site and improving it year after year.

To have built such a vast, complex structure in an open area of imposing Cornish cliff edge shows a courage of conviction I can only admire, to do it twice after seeing it trampled the first time shows a tenacity and drive that anyone can aspire to. The small, frail lady that built a grandiose, hearty theatre for all to enjoy will forever be cemented into history as a heroic visionary with a back bone of iron and the will to match.

Shit and Fan

In a confused world where bad people say good things and good people do bad things, can the population really be blamed for voting against the ‘status quo’, no they can’t. Will they pay the price, yes.

Short sentences and repetition seem to have been the victor, constantly announcing that one man can make America great again was enough. Policies, facts, methods, even the nobility of truth aren’t enough to disparage the downtrodden from following this simple rhetoric. The people voted not with what they knew but with what they could understand. Thats not to say that people are “stupid” or that an “IQ test should be taken before voting”, more so that world affairs have been made so complicated understanding it takes more time and dedication than the every day person can ‘afford’ to give.

People have become fearful of long words, complex sounding theories and side stepping, using twenty loosely associated words when one word, said with conviction and promise, would be enough. Perhaps its because people are tired of legal jargon that every new iTunes, email account and trending app brings. Add in being bombarded with constant meaningless acronyms that sound powerful but in reality are as exciting as writing lines after school. Maybe its because the internet has shortened our attention spans so much we expect information to spoon fed via infographics and floating captions in a three minute video. The news that tickles our gossip fancy or fuels our desires is forced into 140 characters to explain something as complicated as Kanye and Kim’s latest Hollywood movements so why can’t our politicians do the same for us, don’t they know we have work until five and then off to our night job at seven?

Popular socialists such as Bernie Sanders use a method of speaking that is more like your everyday person, down to earth, not fashionable, respectfully delivered and with the courage to stand by what they have said. But for every Bernie there is a Trump, every Ellen there is an Ann, every New York Times a Fox news, keep adding potatoes to that pan without checking the water and you’ve got a messy clean up job on your hands.

I can’t help but feel this is racially motivated and anti-establishment in equal measure. It sets a worrying precedent that has happened before in the most unspeakable way, at best a few angry fists thrown by tired, frustrated people, at worst we will be shot at by the very weapons we ship around the world in the quest for global democratic practice and market monopolies. A large swathe of Trumps supporters are guided by the “will of God”, ancient moral scriptures informing people where right and wrong sit; broken down conveniently into ten short sentences.

Another section of Trumps supporters are strongly behind their military, often taking the time to publicly pay respect and thanks. Branded, rightfully, as heroes and welcomed on their return, something soldiers historically missed out on by a movement of “love not hate”.

He managed to insult many of the core values these people hold dear, disrespecting the former soldiers and acting against the will of god, although it was with a woman so its somehow a lesser sin on the “deplorable” scale.

People were even happy to follow him though openly admitted they didn’t like his actions.

In some way the man on the telly wasn’t the man on the bus, the fraud audits, court papers, sun bed and even the lectern. Hateful words followed by half baked action plans won out because sections of this world need someone to blame, but that someone has to within reach. In all honesty we have seen it played out on the TV, it’s what the election debates have been muddied by from Trumps Triumph to Brexit. When offered an object to throw punches at people took it; tired of swinging blindly in the dark, they saw a symbolic punching bag and continued to drive five knuckles of sobering fury at it. Any sense of how much damage is being caused or what the bag is made of falls away because their anger is transferred into the imported leather they’ve been told has hurt their futures and family.

Today is not a day of victory. Trump didn’t win, the people didn’t win, the world will certainly not have won anything, it is a day of loss.

Hillary lost, the DNC lost, the stock market lost, the establishment lost, just like it did with Brexit and just as hoped by the many people who had nothing left to lose. Bernie supporters know this feeling and have little to say except “we told you so”, you were told not to follow the same old same old, told not to be the navy blue trouser suit when the people wanted red hats and one off politically enthusiastic birds looking for their moment. Instead navy blue trouser suits went high, but should’ve have gone low, deflected when they should have reflected and carried on being fed by the hand that squeezes us.

Of all the losses, societies empathy has been the hardest to watch fade. When people who would normally give the shirt off their back turn to racism and scapegoating it’s time to admit that the marriage isn’t working and it might be time to see a shrink.

My only hope is that after a period of conservative rule, UK and US, the true causes become clear and we can focus a collective conscience of better change for a more equal good. Until then lets build that wall, a “yuge” wall, some might say a ‘Great Wall’!

Medicine for the ‘Immoral’


Can we decide who should and who shouldn’t receive a costly treatment based on their life choices?

I recently launched myself headlong into a debate about whether the PRep drug should be rolled out. A debate centred around NHS Englands decision to turn its back on the obligation to provide PRep to people who feel they may be at risk of contracting HIV. The murky water that lashed against the shores of sanity seemed to be sullied with discussions of morality and justification. The argument was predominantly broken into two categories; those that felt condoms were enough of a barrier and by choosing not to use them the risk is a burden they must shoulder. The others questioned whether it was right to deny those most at risk a safety net and whether it was right to hold back treatment of HIV because of perceived promiscuity.

I foolishly entered the debate feeling as though anyone in the ‘for’ camp had pitched their tent high on the moral slope, safe from the rising tide of archaic judgment and persecutory rip tides. Peering down into the gloom of archetypal people throwing moral missiles at unyielding, light footed knights of justice and equality. My only argument at first being that the high court ruling was not an outright support of gay men, but in fact support for anyone who was at risk from contracting HIV.

The next stage of my ‘gallantry’ is where it began to unravel. I charged head long at a gentlemen for his outright objection to supplying a costly drug when “Avastil” is underfunded and unavailable on the NHS. My arrogance was to believe that the ol’ boy had deep rooted anti-homosexual, anti-promiscuity theories that were ingrained from a life of attending church every Sunday like a righteous soldier of faith. I have long held the belief that people can harbour atrocious prejudices if they tell the good lord that they repent for kicking the dog on Friday because ‘er’ in doors’ hadn’t gotten dinner ready on time.

I had judged all of this from one simple sentence questioning whether the NHS could afford an expensive drug and what would be sacrificed.

I questioned the gentleman on his conviction that it was right to refuse the drug based on a theory that they were to blame for their ‘hedonistic’ lifestyle. To try and justify the cost over the saving of a life to me seemed as though a finite numeric value was being placed on the heads of red blooded people capable of good and bad in equal measure. I replied with many well meaning and forceful counters to these arguments, cutting through the injustice with a sword of salvation for the under represented.

This went on for a bit with many others chiming in to offer different tangents as to why this person could have so much courage of conviction when talking about who is more deserving. It was at this point I felt I was being a shit, this guy was so strongly holding onto his opinion that I had to justify why I had the right to tell him was wrong. I began to ‘pull my punches’ and re-write my counters several times, omitting personal jibes and character assassinations, replacing them instead with alternative perspectives and justifications outside of moral notions. Others rightly questioned whether all people that sacrifice their bodies to aggressive illnesses should be excluded also, the answer of course was not needed as it’s already happening and will do so for the foreseeable future.

I couldn’t wrap my liberal sensibilities around the idea that one person is more deserving than another simply because they have lived a life of “thou shalt not”. Could it really be so simple? Could we really ‘play god’ because someone has been good in a relative sense? It just didn’t make sense, a good person inevitably has bad traits so how can mere mortals decide who has the right to medicine based on moral judgments? “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone” as it goes. He cast his stone I threw my intentionally noble, but actually inconsiderate boulder back.

I suddenly realised that what he was talking about was an emotional thought process. To know the name of a drug and its effects is one thing, but to be able to use that name so abruptly and flippantly can only come from experience. To ask the question of whether its right to deny one party for the appeasement of the other could come from bitter experience not deep seated prejudices as I had arrogantly assumed. I swiftly attempted to make amends by raising my thoughts on his experiences without brazenly casting aspersions, I had after all cast more than my fair share already. A small ping and a red square appeared, a simple like, nothing pretentious just a like. My apology had been received, whether it had been accepted I don’t know nor do I wish too, for as long as I don’t know I can’t absolve myself from the judgment I had cast on a person I didn’t know. I was instantly humbled and there I wish to stay for I am human, fallible, flawed and ultimately in-perfect just like everybody else.

I did ask one thing to the gentlemen, a favour I didn’t deserve but I had to deliver in the hope of easing the trouble for all concerned. How it was received again I don’t know. I asked him not to be angry with the humanly flawed people for whom the debate was aimed at, not to be so heavily focused on who is more deserving of relief, but to be more focused on who is eating more than their fair share of the preverbal pie, for they are the real hedonists.

Can we decide who gets respite based on their life choices? That was my question, futile, simplistic and greyer than a British summer. Ultimately a rhetoric question, ‘we’ don’t get to decide.

The decision will not be made under a veneer of moral debate, nor will it be made on whether the ends can justify the means. It will be made based on a series of numbers, to dull for easily bored minds it will be plotted into block coloured bars so as to make the numbers more palatable, the higher the number on the y axis the more likely it will be rolled out. While we naively debate lifestyle over injustice they will debate net versus gross, we will share experienced stories based on first person perspective, they will share a golf cart on Thursday at four, we will pontificate whilst they propagate. We spend more time fighting each other in a Facebook Thunder Dome, desperately trying to re-take control of our destiny than we do holding our erroneous emancipators to account.

When did the placement of a decimal point hold the key to salvations we all deserve? Money makes money, it doesn’t make the holder judge, jury and executioner. We are not inanimate secondary colours filling cascading rectangles on a bar graph, we are people, committed to making mistakes and learning from them, muddling our way through life trying to balance what is right and what is rewarding, sadly they don’t always symbiotically travel.

Victory for the Unheard, But a Failure for Democracy

I normally have a lot to say on things political mostly because I am desperately paranoid about government and its control over all my families futures, especially that of daughter. She has at least ten years before she will even be thinking about what happens in politics and how it effects her, I hope.

People have very strong opinions on the way the country is run and even stronger on who runs it. That I respect, as we all have our different reasons for trusting the person in charge and ultimately the party behind them. Difference of opinion and allowing that to be shared and answered with respect is what makes a democracy what it is.

I disagree with the way the referendum has gone. Plainly and simply I feel (after far more research than was probably needed) that currently our status with the EU was better in than out. Not that it was perfect or even good for that matter, but “better together”. I felt very much the same with the Scottish independence vote and had some lengthy ‘debates’ with people about it.

My reasons? I don’t think it was the right move for the UK to leave based on the economic situation globally and the current government within the UK, to me it just isn’t strong enough. We have, for more years than I want to think about, been governed by right wingers, Tony Blair may have worn a red tie but he had a cold blue heart behind it and Brown was an embarrassment. Under that style of rule the NHS and other public services have been squeezed to within an inch of their lives. As have the poor, the less abled, the old, the young and anybody who questions the ‘establishment’. We have seen ‘policies’ put in place to make the country more ‘equal’, that have ultimately alienated so many people from so many walks of life.
I remember reading of a fireman who applied for a promotion to full time work, he was told that as a white male he would be able to apply on day three of the process. Day one was to go ethnic minorities, day two was going to women and finally day three was open to UK born white male. He didn’t get the job as it went on day one, to someone less qualified, but politically it was a wise move for public services. This was under Conservative rule and not the “barmy socialism of Labour”.
My thoughts on this were that the government was to blame for the hand outs and equality based bias that has been delivered and all for votes. Parliament has become a competition with a big cash prize at the end of it for the entrants, that cash prize comes from our pockets. Every penny of income tax, bedroom tax, VAT, alcohol and all the other taxes is being given in some form or another to the people we elect to work for us. I believe they would have the people of the UK blame the EU ‘anti-christ’ that has ‘oppressed’ and ‘trampled’ us down for so many years. I feel a lot of what they say are un-truths and manipulation for personal political gain.

They say that the measure of a persons integrity isn’t if they do the right thing, its if they do the right thing when no one is watching. On that basis I find it particularly worrying when the wrong thing is being done even when they are being watched or at least watching what we are being distracted with.

Lies have brought this event into such disrepute and have left people confused, angry and sadly divided. Whether you voted for or against our time in the EU doesn’t matter. What does matter is that some peoples decisions would have been formed on the basis of dis-honesty and economical truths. Facts have been distorted and allowed to be forced into the public domain where we have been expected to make sense of and come up with a well informed decision.
At the general elections the parties are quizzed hard about their plans and how they are going to achieve them. They are picked apart for every minor detail and left for dead by the likes of Paxman. I remember Ed Miliband being asked if he thought he had what it takes to go toe toe with Vladimir Putin, it was asked in a way that insinuated he was to weak for such an occasion. He may have been, but I didn’t hear anyone quiz Boris about his abilities in such an embarrassing manner. This time the answers were simply rhetoric, utopian fluff and nonsense, that weren’t contested with the same vigour.

These events I can categorise as a victory for the people having their say, but a victory for democracy it was not. A decision so big should have been made with all the facts laid out, then expert opinion should have been there help us digest what we were seeing and hearing, it simply didn’t happen.

It doesn’t matter whether you were in or out, both parties went about the campaign in the worst of ways. If it wasn’t fear it was false promises, if it wasn’t false promises it was more fear. The whole exercise was an attempt to calm the EU storm whipped up by Nigel Forage, which was then followed by a campaign that got out of control and became a megalomaniacal fight for ‘king of the dicks’. That is wrong by anybodies standards and we have been taken for a ride along the way.

Look at the statistics that have come from this. Who voted what and which paper they read is very interesting, as are age comparisons. People are not stupid but we are being force fed information in an overly bias way by people who have a vested interest in the favourable outcomes, after all we should be able to trust the media no? Sadly not, Rupert Murdoch being a case in point.

Please check everything you read and make sure it is true, if it is true then check it is the right figures involved and that there isn’t more to it. They will and do lie, Nigel Forage has already said that the £350,000,000 left over from paying into the EU being spent on the NHS isn’t going to happen. Before anybody says well what power does Nigel Forage have then ask why so many listened to him in the first place then.

Lastly to all of the “immigrants” I have worked with,befriended over the years, will work with, will befriend and all those I haven’t met or never will, don’t take this vote as the whole country not liking your presence, that simply isn’t true, respect has been earned so many times over by all of you. A lot of the leave voters would probably say the same thing as well.

Onwards and upwards, I really hope this turns out to be good and I am proved catastrophically wrong, that would make me smile for real. Yes I would have said this if we ‘won’ as well, not that either outcome could be classed as a victory.

If you read all this congratulations many wouldn’t have bothered as its just another Facebook keyboard warrior spouting their opinion and nonsense. I thank you and hope it hasn’t been too boring, I just wanted to say it ‘out loud’.