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Monday to Friday, morning ritual, along with the bodily stuff, is Today on Radio 4. And, over the years, I have shouted, whinged and cheered at the radio in equal measure.

But I have also noticed over time a change in approach, a change in attitude, and a change in on-the-fly editing which, within short timeframes, completely alters the actual to the ‘official’ soundbite.

A shadow – as in Labour Party – minister was being interviewed this morning, with the main topic of discussion being the previous evening’s Andrew Neil interview with Jeremy Corbyn.

In that interview, there were certainly stumbles over proposed tax changes, and where funding would come from for a last minute pledge to support pension-cheated women. But answers were provided.

However, Neil decided that, as is his grandstanding style, he wanted an apology from Corbyn for anti-semitism in the Labour Party. This was not forthcoming.

This morning, the question was raised again. A clear answer was provided, stating very clearly that, over the past 2 years Corbyn has apologised for any hurt that anyone may have received from anyone with any association with the Labour Party.

Within a ten minute time frame, this was reduced to Corbyn refused to apologise. Not a true statement either, as he avoided the question. Pedantic, but a big difference.

I have never been happy with how the problem of anti-semitism has been dealt with in the Labour Party, but I also do not consider that Corbyn is anti-semitic. He does need to acknowledge a less than effective approach previously, but that is a long way from the accusations by the Chief Rabbi, and the distortions from Radio 4.

Contrast that with an excerpt of an interview with Sajid Javid, regarding Islamophobia in the Tory Party. It is being investigated, on more general terms than originally promised, and yet at no stage was there a demand for an apology.

The basic rules of job interviews require the candidates to be asked the same questions. It would be good if the BBC could manage that.

The impact of that difference is immense. And an answer that the matter is dealt with in other programming doesn’t wash.

You present both sides of a contentious point at the same time – or you do not.

Otherwise you create bias, and misinterpretation, and false news!

Yesterday morning, instead of listening to The Archers Omnibus – the constitutional duty of everyone of  ‘that’ generation – I was walking around my local roads and avenues, dropping election leaflets through letter boxes.

I wasn’t expecting to meet many people, and I didn’t. They were all listening to The Archers Omnibus no doubt.

But there were a few people about, dog walkers mainly, and a man, a couple of years younger than me – he said so – who was wanting to talk.

The conversation moved on from ‘This will be an interesting election’, through the ‘immigrants taking jobs, although I’m not against them as people’. I countered with the’ taking jobs that were not being filled by local talent, in a lot of cases because the pay was too low, but it was all fairly superficial stuff – nothing too deep for a Sunday morning.

He then mentioned that he was okay, but it was going to be tough for the young, and so I mentioned the ‘F’ word.

And he stopped walking, and said ‘You are right, it is about fairness’. He didn’t like Corbyn – didn’t bother to ask why. Didn’t trust Johnson as far as he could throw a truck  – didn’t need to ask why. And hadn’t forgiven the Liberals for keeping the Tories in power.

Then he said ‘Thank you’. I asked what for, and he said ‘For making it simple’.

And that is all it’s about – fairness. As in – not having to rely on food banks even though you are working full time – not having to prove you are unable to work, when your disability makes that impossible – not have to subsidise your child’s school so they can provide the basics of education – not have to beg and struggle to get to see a GP when your medical record says ‘See this person now!’.

Because those that decide how much is done to provide the basics for everything we need, they do not worry about these things, because they don’t need to.

And so it comes down to fairness. Never mind the rest of the manifesto. Because those that put fairness as the first imperative will not be those that say ‘we’ and mean ‘you’, because they are okay no matter what.

We have had too long with them. They have had too much for too little.

It’s time for fairness.

The hyperbole attached to the upcoming election has been, as expected, of the ‘once in a generation’, ‘once in a lifetime’ variety. And, overused and therefore diminished in impact as they might be, the description, this time, is potentially valid.

The prospect of Brexit becoming a reality, allied to the continuation of the moral void that is a Tory government, is a prospect that should lead anyone with an ounce of empathy, social conscience, appreciation of fairness, of justice to determine that they no longer retain power.

And yet, when the opportunity arrives for a direct comparison between the leaders of the two main parties, we are left with an echo of the world according to social media.

And a clear indication why adversarial politics should be closed down, closed off, and consigned to history. But that is another argument for another day – or maybe not.

To have high expectations for a televised debate would be an extreme example of naivety, but the result was still a disappointment, because the performances brought nothing new to the argument.

Catch phrases and sound bites abounded, more to be fair from Johnson than Corbyn, but the opportunity to nail the tragedy of the Tory record in power was missed.

How can the answer to an accusation of  the SNP controlling Labour aspirations not be the fact that the Tories bought their, now gone, slim majority with a hand-out to the DUP?

Why is Corbyn so unwilling to explain his personal opinion on the EU? Endless avoidance of a question, and repetition of an answer to an alternative question presents the same picture as Johnson’s endless parroting of getting things done, cooking deals, unleashing …….. stuff.

There is an innate morality behind a socialist – left of centre if you prefer – agenda. And that should always be the case that is proposed, and there were moments, but there were transient and brief and not retaining impact.

And that was because the live debate has become an echoing chamber for the narrow bellows of the distortions generated by social media. Perhaps because it worked in the US, and in the Brexit referendum, both sides have decided that the only way to win is to continue the process.

Reason. That’s all that is needed. A couple of minutes of calm reason. Just enough to make enough people think beyond the sound bites.

And, by the way, simple adversarial politics is no longer relevant. It still prevails, but it isn’t relevant, and will dissolve.Not soon enough probably, but it will.

And as to the rest – irrespective of how unsatisfactory it appears to you, there is an imperative that prevails above everything else.

Get rid of the Tories.

I have been invited to provide an insight into the deep and meaningful pool that is my world view. The usual scribe of this blog – nice enough, bit old, bit simplistic – was persuaded that an alternative view of the current world state would be appreciated by both his regular readers.

I suppose my perspective of the various afflictions being suffered by the western world comes from a slightly different angle to the average cultural pundit, with a view starting just under the nose, and finishing somewhat south of the Adam’s Apple.

I am in my third incarnation, beginning many years ago in the enthusiasm of youthful rebellion, along with a full head of hair. The second took me through to late middle age – be generous with the chronology there – when the advancing grey seen daily in the mirror appeared to be announcing ‘old timer’ before my time.

However, comfortable now in my emergence as the adornment of an old fart, with a passing resemblance to Sea Sick Steve, and an acceptance that grey is on trend, I have emerged to remove the mystery of why the world is going to hell in a barber’s chair!

And the answer is simple. Not Enough Beards!

Firstly, we have to accept the undeniable fact that 99.9% of all the shitefests created in this world are instigated and perpetuated by men. And they are, by dint of natural selection, the ones that are tasked with the growing of the beards – sorry grans everywhere!

So, let us examine those ‘men’ who are causing the most grief at the moment. Trump, Johnson, Rees-Mogg, Farage, Putin. They all have one thing in common – apart from being self-serving sociopaths.

No beards. Not even stubble. Nothing.

The one thing that each and every one of them needs, more than anything else, except possibly lifetime incarceration, is a good beard to distract them.

Nothing calms the megalomaniac more than being able to gently stroke a full beard. To contemplate, to consider, to let things pass you by. It also hides those many facial defects that have haunted these men for so long. And eventually provides some seasonal work in December, for those who can fake conviviality towards children.

And before anyone starts remonstrating about the heavily hirsute protagonists of extremist views that we have suffered, and continue to suffer, their problem is related, but more subtle, and only apparent to a growth on the inside, in the know as it where.

Yes they have the beard. But what about the grooming? I am positive that a pair of trimming scissors hasn’t been within a hundred miles of those woolly extremities. And that’s before you start with the oil, beard cream, shampoo, and the comb.

So, the answer is simple, the solution slightly more difficult to achieve.

If it could be arranged for me to sit awhile on the chins of any of these deluded egomaniacs, we would once again be entering into the season of miracles.

And that is my offer. Peace and tranquility could be yours. All you have to do is somehow placate the old fool who is my current host. And I am unsure how to do that. He isn’t as stupid as he looks – not quite!

It has been a while since I last presented my mental meanderings, and that has been for a number of reasons.

There has been no rage-riven political angst because, quite simply, life got in the way. And there has be no existential life lessons because, quite simply, life got in the way.

I was told recently by someone who may know me too well, that when I ‘go silent’ they know all is not well, but the answer will eventually emerge – because I will always deny the existence of a problem – in the next rambling blog.

Annoyingly, that is true. Till now.

Because the silent and deep was too silent, and definitely too deep, to allow any expression of what was the root. Not being able to re-stopper the bottle restricted any expression of ‘it’s okay not to be okay’.

And so I walked around, in outward denial, with a granite block on my back, and not looking to understand it, because the feeling of ‘don’t open the box’ was so strong.

And then, because someone who knows me too well got totally pissed off with my denial, and called me out, and forced me to acknowledge the pressure, the weight, I had tried to ignore became real.

And because it became real, it gradually became focussed, and reason, or a reasoning, began to emerge.

And the weight was total, all-consuming fear.

I was about to become safe, and secure, after so long of not being. And the prospect of it being stolen, of fading away, became an ever-growing weight, removing the air, removing clarity and replacing it with a fog of fear.

Which was why, when life moved successfully forward, I wasn’t as ready as I should have been, and everything took a little longer than necessary.

But that was also why I had to do most – not all – of it by myself. To clear the fog, to dump the weight, to acknowledge and dismiss the fear.

No-one is too old to be afraid of life throwing shite at the fan. Or of learning that it’s okay to not be okay, and say it to those who ask.

Because I am safe, thanks to the best person I know. And I have acknowledged my need to be open, thanks to the other best person I know.

And I will continue to struggle with the fears, because instant recovery only happens with Disney. But I am safe, and I am understood.

And I am there to understand all who need, but never ask. And there to ask, because the mask is never as good as you think. I know, and I survived.

And flounced!! But that’s another story.

Not an original line, and one that has been repeated by many. But it needs to be said, and repeated, by us all.

Every time you ask someone “Are you okay?”, and they say “Yes”, but the eyes drop, then okay is hiding something. Maybe momentary, maybe a pain embedded for years. But not okay.

There are those whose daily struggle with life, with ensuring the basics keep moving forward, can be clearly seen. And visibility means that an arm, a hand, a shoulder can be offered to help.

But remember, help is an activity, not a passive wait for a request, because the request may never come. So offer the hand, the arm, the shoulder. If it is turned down, then try again, try something different, try to appreciate that your view is through your eyes, not theirs.

There is a problem, however. There are many of us who have become extremely adept at not dropping the eyes, of masking the smile look genuine, of getting the voice to go up at the end of a sentence. Of hiding the panic, the lack of control over the thoughts and distortions that strive to retain the jagged edge to life.

And those require a little more consideration, concentration, empathetic companionship. Because even the most practiced of mask-wearer leaks a loss of stability from time to time.

This is not an MI5 surveillance job, this is humanity, and empathy, and accepting that everyone has moments of crisis, and some moments are simply that. And some are moments that last for years, and rise and fall. And manifest in depths or heights of emotion. or physical shortfalls.

And some are created by those around us, and some arise from within, from a particular view, or a complete lack of focus within a fog.

But they are all aspects of the human condition. Each in a different place, at a different time on the continuum. And each deserves understanding.

So, do not turn away, either from the dropped eyes, or from the proffered hand. We each need the other. To support. For support.

But always with understanding.

I can see you all, I can hear you all.

I hope, from time to rime, you can see me too.

I have spent as much of my life as I can clearly remember, and a bit more that is vague and fuzzy, operating with silent shouting, screaming and bellowing in my mind.

When it first appeared, in my teens, it was led to some fairly extreme ups and downs. Emotionally, alcoholically, cannabis fueled. Shouting loudly enough to drown out the noise, drinking enough to make it vaguely amusing, or smoking enough to be able to sit next to it and tell it to chill.

Or find a venue, a pub, a party, where the surrounding noise competed effectively.

Over time it became a part of me, one that was always going to be there, an element of the physiology. It grew or shrank in volume, sometimes in tune with external influences, sometimes for no reason.

And the years pass, and the coping mechanisms get to be, for the most part, effective enough to present normality to the world. For those who know me, perhaps normality is not the best description of my public demeanour, but it will do.

Hiccups here and there, but for the most part a coped with life.

It doesn’t always help with concentration, and sometimes it requires real concentration to step it back behind what is present, and sometimes being able to be with, be part of, immerse in other lives provides an effective foil, a muffler.

So, a little too much television maybe, a bit too much of standing on the edge and watching to change the focus, but all in all, I have arrived at a better place than I would have assumed I would find.

I am part of lives that are not there as distractions, but as lives that are linked to my soul. I can see small, incremental impacts that I can have to aid, support, lead change, difference, improvement. I guess that is what is meant by finding a purpose.

And the hardest part, when I get passed the feeling that it either isn’t real, or won’t last, is to keep the build-up of negative at bay.

Because I am getting closer to a place of security, of stability, of capability.

So I have been overthinking every moment from today forwards, of course. But good thoughts, clear and comfortable.

And I am not going to get defeated by a ridiculously archaic and convoluted system designed to drive anyone over the edge, never mind someone who has had a silent ‘JUMP’ echoing through their mind for years.

Their are people out there, probably loved by countless family and friends, who, at the moment seem determined to make time slow to a crawl, and turn expectation into entropy.

Looking back through this it my not be overly coherent, but as a means for me to grasp the future ownership – sort of – of my own home, against the gathered hoards of solicitors and financial advisors, it will have to do.

The next corner is so close, and turning that corner will be another pillow of comfort for the future, and another noise reduction for the cacophony.

But, right now, its bloody noisy up there.

Most days I get to observe an intrepid climber of cliffs.

Over the years she has raised herself up from the clouds that shroud the lower levels, escaped the clinging dankness, found real sunlight  at new heights, to dry, to warm, to illuminate the road ahead.

And those that held tight the threads, and strengthened the support, are there, and are uplifted by how far she has come.

The progression, the ascension, is her right, and also her achievement. She is human, so there are moments, but the growth, the broadening of horizons, the setting of new and exciting targets, are all medals of honour to her spirit.

I know many incredibly talented, unique and totally individual cliff climbers, each with their own escape paths from the valleys below, each at a different place, and with a different pace, but all looking up.

But the closer you are to mountaineer, the more detailed the hand and foot holds that have brought her to the current heights.

And life has its way of throwing boulders at the brightest and the best. And there have been a few rock falls of late that are unnecessary, unwarranted and entirely mean spirited. And they elicit anger, and sorrow, and fear.

But there have also blazes of light, brighter than any shadowy depth, that have lit up the days and brought balm to the bruises.

And I revel in the bravery of the bright lights reflected out to us all, and cheer as each new target is surpassed, and admire each new one added to the list.

And silently howl in anger at each attempt from life, or more prosaic elements, to diminish all that she is, and all she can still be.

And mostly, I am in awe of the determination of a life force that has given all who can see the truth of her a reason, and a purpose, for their own climbs.

Every night, I drink Damiana Leaf Tea. This is not a marketing ploy, although I would recommend it for anyone struggling to get a decent night’s sleep.

The reason I mention this is the effect it has had on my dreams. They are very detailed, very clear, very ‘real’, although in many cases not entirely possible.

The reason I mention THIS is that, for a couple of nights last week I had very clear dreams about my mother, and it has taken me a couple of days to decide whether the content was factual.

And I have concluded that the majority of it was.

The dreams / memories were fairly random, and scattered over a number of years.

Car journeys, mainly in Kenya, when she would regale us with ‘One man went to Mow’ in Swahili, or what is probably a distinctly dubious rhyme which begins:

One fine day, in the middle of the night, 2 dead men got up to fight; One blind  man to see fair play, 2 dumb men to shout hurrah ……..

Family card games when she and I would thrash my father and brother, although in the dream it also involved money, with the losers having to keep dashing off to sell possessions to stay in the game.

And two moments that personified who she really was, the strength, the spirit, the essence.

Although difficult to pinpoint the exact moment in time, it was around my mid teens, 15 or 16, when I was a distinctly non-social, long haired revolt in search of a cause. For some reason the two of us went to a party at a neighbours. The host decided to bombard me with ‘what are you revolting against’ questions, demanding a demonstration of my ‘difference’ from the norm.

I was not, at that stage, able to deal with this sort of situation, but I didn’t need to worry. All 5 foot 3 inches of my mother waded in and very loudly put him in his place for bullying her son. She then proceeded to take control of the evening, as the life and soul she could be.

The second moment was even more impressive. First year of sixth form, and I was struggling with retaking O’Levels – I failed 13 at the end of my fifth year – as well as taking 2 A’Levels. My parents had announced their separation during the summer, I had been diagnosed as a depressive, and was not functioning at the highest level.

A meeting had been arranged with the headmaster – grammar school – to discuss things, with the implication that the A’Levels would be dropped.

The headmaster had one of those traffic light indicators outside his office to indicate when to enter. My mother arrived, with me sitting outside waiting. She marched straight in, even though the light was red, and demanded to know why, if the pressure was too much to deal with both retakes and A’Levels, the A’Levels were being dropped rather than the retakes.

The look of disbelief on the headmaster’s face was astonishing, and although it was against standard practice, he agreed to me dropping the retakes, and continuing with both A’Levels. Interest footnote to that, one of the A’Levels was American History, which the headmaster taught.

I know why the memories came, because last week was her birthday. And it reminded me how much I miss her soul, her essence, her sense of justice that I see echoed in my son.

I miss her fire, her unconditional love, and her sense of the absurd.

But mostly I miss the smile, the broad grin as she went through the whole of ‘Ten men went to mow’ in Swahili.

Democracy. Used to be a comforting word. Four syllables that implied stability, safety, a limit to extremes, a sanctuary for consensus.

Now, lets be fair, democracy has always been more of a concept, an aspiration, than an actual. Whatever the particulars, the format, the construction, it remains a path that has not yet reached its end.

And, until recently, that would be okay. Evolution takes time, and the more variables you throw into the mix, the longer the next iteration will take to emerge.

There have been blips along the way, especially in countries where universal suffrage is a recent phenomenon. What started as exultation has sometimes dissolved into repression once the glow of freedom has died down, but the road, in principle, is heading the right direction.

And, as the UK has always been regarded as a long standing democracy, the assumption would be that its structures were sound.

But ……

The electoral and political system in the UK is not a democracy. Everyone has the option of a voice, but not every voice is heard. Historians may scream ‘wrong’, but as far as I am aware, in the last 100 years, not one government has come to power with a mandate of more than at least 50% of the electorate. More than 50% of voters, certainly, but that is a very different scenario.

And, although the membership of the political decision-makers has changed over time, the majority is still narrowly focussed through the influence prism of school, university, family and connection that has retained power for centuries.

It was recently described to me as a benign autocracy, which is as good a description as any, but certainly not a democracy. And yet the term has become, of late, a very useful factional weapon to attack whatever seems the most effective target to create instability.

There is no such thing as a true, and therefore perfect democracy, but revisionist and reactionary anarchy is certainly not the best alternative.

For better or worse, we have a well established process where a small number of people are selected – sort of – by the populus to make decisions on there behalf, with the proviso that if the cock it up, they can be replaced at regular intervals.

And that was the structure, the ‘democracy’, that apparently was voted in favour of by 37% of the electorate – the minority majority.

It is now being dismantled by a very small cabal of callous, self serving, egocentric and morally defunct megalomaniacs, who see power, personal glory and personal greed as the justification for infecting the majority with instability, uncertainty, and suffering.

Their arrogance is based on the knowledge that, whatever happens they will be absolutely fine, even prosper because of an expansion of pain and misery.

And it is clear that their intention is to create instability, because they are systematically attacking the pillars that hold society together. Parliament, the judiciary, the electoral system itself.

Not one of them will suffer if the edifice of a democratic UK collapses, and that is the best indicator of their complicity in reversal of the evolution to date.

The EU needed reform, but that cannot be done by walking away.

Our democratic processes need reform, but that cannot be achieved by handing the country over to the charlatans in No. 10.

Seventeen million plus of the populus made a fundamental error in 2016, based on fabrications and misdirection.

They need another chance, before the asylum becomes the best place to be.