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I would never be naive enough to expect an immediate turn-around from those in power, who have found themselves – either directly or by implication – in the firing line for years, decades, centuries of abuse of their position.

But I had hoped that maybe, just maybe, they would, as a group, at least accept that the status is no longer quo. That they would stop making excuses, complaining about witch hunts, denying active or passive acceptance or participation. And by the way, thew term ‘witch hunt’ is also unacceptable. Just saying.

But no. Not a chance.

Admittedly some, Michael Fallon being one, have taken ownership of unacceptable behaviour. Others, such as Damian Green, deny everything. Never even blinked in an inappropriate way.

I am thankful that this have moved on from the entertainment industry, as it has long presented itself as a very different arena from the rest of humanity, where the abuse has a veneer of glamour, and the results of success can be significantly higher than the norm. “So, stop moaning about a bit of exploitation, you are minted now!”

And there is no-one that is surprised by politics being a shit-pile suitable for overturning. But the excuses, the excuses are the same.

Misunderstood at one end, drunk in the middle, acceptable in previous years at the other.

No. None of those are acceptable. At all.

Misunderstood? Invading anyone’s personal space is a big step to take. If you are invited, then okay – just be prepared to step back when told to. But not when there is an in-balance of power. If there is any honesty in the intent, then you remove yourself from the position of power.

Otherwise, there is always an intent to use your position to apply leverage. When those not in power do not have to worry about abuse, then is the time to re-assess the approach.

Drunk? Really? When victims can still be held accountable for perpetrators actions because they were drunk, how is it an excuse for leniency on the other side?

No. Never acceptable. Ever.

Acceptable in the past? Are you really saying that? The answer unfortunately is yes.

Just to make it very clear to all those neanderthals out there, it was never acceptable. Ever.

It may have been more quietly tolerated, but it was never right. There was never a moment, 10, 15, however many years ago, when suddenly, in a light bulb moment, women were seen as equal. When the exploitation of power was suddenly a ‘bad’ thing.

It has always been ‘bad’. The only difference is that now we can hear the demands for a stop to it.

Whether we listen, well that is up to each and every one of us.

But there are no excuses. There are no ‘acceptable’ circumstances. And there is no pecking order of sleazy and inappropriate.

It all has to stop.

 

It’s raining. Very steadily, very consistently, very wetly. Welcome back to the reality that is England.

For a while, a brief, glorious while, I was, literally, in another country. And I have an important message for everyone – Go To Lisbon.

At the instigation of my nagging son to take a holiday, with him, and because I was told of a recent trip to Portugal by an opinion I respect, it seemed the perfect place to break my eleven year holiday drought.

And, with the ease of http://www., an hour saw flights and AirBandB booked for a 5 day break.  I was even checked in a month and a half before the flight out. What could go wrong?

Ryanair.

I know many thousands were significantly inconvenienced, but I did take a disruption of my very overdue holiday plans very personally indeed.

But I am an adult, and I swore a lot, very loudly, and then rebooked with TAP – Air Portugal, and all was back on. The flight out was now 6.00 am, with a 4.00 am check-in. But hey, I did no sleep scenarios as a student. Comfy corner at Heathrow for a quiet couple of hours. What could go wrong?

Terminal 2, Heathrow Airport.

A few hard bench seats, with the arms strategically placed to stop reclining. The only comfortable seating, in Wetherspoons or Costa Coffee, where either closed off and alarmed after closing time, or roped off. What a bunch of ……..

So, after a few joyless hours trying to nap on hard steel tables, bags booked in, body searched – hey, with my body who wouldn’t want to – and a very long walk, we are on a plane!

Two and a half hours later, Lisbon. Same time zone, very different weather, and suddenly life seemed to get brighter. Heading into the city, the progression was as expected, sort of. Wider roads, newer residential areas and shops; narrowing down the closer to the centre.

Which is where it became really interesting. Cobbles, trams, steep narrow roads, and every square with a statue. They do like a statue.

Unfortunately, because of the early flight, we were also too early for the booking-in at our flat. Still, we were staying next to one of the best viewing points in Lisbon, both a bar / restaurant that began our Portuguese education with some local meats and cheeses. Meats good, cheeses – AWESOME! With combinations of cow, goat and sheep milk as source material, the flavours and textured varied – although the sheep only topped the bill.

Early afternoon-ish, and into the flat. And a very different adventure began. Yes, it was a 2 bedroom apartment, with all the amenities. However, because it was in an old house, it approached its layout in a very idiosyncratic way.

Up two very narrow, very steep flights of stairs, one with a section of ceiling that required ducking. Lounge with sofa chair, and dining table for 4. Bedroom 1 with double bed and wardrobe. Kitchen with all the necessary. Further narrow, steep stairs to bedroom 2 in the roof space. Low bed, low ceilings, windows at either end.

A residence with character! Definitely. And the personality emerged over time.

First things first, a little doze to recover some energy.

Now, when a friend firstly recommends Lisbon, then links you with her friend who happens to be, amongst other things, a food writer in Lisbon, and you get some suggestions of where to eat, you accept this as gospel.

So, showers, then out for food.

And so began the adventure of the bathroom. Firstly, there was the slight problem, for around 50% of the adult population, that standing to pee was interesting as the toilet was carefully positioned under a sloping ceiling – lean back and pee forwards. You women have got such easy lives!

And then to the shower. Well, it worked, very well. Scalding hot water – no problem. Tolerable hot water – not so straight forward. The adjustment was microscopic between Ahh! and Ahh! at either end of the hot/cold continuum. What made the whole operation so much more fun – if you are keen on risking your life in the shower – was that, in a 2/3rd length bath, at the exact spot where it was safe to stand whilst trying to adjust the temperature, there was a step. A STEP, IN A BATH. WHY? No really, WHY?

We both survived. We dressed, sprayed on the macho smellies and set out for the first recommended eatery, conveniently about five minutes down the road. And our first Tardis moment.

The common element in all retail outlets, or every variety, in the older parts of Lisbon, is their ability to hide a much larger establishment behind a comparatively narrow and unprepossessing shop front.

And so this Tasca proved to be. A traditional family restaurant, with waiters seemingly chosen for their age – plenty of it – and good looks – none whatsoever, the room seemed to go on further and further, back and back. Tiled walls – this city loves tiles – and brightly lit, the atmosphere was established longevity.

Determined to achieve cultural immersion, we decided to rely on the advice of the waiter, and, where possible, order untranslated items to up the anticipation. Plus wine of course.

The waiter was immediate in his recommendation. Octopus. As the intention was to share dishes, I decided to aim for a ‘surf and turf’ concept, and ordered pork. Yes, I know, genius. Well, almost-ish.

The octopus was SENSATIONAL. A large platter, large grilled octopus legs, small jacket potatoes, fresh herbs, garlic, melted butter. The octopus melted in the mouth, as close to a perfect eating experience as you can get. And so simple. The pork was also good, and more interesting the more you got into it, but nothing would beat the octopus. Love blossomed.

To test the theory of ordering untranslated items, we had two sweets, each individually was not great – combined, knockout. The Cherokoffs, in one night, change the culinary landscape of a nation. Very, very slightly.

What else did our first dining experience teach us? Traditional food, in traditional restaurants, is cooked by women. No men in the kitchen. Also, we had been warned that as soon as you sit down you are given bread, cheese, various meats. These are extras and charged for, and should therefore be ignored. But we were hungry, they tasted great, and were cheap. So they got eaten.

And the octopus was AWESOME!

And so to bed, at the end of a very, very long day. From painful dozing on a metal table to a superb introduction to Portuguese food, it had been an interesting journey, and it had only just begun.

Friday morning. Coffee, bread, cheeses, meats. This continental stuff is easy. Then off to meet our local culinary expert.

Sun shining, walk downhill towards the river, Google maps working well. In a small grassy square, with another excellent coffee, we are joined by our advisor. Two kisses, good gossip, laughs and illumination. Lovely woman, as warm as the weather, bright as the sun, with the sharpness of a person worth knowing.

We bid farewell, with our eating intentions refined and more targeted, and armed with a copy of the latest recipe book – many thanks Lucy Pepper.

Firstly, a quick check round a market, a fantastic blend of higher-end wines and spirits, sweetmeats and other means of removing money from tourists, and the kind of fresh fruit, fish and meat that would grace all and every average Joe’s table. Discovered that Portugal has no real history in spirit production. Interesting, but hey ho.

Next, a scouting out of the next recommended tasca. As unprepossessing as you can get, with the promise of the grumpiest proprietor in town. Lucy’s favourite, so that one is sorted for the evening.

And then back up the hill for the best outlet for Pastéis de Nata. Now, for any that watch Bake-off, pastry week, technical challenge, and Lucy Pepper to boot.

These little beauties are about as far away from a custard tart as you can get. And, even though I saw locals doing it with my own eyes, you cannot eat just one. I suppose those who sample them on a daily basis can do it, but us – two as a minimum, and on consecutive days. And eaten whilst watching them being made. Bliss.

And then, wandering, soaking atmosphere, browsing, shopping. Up and down narrow cobbled roads, with worn-smooth cobbled pavements, and tiles everywhere. The outside of houses covered in tiles – patterned, plain but colour variegated – the Moors left a great tradition (bit of history thrown in there, about all I knew).

And ending up at a castle, well several stacked on top of each other, from ancient Moorish to more recent renovations, and dedicated to St George. Yep, the same one. Not going to get into the fact that he was Greek, or any of the other ‘why is he the patron saint of England?’, but there was definitely no dragon. But awesome views.

And an extremely tasty cod-based dish on the way down. They do understand fish here, although it does confuse me slightly. Everything marine-sourced is cooked from fresh, except cod, which all seems to be salted and cured to be reconstituted when needed. A matter for future research.

After risking our lives once again in the shower – practice does not make perfect in this case – we are off out to test the grumpiness, and culinary offerings, of the next tasca, as recommended by Lucy.

As much as the first was shiny tiled walls and bright spick and span-ness, this was the opposite. Not dirty of course, but small, walls packed from floor to ceiling, and no Euros wasted on unnecessary extras. This was a basic approach to feeding the public.

And as promised, no smiles. ‘Fish please’ was our request. The proprietor held up a large fish opened flat, and 3 large sardines – pilchards? We accept, along with the bread, cheese and meats to keep us ticking over. The cheese really is good, and after downing a bottle of white before we ventured out for the evening, the first carafe of white went down very well.

Once again, the cooking is done by female chefs, and is excellent. As is the 2nd carafe of wine with the octopus as a follow-up. As is the third carafe.

Although there were moments when our host showed a flicker of warmth, we decided that we had not reached the group selfie stage, and set off back up the hill, well fueled with food and wine, and in search of a bar.

Based primarily on the charm of the younger Cherokoff, we soon became involved in a competition between two barmaids regarding who could make the best Mojito. Needless to say, the Cherokoffs won. After an interesting conversation about I know not what with members of the French navy, we headed homeward, retrieving the bottle of almond spirit purchased the previous day, and ensconced ourselves at the nearby viewing point.

Now, at night this seemed to turn into the place where all the young, hip and groovy people hung out, so we were totally at home. However, it soon became apparent that I was rapidly running out of the ability to stay awake, so wandered home, leaving my youthful alter ego to go off to some club with a group of Germans, eventually finding his way home at early o’clock.

The next morning came a little later.

But it still included a couple of Pastéis de Nata. So that was good. And an agreement that the energetic activities would be slightly curtailed.

So, a wander to a contemporary art museum, with an eventual conclusion, after much thought and serious discussion, that although some of the exhibits were good – in our humble opinions – and some were not – in our even humbler opinions – the stuff that is said and written about art, especially contemporary art, is total bollocks.

Having cultured out for the day, we wandered back. A cold beer – equally cheap by the way, and not bad at all  – to cool the throats. A shower to test our adventurous resolve, and out again to find sustenance.

And we got the timing a little wrong, Being British, we tend to eat a little earlier in the evening than the locals, so we had no problem, till this moment, in finding a seat – except for one tasca that seemed permanently rammed from the minute it opened till after we had given up for the night. One day we will get in there, but not this trip.

So, we eventually ended up in a restaurant that would not have been our first choice – a bit more polished, and with the feel of an eatery attached to a Harvey’s Store, rather than the other way round. And for those who follow these things, the first fall for the old person.

And, to the background noise of a small group of Americans, we ate our most expensive and least satisfying meal. It was still good, but a bit more appearance over substance.  And so the need for puddings! We are coming to the conclusion that the weakness in Portuguese cuisine is puddings. A fair amount of tira, not much masu!

Home. A film. Bed. Still in need of some regeneration from the previous night.

Still, at least that saw the following day – the last full one in Lisbon – at a sensible time. At hot. I will say it again. October and hot.

The local cafe / bar, where we had eaten when we first arrived, seemed a good place to breakfast. Titled an Energy Brunch, it was a mixing bowl sized portion of yoghurt, fruit, honey, granola, fruit coulis. Delicious, but HUGE! The energy title was a theory – it was difficult to move afterwards. But a bit of exercise would help.

So, because we are intelligent individuals, with an understanding of how heat can affect the body and mind, we decided to walk across the majority of the city to visit the Botanical Gardens. Public transport – pah!

And it was a good walk, and it is the best way of absorbing a place and a people, and I relished every step. But it was hot!

And we walked from the old centre of the city, to the newer and more international. Wider roads, well-known names. But all part of the journey.

And worth it. The gardens were lovely. The flowers striking. With wide areas of grass, and a near total absence of dogs. Seemed odd. But hey, we weren’t in Kansas!

We had already decided that our last evening meal would be back where we began, with the octopus. And so it was, and it was just as good. And this time we went all fish, and relished every mouthful.

And so, with a bit of cheese and wine shopping to take home, we called it a night.

An early start. Taxi at 7.30 am. Airport half an hour later. Book in. Walk miles, again. Onto a plane, and away.

In a way, it was sadly too easy to leave.

This is a partial, angled, and very eating-biased version of a very, very good time.

Lisbon is a great city. There are places that seem to have a character that fits, and this was pretty snug.

Nowhere is perfect, but when the body’s needs are satisfied, then it is easier to cope with less satisfactory elements – back to food again. Sorry.

There are still a million other places to see for the first time, but I would be happy to return.

And, I suppose I should credit the company with some of the enjoyment – but he knows that already.

Thanks mate, it was a good time!

This was going to be a fun frolic through the long weekend break I have just returned from.

But things change. And when the anger builds up it needs to be released.

As is clear from looking at the news across the globe, there are any number of conflicts, disagreements, and opposing views involving any number of issues. They are all serious, some deadly, many complex and intractable.

However, due to the latest predator to be dragged into the spotlight, the ongoing struggle for fair, honest, respectful and decent behaviour by men towards women is exposed as far, far, far from where it should be.

Once again a man in power is shown to be remorseless in the abuse of that position to satisfy their particular cravings.

Once again the surrounding organisation’s condemnation proves lacklustre at the very best, and more often than not supportive by inaction.

And once again the victims are blamed. For being victims.

Can we not at least get that one right. Finally, can we please acknowledge that the victim is not responsible for the actions of those who see their own particular urges, drives, needs as more important than basic decency.

The perpetrator is the guilty party. The only guilty party.

Except for every time that we accept, allow, indulge in banter, ‘a bit of fun’, ‘I was too drunk’, ‘where is your sense of humour?’, ‘you know you want to really’, and every other little element of reinforcement that pervades our lives.

And more importantly, pervades the lives of every woman, everywhere. All the time.

Humanity, as a species, has accomplished much. Great leaps in science, arts, understanding, cooperation.

Man, as a sub-species, has not moved forward in the most fundamental stage of evolution – the acknowledgement that woman is equal, and deserving of total respect.

And until every man can say that, and live by that, without having to think about it, then no man can.

Because it is our problem. Every man’s problem.

I hope that I have arrived at that place, although I am positive that I have much to regret and apologise for in my life.

But, I know that I cannot sit back and say my job’s done, because it isn’t. None of us can say that. Not until every man can.

We will know when that time comes when this is not a conscious thought, but that is a long way off.

And each time an excuse is made, or a sudden realisation claimed, or a blame passed to the victim, any progress takes another step back.

We are guilty, by association, by inaction, by silence.

Time to shout now boys.

Isn’t it good when, based on whatever particular biases have built up over the years, assumptions are turned on their heads.

Having bounced around various homes in Kenya, and then again in England, for the past 61 years – blimey that number looks big when it’s written down – I have to admit that, for the first time I actually feel like I am home.

Kenya, from memory – and that can never be entirely trusted – was a warm glow. The variety of homes in England, with short, medium and longer stays all had their positives, and negatives.

London certainly had its plusses, both married and single. Big city, the GLC – for those who can remember that far back – what’s not to like. But home? Not really.

Bristol was the same. Great city, splendid mix of buzz and chill, family, child, dog. A good life, mostly. But home? Again not really.

And then to a town by the sea – well Bristol Channel – and almost immediately the relaxed sigh – I am home.

And it’s not easy to quantify the reasons why. Certainly being near water is a plus – inherited from my mother. Easy access to the daily necessities, and easier access to the warmth of people who I care about, also adds to the positive.

But it is also down to the cover definitely not being the whole book.

Behind the pretty, the quaint, and the conservative, there is a vibrancy, an alternative, a community, and a real and palpable social responsibility.

I have tried throughout my life not to jump to conclusions about places, or their people. And in the last few days I have taught a valuable lesson in sticking to that.

This town cares. About itself, about its people – and that means all its people. And the easy classifications just don’t apply. If it was a Venn diagram, with all the small overlayed and overlapping circles that would exist, there is one that surrounds them all.

And that is why this feels like home.

The feet were getting a little tired. So thank you Clevedon.

I blame the BBC. And ITV, Channel 4, Sky and every other news outlet that claims any sort of impartiality.

Together, over the course of the past 2 or 3 years, you have created the Pantomime villain as a political force.

You began with Nigel Farage, a publicity seeking buffoon of the first order, with just enough nouse to realise that, the wilder the statement, the bigger the lie, the more attention the media would give him.

That led directly to Brexit – so thanks for that as well – and the idea swam gleefully over the Atlantic to provide the world’s biggest lethal idiot with the means of becoming president.

Who says we can’t export to the US?

And now we have the twin follies of Johnson and Ree-Smogg (and that is not a typo!).

I have heard too many times that Boris is a highly intelligent man – forgive me, I thought so once as well. But being able to speak Latin is not a mark of intelligence. It is a mark of privilege and separation from the realities of life.

And the constant media attention, the lapping up of every asinine and insulting comment, just spurs the fool to bigger and badder bombast.

It has, in his own mind, given him carte blanche to say exactly what he wants, wherever he may be – Kipling in a Buddhist Temple anyone?

And when questioned, the evasion and blather continues, adding to the totality of his drive for the top. And the air doesn’t get any thinner up there, because the media keeps inflating his ego with wall to wall coverage.

And the party sycophants placate with platitudes, because any power, no matter how tainted, is better than none.

And then we have the ice-cold evil that is a hyphen Mogg. Controlled, even-paced, never a raised voice or a rushed sentence, Victorian rectitude hiding a callous indifference to the suffering of anyone in the real world.

And the harsher the intent, the more air time. The more self-deprecating the dismay he can spread, the more up front and central he is placed.

I appreciate that 24 hour rolling news places a burden on producers across the media platforms, but please, big, soppy, pretty please, stop being taken for total mugs.

Because every statement you give air to becomes a sound bite swirling across the internet. And the resulting sound cloud shouts louder than the facts, the reality, the painful, complex and shaded nuances of our lives.

Your fault.

Don’t apologise – too late for that.

Just STOP.

In the last few days, in one form or other, we have witnessed the frighteningly negative side of the institutions of democracy we hold, or are told to hold, so dear.

Assuming that democracy is the ideal we should aspire to, then I wonder if we are missing the point. Or maybe the ideal is wrong, and a new way needs to be found.

The principle of a voice for everyone is sound in itself. And, for practical purposes, to organise that into a structure of time-limited representation makes sense. And even the departmentalising of the representation to take into account a regional emphasis seems fair.

So, the USA is split into State legislatures, the UK has devolved powers to Scotland and Wales, as well as local county and town or parish councils.

Representation, bureaucratic and clumsy, but a form that has evolved, been fought for, been compromised over. But representation.

And as long as it is not abused, or misinterpreted, then it has a function, sometimes even for progress. It may stutter, it may, from time to time, exaggerate those rumbling grievances that should have gone long ago, but it can provide a framework, a method, a means to a compromising end.

But it can also be exploited, especially when large numbers lose faith in the structure, and those who maintain it.

Regional division has led, through the use of the main pillar of democracy – one person one vote – to violence and a larger gulf between state and region in Catalonia.

And on a more basic and fundamental level, to scores killed, and hundred injured, in Las Vegas.

The Constitution, the mainstay of the US democratic edifice, is an ancient document, with deep historical interest, and valid precepts, but surely with room for judicious editing.

There have been amendments over time, otherwise the US would be an even more unequal place than it is at present. But, the right to bear arms? Even some who survived unscathed from the downpour of bullets still retain an obstinate belief in this right.

Of all the countries in the world, the US is the safest as far as external foes are concerned. Their biggest threat is from themselves. And the cold logic of the numbers killed as a by-product of the 2nd Amendment doesn’t seem to dent the commitment to having a terrifyingly over-armed citizenship.

So, as a principle democracy may have its place, but at every point where it is used to justify behaviour, action or inaction, or self-serving inflation – Brexit anyone – its validity diminishes.

We have a stark choice fast approaching. Either we accept the real principles of democracy, and ensure they are not abused by any interest group but serve us all – it’s called compromise; or we look to something else.

The Tories are already working hard on their own alternative – an interesting twist on fascism.

Personally, I could be tempted by a good dose of anarchy, just to clear the air. Then we can see what is left worth saving.

And the way things are going, that residue is looking more diminished by the day.

I am typing this in some pain, having recently had my wrists soundly slapped by two people very close to me, emotionally and / or geographically.

And it seems that I deserved it.

Apart from having extended rants at the dicks, twats and penis-wagglers that are in power at present, I have used this forum to dump various loads of emotional scum from time to time, as a sort of mind-clearing.

And to a significant extent, on the basis of ‘better out than in’, it has helped to clear the darker recesses, and maintain an equilibrium of sorts.

But I must admit that, of late, the balance between light and dark has been flickering a little more than usual, and that has led to me not only dumping on here, but also behaving in a way that felt out of kilter with my usual public persona.

And that led to my bollockings.

First, I apologised for my behaviour, only to be told in no uncertain terms that I was misreading, not only how I perceived myself, but also how it was received. To be fair, the bollocking came in the form of a rib-cracking hug – by god she is strong – followed by an earful.

Second, I was taken to task by the one person I should be counselling, if family structures and age are to be accepted as standard guides for support behaviour.

And so, I have to accept that, at least in this regard, I am a Dick. Or, at the very least, behaving like one.

It is hard to break the habit of not telling those close that all is not well. After all, why burden them when they have their own stuff to deal with.

But, as has been explained clearly, and eloquently, that is what they do, because that is who we are to each other. And if they can, then so can I.

So, it is time to turn over that leaf. I know I have these two, and others besides, who see me for the best that I am rather than the ‘through the looking-glass’ distortion that is in my head.

And it is also time to say thank you, and be grateful, and glad, and comforted, and uplifted. Because they are there for me as I am for them.

And that is enough to make life better. And it does. Honest.

Please don’t slap my wrists any more!!

 

Most of the time I like to think that I approach life, and the various curve balls it throws, with a grown up and mature attitude.

Whether it is less than cooperative clients or co-workers, the more mundane irritations of daily life, or moments of crisis, concern, critical decision time or just on-going shite for close and dear friends; I hope that I am able to approach, deal with, support, analyse, argue with an empathetic and adult air.

And then it comes to my life. And those moments where the ground seems to be less than entirely solid, and an encompassing feeling that, unless I hold grimly to the nearest solid object, I will float away.

Appealing as that might be for a permanently overweight individual like myself, it is less to do with diet, and more to do with a losing of a grip on the day-to-day.

And there is no rational considerations behind it. It comes from nowhere and quietly swallows the day, coating everything with a shiver of panic.

Like those dreams of falling, but in reverse, an inability to hold on, to maintain contact with the world as it is, becomes a state of mind that is difficult to shake.

The knots that hold the threads seem weak and less substantial, and looser by the second.

Of course it is all in the mind. in the darker places, where doubt and self-criticism settle down for a long stay. And the only elements that seem solid and stable are the very ones that create the fear of floating away from the good stuff.

Lack of stability brings insecurity, which brings a need to be seen, and never at the best time, or in the best way.

And the feeling passes, and the nervy concerns fade into the background, and the conviction re-emerges that all is right with life.

But there is always a question, just out of earshot, and a knot that doesn’t look that well tied, and a not-quite-imminent loosing of the grip.

It makes no sense, not in the reality that is. But when has that made a difference.

The truth of feeling less than found is no less powerful because it isn’t true.

I am really beginning to hate balloons.

If you can hear a distant thundering, it is not the weather, but the final nails being driven into the coffin that holds democracy.

Or, to be more accurate, the final remnants of the pseudo-democratic process we have held sacrosanct, clutched tightly to our frightened bosoms.

Although I should be well past being surprised by the blind self-interest, or unquestioning stupidity, of many of our elected representatives, in weak moments I do still hold out for a small indicator that they are in it for the greater good.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Now, here’s the thing. Last year the UK exercised its democratic muscle – limp, jaded, suffering from fatigue – and voted to leave the European Union. Shortsighted, misled, misguided, but they did.

And part of the great promise that led to that decision was the return of power and authority to the UK parliament. No longer bending the knee to Brussels, the laws will be our laws, and our lives will be governed by those elected members of a parliament. You know, the ones who weren’t capable of deciding in or out of the EU on our behalf.

But I digress.

So, although there have been some squeals from the Remoaners along the way, Article 50 was voted on and activated. So things moved forward.

So, next we have the European Union Withdrawal Bill. Not to be confused with the Catholic Church’s latest contraceptive alternative, the intention is to transfer all EU laws onto the UK statute book, to allow for a seamless extraction from the European body.

So far, so good. After all, there are a whole raft of laws that have been supported, instigated, agreed with by our diligent representatives in the EU organs of government. So, bring them all back, and then decide which we want and which we don’t.

And that is where the condom springs a leak – one metaphorical step too fat I think!

Because, within the same Bill, was the ability for government ministers to make changes to those laws and statutes, without reference to, or agreement by, parliament. You know, technical adjustments. My arse!

Have you spotted the disconnect yet?

Well. let us consider who are holding those government ministerial posts at the moment. The same barefaced liars who conned a majority of us to vote Leave.

However, with a billion pound bribe to the DUP, and a few Labour MPs with their own twisted logic and gripes, the Bill was voted through the first stage.

Okay. Long way to go. Plenty of time to make changes at the Committee stage.

But hark, what claxon of doom do we hear, echoing across Parliament Square?

Those same self-serving, self-interested, self-satisfied fuckwits decided to give the government the majority votes on the public bill committees, the committees tasked with scrutinising the Bill.

Till now, the balance of power in the committees was supposed to mirror the makeup of the House of Commons, but no more.

And that, dear reader, is where the last vestige of democracy curls up its toes, falls of its perch, and becomes an ex-democracy.

And when democracy is gone, or even the shadow semblance of it that we were so used to, there is only one outcome.

A despotic regime, in a three-piece suit, with glasses, a double-barrelled surname, six children and a heart as cold as ice.

Or maybe, just maybe, a good healthy dose of anarchy.

Guilt is a strange phenomenon. Not the crime type, but the internal mind twisting type. The not so rational type.

And firstly, I feel guilty about saying it, with all the reality that is out there, natural and man-made, that is devastating large portions of the globe.

But, as a means of clearing it from the rattling recesses of the mind, even if it is a fairly self-absorbed activity, does seem to clarify things.

It’s a feeling, not clear and razor-sharp, but vague and dull, and pervading. A feeling that, whatever the situation, whatever the outcome, it should have been better, different, less unsatisfactory, more resolved in outcome.

I wasn’t quite sure whether this was just the lot of a parent, but as many of the guilt points aren’t related to parenthood, I have decided to put that to one side. As well as having to acknowledge that, whether through luck, judgement, or inherited traits from elsewhere, the singular fruit of my loins is not bad at all.

Also, the theory that it is based in the classic Jewish trope of chest-beating as a standard starting point has to be dismissed as more myth than reality.

And so I am left with the reality that, whether based in fact or assumption, the feeling of guilt, of failure, is part of the psyche that is my companion.

One failed marriage can be written off as a failure on both sides, two failures start to point towards an inability to pass muster. And, even though it always felt that I was subverting self for the support of the partner, it ended as unsatisfactory. Or perhaps the subversion was the problem.

And that is echoed in the career, or lack of career. A lack of a clear vision, a powerful dose of indecision – over so many years – and a propensity to settle too soon for the easy option; and the result is 40 years without a mark made on the world.

Friends, some close, some heavily entwined for a while, have disappeared from the diary. And each time with a feeling that not enough was done to help, support, provide what was needed.

Family, that assumed rock that supports the wider life, has never been as solid as some would have hoped or expected. Parents, yes. Son yes. As to the remainder, I have never been entirely sure how to fulfill the expectations of those involved.

There are positives too, of course. In the past few years I have discovered what an alternative family can be, and enjoying extending circles of friends based on something more than just circumstance and proximity.

But that shadow still remains. What should have been said, done, not done, not said. The missed moments, chances. The missed opportunity to hold out a hand to catch, to support.

It feels disgustingly self-indulgent to scatter this across the ether, but some of the positives that have arrived in recent times have been down to externalising the clouds that block the light.

The other positives – they are down to flesh and blood, and having a place.

Guilt, real or imagined, will probably always be a weight that keeps the black dog with reasons to bark – or the other way round – but it is good to have close and understanding support. Gin and hugs – great for carrying weights.