The greenest grass

On calling in to see an old friend this week, whilst standing talking in his workshop a car pulled in. Out got a bronzed middle aged blonde, fit, attractive and smiling widely.

Turns out she was one of his school friends, making the most of her short trip back home having already emigrated to Australia some 20 months ago. I’m always interested in the opinion of those that have left our shores, back in the late ’60s my parents very nearly almost moved to Canada meaning I’d sound funny by now.

The nice smiley lady thought that the parts of England she saw when returning looked ‘grubby’ and uncared for compared to her new home on that far away island. The curbs were full of dirt, trees in public places scruffy and unkempt. She sensed a lack of pride from her stalwart oak rooted home.

Maybe she’s right. Ironic though isn’t it, coming from a prison colony as she does now. Rather than a penance, those that we sent away from here so many years ago have created a new world in line with the Dutch nieuwe zee-land. Our own sweet land has been neglected. We bow down to our European masters who dish out instructions and laws on how we should behave in our own country. Pay them millions of pounds a day to keep a building full of suits and shuffling papers busy in Brussels.

Great Britain has and is being sold off to anyone with a pot of cash and a silken tongue. Just this week our London Mayor, the straw mopped Boris Johnson was seen shaking hands and bowing inappropriately with a Chinese investor prepared to spend some £500m making a pastiche of the great Crystal Palace in South London. Our own river crossing east of London is owned by a French company, once proud football clubs have become the play things of foreign oligarchs. What next, a queen of German origin? Oh. We have one already. Sorry M’am. I miss standing for the national anthem when the TV transmission ended for the night.

Sometimes I think we need a national disaster to pull us together, you know, a world war or some serious snow fall. Anything really that brings the best out in those of us still harbouring a sense of decency, those of us that would hand in a lost wallet without going through it.

Let’s retreat then to that most holy of places, no, not a church, that’s another subject entirely, you know, the pub. Not a modern hall of branding and cheap imported chemical lager, a real one built before America was discovered. The kind that was frequented by our ancestors whilst Henry VIII was on his throne ruminating over who to dominate next. I’ll have a PINT of ale please, yes, that one with a bit of mouse, hay and history floating in it. Thank you. At least here I can ‘feel’ English, drink some really local beer (but not a small one please, I need to get wobbly) and talk a good fight.

Now I must stop rambling.  The wife wants me to mow the lawn, before I go to the King’s Head.

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