TILTING AT WINDMILLS

I SPENT MOST OF MY LATE CHILDHOOD AND A GOOD PART OF MY TEENS pursuing a dark passion. The situations I sought were always steamy, sometimes hot and, occasionally, dirty. My parents knew of my obsession, tolerated it in private, but were clearly embarrassed about my predilections. The fact that my obsession frequently required the presence of three or four other boys, and that I often arrived home quite late at night, sometimes with my clothing in disarray, and usually tired and emotional, were burdens they stoically bore. Yes, readers, it is the vice that dare not speak its name. While other youths were innocently out and about having a crafty Kensitas behind the tennis courts, sharing an illicit bottle of Bulmers' Woodpecker cider, or fumbling with the elastic of Norma Nugent's nickers, I was…..the word sticks in my throat …..trainspotting.

THE LEAD IN MY PENCIL was always as sharp as my eyes (behind NHS specs, which later, much much later, became iconic),  Brylcreem gave me an immaculate side parting, and the Tizer in my school satchel was always served at room temperature, to wash down my favourite packed lunch sandwiches - white bread, margarine, Marmite, Kraft cheese slices, delicately drizzled with Heinz Salad Cream.

I AM GIVING YOU this totally unwanted, unnecessary and redundant information because I want to establish my credentials as a railway lover. I have authored nostalgic railway websites, built an amazing 00 gauge layout for my elder son, and still, occasionally dream of the unique whistle of a Gresley A4 thundering through Peterborough Station on a warm afternoon, some time in the early 1960s.

MY RAILWAY MANIA KNOWS NO BOUNDS. Well actually, it does. It comes to a juddering halt at the futile bid by some very well-meaning Wisbech people to restore the derelict rail link from Wisbech to March. There are two camps. The first wants the line restored as a Heritage Railway - The Bramley Line. 

THE SECOND, more audaciously, wants a fully working freight and passenger railway. Already, thousands of pounds of someone's money (Ed. "It's called Public Funds") has been spent on feasibility surveys, business plan audits, vision statements and community impact consultations. (actually, all those phrases were made up, but they sound good, don't they?)

CUTTING TO THE CHASE.  Here are five solid reasons why the railway between Wisbech and March will never re-open as a working business.

ONE - NO DEMAND. Ask yourself why the line closed in the first place. To passengers? Just go online, and check the per-hundred-of-population figures for car ownership in 1963. What is that figure in 2014? Doubled? To freight? I have been in Wisbech for over twenty years, and can just remember when there was still the occasional freight train from Nestle Purina crawling to heaven knows where. Now? It's all HGVs and roads. It's cheap, easy and takes ten seconds to sign up to an online petition, in this case the petition to restore the rail link. I would take it more seriously if everyone who signed had to commit to buying a full price season ticket for the line's first year of operation.
TWO - NO STATION. Rail travelers need somewhere to embark. Parking is essential. Shelter, safety, reasonable access are also obviously required. Although the trackbed is partially intact, there is no station in Wisbech. The two historic stations have long since disappeared under bijou boxy housing. Under a state funded initiative, some new stations have been built in recent years. The one in Newcourt, Devon, cost a cool £1.44 million. Where would it be built? In town is clearly a non-runner. The slight problems of no land and no access spring immediately to mind.
THREE - THE A47 TRUNK ROAD. Leaving aside that there is another pressure group dedicated to improving this vital east-west route, with complete dualling as a bare minimum, we have the slight difficulty that a few years ago, the powers that be concreted over the crossing just south of Cromwell Road. Everyone knows how dense the traffic is on the A47. It is a nightmare, even when it is flowing smoothly. So, how about every thirty minutes, the level crossing closes for a while to let a sparsely inhabited train through? Cue mayhem. Someone even suggested building a road bridge to take the road over the railway. Add in another cool couple of million to the bill.

FOUR - NO PROFIT. This is slightly more thorny. Some public transport service are run as just that - services. They are heavily subsidised from…yes, you've got it, the public purse. (Sighs, and reaches for wallet) A prime example is local 'bus services. As a card-carrying old duffer, I occasionally use my 'bus pass, and it is a rare experience to see money exchange hands between the driver and passengers. The buses exist pretty much solely for the benefit of the Saga Crowd, but the economics of bus transport are way, way different from that of the railways. Here's some quick maths. Research has shown (OK, I Googled it) to run a two carriage Diesel Multiple Unit of the 175/M class, costs £11.78 per mile.

It's 8 miles from Wisbech to March along the railway. I calculate that if you ran one train an hour, each way between 0800 and 2200, you would have over £2,600 running costs each day. If you estimated a day return as £10, that means 260 journeys each day. Really?
FIVE - NO MONEY. I started to calculate the overall spend on this project, including building costs, staffing, maintenance, revenue stream. I was using Excel, but after a few minutes the program gave up, the screen froze, and I had to reboot the computer. Britain - or at least your and my Britain - the Britain of ordinary people, hardworking families, folk who have to check their funds while using the ATM - have no money. We are taxed to buggery, snipped, pruned and crimped. We are manipulated by a political class slightly lower than a snake's arse. 
THERE IS NO MONEY. For you or for me. Away from the polemic, what is the journey a Wisbech rail traveler would most want to make? Wisbech-King's Lynn? Would be great, but not a chance. Wisbech-Cambridge? Who lives in Wisbech but works in Cambridge? Wisbech-Peterborough? Now you're talking! Oh wait…the train from Wisbech either veers off to the West, therefore missing March Station, or swings East to the station. And is then on the Cambridge line.

A LINK TO THE FREE WORLD would be brilliant, but it ain't gonna happen. Some of the lovely people engaged on this campaign need a wake up call, and should apply their undoubted talent, enthusiasm and talent to a less fantastical project.

NOW,  HERE'S THE THING. Which one quality runs through British veins, and is stamped through us like 'Welcome To Hunstanton' through a stick of seaside rock? Democracy? Well, maybe, but we have had our dodgy moments - we didn't trust women to vote until the 1920s. Sporting fair play? Occasionally, yes, but Australian batsmen during the 1932/33 Bodyline series might beg to differ.

Oh, I know, our infallible courts and wise judicial system? Do I hear the faintest of murmurs from the relatives of the Birmingham Six?

 Putting good taste, talent and respect on prime-time TV rapidly to one side, we are left with only one incontestable virtue. Since our ancestors found the tools and skills to put dialogue onto the written page, we have always been able to laugh at ourselves. We have a splendid back catalogue of scathing-put downs of each other, vicious cartoons, abusive parodies, and savage attacks on the establishment

And yet we are still here. We still have political elections which, despite the best efforts of immigrant activists, are as transparent and fair as any in the world. We can voice an opinion, state a case, give vent to a prejudice safe in the knowledge that we may be disagreed with, parodied, abused or insulted, but we can wake up the next day free to toddle off to our workplace without a visit from the police, or a mentally-ill suicide bomber.
But some so-called UK residents would have this changed. Mohammed "Mo" Ansar describes himself as 'A British Muslim'. He wears a funny little hat and clerical dress, and describes himself as a commentator and visiting lecturer.

Quite who pays him to lecture, or comment is beyond my limited intellectual scope, but he has a full engagement book of appointments with Left-Wing media spongiforms who hang on his every adolescent and ill-informed utterance. He has been offended by a silly little cartoon, showing a badly-drawn Jesus talking to an equally badly-drawn Prophet Mohammed. 

He and his parasitic followers have issued physical threats against a moderate Muslim who is trying to create a Britain where Muslims can happily rub along with other faiths, living and letting live, and respecting each others views and lifestyle choices. Here in Britain we have beliefs. they are many and varied, but they are strong.
If, Mo Ansar, your beliefs are threatened by an amateurish cartoon, then this speaks volumes about you as a person, and the faith which you espouse. We are strong enough to laugh at the cartoon, laugh at you, and laugh at your ignorance and medieval beliefs. I believe that air departure timetables for such comedy hotspots as Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and Saudi Arabia are readily available online.

Some hoped that the war which engulfed Europe in August 1914 would be over by Christmas. Some hoped that the 2014 centenary of the outbreak would be commemorated with dignity and unity. Both aspirations now seem as foolish as each other. Leaving aside the squabble between Michael Gove and his political enemies, it now seems that the contribution to the war by Australia, New Zealand, Canada and South Africa is being marginalised. Evidently, a Whitehall spokesman told Australian journalists that there would be no focus on the ANZAC, CEF or SA part in the war, rather that officials were "concentrating on promoting the role played by those Commonwealth countries that achieved independence after 1945, such as India, Bangladesh and Nigeria." The official went on to say that this is to promote ‘community cohesion’ in the UK. Of this, more later.

While seated one night at the computer,
I was weary and ill at ease;
My fingers wandered idly,
Over the silent keys…

I knew not what I was writing,
Or what I was dreaming then,
But I dream'd a vision of hell, 
With the sound of a great Amen
(apologies to Adelaide Ann Proctor and Sir Arthur Sullivan)

Here's my recollection of that  vision of hell. And yes, I had been drinking. Since 1801hrs (getting the ice cubes out took longer than I thought)
Imagine the scene. Forget Hellraiser I, II, III or The Human Centipede. This is much, much worse. Danny Boyle has been commissioned by the BBC to direct the official opening of UK's 1914 Great War centenary commemorations. It's the O2 Arena. Cue dry ice, laser beams, the works. 

Scene 1 -  African dancing troupes and people in wheelchairs playing basketball, accompanied by some Benjamin Zephaniah poems.
Scene 2 - Anjem Choudary goes into an elaborate dance/rap routine with backing choir made up of BBC Question Time audience.

Scene 3 - the sound of artillery fire: more dry ice, and pretend smoke; a back projection of abused Edwardian feminists; an octet of obviously homosexual WWI infantrymen mince and camp their way around the stage to the music of the 1917 hit, A Bachelor Gay Am I  from The Maid Of The Mountains.
Scene 4 - A mock-up of the BBC Radio 4 Today studio. Guest editors George Galloway, Len McLusky and Dame Polly Toynbee of Tuscany recreate the outbreak of The Great War as it might have been covered by a 21st century news and current affairs show. A live link is established to a British trench, wrecked by a direct hit from a German shell. Ace reporter Rachel Burden asks a dying infantryman, "Give our listeners at home some idea of how it feels to have your legs blown off.."
Scene 5 - An awesome finale. A mixture of transgender awareness ribbons and white poppies flutters down on the audience. The audience gasps as Owen Jones and Diane Abbott appear, and enact a sensuous and passionate tango, symbolising the plight of workers in the third world. Finally, the audience is asked to stand and join in a rousing chorus of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika, led by The Choir of The Gay Postal Workers' Rainbow Collective.

SATIRE IS NOT DEAD. Well, judging by the previous few hundred words, it may still be breathing, but it is pretty terminal, and a priest has been summoned. My serious point. In August, one hundred years ago but one million tears ago, tens of thousands of young men from England, Scotland, Wales, and both ends of Ireland went to war. Small contingents from various colonies and allies threw in their lot against German expansionism - India and Portugal to name but two - but our greatest support came from Canada, Australia, New Zealand and South Africa despite their having no dog in this particular fight. Their death toll: Canada - 62,000. Australia - 61,000. New Zealand - 18,000. South Africa - 12,500. Still, as I mentioned at the top of this blog, we wouldn't want any of our more recent guests to feel left out, so let's just forget about the lads from Toronto, Ottowa, Melbourne, Adelaide, Christchurch, Wellington, Jo'burg and Pretoria.

One Of The Old Platoon (Will Dyson, Australian War Memorial)

And then we have France. La Belle France. Frequently vilified by the ill-informed and partially-educated, the men of France were not 'surrender artists', but bore the brunt of German aggression. Alsace-Lorraine, Craonne, Verdun, Champagne - village after village was flattened. Britain's dead were numbered in the hundreds of thousands. Les Morts de France were numbered in the millions.
In conclusion, if someone is unwise enough to approach you with the suggestion that the 1914 centenary is an opportunity to celebrate gender awareness, diversity, the green agenda, multiculturalism, rainbow nations, or some other chattering-class, Sunday supplement conceit, I suggest you gently but firmly separate them from their reduced fat latte, upend the drink over their head, and kick them sharply where their balls would be, if they had any.

Not a great deal of Wisbech in this post, mes amis - just something of a statement of intent from an ageing blogger.        Phobia  - an extreme or irrational fear of or aversion to something.
                         "she suffered from a phobia about birds"

Sometimes, just sometimes, it seems as though our wonderful language lets us down. Words assume a life of their own, sometimes accidentally, but sometimes with the help of latter-day Frankensteins in lab coats who connect the circuits, tighten the bolts, and then pull the giant lever to bring a new expression to an uncontrollable and frightening life. Take, for example, 'phobia'. With scores of prefixes, it is used to denote an irrational fear of something - spiders, open spaces, homosexuals, foreigners - mostly things which are, realistically, not particularly threatening.

Arachnophobia is a fairly common affliction, and in Britain it is less based on real threat than in some other parts of the world. Here, they may be loathsome, scuttling, bulbous, darting horrors that live in the dark recesses of our imagination (and the garden shed), but they are unlikely to inflict physical harm. In Australia, Iraq, Brazil, America and Africa there are frightful creatures that will bite you as soon as look at you, and if they cannot get their fangs into you, they will spray you with poisonous body hair. 

 

I am second only to Attenborough D. in my love of wildlife, just as long as the list of fauna is fairly exclusive - owls, tree-sparrows, blackbirds, frogs, squirrels - you get my drift?

The online dictionary entry for phobia included a small thesaurus of expressions which might line up alongside phobia. I am not so sure. Be patient, and follow me down a few pathways. Here are some synonyms - dread, horror, terror, dislike, hatred, loathing, detestation, distaste, aversion, antipathy, revulsion.

I dread the day when self appointed gangs of Muslim men patrol Britain's streets with impunity, attacking and vilifying fellow Britons who may not be behaving wisely, but are certainly not breaking any civil law.

 

The idea that a major British retailer gives carte blanche to its Muslim employees to pick and choose who they serve, depending on the contents of the shopping basket fills me with horror.
When a bully loses a rational argument, when his ideas are refuted by rational discussion, when his assertions are disproved by the facts, he has two choices. He can concede defeat and accept that his stance is unsustainable, or he can lash out violently and unpredictably, causing terror and suffering to those who disagree with him. 

I dislike the idea that Muslim men insist that their wives and daughters wear medieval costume on the streets of Britain, so that they will not inflame the lust of other men, out and about, living their normal lives.

I despair of the sheer gut hatred that Islamic organisations display when someone in the West - their adopted country - chooses to poke fun of their religion with a joke, a drawing or a book. The death threats and incantations are barbaric, and redolent of a primitive society.

My loathing knows no bounds for those who hijacked civilian airliners on 11 September 2001, and caused thousands of innocent civilians to die terrible deaths. Crushed, burned, suffocated, vaporised, dismembered. All in the name of Islam

Gangs of Pakistani Muslims across our busiest towns and cities - Rochdale, Rotherham, Oxford, Telford - ply vulnerable white teenage girls with drugs, alcohol, flattery - and if that doesn't work - extreme violence. These children are gang raped, pimped, abused beyond your imagination, and then discarded because they do not fit in with Islamic ideals of womanhood. Detestation does not come close to describing my feelings on this issue.

That a handful of Muslims felt that it was appropriate to board buses and underground trains on 7 July 2005 and detonate bombs which destroyed innocent lives, took away futures and shattered bodies fills me with a certain amount of distaste, to put it mildly

I have to confess that I have a slight but nagging aversion to the chorus of feeble denials and condemnations from official Muslim bodies when they are confronted with the vile excesses of their co-religionists across the land. Disapprove? Then close down the mosques, sack the hate-preachers and give their names to our security forces.
It could be said that I have a certain amount of antipathy towards Muslim extremists who dance about on British streets burning poppies - an enduring symbol of loss, bravery and sacrifice, and a potent national symbol borne of poetry, death and heroism. The men that did this were metaphorically urinating on one thing that most British people hold dear in their hearts.

When I read that most Islamic terrorists imprisoned in Britain reject any form of reconciliation, therapy and re-education, I am almost overwhelmed with revulsion as I witness the depths to which some human beings - flesh and blood like me - can sink.
So, there you have it. I have been through the thesaurus of synonyms, and I have to accept the verdict that I have a definite fear of Islam. An irrational fear? I leave you to judge.

PROBLEMS WITH AUNTIE

Dementia is a terrible curse on the elderly and those who care for them, and this blog is not in any way intended as a slight on anyone who has the condition. It is clearly a bewildering and frightening world to inhabit. A lovely old lady near us suffers. We have been neighbours for over twenty years, and the other day she tottered past our drive as I was getting into the car, and said, "I do hope you are settling in well. It's lovely to have new neighbours. You'll find we are a friendly lot round here." Weird, slightly wonderful, but very sad.

My post concerns a much loved elderly relative. Someone who has been in part of our family since earliest memory. She was known as 'Auntie', not just by us, but by countless others across the country. I am referring to the BBC. I can vividly remember being in our kitchen on a July day in 1953 when the austere voice of a lunchtime newsreader announced that an armistice had been declared, bringing the Korean War to an end. My mother had a little weep and got on with the cooking. That was typical of the way in which the BBC was an authoritative lifeline and conduit of information for all families, rich or poor.

Now Auntie is seriously ill. Her delusions are sometimes laughable, frequently embarrassing, but increasingly dangerous to herself and those around her. She totters about the place, and her regular falls seem ever more likely to cause her lasting, even terminal, damage. We support her, loyally, of course. Only the other day I stumped up nearly £150 as my small part of the multi million pound care package which pays for her care during her sad decline.

Auntie's bizarre behaviour is happening more and more often. She has developed a worryingly peculiar way of responding to world events, where, when something happens which she considers 'relevant', she will send a team of alleged journalists to the scene of the event, where the dutiful stooge will stand around in the crowd of onlookers/mourners/innocent passers-by, shove a microphone under a random nose, and ask such penetrating questions as, "Well, what's the feeling in your village now that Nelson Mandela has died?" Every mundane reply is then transmitted back to an adoring audience, no-doubt glued to their radio or TV set. The whole Mandella farrago was a disgrace, and I have only just felt that it was safe to turn on Radio Five Live again.

Only the other day, there was a terrible and heartbreaking murder of a young girl in Didcot. She was last seen at the railway station, late on a winter's afternoon. So what did Auntie do? She sent a reporter to the scene, and announced with breathless excitement, "And we can now speak to (anonymous hack) who is STANDING OUTSIDE THE STATION WHERE THE MISSING GIRL WAS LAST SEEN!" Wow. Amazing. Bear in mind, this is radio. What were we to expect? Would the latter day John Pilger might stumble upon a vital clue to the girl's disappearance? Would the perpetrator of the crime suddenly appear, and confess on air?

My small but loyal readership will have gathered by now that my views, in political terms, are some way right of centre, but not, as one critic has alleged, some way to the right of Eugene Terreblanche. 

 Auntie used to pick her way slowly, but safely and surely along the ridge above the political divide. Now she has lost her footing, and although she occasionally tries to grab a protruding bush or a rock ledge to break her fall, her momentum gathers force as she plunges into the left-wing abyss.

Take Auntie's pride and joy, BBC Question Time. The format is simple. Ship in a rent-a-mob audience of students, malcontents, entitlement freaks, Guardianistas and beards. Choose any three from Auntie's centrally-contracted cast of stars - Owen Jones, Baroness Toynbee of Tuscany, George Monbiot, Mehdi Hasan, Chuka Umunna, Kevin Maguire, Diane Abbott…(need I go on?) 

Then drop into this toxic mix a random right-winger, and let the death of a thousand verbal cuts commence. I am also reliably informed that Anjem Choudary, after his star turn on The Today Programme, is being lined up for a regular spot on Thought For The Day.

While we try to persuade Auntie to take a holiday, and to come with us to a lovely health resort in Zurich (DIGNITAS, P.O. Box 17 8127 Forch), she seems content to sit in her dusty old home, surrounded by memories of old boyfriends from the ANC, Hamas, Al Qeda, The Provisionals, Stonewall, Greenpeace and the RMT union. Maybe we will all be sad when the first Christmas comes when she is no longer with us, but I, for, one will look back on a long life, largely well led, and raise a thankful glass to her her

       THE LIFETIME EVENTS THAT HAVE MADE ME A RACIST (ALLEGEDLY)

This confession gives me little pleasure. It is like appearing before the Truth and Reconciliation Commission to lay bare my soul, and utter one final - yet-primal - scream, which will wipe away my sins. I am reminded of the (apocryphal) pun from Sir James Napier in 1844. 

After his brutal conquest of the Indian province of Sindh in 1844, he is supposed to have issued the statement 'Peccavi' ( For the benefit of those who didn't learn Latin at school, that means, 'I have sinned' Geddit? No? Well let's move on.

MY SIKH BUDDY  When I were but a lad, I grew up in a street of ex-railwaymen's terraced cottages. Worth a fortune now, but then, pretty basic. We were on the edge of a lovely park - acres of green grass, trees, swings and a river. I had a mate. He didn't go to my school, because I went to the posh local school that offered Assisted Places. I guess his mum and dad didn't know the ins and outs of the system. His name was Sutje Manavinder Singh. We used to play cricket, tennis and football across the seasons, and he was a lovely lad, polite, loyal and friendly. It was all about innocent boys' stuff because we didn't waste time chasing girls. You have to remember this was the early sixties, and Sex was yet to be invented. But here's the confession. Like most of the other local rough and tumble lads, I called him 'Sooty'. He didn't seem to mind. We never talked about our cultural background or felt uneasy in each other's company. Our paths diverged and life moved on. But, I regularly wake in a muck-sweat thinking of what hurt my casual and thoughtless misinterpretation of his given name may have caused him. If he is, in his late 60s, still receiving therapy, then all I can say is, "sorry, mate, no harm intended"

SATURDAY NIGHT TELEVISION For what seemed like an eternity in my mid-teens, I sat and watched Saturday night TV. 'Yoof' didn't go out in those days. We were much too under the thumb of parents who believed in staying together, despite chasms of differences, and mutual irritation. So, there might have been Dr Who, followed by some anodyne bullshit, and then the evening's highlight - The Black and White Minstrel Show.

OMFG (as the liberated twitterati are wont to say) I was exposed to nearly an hour of entertainers dressed up as cartoon black men, with straw hats and rubber ring lips, singing mellifluously about 'de Swanee Ribber'. The show was my Dad's favourite, but to be brutally honest, I only stuck with it for the occasional glimpse of long-legged dancing girls. Well as you can imagine, this turned me into a raving fascist butcher, and very few weekends since then have not featured me launching myself into the ghettos in order to butcher random black people who are unfortunate enough to cross my path. And, I suppose the dancing girls whose long limbs stoked my adolescent fantasies, well, they were victims as well, yes? Objectified and demeaned by being ogled by a spotty teen sitting on a cheap sofa in a Midland town. Shameful.

PREJUDICE WEARS AN ARRAN SWEATER  God, this confession stuff is hard. I do understand that being Irish may be difficult. You have a great backlog of dodgy decisions and tactics to cope with. Some of your lot backed the Germans in two world wars, supported a murderous terrorist organisation, you had a banking collapse like none other before or since, and your clergy have a very questionable stance on women's rights …but, hey, let's not nit-pick. What may have hit you really hard is the shameful legacy of English hippies trying to be more Irish than Mick (sorry, Mícheál Ó Coileáin) 

Yes we strutted our stuff, sang songs about The Troubles, the Easter Rising, Bold Devileira, and all of the bullshit. And all this in the (not biblical) Upper Room of a Warwickshire pub. Probably serving Ansells. I have a 'wake in fright' memory of actual performing at a Sinn Fein benefit concert, again in a spit and sawdust Leamington pub. I can only hope that my performance was incompetent enough to have brought no glory on those we were raising money for.

THE PENNY DROPS, AND THE LID COMES OFF TO REVEAL A SORRY TALE OF BIGOTRY This is where it gets deadly serious. Two childhood aberrations, two cardinal sins, two journeys into the Dark Side…oh, heavens, did I just say that? What I mean to say was "two journeys which did not follow the Path of Light." Phew. Apologies. Moving on rapidly, I don't want to go into The Four Yorkshiremen territory, but as kids we were not very well off. I used to save my pocket money. It was usually two shillings and sixpence a week. Half-a-Crown. 12.5p in today's money. The half-crown was a substantial bit of kit. It was heavy. It had real value. If you had two half-crowns to rub together, then you were seriously minted. But that isn't the issue. It was where I kept my half-crowns. Can you believe that I used to force those half-crowns between the exaggerated lips of a cartoon black man who was enamelled onto the side of my money box? 

Surprised that it hasn't shown up on any of my CRB checks? Flabbergasted that I was allowed to work with children for so long? Well, as I look back on my life, I can only shudder in shame at the indignities I inflicted upon noble African-Americans everywhere. I have saved the least forgivable until last, because I don't want you to leave this blog with any shred of sympathy for my vile past. To quote Sir John Betjeman (who might have been a great poet if he hadn't been white, middle class and able to write and speak his own language) "I'm dying now and done for, what on earth was all the fun for?" My dying fall concerns jam, marmalade and badges. Yes, I can see the antennae of Race Industry professional are twitching with alarm. ("Surely even he wouldn't have sunk so low …?", "I could believe almost anything of him, but THIS …?", "Completely defies belief…and he's still out there, with access to our youngsters..?" OK. Time to come clean. There's no other way of saying this. Hide behind the sofa if you have a medical condition. I. Collected. Stickers. From. Inside. Jars. Of. Robertson's. Jam. And. Marmalade. And. Then. Traded. Them.In.For…….A GOLLIWOG BADGE!!! 

I know now, in the depths of my old age, that I was complicit in a vicious conspiracy to demonise, belittle, mock and denigrate millions of innocent black people. My greed and avarice probably contributed to the horrors in Mississippi in the 1950s and 1960s, the Sharpeville Massacre, the Tottenham Riots, and the disgraceful imprisonment of Nelson Mandela. I would like to say that I wore my badge with pride, but that would be a lie. I think the pin fell off in the playground at school, and the gruesome effigy was probably swept up by the caretaker and put in the incinerator.

SO HERE ENDS THE CONFESSION I am a certifiable racist moron. My bags are packed. My final wishes have been scribbled onto the back of a BNP election flyer. When the BBC Thought Police make their dawn swoop, I am ready, Just one request. Please don't send me to an HMP where all the inmates, officers, and admin staff are forced to bow down to the east during Morning Prayers.

Follow @wisbechevenmore

CONSTANTINE HOUSE - 2014 REVEALED

JANUARY

Grand reopening of Constantine House postponed. An FDC spokesperson says,"We are working tirelessly with approved partners for a successful outcome to this community project which has raised the flagpole for a holistic high altitude view of the ongoing situation."

FEBRUARY

March Town Band said to be "incandescent" over last minute cancellation by Fenland District Council. The band had been booked to play at the delayed opening of the refurbished Constantine House. At the last minute, the ceremony was cancelled. An FDC official said," We regret the inconvenience caused to stakeholders, but several high profile providers have dropped the ball on this occasion." Bandleader Alf Miggins said, "We are well gutted. We had been rehearsing a special arrangement of 'Always Look On The Bright Side Of Life.'

MARCH

Crowds had to be dispersed by riot police outside Constantine House today. They had gathered to celebrate the long-awaited reopening of the iconic Wisbech landmark, but the mood turned ugly when it became clear that the ceremony was not to go ahead. In a press release, the FDC Beloved Leader said, "We are involved in Blue Sky Thinking here, and when we have all our ducks in a row, we will fire the silver bullet which will set this exciting civic regeneration initiative up and running,"

APRIL

A disappointed crowd of three people who had been queuing overnight to attend the proposed reopening of Wisbech's Constantine House turned ugly, as the ceremony was postponed at the last moment. FDC officers responsible or regeneration issued a press release saying, "We have re-baselined the green light governance of this integral initiative, and we are fully committed to maintaining the council's reputation for fostering a 'can-do culture'". In the resultant melee a journalist from Suffolk was arrested by police, but was bailed to appear before magistrates in 2020.

MAY

They are certainly dancing on the potholed streets of Wisbech's Nene Quay tonight, after a huge crowd gathered to celebrate the unveiling of three new giant photographs of idyllic Fenland scenes, which have been put in place to cover the crumbling facade of Constantine House. The only sour note was sounded by the ill-mannered booing by the crowd every time the face of FDC's Beloved Leader appeared on the many big screens erected around the town.

JUNE

In a shock development, on the eve of the removal of the plywood windows of Constantine House, the Executive Institute of Environmental Infrastructure Organisations (Ee-eye-ee-eye-oh) called a halt to restoration work, as their scientists have discovered a colony of endangered rats in the building. The Javanese Bluefoot Rat (Caeruleus Piedica Javensis Rattus) is unknown outside its Indonesian heartland, but scientist believe it has been attracted to the Fenland site by the abundance of its main dietary requirement - pigeon excrement.

JULY

There was a widely supportive response on social media tonight, as the Beloved Leader of FDC, flanked by his media spokesperson, issued the following statement. "Regarding Constantine House, we are aware that there has been an unfortunate level of public cynicism about our approach. It is with deep sincerity that I say to you today, we have focused on area-specific benchmarking that, alongside our commitment to citizen-specific community engagement, will ensure a mutually beneficial outcome which will ultimately empower all end-users."

AUGUST

An attempt to stage an alternative  Wisbech Rock Festival on the roof of Constantine House came to an abrupt end when the drummer of the local band 'Negligence' crashed through the decaying timbers as the band launched into their opening number 'We Are Wisbech'. The drummer, Wayne Thribb, is in a critical condition, as he awaits a potentially crucial Basspedalectomy.

SEPTEMBER

Several pleasure cruisers, three families of ducks, two migrant geese and a discarded sofa had their journey down the Nene disrupted today as a large part of the facade of Constantine House collapsed into the river. The Beloved Leader of FDC said, in an emotional broadcast to thousands of supporters anxiously gathered in Wisbech Market Place, "This is a minor setback. I have a dream. A dream that one day, people will be able to walk into The Belfast Building and buy rayon sheets and nylon pillow-cases. I have a dream!"

OCTOBER

A plan to turn the derelict Constantine House into the St Pancras of NE Cambridgeshire has been shelved, after a bitter disagreement between local solicitors Hooke, Lyne & Sinker, builders Fenland Erections, and fourteen of the sixteen groups rivalling each other to restore what has been called "one of the most evocative railway lines between two Cambridgeshire towns which begin with 'M' and 'W'".

NOVEMBER

As more of Constantine House subsides into Nene Quay and the river, FDC officers hit back at critics " We have organised a fast-track facilitation of on-line resources to ensure a beneficial collective outcome to this minor problem. We have engaged users, introduced a framework compatible with community flexibilities and freedoms and, given the coterminous evidence based research by our investigative officers, we say, with the utmost confidence, that in 2015 we will be funding a feasibility survey to look into the possibility of replacing the existing photographs of Fenland scenes with specially commissioned graffiti by The Southwell Road Artists' Collective."

DECEMBER

Grand reopening of Constantine House postponed. FDC officer in charge says,"Tirelessly, we are working with approved partners for a high altitude view of the ongoing situation to this community project which has raised the flagpole for a holistic successful outcome."