Evenin' All - the thrust of last Sunday's blog was about how our wonderful media seem to be falling over themselves to label various Pakistani or Arabian gentlemen as being 'British'. Particularly if they have been caught up in some skullduggery or other out in the vast and bloodstained deserts of the Middle East or Afghanistan. Now, it may well be that Moazzam Begg, Binyam Mohamed, Jamal al-Harith, Rhuhel Ahmed, Asif Iqbal and Shafiq Rasul are all as British as tweed jackets, pork scratchings (whoops - sorry!) and queues at the Post Office, but I beg to differ. Whatever it says on their passports, their conduct, dress, political affiliation and general animosity towards all things British tells a different tale. Let's be blunt. They are as British as female genital mutilation, covering wives and daughters in curtains, and beheading folk we disagree with - or someone who once talked to someone we disagree with.

Now, keep this thought close by. Scribble it on a Post-It note if needs be. These not-so-jolly chaps were all welcomed into the British fold with a delirium not seen since Accrington Stanley last won the FA Cup. Did they ever win the FA Cup? No matter.You get my drift. In extreme contrast with these jolly Britons, whose only task in life is to celebrate all things British, to praise the day that they were afforded UK citizenship, and to defend our culture across the world, I introduce two young men. 

Their mum and dad have chosen to live in Wisbech. OK, so there's no accounting for taste, but dad has made a massive contribution to sporting life in the town. He is a formidable former Rugby player, and as a coach he has covered himself in distinction, from directing the Under Sevens right up to today, when he is 1st XV coach. Both sons have played for Wisbech at different age groups. Both sons are bi-lingual, subscribe totally to the British way of life, and ask for nothing more than to earn British citizenship. Just like our colourful friends who were nabbed doing questionable things in the desert.

The two young men concerned are Darryl Veenendaal, and his brother De La Rey Veenendaal. Let them speak for themselves. Darryl, like his brother, is a superb sportsman. He played Sunday after Sunday for Wisbech youth teams, and has gone on to succeed in the men's professional game. Darryl writes.

Application for British Citizenship:

In 2013 my brother De La Rey and I spent weeks preparing and revising for our citizenship test, passing it in April. We completed and submitted British Citizenship Applications and paid the £874 application fee each in May 2013, at the time we were informed that the waiting period could take up to six months. Having not received any response we contacted the Home Office to enquire about the situation. We were informed that the process had been delayed and that we would receive a response shortly. We waited patiently but did not receive any further information. We continued to contact the HO, receiving the same response without any details of what was delayed. In 2015 we contacted our local MP Stephen Barclay in an attempt to receive answers. We asked him to assist us. The issue was instead delegated to his team who contacted the HO only to receive the same answer. They told us that it was simply pending and that we would receive something in writing within a “few weeks”. Having not heard anything, we again contract Mr Barclay, whose team again contacted the HO, receiving the same vague responses. I made a request for Mr Barclay to take a more hands-on, assertive and personal approach to our long suffering issue. However, I received no further response from Mr Barclay’s Team.

De La Rey takes up the story:

Citizenship:

In 2013 my brother Darryl and I spent weeks preparing and revising for our citizenship test, passing it in April. We completed and summited British Citizenship Applications and paid the £874 application fee each in May 2013, at the time we were informed that the waiting period could take up to six months. Having not received any response we contacted the Home Office to enquire about the situation. We were informed that the process had been delayed and that we would receive a response shortly. We waited patiently but did not receive any further information. We continued to contact the HO, receiving the same response without any details of what was delayed. In 2015 we contacted our local MP Stephen Barclay in an attempt to receive answers. We asked him to assist us. The issue was instead delegated to his team who contacted the HO only to receive the same answer. They told us that it was simply pending and that we would receive something in writing within a “few weeks”. Having not heard anything, we again contract Mr Barclay, whose team again contacted the HO, receiving the same vague responses. I made a request for Mr Barclay to take a more hands-on, assertive and personal approach to our long suffering issue. However, I received no further response from Mr Barclay’s Team.

So what do we have? On the one hand, any number of potentially violent Islamic zealots who are worshiped by British mainstream media, despite their potential to do us harm. On the other, two young men who, in word and deed, subscribe to all that is positive, enthusiastic and life-affirming about British life and culture. The Islamists are, allegedly British citizens, but vilify and curse everything we stand for. Darryl and De La Rey? Well, they have pitched in with enthusiasm. They love Britain and all its opportunities, its fairness, and its basic decency. Can they become British citizens? 

             NOT A CHANCE, APPARENTLY.

Well, here's the thing. The western world seems to be evolving into a society which is more fragmented than at any previous time. I'm not talking rich and poor, as the those graph curves seem to be edging ever nearer. I don't mean education either. Our state school system may be well short of ideal, but it offers a fairly substantial plate of sustenance, even if many diners at the table only pick at their food, and reject most of it.

No, I am talking plain, old-fashioned common sense. If ever there were a misnomer, it is that one. "Common" ? Not likely, as it is becoming as rare as ….well, you can provide your own simile. Choose from rocking horses, hens, billiard balls - the choice is yours.

Now, you may have associated the tortuous pursuit of yoga with those who macrame their own underpants, buy only ethically sourced muesli and regularly demonstrate on our streets against such evils as fox hunting and heterosexuality. Well, my friends, you have been wrong before, and you are doubly wrong now. According to that powerhouse of intellect and cutting edge research, The University of Ottowa, yoga is a shameful practice because it has been appropriated from a culture which has, to use their own words, "experienced oppression, cultural genocide and diasporas due to colonialism and western supremacy" So, be told. Try jogging. Or, better still, stay in bed.

Following on from that, I am sure you would join me in the wholehearted condemnation of those racist, imperialistic, capitalist running dogs in Norwich - in particular the management at Pedro’s Tex Mex Cantina - who almost caused an international incident by handing out sombreros (made in China) to students who came along to a Mexican themed party night at the University of East Anglia. Well, if you really wanted to insult Mexico and its rich heritage, what's the first thing you would do? Why, don a sombrero, of course! Thank goodness for the UEA Student Union. As its spokesperson said, "At the student union we want all members to feel safe and accepted, so at all events we try to ensure that there is no behaviour, language or imagery, which could be considered racist, sexist, homophobic, transphobic or ablest."

 I'll end with a few thoughts on nationality. What makes someone British? Birth? Residence? Maybe a heartfelt belief in and support for the country's values? Many of us have blinked in disbelief at some of the so-called 'British' men who have featured in recent news bulletins. Which one of us could have failed to shed a tear at the tragic demise of Muhammad Jassim Abdulkarim Olayan al-Dhafiri (Jihadi John to you)? A loyal citizen of the UK, and as British as, as…..well, as British as a Bedouin camel-driver's loincloth. 

 I wept throughout the long and brutal imprisonment of that other plucky British cheeky chappie, Shaker Aamer. Held in detention in the hell-hole of Guantano Bay, he was clearly one-of-us from the top of his tweed flat cap to the tip of his hand-crafted brown brogue shoes. Any allegation that he was active in Afghanistan, leading a unit of fanatical jihadists against British and American troops is clearly a big, fat lie.

I realise that sarcasm can become wearing after a while, so let's be more literal. There are two very British young men - Wisbech men, too -  who, unaccountably, are having great problems in getting citizenship. Is it that they have just returned from Syria or Afghanistan? Maybe it's their record of speaking out against our way of life, and seeking to overthrow our values? Ah, I know - they have demonstrated on our streets, advised our soldiers and police to burn in hell…? No? Well maybe we should hear from them in their own words, and I will publish those, and add my disgust at the way in which they have been treated, in the next blog. Until then, here's a photo of the first of these chaps.

To be continued .....

"We will remember them." Four resonant words which close the fourth verse of seven, in Laurence Binyon's 'For The Fallen'. The irony is that his famous poem was written in September 1914, and the real gut-wrenching truth about the war was many months away from being demonstrated. Thus far, the fighting had been very much on nineteenth century lines. It was a mobile war. Cavalry still trotted around the action. The French still went to war in blue coats and red pantaloons. The British Expeditionary Force still wore soft caps into battle - it was only the 'cowardly' French and Germans who wore helmets. The catastrophic death toll had yet to make a real impact on households in Wisbech, or Valenciennes, or Ypres, or Bremen.

"We will remember them." I intend to. I will commemorate every single man's name from the Wisbech WW1 War Memorial, alongside a photo of where he is buried, and his regimental cap badge, plus such details as we know about his life and death. These will be posted on Facebook, on the day that each man died. Some men spring to life from the page. Others remain just names etched in stone, their faces, voices and personalities lost to us over the passing years.

 "We will remember them." Whenever I visit a WW1 cemetery in France or Belgium, what hits me between the eyes is the youth of the men who lie below the manicured turf. Many never reached their thirtieth year. There are a few grizzled veterans in their forties, but they are exceptions. These are sons, brothers and husbands. They marched off to war. Most never saw their home town again. Often, men were incurably shattered by gas, steel, disease or lead. They were carried home to die, and a walk in Wisbech cemetery will show you just how many died with, one can only hope, their loved ones beside them.

"We will remember them." An interesting first verb, there. Not "should", "must", "might" or "could". Instead, a defiant, and resolute "will". Binyon, sitting in the late summer haze of September 1914, could never gave dreamed that his words would still have an impact, a century later. So many English writers and poets have been inspired, almost perversely, by the tragedy of The Great War, but the lines that speak the loudest to me, are in some ways, the most quietly spoken. In his 1964 poem, MCMXIX, Philip Larkin says,

Those long uneven lines

Standing as patiently

As if they were stretched outside
The Oval or Villa Park,

The crowns of hats, the sun

On moustached archaic faces

Grinning as if it were all

An August Bank Holiday lark;

And the shut shops, the bleached

Established names on the sunblinds,

The farthings and sovereigns,

And dark-clothed children at play

Called after kings and queens,

The tin advertisements
For cocoa and twist, and the pubs

Wide open all day;

And the countryside not caring:

The place-names all hazed over

With flowering grasses, and fields

Shadowing Domesday lines

Under wheat’s restless silence;

The differently-dressed servants

With tiny rooms in huge houses,

The dust behind limousines;

Never such innocence,

Never before or since,

As changed itself to past

Without a word – the men

Leaving the gardens tidy,

The thousands of marriages,

Lasting a little while longer:

Never such innocence again.

 

Well, here we are again. Another six weeks slip by like mucus down the throat of a flu sufferer, so what's new in my dark and dingy Islamophobic cave? Well, first up, I was heartened to read that most learned and august chronicle of truth and righteousness (or should that be lefteousness?) The Morning Star is up in arms about the millions of innocent Muslims in Rotherham who are going to "boycott South Yorkshire Police" over the apparent demonisation of the Muslim community in the town. Remember the Muslim 'community'? C'mon, you must do - this was the 'community' who looked the other way when thousands of already damaged teenage white girls suffered even more damage at the hands (and God knows what else) of some of Allah's finest

I wonder what boycotting South Yorkshire police actually entails? Maybe if a Muslim is caught with his hand in the till, or another part of his anatomy in something else that where it has no right to be, the culprit will simply say to the arresting officer, "Nah, mate - yer out of order. We're boycotting you blokes, innit?"

Or maybe if those terribly educated and scholarly fellows from Britain First decide they want to make their point by spraying the door of the Jamia Masjid Abu Bakr mosque with pigs' blood, the local worshippers will turn police investigators away, on the grounds that the Boys In Blue are currently "boycotted" by Rotherham Muslims. Remind me to take out a Fatwah against any police force within 100 miles of Wisbech, so I can reject their speeding tickets on the grounds that it offends my religious sensibilities.

On to happier matters. I hope that you shared my joy, bordering on delirium, when I learned that one of my childhood heroes, Shaker Aamer, has been released after 14 long years in detention at Guantanamo Bay.

Imagine the scene - there he was, happily going about his philanthrophic business (yes, really) in Afghanistan (as you do) and then those nasty Americans come along and drag him off to a prison camp, for no other reason than that he had been in the employ of the late lamented Osam Bin Laden (Peace Be Upon Him). Well, Shaker will certainly get his revenge on we infidels. Not only did he arrive back 'home' (he was born in Saudi Arabia) in a private jet, he will probably be in for compensation of around £1000,000. Then, because he is deemed a threat to security, he will be monitored day and night, at vast expense, by British security. Personally, to be held without trial is damned bad form, if you ask me. You have to remember that the nasty infidels who met their end on 7 July 2005, and those frightful cads Lee Rigby and Alan Henning, all were afforded the most rigorous and painstaking Islamic jurisprudence.  

One of my terribly politically incorrect friends posted an inflammatory photograph on social media recently. It claimed to show a bunch of Islamic chaps and their offspring, demanding beheading as the only fit reward for anyone who dares criticise Islam. I gave them a right mouthful, as you may imagine, and explained that this was only enthusiastic rhetoric, and was not to be taken literally.

Imagine my disgust, when someone, quite disgracefully, replied with this post, purporting to show a happy Islamic chap, gleefully holding his infant over the headless corpse of an unbeliever. And as for the other cove helping his little son hone his dribbling skills with the head of one of those vile Shia sorts....? Well, he got short shrift from me, as you can well imagine. Has he not heard of Photoshop?

Goodness me, my tear ducts have been working overtime in the last few days, and I am sure yours have, too. First it was the terrible image of the drowned child on a Turkish beach. Just for once, I think it was a genuine image, as opposed to the carefully composed photographs of dead children who, it has to be said, revive miraculously once the photographer has finished snapping the alleged  scene of Western callousness.

The fact that the story of the dead boy had something to do with his father's desire to get dental implants did, ever so slightly, take the gloss off the heartbreak, but a child is dead, and if he died so that his caring father could access cheap dentistry, then who are we to criticise?

All morning, our wonderful national broadcasting company was coaxing ever more copious floods of tears from our tired eyes. With no expense spared (because it's your money, not theirs) the Beeb had despatched all its so-called journalists across Europe to gush and empathise with as many migrants - sorry, refugees - as it could muster. This collective hug was meant to bring home just how callous, uncaring and - frankly - racist we all are. The questioning rarely rose above the GCSE Media Studies level of, "Wow, you're a refugee - what does it feel like..?"

My local ASDA had a special offer on Kleenex at the weekend, so my tears were soaked up to an extent, but then, just as I thought I was beginning to come to terms with my post colonial guilt, an absolute bombshell struck.

It was reported, in suitably hushed tones, reminiscent (for those of us of a certain age) of the hourly bulletins reporting the impending death of Churchill, or poor old King George VI, that two plucky British lads had met their end in some desert paradise. They were struck down by the cowardly and reprehensible method of a drone strike. Yes, I know, it's beyond belief, isn't it - our cowardly forces had sent into battle not a manned aircraft piloted by fascist reactionaries of the RAF, but a glorified remote-controlled toy. One which, however, was capable of dealing death and destruction from the skies, aimed at valiant freedom fighters. And before anyone questions how British these martyrs were, could you ever find two more fitting representatives of The Valleys of Wales and the Glens of Bonnie Scotland than Reyaad Khan, from Cardiff, and Ruhul Amin, from Aberdeen?

Well, once my fresh tears had abated, there was only one course of action, A campaign! I started the ball rolling with a donation of an old decimal half-penny which I had found down the back of the sofa. Dig deep, comrades! Together, we should be able to get the brave British lads flown back to Brize Norton in Union Flag draped coffins, and with any luck, the decent folks of Wootton Bassett will pull out all the stops and give these two heroes the send-off they deserve. What's that you say? Seventy two virgins? Come on, be reasonable - this is Wisbech, after all.

TRULY, WISBECH IS A PIECE OF WORK. I am approaching the biblical allowance of threescore and ten. I have lived and worked all over Britain, and in France and Australia too. I don't think I have ever been in a community where political malice and ill-will to all men has been so prevalent. We have just been through an excruciatingly bitter by-election. For the Town Council. Yes, that's it - the Town Council. Last time I looked, Wisbech Town Council were responsible for some of the things that go on in the Market Place, public toilets, and ......well, that's about it, really. Maybe I have forgotten allotments, or some other major issue. I will stand to be corrected if that is the case.

BACK IN MAY Wisbech, like many other areas in the country, held local elections, for Town and District councils. Two Eastern European residents stood for election. Ms Irina Kumalane stood for Staithe Ward and was elected. Mr Aigars Balsevics also stood in a different ward, but was not elected. Shortly after assuming her duties as Town Councillor, Ms Kumalane resigned. Her reasons for resigning are not known, at least officially and publicly. So, a by election was called for Staithe Ward. The three candidates were Mr Balsevics (Con), Mrs Caroline Smith (UKIP), and Mr Reg Mee (Lab).

NOW BEAR IN MIND both Mr Balsevics and Mr Mee had both offered themselves as candidates in the May election. Both had failed. A Conservative party flyer soon condemned the Labour Party as "arrogant", because the electorate had said "NO!" to Mr Mee in May. The electorate had also said "NO!" to Mr Balsevics in May, but that was not mentioned.

THEN CAME another Conservative party flyer extolling the virtues of Mr Balsevics, and making several claims. The first was that Wisbech Town Council has been instrumental in the restoration of the fire-damaged Constantine House. In fact, WTC has absolutely no part to play in the restoration of damaged buildings in the town. That responsibility lies with Fenland District Council. Perhaps the claim meant that the WTC councillors who were also FDC councillors had been fighting tooth and nail to get the building restored? With the exception of Mr and Mrs Bucknor, no WTC councillor had shewn the least interest in the Constantine House saga. In fact, one or two of those people had gone out of their way to mock the efforts of local people who were fed up with the derelict building. Suffice to say, the building is not yet fully restored and, despite an apparent deadline being imposed by FDC, the building remains open to the elements - and flying rats.

 

NEXT ON THE LIST OF CLAIMS was the boast that Mr Balsevics was a responsible and public-minded landlord - of his three pubs. When someone pointed out that he had earlier lost his late licence at one of the pubs for serving drunks and inciting violence, this was seen as a gross slur on Mr B's probity.

ANOTHER CLAIM was that Mr Balsevics was a member of Wisbech Rainbow Savers - part of the Credit Union movement - and a photo of him at the inception of this group was included in the election flyer. Now, for reasons that no-one seems clear of, it transpires that Mr B is not an active member of Wisbech Rainbow Savers.

THE UKIP  'spoiler' leaflet also featured a graphic of a letter from Mr B where he clearly states that he thinks the by-election is for a seat on Fenland District Council. Was it petty to point this out? Well, it probably was, but that pettiness pales into insignificance against the next item.

THERE HAS BEEN A PHOTOGRAPH doing the rounds on social media. It shows a  Transit-style van, parked with its wheels obstructing the pavement, on double yellow lines, a few metres short of The Angel pub - landlord Mr Aigars Balsevics. The van has Latvian plates. Clearly visible in the back windows are election posters exhorting us to vote for Aigars Balsevics and Brenda Barber. Both Conservative candidates in the May 2015 local elections.

NOW, because the van is not UK registered, no-one can find out who is the owner of the vehicle. Or who drives it. All that can be inferred from the photograph is that the owner is a Conservative supporter who us, in some way, connected to The Angel inn. There was a certain amount of discussion over this photograph on social media, but no-one expected this bizarre response.

SO, a fair number of Wisbech townsfolk were condemned as "scumbags". By a town and district councillor. The crime? Commenting on a photograph on social media, and drawing a conclusion which didn't fit the prevailing orthodoxy.

WELL, THE ACTUAL ELECTION happened, but not before one of the High Priest's acoylites burst onto Facebook announcing that the latest UKIP flyer was "vile" and that it had been reported to the police and the Electoral Commission. At the time of writing, no-one associated with that leaflet has been either arrested or sent to The Tower for sedition.

THE ELECTION ITSELF? Well Mr Balsevics was duly elected, with more votes than his two opponents put together. I have no beef with him, and have never met him, but he sounds a pretty decent sort of bloke, but someone who clearly allows his election literature to be written by someone else. 

AS A DISPIRITING FOOTNOTE to a sorry couple of weeks, the Great High Priest still had another shot in his magazine. Clearly recognising that the Labour party campaign did not meet with his approval, he issued this statement. Bear in mind that the young man who had worked his socks off for the Labour campaign is a mere 17 years old, and has not had time to plumb the grisly depths of Wisbech politics, this was sent in his direction.

UNBELIEVABLE. Beyond parody. Arrogant. So totally and unredeemably unaware that you have to doubt the man's mental state. Hubris, patronising, smug, vain...? Words don't usually fail me - they are my stock in trade - but on this occasion I will shrink into the corner and hope that someone out there can summon up the verbal energy to add words to this...

WELL, THERE’S A TURN-UP FOR THE BOOK! Or perhaps not. After a long and painful labour, attended by many senior obstetricians and midwives – not to mention more than a few anxious husbands – the Great and the Good of Fenland District Council (Peace Be Unto Them) finally gave birth to a strapping Section 215 notice, which was to be served on the elusive owners of Constantine House. Also known as the Belfast Building. Also known as our very special bombsite on The Nene. My song about this was greeted with disdain by the folk (person) for whom Wisbech is a fiefdom. (If you can’t guess who the negative comments are from, then I will give you a clue. Or then again, I won’t. It should be perfectly obvious)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=61xr9BXeGW0

The fact that this happy event was preceded by a longer gestation period than that of a rhinoceros is of no consequence. The main thing is that the owner had been given his marching orders, and a step-by-step description of how to comply with the Section 215 notice.

After a couple of false starts, due to the fact that the owner “had a cold”, or that his mother “was unwell”, builders, roofers and scaffolders did spring into action. There was much back-slapping and smugness among local politicians, and I, Pickwick, having unwisely entered into a wager with a formidable lady called Rita Thornton, had to stump up the princely sum of £10 – which, happily, was donated to a local charity.

So, all was well that ended well, yes? Actually, no. It seems that the owner, who would give the late and hugely lamented Arthur Daley a run for his money, decided in May 2015 that enough was enough. He stopped paying the aforementioned builders, roofers and scaffolders and, understandably, they walked away.

THEY SAY A WEEK IS A LONG TIME IN POLITICS – but for Fenland District Council a mere week is but a nano-second. A month? Passes by in a moment. Three months? Gone in a flash – hardly gives us time to go to the loo!

We are approaching the middle of August. The scaffolding contractors have finally given up the ghost, and have taken away the scaffolding from the façade of the building. Internally, it is open to the most populous species in these parts, the feral pigeon. Or, to give them their biological name, Flying Rats.

BUT WAIT! The councillor for the ward chides us for being pessimistic. He is delighted at how good the building is looking. So, that’s OK then. Isn’t it?

MP STEVE BARCLAY, who has been very vocal in his criticism of FDC, seems also to have lost hope. He very courteously replied to my email, but wondered why it was directed at him. Ermm, give me a minute on that one. Ah! Got it! It’s because you are my MP, Sir, and because my requests for information from FDC have resulted in replies ranging from computer generated gobbledegook to absolute silence, I thought you might be able to help. Silly me, then.

THERE IS A SILVER LINING WITHIN THIS PARTICULAR CLOUD. I have just finished a long and profitable ‘phone call with Steve. Tierney? Barclay? No, no, NO! None other than Mr Spielberg himself. He has multi-million dollar backing for a blockbuster movie, based on the saga of Constantine House. Casting agents will be in the town next week, so make sure you are looking good. and up for a challenge!