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BLOGGING IS A PECULIAR PASTIME. It presupposes so many things. Firstly, that the blogger has something valuable or entertaining to say. Secondly, that the blogger suspects there might be an audience for what he or she has to say. In the absence of anything more productive to do, some bloggers actually seem intent on making a living out of their effort, by attracting advertisers and niche marketers to their site.
REJECTED POLITICIANS are a particular sub-species of blogger. Long after they have faded from public view, they stand like some M&S-suited King Lear, mouthing off into the tempest, resolute in the belief that their election defeat was an aberration, and that they still have an audience.
BUT WAIT…Is not this a blog? Is Pickwick not guilty of the same hubris and self-importance that he criticises others for? Guilty as charged, m'lud. Yes, of course I am. I love words. I love writing them much more than I love saying them. Think of this blog as little more than an elderly gent sitting in front of a recording device, and emptying his thoughts in your general direction. Bloggers are the digital inheritors of the mantle of generations of eccentrics and losers who have stood on boxes in Hyde Park, and berated their deriding audience.
POLITICS AND MORALITY DIVIDE US ALL. Everyone has the answer. No-one has the workable solution, despite what they say, tweet and blog. I grew up in a working class family with strongly traditional values. You didn't lie, you didn't cheat, you played fair, and you voted Labour, even if the rich bastards three streets away were getting away with all sorts, because they 'knew people', and were smart with their investments. I was lucky enough, and clever enough to go to a Grammar School, where I was taught discipline, perseverance, and - most importantly - that 'self' didn't matter. You did things because they were right or because they benefited other people. You opened the door for ladies, gave up your seat on the bus, and were generally what modern class warriors would call an Uncle Tom.
WHERE IN THE WORLD HAS THIS LEFT ME? Basically on a desert island, along with a few other gentle souls who were brought up to be God Fearing, respectful (where it was due) and polite despite provocation. Politically, no party seems to understand my heritage. The Labour party is a lost cause. Conservatives are the Devil's Spawn. UKIP? - they come closest to embodying what I feel about life and responsibility, but they are a candle in the wind, hamstrung with fascist baggage and beset by unchallenged schoolboy reporting by the mainstream media.
BRITAIN IS PROBABLY AS DIVIDED AS IT HAS EVER BEEN. OK, we have done away with The Poor Law, and  workhouses, but we are likely to define the relative poverty of a family by how many Sky channels they can access. What passes for the moral high ground is fought over, captured and retaken with the monotonous regularity of WWI trench warfare. The main voice the Left is a middle-class, twerpy Oxford MA, who fits his Pound-Shop-Philosophising around his frenetic media commitments. Does he return each evening to his grimy brick terraced house, wash the coal dust from his calloused hands, and sink into his bed safe in the knowledge that he has completed an honest day's labour? What do you think? On the other bench we have the  Conservative Party Old-Etonians, who occasionally hand out tit-bits to their more plebeian supporters around the counties, and continue to protect their own interests, and those of their powerful friends. I do support their efforts to get rid of Britain's corrosive 'something for nothing' welfare budget, and broadly agree with the simple idea - "Put something in, and you can take something out." Whether they will have the bottle to clamp down on feckless fecundity is another matter. No matter that we can't afford to feed or clothe them, we'll have as many kids as we want. Because we can. And because someone else will pay.
I HAVE HUGE ISSUES WITH THE CRIES OF 'CHILD POVERTY' that are shrieked whenever someone tries to get a grip of the huge benefits bill. When I used to work with the school attendance team, we were summoned to a house in a certain Lynn suburb, after a mum had said she couldn't get her 15 year old daughter into school. This family were officially 'poor' - free school meals, the works. I went with a woman from Children's Services, and parked outside their council house, taking care not to scratch the silver BMW 3 series parked on their front, with my tatty Citroen. Went inside. Beautifully decorated house. Dad/ boyfriend/partner playing GTA on a a wide screen just a bit short of the one in The Luxe. He didn't even turn round or get up off the couch. "They're out the back mate", was his only contribution. Eventually managed to prevent young lady from throttling mum, and hauled her off to school, having persuaded her to leave her £60 trainers behind, and wear her school shoes. We used to have episodes similar to that three or four times a month - different families, same scenario. Let no-one tell me Britain is not a broken, screwed up society, where decent people slog their butts off to provide for wastrels. 

WELL, THE CONCERNED PARENTS AT PECKOVER SCHOOL have had enough of all this multicultural nonsense. Some of them have organised a petition to prevent their innocent (English) children being forced to learn a Lithuanian song for a concert at the Thomas Clarkson Academy. The children are heartbroken. They are coming home in tears because they don't understand what the song is about.
I have the utmost sympathy for these doughty campaigners. My bitterness and sociopathic view of life is the result of my being forced to learn and sing Frere Jacques at a very impressionable age. Coupled with the time my parents made me dress up as Harry Lauder and sing 'Loch Lomond in the Leamington Spa Methodist Chapel Variety Show in 1953. I had just begun to recover from this double trauma when disaster struck again. I paid a very high price for passing the scholarship exam to a local posh school. The devastating quid pro quo was that I was brutally forced to learn a poem in Latin about some bloke called Horatius who stood on a bridge and whacked the enemies. Those chilling words still resonate in my nightmares:
"Lars Porsenna, Clusinorum rum, per deos ille iuraverat, novem
Maiorem iniuriam pati non Tarquiniae.
Deos ille iuraverat, per novem et dies trysting nominatur,
Ascendemus nuntii eius, et iussit foras,
Oriente et occidente et aquilone et austro,
Accersere ordinata."
There is a tiny, tiny voice in my head that whispers about worthy organisations trying to be too politically correct. We have all heard of councils naming streets, parks and community centres after revolutionary terrorists (sorry, make that Freedom Fighters, and keep the capitals) Our own esteemed Thomas Clarkson Academy has one of its houses/teams called 'Madiba' after the old gentleman currently on a life support system in a South African hospital. But, but, but. One of my most talented guitar pupils is Latvian. She speaks better English than some local born-and-breds. She writes her own songs, and is happy to sing them in English, and Latvian. Contrast this with a comment from a local resident about the Peckover affair on a social media site about Wisbech.
"this is the uk u dount have to sing if u dount wount to stick by ur guns."
I think the scholarly bit that goes after that is "sic erat scriptum"
Maybe the teachers at Peckover were trying a bit too hard. Maybe The Wisbech Standard is just trying to stir la merde again, and shouldn't have given these people publicity. Maybe some people have too much time on their hands.

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 Reflections on the day. The Protest In The Park came and went, enthusiastically supported by our brethren from Lincolnshire. I am told there were more policemen, reporters and onlookers than there were protesters. It was peaceful. It was pointless. I'm not sure if there were any official UKIP representatives there, but there were certainly a handful of 'the usual suspects'. Yes, people are entitled to feel irritated, baffled, resentful and uncomfortable at the sheer scale of migration from Eastern Europe into our little East Anglian towns. But it is entirely legal. It is entirely understandable that people from the broken remnants of the Soviet Union would leap at the chance to travel to a country where there is plenty of opportunities for unskilled workers, a universal and largely free health service, and an education system which may be flawed, but still gives opportunities to children prepared to work hard.
Standing in a Wisbech park, un-noticed and un-cared for by the real people in power, and sounding off against 'the migrant hordes' is as big a waste of time as I can think of. It may have given certain people the idea that they are moving things forward, or setting down a marker. Be not fooled. No-one important could care less. The great mistakes were made years ago, when the politicians danced dreamily into a Euro Heaven of their own making. The divisions in the Conservative Party today show just how complex and intractable the problem is.
The Estonians, Latvians, Lithuanians, Poles, Portuguese and Hungarians are here. And they are probably here to stay. Even if the Conservatives have a 'Road To Damascus' moment, and give us a referendum on leaving the EU before 2017, it can't be made retrospective. So, what's the best way forward? The only possible answer is one word. Engagement. We Brits need to accept where we are and how it stands. Look for the positives. Make an effort. Be the first to start up a conversation with your foreign neighbour. Make sure you chat to the Lithuanian mum waiting for her kiddie at the school gates. Try some of the foreign shops. Unlike the home-grown variety, they certainly seem to be doing well in out town centre.
But this is not a one-way street. If you have emigrated to this country because it is a better place for you and your family, then you have responsibilities. Not responsibilities imposed by law, because this is Britain. It is not Pakistan, or Saudi Arabia, or China. Respect our customs. Value our freedoms. Register to vote, and be part of our democratic system. But first, second third and last - make an effort to learn our language. Don't rely on the fact that there are enough of your compatriots in your street, outside your childrens' school, or at work who speak your language. Most people in Wisbech don't speak your language. It is not easy, as an adult, to learn a complex foreign language, but there is help available. There are free classes for you in the town, at times to fit in with your family schedule. This is your biggest challenge - don't duck out of it.
This sounds like a sermon. But there is hope. While the words of division and conflict were wafting over the green acres of Wisbech Park, there was something else going on. Something vibrant, happy, energetic and positive. At the Rosmini Centre, there was an International Children's Festival. There was music, there was laughter. There was a balloon launch, a bouncy castle and Sumo wrestlers. I don't do slogans, but "hope not hate" seems pretty good, really. I can't think of a time when I was more proud to be part of the Wisbech Community.Follow @wisbechevenmore

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THE DAY THE SKY FELL IN. OR NOT. In the last 72 hours, Facebook and Twitter have been hosting an almost delirious tweetfest of complaints and outrage over UKIP's election successes last week. "I feel as if I have woken up in Nazi Germany," said one. "I have a friend with racist views. If he looks out of his window, he can see the house of someone who voted UKIP", said another. Thank heavens that locally there has been some common sense. Defeated candidate Virginia Bucknor is hoping to set up meetings with new UKIP councillors to see how they can help the campaign to restore the derelict buildings in Wisbech. Samantha Hoy put on her best frock and announced that she was off to have a nice day in the sun.

Good for her. Dave Patrick expressed his disgust at the whimpering from the defeated with this put-down.

MY OWN VIEWS? Well I have to admit I voted UKIP. Yes. There it is. I have come out of the closet. Every minority has its day, its parade, its week, its month. Gay Pride have marches and parades round the world. Is there the remotest chance of an 'English Pride' march ever being held? No? Thought not. I expect it would offend too many stakeholder in our awesome rainbow nation.
BUT HOLD ON FOR A MINUTE. Do I not spend two hours a week teaching a mixed bunch of lovely Eastern European people how to speak English. Are they not unfailingly polite, and always grateful? Do I not come home from these sessions feeling they have given more to me than I have given to them? I also give guitar lessons. Two of my pupils are quite talented. One is from Lithuania and, apart from being musically talented, she has a wit and wisdom far beyond her years. She has a sharp tongue, and does not suffer fools gladly. The other is from Latvia, and she has a smile which could melt icebergs. She plays and sings like an angel, and how she puts up with an elderly has-been as a teacher, I simply don't know. Both of these young ladies, with a young local lad,  will be performing on May 18th, at our International Children's Festival. Trust me. They will be awesome.
SQUARING THE CIRCLE. I have been bettered and enriched by meeting so many of the people from eastern Europe who have chosen to come and live in Wisbech. But we are full. There are no more jobs. There are  no more decent houses. We love you to bits., but we cannot cope any more. I, for one, will continue to work hard at persuading the migrants in Wisbech to integrate and to learn our language. We need to remember that this town, for all its faults, is their home now, as well as ours.

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THE PARTY POLITICAL MAP OF WISBECH has been dramatically redrawn by the results of Thursday's County Council Elections. There has been a clean sweep for UKIP in the Roman Bank and Peckover, Wisbech South, Wisbech North, and Waldersey divisions. The margin of victory in Roman Bank was tiny - just 11 votes - but elsewhere it was substantial.
THERE ARE AT LEAST TWO ELECTORATES IN THE TOWN. Many of the candidates are prolific bloggers and Tweeters and have a Facebook presence. Some have their own websites. Debate on such sites as Wisbech…Oh Dear is intense and can be vitriolic. And yet, and yet. The turnout for this election, on a warm and pleasant May day was pretty poor. On Wisbech..Oh Dear, there was little but disdain for the local Conservatives, but UKIP is regarded with deep suspicion, particularly over its links with far right protest groups. So, did we online gurus get it wrong? Was there a large group of off-liners who had simply had enough?
ROMAN BANK & PECKOVER. This was, for me, the biggest surprise. For all that his Rottweiler approach to discussion and challenge has made me shudder over the last few years, no-one can fault Steve Tierney in his work for his division. He has managed what appear to be complex business interests with tireless appearances at parish meetings and local surgeries, and seems to have always made himself available to people. And yet he is beaten by someone who wrote a virulent and unpleasant letter to the local paper on the vexed subject of immigration.

WISBECH SOUTH. Simon King was another casualty. He was clearly not one of the Wisbech Tory 'ratpack'. He seemed to keep himself to himself, and was unafraid to involve himself with issues which his party colleagues distanced themselves from.On a personal level, he worked very hard to get a school place for the daughter of one of my adult students. The girl has learning difficulties, and had been without a school place for a long time.

WISBECH NORTH. Samantha Hoy was the 'junior' of the Conservative team, both in age and years in post. She won the seat in a by-election in 2010. The online world was lit up by daily reports of skulduggery and dirty tricks. It was rumoured that Dave Patrick (Lib Dem), who had come second in the 2009 election, had stood aside to give Virginia Bucknor (Ind) a clear run. There were constant claims and counter claims between the two ladies that each was doing the other down. In the end, both succumbed to UKIP's Paul Clapp, who had come second in 2009. A footnote should be a word of love and praise for Dean Reeves. He continues to represent Labour in the town, in the teeth of constant knock-backs. If there were any way in which politicians could be appointed rather than elected, he would be a shoo-in. He is a lovely, kind and principled man who deserves better from his adopted town.

CONCLUSIONS? It would take a better political commentator than this one to make sense of it all. That the estimable Gordon Gillick claims that he never knocked on one door, never posted one leaflet and never made one phone call, and is still 'swept to power' perhaps says it all. I have no idea what UKIP did right, but I have a good idea what the Conservatives did wrong. Firstly, and perhaps most forgivably, they failed to distance themselves from their disreputable and discredited political masters at Westminster. The impression was 'Party first, local people second.' Secondly, with exception of Simon King they got it totally and utterly wrong on local issues. Yes, the business of the derelict buildings is principally a District Council matter, but as County Councillors they had influence. And power. And a strong voice. Did they use it? No. The constant mockery of efforts to move things forward on resolving the 'Belfast Building Bombsite', the constant mantra of "This is a lovely town, there are no problems, you are all just too negative," may have been loud, but it was an empty echo. The demise of the preposterous Nick Clarke will hopefully see the end of the 'smoke and mirrors' Wisbech 20/20, which has brought us - correct me if I'm wrong - a few brown signs. Thirdly, the very public cultivation of a triumphant, gleeful Tory clique of town, district and county councillors has sown a bad seed. The seed has grown tall and blossomed into a thriving young tree. My advice - stop slapping each other's backs. Stop leaping to each other's aid on Twitter, like tag-team wrestlers. Stop dancing to the same distorted tune. Think for yourselves, and listen to what ordinary Wisbech people are worried about.
THE CASE OF THE MISSING EDITOR. And finally. Twitter people will have been enlivened over the last months by the constant cut and thrust between John Elworthy (editor of most newspapers in East Anglia) and his targets (mostly Tory councillors, it has to be said) He has taken Sam Hoy to task over her employment record, and Steve Tierney over…well, more things than I have room to mention. But he goes deathly quiet  a week from the election. His Twitter account is suspended. He is alive and well. Fellow hacks have reported his presence at events across the region. Tweeters have suggested he has been got at by none other than the former leader of Cambridgeshire County Council. This is unconfirmed rumour. It may be true. It may be a tissue of lies. But when I lamented his passing on Twitter earlier a certain (ex) councillor replied "good riddance". Which was a lovely song by Green Day, if memory serves. Bon Nuit.

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CHICKENS COMING HOME TO ROOST. This strange phrase has always puzzled me. I have kept chickens on and off most of my adult life. Chickens are among the most loveable of birds, yet probably the most foolish. They possess no great beauty, no amazing powers of endurance and no science-defying navigational skills. They are usually breathtakingly stupid, petty, quarrelsome and insanitary. But we love them for their flesh and their eggs. Of course they come home to roost. If not, they will be eaten, nastily and in a bloodthirsty fashion by the fox.
Quite how the humble chicken and its nocturnal habits came to be a metaphor for human misdeeds returning to haunt the perpetrator is lost in the mists of time. Via the miracle of the internet I can tell you that Chaucer said, in The Parson's Tale,
"And ofte tyme swich cursynge wrongfully retorneth agayn to hym that curseth, as a bryd that retorneth agayn to his owene nest." 
(No, that's not a screenshot of your daughter's latest text message, neither is it a quote from Wisbech Immigration Issues Facebook page) In later years, the Ancient Mariner shoots an albatross, as you do, but finds that his deed comes back to haunt him.

"Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung."

"To-day we have naming of parts." Ermm, no, sorry. Today we have my visit to Wisbech Market. Or what is left of it. I drove to Somers Road car park, hoping to find the odd free bay. Instead, I saw a vast expanse of empty tarmac. I could actually have landed my luxurious private jet there, and not come near another vehicle. There was room for my six corporate stretch limousines to park end to end without causing an obstruction. I locked the car, and walked up into town. Thank God there was no wind, because the tumbleweed blowing in from the desert would have bowled me over. The Market Place was a retail Marie Celeste. There was the brave lady selling fruit and veg, the excellent Russell's Meat stall, and the rather random stall selling birdseed and reconstituted artificial dog bones. And Rout's Fish Stall. That oasis of good taste, good sense, good humour and bad gossip. Mrs Finnis had served about six people all day, and was at her wits' end. I bought fish from her, some lovely ham from Franks butchers, and fled to the deserted car park.


BUT THERE IS NOT A PROBLEM. Such accounts as this are regularly discredited. Certain of our elected (well, some of them) representatives claim that I am negative, destructive and "part of the problem". Their joy at the sheer vibrancy of Wisbech's central business district is unconfined; no positive outpouring of praise is too extreme, and no rose is too pink to tint their glasses. They throw out (or should that be 'up'?) exciting visions of late-night bistros, citizen street patrols and arts centres, a vibrant pavement culture - 'The Town That Never Sleeps'. But what do they actually do? They refuse to support the only independent initiative which seeks to question Fenland District Council's inertia over the derelict buildings which continue to blight Wisbech. They ridicule and mock efforts to try to restore our town's infrastructure. When challenged online, they behave like a shabby and sweaty tag-team of wrestlers, leaping in to defend each other when defeat looms. And when one of their number faces an electoral challenge, they stoop to underhand tricks, media manipulation and  a little economy with the verite. A bit obscure? OK. Telling huge porkies.

YOU MAY ARGUE that local politicians are not responsible for the retail malaise which afflicts so many High Streets up and down the country. Say that more powerful economic forces are at play, and that our town is just another victim of a global problem, and I will not argue with you. But tell me that the current crop of County Councillors (with one very notable exception - am I allowed to name Simon King? No? OK then, I won't). have engaged fully in community efforts to revitalise Wisbech, and have cast aside party politics in the best interests of Wisbech residents, and I will call you a fool and a knave. I would not be so presumptuous as to tell you who to vote for, but the last four years of inertia and complacency have taken their toll. IT IS TIME FOR A CHANGE!

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I realise that this has little or no relevance to Wisbech, but someone may read it, and If they are affected by my words, then they will not have been entirely wasted.

Margaret Thatcher has died at the age of 87. A frail and lonely figure , plagued by dementia, and isolated by the death of her husband, she cut a sorry figure in recent years. Her death has divided the nation as successfully as it did during her eleven years of office. The usual Wisbech suspects have been tweeting their hearts out in her praises. As well they might, despite the fact that they were either babes in arms or schoolchildren when she was in power. That is an insignificant barrier. The wonderful irony of party politics is that it is totally Orwellian. 'Two legs' is good. 'Four legs' is bad. And this applies to ends of the spectrum, Left and Right.

Let me state my credentials to comment on her passing. During Mrs Thatcher's reign, I was a young taxpayer, husband and father, trying to make an honest living. I was Mrs Thatcher's nightmare - educated and hopefully enlightened, but working in the public services. Which had rules. And regulations. And codes of conduct. For some reason yet undiscovered by historians or psychologists, Margaret Thatcher was obsessed with the destruction of codes of conduct. Of responsibility for others. Of concern for the 'little guy'.

She was gifted with cartoon opponents. President Galtieri of Argentina was a pathetic and opportunist general whose lamp faded as quickly as it flared into life. Michael Foot, and Neil Kinnock were well-meaning but inconsequential Labour party leaders. It would be an exaggeration to say that she had them for breakfast. It was more that they were a dusty tube of sweets at the bottom of her handbag, which she occasionally snacked on.

She was destroyed by her own party. She never lost an election. Politicians are only loyal when they feel their own seats are safe. If they feel threatened, then they lash out, turn nasty, and seek scapegoats and alternatives. It is safe to say that I would trust a party politician no further than I would be able to throw a concert grand piano. Your trust in them may last the hour, but don't put your mortgage on it.

So, an elderly lady is lionised and vilified. She made Britain 'great' again. She' destroyed my community.' But she is dead. After years of life with a carer and a rather bored attendant police officer, a stroke has consigned her to the classification of being a late Prime Minister. My message to the haters is simple. Let her go. She is gone. God bless her. Whatever good or evil she wrought in her lifetime has long since passed. If your only words are full of venom, then please hold your tongue.