The Judge RANTS!
Blood, Soil And Saccharine
At the end of a week...fortnight...month...several æons in which the dreaded memorial poppy has been the object to the Greater English of a mania as intense as that caused by the humble tulip to the Netherlands in a past age; where it seems that every business has overlaid every visible surface with paper and plastic flowers; where people have been competing avidly with one another to see who can exhibit the most ostentatious extrusions of the same, irrespective of how tasteless or inappropriate it may be (and I recommend the Poppy® Watch Twitter feed for illustrations of how tasteless and how inappropriate they can get); and when parts of my own fair workplace have been festooned with so many Butcher's Aprons that is resembles East Belfast in the marching season (a small hint, dear colleagues; if you think that this is supposed to be about The Flag, you are missing the original point of the exercise)...
At the end, as I say, of all of this, one can always count on the estimable Philip Challinor to provide us with an insight into what it really has become all about in this slavering, jingoistic age.
Footnote: I knew there was something else I meant to add here.
Today, we have seen the clotted cream (or, rather, the creamed clots) of the English Labour Party (Western Britain Branch) appearing in public at commemorative events the length and breadth of the colony sporting their poppies and looking pious.
So far, so emetic. But, earlier this week, when the independent Assembly Member Neil McEvoy brought a motion before our Notional Assembly calling for an Act to ensure that combat veterans were guaranteed access to the accomodation and healthcare that they need, every single one of the twenty-seven Labour AMs present (plus the one remaining DumbLibber and the odious Milord Dafydd Elis Elis Elis Elis Thomas) voted it down.
No more need be said.