Minor hitches

Have somehow managed to pick up a small case of sore throat. Perhaps I mistook it for a large case of beer. I don’t know. Must see if I need glasses. Which has led to a mildly unpleasant 48 hours. However my mild fever has broken and aside from a minor frog and a few aches and pains, that’s it.

Seriously chums it’s too darned hot, it really is. The temperature feels like the low forties Celsius, which I’m told is usual for this time of year, and the humidity even has the Wallabies in hiding. I’ve been tasked with pootling down the the local ‘Bottle-o’ (Off licence or liquor store) and keeping the ‘Eskies’ or cool boxes full of beer topped up with ice for tonights party. Which in the words of Jonah Lewie, is why you’ll always find me in the kitchen at parties. Why? Well you wouldn’t want me to report that some crafty so and so had scarfed all the best vino now would you?

The Stepkids on the other hand are thriving on this oppressive heat. By thriving I mean they’re using the pool sunbathing and making themselves useful for their antipodean Aunt and Uncle.

TTFN

Regards.

A very hot and sticky Bill. Merry Christmas, solstice, Yule, whatever.

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See Queensland and….

…be struck dumb. The beaches are in-smegging-credible. See the video I took below with me own delicate little pinkies.
So long as you don’t mind the Killer Salties or estuarine crocodiles, sharks, jellyfish, spiders, scorpions or the occasional maddened sheep. Although I am reliably informed that you are more likely to die from a coconut dropping on your head or a bad dose of skin cancer from not applying enough sun screen. Honestly. Unless my brother in law is bullshitting something cruel. Which I wouldn’t put past him. He’s a maritime cove after all.

We’re off to a crocodile farm tomorrow to see the real thing from relative safety. And I’ll be asking for a quick sandwich at the restaurant, and make it snappy! Well maybe not. I don’t want to be their next course. The Crocs I’m told, say we taste like chicken. Hmmm. Then we’re off to see the Great Barrier reef for an evening cruise. Providing the visit to the Croc farm hasn’t already cost us an arm or a leg.

In the meantime we’re layering on the SPF 50 sunscreen, wearing sun hats and serious polarised sunglasses. And drinking whiskey to keep the dreaded Lurgi at bay. You know it makes sense. Allegedly.

Meanwhile; back at the ranch.  Looks like a little inclement weather back home.  Such a pity we’re missing all that snow-covered fun.  Not.

Totally tropical

Up in Queensland today, sampling the delights of Brother in laws Tropical domicile. The heat is taking a little bit of time to get used to, but with two showers a day and sufficient cold beer, I’m actually enjoying myself. The only minor upset was when I found I’d forgotten to pack my swimming shorts, so I’ll have to go shopping for a new pair, may the lord have mercy on my soul. Mrs S will no doubt insist I get something a little more colourful, but what the hell.

Which rather sums up my attitude in general. Currently I’m so laid back that I could probably turn my head and kiss my own bum, figuratively speaking. Seen my first Kangaroos. Quite a lot of them actually. Grazing the roadside grassland like some outlandish Megarabbits. I thought we had a lot of Deer in BC, but Kangaroos, they go around in herds of forty or fifty. There are so many that you half expect the buggers to come bounding out of the damn fridge (See below).

I’m told the meat is good though. One of my ambitions to to prepare some barbecued ‘Roo this year, just to see what it’s like. Maybe wrapped in bacon. So brother in law and I will be heading down to the local market to provision the household after Mrs S and I return from a brief sojourn up country to see the Barrier reef, Sharks, Crocs and Koalas. Maybe go see if the legend of the Drop-Bears is true.

I see the war of words between the extreme left and right is making Twatter suspend and delete accounts, again. It still won’t make me use it. Too many room temperature IQ’s screaming at each other like chimps for my liking. Too much knee-jerk emotion. Little reasoned examination of ideas, few cooler heads, too often it’s like watching toddlers in a playground. Where do they think they are, parliament?

One of the things I am getting, from various tours and conversations is an insight into is Aboriginal or First Nations issues, which seem to arise because the natives never had any concept of land ownership. Previously they always lived on the land, but did little or nothing with it. Their territory shifted when they did. Yes, interesting oral traditions and well-adapted way of life, but no real development. Because their societies don’t adapt readily to societal change. Which is where conflict arises between them and incoming cultures. A nomadic tradition will always be at odds with the modern ideas of personal property rights, self determination and challenging old orders. It’s really no wonder they’re so prone to drink and drugs problems. Their traditional way of life is highly structured and when that structure conflicts with external influences, or breaks down the bond between generations, many just can’t cope.

So when someone comes in to build a bunch of new houses the indigenous often don’t really understand why these incomers want to live where they do, and hang on a bit, there was a mountain there last year. Didn’t someone say that was sacred or something? Modern culture doesn’t just live in a place, it actively manages landscapes. Which hunter gatherer societies don’t seem to get. Gardening for example, at least as far as aboriginal cultures are concerned, generally happens to other people.

Off the leash

The Sticker clan’s guard dog (Me) got let off the leash today and went lamp post sniffing in his own figuratively inimitable fashion, just ambling around Darling harbour, peoplewatching, doing the museums on a grey and humid Sydney day. Mrs S wanted to go shopping with daughters and friends, so I pleaded for a time out and slipped my collar shortly after breakfast. And I’ve had a throughly pleasant time. Totally failed to get up to any mischief, which might disappoint my last remaining reader, but this is real life. There’s a flight to catch in the morning and we’ll be back here in Sydney in just under three weeks, so anything left undone can be done then.

It’s definitely two shower a day weather, and I’m trying to keep sweet and relatively odour free after sweating buckets and failing to drink enough. Which is a matter I intend to remedy later on after putting on fresh clothes and ensconcing myself in the nearest pub. Let the rest max out their credit cards Christmas shopping, there’s beer to drink, even if the CAD to AUS exchange rate is not currently in my favour.

The downside is that I now have a working cell phone so Mrs S, Stepdaughters, uncle Tom Cobley and all can now find me. Not that I’ll be giving out my Australian number anywhere, but will be sloping down to the bar for a beer or two to replace all the fluid I lost in perspiration throughout the day.

Interesting question from last night; how does a devout, fully paid up member of the religion of blown to pieces get errant husband out of a bar when she’s all burka’d up and therefore not allowed in? Simple, she sends in her cute as a button little kiddy to go tug on daddy’s trouser leg. Aren’t workarounds wonderful?

To the bar. See you lot of mongrels later.

G’day

Well here we are in the middle of Sydney ‘stralia and overjoyed at connecting with Eldest once more. Youngest has just landed after winging her way cross dark and foreign lands having qualified as a genuine honest-to-goodness fully fledged lawyer. Give her any trouble and you’ll be ass-deep in lawsuits before you know it.

For me, the time travel lag travelling from BC to Sydney hasn’t been that bad, despite being cooped up in an alloy tube with about three hundred other souls for over fourteen hours. The cabin crew kept us fed and watered, although the menu was a bit starchy for my liking, so we just tucked into what protein there was and left the sweet and stodgy stuff alone.

So, Sydney. First impressions. I like it. We overnighted in Redfern before heading to our downtown base in one of the more upmarket hotels. Redfern is a cute little place full of narrow streets lined with iron ballustraded houses, and at this time of year the blooms are blooming colourful. The architecture reminds me a little of French Quarter New Orleans with narrower roads. Very relaxed. Very old colonial. Redfern used to have a bad rep for shall we say the less salubrious type of Bogan, but since the 2000 Olympics, when they were shunted out wholesale, the Pink Dollar has taken over as the main currency and coffee shops abound. The main shopping areas surpass Vancouver, even if it seems that half the city is being dug up to install tramlines. The atmosphere is overall busy, friendly and fun.

Oddly enough about these new trams, Mrs S and I were tucking into some salads on our first day and on a hoarding across the way there were pictures of the old tramlines from the 1940’s and 50’s. Wonder how long it will be until these tramlines are removed for the next big thing.

Currently suffering a little from retail induced migraine. Which is a condition induced by doing too much shopping with female companions. A man needs man stuff, or he becomes little better than a pet, a lapdog. Which is something women often don’t really understand. However, I growl every once in a while and do the equivalent of a good scratch at the door so Mrs S knows when to let my inner geek off the leash. She goes off with the girls, and I get to take a stroll through the gadget stores, Science museums and suchlike. Seems to work.

Oh yes. The spiders over here are kind of big. Saw my first Huntsman splayed across a fence in Eldest’s back yard. Not a big one, only three inches across. I’m told they come way bigger, but the little ones like Redbacks are more poisonous. Rather like the Black Widows we get in our woodpiles back in BC. So a little caution when sticking vulnerable tootsies in sandals or when negotiating midnight bathrooms is warranted. Then there are the three inch long cockroaches, which amble through the most active night time pedestrian areas as if they owned the place.

What else? The Gay marriage thing is big local news at the moment, and since Redfern has more of those folk than generally speaking the campaigning is a bit in yer face, but people can’t help what they are, so I tend to deflect with a friendly “I’m just a boring old heterosexual – not really my issue.” excuse. Which nobody seems to mind. Although when the divorce bills come in they’ll probably get the hint, but like I say, not my issue. Just remember that we warned you guys. Civil partnerships are far less legally problematic. And it’s not like the non-heterosexual demographic will be actively breeding, so the out of wedlock side of things won’t be an issue. Nor the fact that their genes won’t be swirling around the gene pool if fifty or so years. Which is probably an ‘ist’ or ‘ism’ thought crime by modern standards, and if so I’m guilty as charged but don’t really care any more. I’ll cop a plea in mitigation of total apathy about the SJW obsession if I’m ever brought to book. Whatever...

Aside from that, I find the directness of the Aussies rather refreshing after the cloying PC-ness of BC. Yesterday morning for example, I found myself explaining the whole business where some Feminist ‘comedians’ in Canada would only work to female only audiences with no heckling allowed. To which my partner in conversation could only stand aghast. They, like me, understood that Comedians, in order to be any good at all need to learn their craft in a hostile environment. Honing their wits and reacting to their audience so that they can communicate effectively and do their job, which is to help make people laugh. Simply standing up on stage telling lame simpering stories with bad punchlines to an audience which cannot criticise does not develop any would be comedians talent. Such milquetoast routines centuries before would have a local ruler sending their old style medieval fool to the scaffold for a quick downsize. Nowadays the only thing such restrictions will kill is the art of comedy.

This is where modern ‘third wave’ feminism fails because it’s not funny at all. Yes, and I include Amy Schumer in this statement. ‘Feminist’ comedy is often two-dimensional, lamely unfunny and takes itself way too seriously, then compounds the error by shutting out almost half the population from the audience. From where I stand they’re all gimme, gimme, gimmie for nothing in return. This isn’t a bid for equality. It’s an attempt to get something for nothing.

My own stepdaughters understand this, which is why they are well liked and already modestly successful in their own fields. As capable young women they are both well able to make their way in the world without the irritating whining of media feminists. This is how we brought them up to be. Seems to be working.

That’s the way the money goes..

Aaaaand we’re off! Writing this in YVR’s very nice Maple Leaf lounge, sipping a seriously dry Martini, awaiting our call to travel across the wide Pacific. We booked Air Canada but it looks like we’re flying in an Air New Zealand plane. Well, that’s what’s parked in our departure gate at the moment of writing and it’s just finished refuelling. I’ve heard good things about Air Kiwi, so we’ll see what’s what when we board. More on this later.

Speaking from later; I just took a quick saunter round to our boarding gate. No, we won’t be flying Air Kiwi, that one leaves at six-thirty. Our flight is a bit later. Me and my big keyboard.

So, what are we leaving in our wake? Looks like pop goes the weasel, or in this case Bitcoin. Investors are saying the blockchain based cryptocurrency is the next best thing but I’m not convinced. The time to get into Bitcoin from an investors perspective was at the very beginning. Yet money is visibly flowing out of tangibles, which is depressing the price of commodities, and into intangibles. Which makes me think that the New Year will be the time to swim against the tide and buy up some of the low(er) priced gold etc while everyone else is off chasing the next big thing. That’s the thing with chasing the next big media thing, by the time it’s all over the press all the best opportunities have gone.

Anyway, if the bozo’s are dumping precious metals to buy blockchain that may just put gold within my preferred price range. Which is good if you’re looking for a hedge to put cash into. Then when the Bitcoin bubble bursts, I’ll sell out of precious metals when the silly money comes back. Win-win I think.

Another bit of silliness is the recurrent meme, and it has to be a joke, that if we all went vegetarian this would somehow stop the nebulous ‘global warming’ or ‘man made climate change’. Frankly me dears, every CO2 driven model has failed dismally to correlate with rises or falls in global temperature. Indeed, there is better proof that CO2 lags, not leads temperature changes. The warmer the Earth becomes, the higher CO2 levels will eventually be, not the other way around. CO2 is only an indicator, not a cause. Well, it’s not for me to convince anyone, the science will bear me out when we stop focussing on the fake cause, and do a little real research instead of flawed statistical models.

So taxing meat won’t change a thing, even if the farts of all those steers was part of the problem. It’s just part of the ‘climate change con trick’ designed to divert cash from the pockets of the general public into those of the ultra-wealthy. You think the Rockefellers and Soros’s of this world would be funding the many vociferous climate activist groups if they didn’t somehow profit from it? Oh pur-lease.

That’s it for now. I’ll be back online from the fabled land of Oz in about 48-72 hours to catch up with the ridiculae of life, or when the jet lag has faded to manageable proportions.

On being an Expat

Apropos yesterdays post. Another in-car conversation on life, the Universe and everything found Mrs S and I discussing our lives. Why we keep so few real friends, which is more an act of personal preference than anything else. Neither of us have ever been manic socialisers. Although we are decent enough folk, well, we like to think so, we find that there’s little point getting involved as everyone else has stuff to do and so have we. So dinner parties are rare events as neither of us is that keen on small talk and always find ourselves at odds with some of the regurgitated media talking points certain people call their opinions.

There are sayings that “You can never go home again.” or “You can’t cross the same river twice.” and now ten years after Mrs S and I began our Canadian adventure I find there is much truth in them. Having gone back to blighty on five separate occasions, visiting places where I grew up only to find a chilly welcome and a “Oh, what’re you doing back here?” No one wants to know you. Old work mates make repeated excuses to not have a beer and a chin wag like you used to, even when you’ve spent thousands to go and see them. When you meet people you thought were good friends it’s a little spooky to watch their faces close down when you say “Hi.” Like while you’ve been living and working overseas you’ve been doing something they’re ashamed of, but it’s not simply that. There’s often a mix of jealousy and disconnection which gives you the sense of being a stranger in your old home town. A feeling of isolation within familiar spaces. Like you’re just a tourist. Which feels like truth. Because it’s not your home any more. You moved on, they stayed. You’re now an outsider, an exile, who shouldn’t ever have come back. This is not your tribe.

There’s a century old story about a man who went to Australia and made his fortune. I think it was told as an anecdote in one Thomas Hardy’s Wessex Novels, not sure which. (Correction: From Laurie Lee’s classic “Cider with Rosie” – A staple of my Senior School English Literature classes – Thank you to the commenters for this correction)  Now the story goes that this newly enriched Australian came back to visit the English village he’d grown up in but left twenty years before. While he’s there he shares his good fortune with old friends and neighbours. Even spending one evening in the village pub buying drinks for everyone. Yet on his way back to his lodgings he was beaten up and robbed by some of the very people he’d once called friend. The very people he’d tried to share his good fortune with.

Life is a river, and like water, time flows in only one direction, unless you’re a very advanced physicist. Sometimes it pools, other times it bounds along, effortlessly carving its own way through solid rock. But always onwards, down to an estuarine end, or abruptly off a cliff or down a hole. So it is with old friendships and family. Those who stay still get left behind. This can breed resentment within them because perhaps they did not really want to stay, but somehow lacked the impetus, like me, to begin new lives for themselves in a different land, or even wonder, and feel a little betrayed by, my need to do so. In their minds, I left them. Which may have bred ill-feeling.

Which leaves me in a dilemma. I have to visit the UK next year anyway, but knowing what I do now, do I go visit and try to reconnect, or just accept what I’ve been told at face value and forever suffer a small nagging doubt? Considering my family history, or rather lack thereof, it has been characterised by a certain; “You don’t need to know that.” feeling. Indeed, trying to track my own Mother’s side of the family has proven interesting* because I was always shut out of the conversation because my very existence (Well I am a bastard from a time when this was frowned upon) is a source of embarrassment. Very few will even acknowledge that I am a blood relative. That and my Mother’s tendency to ‘re-invent’ herself every twenty years or so has not helped.

Oh bugger it, I’ll go and knock on some doors while I’m back in the UK. What can my relatives really do apart from tell me to sod off?

Update: There is also the thought that if we were such great friends and family, all my emails and letters would have been answered. But instead responses dried up fairly quickly, so maybe my erstwhile family and friends don’t really want to know at all. Heart says go and see, head says that they haven’t been in touch because they don’t want to be. Rather like an old mate who broke surface only to disappear into the mists of the Interweb. I offered to come over next time I was in the UK and have a chat over old times and where our lives had taken us. Result; complete radio silence. I’ll take my Aunt and her son out for dinner next time I’m in Blighty, but as for the rest, yes, well. Their lack of interest has been duly noted. Moving on…

* “Interesting” in like pulling a Bull’s teeth without anaesthesia.

Best Christmas message ever

Got a letter today. An old fashioned honest to goodness handwritten letter on ten pages of paper written in real pen from one of my two surviving Aunts. It absolutely has made my entire Christmas because it’s helped me reconnect with people who I didn’t think cared I still existed. My extended family. The pages repeatedly scanned today could not have been more precious if they were written in diamond on 24 carat solid platinum sheets. All right, my Aunt hand wrote the letter because her printer ran out of ink and my cousins won’t be visiting until next weekend to buy and fit a new cartridge for her, but as I read my crusty old eyes were almost moved to sentimental tears. Even if she hadn’t sent a Christmas card, this was far better.

I say better because all the sentiment within was genuine, not forced or the grisly secondhand saccharine sloppiness or ghastly lame humour of the usual run of Christmas cards. The letter was chock full of the dark humour typical of my clan, stuffed with information on a branch of the family who I thought had forgotten all about yours truly decades ago. Some of the news was sad, about a distant aunt and uncle who have left this world, but more was happy because people I used to love and trust, and think I still do, are still around and sinning despite all life’s vicissitudes. No, none of us do ‘Social media’, we have real lives. We connect in four dimensions not the two of Farcebook or Twatter.

Which gladdens my scabby blackened old heart. As my good lady wife observed having noticed my smile; “Well, something undid a twist in your soul Bill.” With which I agree, because I feel part of my own special river of humanity again. Connected. No longer as distant or excluded. And you know what? It feels good and it’s the best Christmas present I’ve had for decades. Possibly the best seasonal missive I’ve ever had.

Honestly, I’ve come over all North Brummagem.

I’ve been told that some of our lot are visiting Oz at the same time Mrs S and I are. It would be interesting to run into them and see what they’re really like, or if we’ll even recognise each other after so much time estranged. Family, eh? Who knew?

Just Desserts: Lemon Mousse

Before I leave for Oz, which means I will be incommunicado for a while depending upon the notoriously fickle Interweb service provider service referred to as Telstra, I’d like to donate my low-carbohydrate recipe for Lemon Mousse to posterior. Whatever. Talking of waistline and posterior, mine are much reduced after only a month, so the low carbohydrate diet does work. Plenty of fresh veg, good servings of meat or other protein, don’t spare the fats and salt. Just exclude the starchy stuff.

This recipe is so incredibly easy. Well, it’s easy enough for a bozo like me to get right consistently. Lemon Mousse. Light, delicious and a lovely finishing dessert for after a really Gastrointestinal tract searing curry.

Here’s the low-carbohydrate version first which produces two servings.

Ingredients:

1 Cup Whipping cream
A drop or two or half a capful of Vanilla essence
Zest of a whole fresh lemon
A dessertspoonful of Xylitol sweetener, not any other kind because they don’t work very well in cooking.

Method:
Whip cream until it starts to thicken.
Add lemon zest.
Add vanilla essence
Add dessertspoon of Xylitol
Now whip that cream. Whip it good and hard. Go on. Lay on MacDuff. Spank that whisk mercilessly. Lash it until the cream mix you’re whipping stands up and screams for mercy. Don’t feel guilty. You’re only being cruel to be needlessly sadistic. Whip it enthusiastically until the mix stands erect and doesn’t flop over again.
Decant into portion sized bowls and put in bottom shelf of fridge (Not the freezer!) for at least half an hour.

Remove from fridge when chilled. Eat. Enjoy. Add a little defrosted fruit as a topping or use instead of ice cream.

Of course you could add a dessert spoon of cocoa powder (Not hot chocolate mix) instead of the lemon zest to get a chocolatey effect. Or even substitute the zest of an orange plus cocoa and a hint of vodka to create something that will put a smile on anyone’s face. My wife has officially declared the vodka, cocoa and orange version “Complete evil.” And has stated that it may not be served more than once or twice a week. I was planning to chuck in a measure of Cointreau to create another variant, but have been jokingly warned that this may lead to ‘sanctions’. What forms these ‘sanctions’ may take is not immediately apparent. Although my lady wife has been rummaging in our little bedside box and she’s currently dangling the pink furry handcuffs I thought I’d ‘lost’ sometime last year in front of my nose. Bloody things. Sanctions indeed.

To close; the high-Carbohydrate alternative to this dish is simply to replace the dessertspoon of Xylitol with two of sugar. Change flavourings as need be. It has as many variations as any fevered imagination will allow.

I may be back. What condition I will be in is another matter.

Bullion for me

Right. That’s the current job done and dusted and I can glance up above my particular foxhole and take stock, or in my case buy some. I’ve been watching the price of Gold and silver of late, and it looks like the market may be bottoming out. So yesterday I went out and bought some silver. The 999.99% variety. Just a couple of small 10 ounce ingots to begin with. Which is still a minor gamble. Maybe the market in precious metals isn’t quite bouncing along in the benthic depths, but I think it’s close, hence me splashing out a few bucks. The dealer I go to downtown also has a 100 ounce bar I have my eyes on, and may just purchase if conditions are right when I get back from the fabled land of Oz late January. They’ve got a few lumps of gold bullion in stock that look tempting, but the price needs to drop a few dollars more before I’m convinced it’s a good investment for the safety deposit box. Maybe I’ll stash some capital in Platinum. Just as a hedge. Just for the comfort of owning something solid with a readily convertible monetary value that won’t depreciate (much). Now there’s a thought.

Gold, Silver and Platinum bottomed out on July 10th this year, but as I was on the road I missed the opportunity to buy in at that point. However, everything but Palladium is cooling off in the precious metals world at present, at least in Canada, so I’ll have a rethink in January 2018 and see what the market indicators are like.

I’ll have the money as there’s a possible new job offer on the horizon for me in January. Nothing spectacular, but steady enough to pay for the usual household stuff and a little travel on the side, as well as setting my own hours. Nowhere near as much as my full consultancy rate, but fairly reasonable. I’ll just have to wait and see if it materialises, or not. I’m not that fussed, I’ve got more than enough on my plate right at this minute, and January is not generally a time for market panics. At least not this side of the pond, or unless old Spoonbanger (Cheers Mitch) starts punting off Nuclear tipped fireworks across the Pacific and throws one at Seattle, it’s likely to end in my back yard. In which case we’re all toast, or not, as the Sticker clan will shortly be together in Australia. If it all went into TITSUP mode we’d literally find ourselves ‘on the beach’ a la Nevil Shute. From the pictures we’ve been sent it’s a very nice beach. With a nice bar and restaurant. What a place to claim refugee status eh?

What else? The pound was crawling back up despite all the negative media coverage. Then the Northern Irish decided to throw Teddy out of the nursery and possibly allow the election of Corbyn, the true nightmare candidate. I mean, Jaysus me bhoys. May is hardly the most competent statesperson on the planet but Corbyn is about as batshit crazy as they come. If it ever looks like he will win an election then my money will be out of Sterling into US dollars faster than you can blink, even if I have to take a loss. I know May is a pretty poor PM, but Corbyn would be abysmal, leading the way down to economic hell with a brass band and choir of idiots in front, Brexit be damned. He wants his authoritarian utopia and nothing and no-one is going to stop him short of a mass implosion of the UK Labour party. He’d also probably repeat the biggest mistake of the Wilson Government and put the troops back into Ulster. Which would give the good auld IRA a hobby apart from run the regional drug trade.

Labour used to be the political party of the working man, but that hasn’t really been true since the 1950’s. Now it’s all about political power and ideology, the ordinary working man be damned. And if Corbyn did cancel Brexit, the Eurocrats would really put the screws on the UK. Just to make an example of all you uppity Brits. Because that’s the arrogant way they think. If you’d ever seen a few of them blasting around Paris, Brussels or Strasbourg in motorcades or their bodyguards blocking streets outside the best restaurants you’d understand. These are people who don’t really care about the people they rule.

As for May getting all humpty about Trump Twatting out some video’s she disagreed with in a desperate attempt to placate a certain minority death cult, oh pur-lease. It seems that the Tories (And most of the other big three UK political parties) believe these sparkly new RoP imports will be future taxpayers whose output will keep the political classes forever in champagne and caviar. Dream on kiddies. That won’t happen for at least two more generations, around fifty years, if you’re lucky. That’s how long it will take to even partly assimilate this latest bulk buy of bargain basement bozo’s with the general population of the UK. By way of proof I’d like to point out that there have been ethnic ghettoes in most of the UK’s major urban conurbations since I was in my late teens, created by short sighted mass immigration policies. Matters have not improved in all that time.

Anything else? The UK media is full of anti-Trump, anti-Brexit hit pieces with rarely a fact in sight, but everyone in the mainstream seems afraid to deride those whose evil must not be named or be labelled ‘hate speakers’ and sent to the naughty step forever and ever.

Frankly I no longer care. I shall simply keep my eye on the news that really matters and slip any spare cash into solid and readily liquidated assets while prices are good.

Expatriate expostulations from wherever; a.k.a. A Sarcastic man abroad trying to stay in the middle of the road without getting run over.

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