I love food scares

All this fuss over ‘Chlorinated Chicken’. Actually chicken that has effectively been washed in water with around the same percentage of Chlorine as a swimming pool to get rid of some of the harmful bacteria which fowl is heir to. Hands up who has inadvertently swallowed a mouthful from the local municipal baths? What, never? So you’re a non-swimmer then.

It’s yet another storm in a teacup brought to us by people who whore themselves out, writing nonsense to earn a crust, then for a bunch of room temperature IQ’s to get all incensed about it. Honestly. No, if you eat cooked chicken that has previously been washed in a mild solution of Chlorine pre-preparation you’re probably a whole lot safer than with Chicken ‘au naturel‘ and all the nasty stuff that fowl is heir to. Salmonella, Camphylobacter, E.coli to name but three. Seriously, put a raw, unwashed chicken on your kitchen counter and you might as well have taken a shit on it. It’s why you should always wash your hands properly when preparing fowl. Never mind that accepting US food standards may be part of a putative UK-US trade deal post BREXIT. Seen in this light, the originating articles are all poorly veiled anti-Trump, anti-BREXIT scaremongering. The ‘Chlorinated Chicken gives people cancer’ implication is no better than lefty doublespeak. It’s such arrant nonsense I’m not even going to link to it.

Anyway, that’s beside the point. I absolutely love these silly food scares because most of them are complete bollocks. Especially when some politician gets in on the act and intones that ‘something must be done’. Oh dear, if only they knew how dumb they look.

You see when these scares hit the boob tube (Major TV networks), the first effect is that the gullible stop buying a previously popular product, so the Supermarkets have to get rid of a lot of less salable stock in a hurry before it goes off. Which is my cue to head down to the relevant supermarket aisle and raid the product in question. Result; I save quite a few dollars and my freezer gets a top up. There’s two salmon and six chickens in there at the moment awaiting my culinary mercies. The Salmon are Pinks, which are currently in season, so the price has dropped like a jumbo sized lead sinker, and the chickens? Well, thank the propagandists for that. Cheers, lads. I would buy you a pint, but you aren’t men enough to drink them, so it would be a waste of time and effort.

I’m just waiting for something horrible to be announced about pork ribs. Because I’m rather partial to my own ribs recipe and am looking for an opportunity to stock up cheaply. It’s not that I can’t afford it, it’s just that I’m cheap.

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Never work

Well there’s a probability that I will be dead before this piece of idiocy comes to pass and just as well. A proposed UK 2040 ban on sales of all Diesel and Petrol engined vehicles. Oh dear, there are so many things wrong with this proposal that I’m having trouble enumerating them all.

Now Diesel, yes, I can see the utility from that, given the ‘known’ link between Diesel fumes and cancer. Well, at least according to the most recent IARC report. Worse than smoking, by all accounts. But that’s by the by. But petrol and diesel? Hmm.

The problems with the proposed ban on internal combustion engines begins, as the source article says, with the necessary upgrades in generating capacity that going over to a predominantly ‘renewables’ based power grid as mandated by legislation will entail. When the wind doesn’t blow and the sun doesn’t shine there won’t be enough batteries in all creation to power the UK’s energy needs, especially if millions of electric vehicles are all plugged into the grid. Even if every spare hillside is covered in bird killing wind turbines. So investment in Nuclear seems like the obvious solution. Thorium seems the safest option, as the end product can’t be used for bombs. However, that technology need to mature. As for fusion? Well given the current rate of progress, that is at least fifty years away. Especially if the focus remains on the ‘bang in a bottle’ Tokamak based designs. Research has been focusing on that branch of technology since the 1960’s to my recollection, but the goal of sustainable nuclear fusion reactions remain just as far away.

The next issue is grid capacity. I haven’t actually done the sums but even a back of a fag packet guesstimate means that the UK grid will need at the very least triple the current infrastructure. Given twenty plus years, this isn’t beyond the bounds of possibility, however, expect lots of brown outs and power rationing. Then you can triple the number of pylons marching across the landscape. All the scenic views will be interrupted by cables and wind turbines. Don’t even mention hundreds of thousands of substation upgrades, and extra diesel powered backups. No, sorry, no more diesel backups. Everyone’s electrickery bill will be through the roof. Not to mention the price of everything because transport costs will rise as all those Diesel powered trucks which tow containers of food to supermarkets will go out of style.

Here’s my argument; there will be around 75-80 million people in the UK. This estimate is based on the demographic boomer dieback that is in progress. Yes, all those post 1940’s and 50’s born folk will be going away leaving fewer descendants and many more immigrants to pick up the slack. Incidentally, all that finger pointing and blame attribution (“It’s all the boomers fault!”) won’t do a spit of good when the following generations haven’t picked up the slack. So, a less productive population demanding more from Government and services. Including electricity. Which is going to be a bit of a bugger when Winter comes. Considering a lot of solar physicists are predicting global cooling from around 2030. There’s also a possibility that coal and wood stoves will get banned along with the ICE. People are going to have to learn to wrap up warm. Just like I had to do as a boy. And get used to walking a lot more. Used to do a lot of that, too.

As for all of the UK owning electric vehicles? Never work. Even an enhanced grid couldn’t take the strain of thirty plus million vehicles (Number of vehicles currently using UK roads) probably fifty by 2040, slurping an average of 17.6 kWh (Average) each for a 62 mile journey from the grid, every night. More if the daily commute is over 40 miles each way. More if owners (As they are wont to do) leave all their vehicles on charge when not in use. Even more if someone can make battery technology work for trucks. Although some form of diesel electric would work. Diesel running at peak efficiency to power generator and thus drive electric motors, like one of these. Although if you scroll down and read, the uphill and top speeds are hardly on a par with modern Diesel trucks. Very stylish though. But if diesels do get banned, what then?

I’m all for cleaner air, but you can’t eat it and it won’t keep you warm in Winter. Anyone got any better ideas than a ban?

Update: It seems that there are few good solutions to the particulates issue, although there are some interesting but economically non-viable Electric power devices being mooted.  The electric vehicles Achilles heel remains, after over a century of development and taxpayer dollar being thrown at it, range and refuel times.  Not to mention the generation capacity and infrastructure resilience of the supporting electricity grid.  No, I think the EV is doomed to remain little better economically speaking, than Lohner-Porsche’s 1900 model, The Baker 1901, Anderson’s models from 1907 and Edison’s 1912 attempt.  Source here.   Yes, the Hybrid concept goes back to the early 1900’s.

As for banning ICE powered vehicles; there is an idea that will be quietly dropped when EV’s fail, as they did around a century ago, to provide a viable alternative.

Windows 10 and other crap

Since I’m ‘in funds’ at present with spare disposable income, I decided to buy a few things that will make life a little easier. No problem, right? On so many other levels, oh so many other directions, completely wrongety wrong-wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. Yes, dear reader I bought two new Windows 10 Laptops for our business. Silly me. But they looked a good deal, had a reasonable spec and for a while worked quite well. Email was processed. Applications processed data. Web was browsed. Skype conversations had. Even movies watched.

Until the last ‘upgrade’. Bloody Windows upgrades.

For the last 72 hours my new laptop has been making a loud buzzing noise before crashing and rebooting, and all the changing of sound and video settings was to no avail. My professional virus checker found nothing, even after update to the latest version. When I tried to watch Youtube flash video, five minutes later; BZZZZZZZZZ! And the whole machine went tits up and rebooted. Until I delved into the dusty recesses of Windows Device Manager and found that something had added an Intel Video chipset as well as the onboard Realtek. So what was causing the crashes was a conflict between system drivers which provoked me into tearing out what remains of my once-flowing locks. However, it’s an easy fix. The Intel drivers and chipset have to be deactivated, which is what I did, and since then all is well (Fingers, toes, nose and eyes crossed). Until the next ‘upgrade’ (snort of derision).

Then when we get home we find that we’ve been ‘selected’ for something we didn’t volunteer for. Erm excuse me. I don’t have to, so I won’t. I’ve got better things to do with my time and have no truck with complete bullshit like ‘social cohesion’ which is a complete nonsense term peddled by complete nonces to force their values upon you. The Trudeaupians can talk about ‘Canadian values’ all they like, but there’s a problem. I’m not Canadian born and don’t kiss arses any more. I’ve paid all my bills and my taxes are up to date so this particular branch of officialdom can Arkell vs Pressdram as far as I’m concerned. They will find my studied politeness is finite.

On the upside, whilst we were away, our landlord, nice chap with whom we have a reasonable working relationship, had bought our apartment a new washing machine because a worn out bearing in the old one was making the whole house vibrate. This new one bleeps, plays little tunes, has a lovely light show built in and sometimes it even deigns to wash our clothes. Strange but cute. And we have a lot of clothes to wash.

Anyway, that’s one thing about an extended road trip. No matter how far you go, or how long you’re away, you’re always stuck with the dirty laundry when you get back.

There’s a life lesson in there somewhere.

Last day and Ikea

Last day of the trip the other day and it was both interesting and amusing. Mrs S and I were having little fun within the confines of IKEA Richmond. Fun? In IKEA? Bill, are you completely barking? Well maybe, possibly, and then again, completely, positively, not. There is always method in any madness I might superficially exhibit.

On this trip I’ve discovered a few things about myself, and have taken more steps to embrace my inner monster, as has Mrs S. For example; We dropped by IKEA this afternoon after a fruitless morning spent on other tasks and paused for lunch. Someone’s child was screaming the restaurant down. I commented; “Someone is torturing that child.”
“Do they sell tickets?” Mrs S commented with a small smile. Well she’s entitled. Thirty plus years of dealing with other people’s unruly brats can give you a little darkness in the soul. With a little help from me, of course.
“I didn’t know IKEA did dungeons.” I replied.
“New product line.” She nodded sagely.
“Nice to see they’re keeping up with the new trend for BDSM in parenting.” I responded.
“Not before time.” She remarked darkly. We essayed a small shared chortle. You can get heartily sick of other people’s low standards and having a little fun at their expense is insufficient payment for having your eardrums reamed out. Yes, I’ve got a bad case of chronic misanthropy. I got it from coming in contact with a lot of stupid. On both sides of the pond.

On that topic I’ve often maintained that only 15% of humanity is actually using much of their brain at any one time. The other 85% are coasting gently through life on automatic without observing or paying attention. Often using less brain power than a heavily sedated slug. Well that’s their problem. If they want to go through their lives learning little that is new, then that’s their loss. Personally I’ve examined most of the religions and political positions of this world and found only one that suits my needs; that’s to leave well alone, give yourself and other people space, and bite them only if they give you trouble. Not to interfere in the actions of others unless they are metaphorically screwing under your figurative front porch. There are far too many moronic meddlers all over the place, inventing ‘problems’ to ‘fix’ (Usually by making previously harmless stuff illegal) and who should be regarded as nothing more than chicanes on the race track of life.

Anyway. They aren’t my problem. I have elected to start my Summer mornings with hot tea and fresh baked croissants today. Thus refreshed I will go out upon my daily round, attempting to be witty and amusing where possible. Shining light in the darkness, and if no one pays any attention apart from the cockroaches, buggering off to do my own thing. Not my business to fix the world. Most of it is too thick to be fixed. Pass the marmalade.

Back in BC

Bloody hell, are we back in Pacific Time? I do believe we are. “Holy crap!” said the Joker as he force fed the Pope Castor oil. Drinking half way decent wine, trying not to watch the news because it’s all drama for the masses anyway.

Although there’s no such thing as ‘the masses’. Just individuals who move, for a while, in the same (Or approximately the same) direction. And despite what some political scientists will aver, many people, including myself, have changed their views over the course of their lives. Some don’t, and never will. This is human nature. We are all individuals. Even if some of you aren’t.

Any old road up, we’re only a day away from Vancouver. The car needs repacking before we head out on another wine tasting day. The wines around the northern end of Lake Okanagan tend towards the dryer, even astringent end of the spectrum because of the climate. However, we’ve identified a number of what we think are good dinner wines. More on those particular VQA’s later.

We’ve also raided a place called ‘the Jammery‘ which does exceedingly good chutneys and jams, which will be consumed over the Summer with various cheese and charcuterie platters. Which will make a light and pleasant change from the often rather stodgy staples of more traditional Canadian cuisine. Honestly, most Canadian ‘restaurant’ food is either fried or smothered in some sugar loaded sauce with far too many competing flavours. Subtlety is not a characteristic of mainstream commercial Canadian cooking. To them, ‘gourmet’ often means with extra cheese. Don’t get me wrong, I like Canadian cheeses. They make some very good ones (Some quite exceptional). Just not over everything I eat, that’s all. Less is more guys, Capisce?

There’s also the issue with being interrogated by the waiting staff mid mouthful. Which to me is the mark of a third rate (or worse) restaurant. The waiting person can see I’ve got my mouth full, so why do they feel the need to ask diners “How is everything?” When we’re in mid conversation or mouthful? I was always taught that butting in to another’s conversation or forcing them to speak with their mouth full is plain bad manners, and when I’m feeling particularly evil, will pause with a pained expression and launch into a long and detailed description of what isn’t quite right with the food. See example below:

Waiter (Enthusiastically, interrupting diner who is in the process of speaking to his fellows): “Hi guys! How is everything?”
Diner (Pauses, puts down fork, glances sidelong and takes a deep breath before delivering this kind of critique in a thoughtful but polite tone): “Mmm. The steak is a little rubbery for my liking. A little over done. I did specify medium, not medium rare or well done. Whilst I’m thinking about it the salad dressing tastes a little past its sell by date. There’s something not quite right, an additional acidity on the back of the palate. Tell me, do you use one of these low-fat or low-salt dressings? That might account for the strange aftertaste. The lettuce is also a little limp at the edges for my liking. Look here, are these the tracks of the Common Cabbage White caterpillar or some other species? Also the fries are a little overdone and floury. They taste like they’re out of a packet.”
Waiter: (Panicking) “Errr! I’m sorry it’s not to your liking. I’ll get you another one.”
Diner: (In the same thoughtful manner) “Very well. But you did ask.”

Expect a visit from the manager or owner shortly afterwards. Don’t take any bullshit, just stand your ground and don’t blink, metaphorically speaking. Make him earn his money.

Especially if the restaurant you’re in is charging top notch prices for poorly prepared food. I can get a half way decent steak at a Denny’s truck stop restaurant for 14 dollars (about 9 quid) and a cheap but tasty burger from McDonalds, A & W, Wendy’s or DQ for around five bucks. But if I’m paying between 25 and 30 bucks per course (15-18 quid) I want a proper steak or piece of chicken, not something that’s been warmed over for two hours and in the process has turned into one of Mr Goodyears or Mr Bridgestones road safety products. I also pay not to be bugged by the staff and having my train of thought sent chugging off into the sidings when dining. I may be talking business or of philosophical matters and don’t want to be interrupted by some room temperature IQ before I’ve even taken a forkful. If there’s something wrong with the food I will quietly bring it to their attention. If all is well I pay to be left alone.

If the waiting staff who butt into my conversations knew how much their interruptions have cost them in tips over the years they would have a collective fit. I’m a generous man and reward good service, but not if someone gets pushy or serves me overpriced crap. I can also pour my own wine, I’m not bloody disabled. And don’t hover. Only drones hover.

I will not go as far as one guy from my student days who notoriously pulled out a starting pistol in the college canteen and fired it at one of their barely edible burgers, shouting “It’s still moving!” Needless to say, he was suspended for this behaviour. Still a good laugh though. Oddly enough the quality of the food did improve after that.

Yes, I’m a revolting diner, but in response to that calumnious slur I have this to say: I’m the customer. The person who pays restaurant staff wages with my custom. Don’t take the piss or I’ll dine elsewhere and tell my friends to do likewise.

Diners of the world rise up! You have nothing to lose but your plague of third rate restaurants serving little better than deep fried leftovers. Canada has far too many of these establishments and a cull is long overdue.

Flat and out

“Bill, you’re exhausted.” Quoth Mrs S this morning. She’s feeling much better and much more like her usual self. On the other hand, the heat and long hours of the past few days have finally caught up with me and given me a sharp slap on the back of my head for being such a dipstick and trying to do everything. I was already fatigued after something like ten continuous days on the road, but now I’m completely out of gas and in need of serious rest.

The problem is, I can’t stop. Despite hitting the wall last night and flaking out, now the crises of Mrs S’s tooth and the need to get to Calgary are done it’s like my internal flywheel is still spinning at 10,000rpm. All my nervous energy is still spinning in circles and can’t stop whilst all my bodily particles chorusing; “Pack it in Bill. We’re knackered.” This is not fun.

Right. Calgary. What can I say? Fast growing town. Houston of the North. Not quite as big as Vancouver, but catching up. They also call roads ‘trails’ here, which can be a bit confusing, but all you need to know is the Deerfoot trail and the Trans Canada and you’ve pretty much cracked navigating your way around the city.

The Stampede, which rather overshadows Wimbledon this side of the pond, is in full stamp. While players whack their balls over nets at over a hundred and twenty miles per hour in a suburb of London, Calgary is (Mostly) a Rodeo festival with people (Sometimes literally) taking bulls by the horns, having whip rounds and displaying huge amounts of balls riding bulls and horses which essentially don’t want to be ridden. Also racing chuckwagons, which, I’m reliably informed was the original attempt to create fast food. Of course there are also lots of people wearing hats which should be renamed one and a bit litres rather than ten gallon and going “Yee-Haw!” at inappropriate moments. Ten gallons indeed. Three pints more like. Then there’s the country music festival which at last glance was devoid of any names I recognised (Apart from Alabama and Meghan Patrick), but that means nothing. My wife is the country music fan, I’m kind of ambivalent about the whole milieu. Apart from Steve Earle. But I do claim a virulent allergy to line dancing. Sorry, just can’t do it. My legs are all wrong and me bums not the right shape.

However, there are parades, breakfasts, and someone’s even worked in some trail motorcycling events. So there’s quite a lot going on. Of course ticket prices are high, but what the hell, this is something you only do once or twice in your life, unless you’re a real rodeo diehard or one of the competitors.

Oh yes. Did I mention it’s been raining? That Alberta has nicked all of British Columbia’s rain this year? Something to do with trying to see all the Provinces get to share each others weather. Ergo we’ve got to run the gauntlet of some serious wildfires in the next few days on our way home. Not that we’re worried because most of the big fires are in mid BC on the route we took east. We should miss most of the fun and evacuation risk because we’re heading West on the Southern route (Mostly) along Highway One.

Notwithstanding. That is a day or so ahead. Tonight I need to rest, properly.

Past ‘The Hat’

Wham-wham! Grumble, Wham-wham! And another bridge is crossed as our tyres slam over poorly patched potholes and worn expansion joints. Mrs S stirs sleepily in the passenger seat, moaning softly in complaint. She’s had a reaction to the painkillers the dentist prescribed and been throwing up all the livelong day, poor lamb. Now with some Gravol to quell the queasiness, she’s out for the count, leaving all the driving to me.

The resulting delays from having to pull over on high speed roads to let her chunder have turned what should have been a happy seven hour shared drive into a ten hour chore for me. Fortunately I had a good breakfast, and with my camel-like constitution didn’t need very much to eat or drink on the long hack into Calgary, where we’ll be resting up and going to see the Stampede for the next few days. In my younger days I’d be on the road for up to twelve or thirteen hours some trips, driving a delivery van up and down the UK, but now ten is hard work. Maybe I’m getting soft in my frail dotage.

After the last two days I could do with a break from driving, even under the wonderfully broad blue skies of the prairies. It’s been hot too, 36 Celsius recorded by our little SUV’s external thermometer, which means it might have been anything between 30 and 39 Celsius. But it’s a dry heat like in a sauna, and therefore quite bearable, even pleasant.

Now we’re in the air conditioned comfort of a modern hotel, Mrs S has crawled into bed exhausted, leaving me to the perverseness of keyboard and mouse. No bother, she’s past the worst and finally keeping fluids down. We’re past ‘The Hat’ (a strange place called Medicine Hat) which many old expat Canadians considered the break even point of any trans-continental trek. As in if you make can it this far, the folklore goes, you’re likely to make it to the other coast. I don’t care for the place myself, and after a rather unpleasant experience trying to book into one of the local ‘pet friendly’ hotels ten years ago, don’t much care to stay there again.

As far as the rest of the trip is concerned we only have four more days actual serious driving to do before we are back home. However, that’s a couple of weeks away because we’re stopping first in Calgary for a few days, thence in a spa break and wine tour before we stop over in Vancouver to pick up some furniture for the new residence. I’ll also do a bit of calculation on how much in the way of resource we’ve used in terms of petrol (Gasoline) and such. We’ve been keeping a log to see how many miles to the gallon our little SUV can deliver on really long run, thence it’s off to the dealership for a new windscreen and a thorough service and what they call ‘detailing’ over here. Which is rather like a thorough in and external valeting of the vehicle, including the engine compartment. The way I reckon it, the car has done us proud and deserves a proper treat. Maybe I do, too. And I’ve got an idea about that.

From the land of living skies

I blinked and all of a sudden we’ve crossed another time zone, this time overnighting in Regina. Today was fraught with the drama of Mrs S cracking a tooth requiring urgent dental treatment. So I found myself in a strange town in a land that even pancakes would vouchsafe; “That’s a bit flat, that is.” searching for an emergency dentist.

The Gods of fools must have been smiling because within thirty minutes of Mrs S declaring in tears; “Bill, I can’t do this.” We had located a suitable dental practice and she was waiting for a chair to become available. Another hour and a half (and four hundred dollars) later, we set off back on todays trek into deepest Saskatchewan.

My powers of persuasion must have been on form because we went from a ‘No can do’ at front desk to a ‘No problem’ inside five minutes. Must have been the kicked spaniel look that I gave the receptionist, and the pitch and roll I put on my voice that carried into the back treatment room to bring a Dentist scurrying out to declare that one of her other patients had just canceled and she could fit Mrs S in right away. Which left me filing out the paperwork, and Mrs S being helped into a welcome treatment chair.

Now I’ve cracked teeth before and am fully aware how bad it feels. So I was fretting a bit, but even so managed to keep running interference on a parking meter, reading a book, and translating Mrs S’s slightly muffled voice into something everyone could understand. Filling in the gaps of her medical history and just being generally helpful. Thus we went from pain to no pain and the balance of my world was restored.

One of the things I will say about North American dentistry is it’s quality. From pain relief to diagnostics, these guys kick your average NHS Dental surgeon into touch. I’ve even got to the point of looking forward to my twice yearly checkup because fillings are fraughtness free and the one time terror of a dental examination is now a relaxed sit down with a pleasant windowed view of trees. Yes, they’re all (OMG!) private. But they are very, very good.

I did all this fuelled by a single Werthers Original because what with one thing and another I completely missed my morning coffee and any semblance of a breakfast. My sole sustenance was a single hard Caramel candy. The sort Scott of the Antarctic should have taken along because he and his team would not have frozen to death in Moose skin sleeping bags if they had. They would have had the energy to man-haul their sleds all the way to the pole in jig time, beating Amundsen to the punch by a week. Sadly they did not have any such candy (Probably because they’re made by the beastly Hun) and paid the ultimate price for this omission. But everything is obvious with 20/20 hindsight, isn’t it?

Which may be one of the possible downsides of a hard BREXIT. No more Werthers Originals. Or BMW and VW spares. Although those companies will be looking to keep their markets by funneling cash into a British import business to bypass any extra tariffs imposed by vengeful EU Bureaucrats.

The EU needs a good hard kick in the bureaucratics anyway. These petty little tyrants have been busy empire building and siphoning money out of the European economy for far too long. All it needs will be a number of the other member states to tell them the magic money tree will not be giving the pompous plutocrats any more fruit and tell them their new offices are in the basement. Not the French, because they’re used to being subjugated by turbocharged globalist Sir Humphreys. The type I’m referring to are the pompous little pricks who take over the best Parisian Restaurants and double park their Mercedes, blocking the street while their bodyguards practice their bladder control outside trying to look tough. I’ve seen this on numerous occasions in Paris, and twice been unable to book a table because some over promoted suit has decided they have to have the best because they are the masters, not the servants they really should be seen as. Perhaps we should take a leaf out of the copybook of other empires (Ottomans and Chinese) and have the bastards castrated when they get above a specific pay grade. Want a government job? – here’s the downside of your pension scheme.

Anyway. Mrs S is now well and recovering from this mornings ordeal. She has said she may be fit to drive a little tomorrow. We shall see. I’m a cautious man, and would prefer to shoulder the burden of driving until the pain has ebbed enough for her to be painkiller free. So we’re off too see Alberta tomorrow, because we’ve heard they’re stampeding for something in Calgary, and we want to see what all the fuss is about. Especially since Justin Trudeau has said he won’t be going. And that’s good enough reason for me.

Corbyn is a moron

Winnipeg today. Just passing through and trying not to break our suspension. Only a relatively short hop, which means that I have the opportunity to catch up on what is going on in the old country. At least in terms of politics. I’ve been amused at the antics of the current Labour leader, Jeremy Corbyn, and having watched his performances on TV and elsewhere have come to the following considered conclusion; he’s a fucking moron.

Whilst his ability to hang on as Labour leader inspires, if not wonder, then at least a kind of awe, Jeremy Corbyn does not come across as all that bright. Certainly from a Historical and Economic standpoint. Nor do those who think he’s some kind of towering intellect. Particularly as he seems determined to crash and burn the entire UK Labour party. Especially as he’s probably going to try and ‘purge’ Labour of the ideologically impure by insisting on mandatory reselection. A process which will allow embedded party activists to get rid of troublesome backbenchers who can’t be trusted to vote the party line and instead, the bastards, defy the sainted St Jeremy by voting against it. Those class traitors who have even talked of walking away and forming a new political party. Christ on a unicycle and juggling! It’s like listening to one of those room temperature IQ’s that make up the Socialist Worker’s Party.

Unilateral disarmament? When did Britain last try that? Me, sir, me sir, I know! I know! The 1930’s. Allowing the military build ups that led to World War Two. Peace in our time? Like hell.

All of the hard left policies he’s proposing are left wing failures dug up from a political time capsule from the 1940’s 60’s and 70’s. Nationalisation for one. What happened there? British Rail was a joke and a very bad one. British Coal and British Steel died long and painful deaths, sinking without trace (Apart from the name, British Steel, which has been reborn as a private concern) Oh and British Telecom, previously part of the GPO? We used to joke that their technicians retired the moment they qualified. 90 Day waiting lists to get a new phone put in were the industry standard in the 60’s and 70’s. That’s right, ninety days. Almost three months. British Leyland, later Rover? National Freight Corporation? Every single nationalised industry; fail, dead, fail, fail, dead. Mortis portalis tintaculum every single one. At least until sold off, restructured and recapitalised to emerge blinking and stammering into viable commercial life. Agriculture wasn’t nationalised because even Socialists can remember what happened to the Ukraine in the 1930’s.

Ah, then there’s ‘Soak the rich’ (Actually ‘tax the rich until the pips squeak’-aimed at those who speculated in property) a Labour policy that lasted less than a week after being announced in 1976. In the USA it was tried back in 1935, reinforced in 1937 due to tax evasion, but quietly dropped when all the smart money simply vanished from the US economy and went off to play where it was more welcome. Some of which almost certainly financed the rise of Fascist regimes during that time as a counterbalance to Bolshevism.

What lefties like Corbyn don’t seem to be capable of understanding is this simple truth; money is not a thing, it’s a process, the means of exchange, the very gasoline for the many everyday economic engines that keep people fed and paid. Simply confiscating it and spending it on non-functional unproductive parts of society is like cutting the fuel line of said metaphorical engines or draining their tanks. As the Venezuelans are finding, eventually the economy stops running, splutters, dies and you get riots in the streets. Money must flow to power the working economy. That is its function. I’m no towering intellect and even I understand this simple principle.

As Corbyn doesn’t understand any of the above, there is only one possible conclusion; he must be a moron. Quod Erat Demonstrandum. I rest my case, M’lud. Take away the fool, gentlemen. Or go with him to the garbage can of political history.

What day is it?

After a few dozen days on the road, you tend to lose your sense of time and, well not exactly space, but place in the calendar. Today was definitely Tuesday. I think. Well my automated calendar thingy tells me it is, and I know the name of the town we’re in so it must be Tuesday 4th July. I think. It’s actually Wednesday the 5th at the time of posting, but even then I had to stop and check.

Well, we’ve crossed half of Northern Ontario and I can honestly report that there’s next to bugger all up here, so if Kim Jong willy waver manages to fire a missile that can actually hit North America, the odds are that such a warhead will detonate somewhere in northern Ontario, where it will not be noticed by anyone but the local wildlife and maybe a very lost deep woods hiker. You have to drive across Northern Ontario to appreciate how abso-sodding-lutely vast this country is. Then remember that all you’re seeing is a very limited slice of what is actually here.

We left the environs of southern Montreal, just on the border of Ontario three days ago, and we’ve still another full days driving to reach the Manitoba Border. You might think it’s a long way down to the shops, but hey, that’s nothing compared to Canada.

Frankly I’m beginning to feel tired and irritable. Mrs S likewise and we’ve had a couple of occasions when we’ve come close to taking chunks out of each other. Voices have been raised. Then apologies have followed. I do not lose my temper or raise my voice lightly, but with just over two weeks to go, it’s becoming a chore. By way of relieving the tensions I’ve scheduled a few days at the Calgary Stampede followed by a wine tour in lower eastern BC before we leg to to Vancouver for a quick bit of shopping in Vancouver and then the ferry home to clear the spiders out of the bathtub. Which should calm things down.

Then I’m going to wonder (As usual) why people in the UK (and elsewhere) keep voting for left wing policies. Every time they do vote in Labour it all ends in tears. The seventies were a case in point. Getting anything done took an age and fifty bloody forms. Taxpayers money simply got pissed up the wall up to the point where everyone seemed to be on strike because the government were trying to do everything and succeeded in fucking it all up. It seems this is a lesson the Canadian electorate have yet to learn. Or re-learn. I see the evidence every day on my travels across this wide land, so full of potential and resources. Closed stores, idle machinery, abandoned farms and houses. Honestly. In seven hours driving yesterday we must have passed a couple of hundred houses with broken windows, no windows, no doors and open to the elements. Abandoned churches and other buildings that seemed to be collapsing in on themselves, like the owners had just packed their bags and simply walked away. On that topic I recall council estates in the UK all boarded up and left to the vandals, simply because well-meaning but economically illiterate people had simply made it impossible for business to provide the necessary work opportunities. That’s the problem with lefties and any other people who think they can run other people’s lives for them, they have to meddle with things they don’t really understand. Like matters of economics, or just about everything else, really.

Car keys, full tank of gas. Here we go again.

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

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