96 days ago
I was siting there with two middle class, university & public school educated affluent lefties discussing why the working class was abandoning Labour. One, that being the Mrs, opined that it was because they liked voting for Toffs, that is to say Boris. This was a theory of one of her colleagues in the world of sociology. The other, daughter Olaf, did not dissent. Such is the state of denial among the British left.
98 days ago
Under this country’s bonkers covid laws you are now allowed only 30 folks at a funeral plus the corpse even if that corpse is the husband of the Queen. It was the same rule for Phil the Greek as it was for my late father.
154 days ago
Nobody knows how they will react to death or to the possibility that a loved one is slipping away – I did not cry at the funeral of my father or as I sat by his bed as he died. I had shed a few tears a few days earlier as I sat in his room with him, lying there in a sleep which could only end one way. I cried buckets at the funeral of my grandmother and also when my cat Kitosh died suddenly. At the funeral of Uncle Chris Booker I think I had a moist eye, nothing more. Does that mean I loved my cat more than my father? Of course not. Grief and knowing you may be close to losing someone hits us in different ways and it is, or should be, a private matter. That brings us to, arguably, the most poisonous woman in Britain today.
224 days ago
Other than for my father’s funeral, I have not been to church since the start of the ludicrous lockdowns in March. For a while our Church here in the last village in Wales was closed but in September it sort of re-opened, though this family did not go.
268 days ago
A few folks have asked if there was a recording of the zoom version of my father’s funeral on Thursday. It is not perfect but there is one and it is below. The first 13 minutes show some of the 100 folks who zoomed just waiting. The service begins at c12 minutes. The recording does not do justice to the singing of the choir, essentially the family of my sister T whose husband is the singer James Gilchrist. But, for those who are interested, I hope you can take in a bit of what happened. Before the service, the hearse stopped outside Dad’s house and the family walked behind it to the church. The whole street stood silent in respect which my father would have appreciated very much.
271 days ago
I start with a few words on my preparations for tomorrow’s funeral which will mean my absence from this site for a day. Then onto the election in America where our boy is on a bit of a roll - a full analysis of recent developments is in a special podcast HERE. Then it is on to Verditek (VDTK), Versarien (VRS), Covid shorts and longs including, sorry Three Brains, Carnival (CCL). Finally a look at grossly overvalued Mirriad (MIRI).
271 days ago
I have been sent a stern email by the Vicar in Shipston about tomorrow’s funeral for my father. She knows my views and position but reminds me that the Church is only following the law in requiring us all to muzzle up and not sing. Naturally I have replied but the attachment below, the Church’s guidance on Covid prevention, strikes me as a monstrous deception which, in time, it will be forced to recognise and will come to regret.
272 days ago
I start with a few notes on preparations for Thursday’s funeral following my piece on mad Covid rules and Dad’s ceremony HERE. Then I look at Verditek (VDTK) and Versarien (VRS) where the wheels realy are coming off. Then it is onto a defence of my friend Tim Blackstone and my analysis of Metals Exploration (MTL). Finally I look, in real detail (hence the length of this podcast), at Guild Esports (GILD) which was much hy;ped by the deadwood press at its IPO a few weeks ago partly because David Beckham was investing in it. I expose why that is so utterly misleading, Becks will make a killing from this IPO but I suggest mug punters will not. This whole thing stinks.
272 days ago
Today an email arrives from sister T about my father’s funeral on Thursday. It generates a strong but measured response to all attendees from me. Were we 30 who were attending the funeral to head off afterwards to a grouse shoot that would be legal. Were we to head to the White Bear and book five tables in a crowded back room and sit there mask free that would be fine and dandy. But if we go on from the church to bury my father in the same plot as my late step-mother, in an open field, right on the edge of Shipston, there is a problem.
277 days ago
If you have actually looked at scientific studies, at facts, at hard data, you will by now be convinced that wearing masks will not stop you either catching or spreading Coronavirus. But folks find all sorts of reasons for not actually studying the data as I discovered when discussing my father’s funeral with the vicar and a sister. I am still unspeakably angry with Boris Johnson and Matt Hancock for the way we must tell people they cannot be with his family next week. But it seems the vicar and at least one sister goes along with the GroupThink. Among their arguments for not only wearing a muzzle themselves but also for being cross with we refuseniks were:
278 days ago
I ponder this grave question after considering the illogical hateful restrictions we face in Shipston next week. In another podcast I raise the possibility that Donald Trump might win on November 3 because of factors the deadwood press and BBC opt to ignore. All is explained HERE. Then I discuss three sets of builders here at the Welsh Hovel who must be starting to dislike me. Then it is onto Centamin (CEY), Bidstack (BIDS) and Network International (NETW) – a £1.5 billion short?
278 days ago
There are six of us who called my father Dad and we have all been fairly reproductive. Thus with my father’s sister and his carer we are already at 24. And that number would have been higher had my wife not been almost due to produce a final grandchild and had my son not been too young to understand why so many are in tears. The Mrs and Joshua will not attend. Pro tem my father and the vicar do not count in the 30 who can attend, although I gather that the Welsh Government is considering changing the status of priests and corpses for services in this rain sodden Police state*.
441 days ago
Britain’s largest funeral services provider Dignity (DTY) has served up a trading statement on Covid-19 which contains both the quote of the day but also the stats which show just how disastrously Boris, but also everyone else in the political and media GroupThink bubble, have created this crisis.
2469 days ago
The nature of my mother’s death has been raised by certain “admirers” of mine on Bulletin Boards, the circumstances of my Aunt’s death I have mentioned en passant here before. There are no secrets in the era of the interweb. Both deaths were mentioned in an article by their brother, my Uncle Chris (Booker) in the Daily Mail last week. Slowly I read it early on Saturday morning as it brought a number of thoughts to the surface. Matters not suppressed just forgotten or not reflected upon for a long while. My mother killed herself. My aunt was murdered. There you have it. A shocking couple of sentences.
My mother died when I was eight and my sisters seven and five. She had become terribly depressed in that amazing sun drenched year of 1976 and – as I discovered only later – first tried to end her life at the height of summer while the rest of us were out walking. My father found her, revived her but thereafter she was confined to various hospitals in Northamptonshire, Banbury and finally in Oxford, the City where she had studied, met my father and where I was born. I saw her once that autumn at the Trout at Godstow and she seemed happy. She clearly was not and within weeks she had hanged herself. I remember being taken out of class by a lovely teacher who was almost in tears as she told me that my mother was dead. I cannot remember how I felt or what happened next. I did not find out how she died until I was fourteen.
Not having a mother was a little unusual in those days
2779 days ago
Most attention in the “reasons to loathe and despise politicians” discussion following the funeral of Nelson Mandela has focussed on Call Me Dave, Obama and the Danish PM ( Neil Kinnock’s daughter-in-law) taking a “selfie.” It was a lapse of judgement and showed an unnerving degree of disrespect. But compared to the War Criminal Blair, Dave was model mourner.
Naturally Blair was at the funeral to pay his respects. But Mammon is more important than Mandela…to Blair at least. And as such he found this global convention a good opportunity to introduce his latest billionaire “client” to Barack Obama. The photos of the handshake suggest that eve the President was mildly embarrassed.
But, hey Tony, why let a spot of grieving get in the way of business? Even by the abject standards of Blair such behaviour has to mark a new low. At what point will he stop getting invited to anything to spare the blushes of the world?
3022 days ago
I report back merely on my experiences standing about 100 yards from St Paul’s. The doors closed after the coffin entered the Cathedral and I wandered back to Real Man Pizza to drink English Champagne with Lucian Miers, to record a joint video and to toast our greatest ever Prime Minister.
I was standing by St Pauls for around five hours to ensure that I had an almost front row perch. By 6.45 there was already a good enough crowd. But it was clear that it was going to be much larger. But still the reporters persisted in asking anyone they could find if they were disappointed with the turnout or how they felt about those who had celebrated Lady Thatcher’s death. That was the narrative of, at least some of the fourth estate.
Among the early birds were a group from the Falklands showing their flag proudly, there was a Canadian flag, union flags and even a Scottish Saltire. Behind me were a group of Americans come to pay their respects.
But by ten thirty when the Coffin left St Clement Danes the entire route was packed as you can see from the photo below.
The narrative of the reporters then changed. They carried on interviewing folks in the crowd but swarmed like bees around honey when they managed to find the odd individual protester such as the gentleman below.
I asked this fellow what he did. He was a retired teacher. So after a lifetime of poisoning impressionable minds with lefty filth he has now living on the sort of final salary pension scheme we in the private sector can only dream of. His sort of pension scheme costs a multiple of the cost of a funeral which was approved and costed by the last Labour Government. But facts do not matter to hate filled bigots like him.
He was a minority. The crowd was just a mixture of folk. I was next to a couple of scousers (very right wing chaps from the Freedom Association), but there people of all ages, all colours, all classes there. Thatcher gave them opportunity to progress in a way that stuffy paternalist old school Tories like Howe and Heseltine (who stabbed her in the back in the end) or David Cameron will never do or understand. They were just there to say thank you.
As the coffin approached your feelings were mixed. Some people cried. Others clapped. Others stood in silence. I did not really know what to do. I sort of half clapped but could not really work out how it was best to show total respect and to say thank you.
And then the coffin passed into the church. Five and a half hours waiting, standing on my feet for just a few minutes. Was it worth it? Of course. I had to show my respect. I would not have forgiven myself had I not done so.
3023 days ago
I had planned to leave London on Sunday but that all changed. I will be heading down to the Strand to mark my respects to Britain’s greatest ever Prime Minister – a woman who saved this country. A woman of principle. I am not sure how many folks will line the route nor if it will be disrupted by unkempt lefties, ignorant young people or worse but I shall be there anyway.
Lucian Miers is trekking up from the boonies to join me. I guess the crowds will build early so I shall work late at Real Man and then head off well before the crack of dawn to bag a place for Lucian and myself.
Uncle Chris (Booker) says that his wife queued to pay her respects at Churchill’s coffin and so this time I am there for the Booker’s who cannot make it. My own family of deluded lefties have rather different feelings but I guess I am also there for little step sister Flea who, to her credit, is a true child of Thatcher.
Afterwards I shall return to Real Man, feeling – I suspect – rather tired so it may be a light blogging day ahead.