The not so green grass of Home

Before the paperless office, I do not ever remember needing eight bits of printed paper to accompany me on a simple flight + car + room. Before the ‘wireless’ age, I do not recall having entire cupboards filled with wires. Before the computer printer era, I seem to remember things called photocopiers that worked with the press of a single button. I can’t remember the last time a pc printer did anything much except jam, flash red lights at me, refuse to print any app-derived pdf, or just gather dust. And I’m still waiting for someone to explain WTF the point of apps is in the first place.

Anyway, as from tomorrow I’ll be travelling around and about for a bit. I thought of undertaking a March of Hope towards Somewhere Nice on foot in order to show how wonderful Germany is, but as most people doing that are marching by train, I’ve decided to do so by air. It is, after all, not fair to take much needed train seats when those with no money need them more than the rest of us. Equally, air travel isn’t quite so hard on the feet.

But enough of this casually incorrect sarcasm: our Divine Leader Avid of the Scamerons has decreed that 20,000 migrant refugees shall be settled in Britain. I do not doubt that he has arrived at this figure after serious and due diligence, and devoid of any pressure from opinion polls, tabloid hysteria, German Chancellors, or the missus. To be brutally frank here, I no longer GAF how many people get settled where just so long as sanity returns on the following three dimensions:

  1. No more bombing of Islamist nutters, no more wishfully unthinking evasion of the practicalities, no more so far up Washington’s botty you can’t see our feet
  2. No more corrective seminars about Islamophobia, no more fellow-travelling by Jihadiphiles, no more appeasement of misogynist stone-age ignorance
  3. No more politicians showboating about tragedy in order to get re-elected.

↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔ ↔

The next six days shall witness the voyages of the Hardship Enterprise, Captain James T. Slog at the controls……….singeing the odd beard while meeting up with Chumleigh-Warners here and there for a spot of luncheon during which the odd infinitive might be boldly split, and several expletives spat. I am fully expecting the ears of MI101 to be everywhere, ready and willing to pounce on unsuspecting NVEs wherever we might raise our tedious points of order in relation to the Rule of Law and equality before that Law….perhaps truculent on the subject of level playing fields, or possibly a tad bolshie about the nepotism of legs up, and the corrupting nature of legs over.

What fun we shall have.

Earlier at The Slog: Migrant Refugees – The Movie