LIZ & CO HAVE TRUSS-ED US ALL UP

The calamity of Liz Truss's brief reign as Prime Minister of the United Kingdom could have been penned by a satirist with a particularly dark sense of humour. Indeed, one fancies that P.G. Wodehouse, were he still among us, might have found in Truss's economic policies the makings of a new Jeeves and Wooster escapade, only this time with Bertie Wooster in charge of the nation's exchequer.

Liz Truss, with her penchant for the sartorial blend of Thatcherite blue and a rather more chaotic economic palette, has managed to etch her name into the annals of British political history not for her competence, but rather for her spectacular failure. Her tenure, which lasted but 44 days, was marked by a series of fiscal missteps that one might describe as an attempt to play Jenga with the economy while blindfolded.

The so-called "mini-budget" was less a budget than a fiscal kamikaze mission, piloted by Truss and her erstwhile Chancellor, Kwasi Kwarteng. Their plan, if one can stretch the term to fit, involved tax cuts for the wealthy so vast they seemed designed more for an alternate reality where money grows on trees. This economic gambit sent the pound tumbling like a drunken sailor on shore leave, and mortgage rates soaring to heights previously reserved for the peaks of Everest.

The chaos was such that even the sober-faced folk at the BBC took to the airwaves with a touch of levity not seen since the days of Monty Python. They set Truss's political demise to Rihanna's "Take a Bow," which, in its own way, was more fitting than any official statement could have been. 

What's more, Truss's fall from grace was not just economic but also personal. Her cabinet seemed more like a revolving door at a particularly busy London café, with ministers coming and going with such frequency that one might have thought they were auditioning for a reality TV show rather than governing a nation.

In her resignation, Truss left behind a government in turmoil, a party in disarray, and a public whose faith in the Conservative leadership had been stretched thinner than a slice of ham in a schoolchild's sandwich. Her departure was as swift as her arrival, leaving many to ponder if perhaps the greatest trick she pulled was convincing anyone she was fit for the job in the first place.

And so, the curtain falls on Liz Truss's brief and bewildering act on the political stage, where she has, in her own unique way, truss-ed up the nation in a knot of confusion and economic disarray. One can only hope that the next act will bring a director more adept at handling the delicate balance of governance and less inclined to treat the treasury like a Monopoly bank.

In the end, one might say that Liz Truss did not so much govern as she did perform a high-wire act without a net, and the audience, in this case, the British public, watched in a mix of awe and horror as she plummeted. But fear not, for in the grand theatre of British politics, there's always another act waiting in the wings.

IN MEMORY OF HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN

The death of Her Majesty the Queen, announced a short time ago, is a seismic event for the United Kingdom and a profound emotional shock that will be felt by millions around the world. It was, of course, always an inevitability, as it is for all of us. And in recent months it was clear that the Queen had obviously become increasingly frail.

Nevertheless, it felt unthinkable that one day she would no longer be with us. We allowed ourselves to imagine that she would go on for ever. For so many of us this evening, this feels like a personal bereavement. Something of priceless value has been torn from us, and we feel devastated. The Queen was most deeply loved by millions, who showed their profound feeling for her and for what she meant to them when they came out in their hundreds of thousands to cheer her at her Platinum Jubilee celebrations earlier this year.

It’s not just because her reign lasted for an astonishing 70 years, the longest in the country’s history. It’s because she was the constant, still centre of the nation, always reassuring, always a beacon of optimism, always felt to be somehow embracing all of us. She was the symbol of consistency, the link between the generations, the rock to whom we were tethered as the storms of the world raged around us. She was always just there. Now she isn’t. And we feel devastated.

She held the country together because of the way she effaced herself to become the quintessence of duty and selfless service to her people, a symbol of unity and true inclusion. We watched the way she conducted her great office — her calmness, her strength, her fortitude, her kindliness and humility — and we felt soothed and reassured that, in looking at her example, we were gazing at ourselves as a nation in the mirror she held up to us. She loved us with a deep devotion; and in return we loved her.

Never have those qualities she embodied been more needed than they are now. It’s impossible not to feel that her passing marks not just the loss of a unique public servant and a great soul, but also the loss of a Britain that belonged to a different era — a Britain of strength and resilience, a Britain of self-restraint and grounded pragmatism, a Britain of true tolerance and gentleness, a Britain whose passing we also most deeply mourn.

The Queen was the embodiment of that Britain. Her death is a source of the deepest grief.

May her memory be a blessing.

 HM QUEEN ELIZABETH II 

 1926 - 2022 

HERE COMES THE SUN … NOW I WISH IT WOULD F**K OFF !!!

Well, it finally happened. The sun, that great celestial bully, has decided to grace us with its presence, and in doing so, has turned our lives into a sort of grand, uncomfortable beach party from which there is no escape. Everything officially and feels a little brighter and smells a little different (or, in my neck of the woods, smells like Farmer Giles has decided to do a lap of the park in his oldest and most un-sanitised muck spreader). 

One might think that after months of the typical British dampness, we'd welcome this solar assault with open arms, but no. It's like having a long-lost relative who you remember fondly from childhood, only to find upon their return that they've become insufferable.

The weather forecast promised sun, and like a fool, I believed it. I ventured out, not with the joy of a child on the first day of summer, but with the trepidation of a man who knows the fine line between warmth and roast. The streets were filled with people, each one seemingly less accustomed to daylight than the last, their pale skins turning various shades of lobster red under this cruel, unyielding light.

In my youth, the sun was a friend, a companion in mischief, but now, it's an enemy. It's not just the heat; it's the light. The relentless light that forces one to squint, to fumble for sunglasses that have somehow disappeared into the abyss of one's own home. The heat is one thing, but the glare? That's an assault on the senses, a reminder that perhaps we should have stayed in the cool, dark womb of winter.

And then there's the issue of shade. In Birmingham, shade is as rare as a straight answer from Sir Kier Starmer. Every bench, every tree, is claimed by those who got there first, leaving the rest of us to wander like nomads in search of a shadow. The parks, once serene, are now battlegrounds where only the quickest or the most cunning can find respite from the sun's tyranny.

I remember a time when I would bask in the sun, but now, I find myself wishing for clouds, for rain, for anything that might break this spell of light. The sun, in its infinite arrogance, seems to ignore my pleas, continuing its daily path across the sky, unbothered by the discomfort it causes.

The irony of it all is that we Britons, who complain incessantly about rain, are now bemoaning the sun. It's a national pastime, this weather whinging, but there's a certain poetry to it, a rhythm to our collective gripes. Perhaps we should learn to embrace the sun with the same begrudging acceptance we give to our less sunny days.

But for now, I'll retreat indoors, where the light is softer, the heat less oppressive, and where I can nurse my sunburn with a cup of tea, contemplating the British summer with all the joy of a man about to step into a sauna fully clothed.