The Mexile

I’m having a theoretical dinner party, to which six dead people of my choosing will be reanimated and invited to take a seat, to drink, dine and chew the fat. It’s an old concept that I occasionally give some thought to. Who to invite? Jesus would be a good call if the wine rack is looking a bit empty. But an unwashed, uber-judgemental bloke lecturing everyone? Total party pooper. How about Churchill or Hitler? I say you’d have to have them both, seated opposite each other. But the entire evening would descend into a continuous breach of Godwin’s Law. So, no. Besides, I’d rather keep this table a bit more up to date. People who’ve lived during my lifetime. Seated to my left will be Anthony Bourdain. I truly loved his shows. I still watch them, from time to time. Hopefully he will forgive my intruding on his peace when I resuscitate him for dinner, given the circumstances of his passing. Next to him, Lee Harvey Oswald. An intriguing life, an infamous end. I have questions. I’ve always b...

There are sounds that I like. Petrol engined lawnmowers on early spring mornings*. International football  commentary  from the 70s and 80s, tinny tones sent down international phone lines. The roar of the engines of an  Avro  Vulcan passing overhead. The  Thames  TV ident. And then there is this  wonderful  noise, which to my ear is the definitive ‘sound of America’. There are sounds I don’t like. All the usual ones, such as babies screaming on an aeroplane, nails on a chalkboard, the pin flying free from the holy grenade of Antioch. But more than any of them, my most hated sound, the noise that boils my blood, is a personal speaker being used in a public place.  I don’t care who it is, where or when, or why it is a despicable intrusion on my ear canal. And it is happening everywhere. Blokes screaming about Jesus on the high street. Young people blaring horrific, shite modern music in the town’s gardens. The local drunk who has affixed speak...

What was on the mind of the average Brit in the mid-to-late 1930s? Did things feel then as they do now—that an absolutely cataclysmic world war was on the horizon? And yet, did they, as most people seem to do today, refuse to believe their leaders could be quite so stupid? Were they confident a resolution would be found that didn’t involve tens of millions of corpses? I’m afraid I don’t share that confidence, if that is indeed what they were thinking. It’s a shame people weren’t blogging back then. But they were writing diaries. I came across the  Mass-Observation project  not long ago and must look into the content it produced. I bet most of it is dull as dishwater, but isn’t that what makes it interesting? Normal, everyday, boring life from a fascinating, increasingly distant time. Whilst it seems absurd now, I bet plenty of people thought Hitler had a point, or that he was Europe’s saviour. At that point in time, he hadn’t yet murdered millions; he was just on a bit of a ra...

The UK’s Covid Inquiry has released its findings. They’re sort of what you’d expect them to be, which includes what was obvious from day one - we weren’t prepared for a pandemic. Quite the opposite. Still, we’ve learned plenty since 2020. Quality masks worn properly are very effective at slowing spread. Lockdowns work. The vaccines were safe and effective and prevented millions of deaths. And lastly, that the number of folk who are detached from reality and will believe absurd things they read on the internet is disappointingly high. Conspiritidius Theoritius spread almost as rapidly as the coronavirus, and is itself a lasting legacy of Covid19. Such is life. A friend recently shared a quote by Lao Tzu. " Those who have knowledge don't predict. Those who predict don't have knowledge ." But I shall boldly poke Mr Tzu in the eye and predict that when the next pandemic comes along, we’ll be similarly unprepared because we’ve learned nothing. But I digress from my real po...

My Dyson cordless vacuum cleaner died. One day it worked fine. The next day it did not. It’d had a good innings I suppose. We’ve been sucking dust out of our carpets with it for over a decade. I had to get it a new battery about five years ago, and I also needed to buy a new motorhead when I accidentally dropped the original one into a bucket of water. Other than that it’s worked wonderfully. And I’d buy a new Dyson to replace it with, but alas, James Dyson is a Brexit supporting buffoon. So I’m not buying Dyson products. I needed to look elsewhere. Bosch make superb cordless vacuums, but bloody hell. It’s a German brand. Don’t mention the war and all that, but we’re not quite ready to buy Jerry just yet. Too soon. Same for Panasonic. The Death Railway is too fresh in the memory. I’d have considered a French vacuum, because France passed the ‘British Grudge Time Limit’ a few weeks ago. The misadventures of Joan and her Arc can now be overlooked. But the French don’t seem to make any de...

I like Sir Kier Starmer. He’s a decent bloke. Smart. Boring. Boring should be a good quality in a politician. All politicians should be boring. It should be a box on the application form. If politicians and politics isn’t boring, things have gone terribly wrong. That’s how I see it. Kier saw Corbyn out the door. Kudos for that. And he guided Labour to a landslide election win on a small vote share without promising anything beyond ‘we won’t raise income tax’. He banked on an electoral policy of do nothing while their opponents repeatedly committed acts of huge self harm. It worked. Sort of. It worked up to the point of election day. Having assumed power, the expectation of Labour voters was that their own personal manifestos would all be fulfilled. Everything and anything from rejoining the EU, or the customs union, to massive benefits spending and on to executing the rich. Future disappointment was baked into the win. In the event, the most important thing Starmer’s party has needed t...

I read a funny gag on the differences between British blokes and American chaps the other day. The gist was, an American will always big up his friends when introducing them. “Hey, meet Brian. Great guy, graduated from such and such university, really smart guy, you’ll love him. I’ve known him forever, has a great job etc etc.” The Brit? “Have you met Dave? Here he comes…Dave the nonce!” It’s funny, because it’s true.   True in that, these are noticeable cultural differences. Not that Dave is a nonce. We can tell he’s not a nonce, because he’s got friends. British blokes don’t have nonce friends. Brian, on the other had, could be a raging nonce on the Epstein list, with a dozen photos of him having baths with minors knocking around the interweb, and he’d still get a great intro. And that, weirdly, is another cultural differences between Brits and Yanks. I have some true stories about nonces. I’ve come across a couple of them. I can tell you two things. One, you don’t have to be ...