It’s Not About Class – It’s About Cruelty

Let’s put this tired argument out of its misery, shall we? The notion that banning fox hunting was some sort of envious swipe at the upper classes – a bit of political theatre to please flat-capped Labour voters and their imaginary pitchforks – is as flimsy as a red coat in a bramble thicket.

It’s not about class. It never was. It’s about cruelty.

Those who bang on about “attacks on rural traditions” conveniently forget that the same people campaigning against fox hunting are equally appalled by hare coursing, dog fighting, badger baiting, and any other sadistic pastime that treats animal suffering as entertainment. And let’s be clear – hare coursing isn’t exactly the preserve of the landed gentry swigging sloe gin on horseback. It’s more often associated with criminal gangs in 4x4s, trespassing on farmland and wreaking havoc. Yet the outrage from the so-called “animal rights brigade” is just as loud – and just as justified.

So if the objection is consistent – if it applies regardless of postcode or pedigree – then the class argument collapses like a soggy tweed cap.

Now yes, back in the day, hunting served a purpose. When the nobs still rode into battle, it kept both horse and rider sharp – fettle for war, if you like. It was training as much as tradition, a proving ground for cavalry officers in scarlet coats. But those days are long gone. No one’s jousting in the Home Counties anymore. The only thing being sharpened now is the rhetoric of those who want to cling to a bloodsport under the guise of heritage.

The pro-hunt lobby loves a bit of misty-eyed mythology. They tell us the hounds only ever catch the old and infirm, that the kill is swift, natural, and noble – as if the fox, panting with exhaustion after a miles-long chase, should somehow thank them for a ‘dignified’ end. But in reality, it’s little more than a rural bloodsport with a brass band and a sense of entitlement. Wrap it in all the tradition you like – cruelty by any other name still stinks.

And spare me the crocodile tears about shooting being worse. Yes, some are now using thermal scopes – and yes, it’s grim. But if your defence of hunting is that it’s slightly less horrific than a bullet in the dark, you’ve already lost the moral argument.

This isn’t about class envy. It’s about saying – as a society – that we’ve moved on from torturing animals for fun, whether it’s on a country estate or a council field. The fox doesn’t care if the hound was raised by an earl or the lurcher by a lad on a housing estate – it dies all the same, terrified and torn apart. And if you think that’s worth defending in 2025, perhaps the one being dragged backwards through history isn’t the fox.

The DEI Trump

So here we are. April. Three months into Trump’s second coming, and already the novelty’s worn off like a badly applied spray tan. The man’s barely finished his inaugural golf round and the world’s edging nervously towards the bunker.

But let’s not pretend we didn’t see it coming. The warning signs were everywhere – daubed across placards, screamed from truck beds, whispered by hedge fund managers with dead eyes and offshore accounts. The MAGA cult marched to the polls waving their pitchforks against “woke” ideology – and managed to elect the most gloriously DEI candidate in American history.

Diversity. Equity. Inclusion. They claimed to hate it. They mocked it. They blamed it for everything from falling test scores to collapsing bridges. But in the end, they voted for it. Not the version you get on BBC training days, mind – no, no – the bootleg version. The one that comes with gold toilets, delusions of grandeur, and a YouTube algorithm full of rants about chemtrails and microwave mind control.

Diversity? You’ll not find a more eclectic personality than Trump. He contains multitudes – mostly narcissists, but multitudes nonetheless. One minute he’s a misunderstood genius, the next a righteous victim, then a 1950s strongman in a red tie babbling about windmills. He’s a psychological pick ’n mix. If diversity means showing the world all the different ways a man can unravel, Trump’s your man.

Equity? Under Trump, everyone’s treated equally – by which I mean everyone is either exploited, insulted, or indicted, depending on the day. Loyalists get thrown under the bus just as fast as enemies. If you’re a billionaire who’ll lend him a jet, or a lunatic who’ll chant his name in a Walmart car park, you might get a Cabinet position. Everyone else can sod off. It’s feudalism in a baseball cap.

Inclusion? Absolutely. His tent is wide open – assuming you’re angry enough. Evangelicals, anti-vaxxers, internet trolls, failed steak salesmen – all are welcome. You don’t need principles, just a YouTube login and a vague feeling that someone, somewhere, once laughed at you. Trump doesn’t build coalitions – he herds resentments.

And now he’s back in the White House – with even fewer guardrails, a vendetta list longer than a Tolstoy novel, and the attention span of a fruit fly on cocaine. The adults have all left the room. What’s left is the sound of Fox News, the smell of cheeseburgers, and a man in a suit shouting at Alexa.

Meanwhile, the very people who voted for him are still screaming about “woke culture,” seemingly unaware that they’ve elected a president who is woke – just with a persecution complex and a poorly concealed taste for autocracy.

They wanted to tear down safe spaces and ended up creating the biggest one of all – an entire administration built to protect one man’s fragile ego. They mocked identity politics, but now spend their days defending their cult leader’s every tantrum as if he’s their only surviving relative. They warned us about virtue signalling – and now post hourly memes about how much they "love free speech" while trying to ban books.

They didn’t kill DEI. They elected it – orange, bloated, and dripping with grievance.

And while the rest of America looks on, clutching their passports and checking the wind direction, one can’t help but marvel at the irony: America didn’t just lose the plot – it tied it in a bow and handed it to a game show host with delusions of Caesar.

'Spoons' Reform

The Brexit-Reform brigade have a problem. Not a lack of confidence, mind you – they’re positively drowning in that. No, their problem is a chronic inability to answer even the most basic of questions about their beliefs. Not once – not a single time – has a Farage supporter managed to give me a straight answer to a simple query. Instead, they bluster, they divert, or, more often than not, they just get cross and shout something about the ‘woke elite’ before vanishing into the digital ether.

Following on from Monday's post about some questions I innocently asked Farageists - one opponent just kept replying with a clown emoji - first 1, then 2, then 3 - it wasn't long before he had a whole circus, but hadn't answered a single question I had posed. There again, I may have been talking to a toddler - it's hard to tell on Facebook.  

Online, this works. In a Brexit rabbit hole, there’s always a handy escape hatch – a mute button, a mod, or a conveniently timed ‘technical issue’ that means they have to, regrettably, end the discussion before the critical thinking kicks in. The internet is an easy place to run away from an argument, and it’s why trying to engage these people in good faith online is like trying to nail jelly to a wall. A valiant effort, but ultimately futile.

However, there is one place where the rules of engagement are different – one place where a Brexit-Reform diehard is, for a short while at least, a captive audience. Enter Wetherspoons.

Now, I’m not suggesting we should all start doing the rounds in our local 'Spoons' armed with laminated copies of ‘Questions That Make Farage Fans Cry’ (though I wouldn't be against it). But let’s be honest – there is no finer setting for some casual political discourse than a Wetherspoons. The beer is cheap, the clientele are usually up for a natter, and, crucially, no one wants to abandon their pint just because they’re struggling to answer a simple question about how Brexit was supposed to make Britain richer.

Picture it: you sidle up to a table where a Reform enthusiast is loudly proclaiming that Britain just needs to ‘do Brexit properly.’ You smile, you nod, and you ask, ever so casually, ‘Oh, what exactly didn’t we do properly, then?’ Watch as their expression changes – a flicker of panic, a quick glance at their pint for moral support. Maybe they try ‘Oh, well, the Tories sold it out.’ Ah, yes, the old betrayal narrative. ‘Right,’ you say, ‘so what did they sell out? What specifically should have been done differently?’

And just like that, they’re in trouble. There’s no exit button, no moderator to swoop in and rescue them, no screen to hide behind – just a pint, a pub, and a question they can’t answer. If they double down, you go further. What’s Brexit’s biggest success? Why is Britain’s economy trailing behind the EU’s? How is Farage going to magically solve anything when he’s never had a plan in his life? If it’s a really lively debate, you can even throw in the ultimate torpedo – ‘Why do you lot bang on about sovereignty, then want to hand it straight over to Trump?’

The goal here isn’t necessarily to get a full-scale conversion on the spot – no one likes admitting they’ve been had, especially not over a drink. But sowing doubt? That’s the game. The Brexit-Reform axis thrives on slogans, not scrutiny, and the more people who ask actual questions, the more the whole charade starts to look a bit shaky. We don’t need to shout or argue – just smile, ask, and let the silence do the work.

We should make it official – a grassroots campaign of Wetherspoons philosophers, armed with little more than curiosity and a well-timed question. No placards, no grandstanding – just pint-fuelled Socratic dialogue in the heart of Brexitland. A nation of amateur political therapists, gently guiding the lost souls of Reform voters towards the realisation that ‘Take Back Control’ meant handing it to the same old grifters.

And here’s the masterstroke – we could even buy them a drink. Nothing disarms quite like an unexpected pint. ‘Tell you what, mate – I’ll get the next round if you can name one tangible economic benefit of Brexit.’ That’s a deal even a staunch Brexiteer might struggle to turn down.

It’s time to take the fight where it really matters – to the pub.

Political Influence for Sale

Political party funding in Britain is a scandal, a national embarrassment, and, if we are being honest, a barely disguised protection racket. At its core, it boils down to this: if you want to whisper sweet nothings into the ear of a senior MP or, better yet, have one legislate in your favour, all you need is a large chequebook and a willingness to keep schtum about the arrangement.

The Tories, of course, have turned this into an art form. Hedge fund managers, property developers and private healthcare investors pour millions into their coffers, purely out of their deep and abiding love for democracy, you understand. Labour, despite its roots in the working class, has edged ever closer to the same murky waters, with corporate donors sidling up to the party now that it no longer looks like it might frighten the horses.

This isn’t democracy. It’s an auction where the highest bidder gets favourable policy outcomes, a cosy dinner with ministers, or, if the sum is large enough, a peerage.

The solution? A blind trust system where donations go into a central pot, distributed equally among MPs within a party, at fixed intervals, and in a way that ensures neither donors nor recipients know who gets what. In other words, no more backroom deals, no more obligations, and no more grubby handshakes over champagne and canapés.

Of course, there would still be ways for donors to try to game the system. A well-placed nod, a knowing smile, or an anonymous tip-off that a sizeable donation is on the way would still leave the door ajar for influence. But this can be tackled. Large donations could be broken into tranches, distributed unpredictably over months or even years, making it impossible for any MP to connect their newfound financial security to any specific benefactor. Even better, donations above a certain threshold could be partially redirected into a common democracy fund, which would be shared across all parties proportionally based on the last election’s vote share. That way, even the biggest donors would never be certain where their money was actually going, killing off the incentive for targeted influence.

There’s also the problem of external influence, the shady think tanks and “independent” campaign groups that are really just holding pens for billionaires wanting to bypass party funding laws. That, too, could be outlawed. If you want to support democracy, you do it the same way everyone else does – through a system that doesn’t allow you to buy it outright.

Naturally, the political establishment would howl in protest. The Tories would call it an attack on free enterprise, Labour would mutter something vague before quietly shelving it, and Reform UK, if they are even still a thing by the time such reforms are seriously discussed, would find a way to blame immigrants.

If a neutral body like the Electoral Reform Society ran the system, it could be above party influence. The problem, of course, is that those who benefit most from the current system are the ones who would have to implement the change.

The only way this happens is if the public kicks up a stink, loud enough and long enough that politicians are forced to act. It would take a scandal of monumental proportions, a full-scale exposé that even the right-wing press couldn’t ignore. Until then, the money will keep flowing, the influence will keep growing, and democracy will remain a pay-to-play game where the richest always win.

But we could fix it. We just need to stop being so bloody polite about the corruption staring us in the face. Political influence in shaping policy is being bought by the wealthy - that's not right if we're to avoid following America and Russia down the Oligarchic toilet.

Letting Our Language Slip?

It started with a casual conversation with my son. I’d said someone was “swinging the lead,” and he looked at me as though I’d just recited Chaucer in the original Middle English. I explained it meant shirking work - malingering - pretending to be busy while achieving precisely nothing. He nodded slowly, no doubt filing it away with other phrases his "old man" casually drops, like “donkey’s years” and “spend a penny.” 

But it got me thinking: how many of these phrases are slipping through the cracks, unknown to the younger generations? Are we witnessing the slow erosion of colourful British idioms, replaced by bland American imports and TikTok slang? 

Let’s take a moment to celebrate some of these expressions before they vanish entirely. 

Swinging the Lead

Originating from sailors who would drop a lead weight to measure the depth of water, swinging the lead referred to an easy task. Over time, it evolved to mean avoiding hard work - something we’ve all encountered in life. Yet, the modern workplace has different names for these people: quiet quitters or those working their wage. Personally, I prefer the salty old nautical term. 

Spend a Penny

Now, here’s a gem. In the days when public toilets charged a penny for use, spending a penny became a euphemism for using the loo. Try telling that to a 20-something in the era of contactless payments and £1.50 charges. They’ll look at you as though you’re describing a Victorian workhouse. 

Donkey’s Years

This one should be obvious, but even this drew a blank with my son. It means a long time, derived from the idea that donkeys live for many years. You’d think the stubborn, long-lived creature would make it clear enough, but no - it’s slipping away too. 

Mad as a Box of Frogs
A wonderfully visual phrase, and yet it’s being replaced by “unhinged” or “feral.” I ask you - which sounds better? A box of frogs, all leaping about in manic chaos, perfectly encapsulates eccentric behaviour. It’s a shame this one’s going out of fashion. 

Brass Monkeys

You say it’s “brass monkeys” weather, and you’re met with blank stares. The full phrase - “cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey” - refers to naval days, when cannonballs were stored on a brass frame known as a monkey because it was triangular with 3 holes. making it look like a monkey's face. In icy weather, the metal contracted, and the cannonballs fell off. Crude, yes, but beautifully descriptive. 

Bob’s Your Uncle 

Ah, the classic British way of saying “there you have it” or “job done.” It’s rumoured to have originated from Prime Minister Robert Cecil appointing his nephew to a plum job. Regardless of the truth, it’s a phrase that encapsulates British wit - and one I rarely hear from younger folks. 

Why does any of this matter? Well, language is culture. It’s the stories we tell, the shorthand we use to connect with our history, our humour, and each other. Without these phrases, we risk losing a layer of richness - that subtle seasoning of speech that turns conversation from functional to delightful. 

And frankly, some modern slang just doesn’t cut the mustard (there’s another one for you). I doubt anyone will fondly recall “slay” or “no cap” with the same affection we hold for these old idioms. 

So, if you’ve got younger people in your life, do them a favour - drop a few of these expressions into conversation. Explain them, if needed. They may roll their eyes now, but one day, they’ll catch themselves saying “swings and roundabouts” or “pull your finger out,” and they’ll think of you. 

Language, after all, is a living thing - but only if we keep it alive. 

Bob’s your uncle!

The Tannin Terrorist

Every morning, the same ritual. Kettle on. Teabags in. Hot water poured. A brief moment of contemplation before the sacrament of caffeine takes hold. But in this daily rite, a mystery has emerged. My cup remains pristine, while Hay's turns into a crime scene of tannin stains. A forensic investigation was clearly required.

Now, we both drink the same tea. Same water. Same cups. Same process. The only difference? Sugar. I take two teaspoons. My wife takes none. And therein lies the rub – or rather, the lack of one.

It turns out sugar isn’t just a sweetener. It’s also a bit of a cleaner, a silent defender against the creeping menace of tea tannins. These little polyphenolic troublemakers are responsible for both the rich flavour of tea and the dark, stubborn stains clinging to the inside of cups like a politician to a dodgy expense claim. But sugar, in its infinite wisdom, binds with these tannins, rendering them incapable of defacing my ceramic chalice. My wife’s unsweetened brew, however, is an open invitation for these scoundrels to set up camp.

Naturally, I informed her of my scientific breakthrough. Given that my Hay is a PhD biochemist, this was met not with admiration but with a lecture on molecular structures, solubility, and why my discovery was neither ground-breaking nor worthy of smugness. It was followed by a glare that suggested I’d be getting my tea served in a dog bowl if I pressed the point further. Because, of course, she refuses to add sugar. Health reasons. A desire to avoid empty calories. Some vague notion of tea being a noble, ascetic beverage that mustn’t be sullied. Meanwhile, her cup looks like it’s been used to mix creosote.

There are solutions, of course. A rinse with cold water before pouring tea. A good scrub with bicarbonate of soda. But really, isn’t the answer staring her in the face? Two teaspoons of sugar. A small price to pay for immaculate crockery and a smug sense of superiority.

But no. She insists on suffering for her principles. And so, each morning, I sip my tea from a cup as pure as the driven snow while she gazes into the abyss of her own making, where dark tannin stains lurk in judgment. Science has spoken, but habit and stubbornness will always win.

And so, the battle continues. One cup pristine. One cup stained. And one husband who knows better – but also knows when to keep his mouth shut.

To make matters worse, I regularly have to apply a spray of bleach to the cups to keep them from looking like archaeological relics. Nothing horrifies me more than giving a guest a tannin-stained cup. The very thought makes my skin crawl. I’d rather serve tea in my shoe than risk being judged as the sort of person who can’t manage basic hygiene.

Culinary Pretentions

Once upon a time, food was simple. It was either sweet or savoury. A pork pie was savoury. A trifle was sweet. And that was enough. Nobody needed a glossary of imported words to describe a ham sandwich. Then umami gate-crashed the party.

Umami – which sounds like a baby asking for their mother while sitting on a plug – is now the darling of the middle-class palate. We’re told it’s the fifth taste, as if we’ve just unlocked a bonus level in a video game. “Ooh, this stew has real umami,” trills someone who owns more than one pepper grinder. No, Karen. It has Bovril in it.

This is what happens when plain English isn’t posh enough. We used to say “tasty”. Now it’s “umami-rich” or “fermented with deep, savoury notes.” Even Marmite has had a rebrand. It’s not “salty brown gloop” anymore – it’s a “yeast-forward spread with complex umami characteristics.” Right. And Pot Noodle is ramen now, is it?

It doesn’t stop there. We’ve become obsessed with naming everything in its original language, even when we don’t speak it. Avocados are now aguacate. Chorizo must be pronounced with a throaty Spanish lisp, or people look at you like you’ve insulted their sourdough starter. And let’s not forget terroir – French for “we threw it in the dirt and now it tastes expensive.”

Then there’s the rare breed vegetable brigade. A normal carrot? Don’t be absurd. It must be a heritage Chantenay, grown by a barefoot man named Rufus who once read The Guardian cover to cover without blinking. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted a mooli radish, apparently – though to most of us, it just tastes like spicy disappointment.

Food snobbery used to mean knowing which fork to use. Now it means recognising a cucamelon and not laughing. It’s not lunch anymore – it’s a TED Talk on soil acidity and ancient grains.

And God help you if you use iceberg lettuce. That’s basically culinary ASBO material now. You need foraged microgreens – hand-clipped by a retired ballet dancer on a foggy morning in Norfolk – or it doesn’t count. You’re not feeding people anymore – you’re curating an edible still life.

We do all this to hide our deep, trembling fear of seeming ordinary. Because saying “this is tasty” sounds childish, while “this has a deeply complex umami profile with heirloom legume notes” makes us sound like we’ve just come back from a silent retreat in Umbria.

So let’s call time on this gastro-pretentiousness. Crisps are not “umami bombs.” They’re crisps. That smoky tang? It’s barbecue flavouring, not “charred capsicum overtones.” And that purple carrot? It’s still a carrot, just colder and more disappointed in you.

Let savoury be savoury again. Let food be food. And if your next meal starts talking in foreign tongues, do the decent thing – and tell it to get off its high horse and back in the pantry.

Switzerland?

Let’s face it – Switzerland is the geopolitical equivalent of a fondue set: charming, archaic, and entirely unnecessary. A quaint curiosity gathering dust on the Alpine mantelpiece of Europe. It shouldn’t exist. It shouldn’t.

What is Switzerland, really? A nation? Hardly. It’s a linguistic ménage à trois held together by cheese, cuckoo clocks, and an obsessive-compulsive relationship with punctuality. Half German, a chunk French, a wedge Italian, and a sliver Romansh (which is basically leftover Latin mixed with yodelling) – it’s not a melting pot, it’s a glacial trifle.

Let’s be brutally honest – the Swiss aren’t a people, they’re a marketing department. Neutral in every war, invisible in every crisis, yet somehow omnipresent when it's time to flog overpriced watches or hide dodgy loot. Their main contribution to global affairs is saying “no comment” in four languages.

And the country itself? A jagged pile of mountains draped in neutrality and Toblerone. Its entire raison d’être seems to be: 

• providing a scenic backdrop for Bond films, 
• overengineering things that don’t need overengineering (e.g. penknives with altimeters), and 
• refusing to join the EU out of principle, yet trading with it anyway like a teenager who’s moved out but still brings their laundry home.

Meanwhile, the rest of us are stumbling through the aftermath of empires and referenda, and there’s Switzerland – smugly polishing its direct democracy, where referenda are held because someone’s offended by a cowbell.

It’s time to call it what it is: an Alpine anomaly. A nation stitched together by geography and goat paths, masquerading as a modern state. It would make much more sense partitioned:

The Germans could take Zurich and finally have a city where their trains run too much on time. The French could have Geneva – they already act like they own it, and it's full of diplomats who talk a lot and do bugger all. The Italians get Ticino – mainly because they need something that works.

What remains could be turned into a skiing resort for the rest of us, or better yet – a giant offshore museum for laundering nostalgia. Call it “The Republic of Alpine Whimsy” and let tourists pay in Bitcoin and butter.

Switzerland is the Esperanto of nation-states – noble in theory, faintly ridiculous in practice. It’s survived not because it’s brilliant, but because nobody can be bothered to argue with a country that thinks the army should come with a corkscrew.

Time to cut it up, divvy it out, and finally bring this snow globe of smugness to heel. After all – neutrality is just what you call cowardice when you’re rich enough to get away with it.

Let There Be Light (and a Battery to Catch It)

It’s funny, isn’t it? The sun comes up every morning – free, inexhaustible, and surprisingly reliable – and yet we still have national energy policies written as though we’re Victorian mill owners with a vested interest in coal dust and candle wax. Meanwhile, out here in the Cotswolds, something quietly revolutionary is happening behind the net curtains and roof tiles since I installed my solar batteries in March.

Take a couple of days ago, for instance – 6th April. While the world argued about nonsense, my battery was getting on with it. The PV array started generating just after about 9am, peaking gently about 1pm like a polite guest. The load – that is, what the house actually needed – was fed straight from the solar as long as it lasted. The excess? Into the battery it went, greedily guzzling the surplus like a squirrel prepping for winter.

Come sunset, the magic kicked in. Instead of leeching from the grid like some vampire Victorian terrace with a halogen habit, the house simply sipped from its own reserves. The battery discharged through the evening and into the night, quietly powering kettles, routers, and whatever else hums away in the darkness. Not a single watt was drawn from the grid during that stretch – not until the battery dipped below its 20% threshold in the wee hours. The 20% is to extend battery life - discharge it fully and you reduce its life.

I track all this in real time using the Fox ESS app – a rather elegant tool that turns energy use into something almost artistic. I can see exactly when the solar kicks in, how much goes into the battery, and when it returns the favour. Frankly, it’s more informative than anything Ofgem’s put out in the last decade.

It's interesting to be able to see graphically that I get more sun in the afternoon than I do in the morning. This is due to the solar panels facing slightly west of due south. The rise in generation in the morning is quite steep as the sun moves from east to west, whereas the decline is slower after 1pm, as the panels are in the sun for longer.

And yes – I’m seriously considering adding a third battery (I currently have 2 batteries giving me 9.5kWh capacity, which get to 100% capacity now on a sunny day, and it's not even midsummer). Why wouldn’t I? There’s more solar being generated than I can store at present, and wasting it feels like throwing away hot water in a drought. A third battery would mean more independence after sundown. It’s not just about savings – it’s about principle. Why fund a creaky, centralised system when you can power your own home on your own terms? Diverting the excess into a battery, rather than the grid, makes no difference to my feed-in payments - I'm remunerated for what I generate, not what I export.

I'm also tempted to add more solar panels, just to increase the available charge for the battery. As far as I understand it, that wouldn't necessarily affect my feed-in status, providing the new panels are wired to prioritise battery charging and not export. But the regulations are so byzantine you almost need a solicitor and a sacrificial goat to interpret them. Still, if it lets me store more sunshine and rely even less on the grid, then why not?

On top of that, I’m looking to switch to Octopus Energy. Not out of loyalty – I’ve got none left when it comes to utility companies – but because they’re one of the few outfits offering agile tariffs that make sense for someone who’s generating and storing their own power. Unlike the usual suspects, who penalise you for not needing them, Octopus actually encourages you to play smart. Time-shift your loads, sell back your excess at peak, and suddenly the economics tip further in your favour.

In essence, I’ve decoupled from the grid’s worst instincts. No need to spike demand when prices surge and fossil fuels fire up. No need to bankroll someone else’s gas-fired inefficiency. Just harvest daylight, store it, and use it on my own terms. The system is elegant – the very opposite of the bloated, centralised energy model we’re still shackled to.

Now, if you squint at the following graph – that scatterplot of self-sufficiency versus generation – a clear pattern emerges. The more I generate, the less I need from outside. It's not linear, of course – diminishing returns and all that – but the curve doesn’t lie. We're gliding towards true independence. It’s local, it’s clean, and it works.

So why, one wonders, isn’t every roof in Britain doing this? Why are we still subsidising North Sea exploration instead of slapping panels on council houses and sticking batteries in basements? Why the obsession with "big energy" when "small energy" is quietly outperforming it in real-world use?

Perhaps the answer lies in who profits. It certainly isn’t the householder who’s tied to a variable tariff and told to "use less at peak times." It’s time we flipped that on its head. Let people generate, store, and manage their own power – and sell the surplus, if they wish. Not as a favour to the grid, but because it’s bloody common sense.

And so, as the sun sets each evening over this fine Gloucestershire village, I’ll continue drawing power not from some anonymous gas turbine in Essex, but from yesterday’s sunshine – neatly packaged, stored, and unleashed when needed. I'd like ot be able to unplug my solar battery when we're going away in the motorhome and take it with us.

If that’s not the future, I don’t know what is.

The Cult of the Gaggia (Revisited)

Some time ago, I blogged – perhaps a little too triumphantly – that I’d snagged an early Gaggia Classic on eBay for a sensible sum. A proper, no-nonsense machine with real switches and the look of something designed by someone who’d actually seen a boiler before. It felt like a win. And it was... at first.

But what no one tells you – or rather, what they whisper only after you’ve joined – is that the Gaggia Classic isn’t a coffee machine. It’s a rite of passage. You don’t buy one so much as pledge allegiance. And before you know it, you’re spending more time talking to your espresso than your spouse.

I've been taking lessons on-line from James Hoffmann, a self-professed coffee nerd who has a monetised YouTube tutorial covering everything coffee related.  

Let’s start with the gear. What began as a simple machine has now become the centrepiece of a stainless steel constellation. There’s a dosing collar to stop the grounds flinging themselves all over the kitchen. A tamper that looks like it was nicked from a Victorian laboratory. A WDT tool – a spiky thing apparently designed to break up clumps, though it also works well for aerating compost or defending your espresso against heretics. A scale that could weigh a soul, and a hand burr grinder calibrated to deliver precisely one doppio before your wrist gives out. And of course, a ‘performance diffuser’, because apparently what your £210 machine really needed was a carefully milled disc to stop it peeing water all over the place like a startled ferret.

Now – if you’d asked me at the start whether I believed in espresso myths, I’d have laughed them off. But after weeks of trial and error, I’ve seen them all rise like ghosts from the crema:

• Myth 1: “Crema means quality.” Rubbish. You can get thick crema from burnt supermarket beans and a pressurised basket. It’s not flavour – it’s foam.
• Myth 2: “Espresso takes exactly 25 seconds.” Not unless you’re brewing on the International Space Station. Some shots take 20, some take 35. The only real measure is whether you enjoy drinking it.
• Myth 3: “Espresso is stronger than filter.” Only if you drink it by the thimble. Filter often has more caffeine – it just doesn’t slap you in the face as enthusiastically.
• Myth 4: “Dark roast is better for espresso.” Not always. Some dark roasts taste like a tyre fire. Lighter beans can be fruitier, brighter, and far less like licking the inside of a chimney.
• Myth 5: “Tamping must be exactly 30lbs.” Who’s measuring this? Am I supposed to take my tamper to the gym? Just press evenly. It’s not rocket science – it’s coffee.

Anyway – myth-busting aside – I can now get a decent shot. Not every time, mind. But regularly enough that I no longer question whether this is all just a very elaborate and expensive method of burning through perfectly good beans.

But the real betrayal? The cup is still cold. You can do everything right – perfect grind, perfect tamp, beautiful crema – and still end up with a drink that feels like it’s been politely reheated by the dog. The steam wand trick is messy, cup-warming on top is a joke, and running a blank shot feels like bribing the boiler gods.

And don’t even think about using the Gaggia for visitors. The moment more than two people ask for coffee, you’re into full military logistics – warming cups, regrinding beans, draining off steam pressure like a traction engine. By the time the last person gets theirs, the first has fallen asleep and the rest are chewing Rich Teas in protest. Out comes the French press, sulking from its drawer like a retired colonel called back into service.

Yet – and here’s the irony – when it works… oh, when it works. The espresso is rich, velvety, aromatic. It lands with precision. And it’s all the more satisfying because you earned it. You measured, ground, tamped, stabbed, timed, and muttered it into existence. You didn’t just press a button – you conducted a symphony of caffeine and hope.

Would I recommend a Gaggia Classic? Of course. But only if you realise you're not buying convenience – you're buying into ritual. This is not a machine for the casual sipper. This is a machine for those who believe that somewhere in the clattering of grinders and the steam-hissing silence of an early morning kitchen, there is meaning. It's for the person who relishes rebuilding a Triumph GT6 or recommissioning a Mercedes 500SL.

And possibly, one day, I may get a 'God shot'. Look it up.

The drawback? Caffeine plays havoc with my bladder! I have to carefully time when I'm going to have a shock treatment of caffeine - not when I expect to go out and certainly not after 4pm, else I'll be up all night attending the loo.

The Farage Cargo Cult

A few weeks ago, I created some perfectly reasonable questions aimed at Farage supporters. I've since been posting them on Facebook – the questions being the sort that probe whether those extolling the virtues of Farage have actually read his manifesto, or merely absorbed it osmotically through the fumes of Greggs pasties and GB News. Actually, I lie, I post it whenever I see some garbage about Reform Ltd. I wasn’t expecting the Magna Carta in reply, but my God, what I get is an education in the sheer density of political stupidity.

I present here, for your amusement and despair, the finest utterances flung at me by the keyboard crusaders of Reform UK - I've saved up some of the better ones. Think of it as a group therapy session for those afflicted by Nigel-induced cranial fog.

Let’s begin with the classics. “We didn’t vote for a deal – just to leave.” That’s it. That’s the statement. Nothing else. No plan, no direction, just a sort of patriotic flounce. Apparently, all modern governance should now be conducted like storming out of a dinner party without your coat.

Then came this corker: “I don’t care about the economy – freedom is priceless.” Yes, well so is chemotherapy, Brenda, but we still need a functioning health service to provide it. Freedom to what, exactly? Queue longer, earn less, and wave at your EU work rights as they disappear into the Channel?

A favourite: “Brexit’s not the problem – we just haven’t done it properly.” This one’s a cult chant. It doesn’t matter how many supply chains collapse or industries atrophy – it’s not real Brexit unless it’s imagined in 4K by someone who’s never read a trade agreement. When I ask how it could have been done better, they go silent, or mutter something about the ECHR, as if leaving it will produce 4-5% of GDP. I do point out to them that Farage has remained stoically silent on the matter, so there's nothing their guru has said that can guide them.

Then there was the one who solemnly informed me, “The EU was punishing us – that proves we were right to leave.” By that logic, if I punch a nightclub bouncer and get thrown out, it’s his fault and my drunken assault becomes an act of heroism.

“Farage is the only one telling the truth – everyone else is bought.” A sentence that would be worrying if it weren’t so childishly sincere. They believe Nigel’s a beacon of integrity because he says things angrily and owns a blazer. Evidence? None. Just vibes and a Union Jack Facebook filter.

And who could forget the flag-shaggers’ favourite: “We should go back to imperial measurements – it’s our heritage.” Yes, because nothing signals 21st-century relevance like measuring things in firkins and fathoms. Meanwhile, the rest of the world looks on, baffled, as we try to sell jam in units last used by the Victorians.

“Don’t worry,” they assured me, “we’ll trade with the Commonwealth instead.” Of course we will, love. Just a 9,000-mile hop to sell bacon to New Zealanders who already make it better and cheaper.

When I pointed out net migration is now higher than it ever was under the EU, I was met with: “That’s only because of the boats. Stop them and it’ll be fine.” It’s always the boats. Never the visas, or the points-based system, or Sunak handing out work permits like party favours. No, it’s the little rubber dinghies doing all the damage.

Someone even said – without irony – “Reform will cut taxes and increase spending. It’ll work if we stop wasting money on foreigners.” We’re apparently living in a magical parallel universe where economics is driven entirely by spite and fairy dust. The numbers don’t add up, but neither does the spelling.

And this gem: “We don’t know what Farage would do – he’s not in power yet.” You heard it here first: total ignorance is now a campaign strategy. Elect him first, then hope he reveals his plan like some sort of fascist advent calendar.

The Trump connection came too: “Brexit meant we got lower tariffs – Trump only slapped 10% on us, not 20% like the EU.” Aside from being factually bollocks, they failed to notice that Trump’s tariffs are temporary, theateric tantrums until inflation hits the US (as it will), whereas Brexit has locked us into permanent ones – like swapping a hangover for liver disease.

Then they began throwing around the word “traitor” like confetti: “Labour are globalist traitors – at least Farage cares about Britain.” Yes, he cares deeply. So much so that he wants to deregulate your water supply, flog off the NHS to the Americans, privatise the state pension and let chlorinated chicken strut across your Sunday roast while stiffing our farmers, who he professes to support. Providing them with proof of his utterances doesn't deter them.

And finally – the cherry atop this steaming cake of nonsense – “I didn’t vote for this.” No, of course you didn’t. You voted for “control” and got chaos. You voted for nostalgia and got non-tariff barriers. You voted for blue passports and got a red face in passport control queues.

So there you have it: a greatest hits album of Farageist Facebookery, all levelled at me for daring to ask what the man actually stands for and pointing out the logical consequences of certain manifesto commitments It’s not politics anymore – it’s cargo cult populism. Say the right words, blame the right scapegoats, and wait for the sovereignty fairy to fix your gas bill.

I would laugh, but I’ve seen their polling numbers.

It's noteworthy that, to date, none have responded to anything beyond the first few questions, which were all under the heading of Brexit. That's what really annoys them - oh, and the boats. They're quite prepared to torch the economy and public services so long as they don't have to look at a brown face. However, call then racist and they become very uppity. I was even told to go back to the Netherlands on the basis of my surname. By that logic, Farage should decamp to France.

Post Empire Nostalgia

It's an odd kind of grief, really – this business of losing an empire. Like being a retired colonel who still insists on wearing the regimental tie to the pub, even though no one salutes him anymore and the medals are starting to rust. Britain, bless her, never quite faced up to it. Instead, we handed out independence like party favours, boarded up the colonial office, and pretended nothing had happened – that we'd simply decided to concentrate on domestic affairs and making soggy sitcoms.

The trouble is, when a country builds its identity around being top dog – when its national persona is all about command, righteousness, and the God-given right to civilise Johnny Foreigner – the comedown is brutal. Jung would call this a collapse of the persona, the mask we present to the world. And when that mask falls away, the shadow looms large. And it’s not a dignified shadow either – more drunk uncle at a wedding than brooding Byronic figure.

Our shadow is a mix of shame, denial, and gnawing irrelevance. We remember the railways, not the famines; the tea, not the blood. So instead of integrating the truth, we project. Immigrants become the problem. The EU becomes the enemy. Woke becomes the word we mutter when confronted with anything that challenges our fairy tales – or our ability to wear beige slacks without irony.

We've swapped empire for Amazon Prime. The dream now is not to rule the waves, but to own a ring doorbell, go on a cruise, and complain about foreign call centres while talking to one. We used to extract tribute from half the world. Now we extract cashback points from Tesco and think that’s sovereignty.

And we’re not alone in this. Russia has been wallowing in its own imperial hangover for three decades – clinging to the fantasy of Greater Russia while the economy creaks and the state drowns in vodka and paranoia. Putin is basically Stalin in a bomber jacket, shouting at the telly. Turkey flirts with Ottoman cosplay like a middle-aged man who’s rediscovered his fez and wants everyone to know. France hides its colonial hangover behind the tricolour, issuing stern rebukes while muttering about Algeria and banning headscarves like it's still 1905. And the United States – oh, the land of the free – is locked in a full-blown identity crisis, its moral high ground eroded by school shootings, evangelical rants, and healthcare that costs more than a small yacht.

None of them, it seems, want to grow up. Like Jung’s puer aeternus – the eternal adolescent – they long for the days when they mattered. When others listened. When the world spoke their language, drank their drinks, and bowed to their gods. It's the psychic equivalent of turning up to a school reunion in your old football kit, insisting you were this close to turning pro.

Hungary and Austria? Tiny empires once. Now just men at the end of the bar, grumbling into their pints, suspicious of the neighbours, and clinging to maps that haven’t been updated since 1913. Austria tries to pretend it was Switzerland all along. Hungary’s so obsessed with the Treaty of Trianon you’d think it was a divorce decree and not a century-old map reshuffle.

Meanwhile, back in Blighty, our global strategy now seems to involve swapping a flourishing market on our doorstep for a handshake with someone twelve time zones away who sells us mangoes. It’s the diplomatic equivalent of selling your house and buying a tent – in Patagonia.

What unites all of them – and us – is the refusal to individuate. To look in the mirror and say: "Yes, we once ruled. Yes, we exploited. Yes, the world moved on." Instead, we get the politics of projection. Farage blaming Brussels. Putin blaming the West. Trump blaming everyone except the man in the mirror. It’s like watching a therapy group for failed empires where no one wants to do the work and someone keeps stealing the biscuits.

We could, of course, face our shadow. Own our past. Grow into something wiser, humbler, more grounded. But that takes effort – and introspection is in short supply when TalkTV is on, the Daily Mail’s frothing, and there’s a flag to wave and a butcher’s apron to iron.

And through it all, we still cling to the Royals – our national scented candle. Vaguely comforting, distracts from the smell. We may have lost an empire, but at least we've still got gold carriages, hereditary privilege, and a man whose job it is to iron Charles' shoelaces.

So here we are. Stuck between myth and maturity. Drunk on nostalgia. Shouting at clouds. Still wearing the tie, hoping someone – anyone – will salute. Preferably before last orders.

The Presidential Palace

Few expressions grate more on my delicate democratic sensibilities than “Presidential Palace”. It conjures images of overfed tyrants in mirrored sunglasses, waving from gold-plated balconies while the plebs queue for rice. It’s a term that reeks of powdered wigs, martial parades, and kleptocrats clutching sceptres shaped like Kalashnikovs.

The word presidential ought to denote someone democratically elected to serve the people. But pair it with palace and suddenly you're not thinking of a public servant – you're picturing a banana republic generalissimo, freshly self-promoted from “interim transitional authority” to “Supreme Guide for Life”.

Now, you may ask, which countries still use this ludicrous term? Quite a few, actually – mostly those with a taste for velvet curtains, ceremonial guards who’ve clearly been up since 4 a.m. polishing their brass buttons, and constitutions that are updated more often than a teenager’s TikTok profile. Egypt has a Presidential Palace. So does Syria. Kazakhstan? Tick. Uzbekistan? Naturally. The Democratic Republic of Congo has at least two – because nothing says “democratic” quite like multiple palaces. Even Turkey, once a proud secular republic, built a £500 million monstrosity for Erdoğan that looks like Stalin and Donald Trump collaborated on a Bond villain lair.

Let’s not pretend this is about shelter or practicality. You don’t need 1,000 rooms to sign a bit of legislation. This is about theatre – grand, ego-fluffing, tax-funded theatre. It’s Versailles with PowerPoint.

Contrast this with the UK, where our Prime Minister operates from Number 10 – a fairly modest terraced house with a door that won’t open from the outside. Say what you like about our archaic rituals and ermine-clad Lords, but at least we haven’t started calling Chequers the “Prime Ministerial Palace of Chilternia”.

I mean, really – Presidential Palace? If your leader needs a palace, then your country probably needs a revolution. Or at the very least, a reality check.

Words matter. “Presidential residence” is neutral. “Presidential quarters” – fine. Even “Presidential House” has a certain no-nonsense, Protestant restraint. But “palace”? That’s just Versailles syndrome in a polyester suit.

If you're going to insist on having a Presidential Palace, then don’t be surprised when your democracy comes with a side order of jackboots and a state TV channel called “The Leader’s Voice”.

It’s the linguistic equivalent of wearing epaulettes to a budget meeting. 

Rick Stein's Wokabout

It struck me the other day, while watching Rick Stein’s Asian Odyssey, that something didn’t quite sit right. Not the food – Stein could make a bowl of instant noodles sound like haute cuisine – but the title. Odyssey. In Asia.

Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but Homer didn’t have Ulysses island-hopping round the Bay of Bengal in search of the perfect prawn curry. He was busy faffing about the Aegean, dodging angry gods and getting his men turned into pigs. (Though, to be fair, that's probably how most blokes on a lads' holiday end up in Magaluf.)

An odyssey, by definition, is a Mediterranean saga – wine-dark seas, Trojan grudges, and the kind of sulking that’d put Piers Morgan to shame. Slapping that label on an Asian jaunt is like calling a pub crawl through Bristol a Grand Tour.

If anything, it should’ve been Rick Stein’s Silk Road Sojourn – conjuring images of camel caravans and spice-laden traders, rather than Homer in a sarong. Or Rick Stein’s Wokabout, if we’re keeping it light. He could’ve gone full history buff with The Curry Compass or The Spice Trail. Even Rick Stein’s Marco Polo would’ve worked – though given Polo’s reputation for exaggeration, Stein might have had to claim he discovered the world's largest samosa in Rajasthan.

But no, someone in BBC marketing clearly thumbed through a thesaurus, found “Odyssey,” and thought, “That’ll do.” Asia? Mediterranean? Same difference. It’s a bit like calling Escape to the Country The Grapes of Wrath.

So here’s my plea: if we’re going to borrow classical terms, can we at least get the geography right? Call it The Dumpling Diaries, Soy to the World, or Curry On, Rick. Just don’t pretend Ulysses swapped Ithaca for Ipoh in search of laksa.

Otherwise, we’ll be calling David Attenborough’s Planet Earth The Iliad next.

The Sting, Trump Style

I've had a change of heart about retaliatory tariffs on America. Hear me out.

The official line is the usual guff. Protect American jobs. Punish China. Rebalance trade. Nod solemnly to rustbelt towns gutted by globalisation. But peel back the bunting and it’s all theatre. The economic logic collapses on contact. Tariffs are taxes. Importers pay them, pass them on, and prices rise. Food, clothes, electronics, tools, vehicles – if it’s made abroad, and most things are, it’ll cost more.

And not just finished goods. American factories rely on foreign parts. They bring them in, assemble the final product, then ship it out. Those parts are now more expensive – and the exports less competitive. A double blow. Costs up, sales down. The workers Trump claims to protect? Left to swing. And he knows it.

But here’s where it gets clever – or at least, revealing. While voters are waving flags and blaming foreigners for the price hikes, the calm hands with capital are getting ready to pounce. The markets tumble. Panic kicks in. Cautious savers, pensioners, small investors – they start dumping stocks at a loss. And waiting at the bottom, with dry powder and a shopping list, are the usual suspects. Hedge funds. Political cronies. The sort who play golf with the people who started the fire. They buy low. They always do. Once the smoke clears and the noise dies down, they sell at a profit – and then have the gall to lecture the rest of us on free enterprise and responsibility.

But that’s just the side hustle – bear with me. The real goal is political. This isn’t mismanagement. It’s sabotage, carefully orchestrated sabotage. The aim isn’t to fix the economy – it’s to use it to get a 3rd, 4th, 5th term (not necessarily for Trump). To turn pain into propaganda. The worse things get, the more the faithful harden. Not with doubt, but with conviction. Failure doesn’t weaken the story – it strengthens it. If the system’s cracking, it must be because the enemy’s fighting back. This strategy is the only logical explanation for the shit-show.

It’s the authoritarian playbook. Break something. Blame someone. Offer yourself as the only solution. Undermine institutions. Mock expertise. Turn the press into the villain. And economics? That’s no longer about policy or prosperity. It’s subservient now – twisted into a stage prop to stoke anger, deflect blame and maintain power.

The goal is not prosperity. The goal is control. And for the architects of the chaos, it’s win-win. If the politics fail, the money still gets made. But if the politics succeed, the mask comes off. It won’t be long before innocent people start disappearing in the middle of the night – quietly, bureaucratically, Kafka-style – under the banner of national security and law and order. It’s devilishly clever and relies on an ignorant base.

And all the while, the ordinary voter – the one this theatre claims to champion – gets kicked in the teeth. Prices rise. Wages stall. Small businesses fold. Exporters lose ground. And still, the story is spun: blame immigrants, blame minorities, blame the “woke”, blame China. Anything but the culprit. It’s the oldest grift there is. Start the fire, sell the water, blame the neighbours.

And don’t imagine this is just an American joke. We’ve lived it here. Brexit, which was pitched as freedom, delivered economic self-harm and left its champions utterly unrepentant. The promised benefits never arrived - because they never existed. Yet the faithful cling on, muttering about shadowy cabals and unseen saboteurs, convinced that every failure proves just how deep the conspiracy runs and how badly it was handled. Reform's poll numbers are climbing as the naiive become ensnared.

None of this is accidental. It’s a business model. Crisis creates opportunity. Markets dip, assets change hands, and the gap between rich and poor yawns wider. And while the public are bickering over statues and bathrooms, the real war – the class war – rumbles on behind the scenes, quiet and ruthless.

Meanwhile, allies are pushed away, supply chains unravel, retaliatory tariffs are slapped into place. Jobs go. Prices rise. The cycle continues.

Retaliatory tariffs only make things worse for America – and play directly into Trump’s hands. They give him the scapegoat he needs to keep the MAGA base angry and loyal. Yesterday's reaction to China's retaliatory tariffs proved that, with Trump saying China has panicked. China doesn't panic - it plans 100 years in advance.

Negotiation is futile. Trump doesn’t want resolution – he wants collapse. There’s no silver bullet here, unless one counts turning the other cheek, to borrow a phrase from a certain first-century Jewish philosopher and mystic. Politicians facing elections, like Carney, might do well to frame the tariffs as necessary action in the face of a bully. That would win votes and flatten the Canadian right in one go - not a bad strategy for a Canadian, but not for anyone not facing re-election.

And then there's the convenient outrage over Elon Musk. The backlash isn’t about free speech or Teslas – it’s rooted in his role in hollowing out institutional safeguards, particularly through his flirtations with crypto manipulation and control over communications platforms. DOGE, once a joke, now serves to erode trust in regulation and shift attention. And yet Musk is paraded by Trumpists as a truth-teller exposing corruption. It’s classic inversion – the arsonist praised for smelling smoke. But what’s being burned down isn’t fraud – it’s the last remaining safeguards against it. Musk isn’t a rebel. He’s a diversion – one more illusion in a rigged performance where billionaires pose as victims and the public picks up the tab.

Trump’s tariffs aren’t economic policy. They’re pantomime for the masses and a raid for the elite – not just opportunism, but looting dressed as leadership. It’s The Sting with worse tailoring and no charm – only this time, you’re not watching from the safety of a cinema seat. If this is the road ahead – stunts, slogans and smash-and-grab economics – then we’re not heading for recovery.

Does Trump know this? Certainly. Is he the architect? Hardly – he’s the chaos muppet, stumbling through someone else’s blueprint. If he gets a third term, would he last? Doubtful. Once he’s served his purpose, they’ll discard him like the punchline he’s become.

We’re heading for something far darker.

The Champagne Con

Champagne is the great lie of the drinks world. It has somehow maintained an unearned reputation as the pinnacle of sophistication, wheeled out for every significant occasion as though it were a treat rather than a punishment. It is overpriced, overhyped and, in many cases, borderline undrinkable. Yet people pretend to enjoy it because admitting otherwise would be like confessing that caviar is just salty fish eggs or that truffles taste like a damp woodland floor.

The first sip always carries the promise of something exquisite. Then reality hits. The bubbles aggressively assault your mouth, the acidity scrapes down your throat and, before you know it, you’re suppressing a burp while trying to look refined. It doesn’t matter whether it’s vintage or supermarket own-brand, the effect is the same. A glass of carbonated disappointment, leaving you bloated, slightly nauseous and wondering why you didn’t just opt for a proper drink.

Of course, the wealthy have convinced themselves that the more expensive the bottle, the more divine the experience. Bollinger, Dom Pérignon, Krug – all names designed to extract obscene amounts of money from people too embarrassed to admit they’d rather have a pint. The mark-up is staggering. You could have a bottle of excellent wine for half the price, a good whisky for the same, or an entire crate of beer and still have enough left over for a kebab on the way home. But no. The script must be followed. New Year’s Eve? Champagne. A wedding? Champagne. Some corporate event where no one wants to be there? Champagne. It’s like some bizarre social contract where everyone pretends they’re having a wonderful time while internally battling indigestion.

And the nomenclature. Good grief. Brut, Extra Brut, Demi-Sec – words that sound like they belong to an industrial cleaning product range rather than a drink. Blanc de Blancs, Blanc de Noirs – what is this, a Renaissance painting or a bottle of booze? And don't get me started on 'Méthode Champenoise' – a needlessly pompous way of saying 'we let this stuff ferment twice and now it's really, really expensive.' Then there’s the absurdity of drinking it from flutes, as if the long, narrow shape somehow makes the experience more refined rather than just ensuring you spill half of it with the slightest wobble.

Let’s not forget the ridiculous rituals. Sabrage – the practice of hacking the top off a bottle with a sword – is surely the clearest sign that people know deep down that champagne isn’t worth drinking. It’s a desperate attempt to inject excitement into something that should have stayed on the shelf. Then there’s the champagne tower, that peak of wastefulness where people ooh and aah as liquid gold spills uselessly over stacked glasses, because nothing screams class like turning your overpriced booze into a waterfall of excess.

Let’s be honest. If champagne were actually enjoyable, people would drink it casually. You’d see blokes in the pub ordering a round of Veuve Clicquot. You’d spot a bottle on the table at Sunday lunch next to the gravy boat. But you don’t, because no one actually likes the stuff. It exists purely for show, a status symbol masquerading as a beverage. The real winners in this charade are the French vineyards raking in a fortune from this elaborate con.

If people really want a celebratory drink, they should at least choose something that doesn’t taste like fizzy regret. A crisp beer, a decent wine, a well-made cocktail – or a nice, still cider that punches you in the brain but doesn't bloat you. Anything but a flute of self-inflicted misery. But they won’t. Because champagne, like so many other so-called luxuries, is less about enjoyment and more about the performance. And so the cycle continues, year after year, as people take a sip, suppress a grimace and tell themselves they’re having a marvellous time.

Easy Rider

The iconic American chopper – all stretched-out forks, ape-hanger handlebars and forward foot pegs – is often seen as the ultimate expression of freedom on two wheels. But look closer and you'll notice something oddly familiar. It’s not just a machine for the open road. It’s a horse. Or at least, it's trying to be.

The thought struck me while watching an old clip of Barbara Stanwyck in Forty Guns. There she was, sitting tall in the saddle, legs stretched forward, back straight, reins high. It was the classic Western riding stance – and it hit me like a freight train. Swap the horse for a chopper and nothing changes. The same posture, the same swagger. The only difference is the soundtrack – the rumble of an engine instead of hoofbeats.

That got me thinking about where choppers came from in the first place. After World War II, American servicemen came home with a taste for speed and simplicity. The big Harley-Davidsons and Indians they’d left behind suddenly felt bloated, sluggish and dull. So they did what any self-respecting gearhead would do – they stripped the bikes down. Off came the heavy mudguards, crash bars and other useless frills. What was left was lean, mean and fast. These stripped-down machines became known as "bobbers," named for their bobbed mudguards.

But some riders took it further. They didn’t just want lighter bikes. They wanted attitude. Enter the chopper – named for the way builders "chopped" the frames and forks to stretch the front end out. The longer the forks, the more extreme the look. The seat dropped lower, the handlebars climbed higher and the foot controls moved forward. The result? A riding position that had nothing to do with practicality and everything to do with style. Without even trying, they’d recreated the posture of a cowboy in the saddle.

Think about it. The rider sits back, legs extended, arms raised like they’re holding invisible reins. It's pure Western horsemanship, just with chrome instead of leather and a petrol tank instead of a saddle. The forward foot controls force you into that cowboy sprawl, hips open, spine curved like you’re riding the range. It’s not about comfort. It’s about attitude.

Harley enthusiasts will tell you it’s all about style. Function? Forget it. Try weaving through traffic on one of those raked-out monstrosities and you’ll be cursing the day you thought looking cool mattered more than making a corner without wrestling the handlebars like an angry bull. But style wins, doesn't it? The whole chopper scene is a love letter to the American frontier – the horseman swapping spurs for exhaust pipes.

Films like Easy Rider hammered the point home. Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper weren’t just bikers. They were modern cowboys, roaming a country they no longer recognised, much like the drifters of the Old West. The bike wasn’t just transport. It was a statement – a middle finger to conformity wrapped in polished metal and cheap thrills.

The irony? Real bikers – the ones clocking thousands of miles a year – don’t touch choppers. Too impractical. Too uncomfortable. But practical isn’t the point, is it? The chopper is fantasy made real. A horse you don’t have to feed, shoe or muck out. Just fire it up, hit the road and pretend the world isn’t closing in.

Freedom? Maybe. A fashion statement? Definitely. But if you think you’re riding a motorcycle and not some petrol-powered pony, you’ve missed the whole point.

TDS - a Case Study in Projection

Apparently, I have TDS, according to a MAGA. Trump Deranged Syndrome, they say. The implication being that I’m irrational for pointing out the orange elephant in the room. But let’s look at this rationally, shall we?

Trump is a man who’s lied more times than most people have inhaled. He lost the popular vote – twice – but still insisted he won. He was impeached twice, incited a violent attempt to overturn an election, hoarded classified documents, and has been indicted more times than I’ve had decent pints of cider this year. The man is, by any reasonable measure, a walking indictment of everything democracy tries to protect itself from.

And yet, his supporters see criticism of him as a sign of mental illness. That's ironic.

Because if you’re still pledging fealty to a man who wanted to “terminate” parts of the Constitution, who tried to strong-arm election officials into fabricating votes, and who believes wind turbines cause cancer, then perhaps the derangement isn’t on this side of the fence.

This is the real Trump Deranged Syndrome – the cult-like, fact-resistant fervour that leads grown adults to chant “lock her up” while their chosen leader collects felonies like they’re football stickers. It’s the blind loyalty to a man who throws his own supporters under the bus while pocketing their donations. It’s the belief that everyone else – the courts, the media, the scientists, the voters – must be wrong, and only Trump speaks the truth.

And then there’s the economic delusion – the fantasy that Trump is somehow going to hand the average voter a tax break. His actual record? Slashing corporate tax and stuffing the pockets of the ultra-wealthy. Supporting him in the vain hope that this time the crumbs will fall your way is, frankly, the textbook definition of madness – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. It’s not Einstein’s definition, as some believe, but it’s still a decent rule of thumb – and it applies here with surgical precision.

So yes, TDS is real. But it doesn’t stand for what they think it does. It’s not the critics who are deranged for spotting a conman. It’s those still applauding him, like hypnotised seals, who need the intervention.

If you can watch a man attack democracy, lie with abandon, call neo-Nazis “very fine people”, and still say “yes, that’s my guy”, then I’m afraid you’ve got a textbook case of Trump Deranged Syndrome.

And you should probably sit down before someone asks you to define ‘integrity’.

A Targeted Retaliation Strategy

So the Americans have gone ahead and slapped a 10% tariff on UK goods. Not entirely out of the blue – there were rumblings, and the usual backchannel grunts from Washington – but still, it’s a punch in the ribs however politely it was telegraphed. The Starmer government, to its credit or naivety, had been trying the old charm offensive. Lots of quiet diplomacy, friendly overtures, and talk of rekindling that famous “special relationship” – a phrase that now mostly serves to remind us how one-sided it’s become.

The thinking, presumably, was that if we were reasonable – if we played the grown-up, avoided confrontation, and said all the right things – then Washington, even under Trump, might return the favour. It hasn’t. It’s slapped tariffs on our exports anyway. Whether it’s pure protectionism, domestic political theatre, or part of a wider anti-European grudge doesn’t really matter. The outcome is the same: British exporters are now 10% more expensive in a market we’ve long been told was our post-Brexit salvation.

Now the question is whether we respond – and how. Some argue we shouldn’t. That retaliation risks escalation. That the UK is too small to win a trade spat with the US. That we should bide our time, keep negotiating, and not risk derailing whatever scraps of goodwill might still be floating about in Washington.

But doing nothing has a cost. Not just economically, but strategically. It sends a signal – to the US, and to every other potential trade partner – that Britain is willing to absorb economic punishment in silence. That our supposed sovereignty is ornamental. That we’re still, after everything, hoping that if we just behave ourselves, the grown-ups will let us sit at the table.

That approach might once have passed for diplomacy. Now it looks more like weakness.

So yes, we should respond. But with care. Not with bombast. Not with a trade war. With precision. Tariff those American imports that are politically sensitive and economically expendable. Bourbon. Motorbikes. Citrus. Branded clothing. Processed food. Things we can easily substitute – but which American exporters will notice. And every pound raised from those tariffs should go straight into a fund for UK exporters hit by the US action. A practical, contained countermeasure – not a tantrum.

This isn’t about one-upmanship. It’s about consequences. If you make it painless to target British industry, don’t be surprised when it keeps happening. The world’s full of economic bullies. The trick is not to act like one – but not to invite them in for lunch either.

Starmer’s approach wasn’t wrong. He was playing the only cards he had – charm, predictability, and polite overtures. But when that fails - although 10% rather than 20% is a success of sorts - doing nothing isn’t prudence, it’s surrender. We don’t need to match Trump’s fire with fire. Just a cold, well-aimed nudge that makes clear there’s a price to pushing Britain around.

Trade should be fair. And when it isn’t, someone has to pay.

Perhaps the State Visit invitation should be withdrawn, citing security reasons - Charles may shoot him accidentally on a grouse shoot.

Black Beauty Rides Again

It’s astonishing what you can achieve with under a hundred quid, a splash of petrol additive, and a nod from a bloke with a shed. The mighty R129 – my 500SL in its tuxedo of Blue-Black Metallic and sagging dignity – has undergone something of a resurrection. Not quite biblical, but certainly Lazarus with leather upholstery.

First off, a second-hand fuel gauge sender has been acquired, along with a brand new sump oil level sensor. Both for less than the price of a Tory peerage, which is frankly scandalous when you think about what they charge for a new one. Mercedes-Benz would have you believe their sensors are infused with unicorn tears and calibrated by Swiss watchmakers. Nonsense. The real secret lies in eBay, optimism, and a willingness to rummage.

Then came the ASR light, which had been doing its best to impersonate a Christmas tree. It seems to have cured itself, probably out of sheer embarrassment. Either that or it realised I wasn’t paying for another bloody diagnostic. There’s something unnerving about a car that fixes its own electronics. I suspect it now has sentience and has decided I’m enough trouble without adding limp mode into the mix.

As for fuelling, I had the misfortune to give the beast a slug of bog-standard unleaded by mistake. It looked at me like I’d offered it Tesco’s own-brand gin. So I ordered some additive to compensate, which arrived yesterday. A generous glug later and the difference was immediate. Torque for days. I practically tore up the Wickwar Road – not figuratively, I mean there’s probably a groove in the tarmac now. A combination of 5 litres of M119 fury and a guilty conscience makes for spirited driving. The cows fled. Small children cheered. One man dropped his Greggs. In future it's Super Unleaded.

Better still, I’ve made the acquaintance of an old chap with a shed in Frampton Cotterell. The sort of shed that smells of glue, leather, vinyl and quiet defiance of modernity. He’s going to reapply the roof lining to the hardtop, which had been slowly peeling away like the scalp of an ageing rocker. Years of damp will do that. But now the car will have a headliner that no longer flaps in the wind like a mournful ghost. The problem, however, is that he can't do it for a good few months. I asked for an estimate - he tutted and sucked his teeth and pronounced; "I'll have to use the old material, as it will be impossible to match it, and all the foam will have to be scraped off. Well, that would take a couple of days - say £250?" I was ecstatic, having expected a bill of at least £500.

The silver / grey body kit is next in line for paint. It’s being redone next week by a mate at work at mates' rates. Soon the old Merc will be strutting about looking like it’s just stepped out of a showroom, albeit one with tax discs and cassette holders.

And then – the pièce de résistance – the car has been entered into the Chipping Sodbury Classic Car Run at the end of June. Which means there is now a deadline. No pressure. Just the entire town, dozens of other cars, and the looming risk that mine will either win admiration or explode in a cloud of confused electronics and aged wiring.

But still. Progress. For under a hundred quid, some chemical wizardry, and the kindness of a shed-dweller, Black Beauty is back. With a vengeance. And possibly a grudge.

The classic car market thrives on nostalgia. It's not really about the metal, the engineering or even the driving experience, though those are the excuses often given. At its core, it’s about people remembering who they were and the life they lived - or wanted to live - when a particular car first crossed their path.

A car rolls off the dealership forecourt, shiny and new, but its financial trajectory is grim. Depreciation bites hard, the once-prized purchase bleeding value as years tick by. It hits a point where it’s just an old car, barely worth mentioning, let alone cherishing. Yet the tide eventually turns, usually around the time when the right people start feeling a tug in their chest at the sight of one.

Maybe it’s someone who remembers their first car, long gone but never forgotten. Maybe it’s the son or daughter of someone who drove one, now looking to rekindle a connection to a father who always drove that boxy saloon or a mother who made every school run feel like an event in her bright little Mini. Whatever the trigger, once nostalgia stirs, the market responds. Prices rise, and what was once ordinary becomes extraordinary, simply because it carries the weight of someone’s memory.

But this cycle doesn’t last forever. Nostalgia has an expiry date, and it’s tied inexorably to the living. When the people with those memories fade away, the cars that carried them lose their magic. Values drop again unless the car in question has something timeless about it. Being rare or historically significant can help, but more often it’s design that endures.

There’s a reason why cars like the E-Type, Mercedes Pagoda, Citroen DS2 Convertible, Bentley Silent Speed 6 and Aston Martin DB5 remain desirable, no matter how many decades have passed. These aren’t just vehicles; they’re works of art, icons of their eras, etched into the cultural consciousness. But for every design classic, there are countless others whose moment has passed. Without someone left to remember why it mattered, a car becomes just a relic, sitting quietly in a garage or a field, waiting for a time that will never come again.

So the classic car market, when you strip away the polish and the auction-day theatrics, is really a mirror of our own fleeting relevance. Cars ascend in value and esteem not for what they are but for what they mean to the people still here to care. Beyond that, they fade, much like the lives they were once so deeply entwined with.

Making money from classic cars depends on knowing the market and the cycles. The cost of restoring a classic car is high, unless you're accomplishing the task yourself - but even then it's still costly to obtain rare parts. To make money you have to buy astutely and be prepared to part with your heart at the peak of the cycle for that particular vehicle. 

Classic cars are mainly for drinking, not for laying down. In short, this phrase captures the essence of classic car culture – these vehicles are about stories, shared passions, and human connections. They belong out on the road and in car parks outside pubs, not wrapped up like museum exhibits. They’re built for driving, admiring, and discussing over a drink, not for tucking away like some high-stakes commodity. Classic cars are about living in the moment – not waiting for a distant future where they might fetch a higher price at auction.

For me a classic car comprises the many MGBs I drove and rebuilt in my early 20s, the GT6 I never owned, but wanted, the S Type Jag my father drove and the E-Type I lusted over and defined an era (not forgetting the James Bond and Italian Job DB5). For my kids it might be the Volvo 850 I drove them around in when they were small (No.1 Son has already expressed an interest in one), the Ford Galaxy that I find so practical (that'll be a long time coming) or the Mercedes C43 my eldest son drives now in his youth. Certainly not my GT6, nor my Mercedes R129 500SL - although the latter my just enter the net due to it being bullet-proof.

The Fiat Ducato motorhome? Not a chance! However, with the 500SL back on the road, the GT6 progressing and me pining for a post-war motorcycle, planning for another garage is at the feasibility stage. I'm thinking pig shed style, but in Cotswold Stone and a corrugated, aluminium roof.