Tariffs as a Cudgel

Tariffs - the economic equivalent of a toddler smashing their toys in a tantrum and expecting applause. Every so often, a leader convinced of their own brilliance decides that the best way to “win” at trade is to slap taxes on imported goods, as if that somehow levels the playing field rather than setting it on fire. 

Trump, of course, was (and remains) a master of this blundering approach, launching a full-blown trade war with China between 2018 and 2020, armed with little more than bravado and a misunderstanding of basic economics.

The theory was simple: tax Chinese imports, force American companies to produce domestically, and reduce the trade deficit. The reality? American consumers bore the brunt of higher prices, farmers found themselves bankrupt as China retaliated, and supply chains buckled under the weight of self-inflicted chaos. The trade deficit barely budged. Instead of reviving American manufacturing, Trump’s tariffs simply shuffled production to Vietnam, Mexico, and other countries smart enough to swoop in while Washington flailed about. China, unsurprisingly, did not cave to the bluster – it retaliated in kind, targeting U.S. agriculture and tech industries with its own tariffs, ensuring that America’s pain was very much self-inflicted.

Then there were the 2018 tariffs on steel and aluminium, another gem in Trump’s economic crown. Sold as a way to protect American industry, they did little except increase costs for automakers, construction firms, and manufacturers reliant on these materials. The industries they were supposed to save? Barely benefited. The ones they harmed? Countless. The result? U.S. goods became less competitive abroad, job losses mounted in downstream industries, and any marginal gains in steel production were dwarfed by the overall economic damage.

Tariff wars have been tried before, and they’ve almost always failed. The Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act of 1930 should have been a cautionary tale, but apparently, history isn’t a strong suit for those who think governance is about chest-thumping rather than competence. That particular stroke of genius deepened the Great Depression, setting off a chain reaction of global economic retaliation. And yet, nearly a century later, the same mistakes were repeated, dressed up as “America First.”

The truth about tariffs is that they are a blunt instrument wielded by those who lack the patience or intelligence for real economic strategy. They don’t rebuild industries; they inflate costs. They don’t fix trade imbalances; they just redistribute them. They don’t create prosperity; they create chaos. If tariffs were the magical solution their champions claim, North Korea would be an economic powerhouse.

Trump’s trade war was less about strategy and more about ego, a self-defeating exercise in economic self-harm that left America weaker, its industries scrambling, and its global influence diminished. The winners? Competitor nations who took advantage of the turmoil. The losers? Consumers, workers, and businesses who paid the price for a policy that was never going to work. If tariffs were supposed to make America great again, they failed spectacularly – but then, so did their architect.

Contrast this with the European Union, which has been employing tariffs for decades, not as a sledgehammer but as a carefully calibrated tool. The EU’s common external tariff system has long been a means of protecting strategic industries, ensuring fair competition, and maintaining food security through the Common Agricultural Policy. Where the EU gets it right is in its consistency and predictability - tariffs are part of a structured trade policy, designed to promote economic stability rather than knee-jerk political showboating.

That’s not to say EU tariffs are always beneficial. Protectionist measures on agriculture, while safeguarding farmers, often lead to inflated food prices and disadvantage producers in developing nations. The EU’s tariffs on certain manufactured goods can also make essential imports more expensive, creating inefficiencies in its own market. However, the key difference is that the EU does not wield tariffs like a political cudgel; instead, it integrates them into a broader strategy of trade agreements, regulations, and economic diplomacy.

In short, tariffs are not inherently bad – but they need to be used with surgical precision, not swung around like a lead pipe in a bar fight. The EU understands this; Trump did not. And that is why one remains a stable economic bloc while the other flailed its way through a self-inflicted trade disaster.

I'm Only Asking the Question

Nigel Farage, champion of the little man, scourge of the establishment, warrior for the working class – or so he’d have you believe. But let’s take a moment to examine what he’s really up to, shall we? Because something doesn’t quite add up.

Farage rants and rails against immigration, whipping up fear and loathing at every opportunity. But here’s the rub – the UK needs population growth of at least 0.5 to 1 percent per year just to keep the tax base afloat. Without it, we can’t fund public services or pay state pensions. And yet, current immigration levels are only slightly above that, with the UK's population growing at roughly 1 percent per year, primarily due to net migration. Projections suggest the population will reach 70 million by 2026, but that growth is entirely driven by migration, as deaths now outnumber births. So why the hysteria? What’s he really trying to achieve?

Let’s be honest – "I’m only asking the question," to use Farage’s favourite tactic – what if his real goal isn’t stopping immigration at all, but something far more insidious? What if the plan is to strangle the tax base so the government is forced to slash public services and state pensions? It’s the perfect Trojan horse for gutting the welfare state while keeping his hands clean. A political sleight of hand – look over here, I’m fighting for you, while over there, I’m making sure you’ve got sod all left when you retire. And I don’t want to sound like one of those conspiracy theorists, but isn’t it convenient that the very people who would benefit from a shift to private pensions just happen to be the ones funding his latest political venture? "I’m only asking the question."

State pensions don’t make money – but private ones do. And that’s where the real cash cow lies. If the public purse is empty, people are forced into the arms of the financial sector, where Farage’s City mates can rake in the profits. Hedge fund managers like Crispin Odey, who made a fortune betting against the pound after Brexit, are hardly losing sleep over working-class pensioners. Suddenly, the ‘little men’ Farage claims to fight for are left scrambling, while the real winners sip champagne in Mayfair, toasting their good fortune.

And let’s not forget – Farage himself has a rather cushy EU pension, which he’s never once refused. Funny that. Almost as if he understands perfectly well the value of a solid, state-backed retirement fund. But for the rest of us? Tough luck, mate – you should have invested wisely (in a scheme conveniently managed by his wealthy donors, of course). But sure, he’s only looking out for the little guy. Nothing to see here, move along. "I’m only asking the question."

Farage’s push for an even harder Brexit, one that severs all remaining economic ties with the EU, including pulling out of the European Convention on Human Rights and scrapping any regulatory alignment, fits neatly into this scheme of engineered decline. By pushing for a Brexit so extreme that it throttles trade, deters investment and isolates Britain further, he ensures the economic turmoil needed to justify deep cuts to public spending. A weakened UK, cut adrift from its largest trading partner, would see reduced tax revenues, declining business confidence and a further squeeze on wages – all conditions that accelerate the dismantling of the welfare state. Meanwhile, as public services collapse under the strain of economic contraction, the very hedge fund elites backing Farage stand ready to profit from the fire sale of state assets, whether through privatised pensions, private healthcare expansion or the deregulation bonanza they have long desired. It is not about sovereignty or control – it is about orchestrating a crisis that forces people into the arms of private profiteers. But let’s dig deeper – because it’s not just pensions at stake. The entire infrastructure of Britain is underpinned by tax revenue. Fewer workers mean less money for schools, hospitals, transport and policing. The economic impact of suffocating immigration isn’t some left-wing fantasy – it’s basic fiscal reality. And when that happens, guess who gets to foot the bill? Not Farage’s mates – they’ve got their wealth stashed away. No, it’s you, paying more in taxes, watching your wages stagnate, waiting months for a GP appointment because there aren’t enough staff to go around. But hey, at least we took back control, right?

And speaking of crumbling public services, let’s talk about the NHS. Who profits from an NHS in crisis? The same billionaires backing Farage. "I’m only asking the question," to use Farage’s own tactic – is it really a coincidence that he’s rubbing shoulders with the same American billionaires salivating at the thought of carving up the NHS and flogging it off to private investors? A starved tax base, an overwhelmed service, and a public desperate for solutions – all the ingredients for a fire sale of what remains of our national healthcare. Let’s not forget that Farage himself has expressed support for moving towards an insurance-based model – a stance he conveniently plays down when talking to British voters. The NHS Is an insurance based model - but it's not-for-profit! And who wins? Certainly not you. "I’m only asking the question."

So what’s he hiding? Why push a policy that hollows out the economy and hammers the working class while pretending to be their saviour? Is he incompetent, or has this been the plan all along? You tell me – "I’m only asking the question."

And let’s not kid ourselves that this is some accidental by-product of ideology. Farage is no fool – he’s a career grifter who has built a lucrative empire on peddling populist outrage while carefully sidestepping the consequences of his own rhetoric. His whole schtick is a performance, and the audience? The very people he’s selling down the river.

So, when he next appears, pint in hand, bemoaning the influx of foreign workers while conveniently ignoring the economic chasm that would open up without them, ask yourself – is this incompetence or a calculated stitch-up? Because either way, the people who’ll suffer aren’t the hedge fund managers or the media barons bankrolling his crusade – it’s the very voters he’s duped into thinking he’s on their side. The same voters he tricked into buying his dodgy Brexit – and we all know how well that turned out. Now that Brexit has been shown to be a failure, he’s running away from it, claiming it wasn’t the right Brexit all along.

So yup, "I’m only asking the question." But you already know the answer, don’t you? Please try to fault my logic.

Local Elections

Oh, the irony. The Conservatives and their Reform offshoot – the political equivalent of a pub bore who’s had one too many – are out in force, howling that Labour is some sort of Orwellian nightmare for delaying local elections due to local government reorganisation. Dictatorial, they cry! A shocking assault on democracy! The sort of thing you’d expect from, well, them.

You see, when the Tories were merrily wrecking local government with their reorganisations – slashing budgets while simultaneously fiddling with boundaries – they delayed local elections without a second thought. 

• Northamptonshire, for example, where they drove the county council off a financial cliff, saw elections postponed for a year while they cobbled together two new unitary authorities out of the smouldering wreckage. 
• Cumbria, North Yorkshire, Somerset – all had elections pushed back in 2022 to accommodate reorganisation. But back then, it wasn’t an attack on democracy, was it? Oh no. It was “sensible governance.”
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• And let’s not forget Cornwall, Durham, and Northumberland in 2009. Labour delayed local elections to bring in unitary councils, and the Tories barely blinked. 

Why? Because it suited them at the time. It always does. The second it doesn’t – when Labour is the one making the changes – they start screeching about tyranny. As if democracy is a sacred thing to a party that illegally prorogued Parliament, stitched up constituency boundaries in their favour, and spent 14 years avoiding scrutiny like a vampire dodging daylight.

Meanwhile, Reform – a party with 5 MPs, no actual power and an extraordinary amount of airtime – is jumping on the bandwagon, wailing about the “dictatorship” of a government that was just elected with a massive mandate. This is, let’s not forget, the same lot who think democracy is a bit of a nuisance when it gets in the way of their Brexit fantasies, and who openly flirt with the idea of binning human rights when it’s inconvenient.

It’s textbook Tory-Reform hypocrisy. If elections are delayed on their watch, it’s ‘administrative necessity’. When Labour does it for the same reasons, it’s a sinister plot to destroy democracy. And let’s be honest – the only thing that truly terrifies them about elections is that, for the foreseeable future, they’re going to lose every single one.

The Phantom Menace of an EU Army

An EU Army – the great Brexiteer bogeyman, right up there with straight bananas and the sinister machinations of the metric system. I was in an argument recently with a Brexiteer who raised the prospect of an EU Army, as if it was some magnificent Gotcha.

If you listened to the frothing mob who spent years screeching about "taking back control," you’d think Brussels was gearing up to conscript pensioners into a pan-European stormtrooper corps, all while Jean-Claude Juncker personally led an invasion of Kent. But the idea of an independent European military isn’t some nefarious scheme to erode national sovereignty – it’s a necessary, pragmatic, and long-overdue step.

And now, with Trump back in the White House, muttering about NATO like it’s a dodgy gym subscription he’s been tricked into paying for, the need for European defence autonomy is more urgent than ever. He’s already made it clear – the days of America footing the bill for European security are numbered. His latest outburst, threatening to let Russia do as it pleases with any NATO country that doesn’t cough up 2% of GDP, should have set off alarm bells from Warsaw to Westminster. Yet, bizarrely, the same Brexiteers who’ve spent years fetishising "sovereignty" are dead against Europe standing on its own feet militarily.

Because here’s the awkward truth: Europe, Britain included, is far too reliant on the US for defence. The UK, despite all its Churchillian posturing, couldn’t fight a major war without American support – our nuclear deterrent is leased from Washington, our cutting-edge jets rely on US software, and without American satellite intelligence, our armed forces would be as blind as a bat on ketamine. And it’s not just Britain. Most of NATO is in the same boat. Germany, Poland, France – they all rely on Uncle Sam to keep things ticking over. France is perhaps the least reliant.

So, what’s the logical response? A serious European defence strategy – one that doesn’t involve begging Washington every time a crisis erupts. Yet, every time this idea is floated, the Brexiteer brigade, still trapped in their Cold War nostalgia, start shrieking about a "European superstate with its own army!" – as if being strategically dependent on a mercurial American president is somehow preferable to actually being able to defend ourselves.

And let’s not forget the economic reality. A proper EU military-industrial complex would be an absolute boon for GDP. Defence spending, however uncomfortable it may be, is a massive economic driver – boosting manufacturing, research, and innovation. Europe already has world-class defence firms – Airbus, Dassault, Rheinmetall – but rather than pooling resources, each country insists on making its own kit, leading to duplication, inefficiencies, and spiralling costs. Meanwhile, the Americans do it properly – one centralised defence strategy, one dominant military-industrial base. If Europe followed suit, it wouldn’t just be self-sufficient, it could actually compete globally as a major arms exporter.

And compete it must, because the world is getting far more dangerous. The United States is, at best, an unreliable ally and, at worst, a rogue state in waiting. The idea that Europe can simply outsource its defence to Washington is pure fantasy. The next time Russia, China, or any other power starts testing Europe’s resolve, there’s no guarantee the US will answer the phone. And if Trump’s latest NATO tantrum is anything to go by, we should assume they won’t.

Yet, instead of having an honest discussion about self-reliance, the same Brexiteers who wailed about “global Britain” now have the vapours at the thought of Europe not being strategically helpless. They’d rather Europe remain militarily dependent on the US, with a patchwork of underfunded, semi-compatible forces, than admit that Brussels might actually have a point. It’s sovereignty when it’s Westminster, but tyranny when it’s the EU.

The irony is, thanks to Brexit, Britain has now shut itself out of the very defence cooperation that would make it stronger. The EU is moving towards greater defence integration, and instead of leading the charge, the UK is left watching from the sidelines – reduced to a strategic afterthought, not a global player.

If we had any sense, we’d rebuild defence ties with Europe, stop peddling the delusion that we can go it alone, and ditch the Brexiteer fairy tale that an EU Army is something to fear. Because the real threat isn’t a phantom European superstate – it’s a world where we’re weak, isolated, and still pretending we’re a great power when, in reality, we’re just another mid-sized nation caught in a storm we can’t control.

The Church of Brexit

Ever wondered why Brexiteers simply can’t admit Brexit was a failure? It’s a peculiar cocktail of pride, propaganda, and misplaced identity – shaken, not stirred, into a potent brew of denial.

Brexit was sold as a hymn to self-reliance - "Take back control," they cried, as though sovereignty were a set of keys left behind at the pub. It wasn’t just a political slogan; it was a masterstroke of emotional manipulation. It tapped into something primal: the idea that grit, determination, and good old British pluck could overcome any obstacle. Motivational internality - the belief that success stems purely from individual effort rather than external factors - was ruthlessly exploited. It didn’t matter that the promises were vague, contradictory, or outright fantastical. It was a vision of Britain as the plucky underdog, ready to stand alone, chin out, against a tide of globalisation.

But then reality hit. Labour shortages, collapsing trade, endless red tape – the fallout wasn’t just a trickle; it was a flood. Yet, the same narrative was cleverly twisted to deflect blame. Farms struggling? Work harder. Businesses going under? Be more innovative. The propaganda machine, never short on audacity, turned Brexit’s failures into a referendum on individual effort. The problem wasn’t Brexit – it was you. The brilliance, if you can call it that, lies in this Machiavellian sleight of hand. By tying the nation’s woes to personal shortcomings, they built a fortress of denial that even the most damning evidence struggles to breach.

The heart of the issue, though, is identity. For many, voting Leave wasn’t just a political act – it became a statement of self. To question Brexit now is to question themselves, their judgment, their values. The propaganda exploited this with ruthless efficiency. Brexiters were cast as modern-day heroes, stoically enduring hardship in the grand tradition of the Blitz spirit. Never mind that the Blitz was an unavoidable war and Brexit a self-inflicted wound. This was about narrative – and narratives, once embedded, are devilishly hard to dislodge.

And so the goalposts move. Brexit isn’t failing; it’s facing "teething problems," or suffering from "global headwinds," or thwarted by the lazy masses who lack the entrepreneurial zeal to seize its supposed opportunities. It’s a hymn of excuses, harmonised by those too invested to admit the emperor’s wardrobe is decidedly sparse.

The irony is palpable. In seeking freedom from the EU, Britain shackled itself to its own delusions. That once-empowering belief in determination and self-reliance has been weaponised, not to unleash potential, but to deny responsibility. Brexit isn’t a political choice anymore – it’s a creed. A faith immune to facts, logic, or evidence. Sovereignty, borders, trade – these aren’t policies now; they’re totems, symbols of a dogma clung to with religious fervour.

When confronted with the economic fallout – plunging exports, rising inflation, industries in crisis – the faithful do not flinch. They recite their liturgy: "It’s Covid. It’s Ukraine. It’s global factors." Never mind that other nations grappling with the same challenges haven’t hobbled themselves in quite the same fashion. It’s not Brexit’s fault; it’s the world conspiring against Britain’s triumph. The faithful cling to this narrative, their cognitive dissonance staggering in its scope.

Consider the much-vaunted promise of border control. Post-Brexit, irregular Channel crossings have surged, the asylum system is overwhelmed, and the government’s response has been more empty rhetoric and draconian posturing. "Taking back control" now means chaos masquerading as sovereignty. But the faithful press on, undeterred, chanting their mantra louder than ever, as though volume alone can mask the cracks in the facade.

Meanwhile, Brexit’s apostles – Jacob Rees-Mogg, Nigel Farage, and their ilk – continue to preach to the converted. From their lofty pulpits in Parliament and the media, they invoke a Britain that never truly existed: all tea on the lawn, cricket on the village green, and Empire-fuelled prosperity. It’s a fantasy – but an intoxicating one. Their sermons appeal to nostalgia and emotion, painting Brussels, immigrants, and the so-called "Remoaners" as the villains in this saga of plucky British heroism.

This wilful blindness has consequences. Farmers watch their crops rot without EU labour. Small businesses collapse under the weight of new barriers. The NHS buckles under chronic staff shortages. And yet, the faithful shrug and repeat their prayer: "It will be worth it in the end." It’s a refrain eerily reminiscent of medieval peasants awaiting salvation, oblivious to the suffering around them.

The tragedy is that the very people who railed against the "dogma" of Brussels have created an orthodoxy of their own. The EU, for all its flaws, is pragmatic, evolving, and adaptable. Brexit, by contrast, is static – its doctrine carved in stone, impervious to reality. It’s not about outcomes anymore; it’s about belief, identity, and belonging to the tribe. The blue passport, the Union Jack, the ritualistic denouncements of Europe – these are the sacraments of a faith impervious to evidence.

But faiths crumble. Crises of belief often come when reality becomes too loud to ignore. A lost job, a closed business, a shattered dream – these moments of personal reckoning chip away at the edifice. For some, it will be a sudden epiphany; for others, a slow erosion of confidence. Eventually, the faithful will have to confront the uncomfortable truth: that their sacred creed may have been a mirage all along.

Until then, Britain remains trapped – led by zealots preaching from the pulpit of nostalgia, clinging to myths while the rest of the world looks on, bemused.

I was recently asked by an ardent Brexiteer what, if 17.4m people voted for Brexit, had the EU done so wrong, as if sheer weight of numbers was a blockbuster argument. Yes, there was dysfunction in the UK–EU relationship, though not necessarily for the reasons many Leavers like to claim. The EU is a vast, bureaucratic institution – that’s inevitable when you’re coordinating 27 economies. It can be slow, frustrating, and at times opaque. The UK, never one to miss a chance for self-sabotage, spent decades demanding special treatment, opting out of key areas, and yet still moaning about being “dictated to” – despite being one of the most powerful voices in the bloc.

So what did the EU do wrong? Arguably, it underestimated the ability of British politicians and media to whip up resentment while avoiding any real conversation about the UK’s actual role in the EU. It failed to counter decades of tabloid nonsense about bendy bananas and mythical superstate plots. It didn’t take seriously enough the damage done by successive British governments – particularly Tory ones – who used Brussels as a scapegoat for their own failings.

But let’s be honest. Brexit wasn’t about the EU’s flaws. It was about disillusionment with Westminster, economic inequality, and a misguided belief that “taking back control” would somehow solve domestic problems caused by British policy, not EU membership. And the real proof? Nearly eight years later, with the EU out of the picture, things are worse – not better.

So yes, the EU wasn’t perfect. But it didn’t cause Brexit – that honour belongs to those who sold a fantasy and those who bought it. 

When you think of it, elections are often won by those who can sell the most compelling (or, in some cases, the most deceitful) vision of the future. Every general election involves a degree of political snake oil, with parties making promises they either have no intention of keeping or later find unworkable once in power. The difference with Brexit was the sheer scale of the deception and the permanence of its consequences.

In a general election, if a government fails or breaks its promises, voters get a chance to correct course in five years. With Brexit, there’s no such safety net. It wasn’t a change of government but a structural upheaval of the nation’s economic, political, and diplomatic foundations. The Leave campaign’s promises – sunlit uplands, easy trade deals, £350 million for the NHS – were no different from the usual election pledges, except that once the lie was exposed, there was no mechanism to undo the damage. Even now, with public opinion shifting against Brexit, there’s no simple way back without years of negotiation and economic pain.

So yes, in many ways, Brexit was just a larger-scale version of the political con tricks we see in every election – but this time, instead of being able to vote out the charlatans and move on, we’re left with their wreckage indefinitely.

Gari Addiction

Confession time – I’m utterly addicted to gari, that sweet and tangy Japanese pickled ginger you get with sushi. It’s supposed to cleanse the palate between mouthfuls, but frankly, I could hoover up an entire jar without a hint of regret. There’s just one snag: it costs a small fortune in the shops. I mean, you’d think they’d been pickled in liquid gold rather than rice vinegar.

 

So, ever the resourceful chap, I thought to myself, "How hard can it be to make this stuff?" Answer: not very hard at all, especially if you’re prepared to produce it in industrial quantities – which, let’s be honest, suits my consumption levels just fine.

First off, ginger root isn’t extortionate. At around a fiver per kilo, it’s positively economical compared to those minuscule jars from the supermarket. A kilo of ginger makes an impressive amount of gari, so I set to work with great enthusiasm.

Peeling the ginger is easy enough – although your kitchen ends up looking like you’ve been skinning hedgehogs. The tricky bit is slicing it. Now, slicing ginger by hand with a knife sounds romantic and artisanal, but the reality is you’re left with pieces varying in thickness from paper-thin to something resembling a door wedge. So, I upgraded to a mandolin. Mistake. The fibrous ginger clogs it up faster than you can say “bandage your fingers”, and you risk taking a chunk out of your hand for good measure.

Next, I tried a potato peeler. Not a bad shout at first – I managed a few decent slices. But the moment you hit a particularly fibrous bit of ginger, the peeler sulks and refuses to cooperate. 

Finally, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered my Lidl bacon slicer. Yes, that’s right – the gadget I bought on a whim and which usually lives a quiet life gathering dust in a cupboard. Turns out, it’s the perfect tool for slicing ginger. It produced almost translucent slivers, just like the posh stuff you’d find in a Japanese restaurant. Victory!

Next, the ginger needs a quick blanch. None of this boiling it to death business – just a minute in boiling water will do. It softens the ginger and takes the edge off the raw, punchy heat. Not strictly necessary if your slices are thin enough, but if you don't then the heat in the ginger may be a tad overpowering.

Now for the pickling solution. The traditional recipe calls for rice wine vinegar, but if you’re not a connoisseur, cider vinegar will do the job nicely. Let’s face it – most of us don’t have a trained palate capable of distinguishing between the two. The magic ratio is simple: equal parts vinegar and water, and an equal amount of sugar in grams. So, if you’ve got 50ml of vinegar and 50ml of water, you’ll need 50g of sugar. Easy as that. I used about 3 times that amount.

I went all-in and bought a 5-litre container of vinegar for £12 on Amazon. Considering how long it’ll last, it’s a sound investment. Buy it in supermarkets and, again, you're paying the same for a small bottle. Dissolve the sugar in the vinegar-water mix with a bit of heat, but don’t let it boil – we’re making gari, not syrup.

Pour your pickling concoction over the ginger in a sterilised jar, pop it in the fridge, and leave it to do its thing for 24 hours. After that, it’s good to go – and trust me, once you’ve made your own, you’ll never fork out for those overpriced supermarket jars again.

If you want the pink effect that young ginger produces, you can cheat by adding a sliver of beetroot to the pickle solution.  

The result? Delicious, homemade gari that’s as good as anything you’d get at a sushi bar, for a fraction of the price. And if anyone asks why you have industrial quantities of pickled ginger in your fridge, just tell them you’re prepared for the next wasabi shortage. Or, like me, admit that it’s because you simply can’t get enough of the stuff.

Oh, and you can vary the ratio of vinegar to sugar to suit your taste.

Buoyed by my success, I next tried pickled carrot. The problem with carrots is that they're quite tough, which means the initial blanching has to be a tad longer to soften the slices - say 3 or 4 minutes of boiling, depending on thickness. Also, carrots are slightly sweet, so I reduced the volume of sugar slightly.

Retaining the crunch, while not being totally raw, requires a bit of practice. But the result is once more delicious and a great accompaniment to any meat or a salad.

I made a 2nd batch of pickled carrot, using the potato peeler to fashion the slices. This batch, being thinner, required only a few seconds of blanching. I rinsed the slices under cold water to stop the blanching continuing, which retained much of the crunch.

Delicious!

Cat Food

You'd think that after thirteen-odd years of me dutifully serving as her butler, chef, and general skivvy, my cat would have figured out how to open a pouch of cat food herself. It's not as if she doesn't know where they are - she watches me retrieve them from the cupboard with the intensity of a MI5 operative monitoring suspicious activity. And it's certainly not due to a lack of tools. The claws alone should be more than adequate for the job, not to mention the teeth that can shred an armchair in record time.

 

But no. She sits there, staring at me with a look of disdain that says, “Are you seriously this slow?” She’ll even throw in a dramatic tail flick for good measure, just to underline her frustration at my apparent inability to read her mind and have the pouch opened before she even deigns to request it. Meanwhile, I’m fumbling with the sachet, trying to tear it open while Her Majesty waits, unimpressed.

Now, don’t tell me she’s not capable of figuring it out. Cats are clever creatures. I've seen her open doors that should have required a locksmith’s touch. She can leap onto the highest shelves, manoeuvre through the narrowest gaps, and expertly bat ornaments off ledges with consummate precision. But apparently, the art of pouch opening remains beyond her grasp? I don't buy it.

No, this is a calculated move on her part. Why should she put in the effort when she’s got me to do it for her? Cats are experts at outsourcing tasks they deem beneath them. If they had opposable thumbs, I suspect they’d have us signing contracts before long, agreeing to lifelong servitude in exchange for the occasional purr or headbutt. You think you're in charge, but deep down, you know the truth - you're staff.

And she’s not shy about making her demands known. She’ll miaow loudly to attract my attention if I’m too slow to catch on. If that fails, she taps me with her paw - a gentle but insistent reminder that dinner isn’t going to serve itself. It’s quite the performance, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work every time. The combination of the miaow and the tap is a masterclass in feline manipulation. I’m wrapped around her little paw, and we both know it.

Feeding her when Jumbsie, the neighbour’s cat, is in the house is a nightmare. He only visits for warmth and to find food - he's mercenary and doesn’t get on with Kitty. The moment there’s the slightest scent of food in the air, he’s there like a shot, muscling in with all the charm of a bouncer at closing time. Meanwhile, Kitty glares at him with utter contempt, and I’m left playing referee between two disgruntled cats.

The worst part? If she ever did manage to open her own pouch, I'd bet good money she'd help herself to two. Or three. And then claim she hadn't eaten all day when I walk in, because cats have mastered the art of deception better than any politician. “What? Me? No, this empty pouch? It must have been that fox that broke in. Can we focus on the fact that I'm starving, please?”

In the end, it's all part of their grand design. They keep us guessing. They let us think we’re needed. And they get their food served with just the right balance of exasperation and affection. It’s a game of cat and mouse - only the mouse is a pouch of chicken-and-liver dinner, and the cat is the undisputed champion of psychological warfare.

So, here I am, after thirteen years, still opening pouches, still getting splattered with gravy, and still apologising to a creature who’s probably laughing at me on the inside. And do you know what? I'll do it all again tomorrow. Because that's what it means to be owned by a cat.

Oil Subsidies

BP and Shell, those self-styled pioneers of the "energy transition," have once again shown their true colours. Faced with the choice between leading the charge into a sustainable future or stuffing their pockets with oil money, they’ve chosen the latter with all the subtlety of a fox in a henhouse. Shareholders, no doubt salivating over the prospect of more fossil-fuelled dividends, have voted overwhelmingly to keep the gravy train rolling. And why wouldn’t they? The system is rigged in their favour.

Let’s talk subsidies. We are told endlessly that renewable energy must stand on its own two feet, that wind farms and solar panels must prove their worth without "distorting the market" with public money. And yet, the fossil fuel industry – mature, staggeringly profitable and responsible for torching the planet – is showered in taxpayer-funded perks like a spoilt aristocrat. Globally, fossil fuel subsidies exceeded $7 trillion last year. Yes, trillion. That’s seven thousand billion in a single year to prop up an industry that already rakes in obscene profits.

BP and Shell are no strangers to this bonanza. In the UK, they’ve been handed generous tax reliefs on North Sea drilling, ensuring oil and gas extraction remains artificially lucrative. In the US, tax incentives keep the fossil fuel spigot flowing with predictable regularity. Meanwhile, the renewable sector gets a patchy, uncertain deal – thrown a few bones when the political wind blows in the right direction, then left to fend for itself when the fossil fuel lobbyists get their way.

It’s no surprise, then, that BP is slashing its planned investment in renewables. They initially pitched themselves as green pioneers, but that was just window dressing for the real business of pumping more oil and gas. They’ve cut their renewable energy spending to between $1.5 billion and $2 billion a year while boosting fossil fuel investment to a cool $10 billion. Shell, never one to miss out on a payday, has followed suit, allocating just 8% of its budget to renewables while the rest is poured into the same old dirty business.

And the excuse? "Renewables aren’t delivering the expected returns." Of course they’re not – because these companies never intended to make them work. When you invest peanuts in green energy while hoarding subsidies for oil and gas, the outcome is predictable. It’s the equivalent of tying someone’s shoelaces together and then berating them for not running fast enough.

It’s not just corporate greed at play here. Governments, too, are complicit. They wring their hands about climate change, make grand promises at international summits and then quietly funnel billions into propping up the very industry responsible for the crisis. If our leaders were serious about the energy transition, they’d scrap fossil fuel subsidies altogether and redirect those funds to renewables. Instead, they continue to coddle BP and Shell, who are more than happy to take the money and run.

And then there are the institutional investors – hedge funds, pension funds and asset managers – who pour billions into fossil fuel stocks while claiming to care about sustainability. These are the same entities that demand higher returns quarter after quarter, pushing BP and Shell to double down on oil and gas rather than risk short-term losses on renewables. Their idea of "responsible investing" is a greenwashed marketing campaign while they quietly profit from environmental destruction. If they were serious about climate change, they’d shift their capital towards genuinely sustainable enterprises, rather than rewarding companies that drag their feet on the transition.

So here we are, once again watching the same tired pantomime. Big Oil pretends to care, governments pretend to regulate, and shareholders – including powerful institutional investors – pretend they have no choice but to chase profit at the planet’s expense. All the while, the climate crisis accelerates, and the window for meaningful action closes. BP and Shell aren’t transitioning to anything other than bigger profits. And until the subsidy scam is shut down, they’ll keep milking the system for all it’s worth.

A Politically Illiterate Electorate

The working man fought tooth and nail for the right to vote. He marched, he rioted, he suffered indignities and beatings, and yet he persisted. He won, eventually. But what did he win? The right to scrawl an 'X' on a bit of paper every few years, usually in the direction of whichever snake oil salesman managed to tickle his fancy that week. Because, while he won the right to vote, he was never given the tools to use it properly.

You see, democracy isn't just about having a vote – it's about understanding what that vote means. And this is where the system, that great bastion of British fairness and justice, completely and utterly failed him. The education system, which should have equipped him with the knowledge to dissect policies, scrutinise candidates, and understand the machinations of governance, instead left him floundering in a swamp of soundbites, misinformation, and media manipulation. He can probably name Henry VIII’s wives but can’t explain the mechanics of a budget deficit. He can rattle off Pythagoras’ theorem but has no idea how tax bands work. He can regurgitate Shakespeare’s soliloquies but doesn’t know the difference between broadening the tax base to self-fund borrowing and increasing taxes.

And whose fault is that? Successive governments, of course – because an educated electorate is a dangerous electorate. Keep the masses ignorant, and you can sell them any old tosh. Promise the impossible, deny the obvious, shift blame like a street magician palming a coin. A public schooled in the art of critical thinking wouldn’t fall for the nonsense spewed by the likes of Johnson, Farage, and their ilk. They wouldn't swallow slogans like 'Take Back Control' or 'Get Brexit Done' without asking – control from whom, and at what cost? What does getting Brexit 'done' even mean?

Instead, our schools churn out generation after generation of politically illiterate citizens, armed with just enough knowledge to scrape by but not enough to challenge the grift that governs them. Politics and governance should be on the National Curriculum – not some half-hearted, tick-box exercise buried in citizenship lessons, but a proper, rigorous subject. Teach kids how the economy works, what a central bank does, how laws are made, the power of a manifesto promise versus the reality of governance. Explain the possible, the impossible, and the inevitable consequences of different policies. Let them debate, let them argue, let them question.

Take trickle-down economics – a con of the highest order, pushed as the gospel truth despite its utter failure to deliver anything but more wealth for those who already have it. Or population decline – a looming crisis caused by economic insecurity, rising living costs, and short-sighted policies that have made raising a family a financial impossibility for many. Then there’s taxation – how it funds public services, how cuts to those services impact society, and how the wealthy continually dodge their fair share while the working man shoulders the burden. These are things every voter should understand before stepping into the polling booth.

Then there’s the erosion of workers’ rights – another disaster born from a lack of political education. Trade unions, once the backbone of labour protections, are demonised in the press, leaving workers vulnerable to exploitation, stagnant wages, and insecure contracts. And let's not forget the privatisation scam – essential services like healthcare, water, and transport stripped of public accountability and handed over to profit-driven conglomerates, who then charge through the nose for declining standards.

Of course, the argument against this is always the same – we mustn't indoctrinate children. But the real indoctrination is what we have now – an education system that conditions young minds to accept politics as something that happens to them rather than something they have a stake in. Imagine if we gave them the tools to actually scrutinise policy instead of just choosing between red or blue based on tribalism.

The grim truth is that an electorate capable of spotting a fraudster from a hundred paces would be an existential threat to those in power. And so the cycle repeats – a deliberately underinformed public, duped into voting against its own interests time and again. And we call it democracy. 

Take Reform, currently enjoying a surge in the polls. Ask a Reform supporter how much extra tax their policies would cost, and you’ll likely be met with a vacant stare – most haven’t read the manifesto and instead take Farage’s bile on GB News as gospel. 

Reform’s tax plans would add nearly £90 billion a year to the bill: £41bn to raise the personal allowance to £20,000, £18bn to lift the higher rate threshold to £70,000, and more on top. Independent analyses suggest the real figure could be even higher. To cover this, they propose £150bn in cuts to public services, debt interest, and benefits – the same public services already on their knees (the largest spends are health and pensions). And just like Brexit, the experts warning this doesn’t add up are being ignored, despite being proven right before. Meanwhile, the tax cuts would overwhelmingly benefit higher earners, leaving those on lower incomes with little to show for it. In short, Reform's economic plan is a fiscal fantasy – but, as ever, people will vote for it anyway because they're swayed by immigrant-centred emotion, not facts.

As an aside, it's worth noting, ironically, that immigration has blunted some of the worst Brexit effect by widening the tax base. Tell a Reform voter that and you'll be accused of lying, despite it being glaringly obvious to the untrained mind. Naturally, the Reform supporter will insist, with no evidence at all, that all these immigrants are on benefits.

We won the vote. Now we needs the power to use it in an informed manner.

The Blood Donor

You’d think giving away a pint of blood would be simple enough – after all, there’s no shortage of people out there willing to spill it over a car park disagreement. But no, the noble act of donation has become something of a saga for me over the past year.

April last year, I rolled up my sleeve and gave what I thought was just another routine contribution to the great British blood bank. The next appointment, however, didn’t quite go to plan. It turns out my iron levels had dropped below the acceptable threshold, meaning my otherwise perfectly serviceable blood was deemed unworthy. Not to be outdone by my own biology, I embarked on a robust diet of iron tablets and black pudding – the breakfast of champions (and the slightly anaemic).

By the time I was next due to donate, my iron levels were back in the green, but there was another snag – I’d had a tattoo. This, according to the NHS, puts you in the ‘potential biohazard’ category for a few months. Fair enough. I bided my time, eager to get back on the donor schedule. Just as I was about to, I went and got a second tattoo. Another delay.

January rolled around, and at long last, I booked in a session for a couple of days ago. Everything was set. No dietary deficiencies, no fresh ink – just me and my perfectly good blood. But fate, it seems, had other plans. The day before, I found myself wrestling with bitumen tape on an office container ceiling, which resulted in a delightful little accident involving molten bitumen and my knuckle. The result? A rather nasty, suppurating burn.

As anyone familiar with blood donation knows, the service can’t take any chances with infection. No one wants a pint of potential sepsis in their veins, after all. So once again, I was turned away, my good intentions thwarted by bad luck and questionable DIY practices.

I did, however, get them to test my blood iron, which I passed with flying colours - it was sufficient to stick me to a welding magnet.  

At this rate, I’ll be lucky to donate again before I start getting offers for funeral plans. But I remain undeterred. The battle to give away my blood continues – assuming I don’t inadvertently set myself on fire or take up a hobby involving rusty nails in the meantime.