DREAM ESCAPES

A few days ago, Andrea Leadsom, Leader of the House of Commons (and a feisty Brexiteer), announced that there would be the dreaded “meaningful vote” on Theresa May’s exit deal from the European Union on Tuesday 11 December preceded by a 5-day (yes, 5-ruddy-days!) debate. The prospect of this hellish period, complete with endless discussion of the options – hard exit, Norway / EFTA-style, Canada +++, renegotiation or no deal, all providing a prominent forum for our hideously posturing politicians – with a deafening accompaniment of blood-curdling prophecies from the metropolitan media, the BBC and The Bank of England, to name just three tainted sources, is surely enough for all sane citizens to open their atlases and try to choose some bolt-hole to escape the horror of it all.

Now we all know this 5-day fiesta is a total waste of time. Theresa’s deal has not got a prayer of a chance of being voted through. I confess to wobbling for about an hour. Surely a deal is better than no deal and Michael Gove, whose opinion I respect, said; Do not let the perfect be the enemy of the good. At least nominally we would be out of the EU, in charge of our frontiers, able to control incoming migrants and be half-shot of the ECJ. But there is just too much wrong – a restricted ability to do trade deals with other blocs, lack of clarity about UK control of fisheries, vague promises about a UK/EU trade deal, convoluted interference from Brussels and the Irish Republic in the affairs of Northern Ireland and EU hostility over Gibraltar- a snip at £39bn. So, Theresa will lose the vote and probably will also lose the leadership of the Tories to some more assertive and ambitious personality, hopefully one who actually believes in Brexit. I have no idea what will happen at that point but we need a miracle to unite the nation.

What escape route can we take? I had a yen for Easter Island in the remotest South East Pacific about 1,200 miles from her nearest inhabited neighbour. But, alas, the sovereign power there, Chile, only grants 30-day visitor’s visas. Moreover, the dumbly impassive stone heads for which the islands are famous, are much too reminiscent of Brussels negotiators for comfort.

Stone Heads (moai) on Easter Island

              

Another possible bolt-hole is Pitcairn, only 2 miles across and a handy 3,000 miles from New Zealand, which sends a provision boat every 3 months. There are only 50 residents, all descendants of the eight 1790 mutineers from HMS Bounty, who had prudently taken along some Tahitian women. Frankly the place sounds boring, the romance confined to the various famous movies.

Marlon Brando as Fletcher Christian

I suppose some Atlantic islands qualify for selection, balmy Ascension with its airbase, St Helena evoking defeated Napoleon or rather chilly Tristan da Cunha, but I must not assume a warm welcome. The natives are not always friendly as that unlucky missionary John Chau lethally discovered as he landed on Sentinel Island last week in the Bay of Bengal.

On reflection I think somewhere much closer to home may fit the bill. As a native of the North East of Scotland I would consider elevated Tomintoul in Moray, the highest village in the Highlands, but easily cut off in the winter. Alternatively, there is blameless Auchnagatt (but the local pub has closed) or windswept Cruden Bay in Buchan whose splendid sands and golf course delight during the short summer months. Yet none of these places are out of range of hoydenish Nicola Sturgeon and the gnarled legion of her SNP fanatics.

Pals Theresa and Nicola pose unconvincingly

I could find civilised sanctuary amid the Cotswold villages and market towns – say, Bibury, Burford or mellow Chipping Campden but it is rather a happy hunting-ground for the metropolitan elite with whom I am currently out of sympathy.

So instead I will barricade myself in my home in Brexit-supporting Folkestone, confine my reading to the staunch Telegraph, block my ears to Remainer Project Fear scare stories and hysteria, sip delicious sparkling Chapel Down from local Tenterden vineyards, consume crusty and gravy- soaked steak and kidney pie, listen to Elgar and Vaughan Williams and read Donne and Kipling while awaiting deliverance from the hosts of Midian.

SMD

30.11.18

Text Copyright Sidney Donald 2018

A RICH STEW

The last few weeks have been so caught up in abrasive EU meetings, deafening political turmoil at home, alarms from across the Atlantic and the unbearably poignant centenary of the Armistice that I have found it impossible to concentrate on other more calming matters. So, forgive me as I dive in!

Never has the gulf, nay the abyss, between Provincial and Metropolitan England been so obvious as over Brexit. Provincial England remains staunchly in favour of a liberating Brexit; their England must defend her independent sovereignty and retain control over her destiny. They are irritated and even disgusted by the slavish obeisance of the Metropolitans to the whims and diktats of Brussels. The Establishment in government, in the City, in many professions and in business has a profound financial vested interest in the status quo. I had expected these people to resist Brexit fiercely (in fact they lazily assumed the referendum would be easily won) and now they argue that the 2016 referendum was deficient, although Cameron’s Remainer government called it. They do not respect the result, although the referenda in 1975 about remaining in the EU, and several devolution polls subsequently, were never challenged – well, after all, they went the Establishment’s way!

Leading Tory Remainer Anna Soubry

Labour Remainer Chuka Umunna

The Last-Ditch opposition we see today is unexpected to me; I would have anticipated vigorous efforts to modify terms and constructively engage in the negotiations. But not a bit of it, only root and branch hostility, suggesting to me that many Remainers are willing to sacrifice their country’s well-being for their own purposes – an attitude I find deeply unpatriotic and unacceptable. Shame upon them!

It is idle to pretend that the Leavers have not made a complete mess of their Brexit strategy. Feebly led by tepid Leaver Theresa May, the Tory government has given every possible weak signal to its electorate and to the EU’s hard-line negotiators in terms of indecision, fudge and double-talk. Our best cards – the size of our divorce settlement payment, our defence and security capabilities, our territorial waters and our trading connections have all been squandered or compromised. Some kind of agreement may be more or less ready but we are having our tails tweaked by an Irish Republican government, for generations hostile to the UK, and an EU determined to punish Britain for leaving their precious cartel.  Almost certainly we will not sign on these terms and we will move to a “hard” Brexit, with Theresa May the first political casualty and grim ill-will legacies towards our neighbours. The horrid prospect of a Corbyn administration would then indeed loom large. Indeed, this episode is shaping up to be “the worst failure of British statesmanship since Suez” in Boris Johnson’s brother Jo’s words as he resigned from Theresa’s government.

To turn to less weighty matters, President Trump was oblivious to the sensitivities of Armistice Day in Paris. He quarrelled sharply with Macron over French enthusiasm for a European Army to defend Europe against Russia, China (and America!). Trump did attend a ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe, although visibly upset that the King of Morocco should fall asleep on the dais beside him, but he failed to visit an American War Cemetery outside Paris (too much rain!) or to attend a Macron inspired “Peace Conference” / Gallic talking shop – understandably not Trump’s kind of thing. Instead Putin earned dix pointes for turning up!

Macron strokes Trump's knees with Imperial insouciance in Paris

The weekend gave us a heartening demonstration of British dignity, restraint and controlled emotion. The Centenary of the 1918 Armistice, bringing to an end a cruel war which saw 880,000 British dead, was sure to be a special moment. The sharp grief of families has now past as has the suffering of the maimed or wounded, but their sacrifice will not be forgotten. The Fallen were duly honoured at the Festival of Remembrance at the Albert Hall on Saturday at a most moving mixture of music, poetry and parade, ending in a rainstorm of poppies.

The traditional Cenotaph service and wreath-laying, including the music of Purcell, Elgar and many others brought back so many memories of generations past and profound thanks to the brave and invincible present generation. Like a million others, we walked on Sunday morning to the local war memorial, us to Folkestone with many hundreds of others and paid our respects. Portraits of Great War soldiers had been drawn into the sand to await the tide in 1,000 locations – we had the matchless poet Wilfred Owen, killed one week before the Armistice.

Wilfred Owen's portrait drawn in the sand at Folkestone

                

      

The timeless scene in Whitehall

The day carried on here with music from a local brass band, the lighting of one of many coastal beacons and the ringing of church bells. A deeply-felt day ended on a note of joy and hope.

Whatever Remainers and Brussels may say, it is simply impossible that a people like ours will accept domination and control from Continental Europe. We wish to be friends and good neighbours but as the old song goes; “Britons, never, never, never shall be slaves!”

SMD

13.11.18

Text Copyright © Sidney Donald 2018