Do you view them as selfish, arrogant, dangerous? NO? Well you should. Because they are. The wheezy bastards are in the cross hair - and rightly so. For today I learned that their insistence in breathing comfortably, oxygenating their blood and staying upright is all at the expense of our dear planet - each year British asthmatics alone produce 619,000 tonnes of carbon dioxide from their little blue toys. (619,000 tonnes is, by comparison, the equivalent of two billion car miles). Christ alive.

Can’t they just stop being asthmatic? Surely it’s a trend, a fad - an excuse to get a note from matron excusing yourself from the long jump. A way to dodge conscription - or competition scuba diving. Surely it isn’t THAT hard to breathe?

As it happens, I am one of the wheezy bastards - condemned at birth and handed a blue polar bear killer in place of a rattle or toy. Deprived of the joy of scuba diving in a terrorism hotspot, forced to endure the indignity of pulling out an inhaler after experiencing the slightest of inconveniences (Admittedly I mastered this for comic effect some twenty-five years ago). It is a pretty crap condition, for some people it is fairly light, trivial and for others it can be fatal.

Fortunately I sit equidistant between the two and provided it is well managed, through a combination of check-ups, daily tablets and a bandolier of polar bear killers, it does not cause too much trouble.

That being said, Asthma has caused two great embuggerances for me. The first is the fact my planned career (I was pretty obsessed with this) of joining the Royal Air Force was soon a fallacy, and the second is the sheer beauty of an Asthma Attack - they are somewhere between an elephant (or paid lady elephant) sitting on your chest and drowning in a pool of warm San Pellegrino. It is terrifying to you and to those around you, including The Blonde who has driven me to A&E or hosted paramedics in the front room (Grandiose term, our cottage only have 4 rooms!) numerous times. I digress, but I’ll take a morsel of sympathy at this juncture.

Now, back to Just Stop Wheezing, who, I assume, will soon chain themselves outside of the nearest Inhaler factory, respiratory hospital or Billy Joel concert in protest. (For legal reasons I must point out no such protest group exists - yet). Should they direct their anger at the global diaspora of 0.25bn Asthmatics -0.5m of whom die from Asthma each year - unlikely. Instead, the vitriol should go to the mass-market manufacturers of these devices and ask two simple questions

1. Is there an alternative to the propellant gas used to get the medicine down my gullet and into my lungs?

2. Moving past the gas, surely there’s an alternative to the awkwardly shaped plastic shell that holds the gas? (Although they are indeed angular and awkward there is a fate worse still- the majority of my formative school years I was forced to carry around a dildo disguised as an inhaler - look it up!)

Question two currently yields no answer, (although I have a couple of enterprising friends that I’m sure could soon invent a Bamboo one and make their fortune)

But there is an answer to question one - it’s a different kind of gas (HFC-152a to those in the know) and it cuts emissions by 91% - it is the Prius, or populist Tesla, of inhalers. In fact, it would come at no additional cost to aunty NHS nor reduce its clinical effects.

As it happens I have tried such an eco-inhaler for the last few years and whilst it’s medicinal effects, I’m told, are the same as my previous 4x4 3.4l diesel powered inhaler, I was and am not convinced - the lack of propellant gas does not leave one with the same sense of deep satisfaction (Ooh err missus!) as my predecessor - but I am still here and still breathing.

So, like those feeling the pinch from investing in solar, binning their petrol car, ditching deodorant (A feeble facade for simply wanting to be smelly), we wheezers must ask ourselves a simple but difficult question; must we forego subjective satisfaction that our lung-drug is working to save Mother Nature? Of course we will - but this is indeed a very human and very real sacrifice to make.

Those in the UK will see the NHS (at least on the surface) finally undergoing some structural review and scrutiny - part of this has to be the environmental impact of such an organisation - an organisation which accounts for 4% of all of the UK’s carbon emissions. Not all of this 4% will come from the wheezing masses, much of it from single use plastics, an aging estate and the sheer result of the incredibly work they do.

Difficult questions to answer but ask they must.

I did a rare thing today - I retrieved a suit and cufflink dependent shirt from the wardrobe and then dusted and donned them. Today is an increasingly rare field day with meetings in London that need to be so, rather than via our two headed purple master (Teams).

A handsome bounty was paid (£66.39) for the pleasure - prior to driving to what I can only describe as the most calming station on earth (Kemble, Gloucestershire). Whilst sauntering (I am somewhat of a saunterer) to the platform I went to open Trainline to retrieve my tickets…

No matter, we move forward. The platform is packed and the gentile walled garden - eden like - abutting the platform is also packed - basked in premature March sunlight, children running around, seasoned Cotswold gents wryly smiling at the FT, laughter and yes, I kid you not, a juggler. It was so serene it could have been a french film set (I had visions of a Panzer crashing through the wall, flattening the gramophone squirting out overtures of Edith Piaf and upsetting the bistro tables and jugs of Chateau neuf de pape whilst a startled French waitress runs to the safety of a nearby stone loggia).

I digress.

The Panzer in my case was not of the tracked variety, it was in form of His Majesty’s Government - Department for Transport - the most feared weapon on the battlefield. On the very day they announce a rise of 4.6% we are greeted with a sardine can of a train - in fact we were told that two trains had indeed been shagged into just one train owing to a faulty door (Back in my day - late 00’s in fact, prior to the Hitachi sports trains, the doors were quite simple, rickety things, that you dourly accepted could be opened mid-transit at the drop of a bottle by a pisshead in-bound from Cardiff. The doors now are, I’m sure, a byproduct of SpaceX).

So, whilst the post-merge train was laying in bed with a cigarette, we were indeed cramming back inside of it - the great masses trying to get in and out of the sports train. And then the age old story begins to play - a packed carriage with helpless tourists (Who is on a fucking Cheltenham-London train MIDDAY on a Monday, I ask?). I shunt my way through a few inches of populous, coming to stand mere millimetres from the face of a fellow lady traveller (well Aged, I will add for the Blonde’s comfort). I explain I have a seat some way down the carriage and she instantly guffaws, saying I’ll probably have to evict a poor young yummy mummy from her seat with her homunculus still hanging off her. Too bloody right I would, how hard is it to reserve a bloody seat? Besides, I’m in a suit, I CLEARLY have work to do! (Some, but you’re also reading this - when do you think it was written?)

Well I was of course all talk and no trouser - my seat had indeed been occupied, it was indeed a yummy mummy, she indeed had not one but TWO homonculi (?) dangling from her - three if you count her husband. Strangely (she was of the American variety) a deal was soon reached and we performed the pasodoble that is a seat swap. So, chivalry is NOT dead - but it’s certainly in a care home.

So, freshly seated I begin to relax into some work. The gently frustrated tones of a GWR lacky interrupt our noisy peace and announce the issues with Train line and that as a result, no ticket checks would be taking place (Now i’m no thief, but does every rail journey end with you exclaiming that you just simply shouldn’t have bothered buying a ticket as nobody is going to check it?)

Groans can be heard throughout the sports train and I lock eyes with a chap opposite me - a gentle roll of the eyes, shake of the head and one of those weird half smiles/puff of air into the upper lip is executed - and we both return to our activities. This, I’m sure, is the ultimate display of what Bryson would see as Britishness.

In a final insult, and as to provide a cherry to the top of this cake, the train WiFi failed after an admirable 0.25 miles of travel from the station. Marvellous.

These aren’t just little niggly issues. Mundane, yes, but as much mundane as they are a national embarrassment. We are almost a year into Labour ownership as a country - a party most on the street would point to as safe custodians of the Railways (I happen to disagree - the party of the rail worker perhaps, but not of the rail commuter). More alarming is the fact that the Transport Secretary, Heidi Alexander, must be experiencing exactly the same pain - She is the MP for Swindon South (I think that’s the nice bit) and as such should be sharing the woes of the South West Rail Commuter. Even with a whopping annual budget of £26.8bn a budget, Transport simply doesn’t work in this country.

A Reform voter would soon point out that the UK “Made the world great” and “built the railways” - We’re doing a bloody awful job at getting the basics right. Hilariously, as I finish writing this on the return journey from London, our train now has a door issue!

So - whether we pull the rail infrastructure, operators, ticketing, maintenance into one operator - UK Rail, BriTrain, UKTrain, His Majesty’s Rail & Locomotive Service - or sell it off in small Thatcharian chunks - we just need to get it right. Get it working, get it moving, get it cheaper.

Fin.

I’ve no reason to be thinking about death. With a prevailing wind and some sensible choices I’m, I hope, at least 50 years from needing to think about it (60 if the family average is to be believed). But I do think about it from time to time - The Blonde is often critical (rightly so!) of my worries in this area - often directed at our House Cat (2).

But today I’m thinking about death in the sense of a Sunday (I’m writing this on a Friday). Sundays hold protected status in our house - a designated conservation zone (It would really give the WWF something to stick their teeth into!) I have an almost penitentiary approach to the week’s finale - picking over each and every detail of the day to ensure it aligns with my prescribed list of activities and outcomes.

The running order of the day is hardly unique or exciting - it should start with a spread of juice and breakfast items - outside if the sun is there. It might include a walk (In this weeks’ case it will be coffee with a mate), thereafter it is serenity, perhaps a nap (yep!) and some slow cooking.

Nothing remotely revolutionary there - but there is something deeply special to me about Sunday. About a year ago, I stumbled on the below - which is an extract from the wonderful diaries of Michael Palin - his 90s travelogues often part of a Sunday for us. To me, this piece absolutely captures my deep affection for the day;

Sunday, November 13th

I just feel very happy and very content at this moment. Nothing is expected of me today except to be here at home. I am perfectly well aware that around the borders of my life are problems, difficulties, painful decisions, even human tragedies demanding my involvement. I know I cannot live in a continual vacuum of happiness – but a day like today restores energies, tops up batteries, rebuilds whatever faith one has.

Today there is nothing more I want than what I have.

So it begs the question - is the crescendo of that beautiful love song how death should feel? Wanting nothing more than you have? Simply existing? I’m sure it is. The good news, I have another 3,135 Sundays til I find out. Bliss.

You probably won’t - (I didn’t until I started pulling some thoughts together for this). This man is one Frank Grimes.

Frank features in a 1997 episode of The Simpsons. Appearing as Homer’s enemy;

'“I'm saying you're what's wrong with America, Simpson. You coast through life, you do as little as possible, and you leech off of decent, hardworking people like me. Heh, if you lived in any other country in the world, you'd have starved to death long ago. You're a fraud, a total fraud.”

I haven’t seen the episode in ages, but the crux of it is that Frank is a victim - he’s a victim of others and his demise is directly linked to his hatred of others - his weird involvement in other peoples lives. You’re what’s wrong with America? Innocent enough line in 1997, scarier in 2025.

Why Frank Grimes?

I had an interesting journey in pulling this piece together. Initially, it started as a knee jerk reaction to a total pillock. I’m not going to say his name, but he shares part of his name with our jaundiced friend Frank. He is a luvvy of the right - a gob on a stick with increasingly thinly veiled prejudices of society. Picking on all of those unable to defend themselves - gig economy workers, immigrants - and readying his tongue for those doing the damage - the far right, here and across the pond.

The sort of guy that will readily spout a cheap line in some dreary bar somewhere and take a few lager riddled laughs as indication of policy; the sort of guy whose politics never really left his bedroom, the sort of guy that has no reason to fear the crap he spins. The sort of guy that probably needs a tissue and a cigarette after blowing his beans to 50% of Jeremy Vine callers (He really is insufferable, isn’t he?). This is Mr Reform - this is our Frank Grimes.

And my problem with them? They are multiplying - we will soon be inundated by bouncing Reformers with no dose of Myxomatosis at the ready to control their numbers. These Reform Rabbits bounce into every available piece of green and pleasant land and cause their havoc. They occupy more and more of social media’s open shopfront and and a growing fringe of nascent “TV News” (GB News of course being the biggest contradiction in terms). They feature in more and more family conversations and more and more in the social feeds of impressionable teenage boys seeking some sense and control in the world around them.

So how do we stop the rise of the Reform Bunnies? With any hope, they’ll do it themselves. Frank’s own demise tells us this;

Grimes ran through the plant, psychotically impersonating Homer in a mocking fashion, and ultimately spotted some high-voltage power cables, saying, "What's this? 'Extremely high voltage.' Well, I don't need safety gloves, because I'm Homer Simpso--" before he is fatally electrocuted.

Why the beef with Reform UK?

Reform UK, to me, is as much a product of political failings, disillusion with mainstream politics and social media as it is Laziness. Yes, Laziness.

Each of us have our prejudices - for most people it’ll be fairly innocent - natural risk aversion and a protective cartouche of personal experiences. We’ll weigh up risks against evidence and move forward.

For some, their prejudices sit deeper and in the absence of focussed rational thought, will use the world around them to validate these fears and prejudices. It’s the lazy attitude to critical thought, to research, to open discussion - to enlightenment - to facts - that has emboldened many of the far-right rabbit kits.

There is a strong correlation between age and polarisation of political views - often to the right. Do we not become lazier as we age? Almost certainly.

My message? Grab the weights with both hands and push that bit higher. Exercise the brain, practice critical thought, engage with the world around you - you won’t need the warm blanket of Reform UK for much longer.

It’s only a commercial, dear!

A few disclaimers right from the off…

1. Yes, that’s all I really remember about Michael Winner - Food Critic No. 1 (Yes, I’m just about old enough to remember those commercials from Esure - other insurance providers available). It just suited me to have three examples. Sorry!

2. I am, as a certain former Prime Minister put it, far too fat, and love the very thing I am about to slate so mercilessly.

3. Like most “normal” folk I have eaten in a handful of high-end food establishments - I am rightfully no authority on what we are about to receive - but let us all be truly thankful!

Picking the right trough

As The Blonde would point out (with much sorrow and embarassment) I am fond of a bovine comparison - that is to assimilate the human condition with that of our booby black and white friends. This is often in the realms of pregnancy and other female afflictions (Sorry) But for once, dear reader, I am able to offer a new thread of comparison.

Cows are extremely picky when it comes to the food they eat. This will strike you with a sense of disbelief I am sure, but picky they are. They are the original Michael Winners - in fact, they are also the original Joe Wicks as, unlike the growing proportion of us humans, they are picky and insistent on nutrients - striving to ensure their diet consists of the right foods - cows will favour nutrient rich and toxin poor foods, including weeds.

Now, many of us are bang on board with the cows - this healthy section of our society would happily follow a swinging udder to an idyllic field somewhere and start munching away on dandelions and thistles - they’d probably roll out a Yoga mat and match the cow fart for fart (You can’t possibly tell me that Yoga studios don’t stink like a teenage boys sleepover party at daybreak.)

However, more and more of us shun the teachings of the holstein, instead rushing to our iPhones, enter private mode and boot up Instagram - seeking out the latest in Food Porn - desperate to seek out the latest sticky endeavours - typically of a bearded, beanie hatted northerner (Clapham Surrey Trust Funder models also available) straddling a 60 patty Cheese Burger and going to town on it, before collapsing in a hot mess (Unlike a porn star they wear immaculately white t-shirts when engaging in this brand of debauchery, why is that?)

Impotence

It’s neigh on impossible to ignore the click-bait madness that now occupies the hallowed pages once held in court by the giants - Carême, Reichl, Bourdain, yes, Gill. Gone are the drag-queen level put downs of service and atmosphere. Gone is a genuine care for the provenance of the ingredients, the graduation of Michelen and AA stars, the back-story of the pub landlord and landlady.

And In? In is the competition to have the flappiest cheese-pull available, the girthiest sandwich or the moistest chocolate cake. The result? Overstimulation, an under-appreciation for beautiful simplicity, the inability to get it up for a meal that pulls less than 25 likes on Instagram. We’ve simply seen too much filth.

And through this shift - the sub-six second scroll, we’ve lost our cravatted critic, draining the lush fund of The Sunday Times and blagging a bucolic weekend in Bath. We’ve gained all and sundry equipped with the latest iPhone, a Social Media virologist and a train ticket to London, Bristol or Manchester.

The Food Critic is Dead - Long Live the Food Critic!

Yes, already!

As many LinkedIn drones do (Yes, you’re probably one of the drones too..!), I posted news of my recent NYC trip (The Blonde* and I are just back from “Mini-Mini Moon”) to a captive audience on LinkedIn - innocently explained as a way to shed the out-of-office, desperately prove a semblance of intelligence and, frankly, practice what one preaches as a Sales Manager.

See the post in question below;

Now, my post was factually correct - understandably it was suitably sterile for a corporate environment. Yes, I didn’t actually hear anyone say “Trump” but christ, his mark on the US was as clear as night and day.

9th Ave. Thai

This was a key manifestation of The Donald, a small, unassuming peanut palace (The Thai Restaurant, not El Presidente 45 & 47) on 9th Ave - our refuelling stop prior to The Book of Mormon (★★★★★). Shortly after taking our seats, I happened to notice a hastily laminated and typically drafted notice taped to the wall just next to us;

“The plastic straw available at request of diner”

Need I say any more?

Divorced Canadian

This was the second coming of The Donald - a fellow squeezed guest at the Book of Mormon - our dinner element of the much lauded “Dinner and a Show” conversational tidbit (It’s a crap line, isn’t it?).

The Divorced Canadian acting as our protagonist in this second act was seated beside a nice lady from Detroit (She reliably informed us that she had moved from CA to Michigan when she was six - why did I need to know that??).

I joined their polite, interval conversation by way of offering a small shake of M&Ms - declined by both parties. During this conversation, I learnt of their respective homes of Detroit and Newfoundland (Or, as they will robustly assert, Newfundland). The Detroit lady apologised to both of us for “The way things were going over here” and we both politely laughed it off - with the Canadian retorting he was just glad to be able to travel here and not be turned away at the border.

That meek, polite humour to me sums up what I imagine most Canadians feel when considering their Southern border in the face of “51st State” and “Governor Trudeau” jibes.

The Great Communicator

The third and final act of The Donald was actually my first encounter with him, via an Inflight Film on our American Airlines LHR-JFK flight. The Reagan biopic (★★★) of course didn’t mention or feature Donald, but through this love letter of a film I believe it reflects both Trump’s interpretation of Reagan’s vision for America and his interpretation of the result of Reagan’s time in office. You can see this as one of his guiding lights - I say this painfully as a relatively strong fan of President Reagan’s achievements as President - the fact his portrait hangs in his Oval Office attests to this. Trump’s vision for a strong America, the shining city on the hill.

The Verdict

Funnily enough, plenty are in a position to provide deep political and economic analysis of President Trump. For me, and for what it’s worth, he represents much of what is wrong in this world.

Trump’s America is not the same America we have looked up to for so many years. It is not the same America I have visited so many times prior to now, nor the one of so many people I know and respect. I deeply pity those that fall for his promise and respect those that stand or exist against his will. Many tenants of his vision are sound (Safe borders, strong internal economy, no global conflict) but each and every time it ignores the vital fact that America has taken the baton from us, the United Kingdom, as the global policeman. If not America, who takes over the beat? Each and every time it ignores the vibrancy of the United States, it’s melting pot. It ignores its history as the downtrodden. It ignores its leading status in higher education, in services, in technology.

Of his future? Despite the flocks of Trumplets lining up to take his place; I am confident he will soon (c.10 years) be seen as a Dodo - a relic of the past, and with him a generation of entitled, sexist, obnoxious and inadequate men will take their place in the ground. I don’t wish death on him, nor many of the men I see a bit of Trump in, but in the fast approaching passing of that generation I hope we will see an end to this brand of decision making and of leadership. To paraphrase Ronald Reagan - '‘What is right shall eventually triumph"

*The Blonde…

…is my darling wife. I am an atrocious reader; uncommitted, impatient, although impulsive when it comes to the purchase of books and pathetic when it comes to completing them. A rare exception has been the works of A.A. Gill, whose writing I adore and whose moniker for his better half I am keeping alive through this (probably short lived) attempt at writing.