Oh dear, tears all round. The ten year old son of last night’s hosts has a national ranking for a reason. He is brilliant. Master Tutt took a whooping as did his humbled father who managed to take three points off the child prodigy, but only because the aforementioned youth made careless mistakes. Not a good start to 2020.
I spotted an interesting statistic today (if that’s not an oxymoron) in The Week. According to a national survey 33% of Britons think they could do a better job than Boris Johnson as Prime Minister. Which means that in our family of four at least one person has delusions of grandeur. Alison’s (my wife) response to the survey question was “no idea”. I fancy what she really meant was “not a prayer”. Without asking the children (14 and 12) I can confidently predict that they would not outperform Boris. Which just leaves me. I am in no doubt that I wouldn’t be a match for Jeremy Corbyn let alone the runaway Election winner. I reckon that there would be an awful lot of families who would fall into the same bracket. So where on earth do they get 33% from. Either there are enormous swathes of extremely talented families lurking in the industrial wastelands just waiting for their chance, or the stats are complete baloney. Take your pick, but I would be inclined to plump for the latter. Lies, damned lies and statistics. But every walk of life now is blitzed by them. Sadly, sport isn’t spared. With data bases to hand, golf commentators proudly pronounce that “that’s the third time in fifteen rounds this season that he’s made a birdie at the second hole”. Hold the front page. Clearly there are any number of folk who find the constant flow of data interesting, but personally I would much rather know what the chap in question does in his spare time, what eccentric hobbies he has and crucially who is he sleeping with.
I have been involved in a number of interesting “gender fluid” conversations in the last twenty four hours. As an Old Fart, I find the whole subject quite hard to get my head around. It does seem though that the future, including in schools, is for shared lavatory and bathroom facilities. This will presumably call for a lot of individual cubicles where you can enter fully clothed, lock the door, remove enough attire to complete whatever the task in hand is, dry yourself if you got wet, replace the removed articles and re-enter the LBGTQ+ Gender Neutral/Fluid/who cares world untainted by social interaction. According to Alison, who cares for a flock of some seventy “girls” (at least that’s what they are currently known as), to a person they loathe the idea. So do I. Just as King Canute proved tragically inadequate in his mission to prevent coastal erosion, I fear there is no stopping this tidal wave of lunacy. I am going to bed with the full complement of dangly bits, traditionally associated with men. However, I may wake up and declare myself female. Why not? Perhaps I will have a go at Boris’s job. I could be the third woman PM.
(I am slightly concerned that 2020 is getting off to a bizarre start?)
ADayInTheStrifeOf 