E.U.Æve Been Framed...
The rules for æMetricationÆ are quite simple: armed only with a calculator, you must attempt to go about your daily business without getting either ripped off or hopelessly confused. This will not be easy. I foresee legions of old men forced to buy tobacco in units of 28.35 grams instead of the familiar ounce and losing their sanity in the process. Supermarket aisles will be populated by seething shoppers trying to convert their meat requirements in and out of the metric system without resorting to violence. Evidence given in a trial, such as the height and weight of the accused, will have to be ætranslatedÆ on the off-chance that the case is referred to a European Court.
And who is going to bear the inordinate cost of this latest nonsense? Yes, youÆve guessed it...WE are! As ever with the bureaucrats of Brussels, you give them an inch...sorry, 2.54 centimetres...and they take 1.6093 kilometres. They will, unchecked, continue the invidious process of removing our quirks and eccentricities of character until we have lost our national identity altogether.
The arrogance and shamelessness of these unelected non-entities beggar belief. Frankly, if some interfering Jacques or Helmut cannot work out for himself how many litres are contained in a gallon (4.5461), he can bloody well pay for the conversion himself! And by what right do these officious pettifoggers prevent us selling ham by the pound, or whatever other curious measurement we wish? It is as though, while living in the same block of flats, I enter your apartment and demand that you turn vegan! You might point out that it is none of my business how you conduct yourself in the privacy of your own home. You might use stronger language and eject me from your premises with a clip round the ear. But I doubt most strongly that you would cravenly surrender to my unreasonable request.
Yet the supine penpushers of the Foreign Office, doubtless unwilling to prejudice their regular junkets abroad at the taxpayerÆs expense, do just that, accepting the endless intrusion, interference and indignity with a shrug of the shoulders and a trite reference to our need to be æat the heart of EuropeÆ. "MustnÆt rock the boat..." they simper, as they implement another plethora of directives to cripple our small businesses. "ItÆs a good deal for Britain..." they insist, as an entire industry is shattered in order to placate the Spaniards, or the Greeks, or whoeverÆs in line for this weekÆs Euro-handout.
Crap! By my reckoning, anyone claiming to have made a ægood dealÆ must per se show either profit or advantage from it. If I hand you a fiver and you give me two pounds in return, I cannot claim to have made a ægood dealÆ. Yet that is our arrangement with Brussels writ large. As ænet contributorsÆ to the E.U. budget, we subsidise voluntarily not only the impoverished or inefficient economies of the southern states, but the fraudsters, rule-benders and mafiosa too! Worse still, it is taxation without representation, despite the wails of M.E.P.s desperate to convince us (and themselves) that theyÆre really jolly important and have a say in what goes on.
The Government rejects a referendum on the issue for the simple reason that it is scared witless of the result. Rejection, by the voters, of the whole bloated, corrupt E.U. machine would pose the mother of all problems. Withdrawal would be unthinkable (imagine the endless speeches by Ted Heath, Tristan Garel-Jones et al!); while continued membership would demonstrate all too clearly the utter contempt for the electorate felt by most politicians. Safest option = no referendum.
Thus we are obliged to play æMetricationÆ; see our laws overturned by unaccountable foreign institutions; and stump up ú57 million per annum to destroy perfectly good food!
If this is æharmonisationÆ, letÆs go to war!
..would smell as sweet..." wrote William Shakespeare in æRomeo and JulietÆ. By the same token, a dog by any other name still bites, as Peter Hobson, erstwhile Headmaster of Charterhouse, has just discovered.
His amour fou with æhostessÆ Sally Henderson has prematurely ended his career and probably prompted awkward questions from his wife. However, amid the tawdry tabloid revelations, accompanying pictures of Ms. Henderson in various unflattering outfits (school blazer; gown and mortar board; etc.), and tearful interviews with the relatives, one significant question has been overlooked.
Are we honestly to believe that grown men, however desperate, are willing to pay hundreds of pounds to grapple with Ms. HendersonÆs pasty acres of flab? Were I to have gone to the trouble and expense of securing an æescortÆ for the evening, only to discover Sally waddling through the door accompanied by her numerous chins, I should not only have demanded my money back but claimed damages as well! If Ms. Henderson is a æSophistocatÆ, fetch me a æCrudecatÆ anytime!
Nominations for æ***t of the WeekÆ to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
In our search for the vanished stars of yesteryear, we pose this crucial question:
Whatever happened to Chesney Hawkes?
Suggestions to: WASP@londonmall.co.uk
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