FRÈRE JACQUES

ALTHOUGH MOST SENSIBLE British people pay hardly any attention to French language classes unless they are taught by a girlie with a bit of a pout, the one takeaway we get from hours of boredom while the assistant, with his cravat and dark navy bleu jacket that all the female teachers love and the over-the-top accent telling the girls about how Cointreau is made, is that we don't have to do physics while these chaps swan about the school.

THE FRENCH REVOLUTION, HOWEVER, is something that many bright young students looking forward to going to university, or "Uni", as these children call it nowadays, need to study.

IT WAS A BRUTAL PERIOD, made indescribably boring by the absence of any good pictures of the chaps and ladies involved, apart from a couple of paintings showing a one-breasted battleaxe who could perhaps do with a couple of days in the gym.

THE MATTER IS THAT it is estimated that between 1789 and 1797 over 1,500 elderly priests (as have been classified) were taken out of their beds at night, often hanged, sometimes whipped and humiliated publicly, made to fellate locals, on many occasions publicly buggered by the local "buggerer" (who usually worked at the forge) or forced into daemonic confessions with the threat of having hot irons inserted into them. Which were inserted anyway.

EVERY SCHOOLBOY KNOWS that "La France" is proud of its revolutionary history. And that what happened in France, all those years ago, paved the way for the 'democracy' we have today. Later on today we will probably get another swivel-eyed poetic discourse about nothing in particular from the French president.

AND SO TODAY? Someone can walk into a church while a Roman Catholic priest is saying Mass and cut his head off? M. Hollande, you are in a direct line, defending the values of the revolution: anyone can kill, rape, kidnap, murder or mutilate anyone else -- that is "Liberty, Equality.." and where is the fraternity? In big bank accounts throughout the globe. And yours, in particular.

THE CORBYN ULTIMATUM

Starring:

Matt Daemon as Corbyn Hazard

Ezra Pound as John McDonnell

Angela Eagle as Angela Merkel

ONCE AGAIN, NOW THAT THE LAZY, hazy days of summer are upon us, I am able to do more than merely comment upon issues of pressing national importance and reprise my occasional role as a film critic. 

THE RECENT RELEASE of a new British Film Institute movie, at a time when many British films are pooh-poohed by the international criticism, is an event in itself, but when it is one that aims to "out-Bond Bond", as it says here somewhere in the papers that the children working for the Labour Party left under my door this morning, it can only be seen as blockbuster material.

NOT, OF COURSE, IN THE SENSE of "straight to video", which often is perceived in the term 'Blockbuster', but meaning that it will run and run and run. Not, of course, in the sense that it will try to evade or avoid criticism by running away; rather it will take it on the chin.

THE PLOT: CORBYN HAS MANAGED to escape from Moscow, although he still has flashes of memory from his time when he was an agent for Operation Work the Treadmill. In London he starts his operation to take over the world. He manages to make contact with a mysterious "McDonnell", who promises security service support to help him do so. He gets him a ticket to go to Camden, in order to get a ticket to Hackney, and then to Cockfosters, after which he will come back to Islington before going to Lewisham, Barking, Sky News Studios, and then perhaps New Malden, before coming back to Islington again and then going to Hammersmith and then Barking again, then Ealing, or perhaps Elephant and Castle, and then, in a touching, unexpected final sequence, on to a snow-ridden Southend-on-Sea. He then gets a phone call from a member of his shadow cabinet, which he refuses to answer.

THE FINAL DRAMATIC SCENE, where we see the phone dangling in an old-fashioned "phone box" on the Essex coast, surrounded by snow, with Corbyn wandering off towards a crowd of admirers, all holding Café Nero all-day top-up mugs, with gluten-free quinoa bars sticking out of the top pockets of their asexual, shabby, ill-fitting dungarees over their baggy, shapeless clothes, is more than a metaphor for today. We hear the lingering call, "Corbyn, Corbyn... Are you there, Corbyn?"

SUNDAY MORNING RATING: He's not there

THE SPIRIT OF THE STREETS

IT WILL COME AS NO SURPRISE to many of my readers that I, although relatively fenced off in my home from what may be called 'terrorism', unless one includes the absurd VAT charges on goods and services that I and my good lady wife provide to the wider world, feel that, as they sometimes say, something ought to be done.

LIKE MANY OTHER PEOPLE, I have no idea what this 'something' that ought to be done is, or how it should be done.

YET I DO KNOW WHO should not be doing it, whatever it is. And these are the people who have not being doing it yet have been taking our money for decades. So, in common, it seems with so many others, I see that we have come to a situation in which we will allow -- or rather permit -- those who have no proven acumen, no 'track record', no 'red boxes read' and perhaps not even any desire to make a living out of politics to run things.

POLITICS HAS BECOME the equivalent of the Pokémon Go game: inept, confused individuals, spurred on by a desire to do nothing better than to get out of the house, often encouraged by their mothers, wives, fathers or husbands to do so, go gadding about the country in search of something fleeting, perhaps even ethereal, which wafts on a crisp and bitter wind from the East with a strangely metallic taste to it.

(My photograph shows newly-appointed British Chancellor of the Exchequer Philip Hammond on his recent visit to China)

BY JOVE!

IN ONE OF THE MOST REMARKABLE moments of human history, some clever gentlemen in America have managed to send a space vehicle to the planet Jupiter, to have a better look at it and to be able to more thoroughly inform us about where we came from, how our universe was formed and why we, as human beings, are different from bed bugs, centipedes or moths.

THE SCIENTIFIC ASPECTS OF THIS RESEARCH are, obviously, beyond my capacities of understanding, being merely a Master in the Humanities from London and Oxford and a university professor in media studies for forty years. My scientific knowledge extends slightly beyond the fact that I should take a 300 mg aspirin every day in order to avoid a heart attack. And I often forget to do so.

BUT EVEN I CAN APPRECIATE the value of our being able to contemplate Jupiter in this new light. Whereas once we only saw

we can now see

and many people will now rest easy in their beds knowing that there are no little green men twiddling about naked in the gaseous wastes of the planet ready to come out with what used to be called "ray-guns", brittly barking "Take me to your leader, Earthling". (Of course, the suicidal maniacs who would actually enjoy this scenario must be a tad disappointed).

I AM REMINDED, HOWEVER, OF A SIMILAR SCENARIO involving the United Kingdom Conservative and Unionist Party, also the object of some very close scrutiny at the moment. Without wishing to upset any of the delegates and members of this august organ, I have collated some pictures, not taken with the same high-resolution devices as the "Jupiter prober", which may give us some idea of how the party was last week at a meeting,

and how it is now.

EVERYTHING SUGGESTS THAT both the state of the gas-filled planet Jupiter and the windbag Conservatives will continue in a parallel scientific arc for years to come.

EURO 2016: THE FIRST ELEVEN

GIVEN THAT THE GOOD PEOPLE OF MANCHESTER do not figure highly on the international scale of millionaire earnings, eyebrows have been raised at the news that the footballer Zlatan Ibrahimovic, acquired for Manchester United by new boss José "I want players who sink as I sink" Mourinho, will be earning a touch over £260,000 per week.

ALTHOUGH IT IS FAIR TO STATE that most people in Manchester would not know what to do with such an amount of money, some perspective should be attached to this state of affairs. Over the course of his career, Ibrahimovic has scored slightly more than 2 goals every 3 games. His entertainment value is beyond anyone's ability to calculate, stadiums will fill just to see him play or be kicked off the park, and if he simply scores a little tap-in goal in a semi-final of any of the competitions that Manchester United may play this year his wages will have been paid in full.

IN THE LIGHT OF THIS fact, and given that UEFA has this morning published its official list of the best players at the EURO 2016 Competition, although in my opinion this is somewhat early, I have once again decided to be of public service and guide my readers through the team, including their earnings, when known, and their main characteristics. Besides being informative in general, it may provide help for those interested in purchasing in the transfer market.

FORWARDS:

11. CRISTIANO RONALDO (£270,000 per week) Fleet of foot and brilliant on either wing. Capable of swinging a game with a deft touch. Dependable in general, but a tendency to sulk if things go against him.

Sunday Morning rating: All is needed is a spark. 

9. ZLATAN IBRAHIMOVIC (£260,000 per week) If you can afford him, buy him. Proven winner time after time. Worth his weight in goals.
Sunday Morning rating: Lazy but effective.

7. GARETH BALE (£300,000 per week) Besides his ability to rifle in goals from any angle, is a leader of men, capable of taking his country far beyond what was expected. A legend in his own time. Sunday Morning rating: Works hard and has talent.

MIDFIELD AND WINGBACKS:

3. HERMAN VON RUMPOY (Undisclosed, presumed in excess of £15m) Left back in the last tournament, but still capable of stealing into the area.

Sunday Morning rating: Easily dribbled and has no tackle. Excels at the dead ball, where he feels at home.

2. DURÃO BARROSO (Undisclosed, presumed in excess of £100m) Like Von Rumpoy, a veteran strategist. Excellent in his time on the extreme right or extreme left. Ability to close opponents down quickly.

Sunday Morning rating: A moaner, but insanely gifted. 

10. NIGEL FARAGE (Undisclosed, presumed at £26,000 per month) Has announced this is his last tournament. The master strategist who managed to get his team out of the group stages. Keen to get back into management in the United Kingdom.

Sunday Morning rating: Will go far in coaching. 

8. FRANÇOIS HOLLANDE (Undisclosed) Dreamy playmaker, with a tendency to take his eye off the ball. Nearing retirement, after which he intends to declare insolvency and immunity.

Sunday Morning rating: Criminal talent.

DEFENDERS:

6. DONALD TUSK (Undisclosed) Rugged defender of the 2-3-5 system. Fierce in tackle but likely to buy a dummy or be nutmegged. Danger of being carded due to habit of shirt-pulling and lifting. Sunday Morning rating: Ruthless defender.

5. MARTIN SCHULZ. (Undisclosed) Master blocker. Generally used as a last-ditch sweeper. Motto: if you can't get the ball get the money.

Sunday Morning rating: Inept crook.

4. MARIO DRAGHI (Undisclosed, prints his own money) Defender often termed "safe as the bank of Europe" Weak on crosses occasionally, and unable to compensate in attack. Tends to rely on quantitative easing, which leaves gaps at the back and middle.

Sunday Morning rating: Talentless oaf. 

GOALKEEPER

1. JEAN-CLAUDE JUNCKER (Estimate at £66 billion in backhanders and tax relief for companies based in Luxembourg) Often seen as a safe pair of hands, always ready to go for the high ball but not afraid to go low if needed. Not afraid of penalties due to his diplomatic immunity.  
Sunday Morning rating: Will need help in the future in the penalty area.

THE FAMOUS FIVE GET INTO TROUBLE

by David "Enid Blyton" Pleasant

SUMMER HAD ARRIVED and school was over until September, and once again the five had come together to the countryside to chat in their favourite orchard and discuss their plans for the long holidays to come.

"I know," said Michael, ever thoughtful, and squinting through his glasses at a piece of paper he had pulled from his anorak pocket, "why don't we go fishing in the big lake beyond Westminster Green?" 

"Oh, Michael," lilted Stephen, far more practical, "you know perfectly well that we can't fish! We don't even have the tackle needed. We would have to ask the villagers for it. And, anyway, the girlies will soon get bored unless they catch something in the first few minutes, and you can jolly well be sure that isn't going to happen!"

"Who are you calling a girlie?" piped up Theresa, the tomboy. "I can fish as well as any public schoolboy, if not better. I may not be as good at gutting fish as Michael, but I can wait around aimlessly for hours on end doing nothing just as well as the next young man. Whoever that may be." 

"Well I'm not going into the village to ask for favours," rasped Stephen. "All those men hanging around with each other all day long and into the evening. It's not natural, that's all I say, there's just not lovely for you," he went on, lapsing into his Welsh drawl. 

THE EARLY JULY SUN WAS LOWERING ITS head over the meadow beyond the orchard where the five were gathered in their peaceful contemplation of the buttercups and marigolds, except for Liam, who was playing with his collection of tin soldiers, marching them up and down hills in his boyish imagination, making the sound of machine gun fire through his teeth, although the soldiers were in fact replicas of those from the Napoleonic wars.

THEY WERE ALL BEGINNING to think it would be best to go home for tea, scones and perhaps some crumpet for Theresa and Stephen when Andrea lisped her opinion rather timidly. "If we don't have this tackle you are talking about, and if David and George from the big farm have gone off to their mummies' houses for summer, then we really ought to go into the village and jolly well tell the locals to help us! Surely they understand this fishing business!"

"You foolish filly," barked Liam. "The locals are upset with all of us townies after they allowed Boris from the stables to borrow the bicycle and he never returned it! And they certainly won't allow us to get near deep waters!"

LONG SHADOWS WERE BEING CAST as a chill started to creep across the soft turf of the meadow before the five managed to decide what to do next day, which was always the problem for these children during the long recess. 'Children's heads on pillows without plans for 'morrow will ne'er sleep' was a truth to be remembered for these forty days. But Michael broke the silence as they were standing up to go home: "Wait! I know," he chirruped, "Let's all stand for leadership of the Conservative Party!" Beaming, he continued, "None of us has any charisma, any charm, any glamour, any ability or any possibility of winning a general election, but it will be a wizard way to start off the summer holidays!" Michael looked at the astonished faces around him. "Just think," he continued, "we can go into the village and dress up and have ribbons and things and people will make cakes and there might be dancing late at night, and..."

BUT LIAM'S VOICE MOVED IN TO BRING home the truth, ringing with some of the gravity he had inherited from his Scots father: "Ay," he said. "There may be many of these things, but demographic analyses I have been looking at on this bally new-fangled tablet device I have here suggests we are all doomed, and none of us will be going off to camp again, except perhaps for Theresa. And that won't last for long either."

DEWCH AR GYMRU

HAVING MANAGED, SOMEWHAT AGAINST the odds, to reach the age I now possess, I am rather proud of the fact that I have managed to convince (at least) myself that I am a reasonable person in both my domestic views and my opinions on local and world politics, something which may not have seemed apparent as the path I would forge when I was younger.

IT IS THEREFORE WITH SOME DISTRESS that I feel I am being tarred with a brush bristling with badger hair and primed for others rather than me; and this is simply because I defend a system based on individual rights, precedence, jurisprudence and personal and social responsibility over one bound by nominations, party listings, unelected officialdom, nepotism, and favour.

THE CURRYING OF WHICH IS ACCEPTED in most of the European countries who, at least until recently, have seemed not to mind who decides on the wattage of their light bulbs, on the sell-by dates on their yogurts, on the amount of elastic allowed in any given bikini top or on how powerful their vacuum cleaners, toasters or electric kettles may be.

IF I WISHED TO HAVE a Herman von Rumpoy, a Durão Barroso, a Donald Tusk, a Jean-Claude Juncker or a Martin Schulz telling me I was not allowed to buy a set of heat-based curling tongs for my wife's birthday then I would at least like the possibility to choose which anti-curling candidate to vote for. But we do not have that choice in the European Union. We are told who is in charge. 

THOSE NOMINATED TO RUN THE UNION, from which Britain will fortunately be able to escape, albeit never having been more than a 65% member, have no idea what they are doing, and the predominantly left-wing people who support this absurd idea must surely understand that the problem with international socialism is that sooner or later one runs out of other people's money. 

BEING LEFT WING MEANS caring; it does not mean taking money off everyone and keeping most of it for a bunch of unemployable politicians who spend on average more money on travel, hotels and "down time" than they do on producing much-needed reports to further the cause of aid to regions of Europe which once were relatively healthy and are now slipping back into the poverty and despair of the nineteen fifties.

WALES IS NOW IN THE SEMI-FINALS of the Euro 2016 competition. Wales is, according to all statistics, one of the European Union "regions" (sic) which has received most money per capita from Brussels. Wales beat Belgium this evening. I am sure this was merely a footballing phenomenon, in no way connected to the fact that all of the European money sent to Wales, particularly to the depressed "region" of South Wales, was unable to stop closures of libraries -- a fundamental resource for the unemployed, for young job seekers and for elderly people -- across the unpronounceable towns in the area. And Wales voted out, presumably because the money never reached the people who needed it.

WHERE ALL THIS MONEY WENT, OF COURSE, is a mystery beyond our comprehension, as they sometimes say. Yet money from the taxes of the people of these regions "in the good times" had been used to subsidise bullfighting in Spain, to support "traditional regional cultural activities."

NONE OF THE PEOPLE WHO MAKE these absurd decisions are directly responsible to the people who contribute to their wages nor to the people to whom they decide to grant money. This means that the money for the European superstate apparently comes from no one and from nowhere for those who receive it and goes nowhere and to no one in terms of comeback and justification of expenses from those who grant it. Anyone can do what they like with the money as long as they fill out the forms correctly.

THIS IS A RECIPE FOR BOTH CORRUPTION and medium term economic (and financial) disaster and ruin. And now we are seeing the beginning of it. And those who have seen through the wafer-thin curtain around the worst robbery of public funds in peace-time memory by the shabbiest bunch of retrograde sneaks are being looked at in the same light as the fools who voted for Brexit thinking that this would stop foreigners coming to Britain.

BRITAIN HAS ALWAYS BEEN AND ALWAYS will be open. In 1966 in my state primary school in Liverpool there were three Polish children, one Lebanese boy, a Nigerian girl and a beautiful Russian girl who stole my heart and kept it for a couple of years or so until I managed to forget her. Rather that, than cynical politicians stealing my money forever.