View From The Window

A couple of things have raised me from my sick bed.

In 1739 the dodgy Spaniards allegedly cut off the ear of a British sailing captain and once it became common knowledge back in Blighty we declared war, which meshed with other things and went on until 1748. In 2018 on the cusp of another year some bedraggled chancers in old speed boats defy our borders and our response is to declare war, oh silly me, a "Major Incident," that'll sort it out.

And of course, was there a drone, wasn't there a drone, might, maybe and other useless words, no war again, not even a severe warning should the culprits be found, and despite the havoc I think the playing of the Eco card would almost immediately warrant a severe telling off and a get out of jail free card. Missed your family Christmas in Aus, tough, the planet will last another two days. If a toy drone can bring us to a standstill we really should stop poking the Russians with sticks.

While I am on it, why would you get recognition for services to film? What's so important to our daily lives about film, or drama, or fashion that people so far up their own backsides should get recognition for it? It's time the Honours system and the TV Licence fee were in the Victoria and Albert.

My old drinking buddy Mark died this morning, 87, he hasn't been able to continue with our two hourly Wednesday drinking sessions for some time, he would have half a pint of lager and me two or three zero beers, not the best customers of the George Washington but always made welcome. Mark I believe was an Oxford graduate, a self made business man and half way through his life he did a 180 degree turn and became a solicitor eventually running his own firm. We became friends as he collected his daily newspaper in the morning when most were abed and we vented our spleen over the headlines for a good fifteen minutes. Later I found him walking through the village taking exercise and invited him in for drink at the George Washington, this turned into a regular weekly meet up which was good for us both, and would have been for the country if we had had any power. Sadly Mark then began to suffer from dementia and his joints failed so he could no longer make our rendezvous. I will miss the old sod and will drink a large whiskey to his memory this evening, it's the least I can do.