Worst UK Prime Minister In My Lifetime

During one of our lunchtimes chats, we got around to who is the worst UK Prime Minister in our lifetime and seeing as i was born in 1969, this gives me 15 to choose from.
I can leave out the first first few up to 1979 (Harold Wilson, Edward Heath, Harold Wilson again and James Callaghan) as I only really began noticing who was in Number 10 during the Margaret Thatcher years so of the 11 left, and 7 of those have come in the last 10 years, my worst top three in my lifetime are these.
At three i would put Boris Johnson (2019-2022), what he did during Coivid where he lied and cheated and told us to stay at home and not meet anyone while hosting wild drunken parties in Downing Street is bad enough, to but then lie and swear blind it never happened until the photographic evidence came to light pretty and then STILL tried to deny it, pretty much not only destroyed the Conservative Party (which is no bad thing), but saw him booted out of his job by his own Party who refused to work with him any longer.
Second would go Margaret Thatcher (1979 - 1990), she privatised anything that wasn't nailed down whilst spreading the myth that privatisation would provide a more efficient and cheaper way to provide services and set about selling off nationalised utilities such as gas, water, and electricity and allowed the private companies to snap up British Rail, British Telecom, British Aerospace, British Airways, British Steel as well as the coal mines, ports and British Petroleum.
In practise, however, it increased bills, lowered the quality of services and led to rising unemployment and the disastrous consequences of her policies resonate still today as a look at your rising utility bills will show while the bosses of the Privatised companies rack up millions in bonuses.
She was removed by her own Party finally after she introduced a Poll Tax which led to riots but as Privatising the NHS was next on her to-do list,  not before time.
My number One and worst Prime Minister in my lifetime would be Tony Blair (1997-2007) of who i was a great fan of when he swept into power amid much cheer and with the introduction of the tax credits system, raising funding for public services, signing the Northern Ireland peace deal and giving us the minimum wage, it was a moment when us lefties thought brilliant, we finally have a proper Socialist who will make Britain a better and fairer place and from 1997 to 2002 i was one of his staunchest defenders, then Iraq and Afghanistan happened and his name name changed from Blair to Bliar.
He lied to take us to war with some of his justifications unraveling almost immediately such as Saddam developing nuclear, chemical and biological weapons and having links with Al-Queada in his dodgy dossier of so called 'intelligence' before dropping any pretense and just throwing his lot in with the then American President, George W Bush, to order out the Weapons Inspectors who kept coming back from sites empty handed and despite 2 million Brits marching against the action one Saturday morning, invaded Iraq to take out Saddam anyway.
As i said at the time, Saddam said he never had any WMD's Blair and Bush said he did but as it turned out, only one of these were telling truth.
Over almost the next decade an estimated 1 million Iraqis died and terrorists piled into that country and as warned by the Governments own intelligence, terror attacks increased tenfold around the globe including in the UK so anybody who is responsible for lying to oversee the wholesale slaughter of innocent civilians in their own country for no good reason, is deservedly my number 1.

Here's My Bind Steve From Kentucky

Oops, someone took offence to my post regarding if the Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, had spent less time committing a Genocide against the Palestinians he maybe wouldn't be so ignorant on other things.
Turns out my anonymous emailer (hi Steve from Kentucky, nothing is anonymous on the Internet remember) disagrees with me that it is a Genocide and makes a few suggestions.
Obviously a ranty email is almost certain to change somebodies mind every time but here is the bind i find myself in Steve, on the one hand we have an emailer who's facebook page describes himself as being in Leisure & Hospitality who says what Israel is doing is NOT a genocide.
On the other we have the World's leading authorities on Genocide such as The UN, International Association of Genocide Scholars, B'Tselem, Physicians for Human Rights - Israel, Amnesty International,Doctors without Borders, European Centre for Constitutional and Human Rights, Human Rights Watch, International Federation for Human Rights and the Lemkin Institute for Genocide Prevention who all say it IS a Genocide.
You can see the spot i am in Steve, it's your word against pretty much everyone else who studies these things so sorry Mr Kentucky but i think i am going to have to go with them on this one.
As for your assertion that it is people like me that are fueling the antisemitism raging around the world, unfortunately a country that continually links being Jewish with Israel while committing a genocide will do that i'm afraid which, as you may have noted as you say that you have read all my 'antisemitic posts', is something i have pointed out numerous times and even urged my 'fellow antisemites' on the left not to do, to not look at Israel and blame Jews as many Jews are also against Israeli actions.
Finally, i'm no biologist but you parting words are anatomically impossible but still I hope you have a nice day doing your Leisuring and Hospitaliting in Kentucky and thank you for reading my little corner of the blogosphere and just a tip, not giving your name when your name is included in your email address kinda invalidates your anonymity. Just saying.

Special Guest Blogger: Clem Burke

It all started, as many good stories do, with a simple desire to make a lot of noise. And let me tell you, I excelled at that from an early age. My poor parents. Bless 'em. They probably thought it was a loud phase but the call of the rhythm was too strong. It was elemental. Like a caveman discovering he could make a pleasing thud by hitting a hollow log, only my log was usually a pillow and my cave was the family living room.
Then came Blondie. Oh, Blondie. A glorious, chaotic, beautiful mess of ambition, talent, and questionable fashion choices. We were all a bit rough around the edges, held together by sheer willpower and an unwavering belief that we were making something special. And guess who was holding the whole thing together, literally and metaphorically? Your humble servant, at the back keeping time.
People always focus on Debbie, naturally. She's the face, the voice, the icon. And rightly so. She's phenomenal. Chris was the wizard behind the curtain, the musical architect. Jimmy and Frank, the rhythm section's other half, laying down the grooves. And then there's me. The engine room. The bloke who ensures everyone stays in the same postcode, tempo-wise. It’s like being the designated driver for a bus full of wildly talented, perpetually distracted artistic geniuses.
The early days were a blur of sweaty clubs, dodgy sound systems, and the constant fear that my kick drum pedal would spontaneously combust mid-song. We were young, hungry, and probably a little bit insane. We’d play a gig in some grimy dive bar, then pile into a van that smelled like stale beer and drive halfway across the country and there were moments of utter boredom, long stretches of highway, and plenty of questionable catering. But then there were the moments when it all clicked.
Take Heart of Glass, for example with its disco beat and then there was "Rapture." Suddenly, we're doing hip-hop. Did I know much about hip-hop drumming? Not a sausage. But you adapt. You listen. You experiment. and that was the beauty of Blondie, really. We never stayed in one lane. We were constantly swerving, often without indicating, into different musical territories. And every time, I had to figure out how to make my drumming fit, how to be the bedrock for whatever wild musical adventure Chris and Debbie had concocted. From punk snarls to disco struts to reggae riddims to hip-hop beats, it was a constant masterclass in musical versatility. My hair might have been all over the place, but my beat had to be tight.
During the 1980s and 1990s when Blondie was on hiatus, I played drums for the Romantics, Pete Townshend, Bob Dylan, Eurythmics, Dramarama, the Fleshtones, Iggy Pop, Joan Jett and The Stranglers amongst others and stood in for the Ramones a few times under the name Elvis Ramone.
So i  hit things hard and mostly in time"? Hopefully, with a bit more flourish whether in a packed stadium or a tiny club where the stage was so small my cymbal stand was practically in the bass player's armpit but  I was just this tiny cog in a massive, beautiful machine.

Duh

 
The Israeli Prime Minister, Benjamin Netanyahu, called the UK: 'The Islamic republic of Britain' in a podcast interview, where he also described the country as: 'The first Islamic republic to get a nuclear weapon'.
Duh...Pakistan, or officially known as the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, has had a nuclear arsenal since the 1990s.
Maybe if he had spent less time committing a Genocide and ethnically cleansing the Palestinians off their land and dodging arrest by the International Criminal Court over War Crimes he may have learnt something.

Farage Wins

 
Nigel Farage has won back his seat in Clacton, beating the guy with the bin on his head and the Monster Raving Loony Party to claim his prize which is, as confirmed by the Parliamentary Investigation Committee, the resumption of the inquiry into his dodgy financial matters and the £5m 'gift' he received and tried to keep quiet about.
Amusingly the Reform leader didn't turn up at the reading of the results to take the applause as the potential representatives usually do because he was advised by Essex Police not to due to: 'An organised campaign to disrupt and degrade the result'.
Essex Police then came out and said that they had not told him not to attend at all and had no indication that a campaign to disrupt and degrade was being organised which  led to the sight of Reform members on the TV this morning trying to explain how he didn't actually mean the police had 'said it' but rather that the Police meant it that way by not saying it which was as clear as why the frog faced Farage hadn't declared the millions he received from a foreign Crypto-billionaire
It is hard not to conclude that it is too much time with his special friend last seen in a Turkish Catering Truck that has caused Farage to overplay his hand in precisely the way he is. Maybe he believes that he will somehow osmotically absorb his political gift of getting away with the sort of stuff (pedophilia, corruption, lies, sexual assault, profiteering) that only he has and continues to do.
As Farage is finding out the UK and the USA are very different beasts and the US president’s ability to defy various laws of politics had not rubbed magically off on him because the media, other politicians and most of the general public here are not so awfully suppliant of power as our US colleagues and we will hound and dig and generally not allow him to fob us off as he found out to his own bemusement.

Special Guest Blogger: Hercules

Before you start with the flexes and the strongest man alive chatter, let me tell you, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be. Right now, for instance, I’m nursing a slightly tweaked rotator cuff from trying to open a particularly stubborn jar of olives. The irony is not lost on me, trust me.
You see, everyone knows the legend. The twelve impossible labors. The monsters, the mayhem, the sheer, unadulterated muscle. But what they don’t tell you is the sheer amount of divine bureaucracy involved, the perpetual backache, and the eternal struggle to find sandals that fit. Being a hero is less about glory and more about constantly being asked to do things no one else wants to, usually involving large, smelly beasts or ridiculously heavy objects.
You know how it is. Family drama. We all have it. Except when your family drama involves your dad being the King of the Gods  and your stepmom being the perpetually peeved Queen of the Gods so, my life started with a rather intense infant wrestling match with a pair of snakes Hera sent to my crib. I defeated them of course, but it was a sign of things to come,  a demigod's life is rarely peaceful, and often involves wrestling things that really don't want to be wrestled.
Fast forward a bit, and Hera’s grudge reached its peak. She inflicted me with a temporary madness. And in that haze, I did the unthinkable. I… well, I hurt my family and to atone, I was sentenced by the Oracle of Delphi to serve King Eurystheus of Tiryns. Twelve labors. Twelve impossible, ridiculously difficult, utterly absurd tasks designed to break me. Or, more likely, to provide Hera with endless entertainment.
Let's be frank, Eurystheus was less an inspiring leader and more a sniveling coward who probably changed his toga every time I showed up with another monster pelt, the  Nemean Lion,  the Lernaean Hydra, the Ceryneian Hind the golden-horned deer and  bringing Cerberus, the three-headed hound of Hades, up from the Underworld.
You'd think after all that I'd get a a lifetime supply of ambrosia and a spa day but nope, i got more quests.
I went on to slay more giants, rescue princesses from sea monsters and even participate in the Argonautic expedition, my life became a never-ending series of requests from gods and mortals alike. All I ever wanted was a quiet cottage, a good book, and maybe a pet that didn't have multiple heads or a venomous bite.
I stood up to impossible odds, faced my demons (and actual demons), and kept going when any sane person would have packed it in and started a goat farm.

Special Guest Blogger: Connie Francis

Hello, world! In my day, if you wanted to reach a million people, you had to squeeze into a girdle that defied the laws of physics and travel to sixteen different cities in a week. Now, you just click a button but it was thanks to Tik Tok that when i died of pneumonia, a whole new generation had heard of me.
 I think they expect me to get all misty-eyed and talk about the "Golden Age of Music." And look, I can do that. I have the sequins to prove it. But when I look back at my life and my songs, mostly what I think is: Boy, Connie, you sure were a dramatic little thing, weren’t you?
First was my name which went on a journey of its own from Concetta Rosa Maria Franconero to Concetta Franconero and then Connie Franconero
and finally Connie Francis and a discography that reads like a psychiatric evaluation of a woman who has had the worst luck with men in the history of the Northern Hemisphere.
Take Who’s Sorry Now? That was the big one. The one that saved my career. My father, a man who thought he knew everything about the music business despite being a roofer, forced me to record it but I hated it. I thought it was old-fashioned but I sang it and suddenly, I was the queen of the heartbroken. That song is essentially three minutes of me pointing a finger at an ex-boyfriend and shouting, "I TOLD YOU SO!" I was the 1958 version of Cardi B, just with more crinoline and fewer tattoos.
Lipstick on Your Collar reminded a whole generation of women that if he’s cheating, you don’t cry, you make a hit record out of it and buy a mansion. And then there was Stupid Cupid. I mean, really? I spent the better part of my youth complaining about a toddler in a diaper with a bow and arrow but i was the spokesperson for every girl who ever got stood up at a soda fountain. If you’ve ever cried over a boy who didn't call, I was your patron saint and worse, enough hairspray to dissolve a hole in the ozone layer.
But then there’s Where the Boys Are. Ah, the anthem of Spring Break. Every time I hear that song, I think of Fort Lauderdale. Back then, a scandalous Spring Break meant a girl wearing a bikini that showed her navel and maybe sharing a malted milk with two different boys in the same afternoon.
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs. More downs than a Vegas escalator, if I’m being honest, the hotel rape and subsequent depression and suicide attempts as well as the botched nasal operation which left me unable to sing completely for years derailed my career but at the height of my fame, I couldn't walk down the street without being mobbed. I recorded music in multiple languages, including English, Spanish, Italian, French, German, Greek, Yiddish, and Japanese, making me a best-selling artist in international markets.
I look at the music today, and I think, Where are the melodies? Where are the stories? Everything sounds like a blender full of marbles. But then I realize I’m sounding like a cranky old lady, and I have to remind myself that my father thought rock and roll was the end of civilization. Everything moves on. But a good heartbreak? That’s eternal. As long as there are people getting dumped, Connie Francis will be relevant.

Poetry? Bah!

The biggest sales of poetry since records began are expected this year due to The Odyssey which is great for Homer especially as UK Sales of his 12,000 line poem have increased by 1,400% so it's a shame he died over 2700 years ago because those royalties would have kept in him comfortably in Chiton's for the rest of his life.
I have mentioned a few times here that I'm not much of a fan of poetry, it has just never really appealed and rather controversially, it appears easy to do and every now and then there is a push to market Poetry and try and make it 'cool' again but every time it fails so i am obviously not the only person who could quite happily never have to listen to rhyming couplets ever again.
As for poetry itself, it has become the art form of choice for lovelorn lovers so here's one for you that I penned on a napkin way back in 2011:

To poetry writers everywhere,
You may find this poem unfair,
Your cloud may wander in the air,
But for your writing i just don't care,
I don't want to be misunderstood,
Just i don't think poetry is very good.

It's adolescents with floppy hair,
With broken hearts they must repair,
Their deepest thoughts they must bare,
With rhyming couplets of despair,
We all get passionate about things some time,
Just we don't make it into a bloody Rhyme!

This art form once had a romantic air,
Elaborate men with passion and flare,
If, The Raven, a wonderful pair,
But now decent poems are very rare,
I don't call all poets unexciting,
Just your chosen form of writing.

So to you poets to make you aware,
This recent outbreak of poetic fare,
Is pretentious and a little bit square,
And not a practise that i will share,
I am not mocking lovers dismay,
Just write things in a normal way.

As Poe once said from his reclining chair,
His nerves all shredded and his whitening hair,
It wasn't the Raven that gave him the scare,
T'was the thought of a poet standing there,
So take a lesson from the Raven on Poe's Door,
And make words rhyme..'Nevermore'!

Special Guest Blogger: Felix Baumgartner

So, here I am. Or rather, here I’m not anymore. And let me tell you, the irony of my current predicament isn’t lost on me. It hangs heavier than my reputation for jumping out of perfectly good, or in my case, perfectly high, vehicles.
Most of you probably know me for the jump, right? The one where I basically fell from God's attic? Yeah, that one. October 14, 2012. Stratosphere. Edge of Space. 128,000 feet. Breaking the sound barrier with nothing but a fancy suit and a very deep breath. That was my masterpiece, my magnum opus, my hold my beer and watch this moment taken to stratospheric levels.
Honestly, the view up there was indescribable. The curvature of the Earth, the inky blackness above, the sheer, mind-numbing vacuum of it all. For a moment, even my iron-clad Austrian nerves felt a little wobbly. I mean, here I was, a guy who spent his life defying gravity, about to voluntarily throw myself into it from a height that made commercial airliners look like ants on the pavement.
The freefall itself? A blur. Literally. I was going so fast, my own thoughts couldn’t keep up. It was pure sensation, pure adrenaline, pure oh dear God, please let my parachute open. There was a moment, when I first stepped off that capsule, where I looked down and thought, Felix, you absolute madman. What have you gotten yourself into now? It was glorious. It was terrifying. It was, without a doubt, the most alive I’d ever felt. And landing? Pure relief. The cheers, the record books, the endorsement deals… it was all gravy. The world knew Felix Baumgartner. The man who fell from space.
And then… there’s the other thing. The frankly tad embarrassing footnote to an otherwise stellar career.
Remember how I said I cheated death from the edge of space? Well, apparently, death decided to catch up with me closer to sea level.
The man who laughed in the face of terminal velocity, shuffled off this mortal coil not  going out in a wing suit incident over an active volcano but in a motorised paragliding accident in Italy.
I leap from the literal edge of human existence, survive a journey through the upper atmosphere at speeds faster than sound, perfect countless BASE jumps from impossibly high landmarks, and what finally gets me? A glorified lawnmower with a bed sheet.
I mean, I’ve got to laugh, haven’t I? What else is there to do? I spent my entire life pushing boundaries, tempting fate, staring down the abyss. I’ve freefallen from cliffs, skyscrapers and even the very edge of the stratosphere. I survived every single one of those calculated risks, honed through years of training and experience. And then, one ordinary afternoon, enjoying a relatively tame hobby, poof. Gone.

Special Guest Blogger: Perseus

My life was mostly just me trying not to be turned to stone or eaten but i was the son of Zeus, if you believe my notoriously unreliable family tree. Slayer of monsters. Husband of the truly magnificent and blessedly low-maintenance Andromeda. And, apparently, the guy who invented putting an eye out, then taking it.
You've seen the statues and the epic poems they make it all seem grand and destiny-driven whereas my fate mostly awaited me trying to avoid being minced, petrified, or generally having a very bad day.
Dumped in a chest with my mum, Danaë, after Zeus knocked up another mortal, we washed ashore on Seriphos, where King Polydectes, a man whose charm rivalled a particularly mouldy goat cheese, took us in. He eventually got a bit handsy with my mother, which, as a strapping young lad, I naturally took exception to so he plotted to rid himself of me by sending me on an impossible quest to bring back the head of the Gorgon Medusa.
So, I'm stuck with this truly impossible quest and my first port of call was the gods because apparently, they love a good impossible quest, especially when it involves someone else doing the heavy lifting.
Hermes rocks up, looking all casual in his winged sandals and tosses me his sandals, then Athena hands me her highly polished shield and even Hades, the benevolent uncle, even loans me his helmet of invisibility.
So, I'm kitted out and my first stop is the three old crones with one eye and one tooth between them and I literally had to yoink their eye mid-pass to get any informnation from them then off to Medusa's lair and tiptoeing around a cave full of statues who clearly didn't get the don't look memo.
Suddenly there she was, Medusa, having a really bad hair day and using Athena's shield as a rearview mirror, I crept up and just like that, the most dreaded monster in all of Greece was headless and it was stuffed into a bag.
So, now I'm flying home, courtesy of Hermes' sandals, with a Gorgon's head clanking around in my bag when i noticed something truly peculiar. A stunningly beautiful woman, Andromeda, chained to a rock, about to be devoured by a sea monster.
Now, I'm not going to lie, she was a looker. Even chained to a rock, with impending doom looming, she still had that beauty thing going on and a deep-seated desire not to appear a total coward, kicked in.
The fight with Cetus wasn't some elegant dance of blades, It was more like a grapple with a very large, very angry, very slimy fish before he finally went down.
The King Cepheus and Queen Cassiopeia were, understandably, a bit sheepish about the whole sacrificing our only daughter thing and gave me her hand in marriage and after that, life with Andromeda was surprisingly normal for a demigod. We had kids, founded cities (Mycenae, ever heard of it?), and generally tried to steer clear of anything that involved more sea monsters or divine intervention or being turned into a full sized garden gnome.