​


Those of you who went to sleep at all on the night of Thursday 12th of December awoke to the news that the country had an unassailable Conservative majority and that even those Tories with whom one could actually have a conversation were no longer in the party or Parliament. All liberal-minded Conservatives had been purged. In the face of this, Labour appeared helpless. Its attempts to bring the country together with a balanced policy was seen as obfuscation. Defeat was inevitable; the scale of that defeat was not. But as Corbyn announced his intention to step down, Labour HQ emails talked of a ‘state of numbness’ and called for a ‘period of reflection’.
 
It occurred to me, as I sat in my very particular state of physical and emotional numbness, drinking red wine on the Friday lunchtime, that thirty years before I had been lying in a coma in the Midland Centre for Neurosurgery and Neurology, midway between two brain operations. In the course of my period of reflection, I considered two things. The first was whether I would prefer to be still in a comatose state, and thus unaware of the unravelling of British democracy; and secondly, the fact that one of the most sophisticated centres of neurology in Europe is now a housing estate. It was the only specialist facility of its kind outside London, but it fell foul of the Conservative Government’s cost-cutting policies in 1996.
 
The NHS and MCNN (specifically Professor Edward Hitchcock) saved my life in 1989 and 1990, and my post-election musings moved on to consider how, despite the rhetoric, the Tories have always looked to undermine the NHS. Austerity in name was the boast of the Tory/LibDem coalition. But austerity has always been the agenda hidden behind the rhetoric.
 
The carefully structured attack on the NHS – starve it, criticise it, privatise it – was our priority at the last election. Our instincts were sound and they were supported by reams of paperwork concerning the trade talks with the US, articles by senior cabinet ministers, and the facts.
 
But it wasn’t enough to overcome the fatuous and simplistic ‘Get Brexit Done’, a slogan straight out of the Steve Bannon/Donald Trump playbook. You may think, as I do, that when a policy is supported unequivocally by Trump, Putin and Johnson, there is clearly something amiss. A great deal amiss, in fact – and I don’t refer to the great deal allegedly negotiated by Boris Johnson against the odds.
 
Here in Leamington, there was no room for argument. We had as our sitting MP the estimable Matt Western. He is a local candidate, independent-minded, intelligent, personable and trusted across the political divides.
 
Yet he managed a majority of less than a thousand, pushed close by a rich-boy Thatcherite Tory from Windsor who bought a house in Warwick and claimed to be local on the basis of his new home and the fact that he went to university locally.
 
I do not need a period of reflection to know for whom I will vote next time. But if the centrists in the Labour Party are to be believed, many will vote for or against the new leader of the Labour Party. ABC, they say – anyone but Corbyn.
 
I am not a Corbynista nor a Corbynite. But I admire his principles and his  policies even as I am exasperated by his stubbornness and refusal to play the game. A different word here, a an emphasis there, and the likes of Kuenssberg, Peston and the JLM would have no factual grounds for their hysterical headlines, no opportunity for wilful misunderstanding. But that’s Corbyn for you. His strengths are his weaknesses when they are being presented by the daily Mail, Express, Sun, Telegraph, Times and yes, even the Guardian.
 
As Alexei Sale points out, the real difference between Johnson and Corbyn is this: “The only people who like Johnson are those that don’t know him. And, conversely, the only people who like Corbyn are those that know him”.
 
Trouble is, in these days of right wing populism, it’s all about reaching out personally, giving the journalists what they want and avoiding serious questioning. This is why, if the ageing, nativist, nationalist, out-of-touch Tory membership got anything right, it was voting in Johnson as leader.
 
They now have five years to regret that decision, but the cost to the country could be immeasurable.
 
For me, the next five years will be five years of struggle against the privatisation of the NHS, the erosion of our human rights, climate change, racism and the return to free market economics.
 
There is more, a hell of a lot more, but this will do for a start.

Happy New Year!

Today from the everysmith vaults: Bob has graced us with his presence only once this year, but his fall tour in the States has been remarkable. Currently listening to the residency at the Beacon Theatre in New York. The stunning new arrangement of Not Dark Yet is only one of the many highlights.

When Matt Western, our local MP, his face full of gravitas (not a trace of a smirk), approached the Speaker on Saturday afternoon, he made one of his most telling announcements of his parliamentary career. “The ayes to the right: 322” he declared. “The noes to the left: 306.”
 
He did not, as he might justifiably have done, then raise an index finger in the direction of the prime minister. But I, virtually and triumphantly, did.
 
Not because the passing of the Letwin amendment throws the Brexit nonsense into yet more confusion – although it does.
 
Not because it is yet another defeat for a prime minister who is uniquely unqualified for (and should be disqualified from) his office – although it is.
 
And not because I am enjoying this saga of shenanigans, this cycle of crassness, any more than anyone else – although, perversely, I am.
 
It is because this decision is too important to be decided by lies and ego. It is too important to be rushed through without due diligence.(Even the most academic of our MPs cannot be expected to read and digest thousands of words of gnomic prose in such a short time.)
 
And it is because, underpinning the whole Brexit debate, is the hard-/alt- right agenda which will see us denying workers’ rights, diminishing and deregulating our economy, opening ourselves to a Trump take-over of our NHS and other institutions.
 
Except, paradoxically, in Northern Ireland, which will continue to be subject to EU Law, including the European Court of Justice.
 
Lucky them.
 
I have no idea what will happen in the coming hours, days, weeks and months.
 
The Withdrawal Agreement Bill was released at 8pm last night. I didn’t read it. With a World Series about to start, I need to take every opportunity for sleep when I can. But nor can parliament be expected to take the most important decision for generations at such short notice.
 
And nor can parliament be expected to make the decision alone. At the very least, a confirmatory referendum is required.
 
Bizarrely, Labour is now the only party to commit to this.
 
It has taken months to arrive at this position, but it is the correct one. I applaud Matt Western, who was one of the first Labour members to come out in favour when so many of us were sceptical.
 
But that’s why we voted for him: for his judgement. And why, when the General Election is called, we will do so again.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: I am told that an obscure Dead forum contained the following exchange over the weekend. Someone commented how nice it was to walk into a restaurant and hear Wake Of The Flood playing. To which someone else replied “was that Max’s in Leamington?” It wasn’t. But I am playing it in the office now if anyone wants to call by.

It’s not dark yet … but it’s getting there. I’m a week into my eighth decade and on borrowed time. I’m not thinking (much) about the inevitable physical and mental decline which kicks in about now and some would say already has. I’m more concerned about the state of my nations, here in the UK and over in New England, the home of the Red Sox Nation.

I will be devoting a column to the fall from grace of the 2018 World Series Champions shortly when I’ve got my head round the sacking of Dombrowski and its timing as well as the underperformance of the team from the start to the probable finish of the season. But right now, with Parliament prorogued, the government in chaos, and the country divided, there can be no doubt about the theme for the week.
 
It is, of course, what Donald Tusk has called “a dog’s brexit”.
 
One of the tangential issues of the ‘debate’ has been the diminishing of language. I am conscious that I have been guilty of this as emotion and anger takes over from reason. But I use this word advisedly: it is a coup: a sudden, illegal, takeover of government.
 
As such, it must be fought by all means.
 
Parliament has made a start. A no deal brexit is illegal. The Court of Sessions has found that prorogation is also unlawful and it is to be hoped that the Supreme Court will, on Tuesday, find similarly. It is worth noting that the English court did not make a ruling about the legality or otherwise of the suspension; like Pilate, it washed its hands of the issue, stating that this was a ‘political’ matter that is the preserve of the ‘politicians’.
 
That is not a judgement. It is not even an error of judgement.
 
It is an avoidance of judgement. It is an evasion of judgement. It is a shirking of judgement.
 
So much for the rule of law.
 
In law, the referendum was advisory. It was not mandatory. The country cannot be held to a promise made by David Cameron a few days before he resigned and retired to his shepherd’s hut to write a book I shall never read but suspect will be exculpatory in the extreme. (And there is a great deal to exculpate, which probably explains the rumoured volume - sheer bulk - of the volume.)
 
In law, the prorogation is unlawful because of its motives and its duration.
 
In law, no-one is exempt from the law. Not even a prime minister.
 
I’m entering this eighth decade with a profound sense of foreboding. But I shall be consoled by the generosity of my family: my Dylan weekend chez Grey and Beattie, our night in the New Forest, my birthday lunch and my life in a cake.
 
Thank you. This decade is on loan from you.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: As the talk turned to Dylan covers – covers of Bob and Bob covers of others – Ms Beattie introduced us to a version of Absolutely Sweet Marie by Jason & The Scorchers. I have played it at least once a day every day since my return to the UK and suspect I will continue to do so throughout the next decade.
 
​

​In the end, I resisted the call of the likes Tom Watson and Alastair Campbell and my own instincts. I voted Labour. Well, someone had to.
 
I am not, as a rule, a follower of the party line, rather the reverse. However, faced with the ballot paper, I found myself unable to vote for the party that went into an austerity coalition of chaos and is currently engaged in the same activity in, for example, Bolton and Lewes. In Bolton, egregiously, the LibDems are in an unholy alliance not solely with Tories but also UKIP. Yes, UKIP!
 
So although I was aware that, in this de facto interim referendum, my vote would not be read by the pundits as a vote to remain and that it would make no contribution to Labour representation in Brussels, I and a mere four thousand others in Warwick District Council stayed Labour.
 
We came fifth. Less than 10% of the vote. Despite or because we are a strong remain area. Despite or because we have a popular, pro-remain MP. Despite or because we voted Labour at the last general election.
 
From a Labour supporting position, I think – or rather hope – that this will change the party policy and its presentation.
 
From a national point of view, I see no change of any substance.
 
The UK remains divided. One can play with the figures any which way. The Brexit party won the election. But the popular vote) was in favour (a margin of 40% to 35%) of those parties which seek to revoke Article 50 or at least achieve a second referendum.
 
And then of course there is the Conservative and Labour parties. The former has already demonstrated its irrelevance and will be tied up in inter-factional squabbling for some time to come; Labour is in danger of doing so. Its constructive ambivalence has no supporters in a context where ambivalence is a recipe for sitting on a fence which divides the whole population.
 
The fact is, Brexit has changed everything. And nothing has changed. It has merely brought the innate divisions in our country into sharper relief.
 
My party has a lot to answer for. And the result announced last night is the answer.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Back in May 1972, the Dead played one of the best shows I have ever attended, at the Lyceum Theatre. Forty years on, I’m listening to the soundboard of that show and loving every second.
 

Now that normal service has been resumed at Fenway, with four series wins on the trot, one can turn one’s attention to the shambles which still prevails in Westminster. It is not something which one does lightly.
 
The opinion polls are clear. Farage’s single-issue Brexit party (actually a private company) leads by some distance; followed, at the time of writing, Labour. I make this qualification because each day brings another point dropped by Labour and another point gained by the overtly pro-Remain LibDems and/or Green Party. The Tingers (another private company) are struggling to establish any relevance at all. And the Tories face wipe-out.
 
Every cloud …
 
But of course we are not voting for parties on May 23. We are voting in what amounts to a second referendum. And this is the dilemma which faces Labour Remainers. Like me.
 
I am culturally, politically, instinctively European. My party is not. Or at least, it would appear so.
 
Precisely what our policy is depends on who is stating it. And I for one cannot fathom the thrust, nor identify any consistency or common thread.
 
Since we voted (twice) for Jeremy Corbyn as leader, I have had no difficulty in justifying Labour policies against increasingly snide and vehement attacks from the Labour right on a multitude of issues.
 
But now, I am struggling. I find my index finger hovering over the like button on tweets from Tom Watson, Jess Phillips and Alastair Campbell. I listen silently to friends and comrades who say they cannot vote for Labour while we continue to ‘bail out’ the Tories and their ridiculous withdrawal agreement. I am conscious that I am a member of a party which claims to be led by its membership but is, instead, being led by a central cabal which is imposing its will on the rest of us.
 
Maybe we should dissolve the people and elect a new one.
 
I am not alone in resenting this. The excitement and exhilaration of a couple of years ago is dwindling fast, and if I am right that Brexit marks the end of conventional party politics, it could be as threatening for Labour as the Conservatives. We lost some excellent councillors in the local elections a couple of weeks ago. (I’m thinking particularly of Kristie and JoJo in Brunswick where the Greens swept the board on the basis of their strong and consistent Remain stance.)
 
And while we have in Matt Western a strong and consistent Remainer MP, who is working tirelessly on the local and national fronts, even he could be under pressure next time.
 
It is still possible for Labour to become the ‘remain and reform’ party which Watson claims it is and which it undoubtedly is in Warwick and Leamington. But I am resigned to a continuation of Labour’s ambivalence.
 
I will not, however, resign. It’s lonely enough being a maverick radical.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: I have a dozen or so shows from the late, great JJ Cale – from the early ‘70s to the mid ‘90s; so representative of pretty much his whole career. And I’m listening to those with relish and delight.

​For many months, 29-03-2019 (03-29-2019 for my American readers) had been keenly anticipated in this household, though with mixed emotions. That Friday was, of course, the date on which for two years we had been led to believe we would leave the European Union. It was also, by tricks of time zones and scheduling, the opening day of the baseball season as the Sox took on Seattle in the early hours. I had hoped, naïvely perhaps, that the misery of the first would be outweighed by the joy of the second. In fact, both went haywire.
 
The UK is still in the EU, the relationship hanging by a thread as confusion reigns inside and outside Parliament. And on the West Coast, the World Series champions are currently 1-5, after being thrashed by the Mariners and failing to score on successive nights in Oakland.
 
Until the last couple of days, the confusing performances of a team which is essentially unchanged from the 108 game winners last year has been attributed to the rotation, which has been widely touted as the best in baseball. At its best, it surely is. But it would appear that all five are still only half way through spring training right now.
 
The velocity isn’t there. Location isn’t there.  We’ve had one quality start in six, in last night’s single run loss.
 
I watched a great deal of spring training. Afternoon games in the Eastern time zone are a delight for European fans, who can tune in at 6pm and enjoy a glass whilst taking vicarious pleasure in the Florida weather and the ballgame itself. And while winning the Grapefruit League comes quite a ways down on my list of priorities, it is always a pleasure to see a W or two.
 
Last year, there were many. And it showed in the 17-2 start which set the tone for the season and the post-season.
 
This year, not so much. In fact, we sat rock bottom in the Grapefruit League, under .500.
 
How many times have I been told that it doesn’t matter? Hell, how many times have I told people it doesn’t matter?
 
But it does. It is no accident, as Marxists would say, that the excellent results last year translated into excellent results in the season. And it is no accident that the dismal results this year evolved into this dismal start.
 
I understand that the pitchers need to be stretched. I appreciate that the hitters need to regain last year’s fluency of swing. I recognize that the development of fitness and skills is a gradual process.
 
But I am confused as to why Cora thought that, for example, Sale could open the season after just two short appearances in Florida. I am confused as to why he would, after such an outstanding spring training last year, change tack completely and adopt a totally different approach.
 
But what do I know? Only that confusion reigns. In the Red Sox camp and the Commons alike.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults:  A gig which took place on the fateful day of 29-03-2019. I like Garcia Peoples, but I love Chris Forsyth. And the nyctaper recording of the show demonstrates why. A good, energetic set from the band. And then an hour of extraordinary stuff with Chris Forsyth: Techno Top > The Calvary Cross > The Other One. Mesmerizing. Literally.

It occurs to me, after a week of (almost) total immersion in the Brexit debate, that the fundamental division in the UK is not the traditional Labour v Conservative but, rather, between Brexiters and Remainers.
 
This does not mean, of course, that the debates and subsequent decisions (should there be any) are any the less binary. Labour and Tories have both been the broadest of broad churches, each united by instinct and emotion rather than specific policy. I mean, have you ever voted for a given party because you agreed with everything they espoused?
 
So it is with those on the different sides of the Brexit debate. Each of us voted with our gut, cherry-picking arguments and points to justify our choice rather than rationalise or explain it.
 
My instinct tells me I am European. I vote Remain, ignoring the neo-liberal bias of the Union. I do not want a Tory Brexit; I don’t even want a Labour Brexit.
 
Your instinct tells you you are British and want British rights, British courts, border controls etc etc; so you vote for Leave, ignoring the fact that every economic indicator tells you that you will be worse off.
 
In neither case will even the soundest, most persuasive arguments convince us to abandon our gut feeling, our emotional commitment to our cause.
 
Can you imagine a Coventry City fan switching allegiance to the Villa? Or A Sox fan suddenly announcing that he or she will henceforth support the Yankees?
 
The Leave v Remain debate is on that level of tribalism. And our democracy is unable to deal with it.
 
That is why we have seen the bizarre breakdown of collective cabinet responsibility; why we have seen the Brexit minister closing a debate with an exhortation to do the right thing for the country and then voting against it; why the PV campaign voted against the PV motion.
 
Yes, as the chattering classes are claiming, politics is broken. Or rather, their politics are broken. Because the TIGS encapsulate everything that Rawnsley, Cohen et al have wanted all along. Or at least since the demise of Blair.
 
We are in the last chance saloon. We are in uncharted waters. We are in unknown territory. We are at the eleventh hour. (These are all banalities which I heard on the radio in the space of about ten minutes this morning.)
 
But there is no way this issue will ever be resolved. Whatever the final result, whatever the means to achieve it, this division will remain, with every issue faced by our country being blamed on the final decision.
 
We are a divided nation, as we have always been. But this time, the political elite cannot cover the cracks. The cracks are widening by the day. They are now chasms.
 
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: Signs of Life is an extraordinary album by Martin Carthy and Dave Swarbrick, notable for a beautifully expressive cover of a BeeGees song, New York Mine Disaster, 1941. I should have listened to this more.

"PLEASE ACCEPT MY RESIGNATION. I DON'T WANT TO BELONG TO ANY CLUB THAT WILL ACCEPT PEOPLE LIKE ME AS A MEMBER".
 
Thus the telegram sent by Groucho Marx to a Los Angeles club.

Nobody likes a quitter. Unless you are the MSM or the BBC and the quitters in question are walking out on a party with a manifesto which has inspired thousands of members and millions of voters. Their increased majorities in the last election were not, as Len McCluskey observed, down to their “personal charisma”; it was down to a Labour manifesto, a Labour campaign, and Labour activists.
 
As for me, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed. Seven individuals, each elected as a Labour candidate on a Labour manifesto, have declared that they number themselves amongst the few, the very few.
 
The good news is that the many remain. And remain the best hope for those, like me, who favour Remain.
 
I have issues with the incremental approach adopted by the Labour leadership in Parliament. But I understand that the bizarre public school debating society conventions of Parliament require some less-than-transparent manoeuvring in order to arrive at a result.
 
Despite this need, Labour – the many, not the few – has been on the right side of every vote relating to Brexit. And none of the seven has indicated that they would have voted otherwise in any of them. Nor have they put forward any different policy proposals, apart from Angela Smith’s commitment to the continuing privatization of the water industry which she shares with 1% of the population.
 
However you look at it, that’s not a vote for the many. That’s pretty much the definition of the few, the very few. And it will not include, obviously, those voters of a “funny tinge”, a statement which is the first genuinely racist comment I have heard from the Labour ranks in many years. (Sorry, ex-Labour – which is presumably why the BBC failed to report it, despite their daily accusations of Labour racism.) Another quitter, Chris Leslie, subsequently dismissed this phrase as “a slip”. Freudian, presumably.
 
I cannot tell you unequivocally that there is no anti-semitism in the Labour party. I can tell you that I have never heard a single anti-semitic remark and nor do I know anyone who has. Not even Chuka Umunna claims to have done so: “Some have suggested that there is institutional anti-Semitism across the whole of the Labour party – this is not a view I share, not least because I have not seen one incident of anti-Semitism in almost 20 years of activism within my local Labour party”. And yet hundreds of thousands of Labour members are being characterized as anti-semitic, and are being accused of a creating a culture of “bigotry, bullying and intimidation”.
 
Honestly, I resent this. At best, it is disingenuous. At worst, it is the kind of smear they claim to be opposing.
 
I have written before, on the occasion of Frank Field’s resignation, that I respect and honour the tradition within the Labour party represented by Field and Umunna. It is part of the movement in which I have supported for half a century. And I reiterate now my concern at the time:
 
With their actions and slurs, the splitters are undermining their own tradition and their relevance to the many, not the few.
 
Today from the everysmith vaults: My nephew, Gareth Brynmore John, has recently released a recording of Mahler’s Lieder Eines Fahrenden Gesellen with Trevor Pinnock. It is quite beautiful and I commend it to you.

Sorry about this, but it’s Brexit again. This post could have been about the failures of Universal Credit. It could have been about the decline of Britain’s high streets, with specific reference to the plans of Warwick District Council for the destruction of Leamington Spa. It could have been about the proposed redundancies at Jaguar LandRover, a move which is going to have a major impact on our town as well as the country. It could have been about Andrew Neil’s extraordinary attack on Owen Jones or the last two columns by Nick Cohen – the one in The Observer demonstrating a disturbing familiarity with spanking literature, and the second, in The Spectator, the magazine for which Andrew Neil bears no responsibility, concluding that Corbyn and Trump are identical. Or it could have been about my plans to set up a shipping company and bid for a government contract. I reckon I could do it for less than £13.8 million, especially if I don’t buy any ships.
 
All these subjects have exercised me during the last couple of weeks. But they all come down to Brexit in the end, right? And with a mere two days of debate in the Commons remaining before the ‘meaningful’ vote on Tuesday, the media is full of it – and, to add an unvoiced fricative, full of shit too.
 
So here’s my two penn’orth.

​I am a Remainer and a Labour voter. As such, I am against even a soft Brexit. ‘Remain and reform’ was and remains my preferred policy. While I respect the result of the referendum, which does not mean that I either agree with it or believe it should be implemented, I do not respect the referendum itself, which was a crass proposal in the first instance and won with a combination of lies, illegal funding and dubious digital media.
 
What did impress me during the referendum was the Leave slogan. “Take Back Control” was and is a good line, and watching Cumberbatch in The Uncivil War the other night, one was surprised at the length of time it took for Dominic Cummings to arrive at it. It’s a nonsense of course, but it means all things to all men and thus appealed, if not to all men and women, at least to 52% of them. It appealed to nostalgic Little Englander Tories in Surrey and austerity-hit working class voters in the north, who had been told by successive governments – from Thatcher onwards – that the EU was the problem.
 
The irony of course is that parliament is now taking back control over the executive, and this is, in no small measure, the result of a precedent-breaking decision by Speaker Bercow.
 
He’s growing on me, is John Bercow. Preening popinjay perhaps, but he is showing himself to be a man who respects parliamentary democracy both in principle and in practice. In the face of the growing power of government, there is not a huge amount he can do, but what he can, he does.
 
One of the revelations of the recent shenanigans in the Commons has been the fact that many parliamentary votes are meaningless, having no force in law. They are, at best, “advisory”, nothing more than a demonstration of feeling.
 
Which is of course exactly what the referendum was. True, promises were made during the course of the campaign. But primarily by those who promptly resigned from positions which might give them any power over such a decision. Where are you now, Dave? 
 
So what will happen on Tuesday and on the 29th of March?

My prediction is that we will find ourselves in, to coin a meme, an existential crisis.

The phrase is widely used, and almost always misused. But it means one thing:

We're fucked.

Today from the everysmith vaults: In these strange times, it's time to dig deep into the depths of the vaults. Today's esoterica is the Captain's Bat Chain Puller.
 

Christmas itself was pretty much Brexit-free. The children and especially the machatunim and I have an unspoken agreement that we do not discuss politics - even having drink taken. So Christmas dinner passed happily in a mist of fine claret and praise for our shared grandchildren, the contributions each of us had made to the festivities and the shocking grammar of the questions in Trivial Pursuits. It was all going so well.
 
Until Boxing Day.
 
Early in the afternoon, at a drinks party in the depths of south London, I was introduced to a Frenchman, resident in this country and married to an English woman. The initial small talk exhausted, we moved - inexorably you may think – to the situation in which an EU citizen finds himself, living and working in a country which is veering vers une catastrophe.
 
I ventured a mildly critical remark about Government policy and the shambles that is the Tory party. Common ground, surely.
 
“Non! It is that anti-semitic moron Corbyn who is to blame. He is a moron. A moron!”
 
I was taken aback by his vehemence and temporarily speechless. I remembered the promises I had made – to Jill and myself – about discussing politics with total strangers and resolved to remain calm, reasoned, civilized; to eschew ad hominem attacks; to demonstrate those qualities which I find attractive in Corbyn himself; to set an example to this angry young Frenchman.
 
I took a large gulp of the cru bourgeois Médoc which our host had provided for us, and inhaled deeply on my vaper. I was ready to respond and, I hoped, to maintain a form of entente cordiale.
 
“Au contraire” I said. “Monsieur Corbyn est un homme intelligent qui a horreur des attaques personnelles, préférant se concentrer sur les politiques. Certainement pas un crétin. Et certainement pas le politicien responsable du fiasco actuel."
 
"Phouf. Il est raciste, il est trotskiste, il est stupide."
 
What can one say? My Gallic shrug was not sufficient response, but it was all I had short of physical violence. So I shrugged as best I could and seized my empty glass.
 
"Vous avez tort" I told him, "mais maintenant j'ai un besoin urgent d'un autre verre." I walked towards the bar with as much dignity as I could muster, shaking my head with what I hoped he would interpret as more sorrow than anger.
 
In retrospect, I am sorry. Sorry that I was not minded to argue for longer with him, sorry that his view of Corbyn was moulded exclusively by the right wing press, sorry that someone who should be a natural ally was so clearly opposed to us.

Sorry too for the sorry state this country has come to.
 
He was still holding forth about Corbyn as we left to drive back to our pro-Remain, pro-Corbyn bubble in Leamington. I tapped him on the shoulder.
 
"Bonne année" I said. 

Today from the everysmith vaults: The Bob gurus have been telling me each Christmas that Christmas in the Heart is a fine album. I am not convinced, but it plays once a year in this household. And the time is now.