Brexit: two years on and one to go.

Gosh, doesn't time just whizz past? Would you believe that this week sees the second anniversary of the Brexit referendum? And one year today sees us waving the EU goodbye. Twenty four months down the line and any reasonable person would have expected that a halfway competent government would have used this time for careful planning, highly detailed project management, and comprehensive decision making, all of which should have laid out a clear road map for the glorious post Brexit future which we were assured is going to await the UK. By this stage in the game, with the date of our departure is so close, we should have had some sense of what the government is aiming for. 
 
Instead, what we’ve got is a toxic mix of hubris, confusion, in-fighting, wishful thinking, fantasy, nostalgia, and sheer utter self-delusion: all of which have created a deep uncertainty and instability and the looming threat of a catastrophic expulsion from Europe which will poison our links with those countries which are supposed to be our closest allies. Jobs are at risk, public services are threatened, businesses are making plans to relocate elsewhere, and the UK has turned into a peripheral and unimportant state which is only prevented from being the laughing stock of the world because it does not have Donald Trump as Head of State. 

Here we are, two years down the line, and we still have no idea what our government's Plan A is. We had a general election which was supposed to give Theresa May a mandate to seek whatever kind of Brexit suited her. Unfortunately for her, she lost her majority as the electorate looked upon the self-centredness, the confusion, the greed and the xenophobia, and said “nah”. But despite losing her majority Theresa hasn’t changed tack. She really has only one string to her bow.

Two years ago we were told that a soft Brexit was remaining a part of the customs union and the single market, a hard Brexit was leaving them and crashing out with no deal at all was an unthinkable calamity that no one was even considering. The difference two years make: now we’re told that not leaving the single market and the customs union is no Brexit at all, leaving them with a deal is a soft Brexit, and the swivel eyed British nationalists in the Conservative cabinet think any sort of accommodation with the EU is a betrayal. The prospect of crashing out of the EU with no deal is a very real prospect.

It’s a litany of depressing gloom that’s worse than a November weather forecast. There’s no realistic plan to solve the conundrum of the Irish border. British citizens who live in other EU states and EU citizens who live in the UK have no clear idea of what’s going to happen after Brexit. Health workers are leaving the NHS and going abroad. There is no planning for the queues and delays that will be created at ferry ports as lorries use motorways as parking lots. Successive British governments have always relied on the financial sector to drive the British economy, but this week the European Banking Authority warned that Britain’s preparations for the impact of Brexit on the financial sector are inadequate. The EU’s most senior banking regulator has advised that banks should proceed on the assumption that the UK would crash out of the EU in March 2019 without a deal. Airbus and other major companies have announced that they are having to consider whether to shift production and other facilities out of the UK. Instead of the promised bonanza of extra spending because the UK will no longer be contributing to the EU, we’re faced with an unprecedented squeeze on public spending, a massive ballooning in government borrowing, and rises in taxes.

Any normal person who was responsible for this magnitude of cock-uppery would be traumatised by the sheer horror and disaster that they had unleashed upon millions of people. They would be unable to sleep easily in their beds, kept constantly awake by the terror of realising the harm that they have caused, crying into their pillow as they desperately tried to make peace with whatever deity they worship. But Theresa May’s government are not normal people. They get to sleep just fine, in coffins, wearing full evening dress. The only god they worship is the god of their own ambition. They don’t give a toss about the effect of Brexit on the rest of us. They are going to be OK whilst the rest of us pay the price.

Meanwhile, Tony Blair  (remember him?) warns that we’re at risk of a return to the dark politics of the 1930s, apparently unaware that he’s possibly the single individual who has done more than anyone else to destroy public trust in traditional politics. The UK is descending down a dark and threatening path to a vainglorious Britain of shattered dreams and broken promises.

It's all so bloody depressing. And to all those who voted for this mess, thank you for absolutely nothing. I'm thinking of putting a sign on my front door - if you voted for Brexit, bugger off!

Some more of what the artist really meant

Fill in your own captions.


The well known Cornish folk duo, Poldark and Garfunkle.

Sorry, say that again. You've forgotten to pack the phone charger?

Have you ever wondered how the legendary Native American warrior Falls-From-Canoe-Just-As-About-To-Stab-Moose got his name?

You've got to be kidding me. You are telling me that not one of us remembered to bring the front door key?

(Parent, from other room): "I don't want you just sitting in front of that painting all day.  Now go outside and play."
 

Lancelot John Barrington Walters: A Welsh Connection

One of the joys of the internet is that you never know what you'll come across. Here's a recent example that pleases me. As part of the series of biographies on the men listed on our local WW1 memorial, I have already featured details of Lancelot John Barrington-Walters (here). Before committing myself to a final version for the book I'm compiling, I always check the internet for anything I might have missed previously or something that may have been added more recently. And so it was that new information on Lancelot lead us into the Wye Valley on a quest for a previously unknown connection.

Our quest took us to the church of St Catwg (Cadoc) in the hamlet of Cwmcarvan in rural, very rural, Monmouthshire. Many thanks to Bill Powell for opening the church for us and acting as our guide.

The church dates from the 13th or 14th century but was extensively restored by the Victorians. Their intervention was quite benign and it now has a pleasing simplicity, without any of the garish embellishments that they sometimes introduced. Nowadays there is a service but once a month with a congregation of only 4 or 5. However, it is also used as a de facto village hall so it seems that the secular and religious aspects of rural life are existing side by side.

Bill pointed out something unexpected to us: a war memorial to the fallen of Cwmcarvan Parish. Unexpected because, as far as I can ascertain, the memorial is not logged on any of the usual databases. I think I'll make it as a mission to spread its existence more widely, if only to the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. The inscription is very weathered but Bill Powell kindly provided the following transcription:
This cross was restored in 1921 to the Glory of God and in honoured and grateful memory of the men in this parish whose names are inscribed below who laid down their lives for their country in the Great War 1914-18.
Spencer H Drummond. Capt. Rifle Brigade 1915.
Lancelot J.B. Walters. RN. Lieut. HMS Partridge 1917.
James E Winter. Pte. Lancashire Regt. 1914.
William J Edwards. Pte. South Wales Borderers. 1916.
RESQUIESCANT IN PACE

And this is what we came to see: a stained glass window dedicated to the memory of Lancelot John Barrington Walters. It's in reasonable condition, with just a little buckling of the glass. In terms of the iconography inherent in the choice of St Ariel and St Raphael as the subjects in the windows, appropriately for Lancelot's naval service, St Ariel is known as the 'anel of the waters' and St Raphael is the guardian of pilgrims on their journeys. AS he is here, he is often shown holding a fish, an allusion to a healing episode in his past.

The inscription at the bottom of the two panes shows the worst buckling so I've cropped and stitched the segments to make them a little more legible.

And what is Lancelot's connection with Cwmcarvan? The answer lies in this other window in the church, dedicated to Captain Henry Edward Walters. Captain Walters owned the nearby 'big' house, Caer Llan, for many years and was Lancelot's uncle. Given the similarity in the service histories of uncle and nephew, I can understand any special bond between them. I would have thought it was highly probable that the young Lancelot had spent time enjoying the Caer Llan estate, or is that me being fanciful?

The inscription at the bottom of the window in more detail. When Henry Walters died, the estate passed initially to this wife and then, quite shortly afterwards, to his nephew, Robnett Walters, the step-brother of Lancelot. Robnett was born in Stoke Climsland which, in a way, brings us full circle back to Cornwall.