Progress for a decaying empire

I have no love of football. It's become a game for nasty cheats, whose icons are grossly overpaid. It is, however, a reflection of a nation's psyche. Today we are told that a Brazilian, presently managing Portugal, is to be offered the job of English national coach.

To that we have Arsenal, the only English football team left in Europe. There is not one English player in that side.

Beyond that we have a government minister saying, 'It really doesn't matter who owns the company, as long as the jobs remain in Britain.'

There's national stupidity at work. One in eight of prisoners in British goals are foreigners. We don't know how many illegal immigrants we have in the country. It is apparent to everyone except the Home Office, which is stuck in a 1970s social science timewarp, that many of them come here to exploit us and then to take the spoils elsewhere.

The port in Felixstowe, where I live, has been given authority to expand. There will be a huge new dock, with 13 new cranes. The deep water channel necessary for the new large vessels is dragging away the sand from our beach. The town is losing its one resource - it's attractive beach.

No matter, say the officials, that the port is owned by China. It will bring jobs to the area.
Nobody has bothered to look at Rotterdam, the largest port in Europe, where computers are replacing humans and the whole port is slowly becoming automated.

This is the end of Empire. We once ruled the world. Now we don't deport foreign criminals, we don't even know who is foreign, and not entitled to live here. Our industrial base has been destroyed, and we don't have anything left to replace it. Our workers are little more than slaves, except that the slave knew he would have a master, our workers can lose a job tomorrow without notice.

Yet the Deputy Prime Minister can shag his secretary. The Health Minister ruin the National Health Service. The Schools Minister seem so out of touch that she's unreal and the Culture Secretary is forced to divorce her husband to stay in her job.

We need a dictator.

I'm up for the job if the rest of you care enough to want me.

Disgusted with South Devon health care

Now it's time for a real moan. My father-in-law (lovely man) is dying. He's 89 and had a slight stroke - see my advice in the blog below this - and was admitted to hospital.

He recovered sufficiently to be taken to another facility for convalescence. There he developed bed sores (poor nursing care?) and was returned to the main hospital for treatment. There he caught MRSA, and now his body is falling apart, because the infection is attacking the bed sores.

The hospital staff say they are sorry. There is nothing more they can do. Can they be blamed or is it the system?

That's bad enough - and will somebody please realise that we did not have such dreadful infections when each ward had its own ward cleaner. That lovely lady checked all the dodgy places every day. If she missed something the charge nurse found it. Then the ward sister's eagle eye was ever wary. Failing all these dedicated people we could rely upon Matron, a matriach who struck terror to all who stepped out of place.

Today we have a bully-boy contractor employing cheap immigrant labour, which have to be kept on the move so they are not deported, who are paid very little, and can't clean above shoulder height. The germs have now worked out how to survive this remnant of Thatcher's destruction and sit just above shoulder height, ready to drop MRSA on any old dears who pass by.

It gets worse. The doctors said there was nothing more they could do. Father-in-law was going to die, and should be sent home.

Hold on there! The social services then said, 'Oh no he can't.' Not until we have had six meetings with all relevant parties (except his family) to discuss his case. No date was given as to when a decision to let him out of hospital would be taken, and the social care worker refused to listen to the pleas of his two daughters, ready and willing to help.

By this time the family knew better than to ask what services would be available when this dying man did arrive home. They'd asked that previously, when faced with two social service officials conducting a home visit. These denizens had probed and prodded, checked and sniffed, questioned and hummed and haa-ed. They'd said he needed this, should have that, would need that changed, this moved and then perhaps all would be satisfactory.

All had looked very promising. The cavalry were waiting on the other side of the hill. Relief was at hand. Except it wasn't. That's what he really needs, they said. But we don't have any of that. We suffer from a lack of staff, money, resources and interest. So they left. He had no support provided.

Now they say he must wait in hospital, to be assessed. While GPs pick up over £100,000 a year, money is poured into a system that uses it to monitor progress and report back to the government.

This stroppy old git suggested the family go the hospital, and bring him home. All agreed except his elderly wife. She is utterly distraught by all that has already happened, and doesn't want to make a fuss - who does at her age? She's now at risk and wants to end it for both of them, they have had enough of this life. A sorry end for two wonderful people.

Patricia 'Am I supercilious' Hewitt purports to govern the health service. She says our heath service has never been better.

Go say that to my in-laws.

Recognise a Stroke

Don't just let someone stumble, fall over, get up, brush themselves down and say everything is OK.

Agree with them but just ask them to do three simple tasks:

Ask them to smile

Ask them to raise both arms

And to speak a simple sentence: perhaps It's a sunny day today.

If they have trouble with any of these - dial 999 and get them to hospital. They may have had a stroke. Recognising and treating a stroke victim within three hours can save all the problems.

Remember those three simple steps.

Cold Spring

There's a lot of the pagan in me, and that becomes very notceable in the Spring, except that my character is flawed. I anticipate failure too readily. Spring is a time of hope and excitement. The first flowers peek through the cold wintry soil, offering hope for the future. The sun will shine again soon. All will be well with the world. But there's always that nagging doubt in the back of the mind.
Today the scepticism has proved to be well-founded. We've had a few days of sun that have seen me discarding jackets, pulling shorts out of the wardrobe. Today all has changed. It is cold, and that's made worse because my obstinancy tells me it is now April, and heating is no longer required - at least not during the day. I will relent in the evening and twiddle the central heating knob, but not during that day.
Use the time to play with words. Go to Michael Quinion's site World Wide Words. He'll have you rubbing your hands together with glee, and that'll keep you warm.

Aerials

The TV aerial fell off the roof of a house owned by my friend this weekend. So what's the problem? Well, the house was rented and I had agreed to act as the contact point whilst my friend was away.

At the same time my daughter phoned, and emailed, to ask for my help. Dad's do not refuse daughters. It's a basic rule of life. Then I was asked to help build a telescope, add an eel logo to 100 semi-precious stones, and cook a meal or two.

By this time I was wondering how my allotment was looking, and whether I would ever find time to prepare the page layouts for a new book. No problem, so I went out to dinner, stayed out too long, felt like death swept across the griddle the next morning until the phone rang again. Those accounts I'd promised to help a friend (another friend - do I have too many of these creatures) where now do, and had I managed to finsh them yet?

It's time for the allotment. The sun is shining