- Location
- Bury St Edmunds, Suffolk
So I’ve managed to get free of a sweltering harvest and taken my lovely little wife and youngest offspring on a little jolly, to see our eldest graduate. This auspicious event occurred at Queens University in Belfast, a place of further education Agnes picked- we’re assured- for academic prowess rather than distance from her immediate family. Setting off in the Discovery, we blasted up the M5/M6 in the fullest glare of the heatwave, jostling for position on crowded roads. Arriving at the docks in Birkenhead in plenty of time –it doesn’t do to miss your ferry- we then spent the cooling evening quayside. Passing my time as gregariously as ever, I fell into conversation with an amiable cop stood by with his sniffer dog. It hadn’t occurred to me this could soon become the front line against the EU customs zone.
Travelling up, the radio news had been full of other EU border matters, with several countries admitting that they really don’t want to go on accepting unlimited migrants from countries….er…to the South. I notice a lot of media types struggle with the concept, desperate to label anyone voicing such opinions as right wing racists. I’d watched that Channel 4 news bird working pretty hard to goad a Polish Minister into accepting he was a reactionary monster…..and failing. He was unapologetic, having been elected to try and keep the door shut, and evidently couldn’t care less what she thought.
It’s hardly surprising when de facto entry into the EU is now being dictated by ‘humanitarian’ charities, chartering boats to pick up migrants just off the Libyan coast. Claiming to have ‘saved them’, they then expect others to pick up the pieces. It’s predictable enough that the matter is becoming increasingly heated, and the ultimate response is probably going to be very much opposite to that the charities might seek. Hey ho.
Anyroad, disembarking from the overnight ferry on a dazzling bright morning, we managed to find our way to where Agnes was toiling at rowing practice on the Lagan– she’s a great long limbed thing, and has taken to rowing like a duck to water. Afterwards, we speculated that the new job she starts dreckly in London might not fit with finding another rowing club. She assures us that she might give boxing a go instead- she doesn’t necessarily want to thump people, but likes the idea of knowing how to, should the occasion should arise. Steer well clear is my advice.
Filling time, we checked out the botanic gardens and the museum, and motored up to the Giants Causeway- a striking basalt formation of angular columns coming up out of the sea. And very enjoyable it was to. We’d already discovered the National Trust want you to forfeit a limb to view this spectacle, but unfortunately, can only charge for parking. The trick is to park elsewhere, and just walk in. Curiously we developed an interest in a defunct railway museum nextdoor. It was closed, but you could park cheap. And I noticed on the way out that a farmer nearby had capped his garden wall with Causeway segments…the rascal.
Then, onto the big day. Agnes had hired the requisite robes, so she could walk onto the stage, shake hands with some old bloke in grander robe, and walk off again. Unfortunately, the hundreds of adoring parents have to then watch each other’s little darlings do likewise, clapping until your hands fall off. My observations of the novel concept would include that the pompous faculty of grandees in their ornate robes were overly up themselves, voicing the idea that these graduates were now part of a special elite. Several parents seemed to go along with the idea, which they are entitled to believe….right up until one of them has a blocked drain or a leaky roof. I see the Uni gives piffling jobs to graduates who fail to launch, which make the figures look better.
Oh, and I couldn’t fail to note that the fashion amongst female grads on the day –excepting our Agnes and some of her maths and science buddies- was for unfeasibly tight dresses, with …er…perfectly clean lines. This would be OK, but they also went big on the trowel applied make-up, and tottered about on spindly high heels. I’ve no idea who thinks it’s a good look…it surely is not. By the end of the day, we watched one limping down the street, fake tan streaked, and make up sagging, looking a right mess. Ironically, as far as I could tell, wearing flat shoes and dressed comfortably, she’d have been a stunner.
Anyway, I’m immensely proud of our headstrong girl. The question is not whether she’s ready for the big wide world, but rather……is the world ready for Agnes?
-------------------------
Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and WMN.
Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine and the NFU
He has published two books; the second "The Complete Bullocks" is still in print
http://www.anton-coaker.co.uk/book.htm
Travelling up, the radio news had been full of other EU border matters, with several countries admitting that they really don’t want to go on accepting unlimited migrants from countries….er…to the South. I notice a lot of media types struggle with the concept, desperate to label anyone voicing such opinions as right wing racists. I’d watched that Channel 4 news bird working pretty hard to goad a Polish Minister into accepting he was a reactionary monster…..and failing. He was unapologetic, having been elected to try and keep the door shut, and evidently couldn’t care less what she thought.
It’s hardly surprising when de facto entry into the EU is now being dictated by ‘humanitarian’ charities, chartering boats to pick up migrants just off the Libyan coast. Claiming to have ‘saved them’, they then expect others to pick up the pieces. It’s predictable enough that the matter is becoming increasingly heated, and the ultimate response is probably going to be very much opposite to that the charities might seek. Hey ho.
Anyroad, disembarking from the overnight ferry on a dazzling bright morning, we managed to find our way to where Agnes was toiling at rowing practice on the Lagan– she’s a great long limbed thing, and has taken to rowing like a duck to water. Afterwards, we speculated that the new job she starts dreckly in London might not fit with finding another rowing club. She assures us that she might give boxing a go instead- she doesn’t necessarily want to thump people, but likes the idea of knowing how to, should the occasion should arise. Steer well clear is my advice.
Filling time, we checked out the botanic gardens and the museum, and motored up to the Giants Causeway- a striking basalt formation of angular columns coming up out of the sea. And very enjoyable it was to. We’d already discovered the National Trust want you to forfeit a limb to view this spectacle, but unfortunately, can only charge for parking. The trick is to park elsewhere, and just walk in. Curiously we developed an interest in a defunct railway museum nextdoor. It was closed, but you could park cheap. And I noticed on the way out that a farmer nearby had capped his garden wall with Causeway segments…the rascal.
Then, onto the big day. Agnes had hired the requisite robes, so she could walk onto the stage, shake hands with some old bloke in grander robe, and walk off again. Unfortunately, the hundreds of adoring parents have to then watch each other’s little darlings do likewise, clapping until your hands fall off. My observations of the novel concept would include that the pompous faculty of grandees in their ornate robes were overly up themselves, voicing the idea that these graduates were now part of a special elite. Several parents seemed to go along with the idea, which they are entitled to believe….right up until one of them has a blocked drain or a leaky roof. I see the Uni gives piffling jobs to graduates who fail to launch, which make the figures look better.
Oh, and I couldn’t fail to note that the fashion amongst female grads on the day –excepting our Agnes and some of her maths and science buddies- was for unfeasibly tight dresses, with …er…perfectly clean lines. This would be OK, but they also went big on the trowel applied make-up, and tottered about on spindly high heels. I’ve no idea who thinks it’s a good look…it surely is not. By the end of the day, we watched one limping down the street, fake tan streaked, and make up sagging, looking a right mess. Ironically, as far as I could tell, wearing flat shoes and dressed comfortably, she’d have been a stunner.
Anyway, I’m immensely proud of our headstrong girl. The question is not whether she’s ready for the big wide world, but rather……is the world ready for Agnes?
-------------------------
Anton's articles are syndicated exclusively by TFF by kind permission of the author and WMN.
Anton also writes regularly for the Dartmoor Magazine and the NFU
He has published two books; the second "The Complete Bullocks" is still in print
http://www.anton-coaker.co.uk/book.htm