The number of British people leaving this blessed isle of ours has risen to 385,000 the highest level for a generation. This includes 200,000 of what the Daily Mail readership might call ‘true Brits’, born and bred in this country.
However, we received 580,000 immigrants last year, so we are on a net gain.
If we take off a few noughts, we get 58 in, 38 leave and 20 of those are real Brits, so we are left with 20 non-Brits. So for ever 20 Brits leaving we get 20 non-Brits.
On this basis, how long will it take before Britain needs to be called something else?
Finally old ‘Queenie in waiting’ (the Duchess of Cornwall or whatever she calls herself), has put her foot down and said she will not attend the memorial service of Princess Diana.
And I should think not. Whatever possessed the palace to think it was a jolly fine idea that the woman Diana hated more than any other should be there in attendance is beyond me.
The old bat stole her husband, stole her happiness and stole her pride. She hardly needs to go to the memorial service to remind people of that fact. No amount of over blown hair and matching coat and hat combo’s is going to fool anyone that she is anything more than the mistress.
I think the woman has done well to stand up to the Palace and refuse to attend. I think Charles is a fool to imagine it would be a good idea for her to be there. And I think it is time the whole Diana obsession was put to bed; stop lamenting over a tragedy in the past and get on with living in the present.
Why am I continually embarrassed by my sex?
I was walking along by the river the other day when a coxed four rowed powerfully past. Cutting through the water like a hot knife through butter they were all shouting and blowing and covered in sweat and Lycra. Among other things, I marvelled at how dynamic and strong our species can be.
Shortly thereafter a crew of female rowers came into view. ‘Splendid’ I thought. Good strong women, out there, giving it some for the girls. Then one of them yawned. Another of them yelped and flung aside her oar and clutched at her fingernail in angst and finally the Cox got the giggles.
And my boyfriend fell about laughing.
The ‘sisterhood’ (formerly including Kate Middleton, future princess to the nation) are attempting to be the first all female crew to row across Channel in traditional Chinese dragon boat. ‘Great’ I thought. Good strong women, out there, giving it some for the girls.
And what do they do? Body paint their none-to-delicate frames and hit the tabloids.
And I fell about laughing.
With curves in all the wrong places I would suggest that they use something more than a G-string to cover their modesty next time. A windbreak perhaps? Nude calendars are best left to the busty beautiful or the W.I.
On Croyde beach at the weekend, we were walking the girls towards the sea when we stopped to let a girl return a ball to her friends playing beach cricket. She ran with it, released it from her clammy grasp with all the aplomb of an armless maggot and then watched it trickle lamely three feet away.
And my boyfriend and I fell about laughing.
The thing that really gets me is that we are capable of strength. We have the ability to be able to compete on an equal footing. Take little Ellen MaCarther; she is not a man in a woman’s body, she is a woman in a girls body, blowing the rich mans world of sailing wide open.
JK Rowling, our very own Exeter graduate, is currently #40 on Forbes top 100 Most Powerful Women. I may not be her most loyal fan from the point of view that I have never read any of her books. I may be correct in my opinion that she is about as charming as the German language. But, I admire her rapid ascendance to power. She has risen like a phoenix from the depths of single motherdom and come out all strong and brave (but with a terrible line in hair, makeup and party frocks).
For some reason women just chose to play the pathetic card. We play the weak card. And we play the ‘less’ card. Less intelligent, less capable, less motivated, less ambitious, less able, and less bothered that we look utterly ridiculous. So for goodness sake women, get a grip. Stop worrying about your nails, stop tramping about in nothing more than your pants and stop throwing like a girl.