Author: browneconomy

Robbie Williams Strong live at Knebworth

Have you every noticed, as you get older, you become more like your parents?

Back in your teenage years you cringed every time they said or did anything but, as you’ve got older somehow their behaviour metamorphosed into what you think of now as perfectly reasonable. And although the first time you comprehend this it might have shocked you: but, they no longer embarrass you. It’s not them thats changed, but you.

Reminds me of the words of Robbie William’s Strong

……I dance like me Dad,

Started to dress a bit like him …..

A quarter of a century ago when I was about 18, I lived with my Mum, Dad, Brother & Sister. My Dad had two passions; Liverpool FC & a fanatical hatred of Margaret Thatcher.

He couldn’t stand being in the same room (not that she ever visited) with whom he referred to as Bloody Thatch. But he refused to watch Bloody Thatch on television, would turn off the radio if Bloody Thatch were interviewed. If Bloody Thatch’s picture was on the front on a newspaper he’d have to fold it so as not to see Bloody Thatch’s face. His hatred peaked every Thursday evening with BBC’s Question Time when Conservative Ministers (Dad referred to them all by the collective The Voice of Bloody Thatch) did debating battle with the Opposition.

The living room was commandeered through the force of his language. Mum would beg him not to watch because his inevitable anger gave him high blood pressure. The rest of the family would shiver in the other room. So as not to disturb us, Dad would turn down the volume on the TV very low and as it was barely audible, he’d kneel down six inches in front of it. We’d hear the debate through the walls; or rather we’d only hear my Dad’ contribution to it:

“Mumble Mumble Mumble “ “ Yes, That’s Right, 3 Million on the Dole.

Bloody Thatch”

(obviously this in response to the Liberal panellist)

“Mumble Mumble Mumble “ “ Yes, Yes. That showed them. Next Election!

Bloody Thatch”

(obviously this in response to the Labour panellist)

“Mumble Mumble Mumble “ “ True- but if you hadn’t split from Labour We’d have a majority. Bloody Thatch”

(obviously this in response to the Social Democrat panellist)

“Mumble Mumble Mumble “ “ LIAR. ‘Ollocks. ‘YOU’RE WRONG. ‘OCKSUCKER

Bloody Thatch”

(obviously, well you get my drift)

And the next morning he’d come down to breakfast, bright red with the vein on the right hand side of his head throbbing angrily from fretful nocturnal insomnia. Had the Conservative panellist on Question Time ‘not been showed’ his temper could last, well days. Even up until the following Thursday on one occasion.

Until recently I found my memory of all this very amusing. Until I realised I was doing the same. I don’t mean getting angry with the memory of Margaret Thatcher but with our own Prime Minister, Gordon Brown. Unlike my Dad’s relatively polite Bloody Thatch, I don’t refer to him as that Bloody Brown. I refer to him as That C— Brown.

In fact so often do I use the term ‘That C— Brown I’ve submitted a additional definition to the Oxford English Dictionary so that it now reads:

Cunt n. taboo 1) 14th C. polite term for female genitals. 2) 20st C. impolite term for a stupid or offensive person. 3) 21st C. perfectly reasonable term for the present Prime Minister.

But unlike my father did I’m not just shouting at an almost mute television. I’ve taken to something seemingly even more impotent, putting the world to rights by posting on the internet. We in our generation are lucky, we now have an (almost) free, (so far) uncensored internet. An opportunity to vent our spleens without disturbing our families. A freedom that will probably be undermined in the next few years unless, we stand up for the right of freedom of speech for this new medium.

We call it the Economic Voice. Use it while you can.

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