Putting Our Nationality Behind Us

 Mike Bodnar contemplates the bumpy road ahead for drivers after leaving the EU...

The now-compulsory UK sticker

One of the consequences of leaving the European Union is that drivers of British cars, when they journey overseas, must now display a specific sticker on their rear identifying their country of residence. Not on their bums obviously, on the rear of their vehicles. Come on now, behave.

Prior to joining the EU in 1972, such stickers were common, and declared the vehicle to be from Great Britain, with the initials GB, black on a white oval background. Upon becoming part of Europe however, these stickers were no longer necessary, since registration plates were changed to include a small ‘GB’ featuring the lovely EU yellow stars. In style and presentation they matched all the other EU number plates, and signified a unity, a togetherness.

But now that Britain has left, divorced, withdrawn and retrenched, we are once again faced with having to declare our nationality on our rears, except now the stickers have been changed from ‘GB’ to ‘UK.’ And we aren’t allowed to use the attractive yellow stars or the EU’s blue background.

Apparently we only learned of this through the United Nations, which issued a memo. But it wasn’t a decree from the Eurocrats – it came from Westminster. A Department for Transport spokesperson told the BBC: ‘Changing the national identifier from GB to UK symbolises our unity as a nation and is part of a wider move towards using the UK signifier across government. We notified the UN of our intention to make these changes in July, and have been working with the sector to implement the change.’

Searching for a United Kingdom

So we are no longer Great Britain apparently, but that much has been obvious for quite some time. There’s little that’s great about a country as torn by racism, crime, homophobia, homelessness, political incompetence, and a mishandling of a pandemic that’s been, well, plagued by ill health from the start, as we are.

Tellingly, the requirement for us to now declare ourselves as being from the UK underlines that we are not part of the Europe Club any more; instead we are on our own, against Europe, independent, maybe even adrift. But – and here I finally arrive at my point - united we are definitely not.

We have the north-south divide in England, Scotland seeks independence, there’s an almost equal split between those Brits who wanted to leave Europe and those who wanted to remain in the EU, an increasing political chasm between the Tories, Labour and any of the other parties, and a general unease about how we should manage ourselves and our international reputation from here on. And I haven’t even mentioned the rich and the increasingly poor. There is little sign of unity.

However, the prospect of bumper stickers declaring us to be from the Disunited Kingdom are slim, since DK is already taken (by Denmark). NSGB would be appropriate, since we’re not-so-Great Britain now, but presents problems to those who design and print the stickers themselves. Instead of being a neat oval, the NSGB sticker would have to be more of a sausage shape. Not a German sausage note - a good old Cumbrian sausage. Or maybe a black pudding. NSUK also invites a wealth of derision. NSUK on this, etc.

Disunited Kingdom might work as DUK, but would open the way for references to dead ducks, duck for cover, and so on. So no, we’ll have no derision here thank you.

Anyway, United Kingdom? I think not. We haven’t had a kingdom since George VI, and although there’s a candidate pacing up and down in the wings as we speak (and has been for decades), we are a Queendom, and have been since 1952. One, at least, is not amused.

But mentioning the Royal Family brings up another thorn in our side, since we are increasingly divided over the relevance of the monarchy. The republican movement might well be rubbing their hands in anticipation of radical change, but the vehicle sticker designers will be holding their heads in their hands in fear of having to squeeze REPUBGB into a standard oval. We’re not talking a sausage shape here; we’re talking a whole salami. But then that’s Italian and would never do, no, no, no.

Maybe we just need to honestly declare ourselves a Free United Kingdom in Disarray.

 

 

 

 

 

Incompetence Rocks!

 Mike Bodnar apologises for having a rant at politicians and how they rise to power…

 

Yup, that's how we feel too. Image: the Guardian

Yes, I’m sorry. I humbly apologise that I am now forced to write about politicians, because politics is one of my no-go areas generally. But there comes a time. There comes the hour. Here cometh the Man.

What’s tipped me over the edge today are pictures in the media of our prime minister (Boris Johnson, for it is he) drinking from a water glass and looking sneezy, because – shock, horror – he has A COLD!

OMG and all that, hold the front page! Breaking news! FFS.

While hundreds of migrants a day try their luck crossing the English Channel, while the Amazon continues to disappear at an alarming rate, while homeless people around the country face a bleak and hopeless winter, and while HS2 isn’t – surprise, surprise – going to contribute to levelling up with t’north after all, all the media are concerned with is the fact that the prime minister appears to have a raspy voice.

Well diddums. Boris can afford private health care, efficient central heating, a warm overcoat or three, and he lives in a fine house – all paid for, need I remind you – by us. He can even go on holiday to somewhere lovely and warm, paid for by his party supporters. Can we?

And let’s face it, Bozo is just the one at the top. Beneath him and alongside him there’s a raft (apologies to migrants) of fellow politicians all equally well paid (some with two or three extra lucrative jobs) who also enjoy all the trappings of public office. Including I now might add, anonymity as to what those extra roles and incomes might be. FFS again.

Priti useless. Image: the Conversation

These senior politicians – Ministers of the Crown – enjoy their privileged positions because their boss, the aforementioned Bozo, has handed them the roles. They haven’t earned their seats in the ivory towers, they have merely been chummy with the right person, and have thus been rewarded with positions of appalling power and influence.

But where is the evidence that any of them – go on, I dare you – has shown true professionalism and excellence in their roles? We have had huge payments to Tory chums during the pandemic, support and protection for offshore tax haven companies operating in the UK and not paying due tax, millions wasted on spurious projects run by even more spurious quick-start companies, and with how much accountability? Fuck all.

Good luck. Image: The Guardian

Meanwhile, during the shambolic ‘measures’ (I use the term loosely) taken to mitigate education during the pandemic, GCSEs were missed, critical benchmarks in students’ lives were compromised, and a whole section of our youth is now having to play catch-up in the hope – get this – that they will eventually qualify sufficiently to be able to hold down a secure job and earn a decent wage. Well good luck.

The best advice I can offer our yoof is to enrol for a political science degree and join the Tory Party. Oh, and take a course or two in schmoozing, public relations, and try for a B.Fawn. (Batchelor of Fawning). That way you might one day become prime minister.

Rant over.

PS: When I was in my late teens I said to my mother, ‘I’ve half a mind to become a politician.’ She replied, ‘Well in that case you’re overqualified.’

Woke Comedy

Mike Bodnar will never do stand-up again...

Never again...

There's some comedy I did twelve to fifteen years ago that today would get me in trouble. Obviously I can't say what it was, because, well, see above. Let's just say that times have changed, and the woke brigade takes no prisoners.

Were I to tell you the plastic bag joke, for example, the crowd would be baying for me to resign as a comedian. They'd put up a statue to me just so they could tear it down in anger. I would be trolled on social media, and I would have to publicly apologise.

Then there's the 101 Dalmatians joke. Nope, can't tell you that one either sorry. All I can say is that no animals were harmed during the telling of it, but I would be reviled today. Maybe I could sell it to Roy Chubby Brown (although it would be a bit tame for him).

The point is, I can never do stand-up comedy again; I'd be too afraid. I would have to write, edit, and rewrite my material multiple times to ensure there was not an ounce of anything that could cause offence. So much analysis would have to go into my material that any humour would end up crumpled in the waste basket and I'd end up with a sermon instead.

Not that I've ever given offence. Not once did I ever write sketches with the aim of causing offence, and I doubt many comedians do (except RCB maybe). But today offence is too easily taken, and there's the thing: people take offence where it has never been given or intended. So who's to blame? The giver - who may not actually exist - or the recipient? 

A bar waiting for a joke to turn up

I could not, for example, even fall back on that good old stand-by joke that starts, 'A man walks into a bar.'

What?? I’m sure to offend someone from the get-go with that. A man? No no, no, that just won’t do. What if the man identifies as a woman? Or used to be a man but has undergone surgery and is now female? Exactly; I am presuming too much. And anyway, does the gender matter? Well it might further into the joke, but by then my woke audience will have walked out, or thrown something at me.

So, 'Someone walks into a bar'? No, that won’t do either. What if they’re gender fluid and can be more than one gender at any given time? They are therefore not someone, but sometwo. Or something. They have the right to choose their own pronoun, to which I am not party, which puts me at a disadvantage.

Seriously, I cannot say, 'Something walks into a bar' because that doesn’t conjure up the right image at all. I mean, that something might be a stapler. Or a dishmop. Person! Yes, that will do. Let’s start again.

'A person walks into a bar...'

But wait again. Walks? Uh-uh; this is not inclusive, because of course not everyone – or everything – can walk. I could therefore say that a person wheels into a bar, but that excludes those who can actually walk, unless they're a cyclist. Enters, then. Let’s go with that.

'A person enters a bar...'

The blackness of the audience. No offence.

Why does it always have to be a f****ng bar? something calls out from the blackness of the audience. And when I say blackness I’m referring to the fact that when a comedian is on stage it is usually very difficult to see any further into the audience than the first couple of rows due to the glare of the spot lights. That’s assuming of course that there are any more people beyond the first two rows. I should be so lucky. Anyway, don’t shoot me for being racist about dim light. I’ll admit to being lightist, but that’s it.

But in this case I know there are more people beyond the front rows because one of them has just shouted, 'Why does it always have to be a f****ng bar?'

Well, er, it’s because a barman features further into the narrative.

A barman? Oh pur-lease. I hear a seat flip up and the exit door slam.

Okay, okay (sigh), a bar tender. Or barkeep. Whatever.

The remaining audience is strangely silent, their own glares outperforming the spotlights. This is going to be hard work.

Bill Bailey: funniest man in the world

So let's have an interval. This is where I declare my admiration for the world's funniest man, Bill Bailey. He can stand on stage for two hours and not offend anyone. People laugh till they cry, and where Bailey does occasionally make an acerbic reference to some societal failure or political indiscretion it generally has the audience applauding and whistling in agreement. He does it with panache, and in the knowledge that anyone who has paid up to £80 for a seat in the venue is unlikely to want to be easily offended.

Unfortunately, many casual stand-up comedy venues don't charge admission, so those audiences have no investment in enjoying themselves and can bring all their attendant frailties and cultural worries with them.

I am of course at a disadvantage in that I can't play any musical instruments. Bailey can play an entire orchestra's worth and be funny at the same time. I can't wring a tune out of a tambourine. (But come to think of it, who can?)

So, leaving musical instruments out of it, here's my take on Bill Bailey telling 'a man walks into a bar' joke and getting away with it; interval over.

A person rides into town on their horse, dressed as a cowboy - the rider, not the horse, obviously - and stops at a saloon for a drink. They enter the bar. Not the horse - I'm using 'they' as an all-encompassing pronoun for the rider here. 

Unfortunately, the locals have a habit of picking on strangers, which this person is. When they'd finished their drink, they found that their horse had been stolen. They went back into the bar, deftly flipped their gun into the air, caught it above their head without even looking and fired a shot into the ceiling.

A man, or possibly a woman or something

“Which one of you sidewinders stole my horse?” the person dressed in cowboy garb yelled with surprising forcefulness. No one answered.

“Alright, I’m gonna have another whisky, and if my horse ain’t back outside by the time I finish, I’m gonna do what I dun in Texas! And I don’t wanna have to do what I dun in Texas!”

Some of the locals shifted uneasily. The rider, true to their word, had another drink, walked outside, and found the horse had been returned to the post. The rider saddled up ready to ride out of town. The bartender wandered out of the bar and said, “Say pardner, before you go… you mind tellin' me what happened in Texas?” 

The rider turned, spat in the dust and said, “I had to walk home.”

PS: I unreservedly apologise to all those who find walking difficult or can't walk at all. And those who can't ride or are allergic to horses. The bar, just so you know, also served food - vegetarian, and vegan choices were available, the bar nibbles were complimentary and were accompanied by a little sign warning that they 'may contain nuts.' There was a space reserved outside the front of the saloon for disabled riders, and the bar was wheelchair accessible. The firearm used in the joke fired blanks only.