New Year’s resolution… not immolation

PEOPLE who know me – I mean REALLY, really, really Spice Girls-type know me – will fully understand that I’m not all that keen on politicians.

Any politicians, in fact. Left, right, centre, red, blue, beige… one way or another, they’re all sparing with the truth, masters and mistresses of deception, experts in the art of smoke and mirrors. And they will all ultimately betray you in the end.

You don’t think so? I would have thought there were enough examples in recent times to make this screamingly, Basil Fawlty bleedin’ obvious.

My early beginnings in provincial journalism taught me that, as in the old, now hopelessly politically incorrect cowboy films featuring ‘redskins’, it’s always been a case of politician-speak-with-forked-tongue. 

And several decades later, I see no reason why I should change my mind.

Unfortunately, the toxic, divided and tragically unhappy Britain of today has now reverted to a cross between raised-drawbridge-tribalism and the unforgiving religious fundamentalism of centuries past.

And that’s why my thoughts recently turned to historical precedent and the growing notion that nothing really changes when it comes to the mind of Man. Methods of coercion may go out of favour, but instincts remain the same.

Anyway, last month – Thursday, December 18 to be precise - saw the 470^th anniversary of the burning at the stake in 1555, during the reign of Bloody Mary Tudor, of the Protestant heretic John Philpott.

Philpott was a Hampshire cleric who refused to accept the Catholic ‘real presence’ – the core belief that the communal bread and wine actually BECOME the body of Christ.

And yes, we are distantly related, just in case you wondered. My Tudor period namesake that is, I hasten to add.

Not that I would have displayed anything like his courage or fortitude while facing that unspeakable form of execution.

Yes, yes, I agree with you Bishop Bonner, this stale chunk of Mother’s Pride and bargain bin plonk really is the flesh and blood of Our Saviour, no problem at all mate, absolutely anything you say, arch-inquisitor Bishop Bonner, it’s fine. Now can I go home to my nice cosy cathedral in Winchester?

Four-hundred-plus years on, let’s fast-forward to the present, and grease the old cogs on our metaphorical rack, this being the patent updated 21^st Century Supastretch model available at all good hardware stores. 

Whose side are you on? Believer or heretic? Is this just bread and wine… or do these items miraculously transubstantiate for the believer into, say, an irrefutably honest party-political BBC TV broadcast?

Furthermore, do you out-hate everybody else when it comes to Donald Trump? There is a hatred competition on at the moment, I’ll have you know.

These are so often the first questions – spoken or unspoken – that the casual friend or stranger will try to establish. Yes, thought so. Wrong side. Shame. Ah well, that’s another person to be cancelled or struck off the Christmas card list.

You put your far right wing leg in, you far left wing leg out, in out in out and shriek it all about…

Unfortunately - at least one suspects for some - the compulsory immolation of the unbeliever is no longer an option. But it’s only enforcement methods, not the instincts that change.

There again, as the chattering classes have always maintained, EVERYTHING is politics. And that’s why above all, disagreement – remember that? – cannot be tolerated at any cost.

Here’s a very mild example. Even as late as last year, I was quietly blocked by a Worcestershire politician for having the temerity to ask him, me being an honest citizen guvnor, a perfectly reasonable question. All right, two questions.

What, insignificant little member-of-the-electorate me, hmmm? Displaying the audacity and ideas-above-my-station impertinence of requesting discourse with a taxpayer-funded servant of the people?

So yes, it was the block for me. No, not the one that forms a companion set with an axe. This is the one where you get shut out from social media and all email contact. Just as effective as the old mediaeval head remover, mind. But not nearly as painful or messy.

So. I’ve made this New Year’s resolution to spread the word. And The Word is this… don’t be defined by politics. It’s not worth it. Really.

Yes, vote for whom you wish, but don’t let politics taint every enjoyable walk of life, such as sport, conversations down the pub, day coach trips to Bangor, sat on a bench in the park chatting to a stranger, meeting someone while walking the dog, at a dinner party, or just passing the sunny time of day over the fence with a neighbour.

Please heed these words dear reader. In my case, it will be a rigid lip-buttoned omerta, especially in the situations I like best, such as picking guitars, strumming ukeleles and blowing gob irons with likeminded others. There’s just too much to lose and it’s simply not worth it. And you can hold me to this.

After all, could you imagine any politician on this planet - or indeed solar system - prepared to give up ANYTHING for you, let alone a friendship, acquaintance or membership of a pleasant, convivial social scene? Of course you couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not in a month of polling days.

So, there you are… some typically sound advice from yours truly to all my countless and adoring legions of Showtime! devotees.

But do take care to remember these friendly, politics-free pearls of wisdom when out and about over the next 12 months, thereby guaranteeing yourself a happy, prosperous and - above all - peaceful 2026. Why? Because you’re worth it.