One Hundred Years ago today a firebrand militant committed an act of reckless stupidity that would cost them their life four days later. I think it is appropriate to ask "was it worth the bother considering the contempt we are still held in".
I refer of course to the suicidal act of Emily Davison who chose to throw herself under the hooves of the King's horse and thus ruin a perfectly good day at the Races for the elite who gave not a toss for the "hoi polloi". Davison was dragged off to lie in an Epsom hospital gravely wounded until she shuffled off this mortal coil from her injuries. These days medical advances have reached the point where I have little doubt she would have lived to face charges of terrorist activity.
But it is the legacy of her action which I wish to speak of.
I almost decided against writing this article given the solemn nature of the last two posts, but in the end I decided it has to be said, because when you stop and think about it, what has happened is yet another deliberate attack on everything the country I grew up in believed in and stood for.
I am sure all of you who read this article from an address in the UK will already know that one of the most bizarre, mad, lunatic and yes downright dangerous "sporting" events that used to take place every year on the upcoming bank holiday took place on a hill outside Gloucester that is steeper than the launch ramp Eddie The Eagle Edwards would ski-jump from.
I do not normally bother listening to breakfast tv or even much of it at any other time. But this morning, as my eggs softly boiled, my attention was drawn to the screen where the presenters went through their little newspeak routine for the brainwashed public.
And what I heard interested me and may be of some interest to you.
It was about 7:30 this morning, when Daybreak (?) interviewed a man whose job it is to "advise" ex-pats in Cyprus on the issues they face.
This article grew out of a comment I placed in Jim Dowson's piece on the continuing refusal to fly the Union Flag on Government Buildings in the capital city of one nation in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.
I noted a comment already in place suggesting Jim had not really gone into much detail as to the matter and I went off to do some research of my own. In the course of that I came across an article apparently from The Observer which was published online on the portal that paper shares with The Guardian.
I don't normally pay much attention to the rants of the Daily Fail but on this occasion I shall make an exception. Two days ago a century of aviation history pivotal to both the defence of this country, and the spark of innovation that is everything British came to an end. Bristol (Filton) Airport closed.
I could write a book about this place and what it means to me, my family and to the country. In fact I damn well should, and if I do, then you saw and read the manuscript here first, folks.
What can I say about this place? I will start with my recollection of a wintry day as a spotty teenager. I had managed to bunk off school - officially - and stood at a fence in a dodgy part of Bristol that had seen better days, when the air was rent asunder by a noise I had only heard the equal of six years earlier, and majestically and as if by magic a great white bird rose off the tarmac and ascended into her place in history.
I freely admit that what I write here started out as a comment to a certain article on pig's heads but as I researched what I wanted to say, it became obvious something more substantial was needed.
Many years ago I discovered that the website operated by the UK National Kidney Federation had an absolutely jaw-dropping admission up there for all to see that the black and minority ethnic population of Great Britain were genetically predisposed to a number of medical conditions and illnesses, which meant that statistically, their kind were in far greater need of a transplanted organ to sustain their lives than the white population.