Ever since his novel Rotten Borough blew the lid off the activities of Grantham’s version of the nobility in the 1930s, local author Oliver Anderson’s name has been mud among the town’s hierarchy.
People often ask me how Hitler-style tyranny could establish itself as a kind of Third Reich regime in a supposedly free society like ours?
How can otherwise highly intelligent people allow their traditionally benevolent community to be dismantled piece by piece in what amounts to a form of nonfatal genocide, if that is possible.
The plight of all Grantham patients forced to travel here, there and everywhere for NHS treatment they could have had in their own hospital was brought home to me recently in no uncertain terms.
A long night of nostalgic Beatlemania recently reminded me of just how low British pop music and entertainment has sunk since those heady days when the Fab Four ruled the world.
Although I didn’t want to become embroiled in the bitter controversy surrounding RAF air strikes in Syria, subsequent events have forced my hand.
Well, that’s it! I thought I would never hear the like of it, but now I have and enough is enough.
It isn’t very often that I agree with Grantham MP Nick Boles on anything except the quality of food at his fish-and-chip suppers in the town’s museum.
Spooky memories were revived for me on reading Ruth Crook’s Grantham Civic Society article on the history of gunpowder in a recent Journal issue.
The only tribute I feel able to pay David Cameron for his diatribe at the Conservative Party conference is a Freddie Starr style finger-under-the-nose gesture.
How times change and public opinion with them, I thought, on reflection this week.
Current demands for compensation by countries once cruelly exploited by the British Empire strike a painful nerve with me.
If new Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn should ask for my advice, which he wouldn’t of course, I would tell him to take notice of my grandmother’s age old sayings.
This year’s three World War Two 70th anniversaries have blown the issue of Britain’s Trident nuclear defence system renewal wide open.
Someone called me a ‘Whingeing Pom’ this week. He had no right to. He wasn’t an Australian. If he had been, I might have forgiven him for not knowing any better.
People who believe my most fervent pet hates concern political correctness, privatisation, fat cats and the like, are totally wrong.
Have you ever had one of those totally inexplicable imaginary visions which appear to make a mockery of everything around you?
Unlike almost every other country in the world, there could never be any suggestion of anything underhand about our democratic elections.
Having been criticised for always being ‘on the back’ of local highway departments, whatever that means, I’ve eased up on the pressure recently.
For years now I have recognised that, like our democracy, the Houses of Parliament have been falling apart.
