Crusty Botches of Nature. Apologies to Shakespeare.

Nick Griffin must be rubbing his chubby belly with glee.

He came off rather well, I thought, on his interview with Jon Snow on Channel 4 tonight - making points he wanted to make without much heed to the actual questions, calling James Bethel a "Tory Toff" and referring to Jon Snow as "Peter". A pretty slick performance, but what would anyone expect?

Being slick is what Griffin is all about, surely? And leaving this pointless little roly-poly racist aside, I'm finding I am less perturbed by the BNP itself than by people's reaction to them.

The BNP have, for example, nabbed the Battle of Britain and are promoting it as a nifty little advantageous association with their own political fundament. Naturally, and rightly so, veterans and representatives of British Armed Forces are Not Happy. So there is now a video from the protest group "Nothing British About The BNP" to make their well-justified point. But I don't know. The video is strangely soft-hitting. It reminds us how horrid it is to be at war. It has an atmosphere of sorrowful resignation, and a very odd choice of sober piano running throughout. Sad and sober is wrong, all wrong. Shouldn't we all be spitting chips?

As for whether it will work, I guess that depends who it is aimed at. But who is that then?
Who still needs to be told they are a party of oddly-shaped fascist yobbos, who have all simply upgraded their bova boots to laptops? The dull berks who might vote for them, come election time, I suppose? And if that is so, will a video like this, with its carefully thought out subtleties, really work? Wouldn't it better to have Ray Winston leaning into the TV screen and jabbing a squat finger, while growling "Don't vote for them, moron; they are right little s**ts"?

To clarify, and I really have to, just in case, I am NO fan of the BNP. Of course not. It is a nasty little example of segregational thuggery which will always attract a certain amount of support, from a certain section of society. Any society. "But, like, it's not fair that they come over 'ere and take our jobs like..." mumbled an Barnsley example today on TV, with a long vacant stare, suggestive of a true Non-Thinker. But there's nothing particularly British about that - the same happens all over the world. You will always get your fatuous fascist fringes, wherever you are. In the same way that you will always find someone who thinks eating carrots is homicide.

But now the papers are all jumping on board the big Countdown To Question Time. The Church is condemning it, and various ethnic groups echo. I understand why they have to, I really do, but it just all seems like such pretty publicity for an undeserving bunch of often vicious boneheads.

Engineered properly, and Question Time could prove to be a real thorn in their ruffian side. We all know that they have a legal right to say what they want to say, whether we like it or not. And if we want to discount anyone's views properly and honestly, it is always useful to hear what they are. Given enough carefully designed rope, I'm sure the BNP could quite easily hang themselves. It could be very interesting. But I bet, on Thursday, emotion takes over. I bet it turns out to be all about the demonstrators outside. And I bet there'll be so much noise of protest that people will forget to hear what a stinking lot of sewer-bile these people really preach.

I'm not trying to be political, incidentally. Am really just thinking aloud.


(Afterthought)
I do hope they bring up the David Duke video. I do hope someone asks him what the hell he meant by that. It's available on you tube, and worth seeing for true horror, but I'm not putting it up here as I don't want those botches of nature polluting my blog.

"All Idealism Is Falsehood In The Face Of Necessity"

So finally they have negated the Cripplecock. R received a cheery message from the previously off-on-a-jaunt consultant telling him he "didn't have to worry about the really nasty thing" and that they would "really put their thinking caps on" to see what it might be.

This is very good news indeed. It's not, of course, perfect news, because there still lies something beneath. But we feel better. Much more positive at least. And even my father, a pessimist in realist's clothing, heaved a sigh of relief with us, put his black suit back in the cupboard and went off happily to Australia.

3 of us had a coffee and congratulated R while it all sank in, and then I went off and celebrated personally by getting stuck in the toilet in Debenhams.

There is something quite unadmittable about being stuck in a toilet; I just loathe the idea of having to knock pleadingly on a cubicle door hoping someone will hear and help you. You know that, firstly, they will smirk and, secondly, they will bring people along with them. So, FAR more impressively, I climbed out. It was a beautifully seamless escape and it went like this: foot on toilet seat, other foot on cistern, hook arms over flimsy partition, apologise to surprised lady in that cubicle as I loom over from above, repeat same stance but on the other side, throw leg up, wriggle over, lower self down onto the other cistern and job done. Practically a Charlie's Angel in less glamorous clothing. I was really, really proud.

Even the lady from the next cubicle, who must have originally thought I was some terrible kind of Toilet Pervert was impressed. And another hand-washing lady also complimented me. An unexpectedly good day at that point: husband cleared of nasty fatal strain, and I got to receive praise on my agility.

"You must be very fit and supple - I bet you're excellent on those army assault courses", Hand-Washing Lady was saying in all admiration, as I assumed a modest expression while also trying to create a look to suggest, yes, actually I was an assault course demon.

You see, it is indeed pathetically rubbish of me, but I have found since having the children, compliments on my physical being are few and far between. Mostly because it has grown quite immeasurably. And it pays scant lip-service to both suppleness and agility. A horribly creaky pelvis which bears the scars of being mother to a boy with R's genes, and I have ricketed around for the last 5 years like a limping geriatric. I am currently in the middle of several sporting challenges against boys much fitter than me (yes, silly) and, so far, am failing pretty miserably. So, to have someone, even a hand-washing lady I didn't know, tell me I must be fit and supple (FIT AND SUPPLE!!) was such a rare thing, and momentarily very diverting. And comforting. And anyway, I'd had a stressful week.

Pride comes, as ever, before a crashing great fall, and the gremlins were obviously rubbing their hands with glee at being able to show me up for my falsehood. And this came in the realisation that I'd left my bag on the back of the locked door. Dammit, really. And I really did not like my chances of re-performing my once-lucky climb-over feat again in front of my admiring spectators.

"Oh dear" said the ladies. "Shall we go for help?"

"No, no," I replied with my best airiness, "I'll just stand on that bin and lean over."

"Ooh, are you sure?" The ladies were worried. "It doesn't look like a very strong bin for a big girl like you".

And there you had it. Five minutes of escapism into compliments of which I was not worthy, and I was brought bang down to earth in a flash, by a genuinely observed truth.

Seconds later, I was brought bang down to earth for a second, more painful time, by the bin giving way concertina-style and throwing me across the floor, where I hit my head on the sink and ended up strangely contorted in a little grey pool of old floor water.

The fleetingly brief and undeserved image I had allowed myself to entertain of Me, Fit and Supple, dissolved in an instant.

Hand-washing lady and her friend were very concerned. They pulled me to my feet, kindly; one of them, less kindly (though doubtlessly without cruel intention), puffing the words "HEAVE-HO!" as they did it, and they got me paper towels. "Oh, there's a brown stain down the back of your coat," one said with real concern. I said it didn't matter at all, and ran.

As I rushed towards the escalator, I was thinking that I shouldn't exaggerate what had just happened. It was no very big deal to fall off a bin in a toilet with only two people I didn't even know to witness it. But before I GOT to the escalator, there came a piercing call from the end of the store.

"COOOO-EEEEEEE! LADY-WHO-JUST-FELL-OFF-THE-BIN-IN-THE-TOILET?"

I turned round and watched them hurry up and identify me to everyone else.

"You forgot your bag, dear".

But at least R doesn't have cripplecock. That's something, for sure.