Remember, remember..

The kids in town have started throwing fireworks at me again. It’s not even Hallowe’en yet, why have they started selling bangers to infants?
I’m sure it’s not just me who gets terrorised on his way home from the shop of an evening, but it’s hard not to personalise it when a group of 12-year-olds are singing ‘You Fat Bastard’ while one of them hurtles a catherine wheel at my head.

I must have a moan about poppies. Firstly, let me say that I fully support the Poppy Appeal, and the British Legion are a wonderful organisation deserving our praise and gratitude and donations. My family, as much or as less as anyone’s, has been touched by the horrors of war. My great- great- (I think) grandfather died in the trenches, my great uncle Harry lost a leg to a landmine in 1942, and my dad’s cousin Harvey blew himself up with a hand-grenade in the 60s after never fully recovering from D-Day. But let me say this – wearing a poppy on your jacket from the middle of October doesn’t mean you care more, or give more, or respect the fallen (and those still fighting) more than anyone else. It just means you want to be seen with one earlier than anyone else. It just means being first to display a poppy is more important to you than the sentiment and symbolism of buying one in the first place. It just means you’re a prick.

RC 29-10-08
2320 GMT