Tag Archives: Chewing the Fat

Accountability

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The decisions made by Boris Johnson’s Conservative government have had a direct impact on the lives — and deaths — of thousands across the United Kingdom. When lives are at stake, accountability becomes paramount. It was this fundamental truth, alongside growing personal anxieties, that compelled me to write my first blog on the government’s handling of the coronavirus crisis on 28 May 2020. The response was swift and polarised — drawing both criticism and praise.

Throughout history, governments have risen and fallen on the strength of their decisions. Yet in today’s era of “fake news” and a largely compliant media landscape, Johnson’s administration seems to operate with near impunity. His American counterpart once arrogantly declared, “I could shoot somebody and not lose voters.” This chilling admission reflects a dangerous disconnect: a leader unaccountable to a passive electorate. Boris Johnson and his government mirror this same national complacency — shielded by a weak opposition and an electorate reluctant to demand answers.

The UK government behaves like a sponge, absorbing public opinion but spinning it through a narrow populist ideology, endlessly bobbing and weaving through political icebergs. It doles out empty promises, deflects responsibility, and drowns discourse in a flood of meaningless soundbites. Behind the scenes, the administration panics as it struggles to maintain fragile political alliances, blinded by the delusion of representing a “one nation” party. The Prime Minister, terrified of media scrutiny, and a senior advisor bent on “draining the swamp” of the civil service, have fostered a toxic environment where effective governance is impossible.

Meanwhile, on the global stage, Donald Trump threatens to defund the World Health Organisation. At home, the UK government urges footballers to take wage cuts to support the NHS — yet ministers, many of whom are multi-millionaires drawing taxpayer-funded salaries, refuse to make any financial sacrifice themselves. This cynical pantomime serves only to distract from failures with lethal consequences.

Comparisons in UK media focus on countries hardest hit by the virus, such as the US, Spain, and Italy. Rarely are other nations held up — those managing better outcomes for their citizens. The Johnson government’s evasions cannot hide these uncomfortable questions:

  • Why is the UK’s testing capacity so woefully inadequate?
  • Why does the government only publish hospital death figures, excluding community and care home fatalities, unlike France or other countries?
  • Why are frontline NHS and care workers left without adequate personal protective equipment, while the government invests in symbolic gestures like badges?
  • Why did the government allow flights from some of the worst-affected regions without proper screening?

Closer to home, the Republic of Ireland cancelled large gatherings and St Patrick’s Day celebrations early on. The UK, by contrast, permitted events like the Cheltenham Festival, large concerts, and major sporting tournaments — even involving teams from heavily affected countries. At the time of writing, Ireland’s death toll stood at approximately 400, compared to 12,000 in the UK. Adjusted for population, that equates to 7.4 deaths per 100,000 in Ireland versus 17 deaths per 100,000 in the UK — more than double.

Across the Atlantic, California — despite a dysfunctional White House — implemented bans on large gatherings as early as 9 March, followed by stricter limits. The state’s population density may be lower than Britain’s urban centres, but the key difference lies in taking the threat seriously from day one. Dr Neha Nanda, Medical Director of Infection Prevention at Keck Medicine, University of Southern California, told the BBC: “Even being one day ahead can have a huge impact… the mortality we will be able to avert is huge.”

No one yet knows how this pandemic will ultimately conclude for the UK, Ireland, or any nation. But the facts at this moment are stark: British citizens are dying at twice the rate of their Irish neighbours. This reality is neither abstract nor inevitable — it is a consequence of political choices and public health failures.

So why does our national press shy away from reporting this? Why is such a glaring disparity missing from the headlines?

When lives are literally on the line, the public deserves truth, transparency, and most of all, accountability.

The Night Before

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The remnants of party poppers lie scattered, half-empty glasses wait to be cleared, and the hazy memories of last night’s revelry already begin to blur. We gulp down a cocktail of hangover remedies, hoping to patch together some clarity. A collective breath is drawn—a mix of relief and exhaustion—as if the madness of the past four years might finally loosen its grip. Yet this morning feels unchanged, mirroring the day before. The same yawning chasm that haunted us then remains unbridged, and still, we dance around the fire that has consumed us.

We are mourning. Lost and confused, grasping for a sense of normality that slips through our fingers—unspoken, almost unspeakable—because those forces that shaped our world have clipped our words, our voices, our right to express freely.

‘They’—a shape-shifting specter, different for each of us—have molded us into self-imposed victims. Blame is cast outward, always someone else’s fault. But as the dust settles, and we stand solitary, the weight of accountability falls squarely on our shoulders. The pothole in the road, the endless waiting lists, the insecurity of zero-hour contracts, even the crooked bananas on the shelf—we face these realities now, with no one else to blame.

Today, we stand, chest puffed against the cold wind, alone. But the turmoil of these past years was a symptom, not the root. And last night’s fleeting celebration—no matter how loud—was never the cure.

Forgotten Spaces

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I’ve always been drawn to empty houses, especially those left to decay. This fascination has been with me since childhood, and it resurfaces every time I wander the South West countryside. On these spontaneous explorations, I frequently stumble upon abandoned farm buildings. Crossing their thresholds often feels like stepping into a silent intrusion—there’s a strange intimacy in finding personal items left behind. An old tie hanging in a cupboard recess, a rusted oil lamp on a windowsill—each object quietly holds its own story. They are fragments of past lives, mirrors reflecting not only those who lived there before but also my own memories.

Back in my hometown of Stockton-on-Tees, there was once an old dog racing track—Belle Vue Park—that opened in 1946 and closed around 1974. Nestled within its grounds was a grand old house with a large garage. After the stadium shuttered, it didn’t take long for us kids to find a way in, sneaking under the flimsy fencing to explore this forgotten world.

We raced our bikes around the stadium, chasing the electric course hare that zipped endlessly inside the track as the dogs frantically pursued it. We found our way into the house and offices, discovering the antiquated telecom and public address system. Singing the latest Slade single into the PA, taking turns shouting swear words to rouse the local neighborhood, and inevitably drawing the attention of the police car was our version of mischief and joy.

Belle Vue Park is long gone now, much like the men who once gave us threepence to watch over their cars during race nights. In its place stand rows of tidy two-story flats, filled with inhabitants enjoying their evenings. And yet, somewhere beneath their TV dinners linger the ghosts of memories, the echoes of lives that once pulsed through those grounds.