Mothers’ Union and an ancient echo as the eagle briefly takes off

Eras come and go, yet primal human emotion remains a constant.

Having recently watched The Eagle, a story of inconsolable pride and one man’s quest to recover a Roman standard lost in battle, I recognised the signs when it was announced at church this morning that the Mothers’ Union banner appeared to have gone missing.

Wrapped in tweed and stiff perms it might have been but there was no mistaking the steely resolve on show as a phalanx of elderly women suddenly mobilised from all four corners of the ancient building before the service, all of them scurrying off in search of the missing totem with the demeanour of people thisclose to thumping someone.

Mercifully, the banner was discovered in the vicar’s vestry with seconds to spare. I have no doubt blood would have been spilt.

[pic courtesy of hans s]

Libyan lies not the biggest stain on Labour

Image via Wikipedia

Even if the Daily Mail coverage appears somewhat after-the-event (see also here) there is still quite a story in revelations that the UK well and truly had the wind up over The World’s Most Wanted (left) stamping his little feet over Abdelbaset al-Megrahi’s release.

For in the middle of this potential disgrace, those responsible have performed quite a remarkable trick – somehow managing to relegate the possibility of bare-faced lies and playing the electorate for fools to mere also-rans in a league table of conduct unbecoming.

For isn’t the very worst of this story the funk that prompted the Labour government to dissemble in the manner of which it stands accused? Some tin pot north African tyrant rattles his sword over the release of a convicted mass murderer and the United Kingdom goes belly-up like a puppy who only wants to please.

The same UK that fancies itself as so major a player in global affairs that it felt duty-bound of late to open another war front in Libya, even while telling its own people that there is no money available  for trifles such as educating their young and properly policing their streets.

Gadaffi barked, we are led to believe, and the land of Elizabeth I, Churchill and Richard the Lionheart came running.

If the War on Terrorism was a soccer match, this would surely be the cue for  a substitute nation to start warming up on the touchline, while a sneering fourth official held up  an electronic board displaying the letters ‘UK’.

It would appear that we are the very worst type of player. We merely talk a good game.

‘ Battle of Britain ‘… are you serious?

One was a last-ditch battle against the odds; young men putting their lives on the line in the skies above south-east England to deny a fascist aggressor for whom the invasion of Britain was a done deal.

The other is a football match in Glasgow this evening, where young men will doubtless don gloves and tights to keep out the cold, spit like peasants, perform goal celebrations that would look mildly embarrassing in a kindergarten and waste no opportunity to cheat each other and the spectators who pay their wages.

One concluded with a moving and timeless tribute. The other will probably conclude with a brilliant, yet curmudgeonly manager berating officials for playing too much injury time or too little, depending on whether his team were leading or trailing at the time

One was about unimaginable self-sacrifice; the other – part of a bloated competition blatantly engineered to prevent small clubs from interfering with the earning potential of large ones – is about rampant self-interest.

Yet still, people in the media so shallow they cannot function without a trite cliche to fall back on, insist on labelling both contests ‘The Battle of Britain‘. Without irony or a shred of self-awareness.

And no-one seems to find this crass hijacking of a label that should resonate in our history, in the least bit inappropriate.

Ten days after ‘lest we forget’, we have already forgotten.