Digested week: Mum, Dad, Barry and Herbie the dog, the list of talking dead grows ever longer

The Guardian

a day ago

late, I've been spending a lot of time talking to the dead. Or, to be more accurate, talking at them. The dead tend not to say much in reply. I haven't been seeing a medium. I find myself starting conversations with my mum. Mostly the ones we never had or never finished. Not just the ones that her Alzheimer's prevented us from having but the ones that were too difficult for us to have when she was not anxious, disturbed or confused.
I'm not religious and I don't believe in life after death, but I would like to know that all was well between us. That we had said enough to one another to last an eternity, as her ashes lie next to my dad in a churchyard with breathtaking views of the South Downs. That she is now free of her illness and everything that troubled her.
Mum's death has, bizarrely, brought my dad back to life. He has been dead for more than 25 years but I now chat to him regularly. Regretting that he has missed the best of me and my children. Regretting that he could never tell me about his experiences serving in the navy during the second world war. I often asked him while he was alive but he could never speak about it.
The death count continues to rise. Today I learned that another good friend had died in his sleep. Barry could be stubborn, self-destructive and infuriating but he was also one of the warmest, most generous, talented and funny men you could meet. On holidays with him, he would without fail wait to the halfway point before declaring we had now 'broken the back of it'. That never failed to crack me up. My kind of guy. Now he really has broken the back of it and I miss him. I will add him to my list of the talking dead.
I also regularly chat to Herbie. Less so about the great existential questions and more about how I navigate my life on a daily basis. What to do, when to do it. Just like I used to do when he was alive. I trusted him and he trusted me. And oddly, he's the only one of the dead who ever talks back to me. In dogs I find salvation.
It's recess in parliament, so Westminster has been relatively quiet. Just a few low-key announcements from government ministers to keep the news cycle happy but nothing of any great importance. The only politician to attempt to break the silence has been Nigel Farage, who held a press conference today. He still hasn't got the hang of being an MP. He was away on holiday in France last week when parliament was still sitting, so had nothing to say on the trade deal with the EU. Or perhaps he planned it that way. Nige knows better than anyone that most people now reckon that Brexit has been at best a disappointment, so he is keen not to draw any attention to it.
Anyway, Farage is back and keen to suck up some airtime. Normally Nige has nothing to say, except telling everyone how well Reform is going while pinning the blame for everything that is wrong with the country on immigrants and wokery. This time, he actually tried to make a speech that wasn't about foreigners but about wider Reform policy. And it could just have been the biggest miscalculation Farage has made in his political career. Here's hoping.
Nige thought he was trying to appeal to Labour voters by promising an end to the two-child benefit cap and increasing the threshold for basic-rate income tax to £20,000. What he was really doing was making tax cuts and spending promises that totalled between £50bn and £80bn. And when he was asked by journalists how he was going to pay for this, Nige got predictably tetchy. He would tell us all in a year or so. Once he had worked it out on the back of his fag packet. But it would involve efficiency savings and reversing net 'stupid' zero. As the half-witted Dicky Tice likes to call the climate crisis. This was suicidal economics on a scale that made Liz Truss look almost sane. The emperor had just revealed himself. And he was wearing no clothes.
It was probably the most Spursy finish to a season in the club's history. First, victory over Manchester United in Bilbao. A first European trophy in more than 40 years. A first trophy of any description in 17 years. For some fans, that alone is enough for all to be forgiven. Last gasp redemption. A season to remember. The end justifies everything. A final to be remembered and treasured. Even if the match itself was instantly forgettable. Two mediocre teams chasing the ball while having forgotten what to do with it. Just that Spurs were slightly less poor than United on the night.
The single goal that decided the final was worthy of the game. A scrappy affair. Uefa credited the goal to Brennan Johnson, even though he didn't seem to get a lace to the ball. The decisive last touch appeared to come off the United defender Luke Shaw for an own goal. The only moment of quality was the remarkable goalline clearance by Spurs' Micky van de Ven.
Still, glory is glory, and some fans are still celebrating. Bank the win etc. For others, me included, the enjoyment is tinged with scepticism. The season ended much as it had played out: with yet another home defeat in the Premier League. More a capitulation, than a loss. A 4-1 defeat to a Brighton side that had come to play football. We had come to while away 90 minutes before resuming the Europa League celebrations, at the same time cementing a 17th place finish. One above the relegation zone and four points adrift of 16th.
The data showed that Spurs fans had paid more than fans from every other club to watch their side lose last season. There again, it's not the losing I mind. I quite enjoyed our relegation year in 1977. It's been the sense that no one but me was that bothered by our league form. I want my support not to be taken for granted. I want changes. A new manager. Time to say thanks but no thanks to Ange Postecoglou. It turned out the only club he knew how to beat was Manchester United, which he did four times. If only he could have worked out how to beat Ipswich and Leicester. We need new players. Ones with the ability to solve problems mid-game that the manager can't. Above all, I don't want to have to wait another 17 years for another trophy. I might not have that long.
You should never overestimate the intelligence of the very rich. In Thailand there is a new fashion among the super-wealthy for acquiring lion cubs as pets. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to have occurred to this brain-dead elite that lion cubs grow into adult lions, and that adult lions can't necessarily be trusted around the house. You can't sit them down in front of the TV all day, because before long they have switched channels to David Attenborough documentaries and are watching their relations tearing wildebeest apart in the Maasai Mara. And that kind of thing gives them ideas, and before you know it they are making themselves sandwiches from the remains of humans. So there comes a moment when the pet owners have the stunning revelation that maybe it wasn't a great idea to try to house-train a lion and they want to offload their miserable pets to a zoo. Or to someone even more half-witted than they are. Imagine the thought processes involved. Assuming there are any.
We'll draw the line at a pet hippo because that's obviously not going to work – it won't fit in the bath – but a lion will make the perfect addition to family life. It can spend the afternoons in the crabapple tree and help itself to the neighbour's pet rabbit. What happened to thinking of what the animal needs rather than just your own narcissistic desires?
We find ourselves petless for the first time in more than 40 years and the house feels empty. I miss Herbie terribly. He should be sitting next to me as I write. As it is, I only have his paw print for company. People ask if we are going to get another dog but it is just too soon to think about that. The queen may have had 10 days of mourning but Herbie deserves at least 10 months. Weirdly, I did have a dream in which a new dog featured. He was brown and white and had Herbie's blessing. Maybe next year.
Time to announce the halfwit of the week. Step forward Robert Jenrick, the shadow justice secretary and tireless campaigner to remove Kemi Badenoch as leader of the Tory party and replace her with himself. AKA Pratman. While all of his shadow cabinet colleagues were spending recess doing nothing except firing off the odd press statement to which no one paid any attention, Honest Bob put on his black and grey hooded one-piece to turn himself into a one-man vigilante on the London tube.
Along with his very own Robin, who was there to film him, our caped crusader went to Stratford station to confront fare-dodgers and restore law and order to the capital's streets. Despite haranguing a few people, he didn't appear to make any citizen's arrests. Transport for London appeared unimpressed, pointing out that Pratman had broken laws of his own by filming on the tube network. But Honest Bob was undeterred.
In next week's instalment, he hopes to tackle the city's crime wave by apprehending shoplifters and anyone caught working in a Turkish barber shop. Perhaps he might like to investigate a cold case rather closer to home.
In 2020, a young Conservative housing minister was caught rushing through a planning permission to former pornographer, Richard Desmond, in order to save him a massive large tax bill. Even though the local council and departmental officials had recommended the permission be refused. Dirty Des was so thrilled with the junior minister that he made a donation to the Tory party. However, the planning permission was eventually rescinded after it was deemed to be 'unlawful because of apparent bias'. So who was this housing minister? None other than Pratman himself. Honest Bob. He wants to bang up offenders for dodging a £4.60 fare. But Tory donors are free to escape a £40m tax demand.