As with most others I was sorry to learn that a Sudanese migrant has been apparently drowned off the coast of France whilst attempting to cross the Channel in a flimsy craft whilst also apparently being unable to swim. Even Home Secretary Pritti Patel described it as "an awful tragedy" which indeed it was.

Now I realise that I have to tread carefully here - I have no wish to appear unsympathetic and I have no desire to offend those of perhaps a more compassionate disposition but there are one or two things that genuinely puzzle me about the so called migrant crisis.

The first is that, just recently, there have been some unfortunate drownings here in the UK - the other day a young man drowned in  Devon river - but I doubt that that was reported in France with the same enthusiasm as we have had here over the loss of life in the Channel.   The second is that this event has once again given rise to yet more one sided reporting in the media - for example it was featured in yesterday`s edition of the Meridian regional news but we only heard from those representing the charities concerned with the migrant `crisis.`

Now here in Kent I am paying well over £1,000 a year to Kent County Council (KCC) for a `range of services` which apparently includes looking after the welfare of 400 child migrants under the age of 18 and another 900 between the ages of 18 and 25.  No wonder KCC are begging the government for help in dealing with this burden of responsibility, although help seems a long time coming.

So far this year it`s reported that something like 5,000 migrants have landed on Kent`s shores and despite assurances, promises and good intentions the authorities - and there are many local and national agencies involved with this - seem no further forward in seeking a sensible solution.  Of course it is right for any civilised country to accept genuine asylum seekers fleeing conflict, privation and persecution abroad and I have no problem with that.  But economic migration is an altogether different kettle of fish, as is the apparent laissez-faire attitude towards the problem from our friends on the other side of the Channel.

Now if this all continues unchecked (literally) then one must be forgiven for wondering where it all might end.  We are an island nation, space and resources are limited and so the notion proposed by the migrant charities (and others of perhaps a more compassionate disposition) - to ensure a safe crossing, safe passage and generous reception for those seeking the comfort of our largesse - can only lead to the logical conclusion that one fine day most of the population of Sudan, Syria, Afghanistan, Iraq and all points east and south will actually be resident in this country.

At which point, perhaps the indigenous population of this sceptred isle might have to find refuge elsewhere.  Well, it is a logical conclusion, Captain.....and I wonder if I will be welcome in the Seychelles or the Maldives or a paradise island in the Caribbean?

SOMETHING MISSING ?

Funny how long lost lyrics come back to you and current affairs brought to mind  Sheldon Harnick`s `The Merry Minuet,` which begins

"They`re rioting in Africa

They`re starving in Spain.

There`s hurricanes in Florida

And Texas needs rain.

The whole world is festering

With unhappy souls.

The French hate the Germans

The Germans hate the Poles.

Italians hate the Yugoslavs

South Africans hate the Dutch......

...and I don`t like anybody very much.....¬

And the way the world is right now confirms that not much has changed since those words were written over half a century ago. Nowadays we have riots in Catalonia, Hong Kong, Chile and Lebanon to name but a few.  Not to mention the events in Syria, the Turkish border, Yemen and goodness knows where else in the fractured world of humankind.  Then there are marches and unrest about things like climate change and the way things are in the good ol` U of K  the conflicting persuasions of Brexit will no doubt add to the list of places where disenchantment is showing its ugly side.

But there are some things that we don`t hear that much about - something`s missing.  The BBC, as selective as ever in its disjointed sense of priority, seems to be ignoring the ongoing incidents in France where the yellow brigade are still rampaging through the streets on pretty much a daily basis and yet we don`t hear much about it - same with Barcelona to a degree where brief BBC comment passes as in depth reporting.

And I wonder why that is.  Could it be, for instance, that the BBC is reluctant to draw too much attention to events within the EU for fear of upsetting our European friends and neighbours and more especially those, like the BBC itself, who are clinging on to the undemocratic view that the UK should remain a member of that discredited institution?   Just asking, that`s all, but it would not surprise me.

Back to climate change for a minute and back to the concluding lines of The Merry Minuet.......

"Thy`re rioting in Africa
There`s strife in Iran.
What nature doesn`t do to us
Will be done by our fellow man."

IT`S ALL THE RAGE....

Apparently it`s mental health awareness week and yesterday was apparently anxiety day.   And whilst ever anxious myself to keep abreast of modern day trends and priorities, I cannot escape the feeling that I am somehow missing out on what seems the fashionable claim to have mental health issues.

Now, OK we all get anxious about things now and then.  Myself, I get anxious most Saturday afternoons around 3.00pm when the Saints are kicking off in yet another forlorn encounter with yet another difficult opponent.   To me, that might represent the sum total of my anxieties and I agree that, if that`s the case, then I must have fortune on my side.

But all this publicity, TV programmes, green ribbons and the succession of alleged `celebrities` declaring their support for mental health awareness makes me wonder why it is that I really, really don`t feel anxious about very much these days. 

 Maybe it`s being 80, which puts a different perspective on things but I suspect the roots of my nonchalance probably go back to my younger days.   Being born just before the outbreak of WW2 made me spend the first six years of my life in a wartime environment - I guess that`s how I thought life was, as I never knew anything different so maybe I was not as anxious as I might have been.  

And in my late teens rather than me leaving home, home left me.  My parents wanted to move away so they did but I didn`t, as I was content living in a village, playing my football and cricket and enjoying the company of the young lady to whom I have now been married for 58 years.   Who would move away from all of that?  So I wasn`t too anxious about being left to fend for myself.

But perhaps the biggest test of my acceptance of life`s twists and turns, its ups and downs, its triumphs and disasters came when I was called up for National Service.  The 300-mile train journey from the idyll of my Kentish village to the bleak midwinter of a North Yorkshire military training camp was itself a bit of a wrench.   I quickly learned to take things in their stride - to shrug my shoulders, accept that there was nothing I could do about it and metaphorically lie back and think of England.

And being hassled, shouted at, verbally abused - "You lad, what`s your `orrible spewy name?" - was just one of the jibes that still revolve in the memory and I suppose we conscripts had the choice of either toughing it out or crumbling under the strain of it all.   I suspect that choosing the former gave me the resilience and fortitude I needed to survive it all  and which doubtless stood me in good stead for later life.   

But if I had taken the latter option I might today perhaps be less critical, more understanding of the fashionable penchant for snowflakery and the raising of anxiety itself to the status of an accepted mental health issue.  We are what we are and no doubt the sum of our collected experiences, I guess.  But there is a difference between being depressed, for which I have every sympathy, and being, well, just anxious.

(If any of my comments have caused you any anxiety there are lists of agencies you can contact on the websites of the BBC (of course) and other media outlets.)

KISS ME GOODNIGHT, SERGEANT MAJOR

Today would have been my father`s birthday.  Well, I guess in a sense it still is, even though, had he lived, he would now have been well over 100 years old.  Now, what I don`t want to do is drift into over-sentimentality but each year, when 16th January comes around, my mind goes back to him.

He was born `of an age` when things were tough and when it was decided for him that the family business could not sustain another, he was packed off to the army apprenticeship school in Chepstow and thus began a long military career.  He did well enough, gained distinctive trade qualifications and achieved a number of promotions.  I guess it was hard enough being in the army in those pre-war days but it became infinitely harder once he was captured at Dunkirk and consigned to five years as a prisoner of war in Stalag V!!!B at Lamsdorf.   Towards the end of the war, he was on `the long march` and somehow survived until liberation finally brought him home.

And when he resumed civilian life, the experiences he had been through meant that he lived the rest of his days on his nerve ends, jumping whenever the phone or the doorbell rang. Not long after he finally retired from a working life, he dropped down dead in the bathroom at just 62.

My own life has had its moments.  Whilst my father was enduring his unrelenting Stalag, I was sleeping in a cupboard under the stairs every night in a relative`s house where my mother and I had been given refuge and I still recall the sound of bombs exploding along the shore of Southampton Water and hoping one would not drop on us.   And later on, I too endured my own taste of good order and military discipline, having been conscripted to do my National Service.

But nothing in my life has come close to the traumas suffered by my father and I wonder what he would have made of life today with all of its rampant liberalism and gimpy snowflakes being seduced into the army with the promise of being kissed goodnight and encouraged to reveal their gender preferences and their innermost emotions.   I think I know the answer.

JUST CALL ME GERRY...

Not sure I can keep up with the world for much longer.  I`ll be 80 next year, provided that God in Her Infinite Wisdom grants me that privilege and I suppose I should make more of an effort to `keep up with the times.`   Trouble is, the times in which we live become more baffling, more bewildering and, indeed, bordering on the bizarre what with people getting upset and offended by anything and everything and issues revolving around gender identity. 

A case in point recently saw a 27-year old young lady (if I`m allowed to refer to her as such without being branded as both ageist and sexist) complaining that she had been referred to as `honey` by an older male manager at Virgin Rail, when passengers on a crowded train had been wrongly told that they could use first class for a small fee.  "You want to complain, go ahead, honey," he is alleged to have said.  She was even more upset when the company`s response asked if she would prefer the terms `pet` or `love` instead of `honey.` 

Now to many, especially of my generation, such terms would be meant and be taken as terms of endearment.  But this time the young lady`s complaint was that the male manager had `dismissed` it with `that hideously patronising word women shudder at....`  The company, of course, has apologised.

It`s not for nothing that I have chosen a few snowflakes to illustrate this particular tale.

But on the subject of terms of endearment, I always remember my dear old, dearly departed Mum invariably referring to me as `my duck.`  I suspect it had its origin in Swindon.   Had I experienced this in current times and the current climate, I might have taken offence at this, especially as it would have invaded my human right to chose my own species as well as my own gender.  Given the choice, I would have preferred to be recognised as a giraffe, so just call me Gerry and we`ll forget all about it.  Deal?