Mrs Middle England: Keeping Hope Afloat by David Palethorpe
While Mr Middle England spends winter muttering darkly about the so-called “festive season,” his long-suffering wife takes an entirely different approach.
Mrs Middle England has learned — over several decades of conjugal endurance — that the only way to survive November is to simply get on with it.
Christmas, after all, will not organise itself, no matter how loudly her husband insists it ought to be “streamlined,” “rationalised,” or ideally “cancelled altogether.”
So, as the Old Gimmer sits in the Welly lamenting the state of the world, muttering about commercialism, and inventing new reasons to loathe tinsel, Mrs Middle England is quietly performing seasonal triage.
Cards? Sorted.
Presents?
Bought early and hidden even earlier.
Turkey?
Ordered from Fermoy’s — certainly not from the cut-price supplier her husband once suggested as “a perfectly viable option.”
Tree?
Chosen for her, not for him — because if he had his way they’d make do with the dusty 1970s artificial horror lurking in the loft.
Food?
Copious amounts stored away with the annual warning,
“Don’t touch that it’s for Christmas”
None of this requires discussion with Mr Middle England.
She has long discovered that trying to involve him only results in one of three outcomes:
A lecture about unnecessary expenditure,
A monologue on how Christmas “was better when rationing kept things sensible,” or
A closed-mouth yawn of such theatrical misery it could depress a snowman.
She ignores all three with the ease of a seasoned professional.
Occasionally, she’ll ask his opinion on something minor — a safe, harmless, zero-risk question such as “Red or gold ribbon?” — just to maintain the illusion of domestic democracy.
He’ll grumble something non-committal, she’ll do what she intended anyway, and peace will be restored.
And yet, despite his Eeyore-ish gloom, Mrs Middle England knows his seasonal misery is, in its own way, part of the tradition.
She suspects — though she’d never say it aloud — that if he ever embraced Christmas wholeheartedly, the shock might actually kill him.
So she lets him grumble, she lets him sigh, she lets him hold court at the Con Club about the decline of civilisation.
Meanwhile, at home, she keeps Christmas afloat with the calm efficiency of a woman who knows that cheerfulness, like fairy lights, works best when someone sensible plugs it in.
She will, of course, allow him one ceremonial task on Christmas Eve: the lighting of the outdoor reindeer.
He will complain.
He will yawn.
He will mutter about the electricity bill.
And she will smile — because deep down she knows the truth:
That with only six weeks to go,
Without Mrs Middle England, Christmas would collapse.
Without Mr Middle England, it wouldn’t be half as funny.
Mr Middle England: Old Gimmer Winter by David Palethorpe
Winter. Bloody winter.
The days shrink, the evenings stretch, and with them comes the inevitable gloom — or at least that’s how Mr Middle England, Ipplepen’s very own Old Gimmer, sees it.
For him, the forthcoming so-called “festive season” isn’t joyful at all.
It’s futile, depressing, and every year he begins muttering about the whole business long before the first mince pie appears on the shelves.
At one low point, in a fit of desperation, he even considered volunteering for a helpline — reasoning that listening to other people’s misery might, at the very least, cheer him up.
The flaw in this plan, of course, is obvious: Mr Middle England wouldn’t last a day.
Being the curmudgeon he is, he’d soon be demanding to know why the helpline wasn’t turning a profit.
In fact, he’d probably propose automating the entire system:
• If you’re feeling suicidal, press 1. • If you thought you’d phoned a chat line, press 2. • If you’re just wasting time, press 3.
Add a John Cleese voiceover and a few bars of the Funeral March while on hold, and callers would be over the edge in minutes.
Still, if there were a helpline that required nothing more than talking bollocks and balderdash, Mr Middle England would be the ideal recruit.
Anyone who’s shared a pint with him in the Welly, or leaned on the Con Club bar, knows he’s a master at filling the air with grumbles, laments, and long-winded theories about why the world is going to hell.
Counselling, however, requires listening — and that’s a skill our Old Gimmer has never acquired.
At home, his audience of one has long given up trying.
Mrs Middle England simply lets him drone on while she gets on with the real work of: ordering the turkey, sorting cards, hiding presents, and quietly rewriting the shopping list he’s already “improved.”
She’s perfected the art of nodding at exactly the right moments without taking in a single word he says, a domestic survival technique honed over decades.
And so, as November moves on, she cracks on with the festive preparations, Mr Middle England sits through breakfast at the Welly, nodding solemnly at other people’s misery before deploying the one talent that sets him apart:
Mr & Mrs Middle England live in constant fear of the knock at the door or the unexpected phone call.
Not burglars, not trick-or-treaters — but something far worse: utility salespeople.
It starts innocently enough.
The phone rings, and a bright, synthetic voice cheerfully announces an offer to cut their electricity bill.
Mr Middle England listens for a moment before asking the obvious question:
“How do they know what I’m paying in the first place?”
Silence, of course, because even the robots don’t have an answer.
Within days, another call arrives, this time from the gas company.
Not to sell gas, mind you, but electricity.
Then the electricity company phones back offering gas.
Confusion reigns.
“Surely gas comes through pipes and electricity through cables?”
Mrs Middle England mutters.
“Are they going to dig up Ipplepen and lay their own?”
For the older generation especially, it’s a minefield.
They’ve been warned for years not to trust cold callers, but the sheer persistence of these utility crusaders chips away at their nerves.
A polite “no thank you” never seems enough.
British reserve prevents a sharp “bugger off” followed by a slammed door.
And just when you think it can’t get worse, along comes the robotic voice message.
“For savings on your bill, Press 1.
For even more savings, Press 2.
” It’s less a sales pitch, more a hostage negotiation.
Mr Middle England has a radical idea: report them not as nuisance calls, but as obscene phone calls.
Because frankly, there’s nothing filthier than being interrupted halfway through your shepherd’s pie to be told you’ve been “specially selected” for a tariff that looks suspiciously worse than the one you’re already on.
He even jokes about forming a hunting party to track down the advertising executives behind it all.
In his view, even estate agents and solicitors rank higher on the trust scale — which says everything.
Advertising, after all, has only one purpose: to make you dissatisfied with what you’ve already got.
And while some adverts are clever, even funny, the utilities racket is neither.
It’s just relentless.
So, Mr & Mrs Middle England have made their New Year’s resolution early: unplug the phone, bolt the door, and head down to the Welly and Con Club where the only thing anyone tries to sell you is another round.
Sometimes village life offers the perfect escape — even from the smooth talkers of the energy world.
Many will know that one of my passions is Rugby Union.
I used to be a Rugby Development Officer and Regional Development Officer, and over the years I’ve coached at all sorts of levels — from the England Women’s Students in the early ’90s (back when they were in their embryonic stage) to the England Women B team, whom I had the pleasure of taking on a five-game winning European tour in 1998.
That Easter weekend coincided, rather inconveniently, with major floods in Northampton, where I lived at the time.
You could say I was keeping one eye on the forwards and the other on the rising waterline at home.
I also had the privilege of coaching the East Midlands U21s to a national championship and working at the Northampton Saints Academy, where I was lucky enough to work with several players who later became household names.
But honestly, the real joy of coaching isn’t just found under bright lights or in packed stadiums — it’s out there on muddy pitches with so-called “Junior” clubs like Peterborough, Luton, and Petersfield, or with the Royal Navy Colts.
For Luton to go unbeaten all season and earn promotion, for Petersfield to beat the then high flying Havant, and for the Navy U19s to win the Inter-Services Championship — these might not be World Cup moments, but for those lads, they were life-changing.
And for a coach, that’s what it’s all about.
When Wales Ruled the World
Now, anyone who played rugby in the 1970s will remember there was one nation that didn’t just play the game but redefined it: Wales.
They didn’t just win — they did it with swagger.
JPR Williams, Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett… they played like they’d been given divine permission to make Englishmen look foolish.
For English players of my generation, facing any Welsh team at any level was a humbling experience.
You’d come off the pitch battered, bruised, and wondering if you should take up something less painful — like trainspotting or underwater Ludo.
I’ve got Welsh friends and relatives, and every February our rivalry reignites.
For 80 minutes, national pride is on the line.
Win, and you’re a hero.
Lose, and you can expect a phone call at 2 a.m. that starts with:
“Morning! Have you seen the result?”
And probably another one every hour after that.
But that’s sport. It’s not hatred — it’s heritage. It’s banter, pride, and just a pinch of madness that keeps us human.
And Then There Was the Flag…
Which brings me neatly to the latest example of modern-day madness and nonsense.
A Newton Abbot resident recently wrote to their local politician — you will probably guess which party the politician belonged to — concerned about a sudden outbreak of St George’s flags appearing overnight on lampposts in their street.
The politician replied, warning that the sight of these flags mean different things to different people, which is right,
However…..
He then went on and gave the example that Pride Flags might….
“Encourage people, particularly young people, toward sexual experimentation.”
Yes, really.
Now, if that doesn’t baffle you, nothing will.
Are we seriously saying that a flag fluttering in the wind could trigger some uncontrollable urge?
If that’s true, then when I see a Welsh flag, should I expect to start learning Welsh?
When I pass a Jamaican flag, will I suddenly break into a reggae beat and start speaking in patois?
(And if so, would that make me culturally insensitive or just rhythmically gifted?)
And heaven forbid I see an Irish flag — I might be forced to drop everything, find a pub, and start enjoying the Craic immediately.
At this rate, when the Six Nations comes around, I’ll have to keep my curtains shut just in case I accidentally change nationality halfway through a match.
Final Whistle
Rugby teaches you many things — teamwork, respect, and the importance of not taking yourself too seriously, it also provided friendships for life.
Perhaps it’s time some of our politicians joined a rugby club.
After all, 80 minutes in the mud tends to knock a bit of sense into anyone.
Spare a Thought for the People Who Show the Best of Britain
by David Palethorpe
In all the noise about migration — the headlines about “boat people,” the outrage over costs, and the soundbites from ReformUK Ltd — something essential has been lost: our humanity.
Much of the rhetoric that dominates the debate, in my view, is not about policy or practicality but about prejudice.
It is racism directed against men, women, and children fleeing persecution and danger, people who come here because they still believe Britain is a country of fairness, tolerance, and kindness.
After some time on these shores, and after hearing the daily tide of vitriol, they might be forgiven for wondering whether that reputation is still deserved.
But there is another side to Britain — one that still embodies those values we like to think define us.
The first people these refugees meet when they reach our coast are not politicians or pundits, but the volunteers of the Royal National Lifeboat Institution (RNLI).
These are ordinary men and women who, without pay and often at great personal risk, head out into one of the world’s busiest sea lanes — the English Channel — to rescue those whose flimsy boats are failing beneath them.
Funded by public donations, RNLI crews save lives every year.
And when they cannot save everyone, they perform the harrowing duty of recovering the bodies of those who never make it.
For all the talk of “young men of fighting age,” let’s remember who else is on those boats.
There are women.
There are children.
There are orphans who arrive here alone after losing their parents somewhere on the journey — children who have already seen more horror than most of us could imagine.
When these survivors finally reach dry land, it is again volunteers — hundreds of them — who meet them with compassion.
They offer hot food, dry clothes, blankets, and a safe place to rest.
For many, it is the first warm meal, the first dry bed, and the first night of safety they’ve had in months, even years.
These volunteers are not looking for attention or applause.
They act out of simple decency — a belief that no one should be left to drown or freeze because of where they were born.
They are the best of Britain.
Yet they, too, feel the chill of our political climate.
Many of them are frightened to speak publicly about what they witness — intimidated by the divisive and hateful rhetoric that has seeped into our politics and our press.
Figures like Nigel Farage and his entourage have made compassion something to sneer at, and kindness something to question.
But the truth is this: every time a RNLI crew launches into rough seas to save a life, every time a volunteer hands a child a blanket, they are living proof that Britain’s conscience is not yet lost.
So, when we talk about asylum seekers — people exercising their legal right to seek refuge under the very Human Rights principles that Britain helped to draft — let us also talk about the people who greet them with care rather than contempt.
They show the country we could still be humane, generous, and proud of our capacity for compassion.
Because if there is any hope for what it means to be British, it lies not in those who shout the loudest about “taking back control,” but in those who, quietly and without fuss, refuse to turn their backs on another human being in need
“So when you hear a member of Reform UK Ltd, or others of their ilk, talk about people suffering from ‘compassion overload’ — their latest attempt to mask prejudice and racism — spare a thought for those who truly represent the best of Britain.”
Reflections of a Boomer
Reflections on life of an insignificant atom in the universe
