Mr and Mrs Middle England: Worried Sick (and Not at All)

by David Palethorpe

Mr and Mrs Middle England are alive and well as we approach the end 2025.

He is worried sick; she is not.

Between them they represent two sides of the same village green: one ruled by dread, the other by perspective.

Mr Middle England is convinced — despite all evidence — that Britain is a lawless wasteland.

He double-bolts the doors, checks the motion sensors, and hides under his 13-TOG duvet certain that, somewhere out there, a mad axeman is sharpening his blade.

Mrs Middle England sighs. “You’re more likely to be kept awake by indigestion than an intruder,” she reminds him, switching off the outside light he insists must blaze all night.

If he survives the night, he spends the day peering round corners, convinced a mugger or worse still an immigrant has been following him for weeks.

“That’s just Dave from the post office,” says Mrs Middle England.

“He’s not stalking you — he’s late for his lunch.”

He nods gravely at men in camo trousers and hi-viz tops shuffling past.

“See? Urban warriors, out for trouble.”

“More like men off to unblock a drain,” she replies.

“If that’s camouflage, it’s working — you can barely see the fashion sense.”

Of course, his paranoia is music to the media’s ears.

Every hysterical headline, every “Britain is broken” editorial feeds his conviction that chaos lurks on every street corner.

He reads the Daily Mail like a holy text.

She skims the same stories and mutters,

“They’d sell fewer papers if they printed the truth.”

Because the harsh truth, which Mrs Middle England never forgets, is this:

the violence most likely to touch a life doesn’t come from a stranger in the alleyway, but from behind closed doors.

Domestic violence — not random muggers — is the risk too many still refuse to face.

But paranoia is convenient.

It keeps him frightened of shadows and strangers, rather than asking harder questions of those in power.

It keeps him buying headlines, while she rolls her eyes and points out that the real scandal is the failure of government to protect the vulnerable.

Take Ipplepen.

The most notorious crime in recent years?

The theft of a padlock from the allotment gate.

Hardly the basis for a Netflix true-crime drama.

But Mr Middle England still jumps at shadows.

Mrs Middle England counters:

“What about the neighbours who bring round soup when you’re ill?

The kids who ride bikes safely down the street?

The kindness we never read about?”

And as for me, walking to the Con Club or Welly, I know which one I’d rather share a pint with.

Mr Middle England would sip nervously, eyes darting to the door.

Mrs Middle England would laugh, order crisps, and raise a glass to common sense.

Because life’s too short for paranoia — and a lot better with a pint than a panic attack.

Which brings us to their latest disagreement.

Mr Middle England insists Britain is being “overrun by criminal gangs and immigrants.

” Mrs Middle England raises an eyebrow.

“Oh don’t be silly — that’s just not true.”

“But Nigel Farage says so,” he replies, “and even the President of the United States agrees.”

At this, Mrs Middle England finally snaps.

“Oh dear. If you’re going to listen to Nigel Farage and Donald Trump, then there’s no hope.

They’re just a pair of self-serving, deranged f***wits.”

Mr Middle England sits in stunned silence.

Not because she’s wrong about Farage or Trump — he knows she isn’t — but because in fifty years of marriage it is the first time, he has ever heard Mrs Middle England curse.

Mr and Mrs Middle England in Ipplepen – Addiction

by David Palethorpe

There’s a couple in every village, and in Ipplepen they’re known, affectionately if not entirely sincerely, as Mr and Mrs ME.

Not that it’s their initials — it’s just that every conversation, cause, and dietary choice eventually circles back to… well, them.

They were vegan before it was fashionable, pescatarian when it was briefly acceptable, and are now “flexitarian,” which roughly translates to “whatever Waitrose has on offer.”

Mr ME swears by intermittent fasting, which means skipping breakfast but making up for it with a heroic amount of artisan bread at lunch.

(To you and me that’s bread with bits in it)

Mrs ME, meanwhile, has declared sugar to be “toxic,” a statement usually followed by another slice of lemon drizzle “for the road.”

They’re the kind of couple who talk about “gut health” as if it’s a religion and consider kombucha a spiritual experience.

Their recycling bins are now colour-coded and alphabetised, and they’ve been known to glare at neighbours who dare to place the wrong sort of plastic in the blue one.

But behind the quinoa and the self-care hashtags lies a certain restlessness.

Mr ME recently admitted, in a moment of candour over a glass of low-sulphite Shiraz, that he rather misses bacon.

Mrs ME, for her part, has joined a mindfulness group but can’t stop checking whether everyone else is being mindful correctly.

They talk often about “living simply,” which is admirable, though the new garden room — complete with under-floor heating and an eco-espresso machine — somewhat complicates the message.

They claim it’s for yoga and writing, but the neighbours have noticed it’s mostly used for watching boxed sets and ordering “sustainable” things online.

Still, they mean well.

And perhaps that’s what makes Mr and Mrs ME so endearing: their endless striving to be better, greener, purer — even if their carbon footprint suggests otherwise.

In a world that’s a bit too serious, they provide the village with something far more valuable than moral instruction.

Entertainment.

So, if you see them out and about in Ipplepen this weekend — Mr ME in his hemp shirt, Mrs ME clutching a reusable cup the size of a small bucket — give them a smile.

They may be insufferable, but at least they’re consistently so.

And that, in these uncertain times, is something to celebrate.

It Could Happen to Anyone – But Probably Just You

by David Palethorpe

“It could happen to anyone…”

We’ve all heard it — that tired old phrase people trot out when someone has been caught red-handed or is about to be publicly embarrassed.

It’s usually followed by an awkward laugh, a pat on the shoulder, and a half-hearted attempt to downplay what everyone knows was avoidable in the first place.

Well, I have news for you: it couldn’t happen to anyone. Because if it could, surely it would happen to everyone.

Where it might happen to anyone, however, is on that great leveller of human behaviour — the internet.

Or as they say up North, “tinternet.”

I suspect the number of times people used the phrase “it could happen to anyone” increased dramatically during COVID-19.

After all, lockdown created the perfect conditions for human error: too much time, too little company, and far too easy access to the online world.

As people sat at home, idly scrolling through endless feeds and chat rooms, I wonder how many suddenly made “new friends” on social media.

You know the type — people who claim to share your interests, your humour, your dreams.

Before long, the friendly chats turn personal.

The personal chats turn intimate.

And the next thing you know, emails are being exchanged containing sentiments that are… shall we say, of dubious content.

After months of isolation, the heart can override the head — and sometimes the keyboard.

Until one day you discover that your new online love — the 22-year-old redhead from Dumbarton who “works in marketing and loves dogs” — is actually a 72-year-old retired bus driver from Evesham who only loves Spam sandwiches and crosswords.

It’s at that point that people reach for that old line of defence:

“Well, it could happen to anyone!”

No, it couldn’t.

It happened to you.

That’s the problem with the virtual world — you can expose yourself in all your naked glory while sitting in the safety of your own living room.

One simple tap of the ‘Enter’ key and your deepest, most personal thoughts are launched into cyberspace, where they will circulate forever.

Normal rules of conduct, restraint, good manners, and decorum don’t seem to apply online.

People who would never dream of shouting at someone in the street will happily type abuse in block capitals to complete strangers.

And let’s not forget the unthinking “Like” or “Share” of a post that turns out to be racist, sexist, misogynistic, or otherwise offensive.

Those moments have a nasty habit of resurfacing years later — especially if you ever fancy a career in politics.

Screenshots, after all, are forever.

It’s easy to wander into trouble online.

You may inadvertently stumble across a website you didn’t mean to open — but keeping it open is a choice.

Take, for example, the simple task of searching for the lyrics to Everlasting Love by the group Love Affair.

Type in “lyrics to the song Everlasting Love by Love Affair” and you’ll find exactly what you wanted.

Type in just “Everlasting Love” and you may find yourself staring at something altogether more… revealing.

Let’s just say that in some corners of the internet, “Everlasting Love” takes on an entirely different meaning — one that’s both anatomical and alarmingly enthusiastic. (Or so I’ve been told)

The extra time people spent online during lockdown and since has also shone a light on the curious ecosystem of conspiracy theorists who inhabit cyberspace.

They range from harmless eccentrics to full-blown, tinfoil-hat-wearing nut jobs.

And then, of course, there was the former and now once again President of the United States and here in England Nigel Farage — proof, if ever it were needed, that access to Wi-Fi should sometimes come with an intelligence test.

Who knows — perhaps there’s even a secret corner of the web dedicated to modern-day Luddites, a forum for people proudly opposed to technology but somehow still using it to tell everyone about it.

The internet is a two-dimensional world that tempts us away from the three-dimensional reality we actually live in.

It’s filled with wonders — the largest library ever created the ability to translate every language, to explore every idea.

But it also hides more questionable corners: the places where “flexibility” means something quite different from what your physiotherapist had in mind.

Stray into the wrong site and you could find yourself knee-, waist-, or even nipple-deep in a digital swamp of pornography, conspiracy, and chaos — all without leaving your armchair.

Science and technology have given us incredible tools.

The vaccines that helped save millions of lives from COVID-19 were designed and developed by scientists and technologists sharing information across the world through technology.

Without them, we’d still be clapping on doorsteps and disinfecting our shopping deliveries.

But with the same brilliance that can decode DNA and build Mars rovers, we’ve also managed to create cat memes, deepfakes, and dating apps that pair humans with bots.

The microchip has made geniuses of some, addicts of others, and fools of many.

Which is why, perhaps, those who’ve resisted embracing the digital revolution might be onto something.

The so-called technophobes who still write cheques and read paperbacks can sit back smugly and say:

“It could happen to someone.”

“It could happen to anyone.”

“But it couldn’t happen to me.”

Because they’re not out there clicking, swiping, and posting their way into trouble.

They’re living in the real world — a world where embarrassment fades with time rather than being stored permanently on a server in California.

So, the next time you hear someone sigh and mutter the excuse, “It could happen to anyone,” remember and perhaps point out to them,

“It probably couldn’t”.

“It just happened to you“.

Why Make the Effort – “Not My Cup of Tea”

I was sat in a Costa the other day where, in spite of the name, I ordered a cup of tea.

Not for me one of the multitudes of Earl Greys or flavoured blends, but a simple mug of builders’ tea.

Even that, however, has now been branded as “English Breakfast.”

Which begs the question: what happens if you want it for lunch?

My immediate reaction was — Error, error! 

For one very simple reason: tea is supposed to be made with boiling water, water that has reached at least 100 degrees centigrade.

The one I received was, at best, lukewarm.

A warning to all you young people:

As you get older, you find you become dismayed at most things, most of the time.

Now, I understand why the tea was only warm.

Coffee, and for that matter hot chocolate, as produced by the fancy machines in such establishments, is made with water or milk — or both — at a temperature some way short of boiling point.

That’s how the best coffee is brewed.

As a digression, I once bought a cup at the Costa in Dubai Airport made with boiling water.

It was undrinkable, not just because of the temperature but because it was bitter.

Anyway, back to Costa in Newton Abbot.

 Coffee, I decided, was going to be the answer.

The tea was, to put it mildly, “not my cup of tea.”

Which is a strange thing to say.

Since I’d paid for it, it was obviously my cup of tea — except in the colloquial sense that, because of its temperature, it wasn’t.

That incident set me thinking about other things that aren’t “my cup of tea.”

Premiership football (soccer, to our American cousins), the UK Government, Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump, Nigel Farage, Benjamin Netanyahu and South West Water being amongst many.

Closer to home: bad drivers who cut you up or fail to acknowledge when you let them in, bad roads, and of course certain people I’ve met — some of whom for a reason only known to themselves continue to refer to me as a colleague when they have made it clear I am definitely not “their cup of tea”.

In their case, I simply avoid or ignore them whenever possible.

It’s strange.

When you’re young — and I mean very young — you want and expect everyone to be your friend.

But at what point do we realise that isn’t possible?

When do we understand that some people simply aren’t “our cup of tea” — and that we aren’t theirs?

At what point do we decide that we’re not impressed by certain people, or that we’re not going to waste any effort trying to deal them?

Of course, and quite naturally, we must also remember that some people think exactly the same about us.

Think of those we meet on holiday — people we’ll never see again — and ask yourself: why do we even try to impress them?

Worse still is when, just like my lukewarm tea, we continue to spend time on people who don’t really matter to us.

That isn’t to say that people don’t matter.

Everyone matters — but not necessarily to us as individuals.

Not everyone you meet will like you, and sometimes there’s no obvious reason why.

Likewise, you won’t like everyone you meet — and you couldn’t explain why if asked.

So why make the effort?

Wouldn’t we be better off concentrating on those we love, and who love us?

As it happens, I like both coffee and tea.

So whether someone is “not my cup of tea” or even “my cup of coffee,” the result will be the same: I’ll be polite when in their company, but I won’t seek their company out.

Life is simply far too short.

Fat Orange Man

by David Palethorpe

A big fat ugly orange man today

Appeared on my TV.

He was so obviously mad,

It was fascinating to see.

I listened to the orange man —

What did he have to say?

It was a speech with lots of words

He could not pronounce.

He spoke with great conviction,

I didn’t believe a word,

Not a single ounce —

Except that he’d convinced himself,

As all mad men always do.

The only problem was,

None of it was true.

For all he did was lie and lie.

He claimed everybody else

Was wrong — and then he simply lied

That they were guilty of fake news.

He included everyone

Who doesn’t share his views.

But guilty, guilty, guilty —

Of that there is no doubt.

The orange man will one day-

face trial-

He’s finally been found out.

COMMON SENSE WHAT HAPPENED?

Back in 1776, Thomas Paine wrote Common Sense.

I’ve just re-read it — the last time was in the early 1960s, when my history teacher (a republican, anti-monarchist socialist, and war veteran) insisted Paine was one of the greatest people who ever lived.

For us, raised on pink-splashed maps of empire, hymn sheets of “God on England’s side,” and school drills to make us fit enough for the next war, that was radical stuff.

But Paine — a corset maker from Norfolk — helped fuel the propaganda that carried the American Revolution to success.

He believed in reason, free thought, and the right of people to overthrow their government.

He rejected institutional religion.

He was no saint, but his words mattered.

John Adams himself admitted: 

“Without the pen of the author of Common Sense, the sword of Washington would have been raised in vain.”

And yet Paine died ostracised.

Only six people attended his funeral.

A life of radical clarity, dismissed by the country he helped found.

I wonder how his views would fare in today’s America.

His deism alone would send evangelical leaders into fits of righteous fury.

His insistence that people can and should depose failing governments?

You can imagine the headlines on Fox or GB News.

The irony is clear: 

Common Sense in its broadest sense was never more necessary — and never scarcer.

Value Life

We wait with patience,
From the moment of birth,
Unknowing the hour
We’ll depart from this earth.

In the meantime, a lifetime—
Of laughter and mirth;
So go out and live it,
And cherish its worth.

Wonderful
By David Palethorpe

Today is a wonderful day,
Tomorrow will be wonderful too.
Today is the day we dreamed of yesterday,
A promise we once looked forward to.

When we think of the past,
Is it what we expected?
Or something we’d rather forget—
Did it bring the dreams we imagined,
Of living a wonderful life?

Every day holds something wonderful.
How many such days
Does life keep in store for you?
Wonderful days make a wonderful life.

And today is the beginning—
What a wonderful day.