FraserWords

Today is St Piran’s Day, Cornwall’s national day, the day dedicated to its patron saint.

Now I don’t much believe in saints or nationalism, but I do believe in difference, so here in my corner of Cornwall it’s a pasty for lunch for me and yes, the black-and-white flag does fly on the back of our car.

So what does St Piran’s Day mean to you? To a very few lucky people in Cornwall, employees of enlightened local councils like Bodmin who’ve declared a unilateral bank holiday, it means an extra paid day off work – and if it meant no more than that, well, in this overworked and over-earnest age, it would be no bad thing.

To others, parents of school age children, it means St Piran’s Day lessons and St Piran’s Day lunch. Pasty, of course – but chips too? Hardly Cornish. But how splendid that nobody’s yet forbidden our teachers from celebrating their own part of the world. I’m sure Michael Gove will be on hand any day now to crush this particular bit of light and fun out of our lives.

To others it means re-enactment. Or, for nationalists, realpolitik.

To me, it means a day on which our corner of the world can show its difference, its apartness.

In a homogenised, corporate, globalised world dominated by the same few brands and increasingly speaking with an accent somewhere between Australian and American, I think that’s very valuable. I like things being different.

I keep a pot of small change on a shelf containing coins from all the countries I’ve visited, and all those dollars and zlotys and kopeks and drachmas and roubles speak of excitement and exoticism, discovery and delight. What does the Euro say to us?

The fact that Cornwall is one of very few parts of England to mark its separateness so vociferously, to underline its geographical and cultural uniqueness so loudly, is something of which to be proud.

Because anything that makes us different, adds character, creates interest and quirkiness in our lives, is to be celebrated. Dialect, accent, custom – all anathema to the 21^st century corporatist, of course. No, one of the few things – the only thing? – I have in common with vilenesses like John Redwood is opposition to that European ideal of uniformity.

We should encourage others to follow suit: Yorkshire, perhaps, could honour St Geoffrey of Boycott, or the Blessed Thora Hird. Somerset could celebrate Joseph of Arimathea, who travelled to Glastonbury and planted a sacred thorn tree, or The Wurzels, who got a brand new combine harvester. And so on… except, of course, for Devon. What have they got to celebrate?

Lessons in love

Dear old Captain Kay sprang out of his bathchair, cast aside the tartan rug and phoned me last week, incensed at having read two things.

One was that staff in the NHS were again being given lessons in empathy. “Lessons? In how to be kind to people? Maybe if you need lessons like that you shouldn’t be working in the ****ing health service,” he spluttered. “How the **** can you teach people how to love other people? How do you teach empathy?”

Pausing for breath and to put his teeth back in, the Captain moved on to the next item on the agenda: the unions were being all too predictably lambasted for the merest suggestion that the Olympic period shouldn’t be immune from political action – indeed, for saying that the Olympic period may be a good time for political action.

“What’s wrong with people?,” erupted the old boy. “For God’s sake, they can spend billions and billions on letting a few junkies run and jump and swim so Coca Cola and Nike can employ a few more five-year-olds to make more of their lousy products to flog us in their adverts, but they can’t tolerate free speech in a democracy, freedom of action, the freedom to withdraw labour if you feel strongly enough about something. I tell you what I feel strongly about, all that ****ing money being thrown away on a pointless TV orgy of boring sport when we’re throwing hundreds of thousands of people out of work. ****ing Olympics.”

You know, I love the Captain very dearly indeed, and one of the things that I love about him is that at his great age he still cares, is still passionate and every day still believes in his heart that you can stand up for what is right against what is wrong in the hope of one day winning the day.

MuckMaster

When Brother Hamster saw an agricultural machinery advert for the Fraser MuckMaster, he made a connection that will surprise you all: Fraser. MuckMaster. Me.

The nerve.

The good Brother, walking a little gingerly following his recent bereavement in the trouser department, delivered me the brochure last week, from Aberdeenshire-based Fraser Agricultural Ltd. And don’t tell anybody but I’m secretly quite pleased at some of the specification: “Discharge direction – from left of centre and mostly towards you”, for example. My standard features, apparently, include “pint of Guinness, an occasional rant, spare tyres, an array of hats, Test Match Special and a well-hidden mute button”.

Hmmm. I think Brother Hamster’s been doctoring this, you know.

Sun. Hat on

It’s DIY madness at our place, and nothing makes me feel more inadequate. I’ll tell you how impractical I am. This morning I was hanging out the washing, and it was taking ages because I was extremely uncomfortable, squinting right into the bright sun. It was several long minutes before I worked out the solution. Stand the other side of the line with my back to the sun. See what I mean?