• a soul-less roadhouse of a pub on the A12, between Chadwell Heath and Romford, which — decades ago, Malcolm passed daily to and form work;
• the punch-line of a very unsavoury blue-ish joke,
• a damned-hard read by Herman Melville.

We are, here, concerned with the most epicene of those three.

Like the eponymous whale, the book is a ginormous thing; and it doesn’t take easily to pithy quotation. When we drive, at length, to Chapter 104 [of 135!]: The Fossil Whale, we get this:

One often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one. How, then, with me, writing of this Leviathan? Unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals. Give me a condor’s quill! Give me Vesuvius’ crater for an inkstand! Friends, hold my arms! For in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this Leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs. Such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme! We expand to its bulk. To produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme. No great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.

And so to today’s [London — better put that in Malcolm, especially after yesterday's effort] Times, which makes the connection in the obituary of John Chichester-Constable, “46th Lord Paramount of the Seigniory of Holderness”:

John Chichester-Constable was the heir to a Yorkshire estate which famously houses the remains of a 58½ft-long sperm whale that inspired Herman Melville’s Moby Dick.

“Famously”, maybe; but it’s news to Malcolm. It shouldn’t have been for two good reasons:

1. (as that obit. notes) it’s actually in the book, in Chapter 102, A Bower in the Arsacides, to be precise:

There is a Leviathanic Museum, they tell me, in Hull, England, one of the whaling ports of that country, where they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales. Likewise, I have heard that in the museum of Manchester, in New Hampshire, they have what the proprietors call “the only perfect specimen of a Greenland or River Whale in the United States.” Moreover, at a place in Yorkshire, England, Burton Constable by name, a certain Sir Clifford Constable has in his possession the skeleton of a Sperm Whale, but of moderate size… 

Sir Clifford’s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great chest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony cavities—spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan—and swing all day upon his lower jaw. Locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of keys at his side. Sir Clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled view from his forehead.

2. It also appeared in the Guardian obituary, complete with photographs, published nearly a month ago, which Malcolm overlooked:

John Chichester-Constable, who has died aged 84, was heir to Burton Constable, a splendid though crumbling pile in the flatlands of east Yorkshire. His greatest achievement was the restoration of this house, which is filled with extraordinary objects assembled by his ancestors – not least the skeleton of a sperm whale that was described in Herman Melville‘s Moby-Dick.

The largest house in the East Riding of Yorkshire, Burton Constable is a romantic compendium, substantially Elizabethan but remodelled in the 18th century, set not far from the fast-eroding coastline of the North Sea. It is over this bleak strand, from Flamborough to Spurn Point, that the Seigniory of Holderness, a title held by the owners of Burton Constable, extends an eccentric fiefdom: the right – elsewhere ceded to the monarch – to “royal fish”. Any whale, dolphin, sturgeon or porpoise cast up on these shores (which have a long history of cetacean strandings) becomes the property of the lord paramount – of which Chichester-Constable was the 46th.

Thus, when a 58ft male sperm whale was found on the beach at Tunstall in 1825, Sir Thomas Constable sent his steward, Richard Iveson, to claim it as a gigantic addition to his cabinet of curiosities. Relieved of its blubber, it was articulated on a metal stand in the grounds, alongside an avenue of trees. And there, over the decades, it slowly rotted and rusted into the earth, awaiting its rediscovery. 

About the only mystery is how both obits use a remarkably-similar photograph, without acknowledgement in either case —

Burton Constable Hall is, all that apart, a rather fine place.

Malcolm is on record for his weekly indulgence in Fintan O’Toole’s A history of Ireland in 100 objects — this week we were well into the the Fourteenth Century, with the Anglo-Norman period sliding gently into the time of the “Old English” (as they were in Malcolm’s school history books).

These wee mannikins (left) are one of the seventeen illustrations in the Waterford Charter Roll and are, O’Toole says they are:

the earliest image … of the medieval mayors of Dublin, Waterford, Cork and Limerick.

Adding a neat analogy:

Eamonn McEneaney of Waterford City Museum calls the charter roll “the mediaeval equivalent of a PowerPoint presentation”, designed to “flatter the king, add weight to the legal arguments and keep those listening to the mayor’s presentation focused on the facts being elaborated”. As an exercise in verbal and visual persuasion, the roll is a brilliant early example of targeted advertising. It did the trick: the king restored Waterford’s shipping monopoly.

Extra kudos there for the “a” in what even the OED prefers as “medieval”. Doubles all round had the compositor managed “æ” (on a Mac key-board it’s option+apostrophe).

But that’s not all …

The daily dose of info-amusement comes on the main editorial page in the form of An Irishman’s Diary (except, of course, when it’s just as happily An Irishwoman’s Diary). This is always essential reading — Malcolm has a couple of acquaintances who start here, then knock off the Crosaire crossword, before proceeding to the “real” news.

Good as it consistently is, the Diary reaches a new level when Frank McNally has the by-line. As yesterday:

A History of Ireland in 100 Questions.

Here’s Malcolm’s 101, Q&A:

What are ye coin reading this tripe for?
Get ye onto that hotlink straightaway!

An’ sure enough, if ye had, ye’d have been enjoying something of a gentle brain-teaser as you tried to spot the source of many of them. Apart from the commonplaces, you’d have got:

23. Are ye right there, Michael?

25. Captain Boyle: An’ as it blowed an’ blowed, I ofen looked up at the sky an’ assed meself the question – what is the stars, what is the stars?

26. Joxer: Ah, that’s the question, that’s the question – what is the stars?

27. Boyle: An’ then, I’d have another look, an’ I’d ass meself – what is the moon?

28. Joxer: Ah, that’s the question – what is the moon, what is the moon?

As well as (by Malcolm’s quick count) three from Yeats, the same from De Valera, two from Percy French (you got the easier one above), one from Christy Brown (the predictable County Clare one) and many more. So, Frank, which version of How Are Things in Glocca Morra? runs in your head — Dick Haymes? the Broadway cast album? Petula Clark (the 1968 movie)? even Sonny Rollins (though that was pure instrumental genius)?

Ray Houghton’s goals feature strongly (and properly: UEFA 1988 — England 0, Ireland 1; 1994 World Cup — Ireland 1, Italy o). The Offaly goal in the dying seconds of the 1982 All-Ireland Senior Football Championship is there, too, if you know where to find it. For Malcolm, though, the gem is either:

24. Is it about a bicycle?

or

69. How do Jacobs get the figs into the fig-rolls?

Somewhere in between is the essence of Dublin, and of Malcolm’s addiction, into its sixth decade, to the Irish Times.

Is Malcolm entitled to be “conflicted” over the breast-implants saga? Since most of the “victims” are really victims of their own vanity, and some nasty selling techniques, a sneaky and unworthy voice at the back of the conscience whispers, “They deserve what they get”.

It’s also difficult not to see an unpleasant double-entendre in stuff like this (from the Press Association):

The implants were pulled from the market in several countries including the UK amid fears they could rupture and leak silicone into the body.

That apart, it is strongly to be hoped that M. Jean-Claude Mas, who ran the now-defunct French company Poly Implant Prothese, gets his full deserts; and that his dupes/victims some relief and gratification:

According to estimates by national authorities, more than 42,000 women in Britain received the implants, over 30,000 in France, 9,000 in Australia and 4,000 in Italy. Nearly 25,000 of the implants were sold in Brazil.

Those numbers represent an awful lot of profiteering on human weakness.

Fatty (t)issue

In Florida, though, there seems to be a cruder sense of the ridiculous than even Malcolm can manage happily.

First there was Carl Hiaasen’s Skin Tight, which does the dirty on cosmetic surgery in the Sunshine State:

The same libertarian standards applied to rhinoplasties or hemorrhoidectomies or even brain surgery: Rudy Graveline was a licensed physician, and legally that meant he could try any damn thing he wanted.

He did not give two hoots about certification by the American Board of Plastic Surgery, or the American Academy of Facial Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery, or the American Society of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgeons. What were a couple more snotty plaques on the wall? His patients could care less. They were rich and vain and impatient. In some exclusive South Florida circles, Rudy’s name carried the glossy imprimatur of a Gucci or a de La Renta. The lacquered old crones at La Gorce or the Biltmore would point at each other’s shiny chins and taut necks and sculpted eyelids and ask, not in a whisper but a haughty bray, “Is that a Graveline?”

Rudy was a designer surgeon. To have him suck your fat was an honor, a social plum, a mark (literally) of status. Only a boor, white trash or worse, would ever question the man’s techniques or complain about the results.

South Florida’s “Toxic Tush” case took another bizarre turn Wednesday night when the person accused of helping inject concoctions of “Fix-a-Flat” and Super Glue into women’s derrieres was attacked during a taping of a talk show by an audience member.

About 9:30 p.m., as Corey Eubank appeared on the Spanish-language television show hosted by Cristina Saralegui in the program’s Doral studio, he was attacked by the mother of one of the victims, Eubank told The Miami Herald afterward…

Eubank, 40, of Hollywood, is accused of being an assistant to Oneal Ron Morris, also known as “Duchess,” who police say duped women into paying for injections of a near-lethal chemical formula to enhance their butts, only to find themselves sick and disfigured.

Miami Gardens police said Morris performed the procedure, but that Eubank coordinated them and got a cut of the profits.

Eubank and Morris have both pleaded not guilty and are out on bail while their cases move forward…

Wednesday night, Eubank was on the stage, along with members of his legal team; on another part of the stage, he said, was Shaquanda Brown of North Miami, one of the women who said she was a victim.

Brown’s mother was in the front row. A table nearby had a syringe, for a demonstration later in the show.

Eubank told The Herald he went onto the show to clear his name.

Suddenly, he said, Brown’s mother ran to the stage, grabbed the syringe and lunged at him, scratching him across the forehead before security pulled her off.

“My face has a mark on it,” Eubank said afterward, “and my head is killing me.”

It was unclear Wednesday night whether any charges would be filed as a result of the scuffle.

Ah, diddums! Come to Mommy and she’ll kiss it better.

This prime specimen came under the ‘scope because of her grandson, who may well follow in this succession of oddities. She is a topic of interest in her own right, being at the centre of one of British high-society’s most spectacular sex-scandals.

A new Duchess

The lady was born in the early weeks of 1738, the only child of Sir Henry Liddell, a Durham coal-magnate, and Anne Delmé.

By the age of eighteen she was married to Augustus Henry FitzRoy, earl of Euston, who succeeded as third Duke of Grafton the following year. She claimed it was marriage for love: doubtless the coal royalties lubricated the stretched Grafton finances, while greasing the Liddells’ social climb. Joshua Reynolds did the full-length portrait (right) around 1757-9, and, among the formulaic stuff, catches something of a knowing look in her eye. More of that anon.

The marriage produced four children, one of whom had a son, therefore Anne Fitzpatrick’s grandson, who will duly appear shortly in this occasional series.

Anne enjoyed large social occasions, and expensive card games: the duke preferred to lose his money on horses. Strains began to show: that incorrigible old gossip , Horace Walpole, sensed there was something in the wind —The Graftons go abroad for the Duchess’s health. Another climate may mend that — I will not answer for more.

Another point of marital discord involved politics: she was involved in the Whiggish Bedford set, he was seeking preference from the Tory circle around the king.

Shenanigans in high society

Matters reached an impasse during the duchess’s fourth pregnancy, when the duke was taking consolation in the bed of Annabella “Nancy” Parsons.

Let pay a visit, courtesy of Heather Carroll, to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire’s delightful boudoir, and meet her Tart of the Week (below, left, another Reynolds):

… going by the name of Mrs Nancy Horton (widow), our heroine found herself completely penniless and out of luck. Praying wasn’t gonna help her put food in her stomach and find a place to live, Nancy had to act fast. She managed to find a series of men to take care of her in exchange for, ya know, the goods. One of these men just happened to be the newly separated Duke of Grafton who had had enough of his wife’s gambling. The Duke was head over heels for Nancy and the two were the example of the perfect couple for years. Nancy even acted as the incumbent wife, hosting dinners and such-all while the Duke was serving as Prime Minister. They saw each other as equals and the Duke was never adverse to seeking Nancy’s advice in political matters. The breakup came as quite a shock to everyone including Nancy. The press was quick to report that while the Duke wanted to keep things amiable, Nancy was too hurt. Soon afterward, the Duke remarried.

Crisis

That has slightly re-ordered what seems to be yer ackshull actualité, as generally accepted. The dirt-dishers have it that when Grafton came to inspect his latest sprog, the duchess told him his fortune, added that she hated him, and was promptly expelled from the ducal presence and properties. A legal separation was complete by January 1765, with our Anne keeping her jewels (which were considerable) and an annuity of £3,000 p.a., on which basis she set up shop in Upper Grosvenor Street. Soon she had the Duke of Portland as a regular gentleman-caller. Portland, however, moved on to Lady Dorothy Cavendish, and proposing to her without as much as a by-your-leave to Anne (who remained his legal wife). This was a major social disgrace for Anne, added to which Grafton reclaimed both his sons.

Love and marriage …

Horace Walpole then fitted Anne up with John Fitzpatrick, earl of Upper Ossory, and they were lovers by late 1767 — Prime Minister Grafton had her stand down at a royal funeral, for she was showing signs of a further pregnancy. In June Anne sought seclusion in Surrey. In July Grafton reclaimed the last of their children. In August Anne’s child by Fitzpatrick (also Anne) was born. Grafton sued for adultery, buying off Anne’s counter-claim with £2,000 p.a.; and the divorce (which required a parliamentary act) was completed by 23rd March 1769. Three days later Anne became Countess of Upper Ossory, stopping only to reclaim her £40,000 dowry from Grafton.

Meanwhile Grafton had remarried — his choice fell upon Elizabeth Wrottesley, who was Ossory’s cousin (small world), whereupon Anne Fitzpatrick, as she now was, felt a good idea was retirement to the Ossory estates at Ampthill and Northamptonshire, returning to London only to act as a political hostess in the winter season.

The Ossory marriage seems to have gelled, though a second daughter died and twin sons miscarried. The base-born first daughter, Anne, was brought back and dignified as “Lady Anne Fitzpatrick”. A third daughter, Lady Gertrude, was born in 1774. About this time Ossory was going to be nominated as ambassador to Spain: a proposal that Grafton promptly squelched. The Countess Anne was up to that: she is thought to have had Ossory defect to the Opposition and support Burke over the American Colonies. She became something of a fan of Charles James Fox.

It was expected that her father’s death would bring her the Liddell coal revenues: this didn’t transpire, but she was reconciled to her mother (who had disapproved of the Ossory association and the divorce). There was some revenge for Anne Fitzpatrick when her son, Lord Euston, married her friend Walpole’s great niece.

Her relationship with Walpole, though, was changing: he was incapacitated by gout, she went travelling and corresponded with him until his death. She seems to have developed into something of a prude: on one occasion Walpole sent her a grotesque nude image, A Modern Venus (as right), which was all the vogue: she returned it, with suitable clothing.

She died in 1804. Ossory in 1818. Anne and Gertrude inherited the Fitzpatrick lands in Ireland. Neither married.

We are not finished with the Fitzroys …

The story has it that, in 1950, the US Ambassador to Guatemala reckoned the (dodgily) democratically-elected government of President Jacobo Árbenz Guzmán was a bunch of Commies.

This had absolutely nothing to do with the Árbenz régime proposing to sequester the sprawling plantations of the United Fruit Company. Oh, no! Perish the thought. Having Allen Dulles, Director of the CIA on the UFC board? UFC uniquely having a CIA cipher? Having the law-firm of John Foster Dulles as UFC’s lawyers? All coincidence, absolutely pure coincidence!

Anyway Ambassador Patterson expressed himself in this metaphor:

Suppose you see a bird walking around in a farm yard. This bird has no label that says ‘duck’. But the bird certainly looks like a duck. Also, he goes to the pond and you notice that he swims like a duck. Then he opens his beak and quacks like a duck. Well, by this time you have probably reached the conclusion that the bird is a duck, whether he’s wearing a label or not.

Hence, the “duck test”.

Yes, there do seem to be other, even earlier explications of the expression.

Back to the main narrative

Malcolm has a perfectly good iron garden gate. The posts rotted away long ago, and were chucked out, together with the fittings.

He now wishes, and is in a position to re-hang that gate.

Aha! You have spotted the flaw in this plan!

So, this morning he went in search of replacement fittings. Two things to hang the gate from, solid enough to carry the weight of a substantial metal gate, and one for its latch to catch in.

At the second attempt he found a wonderful lady, apparently named Gloria, who understood precisely what Malcolm required, and even showed him a catalogue.

Gloria patiently explained that Malcolm needs two pintles and a gudgeon.

Pintle

Until that moment, had someone used the word, Malcolm would have heard “pintail”. As a lad from the Norfolk coast Malcolm has a mental image of one of those:

Wrong, Malcolm. Very, very wrong — well, pretty wrong, anyhow.

Let us refer, as so often, to the Oxford English Dictionary:

 1. The penis of a man or a male animal. In later use regional and colloq.

Huh? Surely not! Particularly so when half-way through the citations we meet:

1470    J. Paston in Paston Lett. & Papers (2004) I. 415   It is reportyd that hys pyntell is asse longe as hys legge.

And certainly not two of them!

Hold on! This looks more to the point:

2. A pin or bolt, esp. one on which another part in a mechanism turns; spec.
a. Naut. A pin forming part of the hinge of a rudder, usually fixed on the rudder and fitting into a ring on the sternpost

Better still, the very first citation is:

1486    in M. Oppenheim Naval Accts. & Inventories Henry VII (1896) 15   A pyntell & a gogeon for the Rother.

To think young, barely-adolescent Malcolm flushed with embarrassment when he found the two parts of a nut-and-bolt were referred to as “male” and “female”. The metaphorical link between those two OED definitions is abundantly clear.

Even so, that pintail’s tail-feather does point up in a somewhat suggestive fashion. And it’s missing in the female. Hmmm …

Malcolm got it from the Derry Journal:

The Department of Environment has served an Urgent Works Notice on the owner of 20 Crawford Square, a listed building in the Clarendon Street Conservation Area of Derry.

This tall, late Victorian building is on the Built Heritage at Risk in Northern Ireland (BHARNI) register and, despite repeated attempts by the Northern Ireland Environment Agency (NIEA) to encourage the owner to take action, no works have been carried out.

The Department has now issued a notice which outlines the action it will take to carry out emergency works if the owner does not initiate these within seven days. 

The notice is one of a number planned this year across Northern Ireland following the Heritage Crime Summit.

Remarkably — even shamefully  — this seems to be the first, ever, time such a notice has been issued in Northern Ireland. Kudos, then, to Alex Attwood.

Of itself, it’s not an outstandingly attractive structure (see right). It would go largely unnoticed, but still raise the odd million freehold, in most parts of north London. Obviously the “late Victorian” period came late to Derry, and spared it the overwrought fripperies and excesses exported to the rest of the English-speaking world. This is a strong, decent terrace of red-brick “master’s” houses. Crawford Square is fine in itself: many of the premises are outstanding — as the exemplary corner in the image below:

The city of [London]Derry — Gerry Anderson’s “Stroke City”, not because of a tradition of cardiac arrest, but because of the ambiguity of name imposed by two religious and tribal communities — has many fine buildings.

Malcolm recalls that, last May, he was in Shipgate Street, Chester. He observed the bustle and touristy glitz. Yes, he should have spotted the prevalence of sales, the first warning that Britain’s impending retail crisis was on the way. Perhaps the prosperous, bourgeois, touristic Chester he believed he saw then was a deception. All the same, it contrasted with Shipgate Street, Derry:

For Derry still has that grey, worn-out look to it. Shipgate Street, Derry — indeed much of the area inside the city walls — has the potential to be one of the architectural gems of these islands. Somewhere recently — ah, yes! it was Simon Winder’s Germania — Malcolm came on the observation that a walled town was somewhere which had been prosperous in the Middle Ages, but had subsequently lost its place in the wealth league. Hence the town had never been able to tear down those constricting walls and get on with rebuilding.

That’s not quite the case in Derry. The walls there are iconic, especially for certain beefy besashed types. Public money has been swilled on Derry, in the hope of putting a veneer of decency on what for years was a war-zone: the consequence is some of the most revolting concrete monsters on the face of the planet: once one has seen the brutality of the BT tower by the river, all other horrors pale into the merely disgusting… 

Through it all, though, there are substantial numbers of real authentic “period” buildings, from the Georgian and subsequent periods. Even the restored Edwardian Guild Hall has a spiky Gothic — and distinctly unUlster — personality, especially from within where every piece of Edwardian glazing tells a story.

Malcolm stands by every word of that.

In Derry an Englishman abroad is at the end of Empire. The Donegal border is only the dander of a stroll down the road. Fly into Eglinton and one notes that a fair proportion of the passengers then head for cars with DL registrations. The shops happily accept Euros (at an exchange rate which suits them very nicely).  Many of the folk who work in the city live across the border. Culturally, one is a world away from even Belfast (and Belfast repays the compliment by ignoring the north-west of the province to the best of Belfast’s ability).

Number 20, Crawford Square is even more significant. It is a further marker of the turning of the tide.

As far back as 1993, Robert Atkins, “Minister for the Economy and the Environment” (now Sir Robert, then an understrapper at the Northern Ireland Office) was penning an introduction to a planning document for rural Northern Ireland. Atkins was brief to the point of being taciturn, just five of the shortest paragraphs:

Northern Ireland has a wealth of wonderful landscapes, a rich traditional pattern of settlement and a dispersed rural community. This is a heritage which I value and one that we must preserve and enhance for future generations.

However, communities face particular challenges in planning for their future growth and development, and Government, at local and national level, has to provide a means of assessing competing demands in the public interest. The planning process is that means.

Following a consultation exercise which produced a wide range of opinions, we have published this comprehensive integrated report which lays out the Department’s Planning Strategy for rural areas. This will be the guiding document both for the public and specialists at all levels.

Planning decisions affect ordinary people and it is essential that the rules are easily understood and fairly implemented. That is why the relationship between applicant and planner must be helpful, straightforward and productive. This Strategy aims to encourage that.

If Northern Ireland is to develop in a sustainable way, accommodating economic diversity and the conservation of its natural assets, there must be understanding and mutual respect for the differing interests of society. There must be co-operation in reconciling differences and in charting a way forward in the interests of all.

I believe that the publication of this Strategy is an important step in that direction. I know that successful co-operation will conserve and develop a countryside which we will all continue to value.

It was, Malcolm believes, while Peter Hain was Northern Ireland Secretary that some flesh was put on that skeletal structure. The demolition of decent rural cottages, to be replaced by what the locals refer to as “Southforks” (from the Dallas TV series), ground to a halt. That was just in time, for the end of The Troubles portended the coastline of Northern Ireland getting the Donegal crust of gimcrack bungalows. On the other hand, sometime around the turn of the millennium, farmers and others realised that outbuildings and byres could convert into a cash-crop from tourism. Roundabout the same time “conservation” (in the widest sense) began to gain traction, while out-of-town bars potted up geraniums and hanging baskets.

Any Northern Irish small town will, inevitably, become “tin town” as the shutters slam down at 5:30 pm. Look around the side streets: with a bit of effort, you’ll see up several period buildings of some distinction. With rare exceptions they will be tatty and neglected. The notion of “gentrification” is coming as late to Northern Ireland — correction, make that all of Ireland — as did the gingerbread stuff that Crawford Square missed out on. But it’s coming.

So, for all of that, and much more a small cheer for Alex Attwood and the Northern Ireland DoE.

Rarely can a government have been so pleased to have been defeated. The Tories are, privately, delighted that the Lords have voted to water down the benefit cap, removing child benefit from it. The longer this attempt to cap benefit for non-working households at £26,000 stays in the news, the better it is for the government. It demonstrates to the electorate that they are trying to do something about the injustices of the something for nothing culture.

The weaseling lies in that “non-working households”.

As always, statistics can “prove” anything.

Taking a steer from the DWP, wikipedia summarises it like this:

In 2011, average individual earnings in Britain were £26,000, while the average income for working-age households was around £33,000. That same year, the after-tax earnings of the median household was around £26,000 per annum while average net household income (after tax) stood at £38,547.00.

That’s a very curious, even confusing way to present the numbers — note the sudden shift from “around £26,000″ to the precision of ”£38,547.00″, particularly when its’s that “around” round number on which ConDem government propaganda focuses.  The sources wikipedia cites are equally so curious.

However, Malcolm takes that as common ground.

That still leaves two glaring anomalies.

First, “household” is a very elastic term

There are 26 million households in Great Britain.

Well over a quarter (7.5 million, 28%) of that total involves single persons living alone.

By the time we are looking only at the advertisers’ conventional nuclear unit  of the parents-and-dependent children we are down to 12.1 million. Yet all are subject to Iain Duncan Smith’s one-size-fits-all formula.

Only a bone-head would fail to see that child allowance matters — which is, moreover, the benefit payable to the mother by right. That might even resonate with the editorial writer at the Sun — never known to leave a prejudice less than bigoted and overdue, as in:

All we ever hear from the bishops is how unfair the Government is being to welfare claimants. Never a peep about how unfair it is to workers who slog all day to keep layabouts in beer and pizza.

Or the kids in milk, orange-juice and nappies?

That’s why the Lords revolt is honourable; and the ConDem denials are despicable.

 Second, it ignores local and regional differences.

When the GMB studied hourly wages across the country, it found that rates stretched from 82% of the national “average” in Stoke-on-Trent to 136% in Greater London. Even an arch-Tory like Boris Johnson is prepared to sign off to this, on the “London Living Wage”:

Research carried out by Queen Mary University of London estimates that since its introduction in 2005, the London Living Wage has benefited almost 10,000 workers boosting their pay by an extra £60 million. Workers in the capital currently paid the living wage will see an extra £5.5 million in their pocket once the new rate is applied.

The new rate is outlined in the seventh annual London Living Wage report, A Fairer London: The 2011 Living Wage in London, which has been published today by GLA Economics. The report concludes an hourly wage rate of 22 per cent above the National Minimum Wage (NMW) rate is needed in London just to take the wage-earner above the poverty level. Around one in 10 workers in the capital currently receive less than the poverty threshold, and one in six receive less than the £8.30 London Living Wage.

Even George Osborne ought to agree with variation rather than a fixed national benefits ceiling. After all, that was the logic in his Autumn Statement (29th November 2011):

The Government will … ask independent Pay Review Bodies to consider how public sector pay can be made more responsive to local labour markets, to report by July 2012

Pay varied regionally, even parochially;

but

benefits fixed by national diktat, without regard to variation in living costs?

Arizona representative Gabrielle Giffords, who was shot in the head last year, to step down from US Congress

One goes to her House web-page and reads:

I have more work to do on my recovery, so to do what is best for Arizona I will step down this week. 

I’m getting better. Every day, my spirit is high. 

I will return and we will work together for Arizona and this great country. 

Giffords intends to go out on a high:

Before leaving office, Giffords will complete the “Congress On Your Corner” event that was interrupted last January when 22-year-old gunman Jared Loughner opened fire, killing six and wounding twelve.

Giffords will also attend Tuesday’s State of the Union address.

Both should be, will be sell-out events — and Obama won’t be the (only) star turn at either.

Which makes Kevin Connolly’s piece for the BBC all the more plangent.

The answer may be a lemon; but it’ll advise Malcolm’s choice of exotic fruits in the future.

Confessions:

1. Malcolm’s deck sports an olive tree. Much watering. No olives.

2. He even once grew a lemon tree from pips.
He felt very proud of that accomplishment.
It flowered, once.
He went away on holiday.
The automatic watering system failed, and the house-sitter wisely turned it off.
The lemon tree expired.

Sua culpa. Sua maxima culpa.

¶ articles with headline-questions to which the answer unfailingly a resounding “No!” [© John Rentoul at the Indy]

and

¶ that online “side-bar of shame” with pics of D-list celebrities not quite showing their all, in bikinis or suffering wardrobe malfunctions (suitably edited).

We expect higher things from the Torygraph, so let’s segue swiftly there.

Ah! The sports report! Should be PG-viewing!

Alas, beneath the header:

we get some seedy stuff.

¶ Item: the hot-link to:

Owl Mascot Kicked to Death by Soccer Player

Fortunately nothing to do with Sheffield Wednesday’s Ozzie, Baz or Ollie.

¶ Then, clearly in the sporting tradition, there’s this:

Woman Blows Up Factory Where Dad Died   Sky News

In which case, Sarah Griffiths did well to rid the King’s Lynn skyline of the tower from the Campbell’s Soup Factory (also deceased). Lynn (as a Norfolk lad by origin, Malcolm feels he knows the place well enough to be on surname terms) has a marvellous, if neglected core, and some of the finest unappreciated buildings in Britain — it’s the hinterland that depresses.

¶ Much in the Mail tradition, there’s stuff like:

Oooh … Auntie! How naughty!

¶ Very sporty, there’s the link to Chelsea supporters on the 4 pm train back from Norwich.

Yes, they’re chanting racist slogans again. This is, of course, the hang-over from John Terry’s nose-to-nose job with QPR’s Anton Ferdinand (and Chelsea about to go to Loftus Road in a Cup Tie). What really makes the grade here is to scan down that particular page to the “authorised” and “approved” comments, such as:

Makes one speculate on how much poison is needed for a comment to be redacted.

¶ And, if you’re really, really lucky …

From the “sports” pages, you’ll get a link to

Housemate ‘raped live on Brazilian Big Brother’

A housemate on Brazilian Big Brother was allegedly raped live on television in front of millions of viewers.

The Telegraph is anxious for us to know that justice was done, and seen to be done:

Daniel Echaniz has not been arrested or charged with any crime but was removed from the programme by producers for ‘gravely inadequate’ behaviour

This sports lark reminds Malcolm of the inspirational thought of O.J.Simpson, no less:

The day you take complete responsibility for yourself, the day you stop making any excuses, that’s the day you start to the top.