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A Not So Shaggy Dog Story

by British Awakening – 25 Jun 2019

Followers of my rants will know I am passionate about the flora and fauna of our natural environment so it is fitting that my latest contribution features an animal, more specifically a dog, a lost one, called Picky.

Last Sunday afternoon as I watched India thumping Pakistan at cricket on TV there was a bit of a commotion outside my house with a couple of neighbours. No curtain twitcher am I – so I went straight out to find out what was going on quickly to learn that my neighbours had found a lost dog. Asking the blindingly obvious (I’m as sharp as a pin in these sort of situations) I asked if there was a number on its dog tag and had they called it? Of course they had, they even knew the dog was called Picky but sadly the number on the tag was dead.

Being a dog lover and all-round good egg, I offered to look after it until it could be re-united with its owner. Now it’s at times like these that the often maligned social media comes in handy, so I posted on the various neighbourhood networks in Ealing a picture of Picky asking if anyone knew the dog and its owner. In the meantime, my neighbours tried to make contact with a local refuge in case we could not locate the owner.

The rain now set in at Old Trafford, so the cricket was stopped, and at this point I had a brainwave, why not see if Picky knows where he lives and leads me there? Picky however saw this instead as an opportunity to take me around one of his favourite walks in the park but at least it gave me a chance to gather my thoughts. Of course! A Eureka moment! Dogs have a licence – call Ealing Police Station and notify them of the lost dog, simples. Or so it seemed. I knew not to call 999 as it was hardly an emergency, so I called the Police Station, over a dozen times but the call just died, there wasn’t even a connection. Returning home Picky and I tried the web site of the Metropolitan Police which seemed designed to ensure you didn’t report anything at all – unless it was an offensive Tweet on Twitter.

And this got me thinking, our taxes have not gone down in the past decade or so, yet we seem to be getting less and less for what our government shakes us down for. There are war zones that are safer than some parts of London and the only time any of us seem to see the Police is when they are either:

1. At your door trying to intimidate you because you said Islam isn’t very nice.


2. Dancing in a parade wearing nail varnish and a rainbow coloured wig.

You see as I walked Picky around the park, a park where children play, I walked past unpleasant men openly smoking cannabis (and God knows what) without any concern about the law or how an adult should conduct himself around young ones. I walked past rubbish mainly now collected by local volunteers, as the council does not seem able to do that any longer. Yet my council tax has not gone down, in fact the latest wheeze is to charge for parking where it used to be free (and thus pretend they have not put up tax). Ealing council does however seem to have a zeal for closing libraries – a zeal sadly lacking when it comes to looking after open spaces and this being Ealing the so called Queen of the Suburbs.

So this now seems to be the direction of travel, our governments fleece us for tax and fritter it away on anything and everything that is not in our interest, giving billions to NGOs and fake charities that have a sinister agenda and deliberately spending less and less on the things that improve or at least maintain the quality of our lives.

Pete North at the Leave Alliance has been banging on for ages that without political reform Brexit is almost pointless, and this view hardened like tempered steel in my mind. Pete is right – leaving the EU is not enough, we simply have to remove our current political class because if we don’t the neglect of our country and its people will continue and the legacy paid for in blood by our forefathers will be frittered away by a malign uncaring elite.

A shaggy dog story needs an ending. By early evening it looked like Picky was going to have to stay with me for the night until we could contact the dog refuge on Monday morning, so it being a reasonably nice evening Mr Picky and I headed off to the Fox for a sundowner. Half way through my pint my neighbour called me – she had contacted the owner who was on her way to me. Shortly after a tearful owner is re-united with Picky, a Romanian lady who explained the number on the dog tag was a Romanian mobile number. It was a nice moment to see the joy on her face and Picky once more at her owner’s side.

And then a final thought hit me, it was a Brexiteer and his network of friends and Brexiteers that helped bring this to a happy ending. So much for xenophobes, seems to me that the people of this country are a pretty awesome bunch governed by scum bags and the time is long over due to get rid of them. If we can unite a Romanian lady with her dog in hours, I am pretty sure we can fix the rest.

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