There is so much tosh for and against Brexit hitting the headlines that I was proposing a holiday from it all (hurrah).
But, regretfully, I have to comment on Tony Bianchi’s anti-Brexit comments.
Like so many ardent remainers, he picked out a few examples to support his argument, but completely ignored others which totally contradict them
Like so many ardent remainers, he picked out a few examples to support his argument, but completely ignored others which totally contradict them.
His claim that the leave lobby lied wears thin when compared to the daily diet of cliff-edge, end-of-the-world doom-mongering we endured from Messrs Cameron and Osborne – amongst many others.
As for the suggestion that a rerun of the referendum on the EU would reverse the decision ... well, my own impression is quite the opposite. Enough said.
In any event, for all Theresa May’s meanderings and Jean Claud Junckers juggling, it makes you wonder if all this political argy-bargy is worthwhile in light of Donald Trump and Kim Jong-un’s murderous game of brinkmanship.
If we’re not careful, there won’t be any markets left to argue over.
So, enough of all this, I’m going to talk about hens’ eggs – eating them, that is, not throwing them (as much as we might like to with regard to the above-mentioned).
With nary a feather in sight, the man-made chicken’s egg has arrived and, although researchers in Italy have spent 18 months to create the right consistency, shape and flavour, it is not clear whether they provide the tasty choice provided by the real thing.
Do they fry-up well, for example, and, if they do, can you achieve that deliciously crispy ring round the edge, I wonder, or is it all a rubbery duck?
Then, of course, there are boiled eggs. Do they pass the dip-finger test and can they match up to those of us eggsperts who can time a boiled egg to perfection without the aid of any man-made technology (except, of course, a timer and a saucepan of boiling water)?
And what about the satisfaction of cracking-open the hard but oh so delicate shell? I don’t even know if there is one – a shell that is.
It could be a soggy, rubbery, bouncy sort of thing, more suitable for a squash court than the dinner table.
What about the delicious alternative options, scrambled or omelette? And, as for flavour, is that a faint whiff of machine oil I detect?
So, sorry all you scientists at Udine University, you may have cracked it for the vegans, but I prefer the real things eggsactly as they are.
Finally, I have to admit I have never used Uber, the taxi app service. I wouldn’t know how and, besides, I’ve hardly used a taxi since my working days in London light years ago, so I speak with little or no knowledge on a subject which is causing such a brew haw in the media.
Having said that, given its apparent success – a 300,000 customer protest has been launched – it does seem heavy handed to end its licence so abruptly.
So many new ideas launched these days have teething problems, so why not give it a chance to be sorted? Or am I missing something?