Yesterday the Labour Party Conference began. Possibly Kier Starmer’s last one as the leader. Because, according to reports, either Andy Burnham will soon be taking over the leadership, or we’ll just go straight to a General Election which Nigel Farage will win with a majority of 100 seats. So really, Kier might as well go home. Because no-one really wants to hear his ‘fighting for the soul of the nation’ shit, particularly a week after he sold our soul to a bunch of murderous terrorists in Gaza to try and get a life-line of support from within his party. But like a list of MPs before him, he’s running scared of a man who’s never held any power. But a man, in Farage, who speaks the language Starmer needs subtitles for. The language of ‘the people’. David Cameron ran scared from Nigel and now it’s Kier’s turn. Whereas Andy Burnham is a different kettle of traitorous ambition altogether. The full-time professional Northerner and part-time mayor of Manchester is a long way off stealing the leadership of the party. First he needs to resign as mayor, then he needs to win a bye-election. Somewhere. Anywhere. So he can become an MP. Then he needs to force a leadership campaign and finally, win it. By which time, you’d like to think, even his own party would realise what a back-stabbing little shit the man really is. You’d like to think. So, after Rachel Reeves has stripped the population of every material asset it used to possess, we’ll have to see what the ‘soul of the nation’ looks like, devoid from everything but the shirt on its collective back. Unless she decides to tax that too. Its all a bit ‘Jesus’ really.

And this was different. Sunday morning, at the crack of 9.30 (well ya gotta fucking get there), we were on the good ship Wakefield, sailing from Tower Pier.

Well who gives a shit. Even, who gives a ship. But I do, that’s who. Because the ship in question is a steam ship. With pistons as big as your lounge and chimneys which work and paddles on the sides and… lots of other things which only steam ships do. We sailed East. Through Tower Bridge (today’s pic), which opened up for us. That was worth the price of admission on its own. The thought of all those South Londoners being held up trying to cross to the North, frustrated in the traffic jam waiting for a bunch of old people (its a nostalgia thing; no-one on the boat was under 60; the young’uns hadn’t woken up yet) to wave at them as they steamed past. But then, after the beauty of the Tower, the elegance of the Shard, a few other good bits, you get to the shit bit of the River that no-one ever sees. Abbeywood. Barking Dock. Dagenham. Tilbury docks. Ok, the Dartford bridge is spectacular, but the rest, other than maybe Gravesend, was suitably industrial or vacant.

It took about 3.5 hours to get to Southend. We docked at the end of the pier (England’s longest, possibly the world’s longest) and walked the mile onto ‘land’. Unfortunately it was deepest Essex land, though what do you expect down the Thames? Tierra del Fuego?? I haven’t been to Southend since about 1969 but it hasn’t changed. Kiss-me-quick hats, dodgy ice creams and, obviously, fish’n’chips. Which we duly ate. Then went to the train station to come back and… no trains at Southend today; we’ll put you on a bus instead. Of course you will, because you’ve stopped MY train!!! That took us to Thorpe Bay where we duly got trained up and back to Fenchurch Street. A great day. Fun. And very little rain!

Happy Monday

A xxxx