Words.

We use them every day without giving them much thought.

We write them in letters. We tap them into emails. We send them across the world in seconds on a telephone. We use words to tell somebody we love them. We use them to say we are sorry. We use them to explain, persuade, comfort, warn, remember and sometimes simply to have a bloody good laugh.

Words matter. 

We wrote about that recently when we looked at the old-fashioned letter and what we lost when we exchanged carefully chosen sentences for hurried messages and little blue ticks.

But there is another side to words that is becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Words can be turned into knives. Not because the words themselves are sharp. Because somebody decides to sharpen them.

Take the word primitive.....

As our countries struggle under the weight of wokeism, ideological conformity and the relentless erosion of the values upon which our societies were built, who else is looking for a leader willing to fight back? How often today do we need a bulldog and, instead, get a lapdog nipping at our heels? 

Throughout history, when free people have found themselves confronted by oppression, there has usually come a moment when someone has stood up and said what others were thinking but were afraid to say.

Not because that one person possessed some magical power to save a nation.

But because leadership gives courage a voice.

Eighty-six years ago, Britain found such a voice.

" Upon this battle depends the survival of Christian civilisation. Upon it depends our own .... life, and the long continuity of our institutions..... The whole fury and might of the enemy must very soon be turned on us. .... But if we fail, then the whole world will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties..... men will still say, "This was their finest hour." - from Winston Churchill ( excerpt) 

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

In an age of glowing screens and fleeting texts, something precious has quietly slipped away: the letter.

Once, entire lives were poured into envelopes - love confessions, battlefield farewells, business dreams, simple reassurances. Letters carried permanence, patience, and poetry.

Today we trade that depth for speed: a thumbs-up instead of a paragraph, a “u ok?” instead of pages of care.

At what cost?

Our reliance on mobile phones has grown, and with it our vulnerability.

I watched a video of a man whose phone had been confiscated by police. For those hours, he said, his entire life was stolen: banking, email, contacts, everything.

How does a person become so dependent on one device that, without it, he is financially, emotionally, and socially stranded?

We did not only trade poetry for convenience.

We traded a message for a tracking device that also happens to send messages.

Verification codes, cloud backups, and the quiet fact of being locatable have become the price of ordinary life.

That is what sent me back to the lost art of letter writing.

As young folk, didn't some of us feel like rebels without a cause? 

I am 71. In my era, some of us chose to follow Greenpeace. Others chose anti Vietnam war. Still others embraced the feminist ideology and some the allure of socialism and communism. For myself, I never really embraced a cause. I was too busy enjoying life. But I was always a bit of a black sheep. 

Terribly stubborn. Opinionated and very determined in my views on what was black or white or right from wrong. Poor Redhead still tries to rein me in but alas, she hasn't been successful thus far. At 94, you would think she would give up trying, but she tells me " I am still your mother. " 

Bugger. She is right of course but in all fairness, I do attribute good parenting to the fact that she now has three geriatric offspring who tend to be a pain in her arse because we won't do as we are told. Let me explain. 

There’s Meat on the Bone

A Ratty News Investigation

By Roderick “Whiskers” McNibble
Chief Investigative Correspondent, Ratty News

It began with the Great Dog-Fence Summit.

Two dogs.  One fence.  One bone. A great deal of barking.

And one Red Dog who looked at the whole performance, walked around the fence, and went about her business.

That reminded me of a nursery rhyme.

Knick-knack, Paddy-whack, give a dog a bone.