Don’t mention the war

With abject apologies to Fawlty Towers, there are times in this country when writing an opinion piece starts to feel less like journalism and more like trying to smuggle contraband through customs wrapped in cling film and plausible deniability.

What with Judges telling us that we can’t talk about That Event, and the law obligingly informing us that around now we must all make like mirrors and merely reflect the present moment without reference to anything that may have happened before breakfast, or may happen after that, the simple act of expressing an opinion has become an exercise in interpretative dance.

I am referring to ‘the day of reflection’ ahead of the elections. One has to tread carefully. Delicately. Subtly. The seduction of the Seven Veils has nothing on it. Hence, I merely invite readers to reflect upon the upcoming contest, consider where their loyalties lie, and prepare themselves accordingly.

And do this not by looking backwards and revisiting past events. Heaven forbid. We must not do that. We are talking about looking forward. About commitment. About choices yet to come.

In the upcoming World Cup, then, will you be flying the Cross of St George and intoning the immortal line “for England, Harry and the horse” (forgive the bastardisation of Shakespeare)?

Or will you be opting for “Daaaaaiii, forza ragazzi… peccato”?  No, wait. Scratch that. Italy did not qualify (again), which is becoming less a sporting disappointment and more a national tradition.

Back in the days when I was I M Beck, I used to get torrents of hate mail from supporters of our beloved northern neighbours whenever I dared poke fun at them.

Will people really wave the English flag this time around? Even though the tournament is being held in the Land of Trump, and therefore ought to be boycotted by all morally enlightened citizens?

But, hey, what did you think I was talking about?

No, no, don’t answer that. I cannot possibly hint at such matters. One loose adjective and before you know it, some humourless bureaucratic mechanism is creaking into motion while the boys and girls in blue start wondering whether my sarcasm requires official attention.

And speaking of looking backwards, what exactly did you imagine I meant by that?

I was talking about Eurovision, obviously. What else could it possibly have been?

That annual explosion of sequins, geopolitical voting blocs and aggressively emotional key changes, which, according to half the internet every year, should also be boycotted by all civilised nations for reasons too complicated and contradictory to summarise without requiring a UN peacekeeping force.

I myself once landed in rather warm water over Eurovision many moons ago after making a deeply unfortunate joke born partly of pig ignorance and partly of not yet understanding that Twitter — or X, or whatever Elon Musk calls the digital sewage lagoon this week — was designed specifically to ensure that every badly phrased comment follows you forever like a cursed Victorian child.

But we are absolutely not allowed to look back over the past now, are we? We can only reflect on the consequences of our choices around now; we can’t write about them.

Which is a pity, really. Because if there is one thing this country excels at, it is demanding that everybody forget yesterday while simultaneously weaponising it against each other every five minutes.  Still. Best not say too much.

Reflect on the future. Commit wisely. Fly whichever flag you prefer.

Just be very careful, nobody mistakes it for a political opinion or an attempt to defy the law, and talk about what everyone is talking about anyway.