Seven Days

THE utter misery of life in present-day Britain, chapter 16... to be precise, the hapless mother-of-four who is being forced to sell her house because of a cock-up by the Inland Revenue.

Apparently, she's been paid too much family credit and must now cough up. The woman has no money - so must settle the debt by making herself homeless.

One of the defining achievements of eight years of New Labour has been the rise and rise of faceless bureaucracies. Increasingly, it seems that once an individual becomes ensnared in the meshes of a public organisation then they can throw all hope out of the window.

I had a taste of this last year when a certain university lost my cheque for the £1,000 that was to pay for my youngest daughter's tuition fees.

In the end, the authorities caved in. But this was only after they were subjected to a week of my best repulsive behaviour. The answer is never to capitulate to the big corporations that now rule the world. Better to die with an offensive remark on your lips than a sweet nothing, on your knees.

Bishop won't have my vote

LET us now consider the recent pleadings by the Bishop of Worcester for prisoners to be given the vote. Bishop Peter Selby has a special interest in the welfare of prisoners and there is, of course, a long history of Christian philanthropy in this area. However, the world has moved on quite a bit since the days of Newgate and the Tyburn hanging tree.

When criminals are sent down these days, many of them are merely furthering their careers, courtesy of the British taxpayer.

The very notion of jailbirds debating the finer points of policy before exercising their democratic duties is, I feel, a tad wide-eyed.

That apart, there is also something I can't quite get my head around. Bearing in mind that Worcester is run by a High Church establishment - like all towns and cities across Britain - where does the Bishop fit into all this?

Just like Don

HAS anyone else noticed the similarity of Worcester Mayor Aubrey Tarbuck to Don Quixote author Miguel de Cervantes?

This year marks the 400th anniversary of Cervantes' classic and it can be no coincidence that the Faithful City's first person bears such a likeness.

Of course, the fictional don tilted at windmills. Councillor Tarbuck would never do that - not when there's the completion of the city's orbital bypass to bang on about.

It's three cheers for Lord Horatio

IT seems incredible that a mere two centuries separate us from the Battle of Trafalgar. Just imagine how it was 200 years ago yesterday, October 21, 1805. There was a great sea fight raging just south of Cadiz and England's favourite hero lay mortally wounded.

But it would be several weeks before Worcester learnt that Nelson - who had visited a few years previously - was now pickled in a barrel of brandy bound for Old England.

It was a world of wooden ships, primitive ordnance and medical facilities calculated to make modern stomachs churn. I have always thought that being killed outright would have been preferable to being just wounded and subjected to the tender mercies of Doctor Sawbones in the cockpit of The Victory.

Or anywhere else, for that matter.

I would love to be able to claim an ancestor at the Battle of Trafalgar, but, in all honesty, cannot do so. The best I can offer is a great-great-great grandfather who was with Wellington at Waterloo. I must therefore be patient until 2015 when - sad anorak that I am - I will make my way to Quatre Bras and La Haye Sainte. Nelson's Navy, like the Army of the Iron Duke, drew on the dregs of society to man the guns, unfurl the sails and fire those muskets when the time came. The incentive was rum, the lash and the occasional sodomy - although the latter was actually a hanging offence.

It was a form of early welfare state and social control all mixed into one. The reason why Worcester's streets were probably devoid of ruffians during the Napoleonic Wars was because they had all been press-ganged and enlisted into the Navy or Army. Such an experience was probably the making of them or led to an early grave, either at sea or somewhere in Spain.

The next time you see a gaggle of swearing, belching Herberts in the Cathedral gardens or riverbank, consider their future 200 years ago. They would either be crouched low, sweating with terror on the gundecks or standing motionless in a thin, red line waiting for Marshal Soult's cuirassiers to come within range of their Brown Bess muskets.

Look to your front - and mark your target when it comes!

HAS CONKERING BEEN CONQUERED BY COMPUTERS?

PILES of conkers litter the ground. But where are all the small boys who should be gathering this bounty of the horse chestnut tree? Time was when lads aged from eight to 80 could be seen furiously scooping up those highly polished brown jewels. Mine's a fifteen-er ... that's nothing, mine's a twentier. Yes, but you've soaked yours in vinegar! So what has happened to the noble art of conkering? I blame computers - they've ruined everything.