One of those things that never happens if you open up women's changing rooms to any man who wants to come inside has happened. Again.
https://t.co/B3CoQkqcNF
Across Britain right now, farmers are shearing their sheep, bagging up the wool, and burning it. Some bury it. Some leave it to rot in a corner of the field. The wool-burning has made the odd headline as a protest, but the truth is duller and sadder. The fleece is worth less than the diesel it would take to haul it to the depot.
The numbers are grim. In recent years a kilo of British wool has fetched somewhere between twenty and sixty pence, and hill breeds like Swaledale and Welsh Mountain sank as low as ten. A whole fleece off a mountain ewe might bring thirty pence. Shearing that same ewe costs the farmer around two pounds. One Lincolnshire farmer added it up out loud: over three pounds to shear and cart a single fleece to the depot, and twenty-six pence back. So she burns them. A great many do.
Here is the part that stings. The shearing still has to happen, every year, whatever the wool will fetch. A sheep left in full fleece overheats, struggles to move, and gets eaten alive by maggots. So the job carries on purely as welfare, a cost the farmer simply eats to spare the animal, with the wool itself going on the fire straight after.
And think about what this fibre once was. For centuries wool was the engine of the English economy, the country's greatest export and the crown's main source of tax. It raised the soaring wool churches of the Cotswolds. It turned merchants into princes. To this day, whoever presides over the House of Lords sits on the Woolsack, a literal cushion of wool, put there in the fourteenth century so nobody would forget where the nation's wealth began.
Prices have lifted off the floor this past year, the first real relief in a long while. It still does not cover the shears for a hill farmer. The fibre that built England now smoulders in a heap behind the barn, and almost nobody notices the smoke.
An example of media perpetuating Burnham’s shtick. Comparing his political opportunism to the 1930’s hunger marches is highly insulting to northern working communities. Never having had a real job, Andy has nothing in common with the Jarrow Crusade. He’s a performative chancer.
You'll struggle to find a more perfect paragraph to describe the current moment
"Labour doesn’t have a Keir Starmer problem. It has a Labour problem. It is organisationally and ideologically estranged from its working-class support base. Labour today is a deracinated, hollowed-out vehicle for the professional managerial class. The only politicians it can produce are different brands of the same technocratic, managerial product."
https://t.co/QIyYHWRBz2
The first picture shows Starmer's tweet when Henry Nowak suffered an appalling stabbing by a Sikh.
The second picture shows Starmer's tweet when Muslims in Edinburgh suffered an appalling stabbing by a white guy.
Two Tier Keir.
He cried for himself.
Not for Southport.
Or Southampton.
Or Belfast.
Or the rape gang victims.
Or all the other victims of policies he chose to continue or worsen.
Keir only decided to show a human emotion when he finally took the hint and resigned.
Narcissist.
Bus company Stagecoach are operating a fleet of 30 "100% Electric, 0% Emissions" buses in Devon.
They are ALL being charged using electricity generated by a diesel generator.
The signage on the side of EVERY one of these buses is absolute bullshit.
Just so you know.
When Angry Andy Burnham became Mayor of Manchester, he promised to end rough sleeping.
Rough sleeping in Manchester has now actually doubled.
Just so you know.