I will be voting to stay in the EU and here are some reasons why...

On a message board I was part of a discussion about the upcoming EU referendum that spilled out of a person explaining why he voted UKIP. His reason was that "I think national sovereignty is the defining issue of our generation."

I asked him why. I had to ask him several times before he came out with "I don't like them telling us what to do." Or in other words, I don't like being told what to do by foreigners. Apparently it's OK to be told what to do by people who were born or who live in this country and definitely don't have your best interests at heart unless you're a millionaire or a member of the Eton old boys network, because at least they aren't foreign!

Putting aside the basic racism of that point of view for one moment, does it really make sense? The UK is one of the powerhouse economies of Europe. It's got a lot of people and it should have a lot of say and a lot of sway in Europe as a result. I can see tiny countries like Belgium and Denmark deciding they don't want to be pushed around any more, but the UK is big enough to be among the big hitters. The fact that we don't feel we are is more to do with the ineptitude of our leaders than anything else.

Let's be honest if we put Merkel up against Cameron, only a true-blue rosetted moron would seriously bet against Merkel. I'd question whether Cameron could hold his own against any premier from one of the big European countries, and most of the smaller ones. He's a political lightweight and that's why the UK has floundered in Europe in the five or so years he's been in charge.

In fact, the only reason a referendum is in the offing is because Cameron lacked faith in himself. It was a sop to the euro-sceptic Tories to stop them defecting to UKIP and everyone thought the parliament was heading towards coalition government again. No way Cameron would ally with UKIP if they returned any MPs (which in the end they effectively didn't, because their one MP was a Tory who switched sides in a bacon-saving move), and any other party wouldn't want a referendum, so Cameron knew it was a promise he would never have to follow up on. Unless the unthinkable happened and he won an outright majority. Oops.

Well, sometimes if you don't back your own horse in the race you end up looking like a chump.

Cameron doesn't want a 'Brexit'. (Yes, the British Exit has it's own bastardised nickname now.) Of course he doesn't. It would be a disaster for the main financiers of the Conservative party and the home counties core voting districts. Economically, the uncertainty would damage the stock market, trading agreements would be torn up and we would no longer be a key player in a very good team. We would be one against many and we would be owned by China within a generation - their trading post on the edge of Europe, a bit like we used to use Hong Kong.

But the economic meltdown that would ensue following a Brexit and the destruction of the stock market aren't really my reasons for staying in the EU. I'm not a fan of the money-making-money empire of Mammon so I won't mourn its passing, even if it's a hard time to live through.

My reasons are simpler. Here's one: we haven't had a major war in Western Europe for over seventy years now. I think the EU has played some part in that. When you are sitting down working out ways to work more closely together, there is less likelihood of people gunning up and prepping for war.

Seventy years war-free on our continent is pretty much unheard of and we have all reaped the benefit. We are the richest generation ever with luxuries and technology which our forefathers could only dream of. Yes, that has made us hated in the parts of the world we could describe as the 'have nots', which brings it's own ethical considerations into play, but most people in the UK have a standard of living that would be unheard of in previous generations. When you aren't spending money on bombs and then using those bombs to blow things up, you can achieve a great deal as a group of countries.

I think that's a good reason to stay in the EU.

Then there is the way money is spent. I know it makes no sense for the UK to contribute to European funds and then claim the money back to spend in poor areas, just like it makes no sense to take tax off poor working people and then pay them benefits to limit the impact of poverty. But that process of Euro funding has really helped in parts of the UK that I call 'not-London'.

Just about every major infrastructure project in South Wales - from fast, safe roads to the lovely Cardiff Bay developments to the new Swansea Marina - has been funded by European money. Yes, it's our money they are giving back to us, but that's the point, it's coming back to us. London governments are very good at spending money in London and even when they don't, it's money spent in the provinces to benefit London (HS2 anyone?).

The EU has made the redistribution of wealth easier and better. Do we think a London government would have bothered revitalising Cardiff Bay? No, of course not. They were happy to hoover up the cash when the valleys were exporting coal by the shipload, but it was Euro money and Euro laws that cleaned up the toxic effects of mining and helped turn Cardiff into the snazzy happening place it is today. And the same is true of many regional cities in England.

And then there's the third thing, the real big reason. Being part of the EU protects us from extremist governments back home. This is the plus side of 'them' telling 'us' what to do. It prevents 'us' from doing something stupid by voting for an evil government.

I've been reading my Grandad's memoir recently and he wrote about how he was caned at school for speaking Welsh. This was less than a century ago, when the British government was still pursuing an educational policy that aimed to eradicate the Welsh language. It worked in my family. My Grandad stopped speaking Welsh and that was lost.

No EU government could do that now. It would be considered a breach of a child's human rights to beat them for not speaking the 'correct' language. I don't really think a UK government would want to pursue a policy of suppression, but let's say they did. Inside the EU, they can't. Outside the EU they can.

We have to careful with politicians. We know they say one thing to get elected then do another when they are. Cameron and his cronies never mentioned austerity in the run up to 2010. One of Cameron's big promises was 'No top down reorganisations of the NHS'. That was nixed just a year after entering coalition government.

So politicians lie. They tell half-truths or no-truths and they get elected and then they can do what they want. Unless there are checks. Unless there are balances. The EU is one of the best checks and balances we have and I don't want to lose that. I don't want to be at the mercy of a Westminster government as the highest authority in the land, just in case...

So there's three reasons:

1. it's a check on wanton destruction through war, 
2. it redistributes some of the wealth to where it is really needed, 
3. and it puts limits on our national government, which is a good thing if you really think about it.

On the other side there is a nebulous 'I don't like foreigners telling me what to say' proto-racism that calls itself a desire for 'national sovereignty'. But patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel. I would like the UK to be bigger, better, more inclusive and safer - I think that's a patriotic statement - and I think that would happen inside the EU rather than outside it.

Incidentally, if you disagree with me you can say so. If you hate the EU, you can say so. You have complete freedom of speech. Do you know why? Well, it's not a British law that gives you freedom of speech. It's because you are in the EU.

And so to a last question. The guy on the message board kept complaining that no one gave reasons to stay in the EU, except I did and he didn't acknowledge them or reply to them. He also didn't answer my other questions, which included this: What law, if any, passed by the EU has directly harmed or damaged you?

I have yet to hear anyone from the 'Brexit' campaign actually answer that.

A personal view of the recently departed decade

I read a friend’s blog where she listed her personal decade – ‘what the noughties meant for me’, and it got me thinking. Things have been very different at different times for me in the decade that has just gone. I am definitely a very different person. So, it’s interesting to look back and see what has shaped me. Here’s a few of them.

Minimum Wage Hell (2001-2003)
Immediately after uni I set up a business with my wife Cathy, but way back in 2001 I got my first job where I worked for someone else: at UCI Cinemas. As a stopgap job it lasted longer than I expected. It was frustrating and boring, but occasionally brilliant. I learned first-hand that a far higher percentage of the general public are complete idiots than you would have thought. I made some great friends there, collected a fund of amusing stories, and did my final shift two years to the day I joined. UCI is now an Odeon, so this part of my life can never be repeated, really. (Which I’m not sad about.)

Cardiff Vineyard (2003-2006)
Although my Vineyard experience slowly morphed into more painful memories, I still remember the excitement of being in a small but vibrant ‘faith community’. Again, friends I made there have stuck with me. The generosity shown by some people still challenges me in what I do with life. And one Cardiff Vineyard phrase that has been hugely influential on my subsequent faith walk is ‘Let your heart be broken by the things that break the heart of God’. And of course, if I hadn’t been going to Vineyard I would probably never have replied for my current job…

Current Job (2003-current)
I’ve made it a policy to never mention the current place I work by name on my blog, because sometimes I talk about it in less than flattering terms. I work for a large charity and if you think that means it’s all fun and games, then just you try it!

But genuinely, there have been times here when I have felt in the right place at the right time. Doing what I do has opened up a whole ton of opportunities. I have progressed as a writer and earned recognition and payment for my x-trem skillz outside of work too. Which is useful, because working for a charity doesn’t mean I’m earning top-dollar, if you get my drift.

California (2004)
Our road trip round Southern California remains one of the highlights of mine and Cathy’s life together. The star-strewn skies of Death Valley reawakened a spirituality in me that I hadn’t even realised had atrophied. I learned so much about myself in just two days in the desert – particularly that when it comes down to it I like being hundreds of miles away from other human beings – that I would class it as one of my favourite spots on Earth.

Depression (2005)
I’ve always been of a melancholic bent, but in 2005 I got into a pretty bad spiral of negative thoughts that culminated in suicidal thoughts. It’s hard to describe depression without sounding melodramatic, but it’s a horrible cycle of thinking and you just can’t get it out of your head. Fortunately, I had a very good doctor, very good friends, supportive family. And Prozac.

Glenwood (2006-current)
My downswing into depression coincided with problems in Cardiff Vineyard that eventually led to the church ceasing to exist in 2006. At about the same time Brian McLaren did a day conference at Glenwood Church so I went along to hear him speak. He was awesome, and I encouraged Cathy and friends Ian and Viv to come along and hear him at the Sunday service.

They did and we all liked the service, so we decided to try a ‘normal Sunday’ and went the next week. However, the next week was the end of ’Holiday Club’ and was themed on an ‘Oscars night’. We enjoyed the service though and decided to come back and try a ‘normal Sunday’. But the next Sunday was something else again, so we decided to come back and try a… well you get the idea.

Eventually we realised (after about six Sundays) that ‘normal’ isn’t something that Glenwood does very often. But by then we’d been recruited by a friend to a new ‘life group’ and we were getting settled in. So we stayed. In Autumn 2007 I started helping out with the youth (who I now refer to as ‘my’ youth).

Significant Loss (2002, 2006, 2009)
We have faced some significant bereavements in the noughties. Back in 2002 Cathy’s Dad died as a result of an infection he picked up in Torbay Hospital. The subsequent inquest, as hospital staff covered their backs and tried to shirk responsibility, was extremely upsetting. I wouldn’t wish having to attend an inquest on anyone.

In 2006, Cathy’s Granny P (her mum’s mum) died. This time it was less of a shock but still very hard. I’d always had a good relationship with her and still miss her. Then last year my Granddad died after being incapacitated by a stroke for the best part of a year. I still can’t adequately explain how much that loss has affected me, because I simply don’t know. Occasionally I am ambushed by a memory or an overheard conversation and I’m reminded of him and I feel a weight on my heart.

Utah (2008)
My final staging point for the decade is in the summer of 2008, although, of course, plenty of things happened after it. But Utah marks a significant point for me because a) it was another amazing road trip, and b) I came off Prozac. I have been drug-free now for a year and a half, and despite last year’s bereavement, and some incredible stress at work and two winters, I have not gone mad or returned to the suicide-contemplating depressed state.

I think it was in Moab, driving next to the Green River down the Potash Road to look at ancient rock carvings that I suddenly realised I could see sunlight properly and joyfully for the first time in years. The serotonin-inhibiting drugs were washing out of my system, and the world was alive in colour and light. That memory is one of several from that trip that are etched on my brain. Utah has become my happy place because it’s there that I was able to experience happiness again unaided.

So that’s it for the noughties. Roll on 2020.

Pressure produces diamonds

Apparently. (It also breaks continental plates.)

It hasn't been an easy month or so. Cath has been ill and off work. On Tuesday the doctor told her that (and this is a paraphrase, but it's Cathy's summary) 'you're broken and I don't know how to fix you.'

Two of my friends experienced an unexpected bereavement when a pregnancy fell short.

Work hasn't been easy. Managerial caution at the highest level (some of it justifiable) has pushed one of my already-fragile colleagues almost over the edge. I have my own issues with another person who seems to have a fantastic knack for making easy jobs much, much harder than they should be, and a definite talent for creating work for other people. Unfortunately I am other people.

I still get surprised by reminders of Grandad when I least expect it. Occasionally I am ambushed by grief.

But there have been some good things shining through like sun rays in a cloudy sky.

Last week on my birthday I saw all three members of my immediate family. And it was sunny, so we went to Rest Bay and breathed in sea air and saw starfish in the rock pools.

The dodgy bit of our roof is finally - after months of stress - fixed!

Along with all the other staff I got given a Cadbury's Creme Egg in work from our CEO for Easter. Sometimes it's the littlest gestures that mean the most.

I am now working on helping with two more books. I may be involved in four books getting published this year now.

My eBay purchase of a box of 100 Padres baseball cards arrived, and I've been geekily cataloguing them. Happy Excel Spreadsheet fun!

A final story about Grandad (for now)

I managed to give my tribute to Grandad yesterday. This was the last story I told...

And I also learned from Grandad that the greatest gift you can give the people you love is the time you spend with them.

I’d like to end with one story, which has been told and retold in our family so often that it has passed from tale to fable to legend. But it’s still worth hearing, and maybe you won’t have heard this.

When Grandma and Grandad used to come and visit us in Shrewsbury when Dave and I weren’t little, but were littler that we are today, we would always greet Grandad with the same question: ‘Did you bring your old shoes, Grandad?’

I realise that may sound like a bit of an odd question for kids to ask. But the reason we asked it was this – if Grandad had brought his old shoes that meant he was going to be able to come across the road with us to the football pitches and play football. (Bear in mind he was probably in his late sixties at that point, but still – playing football with Grandad was something we really looked forward to.)

On one occasion Grandma and Grandad arrived and we eagerly asked the question: ‘Did you bring your old shoes, Grandad?’ And he hadn’t. I don’t think me and Dave were very good at hiding our disappointment, so even though he hadn’t brought his old shoes to wear, he agreed to come across the road with us to the field and play.

So, we were playing football. And Grandad swung his leg back to really leather the ball and he connected with it beautifully. But there was a really loud ‘pop’ and we wondered what had happened. The upper part of his shoe had completely disconnected from the sole, which was flapping underneath. That kind of curtailed our game, even though as the master fixer-upper he was able to loop the lace underneath and tie the shoe together.

Grandma wasn’t very impressed when we got home. Especially as Grandad then had to wear his jerry-rigged shoes to church the following day. He wasn’t embarrassed, although if I remember Grandma felt mortified. And, later we used to laugh about it. ‘It was a good game we had though,' he said. ‘Up until that point.’

If you can permit me a moment of indulgence I’d like to add something to that story. I know Grandad had a faith and it’s a faith I share. And part of that faith is the hope and the certainty that this moment in time, this parting, is not forever. I know I will see him again and he will see me, and we will recognise each other. I don’t know when that will be, but I know that compared to the length of history, it will be in quite a short time.

And in my mind’s eye I imagine that meeting. And I can almost imagine him standing there, holding a slightly lumpy bag, and smiling his slightly cheeky smile. And I’ll look at him. And I’ll look at the bag.

And I’ll ask ‘Did you bring your old shoes, Grandad?’

And I dearly hope he says yes.

Dignity

Dave and I saw our first dead body today. It was Grandad lying in a coffin in a chapel of rest. We didn't know whether to go, but we both agreed afterwards that we're glad we did.

It was strange because he looked so well, as if he would wake up any time now and smile when he saw us. And at the same time it hammered home to me the fact that he had gone, and this man who has been a fixture in my life for so long is now not going to be around and somehow I have to get used to that and live on without him. I cried. And Sarah my foster-sister, who I was supposed to be making sure was alright, gave me tissues and patted my arm until I was okay again.

And he lay there with no effects of the stroke visible. He was in a suit, looking dapper as he always did on smart occasions. He looked younger than he did when I saw him last. And in death he looked dignified, which he couldn't in the hospital.

And I think that's why I'm glad I went to see him, because the illness which robbed him of so much had been defeated. And he looked like he could wake up at any time.

And in a real sense, in the world that's really real, I know he already has.

Car trouble isn't always trouble

We were driving up to Shrewsbury yesterday and just as we reached Pontypool the exhaust decided to break. After an RAC man gave us the all-clear we drove on, sounding like rude boys in a done up car, to Abergavenny. At Kwik-Fit we were told we could go back to the depot in Newport where they had the part. 'Forget that' we thought, and carried on to Shrewsbury, roaring through the countryside like city hoons on a day trip to ruralshire.

After eventually arriving in Shrewsbury I booked my car in with the family mechanic for Monday morning. Today I borrowed the parental Peugeot to drive over to Wrexham to see my Grandma. I wasn't even half way there, when the 'STOP' light came on on the dashboard, the temp guage was banging the side beyond the red, and there was blue smoke trailing from the exhaust.

Another RAC-man, who appeared deceptively young but had done six years fixing motors in the army, arrived and diagnosed that the water pipe had blown and the engine was dry. A jury-rigged fix later and we wended our way carefully back to Shrewsbury (Mum and Dad had driven to the rescue too), stopping for pancakes at a Little Chef first.

On reflection, this was a load of hassle on a weekend I could have done without it. But on the other hand, this could have happened on Tuesday when we were driving over to my Grandad's funeral. And it turned out my Grandma had forgotten I was coming and had gone out for the day anyway, so if I'd made it to Wrexham it would have been a wasted trip. So, the hassle served a purpose, and if it was going to happen it was good that it happened then.

Sad but not sad; shocked but not shocked

It turns out that the next time I see Grandad will be in the next world. I got the phone call this morning from Dad before I set out to work.

I'm still processing it really. Everything seems a bit still and numb. I feel very calm.

We were expecting this to happen, yet it still feels slightly unexpected. I feel relieved for him, that he has been released from a suspended death. I know where he is now, and who he is with, and I am utterly confident I will see him again. And yet, this is a sad day for me. It's the kind of sadness you get when you hug a friend goodbye at the station, or get in the car and leave at the end of the weekend with your folks. It's the sadness of separation for an indefinite time.

In this world, or the next

I went to see my Grandad on Saturday, braving the predictions of dire weather (which never materialised) and accompanied by my loving wife (and handy potential co-shoveller if we got stuck in snow).

Since Grandad had a stroke last year he has been in and out of hospital. It's hard to see him so reduced and rendered immobile, when he had always been so healthy and such a 'potterer'. He didn't like sitting still and would always find something to do in the kitchen, the garden, the shed.

Basically he's dying. And healthcare being what it is, a process which would have taken a few days a century ago has stretched out for nearly a year. I have no doubt of where he is going. Part of me wishes he was there already, because seeing him in that hospital bed slowly robs me of my memories of him as he was.

But, you know, my Grandma says that she feels that Grandad has told her that he loves her more often since the stroke, than in all their years together - it was their 64th wedding anniversary this year. So maybe there is some point to that drawn out goodbye.

And I've been able to tell him that I love him too. Because we men are crap at doing that unless it looks like someone is heading Home. I've had the chance to tell him how much I appreciate all the things he's done for me; all the things he's done for the family. How his work ethic and self-sufficiency inspired me; how grateful I am that he gave up six years in the prime of his life to serve in the armed services and protect this country from tyranny and horror, by playing his small background part, for no other reason than it was the right thing to do.

And on Saturday I was able to say again that I loved him. I wanted to tell him that whatever happens I know I'll see him again soon. And if it wasn't in this life, then he should know I'd never forget him until I saw him again. But I couldn't speak past the lump in my throat, so I gripped his good hand tightly and muttered a prayer, kissed him on the forehead and left.

Working class zero

Went to Starbucks this morning to meet someone. When I got back, Cathy asked me what I'd had.

"Grande Latte with an extra shot of expresso," I said. "Do I sound like a class traitor saying that?"

"Yes," she said encouragingly, "you do."

Class is a funny thing. My parents are very aware of their 'status'. They came from working class backgrounds and both went to university when it was the preserve of the well-off. I don't know whether they're consciously aware of it, but the way they talk about us being a 'doctor's family' shows a bit of insecurity about their status, which I'm sure is linked to being made to feel slightly inferior at university.

A comedy example, which has gone down in the annals of our family is when we were eating toegther once and mum said in all seriousness: "I'm not sure many doctor's families eat meals based around the humble sausage." The 'humble sausage' has entered our family vernacular now, if the conversation is veering towards being classist.

I guess I'm just lucky that for my generation the class system has slowly faded. True there is still a stigma attached to coming from certain places, and it's a tremendous advantage to have a good education, but generally there are more opportunities to advance on merit, rather than on who your father was.

But there is still a division between the working poor and the working wealthy. It's a different type of work for a start. I'm acutely aware, living where I do and mixing with the people I mix with, that my job is indoors and involves no heavy lifting. And we're relatively comfortable and secure, even in worrying economic times like this. But I have done my stint in Minimum Wage Hell and I can tell you that those who are stuck there aren't having it easy.

The thing is, with the exception of going to football matches before that became an acceptable thing in polite society, we were a very middle class family when I grew up. You can tell that by the expectations of my parents that me and my brother would both go to university, and in fact, that was what we both planned to do from very early on.

I can't deny my middle class upbringing, and nor would I want to. That's me and I can't help that. But I have always recognised my ancestral roots among the working class. My one grandad was a baker. My other was a miner, then a rail ganger. Both my grandmas worked in retail. I think there's a certain dignity in that - working hard to provide for your family; to see them take advantage of the opportunities offered to them as the universities opened up to the working class.

I guess my deep antagonism (hatred?) for Tony Blair stems from my deep-rooted conviction that in many respects he was a class traitor. True, he wasn't from a working-class background as far as I can tell, but those who supported him were. The unions, and the long-time Labour voters who stuck with his party when it was suicidally unelectable, have been ill-served by a Labour government.

True there have been more working class students than ever before, but their advantages have been cancelled out by apalling levels of student debt. And those families where a baker or a rail ganger are trying to put bread on the table and shoes on their children's feet, seem to be struggling to make ends meet, pay the rent or mortgage, and keep a car on the road. There is now a minimum wage, but we still have to have a tax credit system and benefits for working families, so obviously the minimum wage is below the minimum levels families need.

Blair might not have betrayed his own class (the middle class) to the same extent. But the people who looked to him as a saviour of the working man have discovered he wasn't a messiah after all. If Labour get horrifically trounced at the next election, and the odds are they will, then frankly the only people they will be able to blame are themselves. When you betray people's trust, you can't be surprised when they don't trust you any more.

Kung Fu Panda on IMAX

If you haven't see a trailer for this latest animation from Dreamworks, it's about a Panda who dreams of becoming as a Kung Fu master, which you've got to admit is a funny premise. Add in the vocal talents of Jack Black as Po the Panda and the film sounds like it's going to be good.

In fact, it's more than good. It's brilliant. The animation is superb, and being in a place where they have an IMAX cinema, we took the opportunity to watch it on IMAX, which made the animation even better. The characters do actually have some character, partly because of the impressive acting talent bringing them to life - Dustin Hoffman particularly stands out as the rodent-type thing who trains Po (he might be a red panda, or some kind of squirrel, I'm not sure).

I'm not going to spoil the story by explaining it for you beyond what I've already said. There's a bad guy, and an interesting moral about the 'secret ingredient' of success. But really you have to go see it.

It has been noted before, by many people, that I bear a resemblance to Jack Black. (This was especially true a couple of years ago when Shallow Hal came out). Unfortunately, it would seem the resemblance includes when Jack Black is a cartoon panda, because Cathy reckons I still looked like him. Bizarrely there was a wise old turtle character who really reminded me of my Grandad, especially when he smiled and his wrinkles all bunched up.

So, if you go see it - let me know if you think I do actually look like Po. I'd appreciate your opinion.

Jongudmund's rating: 10/10

And finally, to end this review on a note to sicken British-based readers of this blog, going to see an IMAX film in America cost us less than going to see a regular film back home...

Get 'em while they're young

Up in Shrubbery today after celebrating Grandad's 90th yesterday in Wrexham. We travelled through Bwlchgwyn which claims to be the highest village in Wales. Ironically both me and Dad disputed that fact quite independently from each other, which apparently shows that I am indeed doing what everyone jokes that I'm doing and turning into him. (There's worse fates.)

One personality trait my Dad has that I definitely have inherited is a tendency to hoard stuff. But that can be quite interesting such as when he discovered the membership cards that Dave and I had as "founder members of the family stand" at Shrewsbury Town FC. (Don't ask!)

I don't quite know why they wanted a photo of me on the card, but here it is, twenty-two seasons on. It would seem that I started with the "sullen teen" posing quite early on in life...