All certainty is a lie at this point. Only shouting loudly in the face of a loved one is acceptable now. It’s like deciding what to have for dinner at tea time, with a child shouting.
I am starting to get the distinct impression that I don’t enjoy comedy any more. And I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it.
National character cannot simply be a function of climatic conditions, but the two are linked. What would the Canadian character be without all that ice to muck about on?
The Independent Group have been met with a mixture of celebration and contempt: a perfect name for a British theme pub if ever there was one.
Well that’s a stupid title. It’s basically gibberish in Latin. I recognise some of it, but it’s just a jumble of bits of stuff.
The anger of the extremes – the most certain in the least tenable of views – are the ones who have put us in this position. I am sick of them.
“Yes or No” doesn’t tell anyone anything about what kind of “yes” or what kind of “no” any given voter wants.
We cannot extract that data, no matter how much we want to.