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Golly

A quick post before I fly off to the UK to meet my newest grand-daughter, now four days old and still without a name.

She has arrived just as England attains a new level of politically correct idiocy in what I’ll call the Golliwog Incident.

Any Brit over the age of 50 has a golliwog in their past. They were a much-loved soft toy, colourful, smiley, and bearing no resemblance to any real human being. Robertsons, the makers of mighty fine marmalade, used to offer a little enamel golliwog lapel pin if you saved enough labels from their jars. I truly wish I’d kept mine so I could now wear it in visible support of Carol Thatcher.

Carol, daughter of the Iron Lady, is a popular TV journalist in the UK but this week she fell foul of the PC police having been overheard, in a private conversation, describing someone as having hair like a golliwog. She was given the chance to apologize but I’m glad to read she declined and so has been dropped by the BBC. This is in itself quite an honour. Another broadcaster, Jonathan Ross, as famous for his 7-figure salary as he is for his foul mouth, has twice recently failed to get sacked by the BBC, though God knows he’s done his very best to offend.

Anyway, le tout Angleterre is now talking about golliwogs and I for one am thrilled to see that Amazon UK are still selling a golliwog jigsaw puzzle which I’m going to rush to order before golliwogs face extinction. Then I’m going to board a plane and visit Little Nelly No-Name. I may even sing Baa Baa Black Sheep to her. Behind closed doors.  

 

 

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