The Rise and Fall of Captain Obvious

Two empty fields in one fortnight, three thousand miles apart, and the same fella stood in the middle of both with a megaphone. This week Stanley gives him a name.

From the shed: the President's birthday party that hardly anybody went to, the pollsters up a stepladder at Nigel Farage's own do, and the march through our town that the town answered by going shopping. Plus the writing on the wall, why an echo can only ever tell you what you just said, and Stanley's mother on lugs, gobs, and the order you're meant to use them in.

Fair warning: there's a sober minute in the middle. Our town carries history that deserves better than jokes, and the jokes get put down for it.

Kettle's on. Sit yerself down.

Theme music: "Letters from the Shed", on Spotify by popular demand. Well, one lady from Cleckheaton, but demand is demand: "Letters from the Shed"

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:12

There's a shed at the end of the garden. Hello, welcome back to the shed.

SPEAKER_01 0:17

Doors popped up and it's that one. There's a blackbird on the fence with opinions of his own. So if you can hear him, it's not interference. It's today's co host. This week I've been counting crowds. I trying to. There's been a shortage. I watched the president of the United States throw himself a birthday party that hardly anybody went to. And I've watched our own town get promised the biggest march in history, and answer it by going shopping. Two empty fields in one fortnight, three thousand miles apart, and the same fella stood in the middle of both of them with a megaphone, wondering where everybody was. I've given him a name, and we'll be getting to that. But fur warning, there's a sober minute in the middle of this one, because our town carries history that deserves better than jokes, and I'll be putting the jokes down when we reach it. But we start and finish with a kettle, same as always. So shoes off if you're stopping, kettles on, sit yourself down. Every town has one. The fellow at the bar who tells you it's raining while your coat's still dripping on the ook. The one who points at the potholes every morning and never once turns up with a bag of tarmac. For a while he's the most sensible man you'll know, because everything he says is true. It's raining. That's a pothole. You cannot fault him for observations. It's only later that you notice that observations are all he's got. I've started calling him Captain Obvious, and for him, business has never been better. Pointing at problems is the growth industry at this age. It took one captain all the way to the White House. Donald Trump rolls on saying out loud what plenty of Americans could see from their own front steps. The factories had gone, the towns felt forgotten, and nobody seemed to be in charge or even bothered. Two observations honestly held by millions of people. The trouble with pointing as a trade for politicians is that sooner or later somebody might just ask you how are you going to fix things? Or as my mother would say, how you gonna mend that? Which brings us to the birthday party. This summer the president threw America a party on the National Mall to show how grand the mending was all going. The most unforgettable birthday party any country has ever seen, he said. What the world saw was a lot of grass and not many people. Ice cream melting in a power cut, and the organisers counting the crowd at the football next door as part of their own. When you cannot fill the potholes, you probably should throw a parade. And when nobody comes to the parade, you announce it was packed. That is not the rise anymore. That is the sound a fall makes early on. It's the gap between the claim and your ability to put things right. Britain has its own captain. He's called Nigel Farage. There's others as well, but he's the main one. Nobody in my lifetime has pointed better than him, and some of what he pointed at was real enough. But the pollsters have been around to his party with a step ladder and a stencil. My readers, those who had Sunday school, will remember where the writing on the wall turned up. Not in some enemy's wall, at the King's Holden feast. Mid party, between courses. Our captain has just resigned his seat so his town can have the treat of electing him again. A do throne for himself and halfway through it, Ipsos have started writing on his wall. His lead has dropped seven points down to two inside a month. Two thirds of the country not satisfied. Most folks saying they would like the question answered about the five million pound. If people weigh all that in the balance, you're not gonna have to be a statistician to know how that might just work out for him. And on top of all that, there's the local level franchise. Because Captain Obvious loves his licensees. Last Saturday, our town was promised the biggest march in its history. A protest, said the poster. About a proposed HMO and its potential impact on the local area. Fair enough, you might think towns are allowed to have opinions about housing. But have a look at the artwork A crusader knight in full armour under a Saint George's banner. Nobody commissions holy war illustrations for a planning objection. The leaflet doing the rounds drop the pretence altogether. Traitors in government, it said, and our right to remain the majority in our own country. The photograph on it was staged, a made up street sign reading Migrants HMO screwed through a wall like it was the name of the road. When the evidence for your point has to be manufactured, your point is telling on itself. Hardly anybody went. And I've heard it said that the town has fallen. That Aywood can't be bothered. And I want to be precise here, because my town is old the precision. Aywood did its homework months back. In February, when the volunteer patrol started appearing around the schools, the most agreed comment on the local newspaper was not a cheer. It was not a jeer. It was a list. No vetting, it said. Histories that would not pass a check. A group chat since leaked that they said nobody would want reading aloud. And the schools themselves, the ones supposedly being guarded, asking them to stay away. ninety odd, quiet thumbs up for somebody who had checked. That is not a town that's fallen. That's a town that's read the paperwork and marked it. And here I'll put the jokes down for a minute. This town carries a real wound. Haywood's name went through the national headlines years ago for crimes against children. And there are families here still living with that, and what was done and what was missed. Nobody in this town needs the wrongness of any of it pointing out we were here. Which is exactly why a megaphone gives offence. Standing in the middle of our town telling Haywood what is wrong with Haywood is not information. It's an echo. And the town did not owe anybody a Saturday for it, not least because in among all the pointing, there was not one word about how these things can be fixed. What to fear, who to blame? Plenty of that. How to mend it? Nothing. Captain Obvious never brings the tarmac. The house was empty on Saturday. But did that close the show? No it didn't. The next post was up already. Same show next month. One town over in Middleton. Same borough, same constituency, same organiser's name on the contact line. The HMO has fallen off the poster altogether this time. It is illegal immigration now. On top of the new bill, the co leader of Britain First. Back in winter, folks round here were assured that groups like that had latched on uninvited. The new poster settles the question in print. When nobody comes, you do not ask why, you just move down the road and print a bigger poster. The pointing never stops, because the pointing is all that they've got. Now why can't he hear the room, you may ask? Because every captain works with the same two bits of kit, a megaphone and the echo that comes back. The echo is the online group. He shouts into it. His own words come back off a few hundred like minded folk. And he mistakes the sound of his own voice returning for the town answering. The group told him Saturday would be historic. But an echo can only ever tell you what you just said. Out on the street your words go out and nothing comes back unless real people bring it. And on Saturday they did not. So is the fall Jew? I'm a shed man, not a prophet. And poles are not gospel. But I notice the writing is no longer on somebody else's wall. It's on his own. And if our friend in Haywood wants to know what comes after the writing, Washington has just shown everybody. An empty field and a man insisting it was full. My honest speculation is that pointing is a trade with a short season, and that season is turning. And here's the part that may surprise you. I'm not the least bit worried about it. Either way, not gleeful. A man losing his audience is nothing I'll dance about. And the things Thrott were frightened about do not vanish because a captain falls. But I'm unconcerned. And the reason is the oldest one going. This town was never his to lose. Aude was here before the megaphone, and it will be here after. The market will still be open, the school room will be on, neighbours will still take the bin out for the old fella at number nine. We'll still thank the bus driver when we get off, and tell the taxi driver to have a safe night. Because that's the type of people we are round here. And this podcast is the closest you'll get to a poster being printed about it. My mother had the whole business sized up years ago. You've got two luggals and one gob, she'd say, and that is the order you're meant to use them. The captains have it the wrong way around, which is why their trade will always end the same way. Shoutin' into a room that quietly finished with them and went shopping. And that's your lot from the shed this week. Blackbird's still on fence out there, and I notice he's done more listening than talking this last half hour, which puts him one up on every captain I've ever mentioned. If the weaker head finds you anywhere near a megaphone, or even a keyboard, do us all a favour and leave it where it is. Go and have a brew instead. Ask somebody how they're doing and then this is the difficult bit. Wait for an answer. Two lugs, one gob used in that order. I bet your mother knew that. Mine certainly did. And if you've enjoyed this, do the quiet thing that counts for most. Press follow. Leave a rating if your app allows such extravagance. And tell one person at the bus stop that, by the way, is the one job the gob was made for. There's no megaphone required. It's how the shed gets heard, one kettle at a time. I promise we'd finish where we started, and a man keeps his word. So kettle's going on while I have another brew and contemplate the next six weeks while kids are off school and grandad's taxi will be really busy. Good morning. So till then look after each other.

SPEAKER_00 12:58

Stay a while. I'm very glad you came. There's a gaudy Turkish pub where the butcher used to be. Let us from the shed. Story soft and true. Pour yourself a cup of tea. I saved a seat for you.