bitcoin hoy precio www.survivalprep.net Intrigue. Conspiracy. Machinations. Cabal. Plot. What comes to mind when you read these words?
The reign of Queen Elizabeth I, perhaps, when extreme religious tension fuelled rebellions at home and threatened invasion from foreign powers.
One wrong move and it was a stretch in the Tower if you were lucky, or off with your head if you weren’t, with some hardcore torture thrown in beforehand, just for laughs.
If ancient times are more your jam, then maybe you’re thinking of the notorious Year of the Four Emperors, which kicked off in 69 AD in Rome and did pretty much what it says on the tin.
Bloody assassinations in the imperial palace, treachery, deception, large-scale warfare; it had it all.
At the end of it, three emperors lay dead and one of history’s greatest badasses, Vespasian, began the task of restoring order and stability to the empire. What a guy.
If your thoughts lean to the more contemporary, it could be that you’re recalling with resigned weariness the last few years of UK politics, with its myriad power struggles, absurd characters, betrayals, lies, incompetence and blunders.
I’d advise not dwelling on this too much, though. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for helping drive anyone towards strong drink, especially if you’re reading this?over your breakfast.
But even these extraordinary times and events pale into insignificance next to what I’m about to describe to you. Brace yourselves. You’ve been warned. Yes, it’s our local produce show.
On the face of things, these shows are a quintessential part of British rural life.
Think The Vicar of Dibley and Downton Abbey, a pleasant throwback to a bygone age when life was a bit gentler and society had the time and inclination for such bucolic pastimes as competitive marrow growing.
At least, that’s what we thought last year when we excitedly entered a few of our vegetables into some of the various categories at our local edition; how touchingly naive we were.
First, we lowered the average age of the competitors by about 40 years, and I suspect this made them angry in the first place.
But then, the present Mrs Evans had the nerve to unexpectedly win several awards, including the overall prize for best produce.?
By doing so, she loosened the Women’s Institute’s previous death-grip on the trophies and unwittingly creating bitter and lifelong enemies.
If looks could kill…
You think the Mafia is fearsome? You want to feel the death-stare of retired religious education teacher Mrs Jones from number 33 as a local gentry type hands you the red certificate and ￡2.50 prize money for the best array of tomatoes.
Coupled with the reluctant polite applause, it’s enough to make your blood run cold.
This year there was a target on our backs the size of a prize-winning swede as we took our various efforts into the crowded room.
I’d tried in vain to persuade headstrong daughter number 2 not to enter the adults’ sponge-cake category, knowing full well that just attempting it could endanger our lives, but she wouldn’t listen.
In fact, I’d pleaded with them not to go at all. “Leave it.” I said. “It’s just not worth it.”
But of course they ignored me, going on to win first prize for best courgette, highly commended in the “best jewellery made of vegetables” category, and the much-coveted trophy for the best-presented half-dozen eggs.
If there’s no column next week, you’ll know what happened – the WI got me.