Anti-abortion Rees-Mogg is a Latin scholar so he’ll easily get this: Stultus es, Jacob (you’re an idiot Jacob)
FOR some time now, a thin Conservative MP called Jacob Rees-Mogg has been quietly making a name for himself by coming across as a bit dotty and old fashioned.
Nope. Me neither.
However, even though no one knew what he was on about, he was billed as a poster-fogey and some were even saying he could be the next leader.
But then, this week, he revealed himself to be a stupid idiot by saying he was against abortion, even when the pregnancy was caused by rape or incest.
Abortion has been a central debating point in America since before sex was invented.
In some parts of the country it’s more of an election issue than immigration, terrorism or the economy.
Mercifully, however, we have been spared any of that nonsense over here.
Because, I figured, we stoned our religious zealots to death about 500 years ago.
We have vicars now to help us drink tea when our husband has died. And to raise money to repair the church’s roof. Not to stand in a pulpit screaming and yelling about how abortion is murder.
But then along came Rees-Mogg, a man who thinks in Latin and reads books with no pictures in them.
A man we all thought was clever, and he says that life begins at the moment of conception.
Which means he’s now given all sorts of lunatics a free pass to emerge from their priest holes to say they agree.
This week, he revealed himself to be a stupid idiot by saying he was against abortion, even when the pregnancy was caused by rape or incest
You may say they are entitled to their opinion and that in a free country, it’s only right and proper that their voices be heard. But you’re wrong.
They are not entitled to their opinion any more than a paedophile is entitled to say his hobby is harmless.
They are muddle-headed and ridiculous. That’s it. End of.
Rees-Mogg is a religious man. He follows the guidelines laid down by an invisible man in the sky.
Whereas I’m more bothered about the plight of a young girl who’s up the duff because a condom split at a mate’s 13th birthday party.
And can you even begin to imagine what it would be like to give birth to a baby created in part by a man who raped you?
It is technically correct to say life begins at the moment of conception but we are talking here about what?
A split cell. An entity with less intelligence than a dishwasher and no capability to sustain life on its own.
And you simply cannot put the needs of the foetus in front of the needs of the mother.
As I get older, I find I become more tolerant of those whose views differ from my own.
But I’m resolute in my hatred of those who oppose abortion.
So, if the Conservatives do choose Mr Rees-Mogg as their next leader, you can be assured that I’d vote for the manhole cover enthusiast instead.
Or whoever is leading the Liberal Democrats that week.
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Flashing the flesh
THIS week, James May, Richard Hammond and I went to the GQ Men of the Year Awards, where we were given a gong for being the best personalities on television.
Quite an achievement since the Grand Tour isn’t actually a TV show.
Maybe I’ve got it wrong though. Maybe we actually got it for being the best-dressed personalities on television.
What fascinated me most about the evening though was how several people stopped to pose on the red carpet like Rita Ora and were hammered by a million flash bulbs.
And when I asked the photographers and organisers who these people were, I always got the same response. “No idea.”
VEGANISM GETS THE CHOP
JEREMY Corbyn, above, who has a beard, announced this week that he would become a vegan were it not for the fact that he likes the brie cheeses of Somerset so much.
I have similar issues with lamb chops, Sunday roasts, fish and chips, chicken madras, Spam, corned beef, smoky-bacon flavoured crisps, bone marrow, pheasant and bread sauce, juicy steaks, ham sandwiches, pork pies, halibut in parsley sauce, breaded plaice, boiled eggs, poached eggs, scrambled eggs, creme brulee and trifle.
Apart from that lot, though, I’m pretty much there.
SO, Wayne Rooney has supposedly told his wife that if she gives up taking so many holidays, he will stop boozing.
Er, it’s not the boozing that’s the problem Wayne. It’s the allegedly getting into a car afterwards and driving.
Blow to winds theory
WITH the Atlantic hurling storm after storm at the Caribbean and America, it’s inevitable our TV screens are full of hand- wringing environmentalists who say it’s all our fault for burning too many fossil fuels.
Certainly, it’s true to say that the warmer the ocean, the worse the hurricane it produces.
And there’s no getting round the fact that Irma is a big one.
A wind speed of 225mph – that’s pretty sporty in anyone’s book.
But the fact is: Hurricanes aren’t new. They’ve been battering that part of the world from way before the Range Rover and the patio heater had ever been invented.
And even back in the 19th century, when everyone went to work on a horse, they were still flattening towns and cities.
I REVEALED recently that after smoking 630,000 cigarettes over 43 joyous and happy years, I’ve quit.
Instead of standing outside in the rain with my beloved fags, I now chew nicotine gum.
But there’s a drawback. I have to chew so much that after cleaning my teeth my gums are bleeding so badly, it looks like I’ve just lost a bar fight to Dracula.
On balance, I think smoking is a better look.
A crash course in pain
IT must be annoying when you’re sitting in your favourite armchair, watching Pointless, and someone crashes their car through the wall.
So I have every sympathy for the poor chap from York who had to be taken to hospital this week after someone crashed their Volkswagen Golf into his front room.
However, I have even more sympathy for those who are actually in the car when this sort of accident happens because, ooh, it hurts.
Many years ago, I crashed a lorry through a brick wall while doing 40mph, pictured. Even though I was wearing a full harness and a neck brace, I’m reminded of it every day.
Partly by the scar left when the clutch pedal went through my leg and partly by the constant throb in my neck. Which even now has not recovered.
My advice then is this: If you are having an accident and there’s a choice of two things to hit, aim for the thing that isn’t a house.
Er, that’s a 3,000-mile journey. What do people expect the Navy to use? Jet skis?