I taught RE for ten years. That’s a decade of arguing about morality with kids who believe that their right to an opinion excuses them from having to think about their opinions. And then having to show them how to put condoms on dildos – because the government thinks that the only reason STD rates are increasing is because teachers don’t show children how to put them on properly.

Now I teach in a special school I have to admit that the complexity of the arguments has changed somewhat, but their fundamental essence hasn’t. It is perfectly possible to have an argument with a teenager who has a profound communication disability about what you can and cannot play with in the classroom. (Use your imagination – it is worse than you think. And considerably less smutty.)

And while I don’t have to demonstrate condoms any more, it is pretty surprising how difficult it is to fill a balloon with sand – and even more surprising what method works.

Don’t ask what sand-filled balloons are for. You wouldn’t like the answer.

The problem with Tony Blair has nothing to do with his politics or his morality – the problem is illustrated by what CS Lewis said on the subject:

Of all tyrannies, a tyranny exercised for the good of its victims may be the most oppressive. It may be better to live under robber barons than under omnipotent moral busybodies. The robber baron’s cruelty may sometimes sleep, his cupidity may at some point be satiated; but those who torment us for our own good will torment us without end, for they do so with the approval of their own conscience.

Tony Blair’s moral imperative is unchecked. He has too much power. And the absolute certainty of moral conviction becomes a very dangerous thing indeed when it is combined with as much power as he has.

There are now over 3,000 more criminal offences in UK law than there were before New Labour came to power. Crime detection rates have fallen, and instead of doing anything about it, this government has tried to legislate its way out of the problem. Not using its power to solve problems, but exercising its power – flexing its muscles – to assert what it believes to be right.

To compare, New Labour has created more criminal offences in its nine years than the Thatcher-Major Governments did in 18. And the rate at which laws are passed is steadily increasing.

And what sort of laws are these? Well, it is now illegal to sell grey squirrels or to create a nuclear explosion in the UK. If you go on holiday and fail to give a neighbour a key and instructions to turn off your burglar alarm when it goes off, then you have broken the law. You cannot import potatoes from Poland.

Meanwhile, the carbon lobby is campaigning against 4x4s when the most heavily polluting vehicles in the country (like Gordon Brown’s Vauxhall Omega) are being ignored; cheap flights are being condemned but I cannot get planning permission for a wind turbine on my roof (not that it would be carbon neutral anyway, given how they are made in China); road pricing is being deliberately targeted against the guilt-wracked middle classes, against the will of 1.6million people; and then there is the small matter of a war in a Middle Eastern country.

So I have come to a conclusion. You would never believe what I now think is best for this country.

I think we need a government of selfish bastards. We need politicians who understand the basic job of politics: to protect the health and welfare of the state. Not its extension or expansion, but its health. I want politicians who have no interest in changing people, in progress or in reform. I want politicians who crave political power not because they are on a personal evangelical crusade, but because they lust after the trappings of power. And who, when they achieve power, can be relied upon to selfishly indulge themselves in it – to do the least they can get away with.

Politicians who listen to what people want so they can judge what they need to do to win the next election – not a thing more, not a thing less.

If we had elected someone to do that in 1997, there would have been no Iraq war, no congestion charge, and no endless barrage of new laws.

I applied for a job last month – co-ordinating services for family carers on behalf of a learning disability charity.

And I didn’t fit into their culture.

Why? Well, from what I learned during my time at interview, it was because I didn’t empathise like they did. I didn’t show that I was in tune with the anger, frustration and desire to make things right that they all experience, every day in their offices and meetings.

Well, I wouldn’t, would I? I have no idea what it is like to sit in meetings and work in offices full of people who worry themselves sick for people with learning disabilities and their families. Because I don’t do that.

I fucking live the life.

Yes, I am also a professional who is absolutely focused on problem solving, solution seeking and result getting. If you aren’t, then you aren’t cut out to be a teacher. And that means that when I see a problem, I don’t agonise about it. I work to solve it. And if that means I don’t fit into the charity culture, then the charity culture isn’t for me.

When you are being interviewed for a job you really want, don’t mention spanking.

Miss Mac & I had a hot date last night. Probably the last one we’ll have in a long time, as the rules for respite-in-the-home have changed. Apparently respite is no longer about providing a break for the carers so they can have some quality time – it is about sending a professional in to the home to deliver some educational and social skills input. The end result is that our fortnightly “couple time” has come to an end.

That’s what happens when services are dominated by a target-setting culture. The needs of the “stakeholder” are no longer met on an individual basis – but on a statistical progress towards a predetermined goal.

And they think that it’s the caring that is giving me depression…

Anyway, we strolled into York on a Saturday night. Strangely enough, not something we have done very often. We had no reservation at any restaurant – never needed one before.

But Saturday night is different. My jeans, t-shirt and cycle racing jacket were decidedly untrendy, and Miss Mac stood out like a sort thumb because she was the only female in the entire city centre not displaying cleavage and gusset: she was wrapped up nice and warm in her jeans, sweater, thick coat and scarf. And we held hands, rather than each others body parts.

After an hour of waiting and people watching at the bar of the Spanish restaurant (one pint and a soft drink, and 10p change from a fiver!) we were shown to a table for two in a dark corner. On the tables either side of us couples lovingly held hands across the table while frantically texting with their free hands.

“How’s the date going?”
“Awful. He’s more interested in his text messages than me.”

We were so out of place there – we actually talked to each other!

And it was easy getting a cab home. They were all arriving at the city centre full of fares and leaving empty. Mind you, it was 9:45pm…

He’s on PM this evening. He said two wonderful things:

“I was Deputy Leader of the Labour Party when it was the Labour Party.”

and the greater of these:

“Politics is about saying, ‘You elected us to do the things we think are right, and we think this is right. If you don’t like it, vote us out of office‘.”

That is much more honest than the current situation, where New Labour operates sham consultations in order to make them feel better about steamrollering their policies onto people…

We went to grandma’s house to collect the other two kids yesterday.

I would have thought that, after all these years, grandma would have learned – but no. While my back was turned she let Little Nutter choose some sweets – a rainbow of colours and plenty of those really chewy e-number anti-personnel warheads.

He bounced and shrieked in the back of the car all the way home, head-banged all sodding night, and has spent four hours this morning naked and noisy. He’s also mopped the kitchen floor with a bottle of conditioner.

Because he’s worth it.

First, a big thanks to Bart for all his hard work in relocating ASDFriendly and my blog on a new server.

I’ll work out how to put my blogroll back up later. Nothing is lost – it’s just not there.

Darling Wifey has been a 21st Century Ernest Hemingway this week, in the street cafés of Madrid with her MacBookPro and camera. Not reporting the Civil War – but meeting up with some friends who include a real published author. It’s just the R&R she needs after a couple of months that have included some extreme stress and rejection letters.

And with Little Madam & Tiny Flirt staying at their grandparents, it’s just been Little Nutter and me (strange how even grandparents don’t want to deal with Autism for more than a few minutes at a time…) So we’ve had an Autistic time: next door have erected scaffolding in our garden so they can replace their roof – I gave written permission on the sole condition that a sturdy fence was put up first to stop children with no sense of personal safety from climbing it. They didn’t.

And yesterday morning Little Nutter was half way up the scaffolding in his underpants singing “Bear Necessities.”

When Little Nutter came home tonight, he was on another planet – loud, agitated, aggressive, tetchy and distressed. And all this after a lengthy period of him being relatively settled.

Darling Wifey had to rush him home so she could meet his new disabled children’s service social worker – and she was given a real treat. A very strong and noisy six-year-old in full Autistic meltdown.

And once everything had quietened down a bit – he smeared all over the sitting room. There’s another first we didn’t want to mark.

The cause? He was given some forbidden sweets at school…