Flinging Pennies At The Moon

The dispatches from Croppy Towers have been frankly scant over the past couple of years and for that I apologise. Indeed, it's hard to know where to start after a hiatus of this magnitude but if there are still readers out there: they are owed some kind of an explanation; however mealy-mouthed such an excuse might be.

For openers, I no longer reside in sunny sarf east London. Of course, my heart remains in County Deptford but for now, Croppy Towers have relocated to Chelmsford in Essex. The reason for this move is also pertinent to the paucity of output on The Rusty Wire Service in recent years.

Where does one start? A certain level of disillusionment crept into my dealings with the Fourth Estate after I realised that I was in effect flinging pennies at the moon in pursuit of the aim of speaking truth to power. 

This became abundantly apparent to me when I found myself obliged to write for the financial press as a matter of personal pecuniary necessity back in 2012/2013 (although in fairness, most of my journalistic career has been a battle against ethical/moral disillusionment). 

Working as a corporate shill with no room to manoeuvre editorially beyond the claustrophobic confines of a buy or sell recommendation was soul-destroying and exhausting in equal measure. 

To put that in another way, if you're flat-out building ugly cabinets for a living, the last thing you want to do is come home and start trying to build a brave wee boat...At least if you were of an artistic bent.

Now, I might possibly have been able to reconcile myself with that had I not been witness to such a shamefully escalated level of collusion with a cynical government on the part of my erstwhile colleagues in the mainstream media. 

First of all, it was clear to me in coverage of the Scottish Independence Referendum initially and then in media treatment of Jeremy Corbyn when it was manifest that he would win the Labour leadership election by a landslide. 

When I saw how that shit panned out with Corbyn it was obviously hugely embarrassing for a smug metropolitan elite who felt it was their right and privilege to bray the odds to an ignorant lumpenconsumeriat. 

Finally, it was that trade's failure (yeah, my former trade) to adequately report and explain the germane issues prior to the Brexit Referendum that made easier my decision to quit journalism in favour of a career that might actually offer me the opportunity to improve lives (and better if that was one life at a time).

So I took a different tack and one that involved learning new skills which put would put me at the front line; a place I'd always wanted to be. If the stars are aligned right, I'll be a paramedic in three years.

In breaks from my studies in anatomy, physiology, pharmacology and practical life-saving skills, I still aim to continue posting on this humble wee site but trust me, my respect for my former trade is at all-time lows that make sterling's current trawl of the bottom look like an optimistic prognosis. 

The bottom line? Now that I don't make cabinets for a living, I might just come home in the evening and want to keep working on that little boat: I hope it floats and that y'all would like to take up an oar with me.