Anton's Ideas

Anton Wills-Eve on world news & random ideas


<a href=””>Storm</a&gt;

talk about causing a storm!


When Britain voted  to leave the EU on June 23/24 I was gutted. All my European friends were betrayed and left in penury because they could no longer rely on Britain financially sustaining them. I have changed my mind after today. Why?

It was rigged. Yes, we all know the campaign for the leave  referendum were rigged, but nobody, absolutely nobody, knew how well or by how much. David Cameron wanted to retire for personal and family reasons so he got some buddies together and did this. Or something like it.

“Hey, Teresa you want to be Prime Mistress darling?”

“Who, me. David. How? You’re mad.”

“Listen darling it goes like this. I get Boris, the most brilliant politician in the Western world, to follow up his eight years as Mayor of London by pretending to lead a ludicrous Brexit campaign. He sees the plot, loves it, chuckles and agrees. Not only that, he’s so convincing he wins!”

“But why me. David?”

“Darling, don’t you see? You know my  mate George, the one who’s had a royal baby named after him and been running the country’s finances for six years, wants a rest. Then it’s easy. I ask my mate Phil Hammond if he’d like to be  the Chancellor of the Exchquer and he says ‘when’. Not why but when! He’s gagging for it, he’s fed up with being Foreign minister. Then it’s easy. Brexit wins, I resign,  the party immediately sees it has to elect my successor at once. All the nasty Brexiteers get the bullet, and you as Home Secretary are the best choice for PM because I’ve told you it’s a doddle, and you love the idea. But you’ll have to agree to this. Phil gets finance, two people I can’t stand are given the jobs of negotiating any Brexit deals we might pretend to start and the financing of them, so they’ll be out in no time too.

“Then, after the stool pigeon woman no one wants, resigns from the leadership race and leaves you unchallenged, I must slip her  something for that by the way, everything is Hunky Dory. We have a Tory government for four  more years, a token woman PM, Phil gets the exchequer, you get the glory and the genius Boris becomes chief diplomatic negotiator with the rest of the world.

“Luvvy, we went to school together. Believe me, he’s the cleverest man in the country. And of course it will cause an awful storm in the Labour party!”




<a href=””>Glass

How the other other half quaffs


A Duke stood posing, glass in hand,

Glass fashioned out of burning sand

Yet able to hold cubes of freezing ice

And ice cold drinks chilled in a trice


In champagne flutes, oh purest gems

Of the glass blowers’ skill, their stems

So thin yet still so strong and glowing

Filled full of wine sparklingly flowing


From hands to throats for the idle rich

To toast their host and his young witch,

Who knew why each guest gave a wish,

Champagne can herald any gourmet dish


And would be served on plates of glass

In a marquee pitched on the ducal grass

Of their Graces’ beautifully mown lawn

Where the guests would revel until dawn


Then, caring for neither him nor his wife,

Glasses were refilled, silver fork and knife

Sought morsels only eaten but once a year

While enjoying upper classes glasses’ cheer.



<a href=””>False</a&gt;

False of heart and of love, does your heart beat at all? – Swinburne



His words were mellifluous, sweet coated in honey

His kisses treasured by her at a stream where he lay

His image, reflected, echoed his own love for Echo

Yet his love was false but why so she could not say


Because Juno struck her dumb for false revelations

And fairest Echo to stone was turned that sorry day

So be never like false Narcissus, egocentric, adoring

Only your own false self image as it fades each day



<a href=””>Darkness</a&gt;

Let’s get really morbid!


When our minds totally lose control and everything around us seems hopeless, horrifying, sad beyond belief and frankly tempts us to commit the ultimate act of despair – suicide – we have only one avenue of salvation left. The unexpected kind word of a friend.

To fight the demons of hopelessness that plague those so unfortunate that they can see no chance of anything ever going right again in life a kind word is often all that they have left to hang on to. Take the case of Theresa, for example. Imagine this. She was aged twenty two and had finished her degree exams at university despite overcoming several obstacles. Firstly she fell in love with another student a year earlier and married him. Both of them were very happy, but all too soon she became pregnant and had to study as she went through the problems of pre-natal life while trying to work as well.

She was lucky that her husband understood and helped all he could, but finding a first home, looking after a newly born son just before her final exams and trying to begin a proper family life at the same time was all starting to prove too much for her. True, it eased as the studying and exams finished. Her husband was offered a junior lectureship while carrying on for a doctorate and things were looking up at last. Then Theresa went into Uni one morning to hear her results  and was shattered to discover she had failed to gain a pass. They said she could do her third year again, but with a child it might be too much. She texted the news to her husband who said he and their baby son would pick her up at the college and cheer her up. Imagine what went through her head as his car rounded a bend approaching her and was crushed by a huge lorry that killed their baby son and his father on the spot.

Theresa was quickly taken to the nearest hospital, unable to take in what had happened. As an orphan, a happy family of her own had been something she always craved and she had been given it. But her mind could not accept a new world in which such ultimate happiness had been snatched away from her. She found she could not speak.

Weeks in a psychiatric ward being cared for by so many well meaning people never restored this ability to articulate a single sound of grief, of pity, of anger or of despair. She was mentally empty and her mouth said nothing for there was nothing left inside her heart to say. Her world was one dark, black hole with no top and no bottom. And the darkness started to choke all hope and life out of Theresa as she could see less and less. All she could cry were dry tears  because nothing liquid remained in her soul to sustain her or even to assuage the final thirst she cried out for to end the misery which was now the sum of all that her life had become.

Jack was a rising star in the football world and at twenty one was a genuinely talented prospect. His family and mates saw him making the big time and playing in a premiership league team for ten or fifteen years. In short he was on the fast track to wealthy stardom and he loved it. A pleasant young man he was quite good looking and several girls soon tried to win him over. But his good humour and popular personality did not allow his level head  to turn him away from training hard and putting his club and team first. Then came that awful day.

His side were two up and playing well in the third round of the cup, not least thanks to his fine performance. He had scored one goal and made another. The fans were chanting “Nice one Jack, never let them back”, his signature tune on the pitch, when it happened. A crunching brute of a tackle from behind brought him crashing to the turf and he felt his ankle go. He was stretchered off, but worse was to come. After two operations it was feared a double fracture would never heal properly and then the ultimate fear of every sportsman. The fractures went septic and do what they might the doctors had no option but to remove half of his right foot. His career was finished.

Fickle girlfriends drifted away. His parents tried to cheer him up but he shrugged them off. He had a large amount of money in the bank but this seemed to get at him more. He would not touch or spend it, save for the occasional small gift to a relative in need. He started to shun his mates and retired into his shell. Soon everyone was worried for his sanity as he withdrew into himself and eventually he was talked into seeking psychiatric treatment. But the hospital only made the darkness of his world seem blacker and lonelier than before. He too was a victim of cruel fate and he blamed nobody but himself. He could not understand why he felt guilty, he had not injured himself after all. But he had this awful, stifling feeling that he had let everyone down. Soon he even stopped talking. He just sat on the sunny lawn outside his ward and drew his legs up to his forehead and clutched his knees in a vice like grip. His eyes never moved from the remains of his useless foot.

For several days Theresa had noticed this silent, brooding lost young man who always kept to himself much as she did herself. Then for the first time in a couple of months, just as she was wondering how many more of her pills she needed to save instead of taking them, so she would have enough to take the lot at once and end everything, she felt a tiny twinge of pity and sorrow for another person who was so obviously suffering as she was. She calculated she had enough pills now and could end it all whenever she wished. But first she had to do something for the poor boy, so lost on the lawn, so lonely and forlorn. She slowly walked up to him and sat down a few feet away.

There they sat, mute and depressed beyond endurance for twenty minutes until at last Jack summoned up the courage to say something for the first time in five weeks. He looked pleadingly at Theresa and somehow managed to say, a little more loudly than he intended and with tears in his sunken eyes,

“Help.” This one word, crying out for a kind response, was enough to make Theresa forget her own mental agony for a moment and turn to him,  

“I can wait a few more weeks, here take these,” she said as she watched Jack down all her pills in two swallows with water from the plastic bottle which she gave him. She smiled, so pleased with herself for being able to release another person from a darkness she imagined to be even blacker than her own. 














<a href=””>Layers</a&gt;

Lots of things have layers, their favourite was wedding cake


“I say, Esmeralda, old thing, don’t you think we ought to decide soon exactly what the wedding cake is going to look like? I mean to say your Mama is going spare wondering if six months will be long enough for the patisserie specialists to produce a seven tier work of art exactly to your specifications. Have you any idea what you want yet?”

“Oh, Roddy. It’s all bosh. I just want you my sweet, and Mummy can do what she wants about the cake. Why she has to spend thousands just to show off I don’t know. Nobody eats those things anyway, do they? Remember Trish’s wedding. They sent 500 little boxes of cake to people all over the world in the end and she didn’t even get a piece.”

“She cut it though! Just missed Richard’s wrist with the knife too. Nothing sabre like for us Ezzie. I’ll need both hands for the honeymoon!”

“Yes, for the baggage, my poppet. Not for me. I’ll be so full of Champers I’ll probably get on the wrong plane!”

“Oh are we flying off somewhere? I can’t remember where we said we’d go for the night. Well, don’t look at me like that. I said Tahiti and you said Malaysia, but I bought tickets for both just in case. What did we finally decide? Bali! Okay, Bali then. But that’s three times we’ve been there. At least we know our way around.”

“Back to the cake, Rodders. Look the huge square base could be a green coloured peppermint sponge with praline bits mixed through it. Then a large circular chocolate affair  with six huge icing sugar pillars leading up to the third layer. This would have to reflect our favourite places and one layer could be a blue jelly lagoon for me and the next a white ski slope for you. Then a central upwards layer of fondant penguins and polar bears would add an unusual scene as they supported a lovely wood coloured  walnut dance floor with you and I waltzing around on it. I can just see you twirling me up in the air and missing the two pink candles as they were lit and shone brightly over the whole display. What do you say?”

“Top hole, if each layer has a good mixture of soft butter cream on it, each heavily laced with a different liqueur. That sounds great. Didn’t take long my sweet did it?”

“But Roddy we have to explain it all to mummy now, can you even remember it?”

“Honestly Ezzie, do you take me for a fool? I recorded it on my smart phone as we described it and I’ve already sent a voicemail to Alphonse at the cake making department of the patisserie. You don’t suppose I’d risk letting your mother change her mind twenty times over something so silly do you?”

“Ha, ha, ha no of course not sweetie. Now to the important part of the farce. What shall I wear? Virginal white or penitential scarlet?”

“Well as long as it matches my jeans and open neck mauve shirt I really couldn’t care less.”

And the two  besotted layers walked out into the the rose garden to practise.




<a href=””>Autonomy</a&gt;



I was fascinated to spot that autonomy is an anagram of ‘on my auto’. I hoped that this would soon be used as a slogan for a  used car sales company. Imagine the possible posters stuck on clapped out old bangers nobody would normally buy.

What about “On my auto there is a six cylinder engine!” Easy enough to make it true if you put a worn out old engine on the back seat and sold it with the vehicle. No lie, no law broken. Honest description.

What about a photo of two rising stars of the movie world hugging passionately with the caption, “was this possible on my auto’s back seat?” Then the invitation to buy the heap of scrap and see for yourself. And the best sales pitch of all of course would be , “On my auto”you could win a million dollars.  Well obviously if the company also included a five dollar lottery ticket in the sale, but then  there are just too many con men in that business. So I looked at other anagrams.

Autonomy also gives you that famous Himalayan landmark “Mount Ayo”. Travel firms could advertise special excursions to the world’s least known highest point above sea level. People in baseball caps and tartan knee length shorts would flock there to have their photos taken on such a prestigious peak. The Nepalese would invent  wondrous stories of its mystic healing powers and the guides would make a fortune. Yes autonomy could have a lot to answer for. Just think, it’s also an anagram of “Not you Ma”, the last horrified shout of many a middle aged son watching his drunken mother about to attempt  to sing in a bar.

Yes the variations on those letters can give rise to much more colourful images than the sedate usual meaning of the word in the Oxford English dictionary. I mean how can you get excited at the thought or picture of ‘self government’?  Hang on, though, you could if your country had just had a loss of mental control by 52% of the voters in a referendum and decided that was exactly what they wanted.

And then discovered their currency was worthless, their jobs non-existent, their property valueless and they had to pay for their health care. Yes maybe autonomy is a more interesting word after all, if you don’t mess about with it.




<a href=””>Clouds</a&gt;

An allegory of depression and contentment




Lightning black eventide clouds cover all the land

Rain and Storms drench each forest field and farm

And country folk fast race to shelter in their homes

Floods force a family to huddle close in their alarm



Hell bitter black is sucking hope from every breast

As foresters or herdsman fall to their knees to pray

Lest evil spirits of the clouds on this accursed night

Should take their very lives before the break of day



Pale pink rays at last break through the clouded sky

Rain and storm decrease their war on beast and man

Dawn’s bright smile to the afraid now lifts their fear

And joy at last is felt at the end of night’s dark span



Clouds now shrunken to small white powdery fluff

Allow the warm and welcoming sun to shine on all

Each farmer thus again enjoys his bright new world

And swains and maidens kiss behind haystacks tall.



<a href=””>Voyage</a&gt;

I have stolen the title of Virginia Woolf’s first major work because I could not find anything more apposite.


Just before midnight on the evening of June the 23rd 2016 I was lying in bed with my tablet watching the BBC coverage of the election results on a referendum to decide whether or not The UK should leave the EU or remain a member of a united Europe. The first large city to announce its result was Newcastle, in the North East. It was forecast to vote 60% to 40% in favour of remaining. It voted to do so, but 50.3% to 49.7%. I Put away my tablet, turned out my light and prayed for the future of all my friends in Europe.

A few minutes before six in the morning I awoke, turned on the tablet again and accepted the fate imposed upon the world by 52% of the electorate who had decided, for whatever insane reason, to leave the sanctuary of a ship that was floundering but which could yet be saved. Instead those voters chose to let it sink and preferred to sail off alone into the egotistical, self-centred oblivion of finding its own new world. Sadly, nobody pointed out in the preceding campaign that the New World had already been discovered, was not that great but bearable, and there were no more worlds to conquer.

I let the day pass as I assimilated the damage that had been done to three things. Firstly to the world’s opinion of the UK which had changed from a respected and prosperous democracy to a selfish, uninformed and greedy bunch of nationalistic extremists who cared for nobody but themselves.

Secondly I surveyed the economic damage done to the UK itself as the pound floundered and the value of each person’s possessions, monetary, industrial or in real estate diminished on average by seven per cent. The promised land of no longer allowing immigrant workers to steal jobs by accepting lower wages backfired and UK workers realised they would soon be earning less anyway. But the immigrants would earn what they always had. Commercially, small businesses would fold as banks now had no money to lend them to keep them afloat. Just as they would not be able to lend people money for mortgages, so the homeless would remain just that.

Thirdly I reflected that, as the ship of state sailed off into the wide blue sea of uncertainty, the UK’s European partners were now facing a horrific reality that could have been kept hidden until it was put right, but now cannot. Most of the countries in Europe were living off the money Britain gave them, but as they traded with Britain this was a problem that could be managed. Now, when that trading stops , seventeen European countries will be so badly bankrupt that the common market will no longer be able to exist and several hundred million people will be facing ten to fifteen years of recession bordering, in some cases, on starvation. Did our voters even know this two days ago? No, because nobody bothered to tell them the implications of what they were doing. In short, the claim that we held the first truly democratic vote in our history proved only one thing. Democracy only works when those who take democratic decisions are correctly informed about all aspects of what they are having to decide. In the UK most of us did not. I am glad to be able to say that I at least pointed out these dangers in blogs and on Facebook several days ago. But then a voice crying in the wilderness does not expect to be heard.

But our voyage out may not have been a complete disaster for the Western world. There is a strong chance that when the citizens of the United States see what economic and social chaos is created to the detriment of all, if one votes for walls instead of doors, they might think twice when confronted by extremism of this kind in their own country in November. They will ditch Donald Trump when they see that Britain is no longer GREAT and that the rest of the world will hold them in universal contempt if they bring their own country down to the same level of vilification. Thank God I am a Scots Australian, though born in England, for it was the ENGLISH vote that did this.



<a href=””>Awe</a&gt;

In my career I signed over 100,000 news bulletins, stories, etc with my initials awe. what a prompt!



This is quite amazing. When working for any news media if you file anything, a story, a breaking news flash, an obituary, a sports result or even an information message to another office you always have to append your initials after it so the company knows who the writer is. Guess what I have used all my life , 61 years since my first music critique for British United Press aged thirteen. Yes of course. AWE!

Now this does not mean all my work has been AWEsome but it has always been prompt. The whole idea of working for a News Agency, my first twenty years in this field were with  BUP, UPI, Reuters and AFP, is to get the top stories to the press and other outlets FAST and FIRST. I actually created a record with UPI in Paris in 1962 by beating all the opposition with the winner, yellow jersey holder and lap time on all 22 laps of that Tour de France cycle race. I wasn’t clever I just hated being beaten. I wasn’t even a staff member then, I was just doing freelance sports reporting work while at university.

But two firsts I am proud of were very different.In May 1968 I gave Reuters a seven minutes world beat on the announcement of the agreement to hold the Paris peace talks on Vietnam . This was actually cheating as nobody knew the meeting was taking place. It was in the Laotian capital Vientiane and I was the only journalist there. I had been asked by the US, Australian , North Vietnamese and South Vietnamese teams to be a fifth and neutral negotiator as I knew all the diplomats involved personally and could speak all three languages needed for the discussions. It was great fun and they all respected my plea to let me file my story before their various governments made official announcements.

My other super beat was closer but very lucky. I gave Reuters a three minute world first on the death of General de Gaulle thanks to a former university friend giving me a phone call. By then he worked for the family at their home in Colombey les deux Eglises where the former President lived and died. But I was always incredibly competitive in all I did and could not bear letting others get in before me. The only really good story I had first, but could not file, was a military helicopter crash in Cambodia in which two choppers hit each other with twelve people in one and two in the other. I saw it happen and it would have been a great story.

Why did I not file it?  Thirteen people were killed and the only survivor broke his spine. That was me!



<a href=””>Empty</a&gt;

the empty lives of two wartime smokers


“Empty the ashtrays, darling

Get rid of that awful smell

Of cigarette smoke wafting

Out of the windows as well.


I want the whole house empty

No family lives here any more.

Mum puffed her way to a coffin

Cancer showed Dad to the door.


Ok they were both almost ninety

You may say they had a good run.

But not us and the kids, watching

The only thing they ever called fun.


In wartime it calmed their nerves,

Maybe. But they never could stop.

Sixty a day gone on money wasted

In empty bank accounts not a drop,


Of security left for the young ones

Nothing valuable left to bequeath,

Just empty rooms, smelling of fags.

Two graves and a token red wreath”.



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