Vote Lib Dem, get Tories, wasn't that what Labour said? How little the Lib Dems could have suspected they'd have been covered in quite so much blue when they did the deed, and got into bed with the Conservatives. Having become almost indistinguishable in the eyes of voters from the Tories whose laps they appear to be sleeping in, they were viciously punished by those same voters in the local elections on Thursday.
To entirely alienate your own support is political suicide, but that's what they seem to have been intent on doing since May. Their profile has been sufficiently low that they appear to be simply rolling over and becoming silent, nodding patsies, willing accomplices to the spreading of a virulent strain of neo-Thatcherism. What must have at first seemed to them a chance at a say, a hand in running things, power, could turn into a disaster which will push them further from that power than they've been in generations.
The AV vote turned into a disaster as well, with Clegg ending up being the unwitting standard bearer for the 'No' campaign. And their leader in Scotland has quit in what's been a disastrous week for them. You have to wonder if they're wishing they'd either done a deal with Labour or refused altogether and potentially forced another election. Thing is, in many ways they've got what they craved - a share of power, the referendum - and it's potentially killed them as a political force. Just a reminder that you have to be careful what you wish for. And what you vote for.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
Tuesday, 3 May 2011
Bin Laden's demise not a cause for celebration
These things seem to follow a pattern now, don't they? Every major news event in the world seems to be presented to us as part of a template, both inside and outside the media itself. Broadly, it runs something like: media frenzy in the first couple of days, in this case swamping even the royal wedding, generally accompanied by the first jokes to be circulated around the world in a matter of hours. Then comes the endless round of repeats of the same footage, the same questions, the same information, analysis and speculation from a media that clearly feels it has to extract every drop, out of a story which drops in their laps as this one does, while they can.
Then, of course, come conspiracy theories. He's not dead really - they've got him in a cell somewhere. He's been dead for years. He's actually in the employ of the US as a handy bogeyman to pin their anti-terror efforts against. He's got sick of it, approached the US with an agreement to stop his terrorism and disappear forever if they 'appear' to have killed him. All bollocks, I suspect - what possible motive would the US have to announce anything other than that they'd killed him, if they've done so? Quite apart from anything else it will quench the US public's apparent thirst for justice (revenge?) for the supposed brains behind the 9/11 atrocity.
The slaking of that thirst, however powerful it was, has manifested itself in Americans celebrating at Ground Zero and the White House. While I completely understand that there must have been a powerful desire to get this man, this leaves a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth. It has horrible echoes of the scenes of some people in some anti-American parts of the Arabic world celebrating the Twin Towers deaths, which quite rightly outraged and appalled people around the world, America in particular. The outrage which greeted those scenes will not be repeated here of course, but it's still people celebrating the deaths of strangers to them. It may be an odd thing to focus on, given the years, resources and lives spent hunting this man, and what his organisation has done all over the world, but for me it's a most interesting human element of the whole story.
Relief that he's gone? Yes. A sense of justification, vindication, even vengeance? Yes. Fair enough, particularly in New York perhaps. But celebration? It just doesn't seem right to me. And what's going to happen now, what further killing, what further atrocities will be committed in the name of vengeance for his death? Another turn of this macabre wheel, another list of innocent names read out perhaps. A cause for celebration it most certainly isn't.
Then, of course, come conspiracy theories. He's not dead really - they've got him in a cell somewhere. He's been dead for years. He's actually in the employ of the US as a handy bogeyman to pin their anti-terror efforts against. He's got sick of it, approached the US with an agreement to stop his terrorism and disappear forever if they 'appear' to have killed him. All bollocks, I suspect - what possible motive would the US have to announce anything other than that they'd killed him, if they've done so? Quite apart from anything else it will quench the US public's apparent thirst for justice (revenge?) for the supposed brains behind the 9/11 atrocity.
The slaking of that thirst, however powerful it was, has manifested itself in Americans celebrating at Ground Zero and the White House. While I completely understand that there must have been a powerful desire to get this man, this leaves a slightly unpleasant taste in the mouth. It has horrible echoes of the scenes of some people in some anti-American parts of the Arabic world celebrating the Twin Towers deaths, which quite rightly outraged and appalled people around the world, America in particular. The outrage which greeted those scenes will not be repeated here of course, but it's still people celebrating the deaths of strangers to them. It may be an odd thing to focus on, given the years, resources and lives spent hunting this man, and what his organisation has done all over the world, but for me it's a most interesting human element of the whole story.
Relief that he's gone? Yes. A sense of justification, vindication, even vengeance? Yes. Fair enough, particularly in New York perhaps. But celebration? It just doesn't seem right to me. And what's going to happen now, what further killing, what further atrocities will be committed in the name of vengeance for his death? Another turn of this macabre wheel, another list of innocent names read out perhaps. A cause for celebration it most certainly isn't.
Saturday, 23 April 2011
Politicians' conspiracy of silence on AV
On May 5th there's a referendum on what may be one of the most important and fundamental changes to our electoral system for decades, but you'd never know it from the almost complete absence of coverage on it in the media.
I think partly this can be blamed on the almost total silence on it from the mainstream politicians. We were told that Cameron and Clegg, despite their coalition, would be freely and openly campaigning on opposite sides of the argument. Well, having occasionally seen Clegg say a few words on AV, I've seen absolutely nothing of Cameron on the subject. Or Miliband, for that matter.
The fact is that the existing system has served the two main parties rather well over the last few decades, giving each of them long periods in office at various times. I think both Labour and the Tories think that if they say nothing, it'll keep the profile of the forthcoming vote low, and the turnout will be correspondingly poor, giving no real mandate to the winner regardless of the result.
It's got bad enough that I've been picking up any leaflets being handed out on this at tube stations etc, simply to get some information on the arguments either way. I suppose at least, in an environment reasonably free of the mud slinging and overblown rhetoric which often characterises election campaigns, people will be left to make their minds up based on the actual facts offered by both arguments rather than who shouts loudest.
For my own part, I think I'm going to vote in favour of change. The current system does not exactly encourage change or innovative government, leaving as it has done the two main parties bickering like children over ownership of the same stale bag of biscuits which changes hands between them all the time. Also, the argument against it that 'one person, one vote is fair' is frankly rubbish when boundary changes, social demographic distribution and gerrymandering can mean that 20,000 votes in one constituency can return one MP and 3000 votes in a neighbouring constituency produces the same return. If you happen to live in an opponent's heartland you go into the booth knowing that your vote is likely to make no difference.
But the best reason I've heard is that AV reduces the impact of votes for extremist, minority parties like the BNP. That's reason enough for me, frankly.
I think partly this can be blamed on the almost total silence on it from the mainstream politicians. We were told that Cameron and Clegg, despite their coalition, would be freely and openly campaigning on opposite sides of the argument. Well, having occasionally seen Clegg say a few words on AV, I've seen absolutely nothing of Cameron on the subject. Or Miliband, for that matter.
The fact is that the existing system has served the two main parties rather well over the last few decades, giving each of them long periods in office at various times. I think both Labour and the Tories think that if they say nothing, it'll keep the profile of the forthcoming vote low, and the turnout will be correspondingly poor, giving no real mandate to the winner regardless of the result.
It's got bad enough that I've been picking up any leaflets being handed out on this at tube stations etc, simply to get some information on the arguments either way. I suppose at least, in an environment reasonably free of the mud slinging and overblown rhetoric which often characterises election campaigns, people will be left to make their minds up based on the actual facts offered by both arguments rather than who shouts loudest.
For my own part, I think I'm going to vote in favour of change. The current system does not exactly encourage change or innovative government, leaving as it has done the two main parties bickering like children over ownership of the same stale bag of biscuits which changes hands between them all the time. Also, the argument against it that 'one person, one vote is fair' is frankly rubbish when boundary changes, social demographic distribution and gerrymandering can mean that 20,000 votes in one constituency can return one MP and 3000 votes in a neighbouring constituency produces the same return. If you happen to live in an opponent's heartland you go into the booth knowing that your vote is likely to make no difference.
But the best reason I've heard is that AV reduces the impact of votes for extremist, minority parties like the BNP. That's reason enough for me, frankly.
Will you listen to yourself?
I caught a few minutes of some thing on telly the other day, I know not what programme it was, which irritated me intensely in its format anyway and then left me laughing out loud at something one of the hysterical popinjays on it said.
The segment I caught involved a single dad who dressed almost exclusively in black T-shirts and combat trousers receiving a fashion make-over from what the TV companies inevitably call 'experts' and, worse, his own 9-year-old son. A series of hideous colour combinations and shocking, mutton-dressed-as-lamb clothing choices were considered before they eventually settled on an awful, 70s-style floral print shirt, which peeped out over a mustard coloured tank top under some kind of blouson-style jacket. He looked, needless to say, ridiculous. A 40-something year old of a certain, how shall we say? Of a certain body shape, should not be dressing like that.
He then went on a blind date, during which we were invited to believe that he was taking and acting upon advice given to him by his child, fed to him through an earpiece which his date did 'not know was there'. Only if they were unable to see a bloody great appendage stuck to the side of his head did they not know. An utterly nauseating piece of viewing that I can only assume was aimed at kids, so superficial was it. But it was something said during that earlier fashion makeover section which made me laugh.
As he stepped out of the changing room dressed as I described earlier, and everybody agreed how much better he looked, the squeaking fop who'd been chosen to dress him hung a long-handled man bag over his shoulders with the words, "Now, this is not just for fashion, it's useful too." I almost had to play those few seconds of the thing again to make sure I'd heard him correctly. Was this individual even aware of the words coming out of his own mouth? He was persuading the subject of the show to take it on the grounds that it, a bag, an item designed essentially to carry stuff, could carry stuff in addition to its primary function, which was clearly just to look good.
I realise that this is basically one of the fundamental principles of the fashion industry and an entirely pointless thing to complain about, because it simply isn't going to change, but I just think it absolutely encapsulates beautifully the shallowness and vacuity of fashion generally and, perhaps more pertinently, people's willingness to accept its absurdities unquestioningy. Personally, I'd have told him and the kid to eff off...
The segment I caught involved a single dad who dressed almost exclusively in black T-shirts and combat trousers receiving a fashion make-over from what the TV companies inevitably call 'experts' and, worse, his own 9-year-old son. A series of hideous colour combinations and shocking, mutton-dressed-as-lamb clothing choices were considered before they eventually settled on an awful, 70s-style floral print shirt, which peeped out over a mustard coloured tank top under some kind of blouson-style jacket. He looked, needless to say, ridiculous. A 40-something year old of a certain, how shall we say? Of a certain body shape, should not be dressing like that.
He then went on a blind date, during which we were invited to believe that he was taking and acting upon advice given to him by his child, fed to him through an earpiece which his date did 'not know was there'. Only if they were unable to see a bloody great appendage stuck to the side of his head did they not know. An utterly nauseating piece of viewing that I can only assume was aimed at kids, so superficial was it. But it was something said during that earlier fashion makeover section which made me laugh.
As he stepped out of the changing room dressed as I described earlier, and everybody agreed how much better he looked, the squeaking fop who'd been chosen to dress him hung a long-handled man bag over his shoulders with the words, "Now, this is not just for fashion, it's useful too." I almost had to play those few seconds of the thing again to make sure I'd heard him correctly. Was this individual even aware of the words coming out of his own mouth? He was persuading the subject of the show to take it on the grounds that it, a bag, an item designed essentially to carry stuff, could carry stuff in addition to its primary function, which was clearly just to look good.
I realise that this is basically one of the fundamental principles of the fashion industry and an entirely pointless thing to complain about, because it simply isn't going to change, but I just think it absolutely encapsulates beautifully the shallowness and vacuity of fashion generally and, perhaps more pertinently, people's willingness to accept its absurdities unquestioningy. Personally, I'd have told him and the kid to eff off...
Monday, 11 April 2011
It's not just me, is it?
Last week, frustrated with the constant resetting of what's become an elderly wireless router and threatening to leave our current ISP to join a new supplier who'd give us a new router as part of a package, I was provided with the funds by our current ISP to buy a new router, the brand of which they recommended. So far, so good. The ISP credited our account and I ordered the brand of router they advised.
I should have known it was all going to go wrong when I saw the 'Quick Installation Guide', which comprised a manual showing three pictures depicting basically how to plug the thing in and put a disk in a drive, which it did in 12 languages. It then said a 'Set up Wizard' would basically guide me through the rest.
Well, it did, of course, no such thing, merely introducing me to more acronyms and abbreviations than I thought existed in the world, let alone in one place. I couldn't work out how set it up from this 'Wizard', so consulted the manual. All 77 pages of it. Yep, you read that correctly. a 77-page manual for a wireless router. It contained, quite literally, hundreds more sets of letters, most of which meant absolutely nothing to me. Here's just one example, from one page, which is supposed to help people set the thing up:
"ATM PVC Configuration: This screen allows you to configure an ATM PVC identifier (VPI and VCI) and select a service category. Otherwise, choose an existing interface by selecting the checkbox to enable it."
Then two boxes. Marked "VPI: [0-255)]" and "VCI: [32-65535]"
Then a last box, with a scroll-y menu thing. "Service Category: UBR without PCR" and others.
That's six sets of three letters, the meaning of none of which I have the faintest clue, on one page alone, of a 77-page document. And it's entirely typical of the thing. It is utterly, utterly bewildering and people who know computers, and routers specifically, much better than I do, cannot get it to work.
No matter - I'll ring their helpline, they can take me through it. It says in the paperwork which comes with the thing that they're open 'til 10pm on weeknights and day times at weekends. Nope - they've entirely failed to answer so far, putting me though instead to a recorded message informing me that the 'mailbox is full and cannot accept any messages'. It turns out, from further research on the internet, that they are in fact not open until 10pm at all, so the constant phone calls I made to them after 8pm, when I get home from work, were utterly pointless.
OK then. I'll try my own internet provider. After all, they recommended the router and may have somebody available who could help me set it up. So I call them, get put through by a series of electronically-offered menu options to a machine which offers me five choices of hold music (but no choice of not having it) and then I hold on for 10 minutes. When I gave up after waiting that long, it turns out they're not open beyond 7pm either, so I'm wasting my time there, not that the entirely mechanised super-duper all-star, singing, dancing system of multiple-choice hold music would tell me that.
If this makes boring reading, I'm very sorry - I can assure you it's not as boring as the process of constantly wasting my evenings in a fruitless search for non über-geek advice on setting the bastard up. I'll be choosing option 53 from the menu next time I find myself waiting pointlessly on the bloody phone - set fire to the box, throw it out the window, and post broken glass and ashes to the useless, lying, unhelpful bastards who made the thing in the mistaken belief that everybody who wants to use the internet at home is basically Commander Data from Star Trek and need only interface with it by plugging some part of their anatomy into it to set it up.
I should have known it was all going to go wrong when I saw the 'Quick Installation Guide', which comprised a manual showing three pictures depicting basically how to plug the thing in and put a disk in a drive, which it did in 12 languages. It then said a 'Set up Wizard' would basically guide me through the rest.
Well, it did, of course, no such thing, merely introducing me to more acronyms and abbreviations than I thought existed in the world, let alone in one place. I couldn't work out how set it up from this 'Wizard', so consulted the manual. All 77 pages of it. Yep, you read that correctly. a 77-page manual for a wireless router. It contained, quite literally, hundreds more sets of letters, most of which meant absolutely nothing to me. Here's just one example, from one page, which is supposed to help people set the thing up:
"ATM PVC Configuration: This screen allows you to configure an ATM PVC identifier (VPI and VCI) and select a service category. Otherwise, choose an existing interface by selecting the checkbox to enable it."
Then two boxes. Marked "VPI: [0-255)]" and "VCI: [32-65535]"
Then a last box, with a scroll-y menu thing. "Service Category: UBR without PCR" and others.
That's six sets of three letters, the meaning of none of which I have the faintest clue, on one page alone, of a 77-page document. And it's entirely typical of the thing. It is utterly, utterly bewildering and people who know computers, and routers specifically, much better than I do, cannot get it to work.
No matter - I'll ring their helpline, they can take me through it. It says in the paperwork which comes with the thing that they're open 'til 10pm on weeknights and day times at weekends. Nope - they've entirely failed to answer so far, putting me though instead to a recorded message informing me that the 'mailbox is full and cannot accept any messages'. It turns out, from further research on the internet, that they are in fact not open until 10pm at all, so the constant phone calls I made to them after 8pm, when I get home from work, were utterly pointless.
OK then. I'll try my own internet provider. After all, they recommended the router and may have somebody available who could help me set it up. So I call them, get put through by a series of electronically-offered menu options to a machine which offers me five choices of hold music (but no choice of not having it) and then I hold on for 10 minutes. When I gave up after waiting that long, it turns out they're not open beyond 7pm either, so I'm wasting my time there, not that the entirely mechanised super-duper all-star, singing, dancing system of multiple-choice hold music would tell me that.
If this makes boring reading, I'm very sorry - I can assure you it's not as boring as the process of constantly wasting my evenings in a fruitless search for non über-geek advice on setting the bastard up. I'll be choosing option 53 from the menu next time I find myself waiting pointlessly on the bloody phone - set fire to the box, throw it out the window, and post broken glass and ashes to the useless, lying, unhelpful bastards who made the thing in the mistaken belief that everybody who wants to use the internet at home is basically Commander Data from Star Trek and need only interface with it by plugging some part of their anatomy into it to set it up.
Sunday, 27 March 2011
There is no power but your vote
Full credit to the 250,000 people who marched peacefully through the streets of London this weekend, that they care enough about the way the country is governed to do so. No credit to the berks who occupied Fortnum & Mason, by the way, inconveniencing at best and frightening at worst entirely innocent tourists, and shop workers who are probably low paid, are certainly not the cause of the problems they protestors are complaining about, and are already having a shit weekend by having to work it.
But I never join these marches, however much I admire the commitment of the people who do. It's not entirely down to apathy, there are two main reasons in my case. Firstly, almost inevitably in these things, apart from when there's a large crowd drawn from a specific social group such as the students, you end up with a disparate group of people who have vaguely similar sets of ideals and ways of thinking about politics, government and society. So you get a whole wide range of different agendas being pushed, different slogans being chanted, different aims from the protestors and different views on what form that protest should take, with some being more fond of direct action than others. And there's always the element of those who join in looking merely to cause trouble, stir up direct action against authority generally, any authority or establishment figure, however poorly defined that may be. And then there's the group who are there just to break shit. Anarchists, class war activists, and people who simply enjoy smashing things up. So with all those different ideas and motivations going on, it's inevitable that the central message, the original reason most people were there in the first place, gets watered down. It certainly doesn't get covered by the media in the way people would hope. You can imagine the turmoil in the mind of the newsman agonising over whether to show Miliband's speech or shots of Fortnum & Mason getting trashed. Quite so - none at all. An unequal contest if ever there was one. "Miliband, you'd better start throwing some petrol bombs or something pretty sharpish or we're cutting back to F&M for the next round of fois gras jar throwing."
Secondly, and much more importantly, it simply doesn't change a damn thing. Ever. "But if the government sees so many people rallying against the cuts, sees the depth of feeling out there, they MUST change their mind." Not so. I accept that some protests have forced councils to make some concessions over spending cut plans in various parts of the country. But, firstly, that's the councils - mainly local people making decisions about spending in areas they know, that affect people they know. And secondly, the councils can't change the government's policy, they can't change the general ideology behind the cuts. Nor can, or will, the protests. When have they? Poll tax riot in 1990, 200,000 people on the streets. Change? Nothing. Only three years later, under a new PM, was the tax was finally changed. Fifteen million people protested against the Iraq war in 2003. Didn't change a damn thing.
And the fact is, the Tories simply don't care about the votes of the type of people who frequently make up the bulk of the numbers in many of these marches. I realise there will of course have been some Tory voters in such a large crowd as gathered this weekend, but in the main, it's the same type of crowd as were protesting against the poll tax, against the wars in the Middle East and so on. Tory loyalists they ain't.
Tory ideology is not about listening to or understanding the concerns of this sort of demographic. Never has been, never will be. They are simply not going to change their spots when they know there are not enough votes even in that group of 250,000 to make any difference to them in the long run. The only hope of success is to trust that the Lib Dems can be swayed by such feeling and pressure that, in turn, pressure from them on the Conservatives to moderate the cuts can be brought to bear. So far, though, they've been little more than lapdogs to their 80's-style, Thatcherite Tory masters. Who's heard so much as a peep out of them lately? When was the last time you saw Nick Clegg make a speech or a statement of any importance? He's basically toeing the line, or he actually agrees with the depth and pace of the cuts as they're currently formulated. They're not going to do anything about it, meaning all those people who gave up their time and money to come and make their feelings known have completely wasted their time.
The only power we have is at the ballot box. Ultimately, the politicians are slaves to those little crosses on bits of paper - in Britain, punishment for complacent, uncaring, incompetent or stale governments has been meted out forcefully that way during my lifetime, most notably in the 1997 election. So I don't march, because I don't think it'll do any good. But I always, always vote. If enough people vote for change when the time comes, it will put the relative power of the vote and the march into very sharp contrast.
But I never join these marches, however much I admire the commitment of the people who do. It's not entirely down to apathy, there are two main reasons in my case. Firstly, almost inevitably in these things, apart from when there's a large crowd drawn from a specific social group such as the students, you end up with a disparate group of people who have vaguely similar sets of ideals and ways of thinking about politics, government and society. So you get a whole wide range of different agendas being pushed, different slogans being chanted, different aims from the protestors and different views on what form that protest should take, with some being more fond of direct action than others. And there's always the element of those who join in looking merely to cause trouble, stir up direct action against authority generally, any authority or establishment figure, however poorly defined that may be. And then there's the group who are there just to break shit. Anarchists, class war activists, and people who simply enjoy smashing things up. So with all those different ideas and motivations going on, it's inevitable that the central message, the original reason most people were there in the first place, gets watered down. It certainly doesn't get covered by the media in the way people would hope. You can imagine the turmoil in the mind of the newsman agonising over whether to show Miliband's speech or shots of Fortnum & Mason getting trashed. Quite so - none at all. An unequal contest if ever there was one. "Miliband, you'd better start throwing some petrol bombs or something pretty sharpish or we're cutting back to F&M for the next round of fois gras jar throwing."
Secondly, and much more importantly, it simply doesn't change a damn thing. Ever. "But if the government sees so many people rallying against the cuts, sees the depth of feeling out there, they MUST change their mind." Not so. I accept that some protests have forced councils to make some concessions over spending cut plans in various parts of the country. But, firstly, that's the councils - mainly local people making decisions about spending in areas they know, that affect people they know. And secondly, the councils can't change the government's policy, they can't change the general ideology behind the cuts. Nor can, or will, the protests. When have they? Poll tax riot in 1990, 200,000 people on the streets. Change? Nothing. Only three years later, under a new PM, was the tax was finally changed. Fifteen million people protested against the Iraq war in 2003. Didn't change a damn thing.
And the fact is, the Tories simply don't care about the votes of the type of people who frequently make up the bulk of the numbers in many of these marches. I realise there will of course have been some Tory voters in such a large crowd as gathered this weekend, but in the main, it's the same type of crowd as were protesting against the poll tax, against the wars in the Middle East and so on. Tory loyalists they ain't.
Tory ideology is not about listening to or understanding the concerns of this sort of demographic. Never has been, never will be. They are simply not going to change their spots when they know there are not enough votes even in that group of 250,000 to make any difference to them in the long run. The only hope of success is to trust that the Lib Dems can be swayed by such feeling and pressure that, in turn, pressure from them on the Conservatives to moderate the cuts can be brought to bear. So far, though, they've been little more than lapdogs to their 80's-style, Thatcherite Tory masters. Who's heard so much as a peep out of them lately? When was the last time you saw Nick Clegg make a speech or a statement of any importance? He's basically toeing the line, or he actually agrees with the depth and pace of the cuts as they're currently formulated. They're not going to do anything about it, meaning all those people who gave up their time and money to come and make their feelings known have completely wasted their time.
The only power we have is at the ballot box. Ultimately, the politicians are slaves to those little crosses on bits of paper - in Britain, punishment for complacent, uncaring, incompetent or stale governments has been meted out forcefully that way during my lifetime, most notably in the 1997 election. So I don't march, because I don't think it'll do any good. But I always, always vote. If enough people vote for change when the time comes, it will put the relative power of the vote and the march into very sharp contrast.
Monday, 21 March 2011
Wonder what Samuel Johnson would have made of this
I spent Sunday afternoon at the Royal Albert Hall, watching one of the finest orchestras in the world, the Royal Philharmonic, performing a selection of what would best be described as 'populist' classical pieces, alongside the band of the Welsh Guards and the City of London Choir. Pieces that even the likes of me, a complete musical ignoramus, of classical particularly, would recognise, though not necessarily name correctly. Throw in a laser show, indoor fireworks, cannon for the 1812 Overture, you get the idea. With celebratory greetings for birthdays and the like thrown in by the conductor, kids noisily eating popcorn even in the posh seats and the audience clapping in time to some of the pieces, Götterdämmerung at the Vienna New Year concert it wasn't.
Nonetheless, these were some of the finest musicians and singers anywhere, and it was an amazing spectacle and a display of musicianship which awed even my ignorant ears. But there were bits mixed in which I really, really didn't like. This was, after all, classical music for the British masses, and as such included a fair bit of the flag-waving, breast-beating, last night of the Proms type stuff. Thousands of little flags being waved furiously, repeated verses of Elgar's most bombastic pieces, that sort of thing.
Now I just don't like this stuff. My sense of Britishness is simply not bound up with it. Don't get me wrong, I'm of course proud to be British, but my feeling of belonging does not come in this shape. It was lapped up by the almost entirely white, largely middle-aged or older audience, but it smelt of insular, island mentality, nationalistic, Daily Mail-reading anachronism to me, and I simply don't recognise it in my own sense of national identity. I know I shouldn't let this wind me up - this was, in one respect, an extremely British affair - it wasn't taken entirely seriously, and a few paper flags, a bit of a sing-song and a few red, white and blue balloons is about as nationalistic as we get. But I felt, nonetheless, uncomfortable during those bits. Not as uncomfortable as when I almost blubbed during a stirring rendition of Nessun Dorma (yes, it was because of memories of my 19-year-old self's desolation at defeat in the World Cup semi-final at Italia 90, I freely admit), but that's probably another entry altogether.
One thing did make me laugh about it, though. Leafing through the programme bought by a friend on the way home, it turned out that the superbly-talented opera singer belting out Rule Britannia several times, wearing a union flag waistcoat, with a larger union flag held aloft behind him like an Olympian, chest puffed out, strutting around the stage like a popinjay with too much to be pleased about, was an American. Perhaps this was not nationalism after all, but biting satire...
Nonetheless, these were some of the finest musicians and singers anywhere, and it was an amazing spectacle and a display of musicianship which awed even my ignorant ears. But there were bits mixed in which I really, really didn't like. This was, after all, classical music for the British masses, and as such included a fair bit of the flag-waving, breast-beating, last night of the Proms type stuff. Thousands of little flags being waved furiously, repeated verses of Elgar's most bombastic pieces, that sort of thing.
Now I just don't like this stuff. My sense of Britishness is simply not bound up with it. Don't get me wrong, I'm of course proud to be British, but my feeling of belonging does not come in this shape. It was lapped up by the almost entirely white, largely middle-aged or older audience, but it smelt of insular, island mentality, nationalistic, Daily Mail-reading anachronism to me, and I simply don't recognise it in my own sense of national identity. I know I shouldn't let this wind me up - this was, in one respect, an extremely British affair - it wasn't taken entirely seriously, and a few paper flags, a bit of a sing-song and a few red, white and blue balloons is about as nationalistic as we get. But I felt, nonetheless, uncomfortable during those bits. Not as uncomfortable as when I almost blubbed during a stirring rendition of Nessun Dorma (yes, it was because of memories of my 19-year-old self's desolation at defeat in the World Cup semi-final at Italia 90, I freely admit), but that's probably another entry altogether.
One thing did make me laugh about it, though. Leafing through the programme bought by a friend on the way home, it turned out that the superbly-talented opera singer belting out Rule Britannia several times, wearing a union flag waistcoat, with a larger union flag held aloft behind him like an Olympian, chest puffed out, strutting around the stage like a popinjay with too much to be pleased about, was an American. Perhaps this was not nationalism after all, but biting satire...
Ninja nutters
I freely admit that I'm not down with the kidz, but I am led to believe that the new craze for wrapping items of street furniture is known as 'yarn bombing'. Well, such an explosion has taken place in my 'hood, with a group of what one can only hope are harmless eccentrics posting a video of their activities, undertaken in an effort to brighten up a dark and forbidding walkway that some locals know as the Tunnel of Death.
The film can be found here: Ninja Knitters
While I, of course, applaud all locals' efforts to cheer up their urban environment, you do sometimes think that, with the video and everything, some people do have just a little bit too much time on their hands.
The film can be found here: Ninja Knitters
While I, of course, applaud all locals' efforts to cheer up their urban environment, you do sometimes think that, with the video and everything, some people do have just a little bit too much time on their hands.
Saturday, 12 March 2011
Count your blessings
Partly because I've been fortunate enough to be spending a pleasant week in Galicia, getting drunk a lot and eating way too much extremely high quality grub, I've not really felt like saying too much about what's been going on in what feels like a tormented world at the moment. It has, frankly, been easy to feel extremely detached from it.
But those of us who are detached from the daily realities of such torment should not forget how good we have it. It's bad enough seeing the natural disasters in New Zealand and now, even worse in magnitude and destructive power, in Japan. But now the feared civil war in Libya is made real, there's developing violence in Yemen and Saudi Arabia, and who knows what else yet to come in the Arab world. None of this is likely to happen in Britain on any even vaguely comparable scale.
It's all made me think how fortunate not just I am, but all of us are who live in a stable, tolerant country, in which we're free to criticise the politicians who may be deceitful, grasping, insincere careerists, but are not Gadaffi. Where the problems which face us as a country at the moment, hoever acute they may feel to us, are largely of a financial nature. We are not seeing our society rocked by State-sponsored violence and murder, nor are we having to watch distressing pictures of entire cities laid waste by nature's indifferent killing power, or wait for news of hundreds of deaths to take shape from patchy details in the wake of an earthquake or some such.
I'm flying back home to London tomorrow, from one stable and still comparatively wealthy country to another. To see friends and family I count myself privileged to know, to return to a job I feel fortunate to have, and to a roof I'm grateful to have over my head. Watching the suffering of those in other parts of the world at the moment, I can't quite believe how lucky I am. Think on it.
But those of us who are detached from the daily realities of such torment should not forget how good we have it. It's bad enough seeing the natural disasters in New Zealand and now, even worse in magnitude and destructive power, in Japan. But now the feared civil war in Libya is made real, there's developing violence in Yemen and Saudi Arabia, and who knows what else yet to come in the Arab world. None of this is likely to happen in Britain on any even vaguely comparable scale.
It's all made me think how fortunate not just I am, but all of us are who live in a stable, tolerant country, in which we're free to criticise the politicians who may be deceitful, grasping, insincere careerists, but are not Gadaffi. Where the problems which face us as a country at the moment, hoever acute they may feel to us, are largely of a financial nature. We are not seeing our society rocked by State-sponsored violence and murder, nor are we having to watch distressing pictures of entire cities laid waste by nature's indifferent killing power, or wait for news of hundreds of deaths to take shape from patchy details in the wake of an earthquake or some such.
I'm flying back home to London tomorrow, from one stable and still comparatively wealthy country to another. To see friends and family I count myself privileged to know, to return to a job I feel fortunate to have, and to a roof I'm grateful to have over my head. Watching the suffering of those in other parts of the world at the moment, I can't quite believe how lucky I am. Think on it.
Monday, 7 March 2011
No smoke without ire
I took a flight to Porto on Friday, on the way to Spain for the annual (and entirely bonkers) carnival in Galicia. Your standard EasyJet pack 'em in, fly 'em cheap affair - nothing out of the ordinary. It was noteworthy only for one thing - a chap set off the smoke alarm in the bogs by nipping in there for a sneaky gasper.
He was a Portuguese fellow, and will not therefore necessarily have understood the warnings from the English-speaking cabin crew not to smoke on any part of the plane, and that the toilets were alarmed in case you were tempted to do so.
But he can't have missed the 'No Smoking' signs plastered all over the place, which are clear to speakers of any language, nor the recorded announcement in Portuguese issuing the same dire warnings. So the crew announced that somebody had smoked in the bog, and we were told to remain in our seats when the plane reached the stand. They clearly knew who had done the deed, and had obviously called the police. On they got, and removed the miscreant, before the rest of us more law-abiding citizens were allowed to grab our bags and disembark.
Trouble for him, I thought. But, being one of the last ones off the plane, I found myself walking alongside the same figutive from justice as we made our way into the terminal. He seemed chipper enough and even, spotting the police who'd removed him from the aircraft through the terminal window, gave them a cheery wave. And they waved back! Now I don't for one moment think the bloke should do porridge with hard labour for sneaking a fag on a flight, but given the hysteria surrounding security on any flight these days, is it a risk you'd have taken? And can you imagine the reaction of the British police, had he been flying from Porto to London instead of the other way round? I seriously doubt he would have got away with what looked like a warning, and at worst an on-the-spot fine, and a cheery wave from our own boys in blue.
Also, never having smoked, I simply do not understand the imperatives which drive smokers. But is it so vital to have a fag that you can't wait for the three hours or so between them that a flight of this length requires? Is it so vital that you would risk the wrath of the security forces to sneak a cheeky one on a flight, in an age where any small misdeed on an aircraft could see you being viewed as a potential terrorist nutcase by passengers, staff and security alike?
I think, given the possible response to such an act, in the circumstances I would have waited. But then, like I said, I've never smoked.
He was a Portuguese fellow, and will not therefore necessarily have understood the warnings from the English-speaking cabin crew not to smoke on any part of the plane, and that the toilets were alarmed in case you were tempted to do so.
But he can't have missed the 'No Smoking' signs plastered all over the place, which are clear to speakers of any language, nor the recorded announcement in Portuguese issuing the same dire warnings. So the crew announced that somebody had smoked in the bog, and we were told to remain in our seats when the plane reached the stand. They clearly knew who had done the deed, and had obviously called the police. On they got, and removed the miscreant, before the rest of us more law-abiding citizens were allowed to grab our bags and disembark.
Trouble for him, I thought. But, being one of the last ones off the plane, I found myself walking alongside the same figutive from justice as we made our way into the terminal. He seemed chipper enough and even, spotting the police who'd removed him from the aircraft through the terminal window, gave them a cheery wave. And they waved back! Now I don't for one moment think the bloke should do porridge with hard labour for sneaking a fag on a flight, but given the hysteria surrounding security on any flight these days, is it a risk you'd have taken? And can you imagine the reaction of the British police, had he been flying from Porto to London instead of the other way round? I seriously doubt he would have got away with what looked like a warning, and at worst an on-the-spot fine, and a cheery wave from our own boys in blue.
Also, never having smoked, I simply do not understand the imperatives which drive smokers. But is it so vital to have a fag that you can't wait for the three hours or so between them that a flight of this length requires? Is it so vital that you would risk the wrath of the security forces to sneak a cheeky one on a flight, in an age where any small misdeed on an aircraft could see you being viewed as a potential terrorist nutcase by passengers, staff and security alike?
I think, given the possible response to such an act, in the circumstances I would have waited. But then, like I said, I've never smoked.
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