I've written on here in the past about the dogmatic determination on the part of the Tories to sell off absolutely anything. Anything they don't want the bother of running, anything they think they can make some quick cash from, anything they can use to please the Thatcherite economists in the party, is ripe for selling.
Now, it seems, even our rights can be sold off. This piece of nutcasery is the latest example of the sort of thinking that goes on in the Cabinet, and further evidence that they simple cannot think of anything but money. Money will sort everything out - if only employers could treat people like chattels, free to dispose of them as and when they see fit and for whatever reasons, then there'd be more businesses starting up and more jobs available. Terrific!
Of course, given the likely Ts & Cs on those jobs, and the type of people you'd be working for if they only started a business on the understanding that they could just ditch you whenever they felt like it, who's going to want those jobs? Perhaps we should set a price on our dignity as well, maybe we could sell that off, and then feel free to go and work for these Victorian-style workplace despots the Tories apparently so admire.
We're talking about loss of redundancy cover. Loss of the right to fight unfair dismissal. Doubling the amount of notice of return to work from maternity leave. Other details are patchy. And companies, while unable to force existing workers to sell their rights, would be free to offer only those terms to new employees. This is, frankly, absolutely staggering.
Over-reacting? Think of the money? Not only is this piece of lunacy another tacit admission of the failure of their economic policies (people are so desperate for money that they'll sell off their basic employment rights! Yay!), but what bloody good are shares in a firm which has sacked you and gone bust, only to then rise again as a Phoenix company? Not an inconceivable outcome.
There must be rank-and-file Lib Dem members (and voters) with their heads in their hands at the moment. How did they ever end up in bed with such a crew of right-wing, thoughtless, uncaring, patrician nincompoops as these? This would be laughable if it were not quite so insidious. Osborne, not that he ever feels any such emotion of course, should be hanging his head in shame. Even if he can't see the moral wrong in these proposals, surely, surely he could have seen how they'd be received by normal working people? I despair sometimes, I really do.
Tuesday, 9 October 2012
None so blind
Extremely interesting reality/documentary hybrid on the Beeb last night. In Conspiracy Road Trip (an odd title, but what the hell...), comedian Andrew Maxwell travelled the American heartland with five British creationists. He was, it seems, trying to show them the veracity of the theory of evolution by introducing them to a series of scientists who would present their evidence for it.
The five were also asked to speak, one at a time, to the other four to outline their own feelings on the matter. What struck me was not so much the unshakeability of their beliefs - it would be a poor theologian whose entire belief system collapsed over a few days aboard a coach in such circumstances - but the apparent lack, in one or two of them, of the values they all purported to hold dear.
We had four Christians and a Muslim; two women, three men. They were variously presented with evidence from paleontologists, geologists and historians, for example a string of hominid skulls found in one, one-mile deep rock seam in a single African valley. Theories and explanations bounced back and forth - interesting stuff. In some cases, though, their faith (or simply their human prejudices) completely blinded them.
When discussing the beginnings of life on Earth with a professor of astro-physics, for example, the Muslim lad, Abdul, claimed he 'liked science', but then went on to decry it, saying that, "...science should not present things that they don't know the same way that they present things they do know. It's a sleight of hand..." This, of course, completely misses the point of science, which to my knowledge has never done any such thing. It's called a theory of evolution for a reason. From Darwin to modern scientists, the word 'theory' is still stuck in front of it. Why is it OK for religious adherents to view their great religious texts as literal, perfect and unquestionable truths but cry foul at the very idea that science may present anything as 'fact'? Far better the openness about areas of ignorance which is what science actually presents us than the closed-eye certainty of creationism.
The oldest of the group, a chap called Phil who'd taken it upon himself to be their father figure and spiritual guardian, was a fine example of Christian hypocrisy. One of the girls, Jo-Jo, admitted she wasn't much of a church-goer, as she had trouble reconciling her beliefs with the tenets of the Church. Her best friend, for example, is gay, and she "wouldn't change him for anything." The fact that she was asked about this led to Phil accusing the director of being a 'bully', calling him a 'disgusting human being' and a 'pathetic director'. He then (having checked first with the preacher that the church they were about to attend wasn't a 'gay church'), took the opportunity during the service to tell the group not to talk about homosexuality and the Church. "If the subject comes up, don't go near it...," he told the others. "Just turn to the camera and say you're being bullied. We're here to talk about evolution and creationism."
He was asked, outside the same church, if he'd directed the group on what they could or couldn't talk about. He flatly denied doing what he'd just been filmed doing. 'Disingenuous', Maxwell called it. Lying, I call it. There was only one bully on the trip, and it certainly wasn't the director. Phil, it seems, saw all scientists (even the devoutly Christian paleontologist who saw evolution as God's work) as part of some grand conspiracy to deny the 'true' age of the Earth (6,000-odd years) and bring about a Godless way of life. He criticised the fact that no 'creationist geologist' had been brought on the trip to question the scientists' evidence. Evidently he saw the point of the show rather differently to the producers, and perhaps also knew he didn't have the intellectual wherewithal to contest their claims adequately. He also showed just how much he loved his neighbours, and how much forgiveness he had in him, by refusing to speak to the girls for some time afterwards because of their reluctance to toe his line.
As it turned out, the two women at least showed themselves open-minded enough to want to 'do some more research' in one case, while Jo-Jo said that though her faith was unshaken, "...it doesn't mean that God couldn't have caused evolution. I'm not wanting to be closed off. There's too much evidence." Fair play to her - I have absolutely no doubt that her life was enriched and broadened by the experience, without her faith having been shaken in the process. I very seriously doubt the same can be said for Phil.
The five were also asked to speak, one at a time, to the other four to outline their own feelings on the matter. What struck me was not so much the unshakeability of their beliefs - it would be a poor theologian whose entire belief system collapsed over a few days aboard a coach in such circumstances - but the apparent lack, in one or two of them, of the values they all purported to hold dear.
We had four Christians and a Muslim; two women, three men. They were variously presented with evidence from paleontologists, geologists and historians, for example a string of hominid skulls found in one, one-mile deep rock seam in a single African valley. Theories and explanations bounced back and forth - interesting stuff. In some cases, though, their faith (or simply their human prejudices) completely blinded them.
When discussing the beginnings of life on Earth with a professor of astro-physics, for example, the Muslim lad, Abdul, claimed he 'liked science', but then went on to decry it, saying that, "...science should not present things that they don't know the same way that they present things they do know. It's a sleight of hand..." This, of course, completely misses the point of science, which to my knowledge has never done any such thing. It's called a theory of evolution for a reason. From Darwin to modern scientists, the word 'theory' is still stuck in front of it. Why is it OK for religious adherents to view their great religious texts as literal, perfect and unquestionable truths but cry foul at the very idea that science may present anything as 'fact'? Far better the openness about areas of ignorance which is what science actually presents us than the closed-eye certainty of creationism.
The oldest of the group, a chap called Phil who'd taken it upon himself to be their father figure and spiritual guardian, was a fine example of Christian hypocrisy. One of the girls, Jo-Jo, admitted she wasn't much of a church-goer, as she had trouble reconciling her beliefs with the tenets of the Church. Her best friend, for example, is gay, and she "wouldn't change him for anything." The fact that she was asked about this led to Phil accusing the director of being a 'bully', calling him a 'disgusting human being' and a 'pathetic director'. He then (having checked first with the preacher that the church they were about to attend wasn't a 'gay church'), took the opportunity during the service to tell the group not to talk about homosexuality and the Church. "If the subject comes up, don't go near it...," he told the others. "Just turn to the camera and say you're being bullied. We're here to talk about evolution and creationism."
He was asked, outside the same church, if he'd directed the group on what they could or couldn't talk about. He flatly denied doing what he'd just been filmed doing. 'Disingenuous', Maxwell called it. Lying, I call it. There was only one bully on the trip, and it certainly wasn't the director. Phil, it seems, saw all scientists (even the devoutly Christian paleontologist who saw evolution as God's work) as part of some grand conspiracy to deny the 'true' age of the Earth (6,000-odd years) and bring about a Godless way of life. He criticised the fact that no 'creationist geologist' had been brought on the trip to question the scientists' evidence. Evidently he saw the point of the show rather differently to the producers, and perhaps also knew he didn't have the intellectual wherewithal to contest their claims adequately. He also showed just how much he loved his neighbours, and how much forgiveness he had in him, by refusing to speak to the girls for some time afterwards because of their reluctance to toe his line.
As it turned out, the two women at least showed themselves open-minded enough to want to 'do some more research' in one case, while Jo-Jo said that though her faith was unshaken, "...it doesn't mean that God couldn't have caused evolution. I'm not wanting to be closed off. There's too much evidence." Fair play to her - I have absolutely no doubt that her life was enriched and broadened by the experience, without her faith having been shaken in the process. I very seriously doubt the same can be said for Phil.
Thursday, 4 October 2012
Welcome to reality
An outstanding and humbling piece of TV last night. I strongly recommend that you catch Welcome to India on the Beeb's iPlayer if you can, before it disappears. The first in a series of three, it was a programme that would have shown even the most stubborn of ingrates counting their blessings in western Europe.
Some startling facts emerged from this programme - that some 17% of the world's entire supply of gold is in the homes of Indian housewives, for example, a figure to exceed the combined total of the reserves of the UK, the US and the IMD. Gold, in fact, featured heavily in what followed. The wealth stored up in that total is not, does not, of course, filter all the way down the production chain.
We were introduced to the lads who smelt gold in very small quantities on the rooftops of Calcutta houses, mixing the raw materials by hand. Raw materials which included strong acids and liquid mercury. They 'cleaned' their hands by rubbing them against the nearest wall, taking the top layer of skin off in the process.
Further down the scale, though, were the lads who leave their single-room dwelling, which fifteen of them were sharing, at 3am to go to work. Walking the (briefly) quiet streets of Calcutta at this hour, past the dozing bodies of countless hundreds of people sleeping out in the road (any one of whose stories could surely just as easily have been told), they swept up the dust and shit (literally) from the road in the gold district and processed it, looking for the tiniest flakes of gold. Hunting for dust-sized flakes from people's skin or clothes, they eked a living from the street.
One entrepreneurial chap had decided the drains offered better opportunities, as so many people wash in the road that there must be gold down there. Standing in a culvert that was basically the size of an upright coffin, shovelling black mud, rubbish and sewage into bags to sell on to larger-scale operators, they formed part of an economy in which two-thirds of the country's GDP is 'off the books'. With his meagre income he and his friends had, through their willingness to stand neck-deep in filth every day, earned enough to rent a room of his own. One room, about the size of a British box room, in which he and five or six others would be able to live happily and escape the prison of fifteen-to-a-room rented accommodation he was used to. I could not even begin to adequately describe the toilet facilities. Our entrepreneur, though, was a very happy man with the new arrangements.
There were other stories. People living in shacks of bamboo sticks and plastic sheeting, trying to grow fenugreek on the beach or run an illicit bar, dodging council demolition trucks intent on destroying their homes. Lads selling pirated books to people in cars, dodging traffic on the busiest main roads in the city and sleeping in the park. None of these people complaining about their lot, all of them quick to smile, all looking out for each other.
I will make a point of watching the other two programmes in this short series. My girlfriend and I were looking at each other during this first episode, marvelling at how extraordinarily wealthy, how incredibly fortunate we are. But for an accident of birth any one of us could just as easily be living the same life, or worse, as those featured. I urge you to catch this if you can - as well as a lesson in our own good fortune, it will also serve as a reminder that for all the mindless, vacuous, tissue-thin celeb-obsessed bollocks that's on telly these days, it's still capable of pedagogical and emotional power.
Some startling facts emerged from this programme - that some 17% of the world's entire supply of gold is in the homes of Indian housewives, for example, a figure to exceed the combined total of the reserves of the UK, the US and the IMD. Gold, in fact, featured heavily in what followed. The wealth stored up in that total is not, does not, of course, filter all the way down the production chain.
We were introduced to the lads who smelt gold in very small quantities on the rooftops of Calcutta houses, mixing the raw materials by hand. Raw materials which included strong acids and liquid mercury. They 'cleaned' their hands by rubbing them against the nearest wall, taking the top layer of skin off in the process.
Further down the scale, though, were the lads who leave their single-room dwelling, which fifteen of them were sharing, at 3am to go to work. Walking the (briefly) quiet streets of Calcutta at this hour, past the dozing bodies of countless hundreds of people sleeping out in the road (any one of whose stories could surely just as easily have been told), they swept up the dust and shit (literally) from the road in the gold district and processed it, looking for the tiniest flakes of gold. Hunting for dust-sized flakes from people's skin or clothes, they eked a living from the street.
One entrepreneurial chap had decided the drains offered better opportunities, as so many people wash in the road that there must be gold down there. Standing in a culvert that was basically the size of an upright coffin, shovelling black mud, rubbish and sewage into bags to sell on to larger-scale operators, they formed part of an economy in which two-thirds of the country's GDP is 'off the books'. With his meagre income he and his friends had, through their willingness to stand neck-deep in filth every day, earned enough to rent a room of his own. One room, about the size of a British box room, in which he and five or six others would be able to live happily and escape the prison of fifteen-to-a-room rented accommodation he was used to. I could not even begin to adequately describe the toilet facilities. Our entrepreneur, though, was a very happy man with the new arrangements.
There were other stories. People living in shacks of bamboo sticks and plastic sheeting, trying to grow fenugreek on the beach or run an illicit bar, dodging council demolition trucks intent on destroying their homes. Lads selling pirated books to people in cars, dodging traffic on the busiest main roads in the city and sleeping in the park. None of these people complaining about their lot, all of them quick to smile, all looking out for each other.
I will make a point of watching the other two programmes in this short series. My girlfriend and I were looking at each other during this first episode, marvelling at how extraordinarily wealthy, how incredibly fortunate we are. But for an accident of birth any one of us could just as easily be living the same life, or worse, as those featured. I urge you to catch this if you can - as well as a lesson in our own good fortune, it will also serve as a reminder that for all the mindless, vacuous, tissue-thin celeb-obsessed bollocks that's on telly these days, it's still capable of pedagogical and emotional power.
Monday, 1 October 2012
Trial by media
I have no doubt that you've seen the allegations being made about the late Sir Jimmy Savile in the press lately. I don't propose to lay them out here - it's easy enough to find them. His family are, needless to say, not happy about it, and I can see why.
History is littered with tales of posthumous trials. Perhaps the most infamous of them is the 'Cadaver Synod' – in January 898, Pope Stephen had the corpse of his predecessor, Formosus, dug up, propped up on a seat in court in full Papal regalia, and tried for perjury. Formosus was found guilty and stripped of his Papacy, some seven months after he'd died. (He must have been gutted.) It's one of the more bizarre episodes of post-mortem justice in history, but serves as a handy reminder of the pointlessness of trying somebody when they're already beyond punishment.
That's particularly true when that trial happens not in court, but in the media. This particular kangaroo court can be held openly as there's no possibility of the accused coming to the stand, no jury to prejudice, at least not in court. I can't understand the timing of it – surely in a case like this, it would be better to make the accusations while the subject of them is still alive? As things stand, Mr Savile cannot defend himself, he cannot be punished if he actually committed the offences alleged, and if the allegations are true then the victims must go on suffering knowing that nothing can be done to bring the perpetrator to justice.
What, then, is the point of making the allegations now? I've already heard, in discussion of this, that somehow he was regarded as above punishment because of his fame, should any allegations have been made while he lived. The alleged victims therefore felt it was either pointless or, worse, risky to speak out at the time. This strikes me as unlikely – these days fame seems to expose people to greater scrutiny, greater punishment and greater opprobrium than would be the case if they were unknown (though there will always of course be some people who believe their idols incapable of doing wrong). I can't see how his fame would have protected him, should anybody have chosen to speak out sooner – quite the opposite in fact.
It's a horrible, horrible case because now either the man's name is being dragged wrongly through the mud or, much worse, a despicable set of offences has gone completely unpunished. Pretty damn grim all round – I bet the red-tops are absolutely loving it.
History is littered with tales of posthumous trials. Perhaps the most infamous of them is the 'Cadaver Synod' – in January 898, Pope Stephen had the corpse of his predecessor, Formosus, dug up, propped up on a seat in court in full Papal regalia, and tried for perjury. Formosus was found guilty and stripped of his Papacy, some seven months after he'd died. (He must have been gutted.) It's one of the more bizarre episodes of post-mortem justice in history, but serves as a handy reminder of the pointlessness of trying somebody when they're already beyond punishment.
That's particularly true when that trial happens not in court, but in the media. This particular kangaroo court can be held openly as there's no possibility of the accused coming to the stand, no jury to prejudice, at least not in court. I can't understand the timing of it – surely in a case like this, it would be better to make the accusations while the subject of them is still alive? As things stand, Mr Savile cannot defend himself, he cannot be punished if he actually committed the offences alleged, and if the allegations are true then the victims must go on suffering knowing that nothing can be done to bring the perpetrator to justice.
What, then, is the point of making the allegations now? I've already heard, in discussion of this, that somehow he was regarded as above punishment because of his fame, should any allegations have been made while he lived. The alleged victims therefore felt it was either pointless or, worse, risky to speak out at the time. This strikes me as unlikely – these days fame seems to expose people to greater scrutiny, greater punishment and greater opprobrium than would be the case if they were unknown (though there will always of course be some people who believe their idols incapable of doing wrong). I can't see how his fame would have protected him, should anybody have chosen to speak out sooner – quite the opposite in fact.
It's a horrible, horrible case because now either the man's name is being dragged wrongly through the mud or, much worse, a despicable set of offences has gone completely unpunished. Pretty damn grim all round – I bet the red-tops are absolutely loving it.
Child-free flights
Saw this story on the Beeb recently, and it reminded me of the last flight I took, just over a week ago. It was absolutely full of kids – at least 35 of them. Since the airline I was flying with boarded 'people flying travelling with young children' after those who'd paid extra to get on quickly, there were no more than 30 or 40 of us left to board when they'd all got on.
Now I usually sit as far away from any kids on the flight as possible, but since they were everywhere on this one, there was no such escape. I had to sit with a child, a girl (don't ask me how old she was, I have absolutely no idea how to place kids' ages), right behind me. Let's guess that she was around six, though I honestly have no idea. She was, in fairness to her, as good as gold all flight. The same cannot be said for the much younger sprog at the back, still a babe in arms, who absolutely screamed his/her lungs out for the entire flight. I'm talking 35 minutes' delay sitting on the tarmac before taking off, then 2 hours' flying time, then the taxi to the terminal. This kid absolutely went for it from the off, and his/her commitment to bawling for the duration was total. Add that gob to the general cacophony of other kids on the plane, and I'd have gladly paid considerably extra to take a flight without them.
So here's my idea on how you handle this:
Any route with more than one flight per day has one of those flights made 'no children'.
(One flight per airline per route).
Punters wishing to take that flight pay, say, £20 on top of their ticket for the privilege.
Those £20s collected are used to buy kit for the other flights, full of kids, to make the kids' journey more comfortable for them. Any oddments that will shut kids up for a couple of hours; toys, alcohol-infused dummies, whatever – I have no idea what they'd need. (Can you tell that I'm not a parent?)
Or those twenties could be sent to childrens' charities.
Happy days. I wouldn't make this compulsory, of course – that would be discriminatory against people with kids. But I wouldn't mind betting that any airline which introduces a child-free flight will fill it pretty promptly, even at higher prices than the other flights. I'd certainly be buying.
Anyway, on my flight Baby Big Lungs eventually quietened just as the seatbelt signs were switched off and people started to get up to collect their stuff to disembark. Such was the number of kids on the flight that the crew felt obliged to ping the cabin with a message to ensure that all children were supervised in the general mêlée getting off the plane. That kid behind me clearly felt she was being hard done by, having behaved more or less immaculately for the whole flight. 'Supervised?' she said loudly, in an outraged tone, and got a laugh from the whole plane.
Big Lungs was clearly outraged as well because, at this, clearly having had enough of a breather, he/she switched the foghorn back on and started screaming again. It was a joy to get into the peace and tranquility(!) of the passport queue. Like I said, child free flights – where do I sign?
Now I usually sit as far away from any kids on the flight as possible, but since they were everywhere on this one, there was no such escape. I had to sit with a child, a girl (don't ask me how old she was, I have absolutely no idea how to place kids' ages), right behind me. Let's guess that she was around six, though I honestly have no idea. She was, in fairness to her, as good as gold all flight. The same cannot be said for the much younger sprog at the back, still a babe in arms, who absolutely screamed his/her lungs out for the entire flight. I'm talking 35 minutes' delay sitting on the tarmac before taking off, then 2 hours' flying time, then the taxi to the terminal. This kid absolutely went for it from the off, and his/her commitment to bawling for the duration was total. Add that gob to the general cacophony of other kids on the plane, and I'd have gladly paid considerably extra to take a flight without them.
So here's my idea on how you handle this:
Any route with more than one flight per day has one of those flights made 'no children'.
(One flight per airline per route).
Punters wishing to take that flight pay, say, £20 on top of their ticket for the privilege.
Those £20s collected are used to buy kit for the other flights, full of kids, to make the kids' journey more comfortable for them. Any oddments that will shut kids up for a couple of hours; toys, alcohol-infused dummies, whatever – I have no idea what they'd need. (Can you tell that I'm not a parent?)
Or those twenties could be sent to childrens' charities.
Happy days. I wouldn't make this compulsory, of course – that would be discriminatory against people with kids. But I wouldn't mind betting that any airline which introduces a child-free flight will fill it pretty promptly, even at higher prices than the other flights. I'd certainly be buying.
Anyway, on my flight Baby Big Lungs eventually quietened just as the seatbelt signs were switched off and people started to get up to collect their stuff to disembark. Such was the number of kids on the flight that the crew felt obliged to ping the cabin with a message to ensure that all children were supervised in the general mêlée getting off the plane. That kid behind me clearly felt she was being hard done by, having behaved more or less immaculately for the whole flight. 'Supervised?' she said loudly, in an outraged tone, and got a laugh from the whole plane.
Big Lungs was clearly outraged as well because, at this, clearly having had enough of a breather, he/she switched the foghorn back on and started screaming again. It was a joy to get into the peace and tranquility(!) of the passport queue. Like I said, child free flights – where do I sign?
Thursday, 27 September 2012
The first counter-blows have been struck!
Those who know me will immediately recognise how pleasing I find this story from the Beeb today. I complain fairly frequently about our complicity in the Americanisation of our language, and my workmates take great delight in trying to get a rise out of me by using American words and American pronunciations at every possible opportunity.
It's an old joke that the UK and US are two nations divided by a common language, but for a long time it's felt that the weight of change was very, very heavily in America's favour, an inevitable consequence of the widespread British consumption of US mass media. So it's nice to know there are a few little counter-jabs scoring in our favour at the moment.
Number one target should be the execrable word 'tuxedo'. If we can get them calling those 'dinner jackets' then we really will have landed one right on their linguistic solar plexus, and perhaps have done something to hold back its apparently unstoppable infiltration of our spoken and, worse, written language. I'm not holding my breath though.
It's an old joke that the UK and US are two nations divided by a common language, but for a long time it's felt that the weight of change was very, very heavily in America's favour, an inevitable consequence of the widespread British consumption of US mass media. So it's nice to know there are a few little counter-jabs scoring in our favour at the moment.
Number one target should be the execrable word 'tuxedo'. If we can get them calling those 'dinner jackets' then we really will have landed one right on their linguistic solar plexus, and perhaps have done something to hold back its apparently unstoppable infiltration of our spoken and, worse, written language. I'm not holding my breath though.
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Time and a place
I've just been through Piccadilly Circus on a bus, on the way to work. At all the exits to the tube there, and on the street junctions, were groups of young lads and lasses dressed in Santa Claus outfits, handing out flyers.
Now, speaking as a lover of Christmas, I find this irritating and slightly depressing. Can we not be allowed to live our lives chronologically correctly, as the occasions actually fall? Christmas in September, Easter in February, school uniforms being plugged the moment the summer holidays start (how I hated that as as kid...) There are weeks between, for example, November 5th and Christmas, during which time thoughts can more reasonably be turned toward it, I think. At least by then it's dark and cold, as it's supposed to be at Christmas. This morning was pleasant and sunny - the Piccadilly Circus girls, for example, were wearing those 'sexy' Santa short skirts and stockings, which I could not see them being so cheerful in come December.
But since we're busy moving everything forward in the calendar, why stop there? Let's all go to the beach in January, and demand birthday presents 9 weeks in advance. Why not turn up for meetings days before you're supposed to? Can we please be allowed to enjoy the last few rays of the sun before we start putting twinkly lights up?
Now, speaking as a lover of Christmas, I find this irritating and slightly depressing. Can we not be allowed to live our lives chronologically correctly, as the occasions actually fall? Christmas in September, Easter in February, school uniforms being plugged the moment the summer holidays start (how I hated that as as kid...) There are weeks between, for example, November 5th and Christmas, during which time thoughts can more reasonably be turned toward it, I think. At least by then it's dark and cold, as it's supposed to be at Christmas. This morning was pleasant and sunny - the Piccadilly Circus girls, for example, were wearing those 'sexy' Santa short skirts and stockings, which I could not see them being so cheerful in come December.
But since we're busy moving everything forward in the calendar, why stop there? Let's all go to the beach in January, and demand birthday presents 9 weeks in advance. Why not turn up for meetings days before you're supposed to? Can we please be allowed to enjoy the last few rays of the sun before we start putting twinkly lights up?
Wednesday, 12 September 2012
Justice for the 96
Back in November of last year I wrote this piece, on the successful efforts of countless thousands of people in applying sufficient pressure on the Government to fully disclose documents relating to the Hillsborough disaster.
Those documents would not ordinarily be released for another 7 years, and their content shows that there are plenty of people with good reason to wish they hadn't been. Many of the families, and many within the football supporting community as a whole, have suspected all along that there was a cover up of the facts of the case. But just how shocking some of the revelations are has led to the Prime Minister standing in a packed and silent House of Commons to offer a formal apology for what he called the 'double injustice' of the original disaster and subsequent smearing and blame of the Liverpool fans.
Some of the main points raised by the independent review, but never published before today, include:
- New evidence about how the authorities failed, including documents which show a delay from the emergency services when people were being crushed (evidently up to 41 lives could have been saved if the emergency services had acted differently)
- Shortcomings in the response by the ambulance service and other emergency services in addition to failings by police
- Rescue attempts were held back by failures of leadership and co-ordination
- Victims' families were correct in their belief that some of the authorities attempted to create a "completely unjust" account of events that sought to blame the fans
- "Despicable untruths" about the behaviour of fans were part of police efforts "to develop and publicise a version of events that focused on allegations of drunkenness, ticketlessness and violence"
- Police officers carried out police national computer checks on those who had died in an attempt "to impugn the reputations of the deceased"
- 116 police statements amended or shortened to remove negative comments about South Yorkshire police's handling of the incident
These quoted from the BBC's website.
23 years of campaigning for the truth are finally over, but this must not be the end. The findings of the original public enquiry must be quashed, and the people who have lied, the people who have covered up, and the people who have blamed the fans must be punished. The police's part in this must be revealed to the full glare of public scrutiny, and those responsible both for exacerbating the disaster and then smearing the victims in the aftermath must be punished.
I particularly want to see Kelvin MacKenzie sued for what he did. "The Truth", screamed his despicable rag, The Sun, while the victims still lay in the morgues. Liverpool fans caused the crush. Liverpool fans robbed the dead. Liverpool fans spat at, abused and urinated on police officers. It must be true, right? Football fans - tribal, snarling, atavistic scum, right? The Sun said it was their fault, and millions believed them. All now proven, as has been said all along by those who were there, to be utter lies. His former paper's forthcoming apology will cut little ice in Liverpool, where sales of The Sun have never recovered after what they did, and never will.
I want to hear Thatcher apologise for basically demonising football fans for years afterwards, choosing to believe the lies of a police officer over what eye witnesses were saying, and for her government's refusal to properly and impartially investigate what happened.
There is no sense of celebration, of course. The families and friends of the victims have vindication but not yet the full justice they crave. But they will. As I said back in November, the truth will out in the end. Tireless work by campaigners, notably among them Andy Burnham MP, who deserves great credit for his determination on this matter, is finally going to get justice for the 96.
It's not just footballers who should learn an Olympic lesson
We've all seen the pictures of the Chancellor being booed heartily by the crowd in the Olympic Stadium when he took part in a medal ceremony. The reaction of most people seemed to be amusement and it is, in fairness, always slightly funny to see a politician getting the bird when they stick their head above the parapet.
But the Tories should be careful to heed what was a pretty emphatic warning. The sound did not come across as a few malcontents - it seemed as though the entire stadium, 82,000 people, were joining in lustily. That is a significant and representative sample of the electorate they have to face at the next general election, letting a deeply unpopular Chancellor know what they think of him. Not that I believe it was an entirely party political thing - witness the reception Cameron and Boris Johnson, Tories both, received at the parade of Olympians outside Buckingham Palace on Monday 10th.
Rather, this was, I believe, a firm statement of the distaste people feel for a man who's making savage cuts to budgets across the public sector, across services that affect everybody, and ignoring the howls of protest that he's doing so too quickly and too deeply. The reshuffle (or rearrangement of the Titanic's deck chairs) they just undertook left Osborne bizarrely unaffected. He seems absolutely bomb-proof, of all the possible candidates Cameron could have moved. I don't know if this represents blind faith in their dogmatic approach to spending policy, blind faith in Osborne himself or simple, stubborn stupidity.
Whichever it is, the Tories may find out to their cost just how heartfelt those boos were, how indicative of the strength of feeling against the Chancellor, if they do not heed them.
But the Tories should be careful to heed what was a pretty emphatic warning. The sound did not come across as a few malcontents - it seemed as though the entire stadium, 82,000 people, were joining in lustily. That is a significant and representative sample of the electorate they have to face at the next general election, letting a deeply unpopular Chancellor know what they think of him. Not that I believe it was an entirely party political thing - witness the reception Cameron and Boris Johnson, Tories both, received at the parade of Olympians outside Buckingham Palace on Monday 10th.
Rather, this was, I believe, a firm statement of the distaste people feel for a man who's making savage cuts to budgets across the public sector, across services that affect everybody, and ignoring the howls of protest that he's doing so too quickly and too deeply. The reshuffle (or rearrangement of the Titanic's deck chairs) they just undertook left Osborne bizarrely unaffected. He seems absolutely bomb-proof, of all the possible candidates Cameron could have moved. I don't know if this represents blind faith in their dogmatic approach to spending policy, blind faith in Osborne himself or simple, stubborn stupidity.
Whichever it is, the Tories may find out to their cost just how heartfelt those boos were, how indicative of the strength of feeling against the Chancellor, if they do not heed them.
Monday, 3 September 2012
Humbling experience at the Paralympics
Sunday was spent at the Paralympics, in the Olympic Park, on a day pass secured by a mate. They've worked things a bit more informally for these games than they did at the Olympics - £10 gets you into the Park, and you can then watch any sport at which there are seats available. This does not, regrettably, get you into the really popular events like the velodrome or the athletics, but it still represents bloody good value. I'm pleased to report that the Park was absolutely swarming with people - the British have clearly embraced the Paralympics just as they did the Olympics.
If any of what follows is patronising to the people about whom I'm writing, I humbly apologise, I certainly do not mean it to. I was particularly keen to see wheelchair basketball - it looked brilliant on the trailers and I hadn't got into the basketball arena when I'd been to the Olympics before. It did not, needless to say, disappoint. A decent crowd in a towering, steep-sided arena, seats with terrific views at no extra cost to the tenner you'd paid to get in, and the same sort of enthusiasm and excitement which characterised the Games a few weeks ago.
What was different, of course, was the athletes. Seriously, sitting there watching them was an awesome experience, in the genuine and true sense of the word. What else can you feel for the Italian basketball player, no legs, only one hand, tearing about the court and scoring baskets? I can't begin to imagine my own response should I find myself wheelchair-bound but I'd be absolutely chuffed with myself if I showed even 10% of the determination and drive that these athletes have. Sitting there with a beer in my hand, knowing my own portly body does no more than play a bit of footy on a Tuesday and get dragged to the gym when I'm not feeling too lazy, makes you sort of wonder what the fuck you've been doing with your time, and how much you take your own body for granted.
The Italians won that one, anyway, leaving a South African side yet to taste victory in the competition, but the honest truth is, I couldn't have given less of a damn about the score. I was, and here's the bit in which I may unwillingly patronise the players, thoroughly bloody impressed with all of them.
Same goes for the wheelchair tennis doubles I also saw. A British side, enjoying the same sort of support all the British Olympians enjoyed, defeating a couple of Canadian lads in straight sets. I've never watched competition tennis, so have no frame of reference with the non-disabled professionals, but what I saw had pace, power and intensity, with one of the British lads in particular showing a deftness of touch on the volley which any tennis player would be bloody thrilled with.
Late in the evening, back home, I saw Pistorius's surprise defeat to the Brazilian lad and his subsequent criticism of the winner's blades in the post-race interview. Here's the story if you missed it. It was a reminder, if any were needed, that the Paralympians take their sport exactly as seriously as everybody else, and that, regrettably, the politicking, arguments and possible cheating are the same. It's sport, basically, exactly as the Olympics are. But the South African's comments were nonetheless disappointing, especially in the light of what he had to go through to be able to run alongside so-called able-bodied athletes just a few weeks ago. He fought a long battle to prove that his blades give him no advantage over runners using only their own legs, as it were, a battle he eventually (and officially, in the eyes of the sport) won. He should perhaps remember that when he thinks about criticising somebody else's blades in future, if he's not to damage the sport's credibility in some eyes.
If any of what follows is patronising to the people about whom I'm writing, I humbly apologise, I certainly do not mean it to. I was particularly keen to see wheelchair basketball - it looked brilliant on the trailers and I hadn't got into the basketball arena when I'd been to the Olympics before. It did not, needless to say, disappoint. A decent crowd in a towering, steep-sided arena, seats with terrific views at no extra cost to the tenner you'd paid to get in, and the same sort of enthusiasm and excitement which characterised the Games a few weeks ago.
What was different, of course, was the athletes. Seriously, sitting there watching them was an awesome experience, in the genuine and true sense of the word. What else can you feel for the Italian basketball player, no legs, only one hand, tearing about the court and scoring baskets? I can't begin to imagine my own response should I find myself wheelchair-bound but I'd be absolutely chuffed with myself if I showed even 10% of the determination and drive that these athletes have. Sitting there with a beer in my hand, knowing my own portly body does no more than play a bit of footy on a Tuesday and get dragged to the gym when I'm not feeling too lazy, makes you sort of wonder what the fuck you've been doing with your time, and how much you take your own body for granted.
The Italians won that one, anyway, leaving a South African side yet to taste victory in the competition, but the honest truth is, I couldn't have given less of a damn about the score. I was, and here's the bit in which I may unwillingly patronise the players, thoroughly bloody impressed with all of them.
Same goes for the wheelchair tennis doubles I also saw. A British side, enjoying the same sort of support all the British Olympians enjoyed, defeating a couple of Canadian lads in straight sets. I've never watched competition tennis, so have no frame of reference with the non-disabled professionals, but what I saw had pace, power and intensity, with one of the British lads in particular showing a deftness of touch on the volley which any tennis player would be bloody thrilled with.
Late in the evening, back home, I saw Pistorius's surprise defeat to the Brazilian lad and his subsequent criticism of the winner's blades in the post-race interview. Here's the story if you missed it. It was a reminder, if any were needed, that the Paralympians take their sport exactly as seriously as everybody else, and that, regrettably, the politicking, arguments and possible cheating are the same. It's sport, basically, exactly as the Olympics are. But the South African's comments were nonetheless disappointing, especially in the light of what he had to go through to be able to run alongside so-called able-bodied athletes just a few weeks ago. He fought a long battle to prove that his blades give him no advantage over runners using only their own legs, as it were, a battle he eventually (and officially, in the eyes of the sport) won. He should perhaps remember that when he thinks about criticising somebody else's blades in future, if he's not to damage the sport's credibility in some eyes.
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