When thinking of walking in any fine city
It’s always agreed that Paris is pretty
But the stink of men’s piss
And squashed dog crap means this:
A stroll in this city’s quite shitty.
Pity.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Monday, May 02, 2011
Royal Wedding Brilliant Ruse
Although unusually over elaborate for the army, the Royal Wedding brilliantly disguised the true nature of William and Harry's almost lifelong training for this significant day, distracting almost the entire world. Friends of these blood brothers have revealed that William and Harry had been in arduous training for some years alongside Kath and Pip, for their long planned operation to nip over and assassinate Bin Laden on the night of the apparent nuptials.
It's staggering that this operation has been over six years in preparation. In 2005, as soon as it was known that a fortified mansion was being built for Bin Laden, MI6 sought the best candidates to blast their way in and remove the alleged mastermind of the Twin Towers attack. A long courtship between Britain's two best operatives was set up while the pair were still at University, culminating in the huge event we witnessed on Friday.
It didn't quite go according to plan. Harry almost blew their cover; watched by millions he was overheard saying to William in the Abbey, "There's been a problem with the weather. You're going to have to go through with the wedding night." It was impressive that Kath had got herself seriously thin and fit in order to get into the secure compound in Pakistan - much like her namesake, Catherine Zeta Jones in the Sean Connery film, bending and flexing under and over infra-red security beams. She will make a wonderful military wife, cool under pressure.
However, two days later than planned, the four of them made it in and out of the Bin Laden stronghold without hurting themselves, in only 40 minutes and, with typical British reserve, they have allowed the Americans to take the credit while William and Kath pretended to be having a honeymoon weekend and Harry and Pip dismantled the helicopter and destroyed the evidence, ditching everything in the sea.
With breathtaking audacity, the teamleaders drove off together like any real newly weds in superb Aston Martin, without a bullet proof vest or bodyguard between them, on their way to who knew what fate awaited them in the days ahead. Ably supported by their co-ops, Harry and Pip, these young people have set the standard for confidence and professionalism, and fearlessness in the face of crowd hysteria.
It's staggering that this operation has been over six years in preparation. In 2005, as soon as it was known that a fortified mansion was being built for Bin Laden, MI6 sought the best candidates to blast their way in and remove the alleged mastermind of the Twin Towers attack. A long courtship between Britain's two best operatives was set up while the pair were still at University, culminating in the huge event we witnessed on Friday.
It didn't quite go according to plan. Harry almost blew their cover; watched by millions he was overheard saying to William in the Abbey, "There's been a problem with the weather. You're going to have to go through with the wedding night." It was impressive that Kath had got herself seriously thin and fit in order to get into the secure compound in Pakistan - much like her namesake, Catherine Zeta Jones in the Sean Connery film, bending and flexing under and over infra-red security beams. She will make a wonderful military wife, cool under pressure.
However, two days later than planned, the four of them made it in and out of the Bin Laden stronghold without hurting themselves, in only 40 minutes and, with typical British reserve, they have allowed the Americans to take the credit while William and Kath pretended to be having a honeymoon weekend and Harry and Pip dismantled the helicopter and destroyed the evidence, ditching everything in the sea.
With breathtaking audacity, the teamleaders drove off together like any real newly weds in superb Aston Martin, without a bullet proof vest or bodyguard between them, on their way to who knew what fate awaited them in the days ahead. Ably supported by their co-ops, Harry and Pip, these young people have set the standard for confidence and professionalism, and fearlessness in the face of crowd hysteria.
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Some Enchanted Afternoon
The tall young man at the back of the church stands with an air of complete assurance, his height lending elegance to his simple grey lounge suit. His hair has a natural curl, cut short and neat, his face a pleasing mix of even featured attractiveness and authority. He scans the interior, walks with swift, long strides up the aisle to the altar where he confers with an obese man, shabbily dressed in faded black sweatpants and crew neck sweatshirt, his hair and beard greasy. This enormous man is pale, his skin the sickly hue of a corpse beside the pink faced young man beside him and, when the exchange is over, he moves away, slowly pushing the bulk of his stomach ahead of him, breathing with difficulty.
The young man hurries to the back of the church, gives instructions to a pre-pubescent boy, and walks forward to stand beside a fidgety dark haired young man in the front pew. The boy gathers up the orders of service, placing one on each seat and the two men stand together, their backs now to the door. They exchange concerned looks as the dark haired man rummages around in his jacket pocket, perhaps for the third time, and brings out the ring box.
Behind them the congregation gather. No-one is comfortable in their clothes; the elderly seem fragile and weary, the young are bright-eyed and whispering, pulling at their straps and hemlines, some men have the shaven stubble heads of Victorian melodrama convicts, some women display wide and deep chest flesh; thighs gleam below micro skirts and one middle-aged woman’s great slab back strains the seams of her plunge-backed, cream-black, too-tight dress.
The choir is singing now and the attractive long-legged young man swings round a couple of times to glance at the wide-open doors.
The choir finish; the organist pulls out all the stops and waits. There is silence. The empty doorway gapes.
The sound of light feet, and laughter, a swirl of blue, another, another. Hair flying in the breeze, flowers and ribbons flash colour; the bridesmaids run past the open doors in the sunlight. A noiseless, sleek black limousine stops.
The enormous man steps out of the vestry, his bulk now covered with golden-brocade. He promenades down the aisle, fills the doorway, speaks to the bride and her father at length, both invisible beneath his vastness. The congregation shuffle in their seats and he returns up the aisle to stand ready, his too-long hair slicked down against his neck.
The organ blasts. The bride enters the church, her strapless dress tight against her tiny frame, her shoulders burnt Indian brown, and her hair ebony-dyed. She draws close to her fiancé, trembling a little on her high heels, and turns to her bridesmaids. She does not look at her groom, the now solemn-faced tall young man. She is still attentive to her bridesmaids and he glances at the long hem of her dress, kicking aside the train so he can stand closer to her. He stares straight ahead at the priest; he is ready.
She straightens, hands now free of flowers, her face a mask beneath stage make-up. They do not look at one another as the priest begins his reading, intent on their individual discomfort in their unfamiliar clothes, the unfamiliar place and the uniqueness of their situation, this experience they will have only once.
They stand together, their futures stretching out before them, expectant of gravity, wise words and guidance but instead the priest addresses the congregation, over their heads. It is as if the lovers are not there. He tells a story about performing his first wedding as a young, lightweight curate and the ill effects of flash photography on his eyes, blinding him to the rest of the proceedings. As if he is not blind now. He follows this with another rambling request to turn off mobile ‘phones. The couple wait. In this great moment of their lives, when they have come together, to stand before their God, their families and their friends, the great moment of magic and majesty has flown.
The priest reads. The matron of honour reads, speaking chosen words to her two friends, beginning to draw the focus back. The choir sings ‘Down In The River To Pray,’ the harmonies blend and, when the gospel song is almost over, the groom’s throat is moving up and down as though he might choke and, as the choir take their seats, his eyes burn red.
Their hands now joined, and placed on the satin cushion, the tall self-assured young man now steadies himself before his bride, shaking one leg as though he has a cramp in his calf. He straightens and answers, “I will.”
The priest asks him to repeat:
“With my body I honour you.”
The groom looks at her and vows it will be so in a voice that has gaps in it.
The pries dictates: ‘all that I am I give to you.’
Silence.
The priest bends his head towards the young man and gently repeats, ‘all that I am I give to you,’
“I know. I know.” The groom shakes his leg again and straightens up but his voice is broken. “All that I am I give to you.” A hint of sobs breaks into the phrase.
He looks into her eyes again and now they share a smile, “and all that I have I share with you,”
It’s easier now.
“Within the love of God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
When she makes her vows to him, she stares up into his eyes, holding his gaze in hers, her brown eyes huge and dark with intensity and meaning. They hold this look between them that only they can share, this look that travels deeper than flesh, deeper than the knowledge they have of each other and deep into that place which we think we have forgotten but which we know so well, it is home.
The young man hurries to the back of the church, gives instructions to a pre-pubescent boy, and walks forward to stand beside a fidgety dark haired young man in the front pew. The boy gathers up the orders of service, placing one on each seat and the two men stand together, their backs now to the door. They exchange concerned looks as the dark haired man rummages around in his jacket pocket, perhaps for the third time, and brings out the ring box.
Behind them the congregation gather. No-one is comfortable in their clothes; the elderly seem fragile and weary, the young are bright-eyed and whispering, pulling at their straps and hemlines, some men have the shaven stubble heads of Victorian melodrama convicts, some women display wide and deep chest flesh; thighs gleam below micro skirts and one middle-aged woman’s great slab back strains the seams of her plunge-backed, cream-black, too-tight dress.
The choir is singing now and the attractive long-legged young man swings round a couple of times to glance at the wide-open doors.
The choir finish; the organist pulls out all the stops and waits. There is silence. The empty doorway gapes.
The sound of light feet, and laughter, a swirl of blue, another, another. Hair flying in the breeze, flowers and ribbons flash colour; the bridesmaids run past the open doors in the sunlight. A noiseless, sleek black limousine stops.
The enormous man steps out of the vestry, his bulk now covered with golden-brocade. He promenades down the aisle, fills the doorway, speaks to the bride and her father at length, both invisible beneath his vastness. The congregation shuffle in their seats and he returns up the aisle to stand ready, his too-long hair slicked down against his neck.
The organ blasts. The bride enters the church, her strapless dress tight against her tiny frame, her shoulders burnt Indian brown, and her hair ebony-dyed. She draws close to her fiancé, trembling a little on her high heels, and turns to her bridesmaids. She does not look at her groom, the now solemn-faced tall young man. She is still attentive to her bridesmaids and he glances at the long hem of her dress, kicking aside the train so he can stand closer to her. He stares straight ahead at the priest; he is ready.
She straightens, hands now free of flowers, her face a mask beneath stage make-up. They do not look at one another as the priest begins his reading, intent on their individual discomfort in their unfamiliar clothes, the unfamiliar place and the uniqueness of their situation, this experience they will have only once.
They stand together, their futures stretching out before them, expectant of gravity, wise words and guidance but instead the priest addresses the congregation, over their heads. It is as if the lovers are not there. He tells a story about performing his first wedding as a young, lightweight curate and the ill effects of flash photography on his eyes, blinding him to the rest of the proceedings. As if he is not blind now. He follows this with another rambling request to turn off mobile ‘phones. The couple wait. In this great moment of their lives, when they have come together, to stand before their God, their families and their friends, the great moment of magic and majesty has flown.
The priest reads. The matron of honour reads, speaking chosen words to her two friends, beginning to draw the focus back. The choir sings ‘Down In The River To Pray,’ the harmonies blend and, when the gospel song is almost over, the groom’s throat is moving up and down as though he might choke and, as the choir take their seats, his eyes burn red.
Their hands now joined, and placed on the satin cushion, the tall self-assured young man now steadies himself before his bride, shaking one leg as though he has a cramp in his calf. He straightens and answers, “I will.”
The priest asks him to repeat:
“With my body I honour you.”
The groom looks at her and vows it will be so in a voice that has gaps in it.
The pries dictates: ‘all that I am I give to you.’
Silence.
The priest bends his head towards the young man and gently repeats, ‘all that I am I give to you,’
“I know. I know.” The groom shakes his leg again and straightens up but his voice is broken. “All that I am I give to you.” A hint of sobs breaks into the phrase.
He looks into her eyes again and now they share a smile, “and all that I have I share with you,”
It’s easier now.
“Within the love of God,
Father, Son and Holy Spirit.”
When she makes her vows to him, she stares up into his eyes, holding his gaze in hers, her brown eyes huge and dark with intensity and meaning. They hold this look between them that only they can share, this look that travels deeper than flesh, deeper than the knowledge they have of each other and deep into that place which we think we have forgotten but which we know so well, it is home.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
LOVERS OF THE ARCTIC CIRCLE. Dir. Julio Medem 1998
Should have done some research before going to see this because I thought it was going to be about lovers in the Arctic Circle. Instead of being transported to the icy wastes of an unfamiliar landscape the film is set in urban Spain, but in a very cold Spain with wind, rain and everyone in thick jumpers. Shot in near monochrome, the effect is cold and the Spartan interiors of apartments provide a bleak, comfortless setting for love to blossom.
Otto and Ana meet as children and are attracted to each other due to the nature of coincidence, and coincidence plays a large part in the narrative. The two children are engaging and there are some comic scenes between them when young and, later, as teenagers, with trysts in the night and their love kept secret.
However, once they’re older the story loses momentum and, at times becomes surreal and confusing as the viewpoint moves in and out of the two characters’ imaginations.
Otto suffers an extreme grief reaction when his mother accidentally dies but his emotional trauma, based on teenage guilt at his perceived abandonment of her, needs more explanation. Without an understanding of why he feels quite so responsible his behaviour seems unhinged. He also wishes to die and, after surviving a suicide attempt by toboggan, he abandons Ana and disappears, picking up one night stands who he takes home for sex in front of a photo of his mother smiling beside the bedside. The perfect, unchanging mother juxtaposed with tramps.
Overlong at two hours interest in and sympathy for the two characters is lost when the director drops the light comic touches, shifting to a determinedly doom laden scenario . Audience expectation being what it is, one wonders whether the coincidences are piling up so that these two finally will get back together. It’s not to be. Drab and dreadfully slow, scenes that could have been cut detract from those moments of real charm leaving it a patchy affair.
Otto and Ana meet as children and are attracted to each other due to the nature of coincidence, and coincidence plays a large part in the narrative. The two children are engaging and there are some comic scenes between them when young and, later, as teenagers, with trysts in the night and their love kept secret.
However, once they’re older the story loses momentum and, at times becomes surreal and confusing as the viewpoint moves in and out of the two characters’ imaginations.
Otto suffers an extreme grief reaction when his mother accidentally dies but his emotional trauma, based on teenage guilt at his perceived abandonment of her, needs more explanation. Without an understanding of why he feels quite so responsible his behaviour seems unhinged. He also wishes to die and, after surviving a suicide attempt by toboggan, he abandons Ana and disappears, picking up one night stands who he takes home for sex in front of a photo of his mother smiling beside the bedside. The perfect, unchanging mother juxtaposed with tramps.
Overlong at two hours interest in and sympathy for the two characters is lost when the director drops the light comic touches, shifting to a determinedly doom laden scenario . Audience expectation being what it is, one wonders whether the coincidences are piling up so that these two finally will get back together. It’s not to be. Drab and dreadfully slow, scenes that could have been cut detract from those moments of real charm leaving it a patchy affair.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Valentine missing the mark
Ah, it is Valentine’s Day when thoughts turn to love, and what inconclusive thoughts. Now wouldn’t you have reasoned that, after living on this planet for centuries, a formula could be identified that makes a relationship between a man and a woman take off and work? There seem to be essential ingredients to a good film, a good book, a good job, meal etc.
Let’s take a man’s seduction technique for starters, a little flattery goes a long way. A guy only needs to say, ‘You look lovely,’ with the right look of simple appreciation and, if this is a date, arrive on time to pick her up. Flowers are questionable. If she’s not become keen yet, they can imply too much emotional expectation from you. Plus, she’s about to leave the house, so now she has to go back into the kitchen and fuss around trying to find something to put them in. However, if you’ve come to dinner at her place, they are essential.
In the car, you say, ‘I thought you might like such-and-such-a-place,’ and take her there. You’re giving the strong message that a) you’ve got initiative - a big attraction, and b) you have considered her tastes and preferences – even if it’s not her favourite type of restaurant, considering is the winning ticket.
Beyond these key items; punctuality, attentiveness, initiative and consideration, I’d love to spend an evening with a guy who makes me feel reassured, confident and safe. He’s not going to be making innuendos and suggestive comments all night about his later intentions, and he won’t talk too much about his job.
It also occurs to me that the act of sex itself is something quite different for men and women. For men, it seems to be the end - seek out the target, plan the strategy, begin the operation. Once objective achieved, exit troops.
For women it seems to be a beginning. There’s a lot of browsing, evaluating, looking ahead to see how this is going to pan out over a certain time frame. Will he make a good husband, will he make a good father, is he good company, will her friends/family like him? Is he mean with money? Is he really untidy? Once she decides that she wants to make love with him, she’s beginning something that could last quite a while, maybe till you’re both old. Don’t smirk, it happens. So, if you don’t phone the next day, her ship of love has just been torpedoed. Hard for you to say sorry and climb back aboard the wreck if you’ve made that error. If you only wanted to fire the torpedo, fine, but don’t expect her to understand your short termism.
Maybe we need to adopt a more marketplace attitude to male-female relationships, setting out clearly what we need, what after sales service we expect, and what we’re prepared to pay. But, we’re too dreamy, romantic and optimistic to be businesslike, wondering what the other person may be thinking, trying to second guess and anticipate, when it would be easier and much more honest to openly negotiate.
We could stand in the square every Valentine’s Day each holding a placard and see if we can match up, and I suppose this is why internet dating should work so well, matching expectations and preferences - the only flaw is that people aren't always honest in their negotiations. Perhaps the man-woman transaction is a puzzle never to be solved.
Let’s take a man’s seduction technique for starters, a little flattery goes a long way. A guy only needs to say, ‘You look lovely,’ with the right look of simple appreciation and, if this is a date, arrive on time to pick her up. Flowers are questionable. If she’s not become keen yet, they can imply too much emotional expectation from you. Plus, she’s about to leave the house, so now she has to go back into the kitchen and fuss around trying to find something to put them in. However, if you’ve come to dinner at her place, they are essential.
In the car, you say, ‘I thought you might like such-and-such-a-place,’ and take her there. You’re giving the strong message that a) you’ve got initiative - a big attraction, and b) you have considered her tastes and preferences – even if it’s not her favourite type of restaurant, considering is the winning ticket.
Beyond these key items; punctuality, attentiveness, initiative and consideration, I’d love to spend an evening with a guy who makes me feel reassured, confident and safe. He’s not going to be making innuendos and suggestive comments all night about his later intentions, and he won’t talk too much about his job.
It also occurs to me that the act of sex itself is something quite different for men and women. For men, it seems to be the end - seek out the target, plan the strategy, begin the operation. Once objective achieved, exit troops.
For women it seems to be a beginning. There’s a lot of browsing, evaluating, looking ahead to see how this is going to pan out over a certain time frame. Will he make a good husband, will he make a good father, is he good company, will her friends/family like him? Is he mean with money? Is he really untidy? Once she decides that she wants to make love with him, she’s beginning something that could last quite a while, maybe till you’re both old. Don’t smirk, it happens. So, if you don’t phone the next day, her ship of love has just been torpedoed. Hard for you to say sorry and climb back aboard the wreck if you’ve made that error. If you only wanted to fire the torpedo, fine, but don’t expect her to understand your short termism.
Maybe we need to adopt a more marketplace attitude to male-female relationships, setting out clearly what we need, what after sales service we expect, and what we’re prepared to pay. But, we’re too dreamy, romantic and optimistic to be businesslike, wondering what the other person may be thinking, trying to second guess and anticipate, when it would be easier and much more honest to openly negotiate.
We could stand in the square every Valentine’s Day each holding a placard and see if we can match up, and I suppose this is why internet dating should work so well, matching expectations and preferences - the only flaw is that people aren't always honest in their negotiations. Perhaps the man-woman transaction is a puzzle never to be solved.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
WHAT PRICE LIBERTY?
A Day to discuss our freedom, privacy and rights - Saturday, 23 January 2010
Chaired by Kate Adie, broadcaster and author
Speakers include:
Henry Porter - journalist, campaigner, novelist
Frederick Taylor - historian and writer of WW2
Katharine Whitehorn - columnist and broadcaster
Oliver Baines - environmental campaigner
Stephen Otter - Chief Constable for Devon and Cornwall
Ursula Owen - campaigner for free speech
Inspired by their visit to The London Convention on Modern Liberty, Jane Turnbull (Literary agent for former publisher) and Jessica Mann (novelist and journalist) decided to hold a conference on the freedom and rights of the British citizen in Cornwall. Concerned by the erosion of Britain’s long tradition of liberty, in response to perceived threats of terrorism, Turnbull and Mann gathered together a panel of writers and thinkers, attracted a huge audience, and enabled a debate to take place.
What a great opportunity to hear a range of opinion, and what a fascinating debate it proved to be. As Chair, the always impressive Kate Adie, warned about complacency, as did Henry Porter who reminded us of the story about the frog: drop it into boiling water and it will jump out; put it into cold water and slowly raise the heat and it won’t notice until maybe too late.
Ursula Owen, co-founder of Virago, and an advocate of free expression asks ‘should we be protected from offence and insult?’ in her talk, the subject being ‘Is offence the new censorship?’ and it’s interesting to look back at some of the colourful insults from Jacobean times where insult slinging was something of a sport, frequent in Shakespeare, and parodied by Monty Python – ‘I squeeze my spots at you’ in the 1970s. Verbal abuse is allowed by ‘characters’ in fiction, on stage and in film, but deemed an offence elsewhere so, for example, where someone may have been described as ‘fat’ prior to the nineteen-eighties, he/she would next be described as ‘clinically obese’ and now perhaps we may have to be simply factual, ie X appears to weigh over twenty stone which, although correct, lacks – to a writer – the satisfying sound and feel of the word ‘fat’ which lands on the page or leaves the lips with a smack. But should any one take offence at a fact? You are fat, you are thin, you are black, you are white, you are mixed race, you smell bad, your ideology sucks. She tells us the lawyer and legal philosopher Ronald Dworkin, who is passionate about free expression, says it ‘makes us human,’ and he has some agreement with the idea of censorship, but to be human is to be flawed. We will make mistakes, we will hurt other people, and we must rely on rational law to identify what is seriously an ‘offence’ and what is merely offensive.
Stephen Otter, present in his uniform of Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary stands before us, open and reasonable, referring to his appearance as that most likely to offer a threat to the audience of some censorship and restriction of our liberties, defusing any suspicion of his presence and motives in his first sentence. Adroit, he points out that our favourite demand of the Police is to make drivers slow down in villages and towns and our most bitter grip against the Police is that motorists are persecuted for driving too fast through villages and towns. There’s the rub. He says ‘we want security and liberty in equal measure,’ and indeed we do. There are two sides to every point debated today.
Everything in life must always be balanced, hence the scales of law. If citizens fail to take responsibility for their own actions and the actions of others, we cannot, like infants, wail until someone else sorts it out: in doing that we relinquish autonomy and hand it, on a plate, to the state. Personal responsibility must sit equally alongside knowing our ‘rights.’ ‘There’s an absence of effective social control,’ says Otter and, it is lamentable that minor authority figures from my childhood and adolescence have now disappeared from our communities, (park wardens, bus conductors, railway station platform attendants, milkmen and newspaper delivery vans, all those working unsocial hours who spotted the unusual and to whom you could turn if there was a problem). In their absence, people need to look out for themselves and, if this makes you want to become a vigilante or get yourself a gun and protect your home from intruders, hold back, you can take these ideas too far in your paranoia. The eyes and ears of the community are now electronic, technology having replaced the human element and, with that, some discernment. A clip round the ear from a park warden would today be seen as assault and it is now impossible to return to the immediacy and simplicity of being shamed by adult disapproval. I got thrown off a bus once, when I was thirteen, with my two friends – our behaviour was very loud and annoying – and we were dumped, very shame-faced, on the roadside between two towns. The double-decker drove off in a cloud of triumphant diesel smoke and we had a long walk home with plenty of time to Think Very Hard About What We Had Done. We didn’t do it again.
Otter’s message is that, prior to the Industrial Revolution, rural communities used to look after themselves – they were also poor, hungry, and had the common lands enclosed and taken away from them, forcing them into the towns but that’s another story. What changed, he says, was that people began to feel that it was someone else’s responsibility to protect them: I would have to think more deeply on this point because it’s hard to say which came first; laws which persecuted the starving for stealing an apple or the perception that the law did, in fact, protect the citizen.
Otter believes that ‘technology has gone too far’ and it’s interesting to think that, because of relatively modern inventions such as television, the car (drinking and driving) and the internet, people stay at home and ‘go less abroad’ than pre-1950 when there were weekly dances, pubs were full and people played cards and made music together, got into brawls and had to get themselves home without public transport of any kind. When they were courting, my father used to walk my mother home from a dance, then walk himself back again, or on another night go on foot and ferry to St Mawes for a dance, possibly fall in the water on the rush to jump back on the boat at the end of the night, but generally take responsibility for himself and the safety of his sweetheart. Today’s knife carrying young men have returned to a form of carrying swords to defend themselves and their beloved’s honour because fist-fights cannot be guaranteed to be one-to-one.
Otter says that ‘people need to feel more confident about helping each other’ and here, I wholeheartedly agree. When I worked in the local NHS hospital I knew of several nurses who would not stop and attend a road traffic accident because of fears of litigation over any first aid mistakes, and this advice is always given in First Aid classes. We are taught how to help and then advised to do nothing until the paramedics arrive so are confused by the contradiction. My personal view is to take the risk and, at the very least, make the area safe, ie stop the traffic and ‘phone for help - but for a medically trained person to drive past without stopping seems to indicate they have surrendered any notion of responsibility in a paralysis of paranoia.
However, taking responsibility for our own security is common sense. Get yourself home safely or, if you can’t, stay overnight where you are and make sure you lock up your house. Otter closes by saying that it is important to ‘keep the spirit of debate open and honest as we are doing today.’ I am reminded that it possible to have laws repealed, that nothing is absolute unless we accept it is so, and that we have minds and voices so that we can use them to attempt to change those things with which we fundamentally disagree, and to come to the aid of others.
There is, however, a very disturbing increase in the officiousness of individuals, highlighted to me when I worked in a large regional theatre. A number of the voluntary stewards took great relish in admonishing and reporting ‘offenders’ for such minor offences as putting their feet on the seats, smoking in the external (semi-open) lobby, taking drinks outside in the street. Eyes glittering, and pulses racing, these semi-elderly women raced up the stairs in the auditorium to catch red-handed anyone taking a photograph of a performer - be very afraid of giving small people power. Kate Adie warns against a mistrust of each other and reminds us that Communist control works by ‘breaking trust within families and communities’ with peer reporting still practised in China. Control is a very psychological sensation, more than it is state directed. There is self-control, family expectation, and community standards which all come before the law and state intervention. In the UK, the loss of that powerful moderator, shame, has led to excesses of behaviour which would not have been so visible only ten years ago.
Yes, I got drunk and threw up in the street before I was twenty, who didn’t?, but the shameful part of that, the loss of self-control that is the leglessness and vomiting was neither routine nor public. That is to say I hoped no-one saw me, hoped anyone who did see wouldn’t remember (or tell my mum whose shame of me would have been deeper than my own), and always wished I hadn’t gone so far – even though I was always fully clothed, and generally jacketed and booted. Today, the fetishistic fleshy exposure of the female body, even in coldest winter, combined with either raucous yelling or it’s opposite, semi-consciousness, possibly preceded by vomiting and possibly followed by a good shag with someone forgettable and possibly Chlamydic, has become a regular Saturday night sight in most towns. The self-policing that is aspiration may be an alternative or would a night in the cells provoke the shame that is absent?
From the floor comes the question: Aren’t we responsible for keeping our own data safe? This has to be a no, because we cannot buy many things using cash therefore our credit card details, name address etc are stored every time we purchase anything online, ie airline tickets, clothes, books, subscriptions, any time we use a credit or debit card for cinema or theatre tickets, or when out shopping – almost everywhere. There are now moves to prevent the use of cheques within five years, making all transactions electronic, recordable and traceable. I recently tried to use cash to pay off my credit card, in my own bank, and was told this is no longer legal – the cash had to be paid into my current bank account and be transferred out to my credit card account (same bank). There is no other purpose to this other than to record customer transactions, perhaps for tax purposes – but the reason given is to prevent terrorism. I can absolutely understand the need to clarify that new bank accounts are opened to bona fide customers and not created for money laundering but, when a customer has had an account with the same bank for over ten years and chooses to make a cash transaction, where’s the terrorism threat?
Henry Porter agrees with Otter that ‘there is a fundamental need to control technology’ but I would argue that there is a deeper need to control the legislators. I grew up through the 1960s and 1970s with the daily, and very real, terror of the IRA atrocities – not only car bombs, hotel bombs but the more personal tarring and feathering, and kneecapping – punishments meted out on a too frequent basis, a terror with me for most of the twenty years it went on. Now, the terrorist threat is less real, more abstract and more random. Because attacks are carried out by single suicide bombers we can only be afraid of a belief system, and of the brainwashing that creates it, the very opposite of the reasons that we are here today – to talk frankly and openly, to debate, to disagree if we choose, to express our own beliefs and accept those of others with what tolerance we can – but not to attack those whose beliefs oppose our own. We cannot legislate against the ephemeral but we can educate, communicate, and lead by example. Children brought up to discuss, question, and challenge ideas will develop confidence in their own powers of reason.
A question from the floor: Apparently, the US teaches Civics and Democracy so why not in the UK? This teaching doesn’t make all Americans open minded and worldly but it may help them understand how their own system works. In the UK we would benefit from debating societies (which many apathetic students will avoid so perhaps formalise to one a term) and less curriculum interference. Teachers don’t have the freedom to let a topic go where it will in a classroom, because of time and curriculum restraints, so perhaps they should be the first to rebel and allow the students to pick up a subject that really interest them and run with it for a while? It’s great learning not tick-box learning.
One participant mentions the phenomenon of the web and mobile ‘phones giving us a perception of being in constant contact with each other. It’s a myth. Although there is now ‘no concept of solitude’ (Henry Porter I think) there is also an enormous sense of social isolation. You could sit alone at home, cruising the web, maybe sending messages but face it – you’re sitting at home alone. Likewise mobile ‘phones – you can send as many messages as you like, you may not get many. The ‘phone acts as a personal EPIRB, a position finding device so you can feel secure (or threatened) that your whereabouts are known as long as you have that ‘phone on you. It is also a prop which prevents the anxiety of abandonment so, the moment a sense of aloneness creeps in, send a text or phone a friend. We are tribal people and a sense of belonging and connectedness is essential to our mental well-being but we need to take care that the use of social networks are for our own amusement and not covert surveillance. There is no need to retain electronic data for years, even when deleted by the users, and the Data Protection Act clearly states that personal data should only be used and kept for the purposes for which it was set up - and destroyed when it is no longer needed. Logically then, once you’ve bought that theatre ticket or the new clothes, and enjoyed the show in your new threads, the electronic transaction and all records relating to you, name and phone number etc, should be destroyed.
Going back to the notion of shame, or embarrassment, Katharine Whitehorn raises her conviction that ‘there are certain things that you don’t do and certain things that you do do.’ This reminds me of the old concept of duty when you followed this notion because of a sense of duty, to husband, to children, to wider family, to society. Duty and allegiance call for some sacrifice as well as providing a notion of pride and belonging. There are codes of honour that have become ritualised in institutions with negative connotations such as the Mafia or the Triads so perhaps an ideal code of honour is self-negotiated and, if you are asked or expected to do something immoral, you find the strength not to do it, even if it makes you a martyr and you get whacked.
A strong warning against complacency comes from historian Frederick Taylor, reminding us of Germany’s decline, using the law, into civic control, and environmental campaigner Oliver Baines advocates we ‘be careful [that] in asserting our freedoms we must safeguard the freedom of others.’ If I am free to drive too fast through villages then you are not free to walk safely along the street. I really must stop doing that.
We know about rendition, we know that the UK has been complicit in the torture of suspected offenders, and we know that anti-protest laws have curtailed our civil liberties, so what do we do to reverse this stealthy State control?
We can write to our Members of Parliament and ask them for some responses:
What is your attitude to the repeal of the Anti-Terror laws?
What is your attitude to ID cards?
How do you feel about trials without jury?
We can also encourage debating societies in schools (and, importantly, at home over the dinner table).
The rights of British people have developed organically over centuries. This needs explanation and understanding. How did we get here? Some of the answers will be painful, including the massacre of protesters and the deportation of thousands. Some of the answers will be inspiring but we learn from our mistakes as well as our successes. The Anti-Terror laws are a mistake, an infringement on the liberties of innocent civilians, and it is time to raise awareness of the erosion of those liberties and take responsibility for our personal behaviour.
It is perhaps now the time to publicly discuss whether we need to enshrine those accumulated rights, and to protect those rights for the benefit of future generations who do not yet know what has been lost.
Chaired by Kate Adie, broadcaster and author
Speakers include:
Henry Porter - journalist, campaigner, novelist
Frederick Taylor - historian and writer of WW2
Katharine Whitehorn - columnist and broadcaster
Oliver Baines - environmental campaigner
Stephen Otter - Chief Constable for Devon and Cornwall
Ursula Owen - campaigner for free speech
Inspired by their visit to The London Convention on Modern Liberty, Jane Turnbull (Literary agent for former publisher) and Jessica Mann (novelist and journalist) decided to hold a conference on the freedom and rights of the British citizen in Cornwall. Concerned by the erosion of Britain’s long tradition of liberty, in response to perceived threats of terrorism, Turnbull and Mann gathered together a panel of writers and thinkers, attracted a huge audience, and enabled a debate to take place.
What a great opportunity to hear a range of opinion, and what a fascinating debate it proved to be. As Chair, the always impressive Kate Adie, warned about complacency, as did Henry Porter who reminded us of the story about the frog: drop it into boiling water and it will jump out; put it into cold water and slowly raise the heat and it won’t notice until maybe too late.
Ursula Owen, co-founder of Virago, and an advocate of free expression asks ‘should we be protected from offence and insult?’ in her talk, the subject being ‘Is offence the new censorship?’ and it’s interesting to look back at some of the colourful insults from Jacobean times where insult slinging was something of a sport, frequent in Shakespeare, and parodied by Monty Python – ‘I squeeze my spots at you’ in the 1970s. Verbal abuse is allowed by ‘characters’ in fiction, on stage and in film, but deemed an offence elsewhere so, for example, where someone may have been described as ‘fat’ prior to the nineteen-eighties, he/she would next be described as ‘clinically obese’ and now perhaps we may have to be simply factual, ie X appears to weigh over twenty stone which, although correct, lacks – to a writer – the satisfying sound and feel of the word ‘fat’ which lands on the page or leaves the lips with a smack. But should any one take offence at a fact? You are fat, you are thin, you are black, you are white, you are mixed race, you smell bad, your ideology sucks. She tells us the lawyer and legal philosopher Ronald Dworkin, who is passionate about free expression, says it ‘makes us human,’ and he has some agreement with the idea of censorship, but to be human is to be flawed. We will make mistakes, we will hurt other people, and we must rely on rational law to identify what is seriously an ‘offence’ and what is merely offensive.
Stephen Otter, present in his uniform of Chief Constable of the Devon and Cornwall Constabulary stands before us, open and reasonable, referring to his appearance as that most likely to offer a threat to the audience of some censorship and restriction of our liberties, defusing any suspicion of his presence and motives in his first sentence. Adroit, he points out that our favourite demand of the Police is to make drivers slow down in villages and towns and our most bitter grip against the Police is that motorists are persecuted for driving too fast through villages and towns. There’s the rub. He says ‘we want security and liberty in equal measure,’ and indeed we do. There are two sides to every point debated today.
Everything in life must always be balanced, hence the scales of law. If citizens fail to take responsibility for their own actions and the actions of others, we cannot, like infants, wail until someone else sorts it out: in doing that we relinquish autonomy and hand it, on a plate, to the state. Personal responsibility must sit equally alongside knowing our ‘rights.’ ‘There’s an absence of effective social control,’ says Otter and, it is lamentable that minor authority figures from my childhood and adolescence have now disappeared from our communities, (park wardens, bus conductors, railway station platform attendants, milkmen and newspaper delivery vans, all those working unsocial hours who spotted the unusual and to whom you could turn if there was a problem). In their absence, people need to look out for themselves and, if this makes you want to become a vigilante or get yourself a gun and protect your home from intruders, hold back, you can take these ideas too far in your paranoia. The eyes and ears of the community are now electronic, technology having replaced the human element and, with that, some discernment. A clip round the ear from a park warden would today be seen as assault and it is now impossible to return to the immediacy and simplicity of being shamed by adult disapproval. I got thrown off a bus once, when I was thirteen, with my two friends – our behaviour was very loud and annoying – and we were dumped, very shame-faced, on the roadside between two towns. The double-decker drove off in a cloud of triumphant diesel smoke and we had a long walk home with plenty of time to Think Very Hard About What We Had Done. We didn’t do it again.
Otter’s message is that, prior to the Industrial Revolution, rural communities used to look after themselves – they were also poor, hungry, and had the common lands enclosed and taken away from them, forcing them into the towns but that’s another story. What changed, he says, was that people began to feel that it was someone else’s responsibility to protect them: I would have to think more deeply on this point because it’s hard to say which came first; laws which persecuted the starving for stealing an apple or the perception that the law did, in fact, protect the citizen.
Otter believes that ‘technology has gone too far’ and it’s interesting to think that, because of relatively modern inventions such as television, the car (drinking and driving) and the internet, people stay at home and ‘go less abroad’ than pre-1950 when there were weekly dances, pubs were full and people played cards and made music together, got into brawls and had to get themselves home without public transport of any kind. When they were courting, my father used to walk my mother home from a dance, then walk himself back again, or on another night go on foot and ferry to St Mawes for a dance, possibly fall in the water on the rush to jump back on the boat at the end of the night, but generally take responsibility for himself and the safety of his sweetheart. Today’s knife carrying young men have returned to a form of carrying swords to defend themselves and their beloved’s honour because fist-fights cannot be guaranteed to be one-to-one.
Otter says that ‘people need to feel more confident about helping each other’ and here, I wholeheartedly agree. When I worked in the local NHS hospital I knew of several nurses who would not stop and attend a road traffic accident because of fears of litigation over any first aid mistakes, and this advice is always given in First Aid classes. We are taught how to help and then advised to do nothing until the paramedics arrive so are confused by the contradiction. My personal view is to take the risk and, at the very least, make the area safe, ie stop the traffic and ‘phone for help - but for a medically trained person to drive past without stopping seems to indicate they have surrendered any notion of responsibility in a paralysis of paranoia.
However, taking responsibility for our own security is common sense. Get yourself home safely or, if you can’t, stay overnight where you are and make sure you lock up your house. Otter closes by saying that it is important to ‘keep the spirit of debate open and honest as we are doing today.’ I am reminded that it possible to have laws repealed, that nothing is absolute unless we accept it is so, and that we have minds and voices so that we can use them to attempt to change those things with which we fundamentally disagree, and to come to the aid of others.
There is, however, a very disturbing increase in the officiousness of individuals, highlighted to me when I worked in a large regional theatre. A number of the voluntary stewards took great relish in admonishing and reporting ‘offenders’ for such minor offences as putting their feet on the seats, smoking in the external (semi-open) lobby, taking drinks outside in the street. Eyes glittering, and pulses racing, these semi-elderly women raced up the stairs in the auditorium to catch red-handed anyone taking a photograph of a performer - be very afraid of giving small people power. Kate Adie warns against a mistrust of each other and reminds us that Communist control works by ‘breaking trust within families and communities’ with peer reporting still practised in China. Control is a very psychological sensation, more than it is state directed. There is self-control, family expectation, and community standards which all come before the law and state intervention. In the UK, the loss of that powerful moderator, shame, has led to excesses of behaviour which would not have been so visible only ten years ago.
Yes, I got drunk and threw up in the street before I was twenty, who didn’t?, but the shameful part of that, the loss of self-control that is the leglessness and vomiting was neither routine nor public. That is to say I hoped no-one saw me, hoped anyone who did see wouldn’t remember (or tell my mum whose shame of me would have been deeper than my own), and always wished I hadn’t gone so far – even though I was always fully clothed, and generally jacketed and booted. Today, the fetishistic fleshy exposure of the female body, even in coldest winter, combined with either raucous yelling or it’s opposite, semi-consciousness, possibly preceded by vomiting and possibly followed by a good shag with someone forgettable and possibly Chlamydic, has become a regular Saturday night sight in most towns. The self-policing that is aspiration may be an alternative or would a night in the cells provoke the shame that is absent?
From the floor comes the question: Aren’t we responsible for keeping our own data safe? This has to be a no, because we cannot buy many things using cash therefore our credit card details, name address etc are stored every time we purchase anything online, ie airline tickets, clothes, books, subscriptions, any time we use a credit or debit card for cinema or theatre tickets, or when out shopping – almost everywhere. There are now moves to prevent the use of cheques within five years, making all transactions electronic, recordable and traceable. I recently tried to use cash to pay off my credit card, in my own bank, and was told this is no longer legal – the cash had to be paid into my current bank account and be transferred out to my credit card account (same bank). There is no other purpose to this other than to record customer transactions, perhaps for tax purposes – but the reason given is to prevent terrorism. I can absolutely understand the need to clarify that new bank accounts are opened to bona fide customers and not created for money laundering but, when a customer has had an account with the same bank for over ten years and chooses to make a cash transaction, where’s the terrorism threat?
Henry Porter agrees with Otter that ‘there is a fundamental need to control technology’ but I would argue that there is a deeper need to control the legislators. I grew up through the 1960s and 1970s with the daily, and very real, terror of the IRA atrocities – not only car bombs, hotel bombs but the more personal tarring and feathering, and kneecapping – punishments meted out on a too frequent basis, a terror with me for most of the twenty years it went on. Now, the terrorist threat is less real, more abstract and more random. Because attacks are carried out by single suicide bombers we can only be afraid of a belief system, and of the brainwashing that creates it, the very opposite of the reasons that we are here today – to talk frankly and openly, to debate, to disagree if we choose, to express our own beliefs and accept those of others with what tolerance we can – but not to attack those whose beliefs oppose our own. We cannot legislate against the ephemeral but we can educate, communicate, and lead by example. Children brought up to discuss, question, and challenge ideas will develop confidence in their own powers of reason.
A question from the floor: Apparently, the US teaches Civics and Democracy so why not in the UK? This teaching doesn’t make all Americans open minded and worldly but it may help them understand how their own system works. In the UK we would benefit from debating societies (which many apathetic students will avoid so perhaps formalise to one a term) and less curriculum interference. Teachers don’t have the freedom to let a topic go where it will in a classroom, because of time and curriculum restraints, so perhaps they should be the first to rebel and allow the students to pick up a subject that really interest them and run with it for a while? It’s great learning not tick-box learning.
One participant mentions the phenomenon of the web and mobile ‘phones giving us a perception of being in constant contact with each other. It’s a myth. Although there is now ‘no concept of solitude’ (Henry Porter I think) there is also an enormous sense of social isolation. You could sit alone at home, cruising the web, maybe sending messages but face it – you’re sitting at home alone. Likewise mobile ‘phones – you can send as many messages as you like, you may not get many. The ‘phone acts as a personal EPIRB, a position finding device so you can feel secure (or threatened) that your whereabouts are known as long as you have that ‘phone on you. It is also a prop which prevents the anxiety of abandonment so, the moment a sense of aloneness creeps in, send a text or phone a friend. We are tribal people and a sense of belonging and connectedness is essential to our mental well-being but we need to take care that the use of social networks are for our own amusement and not covert surveillance. There is no need to retain electronic data for years, even when deleted by the users, and the Data Protection Act clearly states that personal data should only be used and kept for the purposes for which it was set up - and destroyed when it is no longer needed. Logically then, once you’ve bought that theatre ticket or the new clothes, and enjoyed the show in your new threads, the electronic transaction and all records relating to you, name and phone number etc, should be destroyed.
Going back to the notion of shame, or embarrassment, Katharine Whitehorn raises her conviction that ‘there are certain things that you don’t do and certain things that you do do.’ This reminds me of the old concept of duty when you followed this notion because of a sense of duty, to husband, to children, to wider family, to society. Duty and allegiance call for some sacrifice as well as providing a notion of pride and belonging. There are codes of honour that have become ritualised in institutions with negative connotations such as the Mafia or the Triads so perhaps an ideal code of honour is self-negotiated and, if you are asked or expected to do something immoral, you find the strength not to do it, even if it makes you a martyr and you get whacked.
A strong warning against complacency comes from historian Frederick Taylor, reminding us of Germany’s decline, using the law, into civic control, and environmental campaigner Oliver Baines advocates we ‘be careful [that] in asserting our freedoms we must safeguard the freedom of others.’ If I am free to drive too fast through villages then you are not free to walk safely along the street. I really must stop doing that.
We know about rendition, we know that the UK has been complicit in the torture of suspected offenders, and we know that anti-protest laws have curtailed our civil liberties, so what do we do to reverse this stealthy State control?
We can write to our Members of Parliament and ask them for some responses:
What is your attitude to the repeal of the Anti-Terror laws?
What is your attitude to ID cards?
How do you feel about trials without jury?
We can also encourage debating societies in schools (and, importantly, at home over the dinner table).
The rights of British people have developed organically over centuries. This needs explanation and understanding. How did we get here? Some of the answers will be painful, including the massacre of protesters and the deportation of thousands. Some of the answers will be inspiring but we learn from our mistakes as well as our successes. The Anti-Terror laws are a mistake, an infringement on the liberties of innocent civilians, and it is time to raise awareness of the erosion of those liberties and take responsibility for our personal behaviour.
It is perhaps now the time to publicly discuss whether we need to enshrine those accumulated rights, and to protect those rights for the benefit of future generations who do not yet know what has been lost.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
GLORIOUS 39. Dir Stephen Poliakoff. 2009
Glorious 39 strips away illusions. Poliakoff presents the apparent idyll of an English aristocratic family headed by genteel patriarch Lord Keyes (Bill Nighy). He presides over a country estate in Norfolk and his elegant townhouse in London – a world of golden light, romantic ruins, servants, house parties and happy children.
But this is 1939, a mere 21 years since the Great War, the war to end all wars, in which millions died, Britain was crippled with war debt, and the English country house system which he so values was almost annihilated. There are many references to the ancientness of his family and tradition, but now, few male servants remained alive or unmaimed to work the English landscape or to be in service to the old families.
Fearing domestic and political upheaval, appeasers such as Keyes sought to prevent Churchill leading the country and taking Britan to war, and to buy off Hitler to preserve British cultural and national identity. Nighty is excellent, controlled, benign. His wife (Jenny Agutter) has absented herself from the family into the garden and the other mother in the film is also virtually invisible. Strangely empty landscapes, buildings and houses add to the discomfort.
Romola Garai plays the much loved, dutiful, adopted daughter who carries the role of hostess with ease and grace, until she inadvertently discovers evidence of something underhand going on in her own home. This is Pandora’s Box; if only she had left the lid on her charmed life would have continued. She becomes alone and friendless, there is no-one she can trust, and the suspense is unrelenting.
Odd sequences with the eerie adolescent boy cause emotional unease which imply supernatural influences simply because he physically couldn’t move around from place to place, soundlessly, in the time allowed. Previously described as a Hitchcockian psychological thriller, events and coincidences are increasingly unnerving and there is always the feeling that the sinister Mr Balkam (Jeremy Northam) is always one step ahead of Anne. But, without Hitch’s touches of humour and romance, the maintained tension is quite hard to bear, at over two hours.
This is a visually rich film, with excellent performances throughout, marred slightly by an unnecessary framing device of a teenager going to visit elderly relatives and asking about the family history and, in particular, Anne (Garai). He needs to be in his forties or fifties for this device to make sense. However, plenty of menace and intrigue and shining a spotlight on the conspiracies at work at the beginning of World War II give much food for thought.
But this is 1939, a mere 21 years since the Great War, the war to end all wars, in which millions died, Britain was crippled with war debt, and the English country house system which he so values was almost annihilated. There are many references to the ancientness of his family and tradition, but now, few male servants remained alive or unmaimed to work the English landscape or to be in service to the old families.
Fearing domestic and political upheaval, appeasers such as Keyes sought to prevent Churchill leading the country and taking Britan to war, and to buy off Hitler to preserve British cultural and national identity. Nighty is excellent, controlled, benign. His wife (Jenny Agutter) has absented herself from the family into the garden and the other mother in the film is also virtually invisible. Strangely empty landscapes, buildings and houses add to the discomfort.
Romola Garai plays the much loved, dutiful, adopted daughter who carries the role of hostess with ease and grace, until she inadvertently discovers evidence of something underhand going on in her own home. This is Pandora’s Box; if only she had left the lid on her charmed life would have continued. She becomes alone and friendless, there is no-one she can trust, and the suspense is unrelenting.
Odd sequences with the eerie adolescent boy cause emotional unease which imply supernatural influences simply because he physically couldn’t move around from place to place, soundlessly, in the time allowed. Previously described as a Hitchcockian psychological thriller, events and coincidences are increasingly unnerving and there is always the feeling that the sinister Mr Balkam (Jeremy Northam) is always one step ahead of Anne. But, without Hitch’s touches of humour and romance, the maintained tension is quite hard to bear, at over two hours.
This is a visually rich film, with excellent performances throughout, marred slightly by an unnecessary framing device of a teenager going to visit elderly relatives and asking about the family history and, in particular, Anne (Garai). He needs to be in his forties or fifties for this device to make sense. However, plenty of menace and intrigue and shining a spotlight on the conspiracies at work at the beginning of World War II give much food for thought.
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