Lessons will be learned

Children learn lessons – it’s what they do. The rest of us tend to learn by our mistakes, sometimes by repetition of the same mistake over and over again until it dawns on us, but the novel idea that government is capable of learning at more than glacial speed is laughable. They say we should learn history so that we don’t repeat the mistakes of the past; if it weren’t so tragic at times the lengths to which some in public office go to repeat the same old errors should be enough to convince, at least, that history is a lesson that largely goes ignored.

No matter what colour of rosette fills the government front benches and no matter how solemn the tacit promises at their swearing-in not to bring the office into disrepute, never far away are the revelations. A look at the history of power, from local council to the highest office in the land, reveals misuse and corruption on epic scales. Scandals abound, revealing activity that would land most of us in court and yet frequently go unpunished when committed by our elected representatives.

Perversion of the planning and procurement procedures, sometimes clumsily, via the now almost traditional brown envelope back-handers, but more often for future favour. The promise of support now for a vote down the line, often going against express electoral wishes. Nepotism run wild as interfamilial and dynastic loyalties promote preferment and preferential treatment; each little act helping to build the walls separating the noble family trees from dilution by the not-so-favoured. The separation of them and us is never so evident as when seeing the chinless, talentless scions ‘kinnocking’ their way to the lofty heights.

By way of entertainment and distraction from our envy and anger they occasionally throw us the bone of buffoonery or, even better, some seedy sex scandal. From predilections towards questionable sado-masochistic acts through out and out, full-on latex dominatrix fantasies to the suspicions of kiddy-fiddling and disposal of the damaged participants with the full or partial collusion of police and judiciary. Such exploits, nearly always only coming after or near the death or senility of the perpetrators carry the stench of corruption, threat and extreme abuse of powers.

Life aboard the gravy train continues apace with only the occasional low-flyer thrown to the wolves to distract the pack from their pursuit. Minor victories – today’s headlines – become tomorrow’s chip paper and even widespread scandals such as MP’s expenses are only nominally punished; the same snouts continue to grub at the same trough with little evidence they are chastened beyond what was necessary for the press calls which magically wipe away their sins.

So you’ll forgive me if I show no great interest in the lumbering tomes of the Chilcot Report. Like every such report before it the contents will be largely unsensational, having been know at least vaguely for years and its conclusions will be no great surprise. I have no reason to expectat that we will be seeing a public hanging any day soon.

Work, actually

When I was just turned twelve I started a paper round. Legally, I should have been thirteen but I stalled for a year before producing the suspiciously new work permit. In that year I saved up enough to go halves with my parents on a bike. At the time, running that round didn’t seem like hardship – I was earning a wage. At weekends, following horse racing meetings I regularly picked up sodden, torn-up race cards, half-eaten pies, broken glass and the general detritus following a boozy event I was far too young to attend. Both jobs were done in all weathers and I was happy for the work.

When I was around fourteen the potato picking became available to me, along with riddling, hoeing and the general gathering in of various harvests. No paid work was beneath me; I knew no different. As far as my generation, up in rural North Yorkshire, were concerned any and all ways of earning a dollar were legit. Strawberry picking paid the best – four or five weeks of kneeling between the rows, picking for all we were worth, would fund the rest of the summer’s shenanigans. Work... it’s bloody good for you.

When I went to a university in the big city, as a provincial lad I was intrigued by the students who spent all their time in the union bar instead of going to lectures. I was fascinated by the Women’s Society although I could never quite work out what their grievances were – “Pay us attention!” they would demand, quickly followed by “How dare you stare!” The union president – at nearly-thirty, positively geriatric to my nineteen year old self – was an object of some awe. He had yet to complete his bachelor degree having obtained paid sabbatical after paid sabbatical to... well, to sit on his arse in the union bar and convince himself he served a useful purpose.

Although I was dimly aware that tins were being rattled in aid of this cause or that, it had little relevance to me or most of my fellow students. We were there, I supposed, to get an education and then get a good job, not to go on marches. Whenever reports came in about the latest gathering of the clans the chatter was all about what a great laugh it was; I rarely heard about dragons slain, or hydras beheaded, just an endless stream of anecdotes, exaggerated with each re-telling. At the time of my graduation, characters who had seemed to be big figures on campus when I was a fresher were still there, in a state of suspended education, apparently no nearer to whatever they thought they sought, but clinging on to their imagined higher status.

Seeing the massed ranks of teary-eyed youngsters on the streets of London, bleating about how their future had been taken from them I wondered how some of them even managed to continue breathing day after day without some form of encouragement. One thing’s for sure and that is few employers are going to be impressed by a CV padded out with a list of the demonstrations you’ve attended for all the crusades you’ve espoused while having little real idea how anything in the world actually works.

You going on the Trans-body-image-gender-fluid 

Day of Action march, Fred?

I was berated recently for referring to the working class; informed that nobody today is defined by their job. No? How about farmers, fishermen, policemen, nurses, builders? It strikes me that it is far nobler to be recognised for what you actually do, than for how you think you ought to be defined; at school, one classmate told us what nickname he wanted us to use – that didn’t end well. So, you ask, what have I ever done to further the causes of social justice, tolerance, law and order and society in general? I went to work.

Farage Free

I don’t much care for Charlotte Church. She squandered her precocious talent and turned into a chavvy little gob on legs in recent years and yesterday spent an inordinate amount of time screeching hatred at those who had voted for Brexit and in particular, the man who had brought it about. I don’t have a lot of time for the ramblings of Owen Jones and his ilk, or their matriarch, Polly Toynbee, but they afford me a morbid glimpse into the dark, paranoid, tribally-obsessed worlds they appear to wish they lived in. The real world of the ‘caring’ left is a morass of moral turpitude, stirring up animus for those who don’t stick to their script; demonising those who dare to pull back the veil to show the ugly truth.

But I wouldn’t wish any of them dead because of it – unless, perhaps, they could arrange to meet their demise in a spectacular, newsworthy and hilariously entertaining fashion. I don’t hate anybody for their views, as backward and bigoted as they are, as they spit on the lowly from their lofty eyries. Having a platform and using that platform to wield influence does not make them right. Their pursuit of Nigel Farage as if he was some sort of rabid, demonic spawn of hell would be laughable if they were not so serious about it. Having whipped up their audience to demand ‘death to Farage’ they insist that the reported rise in hate crime is somehow attributable to Ukip alone and that their own hands are squeaky clean.

No matter how carefully Nigel has been to phrase what he has to say and no matter how rational much of the population finds it, the murderous lynch mobs of the various left-facing splinter groups have simply cried racist until they were blue in the face. This works because far too many people don’t know what to think until somebody tells them. The repeated falsehoods enter into the received wisdom of the unthinking masses until they imagine massed band of right wing thugs in Stella-stained vests on every street corner, wielding pickaxe handles. So insidious is this assault on hearts and minds that even former vocal supporters begin to whisper their doubts. This is the politics of the left and it is a dirty business.

But sometimes you have to wade through shit to win and Nigel Farage, through sheer tenacity and a refusal to listen to the true haters has come through to triumph. Through attack after attack, with the hide of a rhinoceros and the heart of a lion he has faced down the legion of detractors. His example, more than any other, standing his ground against the constant onslaught of vilification, is almost certainly the principle reason the majority voted to leave the EU. Had it not been for the anti-Farage barrage, turning weaker minds from the cause the result might have been far more emphatic.

Yet even in his retirement from the front line, the campaign against him has not yet let up. The mewling pro-EU media wish to ignore or overturn the will of the majority, as they so often do. Farage had to endure a graceless attack interview with Eddie Mair on PM last night. After a perfunctory summing up of his career the questions all related to whether or not he regretted the divisiveness of Ukip’s fight for a referendum. Not a word of congratulations for arguably the most successful politician of our age. Well here’s one. Thank you Nigel. And cheers!

All Shook Up

The silicon chip inside Bob Geldof’s head was twitching like a good’un the day the result came in. His role as homeless persons fashion icon was in jeopardy as he searched for another bandwagon to leap aboard. Phew, there it was. Okay, he’d have to share a stage with Owen Jokes and Billy Braggart but the March for Yerp was as good a vehicle as any to keep him in the limelight. He duly got up and ranted at a massed crowd of young people who all presumably asked “Who is he?” The ignorant being led by the arrogant; business as usual, reassuring hugs all round and a return to form for the perpetually offended.

Those who seek more reasoned arguments turn to the recent instability in the markets, but the FTSE 100 offers little solace for the doom-mongers, having bounced right back to where it started last week. The media, who are desperate to keep up the mood of panic and despair, are pointing instead to the FTSE 250 which better represents UK, as opposed to global stock trading. As the markets are driven by perception this interest automatically affects outcomes; stock values are little more than betting odds and the market is out for itself. The market makers are only concerned with their profits, not about the ability of companies to raise funds and pay their workers. Or were you not listening the last few decades?

Anyway, uncertainty is good. It is the opposite of staid predictability and mundanity. We should be getting excited about uncertainty because it brings opportunities a thousand years of planning could not predict. The old order will have to change (isn’t that what you wanted?) unless we allow it to quickly re-establish its own certainty; the certainty that might is right and the little guy will always lose. And the certainty of death, taxes and the electorate being ignored, time after time.

Yes, it is good to have job security and the expectation of a regular wage, but it also inspires fear of change. Look at how the welfare bill became such an issue in the last two elections, with all the ‘strivers and skivers’ rhetoric. There is a stigma attached to the dullness of unemployment, to the helplessness of reliance on the state. That’s something long overdue for a shake-up. The benefit burden has been sustained – they tell us – by importing lower-paid labour from afar. This is a pretence that is simply unsustainable; sooner or later the certainty of a life of redundancy, suckling on the state teat will have to end.

And the certainty of two-party politics in Britain is also being questioned as the options for both parties are a binary business-as-usual versus who knows what. And while the schadenfreude at watching a bunch of experts who turn out to know no more than the rest of us about the future is delicious, there is a nagging feeling that they want nothing more than to pretend that nothing has happened. If the next Prime Minister delays invoking Article 50 of the Lisbon Treaty in the hope that things may settle down they are only delaying the inevitable.

The new normal

It’s a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world and set to get more so. So confused is it right now that the mobs who would usually protest about big government are demanding to remain under the thumb of one. The crowds who bleat about democracy are rejecting the actual will of the demos. A re-run referendum has no more certain an outcome than putting your money on the dogs; except for the fact that there will always be winners and losers. Uncertainty -you can bet on it!

Skeletons in the cupboard

Well, Who’d’a thunk it? They say a week is a long time in politics and boy, what a week it’s been. Game of Thrones has nothing on the real thing. Okay it’s got blood and battle... and dragons... and a lot of nudity. But, apart from that... Anyway, Boris is out and some commentators are saying his political career is over. Gove, who has repeatedly denied Prime Ministerial ambition may be going the same way very soon – who would trust him after his little coup? So it’s lukewarm May versus hot new ticket Leadsom versus mister religious baggage, Stephen Crabb, who the papers are already trying to bury. Oh and the disgraced Liam Fox; not fancying his chances.

You could be forgiven for thinking this is the only game in town but there is also the not-so-small matter of Labour’s own meltdown and then finally the teensy-tiny little issue of re-shaping the country post-Brexit. We don’t even know yet when Article 50 of the Lisbon Treaty will be invoked or whether we’ll simply run out of time and be unceremoniously kicked out of the club regardless. Interesting times, as the Chinese curse goes, we’re certainly living in them. Speaking of which, life must go on, for politicians as much as for we ordinary folk. And most lives hold a little intrigue; those cupboard skeletons need attending to.

Which brings me to a little story of a certain business transaction I heard about recently. A rather dignified, well-dressed man in his late forties arrived at a London brothel and spoke to the madam. “I want to see Suzy." He requested. The madam looked him up and down and explained that Suzy’s rates were rather high, the highest in the house in fact, at £5,000 per night. The man insisted and produced the fee immediately and in cash. Suzy was duly summoned and they went upstairs. After just an hour, however, the man calmly left, saying nothing to the madam, merely nodding a polite goodbye as he departed.
 
The next afternoon he reappeared and once again asked to visit Suzy. Suzy was surprised and explained that no one had ever come back two nights in a row as she was so expensive. "There are no discounts,” she said, “the price is still £5000." Once again the man just smiled, produced the money and again they went upstairs. Just as before he left after an hour, unruffled and quietly dignified. Suzy and the madam thought no more of it...

Until he came again for a third afternoon and then a fourth. On each occasion he produced the £5000 fee in cash but left after only an hour, having engaged in what, presumably, was the central purpose of his visit. No conversation, no sleeping over, just straight down to business. But curiosity being an insistent urge, Suzy and the madam confronted him before he left on the fourth evening. “Nobody has ever been with me four times in a row.” She said, and then asked, “Where are you from?” He replied, in a soft, Scottish burr, that he had travelled down from Inveraray.

Not bad... just drawn that way

Suzy was taken aback. “What a coincidence!” she exclaimed, “I have family in Inveraray.” The stranger said “Yes, I know." the man said.  "Your Great Aunt died, and I am her solicitor.” Suzy was surprised and a little confused, she had hardly known her great aunt. “But why have you come here? Couldn’t you have just written a letter?” The lawyer explained that in fact her relative had not been without means and had left Suzy a sum in her will. “How much?” asked Suzy. “£20,000” the lawyer replied...