Bulgarity

An early enough three-hour flight from the UK plus a couple of hours of added time and all of a sudden we’re well into the day as my EasyJet steed taxies to the terminal in Sofia and I disembark with all the anticipation and trepidation of the finely-timed journey across an alien landscape that awaits me. After an incredibly slick entry into this newest of EU countries I am through passport control within twenty minutes of landing, my luggage is right there and after a few short paces through the green channel I am at large in the arrivals lounge.

I say ‘lounge’ as if anybody would hang around in a leisurely manner but, negotiating the small gaggle of hawkers pimping rides by private taxi, dodgy non-official bus services, charabanc and, for all I know, donkey, I pay heed instead to the instructions I have memorised and make my way to the rank of ‘Okay’ yellow Taxis. It’s not clear for a minute or two why there are people standing around waiting while a gridlock of empty taxis is going nowhere, so I approach the taxi at the head of the queue and using the international language of monosyllabic Slow English I get a ride to the bus station where, I have been told, there is a slim chance of catching the 1:40 to Kardzhali.

Either my powers of communication are better than I thought, or the driver is telepathic... or maybe the speed restrictions are merely advisory in the case of taxi drivers, because we hurtle across Sofia at speeds approaching the sound of “Oh my God!” twice veering widely to avoid cars with the temerity to be on their own side of the road. White knuckle rides are always so much fun and I settle back in the brace position to enjoy the new sights flooding in. And the smells. Ah, the earthy, rustic essence of Bulgaria... or is it, I belatedly wonder, the taxi driver?

Looking out as we get into the busy streets I am surprised (but why should I be?) that instead of the multicultural palette imposed on British cityscapes, Sofia appears to be splendidly and unashamedly monocultural and furthermore, being largely Caucasian in appearance the local population looks more comfortably British than The UK has looked for a decade or more. Furthermore, despite a 12% muslim population I saw not one single burka. People like us. (Yes, I said it. No you’re a racist!)

At the bus station my enquiry is met with a blank expression and sharp retort of admirable efficiency. “33. Go now.” I hover, expecting to buy a ticket – I am, after all, at the ticket desk. The lady behind the glass gives me a withering look; she must deal with imbeciles all day long. “Go! Run!” So I run, out into the sunshine, locate stand 33 and reach the bus just as it prepares to close its doors. Talk about close timing. Soon we are leaving the outskirts of the capital and I settle down to watch the scenery go by.

Typically, the other passengers retreat into their own worlds, to absorb the next four hours, so I dig out my headphones and select some music. On the way out of Sofia I saw numerous posters announcing the forthcoming arrival of Lisa Stansfield, who is playing the National Palace of Culture on the first of June, so that seemed appropriate. Only kidding – I chose some nice, soothing Led Zeppelin; it’s been a long time since I rock’n’rolled! We rambled on across a wide flat plain flanked by distant snow-topped mountain ridges.

Where's the plug?

My mission is to begin the rewire of an old school that Roo – some of you know him – has bought in the south of the country. I have seen pictures of the astonishingly insouciant existing installation with new cables nailed to walls and twisted to the ancient existing wiring. “I keep getting odd shocks when I touch things” he has told me in the past, to which I have generally responded – Tommy Cooper style – that he should stop touching those things. But on arrival he informs me he has also being getting a tingle n the shower and he doesn’t think it’s from his new citrus body wash. We solve the immediate problem by resolving not to bathe until we’ve fixed it, but in the meantime a welcome beer is called for. The work will come round in its own good time... Bulgaria time: сутрин which roughly translates as mañana or in Cornish, ‘dreckly’. It may be a while before we get that shower.

The journey of a a thousand miles...

The wonder that is economy air travel. Once it might have been excusable for passengers to arrive unschooled and stumble through the vagaries of airport check-in, security and the waiting... all that waiting. These days, however, with the long-ago advent of cattle class for the masses, you’d think people would be more prepared. You’d think...

Overheard in the queue to deposit hold baggage: “My bag, where’s my bag?” What? “Where’s my bag? It’s got everything in it!” What do you mean, everything? “Passports, boarding passes, money... Oh god, wallet, house keys! Everything!” You’d better telephone the taxi firm then. The man pats down his pockets but he already knows what he will find. “My phone’s in the bag!” Much grumbling and groaning as they excuse and extricate themselves from the snaking, concertina queue and stand, shipwrecked in a sea of teeming shoals of wheeled luggage. I can think of better ways of spending a very early morning than being entertainment for the schadenfreude-hungry hordes.

Then security. We KNOW the machines pick up metal, so woe betide the much-pierced ‘frequent flyers’ in the line. Belts, metal spectacle frames, shoe buckles, all have to come off and be placed in the trays; this seems to come as a surprise to some. And having passed a million signs demanding that liquids, pastes and gels be in clear plastic bags why do so many come unprepared? The queue shuffles forward like a prison exercise detail in leg irons as every other traveller encounters an unexpected, yet perfectly well advertised security requirement.

Nobody needs Duty Free. Nobody. In these days of online shopping and free-for-all customs control it’s rarely as cheap as you can find it elsewhere. But you still have to make that expedition through the dazzling lights and cloying perfume to get to the departure lounge. As sophisticated travellers we should know better but some still fall prey to the allure. “Don’t look, Doris!” But it’s too late. You’ve already squeezed as much into your hand luggage as you possibly could, yet now you want to buy something you don’t need, for more than you afford, for no reason you can think of.

Expensive coffee, massage chairs as fairground attractions, dozing adults and shrieking children; the departure lounge is anything but relaxing. With frequent announcements to keep an eye on your luggage the paranoia builds as everybody inspects everybody else for the telltale signs of the ne’er-do-well. And what is she wearing? Soon come the boarding calls and yet again we all lurch into lines to be scrutinised by hatchet-faced cabin crew on early morning duties as we eagerly anticipate taking our seats, only to be held in a stifling, sweaty queue of unfamiliar body odours and a Babel of muttered curses.

Finally, the madness of embarkation as we take our seats in the cigar tube. Where once there were four seats across, the slim cabin now seats six and, of course, nobody except you is prepared for the utter novelty of placing your hand luggage in the overhead locker. As I have dutifully used the rear doors to board (Ooh-er, missus!) it is to be expected that as I make my forward I pass others who ignored that instruction and now, like salmon, struggle against the force of the flow to find their seats at the back. Does everything in life come as such a challenge for these people?

"The plane now arriving at..."

But soon we are airborne, drifting off to sleep in the snoring, farting, flying sausage as it transports us to far-off lands, dreaming of new time zones and new, strange delights among an unfamiliar folk... just as long as they have a Starbucks and a McDonalds and WiFi and a half-decent mobile phone signal. And everybody speaks English. Oh and none of them strange foreign toilets... Ah truly, to travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.

More holiday tales tomorrow as the journey continues...

Chipping Away

My brother works for an enormous housing association with a nationwide repair, maintenance and refurbishment division. As well as managing much of what we used to call the country’s council housing stock they also squander vast sums of public money on bringing these houses up to a defined standard of amenity and energy consumption beyond what many home owners could possibly afford. New kitchens, bathrooms, central heating, wiring, etc. But I’ve written of this before.

The extra titbit I bring you today is that my little brother is one of the few tradesmen on their books who has a works van that is NOT fitted with a tracker. The others are furious because they are held to account for any deviation, mileage discrepancies and time irregularities and they see this as an unwarranted intrusion into their privacy. While, inevitably, some of them would take the piss were it not so, it is hard to put a price on the trust that is lost by this use of the technology. But hey, that’s tough, it goes with the territory.

But what if it wasn’t the works van? What if, from next year, all new cars and vans sold throughout Europe were to be fitted with tracking devices? What Orwellian hell is this, you demand? We didn’t vote for this! But, of course, you didn’t need to. Big Brother knows best what is good for you and apparently – for your own safety and convenience – what is good for you is that your car can be located at any time. Did you feel that little bit of trust as it just slipped away?

Of course, say those who see no evil, you already carry a sim card in your mobile phone that can be used to narrow down your location and if you have GPS switched on, we know exactly where you are. But the use of your phone is elective. You can choose to leave it switched off, or leave it at home. You can manage your phone to do your bidding, whereas the car will silently grass you up every time you leave the house. Ah yes, they say, but if you are doing nothing wrong you have nothing to fear. Ever heard that before?

It’s another small step down a rocky road – for that is how all this works – one piece of freedom removed at a time and with luck nobody notices. Before you know where you are, you reach the end of that road. Already your freedom of speech, once taken for granted (the young people of Britain have no idea what  'free country' used to mean) is only guaranteed as long as what you say doesn’t cross certain boundaries which can seemingly be defined by anybody who chooses to take offence. Ah, but we have human rights, you cry! Yes, you do… you do… and how many dangerous criminals have been released to reoffend on human rights grounds?

Because, as always, the law does not constrain criminals, it never has; it primarily exists to control the rest of us. Toe the line and the full weight of the law will come down on your head - you’ll lose your reputation, your dignity and your livelihood. But live outside the law and the very same system will protect you from justice and retribution. The meek are not going to be inheriting the earth any time soon.

What next? Chip every child at birth? Brand them? Tattoo a QR code on their earlobe? We seem to meekly accept every little constraint on our freedoms, including that of our will; we do it to ourselves with hardly a murmur. Would you mind just putting your foot here? Yes, that’s right, just by that open shackle. And now the other one, please? That’s good. What? Oh, yes, it’s fine… you’re all equal - everybody is being treated exactly the same. Now if you wouldn’t mind just bending over and snapping the padlock shut? That’s excellent. No, don’t get up, stay bent over; it’s probably for the best if you just brace yourself now.

Chip this!

Well you won’t need to chip me for the next two weeks. I’m off on my holibobs, about which I will no doubt bore you to tears. If I can be arsed, I may well pick up the news and scribble one of my rants, but if I don’t manage to blog at all, just enjoy the blissful silence. If they track me down, I'll let you know.

War of the Worlds

While you are getting frothy over the forthcoming elections, there are foul doings and goings-on afoot. The enemy is at the gates. Forget your Agenda 21 and The Illuminati. Pay no heed to the distraction of the chem-trail theorists and dismiss your thoughts of lizard creatures hell-bent on world domination. There is a far worse danger out there; it is all around us and too late to stop. Fear the march of the machines.

The Luddites knew a thing or two, I tell you, but once they were consigned to history the machines just got craftier and quietly carried on, taking over. Now, they rule our lives and distract us from their evil purpose with the wizardry that is their domain and theirs alone. Some people believe they have tamed the beast and it dances to their command but they delude themselves. This many-headed monster is nobody’s pet.

If anybody is on a leash here it is humanity, pegged to a stake and paying out daily only for the monster to get stronger and stronger. Nobody is immune and ultimately there can be only one winner. When it first arrived you thought it might become useful, given time. Then you convinced yourselves that you would be in the driving seat. But then it began to play its tune and like the Pied Piper of Hamlin, you all followed it to where you sit today, deceiving yourself that you are the puppet-master.

How do I know all this? Because the other day I started to look into the possibility of getting a new laptop. Now here’s the problem – I have no meaningful relationship with Information Technology. I have a degree in the subject but I may as well have a qualification in stone masonry for all the dialogue there is between me and the kit; it doesn’t talk to me. I foolishly posted my dilemma on Twitter and I got advice! Advice? I’m a man, for heaven’s sake, I have no gracious way of dealing with advice. Help me out here – no, don’t!

You see, I want my phone, my table, my PC and my laptop to work in seamless harmony with each other. In the past I have spent entire lost weekends installing, configuring and ultimately removing all kinds of software. But it turns out that while I can USE the tools, I can’t sharpen them. Give me a chisel and a whetstone and I’m your man, but give me a computer and an operating system and I’m screwed. This is no accident.

For all you adherents of Linux or Ubuntu or the dread OS X there is still not one unified, harmonious solution. Mention Windows XP, Vista, 7, 8, or 8i and prepare for a clamour of hostile invective? This is intentional. This is what the machines want. They want some of us dumb humans to believe we are in fact in control when nothing could be further from the truth. And all the while we bicker and backstab, the internet – autonomous alien entity that it is – is collecting data about who we are and how stupid we can be.

Make no mistake, friends, the Information Age is no such thing. If you disbelieve me, consider how much of your time you now spend voluntarily telling strangers your innermost thoughts. You can’t even remember what you used to do before the world of Wi-Fi stole your leisure time from you. You are willing slaves to the digital world and not the other way around. And things will only get worse…

Because while in days gone by your views were shaped by the social groups you interacted with, as real people with real daily lives, nowadays you get your views of the world from people you may never meet; people who not only don’t give a fig about you as an individual, but who might quite happily consign you to oblivion with the simple act of unfollowing, or not liking; a virtual thumbs down. The same now applies to politics.

Once upon a time you voted in your blocs for the party whose overall package of policies appeared to best fit the aspirations of your societal groups. This was simple and effective and before the machines arrived we were more or less content with the outcome; we felt we’d made an informed choice. But now, separated from the group, the flickering screens pick up our individual dreams and send them to the politicians who try and package their policies to suit.

If you don’t believe me, check out some of the more stupid things otherwise responsible people have been made to do: Ed 'Robot' Miliband, the incredible repeating man, Nick Clegg and his apology, Boris Johnson on the zip wire… and now Michelle Obama with 'that' sign. What was she thinking? It has since become symbolic of how the most sincere of gestures can be hijacked and held to ridicule; we now put the words in the politicians’ mouths. This is democracy taken to its inevitable and ludicrous extreme. Welcome to machine politics and god rest your souls!

The Lesson of History

Teaching history is an area of scholarship fraught with politically charged danger for the unwary. In mixed sex, mixed ability, multi-ethnic classes it is hard to find an episode in Britain’s past that doesn’t press the offence trigger for some national or special interest group or other and it is impossible to tell the history of the modern world without mentioning the British. History teacher Dave checks his privilege every time he begins a sentence; his students are quick to spot a potential slur, no matter how innocent the intent.

The beginning of term was easy enough, covering the Roman occupation of Britain. Boudicca was a suitably inclusive and morally positive icon for the girls in the class, or as he had learned to call them, the cis-gendered, non-body image challenged equal females and the indigenous white British boys were too dull to pick up on the air of smug superiority exuded by the oily-haired well groomed Tommaso as he recounted the achievements of his ancient Italian ancestry.

Despite its only being a myth, the programme allowed for the teaching of the court of Camelot. The Arthurian legend was deemed to be inclusive enough for all nationalities, creeds and colours, adopted as it had been by Hollywood and turned into a worldwide franchise. Plus it had the added bonus that limitless online material was available for research and there was no shortage of footage Dave could display on the big screen in the classroom, enabling him to take the occasional crafty fag break while his pupils gawped.

The Boxer Rebellion caused a few heart-stopping moments as the unnerving and inscrutable gaze of the usually silent twins Bao-Zhi and Cheng-Gong threatened to put a chink dent in his multiculturally sensitive armour. Thankfully he managed to negotiate those treacherous waters and tell the dramatic story of the rise of Jardine Matheson, the opium wars and the development of Hong Kong without any obvious mishap.

But there was one period in British history that Dave felt he had to skirt round. Fully a third of his pupils hailed from various Indian subcontinental backgrounds, so the story of the British Raj was always going to be tricky. He had both Hindus and Sikhs in his class, who seemed happy enough to rub along, as well as a good proportion of muslims whose parents insisted they observe their religious dress and differences and maintain their strict rituals. Dave hated to admit it but he felt he was under scrutiny the whole time for causing some infidel slight or other, punishable under sharia law.

As the time to deliver this part of the syllabus neared, Dave found ever more inventive ways of delaying the inevitable, while constantly scrutinising his lesson plans for any hint of the ever-threatening, unintentional, white-man’s casual disregard for cultural sensitivities. It was Friday, the day he had steeled himself for Naveed or Haroon or one of the several Mohammeds to interject and correct his clumsy racism. He gazed out at the class and bottled it.

Instead he decided to take a detour into European history; the Black Hole of Calcutta could wait until Monday. Quickly selecting a different PowerPoint presentation he told the tale of the valiant Swiss hero of the fifteenth century. The class sat in rapt silence as he recounted the actions of William, or Willhelm, from Bürglen, the strong man, mountain climber, and expert shot with the crossbow. He felt he was on safe ground as he told of William’s defiance of the Habsburgs, his subsequent arrest and the deal that was made.

Warming to his theme and sensing the end of the lesson drawing nearer Dave built on the tension as he told of the single-shot chance William had to save the life of himself and his son, Walter. But suddenly he was aware of a hand waving in the air. Sure enough, one of the Mohammeds had something to say. “Sir, sir!” he urged. Despite the fact that he had been born in England the accent was pure Pakistani. “Yes, Mohammed?” asked Dave, wondering what on earth he had said wrong this time.

Unknown to most historians, William had an 

older and less fortunate son named Warren

“Sir, sir” repeated Mohammed, “you got that all wrong, sir!” The class waited, holding their breath. “You see, sir, that man, the one with the apple on the little boy’s head? Well he was one of ours, sir.” Dave breathed a sigh of relief. The little shit had nothing on him, but he was nevertheless intrigued, “What do you mean ‘one of yours’?” he asked confidently. Mohammed replied, quick as a flash, “Well, it's his name, sir, innit? William Patel!”