No More Smoke And Mirrors

          Extinction Rebellion’s attention-grabbing tactics are having their intended effect: on me, at least. I find myself thinking twice about the carbon implications of almost everything that I do – even going to a gig, though the last one I went to (jazz band, Ruby Rushton) surely had a minimal environmental impact. The venue is a low-rent cellar just a few minutes’ walk away and, although it has been fitted out to basic health and safety standards, no resources have been squandered on prettification: it remains as scuzzy as it was on the day it was abandoned after a hundred years and more of industrial usage.

          Apart from H & S certification and the presence of the Council-mandated bouncers, the place reminded me of my student days. The ticket-collector, perched on a stool at the top of the stairs, had an amateur, girlfriend-of-the-guitarist approach to the job, almost apologising for the entry fee and, incidentally, telling me how much she liked my shirt. ‘Quite stylish for an old bloke’ was what she meant, I thought – until I saw what the musicians were wearing. The multi-instrumentalist leader sported a fleece gilet, hiking trousers and bare feet in Birkenstocks; the trumpeter, looking as though he had just come from the bedroom to get his breakfast, wore a cheap T shirt, baggy gym shorts and socks without shoes; the keyboard man’s outfit was less casual, but he did eat a banana in between numbers; and the drummer, a cool-looking black guy in a sharp, matching sports outfit, looked as if he might be a stand-in for the scruffy regular.

          Perhaps the casual disregard for stage-presence was an intentional part of the band’s public identity. If so, it certainly fitted with the lack of stage-presentation: no master of ceremonies to announce them; a stage unadorned but for a litter of trailing cables and electronic boxes; no smoke machines; no light-show – not even rudimentary mood-enhancing coloured spots. All of which would have cost money, escalated the ticket price and – crucial to my current concern – enlarged the carbon footprint. I doubt, however, that environmental concern was the driving force behind all this austerity. More likely, I think, is the conviction that jazz should not need smoke and mirrors to get its message across. In this case, it certainly did not and, as I walked home feeling virtuous for having enjoyed the performance at low cost to the environment and to my wallet, the extinction of species seemed a remote possibility. How easily distracted we are.

          It is understandable that we might be blasé about Armageddon, given the number of times it has been foretold by religious prophets. It’s an old trick: get people to believe that they are doomed unless they follow a prescribed path and – hey presto! – you have them under your control. Theistic religions play to the irrational side of human behaviour. Their tenets are based on their interpretations of ancient texts and, as such, compete with other interpretations. They can’t all be ‘true’. Furthermore, said texts are so ancient that their authorship is as questionable as their claims to ultimate authority – God – an entity that cannot be proven to exist, let alone dictate texts. It is not surprising, therefore, that priests employ theatrical effects, traditions, rites and rituals to distract their audiences from the absence of facts.

          The prophesy of Extinction Rebellion, however, is based on facts, not smoke and mirrors. Science has demonstrated that the end of the world is nigh. We are all doomed to extinction – (apart from those who believe in an afterlife). Just imagine, there will be no more jazz! Not even in the afterlife. (Well, if they can assert something without proof, then so can I.)

Living the Fantasy

There are so many cranes on the city’s skyline that it’s hard to keep abreast of developments, though I do try. One fine morning, for example, I walked to a former car-park where a cluster of almost-completed residential sky-scrapers now stands. Just a few metres away, across the small, urban river Medlock, squats the low-level converted warehouse that my partner and I almost bought into twenty years ago. The deal fell through and, though we knew that one day the derelict land over the river would be developed, we never imagined that the sky would be scraped so severely and that so many dwellings would – or could – eventually loom over us – and on such small a plot. At this rate, the housing shortage should be resolved soon.

We have lived in two different flats in the years since then and have become increasingly obsessed by the notion of what it might be like to live elsewhere. (A fondness for camper-vanning is an obvious symptom of our wanderlust.) Wherever we travel, be it in the UK or abroad, we speculate on what our lives would be like if we lived there. Sometimes I bypass the actual travelling and use the internet to find real-estate in places that take my fancy. When I went to visit my brother in Hastings last week, I was able to point out several properties that I had already investigated with a view to becoming his neighbour. (He wasn’t too alarmed at the prospect, knowing that I am prone to fantasise.) In fact, I have just downloaded the Rightmove app so that I can check out properties for sale in whichever place I happen to be.

I was demonstrating the app to my partner the other day, while we were drinking Turkish coffee in the spring sunshine at St. Katherine’s Dock, East London. “It would be nice to have a flat here, overlooking the marina and close to the coffee,” I said. “Let’s see what’s available.” The first property that popped up was a houseboat. “Ooh, that’s nice!” we said in unison and drained our cups to go in search of the handsome naval pinnace, built in 1937 but lovingly maintained in fine fettle. For an hour or two, we argued the pros and cons of a life-changing move to the water: it seemed so appealing – like a camper-van, only floating. However, the case in favour eventually foundered on the rocks of practicalities – especially those concerning our ignorance of boats and boating and my tendency to be sea-sick.

During the few days we were in London, we walked a good many miles around its centre, which brought us into contact with Extinction Rebellion, the organisation that is blocking roads to bring attention to the need to act against environmental degradation. There is criticism that their blockades inconvenience the everyday lives of the population at large, to which they reply: sorry to inconvenience you, but your world is coming to an end and you need to do something to prevent it. There are successful precedents for disruptive movements, e.g. the Suffragettes, a spin-off from the Suffragists, whose too-polite approach was ineffective. After all, without disruption, complacency persists indefinitely.

I shall probably pre-decease the extinction of our species so, from a selfish stance, I am happy to support the Revolution in principle, while letting others do the heavy lifting. However, I do have advice for those anticipating being around when the end comes. Regarding your choice of dwelling, avoid being stuck in a sky-scraping condo: in the event of dystopia, it will be unpleasant – as imagined by J.G. Ballard in his 1975 novel, High-Rise. Suburbia might provide more refuge, but hedges and shrubs provide cover for marauders. For my money, it would pay to be peripatetic. Get a camper-van (or a houseboat) and out-run the competition for tinned food.

The Last Laugh?

The time was approaching when I needed to renew my passport. I had been putting it off until the resolution of Brexit, hoping against the odds that the new document would have “European Union” emblazoned in gold on the cover. However, since the ‘negotiations’ were looking likely to drag on indefinitely, I decided I had better get on with it. The renewal required an up-to-date mugshot, which I opted to have taken at a local photo shop rather than DIY on my laptop. So, having first visited the barber (one likes to look one’s best), I handed over a tenner and sat, sombre-faced, while a young girl took the snap. It was done in an instant. “Is that OK?” she said, showing me the digital image. I tried not to show disappointment, though the person I saw in the photo looked much older than I had expected. I suppose I am used to the younger version of me in the expiring passport, looking bright-eyed and keen, like someone about to embark on an adventure. This newer version looked more like a jet-lagged old grump who had just spent two hours in the border-control queue. “That’s fine,” I said. “Thanks.”

That evening, I attended a fund-raiser for the homeless, a stand-up comedy-cum-poetry performance. I had deduced from the publicity material that the audience would be predominantly young but, looking around the bar before the start of the show, I realised that it was, in fact, exclusively young – apart from me and my companion. We exchanged pleasantries with the acquaintance who had sold us the tickets, said hello to a couple of her friends, then retreated to the auditorium, where we sat in the back row, so that my white hair would be less conspicuous. Not that I feared being an object of ridicule; I just didn’t want to put the performers off their stride. I need not have concerned myself about that. The material was all centred on one, over-arching topic – their dread of approaching the age of thirty.

And so we listened patiently to the angst-ridden musings of a generation preoccupied by sex, drugs, rock’n’roll and career progression. There was plenty of talent, some of it raw, and quite a few jokes that transcended the age-gap. We did our best to respond appreciatively, though we could not get into the obligatory “whoop!” that was required with each round of applause. However, there were aspects that I found wearing: the constant use of profane and foul language – not that I disapprove, but such spice is more effective when administered in small doses; the relentless emphasis on what seemed to me a very narrow set of issues; making fun of their ageing (fifty-something) parents; and a long, mocking account of “some old bloke in his seventies” that really made me squirm. Fortunately, the last item came just before the interval, at which point we were able to make a strategic escape and return to our own time-warp. It’s not that I resent getting older, but a little bit of empathy is always appreciated.

I may, however, have the last laugh. The following evening, I watched a documentary that my barber had recommended. Eat, Fast, Live Longer (BBC Horizon series) outlines scientific research into the bodily effects of intermittent fasting, which points to potential benefits to the ageing process. Fasting, they say, stimulates various systems that are then activated to renew cells, including brain cells, thereby shielding against diabetes, cancer, cardio-vascular disease and Alzheimer’s. I need to give it a try, obviously, so that I don’t end up on multi-medication in my latter years. If it works, I look forward to turning up at future young-person events, looking smug. I might even have to get the passport renewed once more. If so, I hope it will have “European Union” emblazoned in gold on the cover.

Morris Dancing?

There are times when it feels as though ‘native British culture’ – by which I mean that which is familiar to me and my ilk – is in danger of being displaced by the process of globalisation, the dominant influence in which is American. Having returned recently from New Orleans, however, I feel reassured that not all the uniqueness of Britain has been subsumed for, since landing on home ground, certain quintessentially native phenomena have come to my attention.

It was Saturday 30^th of March, the day after we were supposed to have left the European Union, and I was walking across town hoping against the odds that the whole Brexit movement would founder on the rocks of intractability, when the unmistakable sounds of Morris dancing came to my attention. An all-girl troupe was performing at the entrance to Tesco Metro on Market Street, a spot more usually occupied by buskers, beggars and on-the-hoof street-vendors. I stopped to watch for a while – I like the daftness of Morris dancing – and considered it brave of them to risk ridicule: after all, the natural habitat for these dancers is the village green and the George & Dragon Inn and the eccentric costumes and rural heritage of their performance might feel alien to an urban audience. I need not have worried, for there was safety in their number: by the time I had crossed town I had encountered six more troupes, some in action, some in transit and others spilling out of city pubs. It was National Morris Dance Day, it transpired. The tradition is alive and kicking at the doors of city-folk, though I doubt it will make it across the Atlantic.

On the way home I overheard this snippet of phone conversation: “…well, I did ask the bus conductor…”. Now, bus conductors disappeared back in the seventies, I think, yet here was someone to whom they were an unforgettably intrinsic part of the public transport system. Perhaps he hopes that they will be reinstated when the buses are brought back into public ownership. There is a place – the Working-Class Movement Library – where this aspiration lives on. It is a thirty-minute walk from home and I have been intending to go there for some time but made it, eventually, for a talk by historian Katherine Connelly on her biography, Sylvia Pankhurst, Suffragette, Socialist and Scourge of Empire. (If you should ever be inclined to make yourself feel inadequate, read this account of one person’s selfless, heroic and indefatigable efforts in the cause of human emancipation.)

The WCML is founded on the collection of two individuals, Ruth and Eddie Frow, and its continued survival is to be applauded, especially given that capitalism, with its rampant, aggressive and triumphalist progress, condemns it to the status of a marginalised curiosity. It is funded by charitable and voluntary donations, though it really merits national support and recognition because of the significance of its collection to the history of our socio-political development. The event I attended was hosted by volunteers, all of whom were doddery old ladies offering a warm welcome, cherished memories, tea and biscuits. Where were the bright-eyed young acolytes of the socialist movement? I shall return in hope of encountering one or two.

Socialism is a British – nay, European – tradition that meets with strong resistance in America because of the supremacy accorded to private property rights, therefore little progress has been made to redress the balance of their exported neo-liberalism. They are, however, more open to the subtle charms of cool culture – as pioneered by the Beatles, for example. And the film that I just saw, Out of Blue – which, though set in New Orleans (been there!), was made by Mancunian Carol Morley, features the actor Toby Jones and is based on a novel by Martin Amis – could be part of the fight-back: or, at least, an indication that culture is trickling in the other direction.