Who's Law Is It, Anyway?

          The other day, I found a million-pound banknote. It was a spoof, of course. Nor did I really ‘find’ it: I picked it up from where it had been deliberately and conspicuously placed to draw attention to itself, on top of a low wall. From a distance, it looked like a tenner folded into a transparent plastic pouch. When I picked it up, I saw that there was also a small pebble in there, on one side of which was written HEBREWS 4:12-13 and on the other side of which were four unfamiliar characters (Hebrew, perhaps?). Quick as a flash, I deduced that I had fallen for the oldest advertising trick in the world, an appeal to the base human instinct of greed. I reacted by turning the tables, with a mental sneer at the Godly proselytisers who had stooped so low as to use such inducement as they themselves must surely scorn in favour of spiritual riches. Besides, I thought, if you want to convert someone to your way of thinking, it’s not a good start to make them feel foolish.

          Still, curiosity got the better of me and I looked up the Biblical reference, an assertion that “nothing in all creation is hidden from God’s sight”, the implication being that you had better observe His laws or burn in hell. This is predicated, of course, on the acceptance of there being such a thing as God. But it also, tellingly, reflects the megalomaniacal tendencies of Earthly autocrats. And that, in turn, makes sense of Robert A. Heinlein’s observation, “Men rarely (if ever) managed to dream up a god superior to themselves. Most gods have the manners and morals of a spoiled child”. The conclusion I draw from this is that there’s always someone who wants to control everyone else and the surest way to do that is through fear, spiritual or temporal. I had one last attempt, however, at the God question. I followed a link to a professorial dissertation, which turned out to be a painful exercise in casuistry intended to prove the existence of God by not providing any empirical evidence (well, there isn’t any, after all). But I soon tired of this vortex of illogicality and abandoned the text in favour of Bill Bryson’s The Road to Little Dribbling and a bottle of decent Gigondas.

          There endeth my respect for the laws of God: but, as to the laws of the land, it is more nuanced. On Monday, I got caught up in the aftermath of a protest at the Government’s agreement to renew licenses for fossil-fuel extraction. Once upon a time (pre-Johnson/Patel) the right to protest (peacefully) was upheld by the law. Now, I can report, the undermining of that right is fully under way. I sat in Walworth police station for five hours, serving time on rota in support of nine protestors who had been taken into custody, some for being merely in the vicinity of the action. Typical of the charges was “conspiracy to destroy/damage property of unknown value”, something that I hope will be difficult to prove subsequently in court, but which has been passed into law anyway, if only as a handy way of getting protestors off the street and away from the oxygen of publicity. It has long been apparent to me that British law rests firmly, not on the rights of human beings, but on the defence of private property, a fact vividly illustrated during my recent visit to the former penal colony of Sydney where, until 1840, Britons were sent if their death sentences for the crime of theft were mercifully commuted to transportation.

          Perhaps if the law was concentrated more on the protection of citizens from harm, there would be a better chance of our not burning in a real hell of our own creation.

Who's Got All Our Money?

          This week, activists trying to avert the climate crisis embarked on a series of stunts designed to draw attention to the fact that Barclays continues to be one of the biggest funders of fossil-fuel extraction worldwide, even as the said world’s governments gathered at CoP 27 trying to agree on ways to put an end to this folly of self-destruction.

          Our local branch of Barclays received the attentions of a small team who symbolically cleaned the ‘dirty’ bank, inside and out with nothing more than dusters, though whether those who observed the action registered the connection is open to question. For its part, the bank chose to inconvenience its own customers by temporarily closing its doors, the blame for which fell, of course, on the cleaners who were going about their business without causing any actual obstruction. Far from appreciating the reason for the protest, those queuing outside either vented annoyance or remained stoically indifferent. The fact that their money is being used to hasten ecocide is apparently no concern of theirs, which highlights the age-old conundrum for activists-for-change of how to get people to think critically about the status quo.

          Meanwhile, on the side-lines, I was brandishing signage inviting passers-by to compare the green credentials of the various high street banks, in the hope that, moved by conscience to do something positive that would neither cost nor inconvenience themselves, some would switch to one of the many banks that have eco-friendly credentials. (Check for yourself at bank.green). Now, I appreciate the fact that passers-by are doing just that – many with families in tow and missions to accomplish – but a higher level of interest would have been gratifying, even so. Some of those who did stop to talk were converts who wanted to tell me that they had been with the near-saintly Nationwide or Co-operative banks for years. But in so doing they succeeded only in blocking my signage and hindering me from the business of attracting the interest of the unconverted, amongst whom there were a few who shrugged off the issue with a jocular comment such as, “I don’t care which bank I’m with as long as they look after my money (ha,ha)”, or “It doesn’t matter what we do if the Chinese don’t get on board”, to which the answer is, “they got on board years ago and now monopolise the green industrial landscape”; but by then, your passer-by has passed by. The good news, however, is that I can report positive interest from young people who have just come of banking-age and who have not yet developed irrational, misplaced loyalties to cynical banking corporations.

          Activists face the problem of overturning complacent acceptance of the status quo, too often the result of passive belief in the stories woven by those who are ‘in charge’, whether elected or otherwise. One such story – as told this week by the Chancellor of the Exchequer – is that we cannot afford a decent and equitable level of collective services, despite having the 6^th largest economy in the world. So where is all the wealth that our economy has produced? Could it be in off-shore tax-havens, billionaires’ pockets, and fossil-fuel extraction companies’ accounts? Could some of it have been squandered by governments on projects like HS2?

          The plea of state poverty deserves scrutiny and, fortunately, there is a growing band of economists doing just that by refuting established doctrine. Think of it this way; “His mother had often said, ‘When you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action’. She had emphasized the corollary of this axiom even more vehemently: ‘When you desire a consequence you had damned well better take the action that would create it.’’” *

* Lois McMaster Bujold, writer (b. 2 Nov 1949)

 

Running Out Of Steam?

          Coincidence or what? On my recent return from Australia, the first piece of music I heard on the radio was Frank Sinatra singing “It’s very nice to go trav’lin…but it’s so much nicer to come home” and, for a while, I felt in tune with the sentiment. But I’m sure the comforts of home tend to dull the senses eventually. And never let it be said that I should “get out more”.

          The distance I travelled was immense, yet the ease of the journey and the speed with which it may be achieved has come to be taken for granted. But still I marvel that the world we inhabit has become so accessible to so many of us. And why do people live where they do? How much choice are they able to exercise (supposing they want to)? Is the grass always greener? Is there really no place like home? More than half the global population now inhabits cities, but that leaves almost half that does not and, from the window of a train passing small, lakeside settlements along Australia’s Central Coast, I could see the attraction of hunkering down somewhere picturesque and tranquil. You could, if so inclined, hide away in places like that, untouched by the troubled world – until such time as the trouble turns up on your doorstep in the form of social unrest, ecological disaster or both. But that’s not part of the dream, I suppose.

          Of course, there are many people who live where they do because of their employment, like the young Frenchman who was in the seat next to me on one of the flights. I asked how he came to speak English so well, and it was because he had worked for several years in international banking in places like Singapore and Hong Kong. Being currently unemployed, he was on a recreational trip to Australia and was quite relaxed about where he might end up living. Oh, to be young and footloose! On another flight, I spoke to a young Australian woman who works in London and was flying back there having spent a week with her British boyfriend who works in Sydney. I didn’t enquire how the relationship was going, but I did ask about her work, which is in digital advertising. I hope I didn’t misjudge the extent of her interest in my telling her tales of my short, undistinguished career in advertising back in the 70s, when ‘cutting and pasting’ involved actual scissors, glue and Letraset. If so, she indulged me with impeccable politeness, nevertheless.

          But despite my enthusiasm for travelling – which sits well with my imagined persona as an intrepid and capable international adventurer – there were some moments on this last trip that raised the tiniest concern in me that I may not be up to the challenges much longer. My spirit of self-reliance was dealt a blow when, on one of the flights, I tried and failed to twist the plastic cap off a bottle of water. Either it was faulty, or my arthritis-weakened grip was not up to the job, but a younger man seated across the aisle had noticed my dilemma and sprang to my assistance with the sort of kindly smile that is reserved for old people. Again, when having difficulties with seat-belt catches, headphone sockets and touch-screen in-flight entertainment systems, it was a young person sitting next to me who volunteered their services, without being asked, as if to say, “poor old sod doesn’t know shit about modern tech. Better help him out.”

          Despite these slight humiliations, I remain defiantly hopeful for the time being, though I do note that the last verse of Frank’s song, a paean to the comforts of firesides and slippers, may be what it comes to in the end.