On Wednesday
morning I sat in the barber’s chair listening to Radio 1’s tribute to the late
George Martin, the Beatles’ producer. Two months previously, in that same
chair, it had been David Bowie’s tribute I had heard and, since both men had
been significant in my life, it was beginning to feel as if the chair was some
kind of vantage point from which to mark the passing of the heroes of my youth.
Perhaps, I thought, I could time future haircuts purposely to coincide with the
deaths of others of my era and, as I watch the scissored grey hair fall around
me, reflect on who goes next: me or Bob Dylan?
I don’t know
that the barber himself feels the same way about it: the little he says is
confined to nuggets of his personal life - holidays, football matches etc. - that
he looks forward to as distractions from his despair at what he sees as the breakdown
of society, his stock reaction to which is a disconsolate shake of the head. Actually
I was in the mood to empathise with him, having just returned from a couple of
days in the Lake District where the snow-capped peaks looked magnificent
against the cold but brilliant blue skies. In such surroundings it is natural
to feel that all is well with the world and to make believe that that our
minority-elected Government is not really intent on destroying society and
appropriating all wealth on behalf of an elite few; that the E.U. is not really
about to outsource its refugee management problem to a ruthless Turkish
dictator; and that Americans are not really serious about electing Donald Trump
(a dictator-in-waiting) as President and Commander in Chief.
The
distraction of the pretty Lakeland landscape was powerful but short-lived. A
reality check came with the realisation that, although it was out-of-season,
the car park machines still charged a small fortune, while the toilet
facilities which are thereby funded were boarded up on the spurious grounds of
being “vulnerable to frost”. Then, over a cup of vile, brown liquid sold as
espresso and charged at city prices, the metaphor for life under capitalism
appeared all too plain: allow yourself to become captivated and you become a
captive customer.
I am getting
some historical context on power politics by reading Claire Tomalin’s biography
of Samuel Pepys, the man whose famous diary is fascinating because it records
not only the picaresque details of his daily life, but also the political
currents in which he swam. Pepys, as was common in 17th Century
England, relied on patronage for his living and, to his good fortune, had some
useful family connections plus the will and intelligence to exploit them to the
full. As a young man he lived through the civil war and saw the execution of
King Charles 1st, the rise and unexpected demise of the increasingly
dictatorial Oliver Cromwell and the power struggle that ensued. A form of
democracy with a small degree of enfranchisement emerged from these events but real
power resided with landowners and their agents, the legal system and state-enshrined
religion, for centuries afterwards. Now that they have largely waned we should
not imagine that egalitarianism has won the day. Multinational corporations are
our new masters and, as a logical extension of this reality, Donald Trump and
his like will be our new leaders: unless we are very careful.
And, of
course, where America leads, Britain nowadays follows. It won’t be Sir Richard
Branson or Sir Alan Sugar - they are relatively nice guys - but there will be a
corporate contender with a fascist agenda that the by-then impoverished masses will
be desperate to elect as a saviour. When this happens I can just see my barber
shaking his head in despair. “The Times They Are A-Changin”, I will say.
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