Dig This

          Of all last week’s newsworthy items, one that caught my attention was an argument for wine producers to ditch glass bottles in favour of cans. My immediate reaction was one of outrage that such sacrilege should be perpetrated against the noble nectar, yet the arguments presented convinced me otherwise. In short, glass bottles are eco-expensive to produce and, because of their weight and shape, also to transport. As for the wine itself, it will come to no harm in any type of inert container. I recall being equally outraged when cork stoppers were similarly abandoned for reasons of practicality, but now I am relieved that the requirement to check for a ‘corked’ wine is disappearing fast – especially given my anxiety about being able to.

          And there was another, more prominent news item that got me going – the spoliation of a patch of lawn at Trinity College, Oxford. Certain media outlets were full of outrage expressed against the perpetrators: “eco-fascists” and “loutish vandals” were just two of the derogatory epithets used. One headline claimed, “Britons Outraged!” (What, all of them?) And a passer-by was quoted as saying, “Have they nothing better to do?” Well, the answer to that question could be gleaned by looking calmly at the diggers’ reasoning, which runs something like this. Decorative lawns represent the kind of monoculture that destroys habitats for wildlife. By the symbolic (and superficially harmful) digging-up of a privileged patch of grass, we hope to bring to your attention a looming crisis that will affect us all. In other words, no, we don’t have anything ‘better’ to do than try to save the planet. Do you? But reason is not the stock in trade of people who use pejorative language to denigrate those whose arguments they do not or will not hear.

          And, if digging up lawns outrages you, consider the devastation wreaked on countryside ripped apart by open-cast coal extraction. There is currently a three-day long protest at such a site in County Durham, where I am involved (in a minor, supporting role). When you watch TV footage of protesters, it is easy to get the idea that they are mis-guided fanatics. After all, what we see are edited snippets. Yet even the most blinkered commentator might concede, should they take the trouble to interact with protesters, that they are not monstrous vandals, weirdos or fanatics: they are a cross-section of our society and they care enough about its fate to ruffle a few feathers. To encounter the activists face-to-face is the only way to truly understand their motivations, engage with their passion and, perhaps, sympathise with their cause. And, while their approaches vary – for example, the impulsiveness of youth versus the more considered actions of age – their shared commitment to a common goal is a powerful unifying force.

          In search of supplies, I ventured into the nearby town of Consett, where my expectations of a town that has lost its purpose were amply fulfilled. Where once coal produced wealth enough to sustain commerce and grand civic buildings, now, amongst the general decrepitude of a blighted high street, there remains just one beacon of by-gone splendour – the Empire theatre (and cinema). I hope it can cling on for a little longer, for there is a long-running campaign of local opposition to the extension of coal extraction, despite the sop of 39 extra jobs being promised. As one of the unfurled banners succinctly puts it, “Coal is our heritage, not our future.”

          Meanwhile, on the front line, the activists (and the police) are set for three days of freezing temperatures on a bleak hillside. It’s a hard life, saving the planet. I help out a bit, but my barricade-storming days are behind me. Bring on the wine-in-a-can, I say: it’s the way forward, logically.

Sorry?

          It makes no sense to dislike someone you have never met, yet it happens. I, for instance, don’t like the owner of a certain flashy Aston Martin that is always parked on the street outside offices nearby, invariably with a bright yellow PCN tucked under the wiper. Why? Because whoever it is seems to be bragging “I have so much money that I don’t need to concern myself with the cost of parking”. But the message I construe is nastier than that: that they don’t care about the wider consequences to society. They don’t care that their car is an eco-destructive guzzler; that parking charges are part of the move to encourage the use of public transport; that the bureaucracy involved in collecting unpaid charges is costly to the public purse. In short, the message I’m getting is “I’m all right, Jack”.

          Of course, it may be that underneath that selfish façade lies a nicer person than I imagine, one who is simply misguided or ill-informed as to the long-term consequences of their actions and who, if shown the error of their ways, would be open to change. If they were to watch the film, The Age of Stupid (as I just have), they might be persuaded to start buying parking tickets or, better, trade down to a Nissan Leaf or, better still, catch the tram to town. The film asks why we didn’t stop climate change when we had the chance and though, at the time of its release in 2009 that message might have been ahead of the curve of widespread acceptance or understanding, it has certainly gained traction since. Are there people, still, who are ignorant of the link between their actions and the consequences? Yes, it is possible. Are there people who know but care not? It looks that way, to me.

          I don’t mean to rant but, by way of mitigation, it’s been a week of wind-ups. I walked past the Aston Martin yesterday to go into a pub to book a table. It was early, but the ‘open’ sign was posted on the door and there were people inside. However, I walked into a less than welcoming scenario. The girl behind the bar returned my cheery “Good morning,” with a blunt “We’re closed”. I explained that I just wanted to make a booking and she glanced over at the two people seated nearby, one of whom turned out to be the manager, who, rising resentfully to the occasion, unsmilingly entered my details in the book. “There’s an 'open' sign on your door, by the way,” I said as a parting gift. But no apology was forthcoming.

          Nor did I get any form of apology for the bungled replacement of a window on the campervan. Four weeks after having paid for the service and two aborted visits to the depot later, it still hadn’t been sorted. The company’s method of communication is thorough, if occasionally misguided. It involves office staff sending emails followed by text messages and, ultimately, phone calls. But even when the core information it conveys is duff, the process is inexorable. The phone call at the end could be an opportunity for human intervention but even that starts on the wrong note with a recited script that begins “This conversation is being recorded” and goes on to demand that you reveal personal information, “in the interest of security”. I took a call from them while I was in the doc’s waiting room, because I was keen to get an update, but when they demanded that I say out loud, in public, my name, address and the details of my vehicle, including its whereabouts, I ended the call in the interest of my security. I bet that Aston Martin owner would have seized it as another opportunity to brag.

I Say!

          It’s a little late in life to read PG Wodehouse for the first time, but I have just been enjoying Bertie Wooster’s stories and, especially, his colloquialisms. Not that I identify with toffs or even remotely approve of them, but they are as much a part of our culture as is the lampooning literary tradition that mocks them. This, and much else, has seeped into my consciousness, just as terroir finds its way into grapes. And the older the rootstock, the richer the wine. Perhaps this is also why, last week, I was able to appreciate the People Show’s latest production, God Knows How Many, a loosely joined-up string of scenarios that draw on the company’s long history and relies for its success on the audiences’ capacity to join the dots – of which I connected more than a few.

          But in the process of soaking up stuff, do we ultimately become like a sponge that has reached saturation? In staying in touch with old friends it has become evident that I have a preference, for the most part, to meet for coffee, lunch or dinner in places where we can comfortably talk. Current affairs may well be on the agenda but so is our mutual past and, in that case, we will be sitting and talking about the things that we once went out and did. Having mostly gone our separate ways in the meantime, opportunities to pursue future adventures together do not present themselves spontaneously and, though they are not ruled out, there is the hurdle of “been there, done that” which can suck the allure out of a proposal.

          Besides, is anything new? I have just been presented with a book of vegan and vegetarian recipes, which is very useful in this time of increased interest in such diets. I have already used it several times and keep it with the Indian vegetarian and Macrobiotic recipe books that I have had since 1970. Is this a case of something coming back into fashion or is it evidence of a good idea gaining traction at last? Time will tell, but I favour the traction theory since it implies that there is progressive acceptance and adoption of unfamiliar yet valuable traditions. There is always an advance party – in the case of British vegetarians they were Victorians – and some movements take longer than others to gain acceptance, but I take hope from John Peel’s observation that today’s underground will become tomorrow’s pop.

          But there is a downside to the traction theory, which is that it may apply to undesirable trends – such as the rise of populist governments and the attendant loss of liberal values. Those who support such regimes may do so in the hope that they will benefit economically but they should beware the tendency for their leaders to become despots who plead necessity for every infringement of human freedom that they impose. Considering this, I was drawn to watch a documentary called Talking About Trees, which is about four Sudanese men who, before cinema was banned in 1991 under Sharia law, had been involved in film making in Khartoum. Around 2018, they tried to re-open a cinema and show a film chosen by local people but were ultimately refused permission by the agents of state security. I was especially saddened by the outcome, since I had worked in Sudan, long ago, when the regime was more liberal. The protagonists, however, were fatalistic: as one of them reminded us, they have endured colonialism, followed by three democracies and three dictatorships.

          But hope is now on the horizon. Since the film was made the dictator, Omar al-Bashir, has been deposed and, just this week, referred to the International Criminal Court for war crimes. If this is the dawn of a less repressive era in Sudan, they might be encouraged to try again. As an optimistic Bertie Wooster would say, “Everything will turn out oojah-cum-spiff, eh what?”

  

Long Live the Fruit & Veg Man

           “The fruit and veg man passed away yesterday”, said the street sweeper to the newspaper vendor, pointing towards the still-operating stall across the street. I was struck by the reverence of his euphemism, especially as he didn’t appear to know the name of the deceased or the name of whoever had inherited the license to trade. The newspaper vendor nodded and they paused as if preoccupied with contemplating their own mortality. I didn’t know the stallholder myself. I was not a customer: the provenance of his produce was questionable, unlike that in the supermarket next door, which is properly labelled so that you can choose to buy only that which has the lightest carbon footprint and, in doing so, exert some consumer pressure in the fight to save the planet. Still, I admire the way that the fruit and veg man played his small part in impeding the monopolisation of markets – the default mission of capitalist corporations such as the supermarket from which I had just emerged.

          Later that day, a few hours before the UK’s official departure from the EU, my Finnish pal phoned to say “goodbye” and to offer condolences. He was concerned that I might be feeling depressed at the event. “I’m over the worst of it, thanks. Besides, there’s no use crying over spilt vodka,” I said, appropriating a part of his culture in a pathetic attempt to assert my European credentials. “Agreed,” he said, “but you must pay me that promised visit before the transition period expires and your passport turns toxic.” So began the challenge of planning a self-imposed, flightshame-free trip to Helsinki.

          The alternatives to flying this route are more expensive and time-consuming but, if you are able to accept those conditions, the journey itself might be treated as a pleasurable part of the venture. Let’s face it, “hopping” on a plane has long been a misnomer for a process that can eat up most of the day, even short-haul. And the last time I flew Easyjet, I felt like a captive customer being urged to buy food, drinks and a range of curiously described “award-winning gifts” that spoke to me of unnecessary consumption. The flight made no concessions to eco-friendliness and the journey itself lacked any sense of adventure. So, this time, it’s going to be the campervan and ro-ro ferries that get us there – though just what the carbon footprint will be is beyond my ken. Once upon a time, ferries plied the seas between Britain and Scandinavia, but the airlines rendered them unviable in the end. Those that remain sail to mainland Europe, where you must catch another ferry to cross the Baltic Sea. There is, however, some evidence of a possible resurgence for seaborne crossings: if Scandinavians, especially, continue to shun flying, demand will rise for alternative transport. Already, there is a revival of sleeper-trains in Europe. Ferries could be next and, if our entrepreneurial capitalist system can be relied upon to respond, we could soon be travelling Ryansea – with free, unlimited baggage allowances. 

          But the capitalist system is not focused on what is good for humankind. It is driven by profit, demand and innovation. Its activities are at the root of the climate crisis and the challenge it now faces is to find ways to make its profit by investing in eco-conservation, not eco-destruction. Will it respond? If not, there is another model that could take its place – Chinese, state-sponsored capitalism. It gets things done decisively, quickly and, sometimes, brutally, underpinned as it is by a tradition of the sacrifice of individual freedoms for the benefit of the whole of society. When considered that way, it seems to have the advantage over the western economic model. Yet I can’t help thinking, there must always be room for the fruit and veg man on the High Street.

Stages and Ages

          It all begins promisingly: a retirement party, perhaps; a good deal of jolly banter and joshing from family and friends and a moment of joy when the reality of ‘no more Monday mornings’ kicks in. Welcome to your third age.

          There will be some adjustments to make, of course. You may get that aimless feeling once in a while as ennui sidles up to you but, with a bit of determination to adapt, you soon become reconciled to the loss of your old routine and start to build a new one – for routines are an important adjunct to physical and mental well-being. And, assuming you have sufficient levels of health and liquidity, you will become the possessor of that ultimate luxury – time. Time to do as you please rather than as you are obliged.

          So, no feeling sorry for yourself. Count the benefits: free travel on public transport (though it would have been more use to you earlier in life); free prescriptions (valuable, considering the probability of ailments escalating); reduced entry fees to all kinds of entertainment (though I don’t know if this applies to Glasto and the like); and the freedom to take advantage of all kinds of services more cheaply, outside peak hours. With all these gifts, life really is a bowl of cherries. Though it is not without certain drawbacks.

          They say that you are only as old as you feel, but this is not the perception of people younger than you. Teenagers cannot conceive of reaching the age of thirty, so anyone with grey hair is ancient and may as well live in another world, never mind a third age. Don’t be surprised when the young person selling you a ‘senior’ ticket for the cinema looks blankly at you when you make some jovial comment. They may just harbour a tiny bit of resentment at the fact that you can spend all of Wednesday at the cinema, while they are paid minimum wages in exchange for the bloom of their youth, visibly wilting in a dead-end job. Something similar may have been in the consciousness of the waitress who served lunch yesterday for the Heatons Jazz Appreciation Society’s annual bash. She was professional – as in polite and efficient – but lacked the friendliness or willingness to engage personally. Perhaps she saw only a dozen white, middle-class, old men and was unable or unwilling to take the trouble to distinguish one from another. OK, Boomer?

          However, there are measures that older men can take to ward off the prejudices of the young. Appearances can help. Don’t fall into a lazy habit of dress that says, “I don’t give a toss anymore”. Stay sharp but dignified. Be individual but don’t ape fashions that are inappropriate either to your age or your shape. When you finally donated your office clothes to the charity shop, you should also have reappraised the leisurewear that you bought in the 80s and replaced it with something less risible – if you wish to be taken seriously in your third age.

          It is more difficult to command respect on the phone, however, as I have just discovered. I received an electricity bill which, being twice the amount that I was expecting, caused me to engage with the provider, Eon. I had two online ‘chats’ and two protracted phone conversations, all of them inconclusive and unsatisfactory in so far as I still could not understand how they had arrived at the total. Eventually, it was discovered (by me) that the meter is malfunctioning. Nevertheless, the next I heard from Eon was a solicitous email informing me that I have been placed on their Priority Services Register, a list of people who have lost their faculties and can no longer read meters or comprehend bills. I suspect it’s their way of saying, “Welcome to your fourth age”.