All In the Same Boat?

          Yet again, a copy of Socialist Worker lies unread on our coffee table. It has been there for a week, since it was bought at the last protest demonstration – the impromptu one staged in outrage over the Government’s proposal to prioritise the protection of statues over the safety of actual people, in this case female victims of male violence – yet still I have managed only to flick through the headlines. This happens every time: I buy the paper because I am sympathetic to its cause but am put off reading it by its prolific use of vehement adjectives and the generally strident tone of its journalism, reminiscent of revolutionary-era Russia. It’s a style that may go down well with acolytes but is unlikely to win over converts: stridency is not persuasive. Besides, when it comes to political change, old-fashioned revolution is no longer the accepted English way.

          It was not always thus, as Glenda Jackson reminds us in the BBC’s Elizabeth R, showing again on this, the 50^th anniversary of its first airing. Back in the rough-and-tumble of Tudor politics, power could change hands only through violence, whereas nowadays we can vote for change – in theory, at least, for the dopamine of liberty also delivers long-term side effects such as nonchalance, smugness and complacency. Once freed from tyranny, it is easily forgotten that the ongoing cost of maintaining that freedom is eternal vigilance, as may be deduced from the present government’s sometimes sneaky, sometimes blatant attempts to curtail our civil liberties.

          Yesterday, for example, the Home Secretary effectively pronounced it illegal to travel to British shores on a boat: it isn’t – yet – and in saying so, she has deliberately conflated the issues of immigration, asylum seeking and the alleged “criminal” behaviour of “gangs” that sell boats to would-be migrants. Unpicking her argument is not what I am about to do but, if I were, I might start at questioning the criminality of selling boats to people. And, if she is sincere in her concern that the boats on offer are inadequate or unsafe, she might like to consider setting up a Government-sponsored boat shop at Calais, where good quality boats would be available, at a competitive price, thereby practicing sound Tory capitalism while, at the same time, whipping the carpet from under the feet of the “criminal gangs” who currently hold the monopoly (and from under her own argument). This assumes, of course, that the French would allow us, as ex-Europeans, a licence to set up in business on their soil. If not, perhaps a swift and painless trade deal can be negotiated with them or, alternatively, they might like to take up the idea themselves.

         This was going through my head, yesterday, as I was laying prone in the dentist’s chair. It is just over a year ago that the covid outbreak caused my dentist, then in Manchester, abruptly to cancel my appointment for a repair job. At last, I have connected with a new practitioner here in Plymouth and resumed the treatment but, in the process, something seems to have changed. Whereas dentists’ surgeries always seemed busy, bustling places, with cheery staff trained to make you feel at ease and encourage you to buy merchandise, now they seem deserted and sinister, with an air of covert activity about them and staff who would really rather you didn’t come in at all but, if you must, can provide no comfort, no magazines, no merch and, definitely no toilet – unless it’s an “emergency”. However, in this case, having made it past security and into the surgery, the dentist himself was delightful: kindly, considerate, gentle, reassuring, professional, thorough – and an immigrant. Now that’s the way to win hearts and minds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beware the Mamil

          When I’m out with my litter-picking stick, I often get comments from passers-by, some of whom offer thanks and encouragement, while others tell me that my effort is futile – Sisyphean, even. Two little girls once asked me if it was my job, so I attempted a simplified explanation of the concept of civic duty. They seemed to understand and helped me out for a while, but they soon got bored and wandered off. But it was the mamil (middle-aged man in Lycra) on a bike that worried me.

          He freewheeled up, stopped, smiled and nodded approvingly, tut-tutting about people who toss litter. But he clearly had more to say and soon moved on to fly-tipping generally and abandoned boats in particular. I began to realise that we were not quite on the same page, so I nudged the conversation away from his demonisation of others and towards resolving our common environmental issues. Unfortunately, as soon as he heard me talk of the “ecosystem” and “excess plastic packaging”, he sussed me for a ‘woolly liberal’ and his true colour, Trump red, began to show. He raised his voice for emphasis and proposed punishments – including hanging – for transgressors of his rules, brushing aside my suggestion that it is not lack of discipline, but economic and educational deprivation that cause social problems. Then he started on what he really wanted to talk about – his conviction that covid is not a serious threat and that lockdown has violated our freedoms and ruined our national economy. He would not be queueing for a vaccination.

           I urged him to consider facts, such as the overburdened NHS staff and the statistics of excess deaths but by then he was not listening, rather looking for a fight. At last, giving up on persuasion, I thanked him for the robust exchange of views and pottered off on my mission. People do not like to lose arguments. In an ideal world, our opinions would derive more from demonstrably successful outcomes than hostile declarations and hollow slogans. But hollow slogans, loudly and repeatedly declaimed are, as we all know, highly successful in fixing the views of people who do not, for whatever reason, relate cause to effect.

          Days later, I picked up a book called Basic Income and Sovereign Money, in which the author, Geoff Crocker, condemns the currently accepted model of capitalist economies and, better still, proposes a demonstrably superior one. His starting point is not controversial: “Modern high-technology economies are dysfunctional, delivering not only crisis and austerity, but also pervasive debt, poverty, low pay, inequality and ecological damage.” Anyone who wishes to argue differently must a) have been asleep these last few years or b) marshal evidence to disprove the conclusion. Crocker then proceeds to argue how the proposal that a combination of basic income (e.g. the U.S. government’s recent grant of ‘stimulus cheques’ to every citizen) and sovereign money creation (e.g. the State’s creation of money to bail out the private banks) will uniquely counteract these ills. To follow such an argument, a certain degree of understanding of economics is needed but, far from being seen as a chore, the acquisition of such knowledge should be fundamental to every person’s education, or else we remain pawns in the game of those who do understand and use it to accrue wealth by propagating myths about the creation of value, the distribution of money and the inevitability of debt.

          This is the kind of argument I would like to have with my mamil acquaintance, should we meet again. But, until he personally receives a basic income, experiences freedom from consumer debt and sees the restoration of local authority funding to pre-austerity levels (such that waste collection becomes feasible once more) I fear his mind will remain as tightly bound by misinformation as his body is constrained by its Lycra skin.

 

Gathering Pace

           For 300,000 years our biggest problems were too few calories and too little information. For about 30 years our biggest problems have been too many calories and too much information. That’s a very sudden turnaround, but with technology speeding everything up, it may not be so long before the next big leap.

          On an individual level, I have both those surfeits under control (as in keeping the lid on a bubbling-over saucepan) and am preoccupied with another human dilemma: how to cultivate a new social life, under lockdown, 400 miles from the one I abandoned three months ago. There are three obvious avenues of approach – neighbours, introductions and chance encounters – and, fortunately, I can report progress on all three. It is too early to call this a network, since it is a random assortment of people with whom I have no shared history and between whom there may or may not be connections. However, one thing is certain: I will have to adopt a degree of flexibility if I am to weave myself into this new cast of characters.

          Take Pete, a man of about my age that I was introduced to. He and I now meet for walks of urban exploration, investigating features such as redundant railways or remnants of long-gone buildings and other historical traces. Only recently have I learned that he has an angle-grinder, which he uses to “liberate” gates that “they” have padlocked and that he considers an infringement of public rights of way.

          Then there is the topically named John Lewis, an ex-Royal Marine Commando, who is engaged on a solo mission to ensure the upkeep of our local park, Mount Wise, (despite the fact he lives miles away) by means of guerrilla-maintenance. He eschews contact with any such organisation as “friends-of” on the grounds that committees are ineffective, whereas he, as a man of action – trained as such at the public expense and steeped in the ethos of self-reliance in the face of adversity – gets on with it. “What about getting the council’s agreement?” I asked. “No Chance! They would prevaricate on the grounds of insurance liabilities, whereas my work actually makes the park safer while they waffle.”

          Then there is Fred, a man who walks his dog regularly around here. I have only spoken to him twice, but he talks at length and with a troublingly neo-liberal take on things. He is especially outraged that the two ex-Admirals’ residences, that sit grandly atop Mount Wise with “millionaire” views, are occupied by Social Services for the care of disadvantaged youngsters. “They ought to be converted to boutique hotels to promote the tourist trade”, says he.

          So, have I fallen in with a bad lot? Well, it is certainly refreshing to come across people with diverse views. As with delving into a newspaper that is not your habitual read, mixing with people who are not your habitual company can challenge your entrenched attitudes. The thing is, I find it hard to disagree with Pete and John over the efficacy of taking unilateral action for the public benefit, just as I cannot disagree with Fred over the need to transition the local economy from military to tourist-based. What prevents me, however, from embracing wholeheartedly any of their stances is the logical conclusions that would ensue. Is it right that individuals should decide for us what is in the public interest? Where is the balance between privatisation of property for profit (and the supposedly ensuing economic bonus of employment opportunity) and utilisation of property for public benefits other than financial?

          These are big questions but, now that we have enough food and information, perhaps we can make some progress towards their resolution? If so, let’s make it quick. I would love to live to see the outcomes.

All Pull Together?

          In the early days of the Covid pandemic, there was much talk of us all pulling together in a reincarnation of the Blitz mentality, which was cited as the apogee of societal cohesion. I thought it overblown. WW2 was long ago and the circumstances quite different. For a start, it was an actual war – civilians were being bombed and there were no deniers of the fact. Fast forward to the pandemic and the “pulling together” applied mostly to the key workers, while the government initially resiled from its responsibility to protect its citizens, many of whom were – and remain – in a position to sit it out comfortably at home. Still, I suppose there are superficial similarities between the war and the pandemic. For instance, then, as now, it must have been difficult to get a professional haircut.

          Not that it mattered so much during the war, as everyone wore hats, either as part of their military uniform or their civilian garb and, for men at least, a ‘short-back-and-sides’ was not much of a challenge to any amateur barber. Nowadays, in a less homogeneous society, those who are inclined to keep up appearances must resort to diverse means. For example, there is a developing trend for women to wear hats to Zoom meetings – or so I am assured by my Other Half, who spends a lot of time in such situations and has recently placed an online order for several jaunty caps. For my own part, aware that my quiff has been getting seriously out of control, I have played down the issue with a “what do you expect” shrug of the shoulders (along with some judicious use of lighting). After all, I was, for a certain period of my youth, committed to the natural look, which meant leaving hair and beard uncut for a several years. However, I have long since abandoned that position in favour of a more flattering personal grooming regimen – the King Lear look sits ill with me – though I do still have a residual aversion to messing overly with whatever comes naturally.

          However, things came to a head the other day, when my O.H. commented – and not for the first time – that my hair is a mess and makes me look twenty years older than I am. Knowing, as we both do, that hats are not the answer – they perch somewhat ludicrously on me, like the proverbial “silk hat on a Bradford millionaire” – there was just one option: “Well,” I said, “cut it, then.” And so, with some brief instruction from me, she took up the scissors and boldly went where she had not previously ventured. Fifteen minutes later, she stood back in astonishment and declared the result “not bad!” And I have to say that the cut, intentionally or otherwise, has a pleasingly roguish, ready-tousled look that is in keeping with my fantasy self-image. I could have paid a fortune for such a makeover (though I would have asked for a discount if I had been promised a “twenty years younger” look).

          Later, I was queueing at a kiosk when an old-timer with a tea-cosy on his head, who was next in line but not quite the full two metres away, struck up conversation. He commented on the unexploded WW2 bomb that had been found in Exeter and destroyed by a Bomb Disposal Squad. This led to a list of other such incidents closer to home, which led to the story of his father’s wartime experiences (it was a slow-moving queue). Oh no, I thought, here comes the Blitz simile but, fortunately, my turn came up and I excused myself to place my order, then stand in the collection queue, where I rather enjoyed the fact that my hairstyle remained untroubled by the brisk easterly.