Unforeseeable Consequences

          At the end of almost a week of relaxed mingling with extended family at the World Touch Cup sporting tournament in Nottingham, I was driving home. The sun was shining and I was full of joie de vivre, so I hooked up the sound system to Spotify and picked a playlist that would sustain the mood as I bowled along the motorway. All was going swimmingly but, after an hour or so, the music was interrupted by the stern-sounding voice of a middle-aged American male – such as you might have heard in a black-and-white Hollywood movie about the invasion of the planet by aliens from outer space – and his words were indeed a warning, not of invasion but self-destruction. He was talking about irreversible climate-related catastrophe.

           I was first alarmed then puzzled by this abrupt intrusion but, being in no position to pull over, I tried to make sense of it as I drove. In the days of radio, this might have been explained by either the deliberate intervention of the ‘authorities’ or, less ominously, a slippage of broadcasting frequencies. But this was the internet, so was I being hacked? Pretty soon, however, the message I was hearing became more interesting than puzzling over the medium through which it was being delivered. The stern-sounding man was merely the opening voice of a podcast called The Great Simplification, the theme of which is that account should be taken of all the possible outcomes of the actions we propose and the question asked, “And then what?” We need to use a “wide-boundary lens” when formulating policies. For example, we all switch to EVs, which do not run on fossil fuels but whose interiors are made of plastics – a by-product of oil – and whose batteries will require more rare minerals than are currently being mined. And then what? And don’t forget to factor in the Jevons paradox: if the cost of a resource decreases (i.e. EVs become more affordable), we are inclined to use more of it, thereby blowing a hole in any chance of actually conserving resources.

          By the time I got home, I had convinced myself that the podcast had played itself because Spotify knew I would be interested in the subject, either by analysing my listening fodder or – and this is where it becomes menacing – by consulting with Alexa. The truth turned out to be more mundane: my Other Half was trying to access our single-user account while I was using it and succeeded in selecting the podcast but not in being able to hear it.

          The next day, we had men in to lay new floor covering throughout Wonderman Towers. It’s a necessarily disruptive process, but I intended to supervise it closely, while my OH absented herself entirely. In the event, the men were quick, efficient, professional and not in need of supervision. We are chuffed with the result and with ourselves at having chosen to lay cork, a material with excellent properties of thermal and acoustic insulation and a sustainable pedigree second to none (although I have yet to check the latter through a wide-boundary lens).

          When we moved in here three years ago, the interior was an homage to magnolia and beige. Now, with the carpet gone, there are just the walls to re-paint. I say “just”, but the difficulty of the task is in choosing colours – especially from those tiny, printed swatches that serve only to confuse the eye. We have a lot of paintings to re-hang, but don’t want the clinical white background of a gallery space. So, I am currently surrounded by patchwork-effect walls painted with samples. I’m paralysed with indecision and mulling over the relative benefits of a return to magnolia. Not only that, but I also have a nagging feeling that I am engaged in mere displacement activity. I mean, according to what I’ve been listening to lately, we’re all doomed anyway, whatever decisions we make.

 

From the Touchline

          The last time I was at the National Water Sports Centre, Nottingham – about 20 years ago – I was with a group of thrill-seeking geezers. We rode around aimlessly on those gyroscopically balanced ‘segways’, then had a go at white water rafting, where I was washed overboard and ignominiously hauled to safety. So, having ticked off those two activities, what am I doing back here again? Well, I’m pitched up on the adjacent campsite, a useful base from which to attend the week-long World Touch Cup which is taking place a few miles away at the university sports complex.
          Considering I spend as little of my short span of time on earth as is socially acceptable on sports of any kind, my presence here might seem anomalous. But a strand of my family has travelled from Australia to compete, so it’s an opportunity to spend time with them and, perhaps, get a glimpse into the lives of sporting types and whatever it is that motivates them. (I may be cynical about sport but not so much as the renowned New York wit Fran Lebovitz, who said “about the only thing I have in common with sports people is the right to trial by jury”.)  
          Nevertheless, I do feel as though I’m currently surrounded by an alien culture. Travelling to and from the Touch event I pass Trent Bridge, (where the West Indies are playing England at cricket), Nottingham Forest FC and several local tennis and rugby clubs. Two days ago I left home, where the TV was permanently showing either Wimbledon (where the British would-be women’s champion admitted to having no idea that the general election was about to happen) or the Euro football tournament which, according to the more emotionally inclined, broke the nation’s heart. Now there is championship golf in Scotland and the news feeds are filling up with preparations for the Paris Olympics. And back on the campsite, I’m surrounded by people with canoes and wetsuits. From this perspective, it seems as though our economy is based mainly on sports, in which case it should be simple for the new government to achieve its stated aim of growing GDP. They might even try conscripting reluctant participants, like me, for the greater good.
          So, I’ve watched my great nephew and several of his cousins play Touch for the Cook Islands (his father’s heritage qualifies him, despite his being Australian) and I now see that it’s a version of rugby/football that excludes physical contact, making it possible to play with mixed-sex teams. It’s fast and furious, while also being safe. Thirty nine countries are competing in the tournament, yet my nephew, who lives in Nottingham, told me he had seen no publicity for the event and that it would have passed him by but for the family callout. Perhaps the sport’s star is on the rise, though. The next competition will be held in New Zealand, which is inaccessible by campervan, I regret to say.
          My parents and siblings had no detectable interest in sports, so I can only speculate that our family caught the bug when one sister emigrated to Australia (I hear it’s rife there) in the company of a Portsmouth  FC fan and the other married into a family of Boston United supporters. These life-changing decisions enriched the bloodline. I say “enriched” in humble acknowledgement of the fact of human difference and because the benefits to the economy are palpable – especially to those who are successful. One news item today concerned a Morrisons delivery driver who won £180k in a golf tournament and has now embarked upon a career change.
          The Touch World Cup goes on till Sunday but I’m currently having a day off, recovering from a bout of touchline fatigue. My extended family is sympathetic, knowing as they do that my enthusiasm is limited and my enquiries into the game and its participants represent polite conversation rather than genuine interest. I have been careful, however, not to mention the fact that I sat and watched the England games during the Euros. They might suspect, as do I, that cracks are appearing in my immune system.
 
 

Whose Court?

         Our judicial system has lately been embroiled in a bit of a ding-dong regarding what is allowed as admissible evidence for presentation to juries. As you might expect, arguments of this nature are contested in a quagmire of legal precedents such as would test the patience of all but the most dogged of lay persons. But because the issue has uncovered something more fundamental than legal niceties (it raises concerns over the manipulation of the judiciary by politicians wanting to stifle dissent), I have locked horns with the beast.

          Which is why I (and several others) sat in silence for an hour outside our local Crown Court last Tuesday, holding a placard reading “Jurors have an absolute right to acquit a defendant according to their conscience”. Trudi Warner was arrested in March 2023 outside the Inner London Crown Court, where she set the precedent for our action, so it was reasonable for us to expect some sort of backlash from the authorities. However, no drama ensued, which left me at leisure to contemplate my surroundings.

          Plymouth’s Crown & County Court is a modest 1960s building, low-rise and unimposing, its only decorative feature being a large lattice-work panel above the entrance incorporating the City’s coat of arms. Pevsner labelled it a “bland box” but, to me, its presence says “civic pride” in a way that is inclusive of the people and is not designed to exaggerate the pomp of the courts. It has none of the lowering, gothic menace of, say, Lincoln’s Inn or the Old Bailey.

          Nor did we feel threatened in any other way. Our spokesperson politely informed the Clerk of our intentions and he responded in a friendly manner, sensibly anticipating no trouble. And so I sat, unspeaking, my back to the building, with a view across the plaza of the 1960s Civic Centre building, a true architectural classic in the tower and podium style, long since vacant and awaiting re-purposing after becoming surplus to requirements a few years ago. Which is why there is very little footfall in the area. Even the Court itself seemed to be short of business, despite the reported crisis of under-capacity in the system nationally and the fact that we sat from 08.30, so as not to miss the comings and goings.

          The people carrying cups of coffee and dressed in smart clothes – I supposed them to work within the building – paid us no attention, except for one who wore a pinstriped suit and a sneering expression. He engaged our spokesperson with a dismissive, “that was all sorted out in the Clive Ponting case years ago!” and flounced into the building, urging us to “look it up” as he went.

          Well, if it was sorted out, Judge Hehir hadn’t got the memo. Besides, it had, supposedly, been ‘sorted out’ long before Ponting, around 1670 in fact, following ’Bushel’s case’, after which a plaque incorporating the words written on my placard was put up in the entrance hall of the Old Bailey. Yet the point remains in contention, allegedly.

          Of the few passers-by, most did read the placards and some stopped to ask for clarification. When responding, the key is to have an explanation that is succinct and briefly conveys the message that Judge Hehir’s attempt to lock up Trudi Warner may seem like someone else’s problem but, if he were to succeed in his attempt to undermine our rights of peaceful protest at the behest of politically appointed prosecutors, it might one day be theirs.

          On the second of July this year police, acting on the order of Judge Hehir, arrested a group of 11 people, outside Southwark Crown Court for holding placards identical to Ms Warner’s. Hehir described them as “troublemakers”, but photos of the incident show them to be mostly old, white-haired citizens, sensibly dressed against the weather and uncomfortably perched on camping seats – just like the group I was part of last Tuesday.

 

 

The People's Party

          The Cornish fishing-port-cum-holiday-destination of Mevagissey celebrated its traditional ‘Feast Week’ at the end of June and I went along to get a taste. Its origin may lie in thanksgiving for an abundant fishing season, but the decline of religiosity and the onset of holidaymakers has transformed a once parochial event into a popular, secular, summer celebration involving games, processions, competitions, performers, fireworks and an awful lot of premium-priced pasties, beer and fish-n’-chips. But when you’re on your own the party tends to drag so, before long, I left the throngs and went on a solo exploration of the wider locality. Cornwall is loved by holidaymakers for its numerous attractions but it’s easy to forget that, underlying these, is its history. I went looking for it nearby.

          Who could resist a visit to the intriguingly named Lost Gardens of Heligan? Well, it all depends. I was certainly tempted but, when I discovered that the entry fee was £25, my enthusiasm melted away quite swiftly. Not being a gardener, it wasn’t hard to persuade myself that I didn’t need to enter the gardens to know their story (OK: they were ‘lost’, as in abandoned, then restored by enthusiasts). So it was that I pulled out my membership cards for the National Trust and English Heritage, consulted the apps and looked elsewhere for an immersive history experience. I had, after all, paid annual subscriptions to these organisations for many years and it was time to take advantage of my ‘free entry’ entitlement.

          I went first to the impressive house and estate of Lanhydrock, taken over by the National Trust in 1953, after more than 400 years of ownership by aristocrats who intermarried to sustain their fortunes down the centuries. This was standard practice and, as I maintain, the one and only purpose of the creation of the institution of marriage. Having taken by force most of England’s green and pleasant, the self-styled aristocracy then held on to it – with the collusion of the Church (the parish church abuts this house) – by keeping the people in ignorance and poverty. Their scheme began to unravel when the growth of trade produced a newly enriched class that was able to challenge their socio-economic domination.

          Many a stately home was ‘accidentally’ burned down or left to go to ruin. Other toffs cleverly ‘gave’ their grand country houses to the National Trust, thereby transferring the cost of their upkeep to those of us who can’t afford to own them but do have the means to afford an entry ticket from time-to-time. With this in mind, I contemplated the privileged lifestyle embodied in the house and it rich contents with a stoney heart that softened only slightly on learning that the head of the family at the time of the Civil War had fought on the side of Parliament.

          Next, I drove a few miles (but much further back in time) to the remains of Restormel Castle. Its unusual design, a perfect circle (except for the rectangular chapel that juts out from it) is striking in itself, but the fact that the wall still stands at full height eight centuries after being built seems to indicate that it was not much fought over. Today’s visitors can perambulate the reasonably intact battlements and imagine being lords of all they survey. Or, instead, imagine being a sentry on duty in the depths of winter. Either way, we get to appreciate just how deep are the roots of the construct of aristocracy, power and control.

          Lanhydrock was not busy and there were only two other visitors at Restormel while I was there. Perhaps when the party’s over in Mevagissey, the revellers will turn up. Mind you, immersive historical experiences are not cheap and there won’t be much disposable cash left after all that spending on beer, pasties and fish-n’-chips.