Thursday, 23 December 2010
Happy pagan festivities
It's going to be a very snowy Christmas here in Dublin. At last, it actually looks like all those Christmas cards and carols from my childhood ... Snow flakes on noses and whiskers on kittens! It was always slightly existentially confusing to be surrounded by imaginary snow, eating roast turkey and hot pudding when it was 35 degrees in blazing sun outside. Call me sentimental but there's something lovely about an open fire in the pub, old friends talking shite, cold cheeks, hot whiskies, and 'Driving Home for Christmas' everywhere in the ether. Happy Holidays.
Monday, 27 September 2010
His Popeness
It is with some relief that I can announce that the pope has left Britain. It's not that I'm one of those 'fundamentalist aetheist', aka Richard Dawkins, that came in for much criticism in the previous week. I am well aware of the peace that can be found in any faith. But our propensity to institutionalise faith into a religion has done far more to destroy it than any amount of sex, television, or Jimmy Choo shoes.
I can never erase the years of ritual learnt as the child of a High Church of England mum who was intent on saving our souls. I can still recite the Nicene Creed should ever the need arise. But in seeking solace in a church I have been asked too many times what faith I am to sort the wheat from the chafe at communion time. I cannot lie. I am a sort of protestant, Buddhist, Hindu, humanist type of person. I always wanted to be Catholic as they had a much better youth group in our small town, and much prettier ceremonies, and it's far less confusing just being one thing. But that wasn’t enough to convince the priest that I should share in the body and blood of Christ. I thought flashed through my mind. Had the story of my fall from grace reached these churches that rejected me …? As altar girl in our parish church I got to carry the tall cross before visiting dignitaries but shortly after crashing it into the ‘Everlasting Light’ above the altar the priest ran off with the organist. Really, he did. I was never sure that the two weren’t somehow connected as for punishment I had to spend my Sundays for what seemed like eternity with a succession of locum priests who liked to finish off the wine.
During the pope's visit, the disturbance of such memories was joined by an increasing queasiness at exhortations to combat secularism in Europe by returning religious values to the State. Of course when the pope and all the other British leaders past and present sitting in Westminster cathedral talk about religious values they are not necessarily referring to anything other than Christianity. Otherwise I would imagine they would stop fussing over Iran. My queasiness became worse at the emphasis on a need for more 'morality' in our society. Now fair enough, I never sat through a whole speech, instead relying on Britian's less than moral media to cherry pick what they'd like us to hear/read, but if I was playing Word Bingo and had 'morality' in my list, I'd be winning.
In my book of psalms when any religious leader uses the word morality what they are referring to is the length of a woman's skirt and people's sexual orientation. Now I've read the bible, several times, the old and new bit (note religious childhood mentioned above). I've been to bible study classes, I've waved my arms around, yelled Hallelujah and probably even spoken in tongues. But nowhere in any of this do I recall Christ getting hung up on morality. He socialised with sex workers, tax collectors and lepers. He had a temper tantrum and threw people out of the temple. He was a radical political activist arguing for change in the institutions of religion as it was practiced at the time, with all the inequalities, segregation and patriarchy that has never gone away. And for all of this he was assassinated as befits anyone who suggests that things may need to be a bit more just.
Given that this country, already with growing levels of inequality, is about to enter a time of savage cuts in public services, rising unemployment, crime and anti-immigration politics, I would have thought that a more apt message might have been: 'it is easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle than to enter the kingdom of heaven'. But then an institution as rich as the Vatican (whose bank is currently under investigation for money laundering) may not wish to be reminded of its own mission statement to take a preferential option for the poor.
I can never erase the years of ritual learnt as the child of a High Church of England mum who was intent on saving our souls. I can still recite the Nicene Creed should ever the need arise. But in seeking solace in a church I have been asked too many times what faith I am to sort the wheat from the chafe at communion time. I cannot lie. I am a sort of protestant, Buddhist, Hindu, humanist type of person. I always wanted to be Catholic as they had a much better youth group in our small town, and much prettier ceremonies, and it's far less confusing just being one thing. But that wasn’t enough to convince the priest that I should share in the body and blood of Christ. I thought flashed through my mind. Had the story of my fall from grace reached these churches that rejected me …? As altar girl in our parish church I got to carry the tall cross before visiting dignitaries but shortly after crashing it into the ‘Everlasting Light’ above the altar the priest ran off with the organist. Really, he did. I was never sure that the two weren’t somehow connected as for punishment I had to spend my Sundays for what seemed like eternity with a succession of locum priests who liked to finish off the wine.
During the pope's visit, the disturbance of such memories was joined by an increasing queasiness at exhortations to combat secularism in Europe by returning religious values to the State. Of course when the pope and all the other British leaders past and present sitting in Westminster cathedral talk about religious values they are not necessarily referring to anything other than Christianity. Otherwise I would imagine they would stop fussing over Iran. My queasiness became worse at the emphasis on a need for more 'morality' in our society. Now fair enough, I never sat through a whole speech, instead relying on Britian's less than moral media to cherry pick what they'd like us to hear/read, but if I was playing Word Bingo and had 'morality' in my list, I'd be winning.
In my book of psalms when any religious leader uses the word morality what they are referring to is the length of a woman's skirt and people's sexual orientation. Now I've read the bible, several times, the old and new bit (note religious childhood mentioned above). I've been to bible study classes, I've waved my arms around, yelled Hallelujah and probably even spoken in tongues. But nowhere in any of this do I recall Christ getting hung up on morality. He socialised with sex workers, tax collectors and lepers. He had a temper tantrum and threw people out of the temple. He was a radical political activist arguing for change in the institutions of religion as it was practiced at the time, with all the inequalities, segregation and patriarchy that has never gone away. And for all of this he was assassinated as befits anyone who suggests that things may need to be a bit more just.
Given that this country, already with growing levels of inequality, is about to enter a time of savage cuts in public services, rising unemployment, crime and anti-immigration politics, I would have thought that a more apt message might have been: 'it is easier for a rich man to pass through the eye of a needle than to enter the kingdom of heaven'. But then an institution as rich as the Vatican (whose bank is currently under investigation for money laundering) may not wish to be reminded of its own mission statement to take a preferential option for the poor.
Wednesday, 1 September 2010
A Guide to Being Alone
We have a tendency not to believe in our own existence unless we see it reflected in someone else's attachment to us.
As the lovely Tanya Davis suggests .... it's good to practice being alone ....
As the lovely Tanya Davis suggests .... it's good to practice being alone ....
Saturday, 21 August 2010
A Guide to Pic du Canigou
Go up into the gods, along a damp, mossy ridge that is covered in mist and rain in the middle of summer. That wasn't in the forecast. Go clockwise, against the general flow of traffic, Catalans wanting to plant their flag on the peak, and trekkers crossing along the spine of the Pyrenees from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. 
Reach Chalet des Cortalets in 4.5 hours. Good going, says one of the caretakers as I arrive at 11am. I am solo, can move faster upwards, and there is noone on the trail until the intersection with the main route to the Pic. But speed, as you know, is not the essence of a mountain. Dry off over several hours in front of the fire with a goats cheese salad. Slow down. Do nothing. Read. Watch groups come and go having made their ascent. It is cool and fresh after a week of plains heat suffocating the will to move.
In the evening there are just 20 or so of us staying overnight. I share a table with an English physicist whose French I don't understand, and a Frenchman who soon lets me know that any talk of the World Cup is a sujet tabou. We chat about the weather, identity and the food instead. In France, never let the fact that you are half way up a mountain deter you from a four course meal and du vin.
Be first up with the sun over the mediterranean. You can see Banyuls sur Mer from here. At 6.30 sit with the warden in the kitchen for coffee and bread. He used to be a mountain guide but with a young family he now works as a warden in the summer and a guide in north Africa in the winter. He will see you off on the trail with directions.
The Pic (2784m) is clear but still 90 minutes away over vague morain. It is a slow boulder walk and scree slide. The rain and cloud have cleared and remain distant the rest of the day so the view from the top proliferates along the Pyrenees, still patched with snow, across Spain and France, down the Cady Valley. And it's all yours.
There is now the descent. Le Chimenee and 50 metres of fiercely angled scrambling. After 'the fall' (see 2008 blog, Italy), any thought of climbing down anything is no longer a comfortable one. But it's better than going back the way you've come. That's boring. So make like an isard (mountain goat), go slow and in the end you'll get away with only chipping a nail (although your upper arms and shoulders may be a wee bit sore the next day ... perhaps gripping a little tighter than an isard?).
And the reward once the chimenee is descended and the morain traversed ... a walk that is a study in perfection. Think gently rolling downhill through a wide valley, into the forest and fields of wildflowers again crossing the Cady river as it begins life torrenting down a narrowing gorge, then walking high above it as it gathers momentum, until eventually coming out at the Refuge de Marialles for a cup of tea and the last of your bread and cheese packed yesterday. Sit on a green hillock looking back up the valley, past crags and high pasture to the tors of the Pyrenees, and begin to yodel.
Now follow the red and white GR10 through lowland forest and come out eventually (9 hours later) next to Les Thermes (a hotspring bath house) where your partner will have conveniently booked you in for a massage and soak followed by a lovely dinner at the only good bistro in Vernet les Bains.
Reach Chalet des Cortalets in 4.5 hours. Good going, says one of the caretakers as I arrive at 11am. I am solo, can move faster upwards, and there is noone on the trail until the intersection with the main route to the Pic. But speed, as you know, is not the essence of a mountain. Dry off over several hours in front of the fire with a goats cheese salad. Slow down. Do nothing. Read. Watch groups come and go having made their ascent. It is cool and fresh after a week of plains heat suffocating the will to move.In the evening there are just 20 or so of us staying overnight. I share a table with an English physicist whose French I don't understand, and a Frenchman who soon lets me know that any talk of the World Cup is a sujet tabou. We chat about the weather, identity and the food instead. In France, never let the fact that you are half way up a mountain deter you from a four course meal and du vin.
Be first up with the sun over the mediterranean. You can see Banyuls sur Mer from here. At 6.30 sit with the warden in the kitchen for coffee and bread. He used to be a mountain guide but with a young family he now works as a warden in the summer and a guide in north Africa in the winter. He will see you off on the trail with directions.
The Pic (2784m) is clear but still 90 minutes away over vague morain. It is a slow boulder walk and scree slide. The rain and cloud have cleared and remain distant the rest of the day so the view from the top proliferates along the Pyrenees, still patched with snow, across Spain and France, down the Cady Valley. And it's all yours.There is now the descent. Le Chimenee and 50 metres of fiercely angled scrambling. After 'the fall' (see 2008 blog, Italy), any thought of climbing down anything is no longer a comfortable one. But it's better than going back the way you've come. That's boring. So make like an isard (mountain goat), go slow and in the end you'll get away with only chipping a nail (although your upper arms and shoulders may be a wee bit sore the next day ... perhaps gripping a little tighter than an isard?).
And the reward once the chimenee is descended and the morain traversed ... a walk that is a study in perfection. Think gently rolling downhill through a wide valley, into the forest and fields of wildflowers again crossing the Cady river as it begins life torrenting down a narrowing gorge, then walking high above it as it gathers momentum, until eventually coming out at the Refuge de Marialles for a cup of tea and the last of your bread and cheese packed yesterday. Sit on a green hillock looking back up the valley, past crags and high pasture to the tors of the Pyrenees, and begin to yodel.Now follow the red and white GR10 through lowland forest and come out eventually (9 hours later) next to Les Thermes (a hotspring bath house) where your partner will have conveniently booked you in for a massage and soak followed by a lovely dinner at the only good bistro in Vernet les Bains.
World Cup Take 2
Apologies for the temporal disjunction but I'm just catching up on my holiday writing ...
03 Juillet 2010
I've spent too many hours in the past fornight watching le foot. I know I risk offending 3 billion people but it is the most singular, frustrating, boring, unjust game ever. In fact, I'd say it's 90% boring and 9% unjust but I'll give it 1% for beauty and that's only in the slow motion replays when you get to see the balance of the player, the streteched muscle in their legs and the bend of the ball around the opponents.
There is so much body contact and hand balling they may as well pick it up and run with it. So much diving, holding shins and ankles with faux grimaces until they get their penalty, so much holding arms and pulling jerseys. So much 'what me? I didn't touch him!' until the replay shows he had him in a half-nelson, stamped on his calf and handed the ball into the back of the net.
I can, however, now understand why soccer induces such rage in people. First of all we have to sit or stand for 90 minutes where nothing happens, and then when something does happen, the team with skill and passion that should win (ie Ghana) is beaten by the team that engages in highly paid strategic cheating (ie Uruguay).
Soccer should just cut out all the running around and go straight to the penalty shootouts.
03 Juillet 2010
I've spent too many hours in the past fornight watching le foot. I know I risk offending 3 billion people but it is the most singular, frustrating, boring, unjust game ever. In fact, I'd say it's 90% boring and 9% unjust but I'll give it 1% for beauty and that's only in the slow motion replays when you get to see the balance of the player, the streteched muscle in their legs and the bend of the ball around the opponents.
There is so much body contact and hand balling they may as well pick it up and run with it. So much diving, holding shins and ankles with faux grimaces until they get their penalty, so much holding arms and pulling jerseys. So much 'what me? I didn't touch him!' until the replay shows he had him in a half-nelson, stamped on his calf and handed the ball into the back of the net.
I can, however, now understand why soccer induces such rage in people. First of all we have to sit or stand for 90 minutes where nothing happens, and then when something does happen, the team with skill and passion that should win (ie Ghana) is beaten by the team that engages in highly paid strategic cheating (ie Uruguay).
Soccer should just cut out all the running around and go straight to the penalty shootouts.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Keep Your Focus
Sitting next to Paddington Bear at the Train Station, waiting for a friend also trekking down to Glastonbury this year, I was feeling confidently prepared: new red wellies ... check ... fluorescent fleece skirt, trendy fleece jacket, gloves, beanie with ear muffs, leggings ... check ... bright red wig and false eye lashes ... check ... rain coat and umbrella ... check. I am, after all, an old hand at British festivals now. No more damp, muddy socks, chilblains or mysterious rashes for me.And then, in a perverse stroke of fate ... the sun comes out, stays out and it's 30 degrees everyday the entire weekend. Damn.
Mustn't grumble. The heat and dust gave Glastonbury a new sheen - extra shiny from all that sweat. Fleece was soon replaced as the dress de jour by as little as possible, including vast quantities of sunflower pasties (the burlesque kind not a Cornish pie) . Occasionally, a flag could be seen crashing in the mosh as its bearer finally succumbed to heat stroke. After trying to coordinate six people at this year's festival I can see their value (apart from often being very witty and elegant). They avoid digital reems of standard festival texts such as ... 'we're by the 18th pylon on the left side as you face the southern stage next to the paramedic with the orange bag directly opposite the Water Aid tower about 50 people from the back'.
Time also buckled under the pressure of the heat. Beginning with calm in the cool of the morning, birds even getting a tweet in edge-ways, but then defying Einstein (or maybe agreeing with him quantum me
chanically speaking) it accelerated in all directions. Beer-slowed wandering between performance tents gives way to the final purging late night rush of Shangri-la and Trash City's dystopic Hades of acid house flame throwers.Exhausted, we were belched into the autobahns that are jammed in a haze of dust and tungsten. 'Keep moving, straight ahead' until finding the turn to Green Fields and the tent powered by bicycle where the haze thickens and slows the spin and the final dissolution of boundaries, and I wonder if the naked druidess in the corner is getting cold yet. Finally, a kind of stillness and calm returns as the disbursed regroup in the right tent (and there's now an app for finding it, bless you Apple!), and time comes to a dead stand still.
This movement is a choreographed miracle. 180 000 people in various states of clarity, and no fighting. Men even appear capable of peeing in the right place. What happens to us when we exit the barricade, I wonder. And what serendipitous magic leads us to wander to the Glade just when Nneka, who noone had heard of before, launches into the blistering 'Focus'. I am now a fan. It's always the unknowns that make a festival, although Fat Boy Slim remixing Eye of the Tiger is up there with special moments. And forget all those indie bands with their dark shirts, dark guitars and dark lyrics (yes, I mean The National). Give me two camp old men with feathers in their top hats singing 'West End Girls' any day (bless you Neil Tennant).
Thanks also to Toots and your Maytals for seemingly infinite minutes of dancing on a Sunday afternoon; thank you Grace, the Agitator, Beans-on-Toast, and Frank Turner for an acoustic set with Billy Bragg that served up some politics with my folk; and thank you Sarah in the Green Fields ... even if we did have to pedal the bike to get the power to the sound system at two in the morning.
Friday, 16 July 2010
Yoga Knots
There is nothing worse then getting half way through your early morning yoga session (after a dash in the dark to get there because your alarm didn't go off again), and discovering you've put your yoga pants on back to front.
Well okay, maybe the Lib-Con dismantling of the NHS is worse but I'm using the 'Scale of Personal Embarrassment' here, not the 'Scale of Meanness'.
Well okay, maybe the Lib-Con dismantling of the NHS is worse but I'm using the 'Scale of Personal Embarrassment' here, not the 'Scale of Meanness'.
Sunday, 20 June 2010
City Space
My Number 3 New Neighbours have moved in upstairs this weekend, sequentially representing the dilemma of contemporary urban living ... navigating diverse spaces crowded with bodies and noise, not only 'out there' in London streets, but in here, my home, my sanctuary. It's always a period of trepidation ... will they be 'nice', will they be quiet, will they not leave furniture in the front yard, will they recycle, will they not kick footballs into the fresh washing on the line, will they not hold religious ceremonies including singing, chanting, clapping and/or speaking in tongues before 10am on a Sunday morning. Please, we pray silently to whichever goddess we choose to believe in, let me not have to go through the endless rounds of negotiation and outright bribery ('chocolate cake in return for good behaviour') again; please, we pray, let them be just like me.
Utopia: a city created in our own likeness.
Boredom: a city created in our own likeness.
Utopia: a city created in our own likeness.
Boredom: a city created in our own likeness.
Monday, 14 June 2010
Scandelous Knitting
Any media reporting bloodshed at this year's annual Knit In Public Day Treasure Hunt/Knit Bingo are grossly exaggerated.
Okay, needles were drawn, 10 paces taken and accusations of cheating were flung across the table laden with flapjacks and brownies, but the Meandering Catwalkers held their ground. OUR SCARF, which took five hours of knitting while simultaneously walking through crowded London streets, avoiding various assorted football supporters, Italian tourists, the royal family (her maj's birthday so they came out to wave at the plebs), Coldstream Guards (and don't ask them if they get hot in those bearskin hats ... they do ... and they're sick of people asking), naked cyclists (it was International Naked Cycle Day as well), route masters, black cabs, tourist rickshaws, buskers and bollards, WAS THE LONGEST!
In honour of triple yarn over lace knitting ... noone specified which stitch we had to use ... that will be one bottle of wine to the outranked, outsider, 'whiff of the colonial about them' team, ta muchly (goes some way to making up for the German mauling in the World Cup last night), along with a saucer of smug satisfaction.
And if you ever wondered where 'stitch and bitch' got it's name ....
Okay, needles were drawn, 10 paces taken and accusations of cheating were flung across the table laden with flapjacks and brownies, but the Meandering Catwalkers held their ground. OUR SCARF, which took five hours of knitting while simultaneously walking through crowded London streets, avoiding various assorted football supporters, Italian tourists, the royal family (her maj's birthday so they came out to wave at the plebs), Coldstream Guards (and don't ask them if they get hot in those bearskin hats ... they do ... and they're sick of people asking), naked cyclists (it was International Naked Cycle Day as well), route masters, black cabs, tourist rickshaws, buskers and bollards, WAS THE LONGEST!
In honour of triple yarn over lace knitting ... noone specified which stitch we had to use ... that will be one bottle of wine to the outranked, outsider, 'whiff of the colonial about them' team, ta muchly (goes some way to making up for the German mauling in the World Cup last night), along with a saucer of smug satisfaction.
And if you ever wondered where 'stitch and bitch' got it's name ....
Friday, 11 June 2010
Ambient London
Shunned, the second level cello class at the Mary Ward Adult Education Centre is exiled into the wilderness (along with all the rest of the string ensemble). Banished by the neighbours no longer able to put up with two hours of practice each week and neo-liberal education that would rather have 30 language students than 5 cellists taking up a classroom. I'm blaming the violins ... two years worth of lessons and still they can't hit high C without scaring away cats and potential students.
Noise leaks. My back neighbours sit outside on a warm summer evening and laugh. Across the road reggae pumps into the street from an open loft window. It competes with Alicia Keys and Cheryl Cole downstairs (you can always tell when X Factor is back on TV as the teenagers gather to practice their dreams of stardom ... a practice which feels vaguely familiar). Kids toss coins and kick their ball ... thump ... doof ... Mr Chopin's piano and Mrs Boccherini's violin are practicing somewhere in the street. The Mary Ward String Ensemble, for now, will be silent.
Noise leaks. My back neighbours sit outside on a warm summer evening and laugh. Across the road reggae pumps into the street from an open loft window. It competes with Alicia Keys and Cheryl Cole downstairs (you can always tell when X Factor is back on TV as the teenagers gather to practice their dreams of stardom ... a practice which feels vaguely familiar). Kids toss coins and kick their ball ... thump ... doof ... Mr Chopin's piano and Mrs Boccherini's violin are practicing somewhere in the street. The Mary Ward String Ensemble, for now, will be silent.
Friday, 23 April 2010
The Politics of Managing Uncivil Change
The possibility of a backlash against mainstream politics in this coming election has raised the prospect of increased support for the British National Party (BNP), following on from its relative success in the 2009 European elections. This has led to questions about why someone would vote for a party that is so extreme in its rhetoric and policies.
The simple answer that people feel overwhelmed by migration is complicated by the Institute for Public Policy Research findings released this week that nine out of ten local authorities with the highest proportion of votes for the BNP have had lower than average levels of recent migrant settlement. Instead, the party, it seems, assumes greater legitimacy in areas where there are high levels of economic, social and political exclusion. In many ways, this is unsurprising. Whether living next door to a migrant or not, there has long been an association made between deprivation and increased expressions of racism, and the findings do not mean that those excluded do not blame migration for the conditions they find themselves in.
The findings could also be explained by another argument: that, rather than simply anti-immigration motives, a vote for the BNP is a response to ‘change fatigue’, that is, an acting out of frustration in the face of transformations over which we have no control. In so doing, an attempt is made to reclaim some sense of power. Managing change can be a stressful process as anyone who has moved house, changed jobs or ended a relationship knows. And in just forty years, powerful social and economic influences such as de-industrialisation and globalisation have radically changed British society. Exclusion and inequality have been exacerbated, and the gap between policy-makers and those impacted by their decisions increased by the influence of transnational organisations and failing democratic institutions within the UK.
As suburbs, economies and lifestyles visibly change we can reach the limits of things as usual. Collective norms are disrupted, for example, when industries die, when our streets change and we no longer recognise familiar patterns, be it respect or groceries on the shelf. Anomalies and contradictions in former routines and beliefs appear, unable to be classified or ignored, generating a sense of dissonance as a result. A process of grief, of adjustment to loss, can be evoked and an internal struggle in response to that loss follows. There is a search for stability as ‘the way things used to be’ and ‘the way things are now’ grate and jar against each other. As a result, for some, often communities or individuals already marginalised, low in resilience and with limited choice anyway, fatigue sets in and change meets the determination of our inherent desire for continuity of meaning and the predictability of life.
There is no handbook to manage this change, until the BNP, or parties like it, proffer one in the form of a cultural identity: historically questionable on closer inspection, a bit blurry around the edges perhaps, but an offer of fundamental certainty nevertheless with all the privileges that bestows for the ‘indigenous’ Briton. With this cultural identity, and its vociferous, impossible attempts to define Britishness, comes order and place, geographically and temporally. Britons have a past, some 7000 years of it according to the BNP, and will have a future.
Current official policies of social cohesion do little to address that defensive position because of the lack of recognition of its connection to exclusion and the struggle for some degree of control over the direction of change, leaving the way open for the BNP to manipulate fears. Word of caution, then. Attacks against the BNP as simply racist thugs without acknowledging the excluded reality of its supporters could possibly increase its vote. People ticking that box on May 6th may be afraid for the future, or tired of feeling they are always at the wrong end of other people’s decisions. The BNP then becomes a surrogate form of change management if other more civil means are not found.
The simple answer that people feel overwhelmed by migration is complicated by the Institute for Public Policy Research findings released this week that nine out of ten local authorities with the highest proportion of votes for the BNP have had lower than average levels of recent migrant settlement. Instead, the party, it seems, assumes greater legitimacy in areas where there are high levels of economic, social and political exclusion. In many ways, this is unsurprising. Whether living next door to a migrant or not, there has long been an association made between deprivation and increased expressions of racism, and the findings do not mean that those excluded do not blame migration for the conditions they find themselves in.
The findings could also be explained by another argument: that, rather than simply anti-immigration motives, a vote for the BNP is a response to ‘change fatigue’, that is, an acting out of frustration in the face of transformations over which we have no control. In so doing, an attempt is made to reclaim some sense of power. Managing change can be a stressful process as anyone who has moved house, changed jobs or ended a relationship knows. And in just forty years, powerful social and economic influences such as de-industrialisation and globalisation have radically changed British society. Exclusion and inequality have been exacerbated, and the gap between policy-makers and those impacted by their decisions increased by the influence of transnational organisations and failing democratic institutions within the UK.
As suburbs, economies and lifestyles visibly change we can reach the limits of things as usual. Collective norms are disrupted, for example, when industries die, when our streets change and we no longer recognise familiar patterns, be it respect or groceries on the shelf. Anomalies and contradictions in former routines and beliefs appear, unable to be classified or ignored, generating a sense of dissonance as a result. A process of grief, of adjustment to loss, can be evoked and an internal struggle in response to that loss follows. There is a search for stability as ‘the way things used to be’ and ‘the way things are now’ grate and jar against each other. As a result, for some, often communities or individuals already marginalised, low in resilience and with limited choice anyway, fatigue sets in and change meets the determination of our inherent desire for continuity of meaning and the predictability of life.
There is no handbook to manage this change, until the BNP, or parties like it, proffer one in the form of a cultural identity: historically questionable on closer inspection, a bit blurry around the edges perhaps, but an offer of fundamental certainty nevertheless with all the privileges that bestows for the ‘indigenous’ Briton. With this cultural identity, and its vociferous, impossible attempts to define Britishness, comes order and place, geographically and temporally. Britons have a past, some 7000 years of it according to the BNP, and will have a future.
Current official policies of social cohesion do little to address that defensive position because of the lack of recognition of its connection to exclusion and the struggle for some degree of control over the direction of change, leaving the way open for the BNP to manipulate fears. Word of caution, then. Attacks against the BNP as simply racist thugs without acknowledging the excluded reality of its supporters could possibly increase its vote. People ticking that box on May 6th may be afraid for the future, or tired of feeling they are always at the wrong end of other people’s decisions. The BNP then becomes a surrogate form of change management if other more civil means are not found.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
New Maps
Just caught part of the Leaders Debate in the UK (we have an election on May 6th for those of you not in the neighbourhood). The theme was meant to be international relations. We had a lot on Europe, a bit on the USA and Afghanistan, nothing on the Middle East (except for references to Iran and its nuclear programme as a justification for the UK government spending £100 billion on nuclear submarines), nothing on Israel's nuclear programme, nothing on Palestine, nothing on China, ASEAN, or India. Asia fell off the map.
Friday, 16 April 2010
Everything I've Ever Needed to Know I've Learnt from Climbing Up Things: Commandment III
Thou shalt accept that things will go wrong so just deal with it.
There is a time in every traveller’s life when they will have a shocker. Can’t be helped, it’s inevitable, usually brought on by weather (see Commandment Seven) or other people (see Commandment Five). Apart from weather, people and altitude, there are other hazards that require some caution, like village dogs. Cycling through the Tibetan Himalayas, mastifs litter the road side, sleeping, and are best left to lie unless the thought of rabies injections is something that appeals to you. My closest encounter came in a village when, finally giving into irritation at yet another attempt by kids to see what would happen to the funny looking foreigner if they put a stick through my wheels, I had an attack of PUTA. PUTA, better known as a dummy spit when cultural difference gets too much for frail Western temperaments, stands for Psychologically Unfit to Travel in Asia. Surprisingly, this is an actual medical condition noted in World Expedition's handy medical manual. My PUTA led to kids screaming which woke drooling mastifs, who saw my plump legs. My screaming alerted the village elders who yelled at the children to rescue me. Arms, legs, language, rocks and dog fur flew through the air. Here endeth the lesson.
There is a time in every traveller’s life when they will have a shocker. Can’t be helped, it’s inevitable, usually brought on by weather (see Commandment Seven) or other people (see Commandment Five). Apart from weather, people and altitude, there are other hazards that require some caution, like village dogs. Cycling through the Tibetan Himalayas, mastifs litter the road side, sleeping, and are best left to lie unless the thought of rabies injections is something that appeals to you. My closest encounter came in a village when, finally giving into irritation at yet another attempt by kids to see what would happen to the funny looking foreigner if they put a stick through my wheels, I had an attack of PUTA. PUTA, better known as a dummy spit when cultural difference gets too much for frail Western temperaments, stands for Psychologically Unfit to Travel in Asia. Surprisingly, this is an actual medical condition noted in World Expedition's handy medical manual. My PUTA led to kids screaming which woke drooling mastifs, who saw my plump legs. My screaming alerted the village elders who yelled at the children to rescue me. Arms, legs, language, rocks and dog fur flew through the air. Here endeth the lesson.
Monday, 29 March 2010
A Good Read
If you fancy a good read over Easter I'd recommend Jeremy Rivkin's The Empathic Civilisation ... there is hope.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Cultural Inflections
So one of my British colleagues has recently returned from attending a workshop in Sydney where he was confronted with the full force of Australian directness. Asking another participant what they had thought of the previous speaker's presentation, the Australian researcher replied: 'Personally, I think it was a load of soft cock'. My colleague is still recovering although now he's used to it at least that's one person I can swear in front of. Oh the agony of having to watch what I say in the office (or on the street ... twice I've been told off now by complete strangers for swearing in public when almost involved in cycling accidents).
And if you thought deciding whether to use Miss, Ms, Mrs, or Mr was bad, try filling out a government form in the UK. Here you get to choose from:
And if you thought deciding whether to use Miss, Ms, Mrs, or Mr was bad, try filling out a government form in the UK. Here you get to choose from:
Baron
Baroness
Dame
Dr
Judge
Lady
Lord
Miss
Mr
Mrs
Ms
Professor
Reverend
Sir
Monday, 15 February 2010
Where's Pauline?
Pauline Hanson is moving to Britain? Why? Has anyone mentioned to her that the UK is technically one of the most super-diverse countries in the world. But then again, the way the British National Party are gaining ground, and with the Conservatives on the way in, she may feel right at home. And she'll get good fish and chips.
I'm getting a bit annoyed though that I packed my bags and moved over here to get away from John Howard (who's now gone and reincarnated into the shape of David Cameron who's about to run this country with his faithful Ken Clark promising deeper cuts to public services than even Margaret Thatcher could manage ... oh joy that will be to behold) and Pauline Hanson (who's now coming over here). I'm running out of places to run away to.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Liquid Modernity
This is where Bauman's fluidity ends ... crashing against the concrete, the painter in Connaught Place hits the pavement as the tired, coir rope, balancing his swing two stories high, snaps. The blood from his head runs out.
Pacts with the Devil
So the Reverend Pat Robertson, in case you've not heard, has decided that Haiti is cursed because the Haitian people made a 'pact with the devil' in return for their freedom from French rule. True, those pacts with the Devil can be tricky things to get out of. US foreign policy, for example, is still trying to find a way to buy its soul back after it was offered up to Lucifer in return for the horned one's assistance in various coups and the installing and/or support of/or turning a blind eye to such luminaries as Papa and Baby Doc Duvalier, Pinochet, Noriega, the Contras, Marcos, the Shah of Iran (okay that was with the help of the British government which has also misplaced its soul somewhere), Saddam, Israel's occupation of Palestine and it goes on. It's a long list that continues but then loss of soul possibly became irretrievable anyway after supporting the Pol Pot regime rather than the communist Hun Sen in Cambodia in the 1970s. I'm not quite sure how much you have to sell to Satan to get away with that one. While you're working that out, Mr Robertson, I suggest removing the forest from your eye.
Monday, 18 January 2010
Random Musings on the Opening Gambits of the Great Game 2010
Snow has the capacity to silence London. Somehow it absorbs the rumble of tube trains and traffic and shrill class-riddled politics. Unfortunately, it's now thawed and the election campaign has begun. The opening gambit from Gordon Brown ... New Labour is back and the Middle Classes must be wooed.
Just exactly who these Middle Classes are I can't quite tell but I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to fit in there somewhere. In his speech this week to launch this 'new' strategy, Gordon informed us:
"A fair society is one where everyone who works hard and plays by the rules has a chance to fulfil their dreams whether that's owning a bigger house, taking a holiday abroad, buying a new car or starting a small business''.
I'm thinking of the dreams of people who might just want comfortable, secure, affordable housing, no matter how big it is. Extending this a bit further, I'm thinking of the dreams of urban planners to create beautiful, open, slow living spaces, sustainable cities with affordable public transport so we may not even need a new car. I'm dreaming of a country that is a world leader in innovative technology, where educators have the resources to provide free life-long learning to create a population that is curious, critically reflexive, and adaptable to a changing world. I'm thinking of the dreams of every environmentalist in the country that we have an inspiring economic policy that creates thousands of green jobs in renewable energy. As for holidays abroad, I'm thinking of the dreams of young people to be able to move across a postcode boundary without fear, before even contemplating getting to the airport. I'm thinking they are also possibly dreaming that the government doesn't raise University fees too much to give them a fighting chance of paying it back in their working lifetime. I'm thinking of the dreams of anyone who gets up every morning and thinks what an awesome thing life is and wants their kids to share it. I'm thinking of 'dream' speeches ... Mandela, Martin Luther King ... dreams of freedom and equality.
Of all the possible dreams we could have what do we get from 'New Labour Mark II' ... Gordon Brown's dream that we will vote for him because he thinks all we want is bigger homes, a holiday abroad and new cars.
Is that it? Is that all New Labour think we are capable of aspiring to?
Personally I dream of an ethical foreign policy, a proper democracy with accountable politicians who realise they are just representatives of we the people, and an unlimited supply of fair trade wool to knit socks with.
Mr Brown ignored my dangerously flashing, slender pointed 3.25 mm needles and continued ... there will be more Middle Class jobs than ever before apparently and education is the key, setting a target of 75% of people aged under 30 to have access to either university or technical college. Fab. Only didn't you just cut the higher education sector's budget by almost £900 million Gordon? And didn't you just fine the sector £3700 for every extra student we took on above the government's quota to try to prevent young people ending up in unemployment? While many other countries in western Europe seem to be investing in higher education to get themselves out of recession and arguing that even 3 years isn't enough to properly train new graduates, we get larger class sizes, fewer teachers, and the prospect of two year degrees .
Mr Brown's 2IC (or 1IC possibly), the Dark Lord (Mandelson), has announced that the 50p tax rate for high earners will be abandoned as soon as possible as part of this effort to woo the middle classes. This is the top tax rate that affects those earning over £150 000. Given that the average wage in the UK is something around £26 000 (£531 per week for men and £426 if you happen to have female genitalia) I'm not sure which Middle Class Lord Voldemort is aiming for.
There is a great expression that I have learned to love in Britain ... numpty ... translated from the Scottish to mean 'general foolishness'. New Labour is numpty. I'm not being party-ist though. David Cameron's Conservative Party is as numpty. David has announced he will bring in tax breaks for married couples which will cost us 100s of millions of pounds ... because getting a ring on my finger will undoubtedly ensure that any offspring I happen to produce will never do anything naughty like take drugs, spray graffiti on walls, get pregnant as a teenager, or wear a hooded sweater.
In my desperation, and to the strains of a marching tune, Left-Right-Left-Right, I find myself strangely attracted to Nicolas Sarkozy. Okay he's indulging in the usual misguided attempts to define French identity (which can be anything except Islamic basically), but he's also talking about a Carbon Tax (potentially not the fairest in targetting big polluters but at least he tried) and institutionalising new indicators to measure the 'wealth' of a country by bringing in Amartya Sen and Joseph Stiglitz to head a commission to work on it. Apparently their final report concluded that GDP should not be the only measure of progress but that the overall quality of peoples' lives is also important. It's not how much we consume but how we feel. Okay, so many of us have been saying this for quite some time now but at least he's trying ...
In the general gloom of the times I've bought myself some new red shoes. They look lovely in the snow and make me feel good, as does the feeling of snow on my nose and being able to wear wellies to work. I shall wear my new red shoes with the socks that will be created through the hours of interminable double speak that will emerge from the mouths of our democratically elected representatives that we are about to be subjected to in the media over the next five months. I will drop stitches in rage and frustration at the general numptiness of politics in the UK, but I will persevere and dream of how lovely my new socks will look with my new red shoes and I'll feel better.
Just exactly who these Middle Classes are I can't quite tell but I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to fit in there somewhere. In his speech this week to launch this 'new' strategy, Gordon informed us:
"A fair society is one where everyone who works hard and plays by the rules has a chance to fulfil their dreams whether that's owning a bigger house, taking a holiday abroad, buying a new car or starting a small business''.
I'm thinking of the dreams of people who might just want comfortable, secure, affordable housing, no matter how big it is. Extending this a bit further, I'm thinking of the dreams of urban planners to create beautiful, open, slow living spaces, sustainable cities with affordable public transport so we may not even need a new car. I'm dreaming of a country that is a world leader in innovative technology, where educators have the resources to provide free life-long learning to create a population that is curious, critically reflexive, and adaptable to a changing world. I'm thinking of the dreams of every environmentalist in the country that we have an inspiring economic policy that creates thousands of green jobs in renewable energy. As for holidays abroad, I'm thinking of the dreams of young people to be able to move across a postcode boundary without fear, before even contemplating getting to the airport. I'm thinking they are also possibly dreaming that the government doesn't raise University fees too much to give them a fighting chance of paying it back in their working lifetime. I'm thinking of the dreams of anyone who gets up every morning and thinks what an awesome thing life is and wants their kids to share it. I'm thinking of 'dream' speeches ... Mandela, Martin Luther King ... dreams of freedom and equality.
Of all the possible dreams we could have what do we get from 'New Labour Mark II' ... Gordon Brown's dream that we will vote for him because he thinks all we want is bigger homes, a holiday abroad and new cars.
Is that it? Is that all New Labour think we are capable of aspiring to?
Personally I dream of an ethical foreign policy, a proper democracy with accountable politicians who realise they are just representatives of we the people, and an unlimited supply of fair trade wool to knit socks with.
Mr Brown ignored my dangerously flashing, slender pointed 3.25 mm needles and continued ... there will be more Middle Class jobs than ever before apparently and education is the key, setting a target of 75% of people aged under 30 to have access to either university or technical college. Fab. Only didn't you just cut the higher education sector's budget by almost £900 million Gordon? And didn't you just fine the sector £3700 for every extra student we took on above the government's quota to try to prevent young people ending up in unemployment? While many other countries in western Europe seem to be investing in higher education to get themselves out of recession and arguing that even 3 years isn't enough to properly train new graduates, we get larger class sizes, fewer teachers, and the prospect of two year degrees .
Mr Brown's 2IC (or 1IC possibly), the Dark Lord (Mandelson), has announced that the 50p tax rate for high earners will be abandoned as soon as possible as part of this effort to woo the middle classes. This is the top tax rate that affects those earning over £150 000. Given that the average wage in the UK is something around £26 000 (£531 per week for men and £426 if you happen to have female genitalia) I'm not sure which Middle Class Lord Voldemort is aiming for.
There is a great expression that I have learned to love in Britain ... numpty ... translated from the Scottish to mean 'general foolishness'. New Labour is numpty. I'm not being party-ist though. David Cameron's Conservative Party is as numpty. David has announced he will bring in tax breaks for married couples which will cost us 100s of millions of pounds ... because getting a ring on my finger will undoubtedly ensure that any offspring I happen to produce will never do anything naughty like take drugs, spray graffiti on walls, get pregnant as a teenager, or wear a hooded sweater.
In my desperation, and to the strains of a marching tune, Left-Right-Left-Right, I find myself strangely attracted to Nicolas Sarkozy. Okay he's indulging in the usual misguided attempts to define French identity (which can be anything except Islamic basically), but he's also talking about a Carbon Tax (potentially not the fairest in targetting big polluters but at least he tried) and institutionalising new indicators to measure the 'wealth' of a country by bringing in Amartya Sen and Joseph Stiglitz to head a commission to work on it. Apparently their final report concluded that GDP should not be the only measure of progress but that the overall quality of peoples' lives is also important. It's not how much we consume but how we feel. Okay, so many of us have been saying this for quite some time now but at least he's trying ...
In the general gloom of the times I've bought myself some new red shoes. They look lovely in the snow and make me feel good, as does the feeling of snow on my nose and being able to wear wellies to work. I shall wear my new red shoes with the socks that will be created through the hours of interminable double speak that will emerge from the mouths of our democratically elected representatives that we are about to be subjected to in the media over the next five months. I will drop stitches in rage and frustration at the general numptiness of politics in the UK, but I will persevere and dream of how lovely my new socks will look with my new red shoes and I'll feel better.
Saturday, 9 January 2010
Surviving Britain's Winter Storms: Tip 2
We've exhausted the box set of Blakes 7, Pride and Prejudice, and all of David Cronenberg's work (yes yes I get it ... technological mutation and questioning Cartesian boundaries of body and mind, not to mention sexuality and gender ... Long Live the New Flesh!)
There's nothing left but ... the entire box set of The Wire ... with subtitles.
Back in a couple of weeks. We should start thawing out by then.
There's nothing left but ... the entire box set of The Wire ... with subtitles.
Back in a couple of weeks. We should start thawing out by then.
Everything I've Ever Needed to Know I've Learnt from Climbing Up Things: Commandment II
Commandment Two
Thou shalt all suffer from altitude headaches and anyone who doesn’t shall be beaten about the head until they know what it feels like, for this is no ordinary headache. Imagine a vice getting a good grip around your temples and being squeezed tighter and tighter until the body becomes divorced from the mind and decides it will just do its own thing. Altitude in general does strange things to the body. The third and final hut on Kilimanjaro, at about 5000 metres, can be seen from several kilometres away but it is like wading through treacle to get to it which is very confusing for the brain as there is no visible sign of resistance. The question of food at altitude is also problematic. You may be starving but put so much as a piece of four day old bread in your mouth and your stomach will instantly heave. There is nothing for it but to go to bed, at 4.30pm, and wait it out till it is time to get up to begin the final push to the summit. As you wait it out in your tent or hut it is decreed that one by one people will begin to keel over. Someone will throw up in their balaclava and all over the hut floor, and someone else will collapse in the corridor and have to be carried out for some fresh air. In this instance it was so cold outside he had to stand in the toilets for 20 minutes. The toilets are sensibly situated some distance from the huts: they are pits, they stink and altitude does funny things to your stomach and your aim. So imagine how bad you must feel to choose to stand in a latrine until you feel better. Altitude sickness induces a certain amount of passion; mostly a desire to get off a mountain as quickly as possible.
Thou shalt all suffer from altitude headaches and anyone who doesn’t shall be beaten about the head until they know what it feels like, for this is no ordinary headache. Imagine a vice getting a good grip around your temples and being squeezed tighter and tighter until the body becomes divorced from the mind and decides it will just do its own thing. Altitude in general does strange things to the body. The third and final hut on Kilimanjaro, at about 5000 metres, can be seen from several kilometres away but it is like wading through treacle to get to it which is very confusing for the brain as there is no visible sign of resistance. The question of food at altitude is also problematic. You may be starving but put so much as a piece of four day old bread in your mouth and your stomach will instantly heave. There is nothing for it but to go to bed, at 4.30pm, and wait it out till it is time to get up to begin the final push to the summit. As you wait it out in your tent or hut it is decreed that one by one people will begin to keel over. Someone will throw up in their balaclava and all over the hut floor, and someone else will collapse in the corridor and have to be carried out for some fresh air. In this instance it was so cold outside he had to stand in the toilets for 20 minutes. The toilets are sensibly situated some distance from the huts: they are pits, they stink and altitude does funny things to your stomach and your aim. So imagine how bad you must feel to choose to stand in a latrine until you feel better. Altitude sickness induces a certain amount of passion; mostly a desire to get off a mountain as quickly as possible.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)