I'm awake but only justThinking of the things I must
Accomplish in the day ahead
I'm so much better off in bed
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Saturday, January 27, 2007
THE EMERGING DYSTOPIA
Yesterday after work I went out for a drink with Peter, an "old" socialist (as opposed to a New Labourite.) You wouldn't think there were any of these beasts still around - yet there he was, and with his utterly convincing Tony Benn impersonation, and references to class struggle and "Maggie" Thatcher, it was like going back in time. He joined Labour in 1981 and watched as Neil Kinnock betrayed the Left. Of course, he had absolutely no mercy for Tony Blair and the New Labour project. Here are some of the facts - I wish I had time to source them all properly.
1% of the UK population own... could you guess?... 89% of the wealth.
"Between 1996/97 and 2001/02, income inequality rose on a variety of measures, to reach its highest ever level (at least since comparable records began in 1961) ... Since then, income inequality has fallen, and it is now at a similar level to that in 1996/97: the net effect of eight years of Labour government has been to leave inequality effectively unchanged."
Institute of Fiscal Studies
Even though there is greater wealth among the middle strata of society, the bottom decile (10%) of the UK population are worse off in relative terms than they were under Mrs Thatcher. This is the "underclass", whose benefits have been cut under Labour and from whose ranks the bulk of the prison population (which is double what it was in the 1970s) is composed.
And then here's one statistic that has stuck in my memory: Labour, during its term in office, is estimated to have thrown away £70 billion of public money (who else's?) on consultancy fees.
In response to the idea that Labour have kept Blair because he was media-friendly after Labour's years in the wilderness, Peter pointed out that, far from being a populist, Blair has been engaged in forcing through several changes which have been unpopular in many cases - not just support of Bush in Iraq (and whole neo-con agenda) but privatisation of the London Underground, health service reforms, tuition fees, ID cards, and so on. As for people's expectations of Gordon Brown, he compared them with the, now laughable, expectations of Labour's second term - remember those?
He had three questions to which he wanted a deeper answer than the usual one (that Labour were just desperate to keep the media on-side):
How did a man like this, a conservative, get to lead the party in the first place?
Why was he permitted to remain?
Why is there no realistic left-wing alternative?
Perhaps those "deeper" answers have to do with Thatcherism: the deliberate fragmentation of the working class, particularly their group identity; increased prosperity coupled with political apathy; the interests of capital "manufacturing consent" through control of the media. There wasn't time to discuss these further.
As with the last time I heard a real Marxist speak (in Hyde Park) I left the conversation feeling badly informed (not having these kind of facts and figures at my fingertips) and also wishing that more people were interested in what was really happening in the world, rather than the many distractions of gadgets, sport, home redecoration and Big Brother. I am convinced that continued lack of engagement with politics - with no grassroots left-wing political party in the UK - can only lead to a future similar to the one portrayed in the film Children of Men last year i.e. a deeply divided, and more violent society, where an authoritarian regime protects the "haves" against the "have-nots". Or maybe we're already there.
Yesterday after work I went out for a drink with Peter, an "old" socialist (as opposed to a New Labourite.) You wouldn't think there were any of these beasts still around - yet there he was, and with his utterly convincing Tony Benn impersonation, and references to class struggle and "Maggie" Thatcher, it was like going back in time. He joined Labour in 1981 and watched as Neil Kinnock betrayed the Left. Of course, he had absolutely no mercy for Tony Blair and the New Labour project. Here are some of the facts - I wish I had time to source them all properly.
1% of the UK population own... could you guess?... 89% of the wealth.
"Between 1996/97 and 2001/02, income inequality rose on a variety of measures, to reach its highest ever level (at least since comparable records began in 1961) ... Since then, income inequality has fallen, and it is now at a similar level to that in 1996/97: the net effect of eight years of Labour government has been to leave inequality effectively unchanged."
Institute of Fiscal Studies
Even though there is greater wealth among the middle strata of society, the bottom decile (10%) of the UK population are worse off in relative terms than they were under Mrs Thatcher. This is the "underclass", whose benefits have been cut under Labour and from whose ranks the bulk of the prison population (which is double what it was in the 1970s) is composed.
And then here's one statistic that has stuck in my memory: Labour, during its term in office, is estimated to have thrown away £70 billion of public money (who else's?) on consultancy fees.
In response to the idea that Labour have kept Blair because he was media-friendly after Labour's years in the wilderness, Peter pointed out that, far from being a populist, Blair has been engaged in forcing through several changes which have been unpopular in many cases - not just support of Bush in Iraq (and whole neo-con agenda) but privatisation of the London Underground, health service reforms, tuition fees, ID cards, and so on. As for people's expectations of Gordon Brown, he compared them with the, now laughable, expectations of Labour's second term - remember those? He had three questions to which he wanted a deeper answer than the usual one (that Labour were just desperate to keep the media on-side):
How did a man like this, a conservative, get to lead the party in the first place?
Why was he permitted to remain?
Why is there no realistic left-wing alternative?
Perhaps those "deeper" answers have to do with Thatcherism: the deliberate fragmentation of the working class, particularly their group identity; increased prosperity coupled with political apathy; the interests of capital "manufacturing consent" through control of the media. There wasn't time to discuss these further.
As with the last time I heard a real Marxist speak (in Hyde Park) I left the conversation feeling badly informed (not having these kind of facts and figures at my fingertips) and also wishing that more people were interested in what was really happening in the world, rather than the many distractions of gadgets, sport, home redecoration and Big Brother. I am convinced that continued lack of engagement with politics - with no grassroots left-wing political party in the UK - can only lead to a future similar to the one portrayed in the film Children of Men last year i.e. a deeply divided, and more violent society, where an authoritarian regime protects the "haves" against the "have-nots". Or maybe we're already there.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
A HAPPY NEW YEAR
Some thoughts on happiness garnered from the last few minutes of a radio show on Christmas Day:
One speaker pointed out the fact that that happiness is a different thing from pleasure and that, realising this, we should be both more other-directed and focused on the achievement of our long-term goals; inactivity in the face of unhappiness was worst of all. "DO something, Mutley!"
Research apparently shows that happiness is largely a matter of temperament, and is generally affected only for a short time by events such as winning the lottery, or even being interned in a concentration camp, after which it eventually resumes its previous level! One speaker suggested that, if unhappy, we remember how earlier unhappiness faded over time, and things worked out - and have a drink!
I have been thinking this week how realists stand a better chance of being happy than idealists do. This is because, in the practical sphere at least, realists have adjusted their expectations in the light of experience to reflect an imperfect world, whereas idealists continue to strive for the unattainable, refusing to acknowledge, for example, the animalistic and tribal behaviours bred into us by millions of years of genetic selection. Realists are less often disappointed.
Some thoughts on happiness garnered from the last few minutes of a radio show on Christmas Day:
One speaker pointed out the fact that that happiness is a different thing from pleasure and that, realising this, we should be both more other-directed and focused on the achievement of our long-term goals; inactivity in the face of unhappiness was worst of all. "DO something, Mutley!"
Research apparently shows that happiness is largely a matter of temperament, and is generally affected only for a short time by events such as winning the lottery, or even being interned in a concentration camp, after which it eventually resumes its previous level! One speaker suggested that, if unhappy, we remember how earlier unhappiness faded over time, and things worked out - and have a drink!
I have been thinking this week how realists stand a better chance of being happy than idealists do. This is because, in the practical sphere at least, realists have adjusted their expectations in the light of experience to reflect an imperfect world, whereas idealists continue to strive for the unattainable, refusing to acknowledge, for example, the animalistic and tribal behaviours bred into us by millions of years of genetic selection. Realists are less often disappointed.
THE PARTYGOERS
As Hunter dropped his last few Christmas cards into the station post box and reflected on the fact that all the loose ends of the year had been tied up, he savoured the prospect of the journey north. The feeling first stirred when he bought his ticket, usually around Hallowe’en – for he was a creature of habit. Now, waiting below the timetable at Kings Cross station, he read over the times and destinations with a feeling of immense pleasure. What freedom! He would spend seven hours on a train. Out of reach of mobile signals, owing nothing whatsoever to anyone, completely unavailable, with a weightless mind, he would abandon himself to the beguiling decades-old acid folk music he loved, and get intoxicated as fields and silhouetted rooftops raced by.
The rolling fog on the fields was as high as a person, or a house, and the patches of ice looked blue in the golden twilight. Hunter let his mind wander to Christmases past: the sweet smell of the gum and glitter he and his friends used to make pictures with as a child; the snow dripping from the red lettering of The Dandy; first kiss to Last Christmas; the costumed Holly King and Oak King battling it out on a snow-covered hilltop; choirs by candlelight… There was still a lot of magic around, even if it was all ultimately empty. He often felt as if he were the only one who felt it, marooned in the kind of innocent excitement and imagery that had been long ago dismissed by everyone else he knew as irrelevant to their responsible plods through adulthood.
“Hi, Hunter! Wow, haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking well, mate. Help yourself to drinks – they’re in the kitchen.” Giles, tonight’s host, gesturing to the phalanx of bottles and cans in the kitchen, and moving off to join his colleagues in the front room.
Hunter looked around for somewhere to put down the plastic bag that contained his present. Now didn’t seem as if it was the right moment. He filled a glassful of wine, took a deep breath and walked towards the door, from which he could hear a riot of laughter. How to enter, how to begin, how to smile at people he hardly knew – basic stuff he felt he’d never properly mastered.
Entering the room, he was assailed by a little gale of laughter. He’d just missed the joke. He greeted everyone hastily, raising his glass with an awkward movement and a forced smile.
“How’s life?” this from Catherine Wood, a former classmate whom he’d hardly talked to at school, her pinched face apparently overjoyed.
Here we go, he thought. The casual humiliation of questions.
“Great, thanks. Yeah, things are going really well in London.”
“What is it you do now?”
“Well, actually…” Hunter coughed, “I’m not doing anything much! I’m trying to work on a bit of painting, so I work part-time for a lecturing agency.”
“Oh, yeah, well that’s the right idea, isn’t it? Everyone works far too hard these days anyway, don’t you think? Where are you living – have you got your own place, or?”
“It’s just too pricey down south, you know how it is. I’m sharing.”
“Oh, I see.” Catherine tried to think of a positive spin to put on it.
“It’s a bit like Men Behaving Badly, if you remember that.”
“Oh, yeah. I loved it as a student, y’know, communal living! Look, I’m just going to get another drink and I’ll be right back.”
Deserted. Hunter let his eyes pan round the room. Look nonchalant, look bored. How the Hell should he look now?
Several unmemorable conversations later, he found himself sitting with Cameron Harris, a film enthusiast and the elder brother of a friend who no longer cared to return to this part of the world.
“I really enjoyed that remake of Death In Venice,” said Hunter. “Atmospheric.”
“Well,” Cameron made a groaning sound, “It’s not my taste. I wouldn’t go to a film like that.”
“Did you think it would be a bit slow?” asked Hunter.
“I read the reviews, but I’ve never liked that director anyway. I can’t stand the way he uses those clichéd camera angles. And the acting’s not going to be worth watching with Jose whatsisname, is it? What I always want in a film is three things: a bit of challenge, like a really good twist or something; actors with presence; and something with real passion!”
“I think you’d find it was passionate, at least. No one could say…”
“What you mean by it and what I mean by it are different things. Films are my thing and I know what I’m talking about. You can say whatever you like about it, but a solitary writer on some kind of self-destructive whatever it is will never hold my attention.” Cameron said emphatically. “And the director’s a dumb twat, like I said.” He laughed.
“What did you like, this year?” Hunter ventured, wondering where along the line he had lost his sense of humour.
“Well, now, there were only three films worth the ticket price this year – in my opinion…”
“Look, I can’t do this any more. It’s too boring.”
“Pardon?” Cameron thought he’d misheard.
“You are an opinionated old bore, so I’m off.” Hunter said flatly.
“Fine.” Cameron walked away, seemingly unruffled.
Suddenly Hunter noticed how noisy it was. He ran the gauntlet of random fragments of conversation which emerged bleating and whinnying from the cigarette smoke. Someone laughed; it caught. He would have loved to be in that little crowd at that moment, but he felt himself impelled towards the door. He apologised as he made his way through the now crowded living room, and stumbled on someone’s coat.
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Hunter, you OK?” It was Giles, interrupting his stream of jovial remarks.
“Yeah, I, er, I have to go soon. There’s a present…”
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have! Look, why don’t you wait and get a taxi?”
“No, I’m just a bit sleepy, that’s all. Anyway, I put it by the coathangers.”
“OK. Look, we’ll have to go out for a drink while you’re still here – next week?”
“That’d be good. Let me know. Actually, no, sorry, I can’t be bothered. I just want to hibernate this year.”
Hunter smiled briefly, but was sorry to see his old schoolmate at a loss for words. He made a “can’t help it” gesture with his hands, looked at the floor and moved off quickly.
In the hallway, he brushed past Catherine.
“Are you off, then?’ she asked, smiling.
“Yeah, I’m feeling…”
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Parties! You know how it is.”
Hunter shrugged and looked for his coat.
Catherine’s eyes followed his movements, and then looked sadly back at the living room. She fingered her glass nervously. “I would have liked to know more about your painting.”
He rounded on her. “Don’t. Patronise. Me.”
She gave a half-smile of disbelief. “Wha-at?”
“Catherine: You don’t care if I live or die.”
Outside in the street, Hunter made a quick recovery as he made contact with the cold air. He gazed at the Christmas lights – so imaginatively done this year, the Twelve Days of Christmas sparkling in blue and gold. He reflected that tonight was Yule, and the return of the light – now there was something worth celebrating. He would light a candle to that before he went to bed, just as he used to as a child. To keep the magic alive in his soul.
Beneath the coats in Giles’s flat, bathed in a puddle of Tennent’s Export at the bottom of a plastic bag, lay a forgotten painting of a brightly coloured landscape. Giles’s wife discovered it the next day, cleaned the sticky beer off the front, and put it in a drawer in case anyone came back for it.
As Hunter dropped his last few Christmas cards into the station post box and reflected on the fact that all the loose ends of the year had been tied up, he savoured the prospect of the journey north. The feeling first stirred when he bought his ticket, usually around Hallowe’en – for he was a creature of habit. Now, waiting below the timetable at Kings Cross station, he read over the times and destinations with a feeling of immense pleasure. What freedom! He would spend seven hours on a train. Out of reach of mobile signals, owing nothing whatsoever to anyone, completely unavailable, with a weightless mind, he would abandon himself to the beguiling decades-old acid folk music he loved, and get intoxicated as fields and silhouetted rooftops raced by.
The rolling fog on the fields was as high as a person, or a house, and the patches of ice looked blue in the golden twilight. Hunter let his mind wander to Christmases past: the sweet smell of the gum and glitter he and his friends used to make pictures with as a child; the snow dripping from the red lettering of The Dandy; first kiss to Last Christmas; the costumed Holly King and Oak King battling it out on a snow-covered hilltop; choirs by candlelight… There was still a lot of magic around, even if it was all ultimately empty. He often felt as if he were the only one who felt it, marooned in the kind of innocent excitement and imagery that had been long ago dismissed by everyone else he knew as irrelevant to their responsible plods through adulthood.
“Hi, Hunter! Wow, haven’t seen you for ages. You’re looking well, mate. Help yourself to drinks – they’re in the kitchen.” Giles, tonight’s host, gesturing to the phalanx of bottles and cans in the kitchen, and moving off to join his colleagues in the front room.
Hunter looked around for somewhere to put down the plastic bag that contained his present. Now didn’t seem as if it was the right moment. He filled a glassful of wine, took a deep breath and walked towards the door, from which he could hear a riot of laughter. How to enter, how to begin, how to smile at people he hardly knew – basic stuff he felt he’d never properly mastered.
Entering the room, he was assailed by a little gale of laughter. He’d just missed the joke. He greeted everyone hastily, raising his glass with an awkward movement and a forced smile.
“How’s life?” this from Catherine Wood, a former classmate whom he’d hardly talked to at school, her pinched face apparently overjoyed.
Here we go, he thought. The casual humiliation of questions.
“Great, thanks. Yeah, things are going really well in London.”
“What is it you do now?”
“Well, actually…” Hunter coughed, “I’m not doing anything much! I’m trying to work on a bit of painting, so I work part-time for a lecturing agency.”
“Oh, yeah, well that’s the right idea, isn’t it? Everyone works far too hard these days anyway, don’t you think? Where are you living – have you got your own place, or?”
“It’s just too pricey down south, you know how it is. I’m sharing.”
“Oh, I see.” Catherine tried to think of a positive spin to put on it.
“It’s a bit like Men Behaving Badly, if you remember that.”
“Oh, yeah. I loved it as a student, y’know, communal living! Look, I’m just going to get another drink and I’ll be right back.”
Deserted. Hunter let his eyes pan round the room. Look nonchalant, look bored. How the Hell should he look now?
Several unmemorable conversations later, he found himself sitting with Cameron Harris, a film enthusiast and the elder brother of a friend who no longer cared to return to this part of the world.
“I really enjoyed that remake of Death In Venice,” said Hunter. “Atmospheric.”
“Well,” Cameron made a groaning sound, “It’s not my taste. I wouldn’t go to a film like that.”
“Did you think it would be a bit slow?” asked Hunter.
“I read the reviews, but I’ve never liked that director anyway. I can’t stand the way he uses those clichéd camera angles. And the acting’s not going to be worth watching with Jose whatsisname, is it? What I always want in a film is three things: a bit of challenge, like a really good twist or something; actors with presence; and something with real passion!”
“I think you’d find it was passionate, at least. No one could say…”
“What you mean by it and what I mean by it are different things. Films are my thing and I know what I’m talking about. You can say whatever you like about it, but a solitary writer on some kind of self-destructive whatever it is will never hold my attention.” Cameron said emphatically. “And the director’s a dumb twat, like I said.” He laughed.
“What did you like, this year?” Hunter ventured, wondering where along the line he had lost his sense of humour.
“Well, now, there were only three films worth the ticket price this year – in my opinion…”
“Look, I can’t do this any more. It’s too boring.”
“Pardon?” Cameron thought he’d misheard.
“You are an opinionated old bore, so I’m off.” Hunter said flatly.
“Fine.” Cameron walked away, seemingly unruffled.
Suddenly Hunter noticed how noisy it was. He ran the gauntlet of random fragments of conversation which emerged bleating and whinnying from the cigarette smoke. Someone laughed; it caught. He would have loved to be in that little crowd at that moment, but he felt himself impelled towards the door. He apologised as he made his way through the now crowded living room, and stumbled on someone’s coat.
“Sorry, sorry!”
“Hunter, you OK?” It was Giles, interrupting his stream of jovial remarks.
“Yeah, I, er, I have to go soon. There’s a present…”
“Thanks. You shouldn’t have! Look, why don’t you wait and get a taxi?”
“No, I’m just a bit sleepy, that’s all. Anyway, I put it by the coathangers.”
“OK. Look, we’ll have to go out for a drink while you’re still here – next week?”
“That’d be good. Let me know. Actually, no, sorry, I can’t be bothered. I just want to hibernate this year.”
Hunter smiled briefly, but was sorry to see his old schoolmate at a loss for words. He made a “can’t help it” gesture with his hands, looked at the floor and moved off quickly.
In the hallway, he brushed past Catherine.
“Are you off, then?’ she asked, smiling.
“Yeah, I’m feeling…”
“Sorry we didn’t get to talk more. Parties! You know how it is.”
Hunter shrugged and looked for his coat.
Catherine’s eyes followed his movements, and then looked sadly back at the living room. She fingered her glass nervously. “I would have liked to know more about your painting.”
He rounded on her. “Don’t. Patronise. Me.”
She gave a half-smile of disbelief. “Wha-at?”
“Catherine: You don’t care if I live or die.”
Outside in the street, Hunter made a quick recovery as he made contact with the cold air. He gazed at the Christmas lights – so imaginatively done this year, the Twelve Days of Christmas sparkling in blue and gold. He reflected that tonight was Yule, and the return of the light – now there was something worth celebrating. He would light a candle to that before he went to bed, just as he used to as a child. To keep the magic alive in his soul.
Beneath the coats in Giles’s flat, bathed in a puddle of Tennent’s Export at the bottom of a plastic bag, lay a forgotten painting of a brightly coloured landscape. Giles’s wife discovered it the next day, cleaned the sticky beer off the front, and put it in a drawer in case anyone came back for it.
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