Fistful of Euros

This is gonna sound depressing. But please bear with me. There are some jokes thrown in. See if you can spot them. Special prize for those that make the effort.

Hooray!

The once-in-generation chance to vote on an issue is upon us. Hooray!

Eejits

Folk like me posted their vote aleady. It should feel empowering to vote in something more lasting than a crappy election, which we can change our minds about 4 or 5 years later if we got it badly wrong (although granted, we often vote the same eejits back in).

But it aint like that. For several reasons.

Lies

First, atrocious campaigns (2 kinds of in, 2 kinds of out), are peddling all kinds of lies, distortions and dog-whistles. Some vaguely plausible, some outrageously false. All randomly or disproportionately received by an alternatively sceptical or gullible electorate. Most of it simply reinforces pre-supposed beliefs or prejudice anyway, so all kinda pointless really.

Cynical

From my tinpot training in local politics, I know that an activist is rarely interested in persuasion. All canvassing was exactly that. Capturing opinion and voting intention. Then this is followed up by concentrating on getting that vote to the polls. Low turnout (for your opponent) is your cynical friend.

Fear

The last general election, superbly orchestrated by mendacious Ozzie apparatchik Lynton Crosby, effectively played the fear card, while addressing only those most likely to actually vote. The intention and successful tactic of ignoring the disaffected and disconnected young and/or (non-)working class worked better than ever. Blair gnashed his teeth at the outrageous irony. Then sniffed and went back to counting his piles of cash.

Murdoch

Couple this trend with increasingly well-honed media complicity gained from years of kow-towing to, and courting of the elite, and new ideas struggle to flourish.

Thatcher

There was something initially encouraging about Corbyn's runaway success last year. Traditional Labour sympathisers wanted to give the cynicism of the New Labour project a severe kick in the nuts for stealing Thatcher's clothes and trying to frame "appealing to the centre ground" as if it was a laudable aim, rather than that same low-road of ignoring those less likely to vote and trying to appeal to those more drawn to selfish self-interest than the common good. The feeling was that Corbynites were voting for positive change, but in all probability, it was still about the blame game and punishing the others.

Wise

So the electorate has got wise to low-handed political tactics, has it? Well, yes and no.

Punishment

Yes there is a palpable backlash which punishes the perceived enemy rather than encourage those that promise a more positive or caring approach. It's like wanting your opposition to lose the game more than wanting your own team to win. But we should be careful what we wish for.

Danger

The clear and present danger is that we fall for another (potentially worse flavour) of the same thing. By posing as the antidote, some equally or more unsavoury characters seem persuasive, taking advantage of an electorate bent on revenge. In reality they are far from that.

Hitler

At the risk of "losing the argument by invoking Hitler", that is precisely the phenomenon that propelled some pretty nasty "democratic" revolutions of times past. Preying on cynicism and disproportionately apportioning blame on "others" (race, religion, lifestyle, political movements, or the entire political elite) works. It blinds people to the failings of their chosen team by constantly drawing attention to the cheating bastards on the other side. Quite simply, this is magician's misdirection. And we are falling for it in increasing numbers lately.

Blame

This often happens in history. Whenever there are problems or at least perceived problems in a society, blame is king. So the argument is all about successfully pinning that blame on groups with less influence, carefully chosen to bolster your own agenda.

Jews

Did Jews really cause the great depressions of the 20s and 30s, or the decline of German power? Enough voters were persuaded so at the time. Look where that got them. The depression, like most major events, was caused by a myriad of things. But pinning it on a religion, its adherents and descendents is clearly preposterous. Hopefully this is something we now instinctively understand and accept. Don't we? I said DON'T WE?

Stab

Yet here we are again. When a white-skinned Christian stabs a bloke in a carpark, do we blame all of Christianity? Or all people from Canterbury?

Burn

Did Catholics really threaten our well-being in the 16th century? Did we really need to burn heretics in the middle ages?

Brown

But as we know, we are increasingly encouraged to think in those terms if the knife wielder is Muslim (or even just brown).

Socks

Perhaps we should be worried about people who wear stripey socks. They just don't share our values.

Have we learned nothing?

School

Is economic migration or benefit tourism the reason your kid can't get into your school of choice? Or is it perhaps successive government policies of choice, cuts, or education system mismanagement?

Are scrounging immigrants stopping your gran get a new hip? Really? What makes you think that?

Murdoch

Who is encouraging this? Will leave that question hanging here...

Stupid

Surely it's just "the economy, stupid?" We can peddle out some facts or simple maths showing how unclaimed benefits and system errors outweigh the effect of false claims, and that the numbers involved are in any case dwarfed by the blow to to economy and service provision caused by an over-complex tax system that benefits the better off, the super rich, the avoiders, evaders and large cynical corporates, who are all legally bound to benefit shareholders above society at large.

Nice

But as this campaign shows, nobody is interested in accurate information. We just want our prejudices pampered. And if that means accepting and believing lies, then who cares? It's nice to be pampered.

Harmless

Most of us made our mind up about the EU ages ago, so lets indulge in some "harmless" nonsense while we wait for the result to hit home.

Elite

Of course, we could simply realise that the world is a complex place, and lots of things need fixing to make it better. What about some positive ideas to make that happen? What about working together, rather than letting the elite divide and rule as always, pitting us against our neighbour?

Speed

Many of my best friends wear stripey socks. If a policy is good for them, it could be good for us all. Though I'm sure I got my last speeding ticket cos I was distracted by some woman in hideous leggings.

Blind

Why this massive diatribe on all things? Surely this is just about the EU? And the European Court of Human Rights, obviously, cos we don't care that it is entirely unrelated to the EU and was set up (by us!) to try Rudolf Hess & co. Don't let facts blind your one eye now - it's too late for that.

Help

But this isn't about the EU is it? If it was, we could discuss its successes, failings, what we'd like it to be, and whether being in it would help. Like, you know, adults.

Sofa

Personally speaking, I always find shouting at my team from the sofa has a massive impact on their performance. I support Wolves. See how effective that's been over the years? Ok they're rarely televised but you get my point.

Beach

So instead, we're asked to vote on lies and distortions, when we should be thinking about what the result (or just the trauma of deciding) will have at home. Or abroad, if we like better beaches.

Worse

Whatever the result, it looks likely to usher in a worse kind of Tory government (yes, kids, that is a thing).

Proud

Alongside that, it seems set to cement increased and lasting antipathy to "others", which can be anything from disproportionate blame on immigration to outright racism and division. Lovely. Aren't we all such nice people? What a proud nation we are!

Thinking

In fact, we really should be thinking about who actually governs us. If we think it's the EU, how do we make that work better for us? If we think it's the UK or local government, then what is the best approach for that?

Windbag

If we think politicians are just neutered windbags, then it's the economy, or the way society operates. So how can we fix that to our mutual benefit? Maybe we should plan to bomb Parliament. It worked so well for Guido and his pals. Look how easy it is for Catholics to get benefits now.

Catastrophic

It aint by heeding the lies of these catastrophic campaigns. It's by waking up and being constructive. At least base your vote on that. Cos we may not get another chance to have such a profound effect on our own society for another 40 years.

Obscene

And and if you don't wanna vote in or out, please register your contempt in time-honoured fashion by drawing something obscene on your ballot paper. They get counted too. Yes really. Remember I dabbled in election night games - you see some fabulously imaginative stuff.

Special

And now there's an ad for Now That's What I Call Rock Ballads on telly. Maybe that should be the special prize. Dinner for two and cabaret with REO Speedwagon.

Wish

Like I said, be careful what you wish for.

Animals

We're a diverse bunch, aren't we? We all look different, started in different places, picked up different experiences on the way, and then interpreted them differently. That we might end up with the same outlook on the world seems pretty unlikely.

I have firm political views, which boil down to some simple fundamentals, based on all the good stuff - equality, respect, compassion, yada yada. I may not believe in sky fairies, but I'm not gonna have a cow about others doing so, as long as they don't use it as an excuse to avoid equality, respect, compassion etc. I'm also quite the pacifist; and would happily serve jail time rather than fight for some notional nation, religion or a barrel of black gold. Killing folk isn't right. Ever. So that's me.

As for the environment - well, I take a logical approach. Don't use so much you can't put back etc. But I'm not going to fret about how pretty a hillside is. Most hillsides in the UK are man-made landscapes anyway. And I kinda like looking at pearly white windmills.

When it comes to other animals, I guess I get a bit more pragmatic. I'm an enthusiastic omnivore, probably cos I was a fussy kid and I'm now making up for lost time. I'm sceptical of arbitrary notions of what is and isn't deemed edible. If it's poisonous or just tastes damn nasty, don't eat it. But I'm not going to complain about people eating dogs any more than I'd want folk to hate me for eating pigs. Both are intelligent. Both may well taste good. I can only speak for pork, so far. But I'm not done travelling yet.

Like I said, we're diverse, right? Get over it.

So what about other ways to use or abuse animals? I grew up on a farm till I was 11, and my maternal ancestors had been farm labourers for generations. My Grandad looked after a prize Jersey herd. My Grandma was a big influence, and she always treated her pets like, well, animals. Mick spent his daytimes chained to his kennel. Various cats came and went. They were all good companions, but never really fussed over. My cousins had a turkey farm, so I know what's it's like when killing time comes around. Deafening.

As adults, we've had a bunch of pets - Albert, Elsie, Steve, Derek. The latter two both met grisly ends on the main road. While they were kinda considered family members, it wasn't real. They amused us. But they were just living possessions. We don't mourn them like we would children. That would be insane.

So what about using animals for entertainment? It was the Grand National yesterday, and plenty of Brits get hung up about the poor horses. Can't say I do. It's an exciting event. I've eaten horse. Often. I like it a lot. Not much meat on a steeplechaser though.

Last Monday, I went to a bullfight in Arles, Southern France. Six bulls died, and were dragged bleeding from the grand Roman arena. Am I concerned? How does a pacifist deal with this? The answer is, frankly, that it all seems quite insignificant. 

La Corrida was spectacular. Amazing horsemanship, fabulous entertainment, a high degree of skill and no little danger to the horses and riders if they put a foot (or hoof) wrong. But obviously the bulls were all taunted, angered, worn out and ultimately killed. Even the one that "won" was quickly put out of its misery. The rojoneador couldn't make a clean kill so dismounted sharply and did the "decent thing" with a swish of cold steel. It also meant that in that case, he didn't get to throw the ears into the baying crowd. Yes, they do that. It's a thing. He also had dodgy blonde hair and looked like Paul Nicholas. The final contender found her bull less keen, but made the best of it with some fancy speed-dressage skills and some nifty knife work.

When I consider the racks of pre-packed steaks in every supermarket and hypermarket across the land I think, well, 6 bulls is hardly huge in the scheme of things. Did they suffer in the Arena? Yes. But so did all those animals in the abattoirs and warehouses across Europe, however they were killed (don't start telling me one way is better than another - they all end up dead).

Should I at least care about the suffering of animals if I can't care about killing? To be honest, this isn't a priority for me. Maybe when we stop killing humans or making them suffer for where they were born or what they think, when we stop building drones, wandering through other people's neighbourhoods in khaki and jackboots, and making up separate rules for "them" and "us", then we can start thinking about how we treat other species. For now, I enjoyed the bullfight. So I'm not going to have a cow about it.

More photos here... https://flic.kr/s/aHska9qSTV

Tins and tins of shortbread

I am English, alas, but I have thoughts of my own. On Scotland.

1. Nice to see lots of folk interested in voting for something.

2. If 51% vote for something, it'll be a bigger proportion than most governments get. That's almost harmony.

3. Shame that no really important stuff gets decided till afterwards.

4. There aint much difference in the two outcomes.

5. Dispiriting to see the level of debate from politicians. All sensation and exaggeration as per normal. Scant evidence or facts.

6. The media (left, right, paper, broadcast, tabloid and "serious") have played a shameful, biased part in this. Even more so than normal.

7. The effect on England may be the same, whatever the outcome. Increased interest in decentralised control, continued erosion of support for the mainstream. Room for optimism.

8. The wider effect is potentially profound. A nice big shake up for so-called democracy here and elsewhere. Let's see if that helps.

9. I might start a separatist movement for Greater Wigan. Sounds like a laff.

10. Eventually people will suss that Tesco make more difference to their lives than Whitehall or Holyrood. Let's keep our fingers crossed for a shopping revolution.
Whatever happened to bloody revolutions?  They should bring that shit back.

Paris By Night

In what seems to have become putative holiday blog, permit me to describe a typical summer's eve in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.

We come to Paris reasonably often (for Anglos), and yes, we're staying at a fancier gaff than normal, just over the road from Les Deux Magots & Café de Flore in the 6eme arrondissement, which is living up to its reputation of hosting mostly 2 kinds of inhabitant: small dogs in handbags, and fat Americans in shorts.

Having ticked the box in Les Deux Magots last night, we wandered into the St Germain hinterland this evening to find something a bit more "local". And bingo, we found it.

Chez Fernand in rue Guisarde (not the Montparnasse one) is about as tiny as it gets (in Paris that is; we ate somewhere tinier in Nice in March), with people sat on top of each other in a way that sadly never happens in English speaking environs. The food was naturally excellent (tartare de canard - une révélation!) without being fussy or clever, but that's not the bit we're interested in here.

It was the fact that our linguistic skills have improved hugely since the last time we were in this town (March 2012), and in fact, since Nice. Not only did the staff indulge us by sticking strictly to français, but we got into conversations (mostly about cheese) with locals and regulars.

The key skill we've recently acquired seems to be the confidence to ask people to repeat or explain themselves, without resorting to, "Je suis désolé, mais je ne comprends pas."

These are skills that had clearly passed our American neighbours by, who seemed to be the only people in the place dissatisfied with the food and service. It's a two-way street, my friends.

However, this self-same confidence has its drawbacks.

After leaving Fernand (complete with its signed Roland Garros 1981 poster - Borg, Lendl, Forget, Noah et al) we pottered back towards the Bvd St-Germain to find a bar to while away the cool evening breeze. We stumbled upon a tabac/café where we could sip a whisky while staring at a motley queue buying late night ciggies.

There's nothing like smoking for bringing disparate types together. And that, of course, transpired. Was it the girl in the LEATHER puff-ball frock? No. The black-helmeted scooterist straight from the set of Beineix's 80s classic "Diva"? Mais non. C'était François.

It was the end of a long day for François. Most of which had evidently been spent cadging booze from anyone friendly enough to catch his eye. I was too friendly. Mainly through my desire to continue speaking French to as many people as possible. My boldness brought us a longer conversation than I had perhaps envisaged.

However, it posed no danger, was eminently enjoyable, and cost us no money (since the proprietor had long since determined that François didn't need any more boissons tonight).

We shared an odd moment when he asked me to touch index fingers, ET style, then didn't know when to stop staring at me. We both understood the word arrête, which brought the episode to an awkward conclusion.

We all went our separate ways. Us back to our swanky hotel, and François (presumably) to another table in another bar.

I love this city.

Sunrise Tacos

OK, I'm gonna try to describe this mundane scene. Bear with me. It may not make sense on first read, but this is Bangkok in a nutshell.

It's 11pm. I'm sat at a table, in a courtyard of shops and eateries adjoining Sukhumvit Rd.

There's a DHL, a hairdresser, two Sunrise Tacos, a French-Thai and a Chinese among others. AND a very neon nightclub.

Furniture direct from the pre-IKEA black steel and faux-marble class of 1983 is arranged outdoors in the middle, amongst modern water features, tropical pot plants, Xmas decorations (snowmen? Really?) and some kind of jerry-built steel lattice that holds up what looks like a big sail, that presumably unfurls if the weather turns. Not sure if that ever happens. There's a matt black fan pointed over every table.

Did I mention that Sukhumvit Rd has four lanes of high speed traffic in each direction, and is impossible to cross? But that's OK, cos there's a huge concrete footbridge. Not that you notice it at first, what with the Sky Train whooshing overhead every few minutes.

It's like the Bladerunner set designed by giddy children after the jelly and ice cream has been served.

The people here are a mix. Tourists, locals, some eating, some sharing a hookah (mostly young Asian women) some NOT sharing a hooker (mostly old European men), and nearly everyone jabbing aimlessly at smartphones.

Screens everywhere are showing multiple live Premier League games that won't be broadcast in the UK till later on.

So what music should accompanying this? Obviously it's a Thai duo with acoustic guitars, a beatbox and bandanas trilling out phonetic approximations of Every Breath You Take and Don't Look Back In Anger.

Make sense? Nope.

Right.  Second half's started. Back to the screens...

Quaking in my boots

So anyway, I took the easy way out. Popped into the Europa for a pizza. Saves making a real decision.

I know Romeo will plonk a Peroni in front of me, and warn me about the chilli oil, and Helga will find me another stunning pud I didn't notice on the menu. Since you ask, she produced a hunk of limoncello tiramisu. I know! Still reeling!

Obviously it was raining. I'm Mancunian - you'd think I'd hardly notice, but it's been raining in Bristol continuously for 4 months now. Not sure how that happened. Some mix-up at the Met Office, presumably. Or the rainmaker had the map upside down. Anyway. Rain. Again. Loads of it.

So I washed up smelling like a wet dog, and plonked my (ever so suave) wet cap on the table beside me to watch it gently steam as I wandered idly through the familiar leather-bound menu.

No idea why I bothered with the menu, by the way. I'd decided as I walked past the kebab and pizza joints on Baldwin Street that nothing would keep me from a Pizza Piccante at Pietro & Theresa's place. But it's nice to appear coy, as if my mind wasn't made up already.

As usual, I hung my coat on the seat beside me and merrily troughed my way through my pizza, which I'd liberally doused with chill oil to make the experience suitably challenging.

I prodded away at my phone, following a lead on Twitter to investigate Irvine Welsh's Trainspotting prequal, set in, and against, Thatcher's rapacious prime. A few prods later I was smiling privately as I settled in to his familiar biting vernacular via the Kindle app. Think what you like of what became of his reputation, he writes like an easy genius. But I'm biased. He's my white middle-class mentor. He lets me pretend I can be anti-establishment as I devour his fortune-making skill. Escapist in every sense.

I remained pretty much cocooned in a bookreader's trance for most of the meal, save the odd moment when a nod at my empty glass elicited another top-up.

I did briefly raise my head when an older couple at the next table asked Romeo about the large cityscape covering the wall beside me. He confirmed it was Florence. I pointed out that I'd had a similar conversation with him a few weeks back, when I'd been unable to identify the place. My other half had been outraged - how dare I not recognise those Tuscan rooftops!

As the couple made to leave a while later, they engaged me in conversation.

Pointing to my coat, "I like your white poppy!"

"Thank you. I get a lot of stick for it!"

"I know how you feel. We're Quakers and we've worn white poppies for years. In fact, 30-odd years ago, we were wearing them as we protested against the Falklands War, and a woman came at us furiously swearing - her husband was on the task force, and we were insulting her, she cried. I pointed out that my white poppy was precisely intended as a gesture of respect for men like her husband, and her fury turned to sobs! She ended up hugging us!"

http://www.ppu.org.uk/whitepoppy/index.html

http://www.europarestaurant.co.uk/

Named and shamed

Alright. Can't avoid it any longer.

I am writing this from Manchester, North of England, where those with  medium-sized memories recall the indifference of the rest of the nation in the face of this city's failed bids to host the Olympics over a decade ago, and are able to contrast this with the proffering of "lottery" funding and country-wide press-ganging into joining the enforced jingofest that is this month's corporate bullying convention and political opportunism show in That London.

But I'm not bitter (am I?). The sport has been great. It always is at the Olympics. And as usual it triumphs despite its unsavoury backdrop, as it did 4 years ago, and on most occasions before that (except 1972, 1980* and 1984 obviously). And few sport** fans cared that North Korea felt the need to avoid the trip south in 88. Anyway, I digress.

So why am I writing? I'll tell you why I'm writing...

I keep looking at the medals table. I know I'm British, and therefore aloof to this overrated sideshow of winners and losers, but I'm also a data wonk, and stats were a key factor in my sporting education. I grew up devouring the records sections in the Observer's Book of Association Football and the annual Football League Tables updates. I scoured the local library for football annuals full of results and historical comparisons. I'm old enough and ugly enough to admit this now without fear of being accused of jumping on the "geek is cool" bandwagon (that frankly left town 2 years ago anyway). I'm happy with my identity, thank you (he says, without a hint of irony, obscured by his interweb nom-de-plume).

But this medals table has something niggling about it. I can't find the United Kingdom. Yet there, currently in third place, among the official names of 203 other countries, are the words "Team GB". Why?

OK I've exaggerated a bit. Our former colonial conquest that occupies that barely habitable moonscape the other side of the planet calls itself, somewhat prosaically, The Australian Olympic Team. Slightly out of character, it would seem.

Nicknames for sporting teams are not new. The Ozzies are normally less formal about it, with their Socceroos, Hockeyroos and Wallabies. And taking football alone, fans across the globe all have pet names for their heroes, from the The Old Lady to the Super Eagles to the Blue Brazil.

A side note. The team from Sandwell I hate to mention (W**t Br*m) have been called the Baggies pretty much since the Norman Conquest. In the 60s their prim board decided they preferred a different nickname and tried to get those footy annuals I was reading to refer to The Throstles wherever possible. It didn't catch on. Anyway, I call them Tescos in mixed company, and other things elsewhere. But remember this point, I shall return...

But - and here's my point (at last! I hear you cry) - these nicknames emerged from the culture itself. From the fanbase. Perhaps from some obscure story nobody quite remembers accurately (why DO Stoke fans sing Delilah? Don't answer that, I don't care).

But Team GB (Dammit! Said it again!) is not that kind of nickname.

For a start, it's across all sports. For all the valiant Olympian ideology, Britain cannot be said to regard her various sporting competitors in anything like an egalitarian consistency. It just seems way too contrived to lump boxers with rowers, three day eventers with marathon runners or footballers with archers. Even if you try to ignore the class system (which is impossible), these people have little in common.

But OK, let's put that aside for the sake of a nationally unified tilt at the Olympian spirit. Even Andy Murray (without the canard of Scottish till he wins, British thereafter) said he felt differently about winning games at Wimbledon when he's "representing his country". Fine. No problem with that.

So where else is my British-reared, BSE-free beef? It's here: knotted within the aforementioned corporatisation and political meddling that threatens every games. It's always a talking point as the games begin, and gets forgotten when the more populist events like athletics get underway (oh, and cycling - the nouveau connoisseurs of which sprout in every direction these days, mostly in my Twitter feed).

This infernal name has corporate marketing and/or political communication theory writ large all over its ass. It has the odour of "conferred from above" and the word "imposition" written through it like a stick of sickly rock. It reminds us every minute that these games are being used to engender a homogeneous response that us individualistic Brits are not wont to. Semi-enforced hegemonic "enjoyment" of a similar ilk to the tired kitsch love-in that was once, but no longer, a spontaneous reaction to the Eurovision Song Contest.

"YES! WE ARE ALL INDIVIDUALS!" I hear you bellow. Stop proving my point. You're part of the United Kingdom, not North Korea. And certainly not subjects of McDonalds or Samsung.

We are a union, a broad church, but thankfully not one with a single mind. And, as pedants like me will point out, a country that includes Great Britain AND Northern Ireland (arguably). Yes, we all want to see a good Olympics. And these days, we apparently all want to see British success too (you have to admit, it wasn't always this way). So let the jingoism carry on unfettered. It's sport, not politics. And keep watching the sports we don't compete well at too. Handball can be mesmerising, as can wiff-waff.

But "Team GB"? Wise up, suckers!


* Yeah, Coe and Ovett. But Allan Wells? Nuff said. And the US were on Afghan soil before the Reds got there anyway, which makes it so much stinkier in the light of history.

** Sport. Not sports. Be very careful. Two nations divided by a common language, remember?