Whatever happened to willpower eh? What happened to the noble ethic of tying yourself down to a decent repetitive task and seeing it through to the end? It is with a heavy heart, as Robin Cook would say, that I confess that I have let this particular routine slip. The one of expounding half-truths and semi-chewed opinions using the fabulous medium of the humble weblog I mean. But I have an excuse. Oh yes. This is what happened, and you may want to sit down for this, for it is quite harrowing and I got really really wet.
About four days ago I was inspecting a manhole, for no other reason that that the lid had been partially placed on it at a jaunty angle, and it seemed vaguely artistic. Now, I have no pretensions of understanding art, but it may be that the awesome beauty of this everyday object tossed with gay abandon into an unfamiliar pose was enough to send me swooning and I duly collapsed into said manhole.
There it was dark. And wet, note earlier comment. At times like this, you have only a few options:
a) Weep uncontrollably – we’ll come back to this one.
b) Summon some kind of superhero using the rims of your spectacles to glance sunlight into a Morse code distress signal. Or better still, morph an image in the clouds of your chosen distress signal in plain English, if your glasses have this facility, so that even the Strathclyde Police may come to your help. Those of you with 20-20 vision or contact lenses are fucked at this point.
c) Using your nail file and/or pick-axe, dig your way out, causing untold damage to the pavement the fixing of which will be more than amply paid for by your outrageous council tax.
d) Holler like an orphan trapped in a water-wheel.
Of course, unbeknown to me, bounding across the fields and pastures of the PC World car park was a four-legged friend opening up exciting option (e): Salvation By Border Collie. Her timing was unfortunate. No sooner had she started to alert passers-by to the fact that there was an animal trapped in the manhole, than the hunger pangs began to bite. I had been down there at least 20 minutes. I promptly shot the dog and marinaded it in salsa sauce before ingesting it whole, in the manner of a snake, which did my digestion no good.
Later in the night, I slowly realised the horror of my situation. Had my hunger really been so burdensome that I would sacrifice my only hope of escape? Indeed. It was then I decided that weeping would be the way forward. By weeping enough, I would be able to fill the manhole with water, thus bringing me to a triumphant, and buoyant, conclusion to my adventures. As the murky saline sloshed against the bridge of my nose though, I realised that I was drowning, and decided that I would have to sacrifice the weighty boots dragging me down. With further disillusion, I noticed that the water was just draining slowly into the rock beneath me, and that I would never weep enough to float myself to the surface. In desperation, I tried to think of the truly upsetting injustices in the world, like impending global conflict, and that new one-way system on the South Side, but alas to no avail.
I wiped the leftover dog hair from my mouth and decided on a course of action. You may or may not know, or care, that there is a large belt of coal that runs from the Ruhr Valley in Germany, under the North Sea, through the northern part of Britain and all the way across the Atlantic to Pennsylvania in the States. This explains the geography of the coal industry in these regions. Anyway, by judiciously picking my way through the coal seams, I made my way westward towards the promised land, knowing that the only way I would ever see the azure sky, the bronze stone-lapping light of sunset and all those above-ground things we hold dear in our everyday lives, like orchards, wooded hilltops and pterodactyls, I would have to pick myself free, wherever the seam might take me.
The subterranean passage was a fantasy world of dark blacks, lighter blacks, and here and there the odd playful sparkle of charred black all set against the radiant background of pitch darkness. My eyes grew accustomed to the dark and changed shape accordingly. Somewhere around mile nine, the fingers started to become calloused and gentle bruises turned to scabs which sloughed off to reveal a reptilian under-skin. The fingers appeared to become more varnished and claw-like, grappling with the endless coal ahead and only occasionally stopping to feel nimbly around unexpected obstructions – the metallic clink of gas pipes, or the supple curves in the bones of a forcibly expired gang member.
Long story short, I made it to Pennsylvania a few days later, and surfaced through a disused raccoon tunnel that had fallen on hard times. I was welcomed into a rickety barn by a withered-looking man, but I had cause to mistrust him, for his beard was too short. He said his name was “Stew” but that people called him “Lumber” because he was as quick-witted as a felled tree trunk. He told me that he did not understand this statement and would I please explain it to him. Something must have got lost in the translation because he then imprisoned me for what seemed an interminable amount of time, feeding me on corn and threatening that he would send me to the guillotine if I didn’t lay an egg damn soon. But by now, my digging claws had evolved into machine-like tools of escape and freedom was cheaply won.
For a time, I lived as a wandering hobo, lankily making my naïve way with a song between my lips and a lightness of step (which comes from a diet of corn over many weeks). Hoboism is not nearly as romantic as you will suppose. People spit at you. They unravel that cloth that you have tied to the end of your stick and spit into that. They jeer at you, and spit at your boots. They spit in your food, and on your donkey. It is a low low life. Eventually, I thought that I heard home calling me, but quickly realised it was the rumbling sound of those oysters repeating on me. The gathering storm lay within, false signal or not, and I had to head home.
Luckily my facial hair was enough to convince those friendly people at customs that I must be expelled from the country as quickly as possible, and after only the briefest of cavity searches – they didn’t even use the Suction Device - I found myself passing the sweet Statue of Liberty herself on an ocean-going liner bound for Liverpool. Those were the heydays of steam shipping of course, back in mid-November 2007. After a brief mishap involving an iceberg and Kate Winslet, which was all sorted out with a bit of back-slapping, tobacco in the pipe, politely declined shrimp-on-sticks, a charming orchestra with a tasty bassoonist, and a toast to appease the Ice God, Thaw, I made it ashore on a plank of wood, where I emerged from the water looking like a male version of Ursula Andress, but with larger baps.
I write to you now in-between surgeries to have my long-suffering hands transmuted from Godzilla-face-tearer back into their original stumpy, human form. In manhole world, many months had passed, but I am surprised to note that, here in Glasgow, a mere four days have elapsed. Which is only long enough for four government scandals.
“Beware ye the lure of the manhole. In its darkness lies the ruin of pity” – Neil O’Pinion (2002), famous potholer and necrophiliac whose bestselling book, Me and My Stiffy is in all good bookshops now.
Friday, 30 November 2007
Friday, 23 November 2007
Something In The Way She Rains
It was freezing the other day. I knew this because no less than three different (and completely unknown to me) people told me this:
First Person (at the bank): Freezing the day, eh?
Me: Oh aye.
Second Person (at the hospital. No, nothing serious): It’s pure freezing, don’t you reckon?
Me: Oh aye.
Third Person (at the chip shop): Pretty cold out there!
Me: Oh aye. Should get one of those things up there I reckon (I point at what looks like an electric bar heater on wall).
Third Person: (Gives me shifty look, looks up at the ‘heater’ which I now gather to be in fact a fly zapper, then looks away and shakes head slowly).
In the third instance, I managed to get away without any physical injuries, despite having suggested to a total stranger that he go away and electrocute himself if he is cold. No Irn Bru bottle through the teeth even.
Of course the other reason I knew it was cold was that my fingers had turned blue. This is especially impressive when you consider the ethnic nature of my fingers (my current fingers were adopted after the ‘car door incident’).
It did get myself to thinking though. Why this fixation on the weather? Is it that strange British genetic implant that makes some people find the shipping forecast on Radio 4 alluring? Does it hark back to the pagan Stonehenge days when the sun ruled above all and that globe of fire had its own spin in determining our fates? Could it be, that at some time in the past, the weather had a far more significant impact on us? Did a Wednesday afternoon with sunny spells and scattered showers used to be an ominous sign that the God Thor was unhappy with his latest sacrificial offering of a stuffed goat in lieu of the actual virgin goat that should have been slaughtered, only Boadicea had taken a liking to it with its masculine and rugged features? Part of me wants to say that it is because we have little else to talk about, apart from reality television and how much blood can be extracted from a football coach during a live radio phone-in before he dies, but I fear that is to simplify.
Britain must have the most mediocre and boring weather in the world. It usually only lightly rains, and if it rains a little harder all the infrastructure gets royally fucked, so unaware of extreme weather are we. If it is windy then a few tiles blow off the roof, but cows do not get swept into the air and busty blondes do not run around ahead of frightening storms with scientific equipment and laptops with swirly Fisher Price graphics shaped to look more fanciful than they really need be. With the ridiculous cult of personality that we seem to have inherited from across the pond, we have even elevated to cult status Michael Fish, the weatherman so used to this pattern of banality he could not predict an actual storm.
Now I don’t mean to belittle the weather disasters on our beleaguered island, nor deny that it must be the work of terrorists, but it is not as if we are living on the bulging side of Mount Saint Helens (and if you do, you would do well to get yourself incarcerated for shoplifting or something, as the only people surviving that eruption in 1980 were prisoners). We do not have tidal waves or monsoons. We are almost as short on weather disasters as on natural disasters. No, that black cloud is not nuclear fallout from Dounreay power station, and that funny red coloured running thing is not a lava flow, it is a river full of migrating smoked salmon with dill. The rumble you just heard was the Dial-a-Bus going over a speed bump, and did not feature on the Richter scale.
I did once hear from a girl in my class - the house of whom kind town planners had placed near the lowest point of a flood plain on a spot which had probably in all fairness been known to flood for centuries as proved by a map of 1745 which designated the district as a “Beware Ye Flashe Floode For ‘Twas Terrible Afore” zone - that the water does not ring the doorbell and then lap over the step into your front room after blowing a brief raspberry at the single limp sandbag that the council provided you with, all while holding a clipboard, as you would expect in a British flood. Instead it bubbles up through the floorboards, which must be a bastard if you are playing Twister. Incidentally, why are electric plug sockets so low down meaning that only five inches of water will knacker them? Eh?
Where were we? Oh yes, we do not even get forked lightning except maybe on a leap year, and even when we do the newspapers have to reprimand us for doing foolish things like wearing metal-wired bras in parks. Apparently that was the reason for some girl getting struck in Hyde Park. I knew those implements were unnatural. We once had a blizzard, but then I still lived in Scotland then and the weather can occasionally be more fun. Glasgow is on the same latitude as Moscow, as no less than three Geography teachers told me, though as I had no idea where, or what Moscow was, this was lost on me at the time - it could have been a tropical paradise as far as I was concerned. The temperature did get so low though that it was two degrees away from freezing people’s contact lenses to their eyes (minus 34 Celsius, since you ask). Cheaper than laser treatment anyway.
In Britain, the tornadoes are so pitiful that one can come along every decade or so in a built-up area and overturn Mrs Lampton’s plant pots, cause havoc with the privet that had been kept pristinely pruned by her long-suffering husband, even with his back, and set off a car alarm that of course everyone ignored, and still make the National News, with voyeuristic saps from a fifteen-mile radius crunching up the streets all around with their vehicles just to get snaps of the ‘damage’ on their camera-phones, so that they can submitted to some news agency website that you, having been infected with that British Weather Curiosity Bug will even interrupt that one-hour-and-counting Facebook session of a Thursday afternoon to have a gander at. And then your manager finds you out and you come in the next morning to a note on your desk saying that you’ve been fired and all your belongings are in a skip outside which by the way is double-parked and has therefore been towed two hundred miles to the pound in Chester and you then have to spend the rest of your life dividing up your dole money between buying food and acquiring the equipment required to carry out your ‘eradication plan’ against the snivelling IT bastard who mumbles acronyms to himself and who reported your internet usage to the big man.
I can only come up with one sensible and scientific suggestion as to why the weather appears to be such an urgent and omnipresent topic. I believe there are a significant number of people in this country who are soluble, and so afraid are they of getting caught out, they cannot even risk migrating to a less damp place. If this is the case, I think the government should intervene. They probably know the whereabouts of these Solubites. The government always has more power than you think – take Stalin’s attempts to have crop-dusting planes spray the clouds with Amazing Chemicals if rain threatened to dampen some victory parade or other. Mind you, with our joined up government, one department would sanction the use of cloud-busting planes, and the other department would have them shot down onto a residential area shortly after.
But Solubites are demanding of our attention. Of course you haven’t seen them leaning against doorways with their coffee cups. What if it rains? But they are there, and their plight is real. There can be little more harrowing than walking down the street with your friend when all of a sudden it starts drizzling and he grimaces slightly before fizzing up like an Alka-Seltzer. And isn’t there an antidote? I’m sure there is something you could mix in with little dearly departed puddle-of-Johnny that will at least let the important bits of him stick as deposits to the inside of a conical flask. Then there is just the small matter of some sellotape and a skateboard to restore full mobility, and we can work on the verbal communication and the aesthetics later. Incidentally, if a friend of yours does melt into a viscous pool, do not store their remains in your fridge in an empty peanut butter jar with its label still on. I speak from experience.
If anyone has any other answers (though I reckon I have hit the nail on the head), I’d like to hear them. Now beware of that frost underfoot.
Bugger me, it’s that totally unnecessary third-person bit again:
Kiran is now in full-time employment as a Data Entry clerk. As of next week anyway. This will suit his beaten-to-death-by-engineering brain just fine while he figures out what else there is to life.
This was the practice session, conducted under armed guard:
10110100010101 Next,
00110001011110 Next,
1101011110 Damn,
Backspace Backspace Backspace 0001100 Etc.
He promises to try not to mail a list of every married couples’ pin-number to a statistician using the bog-standard post. Not even if it has an attached post-it note saying “Private and Confidential. Really boring list of no use to thieves” included as an added security precaution.
First Person (at the bank): Freezing the day, eh?
Me: Oh aye.
Second Person (at the hospital. No, nothing serious): It’s pure freezing, don’t you reckon?
Me: Oh aye.
Third Person (at the chip shop): Pretty cold out there!
Me: Oh aye. Should get one of those things up there I reckon (I point at what looks like an electric bar heater on wall).
Third Person: (Gives me shifty look, looks up at the ‘heater’ which I now gather to be in fact a fly zapper, then looks away and shakes head slowly).
In the third instance, I managed to get away without any physical injuries, despite having suggested to a total stranger that he go away and electrocute himself if he is cold. No Irn Bru bottle through the teeth even.
Of course the other reason I knew it was cold was that my fingers had turned blue. This is especially impressive when you consider the ethnic nature of my fingers (my current fingers were adopted after the ‘car door incident’).
It did get myself to thinking though. Why this fixation on the weather? Is it that strange British genetic implant that makes some people find the shipping forecast on Radio 4 alluring? Does it hark back to the pagan Stonehenge days when the sun ruled above all and that globe of fire had its own spin in determining our fates? Could it be, that at some time in the past, the weather had a far more significant impact on us? Did a Wednesday afternoon with sunny spells and scattered showers used to be an ominous sign that the God Thor was unhappy with his latest sacrificial offering of a stuffed goat in lieu of the actual virgin goat that should have been slaughtered, only Boadicea had taken a liking to it with its masculine and rugged features? Part of me wants to say that it is because we have little else to talk about, apart from reality television and how much blood can be extracted from a football coach during a live radio phone-in before he dies, but I fear that is to simplify.
Britain must have the most mediocre and boring weather in the world. It usually only lightly rains, and if it rains a little harder all the infrastructure gets royally fucked, so unaware of extreme weather are we. If it is windy then a few tiles blow off the roof, but cows do not get swept into the air and busty blondes do not run around ahead of frightening storms with scientific equipment and laptops with swirly Fisher Price graphics shaped to look more fanciful than they really need be. With the ridiculous cult of personality that we seem to have inherited from across the pond, we have even elevated to cult status Michael Fish, the weatherman so used to this pattern of banality he could not predict an actual storm.
Now I don’t mean to belittle the weather disasters on our beleaguered island, nor deny that it must be the work of terrorists, but it is not as if we are living on the bulging side of Mount Saint Helens (and if you do, you would do well to get yourself incarcerated for shoplifting or something, as the only people surviving that eruption in 1980 were prisoners). We do not have tidal waves or monsoons. We are almost as short on weather disasters as on natural disasters. No, that black cloud is not nuclear fallout from Dounreay power station, and that funny red coloured running thing is not a lava flow, it is a river full of migrating smoked salmon with dill. The rumble you just heard was the Dial-a-Bus going over a speed bump, and did not feature on the Richter scale.
I did once hear from a girl in my class - the house of whom kind town planners had placed near the lowest point of a flood plain on a spot which had probably in all fairness been known to flood for centuries as proved by a map of 1745 which designated the district as a “Beware Ye Flashe Floode For ‘Twas Terrible Afore” zone - that the water does not ring the doorbell and then lap over the step into your front room after blowing a brief raspberry at the single limp sandbag that the council provided you with, all while holding a clipboard, as you would expect in a British flood. Instead it bubbles up through the floorboards, which must be a bastard if you are playing Twister. Incidentally, why are electric plug sockets so low down meaning that only five inches of water will knacker them? Eh?
Where were we? Oh yes, we do not even get forked lightning except maybe on a leap year, and even when we do the newspapers have to reprimand us for doing foolish things like wearing metal-wired bras in parks. Apparently that was the reason for some girl getting struck in Hyde Park. I knew those implements were unnatural. We once had a blizzard, but then I still lived in Scotland then and the weather can occasionally be more fun. Glasgow is on the same latitude as Moscow, as no less than three Geography teachers told me, though as I had no idea where, or what Moscow was, this was lost on me at the time - it could have been a tropical paradise as far as I was concerned. The temperature did get so low though that it was two degrees away from freezing people’s contact lenses to their eyes (minus 34 Celsius, since you ask). Cheaper than laser treatment anyway.
In Britain, the tornadoes are so pitiful that one can come along every decade or so in a built-up area and overturn Mrs Lampton’s plant pots, cause havoc with the privet that had been kept pristinely pruned by her long-suffering husband, even with his back, and set off a car alarm that of course everyone ignored, and still make the National News, with voyeuristic saps from a fifteen-mile radius crunching up the streets all around with their vehicles just to get snaps of the ‘damage’ on their camera-phones, so that they can submitted to some news agency website that you, having been infected with that British Weather Curiosity Bug will even interrupt that one-hour-and-counting Facebook session of a Thursday afternoon to have a gander at. And then your manager finds you out and you come in the next morning to a note on your desk saying that you’ve been fired and all your belongings are in a skip outside which by the way is double-parked and has therefore been towed two hundred miles to the pound in Chester and you then have to spend the rest of your life dividing up your dole money between buying food and acquiring the equipment required to carry out your ‘eradication plan’ against the snivelling IT bastard who mumbles acronyms to himself and who reported your internet usage to the big man.
I can only come up with one sensible and scientific suggestion as to why the weather appears to be such an urgent and omnipresent topic. I believe there are a significant number of people in this country who are soluble, and so afraid are they of getting caught out, they cannot even risk migrating to a less damp place. If this is the case, I think the government should intervene. They probably know the whereabouts of these Solubites. The government always has more power than you think – take Stalin’s attempts to have crop-dusting planes spray the clouds with Amazing Chemicals if rain threatened to dampen some victory parade or other. Mind you, with our joined up government, one department would sanction the use of cloud-busting planes, and the other department would have them shot down onto a residential area shortly after.
But Solubites are demanding of our attention. Of course you haven’t seen them leaning against doorways with their coffee cups. What if it rains? But they are there, and their plight is real. There can be little more harrowing than walking down the street with your friend when all of a sudden it starts drizzling and he grimaces slightly before fizzing up like an Alka-Seltzer. And isn’t there an antidote? I’m sure there is something you could mix in with little dearly departed puddle-of-Johnny that will at least let the important bits of him stick as deposits to the inside of a conical flask. Then there is just the small matter of some sellotape and a skateboard to restore full mobility, and we can work on the verbal communication and the aesthetics later. Incidentally, if a friend of yours does melt into a viscous pool, do not store their remains in your fridge in an empty peanut butter jar with its label still on. I speak from experience.
If anyone has any other answers (though I reckon I have hit the nail on the head), I’d like to hear them. Now beware of that frost underfoot.
Bugger me, it’s that totally unnecessary third-person bit again:
Kiran is now in full-time employment as a Data Entry clerk. As of next week anyway. This will suit his beaten-to-death-by-engineering brain just fine while he figures out what else there is to life.
This was the practice session, conducted under armed guard:
10110100010101 Next,
00110001011110 Next,
1101011110 Damn,
Backspace Backspace Backspace 0001100 Etc.
He promises to try not to mail a list of every married couples’ pin-number to a statistician using the bog-standard post. Not even if it has an attached post-it note saying “Private and Confidential. Really boring list of no use to thieves” included as an added security precaution.
Wednesday, 21 November 2007
That Corner Of Europe Again.
Instead of the first-person rant of whinging that I exhibited yesterday, I had originally planned to react to Andrew Rawnsley’s column in the Guardian about the shaky future of the Balkans. I’m glad I delayed it. With Simon Jenkins today also wading into the debate, (see here) it seems that finally this issue, in the media at least, is rearing its head and making its presence known in a way that is now necessary.
December the 10th is when it could all go horrifically wrong. That’s three weeks on Monday. But first, a momentary pause. Possibly more than any other contemporary conflict, this is one that cannot simply be waded into with wild gesticulations and emotive language. Of course none should, but this conflict is more prone to mouthing-off without understanding than any other, in my opinion. This is not an ‘A’ versus ‘B' conflict like with Israel and Palestine (simplistically put), or the thankfully stalled civil war in Cote d’Ivoire. It is not a geopolitical storm that is coloured mainly by territorial ambitions, such as the plethora of rumbling conflicts in the Caucasus. It is not a straight oil-grab like Iraq. It is not even a chaotic mess of shifting allegiances as much of the conflict in DR Congo appears. The Balkans is a mess where all sides have concrete convictions and where no-one’s interests match anyone else’s. It is more like some corrupted Venn diagram with hopeless overlaps containing thousands of people and with new bubbles being spawned with every convulsion of the whole ugly nightmare.
So leave the keys in the bulldozer unturned for now. I will attempt to avoid the same mistake, I have spent enough time trying to twist my mind around this terrible conflict for long enough to know that nothing short of a specialist Master’s in the subject, or perhaps prolonged exposure to it from all angles as a politician can prepare you for the complexities that it heralds. Instead I am going to try and highlight the problem and a very abridged version of why it has come to be, and what there is to lose.
The problem is essentially this. The Balkans have acted like a motorway intersection for the politics, cultures and religions that have breezed through Eastern Europe and Western Asia to pass through. Each has left its indelible mark, from Islam to Christianity to the Greek Orthodox faith. From the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires through to Soviet occupation. It is all desperately complicated.
I can safely claim to have tried to read three and a half books on this subject and yet this, I admit, is not nearly good enough to enter my two cents worth. But I’m still going to. Lambast me if necessary. The ‘half book’, by the way, will possibly prove to be the most useful, in terms of knowledge-building, of the lot. That is if I could get my muddled brain into it. I bought it five years ago and have been intermittently reading it ever since. Have a go yourself, it is great, possibly the authoritative book on the subject: Misha Glenny’s “The Balkans”, but the situation it tries to describe is confounding at best and stomach-churning at worst. Though, like all good political books, it has been read (and commented on favourably, in this case) by Jeremy Paxman. I really don’t know how he finds the time to do all this reading. I am in awe.
The result of all this complexity is that we now have a confederation of independent and aspiring-to-be-independent states that all have different relationships to each other. Ever so often the map of this area changes. The last change happened only a short time ago, when Montenegro declared independence from Serbia to become (as it still is), the world’s newest country, as well as a new Eurovision team, unfortunately. Thankfully this breakaway passed largely without incident. Other times, the lines on the map of this precarious region twist and writhe and subsume into the grasp of death many thousands with every contortion. I almost believe that through the crimson fogs of hell there is a demon with a blackboard and a piece of chalk messing around with the boundaries when he has a spare moment. When the world looks a little too rosy perhaps.
So why the Tenth of December? That will be the final of many deadlines to impose some kind of agreement on the outcome of the Kosovo situation. Ever since Serb armies were kicked out and that country convulsed into its own downfall, causing the welcome incarceration of Milosevic (who that same demon spared the just fate of, dying as he did in prison) but also suffering a rocky journey, including the assassination of a following leader, Kosovo has been on shaky ground. Neither gaining statehood nor being subsumed into Serbia, it was effectively put under the administration of Western powers. The idea was presumably to come to a permanent resolution on it when all the tensions had died down a little, and ever since it has teetered like an ornament on the edge of a mantelpiece. The price for letting it drop is high.
The danger now is that Kosovo will simply declare itself independent, to the anger of Serbia, and Kosovo’s Serb-minority population, sparking off a spiralling collapse in the shaky peace that has held since the end of the last century. Some Serbs see a spiritual reason to keep Kosovo Serb. It has been seen as a holy grail, a land which is rightfully theirs in folklore, for religious reasons, their Jerusalem. It would take a firm hand unafraid of bloodshed to slap away those ambitions in one fell swoop, whether justified or not. Then there is Albanian intentions with the region. Kosovo is 90% Albanian, and independence for the country could see it slip into some Greater Albanian region that would then itch to include parts of Greece in its newfound borders. There is the problem of whether Kosovo even presents a viable option as an independent state without Western intervention. Simon Jenkins states today that the country claims more aid than any country in Asia or Africa which may seem suddenly unsustainable if it gains nationhood. Though this conclusion could be challenged when one considers the ample aid received by Israel in much the same vein. Then there is the question of where Croatia, Bosnia, Vojvodina and a whole host of other regions lie, each with more or less vested interests in the former Yugoslav region as a whole (thankfully, another potential complication can be avoided if we treat Slovenia as a homogenous region, making steps to move away from this mess). Then we have the eagerness to save face by Western countries, by allowing Kosovo its independence, and opposite and equally strong pull from a newly nationalistic and resurgent Russia to protect Serbian nationalism.
Jesus, if I wasn’t already sitting down, I would need to sit down. The above is not even a tenth of it. For nine years, proper resolution of this problem has been put off, but now it has finally bubbled to the top of the pond. Macedonia has made a break for it, Montenegro strode into the independent world, and now Kosovans are asking why their turn has not come. I can’t see any commentator coming up with an answer, I sure as hell don't see a way out. It is like trying to please one individual in a crowd to the detriment of the other five. And whatever you do it will be the same. You will please a different person and piss off the other five. Does this unfortunate region really need to bleed again to force a timely and permanent resolution? Or is it really true that this region is damned to ever-shifting borders and scrappy civil and cross-border conflicts?
This region has even lent its name to a word, ‘Balkanisation’ that has been galvanised in the minds of all to simply stand for the wrenching apart and lasting division of an entity. Many have said that the only solution to the area was the kind of binding Greater Yugoslavia, a loose coalition of nationalities as presided over by Tito, no matter how unpalatable the side-effects were. It might be that we are paying the price now for the satisfying of nationalism in the horrific wars of the 1990’s and that this is merely the final chapter in a genocidal conflict that started with the secession of the first state over 15 years ago.
This was a conflict in which previously happy neighbouring families were convinced almost overnight to murder each other over newfound patriotic loyalties. A conflict in which even the word ‘genocide’ found two new concrete definitions. Firstly, codifying that mass-killing of only males could also be considered genocide, as they were unarmed, and stipulating 8,000 as a number acceptable to be labelled as such. This precedent was found on considering Srebrenica. Secondly, it realised that in defining ‘genocide’ was the destruction of people, it submitted that mass rape also constituted genocide, as occurred when rape was used as a deliberate policy by the Serb armies to water down the gene pool of a certain ethnic group. The gravity of this conflict should never be forgotten, and its potential to reignite should never be ignored. There will clearly be plenty of unsettled scores here ready to seep up through the cracks in the ground that were not sealed properly in the previous decade.
What mustn’t happen is for politicians to hide from the inevitable deadline. In the middle of all the worrying and head-shaking over Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, Darfur and all the rest, all of course deserving of sensitive resolution, it would be a travesty to let this issue in a corner of our own continent to become obscured. It would be wrong to have it treated as an inconsequential secession of a miniscule state from a country deserving of punishment. It’s easy to sound a bugle for Kosovo’s independence as a final shame on the heads of the Serbs. Many have pointed out that in a conflict of this complexity, the customary search for ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’ in the Hollywood tradition is pretty much futile. The balance in those wars swings against the Serbs, certainly, but it is so unclear in its details that to base present decisions on a need for collective punishment is dangerous.
The trying of Serbia’s war criminals, and the search and conviction for those missing ones should be the just punishment to the country for its atrocities To mete out punishment for a past conflict that is intrinsically contained within the settlement of the present situation smacks a little of the reparations demanded from Germany in the wake of the First World War. And talking of that era, lest it be forgotten that that very war started from a single act in the tinderbox of Serbia? It would be melodrama to portray the present situation as likely to have similar implications. Given the horrors that have gone on in the Balkans in the recent past, however, not even the slightest chance on allowing a new outbreak of armed conflict can be allowed.
It remains to be seen how much influence other leaders like our own will have over events. The best that we can hope for for now is that this issue does not fall off our politicians’ radars. It remains to be seen how much influence global leaders will have over events. And amid all the fear-fabricating that is going on to fuel evermore extreme policies relating to the War on Terror, hope that it has been realised that, not too far away, an aching finger is about to be lifted from the pause button of a venomous conflict.
December the 10th is when it could all go horrifically wrong. That’s three weeks on Monday. But first, a momentary pause. Possibly more than any other contemporary conflict, this is one that cannot simply be waded into with wild gesticulations and emotive language. Of course none should, but this conflict is more prone to mouthing-off without understanding than any other, in my opinion. This is not an ‘A’ versus ‘B' conflict like with Israel and Palestine (simplistically put), or the thankfully stalled civil war in Cote d’Ivoire. It is not a geopolitical storm that is coloured mainly by territorial ambitions, such as the plethora of rumbling conflicts in the Caucasus. It is not a straight oil-grab like Iraq. It is not even a chaotic mess of shifting allegiances as much of the conflict in DR Congo appears. The Balkans is a mess where all sides have concrete convictions and where no-one’s interests match anyone else’s. It is more like some corrupted Venn diagram with hopeless overlaps containing thousands of people and with new bubbles being spawned with every convulsion of the whole ugly nightmare.
So leave the keys in the bulldozer unturned for now. I will attempt to avoid the same mistake, I have spent enough time trying to twist my mind around this terrible conflict for long enough to know that nothing short of a specialist Master’s in the subject, or perhaps prolonged exposure to it from all angles as a politician can prepare you for the complexities that it heralds. Instead I am going to try and highlight the problem and a very abridged version of why it has come to be, and what there is to lose.
The problem is essentially this. The Balkans have acted like a motorway intersection for the politics, cultures and religions that have breezed through Eastern Europe and Western Asia to pass through. Each has left its indelible mark, from Islam to Christianity to the Greek Orthodox faith. From the Habsburg and Ottoman Empires through to Soviet occupation. It is all desperately complicated.
I can safely claim to have tried to read three and a half books on this subject and yet this, I admit, is not nearly good enough to enter my two cents worth. But I’m still going to. Lambast me if necessary. The ‘half book’, by the way, will possibly prove to be the most useful, in terms of knowledge-building, of the lot. That is if I could get my muddled brain into it. I bought it five years ago and have been intermittently reading it ever since. Have a go yourself, it is great, possibly the authoritative book on the subject: Misha Glenny’s “The Balkans”, but the situation it tries to describe is confounding at best and stomach-churning at worst. Though, like all good political books, it has been read (and commented on favourably, in this case) by Jeremy Paxman. I really don’t know how he finds the time to do all this reading. I am in awe.
The result of all this complexity is that we now have a confederation of independent and aspiring-to-be-independent states that all have different relationships to each other. Ever so often the map of this area changes. The last change happened only a short time ago, when Montenegro declared independence from Serbia to become (as it still is), the world’s newest country, as well as a new Eurovision team, unfortunately. Thankfully this breakaway passed largely without incident. Other times, the lines on the map of this precarious region twist and writhe and subsume into the grasp of death many thousands with every contortion. I almost believe that through the crimson fogs of hell there is a demon with a blackboard and a piece of chalk messing around with the boundaries when he has a spare moment. When the world looks a little too rosy perhaps.
So why the Tenth of December? That will be the final of many deadlines to impose some kind of agreement on the outcome of the Kosovo situation. Ever since Serb armies were kicked out and that country convulsed into its own downfall, causing the welcome incarceration of Milosevic (who that same demon spared the just fate of, dying as he did in prison) but also suffering a rocky journey, including the assassination of a following leader, Kosovo has been on shaky ground. Neither gaining statehood nor being subsumed into Serbia, it was effectively put under the administration of Western powers. The idea was presumably to come to a permanent resolution on it when all the tensions had died down a little, and ever since it has teetered like an ornament on the edge of a mantelpiece. The price for letting it drop is high.
The danger now is that Kosovo will simply declare itself independent, to the anger of Serbia, and Kosovo’s Serb-minority population, sparking off a spiralling collapse in the shaky peace that has held since the end of the last century. Some Serbs see a spiritual reason to keep Kosovo Serb. It has been seen as a holy grail, a land which is rightfully theirs in folklore, for religious reasons, their Jerusalem. It would take a firm hand unafraid of bloodshed to slap away those ambitions in one fell swoop, whether justified or not. Then there is Albanian intentions with the region. Kosovo is 90% Albanian, and independence for the country could see it slip into some Greater Albanian region that would then itch to include parts of Greece in its newfound borders. There is the problem of whether Kosovo even presents a viable option as an independent state without Western intervention. Simon Jenkins states today that the country claims more aid than any country in Asia or Africa which may seem suddenly unsustainable if it gains nationhood. Though this conclusion could be challenged when one considers the ample aid received by Israel in much the same vein. Then there is the question of where Croatia, Bosnia, Vojvodina and a whole host of other regions lie, each with more or less vested interests in the former Yugoslav region as a whole (thankfully, another potential complication can be avoided if we treat Slovenia as a homogenous region, making steps to move away from this mess). Then we have the eagerness to save face by Western countries, by allowing Kosovo its independence, and opposite and equally strong pull from a newly nationalistic and resurgent Russia to protect Serbian nationalism.
Jesus, if I wasn’t already sitting down, I would need to sit down. The above is not even a tenth of it. For nine years, proper resolution of this problem has been put off, but now it has finally bubbled to the top of the pond. Macedonia has made a break for it, Montenegro strode into the independent world, and now Kosovans are asking why their turn has not come. I can’t see any commentator coming up with an answer, I sure as hell don't see a way out. It is like trying to please one individual in a crowd to the detriment of the other five. And whatever you do it will be the same. You will please a different person and piss off the other five. Does this unfortunate region really need to bleed again to force a timely and permanent resolution? Or is it really true that this region is damned to ever-shifting borders and scrappy civil and cross-border conflicts?
This region has even lent its name to a word, ‘Balkanisation’ that has been galvanised in the minds of all to simply stand for the wrenching apart and lasting division of an entity. Many have said that the only solution to the area was the kind of binding Greater Yugoslavia, a loose coalition of nationalities as presided over by Tito, no matter how unpalatable the side-effects were. It might be that we are paying the price now for the satisfying of nationalism in the horrific wars of the 1990’s and that this is merely the final chapter in a genocidal conflict that started with the secession of the first state over 15 years ago.
This was a conflict in which previously happy neighbouring families were convinced almost overnight to murder each other over newfound patriotic loyalties. A conflict in which even the word ‘genocide’ found two new concrete definitions. Firstly, codifying that mass-killing of only males could also be considered genocide, as they were unarmed, and stipulating 8,000 as a number acceptable to be labelled as such. This precedent was found on considering Srebrenica. Secondly, it realised that in defining ‘genocide’ was the destruction of people, it submitted that mass rape also constituted genocide, as occurred when rape was used as a deliberate policy by the Serb armies to water down the gene pool of a certain ethnic group. The gravity of this conflict should never be forgotten, and its potential to reignite should never be ignored. There will clearly be plenty of unsettled scores here ready to seep up through the cracks in the ground that were not sealed properly in the previous decade.
What mustn’t happen is for politicians to hide from the inevitable deadline. In the middle of all the worrying and head-shaking over Iraq, Afghanistan, North Korea, Darfur and all the rest, all of course deserving of sensitive resolution, it would be a travesty to let this issue in a corner of our own continent to become obscured. It would be wrong to have it treated as an inconsequential secession of a miniscule state from a country deserving of punishment. It’s easy to sound a bugle for Kosovo’s independence as a final shame on the heads of the Serbs. Many have pointed out that in a conflict of this complexity, the customary search for ‘good guys’ and ‘bad guys’ in the Hollywood tradition is pretty much futile. The balance in those wars swings against the Serbs, certainly, but it is so unclear in its details that to base present decisions on a need for collective punishment is dangerous.
The trying of Serbia’s war criminals, and the search and conviction for those missing ones should be the just punishment to the country for its atrocities To mete out punishment for a past conflict that is intrinsically contained within the settlement of the present situation smacks a little of the reparations demanded from Germany in the wake of the First World War. And talking of that era, lest it be forgotten that that very war started from a single act in the tinderbox of Serbia? It would be melodrama to portray the present situation as likely to have similar implications. Given the horrors that have gone on in the Balkans in the recent past, however, not even the slightest chance on allowing a new outbreak of armed conflict can be allowed.
It remains to be seen how much influence other leaders like our own will have over events. The best that we can hope for for now is that this issue does not fall off our politicians’ radars. It remains to be seen how much influence global leaders will have over events. And amid all the fear-fabricating that is going on to fuel evermore extreme policies relating to the War on Terror, hope that it has been realised that, not too far away, an aching finger is about to be lifted from the pause button of a venomous conflict.
Tuesday, 20 November 2007
Feeling Vacant?
I warn you now that this is an even more subjective post than normal. If you’ve been hearing rants all day, perhaps you’d like to go and do something more therapeutic, like drowning a therapist.
Last night a minister braved the driving rain and proximity to the huddled and diseased masses on public transport to make his way to a television studio and tell the nation in a low and self-assured voice that there are 660,000 job vacancies in this country.
This was in the context of a debate about the level of incapacity benefits being handed out. Still, it was nice to see a politician call himself, on behalf of all other politicians, “silly”, when explaining how it was easy to see why people who had been registered as simply unemployed were now trying to get onto the larger incapacity payout. They should give all these politicians a big hat with “dope” written on it that could be worn in the House of Commons in place of that childish jeering that happens whenever anyone fouls up. Or to anyone who mentions the name of their own constituency more than seven times in a single sitting. While they’re at it, they should have a “corner” that MP’s can go and stand in when they have disgraced themselves. Gordon Brown could himself have been sent there when he accused the opposition of “deliberately misleading the public” on some or other matter and was reprimanded and advised to use “more temperate language”. David Cameron could have been sent there for his famed cycling-ahead-of-ministerial-car debacle and about a billion other misdemeanours.
This is a difficult call though. Generally it is the speaker who decides such matters, and as the Private Eye has made abundantly clear on occasion, our present speaker is a little erratic. I fear it would have to be “Gorbals Mick” himself that would have to stand in the corner many a time. Perhaps they could give him two large embroidered “eyes” on the back of his gown so that politicians could still address him in the proper manner during debates. Perhaps the designers of the new House will take this into account, and maybe even prepare a special temporary “corner” in Lakeside Shopping Centre or wherever the House will move to in the interim.
Personally, I would like to know where these 660,000 job vacancies are. I have no doubt they exist, but is there a list somewhere? I am not greedy, I merely want to fill one of them so that I can once again make my very tiny contribution to the burgeoning British economy. Who knows, a few thousand of them filled and it could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (well someone has to, I mean they have ridiculous stamina and need to be cut down to size or else they will get complacent and never win another athletic championship). We may even gain a few overseas colonies if we can fill enough of those vacancies. Or better still, and much less sick, we could find an estate agent masterfully trained in the art of deception to invent a few. I would happily draw a new map to be put in all those little ones’ textbooks, bless ‘em. We could fabricate an island out of pumice stone and landfilled plastic bags in the middle of the Atlantic and call it Narnia. We could even build an IKEA there to sell the necessary wardrobes. Think of the jobs it would create.
The odd thing about walking around the city centre in pursuit of a job is the things that jump out at you. These are things which were there all the time, but only now seem of sudden and throat-seizing significance. That passing bus with something like “New Call Centre at Whatever Quay. Recruiting Now” (they lied, I checked, they should have torn that advertisement down in favour of the generic “Santa (Glasgow region) number 12 of 30 happily bouncing children on his lap in his Lair at Roguehill Shopping Centre from 1st Dec”. Then there was that sign on the side of the bookshop that was been partly obscured by an umbrella, saying “Vacancies”. Once the woman had finished communicating with Neptunians on her i-Phone and single-button mouse add-on, she moved away to reveal the word “NO” written above.
And then there was the warm and friendly announcement outside another store that read, “We are recruiting now for driven individuals adept at customer relations and the provision of an excellent quality service in return for excellent pay. Ideally will be available to work late shifts, weekends, Christmas Eve, Boxing Day etc.” I went into the shop and was pretty much turned back out again.
In case you have not already donned your cynical hat (and if not, why not?), let me paraphrase this announcement for you:
“We are looking for people with lots and lots of experience in customer service so that they will be able to cope adequately with the hell that is catering to people driven insane by Yuletide-frenzy. Must be able to ward off predatory and armed males and females using nothing more than a cracked CD cover and standard-issue store-cattle-prod. Cool under pressure, you will think nothing of clearing away a dismembered corpse (a victim of Retail Rage) and carrying on with decorum all the while expounding the virtuous name of this large multinational company which has you, as a valued employee, saved on our database as a nine-digit number because we care and because you are not human, you are a robot. A ROBOT I tell you. Must be willing to work 24/7 for minimum wage and not weep when missing Christmas. Gruel provided on Thursdays courtesy of the Board”.
You know it is getting desperate when I still thought (and think) it would be a rewarding experience nonetheless and when I was genuinely let down as I was turned away. The situation, as it occurred, by means (to protect identity) of a string-vested Alabama man with razor-sharp stubble, leaning forward, palms flat on thighs while sitting on a stoop in front of the shop:
MAN (with his infamous drawl): What d’you want, boy?
ME: Err, a job, here’s my CV.
MAN: I don’t want ‘yo damn CV you dumb cracker (strange, as I am of Asian appearance). We lookin’ for excellent quality customer service. An’ you look laak a right fuckwit. Any experience?
ME (cap in hand): Uh, no sir (might as well get in character), but it’d be right kind if you’d grant me a chance though, ah kin communicate.
MAN: Kin you hell! (Waves pipe in my direction) Set the dogs on this son’f’a’bitch.
So unfortunately this particular chapter of employment is not open to me at this time. Onwards, and another inviting sign pops out, this time above an Evening Times seller’s head in bold writing, “Hundreds of Vacancies Every Monday” and forty pence and a free can of Pepsi later I was on my way with it tucked under my arm. I tried to ignore the headline about the 34 year old mother raped in her own flat somewhere in the city. A timely reminder that I am still in a heavenly situation compared to most.
The Travel Centre looked inviting (it had an open door and no customers inside) but the woman was definitely not in the mood for stupid questions. “Ah don’t know about any vacancies, ye’ll hoff tae get oan the SPT site”, she barked, before seeming to reach for what could have been her special hobo-poking stick. The SPT site wanted people with cash-handling skills that could work in East Kilbride, so another no-go. I know you’re not supposed to eat money, the non-chocolate kind anyway. Does that count?
Not helping things is that my strangely-mute temping agency has disappeared back to its home planet after furnishing me with exactly one possibility in the last three weeks. And that was so far out of Glasgow that the working day would have been over before I got to the front door. The entire Victorian-era six-storey building housing the agency had vanished and in its place lay a patch of wasteland at the corner of two city centre streets, with a small flag waving limply in the wind amidst the rising steam. The flag on closer inspection read, “Fuck you. We have your bank details.” Not that I can think what they would do with them. Perhaps they will make a one-off Christmas donation into my current account as part of their Empathy Drive. Perhaps people will be hospitalised with pneuomonia in hell.
So, with the light fading on my once-glorious idea of an alternative dream career, and with both the “Follow Your Dreams”, and the more realistic “Know Your Limits” mantra now progressing yet one more rung down to “Get Anything, You Dick” it is time for another re-evaluation. There is the horror of swallowing the pride and going back to my vocation, but I don’t believe we are docking with that port quite yet. Or there is the Job Centre in Partick. I hope that as I head towards it tomorrow, at a 45 degree angle due to the driving rain, and with my scarf wrapped maniacally around my forehead like a bandana to prevent brain-freezing, that the centre will emit the radiant glow of infinite possibilities. Or failing that, the minimum wage data entry job that my now-disappeared temping agency failed to find. One sobering thought is that there are perhaps thousands of people in this city who have been continuously unemployed since the demise of Clydeside’s heavy industry. We’re talking forty years here.
A dream is a thing with no ceiling, no floor and no walls. And though it has no boundaries and no parameters, this flimsy concept is yet used by many including me to define some kind of possible progression in life. But if you want to remain rooted in terra firma, maybe it isn’t so wise to leave your head up there with the harps and the wispy bits. One thing at a time, though. Sincere apologies for standing you in front of the vent.
Last night a minister braved the driving rain and proximity to the huddled and diseased masses on public transport to make his way to a television studio and tell the nation in a low and self-assured voice that there are 660,000 job vacancies in this country.
This was in the context of a debate about the level of incapacity benefits being handed out. Still, it was nice to see a politician call himself, on behalf of all other politicians, “silly”, when explaining how it was easy to see why people who had been registered as simply unemployed were now trying to get onto the larger incapacity payout. They should give all these politicians a big hat with “dope” written on it that could be worn in the House of Commons in place of that childish jeering that happens whenever anyone fouls up. Or to anyone who mentions the name of their own constituency more than seven times in a single sitting. While they’re at it, they should have a “corner” that MP’s can go and stand in when they have disgraced themselves. Gordon Brown could himself have been sent there when he accused the opposition of “deliberately misleading the public” on some or other matter and was reprimanded and advised to use “more temperate language”. David Cameron could have been sent there for his famed cycling-ahead-of-ministerial-car debacle and about a billion other misdemeanours.
This is a difficult call though. Generally it is the speaker who decides such matters, and as the Private Eye has made abundantly clear on occasion, our present speaker is a little erratic. I fear it would have to be “Gorbals Mick” himself that would have to stand in the corner many a time. Perhaps they could give him two large embroidered “eyes” on the back of his gown so that politicians could still address him in the proper manner during debates. Perhaps the designers of the new House will take this into account, and maybe even prepare a special temporary “corner” in Lakeside Shopping Centre or wherever the House will move to in the interim.
Personally, I would like to know where these 660,000 job vacancies are. I have no doubt they exist, but is there a list somewhere? I am not greedy, I merely want to fill one of them so that I can once again make my very tiny contribution to the burgeoning British economy. Who knows, a few thousand of them filled and it could be the straw that breaks the camel’s back (well someone has to, I mean they have ridiculous stamina and need to be cut down to size or else they will get complacent and never win another athletic championship). We may even gain a few overseas colonies if we can fill enough of those vacancies. Or better still, and much less sick, we could find an estate agent masterfully trained in the art of deception to invent a few. I would happily draw a new map to be put in all those little ones’ textbooks, bless ‘em. We could fabricate an island out of pumice stone and landfilled plastic bags in the middle of the Atlantic and call it Narnia. We could even build an IKEA there to sell the necessary wardrobes. Think of the jobs it would create.
The odd thing about walking around the city centre in pursuit of a job is the things that jump out at you. These are things which were there all the time, but only now seem of sudden and throat-seizing significance. That passing bus with something like “New Call Centre at Whatever Quay. Recruiting Now” (they lied, I checked, they should have torn that advertisement down in favour of the generic “Santa (Glasgow region) number 12 of 30 happily bouncing children on his lap in his Lair at Roguehill Shopping Centre from 1st Dec”. Then there was that sign on the side of the bookshop that was been partly obscured by an umbrella, saying “Vacancies”. Once the woman had finished communicating with Neptunians on her i-Phone and single-button mouse add-on, she moved away to reveal the word “NO” written above.
And then there was the warm and friendly announcement outside another store that read, “We are recruiting now for driven individuals adept at customer relations and the provision of an excellent quality service in return for excellent pay. Ideally will be available to work late shifts, weekends, Christmas Eve, Boxing Day etc.” I went into the shop and was pretty much turned back out again.
In case you have not already donned your cynical hat (and if not, why not?), let me paraphrase this announcement for you:
“We are looking for people with lots and lots of experience in customer service so that they will be able to cope adequately with the hell that is catering to people driven insane by Yuletide-frenzy. Must be able to ward off predatory and armed males and females using nothing more than a cracked CD cover and standard-issue store-cattle-prod. Cool under pressure, you will think nothing of clearing away a dismembered corpse (a victim of Retail Rage) and carrying on with decorum all the while expounding the virtuous name of this large multinational company which has you, as a valued employee, saved on our database as a nine-digit number because we care and because you are not human, you are a robot. A ROBOT I tell you. Must be willing to work 24/7 for minimum wage and not weep when missing Christmas. Gruel provided on Thursdays courtesy of the Board”.
You know it is getting desperate when I still thought (and think) it would be a rewarding experience nonetheless and when I was genuinely let down as I was turned away. The situation, as it occurred, by means (to protect identity) of a string-vested Alabama man with razor-sharp stubble, leaning forward, palms flat on thighs while sitting on a stoop in front of the shop:
MAN (with his infamous drawl): What d’you want, boy?
ME: Err, a job, here’s my CV.
MAN: I don’t want ‘yo damn CV you dumb cracker (strange, as I am of Asian appearance). We lookin’ for excellent quality customer service. An’ you look laak a right fuckwit. Any experience?
ME (cap in hand): Uh, no sir (might as well get in character), but it’d be right kind if you’d grant me a chance though, ah kin communicate.
MAN: Kin you hell! (Waves pipe in my direction) Set the dogs on this son’f’a’bitch.
So unfortunately this particular chapter of employment is not open to me at this time. Onwards, and another inviting sign pops out, this time above an Evening Times seller’s head in bold writing, “Hundreds of Vacancies Every Monday” and forty pence and a free can of Pepsi later I was on my way with it tucked under my arm. I tried to ignore the headline about the 34 year old mother raped in her own flat somewhere in the city. A timely reminder that I am still in a heavenly situation compared to most.
The Travel Centre looked inviting (it had an open door and no customers inside) but the woman was definitely not in the mood for stupid questions. “Ah don’t know about any vacancies, ye’ll hoff tae get oan the SPT site”, she barked, before seeming to reach for what could have been her special hobo-poking stick. The SPT site wanted people with cash-handling skills that could work in East Kilbride, so another no-go. I know you’re not supposed to eat money, the non-chocolate kind anyway. Does that count?
Not helping things is that my strangely-mute temping agency has disappeared back to its home planet after furnishing me with exactly one possibility in the last three weeks. And that was so far out of Glasgow that the working day would have been over before I got to the front door. The entire Victorian-era six-storey building housing the agency had vanished and in its place lay a patch of wasteland at the corner of two city centre streets, with a small flag waving limply in the wind amidst the rising steam. The flag on closer inspection read, “Fuck you. We have your bank details.” Not that I can think what they would do with them. Perhaps they will make a one-off Christmas donation into my current account as part of their Empathy Drive. Perhaps people will be hospitalised with pneuomonia in hell.
So, with the light fading on my once-glorious idea of an alternative dream career, and with both the “Follow Your Dreams”, and the more realistic “Know Your Limits” mantra now progressing yet one more rung down to “Get Anything, You Dick” it is time for another re-evaluation. There is the horror of swallowing the pride and going back to my vocation, but I don’t believe we are docking with that port quite yet. Or there is the Job Centre in Partick. I hope that as I head towards it tomorrow, at a 45 degree angle due to the driving rain, and with my scarf wrapped maniacally around my forehead like a bandana to prevent brain-freezing, that the centre will emit the radiant glow of infinite possibilities. Or failing that, the minimum wage data entry job that my now-disappeared temping agency failed to find. One sobering thought is that there are perhaps thousands of people in this city who have been continuously unemployed since the demise of Clydeside’s heavy industry. We’re talking forty years here.
A dream is a thing with no ceiling, no floor and no walls. And though it has no boundaries and no parameters, this flimsy concept is yet used by many including me to define some kind of possible progression in life. But if you want to remain rooted in terra firma, maybe it isn’t so wise to leave your head up there with the harps and the wispy bits. One thing at a time, though. Sincere apologies for standing you in front of the vent.
Sunday, 18 November 2007
How To Be Gutted Like A Fish (And Still Not Die)
I think we know how. It is about blind belief in the near-impossible. Bill Bryson’s excellent adventure, erm, book, “Down Under”, mentions how he was so bored in the bar of a Canberra hotel that he resorted to doodling a cartoon in which two salmon are taking a rest after jumping a succession of waterfalls as part of their mating ritual. There are still more waterfalls ahead. One of the salmon is quoted as saying, “Shall we just stop here and have a wank?” This defeatism was not greatly evident last night, when we were all collectively harpooned and dragged ashore by fate, gutted and our entrails turned into soap. I always knew it was going to end that way.
Last night, fate straddled the docks of sporting prowess. We all, five million of us, in a standard issue lifeboat a la Titanic, stood beneath the straddling legs of this bastard Colossus, intent on our deaths, while his unmentionable bits dangled in front of us obscuring a weary sun. For a while we were tossed about with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and then, in the seventy-second second, fate, temporarily wearing an Italian flag bandana, dealt us a sound blow and we all capsized into what turned out to be the foamy heads of a million pints. Although no one in any pub was in control, everyone would summon some unknown ingredient in the blood and vent it to try and alter the course of things, but really the kind of future shown on television is as able to be influenced as the past. Things happened after the initial capsize, of course, but the sinking seems characteristic.
I am not about to discuss this match. For one thing, though I enjoy watching football, I know practically nothing about it. I am one of those hated individuals who can’t help being whipped up into a patriotic frenzy by an upcoming game of national importance. My commenting seriously on the technical side of football would like having a hijacker on a plane threatening everyone with the sharp bit of a fluffy toy that doesn’t quite conform to EU-standards plead to be taken seriously. So when the kind people at the BBC informed us that this was Scotland’s match of the decade, my tongue lolled out like a happy dog spying a marrow-stuffed bone in the corner of the lounge that had inexplicably been left unattended. And they say humans are more intelligent. Shortly after, I made the pathetic mistake of assuming the thing was on terrestrial television and then missing almost the whole damn thing. I submit here that watching the minute-by-minute text commentary on a computer is not quite the same thing. It is about as adrenalin-pumping as watching a live feed of the Sterling versus Yen exchange rate. When I finally found a more atmospheric medium the thing was damn near over.
Still, that was probably for the best. The owner of the pub which my friends were at were hopefully still mulling over my CV (but far more likely using it as toilet paper or setting fire to it or whatever), and I fear the image of my drunken sickness, putridly stained T-shirt front, and the scrum of people struggling to drag ten stone of awkwardly-writhing flab out the door to be tossed into the street like an upturned pizza was probably at odds with the ‘excellent verbal communication skills’ and ‘heightened sense of responsibility.’ I don’t really use phrases like that, don’t worry.
Now, due to my ongoing addiction to driving, a bit later that evening I ended up chauffeuring my sister around Glasgow while she tried to contact half a dozen different people, in different parts of the city, who had been involved in various different incidents, with varying amounts of battery and credit left on their phones, and, most importantly, in varying states of drunkenness. The biscuit goes to the lad who had been the only one from eleven of his crowd to escape without being covered in blood after a gallant brawl in the centre of the town. He was now sadly alone, the rest having been carted off to police cells, but his banter was entertaining enough and he wasn’t sick once. Others still had gone on the rampage hitting everything they could, every thump punctuating their sense of woe with a welcome joyful beat. The second biscuit goes to the lad hailing everything that passed in the street, including a police car, before deciding to step in front of a bus which mercifully missed him. A little while later, he was viewed trying to give directions to a group of girls by whirling around theatrically before staggering and slumping against a scaffold pole. He never dropped his chips once, the drunken gyroscope cares not of a man’s stability, but will forever ensure that his chips remain intact and his beer unspilt. This was all before we got to Sauchiehall Street, but there were things happening there that must forever remain unwritten.
In the bar, the aftermath of a national letdown could be seen. No one seemed to really care in the actively weeping sense, and the mood of celebration and insanity was contagious. All around were people bedecked in kilts (I noted for the Nth time that I wish I had the courage to wear one). And this is the point. All the while there was plenty to be upset about, but people just let their anguish out and then get on with things. There might have been a brawl, but that is fairly par for the course wherever you go, and on whatever night. There might have been drunken vomit rolling along the gutters lapping romantically at the kerbstones like azure waves on a white-sanded beach, but again this is a casual nightly observance. In any case, I think it eases the parking restrictions. Where double-yellow lines are covered by snow, it is legal to park (apparently), and I assume the same is true when covered with vomit. Take note Soho mini-cabs.
What there conspicuously wasn’t was any sense of hatred against anyone, no chants against Italy, no jovial lynchings, not that I could see anyway. There is one simple beauty of being Scottish. We lose fucking everything (except curling), and like a man who has nothing to lose, there is therefore no reason to take anything too seriously. And what little I do know is that Scotland’s campaign to get through the qualifiers has been truly awe-inspiring, and that is good enough. And when finally something does go Scotland’s way, it is all the sweeter. There isn’t that air of gentle pleasure tainted with inevitability that is the most positive emotion that a country that expects to win everything (naming no names) can hope to gain from victory. After all is the whole thing not about having a good time? But this is what really confuses me. Is this the same nation that revels in the spectacle of the Old Firm?
Talking of Italians and the Old Firm, and of the stupidly low troughs into which that battle can sink, I even heard of a story where an ice cream van was overturned after one such match. It turned out that the person running the van had an Italian-sounding name emblazoned on the side. The van was overturned for no other tenuous reason than Italian = Roman Catholic = The Wrong Side. It would take Columbo to reconcile the paradox of one and the same man being a Scotland fan, and all that entails, and then the next week singing about 17th century battles in Holland or now-defunct paramilitary organisations across the sea. Still, I’m just observing, I’ll leave preaching to the knowledgeable and those with a death-wish.
Today there was a city awaking from a hangover. Fate had been at work on his nicer side. The rain was gentle to compensate, just enough to moisten the face refreshingly, without being heavy enough to hunch you up and make you spit at the ground in protest at the sky. Even the temperature was just bracing enough to arouse you out of bed, lead you to that fry-up, potato bread and all, and start looking forward to World Cup 2010, the Commonwealth Games or just a lazy Sunday under the duvet. Sometimes fate feels remorse and has to flourish a quick smile just so you don’t go back another horse instead.
So how can you be gutted (repeatedly) and still survive? Ask the Tartan Army.
Last night, fate straddled the docks of sporting prowess. We all, five million of us, in a standard issue lifeboat a la Titanic, stood beneath the straddling legs of this bastard Colossus, intent on our deaths, while his unmentionable bits dangled in front of us obscuring a weary sun. For a while we were tossed about with ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ and then, in the seventy-second second, fate, temporarily wearing an Italian flag bandana, dealt us a sound blow and we all capsized into what turned out to be the foamy heads of a million pints. Although no one in any pub was in control, everyone would summon some unknown ingredient in the blood and vent it to try and alter the course of things, but really the kind of future shown on television is as able to be influenced as the past. Things happened after the initial capsize, of course, but the sinking seems characteristic.
I am not about to discuss this match. For one thing, though I enjoy watching football, I know practically nothing about it. I am one of those hated individuals who can’t help being whipped up into a patriotic frenzy by an upcoming game of national importance. My commenting seriously on the technical side of football would like having a hijacker on a plane threatening everyone with the sharp bit of a fluffy toy that doesn’t quite conform to EU-standards plead to be taken seriously. So when the kind people at the BBC informed us that this was Scotland’s match of the decade, my tongue lolled out like a happy dog spying a marrow-stuffed bone in the corner of the lounge that had inexplicably been left unattended. And they say humans are more intelligent. Shortly after, I made the pathetic mistake of assuming the thing was on terrestrial television and then missing almost the whole damn thing. I submit here that watching the minute-by-minute text commentary on a computer is not quite the same thing. It is about as adrenalin-pumping as watching a live feed of the Sterling versus Yen exchange rate. When I finally found a more atmospheric medium the thing was damn near over.
Still, that was probably for the best. The owner of the pub which my friends were at were hopefully still mulling over my CV (but far more likely using it as toilet paper or setting fire to it or whatever), and I fear the image of my drunken sickness, putridly stained T-shirt front, and the scrum of people struggling to drag ten stone of awkwardly-writhing flab out the door to be tossed into the street like an upturned pizza was probably at odds with the ‘excellent verbal communication skills’ and ‘heightened sense of responsibility.’ I don’t really use phrases like that, don’t worry.
Now, due to my ongoing addiction to driving, a bit later that evening I ended up chauffeuring my sister around Glasgow while she tried to contact half a dozen different people, in different parts of the city, who had been involved in various different incidents, with varying amounts of battery and credit left on their phones, and, most importantly, in varying states of drunkenness. The biscuit goes to the lad who had been the only one from eleven of his crowd to escape without being covered in blood after a gallant brawl in the centre of the town. He was now sadly alone, the rest having been carted off to police cells, but his banter was entertaining enough and he wasn’t sick once. Others still had gone on the rampage hitting everything they could, every thump punctuating their sense of woe with a welcome joyful beat. The second biscuit goes to the lad hailing everything that passed in the street, including a police car, before deciding to step in front of a bus which mercifully missed him. A little while later, he was viewed trying to give directions to a group of girls by whirling around theatrically before staggering and slumping against a scaffold pole. He never dropped his chips once, the drunken gyroscope cares not of a man’s stability, but will forever ensure that his chips remain intact and his beer unspilt. This was all before we got to Sauchiehall Street, but there were things happening there that must forever remain unwritten.
In the bar, the aftermath of a national letdown could be seen. No one seemed to really care in the actively weeping sense, and the mood of celebration and insanity was contagious. All around were people bedecked in kilts (I noted for the Nth time that I wish I had the courage to wear one). And this is the point. All the while there was plenty to be upset about, but people just let their anguish out and then get on with things. There might have been a brawl, but that is fairly par for the course wherever you go, and on whatever night. There might have been drunken vomit rolling along the gutters lapping romantically at the kerbstones like azure waves on a white-sanded beach, but again this is a casual nightly observance. In any case, I think it eases the parking restrictions. Where double-yellow lines are covered by snow, it is legal to park (apparently), and I assume the same is true when covered with vomit. Take note Soho mini-cabs.
What there conspicuously wasn’t was any sense of hatred against anyone, no chants against Italy, no jovial lynchings, not that I could see anyway. There is one simple beauty of being Scottish. We lose fucking everything (except curling), and like a man who has nothing to lose, there is therefore no reason to take anything too seriously. And what little I do know is that Scotland’s campaign to get through the qualifiers has been truly awe-inspiring, and that is good enough. And when finally something does go Scotland’s way, it is all the sweeter. There isn’t that air of gentle pleasure tainted with inevitability that is the most positive emotion that a country that expects to win everything (naming no names) can hope to gain from victory. After all is the whole thing not about having a good time? But this is what really confuses me. Is this the same nation that revels in the spectacle of the Old Firm?
Talking of Italians and the Old Firm, and of the stupidly low troughs into which that battle can sink, I even heard of a story where an ice cream van was overturned after one such match. It turned out that the person running the van had an Italian-sounding name emblazoned on the side. The van was overturned for no other tenuous reason than Italian = Roman Catholic = The Wrong Side. It would take Columbo to reconcile the paradox of one and the same man being a Scotland fan, and all that entails, and then the next week singing about 17th century battles in Holland or now-defunct paramilitary organisations across the sea. Still, I’m just observing, I’ll leave preaching to the knowledgeable and those with a death-wish.
Today there was a city awaking from a hangover. Fate had been at work on his nicer side. The rain was gentle to compensate, just enough to moisten the face refreshingly, without being heavy enough to hunch you up and make you spit at the ground in protest at the sky. Even the temperature was just bracing enough to arouse you out of bed, lead you to that fry-up, potato bread and all, and start looking forward to World Cup 2010, the Commonwealth Games or just a lazy Sunday under the duvet. Sometimes fate feels remorse and has to flourish a quick smile just so you don’t go back another horse instead.
So how can you be gutted (repeatedly) and still survive? Ask the Tartan Army.
Friday, 16 November 2007
That Scottish Monster
I write to you from beyond the grave. By that I mean there is a graveyard between my flat and the main street through which you would have to walk to get here. But don’t believe everything you read.
I can think of three ways to get killed in Glasgow. In reality there are many many more, but I will only mention these three for now. The first one is to mention anything about a certain 6th century religion. Actually that will get you killed anywhere. The second is to mention anything to do with the Old Firm, an alias for our local friendly football team rivalry between Rangers and Celtic with a heady dose of mock religion thrown in just to spice things up and ratchet up our already woeful murder rate. The third way would be to examine that Scottish monster too closely.
No, I don’t mean Nessie. I mean Independence. This is just a snippet of the situation, and it will have to be examined in more detail and with more evidence than will be presented this time round. During recent days, when my escapades consist of checking with a temping agency for upcoming jobs in data entry that do not involve a three day trek by camel to a retail park just off the A7714, attempting to clarify with my online recruitment company that it is not a job in engineering I am after, handing my CV’s into pubs where landlords disgustedly stare through you as though you were a stained glass window depicting an old hag fornicating with four serpents, pacing round hospital wards looking for the recruitment helpdesks and concocting ever more flowery-languaged cover letters in an attempt to shoehorn myself back into employed society, (breathe), I have had some time to think about the predicament the five million of us Scots find ourselves in.
The Act of Union in 1707 melded together Scotland with England and Wales to form one happy country. The wrangling with Irish Republic, Northern Ireland, Michael Collins, the IRA and the like are too complex to go into here, but round about 1921, Ireland was partitioned, the north joining the union to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland we that know today.
Perhaps it would be worth a cursory glance at one of the many reasons that Scotland forced itself into such a situation. Really it was a lesson in the danger of unbridled adventurism. Scotland, convinced of its own status as a world power, and mindful of the vast conquests that its southern neighbour and European counterparts had made, set of on its own wild trip across the Atlantic Ocean to stake a claim in Panama. Presumably there then would be a plantation of people and crops, and this central American outpost would turn into a bastion of economic glory and the start of a Scottish empire that would be the envy of the world.
It really fucked up. A more factual account can be found in this article from the Guardian, but I imagine the landing in 1698 was a little like this:
Captain: Land ahoy!
First Mate: Why am I called this?
Chief Oarsman: Me arm’s givin’ me jip. Can we no gie it a rest for a bit?
Captain: Naw, keep going, ah can see a McDonald’s drive-thru fae here.
Rigger (played by Alan Hanson): Grand, I’ve got a discount voucher wi’ me. Aye, and those blokes have got shite defence, we’ll get through there nae problem.
A short while later, the crew maroon their boat on the shore, the other four boats marooning nearby. The Captain steps ashore, followed by his well-bearded crew. In order to avoid detection from murderous natives, they cover the sound of their footsteps by playing the bagpipes as loudly as possible.
Captain (shouting to pipers): Gie’ it laldy oan Mambo Number Five!
First Mate: Seriously, why am I called this? Ah havnae done anythin’ all voyage ‘cept play cairds and eat that bloke Cumberland as he lay coiled in his hammock ‘cos ah were deid hungry.
Rigger (looking at the exposed knob of a local): Ma word, look at that tackle. Great defence!
Chief Oarsman (to Rigger): Look! You’ve got a big boil on your face.
Captain (to all): Aw shite, we all have! It must be the Plague that that Guardian article warned us aboot!
All decease while clutching throats, spitting black blood, and theatrically quoting the poems of Rabbie Burns, yet to be born. Exit stage left.
The whole escapade swallowed into its gaping mouth fully one-third of Scotland’s wealth and left a country that was gutted and licking the wounds caused by its fatal mistake. And this was the bitterest pill to swallow, that not only was it a mistake, one that could be learned on in order to improve future empire-building, but that it was so crippling to the country that only union with its arch-rival could save it from total ruin. Now, I realise there are many versions of this history that may be at odds with what I have just said. Some maintain that it was primarily rich landowners who sold the country to the English. Some maintain that it was a result of bullying from the southern neighbour, or some form of deception or trickery.
History aside, the fact remains that the union occurred and is in much the same form now as it was at its outset. Devolution has allowed the ingress of a few policies that have really aroused the anger of our neighbours, and our law systems may remain completely separate, but in general the union is binding. Incidentally, does anyone else think that devolution sounds like the opposite of evolution? And that it therefore condemns us to reversion back to ape-like primates, our knuckles dragging along the ground? Albeit apes with tax-varying powers mind.
The important thing is that Scotland has now been tightly wedded to the United Kingdom for three hunderd years, and its economy has been so melded with that of the south, that severance could cause some complex and possibly counter-intuitive effects. For example, would the ownership of the North Sea oil fields really rake enough money into the local economy to counteract the losing of the monetary benefits afforded by the union? At last survey, the greatest ingress of money to Scotland was from tourism, and would this be affected by stricter border controls? How sustainable would the dominance of Scottish politicians in the Westminster parliament be, already suspicious to many, when the country of their birth was independent and outside of that system? The Liberal Democrats made much noise in the Scottish parliament building yesterday, presumably turning their spiralling eyes away from the mind-boggling architecture long enough to make a salient point, that the disparity between the funding for educational institutions between Scotland and the rest of the UK was already causing a shortfall in funds.
In truth, most people in Scotland are against independence, as poll upon poll shows. I am proud of being Scottish, but despite this ugly adoption we call patriotism, some facts need to be noted. The inescapable fact remains that the south east of England, and London in particular, props up many of the economies of less affluent parts of the UK. This does not only include Scotland. The fact, or perception, depending on viewpoint, that there is a London bias in the media (in my humble opinion it is fact), or that undue attention is only given by politicians to financial worries when they afflict the south (such as the much quoted thought that economic policy is dictated by central government based on house prices in the south-east) does not detract from the facts portayed by numbers about the flow of money originating from that area.
Redistribution is a necessary and vital part of maintaining the economy of any country, as well as being a morally correct and noble principle of the left. It is only right that this kind of balance remains, and that is a strong argument, from Scotland’s point of view, for remaining within the union. It could be argued that England would be better off economically without us. But I don’t know a great deal about the details, and it may be that I am wrong on all counts, I am merely trying to use some broad facts to come to a common sense conclusion, if people have evidence to the contrary then bring it forward.
The reasons for these rumblings on independence stem from the gaining of Scottish governmental power by the Scottish National Party (SNP). This is a historic first. The SNP are a party who put Scottish independence at the heart of their agenda, and more on this in coming posts. What needs to be carefully considered, however, is whether their gaining of power was truly symptomatic of a general yearning for independence. It is more than possible that the vote was less a vote for the SNP, than a protest vote away from Labour. We are fortunate (if that is the word that can be used) to have an alternative to Labour that has not been tainted by associations with Thatcherism and a terrifying harking back to the grim past in the way the Tories have. They have also harnessed the magical grail of the promise of vast change and wealth, so that the debate here appears almost ideological, as compared with the penny-on / penny-off income tax politics of Westminister, a place where policies appear photocopied from each other by the two mighty adversaries taunting each other over the dispatch box of a Wednesday afternoon.
But amid this romanticism, an inhalation of breath won’t hurt. If a protest vote against monotony, perceived or real broken promises, and the horrors of the Iraq war turns into a headlong hurtling down a never-to-be-taken-back plea for independence, then a serious break in what should be a logical chain of thought will have been made. And it is worth bearing in mind that the more localised (as opposed to general) elections such as the kind that brought the SNP into power, often exaggerate swings in the sentiment of voters, and that voters tend to revert back to more ingrained loyalties when they realise more is at stake, such as during a UK General Election. Still, I know how easy it is to be swept along in a tide of political fervour, to feel excited as if standing on the cliff edge, gazing onwards to a supposedly bright and flourishing future.
About five years ago, I almost fell into the trap of Utopia-finding myself. I often had the spit of workers and members from a now defunct political party land on my face as they ejaculated their carefully orchestrated speechs of outrage in the months leading up to the Iraq war. I sat there as meek meetings about leaflet-distributing and banner painting were hijacked by the dick-swinging swagger of self-assured wannabe politicians, badges pinned to jacket and fists clanging on MDF-coated tables as they attempted to invoke the heroic rhetoric of Lenin in a small, freezing and slightly damp room somewhere in Glasgow. We aimed to help make a government see the light with regards to the Iraq war but we were being manipulated and whipped up into armchair revolutionaries. Anything to belong. Anything to have something to fight for, however slippery.
I have no idea where the coming years will take Scotland. Will we step over the line into independence and the tumultuous chain of events that that could lead to? Or will we stand back from the brink, whether for good or for bad? Perhaps one day we will be walking down Sir Billy Connolly Avenue in the redeveloped docks of Glasgow (where the Big Yin himself once worked), with the newfound sunshine of independence bronzing our faces, gazing up at the Dubai-style skyscrapers while the new-born citizens of Scotland in their Mercedes hovercars zip up and down. And perhaps Barrs, makers of Irn Bru will grow to be a world capitalistic power to rival Microsoft and McDonalds, exporting the good name of an independent Scotland all over the world. Or then again will we all die being jousted by loin-clothed invaders while the bilious bubonic boils on our faces and torsos burst in a plague-fuelled orgy as if thousands of tiny mites had struck oil beneath the pores of our skin? I guess that would give us a fourth way to die in Glasgow.
But I suspect the truth will lie somewhere between those two wild predictions. So long as we don’t set sail for central America we should get through it fine. I am pleased to report that there are some tough cookies around here.
I can think of three ways to get killed in Glasgow. In reality there are many many more, but I will only mention these three for now. The first one is to mention anything about a certain 6th century religion. Actually that will get you killed anywhere. The second is to mention anything to do with the Old Firm, an alias for our local friendly football team rivalry between Rangers and Celtic with a heady dose of mock religion thrown in just to spice things up and ratchet up our already woeful murder rate. The third way would be to examine that Scottish monster too closely.
No, I don’t mean Nessie. I mean Independence. This is just a snippet of the situation, and it will have to be examined in more detail and with more evidence than will be presented this time round. During recent days, when my escapades consist of checking with a temping agency for upcoming jobs in data entry that do not involve a three day trek by camel to a retail park just off the A7714, attempting to clarify with my online recruitment company that it is not a job in engineering I am after, handing my CV’s into pubs where landlords disgustedly stare through you as though you were a stained glass window depicting an old hag fornicating with four serpents, pacing round hospital wards looking for the recruitment helpdesks and concocting ever more flowery-languaged cover letters in an attempt to shoehorn myself back into employed society, (breathe), I have had some time to think about the predicament the five million of us Scots find ourselves in.
The Act of Union in 1707 melded together Scotland with England and Wales to form one happy country. The wrangling with Irish Republic, Northern Ireland, Michael Collins, the IRA and the like are too complex to go into here, but round about 1921, Ireland was partitioned, the north joining the union to form the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland we that know today.
Perhaps it would be worth a cursory glance at one of the many reasons that Scotland forced itself into such a situation. Really it was a lesson in the danger of unbridled adventurism. Scotland, convinced of its own status as a world power, and mindful of the vast conquests that its southern neighbour and European counterparts had made, set of on its own wild trip across the Atlantic Ocean to stake a claim in Panama. Presumably there then would be a plantation of people and crops, and this central American outpost would turn into a bastion of economic glory and the start of a Scottish empire that would be the envy of the world.
It really fucked up. A more factual account can be found in this article from the Guardian, but I imagine the landing in 1698 was a little like this:
Captain: Land ahoy!
First Mate: Why am I called this?
Chief Oarsman: Me arm’s givin’ me jip. Can we no gie it a rest for a bit?
Captain: Naw, keep going, ah can see a McDonald’s drive-thru fae here.
Rigger (played by Alan Hanson): Grand, I’ve got a discount voucher wi’ me. Aye, and those blokes have got shite defence, we’ll get through there nae problem.
A short while later, the crew maroon their boat on the shore, the other four boats marooning nearby. The Captain steps ashore, followed by his well-bearded crew. In order to avoid detection from murderous natives, they cover the sound of their footsteps by playing the bagpipes as loudly as possible.
Captain (shouting to pipers): Gie’ it laldy oan Mambo Number Five!
First Mate: Seriously, why am I called this? Ah havnae done anythin’ all voyage ‘cept play cairds and eat that bloke Cumberland as he lay coiled in his hammock ‘cos ah were deid hungry.
Rigger (looking at the exposed knob of a local): Ma word, look at that tackle. Great defence!
Chief Oarsman (to Rigger): Look! You’ve got a big boil on your face.
Captain (to all): Aw shite, we all have! It must be the Plague that that Guardian article warned us aboot!
All decease while clutching throats, spitting black blood, and theatrically quoting the poems of Rabbie Burns, yet to be born. Exit stage left.
The whole escapade swallowed into its gaping mouth fully one-third of Scotland’s wealth and left a country that was gutted and licking the wounds caused by its fatal mistake. And this was the bitterest pill to swallow, that not only was it a mistake, one that could be learned on in order to improve future empire-building, but that it was so crippling to the country that only union with its arch-rival could save it from total ruin. Now, I realise there are many versions of this history that may be at odds with what I have just said. Some maintain that it was primarily rich landowners who sold the country to the English. Some maintain that it was a result of bullying from the southern neighbour, or some form of deception or trickery.
History aside, the fact remains that the union occurred and is in much the same form now as it was at its outset. Devolution has allowed the ingress of a few policies that have really aroused the anger of our neighbours, and our law systems may remain completely separate, but in general the union is binding. Incidentally, does anyone else think that devolution sounds like the opposite of evolution? And that it therefore condemns us to reversion back to ape-like primates, our knuckles dragging along the ground? Albeit apes with tax-varying powers mind.
The important thing is that Scotland has now been tightly wedded to the United Kingdom for three hunderd years, and its economy has been so melded with that of the south, that severance could cause some complex and possibly counter-intuitive effects. For example, would the ownership of the North Sea oil fields really rake enough money into the local economy to counteract the losing of the monetary benefits afforded by the union? At last survey, the greatest ingress of money to Scotland was from tourism, and would this be affected by stricter border controls? How sustainable would the dominance of Scottish politicians in the Westminster parliament be, already suspicious to many, when the country of their birth was independent and outside of that system? The Liberal Democrats made much noise in the Scottish parliament building yesterday, presumably turning their spiralling eyes away from the mind-boggling architecture long enough to make a salient point, that the disparity between the funding for educational institutions between Scotland and the rest of the UK was already causing a shortfall in funds.
In truth, most people in Scotland are against independence, as poll upon poll shows. I am proud of being Scottish, but despite this ugly adoption we call patriotism, some facts need to be noted. The inescapable fact remains that the south east of England, and London in particular, props up many of the economies of less affluent parts of the UK. This does not only include Scotland. The fact, or perception, depending on viewpoint, that there is a London bias in the media (in my humble opinion it is fact), or that undue attention is only given by politicians to financial worries when they afflict the south (such as the much quoted thought that economic policy is dictated by central government based on house prices in the south-east) does not detract from the facts portayed by numbers about the flow of money originating from that area.
Redistribution is a necessary and vital part of maintaining the economy of any country, as well as being a morally correct and noble principle of the left. It is only right that this kind of balance remains, and that is a strong argument, from Scotland’s point of view, for remaining within the union. It could be argued that England would be better off economically without us. But I don’t know a great deal about the details, and it may be that I am wrong on all counts, I am merely trying to use some broad facts to come to a common sense conclusion, if people have evidence to the contrary then bring it forward.
The reasons for these rumblings on independence stem from the gaining of Scottish governmental power by the Scottish National Party (SNP). This is a historic first. The SNP are a party who put Scottish independence at the heart of their agenda, and more on this in coming posts. What needs to be carefully considered, however, is whether their gaining of power was truly symptomatic of a general yearning for independence. It is more than possible that the vote was less a vote for the SNP, than a protest vote away from Labour. We are fortunate (if that is the word that can be used) to have an alternative to Labour that has not been tainted by associations with Thatcherism and a terrifying harking back to the grim past in the way the Tories have. They have also harnessed the magical grail of the promise of vast change and wealth, so that the debate here appears almost ideological, as compared with the penny-on / penny-off income tax politics of Westminister, a place where policies appear photocopied from each other by the two mighty adversaries taunting each other over the dispatch box of a Wednesday afternoon.
But amid this romanticism, an inhalation of breath won’t hurt. If a protest vote against monotony, perceived or real broken promises, and the horrors of the Iraq war turns into a headlong hurtling down a never-to-be-taken-back plea for independence, then a serious break in what should be a logical chain of thought will have been made. And it is worth bearing in mind that the more localised (as opposed to general) elections such as the kind that brought the SNP into power, often exaggerate swings in the sentiment of voters, and that voters tend to revert back to more ingrained loyalties when they realise more is at stake, such as during a UK General Election. Still, I know how easy it is to be swept along in a tide of political fervour, to feel excited as if standing on the cliff edge, gazing onwards to a supposedly bright and flourishing future.
About five years ago, I almost fell into the trap of Utopia-finding myself. I often had the spit of workers and members from a now defunct political party land on my face as they ejaculated their carefully orchestrated speechs of outrage in the months leading up to the Iraq war. I sat there as meek meetings about leaflet-distributing and banner painting were hijacked by the dick-swinging swagger of self-assured wannabe politicians, badges pinned to jacket and fists clanging on MDF-coated tables as they attempted to invoke the heroic rhetoric of Lenin in a small, freezing and slightly damp room somewhere in Glasgow. We aimed to help make a government see the light with regards to the Iraq war but we were being manipulated and whipped up into armchair revolutionaries. Anything to belong. Anything to have something to fight for, however slippery.
I have no idea where the coming years will take Scotland. Will we step over the line into independence and the tumultuous chain of events that that could lead to? Or will we stand back from the brink, whether for good or for bad? Perhaps one day we will be walking down Sir Billy Connolly Avenue in the redeveloped docks of Glasgow (where the Big Yin himself once worked), with the newfound sunshine of independence bronzing our faces, gazing up at the Dubai-style skyscrapers while the new-born citizens of Scotland in their Mercedes hovercars zip up and down. And perhaps Barrs, makers of Irn Bru will grow to be a world capitalistic power to rival Microsoft and McDonalds, exporting the good name of an independent Scotland all over the world. Or then again will we all die being jousted by loin-clothed invaders while the bilious bubonic boils on our faces and torsos burst in a plague-fuelled orgy as if thousands of tiny mites had struck oil beneath the pores of our skin? I guess that would give us a fourth way to die in Glasgow.
But I suspect the truth will lie somewhere between those two wild predictions. So long as we don’t set sail for central America we should get through it fine. I am pleased to report that there are some tough cookies around here.
Thursday, 15 November 2007
The Trough and The Dam Builders
It always happens eventually. That trough. In the past few weeks it has been successfully suffocated under the pillow, that rising serpent bearing its dripping fangs and threatening to sink them into your arm. There is no way to defeat it when it first comes though, the stranglehold grabs you and then you are lunged into a semi-catatonic state of immobility.
This happened to me halfway up Hope Street this evening and had been triggered by a combination of another fruitless day of street-pounding, a sinking sun, a random phase in that oscillatory cycle of good and bad that afflicts everyone, and a pointless hilly section of street which I knew I was only going to be herded back down by dear Father Gravity in a few footsteps time. Still, it happens to everyone, and it can strike at any time. One moment you’re going to sleep with a smile on your face, listening intently as your neighbours procreate to bring another sunshine-faced little bundle of joy into the world, and the next your rational thoughts are paralysed by your brain deciding that it will switch the autopilot on to handle those hidden bodily functions – presumably to stop all your innards from seeping out of your pores into a wicked witch of the West-style pool. It does this so it can lead itself under the duvet of despair which, by the way, is somewhere to the left of the tonsils, and can be reached by knocking on the door to the rhythm of a secret fatalistic mantra. Incidentally I am coming to the nature programme bit shortly, try not to fall asleep.
Once there, it will implant thoughts of totally irrational nature, starting with a poor and exaggerated assessment of the current situation. This could be something like slight emotion at the fact it is raining transforming into a feeling of desolation that you might get hit by some shrapnel from the bombs falling from that big black Stratofortress flying overhead. Or overhearing a small crowd of teenagers laughing innocently about their latest happy-slapping victim, who perished hilariously from a motorway footbridge, and thinking instead that it is the entire city tuning into a specially dedicated channel (I fancy, filling one of those gaps left by those fraudulent quiz channels most of which were recently vanquished) where they are able to view your every move and point and laugh in unison until you feel three inches high and likely to be torn apart by a hedgehog. Vicious bastards.
The point is, I took this thing home with me, hoping the damned brain would snap out of it, climb back up the stairs and take up control before I got hit by a bus or something. This is where living in London actually used to make things easier. Before my move up north, I was happily immersed in an immense ocean of people, most of whom were at any one time caught in a state of mind halfway between what I have just described, and a kind of insane rage that being immersed head-in-armpit, encased in a cage of hurtling metal and sunken into a rat tunnel hundreds of feet beneath the ground would drive any mammal to. Then, a point of lowliness could be disguised by thrusting it in with a heady dose of anger and bingo, you melded back into the mass. Never have I seen the “misery loves company” concept followed to such an extreme - the magic number appears to be seven million. Forgive me, I do love London, but this one trait needs to be concentrated on to illustrate this point.
Outside of that surrounding, it is harder to bury. You can’t be so easily immersed. Which is a shame when your now delusional mind, obsessed with self-pity and reminding you that your blood has now turned so cold and metallic that if someone were to tear your arm off, little beads of mercury would spill out as if from a broken thermometer, is intent on rampaging in a futile tantrum. It is no good huddling up and taking this irrational sentiment home with you either, because in the midst of it, you can see it as un-ending. It is at once intimate and infinite. And in any case you are as huddled up as you can be when it is minus two outside.
So at once you are out of place: like dropping a maggot into a bowl of caviar and asking it to get acquainted. If it spoke English. It might have learned it from an audio-guide, I’m sure the headphones would fit, after all they are adjustable. Of course you are not to know how many other people in the street have just fallen prey to that same type of episode, because although every single person gets them, it is not particularly contagious by proximity. More likely at any given time they are sporadically dotted all over the city, in a constantly changing pattern that will touch every citizen in their due turn. And it’s just that it gets harder to hide things like that when you are within a population with the noble habit of thanking people when paying for things, saying hello to the friendly people in the newsagent and have a general acceptance of pleasant discourse with strangers as the norm.
Anyway, a while ago I beat myself over the head with a lead pipe to clear my head of this kind of Californian analysis that is undoubtedly flawed and is the discursive equivalent of creating a delicate oil-painting with a roll-mop, but unfortunately the words all cascaded around in the air like a television signal and then landed on the page. And now when I push a button, whack, it will be on the internet. Almost too easy. I would hate to have to etch it into some rock face in some abandoned cave using symbols of galloping buffalo, spears and a close-up of the face of a strangely wide-eyed girl.
The snap-out trigger is an interesting stage. It rises and then all around is rainbows and unicorns and wildfires being extinguished by low-flying helicopters. Normally all it takes is a conversation about total rubbish with your flatmate or whoever. Sometimes it is a single pint of Guinness. In this case, it took a stoat and a combination of other animals, including Bill Oddie.
Now Bill Oddie is fantastic in a strangely irritating way. If there is a quota of words that can be spoken by the human race before a bearded bloke sitting on a cloud with a harp and a sniper rifle picks every last one of us one-by-one (the total semi-instant annihilation thing is too easy, and is no fun since we nearly demonstrated we could do it ourselves in 1962), then Mr Oddie is doing everything he can to hurry us towards this fate. The subtitler, shortly before she died from a strangely potent form of repetitive strain injury in her fingers, was said to often remark on the rising steam from the keyboard as she tapped away his prolific discourse. His co-host, bless her, is one accordingly of the mutest people I have seen on television, even more so than the extras playing pool in the background in Home and Away.
There was an entertaining stoat which appeared to be prancing around a field looking as if a chilli had been inserted in its rectum but nevertheless seemed joyously happy with all aspects of life. It even hopped about and swam in what looked like a drinking fountain. The camera cut away to the two presenters laughing jovially, presumably an instant before the stoat was whisked away by a bird of prey to be incarcerated in its treetop Gulag.
The beavers were busily gnawing down small trees to turn into material for building dams. They stopped for a quick chat and a fag break, occasionally had a bit of food and licked themselves, all things that I have also witnessed humans doing on their own building sites - but here is the difference. These little furry bastards were enjoying themselves. They were working with each other, listening to the foreman and generally getting the job done. You could see in their cheery faces as they swam to and from the rising dam that they revelled in the unity of purpose and mutual familial-like love prospering in that environment.
Therefore, I have decided to try a different tack towards engineering. It is called, the Beaver Builds Best imitative (or The 3B Initiative for short, because our 21st century brains only understand acronyms). I can practice this on my off days from my Alchemy plan, see “Security of Failure post below. Basically, I install a beaver in my bathtub in a non-cruel manner, using proper contractors and certified beaver-installers. Next, from a nearby park or wooded area, such as that small plot of land between the expressway and Exhibition Centre station, I pilfer a few young trees and feed them, assembly-line-style to said beaver. It is then allowed to build a dam in the bathtub, which I then disassemble into components, carefully consulting with the beaver at all times, and sell on as prefabricated parts for dams all around the world. I forgot to mention that the bath is 90,000 acres in size. Sort of. And in any down moments I can pinch its puffy little beaver cheeks for amusement before heading off with a skip in my step to Accident & Emergency to have my finger sewn back on.
I defy anyone not to lift themselves out of the trough after that.
This happened to me halfway up Hope Street this evening and had been triggered by a combination of another fruitless day of street-pounding, a sinking sun, a random phase in that oscillatory cycle of good and bad that afflicts everyone, and a pointless hilly section of street which I knew I was only going to be herded back down by dear Father Gravity in a few footsteps time. Still, it happens to everyone, and it can strike at any time. One moment you’re going to sleep with a smile on your face, listening intently as your neighbours procreate to bring another sunshine-faced little bundle of joy into the world, and the next your rational thoughts are paralysed by your brain deciding that it will switch the autopilot on to handle those hidden bodily functions – presumably to stop all your innards from seeping out of your pores into a wicked witch of the West-style pool. It does this so it can lead itself under the duvet of despair which, by the way, is somewhere to the left of the tonsils, and can be reached by knocking on the door to the rhythm of a secret fatalistic mantra. Incidentally I am coming to the nature programme bit shortly, try not to fall asleep.
Once there, it will implant thoughts of totally irrational nature, starting with a poor and exaggerated assessment of the current situation. This could be something like slight emotion at the fact it is raining transforming into a feeling of desolation that you might get hit by some shrapnel from the bombs falling from that big black Stratofortress flying overhead. Or overhearing a small crowd of teenagers laughing innocently about their latest happy-slapping victim, who perished hilariously from a motorway footbridge, and thinking instead that it is the entire city tuning into a specially dedicated channel (I fancy, filling one of those gaps left by those fraudulent quiz channels most of which were recently vanquished) where they are able to view your every move and point and laugh in unison until you feel three inches high and likely to be torn apart by a hedgehog. Vicious bastards.
The point is, I took this thing home with me, hoping the damned brain would snap out of it, climb back up the stairs and take up control before I got hit by a bus or something. This is where living in London actually used to make things easier. Before my move up north, I was happily immersed in an immense ocean of people, most of whom were at any one time caught in a state of mind halfway between what I have just described, and a kind of insane rage that being immersed head-in-armpit, encased in a cage of hurtling metal and sunken into a rat tunnel hundreds of feet beneath the ground would drive any mammal to. Then, a point of lowliness could be disguised by thrusting it in with a heady dose of anger and bingo, you melded back into the mass. Never have I seen the “misery loves company” concept followed to such an extreme - the magic number appears to be seven million. Forgive me, I do love London, but this one trait needs to be concentrated on to illustrate this point.
Outside of that surrounding, it is harder to bury. You can’t be so easily immersed. Which is a shame when your now delusional mind, obsessed with self-pity and reminding you that your blood has now turned so cold and metallic that if someone were to tear your arm off, little beads of mercury would spill out as if from a broken thermometer, is intent on rampaging in a futile tantrum. It is no good huddling up and taking this irrational sentiment home with you either, because in the midst of it, you can see it as un-ending. It is at once intimate and infinite. And in any case you are as huddled up as you can be when it is minus two outside.
So at once you are out of place: like dropping a maggot into a bowl of caviar and asking it to get acquainted. If it spoke English. It might have learned it from an audio-guide, I’m sure the headphones would fit, after all they are adjustable. Of course you are not to know how many other people in the street have just fallen prey to that same type of episode, because although every single person gets them, it is not particularly contagious by proximity. More likely at any given time they are sporadically dotted all over the city, in a constantly changing pattern that will touch every citizen in their due turn. And it’s just that it gets harder to hide things like that when you are within a population with the noble habit of thanking people when paying for things, saying hello to the friendly people in the newsagent and have a general acceptance of pleasant discourse with strangers as the norm.
Anyway, a while ago I beat myself over the head with a lead pipe to clear my head of this kind of Californian analysis that is undoubtedly flawed and is the discursive equivalent of creating a delicate oil-painting with a roll-mop, but unfortunately the words all cascaded around in the air like a television signal and then landed on the page. And now when I push a button, whack, it will be on the internet. Almost too easy. I would hate to have to etch it into some rock face in some abandoned cave using symbols of galloping buffalo, spears and a close-up of the face of a strangely wide-eyed girl.
The snap-out trigger is an interesting stage. It rises and then all around is rainbows and unicorns and wildfires being extinguished by low-flying helicopters. Normally all it takes is a conversation about total rubbish with your flatmate or whoever. Sometimes it is a single pint of Guinness. In this case, it took a stoat and a combination of other animals, including Bill Oddie.
Now Bill Oddie is fantastic in a strangely irritating way. If there is a quota of words that can be spoken by the human race before a bearded bloke sitting on a cloud with a harp and a sniper rifle picks every last one of us one-by-one (the total semi-instant annihilation thing is too easy, and is no fun since we nearly demonstrated we could do it ourselves in 1962), then Mr Oddie is doing everything he can to hurry us towards this fate. The subtitler, shortly before she died from a strangely potent form of repetitive strain injury in her fingers, was said to often remark on the rising steam from the keyboard as she tapped away his prolific discourse. His co-host, bless her, is one accordingly of the mutest people I have seen on television, even more so than the extras playing pool in the background in Home and Away.
There was an entertaining stoat which appeared to be prancing around a field looking as if a chilli had been inserted in its rectum but nevertheless seemed joyously happy with all aspects of life. It even hopped about and swam in what looked like a drinking fountain. The camera cut away to the two presenters laughing jovially, presumably an instant before the stoat was whisked away by a bird of prey to be incarcerated in its treetop Gulag.
The beavers were busily gnawing down small trees to turn into material for building dams. They stopped for a quick chat and a fag break, occasionally had a bit of food and licked themselves, all things that I have also witnessed humans doing on their own building sites - but here is the difference. These little furry bastards were enjoying themselves. They were working with each other, listening to the foreman and generally getting the job done. You could see in their cheery faces as they swam to and from the rising dam that they revelled in the unity of purpose and mutual familial-like love prospering in that environment.
Therefore, I have decided to try a different tack towards engineering. It is called, the Beaver Builds Best imitative (or The 3B Initiative for short, because our 21st century brains only understand acronyms). I can practice this on my off days from my Alchemy plan, see “Security of Failure post below. Basically, I install a beaver in my bathtub in a non-cruel manner, using proper contractors and certified beaver-installers. Next, from a nearby park or wooded area, such as that small plot of land between the expressway and Exhibition Centre station, I pilfer a few young trees and feed them, assembly-line-style to said beaver. It is then allowed to build a dam in the bathtub, which I then disassemble into components, carefully consulting with the beaver at all times, and sell on as prefabricated parts for dams all around the world. I forgot to mention that the bath is 90,000 acres in size. Sort of. And in any down moments I can pinch its puffy little beaver cheeks for amusement before heading off with a skip in my step to Accident & Emergency to have my finger sewn back on.
I defy anyone not to lift themselves out of the trough after that.
Wednesday, 14 November 2007
Literary Cubicles
I am not nearly as well read as I would like to be. I attribute this to having a fully functioning digestive system that means that trips to the lavatory are kept to a largely sensible and minimal number. Allow me to elaborate. And please excuse my short attention span on any one train of thought.
As many men know, there can be few pleasures in life better than sitting on the toilet reading a good book. Or failing that, a simple magazine or newspaper. I think that may be one of the unfortunate failings of blogs, that this essential opportunity to scream to the reading public is not captured by the medium. Perhaps drilling a small hole in the bathroom door, inserting an ethernet cable, and riding the throne with a laptop pressed against your lap might be an art worth pursuing, though I fear it may not be the grail it appears at first glance. That image would make a great sculpture to be placed in front of Microsoft headquarters or the like.
The choice of reading material does not seem to matter much, it is merely a means to achieving inner peace and sancitity whilst seated upon the porcelain throne, idly wiling away the hours, lost in the simple beauty of sentences or merely allowing the mind to ramble and slosh like the water from a bloated river in an abandoned sitting room after heavy rainfall in an over-developed flood plain.
Now, I know better than to pick at the untidy seam that stitches the two genders together into what we so aptly call the human race. I say this, but I would not be averse to watching a live televised all-out cage fight between Jeremy Clarkson and Germaine Greer. I imagine the sheer level of mauling would be spectacular, and that there would be some pretty informed and witty commentary from the participants themselves, with the slapstick enlivened by the use of props like a wrenched-off speed camera from Mr Clarkson, and a hardback copy of one of her best-selling books from Ms Greer. Alan Hanson could commentate to give that added bit of cynical zest. Sorry about that, back to the point at hand. Despite my fence-sitting stance, I would have to rule that our toilet-reading nature is one of the fundamental differences between us.
Worthy experience has shown that there is no better way to avoid having to sit in front of Ugly Betty double-bill of an evening, as your soul slowly implodes itself using a really hard-to-reach self-destruct button, and as one of your manically twitching eyes shifts over to catch a glance at the Argos catalogue on the floor, allowing your brain to wonder into a fantasy kingdom where it considers whether ingesting a thousand-page catalogue sideways would actually be fatal. At this point, your eyes normally give up and swivel into the back of your head from the lethal infusion of primary colours emanating from the screen and drilling through your frontal lobes and then you collapse. And then your number is really up. Because no on else is budging to help you until the remaining 55 minutes of the televisual feast is over. And then they can watch it all over again on the “+1” channel to catch some more of the bitter wit and peppy dialogue apparently so rampant in the modelling industry. Err, yes I have watched it. Someone was using the shower. But as no lesser genius of a hero than Father Ted once said of television, “chewing gum for the eyes.” Lock yourself in the bathroom instead and weep into something by Albert Camus.
“But, Mr Anything For Then, you appear to be using this flimsy concept in a really half-arsed way as the entire basis for some post-structuralist discourse about the separating nature that our reading habits have on the unity of inter-gender relations. And that is a crap name for a blog by the way.” Firstly, I don’t know what you mean with your fancy words, and secondly, I know this, the name happened by accident.
So let’s go slightly deeper. Always a difficult and dangerous thing to do when talking about toilets, but bring a torch and we’ll be fine. Why indeed does the humble bathroom seem like the only place of total isolation left? Someone once said that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Let’s forget for a moment that most people aren’t English and that this quote was possibly the opinion of a colonial-minded right-winger who wished that he could hark back to the vainglorious days of the nineteenth century when the globe was blotted with red from all the vast dominions this small island had conquered, using nothing more than beads, mirrors and a nuclear submarine or two (according to my sources). And also try to forget whether this quote applies to bedsits. I vaguely recall watching interviews with recently arrived Asians who had been expelled from Uganda by illustrious King of the Fishes in the Sea and All Other Madness, Idi Amin, where they recounted the trip from Gatwick Airport by train through south London. They had all been genuinely shocked by the smallness of those soot-stained brick terraces in which the majority of these castle-minded Englishmen seemed to reside.
It’s funny the images that get exported, but how, in the intervening period, has this mind-castle diminished to a water closet? Is it that life now has such a stranglehold on us with its muddy gloves around our neck that the only place of true privacy is an act that, so far, technology has been unable to supersede? Or has this phenomenon been around for ages? And what, more importantly, is the female equivalent of toilet-reading? I don’t know any of these things, I just like asking questions. It lands you a few bruises in the face but occasionally you get an answer. If you were around in the seventeenth century though, and are an avid-reading male who liked nothing than to squat over the latrine with a copy of the latest parchment issue of Plague News, or you have the answer to the female-equivalent-question then I really would like to hear from you.
To get back to an earlier suggestion, I suspect that all this progress and intrusion might be the very reason that we must never drill a hole in the bathroom door and lead the internet inside. To be shut off from the world must sometimes be necessary, and allowing the demon of technology, which I am ironically trying to harness to my own ends, to access this one final place of security and isolation, is to drown a concept worth keeping. Just let us have it a little while longer before we have to upload our waste products via USB to the online Bazalgette network where it can be recycled into scripts for daytime televisual output.
Still, to those uninitiated to this great pastime, here are a few of the things you are missing out on, and bear in mind that you do not have to do much actual reading while you’re in there, you can merely use the reading material as an excuse for the below:
1 - Time to just stop.
2 - Time to ponder the meaning of life, and possibly even get round to reading the cover jacket of that book you have got a hundred pages into without understanding.
3 - Time to ponder how long that spider’s web has been up there, and why almost all cobwebs seem empty. Have they been reposessed by ruthless web-lenders and are they now living on the street under thimbles? And how does a loan shark get far enough ashore to challenge a spider’s mortgage payments anyway?
4 - The opportunity to avoid aforementioned death by Ugly Betty.
5 - If in a public toilet cubicle, time to read some of the magnificent grafitti. I don’t mean the ‘cock fun’ phone numbers, but gems such as, “Everyone pees on the floor, be a hero and shit on the ceiling.”
6 - Time to think up an itinerary for your Saturday to get out of that trip to the Farmer’s Market.
7 - Time to think of more things to put in a list like this.
But enough, I feel you have been subjected to enough of this nonsense today. I’m off to the out-house to catch up on some good old-fashioned paper reading. Besides which, my ethernet cable doesn’t reach that far.
As many men know, there can be few pleasures in life better than sitting on the toilet reading a good book. Or failing that, a simple magazine or newspaper. I think that may be one of the unfortunate failings of blogs, that this essential opportunity to scream to the reading public is not captured by the medium. Perhaps drilling a small hole in the bathroom door, inserting an ethernet cable, and riding the throne with a laptop pressed against your lap might be an art worth pursuing, though I fear it may not be the grail it appears at first glance. That image would make a great sculpture to be placed in front of Microsoft headquarters or the like.
The choice of reading material does not seem to matter much, it is merely a means to achieving inner peace and sancitity whilst seated upon the porcelain throne, idly wiling away the hours, lost in the simple beauty of sentences or merely allowing the mind to ramble and slosh like the water from a bloated river in an abandoned sitting room after heavy rainfall in an over-developed flood plain.
Now, I know better than to pick at the untidy seam that stitches the two genders together into what we so aptly call the human race. I say this, but I would not be averse to watching a live televised all-out cage fight between Jeremy Clarkson and Germaine Greer. I imagine the sheer level of mauling would be spectacular, and that there would be some pretty informed and witty commentary from the participants themselves, with the slapstick enlivened by the use of props like a wrenched-off speed camera from Mr Clarkson, and a hardback copy of one of her best-selling books from Ms Greer. Alan Hanson could commentate to give that added bit of cynical zest. Sorry about that, back to the point at hand. Despite my fence-sitting stance, I would have to rule that our toilet-reading nature is one of the fundamental differences between us.
Worthy experience has shown that there is no better way to avoid having to sit in front of Ugly Betty double-bill of an evening, as your soul slowly implodes itself using a really hard-to-reach self-destruct button, and as one of your manically twitching eyes shifts over to catch a glance at the Argos catalogue on the floor, allowing your brain to wonder into a fantasy kingdom where it considers whether ingesting a thousand-page catalogue sideways would actually be fatal. At this point, your eyes normally give up and swivel into the back of your head from the lethal infusion of primary colours emanating from the screen and drilling through your frontal lobes and then you collapse. And then your number is really up. Because no on else is budging to help you until the remaining 55 minutes of the televisual feast is over. And then they can watch it all over again on the “+1” channel to catch some more of the bitter wit and peppy dialogue apparently so rampant in the modelling industry. Err, yes I have watched it. Someone was using the shower. But as no lesser genius of a hero than Father Ted once said of television, “chewing gum for the eyes.” Lock yourself in the bathroom instead and weep into something by Albert Camus.
“But, Mr Anything For Then, you appear to be using this flimsy concept in a really half-arsed way as the entire basis for some post-structuralist discourse about the separating nature that our reading habits have on the unity of inter-gender relations. And that is a crap name for a blog by the way.” Firstly, I don’t know what you mean with your fancy words, and secondly, I know this, the name happened by accident.
So let’s go slightly deeper. Always a difficult and dangerous thing to do when talking about toilets, but bring a torch and we’ll be fine. Why indeed does the humble bathroom seem like the only place of total isolation left? Someone once said that an Englishman’s home is his castle. Let’s forget for a moment that most people aren’t English and that this quote was possibly the opinion of a colonial-minded right-winger who wished that he could hark back to the vainglorious days of the nineteenth century when the globe was blotted with red from all the vast dominions this small island had conquered, using nothing more than beads, mirrors and a nuclear submarine or two (according to my sources). And also try to forget whether this quote applies to bedsits. I vaguely recall watching interviews with recently arrived Asians who had been expelled from Uganda by illustrious King of the Fishes in the Sea and All Other Madness, Idi Amin, where they recounted the trip from Gatwick Airport by train through south London. They had all been genuinely shocked by the smallness of those soot-stained brick terraces in which the majority of these castle-minded Englishmen seemed to reside.
It’s funny the images that get exported, but how, in the intervening period, has this mind-castle diminished to a water closet? Is it that life now has such a stranglehold on us with its muddy gloves around our neck that the only place of true privacy is an act that, so far, technology has been unable to supersede? Or has this phenomenon been around for ages? And what, more importantly, is the female equivalent of toilet-reading? I don’t know any of these things, I just like asking questions. It lands you a few bruises in the face but occasionally you get an answer. If you were around in the seventeenth century though, and are an avid-reading male who liked nothing than to squat over the latrine with a copy of the latest parchment issue of Plague News, or you have the answer to the female-equivalent-question then I really would like to hear from you.
To get back to an earlier suggestion, I suspect that all this progress and intrusion might be the very reason that we must never drill a hole in the bathroom door and lead the internet inside. To be shut off from the world must sometimes be necessary, and allowing the demon of technology, which I am ironically trying to harness to my own ends, to access this one final place of security and isolation, is to drown a concept worth keeping. Just let us have it a little while longer before we have to upload our waste products via USB to the online Bazalgette network where it can be recycled into scripts for daytime televisual output.
Still, to those uninitiated to this great pastime, here are a few of the things you are missing out on, and bear in mind that you do not have to do much actual reading while you’re in there, you can merely use the reading material as an excuse for the below:
1 - Time to just stop.
2 - Time to ponder the meaning of life, and possibly even get round to reading the cover jacket of that book you have got a hundred pages into without understanding.
3 - Time to ponder how long that spider’s web has been up there, and why almost all cobwebs seem empty. Have they been reposessed by ruthless web-lenders and are they now living on the street under thimbles? And how does a loan shark get far enough ashore to challenge a spider’s mortgage payments anyway?
4 - The opportunity to avoid aforementioned death by Ugly Betty.
5 - If in a public toilet cubicle, time to read some of the magnificent grafitti. I don’t mean the ‘cock fun’ phone numbers, but gems such as, “Everyone pees on the floor, be a hero and shit on the ceiling.”
6 - Time to think up an itinerary for your Saturday to get out of that trip to the Farmer’s Market.
7 - Time to think of more things to put in a list like this.
But enough, I feel you have been subjected to enough of this nonsense today. I’m off to the out-house to catch up on some good old-fashioned paper reading. Besides which, my ethernet cable doesn’t reach that far.
Tuesday, 13 November 2007
Estate Agent Application Form
Congratulations, reader. You have successfully managed to get hold of an application form for employment with Bastard & Swindle Ltd, one of the top estate agents in North-West Glasgow, excluding Lambhill and the odd-numbered year leasehold sector.
Answer all questions truthfully except where indicated:
1 – How often are you a bastard?
A: From time to time, for example, when I have stubbed my toe.
B: During normal office hours only.
C: All the time. Fuck you.
2 – Numeracy is important as an estate agent. What number follows 4 (four)?
A: 5
B: 6
C: Fear.
3 – A young couple are interested in getting a two-bedroom flat, but there is a patch of dry rot coming through one of the bedroom ceiling that you have spotted, but has not been noticed by the couple. What should you do?
A: Alert them to the fact that dry rot can be a potentially difficult and expensive problem to solve, that it should be looked into, and that it should perhaps be grounds to lower the offer price.
B: Ignore the patch of dry rot, and walk on through to the kitchen, whistling nonchalantly to disguise guilt and then comment on the remarkable period features in the kitchen, fitted in the 1970’s.
C: Alert them to the dry rot, and say that this was a very desirable trait in palaces in pre-Renaissance France and that accordingly they should consider hiking up their offer price as many other couples will find the flat an attractive option for this reason. Say that you’ll even doctor all the forms for you if we remember.
4 – A group of students walks into the office asking about four-bedroom flats in Kelvinbridge for under £150 a week. What action should you take?
A: Politely tell them that though this might be too cheap for the area, there may be other areas near by that are more affordable, and offer to show them a list of possibilities.
B: Point and laugh.
C: Chase all but one of them out of the office using a machete, and then lock all the doors taking the remaining student hostage and holding him (with the help of a colleague if necessary) with his mouth open under the open water cooler tap, all the while chanting “You will never be a human, you will never be a human”, and then finally decapitating him and having his head mounted like an animal trophy on the wall, placing a mortarboard graduation hat on his head at a jaunty angle, as a reminder to any other idiot students foolhardy enough to grace your saintly estate agent carpet with their scummy in-bred feet.
5 – Have you ever tortured an animal?
A: No, you sick bastard.
B: I once came across a badger waddling with a thorn in its paw down Dumbarton Road and I managed to catch up with it, and thought about tormenting it with a discarded stick I had found, but then I felt dirty and had to have a shower for three days.
C: Yes, regularly, it is good for the soul. I have a bath tub full of small furry animals, and I often torment them with a stick I have specially carved with demonic runes for that very purpose. Sometimes I like to heat up the end of the stick and poke the really cute ones in the eye.
6 – You have made a mistake in recording rent payments, missing some out because you could not be fucked doing your job. Do you:
A: Accept responsibility for the problem, clarify the error, and advise the tenant and landlord of the situation.
B: Point the finger immediately at the tenant, putting the onus on them to provide proof in the form of bank statements that they paid rent.
C: Do nothing until it comes up four years later and then deny everything. Go home after work and torment an animal with a stick for shits and giggles.
7 – Do you have any unspent criminal convictions?
A: Nope. Squeaky clean like a rubber ducky.
B: Only that assault conviction, but he totally deserved it. Those chips were mine.
C: I have been convicted several times of fraud and perjury. I also lied to a judge and said that my cat killed my wife, causing it to be executed by lethal injection. Once I also planted a loaded gun in the hand of this dead guy I found in the park. I say found, but really I shot him for looking at me funny. I think he winked or something.
8 – You are showing a couple around a lakeside villa in Yoker when you notice that your best friend is drowning in the lake. There is a raft tethered to a pier near to where the drowning person is. All pretty coincidental, but it could happen. What do you do?
A: Apologise to the couple for the inconvenience. Untie the raft and row out to your friend, saving him and making sure he is alright.
B: Continue showing the couple around the property.
C: Take the couple into the raft and sail onto the top of your friend’s head, as coincidentally that is in fact the position from which you can have the best view of this glorious property which has been on the market for only a week, and has a beautifully ornate wood-carved awning providing ample protection from the elements for those little sproglets when they arrive. Tap the swollen belly of the wife while giving a knowing smile that is only slightly sleazy to the husband, while the last bubbles of breath from your suffocating friend pop to the surface.
9 – Why do you want to be an estate agent?
A – I don’t really.
B – I think I would make a great estate agent, I have good communication skills, am an adept liar and have good knowledge of the various districts of the city.
C – I was not born in a hospital, but instead found in a skip by a pack of wolves who then raised me. Mother Wolf was a vicious creature, and regularly I would go on hunts around the New Forest watching her wrench apart the bones of young mammals that fell victim to her jaws. She did often say terrible things to me, and often saw in my naked unwolf-like skin the beginnings of her own failings in life. Mother Wolf often liked to say things like, “You are rotten to the core, not like us”. In time I distanced myself from her, becoming more independent and hanging with a bad crowd of wolves from the other side of Partickhill. I learned to call like a wolf, and even started growing mass quantities of fur in unspeakable places. I like nothing better than the thrill of the chase, grabbing a young rabbit between my teeth and feeling the trickle of its warm blood as it flows down over my neck and leaves a wine-dark stain on the soil. I received an OBE for services to wolvery in 2006. Um, what was the question again?
How did you do?
Mostly A’s: Sorry, you are not estate agent material. You would be better off as a human being. Could we interest you in a lovely three-bedroom semi-detached house that burned down last week?
Mostly B’s: With a bit of work, you just might make it. Shed those last fragments of moralistic nature within you, fill your bathtub with mammals and then take the test again next year.
Mostly C’s: Heartiest congratulations, you are Bastard & Swindle’s newest employee. Your contract asks only for 85 hours a week, and you may take up to three days unpaid leave each year. Our salary and pension options are very competitive. Here is your gun and badge.
Answer all questions truthfully except where indicated:
1 – How often are you a bastard?
A: From time to time, for example, when I have stubbed my toe.
B: During normal office hours only.
C: All the time. Fuck you.
2 – Numeracy is important as an estate agent. What number follows 4 (four)?
A: 5
B: 6
C: Fear.
3 – A young couple are interested in getting a two-bedroom flat, but there is a patch of dry rot coming through one of the bedroom ceiling that you have spotted, but has not been noticed by the couple. What should you do?
A: Alert them to the fact that dry rot can be a potentially difficult and expensive problem to solve, that it should be looked into, and that it should perhaps be grounds to lower the offer price.
B: Ignore the patch of dry rot, and walk on through to the kitchen, whistling nonchalantly to disguise guilt and then comment on the remarkable period features in the kitchen, fitted in the 1970’s.
C: Alert them to the dry rot, and say that this was a very desirable trait in palaces in pre-Renaissance France and that accordingly they should consider hiking up their offer price as many other couples will find the flat an attractive option for this reason. Say that you’ll even doctor all the forms for you if we remember.
4 – A group of students walks into the office asking about four-bedroom flats in Kelvinbridge for under £150 a week. What action should you take?
A: Politely tell them that though this might be too cheap for the area, there may be other areas near by that are more affordable, and offer to show them a list of possibilities.
B: Point and laugh.
C: Chase all but one of them out of the office using a machete, and then lock all the doors taking the remaining student hostage and holding him (with the help of a colleague if necessary) with his mouth open under the open water cooler tap, all the while chanting “You will never be a human, you will never be a human”, and then finally decapitating him and having his head mounted like an animal trophy on the wall, placing a mortarboard graduation hat on his head at a jaunty angle, as a reminder to any other idiot students foolhardy enough to grace your saintly estate agent carpet with their scummy in-bred feet.
5 – Have you ever tortured an animal?
A: No, you sick bastard.
B: I once came across a badger waddling with a thorn in its paw down Dumbarton Road and I managed to catch up with it, and thought about tormenting it with a discarded stick I had found, but then I felt dirty and had to have a shower for three days.
C: Yes, regularly, it is good for the soul. I have a bath tub full of small furry animals, and I often torment them with a stick I have specially carved with demonic runes for that very purpose. Sometimes I like to heat up the end of the stick and poke the really cute ones in the eye.
6 – You have made a mistake in recording rent payments, missing some out because you could not be fucked doing your job. Do you:
A: Accept responsibility for the problem, clarify the error, and advise the tenant and landlord of the situation.
B: Point the finger immediately at the tenant, putting the onus on them to provide proof in the form of bank statements that they paid rent.
C: Do nothing until it comes up four years later and then deny everything. Go home after work and torment an animal with a stick for shits and giggles.
7 – Do you have any unspent criminal convictions?
A: Nope. Squeaky clean like a rubber ducky.
B: Only that assault conviction, but he totally deserved it. Those chips were mine.
C: I have been convicted several times of fraud and perjury. I also lied to a judge and said that my cat killed my wife, causing it to be executed by lethal injection. Once I also planted a loaded gun in the hand of this dead guy I found in the park. I say found, but really I shot him for looking at me funny. I think he winked or something.
8 – You are showing a couple around a lakeside villa in Yoker when you notice that your best friend is drowning in the lake. There is a raft tethered to a pier near to where the drowning person is. All pretty coincidental, but it could happen. What do you do?
A: Apologise to the couple for the inconvenience. Untie the raft and row out to your friend, saving him and making sure he is alright.
B: Continue showing the couple around the property.
C: Take the couple into the raft and sail onto the top of your friend’s head, as coincidentally that is in fact the position from which you can have the best view of this glorious property which has been on the market for only a week, and has a beautifully ornate wood-carved awning providing ample protection from the elements for those little sproglets when they arrive. Tap the swollen belly of the wife while giving a knowing smile that is only slightly sleazy to the husband, while the last bubbles of breath from your suffocating friend pop to the surface.
9 – Why do you want to be an estate agent?
A – I don’t really.
B – I think I would make a great estate agent, I have good communication skills, am an adept liar and have good knowledge of the various districts of the city.
C – I was not born in a hospital, but instead found in a skip by a pack of wolves who then raised me. Mother Wolf was a vicious creature, and regularly I would go on hunts around the New Forest watching her wrench apart the bones of young mammals that fell victim to her jaws. She did often say terrible things to me, and often saw in my naked unwolf-like skin the beginnings of her own failings in life. Mother Wolf often liked to say things like, “You are rotten to the core, not like us”. In time I distanced myself from her, becoming more independent and hanging with a bad crowd of wolves from the other side of Partickhill. I learned to call like a wolf, and even started growing mass quantities of fur in unspeakable places. I like nothing better than the thrill of the chase, grabbing a young rabbit between my teeth and feeling the trickle of its warm blood as it flows down over my neck and leaves a wine-dark stain on the soil. I received an OBE for services to wolvery in 2006. Um, what was the question again?
How did you do?
Mostly A’s: Sorry, you are not estate agent material. You would be better off as a human being. Could we interest you in a lovely three-bedroom semi-detached house that burned down last week?
Mostly B’s: With a bit of work, you just might make it. Shed those last fragments of moralistic nature within you, fill your bathtub with mammals and then take the test again next year.
Mostly C’s: Heartiest congratulations, you are Bastard & Swindle’s newest employee. Your contract asks only for 85 hours a week, and you may take up to three days unpaid leave each year. Our salary and pension options are very competitive. Here is your gun and badge.
Monday, 12 November 2007
The Security of Failure
Utter failure is the sturdiest seat around.
“A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable but more useful than a life spent in doing nothing” said George Bernard Shaw. That is a nice quote because it gives everyone hope. And also because it was easily findable by searching on Google. There, there, don’t be evil.
You were warned earlier in the week about this post, and here it is in all its putrid foulsome glory. Get a waft of that freshly microwaved-stench.
The history books are filled with failures, and it is often these that are the most interesting, story-wise. I think it could even be more interesting to examine the failed petering out of famous characters than their heady ascendancy to fame. And we Brits love a failure. Only out of the hideous mediocrity of an endlessly dripping climate can real failure flourish. The Darwin Awards stand testament to our obsession with failure. And that is great, because it is far far less to live up to.
Just as water always trickles to the lowest point and then reaches a state of total stability, or let’s call it peace, so could we say that the same applies to us? Reaching the pinnacle of success, the height of ambition, is like being tethered to the top of a building from a burning thread. You can enjoy the view while it lasts.
But more tellingly, you could probably enjoy the fall as well. I’m fairly certain that there is a perverse pleasure in failure of your own making, that makes you want to wave on the way down as the blinking windows cascade past. Unless some blue-suited, red-underpanted twat flies under and scoops you into his arms and plops you in front of a television camera so that you can wear an expression of disbelief and hopelessness that wouldn’t look out of place on the face of a government spokesman who has just publicly shat himself while describing the delicate details of foreign policy and military spending to a roomful of respected and revered journalists such as Kate Adie, all the while being live-streamed onto the BBC and Al Jazeera, and knowing that the public shitting story will be inserted respectfully in between that Diana special on faulty motorway underpasses and a human interest story on the effects of the Common Agricultural Policy on Joe, a farmer in Shropshire whose turnips were publicly burnt in the car park of the parliament building in Strasbourg for tasting natural. Actually joking aside, elements of the Common Agricultural Policy are disgusting but this isn’t really the time to go into that.
Maybe reveling in failure is some form of masochism, a self-inflicted wound that you take pleasure in opening and salting, much like those crisps you used to have to add salt to – and incidentally, what happened to them? Somehow that need to balance along the edge of a precipice, that tightly grasped balancing pole as your placebo aid to posture, is only made worth it by the sideways glance of the massive drop.
On a related note, have you ever got butterflies while sitting on a sledge on the edge of what appears to be an infinite drop in the snow? No matter that you are just in an abandoned college car park, the only thing you can fixate on is the target, be that a brick wall, your little sister, or a small but highly unstable nuclear power plant. These are in ascending order of entertainment value to yourself. That is the other point, the failure is made more or less tasty by the benchmark that you are working to.
Enough though. The insides can rot if left out the fridge too long, and there are some things, like the bullshit above, that are best left frozen. Anyway, if failure is your default mode of thinking, then it seems pertinent to choose a profession that is created for failure. I don’t mean a profession in which it is possible to fail – that must be almost all of them – but one which is almost defined by failure.
I am talking, of course, of alchemy. Alchemy is the science of turning base metals, like lead, into gold. It is fairly famous, and people used to attempt to practice this art based on the proximity of lead to gold in the periodic table. Except that to successfully do that, you need to fuck with the nucleus. I failed my A-level chemistry practical (I thought a strip of litmus paper was chewing gum or something) but even I know that no amount of jiggery pokery possible in a test tube will achieve this. That didn’t stop all manner of drop-outs, dreamers and madmen from singing their eyebrows, undergoing accidental and rapid exfoliation, melting themselves into smouldering heaps or twisting the roofs of their houses through ninety degrees and generally allowing their mischief to lead to messy divorces. Really messy I mean – have you seen a pool of liquified human try to sign a form and extract a ring from a screaming woman’s finger?
Still, as part of my ongoing predicament, I have turned to the dark side and now entertain alchemy as the way forward. Though I am going to put a 21st century twist on it. I have more value for life, notions on failure aside, than to practice this deathly art myself. I intend to become an Alchemy Consultant instead. This is what will happen:
I will rent myself a portakabin and set this up in Kelvingrove Park. Though I would hate to become a lackey for the capitalist pig-dog empire (err, only joking there sir), I realise the success of any business is self-promotion, and will do this by giving out vouchers for free lemonade, which I will distribute at street corners around this city. Once the punters arrive for their sugary fix, I will extoll the virtues of alchemy and what it can achieve, though only with my help. I intend to circulate a leaflet, called “The Midas Touch”, and specially gold-plated ladles as proof of what is possible. At £200 per hour, I should be able to comfortably make back my overheads. Thus making profit from our collective failure. It is a beautiful plan, and could allow me to increase my intake to two haggis suppers per day with all the money. A three-foot long ginger beard should allow me to remain anonymous and stop me from being stabbed 16 times in the face by a disgruntled entre-preneur while enjoying a pint of Guinness (I think a few people have ‘expired’ this way round here).
Don’t say I’m not trying to do something useful with my life now, Mr Shaw.
No, not another unnecessary third person bit, but an important link:
That’s right. Here be a link to Lauren’s blog, Credible Witness and a worthy read it is too. And she has pictures and things. I’ll get round to it here in good time…
Friday, 9 November 2007
Glasgow’s Games
This post was going to be about failure, but that can wait until another time because the momentous occasion of Glasgow’s successful bid for the 2014 Commonwealth Games has just been announced. Also, I was going to post the other post yesterday but my sister abducted me, blindfolded me and drove me into the suburbs, where I was deposited in a place halfway between American Beauty and Desperate Housewives. Lovely. I did admire the privet hedges and the occasional squirrel though. They take me right back. An anonymous quote says something along the lines of, “suburbs are places where they cut down all of the trees and name the streets after the trees they cut down.”
I’m going to embark on a slightly schizophrenic rant about this.
What I am about to say may go against this assertion, but I am quietly happy that Glasgow won. It will raise the profile of the city, and that can only be a good thing. It shouldn’t be forgotten that raising the profile of a place does not necessarily mean highlighting its good points, but it can also (arguably more importantly) highlight the existing problems and be an agent for change. In a more extreme example, the coming Olympic Games to China has managed to shine a torchlight on the problems of that country and has made it more aware that it must keep its teeth clean – at least for the next year or so. The agent of change is limited though. I was naively hopeful that Chinese intervention would save Myanmar but it never came.
Glasgow is of course not as bad as its reputation suggests. The violent city that people elsewhere have indelibly seared into their minds mostly died decades ago. The gangs that are supposed to be over-running the streets seem to be teenagers filming their adolescent fights for YouTube, and similar things could be witnessed in any town around the UK. Putting Glasgow under the spotlight may do something to justifiably weaken that reputation. But there are still serious problems, and while it is not immediately obvious while walking down the cosmetically overhauled Buchanan Street, it is the statistics (related to health and poverty in particular) that bear out the facts. And need it be mentioned that by far the ugliest and most venomous thing about this city is ostensibly sport-related and must be addressed if it is not to taint the whole spectacle. I dare not touch on that particular subject any further though.
It is difficult to take the temperature of a city, and it is even more difficult to measure concrete change and its causes. It may be that Glasgow is a far more prosperous place in seven years time than it is now, but it will be difficult to determine the effects the Games have on this improvement. Also, the age-old argument exists that money should be pumped more directly into where the problems are, such as improving housing and resolving unemployment, rather than only indirectly through building costly sporting venues. Also, I really hope that it benefits all of Glasgow, not just the east end. The east end is especially deserving of economic relief, but so are many other parts of the city and it would be a great shame for these to be overlooked. I am far from an expert though, and soon I will be waving my arms for help as if drowning in a corn silo (it happens), so soon I will get on to lighter things. Still, I have reason for optimism. There is an energy here that will get this city to the long overdue goal that it deserves, even if not by means of the Games.
2014 is a long long long time away though, and I doubt we have the momentum in our blood to continue celebrating for another seven years. But we’ll give it a shot. I say ‘we’, but by this time I will be safely inhabiting a rocking chair, as my hair greys and thins, while smoking illicit substances for medicinal purposes, you understand, by means of a suitably dour-looking foot-long pipe, and the smell of my own urine rises comforting around me, and my tweed jacket hosts all manner of fauna, including moths and cockroaches (which hate cucumbers apparently), all the while hoping that my kindly neighbour will come round and top up the card in my electricity meter and feed me a hearty broth of distilled buffalo getting very intimately acquainted with various root vegetables. Except that might not happen, because by then the neighbouring building will have been demolished to make way for a harmonica-hurling arena, or whatever.
The people interviewed in the build-up to the announcement were amazingly self-assured, there was a real sense that everyone knew Glasgow had it in the bag. All the while there was the usual hype of the extreme economic benefits and the intense promotion of sport that would result. Facts were toted about the problems of obesity and the curing prospects that lay ahead. I doubt many fish and chip shop owners are filing for bankruptcy just yet mind you. What was really interesting, both before and after the announcement, was the universal similarity between the opinions.
The typical ‘before’ opinion went: “It would be such a boost not only to Glasgow, but to Scotland. There really has been terrific spirit behind this bid, and Glasgow deserve to win it. This will boost jobs and help regenerate a run down area of the city. We have produced the better technical submission. Did I mention what a boost it would be to Glasgow and to Scotland as a whole? Um, I want to become a woman.”
Well perhaps not all of those were said by all parties but you get the gist. The ‘after’ opinion was basically the above but with the tenses changed. There was however one inspired comment about the fact that no games have ever had a lasting positive impact on the host city after the event, at least not without a continual injection of money and maintenance for years afterwards. A sound point.
Then they played the Proclaimers and they also had Deacon Blue representing Scotland. I can’t help thinking that a more contemporary display of talent would be the band my flatmate is in, Go Go Fiasco, and their “Robot Song”. It speaks volumes about the evils of our times and the slippery slope that results from having a circuit-board installed in your head so that you can play heads-up “Mind Tetris” at whim. Or it should.
In general, the winning of the games is a great thing for Glasgow, provided there is no pretence about the reasons that it is good...
Anyway, good on Glasgow, but you can’t help feeling sorry for Abuja in Nigeria, which simultaneously found out that they had lost. I also can’t help feeling that the Nigerians should have put forward Lagos instead. It would have been a riot. I have a strange fixation with Lagos as part of my occasional quest to find the most chaotic city in the world.
Lagos, it has been quoted, is a city of 16 million people and four traffic lights. This is most certainly a lie, as most of the photographs I have seen have many traffic lights. But the place seems genuinely exciting with that added pinch of danger that puts hair on your chest and turns your toe-nails blue and makes your hands shake with adrenalin as you hand over your wallet. In common with Glasgow, they seem to have a great sense of black humour as well: they call their buses Molues and Danfos, the local words for “mobile morgues” and “flying coffins”. I’m sure the corruption adds another playful twist to things. The “From Our Correspondent” section of the BBC News website had a great story a few months ago, in which their correspondent tried to make a journey between two Nigerian cities without handing over any bribes to the police. He was stopped by a policeman at a checkpoint with the familiar expression, “Anything for the boys?” and refused to pay. The policeman then looked about the vehicle, found something spuriously wrong with it (like a mismatching engine number, or something) and fined him a far greater amount. I still want to go though. I once met someone who grew up there and he sold it to me. I’m going to need some serious cash and a Coffin Pass though.
Enough, I have been inspired to forego my haggis supper for a nice bowl of muesli, after which I will triple-jump across the Bells Bridge.
A poncey “third person bit” that makes Kiran feel like an actual columnist not just an opinionated sap sitting on a sofa with frozen feet and a geriatric laptop:
This week, week two of the great job hunt, Kiran pounded the streets with his CV yet again – staying optimistic and feeling like he is getting closer. He watched “Casino” which did not inspire him to commit any acts of brutality, thus proving once and for all that violent films do not inspire violence. Except that horrific thing he did to the toaster with a baseball bat after it started singing about those business deals like a canary. He also watched “The Genius of Photography” on BBC4 which was fucking genius. Reviewing TV is not his forte.
I’m going to embark on a slightly schizophrenic rant about this.
What I am about to say may go against this assertion, but I am quietly happy that Glasgow won. It will raise the profile of the city, and that can only be a good thing. It shouldn’t be forgotten that raising the profile of a place does not necessarily mean highlighting its good points, but it can also (arguably more importantly) highlight the existing problems and be an agent for change. In a more extreme example, the coming Olympic Games to China has managed to shine a torchlight on the problems of that country and has made it more aware that it must keep its teeth clean – at least for the next year or so. The agent of change is limited though. I was naively hopeful that Chinese intervention would save Myanmar but it never came.
Glasgow is of course not as bad as its reputation suggests. The violent city that people elsewhere have indelibly seared into their minds mostly died decades ago. The gangs that are supposed to be over-running the streets seem to be teenagers filming their adolescent fights for YouTube, and similar things could be witnessed in any town around the UK. Putting Glasgow under the spotlight may do something to justifiably weaken that reputation. But there are still serious problems, and while it is not immediately obvious while walking down the cosmetically overhauled Buchanan Street, it is the statistics (related to health and poverty in particular) that bear out the facts. And need it be mentioned that by far the ugliest and most venomous thing about this city is ostensibly sport-related and must be addressed if it is not to taint the whole spectacle. I dare not touch on that particular subject any further though.
It is difficult to take the temperature of a city, and it is even more difficult to measure concrete change and its causes. It may be that Glasgow is a far more prosperous place in seven years time than it is now, but it will be difficult to determine the effects the Games have on this improvement. Also, the age-old argument exists that money should be pumped more directly into where the problems are, such as improving housing and resolving unemployment, rather than only indirectly through building costly sporting venues. Also, I really hope that it benefits all of Glasgow, not just the east end. The east end is especially deserving of economic relief, but so are many other parts of the city and it would be a great shame for these to be overlooked. I am far from an expert though, and soon I will be waving my arms for help as if drowning in a corn silo (it happens), so soon I will get on to lighter things. Still, I have reason for optimism. There is an energy here that will get this city to the long overdue goal that it deserves, even if not by means of the Games.
2014 is a long long long time away though, and I doubt we have the momentum in our blood to continue celebrating for another seven years. But we’ll give it a shot. I say ‘we’, but by this time I will be safely inhabiting a rocking chair, as my hair greys and thins, while smoking illicit substances for medicinal purposes, you understand, by means of a suitably dour-looking foot-long pipe, and the smell of my own urine rises comforting around me, and my tweed jacket hosts all manner of fauna, including moths and cockroaches (which hate cucumbers apparently), all the while hoping that my kindly neighbour will come round and top up the card in my electricity meter and feed me a hearty broth of distilled buffalo getting very intimately acquainted with various root vegetables. Except that might not happen, because by then the neighbouring building will have been demolished to make way for a harmonica-hurling arena, or whatever.
The people interviewed in the build-up to the announcement were amazingly self-assured, there was a real sense that everyone knew Glasgow had it in the bag. All the while there was the usual hype of the extreme economic benefits and the intense promotion of sport that would result. Facts were toted about the problems of obesity and the curing prospects that lay ahead. I doubt many fish and chip shop owners are filing for bankruptcy just yet mind you. What was really interesting, both before and after the announcement, was the universal similarity between the opinions.
The typical ‘before’ opinion went: “It would be such a boost not only to Glasgow, but to Scotland. There really has been terrific spirit behind this bid, and Glasgow deserve to win it. This will boost jobs and help regenerate a run down area of the city. We have produced the better technical submission. Did I mention what a boost it would be to Glasgow and to Scotland as a whole? Um, I want to become a woman.”
Well perhaps not all of those were said by all parties but you get the gist. The ‘after’ opinion was basically the above but with the tenses changed. There was however one inspired comment about the fact that no games have ever had a lasting positive impact on the host city after the event, at least not without a continual injection of money and maintenance for years afterwards. A sound point.
Then they played the Proclaimers and they also had Deacon Blue representing Scotland. I can’t help thinking that a more contemporary display of talent would be the band my flatmate is in, Go Go Fiasco, and their “Robot Song”. It speaks volumes about the evils of our times and the slippery slope that results from having a circuit-board installed in your head so that you can play heads-up “Mind Tetris” at whim. Or it should.
In general, the winning of the games is a great thing for Glasgow, provided there is no pretence about the reasons that it is good...
Anyway, good on Glasgow, but you can’t help feeling sorry for Abuja in Nigeria, which simultaneously found out that they had lost. I also can’t help feeling that the Nigerians should have put forward Lagos instead. It would have been a riot. I have a strange fixation with Lagos as part of my occasional quest to find the most chaotic city in the world.
Lagos, it has been quoted, is a city of 16 million people and four traffic lights. This is most certainly a lie, as most of the photographs I have seen have many traffic lights. But the place seems genuinely exciting with that added pinch of danger that puts hair on your chest and turns your toe-nails blue and makes your hands shake with adrenalin as you hand over your wallet. In common with Glasgow, they seem to have a great sense of black humour as well: they call their buses Molues and Danfos, the local words for “mobile morgues” and “flying coffins”. I’m sure the corruption adds another playful twist to things. The “From Our Correspondent” section of the BBC News website had a great story a few months ago, in which their correspondent tried to make a journey between two Nigerian cities without handing over any bribes to the police. He was stopped by a policeman at a checkpoint with the familiar expression, “Anything for the boys?” and refused to pay. The policeman then looked about the vehicle, found something spuriously wrong with it (like a mismatching engine number, or something) and fined him a far greater amount. I still want to go though. I once met someone who grew up there and he sold it to me. I’m going to need some serious cash and a Coffin Pass though.
Enough, I have been inspired to forego my haggis supper for a nice bowl of muesli, after which I will triple-jump across the Bells Bridge.
A poncey “third person bit” that makes Kiran feel like an actual columnist not just an opinionated sap sitting on a sofa with frozen feet and a geriatric laptop:
This week, week two of the great job hunt, Kiran pounded the streets with his CV yet again – staying optimistic and feeling like he is getting closer. He watched “Casino” which did not inspire him to commit any acts of brutality, thus proving once and for all that violent films do not inspire violence. Except that horrific thing he did to the toaster with a baseball bat after it started singing about those business deals like a canary. He also watched “The Genius of Photography” on BBC4 which was fucking genius. Reviewing TV is not his forte.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)