MAD DOGS AND CONSERVATIVES

It’s been a rather strange time for everyone. Our disgraced PM resigning. A bare-knuckle fight to choose his successor. At last summer holidays really beginning. But it’s getting too hot everywhere. 

Air travel is chaotic. Rail travel is subject to industrial action. And the economy’s in turmoil. Meanwhile especially Sri Lanka and Italy and France are in various levels of political array. And the horror story in the Ukraine gets worse.  The world’s overheating in almost every respect.

Back to a more Enid Blyton world. 

Two Go on their Hols. We went on a brief holiday to Canterbury of which I remember little as I had Covid and managed marathon sleeps. If any of you has trouble sleeping Covid’s the solution. I also had a bizarre dream in which I was in a company which had a large cryptocurrency portfolio. I decided, unilaterally, to sell the lot putting hundreds of millions into the bank. Two days later the cryptocurrency crashed and the previously held portfolio would have been worthless. Nonetheless the Board were outraged and forced me to resign. I agreed but pointed out I’d saved the company. “That’s not the point” they shouted. I went into an even deeper sleep.

Canterbury is beautiful and the Cathedral always an awe-inspiring sensation. They had a visiting choir, the King’s Counterpoint from South Carolina. 

They were astonishingly mellifluous and brought calm and harmony to those who on hearing South Carolina think of “Donald Trump.”

But harmony has not been the highlight of the Conservative Party election process. I think I’d prefer to have Covid again. Do the candidates and their respective supporters have any idea of what impression they leave on the electorate? Matthew Parris said that should Liz Truss win he’d dust down his Scottish credentials, move north of the border, get out of any sterling savings he had, vote for Scottish independence and had he any grandchildren (he hasn’t) he’d try to help them get Canadian citizenship. 

It must be the effects of Covid that caused this with me but initially I rather fancied Penny Mordaunt who resembled the sort of amply bosomed nurse I felt I needed. But we need a competent Prime Minister not a nurse. I think Boris Johnson might even win if he stood again. Isn’t it weird that this tawdry process has somehow slightly mitigated his disgrace? 

A lovely hot summer? Here’s the Guardian headline from Saturday:

“England braces for 40C temperatures as experts warn thousands could die” 

I’m going to attach “as experts warn thousands could die” to anything I feel like in future – so hysterical, so Guardian. It’s going to be as hot as it used to be when we went to Greece a long time ago…that’s what we went for. But that was before the current air travel chaos. And isn’t it ironic that of all the airlines in control and doing a proper job it’s Ryan Air and that old rascal Michael O’Leary who come top of the class for reliability?

As we head towards a “summer of discontent,” as experts warn thousands could die – sorry I couldn’t resist it – I watched RMT Union boss Mick Lynch and thought the unthinkable.

He’s a fantastic interviewee – a slayer of BBC upstarts – and he looks, compared to those Tory hopefuls, almost Prime Ministerial. 

He’s arguing calmly for a large but below inflation level wage rise for his and other workers. As companies like PWC give their people a 9% raise and their partners (all 900 odd of them in the UK) £1 million bonuses doesn’t anyone see the irony of the government saying: “we can’t afford it”? Maybe we can’t afford not to negotiate more positively.

Meanwhile Sri Lanka has inflation of around 55% and the economy has collapsed. In relation to that we are very rich.

Strange times? What’s new? But let’s hope we all regain our health, wealth, sanity and cool soon. Happy summertime everyone. 

A DAY OF ADVENTURE

This sounds like an Enid Blyton novel, and why not because our island lives have been a bit dull and we need to do something more exciting. Cripes, Timmy the dog’s just done a wee on my foot – in the 1950s that was a canine capital offence.

Our adventure’s a trip to London. My heartbeat quickens. I awaken during the night several times wondering if the train will be on time. We leave early just in case. The lift in the station (working at last) avoids the 54 step climb up the stairs (yes I’ve counted) so we arrive on the concourse in full breath. It’s empty but shops are open (M&S, WHS, Superdrug). A train comes in from London full of half-term families eager to freeze on Brighton Beach, eat Pizzas and scoff ice cream – what’s not to like Enid Blyton … Brighton?

We’d forgotten how hard and un-upholstered the seats on the Gatwick Express trains to London were. Who was the arse (or arse-phobic) designer who decided prison-hard was good for us? “Let the train take the strain” used to be the strapline...”and cause you pain” is a necessary addition.

It’s still exciting. Victoria. Gateway to exotica. We depart to have a pee…. the loos here are new and impressive….before making off, my wife to the Tube and me to the bus. I breathe deeply. The Capital. This has been many months, "dear thing – how are you?" “I’m lonely” London mutters “where have you been?”  I feel guilty and disloyal as I travel up Park Lane, Marble Arch, along Oxford Street. A few intrepid shoppers carrying Primark bags. Nearly everyone masked. But there are stirrings of life.

I arrive at my destination. My hairdresser off Baker Street. I look like a round-the-world-traveller, shaggy and in need of shearing. 45 minutes later I’m a new sheep.

My world is transformed when I reach Marylebone High Street and turn into Marylebone Lane which is closed to traffic. All the restaurants are out in the street. Le Relais de Venise; Caldesi; 108 and others. Tables are full. The air is warm with humanity, the whiff of good food and laughter. This is not a return to normal. This is a revelation, a transformation from London to Parisian Spring. This is real adventure. 

My wife and I meet and then walk through John Lewis as we always do on our way to the tube. The ground floor smells wonderful and is full of staff who are jolly and obviously glad to be back in their office.

The rest of the day is unmemorable. The tube half-full. People polite – we are both offered seats (I suppose we look old) and notice a very tall young woman with strange Balenciaga bootees. London. Fashion.  A new world.

Arriving back in Brighton it feels very much a seaside town – a rather disreputable nephew to grown up, sophisticated London where we had our little adventure. We’re shattered. We’d forgotten how exhausting travel can be.

The biggest issue we are going to face is discovering is if we’ve got the stamina to survive. The life most of us once led was high-octane-rushing-around, meeting, sharing ideas, face-to-face, breathing deeply. What we’ve lost is our sense of smell. Zoom is an odourless and dull place. No one laughs or smells on Zoom.

Spring will test our mettle. When restaurants really open, when we start to face each other and start conversing. I think we’ll be fine but we have to think about  handshakes and hugs because we’ve got to start loving and enjoying each other again.

PRUDERY, RUDERY AND GETTING THINGS RIGHT

I was somewhat surprised to be given a copy of the best writings of Henry Miller by a neighbour. Why me? Miller was the literary infant terrible of the 1950s and ‘60s. His description of sex makes “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” sound like Enid Blyton (‘Five Off for a Jolly Bonk’.) They are very rude indeed but rather sad too. His ability to have relationships as opposed to frequent and impulsive shags seems limited. Yet when he writes about Greece (especially Mycenae) or flying or food or having his car serviced (prosaic but riveting) this man is literary giant. When he gets obsessed with parts of the body his sense of humanity and humour goes. 

                   
June (his second wife) and Henry Miller

And that’s because there’s not much joy in his sex. Sophocles said it first and was then quoted by Plato, Socrates and others ending with Russell Brand…“The male libido is like being chained to a maniac”… yeah, that’s Horrid Henry. Not just horrid but a bit boring too.

It was peculiar reading this high-class porn whilst MPs were being denounced for playing ‘handsy’ or
worse. I hope none of them gets caught with a copy. That would not be funny.

Unlike Caitlin Moran who’s very funny but also rather rude. Her recent book is called “Moranifesto” which “sets the world to rights”. The substance isn’t rude at all but the fucking language often is. She uses the “f” word not so much for effect as for emphatic punctuation and to show she’s one of us.

Caitlin is a genius. I use the word circumspectly. She understands manners and why they matter so much (there aren’t many good manners in politics) and despite her rebelliousness she belongs in kinder, more literary times than these. Unsurprisingly her style in influenced by writers like Dorothy
Parker and H.L. Mencken. She’s an almost Dickensian figure in her exuberance and in being larger-than-life when she says things like: “Why do people keep on talking about the sweet fragrance of women? We smell. Me? I smell of soup … onion soup.”

Things that need sorting out she says are as diverse as include cystitis, bacon (ugh?) and social media. How about this for a bullseye of observation?  “The internet is like a drunken toddler.” 

She thinks many things are wrong but that there are some things blindingly right. Like having joy in life, being kind to ourselves and to others and in not taking ourselves too seriously. How lucky we are, she says, to have friends, family, to be going out together, drinking wine (lots of it) and laughing. Never get angry. Being angry shows you’re scared. Try being polite instead.

I wish she’d met Henry. She’d have soon been put that gloomy old libertine in his place. And she’d have made him laugh too. And they might have focused on improving joy, good humour and manners in the world, Henry in his tsunami style, Caitlin by wit and insight. What a team.