SOMETHING'S COMING (I'M NOT SURE WHAT)

I admit to being an incurable optimist. Whilst I constantly hear mutterings about this “broken society” or “the entitlement class” I reflect on a high electoral turnout, the end of youthful apathy and the prospect of cross-party collaboration in Brexit discussions. Democracy flexing its collaborative muscles as opposed to the self-interested hegemony that political parties adore.

Yet some see it differently and more pessimistically  - here was one response I saw recently:
“Mayhem rules. Democracy teeters. Mobocracy right upper cuts. Millennials stir.”

I suspect this is from a disgruntled Tory because there seems a general sense that the allure of strong and stable leadership has been betrayed in favour of a rather feeble nil-all draw.

The “teetering, stirring and mayhem” of the malcontent above reflect the lines of WB Yeats’ “Second Coming” I’ve been reciting in my mind this week:

“Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
  Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

Yet are things really falling apart? If you’re a right wing Tory they may seem to be but for most the liberal centre created by people like Blair, Cameron and Clegg seems to be in reasonable shape. What was missing until now has been a Plan B, a bit of angry debate about inequality, about incompetence and opposition to antiquated thinking. But picking up from last week there is a rustling in the undergrowth, a sense of change and a feeling that there has to be a better and a fairer way.

If like me you feel ashamed and dismayed every time you see someone who’s homeless in the street, you want it changed. If like me your horror about the Grenfell Tower tragedy is despair about this having been an accident waiting to happen, you want a radical review of all suspect supported housing and the way we help all disadvantaged people.

Ken Clarke, usually the most sensible of spokesmen, said on Any Questions that party politics was being made out of Grenfell. Yet the victims, homeless, hopeless, in grief and sitting together in misery are generating understandable and increasing rage about the iniquity, inequality and hopelessness of their plight.  You’d better believe this is a political problem not just a tragedy.

Mine is not a complacent optimism. Rather it’s a wrathful optimism, wrathful that this wealthy country with improving health, intelligence and nice socially-minded people manages so readily to screw things up.

I’m optimistic because human beings are a resourceful and tolerant bunch capable of unravelling the threads that need unravelling. The problem is the politicians who are currently in hiding or plotting or in fear of their political lives and don’t know what to do, are not going to easily be part of the solution.

We need to put together the best we have from all parties and beyond those parties and create a platform for action - not left, nor right just right-minded and optimistic.

It also seems like a good time to start listening.

GOD BLESS US, EVERYONE

As another Christmas creaks into sight it strikes me as strange how little it changes. As I watched ‘A Christmas Carol’ on TV with Patrick Stewart as Scrooge (“beam me up Santa”) Victorian Christmas was depicted with all those same familiar urges I felt when I was small and Britain was poor – the smell of tangerines, of hot mincemeat, the sound of laughter and of singing carols like In Dulci Jubilo in which, momentarily, we all rather self-consciously utter Latin.

Those same familiar urges come back every year. Mulled wine urges. Roast potato urges. Calvados and port urges. Cracker urges…
Q. Why does Santa have three gardens?
A.  So he can ho, ho, ho.
Q. What sort of bike does Santa ride?
A. A Holly Davidson.

Nostalgia, as they say, isn’t what it used to be, except when it comes to Christmas.

Because we now live in radically changed times where life is played to new rules.  Things we no longer do or frown upon generally vary from capital punishment to fox hunting to smoking to applauding having stiff upper lips. And not so long ago many of those were normal.

We were taught to be masters and mistresses of fair play. Tribal loyalty outlawed whistleblowing. We didn’t “sneak”, complain or talk about “it” – which makes the emerging horrors of Caldecott School (gateway to Eton), a poignant example of the scale of change not least in the police’s willingness to become historians as well as custodians of the law. (It also raises a question as to the powers of observation of the seemingly intelligent Mr Clegg, a Joint Head Boy there, who was apparently completely unaware of what was going on.)

There is no such thing as “water under the bridge” any more… stones are no longer best left unturned.

Years ago I was talking to a senior academic about the huge sums paid to the college by a benefactor who was subsequently discovered to be a crook and suggesting we ought (perhaps) to return the money to his victims.

He sighed:  “My dear Richard. If we gave money back that rascals had given us over the centuries we wouldn’t exist or we’d be bankrupt. Don’t be silly”.

That was then. I’m not so sure now.

Because in today’s world the rules have changed.

The rules relate to doing whatever you can get away with to win and whatever looks good. The Charles Saatchi alleged media campaign to “whiten” the name of Nigella would be a classic example of playing a new game of media sledging.

But Nigella’s a lot prettier than Charles (I supposed I’m being un-PC saying that) and like Christmas she’s big, fun and seems just a bit naughty. I haven’t heard her sing but I bet she’s tuneful…. Eartha Kitt meets Carly Simon.

Like Christmas, icons like Nigella are timeless.

And regardless of whatever allegations, is a whole lot more inspiring than the British preparatory school system.

A MANDATORY ODE TO JOY

It seemed a normal enough Wednesday with Prime Minister's Question Time being run by Nick Clegg (again), the Prime Minster having been called to an emergency G20 meeting in Brussels to discuss the Spanish crisis. England had lost to South Korea in a friendly at Wembley. Inflation was rising as was unemployment. The Coalition Government were described in the Times as “doing an excellent job in the circumstances.”

It was in the wine bar “Four Green Bottles” that a few us decided these were weird times and rather sad ones too. Private Eye had just been successfully sued for libel by Rupert Murdock and suddenly was no more. Mervyn King had suddenly resigned for personal reasons and been replaced by Michael Sherwood head of Goldman Sachs UK as Governor of the Bank of England. John Humphrys had been killed in a hit and run outside Broadcasting House and Police Chief Bernard Hogan-Howe saying it was suspicious, apparently warned BBC newscasters to be careful about what they said. BBC responding announced as a duty of care they were appointing a temporary Director of Screening – Alistair Campbell to oversee all news coverage. And sterling was weakening daily. “We’re doomed” I laughed as I ordered four more Riojas – “blimey!” I said when this came to £35 “we won’t be doing this too much longer”.

Later that evening a news flash appeared on the giant Siemens flat screen above the bar. It was David Cameron. We paused laughing about Wayne Rooney’s three missed penalties the previous night to listen. “I spheak to you from Paris” he said – “he sounds drunk” whispered Ian. He went on about partnership and looking after the interests of the world and never succumbing to tyranny and why being together represented strength and being alone was lonely and dangerous. “Very drunk” muttered Ian.

“Which is why tonight we are joining the Euro – sad to lose the pound but really no choice and I shall be standing down as Plime Rinster and goodnight”.

A BBC newscaster appeared and soberly said “in a move welcomed throughout Europe and the world Britain has joined the Euro. A new Euro-Council of three ex heads of their respective states will handle all transitional arrangements. They are Angela Merkel, Nicholas Sarkozy and Anthony Blair.”

My friends looked at me and said as one “get another two bottles fast.”

This work of fiction is provoked by the increasing appointment of unelected bankers to run our affairs and a sense of being led down a path of no one’s choosing.

This piece has not been passed by the newly appointed Director General for UK Media (DGFUKME). 

Please delete after reading.