HOME TO ROOST

Not so long ago – at least using the widest historical perspective – wars undertaken on foreign soil were sufficiently detached from home not merely in terms of geographical distance; prior to advances in communications it’s all-too easy to take for granted today, the latest news from the front might not reach those with an emotional investment in the outcome for weeks. We’ve all grown up with stories of WWII telegrams being delivered to doorsteps that informed a war bride her bridegroom was either missing in action or had been killed in conflict; but before the 20th century’s technological innovations, the lengthy wait for news must have made whichever war was being fought overseas seem as though it was taking place on another planet. Ironically, the advances the last century brought us didn’t just shorten the interminable gap between events on the battlefield and deliverance of reports to the housewife, but also served to bring the war to the streets of the nation waging it. Zeppelin raids on England during the First World War were a wake-up call that distance was no longer a hindrance to experiencing the horrors of war for those who hadn’t been called-up to fight it, and what followed a generation later shattered forever the comforting illusion of isolationist security that a bit of water engendered.

The USA certainly received such a wake-up call with Pearl Harbour in 1941 and was again shaken out of its torpor 60 years later in New York; but some had received it a little earlier, at a time when it was thousands of armed men rather than advanced technological hardware that presented citizens of a country engaged in a war abroad with the consequences of their nation’s actions. Napoleon’s ill-fated invasion of Russia in 1812 saw the Emperor overwhelmed by the vast landmass before him as well as the onset of winter – factors which also played into the demoralising defeat of another failed conqueror of Mother Russia 130 years after Bonaparte embarked upon his humiliating retreat back to the West. But whilst the sheer mind-boggling scale of Russia as a country may prove to be a deterrent to invading forces of flesh-and-blood, the 21st century doesn’t even require the manned aircraft that the previous century depended upon to bring the conflict closer to home.

Recent drone attacks on Moscow that the Kremlin credited to Kyiv have belatedly alerted many Russians that it no longer matters how far from the frontline they are. Explosions that rang through some of the Russian capital’s more exclusive gated communities – ones lined with expensive residential homes of the kind certain wealthy Russian exiles have bought up Monopoly-like in London – came hot on the heels of drone strikes on the Kremlin a few weeks ago, ones which Moscow claimed to be an attempt to assassinate Vlad himself. The latest drone assault last week was aimed at the suburb of Rublyovka, a neighbourhood that is home to some of the country’s most powerful political and business movers and shakers. Even Putin himself has a pad there. The Russian Ministry of Defence claimed more than half-a-dozen drones were either downed or intercepted via electronic jammers en route to Moscow, whilst media reports suggest upwards of 25 to 30 were involved in the attack. The Kremlin points the finger at Kyiv, and though Kyiv itself has denied any involvement in the attacks, one Ukrainian presidential aide found it hard to hide his pleasure. ‘Of course we are pleased to watch,’ said Mykhailo Podolyak, ‘but we have nothing directly to do with this.’

Reactions to a war instigated by Moscow suddenly encroaching into Moscow itself have been greeted by some residents of the affected neighbourhood with a weary resignation – one reported response was that the assault was ‘to be expected…what else were we waiting for?’ The solution from the hawk side of the argument is to hit Ukraine even harder, though considering the Russians bombarded Kyiv with its own drones and missiles on at least 17 separate occasions in May alone, the evidence hardly suggests Moscow is easing up. The pro-war factions have been critical of the Ministry of Defence for allowing the drones to breach Russian defences, and those actually engaged in the conflict on Ukrainian soil have been even more vocal. Yevgeny Prigozhin, the leader of the so-called Wagner mercenary group fighting in Eastern Ukraine, has repeatedly criticised the Russian military establishment for not providing his troops with adequate ammunition and support as well as decrying the ineptitude of their strategy; he laid the blame on last week’s drone attacks at the feet of the same out-of-touch military officials that reside there. ‘Why the f**k are you allowing these drones to fly to Moscow?’ he snarled. ‘Who gives a shit that they are flying to your homes on Rublyovka? Let your houses burn!’

There certainly appears to be a clear disconnect between those directing events on the ground from afar and those actually on the ground itself, though hasn’t this always been the case in warfare? We’re all aware of the gulf that existed between WWI generals stationed in grandiose mansions several miles from the trenches and the soldiers bogged-down in them, even if that awareness stems from ‘Blackadder Goes Fourth’; and support for Putin’s warmongering is far-from universal in Russia itself, something drone attacks on home soil will surely only intensify. Vlad’s appearance on state television in the wake of last week’s assault saw him railing against Kyiv and its attempts to ‘intimidate Russia and Russian citizens’ with such a ‘terrorist attack’, pointing out that the drones were aimed at residential rather than military targets, as though Ukraine (if it was indeed responsible) was somehow veering from the honourable rules of engagement; but anyone who has witnessed the aftermath of Russia’s own attacks on Ukrainian towns and cities will know Russia never honoured these rules in the first place.

Ukraine’s multiple allies in the West have observed events with caution though, as our very own Foreign Secretary James Cleverly said, ‘Ukraine does have the legitimate right to defend itself within its own borders, of course; but it does also have the right to project force beyond its borders to undermine Russia’s ability to project force into Ukraine itself.’ Washington, on the other hand, said it doesn’t support attacks inside Russia – officially, anyway. Given the convenience of today’s technology to wage war from a distance – even if boots are still being deployed on the ground – it’s no surprise the conflict will eventually be deposited on the doorsteps of those who launched it; every advance in the hardware of warfare – airships, fighter jets, drones – enables those engaged in war to inflict damage ever further from the frontline, and events in Moscow last week have demonstrated this yet again.

Incidentally, current reports of another troubled spot on the map – Sudan – suggesting historical artefacts are at risk from the bombardment of Khartoum, highlights the short-sighted idiocy of returning precious archaeological treasures to the country of their origin on ideological grounds; the reason so many have survived is precisely because they were dispatched to Western museums in the 19th century; the locations they were sourced from have been unstable regions for decades and the fact the latest conflict in Sudan is putting those that stayed put in danger shows up the fanatical determination of our museums to ‘decolonise’ their collections for being the futile moral crusade it is. The loss of such artefacts in Iraq and Syria in recent years should surely have served as a warning, though it’s almost as though brainwashed British curators are prepared to sacrifice the priceless objects in their possessions simply to secure their place on ‘the right side of history’. What’s happening in Sudan at the moment is an internal struggle, though one could say Russia sees the Ukraine issue in exactly the same way, a civil war in which neighbours sharing a common history are at each other’s throats just for a piece of bloody land and a bloody border. Maybe the war was on home soil all along.

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WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

Catching the climax of the Premier League season at the weekend, I noticed there was a (hopefully brief) resurrection of knee-taking, presumably to mark the occasion with the kind of concern for human rights that wasn’t so evident from all the players – or pundits – who gave legitimacy to the cuddly Qatari regime at the World Cup last December by being there. This shallow ceremony began signalling the virtues of one of the most morally bankrupt sports on the planet around the time the pandemic forced it to play behind closed doors three years ago, and the initial reaction of punters to it once they were allowed back into stadiums was the authentic voice of the long-suffering supporter sick of being preached to by holier-than-thou football authorities. Which means, of course, that the long-suffering supporter is naturally racist. Anyway, at least football has yet to experience some of the indignities endured by women’s sports of late – though if Harry Kane declared himself to be female tomorrow, it’s a dead cert whichever women’s team he joined would at least guarantee him the silverware a career at Spurs seems destined to deny him.

Thinking back to that strange period when football was played in empty arenas, it feels so much longer ago than just three years; but, then again, most of the madness that accompanied the Covid era constitutes such a uniquely abnormal episode in our recent history that it’s sometimes hard to believe any of it happened now. That period should always stand out in the collective memory as an absolute aberration in the same way the power-cuts and Three Day Weeks of the early 70s do for the generation that lived through them by candlelight; however, the real danger – and one that many of us felt at the time – was that lockdown as a policy would thereafter be legitimised as a go-to option whenever the government of the day felt necessary to impose it, with the people having no say whatsoever. The dependence upon the say-so of unelected experts with an agenda has been rightly (if belatedly) called into question since, yet the alleged ultimate authority on the subject was hardly the most trustworthy of voices in the thick of it.

The World Health Organisation’s suspicious reluctance to lay the blame squarely at the door of China at the height of the pandemic extended to its hostile denial of the ‘lab-leak’ origins of the coronavirus, falling in line with the fake news emanating from Beijing. Cast your mind back to just how vociferously the lab-leak story – which is now accepted as fact – was denounced as the rabid fantasy of online conspiracy theorists in the days when we were restricted to social bubbles; anyone daring to put it forward as a feasible explanation for what began in Wuhan would have their YT channels terminated and their Twitter accounts suspended, treated as blasphemers and fifth columnists. All the uncritical Fleet Street journos who sucked-up to the Johnson administration in the hope of one day being chosen as Downing Street Press Officer toed the government line and were just as vehemently dismissive of the lab-leak angle as the WHO, playing their part in discrediting the theory; but the WHO itself was equally critical of those who claimed natural immunity could arguably be just as effective in protecting against infection as a vaccine. It’s fair to say the organisation didn’t exactly cover itself in glory when it was selling itself as the voice of expertise.

It’s vital none of this is conveniently forgotten when confronted by the latest proposals from the WHO, ones which would give it unprecedented – not to say unconstitutional – global powers to impose its authority on sovereign states. As revealed last week, the WHO has its own ominous take on the so-called ‘pandemic treaty’; this treaty has its roots in the ‘peak Covid’ period of 2021, when world leaders – including our very own Boris, bless him – hatched the idea of national governments sharing data, vaccine production and research into potential pandemics of the future in order to prevent the swift spread of another coronavirus across the globe; the UK, as with every other country committed to it, would also be required to devote 5% of its health budget on preparations for a possible outbreak were the treaty to be signed, sealed and delivered. This international treaty is currently being negotiated and, by speeding-up vital communications between different nations, could be seen as a sensible option if we are to be spared what we endured two or three years ago again. Having said that, the WHO is flexing its muscles whilst settled into its privileged seat at the negotiating table, and appears insistent on inserting clauses that would remove independent decisions from governments in the event of another pandemic – something the concept of the treaty shouldn’t have been devised for.

At the last count, something in the region of around 300 amendments are being proposed to the WHO’s International Health Regulations, amendments scheduled to be accepted as binding if introduced; according to reports, they would enable the unelected organisation to receive unquestioning acceptance as a worldwide coordinator of public health policies normally resting in the hands of individual governments. The governing body of the WHO would be in a position to instigate the closure of borders, to order the introduction of vaccine passports and quarantine measures, to impose lockdowns without the consent of any democratically-elected government, and be given the right to demand the handover of vaccine formulas; those signed-up to the treaty would also be obliged to ‘counter misinformation’, presumably in the same style as the WHO countered misinformation itself during the pandemic as a self-appointed arbiter of dubious truth; and – as Brucie used to say – didn’t they do well.

Understandably alarmed at the prospect of these proposals becoming international law, a group of Conservative MPs have put their names to a letter circulated amongst Ministers that warns of the WHO being transformed ‘from an advisory organisation to a controlling international authority’. The letter suggests to the Foreign Office that it might be a good idea to prevent the WHO gaining powers that ‘appear to intrude materially into the UK’s ability to make its own rules and control its own budgets’; after all, weren’t we supposed to have dispensed with such outside interference courtesy of Brexit? The MPs behind the letter are calling for a Commons vote on the treaty in its draft state as a means of studying the small print before the degree of autonomy the UK Government currently enjoys when it comes to public health measures is signed away without a second look. Yes, I get that some of the signatories of such a letter being rightwing backbenchers perhaps with an axe to grind means it’s easy to dismiss their worries as the latest paranoid manifestation of ‘taking back control’; but at the same time there are enough elements in these WHO proposals to give genuine cause for concern were they to be implemented.

Improved international cooperation is, of course, something that might just help were we to find ourselves in a similar position to the one we found ourselves in three years ago; but there’s a difference between that and what the WHO appears to be proposing, something that would essentially remove the right to make decisions on such an issue from those who already have a tendency to be bloody untrustworthy enough as it is; the last thing the global electorate need is for those decisions to then fall into the hands of a body that can’t even be ousted from its lofty position if it gets things wrong. And the WHO doesn’t exactly have an unblemished record on that score. Another, far more preferable, incarnation of The Who once sang, ‘I get on my knees and pray/we don’t get fooled again.’ Amen to that.

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THEM AND US

Well, it’s been another sequence of days leaving us spoilt for choice when it comes to highlighting yet again just how detached so many of our elected representatives are from me and thee. I suppose it makes sense to start at the top and work our way down, even if the top is a pretty lowly starting point to begin with where this lot are concerned. Okay, so the bad smell that is both Boris Johnson and the legacy of his No.10 tenure continues to infect headlines with the news that the former PM has been referred to Knacker re claims he broke lockdown rules during the pandemic; yes, it might feel like this is merely a re-boot of an over-familiar franchise, but it’s one story that thankfully keeps re-emerging every time the guilty try and sweep it under the carpet, and it won’t do any harm to be regularly reminded of what was going on in the Covid-free zones inhabited by the Cabinet while the rest of us were under house-arrest. The moment we neglect to remember is the moment we let them get away with it.

Scotland Yard has justified its latest perusal of the Ministerial diary by declaring, ‘We are in receipt of information from the Cabinet Office passed to us on 19 May 2023, which we are currently assessing. It relates to potential breaches of the Health Protection Regulations between June 2020 and May 2021 at Downing Street.’ Thames Valley Police have also got in on the act, as Boris is alleged to have received visitors at Chequers during the same time frame. Nothing new there, then; but further material for the investigation into Boris’s lockdown shindigs for the Commons Privileges Committee, I suppose. The justifiable anger that greeted the initial revelations of these always warrants being rekindled, even if the element of surprise is long gone; after all, nobody expects anything better of Ministers anymore. The lockdown party scandal was perhaps the most extreme example of how they evidently regard themselves as superior beings too high and mighty to abide by rules they impose on the plebs; yet this week so far has been dominated by another potent example of this – the Suella Braverman speeding saga.

As we know, the Home Secretary was caught speeding last summer when she was still Attorney General. Her privileged position clearly entitled her to special treatment, or so she imagined, allegedly asking Home Office civil servants to assist her in avoiding acquiring points on her licence. According to the Sunday Times, Ms Braverman tried to organise a one-to-one driving awareness course, something that would prevent her having to attend the usual ‘group therapy’ course ordinary motorists/mortals are dispatched to as an alternative to points on their licences. Having known a couple of people who’ve attended these, I’ve been told they’re not exactly fun days out on a par with Alton Towers; a dozen unlucky strangers are sealed in an air-tight vault for hours, humiliated and lectured in a condescending manner as though they’d just passed their test and know next to nothing about driving. It’s not difficult to understand why someone inhaling the rarefied air of high office like Suella Braverman might try her damndest to wriggle out of the whole embarrassing episode. However, when the one-to-one proposal was rejected, the Home Secretary’s aides then apparently tried to arrange an online equivalent whereby Braverman would hide her identity to prevent the story leaking out. In the end, she was forced to accept three points on her licence.

Braverman – who, it has to be said, is something of a repeat offender when it comes to breaking the Ministerial code – is still clinging on at the Home Office, awaiting the judgement of Rishi, rather than falling on her sword; her one-time Cabinet colleague Dominic Raab, on the other hand, has opted to bow out with as much grace as he can muster, announcing this week he’ll be standing down as an MP come the next General Election. One suspects that when he departs there won’t be a moist eye in the House. His downfall – much like the relegation to the backbenches of another leftover from the Boris era, Gavin Williamson – was due to bullying allegations, a factor viewed by the opposition as further evidence of this administration’s rotten core. Labour’s habit of selling itself as the honest alternative – demonstrated yet again by Suella Braverman’s opposite number Yvette Cooper staging a master-class in self-righteous indignation in the Commons when pressing the Home Secretary for the truth – can be a risky game to play, however; it requires maintaining a whiter-than-white public image that makes big demands on those involved and means when the facade of integrity invariably slips, the accusations of hypocrisy ring louder than when a Party of whom we expect nothing less than endemic double standards are similarly found out.

Rachel Reeves, Labour’s Shadow Chancellor, was this week caught letting the holier-than-thou side down by tweeting a pic of her BA ticket en route to New York, a ticket revealing she was sat in the airline’s exclusive £4,000+ Club World Business Class suite; the tweet may have been deleted with as much speed as Emily Thornberry removed her sneering ‘white van’ tweet a few years back, but as we all know, once it’s out there it’s out there for good. After accusing members of the Government of enjoying a ‘five-star luxury lifestyle’ on their numerous overseas jollies in the thick of a ‘cost-of-living crisis’, a leading Labour figure not flying economy class – which we surely expect of our noble puritan warriors – comes across as just a little bit hypocritical. Yes, Foreign Secretary James Cleverly’s use of a £10,000 private jet whilst touring the Caribbean and Latin America is more like it; that’s just the kind of extravagance the wicked old Tories should be indulging in at the expense of the taxpayer; but an MP from the Labour Party flying on a ticket that entitles her to a private lounge at the airport, keeping her safely separated from the smelly old salt-of-the-earth whose interests she and her Party are fighting for? Hard to comprehend, isn’t it.

And as Rachel Reeves tucked into her braised Welsh leg of lamb along with potato au gratin and minted peas as well as smoked salmon and apricot soufflé with vanilla custard and a cheeseboard accompanied by fig chutney – all washed down with a bottle of premium champagne – one wonders what her Labour colleague, Angela ‘Thingle Mother’ Rayner would’ve made of it all; she’s the one who accused the PM of ‘jetting around the country on taxpayers’ money like an A-list celeb’ whilst ‘families up and down the country are sick with anxiety about whether their pay cheque will cover the weekly shop’. A member of the Labour frontbench should naturally exist on a diet of bread & dripping and make their way to any function by horse-and-cart – that’s a given. Or, alternately, they could dispense with any pretence to being at one with the wider electorate and simply admit they belong to a separate political class, emphasising their true metropolitan credentials by adhering to an insane ideology nobody beyond Guardianista circles buys into whatsoever.

That’s what Lib Dem leader Ed Davey did this week, adding his name to the impressive roll-call of Honourable Members jostling for the right to be the most out-of-touch Parliamentarian when it comes to those whose votes they’ll be courting again a year or so from now. On an LBC phone-in, the man who clearly fancies his chances of ‘doing a Clegg’ next time round declared that women can ‘quite clearly’ have a penis; perhaps his missus is hiding something from us or maybe he’s just riding the latest convenient bandwagon with a fair few passengers already weighing it down on campus. Disregarding the blatant abuse of the naive appeasement of a tiny minority by Scottish paedophiles and other brickies in drag who fancy venturing into the few safe spaces remaining to half of the natural-born population, Sir Ed hardly gave floating voters who are desperate for an alternative to the shower of shit running the show much in the way of confidence. These are your options, folks. Good luck.

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A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

Amongst life’s most notoriously impossible tasks is one which most of us will be mercifully spared – to take every piece of music that has ever meant something to us and to narrow the list down to a paltry eight pieces. Such is the challenge confronting any guest on ‘Desert Island Discs’. Like many (I would imagine), I’ve tried preparing a list several times over the years – just on the off-chance, of course – and whenever I think I’ve cracked it, another dozen discs will materialise before me, each of which has an absolute right to claim a place in the eight. So I screw the paper up and start again. The select few who’ve been invited to that desert island twice don’t know how lucky they are. When it comes to selecting a solitary book to sit alongside the Bible and the complete works of Shakespeare – which are already generously waiting underneath the palm tree – this is potentially an even greater task; just one out of all the hundreds to have provoked thought, tears, laughter or anger from a lifetime of reading? Surprisingly, I know without any hesitation which book I would pick, because it’s one I want to read again, perhaps over and over again – if only to remind me just how mind-blowingly brilliant and breathtakingly beautiful it is: ‘Time’s Arrow’ by Martin Amis.

‘Time’s Arrow’ is one of those novels that must have been a bugger to summarise in its back cover blurb. Essentially, it’s the story of a life lived backwards – the life of a Nazi war criminal we join as an old man decades later in America, having evaded any judgement at Nuremburg. Only, the entire world he inhabits is one where everything takes place in reverse, so he didn’t euthanize anyone at Auschwitz, but brought them to life and sent them home on the train out of the camp with a clean bill of health. Unlike in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s ‘The Curious Case of Benjamin Button’, it isn’t merely the lead character who goes from old age to infancy while the world around him moves at a normal forward pace; in ‘Time’s Arrow’, everything and everyone follows the same reverse path. The flipping of the order of things so that a Nazi death camp is a place where life is created rather than extinguished is replicated throughout the story; the reader cannot but marvel at the inspired twists on everyday banalities as much as the great historical events the character is privy to; in one comically grim scene, for example, the lead character is sat before the hearth when toenail clippings fly out of the open fire and are then attached to his toes by a pair of scissors in his hand. Of course, that’s precisely what would happen if life was literally lived backwards, just as the end would find us as babies being pushed into the womb, where we eventually shrink into nothingness.

The thought and planning that must have gone into the writing of ‘Time’s Arrow’ to ensure the narrative progressed logically is something it’s difficult not to be in awe of. But the fact such an odd and unnatural premise unfolds as a wholly engaging story that can stir so many different emotions not only elevates the book above mere literary experiment; it is also testament to Amis’s skills as an exceptionally gifted storyteller. And, unlike all the long-gone novelists whose names roll off the tongue whenever great literature is discussed, he walked among us as recently as just a few days ago. The death of Martin Amis at the age of 73, claimed by the same form of cancer that killed his long-time sidekick Christopher Hitchens 12 years ago, has deprived the written word of one of its finest caretakers, a writer whose waspishly witty, deceptively effortless and relentlessly readable style owed an undoubted debt to the giants upon whose shoulders he lounged without their influence ever hindering the unique tone of his own distinctive voice.

Amis once admitted that however terrible the first novel he attempted might turn out to be, he knew it would nevertheless be published regardless, simply on the strength of his surname; the literary dynasty to which he belonged ensured he was one to watch from the first day he put pen to paper. His father Kingsley Amis was one of the key post-war authors who made their mark in the mid-50s; ‘Lucky Jim’ was a satirical slice of red-brick university life that spoke to the generation benefitting from the slow erosion of the pre-war class certainties via the widening of educational opportunities; along with the novels that followed in its wake, such as John Braine’s ‘Room at the Top’ (as well as the plays of John Osborne and the poetry of Kingsley’s close friend Philip Larkin), ‘Lucky Jim’ gave British literature a fresh provincial edge that dragged it kicking and screaming into the second half of the 20th century. Martin’s stepmother was novelist Elizabeth Jane Howard, author of ‘The Cazalet Chronicles’; he credited her with introducing him to the canon of English classics that proved to be so significant in shaping his own literary abilities as well as encouraging him to write.

As it happened, when Amis’s first novel was indeed published, 1973’s ‘The Rachel Papers’, it wasn’t terrible and was well-received by critics who could just have easily shot him down solely due to his entitled status. As the 70s careered towards the 80s, Amis established a somewhat louche public image of the stick-thin, vaguely decadent dandy with a cigarette never far from lips that always appeared to be bordering on a sneer; in some respects, this enduring image – along with the broadsheet soap opera of his private life – served to distract the uninitiated from just how masterly a writer he was evolving into. By the turn of the 80s, he was being grouped alongside a new wave of British authors such as Julian Barnes, Ian McEwan and Salman Rushdie in the same way his father had been lumped-in with the ‘Angry Young Men’ of the 50s; but Amis wasn’t a team player and proved himself to be an astute individual interpreter and caustic translator of changing mores with era-defining novels such as 1984’s ‘Money’ and 1989’s ‘London Fields’.

Amis’s assertion that Dickens was not so much a social commentator as a social sorcerer who manufactured a curiously eccentric England from the real tools he found around him was mirrored by his own ‘parallel universe’ impression of the country, something he continued to delve into with the likes of 2012’s ‘Lionel Asbo: State of England’; like many of the bombs he dropped on the cosy clique of the London literary world, it provoked as much controversy and outrage as admiration for his ability to turn depressing subject matter into such a blackly comic, picaresque excursion into the dark heart of the nation. By the time it appeared, Amis had already embarked upon a well-trodden path as the Englishman in exile, studying his homeland from afar and inspiring bitchy envy in those whose inability to escape denied them his wider perspective.

Amis didn’t merely limit his talents to works of fiction. Along with his entertaining essays and contributions to newspapers and periodicals, he would regularly be called upon to provide an enlightening observation on whatever happened to be under discussion – the Arts or politics – on highbrow TV shows. One of his most memorable outings on television was a documentary he made for BBC4 around a decade ago in which he took a more in-depth personal look at England, upholding a tradition of the artist abroad developing a greater fascination with the place he came from than he had when he was there. Martin Amis was one of our most compelling cultural voices – one whose willingness to express his views with the kind of refreshing candour largely absent from those terrified of giving offence for fear of being cancelled made him all the more of a rarity in today’s diminished creative landscape, a landscape that will now be even more diminished without him.

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CUM ON FEEL THE NOISE POLLUTION

The BBC’s – or BBC management’s – arrogantly dismissive attitude towards its musical public service has been summed-up by its recent treatment of the Corporation’s orchestras and the BBC Singers, something strongly at odds with the approach of, say, a revered composer whose works received invaluable exposure at a time when the remit was scrupulously adhered to. Ralph Vaughan Williams, the man who wrote the piece of music that regularly tops polls to find the nation’s favourite classical tune – ‘The Lark Ascending’ – believed he had an almost moral duty to make his music as available to the widest possible audience. He was fortunate his 85 years on this earth encompassed the revolutionary rise of radio as an unparalleled platform that took classical music out of the expensive enclosed space of the concert hall and placed it in everyone’s living room; the BBC was instrumental in the process. The Corporation’s current disregard for this legacy and the vital role it has always played in exposing untrained ears to something other than pop pap is, sadly, not out of step with the way in which the educational system has downgraded the Arts in general and music in particular, with the latter retreating back into the elitist bosom of the fee-paying school, seen as a luxury that state system kids can do without.

The current penalisation of a singer-songwriter whose instrument of choice is the far-from disruptive acoustic guitar, has further underlined the lack of support for – and hostility towards – musicians that is characteristic of an attitude bordering on the philistine, not to mention being a sad comment upon the changing nature of the way we live now. Even the most gifted musicians still need to practice, though with the disappearance of so many rehearsal spaces – and the spiralling cost of those remaining – it’s unsurprising that those not receiving grants or financial assistance to help them hone their talent are forced to practice at home. Within living memory, the fixtures and fittings of the domestic environment once included at least one musical instrument – and at least one member of the family would be capable of playing it; from party pieces on the old Joanna after Saturday night’s last orders in the working-class parlour to the violin recital of little Anthony in the middle-class drawing-room, the playing of music was as much a part of the furniture as dressing tables or doilies.

The arrival of the TV set contributed towards the gradual erosion of ‘making your own entertainment’ in many households, leading all the way to a situation whereby the sound of music being played on an instrument can now be viewed as noise pollution on a par with repeatedly barking dogs, beeping car horns, or even the thundering boom of a neighbouring nightclub, not to mention the equally window-rattling portable sound systems emanating from passing vehicles. The majority of householders may no longer derive pleasure from the simple joy of playing as a means of relaxing or channelling redundant energy, but professional musicians have no choice but to devote several hours a day to their instrument, in the same way a professional footballer needs to maintain the fitness levels required for a 90-minute match on a weekend when training during the week. If a musician is thus confined to quarters due to the absence or expense of alternative premises, the possibility of their practice being overheard by others is a strong likelihood.

Granted, a lot depends on the style of dwelling in question – a detached house is more sound-proofed than a semi or a terrace or an apartment block, of course – and a lot also depends on the volume of the instrument being played; an electric guitar or a drum-kit will register more decibels than any woodwind instrument, for example. Another significant factor is the time of day in which the practice takes place. As someone whose sleep used to be routinely disrupted by neighbours who either plugged-in their amps or switched on their decks in the middle of the night without once considering that I – or anyone else in the locality – might not want to be forced (and then kept) awake by their bowel-churning bass-lines echoing throughout the wee small hours, I have every sympathy for those plagued by genuine noise nuisance in built-up urban areas; but there’s a difference between that kind of inconsiderate disruption and the sound of an acoustic guitar being strummed between the hours of 11am and 3pm, hours when many won’t even be at home to overhear it. Not that the overzealous killjoys masquerading as the Environmental Health Officers of Lewisham Council see things this way.

Lewisham – ironically the ‘London Borough of Culture’ just last year – has some strange ideas as to what constitutes culture. Fiona Fey, who practices an instrument with a volume level no higher than a vacuum cleaner in the hours just mentioned, and does so in a room with sound-proof doors and carpeted concrete floors, has been served with a noise abatement notice by said EHO and failure to comply could result in a £5,000 fine and the confiscation of her guitar via a legal forced entry; and all on the strength of one complaint. Imagine a similar treatment being dished out to builders – who generate far more noise than an acoustic guitar – and the tools of their trade being removed if they refuse to do as they’re told by the EHO. They’d have a strong case against any council that attempted to deprive them of a living in such a manner, and a union to back them up; why is a musician like Fiona Fey not receiving the same support, left with little option but to pack her bags and be reduced to sofa-surfing?

The abuse of laws put in place to cope with actual noise pollution has been highlighted by this particular case, whereby the playing of a musical instrument has been classified as a nuisance, yet what is referred to as ‘living noise’ – such as a loud TV or radio – is not; it feels as though musicians are being persecuted whilst the genuinely guilty noise polluters are spared any punishment whatsoever due to the undefined vagueness of the laws on noise being enforced by the singular interpretation of an Environmental Health Officer. As Fiona Fey herself says, according to Lewisham County Council, she is now forbidden to play any musical instrument in her home at any time. This is an outrageous curb of an individual’s rights to do as they please within the confines of their own home. The slamming of doors, the flushing of toilets, conversations, arguments, orgasms – all can be overheard at one time or another if one lives where people are packed close together; to expect absolute silence in a city as though one’s home were an isolated rural cottage miles from the nearest village is ridiculous. But a considerate neighbour will restrict the hours when degree of noise is unavoidable in order to maintain an often fragile harmony, and it would appear Fiona Fey achieved this due to the fact the majority of her neighbours admitted her playing wasn’t a problem.

A judgement by Environmental Health Officers can be appealed against, but who the hell can afford the cost of such a legal challenge, let alone a jobbing musician? The laughable advice of the EHO that Fiona Fey ‘think more carefully about where you live in future’ rather overlooks the dearth of affordable properties in London, especially for anyone struggling to make a living in an industry that has become increasingly harder for those without financial privilege to break into in recent years. I personally find it remarkably mean-spirited that Lewisham Council’s Environmental Health Officers saw fit to penalise her for what is a necessary element of her profession when those I myself was driven to call out when pushed to the end of my tether by noisy neighbours basically told me they was nothing they could do; if the only disruption I’d had to deal with had been an acoustic guitar at 3pm as opposed to a wannabe club DJ at 3am, I wouldn’t have even made the call. Playing a musical instrument should not be placed on the same level as a faulty car alarm that rings around a neighbourhood on a loop for hours at a time; the fact it has been is a sad indictment on a society that sees fit to silence one of the few noises our weary ears are exposed to that can still stir emotions other than anger.

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THE HOLE STORY

The news that an exasperated motorist has taken matters into his own hands by filling a notorious pothole on a road in Cornwall with concrete perhaps serves as an indication as to how far the patience of some road-users can be tested by the ineptitude of those entrusted to maintain Britain’s highways, and not just those in a county with a backlog of outstanding craters in need of patching-up. The road in question had been closed for several weeks due to said pothole, and whilst Cornwall Highways are asking the public for help in identifying the amateur repairer (don’t hold your breaths, lads), a councillor for Lostwithiel and Lanreath has commented that the impromptu actions of the mystery individual are ‘a perfect metaphor for the way that the entire public sector is crumbling due to underinvestment.’ Councillor Colin Martin added, ‘The latest is that the road has been closed again and will remain closed until it is “properly repaired” by Cormac’ (Cornwall Council’s road repair company) ‘but they say this could be weeks away as all available teams have been diverted to filling smaller potholes on roads which are still open. Over the past two years, the Conservatives running Cornwall Council have cut the budget for road surfacing and proactive maintenance.’

I should imagine the majority of motorists forced to endure the country’s infamously bumpy highways probably cheered on whoever was responsible in Cornwall for doing overnight what it takes official road repairers forever and a day to attend to whenever they get round to it, even though his methods were ironically as ineffective as those paid to do it for a living. Many of the nation’s potholes are subjected to short-term fixes using concrete or asphalt, presumably to minimise the time a busy road is closed off to traffic; both materials tend to break down quickly, especially if the pothole is on a highway prone to a large volume of vehicles; potholes will then quickly reappear, requiring more repairs and contributing towards both the spiralling cost of continuous maintenance and the frustration of motorists forced to clog-up even less adequate alternate routes. This country’s climate doesn’t help either – with wet weather playing its part as water erodes a road’s foundations, making it susceptible to damage from traffic; rain also seeps into cracks on road surfaces worn with wear and tear, freezing during the winter months and then expanding and cracking the road further, often forming potholes in the process.

Considering every urban environment usually contains several vital arteries that experience severe congestion and are pounded by heavy vehicles like lorries and buses on a daily basis, it’s no wonder Britain’s battered roads are so in need of constant repair, even if the root causes of potholes go unaddressed as cracks are routinely papered-over. The dearth of investment in maintaining roads is a familiar story that has echoes throughout the country’s public services, with lack of available funds to the local councils entrusted to deal with the problem usually responsible. In an ideal world, the deterioration of Britain’s decades-old roads would necessitate a large-scale programme of rebuilding and upgrading, though such schemes cost fortunes local councils do not possess, hence the temporary solutions that actually cost more in the long run as the same old cheap methods are relied upon that can only keep potholes at bay for a few months at a time. The Asphalt Industry Alliance has claimed it would take up to 11 years for local authorities to fix every deteriorating road in England and Wales, and whereas improved construction materials and repair methods along with increased investment would certainly help, one wonders who is going to foot the bill.

What is referred to as ‘poor structural condition’ means a road that has less than five years of life remaining. A map of the English regions produced by the Asphalt Industry Alliance highlights where the worst examples are situated, with the Midlands having the longest stretch of road lumbered with such a label – 8,300 miles – whilst the South West can boast 6,000 miles; the South East has 4,700, the North West 4,000, and Yorkshire 3,700; the East of England has 3,400 miles of roads in poor structural condition whilst London can claim 1,900 miles. Meanwhile, the seaside community of St Osyth in Essex reckon they have the worst street in the UK as far as potholes go; Seawick Road is such a minefield of them that taxi drivers refuse to drive to the doors of residents there and emergency services have routinely faced difficulties traversing the terrain. Photographic evidence published in the Daily Mail after a rainfall portrayed a mosaic of puddles so abundant that Seawick Road could pass for Gloucester in Doctor Foster’s day. Any motorist unfortunate enough to live on any street faced with the kind of conditions to be found on Seawick Road can also find it to be a costly address in terms of expensive repairs needed to vehicles such as regularly punctured tyres and cracked wheels.

In the run-up to the recent local elections, the Lib Dems undertook a survey of Britain’s pothole problem sourced from Freedom of Information requests to councils in areas the Party had targeted; the findings were eye-opening to a degree, if in many cases merely serving to confirm what motorists in those areas already suspected. Nine of the 81 councils to provide information had 28 days or more as the average waiting time for attending to potholes, with two London councils – Newham and Lambeth – taking 56 and 50 days respectively; the Lib Dems discovered the time between reporting and repairing in Lambeth had spanned no more than a fortnight five years ago, prior to swingeing cuts taken to the highways maintenance grants of local authorities. Elsewhere, Stoke-on-Trent recorded a wait of 567 days between the reporting and fixing of a particular crater, edging out one in Westminster that took just a solitary day less. Across the country, 556,658 potholes were reported in 2021-22 (519,968 in 2017-18), and when it comes to the pothole capital of England, that dubious honour belongs to Derbyshire, with 90,596 examples reported to the County Council.

Closely studying what most irks the electorate in their own communities when it sore need of their votes, the Tories focused on potholes during recent campaigning, with the Prime Minister ensuring he grabbed a photo-op peering down at one in Darlington. The Department of Transport swiftly declared ‘We’re investing more than £5.5bn to maintain roads up and down the country, and cracking down on utility companies that leave potholes in their wake so motorists and cyclists can enjoy smoother, safer journeys.’ Despite the Department of Transport promising £700 million of the spring budget would go towards fixing the problem, the Asphalt Industry Alliance reckons closer to £14 billion is required. The Lib Dems concluded that highways maintenance budgets being slashed by up to £500m over the past two to three years hasn’t exactly helped the situation, with the £200m pothole fund set aside in the budget causing what the Lib Dems referred to as a ‘pothole postcode lottery’.

The Lib Dems’ local government spokesperson Helen Morgan said, ‘Hard-working people are paying huge bills to repair damage from potholes whilst his Conservative Government takes away the money local councils need to repair our roads. It is not fair for local residents in some areas of the country to be waiting over a year for road repairs because their council cannot afford it.’ Yes, there’s undoubtedly political point-scoring going on, something that will have influenced the decision of the Lib Dems to instigate their survey in the hope of currying favour with voters on the eve of local elections; but at the same time, it’s good someone took the effort to collate this information and produce a report revealing the nationwide extent of the crisis on England and Wales’s highways – even if the likelihood of them receiving the comprehensive facelift they evidently need seems as remote as ever.

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THE BEAT GOES ON

So, normal Eurovision service has been resumed. Sweden won it, and after finishing second-from-top last year, the UK is back in its rightful place on the board as second-from-bottom. Mind you, with no danger of a second consecutive win for Ukraine, the rest of Europe didn’t need Brits to foot the bill as surrogate host again and voted accordingly. Not that one was allowed to forget Ukraine, however; despite Liverpool’s best efforts to big itself up, the Contest was awash with that now very-familiar flag as well as numerous subtle and not-so-subtle expressions of solidarity with the under-fire nation on Putin’s doorstep; the show even opened with an interpretation of last year’s winning number performed by various artists in the manner of the 1998 BBC version of Lou Reed’s ‘Perfect Day’ – just in case anyone watching hadn’t got the message.

Presentation-wise, at one time Katie Boyle on her own would suffice as hostess; then it became a male/female double act, and this year we had no less than four of ’em – including Graham Norton, following in Wogan’s footsteps last time the UK hosted the Contest 25 years ago, emerging from behind the mic and onto the stage. We had the usual toe-curling scripted banter to endure, only this time spread between four; and then we were straight into the first act. In order to make the writing of this post less reliant on online checking, I decided to differentiate between the acts by jotting down my immediate thoughts on each performance as it happened, and I thought I’d reproduce them here in all their raw and uncut glory. So, here we go…

1: AUSTRIA – Two girls singing 90s Europop-style number about Edgar Allen Poe (sounds like it took about 10 minutes to write); 2: PORTUGAL – Blonde girl in red dress singing 90s Europop-style number with ‘ethnic’ flourishes; refreshing to hear native tongue; 3: SWITZERLAND – Creepily boyish solo singer; ballad in Wilkos background Muzak style; lyrics about not wanting to be a soldier a bit ‘political’; 4: POLAND – Ace of Base B-side; standard nursery rhyme vibe on ‘chorus’; dance routine Britney Spears circa 2001; 5: SERBIA – ‘Pretty boy’ solo singer with moody ‘electro-pop’ number attempting to sound ‘mysterious; looks like a young Hugh Grant in eyeliner; 6: FRANCE – Girl singer channelling Piaf spirit until we plunge into routine Europop beat; 7: CYPRUS – Clean-cut solo singer; standard ballad in Enrique Iglesias mould with accompanying ‘fire fountains’ to liven up performance; 8: SPAIN – ‘Ethnic’ intro straight into electronic backing; girl singer with thigh-tastic dancers; actually not bad; 9: SWEDEN – Girl singer with mad talons doing a Johnny Logan (won in 2012, apparently); laying down at beginning of song; lung-busting voice doing Leona Lewis-style ‘power ballad’; 10: ALBANIA – Six family members; another ‘ethnic’ intro that tumbles into routine ‘electro’ beat.

11: ITALY – Macho bearded solo singer; usual routine piano-led ‘moody’ intro before melodramatic chorus; 12: ESTONIA – Girl singer; another moody piano intro – this time on a ‘pianola’; not bad, can hold a note; 13: FINLAND – Solo singer with ‘basin head’ cut, slightly ‘non-binary’ in ensemble; dance-type rhythm Ibiza 1999; chorus like nursery rhyme for 21st century toddlers; 14: CZECH REPUBLIC/CZECHIA – Six-piece girl group; same backing as so many others this evening; slight ‘ethnic’ touch plus ‘rapping’ element ala Pussycat Dolls circa 2005; all in pink with platted ponytails; 15: AUSTRALIA – Novelty ‘rock’ band with electro-pop airbrushing; performance gimmick includes car; vacuous stadium rock ‘woah-oh’ chorus; 16: BELGIUM – 42-year-old gay-boy; early 2000s neo-Disco vibe; not bad; different from rest so far; 17: ARMENIA – 21-year-old also starts on her back (like Sweden); soft ballad opening that leads into predictable high-speed ‘rap’ vocal; 18: MOLDOVA – Another 2012 veteran; bearded bun-head with dancing midget; more ‘ethnic’ sounds set to electronic rhythm; 19: UKRAINE – Male duo; Nigerian-born singer and other guy on decks.

20: NORWAY – Girl singer (Italian); bouncy electro-pop rhythm (any point saying that again?); rather thigh-tastic; 21: GERMANY – Eyeliner-infected ‘rock’ act with camp visuals; look like a fictitious band from a 1980s Channel 4 drama series about the music business; 22: LITHUANIA – Another Eurovision veteran (2015); girl singer; yet one more moody piano intro leads into rather plodding chorus; surrounded by plump Gospel-style backing vocalists to presumably give ‘soulful’ touch; 23: ISRAEL – Another early 20s popette; third female singer to open her act looking like she’s in bed; standard ‘X Factor’ audition vocal and routine Europop beat; dance routine same as every other Eurovision act of this ilk for last 20 years; 24: SLOVENIA – Boy band with guitars, though backing is same electronic rhythm wearing a little thin after two hours; 25: CROATIA – Comedy ‘gay’ look – anti-war song; old-school not-taking-Eurovision-too-seriously vibe ala early 2000s; bloody awful, but refreshingly silly after two hours; 26: UNITED KINGDOM – That electro-pop backing for one final time; quite catchy from the off; coming at the end might help it stick in the head more; presentation and tune adhere to successful Eurovision formula; bit too lightweight, though?

Perhaps my thoughts on the UK entry were accurate, but it was no better or worse than anything else I sat through; somebody has to finish second-from-bottom, I suppose. It was evident fairly early on in the long, drawn-out voting segment of the show that the European juries weren’t going to do us any favours this year; few included the UK in their initial results and none gave us the magic 12 points. Watching the voting could be a depressing experience were it not for the entertainment factor of those announcing the jury votes as they either go for the hyperactive kids TV presenter thing, competing to see who can declare the loudest what a great show it’s been, or they attempt to be self-consciously wacky. One guy was dressed like a gimp Jedi and took forever to unmask himself before simply saying ‘Australia’, for example. Sweden took an early lead and pretty much stayed there throughout, despite surges from Israel and Italy; when we had the strange ‘viewer vote’ addition after the jury votes, the appalling Finnish entry momentarily toppled the Swedish chanteuse with the fingernail implants; but she won out on the viewer vote in the end.

Unsurprisingly – considering his less than gracious treatment by the BBC recently – there was no Ken Bruce commentary on Radio 2 this year, but other than that it was really a case of ‘business as usual’ with the Eurovision in 2023, following the unique atmosphere of the post-pandemic/post-invasion of Ukraine Contest last year. Paying extra attention in order to jot down my instant opinion of what I was watching and hearing, the repetition of the ‘slow piano intro-into electronic Europop beat’ formula throughout the evening began to grate fairly quickly, and let’s be honest, when you’ve seen one dance routine you’ve seen ‘em all at the Eurovision, however thigh-tastic some of the dancers might be. There was less of a ‘Trans’ aspect to it than I’d expected, though perhaps all the drag queens were eliminated in the qualifying rounds this year; and even the ‘gay factor’ wasn’t quite so in-yer-face as usual; but the similarity between the songs and presentation, right up to the fact that three of the female performers opened proceedings laid down, would’ve have made it even harder to distinguish between them if I hadn’t made those notes. Still, there are apparently worse ways to spend a Saturday night; and I did it so you didn’t have to.

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THE BEFORE AND AFTER LIFE OF BRIAN

BEFORE…

Even though most of us are reliant on archive film footage of elaborate decorations and street parties as well as parental anecdotes to inform our impressions of 1953, there seem to be numerous factors as to why it’s not quite the same 70 years on from the occasion that has always been referred to simply as ‘the Coronation’. Talk today is of a lavish bout of pomp and circumstance in the middle of a cost-of-living crisis being ill-timed and in poor taste, yet when Queen Elizabeth II was crowned the country was lingering in far darker shadows than anyone now would recognise. Only eight years away from a war that still scarred most urban landscapes and staggering through a decade blighted by rationing and austerity, Britain was hardly in the full bloom of health at the time. But a young woman suddenly enshrined as the nation’s new figurehead was perceived by many as a luminous beacon of better days to come and the majority appeared to get behind her; let’s face it, there hadn’t been much to celebrate since VJ Day, so why not? Brenda’s coronation was pomp and circumstance on the most grandiose of scales, yet it appears to have been almost universally welcomed, viewed as the Technicolor shot in the arm black-and-white, broke and beleaguered Britain needed.

It’s not so easy to see a brighter future embodied in an over-familiar, ruddy-faced old man who spent over half his life as the most public of understudies before finally getting his sausage fingers on the crown. If it were possible to sense a palpable and genuine optimism in 1953 – one that was manifested in those joyous images of the day we’ve all grown up with – the first occasion of this nature most of us have ever seen as it happens largely radiates an air of ambivalence, a shrug of the shoulders, and celebrations that are muted at best. Of course, the usual types who used to yell ‘Come on, Tim’ at Wimbledon 25 years ago were camped-out along the Mall well in advance of the event, but they’d turn up for the opening of a royal envelope, anyway. Yet aside from a bit of Union Jack bunting strung across the aisles in Sainsbury’s, I haven’t really seen much in the way of visible markers commemorating the occasion. Indeed, the powers-that-be seem to put more energy and effort into Pride week.

Perhaps it’s also harder to drum up enthusiasm with the strange decision to stage the Coronation on a Saturday; the late Queen’s was on a Tuesday – arguably the most boring day of the week – and a public holiday on a weekday always finds people in a better mood because it’s a treat, unlike a routine Saturday. Moreover, Brian’s big moment is taking place in the morning; I only realised this the day before, assuming it would be an afternoon event like the Cup Final always used to be. The first crowning of a British monarch for 70 years and it’s happening on a Saturday morning? It’s almost as though the planners of the ceremony realised it wasn’t going to unite the nation ala 1953, so they figured they may as well get it out of the way early. The funeral of Her (late) Majesty probably united the nation in a way this occasion never could; saying a fond farewell was a spontaneous gesture as opposed to some enforced allegiance, a much more natural response than feeling obliged to hail the accession of such a cantankerous old soak as Charles. It’s like when a football club desperately drags a journeyman manager out of retirement in the futile hope of staving off relegation. You wish them well, but you don’t exactly see in them an embodiment of a glorious future; it’s a short-term fix.

…AND AFTER

Job done now – deciding to split this post into thoughts before and thoughts after certainly helped when it came to the writing of it, which I was able to spread over a couple of days. Having sat through the TV coverage and endured both the familiar tropes of nauseating waffle from gushing ‘special guests’ and banal vox-pop asides on the Mall, I did my best to absorb the event from afar. Like most, I associate an occasion called Coronation with either grainy monochrome pictures narrated in hushed tones by Richard Dimbleby or the colour film, ‘A Queen is Crowned’, which has accompanying commentary from Olivier at his theatrical zenith; to therefore witness this spectacle as a live outdoor broadcast was an undoubtedly strange and (quite possibly) once-in-a-generation viewing experience; and though I don’t use the term once-in-a-generation in an SNP sense, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility I might live to see another live Coronation at some point in the not-too distant future; the King will be 75 this coming November, after all.

Anyway, he didn’t replicate Napoleon’s dismissive attitude towards the Pope by snatching the crown from the hands of the Archbishop of Canterbury and placing it on his bonce himself, but when Charles was finally fully kitted-out in the Coronation ensemble, I couldn’t help but think he looked like he was trying on his mother’s gear for a perverse laugh. So used had we become to Brenda being the sole owner of that outfit, seeing Brian in it evoked that memorable line from ‘The Queen is Dead’ by The Smiths, ‘Charles, don’t you ever crave/to appear on the front of the Daily Mail/dressed in your mother’s bridal veil’. I can imagine the young (former) Prince of Wales having his own equivalent of playing tennis racquet guitar in front of the mirror, endlessly rehearsing the scene and wondering if it would ever actually happen. Well, it has, and not only that but the one-time mistress his family should have allowed him to marry decades before he did was crowned alongside him. The ‘Queen Camilla’ label may have been deemed heresy for several years by the pro-Diana lobby whose narrative was predominant for a long time, but few seem to care today.

The ceremony itself was a reminder that the Coronation’s ancient roots are as religious as they are regal; melodramatic fears that Charles might be serenaded by a Trans choir in rainbow uniforms or might have to swear allegiance to Allah proved unfounded as he paid token respect to the multitude of faiths that survived the Christian influence across the Commonwealth and have now taken root on home soil as the commentators and pundits spouted the ‘inclusivity’ mantra; otherwise, we witnessed a beguiling and occasionally boring ritual that – bar the odd recent addition – has been periodically enacted for the best part of a thousand years. Hard to think of another country where that’s the case, which says something, I guess. Yes, there were moments that cried out for a faux-solemn Pythonesque commentary of the absurd as the plodding ceremonials bordered on the ridiculous, but in a weird way the slow-motion choreography was crucial to the unique oddity of an occasion so refreshingly alien to tiresome modern sensibilities in its unashamed antiquity.

We eventually received the Buckingham Palace balcony routine and the Red Arrows flypast, though even this eagerly-anticipated money shot came across as a tad reserved in comparison to the euphoric reaction of the Kop-like swarm at the gates in the 1953 footage; mind you, Everest couldn’t be re-conquered, so there was again less to celebrate than 70 years ago. Well, it’s all over now, and despite the best efforts of broadcasters to big-up an event they set aside several hours to cover, I don’t think its impact will resonate for long. 1953 lingers as a collective folk memory even amongst those who weren’t there because it was one of those pivotal pop cultural touchstones that drew a line in the sand between what had gone and what was to come; the 2023 equivalent felt like merely a morning-off from the grindstone, and one that probably won’t be cited as an enduring reference point 70 years from now.

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THE NEWS FROM YOUR REGION

I suppose whether or not one believes local councils are there for the good of the locality or are in it to feather their own nests will determine one’s participation in local elections. This coming Thursday will see England’s schools, church halls and community centres renting out space for the purpose of voting into office 8,000 councillors and four mayors outside of the capital. 230 councils are up for grabs, but for those who have faith in the system at a local level, the humble polling card will no longer be enough to secure a ballot paper; ID will now be required. A passport, driving licence, bus pass or Oyster card will suffice, and it’s just as well I’ve no interest in voting as I personally have none of these, nor do I possess any such card with a mug-shot on it apart from a pass for the British Library about ten years out of date. This new innovation is supposed to crack down on voter fraud, but as most of that seems to emanate from postal votes, showing ID at a polling station appears to be little more than another pointless inconvenience imposed on the electorate by a government that gives the impression it wants to monitor our every movement. An estimated two million people don’t have the required ID and a mere 4% have applied for it in the run up to these elections; whether or not this will affect the turn-out will be clear come Friday.

Of course, local elections rarely galvanise the electorate in the same way as a General Election; but with the latter anticipated as possibly appearing next year, the Party leaders are busy drumming up support for their respective teams and are viewing these local elections as a potential dummy-run for the biggie. The only times I can really recall local elections capturing the imagination is when they’ve been held in the wake of some seismic political event – Brexit being the obvious one – and they’ve given the public the earliest opportunity to deliver a few bloody noses. This time round, the cost-of-living thingy and its accompanying inflation seem destined to govern whereabouts voters place their crosses, whilst two old mainstays, crime and the NHS, will probably figure too. Environmental issues will no doubt prove influential in some of the more rural seats, though with water companies pumping shit into rivers without any apparent conscience whatsoever, it’s no wonder. And whilst the Lib Dems will be hoping to capitalise on last year’s trio of by-election victories, I guess most will regard the local elections as a litmus test as to whether or not the Labour Party has sufficiently recovered from the disaster of December 2019 to go back to its constituencies and prepare for government.

After 13 years of running the country – some might say into the ground – the Conservative Party inevitably has a weariness attached to it in the eyes of many voters; the Tories might keep changing their leader in order to rebrand themselves as a new improved flavour, but the taste has been pretty rancid for a long time. Rishi Sunak hasn’t proven to be as spectacularly inept as his immediate predecessor and he doesn’t divide opinion as strongly as the one before her, but it’s difficult to predict if the Party’s lowly polling on a national level will impact upon its local performance. The Tories did badly last time local elections were held in England four years ago, but Labour didn’t do much better either; the Lib Dems and Greens did okay, though whichever Party emerges as the dominant one in 2023 faces something of a challenge. Councils across England are hardly universally beloved as it is – cutting public services to the bone and raising council tax at a time when many feel all they’re earning money for is to pay bills; and to imagine any of that will alter simply through a change of colour demonstrates a belief in the system bordering on stupidity.

The Tories are in a moderately better place than they were when these local elections were contested in 2019; at the time, Theresa May’s rudderless leadership was dragging the Party down the polls, and indeed she resigned just a few weeks later; but they’re still only hovering around 29% four years on. Mind you, Labour were also struggling in 2019; it was the fag end of the Corbyn experiment, with the familiar spectre of anti-Semitism hanging over the Party and some of its more vocal MPs backing a second referendum, something that served to alienate it even further from its traditional voting base – as was evidenced by the red rubble where walls once stood seven months later. Polling-wise, at least, Labour is in a healthier position than in 2019; Keir Starmer may radiate the charisma of a trouser press, but tiredness with the Tories and the purging of the Jezza faithful has helped push Labour up to around 44% in the opinion polls. Labour and the Conservatives were only separated by six points four years ago; today the gap is 15. The one consolation the Tories can take from this figure is that the gap between them and Labour was 30 points around the time of Liz Truss’s resignation. Whether or not this will be reflected in how they fare on Thursday, however, remains to be seen. The Lib Dems, for example, stood at 8% in 2019, yet made more than 700 gains in that year’s local elections

Local elections can sometimes offer electoral virgins the opportunity to flex their first-time voter muscles before the real deal comes along. With these in mind, the BBC News website has been offering tips in ‘Newsround’ fashion, emphasising that one is not allowed to take a selfie inside the polling station. My God, that must feel like Stalinist state suppression to those who cannot go anywhere without recording their presence for posterity and posting proof on Facebook. Voters are also advised not to update their social media accounts at the polling station as well, having to wait until stepping outside to court all those vital ‘likes’ and the odd love-heart emoji by declaring which way they voted. ‘So unfair’, as Kevin the Teenager would’ve said 30 years ago. Other essential questions answered include ‘Can I bring my pet?’; ‘Can my children come?’; ‘Can I use my own pen or pencil?’; ‘Can I wear political clothing?’; and ‘Can I vote if I’ve been drinking?’ The answer to the last question, incidentally, is ‘People who are drunk can vote, unless they are disruptive’. Well, why not? Our elected representatives have often had a few ‘tired and emotional’ moments in the Commons, after all.

The main focus in the MSM is naturally on the major parties, especially because they – and the pundits – have one eye on the next General Election at the moment; but local elections also give independent candidates unattached to the political big guns the chance to make their mark. Five district councils in Sussex, Surrey and Kent are led by independents; some represent residents’ associations and can be seen as ‘democracy in action’ in that these are non-party amateurs pushing grassroots issues that are specific to their region – in the South East the main fight seems to be against over-development, for example. Disillusionment with the big parties may be rife in 2023, but it was fairly strong in 2019 too, and this apathy has certainly helped where independents are concerned. Labour, the Lib Dems and the Tories need to bear this in mind when they’re canvassing and regarding local elections as little more than a warm-up for the main event, the political Golden Globes to the General Election Oscars.

Nevertheless, by the time all the votes have been counted around Friday lunchtime, the news reports will understandably view the results through the major party prism and all talk will be of a Conservative collapse in 2024 or a Labour landslide or…well, we’ve been here before. And, whilst a week may be a long time in politics, twelve months can be an aeon; that’s if the next General Election is in 2024, mind; the latest date it can be held is 28 January 2025. Somehow, I’ve a feeling Rishi Sunak will leave it to the very last minute. That’s if he’s still Prime Minister then, of course; the way things have gone over the past year, who knows?

© The Editor

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THE RACE IS ON

A decade or so ago, when Thursday nights were actually worth watching on BBC1, ‘Question Time’ would be followed by ‘This Week’ with Andrew Neil at his inquisitorial zenith; his two stooges on the sofa were drawn from political polar opposites, yet worked as an entertaining double act – Michael Portillo and Diane Abbott. The chummy ambience of this pairing and Neil’s good-humoured ribbing of them nonetheless lulled the pair into a false sense of security that was comprehensively shattered when Neil confronted Abbott over the revelation she’d sent her kids to a private school rather than the kind of state institution she and her wing of the Labour Party had long sung the praises of; it exposed Abbott as a hypocritical champagne socialist totally unprepared for being put on the spot by a man she’d evidently assumed her genial bonhomie with would spare her from scrutiny. Neil demonstrated his ruthless absence of sentiment by treating her no different from the regular visitors to the show he’d grill as target practice, and Abbott’s response was to simply stare at him without reply, incapable of justifying her hypocrisy with a verbal riposte; she was portrayed as a fraud and had no comeback. Diane Abbott vacated the ‘This Week’ sofa not long after and never returned to it.

More than ten years later, the real Diane Abbott – the one who’s spent the majority of her Parliamentary career buried beneath a somewhat gregarious public facade – received another accidental outing via a disastrous letter to the Observer that has led to the suspension of the Labour whip by Keir Starmer. Lazily playing the race card has always been Diane Abbott’s get-out-of-jail clause, though there’s only so far it can be taken. The importation of divisive, US-style racial politics into a country that had slowly managed to resolve its unrelated race-based problems over several decades before all that hard work was cynically obliterated by those who have built lucrative careers on Critical Race Theory cant and BLM bollocks was a gift to the likes of Diane Abbott, who could henceforth deflect any criticism of her hypocrisy and general idiocy by deploying the racism shield; but reliance on the shifting sands of Identity Politics rhetoric to enhance a dubious reputation is a tricky game to play, and it’s one that Diane Abbott has mercifully fallen foul of.

Abbott’s suicidal missive to the Observer – a publication she clearly regarded as a safe haven for her ill-informed bullshit, being as it is the Sunday sister paper to the Grauniad – was a misfire of glorious calamity and laid bare the anti-Semitic soul at the heart of the far-left that opposition to the State of Israel routinely reveals. In it, she once again situated herself at the top of the table in the Oppression Olympics, the victim’s pyramid that states only anyone with a black skin has suffered prejudice and persecution; the Irish, Gypsies and (most of all) Jews have only experienced bigotry on a par with those of ginger hair according to Ms Abbott, conveniently overlooking a state-sponsored programme of mass-murder that occurred within living memory, and one based entirely on racial ‘inferiority’. But when lined-up against Apartheid South Africa and the Jim Crow legislation of the American Deep South, the industrial slaughter of around 6 million innocent people that constituted the Holocaust doesn’t really compare, apparently. Sitting at the back of a bus or being herded into a gas chamber – which is worse? In an ideal world, we shouldn’t have to choose; but Diane Abbott makes the familiar mistake of reducing all human suffering to a competition, an upside-down beauty contest that marks Jews lower on the scoreboard on account of their privileged ‘whiteness’.

Of course, in Diane Abbott’s ideological circle, her comments make perfect sense; blind eyes are in abundance there, where self-flagellating over Britain’s role in an international industry it was pivotal to ending throughout a quarter of the globe almost 200 years ago is a canny smokescreen to justify the deep-rooted hatred of the West that has captured every institution and corporation so that everyone is encouraged to engage in a never-ending, nihilistic ritual of reparation and apology, a ritual that – as is the case in all Identitarian ceremonies – has no redemption or concept of forgiveness; one has to be either permanently sinned-against or sinner; roles are clearly defined and can never be veered from because (in Diane Abbott’s words) ‘whites’ are not ‘subject to racism’. It’s nicely ironic that this toxic scale of measuring suffering based on flesh-tone isn’t so far removed from the principles of the rightly-derided theories of eugenics, which notoriously segregated the intelligence and superiority of different races using skin colour as a yardstick; today, the far-left is in thrall to a similar set of values – with the notable difference being the perceived degree of prejudice one experiences is then rewarded with a morally superior position on the chart. Mind you, considering the way in which the systematic separation of the races has been revived in the US over the last few years – a direct consequence of the constant insistence of everybody being defined and pigeonholed by irrelevant racial and sexual characteristics – it’s no wonder this has seeped into the fragile foundations of a nation that thinks the sun shines out of America’s arse.

Dianne Abbott’s letter to the Observer – which she has swiftly tried to backtrack on by claiming it was a ‘draft’ sent by accident – once more lifts the lid on the racism at the root of so-called ‘anti-racism’, much in the same way extreme Trans activists are regularly revealed to be far greater misogynists than stereotypical Alpha Males. Moreover, the Corbynista view of Jews isn’t much different from the far-right conspiracy theory view of Jews – another neat little irony that soars miles over the heads of those who propagate it. Abbott has been suspended from the Labour Party for her letter to the Observer, though she has received public support and ‘solidarity’ from another rightly-exiled Labour MP, the odious Claudia Webbe; she’s the one who was expelled from the Party for engaging in a campaign of what I presume the Left regards as ‘hate speech’ towards a love rival. Well, with friends like that, eh?

Sir Keir says he ‘utterly condemns’ Diane Abbott’s comments, reiterating his determination to ‘tear out anti-Semitism from the roots of the Labour Party’. Whilst Starmer acknowledges the racism Abbott herself has received over the years, at least he equally acknowledges Abbott’s gormless opinions came across as anti-Semitic, though the fact an unnamed Labour MP suggested Abbott should undergo some form of ‘training’ on anti-Semitism because it wouldn’t look good to kick out Britain’s inaugural black female MP highlights yet again just how privileged a position Abbott has enjoyed, able to spout any old bigoted shit safe and secure in her position due to the saving grace of her race. Jezza’s old comrade-in-arms John McDonnell pleaded for the Party to show a ‘generosity of spirit’ towards Abbott, though Starmer responded by pointing out that Abbott’s personal experience of racism ‘doesn’t take away from the fact I condemn the words she used and we must never accept the argument that there’s some sort of hierarchy of racism.’

Long-term readers will be aware I’m no fan of Keir Starmer, though I’m always prepared to give credit where it’s due, whoever the politician; and Starmer does deserve credit for acting fairly decisively in removing the whip from Abbott. If he could finally tackle the outrageous abuse and mistreatment of Labour MP Rosie Duffield for standing up to the fanatical Trans activists within the Labour Party, he’d receive further credit. But at least the Labour leader has acted in Abbott’s case, though one wonders if the swiftness of his actions have been motivated solely by an awareness that such behaviour could jeopardise Labour’s anticipated victory with the next General Election edging ever nearer; if Starmer is to make Labour a viable government-in-waiting, a bout of internal detox won’t go amiss, and what better place to start than with someone who serves as a fine example of just how unelectable are those whose impression of racism has been narrowed by the tunnel vision of Identity Politics.

© The Editor

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