A week is a long time in politics.
At the moment, a day is a long time in politics, and it is feeling increasingly difficult to keep up with what is happening today, let along imagine what might be happening tomorrow (on either side of the Atlantic).
Anyone who has been reading this blog for any length of time knows that I voted "Remain" in the EU Referendum, and that I would do so again. I looked back today at things I've written before, and it depressed me enormously to discover that on the day of the vote, I saw all too clearly the path ahead. And as we continue to gallop headlong towards a cliff-edge, with no apparent hope of reconciliation in a deeply divided country, I spend my evenings and nights once more wondering if the solution is simply to leave the UK.
I keep thinking of things I could write, emotional outpourings at the insanity that appears to be unfolding one day at a time. And I keep thinking I can't quite be bothered. The emotional effort is too high, the reward too small. It feels like I'd simply be picking a scab - making myself hurt more for no gain. Because, who of you reading this really wants to read yet another polemic? Hasn't enough been written by passionate Leavers and Remainers? Isn't the divide already so entrenched that nobody hears anybody else any more? Won't I just be contributing more to the echo-chamber that is my Remain-supporting circle of friends?
But there are some things that go beyond party politics, and beyond Leave vs Remain, and cut to the heart of who we are and who we want to be. There are things that I've been seeing and reading that are, to quote Mitt Romney, deeply troubling. It is, if anything, a continuation of the idea that I pushed back against previously, that having been on the "losing" side, I should simply put-up and shut-up. Brexit has won, long live Brexit.
Yesterday, I watched the Prime Minister's "special adviser", Dominic Cummings, as he was challenged by Karl Turner, a Labour MP, on the use of the Prime Minister's language in Parliament. Cummings' response to the fact that Turner is receiving death threats, was that he should "get Brexit done".
Stop and think about that for a moment.
If you don't want to get death threats, you should do what I want.
Isn't that in itself tantamount to a threat?
We're all* on board with the idea that women aren't "asking for it" if they wear a short skirt and get raped. Can we not get on board with the idea that nobody is asking for a death threat simply because they think a no-deal Brexit is a stupid idea?
How low have we sunk when this attitude appears to pass without comment? How is it OK for this "special advisor" to be able to say, unchallenged, that death threats are bad, but that MPs have brought the threats upon themselves? No. No they haven't. They really, really haven't.
Someone needs to pull Cummings (and Johnson, and Rees-Mogg and the rest of the toxic cabal who refuse to moderate their language) up on the idea that MPs deserve threats for thwarting the will of the people. Nobody deserves a death threat. Nobody is betraying anybody by seeking a democratic route through this shit-storm. Nobody is surrendering to anybody. There has been no coup.
Our elected representatives have a duty to act in the best interests of their constituents and their country. I am not convinced that all of them always do so, particularly given the nature of our party political system and the use of the party whips. However, the idea that they could be cowed into not doing so by threats of violence directed at themselves or their families is utterly abhorrent in what should be a civilised society and should be a mature democracy.
Meanwhile, in breaking news, an anonymous briefing from "a senior cabinet minister" to The Times newspaper has warned that the country would risk a “violent, popular uprising” if a second referendum overturned the result of the first. This minister allegedly also (helpfully) pointed out that it would only take “a couple of nasty populist frontmen to inspire people”. In case we weren't sure how to organise a violent, popular uprising.
Nice country. Be a shame if anything happened to it.
A cabinet minister apparently issuing anonymous, not-very-veiled threats. And the Tory party alone has a plentiful supply of nasty populist frontmen to fulfill this prophesy, never mind looking to the further right-hand fringes of British politics. What happened to the idea that ministers of the crown had any kind of responsibility towards peace, stability and security? This appears to be an active attempt to, at the very least, legitimise civil unrest, if not actually encourage destabilising the country.
Some days I am filled with rage, wanting to do something, to fight back against the lies, and the hate and the stupidity that are welling up around me.
And some days I am overwhelmed by the futility of one person even imagining they can make any difference when faced with the might and wealth of the press, politicians and power-brokers who are each single-minded in their pursuit of their own agenda, no matter the damage they do on the way.
Depression v rage.
Today the depression is winning.
* When I say "all" I obviously am living in a fanciful Utopia that excludes the depressingly large swathe of people who still seem to think that women are to blame for being raped by virtue of the way they look, or how much they drink or indeed whether they've ever had sex before. When I say "all" I mean "all right thinking, decent human beings". I think I've successfully demonstrated that the world has a depressing shortage of those.
Friday, 27 September 2019
Sunday, 15 September 2019
Old friends
For once, I shall be taking a break from writing about football, despite the fact that my weekend featured large quantities of it. Nor shall I be writing about work, despite my week featuring a certain amount of vexation and exasperation. Nor shall I be writing about politics, despite the quite extraordinary quantity of politics about which I could write. (Never mind the quality, the sheer volume is staggering).
No. Because this weekend featured a rather more unusual event. I actually socialised with some of my old university friends. To be fair, I do stay in reasonable contact with Tigger and Piglet and their families, but I have let a great many other people drift away, through lack of time, inconveniences of geography, laziness and then finally an unwillingness to get back in touch because it's been "too long" and I feel bad.
Piglet is more organised than me though. And she invited one of our old friends, plus spouse and children to stay. I haven't seen OldFriend since our average-fortieth birthday party five years ago, and I had a few qualms about how much we may have drifted apart. I needn't have worried. We went round to Piglet's house for an early dinner, and the menfolk took all five children off to play in the clunch pit while me, Piglet and OldFriend nattered as though we last saw each other a week ago. Come dinner and we managed to cunningly seat all the children round one table in the garden while the adults congregated a safe distance away. I had a couple of glasses of Prosecco with dinner, which turned out to be a less than stellar idea after having spent most of the day in the sun undertaking various forms of football-related activity.
Today both tribes came for lunch here. The consumption of Prosecco had led to evening somnolence yesterday, which in turn had led to an utter failure to make the puddings I had intended to make, which in turn meant that despite starting cooking at 9:30, I hadn't exactly finished preparing lunch when they arrived. This wasn't, to be fair, entirely helped by the fact that BigBear was with LittleBear at a party, thus removing both the helping hands and the minor impediment from the house. Nor, to be completely honest, was it helped by the fact that when parboiling the potatoes to roast I overcooked one pan full, many of which duly turned to mush, so I had to peel, chop and cook some more. However, being the kind of friends that they are, I handed Piglet a mixing bowl and after some debate between Piglet and OldFriend about suitable weights and volumes, she whipped up a crumble topping for the apple, while MrOldFriend helped get the extra chairs required to seat eleven for lunch out of the loft.
And mostly our children disappeared off and played, while we sat and carried on catching up. SmallerChild happily settled in to play with one of LittleBear's favourite games, and then begged OldFriend to buy it for his birthday (in three days time). Fortunately, it turns out she already has. Just as it also turns out that we own and play many of the same board games. Just as it turns out our bookcases are heavy with many of the same books. Though, just to be certain, OldFriend took reference photographs of the bookcases to make note of some new authors for future purchases. Because all of the reasons we were friends twenty years ago are still there, and we still enjoy the same things, laugh at the same things, read the same things.
So perhaps I really shouldn't leave it another five years before seeing OldFriend again. And perhaps, if life gets in the way, and we do leave it too long before catching up, I should remember that time doesn't actually erode lasting friendships.
No. Because this weekend featured a rather more unusual event. I actually socialised with some of my old university friends. To be fair, I do stay in reasonable contact with Tigger and Piglet and their families, but I have let a great many other people drift away, through lack of time, inconveniences of geography, laziness and then finally an unwillingness to get back in touch because it's been "too long" and I feel bad.
Piglet is more organised than me though. And she invited one of our old friends, plus spouse and children to stay. I haven't seen OldFriend since our average-fortieth birthday party five years ago, and I had a few qualms about how much we may have drifted apart. I needn't have worried. We went round to Piglet's house for an early dinner, and the menfolk took all five children off to play in the clunch pit while me, Piglet and OldFriend nattered as though we last saw each other a week ago. Come dinner and we managed to cunningly seat all the children round one table in the garden while the adults congregated a safe distance away. I had a couple of glasses of Prosecco with dinner, which turned out to be a less than stellar idea after having spent most of the day in the sun undertaking various forms of football-related activity.
Today both tribes came for lunch here. The consumption of Prosecco had led to evening somnolence yesterday, which in turn had led to an utter failure to make the puddings I had intended to make, which in turn meant that despite starting cooking at 9:30, I hadn't exactly finished preparing lunch when they arrived. This wasn't, to be fair, entirely helped by the fact that BigBear was with LittleBear at a party, thus removing both the helping hands and the minor impediment from the house. Nor, to be completely honest, was it helped by the fact that when parboiling the potatoes to roast I overcooked one pan full, many of which duly turned to mush, so I had to peel, chop and cook some more. However, being the kind of friends that they are, I handed Piglet a mixing bowl and after some debate between Piglet and OldFriend about suitable weights and volumes, she whipped up a crumble topping for the apple, while MrOldFriend helped get the extra chairs required to seat eleven for lunch out of the loft.
And mostly our children disappeared off and played, while we sat and carried on catching up. SmallerChild happily settled in to play with one of LittleBear's favourite games, and then begged OldFriend to buy it for his birthday (in three days time). Fortunately, it turns out she already has. Just as it also turns out that we own and play many of the same board games. Just as it turns out our bookcases are heavy with many of the same books. Though, just to be certain, OldFriend took reference photographs of the bookcases to make note of some new authors for future purchases. Because all of the reasons we were friends twenty years ago are still there, and we still enjoy the same things, laugh at the same things, read the same things.
So perhaps I really shouldn't leave it another five years before seeing OldFriend again. And perhaps, if life gets in the way, and we do leave it too long before catching up, I should remember that time doesn't actually erode lasting friendships.
Thursday, 12 September 2019
Pathetic delusions
A new school year has started. LittleBear appears to have enjoyed his fist week in a new school*. I was even mostly organised, and mostly had his school uniform ready and named for the first day of term.
As the summer holiday wound to an end, I had a vague sense of control and tranquility. A new school year, a fresh start, a clean slate. When 4th September dawned we would all spring out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face Year 3 with a spring in our steps. For some inexplicable reason, this sense of positivity about the school year translated in my head to an overall positivity about the rest of my life. Everything would be clean! Everything would be tidy! Everything would be organised!
No, I don't know how much gin I must have drunk to have slipped so far into delusion either.
My to-do list still stretched to three pages.
The pile of clothes that had been waiting to be ironed for two months was still waiting.
I could write my name in the dust on every surface.
There was still a foot-deep hole in the lawn into which the new rotary dryer was not fitted.
The pile of paperwork that needed filing was 6 inches deep and growing deeper by the day. (Do you think I could bribe the postman to stop delivering post until I've dealt with the last six months worth? Not a good idea? No, probably not.)
There were still nose-prints on the windows - IdiotCat's and LittleBear's.
Essentially, the lovely, fresh, clean, new start to the school year, unsurprisingly, extended only as far as LittleBear and his school supplies. I appear to be the only one to have been caught by surprise by this.
And, to add insult to injury, though the new school year seems to be going well, and LittleBear seems entirely happy, the additional mental overload of New Stuff has triggered a return of his nightmares, so the household is desperately sleep-deprived once more. My first conversation with his new teacher was to apologise for sending my small boy to school with dark shadows beneath his eyes. And nothing promotes Getting Things Done quite like being so tired I can barely think.
Is it time for the holidays yet?
* Technically LittleBear has now moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School. Since his previous classroom was actually located at the Village Junior School, and he had meals, and some lessons, in Village Junior School, it's not a huge change. And since his entire cohort have also all moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School, the biggest change is he now wears a blue school uniform instead of red.
As the summer holiday wound to an end, I had a vague sense of control and tranquility. A new school year, a fresh start, a clean slate. When 4th September dawned we would all spring out of bed, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to face Year 3 with a spring in our steps. For some inexplicable reason, this sense of positivity about the school year translated in my head to an overall positivity about the rest of my life. Everything would be clean! Everything would be tidy! Everything would be organised!
No, I don't know how much gin I must have drunk to have slipped so far into delusion either.
My to-do list still stretched to three pages.
The pile of clothes that had been waiting to be ironed for two months was still waiting.
I could write my name in the dust on every surface.
There was still a foot-deep hole in the lawn into which the new rotary dryer was not fitted.
The pile of paperwork that needed filing was 6 inches deep and growing deeper by the day. (Do you think I could bribe the postman to stop delivering post until I've dealt with the last six months worth? Not a good idea? No, probably not.)
There were still nose-prints on the windows - IdiotCat's and LittleBear's.
Essentially, the lovely, fresh, clean, new start to the school year, unsurprisingly, extended only as far as LittleBear and his school supplies. I appear to be the only one to have been caught by surprise by this.
And, to add insult to injury, though the new school year seems to be going well, and LittleBear seems entirely happy, the additional mental overload of New Stuff has triggered a return of his nightmares, so the household is desperately sleep-deprived once more. My first conversation with his new teacher was to apologise for sending my small boy to school with dark shadows beneath his eyes. And nothing promotes Getting Things Done quite like being so tired I can barely think.
Is it time for the holidays yet?
* Technically LittleBear has now moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School. Since his previous classroom was actually located at the Village Junior School, and he had meals, and some lessons, in Village Junior School, it's not a huge change. And since his entire cohort have also all moved from Village Infant School to Village Junior School, the biggest change is he now wears a blue school uniform instead of red.
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