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Marie Kondos of the world unite – you have nothing to lose but your cheque stubs

Have fun, Boris Johnson tells us in this bright shiny week when England goes en fête because six people can gather together in the park. Down in ours, the tennis players are back, and a middle-aged chap sits on a park bench nearby playing jaunty tunes on his guitar.

Boris’s idea of fun, of course, is chasing around his lover’s flat looking for a sock because he has an impending date with members of the royal family. Or was, back in the days when he was London’s libidinous mayor, according to an expose on his relationship with one Jennifer Arcuri.

My idea of a good time is far more boring. I have a round or two of golf lined up over the next few weeks. That will be fun of a sort, though my body, unused to five mile walks punctuated by violent spinal contortion, is unlikely to see things that way. But the real amusement lies in what I call The Sorting.

If that sounds like the title of a horror film involving a demented postman, all well and good, because dementia is very much on the agenda. Not because I suffer from it as far as as I’m aware, even though those closest to me might secretly believe that I’ve been demented for decades. But for anyone who’s just reached seventy, as I have, gaga is no longer a landmark on a distant horizon.

Nor is our project to clear out stuff that we don’t need the result of any desire for an uncluttered life advocated by that pre-COVID self-improvement hero, Marie Kondo. She’s young, after all, and the young rarely appreciate the ephemera accumulated over over a long life, because their lives have not, in terms of average life expectancy, been long. In other words, less experiences, less memories and less stuff that triggers those memories.

No, The Sorting is necessary because we need to prepare for a time when we no longer find pleasure in rattling around a large house, and start thinking about the dangers of having to shuffle around with a Zimmer frame, tripping over unnecessary obstacles and taking an eternity to find a doctor’s appointment letter (amazingly, my lot still send letters) among a mountain of paperwork. Best to do that preparation now, while we still retain some remnants of middle-aged vigour, rather than to wait until we’re so old that we couldn’t give a damn, and wouldn’t be able to do anything about it even if we did.

So over the past couple of weeks I’ve become very friendly with my local recycling centre. Every day or three, I’ve been down there with our latest load of stuff, much of it from the attic and the rest from the garage. I’ve disposed of all kind of things, some of which induce pangs of guilt. I feel particularly bad about jettisoning ancient DVD recorders and desktop computers (hard disks removed) which work perfectly well but are rendered redundant by satellite TV boxes, laptops and smart phones. Our ancestors, who built stuff to last for generations, would be flabbergasted that something as sophisticated and intricately constructed as a motherboard should be useless within ten or fifteen years.

But electronics, wonky furniture, moth-eaten clothes and leaky garden hoses are merely the low-hanging fruit of The Sorting. Things get interesting and, in a weird kind of way, fun, when, as members of a fast-dwindling population for whom paper was at the centre of our lives, we get to grips with the written evidence of the past that will soon be irrelevant to all but ourselves.

I’m not talking about the kind of papers that end up in the Bodleian Library – a lifetime’s collection of letters, doodles and musings by the likes of Isaac Newton and Winston Churchill. Much as I’d like it to have been otherwise, our lives will not be analysed, dissected and argued about for centuries once we’re gone. Curious descendants with a yen for family history might wish to delve, but all they’re likely to find are clues as to the origin of their own quirks. Assuming, of course, that when we’re gone our immediate offspring, when going through the quiet ritual known as Sorting the Effects of the Deceased don’t decide that the stuff we value isn’t worth keeping and make their own journeys to the municipal dump.

Therein lies a key question: what do we value? Not so much for the benefit of future generations, but for us, while we still have the capacity to recall events in our lives and bathe in nostalgia?

Of what value are chequebook stubs, apart from serving to remind me how ridiculously loyal I was to the bank I started with when I first went to university? Why keep the stern letters from bank managers about overdrafts, credit card statements, ancient employment contracts, phone bills, tax returns, airline tickets and ream upon ream of paperwork relating to businesses in which I’ve been involved over four decades? They may have served as evidence of what I did, where and when – insurance against one day having to prove such facts, even though I couldn’t conceive of having reason to do so. But now, no value, except in the opportunity while purging them to revisit both good and difficult days before the memories finally fade.

Anything dating beyond a handful of years is irrelevant, stacked in chests in the garage, never visited. Time to get rid. Not so much the vestigial records that remind me of the essentials, but why do I need to remember that on May 17 1992 we had to call a plumber out to fix a broken ballcock? Unless, of course, in a fit of murderous rage I destroyed the loo as well. Which I didn’t.

Simple then. Just chuck ’em. Well not quite. A while ago, my wife, out of an abundance of caution, suggested that we should remove any personal information from bits of paper we discard. I should have thought that there were easier ways of gathering sufficient information to steal our identities, through hacking for example. But she assures me that there are gremlins and goblins out there who recycle paper and do just that.

This means that the whole process involves mass snipping, which takes some time. But what the hell. I always reckon that going to the dump is like another kind of dump. This is similar. It just means that you have the chance to listen to an interminable Mahler symphony or the entire works of Bob Dylan while doing the needful.

There are some items that are spared The Sorting. These include every birthday and Christmas card since the beginning of time (not my decision). Also the obvious stuff: photos, programmes of plays I acted in, letters, miscellaneous writings, school reports, certificates of birth, deaths and marriage. Then there are all the things relating to the offspring: school books, baby’s first weight chart, works of art of staggering beauty created when the artist was seven, as well as a video which bears the legend “strictly off-limits to my parents”, which I imagine dates to one or the other’s teenage years and gives rise to the ethical dilemma as to whether the content can be used by the bride’s father when that time comes.

Working though this lot is indeed fun, though in a sad kind of way when I compare the young face staring at me from visa applications and ancient driving licences with what I see in the mirror today. And then, halfway through the project, I got a reminder of why it’s worth doing. It came in the form of a documentary about Jack Charlton, a footballer celebrated as a player and a manager. A man of trenchant views and a character in all the best senses of the word. It looked back on his life, but included footage of him in old age before his dementia carried him off: staring into space, able to remember little of his long and productive life.

The moral of the tale is that when you have your marbles, use them. Something, I suspect, that Marie Kondo will come to appreciate in a few decades’ time. Will her de-cluttering philosophy survive into old age, or will she devise some new pearls of wisdom about what you shouldn’t throw away? And will she come to realise that what might fail to spark joy today might one day remind us of joys past?

If so, I’ll be long gone by that time, so back to the cheque stubs. Not much joy to be found in them, that’s for sure.

A decimation in Ragusa – Big Brother has much to answer for

There are times when I think that lockdown evenings need some variation. Just as we make sure to mix up our dinners with fish, a veggie night and a takeaway at least once a week, perhaps we would benefit, in the absence of restaurants, theatres, cinema, get-togethers and other staples of pre- and hopefully post-lockdown life, from more active evening pursuits. Cake-making perhaps, or scrabble and chess. Building a nuclear reactor. Talking even. Yet often as not, the default in our household is TV.

Which is fine, but I do sometimes get impatient.

Last night’s menu was supposed to be Deutschland 89 followed by The Unforgotten, with the news in-between. We rarely bother to watch the 10pm bulletin all the way through, because so many of the stories are unbearably miserable, and the BBC, which usually is quite good at avoiding journalistic clichés, seems unable to provide any commentary on crowd scenes without starting every story of tragedy, insurrection or mourning with the word “they”.

“They came in their thousands (long pause), from villages and towns (long pause), from mountains and river valleys long pause). They were there to mourn the passing of an extraordinary man. Jerome Finkelburger was the world’s foremost speed eater (long pause). He died after eating seventy-nine Big Macs in the space of fifteen minutes (long pause). They knew that they would not see his like again.”

It’s getting to the point where whenever I see a shot of crowds, I shout THEY! at the TV. And sure enough, off we go. A They story. At which point I usually step into the garden for a walk in order to avoid inflicting grievous bodily harm on the TV. When I return, my wife hands me a Prozac and we settle down to watch something else.

There are also times when I think we’ve agreed to watch one of our favourite series. I sink into the couch for an hour of murder and mayhem. I then notice the mysterious absence of my other half. It turns out that she’s finishing something. Booking a holiday in France five years from now, perhaps. So rather than sit mesmerised by the frozen screen that precedes the protests in Timisoara and Martin Rauch’s attempt to squeeze out of another tight spot in the glorious Deutschland 89, I put on some other programme that looks interesting.

On such an occasion last night, I went briefly to a show about dogs behaving badly, but decided that I really didn’t have the patience to see how the dog trainer managed to tame a snarling staffie that kills anything that crosses its path. Then I happened upon Master of Photography, in which a bunch of wannabe professional photographers spend two days in Sicily looking to take the best travel photo. Now I love a good photo, even though I know nothing about the art and technique that goes into creating them. What made the show irresistible was that they were in Ragusa, which serves as Inspector Montalbano‘s home town in one of my favourite Italian TV series.

So I, and eventually we, got stuck into watching these young people wandering around the town, sticking their expensive cameras up the noses of bemused locals in an attempt to produce compelling, atmospheric and emotional pictures that might serve to lure the world to this stunning town, as if any incentive for this Montalbano lover was needed.

It was interesting, even though the photography jargon was a baffling as the acronyms fired like bullets by the cast of Line of Duty. But then we came to the moment of judgement, when it became obvious that we were heading for a finale beloved of reality TV contests, in which a panel of experts dissect each offering with relentless rigour. The tension mounts as we wait for the winning photo. Headshots of nervous contestants. And then it becomes clear that the purpose of the exercise was not to find a winner. It was a decimation. An exercise in cruelty. One person was due for the chop. And it therefore became clear that this was one of a series, like so many other series, in which the contestants get whittled down to a short list of potential winners, one of whom is crowned in a grand finale.

And I thought to myself, why end a perfectly enjoyable show with the humiliation of a young woman who has to sit there while these experts tell her what a crap photographer she is? It’s what I call the Quivering Lip moment, beloved of all the other shows that feature ritual decapitation. The poor girl’s face fills the screen as she hovers on the verge of tears. Are you not entertained, as Maximus asks the slavering crowd in Gladiator?

God knows how many other shows are currently available using exactly the same time-worn format. Cake makers, ballroom dancers, interior designers, chefs and celebrities who have to endure pits full of bugs. Big Brother has much to answer for. For all I know there might be pest exterminators, undertakers and landscape gardeners queuing up in search of fame and fortune. Perhaps would-be porn stars even. Imagine all those well-endowed men and women going through their paces in front of juries of sex experts who dissect every grind of the hip and digital exploration in search of the perfect act of procreation or wanton pleasure.

Yes, I know that the only way to dispose of this stream of derivative garbage is simply not to consume it. And generally, I don’t, except by accident. But if we must have reality TV, surely it’s not too much to ask that they spare us the Quivering Lip moments? Are our programme makers so desperately unimaginative that they not only flog the dead horse but render it, recycle it and turn it into inedible steak haché?

Would it not be nice to see the weakest contestant taken on a journey in which they’re mentored, coached and nurtured into transforming themselves from the worst to the best? Probably not, because that wouldn’t involve blood. If these shows have a unifying proposition, it’s the survival of the fittest. And that’s what life is all about, isn’t it? Well no, actually, unless you happen to be a Nazi.

As our lamentable pandemic has surely taught us, like is about survival, adaptation, learning, creativity, improvement and kindness. Much as I enjoy watching people contorting themselves into impossible positions in a beautiful town in search of the perfect picture, the cruelty of the ending ruined everything. Perhaps I should have stayed with the story of how a bloodthirsty staffie became an acceptable member of the doggie race.

That, at least, would have been an uplifting story of improvement and redemption, even though the older I get the less I understand the reason for dogs. Or humans, for that matter.

Britain’s latest invasive species – the flag fetish

About forty-five years ago, during my relatively short career in the music business, I managed a loud, high-energy rock band called the Mean Street Dealers. Unlike the punk bands that at the time were getting record deals on the strength of their ability to handle a hairbrush, they were proper musicians with experience gained way before the era of Sid Vicious. A bit like The Police in that respect, but ultimately less successful.

One day we did a gig at Bangor University in North Wales. It went fine, but one or two people voiced their objections to the fact that the keyboard player had a Union Jack draped over his Hammond organ. The flag was an innocent style affectation from our point of view. I guess it was a nod towards the mods of a decade earlier, and particularly The Who, who often used such symbols in their sixties record artwork.

What we had failed to notice was that the Union Jack was fast becoming the rallying flag for far right organisations like the National Front. We also forgot to take into account that Welsh separatist sentiment was strong in North Wales at the time. Second homes belonging to English people were being set on fire on a regular basis.

After Bangor, we retired the flag. It took a while for the Union Jack to rid itself of its association with the neo-Nazis of the time. In later decades, another flag served a similar purpose. The Cross of St George became the emblem not only of marauding England football fans abroad, but of the National Front’s successor organisations, such as the English Defence League. The Union Jack went on to become the symbol of patriotism during the Falklands war. During the London Olympics, Britain celebrated as it was raised in tribute to the unprecedented number of medal winners from these islands.

But by and large, we don’t use flags as icons of patriotism, and certainly not (far right groups excepted) as badges of political affiliation. We don’t salute them. We don’t raise them in front of every home. We don’t swear oaths in front of them, apart from those of the profane kind.

Until now. Or, to be more precise, until our flag walked away from the 27 other flags of European Union member states and stood proudly on its own. Or to be even more precise, since Boris Johnson’s government took office. Since then we seem to have developed a flag fetish. Or at least, the most influential group of Members of Parliament, who were most aggressive in promoting Brexit and now seem to have an ideological stranglehold over a government which seems to have brought the thinking of Enoch Powell into the mainstream, have created the fetish.

No self-respecting minister or Conservative MP fails to have a Union Jack in the background when speaking from their offices or even at home. The Labour Party, with some embarrassment, falls into line because it thinks that only by reaching out to the Brexity, nationalist tendency will it win back the seats it lost in the last election.

We even have the extraordinary spectacle of an MP asking the new head of the BBC in a Select Committee meeting why there were no flags in its last annual report. A cynic might say that this person, who then posted a video of his question on Twitter, is heading for high office. It’s ironic that while the government, in a deliberate act of policy, is splattering the union flag every which where, the union itself is in greater danger of falling apart than at any time since its formation three hundred years ago. Only economic concerns, I suspect, will prevent Scotland going its own way, with Wales quite possibly following in its wake.

You surely have to be utterly naïve to think that a stripy, multi-coloured symbol is going to contribute in any significant way to the preservation of a political entity. But that appears to be the mindset behind the proliferation of flags in our current political space.

What I most appreciate about my country is that we don’t need national flags to trumpet our identity. I find the flag-fetish in the United States deeply alien. It’s one of the reasons why I never mistake America for a cousin of the country from which it won independence two-and-a-half centuries ago. And I’ve always appreciated that a better reflection of nationality is often to be seen on stamps, coins and bank notes, where flags are rarely featured and designs, often superbly imaginative, reflect the times we live in even if they also serve as propaganda.

On my screensaver I have a succession of photos chosen by Microsoft showing different parts of the world – mostly landscapes. I can instantly spot a picture from Britain, be it from the Lake District, the highlands of Scotland, the wetlands of Norfolk or the cliffs of Cornwall. It’s not a question of preferring one view over another. I equally appreciate the landscapes of France, China, India or Sicily. It’s just a matter of recognition. It’s home. No better or worse than any other home. But look at a landscape, and you recognise that it long precedes us and will, unless it’s irreparably marked by climate change, be there long after we transient creatures, and the flags we choose to identify us, are gone.

That’s the only consolation I take from the cynically manipulated, small-minded obsession that seems to have invaded our shores. Like the grey squirrels, giant hogweed, murder hornets and coronavirus particles that have also arrived from elsewhere before them, you can’t see malignant clusters of Union Jacks – and saltires and dragons for that matter – from a few thousand feet above.

Britain’s police – damned if they do and damned if they don’t

Heavy-handed policing of a vigil for Sarah Everard. Nazi salutes and restraint at an anti-lockdown demo. Broken bones, fireworks and burning police vehicles at a riot in Bristol. Not a day seems to pass when the police are not framed one way or another. As oppressors, thin blue line and victims. If you exclude all evidence to the contrary, Britain, you might think, is boiling over.

Here’s the thing about the British police: everyone has their own opinion. They may be institutionally racist. They may also be a swamp of misogyny. These are perceptions, not facts, because we can’t easily read hearts and minds. But perhaps equally striking is that so many of their senior people come over as rather dim. Again, that’s unproven, but when I watch people like the commander at the Metropolitan Police who acted as spokesperson after Sarah Everard’s disappearance I’m not filled with confidence that the best minds have reached the top.

He was clearly nervous. His words lacked the slightest hint of spontaneity. Like so many of his colleagues when they’re called upon to speak to the media, his delivery was stilted, and his language full of strangulated polysyllables. For all I know, he might be the brightest of the bright, but his demeanour didn’t give the impression of a keen and agile mind. Lower down the ranks, in less formal situations, you do see officers behaving less robotically. Every day, their communication skills prevent escalation into violence and disorder.

But when police at Sarah’s wake, while clearly acting within the law, chose to wade in and haul away women who were there to pay tribute to someone who appears to have been murdered by a serving police officer, their action appeared insensitive and heavy-handed. There’s always a line to be drawn between enforcement that is likely to provoke a greater offence than that which it’s designed to address, and using empathy and common sense by standing back.

Perhaps we’ve come to expect our police to be behave with the mercurial determination of the Line of Duty team, or the nuanced thoughtfulness of Cassie and Sunny in The Unforgotten. But they’re actors, and those whom we see doing their jobs in true crime TV shows come over as far more mundane characters. Is that because they are more mundane, or is it because they can’t afford to display their more distinctive character traits for fear of being accused of showboating?

I’d certainly be surprised if senior officers who come over so stiff and stern on camera return to their offices and start shrieking imprecations like DCS Hastings in Line of Duty. But equally, I like to think that they didn’t rise up the ranks because they were risk-averse, time-serving automata.

I’ve met a few senior police officers in my time, but only after they’ve retired. My favourite is witty, charismatic and kind. The sort of person you’d describe as a born leader. The one I admired least, whom I no longer come across, was pompous, puffed up and self-important. The rest are somewhere between the two. Some are extrovert, others not. If they have a common characteristic, it’s that they volunteer for stuff. Whether it’s serving on a golf club committee or running a jazz band, they get involved. Perhaps that’s a natural consequence of their being allowed to retire with decent pensions in their fifties. At that stage of life, there’s less inclination simply to sit on your backside doing nothing significant for the rest of your life.

The other thing I’ve noticed is that with the exception of the pompous one, these are ordinary people, in the sense that you wouldn’t be able to spot them as retired police officers from a mile off. They don’t talk about their careers unless you ask them.

So why is it that the ordinary people who form our present-day police come in for so much flack? Is it an inward-looking culture with its own rules, norms of behaviour and attitudes? Is it the demands of an increasingly authoritarian and often erratic state that makes increasing and sometimes contradictory demands on them? Is it the decentralised structure of policing that creates inconsistent approaches from one police force to another? Is it a creaking criminal justice system that causes unacceptable delays between investigation and prosecution? Is it chronic under-manning that leaves them incapable of responding to humdrum yet distressing crimes like burglary and petty theft?

Is it what politicians call the optics: the image of the average officer as a beast of burden, loaded up with tech paraphernalia, often overweight, incapable of agility and relying on being mob-handed for effective action? Or as heavily armed Roman legionaries beating off lightly armed barbarians on the streets?

Should we look to failures of leadership – not only among the police but within the Home Office and Ministry of Justice – to find the root cause of public lack of confidence? Or is it, as Paul Newman’s character says in Cool Hand Luke, that what we’ve got here is a failure to communicate?

What we definitely have here is a surveillance culture that sometimes accidentally catches out those who do the surveillance. Self-incriminating police cameras, citizens with mobile phones, CCTV and photojournalists sometimes cast police actions in the most dubious light. Before you know it, videos of the police at work, often shorn of context, hit the social media and enhance the perception of an overbearing, thuggish and inflexible institution.

Hence we see aggression before we recognise forbearance, intervention before restraint. The actions of the few taint the whole. When mistakes occur, they do so in the full glare of public attention. And they result in instant judgements. Such was the case when the police cleared a crowd of women around the bandstand in Clapham Common after the vigil for Sarah Everard. The optics were bad. Almost immediately there were calls from all manner of sources including senior politicians for Cressida Dick, the head of the Metropolitan Police, to resign.

I’m glad she didn’t, for more than one reason. First, insensitive enforcement of the law is not a crime. Nor is it gross misconduct, which would normally be grounds for dismissal. Second, asking her to step down would have sent a message that senior police officers should never have the opportunity to reflect on events, learn from them and fix what is broken. And third, even if she went, would there have been any assurance that the person who replaced her would be any more effective? We should also recognise that there are circumstances when the police are damned if they do, and damned if they don’t.

Perhaps we also sometimes forget that our police are not just in the business of law enforcement. To an extent, they’re like Janus, the two-faced Roman god (above) who looks to the future and the past at the same time. Not only are they tasked with responding to crimes that have been committed, but they are there to keep us safe. We often tend to forget that when a road traffic accident happens, the police are often first to the scene, providing first aid and sympathy to the injured and making sure that oncoming traffic slows down. We also don’t appreciate their role in counter-terrorism, as they work with the security service to pre-empt attacks. And more recently, when armed response teams deploy quickly to limit casualties of shootings and knife crimes.

When they fail to keep us safe, as happened at Hillsborough football stadium in 1989, or when an innocent Brazilian electrician was mistakenly identified as a terrorist and shot in 2005, there are massive outcries. Yet every day people have cause to be grateful for acts of kindness and courage by ordinary police officers that go uncelebrated.

Which way was Janus looking when hundreds of people, with barely a facemask in sight, took to the streets to protest against the lockdown, and when groups of protesters, masked and hooded, went on the offensive against the police in Bristol? Were they responding to crimes committed, protecting the public or caught in a circular dance in which the need to enforce and protect stemmed directly from their own presence?

My favourite former police officer will probably be looking on with a wry smile. He will remember the protests of the seventies, the IRA, the Angry Brigade and the miner’s strike. Nothing new under the sun, he might say. I’m not speaking for him, but he might also reflect that the police are often as not the fall guys, made to look like the baddies by laws passed not by them, but by politicians who are happy to talk the talk but are conspicuously absent from the places where their decisions are implemented. Boris Johnson might be happy to exhibit himself at vaccination centres, but you won’t find Priti Patel, our Home Secretary, locked down in a police station where Kill the Bill protesters are breaking the windows.

Back in my days of relative innocence, when I was a student, about the same age as some of the people who rioted in Bristol, the main bugbear within the police among my peers, for reasons that should be obvious, was the drug squad. Then, as the seventies grew darker, the strikes grew more aggressive, the bombs ripped through pubs and the decade ended with a winter of discontent, the dynamics and priorities of law enforcement changed.

We are living through a similar, if not more extreme, time. As in the seventies, the police are struggling to keep up with the changes in society, because they are not the masters. For that reason, they will always be behind the curve. There may be many areas in which they can bring themselves closer to the leading edge. It might be trite to suggest that if they ever get there it will be because we’ve become a police state. You could also argue that the Police, Crime, Sentencing and Courts Bill currently going through Parliament takes us closer to that point by further limiting the circumstances under which we’re free to protest. But nobody who has lived in a police state, as I have, would argue that we’re close to that point today.

Earlier in this post, I listed a number of possible reasons why the British police are not currently held in the highest esteem. The truth is that they will never please or satisfy everybody. But perhaps it would help if for a moment we considered life without them. And instead of shouting, bludgeoning and demanding resignations, perhaps we should be more vocal in expressing appreciation when it’s due, and more objective when demanding improvements, not just from the police themselves, but from their political masters.

The last thing we need is an embattled subculture whose loyalties are principally to their own, because for policing to work, there needs to be a mutual dependence, wherein we rely on them and they on us. Or better than that, a common purpose that transcends the them and us and binds us together in a time of crisis.

Chance would be a fine thing, I guess, but not a bad objective to keep in mind.

When two tribes go to war

Goodness, I’m worried about writing what follows, because I’m bound to upset someone and I would prefer not to. If, like Piers Morgan, I made it my business to upset people, I would probably have more readers. But actually I don’t care too much about having more readers, so there you go. A deep breath then.

Poor Sarah Everard was clearly much loved. Just one of thousands of women of her age who walk through London on a regular basis. Her death sends a shudder through me, as the father of another woman of a similar age who also walks regularly through London. It’s a city that thanks to congestion charges, punitive parking rates and the explosion of delivery vans has become a hostile zone for cars and car ownership. If Sarah had taken an Uber, or owned a car of her own and chosen to drive it that night, she would still be with us today. Unknown to most of us, but still alive.

If, if, if. That little word might precede so many thoughts going through the minds of those who loved her.

But I have another “if” that might not slip out so easily. If Sarah had been a black woman, murdered by some random creep, would her story have been across the front pages of all the newspapers? Only after she had been found dead, I suspect, and only for twenty-four hours. After that, she would have become a statistic.

Would that be evidence that we’re a racist society, or merely that we have a racist media? If you believe the Black Lives Matter narrative, it’s the former. If you listen to Meghan, it might be the latter.

But wait. Did we grieve so much for Amelie Delagrange, one of Levi Bellfield’s victims, who was French? What of Nahid Almanea, a thirty-one-year-old Saudi woman who was stabbed to death in Essex? Neither was black, but where were the floral tributes and vigils after their deaths?

It’s no more tenable to deny that we have racists among us, and that many institutions are tinged by racism – be it conscious or unconscious – than to claim that our climate isn’t warming up. But here’s a question. Would the difference between media coverage of murders of black people and the killing of a young white woman lie in the perception that Sarah, from the perspective of white consumers of the media, was one of “our tribe”? And that what motivates much of the racism in our society can actually be described as tribalism?

Is there a difference between racism and tribalism? Of course. You could argue that most racism is tribal, but not necessarily that all tribalism is racist. Hence, Hindu extremists in India attacking Muslims and Sikhs would probably deny that they’re racist. Likewise Hutus who massacred Tutsis in Rwanda. These acts of violence don’t seem to be based on ethnic origin or skin colour. You could also argue that political factions, religious sectarianism, and even football fanbases are tribal. And when tribal sentiments lead to violence, are they more or less worthy of condemnation than racist sentiments?

I don’t wish to play down the evil of racism, but I think we should remember that it’s a part of a much bigger problem. Which is that if we’re encouraged to do so, we, whoever we are, are naturally inclined to discriminate against people who don’t look like us, don’t speak like us, don’t behave like us, don’t believe in the same god, don’t listen to the same music, don’t admire the same leaders and don’t follow the same football teams. And when that discrimination becomes active, you have the basis for violence, sometimes deadly. What’s more, when a tribe is threatened, be it physically, economically, environmentally or mentally, it’s more likely to turn in on itself and attack other tribes as a form of defence.

The triggers for racism, on the surface, are obvious. The most common perception is that it’s about differences in physical characteristics, most notably skin colour. Tribalism is messier and more insidious. Two tribes might go to war without there being any visible difference between them. Protestants in Northern Ireland don’t dress differently from Catholics. In the UK, in which tolerance has been raised over the past century to a national virtue, not so long ago Jews were not admitted to certain golf clubs and landlords were allowed to put signs outside their properties specifying “no Irish”. David Baddiel, in his book Jews Don’t Count, contends that anti-Semitic sentiment is racist, but often discounted because it doesn’t conform to popular perceptions of what racism means. But you can just as easily argue that it’s tribal. So is an attitude easier to denounce when it’s racist? And should we not equally be denouncing the malign effects of tribalism?

And what of violence towards women? Is that tribal too? Yes, inasmuch as many tribes have members whose attitudes towards women derive from common values, sometimes shared even among female members. Such values can include Belief in the subordinate role of women, in the distinction between family and non-family, and between women as mothers and sisters as opposed to sex objects.

It seems to me that you can criminalise and drive racist behaviour under cover, but unless you also address the latent tribalism within societies, you will not stamp it out. It will simply lie in waiting for an opportunity to express itself without penalty.

And how do you mitigate tribalism? Much more complicated, as Americans are discovering. It’s perhaps significant that Joe Biden’s American Recovery Plan has met with widespread support beyond partisan boundaries, even though not a single Republican voted for the Stimulus Bill in Congress.

The easy answer is that you can mitigate the effects of tribalism but you can’t eradicate the phenomenon itself. It’s built into the human condition, whether it shows itself as rival groups of hunter gatherers competing for the same prey or as Sunni and Shia competing for dominance in Iraq.

But here’s the thing about tribes. They’re fluid. They overlap. They evolve. Sometimes people pay allegiance to more than one tribe at the same time. How otherwise has the United States (despite Trump’s best efforts) absorbed whole communities of Arab Muslims who declare themselves to be staunchly American? And how come so many migrants who in the 50’s and 60’s arrived in Britain from the Asian subcontinent consider themselves to be more British than those of us who were born here?

Tribalism also comes in different strengths, depending on the bonds that link people together. There’s a difference between national separatist sentiment and supporters of one football club who chant insults at the Jewish supporters of another.

It seems to me that the lubricants that allow different tribes to rub along together are firstly values – behavioural norms that people hold dear – and secondly what we usually refer to as culture, which as I define as values translated into actual behaviour: how we do things around here. Culture is what drives members of a tribe to regulate the actions of fellow members, through praise, disapproval, reward and punishment. Culture in action is when a builder up a scaffold in a busy street catcalls a woman walking below, and his colleagues tell him to shut the hell up.

Culture does evolve, and so do tribes. Read How Was It For You, Virginia Nicholson’s social history of the 1960s from a woman’s perspective. It tracks the evolution of women in society during that period: from being patronised, protected, oppressed and marginalised to sexual liberation (of a sort); from gaining meaningful footholds in higher education and public life to the formation of influential Women’s Liberation movements at the end of the decade. These changes didn’t happen of their own accord. They were helped along by legislation that banned forms of sexual discrimination, which themselves were the result of a groundswell of discontent caused by changing values.

So it was with racism. In Britain, Boris Johnson’s government, for all its many failings, is the most racially diverse in history. But yet again, tribalism complicates the picture. Two of his cabinet ministers, Rishi Sunak and Kwesi Kwarteng, are products of elite private schools (Winchester and Eton respectively). Is their success the result of a diversity policy or because they happen to be talented members of the dominant political tribe? Ironically, one of his Cabinet Ministers, Priti Patel, is among the most enthusiastic promoters of laws that curb further immigration, despite having been a personal beneficiary of more tolerant immigration policies in previous decades.

That said, racial discrimination laws have made it impossible for TV comedies mocking bigotry, such as Till Death Us Do Part, to be shown on TV, let alone commissioned. The same laws have made overt acts of racism, such as the landlord’s sign which indicated that, in addition to Irish tenants, no blacks would be welcome, unthinkable.

Yet laws can dictate what the hand does, but not what the heart feels. Values and culture do that. Look also at Ireland, where people will tell you today that the nation was suffocated until recent decades by the dominant role of the Catholic hierarchy. Not so much today, after the Church was discredited for its attitude towards child abuse by the clergy, its treatment of unmarried mothers and its overbearing dominance of social policy on issues such as divorce and abortion.

Can we hope that Britain, with its multiplicity of tribes, including those that are tinged with racism, will similarly evolve? Will racism largely dissolve as barriers between tribes become eased by common understanding and aspirations? Not so easily, I fear.

We are a nation under stress. Battered socially and economically by the pandemic. Divided and potentially diminished by Brexit. The opportunity to escape from poverty stunted by new economic models built around the gig economy. Encouraged by the social media to be querulous and bitter. We fear for the future. Under such circumstances tribes look inward, and seek to protect their own interests at the expense of others.

Yet for all the evidence to the contrary, I see reasons for optimism. In the wake of the pandemic, we have cause to reflect on what sort of society we want to become. We’ve struggled against a virus that, all things being equal, doesn’t distinguish between tribe or race. But all things aren’t equal, and it does prey disproportionately on the poor, the unhealthy and the elderly. This in turn has exposed more starkly the vulnerability of marginalised communities. We’ve seen how much we rely for our health on doctors and nurses from Croatia, Zimbabwe, Iraq and Bangladesh. We’ve seen Sikhs organising delivery of free food to local communities, regardless of race or tribe. We agree that black lives matter. We’re horrified at the murder of Sarah Everard; the groundswell of protest at the treatment of women on our streets may well lead to legislation that criminalises casual abuse. We recognise the damage that can be caused by online bullying, and that current legislation doesn’t do enough to deter anonymous trolls. And we recognise that laws are not enough – that we need to change our way of thinking.

But who are the we I’m referring to above? By we, do I really mean me? Or am I speaking for one tribe: affluent, white, male, middle-aged people who are comfortably insulated from more arduous realities? Not really. Even among that tribe there is no unanimity.

One sign of a culture changing is when the meaning of expressions change. Gay, cancel, progressive, liberal, have all evolved. Sometimes new expressions come to life. One such was genocide, which was coined at Nuremberg to describe the actions of Nazi leaders before and during World War 2. If you asked someone in Britain a hundred years ago what a tribe was, they might tell you that Caesar conquered the tribes of Gaul, or that Africa was continent populated by tribes. Suggest that tribes exist in their country and they would question your sanity.

Today, perhaps it’s time to think of tribalism in a different way. To recognise that discrimination, expressions of hatred and acts of violence between large groups of people on grounds of identity are as unacceptable as those taking place against women and the traditional victims of racism. If the law needs to be tweaked to make that distinction, so be it.

We will never eliminate hatred between individuals or groups. But perhaps if we create an expression that bundles racism with a host of other behaviours that threaten the cohesiveness of our society, we will popularise the idea that violence against women, against gay people and against ethnic minorities are part of the same phenomenon.

Call it tribalism, groupthink, intercommunity hatred or whatever other slick phrase we can come up with, the consciousness that we need to raise is that racism, misogyny and homophobia are not the only social problems that we need to address if we want the post-COVID era to be one of an uplifting sea change rather than an accelerated decline.

Joining the Genarians

Reaching 70, as I did the other day, is an interesting experience.

Making it through the last decade brings to mind the astronauts in Interstellar as they go through the wormhole and come out on the other side into a distant galaxy, only to find planets that are superficially familiar to earth yet profoundly hostile to human life.

Or, to put it another way, you’re entering sniper’s alley. Around every corner lurks a deadly threat – any number of ailments that will kill you quickly or inflict a wound that will eventually bring you down. Add to the usual suspects COVID, which is less like a sniper and more like an invading army.

Yet I also feel a sense of relief at having lived through my sixties when others of my generation – including ridiculously talented people such as David Bowie and Alan Rickman – didn’t.

Anyway, time to glance down the mountain, look up again and and keep climbing. By reaching three score years and ten I’ve joined a new club. I call it the Genarians, I am now a septuagenarian. At some stage I might become an octogenarian. Though it’s unlikely and I might not even be aware of it by then, I could even turn into a nonagenarian. We Genarians are normally described thus when we achieve things that by rights we shouldn’t be able to do. Septuagenarian athletes, octogenarian inventors or nonagenarian hill farmers.

Once we become 70, the rest of society expects us to have retired. To be incapable of energetic action or creative thought. We are decomposing. Bits drop off us. If we’re lucky, we succumb to graceful degradation. Some of us moulder on in the public gaze, like ancient comedians and US senators who were first elected in 1958. We get told how wonderful we are if we defy our years and do something outstanding. But most of us quietly fade away, becoming ever more mellow because we don’t care any more, or cranky and bitter because the scales have fallen off our eyes too late for anyone to pay any attention when we point out all the things in the world that need fixing. Joe Biden and David Attenborough are modern-day exceptions who prove the rule

No, 70 isn’t the new 50. It’s an age when, if we’re famous, we add a few notches to our Wikipedia profiles without feeling an obligation to do so. If, on the other hand, we’re malignant narcissists, we want to go out in a blaze of glory, wrecking everything in our wake. You know who I’m talking about. The rest of us become steadily less relevant to the younger generations, unless, of course, they want our money.

But then we Genarians discover over time that much of what we used to get het up about is no longer important, because we can’t do a thing to influence stuff one way or another. And anyway, such serious shit as happens will probably come to full fruition after we’ve snuffed it So some of us try and focus on what we can influence. It might be the future of our kids and grandkids. It might be volunteering within local communities. Or it might be spitting venom in a parish council Zoom meeting. The ability to comment sagely from a great height about events over which we have no control is usually described by our juniors as wisdom. And when we get querulous and stubborn, we get a free pass, just like squalling infants. Is it any wonder that when Britain voted to leave the European Union, the Genarians responded more enthusiastically than any other demographic group to the notion that we should “take back control”?

We do still matter politically, at least in Britain, because every five years we get to vote for yet another reactionary government that has courted us, bribed us and pandered to our prejudices on a regular basis. And then, once we’ve voted, we return to irrelevance. The younger ones get on with screwing up the country.

But all is not gloom and doom. We Genarians have plenty of scope for community spirit. We men can compare notes with each other in car parks about the state of our prostates, if we still have them. The women of the species can complain about their husbands abandoning all the norms of civilised behaviour, wandering around with their flies undone, farting with abandon and decorating their clothes with soup. We can celebrate the small triumphs of our friends over the ravages of time, though often with envious asides. In normal times we can go to funerals, lots of them. And we can read obituaries, lots of them, taking note of whether they lived longer than us and reading between the lines of the obituary writer’s hints about the subject’s dark side.

Eventually, as we inch towards the nether reaches of our lives, and more bits drop off, our world shrinks. If we’re lucky enough to retain our capacity to think and communicate, we can still live meaningful lives, to us at least, even if visits from our offspring are reduced to acts of duty, charity and, if we’re still capable of altering our wills, cupidity. Not that I anticipate such motives on the part of my own beloved children, I hasten to add.

But I’m some way away from that level of decline. As a newly-anointed Genarian, I intend continue with my favourite activities. To laugh at myself, curse politicians spouting bullshit on TV, to pontificate on matters on which I’m not qualified to comment, to wish hell and damnation on Donald Trump in case he shows signs of reanimating, to glory in travel, food, cricket, music, drama and history. To love my wife for all her faults, and try and persuade her to keep loving me despite my much more serious ones. To love my kids and their offspring without obvious judgement. And to try and keep relationships alight with relatives and friends, even as their candles grow dimmer or our paths diverge.

Finally, I shall continue to reflect on how lucky we Genarians are to reach an age that in just about every generation before us was attainable only by a small minority. In the words of Tom Hanks’ character in Saving Private Ryan, as he lay dying in a Normandy village after finding the sole survivor of four combatant brothers and whispered his final exhortation in the ear of the eponymous Ryan, I shall do my best to “earn it”.

Britain’s National Health Service: a round of applause for the price of a latte?

Incompetence springs from many sources. Thinking without evidence that you know better than anybody else. Making decisions without taking advice. Failure to anticipate the likely consequences of a decision. Groupthink, wherein decisions are derived through ideology rather than known facts. Cultures where loyalty is valued more highly than ability.

I could go on. But I leave it up to you to determine wherein lies the stupidity of the British government in determining that National Health Service workers deserve a 1% pay rise. Let’s explore the decision a little further.

The government’s justification is that the state can’t afford a higher rise. All fine and logical, except that for the past year we have been relying on the NHS to keep more of us alive than at any time in its history. To do so, it has asked more of its staff – more hours, more danger, more stress – than they have ever experienced for a sustained period throughout their working lives. Exceptional times, exceptional demands.

Pay rises have long-term consequences. They raise the running costs of an organisation not just for the year in which they are awarded, but for the years to come. They are hard numbers that affect what can be spent on other aspects of the service – infrastructure, equipment, drugs and so forth. These costs are, to an extent, quantifiable.

So also are costs on an individual level which determine whether people can afford to work for the organisation. Costs of housing, transportation, food and clothing, for example. These are practical considerations that dictate whether a person chooses to become a nurse, a paramedic, a soldier, a police officer or a bus driver.

The question of what people deserve is entirely another matter. Do NHS staff deserve 1%, 5% or 10% increases? That depends on your perspective. If you’re a COVID patient whom the NHS has kept alive against the odds, you might argue for the higher figure. But if you’re a police officer whose mission is to keep the public safe in less dramatic fashion, and you’re told there will be no pay increase this year, you might feel aggrieved and undervalued if the paramedics with whom you work closely are given, say, a 3% rise and you get nothing.

Public sector pay is a rat’s nest of competing claims. How do you tell a police officer who confronted knife-wielding killers at Borough Market, or a fire fighter who saved a young family in a house fire that they are less deserving than a nurse struggling to keep four people alive in intensive care when normal protocols require them to look after only one patient?

So in the small picture, what people deserve is impossible to calculate and, in practical terms, should form no part of the determinations of a government haemorrhaging money in order to keep the economy afloat.

In the big picture, it’s a political issue, and it’s huge. Every spending decision for the foreseeable future is likely to be framed against what nurses, paramedics, cleaners, and junior doctors deserve for their heroic efforts over the past year. You can afford a £2 million communications centre in Downing Street but not more than 1% for the NHS? You can spend money on aircraft carriers, nukes and drones? You can build endless railway links and roads? You can pay head teachers six-figure salaries? Increase the salaries of Members of Parliament? Yet you can’t give the nurse who kept me alive more than a £3.50 a week pay rise. The price of a latte at Starbucks.

Worse still, you splurge public money on a 30-minute video extolling the success of the vaccination programme, which is immediately condemned as government propaganda. Your Test and Trace programme, at the cost of £37 billion is condemned by a former senior Treasury official as the “most wasteful and inept public spending programme of all time”. And we’re not even talking about those PPE procurement deals, which, even if they turn out not to have been corrupt, still have the smell of cronyism about them. It doesn’t make the government look good, does it?

Going back to the fundamental issue of rewarding NHS staff, here’s another thing to consider about pay rises. I know from bitter experience as an employer that the motivational value of a pay rise is short lived. Give someone 10%, and the result might be a rush of pleasure at increased earning power and a temporary boost to self-esteem. But before long it becomes the new normal. But if the pay rise is seen as unfair, and particularly if it can be perceived as an effective pay cut, the demotivation and discontent it can generate can be long-lasting even if the recipient chooses not to leave. There is an argument, of course, that in public service money is not the prime source of job satisfaction. But if it’s seen as inadequate or unfair, it’s often the main cause of dissatisfaction. Dan Pink makes that argument very persuasively in his book Drive – the Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.

But the government can only influence non-financial motivation by tweaking the organisation and putting appropriate leadership in place. Which it tries to do with monotonous regularity, assisted by its stable of extremely expensive consultants. So when thinking about what it can do to satisfy both public opinion and the bean-counters at the Treasury, we come back to money.

There is, it seems to me, a solution of sorts. I have no idea whether the government has considered and rejected it, or whether it simply hasn’t occurred to them. If I was world king, I would stay with the 1%, or possibly raise closer to the 2.5% that the NHS was recommending before the pandemic struck. But I would award every single NHS employee – from cleaner to consultant – a one-off bonus of £1,000 in recognition of their outstanding work in our hour of need.

Given that there are 1.3 million people who work for the NHS, the cost would be £1.3 billion, or approximately 3.5% of the cost of the Test and Trace programme. In the big scheme of things, hardly an economy-wrecking number. But a lump sum of £1000, tax free, would make a big difference, especially to the lower-paid staff on whom the service relies. I would also award the same bonus to contractors who work alongside front-line NHS staff. Nobody who played their part in helping us weather the pandemic should be excluded.

You would no doubt get a chorus of complaints from other public service workers who might claim that they also played their part. If you wanted to be more discriminating, you could restrict the payment to those who worked on the front line with COVID patients. Either way, this would be a political decision. And who would begrudge the recognition of a section of the community that day-in, day-out, risked their lives and worked interminable hours to provide us with medical help when we needed it?

In this way, you separate the political from the practical. You recognise achievement beyond the call of duty and set aside the ongoing pay issue for another day, another year. And by making the same payment to everybody, you recognise that this was a crisis that demanded teamwork, where normal roles, status and hierarchies were cast aside in a common effort.

You may come up with a hundred reasons why such an initiative might not have the desired effect. To which I can only reply with a single question: would such a measure have the effect of driving motivation and morale within the NHS lower than it is today?

I humbly rest my case.

Britain’s National Health Service: a round of applause for the price of a latte?

Incompetence springs from many sources. Thinking without evidence that you know better than anybody else. Making decisions without taking advice. Failure to anticipate the likely consequences of a decision. Groupthink, wherein decisions are derived through ideology rather than known facts. Cultures where loyalty is valued more highly than ability.

I could go on. But I leave it up to you to determine wherein lies the stupidity of the British government in determining that National Health Service workers deserve a 1% pay rise. Let’s explore the decision a little further.

The government’s justification is that the state can’t afford a higher rise. All fine and logical, except that for the past year we have been relying on the NHS to keep more of us alive than at any time in its history. To do so, it has asked more of its staff – more hours, more danger, more stress – than they have ever experienced for a sustained period throughout their working lives. Exceptional times, exceptional demands.

Pay rises have long-term consequences. They raise the running costs of an organisation not just for the year in which they are awarded, but for the years to come. They are hard numbers that affect what can be spent on other aspects of the service – infrastructure, equipment, drugs and so forth. These costs are, to an extent, quantifiable.

So also are costs on an individual level which determine whether people can afford to work for the organisation. Costs of housing, transportation, food and clothing, for example. These are practical considerations that dictate whether a person chooses to become a nurse, a paramedic, a soldier, a police officer or a bus driver.

The question of what people deserve is entirely another matter. Do NHS staff deserve 1%, 5% or 10% increases? That depends on your perspective. If you’re a COVID patient whom the NHS has kept alive against the odds, you might argue for the higher figure. But if you’re a police officer whose mission is to keep the public safe in less dramatic fashion, and you’re told there will be no pay increase this year, you might feel aggrieved and undervalued if the paramedics with whom you work closely are given, say, a 3% rise and you get nothing.

Public sector pay is a rat’s nest of competing claims. How do you tell a police officer who confronted knife-wielding killers at Borough Market, or a fire fighter who saved a young family in a house fire that they are less deserving than a nurse struggling to keep four people alive in intensive care when normal protocols require them to look after only one patient?

So in the small picture, what people deserve is impossible to calculate and, in practical terms, should form no part of the determinations of a government haemorrhaging money in order to keep the economy afloat.

In the big picture, it’s a political issue, and it’s huge. Every spending decision for the foreseeable future is likely to be framed against what nurses, paramedics, cleaners, and junior doctors deserve for their heroic efforts over the past year. You can afford a £2 million communications centre in Downing Street but not more than 1% for the NHS? You can spend money on aircraft carriers, nukes and drones? You can build endless railway links and roads? You can pay head teachers six-figure salaries? Increase the salaries of Members of Parliament? Yet you can’t give the nurse who kept me alive more than a £3.50 a week pay rise. The price of a latte at Starbucks.

Worse still, you splurge public money on a 30-minute video extolling the success of the vaccination programme, which is immediately condemned as government propaganda. Your Test and Trace programme, at the cost of £37 billion is condemned by a former senior Treasury official as the “most wasteful and inept public spending programme of all time”. And we’re not even talking about those PPE procurement deals, which, even if they turn out not to have been corrupt, still have the smell of cronyism about them. It doesn’t make the government look good, does it?

Going back to the fundamental issue of rewarding NHS staff, here’s another thing to consider about pay rises. I know from bitter experience as an employer that the motivational value of a pay rise is short lived. Give someone 10%, and the result might be a rush of pleasure at increased earning power and a temporary boost to self-esteem. But before long it becomes the new normal. But if the pay rise is seen as unfair, and particularly if it can be perceived as an effective pay cut, the demotivation and discontent it can generate can be long-lasting even if the recipient chooses not to leave. There is an argument, of course, that in public service money is not the prime source of job satisfaction. But if it’s seen as inadequate or unfair, it’s often the main cause of dissatisfaction. Dan Pink makes that argument very persuasively in his book Drive – the Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.

But the government can only influence non-financial motivation by tweaking the organisation and putting appropriate leadership in place. Which it tries to do with monotonous regularity, assisted by its stable of extremely expensive consultants. So when thinking about what it can do to satisfy both public opinion and the bean-counters at the Treasury, we come back to money.

There is, it seems to me, a solution of sorts. I have no idea whether the government has considered and rejected it, or whether it simply hasn’t occurred to them. If I was world king, I would stay with the 1%, or possibly raise closer to the 2.5% that the NHS was recommending before the pandemic struck. But I would award every single NHS employee – from cleaner to consultant – a one-off bonus of £1,000 in recognition of their outstanding work in our hour of need.

Given that there are 1.3 million people who work for the NHS, the cost would be £1.3 billion, or approximately 3.5% of the cost of the Test and Trace programme. In the big scheme of things, hardly an economy-wrecking number. But a lump sum of £1000, tax free, would make a big difference, especially to the lower-paid staff on whom the service relies. I would also award the same bonus to contractors who work alongside front-line NHS staff. Nobody who played their part in helping us weather the pandemic should be excluded.

You would no doubt get a chorus of complaints from other public service workers who might claim that they also played their part. If you wanted to be more discriminating, you could restrict the payment to those who worked on the front line with COVID patients. Either way, this would be a political decision. And who would begrudge the recognition of a section of the community that day-in, day-out, risked their lives and worked interminable hours to provide us with medical help when we needed it?

In this way, you separate the political from the practical. You recognise achievement beyond the call of duty and set aside the ongoing pay issue for another day, another year. And by making the same payment to everybody, you recognise that this was a crisis that demanded teamwork, where normal roles, status and hierarchies were cast aside in a common effort.

You may come up with a hundred reasons why this approach might not have the desired effect. To which I can only reply with a single question: would such a measure have the effect of driving motivation and morale within the NHS lower than it is today?

I humbly rest my case.

Brief observations on a family row

I have no intention of watching the interview, but the headlines are almost impossible to ignore. So rather than focus on Harry and Meghan, I only offer a few brief and far from comprehensive observations (or truisms, if you care to think of them that way) about human behaviour, based on my own experience, that arise out of the rumpus.

First, the more rule-bound a culture, the harder it is for an outsider with little understanding of that culture to integrate themselves.

Second, the implicit rules of a culture are far harder for an outsider to grasp or embrace than the explicit ones.

Third, we each have our own reality. You don’t have to be poor and downtrodden to be deprived of basic needs. Lack of sympathy on the grounds of their wealth and privilege for those who experience mental pain is often the result of envy and disappointment in the eye of the beholder.

Fourth, if, for whatever reason, you are sensitive to insult, you will find it whether or not it was intended.

Fifth, there is no such thing as a functional family, because there are no universal rules that define what functional means. Every family, in one way or another, is dysfunctional.

Sixth, words once said can’t be unsaid. However, they can be forgotten or cease to be meaningful.

Seventh, the older you are the less interesting you become. Such is public obsession with (relative) youth that if a couple like Meghan and Harry had given the same interview in their fifties or sixties few people would have paid a blind bit of notice.

Finally, misfortunes are often like heirlooms. They are handed down from generation to generation. What changes is not so much the heirloom, but what it means to those who inherit it.

End of story. At least as far as I’m concerned.

Breathless in India

I will no doubt be accused of being unpatriotic when I say how much fun I’ve had watching the Indian cricket team grinding England into the dust in the series just ended on the subcontinent.

Much as I would have liked my own team to prosper, what could be better than getting up at 6am, in full knowledge that catastrophe for one side or another had already struck, or would certainly unfold before the end of the day?

The series was special because both sides have some special players, though India’s special ones outplayed ours. Aside from the frequent debacles that reduced the England team to gibbering wrecks by the end of the series, there were other distinguishing features.

One was the commentary, not so much by the legendary Sunil Gavaskar and his Indian colleagues, who struggled heroically to remain impartial, but by Graeme Swann, one of England’s most successful spin bowlers of recent years, who didn’t. He was great entertainment, especially when he tried unsuccessfully to wind up his fellow commentators, who seemed slightly bemused at his humour. I could imagine him having the England dressing room in stitches, though at some stage whoever became the butt of his banter might have been tempted to chuck him off the balcony. When test cricket returns to satellite TV, Swann must migrate with it.

Then there were the players. I have learned that on the subcontinent there’s a tradition of printing first names on the back of their shirts. This required a person of limited intelligence like me to have to learn both of their names, since the commentators often referred to them by their surnames. Such as Pant, for example, which is far easier for a foreigner to remember than Rishabh, for reasons more than the fact that there are only four letters. We also had to come to terms with Washington Sundar, whose first name is a sublime anomaly among the Virats, Ishants and Rohits.

If we had to do this in England, we might have a problem dealing with our heroes running around with Dom, Dom, Jimmy and Joe on their backs, even though Leach, our tenacious spinner and lower-order batsman, became forever Jack in our household a couple of years ago, as he clung to his wicket while Ben Stokes destroyed the Australians in Leeds.

I also learned that English is not the only language in which the spelling of surnames can be widely different than their pronunciation. Granted, Cholmondeley and Featherstonehaugh (pronounced Chumley and Fanshaw) sit on a wilder shore than Pant and Axar (Punt and Aksha), but I’m forever indebted to Sunil Gavaskar (emphasis on the first A, please) for sparing me the need to make unfunny plays on Rishabh’s family name (apart from in the title of this piece).

Rishabh Pant (above) was, in fact one of the main reasons why the four-match contest was indeed a breathless affair. In contrast to England’s willowy heroes, Joe Root, Ben Stokes and all, Pant is a pocket battleship, a cricketing Maradona. When he stands behind the wicket, he chirps the batsmen to extinction, rather like Alexa infected with malware. As a batsman, he has that glorious quality that makes him compulsive viewing, which is that you never know what he’s going to do next. He adapts the tactics of the short game to disrupt the long form.

As for the bowlers, the hold that Ashwin and Axar gained over the English batsmen as the series progressed was another thing of beauty. It reminded you that in common with most competitive sport, cricket is a contest of the mind rather than merely one of physical skills. England dealt with the Indian spinners just fine in the first match in Chennai. When the pitches in the following two games became less placid, with the ball making right angles out of the dust, our lot couldn’t cope. And when the fourth match came along, despite the pitch being relatively snake-free, their confidence was well and truly shot.

I’m not sure if the English included a sports psychologist in their back-up team, but if not, surely a few mass hypnosis sessions on Zoom would have paid dividends. Either that, or someone like Graeme Swann to cheer them up now and again.

The first match was played in an empty stadium, which probably muted the normal home advantage for India. But then the fans returned, and so did India’s power. The few thousand (or hundreds, hard to tell which) who came to the massive stadium in Ahmedabad, made themselves heard, even though they looked like ants in the wide expanse of empty seating when viewed from the drone cameras. Yet, as fans do, they huddled together as if COVID was a thing of the past. Barely a face mask in sight, in a country that has lost 170,000+ to the virus. Then again, with Pant slaying all before him, the virus probably didn’t get a look-in.

As we in England crawl towards the ever-expanding horizon of freedom from lockdown, these mornings of madness in India have been, for me at least, a far better antidote to enforced confinement than slumping in front of the TV late in the afternoon for yet another sterile football match where the main cause of excitement is the crunching of bones and muscle, the false screams of agony and bellowed curses in many languages.

Cricket, on the other hand has a universal language in which a handful of words known to all suffice. Cricketing courage isn’t standing firm in the face of a murderous tackle. If you’re a batsman, it’s staying calm as a potentially lethal projectile whistles past your head at ninety miles an hour. It’s also three or four people crouching a few yards away from a batsman who can dispatch the same projectile into your body at the speed of a bullet. Teamwork is trusting that your bowler isn’t going to deliver a ball that the batsman will use to end your life.

And the joy of long-form cricket is that, at its best, it can deliver in real time at least as many twists and turns as you’re likely to see if you binge-watch a TV drama. Though Breaking Bad has an entirely different meaning when you’re an England batsman facing Ravichandran Ashwin.

A while ago someone anointed football with the phrase “the beautiful game”. To hell with that. Even though a vastly smaller percentage of the world’s population would agree with me, cricket is the ultimate beautiful game.

Permission to escape

When you go abroad, it’s quite common in normal times for countries that rank high on the control and paranoia scale to ask you state the reason for your visit. It even happens when you go to America, one of the least paranoid countries (irony alert), with the additional attraction that you’re grilled by grunting hominids masquerading as immigration officials who almost always don’t believe what you said on the form.

But now, it seems, we Englanders are required to go through a hoop that has a distinctly Soviet tinge. Before we leave the United Kingdom, we need to produce a form stating our reason for leaving, and providing documentary evidence to back up our plans. In other words, we need permission to leave.

The UK government has been kind enough to provide a list of “permitted reasons”, which include work, volunteering, education, medical or compassionate grounds and “weddings, funerals and related events”.

Whichever reason we select, we will need to provide evidence that such activity can’t take place without our leaving the country. Permitted reasons do not include that I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take this bossy government anymore. Nor do they allow me to declare that unless I get out of here I’m going to trigger a mass extinction event.

I do see some useful potential loopholes, however. It surely won’t be long before some enterprising organisations in various parts of the world miraculously start inviting us to weddings of long-lost relatives in Thailand, or to sign us up as volunteers for some worthy cause from the comfort of a five-star hotel under the palm fronds beside some distant sea. They might also arrange for our appointment as employees of a start-up company in the Caribbean. And goodness knows, there are plenty of people being buried around the world, for whom funeral rites last at least three weeks. As for education, everybody will know that I’m studying for a PhD at an obscure university in Cambodia set up for precisely this purpose.

There’s also a list of exempted occupations which allow you travel without a permit. They include Eurostar train drivers, crown servants, civil aviation officials and border guards. That being the case, I’m wondering whether I’m too old to apply for a job as a temporary roving spy with MI6. A mission to spring Alexei Navalny, perhaps, taking in a few art galleries in St Petersburg enroute.

Failing all these options, I see no alternative: take out the swimming trunks, smear on the goose fat and head for Calais with a suitcase trailing in my wake.

Never did I believe that in my lifetime it would be easier for a Russian, with or without a few vials of Novichok or a payload of polonium, to leave Russia and enter the UK than for an impoverished Englander like me to get the hell out of my own country.

On a more serious note, here’s a quote from a magisterial essay in the Financial Times by Yuval Noah Harari on lessons to be learned from the pandemic:

… surveillance must always go both ways. If surveillance goes only from top to bottom, this is the high road to dictatorship. So whenever you increase surveillance of individuals, you should simultaneously increase surveillance of the government and big corporations too. For example, in the present crisis governments are distributing enormous amounts of money. The process of allocating funds should be made more transparent. As a citizen, I want to easily see who gets what, and who decided where the money goes. I want to make sure that the money goes to businesses that really need it rather than to a big corporation whose owners are friends with a minister. If the government says it is too complicated to establish such a monitoring system in the midst of a pandemic, don’t believe it. If it is not too complicated to start monitoring what you do — it is not too complicated to start monitoring what the government does.

Says it all as far as the UK is concerned, really.

No, Minister

It feels like an act of subtle subversion by the BBC. Despite wetting itself with fear of a government that seems intent on cutting it down to size, Britain’s hallowed broadcasting institution chooses this moment to offer us a re-run of Yes, Minister on terrestrial prime time.

For those who were too young to catch it when it first appeared (or too un-techy to find it on the internet), Yes, Minister is a wicked satire on the efforts of a rookie minister to break free from the self-preserving stranglehold of a cynical civil service. It’s a scream. And despite the absence of modern tech baubles and the obligatory profanity of the current era, it has aged miraculously well.

Episode 2, which aired this week, involved the attempt by Jim Hacker, the minister, to extract political advantage by switching the visit of the leader of an oil-rich African nation to Scotland, where, coincidentally, three by-elections are about to take place. When the leader threatens to embarrass the government by making an inflammatory speech about the curse of colonialism, he manages to extract a whopping great loan on very favourable terms as the price for moderating his language. Oh, and that money will be spent on buying drilling equipment made in Scotland.

It was a joy, all the more so because of the comic fireworks that the writers packed into the short space of thirty minutes.

Forty years on, the writers would surely snort with grim amusement at the antics of the current government, which has just agreed a hefty settlement out of public funds of the law suit by Sir Philip Rutnam, the senior civil servant at the Home Office, for constructive dismissal. His complaint was on the grounds of bullying by the minister, Priti Patel, who had already been found to have broken the ministerial code because of similar behaviour against other civil servants whom Sir Philip claimed he had attempted to protect.

Up in bonny Scotland, an alleged breach of the ministerial code by First Minister Nicola Sturgeon connected with the unsuccessful prosecution of her predecessor Alex Salmond for sexual offenses is being treated by her Conservative opponents as a resignation matter. Priti Patel escaped that fate, even though if Sir Philip’s testimony had been heard in open court she may well have been forced to resign.

Meanwhile, the Health minister, Matt Hancock, continues in office with impunity after having been judged in the High Court as having broken the law by failing to publish the details of COVID-related contracts within the statutory deadline. In his defence, he said that he would do it again if it was in the national interest. So much for the rule of law.

The same approach is being taken in Northern Ireland, where the government is pushing back the imposition of border controls agreed with the European Union a mere three months ago because, surprise surprise, they’re afraid that they will trigger shortages of food and other supplies in the province.

In Yes, Minister, there was always a get-out-of-jail card played at the end of the episode that spared embarrassment and resignations. This government’s failures are clear to see well beyond the dusty corridors of Whitehall. And yet, despite spending tens of billions of pounds on an ineffective test and trace programme and doing murky deals for the supply of equipment needed to protect doctors and nurses from the ravages of the first wave of COVID, in a recent opinion poll the Conservatives have increased their lead over Labour to thirteen percentage points.

Which suggests one of two explanations. Either that Labour are incapable of providing any meaningful opposition. Or, more likely, that the public are so intoxicated by the success of the vaccination programme and the scent of freedom in their nostrils that they are willing to forgive the government almost anything – even the adverse consequences of Brexit as they unfold under cover of a greater darkness.

I suspect that Sir Humphrey Appleby, the conniving head of department in Yes, Minister, would have succumbed to apoplexy by now. Or, if he was still alive today, enjoying a comfortable retirement in Surrey, he would have been amazed that his successors have not managed to rid themselves of their shameless and incompetent political masters. Or at the very least, that they haven’t had the courage to say No, Minister.

How do you punish a ruler without punishing the ruled?

Even among governments with the most benign and enlightened intentions, there comes a time when morality and values run up against political realities. That’s when hard decisions, or a lack of them, come into play.

There are plenty of people offering Joe Biden advice on what to do about Saudi Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman in the light of the CIA report that blames him for the murder of Jamal Khashoggi (above). I’m not about to join them either in praising or criticising Biden’s response. But drawing on my own experience of living and working in Saudi Arabia, which admittedly ended at the start of the MBS era, I do think it’s worth exploring the underlying factors in play.

First, why was a report written two years ago only released now? Donald Trump, keen to maintain a close relationship with MBS, ordered it to remain classified. In the recent Senate confirmation hearings, Avril Haines, Biden’s nominee for Director of National Intelligence, undertook that after her confirmation it would be declassified and released. From that point onwards it was clear that the new administration would be taking a different approach with Saudi Arabia. Other policy decisions, such as the suspension of sales of offensive weapons to the Kingdom that might be used in Yemen, followed.

Among some of those commentators who don’t believe that Joe Biden is doing enough to hold MBS to account, there seems to be a delusion that the United States somehow controls Saudi Arabia, and that therefore it has the power to determine whether or not Mohammed bin Salman becomes king. This tweet, linking to an article in The New Arab, is an example: “A US decision to spare Mohammed bin Salman over the killing of Jamal Khashoggi has frustrated campaigners.” The article refers to the lack of personal sanctions against the crown prince, but the tweet, read in isolation, suggests a power that United States doesn’t have, which is to remove the head of a foreign government other than by force.

The Washington Post, for whom Khashoggi worked, responded to the release of the report with an editorial that pointed to the argument for a pragmatic approach in future relations with Saudi Arabia. Iyad el Baghdadi, a friend of Jamal’s, writing in the same newspaper, believes that rather than focusing narrowly on MBS, the US should promote a return to the relatively free speech that prevailed before he came to power.

I agree with him, up to a point. As I mentioned earlier, the last time I was in Saudi Arabia was when MBS began his path to power. At the time the social media was a vibrant forum for opinions of every shade. Yet even then, although (to paraphrase the rallying cry in China that preceded Tiananmen Square) a thousand flowers bloomed in the desert, the ability to speak out never came close to the freedom of speech that we enjoy in the West. In particular, criticism of the individual members of the royal family was always a red line not to be crossed.

The analogy with Tiananmen Square is relevant because if there is a model that most closely resembles MBS’s policy of social freedom constrained by strict controls on freedom of expression and political activity, it operates in China, even though the Chinese Communist Party is a pervasive and mature establishment, and MBS’s concentration of personal power more closely resembles that of Vladimir Putin in Russia.

For all the pressure on Biden in the US media to “do something” about MBS, the president and his administration have some difficult choices.

The US State Department is well aware that if it tries to turn MBS into a pariah, the crown prince will look for friends and allies elsewhere. Most likely he will pivot towards Russia and China, who will be more than happy to gain influence in the region. Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping will be unlikely to be squeamish about supporting a leader who uses extreme measures to crush opposition.

It will also be aware of another factor that the more breathless analysts sometimes forget. If the people of Saudi Arabia turns en masse against Mohammed bin Salman, it will not be because of the murder of Khashoggi or the incarceration of dissidents. It will more likely be because of a decline in their living standards, as well as a sense of insecurity brought about by the intervention in Yemen, the perception of threat from Iran and the continuing presence of ISIS sympathisers both within and just beyond their borders.

Much as it pains me to say this, but the hard reality, I suspect, is that most Saudis don’t care about Jamal Khashoggi, Loujan Al-Hathloul, Raif Badawi and other celebrated dissidents. They have watched events in Egypt, Libya, Yemen, Iraq and Syria over the past decade. What happened to Khashoggi may be shocking to the West, but for many Saudis anxious to live in peace and prosperity, the gruesome murder of one person pales into insignificance when set against repeated and well publicised acts of cruelty perpetrated both by regimes and insurgents very close to home.

Certainly, there are plenty of people who want more personal freedoms, including the right to speak out about religion and politics without being locked up. And for sure there are people who live in fear of Mohammed bin Salman. But as many if not more are terrified of the consequences of a violent disruption of the status quo.

Of course there are grumbles of discontent. Among those who want increased social freedoms to be matched by freedom of speech. Among those who resent the mixing of men and women, the cinemas, the music and the sporting set pieces, and yearn for the days when the religious establishment controlled education and aggressively policed the morals of the nation. And especially among the unemployed youth, whose standard of living has steadily declined despite the government-mandated exodus of millions of foreign workers that was intended to open up new jobs for nationals.

But a crown prince who controls all the levers of state, including all the elements of the defence and security establishment that were previously controlled by rival factions within the royal family, would be difficult to dislodge without a concerted effort by members of that family.

No doubt Joe Biden regards MBS as irrevocably tainted. But he will be aware of the baleful consequences of regime changes in the region. While the removal of Mubarak, Ghaddafi, Saddam Hussein and Ali Abdullah Saleh of Yemen may have produced regime change, in every case the effect on the populations has been catastrophic.

The most obvious tactic short of fostering regime change would be sanctions against MBS and his closest associates. That way, people argue, you can hurt the leader without making the people as a whole pay for their misdeeds. But you could hardly say that the Magnitsky Act has weakened Putin. Sanctions against members of Assad’s family have not moderated his behaviour.

Sanctions against countries designed to encourage the people to rise up against their leaders failed in Saddam’s Iraq, and to date have failed in Iran. All they have achieved has been to strengthen the rulers’ determination to stay in power by the use of ever more repressive measures, and amplified the suffering of the population. Anybody who doubts that should ask Kim Jong Un.

What some of Biden’s critics perhaps fail to understand is that you can cancel a celebrity for saying the “wrong” thing, you can cancel an elected official for lying or sexual harassment, but you can’t cancel the ruler of another country without cancelling that country in the process.

Given its strategic position in the Middle East, the importance of its purchasing power and its role as a counterweight against Iran, Biden most likely believes that if, in America’s terms, he were to cancel Saudi Arabia, he’d probably have to cancel the whole region. Why? Because trade, diplomacy and military power come as a package. If he were to cede influence over Saudi Arabia, the knock-on effect would be that neighbours in the region would be encouraged to deepen relationships with other powers that they might consider more reliable partners. To an extent, that’s already happening. Russia is in Syria. China’s economic involvement with the region is deeper than ever.

For as long as America sees the world in terms of competition with powerful rivals, the Middle East, with Saudi Arabia at its centre, will remain a key piece on the global chessboard. And Joe Biden, for all his belief in what Robin Cook, the Tony Blair’s foreign minister, called an “ethical foreign policy”, will find it hard to turn away from alliances with dictators and absolute monarchs who resort to unethical means to stay in power.

For that reason, at the risk of coming over as a cold-hearted cynic, I see no other outcome for US-Saudi relations in the medium term than the continuation of the underlying status quo, even if its superficial characteristics are dressed up for political purposes as a reset.

No matter how much the friends of Jamal Khashoggi might yearn for a different future for Saudi Arabia, that would seem to be the cold, hard reality.

Anti-vax: what influences the influencers?

Today is a big day in my family. You could call it Maximum Vax Day. Why? Because it will be 22 days since my wife and I received our first dose of the COVID vaccine. According to the manufacturer, it’s the day on which our immunity to the virus reaches the expected level of effectiveness.

We plan to celebrate by making a cake. I admit it’s a strange way to mark a milestone that has arrived without any noticeable change in physical make-up or function. It’s not as if we’ve grown a couple of inches or developed the rippling bodies of Marvel heroes.

Physically, it’s just another day. The same aches and pains of advancing years are still there. In fact, they’re probably worse, thanks to three months of lockdown inactivity.

But psychologically, the impact is immense. The sense that our personal defences against the invisible fiend that notionally swirls around us every time a puffing jogger passes us in the park, or when we fearfully set foot in a supermarket, have been boosted to the point that we are unlikely to get seriously ill or die if it colonises our noses or lungs, is immensely reassuring.

As much as anything else, we feel that we can now safely catch a cold without fearing that we’re on a path towards the ventilator. Though strangely enough, in the past year neither of us has suffered a hint of the sneezes and sniffles that normally come at you from nowhere as surely as the seasons change. That’s what comes of living in a bio-bubble, I guess.

The basis of our relative ease, when it comes down to it, is faith. Faith in the science behind the vaccine, faith in those who developed it and faith in the public health officials who have pronounced it to be safe.

Take that faith away, or undermine it, and everything changes.

Which brings us, of course, to the anti-vax phenomenon. I won’t call it a “movement” because I don’t think that’s what it is, at least on the evidence of a documentary in the BBC’s Panorama series that I saw last night. Panorama was once a current affairs flagship. It has predated all others in Britain by several decades. It’s somewhat diminished these days, in the face of rival terrestrial offerings, and also the myriad of channels on YouTube.

But its most recent offering made a fair stab at exploring the fears of those who are hesitating to take the jab, and the disinformation that is stirring up those fears. At the heart of the programme was a YouTube film that showed a succession of medical professionals repeating many of the standard anti-vax messages. It will make you infertile, it will modify your DNA, it uses animal products, it’s a plot to control you and so on.

There were interviews with anti-vaxxers, as well as with a focus group whom they asked to watch the video. Most of the group expressed misgivings after watching it, although they were sufficiently reassured by an immunologist who answered their concerns and debunked the disinformation.

It turned out that a number of the people on the video have been barred from medical practice. One who was interviewed, a British nurse, had been the subject of a story a couple of months ago. Though this was not mentioned in the programme, her son claims that she has become so obsessed with vaccination conspiracy theories that he can no longer communicate with her. A classic case of down the rabbit hole, it seems.

It disappointed me, though, that Panorama didn’t delve into the motivation of the people were featured on the anti-vax video, and particularly of those who put it together. Why would you try to sabotage the best hope of mitigating the catastrophic effects of the pandemic? How can you claim, against overwhelming evidence to the contrary, that COVID is a hoax?

They didn’t manage to interview the video makers, leaving one to speculate that their motivation was simple: to make money through repeated viewings on YouTube and Instagram. The effect of such disinformation seems undeniable. Here’s a graph from a survey in the US. It may or may not be reliable, but the trends are telling:

Whatever the motivation of the instigators, the techniques behind much of the misinformation are clear. To understand them, a useful reference point is the six principles of influence defined by Dr Robert Cialdini, an American psychologist, a couple of decades ago. Three of them seem to be obvious sources.

The first is authority. People look to figures of authority – in this case medical professionals – to establish and reinforce their beliefs. Then there’s commitment and consistency. People hold beliefs that are consistent with their values. So if you’re a believer in one conspiracy theory, you’re likely to believe in another. And the third principle is consensus. If all members of your peer group believe in something, you’re likely to believe in it too.

By understanding the methods of persuasion employed by the anti-vaxxers, you can then come up with counter-strategies. Hence the use in communities where hesitancy is widespread of authority figures with credibility within those communities to debunk the falsehoods. Local doctors, celebrities and religious leaders, for example.

The toughest nut of all to crack would seem to be consensus. I still find it incredible that within groups most severely affected by the virus, such as black and Asian communities, resistance is highest. And in America, the idea that among white Republicans 60% might either be unsure or committed anti-vaxxers is equally strange, until you realise that this section of the population is most likely to buy into the likes of QAnon.

To me, Cialdini’s principles make so much sense that they should be part of the curriculum at every school and adult education institution. We need to understand how influence works so that we can recognise the techniques being used on us both for benign and malign purposes.

Calculated, malign and well-presented disinformation is one of the themes of the past decade. Vaccine hesitancy is just one of the by-products. Countering the lie machines has spawned a whole industry of counter-influencers, analysts and communicators.

But the principles haven’t changed, only the vectors, in the form of the social media. You could argue that there’s nothing new under the sun, excepting only the intensity of the light.

What influences the influencers? No easy answer. But if we’re to fill the gaps in the vaccination programme, and not just in the UK, we need to use every tactic in the book to counter the malign and reassure the fearful.

Now for the cake. Coffee, chocolate or vanilla? No easy answer either.

The diminishing power of three

One of the things I used to speak about when I ran communications workshops was that messages are best delivered in groups of three. Nothing new about this. People figured this out long ago, as Lincoln did in “of the people, for the people and by the people”. It’s often referred to by hacks like me as The Power of Three.

But rhetorical devices tend to have a weaker effect the more they’re used. When a technique that resonated so powerfully at Gettysburg turns into a default feature of a government communications handbook, it loses credibility. A case in point is now, when the British government, in the middle of a pandemic, flush with money it doesn’t have and delighting in new powers undreamed of in times other than war, makes use of the opportunity to lecture us about subjects way beyond the remit of public health.

The other morning, for example, I was assaulted on Twitter with a message from the UK’s National Crime Agency that told me to “know the gun, know the law and know the consequences”. It was, of course, intended to deter us from owning and using firearms.

Though I absolutely agree with the sentiment, I have no intention of going to gun class so that I can tell the difference between an AK47 and an M16, or between a Luger and a Beretta. As for the law, is there anyone over ten years old who is unaware that in the UK it’s illegal to own a gun? OK, they might know that the police are allowed guns, as are farmers and posh people who like shooting animals. But by and large, the vast majority of people know that you can’t buy a shotgun at Tesco.

And the consequences? Do we really need to be told that if we fire a gun at someone they might die and we might go to jail?

So what’s the point of splurging public money on telling us what we already know? Are our masters worried that, crazed as we are by lockdown, we’re about to bring out our hidden weaponry and start shooting each other, or worse still, that in tribute to our unruly American neighbours we’re about to storm Parliament?

It’s almost as though different branches of government are starting to compete with each other in coming up with the most inane three-pronged messages. Not content with “stay at home, save lives, protect the NHS”, which in many homes is now enough to evince piercing screams of fury, the government is turning the power of three into a nauseating cliché.

And by the way, why are we constantly bombarded by videos of our prime minister, dressed in a tight-fitting shirt that shows his nipples and ill-fitting trousers that thankfully show nothing, lurching around like a drunken gorilla and inviting people in hospitals and vaccination centres to crunch elbows with him?

Fortunately there’s only one of him, though you could be forgiven for thinking otherwise.

I wrote these words yesterday. Coming back to them a day later, as I often do when I want to leaven irritation with a wider perspective, I’m wondering why I reacted thus to a message that under normal circumstances would flit across my eyeline and depart without ceremony. Why is the mere sight of Boris Johnson is enough to raise my blood pressure to dangerous levels? And why do Matt Hancock, Gavin Williamson, Priti Patel and all the other usual suspects provoke a similar reaction?

Is it lockdown psychosis that causes me to swear at the TV whenever these characters start spouting? Or is it, as my wife delicately put it, because they’re in our faces all the time?

A bit of both, perhaps. We started watching the evening news on the BBC during the first lockdown. As a couple, we’ve always got our news from different sources – some by subscription and others depending on our diverse interests. The BBC News has acted as a common reference point, much as it did for our parents in other times of crisis. So it’s not surprising that we should be exposed to the same faces week in, week out. Not just the politicians, but the journalists whose idiosyncrasies either annoy or amuse. Hugh Pym, for example, whose pained smile suggests someone trying to put a brave face on a severe case of constipation, and poor Laura Kuenssberg, who you sense measures every word against a terror that she will be accused of bias.

Another factor for someone like me who has watched the Trump era with horror and fascination, is that America has started to move on from the orange monster. New faces abound, even if some of them are old ones re-animated. There’s a freshness about Biden’s presidency, even if eventually it will turn sour and tired. And yet here in the UK, we have many of the same old characters who have been in our faces for much of the last eleven years. When new ones appear, they don’t seem much different from those they succeeded. Their rhetoric has become ever more robotic.

Does this bother us as a country? It seems not, if opinion polls are any guide.

Still, there’s plenty of outrage about. Among fishermen whose businesses are being destroyed by Brexit. Pressure groups who are challenging the legality of the government’s procurement practices. And plenty of people like me, for whom the success of the vaccination programme doesn’t redeem the incompetence of test and trace and other initiatives. And yet the majority of us still seem to be willing to give Boris Johnson and his crew the benefit of the doubt.

Is this because we British are not so easily influenced by the wilder voices from the social media? Or is it because enough of us have succumbed to the same cultish indoctrination as Trump’s base in America? Or are we stoically awaiting better times, on the basis that it’s unwise to change horses in mid-stream, just in 1945 our parents and grandparents waited until after the defeat of the Nazis before ejecting Churchill?

I can only speak for myself. This morning I listened to an MP called Mark Harper, who belongs to a group in the Conservative ranks that refers to itself as the COVID Recovery Group. Their agenda is to push the government into the earliest possible easing of the current social restrictions. Although I didn’t object to his argument, I still so bridled at his hyperbolic use of language – “our wonderful this, our marvellous that” and so forth – that he could have said almost anything and still had me swearing at him.

So in this respect, how am I different from a Trump supporter in the hinterland of Pennsylvania, for whom nothing a Democrat might say or do will ever gain their approval?

Not so different, perhaps, though I suspect that my affliction is temporary. Also, I like to think I’m prepared to give credit where it’s due, such as for the vaccination programme. But what really sends me off the cliff is listening to the tired old communications clichés, which suggest the arrogance of people who believe that their audience will swallow any old rubbish, as long as it’s coated in Johnsonian rhetoric.

The clichés, the slippery language, the arse-covering and the barrage of bombast have become as tiring as the effects of lockdown. Boris Johnson might be an admirer of Churchill’s rhetorical style, but he forgets that Winston spoke to the nation only on rare occasions, not every day on the TV news.

Less, in those days, was definitely more. And so it should be today.

Let us now praise famous men (or erase them)

Sir Redvers Buller was a famous British general who fought against the Zulus and subsequently the Boers. Even though he wasn’t much of a general, he was a brave soldier who won the Victoria Cross, Britain’s highest military honour.

He’s fairly typical of those imperial figures without whom the British Empire would not have been built. Unlike some of his peers, such as General Gordon (known as Gordon of Khartoum), who was something of a religious fanatic and met his end at the hands of the Sudanese Mahdi (someone we’re not allowed to call a religious fanatic), Buller was considered at the time to be a decent and level-headed chap.

So decent, in fact, that his mates organised a public subscription that paid for a statue to be erected of him on Biffin, his favourite horse, in his hometown of Exeter.

According to The Times, the local council had put the wheels in motion to remove Buller from his plinth after the Black Lives Matter protests last year. Those wheels included commissioning an “equality impact report”, presumably at public expense, that concluded:

The General Buller statue represents the patriarchal structures of empire and colonialism which impact negatively on women and anyone who does not define themselves in binary gender terms. The consultation will need to ensure that the views of women, trans-gender and non-binary people are captured and given due weight.

So the statue debate continues, with the added spice that we must now consider the views of trans-gender and non-binary people in determining whether the likes of Sir Redvers should be banished to a mouldering outhouse far from the public view.

And yes, of course the views of trans-gender people should be taken into account, though not because Sir Redvers offended them particularly. I should have thought that descendants of the Zulus might have a prior claim to be offended at his veneration. The Boers don’t count, we’re encouraged in certain quarters to believe, because they were white supremacists and the ancestors of those who created the wicked apartheid regime in South Africa. So they were as bad as Sir Redvers, even though he didn’t, by the way, have anything to do with our notorious concentration camps in which so many of them were incarcerated.

But as for women, non-binary and trans-gender people, their views matter not because of who they are, but because they are people. Like the rest of us.

Far be it for me, as a binary, male, non-oppressed person to mock those who feel that they are defined by their identity rather than their humanity. And yes, the historical record does need to be revisited so that the context of events can be seen through the eyes of more than binary, male, non-oppressed people.

But that’s happening already, through the efforts of female historians whose voices are as popular as those of their male counterparts: Mary Beard, Margaret McMillan and countless others. Although widely-read trans voices are a bit thin on the ground, we still have the late Jan Morris, whose genius has long been recognised, even if her transgender back story has always taken second place to admiration of her skills as a writer.

Where does this end? Are we at the point where any eminent person of British extraction who lived from the seventeenth century onwards is subject to censure because directly or indirectly they benefited from the colonisation of the New World, the African slave trade, the rape of South-East Asia, land grabs in Africa, the extermination of indigenous Australians and the robbery of opium-addled China?

Surely we should not be limiting our attention to Robert Clive, Edward Colston, Cecil Rhodes and other flagship targets of the statue hunters? Should we not be condemning every monarch, prime minister, merchant adventurer and banker who benefited from empire, which is just about all of them? And as for the rest of us, who even today study, work and participate in the institutions they endowed, should we not insist that their dubious origins should be expunged, so that their existence appears to be a miraculous thing, conjured out of nowhere?

We’ve not yet arrived at the point at which all aspects of our lives are reviewed to ensure that they meet the guiding principles of compliance with “the views of women, trans-gender and non-binary people”. Yet already those whose views are deemed non-compliant are subject to cancellation. Ask JK Rowling.

As of today, there is no high priesthood and no dominant creed. Just a number of influential advocates and their followers. Although there is no scripture, the various shades and flavours of opinion make me think of clouds of matter in the universe as they steadily congeal into suns and planets. Already we are being encouraged, as Lionel Shriver noted in The Sunday Times, to expunge the language of biological difference with bizarre replacements. Chestfeeding instead of breastfeeding; individuals with cervixes instead of women; “perinatal” instead maternity services; human milk instead of breastmilk. Anything, it seems that serves to acknowledge the difference between men and women.

Not that I’m seeking to brush away the pain of those who have suffered from gender dysphoria. But I worry that sooner or later there will be the ossification of belief, followed by rigid orthodoxies, that gain wide acceptance. And at that point there will surely emerge institutions. Governments will create departments in order to scoop up the votes of the faithful. No longer the over-broad Ministry for Women, but soon perhaps a Department for Gender.

Fine, so long as compliance with non-binary and trans orthodoxy doesn’t lead us down the path towards something equivalent to religious observance, wherein self-appointed censors issue fatwas such as the one dictating that cucumbers and tomatoes should not be sold next to each other since the former is symbolically male and the latter female. (This little nugget comes from an Iraqi cleric quoted by Brian Whitaker in his book Arabs Without God.)

But back to statues. You could argue that such monuments to famous people as remain in place can have a role as the cultural equivalent of graphite rods that prevent a meltdown in public discourse. The key, some believe, lies in explanatory plaques. While the statues themselves should remain in place as reminders of people who shaped events, influenced others and achieved extraordinary things, the plaques beneath them should be mutable. They could be temporary things that reflect the consensus of the current era, but would be subject to change as the received wisdom changes, which it undoubtedly will.

The plaques could also feature barcodes that link to sites moderated by museums, enabling you to discover more about the subject and to contribute your own perspective. Or perhaps not. We have enough online equivalents of Speaker’s Corner already.

As it happens, I agree with those who suggest that erecting statues of historical figures is an outmoded way of celebrating famous lives. There are very few historical figures who will not provide an opportunity for some section of the population to object to them for one reason or another.

And this, it seems to me, is the point of the fashion for targeting long-forgotten sculptures mouldering away in obscure corners of the country. The objective is not so much to get rid of them, but to stir up debate and discussion by trying to get rid of them. Whether that debate is based on fallacious reasoning, poisonous ideology or a genuine attempt to re-think historical orthodoxies depends on the campaigners, and whether the campaigns succeed depends on the willingness of officials and politicians to take up the cause. I like to hope that our willingness to think for ourselves also plays a part.

As for the “reappraisal” of icons such as Winston Churchill, I’m fine with that. A conference at the Cambridge college named after him in which he was roundly vilified as a racist monster is unlikely to do more than illustrate that no reputation is sacrosanct. Even if we end up re-writing school history books to reflect new orthodoxies, those orthodoxies will be challenged and replaced. The woke will fall asleep and wake again. History only dies when we forget it. The more we argue about it, the greater the chance that it will stay alive.

Besides, don’t we have more to worry about for the next few years than the reputations of Sir Redvers Buller, Winston Churchill and Cecil Rhodes? And however we describe them, breasts, cervixes and prostates have been around for all of recorded time, and they’re not going to disappear at the urging of a tiny minority that wishes to re-invent the English language.

“Let us now praise famous people with prostates” is not a phrase likely to echo down the centuries.

Trump impeachment trial: logos, ethos and pathos

The prosecution case against Donald Trump in the impeachment trial was compelling TV. We’re so used to American courtroom dramas in which a major part of the action is as much outside the trial as in it. And within the courthouse we’re treated to a constant dance between the facial expressions of the judge, the jury, the defendant, the witnesses and those looking on. All contribute to the dramatic tension.

Yet in the impeachment trial, we were able to focus only on two things: the rhetorical skills of the lawyers and the evidence they presented in the form of video clips and text messages. We were thus presented with the lawyer’s art in its purest form. Yes, it was a performance, but in the manner of a series of musicians performing alone on an unadorned stage, with only the music, the performer and the progression of one piece to the next to command our attention.

It was a masterly performance. As I watched these people, who had built their political careers on the back of their experience as lawyers, I was reminded that the essence of their art has changed little since Aristotle first defined the three basic elements of argument: logos, ethos and pathos.

Logos: the presentation of facts and logic to build the case that Trump had incited the mob, not just on January 6th but through his behaviour and actions in the months and years before. Ethos: the establishment of the speaker’s credibility and their authority to argue that what transpired as the result of Trump’s action and inaction was both illegal and morally wrong. And pathos: the appeal to the emotions of jurors who were presented with the fear, the pain and the injury done to those who found themselves in the path of the mob.

Pathos was enhanced by the fact that both the prosecutors and the jurors were also the victims and intended targets of the mob. So the argument was fortified by elements of the victim statements that are regular features of modern trials for serious crimes. The emotion shown by prosecutors was patently real, from the heart.

Of course, this is not a criminal trail in front of a jury chosen under specific rules designed to ensure fairness and impartiality. It’s a political trial. The jury are not impartial. Fifteen of them were not even present during much of the second day. In a criminal trial their absence would trigger an immediate mistrial, and probably contempt of court penalties for the absentees. Barring a remarkable change of heart by Republican senators, the outcome is a foregone conclusion. These people want to keep their jobs. So Trump will be acquitted.

Even if this is the outcome, you are unlikely to see such a powerful, well-organised and convincing indictment. All the more remarkable for having been put together a mere month from the event.

This is real lawyering. Take a break from all those fictional courthouses, and watch the real professionals in action. But don’t expect similar excellence from the defence. It’s difficult to defend the indefensible.

Corona Diaries: twenty-one days to salvation

Down the back street of a town near London, the signs pointed the way: Vaccination Centre. A couple of miles beyond, teams of people were knocking on doors, dropping off test kits in an effort to find and isolate those who have succumbed to the dreaded South African variant. Salvation so near, yet so far away.

My turn for the jab came a couple of days ago. At the centre in Woking, the whole process was as efficient as an airline check-in but without the queues. Within ten minutes it was done. Not by a doctor or a nurse, but by a cheerful person in her twenties whose normal job is working in logistics at Heathrow Airport. Next to her, another equally enthusiastic woman who normally works for British Airways as cabin crew member. She seemed to be delighted to have a clientele who actually appreciated the work she was doing.

Most of the people doing the meet and greet are volunteers. You go in, are sent to an assessment station manned by someone who seemed to be in the healthcare business but perhaps wasn’t. He made sure you were healthy enough to get the jab.

The centre was a happy place, in stark contrast to the COVID wards in the nearby hospitals in Chertsey and Guildford. There was an esprit de corps you rarely see in any activity run by government, be it local or national (except, of course, in our parish councils, which, if YouTube is to be believed, are hotbeds of unity and sense of purpose).

And how does it feel to be one of the twelve million Brits who have received a first dose? A sense of the beginning of the end, perhaps. A feeling that in twenty-one days, once the protection offered by the vaccine kicks in, one can start making plans beyond the next trip to the supermarket, the next walk in the park. Not that there aren’t plenty of other things that can lay you low. But they’re already discounted.

When twelve million becomes twenty, thirty and forty million, unless the vaccines turn out to be colossal failures, or unless new variants knock them out of the park, we must surely arrive at a state that is at least familiar, if not normal in pre-COVID terms.

But wait.

Could it be that the vaccine that went into my arm is ineffective against the destroyer from Durban? What’s this I hear from the BBC and other sources? Did we back the wrong horse? Is this why South Africa, home of the danger variant, is suspending use of the AstraZeneca vaccine? Worse still, can there be a greater cause for disquiet than when Boris Johnson tells us that we should be confident in its efficacy?

Is this why the government is trialling mix-and-match, so that people like me, who immediately think about trading in my dose for the Pfizer jab, can be reassured?

On the upside, I feel fine. The lizard brain is quiescent. No sign of green scales yet. But this pandemic has more twists and turns than the Sopranos. Thoughts of a return to a modified version of normal start to recede. But actually, I’m inclined to buy the government’s new line, which is that if the current jabs prevent most of us from getting seriously ill or dying, that should be good enough for most of us.

It would certainly be good enough for me.

Looking behind our current travails, I’m curious to know what happens to all those millions of vials, needles and plastic syringes. Do they get recycled, or, in the case of the glass and metal components, sterilised and re-used? If not, why not?

Another thought, purely related to our tenuously United Kingdom, is that this could be the year when Big Pharma redeems itself. The miraculous production of billions of doses of COVID vaccine, once delivered to all countries rather than just the richest, is an effective reputational counterbalance to the image of grasping multinationals keen to hook us all on opioids, steroids and other drugs that have no guard rails against abuse.

What’s more, since we’re so reliant on science to get us out of the COVID mess, could we see its raised profile as a catalyst that leads to the country actually turning into the powerhouse of science and engineering that over-optimistic narratives suggest we already are? Certainly there’s been an increase in recent years of people seeking degrees in STEM subjects as opposed to the liberal arts.

Though I’m a product of a non-scientific education, I’m all in favour of our creating more scientists and engineers, provided they don’t disappear overseas or remain in the UK to build weapons of destruction. And if science rather than financial services ends up sitting at the top of the economic tree, I shall shed no tears for the hedge fund operators, the derivative speculators and the money-laundering oligarchs they will replace.

There’s a way to go before we get to that point, but we certainly have science to thank for what looks like the first pop-up industry in recorded history.

We take for granted that every year there will be a vaccine tweaked to deal with the latest mutations of the flu. But the idea that we shall also be rolling out an autumn booster for COVID armed against the latest versions from South Africa, Brazil and wherever else mutations appear in the meanwhile, and that the new jab might be delivered to half the population in an operation similar to the current effort, is staggering.

So given that the national objective is to vaccinate everyone over 18, it looks as though we shall be busy filling arms throughout the rest of the year.

Who would have thought that in 2021 one of the biggest growth areas for jobs in Britain would be vaccinators to keep COVID at bay? And could it be that the current generation of school children will turn in increasing numbers towards careers in science, for so long a relatively poor relation in the job stakes?

If they do, let’s hope that for once, after the pandemic has passed, we cherish and reward them.

Corona Diaries: The vaccine roll-out – waiting your turn in an age of same-day delivery

We in Britain are experiencing a bit of cognitive dissonance at the moment. How can a government widely condemned as the most incompetent in decades make such a mess of PPE procurement and COVID testing and tracing, yet manage to pull off what looks like the most successful vaccination programme in Europe?

Although you can read any number of analyses by people more qualified than me to comment, I have no pat answer to that question, except possibly that if you chuck enough projects against a wall, some will stick.

The only barrier to full roll-out appears to be the reluctance of people to be vaccinated. Unless, of course, the European Union manages to divert enough of our supply to boost its own struggling efforts.

There is no vaccine hesitancy in our house. If the little jab in our arms turns us into zombies programmed to read the Daily Mail, grow scales and buy Microsoft products for the rest of our lives, so be it. Better that than to end our days in ventilated oblivion.

But I do feel a measure of vaccine anxiety. In my case it was sparked off by a visit to my GP surgery two weeks ago. The appointment was not COVID-related, but I took the opportunity of the appointment with the practice pharmacist to ask where I and my wife were in the vaccine queue.

It was good news for me, and not so good for her. My call for the jab, according to him, was imminent. Hers was likely to be in September. Strange really, since I’m only six years older than her. The reason my appointment would be any day now was that, according to him, I was in the second priority group. And she is apparently in the seventh.

Yet according to the government priority list, I don’t belong to the second highest eligible category, although she is definitely in the seventh. Why people like her who are aged between 60 and 65 might have to wait until September when the government has promised that all those in the first four groups – 70 and over – will get their first doses by the middle of this month, is beyond me.

For my part, I must have misinterpreted his words, because two weeks later I’ve heard nothing. I would expect my call-up to be just around the corner, and I very much doubt that my wife will have to wait another seven months.

It’s strange, though, that in the intervening time the jungle drums have been beating. Friends of around my age have had the jab, including some younger than me. One of them, who lives thirty miles away, is ten years younger. He showed up at his local clinic on spec and got his dose. On the social media I’m learning of people of my age in other parts of the country who have also been vaccinated.

I’m not yet at the point of paranoia, though I wouldn’t want to end up pegging out when so close to salvation. And I don’t want to work myself into a lather of envy because of hearsay.

That said, another cause of slight disquiet is an apparent divergence between the official instruction – that you should, in true British fashion, should wait your turn until you are called – and numerous reports that some vaccine centres are doling out doses to people who show up at the end of the day when there’s a danger that unused vaccine will go to waste.

I would understand if that was happening with a nod and a wink, just as during Second World War rationing, Mr Jones the butcher would tip off his favourite customers about the arrival of a slab of streaky bacon. After all, if everybody showed up in the hope of a jab at 5pm, chaos would ensue. I also understand that in a massive exercise such as a crash vaccination programme there would be variations in supply that would leave some areas short and others over-supplied.

But if there are differences in the speed with which patients in one general practice surgery are vaccinated versus those in another within the same town, this will eventually lead to people disregarding the standing instruction not to contact the practice in an attempt to find out what’s going on. That would not be welcome among hard-pressed primary care centres.

In the absence of definitive information at a local level on the progress of the vaccination effort, one can only speculate that even within small geographical areas, the pace of vaccination is also variable. In some parts, it would seem, they’re down to the over-65s. In others they’re still getting through the over-70s or even the over-75s. That would be understandable, since each area most likely has a slightly different demographic.

So I’m not jumping up and down at this point. Yet I also have an uneasy feeling about the fact that there are two potential routes to the vaccine. I will either be contacted by NHS England, or by my local GP practice. But what determines the route? And how can I be sure that there isn’t some data cock-up that has led to me falling between the two stools? This concern partly stems from a worry that in a programme so hastily put together, data could be the weakest link.

Such anxieties perhaps stem from a second area of cognitive dissonance. Most of us are no longer used to queuing up for things. Seventy years ago, we would have been quite happy to accept that we have to wait our turn without being given much information about when our turn will actually come. Nowadays we’re a bit like drivers in a traffic jam stretching way beyond the horizon, and for which there is no explanation. Frustration can lead to anger, because we have no idea why we’re held up.

We’ve grown used to Amazon telling us precisely when our delivery will arrive. When people come to fix stuff in our homes we usually get a window of time on a given day for the appointment. When we contact a call centre we’re told how many people are ahead of us in the queue to be dealt with. But with government, which is driven by no commercial imperative to manage our expectations, it’s often a different story. It will be when it will be, and you should be grateful when it happens.

Not that I’m really complaining. To set up such a massive undertaking in a very short time is something of a miracle. Giving a first dose to ten million people in six weeks is an amazing achievement.

However, for those of us who are far from hesitant, and whose arms are at the ready, a little more attention to communications on the progress of the programme at a granular level would be helpful.

The last thing we need at this stage is resentment instead of celebration.

Corona Diaries: Si Monumentum Requiris, Circumspice

How will we remember the COVID dead?

When Sir Christopher Wren, architect and scientist, died in 1723, his son inscribed an epitaph on his tomb in the basement of his greatest creation, St Paul’s Cathedral in London. It was in Latin. The English translation was “If you need a monument to him, look around you.”

It will not be so easy to commemorate the 100,000 people in Britain, or the 400,000 in the United States, or indeed the 1.5 million who have died in other countries since the COVID pandemic began.

Those who argue that COVID is just another disease, and that we all have to die sometime, might ask why a monument is needed beyond what the bereaved choose to provide.

That question overlooks the sense of shared grief that mass deaths from a common cause can create. Combatants who died in two world wars are remembered on monuments in every British town and village. The Holocaust is widely commemorated both in countries where it was perpetrated and in those that helped bring it to an end. In Japan, those who died from the world’s only nuclear bombings are remembered in Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

We’re unlikely to see sad little lists of those who have died from COVID on stone or metal tablets. Just as the victims of previous plagues largely died anonymously, so it’s likely to be this time.

Yet we do have an opportunity to do things differently.

What if one of those corporations that benefited from the pandemic – Amazon perhaps, or Google, donated money to an independent foundation that sets up a global online memorial to those who died? An opportunity for the bereaved to post a name, a picture, a tribute or obituary that was available for all to visit?

And what if such a memorial contained basic demographic information – age, nationality, place of home, date of death – that helped researchers to map the progress of the pandemic in a way that informed responses to future pandemics?

The technology is available. There are precedents. Visit the Auschwitz Museum site, for example. Every day it posts on Twitter a picture of someone who died at the camp. Pictures of the young and old, laughing children and little babies who met their ends in the gas chambers. I started following the feed three years ago. Nothing that has happened since has desensitised me to those pictures and to the short biographies that accompany them.

If billions of people can be motivated to share their lives on Instagram and Facebook, is it inconceivable that a good proportion of those who have lost relatives and lovers to COVID, from Albania to Argentina, might not take some comfort from seeing the names and life stories of their loved ones in a place where they are never forgotten and can always be visited?

Or would we prefer the dead to slip away, remembered only by those who lost them and those in hospitals who tried to keep them alive, forgotten within a couple of generations like those victims of pandemics and plagues who died before them?

Just a thought.

And by the way, today is Holocaust Memorial Day.

Brexit Diaries: fighting battles in fog is never a good idea

Well Brexit’s going well, isn’t it?

Since I’m not a fisherman, a courier, a banana grower, a clothes retailer, a trucker, a cheese exporter, a Nissan worker, a meat producer or an EU diplomat, I don’t have much to complain about. Anyway, we have other fish that are frying us, so to speak.

And in case you’re wondering where all the extra money you’re charged for the Parisian couture you ordered online is going, fear not. Instead, rejoice in the thought that both in the UK and the EU, your money is paying for the employment of thousands upon thousands of form fillers, document stampers, customs officials and sundry other bureaucrats.

More jobs thanks to Brexit! Not something that the naysayers will tell you, but good news nonetheless. Growth industries are hard to come by in a pandemic, unless you happen to be purveyors of PPE, creators of tracking software that doesn’t work or consultants hired at great expense by your mates in government.

No, no, stop now Steve. Sarcasm doesn’t become you. This is a time for unity of purpose and the healing of divisions, is it not? Just like in America, even if, unlike over there, we don’t have a new government that aims to sweep away the Trumpian tendency.

So the rational me suggests that before we start forming into hordes of Rejoiner fanatics ready to break social distancing rules by storming Parliament, we should wait a while. Because it will take many months for definitive conclusions to be drawn over the cost and impact of Brexit. We need to wait until the procedures are bedded in, until the worst immediate effects are ironed out, as many surely will be, and until the whole shebang ceases to be distorted, confused and confounded by the current pandemic. In other words, let’s get the teething excuse over with, so that we can see what the teeth look like.

Only then can we start making a rational case for another change in direction. Re-joining the single market and customs union, perhaps. Or maybe the whole nine yards. And we should remember that such a campaign would be a long slog, not a short sprint. Such changes will only take place over the dead body of the current government, and it’s going to be around, barring an unspeakable catastrophe, for the next four years. Even then, as many have pointed out, who’s to say that the EU will be in any hurry to facilitate the return of the faithful? What’s more, who’s to say that the EU will be in a better place than we are by then?

So in the meantime, anyone with an ounce of common sense will stop the finger-pointing and the insults directed towards the perpetrators of Brexit, and particularly against those who voted for it.

If, as I and many others have always maintained, the project is a long-term disaster for the country, it will still take time for that reality to emerge into plain sight, so that the ambiguous becomes obvious.

And by the way, although sentiment seems to be moving towards independence in Scotland and Wales, as well as a united Ireland, the same argument applies. The incompetence of the Westminster government and the ravages of the pandemic should not be allowed to colour discussions on the future of Britain as a political entity, even though those who favour separation will use whatever opportunity they have to press home their views.

If, on the other hand, we get to the case where we don’t notice the pain anymore, or if we do actually see solid early evidence of the benefits of Brexit, there’s unlikely to be any appetite among the electorate for a drastic change of policy, at least as far as reversing our separation from the EU is concerned.

It therefore seems to me that the most sensible approach will be to document, tabulate and keep exposing the inconsistencies (at best) and iniquities (at worst) of our new reality. And where problems can be fixed, agitate for mitigation or solution, just as we would for any other problem that has nothing to do with Brexit.

Other than that, it seems that we have no choice but to let this government keep blundering on until we can stand them no more. Sooner or later the chlorinated chickens will surely come home to roost. Whether we’ll still be a United Kingdom by then is anybody’s guess.

But first things first. Let’s get through the bloody pandemic. Until that happens, we’re fighting battles in fog.

Biden Day 1: Messages from the Oval Office

There are plenty of pictures across the media of Joe Biden’s newly-decorated Oval Office. Carpet changed, Winston’s bust banished once more, replaced by Robert Kennedy. Pictures of former presidents reconfigured. Andrew Jackson, scourge of native Americans, replaced by Franklin D Roosevelt, who takes the prime spot above the fireplace.

Americans are great lovers of symbolism, or at least journalists are. I doubt whether poor families living in shacks in West Virginia would be bothered one way or another. Contrast this scene with the Prime Minister’s office in my own dear country. I doubt if anyone in Britain apart from his closest minions could tell you what Johnson’s office actually looks like, let alone what pictures are hanging on the walls.

This is partly because his constitutional role is different from that of Biden. He doesn’t sign bills into law. That’s the Queen’s job, though she doesn’t do signing ceremonies. Occasionally we get a peep into her office, which allows the royal sages interpret for us commoners the meaning of her little symbolic tweaks – usually in the form of photos of offspring and relatives. If we’re lucky, we might get to see the electric fire that demonstrates her frugality.

No electric fires on view in the Oval Office. Only a marble fireplace resembling the entrance to a Roman temple, with what looks like a glass screen, suggesting that it’s been a while since anyone lit logs in it.

But here’s an interesting thing, to me at least. Perhaps because I’m stupid and everyone else is smart, nobody has commented on the stuff on top of the Resolute Desk. Biden sits in his executive chair. In front of him you see a pile of Executive Orders ready to sign. There’s a box full of pens, presumably there in case the one he’s using to sign the orders runs out. Ok, I know that’s not what they’re there for – they’re souvenirs given to onlookers and acolytes, not back-ups in case the government procurement system has broken down.

There’s also the phone. Lots of buttons, but no red hotline to Putin. And apart from a coffee cup and saucer, most likely in White House livery, nothing else.

Perhaps that’s because he’s only just arrived, but I was surprised to see no IT. No tablets, laptops, smartphones. No nothing. Is that because he doesn’t use computers, or because an HP laptop or a Mac would lower the tone of the occasion?

When the photographers leave, can we expect him to strip off the mask, kick off his shoes, take out the IPad from one of the drawers and get stuck into some serious browsing. Ratings perhaps. Or shark documentaries like his predecessor. Or will he be completely reliant on his minions, who will print out his emails and give him his security briefings on bits of paper with large letters and even larger pictures?

You would have thought that rather than posing at his desk with objects that would have been almost identical to those used by Truman or Eisenhower, he would at least include symbols of technology. Though probably not the smartphone, because that would remind everyone of the Orange Monster and his incessant tweeting.

At the age of 78, you wouldn’t expect Biden to be much of a geek, but are we to deduce from his spartan desktop that he intends to preside by the pen, the phone and the tone of his voice? On one level, perhaps that’s encouraging. There’s nothing worse than a politician pretending to have skills he doesn’t possess. But on another, it suggests that he’s a relic of an earlier, un-wired age.

I don’t buy the latter hypothesis. His desk is sparse because he’s only just arrived. But it will be worth watching over the next few months as the clutter starts mounting up. Will we see him in shirtsleeves stabbing away at an IPad? Or will the Resolute Desk remain an austere monument, to be used only as a prop for ceremonial occasions?

Should be interesting, or profoundly boring, depending on your point of view. Right now, I prefer the latter.

I can only add one further thought. I spent years sitting at a desk that looked like a volcano at various stages of eruption. How nice it would have been to to have someone available at all times to clear it for me.

A man of steel

I spent most of yesterday afternoon and evening in Washington DC.

Not literally of course, but courtesy of CNN, whose endless coverage started with Trump slinking off through the back door and continued through the endless pomp and circumstance laid on for Biden’s inauguration.

Far be it for me to add to the endless stream of opinion, breaking news and shattered egos that accompanied the transfer of power from Biden’s unmentionable predecessor.

Compelling though the spectacle was, I found myself preoccupied with concern for the new president. How a man of seventy-eight managed eighteen hours of standing to attention, climbing and descending an endless succession of steep stairs and going in and out of the freezing cold without ending up totally wrecked is beyond me. The presidency must confer some supernatural power.

I can’t be the only person who thought of America’s 9th president, William Henry Harrison, who died in 1841 of pneumonia thirty-one days after his inauguration.

I found myself worrying about Biden on three counts. Like Harrison, he didn’t wear a hat, which is not sensible if you want to avoid heat loss in the cold. Then there was the absence of pit stops. For older guys, cold weather has a strange effect on the bladder. Within minutes of stepping out from a warm room, you feel the urge to pee. Not good if you have sit through a two-hour ceremony. And finally, when did the poor chap get the chance to re-fuel? Did he manage a quick sandwich in The Beast on the way to Arlington? Or was there a discreet spread laid on in the Capitol – maybe a cup of warming soup – before he stepped out on to the balcony? Or perhaps there was a acolyte on hand with a hip flask.

These were the questions I wanted to ask, as a man ten years younger than him who would have been a gibbering wreck if I’d had to endure what he did.

I also felt quite anxious for as long as he sat out in the open during the swearing-in ceremony, and even more when he got out of the car to walk to the White House. Could we really be sure that no nutcase would take a pot-shot? I guess the Secret Service felt the same way, as they accompanied him, eyes flickering from one vantage point to another, to the front door of his new home.

I lost interest somewhat after he was safely installed in the White House, safe in the knowledge that he’d be able to have a bit of a lie down and another cup of soup before signing his seventeen executive orders. But I’m still amazed at the endurance that enabled him to go through the whole exercise despite nursing a foot that was broken only a few weeks ago. Clearly a man of steel.

I went to bed before all the celebrations beyond my time zone began. Tom Hanks, Bruce Springsteen and Jon Bon Jovi can wait another day.

But as I rose this morning in another continent to welcome a pinky blue sky after the departure of Storm Christoph, I felt a sense both of relief and malicious pleasure. Pleasure because the Unmentionable Predecessor is now skulking among his golden toilet fittings in Florida. And relief because The Plan came to nothing. If you’re familiar with the creed of QAnon, the forces of light were supposed to seize power yesterday and save the world from pederastic lizards.

The first bit did happen, but there was no evidence of scaly creatures or orange monsters anywhere near Washington DC. The Great Liberator was safely ensconced in exile, stuffing down chicken nuggets.

Thus QAnon were exposed as the digital successors of cults whose leaders in earlier times predicted the end of the world. When the end didn’t come, the prophets of yore quickly recalibrated their predictions, but nobody believed them any more. Hopefully that will be the fate of Q and his (or her) batty devotees.

So that was that. Plenty of God, no shortage of American Exceptionalism, ideals, hope and optimism oozing from every pore. America turned a page.

If only we could look forward to such ceremony when our scarecrow of a leader finally cycles away from Downing Street. But unfortunately these days we Brits reserve our pomp and circumstance mainly for royal weddings and funerals. And we do them very well. Though since our state funerals are mainly sombre affairs, and our weddings have an evens chance of ending in divorce, they’re hardly an opportunity to celebrate new dawns.

Yet a new dawn it is. No less worrying than the dawn that preceded it, but at least I get a sense that a weight has been lifted across the Atlantic.

Stay well, Joe.

Corona Diaries: looking above and below the vaccine parapet

One of the consequences of what could best be described as a history of well-meaning disinformation on the part of the British government during the COVID pandemic, or at worst, outright lies and unachievable promises, is that I’m somewhat uneasy about our current vaccine policy.

Much as I applaud the rate at which the population has been receiving first doses, I worry that the entire strategy is based on giving as many people as some degree of protection, while taking the chance, against the advice of the vaccine manufacturers, that the second dose can be delivered twelve weeks later, as opposed to three, and still provides the promised level of protection.

The only fact in which I have much confidence is that because the vaccines are so new, we simply don’t know what the consequences of late delivery of the second dose will be. However, early indications from Israel, that has given the highest percentage of its population the first dose thus far, are that the Pfizer vaccine gives a 50% protection, which is only increased to the advertised 95% after the second dose.

So it seems that the UK is embarked on a policy to give the maximum number of people some protection, rather than less people maximum protection. I get that, even though from a purely selfish standpoint I would like to have two doses in my arm as soon as possible. And even though the US, on the advice of the good Dr Fauci, has determined that the manufacturers’ recommendations should be followed, even at the cost of wider delivery of the first dose.

What I don’t get is that my government should be so coy about its policy. And why there isn’t more discussion on influential media such as the BBC as to the sense or otherwise of delaying the second dose? On yesterday’s BBC evening news broadcast, just about every aspect of the pandemic – the impact on the NHS, the statistics on infections, hospitalisations and deaths and the latest vaccination numbers – were discussed. But no mention of the number of second doses, and no acknowledgement that in our decision to stretch the period between first and second doses we’re an outlier.

Is that because the BBC has taken upon itself to maintain an open mind, or because it has been pushed by the government not to open up a controversial issue that might cause wide concern?

It’s becoming less fashionable these days to say “search the internet and you will find…”, because such an exercise can lead you to all kinds of bullshit. But one article in a mainstream media outlet, The Guardian, provides what seems to be a measured view of the risk we’re taking, based on input both from the World Health Organisation and the manufacturers themselves.

In a matter of such importance, it’s wrong to expect that we’ll simply accept that nanny knows best. The government needs to provide us with an informed justification of its policy. And if, as it seems, the reality is that it’s taking a huge risk, it should say so.

Another aspect of the vaccination effort concerns me. It’s not enough for a few nations to vaccinate their populations. As long as there are large parts of the world where countries haven’t been able to get hold of vaccines in sufficient quantities, or for one reason or another haven’t been able to set up effective vaccination programmes, there’s surely a danger that vaccine-resistant variants of the virus will spread, thereby invalidating successful vaccination programmes, putting countries that have vaccinated their populations at fresh risk.

If ever there was a case for concerted international action, whether or not through the WHO, to ensure that all countries, including the poorest and least equipped are vaccinated as soon as possible, it’s surely now. The largest industrial nations may be preoccupied with their own programmes, but they can’t ignore the worldwide dimension. Are we, the US, the EU, Japan, China and Russia doing enough? That’s not clear. We need to raise our view above the parapet and put pressure on our elected representatives to think globally. Would it not be sensible to consider diverting some of our foreign aid to this end?

The Director General of the WHO calls the inequitable distribution of vaccine throughout the world a “moral failure”. He’s certainly right, but perhaps he should have emphasised that it will also be a practical failure if we allow vaccine-resistant strains to plunge us all into a new crisis.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I await the call for my vaccination. It should come soon, according to my GP surgery. At least they have assured me that my data hasn’t been accidentally deleted, unlike the 400,000 records from the Police National Computer that were wiped out the other day.

These days we need to take comfort from small mercies, as well as worry about big issues.  And looking further on the bright side, what a joy it is that as of later today it will not be necessary to seed every second post with an insult aimed at Donald Trump’s direction.     

Goodbye Donald: a 21-fart salute to a naked president – Part 2

Here’s Part 2 of my fond farewell to Donald Trump. It’s a compilation of quotations from my many observations on a man who, for a writer, has been the gift that keeps on giving. The period covered here is 2019 to the present, which you could describe as Peak Trump.

It would be nice to think that when he boards Airforce One for the last time we won’t hear from him again. Fat chance. But at least he won’t be able to blow up the world for the foreseeable future.

February 4 2019: Donald Trump, by spewing out lies, hatred, paranoia and baseless boasts on Twitter, has shown politicians everywhere that they can prosper with similar methods. America’s diplomats have an almost impossible job projecting consistent and positive messages when their president changes his positions on a whim. And America’s enemies, from states to terrorist groups, have a far easier job justifying their hostility when the most naked diplomat of all reveals his needy personality, covered with psychological warts, boils and running sores, to all and sundry. When he tweets, he speaks for America, and it isn’t a pretty picture he portrays. (From a review of Tom Fletcher’s The Naked Diplomat)

26 February 2019: As I was watching Michael Cohen’s testimony yesterday before the US House of Representatives, one thought kept coming to mind. What an evil person Hillary Clinton must be that the American people chose Donald Trump over her. Either that, or how easily deceived they were by the torrent of lies spewed by the winning candidate, or how indifferent they were to the fact that Trump lied blatantly, flagrantly and more prolifically than any presidential candidate in living memory.

March 14 2019: The only way for Trump’s generation can escape the relentless treadmill created by the technologists is to find a yurt in Mongolia, a tree house in New Guinea or a retirement home in Florida or Surrey. In Trump’s case a secure institution with his very own Nurse Ratched to make sure he keeps up with his medication would do just nicely.

October 1 2019:  I look forward to the sight of the helicopter taking him off, post-resignation, to a well-earned retirement at Mar-a-Largo after his pardon from President Pence. But I will feel a little sorry for all his associates who end up in jail, though perhaps Pence will pardon them too. I hear, however that the Donaldissimo is predicting (or threatening?) civil war if he’s removed. Very similar to the dire predictions emanating from Boris Johnson’s ministers in the event that we’re sensible enough to call a halt to Brexit. Don’t great minds think alike?

January 1 2020: Along with half of America and much of the rest of the world, I have been watching and waiting for the fall of Donald Trump. So much so that it’s hard to remind oneself that a new president wouldn’t necessarily be able to undo the chaos and confusion that Trump has left in his wake. But to see him, his lackeys, backers and maleficent policies expelled down the toilet in a mighty durchfall would be well worth the political equivalent of a couple of Lomatil capsules to restore the digestive balance.

February 4 2020: Trump’s Ukraine behaviour is the tip of an iceberg. The man is a liar, a cheat, a fraudster and a grossly incompetent leader. The one obvious reason why the Senate will acquit him is that for all his manifest faults, he has taken a grip over a substantial portion of the US electorate. His base doesn’t care about his lies or the long-term implications of his policies. They buy into the MAGA ethos and the growth of their 401k pension funds.

February 17 2020: I hope I’m wrong, but I fear that the only way any of the embattled survivors of the race to the (Democratic) nomination will defeat Trump will be through an implosion on his part – perhaps some further revelation about his murky past or present, or his failure to deal with a catastrophe that will repel all but his most fanatical supporters. I don’t wish catastrophe on anyone, but if one serves to end the grotesque career of the current President, then at least there will be a silver lining.

March 12 2020: Trump himself has come within two degrees of separation from the virus. A couple of congressmen shook hands with someone who had the virus at a recent conference. One of them was on Air Force One the other day with the president. The last thing I wish is that Trump gets infected, and if he does, I hope he recovers quickly. But a bout of infections at the highest level might persuade the complacent to take the pandemic seriously. (I was wrong on that one!)

March 20 2020: Just as important for the long run, is Trump’s response fatally weakening his chances of re-election, as well as the future Republican control of the senate? Or, if the crisis has abated by November, will sufficient numbers of his supporters believe his inevitable claims to have beaten the virus to assure him a second term?

March 22 2020: Which brings me to the President, without whom no blog post about COVID-19 would be complete. He’s tweeting with an excitement he rarely summons (other than when he’s boasting about the stock market) about the benefits of chloroquine in mitigating the virus, despite the advice of one his most eminent advisors that it’s not approved for use by the Food and Drug Administration, even though Trump says it is. From this one can only assume that the president’s son-on-law has invested in a company making tonic water. Expect large numbers of Americans to expire from gin poisoning before long.

April 12 2020: Happy Easter everyone! Better than Happy Good Friday, despite Donald Trump’s efforts to celebrate the Good bit despite the awful event being commemorated. I guess at the time of his tweet he was focused on the idea that Jesus died to absolve us of our sins. That must come as a particular relief to Mr Trump, though whether he is actually aware of all the sins for which he needs to be absolved is debatable.

April 18 2020: It took the Nazis eleven years to reach power in Germany. It took Donald Trump two years to gain the presidency. Who’s to say that over the next few days, with the tacit approval of Trump and the money of people like (Robert) Mercer, we won’t see the preening exhibitionism of a few rifle-toting good ole boys turn into mass civil disobedience, with armed mobs storming statehouses and governors’ mansions in an attempt to force state administrations to uphold the right to go to shopping malls? And what then? Armed insurrection? The collapse of the rule of law? The National Guard called out? The military? (Got that one right – eventually)

April 25 2020: It seems that he obsessively watches obscure TV channels that run ads and interviews with people who have come up with these cures. They also send emails, which his dutiful minions print out and shove under his nose just as he’s about to speak to the nation. Then he turns up at the briefings, unbriefed, with the latest idea. He runs them past his medical advisers live on prime-time TV, giving us the supreme entertainment of watching Doctors Fauci and Birx putting themselves into an altered state in order to avoid the slightest micro-expression that might betray their amusement or exasperation.

April 30 2020: One upside is that overdosing on TV has given me a fresh insight into the mind of Donald Trump. It’s been reported that he spends hours every day in his bedroom searching for TV news stories about, for and against him. I imagine that the White House has cleaners who on a regular basis have to come in and wipe down his multiple screens after he’s pelted them with cheeseburgers and ketchup.

June 20 2020: Three years ago, when Donald Trump was elected president, I vowed that I would not revisit the country until he was no longer president. If I was an American, I might well make a similar vow to stay away from Britain for as long as Boris Johnson and his third-rate cronies remained in government. Nobody in America will give a second thought about my absence, though we would miss the Americans who come to our country to breathe in our myths. After all, we’re the supplicants these days.

July 10 2020: The (Lincoln Project) ads are highly professional productions that appear very quickly after a trigger event involving Trump. Some seem designed even more than others specifically to get into the president’s head. In Whispers, the narrator acts as a troll whispering in Trump’s ear. She tells him that none of his inner circle are loyal to him, that they’re all whispering behind his back. One person on Twitter observed that the video is akin to a military psyop. Psyops, short for psychological operations, are designed to confuse and disorient the enemy, and thereby reduce his effectiveness on the battlefield.

July 2020: But if both candidates are indeed suffering from some degree of dementia, there would appear to be a marked difference in symptoms. Donald Trump seems to be suffering from the wild, dangerous version that eventually gets the person locked up in a place where they won’t be dangerous to themselves or others. Joe Biden, on the other hand, has the demeanour of a kindly grandfather who would be happy to accept help when he loses his glasses, and is unlikely to rage against the dying of the light.

August 13 2020: How effective will Donald Trump be in recapturing the imagination of the electorate without his rapturous rallies? Not great, I suspect. His live audiences surf his stream of consciousness without much thought as to what he’s actually saying beyond a few communal imprecations, as “in lock her up”. But in the cold glare of the TV cameras, without a screaming audience, he seems far less effective, and far more open to ridicule. Unless he chooses to ignore medical advice and summon his base to a series of infection-spreading rallies, what we’re likely to see in the course of the campaign is Trump the idiot, not the fire-breathing orator. A gogue without his demos.

August 29 2020: That said, she (Hillary Clinton) would still have been ten times more effective than Trump. Even if she had been defeated for a second term, she would, in the long term, have earned the same respect as other one-term presidents such as Carter and Bush senior. She wouldn’t have left the United States a smoking, riot-torn ruin, and she would have paved the way for more women to reach the highest office.

October 18 2020: What I do find chilling is the faces of his supporters at the rallies that are now becoming almost daily events as the US presidential election draws near. Not, however, the faces of the bulked-up white men with military paraphernalia, a few of whom are accused of plotting to kidnap the governor of Michigan and have become as much emblematic objects of fear as clean-shaven men with brown skins and rucksacks became on the London Underground after the 7/7 bombings. It’s the mums and dads who disturb me. Smiling, kindly-looking folk who might welcome you into their homes if you were passing by their neighbourhood, and, as long as you steer clear of politics, would epitomise what you thought of as the best qualities of Americans. It’s the clean-cut schoolkids, students and young professionals you might meet on the street and find anything but intimidating.

November 3 2020: Today’s the day. The future of America is in the hands of Americans. They have the power to get rid of the malevolent cuckoo in their nest. If they don’t I can’t see myself visiting the US again. It would make me too sad to see what has become of a country I used to admire and love, for all its quirks and flaws. So do it, America, both for your own sake and that of the rest of us, who crave a rest from the shit-show that is Donald Trump.

November 6 2020: I do wonder, when I see one of Trump’s former chief advisors telling us that he would behead the country’s chief medical officer and the head of the FBI, when gangs of heavily armed men threaten to break into places where the votes are being counted, and when a chancer like Nigel Farage is hopping around in Trump’s wake like Mr Toad in search of a pond, why we (British) don’t opt for the calmer waters of the European Union, at least by going the extra mile in order to reach an accommodation on our trading relationship.

November 8 2020: What of Trump, the dethroned lord of misrule? Will he survive, prosper and come again? Much depends on the outcome of the multiple lawsuits and potential prosecutions from which he will no longer be protected once he steps out of the White House. It may be that he will concoct the modern equivalent of a papal indulgence in the form of a pardon for his potential crimes. But that will not protect him from state prosecutions for financial crimes, such as the one that’s looming in New York. Even if they come to nothing, he still has to deal with the creditors who will come knocking at his door over the next couple of years.

November 12 2020: whether Trump sets himself up as the ultimate lie machine, or someone else does so on his behalf, there needs to be an antidote. Otherwise, a new generation will grow up never knowing the difference between fact and fantasy, truth and lies, critical thinking and slavish devotion. You could argue that in some parts of the world, it’s happened already. Unfortunately, lies and misinformation will never effectively be countered by letting a thousand grass-roots activists bloom. They’re up against a juggernaut. Fire must be fought with fire.

December 20 2020: As with most conspiracy theories, this one starts with a proposition, and the theory takes shape when disparate but suitable evidence can be assembled into a superficially plausible case. Trump is planning a military coup. The evidence? Aside from General Flynn’s ranting, which serves the same purpose as John the Baptist in announcing a wondrous event, real stuff is going on behind the rhetoric. A few weeks ago, Trump got rid of a number of senior officials in the Defense Department and replaced them with loyalists. These people have been quietly beavering away at plans for the coup. With Flynn’s help they’ve been sounding out senior generals who might be sympathetic to the cause, with the aim of creating a cadre of plotters who will hold back the military while the goons of Homeland Security take control of the country once the Insurrection Act has been invoked.

January 8 2021: My first impression, as CNN showed a few hundred rioters, protesters, call them what you will, going berserk in the heart of America’s democracy, was that this was not a coup. If it had been, it was a pathetic and incompetent effort. A real coup would have involved shutting down TV, radio and the internet, arrests of prominent politicians and occupation of federal departments including intelligence agencies and the FBI. Tanks on the streets, troops on the ground and drones in the sky. Or perhaps I’m old-fashioned in my thinking, and all it takes these days is a few Vikings aided and abetted by troops on the ground dressed like robocops. Though it might suit rhetorical purposes to describe what happened as a coup, even the most desperate of banana republics would surely have managed something more effective.

January 8 2021: Once an element of calm is re-established, and America emerges both from Trump madness and the ravages of COVID, it will be interesting to see what the TV and movie producers will come up with next. Themes of healing, peace and love, costume dramas from a kinder world? I doubt it. I suspect that cabals, Bilderbergs and lizards will continue to scurry across our screens. But we live in hope.

Amen to that. At least now I can devote myself to sentimental stories about roses, hedgehogs and a parallel universe in which Trump, Brexit and COVID are blissfully absent.

Goodbye Donald: a 21-fart salute to a naked president – Part 1

Rumour has it that Donald Trump will depart from office to the accompaniment of a red carpet, a military band and a 21-gun salute. As far as I’m concerned, his supporters could arrange for him to be carried away on a chariot of fire to the accompaniment of the Hallelujah Chorus, and that would still be fine. So long as he goes.

I was wondering what kind of tribute I could offer the outgoing president, who has provided me with so much to write about over the past five years. Something on a sufficiently epic scale (by my standards) to do justice to his malign achievements. Then I thought of a headline, and everything flowed from there. To go back and look at all my posts that featured Trump is an act of narcissism of which he would surely approve, being an expert in looking at the mirror himself.

So for your delectation, here is a selection of short quotations from everything I’ve written about Trump since September 2015, which was when his presidential ambitions started on the road to reality.

The narcissism on my part is, I suppose, because this is an opportunity to reflect that I had the bastard figured out from the start. But then so did others, so I can’t claim any special insight. I do, however, feel that I was ahead of the curve on the odd occasion, and that maybe I offered a few perspectives as a foreigner looking from afar, that might have helped a few Americans to think differently about their country, and possibly mine.

Conceit? That’s for you to judge.

The post is in two parts. It’s a long read, for which I don’t apologise. Part 1 covers 2015 to 2018, which you could say was the period when Trump’s lunacy was getting into gear. Part 2 takes us up to today. If you want to look at any of the posts in full, you will find them under Donald Trump in the tag map at the top right of this page.

So this post, and the next, is to celebrate the downfall of a busted flush. An emperor without clothes. A naked president.

21 September 2015: Looking beyond the UK, there’s always the theatre of the grotesque in the US: the Republican presidential debates, starring that paragon of self-effacing modesty, Donald Trump. But I’m afraid I can’t look at the ghastly Donald without getting the feeling that the conspiracy theorists who claim that the world is in the control of a cabal of half-human, half-lizard oligarchs might actually be right.

December 8 2015: If thirty percent of Republicans weren’t telling the pollsters that they supported Donald Trump, you would think that he was the star of a reality show in which they dragged the most bigoted, narcissistic bore out of some downtown dive of a New York bar and stuck him on a podium. Along with a bunch of distinctly odd but slightly less extreme individuals.

5 February 2016: Dr Ghada, as a Muslim, is an example of the sort of person whom Donald Trump, if elected President of the US, would seek to deny admittance to his country. Which goes to show what a fundamentally stupid man Mr Trump is, but also what a distorted and one-dimensional the view of Muslims prevails among large swathes of the American electorate whose prejudices he seeks to harness.

24 February 2016: Should Donald Trump become president, America – and the rest of the world – will perhaps have cause to be thankful that the checks and balances of the US constitution exist to curb his wildest inclinations. From afar they may seem a recipe for paralysis, and no more so than over the past six years during which President Obama has repeatedly been stymied by a republican-dominated congress on issues like gun control. But they also mean that Trump may find it impossible to implement some of his loopier policies in the face of fierce opposition, even within his own side.

March 1 2016: I do believe that the combination of influences that has led to Donald Trump’s popularity, whether by accident or design, amounts to grooming. It’s happening in his country, in mine, and every other nation where the big bad wolf lurks in the undergrowth.

March 8 2016: It’s reasonable to suppose that whereas Hitler’s best years were theoretically ahead of him, Trump faces only physical and mental decline. Hitler looked forward to perhaps another thirty years in power. Unless Trump uses his money to unlock the secret of immortality, he has a maximum a decade before he enters his dotage. No thousand-year Reich in prospect for Donald.

May 10 2016: Generous, decent and principled America, I’m begging you. Pull back from the brink. Don’t entrust this man with your future and ours. Through your abundant natural and human resources, your competitive spirit and yes, though the ideals implanted in your DNA by your founding fathers, you have become the world’s lodestar, its reference point.

October 15 2016: But should I be so inclined, would I discuss my deeds and desires in a locker room, as Trump claims he does from time to time? Unlikely. I can’t think of any less congenial location for a discussion about heterosexual love and lust than a place where sweaty, half-naked men gather together, no doubt casting envious glances at their team-mates’ personal dimensions. Something faintly homoerotic about that, don’t you think?

October 29 2016: It’s in attitudes towards freedom that Britain today most closely resembles the US. I like to think that a Donald Trump would never flourish on the British political landscape (though Farage in his role as a Donald mini-me together with his pugilistic colleagues cause one to wonder). But Trump is all about Freedom From: immigration again, interference by federal government, terrorism and the corrosive effects of globalisation.

November 2 2016: So the message to Americans who keenly await a new dawn under Donald Trump is that those wire factories and steel mills will never return unless he raises import tariffs so high that the end product becomes cheaper to buy from his own country rather than from abroad. And if he raises the tariffs, how much will it cost his manufacturers to buy the materials they need to create the next generation of computer chips, over which China has a near-stranglehold? Or the next generation of nukes, or just about anything else that it imports?

November 10 2016: It will not be the first time that America has elected a President with a few screws loose, but with Trump at least we know where the screws are. This was not the case last time a potentially unhinged president was in office. Richard Nixon’s paranoia was pretty well known, but it was only after his resignation that the full extent of his obsessive, depressive and drink-fuelled behaviour while in office became known.

November 12 2016: The grim visage staring at you in this picture would be enough to scare the living daylights out of 007, Luca Brasi, ISIS, Kim Jong Un or a pack of rabid attack dogs. Uncle Fester on steroids. The face of a serial killer, a torturer, a Christian-persecuting Roman emperor, a paranoid eunuch at the court of a fratricidal Ottoman Sultan? (The picture was of Trump’s hairless head being sculpted by Madame Tussaud’s)

November 22 2016: In my fevered imagination, Belardo is the Anti-Trump. A chain-smoking ascetic stands opposite Trump’s teetotal self-indulgence. A pope who is loyal to nobody (not even to God, it seems) and a president-elect who prizes loyalty above all things. (From a review of Sorrentino’s The Young Pope)

December 6 2016: But thanks to Trump’s (and possibly Vladimir Putin’s) efforts, we’re now at the stage when we either choose to believe what we’re told because of who tells it (Trump, the New York Times, the imam, the pastor, our parents or the family doctor) or we believe nothing without going to great lengths to convince ourselves of the bona fides of the teller and the information they convey. To do the former is easy. To do the latter can be an impossible burden on our time.

January 19 2017: (Lyndon) Johnson, himself thin-skinned, endured the opprobrium for four years before he threw in the towel. Would Trump, who is a more fragile individual than LBJ ever was, last that long? I doubt it. It would probably be a matter of how long before he tried to do something irrational and catastrophically stupid, at which point one would hope that more grounded people around him would either thwart him or declare him no longer competent to continue in office. (Almost true, as it turns out)

January 25 2017: If Trump can induce such a striking personality change in people like Simon Schama, he’s well on his way to fulfilling one of his campaign pledges already – he’s creating an industry of Trump insulters, not only in America but across the world. Jobs galore!

January 30 2017: Trump doesn’t care about completed staff work. He cares about the transaction, and the wave of gratification he receives from adoring supporters to whom he made his promises, now kept, during the election campaign. He will bathe in the acclamation of the yes-men who surround him. If thousands of people are suffering because his actions were not thought through, so be it. What he lives for is the moment he signs the order and waves it in front of the cameras with a triumphant snarl.

February 21 2017:  Trump is far smarter than the average protozoa. He even knows where Sweden is – which is more than can perhaps be said for some of his supporters. And he has great words.

February 28 2017: The very fact that the tactics used to put Trump in the White House and drag the UK out of the European Union are becoming increasingly known and understood is some assurance that they will not be so effective next time round. The element of surprise will have been lost.

March 10 2017: Will Trump’s world really turn out to be even more gruesome than those of Carrie Mathison and Frank Underwood? You might think that; I couldn’t possibly comment.

22 April 2017: Abuse makes nothing better – not the target, not the originator and most likely not the situation. Advice to myself that I shall no doubt forget next time I hear some self-righteous lemming-herder remind us that the people have spoken, next time I see a vicious headline in the Daily Mail calling out traitors and saboteurs, and next time I hear Donald Trump’s whiney, sneery voice and his piggy eyes bulging with faux anger.

April 25 2016: I suspect that come 2020, if he hasn’t been impeached by then, Trump will have learned that walls built to keep people in are far more effective than those that keep them out. So expect in his next campaign a promise to build more beautiful walls. This time they’ll be rectangular, and full of bars. “Round’em up – lock’em up”. That’ll go down well with his supporters, I would imagine.

May 11 2017: In my experience, firing people, especially when they are part of an organisation that is under stress, can cause a further dip in morale even if the firing was justified. People wonder who’s next, and take steps to cover their backsides. If the firing is done as a demonstration of power – management by thunderbolt as I call it – the danger is that those who have independence of thought, initiative and creativity either leave, or form disgruntled cells of resistance. Those who remain in power are the yes-men (and women).

May 13 2017: I’ve often heard it said that for the Republican leadership, power, and the interests of the party, are more important than the national interest. If this is true – and it needs to be said that it’s certainly not the case with some senior figures such as John McCain and Lindsey Graham – then it’s easy to understand why, from their standpoint, getting rid of Trump might feel like turkeys voting for Christmas. (Clearly I misread Mr Graham at the time)

May 15 2017: Imagine a day in the life of the unfortunate Reince Priebus, Trump’s chief of staff. Surrounded by a web of poisonous relationships between scheming courtiers who hate each other. Walking corridors where staff nervously eye their mobile phones, occasionally muttering “POTUS is tweeting again…Jesus!” Constantly dealing with outrage and confusion over Trump’s utterances, and fending off lawsuits triggered by his flawed executive orders. Bombshells to the left and tantrums to the right.

May 16 2017: Since Trump became president, the echo chamber, full of the sweet sounds of reason, has started to feel like a pressure cooker. The voices of reason were sounding like angry wasps trapped in a fish bowl. Over the past couple of weeks, since the Comey firing, the wasps have turned into buzz-saws. And now, with the allegations about Trump playing fast and loose with America’s most sensitive intelligence, the buzz-saws are morphing into swarms of shrieking harpies.

June 7 2017: I fear that from now onwards we shall have to endure both styles of discourse: politicians like (Theresa) May being clear and saying nothing, and incontinent orators like (Boris) Johnson and Donald Trump saying the first things that come into their heads in incoherent lumps of brown, disconnected verbiage.

June 23 2017: For this avid follower of the Trumpian madhouse, one moment of sublime comedy has changed my perception of the president’s utterances forever. After Andy Serkis’s appearance on Stephen Colbert’s show, I will never again be able to read a Trump tweet without filtering it through the voice of Gollum.

June 30 2017: The most extraordinary aspect of Scaramucci’s stunning impact on the US political stage is that to me at least – and most likely to the vast majority of people like me who watch the reality show from afar – his existence was unknown a week ago. It’s as if some TV producer invented him for Trump’s benefit and our amusement, like some new character parachuted into the Truman Show, or a contestant inserted into Love Island half-way through the series. What’s next? Caligula’s horse? The Terminator? Coco the Clown? Your guess is as good as mine. One thing’s for sure, if he continues to recruit such colourful characters, Trump will put Broadway out of business.

January 15 2018: Theoretically, Donald Trump can bring the world’s economy to its knees with a serious misstep. He can also trigger conflict in any number of regions without directly involving his country. It’s some consolation that he is constrained from precipitate action by separation of powers enshrined in the US constitution. His freedom to act is also curbed by the growing counter-weight of China and Russia. But his ability to take the ultimate step – to spark a nuclear war and thereby wipe out most of humanity – is not so constrained in the event of an imminent threat – whether real or imagined. Which is why we should be pleased that every incoherent rant and tweet increases the likelihood that the person who really does have a button on their desk will think extremely carefully before pressing it.

February 15: If the top secret organisations are indeed using time travel, I’m surprised they haven’t lifted The Saviour out of Nazareth on an assignment to bring forth the End of Days. That would certainly appeal to Mike Pence. However, I suspect that JC would be so horrified by his gun-toting, immigrant-hating, camels-passing-through-the-eye-of-a needle American disciples that he’d make a quick getaway back to Gethsemane. Should time travel already have been invented, you can certainly bet on Trump controlling it rather than the Democrats.

April 4 2018: I suppose the fact that the “leader of the free world” hasn’t yet graduated from venomous tweets and blunderbuss lawsuits to more extreme tactics is some cause for comfort. Leaking is a chequered profession, but who knows? Perhaps a leaker will end up bringing down the President. Plenty more to come on Donald Trump, I suspect.

April 15 2018: When the real president is spewing his narcissistic vomit on Twitter, firing his staff like a medieval potentate, causing fear and uncertainty both within his own country and outside it, and pandering to every special interest prepared to grease his palm with campaign dollars, it’s comforting to think that there might be another way, even if it’s in the imagination of a TV scriptwriter. (From a review of Designated Survivor)

July 13 2018: Yesterday, as I was strolling through a leafy side street in north London, the air filled with the kind of low-frequency music you sometimes hear coming from a car with high spec sound system, throbbing with menace. Shortly afterwards, the source of the noise came into view: two black helicopters, each the size of London buses. Down below, a couple of builders working on a house refurbishment, stopped, looked up and pointed. “Oi, look”, one of them yelled, “it’s fucking Trump. Shoot the bastard down!”

December 2 2018: The next juicy bone of contention is the claim by demagogues that overturning Brexit and the ending Trump presidency would result in civil unrest and violence. You would expect such assertions by the likes of and Farage and his US counterparts. But when the same arguments are made by mainstream politicians and commentators, then we have reason to be concerned.

Part 2 will appear shortly. I bet you can’t wait.

Political bias at the BBC? Perish the thought.

Roadkill is an average-to-good political drama about a corrupt and adulterous Conservative politician who wants to privatise Britain’s National Health Service, a very touchy subject given the nation’s adulation of our healthcare workers.

No matter that the current government is outsourcing everything it can relating to the coronavirus pandemic, preferably to businesses owned by supporters, who thereby multiply their turnovers and profits many times.

David Hare, who wrote Roadkill, is well known for his scathing “state of the nation” plays. Now, according to The Times, Richard Sharp, whom the government has chosen as the next chairman of the BBC, has his own take on the corporation’s political impartiality, or lack of it. He says about Roadkill:

David Hare as a writer is not considered to be impartial. In producing those four episodes of Roadkill, with Conservative villains, that was a partial view that could influence people in the way they view the Conservative Party.

Well yes, the same could have been said about House of Cards (the British version), featuring a corrupt and murderous Tory politician. Yet I don’t recall anyone at the time complaining about political bias.

More recently, The Thick of It, about a government communications team led by Malcolm Tucker, a foul-mouthed maniac, didn’t lead to complaints about bias against the Labour Party, despite the fact that the central character was said to be inspired by Alistair Campbell, Tony Blair’s chief of communications.

Presumably we shall still be allowed to laugh at politics and politicians, but under the new regime, if the assumption is that we poor babies are unable to distinguish fact from fiction in “serious” drama, we’re in dangerous territory.

What Mr Sharp, who until recently was a senior partner in Goldman Sachs, seems to have failed to notice is that almost all political drama is biased one way or another. The best playwrights always have a view. That’s why they’re the best.

So if the new chairman believes that the BBC should only show impartial political drama, that suggests that he wants the BBC to avoid the genre altogether. Or perhaps they should include trigger warnings, such as:

This programme contains scenes of sleaze, sexual misconduct, corruption and political bias that some Conservative voters might find distressing.

That should sort it. Otherwise, his BBC could end up being a dreary repository for reality shows, true crime, natural history documentaries, dramas about long-dead monarchs and all the sport that other channels don’t want to show. No room for Berthold Brecht, Sergei Eisenstein or David Hare. Nor, for that matter, for re-runs of I’m Alright Jack (a 50’s classic starring Peter Sellars, pictured above, as a union boss) or the collected wisdom of Alf Garnett, whose every second word would be expunged before we were allowed to re-visit him today. And satire? Heaven forbid.

I hate to say this, but if Mr Sharp’s words haven’t been reported out of context, his chairmanship doesn’t bode well for the inventive, risk-taking side of the BBC, which was already on the wane because of relentless criticism by the corporation’s political masters.

From now onwards, we will probably have to look to other channels for the likes of Cathy Come Home, Our Friends in the North, Edge of Darkness and so forth.

Must stop now. Mrs Brown’s Boys is on. Courtesy of the BBC of course.

Corona Diaries: vaccines – in the absence of facts, feelings take control

As I sat this morning draining my second cup of coffee, I came across an article on the front page of The London Times. It was about how if you’ve had COVID, you have an 85% chance of being immune to reinfection – for the time being at least. That, apparently, gives you a better chance of staying well, (assuming of course that you are well) than the AstraZeneca vaccine, two doses of which give you 62% immunity.

The article also refers to the Pfizer vaccine:

“Although the Pfizer Vaccine has a headline efficacy rate of 95 per cent, that figure is based on symptomatic infections alone, so the mildest cases were ignored.”

Good news then, that after gasping for breath in hospital, or suffering from various agonies at home, you’re unlikely to have to go through the same thing again.

But what about the rest of us, quivering with fear at the prospect that every letter or parcel we receive at home might be impregnated by those nasty little bugs that are just waiting for the chance to infect us? Or that the bananas we buy at the supermarket might also be lethal?

It seems that we must put up with uncertainty that arises out of the fact that we simply don’t know as much about the effect of the vaccines as we do, for example, about the flu and polio jabs. That’s because these vaccines are new, and we haven’t had time to study their effect outside clinical trials. In the real world, so to speak.

Not that I’m an anti-vaxxer. I would drive fifty miles wearing a Boris Johnson gorilla suit at 3am if offered a jab.

But it does bother me that well-regarded media outlets such as The Times assume so much knowledge among their readers.

Take the AstraZeneca vaccine, for example. When the trial results came through, there was a conclusion reported that a half-dose followed by a full dose would give you 90% immunity. What happened to that claim? And why are we not following that protocol? Also, and this applies to the Pfizer and Moderna vaccines as well, what happens if you don’t get the second dose within the time specified by the manufacturers? “You’ll probably be fine” seems to be the best answer that our medics can come up with.

Another concern is that that if the information in The Times is correct, even after getting the AstraZeneca jab, you still have two chances in five of catching the virus. Not exactly a licence to let your grandchildren slobber over you, or to hug the postman. Still, better than having no immunity. And as experts point out, a better immunity than you get from the flu jab. As someone who has been having the flu jab for years and hasn’t succumbed to a dose for as long as I remember (he says, tightly grabbing the wooden table at which he sits), I find that quite comforting.

But if I was a betting man, I would find 9-1 against getting COVID after the Pfizer jab a good deal more comforting than the 3-2 odds offered by AstraZeneca. The question then arises whether, if one had the choice, one would be better off waiting longer for the Pfizer jab, which is more expensive and difficult to store for any length of time, than for the AstraZeneca jab, which is cheaper, of which we have more doses ordered and can be kept in the fridge. A trade-off between availability and efficacy, it seems, with the little matter of cost thrown in.

Anyway, that decision is being made for us by our all-knowing government.

But turning to the Pfizer vaccine, Tom Whipple’s article in The Times raises more questions. What does “headline efficacy” mean? And if the 95% figure excludes asymptomatic infections, what is the efficacy rate for ALL infections? Which then leads us to ask whether the same trial protocols were followed for the AstraZeneca jab. Does their result also exclude mild infections? And how do we define “mild” as opposed to “severe”?

At which point, it seems, one has three choices. Become an expert in immunology and clinical trials, which takes a while. Succumb to derangement and start burrowing down into conspiracy theories. Or simply stop asking questions and trust Dr Fauci and Sir Chris Whitty.

None of these options feel particularly attractive, but feeling has nothing to do with it. It’s facts that matter, though when facts are absent or hard to determine, the space they leave is rapidly filled by emotions. Especially when you sometimes get the impression, no doubt unfairly, that our experts appear to be only one step ahead of the rest of us.

The reality would seem to be “give me the bloody vaccine”, and, as the government recommends, behave as though we haven’t had the jab.

Or to put it another way: “Praise the Lord, and Pass the Ammunition”.

Brexit Diaries: the banana worm has turned

One might as well refer to the confluence of problems facing the United Kingdom at the moment as Covexit. Or possibly BREXID. I say this because our politicians rarely miss the opportunity to wriggle out of accepting responsibility for the one by blaming the other.

I take no pleasure from the struggles of Scottish fishermen in their attempt to export their fish in the face of a welter of paperwork, sanitation checks and certification requirements so onerous that our beautiful lobsters and langoustines are no longer edible by the time they’ve been through the bureaucratic mill. Nor do I take lightly the supermarket shelves devoid of the fruit and vegetables we need to keep us healthy. Just a glitch, says Michael Gove, our Minister in Charge of Lots of Stuff. Soon be sorted out once everyone gets used to the new rules. Which implies that it’s all our fault for being thick idiots, not the government’s for making this nonsense necessary in the first place.

I am, of course, desperate for everything to work out. I’m sad at the prospect of so many people losing their jobs, which of course will be all down to COVID, not Brexit. I’m sick to my stomach at the massive dive in our Gross Domestic Product, which again is all down to COVID, not Brexit. I raise more than one eyebrow at the fact that one quarter of my country has become a political chimera, neither out nor in, and that if I want to send a parcel to Northern Ireland, I need a customs declaration. Also the possibility that Scotland, another major component, wants to be out, and therefore in.

But I can’t help a little giggle at the video of Dutch customs officers ordering drivers to surrender their breakfast before entering the Netherlands, because EU regulations prohibit the import of foodstuffs (apart from those that have been waiting a century to be stamped and certified). So the unfortunate truckers were required to leave their tuna sandwiches, neatly wrapped in foil, on a table by the inspection hut before heading off into the continent. “Welcome to Brexit” said the officer. Did his eyes betray a slight smirk?

It makes me smile because our Prime Minister spent years as a journalist in Brussels concocting mendacious stories about EU regulations, such as how burdensome it was that we were being required to reject any bananas that didn’t fit the EU-approved dimensions. Which, along with much else he wrote, was utter bollocks.

So now we can enjoy the delicious irony that after years of being able to import any shape of banana we want, anything we want to bring into the EU on a casual basis, be it tuna sandwiches, pork pies, scotch eggs, or simple snacks for the kids, is being treated as a potential health hazard, as if the English variant of COVID isn’t enough.

Presumably it works the same way in the other direction, which will mean that we can no longer stuff smelly cheeses, garlic stalks and foie gras in our bags as reminders of our lovely holidays when returning to Britain from France. I fully expect British customs officials soon to be brandishing cheese sniffers to catch Camembert violations. A far more heinous offence than accidentally smuggling a migrant who has snuck themselves into some obscure part of our car.

So you could argue that the bendy banana myth has come back to haunt us. Or, to put it another way, the banana-shaped worm has turned.

Welcome to Brexit, as the friendly Dutchman said.

A culture of paranoia: for every West Wing, there are ten Houses of Cards

Try as I might, I find it hard to detach myself from the firestorm of opinion, paranoia, recrimination and fear sweeping across the United States in the run-up to Joe Biden’s inauguration.

Reading and watching all the stuff being said and shown about last Wednesday’s storming of the Capitol, you’d think that the whole thing was a surprise – something unheard of, let alone anticipated. In fact, it seems to me that Americans have been rehearsing such an event in their imagination for some time now.

Think of all the apocalyptic movies and TV series in which sinister forces wreak destruction on the established order. Starting with Dr Strangelove, in which a rogue general nukes Russia, in the movies we have the Manchurian Candidate, Absolute Power, Olympus Has Fallen and any number of other movies featuring conspiracies, evil presidents and coups d’etat.

Then we have all the TV series which explore these subjects more slowly. House of Cards, Homeland and a series that comes closest to anticipating the Capitol insurrection. In Designated Survivor, which I reviewed under the heading of Blissful Evenings with the AntiTrump a couple of years ago, the sinister forces actually get to blow the building up during a joint session of Congress, decapitating the government and leaving Keifer Sutherland’s mild-mannered Tom Kirkman, a junior cabinet secretary, to pick up the pieces.

Only Kirkman and the saintly Josiah Bartlett in The West Wing offer an antidote to the stream of chaos and subversion.

Which came first, I wonder? The paranoia or the product? Or did the one feed the other to produce a spiral of anxiety? For sure, those movies and series have left their mark on the public conscious. Tweets, videos and speeches since Trump became president could almost be the product of Hollywood script writers, full of warlike phrases that could just as easily have come from the mouth of Gerard Butler in 300, the movie in which the Spartans take on the might of the Persian army at Thermopylae.

Much of the really hairy rhetoric started after 9/11 convinced the current generation of Americans that their nightmares can actually come true. Aided by the internet, conspiracy theories took wing, and the likes of Homeland convinced us that they really are out to get us, whoever “they” might be.

Now Americans, and the rest of us to some extent, are quite prepared to think the unthinkable. Which brings us to the inauguration, and the days leading up to it. We’re told that there will be further actions in the next week, including protests not only in Washington but at every statehouse in the country.

That being the case, if you were conspiracy-minded and believed that Trump’s recent appointees in the Defence Department connived in the slow response to last Wednesday’s pitch invasion, and that active members of the military, police and fire departments took part, you might wonder how Biden can be kept safe as he stands at the podium to take the oath of office.

Those glass screens would no doubt stop a sniper’s bullet. But what if a couple of rogue fighter pilots in F-16s armed with Sidewinder missiles took it upon themselves to blast Biden and the assembled throng to smithereens? What provisions are in place to prevent such an occurrence? Will the Capitol be equipped with surface-to-air missiles? And how can the organisers be sure that the operators will be minded to use them against an incoming threat?

The logical conclusion of such dark thoughts might be that the best way to keep the new president safe would be force Trump to attend, in handcuffs if need be.

Perhaps Jack Ryan is standing by, and Morgan Freeman, the most-battered movie president in history, is standing by to take the reins. But this way lies madness. No doubt the organisers have all the bases covered.

That said, isn’t it remarkable, and symptomatic of the age, that the scenarios played out on-screen should have so colonised the minds of once-rational people that they feel that they’re living in a movie, and in many cases can’t distinguish between fact and fiction?

Once an element of calm is re-established, and America emerges both from Trump madness and the ravages of COVID, it will be interesting to see what the TV and movie producers will come up with next. Themes of healing, peace and love, costume dramas from a kinder world?

I doubt it. I suspect that cabals, Bilderbergs and lizards will continue to scurry across our screens. But we live in hope.

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