Bryan Islip's Blog, page 40
December 29, 2011
The 2011 stories
Although they're all now published in the paperback 'Twelve of Diamonds' (ISBN 978-0-9555193-4-5) I'll be happy to e-mail you any (one) of the following stories. Just e-mail me the title (pico555@btopenworld.com) - I'll e-mail you the story - no charge and no follow up
One Cold, Cold Day: Pity the poor postman. His wife has gone; where to, who knows? It's Valentine's Day. Duty done he makes for the pub … just a few beers.
A Life With Dogs: 57 years old widow Lucy Fotheringay, alone and suffering the debilitating effects of Parkinsons has decided: better sooner than later. Best now.
There Was A Soldier: There's a lot more come back from Afghanistan crippled than in coffins. But for ex-sergeant Macrae there are no tears, no regrets, no recriminations.
Smile Samantha Smile: Behind the smiling exterior of this attractive lady weather forecaster there are some real concerns Her friend's advice - go out with a bang …
Thirteen: It is the schoolboy's thirteenth birthday and he's making a series of discoveries about the world and about his place in it. But there are more questions than answers.
Goodbye and Good Luck: Wealthy entrepreneur Sir James Patrick Jamieson has asked me, as his family's lawyer, to assemble his legatees for a reading of the Will.
Lion Hearts: After a bad episode in the ring ex-boxer Josie James is on the road with a dog called Rich. He has no idea what he wants other than that he won't fight again
A Very Hot Property: They've ridden the property train all the way to Brittany but life there hasn't turned out as planned. And the return engine seems to have stalled.
All the Colours and the Black: Rudi Bowe, down and out artist has conceived a plan to lift himself out of the gutter - with the involuntary help of an ex-girlfriend.
A True and Gentle Man: The older you get the more you should know and there are always the memories. Happy ones like Margie; bad ones like Wormwood Scrubs.
Lost and Found: Jack has been a good provider for his wife Marie, his daughter and his disabled son. But now he's been made redundant and their future looks bleak.
The Book: Marie and Jack Mortlock have become lost whilst walking the Scottish hills. Their overnight shelter is a cave; in it, a long lost whisky still and that book.
HAPPY READING: HAPPY NEW YEAR
Bryan
December 21, 2011
Robert Burns
Last evening at Kirkhill House we hosted a gathering of the Wester-Ross Burns Club. Lots of goodies to eat and drink and lots of that good old craic - erudite and not so erudite! Our estimable Chair arrived wearing Father Christmas hat and yuletide tie complete with flashing lights, which gives you an idea ...
To mark the occasion I had composed a verse 'Thoughts of Robert Burns'. Here it is ...
So simply precious, thatKilmarnock treasuryOF POEMSChiefly in the Scottish Dialect Thoughts of Robert Burns
January seventeen fifty nine, cold winter's day, old Alloway:to Scottish farming stockwas born a boy, and what a boy was this, this Robert, Rabbie Burns or Burnes (with or without the 'e')who grew into a shining star ascending to arc the firmament,changed words to arrows, plain, or in the Scotsman's dialectthat, flashing out to everyone, pierced, lifting up their heartswith things as small as harvest miceor wise and wonderful, the parts beyond imagining or any price.
To him a man was just a man for all that and for all thatfrom wheresoe're on earth he springsso long as straight, within his time he honesty and humour brings.
If music be the food of poets' lovefrom deep inside his ancientScottish roots Rab culled the songsthat have become immortal, and, when any exile for his homeland longsfoursquare with that man Rabbie stands. Like every caring working man Burns strove to feed his family by dint and stint of plough and pen,and later roved the lowland roadson business for His Majesty.Yet all his life the songsmith poet also knew the need to feed his views egalitarian and his muse and found his provender for thisin places often frowned on by his peers and his superiors,like rough and bawdy fairs, alehouses and in the arms, the eyes, the lips of bonnie Scotland's womankind:
but look, he only reached out therebelieving true he was in love, (as well as by her truly loved), and with her all the pleasures proved- compared his heart with that undying rose; that red, red rosethat's newly sprung in June, thatmelody that's never out of tune
Ploughman poet Robert Burns, like some volcanic rock afire, that's hurled up high, so high above mere commonplace mundanityof heat suffice to set alight the sullen earth, the endless sky,oh yes, too bright for many folkof its own time to look at, see,shedding as it goes in some greatwild parabola, poetic sparks and soon this melting rock slowed, fell away and cooled, and,sighing, met with careless deathas all things must,so Rabbie all too soon expelled his final breath.
Burns is never lost to memory: this man of rock, this poet shall within my time abide with me;tell in ways and words ethereal that to live is more than just to be.
Bryan Islipfor the Wester-Ross Burns Club meeting20 December 2011
To mark the occasion I had composed a verse 'Thoughts of Robert Burns'. Here it is ...
So simply precious, thatKilmarnock treasuryOF POEMSChiefly in the Scottish Dialect Thoughts of Robert Burns
January seventeen fifty nine, cold winter's day, old Alloway:to Scottish farming stockwas born a boy, and what a boy was this, this Robert, Rabbie Burns or Burnes (with or without the 'e')who grew into a shining star ascending to arc the firmament,changed words to arrows, plain, or in the Scotsman's dialectthat, flashing out to everyone, pierced, lifting up their heartswith things as small as harvest miceor wise and wonderful, the parts beyond imagining or any price.
To him a man was just a man for all that and for all thatfrom wheresoe're on earth he springsso long as straight, within his time he honesty and humour brings.
If music be the food of poets' lovefrom deep inside his ancientScottish roots Rab culled the songsthat have become immortal, and, when any exile for his homeland longsfoursquare with that man Rabbie stands. Like every caring working man Burns strove to feed his family by dint and stint of plough and pen,and later roved the lowland roadson business for His Majesty.Yet all his life the songsmith poet also knew the need to feed his views egalitarian and his muse and found his provender for thisin places often frowned on by his peers and his superiors,like rough and bawdy fairs, alehouses and in the arms, the eyes, the lips of bonnie Scotland's womankind:
but look, he only reached out therebelieving true he was in love, (as well as by her truly loved), and with her all the pleasures proved- compared his heart with that undying rose; that red, red rosethat's newly sprung in June, thatmelody that's never out of tune
Ploughman poet Robert Burns, like some volcanic rock afire, that's hurled up high, so high above mere commonplace mundanityof heat suffice to set alight the sullen earth, the endless sky,oh yes, too bright for many folkof its own time to look at, see,shedding as it goes in some greatwild parabola, poetic sparks and soon this melting rock slowed, fell away and cooled, and,sighing, met with careless deathas all things must,so Rabbie all too soon expelled his final breath.
Burns is never lost to memory: this man of rock, this poet shall within my time abide with me;tell in ways and words ethereal that to live is more than just to be.
Bryan Islipfor the Wester-Ross Burns Club meeting20 December 2011
December 11, 2011
Echoes of War
Yesterday we spent one of the most memorable few hours of our Wester-Ross year in the magnificent Pool House Hotel. (Poolewe village) This hotel had been the WW2 HQ for the ships that sailed in convoy from here to Murmansk and Archangel with vital supplies for the Soviet Union, our wartime allies.
Of course many u-boats and other enemy ships were lying in wait on and under the cruel sea. When a ship went down no other ships of the convoy, not their Royal Navy escorts, could afford to stop in an attempt to save the survivors. To do so would be to make themselves in turn easier targets. In any case, if you are immersed in waters of those temperatures death follows within minutes.
For years after the war the heroism, fortitude and seamanship of the sailors manning these ships went largely unrecognised here in the UK. Although the Soviets were keen enough to award medals, for some obscure facet of diplomatic skulguggery (known not by me though presumably by Whitehall), we were not.
Our tour of the hotel (superb value all by itself) and the expert narration of our guides painted such a vivid picture. It was a fitting preface to the special museum now in its planning stage. Like all of us, I hope this enterprise will come swiftly to a concrete conclusion. Right now I say full marks to the organisers of yesterday's event, from the ATC cadets to the hotel owners and staff, through to Francis Russell and his team of convoy experts.
Back in 2002, when we first saw the overgrown pillboxes etc at the Cove end of Loch Ewe, I wrote this poem...
Echoes of War
Where Loch Ewe opens up herself to Mother Sea,at Cove, still stand these crumbling concrete testamentsto world war two and all those brave-heart menwho dared the elements to face their enemy
In groups of fragile ships they left these shores,last sight, this wounded rock of Wester Ross;behind, the crying of the gulls as theysailed north to Russia and the Arctic wars
Although this place of peace now holds scant traceof what had come to pass those years beforeand rust away as may the swordswe shall recall the poet's words:We shall remember themlong after all the blood and all the bedlam;long after time has healed the wounded rock.and all war's echoes fade away.
Of course many u-boats and other enemy ships were lying in wait on and under the cruel sea. When a ship went down no other ships of the convoy, not their Royal Navy escorts, could afford to stop in an attempt to save the survivors. To do so would be to make themselves in turn easier targets. In any case, if you are immersed in waters of those temperatures death follows within minutes.
For years after the war the heroism, fortitude and seamanship of the sailors manning these ships went largely unrecognised here in the UK. Although the Soviets were keen enough to award medals, for some obscure facet of diplomatic skulguggery (known not by me though presumably by Whitehall), we were not.
Our tour of the hotel (superb value all by itself) and the expert narration of our guides painted such a vivid picture. It was a fitting preface to the special museum now in its planning stage. Like all of us, I hope this enterprise will come swiftly to a concrete conclusion. Right now I say full marks to the organisers of yesterday's event, from the ATC cadets to the hotel owners and staff, through to Francis Russell and his team of convoy experts.
Back in 2002, when we first saw the overgrown pillboxes etc at the Cove end of Loch Ewe, I wrote this poem...
Echoes of War
Where Loch Ewe opens up herself to Mother Sea,at Cove, still stand these crumbling concrete testamentsto world war two and all those brave-heart menwho dared the elements to face their enemy
In groups of fragile ships they left these shores,last sight, this wounded rock of Wester Ross;behind, the crying of the gulls as theysailed north to Russia and the Arctic wars
Although this place of peace now holds scant traceof what had come to pass those years beforeand rust away as may the swordswe shall recall the poet's words:We shall remember themlong after all the blood and all the bedlam;long after time has healed the wounded rock.and all war's echoes fade away.
December 8, 2011
Who?
Dee and I rifled through a box of old photos, stopping often to stare as lives unfolded backwards. Finally we came to this one, dated 1953. I remembered my old camera and the rolls of black and white film. I remember this particular shot because it was an accidental double exposure, some kind of gasworks, somewhere, in the background. I remember the suit - from Alexander's, bespoke tailor, York. Made a nice change feom my everyday dress at the time - RAF uniform - National Service! All of my age will remember that. I remember the dark glasses and the James Dean pose. I remember the miniature golf course in Ayr where this photograph was taken. I remember the young lady who took it: Joan Wood, my wife / mother of my four children to be.
I remember being young and I recall the vague supposions of youth; all the vanities, fears and hopes. You know, about what was to come. Mostly that did not come though other, different things came, and in the main just as good.
I look at this photograph and, strangely,do not remember me.
How can that be? Different person, same mind? Whatever, I am content.
I remember being young and I recall the vague supposions of youth; all the vanities, fears and hopes. You know, about what was to come. Mostly that did not come though other, different things came, and in the main just as good.I look at this photograph and, strangely,do not remember me.
How can that be? Different person, same mind? Whatever, I am content.
October 26, 2011
Seven billion today
The Guardian newspaper today noted that, according to the United Nations, the seven billionth inhabitant will arrive to grace this Planet Earth. They asked readers to write a letter to this newborn. Hundreds responded. This was my response...
Dear seven billionth inhabitant of planet earth
Yes, child, you are 'dear' if only to your parents, grandparents and perhaps but not necessarily the siblings who naturally look forward with such eagerness to the material legacies they must now share with this new arrival (you).
Neither, I am sorry to tell you, are you in any way dear to the other 6,999,999, 999 or so earthlings who will contest your right, by war or empoverishment or uncaring neglect, to a share of this planet's resources; because of course your birth will deplete their own share of those.
Neither are you dear to the billions of species other than Mankind who inhabit the Earth, knowing they are looked upon only as food or as amusement or as just plain nasty and to be eradicated by the dominant species of which you are now one.
But wait!
Perhaps there is, after all, a saving grace. Perhaps it is you that is the saving grace. Perhaps you will become the one who will be able to reach into the human soul and to emerge from the darkness, with all of your fellow Man behind, into those green and sunlit pastures of which our prophets have down the ages spoken.
I hope so, for such a hope however remote is the only justification for your birth.
Dear seven billionth inhabitant of planet earth
Yes, child, you are 'dear' if only to your parents, grandparents and perhaps but not necessarily the siblings who naturally look forward with such eagerness to the material legacies they must now share with this new arrival (you).
Neither, I am sorry to tell you, are you in any way dear to the other 6,999,999, 999 or so earthlings who will contest your right, by war or empoverishment or uncaring neglect, to a share of this planet's resources; because of course your birth will deplete their own share of those.
Neither are you dear to the billions of species other than Mankind who inhabit the Earth, knowing they are looked upon only as food or as amusement or as just plain nasty and to be eradicated by the dominant species of which you are now one.
But wait!
Perhaps there is, after all, a saving grace. Perhaps it is you that is the saving grace. Perhaps you will become the one who will be able to reach into the human soul and to emerge from the darkness, with all of your fellow Man behind, into those green and sunlit pastures of which our prophets have down the ages spoken.
I hope so, for such a hope however remote is the only justification for your birth.
October 6, 2011
Money
So the powers that be are preparing to print a load more of that ephemeral stuff we call 'money' in order to stuff the banks with cash sufficient to prevent their bankruptcy. Theres is crime going on here on a truly colossal scale. Crime without punishment. Consider this ...
What is money if it is not a token reward from the receiver/s to the doer for work done in its favour, whether physical, service or intellectual? The Treasury 'creatlng money' is a very serious fraud against the society (all of us) that empowers it as guardian of basic work and reward integrity. And that applies whether the direct recipients of such 'home-made funds' are privately owned banks or governments or businesses or simply me and you.
Unfortunately the Treasury, emasculated by recent governments, has long since lost its power to resist the activities of those who cared little or nothing for work and reward and who were allowed to rifle the nation's coffers with impunity. The invaders' impunity that is, not ours, for we who have not been inside the City of London are being punished severely for crimes not of our own doing.
We can look to our so-called democratic government (by the people for the people what bxxxxxx!) for no sympathy. Other. that is, than the hypocrytical though no doubt well-meant spountings of politicians as, thrashing around for something - anything - to do to stop the impending self-made hurricane, they prepare to send more of this electronically ephemeral thing called money out of Threadneedle Street and into the maw of The City.
The best export our nation could achieve would be that of the City of London, leaving the rest of us to get on with life as did our forbears - the ones who created the system which they have so cruelly disfigured. Where to? Anywhere but here, I don't care. Then for richer or poorer, better or worse, we can reinstitute work, risk and reward depending on the quality of what we each one offers to the whole. Britain awake!
What is money if it is not a token reward from the receiver/s to the doer for work done in its favour, whether physical, service or intellectual? The Treasury 'creatlng money' is a very serious fraud against the society (all of us) that empowers it as guardian of basic work and reward integrity. And that applies whether the direct recipients of such 'home-made funds' are privately owned banks or governments or businesses or simply me and you.
Unfortunately the Treasury, emasculated by recent governments, has long since lost its power to resist the activities of those who cared little or nothing for work and reward and who were allowed to rifle the nation's coffers with impunity. The invaders' impunity that is, not ours, for we who have not been inside the City of London are being punished severely for crimes not of our own doing.
We can look to our so-called democratic government (by the people for the people what bxxxxxx!) for no sympathy. Other. that is, than the hypocrytical though no doubt well-meant spountings of politicians as, thrashing around for something - anything - to do to stop the impending self-made hurricane, they prepare to send more of this electronically ephemeral thing called money out of Threadneedle Street and into the maw of The City.
The best export our nation could achieve would be that of the City of London, leaving the rest of us to get on with life as did our forbears - the ones who created the system which they have so cruelly disfigured. Where to? Anywhere but here, I don't care. Then for richer or poorer, better or worse, we can reinstitute work, risk and reward depending on the quality of what we each one offers to the whole. Britain awake!
September 19, 2011
All change.
For seven years we have set out our Pictures and Poems stall at the Poolewe Tuesday market (April-October). Dee used to 'man' it but since she took up her Bed and Breakfast mini-business a year ago the manning has fallen to me. A month ago I decided not to carry on. Too many other and more profitable ways to spend my money-making time these days, especially as most of our B&B guests elect to buy some of my stuff. And especially as Dee can handle two rooms B&B if I'm around but only the one if I'm away at the market.
But I still wake up on a Tuesday looking at the weather (a definite factor in market footfall and sales per head.) And I definitely do miss the craic and all the blether with fellow marketeers and customers alike.
But it's really surprising how much extra one can achieve by releasing for alternative use what seems like a comparatively minor chunk of one's weekly hours. In the past month I've written considerably more fiction and have finished a series of six oil paintings. This latter is a major departure for me from my traditional pastel landscapes but I'm enjoying it very much. Also, in conjunction with a friend, have now got our exciting Project X underway.(Watch this space!)
As I said in my Gairloch & District Times advert, "Rumours of my early retirement have been greatly exaggerated". Wonder where that one came from?.
Besides, we have a lot more oppostunity to smell the flowers, walk the hill.
But I still wake up on a Tuesday looking at the weather (a definite factor in market footfall and sales per head.) And I definitely do miss the craic and all the blether with fellow marketeers and customers alike.
But it's really surprising how much extra one can achieve by releasing for alternative use what seems like a comparatively minor chunk of one's weekly hours. In the past month I've written considerably more fiction and have finished a series of six oil paintings. This latter is a major departure for me from my traditional pastel landscapes but I'm enjoying it very much. Also, in conjunction with a friend, have now got our exciting Project X underway.(Watch this space!)
As I said in my Gairloch & District Times advert, "Rumours of my early retirement have been greatly exaggerated". Wonder where that one came from?.
Besides, we have a lot more oppostunity to smell the flowers, walk the hill.
September 12, 2011
Painting in oils
When I was twenty four and the father of two I had an urge to try my hand at painting a picture. Before leaving school at the age of fourteen years and nine months I had gained what was called a School Certificate 'Distinction' in Art (and 'Honours' in six other subjects, none of them being Home Economics or Media Studies!) but had no further instruction nor any creative experience (apart from the creating of my lovely children, that is.)
I bought myself a students mini half set of oil paints plus a number of small Daler Boards and when the family had retired for the night I got to work. For the best part of a year I copied the Old Masters and the Impressionists before graduating to my own compositions. The painting below was amongst these very first efforts. I believe it to be a copy - obviously very much in miniature - of Carravagio's The Fall of Rome. However fifty one years is a long time to remember anything so I could be wrong.
For the past fifty years this picture has lain, forgotten, in one dark and dusty attic after another before coming to light during our move to Kirkhill House. Because we thought it 'suited' this old manse house we had it nicely framed by Lynne Bennet-Mackenzie and, when I look at it hanging over our fireplace I remember those long past times when all the world was young - and the times long past those when the Master painted the original - and the times long past those when mighty Rome fell into its final decay.
Perhaps there's a lesson for us here, today?
I've 'painted' many pictures in pastels over the past ten years or so. Now I'm trying my hand at oils once more. Watch this space.
I bought myself a students mini half set of oil paints plus a number of small Daler Boards and when the family had retired for the night I got to work. For the best part of a year I copied the Old Masters and the Impressionists before graduating to my own compositions. The painting below was amongst these very first efforts. I believe it to be a copy - obviously very much in miniature - of Carravagio's The Fall of Rome. However fifty one years is a long time to remember anything so I could be wrong.
For the past fifty years this picture has lain, forgotten, in one dark and dusty attic after another before coming to light during our move to Kirkhill House. Because we thought it 'suited' this old manse house we had it nicely framed by Lynne Bennet-Mackenzie and, when I look at it hanging over our fireplace I remember those long past times when all the world was young - and the times long past those when the Master painted the original - and the times long past those when mighty Rome fell into its final decay. Perhaps there's a lesson for us here, today?
I've 'painted' many pictures in pastels over the past ten years or so. Now I'm trying my hand at oils once more. Watch this space.
August 31, 2011
Mushrooms
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness'. (Keats)
Last week we had a family of French people staying with us. Turned out they were keen (and expert) mushroom hunters. They could hardly believe the specimen bolitus they had spotted all along the Highland roadsides, and with nobody gathering them. Where they live, they said, folk would be up at four a.m. and fighting with each other to secure such a gourmand's delight.
So today, in the rare absence of B&B guests, we took time out to revive our old interest in the hunt for oyster mushrooms, hedgeogs (mushrooms that is!), the glorious butter coloured, inverted umberella shaped chanterelle and the king and queen of all edible fungi - the one we call the penny bun, the French call the cep and the Italians the porcini. Latin name bolitus eduli.
We spent a couple of hours in the woods, trawling through the secret and difficult to get to places we knew of old could offer up their produce. What joy to find specimens such as we have found and picked. Things of beauty and of greatest good taste.
Of course we know how capricious can be the mighty cep; up in profusion under a group of certain trees one year and nothing the next or the next and ... x years later up again. No-one knows why, and nobody has succeeded in cultivating them thus far. Very mysterious johnnies, these nouth-watering monsters. However our French lady guest told us something we had not heard before. The cep only comes up, she said, when the moon is waxing and only in certain (unspecified) perfect conditions of weather.
Whatever - wild mushroom ragoute, here we come!.
Last week we had a family of French people staying with us. Turned out they were keen (and expert) mushroom hunters. They could hardly believe the specimen bolitus they had spotted all along the Highland roadsides, and with nobody gathering them. Where they live, they said, folk would be up at four a.m. and fighting with each other to secure such a gourmand's delight.
So today, in the rare absence of B&B guests, we took time out to revive our old interest in the hunt for oyster mushrooms, hedgeogs (mushrooms that is!), the glorious butter coloured, inverted umberella shaped chanterelle and the king and queen of all edible fungi - the one we call the penny bun, the French call the cep and the Italians the porcini. Latin name bolitus eduli.
We spent a couple of hours in the woods, trawling through the secret and difficult to get to places we knew of old could offer up their produce. What joy to find specimens such as we have found and picked. Things of beauty and of greatest good taste.
Of course we know how capricious can be the mighty cep; up in profusion under a group of certain trees one year and nothing the next or the next and ... x years later up again. No-one knows why, and nobody has succeeded in cultivating them thus far. Very mysterious johnnies, these nouth-watering monsters. However our French lady guest told us something we had not heard before. The cep only comes up, she said, when the moon is waxing and only in certain (unspecified) perfect conditions of weather.
Whatever - wild mushroom ragoute, here we come!.
August 29, 2011
Life in future
When I open a newspaper - on-line of otherwise - I glance at the front page headline then turn to sport. But I confess to spending most of my reading time on 'Business'. Well, we do live in a material world whether we know it or not or or like it or not. Madonna was quite right.
Actually this business reading is not a good thing. It invariably angers me, and anger is counter-productive. Why? Because I believe we are - all of us, rich and poor alike - being led by the nose into perdition for reasons of short term material gain by those we have appointed as our financial guardians. An article - very well written by 'expert' Heather Stewart in today's Guardian - followed the usual 'this economics setback is only a blip in our upwards good fortune. Six weeks more of it then up up and away once more.'
Sorry, but all such, including my own below, are about as much use as anybody forecasting the 8-2 result at Old Trafford yesterday (nobody did). Nevertheless I commented ....
Dear Heather Stewart
Even now you insist on predicating your 'expert' view on the unequivocal mantra 'GROWTH IS GOOD'. Well I don't blame you. 'Everyone says so', so why should you think differently.
But thinking differently really doesn't hurt at all. Start with this as an unarguable dose of physical reality: unchecked growth is not good, it is an unnatural cancer that is steadily eating out the guts of humanity. I'm talking growth in GDP, in availability of that thing we call money and the consequent habit of lending and borrowing and - most of all - humanity (ourselves). i.e our numbers and our seven billion individual demands and expectations.
If I am right, the only way to deal with this cancer is not to feed it, help it to grow, but to deplete it until it is no more. Recession is the good word I'm looking for. Yes it will hurt but at least we will survive the coming Armageddon. 'Money now' is not life, Heather Stewart. Not even the good life.
Yesterday I was asked, If you think this (current system) isn't working, what alternatives are you suggesting? I answered that I had no idea, I'm not anybody's homespun prophet. But on reflection, that isn't quite true. Read Going with Gabriel, especially the latter half.
Actually this business reading is not a good thing. It invariably angers me, and anger is counter-productive. Why? Because I believe we are - all of us, rich and poor alike - being led by the nose into perdition for reasons of short term material gain by those we have appointed as our financial guardians. An article - very well written by 'expert' Heather Stewart in today's Guardian - followed the usual 'this economics setback is only a blip in our upwards good fortune. Six weeks more of it then up up and away once more.'
Sorry, but all such, including my own below, are about as much use as anybody forecasting the 8-2 result at Old Trafford yesterday (nobody did). Nevertheless I commented ....
Dear Heather Stewart
Even now you insist on predicating your 'expert' view on the unequivocal mantra 'GROWTH IS GOOD'. Well I don't blame you. 'Everyone says so', so why should you think differently.
But thinking differently really doesn't hurt at all. Start with this as an unarguable dose of physical reality: unchecked growth is not good, it is an unnatural cancer that is steadily eating out the guts of humanity. I'm talking growth in GDP, in availability of that thing we call money and the consequent habit of lending and borrowing and - most of all - humanity (ourselves). i.e our numbers and our seven billion individual demands and expectations.
If I am right, the only way to deal with this cancer is not to feed it, help it to grow, but to deplete it until it is no more. Recession is the good word I'm looking for. Yes it will hurt but at least we will survive the coming Armageddon. 'Money now' is not life, Heather Stewart. Not even the good life.
Yesterday I was asked, If you think this (current system) isn't working, what alternatives are you suggesting? I answered that I had no idea, I'm not anybody's homespun prophet. But on reflection, that isn't quite true. Read Going with Gabriel, especially the latter half.
