Elizabeth Harding's Blog
September 25, 2019
The Supreme Court - who was the lady in the pink trousers?
Yesterday was a day for old ladies and not just those wearing silver spiders on their shoulders and politically momentous things to impart.
It was just after the Supreme Court had taken the decision that the recent prorogation of Parliament was illegal that I watched a video of the proceedings on Youtube. A camera had been set just outside the entrance to the Supreme Court and had filmed all the to-ing and fro-ing, with different people coming in and out and queuing in the rain for a place inside to listen to the decision being read out. Now and again someone would wipe the lens or zoom in.
Security staff made sure that there was an orderly entrance. Then about an hour into the filming (I fast-forwarded it) a small elderly woman appeared from the left and went up to the doors. She was white-haired, a little stooped, and was dressed in pink trousers, a knee-length brown hooded anorak and low walking boots. In one hand she carried a transparent dome umbrella and hanging from her elbow was a large yellow shopping bag with an elephant motif, her other arm clasping a blue object I took to be another bag.
She chatted with the two of the security staff and with other people hanging around waiting to be admitted but as far as I could see made no indication she wished to enter and seemed quite content to stand in the porch under the badge of the Supreme Court, only the large ‘Omega’ standing out when viewed from far off. She was helped by a security chap to fold her umbrella, which she put, a little awkwardly into her yellow bag.
On the other side of the porch the queue was whittled down as everyone was slowly allowed in. The lady was left standing and the security man came out with a cup of coffee or tea for her. I fast-forwarded the video to when the filming continued inside the court. Then after the event in which the Prime Minister was soundly berated, in the politest but firmest way, there were interviews and speeches outside under umbrellas.
When it was all over bar the shouting and most of the interviewed and the journalists had melted away I noticed that the little lady was still there not quite alone but almost.
Then she did something that makes me wonder…….she brought to the fore the blue object she had been carrying all the while. It turned out to be a large book, or ledger, or file and she opened it, showing it to a couple of remaining people, who seemed less than interested. She closed it and made to walk away, thought better of it and walked back to the porch.
She opened the book again, looked at it and closed it. Going to the other side she made to walk away stopped and turned back. Then she really did disappear. She had remained in front of the Supreme Court for two hours, either chatting to passers-by and the security staff or content to be on her own.
In a way I found her to be somewhat more fascinating than the actual proceedings. Or rather, her presence had made the decision of the judges more deeply meaningful.
They had ruled that parliamentary democracy was more important that crass personal ambition and megalomania but it also meant that a little old lady wandering up to the Supreme Court was not curtly told to clear off by an armed security guard as might have happened in some countries but could carry out her eccentricities with tolerance and be treated by the security staff with respect and even kindness.
But what did her blue book or file contain? A list of grievances real or imagined? A collection of poetry? A list of espionage moles? Who knows? Did she come down to the Supreme Court with the idea she could be helped, or was she just curious about all the kerfuffle?
I can only say that of all the people I have seen on the televised reports today there are two who are incised on my memory – Lady Hale, President of the Supreme Court and the small figure in pink trousers carrying a yellow shopping bag and a large blue file……..both white-haired women of a certain age.
It was just after the Supreme Court had taken the decision that the recent prorogation of Parliament was illegal that I watched a video of the proceedings on Youtube. A camera had been set just outside the entrance to the Supreme Court and had filmed all the to-ing and fro-ing, with different people coming in and out and queuing in the rain for a place inside to listen to the decision being read out. Now and again someone would wipe the lens or zoom in.
Security staff made sure that there was an orderly entrance. Then about an hour into the filming (I fast-forwarded it) a small elderly woman appeared from the left and went up to the doors. She was white-haired, a little stooped, and was dressed in pink trousers, a knee-length brown hooded anorak and low walking boots. In one hand she carried a transparent dome umbrella and hanging from her elbow was a large yellow shopping bag with an elephant motif, her other arm clasping a blue object I took to be another bag.
She chatted with the two of the security staff and with other people hanging around waiting to be admitted but as far as I could see made no indication she wished to enter and seemed quite content to stand in the porch under the badge of the Supreme Court, only the large ‘Omega’ standing out when viewed from far off. She was helped by a security chap to fold her umbrella, which she put, a little awkwardly into her yellow bag.
On the other side of the porch the queue was whittled down as everyone was slowly allowed in. The lady was left standing and the security man came out with a cup of coffee or tea for her. I fast-forwarded the video to when the filming continued inside the court. Then after the event in which the Prime Minister was soundly berated, in the politest but firmest way, there were interviews and speeches outside under umbrellas.
When it was all over bar the shouting and most of the interviewed and the journalists had melted away I noticed that the little lady was still there not quite alone but almost.
Then she did something that makes me wonder…….she brought to the fore the blue object she had been carrying all the while. It turned out to be a large book, or ledger, or file and she opened it, showing it to a couple of remaining people, who seemed less than interested. She closed it and made to walk away, thought better of it and walked back to the porch.
She opened the book again, looked at it and closed it. Going to the other side she made to walk away stopped and turned back. Then she really did disappear. She had remained in front of the Supreme Court for two hours, either chatting to passers-by and the security staff or content to be on her own.
In a way I found her to be somewhat more fascinating than the actual proceedings. Or rather, her presence had made the decision of the judges more deeply meaningful.
They had ruled that parliamentary democracy was more important that crass personal ambition and megalomania but it also meant that a little old lady wandering up to the Supreme Court was not curtly told to clear off by an armed security guard as might have happened in some countries but could carry out her eccentricities with tolerance and be treated by the security staff with respect and even kindness.
But what did her blue book or file contain? A list of grievances real or imagined? A collection of poetry? A list of espionage moles? Who knows? Did she come down to the Supreme Court with the idea she could be helped, or was she just curious about all the kerfuffle?
I can only say that of all the people I have seen on the televised reports today there are two who are incised on my memory – Lady Hale, President of the Supreme Court and the small figure in pink trousers carrying a yellow shopping bag and a large blue file……..both white-haired women of a certain age.
February 8, 2019
Important research
As I skimmed over the headlines in today’s papers one article caught my eye. It related to the research done at Cambridge into testing whether the old folk belief that drinking beer then wine gave the imbiber less of a hangover.
Ninety volunteers were split into three groups and under carefully-controlled lab conditions (The Eagle’ perhaps) were plied with wine and beer in different orders and quantities. Without having to go into the materials and methods, suffice it to say that the results and conclusion showed that hangover remains a hangover no matter what or in which order you’ve been quaffing.
I was full of admiration and envy when I read this report. Someone decides to throw a student piss-up and gets a research grant to do. Why didn’t I think of this in my salad days?
And what happened to the thousands of potential volunteers who were turned down? (How do I know there was a surfeit of volunteers, I hear someone say. Don’t be silly.) Did they just go off and do a little research of their own?
Ninety volunteers were split into three groups and under carefully-controlled lab conditions (The Eagle’ perhaps) were plied with wine and beer in different orders and quantities. Without having to go into the materials and methods, suffice it to say that the results and conclusion showed that hangover remains a hangover no matter what or in which order you’ve been quaffing.
I was full of admiration and envy when I read this report. Someone decides to throw a student piss-up and gets a research grant to do. Why didn’t I think of this in my salad days?
And what happened to the thousands of potential volunteers who were turned down? (How do I know there was a surfeit of volunteers, I hear someone say. Don’t be silly.) Did they just go off and do a little research of their own?
April 24, 2018
Springtime, Springtime
And so I am back on this blog after a long absence, working on a novel and editing and translating.
What do I have to offer? No more than thousands of other before me, I'm afraid – I offer a paean to Spring - and why not? If you wish to remain miserable and grumpy switch off and go and read the news for light entertainment.
Here the air is light, the weather is warmer, the clouds are feathery and frivolously frolicsome. Suddenly, it is time for the year to make up for all the cold weather we’ve been having, to make up for that early promise only to renege on that promise and deliver another spell of cold, ice, snow and rain.
But it is now April and rain for Chaucer came in 'shoures soote' and 'every veyn’ was bathed in 'swich licour of which vertu engendred is the flour'. (Now I did warn that there was nothing orginal in this blog post). There is now a release from a deep, dark dungeon of winter and everyone and every beast knows it. Heifers are springing on the new grass, and suddenly tiny lambs are jumping. In the dune forest nearby the young leaves are lime-green - on the beeches, on the birches and even on the new shoots of the sombre pines.
The defining sound around me is that of birds, birds and more birds - common birds such as the sparrows in the hawthorn next to the kitchen window are indulging in a frenzy of nest-building, bickering, squabbling, fighting. Magpies and jackdaws loom like Mafiosi over the nest of the little birds. Blackbirds are pecking the seeds and roots, thrushes are doing what they are supposed to do, tapping the shells of snails. Blue tits and great tits are nibbling at crumbs and peanuts, while Herring gulls are screeching overhead as I sit under the apple tree.
And over there - the brackish lakes, the water laden polder causing reflections of light to bounce like bullets over land and sea. On the lakes and ponds near the great sea dike I see that the avocets are back, always a sign of Spring. And that great crested grebe looks prouder than usual, as well he might.
I go up to the island of Texel and cycle right up to the North of the island. Near the top in a shallow lake a spoonbill pierces the water frenetically then just as busily cleans his feathers. It is up here I see a yellow wagtail swooping over the dike. The yellow is not very common. It is the white wagtail that is the usual. Up here a number of fierce greater black-backed gulls swoop and swirl over herons, loud, raucous but not as overtly menacing as the kestrel and the buzzard.
And only now do I see what we have all been hoping for – two swallows. I suppose that, traditionally there is only one thing to wait for now and that is the sound of the cuckoo. Yet it always saddens me somewhat – the idea of a great fat parasite being fed while the smaller birds are tipped out of the nest.
And of course Spring time is a situation of eating or being eaten, of territorial squabbles, making a nest and avoiding predators. As humans we are not immune to nest building and being as frenetically busy as any bird. Many years ago, my daughter, then eight years old lifted up her finger and said,’ Listen – an electric drill – the sound of Spring.’
What do I have to offer? No more than thousands of other before me, I'm afraid – I offer a paean to Spring - and why not? If you wish to remain miserable and grumpy switch off and go and read the news for light entertainment.
Here the air is light, the weather is warmer, the clouds are feathery and frivolously frolicsome. Suddenly, it is time for the year to make up for all the cold weather we’ve been having, to make up for that early promise only to renege on that promise and deliver another spell of cold, ice, snow and rain.
But it is now April and rain for Chaucer came in 'shoures soote' and 'every veyn’ was bathed in 'swich licour of which vertu engendred is the flour'. (Now I did warn that there was nothing orginal in this blog post). There is now a release from a deep, dark dungeon of winter and everyone and every beast knows it. Heifers are springing on the new grass, and suddenly tiny lambs are jumping. In the dune forest nearby the young leaves are lime-green - on the beeches, on the birches and even on the new shoots of the sombre pines.
The defining sound around me is that of birds, birds and more birds - common birds such as the sparrows in the hawthorn next to the kitchen window are indulging in a frenzy of nest-building, bickering, squabbling, fighting. Magpies and jackdaws loom like Mafiosi over the nest of the little birds. Blackbirds are pecking the seeds and roots, thrushes are doing what they are supposed to do, tapping the shells of snails. Blue tits and great tits are nibbling at crumbs and peanuts, while Herring gulls are screeching overhead as I sit under the apple tree.
And over there - the brackish lakes, the water laden polder causing reflections of light to bounce like bullets over land and sea. On the lakes and ponds near the great sea dike I see that the avocets are back, always a sign of Spring. And that great crested grebe looks prouder than usual, as well he might.
I go up to the island of Texel and cycle right up to the North of the island. Near the top in a shallow lake a spoonbill pierces the water frenetically then just as busily cleans his feathers. It is up here I see a yellow wagtail swooping over the dike. The yellow is not very common. It is the white wagtail that is the usual. Up here a number of fierce greater black-backed gulls swoop and swirl over herons, loud, raucous but not as overtly menacing as the kestrel and the buzzard.
And only now do I see what we have all been hoping for – two swallows. I suppose that, traditionally there is only one thing to wait for now and that is the sound of the cuckoo. Yet it always saddens me somewhat – the idea of a great fat parasite being fed while the smaller birds are tipped out of the nest.
And of course Spring time is a situation of eating or being eaten, of territorial squabbles, making a nest and avoiding predators. As humans we are not immune to nest building and being as frenetically busy as any bird. Many years ago, my daughter, then eight years old lifted up her finger and said,’ Listen – an electric drill – the sound of Spring.’
November 25, 2017
Imagine
The other evening I made a comment about the John Lennon song ‘Imagine’ which has, by all accounts been on several ‘favourite’ lists. That’s quite an achievement considering it was written in the beginning of the seventies. My comment was that I was glad to discover that it had really been composed by Yoko Ono because up to then I had considered it the absolute nadir of Lennon’s musical life. The lyrics are trite, superficial, platitudinous and really the epitome of mediocrity. I was sad to think of anything so second-rate coming from Lennon’s pen. It would, however be quite typical of Yoko Ono. Therefore my relief was great on discovering that Lennon hadn’t quite reached the pits. I was however shouted down.
I presume that the song’s enduring popularity is partly due to Lennon having been murdered. His subsequent apotheosis has kept not only his memory green but this song as well. But if you compare this mush to ‘Eleanor Rigby’ or ‘Penny Lane’ then the differences are obvious. But then we all know that these other two songs were in fact written by McCartney.
And so, a couple of weeks ago I came to the conclusion that Paul McCartney was the true genius of the Beatles. So many people have thought that it was Lennon who was the group’s artistic leader on account of his post-Beatles, attention-seeking shenanigans orchestrated by Yoko Ono. But it really is McCartney who takes the plum for the great songs.
Nevertheless, there is one song that was probably given a kick-start by Lennon and that is ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; it’s a brilliantly psychedelic song however loud and forceful the denials that it was induced by Some Substance. I mention this because it was this song that inspired the naming of an incomplete hominin skeleton. ‘Lucy’ belonged to the species Australopithecus Afarensis and had lived 3.2 million years ago. The song had been a leitmotif running through the excavations and naming this newly-discovered ancestrix of ours ‘Lucy’ seemed eminently suitable. If Lennon had considered just how much this song had influenced the palaeoanthropologists he might have paused and on thinking about the evolution of Homo Sapiens realised just how silly ‘Imagine’ really is.
But there is something else in this song that really gets up my nose. We are asked to imagine having no possessions. Now, I really, really do not need advice or suggestions on such matters from multi-millionaire hippies who lived in a number of grand houses (how much was it that Lennon was worth when he died? Wasn’t it $800 million ?) I would only listen to someone who could put their money where their mouth was. But Lennon’s mouth had been firmly stopped and his own voice had faded away.
But to be fair, let us imagine – let’s take the song’s whole lyrics and listen to the tune. But before we do that, let’s look at ‘Lucy’ first of all. ‘Lucy’ is bright and filled with vibrant colour and vibrating images whereas ‘Imagine’ is dull, grey and totally filled with negatives. No heaven no hell, no countries, no possessions etc.
So what is the vision that rises up in front of us when we indeed ‘imagine’? Why, another evergreen but this time a a radio classic from the fifties – Tony Hancock’s Sunday Afternoon.
(Anyone interested can find it on YouTube )
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRrQ_...
I presume that the song’s enduring popularity is partly due to Lennon having been murdered. His subsequent apotheosis has kept not only his memory green but this song as well. But if you compare this mush to ‘Eleanor Rigby’ or ‘Penny Lane’ then the differences are obvious. But then we all know that these other two songs were in fact written by McCartney.
And so, a couple of weeks ago I came to the conclusion that Paul McCartney was the true genius of the Beatles. So many people have thought that it was Lennon who was the group’s artistic leader on account of his post-Beatles, attention-seeking shenanigans orchestrated by Yoko Ono. But it really is McCartney who takes the plum for the great songs.
Nevertheless, there is one song that was probably given a kick-start by Lennon and that is ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’; it’s a brilliantly psychedelic song however loud and forceful the denials that it was induced by Some Substance. I mention this because it was this song that inspired the naming of an incomplete hominin skeleton. ‘Lucy’ belonged to the species Australopithecus Afarensis and had lived 3.2 million years ago. The song had been a leitmotif running through the excavations and naming this newly-discovered ancestrix of ours ‘Lucy’ seemed eminently suitable. If Lennon had considered just how much this song had influenced the palaeoanthropologists he might have paused and on thinking about the evolution of Homo Sapiens realised just how silly ‘Imagine’ really is.
But there is something else in this song that really gets up my nose. We are asked to imagine having no possessions. Now, I really, really do not need advice or suggestions on such matters from multi-millionaire hippies who lived in a number of grand houses (how much was it that Lennon was worth when he died? Wasn’t it $800 million ?) I would only listen to someone who could put their money where their mouth was. But Lennon’s mouth had been firmly stopped and his own voice had faded away.
But to be fair, let us imagine – let’s take the song’s whole lyrics and listen to the tune. But before we do that, let’s look at ‘Lucy’ first of all. ‘Lucy’ is bright and filled with vibrant colour and vibrating images whereas ‘Imagine’ is dull, grey and totally filled with negatives. No heaven no hell, no countries, no possessions etc.
So what is the vision that rises up in front of us when we indeed ‘imagine’? Why, another evergreen but this time a a radio classic from the fifties – Tony Hancock’s Sunday Afternoon.
(Anyone interested can find it on YouTube )
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yRrQ_...
August 14, 2017
Words, Sounds and Folk Songs.
In the 1986 BBC serial The Singing Detective, the protagonist, whom Dennis Potter wryly calls Philip E Marlow asks a nurse what the ‘loveliest word in the English language’ is. She thinks ‘rose’ is her favourite but that isn’t what her patient means. He’s referring to the sound, to the shape, the word without its meaning. And so he tells her what the word is – ‘elbow’.
I might have agreed with him had the ‘b’ sound been ‘v’. This may be a trifle illogical, as when as I child I listened to the weather forecast I always heard ‘Good bisibility.’ Knowing now the meaning of ‘visibility’ I can hear the ‘v’ sound but some people really cannot hear the difference. I wonder if what I hear isn’t artificially imposed on my understanding.
I do think the German ‘liebling’ isn’t as aesthetically pleasing to the ear as the Dutch ‘lieveling’ a blessed exception to that consonantally-and-gutterally overloaded language. Who would rather say, ‘Werkelijk?’ when they could utter, with a belcanto modulation an impressively ironic ‘Really?’ in an arpeggio pitch range worthy of Lady Bracknell? But enough, before my in-laws become seriously miffed and before Italian or Chinese friends (‘Chinese is really a long song’ I was once told) wish to complain.
In his biography of Tolkien, Humphrey Carpenter tells us that Tolkien’s own favourite word-sound was ‘cellar door’. I’m trying to evoke the memory of that book as I read it a long time ago and it’s been floating around elusively somewhere in the house for many a long year. I believe the ‘cellar door’ may have been suggested to him by his remarkable tutor Joe Wright who told him the Celtic languages contained many a ‘cellar door’.
I too have a couple of favourites. One is ‘labyrinthine’ but the other is the name ‘Shenadoah’. Although the words I’m referring to are divorced from any onomatopoeic or narrative relationship, ‘Shenandoah’ is of course the name of a beautifully melodic American folk song and tells a wistful tale of a fur-trader who fell in love with the daughter of Shenandoah, a chief of the Oneida people. The trader has loved the woman for seven years and it occurred to me that the song is possibly an adaptation of the Jacob and Rachel legend, to give an actual love affair a more mythical, magical quality.
Whatever its origin, when I first heard it on the wireless during our singing lessons at primary school (the BBC at that time conveyed some wonderful folk songs to children through this weekly programme for schools) I loved the sound of the name of that stern chief. It may have had a different sound in reality - oh, I have no doubts about its provenance – but handed down to us it’s more than a word. It’s music. It's poetry.
Now that’s I’m reminiscing about the schools programmes from way back I can’t help bring to mind some of the other songs we would belt out – ‘Ciri biri biri’ from ‘my pearly Adriatic’ and ‘Marianina’ – all cheery yet at the same time euphoniously melancholic.
But to return, with a sigh, from a pleasant digression – it might be an interesting exercise to hear words from languages we don’t know and see what our aesthetic reaction is. It might at any rate provide some hilarity.
I might have agreed with him had the ‘b’ sound been ‘v’. This may be a trifle illogical, as when as I child I listened to the weather forecast I always heard ‘Good bisibility.’ Knowing now the meaning of ‘visibility’ I can hear the ‘v’ sound but some people really cannot hear the difference. I wonder if what I hear isn’t artificially imposed on my understanding.
I do think the German ‘liebling’ isn’t as aesthetically pleasing to the ear as the Dutch ‘lieveling’ a blessed exception to that consonantally-and-gutterally overloaded language. Who would rather say, ‘Werkelijk?’ when they could utter, with a belcanto modulation an impressively ironic ‘Really?’ in an arpeggio pitch range worthy of Lady Bracknell? But enough, before my in-laws become seriously miffed and before Italian or Chinese friends (‘Chinese is really a long song’ I was once told) wish to complain.
In his biography of Tolkien, Humphrey Carpenter tells us that Tolkien’s own favourite word-sound was ‘cellar door’. I’m trying to evoke the memory of that book as I read it a long time ago and it’s been floating around elusively somewhere in the house for many a long year. I believe the ‘cellar door’ may have been suggested to him by his remarkable tutor Joe Wright who told him the Celtic languages contained many a ‘cellar door’.
I too have a couple of favourites. One is ‘labyrinthine’ but the other is the name ‘Shenadoah’. Although the words I’m referring to are divorced from any onomatopoeic or narrative relationship, ‘Shenandoah’ is of course the name of a beautifully melodic American folk song and tells a wistful tale of a fur-trader who fell in love with the daughter of Shenandoah, a chief of the Oneida people. The trader has loved the woman for seven years and it occurred to me that the song is possibly an adaptation of the Jacob and Rachel legend, to give an actual love affair a more mythical, magical quality.
Whatever its origin, when I first heard it on the wireless during our singing lessons at primary school (the BBC at that time conveyed some wonderful folk songs to children through this weekly programme for schools) I loved the sound of the name of that stern chief. It may have had a different sound in reality - oh, I have no doubts about its provenance – but handed down to us it’s more than a word. It’s music. It's poetry.
Now that’s I’m reminiscing about the schools programmes from way back I can’t help bring to mind some of the other songs we would belt out – ‘Ciri biri biri’ from ‘my pearly Adriatic’ and ‘Marianina’ – all cheery yet at the same time euphoniously melancholic.
But to return, with a sigh, from a pleasant digression – it might be an interesting exercise to hear words from languages we don’t know and see what our aesthetic reaction is. It might at any rate provide some hilarity.
February 22, 2017
Canada - a land to plot and plan for
Canada seems to have become a country to up sticks and head for. And I´m not just talking about it being an hospitable destination for refugees.It seems that it is becoming a des res land for the inhabitants of the country south of the border, down USA way.
I’m not going to go into the pros and cons of living in Canada. I’ve never been there although I wouldn’t mind paying a visit. But I have a read a bit about the country and although it appears that the National Health Service, the low crime rate, the virtually total lack of gun-toting, the year-long maternity leave, the good severance pay and so forth make Canada a very attractive place to sink roots, it is, for many Americans the idea of living in a Trump-free land that calls them.
And even in normal circumstances, some people believe it’s worth making an effort to get to Canada. When I first heard about the American post-election anxiety leading to inquiries about relocating up North, I thought about Robert, a boy who lived next door when I was a child in England. I didn’t really know him all that well, although I was a casual friend of his sister’s. He was about seven years older than I was and I remember him as a quiet, well-mannered, very decent boy, who grew up retaining all those virtues with the added one of being decidedly good-looking.
What I do remember very well is the kerfuffle he caused one day. He was twenty-three and still living with his parents, which suited his mother fine. Of her three children, Robert, the eldest, was her favourite. One Sunday afternoon, as I was picking blackberries in our back garden I heard a scream, a paralysing, brain-shredding scream that I recognised as coming from Mrs B. Another wail, followed by a sob. What was going on next door? Leaving my bowl of blackberries I crept to the dividing hedge and peered through it. Anne, Robert’s sister was coming outside and she was glad of someone to talk to.
‘It’s our Robert. He’s just told my mum and dad that he’s been making enquiries about emigrating to Canada. My mum doesn’t like it.’
‘So I hear.’
Another scream, followed by ‘You can’t do this to me. I’m your mother. You’re my baby.’
Anne went in to help matters and all was quiet. She told me the next day that his mother had cried the rest of the day and all night and Robert had reluctantly given in, promising not to talk any more about emigrating. I’ve no idea what his father thought about it.
But that was not the end of the story. Six months later, Robert, having decided that his mother was at least used to the idea of his emigrating, made further enquiries and booked an appointment for an interview at Canada House. He informed her that his intention was as strong as ever. His mother’s hysterics were equally strong and he ended up cancelling his appointment.
Another six months went by and the whole scene was repeated. And by now his mother was convinced that she had browbeaten and blackmailed him into acquiescence. Until one Sunday his dad looked out of the window. ‘There’s a taxi drawing up outside. I wonder who it’s for.
Robert appeared, case in hand. ‘It’s for me. It’s taking me to the airport. I’m off to Canada’ and went out the front door before his mother could draw breath. When she did, she was heard giving her usual wail while running after the taxi.
He could have behaved differently. He could have had a blazing row with much sobbing and slamming of doors. But by all accounts, he didn’t. He simply appeared to give in but bided his time, all the while beavering away at the paperwork, eventually going off with intransigent determination.
And was Canada kind to Robert? Well, he was a qualified electrician and soon found work. Then he started up his own business that did very well, he married a teacher and between them they became what my mother used to call ‘comfortable'. They had three children and as far as I know he’s still in Canada, doing very nicely. It isn’t an unusual tale and the basics could be repeated a thousandfold, all over the country. It might even be the sort of life some people escape from but Robert had escaped – to that life and by all accounts it suited him like a tailor-made shirt.
And what about his mother? Alas, she did not fare well. After a time, she and her husband went to Canada, tickets paid for by Robert, on more than one occasion but she had collapsed in some kind of hysterical attack and stayed in bed most of the time.
On a visit to my own mother some ten years later I was called in next door to have a look at the photographs and to hear a tale of woe. Mrs B had adopted a wan, sorrow-washed, lip-trembling face. It was a studied pose that she hoped would elicit from the neighbours sympathy and utterances of ‘You’re a plucky woman Mrs B.’ And she would sniff and smile bravely, ‘It’s our Robert going away that’s made me sick.’
Now blackmailing is a dangerous occupation and blackmailers ought to know when to give up. Mrs B never did and the slippery slope she had decided to slide on took her, in due course, right into the mental hospital. Over the years she had several stays there and eventually was penned up for good. Mr B found himself ‘a young lady’ (although ‘young’ was an adjective of politeness) and began to enjoy himself.
I do hope Robert never felt he was to blame for his mother’s self-inflicted suffering and general hysteria. I don’t think so. Canada had been his dream, his ambition, and eventually his reality. What more can you say?
I’m not going to go into the pros and cons of living in Canada. I’ve never been there although I wouldn’t mind paying a visit. But I have a read a bit about the country and although it appears that the National Health Service, the low crime rate, the virtually total lack of gun-toting, the year-long maternity leave, the good severance pay and so forth make Canada a very attractive place to sink roots, it is, for many Americans the idea of living in a Trump-free land that calls them.
And even in normal circumstances, some people believe it’s worth making an effort to get to Canada. When I first heard about the American post-election anxiety leading to inquiries about relocating up North, I thought about Robert, a boy who lived next door when I was a child in England. I didn’t really know him all that well, although I was a casual friend of his sister’s. He was about seven years older than I was and I remember him as a quiet, well-mannered, very decent boy, who grew up retaining all those virtues with the added one of being decidedly good-looking.
What I do remember very well is the kerfuffle he caused one day. He was twenty-three and still living with his parents, which suited his mother fine. Of her three children, Robert, the eldest, was her favourite. One Sunday afternoon, as I was picking blackberries in our back garden I heard a scream, a paralysing, brain-shredding scream that I recognised as coming from Mrs B. Another wail, followed by a sob. What was going on next door? Leaving my bowl of blackberries I crept to the dividing hedge and peered through it. Anne, Robert’s sister was coming outside and she was glad of someone to talk to.
‘It’s our Robert. He’s just told my mum and dad that he’s been making enquiries about emigrating to Canada. My mum doesn’t like it.’
‘So I hear.’
Another scream, followed by ‘You can’t do this to me. I’m your mother. You’re my baby.’
Anne went in to help matters and all was quiet. She told me the next day that his mother had cried the rest of the day and all night and Robert had reluctantly given in, promising not to talk any more about emigrating. I’ve no idea what his father thought about it.
But that was not the end of the story. Six months later, Robert, having decided that his mother was at least used to the idea of his emigrating, made further enquiries and booked an appointment for an interview at Canada House. He informed her that his intention was as strong as ever. His mother’s hysterics were equally strong and he ended up cancelling his appointment.
Another six months went by and the whole scene was repeated. And by now his mother was convinced that she had browbeaten and blackmailed him into acquiescence. Until one Sunday his dad looked out of the window. ‘There’s a taxi drawing up outside. I wonder who it’s for.
Robert appeared, case in hand. ‘It’s for me. It’s taking me to the airport. I’m off to Canada’ and went out the front door before his mother could draw breath. When she did, she was heard giving her usual wail while running after the taxi.
He could have behaved differently. He could have had a blazing row with much sobbing and slamming of doors. But by all accounts, he didn’t. He simply appeared to give in but bided his time, all the while beavering away at the paperwork, eventually going off with intransigent determination.
And was Canada kind to Robert? Well, he was a qualified electrician and soon found work. Then he started up his own business that did very well, he married a teacher and between them they became what my mother used to call ‘comfortable'. They had three children and as far as I know he’s still in Canada, doing very nicely. It isn’t an unusual tale and the basics could be repeated a thousandfold, all over the country. It might even be the sort of life some people escape from but Robert had escaped – to that life and by all accounts it suited him like a tailor-made shirt.
And what about his mother? Alas, she did not fare well. After a time, she and her husband went to Canada, tickets paid for by Robert, on more than one occasion but she had collapsed in some kind of hysterical attack and stayed in bed most of the time.
On a visit to my own mother some ten years later I was called in next door to have a look at the photographs and to hear a tale of woe. Mrs B had adopted a wan, sorrow-washed, lip-trembling face. It was a studied pose that she hoped would elicit from the neighbours sympathy and utterances of ‘You’re a plucky woman Mrs B.’ And she would sniff and smile bravely, ‘It’s our Robert going away that’s made me sick.’
Now blackmailing is a dangerous occupation and blackmailers ought to know when to give up. Mrs B never did and the slippery slope she had decided to slide on took her, in due course, right into the mental hospital. Over the years she had several stays there and eventually was penned up for good. Mr B found himself ‘a young lady’ (although ‘young’ was an adjective of politeness) and began to enjoy himself.
I do hope Robert never felt he was to blame for his mother’s self-inflicted suffering and general hysteria. I don’t think so. Canada had been his dream, his ambition, and eventually his reality. What more can you say?
January 27, 2017
Good morning Mr Wotsit. Dropping our ‘h’s are we?
So the bright sparks around the new president of America have got Theresa May’s name wrong. Mistaking the PM for a porn actress (as well they might) they misspelled her first name, making it Teresa instead of Theresa. And this in official documents.
So what should she have done? If May had any self-respect, as a politician and as a member of the human race, this scenario should perhaps have taken place.
‘Good morning Mr Fart….what? That isn’t your name? Let me see. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s a postern blast. You know, a gust of foetid air that comes out of your arsehole. Well yes, we know that describes your speeches. But apart from that……. your name is the alternative name for ‘fart’, isn’t it? And wouldn’t we say it was onomatopoeic? (Get someone to look it up.) Yes, I’m getting warmer. I’ll remember your name soon. It’s ……..Ooh what the hell. I refuse to have a meeting in a lavatory. That smell. Yes, I know it creates an appropriate olfactory ambiance and indicates how the presidency is quickly becoming a political cesspit, and even I have my limits. When’s the next plane back?'
But what did she actually say? ‘Opposites attract.’ Yuk!
So what should she have done? If May had any self-respect, as a politician and as a member of the human race, this scenario should perhaps have taken place.
‘Good morning Mr Fart….what? That isn’t your name? Let me see. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. It’s on the tip of my tongue. It’s a postern blast. You know, a gust of foetid air that comes out of your arsehole. Well yes, we know that describes your speeches. But apart from that……. your name is the alternative name for ‘fart’, isn’t it? And wouldn’t we say it was onomatopoeic? (Get someone to look it up.) Yes, I’m getting warmer. I’ll remember your name soon. It’s ……..Ooh what the hell. I refuse to have a meeting in a lavatory. That smell. Yes, I know it creates an appropriate olfactory ambiance and indicates how the presidency is quickly becoming a political cesspit, and even I have my limits. When’s the next plane back?'
But what did she actually say? ‘Opposites attract.’ Yuk!
January 16, 2017
Toast and marmalade anyone?
On Saturday when the howling North wind was sneakingly slithering its way into the house through cracks and vents, when the sea was battling high at the Spring tide, when the sleet shrouding the full moon was blasting the faces of walkers and cyclists and the hail was drumming a rattling rataplan on the window panes, I knew that this was the perfect time and the perfect background for a bout of marmalade making.
Marmalade is a preserve made of citrus fruits and the making of it is a post-Christmas activity that is labour-intensive, fiddly but puts a bit of brightness into a grim, grey but non-snowy winter day. But where does it come from?
I grew up with two stories. First the Romantic story. They say that Mary, Queen of Scots was languishing in bed with some unspecified illness when her cook, hearing of this, made for her a special concoction made of oranges. This was presented to her for her delectation by a tearfully concerned cook because ‘Marie est malade.’ Hence the name. All nonsense of course but worth remaining in the culinary mythology.
The second story seems more credible. In the eighteenth century, in Dundee, a certain Mrs Keiller, a noted jam maker, bought up the cargo of a ship that, after breaking down, had hobbled its way to the port. She experimented with the bitter oranges that formed the main cargo and came up with the breakfast spread we know today and which made Dundee and her surname famous.
As it turns though, the history of marmalade is more complex. For one thing, the name ‘marmalade’ comes from the Portuguese ‘marmelo’ (quince) that stems from the Greek ‘melimelon’. A quince is hard and sour and can only be eaten when cooked but like an apple, it does contain a lot of pectin. So the first marmalade was probably created accidentally, when it was noticed that cooked quinces became a firm paste. Lemons were added as the quinces were being cooked and it was this paste that became quite popular in the Middle-Ages.
Just when pure citrus fruits became the staple of marmalade is not clear but a cookery book of 1677 mentions a ‘marmelet of oranges’ and had the usual stiff-paste consistency.. A recipe of 1714 describes a marmalade most of us would recognise. It consisted of oranges and lemons, the pulp cooked with the juice and the whole lot removed from the heat before it became too firm. At this time the marmalade was eaten as a pudding.
I think it is safe to say that the Keiller family created the marmalade we now spread on our toast, cutting up the oranges into chucks and adding rind to the mixture. Well, I spent my early childhood in Dundee so it fair to say I’m biased but not outrageously so.
But why make marmalade in January? This is the time when the bitter oranges from Southern Spain are picked and exported. But it’s the devil’s own job to get them here. In England if you ask for ‘Seville oranges’ the greengrocer knows exactly what is meant and why you want them. Many years ago, when I first came to live in the Netherlands I asked for them at our village greengrocer’s I was met with a blank stare. Then I changed my request and asked if she had bitter oranges. She bridled at this and with tight lips replied that her oranges were always sweet. I got this last batch from a Turkish shop and they fit the bill fine.
I’d like to provide a favourite recipe of mine that I’ve adapted and messed about with over the years. The marmalade I made on Saturday consists of three fruits: orange, grapefruit and lemon. But I intend to make a simple orange marmalade later on this week (but adding a couple of lemons of course).
Three-fruit marmalade
2 1/2 kilo of citrus fruits – grapefruit, orange and lemon. Let’s say four grapefruit, four lemons and the rest oranges.
1 kilo jam sugar, also called gelling sugar. (Not preserving sugar! Jam or gelling sugar cuts the cooking time down to one minute! This short cooking time retains the flavour and gives the marmalade a superb taste! I)
Method
1) Take half of the fruit and set aside.
With the other half peel the rind off the fruits with a very sharp knife and chop it into long, thin strips. Put the rind in a pan, cover the rind with water and simmer until the rind is soft.
2) Cut each fruit into eight segments and remove the pith and seeds. This is fiddly but you’ve set aside a good few hours for making marmalade, haven’t you?
Then cut the segments into chunks. Scoop up any liquid that is spreading over your chopping board.
3) Put everything into a pan, adding the softened rind.
4) Take the fruit that has been set aside and simply press out the juice on an orange press. Take the resulting pulp and juice and put into the pan with the orange chunks and peel. (If you are wondering why I squeeze half the fruit then I can only say that I prefer the combination of rough (chunks and peel) and smooth (juice and pulp). And it cuts down the preparation time.
5) Add the jam (gelling) sugar and bring to the boil. Cook for one minute.
6) Pour into the sterilised jars, put the tops on and then turn upside down for half an hour. This seals the jars. After that turn right way up
7) You can add spices if you like – ginger and/cloves according to taste. If you want a luxury preserve try adding, at the last moment some Cointreau or Grand Marnier or whatever spirit takes your fancy.
I’m having to wait to make another batch as I’ve now run out of jars. Odd thing is – I don’t seem to be able to buy jars hereabouts. I could buy them in France. So I’ve had to send off for them. In the meantime – where the toast?
Marmalade is a preserve made of citrus fruits and the making of it is a post-Christmas activity that is labour-intensive, fiddly but puts a bit of brightness into a grim, grey but non-snowy winter day. But where does it come from?
I grew up with two stories. First the Romantic story. They say that Mary, Queen of Scots was languishing in bed with some unspecified illness when her cook, hearing of this, made for her a special concoction made of oranges. This was presented to her for her delectation by a tearfully concerned cook because ‘Marie est malade.’ Hence the name. All nonsense of course but worth remaining in the culinary mythology.
The second story seems more credible. In the eighteenth century, in Dundee, a certain Mrs Keiller, a noted jam maker, bought up the cargo of a ship that, after breaking down, had hobbled its way to the port. She experimented with the bitter oranges that formed the main cargo and came up with the breakfast spread we know today and which made Dundee and her surname famous.
As it turns though, the history of marmalade is more complex. For one thing, the name ‘marmalade’ comes from the Portuguese ‘marmelo’ (quince) that stems from the Greek ‘melimelon’. A quince is hard and sour and can only be eaten when cooked but like an apple, it does contain a lot of pectin. So the first marmalade was probably created accidentally, when it was noticed that cooked quinces became a firm paste. Lemons were added as the quinces were being cooked and it was this paste that became quite popular in the Middle-Ages.
Just when pure citrus fruits became the staple of marmalade is not clear but a cookery book of 1677 mentions a ‘marmelet of oranges’ and had the usual stiff-paste consistency.. A recipe of 1714 describes a marmalade most of us would recognise. It consisted of oranges and lemons, the pulp cooked with the juice and the whole lot removed from the heat before it became too firm. At this time the marmalade was eaten as a pudding.
I think it is safe to say that the Keiller family created the marmalade we now spread on our toast, cutting up the oranges into chucks and adding rind to the mixture. Well, I spent my early childhood in Dundee so it fair to say I’m biased but not outrageously so.
But why make marmalade in January? This is the time when the bitter oranges from Southern Spain are picked and exported. But it’s the devil’s own job to get them here. In England if you ask for ‘Seville oranges’ the greengrocer knows exactly what is meant and why you want them. Many years ago, when I first came to live in the Netherlands I asked for them at our village greengrocer’s I was met with a blank stare. Then I changed my request and asked if she had bitter oranges. She bridled at this and with tight lips replied that her oranges were always sweet. I got this last batch from a Turkish shop and they fit the bill fine.
I’d like to provide a favourite recipe of mine that I’ve adapted and messed about with over the years. The marmalade I made on Saturday consists of three fruits: orange, grapefruit and lemon. But I intend to make a simple orange marmalade later on this week (but adding a couple of lemons of course).
Three-fruit marmalade
2 1/2 kilo of citrus fruits – grapefruit, orange and lemon. Let’s say four grapefruit, four lemons and the rest oranges.
1 kilo jam sugar, also called gelling sugar. (Not preserving sugar! Jam or gelling sugar cuts the cooking time down to one minute! This short cooking time retains the flavour and gives the marmalade a superb taste! I)
Method
1) Take half of the fruit and set aside.
With the other half peel the rind off the fruits with a very sharp knife and chop it into long, thin strips. Put the rind in a pan, cover the rind with water and simmer until the rind is soft.
2) Cut each fruit into eight segments and remove the pith and seeds. This is fiddly but you’ve set aside a good few hours for making marmalade, haven’t you?
Then cut the segments into chunks. Scoop up any liquid that is spreading over your chopping board.
3) Put everything into a pan, adding the softened rind.
4) Take the fruit that has been set aside and simply press out the juice on an orange press. Take the resulting pulp and juice and put into the pan with the orange chunks and peel. (If you are wondering why I squeeze half the fruit then I can only say that I prefer the combination of rough (chunks and peel) and smooth (juice and pulp). And it cuts down the preparation time.
5) Add the jam (gelling) sugar and bring to the boil. Cook for one minute.
6) Pour into the sterilised jars, put the tops on and then turn upside down for half an hour. This seals the jars. After that turn right way up
7) You can add spices if you like – ginger and/cloves according to taste. If you want a luxury preserve try adding, at the last moment some Cointreau or Grand Marnier or whatever spirit takes your fancy.
I’m having to wait to make another batch as I’ve now run out of jars. Odd thing is – I don’t seem to be able to buy jars hereabouts. I could buy them in France. So I’ve had to send off for them. In the meantime – where the toast?
November 30, 2016
Dunning-Kruger: the complexities of superiority
Recently I came across the phenomenon of the Dunning-Kruger effect, dreamed up in 1999 by a couple of cognitive psychologists. This is it: incompetent people of low ability think they have greater skills than they in fact have. Simple – although the researchers in question put their thesis through a jargon-generator first.
Well, that would seem to take care of a number of politicians then, including the President-elect of the United States. He is an easy target though. What about Blair who, forgetting his reputation as messianic war-mongerer declares he’s coming back to take socialism out of socialism – again?
But am I to extrapolate from the (now dated I admit) report that people who believe in their own abilities should give up if told by others that they are really not competent to do what they are doing? And if they have ambitions they should face the fact that they’re punching above their weight? Hm.
Year - 1931
‘Mr Bader, I’ve told you a thousand times – you’ll never walk again. You lost both your legs in that crash.’
‘Damn it all, man. I’m talking about flying.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come to terms with what you can’t do.’
‘I’m bloody well going to walk again and fly again.’
‘Don’t be in denial (oops - an anachronistic phrase – I’ll save it for later). Why don’t you face facts? You will hardly be able to walk with artificial legs, let alone fly.’
Year 1941
‘Heard about that fellow Bader?
‘Oh yes. Douglas Bader. The one with so little imagination he just couldn’t see that he ought to spend his life in a wheelchair. Experts told him years ago he ought to acknowledge what he can’t do. He could never accept the fact that men without legs just can’t fly. If he had a bit more knowledge of anatomy and physiology, he’d give up. Delusions of adequacy he has. Pain in the arse really.
‘Well, he retrained as a pilot and rejoined the RAF. Took part in the Battle of Britain. Had to bail out though. POW now. Still a pain in the arse though.’
Colditz POW camp.
***
‘I’m sorry Mr Bader. I don’t like to do it. Yes, I’m the Commandant of a Prisoner-of-War camp but I believe I’m a civilised person. Nevertheless, the only way to stop you escaping is to take away your artificial legs. You are what your compatriots call ‘a pain in the arse’. ’
‘I’m glad I don’t know about this damned Kruger-Dunning effect. They’ll dream it up long after I’m gone. But then, I never was a bookish sort of bloke. Which is just as well.’
**
‘Mr Van Gogh, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times – your paintings are rubbish. They’re not even painted competently. Everyone says so. Typical Dunning-Kruger - (mumbles) now where did that come from?
**
‘Mr Bell (although I suspect you are a woman) your novel, Wuthering heights is rubbish. I advise you to accept your inadequacies and go back to your place in the kitchen, where your coarse, crude passions fit you for working as a kitchen maid. In 150 years’ they will come up with Dunning Kruger effect that will fit you to a tee.’
Dunning and Kruger were awarded the 2000 Ig Nobel prize in Psychology ‘for their modest report, 'Unskilled and Unaware of It: how Difficulties in Recognizing One's Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-Assessments.'
Well, that would seem to take care of a number of politicians then, including the President-elect of the United States. He is an easy target though. What about Blair who, forgetting his reputation as messianic war-mongerer declares he’s coming back to take socialism out of socialism – again?
But am I to extrapolate from the (now dated I admit) report that people who believe in their own abilities should give up if told by others that they are really not competent to do what they are doing? And if they have ambitions they should face the fact that they’re punching above their weight? Hm.
Year - 1931
‘Mr Bader, I’ve told you a thousand times – you’ll never walk again. You lost both your legs in that crash.’
‘Damn it all, man. I’m talking about flying.’
‘Don’t be silly. Come to terms with what you can’t do.’
‘I’m bloody well going to walk again and fly again.’
‘Don’t be in denial (oops - an anachronistic phrase – I’ll save it for later). Why don’t you face facts? You will hardly be able to walk with artificial legs, let alone fly.’
Year 1941
‘Heard about that fellow Bader?
‘Oh yes. Douglas Bader. The one with so little imagination he just couldn’t see that he ought to spend his life in a wheelchair. Experts told him years ago he ought to acknowledge what he can’t do. He could never accept the fact that men without legs just can’t fly. If he had a bit more knowledge of anatomy and physiology, he’d give up. Delusions of adequacy he has. Pain in the arse really.
‘Well, he retrained as a pilot and rejoined the RAF. Took part in the Battle of Britain. Had to bail out though. POW now. Still a pain in the arse though.’
Colditz POW camp.
***
‘I’m sorry Mr Bader. I don’t like to do it. Yes, I’m the Commandant of a Prisoner-of-War camp but I believe I’m a civilised person. Nevertheless, the only way to stop you escaping is to take away your artificial legs. You are what your compatriots call ‘a pain in the arse’. ’
‘I’m glad I don’t know about this damned Kruger-Dunning effect. They’ll dream it up long after I’m gone. But then, I never was a bookish sort of bloke. Which is just as well.’
**
‘Mr Van Gogh, if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times – your paintings are rubbish. They’re not even painted competently. Everyone says so. Typical Dunning-Kruger - (mumbles) now where did that come from?
**
‘Mr Bell (although I suspect you are a woman) your novel, Wuthering heights is rubbish. I advise you to accept your inadequacies and go back to your place in the kitchen, where your coarse, crude passions fit you for working as a kitchen maid. In 150 years’ they will come up with Dunning Kruger effect that will fit you to a tee.’
Dunning and Kruger were awarded the 2000 Ig Nobel prize in Psychology ‘for their modest report, 'Unskilled and Unaware of It: how Difficulties in Recognizing One's Own Incompetence Lead to Inflated Self-Assessments.'
November 9, 2016
Americans - cancel your Thanksgiving celebrations
You have nothing to be thankful for.
I do understand that the low-paid Americans, the social outcasts, the ill-educated, the sick who can’t afford treatment - those, in short, who feel themselves to be on the lowest rung of society also feel disenfranchised; it causes them to become xenophobic and claustrophobically attached to their own turf; they feel that whoever and whatever they vote for will not make a blind bit of difference to their own misery, poverty and alienation.
But what they do see, very clearly is that voting for a man like Trump causes unease among the perceived empowered classes. A response at last! And so with glee they take to themselves off to vote. It’s an infantile response, like a child uttering swear words when his parents aren’t around.
Voting for Trump is like being hungry and stuffing yourself with cream cakes. The sugar rush will make you feel ebullient for a short time then your chin will hit the floor. And you’ll stay on the floor. There will be no one to pick you up. You will rot, although you may, first of all, be called on to fight in the American Civil War mark II and thereafter in a world war.
But of course I’m not only talking about only the Trump supporters who are poverty-stricken. The ones who will profit from it all will be the the psychopathically rich and powerful who have risen and always will rise on the shoulders of the poor and disenfranchised but who don’t give a toss about human suffering.
For all of us who are not pleased about today’s result, let us indulge in a moment of totally juvenile, utterly scatological humour and have slight chuckle about the fact that someone who looks like a lavatory brush should bear the name of Trump, which, among other things, also means ‘fart’ in British English. Very well, it couldn’t be more infantile and is disgracefully ad hominen but on a day like this, when no one seems to have behaved like a grown-up, we have to find something to laugh about.
Be comforted all you Trump supporters. And just bear in mind you have brought into being something David Frost said many moons ago: ‘If you’ve got half a mind to go into politics – that’s all you need.’
I do understand that the low-paid Americans, the social outcasts, the ill-educated, the sick who can’t afford treatment - those, in short, who feel themselves to be on the lowest rung of society also feel disenfranchised; it causes them to become xenophobic and claustrophobically attached to their own turf; they feel that whoever and whatever they vote for will not make a blind bit of difference to their own misery, poverty and alienation.
But what they do see, very clearly is that voting for a man like Trump causes unease among the perceived empowered classes. A response at last! And so with glee they take to themselves off to vote. It’s an infantile response, like a child uttering swear words when his parents aren’t around.
Voting for Trump is like being hungry and stuffing yourself with cream cakes. The sugar rush will make you feel ebullient for a short time then your chin will hit the floor. And you’ll stay on the floor. There will be no one to pick you up. You will rot, although you may, first of all, be called on to fight in the American Civil War mark II and thereafter in a world war.
But of course I’m not only talking about only the Trump supporters who are poverty-stricken. The ones who will profit from it all will be the the psychopathically rich and powerful who have risen and always will rise on the shoulders of the poor and disenfranchised but who don’t give a toss about human suffering.
For all of us who are not pleased about today’s result, let us indulge in a moment of totally juvenile, utterly scatological humour and have slight chuckle about the fact that someone who looks like a lavatory brush should bear the name of Trump, which, among other things, also means ‘fart’ in British English. Very well, it couldn’t be more infantile and is disgracefully ad hominen but on a day like this, when no one seems to have behaved like a grown-up, we have to find something to laugh about.
Be comforted all you Trump supporters. And just bear in mind you have brought into being something David Frost said many moons ago: ‘If you’ve got half a mind to go into politics – that’s all you need.’
