Interlude#1

It’s a Tuesday.  The radio’s on with The Pet Shop Boys latest offering “Heart” playing on tight rotation. It’s been number one for three weeks.  That lunchtime, Margaret Thatcher stands up at Prime Minister's Questions and responds to Neil Kinnock on issues of the day such as implementing the Poll Tax in Scotland, the role privatisation could play in the NHS and the implications of Israel's actions in occupied territories in response to a Palestinian uprising.  This is the week that the USSR pledges to withdraw militarily from Afghanistan.  This is the year in which the Iran/Iraq war staggers to a close.  These are the dark ages for Fulham adrift in the third tier of English football, edging towards mid table obscurity.  

And you were born.

Humans...fields...conflict!

We all look at each other.  David looks at Ed who looks at NIck who looks at Nigel who looks at NIcola who looks at Natalie who looks at Leanne.  These are our prospective leaders, summoning the ghosts of our political past, plundering the spirit of Churchill even.  To paraphrase, never in this field of human conflict was so much owed by so few to so many.  Yes, the general election campaigns lumber on and whilst only a couple of weeks in both politicians and electorate are already showing signs of fatigue.  

There’s an amazing disconnect in that our political “leaders” are never away from all media but of everything is stage managed to a level North Korea can only envy and the chance of your voter in the street bumping into a politician and asking them a question that hasn't gone through two workshops and a social media trial is actually zero.  

There is no escape.  Even my twitter feed has paid inserts by a candidate.  Albeit they are standing for a constituency adjacent to my own so it’s literally a wasted message.  That said, seeing as there’s been next to no contact from anyone in my own constituency it’s good to feel part of the democratic courtship.

Whilst the leaders debated on TV I was watching an episode of House of Cards.  The irony that I was more interested in a fictional portrayal of US politics rather than a debate leading up an election in my own country is not lost on me    

This week the party manifestos are starting to be published.  The straplines for each of the main parties are:

Strong Leadership. A clear economic plan. A brighter, more secure future.

Britain only succeeds when working people succeed.

Stronger economy, fairer society.

Vote for what you believe in.

Policies for People.

Together we can make _______ better.

To build post-austerity ______.

I have to confess that I was hoping that they would reach a level of blandness to make them indistinguishable from each other.  I guess you don’t spend all that lobby lolly on high class advertising without getting some degree of “branding”.  Whilst distinct there’s nothing that’s going to get you out of your chair, driving your fist into the air shouting “Yes! Finally there’s a message I can get behind”.

The polls are locked out at 34% each for the Conservatives and Labour, 14% for UKIP,  8% for Lib Dems, 6% for the Greens and 6% spread across the rest.  The gaming that each serving government undertakes on the constituencies (although not in the last term due to the Lib Dems falling out with the Conservatives over reforms in the House of Lords) means that the distribution of each parties’ vote only equates to a certain number of seats, especially for the smaller parties.  All predictions point towards another hung parliament.  Labour and the Conservatives will win around 270-odd seats each with the other main player being SNP with 50-odd.  They will be the king makers (if such a phrase can be used for parliamentary democracy), not the Lib Dems, who will win somewhere around 26 seats.  This will be everyone’s get out of jail cards, in that manifesto commitments will have to be once again sacrificed for the sake of forming a new government.

There is no other news, no culture, no arts just politics.  Oh yes, and sport.  The football season nears its conclusion.  Chelsea, more through pragmatic, stolid attrition are close to winning the “premiership”.  They’re not attracting the neutrals who are more likely flocking to a plucky underdog like Burnley as they look to escape relegation or current form hotshots...Crystal Palace who are mirroring Alan Pardew's rejuvenation in his escape from mediocrity and financial safety pursuers Newcastle.  Like a last chance cancer patient who has discovered they are in the control group of a clinical trial, Hull City have lost any sense of stoicism and would welcome an early exit, from the looks on their faces, existence in general and certainly the premier league.  More importantly, in the league that really matters, the Championship the top six are all WWE, following a dramatic script with twists every weekend, swapping who wins so there remains no points difference between any of them.  For our two sides, we remain spectators in our own league.  I have seen our sides play each other each season.  Less a festival of football it was more a solemn reminder that there will be a lot of pain before the welcome release of death.

If we’re to keep to the Churchillian theme then I’ll close with another of his quotes, mindful that the election remains weeks away - I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat. We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many long months of toil and struggle.

(Infinity+1) is less than 37

The sun sets. It rises.  For you a Caribbean vista. Another palm tree. Another cove.  Despite the repetition please relish your days.  Not because you are in a sun drenched idol, waves of clear blue water lapping against your hull as you head to a new port. No because you are not here in the UK.  We have entered the End of Days.  Parliament has been dissolved.  The General Election is in 37 days and before us awaits a flood of platitudes, untruths and condescension.  After my short winter hiatus I thought I’d mark this doom laden day with a reawakening of this blog.  Consider me your companion through this festival of banality.

Today, David Cameron announced that he was presenting a stark choice to the nation.   Cosmologists talk of a potential end state of the universe in which all matter is driven through entropy to a state of heat death, a point at which there is no thermodynamic energy change.  This was the state of the British electorate at the last election.  Five years later, we have to break the standard model and equate voters to be somewhere akin to political dark matter. We are there, but politicians can’t engage with us, observe us and cause any action in which we would react.  Sadly however, the next stage for us isn’t the welcoming arms of heat death but government by the weak, holding power influenced by the few.  A stark choice? Between what and what?  A party for those inured of the impact of their own policies.  Or to a party scared to voice any view whatsoever.  At least the Conservatives are going through the motions of portraying themselves as some sort of one nation, we’re all in it together (ho ho) pantomime. I’m not even sure that Labour are standing at the election.  Is this the end game from that initiated by Tony Blair in his drive for the middle ground where both main parties stage conflict over inconsequential issues in the centre.  Their message so muted that voters find themselves driven to the causes of minority parties.  Opinions they’re unsure of but at least it’s a choice for something…?   Current polls suggest that no party will achieve an overall majority.  This places power in the hands of the larger minor parties such as Scottish National Party (SNP) or UK Independence Party (UKIP).  Each have their own agendas to elevate beyond the confines of their electoral reach.  Come May’s General Election a majority party is going to make...well I pause because I was about to say difficult but I’m sure the lust for power will significantly aid in the decision making process.   

In the short gap between reporters standing in front of empty buildings, discussing politicians located hundreds of miles away and the bit at the end of the programme normally devoted to pandas trying to procreate in front of the world’s media in a zoo in Paraguay comes come the rest of  news.  Filed under light relief this past week has been a passenger jet crashing in the Alps.  It frustratingly made top billing in the news for a while.  I’m not anti-tragedy, just anti-sensationalism.   On the day of the crash I pettily resorted to browsing the EUs statistics database for comparative fatalities.  Yes, this is who I am.  Every 10 days, a plane crashes somewhere in the world involving a fatality.  In Europe it’s estimated that each day 157 people will commit suicide, 104 will die in road traffic accidents and inexplicably 270 will die in what the EU refers to as home/leisure setting.  These numbers dwarf air crash fatalities but aren’t accompanied by tracking shots of rescue helicopters circling alpine peaks forlornly.  As the story moved from the crash to the cause, evidence was presented that the co-pilot had manipulated the pilot out of the cockpit, locked the door from the inside and instigated the plane’s descent into the mountains.  It is now emerging that he was concealing mental health issues.  A tragedy, larger in scale that most but still one of many taking place every day.

There’s always sport to distract us from thinking things through.  The morphine drip that is football has been turned down this week with just international fixtures in the schedule.  England strolled to an easy win against (and whilst it was only three days ago I’ve just had to look this up) Latvia.  Rooney edged towards the top position in all time English goal scorers….but was eclipsed by the new sensation on the block Harry “he’s one of our own (™ Spurs, apart from when they kept sending him out on loan in previous seasons)” Kane.  A substitute half way through the second half and within 79 seconds he got on the score sheet.  It’s why sport always suffices, obscuring reason, allowing hope to be invested in an abstract concept when reality remains unfulfilled.  That some young bloke with slicked back hair can run about some grass and shove a ball in a net means we can safely disengage from what really matters.

A short circuit has prevent the Large Hadron Collider being turned back on.  When working again the drive in part will be to break the standard model, to challenge the frontiers of knowledge and discover answers to the fundamentals affecting everything we observe in the universe.  Meanwhile, closer to home a politician will fumble over remembering how many food banks/immigrants/enterprising new businesses (delete as appropriate) are in their constituency and then rather than offer a solution, denigrate their opponents.

Ludwig Wittgenstein is quoted as saying “if we take eternity to mean not infinite temporal duration but timelessness, then eternal life belongs to those who live in the present.” It’s going to be a long 37 days.  Let me act as your bitter, prejudiced guide.

Counting body bags is soooo tiring

It appears that your irregular blogger has further redefined infrequent. I would offer an excuse but in truth they would only be self-serving; fabrications on a theme of torpor.

In ninety odd million miles that the Earth has spent orbiting the sun since my last blog, what has taken place whilst you have chased the late afternoon wind, a cool beer in a quayside bar and a tale of blighty from your transient companions?

One of the tropes of television news is to end on an upbeat note with tales of water-skiing badgers, pensioners high diving into baths of beans or pandas running for election.  It’s an indicator of the current state of events that last night’s 10 O’Clock bulletin’s “and finally” levity was left to a debate as to whether ISIS were instigating female genital mutilation in the territories that they’ve seized in Syria and Iraq.  Seeing as I’ve brought it up let’s bathe in the horror of recent events.  Come on in, the water’s bloody.   A passenger jet being shot down over a warzone that’s a frontier for the rebirth of the cold war. Nice.  An outbreak of the ebola virus in West Africa that’s raising concerns that it <gasp> might spread outside of Africa and then get reclassified as a real problem.  Lovely.  The march of ISIS aka the “Bad” Al Qaeda across from Syria into Iraq in not as much an attempt to push the region into complete disarray and instigate a pan-Middle East conflict.  Spiffing.  Oh yes, speaking of the Middle East, as if the region needed an extra push towards the abyss let us dwell on Gaza.  The tldr-esque version is that Israel have taken steps to stop Hamas firing rockets across the border or making incursions via a network of tunnels.  A sustained heavy bombing has been instigated across targets across Gaza followed by engagements with ground troops.  Claims and counterclaims are made by both sides.  A school is bombed but only because it is alleged it is being used by Hamas to fire rockets from.  There’s no such thing as a human shield in Gaza.  The scale of loss of civilian lives is genuinely horrifying.  Today’s estimate that over 1300 people have been killed.  70% are civilians.  Close to 250 are children.  It’s perhaps one of the fallacies inspired by night vision surgical strikes that modern warfare leaves civilians unscathed by conflict when history tells us the opposite.  To criticise Israel is to face the usual tired accusations of anti-Semitism.  Adopt the opposite stance and you’re a cheerleader for slaughter.  Of course, the bombs are still falling, the rockets still streaking over the border.  The civilians, who can’t leave Gaza look to survive. 24 hours from now 10s of them won’t have.  If you’re expecting a joke to round this out I’d suggest you re-read the last paragraph and reconsider.

This all might be happening and more but don’t be confused into thinking that its centre stage in society’s consciousness.  The number of antiques themed reality tv shows remain unchanged.  It’s the summer so saturation sports coverage adds a thick layer of insulation from the day-to-day.  Currently the Commonwealth Games are being blasted out by the BBC on two channels in near 24 rolling coverage.  It never escapes the sense that it’s a dressed up school sports day and but there’s next to no body bags on screen so naturally a ratings winner.  Earlier we had the World Cup and what a fantastic tournament it was.  There’s a purity to football that protects it from FIFA, commercialism, ITV’s coverage so when 22 men step across the white line we lose ourselves once more to the most beautiful of pointless pursuits.  After two decades of the Premier League and the chasing of survival over nurturing home grown players England have faded from being a constant in the later stages to being knocked out after two games.  As Gerrard and co packed their bags there was the briefest of flurries, the usual accusations that England needed “passion”.  One day the debate may suggest that we try and develop skills to be able to retain the ball and hey, let’s go crazy, pass to each other.  We’re not there yet.  I lost myself to the tournament.  Holland’s stake through the heart of tika-taka was a statement of intent that the tedious days of defensive football were on the wane.  This was a tournament that rewarded the bold.  USA escaped the group of death by playing as a team and forgetting for a while they were minnows.  My namesake James “ham-ez” Rodriguez fired Columbia into the latest stages and was the most expensive player no one had ever heard of.  Add to the mix Nemar’s drive, Brazil’s sheer total capitulation and inevitably Germany’s grind to the final and glory.  I watched the 7-1 destruction derby of Brazil in a bar in Epidavros, Greece.  I sensed beforehand that the bailout might make the locals not be too fond of Germany.  After their second goal in ten minutes my laughter filled cheering was shushed in the bar.  By half time and with the score at 5-0 I made my excuses and left.  The final summed up the tournament, the team that “went for it” and took their opportunity won.  Soon the opiate substitute of the next season will arrive.  It has a lot to live up to.  

Albert Einstein, in part a quote machine is reported as saying "The only reason for time is so that everything doesn't happen at once."  This doesn’t explain my tardiness but I hope this brief summary gives you a flavour of events beyond the calm seas and endless blue skies.  I trust you enjoyed your brief sojourn in Blighty.  I hope it was short enough to not allow the shadows of UKIP, the status quo of domestic politics or the ever expanding carpet that the unpalatable is swept beneath to enter your frame of reference.  When political debate seems at times to be led by “Football’s Philosopher King” Joey Barton perhaps we should all set sail….

Fearing the Soup Nazi

I am beginning to realise that with each passing year the odds are lengthening on me discovering a cure for cancer, treating the nation to a number one pop ballad or even a fantastic new recipe for waffles.  Perhaps ‘adulthood’ in part is the acceptance and the identification of the parameters of our lives, to not see them as constraints but to at least recognise them.  None of this prepared me for when my life became a scene from the American television series, Seinfeld.  I innocently visited the local tip to get rid of the branches from last Christmas’ tree.  I’d entertained the idea of letting the tree wither for a spell and then using it our wood burning stove. After 4 months spent in a refuse sack in the garage they remained in peak condition and I feared introducing it to the wood burner would have been like the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark – a lot of bright light and rapidly escalating regret.  Whilst not a feared of whimsy it is rare for me to entertain ornaments, mascots and the like.  One such exception is the small toy marmot that sits before me on my car’s dashboard. It stares ahead, permanently vigilant of my future journey, an alpine figurehead.  On arriving at the tip I was greeted warmly by a member of staff.  They’re a convivial bunch but this was friendly indeed.  “I have something for you” she said.  She began searching through the seemingly endless array of pockets in her luminous orange overall until she unearthed a small soft toy dinosaur.  “There”, she said, “a friend for that guy in your car”.  A friend. For the marmot. From the tip.  An exemplar of politeness and also that middle class trait of “not causing a fuss” I graciously accepted the dinosaur and gamely sat it on the dashboard next to the marmot. So there it was, sitting proudly, a dinosaur. From the tip.  A generous gift, there was no uncertainty about that and one from someone eponymously described as a “cracking bird”.  I was struggling to separate it from its environment, which to put it bluntly was a tip.  What if the dinosaur was tainted with something? Cholera. Fleas. Rabid dogs?  Worse still, was I now obliged to have the dinosaur on my dashboard for every visit to the tip risking being sent away in disgrace for being a deceitful receiver of dinosaurs, my boot full of tree cuttings and empty plastic bottles, my soul full of shame.  And if this was causing me this level of consternation how was I supposed to contribute at work, society or even put my shoes on the right feet.

It's difficult to gauge the pitch of these digests. You're not physically separated from reality, just conceptually. I do need to congratulate you on your prowess at dancing on bars and I’m sure your sea faring skills are improving at a similar pace. On the off chance that your WiFi raiding is mostly hodor based then I'll endeavour to share a flavour of "current events"...

First, as always sport.  Fulham's relegation, like the ascension of Man City and pretty much the whole order of the Premier league table was more a tedious procession rather than a rollercoaster of sporting drama. Liverpool's 3-3 draw at Crystal Palace in the final week which effectively handed the trophy to City highlighted the trope that you need to defend as well as attack. Man City's championship reinforced that being the richest club allows you to buy the best players and win. Whither sport?  Currently we reside in a sporting graveyard. The play offs and Champions League finals offer at best modest succour to the masses' morphine we know as football. The world cup remains far, far away.  Not enough time for the Brazilians to actually finish building the stadiums mind.  A visit to BBC's sport pages details school sports days, formula one and something called tennis. In desperation I have resorted to talking to my family.

Amidst the tales of faffatroning and teenage reclusion there have been episodes involving close contact with puffins, the formal start of BBQ season, guitar glasnost, renewed campaigning for spaniels, the taming of gardens, procrastination over decorating, cycling (of course), lives lost to work, GCSE options, expeditions in the dales and lamenting largess.

Speaking of the reconciliation of unachievable objectives against inarticulate disinterest it's the local and European elections this week.  It would be unfair to represent rural constituencies as homes to nimbyism, subsurface racism and a trenchant I'm alright Jack ethos but yes the Conservatives lead locally by some margin.  Meanwhile in Europe, but of course I mean nationally the debate has been derailed once more by the likes of UKIP who with bitter irony appear to be following the National Socialist's playbook from 1930's Germany. Of course with the representation of such polarising views this has created the perfect arena for a debate on our country's relationship with Europe. Strangely there is next to none. I may have misheard but Labour's stance appears to be that whilst they regret the need to burn Romanians in pyres at the border they were committed to doing it with locally sourced biodiesel.  The economy is on an upturn apparently. Maybe in your old lair. The age of boarded shop windows and pound shop parades continues elsewhere. As news of the latest stock market corporate takeover drifts through the middle order of the news I feel obliged to steal from Lewis Black and say "someone's getting rich but it isn't fucking you".

Meanwhile in popular culture giant lizards and superheroes dominate at the cinema, offering limited counterpoint to the assertion that we’re dumbing down.  On a note of minor triumph I recently finished a book detailing the major advancements in Quantum Mechanics over the last century.  In parts baffling but mostly inspiringly brilliant I have to confess I read it at a pace that in turn would challenge people’s conception of time and the infinite.  Much like your good self in awaiting the next installment of this blog. 

Shit Bitch!

One of the storylines of this season's MUFC demise as soap opera is the seeming incompatibility of having Rooney and RVP playing up front together.  There's been less passing between them than <insert d list celebrity of your choice>'s appearance on Mastermind.  It can only be a coincidence that with RVP consigned once more to the injury list that Rooney took to the field against West Ham on Saturday with a smile on his face and apparently a renewed interest in the game.  After a bit of argy bargy with a defender Rooney latches onto a half volley from around the half way line and smacks it over the keeper and scores.  It was described best on Reddit with "If that happened in Fifa I'd rage quit for a week".

Half way through Match of the Day Gary Lineker turned to the camera and said "and now over to Etihad arena to see Manchester City entertain Fulham".  The camera zoomed out to reveal that Lineker had a black hankerchief on his head and was crossing himself.  I'm not one for undue cruelty but your boys were lucky to come away wih a zero on their side of the scoreline.  A more accurate result would have been MANC 8 FULH -4. Dark times at the Cottage.  For the neutral football fan what's most disappointing is the behaviour of your latest manager, Felix Magath.  On his appointment we were promised eccentrism bordering on psychopathy with tales of players enduring training sessions that were closer in spirit to Abu Ghraib than St George's park. In reality Magath has presented himself as benign grandfather-like figure in natty FFC themed glasses.

Earlier this week Turkey shot down a Syrian military jet on the assertion that it has strayed into their airspace. So far there's been no reprisals probably because Turkey has a fully resourced military and isn't a disparate set of rebels with limited armament representing a beleaguered civilian population being starved into extinction.

Your mid week declaration via social media that you'd been assigned a two week flotilla caused some degree of angst and uncertainty in our holiday planning committee.  I issued a set of cards to each member with a number of holiday themed criteria on them.  The cards had to be laid out in a prioritised order.  Despite "seeing you" scoring highly the practical realities of achieving this, together with boat availability and the general unhelpfulness of the sales team back in the UK may result in a different holiday being pursued.

I conspired, somewhat against my will, to spend three days this week in a training course on Quality. At the beginning when we had to introduce ourselves and state why we were there I announced to the room that I was a keen fan of abstract concepts and hope to attend a course next week on "Freedom".  My boss began to rub his temples.  It was going to be a long week. For everyone.

It's asserted that pets are spreading TB to their owners.  Badgers are no doubt waiting for the link to be established between them and pets, probably that they're entering homes through cat flaps and coughing over everything they can reach before skulking back into the countryside.  If you think that's tenuous then I'd assert it's no more of a stretch than the link between them and cattle unless cows have started living in burrows and have gone nocturnal whilst my eye's been off the ball.

All in all. a bit of a meh week.  You've missed nothing.....

The Toothpaste Baron of Spofforth

You'll recall that for some years we had a spaniel named Jessica. Towards the end of her life there were frequent trips to the vet and each time we were treated with compassion and genuine empathy.  I can still picture the look in the vet's eyes as she took us through the options to bring Jess' life to an end with some degree of comfort and most importantly no more pain.  Every time Gary Lineker introduces Fulham on Match of the Day I get pangs of recognition.

Not to shed light upon magic but I have to confess that I had this prepped and ready to run only for your boys to spoil things and throw in a 1-0 win on Saturday. If only you could play Newcastle every week. Down in the lower leagues with my lot I have had to estimate whether we'll get relegated if we follow current form and lose every game until the end of the season.  Our prospective new owner has just been found guilty of tax evasion.  The perfect person for Leeds then.  Seeing as we're doing sport news RVP comes back from the dead with a hat trick and carries the cabal of strangers, to themselves and the tenets of football strategy, previously known as MUFC into the quarter finals of the champions league. The Liverpool fans in the office are starting to echo Stephen Gerrrarrrrd and believe that they're going to win the league.  I'm still trying to decide if I could cope with the smugness overload such a championship would instill. The Six Nations drew to a close and we can all be thankful that neither the French or the Welsh won it.  England was filled with youthful promise with a style of play that was pretty watchable.  That said, if I never hear swing low sweet chariot being sung at Twickenham I'd be a happy man.  Love the team, hate the supporters.

Wednesday saw George Osborne annouce this year's budget.  Anyone would think that we were close to an election with all the pandering to the grey vote.  If UKIP get any more decent by-election results in the home counties we can surely expect tax rebates for flood defences made from illegal immigrants/insert replacement lazy guardianista cliche of choice.  Stuart Lee contests that increasingly the Conservatives are placing themselves beyond satire.  This was reinforced last night by Grant Shapps, their chairman, championing the budget by tweeting a poster entitled "Bingo!" with the caption "Cutting the bingo tax & beer duty to help hardworking people do more of the things the enjoy". Whether it was a hideously misplaced jape or a naked attempt to keep the proletariat in line it demonstrates a level of political debate that can only garner wider public engagement. Either that or we'll just get pitched a set of fears that score highly in focus groups.

"Can I quiese your farm?" was the strangest opening line I faced this  week.  They could have said "turn off". They could have said "servers go sleepy bye bye". But no, they went with quiese and I have to confess a new word entered my lexicon.

In other news a passenger jet stays lost in South East Asia.  Despite all the fears of terrorism Wired published an article from a pilot suggesting that this was an instrument fire in a cockpit resulting in the pilots flying without electrical aids. The search continues and he story remains high in the news but I bet more people died in Syria in the last week.

Break out the new romantics, shoulder pads and metal mickey.  The 80s are back and with it the cold war. The Crimea has voted "strongly" for adoption into the Russian state. The region simmers.  Sanctions are imposed.  The Russians, who unlike the previous cold war from the position of being one of the world's major oil and gas producers look on with indifference and barely concealed contempt.

Today, the sun reached a position above the equator since the passing of winter.. This formally marks the start of spring so the weather forecast for the weekend is obviously for early morning frosts.  I thought I'd throw that in as I can only presume that your current locale is more climatically favourable.  Back up a few lines of latitude my cycle shorts remain in their drawer.   The dreams of summer remain just that, bar last night when I awoke before my alarm consumed with thinking about photons and the implications of them having no mass. I tried to engage the Toothpaste Baron of Spofforth on the matter but they queried whether 5 a.m. was the best time to instigate such a debate.