Life today

I have just been listening to the afternoon play on Radio 4, not only because it was a dramatization of part of Muriel Sparks’ life, but also because I caught on a trailer for it, that it was about disinformation during the Second World War in Britain. 

     With a bump I was taken back to a library book I took out when I was in school and the name Sefton Delmer came back to me.  It took a bit of Google searching, but the title of the book that I read (I actually recognized the cover!) was called Black Boomerang, written by Sefton Delmer the head of our black propaganda efforts during the war and published in 1962, so I was remembering a book I read over half a century ago.

     Although most of the details of the book are long lost to my retrieval system, the name of the author is something that has always stayed with me, together with thoughts about the morally ambiguous basis for black propaganda.  I have used this concept as something that linked usefully in to my work in school with media, advertising and indeed literature in the ways that all of them attempt to persuade and convince.

     The Radio 4 play was a fairly insubstantial piece of fluff, but it did raise a number of interesting ethical dilemmas and, although the ending of the play was flip and facile (even if it was true, which given the subject matter of the play etc etc) but has provoked me into writing.

     It has been famously reported that when Sir Strafford Cripps found out what Sefton Delmer was doing, he wrote to Anthony Eden the Foreign Secretary and said, “If this is the sort of thing that is needed to win the war, why, I’d rather lose it.”  Perhaps, even at the time, this attitude was considered a trifle precious, after all we were fighting ‘total war’ that seemed to justify anything – and against a foe whose moral worth was demonstrably low.  But, and there is always a but, if you lose your own moral standards in fighting someone with low moral standards how are you better than they are?  The ends justify the means is Machiavellian, literally!

     And the times in which we are living make you wonder if the pioneering work of Sefton Delmer in the black arts of information manipulation are not now the normal way that all governments behave – but openly and with a complete lack of shame and a totally confusing acceptance of fabricated lies are truth and reality.

     The present governmental attitudes towards information about the Coronavirus (or ‘Caronavirus’ to the idiot in the White House) have much more to do with presentation than reality.  We expect totalitarian regimes to hush up, massage, lie, obfuscate, whitewash and bluster – but these techniques are all too familiar to the degraded governments of the part-time British Prime Minister and the full-time American golfer.

     Given the state of truthfulness in the political world today, perhaps I should re-read Black Boomerang to remind myself of the techniques that are being used on me today.  If you are interested, then all of Seton Delmer’s books are available on-line at psywar.org.

In spite of the fact that I sometimes use the weekend to justify laziness in getting up, today I got up for my early morning swim and was rewarded with a lane of my own (eventually) and a well-deserved cup of tea outside (in my coat, obviously) afterwards.

My post-swim cup of tea and notebook use produced further ideas for the recalcitrant poem, or maybe another completely different one.  I will try and mash the concepts together and find out what happens, though I think that I have a title.

     For the first time in my life I actually thought about the phrase, “Now then!”  And wondered why its contradictory nature had never struck me before.  It can be used in different circumstances and could mean anything from “Steady the Buffs!” to “That’s enough of that!” to “Just wait until you hear what I have got to tell you!” to “Don’t be nasty” and so on.

     I liked it, when I thought about it, for the way in which it links the present to the past in an easy colloquial phrase.  And ambiguity is always stimulating! If you are interested in further discussion then I suggest you look at the site https://english.stackexchange.com/questions/24882/the-origin-of-the-phrase-now-then

I will, however use the phrase in my own way!

My zest for lino cutting did not win out against tiredness and bed last night, but I might be open to doing a bit of artistic slashing this evening. 

     The major problem for me with this new/old hobby is that I never can find enough free surfaces to allow the prints to dry before I make other cuts and prints. 

     I think that I will have to ‘prepare’ backgrounds so that I have a ready supply of treated pages to use at leisure. 

     Well, it’s worth a try and, as I always say about my attempts at things artistic, “What have I got to lose but my self-respect”!

Are Kids Evil?

 

If you are a believer (as I firmly am) that kids do not become fully human until they have reached the age of, say, 25 – then, you will, perhaps, recognize an ethical problem.  If these creatures are not human in the full sense of that word, is it even fair to ask if they are capable of being ‘evil’ which, after all, necessitates a human sense of recognizing that concepts like ‘good’ and ‘evil’ actually exist?

We don’t say that ‘brute’ beasts are evil, we just question their instincts.  Sharks (even allowing for Benchley) are not evil creatures; they are not good either – they just are.

So, there is surely a case for saying that apprentice humans just ‘are’ as well.

And yet, and yet.

Let us consider a test situation.  In this part of the world there is a game that kids play.  It is called ‘Marco Polo’ and is simplicity itself to play.  The rules are that when one person says “Marco!” everyone else replies “Polo”.  And that is it.  That is the game.  And kids play it with manic gusto.  And go on playing it.  And on, and on.

There is a sort of genius about it.  How, you might say, innocuous a game.  Where is the harm in it?  Well, let me tell you, if you have listened to kids raucously ‘playing’ this game around a swimming pool for what seems like hours you, as an adult begin to pray for death: either the kids or yourself, after a while it doesn’t really matter.  All you want is for it to stop. 

  

And this is where the genius part comes in.  How can you, seriously, tell kids to stop?  Who is it harming?  And, of course, you know that if a kid suspects for a moment that something they are doing is irritating then there is no inducement on earth that will make them stop.  And what sort of idiot would you be to angrily tell kids to stop saying the name of the great explorer?  Perfect.  The kids have created something that cannot be stopped without making the person stopping it appear like a crazed idiot.  And, once you have suffered from an extended “Marco Polo” just a single mention of “Marco” brings back all the dread that you have previously suffered – instantly.

Do they do it to annoy because they know it teases?  I’m not sure.  Kids love doing it.  It gives an immediate sense of community; it gives form to play; it allows the youngest to get an automatic reaction from elder; it establishes territory by claiming sonic space; it gives voice to youth; it is comforting – and I bloody hate it.  Hate it.

I am not sure if it is hell or purgatory where you would find yourself around a pool with kids playing “Marco Polo” for ever, but the adjective hellish seems to be not inappropriate.

The question of blame obviously centres on whether or not the kids know what they are doing.  If they do not, then they only have to wait until they are 25 when they will realize just how awful they have been for the past two and a half decades.  If they do know what they are doing, then it answers the question at the top.

And, don’t forget Damien!

On a completely unrelated topic – though, come to think about it, there could be a tenuous link using the concept of ‘youth’ – the words of a Christmas carol came back to me as I trudged off the beach through the soft sand.

Never let it be said that my time as a (moderately) angelic looking choir boy in Cathays in Cardiff was wasted.  I had a good boy soprano voice and found the high notes relatively effortless to reach.   

Being in a choir means that you tend to pick up new tunes relatively quickly, in much the same way as a (struggling) trombone player in school orchestras encourages to you get to know orchestral pieces after a couple of rehearsals – well, as trombone player you usually have so few notes to play that you may as well spend the time waiting for your entry by listening to the music that other players are creating.

Although I cannot say that I positively enjoyed my time in the choir (perhaps it was something to do with the stiff, white, plastic collars we had to wear with cassock and surplice) I did get to know a great deal of ‘sacred’ music, and the lyrics. 

There were some that we didn’t really have to learn, and those were carols.  Or should I say, we did get to learn something, because we had to know more than merely the first verses.  Just like being in the Cubs, where the one thing that I retain from my time there is knowing the second verse of the English national anthem, I also know more of the words of more hymns that I ever get the chance to sing.

Anyway, back to the trudging.  Given my thrombosis, embolism etc etc I feel I have a real and authentic reason not to like walking, and have a fully justified condition to find the easiest way to do things that demand physical effort.

So, trudge, trudge, trudge (resenting every step) when the words of one particular carol came back to me about a youngster whingeing about having to make his way through thick snow, following behind his master, who responds by saying:

“Mark my footsteps, my good page

Tread thou in them boldly . .

In his master’s steps he trod

Where the snow lay dinted

Heat was in the very sod

Which the saint had printed”

Works with sand too.  Where Toni left a footprint, I trod and, lo and behold, it was a good sight easier than making my own flat-footed way.

Therefore, Good King Wenceslas, not only gave me an easier way of walking through soft sand, but it also allowed angelic looking little boys to sing the word “sod” inside a church!

Of such things are memories made.

Polite's the point!

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I weaponize politeness.

I’ve always been, so I’ve been told, ‘charmingly polite’.  But that simple statement begs lots of questions.  Is ‘charm’ something that is part of authentic ‘niceness’ or is it something which is much more self-aware and knowing?  Is ‘charm’ a spontaneous emanation of the warm parts of one’s soul or the calculating approach to get what you want?  Or, indeed, neither of these things.  I do remember from my teaching days that I always used to promote politeness as a sure-fire way of getting what you want with the least amount of effort.  And I was able to adduce example after example of what came my way through the soft power of simply being nice.

And what, after all, is politeness?  The following an age-old code of proper behaviour facilitating human interaction, or a hypocritical façade allowing cynical manipulation?

To which the proper answer is, I think, “Yes!”

The way that I was brought up followed a fairly conventional lower middle class professional path.  As teachers, my parents had a highly developed sense of responsibility and inculcated in me a series of ethical standards that were firmly rooted in Judeo-Christian-British-Welsh-Tidy-Proper approach to human living.  This in spite of the fact that at least 50% of my parental influence (i.e. my dad) was more geared towards the robustly atheistic and cynically socialist way of life.  The actual basis of my mother’s Anglican (Church in Wales) faith, I never really discovered, and when I was old enough to engage in theological discussion with her I never really came out victoriously.  Well, she was, after all, my mother and did not hesitate to use the most underhand maternal pressures that mere biblical and theological argument merely brushed against!

 

But some ethical principles were set in stone:

1              A lady never picks up her own dropped glove, it is the duty of the man (or boy) to return it to her.

2              A man (or boy) walks on the outside of the pavement, next to the road when with a lady.

3              A gentleman tips his soup bowl away from himself and eats (not ‘drinks’) his soup from the side of the spoon.

4              Civilized people push uneaten food to the right side of the plate and place the knife and fork, parallel to each other and at 90 degrees to the person, on the right side of the plate too.

5              CPs do not scrape the knife and fork on the surface of the plate.

6              CPs should obey the more reasonable of the 10 Commandments as far as possible.

7              When taking Communion, you should take the cup from the hands of the vicar and drink from it yourself.

8              When reciting the Creed you should remain standing when the rest of the congregation (though excess of Popery) kneels during certain phrases.

9              The yellow Labrador bitch is the best dog that there is and, while other dogs (NOT CATS) might be cute, they are not YLBs and should be treated as lower life forms.

10          “Fair play is bonny play.”

11          “Never refuse a good offer.”

12          China, cutlery and glass are important: always buy quality.

13          Always clean your shoes.

14          Don’t bite your nails.

15          Pronounce ‘trait’ in the correct, French way and not by sounding the ‘t’.

16          “Anything is better than nothing.”

17          Keep coloured clothes from white clothes in the wash.

18          Close the door.

19          Always say “please” and “thank you” and “excuse me”.

20          Have a cup of tea and offer a cup of tea on all possible occasions.

I have just read through those 20 rules or suggestions or thoughts and have realised that a great deal of my life is encapsulated therein!

Anyway, to get back (almost) to the point.  I have been brought up to be polite and reasonable and charming, and it either fits the character that I have, or that character has been formed by the way in which I have been raised.  Whatever, the truth (if such a thing exists) I am (as Popeye said) what I am - and that’s the way I roll.

So why does all this come to mind on this Saturday afternoon? 

Well, we have just had lunch in our usual watering hole and I had the worst meal that I have ever had in the restaurant.  My spaghetti first course was over salted, the spaghetti was nastily al dente and the sauce was bland.  My second course was of over-cooked tasteless cod with a clam sauce in which most of the clams were shut-shell dead.  The orange I had for dessert was sort-of OK.  I had rebelled against the god-awful house wine and bought a more expensive (for Spain) bottle that was the best part of the meal!  And did I say a word about this?  No I did not - except of course to Toni who had had a menu plate of pork loin and half-and-half salad and chips that he enjoyed.

I mean, let’s face it: the meal was not free, I paid for it.  It was, you might say, a service.  And it wasn’t good.  And I said nothing.  I even had to pay for the upgrade on the wine!  So why didn’t I optimize my opening sentence and say something in the nicest way possible to show that I was not happy?

It probably comes down to cowardice and an attitude that could probably be properly added as number 21 to the list above: “Put it down to experience and get on with it.”

Because, one of my Great Life Lessons was discovering that people actually listen to what you say in a sequential way.  So, if you say one thing and then say another, people tend to put the two statements next to each other rather than regarding them as separate utterances.  So, no matter how polite you are about voicing an opinion about the saltiness of food in a dish in your regular restaurant, it will not be regarded as a one-off, only of relevance to the dish in question (no matter how reasonable such an assumption might be) but rather as a negative which calls into question any previous positive there might have been.

There are exceptions.  One time in Le Monde in Cardiff, I ordered a vegetable soup.  It came and one sip told me it was impossibly salty.  I took another sip to confirm my taste and, behold, it was so!  Unfortunately we were sitting next to the open kitchen and the chef who prepared my soup was within ladle smashing distance.  But I simply couldn’t drink the soup.  So, talking my courage in both hands I timidly called the waiter and intimated that there was a trifle more salt in the soup than I could handle.  The dish was taken away and returned to the chef who immediately took a spoon and tasted the soup for himself.

One taste later, the chef asked me if it was my dish, agreed that it was undrinkable and asked me to choose what I wanted from the menu - he suggested the much more expensive king prawns which I thought was a jolly good idea.  They were delicious, I was delighted and I have not stopped going to Le Monde and would recommend the place to anyone looking for decent food in St Mary Street in Cardiff without hesitation.

But with our Saturday restaurant, we are a bit too chummy with the owner and staff, but not chummy enough to have a sub standard dish dismissed as just another irritation instantly remedied.  A tricky situation.

So, in some situations, my much vaunted charm and politeness are just veneers, have no depth and do nothing except give a gloss to the problem.

I’ll carry on smiling because that’s the easiest way!