Wither irony?

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, Johnson is flying back to London after COP26 in Glasgow by private plane.  With anyone else of even minimal political credibility this would be a crushing piece of destructive irony – after weeks spent mouthing platitudes about the need to reduce carbon footprints.  But with the charlatan Johnson, it is no more than par for the course for someone who can see no further than himself.

     Add to that the news that the disgraced Conservative MP who sexually harassed a member of his staff is to be allowed back into the Conservative party, and it all fits with the assumption that most Conservatives can do what the hell they like and will be subject to few lasting restraints or consequences. 

     Be grossly incompetent?  Bully your staff?  Lie to the House?  Lobby illegally?  Give your donors preferential public money deals?  Kill people through mismanagement?  No worries with the Conservative equivalent of a perpetual Get out of Jail card ever at the ready to smooth a path for those who have demonstrably done wrong.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     A few days ago, I read a piece about Spike Milligan making the point that if anyone deserved the accolade of King of Satire, it must be him – but the piece also brought up the idea that the last few years have been so bizarre that so-called real life has produced actual event and characters that in their destructive absurdity defy satire.

     Donald Trump and his troupe of grotesques, you would think would be idea fodder for the sort of treatment that was meted out by the latex puppets in Spitting Image – but, when you look at the orange artificiality of Trump’s face and the wispy monstrosity of his hair, and how and what he says, how can any puppet do justice to the abomination that he exemplifies?  

 

 

 

 

 

     Watching Trump at one of his rallies forced you think that you were in a world where Dada, Surrealism and the Black Paintings of Goya were the motivating forces, rather than anything that could be recognized as “normality”.

     In a similar way the continuing car crash of Johnson’s so-called government of Britain would seem to demand that the cries for his instant dismissal and prosecution for wilful dissimulation and corporate manslaughter should by now have reached a crescendo – but still his corrupt and corrupting party had a healthy lead in the polls, and Johnson’s laughable “leadership” is still seen by a remarkable proportion of the population to be something in which they believe.

     And there, I think lies the crux of his popularity.  Facts and figures now mean nothing, or at least very little, to those who think that Brexit was a good idea and that the Conservatives have the interests of the whole of the country at heart.  The Conservative party is now a cult, and belief in Johnson is a core tenet of belief, something beyond mere reality.

     Every time I see Johnson in the newspaper or on the TV, I find that I am now experiencing the same feelings of revulsion that I had for a character like Saville.  Even at the height of his fame, when he was lauded by young and old, rich, and poor, the great and the lowly, I felt a repellence towards Saville.  He was not a person you would want to be near.  I am not, of course, suggesting that there is any similarity in the crimes that Johnson and Saville have committed, but the feeling that they are both wrong ‘uns is compelling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The day after tomorrow I get my flu jab, and I hope a specific date for my booster Covid shot.  Although mask wearing is still happening in Spain, young people are more obviously not following the older population where mask wearing in crowded public space is usually the norm.

     I keep remembering the statements from health officials that “until everyone is vaccinated, we are all at risk”, and then I look at the statistics of how many children have been vaccinated and then hear of statistics from Africa and other parts of the world where a tiny proportion has had any sort of protection, and I think that the attitude of “we call all start travelling again in 2022” is blind optimism.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Today was the last day of my extended birthday.  I like to keep in a birthday mood for at least a week.  So, the excellent paella in the restaurant connected to my swimming pool was a fitting end to the jollifications.  Roll on my Name Day!

Indifferent day, indifferent thoughts

         

An odd day today, it is not warm, but it certainly isn’t cold.  It is overcast and the Med has a North Sea look with waves that are much larger than usual, though there is no wind and few hits of a storm.  The sea is an almost monochrome grey-blue and when I was riding along the paseo there was a sea mist which blended horizon and water and where the cold white breaking waves looked almost theatrical in their contrast with the surrounding drabness.  It looked bleakly beautiful and there were isolated figures on the beach which gave a cinematographic look to my vistas from the saddle of the bike and it was easy to enjoy the visuals because there was no cold cost of being out in the bleakness, when it wasn’t really bleak!

     As the restaurants and cafes are closed the emptiness of the streets echoes the deserted beach.  On an inclement day one can imagine oneself back to the strict lockdown of March or April.  As I typed that a solitary magpie swooped over the trees that I can see from my desk on the third floor.  Is that an example of the pathetic fallacy: linking a harbinger of bad luck with lockdown?  Or does it always have to be the weather?  If it is the weather, then the slightly other-worldly climate at the moment is doing its bit!

 

Toni and I have been bewailing the lack of restaurants and the fact that we cannot go out for a menu del dia, I bring that up because of the vote by the Conservative Party in refusing to continue the provision of free school meals during the holidays.   

     I made the mistake of reading what some of the Nasty Party’s adherents said in justifying their decision and I was transported back to the unregenerate days of Dickensian blaming the poor for their situation and not wanting to mollycoddle them so that they would be too weak to make the effort to improve their position by their own efforts.

     I have never, ever been a Conservative voter, and the last member of that benighted party for whom I had even a scintilla of respect was Iain Macleod (hated by the even further right wing of the Conservative Party as being “too clever by half”) and he had the good grace to die a month into Heath’s government so that he wasn’t further tainted by the steady descent to contemptibility that had started with Home.  I think that my ‘respect’ for him was coloured by the fact that I was very young and he seemed like an intellectual threat to the comfortable leftish-wing politics that the young teenage me adopted.

    So, in 2020 there is no character in the present government with even a shadow of the moral, intellectual and political nous of the late Iain Macleod and everything that they do and say increases my contempt for them.  Where are the people with the moral standing (!) of a John Profumo (!) in this cabinet of Political Caligaris?  The third-rate chancers that make up the U-turning incompetents that govern the UK make me ashamed to be British. 

     The USA, UK, Brazil, Hungary, Poland, Russia, Turkey, Venezuela, as well as many others around the world are forming a distasteful group of countries that seem more and more distant from any ideals of democracy and decency that I understand to be motivators for decent political government.   

     At least the people of the USA have the opportunity to dump Trump and return to some sort of joined-up thinking, whereas we have YEARS of Johnson and his rabble before he can be cast into the infamy of history.

     How many people SO FAR have been killed by the incompetence of Johnson’s government?  Given the Conservatives’ atrocious handling of the pandemic, what chance is there that the looming disaster of Brexit is going to be overseen with compassion, understanding and efficiency? 

     How many more hungry children will it take for Conservatives to act with simple humanity?

       Look to the history of the Conservative Party for your answer.

LOCKDOWN CASTELLDEFELS - DAY 21 – Palm Sunday 5th APRIL

Where do you start with ‘irony’ in the sort of build up to Easter that we are having this virus-infected year?

     Our next door neighbours are showing their piety on Palm Sunday by defying restrictions and working flat out in constructing and installing the new kitchen in the house that is either going to be their new home or is going to fetch them a pretty penny when it is sold.  Or perhaps both.  What there isn’t, is respect for the day religiously, politically or healthily!

     The churches have been closed.  The KKK-like religious processions have been cancelled in Spain.  The pope spoke in a wet and empty St Peter’s Square.  In all the coverage of the pandemic, I have heard little from religious leaders, and little to nothing of God.  Even Trump’s fanatic fundamentalist base has not vaunted god above science.  Just as Capitalism turns to Socialism in times of crisis, for government to do what Capitalism cannot or rather, will not do, so Religion turns to Science to cure what it cannot.

     To be fair, most of mainstream religion sees no conflict between religious belief and trust in science.  Nowadays.  Those battles, since the time of Galileo, have been fought and lost; and what Churches now rely on faith rather than Insurance Policies to keep their institutions ‘safe’?

     It is, of course, easy to spin the Holy Week Story to fit the narrative of the virus; metaphor is a willing façade.  Today, in the Christian calendar is a day of triumph when Christ rode into Jerusalem in glory – though riding on an ass: tempered triumph - and that triumph soon to be translated into abject defeat which in turn transmogrifies into the ultimate triumph of the empty tomb.

     Pandemics do concentrate the mind.  A highly technological society brought low - so much for civilization and medical expertise!  All our bright and glittering technology unable to stop the virus from killing tens of thousands and infecting, god knows how many.  Our society has been literally brought to a standstill: achievement brought low, but resurrection is a vital concept and all of us sequestered in our homes and looking forward to, no, expecting a triumph of medical science to deliver the vaccine that will release us all and allow a continuation of the old way of life, our own social resurrection.

     The Holy Week story is one in which you can find triumph, deception, hypocrisy, populism, testing, faith, hope, death, defeat, disloyalty, fear, despair, community, faction, belief, confidence, loss and fulfillment – and those words only scratch at the surface of the complexity of the narrative so it is hardly surprising that it fits the present situation.

     At the end of this pandemic, will churches be filled with people giving thanks for deliverance, or shunned by people who didn’t give god a thought during the crisis?  I will wait to see.

Castelldefels has just been on the afternoon television news informing us that the Red Cross has been going to closed schools’ kitchens and ‘liberating’ the food which can be used to feed those in need rather than staying in the fridges and eventually becoming unusable.  This seems like a self-evidently good idea and I wonder in how many other places this is being put into operation.  There must also be restaurants and the like that are never going to be able to use their food supplies in time?  Something to think about, especially as governments like the one in the UK is already distributing food parcels to those who need them, surely there must be systems already in place to take advantage of any extra supplies?

Today is the start of my annual Holy Week Poem Writing Stint.  And yes, I do know that Palm Sunday is not the official start of Holy Week, but I make the rules here.

     I am well aware that this choice of poetry-writing period is an odd one for an avowed atheist to take as a key time for production, but it has become something of a tradition and I look forward to it each year – just to see what I produce!  As I have said elsewhere, "I read myself in writing"!

     I aim to get the idea for a poem each day, and then to write it up to the level of a rough draft.  Each day, until Easter Sunday, I will try and get the draft downloaded to my poetry blog at smrnewpoems.blogspot.com.  I must emphasise that my ‘daily’ work will only be a draft and I reserve the right to work on the poem after Holy Week to get it to a more polished state.

     I welcome your company on this annual journey.  The best way to follow my poems is probably ‘the morning after’ when there should be something to see from the previous day!

It's only skin deep!

There is a shade of brownness beyond which I do not go.

I do recall a summer trip to Scandinavia where a combination of constant good weather (apart from the damp city of Oslo) and malnutrition (food was far too expensive to buy on a regular basis) meant that I did get browner that I had ever been before.   
There was also the three-week trip to the Isles of Greece (where burning Sappho etc etc – though I didn’t actually go to that particular island) where I backpacked my way from Athens to Crete, staying along the way in some of the most basic, unfinished and insalubrious places that little money could buy.   

My accommodation was so Spartan (so to speak) that it did not afford the luxury of a mirror in what could laughingly be called the bathrooms, and it was only in Crete at the end of my journey that I actually saw my reflection and did not recognize the coloured gentlemen that looked back at me.

But normally, I go brownish and stay at a level of discolouration that, while darker than most of my white skinned compatriots, is nowhere near the golden depth that I seek.

In the past I peeled.  Didn’t we all?  A fortnight’s holiday in the foreign sun and a desperate necessity to get some sort of colour for our money, meant that we stayed too long too soon on the sunny beach and then suffered a shower at the end of the day.  As one of my friends so eloquently put it, “If, at the end of the day, the shower doesn’t hurt – then you haven’t sunbathed properly!”  And you actually looked forward to the first peel, because the skin under your shedding would stay that colour for your return home!

As I now live in where I used to go for holidays, my strategy is a little different.  I ALWAYS use sun tan lotion – and not (definitely not) the stuff that is only one step removed from cooking oil.  The minimum I use is factor 30, though I do deviate to factor 20 sometimes when the flesh is weak.  When I think that I used to use factor 5 or even factor 0, I shudder!

So, I am more sensible, but I do not seem to get returns for my carefulness.  Where is the deep “honey skin” that has ‘ere been my quest?   

Where indeed!

My mother was light skinned, fair haired and blue eyed.  My father was swarthier.  My mother was a sun worshipper, though in Britain she often said that the only place that she ever felt truly warm was in a Turkish Bath!  My father tanned naturally, but moderately.  I am more naturally dark skinned than my mother, but I seem to lack my father’s ease at getting a reasonable colour.

And what, after all, is the worth of all that effort?  Skin cancer is an ever-lurking threat and the advantages of Vitamin D, or at least the quantity of it that is required for a healthy life, is more than probably gained by reasonable outdoor life rather than soaking up the sun as an end in itself.

I am also well aware that white people trying to go brown is a relatively recent activity – at least by choice.  Up until the early years of the twentieth century white skin was the more highly prized; brown skin merely indicating that you worked outdoors and were one of the great unwashed.  But the ‘healthy outdoor types’ managed to equate brown skin (on white people) with good living and harmony with life.

In any discussions of skin colour and the vast industry that encourages the acquisition of a tint, I am reminded of the back page of a magazine that I subscribed to in college: The New Internationalist.  This magazine was the child of the ‘militant’ wing of Oxfam: Third World First or 3W1.  I signed a standing order for the magazine over fifty years ago and the money still dribbles into Oxfam’s funds – though the magazine has long since departed.  Or, at least, they don’t send me it anymore!

Anyway, one of the more memorable back covers of the magazine showed two advertisements.  The first was for a proprietary sun tan oil, while the second was a Nigerian (?) skin lightning advert.  Of course, apart from the obvious irony in such a juxtaposition, there was also the fact that the first advert had ‘white’ people and the second ‘black’ people and the ‘white’ people in the first advert were actually darker than the ‘black’ people in the second!  I have not been able to find the original advert, but have illustrated a contemporary one!

One doesn’t need to labour the obvious idiocy in the activity, or the social and political overtones, but I have to admit that I feel healthier when I am tanned.

Yes, I know that my ‘feelings’ are constructed by a vast and all-powerful advertising industry that cares little for my well being and everything about the bottom line – but, even knowing how manipulated I have been and am being, I shall continue to laze in the sun in the hope that this year will be the one in which the ‘honey skin’ of my longing becomes visual reality.

It's a goal of sorts!