Give him the bloody tape, for God's sake!

It is not just the uncanny physical resemblance that makes the Trump Baby Blimp so compelling, not even the tiny hand clutching a mobile phone, no, it is the nappy.

Nappies are needed when you are incontinent and, by the lord, Trump is nothing if not that.  Admittedly we need to take the incontinence as a metaphor as we are also assured that Trump is a germophobe - though considering the walking, breathing louses with which he surrounds himself that designation should be taken with a pinch of salt - or insecticide.

His form of incontinence is as though he has recently read Macbeth (fond hope!) and taken to heart one of the eponymous hero’s thoughts (I use the word ‘hero’ because Trump likes dictatorial murderers)

            “The very firstlings of my heart shall be

            The firstlings of my hand.” (IV.i.153)

No sooner does the Orange Monster think of something than his twitching fingers seek out those fatally attractive buttons and the world is made privy to his inchoate meanderings.

I do not wish to labour the link to a deluded, misanthropic, paranoid, unfeeling psychopath as I feel that Macbeth would be insulted by the comparison and would further state that when he betrayed his best friend he did have the good grace to give a very public display of guilt and continue to suffer from that betrayal until his death.  Trump, on the other hand, has such a towering ego that he even out-knives that ruthless political practitioner from my youth: Mac the Knife aka Harold Macmillan, Conservative prime minister from 1957-1963, characterised by one of the better  Private Eye front covers:

Trump in his relatively short time in power has been indiscriminate in his scattergun attempts to blast his many, many enemies.  At least Macmillan’s targets were ‘reputable’ figures of some social and political standing (well, they were Conservatives so. . . ) whereas Trump is so much more of a bully than he is ruthless and is prepared to take on all comers be they great or small or very, very small.

Anyway, ‘incontinent’ is the key word for Trump and it certainly describes how he procedes, and his ‘approach’ to his high office has come to some sort of crunch point with his fawning, lickspittle visit to Helsinki.

Actually, I am not 100% convinced that the generally accepted view that the Kremlin has kompromat on Trump is totally correct.  Trump knows that if there is a tape somewhere of him pissing on prostitutes or watching them pissing on each other, it’s not going to do him any real harm.  Well, as long as he doesnt care about his reputation, which is now so deflated that even all the hot air bluster from one of his acutely embarrassing rallies will not reinflate it.  As a proven liar, racist, homophobe, sexist, mob-friendly, unfeeling, family-buster etc etc etc monster, a little episode of Golden Showers will only add to the mystique of convention-bending horror that has characterised his presidency.

But say there is a tape or some form of clear evidence that he has behaved in a (for previous presidents at least) disgraceful way, and say further that that evidence is held in the bloody assassin’s hands of Dictator Putin, surely, even the repressive Murderer by Nerve Agent must be getting just a little embarrassed by Trump’s belly-up please scratch me approach.

Consider the unfolding disaster that was Trump’s visit to Europe.  By the time he arrived in Helsinki he had questioned the existence of NATO and roundly insulted virtually all the members of that organization; he treated the EU with contempt and actually called it a ‘foe’ of the United States; he insulted his host country of Britain, undermining the Prime Minister while actively talking-up the reputation of the Blond Buffoon; he insulted the Mayor of London with slurs and lies and stated that there were many demonstrations in his favour.

How much does Trump have to do before his Russian Masters are satisfied.  They are not quite as childish as he and they must be choking on the embarras de richesses that the so-called president is giving them: it’s rapidly becoming something out of the mind of Marx - and I don’t mean the one buried in Highgate.

I suppose that Fox and Friends could spin it so that the clear absurdity of the craven position of what used to be the office of the most powerful person in the world towards the 11th or 12th ranked country in terms of GDP, could be seen as a clever and ironic joke, the patent ridiculousness of Trump’s position inviting laughter at the way that the Russians simply lapped it all up!  Unfortunately Trump has no sense of irony as that would indicate a subtelty of which his wrecking ball metality is clearly incapable.

So, with NATO, the EU, the UK, traditional alliances - all in chaos, what else does Putin want his lumbering poodle to do?  What else can he do?  Unless Trump starts bombing Europe - but Putin would not want that as the radioactive clouds would blow towards the homeland.

It is at times like these that I think back to the doomsday scenario that accompanied the 1964 Republican election campaign of Barry Goldwater for President - you see, I can put a capital letter there on the title of the office because, compared with Trump, Goldwater was a thoughtful statesman - that we in Britain shuddered about as we contemplated such a political wrecker getting anywhere near the nuclear triggers.   

The ghost of Goldwater must be howling in whatever section of hell is reserved for unregenerate Republicans as he sees a Republican president lauding a Russian murderer above the security and intelligence services of the United States!

Some people on both sides of the political divide are using the term ‘traitor’ to describe what Trump is doing and has already done.  I am tempted to bring the term to Britain as well and suggest that what is going on as far as Brexit is concerned has much more to do with personal and political power and its retention than anything to do with the state of the nation.

God help us all!

I shall now, in an updated version of Candide’s actions, go and cultivate my sun tan!

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Sport?

With only the sound of passing jets to break the tranquillity of a sleepy Sunday morning, it took more than good intentions to get me on my (electric) bike to make the arduous journey to the swimming pool – you have to understand that I count the bridge over the motorway as an actual hill.  But it is amazing what sheer peer pressure will do to get you moving.  One comment from Toni and I was out of my all-too-comfortable chair and finding a fresh towel.

As it is a Sunday I eschewed my normal route to the pool via the longer way, allowing me to cycle along the paseo next to the sea and beach, as the bright sunshine would have brought out an overwhelming crop of dominguerros (Sunday visitors to our seaside resort) and cycling with oblivious pedestrians is far too hard work in the mornings, and anyway it encourages negative homicidal approaches to progress.  Even along the clearly delineated cycles paths it took relentless dinging of my less than authoritative bell to get the more resentfully recalcitrant walkers to get over on to their bit of the pavement.

My Herculean efforts to get to my daily lengths were surprisingly rewarded by a totally empty pool.  There is little (at least to a swimmer) more satisfying than breaking the pristine surface of a tranquil pool: an example, if ever there was one, of the sort of hidden pleasures of a peculiar life.

I know that everyone has quirks and, while some may be socially disadvantageous there are others that are particular, do not harm and give great pleasure.  I know someone whose choice of beach is purely dictated by the fact that it is next to the airport and lying in the sun had the added advantage of low flying, noisy aircraft enlivening the tedium of tanning.  Another friend has an eye for vegetation and always has her phone camera at the ready to capture the bounce of a bough or the lilt of a leaf; yet another regards a trip to Matalan as justification for a visit to Britain; another regards the Crunchie Bar as the highest achievements of the confectionary trade, while yet another relishes Marmite.  You will note that I have not ventured into the realm of sexual proclivities because, well, because as soon as you go there then all the other little innocuous kinks can be seen as sexual as well.  Take, for example, the diving into a pool.  It doesn’t take a doctor from Vienna to make something suggestive about that!

It's all in the noticing, taking note of something and seeing it in a way that is personal to you.  This line of thought was brought on my sunbathing.

Sunbathing is a tedious occupation, and the sometimes-blotchy results make you wonder if it is all worthwhile.  You tell yourself that the ‘modern’ preoccupation with a tan can really be traced back all the way to the middle of the last century, as, previously (at least in Europe) white skin was more highly valued than tanned skin.  Tanned skin was the normal preserve of the working agricultural classes and was therefore seen as rather infra dig.  In the same way that Chinese Mandarins’ long fingernails was a visible indication that everything (and I mean everything) would have to be done for them rather than their having to do things themselves, therefore showing their high class and their ability to afford the servants necessary to live a long-fingernailed life style.

Nowadays tanning is seen as a sign of health, and to hell with scare stories of skin cancer.  People like my good self, prefer to think that the acquisition of Vitamin D from sunlight is enough of an excuse to indulge.

Anyway, getting away from why I was sunbathing and getting towards how I was sunbathing.  For the purpose of extending my periods lying prone on the beach or on the third-floor terrace I had resurrected my iPod – that now, by the way, appears quaintly dated: so heavy, such a little screen!  But it worked and that was all I wanted.

Being by nature an incurable dilettante I always set the thing to ‘shuffle’ play.  This means that my musical experience is very much like the organization of my library: serendipitously chaotic, where juxtapositions of tomes is so random that it looks contrived!  I put an exclamation mark at the end of that sentence to stop those who know me from shaking their heads sagely and remarking, “Exactly!”

So, my ‘listening pleasure’ via my iPod might feature a movement from one of the less fashionable early symphonies by Tchaikovsky, followed by a Spanish conversation from a previous on-line course, succeeded by a piece of obscure German table music, followed by some random pop.

With earphone stuffed firmly into my ears (see ‘passing jets’ above) I actually listened to the lyrics of ‘Lola’ by the Kinks that were remarkably clear and easily decipherable.  Perhaps everyone else in the world (well, given the sales of the thing it must be a sizeable chunk) knew that Lola was a transvestite or trans-sexual, but I didn’t.  I listened again to check my perceptions and finally thought what a remarkable record that must have been for its time.  It was of course banned by the BBC – not for any sexual priggishness, but rather because the Kinks used the word ‘Coca-Cola’ and the Beeb did not go in for any sort of in song advertising, so the Kinks re-recorded it substituting a more generic ‘cherry-cola’ for the obnoxious ubiquitous liquid.  I am still at a loss to understand how that disgusting concoction has spread like a carbonated plague across the face of the earth.  It can’t all be down to advertising.  Can it?

So Lola, “she walks like a woman, but she talks like a man” or was it “moves”, I can’t remember, and I am typing this on the terrace so that the sun can get at my back, and there is no internet – lying again: there is internet and I have re-read the lyrics and they are worth looking at, you can find them here: https://www.google.com/search?q=lola+the+kinks&ie=utf-8&oe=utf-8&client=firefox-b

The narrative of the song is fairly simple, a guy goes to a club in ‘North Soho’ drinks suspect champagne meets an ambiguous girl and declines to take things further.  Probably.  The interest lies in the detail of the lyrics where we discover that the protagonist is inexperienced “I’ve never ever kissed a girl before” he only left home “a week before”.  He admits that he is “not the world’s most physical guy” or “passionate” or “masculine” not really a traditional build up for the profile of a lover, but then, this is no conventional love song.  In spite of the fact that he is confused “Why she walk like a woman and talk like a man” he “drank champagne and danced all night” with her and it was only when she asked him home that he realized that in spite of living in a “mixed-up, muddled-up, shook-up world” where “Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls” he is able to assert that “I know what I am and I’m glad I’m a man” and, in my favourite line before the final extended chorus, “And so is Lola.”!  I love the general ambiguity in the quality of the attraction between the ‘hero’ and Lola, seen at its most sexually poignant when he gets down to his knees and “that`s the way that I want it to stay” – is that a rejection or an invitation!  He admits that he “almost fell for my Lola” and I think that the use of the possessive is revealing!

This is a rhythmic, musically exciting and lyrically engaging song, it’s a pity that I did not notice the ironic complexity when I first heard it in 1971 when it first came out!  Better late than never.  And who knows what other linguistic delights there will be as I listen more attentively to the occasional erratic pop tracks that pass the time as I bake on the third floor.

The World Cup

I must admit that I have been less than stringent in my not looking at the FIFA (corrupt) World Cup (corrupt) in Russia (corrupt), in spite of my best intentions I have constantly been beguiled into giving this ‘competition’ some attention.  Not, obviously, to the ridiculous extent of actually watching England play, but I have watched some part of some of the games.

At the moment Spain (corrupt) is playing Russia (corrupt) and while I have little interest in the outcome, I did break my typing to go downstairs and get myself a cup of tea where I saw that the so-called King of Spain (corrupt) had ‘graced’ the game with his presence.  May I be the first to extend my congratulations to a Head of State from a fellow European nation giving credence to a state that ordered a murder, using their own noxious nerve agents, in Great Britain.  Thank you, your majesty, and you wonder why you are cordially loathed by your rightfully rebellious ‘subjects’ in Catalonia!  The sooner that a republic is declared in this country the better.  Independence for Catalonia might be a vexed question, but the case for a republic is surely a simple one!  And made simpler every day by the actions of a high handed, autocratic Borbón de Borbón!

And Spain have lost on penalties to Russia.  I am sure that there must be some sort of point that I can make, but the ‘bread and circuses’ simply depresses me too much!

What now!

One definition of ‘hardship’ is having to use the outdoor community pool rather than my rather more congenial local swimming centre.  I realize that this definition is not one that will be enthusiastically shared by those, for example in the UK, where the number of outdoor community pools for private citizens is somewhat restricted.  And even if they were in greater supply than they are, when would an ‘outdoor’ pool ever be used?

And that brings me to the serial untruthfulness of my friends in Britain.  It is a ‘given’ that any telephone conversation between Catalonia and the UK will touch on the weather.  Even though we have had an indifferent early and late spring with weather that all of us grumbled about, I refuse to believe that the weather in my country of birth is markedly better.  Yet, in every telephone conversation I have to listen to my British friends say (yet again) that “Today” (or more tellingly “yesterday”) has/had been glorious!”  [I know that the quotation marks in that sentence are not exactly correct, but merely thinking about them brings back memories of fiendishly difficult exercises on punctuation in Form 4 or 5 that took sick minds to devise - and certainly created nausea in the stomachs of hapless pupils who were called on to ‘solve’ them]  At first we took such statements on trust, but then the suspicious nature of the consistency of response encouraged us to be a little more circumspect and we started to check up on these statements of nationalistic climate one-upmanship.  And behold! the facts would invariably cast (at the very least) doubt on the assertions of flawless skies and tropical temperatures.

It was refreshingly direct, when my cousin Margaret came to Castelldefels, she sent a selfie by the pool or on the beach to the folk back in Maesteg and, at the same time she checked the weather.  Rain, rain, and more rain.  Or, as one of her correspondents put it, “It’s pissing down here!”

It’s odd, isn’t it - the weather is a topic of national conversation, whose awfulness is bewailed at every opportunity.  We hark back to the ‘Great Summer of 1976’ and somehow seem to ignore the fact that it is a warm experience of over forty years ago!  But let foreign weather attempt to better our (for want of a better word) climate and suddenly we become all protective and start rationalizing ‘light rain’ as something that can be ignored, or ‘a patch of blue’ as a sunny day.  Trump’s alternative facts have a lot to answer for.

I have a simple way of showing the difference between the weather in Cardiff and Catalonia.  Every day I use my bike (admittedly an electric one, but I still have to pedal) to go on an epic journey to my local swimming pool.  I do not use my bike if it is raining.  So far this year, I have had to use the car on four occasions.  I ask you, members of the jury, how many days would the bike have been kept at home in Britain?

Of course, you could say that my continuing concern with the weather is a form of displacement activity to encourage my thinking of something other than my health.

Six months ago I was diagnosed with thrombosis, embolism and strained heart.  Eight days in hospital; two weeks total rest; weeks of gradual exercise; hospital appointments; blood tests; health centre visits, a doctor’s visit to the house (!) {sic.}; twice daily injections etc etc etc.  The six-month period is a time for more evaluative tests to see exactly how I am doing.

The last visit to the hospital doctor (as opposed to my local doctor) was generally positive: blood, pee and heart all passed muster.  Now on to leg and lungs!  And it’s the lungs that are the worry as the damage that the embolisms did might well be permanent and if that is so, Other Things Will Need to be Done.  What these things are, I know not of.  But they will be the thorough irritation of my world.  There are Dark Mutterings about some sort of ‘mask’ that might have to be worn during the nights, but I was told not to worry because the newer ones are almost silent.  If that was meant to comfort me, it did not.  My ever-active imagination has already sketched out some form of modern/medieval form of nocturnal torture instrument!

So, while I get browner, as an actual and real sign that our weather is really quite good, and stride about looking the soul of health, I still have nagging worries that I will have to take my local doctor’s injunction that I will have to “remake my world” and live with the consequences of what happened six months ago.

The visible signs of this remade life are that I now walk with a stick (when I remember to take it) and I wear a pressure stocking (when I am shamed into putting it on) and my pathological hatred of the act of walking is now a sort of medical imperative.  I do not look ill.  I do not feel ill.  My swimming times are the same or better than those before January.  But it is difficult to feel totally at ease when you consider that my basic medication is rat poison.  Admittedly it is packaged in little white tablets that can be easily broken into quarters to match the ever-changing daily dose, but the fact remains that I am ingesting rat poison.  On a daily basis.  You might be interested to know that Warfarin killed the rats by causing internal bleeding, and it is that ability to thin the blood that is supposed to help those with thrombosis etc.  And I hope that it is.  This month will demonstrate exactly how effective the drug has been.

I have also had to change my diet.  I am on a low fat and no salt regime and I haven’t had a drink of alcohol since January.  Admittedly I was told that I could have an occasional small glass of red wine - but I would rather do without than be so glaringly abstemious!  No salt is just about impossible unless you cook all your own food and I have less than no intention of doing that, so I tell the waiters that I need to have a ‘no salt’ dish and believe in their veracity.  Well, don’t knock it, I’m not dead yet!

It is ironic that in the The Guardian today (the on-line version that I read) there is a report that suggests that the NHS could save billions by encouraging doctors not to over prescribe and not to encourage patients to have series of tests and examinations that may not be strictly necessary.  I think that the succession of tests that I have had in Catalonia and the level of medical care that I have received are in marked contrast to the service that I would have had if I had still been living in Cardiff.

As a Baby Boomer (Leading Edge) I am of the generation that is now entering into the age when the availability of medical services are going to be called on with greater regularity.  On the 70^th Anniversary of the NHS now is the time to start funding the service as it should be funded and, incidentally, to be taken out of the hands of a Conservative Party (“lower than vermin”) that did everything in its power to try and halt its foundation.

You see the way my mind works.  I start talking about the weather and end up with the NHS.  But thinking about it, they are both linked, and the more I think about it, the more one appears to be a metaphor for the other!  But such literary niceties are for another post!

Reality will bite!

The twenty-somethingth of this month is going to be significant for me.  On that date I will have to take an examination in Spanish for which I am supremely unprepared.

It was not really my choice to ‘go on’ to the next level in the language at the start of the year, but my (vicious?) teacher encouraged me to progress with comforting words of specious consolation.  I had not, to be fair, ‘nailed’ the last examination – though I got a pass and a certificate that (I think) is the minimum basic level of Spanish competence that will get me nationality – as long as I pass the accompanying examinations on my knowledge of Spanish culture, politics, administration, Real Madrid and the King.

That examination I am not too worried about.  The knowledge needed is factual (though partial) and I know that I can cram for that with no problems.  The problems come with the reality of what Spanish nationality can mean.  As far as I can see, Britain and Spain do not recognize dual nationality.  Indeed, at the moment, what is the point of dual nationality when we are both part of the same EU?  But, thanks to the “lower than vermin” Conservatives and the idiot Brexit voters, that is all about to change.

In a few years time I will be effectively disenfranchised.  After 15 years residence in a foreign country I will no longer be allowed to vote in British elections.  As I am not a Spanish citizen I cannot vote in national elections in this country and, when we leave the EU, I will not be allowed to vote in local elections.  I will then be in the situation where I am taxed in both countries and allowed to exercise my democratic rights in neither.  My freedom of movement will be curtailed and, although it appears that I will have the right to stay on in Spain, I may have to apply for residence and I will certainly lose my present rights to move to and settle in any country in the EU.

After the well documented economic effects of the Brexit self-harm become a reality, it is highly likely that my pension will be further reduced.  The value of the pound has fallen since the announcement of Brexit and I expect it to fall further when Brexit becomes real.  My pension is paid in pounds sterling and is taxed at source and then transferred to my Spanish bank where the total has bought fewer and fewer euros as the disastrous chasm draws nearer.

The present state of my health necessitates regular visits to hospital for check-ups and controls.  I see my doctor regularly and I have a scheduled series of tests stretching into the summer.  I take daily medication for which I pay a token amount.  All of this could change.  At present, although I do not pay it, the real cost of my medical treatment is printed on the information that I am sent.  The treatment of EU national resident in Britain has been scandalously heartless.  The reputation of The Home Office has been comprehensively shredded as more and more examples of callous administrative indifference or active antagonism come to light.  Why shouldn’t EU countries reciprocate? 

Our Prime Minister is the shameless architect of the “hostile environment” and she is presiding over a country where voiced xenophobia is becoming mainstream.  She, and her riven, minority government are disgraceful and in no way reflect my attitudes and ethos, but she and her squabbling rabble are the public faces that the EU sees and I, and people like me, are likely to be the collateral damage from an ideology-driven Brexit that serves (some of) the Conservative Party and ignores those likely to be worst affected by it.

Which brings me back to the solution to my Brexit problems (well, at least some of them) – becoming a Spanish citizen.  As I have no intention of returning to the UK except as a visitor, it makes sense to link myself more closely to my chosen country.  We will leave to one side the question of Catalan independence, and concentrate on what is, at present, on offer.

I have zero intention of giving up my British citizenship.  Though I may be thoroughly depressed at what I observe of the present Daily Mail encouraged right wing exclusivity in the country, I take some comfort from the “This Too Will Pass” school of philosophical tranquillity and fondly believe that sense will eventually prevail and all manner of things will be well.  However, the immediate future demands action and Spanish citizenship seems one realistic way of combating some of the fall-out from the Brexit collapse.

No matter how much rumination I indulge in, there is no alternative but to cough up the readies and buy in some legal advice.  We are now in the tax return season and I do have someone who has done my tax returns and in my next meeting I will start making serious enquiries about the practicalities of citizenship and will-making and all the other little bits and pieces that make for a quiet life in a foreign country!

The necessity for speed has been emphasised by the breathlessness that I experienced on returning from a shopping visit to Aldi to get the necessary stuff for Toni’s birthday meal.  I was glad that I wasn’t alone and that the fetching and carrying was shared, but I still felt exhausted on our return.  This is not good, and such exhaustion concentrates the mind wonderfully. 

Whether that leads to action, well, that’s another question entirely!