The Worst Is Yet To Come!

 

 

 

 

Johnson’s “government” has been described as a zombie government because of their almost complete lack of interest in what is going on in the real world where the mass of the population is not taking one holiday after another as a way of forgetting about the various disasters and their pernicious legacy that twelve years of Tory misrule have inflicted on Britain.

     However, the metaphor applied to the non-existent phantom “government” of the liar Johnson is about to become reality as Trivial Truss has, according to newspaper reports, threatened to bring the “real” living dead into government by giving roles to such luminaries (in the same way that rotting meat becomes luminescent) as IDS and Redwood.  I was going to end that sentence with an exclamation mark, but after twelve years of the unthinkable becoming the ordinary it really doesn’t deserve it.

     BBC Wales never tired of showing a short clip of Redwood (they couldn’t find any real Welsh Conservatives of sufficient “presence” [sic.]) when he was Welsh Secretary, trying to sing the Welsh National Anthem.  You can see it here, with other delights of National Anthem disasters:

 

https://www.theguardian.com/politics/video/2015/sep/16/when-national-anthems-go-wrong-video

 

I am quite prepared to believe that the hapless Welsh Secretary was “ambushed” by the anthem, somebody (anybody) should have told him that the anthem was a possibility and given him a cheat sheet with the words written out phonetically.  I myself have had “a person of power” hiss at me, “Stand in front of me and sing!” when he didn’t know the words when on stage and the anthem was about to start!

     Redwood could have stood and, in spite of his habitual look of crazed alien mania, maintained a stoic stance of motionless respect but, no, the loon had to produce a performance that summed up his character, his policies and his standing in Wales and beyond!

     And now this relic from another age is seriously being considered for any position of power?  As a prominent member of the BFG (Brexit Fascists Group) aka the so-called European Research Group (where every word in their appellation is ironic or a downright lie) that in itself should preclude his admission to any responsibility more onerous than as a part-time Greeter in a failing Wal-Mart in an insalubrious district of downtown Sleezeville.  In government!  It would be a joke if it weren’t a serious possibility.

      I could go through the other putative Truss choices, but that would be far too depressing.  I will just allow one to stand for all.  Coffey is being considered for a “senior role” in the “new” (12 years of Tory Misrule So Far) government. God help us all.  I have yet to see a television interview with that person where she emerges as coherent, articulate and thoughtful.  Or indeed displaying any one of those elements.  If she is the best that we have got in the hundreds of Tory misruling MPs then we are at a depth where the term “scraping of the barrel” doesn’t give any impression of depth of shallowness that is being trawled!

 

Does anyone remember a time when the present Tory Party (TYofTM) hustings for the next leader of their discredited party was not going on?  The joke has long worn thin, and it is fairly obvious that the real title of the interminable race to confirm the downward spiral since Cameron (that titan of political acumen) should really be known as The Battle of None of the Above.  Who (even in the Conservative (TYofTM) Party actually wants either of the shameless unicorn chasers to win?

     It shows up the goldfish-like memory of Conservative (TYofTM) voters, that giving a straight choice between either of the None of the Above and the Tousled Twat, that they would prefer the lying criminal narcissist.  Says something about the lot of them.

 

 

Having spewed the bile from my body, I can report that the sun is shining, there is a cooling breeze from the fan, I have just had a refreshingly icy drink of tinto de verano and I am prepared to Do My Spanish Lesson!

The Coming Storm

 

 

          

 

 

 

 

 

Are people in denial?  Do they really think that the winter is going to be just another season?  Why isn’t there much more outrage at the threat of heat/food/accommodation poverty that IS going to take out a chunk of the population not only in the UK but also here in Catalonia?

     It is easy in an affluent seaside resort like one in which I live to see little evidence of deprivation.  The shops are open and seem to be doing well, people are coming in their drove to the beaches and exclusive new development along part of the beachfront is full steam ahead.

     And I suppose that is part of the point.  If you have money then much of the hand to mouth poverty is going to pass you by. 

     Am I going to stop plonking my bum on my expensive opera seat for the next season?  No.  Not yet. 

     But do I notice that even casual spends in the supermarket now always seem to be 100 euros and above? 

     Yes.  50 euros used to be enough to fill my tank, now it comes nowhere near.     My rent will be increased by the cost of living rise in percentage terms; my income will not.  If I wish to continue my present standard of living, then my pension will have to be augmented by dipping into my savings.  I tell myself, that savings are there to be used not to be mindlessly horded – as if I have ever had wallet that didn’t have scorch marks on it from the money burning its way through!

     I am by no means rich, but I also do not want to plead poverty.  I am aware of the increasing costs of everything and acutely aware of the diminution in the adequate provision of those social services that I have paid for throughout my life through taxes etc.

     My expectations (as a complacent Baby Boomer) are for my path through life to be relatively smooth (free education up to university level; job for life; pension; health care etc.) and I have little to complain about when I look back.  But the future is different.  Fixed income and rising costs are not good companions – and as I am reliant on my pension, government talking about the difficulties of maintaining the present levels of payment and then talk of different rates and speculation about not keeping to past rules are all things that concentrate the mind.

     The crisis of Covid was, while it was going on (and as long as you were careful, and lucky!) a fairly placid disaster.  Stuck at home, washing your hands like a fully conscious Lady Macbeth, finding ways to stay sane and waiting for things to get better.  The worry was not paying for things, but rather getting your hands on them.  It was almost as if time and the economy were in abeyance.  It was a period of waiting and hoping for something not to happen.

     That was then and this is now.  The idiocy of Brexit and its inevitable deleterious consequences; the catastrophe of the pointless invasion of Ukraine; the failure of normal politics; the lingering after-shock of Covid; the stuttering and virtual collapse of social services – a catalogue of horror and despair. 

     Yet the sun is shining and people are on the beach and in the cafes having a good time.  Because now, during the holidays, the summer holidays, is not the time to be thinking about the harsh realities that are going to hit, hard, in the autumn.

      In T S Eliot’s much quoted (and more often misquoted) “Human kind cannot bear very much reality” from The Four Quartets, he accurately summarises the tendency for us all to avoid those things that are difficult to take in or accept.  We like our dystopias and Armageddons to be narrative devices in stories or films rather than what’s going to happen in the next few months.

     We are going to have to bear it!

Pointless power

 

There is always something exhilarating about an electric storm, especially in this part of the world, as they seem (when they happen) to be the showy Drama Queens of thunder and lightning with constant flashes and histrionic rolls of thunder.  As I open the door of third floor to gain greater immediate access to the shenanigans of the weather, I am reminded of what we used to do in my first primary school.

     We were not allowed to use ball point pens, but instead we were issued with wooden nib holders and a metal nib to use the ink that was portioned out into the inkwells that were part of the desks that we used.  The inkwells had a sliding metal cover which was put in place when the ink was not being used to limit evaporation and keep things from falling in.  During thunderstorms, as we had been informed of the propensity for lightning to find a metal conduit to “earth” itself, we very carefully put pieces of blotting paper over the metal inkwell covers so that we were not electrocuted by a stray branch of lightning finding its way into our classroom.  Even though, even at that age, we suspected that a small piece of blotting paper was unlikely to be of very much help, it seemed better than doing nothing, and gave a most pleasurable sense of danger possibly prevented to liven up we already storm-excited kids.

     The storm has now passed, with the rolls of thunder being more of the distant grumbling variety rather than the window shaking type that really did buffet us just a few minutes ago.  The lightning remains, but more as distant fading flashes looking like poor theatrical attempts to try and mirror the real thing.

     A storm like the one that we have just had has an immediate legacy in this district of Castelldefels.  The name of the district is taken from the number of pine trees that abound and any storm washes off quantities of needles from the trees which, unless they are removed with expedition block gutters and drains and produce almost instant flooding.

     We have no pine trees growing in our garden, but we are surrounded by them in other gardens and so our garden is covered in needles, all of which need to be gathered up and put out on the pavement on a Friday when the organic collection of rubbish takes place and the raked debris disappears.

     I must admit that in my first year of teaching, I vividly remember a lad giving a passionate and informed talk to the rest of the class about his dad’s job in the local sewerage works.  His description of nematode worms and their essential part in dealing with waste and his simple wonder about the worth of sewerage and waste management has stayed with me through my career and beyond.

     I do find the whole logistical exercise of waste collection fascinating and I never fail to be moved and astonished by the way that it is done.

     In Castelldefels we have had a system of rubbish specific bins that are emptied on a daily basis by the use of massive lorries with a hydraulic arm that picks up each (large) bin, empties it into its appropriate section and replaces it with amazing precision when it has been emptied.  It must all be computer controlled and the lorries must cost a fortune, but it seems to work.

     I’m now typing in silence, the storm ended, and only the sound of the two fans which more than cover the sound of a very distant thunder roll.

     There are several pinch points in Castelldefels where storm water accumulates and the drainage system is inadequate in dealing with it.  As I make my way to the pool tomorrow I åshould pass at least two of them, but on the bike, it is easy to find a dry way through and not have to plough through the massive puddles.

 

 

Well, all that was last night and now its the afternoon of the next day, so to speak - and the sun is shining and the fans are on!  Ah, what a joy to live in a country where the weather is not lingeringly spiteful!

     The results of the downpour last night were obvious in the amount of leaves, needles and small branches littering the streets, pavements and more importantly gutters.

     My cycle to my morning swim was uneventful apart from the new bumps of tree litter strewn along my way, but the more spectacular even was to turn into the leisure centre and see the new lake that had formed taking over a chunk of the seating area and part of the parking area as well!     

     The attempts of the technical staff to use an electric pump to get rid of the water at first resulted in a small ornamental fountain, but by the time that I had finished my post-swim tea, the water had gone.

     As will the rest of the organic rubble as tomorrow is the leaf collection day and the little piles that have now accumulated outside our houses will magically disappear.  I hope.

     If not then our parking spaces (because some people put their tree and grass waste on the road) will be limited for another week - and not everyone obeys the rule that no waste can be put out for collection until Thursday at the earliest.

     It is very difficult not to feel resentment against those people who Take Advantage.  And what do we saintly others who obey the rules do?  Grumble a little, but actually do nothing.  I have read that some parts of the UK have draconian rules regarding the sorting of rubbish into correct receptacles, and woe betide the recidivist who makes a second mistake about the placing of egg shells: punishment is condign and expensive!  So, I'm told.

     One of the pleasure of owning a bike was the ability to ride along the Paseo and see the sea.  That is now forbidden.  It was done in stages: firstly on the narrower part of the Paseo and then extended to all of it.  And I obey the rules.

     Except, each time I come back from my morning swim, I cycle along the road which runs parallel to the out of bounds Paseo, and I ALWAYS see a few cyclists enjoying the forbidden sight of the sea.  And what happens to them?  Nothing!

     I know that I should be satisfied to do what is right and that feeling of rectitude should be reward enough.  But it isn't.  If I may paraphrase and overused saying, "It is not enough for me to do good; I must see those who do not, suffer!"

     Another character flaw I have to work on!

Real reality?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Liz Cheney is a hard-right, anti-abortion rights, climate change denier, who supported disgraced Presidential failure Trump over 90% of the time in voting, but . . .

     And at that point I shudder to a halt, thinking to myself that surely I cannot be about to make some sort of concession to a person whose entire set of political beliefs are anathema to me?  Surely that ‘but’ can only be a prelude to something like the apologists’ addendum to the characters of murdering dictators like, “he was good with children” or “he liked dogs” (and I make no excuses for the inclusion of the masculine pronoun as Lucretia Borgias are few and far between) Why would I bother to find an extenuating circumstance for me to express even a modicum of fellow feeling with a political monster?  But (!) we do share a common loathing: a detestation of the Traitor Trump.

     Anyway, back to ultra-right-wing Liz.  She has just lost her Republican nomination to retain her Congressional seat for the witlessly red state of Wyoming, where she has lost out to a Trump supported piece of political slime that believes (Does she? Really?) the Big Lie of electoral fraud in the last presidential election.  Cheney has been an “outspoken critic” (the phrase has been used enough to become a recognized tag for the woman herself) of the Trump Monster and has been especially effective in her membership of the committee looking into the traitorous armed insurrection and invasion of the Capitol.  And it has cost her. 

     No matter in her concession speech that she raised the political career of the Republican (“Who knew?” - Trump) President Lincoln whose way to the White House was anything but easy as a way of threatening a presidential (?) come back, she lost the Republican nomination in a state where her family is political royalty and where the democrats haven’t a hope in hell (or “Trump in 2024” as that demonic morass is known) of taking power- the last time they had the vote was almost half a century ago!

     Trump (or his supporters version of him) is living proof that the bigger the lie the more you can be believed as long as you are all-in to the palpable untruth.  Conway’s “alternative facts” are now the living truth, and reality is a pale imitation, easy to dismiss.

     We live in a world where IDS, Rees-Mogg, Davies, Lord (!) Snow, and other assorted freaks are not only taken seriously but are actually allowed near the levers of government.  Such trash rules and limits our lives.

     The equivalent of the American ‘Big Election Lie’ in Britain is of course Brexit.  To hear the proven liar Truss say that she was fundamentally “undecided” when she was an enthusiastic Remainer, and was terribly concerned about the future disruption from Brexit, but, “as it didn’t happen” (sic.) she has changed her mind.  This is ignoring the facts and reality worthy of Trump.  Just like the shallow Conservative MP for Dover who denied the long, long lines of vehicles waiting to enter Europe had anything to do with the changing of rules because of Brexit, the concept of Brexit being magic-unicorn-positive has become an article of faith for this generation of Conservatives, completely divorced from the various crises that Brexit has precipitated and exacerbated.

     So what role does what one might call ‘real’ politics – a politics that is motivated by coherent ideology that is based on statistics and a concern for the whole of society?

     Both Spain and Britain are glaringly unequal societies where the disparity between those who have the most and those who have the least is the most pronounced. 

     The powerful elite are protected by supine governments and a corrupt press.  People are used to a certain standard of living.  If I think back to my childhood in the 1950s then you can list the things that we did not have that would be regarded as part of normal life now, and the absence of those things would rightly regarded as some sort of poverty: television, telephone, automatic washing machine, microwave, fridge, freezer, the list goes on – most young people (and we older ones too) would go mad if they had to go back and live in the 1950s.  For me, simply the allowing of smoking anywhere and everywhere would be truly nauseating: on busses, trains, trolley busses (a happy Cardiff memory!) cinemas, restaurants, shops, and pubs, everywhere!

     People expect to be able to watch stuff on their televisions, to use the Internet and to use their mobile phones, to live a life surrounded by the electrical impedimenta of every day life.  This winter, unless something radical is done, people are going to experience the most dramatic diminution in their spending power for well over a generation.  They will not be happy – especially as they see the richest and most well protected in society being insulated from the hardships that they will experience.

     In 1848 (The Year of Revolutions) the one major country in Europe that did not have a revolution was Britain.  It has been argued that the ruling class made enough concessions to keep things just about from bubbling over and managed to retain their wealth while letting the vast majority of those who had been exploited to think that the concessions they had gained was enough, something they could live with.

     We are now getting to the stage where the cry of “Eat the rich!” is moving from fantasy to reality – the sort of reality where things actually happen.  When lies are tested by hunger and death, the bloody truth must prevail!

Liquid musing

 

 

 

 

 

 

The pool water has returned to its crystalline clarity in our local pool, but one does wonder just what “product” we have been swimming in that has been used to banish yesterday’s murkiness.  But that way madness lies, and life is too short etc etc to worry (overmuch) about such things.

     In a sign of technological spitefulness because of my forced missed swim yesterday, my smartwatch refused to record accurately my latest swim, only giving about half the meters of each length, but my internal length counter guided me to a satisfactory completion where, in spite of the evidence of the resentful watch, I think that I more than exceeded my usual lengths.

     The local pool is one of the only places in Castelldefels that can supply me with a decent cup of tea (a mixture of Earl Grey and English Breakfast) which is my reward for completing my swim.  Today, they had run out! 

     I had been prepared for this awful eventuality and took an orange juice as an alternative, but an orange juice topped up with ice cold Cava.  I have now entered that select grouping of ageing men who have alcohol first thing in the morning!  Well, not really, the orange juice was the major partner in the drink and freshly pressed too, so the Cava was more of jeu d’esprit than anything else.  Though one I could easily get used to!

    

 

I am beginning to understand that the cost of living I going to be a major problem.  Even casual shops are now costing over 100 euros.  I can still recall my parents have a serious discussion about finance after the weekly shop had exceeded five quid for the first time!  That truly was another age.

     It is difficult to think about winter when all available fans are on full strength to make the heat bearable, but with the rising cost of electricity and gas, coupled with the rise in general prices means that our minds are going to be concentrated.  Given the situations in our respective countries, I feel more secure in my adopted home of Catalonia than I would in the Conservative ridden dystopia that Britain has become.  Let us see how the future works out!

Frustration and release

 

 

 

Most days I get up at 6.15 am to get ready for my morning swim at 7 am in the local pool.  As it is August, I have the luxury of a lie in until 7.15 am as the pool opens at 8 am for that month.

     I would like to say that I feel a sense of smug satisfaction for rising so early and taking physical exercise before many people have stirred from their beds - and I suppose I do.  But, the thing is that I find it difficult to stay in bed after my accustomed rising time.  When I was working I went for a swim before work started and I have sort of continued that regime.  If truth be told, I do not really ‘lie in’ with any degree of sincerity.  At the time that I need to get up, I get up and if I try and stay in bed I feel uncomfortable.  So, my soft, musical alarm on my mobile phone goes off and I get up.

     This morning, my arrival at the pool was greeted by what appeared to be a small meeting at the gate.  It turned out that the increasing murkiness of the water in the pool over the last couple of days had prompted the technical services to Do Something and thus “product” had been added to the water, but for the “product” to work, we swimmers had to be excluded.

     The helpful message from management that the pool was closed was sent to members of the leisure centre via email at 10.10 am today, that is some two hours after we arrived to start our swim.  Sigh!

     I made the best of a bad job and decided to go for an extended bike ride from the pool to Port Ginesta, so that I could tell myself that I had kept up my morning exercise.

     Admittedly the effort of cycling those kilometres was somewhat mitigated by the fact that I have an electric bike and I make full (full!) use of its electric capabilities, but it is still exercise under the meaning of the act and as such it is duly recorded by my Smartwatch and adds to my daily PAI rating (whatever that is) – one of those acronyms linked to health and exercise that, in spite of its meaning being ambiguous (or even unknown) is something I take semi-seriously and try and maintain a rating of 100 or as near as I can get.  Because, yes.

     Not only did I go all the way to the beach in Port Ginesta, but I also went as far as the Gavà bike lane could take me in the opposite direction, which amounts to a total of 17.85 km which, even on an electric bike (for me) is quite a lot.

     Not that the electric bike is my only form of ‘personal’ transport.  The electric scooter was taken out of the boot of the car AGAIN yesterday and I used it to get to our favourite ice cream shop as a jaunt to get out of the house.

     I am not a natural bike rider, but I am semi-professional compared with my shaky progress on the scooter.  On the scooter, like a highly-strung thoroughbred horse, I am spooked by: anything other than a completely level surface, traffic, people, turns, crossings, pavements, other scooter users, hills, slopes and the state of the world.  I do not, I have to admit, exude confidence when I am a-wheel, but it is the only way that I can match Toni’s walking without having to pay the price in pain for days afterwards!

     So far, my two trips on the scooter means that I have paid 150 euros per trip, given the total cost of the purchase.  A sobering thought.

 

 

The weather is a little cooler, I think, but that doesn’t make me particularly happy.  Yes, the sort of heat that we have been experiencing has been of a different quality than in previous years, but I’d still prefer that to the cold of winter – that any diminution of heat now makes me far is almost upon us!  But that is only may paranoia speaking.  I hope.