The Great & The Good?

 

 

 

Part of the appeal of the disgraced liar of an ex-Prime Minister Johnson was that he assiduously avoided using his first name with its imperial associations of ‘Alexander’ and allowed (and urged) others to call him simply Boris.

     This morning’s Daily Mail front page has the usual sycophantic trash and concentrates on a picture of the Queen and the new Prime Minister with a bubble caption suggesting both of them said, “Hello Liz!” at the same time.  I will never use the Prime Minister’s first name and will always refer to her as “Truss”, (I like the idea of something under stress) there will be no humanising or chummyfying of this far-right ideologue who does not have the support of her MPs, the Country or Humanity. 

     She ‘won’ her election to the top political job with the roughly equivalent number of votes equal to the population of a town like Harlow in Essex. 

  

 

 

 

 

She has no real mandate and I regard her as being foisted on the people of the United Kingdom.  While the democratic [please define, Ed.] rules have been followed, she still appears to be more illegitimate a leader than even the lying buffoon because he, at least, took his beguiling mendacity to a General Election.

     But let us sift through the horror dregs that comprise her cabinet and try and find some morsels of comfort to give some sort of support for the dark days ahead.

     Well, the fact that there are two women and three politicians of colour in the top four offices of state must be something to be boosted by.  Or not.

     I still recall (with bitterness) how little for the rights of women the election of Thatcher to be Prime Minister actually achieved.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was a portrayal of genius in her Spitting Image puppet that Thatcher was portrayed as wearing trousers and standing up to pee – with her ministers saying, “I can never ‘go’ when she is there!”  Thatcher was seen as an exception not as an example.  And, much as I loathe (present tense, it will never die) Thatcher, May, and Truss look like the palest of reflections of her command of British Politics – at least her command after using the Falklands Conflict to boost her flagging popularity.

The non-white faces at the top are, Kwasi Kwarteng as Chancellor; Suella Braverman as Home Secretary, and James Cleverly as Foreign Secretary.  To have, as all the papers have pointed out, no white male in the top four offices of state is a remarkable state of affairs, and on the face of it is commendably positive, but, as with Thatcher and the position of women, it is not who you are, but what you do and achieve with being where you are that counts.

Given the past voting behaviour and statements of Kwarteng, Braverman and Cleverly there is nothing that they have done or said that encourages one to think that they are going to be role models for blacks and Asians aspiring to top jobs.  Braverman especially is a deeply problematic appointment, far from being a breath of fresh air, she seems fixated on being more ruthless than her immediate predecessor and has already reaffirmed her determination to banish some aspects of the problem of immigration to Rwanda.

These politicians will be judged on their actions and how far they are able to influence policy and produce results that mitigate some of the deep harm in our public life and public services that have been inflicted by the past 12 years of Tory misrule.

It is obviously unfair to judge them all when they have only been in post for a matter of hours but let us never forget that they have been in government for a considerably longer time – these people are not unknowns and their past voting records are available for inspection so that anyone can check and see what they have done so far and make informed judgements on their suitability for the future.

One of my friends, in talking about the present political situation, wrote, “I’m frightened!”  A fair reaction to what the Tory leader has said (and not said) in the hustings leading up to her victory.  Her lacklustre speeches since acceding to power have been less than encouraging, but we should, at all times, remember that in theory these politicians represent and serve us, the public.  If we see that our interests are not being put first by the people we pay, then we must take action!

I am fond of repeating the old observation that in the Year of Revolutions in 1848 virtually everywhere underwent a radical change to the way that they were being governed except for Britain.  The Powers That Be managed to give just enough (and freely use force) to keep revolution ‘under control’ and to maintain the status quo so that essentially everything remained the same with the power of the elites safeguarded.

In one disgusting statistic I read TODAY, it turns out that Britain has the most glaring disparity between rich and poor in Europe only outdone by Bulgaria!  And our new Prime Minister wants to use tax cuts to make this disparity even brighter!

It is difficult to know what must happen or be shown to be taking place before the population of Britain says, “Enough!”

I am conscious that I have not given my plan for action and, in truth, given the political situation in which we live, it is difficult to suggest something that says within the bounds of legality that will have real results.  I believe in parliamentary democracy and think that action must be pressure on our elected representatives.  How that ‘action’ and ‘pressure’ is defined in the key to making something positive from the dire negativity that 12 years of Tory Misrule have forced on our country.

If there is one thing to remember as a spur to action in the forthcoming months it is this: space has been found in government for Rees-Mogg, and a place at the Cabinet table for him as well!  As the litmus paper for political inanity anyone who regards him as anything other than a grotesque anachronistic deadweight, must be wrong!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We'll let you know!

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve always felt that Polonius in Hamlet has had a bad press.  He is usually dismissed as a boringly preachy busybody who voices trite truisms and is eventually killed behind the arras, and who cares?

     In my production of Hamlet, Polonius would be a master of state craft and a more intelligently Machiavellian protagonist than the fussy old father that he usually is.  I think that a lot of the advice that he gives is good and has become unattributed aphorism.  It is particularly pleasing to see that our departing Prime Minister has taken one of his homilies to his tiny little heart.

     In what is probably Polonius’s most famous utterance he says, and he prefaces it with a ranking of its importance (“This above all”) “. . . to thine own self be true” – and with his last speech Johnson has personified that dictum, by using his last public performative vomit of words as Prime Minister to lie, lie and lie again!

     His achievement of the first stage of becoming World King (i.e., Prime Minister of Great Britain and The United Kingdom) was through the lies that seeded the victory in the corrupt Brexit campaign.  Throughout his inglorious stewardship of the Government, he has lied to The Queen, Parliament (repeatedly) and The British Public – as well, of course as various lovers, friends, officials, foreigners, wives, colleagues, bosses.  Everyone, in short, with whom he has ever been in contact.

     Everything in his Last Speech was either an out and out lie, a wilful misinterpretation of accepted reality, or a shading of the truth with intent to mislead.  From his false assurance that he would retire to his plough, knowing as he did that his chosen Classical reference was to a man who was called from rusticity to public life again, to his fulsome assurance of his backing of Truss (an assertion of loyalty from a man who made an entire career out of disloyalty) his statements were, one after the other, disingenuous.

     It is remarkable that being Prime Minister during one of the most turbulent post war times has left his character untainted by any scintilla of self-knowledge.  He started the job on a lie, he has lied through his time in office, and his valedictory speech was also a pack of lies.

     His baseness is so profound that nothing, not a near death experience; unnecessary Covid deaths; divorce; marriage; birth of a child; criminality; public disgust; rejection by colleagues; degradation of Britain’s position in the world; breaking draconian rules and being found out; presiding over a cost of living crisis; threatening the destruction of The Union; breaking the law – and so on, NOTHING has been able to dent, nay, scratch his galactic self-esteem.

     His leaving speech reeked of faux humility – lauding his imaginary achievements and parading his equally imaginary victimhood; praising a woman he hopes will fail, so that he can be seen as a Bonnie Prince Charlie character, the king over the water, waiting for the call to take what is rightfully his.

     Johnson should remember that The Young Pretender’s life ended in bitterness, loneliness, drunkenness, and failure and, something that Johnson can all too easily relate to, dependent on the charity of others for his lifestyle!

 

 

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 I am building up my strength to respond to his replacement’s speech in little over an hour or so.  Toni has suggested a coffee in town and perhaps a sugar free ice cream in our favourite gelateria.  Sounds like a good way to separate myself from the political anger that is all too evident in my world view nowadays.

 

Oh, and by the way, the “to thine own self be true” continues:

 

“And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man”

 

And to be fair to Johnson, he has been glaringly true to his debased self from day 1, in his twisted world of alternative facts, the only way in which he could have been false to himself, was to have told the truth occasionally, but he had the strength of character to resist such weakness!

 

Down, down we go!

 

 

 

 

 

 

One of the creepiest speeches that I have heard delivered was by That Bloody Woman when she quoted Saint Francis on the steps of Downing Street.  Absolutely stomach churning to listen to That Hag try and pretend that selfless generosity and inclusivity was anywhere near the core philosophy of The Conservative Party – even then!

     Now we have a resident of Number 10 who probably regards Saint Francis as a twelfth century enemy of the people leftie.  With all the hesitant charm of a broken reel to reel tape recorder, The Creature Truss gave her acceptance speech to the Conservative faithful and left the rest of us thinking of just how low a country has to sink to ‘welcome’ such an inarticulate cypher as even a titular leader.

     Unless she now (tomorrow) performs a series of policy U-turns that would tax the capabilities of a F1 driver, we are going to be stuck with someone whose ideology driven wrecking will demean, bankrupt, and kill.  Someone who has lauded the concept of NOT redistributing wealth in the face of the greatest cost of living crisis since the banking fiasco; who welcomes tax cuts that benefit the wealthy as a way of EVENTUALLY helping those in dire need now; who has shown less than a scintilla of interest in the realities of Global Warming.

     I will leave it to others to list her self-serving non-achievements; her lies; her ‘flexible’ beliefs – but I am preparing myself for the real moment of truth when she takes centre stage in front of Downing Street (or inside in case of rain) and says something real about what she is going to do.

     I am steeling myself for the list of cabinet appointments, but the fact that commentators have written that Dorries and Braverman are being considered for any post in government, let alone the highest positions, without breaking down into hysterical sobbing at the Ship of Fools that will be sailing under her captaincy, is horrific.

     Let’s get one thing straight – I care about my country, and I would rather see an excrescence like Truss succeed and the country thrive than have her fail and bring the country down further than it already has with twelve years of Tory Misrule, in which, let us not forget, she has been an active and maleficent wrecker.

     Truss went out of her way in her speech to laud her ‘friend’ Johnson, her friend the lying, narcissist, criminal Johnson.  If she takes his approach to honesty and responsibility, then we are in for a very rocky couple of years before the scythe of the next general election can do its long-delayed work!

 

 

 

Optimism and other delusions!

 

 

 

 

The go-to-bed-for-a-few-hours-and-get-better approach to general feelings of cruddiness appears to have worked once again, and my swim this morning (Saturday) was conducted with the usual spirited resentfulness that characterises my approach to such mindless (but vital) exercise. 

     My 1500m were swum in my customary lane, but alas, not alone.  As the weekends have an opening time an hour later than usual, there tends to be something of a clash of ‘earlies’ and ‘laters’ which means that some lanes have three swimmers in them following a rough oblong pattern to ensure swimmer separation.

     As I swim in a lane next to the edge of the pool (with the steps jutting out a bit into the lane space) people are generally dissuaded from joining me, as there is the more than likely chance of hitting the steps on passing.  However, this does mean that if someone does join me then the swimming becomes a little more tense, as the swimmer nearer the side swerves out slightly to compensate for the obstruction of the steps and then stands a chance of hitting the arm of the swimmer going in the other direction.

     As I am something of a ‘fixture’ in the side lane early in the morning, I feel ever so slightly resentful if I am joined by someone.  Anyone.  But I tell myself, such vicissitudes are character enhancing – and it makes my eventual cup of tea and baguette even more of a just dessert.  Which prepares one for lunch.

     As we hadn’t been out for a few days (see: ill health above) we decided to go for a menu del dia in spite of the fact that the cost of these meals increases absurdly during the weekends.  One must attend to one’s little pleasures.

     My choices were: vino tinto y Casera, with ice and lemon, to drink; a first course of fideau with alioli, and a second course of galtas cooked with Cognac, the meal completed with lemon cream pie, and iced coffee – all for less than, well, even with the Euro at 86p (70p when I first came to Catalonia!) just under nineteen quid!  At the weekend!  And people ask me why I moved here!  Well, actually they don’t – and with what is going on with the so-called governance of the United Kingdom at the moment, that is hardly surprising!

     We ate outside, as the restaurant we ate in is situated at the bottom of parallel residential blocks, and that gives the paseo between them a very pleasant breeze.  The weather has changed somewhat over the last few days and the temperature is cooler – though we are still using the fans to make the temperature pleasant.  The seasons are changing, and we have been forecast to have tormentas this afternoon, though it is now going into the early evening and not a drop of rain, nor a sound of distant thunder so far!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday sees the first of the autumn season of hospital visits (as an outpatient I rush to add) and I expect little from this one, but much from the one next month.  However misplaced such hope might turn out to be!

Being rather than succeeding?

 

 

A most unsatisfactory swim today.  Not entirely my fault, because whatever Toni had yesterday that made him a little hors de combat, struck me as soon as I got up.  A slightly otherworldly feeling and a distinct disinclination to go through the necessary processes to get me to the pool for opening time.

     At first I though it could be a case of ‘sympathetic panic’ at the onset of the new school term.  Although VERY happily retired, I do share a sort of hysterical malaise at this time of the year.  Usually it passes, almost at the same time as I see active teachers going through the doors of their respective schools, but this feeling of being down took me into the morning darkness and towards my trusty bike.

     It only took a few metres, experiencing that sickening bumpiness on the back wheel, to realise that something was wrong.  A flat tyre.  And not on the front where it is easy to take the wheel off and get it repaired, but on the back wheel that has the gears and all sorts of other things that I do not mess about with.

     So, back home and putting the bike back under the tarp and going over to the car to get to the pool.  Even if not entirely well, I have a built-in rugged determination to have my daily swim!

     Which I did.  In a desultory and unconvincing way, with my even swimming extended periods of breaststroke, which is not a good sign for me as a dyed in the wool crawl swimmer.  I did do my time, if not the full number of lengths, but honour was satisfied and I drove home.  And promptly felt worse.

     Whenever I feel under the weather (giving it is glorious sunshine who isn’t under?) I take to my bed.  And I get better.  It never fails to enrage Toni, who has a much more expansive attitude to illness than I, as a few hours prone usually does the trick for me.

     As it has done this time too.  I can’t pretend that I feel 100%, but I feel more than prepared to take on the normal stresses of life without whimpering for pity.

     As is also normal during these times of unwellness, I have little to no appetite, though even as I type those words, the ‘concept’ of food is appealing, which is only one step behind getting something to satisfy what should be a growing hunger. 

     Time will tell.

 

The start of the month also opens the way for the medical establishment of Catalonia to attend to my clinical needs.  There has been something of a hiatus during the summer, but now that the first of September has come and gone, there is a feeling of ‘let’s get going’ that seems to jolly up the whole country.  I am, of course, hoping that this positive attitude will be part of my treatment in the coming months.

     The first hospital appointment I have is a scheduled one (on a rough annual basis) that is more to do with my proving to the doctors that I am alive than having anything done to me.  I will go and have my appointment (usually with a doctor coming to the end of his employment) who will look at me, voice a few platitudes and then say, “See you next year!”  With any luck.  Though he will probably have retired by the time I go back.

     The more important appointment comes next month when I will see the fabled traumatologist for the first time.   

     I am building up a truly absurd amount of hope linked to this appointment.  I know that my knees are a lost cause and that for them to be made workable, an orthopaedic surgeon will have to take hammer and chisel to them and sculpt something artificial to take the place of the bone rubbing on bone that is my present case.  

      I am also more than well aware that such ‘routine’ operations are way down the pecking order to be completed, given the pressures that have been placed on the health service by the pandemic and other financial restraints.  I also realize that the likely waiting time for the first of the two operations that I need will likely be at least eighteen months or two years away at very best.  And that, is a daunting thought, to put it mildly.

     I understand that there are stop-gap measures of injecting something (any bloody thing!) into the space where there should be a membrane separating the end of the bone, that could give relief for a month at worst and months at best.

     At the moment I am not even near being put on a waiting list, so I am looking at getting my first operation in my mid-70s!  At which point I can hear a whole chorus of younger and needier people chanting, “Let him hobble!”  And one does have some sympathy.  But that is in the abstract, and the pain in my knees is in the very real and so I hope that Something Can Be Done.

     The Opera Season will just have started before that first appointment.  I wish I could find something apposite to say about arthrosis-ridden knees and Don Pasquale (the first opera of the season) but, apart from ridiculing old age, I can think of nothing! 

     At least Donizetti’s music is lively and that should buoy up my mood!

 

Up and at 'em!

 

It may not be officially Autumn yet, but as far as my pool is concerned, the first of September marks the change from August time to normality again, and the place opens at 7 am rather than 8 am.

     For someone like myself, getting up early (usually to have a swim before work) is something that I have always done, and retirement did not alter the internal clock.  I have never found it easy or enjoyable to have a ‘lie in’, though from time to time I did attempt one, on the faulty basis that something that most people like should appeal.  It didn’t, and I continued and continue to get up early.

     I also have a fairly reliable ‘internal’ alarm clock, so that if I know that I have to get up at a particular time, I usually wake up.

     Of course, what one has to ask oneself is, “Do you make use of the ‘gained’ time?”  With an early morning swim, the ‘smug’ factor is generally speaking, built in.  After all, by 8 am (normal time) I have swum my regulation 1500m and will have started on my knee exercises.  So, by the normal start of work time, I have not only done more exercise than the vast majority of the population, but I have also had a decent breakfast and written (alas, usually inconsequential) thoughts and ideas in my notebook.  And I cycle home from the pool, by taking a detour to the end of the paseo in Gavà just for luck!  Smug doesn’t cover it!

     During the months from now, until the Spring, I will set off for my swim in darkness.  I always think that makes my cycle ride more meritorious because it is clear that most people are not up and doing, and there I am ‘exercising’ before dawn!

     If I think back to the daily commute that I made, both here in Catalonia and in Cardiff, then I am acutely aware that sometimes I arrived at my destination of work or home and had no recollection of the journey.  I didn’t crash, so some part of my brain must have been in control, but not, I fear all of it.  So, I am aware that a lone cyclist on a darkened road pre-full-on rush hour is somewhat vulnerable.

     I do, of course, wear a helmet and, rather like the feeling of going to bed without brushing your teeth, not wearing it makes me uncomfortable enough to realise that something is wrong and, it is usually only one cycle of the pedal before I return to get it.  (Or get back up and brush my teeth.) 

     My helmet also has a white light on the front and two red lights on the back; the bike has a built-in set of two LED lights, and I have added a red rear light.  There is also a further light attached to the handlebars that I sometimes use if I think the illuminated circus that is my night-time bike is not gaudy enough.  That further light was actually for another bike, but waste not want not!

     So, I can be seen.  Whether people take notice, is another question.

 

 

     

 

 

 

 On the paseo to Gavà, which is wide and well surfaced, there is a two-lane cycleway marked out with a continuous white line and stencilled bikes painted onto the road.  There is, however, no physical division apart from the miniscule layer of paint that comprises the white line.  That is very often a problem.

     I always turn on my light when I use the cycleway because it appears that a large man on a black metallic structure with big wheels is far too inconspicuous an object looming towards pedestrians to encourage the clearance of a way clearly marked for cycles.

     There is a particular sort of ‘runner’ – poor technique, inappropriate clothing, earphones and sweat – that runs exactly on the line of the cycleway, no matter that flailing arms mean that the cyclist have to swerve into the other lane to avoid the on-line runner.

     Parents with toddlers seem to think that an impenetrable shield protects their wandering young from bike riders, riding their bikes in their specific bike lanes.

     Even worse are those parents who think that their children who are too young to walk properly are more than qualified to use those sort of hobby-horse self-propelled bikes in the same lane as adult cyclists, presumably on the half-arsed half-understood principle of a Gertrude Stein approach of “a bike is a bike is a bike” and “we are all equal in the bike lane” or some such rubbish.

     Some dog owners seem to be vindictively stupid.  I mean those who have their creatures on the end of the infinitely extendable leads so that where the owner is and where the dog is sometimes seems to be more random than anything else, and yards of lax lead is an ever-present problem.

     I am more than prepared to admit that cyclists are not perfect in the way they use the roads, and their use and abuse of the cycle lane is also something to be condemned as they weave in and out, invade pedestrian space, turn without warning, and stop and chat in the middle of the bikeway.

     I suppose if you are a cyclist, you do realise that the inconsideration of car drivers, while irritating can also, easily, be fatal! 

     So, I keep my lights on when, as with the paseo, cyclists and pedestrians are in close contact. 

     I take to heart the words of the great superstore philosopher, and wear a helmet, cycle with consideration, and use my lights, because “Every Little Helps” and I like life.