Now I’m back in Thailand I’m reading up on stories that make news fun. But in this Land of Smiles there’s always one story to wipe grins off faces. One ‘minor’ headline stirred my memory bank. “Gas tank in city van explodes in flames.”
Basically a gas fuel tank in a passenger van exploded, destroying the van and damaging nearby shops. The driver told the police that the fire broke out while he was waiting for more passengers. A busybody passenger raised the alarm and they all tried to put out the blaze. But it spread quickly. Wisely they ran away before the explosion blew them to hell. No one was hurt, which cheered me, as did the fact that the Thais were still doing quality events and explosions associated with them.
I’ve spent time in Bangkok. Back in the 80’s I was romantic to a fault about the city, using words like ‘mystical’, ‘graceful’ and ‘serene’ to describe it, casually forgetting poverty, corruption, pollution, traffic and danger. As an oriental city, Bangkok is about as serene as a chainsaw hacking through corrugated iron.
Bangkok, of course, is no Kabul but my favourite story is about a rocket slamming into a city department store. Back awhile, an aggressive ex-soldier became involved in a dispute with the owners of the store. They did not see eye to eye about the location of an unregistered motorcycle taxi business. Both parties wanted to monopolize this lucrative venture but whereas the owners might have compromised, the ex-soldier stuck to his guns, so to speak. Not interested in a negotiated peace treaty and being an ex-infantryman he decided on a frontal assault.
So there you are buying a genuine Gucci bag for buttons when, from inside his jeep, the old warrior takes aim with his trusty rocket launcher. Bang! Thais are not easily frightened and I reckon that most would carry on shopping. On the other hand, you and the other tourists, forgetting that Bangkok is to traffic what paddy fields are to rice, split for the exit and dash out into the road. Splat!
Back to the rocket launcher: the police, realising that this guy was Rambo incarnate, called in military assets. Following classic search and destroy tactics they surrounded his apartment and demanded his surrender. During the ensuing gun battle – he counter-attacked with a grenade launcher – they nailed him with overwhelming firepower.
I love this country! I remember another interesting explosion. Either poverty or opportunism caused a hundred or so Thais to descend on a truck carrying dynamite soon after it left a city road and overturned. As it started to smoke the driver knew it was time to look for another job. But the Bangkokians continued to filch the cargo. In the ensuing blast more than one hundred died: too many body parts for complete accuracy.
Bangkok’s traffic is epitomised by the curious driving habits of ordinary citizens. Take Thai motor-bikers: a sociable breed who happily accommodate extended families on two-strokes. Passengers sit where they can, hanging onto the rider or any bit of the bike they can latch on to. Kids bestride handlebars, petrol tanks, or sit on mums’ or grannies’ knees holding baby brothers or sisters. How they gurgle!
Askance, if not horrified, you look: they smile. Here comes a truck! The driver’s driven non-stop from Chiang Mai and he’s gone to sleep. Time to look away before the impending image sears your brain.
Mobile caterers push wheelbarrows piled high with portable restaurants along city roads. Living life on the edge, some position their establishments near bus stops. Good positioning: bus stops are well used in Bangkok. Unwary tourists use them because they think that’s where buses stop. True, but bus stops also serve as winning posts for the daily bus races. Another headline highlighted the problem: “Man escaped death yesterday after he was hit by bus.”
The driver admitted that while racing to be first at the stop he swerved on to the pavement, crashed into a telephone booth, a power pole and then “bumped” into a potential passenger. Competition between bus companies is fierce. Red, blue and green buses hunt down passengers aggressively then race off. I’ve seen tourists dismount, stoop forward and, pope-like, kiss the ground in deliverance. Smiling Thais gently kick-box them out of the way so that they can take the best seats in the restaurant.
You can imagine the carnage when, as everybody sits eating duck and rice with diesel fumes, a brace of competing buses collide, mount the pavement and career through the tables. No? I can.
We had a portable restaurant near our office. Located in a narrow lane it was equipped with gas and kerosene-powered barbecue facilities, as in ‘Whoosh!’ We all partook of cheap and delicious grizzled chicken, pig, prawns, fragrant rice and fresh vegetables. An adjacent business supplied bottled gas for household and industrial use. They had a variety of delivery vehicles from trucks to motorcycles. The position of the restaurant made access a challenge. Diners obliged by picking up their tables to allow bigger trucks through - cheerfully.
Well, if you can’t face poverty, hardship, monsoon floods, tsunamis, military coups and general inconvenience cheerfully, you may as well become a monk. (Easily arranged.)
One morning I arrived by motorcycle taxi - not recommended for those of a nervous disposition – to find deposits of sand, gravel and huge concrete pipes. A wooden hut - deluxe living-quarters for a cheerful bunch of flat-nosed Thais from some impoverished North Eastern province - had been erected. Sewage was the name of their game. Using steel spikes, shovels and wicker baskets they carved through tarmac and anything else to cut through to the crap.
As the trench grew in proportion to the stench, life went on. The gasmen struggled; the portable restaurant sizzled; dedicated customers giggled, and some wore facemasks between courses.
I love stoicism. I can watch it all day. My wimpy-western concerns about health and safety had long gone. Or had they? Suddenly I realised we might all be in terrible danger. If the malodorous fumes were toxic, might they not also be inflammable? What would happen if a spike hit an electric cable? What if a spark made contact with a leaking gas bottle on the back of a motorbike, just as the barbecue in the portable restaurant was being encouraged with kerosene? Would there not be one hell of a bang?
I went back to Bangkok some years later to find that the lane in which I worked had gone. But there’d been no big bang. The pipes were the harbinger of a huge block of luxury flats. A billboard offered ‘exotic views of a mystical, graceful and serenely oriental city’.
That was when I realised that instead of writing fiction I should have been an advertising copywriter.
Thursday 26 November 2009
Monday 23 November 2009
Decisions
It's true what they say about decisions; they come back to haunt us. One of the worst decisions my uncle Owen ever made was allowing me use of his green, 150cc Lambretta. Not as iconic as ‘Vespa scooter of Il Dolce Vita fame’ but quicker, he used it to go on fishing trips and to take himself to Stamford Bridge to watch ‘Chopper Harris’ do Chelsea’s dirty work.
Nagged by his wife, my sainted aunty Mavis, who took pity on me for the wretchedness of my commute from Wandsworth to Fenchurch Street in the heart of the City of London, and the fact that I was newly married and struggling, he handed it over reluctantly. When I handed it back it was a wreck. He didn’t talk to me for several years, only forgiving me as he lay on what he thought was his deathbed. After fifty-odd years of rolling his own he’d been advised to stop smoking cigarettes. Thinking the decision to stop would kill him, it nearly did.
I remember my first accident well. Steaming round a corner in Victoria during the morning rush hour I was surprised to see a bowler-hatted man in hesitation mode. I didn’t hesitate to hit the brakes but there was not enough space for the front of the Lambretta not to clobber him amidships. Down he went. Off I fell. I was even more surprised when he sprang to his feet and sprinted to the nearest pavement. How a black cab didn’t get him or I we’ll both never know. Safe on the pavement he raised his funny hat, smiled, mouthed ‘Sorry about that’ and sped off to catch his tube. Picking up the dented and scratched Lambretta I stopped cursing and drove warily on.
My best ever accident was in the evening rush hour on Wandsworth High Street. Near the town hall I was duelling with two car drivers who seemed inclined to make a sandwich out of me. As they had a weight advantage I had to brake and it was wet. Fortunately they’d both passed me when the skid maximised. Down I went. My scattergun effect on the surrounding, speeding traffic would have looked comical from the air, but God bless those London drivers. As I threaded my way through them I received nary a scratch.
The Lambretta was not so lucky. Sliding along the road and spinning like a top did it no good whatsoever. But do you know, I ventured out into the middle of the maelstrom, retrieved it, wheeled it to the side of the road and it started first time. Thinking no more about it and ignoring the slightly buckled front wheel it got me home.
The worst decision I’ve made for a while is one I made last Thursday. I decided to rent a studio in Kata, Phuket and the deal includes a new set of wheels. The connection with events all those years ago is ironic rather than iconic. The bike is a streamlined 150 cc scooter, model Mio Amore, but the name was coined in Tokyo. Yamaha make great bikes but isn’t it sad that they have to resort to lifting names that are synonymous with Italian-made two-wheelers? Well I think it is.
But it is a bike. It goes like ordure (shit) off a sharecropper’s clod buster, a sharp spade the Irish call a shovel. Nought to a hundred in about nine seconds but we’re only talking kilometres. Hills? Yes it does hills. And so far as my use of it is concerned, this is a good thing.
Do you know Kata/Karon Beach? It’s a sort of paradise. They say that James Bond rested-up here between scary trips to spiky islands where a man brandished a golden gun. Kata, Karon and neighbouring Patong can only be accessed by scary roads or by boat. To get in and out, hairy hill roads are involved, roads that look to have similar gradients to the A39, the trunk road between Devon and Somerset. The A39 features Porlock Hill and like that monster these Thai roads feature unusually explicit signs. In Thai and English they shout ‘Danger!’ ‘Slow down!’ and for God’s sake ‘Use low gear!’ What they keep to themselves is probably more important.
At this time of year, Phuket and elsewhere is subject to the prevailing north-easterly monsoon. Like typhoons blow, monsoons rain. Rain? Dear Lord, and how. But it seems to be official policy to ignore it, to act as if torrential rain was just one of those things. The fact that it can bucket down several centimetres as you cross a road seems to be no big deal. And probably isn’t. But, my dears, in my opinion the one sign that I would have liked to see, hear or feel before I biked across from Karon to Patong the other night was ‘Don’t go tonight. Change your mind. Tomorrow will be fine’.
Dear Lord, the journey of just seven kilometres was unbelievable. Dressed in light trousers and a blue, short-sleeved shirt I was as physically and mentally unprepared for danger and hardship as I have ever been in my entire life. The moment I felt the first drops bang into my face, splat onto my glasses and ping off my helmet I should have turned around and fled the scene. But no. I decided to blast on with the rest of the mainly four-wheeled traffic. Spray? I’ll say.
The downhill bits were the worst. Tarmac spread on steep slopes obeys the law of gravity and eventually slides downhill. Cracks form and widen, and I didn’t see one of them! Bang, crash, wobble, wobble, fright after fright. One thought I remember well. ‘Did I pass wind involuntarily just then or was it something worse?’
On a dry day at the bottom of the last hill before Patong there is a water feature. It has all the attributes of a permanently burst water main. On a dry day one should approach this feature with caution. On a black and super wet night one should only approach it in a military hovercraft.
Having reneged on a decision to never again drive a two-wheeler, my friends may want to know if, upon my arrival in Patong this year, whether I made a splash or not. I’m not telling until the insurance assessor has submitted his report and if my claim for a new, blue, short-sleeved shirt is approved.
Nagged by his wife, my sainted aunty Mavis, who took pity on me for the wretchedness of my commute from Wandsworth to Fenchurch Street in the heart of the City of London, and the fact that I was newly married and struggling, he handed it over reluctantly. When I handed it back it was a wreck. He didn’t talk to me for several years, only forgiving me as he lay on what he thought was his deathbed. After fifty-odd years of rolling his own he’d been advised to stop smoking cigarettes. Thinking the decision to stop would kill him, it nearly did.
I remember my first accident well. Steaming round a corner in Victoria during the morning rush hour I was surprised to see a bowler-hatted man in hesitation mode. I didn’t hesitate to hit the brakes but there was not enough space for the front of the Lambretta not to clobber him amidships. Down he went. Off I fell. I was even more surprised when he sprang to his feet and sprinted to the nearest pavement. How a black cab didn’t get him or I we’ll both never know. Safe on the pavement he raised his funny hat, smiled, mouthed ‘Sorry about that’ and sped off to catch his tube. Picking up the dented and scratched Lambretta I stopped cursing and drove warily on.
My best ever accident was in the evening rush hour on Wandsworth High Street. Near the town hall I was duelling with two car drivers who seemed inclined to make a sandwich out of me. As they had a weight advantage I had to brake and it was wet. Fortunately they’d both passed me when the skid maximised. Down I went. My scattergun effect on the surrounding, speeding traffic would have looked comical from the air, but God bless those London drivers. As I threaded my way through them I received nary a scratch.
The Lambretta was not so lucky. Sliding along the road and spinning like a top did it no good whatsoever. But do you know, I ventured out into the middle of the maelstrom, retrieved it, wheeled it to the side of the road and it started first time. Thinking no more about it and ignoring the slightly buckled front wheel it got me home.
The worst decision I’ve made for a while is one I made last Thursday. I decided to rent a studio in Kata, Phuket and the deal includes a new set of wheels. The connection with events all those years ago is ironic rather than iconic. The bike is a streamlined 150 cc scooter, model Mio Amore, but the name was coined in Tokyo. Yamaha make great bikes but isn’t it sad that they have to resort to lifting names that are synonymous with Italian-made two-wheelers? Well I think it is.
But it is a bike. It goes like ordure (shit) off a sharecropper’s clod buster, a sharp spade the Irish call a shovel. Nought to a hundred in about nine seconds but we’re only talking kilometres. Hills? Yes it does hills. And so far as my use of it is concerned, this is a good thing.
Do you know Kata/Karon Beach? It’s a sort of paradise. They say that James Bond rested-up here between scary trips to spiky islands where a man brandished a golden gun. Kata, Karon and neighbouring Patong can only be accessed by scary roads or by boat. To get in and out, hairy hill roads are involved, roads that look to have similar gradients to the A39, the trunk road between Devon and Somerset. The A39 features Porlock Hill and like that monster these Thai roads feature unusually explicit signs. In Thai and English they shout ‘Danger!’ ‘Slow down!’ and for God’s sake ‘Use low gear!’ What they keep to themselves is probably more important.
At this time of year, Phuket and elsewhere is subject to the prevailing north-easterly monsoon. Like typhoons blow, monsoons rain. Rain? Dear Lord, and how. But it seems to be official policy to ignore it, to act as if torrential rain was just one of those things. The fact that it can bucket down several centimetres as you cross a road seems to be no big deal. And probably isn’t. But, my dears, in my opinion the one sign that I would have liked to see, hear or feel before I biked across from Karon to Patong the other night was ‘Don’t go tonight. Change your mind. Tomorrow will be fine’.
Dear Lord, the journey of just seven kilometres was unbelievable. Dressed in light trousers and a blue, short-sleeved shirt I was as physically and mentally unprepared for danger and hardship as I have ever been in my entire life. The moment I felt the first drops bang into my face, splat onto my glasses and ping off my helmet I should have turned around and fled the scene. But no. I decided to blast on with the rest of the mainly four-wheeled traffic. Spray? I’ll say.
The downhill bits were the worst. Tarmac spread on steep slopes obeys the law of gravity and eventually slides downhill. Cracks form and widen, and I didn’t see one of them! Bang, crash, wobble, wobble, fright after fright. One thought I remember well. ‘Did I pass wind involuntarily just then or was it something worse?’
On a dry day at the bottom of the last hill before Patong there is a water feature. It has all the attributes of a permanently burst water main. On a dry day one should approach this feature with caution. On a black and super wet night one should only approach it in a military hovercraft.
Having reneged on a decision to never again drive a two-wheeler, my friends may want to know if, upon my arrival in Patong this year, whether I made a splash or not. I’m not telling until the insurance assessor has submitted his report and if my claim for a new, blue, short-sleeved shirt is approved.
Monday 2 November 2009
Bankers!
Banks became important to us as individuals when companies demanded that ‘we’, their employees, needed bank accounts. Putting cash in a brown, window-envelope complete with payslip had become too much trouble for them. As bankers looked at the advent of millions of deposits from captive customers they knew they’d cracked it.
From then on we had to check with our banks that our money was in our accounts. Invariably it wasn’t. We went to the accounts department and remonstrated with the bean counters. ‘My kids have to eat, so what’s the story?’ They held up their hands and cheerfully blamed the banks. They were right. It became standard practice for bankers to exploit our money for as long as they can get away with it. That’s what bankers do.
Workers did receive an envelope. Inside was a meaningless document called ‘Payslip’. Originally a simple record of money earned, the slip had morphed into a something resembling a research paper by a demented nuclear physicist. To this day, most workers do not understand what, how or why they are being rewarded and robbed at the same time.
Concerned that my ubiquitous UK high street bank did not have my best interest at heart – they failed to inform me that my savings interest rate had been lowered three times - I changed to a bank owned by Spaniards. It was no big coup on their part. I’d used all my redundancy money to buy a motor-caravan, which I then sold at a huge loss. Fearful I would be impoverished before my desultory pension kicked in, I sought a new haven for the remainder of my nest egg. Nest egg? A predatory cuckoo’s misplaced chick would have heaved it straight out of the nest with ridiculous ease.
Nothing went right. (I blame the Spaniards.) They not only duplicated the new account, they fouled up my address details. Stuff sent to my Dutch address never arrived. I made phone calls to their Customer Service department located, not in Santander, but in Pokhara, a small town in central Nepal. Wherever! An unreconstructed Maoist and I - he claimed to be an advisor – misunderstood each other. Stalemate prevailed and nothing changed until I went to the UK and kicked an underpaid English teller’s ass.
The Credit Crunch played into their hands. To my relief and their credit the Spaniards had not been sucked into the sub-prime, derivative-beribative vortex. My northern Spanish bankers were not dopey Northern rockers or nasty Lehman brethren. Off the government’s controlling hook they blew their own trumpets mightily. They’re so chuffed with themselves they’ve decided to ditch the iconic UK banks they own, electing to go public about a Spanish heritage.
If their UK banks had worthy reputations this might be a mistake. But they don’t. Indebted Britons won’t give a damn that Spaniards now control the money they don’t have. Elizabeth the First’s Protestant (and Jewish) moneylenders must be turning in their graves.
To add insult to injury caused by painfully low rates for the common man – that’s the rest of us - the Bank of England’s interest management policy serves the bankers well. They have just announced that their unworthy UK subsidiaries have made lots of money: for them. Profits are sizzling like paella in a pan. In the first nine months of 2009 they made 1.3 billion euros. Now that’s a nest egg!
Realising that the announcement sounded like gloating, when nearly 4 million heavily indebted Britons might be unemployed by the end of the same year, they had the brass neck to add a ‘oops!’ proviso: “The UK economy is still fragile.” What colossal chutzpah! Fragile? I’ll say it’s fragile. Spanish or otherwise, these people are Bankers with a capital B.
I’m off on my travels and will be forced to use their wretched debit card at ATM machines in exotic locations. I’m getting too old to carry cash around and fight whoever would relieve me of it. Did you know that banks sometimes block cards for security reasons, especially when you’re abroad and want to use them? They do. It happened to me, and guess what? You have to phone a Maoist in Pokhara and beg him to unblock it.
He’ll hum and haa, check his list and ask embarrassing questions. The one about my long dead mother’s maiden name tends to catch me out. Despite him calling you ‘sir’ you want to crawl down the line and kill him with his own Kalashnikov. Why? Because you’re paying for the call!
To avoid this blood-sucking trap I sent an email asking them to make sure that my debit card was not blocked. Two days later they replied: not ‘they’ but their automatic, standard letter reply system. Did it understand? No it did not. It merely told me how expensive it was to use their card in foreign ATM machines and that my daily limit was insufficient to feed and accommodate a cuckoo’s well-muscled chick. Next time I’m in the UK…
Bankers! Akira the Don got it right when he advised us to ‘put our fingers in the corners of our mouth and say, “Wxxkers”’.
From then on we had to check with our banks that our money was in our accounts. Invariably it wasn’t. We went to the accounts department and remonstrated with the bean counters. ‘My kids have to eat, so what’s the story?’ They held up their hands and cheerfully blamed the banks. They were right. It became standard practice for bankers to exploit our money for as long as they can get away with it. That’s what bankers do.
Workers did receive an envelope. Inside was a meaningless document called ‘Payslip’. Originally a simple record of money earned, the slip had morphed into a something resembling a research paper by a demented nuclear physicist. To this day, most workers do not understand what, how or why they are being rewarded and robbed at the same time.
Concerned that my ubiquitous UK high street bank did not have my best interest at heart – they failed to inform me that my savings interest rate had been lowered three times - I changed to a bank owned by Spaniards. It was no big coup on their part. I’d used all my redundancy money to buy a motor-caravan, which I then sold at a huge loss. Fearful I would be impoverished before my desultory pension kicked in, I sought a new haven for the remainder of my nest egg. Nest egg? A predatory cuckoo’s misplaced chick would have heaved it straight out of the nest with ridiculous ease.
Nothing went right. (I blame the Spaniards.) They not only duplicated the new account, they fouled up my address details. Stuff sent to my Dutch address never arrived. I made phone calls to their Customer Service department located, not in Santander, but in Pokhara, a small town in central Nepal. Wherever! An unreconstructed Maoist and I - he claimed to be an advisor – misunderstood each other. Stalemate prevailed and nothing changed until I went to the UK and kicked an underpaid English teller’s ass.
The Credit Crunch played into their hands. To my relief and their credit the Spaniards had not been sucked into the sub-prime, derivative-beribative vortex. My northern Spanish bankers were not dopey Northern rockers or nasty Lehman brethren. Off the government’s controlling hook they blew their own trumpets mightily. They’re so chuffed with themselves they’ve decided to ditch the iconic UK banks they own, electing to go public about a Spanish heritage.
If their UK banks had worthy reputations this might be a mistake. But they don’t. Indebted Britons won’t give a damn that Spaniards now control the money they don’t have. Elizabeth the First’s Protestant (and Jewish) moneylenders must be turning in their graves.
To add insult to injury caused by painfully low rates for the common man – that’s the rest of us - the Bank of England’s interest management policy serves the bankers well. They have just announced that their unworthy UK subsidiaries have made lots of money: for them. Profits are sizzling like paella in a pan. In the first nine months of 2009 they made 1.3 billion euros. Now that’s a nest egg!
Realising that the announcement sounded like gloating, when nearly 4 million heavily indebted Britons might be unemployed by the end of the same year, they had the brass neck to add a ‘oops!’ proviso: “The UK economy is still fragile.” What colossal chutzpah! Fragile? I’ll say it’s fragile. Spanish or otherwise, these people are Bankers with a capital B.
I’m off on my travels and will be forced to use their wretched debit card at ATM machines in exotic locations. I’m getting too old to carry cash around and fight whoever would relieve me of it. Did you know that banks sometimes block cards for security reasons, especially when you’re abroad and want to use them? They do. It happened to me, and guess what? You have to phone a Maoist in Pokhara and beg him to unblock it.
He’ll hum and haa, check his list and ask embarrassing questions. The one about my long dead mother’s maiden name tends to catch me out. Despite him calling you ‘sir’ you want to crawl down the line and kill him with his own Kalashnikov. Why? Because you’re paying for the call!
To avoid this blood-sucking trap I sent an email asking them to make sure that my debit card was not blocked. Two days later they replied: not ‘they’ but their automatic, standard letter reply system. Did it understand? No it did not. It merely told me how expensive it was to use their card in foreign ATM machines and that my daily limit was insufficient to feed and accommodate a cuckoo’s well-muscled chick. Next time I’m in the UK…
Bankers! Akira the Don got it right when he advised us to ‘put our fingers in the corners of our mouth and say, “Wxxkers”’.
Monday 26 October 2009
Calling Abdul
There’s a new political force afoot in the UK. Made up of likely lads from the ranks of football supporters and far right activists, they say they’re going to defend Brits from marauding Muslims. I need to call Abdul to see how he feels about this development.
Abdul’s still pissed off with the British National Party. And Abdul’s been around. Bin on a further education course at a chanting centre in Wazzakstan. He knows the score: knows it’s okay to criticise Christianity. As do the atheists. Safe in the knowledge that cheek-turning Christians won’t come gunning for them, some make money doing precisely that. I sometimes wish that Satanists were Christians. They wouldn’t stand for it. But we all know where we stand with Abdul and his version of Islam.
I’ve written a book about organised religion and rumour has it that I once kicked a vicar. Rubbish. I’m superstitious enough not to call Buddha a fat bas…Not that that would be a problem if I did it in front of a Buddhist. I imagine he or she would smile, safe in the knowledge that enlightenment would never enter my head no matter how long I sat cross-legged under a boa tree. But when Abdul’s around I know it’s best to rein in careless profanities directed at the Prophet, Mohammed, ‘Peace be upon him’.
Abdul has a nostalgic yen for a super-state called ‘Caliphate’. As did the Mahdi of Sudan. Remember him? He had a quarrel with General Gordon about Caliphate, which was settled with a spear. Not completely settled. Nothing much changes in Sudan.
There are about 1.5 billion Muslims and Abdul’s phalanx is lined up for a quarrel. Pretty quick to take offence over literature, art, cartoons, those deemed to insult the Prophet, ‘Peace’ etcetera, and they have no problem recruiting decapitation and stabbing specialists. Some are quite willing to obliterate non-believers by way of self-detonated bombs. Carried by the wives of close friends and directed by wealthy Bin-patrons, the easily led are cajoled into blowing offenders (and themselves) into tiny pieces. Not just offenders but bystanders. It’s indiscriminate, of course. Believers, fellow Muslims, get whacked, too.
Before killing themselves, Abdul’s bombers get to star on MeeeTube. ‘Look at meee, mamma. I’m to be martyred, so peace be upon meee. Next time you hear from meee I’ll have seduced forty virgins. Am I cool?’ Er, no, actually. You’re just a murdering little wank..Git. But I needed to better understand Abdul’s perspective and gave him a call. He’s the only bomb maker I know.
“Abdul! Not blown yourself up then? Abdul, I’ve just had a thought. Did you know that we Westerners were once in thrall to religious nutters? Yes. We used to chant like hell. We put our holy men on pedestals and did what they told us. A pope told our crusading ancestors to invade the Middle East and chop up your ancestors whilst under the protection of his blood red cross... Aah, you knew about that.
“Well Abdul, that sort of collective stupidity didn’t even last two thousand years. Like Black Death it was a sort of debilitating disease. And Abdul, what would you say if I told you that a lot of us are cured? We’ve cast off our religious yokes; the chanting has stopped and we don’t do what they tell us. So tell me, Abdul. When are you guys going to do the same?
“Never?” I paused to let him spit, curse and rant. “I see. Not until we get our crusaders out of Afghanistan and Iraq and start giving a toss about what happens in Palestine. Abdul, we didn’t like it when we went into Iraq to support the Septics, er, Americans. Millions protested. Yes. We knew it was an oil grab. We hate Big Oil...
“What do you mean you don’t believe me? Oh. You’ve been watching Jeremy Clarkson. Even you, Abdul? You think he’ll become Prime Minister of Great Britain then, to feed his habit, he’ll come after your oil. Abdul, the man’s a joke. His programme is an anachronism…Okay. That’s true. A lot of people love it and Brits are stupid enough to vote for him. Good point. But the reason I rang was to ask you if you’ve heard about our new political movement? Yes. Football supporters turned politicians. Oh. You have.
“And how. Steady on Abdul It’s just a joke. No. Not remotely funny. The thing is, Abdul, we’ve got freedom of speech over here and…Abdul?”
But he’d gone.
Heard about what the old German on the pedestal in the Vatican has been up to? Concerned that Anglican vicars can’t live with the idea of ordained gays and women becoming bishops, he’s extended the treacherous Catholic hand of friendship. After four hundred years. Strewth. This is a big deal.
‘Why not hop into your panzer – I meant your SUV. Join me here in Rome,’ is his sales pitch. ‘Weather’s great; food marvellous; communion wine from Chiantishire and you can chant all day. You’ll love it.’
The Grand Wizzer of Wazzakstan, whatever, homo-hater and confirmed misogynist, is thinking about getting in on the Anglican recruitment act. Observers expect his pitch to the vicars will be much more honest. ‘Listen. So you’re against progress and change? Peace be upon you! Come here, to the epicentre of our religion. Yes it’s hot but we’ll show you what good old-fashioned medievalism is all about. You’ll do well, if you pass the test…’
Don’t ask.
Abdul’s still pissed off with the British National Party. And Abdul’s been around. Bin on a further education course at a chanting centre in Wazzakstan. He knows the score: knows it’s okay to criticise Christianity. As do the atheists. Safe in the knowledge that cheek-turning Christians won’t come gunning for them, some make money doing precisely that. I sometimes wish that Satanists were Christians. They wouldn’t stand for it. But we all know where we stand with Abdul and his version of Islam.
I’ve written a book about organised religion and rumour has it that I once kicked a vicar. Rubbish. I’m superstitious enough not to call Buddha a fat bas…Not that that would be a problem if I did it in front of a Buddhist. I imagine he or she would smile, safe in the knowledge that enlightenment would never enter my head no matter how long I sat cross-legged under a boa tree. But when Abdul’s around I know it’s best to rein in careless profanities directed at the Prophet, Mohammed, ‘Peace be upon him’.
Abdul has a nostalgic yen for a super-state called ‘Caliphate’. As did the Mahdi of Sudan. Remember him? He had a quarrel with General Gordon about Caliphate, which was settled with a spear. Not completely settled. Nothing much changes in Sudan.
There are about 1.5 billion Muslims and Abdul’s phalanx is lined up for a quarrel. Pretty quick to take offence over literature, art, cartoons, those deemed to insult the Prophet, ‘Peace’ etcetera, and they have no problem recruiting decapitation and stabbing specialists. Some are quite willing to obliterate non-believers by way of self-detonated bombs. Carried by the wives of close friends and directed by wealthy Bin-patrons, the easily led are cajoled into blowing offenders (and themselves) into tiny pieces. Not just offenders but bystanders. It’s indiscriminate, of course. Believers, fellow Muslims, get whacked, too.
Before killing themselves, Abdul’s bombers get to star on MeeeTube. ‘Look at meee, mamma. I’m to be martyred, so peace be upon meee. Next time you hear from meee I’ll have seduced forty virgins. Am I cool?’ Er, no, actually. You’re just a murdering little wank..Git. But I needed to better understand Abdul’s perspective and gave him a call. He’s the only bomb maker I know.
“Abdul! Not blown yourself up then? Abdul, I’ve just had a thought. Did you know that we Westerners were once in thrall to religious nutters? Yes. We used to chant like hell. We put our holy men on pedestals and did what they told us. A pope told our crusading ancestors to invade the Middle East and chop up your ancestors whilst under the protection of his blood red cross... Aah, you knew about that.
“Well Abdul, that sort of collective stupidity didn’t even last two thousand years. Like Black Death it was a sort of debilitating disease. And Abdul, what would you say if I told you that a lot of us are cured? We’ve cast off our religious yokes; the chanting has stopped and we don’t do what they tell us. So tell me, Abdul. When are you guys going to do the same?
“Never?” I paused to let him spit, curse and rant. “I see. Not until we get our crusaders out of Afghanistan and Iraq and start giving a toss about what happens in Palestine. Abdul, we didn’t like it when we went into Iraq to support the Septics, er, Americans. Millions protested. Yes. We knew it was an oil grab. We hate Big Oil...
“What do you mean you don’t believe me? Oh. You’ve been watching Jeremy Clarkson. Even you, Abdul? You think he’ll become Prime Minister of Great Britain then, to feed his habit, he’ll come after your oil. Abdul, the man’s a joke. His programme is an anachronism…Okay. That’s true. A lot of people love it and Brits are stupid enough to vote for him. Good point. But the reason I rang was to ask you if you’ve heard about our new political movement? Yes. Football supporters turned politicians. Oh. You have.
“And how. Steady on Abdul It’s just a joke. No. Not remotely funny. The thing is, Abdul, we’ve got freedom of speech over here and…Abdul?”
But he’d gone.
Heard about what the old German on the pedestal in the Vatican has been up to? Concerned that Anglican vicars can’t live with the idea of ordained gays and women becoming bishops, he’s extended the treacherous Catholic hand of friendship. After four hundred years. Strewth. This is a big deal.
‘Why not hop into your panzer – I meant your SUV. Join me here in Rome,’ is his sales pitch. ‘Weather’s great; food marvellous; communion wine from Chiantishire and you can chant all day. You’ll love it.’
The Grand Wizzer of Wazzakstan, whatever, homo-hater and confirmed misogynist, is thinking about getting in on the Anglican recruitment act. Observers expect his pitch to the vicars will be much more honest. ‘Listen. So you’re against progress and change? Peace be upon you! Come here, to the epicentre of our religion. Yes it’s hot but we’ll show you what good old-fashioned medievalism is all about. You’ll do well, if you pass the test…’
Don’t ask.
Friday 18 September 2009
End of Italy as we know it?
In 2011, Italy celebrates its 150th birthday, so viva Garibaldi and his taste in red shirts. This assumes, of course, that an ecological disaster of the grandest kind doesn’t bring down this youthful country quicker than the barbarians wasted the rump of the Roman Empire.
Since the Mafia (Camorra branch, specifically) took over garbage disposal in the Naples area and created the ‘Triangle of Death’ by dumping toxic waste in a populated part of the local countryside, they’ve moved on apace. With lessons about the profitability of toxic waste disposal duly learned, they’re now using their expertise to deal with really large quantities.
Their method is simple: the stuff arrives in the Bay of Naples by ship. They take the ship back out to sea and sink it off the coast of Italy, or Greece, depending on the wind. Rumour has it that they’ll even sink ships carrying nuclear waste. It’s a dirty job…
You may have heard of Trafigura, a Dutch registered oil trading company who came up with a stunning plan to dump a shipload of pollution on Africa’s Ivory Coast. It was much cheaper solution than paying to have it processed in the Netherlands. ‘A no-brainer, according to accountants. Thus, 30,000 Ivoreans were seriously affected – sixteen died - and Trafigura’s sub-contractor got 20 years in a gaol without air conditioning, hopefully.
For Trafigura, the no-brainer may prove to be an expensive exercise in malicious irresponsibility, but not the crime against humanity that it ought to be. And there was no need for it. One call to Naples would have solved the problem and the toxic brew would now be at the bottom of the Med with all the rest.
Swordfish sandwich, anyone? Or would you prefer tuna?
Since the Mafia (Camorra branch, specifically) took over garbage disposal in the Naples area and created the ‘Triangle of Death’ by dumping toxic waste in a populated part of the local countryside, they’ve moved on apace. With lessons about the profitability of toxic waste disposal duly learned, they’re now using their expertise to deal with really large quantities.
Their method is simple: the stuff arrives in the Bay of Naples by ship. They take the ship back out to sea and sink it off the coast of Italy, or Greece, depending on the wind. Rumour has it that they’ll even sink ships carrying nuclear waste. It’s a dirty job…
You may have heard of Trafigura, a Dutch registered oil trading company who came up with a stunning plan to dump a shipload of pollution on Africa’s Ivory Coast. It was much cheaper solution than paying to have it processed in the Netherlands. ‘A no-brainer, according to accountants. Thus, 30,000 Ivoreans were seriously affected – sixteen died - and Trafigura’s sub-contractor got 20 years in a gaol without air conditioning, hopefully.
For Trafigura, the no-brainer may prove to be an expensive exercise in malicious irresponsibility, but not the crime against humanity that it ought to be. And there was no need for it. One call to Naples would have solved the problem and the toxic brew would now be at the bottom of the Med with all the rest.
Swordfish sandwich, anyone? Or would you prefer tuna?
Monday 31 August 2009
Sat-Navs and the jury
Within the last ten months I’ve had three interesting experiences with Sat-Nav users. Asked by a friend to help fetch a washing machine, he picked me up in his big French hatchback. After punching in the data off we went. Less than a kilometre from my house we were in trouble.
In spite of my protestations his Sat-Nav insisted we approach a bridge from the south, which we did. Unfortunately, at the junction duly marked, and with a strangled voice telling us to turn left, we had to decline. The bridge was 20 metres above the road we were on and because French cars don’t do steps we retraced ours.
Having used his Sat-Nav to travel halfway across Germany, another friend arrived at Utrecht by motorbike at 1400 hours. Red faced and indignant he turned up at my place one and a half hours later.
Finally, another friend used his to travel to a ski resort in Austria. It directed him to the border; the resort was but an hour away. Two hours later he phoned us. As he was unable to tell us where he was we were unable to tell him which way to go. Having bought a map, he turned up five hours later.
Monday 24 August 2009
Cricket is about balls
England regaining the Ashes reminded me of my childhood. I was hit by a cricket ball in the epicentre of my sex life when I was about thirteen years old. I thanked God I was still a soprano. From then on, having been already hit on the nose when I was nine, I became very wary of cricket balls that bounced higher than ten centimetres. If anyone asked me to be the first batsman to face a fresh fast bowler, I told them to ‘f…find someone else’.
These revelations should tell those who know nothing about cricket and say ‘it’s boring’, that saying ‘cricket is boring’ is as daft as saying ‘sex is boring’. The fact that sex is boring is obvious, to some. I know sex is boring because my agreement to participate in it is, for obvious reasons, limited, and has been since I was thirteen years old. Headaches were another problem. How I fathered two children remains a mystery to me.
‘Cricket! Lovely cricket’, has been around a long time. They say it’s been played since Tudor times, since Elizabeth 1st was Queen of England, from a time when we were kicking Spanish arse all over the globe. Had the Spanish played cricket, England may have rejected Protestantism and reverted to the Roman faith. Then again…Plus, had we English set out to conquer Europe instead of constantly protecting it from French and German tyrants and ogres, cricket could have been on a par with football.
Although we gave the World According to the British Empire, cricket, the myth about the English inventing football has now been exposed. We merely sorted it out. The Chinese were playing football before the birth of Jesus, as were the ancient Greeks, and the bloody Romans. I say ‘bloody Romans’ because there is another theory, and it is bloody.
It’s not widely known that when ancient Brits saw the Romans kicking a ball about they were impressed. So much so that they wanted to give it a try. Unfortunately, the Brits had not yet invented a ball of any shape or size and were too proud to steal one from the Romans. They had also noticed that Roman heads were very round - very round indeed - and the next time they had one available they hammered it into shape and gave it a good kicking.
The game took off. Teams painted themselves woad-blue and off-white and fixtures became commonplace. Tired of their heads being used as footballs, the Romans went back to Rome to invent corruption and took their balls with them. Throughout Britannia the great game went into decline. But it was not forgotten, especially north of Hadrian’s Wall, in a place we now call Scotland, a great place to be let out of gaol, apparently.
The Scots had noticed that since the Romans and the English Brits had been interbreeding, English heads had become increasingly round, and they took up the game enthusiastically. Having no pride they even stole the blue and white colouring scheme.
One small difference between the balls led to a great discovery. The Scots noticed that if they used The Wall to shoot against during training sessions, that unlike Roman heads, English heads tended to crack, then break. So they came up with the novel idea of wrapping them in stretched sheepskin, which made the balls last longer. They did the same thing with rotting animal guts and came up with haggis. I have to say that the Scots were canny enough not to kick haggis about. Too risky.
During one kick-about, a wrapped English head was thumped over The Wall. Their secret was out. When the English discovered that one of their own heads was encased in skin they were annoyed enough not to throw it back over The Wall, as had been the custom. Instead, they stormed The Wall and put paid to their nearest neighbour’s propensity for kicking English heads about by incorporating it, and their pretty little country, into our Empire.
By then, the English were toying with the idea of inventing proper cricket, but had not come up with a ball worthy of the game. After a few smacks with a lump of willow tree, their ball, made of cork imported from Portugal or Sardinia, went out of shape. Someone took another look at the Scottish ball…Bingo. So they wrapped their own balls in pigskin and stitched them together with chicken sinew. Now they could be battered mightily and still keep their shape. Game on.
Next week, if anyone’s interested, we’ll expose snooker balls for what they really are. Or we can talk about the Ashes. Either way, please bear in mind,
“a game is only as good as the balls with which it is played.”
Monday 17 August 2009
Life can be too easy.
Life can be too easy
In a brief, on-line self-profile, David Mitchell, author of the highly original and acclaimed 'Cloud Atlas', writes about how and why he became a writer (as one must). Headed “Japan (where he lives) and my Writing” - spelt with double t, surprisingly enough – he links the explanations to the fact that, like Hemmingway and so many of 'us', he’s an expat.
“I knew I wanted to be a writer since I was a kid, but until I came to Japan to live in 1994 I was too easily distracted to do much about it. I would probably have become a writer wherever I lived, but would I have become the same writer if I'd spent the last 6 years in London, or Cape Town, or Moosejaw, on an oil rig or in the circus?” And then he goes on to answer his own question.
In my case I would answered the question based on the fact that, since1962, I have spent almost 28 years in countries other than England. Not that I’m boasting about my long, foreign-based track record. Far from it. I must also point out that being er, several years older than David Mitchell, I have a head start.
Having lived in the Netherlands for 17 of those years I am often criticised for not having immersed myself in either learning the Dutch language fluently, or knowing (or caring) about the nuances of Dutch society. As for Dutch cuisine…What I do know is that I came to Holland to write and, importantly, I had chosen Holland for reasons of financial security. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“In Japan,” Mitchell wrote, “I am, in writer/critic Donald Richie's phrase, an alien amongst natives.” Later, “This lack of belonging encourages me to write: I lack a sense of citizenship in the real world, and in some ways, commitment to it…To date, many of my characters show the same trait. My life…is stripped down. Two reasons: firstly, my ability to read (Japanese)…is roughly on par with a 10 year-old. I get by…If it weren't for my girlfriend I wouldn't know a 'typhoon' was coming until a 'pylon' flew past my window…”
In my case, substitute ‘haring’ and ‘stink’ (just kidding, Johan!) Other than that I agree with every word.
In the final paragraph he writes, “Although my ideal future as a novelist is one of reinvention, and although I won't be in this place for good, I think this place will be in me for good.”
David Mitchell writes in Japan; sometimes about Japan. And I can relate to how he must feel about living and writing in what I suppose to be, a land of intense, vivid and endless fascination.
This is where we differ. I chose the Netherlands. Neither ‘intense’, ‘vivid’ or ‘fascination’ came come into it. As for ‘endless’…Having now written two, as yet unsuccessful ‘original’ novels since I’ve been here, it seems that my choice of country in which to write, based on sound financial security, might betray my lack of understanding of what it takes to become a successful writer. Then again, only time will tell.
Cloud Atlas is not a new book but is timeless. It's quite a read and going back to it after a while is recommended. Six, sometimes obscurely linked, stories over a vast time scale, and the shift from story to story, is challenging; as are the differing uses of the stylised English that Mitchell chooses to write them in. The end of the book found me reaching for my World Atlas and my Oxford Reference Dictionary - which can’t be a bad thing – and confirmed that my distrust of medical practitioners is more than justified.
There is an extremely detailed summary (and critique) of the book by A.S. Byatt at, http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2004/mar/06/fiction.asbyatt, which says a hell of a lot more about it than I could ever have worked out or even imagined.
In a brief, on-line self-profile, David Mitchell, author of the highly original and acclaimed 'Cloud Atlas', writes about how and why he became a writer (as one must). Headed “Japan (where he lives) and my Writing” - spelt with double t, surprisingly enough – he links the explanations to the fact that, like Hemmingway and so many of 'us', he’s an expat.
“I knew I wanted to be a writer since I was a kid, but until I came to Japan to live in 1994 I was too easily distracted to do much about it. I would probably have become a writer wherever I lived, but would I have become the same writer if I'd spent the last 6 years in London, or Cape Town, or Moosejaw, on an oil rig or in the circus?” And then he goes on to answer his own question.
In my case I would answered the question based on the fact that, since1962, I have spent almost 28 years in countries other than England. Not that I’m boasting about my long, foreign-based track record. Far from it. I must also point out that being er, several years older than David Mitchell, I have a head start.
Having lived in the Netherlands for 17 of those years I am often criticised for not having immersed myself in either learning the Dutch language fluently, or knowing (or caring) about the nuances of Dutch society. As for Dutch cuisine…What I do know is that I came to Holland to write and, importantly, I had chosen Holland for reasons of financial security. Nothing more. Nothing less.
“In Japan,” Mitchell wrote, “I am, in writer/critic Donald Richie's phrase, an alien amongst natives.” Later, “This lack of belonging encourages me to write: I lack a sense of citizenship in the real world, and in some ways, commitment to it…To date, many of my characters show the same trait. My life…is stripped down. Two reasons: firstly, my ability to read (Japanese)…is roughly on par with a 10 year-old. I get by…If it weren't for my girlfriend I wouldn't know a 'typhoon' was coming until a 'pylon' flew past my window…”
In my case, substitute ‘haring’ and ‘stink’ (just kidding, Johan!) Other than that I agree with every word.
In the final paragraph he writes, “Although my ideal future as a novelist is one of reinvention, and although I won't be in this place for good, I think this place will be in me for good.”
David Mitchell writes in Japan; sometimes about Japan. And I can relate to how he must feel about living and writing in what I suppose to be, a land of intense, vivid and endless fascination.
This is where we differ. I chose the Netherlands. Neither ‘intense’, ‘vivid’ or ‘fascination’ came come into it. As for ‘endless’…Having now written two, as yet unsuccessful ‘original’ novels since I’ve been here, it seems that my choice of country in which to write, based on sound financial security, might betray my lack of understanding of what it takes to become a successful writer. Then again, only time will tell.
Cloud Atlas is not a new book but is timeless. It's quite a read and going back to it after a while is recommended. Six, sometimes obscurely linked, stories over a vast time scale, and the shift from story to story, is challenging; as are the differing uses of the stylised English that Mitchell chooses to write them in. The end of the book found me reaching for my World Atlas and my Oxford Reference Dictionary - which can’t be a bad thing – and confirmed that my distrust of medical practitioners is more than justified.
There is an extremely detailed summary (and critique) of the book by A.S. Byatt at, http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2004/mar/06/fiction.asbyatt, which says a hell of a lot more about it than I could ever have worked out or even imagined.
Tuesday 9 June 2009
Scepticism can be Justified
Does anyone trust politicians? Of course not! But is our distrust being directed at the wrong people? Possibly. Not only do I distrust politicians, I now distrust the political process.
My reasons have nothing to do with duck islands in clean moats or about ‘flipping’ a second home or two. It’s something more basic: something to do with the fact that politicians are responsible for the business of good government, a ‘something’ that they increasingly forget.
But before I go any further I want you bear in mind that the Dutch have just made Geert Wilders an important man in Dutch politics, and sometimes it’s all about who gets elected.
Do you remember why ‘we’ were sent to make war on the Iraqis? Well, Bush ‘The Idiot’, Dick ‘The Cheney’ and Blair ‘The Christian’ wrongly believed, but couldn’t prove, that Sadam ‘The Retard’ had weapons of mass destruction (WMD). Neither could they prove that he had any links to Osama ‘Slayer of Infidels’ Bin Laden, and anyone else who happened to be in the way.
Let loose in Afghanistan to avenge the horror and ignominy of 9/11, the Americans captured an important freedom fighter called Abu Zubaydah. ‘Abu’ they asked. ‘Can you help us with the truth of the situation as we see it?’ and proceeded to interrogate him about the whereabouts of Sadam’s WMD, and about his links with Bin Laden. He shook his head twice. Those two shakes meant ‘No, he hasn’t got any WMDs’ and ‘No. He does not have links to Bin Laden, God forbid’, which truthfully answered both questions.
But then he made a mistake. An unnecessary third shake of his head – brought on by incredulity at the ignorance of his interrogators, probably - suggested he wasn’t cooperating fully. So they water-boarded him 83 times. Guess what? As he came up for air for the 82rd time he spluttered ‘yes, yes’, or something similar, which confirmed everything they didn’t need to know, and then they did it one more time, for luck.
Well-pleased with the result for completely the wrong reasons, Bush and Cheney legalised the use of torture by secretly suspending the Geneva conventions for the treatment of prisoners, as it affected America, and we set about invading Iraq with clear consciences.
In spite of all this being known and provable, neither Bush, Cheney or Tony Blair, is in gaol. Nor is there any sign that they will ever go to gaol. Having abandoned the business of good government, Bush and Cheney followed an ego-driven path by trying to make history-on-the-hoof, which is a rather Satanic way of making it. America’s reputation went into free-fall, closely followed by the economy.
Plus, less we forget, in spite of their lamentable records and failures, Bush and Blair were both re-elected. In the end, Blair, still unable to admit that the invasion of Iraq was a dreadful error, had to be prised out of Britain’s parliament by his colleagues carrying crowbars. Meanwhile Britain’s reputation for being mere pawns of the Americans had gone global. Interestingly, in a fit of pique or contrition, Blair changed his religion to the one that allows you to apologise officially to God. Who knows, he might become the next pope!
And my distrust of politicians has got nothing to do with the husband of a British minister putting two rented porn videos on her expenses sheet. When you get older it’s nice to spice up your love life and silly to row about who’s going to pay for the necessary stimuli. But speaking of politicians and stimuli, and especially about electorates re-electing unprincipled and untrustworthy politicians, let’s now focus on Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi.
What on earth drives this man and why isn’t he in gaol? I don’t believe that the concept of good government ever crossed Berlusconi’s mind. This three-time Prime Minister of Italy, less we forget, has been convicted three times for corruption and has been sentenced to two years in the slammer. He’s been found guilty of making illegal payments to Italy’s Socialist Party, including giving $12 million to Bettino Craxi to pay his expenses. Craxi was found guilty of receiving and in spite of having fled to Tunisia, was sentenced to four years in absentia.
Silvio’s two-year sentence was his third prison sentence in seven months, none of which are likely to be served. Tax fraud was one offence; bribing tax inspectors the other. Since he came back to power – one assumes the Italians keep re-electing him in the fond hope that, like Mussolini, he’s going to make the trains run on time - he’s steered laws through the Italian parliament that make the four most senior office holders in Italy immune from prosecution, which includes the office of Prime Minister, obviously.
This is helpful because a judge has recently had the temerity to suggest that Prime Minister Berlusconi’s lawyer had lied in court to protect him. This isn’t about silly porn film flimflam. There’s real meat to this story, and once again it involves the husband of Tessa Jowell, a former, fully-fledged British minister. (Where do these high-powered women find these guys? I must be using the wrong wine bars.) David Mills, he’s a, er, tax lawyer and now the former minister’s estranged husband, has been found guilty of taking a £400.000 bribe from Berlusconi, who denies having paid it.
Personally, I don’t understand why he’s bothering to deny it. He’s immune from prosecution. He’s an old man, and a spell in prison ought to be a nice break from the hassle of trying to make sense out of running Italy. Meanwhile, his wife has gone ape-shit. She seems to think that her ability to stimulate him has been out-sourced to an eighteen-year old blond. None of this seems to concern the majority of the Italian electorate. In the meantime, Italy’s reputation…Let’s not even go there.
The question I would like to pose is, do the majority of Italians even want their politicians to be interested in the business of good government?’ Did the Americans when they re-elected Bush? Did the British when they re-elected Blair? If the answer is no, no and no, then there’s something wrong with the political process.
I know it’s heresy but not only do I distrust politicians, I am sceptical about electorates and the choices they make. Geert Wilders? The British National Party? Who or whatever is next?
My reasons have nothing to do with duck islands in clean moats or about ‘flipping’ a second home or two. It’s something more basic: something to do with the fact that politicians are responsible for the business of good government, a ‘something’ that they increasingly forget.
But before I go any further I want you bear in mind that the Dutch have just made Geert Wilders an important man in Dutch politics, and sometimes it’s all about who gets elected.
Do you remember why ‘we’ were sent to make war on the Iraqis? Well, Bush ‘The Idiot’, Dick ‘The Cheney’ and Blair ‘The Christian’ wrongly believed, but couldn’t prove, that Sadam ‘The Retard’ had weapons of mass destruction (WMD). Neither could they prove that he had any links to Osama ‘Slayer of Infidels’ Bin Laden, and anyone else who happened to be in the way.
Let loose in Afghanistan to avenge the horror and ignominy of 9/11, the Americans captured an important freedom fighter called Abu Zubaydah. ‘Abu’ they asked. ‘Can you help us with the truth of the situation as we see it?’ and proceeded to interrogate him about the whereabouts of Sadam’s WMD, and about his links with Bin Laden. He shook his head twice. Those two shakes meant ‘No, he hasn’t got any WMDs’ and ‘No. He does not have links to Bin Laden, God forbid’, which truthfully answered both questions.
But then he made a mistake. An unnecessary third shake of his head – brought on by incredulity at the ignorance of his interrogators, probably - suggested he wasn’t cooperating fully. So they water-boarded him 83 times. Guess what? As he came up for air for the 82rd time he spluttered ‘yes, yes’, or something similar, which confirmed everything they didn’t need to know, and then they did it one more time, for luck.
Well-pleased with the result for completely the wrong reasons, Bush and Cheney legalised the use of torture by secretly suspending the Geneva conventions for the treatment of prisoners, as it affected America, and we set about invading Iraq with clear consciences.
In spite of all this being known and provable, neither Bush, Cheney or Tony Blair, is in gaol. Nor is there any sign that they will ever go to gaol. Having abandoned the business of good government, Bush and Cheney followed an ego-driven path by trying to make history-on-the-hoof, which is a rather Satanic way of making it. America’s reputation went into free-fall, closely followed by the economy.
Plus, less we forget, in spite of their lamentable records and failures, Bush and Blair were both re-elected. In the end, Blair, still unable to admit that the invasion of Iraq was a dreadful error, had to be prised out of Britain’s parliament by his colleagues carrying crowbars. Meanwhile Britain’s reputation for being mere pawns of the Americans had gone global. Interestingly, in a fit of pique or contrition, Blair changed his religion to the one that allows you to apologise officially to God. Who knows, he might become the next pope!
And my distrust of politicians has got nothing to do with the husband of a British minister putting two rented porn videos on her expenses sheet. When you get older it’s nice to spice up your love life and silly to row about who’s going to pay for the necessary stimuli. But speaking of politicians and stimuli, and especially about electorates re-electing unprincipled and untrustworthy politicians, let’s now focus on Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi.
What on earth drives this man and why isn’t he in gaol? I don’t believe that the concept of good government ever crossed Berlusconi’s mind. This three-time Prime Minister of Italy, less we forget, has been convicted three times for corruption and has been sentenced to two years in the slammer. He’s been found guilty of making illegal payments to Italy’s Socialist Party, including giving $12 million to Bettino Craxi to pay his expenses. Craxi was found guilty of receiving and in spite of having fled to Tunisia, was sentenced to four years in absentia.
Silvio’s two-year sentence was his third prison sentence in seven months, none of which are likely to be served. Tax fraud was one offence; bribing tax inspectors the other. Since he came back to power – one assumes the Italians keep re-electing him in the fond hope that, like Mussolini, he’s going to make the trains run on time - he’s steered laws through the Italian parliament that make the four most senior office holders in Italy immune from prosecution, which includes the office of Prime Minister, obviously.
This is helpful because a judge has recently had the temerity to suggest that Prime Minister Berlusconi’s lawyer had lied in court to protect him. This isn’t about silly porn film flimflam. There’s real meat to this story, and once again it involves the husband of Tessa Jowell, a former, fully-fledged British minister. (Where do these high-powered women find these guys? I must be using the wrong wine bars.) David Mills, he’s a, er, tax lawyer and now the former minister’s estranged husband, has been found guilty of taking a £400.000 bribe from Berlusconi, who denies having paid it.
Personally, I don’t understand why he’s bothering to deny it. He’s immune from prosecution. He’s an old man, and a spell in prison ought to be a nice break from the hassle of trying to make sense out of running Italy. Meanwhile, his wife has gone ape-shit. She seems to think that her ability to stimulate him has been out-sourced to an eighteen-year old blond. None of this seems to concern the majority of the Italian electorate. In the meantime, Italy’s reputation…Let’s not even go there.
The question I would like to pose is, do the majority of Italians even want their politicians to be interested in the business of good government?’ Did the Americans when they re-elected Bush? Did the British when they re-elected Blair? If the answer is no, no and no, then there’s something wrong with the political process.
I know it’s heresy but not only do I distrust politicians, I am sceptical about electorates and the choices they make. Geert Wilders? The British National Party? Who or whatever is next?
De Avond 4-Daagse
As mentioned in this blog entry and my comment underneath it, and in this article, the Dutch have some weird and wonderful traditions which seem totally normal to them, but which to foreigners are just plain wacky. (One that suddenly springs to mind is when shop employees say 'veel plezier ermee' when you buy something mundane like a new bin. 'Enjoy your bin'. Thanks, I'll do my best.)
This week I'm about to 'enjoy' another tradition - de avond vierdaagse. Over a thousand children and their parents from all the schools in the district go for a 5 km walk on a different route every evening for four evenings in a row. The first time I explained this to a Brit, they immediately asked "what, like a sponsored walk". Yes, just like a sponsored walk, except NOBODY IS SPONSORED. That's right, it's just for the joy of healthy exercise in the open air.
Well in fact it's just because. Because that's what we do every year. I mean it's not like children don't get enough exercise in Holland in the first place, what with 2x gym per week at school, swimming lessons (almost mandatory), other extracurricular sports (most boys seem to belong to a football club, our kids do judo and basketball) and clambering around the millions of playgrounds peppering suburbia.
Being in June, it's either pouring down with rain or the sun is baking down. The kids generally start out full of enthusiasm, but by day 2 a lot of them are fading half way round the course, and you can see a lot of sweaty dads with 6 yr olds on their shoulders, wishing they'd managed to arrange for 'essential' overtime at work...
Meanwhile what would seem to me to be a perfect opportunity to raise some serious money for charity is allowed to slip past noiselessly. Weird.
Then there are the peripheral traditions that accompany the avond 4-daagse. Last year I saw loads of children sucking on bunched up handkerchiefs. What the...? Turns out they had half an orange inside, with 3 peppermints on top of it, sealed off with a rubber band at the bottom. Ewwww. I was then told that this was an ideal 'thirst-quencher'. Yes, like leeches are the ideal treatment for disease. (The double whammy of glucose and citric acid makes me wonder if these kids have any teeth left after 4 days, not to mention all the germs they ingest after they've dropped the rags on the ground for the umpteenth time.)
Finally, on the last evening, as the group approaches the finishing point, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins and friends line the route, as if it were a marathon, and hand the children they have come to cheer on ... what do you think? Bottles of water or sport drinks? Bananas or biscuits for that last burst of energy? A toy as a reward for their efforts? No. They hand them something every child dreams of receiving - a bunch of flowers. You might be forgiven for thinking this was something some post-war civil servant dreamed up to give the Dutch flower industry a boost.
PS I got talked into volunteering to be a steward on this year's event, and I've just realised the significance of that in terms of the 'pouring down with rain' scenario. No option of staying at home and saying 'f*** it'. Looks like my integration into Dutch society will be coming one small step closer. Watch this space for updates.
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