Showing posts with label funerals. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funerals. Show all posts

Friday, October 30, 2009

Layer 213 Family, Friends, Politicians, Presidents, Expenses, Democracy, Admissions and the Age of Crappy Music



Back home after several wonderful days in gorgeous Devon, and what's new in the world? Eldest granddaughter had her 5th birthday, and a brilliant all-afternoon party attended by her parents, her uncle and aunt, her little sister and baby cousin, her cat, her guinea pigs, her mum's dog who now lives with her uncle, her aunt's new and very playful puppy, and her grandparents, one of whom was late arriving back from Devon owing to great granny not feeling very well, and of course due to the ever-atrocious traffic.

Aunt had baked a superb birthday cake, and there were cards and presents galore. One very happy and chatty little girl had a ball the whole day long. Dad had given himself a day off work for this very important occasion, which fortuitously fell during half term week. It seems more and more fathers are now questioning their work/life balance and saying to themselves that they owe it to themselves to enjoy more time with their family, especially on important occasions, as much as they owe it to their loved ones.

So what else is new in the world? I have a very dear and wonderful friend who's spending time in hospital, one who's just spent a couple of days in Paris enjoying the city in warm sunshine, and another who's just popped over to Brittany for a couple of half term days with two of his lovely daughters. I have a friend who's just getting ready to fly out to Nigeria for a month or so, another who will soon be flying out to Thailand, and another who's organising a musical soiree for a select group of friends who are willing to play and sing songs of their own choosing by way of entertaining one another. Should be interesting!

Meanwhile, ex-Home Secretary Jacqui Smith was on Question Time, showing a lot of gall for a woman who might soon find herself in court for her ludicrously false expenses claims. How come she's still an MP and still appearing on QT? Oh well, if it's OK to invite Nick Griffin . . . Although she's given an apology of sorts she still reeks of an attitude that can only be summed up as New Labour - the professional hard-faced machine politician, clinging on to a career that's in ruins, thoroughly disgraced but determined to remain in post and in the public eye. Just like New Labour.

On the same programme the ever-cuddly John Sergeant strongly endorsed Tony Blair's canditature for the EU's Presidency, which immediately signals that this is a man who's a ridiculous twat of the first order, and in truth about as cuddly as a rotund little ball of fresh doggydoo.



How many more of these supposedly intelligent commentators and politicians can't see that Bliar is thoroughly detested throughout Britain and Europe, and not just by the leftist element of the chattering classes? That he's a war criminal? That to endorse him for this high office is tantamount to signalling to the world that you're an unreformed New Labour lickspittle and a halfwit of the first order?

Gordon Brown for one. Yes, our Prime Minister, who's a well-known Blair hater, who has more reason than most to know about Blair's egomaniacal and psychopathic tendencies, has strongly endorsed Blair to be the top man in Europe. For fuck's sake, Gordo - you're in a big enough hole! Stop fucking digging! What more can this man possibly do to alert the rest of the world to the fact that he's an idiot who no longer cares about getting re-elected? Clearly he wants to completely destroy the Labour Party and to be the only New Labour prime minister never to be elected to that post. How can anyone vote for a man like Brown who clearly lies through his teeth and recommends the vile Tony Blair for the European presidency?

Timothy Garton Ash wrote an interesting column yesterday about the EU job and its potential candidates -

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/28/president-of-europe-foreign-policy

This EU job is no presidency. It will rely on another. And it won't be Blair
As any reader of the Guardian knows, many on the British left are apoplectic at the prospect, above all because of Iraq ("war criminal", and so on). So are many mainland Europeans, especially those that opposed the Iraq war.
There is, however, one who fits the bill – although he'd need some persuading to take it on. This is Martti Ahtisaari, the former president of Finland, UN international mediator and last year's winner of the Nobel peace prize. Ahtisaari has the stature, gravitas and experience for the job. An elder statesman, he would have avuncular authority with the current generation of EU heads of government. He is an excellent chair, without being even remotely chairmanic. He would be taken seriously in world capitals without anyone feeling that he was stealing their limelight. As the co-chair of the European council on foreign relations, he has already spent a couple of years thinking hard about what a European foreign policy should look like.
But it's not just about Blair, is it? Why on earth would any Europhile want a Brit to be the first to hold this high office when Britain has constantly been the backslider and the opter-out as far as Europe is concerned? Bloody hell - we've even refused to join the Euro!

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Roy Hattersley wrote a good column yesterday about the expenses scandal, in which he concluded,
The crisis of confidence in politics and politicians is not the result of Douglas Hogg claiming parliamentary expenses for cleaning out his moat. It is the product of politicians failing to debate the merits of a society in which one family lives in a moated grange while another survives in a bed and breakfast hostel.

If it becomes only possible to become an MP by making material sacrifices, there will be more conviction politicians. It is because the House of Commons has increasingly become a career, rather than a vocation, that a proportion (a small proportion) of members behave like bankers in search of a bonus.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/28/kellys-irrational-expenses-rules-appease

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Hattersley writes about financial inequality, whereas in today's paper Simon Jenkins writes about educational inequality and elitism -

Holy texts and lineage are no way to assemble state schools

The primitive barring of a child on ethnic grounds is the nadir of the pursuit of 'choice'. Pupils should go local, warts and all

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/belief/2009/oct/29/schools-admissions-labour-policy-jewish
Soon we shall cry, come back 11-plus, all is forgiven. The spectacle of the supreme court trying this week to decide whether racial purity should be the basis for admission to state education shows how close we still are to the dark ages. If I had to choose between putting my child through a test of the three Rs or trying to prove his mother's maternal bloodline, give me the three Rs any day.

The case of the London Jewish Free School (JFS), now before the supreme court, should never have been brought to trial. There is something primitive about religious adherence or ethnicity conferring privilege in state education. That this should be the result of Labour government legislation is extraordinary.

The 2006 act governing school admissions clearly states that, where a school is oversubscribed, its governors may discriminate by selecting on grounds of religion. This has driven a coach and horses through the comprehensive principle that state pupils go to their local school, as happens in most normal democratic countries.

I am against eccentricity or exclusivity being validated with public money.

It is preferable for a state school admission system to be based on locality. Schools are cohering local institutions, for richer, for poorer, and that is how admission is determined across most of the globe. If aptitude or ability are to be criteria, as was the ambition of the 11-plus, let the test be public and fair. It is not reasonable for admission to be based on parental class, background, faith or group affiliation. Those who want such schools can pay for them. Many do. It is a free country.

When I went to primary school, I went with everyone from my village.

Through the 1980s and 1990s, the discipline of local catchment eroded, as white flight sought ever more devious ways of avoiding high-immigrant inner-city schools. Successive governments introduced the concept of "choice", and middle-class parents besieged church schools as havens of collective security. These schools were oversubscribed and found themselves not chosen but doing the choosing. Admissions criteria – and covert charging – became the rage.

The pews of London churches with school nominations were soon packed with desperate parents. Others were emptied of their congregations. In 2006, the government attempted to legislate that a mere 20% of places in church schools should go to non-worshippers. By then the pass had been sold, and even that was too many for the church lobby. The minister, Alan Johnson, capitulated as, more recently, has Ed Balls. Across a third of English schools, the Labour party has handed back to the church the keys to the door of the bourgeoisie.

Urban vicars, with hundreds of desirable school places in their pockets, are the new, mostly regressive, social engineers. Their discretion is remarkable. Some allow prospective parents who go to weekend "second home" churches in the country to include this in their attendance score.

From the moment "choice of school" gained traction under John Major, the old tensions resumed.

The 11-plus was abolished because thousands of middle-class parents were enraged at being denied access to their local grammar school when a child failed the exam. That was why the Tories swore never to reintroduce it and accepted comprehensive education – until leaders arrived who had forgotten, or never known, the battles of the 1960s.

Now to have parents roaming the country looking for an ever "better" school reopens the can of worms that 11-plus selection tried, but failed, to close. Allied to the pernicious league tables, so-called choice has left popular schools and eager parents in an unholy alliance to maintain the quality of intake and reject unsuitable pupils. Both know that it is enrolment that separates star schools from sink ones.

As schools get ever more cunning in selecting bright pupils, it is easy to see what happens next. The public will protest and the government will insist on a national admissions test to promise a level playing field. It may not be called the 11-plus, but that is what it will be.

Children should go to their local school, primary and secondary, warts and all. It does not matter how a school is run, but it does matter how the state allots places in what are public institutions. Labour's crude attempt to ingratiate itself with middle-class voters has ended in a ridiculous court case. If tests there must be, let them be proper ones, not recitations of holy texts or mother's birth certificates.
Some of the comments on CiF after Simon's piece are well worth reading too.

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Seamus Milne wrote a good column yesterday with the heading,

Spying on us doesn't protect democracy. It undermines it

By branding protesters and mainstream Muslim activists as extremists, the police are effectively criminalising dissent

He concludes,
[This] is a timely reminder of the self-serving tendency to fantasy among intelligence organisations. Unleashing such people on those exercising their right to protest or take part in non-violent politics has got nothing to do with the defence of the democratic process – it's an assault on democracy.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/libertycentral/2009/oct/28/spying-doesnt-protect-democracy
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On the music front, Lynsey Hanley wrote a column in which she says this,
There are few more obvious signs to be found of the revolution in opportunities for working-class people born between 1945 and 1970 than in the backgrounds of pop stars of the period.

Pop is in danger of becoming another of the closed-shop professions that anyone without the breeding or the nous finds it impossible to enter. The charts are strewn with posh pop stars who could, frankly, have found gainful employment at the higher end of the civil service. What do Florence and the Machine, La Roux, Will Young, and Lily Allen have in common? A private education, of course, which affords them the galloping confidence and social network required to make their way in whichever field they choose to excel in.

Then there are the state-educated artists – Amy Winehouse, Adele, Katie Melua, the Noisettes – who learned the same tricks at the specialist Brit School in Croydon. The result of such fame-farming is that you end up with the Kooks when what we really need for inspiration are actual kooks.

The one bucket-educated, self-made current star who has managed to steer his way through pop's Krypton Factor course completely on his own terms, without contacts, industry polish or the aid of reality television, is Dizzee Rascal.


How can pop stars any longer be at once the great inspirers and the great transformers when, thanks to stage schools and Simon Cowell, they're subject to a weekly time-and-motion study worthy of the Model-T Ford? Most of the Top 40 is guff at the moment to anyone over the age of 15 . . .
It's good to read this total condemnation of contemporary 'pop music' from someone who's clearly not just a grumpy old man [or woman].

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/oct/28/top-of-the-pops

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And on the subject of music, try this -

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/religion/6453463/Vicar-attacks-Princess-Diana-funeral-culture-for-pop-songs-at-funerals.html

Read what Guardian readers think about it here -

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/belief/poll/2009/oct/29/religion
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Friday, June 6, 2008

Layer 50 Funerals, Fascists, Ties, Drips and Plumbers.

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I don’t know anyone who gives a damn about international motorsport, or its governing body (the FIA), or the FIA’s president, a certain Max Mosely, 68 years old son of former British fascist leader and prominent Hitler supporter Oswald Mosely. Nor does anyone I know care about Bernie Ecclestone, billionaire dwarf and egomaniacal dictator of the Formula 1 Grand Prix circus.

So why bother writing about them? I find the politics of these very wealthy individuals and organisations very interesting. This Max Mosely must be some guy. As indeed must tough guy Bernie. It’s always hilarious to see Bernie, who must be 5ft 3 and in his seventies, still with his seventies haircut, strolling around a Grand Prix grid, linked arms with some fit young amazon. Go Bernie! The Hugh Hefner of racing drivers.

To paraphrase Mrs Merton, “Tell me Miss, what is it you find so attractive about billionaire Bernie?”

Ever since he was exposed in the tabloids for his enjoyment of sado-masochistic sex with groups of prostitutes dressed as Nazis, Mosely’s sanity and suitability to be the head of an international organization has been somewhat open to question. So much so that the FIA was forced to hold a vote this week as to whether he should continue as its president.

Now I can see that it may not have been easy growing up with, and living with, the thought that your dad is, or was, a prominent Hitler-loving fascist. Especially in a country that sacrificed hundreds of thousands of lives and most of its national wealth in defeating Hitler and the Nazis.

And the idea that some old boy should use some of his wealth to purchase some harmless private fun/therapy in an SM dungeon isn’t so bad when you consider there’s no actual crime taking place and apparently no victims. Seems like some perfectly legitimate wealth redistribution. He may even have been very generous with his girls.

But it’s interesting that there were several F1 teams who have said very loudly that he should be put out to pasture, or be forced to resign, to spend more time with his Nazi whores, if that’s what he enjoys. The more vociferous and anti-Max of those F1 teams appear to be Mercedes-Benz, BMW, Ferrari, Honda and Yamaha. So that’s the entire set of the former Axis countries, Germany, Italy and Japan - lined up against fascist nutters and dictators being in prominent posts and positions of power and authority.

I don’t see this as something ironic, and I don’t suspect there’s anything hypocritical or anti-British going on here. I do think that Germany, Italy and Japan have had to go through decades of shame and self-flagellation as a result of their fascist, militaristic and brutal past. They’ve needed to think deeply about their politics, and about political systems that transgress human rights and decent human values. And they recognise that for ethical and moral reasons no-one should associate himself with even the trappings of Nazism and fascism if they wish to retain any credibility and integrity, and be considered suitable for responsible and representative roles in society.

Even a thicko like the party-loving squaddie and ‘war on terror’ enthusiast Prince Harry now gets this particular point. But not our Max, apparently. He’s decided to brazen it out, and he’s apparently got the support of the overwhelming majority of FIA members, who voted for him to remain in post. Well - better a fascist you know, whom you like and trust, than one you don’t.

What do these people require of their leader? Probity? No. Integrity? No. Though he may well have lots of these qualities, in many ways, for all I know.

People in power, for the most part right-wing rich people, mostly require their leaders and representatives to be hard-faced, stony-hearted tough guys who know how to play hard-ball in their interests. I guess Max fits the job description, and they can’t bear to let him go.

Or maybe I’m being very unfair. Maybe he’s just a very clubbable and hospitable old boy who has lots of like-minded friends with fascist leanings, friends and associates whom he’s cultivated over the years, who are standing by him in his hour of need. Sieg Heil!

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Back to synchronicity. I was listening to a news report just now about the number of men wearing ties in the US dropping to 6%. Sales of ties have apparently fallen by 50%. Those tie-wearers must be buying them by the hundred to maintain even 50% of sales, by my reckoning.

Yesterday, for the first time in months, I needed to think about ties, in order to find my black tie, to wear for a funeral. I’d forgotten where my tie collection is currently located. Literally forgotten, ever since I carried out my last domestic re-organization, all those months ago. And I’d also forgotten how many of the damned things I still have hanging around the place. I’m sure I’ll never wear more than 3 or 4 of them ever again, if that.

Time to think of 101 uses for an old tie. I reckon Max Moseley could think of a few. Or maybe I should just throw them away? But hold on. I bet there’s a new generation of youngsters coming along who will think wearing antique ties is really funky, once there have been a couple of generations who have stopped wearing them.

Maybe I’ll have a grandson one day who will appreciate grandad’s silk ties. I remember a time in the 1960’s when I was happily tie-dying and recycling my grandad’s old button-up vests! I was wearing them with pride, as shirts, thinking I looked really cool. And thinking about funerals, I must sort out my will, and put the ties into the care of a Trust.

I feel a song coming on. The Ties They Are A’Changin’. Tie Waits For No Man.

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The funeral gathering was blessed with beautiful sunny, warm weather. Everyone was able to sit out in the garden and enjoy the return of the sun. It would have been very different if we’d had the previous day’s cold, dull, wet weather.

My friend’s family are all delightful people; incredibly warm, humorous, thoughtful and civilized. It’s so interesting how the actual funeral in the morning can be so full of mourning, grief and the pain of loss, but in the afternoon, when good people who rarely see one another are gathered together en masse and able to chat and enjoy one another’s company, it becomes a completely different, a completely opposite sort of gathering, full of laughter, positive energy and high spirits. Which is how a funeral ‘wake’ ought to be.

When my three cousins lost both their mother and father within months of each other a couple of years ago I made up my mind that we should try to meet up as a group as often as possible. We’ve done it a couple of times, but not often enough. I need to get back to instigating those gatherings. I really like my extended family - my many cousins, nephews, nieces, aunts and uncles. We’re all far too ‘busy’, and we live too far apart these days, but I really don’t just want to see my family together at funerals.

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In the middle of the funeral gathering, in the middle of the afternoon, someone noticed there was water dripping through the kitchen ceiling. Immediately the cry went up, “Who’s in the bathroom? Who’s left the tap running?”

As it turned out, no-one was, and no-one had. There was no evidence at all of any water leaking or overflowing in the bathroom above the kitchen. Panic. What the hell was going on? Meanwhile the drip had turned into something much more sinister - a great sagging blister of water, threatening to burst and to collapse the kitchen ceiling. The kitchen had been the hub and the nerve centre of this food- and drink-focused afternoon.

The family carried out a quick audit of those present to see whether anyone was qualified to take charge of the situation. Nobody was. There was an electrician, but he didn’t exactly inspire confidence. “Call an emergency plumber!” “No - call the insurance company!” “Take all the food and drink out of the kitchen!” What to do?

In the event an elderly neighbour somehow appeared on the scene, an uninvited guest, armed with spanners, a stepladder, a sharp knife, bits of timber, etc. Everyone stood back deferentially. Thank God - someone with some practical skills and know-how.

We had journalists, educationalists, hairdressers, musicians, students, cabinet makers, professional fund-raisers, and lots of retired people representing other professions - all useless. I tried to make myself useful by emptying out a dustbin in the garden and positioning it under the leak.

Eventually the ceiling came down, of course, and the dustbin was at least useful for carrying away the debris, bit by bit. Maybe it was better that it happened when there were lots of family and friends around to share in the disaster, caused, as it turned out, by a badly-soldered pipe in the ceiling whose leakage had chosen this particular day to announce its long-term insidious effects.

As someone said, we’ll all look back in the future and say, “Remember the day of the funeral, when the ceiling fell down?” And laugh.

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And finally, the boy who cried wolf . . .

It turned out that one of my friend’s nephews, who’s known to be a bit of a joker and a piss-taker, a lad with lots of wild, frizzy hair, had seen some drips coming from the ceiling the previous day, and had mentioned it to his mother . . .