I have been reading Eminent Victorians by Lytton Strachey. Its first subject is Cardinal Manning, the archdeacon who converted to the Roman Catholic Church in the mid-nineteenth century, and went on to become Archbishop of Westminster.
Irrelevant to the modern age, you might say. And it's true, I did not pick up the book looking for insights into politics. But, idly reading away I was, and suddenly I could think only of the Chilcot Enquiry and Tony Blair's appearance there last week.
I would now contend that if you want to find insight into Blair's sheer chutzpah in talking about 'calculus of risk' and other such nonsense, you should look no farther than the Strachey text on Manning.
They have a few things in common. They both converted to become Catholics; they were both ruthlessly self-serving and blithely ignored facts if they did not serve them.
Here is a passage about Manning's conversion:
"The Church of England is a very commodious institution; she is very anxious to please; but, somehow or other, she has never been able to supply a happy home to superstitious egotists."
One can see, from this sentence, how Blair is a natural Catholic and bedfellow of Bush, or Clinton, or whomever happens to be President of the US.
The opening paragraph also lays bare Blair's approach to the Chilcot enquiry:
"Undoubtedly, what is most striking in the history of Manning's (or Blair's) career is the persistent strength of his innate characteristics. Through all the changes of his fortunes the powerful spirit of the man worked on undismayed. It was as if the Fates had laid a wager they would daunt him; and in the end they lost their bet."
Looking at this masterly text, it is obvious how Blair could look at the 45-minute claim, realise it referred not to long-range strategic weapons, but battlefield munitions, and then say: "I didn't focus on it a lot at the time."
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
End of the Brixton Woolworth
It's gone. Totally gone. Even though the company went bankrupt a year ago, I never thought the large red letters atop the Woolworth store in Brixton would be taken down. But they've gone.
The shop had a brief flourishing last year, going back to its roots as selling cheap plastic products, sunglasses for a pound, posters of Bob Marley, pikey fake brass beds, very very cheap women's fashions, all run by Asian traders who know more about the Woolworths five and dime tradition than anyone.
But that got closed down. Someone more upmarket, someone with a brand must have bought. Now Woolworth is closed down and boarded up. We await a boring high street store. Further gentrification. A loss of the essence.
Picture says it all.
Friday, 8 January 2010
No mercy on the bus
X68 bus this morning. Same routine. Nonstop, express, from West Norwood to Waterloo.
As opposed to the 68, which stops. This morning there was no announcement of the X-status of our bus. The notification, for the unaware, came when the bus turns towards Brixton instead of towards Camberwell.
A middle-aged Asian woman was unaware. At Tulse Hill she made enquiries to the chap reading his paper opposite.
‘Doesn’t this stop?’ she asked.
‘Not until Waterloo,’ he said, with a touch of severity. No one likes a novice. He advised her, with a generosity of spirit which eludes me on a morning, to speak with the driver.
She did so, and came back empty handed, and the bus continued to make smooth progress towards Brixton. This was the same driver who let a punter off earlier in the week. When mercy is in your hands, it is not easy to be even-handed. Perhaps the driver was an aesthete and didn’t like a middle-aged woman wearing Nike Air trainers with her winter coat.
The woman tried for information from a couple sat near the exit. ‘Does the bus stop?’
‘At Waterloo.’ At which point she muttered something to herself and gave it up.
I have to report that I was glad at this woman’s misfortune. I objected to the trainer and smart clothes combo, even for commuting on a wintry day. I objected to her not knowing. And I enjoyed the schadenfreude. As I suspect did a few other passengers on our happy, elite, bus service.
As opposed to the 68, which stops. This morning there was no announcement of the X-status of our bus. The notification, for the unaware, came when the bus turns towards Brixton instead of towards Camberwell.
A middle-aged Asian woman was unaware. At Tulse Hill she made enquiries to the chap reading his paper opposite.
‘Doesn’t this stop?’ she asked.
‘Not until Waterloo,’ he said, with a touch of severity. No one likes a novice. He advised her, with a generosity of spirit which eludes me on a morning, to speak with the driver.
She did so, and came back empty handed, and the bus continued to make smooth progress towards Brixton. This was the same driver who let a punter off earlier in the week. When mercy is in your hands, it is not easy to be even-handed. Perhaps the driver was an aesthete and didn’t like a middle-aged woman wearing Nike Air trainers with her winter coat.
The woman tried for information from a couple sat near the exit. ‘Does the bus stop?’
‘At Waterloo.’ At which point she muttered something to herself and gave it up.
I have to report that I was glad at this woman’s misfortune. I objected to the trainer and smart clothes combo, even for commuting on a wintry day. I objected to her not knowing. And I enjoyed the schadenfreude. As I suspect did a few other passengers on our happy, elite, bus service.
Tuesday, 5 January 2010
Trouble on the x68
Standard incident on the x68 this morning. We get on the bus and start our nonstop journey from West Norwood to Waterloo. After going down Tulse Hill, it becomes clear that one of the passengers realises something is terribly wrong. The 68 doesn’t go this way, it goes down towards Herne Hill.
As we descend into Brixton the man starts dinging the bell. A woman looks up from her and says, brutally, ‘it won’t stop.’ The man, a young foreigner on his way to work, in overalls, becomes anxious, and dings furiously. Everyone ignores him.
He goes to speak to the bus driver. Remonstrates with him. The driver explains: this don’t stop until Waterloo. The man dings the bell again, urgently, thinking the irritation will work better than verbal appeals.
We stop at the Brixton Water Lane lights and the driver shows mercy, and lets the labourer out. There are mutterings, glances. We don’t like that on the x68. We don’t like people being let off before Waterloo. Sets a bad example, and lets the cold air in, besides.
Still, at least the driver didn’t do the unthinkable. He didn’t let someone on. There would have been uproar if that had happened.
As we descend into Brixton the man starts dinging the bell. A woman looks up from her and says, brutally, ‘it won’t stop.’ The man, a young foreigner on his way to work, in overalls, becomes anxious, and dings furiously. Everyone ignores him.
He goes to speak to the bus driver. Remonstrates with him. The driver explains: this don’t stop until Waterloo. The man dings the bell again, urgently, thinking the irritation will work better than verbal appeals.
We stop at the Brixton Water Lane lights and the driver shows mercy, and lets the labourer out. There are mutterings, glances. We don’t like that on the x68. We don’t like people being let off before Waterloo. Sets a bad example, and lets the cold air in, besides.
Still, at least the driver didn’t do the unthinkable. He didn’t let someone on. There would have been uproar if that had happened.
Monday, 28 December 2009
Coffee shop etiquette
i spend a lot of time loafing around in coffee shops, reading books. i am a relative latecomer to this type of activity. I don't have the studied air of a frenchman or a spaniard who are born and raised in coffee shops and treat them as an extension of their home.
i cannot help but have that pub mentality. i feel absolutely obliged to have a drink in front of me or i must remove myself from the establishment. i just can't brazen it out like our friends from the continent. i know most coffee shop workers could not care less whether i stay in there without a drink in front of me: the pressure comes from within.
i am sure that plenty of British people get this. we feel like our trip to the cafe is to do something specific, and when that is done, we feel terribly out of place remaining there.
Today, there i was in one of those blank Costa coffees, in Hornchurch, reading away. i had long finished my drink, and felt not the slightest anxiety about staying in out of the cold and reading. But the moment a polite waiter / barista fellow took my cup away, the pressure of being visibly without a purchased drink from the cafe was too great. Absolutely intolerable. And so out I went.
You might ask, reasonably, why not buy another cup? Two reasons. First, I am miserly; second, two cups of coffee sends me off into psychedelic brain meltdown territory and i start jabbering like a lunatic, often to myself. This is also something the contintental coffee drinking professional does not suffer from.
Cafe culture is now a part of life in England. But can we do the continental attitude? Not quite yet, i suspect.
i cannot help but have that pub mentality. i feel absolutely obliged to have a drink in front of me or i must remove myself from the establishment. i just can't brazen it out like our friends from the continent. i know most coffee shop workers could not care less whether i stay in there without a drink in front of me: the pressure comes from within.
i am sure that plenty of British people get this. we feel like our trip to the cafe is to do something specific, and when that is done, we feel terribly out of place remaining there.
Today, there i was in one of those blank Costa coffees, in Hornchurch, reading away. i had long finished my drink, and felt not the slightest anxiety about staying in out of the cold and reading. But the moment a polite waiter / barista fellow took my cup away, the pressure of being visibly without a purchased drink from the cafe was too great. Absolutely intolerable. And so out I went.
You might ask, reasonably, why not buy another cup? Two reasons. First, I am miserly; second, two cups of coffee sends me off into psychedelic brain meltdown territory and i start jabbering like a lunatic, often to myself. This is also something the contintental coffee drinking professional does not suffer from.
Cafe culture is now a part of life in England. But can we do the continental attitude? Not quite yet, i suspect.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
The Horns Tavern, West Norwood
Coming off the x68 at west Norwood yesterday, it was pouring with rain. So, I did the wise thing and bobbed into Tesco for some Bran Flakes while it passed. I bought them and a few other bits and came outside. It was raining harder than ever and I had left my brolly at work. It was raining so hard that I took evasive action and dived into the Horns Tavern.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Sitting opposite West Norwood Station, it is well-located for me to go in for the odd pint. But in two years, I haven’t been in there. I know this sort of place. I come from Essex.
In I went. I felt the eyes of the men upon me. The regulars. Putting the hours in to make the place their own. Not encouraging of passing trade, of chaps coming in out of the rain.
The distinction between myself and the men was clear. They were dressed in bomber jackets, jeans and boots. I had on my new three-quarter length black-and-white coat from River Island that tapers to accentuate my slender frame. There were looks to my Tesco carrier bag. You don’t bring your shopping to the pub; you get your missus to go shopping.
I ordered a Guinness from the rotund woman behind the bar: the only woman in the Horns. Guinness always helps to placate men who see my somehwhat effete appearance as an affront to their masculinity. They look at me and think, ‘who’s this cunt!’ Then they see the Guinness, and somehow it acts as a tough mate, saying, ‘he looks like a poof, but he’s not; he’s drinking Guinness.’
The Horns has plenty of entertainment to keep the men amused. Like all pubs of this sort, there are tellies everywhere. There are two big screens at either end of the bar, plus a couple of small TVs, with some sort of online poker game on them. There are little control panels for people to play if they want.
A fruit machine makes its garish appeal to the drinkers. A jukebox plays rigorously heterosexual 70s rock (The Who, The Clash). There’s a pool table.
I take a seat at a table at the back of the pub, below one of the pull-down screens. As I sup my Guinness and read my book, a few details come alive. One of the men is wearing a high-visibility jacket. I’ve done plenty of jobs where you wear these jackets, but I always love to see a man asserting his manual worker status by wearing the thing to the pub. It’s a sort of perverse fashion statement.
The Horns does food. There’s a large chalkboard in the front bar, with but one offer: ‘pizza and beer £6’. An interesting concept, perhaps half-remembered from a trip to Wetherspoon’s. The only food I see consumed is pork scratchings.
One of the blokes playing pool showed the full extent of his descriptive powers. “Who’s that cunt?” he says, trying to remember someone. And then to flesh out the description he adds, “That person.” It wasn’t enough, no one knew and the conversation moved on.
When the football came on, I’d finished my drink. I had the money for another pint but decided the lure of watching Man City v Arsenal in the Carling Cup was not for me, and so wove past the pool players and the pitcher drinkers and left. It had stopped raining and I walked home merrily.
Sunday, 29 November 2009
After 'The White Ribbon'
I went to see The White Ribbon today. Went to the early showing, really early, 11.40am. Only time it was on down at the Ritzy.
It was about the right time to see a film like that. Going to the early showing gives you the rest of the day to get over it.
The film, lauded at Cannes, follows a cycle of violence and cruelty in a village in Germany about a hundred years ago. It shows the village leaders (a baron, a priest) using their authority mixed with Christian morality as a weapon with which to control and subdue the villagers. This unbending intolerance is repeated down the lines of authority, from the strongest to the weakest.
One scene of perfectly wrought unpleasantness follows another for two claustrophobic hours.
At the end of the film, the last image fades very slowly to black, and the credits roll in silence. No-one in the audience speaks. It is hard to know what to say. Everyone is agog, traumatised, hushed.
The audience pushes out of the auditorium, heads down mostly. It's not nice to look into someone else's eyes after that. You can't help thinking you might see something you had not previously noticed. Something unpleasant.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the News of the World and watching football as a sedative against the dark, Ibsen-like vision of Michael Haneke.
It was about the right time to see a film like that. Going to the early showing gives you the rest of the day to get over it.
The film, lauded at Cannes, follows a cycle of violence and cruelty in a village in Germany about a hundred years ago. It shows the village leaders (a baron, a priest) using their authority mixed with Christian morality as a weapon with which to control and subdue the villagers. This unbending intolerance is repeated down the lines of authority, from the strongest to the weakest.
One scene of perfectly wrought unpleasantness follows another for two claustrophobic hours.
At the end of the film, the last image fades very slowly to black, and the credits roll in silence. No-one in the audience speaks. It is hard to know what to say. Everyone is agog, traumatised, hushed.
The audience pushes out of the auditorium, heads down mostly. It's not nice to look into someone else's eyes after that. You can't help thinking you might see something you had not previously noticed. Something unpleasant.
I spent the rest of the afternoon reading the News of the World and watching football as a sedative against the dark, Ibsen-like vision of Michael Haneke.
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