Category: Politics

Tales From a Village

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The exodus from our cities to a rural idyll seems to be more popular than ever. People even endure six or more hours of commuting, just to finally come home to their dream home in the stix.

What images does living in the countryside conjure up? Roses around the cottage door? A Labrador or two spread out in front of the Aga, perhaps? Friendly rustic types popping round with home reared honey and eggs? Above all, you would expect a bit of peace and quiet, wouldn’t you?

Some years ago, my husband and I moved from Leeds to a small, East Yorkshire village, to escape the rigours of city life and enjoy a more relaxed atmosphere. A row of twelve old chalkstone houses had been modernised and we moved into the end house. The village’s claim to fame was the Great Flood of 1888, when it’s said that a grand piano and also several pigs were swept away down the streets. Imagination conjured up an image of a pig, perhaps playing the piano as it sped to its doom.

Inclement weather could still have an impact, as winter power cuts were quite common. Sometimes, the village could be cut off entirely, to the delight of the local school children who enjoyed a day’s sledging instead of lessons. One year, an RAF helicopter had to drop supplies onto the village green.

We came to realise that it was actually easier to go for long walks in the countryside environments in and around Leeds than it was around our village. We were surrounded by farmers’ land and there wasn’t much public access. When there was, you had to keep your dog on a lead. We began to envy Londoners who lived near the freedom of Hampstead Heath.

There were two shops, one pub and one bus a day to the local market town. Apart from church and PTA functions and the Women’s Institute, entertainment was at a minimum, though rumours of wife swapping were rife. A mobile library called, which tended to sway like a storm tossed canoe, as you were trying to choose a book   It was debatable whether the literature on offer was worth the inevitable sea sickness.

Peace and quiet was the last thing we got. It was soon apparent that the local fly boys liked nothing better than to terrify the life out of us by skimming over our chimney in their fighter jets, making a noise that made your head burst and your windows rattle. Also, there was a coach depot opposite the houses, by the name of Riley’s, which only had a few coaches pottering about when we moved in but then seemed to breed overnight. Suddenly, there was a whole fleet of them – clapped out, rusty wrecks that limped home on a wing and a prayer. They had the contract for the local school run, often breaking down part way. The kids were even asked to get out and push on one occasion.

You really took your life in your hands if you trusted one to get you to Scarborough. Remarkably, a coach trip did manage to go all the way to London. A resident from the village happened to be walking down Regent Street on a sightseeing holiday in the capital, when the sound of a dodgy exhaust made her turn around. Sure enough, there was a Riley’s coach struggling up the road, belching fumes all the way. Periodically, they would light a gigantic bonfire of old, unwanted tyres. The acrid smoke spread throughout the village and the indescribable smell lingered for ages. You couldn’t hang your washing out that day.  We were usually woken by the revving of an engine, which was the driver making it warm and cosy, while he went to eat a three-course breakfast; that’s if the cockerel or bird song didn’t wake us first or the merry church bells ringing at eight in the morning.

Sometimes, people would have long conversations at six in the morning directly underneath our bedroom window. It was tempting to throw a bucket of cold water over them. At night, dogs would be constantly barking and I would just be dropping off when the big, hairy man at No. 8 would start calling his cat in for the night, with a high pitched “Twinkle, Twinkle”. There was also the hooting of the owls, the roar of boy racers on motorbikes and the shouts of the returning revellers from the village pub at chucking out time. Just to ice the cake, there was a pig farm in the centre of the village, which was fine unless you were down wind.

As for neighbours, the small community seemed to attract eccentrics in disproportion to the population. Across the road, in the aforementioned coach depot, there was an old man whose name no one could pronounce. Inexplicably, everyone called him Albert. He was from Estonia and he had been a POW in the nearby camp during World War Two. After the war, he dared not return to his homeland for fear of being shot as a traitor, having fought for the Germans. He worked on the coaches as a mechanic and was rewarded with a wooden hut to live in, in the yard alongside where the coaches were parked. This was just a step up from homelessness. The owner of the coach firm had unlawfully rigged something up that tapped his own electricity supply into the mains. It was an all mod cons hut. The coach firm has since, unsurprisingly, gone bust and they built posh houses on the site. I bet Albert is still there, defiant in his hut with his flag of independence raised, surrounded by commuting yuppies.

Beatrice was a pensioner who lived alone but liked to talk to herself and dressed up like a femme fatale from the French Resistance, complete with caked-on stage make up and a beret worn at a jaunty angle. Taking her dog for a walk involved dragging her reluctant little terrier behind her, but she wouldn’t let her cat out because the sunlight might damage its fur. It used to sit on the window ledge and look outside, forlornly. Her favourite hobby was going to people’s funerals, regardless of whether she had known them or not. This was an opportunity to really dress up. Her son was a famous television presenter, whom she persuaded to open the Village Fete one year. This was done in great haste. He couldn’t escape quickly enough, not even stopping to sample the homemade rhubarb and ginger jam.

Then there was Bill and Doreen. Bill, a Brummie, who would engage you for hours, if you let him, in a discourse on the internal combustion engine and the performance of his latest banger and Doreen who made all the neighbours cringe in terror. Her temper was legendary and caused me to hide until the coast was clear. They too had dogs. Doreen’s favourite rant was “Act your age, not your shoe size”. One was never sure if this was directed at Bill or the hapless dogs. Early one morning, after a skinful, Bill fell down the stairs and landed in the fish tank, which sat at the bottom of the staircase, breaking the glass as he did so. There was water and fish everywhere. It was later reported that as he lay bleeding and concussed, Doreen completely ignored him and calmly rescued the fish. This incident passed into village folklore.

They kept a couple of goats, which were once savaged by Jack, a huge St. Bernard who resided at No. 5 with Steve and Julie. He was a lovely old thing, continuously salivating, partial to stealing eggs, downing Mars Bars and swallowing the odd child here and there (Jack, not Steve). Doreen’s father, however, who was staying with her at the time, took great exception to this attack on his daughter’s livestock. It all ended in an unseemly brawl between himself and Steve as they rolled around the garden.

Steve and Julie were ardent vegetarians but seemed to live on a diet of veggie burgers and chips. If Julie couldn’t be bothered scrubbing, which was more often the case, she would throw a saucepan in the bin and simply buy a new one. She was quite friendly to me, trusting me to lend her countless cups of sugar, onions, eggs, etc. However, this did bring its rewards. She did not replace these items but instead, felt so beholden to me as to shower me with gifts. I got a nice pair of eggcups from Habitat, a new colander and a smashing Delia Smith cookbook. Julie would pack her bags once a fortnight and leave Steve. You could set your watch by it. She always returned, to burn more saucepans and borrow more sugar.

Steve was a builder and had a shiny red pickup truck. There was a wood pigeon, which had taken a shine to all our gardens, eating up everyone’s seedlings in the process. Steve kindly volunteered to remedy this. Not by shooting it; they were vegetarians after all but by driving it far away and releasing it. He didn’t drive far enough. It kept coming back. He took it further and further away. Three times. Finally, the fourth trip was successful, just when we thought we’d have to put it on the train to Inverness.

Speaking of pigeons, it soon became apparent to us that life is too short to pluck one. One day, a man with a shotgun appeared at our back door. He was an acquaintance of ours and he’d brought an offering of a brace of pigeon. We were rather taken aback. It turned out he wanted to help us poor city folks with a bit of country goodness. We thanked him very much. Unfortunately, he took this politeness to be a sign that more pigeons would be welcome. It takes hours to pluck a pigeon. It’s the most tedious chore on Earth and you end up with a teaspoon of meat for your effort. A dry and tasteless teaspoon as well. But those pigeons kept coming. Thankfully, our benefactor moved out of the village. Or did my husband load him into Steve’s pickup and send him far away?

Watson’s fulfilled the traditional role of the corner shop. Everything under one roof. Unless you wanted basic food items (not counting the rotting bananas in the window). You couldn’t get garden peas; they only had processed. You couldn’t get tinned peaches either – “There was no demand for them”. But you could get prunes, string and amusing books written in the Yorkshire dialect.   They had a one and a half hour lunch break and always shut for two or three days during bank holidays. The youngest son of the family was the village milkman and delivered every other day. He liked his bank holidays off too, which meant that he delivered a double order sometimes. One morning, we were met with eighteen bottles of milk on the doorstep.  We worked out that the milk, which was frequently sour, had last seen a cow seven days previously. It was being transported from Leeds, where people got their milk nice and fresh!

What you couldn’t get at Watson’s, you could possibly buy from the various provisions vans that toured the villages.  There was always a long queue at the butcher’s van. George had his scales and his till in the back of the van, where incredibly everything he weighed was “just a bit over”. He was a jolly soul, until his wife ran off with his brother, resulting in bitter diatribes against her and all women in general, which his customers had to listen to, while they waited for their sausages.

There was a general feeling of insulation there. Some elderly people had literally never been further than a six-mile radius, perhaps just visiting the nearby market town occasionally. There was a ‘them and us’ attitude towards newcomers. Remarkably, this tiny place had French and Dutch residents and a gay couple that were all much more accepted than people from West Yorkshire. Wessies, as we were affectionately called, were the most unwelcome. My husband was once accused in the pub of coming to take “our jobs and our women”. You weren’t considered a proper villager until you had three generations in the graveyard, but in fact, the incomers actually contributed to the life of the village more than most.

Beautiful, peaceful countryside, full of people living in harmony, enjoying nature’s bounty?  Forget it. It was too much stress for us; we went back to Leeds for some peace and quiet. And fresh milk.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Voters Reject Prop 29 for Good Reason

50.8% of California voters have decided against Prop 29, which would have raised the tax on a pack of cigarettes in the state by a $1. The vote was close, but in anti-smoker California this signifies a sea change in public opinion: People are beginning to realize that regressive taxation against a minority is wrong. Skeptics rightfully charge that this money would not have gone towards cancer research for smokers by rightfully pointing to the fiscal track record that tobacco control has already left for us to examine. The truth is that the money extorted from smokers has never gone towards cancer research (for smokers), nor has it ever gone towards the research of reduced risk tobacco products. Lung cancer continues to be amongst the deadliest of cancers, not because its trajectory is so much more deleterious in its nature as compared to that of other forms of cancer, but for lack of funds in eradicating the disease due largely to prejudice. Of all cancers, lung cancer receives the least amount of federal funding in the United States, even though smokers are singled out with the highest rates of taxation. Cigarettes are the highest taxed commodity in the United States. Furthermore, smokers pay more into the system than the cost of smoking related diseases, but are denied funding for the very research that we continue to pay for many times over.

This trickery and embezzlement in the name of public health has been propelled upon the unwilling with a swift and unwavering force ever since 1998 when the Master Settlement was called into action. The Master Settlement Agreement was supposed to have been enacted for the purpose of covering the Medicaid costs of treating smokers. Instead what we have witnessed has been the outright theft perpetrated against a group that has been unable to defend itself. For example, many government officials and bureaucrats have been borrowing against future tobacco bonds (to go into the general fund and “other” needs, such as parks and the purchase of undeveloped land) in cash strapped states such as, surprise, California. California Watch, a government watchdog group, has uncovered some startling facts about California’s love of tobacco money:
Rather than waiting for annual payments, the state and some local governments decided to borrow money against their anticipated future revenue. All told, they’ve issued $16 billion in bonds since 2001.
Could it be that the state of California, via Prop 29, was looking for yet another way to tax smokers into oblivion in order to cover the debt that has been incurred by reckless state bureaucrats who borrowed against future smoker money? Nah….. That would be too cynical, right?
In December, California had to dip into its reserves to cover bond payments.
They’re in debt to future tobacco bonds! How could they borrow our money to spend on other things without our permission? That is supposed to be our money! But, but…MSA money was for the treatment of sick smokers on Medicaid…Yeah, right…and pigs fly and all politicians, special interest groups and lawyers are honest; only tobacco companies lie; and as for the people most affected, well, we don’t exist.
As the state’s finances worsened, officials went back to investors.

Yes, you have read that right: There are people who invest in MSA money. Isn’t that just lovely? For the love of righteousness and justice, I can’t fathom how this could be a legal endeavor. The very people who have kicked us smokers to the curb (under the false premise that we’re a financial burden to society) are investing in the very commodity that they profess to hate. It makes one think that there is something putrid abound, as we smokers are denied the very benefits that we have already paid for. I want to know why we have been denied the lifesaving research that has been paid for several times over. I don’t expect that we’ll get an honest answer to that question any time soon.

I have a striking suspicion that there is a dark and pernicious force in action with the intent of keeping all tobacco products as dangerous as possible in order to justify the continued extortion. The damage done to smokers goes far beyond that of punitive taxation, for any government backed industry that borrows against “sin” taxes is an industry that stands to lose revenue when new and novel reduced risk products are introduced into the marketplace.

Saving the lives of smokers does not appear to be profitable for some. The prohibitionist “quit or die” approach put forth by modern day tobacco control movement is merely a thinly disguised veil for its true intent, which is to abolish and bury any alternative measures (like tobacco harm reduction) that may actually work to save the lives of millions while respecting the sovereignty of individuals and nation states everywhere. For those among us who don’t believe that this accusation carries any merit, I would like to provide unbelievers a mere glimpse into the window of modern science and tobacco harm reduction, which happens to be rife with empirical information that is irrefutable:

It is already possible to eliminate the carcinogenic nature of combustible tobacco cigarettes by 90%. There have been many studies and cigarette models developed which prove this to be the case; many more models are being studied as I am typing this commentary. Of course, none of us have had the pleasure of hearing about these revolutionary discoveries from our public health officials or via the nightly news. This proves that if Prop 29, the MSA, as well as that of all tobacco taxation, were really about the health of smokers, then existing tobacco tax codes would instead ensure that a significant proportion of tobacco taxes go towards reducing the harm(s) caused by active smoking via the marketing and production of future harm reduction products and that of those reduced risk tobacco products that already exist:
Scientists have tried to make safer cigarettes in the past. Haemoglobin (which transports oxygen in red blood cells) and activated carbon have been shown to reduce free-radicals in cigarette smoke by up to 90%, but because of the cost, the combination has not been successfully introduced to the market.
..”Because of the cost”… What about all of that tobacco money that smokers have been coughing up at the local, state, and federal level for all of these years? Clearly, there is enough money to save the lives of many smokers. Nicotine replacement therapy (ie., patches and gum) has a 90+% failure rate. Here we have (thanks to the brave scientists who continue to study harm reduction) access to the knowledge that could actually work by lowering the risk of smoking related disease(s) by 90%, yet it is ignored by the very people who purport to care about public health. Not having the access to and the knowledge of these advancements is an outrage and a violation of human rights. Smokers are dying while politicians and bureaucrats stuff their pockets whilst golfing on the green-grass-manicured lawns that dead and dying smokers have paid for.
Haemoglobin and activated carbon cigarettes should already be on the market (and we should know about it, as well as that of other reduced risk cigarettes such as those who utilize anti-oxidants). Here is another such development listed below:

Using natural antioxidant extracts in cigarette filters, the researchers were able to demonstrate that lycopene and grape seed extract drastically reduced the amount of cancer-causing free radicals passing through the filter.
I’m only approaching the tip of the iceberg here, for there have been many more such studies which have shown how various anti-oxidants can be used to reduce the harms caused by active smoking. I have many of them listed on my blog.
There is no reason why smoking has to continue to be nearly as dangerous as it has been up until the present. This is the 21st century after all. It is clear that the health of smokers has been sacrificed on the altar of heavy taxation and greedy hands. What we need are massive reforms to current tobacco taxation laws, not more taxation to feed a broken system. Smokers deserve to have a say in these much needed reforms. No one wants to be “unhealthy” after all, and no one deserves to die for lack of funding and prejudice. Some of us are aware of the scientific advancements that have been made and we rightfully would like to be the benefactors of such inventions.
Prop 29 failed for a reason: it was an egregious attempt to beat up on an already bruised and battered minority. People from all walks of life are beginning to question the tactics of the anointed anti-tobacco establishment as a result. It is my hope that all similar attempts in the future will fail, and not only in California.

The Super Di Duper Magical Cat Flying Machine

I think that all of us will have heard about the helicopter cat created by the Dutch artist Bart Jansen. So far we have had reactions from outrage, to shock, to rambunctious applause. But what do we think of the cat really?

Animal rights protest
What some people thought he did.

First of all, let’s get the story out of the way. The story is that Mr. Jansen’s cat was run over by a car. So naturally that made him into a pancake cat. So the pancake cat would have normally being buried with much sadness and despair. Instead of this, Mr. Jansen had a wonderful idea: he decided to make his cat into a flying helicopter by stuffing him and attaching motors. He can now be controlled by remote control, as well as being able to fly around the room and scare small children.

So this was then posted onto the wonderful world of the Internet and then it went viral and here we are. Major news stations like the BBC and CNN, as well as newspapers like the Daily Mail, are picking it up and there are now talks of selling it. In fact, there’s a bid of 100,000 Euros on the table for the whole thing; although I wouldn’t touch it personally as knowing my luck I’d end up buying it and then the Euro would collapse making it completely worthless.

The Dutch government hasn’t taken helicopter cat as well as everybody was hoping though, as it has written to a number of arts fairs in protest. A number of irritating activists have also put graffiti over some art buildings that says: “Kill the animal killers!” (in Dutch obviously) Now, I can’t help but see the logical flaw in this statement. Firstly, he didn’t kill Orville the cat, he merely did what any taxidermist did, and then arguably went too far. Secondly, what are they going to do? Are they going to start attacking drivers of cars who accidentally run small, furry animals over? I highly doubt it.

Daffy Duck

Idiots aside, is helicopter cat ethical? My answer is that it’s ethical because what we have to remember is that the cat was dead. He didn’t kill his cat or damage it in any way. He merely had it stuffed then altered it. Stuffing a family pet is common practice all over the world and few people complain about it. So what’s wrong with this? Is it due to the fact that Orville had a motor added to him? Or is it due to the fact that some people are just jealous of success in this sort of thing? I believe that it’s a combination of both.

Whenever something becomes really successful there are always those who complain about it. These people are miserable and just love to complain about nothing. They are always there and they should be completely ignored. Now, the subject of adding a motor to the cat is a little more genuine. I can completely understand the view from animal lovers that it’s a bit disrespectful to the cat. Completely understandable and I’m not going to fault people for that.

Whatever you happen to think about Orville the cat, on a motor, you all have to agree that it’s pretty damn creative and is an amusing distraction from the monotony of daily life.

Giving Prisoners The Vote?

The UK is apparently fighting a losing battle to prevent inmates from gaining the right to vote in general elections. The European Court of Human Rights, which ruled back in 2005 that the UK’s longstanding blanket ban on prisoner voting was “unlawful”, recently reiterated its ruling and gave Britain six months to set the relevant wheels of compliance in motion. Failure to do so could result in hefty legal costs for the government, but complying with the ECHR’s decision is certain to get MPs a-grumblin’ – particularly in view of last year’s motion opposing the ruling, which passed with support to the practically unanimous tune of 234 votes to 22 and no doubt caused ministers a headache when attempting to explain this response to Strasbourg. David Cameron made things no easier, being quoted as saying that the very idea of prisoners being allowed to vote made him feel “physically ill”. The PM’s delicate stomach notwithstanding, this is an interesting debate and by no means a clear-cut issue.

Now, I’m sure this is a naive and simplistic view, but I thought that prisons were where societies put people who had revealed themselves to be incapable of behaving according to a general set of rules upheld by the majority, and who were therefore required to be temporarily removed from that society until deemed fit to re-enter, with such terms being determined in accordance with the nature and severity of their crime. Not being a legal expert, I nevertheless hope that this is an adequate enough summation for the purposes of this article.

It is a notion held by many individuals that, if a member of society breaches the rights of others with their actions, they should in turn have their own rights impinged upon in some way. This would seem to be the main function of correctional facilities – and, in the view of many people, the overriding purpose of such. So, would it not logically follow that those who have removed themselves from society and forfeited certain rights – such as the rights to walk around unhindered and live in a house – also lose their right to add their opinion to the way in which that society is run? Seems straightforward enough.

But there’s a reason I used the term “correctional facilities” just then. For the overwhelming majority, prisons are also institutions in which inmates may be (and often are) rehabilitated, in order that they can at some point rejoin society and become productive members thereof. For those serving shorter sentences, those showing genuine remorse and a willingness to reform, those due for imminent release… shouldn’t they have the right to be included in the business of shaping the society they’re going to be rejoining?

Justice Secretary Ken Clarke, somewhat unsurprisingly, had an interesting view on the matter, and prior to last year’s vote on the motion to oppose the European ruling had urged MPs and ministers to not contest the decision. However, the main thrust of his argument seemed to be that, if the UK did not comply, it would face costly compensation claims brought by prisoners – did MPs really want to risk having to explain to their constituents why exactly so much taxpayer money was being paid out to criminals? Better to just comply with the ECHR’s decision, Mr Clarke suggested – voting is a right that prisoners “probably wouldn’t bother to exercise if we gave it to them.” Given that voter turnout for the 2010 General Election was only 65%, he may have a point. (Labour activist Emma Burnell, blogging on TotalPolitics.com, argues for voting to be compulsory, like jury duty. She may have a point, too.) As an update to Mr Clarke’s opinion, the ECHR has said that, if the UK removes its blanket ban and agrees upon a set of criteria by which some prisoners will be allowed to vote, then it will dismiss the 2,500 or so human rights cases currently being brought by UK inmates, thus protecting the UK from the otherwise likely risk of paying compensation to such complainants. Quite an incentive to comply, I think.

However, it seems that the ban on prisoners voting is one of those issues that has garnered cross-party agreement – Ed Balls has said that the ECHR’s ruling was “the wrong thing” and that Labour will support any action by the Coalition to oppose the decision (after all, it was Labour that was in power when the landmark judgment was initially passed). I would almost hope that politicians’ reticence is merely an indignant, knee-jerk reaction to Europe attempting to force a change in UK law – the alternative is that no senior political figures in our country consider those incarcerated in our prison system worthy of basic rights. The vast majority of prisoners will be returning to society sooner or later – some of them following a term of wrongful imprisonment, such as the recently released Sam Hallam, who spent over seven years in jail after a miscarriage of justice saw him wrongfully convicted of murder. Wrongful convictions are far more common in the UK than we would like to believe and, due to their often routine nature, rarely make the news. The right to vote, as with other rights debated in a court when a person has broken the law, should be decided on an individual basis – tarring all criminals with the same no-vote brush is akin to suggesting that a petty thief is as bad as a serial killer. In short, it is simply not fair.

Our legal system has long been in need of an overhaul; perhaps the perceived inference of the European court is necessary for change in the UK. How to apply the ruling in practical terms, however, is going to be complicated, and balancing the requirements of the ECHR with the wishes of our MPs is sure to be a delicate and longwinded task.

Eurovision? More like Euro-schism

This year’s Eurovision song contest cements an image of Europe that’s quite simply fed up with the United Kingdom and its arrogance.

As Scott Mills preceded to introduce his country’s votes to over 100 million people, and its subsequent hosting of the Olympics, he was met by a less than enthusiastic reaction, where other nations received mountains of applause at a mere mention of the name. Was this a lack of passion on our part, or that of Europe’s? Either way, it epitomised our toxic bilateral relationship with the continent, our condescending apathy and their bemused disgust at our inflated sense of self.

When our own charismatic stallion Engelbert Humperdinck finished a dismal but half-expected second from last place, Brits across the country would’ve been regurgitating the same ‘bloc voting’ crap that seems to resurface every year. But most embarrassing of all was the stark contrast between Humperdinck and winner Swedish dance ‘Loreen’, a woman who if not for her Nordic inflection could’ve been a Hoxton music babe, straight from a trendy bar with an upcoming collaboration with Tinie Tempah or the like. There’s an overwhelming feeling that the Swedes have beat us at our own game – spinning a half decent tune: wasn’t melodic pseudo-classy dance music meant to be our thing? Obviously not.

That’s not to say Sweden isn’t a European musical genius, far from it. Sweden has for a while been the ‘cool kid’ of the continent, a self-image dictated by the sense of pride an act like ABBA can bring you if all you’ve got is IKEA and Vikings for your national exports. In fact, behind us and the United States, with over 800 million dollars in revenue, Sweden is the third largest music exporter in the world – our showing at this year’s Eurovision did nothing to cement our deserving of the world’s Silver Medal in music.

Then again, take away Engelbert and there’s still a bucketload of reasons why not to vote for the world’s first proper imperial nutjobs. While the countries of the European Union see themselves in the globe’s largest ever financial crisis, there’s one thing that draws a wedge between us and our neighbours. While we see the impending financial and political disaster as a cue to head for the figurative door, the majority of the continent see it as nothing less than a stimulus for an ever closer fiscal and political union. We are fundamentally opposed to this idea, both in popular opinion and in our national politics. To us, one would rather gouge out its own eyes with Jedward’s abrasive personalities than see a future strapped to the backseat of a European death trap. Not only do Europeans know this, but they do not like it either.

For them, this exact way of thinking is nothing more than a remnant of our own bloated feeling of worth and importance, a staple to the very image that a word like ‘British’ conjures. It’s no wonder the phrase ‘Inselaffe’ (Island Monkey) is the conventional German term for an inhabitant of this country, an acknowledgment of our skewed view on just how far our blustering  isle lies from the continent’s coastline. While our national insults for the Europeans range from a less than innovative nod to their eating habits (Frog-Eaters for the French, Krauts for the Germans) to a half-century old political legacy that still gives us a juvenile feeling of historical moral superiority (Nazi Scum anyone?) – their insults reflect an unpopular and arrogant political sentiment that has become a cornerstone of our identity on a continent that is characterised by its ideology of ‘togetherness’. And for the rest of them? It’s well known us Brits know just as much about the patchwork countries of Europe as we do about American “Football” – fuck all.

So next Eurovision, when we proceed to match our dismal performance at the world’s biggest song contest and follow it with a tirade of “it’s all political voting”, remember, it’s hardly fair to expect a Slovenian to remember your nation’s stone age ballad when you can’t even remember its capital city – and capital cities don’t change every year, unlike Eurovision entries. Well, apart from Jedward.

 

 

A Question of Sport Sponsorship

On Saturday 19 May, at 11.30am (or thereabouts), the Olympic Flame was borne down the central street of Falmouth, a small but busy student town in Cornwall. The golden torch was held aloft by Gavin Cattle, captain of Cornwall’s only professional rugby team, the Cornish Pirates. The street was lined both sides with excited spectators; police officers had their work cut out just trying to keep people out of the path of approaching vehicles. The air of anticipation was palpable, yet restrained, as we Brits are wont to be.

With half a dozen others I watched the proceedings from the first-floor window of a flat on the main street, which afforded front-row seats, as it were. (Well, front row and up a bit. You could say we were in the Gods, in fact. I’m sure the original Olympians would have approved.) I had been feeling cynical about the Olympics (cynical? As a Londoner, I’ve been positively dreading it), but sitting here, looking out at the smiling faces in the sunshine, I had to grudgingly admit to feeling a little bit excited – feeling as though I were about to witness history.

The Olympic torch was scheduled to pass by our window at 11am, but (as is common with such events) it turned up a little later than expected. It probably could have reached us a good few minutes earlier, however, had Mr Cattle not been preceded by the Games’ ridiculous sponsorship entourage, comprising The Coca Cola Bus (replete with weary employees waving half-heartedly and shouting “Woo!”), the Samsung wagon, the BMW contingent, the Lloyds TSB truck, and several other vehicles marked simply “London 2012”, each bearing their own little glut of grinning, waving who-are-theys. The torch-bearer, bless ‘im, bringing up the rear, was almost an anticlimax by comparison.

My earlier cynicism was back. I could’ve sworn the Olympics was supposed to celebrate athletic excellence, not capitalist might…? We had gathered at this window to watch one of 8,000 honoured members of the British public take part in the Torch Relay, which was meant to be a way of saying that it is Britain, not just London, that is hosting the 2012 Olympics. To be blunt, what the blue hell does Coke have to do with that?!

I realise the Games is a massive event and that the money to pay for it has to come from somewhere, but these huge displays of corporate wallop are tacky and embarrassing. One of my friends pointed out that the small British flags being handed out during the procession had Samsung branding on the reverse, and opined that America, for example, would never dare deface its own flag in the name of corporate sponsorship. (The Cornish flags among the crowds were unadorned, by the way.) I’m not particularly patriotic, but I must admit, my friend had a point. However, as the Olympic Games is itself a brand (we all know the five rings logo), I doubt that we’ll ever see a return to Olympics free from intrusive corporate content. Perhaps I should just be glad that the money still exists to fund the Games. I just wish that the sponsors could be a bit more… restrained.