So I Burnt Some Poppies... So What?

20/03/12 - WE had those excitable bods from The English Defence League outside the office earlier today wanting to shout stuff and wave their fists at some poor kid who said stupid things about Our Boys. Teenagers Say The Stupidest Things... It's hardly news is it? It wouldn't make a radical new cutting edge reality show would it?

They are very hot-headed though aren't they, those EDL types? They're different from us. Do you think it's a genetic thing? Anyway, let them shake their fists and SHOUT STUFF  if they want to. It's a free country. And I'm sort of the opinion that we should be able to say more or unless anything we like... and last year - November, Poppy Day time - I wrote this about that very thing. And today with the EDL SHOUTING STUFF outside - well, it seems worth repeating...

November 2011

Earlier tonight it was getting pretty nippy so I lit a fire and onto it I tossed a whole box full of British Legion poppies. Whoosh they went as the little paper petals caught, creating a fierce little blaze for a moment or two. Perfect kindling for the American flag which I also threw on. Old Glory goes up well. It could have been made for burning. You could heat a house for a week on one coffin sized number. But I wasn't done. I also burnt a Union Jack, a Koran, a Bible, a copy of London Calling by The Clash, a Shakespeare First Folio, and a rare video recording of an episode of the Likely Lads from 1965.

Like I said - it was a cold night.

This week there was a bit of a fuss in the papers because an anti-war protester publicly burned a poppy and was only fined £50. I must have burned at least a grand's worth. And this is why. If our soldiers fight for anything, isn't it for the right for citizens to say what we like? To make political gestures? To create visual metaphors encapsulating our feelings about the state of things?

If we offend one another, well, OK let's be offended. I love The Clash, but if people want to take the piss out of them, then that is fine. And even I have to concede that 1-2 Crush On You (B-side of Tommy Gun) is a bit shit. So I added their best LP to the pyre just because I can.

All of us have to face the fact that stuff we really, really love means fuck all to some people. They hate it. And that might include the Royal Family, the prophet Mohammed (may his name be praised etc), Bob Marley, Joe Strummer, plays, poetry, the British constitution and the American Dream.

The thing that makes our democracies great (and yes, you might not think they're that great. That's your right and you can burn something emblematic of our culture to prove it if you like) is that - in theory - we are allowed to say what we like, think what we like and, if it doesn't hurt other people, do what we like. Or we should be. But the ranks of the Offended seem to swell daily and it's a shame that we've got so touchy.

(Btw - I didn't really burn a rare copy of an episode of the Likely Lads. Of course I didn't. That really would be sacrilege.)

AOL and the Huffington Post - Marry in haste, repent at leisure...

You know the thing that most annoys me about Big Business? It's the how crap they are... at business. AOL for example. This is the company that forked out £850 trillion on Bebo (I might be wrong on the exact figures but it was a helluva lot anyway. For Bebo. Bebo.) And they off-loaded that in June. I don't know how much they got for it. No-one does, they wouldn't say. They were doubtless - and rightly - too ashamed. Let's assume it was a couple of hundred quid on eBay. About the same price as a for-spares-or-repair Vauxhall Corsa. And they're at it again. This time it's a mere £315 million for the Huffington Post. What was Einstein's definitation of madness? Doing the same thing twice but expecting different results? The only thing a big company buying a digital business proves is that it's, like, already soooo over for its quarry. Big business can only catch up with the prey when it's on the point of exhaustion. When it knows it can't hack it in the wild anymore. Yeah that start-up might might still look as sleek and bouncy and as twinkly eyed as young Bambi but the heart is on the point of giving out.

When I was working at ITV (I was a teaboy. Oh, alright - a storyliner. Same difference) that company forked over £400 million notes for Friendsreunited. In 2008. Any child could have told them it was dead in the water by then, and had been for years. And because of the desperate scramble to be part of the net - to be with it, hip and happening dudes - the whole company nearly went under. Local journalists were fired in their dozens. The Bill was cancelled and drama as an idea was thrown into the gaping maw of Reality. For years. And they're looking to flog that. It'll be coming to a boot sale near you pretty soon. How much would you give for it? A tenner? Come on, it's got to be worth a tenner. OK five then...

And what is the Huffington Post? It's a a perfectly respectable online newspaper. It compares quite well with, say, The Yorkshire Post. It's whizzy and buzzy and gossipy and there are lots of video links and all that. Even though, right now, it does seem to be busy telling the world exactly how whizzy and buzzy and video linky it is, in a way that looks a bit insecure for a product ostensibly worth a third of a billion pounds.

I have a mate who is terrible - terrible - with money. Far worse than me, and that is saying something. One of his key ways of getting rid of his dosh was to buy memerobilia for movies and TV series. So he had a life size replica of a Lord of the Rings Sword, a full-size Dalek, Geekabilia of all kinds. He'd have these items for a few months, then next tremour along the financial faultline on which he lived would mean he would be flogging these goodies for a fraction of their worth just to buy eggs and milk, or to pay his rent. His friends used to despair. He had to have serious therapy in the end and it took personal bankruptcy and having to move back into his mum's spare room to drive him to that. And what did he learn in therapy? He learned that his dysfunctional relationship with money was because he felt worthless. He didn't deserve anything, so he got rid of anything he did have as soon as he could. And of course buying toys is a fairly crude way of telling the world that he got no love as a child.

What, I wonder, is the excuse of the AOL board? And should they be acting out their childhood angst in a way that might further fuck up the world's economy? Unless at some dark and deep level, that's actually what they want. Someone should get a hold of AOL and get them to the doctors quick. Or they'll be back in their mum's spare room.

It makes my blood boil, honestly. Capitalist bastards are horrible. Incompetent capitalist bastards are even worse.

For Twoc's Sake - Tory Story

Taking Without the Owners Consent...

Every day I find myself struggling for metaphors to describe the new government and, in particular, their approach to the economy. I have - approriately enough - road-tested this one. And it seems to sort of fit. Not only are the govt acting (in economic terms) like pissed up rugby students on the mother of all stag nights, but it's like they've taken the keys to their Dad's Jag. Which is our car, actually. One that we saved up for but don't get to drive much with the price of fuel being what it is.

After 13 years of lessons, these Cherub-faced, polite-but-dims somehow fluked the test and now - with full Bullingdon rig under their 'ordinary middle class' clothes - they are speeding round the country lanes heedless of rules of the road or the damage they'll do when they hit something. Intoxicated by the thrill of getting their hands on the wheel at last, they're really pushing to see how fast this baby can go. Osborne is the key with hands on the wheel. But the whole vehicle is full of kids getting a notch harder every time he puts the pedal closer to the metal. 'Faster, Pussycat, Faster!' they yell from the back seat. There's a couple looking a bit green around the gills. These car-sick weaklings must be Liberals and they sight of their wan faces as they try to look like they're enjoying the trip, just provokes their more bullish mates. Taking the LibDems to places they don't want to go is part of the thrill of the joy-ride.

But it's not the main thing. The main thing is just being in charge of this beast. This Trillion dollar vehicle and just giving it all she can take. Whoop-Whoop!

Let's hope they run out of fuel before they hit someone. An economy is a lethal weapon, you know lads. You'll get fined, banned, you'll end up in jail if you keep driving like maniacs. Your insurance will go through the roof. (Only of course they're not insured are they? Joy-riders never are.)

But they're not listening. Like a lot of young male new drivers they think they know everything. They feel like James Bond, Michael Schumacher, Jensen Button. They don't see that they're coming over all Toad from Wind-in-the-willows. They are soooo turned on right now. If this was a film what would we call it. Tory Story? The only trouble is our two toy-sized leads just aren't loveable enough. Or life-like enough. And please God don't let there be any sequels.

It's going to end in tears. This car will be totalled wrapped around around a recession that they didn't see. 'It just ran out in front of me officer. I didn't have a chance.'

To which the only answer can be' just blow into this bag, sir... Properly.' And then maybe we'll get to take the license away for good this time.

And if no-one gets killed, if we do get away with it, our lasting memory might be the sight of some Liberal puking and claiming that he was somehow innocent. 'He told me he could drive... He told me I'd look cool, get girls...' And we can ban them too. In fact they should go to jail because it was the Liberals that nicked the keys from our study and handed them to 'Ozzy' Osbourne in the first place.

Call the cops - these crazies could do anything

It occurs to me what the new coalition most resembles. It's like having demented drunks in the house. Gate-crashers claiming to have been invited by 'Dave. You know, Dave.' and who are now rampaging through the house breaking things (glasses, vases, the NHS - things like that.) They're looking for more booze and snacks. Most of all though, they're looking for arguments all wild-eyed. And they need speaking to softly, because they could do anything! Anything at all.

This coalition have all the belligerent certainty of drunks. Drunks who moved beyond being amusing some time ago, but drunks that no-one dares fetch a cab for. They are terrifying because you know they have no boundaries... who knows what they might do next? You can't reason with them. They are way beyond that. And they have money and mad friends and they might come back and do you over good an proper if you stand up to them. And they claim to know your boss but, look, if this carries on we'll have to, like, do something. Because there's some valuable things in this house. And other things that have sentimental value... and, right, they've gone too far now... that's my wife... It's that kind of situation.

Of course I'm sure in the morning, when they've sobered up, they'll be ringing round apologising and promising to pay for the damage. They're probably pretty decent really. Just excited at getting that long awaited promotion. But for now they're just scary.

This town is sold out

One of the things I do is help programme the Hebden Bridge Arts Festival. last night there were three events. New writing in the theatre, Flamenco at the Trades Club and 'dead-pan comedian' Rich Hall at the Picturehouse. All sold out.

So in a town of 4000 people 800 were at arts events. 20% of the entire population. On a Thursday night. Of course a lot of those almost certainly came from out of town. Bringing their money with them. That's about £12000 in ticket spend plus all the drinks they bought, meals they had, babysitters they paid for... that's a decent amount of economic activity in one small town midweek. And there's this amount of activity going on for two weeks. that's a lot of lives altered in small ways, and a lot of businesses supported...

And the point I'm making in this none too subtle way, is that the arts matter. They matter in terms of quality of life, they matter for the things we learn and the way they change our relationship with the world around us. The way they shake up our world-view. And they matter financially and economically.

How to solve the banking crisis

Talking with the most over-qualified man I know... Dr English (2 letters in front of his name - and 17 after not including brackets) and we wonder gently why amid all the talk of cuts and deficits, no-one mentions the obvious. Shouldn't we think about raising taxes?

1p on income tax for most of us - 2p for the rich - and the deficit more or less disappears. No cuts in services, no need to fork out for benefits, no repossessions. People tighten their belts (but not by an excruciating amount), some grumbling but no riots in the streets. And no need to steal the pensions of public servants.

Imagine this: Imagine saying to your bank ' yeah I know I agreed to pay £400 a month for 25 years, but I find that this is unaffordable. I'm going to pay £200 for 15 years. And oh, there's no guarantee I won't find that unaffordable too in a year or so.' You'd be on the streets, or in jail. And yet this is what the government (and the last one to be fair) feels it has a right to do. If private pensions are so rubbish, then THAT is the scandal, not that public ones are so good. Private companies are more effective at ripping off their employees.

Raise taxes and make private companies provide better pensions... it's another way to go. Not that anyone listens to me or Jim. Despite his 19 letters.

Take That and Party

It is almost exactly a year today since I was, briefly, mistaken for a member of Take That.

It's bizarre but true. I'm in Cardiff at a Literary Event. Only it's even more desperate than usual and so I escape from the dead embrace of the Bulgarian Chadonnay, the vulcanised chicken, and the whole decidedly glitz-free atmosphere of the very very functional function room of the St David's Hotel and repair to the bar. And it's here that I find Take That hobbing and nobbing with le tout South Wales. They're in town for a gig and only some particularly well-informed groupies (all of them Ladies of a Certain Age - that age being 37 and three kids roughly -) and us, the refugees from the Ministry of Literature, know they're here.

Now, the thing about TT is that everyone knows what fat Gary looks like. And most people know what sweet Mark looks like. But no-one is very sure about the the worker-bees, the drones. Howard? Jason? Could their own parents pick them out of a police line-up? The luckiest, most ordinary pop lottery winners since Andrew Ridgeley took the vacant chair next to George Micheal on the first day of year 7 back at Bushey High School.

And so when I find myself on a banquette next to Marky and Gaz I can see the faces of the Ladies of A Certain Age, those who lost their innocence to a soundtrack of Back For Good frown in puzzlement. 'Mark and Gary look Ok,' those frowns say 'But Lordy, the years haven't been very kind to Howard-or-Jason...'

It's a good night though... There's something about the presence of a boy band - even an elderly one, even one that perpetrated horrors like that cover of Could It Be Magic - that unleashes a rich hormonal soup into a room. This soup combined with alcohol, the lateness of the hour and the fact that those of us who'd been at the prize-giving next door have just sat through a crashingly worthy lecture on the Trinidadian literary diaspora delivered by Linton Kwesi Johnson in full on FE college lecturer mode when we just want to bitch and moan and do all the other things writers do at these things - all of this mean things get, er, unusual. There's nothing like being lectured by a former radical turned pillar of the establishment to make you feel you've earned a watermelon daiquiri.

And there's nothing like watermelon daiquiris all round to make things go a bit Cocksucker Blues. (Banned documentary about the Rolling Stones when they were in their Louis 14th period). Not the band. They stay gentlemen. And not me. I make my excuses and watch.