Going to the pictures

MUSEO NACIONAL DEL PRADO

Cue disappointment. If you are visiting one of "The world's greatest...." something-or-other the build up so often leads to let down. Or does that just apply to old cynics like me? Sometimes it's almost as if I'm determined to find fault. As if.

Does the exception really prove the rule? Nonsense. If the 'greatest' label is repeatedly applied by credible sources then there will be some authenticity to the claim. It's up to the individual to seek out their truth for themselves.

The Prado is regularly hailed as one of the world's top art galleries, even if it only has space to display a fraction of the vast collection. It is a very large and imposing building, both in terms of architecture (albeit more internally than on the outside) and the myriad steps needed to cover the floors of it's warren of rooms. The walls are beautifully lit (it was rare to find viewing difficult due to reflections) and there are plenty of benches for the weary to ponder on.

As ever there is a limit to how much beauty, prowess and meaning an individual can absorb in one day and I make no pretence to having viewed every room, or given close examination to each item in those we went to. I apply my own eccentric eclecticism, being drawn to the images which make a connection with my own thoughts and imagining, which strike a chord of recognition or inspire a story in my head. Although I was presented with a compelling example of the value of technical mastery, it is not really my 'thing'. I have no visual artistic ability and am as baffled by the technique of an amateur as I am by that of a great artist. If this sounds perilously close to saying "I know what I like" then so be it.

So, a few days further on, which are the paintings which have stayed strong in my memory, the butterflies amongst the moths?

Rubens was the first to hit home. If the name means anything to most people then it's in association with the portrayal of women even now referred to as Rubenesque. Or, more truly, 'realistic'. An antidote to the regular portrayal of, and commentary on, women in our mass media (yes Oscars ceremony, I'm looking at you....). Of course such figures formed only a small proportion of his work, hung in two huge rooms, and there were many arresting compositions to admire. But the two which meant most to me did portray full bodied women. Diana andCallisto fascinates on many levels. The basis, as with many of his compositions, derives from classical mythology, but made powerfully human. Shame, embarrassment and reluctance pour from Callisto's frame. My fascination strayed from that key element and moved to the left of the picture. Why is there a dog hanging from the branch of a tree? Why are the jaws and one paw of another canine thrusting in from the left border? Some Googling might reveal the answers, but it is the curiosity it raises in the first place that excites.

I forget the name of the other Rubens. Again it had a classical basis, a man leering in at a woman. There was nothing particular to catch my attention, except that a contemporary artist had set up his easel alongside to attempt to replicate the image. He was obviously skilled for in most respects it appeared to be an accurate copy. Except for the face of the woman. Maybe he had more work to do there, but I didn't get that impression. He just didn't possess the technique required to produce the level of animation and emotion that was so (comparatively) obvious in the original. A lesson in the good and the great?

A surprise next. Passing a room of British artists one portrait demanded me to come closer. Why did I feel that the woman pictured had to be Scottish? The painting was indeed by Henry Raeburn. I've seen much of his output in Edinburgh galleries and although I've admired a few there has never been one that grabbed at me the way this lady did. The face conveyed a sharp intelligence, her clothing and background done in impressionistic style to take nothing away from her keen look. I like to think she was as remarkable a spirit as Raeburn shows her.

There were, naturally, roomfuls of Goya. Armed with next to no knowledge of the painter I let my eyes decide. In amongst the portraits of self important royals and courtiers one man stood out through his world-weariness. Once a liberal-minded Minister of Grace and Justice (que?) the work had some similarities to the Raeburn in highlighting the face above all other aspects, but with some elements of symbolism incorporated. The pose and expression suggest an ongoing battle against the forces of conservatism, a high minded desk warrior.

Further on, side by side, the most immediately recognisable of all Goya images. The two Majas. A young woman reclined on a couch, arms behind her head. In one she is nude, in the other (painted later) she is fully clothed. Stare at them for long enough and the real contrasts begin to emerge. Other than her state of dress I found two significant differences - the framing of the 'shot' (to think of it in photographic terms), and her facial expressions. The nude is slightly more distant, her smile calm and confident. She knows you are looking at her and doesn't care. Literally comfortable in her own skin. Whereas the other is closer, you are in the room with her, the smile is more inviting, coquettish. It is by far the more sexually suggestive image of the two.

One more thing. The toes of the nude Maja. Oh, those toes! They looked so real that I wanted to pull them.

Two highlights remain, one sought out, the other stumbled upon. Hieronymus Bosch is one of those names I know of without really knowing why. Visions of hell was all I could recall. Seeing the reality of his work made me ask, was this man really alive in the fifteenth century? Despite the religious subject matter the images seem more likely to originate from Dali or Terry Gilliam than the late medieval period. There is genuine surrealism in there and I could have spent hours on each painting if I'd had the time. In the same room were some lovely works by Pieter Brueghel whom Bosch obviously inspired. Again the characteristics look far more modern that would seem feasible.

Beginning to tire after three hours on the hoof I'd got to the point where anything that was able to attract me had to very special indeed. If you look at this - you may wonder why this image would do so. But no photo can do it justice. This is a big painting, perhaps four or five metres high. I read the description of the event portrayed, and the background to the commissioning of the work, and marvelled even more. In a room of huge pictures this one stood out as truth in the way that only art can convey sometimes. I will be compelled to find out more about the historical episode represented. It's strange where knowledge emanates from at times.

The best band in the world

LAU

It's Eddi Reader's fault. We were seeing her for the third or fourth time and there was the obligatory support act. Most are competent warmers-up, enjoyable but rarely exciting. Out came a good looking, gently smiling, young guy who introduced himself in a soft Orcadian accent and proceeded to make my jaw drop with his singing and guitar work. It had been a long time since I'd seen someone who had such an immediate affect upon my senses. One look at the face of Barbara, my wife, confirmed I wasn't alone in this. We both thought he was one of the most exciting musicians we'd ever seen and immediately rushed to buy his CD in the interval. It was a bonus to find he was also performing as lead guitarist, and backing vocalist, in Eddi's band so we got to watch him for the rest of the concert. It wasn't just the music itself, but seeing the enjoyment, intensity and perfectionism of his performance that marked him out as someone very special who we would have to see again.

His name was Kris Drever and we have since seen him many times playing in various line-ups. All have been memorable experiences, but the best are offered by the trio we are seeing again on Saturday. Not long after that Eddi gig there was a brochure in the post to say that a new band called Lau would be appearing at the local Arts Centre in Southport and I noticed that this Drever guy was a member. Tickets were swiftly booked.

I am not in least bit musical. I can just about claim to hold a tune when singing, but that's about it. So, like most people, I am only a consumer of music, but I love to see how each musician plays their part in the whole, how the various instruments combine to produce the overall sound. Lucky then that the genre that attracts me most strongly is folk, for venues are usually smaller, more intimate, providing the chance to observe closely and gain some comprehension of how the disparate elements combine. And a trio are the perfect grouping to watch and understand.

The best live music will exhilarate, fascinate, engage emotions and intellect, leave the watcher buzzing with the sheer pleasure of the event. But sometimes music can have a more elemental appeal to the emotions, not just making me cry or smile, but reaching deep into something near-primeval, the feeling that this sound was created to speak directly to my inner self. There have been many great bands and singers that have established themselves in my psyche, but only two where I received the sense that what I was hearing was already a part of me. The first was Alan Stivell, back in the seventies when I was just 18. Whilst the song, Tri Martolod, was in Breton and the lyrics incomprehensible to me, it felt like someone had jolted my body into a state of life I'd never known before. I went on to see him live half a dozen times, usually on my own for nobody I knew shared this passion, and loved every minute of it.

By now you'll have guessed what comes next. That second voltaic musical experience came in Southport, watching and listening to Lau. It was folk, but not as we know it Jim. Theirs was a music like nothing else I'd encountered before and, so my mind and body told me, written just for my enjoyment. Tempo varied wildly, themes were established, twisted, torn apart and put back together. Discordant jazz-like passages threatened to go off down blind alleys only to make perfect sense as the central melody re-established itself. The songs were haunting, Kris' voice as perfect as it had been the first time. As performers all three were witty and fascinating to watch, very physical performers who threw themselves wholeheartedly into their art. Aidan with the quiet smile, his fiddle an intrinsic part of his body, twisting in his seat and lifting a leg as the tune took off. Kris hunched over his guitar or leaning way back, exchanging secret smiles with the others, eyes closed to the passion of his own vocals. Martin short and explosive, unpredictable, looking like the dormouse from Alice in Wonderland during quieter passages and transforming into a Muppet on speed as his accordion squealed out noises it's maker had probably not anticipated.

It was the perfect evening. Talking to the band after it was good to find they were every bit as friendly and normal as their stage personas intimated (not always the case....). A CD was purchased and played. And played. Until I knew every note. Which enhanced the enjoyment at the next gig. And the next one.

Several years later and I remain ready to tell anyone who'll listen that Lau are, to me, the greatest band in the world. Sometimes it's hard to explain why, because it's very difficult to find a comparable sound that others might have heard of. I really don't know of anybody quite like them. OK, I've become something of a hardcore fan. I'm losing count of the number off Lau gigs I've been to. As many as budget and practicalities have allowed. I have three band tee shirts and we have a signed Lau canvas bag framed and hung on the wall. I was one of the first to make advance payment for the latest album. A Lau CD is always first in the car autochanger because I know that if I start to feel sleepy those sounds will make me smile, move and stay awake. Despite all this I still just about retain enough of my discriminatory faculties to know they are not a band that everyone will like. Their passion to push boundaries means this is not easy listening music.

One of our more recent Lau gigs was at the first Lau Land event in London. I met up with a friend who had never heard of them, but could see my passion for the subject. So I directed her towards Hinba, which I always think is the perfect introductory track for the Lau newbie, a combination of a striking, developing melody and wild jazziness to take the breath away. If you like it straight away you'll probably 'get' the Lau sound, if not then maybe they are not for you. Anyway, she has booked tickets for Lau Land next month so maybe I have made another convert. But others sometimes find it to be too much like hard work for their ears.

Being a fan of the eclectic trio does prove stretching at times. The first two studio albums, and both live albums, have been easy to adore immediately, as was the EP made with Karine Polwart. However Lau vs Adem was a side step in a new direction and on first hearing I didn't know what to make of it. But this was Lau, and I had enough faith in them to know that if I persevered I would be rewarded. It took about eight listenings, but I was right, and it proved ideal preparation for the Race The Loser album which contains a mix of 'traditional' Lau sounds combined with added electronic experimentation. There are even passages which sound like modernised chamber music, Mozart for the 21st century. Can't wait to see what comes next.....

A great band is so much more than just the music. Some give live performances where there is so little interaction with the audience that you feel you might as well have sat at home and played the recording. Kris, Martin and Aidan all put their personalities and humour into the introductions to the tunes and the audience are made to feel a part of the performance. They all turn out for chat and signings and photos after the gig.

Lau have been enthusiastic adopters of social media and I follow them on both Twitter  and Facebook.  As well as being the best way to learn about planned tours and projects it helps to be able to understand the people behind the music I love.  It further endears them to me that they have political views close to my own, often reflected in song lyrics (Ghosts never fails to bring out a tear). Ten years ago the acquisition of such knowledge would have been called stalking! Technology has made that level of interaction a bit less creepy (hopefully) than it once was.

Over the years I have seen Lau in Liverpool, Dunfermline, London, Stirling, Edinburgh and several other places. On Saturday it will be Liverpool once again, this time in the magnificent setting of Saint George's Hall. Moorhens is playing in the background as I type this final paragraph, Aidan's haunting fiddle line accompanying my thoughts. And that's happiness.

Lau playing Hinba live in Leeds, 2011

The Lessons of Fairy Tales

THE BIG QUESTIONS

Like Hamlet and Shylock, Little Red Riding Hood is a common metaphorical currency in our language. Yet whilst the motivations and failings of Shakespeare's creations are fully known and understood, the little girl remains a shallow, shadowy figure whose history is uncertain. Does she deserve her reputation for goodness and innocence? The answer comes from asking the most obvious question on the subject - what exactly is a 'Riding Hood'?

This simple query leads to the unmasking of the supposed heroine of the tale. A riding hood is to be worn by women who are riding. Riding a horse. Does this scarlet youth meet that description? No, she is neither riding, nor a woman. The conclusion is obvious. The garment has been stolen and is being used to conceal her identity from anyone suspicious of her activities. She has invented the hoodie. Seen in this light the Wolf emerges as a wronged character, trying to make his way as best he can since the benefits he receives have been slashed by the Tories and are inadequate to support his needs.

Wolfist discrimination is a regular feature of these old tales, the wolf permanently maligned where his close, but dopier, cousin, the dog, gets all the good press. Vis The Three Little Pigs in which the Wolf performs an important service in demonstrating the perils of employing cowboy builders and the value of unionised labour. If only the pigs had had the sense to band together, pooling their skills and knowledge, there would have been no trouble. The wolf here is a tutor, warning against the evils of capitalism and over-reliance on individualism.

So many of the warnings embodied in early fairy tales have been lost to us. All those exhortations to beware of thieving children get ignored too often. Remember evil Goldilocks and those innocent, peace loving bears? A happy family unit is disrupted by the theft of their food and abuse of the family home. Moral? Never trust curly blonde kids. I bet Hansel and Gretel were fair haired. And probably permed as well. An innocent old lady is made their victim despite her very generous offers of food and accommodation. Ungrateful little brats, and early purveyors of witchist bigotry.

Or that Snow White? Relying on the labour of elderly, height-challenged pensioners, she sets herself up for future riches and celebrity. It doesn't take much to detect the hand of Atos at work in ensuring the forced labour is available, whilst the erstwhile good-girl sets up deals with Hello magazine. Only a 'Prince' will be good enough for this ego. Prince? Read anyone with a pile of dosh. Greed and exploitation at its worst.

Of course royalty feature heavily in fables, because, as we all know, anyone of royal blood, and their spouses, are always beautiful, intelligent, kindly, witty and will always have the interests of the common people at heart. That's why we in Britain are so lucky to still have a monarchy. You couldn't even imagine royal personages who might be racist, greedy, manipulative, paranoid, secretive, big-eared, horse-faced or (whisper it) a bit dim. Could you? Which is why the Emperor's New Clothes is such an inane travesty. Any ruler worth his place would have employed a 'trier on' of new clothes, a sort of sartorial food taster, so he could see for himself if there was any risk of impropriety, and would have the savvy to recognise that the purported invention was beyond the capabilities of the technology of the day. A royal personage guided by vanity is just impossible to imagine. Isn't it?

At least that story had a child hero for once, there had to be the odd kid or two capable of something useful I suppose. They couldn't all be selfish crooks like Jack. It's only through his own stupidity that he ends up with those 'magic' beans. Which is no excuse for the crime spree he indulged in against the giant, culminating in the latters untimely murder. And, due to the more serious long-term implications of introducing untested, genetically modified crops into the district, farming in the village was disrupted for many decades. Once again an unsupervised teenager is the culprit. Where were Social Services whilst all this was going on?

They probably worked for Dick Whittington and therefore had been given no clear directives on the control of unruly youths. Anyone who is daft enough to think they could persuade a cat to accompany them is a fantasist of the most dangerous kind, almost certainly under the influence of Class A drugs. Thank goodness that the people of London would never consider allowing themselves to be run by some self-centred, rambling buffoon.

The warnings are all there if you care to look for them. Look at The Little Mermaid. Young women need to be made aware of how much better exercise swimming is than dancing in high heels. And that certain amphibians may turn out to be ideal mates.

See what happens when you ask the big questions?

Thatcher's .... legacy?

BUT WHY DO THEY HATE HER SO?

Millions upon millions of words have been, are being, will be written about Margaret Thatcher following her death earlier this week.   Most will tend towards the hagiographic or the vitriolic, with 'divisive' being the one for which a synonym will be most frequently sought.  Genuinely balanced views are rare at the moment, but one of the best I've read was by David Allen Green . He ends his post saying it will be the job of historians to make what they will of Thatcher as leader and politician, but they will also have to try and "explain the sheer hate" which is felt so strongly by so many.

Let me be clear from the outset that what follows makes no attempt at balance.  If sides are to be taken I am firmly with the haters and felt that Glenda Jackson's speech in parliament spoke for many of us, in stark contrast to the rolling parade of blandness and sycophancy exhibited by other MPs that day.   But I am aware that there is little point in simply repeating views which can be found more eloquently elsewhere so I will attempt to provide my own slant on explaining why a Prime Minister who left power more than two decades ago can still evoke such strong negative emotions.

Back in January I wrote this post trying to understand what democracy is and what its purpose is.  In attempting to reach a definition I used the words "a society in which the vast majority of citizens are provided with the means to lead a contented life" to describe what a democratic government is actually for and it's from that standpoint that I write.

Just over a month ago Hugo Chavez, President of Venezuela, died.  Despite being poles apart ideologically, he and Thatcher had quite a few things in common.  Leaders who evoked strong emotions, for and against, conviction politicians who forced through policies which dramatically altered the paths their countries were taking, never afraid of controversy and taking on a fight, sometimes courting dubious friends along the way, hugely flawed as human beings.  Similarly, in death, both have prompted vast outpourings of bile and praise. In Britain it was noticeable that many of the political commentators who were amongst the first to condemn Chavez for his failings now take to their keyboards in praise of the legacy of Thatcher.   Yet which of the two would best meet my test outlined in the previous paragraph?   It was Chavez who raised living standards amongst the poorest, dramatically improved health and education levels, even if it led some of the richest citizens to part with a share of their wealth.   Was this demonstration of democracy in action the reason why he was so hated by those who worship at the altar of Thatcherism?

In amongst all the tweets and blog posts and journalistic outpourings this week there have been quite a few expressing genuine puzzlement over the sheer number of British people shouting out their abhorrence of what Thatcher did and how strong those feelings are after so many years have passed.  Most of these, at least those I've seen, have been from twenty and thirty somethings who have no memories of what life was really like during the eighties and may even view our only woman PM as a historical figure.  If you are one those experiencing that sense of bewilderment, or you know someone who does, then maybe this can help.

I'm not about to claim that Thatcher's policies had a huge affect on me directly. I was not a miner, or a docker or a steelworker, or close to any who were. But this is about the very quality that Thatcher lacked above all else. Empathy. The arguments about the policies will go on for a long time to come and history will determine which were wise and which misguided (although history started to make it very clear which side it's on in 2008....). A simplistic economic policy, based on the values of home economics and the lessons of her dad's grocers shop, sounds almost quaint and friendly, but the consequences are still hurting us all.

But forget the policies themselves for a minute.  This is about tone and personality and presentation, it's about the methods that were used to implement those policies, it's about the way in which a government which was elected to act in the best interests of the people was prepared to demonise and punish whole communities for not fitting into their ideology.  Thatcher was the archetype of the person who 'knows the price of everything and the value of nothing'.   She certainly didn't recognise the value of human beings.

Maybe her personality went down well in the south east of England, or in 'the shires', but the patronising persona and a voice which, to my ears, would set the teeth on edge, gave the impression of a person who had no common feeling with the electorate.   Professional attempts to soften that image never seemed to make an iota of difference and to much of the British population she would always seem an alien being.  There is an irony that a party which is quick to condemn 'the nanny state' presented us with a leader who talked down to all like a nanny character from Upstairs Downstairs.   Thatcher's criteria for loyalty was "Is he one of us?".  She certainly never was.  (There will be some who think I could only write this paragraph about a woman.  But I don't think I'd change anything if the subject was George Osborne.)

Our twenty and thirty somethings will no doubt have read about the miner's strike of 1984-85.   They may even imagine they know something about it.  The government determined that a programme of pit closures, and a vast reduction in coal output, was an economic necessity and set about implementing it.   Let's leave the rights and wrongs of that to history and think about the best way to set aside such a task.

Our coalfields are concentrated in a few geographic locations because, well, because that's where the coal is.   Over many decades populations in those regions have built up their communities around the pits and the local economies are largely dependent on their continued existence.  If these are to be closed down then we need a long term plan to manage the process, to introduce the changes in a phased manner and provide incentives for other industries to replace the pits.   That's just common sense and human decency, isn't it?  That's democracy.

But Thatcher saw the miners and their trade unions as 'the enemy within' and acted on that basis.  No matter that the outcome would break the lives of not just the miners themselves, but those of their families, and of anyone dependent on their having money to spend including the much-vaunted small shopkeepers who were to be driven out of business because there was no longer any money coming into the town.  The current government complains about communities with a 'dependency culture' where generations have relied on benefits for survival.   How many of these were created by the eighties mania for destroying heavy industries, leaving behind a human wasteland?  This wasn't even consensus government amongst the Tory party, with the leader and her acolytes riding roughshod over those 'wets' in the cabinet who counselled a more humane approach.  Thatcher is hated still, not just for those policies, but for being fundamentally anti-democratic.

If you're still with me you may be thinking 'so far, so stereotypically leftie'.   I may have offered you nothing to convince you that the hatred we are seeing this week is justified, that there are good reasons to remember Thatcher as one of the most pernicious forces in British society.  So give me one last chance and let me tell you why I think one her worst excesses was to radically change the public perception of one of the most important and essential institutions we have.   Crucial to the maintenance of the rule of law (a critical element of any civilised society) and a group we all want to be on our side when the time comes.  The police.

In 1984 my soon-to-be brother-in-law, Graham, was a sergeant in the Hampshire force.   He was a lovely guy and we got on well.  When the miners' strike was at its height he was ordered to get on a bus and go off to the Yorkshire coalfields, there to be part of the blue lines holding back the strikers and allowing scab miners to get through to the pit.  He hated it.  Partly because it wasn't what he regarded as proper policing, and partly for the affect it had on some of his colleagues who became hate filled towards the strikers and were happy to lash out violently if the opportunity arose.  He hated the malevolent atmosphere he was asked to be part of, he felt sympathy for many of the people he was being told to hold off and he hated Thatcher for using 'his' police for political ends.

Some will say he should have resigned.  I know he thought about it and I'm glad he didn't give way to that temptation.  He had a duty to himself, to be able to pay his mortgage and to go back to a job he enjoyed and was good at.  I'd much rather think that there were still policemen like him, rather than the force be handed over to those who accepted the brutality.

I'm not going to pretend we lived in a world of Dixon of Dock Green.  The boys in blue had plenty of 'previous', notably the Met's SPG who had established their own brand of brutishness and a reputation to match.  No doubt if you weren't white you viewed the uniform with greater suspicion than most.  But back then it was, by and large, still the case that children were told that if they got lost or had a problem they could always 'ask a policeman'.   I think the eighties changed all that.   I think Thatcher changed it.  We saw the beatings on our TV screens and knew these weren't just the squads trained to handle riots and the like.   Those guys were the same as those you saw on the street every day, the bobbies on the beat, and suddenly they looked like paramilitiaries.  That wasn't how policing was done in this country.  Or so we thought.  Things had changed, and not for the better.

Thatcher did a lot to keep the police onside, including substantial pay rises.  And that's what we were left feeling.  They were on her side, not ours.  All were tarred with the same brush, including the Grahams.   I think that was why he may have hated her even more than I did.

Her funeral will be staged next week.  Clement  Attlee, our greatest twentieth century Prime Minister, had a private affair with around 150 people attending.  Churchill was given a state funeral because of his unifying role in the second world war.  Thatcher's will involve around 700 military personnel and is reputed to be costing the taxpayer around ten million pounds.  During this period of Austerity of course.

There are millions of words to be written.   There is a lot of hatred still to be vented.  Can you see why?

Letting some steam off

ANGER

I felt angrier than usual last week. Is this a bad thing or a positive attribute? I ask myself the question with no real answer for, as is nearly always the case in looking at one's reactions to the world, there are pros and cons which balance each other out.

In the main the source of my annoyance has centred on the result of a court case, and the subsequent reactions to it in the media, amongst politicians and in the public (via the mediums of Twitter and Facebook). As I was preparing to sit down and type this piece I watched a video on a totally unrelated subject (albeit one I have blogged about previously) and felt a fresh wave of fury and frustration rise within me. This time it was the uncaring stupidity of views expressed by someone who I thought ought to know better.

So is anger a reasonable, even worthwhile, reaction to these provocations? They aren't going to lead me to do anything practical other than retweet some comments and links I've come across and post the same on Facebook. In the hope that maybe I can change the mind of at least one person who has formed their views based on the vast tsunami of misinformation currently washing over the UK. Hearts and minds matter, opinions based on misunderstanding can be reversed - except that we all have our own prejudices and are more likely to listen to the pronouncements that match our inner voices than we are to reasoned argument which goes against our preconceived views. Myself included of course.

Anger can be a very negative force, resulting in frustration, self loathing and misery. It can even bring on physical side effects if taken to extremes, as well as being a high-risk emotional state if interacting with others or carrying out operations such as driving a car.

But anger is also an essential primary emotion and an outlet for passions raised by external circumstances. Feeling anger can be good if it demonstrates empathy with the world around you and makes you recognise your own humanity in responding to the baser aspects of human society. I want to think it's this type of anger I'm emoting. But how can you tell?

The primary temper tempter of last week concerned the verdict and sentencing of Mick Philpott. He, along with his wife and a friend, burned down his own house and six of his children died in the fire. His intent had been to rush in and save them, making himself into the hero of the hour, but the blaze went out of control quicker than he had expected. This resulted in him being tried for manslaughter, rather than murder, as the deaths were unintended. He received the maximum sentence, life, with a minimum tariff for parole of fifteen years. It seems highly likely that he will die in prison or he will be an elderly man when released (he is 56 now).

There have two main threads to the media-guided public reaction to this story. The first is to attack the state welfare entitlement system (a term I think more appropriate than the misnomer, 'benefits'). Headed by that famed bastion of fairness and reason, the Daily Fail, which splashed on its front page a picture of the killer, with his kids, and the headline "Vile Product of Welfare UK". The implication being that in some way the safety net system, that proud construction of the great Attlee government, was at fault for allowing this to happen. That this should be the line taken by a right wing rag is perhaps no surprise. But then for this to be effectively endorsed by a senior cabinet minister is beneath contempt. George Osborne, already something of a laughing stock for his economic incompetence, has now stopped so low as to be past any point of forgiveness.

This was making political and ideological capital out of the deaths of six children. Philpott was, is, a violent and controlling psychopath with a long history of misogyny and domestic abuse. If there is a welfare state failure involved in this case it isn't to be found in his so-called 'benefits fuelled lifestyle', but in the inability of underfunded social services to prevent such a tragedy. Simplistic attempts to link this evil man to cuts in welfare spending is one truly vile aspect of these events. Did the media suggest that Harold Shipman was evidence that being a GP made you more likely to be a murderer? Has anyone made the link between Stephen Seddon murdering his parents and the incentive to violence provided by our inheritance laws? (That's one I would like to see....but that's for another day.)

Worse still, this hijacking of the reality hides the true concerns that need to be investigated further. How can a man who treats women like that be allowed to get away with it? How many others are suffering similar treatment because there is inadequate support for their plights? I haven't seen any politicians speaking out show any understanding of the heart of the problem.

Meanwhile there are sections of the public complaining that the sentence is too light. Plus the usual kneejerk calls to 'bring back hanging'. Too light? The judge awarded the maximum possible term for the offence. Yet people see the words 'fifteen years' and think that's what will happen? Where is the media when you want them to explain how sentencing actually works....?

Before I finish off, I'll return to the video which angered me before I sat down to write. It was a short interview with Jeremy Irons in which he was asked about his views on the prospects for same-sex marriage becoming law. He said he wasn't that bothered either way, but.... The 'but' is always ominous, and usually signals a potential foot chewing moment. Ans so it proved. He suggested there might be a risk of fathers marrying their sons to avoid inheritance tax. The interviewer pointed out that there were incest laws to cover this sort of situation, but Mr I didn't look convinced. Maybe he deserves points awarded for providing such an original route into bigotry?

I'll allow the keyboard to cool down now. Unsurprisingly I could feel the anger rise within me as I typed. These are emotive subjects and trying times. But it's a good anger, an anger I'm proud to feel and happy to vent. Sometimes if you don't get angry it means you just don't get it at all.

PS My first draft of this post was written a couple of days ago. With the news of Thatcher's death today I did consider pushing it back and posting my thoughts on the legacy of the 80s government. But I think I need a couple of days to let the angry memories subside a little....