It's UKIP time

FEELING DIRTY - FOLLOWING THE SMELL OF KIPPERS

Anyone who's read some of my earlier posts will be aware that my political views would be described as left of centre. Certainly well to the left of New Labour. So it's no surprise that many of the people I follow on Twitter have similar opinions. We all want to hear things which reinforce our world view. But sometimes it's good to get to see the opposite side too, if only just to try and understand what motivates the people you often find yourself disagreeing with.

A few months ago, not long after the Sandy Hook murders, I spent several weeks following supporters of the NRA, who also tended to people on the side of the Tea Party Republican movement. And, so they seemed to think, on the side of their god. It was certainly an interesting experience, but there was never likely to be any meeting of minds. Their view of humanity was so disparate from mine as to be irreconcilable. And now I've spent some time 'with' their equivalents on this side of the pond. For the past three weeks I've been following about a dozen UKIP supporters, beginning the experiment just a few days before the recent local government elections. And now I'm here to report on what I found.

I have to give them credit for being very good at one thing. Very, very good. Hatred. They excel when it comes to hating things. And people. But mostly things, institutions, vague concepts. Being openly hateful towards actual people can look too much like actual bigotry. And UKIP doesn't do bigotry. Or racism. And all of us know this because they keep saying they don't. That's clear enough, isn't it?

We can start with the EU. Apparently it has never, never ever, done anything worthwhile and is to blame for, oh, about 90% of any set of problems you care to name. Day after day I've read tweets telling me that withdrawing from the EU is a cure for almost any ailment (albeit not the common cold, well not yet). Just one glance at my timeline as I type this shows me that Britain is either being destroyed by Europe (It does seem that most of us are mistaken and the British Isles are actually a separate continent. Well, apart from Paddyland of course.) Or we will come "to resemble an Eastern European Soviet Block". Did I hear you say you'd like some evidence to back up these assertions? You must be some kind of commie.

In less than three weeks one woman has thrice tweeted that there have already been two referendums on the EU - in 1914 and 1939. I sincerely hope she's a troll, or it's a sad indictment of our educational system. Maybe she could take night classes in history? The First World War was a conflict between the ruling imperial oligarchies of the major European powers, with little to choose between any of them for the way in which they chose to use their own peoples as cannon fodder. What happened in 1939 was a very different war, justifiably fought against an evil ideology which sought to wipe out, or subjugate, Jews, communists, homosexuals, gypsies, Slavs, and so on and on, indeed anyone not considered to be part of the 'Aryan' myth. Any self aware UKIP supporters reading this might find that list strikes a familiar chord.

Did you know that the EU is a Marxist conspiracy? And that it is "our hereditary foe"? (Honestly, I'm not making this up.) I've learned that too. Along with the fact that UKIP supporters don't have access to dictionaries and aren't aware that capitalism is enshrined into the EU constitution, even featuring in the list of basic human rights. These night classes could be kept busy.

What else comes into the UKIPers firing line? Immigration tends to be their second favourite topic, followed closely by Islam.  Not immigrants or Moslems of course, because that might not.... look good. Except there were plenty of tweets implying that paedophilia and other forms of sexual abuse was in some way linked to immigrants or Moslems, not as individuals but as groups. Not that UKIP supporters are in any way racist. Well maybe the odd one. Maybe some very odd ones. There couldn't be any truth to this article, could there?

Farage is constantly pointing out that his is the only party to explicitly ban previous members of the BNP and other extremist organisations.  Ah, the laddie doth protest too much, methinks. Maybe, just maybe, none of the UKIPers I've been following are racists themselves, but they do keep some interesting company. I have had several retweets into my timeline from people who are ardent EDL supporters including one suggesting that "Welfare is funding Islamic conquest of Europe".  Another was advocating all "white British males" to join the BNP, National Front, anything really because they had to "fight back". And then there was the charming young man who hankered for better days gone by and suggested that "benign imperialism" was best for the "backwards" countries. Oh, hang on, he actually is a UKIP supporter. They do get the loveliest people.

Then there's gay marriage. And the gay agenda (which sounds like a more fun meeting than most of the ones I used to have to go to). And gays. Homosexuals. And other terms. I saw one tweet describing somebody, possibly some Tory MPs, as "bending over backwards submissively like poofs". For the first time in decades I found the phrase 'shirt lifters' appearing before me, not just once, but three or four times. Reading this stuff I kept expecting a sniggering Reg Varney to stick his head round the door. (Younger readers might need to read this to understand that reference!) Of course UKIP isn't at all homophobic. No, of course not, it just happens to attract anti-gay bigots. Coincidence really.

The BBC. Full of lefties. Marxist agenda. Unpatriotic. Funny, feels to me like Farage and co have never been off our airwaves in the past few days, whilst that other smaller party in England never gets much of a mention, despite having almost as many councillors as UKIP and a Westminster MP. Plus two MSPs at Holyrood, something Farage can't even dream about. Yes the Greens don't seem to get much of a look in, do they? Leftie BBC? LOL.

Meanwhile Question Time seems to love it's frothing-at-the-mouth right wingers, inviting the likes of Starkey and Hitchins back again and again. Oh, and Farage. Even Griffin. Whilst I hardly ever see my views represented at all with only Owen Jones and Ken Loach making the odd appearance. Meanwhile the selling off of the most important institution in Britain, the NHS, has received scant coverage on the BBC who have pandered shamefully to this right wing government.

I get annoyed at the BBC for being so right wing, so 'establishment' at times. Meanwhile the extreme right regard it as a left wing hot bed. Which probably means that, on balance, they are doing a difficult job fairly well. I one would hate to lose them. Just try imagining a British version of Fox News (*shudder*).

One final special place is reserved on the hate list for a man I mentioned above, Owen Jones.  My UKIP 'friends' really do seem to want a place set aside in their vision of hell for him. So he must be doing something right. There's even a parody account in his name, which displays all the deft sense of humour and wit that Thatcher was so rightly famed for....

Oh, one more. The Scots. But only since last Thursday.  I felt so proud of my home city.

To be fair there are also things that they all seem to love. And that's where I really found myself entering into some kind of parallel existence. Let's call it Kipperland. It certainly smells fishy.

In Kipperland you can refer to Richard Littlejohn columns as 'evidence', presumably whilst managing to keep a straight face. 'Mad Mel' Phillips is taken seriously and an endorsement from that crumbling Neanderthal, Norman Tebbit, is not seen as embarrassing. Those well known symbols of liberalism and journalistic integrity, the Daily Fail and the Express, feature prominently as reliable sources for stories on their favourite topics. And there was some serious courting of well known 'celebrity' MP, Nadine Dorries, because she's such a heavyweight political figure. (Mind you, they already have the infamously corrupt liar Neil Hamilton on their list of parliamentary candidates, so they aren't too choosy.) Truly another world.

And yet. Once I look beyond the bigotry and rampant paranoia what I see is something very familiar. UKIP and their supporters make much of how different they are from the three main English parties that they disparagingly refer to as the LibLabCons. But what came through was that behind the extremist rhetoric, and some of the loonier policies they propose, they look depressingly similar.

But that's for my next post.

Italian Sparks

WHEN STEREOTYPES COME TO LIFE

A few years ago, in September 2008, we went to Florence. A beautiful city with plenty to do and see and the bonus of some excellent food. We were lucky with our hotel too, a centuries old palazzo on the banks of the Arno and the biggest hotel room I've ever occupied. There was a huge fresco on the ceiling and the four poster bed looked like it belonged in a doll's house such was the scale it had to contend with. There was much about our stay which could be described as memorable.

And yet, when I think back on that holiday, it isn't the stay that immediately comes to mind, but the journey to get there. Unusually, in these days of budget airlines and cheap flights, we went by train. A more expensive alternative, but it provided an experience we wouldn't have wanted to miss out on.

The plan for the trip was straightforward and relaxed. We would take a train down to London and stay in a hotel opposite Saint Pancras. A leisurely breakfast, cross the road and present ourselves for our mid morning Eurostar to Paris. There would be about four hours in the French capital, ample time to make our way from Gare du Nord to Gare de Bercy (which lies south east of the centre) and enjoy a relaxing dinner before boarding the sleeper to Florence just before eight in the evening. Getting to bed (bunk!) sharp would prepare us for our early morning arrival into Firenze. What could be more enjoyable?

One week before we were due to speed under the English Channel we awoke to the news that there had been a major fire in the tunnel. The good news was that nobody had been seriously injured, although it must have been a frightening experience for anyone caught down there. The bad news was that it had been closed to enable rescue and repair work to be undertaken and there was no clue as to when it would reopen. At this stage we could only follow the reports and hope that the damage things would soon get sorted.

Within two days one of the two tunnels had been reopened for business and a limited service began. As the days went by the operation got slicker and trains were bunched up to run in one direction, then the tunnel made available for the reverse journey. This system would be in place for several months. Passengers were being advised to turn up well in advance of their booking time, but to expect long delays.

We went to London, found an information person and explained the need to make the sleeper connection. Would that be OK? Yes it would, but we might not have as long in Paris as we'd planned. The system was still bedding in. In reality what was achieved was impressive and the organisation worked well. True, we had a couple of hours to wait in an overcrowded departure lounge. But it still beats going Ryanair. Given how major an incident had taken place just seven days previously there could be no quibble with the service provided and the information available.

Which didn't stop it from being a disappointment that we were into Paris well over two hours after we'd planned. Into the rush hour. That was fun, negotiating the Metro with a couple of large suitcases. It helped to look slightly mad and foreign. No time, of course, for the relaxed Parisian dinner we'd looked forward to. A pavement cafe, biere pour moi, vin rose pour madame, evening sunshine. No complaints. We'd get fed on the train.

I'd read about the on-train dining arrangements before we left and knew the score. Make your wishes known to the guard and he'd tell you which sitting you were going to. We'd hope to be in the one at eight, shortly after boarding, but the location of our cabin meant that option had been taken by the time we were asked and we would have to hold on until ten o'clock. So be it, but we'd be hungry.

Ten comes and we sway and shuffle along to the dining car, joining the queue waiting to seated. In the dining area the eight o'clock lot are still finishing off. We, the late eaters, are stood by the kitchen and serving section of the carriage, our only distraction the antics of the cooking and waiting staff. At this point you may want to check my title out again.

There was a lot of coming and going. It was hard to say what the purpose of these activities were, but they were plentiful. Then the lights went out. From what I could see it was only this carriage that was affected. Cue much shouting and (presumably) cursing in Italian, striking of matches and finally a torch appears. Someone can be seen attacking something on the wall beyond the head of our queue. Hey presto, the lights go back on, revealing the chef returning grumpily to his kitchen. He had fixed the problem with one of his chopping knives. Even if I could have spoken Italian I reckond it would still be best not to ask questions....

Eventually, well past ten, the satisfied customers emerge and we are able to take their places. Then, well, not much happens. One waiter can be seen lovingly transferring freshly grated parmesan into small dishes. Each table will get a dish. Drinks orders are taken, wine arrives. No food (unless you count the cheese), just wine. Food orders are taken. Oh good, the chef can have some idea of what he's up to now, other than his emergency electrician duties. It must have been well after ten thirty before large pots of risotto emerge and we are given two choices. I was starving and ended up having a bit of both. They were, at least, delicious.

A gap. A longish gap. Our mains arrive. The lights go out. I can see the chef doing his thing, but, frankly, I'd rather eat. His culinary efforts are superior to his handyman skills. I don't need light to enjoy what I'm eating, I just need to let my instincts rip. I'm still that hungry.

The train stops at the Swiss border control. The staff get off for a smoke. We await dessert. The lights go out. The chef is having a fag so we have to sit in darkness for a bit longer this time. Priorities, eh? Anyway, there's a bit of light this time from the platform of the Swiss station. So he probably knew we'd be fine.

Dessert comes, is eaten. Coffee is offered. No thanks, just the bill please. Are you sure sir? Oh yes, I am. Shrugs. I have to give it to him, it was one of the best and most expressive shrugs I've ever witnessed. He obviously practices. A lot. Finally we are able to pay and sway along the corridors to our cabin, now miraculously converted into a place for sleep. It is well after midnight, and I am full of a lovely Italian meal.

I don't sleep much.

But I still wouldn't have missed the experience.

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....

Let's get rid of the Atheists

WHO NEEDS TO BE AN ATHEIST?

Yesterday I awoke to the the News that George Carey, an ex-archbishop of something-or-other, was criticising David Cameron. Good, I thought, another voice against the evils of this government getting some coverage. What would he pick on? Just the general theme of the persistent attack against the most vulnerable in society, exemplified by the massive wave of unjust welfare cuts about to be implemented next week? Or something more specific? The bedroom tax? The destruction of the NHS in England? The war being waged against disabled people? The proliferation of food banks? There are so many to choose from.

And which of this raft of defenceless targets did he seek to protect? Christians. Because they are a "persecuted minority". Said the man with a protected seat in the state legislature (along with a bunch of his colleagues) during the bank holiday weekend given over to a religious festival. I've forgotten which religion that is, but maybe George could remind me? This is a group so persecuted that the head of state is also head of their organisation, has it's own shows on the BBC and is able to indoctrinate thousands of children through the medium of the oxymoronic 'faith schools'. I could go on....

I'm sure various churches do a lot of good work helping their communities. But many christian organisations, notably the Church of England, have ongoing problems with misogyny and homophobia. If they really were being 'persecuted' then maybe they should look in the mirror first and see if the reasons lie within. Should Mr Carey want to learn what it's really like to be part of a downtrodden minority, in this case one that he himself has contributed to oppressing, he might want to start with this article published on the same day his whinging was reported.  That's what persecution looks like George.

How many religions are there in the world? I saw a figure of around 4,500 and, although I've no way of checking if that's anywhere near correct or not, it does sound plausible. I know of no human society which didn't come up with some form of supernatural belief system as it developed. The moon, the sun, forests, mountains and rivers. Gods as animals, gods as humans, families of gods, single gods. Heavens, hells, reincarnation, eternal spirits. There are and have been so many variations and combinations of things people will set their stall by. What does this tell us? Whilst acknowledging that a proper answer to that question could fill a book, I can see two basic alternatives. Either there is some kind of supernatural force out there, and all these variations reflect human efforts to understand that fact from within their own social contexts. Or it demonstrates a fundamental need of homo sapiens to find explanations for the world around them. If the data isn't available then making something up will do. Stories are in our DNA.

If the former were true there is one thing missing. I'm not aware of a single belief system which sprang up, spontaneously, in more than one geographic location. Many have spread from a single starting point (often through military and/or political conquest, but that's another story....) and are now considered 'major' religions. If any of these were objectively 'true' I would have expected that their development could have taken place without that kind of external assistance. So at best it seems we can say they are all equally misguided.

Other forms of supernatural belief have come and (largely) gone. There was a time when most people in this country would have sworn to the very real existence of witches. There are still some societies where those beliefs remain mainstream and we saw how horrendous the implications can be in a case here last year.  

How many people in twenty first century Britain would say they believed in witches? Far fewer than 1% I'm sure. Does that make the rest of us awitchist? No, because we don't choose to define ourselves through our disbelief in something which was quite clearly made up in the first place. You won't find people calling themselves afairyists or asantaists, will you? So why do we need the word atheist? Isn't about time it disappeared and was replaced by  ..... I don't know, how about 'rational'?

So no George, there is no such thing as 'aggressive secularism' (it does sound a bit like people have taken to punching vicars, doesn't it?). There is simply the tide of history and the advancement of knowledge over ignorance. As science becomes better and better able to explain the world around us and the workings of the human body, so there is less and less need for supernatural explanations. This is not the same as saying that we no longer require our myths and stories, and religions can provide a part of that. But they should no longer be allowed to dominate and influence government in the ways they have in the past.

Far from being persecuted it's about time the church was disestablished and lost its state funding. Stop trying to fight a rearguard action and accept that you must adapt to a new, more secular world. Giles Fraser, one of your own, has it right, as he showed in this BBC interview recorded in response to Carey's statement.

So let's get rid of the 'atheists'. If religious people want to have their own labels then that's fine by me. Just so long as they can begin to accept that we are the default. We're what's 'normal' nowadays.

FOOTNOTE Having written the above I then read at item showing that some churches are making a stand on the important issues, a reminder that, even by christian standards, George Carey may just be the teensiest bit out of touch.....

How I became 'that' mouse

LACK OF ALARM ALARM

I had an early train to catch yesterday morning, the 07:42 from Edinburgh Waverley to Manchester Airport (although I would be alighting at Preston). Most days (since my retirement) I'm barely awake at that time of day and if I'm thinking of anything it's about getting up to feed the cat and make hot drinks to bring back to bed. It certainly doesn't involve being on a freezing cold station platform.

So being there on time was a challenge from the off. But one I've met many times in the past (I can still recall the inhuman horror of 06:00 train appointments) so I felt confident I could recapture enough of my faded energy to make the deadline without a problem. Organisation, that's the key element. Prepare properly, know what has to be done, and build plenty contingency time into the planning. The important thing is to minimise the amount of effective thinking required during those unfamiliar hours because it's not going to be a strong point - is it?

So I did all that was necessary and/or possible the night before. Packed my bag. Laid out the clothes I'd be travelling in. Prepared breakfast. Put out the rubbish (I was going to be leaving the flat empty for about eight weeks). Set the alarm on my phone for 05:50. Getting up at that time would give me a chance to waken properly, do some stretches, get showered and dressed, feed myself and clean and tidy up before walking up to the station.

I thought.

Burns' "best laid schemes" injunction never fails because it's about human beings (and mice). And so agley they did go. All the aforementioned foresight let down through one small but crucially overlooked detail. When I set the alarm I chose one that I'd previously created. It was labelled 'Japanese GP' and I'd obviously set it to get me up in time to watch coverage of Formula 1 from Suzuka. Anyone familiar with Grand Prix racing may already be ahead of me here. Qualifying takes place on a Saturday, with the race on the Sunday. And so that was what this alarm had been designed to do – wake me up on those two days. Yesterday was a Wednesday.

I slept well. Which was probably a positive given what happened next. I woke, and gradually registered some degree of surprise that it was so light outside when it must still be before ten to six. Then I looked at the clock. 06:27. There followed a period that felt like several minutes, but was probably no more than two or three seconds, in which my brain processed this information, matched it with my expectations, and worked out the implications. SHIT!!

As you enter your forties I think most people begin to realise that their body changes with age, and most of it isn't for the best. You start to find yourself making strange little noises when called upon to complete tasks which once were performed without a thought. Like getting out of bed in the morning. Somewhere in that well honed machine that is your body there are bits wearing out, weakening, less able to twist and turn and perform as they once did. It takes time, but it's only going to get worse....

I'm in my mid fifties. I've a steady physical decline to look forward to, but the process has long since begun to impose itself on my consciousness and I know, from hard learned lessons, that making sudden or strenuous movements without warming up the relevant muscles is to invite trouble. Cats have got it right - have a really good stretch when you waken up. (Or even if you've been sitting for an hour....)

Heeding that advice didn't appear to be an option. Which is probably why, as I sat at my keyboard yesterday evening, an array of aches made me feel like a lump of unseasoned wood. The duvet was thrown back with considerably more urgency than I have managed in years. Forgetting to shave, I got myself into the shower and out again. Dressed. Started eating my fruit and cooking my porridge at the same time.

(There are people who, on reading this, would ask why I even bothered with breakfast in a situation like this. They are fools. Trust me, I know my body.)

I ate all I had planned to eat, albeit skipping a hot drink and failing to put any sort of spread on the pancakes - I can cut some corners when it comes to eating, just not many. The dishes got washed, my teeth were brushed, some basic worktop wiping performed and that would have to do. Coat on, rucksack slung on my shoulders, out the door and move as fast as my still-stiff legs would permit.

The notion of walking up the hill had vanished in the moment that the meaning of 06:27 had impressed itself upon me. A bus it would have to be. There are two I could take - the 16 or the 22. As I neared the traffic lights there was a 22 waiting to turn the corner. A much younger me briefly considered sprinting ahead to see if I could catch it at the next stop. My much older legs refused to countenance such madness. So I walked semi-briskly on, and saw a 16 pulling up. And away, long before I could possibly have reached it.

I'd got this far without panic so there was no point starting now. The 22 is famed for the frequency of its service and sure enough there was another along within a couple of minutes. Traffic being light at this ludicrous and unholy hour there were no hold ups and I was down Waverley Steps and perusing the Departures board in minutes. My train was there, on time and awaiting my presence at platform 15. I got on board, found my seat and settled in. Eight minutes to spare.

Who needs an alarm?

(I have no wish to repeat the wrong sort of alarm I experienced yesterday morning!)

Not for the under-forties?

OLD(ISH) PEOPLE FILMS

There seems to be a current fad for major feature films with older - sixties, seventies, eighties - actors in the lead roles. Is this something I've just noticed because I'm not so far of being that age myself (and early retirement brings it closer in some ways)? Or is it genuinely the case that the cult of youth is less predominant than it was so recently? It may be that there is a generation of actors who became big stars back in the (rather than their) sixties and seventies who are still active, still box office draws, and remain impressive screen presences. Whilst their contemporaries amongst the general public have the disposable income and time to spend on visits to the cinema. Is this the revenge of the Baby Boomers? (Although several of these big names pre-date even that generation.)

We've been to see two of these oldie productions recently, with a third lined up in a few weeks time. The former both fall into the 'heart warming' and 'life affirming' categories, although neither completely overindulges in schmaltz. The third looks as if there may be a harder edged presence, but the ultimate redemption will remain much as it was for the others. All three flirt with death, it's imminence and inevitability, and the sheer bloody nuisance of a gradually failing body (and mind). I wonder what younger audiences make of them?

The first of the trio was The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel (BEMH), whilst today's was Quartet. Both boast a superstar cast, one has an established, big box office director whilst the other is guided by a man recognised as one of the greatest actors of his time, an icon of the sixties cultural wave, making his directorial debut. All three are very, very British, despite Dustin Hoffman being the director of Quartet. The BEMH has been successful over in the USA, but it's too early to say if either of the others will make it big over there. Actors who may be huge names here in the UK are sometimes relatively unknown over there.

Loosely based on a novel called These Foolish Things, The BEMH is based around a group of ex-pat Brits (well, English) forced, ostensibly, by penury to live out their retirements in India. Whatever flaws it may have, the film is an improvement on the book which is not terribly well written and features different sub-plots. Whoever spotted it's potential as a blockbuster movie did well to dig beneath the surface and the revised storyline is an improvement - generally a rare achievement. In particular the tale of Graham, played by Tom Wilkinson, lifts the overall story above the banal. In the book Graham is a minor background character of little significance. The film gives him a more pivotal role when it is revealed he has returned to India in the hope of meeting up with the lover he knew briefly in his youth. That this is a gay relationship adds an extra level of edge and poignancy. The other standout performance comes from the great Judi Dench, as memorable here as in almost everything she appears in.

Underlying the plot of BEMH is the (predictable) message that life is there to be lived and it's never too late to start anew, undertake fresh experiences and find love. It's feelgood, but not in the sickly Hollywood sense. For older audiences it's good to be reminded that life is far from over, even if there are more than enough aches and pains to handle. Quartet aims at the same target, but is much funnier along the way (not that BEMH lacks for laughs). How could it be otherwise with Billy Connolly in the line-up? I've read that many of the biggest laughs resulted from his ad libs. There is also a great over-the-top performance from Michael Gambon and an equally understated role for Manuel. Sorry, Andrew Sachs. Despite some lovely stuff from Maggie Smith and Pauline Collins it is Tom Courtenay that dominates the screen and gives what must be one of his best ever performances.

There is animosity, romance, frailty and bombast. The young who do appear are respectful of their elders in the main, so maybe not so realistic (?), but these oldies are all once-upon-a-time musicians so at least they have solid achievements behind them which have earned them esteem. Like the Ronald Pickup character in BEMH, Billy C plays an ageing Lothario who flirts outrageously with much (much, much) younger women, both driven by a desire to show they still 'have it'. Younger audience members may see them more as models of threat and disgust rather than life affirming!

The last of the trio, Song For Marion, promises much. Two true screen greats, Terence Stamp and Vanessa Redgrave, head the cast and crits I've seen suggest that Stamp in particular redeems any flaws the plot and direction may bring. I'm also encouraged by the presence of Christopher Ecclestone as their son as he rarely backs a losing horse. Like the two films mentioned above there will be humour based on infirmity and the incongruity of seeing 'old' people doing things usually thought of being reserved for the young. (The trailer shows a choir of oldies singing about sex in a lyric that certainly didn't originate from Cole Porter.) At the end there will be that essential redemption, like Quartet it will be music-based, and Stamp will become the (reluctant) hero of the hour. Where it may differ sharply is in Redgrave contracting a terminal illness and the pain and suffering that brings not just to her, but to those around her. Perhaps more than the other two (which featured the old folks living in quite enclosed communities) this may offer a better model for inter-generational relationships.

Whatever the societal influences they may or may not engender, it is good to see established talents strutting their stuff at the highest level. They, as much as the characters they portray, are inspirational and aspirational. Long may this trend continue.