Lots (and lots and lots) has been written, both in the MSM and on social media, about the recent jailing of Islamophobe and founder of the EDL, Stephen Yaxley Lennon, better known as the self-styled 'Tommy Robinson'. For the most part, the deriders of Yaxley Lennon (YL from now on) have said he got what he deserved when he broke the terms of his suspended sentence, a judgement handed down for committing the same act, namely live-streaming a 'news story' outside a court in contravention of specific reporting restrictions. His supporters have, pretty much to a man, focused on conspiracy theory-like aspects of the case: was the court already set up in anticipation of his breaking the law? How can someone be arrested, convicted and jailed in a matter of a few hours? Is this all some Deep State plot to protect child molesters in high places? Most of this can be dismissed as the wild speculation it is. The Secret Barrister, a real life barrister with actual law training has written a good piece explaining what YL's supporters see as 'anomalies" (find it here). The bottom line to it all is that YL pleaded guilty to the charge and was, therefore, jailed.
I thought about this for a while. Why would a relentless self-publicist such as YL who is forever publishing pieces on YouTube and elsewhere about his martyrdom at the hands of the State not wish to have his day in court where he would have a chance for real journalists to report his every word? This seems rather perverse to say the least. Then I realised: his previous court appearance did very little in terms of garnering publicity: there is no cause celèbre for the 'masses' to get behind if YL walks from court a free man with only a suspended sentence. However, get actual jail time and suddenly, #FreeTommy is trending all over Twitter and Facebook. Clever. More insidious is that, by specifically surrendering your 'right' to free speech (although he can still write letters from jail), you can portray that surrender as having your right to voice your opinions *taken* from you. Very clever.
A sizeable minority of the people who marched in support of the #FreeTommy campaign in London at the weekend turned on the police and started throwing barriers, traffic cones and anything else they could get their hands on. The irony of people who supposedly 'love' their country and want to respect all things British doing this was almost too much. That and the nazi-saluting idiots make me think that there is still a large contingent of 'old school' BNP/NF/EDL adherents involved who, true to their fetishising of 70s and 80s football culture (the Football Lad Culture group being a case in point), like nothing more than a good ruck at the weekend. So far, so obvious: former football thug closely associated with the extreme right is supported by extreme right wing wannabe football thugs. But there is something else going on which is not as straightforward anymore. YL's support has suddenly gone international with social media commentators in Europe and, especially, the US all jumping on the 'free speech'/#FreeTommy bandwagon. Suddenly, people like Roseanne Barr (surely too busy to worry about a small-time convicted thug in the UK) are using the #FreeTommy tagline. Many, many alt-right figures in the US are suddenly tweeting about his 'plight' and weighing in on the supposed 'wrongful' conviction. None of them seem to have a clue about UK law, but the fact that they have bothered to take up his case in *any* way is slightly strange.
Which brings me to the big question: is it YL being suddenly very clever or is someone else pulling the strings and guiding the tactics in this case? For YL's case to make the jump across the pond would, at the very least, seem to imply the networking of the right across social media is worryingly strong right now. However, further than that, is someone funding and co-ordinating far right groups in the UK (and Europe) and by this I mean *seriously* bankrolling these groups, not justy passing collecting buckets round at events? Generation Identity patches, jackets and banners are not amateurish creations by individual members. They are factory-produced, quality products. The stewards' jackets at the march at the weekend were all professionally-produced and, in addition, there would have been all sorts of expenses to pick up in the organisation of such a march. Who is paying?
The right would seem to be properly organising and using little sparking points such as #FreeTommy that could develop out of control if they get the framing of such incidents right (e.g. 'denial of free speech' rather than 'man stupidly breaks law a second time and goes to jail'). YL has accepted his role as agent provocateur and it has produced a response out of proportion to his actual crime. When he is freed, I have no doubt he will continue down the self-same path hoping any judicial response to his next act of stupidity will keep that ball of hate rolling and growing.
Monday, 11 June 2018
Monday, 6 March 2017
The beautiful game and the ugly truth
On Saturday, I went to watch a football match. I used to go regularly - I was a season ticket-holder at Bury for several years - but the constant drip,drip, drip of stories from the Premiership have all served to taint the game and diminish my connection to it: salaries of £300K per week; managers being sacked after five minutes because success (i.e. income) has to be instantaneous and sustained in the Murdoch-polluted pond that is football today; and general acts of awful behaviour by a bunch of overpaid prima donnas. Still, a good game can still inspire me and get the blood pumping a bit. I guess I'm not anti-football, just not as into it in the way I once was. This Saturday's game made me question whether I want to attend another match and, if I do, made me think very carefully where I choose to sit.
The match was a League One fixture between Bolton and AFC Wimbledon at the Macron Stadium. I have no particularly strong feelings for either team: I worked in Bolton for 23 or more years and had attended a few games over the years and I had seen Wimbledon at Plough Lane during the years of miraculous rise up the football league as The Crazy Gang and, subsequently, over the years at various fixtures in the North West. The main reason for my being there was the same reason that I have watched Wimbledon over the years: my friend E who is fanatical about The Wombles. He followed them during the non-league years and all the way through the divisions to the top flight. We were at Wembley in 1988 when they miraculously beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final, E and I sitting in the Liverpool end while my wife and her dad sat in the Wimbledon end (don't ask!). When the Dons scored, E was unable to contain his joy and leapt into the air, not caring about the hundreds of pairs of eyes that turned to watch his celebration, all filled with a mixture of disbelief and menace. At the end, I think the Liverpool fans didn't care about the short guy celebrating in their midst, still unable to comprehend how the sporting thoroughbreds had been beaten over five furlongs by the brewery dray horse. When the team upped sticks and moved to Milton Keynes, E stuck resolutely with the new team formed in the vacuum. E refused to support 'the Franchise', a name he still uses for MK Dons. So, you get the picture: E is fanatical, I am more neutral and just looking to be entertained.
As it was E's team playing, we sat in the end with the away supporters. During the second half, somewhere to our right, the stewards moved up into the crowd. We couldn't see what had occurred/was occurring as many people chose to stand throughout the match. After a while, the stewards re-emerged from the crowd and were escorting out two Wimbledon supporters, neither of whom looked happy to be leaving. As I say, I cannot comment on the appropriateness of the stewards actions as I could not see. However, the five twenty-something blokes on the row behind us started to shout abuse at the stewards. In the main this consisted of "Fuck off!" repeated over and over. They had been fairly vocal throughout the game to that point, singing Wimbledon songs (of which there are many) and generally indulging in blokeish but harmless banter. Their transformation on seeing a fellow fan (who, from their comments, I am pretty certain they did not know) led out of the ground because of unknown transgressions (again, they do not seem to have seen the cause of the incident) was pretty shocking. What truly shocked, however, was the naked misogyny of their invective because one of the stewards was a woman. She was subjected to 'special' abuse: "Look at her, fat cunt" and "Fucking bitch" were two of the yells directed at her. The overweight male steward was not singled out, the balding male steward was not singled out, the steward in glasses was not singled out. Three other, uniquely identifiable stewards were not singled out for abuse, but the woman was.
Sitting directly in front of the lads was a father with his two sons aged 11 or 12. All around, young women were sitting, wanting to see the match and drawn to football as a live experience that is now supposedly 'safer' than it was in the bad old days of hooliganism and racism. Was no-one saying anything because the lads were 'their' supporters, passionate about 'their' team? Should I have said something? Much as I don't want language such as "fucking bitch" to become normalised ways to talk about women for 11 and 12 year olds, how would I have fared against five or six rather tanked-up lads? The truth is, I should have said something as I was the neutral and they weren't 'my' supporters to upset. I think the fact that no-one - including me - said anything to counter such awful language, was what really took the edge off the day for me.
The match was a League One fixture between Bolton and AFC Wimbledon at the Macron Stadium. I have no particularly strong feelings for either team: I worked in Bolton for 23 or more years and had attended a few games over the years and I had seen Wimbledon at Plough Lane during the years of miraculous rise up the football league as The Crazy Gang and, subsequently, over the years at various fixtures in the North West. The main reason for my being there was the same reason that I have watched Wimbledon over the years: my friend E who is fanatical about The Wombles. He followed them during the non-league years and all the way through the divisions to the top flight. We were at Wembley in 1988 when they miraculously beat Liverpool in the FA Cup final, E and I sitting in the Liverpool end while my wife and her dad sat in the Wimbledon end (don't ask!). When the Dons scored, E was unable to contain his joy and leapt into the air, not caring about the hundreds of pairs of eyes that turned to watch his celebration, all filled with a mixture of disbelief and menace. At the end, I think the Liverpool fans didn't care about the short guy celebrating in their midst, still unable to comprehend how the sporting thoroughbreds had been beaten over five furlongs by the brewery dray horse. When the team upped sticks and moved to Milton Keynes, E stuck resolutely with the new team formed in the vacuum. E refused to support 'the Franchise', a name he still uses for MK Dons. So, you get the picture: E is fanatical, I am more neutral and just looking to be entertained.
As it was E's team playing, we sat in the end with the away supporters. During the second half, somewhere to our right, the stewards moved up into the crowd. We couldn't see what had occurred/was occurring as many people chose to stand throughout the match. After a while, the stewards re-emerged from the crowd and were escorting out two Wimbledon supporters, neither of whom looked happy to be leaving. As I say, I cannot comment on the appropriateness of the stewards actions as I could not see. However, the five twenty-something blokes on the row behind us started to shout abuse at the stewards. In the main this consisted of "Fuck off!" repeated over and over. They had been fairly vocal throughout the game to that point, singing Wimbledon songs (of which there are many) and generally indulging in blokeish but harmless banter. Their transformation on seeing a fellow fan (who, from their comments, I am pretty certain they did not know) led out of the ground because of unknown transgressions (again, they do not seem to have seen the cause of the incident) was pretty shocking. What truly shocked, however, was the naked misogyny of their invective because one of the stewards was a woman. She was subjected to 'special' abuse: "Look at her, fat cunt" and "Fucking bitch" were two of the yells directed at her. The overweight male steward was not singled out, the balding male steward was not singled out, the steward in glasses was not singled out. Three other, uniquely identifiable stewards were not singled out for abuse, but the woman was.
Sitting directly in front of the lads was a father with his two sons aged 11 or 12. All around, young women were sitting, wanting to see the match and drawn to football as a live experience that is now supposedly 'safer' than it was in the bad old days of hooliganism and racism. Was no-one saying anything because the lads were 'their' supporters, passionate about 'their' team? Should I have said something? Much as I don't want language such as "fucking bitch" to become normalised ways to talk about women for 11 and 12 year olds, how would I have fared against five or six rather tanked-up lads? The truth is, I should have said something as I was the neutral and they weren't 'my' supporters to upset. I think the fact that no-one - including me - said anything to counter such awful language, was what really took the edge off the day for me.
Wednesday, 8 February 2017
The Big City 2
Day 3: old friends and food
In the morning, we headed off to the National Portrait Gallery, somewhere we hadn't been for a while. We arrived in Trafalgar Square which was filled with the usual sea of tourists but also, a lot of equipment and barriers and portakabins. You would have been sorely out of luck if you had travelled from the other side of the world to get a photo of you standing next to one of the lions at the base of the column as they were completely swallowed up and cordoned off in the 'backstage' area that had been created behind a temporary stage erected, seemingly, for Chinese New Year celebrations. We have grown quite used to travelling abroad only to find a monument or building shrouded in scaffold. For once, I didn't care as I have every shot of the Square I need.
As we made our way across the square towards the National Gallery, I could hear there was a street performer warming up the crowd with some patter. At that very moment, we emerged right at the front of the crowd gathered to watch his performance. Now, my hair is a bit long at the moment and it had been a bit blown around. but was there really a need for him to remark "Wow! Worzel Gummage is back from the dead!"? Well, it got him a laugh or two and, truthfully, I also had a smile on my face. British self-deprecation: we just take it on the chin.
The NPG is great: the paintings are good, to be sure, but the really brilliant bit is the quality of the history lesson you get as you go round. The info tiles beside each painting not only provides details of the painter but also some context for us to better understand what we are seeing in the paintings beyond representations of people. Elaine was especially happy with that element. Afterwards, we had a quick look round Covent Garden, somewhere that we had often gone when we first got together in London. The shops that were once supplied craft-y, quirky and artisan/handmade goods are now all occupied by purveyors of luxury goods from well-known brands. The bric-a-brac market that was filled with tat (£5 for an empty Avon fragrance bottle in the shape of a train anyone?) as well as proper antiques has been replaced by more organised stalls, the majority of which sell souvenirs decorated with the word 'London' and pictures of double decker buses, Nelson's Column and Buckingham Palace. What felt co-operative is now completely corporate.
That evening, we had planned to meet up with friends Howard and Lesley-Ann at the George in Borough before going on for something to eat. On reflection, I had realised that the George, although a unique and interesting pub (one-time coaching inn, still has a gallery facing onto the courtyard, contains a clock with a payment slot from times when apprentices from local firms would be sent to the pub to find out the time and have to pay for the privilege, plus its general air of authentic age as opposed to "made-to-look-olde-worlde'), is actually a little out of the way and not greatly convenient in terms of tube stations. So I hit on a great idea: we'll meet at Cask, the bar we had visited last night! After all, it was important that I try a few more of their ales for research purposes...
When Howie and Les came into the bar, it was as if it had only been weeks since we'd seen them rather than the actual three and a half years. Yes, we had lots of stories to swap, but there was no awkwardness around having to re-establish our friendship: it was just natural and made Elaine and I very happy to be with them again. We went on to a rather nice Mediterranean restaurant called 'AboutThyme' where the food and wine was fabulous. After such a good evening, it was sad to wave goodbye to them at Victoria Station. We all vowed that it will not be three years to our next meet-up. Anyway, Howie has intrigued me by saying that Dark Star Brewing Co has taken on a pub near Cuckfield where they live, so I shall need to sample some of that!
Day 4: faulty sat-nav (user) part 2 and retail therapy
We decided that, having parted with no money in Covent Garden, we'd have another try somewhere else so off we headed to Old Spitalfields Market in Shoreditch. We checked the nearest tube station (Liverpool Street) and, having alighted there, I checked our direction of travel with Google Maps on my phone. "This way" quoth I, confidently and set off at a brisk pace. When we found ourselves briskly pacing past Aldgate East tube station, Elaine asked, not unreasonably, "Why would they say Liverpool Street is the nearest tube if we are passing Algate East on the way to the market?" I rechecked the phone. "Yes, it's just down this road" I reassured her only to find, a quarter of a mile later, that we were heading in the opposite direction to where we should have been going. I found that "Oh well, it's all good exercise" is not a helpful thing to say in these circumstances.
Old Spitalfields Market is definitely recommended. I was expecting hipster hell but it turned out to be a great mix of all sorts (Saturdays and Sundays are 'general' markets whereas Thursdays and Fridays are more themed with antiques and clothes/art respectively). There were also loads of good food stalls which looked really good but, being so soon after our breakfast, we sadly didn't sample. My other regret was not checking the fit of the trousers of a Harris Tweed suit. Having tried the jacket which was slightly small across the chest but really long in the arms, I didn't bother checking the fit of the trousers. I realised later that it was probably made for someone tall (the long arms were a clue) and might have been one of those rare finds: a vintage suit that a) I like the look of and b) was long enough in the legs for me. Anyhow, we both decided that OSM has to be revisited and this time, it would be with empty stomachs!
So that was our trip to London. I still love to visit whilst being even more sure that I could not live there. The pace is noticeably faster than here in Rammy, something that only hits you when you have been away a long time. In places it's dirty as anything (surviving telephone boxes are places that you just wouldn't want to stand in), parts look a bit shabby and run-down. In contract, there are yet more new buildings on the skyline such as the Shard (incomplete the last time we were in London) and a few others. But even a street level, so much has changed. The streets around Victoria Station that I used to know really well through walking from station to college and back every weekend, are now completely alien to me. I just could not get my bearings as there was virtually nothing I recognised in the area. All around the station, new glass-fronted buildings rise up and tower over the one or two things that I could still cling to such as the Victoria Palace Theatre. Perhaps, for future visits, it will be best to treat it as a completely foreign land, one I am visiting for the first time and just accept the fact that the world we knew then is no more and everything has been remade anew. Buildings matter less than the friendships from that time that still endure.
In the morning, we headed off to the National Portrait Gallery, somewhere we hadn't been for a while. We arrived in Trafalgar Square which was filled with the usual sea of tourists but also, a lot of equipment and barriers and portakabins. You would have been sorely out of luck if you had travelled from the other side of the world to get a photo of you standing next to one of the lions at the base of the column as they were completely swallowed up and cordoned off in the 'backstage' area that had been created behind a temporary stage erected, seemingly, for Chinese New Year celebrations. We have grown quite used to travelling abroad only to find a monument or building shrouded in scaffold. For once, I didn't care as I have every shot of the Square I need.
As we made our way across the square towards the National Gallery, I could hear there was a street performer warming up the crowd with some patter. At that very moment, we emerged right at the front of the crowd gathered to watch his performance. Now, my hair is a bit long at the moment and it had been a bit blown around. but was there really a need for him to remark "Wow! Worzel Gummage is back from the dead!"? Well, it got him a laugh or two and, truthfully, I also had a smile on my face. British self-deprecation: we just take it on the chin.
The NPG is great: the paintings are good, to be sure, but the really brilliant bit is the quality of the history lesson you get as you go round. The info tiles beside each painting not only provides details of the painter but also some context for us to better understand what we are seeing in the paintings beyond representations of people. Elaine was especially happy with that element. Afterwards, we had a quick look round Covent Garden, somewhere that we had often gone when we first got together in London. The shops that were once supplied craft-y, quirky and artisan/handmade goods are now all occupied by purveyors of luxury goods from well-known brands. The bric-a-brac market that was filled with tat (£5 for an empty Avon fragrance bottle in the shape of a train anyone?) as well as proper antiques has been replaced by more organised stalls, the majority of which sell souvenirs decorated with the word 'London' and pictures of double decker buses, Nelson's Column and Buckingham Palace. What felt co-operative is now completely corporate.
That evening, we had planned to meet up with friends Howard and Lesley-Ann at the George in Borough before going on for something to eat. On reflection, I had realised that the George, although a unique and interesting pub (one-time coaching inn, still has a gallery facing onto the courtyard, contains a clock with a payment slot from times when apprentices from local firms would be sent to the pub to find out the time and have to pay for the privilege, plus its general air of authentic age as opposed to "made-to-look-olde-worlde'), is actually a little out of the way and not greatly convenient in terms of tube stations. So I hit on a great idea: we'll meet at Cask, the bar we had visited last night! After all, it was important that I try a few more of their ales for research purposes...
When Howie and Les came into the bar, it was as if it had only been weeks since we'd seen them rather than the actual three and a half years. Yes, we had lots of stories to swap, but there was no awkwardness around having to re-establish our friendship: it was just natural and made Elaine and I very happy to be with them again. We went on to a rather nice Mediterranean restaurant called 'AboutThyme' where the food and wine was fabulous. After such a good evening, it was sad to wave goodbye to them at Victoria Station. We all vowed that it will not be three years to our next meet-up. Anyway, Howie has intrigued me by saying that Dark Star Brewing Co has taken on a pub near Cuckfield where they live, so I shall need to sample some of that!
Day 4: faulty sat-nav (user) part 2 and retail therapy
We decided that, having parted with no money in Covent Garden, we'd have another try somewhere else so off we headed to Old Spitalfields Market in Shoreditch. We checked the nearest tube station (Liverpool Street) and, having alighted there, I checked our direction of travel with Google Maps on my phone. "This way" quoth I, confidently and set off at a brisk pace. When we found ourselves briskly pacing past Aldgate East tube station, Elaine asked, not unreasonably, "Why would they say Liverpool Street is the nearest tube if we are passing Algate East on the way to the market?" I rechecked the phone. "Yes, it's just down this road" I reassured her only to find, a quarter of a mile later, that we were heading in the opposite direction to where we should have been going. I found that "Oh well, it's all good exercise" is not a helpful thing to say in these circumstances.
Old Spitalfields Market is definitely recommended. I was expecting hipster hell but it turned out to be a great mix of all sorts (Saturdays and Sundays are 'general' markets whereas Thursdays and Fridays are more themed with antiques and clothes/art respectively). There were also loads of good food stalls which looked really good but, being so soon after our breakfast, we sadly didn't sample. My other regret was not checking the fit of the trousers of a Harris Tweed suit. Having tried the jacket which was slightly small across the chest but really long in the arms, I didn't bother checking the fit of the trousers. I realised later that it was probably made for someone tall (the long arms were a clue) and might have been one of those rare finds: a vintage suit that a) I like the look of and b) was long enough in the legs for me. Anyhow, we both decided that OSM has to be revisited and this time, it would be with empty stomachs!
So that was our trip to London. I still love to visit whilst being even more sure that I could not live there. The pace is noticeably faster than here in Rammy, something that only hits you when you have been away a long time. In places it's dirty as anything (surviving telephone boxes are places that you just wouldn't want to stand in), parts look a bit shabby and run-down. In contract, there are yet more new buildings on the skyline such as the Shard (incomplete the last time we were in London) and a few others. But even a street level, so much has changed. The streets around Victoria Station that I used to know really well through walking from station to college and back every weekend, are now completely alien to me. I just could not get my bearings as there was virtually nothing I recognised in the area. All around the station, new glass-fronted buildings rise up and tower over the one or two things that I could still cling to such as the Victoria Palace Theatre. Perhaps, for future visits, it will be best to treat it as a completely foreign land, one I am visiting for the first time and just accept the fact that the world we knew then is no more and everything has been remade anew. Buildings matter less than the friendships from that time that still endure.
Friday, 3 February 2017
The Big City 1
With the pound in free-fall against the Euro thanks to a certain event last year, we decided that, rather than have a long weekend in a city in Europe, we would take a break in London. It has been two or three years since we visited the city where we met so the time was right to reacquaint ourselves with the peculiar brand of madness that our capital boasts. Hipsters and homeless, bankers and criminals (possibly a tautology there), the weird and the wonderful - all are there in the great melting pot of the city. Whatever it may be, London is never dull.
Bransonomics
We travelled down by train, Virgin West Coast to be precise. Taking a car down with the congestion charge and exorbitant parking charges makes no economic sense if you can buy rail tickets cheaply. Having booked sufficiently in advance, the cost of the tickets was actually pretty reasonable. Now, don't get me wrong, economy class is not at all bad, but, if there is the option to upgrade for a small fee, we usually take it: there is more room to spread out a bit and get comfortable. No info on upgrading had been given when we bought the tickets and nothing was said on the train. When we got off, we saw that there were four first class carriages: four whole carriages for a 10:35 train, rather later than the average business user (the main consumers of first class seats) would be taking the train to London. On the evidence, it seemed likely that the majority of those seats had been empty. Now, am I wrong in thinking that Sir Richard is always portrayed as a canny businessman, not one to be missing out on making a bob or two wherever possible? Running practically empty carriages seems to be a trick being missed.
Faulty sat-nav (user)
We knew that the hotel was only a short walk from Euston, but we decided to rely on maps on the phone to get us there. Off we set following the little blue dot as we closed in on our accommodation. Finally, we arrived at our destination road...which had a completely different name to the road on which our hotel stood! That was when I realised that I had left out a crucial letter in the postcode entered into the nav: being all provincial these days, we are used to postcodes in the format 'LLN NLL' such as 'BL9 9BL'. I had forgotten that, London being such a large area, postcodes in the central area take the format 'LLNL NLL' and I had missed out that extra letter in the first part. Luckily, we had not gone too far out of our way, but it really is a bit dispiriting having to retrace one's steps while realising that, at one point, the door to you hotel was about ten yards away when you walked right past it!
When we checked in, the receptionist told us that our room was on the third floor, but there was no lift. On account of our extremely advanced years, he then asked if we wished that he might find a room on another floor i.e. closer to the ground. "No, no, no!" we chorused, "We'll be absolutely fine!". God, how things come back to bite one firmly on the bum...
Day 1: culture and pain
After offloading the bags, we decided to head out for something to eat. London sometimes feels like it is crammed wall-to-wall with places to eat, so we knew there would be plenty of places nearby (hell, we'd walked past some of them twice just an hour before). Amazingly, at 2:15pm, nearly every cafe in the area was heaving with not a free table in sight. After the third place we tried turned out to be full, I started wondering if anyone ever went back to work after lunch. Certainly in this area, no one seemed arsed that lunch hour had finished a while ago. Eventually, we found a table at a place that did felafel and shawarma and other middle eastern goodies. The food was great and, as a bonus, it was both filling and cheap. Appetite sated, we headed off to the British Museum. I think we might have visited the BM last time we were down in The Smoke, but the place is so stuffed with fascinating things that it can only ever be consumed in small chunks. Even a full day from doors open to shutting up shop would only scratch at the surface, so we had to be selective about where we headed. The opening gallery provided a great set of exhibits on the theme of similarities in concerns and beliefs, especially in relation to health, life and death and the way that they are handled in different cultures. The centre of the room was taken up by an exhibit called 'Cradle to Grave', a meditation on life, health and death told in medication and family photographs. It was by turns, fascinating, moving and beautiful. We also visited an exhibition on art and resistance in South Africa and had a look in on the Sutton Hoo treasures and Lewis chessmen. By this time, our dogs were decidedly barking and so we trudged back to the hotel via a supermarket. Arriving back at the hotel with full shopping bags (it was an apartment hotel, so we could self-cater breakfast, plus, of course, we needed gin and wine), the poor decision on accepting a room at the top of the building became apparent. Every step was painful in the extreme. Being able to sit down never felt better!
Day 2: family and beer
As we were due to meet my mum and Derek, her husband, at Victoria Station at midday and then go for some lunch, we just had some pain aux raisons and coffee - very French (except, without Gauloises...). When we arrived at Victoria, I found I had had a voicemail from mum. Listening to it, I could hear her and Derek discussing how to leave a voicemail over a period of a minute or so before...nothing. She hadn't actually left any clue as to what the call was about! As we had a bit of time before their train was due in, we went up to road to get some money out. As we approached the Lloyds Bank nearest to the station, we could see the flashing blue lights of police cars and ambulances on the corner. A middle-aged man, maybe my age, was on his back on the pavement, an oxygen mask covering his face and an auto-CPR machine pumping hard on his chest, a knot of ambulance staff and coppers surrounding him body. Five minutes later when we returned, the machine was still pumping. That night, I searched local news websites to see if anything had been reported, to find out if he had made it. I found nothing, and I'd like to think that was because he had eventually started breathing for himself and was now in hospital on the way to recovery. Small stories of death are reported: those that recover do not generate column inches.
I rang mum to ask that, as we were making our way back to the station, if they got there before we did, could she remain close to the entrance to the platform on which the train arrived as the station was really busy and the chance of missing them was quite high. She promised that would do that. We waited at the entrance to platforms 13 and 14, the designated ones for the Gatwick Express, the service they had caught. When it got to 12:15 with no sign of them, I rang again. "Yes, we are under the clock near the departures and arrivals board" came the answer i.e. nowhere near the entrance to the platform as requested. Having finally collected them, we set off for some food. Lunch over, we asked what they fancied doing while they were in London. We hadn't planned too rigid a day as Derek has on and off days as far as mobility goes and he had already shown some signs of being in pain. We decided we would try to get a ride on the London Eye. When we got there, we realised how deluded that idea was. The queues for tickets were huge and the queue to get on the damn thing was as bad. It wasn't going to happen. Instead, we headed down the south side of the Thames to the South Bank Centre for a coffee and a mooch. Not quite the same as the Eye, but it allowed a bit more time with mum I guess.
Having seen mum and Derek onto their train home, we decided to go to one of the pubs that we had considered taking them to for lunch. We had decided against it on the grounds that they only do burgers (albeit very good burgers apparently) but it did boast that it had the largest selection of craft beers in London. Cask in Pimlico turned out to be a wonderful find (thanks E!) with ten cask ales, 15 keg lines and 300 bottled ales. Needless to say, we only scratched the surface of the goodies on offer, but I enjoyed every ale I tried, even the £7.90 pint (Broken Dream breakfast stout by Siren)! I made a note to myself that a return visit was required. As it happened, the return happened sooner than I had anticipated.
Bransonomics
We travelled down by train, Virgin West Coast to be precise. Taking a car down with the congestion charge and exorbitant parking charges makes no economic sense if you can buy rail tickets cheaply. Having booked sufficiently in advance, the cost of the tickets was actually pretty reasonable. Now, don't get me wrong, economy class is not at all bad, but, if there is the option to upgrade for a small fee, we usually take it: there is more room to spread out a bit and get comfortable. No info on upgrading had been given when we bought the tickets and nothing was said on the train. When we got off, we saw that there were four first class carriages: four whole carriages for a 10:35 train, rather later than the average business user (the main consumers of first class seats) would be taking the train to London. On the evidence, it seemed likely that the majority of those seats had been empty. Now, am I wrong in thinking that Sir Richard is always portrayed as a canny businessman, not one to be missing out on making a bob or two wherever possible? Running practically empty carriages seems to be a trick being missed.
Faulty sat-nav (user)
We knew that the hotel was only a short walk from Euston, but we decided to rely on maps on the phone to get us there. Off we set following the little blue dot as we closed in on our accommodation. Finally, we arrived at our destination road...which had a completely different name to the road on which our hotel stood! That was when I realised that I had left out a crucial letter in the postcode entered into the nav: being all provincial these days, we are used to postcodes in the format 'LLN NLL' such as 'BL9 9BL'. I had forgotten that, London being such a large area, postcodes in the central area take the format 'LLNL NLL' and I had missed out that extra letter in the first part. Luckily, we had not gone too far out of our way, but it really is a bit dispiriting having to retrace one's steps while realising that, at one point, the door to you hotel was about ten yards away when you walked right past it!
When we checked in, the receptionist told us that our room was on the third floor, but there was no lift. On account of our extremely advanced years, he then asked if we wished that he might find a room on another floor i.e. closer to the ground. "No, no, no!" we chorused, "We'll be absolutely fine!". God, how things come back to bite one firmly on the bum...
Day 1: culture and pain
After offloading the bags, we decided to head out for something to eat. London sometimes feels like it is crammed wall-to-wall with places to eat, so we knew there would be plenty of places nearby (hell, we'd walked past some of them twice just an hour before). Amazingly, at 2:15pm, nearly every cafe in the area was heaving with not a free table in sight. After the third place we tried turned out to be full, I started wondering if anyone ever went back to work after lunch. Certainly in this area, no one seemed arsed that lunch hour had finished a while ago. Eventually, we found a table at a place that did felafel and shawarma and other middle eastern goodies. The food was great and, as a bonus, it was both filling and cheap. Appetite sated, we headed off to the British Museum. I think we might have visited the BM last time we were down in The Smoke, but the place is so stuffed with fascinating things that it can only ever be consumed in small chunks. Even a full day from doors open to shutting up shop would only scratch at the surface, so we had to be selective about where we headed. The opening gallery provided a great set of exhibits on the theme of similarities in concerns and beliefs, especially in relation to health, life and death and the way that they are handled in different cultures. The centre of the room was taken up by an exhibit called 'Cradle to Grave', a meditation on life, health and death told in medication and family photographs. It was by turns, fascinating, moving and beautiful. We also visited an exhibition on art and resistance in South Africa and had a look in on the Sutton Hoo treasures and Lewis chessmen. By this time, our dogs were decidedly barking and so we trudged back to the hotel via a supermarket. Arriving back at the hotel with full shopping bags (it was an apartment hotel, so we could self-cater breakfast, plus, of course, we needed gin and wine), the poor decision on accepting a room at the top of the building became apparent. Every step was painful in the extreme. Being able to sit down never felt better!
Day 2: family and beer
As we were due to meet my mum and Derek, her husband, at Victoria Station at midday and then go for some lunch, we just had some pain aux raisons and coffee - very French (except, without Gauloises...). When we arrived at Victoria, I found I had had a voicemail from mum. Listening to it, I could hear her and Derek discussing how to leave a voicemail over a period of a minute or so before...nothing. She hadn't actually left any clue as to what the call was about! As we had a bit of time before their train was due in, we went up to road to get some money out. As we approached the Lloyds Bank nearest to the station, we could see the flashing blue lights of police cars and ambulances on the corner. A middle-aged man, maybe my age, was on his back on the pavement, an oxygen mask covering his face and an auto-CPR machine pumping hard on his chest, a knot of ambulance staff and coppers surrounding him body. Five minutes later when we returned, the machine was still pumping. That night, I searched local news websites to see if anything had been reported, to find out if he had made it. I found nothing, and I'd like to think that was because he had eventually started breathing for himself and was now in hospital on the way to recovery. Small stories of death are reported: those that recover do not generate column inches.
I rang mum to ask that, as we were making our way back to the station, if they got there before we did, could she remain close to the entrance to the platform on which the train arrived as the station was really busy and the chance of missing them was quite high. She promised that would do that. We waited at the entrance to platforms 13 and 14, the designated ones for the Gatwick Express, the service they had caught. When it got to 12:15 with no sign of them, I rang again. "Yes, we are under the clock near the departures and arrivals board" came the answer i.e. nowhere near the entrance to the platform as requested. Having finally collected them, we set off for some food. Lunch over, we asked what they fancied doing while they were in London. We hadn't planned too rigid a day as Derek has on and off days as far as mobility goes and he had already shown some signs of being in pain. We decided we would try to get a ride on the London Eye. When we got there, we realised how deluded that idea was. The queues for tickets were huge and the queue to get on the damn thing was as bad. It wasn't going to happen. Instead, we headed down the south side of the Thames to the South Bank Centre for a coffee and a mooch. Not quite the same as the Eye, but it allowed a bit more time with mum I guess.
Having seen mum and Derek onto their train home, we decided to go to one of the pubs that we had considered taking them to for lunch. We had decided against it on the grounds that they only do burgers (albeit very good burgers apparently) but it did boast that it had the largest selection of craft beers in London. Cask in Pimlico turned out to be a wonderful find (thanks E!) with ten cask ales, 15 keg lines and 300 bottled ales. Needless to say, we only scratched the surface of the goodies on offer, but I enjoyed every ale I tried, even the £7.90 pint (Broken Dream breakfast stout by Siren)! I made a note to myself that a return visit was required. As it happened, the return happened sooner than I had anticipated.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
Not in my name
As I type this, we are potentially just over 24 hours away from Parliament agreeing that we should commit to "an expansion" of our role in the war on IS/ISIL/Daesh. Writing that sentence makes me depressed, scared, angry - anything other than confident and safer. The hawks in Westminster, egged on by tub-thumping journalists and the defence industry, will soon have their way and we will commit to a war that will have no forseeable end and no clearly-defined outcomes. Of course, we could all be surprised and find that Labour MPs actually vote in line with the resolution passed at Conference barely two months ago. There could be many more Tory MPs who have a last minute wobble and decide to reject the need for us to - yet again - strut our stuff on the battlefield, only to find that when the war is 'over' and we have buried our dead, nothing has changed. It could happen, but I doubt it will.
We, the public, have been whipped into a frenzy of "we must do SOMETHING!". The constant assault on our consciousness by the endless front pages of the gutter press shouting out their stories of 'terrorist refugees' coupled with the night of co-ordinated attacks launched in Paris last month - "Paris - that's on our doorstep!" - has convinced the British people that we are next on the terrorists' list of targets. We have been made scared and set on edge and we have been told who the enemy is. Having wound us up, the press and Government can be guaranteed that the majority are now thoroughly on-side when it comes to rolling out the bloody red carpet once more.
I was disappointed that Jeremy Corbyn did not place a three-line whip on the Party when it comes to any vote relating to 'expanding' our role. To my mind, a free vote allows the bad apples in hs own cabinet, the ones that are constantly briefing against him in the press (probably for a nice little kickback too), to do what they want to do without having to positively buck the party line. I thought that this missed an opportunity to damage Cameron's leadership because, without the support of dissident Labour MPs, he would probably have had to have shut up about his war ambitions, a humuiliating climbdown given his known wish to increase our involvement. However, having heard Corbyn speak today and explain why he went with the free vote, I now believe it to be a good move: those Labour MPs who vote for war will have nowhere to hide when it all goes to hell and we are having Chilcot Part 2 - they will not have the option of saying "The Party made me do it!". It will all be of their own making, their own free will.
As a little aside, I just thought of something the other day. Although Corbyn is portayed in many sections of the media as "extreme" or "hard-left", take away his meetings with Palestinian and Irish Republican activists and his views on social justice, plain speaking, "good' politics and equality make me think of John Smith, the best PM we never had. Was John Smith vilified in this way as "extreme"? Were his views on social justice pilloried? No, the press had yet to descend into whatever circle of hell in which it currently resides. Back then, having a conscience was still acceptable. But I digress…
So, why are we going to war? Although there are associated reasons such as the French wanting us to do more (well, we could do 'more' but more of other useful and effective stuff rather than bombing) or "the UN has sanctioned it" (not sure if the UN has sanctioned war or, indeed, if Russia, for example, is going to carry on playing nice for ever). It seems to come down to this: to increase our security. Yep, you read right - to increase our security. Now, given that we are already (sort of) operating in Iraq against IS, we are going to be a likely target of some kind of revenge attack. IS are pretty old skool when it comes to their religion, very much an-eye-for-an-eye type guys. Given our current involvement in Iraq (plus previous form in Iraq, Afghanistan etc), I'd say we are on their attack list. The terrorists involved in the attacks in Paris specifically linked thier actions to France's role in the Middle East. Now, while some of the terrorists may have come into France posing as refugees, some were already there in France and/or Belgium and had been for some time. France getting involved against IS provided the trigger for their 'revenge'. We are now trying to go down the same route, painting a bigger target on our backs. Public safety will be decreased by our involvement and the only way to ensure "our" safety will be greater surveillance, more restrictions, more hassle. Win for the terrorists.
Never mind our safety, what about the safety of the average Syrian? In our war in Iraq (Gulf War 2 and the occupation), we managed to kill lots of Saddam's troops as well as henchmen fiercely loyal to him. But how many Iraqi civillians did we also manage to kill in the process? 100,000? More? We don't know for certain but, whatever figure it is, it is an awful lot of 'collateral damage' (as they try to sanitise it). The fact is that, even with the smartest of smart bombs, many, many Syrian civilians are going to be killed, especially if IS start basing themselves in densely-populatd areas. To compound the problem, we have no spotters on the ground so how accurate are these targets ever going to be? As more civilians die - people who might have been bombed by the Assad regime previously, remember- so anti-West resentment rises and IS can play into that. Win for the terrorists.
What is the end-game here? Neither Iraq nor Afghanistan had a good outcome following our departure, despite our hanging around for a very prolonged period after the 'victory'. The Taliban are back in many places in Afghanistan and the vacuum in Iraq left by removing the one thing holding factions at bay - Saddam - created the right environment in which IS could flourish. Oficially, Iraq has an army of 650,000 and around 300,000 police - nearly a million people who should be operating against IS and yet still they exist in Iraq. Syria, we are told, has a 'free Syrian army' of around 70,000. This figure, quoted by Cameron among others, is likely to be baloney: 70,000 armend people maybe, but not an army as we would understand it or need it to be - different groups and factions without a single command structure are not going to be effective allies on the ground. Internicene warring is more likely than concentrating on defeating IS.
Before we even get into a never-ending war (a showdown that IS wants, of course - win for the terrorists), why are we not looking to strike at IS in other ways? They get their weapons from somewhere - why are we not working on cutting that supply off? (I know it's probably the Saudis that are supplying which means Cameron will find it hard to be tough with them but, hey, it's all about this country's security, isn't it Dave? Isn't it?). Where are they selling their oil to gain revenue? Use diplomacy/pressure with the buyers. Do almost anything and exhaust those routes before we get into a war, for God's sake!
Churchill once advocated that there should be "more jaw-jaw and less war-war". A motion to lay before Parliament was agreed today, a few hours debate in the house tomorrow will determine if our bombers will be in action by the end of the week: barely time for any talking, any exploration of other options. I'd like to think that some of those set on war could still be turned through debate tomorrow, but I doubt it. Most politicians wear poppies and stand at the Cenotaph, yet they all seem to want to rush to war at the drop of a hat or the sniff of a dodgy dossier. Jeremy Corbyn wants us to stay out of a war and to try other means to defeat IS first. It's not about him being weak, it's about him being strong and holding on to his principles in the face of incredible provocation.
We, the public, have been whipped into a frenzy of "we must do SOMETHING!". The constant assault on our consciousness by the endless front pages of the gutter press shouting out their stories of 'terrorist refugees' coupled with the night of co-ordinated attacks launched in Paris last month - "Paris - that's on our doorstep!" - has convinced the British people that we are next on the terrorists' list of targets. We have been made scared and set on edge and we have been told who the enemy is. Having wound us up, the press and Government can be guaranteed that the majority are now thoroughly on-side when it comes to rolling out the bloody red carpet once more.
I was disappointed that Jeremy Corbyn did not place a three-line whip on the Party when it comes to any vote relating to 'expanding' our role. To my mind, a free vote allows the bad apples in hs own cabinet, the ones that are constantly briefing against him in the press (probably for a nice little kickback too), to do what they want to do without having to positively buck the party line. I thought that this missed an opportunity to damage Cameron's leadership because, without the support of dissident Labour MPs, he would probably have had to have shut up about his war ambitions, a humuiliating climbdown given his known wish to increase our involvement. However, having heard Corbyn speak today and explain why he went with the free vote, I now believe it to be a good move: those Labour MPs who vote for war will have nowhere to hide when it all goes to hell and we are having Chilcot Part 2 - they will not have the option of saying "The Party made me do it!". It will all be of their own making, their own free will.
As a little aside, I just thought of something the other day. Although Corbyn is portayed in many sections of the media as "extreme" or "hard-left", take away his meetings with Palestinian and Irish Republican activists and his views on social justice, plain speaking, "good' politics and equality make me think of John Smith, the best PM we never had. Was John Smith vilified in this way as "extreme"? Were his views on social justice pilloried? No, the press had yet to descend into whatever circle of hell in which it currently resides. Back then, having a conscience was still acceptable. But I digress…
So, why are we going to war? Although there are associated reasons such as the French wanting us to do more (well, we could do 'more' but more of other useful and effective stuff rather than bombing) or "the UN has sanctioned it" (not sure if the UN has sanctioned war or, indeed, if Russia, for example, is going to carry on playing nice for ever). It seems to come down to this: to increase our security. Yep, you read right - to increase our security. Now, given that we are already (sort of) operating in Iraq against IS, we are going to be a likely target of some kind of revenge attack. IS are pretty old skool when it comes to their religion, very much an-eye-for-an-eye type guys. Given our current involvement in Iraq (plus previous form in Iraq, Afghanistan etc), I'd say we are on their attack list. The terrorists involved in the attacks in Paris specifically linked thier actions to France's role in the Middle East. Now, while some of the terrorists may have come into France posing as refugees, some were already there in France and/or Belgium and had been for some time. France getting involved against IS provided the trigger for their 'revenge'. We are now trying to go down the same route, painting a bigger target on our backs. Public safety will be decreased by our involvement and the only way to ensure "our" safety will be greater surveillance, more restrictions, more hassle. Win for the terrorists.
Never mind our safety, what about the safety of the average Syrian? In our war in Iraq (Gulf War 2 and the occupation), we managed to kill lots of Saddam's troops as well as henchmen fiercely loyal to him. But how many Iraqi civillians did we also manage to kill in the process? 100,000? More? We don't know for certain but, whatever figure it is, it is an awful lot of 'collateral damage' (as they try to sanitise it). The fact is that, even with the smartest of smart bombs, many, many Syrian civilians are going to be killed, especially if IS start basing themselves in densely-populatd areas. To compound the problem, we have no spotters on the ground so how accurate are these targets ever going to be? As more civilians die - people who might have been bombed by the Assad regime previously, remember- so anti-West resentment rises and IS can play into that. Win for the terrorists.
What is the end-game here? Neither Iraq nor Afghanistan had a good outcome following our departure, despite our hanging around for a very prolonged period after the 'victory'. The Taliban are back in many places in Afghanistan and the vacuum in Iraq left by removing the one thing holding factions at bay - Saddam - created the right environment in which IS could flourish. Oficially, Iraq has an army of 650,000 and around 300,000 police - nearly a million people who should be operating against IS and yet still they exist in Iraq. Syria, we are told, has a 'free Syrian army' of around 70,000. This figure, quoted by Cameron among others, is likely to be baloney: 70,000 armend people maybe, but not an army as we would understand it or need it to be - different groups and factions without a single command structure are not going to be effective allies on the ground. Internicene warring is more likely than concentrating on defeating IS.
Before we even get into a never-ending war (a showdown that IS wants, of course - win for the terrorists), why are we not looking to strike at IS in other ways? They get their weapons from somewhere - why are we not working on cutting that supply off? (I know it's probably the Saudis that are supplying which means Cameron will find it hard to be tough with them but, hey, it's all about this country's security, isn't it Dave? Isn't it?). Where are they selling their oil to gain revenue? Use diplomacy/pressure with the buyers. Do almost anything and exhaust those routes before we get into a war, for God's sake!
Churchill once advocated that there should be "more jaw-jaw and less war-war". A motion to lay before Parliament was agreed today, a few hours debate in the house tomorrow will determine if our bombers will be in action by the end of the week: barely time for any talking, any exploration of other options. I'd like to think that some of those set on war could still be turned through debate tomorrow, but I doubt it. Most politicians wear poppies and stand at the Cenotaph, yet they all seem to want to rush to war at the drop of a hat or the sniff of a dodgy dossier. Jeremy Corbyn wants us to stay out of a war and to try other means to defeat IS first. It's not about him being weak, it's about him being strong and holding on to his principles in the face of incredible provocation.
Robbing BAstards!
The World's Favourite Airline (do they still claim that?), British Airways, like to act as if they are the Rolls Royce service of the skies, somehow above all that tawdry money grubbing that the budget airlines indulge in. I'm sure it will come as no great shock to find out that they are just as devious in their pursuit of your cash as Ryan Air and EasyJet.
Having booked some reasonably-priced flights to Boston, I was surprised to find that the carrier was BA. I went online to see if it is possible to upgrade our seats to exit row seats. As a tall person, I appreciate all the extra leg room I can get, especially on long-haul flights and, from memory, BA provided the worst amount of leg room of all the carriers I have flown with on trans-Atlantic flights. On finally getting into the 'Manage Your Booking' section of their website, I found that no exit seats were available at all. Fine, others had obviously got there before me. It was then that I noticed that 'reserving' a seat would cost between £31 and £36 per person. To further up the ante, only half the plane appeared to have seats that are reservable. One could, of course, wait until check-in (24 hours before the flight) to choose one's seats, but, by then, any chance of sitting with your partner might have disappeared if only scattered, random unreserved seats remain. It feels like I am being forced to cough up the extra money if I want to sit next to my wife on the flight.
I rang BA to check what seats we had been allocated when we booked the flight and I was told that handing over a large wad of cash only got us onto the flight: no seats were allocated at that stage and we could either reserve them now at a huge cost (it is four fights in total) or gamble on twin seats still being available when we check in. In effect, BA would like us all to pay an exorbitant (and not previously-disclosed) fee simply to be able to sit next to each other.
While Ryan Air and EasyJet may sting you for every extra under the sun, at least they are upfront about it and you know what to expect: we know that we need to remember to take our credit card with us when we get out of our seat to head down the aisle to the loo; we expect a charge for raising the blind on the window in order to admire the view (charge doubled if it is an exceptionally clear day); we know that the lifejacket holder will contain a note telling us how we can go online a purchase one should it be needed . BA, on the other hand - the would-be Jeeves of the airways, the nobility among a sea of plebeian carriers - offer you a smug smile and a warm pat on the back whilst simultaneously filching your wallet and dipping your handbag.
Having booked some reasonably-priced flights to Boston, I was surprised to find that the carrier was BA. I went online to see if it is possible to upgrade our seats to exit row seats. As a tall person, I appreciate all the extra leg room I can get, especially on long-haul flights and, from memory, BA provided the worst amount of leg room of all the carriers I have flown with on trans-Atlantic flights. On finally getting into the 'Manage Your Booking' section of their website, I found that no exit seats were available at all. Fine, others had obviously got there before me. It was then that I noticed that 'reserving' a seat would cost between £31 and £36 per person. To further up the ante, only half the plane appeared to have seats that are reservable. One could, of course, wait until check-in (24 hours before the flight) to choose one's seats, but, by then, any chance of sitting with your partner might have disappeared if only scattered, random unreserved seats remain. It feels like I am being forced to cough up the extra money if I want to sit next to my wife on the flight.
I rang BA to check what seats we had been allocated when we booked the flight and I was told that handing over a large wad of cash only got us onto the flight: no seats were allocated at that stage and we could either reserve them now at a huge cost (it is four fights in total) or gamble on twin seats still being available when we check in. In effect, BA would like us all to pay an exorbitant (and not previously-disclosed) fee simply to be able to sit next to each other.
While Ryan Air and EasyJet may sting you for every extra under the sun, at least they are upfront about it and you know what to expect: we know that we need to remember to take our credit card with us when we get out of our seat to head down the aisle to the loo; we expect a charge for raising the blind on the window in order to admire the view (charge doubled if it is an exceptionally clear day); we know that the lifejacket holder will contain a note telling us how we can go online a purchase one should it be needed . BA, on the other hand - the would-be Jeeves of the airways, the nobility among a sea of plebeian carriers - offer you a smug smile and a warm pat on the back whilst simultaneously filching your wallet and dipping your handbag.
Monday, 9 November 2015
If it quacks...
A couple of weeks ago, the Observer Food Monthly (OFM) published the list of its Food Awards for 2015. Awards are given to the best restaurant, food retailer, food producer and so on. In the 'special' edition of OFM detailing the award winners, each award recipient was given some space to talk about how they got into the food business, what their personal philosophies and attitudes to food and consumption are and what they want to do going forward. One of the awards given out was for the Best Food Blog of the year and it was awarded to Ella Woodward for her blog, Deliciously Ella.
I was reading the piece on her in the OFM when I arrived at this paragraph:
"In the current wave of interest in healthy eating, the most prominent figures are not doctors or dieticians but “wellness gurus”, and there has been a backlash against people giving out dietary advice without proper medical qualifications. (Woodward is currently training part-time for a diploma in naturopathic nutrition at the College of Naturopathic Medicine, a London-based organisation founded by homeopath Hermann Keppler.)"
Now, the mention of 'naturopathic' rang a lot of little alarm bells. In my years of 'O' and 'A' Level biology, a physiology degree course and a health and social care degree course, I had never come across the medical field of 'naturopathy'. When I looked into the 'college', I realised why this was. 'Naturopathy' is concerned with nurturing the body's 'vital force' through homeopathy, herbalism and naturopathic nutrition. Now, studying for a diploma in nutrition designed to nurture this 'vital force', a rather fuzzy, unscientific concept, says to me that Woodward is aiming to be just such a "wellness guru" albeit with some rather dodgy letter after her name. She too will be handing out "dietary advice without proper medical qualifications" but will seek to legitimise that "advice" by parading a New Age qualification as 'proof' of her knowledge.
Now, I am not going to dismiss, out of hand, the worth of herbalism and accupuncture (homeopathy, however….): many modern drugs have their basis in plant extracts and plants are increasingly being looked at to provide new treatments going forward. However, linking food to this 'vital force' adds a level of mysticism to the existing (scientific) field of nutrition. Why not study for a diploma in nutrition? In the article, it was noted that Woodward's blog was followed in large part by teenage women, many of whom will already be pulled in negative directions by the perceived need to be the same as the celebrity 'role models' that are constantly shoved down our throats. To dress up an influential food blog with the trappings of pseudo-science is, to my mind, a potentially dangerous path and gives spurious substance to fad eating and snake oil ingredients that promise to 'cleanse', 'vitalise' or 'energise'. If it quacks like a duck, it's a duck. But if it promises you wellness through eating an obscure South American berry, it's a quack.
I was reading the piece on her in the OFM when I arrived at this paragraph:
"In the current wave of interest in healthy eating, the most prominent figures are not doctors or dieticians but “wellness gurus”, and there has been a backlash against people giving out dietary advice without proper medical qualifications. (Woodward is currently training part-time for a diploma in naturopathic nutrition at the College of Naturopathic Medicine, a London-based organisation founded by homeopath Hermann Keppler.)"
Now, the mention of 'naturopathic' rang a lot of little alarm bells. In my years of 'O' and 'A' Level biology, a physiology degree course and a health and social care degree course, I had never come across the medical field of 'naturopathy'. When I looked into the 'college', I realised why this was. 'Naturopathy' is concerned with nurturing the body's 'vital force' through homeopathy, herbalism and naturopathic nutrition. Now, studying for a diploma in nutrition designed to nurture this 'vital force', a rather fuzzy, unscientific concept, says to me that Woodward is aiming to be just such a "wellness guru" albeit with some rather dodgy letter after her name. She too will be handing out "dietary advice without proper medical qualifications" but will seek to legitimise that "advice" by parading a New Age qualification as 'proof' of her knowledge.
Now, I am not going to dismiss, out of hand, the worth of herbalism and accupuncture (homeopathy, however….): many modern drugs have their basis in plant extracts and plants are increasingly being looked at to provide new treatments going forward. However, linking food to this 'vital force' adds a level of mysticism to the existing (scientific) field of nutrition. Why not study for a diploma in nutrition? In the article, it was noted that Woodward's blog was followed in large part by teenage women, many of whom will already be pulled in negative directions by the perceived need to be the same as the celebrity 'role models' that are constantly shoved down our throats. To dress up an influential food blog with the trappings of pseudo-science is, to my mind, a potentially dangerous path and gives spurious substance to fad eating and snake oil ingredients that promise to 'cleanse', 'vitalise' or 'energise'. If it quacks like a duck, it's a duck. But if it promises you wellness through eating an obscure South American berry, it's a quack.
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