Douglas Carswell MP: Courage and Integrity

Amid the party liners, sycophants and time servers that sadly make up far too much of the House of Commons, Douglas Carswell MP has always been a breath of fresh air - never frightened to speak out against the consensus and never short of ground breaking ideas, notably in The Plan and The End Of Politics. I was only too pleased to review the latter here out of gratitude for his choice of my question about Greek bailouts for Prime Ministers' Questions in February 2010 when he called upon his blog readers to make suggestions.

Much has already been said about his decision to leave the Conservatives and join UKIP, and to put this to the test via a by-election. Perhaps I might just add that this may just have involved taking the principles of The End Of Politics to their logical conclusion, given the virtually unbridgeable gulf between the three main parties and those whom they purport to represent when it comes to issues such as the practical downside of EU membership? Just look at the follow up to the vacuum cleaner ban that I covered not long ago - it is now set to be followed up with an attack on high powered hairdryers, kettles, smartphones and lawnmowers, all for the purpose of fighting climate change. Did we vote for this? Will the political class do anything about it other than the square root of damn all? Guess.

One last thought. Many years ago, an eminent political figure who had just very publicly left the Tory ranks spoke of the party being lost at sea. To paraphrase in today's setting: "Until the Conservative Party has worked its passage a very long way it will not be rejoining me. I stand...where it [once] stood on all the major issues. It has got to get back there, and when it gets back there, bless my soul, there will be our old friend Douglas on the shore to welcome them." Well, it might need a Tory-UKIP pact, and the defenestration of David Cameron and George Osborne, but stranger things have happened.

The EU: It Beats as it Sweeps as it Cleans

Thwack! Another lethal product is beaten into oblivion and it’s all for our own good! Swoosh! Petty objections are swept away! Scrub! The devastating effects of climate change are cleaned up in an instant! How grateful we all are…

Now let’s get back to reality. As the EU’s ban on top rated powerful vacuum cleaners comes into force, with less than two weeks to go before companies will be prohibited from manufacturing or importing any vacuums with motors above 1,600 watts, is it likely that we will all be rejoicing at the benevolent paternalism of the likes of Marlene Holzner, the Belgian EU Commissioner named in the Telegraph article, who has already spoken in high praise of the measures that she and her kind have inflicted, evidently to help tackle climate change by cutting Europe’s energy usage?

Or will we curse this latest interference of the overzealous paternalists whose desperation to be seen to be doing something no doubt explains why they overlooked Sybil Fawlty’s specialist Mastermind subject, the Bleeding Obvious – namely that the less powerful machines will be run for longer to do the same job and will use more energy in the process?

If only we could sweep the EU away and clean up what its legislation regularly inflicts, even if giving the Commissioners a beating might be a step too far...

Obesity Epidemic: A Fatuous Phrase

“Is stoutness as big a problem as you’re making out?” “Yeah, it’s huge…”

But is it an epidemic, we may ask?

Yet another example of yesterday’s satire becoming today’s reality can be found in the Not The Nine O’Clock News ‘Stout Life’ sketch, with presenter Janny Shtrait-Pawuh interviewing George Fletcher from Proud To Be Stout, while the organiser of plump discos Reverend Tubs Wiston looked on. Little did they know that thirty years later, health experts would be gravely warning about the ‘obesity epidemic’ and how it threatens all of us…

Let’s go back to first principles. ‘Epidemic’ is one of many medical terms deriving from ancient Greek. ‘Epi’: upon, ‘demos’: people. Quite a sensible illustration of what happens when a contagious disease goes beyond a mere outbreak and descends upon a far greater section of the population than could have been expected. And just to complete the picture, the more serious ‘pandemic’ is reflected in the fact that in Socrates’ times, ‘pan’ meant ‘all’.

Here and now, there is no denying that obesity is a condition. The condition may indeed be widespread (no pun intended). Equally, the unthinking use of body mass index (BMI) formulae may have served to exaggerate its prevalence, by unfairly tarring the naturally large framed with the same brush as may be quite rightly used upon those who treat a KFC Bargain Bucket as a light personal snack between meals.

But how on earth did we ever reach the point where the World Health Organisation formally recognised obesity as a global epidemic? What a gift to those in desperate need of more research funding at the taxpayers’ expense, and to the strident voices of the nanny state calling for more regulation of food consumption and more levies on taboo products. The casual twisting of language is just insult to injury.

With all due irony, Jim from the Royle Family would almost inevitably have reacted with “obesity epidemic my arse”. A more balanced view would perhaps be to file it alongside Christmas shopping, carbon footprint and Labour government as a new entrant to the Top 10 most irritating two word phrases.

Quitting a Profession: Higher Education, Law, Medicine

As the prologue of Infernal Coalition (above) shows, law professor Susie Harris found herself contemplating a career in Conservative politics, thanks to the party leader’s apparently sincere call for more ordinary people untainted by past political involvement to come forward as candidates. It would have involved walking away from academia and taking a leap into the unknown, all for the purpose of becoming involved in something new and different, and promoting the higher goal that had been proclaimed in the first place. (With the real life Infernal Coalition now over 4 years old, we may recall that proclamation and weep, but that’s another story…)

It is easily forgotten that qualifying into and practising in a profession is something distinct from a mere job or career. Professionals spend many years obtaining their unique qualifications, sacrificing potential short term gain in doing so. Upon admission into their professional body they will be expected to put others’ best interests first, even if those interests may conflict with their own. A good lawyer will recommend acceptance of a sensible deal, and deter pursuit of a futile claim, even if it means losing out on fees. A good doctor will similarly resist the temptation to sign a malingerer off work, or to prescribe unnecessary medicine or treatment when the solution is perfectly within the patient’s capability and willpower, resisting the “anything for a quiet life” mantra. And a good teacher will mark incorrect work wrong, and withhold a pass grade from a fail paper, even if targets fall by the wayside and malcontents complain.

And after so many years of keeping to professional principles, how far are they carried over and sensibly applied when an even higher calling beckons? Well, for a lawyer seeking to become a judge, it ought not to be too difficult – assess all the evidence and then decide, rather than simply advise and act. And for a professor seeking to become a politician, there’s every chance for logic, reason and academic freedom to find their practical use in the running of a country, especially when combined with many years’ worth of knowledge of the national education system and how, unknown to the average non-specialist politician, it might be failing. (Yes, of course there’s also every chance for new MPs to abandon their principles, go native and stick their snouts in the trough, but there are many honourable exceptions…)

Which leads me to the medical profession. Consistent with the “we must be seen to be doing something” doctrine that seems to be a key principle of NHS administration, perhaps combined with “especially if it enables the creation of more fake work and more highly paid managers’ roles”, they have in recent years introduced “revalidation” for GPs. The supposed idea, to make them demonstrate that they are up to date and fit to practice. Never mind professional pride and common sense. Ignore existing workloads and work-life balance. Take no notice of the fact that the existence of the occasional bad apple will not mean that every GP must be tarred with the same brush. Just assume Guilty Until Proven Innocent, and devise a time consuming and burdensome system that leaves them having to demonstrate training course attendance and to ask patients and colleagues for testimonials. Is this really the way to treat professionals, and is it really likely to make any NHS stakeholder (excuse the Blairism) feel any better about it? Hardly.

And how does quitting professions come in? No, it’s not simply the wave of early retirements of competent but exasperated GPs in the face of the ever increasing bureaucracy, which may one day sink in with the NHS top brass as a practical illustration of the law of unintended consequences. It’s the curious fact that the full time GP assessors evidently include former practitioners who have chosen a career in regulation in place of one in medicine. And who have adapted to their new role by communicating with their perfectly capable and competent former colleagues about the jumping of hoops and the meeting of deadlines in tones more suited to clipboard wielding local government jobsworths rejoicing in their ability to tell small businesses all about their powers to close them down.

There are clearly meritorious reasons to quit a profession. But do they really include the pursuit of a career like this?

Robbie Williams ‘Swings Both Ways’ Tour: a review from Birmingham

For anyone accompanying a die hard Robbie Williams fan of many years’ standing to the ‘Swings Both Ways’ tour, there will be different thoughts running through the mind. Curiosity, for instance, about a pop megastar deliberately choosing a different musical style for an album and tour that would be in marked contrast to the previous year’s stadium shows. The overriding hope that the true aficionados (such as my wife) would rate the show a success and not think they had been let down. And, of course, a personal wish to have a good time and not feel guilty about having possibly deprived a true follower of a ticket.

Fear not. Every box was ticked. Despite the man himself admitting to feeling below par, few may ever have noticed or suspected a thing otherwise. Two hours’ worth of solid entertainment. Highlights? The faux operatic ‘No One Likes A Fat Pop Star’, with Stoke on Trent’s finest being suspended from a wire in a fat suit, was suitably hilarious. Maybe ‘New York, New York’ in true Sinatra style edged it for me. Not forgetting the duet with his dad, and the reworking of the odd personal classic in swing style. And an interesting new song ‘Sensational’ to close – could this be his answer to ‘We Are The Champions’, with more emphasis on thanking the audience than Freddie’s self congratulation?

But something else stood out. Not for the better. To my wife’s immediate left, on the upper tier seating about two thirds back from the stage, was a middle aged woman whom I will call Nellie for no particular reason (well…). Nellie proved herself to be one of those modern day concert goers obsessed with capturing the experience on smartphone. Great chunks of the show disappeared into the electronic menace as she leaned everywhere for that all elusive perfect view, regardless of the fact that the distance from lens to stage was fixed without scope to zoom, the sound somewhat less than crystal clear, and the future audience questionable when the multi-angle, perfect audio DVD will be out for Christmas. And what about the treasured memories that ought to flow from the £77 ticket price? “What did you think of ‘High Hopes’, Nellie?” “Duh…can’t remember. Did he sing that?”

There was, of course, a time in the analogue era when bootlegging a concert from a big name band would have been a bit of a dare. In the digital era, it’s a bit of a bore, especially to those trying to enjoy the show without the distraction of a perpetually waving arm with a smartphone on the end. Time to pack your trunk, Nellie.

Before I forget, 4/5 out of 5 for the show. Probably exactly what Robbie himself would have given it.

Hatred Ridicule & Contempt: an extract for King Henry VIII

No, not the monarch - my old alma mater King Henry VIII School, Coventry. Any former pupil from the seventies in particular might just see signs here of a subconscious (or possibly deliberate) tribute to a wonderful character from the teaching staff...

* * * * *

As he approached the converted bothy in a remote area of northern Scotland, a slim tracksuited figure defied his seventy plus years as he ran up his garden path to the front door, quickening his pace at the sound of his phone ringing despite the eight miles already beneath his feet. He seized the receiver as it rang for the sixth time.

“Am I speaking to Sid Parry?” Alex had deliberately not gone into the office at his usual hour, preferring to make the call from home so as to follow it up in complete privacy. Assuming, of course, that the call would prove fruitful.

“You are indeed. Excuse me one moment.” The elderly runner paused for breath. “Nothing quite like bounding through the heather first thing in the morning. Now, who might you be?”

“Do you remember who won the 400 metres in the match against Loughborough Grammar in 1978?” Alex had come up with the unusual icebreaker for the often mercurial figure on the other end of the phone not long after his call to his old school’s heritage secretary late on the previous afternoon, and Serena’s follow up with directory enquiries. He had been hardly surprised to hear that one of life’s eccentrics had chosen retirement in the wilds of Glencoe in the Scottish Highlands.

“Well, I don’t believe it.” In the final contest of an athletics season many years ago, two further unexpected victories and personal bests for the school’s team members in the 1500 metres and the triple jump, over and above the 400 metres, had secured not only an overall win against a long thought invincible rival, but also a regional schools trophy based on performance throughout the season. And it had brought one of the proudest moments of an ageing teacher’s life. “Don’t tell me, let me think now – you must be Harris, Alan Harris?”

“Alex. How’s retirement treating you, Sid?”

“Couldn’t ask for more, my dear chap. Wonderful scenery, peace and tranquillity, and I can run through the glens with my dogs, and then come home and read to my heart’s content.” They reminisced for a few minutes. “So what’s led you to call on an old buffer like me so early in the morning?”

“This is going to surprise you. I need help with some Latin.”

The old schoolmaster roared with laughter. “Latin? You? After all these years?”

“Look on the bright side, Sid. If it hadn’t been for your bellowing, I might never have run a 400 so fast. I just wish I’d brought the Noddy book into my last lesson.” Alex remembered how his ineptitude in one of Parry’s Latin classes had provoked a stentorian rebuke coupled with a sarcastic suggestion about alternative reading matter for the next occasion.

The bellow on this occasion was in mirth rather than anger. Parry finally collected himself again. “OK, fire away.”

“Could you by any chance look something up for me? It’s a missing word in a sequence. The first three are ‘Thybrim multo spumantem’ and I need to know the last one.”

“It’s ‘Tee-brim’, not ‘Thigh-brim’, you silly boy!” For a moment Parry imagined he was standing in front of a classroom once more. “I bet you never knew there’s quite a story behind that verse.”

“Oh, really?” Alex thought it judicious to let his former athletics coach indulge in his other lifelong passion outside of competitive sport, rather than press him for a quick answer…

“You must know of the so-called Rivers of Blood speech, and what it did for the political career of Enoch Powell? Brilliant classical scholar. Well, what happened to him was all a complete travesty, because he never used those words at all. What the poor chap said was ‘Like the Roman I seem to see the River Tiber foaming with much blood’. And it was all based on a direct translation of a piece of prophecy from one of the greatest works that Latin literature ever bestowed upon us.”

“What work was that?” Alex attempted a small prompt to nudge Parry back on track.

“Virgil’s Aeneid, my dear chap. Brilliant work. “

“So you can find the missing word for me?”

“Find it? I’ve been acquainted with that literary feast for over fifty years. It’s in Book 6, where Aeneas is seeking a prophecy from the Cumaean Sibyl.” Alex struggled to stay focused. “The verse runs ‘Et Thybrim multo spumantem sanguine cerno’. So your missing word is ‘sanguine’, my dear chap.”

“Did I catch that right – ‘San-Gwyn-Ay’?” Parry gave a confirmatory grunt. “Can you spell that for me?” Parry did so and Alex checked and double checked that he had written it down correctly.

“You’ve been most helpful, Sid.” They reminisced for a while before Parry remembered the impatient terriers at his feet and ended the call.

And as he replaced the receiver, it suddenly dawned on Alex, thanks to his former teacher’s wide ranging knowledge of how that particular item of Latin verse had been used in more recent times, that the potential star witness who was still just out of reach had been safeguarding his electronic secrets with a dual lock code that would be an amusing riddle to a classics graduate...

* * * * *

 

So what was the story behind the verse? Why did Alex need it translated? And what made him decide to call a former teacher? You could always read Hatred Ridicule & Contempt to find out. Links to Kindle (etc) on the right, prologue above. Still a screaming bargain.

Customer Satisfaction: from aviation to politics

Few would dispute that long haul flights nowadays are an experience to be endured rather than enjoyed. Especially when combined with the international departures ordeal where passengers can be forgiven for feeling that they are despised, envied and looked upon as a tiresome nuisance impeding the efficient running of the airport. So when an airline gives the impression that it will always go that extra mile to make the experience less dreadful, by offering service such as premium economy seating, twilight check in and comfortable lounges – combined throughout with a welcoming and friendly approach towards its customers at all times – it’s hardly surprising that it will win no end of repeat business and recommendations.

That’s you I’m talking about, Virgin Atlantic. Recent Gatwick-Cancun experience well up to your tried and tested standards both ways, and a certain inevitability about our next choice of airline next time around. Keep it up.

One nagging irritation, no fault of the airline of course, was the holiday tax, otherwise known as Air Passenger Duty. Has there ever been a more iniquitous and counterproductive tax, one which makes long haul flights provided by foreign carriers at nearby continental airports all the more attractive to travellers not tied to the UK? Which damages not only the UK aviation and tourist industry, but also Third World economies by imposing higher costs on flights to Caribbean islands? How regrettable that a party in government (albeit in coalition) holding itself out as a supposed champion of lower and more sensible taxation should have only tinkered with this poisonous Blair-Brown legacy rather than abolished it altogether.

Perhaps it’s just one element of a wider disdain for customer satisfaction in the political arena that Douglas Carswell MP admirably describes here. Antagonise your customers, take them for granted and stop selling them what they want to buy, and they’ll take their business elsewhere. Not a million miles from the main theme of Infernal Coalition, but that’s another story…