The Scottish referendum on independence is now just four months away. Somewhat overshadowed by the European and local council elections last week, the debate has hotted up with some conflicting claims about the monetary benefits of going it alone, or not. Some say the Scots will all be worse by off some ludicrous figure - say £2,000 a head; others argue that independence will put an equivalent amount into each sporran.
To reduce the question of independence to a supposed monetary value is stupid. It is an insult to the intelligence of Scots voters, regardless of which way they intend to vote. If a nation truly believes that it is being suppressed or victimised by another and that independence will bring about redemption then the cost (or benefit) is irrelevant. The early settlers of Israel in the 1920s and 30s did not ask how much money they might get if they gave up their relatively settled lives in Europe to live on a kibbutz. I doubt if the Slovakians gave a second thought to breaking up the confederation with the Czechs, nor did the Bosnians and Croats and Slovenes pause to count their potential bank balances when fighting against a perceived dominance by Serbia. They may all be worse off than they would have been had things been difference; they may be doing much better. Who can tell? Who, looking back, could care less?
In any case all such calculations are futile. Economics is a "science" riddled by the need to make untested, and often untestable, assumptions about human behaviour. I should know - I have a degree in the blasted subject from one of the premier universities of this country. Economists may produce wonderfully elegant theories but they rarely produce useful predictions.
There are legitimate subjects for argument - Scotland's place in the European Union, the viability of a sterling currency union, the impact on future investment - but it is pointless to pretend that they can be given monetary values. Far more important is whether the UK can generate a safer and sounder environment for all of its citizens if Scotland remains in than if Scotland leaves. I believe it can, and that to lose the Scottish voice from the UK's privileged seat at the UN and other key institutions such as NATO and the G8 would weaken both parties to the Union. I think British ideas of justice, tolerance and fair play have been of enormous significance in the development of global culture and the Scots have made a massive contribution. And equally that contribution might have counted for little had it not been delivered as a part of the UK.
In the end if the Scots want independence because, well, they just really really want it, then none of the arguments will count for anything. It would just be a shame and a diminution of both parties.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Monday, May 26, 2014
Why UKIP is wrong
UKIP won the highest share of the votes in the European elections this week. Anti-Europe parties did well in other countries.
I am not interested in the interminable debates about how much we pay to "Europe" and how much we get back and how "they" interfere in our laws and so on. I have one overriding concern - I do not wish to die in, nor see my country become embroiled in, another major European war.
The entire political history of our continent since the fall of the Roman Empire has been about the feuds, the power-struggles and the vicious combats between nation states. British history for the past 500 years has been driven by confrontation with European superpowers - the Hapsburg empire, Spain, France, Russia and Germany. The principal dynamic of European history in the past 250 years has been the fight between France and Germany, expressed in the Seven Years War, the Revolutionary/Napoleonic Wars, the Franco-Prussian War and of course in the First and Second World Wars. It is possible to trace the origins of this fatal division in the European family to the defeat of the Roman legions in the Teutoberg Forest 2000 years ago, when the border of the empire became fixed on the Rhine.
Since 1945 the creation of institutions binding France and Germany, built on the foundations of a rejection of extreme nationalism and a hatred of war, have changed this immense sweep of historical deadweight. No observer in, say 1913, could have dreamt that these countries would work together with open frontiers and a degree of federalism. Britain, enemy of France for over 700 years, is entirely free of the fear of invasion from the countries that we used to watch, fearfully.
How ironic that the leader of UKIP is married to a German. One hundred years ago that would have been enough to see him denounced as a traitor. Today it is a splendid example of how far we have come.
The EU needs a good kicking to cut its bureacracy and fraud, its ponderous decision-making processes and its remoteness from the people. But the ideas behind it and the achievement in reversing centuries of hostility and violence in favour of debate and voting are far too precious to be jeopardised by a knee-jerk dislike of anything non-British. If UKIP ran on a platform of reforming the EU I might be tempted to support it. Its clumsy attempt to bring us back to the era of competing nation-states is appalling, suggesting an ignorance of history and a lack of courage. The attempt to build a peaceful, all-inclusive version of the Roman Empire is a project that must be encouraged. In this anniversary year of the outbreak of the First World War, which despite its name was simply another in the long line of intra-European squabbles about borders, influence and status, the memory of how it came about should be all the reminder we need to support European union and reject petty nationalism.
I am not interested in the interminable debates about how much we pay to "Europe" and how much we get back and how "they" interfere in our laws and so on. I have one overriding concern - I do not wish to die in, nor see my country become embroiled in, another major European war.
The entire political history of our continent since the fall of the Roman Empire has been about the feuds, the power-struggles and the vicious combats between nation states. British history for the past 500 years has been driven by confrontation with European superpowers - the Hapsburg empire, Spain, France, Russia and Germany. The principal dynamic of European history in the past 250 years has been the fight between France and Germany, expressed in the Seven Years War, the Revolutionary/Napoleonic Wars, the Franco-Prussian War and of course in the First and Second World Wars. It is possible to trace the origins of this fatal division in the European family to the defeat of the Roman legions in the Teutoberg Forest 2000 years ago, when the border of the empire became fixed on the Rhine.
Since 1945 the creation of institutions binding France and Germany, built on the foundations of a rejection of extreme nationalism and a hatred of war, have changed this immense sweep of historical deadweight. No observer in, say 1913, could have dreamt that these countries would work together with open frontiers and a degree of federalism. Britain, enemy of France for over 700 years, is entirely free of the fear of invasion from the countries that we used to watch, fearfully.
How ironic that the leader of UKIP is married to a German. One hundred years ago that would have been enough to see him denounced as a traitor. Today it is a splendid example of how far we have come.
The EU needs a good kicking to cut its bureacracy and fraud, its ponderous decision-making processes and its remoteness from the people. But the ideas behind it and the achievement in reversing centuries of hostility and violence in favour of debate and voting are far too precious to be jeopardised by a knee-jerk dislike of anything non-British. If UKIP ran on a platform of reforming the EU I might be tempted to support it. Its clumsy attempt to bring us back to the era of competing nation-states is appalling, suggesting an ignorance of history and a lack of courage. The attempt to build a peaceful, all-inclusive version of the Roman Empire is a project that must be encouraged. In this anniversary year of the outbreak of the First World War, which despite its name was simply another in the long line of intra-European squabbles about borders, influence and status, the memory of how it came about should be all the reminder we need to support European union and reject petty nationalism.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Lines on the passing of J.S.Magruder
So farewell then Jeb Magruder
In your time there was scarce a cruder
Plot to thwart the Democrats, objects of your hate.
With Mitchell, Liddy, Dean you chewed a
Cunning plan not out of place in Buda-
Pest or similar spy-ridden town of late
Your men broke in; in secret glued a
Phone bug but there was a rude a-
Wakening from the defenders of the State.
The coverup failed and you were sued; a
Searchlight shone o’er all your brood.
Your Waterloo was at the Watergate.
[Jeb Stuart Magruder, implicated in the Watergate affair in his role as Deputy Director of the Campaign to Re-elect the President, died 11 May 2014 aged 79: Ed]
Sunday, May 18, 2014
How not to write a short story
A year ago I amused myself [though nobody else: Ed] by writing a piece based on trying to link together a set of small ads published on a single page in the Guardian weekend colour magazine. It’s a beautiful hot day, the roses are out in our garden and our neighbours appear to be gearing up for a noisy outdoor party; none of which has any bearing at all on my rash decision to repeat the exercise. This time you can see the source material for yourself. Unlike last time, I have not followed the order of the ads but I have referred to each one. All names are fictional and any resemblance to anything is purely intended.
Caroline, Lady Renault, had a sheltered upbringing in the country. She was at her happiest mucking out her horse, Hashtag and it was in the stables that her eyes fell on the lean, sensitive features of Arnold Qashqai whilst he was searching for the person who had stolen his ‘u’s. Unlike the tall, cultured young woman Qashqai was from a poor background and was forced to work in the stables instead of pursuing his great love of art. Despite the differences it was love at first sight.
“Oh but Caroline, I can never keep you in the manner, or indeed manor, to which you are accustomed” stuttered young Arnold “For I have no money and no home.”
“Fear not” she replied stoutly “We can manage somehow”.
“I can just about afford a tent” he said. She took his hand in hers “We will have the best tent that money can buy, my love”.
And so they bought the finest bell tent in the land. There was nowhere suitable to pitch it until with the aid of job lot of plastic lawn edging they could proudly place it on a perfect plastic lawn. And as soon as they could afford it they added some oak-framed garden structures. Now Caroline could feel at home. She retrieved all her CDs from home and copied them all to a collection player yet something seemed to be lacking when she listened to them. A hearing test confirmed that all was not right. Meanwhile Arnold, dismissed from the stables for wasting his time trying write books that nobody wanted to read, and having failed to use Facebook correctly to market them, was spending the last of her inheritance on a private investment, the nature of which he did not disclose. Bolstered by his confidence building course he no longer stuttered and soon was ready to attend a business events conference.
With their love of horses it was obvious that they should set up selling racing gifts and as their business grew they applied for ISO9001 certification. Everything seemed to be going their way but Caroline began to mistrust Arnold. Was he seeing another woman? Or another horse? She tried a lie detection test. He told her the truth – he was doing art classes with a view to selling portraits. “Paint me but make it affordable” she cried.
The pictures were a great success. As the money rolled in, they talked about a holiday home in the Balearics. Blessed with two adorable children they wasted no time in packing them off to boarding school, but assuaged their consciences by teaching them dance, whilst they regaled each other with gifts of gold.
After this happy period, sadly Caroline fell off her horse and was reduced to getting around on a mobility scooter. The bottom fell out of the art market. Arnold sold up and gloomily prepared to end it all, having carefully drawn up a will which ensured that the horse got hay for life, Caroline could keep the bell tent and the kids got the unreadable books.
[Film rights are available: Ed]
-*-*-*-
All for Passion
by
A Ruislip Commuter
by
A Ruislip Commuter
“Oh but Caroline, I can never keep you in the manner, or indeed manor, to which you are accustomed” stuttered young Arnold “For I have no money and no home.”
“Fear not” she replied stoutly “We can manage somehow”.
“I can just about afford a tent” he said. She took his hand in hers “We will have the best tent that money can buy, my love”.
And so they bought the finest bell tent in the land. There was nowhere suitable to pitch it until with the aid of job lot of plastic lawn edging they could proudly place it on a perfect plastic lawn. And as soon as they could afford it they added some oak-framed garden structures. Now Caroline could feel at home. She retrieved all her CDs from home and copied them all to a collection player yet something seemed to be lacking when she listened to them. A hearing test confirmed that all was not right. Meanwhile Arnold, dismissed from the stables for wasting his time trying write books that nobody wanted to read, and having failed to use Facebook correctly to market them, was spending the last of her inheritance on a private investment, the nature of which he did not disclose. Bolstered by his confidence building course he no longer stuttered and soon was ready to attend a business events conference.
With their love of horses it was obvious that they should set up selling racing gifts and as their business grew they applied for ISO9001 certification. Everything seemed to be going their way but Caroline began to mistrust Arnold. Was he seeing another woman? Or another horse? She tried a lie detection test. He told her the truth – he was doing art classes with a view to selling portraits. “Paint me but make it affordable” she cried.
The pictures were a great success. As the money rolled in, they talked about a holiday home in the Balearics. Blessed with two adorable children they wasted no time in packing them off to boarding school, but assuaged their consciences by teaching them dance, whilst they regaled each other with gifts of gold.
After this happy period, sadly Caroline fell off her horse and was reduced to getting around on a mobility scooter. The bottom fell out of the art market. Arnold sold up and gloomily prepared to end it all, having carefully drawn up a will which ensured that the horse got hay for life, Caroline could keep the bell tent and the kids got the unreadable books.
[Film rights are available: Ed]
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Booting it in Denham
No, not another moan about the F.A.'s wretched idea for a new league, nor a technical discussion on what happens when you start up a computer [Great, always find that rather hard going: Ed], but a report occasioned by a visit to the car boot sale in Denham, normally a tranquil village on the Colne Valley just off where the A40 becomes the M40. With the flimsy excuse of needing to get some props for a bit of dramatic art I shall be involved in later this year, Mrs. C and I joined the throng in search of bargains. And what a throng it was, enough to bring the roundabouts and slips roads at Junction 1 on the M40 to a standstill and create a tailback to the next exit. I avoided some of the crush by cunningly diverting through Uxbridge and approaching from the other direction.
The car boot is our equivalent of the street market. This one is enormous - we walked steadily down each line of stalls looking just to our left then at the end about-faced and went back up the line. We were there nearly three hours and it was only because by then most of the stall-holders were packing up that we managed, just about, to finish it. Amongst the piles of discarded clothing, toys, assorted crockery, cutlery and glassware and the specialist stalls with things like tools, fishing gear or phone accessories were the oddities that make these affairs fascinating. A wooden truckle bed (far too big for anyone to carry off in a car). Ancient bakelite devices for testing electric current. A stall proudly displaying a metal Rinstead pastilles tin. (A collector's item, apparently, and how many of those have I unthinkingly thrown away when all I wanted was relief from a mouth ulcer?) A van with the sign "Quantity of nails - ask here" (I was keen to ask if he could do, say, sixty thou two and half inchers but though better of it). Just after Mrs. C noted a pogo stick (an implement that never fails to amuse and the only one in the sale) an enthusiastic youngster bought and used it. A stallholder demonstrating that his petrol lawnmower actually worked trimmed a few square feet of meadow around his pitch. And top marks for salesmanship to the man who, seeing us looking at a large box full of bits and pieces of the cheapest jewellery and obviously mistaking us for fellow dealers, asked for 50p a piece or £20 for the lot (offer declined).
The boot sale leads you effortlessly back into your childhood. Racks of gramophone records, including LPs and singles (plus a few 78s on one stall). Books that I read 50 or more years ago. A half-size snooker table, clearly in poor condition and useless but I had one too once (used to put it on the dining room table, to my mother's irritation).
And then the detritus of our ever-evolving consumer society. A computer monitor, not the slim smart screen we all use today but the heavy old CRT with its glass tube. An electric typewriter. Laptop computers as well, loads of them. I wouldn't take one if it was free, knowing as I do how likely it is to be either faulty or virus-ridden (or both), but presumably some people must buy them at boot sales. There were not as many videotape recordings as on our last visit a year ago but there were huge numbers of commercial DVDs, usually at £1 each. It is not easy to make and distribute a DVD for less than that so some organisations must be dumping loads of old stock.
It is amazing just how much tat people can accumulate and how cheerfully they display it to the disdain of the shoppers. But this is not a market in the third world where families may be utterly dependent on the sale of a few oddments. Most sellers lounged by the cars, soaked up the sun, exchanged the odd pleasantry and gave off a generally nonchalant attitude, before packing up with care their plates (set of 6 with 2 missing), cameras (new lens needed), watches (don't work but could be used for spares) and baby clothes (wash with bleach before re-use) which they can then lovingly spread out again, same time, same place, next week.
As for me, well, I did manage to find the pocket watch (full Hunter) and (separately) a chain on which I can twirl it when I take to the stage in the role of an Edwardian gentlemen later this year, so definitely a result.
The car boot is our equivalent of the street market. This one is enormous - we walked steadily down each line of stalls looking just to our left then at the end about-faced and went back up the line. We were there nearly three hours and it was only because by then most of the stall-holders were packing up that we managed, just about, to finish it. Amongst the piles of discarded clothing, toys, assorted crockery, cutlery and glassware and the specialist stalls with things like tools, fishing gear or phone accessories were the oddities that make these affairs fascinating. A wooden truckle bed (far too big for anyone to carry off in a car). Ancient bakelite devices for testing electric current. A stall proudly displaying a metal Rinstead pastilles tin. (A collector's item, apparently, and how many of those have I unthinkingly thrown away when all I wanted was relief from a mouth ulcer?) A van with the sign "Quantity of nails - ask here" (I was keen to ask if he could do, say, sixty thou two and half inchers but though better of it). Just after Mrs. C noted a pogo stick (an implement that never fails to amuse and the only one in the sale) an enthusiastic youngster bought and used it. A stallholder demonstrating that his petrol lawnmower actually worked trimmed a few square feet of meadow around his pitch. And top marks for salesmanship to the man who, seeing us looking at a large box full of bits and pieces of the cheapest jewellery and obviously mistaking us for fellow dealers, asked for 50p a piece or £20 for the lot (offer declined).
The boot sale leads you effortlessly back into your childhood. Racks of gramophone records, including LPs and singles (plus a few 78s on one stall). Books that I read 50 or more years ago. A half-size snooker table, clearly in poor condition and useless but I had one too once (used to put it on the dining room table, to my mother's irritation).
And then the detritus of our ever-evolving consumer society. A computer monitor, not the slim smart screen we all use today but the heavy old CRT with its glass tube. An electric typewriter. Laptop computers as well, loads of them. I wouldn't take one if it was free, knowing as I do how likely it is to be either faulty or virus-ridden (or both), but presumably some people must buy them at boot sales. There were not as many videotape recordings as on our last visit a year ago but there were huge numbers of commercial DVDs, usually at £1 each. It is not easy to make and distribute a DVD for less than that so some organisations must be dumping loads of old stock.
It is amazing just how much tat people can accumulate and how cheerfully they display it to the disdain of the shoppers. But this is not a market in the third world where families may be utterly dependent on the sale of a few oddments. Most sellers lounged by the cars, soaked up the sun, exchanged the odd pleasantry and gave off a generally nonchalant attitude, before packing up with care their plates (set of 6 with 2 missing), cameras (new lens needed), watches (don't work but could be used for spares) and baby clothes (wash with bleach before re-use) which they can then lovingly spread out again, same time, same place, next week.
As for me, well, I did manage to find the pocket watch (full Hunter) and (separately) a chain on which I can twirl it when I take to the stage in the role of an Edwardian gentlemen later this year, so definitely a result.
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