The photo shoot

 

Subject: A Photo Shoot

One of the big selling points of the Tour de France is the stunning scenery and quaint towns of France as the riders roll through the countryside. Today I was watching the Tour of Britain as the riders cycle through our own countryside and was pleased to see how pleasant our country is outside the urban sprawl. The rolling farmlands and the lush tree lined lanes, the substantial houses and extensive gardens, the lush greenery  all made a deep impression.

The orderliness, the explicit substance of generations of cultivated living, the standards and the respect for rules and regulations which can make you proud to live in this well ordered country so long as you don’t become envious and imagine joining them. As the helicopter swoops along following the race, the equanimity of entrenched communities basking in their autonomy, soaked in their class dominated entitlement which ensures a civilised order, it’s all a far cry from the devastation we see on our television screens in other parts of the world.

Seen from a few hundred feet in the air, with the roads closed to traffic, life, stilled to a snapshot, far enough away from the conflict of Mr Greens hedge  obstructing the neighbours view or the sly comment in the pub over the rights of immigrants, everything is in aspic and is hunkydory

Sadly it’s a far cry from the turmoil of city life with its drugs and gangs, it’s crude excesses and debouched behaviour. It’s even further from the deprivation of societies in Africa the Middle East or on the Indian/Pakistan subcontinent. The chaotic living standards in overpopulated cities, the lack of everything, except people and noise, with the daily disruption of traffic and the disregard for another persons space. Those leafy lanes belong to a different world where politeness and curtesy are the hall mark of a civilised society which scarcely seems to notice. Apart from the cheering crowds as the race enters some suburban enclave there is no village celebration with orchestrated motifs of people in a field, patterned  in rotating circles to represent some agricultural aspect of their life  in the village. In France the community is at hand to celebrate and showcase their hamlet whilst in England the upper middle class, living in these houses wouldn’t want to be seen make a fuss, nothing so plebeian as sharing in the wider community. Culture is on display, the isolationist stiff upper lip which once upon a time administered a good part of the world wouldn’t want to fraternise  with ‘the natives’, either at home or abroad, it wouldn’t be pukka.

Thank you Emma

 Subject: Thank you Emma.

It’s not often we have something to celebrate but last nights US Open Tennis Final between our Teen Queen, 18 year old  Emma Raducanu and that other teen, the 19 year old Layla Fernandez from Canada was a triumph for young people. Both were so mature, so measured in their response to the intense occasion and the accolades heaped on their young shoulders. Each so refreshingly young and unalloyed, one of them had to win and one to lose but they both won our hearts in a well fought match.

Raducanu is one of those hybrid children, brought to England as a young child of a Chinese mom and a Romanian dad, it’s that immigrant story once again but this time we bathe in the glory of "one of ours and not one of them".

Should we perhaps not banish the concept of nationhood, the players often have names that are difficult to pronounce coming from a host of Eastern Europe countries, Belarus , Latvia, Romania, Russia, they all seem to produce champion tennis players who, with driven parents, go on to dominate the sport.

Raducanu is a breath of fresh air with her good looks and happy disposition she exudes what youth should be about, 'the dare to do', taking success and failure in her stride. Life is about seizing the moment yes but also recognising that life is the sum of all the moments not just one. She is a role model to other kids but the kids must realise this kid started when she was five and has worked and perfected her game through thousands of hours of graft and hard work. With a Chinese mother and Romanian father, the diktat of working hard to raise yourself above the pile is in their DNA. Particularly the Chinese parents are known for the hard regime they put their children through if the child has talent but in Emma's case her bubbly self confidence shows a well balance childhood.

So we, and I include myself, seconded by our genes and a lack of the get up and go, take on her mantel of success, if only briefly and for that we must all say, "thank you Emma".

Identity based on the whim of the individual

Subject: Identity based on the whim of the individual.



Do I identify myself with others and does the thought support our much vaunted multicultural concept of unanimity. Does my white skin, or the language I speak also identify me or is it counter productive to mention these things. Does my personal gene pool have any bearing on who I am or should I aggregate my genes in a wider pool to encompass everyone. Does the identity of birthplace mean anything anymore or has the flux of people all over the world simply dissolved any meaningful sense of identification.

And finally is racial profiling dead  due to the pressure of recognising the strength of living in a multiethnic  society, whether we like the idea or not and has the power of J P Morgan and their concept of globalisation not swept aside national identity for an economic  place on the GDP ladder.

So many questions to which I must add, the age of the person questioning has a bearing since reforming norms wasn't under way when I was a lad and many of the convoluted solutions on diversity, which once was based on nationality or the tribe, is now down to subjective individual preference.

Perhaps we might start to question this hotchpotch of diversity with its fragmentation and the need to continually reimagine an absurdity of choices which individual rights demands. This fragmentation only weakens our understanding of self since whilst I am not one of 'them' I must recognise ‘their’ rights and in some ways, temper my own.

The strength of the Taliban, against the historical might of three empires, the British, the Russian and now the American was based on the insoluble togetherness of the tribe plus the glue of religious commitment. This semi illiterate group of tough resolute fighting men with a shared belief in their community and the land they occupied held their ground and waited for the invader to go home, whence they reemerged from their strongholds to reestablish  themselves in power. Perhaps there is a weakness in a philosophy which proclaims moral  and ethical certitude over the comfort of communal recognition. Perhaps recognition is the most important  sense we have since on it is based the principle of fight or flight. We flee from the lion and stroke the rabbit.

The beard of the Taliban  or an acceptance of gender recognition using old fashioned physiology as the best and most reliable guide seem best placed to define us, not the crazy dismemberment of society into bits and pieces based on the whim of an individual.

The advantages of celibacy

Subject: The advantage of celibacy

One advantage of celibacy is, you always wake up each morning with the same person.

Lives are made and unmade the moment we deviate from being that self centred individual of childhood and becoming embroiled in the tender trap, where things become at best a gamble. With the the best will in the world, choosing a partner has to be the most difficult and frustrating process you are expected to undertake. Often it was never your intention to look long term, friendship or companionship was enough, someone to go on walks with or have a pint in the Dog & Duck.

Bachelorhood was an uncomplicated business since it lacked the emotional peril of being misconstrued, of not sharing, not reaching out or failing to put enough effort in when trying to please.  The crucial error of being satisfied with ones own view point was compounded by the complication of trying to seek a compromise when the world was so obviously seen through a totally different prism.  

In my day, boys and girls were expected to have different expectations and follow different goals. The girls were more family orientated, whilst the boys more difficult to pin down, more ego-centric. Growing up on different paths, was it any wonder that when the paths converged from a single to a duel carriageway, the questions whether  to go fast or slow , take the top road and or through the valley became a live topic. The unevenness of pressure applied in reaching decisions depended on strength and a loud voice and only rarely on common sense. The overall package became a question of long negotiation and giving way to avoid a battle and at each acquiescence, the power shifted.

Of course many would say it's not a battle, it's a compromise but as always the danger of compromise is no one is ever truly satisfied.

Nostalgic pessimism

 Subject: Nostalgic pessimism

"Nostalgic pessimists", is that what we have become.

All nations are made up of interlopers, some who stayed and made the place their own and, if there were enough of them, they changed the society or hopefully were absorbed and along with the absorption they also changed. It is argued that mankind has an inbuilt capacity to change but its also argued that a leopard never changes it’s spots.

The English, who suffer nostalgic pessimism more than most have the habit of searching for the best bits in their history and continually parading it forgetting that the English man or woman of yesteryear were a very different breed of person. Centuries of top down, cap doffing subservience made the commoner easy dough to kneed into the shape the Squire required for the task of the day. Fighting battles, settling in newly claimed colonies with the aim to develop and fertilise the land as a staging post for economic expansion. The empire created as much by the man in the street as the city investor it also created him in the image of success, he bathed in the victories, his book shelves sagged with the dare do stuff of explorers and navigators, his pride rested on the surety that his nation was the best.

But now as we slide down the league tables, countries who were colonial second class, now surpass us in wealth and expectancy. Where is our talisman now to come from as we jingoistically sing Rule Britannia on the last night of the Proms, working ourselves up into a lather only for the reality of tomorrow’s headlines to dampen our ardour.

We are becoming distinguished by being second rate. Whilst others invest we shy away at the thought of the national debt. We would rather buy from the Chinese than train a workforce to manufacture here. We don’t trust our ingenuity or the markets to sell to, we mislead our citizenry with unfulfilled promises and downright lies and the politician has replaced the secondhand car salesman as being the most dishonest.

Our countryside is still unique awash with quaint places and quaint people, good solid dependable people who have been let down once too often. Our tomorrow’s are clouded, like the sky, the future inclement and unstable but still we proclaim it the best place on earth which of course it is so long as you don’t watch too much television.

The devil within

 

Subject: The devil within

As another terrorist attack takes place in New Zealand one has to start to question the cloak and dagger approach to terrorism in democratic law abiding societies. This guy a Siri Lankan was known to the police and the phrase "a person of interest" was used.

When does 'a person of interest' to the police become 'a person of interest' to the general public, usually only after a heinous crime has been committed. Isn't it our right to know who is a person of interest so we can collectively have an interest in them to protect ourselves.

In the 1800s' the small town market place held in its stocks people who were 'people of interest' or people who had been convicted of crime, they were held in the market place so people could see who they were and, if they had a mind to, pelt them with rotten fruit. This public shaming is now a days thought too harsh, it inflicts on their civil liberties and only when the blast riddled carcasses are strewn across the pavement do we wake up and announce our fears.

The face of a 'politically correct' chief constable strikes fear in my heart as they use the media savvy phrases "we will learn from this event" it's a smoke screen to prevent us knowing how bad the situation is. Afraid to set community against community they teeter on the path of deceit to the point where they loose all respect.

And speaking of communities where were the communities who spoke out against these nascent terrorist, no man is an island and people close would know something. Where are the voices in those communities, in the mosque and in the neighbourhood to warn the jahid ideologue that they were known to their brothers and sisters and they must stop. This undercurrent of them and us only fosters taking sides but in this case extremism should play no part in the lives of people living here, or in New Zealand.

Perhaps the law of anonymity should be changed and 'people of interests' made known to us all so we know the devil within.

Cataract removal

 

Subject: Cataract removal. 

The body repair shop nearby was open for business again yesterday so I was wheeled in under the bright lights of the ophthalmologists scalpel to have a cataract infected lens in my right eye removed for a new synthetic lens.

I mentioned the other day listening to the surgeon describing to his pupil how to gather the skin on my temple, like a tailor finding spare cloth when letting out a pair of trousers, the surgeon described his cut and stitch job as I listened prone on the slab. It's one of those disconnect moments where you are de-identified  and become,  an object.

Yesterday as a  local anesthetic was used to made me amenable to the knife. In a relatively routine cataract removal procedure made a little more risky because I am blind in the left eye and heaven forbid if something should go wrong. Laying there locally anethatised the procedure started with the unceremonious pressure of a ring being forced into the eye socket to hold the eye open and then a antiseptic cover is suctioned on to focus on and keep sterile the eye itself. These procedures are not painful but it's the anticipation of pain or something which reminds you that from here on, you are an observer not a participant. Your observation is purely mental since unlike procedures on other parts of the body, this is crucially taking place right at the connection with the mind and the intensely bright lights of the apparatus used by the surgeon only intensify how important this all is to your performing the tasks which make you who you are. Destroying  the old lens, vacuuming up the debris and inserting a new lens were in themselves disturbingly enough, working on this optical conduit into the brain through the optic nerve seemed to make everything more surreal.

The imagination works overtime as "Henry" sucked up the bits.  Would it work, would the confidences placed be rewarded or would my mind be singed forever with the words "I'm sorry Mr Wood, something unusual occurred"

You all be happy to know that it didn't and like everyone who has had the operation  it's remarkable to get crisply defined sight back with colours and hues you had forgotten existed

The paraplegic champions

Subject: The paraplegic champions.

As the paraplegic games in Tokyo draws to a close the UK has done tremendously well coming second to China. It could be argued that fielding so many talented paraplegic athletes speaks volumes for our attitude to disablement and our encouragement for disabled people to live a normal life.

There are nations who cast aside the disabled as being a burden, demanding facilities to make their lives easier and to this end years ago I questioned the installation of a lift specifically for the disabled, not for staff who already worked for the company but in case any applied for a job!!

Lifts are horrendously expensive and I didn't think it economically sensible to make such a provision.

Ramps onto pavements, special drop down steps on the tube and on buses and secure places for wheel chairs inside the vehicles are a boon as are disabled toilets.  It's costly but it recognises that as a community, we function as one and to be born with or suffer a disability is a chore enough not to have any more hurdles than necessary.

The clubs and the associations for the disabled are many and the term disabled is a misnomer when you see the Herculean strides these people have made to compete. This is not the fathers egg and spoon race on the village common this is serious athletics not a mile away from what an able bodied athlete would produce. The hours of physical torment trying to recover mobility is enough if you have your limbs in working order but without a leg or without both legs the mind boggles. I watched what appeared to be a football game only to learn  that all the players were blind and relied on some sort of sensor to give them a sense of their surroundings. I would be a wimp sitting in my arm chair, these guys are competing on a world stage.

So when you see someone battling in a wheelchair to get over a step or a blind person hesitant to cross the road, stop what your doing, stop the frenetic pace to be somewhere else and take time out to help, they might not be Olympic champions but they deserve our respect.

 

Loving someone

 

Subject: Loving someone

Love is like an aphrodisiac, it's chemistry at its most deceiving, it often plays us for a fool. There's nothing rational about love, it's ephemeral , transitory, it ebbs and flows, its of the mind and has little rational basis. It often binds us in a vicelike grip making us do crazy things in the postponement of sensibility. I'm not speaking of a mother's love for her child, that deep unfathomable maternal connection or a fathers love for his children but I'm speaking of an attraction towards someone else for reasons which are hard to define. I'm also speaking of a gender based love since my love for another man would for me be philosophical, not physical. So it has to be a girl and she can't be a member of my own immediate family.  Lust can play a part but it's transitory and short lived, so we exclude that as deviant. What is it in that attraction for a woman where a thousand girls wouldn't cause a ripple and yet the one becomes fascinating.

What is this fascination is it their looks, of course yes but it's much more than that, is it their posture the way they hold themselves as they go about their business, is it their vigour or singleminded persona, is it the way they speak, their accent, what they say. Is it that unfathomable cross current of emotion, like a zephyr which strikes your antenna.

It doesn't happen often but when it does you are beguiled like a sailboat caught in a sudden draught of wind, unstable and off course.

We do crazy things when our minds are turned but especially love as we play with its consequences. Our normal progressive step by step assumptions are blown away as you risk everything on the pitch and toss of reciprocation.  I remember having left my love standing on the quayside in Sydney to sail home on a promise to see my parents only to receive a Dear John letter not long after landing in Blighty. A normal rational human being would have bided their time but no, some sort of madness unfurled in my brain and it demanded flying half way around the world to have the truth, which was staring me in the face, spelt out to me, that she had moved on.

In the film Mrs Wilson, based on a true life story an army officer who worked for military intelligence and lived a cloak and dagger existence in the work he did, also lived cloak and dagger in his personal life having three clandestine marriages and supporting a charade of the loving husband and father to all three families. On his death the truth slowly reveals itself and the women try to make sense of their lives living with a multiple adulterer. The story is further muddied by his working for Intelligence and they, knowing of the deceit were fully complicit happy for it to be hidden behind the Official Secrets Act.

It's a story of a man's love acted out in three families and the ghastly truth that his definition of love was so different from theirs, he role played the loving husband in the knowledge that as far as he was concerned, no wrong was done and the provision of a home for each, plus with a complicated division of his time, his marital responsibilities were complete having fathered sons to all three  and his responsibilities to them were met by being their loving but partly absent father. So in this bewitched state he planned his life, to have children and make commitments "till death do us part". His love survived in all of them as they remembered the time he spent with them fondly and it was only when the charade was revealed on his death that hurt and recrimination surfaced.

Love then in a monogamous life is both a force and sometimes the cause of so much unhappiness. In it we continue to strike out, time and again basing our decisions on ephemeral  things rather than by plotting a course, step by step on a reality which only others see.

The Muslim practice of arranged manages is perhaps a better way of consummating our desire based on the practicality adage, "the family knows best", instead of the firework show and bright lights which, only when dimmed reveal the true nature of the affair.

Divine right

 Subject: Divine right.

The scenarios now emerging from the debacle that became the American mission in Afghanistan are quite grave given that Islamic extremism is a thread which runs through it all. The question of Joe Biden’s miscalculation regarding the pull out, his inability to communicate with any of his ally’s, even though they had the spilt blood of their own soldiers on their hands and had spent billions in the effort to keep the Taliban at bay, still the Americans felt fit to go it alone. Their hubris will be remembered, their nation less trustworthy, their aid will be questioned and the entente cordial irreparably damaged.

Successive Presidents have been accused of self delusion. Obama in defining the opposition as having the same principles and therefore doing nothing when action was needed as in Syria. Trump in his bully boy simplicity in believing financial power was sufficient not realising that religious belief is a much greater driving force than political belief. . And Joe Biden, the arch manipulator, the political survivor who dealt in political time scales and the provisional result of the ballot box.

Currently we are focussed on the people left behind who fear the reprisal of the Taliban but soon we will fear the activism of the Islamic Jahid as they mobilise to strike in the major cities around the world. There’s no greater stimulus than winning and to win back the caliphate from the west instils great belief in their invincibility. The Taliban are a home grown phenomena their horizon is within the mountains of Afghanistan itself but Al-Qadeda, ISIS and the offshoot ISIS-K are already in the country consolidating their forces and in many ways are as much a threat to the Taliban as to us in in the west.

An even greater threat is the inclusion of these extremist Jahid into the volatile ferment that is Pakistan. Pakistan, a considerable nuclear power with 160 nuclear ☢️ warheads and the rockets to target their payload. A politically troubled country with a secular government controlled by a religious ulama operating from the madrasa, it teeters on the brink of becoming a caliphate itself. Imagine the suicide bomber astride a nuclear weapon, imagine the delicate balance of power which held the cold war in stalemate broken by an insane assumption of divine right.