Irrispective of how the words come out.

Subject: Fw: Irrespective of how the words come out.

 

 

What is politics. We know the political class have a poor name in which ever society you live but is it politics which makes for the bad name rather than the human being who distorts the essence of politics.
Politics is the application of mind to secure a social economic outcome which is meant to benefit society. Without the formulation of political ideas, often based on political philosophy which merges into ideology, we wouldn't create comprehensive guide lines and formulate plans to get things done.
Socrates in his discourse was for ever peeling away at the onion, removing the layers trying to discover if the person arguing a political point could sustain his point under analysis. His dialectic method was clinical not rhetorical his aim to train the political class to examine their premise. Today we practice tautology which is the opposite. We repeat the mantras over and over as if by saying it, is the same as doing it.
Politics and the classical democratic assumption that it is a way to find the 'will of the people' is flawed since it starts with a premise that I the politician know what's best. Of course it could hardly be any other way unless you run successive referendum, putting everything to the vote (as in Switzerland) each time the political machine wants direction. I suppose so long as the questions were framed in a way that doesn't try to enlist an outcome, at least true majority rule is the will of the people or at least a majority of them.
Politicians lie. Well yes their job is on the line to convince you of their argument, they have to sweeten the pill to keep your interest and support and so deceit becomes second nature and it's that straight faced obfuscation when we yearn for a yes or no answer which infuriates us the most.

Michael Fallon comes on to defend government policy and you can see the mind turning over, turning to deflect or ignore the question, With the "urban political" working overtime you wonder what makes up the character of the person who can twist the truth to mean anything.

I suppose diplomat comes to mind, that smooth polished exterior, the glib phrases, the apparent lack of rancour, the smile.
In our ordinary lives we posses few if any of the skills of a politician or diplomat. We call a spade a spade and find intrigue difficult to stomach. We more than any understand the society we live in and it's needs and failings. Ours is not 'show time' where, as the curtain rises it's all smiles and Boheme,  a facade, a face to distort the true situation.
So for us politics is a means to an end, it represents a civilised way of addressing problems which society needs addressed.
For the politician it's a business, the business of re-election and the arcane attraction of Westminster and power.
Politicians are not the nation state, nor is the government, they are but representatives of the people who live here. Perhaps we give them too much power to much respect on the assumption that they have "our" best interests at heart when clearly they have 'their' own interests at the centre of all their actions and statements irrespective of how the words come out.

You don't have to live next to me, just give me my equality.

Subject: You don't have to live next to me just give me my equality.

Music speaks louder than word although if it is a song the words are an integral part of the performance. The pathos of a song or the exuberance of a song depends on the artist finding a motif for the the story. From the backing cords to the timing, from the counter rhythm and synchronisation to the underlying feeling expressed, not only in the lyric but in its intensity and emotion.

Nina Simone possessed all the ingredients to not only make a statement about her race but also about her womanhood. Listening to the song, "4 women" she challenges us to think about the circumstance which produces a stereotype but which underlaying the stereotype is the condition and the circumstance which produces this conditional outcome.

My skin is black.

My arms are long.

My hair is woolly.

My back is strong.

Strong enough to take the pain 

inflicted again and again.

What so they call me 

My name is AUNT SARAH.

In her lyric she depicts three other women. The mixed race girl she calls SAFFRONIA ,

the prostitute she calls MY NAME IS SWEET THING. And finally with anger and emotion breaking in her voice MY NAME IS PEACHES.

It's a depiction of race and the roles women who 'suffer their birth' play, a part often written for them by others.

Simone speaks for her race at a time when no one wanted to know and it was dangerous to do so. He famous ultra critical theme "Mississippi God Damn" hits where it hurts and should make any white person with a modicum of sensitivity feel embarrassed. She launches into this diatribe against race laws in the Deep South with a barely  concealed bitterness. She hammers the piano keys to a crescendo, emphasising  point on point the iniquity of  racial inequality. 

Google the lyrics, You Tube the song. 

"You don't have to live next to me just give me my equality", says it all.

Women's rugby

Subject: Fw: Women's rugby

 

 

Continuing my theme on sport and the role it can play in identifying a need amongst men, we may have to recognise a side of our nature which because of the feminising of society we may wish to reignite.
I had a choice. Continue watching the women's rugby test between England and New Zealand or swop to the men's game, England versus Argentina. Normally it would be a no brainier, the men's game is the real thing, the women's game is pedestrian and played in such a way, no one gets hurt.
I had somehow stumbled into the New Zealand game, played in New Zealand by parting with £10 for a weeks viewing of Sky Sports. The Lions / New Zealand games were my main objective along with the motor sport and the boxing clash between Andre Ward and the Russian Sergej Kovalev.
Anyway my scepticism was heightened when the Kiwis began to replicate the Haka.
It was more like a ladies choir, the words were there and the grimacing but there was no fire in the belly, no testosterone to fuel the passion. The English team are attractive, not the beefcake on sticks but genially attractive women. Being labelled a misogynistic man
I thought this might be interesting to see how they coped with tackling and the physical aspects of this hard contact sport. Surely it would be pedestrian and hardly full on.
I couldn't have been further from the truth as they hurled their bodies into the tackle or scrimmaged for the ball. Their rolling maul technique was very impressive and had the New Zealand team struggling to stop them. I was impressed by both sides but it was the Rugby technique that had been drilled into the English team which was impressive and a tribute to the professional side of this team. New Zealand on the other hand were a collection of amateur players and it showed. The New Zealand players have a natural flair for a game which means so much within the NZ community.
There was an amusing sight which reminded us that women have that aspect to their character which sets them apart. The game had come to a halt as someone was being repaired from injury. Standing around in a group, suddenly the bobs of hair tied up on the top of their head were loosened and hair cascaded down shaken out and readjusted.
I was, as always, reminded of the instinctive difference between us. Girls are brought up to take care and consider their appearance whilst men, of my vintage at least, appearance was incidental, although with the plethora of gels and creams for men on the market make this statement somewhat out of date.

Hair do or not, I was fascinated by the quality of the rugby. I suppose it missed the brutality of the men's game, more like a top class youth game where the violence is reigned in. That's not to say that the tackles were, in anyway softer or the scrummaging less vigorous. Anything but and the game was just as attractive.

The England / Argentinian game came on, I was drawn to that game but soon switched back to watch the remaining half of what was turning out to be a thoroughly enjoyable and fascinating game of rugby.

Where was their feminist side

Subject: Where was their feminist side.

Watching the Maori All Blacks do their traditional war dance/chant I was reminded of last nights discussion with a Feminist in the pub where we had a disagreement over the rights and wrongs of wolf whistling. She was quite incensed at my rational that if women dressed provocatively to be noticed they shouldn't cry foul if people she had little time for were also inclined to make their pleasure felt. We had been speaking of the rise to prominence of women in the political ranks now holding the leadership in all but the Liberal party and it is whispered that that post, now that Tim Farron has resigned, will also fall to a woman, Jo Swanson.

The memory of the tortured attempt at compromise  in the discussion, characterising women and comparing them to men came to an abrupt halt this morning with the sight of the Maori advancing slowly down the pitch tongues rolling out of their grimacing mouths. Grunting and chanting their call to contest, slapping their thighs, crouching ready to leap into action with all the physicality 18 to 22 stone men can muster. It was a far cry from the pragmatic, feminist argument about responsibility and consideration. It was about testosterone fuelled men's stuff and the hairs on the back of my neck rose as they always do to see this display of 'masculine' power.

We are rapidly being emasculated by the twin drive of feminine issues and political correctness.  To listen to the apologists for being or having opinions which glorify competitive sports like boxing is to understand how far on the back foot we have gone in our willingness to concede and claim our feminist side.
The game wasn't pretty, plenty of grunt from the Lions who controlled the scrum in the second half and scored push over tries. Muscular, tough, combative, the lads loved it as they shook hands after the match, all the niggles forgotten only respect for the opponent as they troupes off the field, steam rising from each of them, a communal bath to ease out the bruises and the hope they did enough to be picked for the test match next weekend.

The Dalits are expendable

Subject: The Dalits are expendable.

It's revealing that the money set aside to assist the dispossessed families from the burnt out block of flats in London is 5 million pounds which is equivalent to the purchase price for "one" of those flats not a mile away. 

It sort of lends perspective in this land of democratic equality regarding the gulf which has been allowed to grow between the rich and the poor. Dalits (untouchables) in the land that fostered the Mother of all Parliaments, where representation was meant to prevent exploitation, where the rule of law and the regulations which are bound up in legislation, can be exploited for profit. Where the regulations which we all had faith in are but an uncomfortable impediment to a section of our community. Regulations which are now called "guide lines" by the planners, guide lines to circumvent when it suites the powerful lobby who make decisions on our behalf. 

Lives in the Favelas of Brazil  or in the shacks lining the road in the Cape have a different value to those in the high rise apartments in Rio or the manicured homes in Rondebosch and in any society where the disparity of wealth is so acute. Wealth brings a blindness as people enclose themselves in a consumption cycle, buying and displaying, like so many peacocks, oblivious of everything around them other than their next possession.

The Dalits in Grenfell Tower lived their lives coming and going some acutely aware of the failings in the safety arrangements in the flats. Writing of their fears they posted their detailed document to the Council and to the Housing body which had been set up to act as a buffer between the Council and the Dalits. 

Years, generations, of prejudice form like a callus over the unreality of the way some people live their lives. In the council offices they are aware of the priorities set from on high and with HR cutting back, the man or woman sitting at their desk doesn't want to become embroiled in the nitty gritty of making a case for the Dalits and potentially endangering their job.

And so we have the unsightly picture of the Prime Minister playing catch up, first in her misjudgement of only being seen to speak to the leaders of the rescue services and not the tenants and then being upstaged by the 'Queen of all people' who mingled quite informally with the people who had lost everything and were being housed in a hall nearby.  Eventually the 'Vicars Daughter' remembered her fathers sermons and came out, in her prickly, stiff way to visit the injured in hospital. 

At least she got in to see them. The hospitals have barricaded themselves behind regulations not allowing a search for the missing as a father or mother wait for information to know if their son or daughter is being treated in that particular hospital.

The inhumanity of privileged information and the rights of confidentiality are laid out like a bear trap preventing the near hysterical, grieving relative from clarifying whether  someone is there being treated or not. This is no time to talk of 'patient confidentiality', there are dozens if not hundreds of dead charred bodies awaiting discovery why not at least release the information of those who made it out.

Of course if you are  Dalit you know to stay in line. You can't expect much help from the politicians who have passed the buck for years on safety in the high rise blocks.

The professionals such as the Fire Chief who should have been proactive with the Council and with Government as to the potential failings of fire protection. The Architect and the Structural Engineers, the Contractor who was "allowed" to choose the less fire retardant cladding on the basis of cost. So many people scurrying around looking for cover.

Only the Dalits will pay, as they always do. They are immune to justice since being so far down the chain no one of influence cares, except perhaps this time, the wrong done against them is so great that "the people" won't let matters rest and perhaps we will see heads role this time, tall heads not low hanging fruit. 

Building regulations which are such an inconvenience to that powerful lobby the Building Contractor, who time and again take short cuts, with the connivance of the politician who wants as always the most from the least and being a chancer at heart is prepared to prevaricate when things that need doing are deemed expensive. 

The Dalits are after all, expendable.

The female in Parliament

Subject: The female in Parliament

Having just watched a high pitched slanging match between the leaders of the Scottish Independence Party, the Scottish Conservative Party and the Scottish Labour Party all women, it strikes me that the tone of representatives of Women's Rights need some moderation and a modicum of updating. Given that the British Prime Minister is a woman, the leader of the DUP, who currently controls the parliament in Northern Ireland is a woman, as is the leader of Plaid Cymru in Wales, then the claim that 'women are not represented' is clearly bogus.
The Woman's Lib revolution which protested the rights of women over men in obtaining (by fair means or foul) nomination for more political seats in Parliament  is still in full swing, as are the changes to allow women suckling babes in the chamber,  a shorter political day and more family friendly hours, came about because women demanded it so they could partake in debates whilst at the same time be in the front line for their children's needs.
It was always suggested that women would bring a softer tone to proceedings. That they are supposed to be more conciliatory, less tribal, less ideological.
Listening to the shrill slanging match conducted in the Scottish Parliament today I was left wondering, where had those feminine traits of compassion, apple pie and motherhood gone. Let loose on a building site they traded insults like the best navvy. Personal stuff, delivered in a torrent of rancour, spite, hatred, malevolence and deep animosity which I might suggest represents those other traits which women sometimes display when they feel threatened.

A disaster waiting to happen

Subject: A disaster waiting to happen.

There are landmark moments when even the complicity of the politician is not enough to explain why, in the 21st century, a building in the centre of London, which we are often reminded, is one of the "great cities" in the world, should go up in flames like a Brazilian favela. In no time the fire spread right across the building, flames consuming something which burned like a candlewick bedspread, something which shouldn't have been part of the structure of a high rise building.
Work had just finished on the "refurbishment" of this tower block. Tarting up would be a better description. Cladding had been applied to hide the concrete structure which dated the building. A school to one side had been similarly cladded and I have seen many buildings in Newham with the same makeover.
The block contained 150 flats housing between 600 and 700 people, people from a sub-socioeconomic strata who's concerns are rarely heard. (Eat your bread and dripping sandwich and be thankful).
The council responsible for the housing of these people is one of the wealthiest councils in Britain, Chelsea and Westminster and of course the flats were something of an anomaly to where their real interests lay. Having recently walked through the wealthier part on my way to listen to the Karmapa I can vouch for feeling I was in a different part of the universe with Bentley's parked on the street and Gucci and Prada the main lines in the shops with small flats selling for 3,4 5 million.
What chance the resident association when the Borough is dealing with issues of dog mess on the pavement. What chance has a partition handed to the council detailing with  flaws in the fire escape issues, the lack of an alarm for the building, the emergency stairwell lighting not maintained, and vitally no sprinkler system for at least the flats higher up the building where the fireman's hose pipes couldn't reach and were hopelessly inadequate.
Towering Inferno, the 70s block buster depicted the inadequacy of building design back then and it seems we have learnt nothing from it.
Money is at risk and builders and architects build to a clients affordability. Of course the affordability of having a small footprint in a rich expensive Borough is never considered when you can have a win win situation, a cheap as chips building set on a postage stamp sized plot.
The variable is the people who will occupy the flats. They are not the millionaires who occupy the blocks just down the road who's own safety arrangements are the best in the world. Heaven forbid if we killed one of them, imagine the litigation.
No the Borough has an image problem. Let's clad the building and encourage greenery all around. Let's not pay too much attention to the worthiness of the cladding "who's was the cheapest quote ?" And let's not envisage the fire service arriving blockaded by flowerbeds and bollards.
What chance getting through to people who have come up through the private education system and wouldn't recognise a sprinkler if they saw one, other than in the vast lawns around their country retreat.
How is it that my daughter has to jump through all kinds of safety hoops to let her house to 5 students, has to have annual inspections and yet a high rise building housing hundreds of people slips through the cracks.
The fire chief applauding her team who fought the fire should have been the main proponent of the regulations that are on the books. I remember in South Africa the Fire Chief was god when it came to getting authority to open a public building. His word was scripture. How come this female fire chief was not insisting on access to the building or ensuring the alarms were in place and working.
Bills have been floated in Parliament regarding the need for a sprinkler system in high rise buildings but the political will is missing. How many politicians will feel the fear of living in a high rise block of flats, none.
The cladding was combustible,  no doubt about it watching how quickly the fire spread. Who passed the installation of combustible material when one knows of the ridged controls effective in the furniture industry.
Which Architect said okey, when one of the reasons we use an Architect is to monitor such things.
Already the Council are trying to find space behind their pawning of the running of the building to another company. "Outsourcing their responsibility" a common term these days of multi interlocking arrangements where nobody is responsible other than on pay day to ensure the cheque gets into the bank.