John Jackson : Granda, scaffy, home maker, smoker and philosopher

   John Jackson, my Granda was a great man. He loved everyone and in particular he loved Nellie, my Grannie Jackson. As long as he lived, he'd do anything for her. Mind you she was to become very much in charge of things in their household.

   Though poverty still exists in parts of the city, in the 1920s, 30s and even into the 40s there was widespread poverty in Dundee.   Jobs were hard to come by. A great number were unemployed. Many  emigrated to Australia, Canada, New Zealand, South Africa and the USA for what they hoped would be a new and prosperous life. Dundee was a significant port in those days and so another route into paid work for many of the city's young men was to join the merchant navy. This was a path all three of his  sons were eventually to take but my Granda Jackson didn't.

   Following the first world war Granda Jackson got a job as a scaffy and after a while the wages he earned from sweeping the city's streets encouraged him to pluck up the courage to ask Grannie to marry him. A few years later he lost his job because the City Corporation discovered he had a club foot which in his desperation to find work was something he had hidden from the authorities. For the rest of his working life he was either unemployed or doing any temporary odd job he could pick up. In another sense though he wasn't unemployed. Nellie, that is my Grannie Jackson, gained full time work at Cox's Jute Mill in Lochee.  In those days in Dundee it was less difficult for women to find a job than it was for men. The jute mills were keen to employ fast working and less expensive female labour. Still, low wages or not, in many households the women were the breadwinners. Dundee became known as a "women's town." So it was Granda Jackson who was the home maker, who kept the tenement flat they lived in ship-shape and it was he who washed, fed, dressed and sent the weans to school on time. He was the one who made sure there was a dinner ready on the table when Grannie had finished her shift at the mill.

   Granda was a great support and source of encouragement to his wife and family.  He was very proud of them too.  He was full of admiration for Chrissie - his eldest daughter and who was, in due course, to become my Mum - when she became a nurse. He was proud too when decades later I became the first member of his family to go to college and train to become a teacher. When he heard that I had qualified he said, "Eh dinnae care whit any o' ye say, Eh'll bla' aboot this tae a' body, and then Eh'll  bla' aboot it again." More than any diploma or degree Granda's pride in me remains the most precious accolade I've ever received.

   Granda could be a philosopher. My remembrance of a conversation I had with him when I was about 6 or 7 years old brings this to mind.  Granda was a cigarette smoker.  "Woodbine" I think was his brand. I can't remember clearly because unlike other grown ups during my childhood, he never asked me to go to fetch cigarettes for him from the local shop. Occasionally he would smoke a pipe and I noticed that he did not spit while he was smoking a pipe as my Grandad Sharpe did. Grandad Sharpe was someone who always smoked a pipe. One day I asked Granda why he didn't spit into the fireplace when he was smoking a pipe like Grandad Sharpe did. "Weel, Charlie," he said, "There are twa kinds o' smokers. There are dreh anes and wet anes. Ye're ither granda is a wet smoker."

   "But Granda," I persisted, "Why then are there dry smokers and why are there wet smokers ?"

   "Ach, Charlie," Granda replied, "afore lang ye learn there're questions there's nae answer tae." 

He was a friend of mine

David was a friend of mine. I loved him dearly. I hope and I think he thought of me as a friend. If that were the case, then it would be a great honour for me.

David wasn't a demonstrative man - he didn't speak at length but I knew when he talked about his family, his wife, Jean, his children, Gaynor and Lee and his grandchildren, Ryan and Charlie, how much he loved them and how proud he was of them.

David was everything I wasn't. He was good looking, he was practical, he could build things, he could fix things and on numerous occasions he rescued my wife Jackie and me when our central heating went wrong or our fence was blown down or our washing machine wasn't working. He was a linguist, a gifted amateur photographer and he was a good cook. He had fine taste in music and he it was who introduced me to Willie Nelson.

Jackie and I have known Jean, his wife,  and David for over 20 years and during that time we've played badminton together, been in pub quiz teams together, gone to concerts together, been to family anniversaries and parties together, and we have shared many meals together.  We've also walked together and that brings me to the infamous perambulation of Dartmoor  which David and I undertook in the early 1990s. This was the occasion David and I slept together.  Just to warn you, there is not going to be a Brokeback Mountain revelation here. The perambulation is a walk around Dartmoor of almost 60 miles and goes through some fairly tough terrain. We intended to do it over a weekend : the main part of the walk, 36 miles, on the Saturday and the remainder on the Sunday.  Rooms were booked for an overnight stay at the Plume of Feathers Inn at Princetown where having completed our day's hiking we were to meet with Jean and Jackie  to have supper, stay the night and then to complete our expedition on the morrow. From our early Saturday morning start near Brimpts Farm above Dartmeet everything went well. The going was good. David encouraged us when we were on the steep ascents and I gained strength when we were going downhill. Soon after midday the weather broke and the rain came down with a vengeance. We were seriously delayed  - streams  became rushing torrents and the ground was increasingly boggy. Although it was June the glowering grey clouds made it very dark. We began to lose our footing and more and more, as the afternoon became evening, we fell down holes and crevices. At about 10 0’clock, fearful of breaking limbs from one of our falls and having missed our schedule for meeting Jean and Jackie we decided it was not safe to go on and that we would bivouac for the night. We were very cold and wet. Before we had set out Jackie had packed, for use in emergency, two special blankets made from the same material as astronauts' suits but  after a thorough ransack of my rucksack I could only find one blanket. We found a peat hole and cuddled up for the night under our one astronaut blanket.

Meanwhile back at the Plume and Feathers  Inn, Jean and Jackie  were becoming concerned about us and at 9 o'clock they told the landlord of the inn that we had not turned up. He contacted the police and the Dartmoor rescue team. Shortly afterwards policemen came and whisked Jean and Jackie from the pub as if they were ladies of the night out on illicit business and took them to Tavistock Police Station to be questioned. Jean and Jackie told them we were well equipped against the weather and when asked what food we had Jackie said I had sandwiches and a Mars Bar and Jean said David had sandwiches and  three bunches of bananas. At the mention of the bananas the police officer turned to his colleague and said, “Well we don't need to worry about him he'll be happily swinging up and down in the trees." Jean and Jackie were returned to the Plume of Feathers and spent a restless night trying to remember if we had any worthwhile life insurance policies.

Up on the moor we woke up at daybreak after a night of unsettled sleep. Taking map readings we calculated that we were 6 miles north of Princetown and headed south. As we were approaching the Tavistock to Ashburton Road about 3 miles from Princetown  we saw  a large group of Land Rovers and other small military looking wagons. One of these had a tall radio mast. It slowly dawned on us that this was the Dartmoor rescue team and that they were out looking for us. When we reached them they established who we were and asked us when we had got lost. We were upset and dismayed by their assessment of our predicament . David insisted that we had made a sensible decision to bivouac on the basis that at that time it was a safer option than continuing our hike. He told them that we had known all along where we had been and that we hadn't ever been lost.This was to no avail. The headline that appeared on the front page of the Western Morning News on the following Monday morning was, "TWO MEN LOST ON DARTMOOR RESCUED" and over the years, however much we have insisted to the contrary, everyone has always called it, "the day David and Charles got lost on Dartmoor." 

After we had been "found" we were taken to Princetown in the back  of one of the rescue team’s Land Rovers – they wouldn’t allow us to walk there – and we met up with Jean and Jackie at the Plume of Feathers,  had breakfast, and returned home.

We completed the remainder of our perambulation the following weekend. During this second stage we confessed to each other that one, if not the main reason for our decision to bivouac for the night was our realisation that  there wasn't any chance we could get to the pub before closing time. A beer was out of the question. 

Well, David it was a great day, you were a special man and I'm missing you.

Link : Willie Nelson   He was a friend of mine

"Of Gods and Men" : the way religion and democracy could still be.

For a long time now religion and democracy have not enjoyed a good press.  I am certain arguments may justifiably be made in favour of exceptions to my assessment, but in some measure I think the opprobrium has been deserved. Religious movements have proved intolerant and "democratic" politics have in the main proved useful only in preserving the status quo : a status quo typified by our obeisance to the will - as well as to the rule -  of the wealthy and powerful. By wealthy and powerful I mean those who, in the final analysis, can afford and are prepared to use the most deadly weapons of destruction to coerce the end they desire. Perhaps it is sad to note that the exercise of this oppressive influence has often been supported by religious movements.

It seems strange to be writing this as if it were a paradox but the potential for good in humankind is almost invariably a founding principle of most religious and democratic movements. This potential would be manifested by a society in which everyone is sincerely and uncynically trying to lead a better life in the service of others ; in which each listens to, and values  the views and decisions of others at the same time as sharing -  on an equal basis - the natural riches provided by our planet and our universe.

Seeking potential for good in religion and democracy in our present oppressive social weather  may seem a quixotic quest promising little fruit.  Occasionally however contrary signals can appear from unexpected places and I believe such a one may be found in the  film  Of Gods and Men  which is  based on the true story of 8 French Cistercian monks who in the mid-1990s were living and working in a monastery situated in the Atlas Mountains in North Africa. As the film begins the quiet, modest lives of reflection and useful activity led by the monks is disrupted by a series of events which puts them in danger.  How the monks respond to these situations stirred in me feelings -  which I had thought lost in the labyrinth of my cynicism  -  about the  possibilities for good in humankind.  Watching Of Gods and Men I could begin to rediscover religion symbolised by a quiet life of service and by pure democracy. To be sure each of the monks is a real human being with strengths and flaws yet I could not help but be moved by the patience they as a group devote in calmly proceeding to a gently achieved consensus about the decisions they take.  In what for others might seem an impossible predicament, the monks sustain love and regard for each other, for the people they serve and for those who are intent on harming them.

The film seemed to ask me to weigh the value of a satisfaction gained by listening to, and serving others without demanding or expecting greater material reward against a satisfaction gained by the accumulation of wealth and by the undue wielding of intellectual, political, physical and military power.  The end of the film which is both tragic and noble left me to wonder if the kind of satisfaction embodied in the lives the monks through their beliefs and their activities is the only source of power that is worth our faith, that is truly democratic and so may be used for the good of all. I don't know, but the story of these monks has persuaded me that in future when I am writing this blog I will attempt to express my views in a more considered way and so, I hope, in a more considerate way.




Reference

Of Gods and Men (2010)  Director : Xavier Beauvois 

Iraq, Iran, Israel, the United Kingdom, Weapons of Mass Destruction and a very naughty boy

     My history teacher told us that for our own safety and wellbeing our government in the UK never allows its citizens to forget that Iran is a very nasty and evil country. Now Iran may not have invaded any other country recently but it would be very ignorant and uneducated of us to think this is a good thing. In the 1970s Iran did have a battle with Iraq when Saddam Hussain was the new head boy of Iraq and at that  time Iraq was a very good thing. Later we changed our minds and Saddam Hussain and Iraq  became very naughty things and because of that we invaded them and smashed them to pieces. We invaded them because they had weapons of mass destruction and though they didn't actually have them our government said it was all right to pretend that they really did have them.  Now that Saddam Hussain has been executed and Iraq has been smashed to pieces it has become a very good thing again and we're not to worry that it has become a very dangerous country for its inhabitants to live in.

     My teacher also said that history tells us Iran has never been a very good thing, well certainly not since that very nice man the Shah was the head prefect there and now our government has spotted that Iran is developing the capacity for nuclear weapons of mass destruction and that Iran has become an even more very evil thing.  Our leaders are saying we might  have to think about smashing it to pieces because apparently it might attack  Israel, a little country which doesn’t officially have nuclear weapons and yet actually does, but don't worry about that for our government says it is OK to pretend that Israel doesn't have nuclear weaponry.

     Before I go to bed tonight  I will obediently wish for a privatised health service, a private police force to defend the property of rich folks,  and I will loyally pray for awful things to befall Alex Salmond,  Dennis Skinner, fat people, welfare cheats, schoolchildren whose exams are too easy and all the rest of the feral underclasses who have broken our nice home counties society, - yes while I'm doing all that -  I  promise to understand why my government thinks it is a good thing that we have nuclear weapons and a bad thing that those terrible Iranian leaders have them. 

     The leaders in our government tell us the citizens of Iran live in fear of their government - that’s terrible.  A  naughty boy in my class called Noam says we should be in fear of our government because it is spending a lot of time thinking about which evil country we  can next smash to pieces without any danger of that country smashing us to pieces in return. Noam says that in order to give itself something to do while it makes its mind up about this, our government has decided to declare war on all its poor citizens. 

     Fortunately none of us good boys listen to Noam.

A Concession Confession

I have been a concession for some years now..  Recently my wife joined me in that predicament. She too is now a concession. A month or so ago I asked her, "What is there to like about being a concession?"  She replied, "What is there not to like?"

I suppose she meant the free bus travel and cheaper rail fares, reduced entry fees to cinemas, theatres, exhibitions and museums. The trouble is that I am fast - as if any part of me goes fast these days - becoming a museum piece. I'm slow of mind, hard of hearing and my eye sight is deteriorating. I struggle to get on buses and trains.

Furthermore, and people who know me will find this difficult to believe, I have become even more cantankerous.

Recently the customs officers at an airport temporarily barred my embarkation on a 'plane because I refused to take my belt off before going through the security screening check. A young female security officer had asked me to take it off. I refused on the basis that I was fearful that my trousers would fall down and I would lose what little, if any, dignity I might yet retain.  The officer was adamant. "You must remove, your belt sir."  I refused again. I like to think now that my refusal was a matter of principle rather than the chauvinist feelings of a man whose diminishing potency was being publicly exposed by the directive of a young woman.  Appreciating my fixed attitudinal locus, she called her boss - a shaven haired bloke of about 50 who towered over me - and in a demonstration of both his solidarity with his colleague and his masculine power he said, "If you don't do as the lady says I will not allow you on the plane."  At this point my wife who had already passed to the "other side" of the security check called to the customs security boss to inform him I had not been well recently and this had made me very stressed and would he please let me through. Her story was untrue but the situation was desperate and my wife advised me, in a manner that allowed me no scope for negotiation, to take my belt off. I did. I walked through the security beam desperately holding up my trousers. As I walked towards the duty free area, the young woman who had first demanded my unbelting said, "Enjoy your flight, sir."  I wasn't certain she was being sincere.

My confession here of disgraceful behaviour at the airport says everything about what being a concession really means. It is a developmental process of ageing by which  gradually I have to accept that my role is now to make a concession to other younger beings. It is to concede they hold the power now and I do not.

Recently I was travelling on the London Underground Circle Line from Paddington to Euston Square.  I was a standing passenger and just after the train left Great Portland Street a young woman got up and asked, "Would you like a seat ?" Astonished that this request had been made to me  - surely I hadn't reached this stage of decrepitude yet? -  I was about to say, "No thanks, I'm getting off at the next stop," but I had to concede she seemed sincere and actually I was feeling quite exhausted. "That's very kind of you," I said and I sat down.

Robert Burns :"Why has Man the will and power to make his fellow mourn?"

Robert Burns wrote  "Man Was Made To Mourn" in 1784. He tells of the lives of suffering, hopelessness, sadness, depression, toil and failure which so many impoverished children and their mothers and fathers faced in the 18th century. For Burns the tragic irony was that the misfortunes of the poor were caused not by any universal and incomprehensible cosmic fate but by their more affluent fellow human beings.  Here in 2012 we can see that in many ways little has changed since 1784. We are all born free to think but we are not all provided with the same freedom to act.
Certainly as a Scot born with an  "independent wish planted... in my mind" I find it difficult to forget  "such a parcel of rogues in a nation." These were the absent " lordlings" who assumed and still assume the right to act upon us and to sell us.

Man Was Made To Mourn : A dirge by Robert Burns When chill November's surly blast Made fields and forest bare, One ev'ning, as I wand'red forth Along the banks of Ayr, I spied a man, whose aged step Seem'd weary, worn with care, His face was furrow'd o'er with years, And hoary was his hair. 'Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou?' Began the rev'rend Sage, 'Does thirst of wealth thy step constrain, Or youthful pleasure's rage? Or haply, prest with cares and woes, Too soon thou hast began To wander forth, with me to mourn The miseries of Man. The sun that overhangs yon moors, Out-spreading far and wide, Where hundreds labour to support A haughty lordling's pride: I've seen yon weary winter-sun Twice forty times return; And ev'ry time has added proofs, That man was made to mourn. 'O Man! while in thy early years, How prodigal of time! Mis-spending all thy precious hours, Thy glorious, youthful prime! Alternate follies take the sway, Licentious passions burn: Which tenfold force gives Nature's law, That Man was made to mourn. Look not alone on youthful prime, Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then Age and Want - O ill match'd pair! -- Shew Man was made to mourn. 'A few seem favourites of Fate, In Pleasure's lap carest; Yet think not all the rich and great Are likewise truly blest: But oh! what crowds in ev'ry land, All wretched and forlorn, Thro' weary life this lesson learn, That Man was made to mourn. 'Many and sharp the num'rous ills Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves Regret, remorse, and shame! And Man, whose heav'n-erected face The smiles of love adorn,-- Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn! 'See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth To give him leave to toil; And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn. 'If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave-- By Nature's law design'd-- Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty, or scorn? Or why has Man the will and pow'r To make his fellow mourn? 'Yet let not this too much, my son, Disturb thy youthful breast: This partial view of human-kind Is surely not the last! The poor, oppressed, honest man, Had never, sure, been born, Had there not been some recompense To comfort those that mourn! 'O Death! the poor man's dearest friend, The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy fear thy blow, From pomp and pleasure torn, But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn!'

Where has the Labour Party gone ?

Yes, where did the Labour party go ?   What happened to it?

The anger and love of a father

I remember a day during the early 1950s when we lived in Clement Park. I was 8 or 9 years old at the time. My parents had bought me some rubber moulds with which I could make Plaster of Paris figurines. When the liquid plaster I poured into the moulds had solidified I could remove the moulds, paint the figurines with poster paints and when the paint was dry I would varnish over the paint to protect the figurines. My intention then was, as I recollect, to sell these rather tawdry ornaments to unsuspecting adult relatives for sixpence or a shilling.


After supper it was time for me to go to bed and I hugged my Mummy and said "Good night" to my Daddy, but so excited was I about my new money making project that instead of going up to my bedroom as I should have done, I went into the kitchen which had been my workshop earlier in the day and as quietly as I could I continued to manufacture figurines. Some time later my father decided he wanted a cup of Nescafe and he discovered me in the kitchen. As I remember it he became very angry and told me that I had been deceitful in not going to bed and that I had broken the trust he and my mother placed in me. I was in tears as he peremptorily sent me upstairs. I lay in bed crying. I had let down my Daddy. After about 10 minutes my Daddy  came into my bedroom. He didn’t put on the light but he sat on the bed beside his sobbing son and he said, ‘Charlie I’m really sorry I got angry with you. I was really proud of you making your ornaments today and I should have told you that. I’m sorry son.’ He left my bedroom.


My "Daddy", as I grew older he became my "Dad", justifiably got very angry with me on a number of occasions after that before the time came for me to leave home, but I have never forgotten that evening. 

"No blacks, no coloureds, no Asians, no Irish, no children." Three cheers for Diane Abbott

I don't like the idea that anybody should be "dressed down" by another person and so I was disappointed to learn that Ed Milliband has apparently administered such a thing to his colleague Diane Abbott for her remarks about us white folks. I was disappointed because I have up to now admired Ed Milliband for his  unfashionable take on politics that it is about intelligent discussion and not about the cheap, too often repeated cliched soundbites, and moral diktats that appeal so much to his immature opponents, the leaders of the Conservative government, David Cameron and Nick Clegg. Yes, I did write Nick Clegg and to be sure, I did write  "Conservative government."

Back to Diane Abbott, who in my view has never done herself great favours by her often inconsistent views and actions, but on this occasion I think she got it right. We white people, including my wonderful self, who read The Guardian*  and who think of ourselves as nice non-racist centre lefties  are, it seems to me, just as racist as anyone, whether of white, yellow, black or whatever hue, religion, language or culture.  It mystifies me that those who tell me they know better about all things of import have got so worked up about Diane saying whites "divide and rule" on matters of race, when what she says  has manifested itself so immediately, dramatically and clearly in the responses to her remarks made by the media and its subservient operatives, meaning, well,  most politicians really. This has been a disproportionate reaction. 

I guess like most white British people I have never been the subject of a racist taunt.

To agitate against Diane Abbott's observation at a time when, we still have not resolved all the issues underlying what happened to Stephen Lawrence and what happened in the aftermath of his murder, when, an Indian visitor to our country is murdered because of what the colour of his skin may have represented to the impoverished and deprived personna of his assassin, and when, overwhelmingly  both the most subtle and overt expressions of racism are made against non-white ethnic minorities, the vehement condemnation of Diane Abbott's remarks represent, certainly for me,  a worrying exercise of denial.

When I was a student in the 1960s looking for accommodation in Muswell Hill*, London, I would often see notices posted on the door of potential lodgings which read, "No blacks, no coloureds,  no Asians, no Irish, no children." I sometimes think this notice is still pinned up there on many a door in our country even though it is clothed in a sophisticated disguise.

___________

* I am  dubious about my association with The Guardian which now appears to be the official apologist for the Conservative government.
* I am hopeful that Muswell Hill is now a more accommodating neighbourhood than it was then. 
   

Almost an encounter with a fine man : on being near Vaclav Havel

Early in 1990 my wife and I were in New York. We were staying at the Chelsea and one evening returning from a show on Broadway we decided we would go for a drink at the bar of El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant adjacent to the hotel which acts as the Chelsea's unofficial watering hole. As we approached the hotel we noticed  there were many police cars parked outside. My wife counted 22 of them. As we walked  to the entrance of  El Quijote our way was  blocked by policemen. They told us we couldn't go in. We said that we were guests at the hotel. Fortunately the head waiter, who was standing at the doorway,  recognised us and he confirmed to the policemen - I am tempted to write "he told the cops" - that we were guests at the hotel. We made a little more progress towards the bar when a number of  tall and bulky men who were not in uniform blocked our way. Fortunately they looked at the head waiter and he nodded, and they let us by. El Quijote was usually busy at this time but on this evening it was jam packed and buzzing. We asked a man by the bar why it was so busy. "There's some guy called Vaslav or something in." He looked at the woman standing next to him silently questioning her. "It's Vaclav Havel," she said. She nodded toward a table about 10 yards away and there he was sitting smoking a cigarette  with a group of  7 or 8 others.

I learned later that this was not  an official head of state visit to the USA but a private visit which Vaclav Havel had arranged in order to meet his friend Milos Forman and other artists, musicians and playwrights living in New York City who were friends or whom  he admired. This absence of grandiosity confirmed Vaclav Havel's place - he was already someone I admired -  in my pantheon of heroes.  Here was the president of a state - one which was  a symbol  for democracy gained by peaceful means  -  on a private visit not seeking to promote or glorify himself but simply to meet friends and fellow artists. We were told later by Richard, a friend of Stanley the hotel proprietor,  that Vaclav Havel had not asked for the level of security which surrounded his private visit. The New York City and USA authorities had demanded it.

Vaclav Havel, as well as taking a major role in leading the 'velvet revolution' against the communist regime in what was then Czechoslovakia,  showed humility, dignity, insight and more than anything respect for the democratic wishes of the people  when the Slovaks and the Czechs decided to take their own avenues  and form separate states.  This is what my late father in law would call "statesmanship."

How different this is from the tawdry, pompous two dimensional front bench prigs in the House of Commons who consider themselves our political leaders and who seek to score cheap  points at "PMQ" - as the prime minister David Cameron now calls it  -  in an attempt to get  their show higher  ratings than the X Factor.

Well, Vaclav Havel, the politician,  you were a dramatist too, but you were sincere, humble and one of us.  You died today, and I didn't quite meet you, or did I ?


Comments
Jeremy Millar writes, "a lovely story Charles, not sure if I'm more impressed by the proximity of Havel or how you dropped in 'we stayed at the Chelsea.' I guess you were aware of his love of the Velvet Underground and that is probably why he was at the Chelsea too."


Charles Sharpe responds " I can see what you mean Jeremy but be assured what I've written is utterly about a man, Vaclav Havel.

A few words from young grandsons

Grandad, I love Bambi.

Dog got wet.

Many years later Mango gets wet

Are you stupid Grandad ?

What are we going to do about this Nana ?

Voices from the back seat of the car.
S to J : J can I have a wee shot of your tractor ?
J to S : No
S : to everyone in general : I think he said "Yes"
Nana, in the front seat of the car : I think he said "No"
S (sotto voce) : I think he said "Yes."

Clegg, coward or ditherer ? : the questions

Why was Nick Clegg initially deafeningly acquiescent about  David Cameron's and  William Hague's failure to negotiate in Brussels ? Why didn't he insist he should be there in Brussels to be at the negotiating table?
Why did it take persuasion from the few remaining sincere Liberal Democrat parliamentarians before he could, over a day later, admit that he was not pleased with Cameron's and henchman Hague's non-negotiating approach ? Why didn't he voice his disagreement at five o'clock in the morning immediately after the Brussels debacle.
If he is genuine in his opposition to the Conservative government's (that's what it is folks) position on the Euro crisis why did he use the excuse that he "would have been a distraction" for his failure to be in the House of Commons today when David Cameron tried to explain away his negligence in Brussels? Why couldn't Mr Clegg be there to face Cameron up front ?

Well maybe because he and his shameful lieutenants are hoping that if they can stay in power for the full term, we  -   the poor suckers who voted for them because they persuaded us they were utterly opposed to the greed mongering City of London worshipping Conservatives  -  will have forgotten about how they deserted us just for the sake of hanging on to the coat tails of power. Have no illusions however, we'll remember.  When the Liberal Democrat party decided to join in this coalition - sorry -  Conservative  government, the notion of conviction politics was dealt a mighty blow.  We may not know hypocrites when we see them but we certainly do recognise them when we see their self-serving action.
Love him as I do all of suffering humanity, in my view Clegg is not now a distraction, he is, in  political terms, a nonentity. 

Dundee Courier and Advertiser Shakespeare Scoop

This is a photie taken by the Courier man when Oor Wullie visited Dundee in 1602 to see one of his plays at the Rep. After the performance he said it would not be a good idea for James to go down to England and be the king as it would cause a lot of shennaniggins in the 20th and 21st centuries. He also predicted that Dundee Football Club would win the Scottish League in 1962 and that just shows that even though he was English he must have been a genius because when he said it Dundee Football Club had not even been invented. He did not however predict that Claudio Caniggia would play for us, so he couldn't have been as great a genius as our own bardie Rabbie who predicted that pandas would spend a while in the zoo in Edinburgh 252 years after he was born. Now that's what I call genius.

Is oor Wullie posin' doon here withoot his pail and dungarees ?
Ye cannae' really tell, cos the photie's cut aff well abin his knees.

Oor Wullie's lookin sae affie auld
Maybe that's because his pow's gone bald.

Love and achievement in foster care : a story from the 1930s

       Recently on a professional network to which I belong a question was raised about how well foster carers help the children they look after to be successful at school. The underlying implication which had initiated the discussion  was that for less well educated foster parents the educational achievement of the children they foster was not a principal priority. This being so, it could be concluded, many children in foster care were being disadvantaged. Discussions like these have a high profile these days because of the shift in emphasis in government policy about children since the coalition government came to power in the United Kingdom. There is much more emphasis on children achieving and less on thinking about what children need. This may be a valid stance. I am sure no one - consciously at least -  wishes any child to be disadvantaged or to be left trailing behind life's peleton. I am sure we all desire that all children get all the learning they need to ensure  they develop the capacity to cope well enough with life's vicissitudes.

     I tend to go along with AS Neill's view that if parenting adults get the emotional support for a child right then the child's full potential will be freed and educational achievement will naturally follow. This is even more the case for children who are fostered ; children who first and foremost require emotional compensation. The current stress on a child "achieving" may lead to us losing sight of what all children really need and that is a consistent, nurturing and loving relationship with an adult. The latter is in my view overwhelmingly the primary function of foster parents.
Learning from a very wide natural curriculum is clearly necessary for the healthy development of a child but this current emphasis on "achievement" tends to insist that children must achieve in education in those areas which are defined by, and meet the needs of, a minority of powerful adults whose principal intention is that their political and economic interests are served. It may or may not be right that these interests should be served but in the first instance we should insist on aiming to provide all children with a caring, loving environment which allows them to be children, where they are given permission to learn and develop through their own discoveries rather than being enslaved by a curriculum prescribed by a particular political culture. I think foster parents should be freed and supported to provide this environment. I guess I am saying that foster parents should primarily be assessed on their capacity to be consistent, tenacious, tolerant, flexible, sincere, concerned and loving.

     Just before the beginning of the second world war the father of a friend of mine saw his father killed by the Gestapo. His mother was taken away from the family home and he and his elder sister never saw her again. The tragedy took place in a central European city and the two siblings were helped to escape from where they lived and were brought to the United Kingdom. At the age of 6, he, and his sister (who was 2 years older than him) were fostered by a family who lived in a city situated in the midlands of England. The foster parents were almost illiterate. There was no history of educational achievement in the foster home and as far as my friend's father could recollect there were no books to be found in the home. The children were sent to a local school and  were soon speaking English. They flourished at this school, as they also did in the secondary school they later attended. The boy  became a distinguished member of the medical profession, and his sister grew up to be an accomplished musician who performed in many of the great concert halls of the world. My friend's father told me that he and his sister were shocked by the material impoverishment of their foster home.  It was barren of things which would provide intellectual stimulus for the young siblings. He often wonders why he and his sister flourished from this unpromising home base and when he does so he comes to the conclusion that it was because of the emotional warmth and the love that their foster parents gave his sister and him.

     For the sake of maintaining privacy I have altered details of this story but it remains in essence true. Of course an anecdote does not prove a theory but I think the story demonstrates that together with the children's inherent ability, in this instance, the foster parents' love was enough.

Totnes, 2011

St.Vincent of the Emasculate Conception : government plans to chop workers' rights

The saint formerly known as St Vincent of Our Two Ladies now claims the title St.Vincent of the "Emasculate" Conception. You'll remember him. He's the Adonis who boasted of his prowess to two attractive incognito newspaper reporters. He's the prophet who two years ago told the then New Labour government (oh! Fates! can you ever explain these latter day sinners because its difficult for us to forgive them?) that it could "cut" bankers' bonuses at a stroke. Now that St Vincent has governmental responsibility for this particular kind of snipping we still await its enactment with bated breath. To be sure, given the determination of our coalition government to make certain the wealthy as well as the reasonably well off are looked after,  there will be no such hesitation over St. Vincent's plans to chop the rights of less well paid workers. Yesterday, November 23rd, 2011, St. Vincent announced his intention to increase employers' powers by making the process for getting rid of staff "simpler and quicker " and without risk of the employer being taken to a tribunal.

No doubt supporters of his own party are impressed by the way St.Vincent has emasculated the concept of what it means to be "liberal" and democratic.


Reference :  http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-15844614

Keep on warring for the free world : the fate of Libya and Gaddafi

Anyone seeking the truth about what exactly happened in Libya this year may well wish to read Hugh Roberts' essay "Who said Gaddafi had to go? " published in a recent issue of The London Review of Books.
It's a long read but it offers an opportunity to reflect on the history that lay behind the soundbites emanating from the  mouths of the democratically elected leaders of the free world about the events leading to the regime change in Libya during 2011.

In the following brief excerpt Roberts considers the UK'S, the USA's and France's statements in February 2011  about Gaddafi's acts of "genocide". Some may find it uncomfortable, as I do,  since I can't accept  the concept of any state being  able to "legitimately" kill its own people but there is another point here and it is that powerful states arrogate the power to decide arbitrarily that the people of other states  are expendable and may be slaughtered. 
(The full text of the essay can be found here : Hugh Roberts: Who said Gaddafi had to go? ).


‘Killing his own people’ is a hand-me-down line from the previous regime change war against Saddam Hussein. In both cases it suggested two things: that the despot was a monster and that he represented nothing in the society he ruled. It is tendentious and dishonest to say simply that Gaddafi was ‘killing his own people’; he was killing those of his people who were rebelling. He was doing in this respect what every government in history has done when faced with a rebellion. We are all free to prefer the rebels to the government in any given case. But the relative merits of the two sides aren’t the issue in such situations: the issue is the right of a state to defend itself against violent subversion. That right, once taken for granted as the corollary of sovereignty, is now compromised. Theoretically, it is qualified by certain rules. But, as we have seen, the invocation of rules (e.g. no genocide) can go together with a cynical exaggeration and distortion of the facts by other states. There are in fact no reliable rules. A state may repress a revolt if the permanent veto-holding powers on the Security Council allow it to (e.g. Bahrain, but also Sri Lanka) and not otherwise. And if a state thinks it can take this informal authorisation to defend itself as read because it is on good terms with London, Paris and Washington and is honouring all its agreements with them, as Libya was, it had better beware. Terms can change without warning from one day to the next. The matter is now arbitrary, and arbitrariness is the opposite of law.'


Hugh Roberts, London Review of Books, November 17, 2011

Freedom's dead on Ludgate Hill

Riot cops and the Lord Mayor's calling

for a show where Boris'll get his fill

of folks jailed as tents are falling,

freedom's dead on Ludgate Hill.

We didn't die for it
we were dragged from the ground,
they tried to occupy our soul.
We're still alive to it, Johnson won't change our goal  .

Acknowledgement to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.  "Four Dead in Ohio"
Lyrics and melody by Neil Young, 1970

Democracy and Marketocracy

When we see two western democracies like Greece and Italy forced to appoint unelected national leaders because the international trading markets have demanded it we may begin to be anxious for democracy. When we see our elected leaders running up and down ever faster while shouting ever louder at financial problems they are powerless to influence, our fears for democracy are further confirmed. Yet the kind of democracy which we have seen develop in Europe and North America over the few centuries when capitalism has grown to predominance has never been an idealistic journey towards the freedom and enfranchisement of humankind. The wealthy and powerful have tried to persuade us that it has, and, by manipulating the media, they have largely succeeded. No, the democracy we have now is a servant of capitalism. This democracy, we are persuaded, is underscored by the 'principle',  "that whatever befalls, it is the market that rules." Democracy of this kind, that is, marketocracy, is intended to achieve the acquiescence of the poor and not quite so poor by keeping them in the thrall of an illusion, or more accurately a delusion, that the vote and its concomitant  'freedom of speech'  has somehow empowered them.  What this does is leave a space for those with power and wealth to continue to become more powerful and more wealthy. 

Received wisdom advises that though there is indeed an unfair distribution of the earth's gifts, we just have to accept it. This argument goes on to say that we are too enmeshed in capitalism to unravel it.  At the same time it is noted that socialism was tried and it failed. It is puzzling for those who have the temerity to suggest that capitalism  has also failed the vast majority of people on our planet to find that their view is considered naive. 

Finding other fairer ways for humankind to live will not be easy but it is not naive to suggest there may be an alternative and surely the gap in the life experiences between rich and poor has become too much for any pure democrat to bear. There is a need to return to purchasing only those things which our labour has earned for us.


So three cheers for those Greek protesters who continue to eschew marketocracy and who would wish to unpick the damage that it has done. These Greeks are bearing gifts which we should on this occasion trust and accept.

© 2011 Charles Sharpe

What my Mummy said about the nature of my goodness

During the 1950s when we lived in Clement Park,  my Mummy would often ask me to go for a message down to Tom's, a wee corner shop just by Liff Road School. She'd be wanting a quarter of a pound of tea, or three and half pounds of tatties, or a plain half loaf. Sometimes she'd run out of fags and send me for 10 Woodbines. In those days it was common for young kids to be sent out to get their parents' cigarettes. If all my weekly pocket money was spent,  I'd ask her if she would pay me a penny for doing her messages. A penny could buy me a big gobstopper or four sticks of hard liquorice. Most times she would give me a penny but when she was hard up and didn't agree to paying me, she would win me round with a little aphorism in praise of the nature of my goodness. In loving tones she'd say, "Charlie, some boys will only be good if you give them sixpence, some will be good for a penny, but you, son, are good for nothing."


I puffed out my chest, took the money for the fags and marched proudly down to Tom's.