Entitled little snowflakes – or tomorrow’s democrats?

march

One of the many things that has saddened me over the last few days of post-Brexit chaos has been some of the invective directed at young people. Their generation, already facing much lower prospects of home ownership, secure employment and freedom from graduate debt than their parents, now face having to live with the consequences of a momentous decision that will affect them for decades to come.

Little wonder that they are taking to the streets in protest; yesterday a “March For Europe” in Central London, predominantly supported by young people, attracted international news coverage. And the inevitable comments, such as, “The vote was to leave the EU – that’s democracy for you. Get on with it, stop complaining.”

To address this remark to the 16 and 17 year olds who were denied the opportunity to vote in the referendum is offensive and hypocritical. Our society is fracturing down multiple fault lines at present and it seems to be open season for opposing groups to hurl insults at one another across the cultural chasm that divides them. Insulting and negative language towards young people (sometimes accompanied by outraged claims like, “They want to stop old people voting!”) are one manifestation of this. Articles about the grief they are experiencing invite mockery and abuse. None of it is helpful.

Grief comes in multiple varieties and it is a futile exercise to rank them in order of severity. If we have a generation capable of feeling genuine dismay at the turn that our national politics have taken, and they are willing to take to the streets peacefully in protest, that’s a very healthy sign.

Maybe papers like the Guardian are adding fuel to the flames by running pieces on anguished liberals, but better that than front pages based on lies and racist propaganda. It is also an oversimplification to assume that everyone protesting yesterday was demanding a rerun of the referendum. Some will hold that view, but others will be marching simply to show solidarity with the European ideal, or to support the argument that a decision of this complexity and importance should be debated by Parliament, not outsourced to an easily led angry public mob.

A sense of entitlement and a conviction that you are the centre of the universe and always right is not the sole prerogative of the under-25s. If you want young people to understand the responsibilities of democracy, you don’t let their leaders abuse its privileges and then tell said youngsters to shut up and suck it up. You give them the vote.

 

The Dangers of Democracy

People don’t always know what they want. They just think they know. And even when they are absolutely sure they know, what they want is often not what they need. Every democracy has to wrestle with this reality. When they are on the stump, the things we demand from our politicans are passion, conviction, charisma and authenticity. We want them to make us feel better about themselves and they future, or at the very least persuade us that voting for them would be an act of enlightened self-interest.

Once they are in power, however, they need to call on very different qualities, because politics is the art of the possible. They need to be good negotiators, strategic thinkers, team builders and able to compromise whilst selling us the belief that said compromises are not only necessary but what we wanted all along.

It is rare to find a leader who can embody all these qualities – normally, at best, we have to settle for about half of them, the rest supplied by a skilfully selected staff. The moral gyrations this produces has been the stuff of many great comedies, from Yes Minister to the more acerbic and cynical The Thick of It. And in practice, what tends to happen in a healthy,  mature democracy is that we oscillate between the media-friendly Tony Blairs and the dour, steady going Browns.

People who appeal to simplistic emotions to get into power may well become demagogues once in office, dismantling the machinery of dissent before disillusion with their promised utopias sets in. At the other end of the extreme, an excessive pragmatism on the campaign trail can make a politician unelectable – it did for Ed Milliband.

True to Miranda’s law of alternating political extremes, Corbyn was swept into leadership of the Labour Party on a tide of longing for clarity and authenticity. The second they got in spades, but it paralysed him as a leader. Sometimes the only way to get anything done is to muddy the waters and plunge right in, selling a compromise as a triumph. That is anathema to an idealist unable to select the least worst way forward and commit to it, at least publicly, taking the electorate with him.

Corbyn appears to be a decent and principled man, and because of that he was too conflicted to throw himself 100% into claiming that staying in the EU was the best way to protect the interests of the dispossessed and underprivileged, though given the current set of circumstances and the ghastliness of the alternatives, that was undoubtedly the case. Unable to compromise on the socialist Utopia he saw beyond the theoretical fall of Brussels, he has left the people most in need of the Opposition’s support exposed to a Government that can only exacerbate their problems. He has to go, and that’s the tragedy of democracy.

Rerun the Referendum Petition – To sign or not to sign?

passport

Petitions are, inevitably, proliferating. The one to rerun the referendum is enjoying huge success and I’ve been linked to it several times. However, I’m not signing it.

I would love to feel that this would make a difference, but I honestly don’t. I’d go further, perhaps with a bitterness that will fade with the passage of time – I actually think this superficial accessibility to the corridors of power via social media has done a great deal to bring about the idea that “we’ve all had enough of experts.” To prolong this bitter, divisive debate further would be utterly futile and counter-productive. It would also wreak yet more havoc on the British economy.

What does offer a sliver of hope is Matthew Parris’s piece in Friday’s “Times” (now sadly behind a paywall again) pointing out that a large majority of MP’s were in favour of Remain, and the triggering of Article 50 has to be approved in Parliament. Boris Johnson’s stalling on the timescale and Cameron’s decision to stay for a few more months may be the first stage of the mother of all staring contests. Yes, the people have spoken and if they rioted in the streets on the grounds that Parliament has broken faith with them, that could get messy. But given a competent leader of the opposition, something sadly lacking right now, such feelings of rage and betrayal could be turned on those who deserve to bear the brunt of them, the promoters of neoliberalism and austerity. Already it is blatantly obvious that Brexit will not deliver the domestic changes people naively hoped for when they made their decision to squander a protest vote. Riots might not be the worst thing that could happen to the country if they are aimed at the right issues.

Of course, Brussels will talk tough but privately they are absolutely shitting themselves. They know that others are eager to follow Britian’s lead in this and that the break up of the EU is a real possibility. Getting the people to vote for Brexit was tough enough. Getting Parliament to vote for it will be infinitely more difficult. Yes, MPs will worry about their voters and their constituency associations, but there could well be a General Election within the year and in the bloodbath that would result from that, all bets are off, including the guaranteed survival of the major political parties in their present form.

As for letting the people speak, we should learn from the Germans (Hitler used referenda three times, and the last one led to depriving the German people of the right to vote at all). If we are going to pay people who know what they’re doing to govern us, our job is to vote for which ones, not to bully them once in power into delegating their job to us.

If to be an intelligent, well-educated person is to belong to an elite, I make no apology for outing myself as one. The shameful thing is not that such people exist but that the slow attrition of state education, public libraries and affordable higher education over the last 30 years has taken away the opportunities that once were available to able working-class people to join their number.

http://www.standard.co.uk/business/anthony-hilton-why-we-may-remain-even-if-we-vote-leave-a3272621.html

And one I do think it’s worth supporting:

https://www.change.org/p/eu-offer-european-citizenship-to-uk-citizens

 

 

The Big Red Button

Christmas Invasion 13

A great big threatening button which must not be pressed under any circumstances, am I right? Let me guess. It’s some sort of control matrix, hm? Hold on, what’s feeding it? And what have we got here? Blood? tastes it. Yep, definitely blood. Human blood. A positive. With just a dash of iron. But that means… blood control! Blood control! Aw! I haven’t seen blood control for years! You’re controlling all the A positives. Which leaves us with a great big stinking problem. Because I really don’t know who I am. I don’t know when to stop.

The Christmas Invasion is probably my favourite Doctor Who episode ever. It’s so full of hope, confidence, positivity and humour. Oh, and David Tennant, which always helps. The kind of telly that cheers  you up, and boy do we need a bit of that right now.

Funnily enough, I found it popping into my head yesterday when I read a Matthew Parris piece in the Times yesterday (I would link to it, but it’s probably back behind a paywall). He pointed out that actually Article 50, which actually sets into motion the process of Britain leaving the EU, will have to be invoked by Parliament which, I think most of us would agree, is barely in a fit state to keep the country ticking over, let alone deal with a decision of that magnitude at present.

Of course, the people have spoken, and turned out to be idiots in at least 50% of cases (I’m allowing a little wiggle room for those who actually….y’know…..thought about Brexit before deciding they would take their country back. I could find it in my heart to respect, and in some cases, even like those people).

It was my son who pointed out in a phone call, just before both of us came close to tears, that while delivering his so-called victory speech, Boris Johnson looked white as a sheet. Might just have been lack of sleep, I suppose, but it also occurred to me that that is the look of a man locked in a room with a Big Red Button and the people outside (looking, I can imagine, a little like David Tennant 10 years ago, in his dressing gown and jim-jams and that expression on his face which could turn on a sixpence from jocular pop-cultural references to ice cold, dangerous fury) saying, “Well, go on then. You’ve had your cheap voodoo. Worked like a dream, didn’t it? So, are you gonna press it?”

And suddenly, it hits him, what would actually happen if that finger went down on said red button. We would probably need the Doctor to sort it out, and unfortunately he’s turned out to be a fictional character.

Most big-name politicians are gamblers at heart. They tend to be remembered for their last and worst decisions, the gambles that didn’t pay off. With Blair it was Iraq. Once the IRA start bombing us again, maybe a few of us with long memories will remember how hard he worked to broker the Good Friday Agreement that has now been so casually imperilled by people who aren’t racists, honestly, they just have a problem with brown people living next door.

Cameron threw the dice once too often, and yesterday saw where that gets you. He bowed out with dignity and at least the semblance of statesmanship, I’ll grant him that.

What are we left with? Boris and the Big Red Button, that’s more or less it.

And already the Cornish are saying, “Excuse me, we are still going to…er….get all that money the EU used to give us, aren’t we? Because you promised….” The first of many such hopeless pleas, no doubt. And Farage didn’t even wait for the final result before he started backpeddling on the notorious money that would be diverted from greedy Brussels bureaucrats straight into the coffers of the NHS. Turkeys, meet Christmas. A long German word beginning with “S” comes to mind (it was also a rousing number in Avenue Q, that’s the kind of pointless digression the magpie-minded Tenth Doctor would have relished).

I’ve already heard of a couple of people who voted Out and are now having second thoughts. Both intelligent and principled, as a matter of fact. And I wonder, did we just want to strut our stuff a bit, and say, “You just wait until we press the big red button, then you’ll be sorry.” Sounded so good, didn’t it?

A long time ago, my marriage hit a very rocky patch. Things festered and deteriorated until my husband said, “Go on then, leave. Go upstairs now and pack. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

I stayed. And I’ve never regretted it. We raised two fine, clever, decent young people, neither of whom can contemplate a long-term future in in this country any more. Even as my heart breaks a little, I admire them for that.

And meanwhile, the EU waits for the finger to fall that final centimetre, to connect with that BRB and give us the new dawn that we were so sure we wanted.

In that brief distance lies our one and only hope. It isn’t much, but since the TARDIS isn’t at our disposal right now, it’s all we’ve got.

A Day of Infamy

How to deal with this blackest of days?

First, to despise Farage even more than I thought possible. A victory won without a single bullet being fired? Ask Brendan Cox about that.

Second, to keep my head down and keep quiet until I can think straight.

Third, to thank God that, whatever happens, we own our home and we are reasonably good at growing our own food. We have money tucked away in various places but who knows how much good that will do us in a few years from now?

Fourth, to recognise that reading the Guardian is probably not good for my mental health right now.

Fifth, to resist the temptation to get pissed. It never helps.

Sixth, to go to the gym because if I don’t look after my health the NHS won’t be around for much longer to do it for me.

Seventh, to return with renewed determination to learning a foreign language, if only as an act of protest.

Eighth, to spend the day working my butt off in the school library. Ignorance and prejudice got us into this mess and education is the best way out of it.

Ninth, to self-identify as European. I no longer want to claim any public allegiance to my country.

And tenth, to be there for my kids and try not to embarrass them online.

 

Roundabout her grave we go

Tonight, when news of the death of Jo Cox was confirmed, I was cooking dinner with an old friend. We cried in each other’s arms for a couple of minutes and opened a bottle of wine. Then we watched Much Ado About Nothing, a play that includes a scene of formulaic grief at the tomb of a woman who isn’t really dead.

No such last-minute reprieve will restore Jo Cox to life. And some of us are beginning to wonder if the same might be said of civility, public order and democracy in our country after the last few wretched weeks. It also speaks volumes about the events of the few months that vigils, though sincerely motivated, deeply felt and comforting to many, are in danger of becoming formulaic. Ritual is important, yet it also carries the risk that if it is repeated it can become a substitute for true soul-searching and positive action.

If I was an MP tonight, I would want to spend a few moments on my knees in the chapel at Westminster Hall, regardless of my religion or lack of it, in quiet reflection and humility. What would be the best way to honour the memory of Jo Cox and the values she embodied? It would be to stop hating. It would be to turn our backs on the politics of lies and confrontation. It would be to acknowledge that we share a common humanity and our differences are not worth anybody dying for. It would be to turn our back on headline-grabbing stunts and to recognise that politics is a serious business. It would be to behave in a principled and grown-up way, to restore civility to our public discourse, to stop pretending that appealing to people’s fears, prejudices and self-interest is the right way to be running a democracy. It would be to work together to make this world a better place, and to expect that people who are lucky enough to have a vote are encouraged to use it thoughtfully and responsibly, regardless of their nationality, ethnicity or social class.

It would be to step back from the brink, to look at the awful monster that has been unleashed and to restore some moral values to our political discourse.

Do that, and it might just turn out, one day, that although she was denied the long and distinguished political career she seemed destined for, in her apparently senseless murder Jo Cox did succeed in making a difference.

We are far more united and have far more in common with each other than things that divide us.

Jo Cox, Maiden Speech, June 2015

 

 

Style and the Middle-Aged Shopper

gudrun
Blavinge tunic from the latest Gudrun Soden collection

 

The decline and fall of British Home Stores will come as no surprise to anyone who’s visited one of their provincial stores lately and noticed the worrying absence of customers, staff and stuff one would be seen dead in. It also speaks volumes about how the landscape of clothes retailing has changed.

The people who will probably mourn BHS most are a certain sort of older lady, the kind of person my mother-in-law was, looking for affordable basics that don’t change much from year to year. A swimsuit that fits, a pair of comfy slippers. Someone who, crucially, isn’t comfortable doing their shopping on the Internet. The kind of person who regards clothes as equipment rather than a statement of lifestyle.

But the show has moved on, often somewhat more quickly than the retailers. John Lewis stocks very little interesting stuff above a UK size 18. Marks and Spencer patronises the older woman with its hideous Classic range, dominated by swathes of what used to be called man-made fibres in inoffensive pastel shades. Laura Ashley hangs on in tourist hotspots where its iconic Englishness attracts well-heeled overseas tourists.

I hear that Austin Reed is in trouble as well. The last time I bought a Country Casuals outfit – the kind where everything matches – the bag, the shoes, the silly little hat, was for my son’s first graduation ceremony, and I felt embarrassingly overdressed. The ladies I meet for lunch – when they aren’t out at work – show up at quite nice places in sweatshirts and are as likely to carry rucksacks as handbags. People just don’t do formalities any more.

It embarrasses me to admit this, but when I recall doing my MA in Shakespeare Studies in Stratford-upon-Avon, I have almost as many fond memories of clothes shopping as I do of seminal theatre productions. That’s a mere five years ago, but when I went back there recently several of the places I used to mooch happily around had closed and others were under threat. Now if I want the luxury of a flagship store, my best bet is probably Covent Garden.

The need to “kick tyres”, as my husband puts it, hasn’t entirely vanished from clothes shopping. I find that the Internet is great for anything above the waist, but trousers are a much riskier business, often involving several trips to the Post Office with returns. Brand loyalty becomes more significant – if you know that Dash trousers are always comfortable, you are much more likely to stick with them, at least for the basics.

Capturing the boomer market is the key to survival in today’s retail landscape. Outlets for the younger woman proliferate and expire like mayflies, as they always have. But by the time I turned 50, I already had the distinct sense that I was being put in a beige box. Then – on the Internet, naturally – I discovered Gudrun Sjoden and fell in love. At last, a retailer that happily put plus-size and grey-haired mature models on its website, and sold clothes for them in the kind of colours that made my daughter roll her eyes and say, “You’re not going out looking like that, are you, Mum?” If I want to age colourfully, then I damn well will (though I admit the loud cerise leggings were probably a step too far, and they languish in the wardrobe). The message is as loud and clear as a Gudrun tunic – if you pigeonhole us, we’ll go somewhere else, and who cares what damn country they come from. It will take more than fond memories of the first set of bedding we bought when we got married, or BHS lunch in-store as a childhood treat, to get us through your revolving doors. Retail giants ignore the sixty-something woman at their peril.