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The same old nonsense…

I see that the government has included in the Queen’s Speech mention of requiring photo ID for people who want to vote. There was a test of the requirement at the European Elections and in the areas where it was tried numerous people were turned away. For some reason the government took this as evidence that it was a good idea.

I used to be able to point to our liberal and common sense attitude to registration as one of the triumphs of British common sense and decency in contrast to American paranoia on the topic of Those People being allowed to vote. But apparently the Tories are so impressed by the effects it has for their cousins over the seas that they want to introduce it without bothering with the propaganda effort to make it appear necessary, the lazy buggers. And a lot of their voters fall into the ‘elderly’ category and that’s a primary group that is likely not to have a driving licence or a passport.

If they try to introduce this via secondary legislation before the next election I would hope people would march!

(Not me of course: I plead my bad foot. And my duff left knee. Do I love democracy enough to hire a powered wheelchair for the day?)

I also see that Jacob Rees-Mogg has taken to calling those of us who disagree with his favourite policy ‘Remainiacs’.

By Jove, I am most frightfully obliged to the fellow! I’m fed up of being called a Remoaner and being a ‘Remainiac’ is just the thing to kickstart my flagging energy at this stage of the game! I thank you, sir! Most gentlemanly of you!

I don’t think he could have spent much time watching children’s cartoons back in the 1990s or he’d know that he’s just handed us a marching song. All it requires is someone (not me: John M. Ford for preference except for the fact he’s dead) to rewrite the lyrics a little.

All together now: “We’re all Remainacs/And we’re zany to the max…”)

 

Infinite Storms in Infinite Tea-Cups

I stayed at home today.

The weather was glum when I got up in response to the post plopping through my letterbox (1) and having had a look in the  fridge to check on supplies I decided I could ignore the nagging note I’d left myself just before going to bed last night about going out today and getting my hair cut and beard trimmed. I do look rather bohemian in the mirror at the moment but am not yet at the full Biblical prophet stage. (2)

So I pulled on my sweatpants, not my jeans, stayed at home and read, which  is a nice way  to spend a day if a little lonely. I only ever had one  occasion on which I had a beautiful woman burst unexpectedly into  my flat (3) and I do sometimes find myself hoping for a repeat performance so I can see if I handle it any better.

Be that as it may: I was reading a book I picked up at the Worldcon in Dublin WARHOON 28, a one off hardback edition of an American SF fanzine. This particular volume was dedicated to the work of an Irish fan, Walt Willis for whom the editor had a great regard.

And I came across the story of a fan feud of the fifties, a minor clash  of personalities in the pages of american APAs in which an American lady fan accused Walt Willis of all sorts of things. All over nothing at all really and you could probably ascribed it to misunderstanding if the lady hadn’t decided to push the whole thing to another level by using it as an excuse to express her feelings about the worthlessness of European culture compared with American.

“I can understand that this problem of establishing a caste system in fandom impinges on a very real and basic difference in social attitudes between Europe and America. The unsportsmanlike way you have behaved in expressing your disappointment that your favourite candidate did no win has been a disgrace not only to yourself but to all the United Kingdom. Don’t you think it is time you apologized for your unfounded accusations and your lack of confidence in the Americans?”

And when I read that I thought bigod! There’s the whole Internet in miniature! There’s the process that drove Brexit in essence!

There’s taking someone you’ve never met and making them the focus of all your outrage, all your tribal support of your group and your nation, there’s digging out all the fears and hatred you don’t express and pouring it out onto someone.

Oh, dear me: the parallels between this and poison pen letters.

(I will pause for a moment and feel guilty about the things I have sometimes said before coming back to my  normal level of self regard and pomposity.)

The fans of the 1950s didn’t have Twitter but they had mimeograph  machines and a world wide postal service and they had powerful imaginations and strong feelings which were looking for a focus. Feuding between fans is a fine spectator sport and has broken not a few hearts (and some minds): only the fact that it isn’t about anything much keeps it under control.

And in the twenty-first century we take that and supercharge it with instant messaging and the ability to  send your ill considered opinions around the world in a moment. I’ve known people (4) who find themselves out of a job because they didn’t take a moment to  review the angry reply they feel like sending.

I’ve a friend in the Far Isles (5) who likes to argue that we humans aren’t really  designed to handle more than a strictly limited number of human interactions, about the size of a large hunter gatherer group or a medieval village. Anything more than that causes us distress.

He may have a point but somehow we have got to get across to people the idea that there are people out there who aren’t like them… and who aren’t necessarily  monsters.

I  really don’t know how to start. (Cue Lindy to tell me how.)

IDIC

(1) Nothing interesting. A misdirected letter for my next door neighbour and a catalogue from a gentleman’s outfitters I once bought some socks from. They were very nice and durable socks, if expensive and the next time I need some I  will be going back to Joseph Turner of Yorkshire. Unsolicited commercial there.

(2) Meanwhile my friend Roger is moving into Z Z Top territory.

(3) It was the festive season and she was either rather drunk or the victim of a malign enchantment.

(4) All right, one person. Hi  Chris if you ever read this.

(5) And hi to you Hafoc!

Countdowns again.

Three weeks to go to the start of the Golden Age.

I wonder if I should start stockpiling again. I got as far as a few tins of corned beef last time but those got used up quite quickly.

It would be a good idea if I were to eat less in general, what with my left knee as well as my right heel giving me pain and discouraging me from going to the gym. But I should in that case probably eat more fresh fruit and veg which is precisely what will be lacking if things go tits up.

It’s interesting to watch the various sorts of cynicism that pop up. (The picture you’re seeing is Diogenes the Cynic.) There are the people who view the idea of leaving the EU as impossible, not because it would be bad for us necessarily but because ‘they’ would never allow it. You can learn a lot about people by digging into who their ‘they’ is.

There are the people like my friend Drak, who has Boris Johnson as his MP (and I thought I was oppressed having Steve Baker!) who goes with the ‘disaster capitalist’ hypothesis: that there are people who have a lot of money riding on them being right about when Brexit will happen and how. How I feel about the savings I have invested for my future and the trust I have to put in the people managing them gets… complicated when I think about things like that.

The idea does tend to drive the feeling that we are going to leave no matter how hard we try not to.

At least Drak gets the pleasure of contemplating turfing Boris out of his constituency: they don’t deeply love him there.

And just this evening the Taoiseach is making noises about how he could see a path to an agreement… So maybe I’m wrong about the incompatibility of letting Stormont decide how long any  post leaving arrangement goes on with the requirements the Irish have put forward. I still don’t see how they could get that anywhere near done and dusted by the end of the month.

And if we leave I will be so disappointed with my country.

Did I do that?

I put the loaf I was making away to rise, grabbed my bag and my walking stick and tottered off towards the High Street, to get myself something for lunch and supper from Iceland.

(My knee is getting better, mostly, thanks for asking. Hope to back to the regular gym visits soon.)

And between me and Iceland was a chap standing outside the Santander bank (formerly the Abbey National whereby hangs several tales). He was handing out what looked like hand-inked flyers with the title ‘A FREE COUNTRY?’ and below it a diatribe which began by berating the rich and went on to berate every other bit of the Establishment. Yes, of course I gave it a cursory scan: he might  have been saying something interesting. He didn’t appear to be and I went on my way.

Coming back past him, with my bag full of tinned tuna and other such luxuries, I took a second look and noticed the design on the top right of his leaflet.

Which was the Eye-In-The_Pyramid.

I found myself protesting. “Seriously?” He told me to go and see what the Masons had to say. I staggered away shaking my head. I thought that particular sort of craziness was restricted to the other side of the Atlantic.

I got home and I wondered: Did I contribute to that? Me and thousands like me.

I first ran into the conspiratorial mindset when I picked up Wilson and Shea’s ILLUMINATUS! trilogy at Manchester in the 70s. It’s one of the regrets of my dwindling professional career that I didn’t even write to ask if I could audition for Ken Campbell’s massive stage version. (There was no money involved and a lot of commitment.)

I featured the various weird conspiracy theories and several more that are only believed in by SF fans in my games, most recently by running THE DRACULA DOSSIER and writing it up for A&E.

Us geeks love the secret conspiracy idea but by and large only  for play.

I spread those ideas. Am I responsible in part for that guy’s craziness?

And then my exaggerated sense of guilt fluttered out. No, if it hadn’t been the Illuminati and all their chums it would have been another set of ideas to give shape to the poor fellow’s hypertrophied need to find meaning and significance in the world. Perhaps the workings of Satan and his minions.

A second level of guilt flickers briefly: all conspiratorial stories share the nature of anti-semitism. They aren’t always dog-whistles for blaming International Jewish Bankers but they serve the same emotional needs and perhaps give cover to those who find it ‘Odd of God to Choose the Jews’.

And I remember a story where I can’t recall the actual names involved: about a poet who was being told by a psychiatrist that his wife’s distracted mode of speech was clear proof of mental illness. “But I use those same forms of language myself in my  poetry every day.” “Ah, my friend,” replies the shrink, “you are swimming. She  is drowning.”

There’s a lady I know who greets me cheerfully when we meet on the streets, though I can’t recall when we first met. Perhaps when I was doing physio after my heart attack? When she’s in the manic phase of her  cycle she will tell me all about how the psychiatrists are always watching her, always watching everyone, all the time. For some reason she has decided I’m all right and on her side. At least I  don’t feel any indirect guilt about her peculiar construction of how the world works.

I am turning into an old man (1) who is feeling guilt about the dubious pleasures of his youth while simultaneously wishing for the ability to commit them a few more times. I am one step away from being a conservative telling young people how he was  radical when he was young and how much he regrets the things he said and did back then. Keep an eye on me, friends. I’m feeling fragile.

 

(1) A cry of “what do you mean ‘turning’?” comes from the cheap seats.

 

 

 

 

Countdowns again

I was trying to follow the countdown to  Brexit at the start of the year but they  went all squishy  on me. We’ve nearly run out of the  time given back in March and the Prime Minister has brought out his ‘final offer’.

And now we’re in fact on two countdowns. One to October 17th when the PM is supposed to ask for an extension if he hasn’t go an agreement negotiated and passed and one for the 31st where ‘come hell or high water’ he says he’s determined we shall leave.

And I have nothing but questions and no answers.

Are the Irish going to regard this as good enough? Are they going to like Boris kicking the responsibility for continuing the arrangement to Stormont? What happens if Stormont cannot get organised enough to hold any vote? (They haven’t been showing a good record of this lately.)

Why are the DUP regarding this proposal as significantly better? Is it because they think they can abolish it at the first opportunity? Because it puts them in charge and not the Republic or Westminster?

Does Boris really think anyone believes that this can be negotiated before October 17th let alone agreed by either of the two sides? Or does he think he can throw the blame on the EU and claim that it would have been perfectly easy if only Brussels had listened? What is the Cunning Wheeze (I’m sure there is one) that he thinks can get him out of having to ask for an extension?

Frankly, an extension would be needed even if all concerned said they could live with the basic principles.

Ah, interesting times…

Bite Hard! Bite Hard! And find the tenth life.

My friend Monty has left us.

Over August he lost his appetite and then a great deal of weight. He began to be unsteady on his feet and unable to jump up onto my lap, onto the dryer where his food and water were set up, onto the bed at night.

And when I eventually figured out this was more than a passing distemper and worked up the courage to call in the vet she told me his kidneys had pretty much totally failed and he was dehydrated and dying.

I brought him home for one more night and worked up either the courage or the cowardice to call them in the next morning. I took him out into the sunshine of the London Road at the end and held him as he died.

I knew this day was coming when I took the responsibility on but philosophy fails me in the face of the fact of the thing. I can’t work out if his death was for his comfort, to avoid any further pain and humiliation, or mine, to avoid having to watch.

He was a kind, gentle cat, a bit too needy perhaps. He was the most vocal cat I’ve ever lived with, which I’m told is a characteristic of ginger moggies.

He was brave when push came to shove and his memorial title should be The cat who slew at least one rat because who knows how many others he may have faced down when he was on the streets in his youth.

For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.

For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.

For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.

For every family had one cat at least in the bag.

For the English Cats are the best in Europe.

Which is Christopher Smart in For I will consider my cat Jeoffery.  But you knew that.

Another year gone by

As I said a year ago, August Bank Holiday Sunday is the anniversary of my  father’s death.

It was a hotter day than last year (the news tells me the hottest such Sunday ever) and a lot hotter than the day twenty five years ago that we went through Burnham Beeches to see my father for the last time. That was sunny  but cool, I recall, the sunlight dappled through the leaves of the trees.

As I did last year I went and looked in the storage space under my bed for a copy of the poem I wrote at the time. Didn’t find it this year either: I don’t know why  I’m convinced it’s down there. But I searched all the way through two crates before giving up.

I resolved to shred almost all the stuff I found in the Far Isles box: under Data Protection I probably should have done so some time ago and getting rid of most of the old forms should be done before I hand over to the new Secretary next year.

I was going to get rid of a lot of stuff from the ‘memorabilia box’ too but after a while working with good intentions I just found myself unable to get rid of much: which accounts for the accumulated piles of paper in there in itself.

There are old theatre programs and reviews. There’s stuff dating back to my university  career. There are notes from old role-playing campaigns and writing exercises. No one will care about this stuff when I go and if I were being kind to my  nieces and my nephew (who are likely to be my executors) I’d get rid of it all. But I can’t: my memory is getting terrible and some of this stuff I wouldn’t remember at all if I didn’t keep the physical remnants.

There’s so much stuff that evokes the past and so much past I don’t think of from one year’s end to the next. Perhaps next year I’ll get  out a different box.

Perhaps I won’t find that poem till I either move from this flat (very unlikely) or decide it’s time to simplify my life and give a whole lot of my books, games and other possessions away to the people I’ve bequeathed them to. (Something I consider almost every time I can’t find things.)

I attach the order of service from my father’s funeral which I found while searching. I’ll put it in my  scrapbook which is where I should have put that poem if I had the sense God gave a peanut.

I keep dreaming of Dad and it’s sad that we always seem to be in some sort of quarrel when we meet again. The  poem I can’t find was about that too, if I recall it correctly.

Monty, by the way, is showing that he was not getting old and unwell over the past few months of not eating much of his evening wet food, merely on hunger strike. He has decided he is going to relish the alternate kidney-friendly cat food I got him. He refused to touch it the first time I tried it on him. Cats!