Cardboard cut-out

 

This guy loves playing the nationalism card, and never misses an opportunity to appeal to the jingoistic wing-nuts who support him.

He is never happier than when flanked by flags. Just like that other grifter, (thankfully now) former President Trump. Yes, he LOVES to fly the flag.

But if he tried flying those flags they won't do much flapping.

Look closely. Do you see folds ? Do you see creases ? Wait, aren't those flags carefully arranged to be exactly the same ? No. They are printed. Not real flags, but pictures of a flag. Even the flags around this guy are fake, pretending to be something they are not. Two-dimensional, flat, unreal.

Actually they are a perfect match to the guy in the middle, don't you think ? A nationalist with only cardboard cut-outs of a section of a flag.

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Religion and politics

Science has had a hard time during the pandemic, as politicians around the world – and especially right-wing politicians – have sought to ignore or underplay scientific advice. There has been particular tenson where scientific and medical opinion have placed health above the economic interests of the politicians.

Scientists know that their cutting-edge work may looks shockingly primitive in future decades, but they share a determination to base decisions n the facts as we know them, on the best evidence, on the highest and most reliable achievements of science that we currently have. They may admit the evidence is limited and even flawed, but it is the best we have, and has weight because it is the best, even with its limitations.

At the same time, it has been increasingly clear that a very large section of the global population is prepared – even eager – to believe almost anything. That President Trump’s random pronouncements on the virus carry more weight that the expertise of Dr Fauci, gained over a lifetime of dedication to scientific truth, for example. Or like Boris Johnson’s boosterism, and his rising poll ratings against the context of the worst handling of the virus in Europe and the highest death toll.

Why is it that people are willing to believe anything ? Is it that science and rational thinking are just too hard ? A failure of education, perhaps ?

Believing the impossible is the home turf of religion. All religions have worked hard to persuade people to suspend all belief in what they can see with their own eyes, or otherwise know to be true. The result ? People who cannot fill a rainy Sunday with useful activity look forward to a life eternal beyond death. Pacific islanders regard the Duke of Edinburgh as a god. Some protestant churches do not believe in evolution, and prefer the idea of a ‘young earth’ which is a mere 6000 years old.

Tolerance in everything. And freedom of religious views and the ability to express them. They are all part of the sometimes gaudy colour of living.

But views that ignore the science, and do not fit with the evidence, while interesting, are essentially irrational. That is, they could not continue without suspending knowledge, awareness, science, maths, logic. They are, at heart, at their centre, opposed to all attempts to understand the world rationally.

Politics is about getting things done. Hence the meretricious attraction of slogans such as ‘Get Brexit done’. Truth is already a very visible casualty of politics today, and we might be forgiven for thinking that politicians generally have little regard or use for truth. They are more interested in gaining and holding onto power come what may.

Nowhere can the complex tension between truth, rationality and religion be more clearly seen than in Northern Ireland. Until the NI Agreement, entrenched religion and adversarial politics had led to endless deaths and community savagery. The British penchant for partition, seen in the middle east after the first world war, in Northern Ireland with the six counties, and in India at the end of empire, ought to give pause to consideration of the wisdom of partition in keeping apart religious groups brought up on blood-and-thunder scriptures.

It is perhaps too easy to think of the political and religious hard-liners in Northern Ireland as the Taleban of the UK. Doctrinaire, factional, uncompromising, and unable to forget the atavism of history, they seem a breed apart, and determined to accept change only on their own narrow terms.

With the departure of Arlene Foster, the leadership of the DUP – an organisation far right of centre – is up for grabs. The most moderate DUP candidate, would, if considered as a member of the whole population, be considered not even close to moderate.

But the DUP community might be tempted to elect a clearer factionalist. One candidate rejects evolution (himself a terrific metaphor for that view), rejects abortion, rejects the idea that the world is older than 6000 years, rejects all the evidence that loving relationships are not limited to those between one man and one woman in marriage forever.

At best, this might be mere intolerance. But it is essentially completely irrational. There is no logical argument which can defeat irrationality. It would be like trying to argue with a falling piano. And these religious views, however antipathetic to most people, and however unsupported by any pretence of evidence, must be tolerated by all liberal enough to respect other people’s sincerely held beliefs.

But in a politician ? In a leader of a political party ? Surely these are problematic in someone who seeks control over people’s lives through political power. How can such a person be trusted to work for the good of the whole community ? How can anything be trusted when it comes from a person with such little regard from objective truth, someone who prefers the revelation of God, interpreted through ancient men (always men) and prepared to believe seventeen impossible things before breakfast ?

‘We do not do God’, said someone in Downing Street, and yet irrationality and a disregard for truth and facts still led us into the Iraq war and the savage chaos that followed.

Politics is tough enough for those on the receiving end, without electing to power those who cannot tell prejudice, mumbo-jumbo, and rational argument apart.

What was it all about, Alfie ?

I hated school, and spent as much time out of it as I could. My grammar school was a harsh place to be, and it is rare in having not only an Old Boys’ Association, but also a Survivors’ Association. I was 30 before I felt I had come to terms with my education, though the school did not justify the word.

Alfie was Alfred Ridler. He taught chemistry and I was not alone in hating both him and chemistry.

Alfie was about 60 years old when he was teaching me. He had a first-class honours degree and loved chemistry. The chemistry labs were ancient, and smelled heavily of gas. We sat at benches flicking balls of mercury about, and teasing it out of cracks in the wood.

The thing we all feared about Alfie was his patience in staying after lessons, through breaks and after home-time until you eventually got things right. We would stand in a line, our exercise books open at the latest page, hoping that we’d get Alfie’s imprimatur and that we’d be able to flee the lab.

But few got to escape first time round in the queue. Alfie would read your account with care, scribble a couple of questions on it – questions, not, not comments. He never wrote comments – and you would be left to go figure. If anyone ever asked Alfie a question, he had a set and immutable mantra: ‘Well, I wouldn’t know’.

‘I wouldn’t know’ meant that you had to go back to the bench, think the thing through, and come up with a different solution.

Though I did not know it at the time, and felt nothing but irritation and a rising sense of panic about just how late after tea Alfie was really prepared to stay, Alfie was teaching me to think.

He never declared that that was the point of his chemistry lessons, but it was. There would be an experiment. Alfie told you to watch carefully what happened, make notes, and then explain why it happened. It was the scientific method for dummies.

He alone was the teacher who challenged your way of thinking. The rest were happy to get you memorising the text book.

Alfie was very happy with the wrong conclusion if that’s what your careful thought processes led you to. He would smile benignly and nod sagely and say ‘well done’. But he wanted thinking and would accept nothing less.

It stayed with me all my life.

I could not see anything to thank him for then, and now it’s too late. But thanks, Alfie. I was a discouraging student, but thanks.

 

Old fart cycling

As a kid in the 50s, my first bike had blocks of wood on the pedals so my feet could reach them. It wasn't a cool look, but at least I wasn't alone. Most of my friends had wooden blocks on their pedals too, as most of us had second-hand bike passed down by much bigger kids.

The cycling bug didn't get me then. But when I was a month away from my 25th birthday, my car insurance was due. If I renewed after reaching 25, the cost plummeted. So I borrowed a shopping bike, cycled the 7 miles to work for a month, and was hooked.

Some time later I got the crazy idea of trying to cycle to the moon. Not literally, of course. It was crazy enough without being as delusional as that. And I am happy to say that I touched down a couple of years ago, and am now on the way back, having clocked up nearly 300 000 miles in 46 years.

Yes, I know. I will be lost in space and never get back. Let's not take the image too far.

When I started riding, in Sheffield, cyclists were a bit of a community. I suppose that cyclists had grown up in an era when military style AA staff, riding motorcycle side cars, would salute every car they saw with an AA badge on the front. So the roads were rather more friendly then than now. But cyclists would greet each other, giving big hellos to fellow cyclists whether mates or complete strangers.

If you broke down at the road side, someone would stop to offer tools, help, sympathy.

Cycling was an all-age hobby. An ancient guy who lived near me rode his single-gear bike everywhere, and on weekends would head for the coast. New kids on the block and oldies like him got on well. Friends through common interest.

Today, less than half the cyclists I meet respond to a hello, and maybe a tenth of cyclists initiate one. If you break down on the road, cyclists will go past, with only a tiny number being willing to stop and help.

It doesn't need to be this way. On a recent trip, I was passed by a posh bike - you could lift it with a finger, literally - and a young guy clad in all the right gear. He went past silently, and I felt invisible and annoyed. I gave chase, and with exploding lungs caught him up. He was very surprised. He was in the zone, not sweating or even breathing heavily, and making the thing look infuriatingly easy.

We chatted for a while, riding side-by-side, and I said that he need not hang around for me as I did not want delay him. He grinned. 'Nice to chat', he said. Then he patted me on the back. ' Well done', he said. 'Keep on going'. And with no apparently effort he pulled away as if I was standing still.

It was fleeting camaraderie, and I felt good for a week.

It's so easy to make ordinary things that bit more pleasant with a little effort.

Paul Gascoigne's Tree

Now that the pandemic is over and Brexit is all sorted, it was a slow day for news at Metro yesterday, when they reported that:

When I was about twelve, I heard a joke about a guy who had a similar tattoo that read LUDO. Except that it could also advertise a well-known Welsh seaside resort when it appeared in (ahem) fuller form.

Paul Gascoigne (who he ?) was the footballer who could always rise to the occasion and score, but always seemed to get himself into emotional scrapes of one sort or another.

His latest news is rather worrisome. It made me realise in an instant how small and beige my life has been. And how private. And it raised lots of questions that I had never had to consider before. Yesterday morning.

First of all, the obvious question is: Why would anybody do that ? Some questions are better parked than answered, and this is one of those. The only possible answers I can come up with are more troubling than the question itself. Definitely best parked, and then you can get to the really interesting stuff.

Portrait or landscape ? And what on earth happens to the aspect ratio ? My telly makes people look tubbier than they really are, but you get used to it until suddenly proper proportions are restored and people look like beanpoles. But in Paul’s case, that squat oak is going to look oddly etiolated if it’s in portrait mode. And the detail will be lost if he chose landscape.

And what sort of tree ? Hopefully something like a poplar with a columnar habit. Clearly nothing pendant, like a weeping willow or cherry. A nut-tree ? Well, perhaps a good choice. Avoid all hollies: way too prickly. Did he opt for some sapling or go full sequoia ? And if so, where do the branches go ? Something pollarded might be the answer.

And as for the process, well, where to start ? How did this Michelangelo of tattoos get PG to hold still ? And how did he get the canvas full size for the complete session ? Viagra and an anaesthetic ? Having your subject generally yelping with pain is not going to make the process smooth. Some kind of stunning might be necessary. Is there a specialist tattooing clamp known only to the cognoscenti ? Ouch.

What season is it down there ? A wintry tree might be easier to realise than some May extravaganza with a zillion leaves. Or how about all the golden glows of autumn ? Deciduous or evergreen ? It is all about mood, I guess.

Has it any wild-life in it ? A tiny owl, perhaps, or a tree-creeper ascending gingerly. Or maybe a chimp or something exotic ? Who’s to say if the tree is indigenous ? Is there a tree-house or a rope swing ?

Once your mind starts to apply some brain cells to this headline, it’s hard to get away from it. Like being asked not to think of a pink elephant for 10 seconds, during which all you manage to think about is a succession of pink elephants traipsing across your brain-waves.

Come back Brexit. All is forgiven…

 

Baa humbug, Gavin

This week there are lambs everywhere. Well, maybe not everywhere, but in lots of fields. As usual they are impossibly full of energy. Bouncing around, suddenly springing into the air for no apparent reason other than sheer exuberance and the need to jump.

They are having impromptu races alongside the walls, climbing on tree stumps for a different view, and generally having a whale of a time, before they get the urge to call mum for dinner and then run across the field towards the familiar voice.

It struck me that they are so markedly different from sheep. Sheep do a lot of standing, eating, and generally have a look of endurance rather than enthusiasm. If they can remember the pleasure of jumping, they don’t much of that anymore, and the closest they get to speed is when they spot food arriving on the back of a tractor in the winter.

Standing around stoically in shaggy fleeces they could not be more different from the lambs they once were.

And suddenly Gavin Williamson was in my head, uninvited and rent-free. Not that I am suggesting he has any of the sheer seductive charisma of sheep.

But I wondered what sort of curriculum Gavin Williamson might arrange for sheep, given the experience of his approach to children.

He would want to make sure that lambs had a curriculum which prepared them for life. Since sheep do little voluntary bouncing about, that would definitely be out, except maybe at playtimes for 15 minutes.

What is the life a of a sheep like ? Well, lots of standing about with horizons limited by walls and fences. So lambs really need to get used to that. Gavin would have them shoulder to shoulder in small pens learning how to eat grass. Grass isn’t what lambs eat ? Well, the sooner they start, the better. Important that no lambs get behind.

Sheep tend to walk in lines, wearing sheep-tracks in fields everywhere. Instead of racing, lambs would be taught to walk in single file. No running !

And sheep need to be able to recognise lambs’ voices, so the lamb curriculum would have lots of recognition practice with recorded baa-ing to identify sheep voices in various simulated weather conditions.

Naturally there would be a sheep-dog course, getting lambs used to the demands of sheep-dogs, the importance of obedience to avoid being nipped, and the general perils of tangling with dogs generally.

Male and female lambs would be separated for sex education, as the curriculum would be entirely different for rams and ewes. There wouldn’t be much on relationships, and if there was any passing reference to pleasure, it would be distinctly ram-focused.

There would be a brief module on grief and how to deal with it when your latest offspring disappear to become lamb chops, leaving you sad, puzzled, and resentful.

There would of course have to be rigorous assessment to ensure that no lamb was left behind. Only lambs firmly in the middle of the bell-shaped curve would pass. Nobody likes a smart lamb: being cute is quite enough of a handicap to a prospective sheep already. And lambs who did not meet basic standards in long-standing and baa-recognition would find themselves heading to the chop factory earlier than expected.

Forget lambhood. It is important to get every new generation aligned with the demands of sheepism as soon as possible.

Sound familiar ? After fixing the curriculum for children, this should be a doddle. Good for you, Gavin. Give it a go.