Saturday 5th May

Of course we do expect our politicians to always paint themselves in the best light possible, but I always think that one of the most amusing aspects of election nights is listening to the politicians trying desperately to explain that actually it wasn’t that bad.  Thursday night was typical; not only were the Tories saying that it was simply mid-term disillusionment with the Government, and had nothing to do with their policies, but also declaring that unless Labour won at least one thousand councilors from them it was a bad result for Labour.  As I write this the votes are still being counted but it does look like a very good result for Labour winning back cities like Birmingham and Norwich, and look on course to win over 700 new councilors.  By raising the bar of achievement for another party it is as if you are saying – yes, you won, but really given how hopeless we are, you should have done much better.   Labour almost attempted this after the 2010 General Election, but hardly had the heart after their own disastrous result.

The saddest faces of the night (apart from Ken in London, which I suspect he will lose despite a good vote for Labour in the London Assembly) were reserved for the LibDems.  They really had no answer for why they did so badly, except that they couldn’t accept the bleeding obvious.  The public expected the Tories to be nasty, even if some of them still voted for them, but the LibDems have always seemed so reasonable and, well, honest – compared to the other two.  Then at the first chance they jump into bed with their idealogical enemy and ditch almost everything they ever stood for.  They are rightly perceived as letting the Tories get away with right wing policies when only a third of the country voted for that.  Watching Danny Alexander twist and turn, saying that the public understood that hard choices had to be made, and somehow that was why they voted against the Libdems.  It was incredible, oh, and highly enjoyable too.

Thursday 4th May

Is it the chilly weather or perhaps the realization that if this is Summer it doesn’t feel any different from Winter, but I cannot quite shake off these Summer Winter blues.   And everywhere I look; glum faces.  Maybe I need a holiday.  I know, I have only just returned from the Dordogne, but we hardly saw the sun on that trip at all.  Maybe I need a real exotic holiday in some tropical paradise, with a white sun-drenched beach, palm trees leaning out over the sea, on a lounger with a straw parasol and a tall cool glass of pina-colada or a mint julep on a small table beside me, a collection of glossy magazines and the latest bestseller grabbed in haste at the airport.

But I am afraid that that has never been me at all.  Firstly although I do love the warmth of the sun, being fair-skinned I do not tan well and consequently not only smother myself in the highest factor sun-screen I can find, but positively avoid sitting in the direct sunlight.   No, what I want is that gorgeous warm-but-not-too-hot English summer weather that I seem to remember from my childhood, those languid days laying on a blanket on the freshly mown lawn half in and half out of the shade of a large plane tree, reading Jane Eyre and with a glass of Corona Cherryade and a few Rich Tea biscuits for refreshment.  A simple enough pleasure one would have thought, but as I look out on another dreary overcast rain-threatened day it seems as far away as those memories.

Wednesday 23rd May

You see them everywhere, and though some are undoubtedly male I still call them moo-cows.  I do not know, but strongly suspect that it is the case, if they inhabit other cities, but London is full of them, they are simply everywhere.  They wander around aimlessly chewing the cud, looking up from their grazing occasionally at all the busy people rushing around, as if these scurrying creatures were in fact from another planet altogether.  Despite it being the extended rush hour which London seems to need they seem not to be bothered by financial or in fact any other considerations at all.  You see them sitting in Starbucks staring into the middle distance, a hand occasionally mechanically raising the green-logoed cardboard cup to their lips, their gaze never faltering.  Or they may be spotted vaguely browsing their i-phones, an index finger occasionally brushing the screen as images flicker by; one wonders if they recognize any, as they never show any emotion on their moo-cow faces.   What sort of lives do they lead, these strange sedentary beasts who never hurry, but amble along, occasionally glancing at a Metro, but you suspect that they scorn any real news and content themselves with the celebrity fodder on offer.  And the female moo-cow faces are blank and all made up to look exactly the same, as if any sign of individuality would mark them out as being possibly interesting.  You never get a reaction from a moo-cow, or even a smile.  They are impassive and will not let slip the mask they have so carefully created.  Even when moo-cows meet each other, there is barely a whisper of recognition; after all who talks to a moo-cow.

But scorn them not, for they may in fact be the future of the human race – a new sub species that will eventually dominate and destroy all of us thinking busy people.  Maybe they are just watching and waiting, planning our eventual overthrow.  So beware – the day of the moo-cow may soon be upon us.

Thursday 3rd May

And I don’t mean Rupert Bear, a real childhood friend; unbeknown to me at the time a different Rupert was weaving his insidious web and building on the legacy he inherited from his father along with a ruthlessness and determination almost unparalleled in the business world.  So, who really is this Rupert, is he truly the malignant meddler in politics, the grand puppet master and decider of elections or has he merely given us, the public exactly what we wanted, page 3 girls and five hundred channels of dross on the TV.  The truth as always may lay somewhere in-between.  Like those great newspaper magnates who went before him, Beaverbrook and Northcliffe, he undoubtedly knew the power of the popular press, and like Robert Maxwell he courted political leaders and tried to push his own political agenda to the fore.  However it was when he discovered such a like-minded individual as Margaret Thatcher that things turned really ugly; there is no doubting that they made an unholy pact, she would let him take over the Times and expand his empire without restraint and he would crush the print unions.  And both got what they wanted.  But then things get a bit murkier, Murdoch decided that Blair would be a better bet than John Major, and then that Cameron and Osborne would suit him better than Gordon Brown.  How much was ever really discussed or promised we will probably never know, it was much more a case of politicians being only too aware of the importance of keeping Rupert on-side, as Neil Kinnock discovered to his cost.  But in his defence it has always been so, the political influence of the Mail and the Express were always insidious and undemocratic.  It was in the marrying of his business and his political machinations that we reached the lowest point of all.  In fact the phone-hacking scandal in itself wasn’t that awful; journalists have used underhand and illegal methods for years – it was just that nobody had the balls to go after them.  So, what do we think of Rupert now, his reputation has certainly been tarnished, but he will undoubtedly survive, and make more and more money until the day he dies, which may not be that far off.  And for a while there will be more regulation of the press, and politicians will be more careful about who they are seen with, and who they e-mail.  But sooner or later another Rupert will emerge, maybe in Cyberspace, maybe in Telecoms, who knows, except that it will happen.  As Lincoln said ‘The price of freedom is eternal vigilance.’  We just have to have the balls to stop the next Rupert before it gets to this sorry state.

Wednesday 2nd May

First an apology for three days in a row about the rain but the Scots have a word for this weather, I have several myself – you might not be surprised to hear, but they call it dreek.  That is one of those wonderful words that sound exactly as they mean; onomatopoeia is the term for such words, like biff and clunk.  And for this type of persistent and wet and windy weather the perfect term is dreek.  Apparently they have a lot of dreek up in Scotland, another reason not to move there, though it is lovely for a visit, especially if the sun is shining.   Lerwick in the Shetlands has the unusual celebrity of being the wettest place in the United Kingdom; apparently it is dreek there most of the time.  I know that one reason for human beings apparent rise to the top of the animal kingdom is down to our wonderful adaptability; however how anyone could ever have adapted to live in a place of almost permanent dreek is beyond me.  Is it just me, or does this weather actually depress others too?  I find I am really laid low by the awful persistent rain, it is absolutely not conducive to my soul, or any other part of my being.  On Monday we had a brief respite, and the sun was warm and welcoming if only for a few hours, but yesterday it was back to torrential downpour again.  I would love to be able to just hunker down and hibernate, but I cannot, this is May for goodness sake, we should be out in the gardens and the parks celebrating the advent of Summer and hibernation is long past us; even the squirrels are awake and, wet and bedraggled as they might be, they are scampering around in search of windblown food, even in this awful dreek.

Tuesday 1st May

And after the downpours a glimpse of sunshine breaking through the clouds has brought a most welcome touch of warmth to all our hearts.  And as I stride out hopeful that May will bring forth the flowers that March winds and April showers have prepared us for I notice that one result of the recent horrendous rain is that we now have gutters full of petals.  The wind that accompanied the wet has stripped most of the tree blossom and blown it down onto the paths and roads, the rain in its turn swept them into the gutter, where huge puddles have gently evaporated with the early morning sunshine leaving blankets of white and pink petals all over the gutters.  What a lovely sight and so temporary too, before we know it this lovely sight will be gone, the petals having now served their purpose, the trees hopefully now all pollinated, they can wither and die quickly turning to a brown slush that will be swept away when the rain, never far away returns.  Enjoy the sight while you can, for like snowflakes out of season they will soon evaporate.  And remember that though we may not be rich and famous; we may spend most of our lives in the gutter, but even here occasionally it is filled with petals.

Monday 30th April

I know that one shouldn’t really complain about the weather, after all one should be able to take the rough with the smooth, but don’t you think it has been wet for a tad too long already.  And I am getting just a bit fed up with it.  It is scant compensation to know that the winter was particularly dry, as at the time it never really felt that great.  And the worst of all is when wretched meteorologists explain that because of the time of year and the fact that the ground is so dry the current deluge is doing nothing to replenish depleted aquifers and that the drought is actually getting worse.  I have no idea whether they are talking sense or out of another part of their anatomy altogether, all I know is I am fed up of getting wet every time I venture out.  And not just went, but drenched.  And as bad as the rain itself is the wind, which cuts through your clothing and makes any attempt at using an umbrella impossible.  I cannot quite remember being this cold in April before, and this is a cloying damp cold that goes right through you and you practically have to get changed into warm dry clothes when you get home or risk pneumonia.  It has been raining here in London practically non-stop for three days so far, and no sign of any break in this frankly awful weather.  No wonder the Government is doing so badly; we need a little sunshine if only to stop people complaining about pasty tax, granny tax, the price of petrol and maybe even the weather is the fault of the Tories too.  (It never rained this badly under Tony Blair I’m sure.)

So come on God, or whoever it is controlling the weather, shift this block of Low Pressure out into the North Sea and give us all a break.

Sunday 29th April

You do get those mornings every so often, when completely out of the blue, you wake up feeling awful.  It may be partly physical, a sort of exhaustion settling on one; exhausted of life, of the treadmill, of the sheer nonsense of it all.  But it is probably mostly in one’s head, maybe a disturbed night with violent or just bad dreams, but for some reason you just feel awful. You slouch down stairs, the cords of your dressing gown trailing behind you and cannot wait to slump down on the sofa.  You grope for the remote, why isn’t it where I left it last night, ah here it is under the cushion.  You flick through the channels, the cartoons and re-runs and breakfast programmes with their cheery presenters on bright red sofa’s.  For a moment you glance at the weather, but those dark swirling clouds over southern England make you switch to News 24, oh no, sports review again and Sky News has adverts so you switch off and haul yourself to the kitchen where last night’s sad little plate and knife and fork are waiting to be washed up.  You flick the switch on the kettle, which instantly boils as it is almost completely dry.  Over to the sink to fill it up and you don’t quite line up the spout with the tap (I know you should always take the lid off to fill a kettle but really who does) and get splashed by cold water. Eventually you have a cup of tea, and slowly start to feel a bit better.    You read your e-mails, lots of adverts for upcoming events you know you will never attend, bargain CDs – when you have loads un-played on your shelf, and estate agents still sending you stuff from France when you only expressed a mild interest in the first place.  Post the blog and a quick look on Facebook then you close the connection, finish the dregs of your tea.  Upstairs and ablution time.  You emerge clean, emptied of yesterdays detritus, in a nice fluffy white towel and now things start to look better.  In fact you cannot quite remember why you felt so bad, you open the curtains and there peeping through fluffy white clouds is the sun.  Better dry my hair and get out for my morning walk.

Saturday 28th April

One of the main reasons the Governments economic policy is in disarray comes down to a political philosophy, or the rigid belief in it.   Basically the Tories hate the public sector (but aren’t allowed to say so out loud) and worship Private Enterprise which they believe will deliver growth and benefits to all.  This is basically trickle-down economics as preached by Reagan and Thatcher in the eighties, and despite protestations to the contrary they haven’t changed since the days of Margaret.   Labour used to believe that the Public Sector and nationalization of industries was the answer to growth and prosperity, but that was a long time ago now.  They are now far more pragmatic about backing what works, but still defend the Public sector (from which most of them sprung) and believe in regulation and control far more than the Tories do.   The Liberals used to be almost as Socialist as Labour proclaimed to be, but now they have thrown their lot in with the Tories, at least on the economic front, only they insist they are nicer than them really; but fat lot of good that will do them.

When George Osborne came to power (Cameron is almost a bystander) he still believed (and probably will to his dying day despite evidence to the contrary) that if he cut back massively on public spending the ‘hole’ in the economy would automatically be filled by the private sector.  This was what all his business chums (most of whom he went to school with) were telling him.  It is all down to the market you see, and the private sector is so wonderful that it will do everything far better than all those dedicated nurses and postmen and council workers ever could manage, oh, and they will make it all run at a profit too.  So, a no-brainer George.  But Joe public just got scared, instead of rejoicing that billions of spending power would be removed from the economy ‘at a stroke’ and going out and starting a business, they have clung on desperately, to their money and their jobs, or what is left of them.

It is all going horribly wrong, but because they believe so fervently in their philosophy they cannot admit it, and will persevere until eventually either things get a little less bad and they can claim victory, or they are thrown out in three years time.  Read on….

Friday 27th April

My CD collection is in almost strict alphabetical order with the odd exception that individual artists are filed by their surname, but groups by the first word in their name.  Idiosyncrasy rules even here with two exceptions, Elton John comes under E not J, and Pink Floyd under F not P; but as they are known respectively as Elton and The Floyd almost universally, on this occasion I might be forgiven.  But A is undoubtedly for Joan Armatrading.  Ever since I first bought her debut album “Whatever is for us” oh, way back in 1970 I would think. I have been addicted to this woman and her gorgeous emotional voice and wonderful songs.  Joan is almost unique amongst black female artists in that she not only writes all her own material but plays guitar too.  She is also unique in having avoided all attempts at manipulation by the great recording industry.  I cannot think of another black female artist with anything like the longevity or independence achieved by Joan; even the wonderful Tina Turner who had such a striking late rejuvenation may to some extent be a product of clever marketing.  But Joan has only ever relied on her honesty, her great voice and intelligent songwriting.  Just listen to Love and Affection, her first big hit and hear how she almost duets with herself, or the warmth oozing out of a song like Willow, “willing to be your shelter” but for sheer guts and emotional integrity try “The weakness in me” where Joan admits the solidity of her old love but the temptation of a new one, and her subsequent weakness in falling for that new love.  Add to this the secret knowledge that Joan is probably talking about her own female lovers and the poignancy is perfection.  Long may she continue, and yes, she is still writing and singing and playing live.

A is also for Air and Arcade Fire and Aztec Camera (and Amen Corner; if paradise is half as nice.)