Clipping Pinochet’s wings

 

© Debasers Filums

 

I’d like to say a few nice things about Nae Pasaran, a 2018 documentary written and directed by Felipe Bustos Sierra that recounts how some workers in the Scottish town of East Kilbride in 1974 made a gesture of defiance towards fascist Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet.  It was a gesture that ultimately had more consequences than they’d imagined.

 

The workers – Bob Fulton, Stuart Barrie, Robert Somerville and John Keenan – were employed by Rolls Royce and tasked with servicing and repairing engines from Hawker Hunter airplanes.  Their East Kilbride plant was the only place in the world where such work could be done.  One day they noticed that some engines they’d been assigned belonged to the Chilean Air Force and made sure, via their trade union, that the none of the workforce touched them.  Instead, the engines ended up rusting in crates in the plant’s back yard.

 

This was because the previous year had seen the democratically elected socialist government of Salvador Allende in Chile overthrown by the military, who then set up a dictatorship under Pinochet and during the next 17 years, according to official figures from the Chilean government in 2011, engineered the murders and disappearances of 3,095 people and the torture and political imprisonment of 36,948 more – although other estimates are much higher.  The Chilean Air Force got the coup going by bombing La Moneda, the presidential palace in Santiago, on September 11th, 1973.

 

The first part of the documentary – which I was lucky enough to see the other day as part of the Jaffna Film Festival in northern Sri Lanka – is amiable enough, with the now retired Fulton, Barrie, Somerville and Keenan meeting up with Sierra in a Scottish pub (“Don’t start with they war stories,” someone tells the venerable Fulton, a veteran of World War II, “we gottae be hame before eight o’clock!”) and recalling events in East Kilbride back in 1974.

 

But later Sierra travels to Santiago and speaks to people who were on the sharp end of the 1973 coup and, with stories of executions, torture and seemingly boundless cruelty, Nae Pasaran delivers a stark reminder of what the Scottish workers were protesting against.  A senior civil servant whom troops dragged out of the just-bombed La Moneda, for example, remembers how he and fifty others were made to lie in a line on the street.  A tank would have then driven over the top of them if there hadn’t been so many civilians on the street yelling at the troops to stop.

 

One prisoner, later exiled to Britain, claims to have been told by an official that the reason he hadn’t been executed was because the British government had offered to get the Hawker Hunter engines back to the Chilean Air Force – his life and the lives of six others constituted the Chilean side of the bargain.  Nobly, Sierra doesn’t accept this as gospel truth, even though it would have provided the documentary with a stirring feel-good moment.  He qualifies it by also quoting representatives of Amnesty International and the UK government at the time, who are unsure or dismissive of such a deal being made.  But the possibility remains that the actions in East Kilbride did save seven lives.

 

More tangibly, being deprived of those engines took its toll on the Chilean Air Force, as is admitted by its former commander Fernando Rojas Vender.  Although the engines were eventually, and very mysteriously, spirited away from the factory in 1978, and although it was rumoured that future repairs and servicing were carried out in Israel and India, the planes and their engines clearly suffered from the lack of Scottish expertise and there were multiple groundings and crashes.

 

While obviously a considerable tosser, Vender was at least game enough to let himself be interviewed by Sierra.  He dismisses Fulton, the original instigator of the engine boycott, as being like a radical ‘Islamist’.  In his view, Fulton – who’s a Christian as well as a World War II combatant – couldn’t possibly have acted of his own accord, but had been brainwashed by leftist agitators.

 

The film’s finale, where Fulton, Barrie and Keenan are brought south to a grand, plush building in London in 2015 – a world away from the Scottish boozer we saw them in at the beginning – and in front of an admiring audience are awarded the Order of Bernardo O’Higgins, the highest order that Chile’s government can bestow on foreigners, is both touching and uplifting.

 

© Debasers Filums

 

Incidentally, the men make one or two comments about how their actions, facilitated by a powerful trade union, probably wouldn’t have happened today.  Nae Pasaran doesn’t mention it, but there’s a brutal irony in how the person who later on did most to emasculate the unions in Britain, Margaret Thatcher, was also a great admirer of and buddy to the fascist Pinochet.  Thatcher’s actions against the unions, admittedly, had a lot of public support at the time – support fuelled by the disastrous, strike-ridden Winter of Discontent in 1978-79, when the British trade union movement and the then Labour government didn’t so much shoot themselves in the foot as blow both their feet away with a sawn-off shotgun.

 

Still, I wish that British working-class people who voted for Brexit in 2016 on the grounds that they were ‘better off’ in the 1970s before Britain joined the European Union, or the European Economic Community as it was then, would realise that the real reason why they were better off was because they had things like a functioning welfare state and proper trade unions to support and defend them.

 

From globalresearch.ca

 

Ruthless

 

From headtopics.com

 

And now, goes a popular song, the end is near, and so I face the final curtain…  A lot of things in British politics have faced the final curtain recently.  For example, the premiership of Theresa May, and the credibility of the Change UK Party – finished as a political force by a dismal showing in the European elections even though, cruelly, the curtain had only come up on it a few months earlier.

 

Thanks to the arrival of Boris Johnson as prime minister, the final curtain is falling on any last shreds of respect that Britain might have commanded on the international stage – a humbling new role awaits the country as pageboy to Donald Trump.  And this week’s plot by Johnson, involving the Queen, to prorogue Parliament and thwart opposition to a no-deal Brexit has shown that it’s curtains for any pretence that Britain is a functioning democracy.  And it increasingly looks like curtains for any hope that Britain might depart the European Union in a fashion that stops its economy from imploding.

 

North of the border, the curtain has fallen too on the tenure of the hapless David Mundell as Secretary of State for Scotland – Johnson ousted him in favour of a posh tweedy hunting-and-shooting non-entity called Alister Jack, who has both shares in and financial support from Jardine Matheson Holdings Limited, the notorious imperialist opium dealers of the 19th century.  Jack probably believes that the best economic future for Scottish people is to work on zero-hour contracts as grouse beaters for visiting aristocrats and oligarchs.

 

And now, it’s just emerged, the curtain has come down on Ruth Davidson as leader of the Scottish Conservative and Unionist Party.  Scottish politics has become Ruth-less.

 

Predictably, Davidson’s resignation, which she confirmed yesterday, caused much wailing and gnashing of teeth in Scotland’s right-wing mainstream media.  For instance, Chris Deerin, latterly of the Telegraph, Scotland on Sunday and Daily Mail and now a contributor to the New Statesman, gushed on Twitter about “the energy, charisma and campaigning pizzazz of Ruth…  She is also one of the most determined and gritty people I know.”  Pushing the needle even further up the scale on the vomit-o-meter was Daily Mail and Spectator columnist Stephen Daisley, who wrote, “Adversity has never been far from her path but she has met it with tenacity and good humour…  Personal grit has been in Davidson’s blood from the start but she has been hardened by struggle…” and called her “a 5’5” firecracker’ and ‘Boudicca in a power suit’.  You can almost hear Elton John singing Candle in the Wind in the background.

 

Oh guys, puhlease…  If any adjective describes Ruth Davidson as a politician, it’s not ‘energetic’ or charismatic’ or ‘determined’ or ‘gritty’.  It’s ‘overrated’.

 

Davidson was the great white hope for members of Scotland’s old political, media and civic establishments, where you used to make your name and money promoting the interests of the Conservative Party or Labour Party in a comfortable status quo – i.e. Scotland voted Labour and was ruled by mostly Conservative governments in London and nobody said ‘boo’ about anything – and where your Scottishness, in the form of kilts, malt whisky, golf, Hogmanay, Munro-bagging and so, was something you played up occasionally to make yourself seem slightly exotic.  She seemed the political leader most likely to return Scotland to the sanity of the good old days.  Those days were before 2007 when the Scottish National Party seized power in Edinburgh, turned political assumptions on their heads and made the prospect of Scottish independence the key issue of the day.

 

The hopes attached to Davidson meant she had a ridiculously easy ride in Scotland’s mainstream media – and by extension in the British media, where perceptions of her as that rare beast, a nice Tory, meant she turned up as a guest in Have I Got News for You and The Great British Bake-Off and on the sofa for cosy chats with Andrew Marr.  Instead of pestering her about her party’s brutal austerity policies, Scottish journalists were happy publishing the results of photo opportunities where she’d don Highland dress and attempt to play the bagpipes, or sit on top of a buffalo, or pose on top of a tank, and were happy chuckling, “Good old Ruth!  What a laugh!”  Though the photo op where she rode down some steps in a mobility vehicle backfired when it emerged that, thanks to her party’s social security policies in Westminster, over 50,000 people with mobility issues had lost their right to such vehicles in the past four years.

 

From twitter.com

 

Indeed, Davidson was so accustomed to fawning press coverage that she struggled when a reporter did ask difficult questions.  Witness how she took a huff and stormed off when Channel 4’s Ciaran Jenkins tackled her about the Conservative Party’s alliance with Northern Ireland’s Democratic Unionist Party – Davidson has been in a same-sex relationship for years while the DUP is notoriously homophobic.

 

Still, her supporters would argue, look at her record as leader of the Scottish Tories!  Didn’t she achieve the impossible?  Didn’t she de-toxify her party in Scotland at a time when the reason why the talentless David Mundell got the job of Secretary of State for Scotland was because he was the only Member of Parliament (out of 59 seats) that the Conservative Party had in Scotland?

 

Well, in the 2016 election for the Scottish Parliament, the Tories did increase their share of the vote to by 8.1% to 22%, making them the second-biggest party in that parliament – though thanks to the vagaries of the Scottish electoral system, they finished seven seats ahead of Labour, who actually got 0.6% more of the vote than they did.  Needless to say, Davidson’s fans in the Scottish mainstream media made such a hullaballoo about it that you’d have thought the Tories, not Nicola Sturgeon’s SNP, had won the election.  (THE UNION STRIKES BACK was the headline that accompanied Alex Massie’s piece about it in the Spectator, with a picture of Davidson’s head photo-shopped onto Princess Leia’s body.  Though the folk who did the striking back in the celebrated 1980 sci-fi fantasy movie were the Empire, who were space-Nazis led by Darth Vader – probably not the analogy Massie was looking for.)

 

In the British general election of 2017, Scotland’s army of right-wing columnists, commentators and journalists seemed to collectively come in their tweed breeks when the Scottish Tories increased their number of MPs from one to 13 – helped no doubt by Scottish Labour leader Kezia Dugdale urging voters in certain constituencies to vote Tory and stick it to the SNP.  Again, such was the puffery that you’d have thought Davidson was now First Minister of Scotland, not Nicola Sturgeon.  There was much blather about how Davidson’s cohort of 13 MPs were going to exert a moderating and pro-Scottish influence over Theresa May’s minority government.  It came as no surprise when they didn’t.  Indeed, by 2019, most of them were ignoring the wishes of their pro-EU constituencies and voting in parliament to keep open the option of a disastrous no-deal Brexit.

 

One thing that Davidson was good at was conveying a simple message – all her other policies being either nebulous or negotiable – which was, “Vote for me, say no to Scottish independence and say yes to the British Union!”  This appeal to British nationalism helped her party win the support of the hard-line Protestant, Glasgow Rangers-supporting faction of the Scottish population that had strong sympathies with the pro-British Protestant community in Northern Ireland.  It also reeled in supporters of the extremist likes of UKIP and Britain First.  (Webzine Bella Caledonia has an interesting article called 30 Toxic Tories, listing the most racist bampots who ended up in the Scottish Conservative fold under Davidson’s watch.)

 

© Channel 4

 

No doubt the Northern Irish angle was why in 2018 she and her buddy David Mundell threatened they “would resign if Northern Ireland faces new controls that separate it from the rest of the UK” in some new Brexit deal.  By November 2018 Theresa May had indeed proposed a Brexit deal that might involve separate arrangements for Northern Ireland, but – surprise! – Davidson and Mundell decided not to resign after all.

 

This brings us to the subject of Davidson’s principles, which have been flexible to say the least.  Prior to the 2016 vote Britain’s membership of the EU, she won praise for taking part in a public debate where she defended the EU and railed against the Brexiting likes of Boris Johnson, Gisela Stuart and Andrea Leadsom.  “The other side have said throughout this debate that they don’t like experts,” she argued, “but when it comes to keeping this country safe and secure I want to listen to the experts.  So when the head of GCHQ says we are safer in the EU I listen.  When five former NATO chiefs say we are safer in the EU I listen.  When the head of Interpol, who is a Brit, says we are safer in the EU I listen.  When the head of MI5 and MI6 says we are safer in the EU I listen.”

 

But Davidson’s enthusiasm for continued EU membership didn’t survive when the vote went the other way and her new political boss in Westminster, Theresa May, committed herself to Brexit.  (Symbolic of Davidson’s about-turn on the issue were the Conservative Party leaflets distributed during campaigning for the recent Scottish parliamentary by-election in the Shetlands.  They bore a picture of her grinning features above a claim that the Tory candidate was the person to vote for ‘if you want to LEAVE the EU’.)  For a while she made noises about the UK staying in the  EU’s single market, which she said was something Scotland should have “the largest amount of access to.”  But those noises changed too when Theresa May declared that Britain “cannot possibly” remain in the single market because it would mean “not leaving the EU at all.”  On cue, Davidson suddenly poo-pooed the idea because it wouldn’t “allow for independent trade deals to be struck with third countries” and would mean accepting “freedom of movement”.

 

Davidson’s career, in fact, has been a series of instances where she expressed liberal sentiments because they were popular at the time but then fell silent when the wind – and the opinions of her political masters – changed direction.  In 2015, when a certain orange-skinned gobshite looked like he had zero chance of getting anywhere near the White House, she quoted Henry IV Part One and tweeted that Donald Trump was a ‘clay-brained, guts, knotted-pated, whoreson, obscene greasy tallow-patch’.  Inevitably, when Trump became US president and Theresa May jetted over to Washington DC to kiss his arse and beg for a post-Brexit trade deal, she made no further references to Trump’s obsceneness, greasiness, etc.

 

However, the arrival of Boris Johnson as British Prime Minister and leader of the Conservative Party was too much even for someone of Davidson’s elasticity.  Even she would have problems defending Johnson going full-steam-ahead for a disastrous no-deal Brexit on October 31st – especially as her Scottish parliamentary constituency is in Edinburgh, the most pro-EU city in the UK.  Johnson’s sacking of her good chum Mundell probably didn’t help.  Although rather than seize the moment yesterday and castigate Johnson for all the damage he’s caused, she claimed her reasons for stepping down were family-related ones.

 

So what will Ruth Davidson do now?  Perhaps Boris Johnson will show some magnanimity and give her a seat in the House of Lords, where she can rub ermine-draped shoulders with such former titans of Scottish politics as Baron George Foulkes of Cumnock and Baron Michael Forsyth of Drumlean.  Aye, hanging out with her intellectual equals in an institution of insufferable privilege and entitlement – that’s the best place for her.

 

From caltonjock.com

 

Auld Reekie robots

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Anyone who read my previous blog-post won’t be surprised to hear that my opinion of humanity is not terribly high at the moment.  So here’s a post that’s about the opposite of humanity.  It’s about artificial, mechanical and / or synthetic humanity rather than the flesh-and-blood variety.  Robots, in other words.

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Robots is the name of an exhibition that’s been in progress at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh.  A few weeks ago I got a chance to visit it.  Containing more than 100 exhibits, it tells the story of, to quote the blurb, ‘our 500-year quest to make machines human’ and it ranges ‘from early mechanised human forms to today’s cutting-edge technology.’  The exhibition runs until May 5th which, come to think of it, is today.  So if you’re in the Edinburgh area, haven’t seen it yet but fancy giving it a try, you’d better grab your coat and hat and run to the museum… now!

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The first sections of the exhibition chart the progress made by human science and technology towards the creation of robots prior to the 20th century.  This progress includes automatons, which were ‘mass-produced for the first time’ during the Industrial Revolution and ‘were not toys, but reflected their owners’ prosperity and fascination with exotic places.’  Among the automatons on display are a mechanical monkey, a mechanical bird in a cage and an eye-rolling, cigar-puffing human face that once adorned the wall of a tobacconist’s.  They’re charming, but I was disappointed that there weren’t more items like these on show.

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There’s also a section about the development of clockwork and it features some antiquated devices running on elaborate systems of springs and gearwheels.  These include a huge, multicoloured time-keeping dial with Roman numerals, the months and the signs of the zodiac on it; an orrery with long, straight, horizontal ‘branches’ and vertical ‘twigs’ supporting various planets and moons; and another orrery consisting of metal balls (the sun, earth, moon) and metal rings (their orbits).  Again, I wished the exhibition had had more space to exhibit more of these because I found them fascinating.

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After walking past some factory machines that helped to make the Industrial Revolution so revolutionary, you arrive at a section devoted to robots of the cinema screen, printed page and comic strip.  No doubt contrary to many visitors’ expectations, this section is quite brief.  There are some display cases with movie posters, pictures, books and toys and two life-sized representations of robots from two classic films, and that’s it.  The life-sized representations are of the utterly iconic Maria from Fritz Lang’s Metropolis (1927), who stands in the middle of a circular, segmented, flower-like stage drenched in an unsettling purple light; and, leering across at her from a glass case, the fearsome mechanical endoskeleton of T-800 from the original and best Terminator movie (1984).

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I was pleased to see T-800 on display because he – sorry, it – is a very rare example of the cinema getting robots right.  Too often, filmmakers anthropomorphise robots, i.e. invest them with human traits and emotions, just as we do with animals in children’s books, fables, cartoons and so on.  Hence, you get movie robots fretting like camp English butlers in the Star Wars franchise or acting as gruff, wisecracking sidekicks to Buck Rogers in the 25th Century (1979-81).  And don’t get me started on bloody K9.

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T-800, however, properly behaves like a machine.  It never deviates from its programming, which means it relentlessly pursues Sarah Connor (Linda Hamilton) with the purpose of destroying her, whilst eliminating anything or anyone else that gets in its way and threatens to impede its mission.  And that’s it.  Like a genuine machine, it does what it’s designed to do.  Other rare but honourable examples of cinematic robots that do only what it says on the tin (or on the packaging case), without any interference from human emotions, include the deadly, self-assembling, self-repairing war-droid M.A.R.K. 13 in Richard Stanley’s Hardware (1990) and Yul Brynner’s android gunslinger in Michael Crichton’s Westworld (1974).  Actually, the Brynner android follows its programming, which is to allow human tourists to shoot it ‘dead’ in mock Wild West gun battles at the Delos amusement park, up to a point.  Then it malfunctions and follows what the malfunction tells it to do, which is to hunt those tourists down and kill them…

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But back to the Robots exhibition.  After the viewing those glamorous movie robots, you get to see some ‘real’ robots from the 1950s and 1960s, which look so clunky they make the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz (1939) seem sleek and elegant.  By ‘real’, I mean they were built by inventors but steered by controls and were incapable of autonomous movement.  Actually, I felt rather sorry for them, with their bucket heads, slit mouths, wedged noses, boiler-shaped torsos, clamp-like hands and massive slabbed feet.  Compared with what’s just ahead of them in the exhibition, they resemble old folk sitting uncomprehending and lost in a corner of a party predominantly attended by youngsters.

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And then it’s into the realm of modern robotry and we get to see the results of how scientists, engineers and technicians have attempted to replicate the skeletal, muscular, nervous, circulatory and other systems of the human body in machine form, using intricate networks of rods, pistons, levers, wires, cables, tubes and so on.  There are some truly odd things on display here.  The designs of a couple of the robots have been so modelled on human anatomy that they – vaguely – resemble flayed or dissected cadavers.

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The exhibition saves its trump card for the end.  Its final stretch is an identity parade composed of some of the 21st century’s most notable robots.  I’ve seen clips of individual ones on TV news reports or online videos, but it’s rather overwhelming to see so many of them together in one place.  They include Robina (‘Robot as Intelligent Assistant’), which was developed by Toyota and from 2007 to 2009 ‘was used as a museum tour-guide’.  It resembles a food-blender base with giant arms and pincer-like hands, topped with what is sometimes called a ‘classic alien face’ (i.e. oval-shaped and having big black eyes).  Also equipped with pincers is the more ominous-looking Baxter, ‘the world’s first two-armed robot designed to work together with people.’  With a part-cylindrical, part-oblong, all-black torso, a TV-shaped head and a pair of powerful red arms, Baxter looks faintly arachnid-like, despite having only two limbs.

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Elsewhere, there’s Kodomoroid, whose name is derived from kodomo – Japanese for ‘child’ – and ‘android’.  Its flexible silicon skin was sculpted ‘from a whole head cast of a female model’, its teeth sculpted ‘from a separate cast of the model’s mouth’ and each of its hairs was inserted ‘on its body by hand’.  In fact, Kodomoroid didn’t strike me as particularly child-like.  Seated on a white cube, it looks like a prim and slightly shrunken Japanese auntie, incongruously dressed in a surgical gown, white ballerina shoes and a microphoned headset.  Japanese technology has also produced the Human Support Robot, which can ‘be operated directly by home users’ and ‘obey simple voice commands, for example, to fetch medication or draw the curtains.’  Basically a long, multi-jointed arm attached to a mobile cylinder with a face-like panel on top, the Human Support Robot is aimed at elderly people who are housebound or bedbound but who feel it’s unbecoming to depend on the services of a human home-help.

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I like the thinking behind Kaspar, a little robot doll designed as a ‘social companion’ for children with autism and other communicative issues.  For example, it can tell the kids if they’re holding it too tightly, thanks to it having pressure-sensors under its skin.   However, the show-stealer when I was there was RoboThespian, who can ‘deliver its lines in over 40 languages, wink, roll its eyes and lock gazes with individuals using facial recognition technology’ and who looks like a somewhat stripped-down C3PO with a dish-shaped face and square eyes.  A couple of kids were leaning towards it over the barrier when suddenly it lurched into motion, pointed at the them and blared, “Here’s looking at you, kid!”  Those kids promptly sprang a yard backwards.

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I’d expected a longer viewing experience at Robots, having paid ten pounds for a ticket, but I guess it was a costly business filling even the relatively-small area of the exhibition with so much hi-tech hardware from so many countries.  Still, it was always absorbing – and occasionally enthralling.   

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Old man shouts at Edinburgh

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I spent a total of two years living in Edinburgh, one year at the end of the 1980s and the other at the end of the 1990s.  And although I have lived in other cities for similar or longer periods (Aberdeen, Sapporo, Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Pyongyang, Tunis, Colombo), Edinburgh is the place I name if anyone asks me what my ‘home-city’ is. 

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I was originally a rural dweller rather than an urban one.  My dad was a farmer and, during my adolescence, I lived on a farm on the edge of the town of Peebles, population 8000.  However, Peebles is just one hour’s bus-ride from Edinburgh, and I soon got into the habit of making regular visits to the city to get those cultural experiences that weren’t available in a wee country town: browsing for hours in the (now-defunct) Science Fiction Bookshop on West Crosscauseway near the campus of Edinburgh University; spending more hours browsing in second-hand record shops; and stuffing myself with foreign food that wasn’t Italian or Chinese.  (Those were the days before Peebles acquired its excellent Indian restaurant, the Prince of India.)  Maybe it’s those distant but fond memories that, more than anything, make me think of Edinburgh as ‘my’ city.

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A few weeks ago, I was back in Scotland and, as is customary during my visits home, I hopped on the bus and went to ‘my’ city several times.  I expected, as ever, to notice a few changes.  After all, the world’s truest maxim says: “Everything changes except the law of change.”  And I expected, as ever, to be unimpressed by most of those changes.  It’s also a sad fact that as human beings grow older, they tend to become less tolerant of change.  However, even as an ageing person in an ever-changing world, I feel I am justified this time in shaking my head, waving my fist and shouting: “Edinburgh, what the hell are you doing?”

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Here are some reasons why.

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1. They’ve cut down the trees next to the Scottish National Gallery.

Yes, that attractive strip of sloping parkland hemmed in by Waverley Bridge, Princes Street, the Mound and the railway tracks leaving westwards from Waverley Station, and whose perimeter is dotted by such landmarks as the Scott Monument, the Royal Scottish Academy and the Scottish National Gallery, has been pulverised.  As the photo at the top of this entry shows, the trees that used to stand there have gone and the area is now a basin of unappealing grey-brown slag with a couple of JCBs howking around in its squalor. 

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This devastation, sorry, revamp, has been carried out at the behest of the National Galleries of Scotland organisation, who want to “create a new, sloped path that will make the gardens and gallery fully accessible to people with mobility impairments, prams and pushchairs.”  They’ve promised to plant saplings to replace the felled trees, though obviously these won’t reach the size and gorgeousness of their predecessors till after I’m dead and gone.  I notice, by the way, that the site of this work is also the site of Edinburgh’s annual Christmas fair.  And if I was a wee bit cynical (which, of course, I’m not), I’d suspect that the real reason for getting those pesky trees out of the way is so that they can shoehorn more rides and stalls into the fair every December / January and wring even more money out of it.

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2. They’ve stuck an architectural horror in the corner of St Andrew’s Square.

The corner formed by South St David Street and the southern side of St Andrew’s Square, once home to the B-listed Scottish Provident building – ‘B-listed’ apparently doesn’t carry much weight in Edinburgh these days – is now occupied by a gruesome new structure containing branches of the likes of TK Maxx and Wagamama.  There’s something positively indecent about how it flaunts its blingy frontage at poor old Jenners Department Store across South St David Street.  When I first laid eyes on this horror, I had to retreat into a local hostelry (the Abbotsford) and down a pint to recover from the shock.  And it was in the pub that I took out my notebook and penned this description of the beast: “its vertically-slatted façade looks like a wall of razor blades fiendishly designed to cause mayhem and mutilation in a Saw movie.” 

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3. It’s gone all Airbnb.

Airbnb short-term lets are everywhere in modern Edinburgh.  Recent figures suggest that the city contains 10,000 of the things, which works out at one Airbnb per 48 inhabitants.  This leads to problems like anti-social behaviour – I’ll bet half the renters are hen and stag parties – rising rents and property prices, loss of housing supply and the general ‘hollowing out’ of communties.  Walk around the Grassmarket, for example, and you find so may Airbnb lockboxes in view that it looks as if a plague of giant metallic woodlice has descended from outer space, and they’ve attached themselves to the doorposts and started eating the woodwork.

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I’ve heard people say with weary resignation that it can’t be helped.  This is Edinburgh, which has always been a touristy city and where accommodation has always been expensive.  But why make a bad situation even worse?  With my perennially shaky finances, I can’t imagine myself being ever able to live in the city again. So your loss, Edinburgh.

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4.  Edinburgh’s record shops are dying out.

I’ve lamented previously on this blog about the disappearance of Edinburgh’s live-music venues – my pessimistic conclusion was that the city was becoming ‘as musically bereft and barren as one of Simon Cowell’s armpits.’  Now it looks like it’ll not only be impossible soon to hear live music performed in Edinburgh.  It’ll be impossible too to buy music in physical form there.

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Before my return to the city, I’d heard the sad news that one of my all-time favourite second-hand record shops, Hog’s Head Music on South Clerk Street, had closed down.  I thought that I could at least console myself by going to Coda Music, the excellent world and folk music record shop at the top of the Mound.  Imagine my horror when I nipped down to Coda Music from the Royal Mile, came around a corner and was confronted by another derelict property with a notice in its window from the shop’s owners, announcing that they too had decided to call it a day. 

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Now I can’t rant at venal and short-sighted city planners and local politicians about this one.  The disappearance of these shops seems down to two simple and unavoidable reasons.  Firstly, of course, most people these days purchase their music online – something that did for the Hog’s Head.  Secondly, these places were run back in the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s by music-loving young Turks who, by 2019, are getting rather long in the tooth.  And I doubt if there’s any up-and-coming new generation willing to take the businesses over from them. In Coda’s case, the owners reported that the shop was still enjoying a good trade, but they’d reached an age where they just wanted to stop working and enjoy some retirement.

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At least the small but durable Record Shak at 69 Clerk Street is still operating.  With admirable disregard for modern trends in sound technology and listening habits, it even continues to sell cassette tapes.  For how much longer, though?

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5. They’ve knocked down the St James Centre.

Okay, this is one thing I don’t feel sad about.  For more than 40 years, the St James Centre’s brutalist architecture made it not so much a carbuncle as a cancerous tumour on the face of central Edinburgh.  Now it’s gone.  Tower cranes loom over the site where the building once stood, looking like skeletal buzzards picking at its collapsed, unloved, concrete-y carcass. 

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But of course, this being 21st century Edinburgh, the powers-that-be couldn’t miss the opportunity to replace the loathsome-looking St James Centre with something even more loathsome-looking.  Et voilà.  We are getting a new – the sound you hear is my heart sinking – ‘shopping and retail’ complex with a 214-room hotel as a showcase feature at its centre.  The unusual outline of the proposed hotel has caused local people to dub it ‘the Golden Turd’.  (Anywhere else in Scotland, it would be called ‘the Golden Jobby’.  But as this is Edinburgh, the posher word ‘turd’ is preferred.)  Actually, looking at computer simulations of the thing, I think it resembles something even less appetising than a turd.  It looks like a turd with a giant, just-extracted-from-someone’s-arse tapeworm wound around it.  Yummy.

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(c) Laing O’Rourke

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A Fluffi-shambles

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From the National

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Last week was not an auspicious one for politicians who’ve served as Member of Parliament for Peebles, my hometown in Scotland. 

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Firstly, Lord David Steel, who was the town’s MP from 1965 until 1997 (while it was part of the constituencies of Roxburgh, Selkirk and Peebles and then Tweeddale, Ettrick and Lauderdale) and who is also a former leader of the Liberal Party (now the Liberal Democrats) found himself in some severe shit.  He admitted in a hearing for the Independent Inquiry into Child Sexual Abuse (IICSA) that in 1979 he’d ‘assumed’ his fellow Liberal MP Cyril Smith was guilty of child abuse at a hostel in Smith’s constituency of Rochdale.  Not only did Steel appear to turn a blind eye to this matter at the time, but nine years later he recommended Smith for a knighthood.  Since Smith’s death in 2010, police have uncovered ‘overwhelming evidence’ that he was an abuser of young boys.  By Thursday last week, it’d been announced that “the office bearers of the Scottish Liberal Democrats have met and agreed that an investigation is needed.  The party membership of Lord Steel has been suspended pending the outcome of that investigation.”

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Then there were the desperate and undignified squirmings of David Mundell, the Conservative MP for Dumfriesshire, Clydesdale and Tweeddale, a constituency that Peebles got lumped in with in 2005.  Since 2015, Mundell, or ‘Fluffy’ as he’s commonly known, has also served as Secretary of State for Scotland in the Conservative governments of David Cameron and Theresa May.  He didn’t win this position because of the possession of a stunning intellect, abilities or personality but because in 2015 he was the only Conservative MP left in Scotland.  (Back then, at the yearly Agricultural Show held in Peebles, the Conservative Party would invariably set up a tent and Mundell, aka The Only Tory MP In Scotland, would sit inside, ready to press the flesh with his constituents, should any present themselves.  Passers-by would invariably point and crack the well-worn joke: “Look, there’s the Rare Breeds Tent.”)

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Last week, it became clear that the UK government and parliament were in omni-shambles mode.  The parliament managed to vote against Theresa May’s Brexit deal, against the holding of a second Brexit referendum, against the UK leaving the European Union without a deal, against the so-called Malthouse Compromise and against parliament being allowed to take control of the whole sorry Brexit process.  But even in the midst of this omni-shambles, Mundell’s behaviour stood out as particularly shambolic – his was the Fluffi-shambles. 

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He found himself caught between the rock of his party’s enthusiasm for Brexit and the hard place of knowing, quietly, how damaging Brexit is likely to be for Scotland (which voted overwhelming against leaving Europe), for his heavily agriculture-dependent Scottish constituency and for his own re-election prospects.  Finally, he defied the government whip when the vote was called on ruling out an economically disastrous no-deal Brexit.  The Conservative government demanded he voted against it being ruled out, whereas Mundell wanted it ruled out.  Being spineless, though, he chose to abstain rather than vote the other way from his political peers and masters. 

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In ordinary times, even Mundell’s abstention would be treated as a defiance of government policy and a resigning matter for a minister.  However, in these extraordinary times, with Theresa May exerting about as much authority as a wet paper bag, Mundell got away with it without resigning.  Happily for him – the basic salary for an ordinary MP was £77,379 in 2018, but as Secretary of State for Scotland he can claim £67,505 on top of that (well, going by 2017 figures). 

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A subsequent interview saw Mundell give a less-than-polished account of himself: “I’m not, er, resigning because I support the Prime Minister in her course, er, of action.  Her course of action is, er, to leave, er, with a deal, er, in an orderly Brexit but I just… I’m very clear that I don’t support, er, a no-deal, er, Brexit and I’ve made, er, I’ve made that clear on numerous occasions, the House has made its view clear, and the government is responding and taking forward, er, the decision of the House today…  There are a number of cabinet ministers, ministerial colleagues, er, who didn’t wish to oppose what was clearly, er, the will of the House on not leaving, er, without, er, on not leaving with, er, in a no-deal, er, Brexit…”

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I’d say that during the interview Mundell looked like a rabbit frozen in some car headlights, but that would disparage the courage, grit and determination displayed by rabbits frozen in car headlights everywhere.  Indeed, Mundell’s snivelling performance would make the average rabbit frozen in car headlights look like Mel Gibson leading the Scottish forces into action at the Battle of Stirling in Braveheart (1995).

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Oddly, the ‘numerous occasions’ when Mundell made it clear he was against a no-deal Brexit didn’t extend to an amendment tabled in parliament in late February to rule out that very thing.  Mundell refused to support it, or even abstain on it, because those tabling the amendment were the Scottish National Party.  He dismissed this as a ‘stunt’ and claimed that the SNP actually want the chaos that a no-deal Brexit would cause.  Which is evidently why they proposed an amendment calling on the UK government to prevent a no-deal Brexit from happening…  What?

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From twitter.com / @scottishlabour

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When it comes to tying himself in knots like this, Mundell has form.  In October last year, he and Scottish Conservative leader Ruth Davidson threatened that they “would resign if Northern Ireland faces new controls that separate it from the rest of the UK” in some new Brexit deal.  Officially, this was because they feared it would “fuel the case for Scottish independence.”  Unofficially, I suspect they were playing to the hard-line Protestant, Glasgow Rangers-supporting gallery in the west of Scotland that has strong ties with the pro-British Protestant community in Northern Ireland, a gallery whose votes they’ve benefited from in recent years.  A few days later Mundell turned round and declared that he hadn’t intended to resign at all – and by mid-November May had indeed proposed a Brexit deal that might involve separate arrangements for Northern Ireland.  At least his £67,505 ministerial top-up salary was safe.

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In fact, whenever I see yet another cringing turn by David Mundell, I wonder why there’s any point in having a Secretary of State for Scotland at all.  After all, responsibility for the running of Scotland’s domestic affairs doesn’t lie with him but with the Scottish government, at the Scottish parliament in Edinburgh, which was set up in 1999.  But the real reason why there’s a Secretary of State is obvious – the Scottish government is run by the pesky SNP and London feels the need to have the likes of David Mundell hovering in the background, looking on and harrumphing disapprovingly, like history’s crappest colonial governor ever. 

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And I sometimes wonder too if Theresa May, whose empathy, emotional intelligence and people skills are not thought to be large, even knows who poor old Mundell is.  It wouldn’t surprise me if she believes he’s some fluffy-faced Caledonian footman who’s on hand to tend to her whenever her advisors decree that she visits the God-forsaken northern regions of her domain. 

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Still, awesomely hapless though he is, at least last week Mundell didn’t vote to leave the door open for a no-deal Brexit, even though by abstaining he didn’t vote against it either.  That’s more than could be said for most of his dozen fellow Scottish Conservative MPs, who cravenly ignored the pro-EU wishes of their electorates and voted with the government.  These include such specimens as Kirstene Hair, the intellectually-challenged MP for Angus, who once admitted to not voting in the Brexit referendum because she found the choice on offer ‘very difficult’.  Or the splendidly unhinged Ross Thomson, MP for Aberdeen South, who last month got involved in a stushie in the UK parliament’s Strangers’ Bar, where he was accused of groping a number of people’s bottoms.  Thomson’s defence was that he’d been drinking for five hours and was merely grabbing those bottoms in order to stop himself falling over, like they were handles or ledges.  From this, I can only surmise that there are some very peculiarly shaped bottoms in the pubs of Westminster.

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Actually, should Mundell decide that he can’t take it any longer, don’t be surprised if Mad Ross ends up as the next Secretary of State for Scotland. It’s not as if he’ll have to live up to the reputation of a distinguished predecessor.

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From the Evening Times

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It’s all Scotland’s fault

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(c) BBC

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One of the least edifying sights of the past week has been that of moderate and pro-European Union Conservative MP Anna Soubry attempting to walk to the Houses of Parliament, her workplace, while a pack of far-right, anti-EU protestors wearing yellow high-visibility jackets – a gimmick that with no sense of irony they’ve borrowed from the gilets jaunes protestors in France, a country in the EU – follow her and bray into her face that she’s a ‘Nazi’.  Not only are these tactics bullying, intimidating and generally horrible but, I’ve learned recently, they’re also Scottish. 

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Yes, as many respected politicians, commentators and media outlets have reminded us over the years, only bad things come out of Scotland.  Historically, these bad things have included: Sawney Bean; the failed scheme to colonise Darien in central America; failed Jacobite uprisings; the Highland Clearances; Burke and Hare; Angus McMillan who left Skye for Australia and led the Gippsland massacres of Aborigines in the 1840s; unscrupulous 19th century opium-trading company Jardine Matheson & Co; and Thomas Dickson, whose 1905 novel The Clansman became the basis for the notoriously racist 1915 movie Birth of a Nation and helped revive the Ku Klux Klan.

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And let’s not forget such horrors as: bagpipe music; Andy Stewart records; the Bay City Rollers; the Krankies; teeth-rotting amber-coloured fizzy drinks; deep-fried Mars Bars; deep-fried pizzas; Andy Murray’s hipbone; catastrophic World Cup campaigns; and Mary Anne MacLeod of the Isle of Lewis, who married Fred Trump and gifted the world with little Donald.

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Yet more, terrible things to emerge from Scotland include ghastly and unpopular drinks like whisky and foodstuffs like salmon, which British supermarkets have lately been kind enough to slap Union Jacks on and rebrand as ‘British’ rather than ‘Scottish’ to spare us embarrassment.  Then there’s that hellish commodity North Sea oil, which during the run-up to the 2014 Scottish independence referendum, we were assured, was totally worthless and would bankrupt an independent Scotland’s economy.  (Mind you, now that the referendum is past, the Daily Telegraph has been enthusing about how North Sea oil will be important part of the economy of post-Brexit Britain.)  And there’s the hideous Scottish renewable energy industry which, the Times informed us recently, is riddled with ‘perverse incentives’ – while, per head of population, it only produces 18 times as much as energy as its English equivalent.

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To this list of Caledonian-spawned infamy we now must add the strategy of making political points by mobbing, yelling at and intimidating opponents while they innocently try to walk to work.  I know this because a few days ago the broadcaster, journalist, author, businessperson, hillwalker and trustee of the Glasgow School of Art Muriel Gray tweeted her abhorrence at a “repugnant new style of personal abuse / pile-ons / harassment and hate-mongering (that) began as far back as the run-up to the referendum in 2014 and was consequently adopted as the norm.”

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Muriel Gray is absolutely right.  Prior to that repugnant, hate-mongering business of the 2014 referendum on Scottish independence, there was no unpleasantness involved in politics in the United Kingdom, anywhere, at all. 

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From libcom.org

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Admittedly, I spent the 1970s in Northern Ireland and I do have memories of Northern Irish politics then being full of abuse, hatred, bullying, etc.  But as the Scots hadn’t invented that stuff yet, those memories must be false.  I don’t know why I have a particular memory of my elderly grandmother on the day of an election (and shortly after my grandfather had died) phoning up my Dad in tears to tell him that some political activists had coerced her into crossing the box on her ballot paper for a candidate she hadn’t intended to vote for; but somehow, wrongly, I do.

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And all my memories of politics in the 1980s – of Labour Party Deputy Leader Dennis Healey being shouted down by members of Militant Tendency; of the long-lasting, often violent and acrimonious miners’ strike instigated by Maggie Thatcher’s Year Zero economic policies; of Peter Tatchell being slandered by the media and his Liberal Party opponents for being a homosexual when he stood as Labour Party candidate in the 1983 Bermondsey by-election; of the Federation of Conservative Students on my university campus shouting “F**k the Pope!” and “Hang Nelson Mandela!” and making life as unpleasant as possible for gay students – are surely fake memories too.  Because as Muriel Gray has implied, British politics were all sweetness and light before that awful Scottish independence referendum happened.

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What else do I mis-remember about British politics?  The Poll Tax riot in London that helped to do for Maggie Thatcher?  Can’t have happened.  John Major referring to his anti-EU tormentors in the Conservative Party as ‘bastards’?  I’m sure he never said that, really.  Scottish Labour party councillor Susan Dalgety using the 1998 Omagh bombing atrocity to liken the SNP to the IRA?  I’m sure she never said that, either.  The industrial-strength lies generated by Tony Blair and his gang as they led the country into the 2003 invasion of Iraq?  Just my imagination, surely.

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(c) STV / From amazon.com

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Or what about the hot-headed young lady who used to write columns for the Scotland on Sunday in the early 1990s and excoriate establishment right-wingers like Andrew Neil and Sir Nicholas Fairburn, plus obscenely-wealthy landowners who owned huge tracts of the Scottish countryside and kept them for themselves and their equally-rich pals to shoot grouse on, instead of letting hillwalkers roam across them?  She must have been a figment of my imagination too…  Still, it’s just as well Twitter didn’t exist back then.  Otherwise, people like this imaginary columnist would surely have been directing abuse, pile-ons and harassment at poor old Andrew, and Sir Nicholas, and Lord So-and-So of Glen-Whatever, via social media.  (Now I remember this columnist’s name – Muriel Gray.)

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But I’m wrong.  Because all politicians, political activists and political commentators were as good as gold, and as gentle as lambs, and as pure as the driven snow towards each other in those idyllic, far-off days before 2014.

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Seriously, though…  I don’t pretend that there wasn’t the odd bit of nastiness during the 2014 referendum campaign, though I feel the egg that was chucked at Jim Murphy got blown out of all proportion considering that eggs had been thrown previously at Harold Wilson, Michael Heseltine, John Major, Norman Tebbit, John Prescott, George Galloway and others with far less fanfare.  But it was a stroll in the park compared to what happened before – the murder of an MP – and after – the surge in racist incidents across Britain – the 2016 Brexit referendum.

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(c) STV

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Two last points.  If Ms Gray wants to blame someone or something for the uncivility that prevails in British politics at the moment, she’d do well to point a finger at Britain’s mainstream and mostly right-wing media, which has always been quick to coarsen political discourse and has become worse than ever in recent years.  Witness the screeds of anti-immigrant headlines and the general demonization of anybody who isn’t a right-wing, Brexit-supporting Tory in the Daily Mail, Daily Express and so on.  But of course, the mainstream media is a clique to which she belongs and many of her good buddies on Twitter are or have been writers for the same rabble-rousing newspapers.  So that isn’t going to happen.

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Secondly, it seems to me that those Unionists, like Ms Gray, who won the 2014 referendum and ensured that Scotland stuck with the United Kingdom are, not to put too fine a point on it, shitting themselves in 2019.  In the past four years they’ve seen the UK that they exhorted Scottish voters to remain in, because it was supposedly a beacon of enlightenment, tolerance, liberalism, economic health and social order, turn into a basket-case over Brexit.  And they know that if there is another referendum on Scottish independence – which I’m pretty sure there will be, sooner or later – the yes side is going to be in with a much better shout of winning it.  (The 45% of the vote they polled last time was far higher than anyone on the no side had initially expected.) 

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With the prospect of another referendum looming, it’s in their interests to exaggerate and distort the conduct of the previous one; to rewrite history and turn the event into a nightmare that no one in their right mind would want to go through again; and to generally make out that the vote on Scottish independence was the worst thing since…  Well, since the last worst thing that came out of Scotland. 

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Scotched earth policy

 

From culture24.org.uk

 

Last month, it was announced that the debt-troubled newspaper firm Johnston Press had been taken over by JPI Media, a company especially set up for the takeover by the firm’s lenders.  Soon after, it emerged that the value of one particular outpost of Johnston Press’s empire, the Edinburgh-based triumvirate of the Scotsman, Scotland on Sunday and Evening News, had dropped in value from 160 million pounds in 2005 to just four million today.

 

I’ve intended since then to write something about this sorry state of affairs – and especially about plight of the Scotsman, which at one time could justifiably claim to be Scotland’s national newspaper.  But apathy has prevented me from writing about it until today.  That’s unsurprising.  As far as my feelings about the Scotsman are concerned these days, ‘apathy’ is the operative word.

 

It’s hard to believe in 2018, but for a period of my life I read the Scotsman a lot.  When my family arrived in Scotland in 1977, it was one of the daily newspapers they had delivered to their door.  They – soon it was ‘we’ because by the time I was 12 or 13 I’d got into the habit of reading it too – liked it because everything you needed to know was there: news about Scotland, about Britain and about the wider world, plus some intelligent comment and opinion.  And for my Dad, who was a farmer, it had a good agricultural section.  It’s interesting  that in those days we never felt any urge to sample the London-based newspapers, even though they were freely available on the shelves of the local newsagent.  I suspect this was the same in many households across Scotland.

 

By the time I’d become a college student, my political beliefs had shifted to the left – and to the belief that Scotland should be ruled not by London but by the people who lived in it and should be an independent country.  Now I understood that the Scotsman was never going to be the reading matter of choice for revolutionary socialists intent on sticking it to the Man, or as it was in those Thatcherite times, the Woman.  But in its sombre, quietly-on-the-side-of-social-justice way, the old newspaper still had my respect.

 

Incidentally, for a period in the early 1990s, I really liked its sister paper, the Scotland on Sunday.  I remember living for half-a-year in Harlow in Essex, working at a private school where the senior teacher also came from Scotland.  Every Sunday morning, we left our respective houses and embarked on a desperate race to get to a particular newsagent’s shop first – the only newsagent in Harlow who stocked the Scotland on Sunday and who seemed to only ever stock one copy of it.  I enjoyed its columns, which included ones written by the agreeably curmudgeonly Kenneth Roy and the spiky, outspoken Muriel Gray, who was one of my heroines at the time since she was a knowledgeable TV music presenter, a horror-story writer, a dedicated hillwalker and a commentator with fire in her belly.

 

(Kenneth Roy, alas, passed away just a couple of weeks ago.  Meanwhile, nowadays, there’s someone called Muriel Gray who tut-tuts about how ghastly Scotland would be if it ever voted for independence and occasionally on twitter plugs opinion pieces written by her right-wing pals for the likes of the Daily Mail and the Spectator.  But I refuse to accept that this Miss Jean Brodie-esque creature is the same Muriel Gray whom I used to worship.  I believe that the real Muriel Gray has been kidnapped by aliens and replaced by an evil pod-person double.)

 

Anyway, in the late 1990s, after a lengthy stint in Japan, I found myself living in Edinburgh and I assumed I’d get into the habit of reading the Scotsman again.  I bought a couple of issues and gave up.  It’d suddenly acquired an unpleasantly right-wing editorial tone.  It was scathing about the idea that Scotland should get any degree of home-rule from London – even though the Scottish population had just voted for that, in 1997, in a referendum about the creation of a devolved Scottish parliament.  Hold on, I thought.  Hadn’t the Scotsman, the old Scotsman, been firmly in favour of Scottish devolution?

 

When I asked old friends from my college days – folk like me, interested in politics and current affairs and belonging to a demographic who’d certainly buy newspapers if they thought they were worth buying – they’d shrug and say dismissively, “The Scotsman?  Never read it now.”

 

© BBC

 

It transpired that something tragic had happened.  In the mid-1990s Scotsman Publications had been acquired by media, retail and property tycoons the Barclay Brothers, and they’d installed as their editor-in-chief Andrew Neil, formerly Rupert Murdoch’s lieutenant in the UK (and in 2018 a heavyweight political journalist with the BBC).  Back in the day in the newspaper world, Neil was the man with the reverse-Midas touch: everything he touched turned to shit.  He edited the once-respectable Sunday Times in the 1980s and transformed it into the snide, smug right-wing rag it still is today.  Other publications he was involved with like the European and the Business suffered declining sales and eventually folded.

 

Although Neil didn’t have anything to do with the Scotsman after it passed from the Barclay Brothers to Johnston Press in 2005, the newspaper remained on the right – where Neil had dragged it – and basically never recovered from the dose of journalistic syphilis it’d contracted from him during his tenure.   By 2017, the year of its 200th anniversary, its paid-for circulation was down to about 17,000 copies daily.

 

It’s not as if there hasn’t been much news for the Scotsman to cover in Scotland during the last two decades.   1998 saw the creation of the first Scottish parliament in nearly three centuries, 2007 saw the hitherto unthinkable spectacle of the Scottish Labour Party being booted out of power by the Scottish National Party, 2010 saw the financial collapse of Scotland’s biggest football club Glasgow Rangers, and 2014 saw that wee matter of the referendum on Scottish independence.  Plus we’ve had the tragic death of a Scottish First Minister, Donald Dewar; the release of Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, convicted of the Lockerbie bombing; the enthronement of President Donald Trump, someone with embarrassingly strong links to Scotland; and the removal of Scotland from the European Union thanks to the Brexit vote, even though most Scottish voters wanted to stay in it.  With so much going on, how come the Scotsman failed to capitalise?  How has the reverse happened – its current dismal readership figures suggesting that it is, to use a memorable simile by Billy Connolly, “as popular as a fart in a spacesuit”?

 

Obviously, the coming of the internet and online news services where stories are continually broken and updated impacted negatively on the Scotsman, but it hasn’t helped itself with the scorched earth policy it’s seemingly waged against its readership and potential readership.  As I said earlier, Andrew Neil’s reign put many people off it.  Then in the run-up to the 2014 independence referendum, its partisan unionist / ‘vote no’ stance surely pissed off any pro-independence readers who’d stuck with it.  Indeed, two independence-supporting people I know, of my age or slightly older, told me they’d cancelled their Scotsman subscriptions because they were scunnered by its referendum coverage.

 

Of course, many newspaper readers voted ‘no’ to independence – and their side won in 2014.  But politically nearly all the Scottish newspapers are unionist and most are right-wing, so by appealing to those people (and not the 45% who’d voted ‘yes’) the Scotsman was competing for readers in an already crowded field.

 

My Dad soldiered on reading it, mainly for the farming coverage, though he’d frequently grumble that the Scotsman generally ‘wasn’t as good as it used to be’.  Eventually, ill-health meant that he stopped buying it too.  Thus, while its right-wing British-unionist stance pissed off a sizeable section of my generation – probably the last generation in the habit of regularly buying physical newspapers – an older generation more likely to approve of its conservative politics was sickening and dying off.

 

© Daily Record

 

I have to say that only the threat of torture by thumbscrews, the rack and waterboarding would make me fork out money for a copy of it nowadays.  Not when its columnists include such specimens as Brian Wilson, a former minister under Tony Blair, a staunch supporter of the Iraq War and a man with a visceral hatred of the concept of Scottish independence and of anyone who might ever countenance voting for it; Brian Monteith, who led the campaign in 1997 against the establishment of the Scottish parliament and then demonstrated he was a person of true principle by, er, becoming a Conservative Party Member of the Scottish Parliament and pocketing an MSP’s salary there for the next seven years; and dyspeptic political journalist Euan McColm, who detests the SNP so much that steam must pour out of his ears every time Nicola Sturgeon appears on the telly.

 

Recent articles in the Scotsman and its sister newspapers have done nothing to change my mind.  A few weeks ago Brian Monteith, writing in the Scotsman’s sister paper the Evening News, penned an attack piece on Nicola Sturgeon so jaw-droppingly full of sexist jokes about her being obsessed with having her ‘nails done’, deciding ‘what blusher works best’ and making sure she ‘never runs out of killer stilettos’ that I wondered if I was reading something written by the ghost of Bernard Manning.  Meanwhile, Euan McColm wrote an article in the Scotsman dissing the Scottish Politician of the Year award, which in November 2018 went to an SNP politician, Jeane Freeman: “Are you entirely mediocre at your job,” he sneered, “barely capable of carrying out the duties for which you are employed and devoid of imagination?”  McColm had been oddly silent about the award’s shortcomings during the previous two years when it went to Ruth Davidson, leader of the Scottish Conservatives and darling of Scotland’s mainstream media.

 

I should say I only know of the above articles because I’ve read extracts of them that were posted on the Internet.  I’d no sooner click on the Scotsman website these days than I’d wade into a dung-filled midden.  Technically, the site is all over the place and is maddening to navigate.  And the comments threads below the online articles are infested with frothing British-nationalist bampots who’d probably like to see people with my political views arrested and locked up for treason.

 

So having roused myself from my apathy, I’ve offered my thoughts on the poor old Scotsman.  Once it was a staple of my daily life in Scotland, now it’s something I avoid like the plague.  And those circulation figures indicate that most other people are avoiding it too.  A few years from now, I suspect its financial situation and that of its parent company will be even more dire and it’ll end up like the Independent – which ceased its print edition in 2016 and exists now in a phantom online version, with a migraine-inducingly bad website and its news team apparently made up of journalism interns who trawl the Internet and social media looking for stories.

 

Well, as the 2018 Scotsman website is already bloody awful, it’s halfway to the Independent’s living-dead status now.

 

Remembering

 

 

Like so many other things in the Anglo-Saxon world recently, the First World War and the way we remember it seem to have been subsumed into a culture war between left and right.  Therefore, if you decide not to wear a poppy, or decide to wear a white one rather than a red one, or voice distaste for the masses of poppy-related tat on sale in late October and early November – like a 75cm x 50cm poppy tea towel (“handy in any kitchen, as well as looking gorgeous”), or a giant glass poppy-shaped bird-feeder, or a cotton / polyester poppy onesie – or even question the political decisions that sent so many young men marching off to their deaths between 1914 and 1918, you risk having a baying mob chase you on social media and accuse you of being an unpatriotic, nay traitorous, dis-respecter of the fallen.  See the abuse that Kevin Maguire, the Daily Mirror’s associate editor, has received on Twitter today for pointing out the uncomfortable fact that half the men serving in the British Army during World War One weren’t actually allowed to vote.

 

Well, with today the 100th anniversary of the end of the Great War on November 11th, 1918, it’s time for me to stick my head above the parapet and say that I’ve felt uneasy about the more ostentatious ways that the war’s centenary has been marked in the UK these last four years: starting in 2014 with Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red, which saw a huge crimson torrent of nearly 900,000 poppies (each representing a fallen soldier from Britain and its then-colonies) filling the moat at the Tower of London; and ending now with the Shrouds of the Somme, whereby 72,000 shrouded figurines (symbolising the soldiers from Britain and the colonies who died at the Battle of the Somme and were never given a proper burial) have been laid out at London’s Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park.  Both displays seem to turn commemoration of the war into something that’s part massive art installation and part transitory tourist attraction; which, despite the best intentions in the world, doesn’t convey what was surely its most important feature for the people involved in it, its absolute bloody hellishness.  I wonder what World War One veterans themselves would have made of these showy centennial commemorations – but of course, we can’t know that because the very last of them passed away in 2011.

 

Indeed, a few days ago, the journalist Ian Jack wrote a thoughtful piece for the Guardian entitled Conceptual Art Can Never Capture the Tragedy of the Great War, which mirrors my feelings.  The comments thread below the online version of the feature predictably has Jack being berated by a baying mob for his lack of patriotism, for treading “a fine line between risible and insulting” and being a “privileged liberal smughole.”  But Jack simply observes that he finds the old, traditional means of remembering the fallen — the monuments, statues, plaques, services and ceremonies that were established after World War One — more moving and more informative.

 

I agree.  At least those things were largely erected or initiated by the generation who’d been there.  No doubt there was a fair amount of spin added by the establishment, mindful of what’d happened in Russia in 1917, worried about the thousands of demobilised soldiers who’d come back expecting but not finding the ‘land fit for heroes’ promised by Lloyd George, and desperate to channel those men’s energies towards something patriotic and away from something revolutionary.  But still, for me, those monuments and rituals have always had a sad, sombre authenticity that strikes an appropriate chord.

 

When I was a kid, I had a paradoxical relationship with the First World War.  On one hand, I was born into a Protestant community in Northern Ireland, over whose shared sense of heritage the Great War and especially the Battle of the Somme loomed incredibly large.  (During the first day of the Somme, the 36th Ulster Division was the only UK division to achieve its objectives, overcoming a sizable chunk of the German line; but by the end of its second day, 5500 men in the division were dead, injured or missing.)  Yet despite the yearly gathering on Remembrance Sunday at the big commemorative plaque in the local church, and like a lot of a little boys in the 1970s, it was actually World War Two that filled my imagination, thanks to the countless movies and series about it shown on TV and the slew of World War Two-themed comics on sale every week at the newsagent’s.

 

I only properly became acquainted with World War One in the mid-1970s when the BBC repeated its legendary 26-episode documentary The Great War (originally made in 1964, the fiftieth anniversary of the war’s start), narrated by Michael Redgrave and with music by Wilfred Josephs.  The BBC aired it on Sunday afternoons.  As a result, staid, God-fearing, not-much-happening Northern Irish Sundays got indelibly linked in my mind with melancholy, black-and-white film footage of the trenches.

 

It wasn’t until much later that I realised how the war’s tragic influence had seeped across the decades into, or almost into, my own memories.  For instance, a few old spinsters, well into their 70s by then, lived in lonely seclusion around our village, and only years after did it occur to me that they’d never married because the war had culled so many young men from their generation that there’d been nobody left for them to marry.  Meanwhile, my Dad would recall how, up till the 1960s, there’d been a World War One veteran living in the village who’d been shell-shocked and had never recovered from it.  The village still had a functioning railway station then and, supposedly, every morning the poor man would visit it, march along the platform and salute the guards on the trains – believing from their uniforms that they were army officers.

 

And it wasn’t until 2008 that I went back to Ireland with my Dad and finally visited Ballyconnell Parish Church in County Cavan, on whose wall is a Roll of Honour commemorating the local men who served in uniform during the two world wars.  The names of two of my great-uncles, Alfred and Walter, are recorded there for World War One.  Both of them survived it.

 

 

In 1977, my family moved from Northern Ireland to Scotland, where World War One was less loaded with historical significance on a collective level; but was still remembered poignantly on a local level because it’d reaped a dreadful harvest among the populations of Scotland’s cities, towns and villages.  Peebles, the town nearest our new home, had an impressive cenotaph commemorating the fallen, which had been unveiled in a ceremony in 1922 by none other than Field Marshal Douglas Haig, the 1st Earl Haig and commander of the British Expeditionary Force during the latter three years of the war.

 

(The Edinburgh-born Haig was massively popular at the time and his funeral in 1928 was marked by a day of national mourning.  Which seems hard to credit now, given that historical revisionism in the form of, say, Alan Clark’s 1961 historical volume The Donkeys, Richard Attenborough’s 1969 film Oh, What a Lovely War! and the 1989 TV series Blackadder Goes Forth has made us less inclined to see him as a national hero and more inclined to see him as a deluded mass-murdering incompetent with such posthumous nicknames as ‘Butcher Haig’ and ‘the Butcher of the Somme’.  As Rowan Atkinson remarked in one episode of Blackadder, “Haig is about to make yet another gargantuan effort to move his drinks cabinet six inches closer to Berlin.”)

 

Less fancy than the cenotaph in Peebles was the small statue of a soldier, head bowed in remembrance, that’d served as the war memorial in the nearby village of Walkerburn since 1920.  The statue made the news in 1998 when it went missing, presumably stolen to be melted down for its metal.  As a result, Peebles’ Beltane Studios were commissioned to make a similar (but bigger) statue as a replacement.  Then, after the new statue had been installed, the old one was retrieved by the police, still intact, and returned to Walkerburn – so that now it has two war memorials.  The original was placed in a different location, opposite the town’s old mill building.  During World War One, Walkerburn lost a higher percentage of its men on the battlefield than any other settlement in Scotland.  So it certainly deserves its two war memorials.

 

My favourite memorial, however, is the one pictured at the top of this entry: the one commemorating the men of the picturesque Slitrig Valley a few miles south of the Borders town of Hawick, which also stands near the entrance of a former military camp.  It indicates how even the remotest, most tranquil-looking communities couldn’t escape the baleful reach of the war.  And for me that still has more impact than floods of ceramic poppies or plains of shrouded figurines.

 

Le Cirque de Salmond

 

© Daily Record

 

I’d always assumed there was no dirt to dig up on Alex Salmond, ex-leader of the Scottish National Party and First Minister of Scotland from 2007 to 2014.  I assumed this for the simple reason that if there had been, his countless enemies in the old Scottish establishment and the Scottish press – the latter largely a sub-set of the former – would have dug it up and used it to wreck his reputation long ago.

 

Thus, it came as a surprise when last Thursday the Daily Record reported allegations of Salmond sexually harassing two female Scottish government employees while he was First Minister, which have recently been the subject of an inquiry by the Scottish government and have now been passed on to the police.

 

What didn’t surprise me was the absolute circus in Scotland’s newspapers that followed the disclosure of these allegations.  ‘SALMOND SCANDAL,’ screamed one headline.  ‘ECK SEX PROBE,’ barked another.  ‘BOOZED-UP SALMOND “TOUCHED WOMAN’S BREASTS,”’ brayed a third.

 

You got the impression the hacks were throwing so much muck at Salmond because they hoped that, even if the allegations against him weren’t proven, the muck would still stick and besmirch his reputation forever after.  Occasionally the coverage went beyond even that.  From some headlines, you’d have thought Salmond wasn’t just under investigation but had been already tried, found guilty and sentenced.  The Scottish Sun claimed that he was in a ‘Shakespearean play’s final act’ and had ‘gone from national hero to laughing stock’.  In the Times, a piece by Alex Massie bore the headline, ‘WHATEVER HAPPENS, IT’S OVER FOR SALMOND’.  No wonder some people on Twitter likened the sentiments to the old approach for detecting witches, i.e. by chucking them into the river.  If you float, you’re a witch, and you’re dead.  Whereas if you sink, you’re not a witch, but you’re still dead.

 

Before I continue, let me warn that, like most of the press coverage, this post is going to be all about Salmond.  There’ll be little reference to the women who’ve made the allegations, even though they may well be the victims in this ugly affair – but they’re difficult to focus on as they’re currently staying anonymous.   Also, let me say that if Salmond is proven guilty of harassment, I believe he deserves everything he gets.  Politically, legally and reputationally, he should be strung up by the balls.

 

But I can’t see how the reporting of the story so far, reeking of score-settling, vendettas and political partisanship, is going to help anyone involved.  Not only Salmond, who’s still supposed to be innocent until proven otherwise; but also the women making the allegations.  If there’s substance to what they are saying – and again there may well be – then they’ll surely want the process of the investigation to appear measured and impartial.  They’ll want Salmond to be convicted after a fair hearing.  They’ll not want biased press coverage giving it the shrill trappings of a witch-hunt, because that’ll leave people believing the guilty party isn’t really guilty but is the victim of a stitch-up.

 

It’s long been obvious that many influential citizens in Scotland have hated Salmond’s guts.  I remember living in London in the early 1990s after Salmond had been made SNP leader, and drinking occasionally with a Labour Party spin doctor, also from Scotland.  He had no inhibitions about telling me, at every opportunity, what a detestable creep he thought Salmond was.  With his smart-Alec manner (ouch) and his habitual smirk, which frequently expanded into a Cheshire-cat grin, and his arrogance that no doubt came from knowing he was intellectually streets ahead of the numpties making up the majority of Westminster’s Scottish MPs, you could understand how Salmond was an annoyance to his opponents.  But back then the SNP had just three MPs, so he at least could be dismissed as a minor annoyance.

 

How long ago that seems now.  In those far-off days, the Labour Party controlled much of Scotland at council level, provided the lion’s share of Scottish MPs for Westminster and, when it arrived in 1999, dominated the Scottish parliament too.  If their party also happened to be in power at Westminster, which it was occasionally, Scottish Labour-ites must have felt like lords of all they surveyed.  If the Conservatives were in power at Westminster, which they were most of the time, those Scottish Labour-ites grumbled a bit, but diplomatically kept their heads down while right-wing Tory policies were imposed on Scotland.

 

This suited Scotland’s newspapers, owned by magnates and companies that were sympathetic to either the Labour party or the Conservative one.  The Tory papers could rest easy because although Scotland was a Labour fiefdom, they knew the party’s Scottish branch wasn’t going to kick up a big fuss about Scotland’s political will being kept subservient to that of London.  Meanwhile, the relationship between Scottish journalists and Scottish politicians was ickily close.  As Iain Macwhirter observed in his book Disunited Kingdom (2015), “Scottish journalism is almost as tribal as Scottish politics, and Labour has traditionally called the shots in the Scottish media through its extensive patronage networks.”  And if you were a columnist in a Scottish newspaper, you could have a high conceit of yourself indeed – luxuriating as a big, opinion-forming fish in a safe, wee political pool.

 

Then in 2007 the sky fell in.  Salmond’s SNP won the biggest majority of seats in the Scottish parliament.  They’ve remained in power there during the 11 years and two Scottish parliamentary elections since.  They also won the majority of Scotland’s Westminster seats in the UK general elections in 2015 and 2017 (admittedly a lower number in 2017, but still more than all the other parties’ Scottish seats put together).  They lost the independence referendum in 2014 – an event that led to Salmond resigning as First Minister – but the percentage of the vote they got, 45%, was still far more than what anyone had expected at the campaign’s start.

 

This stuck in a great many craws – not just in those of the Scottish Labour Party, with its historical sense of entitlement, but in those of the majority of Scotland’s newspapers, who discovered to their horror that no matter how negatively they reported the SNP and its performance as the new Scottish government, a significantly large proportion of the Scottish public ignored them and kept on voting SNP.   All that, plus a catastrophic drop in Scottish newspaper sales during the 21st century – the Herald, for instance, declining from a circulation of 85,000 in 2003 to one of 30,000 in 2016.  Scottish journalistic teeth gnashed frenziedly while their influence dwindled.  Meanwhile, the grin of Alex Salmond, the bastard who seemed emblematic of the good times coming to an end, grew even wider, his mood grew ever merrier and his girth grew ever more Falstaffian.

 

 From twitter.com

 

Of course, Salmond’s media and political foes have been desperate to get back at him and he’s looked increasingly vulnerable since he lost his Westminster seat in the middle of 2017.  To be honest, lately, Salmond hasn’t just given his detractors ammunition for this.  He’s handed them a whole arsenal.  In August 2017, he put on at the Edinburgh Festival a chat-show called Alex Salmond: Unleashed, which from all accounts was a graceless, self-indulgent and ego-driven affair.  Mind you, those accounts were mostly published in the Scottish press, so they weren’t ever going to be positive.

 

Soon after, to cries of outrage, he developed his stage-show into a programme called The Alex Salmond Show, which was broadcast on RT, Russia’s international English-language news channel.  The show has featured some interesting guests, including Charles Puigdemont, Alastair Campbell, Bertie Ahern, Mary McAleese, Peter Tatchell, Brian Cox, Doddie Weir and Jackie Stewart.  And there’s been plenty of stone-throwing in glass houses among the show’s many political critics – after all, both Conservative and Labour MPs have accepted payments to appear on RT in the past, and UK Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn has happily shown his face on Iran’s notorious Press TV, and former Welsh Liberal Democrat leader Lembit Opik still hosts a show for the same outfit.  Nonetheless, despite all the humbug, associating himself with Vladimir Putin’s televisual voice to the world was neither a wise nor ethical move on Salmond’s part.

 

Still, now, it would be edifying if Scotland’s politicos and pundits could stand back and quietly allow the police investigation of Salmond to run its course, so that the truth can be finally and convincingly arrived at – and if there’s been criminal behavior, it gets punished, and if people have suffered from criminal behavior, amends are made to them.  A lot of folk would do well to wind their necks in for a while.  But that won’t happen, will it?  The next few months in the Scottish media are going to be a circus of lurid Alex Salmond headlines – le Cirque de Salmond.

 

Enger-lund

 

From fifa.com

 

It’s World Cup time and England have been playing unexpectedly well.  They’re in the final four with a semi-final game scheduled for seven o’clock BST tonight against Croatia.

 

Less unexpected is the debate that flares up north of the border whenever England qualify for a World Cup, irrespective of whether Scotland have also qualified or, as has been the case these last 20 years, they haven’t qualified.  The question of this debate is: Should Scottish people support England during their World Cup games?

 

As usual, opinion pieces have clogged the pages of newspapers and current affairs magazines, penned by Scottish journalists adding their tuppence-worth to the subject.  Since the first kick of the ball in the first World Cup game of 2018, we’ve had Lesley Riddoch in the National, Chris Deerin in the New Statesman, Kevin McKenna in the Herald, Stephen Daisley in the Spectator and many more.

 

Daisley, for instance, stated his belief that Scots are obliged to support England in the competition: “If Scotland were heading into a World Cup semi-final – come now, it’s not nice to laugh – you can just picture the response south of the border.  England fans would throw their support behind the plucky 11…  Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn would discover long-lost great grannies who once had a fish supper in Portobello.  The Sun would give away novelty kilts bearing the legend ‘It’s coming hame’; the Mirror would reprint the lyrics of Flower of Scotland for its readers to sing along.”  Funnily enough, I was in the UK two years ago when Wales reached the semi-finals of the European Championship and I don’t recall Therezza, Jezza, the Sun and the Mirror being so enthusiastic about the Welsh.

 

© Bob Thomas / Getty Images

 

Back in the days of my youth, there was certainly a strong Scottish penchant for not supporting England at football and, indeed, for supporting any team playing against England.  When England took on Argentina in the 1986 World Cup, everyone I knew in Scotland hooted with laughter when Maradona showed the poor old English the door aided by his dodgy ‘hand of God’ goal.  This was despite the fact that, as part of the UK, Scotland had been at war with Argentina only four years earlier, as of course had England.

 

During the 1990 World Cup, the atmosphere was electric in my regular pub in Aberdeen when England played Cameroon.  This was helped no end by the entry of a group of Cameroonian students, come to watch the game on TV.  While the game was going Cameroon’s way, the students enlivened the pub by performing some traditional Cameroonian dancing, which the locals – rather atypically for Aberdonians, a people not given to over-exuberance – heartily joined in with.  And when England stole the game 3-2 in extra time, the dancing stopped and both Scottish and Cameroonian faces were long and downcast.  Later, when England went out in the semi-finals courtesy of Germany, someone in Glasgow celebrated by painting a local statue of St George in the German team colours.

 

Footballing-wise, it was easy to be ‘anyone-but-England’ in Scotland at the time.  Sometimes it felt like a political protest.  The UK was governed in an autocratic and centralised fashion by a Conservative government led by that most English-seeming of figures, Margaret Thatcher.  A majority of Scots were anti-Thatcherite, but their objections seemed to matter not a jot with those in power in London whose economic policies were dismantling Scotland’s traditional heavy industries and wrecking its traditional working-class communities.

 

Also, much of England’s travelling support seemed to consist of hooligans and / or racists.  In a recent, excellent piece about English football and English identity in the New Statesman, Jason Cowley recalls how a memorable 2-0 England win over Brazil in 1984 was, in the eyes of certain fans, a 1-0 England victory.  To them, one of the goals didn’t count because it’d been scored by a black player, John Barnes.  So who’d want to back a team supported by that unlovable bunch?

 

From www.soccer-ireland.com

 

Conversely, now that Scotland has its own devolved parliament and has at least a measure of responsibility for its own affairs, and now that the new generation of English fans have a better reputation than their predecessors, the anyone-but-England mentality seems much less pronounced in Scotland.  But I don’t see why, as Daisley thinks, Scots should be compelled to support England.  Sure, they can support them if they want to.  But it shouldn’t be shocking if they don’t want to, for a couple of reasons.

 

Firstly, plenty of Scottish football fans still see England as their great rival on the footballing stage – not, admittedly, that they’ve had an opportunity to compete against England in any major tournaments during the 21st century because the Scotland side has been too gash to qualify for them.  And it’s a basic law of sporting physics that rivals, especially near-neighbours, do not support each other.  Rather, they’ll happily support their rivals’ opponents.  When Newcastle United took on Manchester United in the 1999 FA Cup Final, I’d bet that very few Sunderland fans, ten miles down the way, were backing them.  And I doubt if many, or indeed any, Celtic supporters were cheering on their old Glasgow rivals Rangers when the latter were up against FC Zenit St Petersburg in the 2008 UEFA Cup final.

 

This rule extends to national football teams.  I’ve had Dutch people tell me that they don’t want Germany to win, and Ethiopians have said the same about Egypt.  And to other sports – I remember a long-ago rugby world cup where an Australian friend told me how disgruntled he was at hearing certain New Zealanders, whom he knew and considered good mates, cheering on any team that played Australia.  I also remember a Canadian friend asking me one time in a puzzled tone about the anyone-but-England mentality among Scottish football fans.  “So when the USA play Finland at ice hockey,” I asked her, “who do you Canadians support?”  “Finland of course!” she said immediately.

 

Secondly – and this isn’t the fault of the England players or supporters – the amount of hype that accompanies England’s entry into every footballing competition, generated by English-based pundits, TV stations and newspapers, puts you off them.  It’s immense and overwhelming and rapidly becomes maddening if you live in parts of the United Kingdom that aren’t England but are still saturated by England’s media.  These days, in fact, most of the xenophobia isn’t to be found among the fans, bad boys though they were in the past, but among the tabloids.  Witness the amount of gloating that went on when Germany were knocked out in an uncharacteristically early stage of this World Cup: SCHADENFREUDE declared the front-page headline in the Sun, which then provided a short definition (“Pleasure derived from another person’s dissatisfaction”) presumably because it considered its readers too dense to know what the word meant.

 

© Daily Express / From the BBC

 

No doubt the frenzied jingoistic coverage of this year’s World Cup has been ramped up in England’s right-wing, Brexit-crazed newspapers in the hope that it’ll help to bury news of the ultra-shambles, mega-shambles, hyper-shambles and total absolute omni-shambles that Theresa May’s government is currently making of the Brexit negotiations.  They probably hope too that if England win the World Cup, it’ll take people’s minds off the 1930s / Great Depression-style economic misery that’ll inevitably follow a hard Brexit.

 

Personally, I don’t see any reason why I should support England as it just isn’t my national football team – for me, that title is shared jointly by Scotland and Northern Ireland.  And for the reasons mentioned above, I’ve borne the anyone-but-England attitude in the past.  But I bear no ill-feeling against this current England side and I’m happy to see them do well.

 

Partly it’s because the current England squad seem like a decent bunch of blokes, certainly in comparison with some of the bloated egos and elephantine senses of entitlement that’ve populated past squads.  (The nadir was surely the England World Cup squad of 2006, who rolled up in Germany with their Sex and the City-style wives and girlfriends.  This led to the gruesome spectacle of Victoria Beckham, Cheryl Cole, Coleen Rooney and co. descending regularly on the boutiques of Baden-Baden, with the paparazzi in tow, and blowing more money in a single shopping trip than most England fans earned in a year.)

 

I also like English manager Gareth Southgate, who has executed his World Cup duties with intelligence, humility and compassion.  I even had a lump in my throat when, after England got past Colombia in their quarter-final win game, Southgate saw a Colombian player who’d missed an all-important penalty crying and went over and gave him a hug.

 

And he knows how to wear a waistcoat.  These things are important.

 

© CNN

 

So I can support this version of England – that is, if I embargo all English newspapers beforehand and have the TV volume turned down so that my brain isn’t turned to mush by any drivelling, hubristic English-TV-studio commentary.  But I’m still not sure I want them to win the World Cup.  I shudder to imagine the English media’s reaction.  They’d be braying and crowing about it for years.  Come to think of it, they still haven’t shut up about winning the bloody thing in 1966.

 

Then again, if that happens and the “We won! We won!” hysteria gets so unbearable, Scotland could be independent by Christmas.