Social Conscience (2)

1. INT. A RUN-DOWN HARDWARE SHOP.

BEHIND THE COUNTER, THE MAN IN THE CARPET SLIPPERS AND ANGELA RAYNOR T-SHIRT (LET’S CALL HIM KEIR) IS WEARING A BROWN SHOPCOAT AND PLASTIC BAGS OVER HIS SLIPPERS. THE SHINY-SUITED SVELTE MAN (LET’S CALL HIM RISHI) ENTERS.

RISHI: Good morning. I would like to purchase some double glazing please.

KEIR: Mmm, I don’t think we have that. Perhaps I’d be able to interest you in our latest scheme whereby you pay for double-glazing, but we actually cover all relevant orifices with insulation-grade chipboard and donate the money to charity instead.

RISHI: I’m sorry, I don’t understand.

KEIR: You can choose the charity yourself, of course… within limits. The Labour Party has always (well, mostly) been a particular favourite of mine.

RISHI: I just wanted some new windows. The sign outside says that you sell double glazing. Replacement windows, that’s what I want.

KEIR: Oooh, want, want, want. Me, me, me. What’s the matter with you, have you never encountered the principal of redistribution of wealth? Have you never heard of charity? Have you never heard of compassion? Have you ever met my colleague, Emily?

EMILY THORNBERRY LOOMS INTO VIEW. SHE IS VERY VERY CROSS INDEED. SHE HAS THE KIND OF GLINT IN HER EYE THAT SUGGESTS THAT THE AFTERNOON MUFFINS MAY WELL NOT BE COMPLETELY TO YOUR LIKING. SHE IS CARRYING AN AXE.

KEIR: Emily is our family planning expert. I hope you weren’t planning on having one.

RISHI: Well, perhaps ‘planning’ is not the best of words. I mean I wasn’t planning on having any more….. that is…..

EMILY APPROACHES

RISHI: I wonder, do you sell loft insulation?

KEIR: Certainly sir, would you like our optional ‘Give a home to one of our under-privileged comrades’ scheme? Perhaps you would like to buy some shares in the NHS? Maybe you would like to lead the whole country in ‘The Locomotion’ (if you can get ASLEF back on board)?

RISHI SHAKES HIS HEAD. EMILY MOVES NEARER.

RISHI: I will not be deflected. That is, yes please.

KEIR: Good, now all you have to do is sign here. And here. And here. And here. And here…

EMILY LOOMS OVER RISHI AS HE IS MADE TO SIGN SEVERAL REAMS OF PAPER. WHEN HE IS FINISHED SHE PICKS UP THE PAPERS AND KEIR GIVES RISHI HIS MARCHING ORDERS, A VOUCHER ENTITLING HIM TO A HALF PRICE FISH SUPPER AT THE HOMELESS SHELTER OF HIS CHOICE AND A PEERAGE IN HIS OWN RESIGNATION HONOURS LIST.

RISHI: Hang on a minute. What about your promises? You know how keen I am on keeping promises. Do I get my loft insulation?

KEIR: No.

RISHI: I thought not. So what do I get then, six months subscription to the RSPB, a souvenir pencil embossed with the (theoretical) Sunak coat of arms, a three month supply of Spam and a virus scanner that will have my laptop speaking Cantonese before I can even think about hitting ctrl-alt-delete?

KEIR: No.

RISHI: Have I adopted a Bengal tiger, a pangolin, a retired three-legged regimental goat, a middle-aged rock star with a more tenuous grip on reality than David Icke’s dresser?

KEIR: No

RISHI: Not Liz Truss again!

KEIR SHAKES HIS HEAD

RISHI (cont.): Well, what the hell have I signed up for then?

KEIR PLACES A LARGE CARDBOARD BOX ON THE COUNTER.

KEIR: There we are sir, one Social Conscience Starter Pack, including a free red nose, a plastic halo with built-in flashing LED’s and an ‘I give to charity – do not pass’ car sticker.

HE PASSES THE BOX TO RISHI, WHO, WITH A RESIGNED SHRUG, TURNS TO LEAVE.

KEIR: Oh, by the way. Emily has eaten all the chocolate…

I think that you might have worked out who Rishi and Keir are (those of you with robust constitutions may even wish to Google Emily Thornberry – although I couldn’t, in all honesty, recommend it) and you may well, quite rightly, think that the last two posts have no specific relevance to you, but just try substituting those names with Don & Joe, Tony & Pete, Chris H & Chris L, Justin & Pierre, Emmanuel & Patrick, Droupad & Rahil, Luiz & Jair etc etc and I think you will probably understand what I am trying to say (which puts you one up on me). If there isn’t a suitable alternative for you (above) it is almost certainly because the political situation is impossibly complicated (yes, Romania, I am looking at you) or I am simply too thick to work it out. I know where I’d put my money…

PS normal service will almost certainly be resumed…

Social Conscience

Photo by Mauru00edcio Mascaro on Pexels.com

1. EXT. THE FRONT DOORWAY OF A TERRACED HOUSE.

A VERY SVELTE MAN, WEARING A SUIT THAT COST MORE THAN THE WHOLE NEIGHBOURHOOD HE IS IN AND CARRYING A CLIPBOARD KNOCKS ON A DOOR WHICH IS ANSWERED BY A MORE SOBERLY SUITED MAN WEARING CARPET SLIPPERS AND AN ‘ANGELA RAYNOR’ T-SHIRT UNDER A HAND-KNITTED CARDIGAN.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Aah, good morning. I wonder, could I ask you, when was the last time you thought about the less fortunate?

SLIPPERED MAN: I beg your pardon?

CLIPBOARD MAN: Well, when did you last worry about poverty in this and other countries?

SLIPPERED MAN: Look, it’s Sunday. I don’t have time for all of this religious nonsense. I’ve got a cat to worm. Go and ask them next door. They’ve got an electric car…

CLIPBOARD MAN: I just wondered if you ever consider the problems of starvation and the human aftermath of war

SLIPPERED MAN: Not since ‘I’m A Celebrity’ finished, no.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Well, do you mind me asking, how long is it since you lay awake at night troubled by the plight of those who have to survive on the most basic of state educations? No tuckshop raids, no institutionalised bullying, no cold showers, no buggery, no guaranteed post in the Foreign Office… Not certain? Then perhaps I can interest you in a social conscience.

SLIPPERED MAN: A what?

CLIPBOARD MAN: Imagine being able to hold your head up in trendy company. The centre of attraction rather than a rather tawdry sideshow. Wouldn’t it be nice if people showed a little interest in what you had to say?

SLIPPERED MAN: I’ve been captivating audiences with my oratory since I was a child. When I speak, I’ll have you know, I have the whole of my party in the palm of my hand.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Well, it’s nice for you that they’ll fit. Look, our ‘Social Conscience Starter Pack’ comes complete with free membership to that organisation… you know the one, Sting and Bono and Peter Gabriel… I forget what they’re called, but they do make jolly nice records. Also, you get a number of collection envelopes and a signed photograph of … (HE STUDIES THE PHOTO CLOSELY.) Actually, I think that’s Michael Gove. You needn’t have that if you don’t want it. Now, if you’ll just sign here. (HE HANDS THE CLIPBOARD AND A PEN TO THE SLIPPERED MAN.)

SLIPPERED MAN: But…

CLIPBOARD MAN: You can start on your way towards a real social conscience.

SLIPPERED MAN: I already have a social conscience.

CLIPBOARD MAN: What?

SLIPPERED MAN: I said, I already have a social conscience.

CLIPBOARD MAN Are you sure? (CONSULTS HIS CLIPBOARD.) Have you just moved in here?

SLIPPERED MAN; No

CLIPBOARD MAN: But this is a Tory neighbourhood.

SLIPPERED MAN: I am a new kind of Tory. I went to a (semi) State Grammar School, I was Director of Public Prosecutions, I sometimes go to the local public hostelry and drink a half pint of the filthy brown stuff they drink in there. I have played darts. I have played pool. I have played ‘Shove Crypto currency’. I have a social conscience all of my own.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Do you work for any charities?

SLIPPERED MAN: I am the leader of the Labour Party. I am a personal friend of Lenny Henry.

CLIPBOARD MAN: But do you lie awake at night worrying about third world debt?

SLIPPERED MAN: Only if I’ve eaten too much at a charity dinner and I can’t shift the wind.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Do you understand the culture of the common man? What do you think of football for instance?

SLIPPERED MAN: Oh I love it. It’s so much better since they’ve got rid of all those noisy people in the silly scarves and hats. Do you know, if you look through the little glass partition sometimes on match days, there are a couple of dozen people running about in shorts, chasing a ball. Some kind of working class custom I shouldn’t wonder…

CLIPBOARD MAN: And do you have any working class friends?

SLIPPERED MAN: I share a car with two of them almost every day.

CLIPBOARD MAN: They’ll be your P.A. and your chauffeur then?

SLIPPERED MAN: Yes, of course. Salt of the earth, both of them. One of them lives in a council house I think. Children go to a state school, big TV, that sort of thing… Oh yes, I’m a twenty first century politician; not afraid to don the PPE and get close and personal with the common man – and common woman, of course.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Oh well, bully for you. Talk about ‘I’m all right, Jack’, what about me? I’ve got to earn a living, you know.

SLIPPERED MAN: Have you? Really? Doesn’t your wife do that for you? Why don’t you try selling something that’s just a little more usual: something that’s just a mite more… tangible, perhaps. Brushes, encyclopaedia, superfast broadband… something like that? Different’s o.k. until everything is different. Then it’s just the same.

CLIPBOARD MAN: Oh, it’s all right for you with your shiny new social conscience. You’ve got absolutely nothing to lose. What about me? I have a shiny new suit. Don’t you think that people should have started to understand how important I am? I have near-perfect teeth. This hair is all my own.

SLIPPERED MAN: Honestly, I think you’re taking this whole business a little too seriously. Lighten up. Here, you can walk my whippet.

CLIPBOARD MAN: (TAKES THE PROFFERED DOG LEASH.) You’re right I suppose – although I’ll deny ever saying so. I am very lucky to have so many good people behind me.

SLIPPERED MAN: Like Suella?

CLIPBOARD MAN: And Shapps. A godsend.

SLIPPERED MAN: For me perhaps. I tell you what, whilst I’m thinking of Braverman and Shapps being behind you, why don’t we bury the hatchet for a little while. Would you like a cup of tea?

CLIPBOARD MAN: Yes please.

SLIPPERED MAN: Come on then, you can tell me all about your future plans. Does it worry you when people say that you lead without a franchise?

CLIPBOARD MAN (CRESTFALLEN.) It was the Truss woman’s fault. I thought that anyone had to look good after her…

SLIPPERED MAN (PUTS A COMFORTING HAND AROUND THE CLIPBOARD MAN’S SHOULDER AND LEADS HIM INTO THE HOUSE.) Come in, perhaps I can give you a few tips. I followed Corbyn. By the way, could I interest you in double glazing at all? How about loft insulation..?

I’m sorry if this all sounds barmy to anyone outside the UK. Just be assured that it seems just as crazy from here and, be content that, wherever you are in the world, they’re all as bonkers. Thank goodness they’re in charge, huh?

A Fair Go

You know how it goes: sometimes you know what you want to say, but have no idea of how to say it and sometimes you’re just not at all sure of what you want to say. Sometimes it’s best to not even try and sometimes it feels as though you have no control whatsoever over what eventually finds its way onto the page anyway. Sometimes it all gets on top of you and you realise that no-one is taking the world at all seriously.

It is very rare for me to stray into the world of politics. I do, like everybody else, have my own political beliefs – chief amongst them that all professional politicians are charlatans – but I do realise that they are of absolutely zero interest to anybody else. Nobody ever had their politics changed by the politics of anybody else: it simply does not work that way. There is, to my mind, no such thing as ‘political debate’, because ‘debate’ suggests the willingness to at least listen to and consider opposing views. ‘Political Debate’ actually just suggests the attempt to shout louder than anybody else. Nobody listens. Ever. I have never been a great fan of political satire simply because it is only ever funny to those who agree. Jokes have to be democratic. Mostly they are tyrants.

I am absolutely certain that some people must enter politics for ‘the right reasons’ but I am far from certain what ‘the right reasons’ are. Whatever, they very quickly become sidelined by the thirst for power and wealth. Everybody in politics is there because they want the top job: that is, they believe that ultimately they know better than everybody else. Not a trait that is generally encouraged in any other walk of life. It’s a very sobering thought that all of our lives depend on none of them ever going straight off the top board.

For me, politics should be about giving everybody a chance (what I believe is called ‘A Fair Go’ in Australia). We won’t all get the same chance of course – that could never work – and not everyone will take advantage of the chance they are given, but for the world to be even slightly equitable, everyone has to have some kind of chance on offer. It does not need to be a chance to be rich – there are many reasons not to want that – but just to live in peace would be a great start. The chance to live one’s own life, in peace, not limiting or being limited by the lives of others should be the universal goal. Everyone should have the possibility of a fair go. It should be the aim of everyone in power. The price of a peaceful life should be the responsibility of ensuring that it is also available to everyone else.

So many people do not have a chance. So many, through no fault of their own, have all their chances taken from them by those who simply do not believe that they should ever have had them in the first place.

A life without laughter is barely worth living, but sometimes the world seems too bleak for joy.

What follows on Wednesday and Friday is all I have this week. I hope you will forgive me.

Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it wrongly and applying unsuitable remedies – Groucho Marx

Politics is the systematic organization of hatred – Henry Adams

A politician is a fellow who will lay down your life for his country – Texas Guinan

They couldn’t pour piss out of a shoe if the instructions were written on the heel – Lyndon B. Johnson

PS if anyone out there does have all the answers, please shout them out very very loudly…

My Very Last Word on the Forthcoming Election – Almost Definitely…

person dropping paper on box — Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels.com

Whilst I have, in common with most people I would presume, my own political beliefs, I also have an over-riding conviction – to which I intend to rigidly adhere over the coming few weeks – that I should keep them to myself. It’s bad enough having to listen to some old eejit’s opinions at the best of times, let alone at the time of an election. Sadly, it would seem that President Trump does not share my reticence. Strange, because he would not, I am sure, be too keen on a foreign head of state – President Putin for instance – trying to influence the US election… Anyway, let’s leave that kind of thing in the hands of those who are paid to bang on and on without remorse. I will have no problem whatsoever in ignoring altogether the politics of the present situation. Not so easy, though, to ignore the situation itself.

According to the media, this is our first December election in almost a century. And…? I mean, it may be true, but so what? What are they suggesting is the relevance? The evening newscaster suggested that many will choose not to vote if it is cold. Really? What if it’s windy or rainy? This is the UK – there is an almost one hundred percent chance of at least two from three. If it should be none of the above, it will be seen as a certain sign that the world is about to end and it will, anyway, be far too hot to go outside. The risk of British voters not going out to vote because of inclement weather is, I would estimate, roughly equal to the chances of them not moaning about the weather in the first place. For we Brits, the weather is never suitable for anything. We will complain about a rainy day in the middle of a drought if it stops us putting the washing out. Are we unique as a nation in suspecting that everything comes along at the wrong time, for the wrong reason?

Anyway, if you don’t fancy a trip to the polling station in the cold, then just accept a lift from the first party activist to knock on your door. They have no way of checking how you have voted – although you may well have to fib a bit if you don’t want to have the Rich Tea plucked from your treacherous grasp by a slightly bearded lady in a tweed twinset who tells you that you can jolly well catch the bus home.

I’ve also heard some dark mutterings about the Universities being closed and the students therefore unable to vote. OK. Well, apparently many Uni’s are not closed by the twelfth and, in any case, seventy percent of students vote for their home constituency. These are our country’s elite. I’m pretty sure that they can work out how to register for a postal vote.

Elections are always going to be at an inconvenient time for somebody. There was a call, I noticed, to make election day a public holiday, which is a great idea except it completely ignores the large section of the population – the doctors, the nurses, the firemen, the policemen, the public service workers, the shop workers – who have to work as usual through public holidays. How would a tired voter even drag themselves to the polling booth without the ability to pick up a skinny latté on the way? What would become of our streets if the cleaners were not around to clear up all the gnawed fingernails of those trying to make up their minds? Imagine a polling station with no staff – you would certainly have to take your own biro for a start.

I am always amazed by the number of people who do not vote, but then again, I am always amazed by the number of people who never watch the news. There will be, on the day, I am sure, a significant number of people who do not even know that there is an election (although many of them will know what Phil Mitchell is currently up to). It is difficult to envisage voting ever being made compulsory here unless ‘Don’t Know’ is added to the ballot paper – the problem being that in the current situation, it may well win.

Anyway, the reason that I mention all of this is simply because I wanted to tell you that I won’t be mentioning it again. At least not directly. I am certain that most people in the UK will be bored to death with the whole circus before polling day – and elsewhere probably more interested in the outcome of ‘Strictly’ to be honest. My dad always used to say ‘It doesn’t matter who wins, it’s always us that pays.’ Certainly, the main option on offer from all directions on this occasion seems to be to pay the piper and then listen to whatever tune he/she decides to play, wherever he/she decides to play it.

In a nutshell, it is my belief that you should all vote – but only if you want to. You should vote however your conscience tells you to vote and, thereafter, it would probably be wise to keep it to yourself. Almost certainly, the only people wanting to know will be those who are looking for an argument – and you don’t need an election to find one of those…

NB For those of you from outside of the UK, to whom portions of this tract might just as well have been written in Sanskrit, I can only apologise. If it’s any consolation, it makes no sense to us either.

Generally speaking, politicians are generally speaking – John Sergeant

I think the voters misunderestimate me – George W Bush

Political skill is the ability to foretell what is going to happen tomorrow, next week, next month and next year. And to have the ability afterwards to explain why it didn’t happen – Winston Churchill

Finding My Own Way to Fight

My dad always told me, ‘If you’re going to make yourself a target, you might as well make yourself a big one: that way, even if they hit you, they might just miss the painful bits’. And he knew a thing or two my dad because, although I have been winged a time or two, I have never really been floored.

I was a small ginger kid. I learned quickly that I had two choices in my life: learn to fight or learn to make people laugh. I chose the latter because, quite frankly, I was never much cop at the former. Obviously the best thing I could have done would have been to keep my head down, but I was never great at that either. Although by no means a performer (the fear of failure has always overwhelmed the prospect of success) I never quite mastered the knack of keeping my mouth shut. I’ve got better as I’ve got older, but my brain is still much slower off the blocks than my mouth. My brain, when it eventually does decide to intervene, often does so in such a way as to make things worse. Like a railway signalman who averts disaster by diverting a speeding train away from a broken siding, but into the path of a runaway express, it generally succeeds only in drawing attention onto what could, otherwise, have been ignored. When put under pressure, my brain seldom makes the right decision. At least, not until it’s much too late, by which time, of course, it has become the wrong one.

Now, I can hear your teeth gnashing from here. This is not news to you, I know: we have covered this ground before, you and I. So, why are we back here again? Well, it all started out with a customer at work. I don’t like to discuss politics: it gets me nowhere. If I tell you my opinions, you will either agree with me (which, seeing as we were not disagreeing over anything in the first place, will have got us precisely nowhere) or you will disagree with me, in which case we may we may feel honour-bound to defend our relative positions and fall out. If you know me, you will probably know my opinions anyway. If you don’t, why would you care? The one truth I know about politics is that no amount of ‘discussion’ will change opinions. Maybe it should, but it never does.

However, today I was reprimanded, quite brusquely, by a lady who told me in no uncertain terms that I should be prepared to state what I believe in and to defend my position whatever the circumstance. She said it was my duty. I asked her why, but she just said, ‘Suppose you were friendly with someone and they didn’t feel the same about things as you do.” I was confused by this. I said, ‘but surely that can only be a good thing?’ She stared at me as if I was deranged and muttered something that I’m pretty certain contained the word ‘moron’.

She left. I knew her views. She had told me those before she scalded me for keeping mine to myself. They were different to my own and it bothered me not one bit. She knew my views too, and it actually bothered her none that they were different to her own. What bothered her was that I was not prepared to argue about it. All she actually wanted from me was a target and, for once, I managed to keep my head down. Maybe I’ve just found my own way to fight.

You say the hill’s too steep to climb, climbing
You say you’d like to see me try, climbing
You pick the place and I’ll choose the time
And I’ll climb the hill in my own way
Just wait a while for the right day
And as I rise above the tree-line and the clouds
I look down hearing the sound of the things you’ve said today.
‘Fearless’ Pink Floyd (Gilmour, Waters)