Full disclosure: weekends aren't good for me right now.
Please stop sharing hopeful but unfounded information. As it stands today, I've seen no evidence that kids will go back to school in September. We certainly won't be gathering this summer. I'd be happy to be proven wrong -- before copying and pasting, include your sources.
All you are doing is giving the hordes of uneducated, selfish people out there a reason to give us the collective middle finger somewhere down the road and refuse to quarantine, since we just keep moving the goalposts.
Don't be part of this problem. Please.
UPDATE:
And just in case you're reading this, thinking, "Boy, he needs some perspective," I assure you, I have it.
I am not worried about my family; not too much, anyway. I'm lucky -- well, in many ways -- that my children were born without complications, and probably have close as good a chance as I do of beating COVID-19, should they contract it.
No, it's the vulnerable people in my community that I'm very worried for. Thanks to the organic nature of my volunteering, a few years back, I can now bring a dozen lovely faces to mind in the blink of an eye who are very vulnerable indeed; either because they're much older, have been diagnosed with COPD or similar, or are severely disabled and vulnerable to even the common varieties of respiratory illnesses, let alone COVID.
Unfortunately, some of those faces I've just brought to mind won't make it to the end of this year. I know this. It's simple maths: they will contract COVID, and they will succumb. I'm trying to prepare myself for this as best I can. What is completely avoidable, and would be horrifically tragic, is if they all died. This year. And that too is a very real possibility. If the curve doesn't flatten and stay there, we'll eventually get to herd immunity numbers, and that will mean, barring a miracle, that every single one of those faces I can bring to mind will contract COVID-19, with a sadly predictable outcome.
That is what I'm trying to avoid, with what little power my voice and this platform provide. And, believe me, it is based in pragmatism, and the horrible knowledge of just how little some people will change their behaviour, even were I to say all this from knees, in front of them.
Showing posts with label england. Show all posts
Showing posts with label england. Show all posts
Monday, April 06, 2020
Thursday, December 12, 2019
Centrist nostalgia
I can't remember a time that I was more angry while voting.
My partner had tipped me to our MP's presence at our polling station. I found myself imagining the conversation, as I pushed the double pram to nursery. What started off as very level-headed comments -- and compliments, truly: whatever Mr. Chalk's colours, I don't question his commitment to his constituency, and found myself enjoying our one conversation, which actually had nothing to do with politics -- over the course of dropping off my son and then heading to the polling station, turned decidedly sour, and, by the time the helpful polling staff were directing me to the proper side of the station, was a full-blown rant.
It was completely incongruous: these boiling emotions inside me, while around me, polling station staff cooed at my infant daughter, smiling as she's so apt to.
Mr. Chalk had moved on by this point, but, to be honest, it wouldn't have mattered who was there, vying to represent the constituency: I had something for everyone, and none of it complimentary (or even coherent at that point, likely). I wanted to spoil my ballot with a concise summary of what I thought of the politics of attack and lies, on all sides; I still had a sliver of hope, however, that holding my nose and voting tactically would have some part to play.
You know what I miss? The days of old -- I know, "OK Boomer" or whatever they say now -- when most of the parties could be summed up as variations on vanilla. Where you really had to dig to find the nuances between the policies, even if the manifestos were based on different (but tamely so, with hindsight) philosophies. And, yes, there were attack ads, but they were regulated; you knew who paid for them, and they paid at the polls for such tactics (in as much as I could influence things, anyway). And, yes, there was "_Read_ _my_ _lips_," and all sorts of other horse-pucky, but, at the end of the day, you still felt that they could work with those they disagreed with, for the betterment of the country.
Now, parties are tripping over themselves to declare who they won't work with, months before we even know the lay of the political landscape. It's completely cut-throat. It's about winning, and holding power, at all costs. It's short-sighted, petty, frantic, and it has set this country on a course of harm, for the medium term certainly, and likely for the long term as well. Why aren't these people more invested in the country? In its actual future, thirty or forty years from now? It makes me sick. Truly, it does.
My partner had tipped me to our MP's presence at our polling station. I found myself imagining the conversation, as I pushed the double pram to nursery. What started off as very level-headed comments -- and compliments, truly: whatever Mr. Chalk's colours, I don't question his commitment to his constituency, and found myself enjoying our one conversation, which actually had nothing to do with politics -- over the course of dropping off my son and then heading to the polling station, turned decidedly sour, and, by the time the helpful polling staff were directing me to the proper side of the station, was a full-blown rant.
It was completely incongruous: these boiling emotions inside me, while around me, polling station staff cooed at my infant daughter, smiling as she's so apt to.
Mr. Chalk had moved on by this point, but, to be honest, it wouldn't have mattered who was there, vying to represent the constituency: I had something for everyone, and none of it complimentary (or even coherent at that point, likely). I wanted to spoil my ballot with a concise summary of what I thought of the politics of attack and lies, on all sides; I still had a sliver of hope, however, that holding my nose and voting tactically would have some part to play.
You know what I miss? The days of old -- I know, "OK Boomer" or whatever they say now -- when most of the parties could be summed up as variations on vanilla. Where you really had to dig to find the nuances between the policies, even if the manifestos were based on different (but tamely so, with hindsight) philosophies. And, yes, there were attack ads, but they were regulated; you knew who paid for them, and they paid at the polls for such tactics (in as much as I could influence things, anyway). And, yes, there was "_Read_ _my_ _lips_," and all sorts of other horse-pucky, but, at the end of the day, you still felt that they could work with those they disagreed with, for the betterment of the country.
Now, parties are tripping over themselves to declare who they won't work with, months before we even know the lay of the political landscape. It's completely cut-throat. It's about winning, and holding power, at all costs. It's short-sighted, petty, frantic, and it has set this country on a course of harm, for the medium term certainly, and likely for the long term as well. Why aren't these people more invested in the country? In its actual future, thirty or forty years from now? It makes me sick. Truly, it does.
Labels:
england,
gloucestershire,
history,
political system
Sunday, June 26, 2016
To my shame, Brexit and the Idiot Platform
I spent a coach journey home in Radiotopia, listening to Benjamen Walker's Theory of Everything and Love+Radio; specifically, The Future, Platform of the Real, and The Silver Dollar. In Platform of the Real, John Herrman refers to sites like Facebook as platforms, and, as the episode closes, says they're now the venue for culture - it's a nuanced point, detailing the changing relationship between creators, the media industry and audiences, but it was that simple statement that struck me, and, as the title of this post states, shamed me.
For the past two mornings, I'd been wallowing, laying in bed, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, sinking lower and lower. Where normally there'd be a stream of banality and babies, the algorithm was now full-on Brexit. But, disturbingly -- though, unsurprisingly -- it was populated by the more reserved of my 'friends', being anything but; the anguish, regrets, and pledges for the future were hard to read, reflecting much of what I'd been dealing with since Friday morning.
We were staying with friends in London this weekend, in close quarters, and the scenario of us all on phones, "Did you read this?" "Yes, did you see that?" between rooms, all on the platform, just exacerbated these feelings, from my point of view.
Then I cracked. Lamenting to those around me wasn't enough.
I too shouted at the void.
I had posted late Thursday, blandly, reliving the horror of that other recent election night, sick with it afresh, and, in retrospect, assured that tomorrow would see the sun rise on the status quo. Now, I attempted to redact that with fresh sentiments, in one of those posts of a few lines that takes an hour to write, such is glut of things to say, that no words can keep up with the inner diatribe.
And then I got called out. From another circle, outside the EU, importantly. Nothing awful; just a question: what's the matter with you?
I felt embarrassed. What was the matter with me? I needed to get a grip. I'd listened to BBC Radio 4's More or Less five-part program on the referendum on the coach trip to London. I knew it wouldn't be the end of the world. And yet I was one of those people. And others -- many others! -- had seen. And, worse still, as I tried to justify myself -- both the initial statement, and subsequent shout -- the enormity of my ignorance began to sink in. The frequency with which I consume traditional news sources has been dropping for years, but I looked upon the current state of my knowledge with fresh, ashamed eyes.
Loathe though I was to admit it, the platform was my culture. I was one of them. To be summed up by one hardly-insightful statement on a podcast. And, even more disturbing, many of the people I respect were doing the very same thing, from a more informed position, undoubtedly, but there just the same.
As I listened to the rest of Platform of the Real, this sense of dread, about the future of media in particular, started to take hold. It seemed to be a problem slipping beyond the control of any of the traditional checks and balances. Then my mind drifted back to The Future, and, referring to the mid 2000s, what they called the Rise of the Idiot. I could see post after post in a gallery someone had shared that morning: absolute vitriol, and in the real world as well, with people sharing their coming face-to-face with hate, just days after what many now clearly see as a mandate to hate.
And how can we safely oppose them? Daryl Davis, interviewed for The Silver Dollar, recounted unquestionably-great successes by, one on one, giving people a platform to be heard, and replying in measured tones, over time. But that was a long time ago, and this Rise of the Idiot seems a problem on an entirely different scale. What to do, in the face of this mob? I too want to stand beside my friends in a pledge to do more, but feel woefully ill-informed and awash in the hate.
For the past two mornings, I'd been wallowing, laying in bed, scrolling through Facebook on my phone, sinking lower and lower. Where normally there'd be a stream of banality and babies, the algorithm was now full-on Brexit. But, disturbingly -- though, unsurprisingly -- it was populated by the more reserved of my 'friends', being anything but; the anguish, regrets, and pledges for the future were hard to read, reflecting much of what I'd been dealing with since Friday morning.
We were staying with friends in London this weekend, in close quarters, and the scenario of us all on phones, "Did you read this?" "Yes, did you see that?" between rooms, all on the platform, just exacerbated these feelings, from my point of view.
Then I cracked. Lamenting to those around me wasn't enough.
I too shouted at the void.
I had posted late Thursday, blandly, reliving the horror of that other recent election night, sick with it afresh, and, in retrospect, assured that tomorrow would see the sun rise on the status quo. Now, I attempted to redact that with fresh sentiments, in one of those posts of a few lines that takes an hour to write, such is glut of things to say, that no words can keep up with the inner diatribe.
And then I got called out. From another circle, outside the EU, importantly. Nothing awful; just a question: what's the matter with you?
I felt embarrassed. What was the matter with me? I needed to get a grip. I'd listened to BBC Radio 4's More or Less five-part program on the referendum on the coach trip to London. I knew it wouldn't be the end of the world. And yet I was one of those people. And others -- many others! -- had seen. And, worse still, as I tried to justify myself -- both the initial statement, and subsequent shout -- the enormity of my ignorance began to sink in. The frequency with which I consume traditional news sources has been dropping for years, but I looked upon the current state of my knowledge with fresh, ashamed eyes.
Loathe though I was to admit it, the platform was my culture. I was one of them. To be summed up by one hardly-insightful statement on a podcast. And, even more disturbing, many of the people I respect were doing the very same thing, from a more informed position, undoubtedly, but there just the same.
As I listened to the rest of Platform of the Real, this sense of dread, about the future of media in particular, started to take hold. It seemed to be a problem slipping beyond the control of any of the traditional checks and balances. Then my mind drifted back to The Future, and, referring to the mid 2000s, what they called the Rise of the Idiot. I could see post after post in a gallery someone had shared that morning: absolute vitriol, and in the real world as well, with people sharing their coming face-to-face with hate, just days after what many now clearly see as a mandate to hate.
And how can we safely oppose them? Daryl Davis, interviewed for The Silver Dollar, recounted unquestionably-great successes by, one on one, giving people a platform to be heard, and replying in measured tones, over time. But that was a long time ago, and this Rise of the Idiot seems a problem on an entirely different scale. What to do, in the face of this mob? I too want to stand beside my friends in a pledge to do more, but feel woefully ill-informed and awash in the hate.
Monday, February 29, 2016
Moments in Henley-on-Thames
Lost in heartache? Immerse yourself in art. It's cliché, but I was reminded of that advice last week while in Henley-on-Thames. I had a few days off, and spent much of it on that stretch of the Thames Path, and in the River & Rowing Museum.
As I recall, the advice suggests that such exposure will lead one to the inevitable conclusion that human suffering is ubiquitous, and, importantly, survivable. What came to mind, after exploring some of Hockney's works, and reading Murakami's focused memoir, was how a more general sense of connectedness and wonderment can also come from those sorts of moments.
David Hockney: from the beginning takes up but one room in the River & Rowing Museum, and, at first glance, didn't seem like much. Close to three hours later, I left, my head abuzz. From the collection highlighting his fascination with water to his narrating footage of his creating an etching and having it printed, I found the selections absorbing and compelling. My favourite was A Bigger Splash (1973) - all 105 minutes of it, and worth every one. I loved its pace and simplicity, and the way his works came alive in it - the live-action mirroring of The Room and Beverly Hills Housewife, for example, and growth of Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures). And to think that all this was created when my parents were in the prime of their youth. I can't explain why that thought kept circling my head. It was all so vibrant, crackling with an energy all the more apparent in the measured stillness; in a word, it felt modern.
And the day before, I'd spied a tantalising, stylised road to the horizon on the cover of a Vintage edition of Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running on a rack in the bigger Oxfam shop in Henley. Walking the Thames Path, listening to the wildfowl, and the terse instructions from a coach astride a bicycle - gosh, that's awkward... Cycling coach doesn't work... Nor does becycled coach, I'm sad to say - to his rowing student, as they both easily outpaced me in a matter of moments, I was reminded of Murakami's joy in running without music. As he comments, one can't help but feel privileged - in my case, as I looked out over patchwork sunlight on the distant marsh. And, simply put, it's inherently uplifting to read about someone harnessing that much energy - both physical and mental - particularly at the age Murakami is writing about (and at the age I'm reading it!).
In summary, I'd hoped that the opportunity for a few days away in a new place would be a short vacation of sorts, and, between the outstanding weather, beautiful surroundings and chance encounters with art, came away with so much more.
As I recall, the advice suggests that such exposure will lead one to the inevitable conclusion that human suffering is ubiquitous, and, importantly, survivable. What came to mind, after exploring some of Hockney's works, and reading Murakami's focused memoir, was how a more general sense of connectedness and wonderment can also come from those sorts of moments.
David Hockney: from the beginning takes up but one room in the River & Rowing Museum, and, at first glance, didn't seem like much. Close to three hours later, I left, my head abuzz. From the collection highlighting his fascination with water to his narrating footage of his creating an etching and having it printed, I found the selections absorbing and compelling. My favourite was A Bigger Splash (1973) - all 105 minutes of it, and worth every one. I loved its pace and simplicity, and the way his works came alive in it - the live-action mirroring of The Room and Beverly Hills Housewife, for example, and growth of Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures). And to think that all this was created when my parents were in the prime of their youth. I can't explain why that thought kept circling my head. It was all so vibrant, crackling with an energy all the more apparent in the measured stillness; in a word, it felt modern.
And the day before, I'd spied a tantalising, stylised road to the horizon on the cover of a Vintage edition of Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running on a rack in the bigger Oxfam shop in Henley. Walking the Thames Path, listening to the wildfowl, and the terse instructions from a coach astride a bicycle - gosh, that's awkward... Cycling coach doesn't work... Nor does becycled coach, I'm sad to say - to his rowing student, as they both easily outpaced me in a matter of moments, I was reminded of Murakami's joy in running without music. As he comments, one can't help but feel privileged - in my case, as I looked out over patchwork sunlight on the distant marsh. And, simply put, it's inherently uplifting to read about someone harnessing that much energy - both physical and mental - particularly at the age Murakami is writing about (and at the age I'm reading it!).
In summary, I'd hoped that the opportunity for a few days away in a new place would be a short vacation of sorts, and, between the outstanding weather, beautiful surroundings and chance encounters with art, came away with so much more.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Law & Order: UK -- first impression
I watched my first episode of Law & Order: UK this evening. The episode was entitled Paradise, from Series 1, and dealt with multiple murders, the victims being from London's Turkish community. I had high hopes for this show. I've enjoyed all the spin-offs from the original franchise; Special Victims Unit and Trial By Jury, in particular. However, I'm already disappointed by what I've seen so far, even considering it's just a single episode.
My biggest complaint centres on the pacing: it's much slower than any of its American counterparts, unnecessarily expounding on information that is clear, and breaking for a number of scored sequences with no dialogue. The latter, while clearly attempting to convey some poignancy, was overused and, frankly, smacked of state propaganda. ("See? We know immigrants are people too!")
Scenes with detective inspectors and crown prosecutors wandering along streets and by the Thames, while perfectly normal in a well-paced story, left my wandering mind with the impression of laissez-faire attitudes. And before someone comments on this, I know they''ll want to highlight the city it's set in, but that doesn't mean it needs to steal the show. The Republic of Doyle is a great example of a show with great pace that captures the best of St. John's and her people.
Next on my list of complaints is the tone and format of the show: a good example of the former would be the first scene with the Director of the Crown Prosecution Service, and I'll simply point to the meagre courtroom time in reference to the latter at this point.
Castle's performance in particular nettled me because that role -- the DAs of the American shows -- is normally occupied by the smartest person on the screen. They're normally two steps ahead of their prosecutors, and usually shed new light on the information presented to that point, while dictating how the trial will go. However, not only did Castle fail utterly in this regard, he openly attacked his prosecutors with an argument that you'd expect of any layperson off the street. He was downright common, and made his bumbling prosecutors seem brilliant in comparison.
Finally, I present some complaints that could be classified as procedural anomalies. I'm not familiar with British law -- that's actually why I was excited about the show: I know more about the American legal system after watching those shows for many years, and hoped to get some idea of where it differs from the British one -- but, in at least a few cases, these anomalies strike me as fundamental; still, as always, please comment if I've missed the mark:
My biggest complaint centres on the pacing: it's much slower than any of its American counterparts, unnecessarily expounding on information that is clear, and breaking for a number of scored sequences with no dialogue. The latter, while clearly attempting to convey some poignancy, was overused and, frankly, smacked of state propaganda. ("See? We know immigrants are people too!")
Scenes with detective inspectors and crown prosecutors wandering along streets and by the Thames, while perfectly normal in a well-paced story, left my wandering mind with the impression of laissez-faire attitudes. And before someone comments on this, I know they''ll want to highlight the city it's set in, but that doesn't mean it needs to steal the show. The Republic of Doyle is a great example of a show with great pace that captures the best of St. John's and her people.
Next on my list of complaints is the tone and format of the show: a good example of the former would be the first scene with the Director of the Crown Prosecution Service, and I'll simply point to the meagre courtroom time in reference to the latter at this point.
Castle's performance in particular nettled me because that role -- the DAs of the American shows -- is normally occupied by the smartest person on the screen. They're normally two steps ahead of their prosecutors, and usually shed new light on the information presented to that point, while dictating how the trial will go. However, not only did Castle fail utterly in this regard, he openly attacked his prosecutors with an argument that you'd expect of any layperson off the street. He was downright common, and made his bumbling prosecutors seem brilliant in comparison.
Finally, I present some complaints that could be classified as procedural anomalies. I'm not familiar with British law -- that's actually why I was excited about the show: I know more about the American legal system after watching those shows for many years, and hoped to get some idea of where it differs from the British one -- but, in at least a few cases, these anomalies strike me as fundamental; still, as always, please comment if I've missed the mark:
- I don't remember hearing anyone read the Miranda warning, which is used in England, as I understand it.
- Having tracked their best lead to the hospital, the police imply that they'll arrest him, but never do so on screen. They then conduct an interview in his hospital room, during which his barrister hardly utters a word. (A theme that is to continue.) Now while this may be procedure for grievously ill suspects, it just struck me as odd that no evidence for the trial was gathered through interviews at the police station. Which brings me to one of the biggest anomalies I noticed...
- When the accused is brought in, it's the prosecutors that do so, and the interview takes place at their offices. The police have no on-screen involvement. How is it appropriate for a prosecutor to (aggressively) interview the accused prior to trial? And, again, his barrister hardly utters a peep.
- Finally, as hinted at earlier, the trial offered very little in the way of entertainment, while mercilessly attempting to yank away on the heart-strings. The accused's barrister was silent -- silent! -- throughout the sequence, even when, at one point, my mind screamed, "Objection! Calls for speculation!"
Friday, April 30, 2010
National Express and the volcano
I sent the following complaint to National Express a few weeks ago -- when that whole business with Eyjafjallajökull started.
Hello,I received a letter from them in the mail yesterday stating that they "cannot accept liability for customers who were unable to travel. Therefore [they] cannot offer a refund." I wasn't asking them to accept liability; I just wanted them to ease up on the 72-hour notice bit this one time, in what can only be characterized as extraordinary circumstances. As my wife said, there really isn't much point in paying extra for a refundable ticket, assuming we decide to travel with them again.
I called your switchboard around 1530 yesterday regarding the coach trip my wife and I were supposed to take later that day (at 1830) to Heathrow. I wanted to know whether there was anything I was supposed to do prior to the bus leaving if I wanted to get a refund, as we'd just found out that our Saturday a.m. flight was cancelled due to the ongoing volanic ash problem.
Your staff member -- I don't remember his name -- told me that I was not eligible for a refund, even though we'd paid extra for a refundable ticket, because it was less than 72 hours prior to the departure of the coach.
I find this to be completely unacceptable, as we had no way of knowing the status of our flight 72 hours prior to the coach leaving, and therefore whether we'd need a refund. And I think you'll agree that this situation in particular is so extraordinary that no customer should be expected to anticipate it.
My wife and I have been frequent National Express customers since moving to England last year, but this incident has seriously shaken our confidence in your company. With the added cost of a hotel, we've decided that it may in fact be cheaper for us to simply hire a car service on the day of our flight, as opposed to using National Express the night before, to avoid this sort of situation in the future.
I believe we are entitled to a full refund, and ask that you acknowledge this complaint in short order.
Sincerely,
John Jarvis
Monday, November 09, 2009
Under-weather distractions
I found another treasure at Moss Books this weekend, on one of my short forays from under this oppressive cold and its stomach-bug buddy (not to mention the rain): a collection of Oor Wullie and The Broons comic strips from 1936 – 2006. The dialogue is a bit of a struggle, but the stories range from cute to poignant; the latter a pleasant surprise (for me) from something that ran regularly in The Sunday Post (until I read about the paper's sentimental nature, anyway). I think the layout of Oor Wullie is my favourite part so far, however: each strip starts with the sly main character squat on an overturned pail – any of a variety of expressions on his face – and each finishes with the same, or something subtly different. This trademark is emphasized on the back of the dust-jacket, with some twenty of Wullie's faces displayed in a grid of portraits, helpful one-word captions beneath them.
Thankfully there's been plenty of football (a.k.a. soccer) to distract me from my housebound state this weekend – was worried I had the dreaded flu for a bit; they won't even accept you at clinics (what they call surgeries) here right now if you have a fever. My favourite, by far, was the derby (pronounced 'darby', even when the English commentators are working a German Bundesliga game, I've discovered this morning) between Swansea and Cardiff City as those clubs compete for the first real shot at a Welsh promotion to the English Premier League in many, many years. These derbies are fierce competitions between local rivals, as best I can tell, and, without exception, are surrounded by some of the most vocal (and truly in its singing sense!) fan support I've ever witnessed at a sporting event; I hope to see something approaching it live someday (with the protection of earplugs, of course). Swansea won this one 3 – 2 in front of their hometown crowd, scoring more goals than they'd managed in any other match this season, in what really could've been a win for either club.
Thankfully there's been plenty of football (a.k.a. soccer) to distract me from my housebound state this weekend – was worried I had the dreaded flu for a bit; they won't even accept you at clinics (what they call surgeries) here right now if you have a fever. My favourite, by far, was the derby (pronounced 'darby', even when the English commentators are working a German Bundesliga game, I've discovered this morning) between Swansea and Cardiff City as those clubs compete for the first real shot at a Welsh promotion to the English Premier League in many, many years. These derbies are fierce competitions between local rivals, as best I can tell, and, without exception, are surrounded by some of the most vocal (and truly in its singing sense!) fan support I've ever witnessed at a sporting event; I hope to see something approaching it live someday (with the protection of earplugs, of course). Swansea won this one 3 – 2 in front of their hometown crowd, scoring more goals than they'd managed in any other match this season, in what really could've been a win for either club.
Labels:
comic books,
england,
football-soccer,
scotland,
sport
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)