Things I do not understand, No 1

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

Every blog should have a running series. The very interesting John Rentoul over at The Indy has an excellent one: Questions to which the Answer is No. I think he is up to about No 378 now.
A lot of head-scratching goes on in this house, so I am going to dignify it by making the whole show a formal element of the blog. There will be the Things I Do Not Understand in capital letters for all to see. I used to think not understanding was a red badge of shame. Now I am more fatalistic: no one brain can understand everything. It is the human condition, and I'm all about the human condition. Sometimes I think we should try to embrace our flaws, rather than battle against them in mortal combat.

The things I do not understand take many forms. There are the very big ones, like dark matter and the origins of the universe. (I can just about manage the Big Bang, but I find the concept of billions of atoms suddenly appearing where there was nothing impossible to comprehend.) There are the very small ones. I can never work out why it is so much quicker and easier to make a mess than to clean one up; I am mystified by the fact that hideous smells like bleach or rotting matter are so much stronger and more prevalent than delightful smells like lemon and rosemary.

There are the things I should understand but don't. However much I studied it, I never quite got to grips with Rousseau's Theory of the General Will. I'm a bit of a dunce when it comes to philosophy in general, even though it fascinates me. I wish I understood my garden better, instead of bumbling along in a mild haze of ignorance. (I did try with all those gardening books, but for some reason it never took.) I don't understand why misogyny still exists. I have absolutely no understanding of how the technology I use every day works; even the telephone is still a mystery to me, all those human voices carrying through the air.

So here we go, with the very first in the series. It's a little parochial, I am afraid, but it's been preying on my mind for ten days now, and I can't shake it. Who knows? - perhaps one of you genius readers out there might even know the answer.

It is:

I do not understand how the England football team can be bored.

There have been myriad explanations for the dire performance of a collection highly-paid, internationally renowned athletes, who should have the skills and motivation and national pride to dance all over the park, instead of stumbling about like donkeys. The one which keeps coming up, and which completely baffles me is: they are bored.

No one challenges this. When it is mentioned, everyone just nods their head, as if precious words of wisdom have been uttered. The players can't train all day, they are not allowed to leave their hotel for some reason, there are no wives and girlfriends permitted, so they can't even divert themselves with sex. They've been away for three whole weeks, everyone keeps saying, as if I should know what that implies. They feel isolated and incarcerated, apparently, in their five star hotel.

I could get all high horse-ish about men who earn thousands of pounds a week complaining about anything, but that is not the part that interests me. That's an old argument. Besides, the players are not saying any of this out loud; it's all coming from reporters and pundits.

What I really don't understand is: if boredom is a problem, there is such a simple solution. GIVE THEM A BOOK. I mean, seriously. It might be a little sad that they can't go sight-seeing, in such a storied and ravishing country, but they are not there on holiday, after all. If they are confined to barracks, all they need to do is read. I don't really understand why they can't chat, as well. It's not as if they have nothing in common. They could play poker or backgammon or chess. But the number one antidote to any feelings of dullness is a damn good book.

So: I don't really understand why they are bored. I don't understand why all commentators appear to accept that boredom is an inevitable consequence of being physically in one place. I don't understand why no one in the entire squad of nutritionists, psychologists and various other support staff seems able to provide a remedy. I don't understand why some enterprising person at Waterstone's does not just send out a care package and single-handedly rescue the entire England campaign.

I don't believe that footballers do not read. It does not have to be Ulysses or The Critique of Pure Reason. A couple of cracking thrillers and the thing is done.

Meanwhile, in other news, my obsession with the new table grows. I went into the village this morning and bought some pretty plants to give the whole thing a little more va va voom:





The little red ones are a kind of salvia I did not know before this morning.



Here's a lovely new lavender. Lavender rarely survives the winter here; if the snow and frost do not kill it off, then the wet will. It's an absurd thing to try and grow in Scotland, yet each year, in hope over experience, I go and get some more, because I love it so.



The little green bushy ones are bedding plants whose name I have already forgotten.



I planted these this morning with mystery seeds. Almost every drawer in my house contains a tiny pack of seeds with no identifying marks. I have a terrible habit of ripping off the outer package, which tells me what they are, and then thinking Oh, I'll do that later, and later never comes, so into a drawer they go. The bright side of this shockingly lax behaviour is that I get the joy of not knowing what I shall get. These little pots could produce anything from lettuces to cornflowers. I am watching them like a hawk.



Here they are in moody black and white.



And here is a little chive flower, just because.

Let's talk about cash, baby; or, things I do not understand, No 24

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

I really wasn't going to do the budget. It's not only that every single person with fingers to type and a brain to think has rushed into print on the subject, it's also that budget day has never been my idea of a good time. This is quite odd, because I am an unrepentant politics geek. I think the thing I have always hated about it is its horrid mixture of gimmicks, political fakery, macro-economic jargon and promises that a child of six know shall never be kept. All of this is wrapped up in a big old ball of ceremony and tradition: the holding up of the battered red case, the solemn incantations on the floor of the Commons, the final 'I recommend this budget to the House'. As I cling onto faith in politics by my fingernails, budget day is always a test of belief.

Besides, this year was a dull and steady budget, so there was not much to write about. It was fitting for a dull and steady chancellor, although the naughty little joke about Belize did manage to surprise. I must confess a sneaking love for Alistair Darling. His dullness is of the most admirable, a very British variety. It is not the ghastly life-sapping boredom of Geoff Hoon or Chris Huhne or Patricia Hewitt. It comes, I think, from a steadfast belief in public service. That is a most unmodish thing to say, but I stand by it. There is no showboating for him, no jazz hands, no dog and pony shows, no Look at me, look at me. He keeps his head down and gets on with the job, and, in the worst economic climate since the Great Depression, I think he has not done badly, and deserves respect.

So, I was thinking of writing about something quite else, when the shadow Chancellor came onto the Today programme to give the opposition view. It was the bog standard interview: yes, there will be cuts; no, we can't tell you what they are because we don't yet have the figures; clearly, we can't go on like this and the country must have a change. The burden of his song was that the country now has a clear choice, but the absolute oddity was that when he was pressed and pressed again to articulate that choice, he did not. Finally, in the very last sentence of the interview, he said: it is a question of whether you want a government of energy, leadership and ideas, or what you saw yesterday.

No one could accuse Alistair Darling of having energy or ideas; he is a most pragmatic politician, dealing with economics by increments rather than grand ideology. The curious thing about George Osborne is that he promised ideas, having given none. Admittedly, it was only a ten minute interview, but it was rather like the people who insist they have a great sense of humour when you have never heard them say one single amusing thing, ever, in their whole wide lives. As a voter, I felt cross and short-changed. I would actually quite like a big idea, if it's not so very much to ask. If I cannot have a big idea, could I at least get a couple of concrete proposals? I pay my taxes, I am politically engaged, is it so outlandish to request some straight answers? I decided, grumpily, that the media narrative about there being little economic difference between the two main parties was right.

Quite tiringly, I am devoted to fairness (must, must, must see both sides of an argument) so before dashing into a rant, I dutifully went to the Conservative website and looked at their economics page. And here is the bizarre thing: they actually do have ideas. They are not sweepingly ideological, but some of them are not bad. They have some interesting proposals to support small businesses. By far the best is that they would give 25% of government contracts to small companies. This politically and practically brilliant: it is positive, easy to understand, and ethically sound. Yet I have never heard a single opposition politician say it out loud. I would have it put on T-shirts. I would talk of little else. I would set it to music.

Here's another good one: they would match the one year public sector pay freeze with a five year ministerial pay freeze, preceded by a 5% cut in ministers' salaries. No one wants pay freezes, but spending must come down somehow, or we shall end up like Greece. The cleverness of the ministerial idea is that those at the top of government will share the pain; it might even restore a little of the fragile faith in parliament. Most of all, it shows an active commitment to fairness, even a collective sense that we are all in this together. It is old school, one nation Toryism. Yet, again, I have never heard a single opposition politician say it out loud.

There are a few other devotions to fairness: tax credits and child trust funds will be confined to those on lower incomes; pensions will be capped for those earning over £50,000. This does not sound like the gleeful, savage right-wingery that moderate voters fear. There is some good stuff on credit card companies: excessive interest rates will be stopped, transparent terms and conditions will be insisted upon. Those are not huge notions, but good woman and man in the street stuff, an acknowledgement that huge, profit-hungry companies cannot ride roughshod over the little person. It rather rocked me back on my heels that my left of centre government, for which I voted precisely because I believed that it supported the powerless over the powerful, has done absolutely nothing about predatory lending. It is quite surprising that it takes an organisation once known as the nasty party to propose something so obvious and morally correct.

There are, of course, some things with which I do not agree, like reducing corporation tax. I am not an old lefty for nothing; my bleeding heart does not bleed in vain. But as a package of proposals, it is hopeful, practical, even activist. It says, implicitly, that government can do good, helpful things. My great fear about the Right is that their instinctive distrust of government would resurface, everything would be handed over to the private sector, there would be a reliance on the market, red in tooth and claw, and suddenly we would be back in the bad old days of trickle-down economics. In their economic proposals, I see nothing of this. Take this sentence: 'we could not even think of abolishing the 50p tax rate on the rich while asking our public sector workers to accept a pay freeze'. That sounds like a principle to me. That sounds as if the new Tories might really be new after all.

Here is my question. Why are the Conservatives not talking about any of this? Why are they not in every single television studio, radio booth and op-ed column, singing it to the rooftops? Why are they allowing the narrative to persist that they have no economic ideas? They clearly do have ideas. You might agree or disagree with them, but they are interesting and thoughtful, and some of them seem to me to be exactly what the doctor ordered. Why are they hidden away on a website only the most geekishly political will ever visit, in very, very small print? Why?

This is possibly the most important election since the dark days of the three day week. Poor old Blighty is teetering on the brink. The triple A rating is in jeopardy, the pound is collapsing, we are in acute danger of falling into a double dip recession. The populace is hungry for honesty and good ideas and a sense that something can be done. One of the charming things about the great British public is that they tend not to be obsessively tribal. Even if they have Labour or Conservative written through them like Brighton on a stick of rock, they are prepared to give the other side a go. It is why traditional Labour voters went over to Mrs Thatcher, and stern Tories ticked the box for Tony Blair. If politicians refuse to articulate what they will do, and fall back on waffle and obfuscation, the electorate will shrug their shoulders, buy the prevailing idea that they are all the same, and stay at home.

Come on politicos, be brave. Have the courage of your convictions. Speak loud and proud. We are waiting for you. You have nothing to lose but your chains.

 

Picture of the day is of Alistair Darling, because I am oddly fond of him, and, whichever way the election goes, this is certainly his last chance to dance with the red briefcase:

(Photograph by Getty Images.)

Things I don't understand, No 23

Posted by Tania Kindersley.

There are many things in life I do not understand. I do not understand why anyone would want to wear mustard yellow; I do not understand people who do not read; I do not understand why women get their faces sliced off, stretched, and then stitched back into place, in the name of beauty. I am a little bit confused by politicians who still think that no one will notice they have not answered the question. I am oddly baffled by bad manners (a smile costs nothing, my old mum might have said, had she been the kind of person who says things like that, which she is not).

Perhaps the thing that puzzles me most, in a whole box full of oddities, is what the magnificent Rachel Maddow would call the fear of The Gay.

In the grooviness that is modern Blighty, we adore Graham Norton and Stephen Fry and Sir Ian McKellen. When, ten years ago, the British army allowed gay men and women to serve openly, there was barely a ripple of protest. (One grumpy brigadier did resign, but mostly 'people just got on with their work', as one naval officer remarked.) Sandi Toksvig and Clare Balding are stalwarts of the BBC. The police go on Pride marches. Even the Tories are bragging about how they will have more gay MPs than Labour after the election. The happy introduction of civil partnerships is one piece of legislation of which the government can be unequivocally swanky.

Of course pockets of homophobia still exist, and probably always will. It can be blatant, or passive aggressive. There was a very strange moment on this Sunday's Broadcasting House, one of my favourite programmes on Radio Four, when the enduringly odd Christine Hamilton started complaining about someone declaring their gayness: I thought it wasn't supposed to matter any more, she said, crossly. I've heard that tone before. It is usually code for: I wouldn't mind all those buggers so much if they would just shut up about it.

The point is: we are generally quite relaxed in this country about who sleeps with whom, so it is easy to forget that this is not so everywhere in the world. In Uganda, there is currently a ferment over prospective legislation to make homosexuality a capital crime. In Iran, if you are lucky you will be subjected to a public flogging; if unlucky, you are hanged by the neck until you are dead. Even in shining 21st century America, there is a huge, shouty fuss over gay marriage and the repeal of Don't Ask, Don't Tell.

I wrote yesterday about the oddity of Hollywood being perceived as so outrageously liberal, and yet having a bizarre discrimination against women directors. Gayness is another area where the liberalism seems to take a long weekend. The film industry gets tremendously excited about itself when it daringly addresses the love that dare not speak its name. Look, look Sean Penn winning his Oscar for Milk! Patrick Swayze in a frock! Gay cowboys! Gay Cowboys! KISSING! In reality, the rule is: the gay characters must be played by straight actors, all the critics must then congratulate the straight actors on their 'brave' choice, and everyone gets to put on their red ribbon and die of smugness. Meanwhile, the actual gay actors must get married, have children, hide all their Judy Garland records, and put up with blind items in the gutter press about their 'special friends'.

I do not understand any of this. I am thinking of it because in the past week the very strange story of State Senator Roy Ashburn emerged, in the pages of the You Couldn't Make It Up News. Ashburn was a good old family values Republican, who voted against every single piece of legislation which even hinted it might do something nice for the non-straights. He voted against Harvey Milk Day. How can you vote against Harvey Milk? Then, he got stopped for drunken driving. That might not have been so bad, except he was leaving a famous gay nightclub, and there was another gentleman in the car. (I admit they might have been going home to play Scrabble; we shall never know.) Finally, after days of breathless speculation in the press, Senator Ashburn put the rumours to rest. 'I am gay,' he said. 'Those are the words that have been so difficult for me for so long.' I know I should have compassion and empathy for the afflicted, but are they really so difficult? Really? Three little syllables? Probably easier to say than: 'I am a big fat hypocrite.'

My question is: what is the fear? Lovely Rachel Maddow politely reminds her viewers, with a wry smile, that The Gay is not contagious. I am not sure I shall ever quite understand why it gets people in such a lather. I do not understand why they must quote Leviticus and wag their gnarly fingers and rush into closets and slam the door.

I do not get what is scary about this:

Or this:

Or this:

(That is the fabulous Ma Rainey, who was having a high old time in the Harlem of the 1920s. Did you know that, in the twenties, Harlem was a positive garden of free loving? I did not. According to Richard Bruce Nugent: 'Nobody was in the closet. There weren't any closets'.)

How could anyone be afraid of a man who dresses as beautifully as this? Unless it was terror of being thought dowdy by comparison, I suppose:

(Is that a magnolia in his buttonhole? I want to take him home and gaze at him forever.)

I do admit, because if I have a fault it is that I am too fair, that there are those who might have reason to fear this:

But that is nothing to do with gayness. It is because he is The Prince of Darkness, and he knows where you live.