Death Party Blues

When news of Mrs Thatcher’s death was announced last Monday, I resolved to stay away from internet message boards and social networking sites for a few days. Alas, in a moment of weakness, I checked briefly into Facebook and Twitter and quickly felt the need to go and have a shower. I don’t believe in the perfectibility of humankind, so I could hardly be surprised by some of the stuff that people were willing to post on social networking sites. Nor would I make any particular objection to people behaving in the way that they do; it is perfectly within their right. I can only wonder, with a sense of incredulous curiosity, at the extent of the lack of self-awareness in the kind of person who can post a picture of themselves cavorting drunkenly in the centre of Glasgow, bottle in hand, alongside a status update reading:
‘The witch is dead – Rejoice, because she led the party of hate and spite’.

Much of the comment I’ve read in the last few days (both in the mainstream media and in the blogosphere) seems to fall into two camps: Mrs Thatcher was either the greatest-ever prime minister and the saviour of Britain, or she was an evil witch out to screw entire communities and destroy industries. The truth, of course, lies somewhere between these two extremes.

I was a teenager growing up in Glasgow when the Conservatives won the election in 1979. I found it hard to believe that ‘that woman’ had become our prime-minister. I continued to despise her throughout the following decade and can still recall the sickening feeling of ‘losing’ the 1987 election, her third consecutive triumph. It seemed that the country was going through a dismal, depressing period and I hated Margaret Thatcher, her party and most of the things they did. But the passing of time has allowed me to develop rather a different perspective on events. It is clear that Britain in 1979 needed a transformative government, needed a Thatcher (or someone like her) to bring about certain necessary changes, changes that would make our economy fit for purpose in an ever-more competitive world. Those changes could never have happened under Callaghan, Foot or Kinnock. The assertion that Mrs Thatcher ‘destroyed’ the old industries is conveniently simplistic, but ignores a massive elephant in the room. What she did was end the expectation that everyone else should subsidise those ailing industries. Those dockyards, car factories, steel mills and coal mines, with their ancient practices and protections, could not have continued operating in a modern economy because the conditions in which they expected to be maintained were not sustainable.

I suspect that what is fuelling today’s Thatcher-hatred is not fury at the so-called industrial carnage, not righteous indignation at the perceived class warfare and not outrage at her seeming indifference to the plight of those who were the victims of economic vicissitudes. No … what hurts the Thatcher-haters most of all is that ‘that woman’ successfully took the temperature of the electorate, time and time again. And it’s not just that she won; it’s that in her winning, she changed the rules of the game.

Accordingly, the antics of these demonstrators since Monday seems a tad pathetic, like a blind and toothless old dog barking at the distant memory of a long-dead postman. The Thatcher-hatred seems little more than an enfeebled cri de coeur, an impotent acknowledgement of the defeat of old-style leftism. Bewildered and punch-drunk from successive failures at the polls, these demonstrators still rage against their ancient adversary, desperate to blame someone for their continued failure to capture the imagination and the votes of ordinary people.

But as they enjoy their street parties and their silly campaign to push that song up the pop charts, I’d like to think that, in a contemplative pause, perhaps deep in the quiet night, there might arrive, for some, a moment of revelation, a moment when that public mask of bitterness and scorn might fall away; a moment of something approaching self-awareness.

In his poem ‘Snake’ DH Lawrence beautifully expresses the contradictory desires expressed by a man when he encounters a snake at his water trough. On the one hand, he admires and wishes to befriend the creature; on the other, he feels a compulsion to violence and eventually makes a feeble attempt to kill it. Ashamed of his mean-spiritedness, Lawrence ends the poem with a near-perfect expression of self-loathing:

And I have something to expiate;
A pettiness.

Song of the Week: 'The Abracadabra Man'

This track (taken from the first Eisenhowers album) is an acoustic meditation on the perfidy of politicians and con-men, all of those clever folk who can pull imaginary rabbits out of ragged old hats. Does the world really need another Napoleon? I think not.  

Most politicians are snake oil salesmen (that is a theme that could be mined forever), but the idea of the ‘wrecking crew’ -the private lynch mob employed by the political shyster in this song- was designed to take it into an altogether more sinister dimension. Producer Stuart MacLeod is a big Rolling Stones fan and I think he had the track ‘Sister Morphine’ in mind when he recorded the guitar solo, but otherwise it’s pretty much just acoustic and vocals. 

The track was also nominated for the 2002 Grammys in the ‘Most creative use of a creaking studio door’ category, although I may have just made that up. 

The Abracadabra Man        

1976 was another planet

For those not old enough to remember, 1976 was not just another year in pop music, but another planet entirely.  As evidence to support this statement, I’d like to present exhibit A, a song by Mr JJ Barrie.  JJ was a genuine one-hit wonder who hit the top spot in the charts for a single week in June that year with ‘No Charge’.  Almost without parallel on the cheese continuum, ‘No Charge’ was a paean to motherhood that left mere cloying sentimentality on the starting blocks as it blazed a noxious trail to the far side of Maudlin Central.  The story of the song features a little boy who asks his mother for some extra pocket money after presenting her with an itemised list of all the household chores he has successfully carried out.  Mum, rather than do the proper parental thing and send the little scamp upstairs to tidy his room, decides to make up a bill for all of the things she has done for him.  Her ‘bill’ constitutes the chorus of the song: 

For the nine months I carried you growing inside me – no charge

For the nights I sat up with you, talked with you, prayed for you – no charge

For the time and tears that you cost though the years – no charge

And when you add it all up, the full cost of my love is – no charge 

Yes, ‘No Charge’ was weapons-grade schmaltz, capable of inducing a lump in the throat and something in the eye at twenty paces, but somehow –particularly when the vocal from mum kicks in- this song still manages to elicit at least the flicker of an emotional response in me.  I realise, with no little degree of shame, that this probably says more about my pitiful status as a nostalgic, easy-to-manipulate sucker than anything else.  

It is remarkable to think that ‘No Charge’ got to number one in the charts; it’s not just that they don’t write songs like this anymore, it’s more that anyone who even considered trying to write a song like this in 2013 would probably be locked up, or at the very least laughed out of the early auditions of X-Factor.  

There are some who would argue that pop music in 2013 is trundling along in a rather self-regarding dotage, endlessly regurgitating and repackaging everything it has done before.  This view holds that pop music in 2013 is generally too calculated, too marketed, too buffed to a sheen, too soul-less, too pre-packaged to be anything other than mere ‘product’.  I don’t necessarily subscribe to that, but I do suspect that, whatever else it might be, pop music now can never be less than streetwise, smart and self-aware.  1976 –by contrast- seems like a prelapsarian golden age, an age before cynicism and auto-tuning, an age before the irony cat got out of the bag. 

On the theme of self-awareness, I suspect that some folk will be expecting my next sentence to read something like this: 

“Ah … when I was a lad, it was all fields around here.”       

And funnily enough, the song that knocked JJ Barrie from the top of the charts was ‘(I’ve got a brand new) Combine Harvester’ by The Wurzels.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k_1nkUbepaU 

It's probably a conspiracy. Again.

The level of bile and vitriol on the various radio phone-ins and internet message boards regarding the outcome of the SPL’s investigation into financial affairs at Rangers has been ridiculous, but sadly predictable. You get the feeling that, for some folk, the appropriate punishment for Rangers would be permanent exile to a penal colony on Mars. Others take the view that the Ibrox men should be forced to play in sackcloth and ashes, change their name to Newco Cheating Bastards FC and start all over again in the Paisley and District Amateur League Division 4 (North-West section).

What some Celtic fans require from Rangers is similar to what the aliens required of the earthlings in ‘Independence Day’. For those who haven’t seen that film, there is a scene which takes place in an underground bunker, right in the middle of an extremely hostile alien invasion of earth. One of the aliens has been captured and is under questioning. President Whitmore (played by Bill Pulman) asks the alien: “Can there be a peace between us?”
“No peace”, replies the nasty extra-terrestrial. “What is it you want us to do?” asks the president. The alien, not entirely keen to explore the notion of finding some common ground, responds with one word: “Die!”

Some Celtic folk hate Rangers more than they love their own club (and this hostility will often be mirrored on the other side). The hatred is visceral and completely beyond the power of reasoning. Some believe that Rangers are the ‘establishment’ team who routinely bribe referees, control the media, bend the rules, influence officialdom and, in all probability, run secret sweat shops and brothels populated by orphans, waifs and strays.
Since the ‘liquidation event’, some Celtic supporters have taken to arguing that there is no such thing as the Old Firm anymore, that there is no such club as Glasgow Rangers. The fact is, of course, that if there is a team playing at Ibrox, wearing blue jerseys and being watched by 45,000 people every other week it is -whether they like or not- Glasgow Rangers. If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck – it’s probably a duck.

There are lots of reasons (some silly, some rather more sinister) for this weapons-grade level of hostility. From a neutral point of view, there are plenty of things to dislike about both clubs, but Celtic perhaps provide the more interesting case study. The club's officials and fans often exhibit a curious mentality which somehow manages to combine a sense of superiority and self-righteousness with a large dose of victimhood.

I first became aware of this peculiar phenomenon many years ago. When I was a lad, Celtic signed an English goalkeeper by the name of Peter Latchford. It was quite unusual in the seventies for a player to cross the border from the English League to play in Scotland and his transfer was quite big news. At one point, Peter came to our school to do a ‘question and answer’ session with the pupils. He was a perfectly charming fellow and handled the questions really well. Being a Catholic school, full of pupils and staff who were ‘Celtic-minded’, he got asked the inevitable question:

"Do you think that referees in Scotland are biased against Celtic?"

His answer, more or less in these words, was: “Yes, definitely. The players and officials at the club told me all about it when I arrived and now I’ve seen it for myself”.

So … here was a club that, within the previous decade, had won nine consecutive league championships, god knows how many Scottish Cups and League Cups, had been to two European Cup Finals (and a few semi-finals), and yet its players, officials and a big percentage of its fans thought that there was a conspiracy against it. Even as a wee lad, I remember thinking: ‘But if everyone is out to get you, how come you keep winning all of these trophies?’

The truth, of course, is that there was (and is) no conspiracy against the club, although there may be sound historical reasons to explain the sense of injustice hardwired into the Celtic psyche. The club has noble origins and strong links –of which it is rightly proud- with the poor immigrant communities of the nineteenth century. It’s fair to say that the treatment sometimes handed out to Irish Catholic immigrants is something that Scotland should be embarrassed about. But that is ancient history; or at least it should be.

Alas, a lot of folk associated with Celtic can’t shake off that historical baggage; indeed, successive custodians of the club have cynically tapped into ancient wells of resentment among a certain element of the faithful, allowing that sense of injustice to mutate into something uglier and sillier, something more like paranoia and a perpetual sense of persecution. Consequently, this huge club -a global brand that enjoys every conceivable advantage in domestic competition- has often displayed an utterly cynical mentality: it wants to win everything, it wants to be in charge of everything (witness their various campaigns against the SFA) and yet it wants the option of playing the victim card whenever it suits.

Celtic’s interpretation is that the SPL’s verdict on Rangers was lenient, so this gives them yet another chance to play that victim card and to send out dog-whistle messages about conspiracy theories to their supporters. They say that the Rangers case is nothing to do with them, but still issued a club statement stating that: "We are surprised by the parallel conclusion that no competitive advantage was gained from these arrangements"

Just to be clear, I’ll translate that for you: “Those dirty cheating bastards have exploited their establishment contacts to get away with murder once again. We should have been awarded five or six league titles by way of compensation”.

Lest there be any confusion, I should point out that I hold no brief for either half of the Old Firm. I long ago tired of the tribalism and the incessant bleating about how the rest of Scottish football is holding them back and how they would be much better off playing in the English League or the North Atlantic Alliance, or whatever the latest daft scheme happens to be. My preference would be for the Old Firm to join a two-team league (available only by subscription to a satellite TV channel) in which they could play each other thirty times a season and leave the rest of us to get on with 21st century life.

So, like that alien in ‘Independence Day’, my message to the conspiracy theorists among the Celtic hierarchy and support is quite simple.

What do I want them to do? Just grow up.

Zodiac Mindwarp

I had a great day out at the weekend at a car boot sale in Clydebank, picking up a telescope, a book about astrology and a slightly-soiled packet of tarot cards for £1.50. I’ve been thinking for a while about making a career change, so it has occurred to me that I might be able to give the old ‘horoscopes’ game a bit of a go. If any of my predictions come true, please let me know. Once I’ve done a bit more studying, I will be available for personalised forecasts, tarot charts, exorcisms, bespoken curses etc.

Aries
Strong planetary undercurrents are at work and you could be pulled toward someone without even realizing it. The person you snogged at the Christmas party will win cinema vouchers in a raffle. With Pluto moving through the seventh house, it’s likely that you’ll need to think carefully about how to respond to this surprising development. Also, there is a carton of yogurt at the back of the fridge that has reached its sell-by date.

Gemini
The celestial balance of polarities between the macrocosmic and the microcosmic universe has shifted in a way that could make things tricky for you on Wednesday afternoon, so try not to wear anything yellow. If you are allergic to cats, stay at home. If cats are allergic to you, go out. If you are allergic to your house, buy a cat. Something quite small and made of wood will be the cause of an argument with a close friend.

Cancer
Your Day Sign in Mayan astrology is ‘Crocodile’, which symbolizes new beginnings. As a crocodile, your personality is clever, creative and assertive, but you would be well advised to avoid spicy foods towards the end of the week. Warning: On no account accept an invitation from a woman called Denise.

Taurus
Mercury’s retrograde movement means that romance might be in the air for you. You need to appreciate someone close and to make it clear just how much they mean to you. But whatever you do, don’t push it; sending explicit photos would be a serious error of judgement. Your lucky number today is 23,952. Be careful if you come across a big puddle: it may be even bigger than you think.

Sagittarius
You Day Sign in Mayan astrology is ‘Leopard’, which means you are playful and intelligent and comfortable around animals, mainly because they can’t answer back. Something that looks and smells like a squirrel will cause an argument between two close friends and you may have to step in to sort things out. An unusual planetary alignment has implications for your finances and cash flow issues will become prominent. There is a fiver down the back of the couch.

Aquarius
Finances or friendships or health or romance have been on your mind lately, but good news is just around the corner and you can finally give some thought to your own long-term interests. This might involve looking at holiday brochures, purchasing some cake-mix or maybe buying shares in a racehorse. A friend will make a chance discovery after a visit to an acupuncturist and will seek your advice. Next Thursday, go through your wardrobe and throw out everything purple.

Virgo
The odd celestial atmosphere means that some curious undercurrents are at work. Someone who is normally very careful with their words will want to tell you more about what they're thinking and feeling, while a Piscean subject may make an attempt to hack into your Facebook account. On Friday, a cousin you haven’t seen for ages will turn up out of the blue and ask to borrow some money. Virgo subjects would be well advised to avoid going to the cinema until Mercury’s retrograde movement through the second house is complete.

Pisces
The current astral configuration means you will spend a lot of time wondering about the pros and cons of becoming involved in a certain relationship. You will meditate on it from various angles, but with Neptune in the ascendancy for the first time since 1998, it may finally be time for you to be bold for a change: Start by sending the person of your dreams a series of slightly ‘saucy’ texts. Who knows where that might lead? Later in the week, a friend whose name begins with D, E, F, G or T will sprain his (or her) ankle and /or have a bad experience at the dentist.

Scorpio
Not much happening at the moment.

Libra
According to Mayan astrology, you are Storm (or Rain), the nineteenth Day Sign. You have a soothing, nurturing nature and –in a previous life- you may even have had healing powers. Some folk find you annoying, but they are probably just jealous of your chakra, or whatever. Strange smells will be prominent over the next few days, while a Cancerian subject with the initial G, R, S, T or W will tell you about a money-making scheme and /or a painful ingrown toe-nail and /or a lost train ticket.

Leo
The curious planetary alignment today encourages you to view recent incidents in a new light. Everyone at work is talking about you and that unfortunate error of judgement over those ‘joke’ emails. Best to put it all behind you, but you should now give some serious thought to your personal hygiene. A friend or neighbour will be thinking about buying a new hat, but steer clear of giving him or her any advice. ‘Steve’ or ‘Stephanie’ will call.

Capricorn
Today’s planetary aspect means it is time for you to come out of your shell. Stop hiding behind excuses, routines, and timetables. Exciting moves are afoot; you will be invited to attend a meeting in Paisley sometime early next week. There, you will meet a man called ‘Yuri’, who will hand you a suitcase and the key to a safety deposit box at Glasgow Central station. You must take the 7.38 to Glasgow Central and deposit the suitcase in the correct box, then go home to await further instructions. Your lucky colour is mauve, or maybe yellow.

Kemal Pervanic interview

I’m privileged to have conducted a fascinating interview with Kemal Pervanic, a survivor of the Bosnian conflict of the early 90s. He was put in a concentration camp and was interrogated and punished by folk who were formerly his friends, neighbours and work colleagues. Kemal is a powerful and insightful speaker and I'm sure anyone listening to this interview will be moved by what he has to say.

Those of us who are fortunate enough to have lived our lives without having to endure significant conflict can only imagine what it must be like to have your world turned upside down. In Kemal’s view, it did not take much to tip his country over the edge from civilisation into chaos and he has some interesting things to say about the current state of play in Europe.      

Kemal Pervanic interview edited

Cannibalism in pop: the next witch-hunt

In the last few months, we’ve been made aware of a series of sordid revelations about Jimmy Saville and some of his sleazy chums from the worlds of broadcasting and pop music. So damning are these revelations that it seems that the history books will have to be re-written in order to airbrush certain unsavoury characters out of the picture. That process is already well underway; when was the last time that you heard, for instance, a song by Gary Glitter or Jonathon King on the radio? 

Some folk are glad to see pop music trying to clean up its act. Any civilised society, they would argue, should make a point of hunting down and condemning all sex offenders. Thank goodness we have a legal system that allows offenders to be retrospectively identified, vilified, condemned and crucified by properly-qualified folk, i.e. those who phone-in to talk radio shows and /or tweet regularly and /or have heard a rumour about so-and-so who "always looked kind of dodgy, didn’t he"?
Yet in spite of all this righteous vigilance, some offenders remain under the radar and unpunished. One act in particular seems to have escaped the notice of our PC police. 

As recently as 1982, the pop group Toto Coelo got into the top ten with their disgusting anthem "I Eat Cannibals". As far as one can make out from the lyric, it was little more than a sordid glorification of a vile practice that should have died out years ago. So why on earth did the authorities allow this sinister cult to peddle their foul omnivorous propaganda? Isn’t it time that this hideous act was brought to the attention of those wishing to clean up pop’s sordid history? Isn’t it time that the media spotlight focused on Toto Coelo and all that they stood for? Or is there one taboo that even the PC police dare not touch? 

Cannibalism was once all the rage among the ruling classes, but it fell out of fashion during the Edwardian era and became more or less illegal in the UK in 1909, when parliament passed the ‘Foodstuffs, Comestibles and Victuals’ act. The practice gradually died out and the last recorded incidence of cannibalism in the UK is said to have taken place at the Scarborough Cricket Festival in 1973, when, during a rain-delayed match against Fraisthorpe Colliery Colts, a visiting team from Sutton-under-Whitestonecliff is believed to have kidnapped and eaten the substitute fielder E.P. Dunstable.   

And yet, incredibly, less than a decade after that notorious incident, Toto Coelo managed to storm the charts with the clear intention of restoring cannibalism to respectability. It is surely only a matter of time before our ever-vigilant press delivers a retrospective judgement on this sinister cult.