Society: Time to Reboot?

So: Capitalism has snapped, and the world - and specifically most Communists - has given up on Communism.

A little melodramatic? Well, at the very least, capitalism’s been shown to be astonishingly vulnerable as a way of doing that thing called society. After all, it wasn’t just a single sector, but merely a small part of one sector, that ripped up many of the world’s economies like out of date cheque books.

And what about the vast and growing inequality we blithely accept is part of how we live? Someone said to me recently, ‘The great myth of Capitalism is that wealth filters down from the top.’ It simply doesn’t, he added, just so that we were in no doubt.

Worse, western democracies should be in firm possession of the moral high ground at the moment, staring down at nascent North African democracies with a collective self-satisfied grin. But of course we’re not at all, because our governments have consistently propped up rank dictators solely to retain access to oil. Too late now to champion democracy in the region: it’s not so much happened without us, as happened in spite of us.

So what about communism? Well, quite apart from the fact that in practice – in the way it chose to treat its people – it was indistinguishable from fascism, we now have the world’s largest Communist nation glutting itself on bling and fat automobiles. So even they aren’t convinced. And who would be convinced by a system so lacking in self-confidence that in practice it typically tries to control how people think, and certainly what they say?

Apologists may say we’ve haven’t properly tried Communism; perhaps their pin-striped equivalents will say the same of Capitalism. But it strikes me we’ve tried both enough to know.

So where’s the new system? More to the point, where are the growers of new systems? Where are the thinkers we need now, now we’ve apparently tried everything else, and failed?

If the question is how to organise ourselves to the best advantage of the maximum number (which is probably as ambitious as it gets, at least to start with; Utopia can follow on later once we’ve got the hang of things), who’s considering this?

Personally, I wouldn’t know where to start, but then again there was probably a bloke in Croydon thinking the same thing just as Adam Smith and Karl Marx got their heads down. But where are today’s Smith and Marx?

And will they learn from the failures of previous systems?

Marx

                                                                Smith

                                                  Bloke from Croydon

Government to sell off air molecules

It was announced today that the Government is consulting on whether to sell off the UK’s air molecules.     

A spokesman said: “It’s madness to allow something this crucial to the UK’s economy to simply languish in the public sector. Instead we wish to bring to air the principles of fair competition in the market, and professionalization of services.” The spokesman added that he thought there would be “quite a bit” of interest in oxygen in particular, but that there would be less interest in methane and carbon dioxide, with specialist providers being the front runners, especially for xenon and ammonia.

It's thought that several large marketing agencies will bid for Neon and Krypton molecules and lease them out for big campaigns - 'Your Name Here in Neon', 'Not Even the Man of Steel Can Survive These Molecules - Not Without Murray Mints', and so on. 

When pressed, the spokesman said he thought it was “highly unlikely” that one provider would look after all the elements that go to make up the atmosphere over the UK. It was unclear how all the different companies will work together, or even whether UK citizens will still be able to breathe after the sale.     

Oh, wait, this just in, turns out the government has done a U-turn and has dropped the whole idea.

Bored Stupid By An Eight-Goal Thriller

To Newcastle, a few Saturdays ago, for a stag do. Stag himself is no follower of the beautiful game, but despite this at half three we find ourselves in a strangely quiet bar where the local match against Arsenal is being played.

We squint at the screen for the score. Astonishingly, Arsenal are beating Newcastle 4-0 – and only thirty minutes gone. The bar is entirely silent. Grim-faced Geordies listlessly watch the action.

We get a round in, and sit in front of it for an hour. It’s very much a game where one team is in the ascendant, and the other’s utterly crushed. Diaby gets sent off, but it doesn’t make any difference – aside from supplying something approaching an incident in an otherwise drab game. About half four, one of the chaps suggest we go check into our hotel, so we slope off. Behind us, we hear a cheer – Newcastle must have grabbed a consolation goal. Some consolation.

By the time we get back, it’s Final Score – and of course Newcastle have pulled it back to 4-4 in one of the greatest fightbacks in Premier League history. We’ve managed to see most of the match, and still miss all eight goals in an eight goal thriller. There’s a certain kind of dumb skill to this – though I can’t think how to apply it anywhere else, or what its benefits could possibly be.

Later, on ‘Match of the Day’, Alan Shearer says what a good match it was. It blinkin’ wasn’t if you missed the goals, it was dull as hell.

                                              Nope, didn't see that either

It was like going to a comedy festival and being in the Gents for every single punch-line. 


Still, could have been worse – we might all have been Abou Diaby.

I Am Wearing The Hat Of An Alien Nobleman

At the Football Christmas Dinner-Dance this Tuesday friend Terry arrived sporting a rather handsome winter hat. It was one of those Russian jobs, all fur and flaps that make you like Muttley. Fantastic.

I asked Tel two or three times where he’d got it from, to the extent that he (understandably) ended up squawking, ‘I don’t know, all right?’ And even, ‘Leave me alone, stop ringing me, it’s 4am! Right, that’s it, I’m going to call the police.’ To be fair, the central tenet of the average Football Christmas Dinner-Dance is to sufficiently indulge yourself that you’re only dimly aware what your name is, let alone where you once bought a hat.

Undeterred, I set out last night to find my own Russian Muttley hat. I’ve blogged at work about how shopping for me - as with many right-thinking people – is essentially a race to the finishing post, rather than a pleasure in itself. This time, though, The Hat Had To Be Right. If I was going to look ridiculous, I was going to look my kind of ridiculous. Oh yes. It’s a distinction, though admittedly not an honourable one.

Ten shops later, I found it. Fizzing with fur, flapping with flaps, and strappy with under-chin straps. Arctic winds, I Am Ready For You Now. ‘Aaaaaandsome.

However, I feel obliged at this point to explain my purchasing decision. It immediately occurred to me as I stuffed it on my bonce in River Island that the hat was very much in the style of the Graff Vynda K, a character in the 1978 Doctor Who adventure ‘The Ribos Operation’. So much so, I was half-expecting some really dodgy special effects to creep up behind me and flop onto my shoes.

I’m convinced this comparison would have occurred to almost anyone, once they’re tried the thing on. I mean, it was pretty obvious (see photo above of me trying the hat on, ably assisted by a terribly helpful member of staff).

In fact, I can’t believe this wasn’t intentional on the part of River Island’s buyers. I can see the marketing meeting now: ‘Right, let’s start. Everyone got coffees? Good. Now, anyone seen ‘The Ribos Operation’ – Tom Baker, 1978? No…?’

The whole shopping trip was so successful that I’m determined to base all future retail decisions on the style choices of fictional alien noblemen from doubtful late 70s science fiction. After all, it’s a proven formula.

It also enables me to write a blog with a title that sounds like a really bad translation.

The Unmistakeable Reek of Nostalgia

Coming back from a curry last night our local station opened up a platform it never uses and a stairway to the Exit which emerges, Danger Mouse-like, from a doorway in a wall you never realised was there.

Man, that stairway took me back.

Long disused, it had managed to dodge yellow paint on the steps (obviously, I stumbled down them); helpful notices telling you to be careful on stairs (without which I was reckless, and even took two at a time – you simply can’t replace good advice when it’s gone); and no signs offering a call centre number to deal with all those late night stair-descent emergencies (“Hi there – I’m having trouble putting one foot in front of another. I think this is probably more my fault than yours, but can you help?”)

Best of all, it smelt like stairways, telephone boxes and car parks always should smell: of male piss. Ah, the nostalgia! Ah, those heady days, when no wall laboured without graffiti, and no street thumped to the bass from No 47 without black bin bags and dog turds!

And all the other long-gone strengths of this proud nation. People in what we would now call customer service jobs genuinely enjoying being snappy, dismissive and dumb. Trains with ripped seats in desperate need of a paint job. A general feeling that helping other people is basically suspect, and a bit weak.

Things ain’t what they used to be. What a stairway.

Canute of the Hair Waves

So, how do you deal with the stuff?

I mean, it’s a battle, isn’t it? There’s the shaving, for a start – that’s another tiresome pointless daily routine to add to teeth-brushing, operatic indigestion and pretending not to recognise people you work with when you see them on the train.

And I don’t know about you, but my hair hits a point for about two days every two months when it’s in between ‘Quite short – looks faintly thuggish’ and ‘Misshapen – quick, alert his Carer.’ Two days, people.

As if that isn’t enough, there’s also white nostril hair to contend with. I mean, what am I, Santa Claus? How come I’m only an albino nasally? And what’s the point of ear hair, and why does it sprout like the tops of carrots?

It’s as if some weird internal coat of hair is slowly being pulled through my skin by invisible fingers.

Back, I command you. Hell, there goes another pair of shoes. Drenched by a hair tsunami.

And you know what really makes me parp the vuvuzela of righteous indignation (yes, I think you’ll find there is such a thing)? There’s not a single scrap of evidence that hirsute men are more manly, or cleverer, or sexier. Not one. Can you believe it?

I mean, what’s it all for?

Hmmm?

Jacobean Space Programme

Few years back, BBC History Magazine had an article on the Jacobean space programme. One of those articles where the title’s slightly better than the read (something you could never accuse this blog of), it concerned a seventeenth century gent who wanted to open trade routes to the moon, and designed a machine to get there.

The machine didn’t work. ‘Zounds, can’t understand it. I mean, it’s hardly rocket science, is it?’ ‘Wot’s “rocket science”?’

Better still, ‘Jacobean Space Programme’ is clearly the prog rock band that never quite happened. Everyone in the band with pointy beards. Lots of frilly shirt cuffs and long harpischord solos. The lead singer insists on signing autographs with a quill. People in the audience playing Air Lute. Jokey ‘B’side ‘You Never Look Tough When You’re Wearing A Ruff’ roundly hated by the fan club.

Jacobean Space Programme: for everyone who can’t be arsed to start a band, and is perfectly happy just making up the name.

Next month: we review difficult second albums from The Zippy Tortoises, Stalin Henderson, Cumberland Rat Station and The Flat Earth Surfers.