Thursday 29 November 2007

Islamophobia - count me in

Blimey. An Islamophobe’s dream/nightmare these past few days. Personally I don’t like going round feeling quite so angry all the time. But I think we Islamophobes are gradually being absolved of the need to apologise for ourselves. Perhaps it’s time to come out of the closet.

Sudan is an utter disaster. It was from the start – what might have worked as an imperial territory, with nasty white imperialists at least treating the various ethnic groups equally patronisingly, became not so much a nation state as a state of institutionalised civil war. And it ought now be possible to say, not out of racial prejudice but out of simple observation, that you can’t safely put Muslim Arabs in charge of anything. And yes, that does include Palestine. Bye-bye, Palestinian state. Just go and get yourselves assimilated among those so-called Arab brothers who’ve done fuck all for you in the past. If it had been possible to say to the poor woman “Look, there are dozens of countries where you can do some good for poor kids. Just don’t go to Arab Muslim ones, because no-one is safe." Well, now I hope it is.

What’s really irritating have been unsympathetic commentators who’ve said things like “Well, it’s their country and she broke the laws”. Broke the laws? There aren’t any laws, just what some mad fascist cleric decides on a whim. Had she behaved differently and insisted that the name be changed, I can imagine a row breaking out along the lines of “Kufr Western Bitch prevents our kids from honouring our Prophet” and pointing out that a mere woman has no right overruling males, even if they’re seven. “It’s their country and she broke the law” would then be equally appropriate. Shari’a Law is a meaningless concept. It’s just the whim of whoever’s holding the gun or the whip. My slogan for the next confrontation: SHARI’A IS SH’ITE. Just don’t go there. People who go and work in Arab countries for money are henceforth to be called Rent Boys.

And the possibility of the lash reminded us that a chap called Gavin Sherrard-Smith got 50 lashes in Qatar in 1993 for breaking the alcohol ban. (This was reported in the Mail on Sunday – exactly half the comments were sympathetic, and the other half were about how good it would be if we introduced the same punishments here for people the Mail on Sunday doesn’t like.) Qatar! Sells itself as “the acceptable face”. No, we don’t use its airline any more, do we, however cheap its flights to Thailand might be.

Rather like Dubai. A German banker friend of mine – so wholly apolitical that he hadn’t a clue of the significance of what he was saying - that he’d been involved in some big financial deal with the Maktoums, who rule Dubai. His job was to put a syndicate of banks together to raise the money for a project. When Maktoum came over he discovered that one of the banks was M. M. Warburg, and asked if the Warburgs were Jewish. This could not be denied, and he banged the table and demanded that the syndicate be reconstituted as all-Aryan. I understand, though not agreeing with, the Arab boycott of Israel, but if one is the right side of the line between anti-Zionism and anti-Semitism one should be perfectly at ease with fully assimilated European Jews like the Warburgs. No, the Maktoums are straightforwardly anti-Semitic. Shit, if we don’t fly Emirates either, getting to Thailand might become a tad expensive.

Remember Hilaire Belloc, also, coincidentally, on the Sudan: “Whatever happens, we have got/ The Maxim gun, and they have not.” Now update it. L’audace, my friends, toujours l’audace. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. And if we don’t get you, the Israelis must.

A few hundred yards from where I live in Lancaster, there stands a vast Victorian Gothic building well set back from the A588. It used to be a mental hospital, called the Royal Albert or something similarly comfortingly Victorian. It would not astonish me if it were discovered that the late Mervyn Peake had been round here and a light-bulb had switched on in his head with the word “Gormenghast” above it.

Not very long ago, somebody decided they could make quite a wad of cash if they dumped the patients and sold the whole thing off. The mantra of “care in the community” was doubtless intoned, and the mental patients returned to their “communities” of origin, to be fed by the ravens. This being Lancashire, a large number of the patients were found to have a birthplace in Manchester. One shudders at the thought of them being dropped off in Moss Side with twenty quid and a couple of local authority leaflets. But that, I’m told, is what happened.

The building, meanwhile, was sold to some Islamic organisation. Now it announces itself as Jamea Al Kauthar Islamic College. It’s a girls’ school of the strict Muslim kind, no doubt there to serve the sort of people who don’t really think girls should go to school at all but have to set up something to show to the police. I’d love to see their GCSE and A level results. Perhaps I should enquire.

Anyway, there’s usually a couple of superannuated Mercs or Volvos parked up there when one drives past, but one very rarely sees signs of human life. I have to say I was rather relieved when, driving into town today at about half past four, I passed a group of girls in niqabs waiting at the bus stop opposite the school. (Since you ask, no I didn’t drive close to the kerb so as to soak them with water. It hadn’t rained today.) So it isn’t entirely an Al-Qa’eda bomb factory. OK, so I’m a bit prejudiced. (I prefer to use the term post-judiced.) But how would you like, in the aftermath of 9/11 and 7/7, to live virtually next door to a place that looks like Gormenghast and is covered with a blanket of silence except for the occasional appearance of a bird in a burqa?

So nothing sinister should be read into the fact that we’re moving house in the New Year. I just need a bigger place so as to get my stuff out of storage. Honest.

Sunday 25 November 2007

Pain in the Arse Revisited

The condition so unwisely advertised in the last post was not helped by some really buttock-clenching TV last night. Yes, I know I'm the sort of hypocrite who proclaims Roger Scrutonesque distaste for all TV but in practice there are a lot of exceptions. Besides, I'm married to someone from a nation which collectively doesn't realise that the telly has an "off" switch.
Anyway, one of the exceptions is Have I Got News For You, which had invited Ann Widdecombe to present it. Yes, you did read that right. It was seriously painful stuff. She was, as always, a game and unshockable old girl, but didn't come within light-years of getting the point. Trying to exert her authority by cutting off any attempt by Messrs Hislop and Merton to make jokes, which they countered very well by a lot of theatrical cringing. Obviously not up for any banter except on her own terms, i.e. reciting the prepared jokes in her script. Seriously excruciating watching.

And now we get to play Croatia again in the World Cup qualifying. Oh joy. Wonder how many potential England managers are already practising their feeble excuses.

Friday 23 November 2007

A Pain in the Arse...

obviously means I've got colon cancer. Well, I've got a very colon-cancer-friendly diet haven't I? And every hypochondriac picks a winner in the end. Or maybe it's the chronic prostatitis that was always going to turn into cancer one day. After all my dad was hardly older than me when he got prostate cancer. No, the truth is less dramatic (although hardly less distasteful) - the bloody Chalfonts are back.

I'm reminded of a P J O'Rourke (wrong politics but great man!) piece about a guy who "wasn't quite being bored to death, but was being bored into a very bad mood. And that was worse, because there is nothing heroic about facing a bad mood with dignity." A man facing cancer with composure is admirable. A man facing (well, not exactly facing) Rockfords with anything at all is a joke.

When I got back from taking the lovely lady's books back to the library she sweetly suggested I had a nice sit down while she cooked the dinner. I gently pointed out that I preferred to stand, and that I might as well cook while I was doing so.

Achilles' heel, St. Paul's "thorn in the flesh" - I can't help thinking that these might have been euphemisms.

Thursday 22 November 2007

Day Struck Out of the Calendar

Asleep all day. Horrible. Only got out of bed when a mate called round at quarter to five. Ghastly beyond belief.

Wednesday 21 November 2007

Oh What A Beautiful Morning

Sorta nice to see the Government's sorrows coming not single spies, but in battalions. Not because I believe that anything would be any better if Call Me Dave or whichever priggish w****r the Lib Dims choose were Prime Minister, but it does 'em good to have it up 'em occasionally.

That some gormless civil servant has managed to lose 25 million people's personal data will not surprise anyone with any experience of the Civil Service. Know who the busiest person in Britain is today? Not the PM, or the Chancellor, or the Head of the Revenue - particularly not him, as he's resigned. It'll be whoever is Head of Human Resources in the Revenue and Customs. No doubt a lot of people would like to know who the berk was who caused the whole fiasco. And the Head of HR will be bending all her energies to giving this sad useless git all the protection that Dr David Kelly wasn't found worthy of. This is what public sector HR departments do - rally round their own to save them from criticism. Three times in my civil service career I got carpeted for using "inappropriate language" about my colleagues. Once it was for calling one lot "a bunch of brainless jobsworths". Now, that wasn't kind or helpful, and when ordered to apologise I did so with good grace, but does anybody really think there are no brainless jobsworths in the Civil Service? But this remains the official position, and as a result the brainless jobsworths have proliferated to the extent of driving out all intelligent life in some departments.

Who's using the Home Office brain cell today?


And then Northern Rock. Who's going to get stuck with the bill? Anyone might, with the exception of the bastards who caused the whole fandango in the first place. What caused the run on the bank as people queued down the High Street to get their money out? The belief - nay, the certain knowledge - that if things really went tits up the bank's executives would grab all the remaining money for themselves and say to the depositors and shareholders "Sorry, but there's none left for you, old chap. Didn't you read the small print?"

And now a new lot of sharks are circling, offering to get the bank and the Government out of trouble, on one condition; that they make a guaranteed profit out of it and that all the risks are borne by someone else - probably the taxpayer, as the has no right to refuse the deal. All banking works on this principle. Bankers risk everybody's money but their own. They are the polar opposite of proper entrepreneurs, and the negation of the argument that people who take big risks deserve big rewards when they come off. I don't particularly want Adam Applegarth (boss of Northern Rock who resigned far too late) sent to prison - I'd begrudge him the free porridge. I want him subjected to a one-man windfall tax depriving him of all assets except a two-bedroom terrace in Newcastle, a 20th-century Skoda, and an income capped at £10,000 a year. And the same goes for all other one-way-bet specialists who land the rest of us in the poo. I have a little song, to the tune of "She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain":

Oh, I'd love to see a banker on a bus,
Yes, I'd love to see a banker on a bus.
Oh I'd love to see a banker,
(sorry, can't think of a rhyming fourth line - any suggestions?)
I'd love to see a banker on a bus.

Tuesday 20 November 2007

We all have days like this (I hope)

Unbelievably ghastly day. The bipolar stuff leads you to this point on occasion.

Completely unable to get out of bed for sheer terror till 2 p.m. No chance of getting anything written. Supposed to be manning the soup kitchen and singing in the evening. No bloody chance.

Stuff in the papers about people on incapacity benefit being really able to work. I suspect it's all balls. For each person with made-up backache there are ten with fits of the horrors which would never let them get through a day in the modern workplace with psychopathic bosses and back-biting colleagues.

Thank God I don't have to be in anyone's bleeding office.

Monday 19 November 2007

Gradually rolling home

Well, got a step nearer to getting new place to live. After studying the feng shui all weekend, the Iron Buddha told me she would have to ring an expert in Beijing to get the final verdict. Unfortunately, there is an 8-hour time difference between Britain and China, and by the time the IB got out of bed the expert had clocked off. At this point I banged the table. Yes, cultural sensitivity blah blah blah, but if I was going to have to wait until the dear girl got up early enough in the morning (her record doesn't inspire confidence) to get instruction from some superstitious nutter in China, we'd be stuck here for ever. So we are putting our application in for "the White House" as the IB calls it, not ever being able to remember street or district names. Not that I wish to be associated with the sort of person who gets to live in the real White House, of course....

Sunday 18 November 2007

Cranford - Never Again

Watched the adaptation of "Cranford", with all-star cast. Flawlessly done, of course; but uppermost in my mind is the little-boy-viewing-the-emperor's-new-clothes question; wasn't the whole period horrible? Attempted frustration of every charitable impulse by social convention and what-would-people-think? OK, maybe it's a bit exaggerated and it wasn't like that really; but what I do know is that we don't want anything like that ever again. Sod Victorian values. I've never been so glad to have brought my sons up to hang around all day in their pyjamas, despise conventional jobs and say "fuck" occasionally (so long as it isn't in their grandma's presence).

Friday 16 November 2007

Reprise

OK. Start again. Realised that if I don't get started on the regular blogging trail I'm unlikely to get anything written.

Might have found a new place to live. Having decided not to pursue the crazy idea of splitting my life between Lancaster and Hamburg, we're now going to rent a bigger house here in Lancaster and get all our stuff out of storage in Germany. That is, if they haven't sold it all at auction due to not having heard from us or received any money for three months.

Shown round by a pretty blonde estate agent: "Ooh, it's freezing!" she says as she gets out of the car, dressed in standard northern-lass get-up, i.e. displaying a cleavage you could park your bike in. Not that I noticed, of course, being in the company of 'er indoors.

However, there is a delay. The Iron Buddha won't let me sign up to anything until she's spent days researching the feng-shui. First question on waking up next morning is can I remember exactly where the loo was? This is vitally important, apparently. The loo is a great source of bad karma, and there aren't a lot of places where it's allowed to be. She may have to ring China tomorrow morning before we can arrive at the final verdict.