Having just moved house and not got my satellite up yet, I have had to go back to the old warhorse of Test Match Special to wallow in cricket as is my wont.
It is in the opening moments of TMS that one realises what Old Etonians are for. As cricket commentators they rule the world. What would English cricket be without Brian Johnston and Henry Blofeld? (Although it must be conceded that Southampton policeman John Arlott was the daddy of them all.)
It has to be said that “Sir” Geoffrey Boycott is also a delight, if only for depth of self-absorption and utter lack of self-awareness. It’s great when one of the other commentators winds him up to an outburst of quite incredible pomposity; once the mechanism is set in motion it will rattle on with eye-popping absurdities, which are lovably rather than irritatingly amusing as one realises there is no malice behind them. (My father met him once and found him absolutely charming.)
A grossly predictable defeat at the hands of South Africa. I don’t think our players are any worse, especially as their star all-rounder Jacques Kallis didn’t do very much, but we have no idea of tactics or strategy.
Start with the selection. No complaints in principle about Darren Pattinson, although he may turn out to be one of those bowlers we always seemed to have in the Nineties, who would roar in full of sound and fury and never even look like taking a wicket. The idea that there were other people ahead of him in the queue is ridiculous; a place in the team is nobody’s right – next thing you know they’ll be taking it to an industrial tribunal when they get dropped. The silliest thing was saying he shouldn’t have been picked because he grew up in Australia – where do they think Kevin Pietersen grew up? We’re going to have to rely more and more on English-qualified players who grew up somewhere else; how can you develop cricketers in a country where every green space has been sold off to developers and it rains all bloody summer?
Tim Ambrose battled gamely this afternoon, but he isn’t a Test No. 6. Surely the wicketkeeper issue should relate to the bowling strategy. If you play four bowlers, then you play six batsmen and the best wicketkeeper you can find; if you need five bowlers then you need a No. 6 batsman who can keep wicket competently, i.e. the nearest you can get to Alec Stewart. Right now that means Matt Prior or just possibly Colonel Mustard.
Anyway, the South Africans have far worse problems. Makhaya Ntini bowled OK in this game, but he wasn’t much cop at Lord’s. Boycott, looking for trouble, tried to put Shaun Pollock on the spot on whether Ntini should have been dropped; Pollock, to his credit, made no evasions. The dropping of Ntini would have precipitated an official enquiry, and would have taken a lot of justifying, as he is the only real black guy in the team. (Actually I think Makhaya should be investigated for discrimination himself: left-handers, like myself, are a persecuted minority when he is bowling. He bunnified Trescothick on his last visit and got Strauss with a real bastard yesterday.)
Anyway, we were rubbish. A Test captain batting at 3 should not get himself out in the penultimate over of the day. James Anderson played brilliantly as night-watchman, and then got hit on the head. Often medical and tactical imperatives clash, but in this case they pointed in the same direction; he should have gone off and got his head together. He’d done his job, holding out for nearly two hours, and should have come back in his real No 9 position to bat with the sublime Stuart Broad. Anyone could have predicted that Anderson would be out in no time if he stayed on the field. Full marks for courage, but discretion is the better part of valour.
Pietersen was a disgrace. There are times (Twenty20 springs to mind) when a five-ball 13 is just the ticket. When the task is to bat for two days to save the match it’s just silly. No doubt it felt good to get to 13 in four balls. But Fred Flintoff, who’s also not normally one to hang about, did more good by taking 68 balls to reach the same score. KP ought to get dropped for that, like Boycott once was for scoring 246 in about six months. Except we don’t have the depth of batting to make that feasible...
Maybe Broad will make a No. 6 one day – after all he now averages 41 in Tests, and that was only his second not out. The only problem is that his recent bowling has been nothing to write home about.
The one glimmer of light it that I was expecting to miss the last day of the match as I’m flying to Crete tomorrow, and now I won’t.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Saturday, 19 July 2008
Faith in Humanity?
I have devoted more time than I’m really happy with to the subject of utter bastards – occasionally one needs to remind oneself that there is another sort of human being and one meets them now and then – but it can’t be denied that bastards do tend to thrust themselves on one’s attention.
We’ve all had horrible disappointments in love, and there’s no point in telling your children to expect anything else – but I have to say that Enormous Oaf 2’s first great fuck-up broke some sort of record (unless it’s always like that for the younger generation – in which case God help them).
EO2 is nineteen, and got into his first proper relationship four months ago. He was very happy, but also sensible and realistic; he knew, and had discussed it with his partner, that it might be better to cool things when he goes to university in October, as who knew what might happen after that. So that the relationship might end did not come as a shock; what did come as a shock was that, after his boyfriend rang to tell him he’d found someone else, the “someone else” was then given the phone to tell EO2 that he could fuck off. Asking to talk to his hitherto boyfriend to ask why, he was told by the new bloke that he ever got in touch again he’d get battered, the guy knew where he lived etc. etc.
Now EO2 is getting phone calls from his ex’s number, but isn’t answering them, partly because he doesn’t know whether it’s the ex or the ex’s new bloke, partly because even if it is the ex he’s got nothing to say to the cowardly bastard.
We all know relationships break up, but if that’s how the younger generation are splitting up, God help them, as I said before.
We’ve all had horrible disappointments in love, and there’s no point in telling your children to expect anything else – but I have to say that Enormous Oaf 2’s first great fuck-up broke some sort of record (unless it’s always like that for the younger generation – in which case God help them).
EO2 is nineteen, and got into his first proper relationship four months ago. He was very happy, but also sensible and realistic; he knew, and had discussed it with his partner, that it might be better to cool things when he goes to university in October, as who knew what might happen after that. So that the relationship might end did not come as a shock; what did come as a shock was that, after his boyfriend rang to tell him he’d found someone else, the “someone else” was then given the phone to tell EO2 that he could fuck off. Asking to talk to his hitherto boyfriend to ask why, he was told by the new bloke that he ever got in touch again he’d get battered, the guy knew where he lived etc. etc.
Now EO2 is getting phone calls from his ex’s number, but isn’t answering them, partly because he doesn’t know whether it’s the ex or the ex’s new bloke, partly because even if it is the ex he’s got nothing to say to the cowardly bastard.
We all know relationships break up, but if that’s how the younger generation are splitting up, God help them, as I said before.
A new word for a new concept
Though new words are being thrust on us all the time, by though who fancy seeming cool, it isn't every day that you get a genuinely new concept which requires one.
Here I must, with some reluctance, give a hat tip to Mark Leonard. I was always a bit disdainful of him, as an early New Labour spin-doctor. I was even more so when opening this week's Spectator and seeing him described as "Britain's pre-eminent analyst of modern China", whereas that title belongs rightfully to none other than - well that is neither here nor there. Be that as it may, Mark referred to a couple of American academics who have pointed out that the Beijing Olympics might provide an opportunity to turn the surveillance state against itself, simply because so many people will be there with digital cameras. Monroe Price and Daniel Dayan (in Leonard's words) "use the phrase "Sousveillance" to capture a new phenomenon where the powerful can be filmed and held to account for their actions in the court of public opinion". Sousveillance - what a word. We use the technology at our disposal to put on record anything that the bastards don't want to see put on record. What other people choose to do about it is not our responsibility. I'm not a great photo and video expert, so I'll probably limit it to names and addresses.
Well, I happen to be listening to "Götterdämmerung" at the moment, and I swear a Wagnerian oath to dedicate myself to "sousveillance" at all times. Members of the ruling class that want their foul deeds covered up had better cover them up pretty damn well.
Here I must, with some reluctance, give a hat tip to Mark Leonard. I was always a bit disdainful of him, as an early New Labour spin-doctor. I was even more so when opening this week's Spectator and seeing him described as "Britain's pre-eminent analyst of modern China", whereas that title belongs rightfully to none other than - well that is neither here nor there. Be that as it may, Mark referred to a couple of American academics who have pointed out that the Beijing Olympics might provide an opportunity to turn the surveillance state against itself, simply because so many people will be there with digital cameras. Monroe Price and Daniel Dayan (in Leonard's words) "use the phrase "Sousveillance" to capture a new phenomenon where the powerful can be filmed and held to account for their actions in the court of public opinion". Sousveillance - what a word. We use the technology at our disposal to put on record anything that the bastards don't want to see put on record. What other people choose to do about it is not our responsibility. I'm not a great photo and video expert, so I'll probably limit it to names and addresses.
Well, I happen to be listening to "Götterdämmerung" at the moment, and I swear a Wagnerian oath to dedicate myself to "sousveillance" at all times. Members of the ruling class that want their foul deeds covered up had better cover them up pretty damn well.
Surrender retracted
I have received various requests for information on what my posting on child-rapist Roger Took and his haut bourgeois friends actually said. Given that it has now been suggested that its excesses might simply have involved the law of the land rather than certain dark forces, I will repost it, suitably amended (Cipriano does not openly advocate breaches of the law, but simply invites people to draw their own conclusions).
Nonce of the Year?
This week’s Spectator contained a real eye-opener of an article. It reported a really horrible case of child abuse which no-one had ever reported before. The article, by Charlotte Metcalf, stated (not alleged; there had been a conviction and sentence) that Roger Took, apparently a well-known art historian and curator, had been found guilty of serious sexual abuse of his step-granddaughters, and had boasted of far worse things online, including helping to gang-rape a five-year-old girl to death, though he was to claim that this was just a fantasy. The line the article took was that, both before and after his arrest and conviction, he had been protected by his high-society connections, living as he did in Chelsea, on money originally belonging to his wife, the grandmother of the proven victims. Bear in mind that this is the Spectator, not Dave Spart. Here’s the piece: http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/features/826056/the-establishment-paedophile-how-a-monster-hid-in-high-society.thtml. Do read it, in case you think I’m talking about mere bagatelles.
One’s first reaction to reading something unexpected in a British paper is that it must be bullshit. But names – i.e. those who helped in the cover-up - are firmly named, and we are looking at seven-figure libel if this is not true. Either way, it hasn’t got into the rest of the press, as it didn’t at the time of the trial. So either the press know the case is bullshit, in which case why hasn’t somebody sued? Or the Chelsea mafia cover-up has its tentacles all over what used to be Fleet Street. It can’t be that no-one sees a story in it.
Anyway, it’s reported that the nonce Took gets the Speccie in his cell. Let’s hope that the whole prison reads it, screws and inmates. The silly, over-law-abiding Speccie didn’t tell us which nick he was in, but there are ways of finding these things out. He’s only got three and a half years to serve, so even if he survives those he’ll be on the outside soon.
Meanwhile, what of the “establishment cover-up”? Nobody’s sued yet, and it’s nearly a week, so let’s assume it’s gen up. It took me 15 minutes on Google to place two of Took’s friends:
“Ute Chatterjee, a woman who had been helping Took with research, was the Membership and Meeting Secretary of the Great Britain–Russia Society. When Took failed to arrive in Russia as planned to begin his expedition [because ‘d been arrested], she took it upon herself to lie on his behalf, even phoning the other people involved to tell them he had had an accident. Later she began asking Pat’s [i.e. Mrs Took’s] friends in England and Ireland if they would receive letters or calls from Took. Pat wrote to the president of the Society in an attempt to stop her. Like others, Chatterjee found Took’s charm and academic reputation so plausible that she was happy to continue helping him.” (Speccie)
Ute Chatterjee lives at 43 Kenilworth Court, Lower Richmond Road, London SW15 1EN. Phone: 0788 4464 461 – and works at the Department for Education and Science, though hopefully not for much longer. ute.chatterjee@dfes.gsi.gov.uk., telephone + 44 207 340 4488.
Another nasty piece of work is Mischa Naimark, a Russian academic of some sort:
“Judge Blacksell deemed Took to be enough of a danger to the public to give him an indeterminate sentence but, because the case was hardly reported, it was up to Pat to tell many of Took’s acquaintances and friends about what had happened. Mischa Naimark, a former colleague in Russia, who was collaborating on Took’s next expedition, told Pat she should not go round publicising his arrest. Instead she should be a ‘good, tactful wife’ and suggested she was ‘jealous’ of her ‘younger rivals’. It was as if Naimark was ticking her off for exaggerating while Took’s impeccable social credentials and high-flying academic career served to cushion him from condemnation.”
Mischa hangs out at Miklukho-Maklaya str., 57 - 1 - 115 , 117279 Moscow, Russia. Phone number: (095) 334 83 20 (in Moscow). E-mail: mikanaimark@onego.ru. No doubt Russians will also draw their own conclusions.
In the meantime, having taken note of the total silence of the rest of the press on this subject, I was eagerly awaiting the new Spectator, replete as I imagined it would be with readers' letters on the subject. Not a sausage. I find it diffiult to believe that they hadn't received any. Lost your bottle, Mr Editor d'Ancona?
Nonce of the Year?
This week’s Spectator contained a real eye-opener of an article. It reported a really horrible case of child abuse which no-one had ever reported before. The article, by Charlotte Metcalf, stated (not alleged; there had been a conviction and sentence) that Roger Took, apparently a well-known art historian and curator, had been found guilty of serious sexual abuse of his step-granddaughters, and had boasted of far worse things online, including helping to gang-rape a five-year-old girl to death, though he was to claim that this was just a fantasy. The line the article took was that, both before and after his arrest and conviction, he had been protected by his high-society connections, living as he did in Chelsea, on money originally belonging to his wife, the grandmother of the proven victims. Bear in mind that this is the Spectator, not Dave Spart. Here’s the piece: http://www.spectator.co.uk/the-magazine/features/826056/the-establishment-paedophile-how-a-monster-hid-in-high-society.thtml. Do read it, in case you think I’m talking about mere bagatelles.
One’s first reaction to reading something unexpected in a British paper is that it must be bullshit. But names – i.e. those who helped in the cover-up - are firmly named, and we are looking at seven-figure libel if this is not true. Either way, it hasn’t got into the rest of the press, as it didn’t at the time of the trial. So either the press know the case is bullshit, in which case why hasn’t somebody sued? Or the Chelsea mafia cover-up has its tentacles all over what used to be Fleet Street. It can’t be that no-one sees a story in it.
Anyway, it’s reported that the nonce Took gets the Speccie in his cell. Let’s hope that the whole prison reads it, screws and inmates. The silly, over-law-abiding Speccie didn’t tell us which nick he was in, but there are ways of finding these things out. He’s only got three and a half years to serve, so even if he survives those he’ll be on the outside soon.
Meanwhile, what of the “establishment cover-up”? Nobody’s sued yet, and it’s nearly a week, so let’s assume it’s gen up. It took me 15 minutes on Google to place two of Took’s friends:
“Ute Chatterjee, a woman who had been helping Took with research, was the Membership and Meeting Secretary of the Great Britain–Russia Society. When Took failed to arrive in Russia as planned to begin his expedition [because ‘d been arrested], she took it upon herself to lie on his behalf, even phoning the other people involved to tell them he had had an accident. Later she began asking Pat’s [i.e. Mrs Took’s] friends in England and Ireland if they would receive letters or calls from Took. Pat wrote to the president of the Society in an attempt to stop her. Like others, Chatterjee found Took’s charm and academic reputation so plausible that she was happy to continue helping him.” (Speccie)
Ute Chatterjee lives at 43 Kenilworth Court, Lower Richmond Road, London SW15 1EN. Phone: 0788 4464 461 – and works at the Department for Education and Science, though hopefully not for much longer. ute.chatterjee@dfes.gsi.gov.uk., telephone + 44 207 340 4488.
Another nasty piece of work is Mischa Naimark, a Russian academic of some sort:
“Judge Blacksell deemed Took to be enough of a danger to the public to give him an indeterminate sentence but, because the case was hardly reported, it was up to Pat to tell many of Took’s acquaintances and friends about what had happened. Mischa Naimark, a former colleague in Russia, who was collaborating on Took’s next expedition, told Pat she should not go round publicising his arrest. Instead she should be a ‘good, tactful wife’ and suggested she was ‘jealous’ of her ‘younger rivals’. It was as if Naimark was ticking her off for exaggerating while Took’s impeccable social credentials and high-flying academic career served to cushion him from condemnation.”
Mischa hangs out at Miklukho-Maklaya str., 57 - 1 - 115 , 117279 Moscow, Russia. Phone number: (095) 334 83 20 (in Moscow). E-mail: mikanaimark@onego.ru. No doubt Russians will also draw their own conclusions.
In the meantime, having taken note of the total silence of the rest of the press on this subject, I was eagerly awaiting the new Spectator, replete as I imagined it would be with readers' letters on the subject. Not a sausage. I find it diffiult to believe that they hadn't received any. Lost your bottle, Mr Editor d'Ancona?
Thursday, 17 July 2008
"1960 No Surrender" surrenders
This is rather sad. But good may come of it.
A couple of days ago I posted a piece on a Chelsea-domiciled convicted kiddie-fiddler (and I'm talking serious rape, torture and abuse of very small children) who had been covered for by various elements of the arty-farty London establishment, and whose case had very mysteriously been kept out of the press. Friends of mine who are maybe less naive than I am about the sort of country we are living in got on to me and suggested that I ought to take the posting down for my own safety. With great regret I have done so, this not being my style at all. But it would be most inconvenient just at the moment to get myself taken out; dependent children, clueless Chinese wife, aged mother etc. Once I get the six-months-to-live chitty from the medico, then there'll be fireworks.
But interesting to know that the sort of offences which get your throat slit with a blunt knife by the kind of guys who occupy H.M. Prisons still elicit limitless support and solidarity from the London bourgeoisie (hereinafter to be known in this blog exclusively as "the kiddie-fiddler's friends"). But stupid of me - I've got a sodding history degree. Do not the names Mussolini, Hitler and Franco demonstrate just how far the rich will go to guard each other's arses? Were not the same things that happened to these poor little girls at the hands of a Chelsea scumbag done by Franco's Moors in 1936 with the blessing of the Roman Catholic Church? (The answer, if you're a benighted Papist idiot, is "Yes".)
Anyway, from now on no more fairness. I will admit at a pinch that there may be a few people in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea who have not actually raped a five-year-old to death. But I regard them all as basically complicit. (In fact my sons will probably reprimand me for the language used in this posting. I have used the word "Chelsea" three times (now four) despite a firm agreement between us that the word must always be pronounced and spelt "Scum". This is a football rather than a political issue, but I think the point stands. Sorry, lads.)
In future I will confine what knowledge I have concerning the kiddie-fiddlers' friends, their names, addresses and weaknesses, to a confined circle (the activists of Class War) and simply point out that if it is not safe for me to tell the truth about rich bastards, then the level of their own security should fall just a tad. Fair's fair. And given the present state of the financial markets, it is clear that a) if it was all right for bankers to be owning mansions in Belgravia in the good times, they now ought to be in two-bed flats in Peckham and going to work on the bus, and b) that isn't happening. Well, if there aren't any legal ways to reduce these people to the penury they deserve, we'll have to go for the illegal ones.
Kiddie-fiddlers' friends, your time will come!
A couple of days ago I posted a piece on a Chelsea-domiciled convicted kiddie-fiddler (and I'm talking serious rape, torture and abuse of very small children) who had been covered for by various elements of the arty-farty London establishment, and whose case had very mysteriously been kept out of the press. Friends of mine who are maybe less naive than I am about the sort of country we are living in got on to me and suggested that I ought to take the posting down for my own safety. With great regret I have done so, this not being my style at all. But it would be most inconvenient just at the moment to get myself taken out; dependent children, clueless Chinese wife, aged mother etc. Once I get the six-months-to-live chitty from the medico, then there'll be fireworks.
But interesting to know that the sort of offences which get your throat slit with a blunt knife by the kind of guys who occupy H.M. Prisons still elicit limitless support and solidarity from the London bourgeoisie (hereinafter to be known in this blog exclusively as "the kiddie-fiddler's friends"). But stupid of me - I've got a sodding history degree. Do not the names Mussolini, Hitler and Franco demonstrate just how far the rich will go to guard each other's arses? Were not the same things that happened to these poor little girls at the hands of a Chelsea scumbag done by Franco's Moors in 1936 with the blessing of the Roman Catholic Church? (The answer, if you're a benighted Papist idiot, is "Yes".)
Anyway, from now on no more fairness. I will admit at a pinch that there may be a few people in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea who have not actually raped a five-year-old to death. But I regard them all as basically complicit. (In fact my sons will probably reprimand me for the language used in this posting. I have used the word "Chelsea" three times (now four) despite a firm agreement between us that the word must always be pronounced and spelt "Scum". This is a football rather than a political issue, but I think the point stands. Sorry, lads.)
In future I will confine what knowledge I have concerning the kiddie-fiddlers' friends, their names, addresses and weaknesses, to a confined circle (the activists of Class War) and simply point out that if it is not safe for me to tell the truth about rich bastards, then the level of their own security should fall just a tad. Fair's fair. And given the present state of the financial markets, it is clear that a) if it was all right for bankers to be owning mansions in Belgravia in the good times, they now ought to be in two-bed flats in Peckham and going to work on the bus, and b) that isn't happening. Well, if there aren't any legal ways to reduce these people to the penury they deserve, we'll have to go for the illegal ones.
Kiddie-fiddlers' friends, your time will come!
Japanese Condoms
Good story on the BBC today, about Korean commuters insisting that advertisements for Japanese condoms are removed from the Seoul underground. This is of course all to do with one of these bouts of pointless nationalism that bedevil East Asia, over territorial claims to a couple of guano-covered islands, and ultimately comes down to the fact that East Asia hates the Japanese like poison because of World War II, and always will. (I sympathise: I always have a drink to celebrate Hiroshima Day - but then I have a drink to celebrate something or other every day of my life.)
The Koreans are missing a trick here. What they should be saying is that they won’t buy Japanese condoms because they don’t fit. I wouldn’t know first-hand, but apparently the Japs are well adrift at the bottom of the table in the international cock-size league. (No prizes for guessing who’s top.) According to my more promiscuous female and gay friends, we’re talking first-joint-of-your-pinky-finger here. Banzai!
The Koreans are missing a trick here. What they should be saying is that they won’t buy Japanese condoms because they don’t fit. I wouldn’t know first-hand, but apparently the Japs are well adrift at the bottom of the table in the international cock-size league. (No prizes for guessing who’s top.) According to my more promiscuous female and gay friends, we’re talking first-joint-of-your-pinky-finger here. Banzai!
Wednesday, 16 July 2008
Not an Effing Thickie
Greatest English lyricist of modern times? Anybody who says anything other than Ian Dury is full of shit. No contest.
It’s not just the well-known rollicking ones – Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll, Blockheads or Billericay Dickie, bloody good though those are. It’s the more thoughtful ones, which make a point without getting preachy.
Just reintroduced myself to this one, which says more or less everything that can sensibly be said about the present educational malaise:
What did you learn in school today?
- Jack shit
The minute the teacher turns away -
- That's it
How many times were you truly intrigued?
- Not any
Is boredom a symptom of mental fatigue?
- Not many
When have you ever been top of the class?
- Not once
What will you be when you're out on your arse?
- A dunce
What are your prospects of doing quite well?
- Too small
And what will you have at the very last bell?
- Fuck all
You can't bear another's beauty, you can't emulate a grace
You can't filch another's mystery, occupy another's space
You can't do another's duty, or take a special place
In another person's history when they've sunk without a trace
What's the reward for being a berk?
- A blank
Thick as a plank and looking for work?
- What a wank
What do you think of the Welfare State?
- It's a fake
What have they handed you on a plate?
- The ache
Have you considered how lucky you are?
- Well shucks
What do you think of the system so far?
- It sucks
Aren't you endowed with the patience of Job?
- I wish
And don't you feel ready to conquer the globe?
- I’ll fish
You can't steal another's thunder, you can't fill the great divide
You can't steer another's fancy, you can't change another's side
Not undo another's blunder nor pretend another's pride
You can't offer necromancy till the final hope has died
I'm a second-class person citizen-wise,
This is something I must recognise.
It's not my place to make complaint,
But am I happy? No, I ain't.
I missed my chance when I was young,
Now I live below the bottom rung.
I was put on earth to discover my niche;
Oh Lord, won't you make me Nouveau Riche?
Dury’s line was always that it’s perfectly all right for the ordinary bloke to despise outward sophistication, what he’d probably call ponciness; but not to despise education, knowledge and ability. He spoke for a working class that wasn’t interested in being upwardly mobile, but was not satisfied to sit on its arse mindlessly consuming Murdoch prolefeed. His “reasons to be cheerful” included “something nice to study”; Billericay Dickie placed importance on not being thought of as an “effing thickie”, and a selection of artists, scientists and musicians are praised in “Ain’t Half Been Some Clever Bastards”. Not for him the modern celebration of pig ignorance. Confronted once with the glib dismissal of teachers “Those that can, do; those that can’t, teach”, he is quoted as replying. “No, it should be ‘Those that can, teach; those that can’t, FUCK OFF!’” He’d have been well brassed off at today’s portrayal of the working class as knifing each other at worst and shouting mindlessly and taking their clothes off on “reality television” at best: now it’s only the despairing last line of “Jack Shit George” that has any resonance at all.
Ian Dury 1942-2000 RIP: not to be forgotten (even my son’s girlfriend knows all the lyrics).
It’s not just the well-known rollicking ones – Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll, Blockheads or Billericay Dickie, bloody good though those are. It’s the more thoughtful ones, which make a point without getting preachy.
Just reintroduced myself to this one, which says more or less everything that can sensibly be said about the present educational malaise:
What did you learn in school today?
- Jack shit
The minute the teacher turns away -
- That's it
How many times were you truly intrigued?
- Not any
Is boredom a symptom of mental fatigue?
- Not many
When have you ever been top of the class?
- Not once
What will you be when you're out on your arse?
- A dunce
What are your prospects of doing quite well?
- Too small
And what will you have at the very last bell?
- Fuck all
You can't bear another's beauty, you can't emulate a grace
You can't filch another's mystery, occupy another's space
You can't do another's duty, or take a special place
In another person's history when they've sunk without a trace
What's the reward for being a berk?
- A blank
Thick as a plank and looking for work?
- What a wank
What do you think of the Welfare State?
- It's a fake
What have they handed you on a plate?
- The ache
Have you considered how lucky you are?
- Well shucks
What do you think of the system so far?
- It sucks
Aren't you endowed with the patience of Job?
- I wish
And don't you feel ready to conquer the globe?
- I’ll fish
You can't steal another's thunder, you can't fill the great divide
You can't steer another's fancy, you can't change another's side
Not undo another's blunder nor pretend another's pride
You can't offer necromancy till the final hope has died
I'm a second-class person citizen-wise,
This is something I must recognise.
It's not my place to make complaint,
But am I happy? No, I ain't.
I missed my chance when I was young,
Now I live below the bottom rung.
I was put on earth to discover my niche;
Oh Lord, won't you make me Nouveau Riche?
Dury’s line was always that it’s perfectly all right for the ordinary bloke to despise outward sophistication, what he’d probably call ponciness; but not to despise education, knowledge and ability. He spoke for a working class that wasn’t interested in being upwardly mobile, but was not satisfied to sit on its arse mindlessly consuming Murdoch prolefeed. His “reasons to be cheerful” included “something nice to study”; Billericay Dickie placed importance on not being thought of as an “effing thickie”, and a selection of artists, scientists and musicians are praised in “Ain’t Half Been Some Clever Bastards”. Not for him the modern celebration of pig ignorance. Confronted once with the glib dismissal of teachers “Those that can, do; those that can’t, teach”, he is quoted as replying. “No, it should be ‘Those that can, teach; those that can’t, FUCK OFF!’” He’d have been well brassed off at today’s portrayal of the working class as knifing each other at worst and shouting mindlessly and taking their clothes off on “reality television” at best: now it’s only the despairing last line of “Jack Shit George” that has any resonance at all.
Ian Dury 1942-2000 RIP: not to be forgotten (even my son’s girlfriend knows all the lyrics).
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