The Chipping Norton Set

When I was a fifteen year old child, I frequently used to sit with my parents and watch television with them in the evening. Nowadays our children have far more exciting things to do. There’s music to listen to, computer games to play with, ‘conversations’ to be had with their closest and not so close friends on Facebook amongst other things.

As it happens, I am not too concerned about this detachment because young people do need their own space and time, and some people tend to forget that. Also, in my particular case, my children have always had this ‘independence’. Even as toddlers, they were incredibly self-sufficient about play; something that my mother always said had not happened by default but had been good management on my part. That is not to say they were abandoned. It is just that I ensured there was a balance so that they were never wholly dependent upon me for entertainment.

I obviously did a decent job because there are days that I hardly see them, so preoccupied are they with their lives behind the bedroom door. However, occasionally they will come and watch something on the television with me, particularly the older one who is now adopting a healthy interest in the world beyond Jeremy Clarkson and his mates on Dave, as far as box-watching is concerned.

Which conveniently brings me to the purpose of my blog today; not Jeremy Clarkson and his mates on Dave but Jeremy Clarkson and his mates - including Dave and Becky.

As I said, my television evenings with my parents were enjoyable. I loved sharing television stories and dramas with them, and one of them was Evelyn Waugh’s “Brideshead Revisited”. To be historically correct, my father loathed and detested every single second of watching the series. My older brother was banned from the room, such was his disdain for the programme but my father, being an actor, sat and watched it for technical purposes. Meanwhile, my mother and I became thoroughly involved in the characters and their tawdry and pathetic lives.

The Oxford Set was despicable. Their privilege was abhorrent and at no point in the watching did I ever want to emulate their revolting existence. But I enjoyed watching their decadence and it was such a contrast to the literary brilliance I was studying for ‘O’ level; George Orwell’s “1984”. Besides, in my teenage naivety, I fell in love with Anthony Andrews, or was it his character of Sebastian that I loved, wanting to help him and look after him as he slipped into a spiral of self-destruction?

The Oxford Set was despicable with their inherited monies and their grand titles. The Establishment, the political powerful and the downright stupid all seemed to belong to this Set. Everyone was interconnected through marriage or friendship. They perpetuated one another’s greed and power in a cycle of nepotism.

How things have changed!

Er well, have they?

Jeremy Clarkson lives in the Oxfordshire countryside along with our esteemed Prime Minister, who somehow manages to conjoin the Old and New Order of Oxfordshire elitism. It is also home to Rebekah Brooks and her second husband Charlie Brooks, and they all live together very happily according to the Top Gear man, who boasts his connections during a piece of writing for that independent of papers, The Sunday Times.

“What Rebekah and Cameron talked about most of all ............ is sausage rolls. We were planning a big walk with all our kids over Christmas and thought it might be a good idea to build a fire in my woods and stop off for a picnic. Rebekah was worried about what we’d eat. Cameron thought sausage rolls would be nice. My wife said she’d get some”.

Great little tell-tales in that small extract; my woods and long walks. Yes, Jeremy, we know you are considerably richer than us. Sausage rolls? Not sure I have ever eaten barbecued sausage rolls. Perhaps this is an Oxford Set delicacy. I’m not surprised that Rebekah was worried about what they were going to eat with that sort of suggestion.

However, I digress. Clarkson then continues with his writing to say that there was nothing inappropriate about the relationship between Brooks and Cameron. They were merely neighbours who were almost thrown together out of geographical proximity. The powerful media and political figures of our time just happen to live near one another and occasionally have gatherings just as any other friends might. According to Clarkson there is nothing amoral about it and there would and was never any discussions regarding the take-over of BSkyB amongst other unmentionable potential conversations.

I once went to a party at the house of my husband’s boss. He was an accountant and his boss had invited the majority of the office to this Christmas gathering. Her partner was a teacher, and he had invited half of his colleagues to the party. Can you imagine a livelier gathering? A room full of accountants and teachers on the outskirts of South East London?

There was little commonality between us other than the bleeding obvious; our professional spheres of interest. It wasn’t long before the groups had conveniently split with the math-heads at one end of the room and the educationalists at the other; all talking, debating, considering the perspective of their fellow workers.

The British are often ridiculed for talking about the weather at such gatherings, indeed at any gathering. But once the level of precipitation for the month has been discussed, one tends to return to the comfort of the known; i.e. what one does for a living.
Once that has been exhausted, there is always sport and politics to meander towards and at some point the unhealthy interest in the lives of the elite and the Z-listers may be discussed.

So are we honestly expected to believe that there was no conversation whatsoever amongst these gathered Chipping Nortoner’s about politics or media or viewing figures or their own sense of worthiness? Did none of these people try to display their sphere of influence like the proud peacocks that they are? I find that almost impossible to believe.

It was just like “a million other Christmas-time dinners being held in a million other houses around the world” justified Jeremy.
Oh yes, I frequently attend such gatherings in the home of the daughter of the biggest media mogul of our time, together with her insipid bespectacled brother and the Prime Minister of the day and the Chief Executive of a news organisation that accounts for 38 – 45% of readership in the country, depending upon which statistic you have rammed down your throat today, not forgetting the talented Mr. Clarkson, who has somehow made himself so popular that the BBC offer a regular platform for his bigoted and racist behaviour.

One begs to ask the question, if they did not talk about anything to do with any one of their work, what on earth did they talk about? The environment? – Mr. Clarkson’s particular pet-hate. The weather? – everyone can join in that relatively scott-free. The state of play in Eastenders? Not sure Rebekah would be into that conversation given her potentially uncomfortable proximity to the subject by the nature of her first husband.

If Clarkson honestly expects us to believe that there was no conversation about politics or media or anything of substantial interest other than toasted sausage rolls, then he is even more stupid than I thought. They may have conveniently changed the subject as he was approaching them with his canapé of stuffed deer in a horseradish coulis because they probably wanted to avoid the sort of brash bollocks that we have to listen to should we decide to watch his rants. (An aside here: Top Gear is an entertaining programme and I have respect for all involved to create something that families do enjoy watching together. However, unlike my husband, I sit and watch this with my children because I want to be there to correct or point out some of the revolting sexist and racist things that Clarkson gets away with. It is important for me to know that what is being said is being scrutinised and doesn’t insipidly spill into my children’s psyche by default)

But no conversation about politics? Have you ever met a politician? They twist everything around to the subject of politics eventually, and more often than not, it only takes them a matter of moments. Have you ever met a rich boy? They too like to divulge the vastness of their wealth in a matter of minutes. Look at Clarkson himself in this article. “MY woods” – just a subtle and speedy reminder to the world about how much he owns. Have you ever met a journalist? They’re not exactly the shy retiring type and they are perpetually “on the job” so to speak. It is within their blood. Have you ever met an ambitious woman with no children (sorry Rebekah. This is not a dig but a fact)? They don’t have their conversation diluted with anecdotes about what is happening at home. It is all about work.

Yesterday in parliament Cameron stated that all his meetings with media bods were carefully recorded. Every time someone from News International had crossed the No. 10 threshold, it was recorded in a little black book just in case anyone pulled him up about it but does this include the times that there were meetings between Brooks and Cameron of a more personal nature? Has every incidence of them bumping into one another at the local corner shop been recorded? And what about the country walks that Clarkson so dreamily recalls? Were they noted or were these seen as off-the-record because they took place away from Chequers and Downing Street?

Cameron accused the ‘other side’ of having a far cosier relationship with News International and pointed out that Rebekah Brooks had attended events at Downing Street far more frequently under the previous New Labour administration. That may well be the case but Blair and Brown did not live amongst the Chipping Norton Set, as much as one of them may have aspired to do so.

Power corrupts and even those who have not read that ‘O’ level script of mine should realise that transparency is not something that either politicians or journalists do too well. What they do do well is cover one another’s backs and perpetuate power in the places that they want, right until the point when it all comes crashing down in front of them and they have to backtrack and foot-jump until another natural disaster in Outer Mongolia conveniently knocks them off the front page.

This is a sick, unjust, corrupt and unintelligent society ruled and influenced by sick, unjust, corrupt and unintelligent people, and I haven’t even started on the police yet.

Today, I am sure in Blogsphere there is an abundance of commentaries from the last few days. Some will be thought-provoking pieces but others will just tittle-tattle over the intricate details of every non-admittance from the Murdoch’s, the Prime Minister, his neighbour and all others associated with the hacking debacle.

These details are important, of course, but who is going to get down to the nitty gritty of the nepotism and the corruption and the relationship between those that govern, in whatever position, and those that hold the power of what we as a society are indoctrinated into thinking.

Newspeak, the gloriously tragic phrase created by the master Orwell, is alive. It is here in our society. The media drip values into people without them even realising that it is happening to them. Their minds are manipulated into thought patterns that suit the powerful and perpetuate their power.

Clarkson isn’t the most influential person in the world but he carries far too much prejudice into the minds of our children without them even realising it is happening to them. His country gatherings over a sausage roll in the woods encourages, as if it is needed, the powerful to interact in an informal manner that once more perpetuates their interconnection and interplay.

Today it is about the Chipping Norton set and the Bullingdon Club and the ex-Etonians and the rising (and hopefully fallen) stars of News International. A decade ago, it was about the high-risers and aspirationals of another political party, and I cannot conclude this piece of writing without expressing my abhorrence of how the previous administration and Prime Minister’s played an extremely dodgy and dangerous dance with people they should have been running away from.

In 1997, Blair did not even need the backing of the Sun in order to gain a workable majority. Campbell did not need to send out olive branches and promises to Murdoch. And yet, throughout their reign in power, they continually licked the bottoms of the people that they felt had a sway over society rather than considering the inappropriateness of this level of influence.

I am sickened by all of this, and despite the media and politicians suggesting that the public are fed up and bored by the whole events of the last few days, I for one would like to say that as far as I am concerned, we haven’t even begun. This is, I hope, merely the start of it all, and it really should be of the highest interest to all in this society who have been sapped of basic needs to consider just why they are still down-trodden when the Chipping Norton clan can march around, collectively and even sub-consciously plotting to keep themselves in power allegedly at the behest of those who don’t even realise that they are being indoctrinated.

Quite frankly, Evelyn Waugh’s little set of spoilt morons look like a gentle walk in the woods compared with this lot, and you can bet that they didn’t settle for a shop-bought sausage roll for sustenance.