Crossing the Channels

Well how bizarre is this!

Following on from yesterday’s report, I am currently sitting in the Club Lounge of the P&O Ferry Pride of Calais. I have not turned into a snob who prefers to travel in luxurious settings. The fact was that if I paid an extra £10 for this, I was guaranteed a full refund should there be any complications with the travel. As the French rail drivers were still deciding whether they were going to operate, or cooperate, it seemed a decent investment.

Meanwhile, I am sitting at a desk, sipping complementary fresh orange juice and eating complementary biscuits and looking at complementary toblerones. My lap top is plugged in and I have just been skyping my friend in Australia to complete a conversation that we started earlier today. Had I had my headphones with me I could have spoken to her too and shown her the view of the approaching French coast.

I am fascinated by technology. I don’t necessarily have a burning desire to know how it all works. I am merely grateful for the advances that means keeping in touch with important people is relatively easy.

When my friend first arrived in the UK from Australia in 1990, I don’t think any of my particular group of peers possessed a mobile phone. My friend J was the first one to get one and that was probably in the middle of the 90s. To think that I can now phone S in Australia via Skype at any time of the day totally free of charge with a full video call is simply astounding. If the greedy companies could get themselves sorted out to ensure that there is not this huge cost between the UK and the continent, I could continue talking to her for no money either. Surely, the time has come for us all to be able to access free internet at any point. I’m happy to pay for my dongle, which I bought a few months ago. It really ought to be useable as I transfer from one side of the Channel to the other.

Dongles, laptops, mobile phones, iPods, cameras, camcorders, satnavs – even taking a day trip or a half day trip across the Channel is full of equipment and chargers. That is one slight draw back but it is worth it. I can amuse myself for the next hour and not get agitated that I am in the middle of the ocean. I can see France approaching although it seems to have disappeared in the mist at present and I can take photos with my newly charged camera. I’m almost regretting the fact that I left the camcorder at home.

The mobile phone is an incredible resource and a wonderful invention. I would not be without mine for anything. I don’t really mind about what type it is though I do love the accessibility to emails and so forth as well as my photos and the information applications. I quite like the games too when I want to lose a few moments to insignificant activity.

I lost my first mobile phone in a service station in Devon. It was a great wad of a thing; cumbersome, black and you had to extend the antennae out to receive or make calls. The phone that I had before the iPhone was so small I constantly lost it in the depths of my bag. Yet for all the faults of always been accessible, they are so much a part of our lives now that you can hardly begin to imagine life without one. It wasn’t so long ago that people didn’t have landlines in homes. An amazing journey has taken place to where we are now.

So, I am waiting for a phone call from my sister to say that she has arrived in Calais. Without this technology, it would be far more difficult to rendezvous. Even if I get lost driving round Calais alone for the first time, I can simply phone her and keep in touch. Also, the Satnav is already set to ensure that I meet up without too many problems.

And yet for all the technological advancements, there are so many ways that our society is still resolutely in the dark ages of pre-mobile phone existence.

Spiritually we are pretty bereft and the revolution has yet to take place. Emotionally, there is no cohesion in truth apart from pockets here and there. As a society we are well and truly stuck in the Thatcherism of me, myself and I. That is going to take generations to overturn.

However, having read another blog this morning, with accompanying hyperlinks for me to view, I was filled with a sense of hope.
This is quite amazing considering some of what was written referred to the hopelessness of our hopes in 1997. One newspaper columnist stated that she thought she had been voting Labour in 1997 but it turned out that she had mistakenly voted Tory, not because she had ticked the wrong box but the “right box” had not even stopped at a shade of purple. It had gone all the way to True Blue.

The ceaseless list of New Labour policies that were adopted to placate the roaming voters and Middle England is quite astounding when you see it written down in black and white. Even the spending on education and health can be drawn to question when you look at it in the right context. Major’s government was hardly social democratic and yet even they didn’t go as far as certain Labour policies like student tuition fees to name but one that particular raises my hackles.

Yet, we are in a time of hope as one should always try to be immediately prior to an election. As the 6th May approaches, I may change my mind and become as despondent as I was on that infamous night of 9th April 1992 when all my hopes vanished in a haze of apoplexy.

The hope, for me, does not lie in the election of one party. Rather it lies in the election of no party. The vision and the social democracy that I believe in and value could happen. It would mean people disregarding their old, familiar ways and their set assumptions around party loyalty. These politicians, following on from the expenses fiasco, would have to do some more rethinking, and people would have to work together.

Let’s face facts, I, like other people who feel disenfranchised by this government have had to do some serious rethinking. As a lifelong supporter of the Labour Party, as someone who genuinely feels committed to social equality and the ending of all injustice and prejudice, I have had to rethink.
As it happens, this is pretty easy for me to do. I live in a Tory stronghold, or should I say stranglehold. There is never likely to be another colour of MP in this constituency even if proportional representation was in place.
However, if I was in a different type of constituency, I would have to really consider how I voted.

I cannot vote for a party who does not seem to believe in the things that I hold dear. Admittedly, my ideology may have more in common with Dennis Skinner than Simon Hughes but the policies and manifestos of these two parties veer me towards the yellow rather than the red.
I don’t think I can possibly explain in this short blog how much that pains me to say. It is actually heartbreaking. By even considering such a move, I feel as though I am betraying my truest love, my father and mother, my entire belief system. However, it is because I have a belief system and values that I have to say this.

I cannot vote Labour because to do so would give them the mandate to continue in this shoddy vein.
I remember having an argument with people in 1987 and again in 1992 about whether Labour should shift ever more central just to get elected. I vehemently refused such an idea. I was accused of being an idealist. Even my cousin, who has since rescinded his Red Card, said that there had to be some shift towards the centre in order for “us” to be elected.

Only at what cost? The cost of everything that you believe in? Free education for all who want it? Free health services where the rich or even the middle classes don’t have to jump the queue by paying a few bob or two? A fair and valued judicial system? A fair and honest approach to government that berids us of the second unelected chamber and the anachronism of a constitutional monarchy? An economy run for the good of the people rather than the good of the few? Brave decisions? Appeasement? Integrity?
And I haven’t even started on the war.

We sold out. Let’s face the facts. We sold out to the highest bidder for the sheer hopefulness of power and the final stampede against Thatcher, even though she had long since gone.
We sold out because it was apparently the only way to get elected and those of us who agreed, albeit subconsciously, to this trade off were anticipating a way back to socialism, at the very least with the second term.

We remain disappointed.

So why the hope?

Well, with Clegg doing so well last Thursday, there is a strong possibility that the Liberal Democrats are going to get a fair share of the vote. With the first past the post system that we currently have, even if they have the majority of people voting for them, they will not get elected into government unless something utterly sensational happens. However, the number of MPs that do get returned to parliament of the yellow variety could dramatically increase.

The projected hung parliament has taken on a completely different scene all of a sudden.
Prior to this major swing, either the Tories could have been reliant on UKIP and even Nick Griffin should he get elected, or Labour would have been in the hands of all sorts of Celtic arrangements with Alex Salmond and his Plaid Cymru counterpart.

With a workable number of Liberal Democrat MPs the power of Clegg and his party increases dramatically. Labour, if they want Liberal support will not be able to stop merely at promising electoral reform. They will have to fully consider Cable’s economic stability ideas. They will have to consider the costings and the philosophy behind the very sensible education package that is currently on offer from the Lib Dems. They will have to look again at the tax system, ensuring that those top 1%ers get taxed properly and fairly for the good of all.

Not only that, but those who hold power within the Labour Party are going to have to listen to the left. In order to secure their support, they are going to have to listen to their views and ideas. They are going to have to reconsider some of their policies and potentially move in a different direction.

This is no longer a two party state, we hope. This is no longer about a tiny minority of MPs holding the balance of power. This is something else entirely.
But what excites me most is the idea that people are going to have to look at policies properly without having to hide behind the party lines. There is a real hope for democracy being the real winner here.

I’m not sure what this has to do with mobile phones and communication, other than the fact that writing my thoughts down like this has eased the considerable stress of getting from Dover to Calais.
But of course, it has everything to do with communications and embracing technology and new ideas and change.
It is all about crossing the channels. Even a phobic like me has to do it at some point in their life.

Maintenant, le soliel est dans la ciel bleu et j’arrive en France a ce moment.
Time to go.

A bientot.

Politicians Calling

Even Michael Heseltine concedes that politicians are not what they used to be. Even I concede that I would rather have the Michael Heseltine’s of this world in the House of Commons than some of the nobody’s that we currently have to endure.
I agreed with almost nothing that the man ever said as he took his place on the green benches, whichever side of the house he was sitting. I enjoyed his banter and criticism of the Thatcher woman but was despondent when he did not always go for the jugular.
Although I have no commonality with his vision, I respect the fact that he holds strong on his fundamentalism and his beliefs. Whilst his idealism is a thousand miles apart from my own, I acknowledge that he has the right to believe and understand that he has a vocation in his political life.

Although he has long since departed from the Commons, he is still committed to doing something in the world. Admittedly, his various ventures are done for profit as well as altruism but one has to respect the fact that he does something, for example, his commitment to the Children and Young People Now magazine that gathers good practice and ideas on how to further guide and support the needs of our next generation.
I suspect that Heseltine doesn’t believe in all the initiatives that are commented on in this magazine but he funds the publication nonetheless, or at least he did.

Heseltine was on the television this week, commenting on the death of Michael Foot. He was sensible enough to admit that there was no similarity of thought between himself and the old man of Labour. He even went as far as to say that Foot was wrong but he respected him for what he was; a passionate English radical.

That is the headline that was used about Michael Foot yesterday, “Ninety-six years in the life of a passionate English radical” – a good headline in my opinion.

It may be a step too far but there is the possibility that Michael Foot really was quite close to being a self-actualised human being. (Socialists have a head start!!)
Obviously, I cannot make such a sweeping statement because I did not know him. I did not live with him and my recollections of his fabulous speeches are deeply entrenched in a memory bank of decades ago. However, the point is that he was not just a career politician. Admittedly, he reached the heights of Leader of the Party but that was not done purely out of self-ambition. He had an absolute passion to make a difference to the masses. This was not a hypothetical hopefulness. It was a real vision and he ardently wanted to see real change and real equality taking shape in this visionless, needy society.

He had other passions too.

He loved writing. He was an arduous reader and not just of politically related tomes. He was an avid football fan; not a follower of the great and successful teams but a smaller, some might say insignificant team from the lower levels of the league, who have probably never played in a cup final at Wembley and probably never will. (Apologies Pilgrim fans – my research has not led me to finding out whether you played on the hallowed ground in your 1980s FA cup semi final). He adored his beloved hometown and enjoyed all that the beautiful county of Devon had to offer.

It is sad that the one phrase that is always dashed out when talking about Michael Foot is the one attributed to Gerald Kaufman who stated that the 1983 manifesto was “the longest suicide note in history”. But it would be quite interesting to return to that now and read how much of the socialist elements within are relevant and needed in our society today. Maybe the “longest suicide note” will find its way into the world eventually.

For Foot was passionate. He believed. He believed in society and a shared responsibility. He believed in self-development and the need to enjoy special aspects of our lives. He believed in the rights of the individual and the importance of the self. He understood the ability to give his thoughts voice. He expressed his passion frequently, sometimes grumpily such was his determination and loathing of certain things that he saw and felt.
That passion is so vital and I wish to goodness there were more politicians on either side of the political spectrum who felt that passion and could convey it to the electorate.

Before I move on to other politicians, I would like to remember my one and only meeting with Michael Foot.

As a child, I was fortunate enough to spend many holidays in London. I loathe and detest much of what London is about but I also love it. It is my adopted home and I do think the connection with the place stems from these frequent childhood visits when we traipsed all over the city. The anecdotes and humour of many of our trips have gone into family folklore – like my mother’s inability to catch a bus in the right direction, or my father’s fury at my cousin’s inability to direct him in traffic. (There was a time when we went over Tower Bridge five times because B couldn’t find the route to direct my Dad to).
One such trip, we did the tour around the streets of Westminster. We stood on the steps of Number 10, something my children are not allowed to do. We walked up and down Whitehall, looking on in awe that our society was being shaped by the grey-coats and hats in these magnificent buildings and we walked towards the Houses of Parliament.

It was a warm February day. It must have been during half term and yet the place was open for business. Did they always have half term breaks?
We were just walking past the gates when this elderly gentleman got off the bus directly next to the building.
He flung himself onto the pavement, walking stick in one hand, newspaper in the other and marched towards his destination.
Nobody else in the family had noticed. They were busy staring up at the clock tower but I watched in amazement at this grey haired man; firstly because I recognized him as a significant person and one of us, but also because he was walking through this hallowed land in his slippers!
I turned to my cousin, siblings and mother to show them this ‘famous man’ from the television, commenting on his brown tartan footwear.

It was probably the first famous person I had ever seen. Years I had been coming down to London, assuming that because everyone lived there, I would bump into these famous folk on every street corner, and here I was standing next to the future leader of the party.
It is possibly why I have always held him dear to my heart, and why, in a stupid and unimportant way, another piece of my childhood died this week.

Yet this is not insubstantial.
It is this sort of encounter that keeps one in touch with these unattainable characters that shape our laws and create the way our society develops. They are actually real people and sometimes we tend to forget that.
Or more importantly, sometimes they forget that too.
I’m not sure you would see frontbenchers these days arriving to work on a red double decker. Security risks would not allow it. I wonder if Michael Foot would flout this and travel his own way nonetheless.

Another visit to London, some years later, also springs to mind. I was walking once more down the streets of Whitehall. It was a school visit and it must have been about 1982. We were on a school outing to the Imperial War Museum and for some reason we had been dropped off near Parliament.
I wandered up the street towards Downing Street, commenting that I sincerely hoped I did not bump into the Prime Minister because I would not be civil to her, and in those days, I was still way too conservative with a small C, and wouldn’t have wanted to upset or annoy my teachers. Goody two shoes me!

One of my teachers was walking directly next to me as we looked at all the departments up and down the street. He asked me questions, such as who is the Home Secretary and what did I think was happening in this department today. I think I surprised him with my knowledge, not just of the general knowledge political facts but my thoughts on who was around and what they were doing.

As we walked past the Cabinet office, who should appear but the Tarzan man himself. Flopping his blond hair around just like his Spitting Image puppet indicated he would, Heseltine stepped onto the street and strutted along.
I can’t say I was as awestruck as when I saw Foot but I did still get a little immature buzz at seeing a famous person and wanting to rush over to him to discuss the Falklands conflict.

The teacher I was with watched in amusement at my excitement which was not just about seeing a member of the cabinet but the whole passion of being here in the heart of politics. I remember quite distinctly him turning to me and pleading with me to take the A-level course in Government and Politics that he had just introduced to the sixth form menu. He wanted the vitality that I had to offer, apparently.
I declined sadly. I wanted to do sociology and my parents weren’t going to let me do two so called soft options. It was always going to be History, English and one other.

Still, I maintained a healthy interest throughout my sixth form and then on into my college days and career. Once more, this must stem from such visits and reiterates the importance of taking children and young people out of their classrooms, away from their text books and out so that they can feel and experience the reality of the political world. We still do not do this enough.

I’ve never really understood people who call themselves apolitical.
I appreciate that I have been more fortunate than most in that my family have always encouraged and created an environment where we constantly talked about real events, visions and ideology. I was also fortunate that I had teachers like my Whitehall companion who, despite me ignoring his pleas to join his group of merry politician makers, still met with me around school, inviting me to discuss the particular political agenda of the day.

By the strangest of coincidences, I have just been interrupted by a friend to remind me that Gordon Brown is talking to the Chilcot inquiry. He mentioned that there are only 284 people on line, listening live to our Prime Minister talking about his involvement in a war that has ostracised so many of the party faithful, that has created a chasm that is unable to be mended for some who feel disenfranchised by this particular action of our government. Where is everyone? They are not all at work.

I really do not know how you could be anything other than fascinated in politics. It isn’t as if it is just one subject. Politics is life; it is education, it is relationships, it is consideration, it is greed. Politics considers prejudice and faith. It tackles inequality and indoctrination. It reiterates inequality and indoctrination.
It is about economics and judgment. It is about war and peace. And it is a whole lot more besides.

We are entering a period of Purdah where local and national authorities are tongue-tied six weeks before an election. Local government officers and politicians are not allowed to do anything that could in any way shape or influence the way people might vote. A new school cannot be created in case it is this act that ensures a liberal vote over a conservative one. National bodies have to stop the Caxton press on documents that could actually help people just in case the receipt of such writing could be seen as the deciding factor for the floating voter.
Yet they are allowed to spread their lies, half-truths and inaccuracies through manifestos and party political broadcasts. How bizarre is that?

Purdah is a weird state but it does show how everything links back to politics and if people think that politics does not enter their lives, they are sadly very wrong indeed.
Politics is life.

And this brings me back to the purpose of my writing today.
We are approaching a general election where the turnout is going to be tragically low. For those of us who are deeply interested, this is an exciting time. We may have the first hung parliament for nearly forty years. The Conservatives should be sweeping the board, yet their decline in the polls show the opposite. This government is loathed by so many of all different political persuasions and yet people will still vote for Labour out of perpetual hope, conviction, history or even apathy to consider other voices.
The electoral system does not enable us to vote in the way that we would like. The bias is established and seems unlikely to be overturned in the near future.

Why are people not interested?

We’ve had the fiasco of MPs expenses and we have seen a tirade of the hopeless and the helpless who vehemently defend their greed with incongruous justification.

And as I write, I am listening to a man who may be passionate about his politics but has lost the vision and has been clouded in far too many decisions that it is unlikely that he is going to maintain his position at Number 10.

I return to Mr. Foot and Heseltine. I remember the cabinet scene from Spitting Image when Thatcher was ordering some food.
Waitress: Would you like to order, Sir?
Thatcher: Steak please
Waitress: How would you like it?
Thatcher: Raw
Waitress: And what about the vegetables?
Thatcher: Oh? They’ll have the same as me…..

Only they weren’t vegetables, were they? They were clever, powerful personalities who just happened to stand for moreorless everything that I despised and disagreed with.
Tebbit and his bike, Cecil and his lover, Lawson and his pot belly, Clark and his charisma.
They all had something. They were all people of substance, however much you disliked their policies.
They were all quite passionate and full of character, otherwise Spitting Image couldn’t have had such fun with them.
On the other side, there were truly great people. I could and did sit and watch Denis Skinner sitting in his hotseat in parliament, subtly waiting for his time to pounce down the necks of both the opposition and his own party. There was the truly monumentous Benn, who on opening his mouth stopped me in my tracks in the same way that Botham used to empty bars as he waved his bat towards the crease.
Kinnock, Smith, even Hattersley made me think, made me consider.
Even the runaways of the David’s and the Shirley’s were worth listening too.

Is it just a childhood memory that makes these people seem so more viable and real than the current collection of bods?

It is ironic really that people are concerned that politics and voting is turning into a personality test.
The contest is between Brown and Cameron with a little bit of Clegg thrown in for good measure, yet these ‘personalities’ are miniscule compared to the wealth on offer a decade or so ago.

Labour will probably lose the next election. There will then be the discussion on who is emerging to lead the party into the recovery that it so desperately needs. But who is there out there?
As long as I can remember, there has always been a clear candidate for succession, often more than one but now, I fear for the future because I cannot see that significant person emerging.

There is going to be a huge amount of new politicians whoever wins. The MP from my youth is standing down after 36 years in parliament; another reminder that my childhood has long since gone.
My only hope is that they show the type of passion and understanding that Bruce George has done for his constituents.
My only hope is that some personable, understanding, compassionate, thoughtful, intelligent people emerge to take politics into the 21st century in a way that is meaningful and gives energy, equity and vitality back to governance.

Politics is life. Life is people. People, good people, people of stature and significance are needed.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting.