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.

Standing up for Utopia

Should we stop searching for a Utopia because it is unattainable?


It’s raining! Again! In my Utopia it wouldn’t rain like this. You would never have to wake up to the sound of miserable dripping on the panes of glass in your bedroom that fills you with an impending doom before you’ve raised yourself completely from slumber.
Of course, I’d want it to rain at some point in the day, occasionally. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to look out of the aforementioned window and see the delight of the richness of greenery in my garden. At this time of year it is beautifully vibrant.

I’ve just noticed on the news that they are reporting weather conditions in the UK in the year 2080. Apparently, it is going to be 45 degrees on a June day 2080. Our forthcoming generations will be basking in glorious heat here in the UK on a regular basis, so may be my Utopia is realistic after all. Sadly, I won’t be around to feel it, and I may even wish for the morning rain when I am 92 and unable to muster enough energy to rise from my bed due to heat exhaustion as we head towards that date.

My Utopia would include plenty of other things. It would essentially enable my passions to flourish and be realised. There would be honour and reason in individuality. There would be liberty of thought and no fixed ideas on how one should live one’s life – Utopian anarchy, I guess.
In my Utopia, every house would be filled to the brim with books that everyone wanted to read, hungrily eager to learn about the world around and beyond them. There would be opportunity for all to express themselves in whatever way they chose and there would be love; plenty of love.

I could carry on talking about my Utopia. I could hope for all sorts of things. I could be more realistic and state other more attainable aspirations for my ideal world; small changes that could actually happen, recognising little steps towards an ideal.
It would take reams of paper to express my Utopia and I presume that is why Thomas More wrote his book because he couldn’t explain his idealism in a simple essay – it was too complicated for that.

Talking of Thomas More, I am not sure that I would want to live in his Utopia. Women are subservient; individuality in parts seems to be discouraged. More suggests that people should worship different Gods and there are other quotes that don’t lead me to wanting to share this vision. However, there are exceptional parts of his vision that I definitely buy into.
Take this quote.
"The many great gardens of the world, of literature and poetry, of painting and music, of religion and architecture, all make the point as clear as possible: The soul cannot thrive in the absence of a garden. If you don't want paradise, you are not human; and if you are not human, you don't have a soul."
I don’t think I could argue with that.
Or with this one either.
"For if you suffer your people to be ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and then punish them.”

Of course, if I believe in individualism, then I cannot criticise another person’s Utopia for it is precisely that; their own, just as my idealism is personal to me, and I guess herein lies the problem in achieving one’s personal perfection.

If I espouse freedom, another’s Utopia is possession. If I favour equality, others want domination. If I want wall to wall sunshine, others want inclement weather conditions.
Each individual has an idea of what they want for their ideal world but they are all too frequently incompatible with the views of people that one has to or chooses to live with and amongst.
Whilst healthy debate is part of my Utopia, one thereby has to assume that people have differences, which indeed is exactly as it should be. But if people have these differences, even if they are slight and difficult to differentiate, there is always the potential for total anarchy and discord.
My Utopia and your Utopia are mutually exclusive for all their similarities and therefore, neither of them, if working in parallel is achievable.

Here is another quote from one George Orwell, one of our greatest Dystopia writers.
“Nearly all creators of Utopia have resembled the man who has toothache, and therefore thinks happiness consists in not having toothache.... Whoever tries to imagine perfection simply reveals his own emptiness.”

This is a rather negative view of aspiration but of course, there is a strong element of truth in it. Often people aspire to the one thing that they cannot have or the direct opposite of what they do have without thinking of the repercussions of this alleged perfection on both themselves and others.
However, I worry about this phrase and I can hardly believe that I am sitting here writing and about to challenge one of the greatest writer’s of our time.

There is a certain amount of truth in that final phrase. If one imagines “perfection” then there is the implication that one is not experiencing the ideal, and therefore by aspiring to perfection one is certainly revealing elements in their lives that are not fulfilled.
Herein lies my concern and the purpose of my writing. If an ideal is unachievable, if aspiration is exaggerated beyond the attainable then should we simply give up and accept life the way that it currently is?

Yesterday, I read a comment stating that the current mess that we call the Labour Party was not an issue about ideology but about dysfunctional politics. It wasn’t that there was a problem with the vision but how it was being developed in flawed policies.
Whilst at face value, this makes sense there is an assumption that there is any vision or purpose in the first place. The commentator in this case clearly said “It is not about ideology”. How can fundamental changes to our society not be about ideology? The very problem with this government at the moment is that it has lost all sense of ideology, all rational thought, all substantial vision. It has no Utopia in mind whatsoever other than the Utopia of continual governance at all costs, and that is no vision in my opinion.

Returning to Orwell, one could certainly argue that the government has shown one hell of a lot of “emptiness”. Disappointment after disappointment has led me to take drastic steps that included voting for another political party this week but the sadness of all of this is that the void and emptiness doesn’t come from an “imagine(d) perfection”.

Maybe I am too steeped in ideology. Maybe my belief system is beyond reason and by that I am clearly showing the emptiness of my aspiration. But if you don’t have vision or aspiration or hope then where on earth does that leave you?

If a vision is seemingly unachievable should we really just shrug our shoulders, turn away and give up? Should we allow the status quo or even worse, let reactionary negativity prevail?

In times such as these, it is all too easy to be dejected, depressed and dull. There is plenty to angst about. There is too much inequality and injustice in the world but to merely sit and accept this is not feasible.
It is way too important for that.
Even if the only thing we can do is sit in sedentary silence contemplating or writing about our grievances, then that is far better than lapsing into inertia unable to even think about alternatives to the current state of affairs.

I live my life in a certain way. I make choices based on need and greed and hope and aspiration. I have my vision of how I want to live my life. I have my aspirations for others; those I know, those I am yet to meet and those that I will never meet. And of course, there are times that this reveals a major emptiness in my life and those of others. It saddens me and even hurts me when I know that my Utopia is a pipe dream, an unattainable desire but that does not and will not deter me from walking along my own path. It will not prevent me from thinking about what could and indeed should happen to myself and my world.

Take this writing lark. I never believed that I was a writer. I never believed that it was possible for me to spend my days thinking in any sort of coherent manner that could be placed on a piece of paper or keyboard for others to read, and yet, for the majority of my adult life, I have subconsciously wished to write. My imagined perfection, in my opinion, was never achievable and therefore definitely revealed an emptiness. Nobody was going to want to read my inexperienced, grammatically incorrect, content impoverished drivel but that hope never went away. It never disappeared.
I didn’t ever, and still don’t believe in my ability to write but even this does not deter me from wanting to do it, and plucking up enough courage to place it in a domain whereby others can also read it.

Without my vision and ideology, I wouldn’t be doing this. Without encouragement and criticism, this hope of mine would have remained unachievable.

It is but a small example of what I am trying to say but it does, I think, show that you should be able to dream. You should be able to think about an ideal and take small steps along a pathway to the fulfilment that you desire.
And it can happen!

Of course, the other problem with Utopia’s is that there are some who think in the terms of Utopia where others can only see the exact opposite. Despots; the likes of Hitler and Pol Pot had their Utopia. It was and is deeply flawed, abhorrent, vile, oppressive.
Their dystopic Utopia’s would have succeeded if enough people had been persecuted and indoctrinated. Flawed vision, I suspect, is stronger than no vision at all.

Yet, their vision didn’t work. Did it not succeed because it was unattainable or did it not succeed because there were more people with stronger visions that were simply not prepared to allow this demonic form of existence?
What would have happened if those who opposed Hitler had not had an ideology and a Utopia that they so believed? What would have happened if they could not use these thought to counteract the hideous alternative? Where would we be now?

Having a vision is vital. Working towards that vision is purposeful. Being overridden by that vision to the point of absolutism can incur depression and repression.
As with so many things in life, it is all about balance but a world without ideology isn’t one that I want to be a part of, and even if in having an ideology it reveals life’s setbacks and emptiness, then I would still rather have the vision in the first place.

But then I always was comfortable in Fantasyland!