DUFF & NONSENSE!

The dreaded human factor!

I did try, honestly, I did.  I made a strict promise to myself that the leaning tower of waiting-to-be-read books would be well and truly reduced by summer but, alas, the vagaries of my wandering mind have led me astray - again.  For reasons too tedious to repeat now, I have been tempted back into the mysteries of the battle of Jutland, in general, and Andrew Gordon's monumental tome, The Rules of the Game which I read several years ago, in particular.  Once again I am utterly and helplessly hooked!  I really do believe that Gordon's book should be compulsory reading for any military officer, of course, but also for any politician seriously seeking senior office.  In the story of Jutland there are all the truths you will ever need to know concerning the never-ending tragi-comedy of human history and warfare and whilst some of them emanate from the technology most of them spring from that eternal enemy to "the best laid schemes of mice and men" - human nature.

Take just the British side as an example.  In the Admiralty, from time to time, were those twin Devil's disciples, Jacky Fisher and Winston Churchill.  Big men with big virtues but equally big political/strategic vices to match.  In command of the Grand Fleet of 24 massive 'Dreadnought' battleships, the "Castles of Steel"*, was Adm. Jellicoe, a supremely professional naval expert to his fingertips with a ferocious intellect through which all possible permutations of a future battle with the German High Seas Fleet had been worked through in fine detail - with the exception of what actually happened!  An intensely private and tacitern man who was incapable of sharing his operational philosophy with his fellow officers partly, suggests Gordon in his book, because he didn't think they had the intellectual ability to grasp it, he relied on strict discipline and absolute obedience to orders.  Despite his cold demeanour, he managed to extract intense loyalty from all those who served in his fleet.

Beneath him (although that was a moot point!) and commanding "the big cats" of the seperate battle cruiser fleet which was supposed to be Jellicoe's eyes, was the mercurial Adm. Beatty, a man thought of in Edwardian terms as being 'not quite a gentleman'.  Vain, flamboyant and flawed, this man was an accident waiting to happen - and accidents there were a-plenty!  Put simply, Beatty lacked that final piece of intellectual ability which allows a commander to quickly assimilate a rapidly changing situation and to see the optimum path to follow. And then finally, Adm. Evan-Thomas, commander of the brand new 'super-Dreadnought' squadron equipped with mammoth 15" guns, two of which can can be seen today embedded outside the Imperial War Museum.  These five ships were the very latest in battleship design, stronger, faster and armed more heavily than anything else afloat.  Evan-Thomas was a decent, loyal and somewhat plodding officer, utterly obedient but incapable of using initiative.

Those were just some of the all-too human ingredients that were to make up the bubbling stew of errors, misunderstandings, missed opportunites, high courage, great skill and sheer incompetence which was the battle of Jutland.  Forgive me if I return to this subject from time to time because I am designing a PowerPoint talk on the subject and setting my thoughts down in writing clarifies the mind - somewhat!

* Castles of Steel by Robert K. Massie, a good history of WWI naval warfare, but even better, is his depiction of Edwardian Europe and the great naval race between Britain and Germany in his outstanding book Dreadnought - one of the very best history books I have ever read.  I should add that Gordon's book, The Rules of the Game, in which he carefully steers his way throught the multiple minefields of the very many heated controversies that arose from the battle, might be a tad technical for anyone who, unlike me, is not besotted with the story.  It is, however, probably the final word on the whole muddled subject.

 

Kamm Kannot Kross!

(That's enough 'kalliteration': Ed)  Yes, sorry, but on the odd occasions when I write about Oliver Kamm I simply can't resist the temptation, cheap humour being a speciality, here at D&N.  However, and with due regard to the very many bloggers whose sites I enjoy, were I to be reduced to just one it would be Oliver Kamm's.  He is such a comfort to a third-rate ignoramus like me because he, himself, is ferociously intelligent and frighteningly well-read and yet, despite all those admirable (and I really do admire them) attributes he still, on an occasional basis, gets things hopelessly wrong and that makes me feel better about myself.

Take his post today, for example.  He begins with a corruscating summary of the prime minister's character and abilities:

This is a feeble, unimaginative, incompetent and intellectually incurious Prime Minister, whose hapless, cynical and dysfunctional government has debased the notion of public service, coarsened public life and forfeited any claim to public respect, . . .

Er, well, yes, can't say I disagree with any of that, in fact, I wish my Eng. Lit. abilities were a tad higher so that I could thunder in that high style.  But . . . he then goes on to finish the sentence with this:

 . . . and I shall be voting for its return to office next Thursday.

My emphasis, of course, and the remainder of his post is devoted to an explanation of what appears to be a lunatic decision because in the course of it he admits that (from his point of view as a liberal progressive Europhile) that a Cameron government would not be a disaster and that it contains within it people not a million miles from his own world view.  Again, whilst admiring some of those who support the LibDems he distrusts their ability to pursue the sort of agenda that he would find amenable.  So, despite the corrosive attack he had just launched on the Labour government he still intends to vote for it and the reasons gradually become clear.  He is not concerned with electing the best, that is, the most competent, government to steer us through the coming economic maelstrom; no, no, like the youthful student activist he once was, he is only concerned with the arcane minutae of internal Labour ideology.  Thus, he sees his vote as a tiny gesture in support of the Milliband tribe versus the Balls gang.  And, of course, the other critical matter which looms so enormously large in Oliver's political agenda, the safeguarding of Tony Blair's reputation:

The worse the Labour defeat, the more likely it is that the wrong person will be blamed: Tony Blair rather than Gordon Brown.

There you have it, folks.  The country can go to the dogs or the Devil, what really counts is the future of the Labour party and the plinth upon which 'St. Tony of Baghdad' stands!  Come on, admit it, when a really, really clever bloke executes a perfect prat fall, it is rather comforting, isn't it?

Truth will out in a dropped bollock!

I promised not to comment on the election because half the world and his uncle are already doing it, and probably much better than I could.  However, Brown's dropped bollock yesterday cannot be ignored and anyway it stands alone in glorious isolation from the hustings as an example of a great truth of which we barely catch a glimpse in normal times, and when we do see it, it is necessary to grasp it to our hearts and minds and allow it to fester there so that our natural and entirely proper detestation of all politicians may be nourished.

Whilst one knows in theory the scope and scale of the fear and loathing with which our political masters view us, 'The People', nevertheless, it is instructive to be provided with a brutal, sneering, ignorant example by the leader of, er, 'The People's Party'!  There was only ever one bigot in that conversation yesterday and it wasn't Mrs. Duffy (no relation!) 

What we all heard yesterday, in that delicious example of the dandruff-ridden hack at work (ah, bless!), was the bigoted, we-know-best-what's-best-for-you, voice of NW1 at its high and mighty, condescending, bullying worst.  Whatever else you do in the ballot box, it is now time to pitch this latter-day Cap'n Bligh over the side and let him drift off in a leaky life-boat where he can rant and roar like the inmate of bedlam that he is.

Lies, damned lies and Greek financial statistics

I am almost dribbling with pleasure.  Schadenfreude is just so, so, delicious!  Each time the experts announce that the Greek debt crisis is solved the worth of Greek bonds drops like a stone and the yield demanded by the dealers goes up through the roof.  Everybody knows that the Greeks are born-again liars when it comes to business dealings and I for one never believed a word of all their assurances and economic statistics which they proudly gave to Brussels when they were first accepted into the 'exclusive' (heh, heh!) EU club.  But, as any good con-man will tell you, to sell a pig in a poke you first need a sucker, and the Euro-fanatics are the biggest suckers seen around for years.  You see, they really, really, wanted to believe, so that they could inveigle yet another nation into their Frankish empire - so now they will have to pay for it.  Oh dear, what a pity, never mind!

However, this plaintive whine from Brussells reported by Citywire has me whinnying with laughter:

Markets have certainly lost faith in Greece’s ability to tell the truth about the state of its finances. As the BBC’s Stephanie Flanders writes today, even the official statistical body of the European Union, Eurostat, has repeatedly expressed deep scepticism about Greece’s economic reporting.

In 2001, for example, the year it entered the single currency, Greece reported a budget deficit of 1.4%. And so it stayed until 2005, until the Greek government reported that in 2001 it had actually borrowed 6.1% - more than twice the official Euro limit.

Remember, Eurostat is part of an organisation whose own auditors have refused to sign off its accounts for year after year after year!

This cannot continue for too much longer, like a tension-packed, action film, the big car crash must come soon.  Either the Germans sign the cheque and Frau Merkel gets slaughtered in the local elections due in a fortnight, to say nothing of the bashing her reputation will take when the inevitable legal challenge ends up in the German Constitutional Court, or, they put their cheque-book away.  And anyway, even if they do 'splash the cash' it might not be over because it assumes that the Greek people will sit by quietly as their nation is taken over by Germany - again!  On the other hand, if the deal fails and the Germans walk away then Greece will default and the EU and their beloved Euro will take a massive blow perhaps leading to a two-tier system because if Greece goes then Portugal and Spain will surely follow - and if my prediction comes true, then Italy will not be far behind.

However, there is another possible scenario which I would dearly love to see, and that is, that the Euro fanatics take this chance to change the European constitution - again - and this time inflict fiscal rules on all countries so that the continent becomes a unified tax area with a Federal government.  That would definitely provoke a referendum here and perhaps, just perhaps, 'with one bound we will be free'.

Additional 27th April:  FTSE closes down 2.6 and S&P downgrades Greek debt to 'junk' level.  Dealers have been dumping Greek bonds.

Additional 28th April:  Sky reports the Lisbon stock exchange is down nearly 6.0 this morning.  Now it begins!  Or do I mean, now it ends?

States' Rights, right?!

Well, 'over there' this little problem sneaked in through the back door whilst no-one was looking!  Arizona, fed up and fearful, has passed a stringent anti-immigrant bill which not only provides the state police with strong powers but also insists that they use them to the full in an effort to 'command and control' a gangster-run immigrant mafia which is turning their state into third world disaster area.  Needless to say, this has all the 'usual suspects' on the American liberal Left in an uproar and screaming accusations of racism along with threats to enforce boycotts against their "fellow Americans".  Leo Banks, an Oklahoman, provides in the American Thinker the background you will never see or read in the MSM.

This is exceedingly dangerous territory but it is not the first steps taken in this direction.  I pointed out some time ago the fact that several States were beginning a joint action to take up to the Supreme Court in defiance of Obama's Health Bill which orders all US citizens, virtually without exception, to enter a legal contract with a business enterprise for the purposes of obtaining health insurance.  The States claim this is unconstitutional and extends Federal power into areas which are the prerogative of State governments.

Where will this Marxist regime in Washington not go in pursuit of its progressive aims?

They don't make 'em like this any more

I am re-reading Andrew Gordon's magisterial book The Rules of the Game: Jutland and British Naval Command which, in my highly inexpert opinion, must be the final and definitive word on 'the battle that never was', or at least, 'the battle that never was the way it was meant to be'!  Jutland is rich in just about every aspect of warfare you could wish for - high drama, tension, courage, ferocity, technological change, psychology and, of course, that essential element - sheer, unforsee-able chance.  However, setting all of that aside for a moment, this following extract caught my attention and I must admit I had forgotten it from my first reading some years ago:

"Walter Cowan, captain of Princess Royal, had been a close friend of Beatty's from both midshipman and Nile-gunboat days.  He was a ferocious midget who loved war so much that he spent his leave periods in the trenches in France and wept when the armistice was announced.  [My emphasis] There was trouble in every ship he commanded.  He became the scourge of the Bolsheviks in the Baltic in 1919, and ended his naval career as admiral of the fleet.  Cowan came out of retirement in 1940 to join an Indian armoured regiment in North Africa.  Captured by the Italians when he personally attacked a tank, and then released on humanitarian grounds, he joined the Commandos, aged 72."

Good grief, that's two years older than me!  Glad I never served with him because I always remember the sage words of an old sergeant many years ago, "Never serve under an officer who's determined to win a VC!"

 

Humiliated - again!

Don't ask me how I know this to be true, but I do, deep down in my bones I know it is true that computers were invented solely to humiliate me.  Just the other day, as I told you in an earlier post, I had to re-design a PowerPoint presentation.  I had not touched PowerPoint for nearly two years and I was pleasantly surprised - well, actually I bored everyone silly boasting about it - to find that I had remembered how to use it.  So, in no time at all I had whipped up a complete presentation on the battle of Waterloo complete with moving formations, sound effects, the lot!  Well, nearly the lot, because one tiny little application escaped me.  I remembered that I had had trouble with it two years ago but I just could not remember how you made the damn thing stick.  I tried this, I clicked that, I double-clicked just about everything, all to no avail.  Eventually I rang the (long suffering) son of my oldest friend who earns his living designing web-sites.  I asked him how I could make this application stick and he replied - press enter!  I now know how Hitler felt when they told him the Russians were over the Vistula.  Unfortunately I couldn't chew the carpet because we have just had them cleaned at vast expense and the little 'Memsahib' would have cut up rough.

That was last week.  Today, yet more humiliation.  I opened up this morning to regale you all with the wit and wisdom of David Duff - only to find that half my buttons had disappeared on my 'compose' page including the font size button (and if I don't have it at 17 'Dearieme' gives me grief) and nor did I have my 'crossing out' button which is so useful for heavy-handed humour - my speciality, as you know.  Vituperative e-mails were sent hot-foot 'over there' whilst the language 'over here' was disturbing the neighbours.  Anyway, my temper rose as I hung around all day waiting for California to wake up but then through the ether came a sweet message from Zalary - yes, that's her name - and I just know she is blonde and leggy and filled with a kind and generous nature, as are all Californian girls (in my dreams!) because ever so gently she broke the news to me that I must have inadvertently clicked on the 'Light Text Editor' button.  Hitherto I had never even noticed this button but sure enough there it was and when I clicked on it it disappeared and normal service was resumed.  I sent Zalary a reply sympathising with the difficulty she must have in dealing with mental retards on a daily basis.  So humiliating!

The Sunday Rumble: 25th April 2010

Lo, I am returned!  Sorry, sorry, but life has been somewhat hectic by my usually sedentary standards.  Wednesday I was rushing to finish the PowerPoint design of a re-jigged talk on the subject of Waterloo before giving supper to a friend who was about to fly off to Florida to see his first grand-child.  Thursday was spent rehearsing my spiel before setting off in the evening to a near-by Officers' mess which was putting on its annual Mess Night.  I had pleasure in telling them that the one and only time previously that I had entered an Officers' mess was about 50 years ago when I was on 'jankers' and had to peel the spuds for the officers' dinner!  Anyway, sufficient for me to tell you that the Bar shut at 0200 hours! so on Friday I was 'walking wounded'.  However, that evening it was off to a near-by village hall for a concert party in aid of the Haiti appeal fund.  A bit of a duty call but to my intense surprise it was one of the best evenings out I have enjoyed since we moved down here 8 years ago.  Then it was Saturday and out again to a local hotel for dinner to celebrate a friend's birthday.  Yet again I awoke on the Sunday with only the vague memory being of my own voice boring on ... and on ... and on!  I do like dining in hotels.  It is so pleasant to begin and end the evening in a comfortable lounge with big armchairs and settees.  Then today, a good friend and neighbour having returned from his lair in Singapore, we gave him a slap-up, traditional, English Sunday lunch.  Roast lamb and allthe trimmings followed by fruit crumble.  After inspecting the back of my eyelids this afternoon I thought I had better return to my blog and see if I had any readers left!

South Africa pulls the chain on itself:  The president of South Africa, who recently slid past a corruption charge, has announced that he, along with zillions of his fellow countrymen, has tested HIV-positive - correction: should read 'negative' (see below).  Such an example to his people, and meanwhile, Julius Malema, the head of the ANC (African National Congress) Youth League, continues with his anti-white agitations and, according to the American Thinker, defies authorities by singing his murderous song Kill the Boer, Kill the Farmer.  As the usually prescient Alan Sullivan points out, when you have killed all the farmers - you starve!  Malema has just visited Zimbabwe and is now off to Venezuela to earn his Masters Degree in corrupt thuggery.  We should beware because if Marxist-backed pirates close off the approaches to the Suez Canal and a 'wannabe' Mugabe' controls the trade routes round the Cape then we might be in for some uncomfortable times.

Figes f***s up!  The, er, distinguished historian, Orlando Figes, has 'fessed up' to concocting on the internet vicious anonymous reviews of other historians' work and then, according to Oliver Kamm, using libel laws to threaten a newspaper into silence.  Oddly enough, years ago I fell for the rave reviews of his book, A People's Tragedy, bought it and found it unreadable.  When it comes to hissy fits, academics make 'luvvies' look like pussy cats!

Reasons to be cheerful:  Good news, bad news.  The good news is that the 'Baldrick' of so-called climate science, 'Little Willy', is leaving the country in September.  The bad news is that his self-confessed little willy has managed the act of reproduction.  Thank God he's leaving the country, I couldn't stand two of 'em!

That Stephen Hawking, what does he know?  Apparently, the emminent professor  believes there really are lots of aliens 'out there' but, like a good father warning his children against suspect adults, he tells us not to speak to them.  Honestly, I know the Prof' has his difficulties but he really should get out more, especially on the internet which is absolutely jam-packed full of the wierdest aliens you could ever imagine.  He could make a start with 'Little Willy' who definitely originates from Planet Zog.

Are they up to it?  I promised to keep this blog an election-free zone and I will keep to my word until the penultimate day.  However, that doesn't stop me commenting on the forthcoming elections 'over there'.  By all that is reasonable the Republicans should slaughter the Dems and rip the Congress away from their lunatic hands - but will they?  I thought 'Camerloon' would do the same to Labour but it hasn't quite worked out that way.  I keep reading bits and pieces to the effect that there are divisions in the GOP leadership and indeed, divisions amongst their supporters many of whom are looking for a Reagon-type revolution.  We can but hope!

My mates, 'Dave', George and William:  Oh, yes, this blog moves in the highest political circles, I would have you know.  I have lost count of the number of e-mails I have received from 'Dave', George and William importuning me for my vote and addressing me as Dear David.  Bloody cheek!  Only my friends use my Christian name, not pushy, political, door-to-door salesmen.

Anyway, I'm back now and hope to resume 'Boring for Britain' in my usual way.

Additional: Don't miss this classic Steyn essay - that's an order!

Correction: As my observant commenter, Tim Newman, points out, I completely mis-read the BBC report that the ultra-clean living president of South Africa tested negative for HIV.  The reasons for my mistake are various.  Perhaps it was a simple confusion, me being both simple and confused, on the exact meaning of 'negative' and 'positive' where the former usually means 'bad' and the word 'positive', in this particular context, also meaning 'bad'.  What is definitely 'my bad', as the Yanks put it, was to allow my instinctive dislike of Zuma to allow what passes for my mind to leap to a, er, negative conclusion.  Or perhaps, it is just a further proof that I am thick as a post!  I assume that will be a hundred lines, Mr. Newman?  (Also, I am irritated to find that TypePad has taken away the little button which allows me to score through a word or phrase - grrrh!)

Me-computer-me-know-every-thing

Honestly, I'm like one of those eaves-dropping computers that listens to telephone conversations or scans e-mails and is programmed by MI5 to pick up if any key words are used.  Thus, pressed for time as I have been recently, I have paid little attention to the 'chicken-lickens' running around telling us the sky is about to fall down because in amongst their panic-stricken squawks I picked up two key phrases: "Met Office" and "computer models" and instantly I knew it was all bollocks.  When, oh when, will our political masters realise that the Met Office is not fit for purpose and privatise the whole thing?  And when will so-called scientists learn the old adage that when it comes to computers, 'crap in, crap out rules, OK'?  Still, it's an ill wind and all that sort of thing because if ministers are shown to have fallen for a load of old cods then it might help hasten the demise of this crap government.  Also, with a bit of luck, ministers in the next government might take anything from the Met Office pertaining to global warming with a shovel full of salt!

Sorry, sorry, grovel , grovel . . .

I have just received an emergency booking (their speaker is stuck in America, heh, heh, heh!) for one of my military history talks for this Thursday evening!  No probs, I thought as I reached into my immaculate filing system and withdrew my speaking notes.  Easy-peasy, I smiled as I switched on my PowerPoint file - and bloody, bloody hell, found that my entire presentation has gone, disappeared, it is no more, it has ceased to be, my presentation is an ex-presentation ... (that's enough Monty Python: Ed.)  All of which is by way of saying that I doubt I will be posting much until Friday.  Still, gives you all a chance to enjoy the election!

"From a former naval person"

The title, of course, was the signature Winston Churchill used in his private letters to President Roosevelt.  Now we have a missive similarly signed to the current president of the United States of America.  I can't copy and paste but you can see the original on the site of those scallywags at 'IHTM'.  It is a letter to The North Wyoming Daily News and is printed under the heading "Objection from a former sailor":

To the editor:

I object and take exception to everyone saying that Obama and Congress are spending money like a drunken sailor. I quit when I ran out of money,

Bruce L. Hargraves, USN retired

This post is respectfully dedicated to my 'old salt' commenter, 'JK'!

So, it's farewell then, Lisbeth Salander

And, oh, how I shall miss you because I fell head over heels in love with you.  Yes, you were a bi-sexual, autistic punk with an exceedingly vicious streak of violence running through you, and yet, and yet, you stole my heart away, and now you are gone forever.

Oh dear, I hear you groan, the old fool's really lost it this time, dribbling away about a young girl at his age!  And you are right, of course.  But Lisbeth was the most dangerous of attractive young girls - she was a figment of the imagination, not mine, I hasten to add, but of the late Stieg Larsson who wrote three superb mystery thrillers featuring Lisbeth as the heroine but who then had impertinence to drop dead bringing his sequence to a sudden halt.

I urge you all to try these three books but it is important to take them in order, as follows:

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

The Girl who Played with Fire

The Girls who Kicked the Hornet's Nest

I guarantee, men or women, you too will fall in love with Lisbeth, surely the most fascinating character invented in fiction for decades.

However, whilst I am on the subject of Scandinavian thrillers let me recommend yet another author, this one from Norway, called Jo Nesbo.  The last 'o' has a line through it but I can't reproduce that on this machine.  I picked up one of his whilst shuffling through (yet another) charity shop - they all know my name now and greet me with 'hello, Mr. Duff, after another cheap book, are we?' - so humiliating! - and it is called The Redbreast.  Again, an excellent thriller with shades of The Day of the Jackal in it.  Last time I was browsing in Waterstones (I only ever browse there) I noticed that several of his books are on their shelves in paperback versions.  Even so, cheapskate that I am, I shall keep cruising the charity shops until more appear.

What is rather odd is that everyone's favourite Scandinavian detective is Wallander but I find him a complete and utter bore and a miserable one to boot!

A man of many parts, that's me

Odd how certain topics, after years of being lost in the dim recesses of memory, are suddenly prodded into consciousness several times in the space of a few days.  Thus it has been for me just recently when conversations with friends, and passages from books, reminded me of roles I played as an amateur actor.  I am pretty certain that I have already written on the subject of the ineffable Barney Cashman, the, er, 'hero' of Neil Simon's great comedy, The Last of the Red Hot Lovers.  A play in three acts in which Barney never leaves the stage!  Shortly there-after I developed alopecia which the quack told me was due to stress.  I blame Barney!

Even so, it was an enormously enjoyable role and helped build up my stamina for another big role - Insp. Nelson of the Royal Ulster Constabulary in Ron Hutchinson's Rat in the Skull, a long, sustained howl of poetical anguish over 'the Troubles'.  Here is a passage in which he is interrogating a young IRA man called Roche:

NELSON:  So on leaving school, young Roche, by now a strapping consumptive of seven stone, and well recovered from the rickets, has decided on a career.  Well now ... ICI's gone, and the Lear Fan's gone, and they've found out why De Lorean wouldn't look anyone in the eye and why his nose was always running ... and the shipyards was never really on, not for a wrong-footer, and how to keep the Harland and Woolf from the door?  What's it to be?  Priest or gunman, gunman or priest?

(In at Roche)  I'm in there.  I can feel your teeth, your jaw, you want to bite me back.  Do it.  Crack.  (No response)  The hours are better in the gunman line, and there's after all a tradition in the family, is there not?

Does it not say in there (indicates file) the Roches have been blowing up innocent passers-by and RUC men in every generation as far back as as as, and who's Roche the Runt to buck the trend and let his grey-haired mother down, well into her eighties and still pulling Proddie winkies off.  There's the birds to think about.  The priest has far and away the better chance of pulling them, and despite the glamour of the gunman, down those back streets a fella has to be looking over his shoulder all the time.  You never know.  The skinny blonde with the big knockers and come hither eyes you meet at the ceilidh might just turn out to be an SAS sergeant once you get her back to your place.  But Rochey, like all his sort, puts women down the list.  He'd rather by far be running his hand along the barrel of a gun than along his own conjugal equipment.  Runty wasn't put on this good earth to breed sons, he was sent here to kill those of other men because the Roche's, man, boy and dog on the mat were wedded to the cause.  And off he sets, in a beret two sizes too big and a borrowed pair of sunshades, to war, with a mother's blessing ringing in his ears, 'Fuck those Orange bastards, son.'

All of that, of course, and much, much more had to be delivered in the harsh, back of the throat dialect of a Belfast proddie - think Ian Paisley!  I should add that the Fenians get their side of the tragedy to tell through the words of Roche, the young IRA man:

ROCHE:  I'm not denying I signed a statement.  Forgive me Father for I have sinned.  The state I was in.  The cell light's a crippler, right enough, and once they'd the statements from the other lad, the one they picked up on Monday morning that led to me.  (He stops)  The stuff was under my bed.  (He stops)  Anything to get the bastards off me and get my head down,and who's to say I couldn't take it back,and who's to say they didn't fake it?  Forgive me Father for I have coughed.  The fucking confessional urge.  A thousand  Sundays muttering into the God Box.  Forgive me Father.  And who's to say there's no taking it back.  First thing Monday.  Free of the God Box, the Holy Fucking Coffin, for another week.  And what the hell, there's something fine and grand and flying high about saying, yes, you've got your man, you're on the ball all right, this is Michael Patrick de Valera Demon Bomber Roche bang to rights, I'm the man you want.  Mad Bomber Roche present and correct, forgive me Father, but I did the lot, and what the hell, bang me up for 25, I did my bit, I played my part, I wasn't found wanting when it came to the Final Push, the Big Shove, the Last Gasp.  I did the lot.  And you brave lads in blue will never understand or get it through your inch-thick Anglo-Saxon skulls.  You never understood Paddy then, when you had him by the balls, and you don't understand him now, when he's got yours.  I'll sign and up the lot of you.  'Up the Rebs', says Paddy as they lock him up for life.

The mainland Brit point of view is put across by a pair of uncomprehending London coppers:

HARRIS:  Once upon a time there weren't any bomb warnings on the Tube.  Once upon a time a pigeon could have a straighforward crap on a Whitehall window-ledge without having to dodge the bomb netting.  You could get a straight view of the street without thinking here go the eyes despite the bomb proofing if the strange motor badly parked down the road gives a big green puff and goes sixty foot in the air.  Once upon a time you didn't get a pain in the kidneys when they put you on Post Opening Detail; you didn't spend a morning once or twice a year wading ankle-deep through broken glass looking for some poor bleeder's missing foot or head; once upon a time coppering was coppering; bombs was what wogs threw at each other, never white men; Paddy like his pint too much to give you bother, and the only bother he ever gave was having to be bounced out of the bar come Saturday night.  Once upon a time.

An absolute diamond of a play, and the role of Det. Insp. Nelson was hugely satisfying even if it did take a hell of a lot of work, particularly the accent.  For one tiny example, in Nelson's speech above it was necessary to remember that in the phrase "by now" the 'now' rhymes with 'by'!  The greatest compliment I ever received for my acting was when I returned several months later to see our next production and the lady serving the coffee in the interval jumped slightly in surprise when I spoke to her and said, "Good Lord, I thought you were Irish."  You get that sort of praise once in a lifetime! - well, that's all I ever got, anyway!

"The real test of a political system is what happens when conditions worsen"

I am away overnight and back on Sunday afternoon. 

Always eager as we are, here at D&N, to provide you with an excuse not to go out and do all those over-due jobs in the garden, here is a long but excellent and, I think, knowledgeable essay on the increasing difficulties facing the Communist Party of China (CPC) in maintaining its grip.  As some of you know, I have warned many a time and oft' that the CPC would have difficulty in restricting the inherent centrifugal forces that always threaten to tear China apart.  These forces multiplied in strength when the party permitted private capital to accrue.  There could be "interesting times" ahead for China - and we know what some Chinese think of that prospect! 

Thanks to Arts & Letters Daily.

Build the bomb!

I promised not to post on the subject of the e****ion (I do the jokes, 'DM'!) which has been air-brushed from D&N, however, I do feel free to comment on 'matters arising', so to speak.  The 'il-Lib-non-Dems' in general, and their leader, Nick 'the Receiver' Clegg in particular, are making much of their policy to immediately ban the bomb, or to be precise, to ban the British bomb by refusing to replace the existing Trident weapons system.  Alas, I fear this will meet with much approval amongst the lumpenmenschen of the British electorate so I would like to raise my puny voice against this folly.

It is blindingly obvious that the number of countries seeking to build nuclear weapons will increase over the next few decades.  Thus, to give up our sole deterrent now is rather like living in a council block and possessing a gun for ultimate deterrence against the drug dealer on the floor above, and then throwing the gun away when the whole block is infested with drug-dealers!  There is a growing belief in some quarters that the time is long overdue for us in Britain to take a long, hard look at ourselves and come to terms with the fact that we are no longer a global power.  I share those feelings but that does not mean we should dispose of our ultimate weapon of defence.  We might recognise our current weakness and lack of influence but others do not, for example, Iran, the new nuclear kid on the block, is almost paranoid concerning the perceived Machiavellian machinations of the British government and its diabolically clever secret service - if only!  I suspect much of this paranoia is whipped up by individuals within the regime eager to maintain an external enemy in order to safeguard their own position, but too many others simply swallow it whole and consider London, along with Washington, to be 'an axis of evil'.  If you were Iranian you might feel more comfortable wiping out London than Washington particularly if London had no means of countering you.

This inability on the part of the il-Lib-non-Dems to understand basic grand strategy is matched by their policy on Europe in which they wish to immerse us all forever.  The fact that the EU is both il-liberal and non-democratic is the reason I call them what I do.  As a party they seem to me to be the greatest of wishful thinkers, they see things the way they desperately wish them to be - and so, in the end, they are - to them!  But not, I hope to too many of us.  All political parties are 'divided' in the sense that they have wings, the extreme ends of which are bitterly opposed to each other - so far, so normal - but the great divide in the il-Lib-non-Dem party is immense and has only escaped attention because their chances of ever attaining power is minimal and so no-one has bothered to notice.  They really do suffer with galloping 'internal contradictions'.

So don't be gulled by the enthusiastic and youthful Mr. Clegg, just remember every time he appears on your television, smiling and looking ever so sincere, that his party is still sitting on £2.5 million of stolen money!

 

 

Charlie 'the Enforcer' Whelan

You never get much in the way of original thought here at D&N - what do you mean, you know already? - so once again I am grateful to The Spectator for passing the ammunition, as it were.  My link, above, is to their blog but the full story is in this week's edition - so hurry, hurry, whilst stocks last!  In essence, the Speccie printed a story last May reporting on the fear and loathing within the UNITE union (with a name like that they should be sued under the Trade Descriptions Act!) engendered by the arrival of Charlie Whelan as their 'Political Officer'.  (Those possessed of some modern history knowledge will remember that 'Political Officers' were an important, even crucial, part of the Soviet army responsible for murdering tens of thousands of Soviet soldiers pour encourager les autres, so the title is, shall we say, unfortunate.)  Whelan, of course, was Gordon Brown's consigliore in the early days of 'Nu'-Labour until he ran across the queen of hearts, Lord Mandelson, who forced him to resign.  Needless to say, no links were broken between him and Brown, and Brown's glove puppet, Ed Balls.  Instead, he was shoe-horned into UNITE which provided him with the immense power of directing huge union funds to MPs and 'wannabe' MPs who could wake up and smell the gravy train but more important could discern the direction from which it was coming!

Anyway, it was not too long before staff at the UNITE HQ, part of whose raison d' etre was to protect abused workers from bullying management, themselves raised a joint complaint concerning Whelan and the cronies he had brought with him.  The Speccie printed the story and before you could say "workers of the world unite" Whelan hired the lawyers, Carter Ruck, on a no-win-no-fee basis to sue.  As always, well, nearly always, with these bullying braggarts swollen with their delusions of petty power, Whelan has been found out.  The story is true and the Speccie has the internal paperwork plus supporting witnesses to prove it.  In addition, of course, their investigatory efforts have now disclosed some of the murky machinations of the Whelan/Brown/Balls axis within the Labour party and the lengths to which they are prepared to go to ensure Brown remains leader until it is safe for Balls to take over.  As one Labour peer is quoted as saying "There is no agenda, no principles, no core beliefs.  Just raw power, for its own sake."

How does their slogan go?  Ah, yes: 

'A future fair for all - provided you kiss Charlie Whelan's arse - or else'!

 

Wired out - again!

A little bleary-eyed this morning because I was late, very late, to bed last night.  The 'Memsahib', bless her little cotton socks, surprised me with an Easter gift of the third series of The Wire.  I did try, no, really I did, to discipline myself and only watch one episode at a time.  This good intention lasted a couple of days but yesterday I couldn't bear it and so I spent virtually the entire day and night slumped on the sofa watching episode after episode with only a brief break to watch part of that tedious charade in which our three 'wannabe' prime ministers 'Bored for Britain'.  I gave it 3/4 of an hour before terminal tedium ensued and I returned happily to The Wire, eventually going to bed at 1.30 in the morning.

I regret to say that all of my friends without exception refuse to watch it on the grounds that the word 'motherfucker' occurs roughly every 12.6 seconds, or at least, it seems like that.  What a feeble lot!  They would all sit (more or less) happily through Romeo and Juliet which is stuffed full of gross obscenities but come over all faint at the sight and sound of one 'motherfuckin' nigga' calling another 'motherfuckin' nigga' a 'motherfucker'!  They should just get over it.  I am absolutely certain that the writers have captured exactly the street argot of the doomed inhabitants of the projects, as they call council estates 'over there'.  If you just allow the language to flow past, you gain entry into a tragi-comedy of enormously rich and rewarding complexity.  You meet a gallery of characters who will stay with you for ever, played by some of the very best actors anywhere.

Aside from the main story-line there are multiple side-stories unfolding.  There are scenes of black humour rich in irony, like the sudden death of one of the detectives whilst running on a gym treadmill, a detail almost lovingly repeated over and over by his sergeant, "On a fuckin' treadmill, fa Chrissake!"  The wake for this policeman is in two parts.  The squad have his body for the first night in which it is lovingly laid on the snooker table in their favourite bar with a glass of Scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, and a eulogy is delivered by the sergeant (the magnificent and superb actor, Delaney Williams - unforgettable!) before it is passed on to the family.  The politics of Baltimore are examined in all their slimy detail in this third series and the writers find a rich seam of humbuggery to exploit but are wise enough to show the personal as well as political paradoxes facing and testing the consciences of their political characters.  Also, I admire the attention to detail, for example, a small scene toward the end in which a character stands down by the renovated waterfront and just on the edge of the shot can be seen some old, tattered stickers featuring a candidate for a trade union election who was the main character in the preceding series.  Like series two, this third series ends on an elegiac tone with a long, panoramic and wistful shot over the ruined projects.

I say again, this series is the very best of television.  If you decide to take a chance and buy the DVD set, and they can be bought one series at a time so you can try the first without committing to the rest, remember that there is a way of activating sub-titles and they are extremely helpful. 

 

A Greek Tragedy in 17 Acts - and counting!

There is a sort of morbid fascination in watching the unfolding Greek tragedy in which seemingly inexorable tension builds and then in the nick of time cartharsis is triggered only for tension to immediately resume.  A few days ago the EU stitched together a deal which seemed to contradict my previous gloomy prognosis and I admit my own confusion as to 'Maggie' Merkel's conversion to lending German money at below par.  However, the markets approved, and the bond dealers sighed with relief and relaxed.  Suckers!  Now, according to Citywire, a group of German academics are putting together a legal challenge in the German Constitutional Court which is to be presented within a few days.  Urgency is necessary because the Greeks are very likely to call down the EU loan very shortly.  Also, it should not be forgotten that the whole deal needs to be approved by the German parliament, the members of which are all too well aware of the deep disapproval of the deal by the German people.  Stand by for Act 18!

The Dear ('wannabe') Leader

I am obliged to the excellent Paul Waugh for providing this picture and an explanation of it but in the meantime, if you can be bothered, I am opening the 'Comments' for my readers to suggest suitable, or even very unsuitable, captions.

 

Just to cheer you all up

Those rascals over at 'IHTM' used this film clip to illustrate one of their dastardly attacks on a certain fine, upstanding Congressman.  I have pinched it and decided to use it not for political purposes but simply to cheer you all up.  Watch the descent down the stairs at around the 2 min 30 sec point.  And how, I ask myself, do they manage to spring to their feet from a position on the floor with their legs spread-eagled?  Warning: noisy if you are watching in your office - you naughty person!

Now be honest, didn't that cheer you up?  I thank you, all part of the service here at D&N, cash only in the usual plain brown enevelope!

Sex rears its ugly head - in Stratford-on-Avon!

I'm big into sex at the moment - no, no, not literally, good God, the wish might be father to the thought but thinking about it is as far as a chap of my age can go!  No, I am currently working on my new Shakespeare talk entitled:

Shakespeare in Love: the Young, the Middle-Aged & the Don't Ask!

Yes, I agree, a snappy little title, er, that was what you muttered, wasn't it?  Anyway, in pursuit of my research I have been studying the dirty bits in Shakespeare.  Of course, we all know that almost everything he wrote was steeped in filth, in fact, I am amazed that we actually teach this muck to our little 'kiddy-winkies'.  I suppose it's only possible because they don't understand the language - and neither do most of their teachers!  Anyway, young Will was at it early on in life.  As we know, at the tender age of 18 he put Anne Hathaway, a very much older woman of 26, in the family way and was forced(?) to marry.  Whilst the Church authorities of the time frowned upon sex and procreation before marriage, all was well provided the couple concerned had made a public troth of their intent to get married.  I query the word "forced(?)" because, like the vast majority of Shakespeare's life, the details are missing.  At the age of 26 she was somewhat over the hill for marriage in those days, the mean average age according to Stratford records being 24 for women and 26 for men.  At this point the usual frantic and most probably innacurate musings are indulged.  Did he fall for the wiles of an older women facing life alone, or did he fancy her dowry of £6.13s.4d (the equivalent of a year's wages for a tradesman), or did he just fail to withdraw in time (condoms of a sort were recommended but only as a protection against the pox, not as contraceptives), or, and this is equally possible, did he just love her to bits?  He was young because the Parish records reveal that during a 60 year period from 1570 to 1630 only three men married in their teens, and our Will was the only one of the three whose wife was 'in the club'.

Sex in the Elizabethan age was both the same and different from sex today.  More or less the same 'rude mechanicals' were indulged but the circumstances were not the same.  Elizabethan houses were crowded and privacy was impossible.  Not only were the walls thin but there were gaps and holes through which all might be revealed.  Personal hygiene was minimal and according to one expert sex was often 'enjoyed' whilst fully clothed - underpants, of course, not having been invented - as a means of avoiding the body odour.  Despite it all, our Will remained in Stratford long enough to father a further set of twins to follow his first daughter, so obviously where there's a will there's a way!  I make no apology for the pun on 'will' because the man himself never stopped making them, especially in Sonnet 135 where the reader needs to note carefully the difference between 'Will' with a capital 'W', and 'will' with a lower-case 'w' which referred, in those days, to either the male or the female sexual organs:

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy Will,
And Will to boot, and Will in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.

Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?

The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou being rich in Will add to thy Will
One will of mine to make thy large Will more.

Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
Think all but one, and me in that one Will.

This was aimed at the mysterious 'Dark Lady' with whom our Will became infatuated whilst in the big, bad city of London.  Unfortunately for him the lady was not exclusive in granting her sexual favours, as can be inferred from the Sonnet, and her naughtiness obviously drove poor Will up the (bedroom) wall.  All the experts squabble over her identity but I, on absolutely no basis of detailed knowledge, prefer A. L. Rowse's theory that she was Emilia Lanier (Bassano) but I confess that I may be biased by my sneaking regard for Rowse, a man who was born to virtually illiterate Cornish labouring-class parents but who worked his way up to take a double first in history at Oxford and to be elected a Master of All Souls at the age of 23!  He was also a vituperative old queen who never ceased in his battle against "the Eng. Lit. lot" who disapproved of his investigations into Shakesperian matters which they considered to be their own private bailiwick.  I also admire his courage in never attempting to hide his homosexuality despite living nearly two thirds of his life in a time when it was both criminal and despised by society at large.  I am equally biased in favour of Emilia Lanier because I rather like the sound of her.  She was of Jewish/Venetian/English stock and at a very early age she became, happily, mistress to Lord Hunsden, a man 45 years her senior but who kept her in some style and by whom she bore a son, although as soon as she was pregnant she was quickly married off to an even younger man in order to preserve the proprieties.  According to the private diaries of her astrologer, Simon Forman,  she was, shall we say, a very game girl!  She was also, and unusually in those days, a very well-educated woman who in 1611 became the first female poet to be published in England.  As part of her long narrative poem on the Passion of Christ she includes a forward in which she defends the rights of women against the injustices she sees inflicted on them by men, beginning with a defence of Eve in the Garden of Eden who hitherto had taken all the blame for committing the first sin.  Altogether she comes across as a spirited, intelligent, artistic and sexy lady, exactly the sort, I guess, who would take Shakespeare's fancy.

Shakespeare's plays are stuffed full of sexual references which cover the range of possibilities.  There is much fun to be had from older editions of his works and reading a previous generation of editors wriggling in embarrassment on the hooks of this or that piece of obvious filth. Usually they are reduced in their learn-ed glossaries of particular words or phrases to add "with a bawdy quibble", thus avoiding anything too explicit which might frighten the horses!  The reputation for sordid sexuality enjoyed by the participants in theatrical activities survives to this day, as any Hollywood mag will inform you.  It began in Shakespeare's time with the potentially spicy fact that all the female roles had to be played by boy actors - dressed as women!  No wonder the Puritans fulminated against theatre so fiercely - and no wonder that, in return, Shakespeare portrayed them in the arch-villain, potential rapist and monster humbug, Lord Angelo, in Measure for Measure.  All this cross-dressing along with the sexual and homosexual innuendo reached the heights of complexity and naughtiness in Twelfth Night.

In so far as I can intuit? infer? guess? hope? it seems to me that Shakespeare remained, on the whole, a semi-detached observer of the human scene about him, which is not to say that he took no part, on the contrary, he was an immensely ambitious man who desired money and reputation and who was prepared to risk everything by hurling himself into London life from the backwaters of Stratford and to soak up the experience.  He lived and he loved to the full but always, I think, part of him was like the actor he once was, he played the role to the limit but all the time part of him was outside himself, as it were, watching, evaluating, remembering.  I cannot be specific in referring to my sources but these are certainly some of them and I recommend them all:

Shakespeare's Sonnets: The Problem Solved by A. L. Rowse

Shakespeare: The Biography by Peter Ackroyd

Shakespeare: Sex & Love by Stanley Wells

Soul of the Age: The Life, Mind and World of William Shakespeare by Jonathan Bate

Touchy, feely, sexy

I promised you all a post on the subject of sex which, alas, is still in composition and not yet ready for publication but given that my regular commenter, 'JK', is becoming somewhat over-excited at the prospect I thought I would assuage his impatience with this little item.  It caught my eye amongst the headlines listed on Drudge and reads as follows:

Porn mag for the blind launched . . .

Well, I can remember being warned as a young man that porn, or at least the habit induced by it, could make you go blind and possibly (I am admitting to nothing, you understand) that explains the macular degeneration currently rotting the cells in my left eye - and anyone suggesting I should change hands will be reminded severely that I do the jokes here!  However, once one has gone blind I would have thought that one was of no further interest to the purveyors of pornography but that is to underestimate their ingenuity.  Anyway, you can read all about it here, er, if you are interested, that is!

'A Very Important Election Post' - no really!

Er, well, actually, in the time honoured tradition of D&N that title is somewhat misleading because what I wanted to to tell you all is that there will be absolutely no election posts on this blog.  Oh dear, even that isn't strictly accurate either because on the eve of election day I shall vouchsafe to you all my final and irrevocable decision (well, almost irrevocable because you can never be sure what last minute bribes the rascals might offer and several years in the second-hand car trade taught me the inestimable value of a really tasty back-hander - 'know wot I mean?') as to which way I intend to vote, if I vote at all.  Apart from that I shall remain silent whilst the whole wretched, eye-stabbingly, screamingly tedious business plays itself out.  I know it is an essential part of our democratic process in which we are supposed to partake with the joyful enthusiasm of those factory workers and peasants who featured in those old Soviet propoganda films before they were all liquidated, but the fact is that there is only so much one can take.  The sight of 'Gordie Broon' pursing his wet lips into what he fondly thinks is a smile but which actually looks like a grimace as he rushes forward to shake the hand of some idiot Labour supporter - they dare not let him anywhere near anyone else - is simply too much to take repeated as it is, constantly, on 24-hour news.  'Dave' has all the authenticity of a nine-bob note as he rolls his sleeves up in a pathetic and doomed attempt to look and sound different from the Eton-educated public relations man that he so obviously is.  As for the Morcombe & Wise duo of Clegg & Cable, all one can say is that at least the former were funny whilst the latter simply make you feel ill as they preach and prate about the dishonesty of the other parties whilst their own remains in receipt of stolen money!

So, D&N will remain an election-free zone for the next three weeks.  In fact, my next post, which will appear as and when the little 'Memsahib' releases me from various duties outstanding because of our recent visitors, will be on a subject of vital, not to say, lip-smacking, interest to all of us - sex!

Normal service will be ... and all that jazz!

It was a best suit (I only have one) and black tie day yesterday.  These days are bit like crossing no man's land at the Somme, they drop to the right, they drop to the left, and it is only a matter of time before the bullet with your name on it hits the target.  Well, I suppose you can only hope for a clean hit!

The next two days we have visitors which is cheering news because they're good old friends and it means a bit of pleasant socialising.  All of that, of course, means blogging will be on the light side.  But don't worry, normal service will be ... and all that jazz!

The moussaka's bubbling nicely!

Did you think the Greek debt problem had gone away once the IMF was involved?  Not a bit of it, I'm happy to report.  Underwritten by the IMF the other Euro countries were prepared to lend at 4.0% to 4.5% but 'Maggie' Merkel has put her high-heeled jackboot in and insisted that the Greeks pay the going rate of 6.0% to 6.5%.  She knows that the German constitutional court will not allow Germany to lend money at anything other than market rates.  The Greek deputy prime minister has accused the Germans of racism - shockin', shockin', who could imagine such a thing!  The Greeks have just managed to cover the borrowing they need for this month but they will need another 10 billion euros for May.  Happy days - but not if you're Greek!  And whose turn is it next?  You do not need to look far.

http://www.ft.com/cms/s/0/2403d946-41a5-11df-865a-00144feabdc0.html

 

Hayek's scalpel & Duff's bludgeon vs. 'Social Justice'

The term "Social Justice" should stand on a monument as an example of socialism in practice.  First, it involves the theft of words which have a prior and clear meaning in other, proper contexts; and second, it involves deceit because when it is put into socialist action it results in the exact opposite of what the naive and unwary might suppose.  It is also a prime example of what I call 'a slogan phrase', by which I mean, a phrase which can be fitted easily onto a banner or placard and which, on a quick reading, sounds plausible and reasonable.  It is only when you actually think about it that you realise how empty and meaningless it is.  "A fair day's pay for a fair day's work" is another example of socialist word-rape because no effort is ever made to define what "fair" means in precise terms, and equally it is clear from the context that the 'fairness' is entirely one-way and that, of course, is the very opposite of 'fairness'! 

However, let us return to "Social Justice".  After even a moment's contemplation one is forced to admit grudging admiration for the clever thieving of the words by the Left.  After all, the subject of the phrase, "Justice", is one that instantly summons up widespread feelings of sympathy because everyone desires 'justice' and wishes to see it meted out on every possible occasion, indeed, its opposite, 'injustice', offends everyone's sensibilities.  Similarly, no-one can be against "Social" because that would imply that you were anti-social and therefore on a par with the yobs and villains who plague your neighbourhood. 

But let us compare the socialist misuse of these words with their proper meaning, and here, given my own intellectual short-comings, let me call up my reserves in the form of the late and very great F. A. Hayek and his book Law, Legislation & Liberty.  In this superb book Hayek draws a distinction between proper justice which is the system of law which governs the moral conduct of individuals inter-acting together in a free society, and 'social justice' which is the manipulation of economic intercourse between people in order to achieve specific ends.  It is yet another example of that almost delicious paradox in which socialists, who pride themselves on their ability to conduct a rigorous analysis of social and economic affairs, fail utterly to comprehend the reality before them.  Hayek points to the self-organising processes of the free market in which goods and services are freely exchanged and which result in a steadily increasing benefit to a majority but either less of a benefit, or none at all, to a minority.  Rather like theists seeing the self-ordering process of nature and believing that there must be a guiding hand behind it all, socialists swallow whole the notion that some group of powerful and rich individuals are using market processes to reach some definite conclusion:

As primitive thinking usually does when first noticing some regular processes, the results of the spontaneous ordering of the market were interpreted as if some thinking being deliberately directed them, or as if the particular benefits or harm different persons derived from them were determined by deliberate acts of will, and could therefore be guided by moral rules.  This conception of 'social' justice is thus a direct consequence of that anthropomorphism or personification by which naive thinking tries to account for all self-ordering processes.  It is a sign of the immaturity of our minds that we have not yet outgrown these primitive concepts and still demand from an impersonal process which brings about a greater satisfaction of human desires than any deliberate human organisation could achieve, that it conform to the moral precepts men have evolved for the guidance of their individual actions.

In its extreme form this "primitive thinking" in which arrogant humans sought to improve a spontaneous and natural order by imposing a set of aims and targets led to monstrosities like Stalin's 5-year plans which impoverished and enslaved a generation of Russians with virtually no improvment in their well-being.  Today people are wary of such grandiose plans and progressives have been forced to 'box clever'.  Today they recognise that brute force nationalisation and forced labour will be opposed by their electorates so they have seized upon the taxation system as the means of achieving their ends.  Nobody likes taxation but if it can be sugar-coated with ideas like 'social justice', and if constant propaganda is maintained in pointing up the deficiencies of the market system, people will reluctantly troop along.  After all, who could possibly wish to be both anti-social and unjust?

Genius: Johnny Mercer 1909-76

"Lazy Bones"

"Too Marvelous for Words"

"I Thought About You"

"Blues In The Night"

"That Old Black Magic"

"One for My Baby (and One More for the Road)"

"Laura"

"Come Rain Or Come Shine"

"Autumn Leaves"

"Moon River"

"Days of Wine and Roses"

And so, on and on and on, a seemingly endless torrent of unforgettable songs, lyrics and poetry produced by a genius who summed up an entire era in America and expressed the thoughts, hopes, loves and woes of English-speaking peoples everywhere.  I have been prodded into this post by last night's programme on BBC4 which, over the course of this week, is celebrating The Great American Song Book. 

Whilst I have been a long-time admirer of many of his songs I knew very little about Mercer the man.  He was born into Georgia gentry with a distinguished family line going back to the War of Independence.  His father was a victim of the 1929 crash and young Johnny was forced to get out and earn a crust.  He went to New York besotted with the 'new age' music of his time and very quickly earned a reputation as a singer/song writer.  Whilst there he married a young dancer but only told his family after the event, not least, one supposes, because she was Jewish and the family might not have approved. With judicious good luck he left New York for Hollywood just in time to catch the coming wave of film musicals and from that point on it was success all the way.  He made a fortune by setting up Capital Records but used much of the money he made to pay off the debts his father had incurred earlier.  He met and fell deeply in love with the young Judy Garland.  You can hardly blame him when you see pictures of her as a young woman with those wide, child-like eyes and those vulnerable, trembling lips.  Friends intervened and put an end to the affair to save his marriage but he remained in love with her for the rest of his life.  Alas, later in life he tended to hit the bottle and became well-known for the huge apologetic bouquets of flowers which would arrive the morning after!

On the whole, from what one could gather from this film summary of his life, a good man but above all, a genius.  Here is, perhaps, his most famous lyric:

Moon River, wider than a mile,
I'm crossing you in style some day.
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you're going I'm going your way.
Two drifters off to see the world.
There's such a lot of world to see.
We're after the same rainbow's end--
waiting 'round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.

ADDITIONAL: I cannot listen to "One for my Baby (and One More for the Road)" without instantly thinking of Hopper's famous painting:

Its quarter to three,
There's no one in the place cept you and me
So set em up joe
I got a little story I think you oughtta know

Were drinking my friend
To the end of a brief episode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

I know the routine
Put another nickel in that there machine
Im feeling so bad
Wont you make the music easy and sad

I could tell you a lot
But you gotta to be true to your code
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

Youd never know it
But buddy Im a kind of poet
And Ive got a lot of things I wanna say
And if Im gloomy, please listen to me
Till it's all, all talked away

Well, that's how it goes
And joe I know you're gettin anxious to close
So thanks for the cheer
I hope you didn't mind
My bending your ear

But this torch that I found
Its gotta be drowned
Or it soon might explode
So make it one for my baby
And one more for the road

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Grayling gets himself in a bugger's muddle!

The Tory shadow Home Secretary, Chris Grayling, finds himself pillaried today for remarking that in his opinion people of a religious disposition running B&Bs should be exempted from the law if they refuse a room to a homosexual couple.  To further demonstrate his muddled thinking he believes this exemption should not apply to hotels.  It is deeply depressing to have yet another confirmation of the inability of leading politicians to think their way out of a paper bag.

The religious leanings of a B&B owner are completely irrelevant.  In a free society anyone should have the liberty to refuse to do business with anyone else for any reason they like, and indeed, without the necessity of ever providing a reason.  For example, were I to run a B&B I would refuse to let a room to a shaven-headed, beer-bellied oaf dressed in track-suit trousers and a vest and accompanied by his equally fat and tattooed 'wife'.  I would do so on the simple grounds that I don't like the look of either of them.  The man across the road might be a strict Muslim and refuse a room to a pair of homosexuals, or the Sikh who lives at the end of the road might refuse a room to Muslims, I don't care, because in a free society you should be free to indulge your prejudices on the very good grounds that your 'prejudice' is another man's opinion.  And anyway, I am resolutely opposed to the modern nonsense that I must love everyone.  The people I like or dislike might say much about me but I don't care, like Iago, "I am what I am".

In a different context, the danger is demonstrable and clear once the principle of leaving people free to choose with whom they do business is overthrown.  In America they have just passed a law which dictates that all Americans must now enter into a health care contract with an insurance company - or else.

As always, 'Deogolwulf' comes up with the perfect quotation which sums up the il-liberal 'liberal' society which is slowly but surely enmeshing us all:

“They spoke much of tolerance, because they needed the very same for themselves, but already at that time there was no-one more intolerant than they against all those who gainsaid their opinions.” [1]

Incidentally, 'Deogolwulf' produced that gem a few days ago and only just in time because he had been on the 'missing list' for weeks and even by his usual fits and starts blogging schedule he was beginning to worry his regular readers who hang on his every word.  But still, we sit at the feet of the master and learn patience because we know the wait will be worthwhile!

[1]  Carl Ludwig von Haller, Restauration der Staats-Wissenschaft (Winterthur: in der Steinerischen Buchhandlung, 1820), Bd.I, p.117.

A useful dig in the ribs

I have confessed, done penance (of a sort), but still I cannot stop listening to 'ToooorkSpoooort' radio. I find the endlessly inane witterings of 'footie' fans strangely comforting.  Normally, I don't actually listen to it, I just have it on as aural wall-paper but today an excitable young man called Ali came on and in a strong accent from 'ooop north' tore strips off the presenters for some sin of omission or commission they had perpetrated against Ali's favourite team.  He then went off on one about football in general and in the course of which he insisted with real and undisguised fervour that, of course, when the World Cup started he would be supporting England  - "'cos I'm English".  This came out perfectly naturally in the flow of his enthusiasm with no hint of rehearsal or irony.

It was a very useful reminder to old grumps like me, who view all foreigners with suspicion, particularly if they are called Ali, that whilst this influx of immigrants is having profound effects on our English society, so we in turn are influencing theirs.  Just for a moment I wondered what Ali's father, probably a proud Pakistani, thought when he heard that remark?  In political discussion it is often necessary to speak of people en masse so it was a salutary dig in the ribs for me to be reminded that masses of people are made up of individuals.

Memories are made of this - God help me!

Idly meandering my way round the web I came across this which served two purposes.  First, it reminded me of les temps perdu and the amazing fact that as a scrawny teen-ager I actually stumbled, staggered and dragged myself (with a little help from a foam-flecked sergeant offering extreme, er, encouragement at full volume 2" from my ear; and, second, it has provided me with the incentive to try, for the first time, to load videos onto this blog in order to give you all a break from my non-stop written 'yadda-yadda' - remember, service is our password, here at Duff & Nonsense!

Actually this film is far too long and I would advise you to 'drag' the pointer along when it becomes too tedious in order to cut the time.  It shows the various tests of stamina and aggression required to be passed in order to gain entry to the Parachute Regiment and Airborne Forces.  It very kindly does not show the unmitigated shit and derision that falls on the head of anyone who fails, suffice to say that no quarter is given or expected.

I can only remark that I am quietly heartened that 50+ years after I went through it there are still young men willing to test themselves.

 

 

 

Neal McDonough - Gentleman Actor

No, I've never heard of him either but he is an actor worthy of sustained applause.

Why?  Because, mirabilis dictu*, he has been sacked from a zillion dollar TV movie because he refused to take part in "some heated love scenes with babelicious [sic] star (and Botox pitchwoman) Virginia Madsen".

I'm not sure what a "pitchwoman" is, I assume it's something to do with that game of rounders they're so fond of 'over there'.  Anyway, she looks like an awfully nice sort of a 'gel' but one cannot help wondering if her mother knows she is taking part in "heated love scenes" on film designed to titillate the lonely and enrich the studio bosses.

Anyway, back to Mr. McDonough and his adamant refusal to partake of Ms. Madsen's charms.  When I first read the headline I leaped to the instant conclusion that he was a woofter and when I saw his blonde, pretty face I tapped the side of my nose and muttered something about old Duff being a wise old owl who just knows these things, but then I read on and was mortified (yeah, yeah - again!) to discover that in fact Mr. McDonough is a family man with a strong Catholic background who has always made it clear to the studios that he will never indulge in any of those hideously embarrassing so-called 'sex scenes'.  Not only is he a moral man but also a man of taste and discernment.  I have yet to witness a 'sex scene' in a film, or even worse on stage, that was anything other than ludicrous.  Thus, Mr. McDonough has preserved and enhanced his reputation as both an actor and a gentleman.

* Having studied Latin in 1950 for, oh, most of a year before I gave it up, or it gave me up, perhaps; I have a snobbish weakness for inserting the odd Latin phrase as a means of adding an entirely spurious respectability to this blog.

Oh, I see.  Needn't have bothered then!

Shades of Simon and Ehrlich

I'm sure I do not have to rehearse the details of the bet offered by the late Julian Simon and accepted by Paul Erhlich which proved conclusively that the latter simply had no idea of human affairs and how they work.  Well now we have another wager with a similar forecasting factor being offered, this time by Don Boudreaux, proprietor of the Cafe Hayek, to Peter Orszag - who?  No, I wasn't sure who he was either although the name rang a bell.  Anyway, I can tell you that he is the Director, no less, of the Office of Budget Management under President Barack (Buddy can you spare a dime?) Obama.  Boudreaux's bet is simple:

Pick any year in the future between 2021 and 2046. Tell me your estimate today of how much Uncle Sam will spend on health care that year. I’ll bet each of you $5,000 that Uncle Sam’s actual expenditures on health care in that year — adjusted for inflation — will be at least 25 percent higher than your estimate.

The other person joined in this double-bet challenge is Nancy-Ann DeParle who is the Director of the White House Office of Health Reform.  She can afford to risk losing the bet because, according to Wiki,  after her service in the Clinton administration she earned close to $6 million serving on the boards of several companies facing federal investigations.  Apparently, again from Wiki, several of these companies have a stake in the Health Care bill she has helped to draft.

Anyway, we shall have to wait and see if Boudreaux has any takers - don't hold your breath!

 

Bugger the burka?

'Plucky little Belgium' is on the verge of banning the burka, the first European country to do so.  It provokes me to try and think the problem through.  It is only proper that I should confess immediately that I approach this controversy from a position of extreme prejudice.  Yes, I admit it, I am prejudiced.  You see, whenever any government starts laying down laws I instantly suspect the worst and look for the downside.  The idea that a government should slip the thin end of a large wedge into our daily lives by laying down a dress code fills me with fear and loathing.  It is true that I find the sight of women dressed head to toe in black both ugly and, in this day and age, sinister but I am of an age where I can recall regularly seeing nuns similarly dressed and I never experienced the revulsion I feel when I see a Muslim woman in a burka.  It is, of course, the 'foreigness' of it that offends and, in this age of suicide bombers, the implied threat.

Regular readers will know that I have from time to time inveighed against the (un)dress standards of our very own 'youfs' and 'youfettes' and were a government to ban fat cows from exposing their tattooed bellies and the crack in their bottoms I would have real difficulty in opposing it.  But where will it end?  Once you give these Jacks-in-office a little bit of power to decide what should and should not be worn you just know that they will seize more and more and then dictate dress codes to everyone and we shall all end up dressed in Mao suits.  I should add that this bossiness towards the way people dress is spreading into society at large.  I remember the days in which certain restaurants would refuse entry to anyone not wearing a tie and where the maitre d' would always have a set available to lend to customers who arrived tieless.  (Michael Winner was constantly caught out, so not all bad then!)  Now, like so many other things, the mores have reversed but the bossiness remains.  I have just been invited to a social event in which the dress code has been stipulated as 'smart/casual' (why not just 'smart'?) and a particular injunction has been issued against ties!  Why?  I like ties.  I actually spend time choosing exactly the right tie to wear with my shirt and jacket.  When I have chosen and adorned myself I feel right.  A tie is, after all,  a man's only chance to emulate the peacock.  Perhaps I should make clear that my efforts to emulate the peacock are exceedingly rare.  My usual dress code which governs 98% of my life could be described as dismal, tawdry and even 'not fit for purpose'!

Returning to the burka, I am virulently opposed to governments telling people how to dress beyond the accepted laws of decency.  However, that should not preclude the right of individuals to set down rules governing dress codes on their own property.  I would even support a government that laid down dress codes in government offices.  Beyond that, however, let people dress how they like, apart from anything else there is nothing quite like the vicarious pleasure of sniggering at someone else's appalling taste!  My dear, did you see his tie . . . !