“One day Father returned with an orange. It was our first glimpse. We queued up to finger its texture and inhale heavy Mediterranean odours. That evening, after herring, we gathered round to watch. It was glorious to see how fastidiously his knuckled fingers cosseted the glowing orb. He knew by touch how deeply he could penetrate, and as he circumscribed with the kitchen knife, we were mesmerised by the alien tang; our mouths ran with spit. My chest hurt with excitement.
Slowly he stripped away quadrant after quadrant of peel, to reveal dense juicy segments, crouched towards the centre in anticipation of their imminent rape, white threads of pith hanging in torn agony.
‘O juicy fruit, pray be delivered to my mouth soon,’ I prayed”
Ivor Cutler, Life in a Scotch Sitting Room Vol. 2, London, Methuen, 1990 (unpaginated)

As an atheist, feminist sociologist and mother (still happily unmarried by choice) the Tories have nothing to offer me. I would rather wrap my intestines round a sharp stick and slowly roast them over a bonfire, gargle my own bile or amputate both hands than put a cross on a ballot paper next to one of their candidates. I remember the glow of Schadenfreude when Portillo was humiliated by defeat, the collective sigh of relief that the yoke had finally been eased from our shoulders, the euphoria at the disappearance of blue from the map. Many of the old guard have recycled themselves as minor TV personalities, injecting a little colour and eccentricity into cheap schedule-fillers. No amount of puffing away on an exercise bike, no smear of lipstick or style-guru encouraged eschewal of the pudding bowl haircut can eradicate the fact that a certain virginal author once advocated the manacling of female prisoners to hospital beds whilst they were giving birth.

I cannot forget the Tory intransigence on introducing the minimum wage, how they obstructed the Social Charter, pursuing their politics of greed and divisiveness. I cannot forget their hypocritical moralising, their hate campaign against single mothers, their cynical blaming of the poorest for their plight. I cannot forgive the Conservative’s abolition of grants, which had permitted students of humble origin to escape the beckoning of the check-out desk or the drudgery of shelf-stacking, to sample instead the pleasures of the archives, to stretch our minds without fear of debt (not that Labour have remedied this evil, on the contrary, their top-up fees are likely to deter those whom they profess to want to attract into higher education in a shameful betrayal of their former egalitarian values). My Mother mopped and polished the linoleum floors of the local hospital and disinfected the U-bends as a part time domestic every evening from 4.30 to 9.00 to supplement my Father’s paltry nurse’s income. In her mid-40s she attended evening classes at college to obtain the necessary qualifications to rise to the rank of supervisor. Although she had won a bursary to the fee-paying secondary, her Mother refused to buy her a uniform, thereby ending her formal education prematurely. Her intelligence squandered, yet her cheerfulness not extinguished she supported me unquestioningly. However, no amount of overtime could have funded me through my under- and postgraduate degrees.

At first, I did not loathe Thatcher, exhilarated at the example she set as a woman aspiring to the highest office. I imitated her at mock school elections, my political naivety fading only when I had wrested myself free of the grip of the church. In Modern Scotland 1914-2000 (London, Profile Books, 2004), Richard Finlay examines a further cause of my later antipathy towards the Tories, my Scottishness: “In popular Scottish mythology, the eighties match the thirties as the Devil’s decade. Living memory has designated this era as the ‘Thatcher Years’, and the images of this period in Scotland are overwhelmingly dominated by dole queues, factory closures, political strife, and a bleakness which was captured in much of the literature of the time. The contrast with the popular perception in the eighties in much of the south – that it was a time of extravagance, self-indulgence and affluence – could not be greater. Long-term mass unemployment, poverty and an uncaring government were common to both the eighties and the inter-war era. But, unlike the thirties, the eighties witnessed the decline of the Conservative Party in Scotland, and this was indicative of a real political divide which opened up between north and south of the border. Within a period of eight years, the governing party of the United Kingdom would find that its vote in Scotland had shrunk to a quarter of the electorate and its number of MPs was reduced to ten out of seventy-five” (pp341-2).

Entire communities were abandoned without means of subsistence beyond the benefit cheque, the ensuing despair, feelings of redundancy and loss of dignity epitomised in Yosser Hughes (odd to think that more people know Bernard Hill in his role as Theoden): “(…) in the eighties unemployment had more of an adverse effect on the young. In April 1983 a third of men and half of women out of work were under twenty-five years of age. Failure to secure a job early on in life diminished the chances of securing one later, as lack of experience and prejudice against the long-term unemployed counted against candidates at interview. A hidden cost was borne by many families in keeping out-of-work offspring in the family home. An associated feature was the development of a ‘social security’ culture among the young in certain jobless black spots, where life increasingly revolved around and adapted to not being in work” (pp344-5).

Finlay’s lucid diagnosis perfectly recreates the ruthlessness of the atmosphere: “There was a culture of ‘slimming down’ that was not only sanctioned but celebrated by the government, and it was not unique to Scotland. In order to boost productivity and profits, shops, factories, offices and contractors, working to the new dogmas of time-and-motion management, stripped units down to the minimum labour requirements. This meant that no one was safe. Foremen, middle management, administrators and overseers were just as likely to fall victim to the axe of efficiency as those on the factory or shop floor. Furthermore, fear of the ‘shake-out’ was used as part of management strategy to encourage greater efficiency. Countless office workers and middle managers worked extra hours to ensure that their position was safe by outperforming colleagues. Competition was against not just other companies, but also fellow workers as a means to ensure job security. Those who could not maintain the pace set by the fastest would be first to go. The vocabulary of the workplace became infected with euphemisms like ‘letting somebody go’, ‘downsizing’, ‘shake-outs’ and ‘streamlining’. With the power of the trade unions emphatically crushed following the defeat of the miners’ strike of 1984-5, management became increasingly emboldened in raising demands on the workforce. Flexitime and multitasking replaced traditional lines of demarcation, and meant that more work could be done by fewer workers” (p345).

The policies were greeted with incomprehension: “Not only was the Thatcherite economic revolution not enjoyed in Scotland, it was not understood. A constant complaint made by trade unionist after trade unionist, as factory after factory closed, was that the nation would soon cease to make things, and that a nation that did not make things would not be able to pay its way in the world. The invisible economy of finance and services was not readily understood by a population which had been reared on the notion of a Scotland which paid its way by producing ships, engines and the like. For many, political economy could be understood only in terms of tangible things, and the idea that only things which could be handled could have any real monetary value was widespread. De-industrialisation had a profound cultural impact which should not be underestimated. It had been a matter of faith for those who worked in shops, offices and banks that they were ultimately dependent on those who worked making things, as the latter had ‘real’ jobs. For them the service sector was an ancillary to manufacturing, and the idea that it could in fact lead the economy was not readily understood. Furthermore, Scotland in the eighties did not have many of the great drivers of the service sector that existed in the south-east of England. There was no great metropole of wealth. Glasgow was a metropole of poverty, and Edinburgh, though significant, did not have the same impact on its environs that London had on the south-east. The property boom did not affect Scotland to the same extent as it did England, as the private housing sector was so much smaller” (p346).

Cold terminology could not disguise the human cost: “In 1983 there were three-quarters of a million Scots who were dependent on supplementary benefits for a living, and it was reckoned that over a million people were living on or below the poverty line (…) De-industrialisation, streamlining and closure meant that many changed jobs, usually from those that were reasonably paid to those that were not, and low pay was just as significant a factor in causing poverty as unemployment. One of the reasons why Scotland had a god record in attracting inward investment was the prospect of low-paid workers. In 1981 Scotland had 13 per cent of all male and 60 per cent of all female full-time workers who, even with overtime, earned less than 60 per cent of the average UK weekly earnings for men. The fact that overtime was included in the calculation disguises the extent of low pay, in that those who worked long hours could effectively remove themselves from this bracket, but none the less their hourly rate precluded living on normal working hours (…) In Scotland as a whole, the figure for low-paid male workers would rise by 65 per cent if overtime were not included, which effectively means that one in five Scottish male workers was paid a rate of pay that put him in the bracket of low pay. These figures do not include the substantial number of people who worked on a part-time basis, who were mainly women, and if they are factored into the equation, then one in three of the total workforce was in low pay” (p347).

The ranks of the new underclass of the long-term unemployed began to swell. The hopelessness of their material situation was exacerbated by a sense of being trapped: “The trends that had been established towards greater redistribution of wealth and increased social mobility were reversed in the eighties, and the gap between rich and poor began to widen again” (p349). Finlay continues: “By the mid-eighties there were at least a quarter of a million Scots who had come from manual working-class families and progressed into white-collar jobs, thanks largely to the Welfare State. Although the rate of social mobility was not as great in Scotland as in other parts of the United Kingdom, especially the south-east, there were nevertheless a significant number of people who had seen their social and economic circumstances improve. This was due mainly to education, which in Scotland was almost universally provided by the state. Not only did the state provide opportunities to elevate one’s social status by means of educational qualifications, it often provided social climbers with the very jobs that marked the transition from working class to middle class. Teachers, social workers, local-government workers and civil servants were not only dependent on the state for their employment, they had also depended on the state to obtain the necessary qualifications in the first place. Social mobility through state employment was especially prevalent in Scotland as there was a disproportionate number employed in the state professions north of the border. This was perhaps the major cultural difference between north and south. In the latter, social mobility was more associated with enterprise and business. A debt of loyalty to the Welfare State was acknowledged by many middle-class Scots, and was an important factor in keeping Thatcherism at bay. Their identification with the state was reinforced by the Conservative government policy of cutting back expenditure on social services and local government. Furthermore, the constant haranguing of the public sector for ‘bureaucracy, waste and inefficiency’ did little to endear public-sector workers to the virtues of free enterprise” (p350).

A groundswell of resentment at the overweening arrogance of a government which did not enjoy true legitimacy obscured systemic flaws of which Thatcher was not the architect, but which she exposed through her manipulation: “One thing became very apparent, very quickly: it did not take a large political following in Scotland for an effective administration to be imposed. While there is a tendency to believe that the advent of Thatcherism inaugurated an alien system of government in Scotland, the fact of the matter is that Thatcher was able to use the government system of her predecessors to impose her political will without need for modification. Thatcher did not change the system of government: rather, she used it in ways which made apparent its inherently anti-democratic nature” (p353).

In a section evocatively entitled The Conservative Colony, Finlay turns his attention to the infamous death knell of Conservatism: “The introduction of the community charge or poll tax has been depicted as one of the defining moments of Margaret Thatcher’s career as Prime Minister. For many, it was a radical step too far, and the outbreak of civil disturbances following its introduction in England in 1989 demonstrated that there were chinks in the Iron Lady’s political armour. In Scotland, there is a belief that the poll tax was the policy that broke the unreformed Union’s back and that, after its introduction, things could never be the same” (p360).

The philosophy behind it was simple: “It was believed that, as Labour authorities were committed to high spending and Tory authorities were committed to low spending, the latter would be more popular with the tax payers. Subtle the idea was not. Part of the Tory plan for the introduction of the poll tax was the belief that voters would be guided by their pockets and turn against the Labour Party as the costs of local government bore directly down on them” (p361).

It left an indelible scar on the national psyche: “In Scotland, the poll tax is often taken as the ultimate symbol of the Thatcherite imposition of unpopular policies on a reluctant nation that had rejected such measures at the ballot box. Insult was added to injury by the tax being introduced a year earlier in Scotland than in England and Wales. Put bluntly, the least Thatcherite part of the United Kingdom was being punished by the special imposition of the most Thatcherite policy to date. Many viewed it as a turning point. It was claimed that this was the real evidence that Thatcher really did not care about Scotland and regarded it as a guinea pig for her most extreme policies. Scotland, it was claimed, was treated as a Conservative colony. But this popular account overlooks one crucial detail: there was a fair degree of Scottish complicity in the introduction of the poll tax” (p362).

No pretence of social solidarity could be maintained, nor did the indignant middle-class disciples of the Thatcherite monetary creed succumb to any such mollycoddling instinct: “As far as the Scottish Conservative grass roots were concerned, rates were a punitive property tax which targeted prudent people who put their capital into their home, while it rewarded the indigent who were happy to blow their money on frivolities. Against a backdrop of rising unemployment and in an atmosphere where the dole cheat, the state sponger, the single parent and the social-security scrounger were pilloried by the Tory leadership, there was a fair element of class prejudice in demands for rating reform” (p364).

Their horrendous blunder furnished the ultimate proof that they were out of touch with the broader electorate: “Scotland was not really a guinea pig for the poll tax: it was simply that local Tories wanted it implemented as soon as possible, and at the Scottish Conservative conference of May 1987 it was acclaimed as the next step forward. Indeed, many Tories thought it would be the saviour of the party in Scotland. Furthermore, what is often forgotten is that the original idea was hatched in Scotland, at the University of saint Andrews, at that time a bastion for right-wing free-marketeers. The Tory rank and file looked forward to a crusade against the rates and to the day when they would not shoulder the financial burden of Labour local government. There was no hostility from Conservative activists to the introduction of the poll tax, one year ahead of the rest of the United kingdom in 1988. In fact there was quite the reverse, and many thought it would be a vote-winner” (p365).

Down south, the Party was unperturbed by trouble in the glens: “The poll tax was denounced for its iniquity, in that it took no account of earnings or ability to pay, and it was cited as hard evidence that Tory policy was about promoting the interests of the rich at the expense of the poor, as it was only the substantially well-off who benefited. Yet it would take rioting in London a year later before government would have a rethink and modify it” (p366).

Never renowned for sensitivity, leading figures in the Party further undermined its credibility: “And, with three general-election successes behind them, it looked as if the Tories might be able to govern the United Kingdom indefinitely. Malcolm Rifkind, on his appointment as Secretary of State for Scotland in 1985, let it slip that he regarded the job as bit like being a colonial governor-general, which was taken as further evidence that the Scots were being treated like second-class citizens. It was not the wisest thing to say, and increased the volume of complaints concerning the ‘democratic deficit’” (p366). Major’s later publicity stunt of returning the Stone of Destiny in a last-ditch effort to salvage votes fooled no one.

Even today, the memory of those dark decades is kept alive in political rhetoric, as demonstrated by Nicola Sturgeon’s speech at the SNP annual conference on why she espoused the cause of full independence: “(…) rebellion against the Labour Party itself and its inability – or, more accurately, its unwillingness – to protect Scotland from Thatcher’s relentless attacks on our values, our communities, our industries and our very sense of ourselves; rebellion against the feeling of despair that had become a way of life in Scotland back then – the hopelessness of so many of the people I went to school with, people with talent and ability but people who would go straight to the dole queue”.

The antics of the Tories, their endless quest for a leader to lift them out of the doldrums is nothing more than a diverting sideshow. Whenever their internal rivalries fill the small screen during the news, I take the opportunity to switch the kettle on and brew a cup of tea. If the Tories are beginning to seem like a credible alternative, however, this must constitute the clearest indicator of how far Labour has drifted from its founding Socialist principles. Newspaper columns catalogue the corrupting influence of security of tenure.

Resistance has coalesced around the ID card and draft anti-terrorism legislation. In The Independent on Sunday (16th October), Marie Woolf, Francis Elliott and Sophie Goodchild point to the inadequacies of the equipment in their article ID card scanning system riddled with errors: “One in 1,000 people could be inaccurately identified by the high-tech scans being planned for national ID cards, experts have warned.
The Government is planning to use face, iris and fingerprint scans to identify people on ID cards. But studies have found that being scanned in the wrong type of light or in shadow could lead to an inaccurate ID, because biometric technology is flawed.
Internal reports for the Government warned that manual labourers whose fingertips are worn or nicked, could find their fingerprints are not recognised. Men who go bald risk being identified as someone else, experts say. Pianists, guitarists and typists – whose fingerprints can be worn down – could also face inaccurate readings.
Government trials have found that the biometrics of black, elderly and disabled people have a higher chance of being incorrectly matched against their true ID. People with eye problems also have a relatively high chance of inaccurate identification.
Fingerprint systems can make errors in the identification of one in 100,000 people, while facial recognition scans have falsely identified one in 1,000 individuals”.

What about individuals who have undergone a facelift or put on or lost a large amount of weight? (A woman who wanted to celebrate her slimming success with a holiday in Cuba was detained by border guards and refused permission to board her plane on the grounds that the passport photograph did not resemble her).

The Independent, in its editorial on 20th October, Suspicious circumstances eloquently argues the case against: “The rationale behind ID cards has never been adequately explained. First we are told by ministers that they were to help prevent terrorism; then they became an anti-fraud initiative; next they were heralded as a convenient replacement for passports and driving licenses. Now they are, apparently, a mixture of all three. The very fact that a single Bill is touted as a cure for such a wide range of ills gives us cause for suspicion.
The Government’s guarantees are shifting, too. The most recent Labour election manifesto promised that the cards would not initially be compulsory. But now it emerges that the Bill requires people to put their biometric details on a national database in order to renew their passports or driving licenses. This is surely de facto compulsion.
But by far the most important reason for opposing this Bill is that it would fundamentally alter the relationship between the state and the individual – and not for the better. Every time someone uses the card – whether taking money out of the bank or visiting the doctor – it will be recorded, giving the authorities unprecedented powers to track law-abiding citizens (…)
The Government’s assurances cannot be relied upon. According to Andy Burnham, the Home Office Minister, ‘It has never been our intention to create an elaborate database that will hold personal profiles’. This may be true, but what is to stop future governments doing so? The machinery would be there”.

Back in February (28th), The Independent’s Yasmin Alibhai-Brown in Why do we let Blair get away with it? sounded the alarm over the latest proposals justified by the need to combat terrorism: “The recent whip-up, too, is a deliberate, careful strategy to get Britons trembling with a sense of unknown, indefinable perils so that we consent to violations of our rights, to a creeping authoritarianism without die care or caution. It is no accident that it is while this panic is being generated that this most dishonourable of governments is pushing through – faster than a French TGV – The Prevention of Terrorism Bill, which gives politicians the right to issue ‘control orders’ on any citizens and residents in Britain if they wish to do so, for real or spurious but untested reasons. Tagging, absolute restrictions on communication and house arrests, [may] be imposed without charge, due process, legal arguments or procedures to ensure justice as we know it”.

She continued: “I completely accept that we have a small minority of highly volatile, hate-filled and clever terrorists – Islamicist Stalinists – and that the state security services and police have thwarted serious attacks for which we must thank them. It is probably true that something dramatic is being planned for May. We have a duty to support increased intelligence activities and targeted surveillance, and possibly exceptional activity in the lead up to the election.
The Muslims held in Belmarsh included men most British Muslims detest and dread. We know we are fortunate to be living in Europe, where we can vote, and where even now there are laws that will protect us from the whims of brutish, megalomaniac leaders so common around the Muslim world. But there have to be limits to how many fundamental rights and protections British people are asked to surrender, particularly as for the next few weeks, every move and proposal is driven by political considerations.
What is wrong with the British masses? Why are more people not joining with Muslims and others to preserve their rights, their cherished principles? We seem to have become such a flabby democracy, inert, stupid, consumed by reality television and the sheer pettiness of life”.

On 1st March, The Independent’s editorial, The steady erosion of civil liberties that have been fought for over the centuries, condemned the Prevention of Terrorism Bill: “If this Bill becomes law it will mean an individual can be detained, for an indefinite period, in his or her home. British citizens could be deprived of their liberty without knowing of what they are accused. Nor would they be allowed to challenge the evidence against them.
This Bill would compromise one of our fundamental civil liberties – the right to a fair trial. This is the cornerstone of our freedom. For it to be suspended – however temporarily – the Government would have to show that our nation is facing an overwhelming threat and that it has absolutely no alternative course of action. It has failed to do either of these things.
Charles Clarke’s claim that a High Court judge – rather than the Home Secretary – will be responsible for issuing house arrest control orders, is a red herring. To maintain that it is a ‘concession’ for the Home Secretary to allow judges to issue such orders is to turn our entire legal tradition on its head. It is judges, not politicians, who have the power to imprison people in this country. And in any case, this would still not justify the reversal of the presumption of innocence that this Bill would introduce”.

What made it particularly reprehensible was that it fitted in seamlessly with other challenges to the safeguards we have taken for granted: “For almost eight years, Mr Blair’s government has steadily eroded civil liberties that have been fought for and protected over the centuries. It has diluted the citizen’s right to trial by jury. A person can now, in some instances, be tried twice for the same crime. There are plans afoot to introduce identity cards and laws to restrict our freedom of speech in the shape of a law against incitement to religious hatred. Anti-social behaviour orders have been elevated into this government’s primary tool of social policy. It is through similar orders that the Home Secretary now proposes to undermine the British citizen’s freedom from arbitrary detention.
This steady erosion of our civil liberties must go no further. We cannot allow any more of our fundamental rights to be discarded by a government that has shown itself to have such scant respect for the conventions that guarantee our freedom. Enough is enough”.

In The Independent on Sunday (9th October), Marie Woolf quoted Lord Carlile of Berriew, senior QC and criminal barrister appointed the statutory reviewer of terrorism legislation in 2001: “‘One of the things that I bear in mind is that you have to balance on the one hand the civil liberties of people who are accused, sometimes wrongly , of being involved in terrorism, against the civil liberties of the vast majority of the public who don’t want to be blown up on the Tube,’ he said. ‘There are two issues. One is the time limits; the second is ensuring that evidence is gathered in a proper way. And in order to square the circle you have to ensure that there is an appropriate system of law to protect the subject’”.

This was followed the next day by Robert Verkaik’s interview with Lord Steyn, following his retirement as a member of the judicial committee of the House of Lords about to take up his new post of chairman of the civil rights group Justice: “‘There is a very strong policy reason underlying Article 5.3 of the European Convention on Human Rights, which requires the person to be brought before a court promptly. I think 14 days is the outer limit of that. One of the reasons for the worry about this is the avenue for police corruption and police oppression introduced by prolonged periods of incarceration without charge’”. He stood firm on the independence of the judiciary: “‘Judges are not the servant of the Government. We swear an oath of allegiance to the Queen as head of state, our duty lies to the public, not the Government. I think in all these complaints about how the judges are not being helpful enough they must remember we are emphatically not on the same side. They can put as much pressure on us as they like, but we will do our duty’”.

The Independent’s front page headline on 13th October, 90 Days, by Nigel Morris and Ben Russell, again cited Lord Carlile: “‘A more searching system is required to reflect the seriousness of the state holding someone in high-security custody without charge for as long as three months. I question whether what is proposed in the Bill would be proof to challenge under the Human Rights Act, given the length of extended detention envisaged’”. Shami Chakrabarti neatly summarised the dismay prompted by the latest act of chiselling away: “‘Things have come to a pretty pass when the country that once defined justice for the rest of the world seeks to win a race to the bottom in fair trial standards’”.

The editorial, Blinkered politicians and the rule of law pursued the theme: “The most contentious measure is an extension of the period over which terrorist suspects can be held without charge, from two weeks to three months. The result of giving the police such a power would be that suspects (most likely young Muslims) would ‘disappear’ for months. It would be tantamount to internment”.

And: “Other elements in this Bill are no less dangerous. It would be an offence to ‘indirectly encourage’ terrorism. This wording is dangerously vague and constitutes an unjustified curb on freedom of speech”.

It concluded: “What the Government has done in the wake of that atrocity [the July London bombings] smacks of gesture politics – the desire to be seen to be ‘doing something’. There is no shortage of counter-terrorist legislation on Britain’s statute book. The Government’s first objective ought to be to ensure that the existing law is enforced”.

In The Independent (10th October) Yasmin Alibhai-Brown in Where’s the outcry about our police state? tackled the puzzling phenomenon of apparent public indifference to the threat: “‘Woolgathering’ is a brilliant new word I have just learnt. It describes the state of being heedless, thoughtless, neglectful, distracted. It is also apt to describe a new national affliction. While we are woolgathering, twittering and tittering about Beckham’s fortunes, the catwalks, Jude Law’s love life, the dating games of blind sex-pot ministers, the Brown-Blair power struggle and the Tory leadership contest, the country is being redesigned, reconfigured, dominated, fouled and corrupted by a hubristic government which feels entitled to rule us forever and in whichever way it chooses.
We need to wake up and put away the languorous good living supplements and whatever novel is causing the buzz in clever circles. None of it matters. British culture, art, politics, society, the media, the justice system, are being forced to submit to the will of New Labour under Tony Blair who wants to compel us to become subject to his will rather than free citizens of a free nation. L’Etat c’est moi, he now appears to believe. Absolutely.
No other British leader in modern times has gone this far. Internment, arbitrary and punitive deportation, barbaric laws, shoot-to-kill policies have now established themselves on this soil. Yet the majority of Britons do not demur or baulk. Through default they consent. Some energy has, admittedly, gone into protests over planned identity cards and the law against religious incitement. But even more serious raids on liberal democracy don’t generate too much concern”.

Even the Party faithful discovered that their expressions of dissent were unwelcome: “All too soon, this cowboy justice begins to apply to others. Internment, exiling human beings, curtailing freedom of expression, have become responses to a range of difficult problems. The doffing up of the Labour Conference heckler Walter Wolfgang illustrated the point perfectly. (I do wonder though whether there would have been such a fuss around the country if the victim had not been an elderly refugee who fled Nazism, but, say, a young Asian or Afro-Caribbean man?)”.

In the same publication, Heather Brooke likewise commented on the strange complacency afflicting the population (13th October, Has anybody in Britain actually read ‘1984’?): “Yesterday saw the publication of the Government’s latest Anti-terror Bill that would give police even more power. The House of Lords, meanwhile, is debating the Racial and Religious Hatred Bill, and Whitehall is investigating ways to ban former civil servants from publishing their accounts of what happens in the corridors of power.
There are already nearly 200 pieces of anti-terrorism legislation. What can be left except thought-crime? (…)
But never underestimate the British public’s lack of interest in serious issues. They may moan and gripe, but the most they are likely to do is to write a letter to the editor, ‘Yours outraged, Tunbridge Wells’. Soon enough, they will be back gobbling up their junk diet of celebrity piffle. One can almost hear the powers that be issuing their proclamation to the masses: ‘Let them read Heat’.
Meanwhile, the public is being banned from protesting within 1km of Parliament. The Serious Crime and Police Powers Act makes it a criminal offence t trespass on a ‘designated site’ for ‘national security’ reasons. It is likely we’ll see the law used against protestors. Police can also store a person’s details, fingerprints and DNA when that person is arrested. You don’t have to be found guilty for the police to swab your mouth and keep records on you; simply looking suspicious or being in the wrong place at the wrong time is reason enough (…)
Constant surveillance, files on innocent people, secret trials – these are the hallmarks of a police state, one that is being erected with the meek acceptance of the British public”.

[The above image is from The Independent, 1st March, 2005]

[For more on ID cards, see Firedamp]

Before the introduction of airport-style metal detector archways, scanning equipment and security barriers opened by badges with magnetic strips (which, if they unexpectedly close on you half way through, leave spectacular bruises, as DC untucked his shirt and vest to display) the guards at the door gave staff little more than a passing glance. To test their vigilance, HP attached a sugar packet with a portrait of a famous black French footballer complete with flamboyant coiffure to his pocket, the background colour of which had the virtue of being identical to that of the official dog tags. He entered unchallenged. It struck me yesterday at the newsagents and again later whilst sipping freshly squeezed orange juice at the bar that the ribbons from which they dangle (they must be clearly visible at all times, as the official notice reads) have developed into something of a fashion accessory. I wear the standard issue unprepossessing black lanyard, but a de luxe flag blue version complete with yellow stars and metal clip is on sale alongside the toy storks, souvenir umbrellas and collector’s booklets of stamps. One colleague in particular changes his after every trip as a mark of status, like a veteran’s medal, except that the distinction resides in the cloth from which it is suspended. Our position in the hierarchy is instantly discernible from the elaborate system of colour-coding and other subtle indicators. The faces of all permanent officials (without further differentiation according to category or grade) are superimposed on turquoise. A yellow stripe with the letters IA designates freelances. A white stripe denotes the partner or child of a civil servant. Temporary agents have the expiry date of their contracts printed beneath their names. The relative lack of job security enjoyed by employees of the various firms to which certain services (catering, for example) have been subcontracted is signalled by russet.

At BC’s party on Saturday I was brought up to speed on the latest news from the front. At a forthcoming informal summit the team is to be excluded from the meeting room itself, forced to follow proceedings from a marquee in the grounds. Rumblings about a strike were summarily dismissed (and a columnist in the FT castigated us for our recalcitrance, our unreconstructed Luddite attitude). As my friend put it, the Prime Minister concerned refuses to withdraw troops in the face of opposition from an entire country (the plural might have been slightly more accurate in this instance), so he is hardly likely to back down to satisfy the demands of a handful of stroppy interpreters. Humour proved the only retaliation, as our counterparts in the relevant institution added a new acronym for the facilities to be provided: Salle d’Herbergement des Installations Techniques. What worries those of us who actually care about the quality of both our output and our lives (occupational health) is that this will create a precedent, remote by stealth. The importance of context for communication is consistently underestimated by outsiders (who also all too frequently assume that any secretary or first year language student with a smattering of a foreign tongue would be capable of producing an adequate rendering in simultaneous if catapulted into the booth, the truth being that even genuine bilingualism is no guarantee of possessing the aptitude required, the indispensable analytical and concentration skills completely separate to the linguistic talents). The detrimental impact of being cooped up in an enclosed space deprived of natural light in front of a blurred image as well as social contact and a sense of involvement/emotional and professional investment in the event is blithely ignored, along with the ensuing isolation, demotivation, the speed of burn-out, the eye strain (the damage sustained by our hearing no matter how careful about not turning up the volume too high already depressing enough). There is no cost-cutting rationale behind the exercise either. In fact, it is considerably more expensive than the erection of (already available) portable booths. Instead of looking upon our presence as prestige-enhancing, further bolstering the albeit never-ailing sense of their own importance we are resented by ministers, grudgingly tolerated, our contribution rarely acknowledged. The implicit, yet all too clear message is that our dedication and toil are not valued, we are to be hushed away, hidden from view to avoid spoiling the illusion of cosy intimacy. I recall my disbelief when the idea of consigning us to a cellar was first broached. The individual responsible glowed with enthusiasm at how his proposal would put an end to squandering resources: we would each be assigned our own screen and console to which any speech from any meeting room would be transmitted in the various languages of our combinations. This would mean that fewer people with Swedish would need to be recruited, as all the Swedish spoken that day could be interpreted at a single station. To label this unfeasible would be charitable indeed (thankfully, it was seen to be given polite consideration before being quietly dropped). Spontaneity of debate would be the first casualty if everything revolved around preventing a clash with a Swede in one committee being forced to wait until his (invisible) compatriot in another had concluded. Calls of nature would presumably be outlawed, catheter tubes dispensed by the medical service (or perhaps the seats would be adapted with chamber pots discreetly installed underneath like a Victorian commode). Being continuously pelted with snippets on the most diverse subject matter would be a recipe for insanity, driving us to apply for extended sick leave (on full pay). In spite of proving that we can cope with the challenge of a vastly expanded multilingual regime, we are increasingly coming under attack as an extravagance, a drain on the budget. The perception of us as a soft target I attribute to the sad persistence of rampant yet rigorously denied misogyny directed against a female-dominated profession.

Autumn has spread her russet mantle over field and forest, although in Waffleland her preferred method of announcing her arrival is slightly more prosaic: unremitting drizzle until the branches have been stripped of foliage. The Hungarian emerged from an unusually restful night (indigestion prods him to seek relief in the form of liver salts, the light from the kitchen stirring me as he mixes the powder with tap water). We agreed last evening’s dinner of pork stew and clams in a red wine based sauce must have stimulated his gastric juices as we celebrated BC’s wedding one year on. His wife was elegance personified in her perfectly tailored outfit, the Portuguese restaurant serving no-nonsense dishes in portions so ample that even the Hungarian was forced to admit defeat. Salted cod, jacket potatoes and green beans with garlic, walls decorated with tourist board posters of the Azores. LR and I reminisced about the low points of British cuisine in the 1970s, agreeing that boil-in-the-bag fish (sealed in with finely chopped parsley and a foul white sauce, which she unflatteringly, but accurately, described as “ready-made vomit”) had to qualify as the overall winner. She then recounted the tale of her summer, which earned her an unwanted epithet in the fine tradition of Arthur Two-Sheds Jackson and John Two-Jags Prescott: Lisa Two-Villas R. Escaping to Spain, she had allowed herself to be seduced by the sales pitch concerning the unrivalled merits of the property she was about to rent for a month. “When they wrote in the ad ‘Car recommended’, I didn’t think it meant that it was so remote it didn’t appear on any local map, street names didn’t stretch that far up the mountainside, nor did they warn me that the ‘road’ winding up to it was negotiable only by goats, so that if the taxi wasn’t a 4×4 it couldn’t make it up the track. I don’t drive and my Mum doesn’t drive, there was no public transport and when I complained they wouldn’t admit it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be”. She politely pointed out that their idea of a “lush garden” was “a couple of weeds poking out of the sand” (“And when I demanded a refund they shrugged, telling me, ‘We don’t have gardens in the south of Spain’”). When the firm refused to relent, she embarked on a quest for alternative lodgings, soon finding a superb residence with swimming pool, terrace and greenery. Having spent a fortune, she returned to the former dwelling for one paltry weekend when her cousin, complete with driving license, visited.

As the Hungarian dutifully set off for the next village to pick up the newspapers, G and I watched one of my favourite episodes from Red Dwarf, Polymorph (surpassed only by DNA, in which Kryten briefly samples the pleasures of human existence). The crew encounter a genetically engineered super-warrior, which, as the voice-over informs us: “(…) feeds off the human psyche, seeks out the deranged, the unbalanced and the emotionally crippled”. Finding its reflection unbearable, it assumes the appearance of a white fluffy bunny before hopping in the direction of the habitation decks. In the meantime, Lister carefully balances a heaped tablespoon of chilli powder, muttering “Not too little, not too much” before emptying the entire contents of the tin (about the size of a ground coffee container) into a bowl. Kryten wanders in to give his quarters a “quick tickle round”. Lister watches bemused, as the robotic butler secures the tube and nozzle extension to his nether regions before vacuuming the floor.
“Oh yes, I can plug a number of add-ons into my groinal socket, allowing me to perform virtually any household task imaginable,” Kryten remarks breezily.
“Like what?”
“Oh, you name it, buzz saw, power drill, hedge-trimmer, even an egg whisk”.
Lister’s incredulity at this latter statement is written all over his face: “What, so you just, like, stick the egg-whisk attachment on the end and you can, like, whip up a Spanish omelette?”
“I certainly can, sir, but it’s amazing how few people are prepared to eat them”.
The Cat slinks in for dinner, catching sight of candles in brown beer bottles and certain unorthodox items of tableware, a scalpel substituting for a knife. Lister instructs him to take the onion salads (in kidney bowls) and chilli sauce (in colostomy bags) out of the fridge (the medical unit’s embryo refrigeration unit), dismissing the feline’s protests on the grounds that everything has been properly cleaned. Lister presents his guest with the results of his culinary labours, kebabs, offering the Cat a squirt of lemon from a huge syringe, formerly used for the artificial insemination of cows. His friend, unable to contain his disgust any longer, storms off, hissing “This isn’t a meal, it’s an autopsy” and that he has no intention of hanging around for the main course of “chicken chasseur in a stool bucket”. A basketball bounces into the room, landing on the plate and transforming itself into one of the sausages.

Rimmer’s home movie reminiscing session is interrupted by the ship’s computer Holly warning that she has detected a non-human life form on board. Rimmer greets the news with scepticism: “You mean like last time when you got us all worked up, we went scooting off down to the cargo bay complete with bazookoids and backpacks, and it turned out to be one of Lister’s socks”.
“I didn’t recognise the genetic structure,” she replies in her defence, “Biologically speaking, they were a completely new life form”.

We switch back to Lister boasting to Kryten about his recipe for the Shami Devil Kebab: “It’s beautiful, man; it’s like eating molten lava”. Unsuspectingly, he sprinkles salt on the polymorph, eliciting a sneeze. It wriggles inexplicably, so he pokes at it with the scalpel. Its response is to leap off the plate and fasten itself to his neck, determined to choke the life out of him.
“You seriously like them that hot?” Kryten enquires.
“It’s trying to kill me!”
Lister succeeds in tearing it away from his throat and it slithers away behind the cabinets. Arming himself with a baseball bat, Lister attempts to flush it out, to no avail. Reaching for his red spotted boxer shorts, he pulls them on: “We’d better get out of here, Kryten, something very weird is going on. Something very, very – oh, a sudden pain in my groin”.
“What’s wrong?”
“Aah, me underpants, they’re shrinking, oh, God! Me boxers are alive, man! They’re getting smaller, help me, please, please help me!”
As he writhes on the floor in agony, Kryten kneels between his legs, desperately struggling to remove the offending smalls (ever-smallers). At this juncture, Rimmer walks in to witness the unedifying spectacle, drawing his own conclusions about the robots compromising position as Lister yells “Pull them down!” Kryten throws a pocket-handkerchief-dimensioned undergarment on to the bunk.

Something I had read earlier in the week had reminded me of the episode, more specifically, the cultural corollary of women’s association with household chores, male slobbishness and a reputedly high tolerance for dirt (self-scrutiny in the unpleasant odours department not their forte). Khushwant Sachdave’s article The underwear that stays fresh for days (Daily Mail, 18th October) extolled the virtues of a revolutionary new product: “Up a mountain and miles from a washing machine, a man could be excused for having less than pristine pants.
But now there’s no excuse for not having the freshest of underwear.
A manufacturer claims to have invented pants which can be worn for days on end without a wash”.

Obviously, given the average male’s purported phobia of a certain white durable with a revolving drum, the appeal to a wider market segment than hardy climbers seemed assured: “However there is little doubt they could prove irresistible for those men in everyday environments who simply can’t be bothered to do their washing”.

The journalist continued: “The pants, which cost £17, have been designed to be light, comfortable and durable enough to last a trip to the top of Everest. But the North Face is expecting that men with less adventurous plans for their underwear will also be popping into its stores to stock up.
Keith Byrne, marketing manager for the company, said yesterday: ‘The fact they resist odour build-up is sure to appeal to blokes everywhere who may be slightly challenged in the washing-machine department’”.

Lowri Turner (Daily Mail, 20th October) could not resist commenting in This idea is pants!: “They’ve been invented for men, but can only have been invented by one as well. A new pair of pants have been designed to stay fresh even if worn for several days. The fabric is coated with tiny fragments of silver, said to prevent nasty odours and the growth of, er, fungus. Blimey! How long do you have to keep your pants on to get fungus? A week, a month, longer?
I don’t know any woman who has even heard of fungal underpants, but then we already have a gadget to prevent that sort of thing afflicting our own underwear. It’s called a washing machine and it’s been around for years.
The new high tech underwear was developed for athletes, explorers and others who might find themselves in a situation where swapping their underpinnings for clean ones might be tricky – clinging to the rock face halfway up the Eiger, for example”.

She endorsed her colleague’s sentiments concerning sales potential: “Teenage boys, students, confirmed bachelors of the crumpled suit, unbrushed hair variety, and just about any chap whose laundry basket (not that he probably has one or even knows what one is) goes unchecked by a friendly female will love the idea of stay-fresh pants.
No need to pick yesterday’s briefs off the floor and sniff them before putting them back on again. He can simply climb into them willy nilly, as it were”.

Beth Hale (Daily Mail, 18th October) in Stop moaning about the housework. It only takes four years, urged spouses and partners everywhere to grin and bear the burdens of domestic bliss: “If it seems you spend your life doing housework, take heart.
It’s really only four years.
Washing and ironing take up nine months, while cleaning takes 16. Another two years and two months slip by while cooking the family meals”.

The latest edition of Geo Wissen had, with admirable Teutonic thoroughness, published the results of research minutely quantifying our daily activities: “Eating and drinking, whether a quick bite on the run or a leisurely lunch, takes up a considerable five years. But the average TV viewer spends six months longer than that watching their favourite programmes”.

As for that other unavoidable task: “It seems just 16 hours is spent having orgasms over the average lifetime. But at least we do spend two weeks kissing”.

[For Stormwind]

Not quite a photographer’s convention…

Peter

Gunnella

Neil

Will

Richard

Gordon

Corrinne

Svetlana and Steve

Giving the Finger to Eternity