Nuns don’t wear high heels…

Last night when I told you all that stuff

About the way things are

You didn’t understand a word

But you said you did

– The Selecter: Missing Words

Whenever I read the proclamations of any politician (I tend not to listen, because of my deafness), I first – I suppose like many – engage my inbuilt bulshitometer™; and then, if my attention doesn’t drift away, will compare the message that they appear to be delivering, against what my gut, my intellect, my experience, my knowledge (if any) of them (their past actions, as well as their current words) and their subject, tells me they are really talking or writing about: not just attempting to ascertain the ‘truth’ – such an emotive word; although it is out there, somewhere – or decide if there is a hidden agenda; but also to try and learn more about those who govern us – as well as more widely, about politics – whether or not I should believe the orator in question (or give them the benefit of the doubt – at least for the moment…); and if, therefore, they are worthy of my support.

I am quite cynical in my approach, though – and therefore in no way partisan – as so much of modern (although it probably was ever thus) political rhetoric seems to be entrenched in defensive egotism: and therefore we are frequently subjected to disdain for those who disagree with or oppose the speaker (or writer); obvious obfuscation or omission of important facts – or, at worst, economies of honesty; plain falsehoods – and a pronounced attitude of condescension. Most politicians’ utterings, today, also lack any meaningful humour (which may be why they are the subject of so much satire).

¶

It was in such a frame of mind – mixed in with just a soupçon of eagerness: because local planning is so important to me – that I approached Stratford-upon-Avon Town and Stratford-on-Avon District Councillor Anthony Jefferson’s letter – “Emotion alone is not enough” – in last week’s Stratford-upon-Avon Herald.

As do so many politicians, he begins his pronouncement by setting out his credentials – thereby adding the appropriate amount of proficiency and knowledge, expertise and gravitas to his utterings – one of which is that he serves “on the Town Council’s Planning Consultative Committee”. This, I would have hoped, means that he has genned up on all the requisite planning laws – especially the umbrella National Planning Policy Framework (NPPF): parts of which, even I, a mere proletarian, can recite from memory. In addition, knowing that this piece of legislation is pre-eminent, I would have hoped that he, too, would have had the following (“pre-eminent”) sentence engraved on his very soul…

At the heart of the National Planning Policy Framework is a presumption in favour of sustainable development, which should be seen as a golden thread running through both plan-making and decision-taking.

– NPPF: Paragraph 14

…if not, shouldn’t he have checked, first; done a little research, to ensure that, when he cited it, he didn’t omit the most important word [my unitalicized emphasis] – not only in that sentence, but probably in the whole document? Take away that core word – “sustainable” appears in the NPPF over a hundred times; and “sustainability” has eight mentions itself – and the whole nature of the phrase he believed(?) he had reproduced collapses, like an arch without its keystone:

These are ‘the rules of the game.’ Making the challenge even greater is a ‘presumption in favour of development.’

To make things even worse, this is then followed by…

To misquote[!?] The Hunger Games it often seems as though “May the odds be never in your favour”.

…which appears to confirm that he didn’t realize (or even know) that he had similarly reversed the meaning of his extract from the NPPF; and was unpicking its seam; removing its heart. (Perhaps he also wasn’t aware that sustainability was such a central precept; or perhaps he was playing Candy Crush Saga during that section of the Planning 101 course?)

¶

Now, normally, despite my recent bombastic utterings, I would have given him that “benefit of the doubt”; and might even have questioned if the Herald had actually omitted the word itself. But, from the rest of his letter – and its tone: which, to me, confirms a typical political arrogance and a need to frequently assuage the addiction to the sound of his own utterances (something which I may, too, be inclined to…) – I am quite confident that this is his ‘mistake’: especially as its fits in with his – to me – whole “calm down dear” approach. It may even be deliberate: as his argument would be weakened considerably with “sustainable” given its due place.

Indeed, he appears to be teaching his grandmother to suck eggs; whilst avoiding not only the most crucial word, but doing his best not to utter his true accusation of that-which-must-not-be-named – nimbyism – which, as far as I can tell, no opposition group to any planned development in Stratford-upon-Avon District could remotely be accused of; in fact, most such organizations seem to be more au fait with the planning ‘regs’ than the politicians; and are more than aware that “Emotion alone is not enough”: even if it is that which fuels them. They do not need telling so.

This, by the way, is the first appearance of the dreaded ‘n’ word in my blog – principally because it has never before been relevant. As I wrote to the Planning Inspector in charge of the Gladman appeal:

Before I continue, though, I must stress that I – along with all the other villagers I have spoken to – would not want to deprive others of living in this wonderful place. We know that we have to grow.

In fact, the whole argument – as it should be – against the development of Oxhill Road was not just evidence-based, but centred on sustainability: in all its various relevant guises.

¶

Unfortunately, apart from my positings above, I am at a loss to explain what, therefore, prompted Councillor Jefferson’s letter. Perhaps it was just a need to make his mark, being a relatively new councillor (which I can understand)? Or perhaps he had drawn the short straw during a meeting of the Stratford-on-Avon Conservatives: currently under siege, in the form of the rulers of Stratford-on-Avon District Council, for their dire mishandling of the Core Strategy?

Perhaps we shall never know – at least those of us who do not ‘think’ as politicians do. Perhaps it was just, simply, wishful thinking….

Freedom of screech…

It’s funny (depending, of course, on your definition of that word): but I thought I saw Jim Davidson in Bart’s, the other day; in the queue just in front of Jethro, and Roy ‘Chubby’ Brown – all proudly wearing their four-inch-diameter “I heart Bernard Manning” badges on their chests: featuring a portrait of the man once described as “a comedic dinosaur” (although I would debate the use of that word “comedic”). What I didn’t know, though, was that Davidson was Scottish; or had “Alasdair McAlasdair” as a non-de-fume.

I’m not quite sure either what the point is (simply put, of course, there isn’t one…) of giving over two pages of February’s Tysoe & District Record to the misogynistic, almost-racist, nonsensical rantings of a self-important, self-deluded worshipper of Onan; what it achieves; or who – apart from its author – finds its puerile, snide scribblings entertaining, or remotely (as in the distance from here to Betelgeuse) amusing. Perhaps he will accuse me of having a sense-of-humour bypass (not true: I find Jeremy Hardy, for instance, intensely side-splitting – although deeply intelligent…); but I found this month’s Letter from abroad both insulting (particularly to all other Scots – excluding Frankie Boyle, perhaps) and demeaning; and wholly appalling and insulting as a portrayal of Tysoe being equivalent to an eighteenth-century, overly-privileged (meaning sneering down your gout-ridden nose at people who aren’t like you; don’t have your health or wealth; or your nasty, patriarchal, patronizing attitude to people not of your ilk, sex, colour or brainlessness) Royston Vasey.

What worries me even more is that such awful garbage really does appeal to villagers: and that I am therefore in a decent (probably classed as a limp-wristed, liberal, left-wing, lesbian-hugging, Guardian-reading, heart-on-sleeve-wearing, fox-loving – all of which I am proud to be…) but tiny minority: which has suddenly woken up in the insensitive nightmare of a place that is a village in a real-life Little Britain.

Perhaps Nadhim Zahawi – as our most famous resident – should also be worried: not just that he’s also “from abroad”; and not that we’re all going to vote sensibly for the Green Party (or perhaps even Labour: in a tactical attempt to emerge from austerity); but that we’re slithering, as a representative part of his constituency, quickly even more down to the right: and will, as a result, be backing a member of Nigel Farage’s ragtag bunch of “fruitcakes, loonies and closet racists, mostly” as M(C)P in the upcoming General Election?

I sincerely hope not. Otherwise, as someone who is disabled, I might find myself banned from driving. Not a good position to be in, in such rural isolation.

¶

No doubt, as a result of this post, I shall be the subject (not that I care) of cliché-bound derision and yet more ignorant, dribbling prejudice in next month’s column – perhaps labelled as a “scrounger”; perhaps even described as a “cripple” (a word, of course, which I am allowed to use: but you are not – unless, of course, you are also one: in which case I will be happy to spend my underserved benefit on buying you more fags and booze, so we can kill ourselves slowly together slobbing in front of your ninety-two-inch plasma behind closed curtains; only, though, of course, after standing in the queue in poor Bart’s again, behind a string of other obnoxious twerps who think their every bigoted utterance worthy of sharing, and even being committed to print)?

Feel free to publish: but don’t be surprised to be damned instantly, and laughed at – rather than with – for being both utterly despicable and inane, and demonstrably absurd and ridiculous. Je suis Charlie. Je suis Ahmed. Je suis Juif. Je suis Policier. Je suis Bard. Je suis Disgusted of Upper Tysoe.

You say offsetting; I say upsetting… (12A)

I have written before about the derisory gesture, made by Gladman Developments, to assuage (or even compensate for – and no, this is not the time or place to discuss Eric Pickles’ continuing dilution of Section 106 powers: yet another brick in the wall…) our concerns about the wiping-out of hundreds of years of our cherished heritage, with an offer of “public open space” – meaning, really, of course, that they are going to take a large field, and transform it into a pond; a couple of swings; and some “lumps and bumps” (the miniaturization of ridge-and-furrow…?). “Honey, I shrunk the meads.” (Sorry, it’s the best I could do. Although there’s probably also a joke in here comparing pitch-and-putt courses to St Andrews, given the prevalence of windmills in such places.)

And, of course, this plan is just one of the modern ‘remedies’ (and, yes, I am writing this with my ‘sardonic’ face on) that make up ‘biodiversity offsetting’: as if planting a couple of new bushes… (“plant a tree instead of seventy-three”) – or even scooping up all the ickle bunnikins and the itsy-bitsy newties (which we’re not supposed to give a shit about in the race for progress) in a bulldozer’s craw, and dumping them… – a couple of miles away: where the habitat is completely different; the topography completely alien; there are no badger setts next door; or copses of trees; no ancient hedgerows; and, ooh, look, a completely unbridgeable stream, completely full of steaming sewage… (a synecdoche of this Government’s environmental policies and attitudes) – will somehow make things better.

According to the weasel words of the NPPF, paragraph 118:

Where an adverse effect on the site’s notified special interest features is likely, an exception should only be made where the benefits of the development, at this site, clearly outweigh… the impacts that it is likely to have on the features of the site…

…but that, to my simple mind, could mean anything. It’s no different to using the word ‘sustainable’ (i.e. in its barefaced capitalist sense), when what you really mean is ‘profitable’.

¶

To put it another way: just imagine, if, one night, some huge unfriendly giant picks you from your bed – however gingerly (although I imagine more Roald Dahl-style) – and, instead of “gobbling up” this particular “human bean” – plonks you down, from a great height, into the middle of a Scottish glen; the top of a Lakeland fell; deep in the Sahara; or at the North Pole…. I don’t think it would have a great “outcome” (never mind “measurable”), do you? “Two rights don’t make a left.”

And, even if you somehow manage the long trek back home, and can then locate the site of your former glory, you will find that you didn’t actually have a home any longer. Any trace of it has been obliterated by someone plonking a ruddy big factory (for living?) in its place: spewing out all sorts of noxious rubbish; and anything natural has been thoroughly concreted over. All that is left as refuge is the little forgotten hedgehog house that used to hide in a far corner of your back garden, covered in several years’ leafmould, lying cracked, on its side. Even the tiny patch of ground where there is now substitute astroturf has been churned to hell – such giant-size make-up being slapped ingloriously over tonnes of wanton rubble (hence, no doubt, those phrenologic “lumps and bumps” Gladman seem so darned proud of).

Not nice – is it?

¶

Well, now, “biodiversity offsetting” has a new, technical, sibling – “mitigation translocation” – which, I suppose, is meant to make us all feel better, all warm inside, in a sort of science-y, tech-y way; without, again, understanding its definition or implications. But, to me it’s really just the the same ugly child, rechristened: no different to renaming that thing rusting away in your shed a “horticultural excavation apparatus”. It doesn’t truly make it any more efficient – or even less rusty. (Go and get some oil out, now; and give the thing the love it deserves. No, not your other half… – the blummin’ spade.)

And, guess what – it doesn’t work! “The relocation of animals to make way for land development rarely succeeds and could be driving some species towards extinction….” What a complete and utter surprise. I am truly shocked. (Sorry, my mask slipped: revealing my increasingly habitual ‘bitterly-sarcastic-where-the-fuck-did-common-sense-disappear-to’ rictus grimace. In fact, I appear to have morphed into the bastardized lovechild of my hero George Monbiot, and Al Murray’s Pub Landlord. Apologies to both.)

¶

As the “sixth mass extinction” accelerates down the ten-lane motorway of doom; and as the fog of self-defeating stupidity grows ever thicker; how many more defenceless creatures will we notch up on the crumbling bedpost of humanity? How many more triumphal tally stickers (yes, really) of thoughtlessly slaughtered trophies will we attach to the flanks of our machines of mess and mass destruction… before we realize it’s not just too late – we should have stopped being so bloody arrogant, as a species, centuries ago?

Never mind. At this rate, it won’t be long until we drive ourselves out of existence – a good thing for what’s left of Gaia, hopefully… – and Tysoe reverts to its Jurassic past. (Huzzah! Bring back the dinosaurs!) Sorry for that rude interruption. What I meant to say was… if Cameron wins in May, will the last person to leave the planet please turn out the lights?

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…

Betwix’ thi ’ills, s’ bleak an’ barren,

Lies a little town, bi the name o’ Darren.

For most of the first forty years of my life, I lived on the western edge of the Pennines: cradled by tall hills and rugged moorland; and for the latter half of that period, made my home on the edge of a small industrial town, whose low centre lies 172 metres above sea level; and whose most famous landmark – itself 26 metres high – stands on the “bleak an’ barren” (but utterly beautiful) moors 372 metres above the Lancashire coastline: with Blackpool Tower visible, nearly thirty miles away, on a clear day.

If you can see the tower, it’s going to rain.

If you can’t, it’s raining.

I therefore feel utterly at home when the terrain huddles around me – although this does not mean (especially as my legs grow older) that I need to be climbing; just that the altitude needs to be such that I know, even with my eyes closed (although that would just be plain silly, when there are so many delights to soak in…), I am not in the lowlands or the flatlands of our country’s varied topography.

Over the weekend, I therefore found myself driving through freshly-fallen snow and thick fog, as the sun rose – clearing the hilltops; but leaving the deep hollows in-between filled with thick strands of cottonwool – with an inexorable desire to don my walking boots, and retrace some familiar steps from that earlier existence. From the single set of tracks, and lone 4x4 sitting in the pristine, bright crispness, it was obvious that this would also be the peaceable experience I hankered after: complementing my memories with refreshing vistas (of the sort, I’m afraid, that you can only find many miles north of Tysoe…).

It’s not a long walk (about two-and-a-half miles) around Turton and Entwistle Reservoir – formed by what was the tallest dam (33 metres) in Britain, when it was constructed in 1832 – even when it’s cold enough to leave it partially frozen; and, on a less treacherous day (and without other commitments), I would have carried on around its lower sibling, Wayoh Reservoir, stopping for refreshments (and warmth) at the welcoming Strawbury Duck pub, right by Entwistle railway station; and which is therefore most easily accessed by train (especially tempting if you travel from the north through the remarkable over-a-mile long Sough Tunnel – the (debatable) source of a very local saying, which basically translates as “on the road to nowhere”).

When the fog cleared (before returning, and creeping slowly and surreptitiously across the valley), an almost Alpine landscape revealed itself: flecked with white, and mirrored perfectly under a crystal-blue sky. It therefore took me nearly two hours to complete the circuit: stopping both to admire and to capture the coolness, the calmness, the quietness and restfulness that was the perfect panacea for anyone’s troubles; my only companions being the tits, robins, blackbirds, ducks, gulls and herons scratching, digging and diving for sustenance.

I so love Tysoe; but I also, occasionally, miss the hills of the north (and usually more, the closer they are – approaching or departing): rejoicing in their rugged majesty; their snowcapped peaks; as well as the challenge they can present, when in the mood. They reward my efforts with a calm and a presence that I can find nowhere else. I will be back….

You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain;

I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care.

As the peach-blossom flows downstream and is gone into the unknown,

I have a world apart that is not among men.

– Li Bai: Question and Answer on the Mountain

The only way is ethics…

Men fear thought as they fear nothing else on earth – more than ruin, more even than death. Thought is subversive and revolutionary, destructive and terrible; thought is merciless to privilege, established institutions, and comfortable habits; thought is anarchic and lawless, indifferent to authority, careless of the well-tried wisdom of the ages. Thought looks into the pit of hell and is not afraid. It sees man, a feeble speck, surrounded by unfathomable depths of silence; yet it bears itself proudly, as unmoved as if it were lord of the universe. Thought is great and swift and free, the light of the world, and the chief glory of man.

– Bertrand Russell: Why Men Fight: A Method of Abolishing the International Duel

Being an atheist – although not, for goodness’ sake, an evangelical one: who treats such a (dis)belief as an oxymoronic quasi religion (as per DIY) – re-reading the Ten Commandments skit that I posted the other day made me wonder if there were actually any noetic equivalents that could make sense, signify something, to someone like myself: who spends a great deal of his time (for various reasons) simply thinking – but not thinking simply… – just not of any God.

I did find quite a few purported examples online: some self-contradicting; some quite sensible; and some that had arrived from a similar investigation of the self.

And then I realized – d’oh! – especially as I only stated recently that “I have never… been willing to hold my tongue, and simply obey unquestionable orders” (a Bardic ‘commandment’ if ever there was…) – it was highly unlikely, even if I found precepts that made sense to me (as many of those I discovered above did), that I would want to live my life by anything other than my internal moral compass (which probably stems from good parenting and a life trying, hungrily, to understand…) – certainly not by being told what to do, and how. As someone once said – although I don’t know who – “You don’t need religion to have morals. If you can’t determine right from wrong, then you lack empathy, not religion.” (I shall come back to this in a short while.)

¶

Having said all that, I do have a soft spot for Bertrand Russell and his A Liberal Decalogue – “not intended to replace the old one but only to supplement it” –

1. Do not feel absolutely certain of anything.

2. Do not think it worth while to proceed by concealing evidence, for the evidence is sure to come to light.

3. Never try to discourage thinking for you are sure to succeed.

4. When you meet with opposition, even if it should be from your husband or your children, endeavor to overcome it by argument and not by authority, for a victory dependent upon authority is unreal and illusory.

5. Have no respect for the authority of others, for there are always contrary authorities to be found.

6. Do not use power to suppress opinions you think pernicious, for if you do the opinions will suppress you.

7. Do not fear to be eccentric in opinion, for every opinion now accepted was once eccentric.

8. Find more pleasure in intelligent dissent than in passive agreement, for, if you value intelligence as you should, the former implies a deeper agreement than the latter.

9. Be scrupulously truthful, even if the truth is inconvenient, for it is more inconvenient when you try to conceal it.

10. Do not feel envious of the happiness of those who live in a fool’s paradise, for only a fool will think that it is happiness.

– Bertrand Russell: The Autobiography of Bertrand Russell: 1944-1969

– but that may simply be because of his pithy and erudite way with words, and an equivalence of purpose. (I think the marvellous Will Self may be posited as today’s homologue.) They could, however, quite readily form the basis of the principles governing the production of this blog, and therefore my public persona. If nothing else, I want other people to question, to think – and maybe about things they wouldn’t have, otherwise (even reevaluating things that continually stare them in the face…) – when they read my words.

¶

The fundamental cause of the trouble is that in the modern world the stupid are cocksure while the intelligent are full of doubt.
– Bertrand Russell: Mortals and Others

Strangely enough, although Russell puts one of my true guiding principles (one of the principal points on “my internal moral compass”, if you will) at the top of his list – “Do not feel absolutely certain of anything” (captured and expressed beautifully in Forbidden Colours by David Sylvian, as “I’ll go walking in circles While doubting the very ground beneath me Trying to show unquestioning faith in everything” – a mantra I often find myself repeating…) – Russell’s oft-perceived arrogance (or simply the fact that these are adjuncts to the originals…) means that he neglects (or reasonably excludes) its counterpart: probably best expressed in the wisdom of Atticus Finch in Harper Lee’s wonderful, if-you-only-ever-read-one-work-of-fiction-read-this-one, To Kill a Mockingbird –

First of all… if you can learn a simple trick, Scout, you’ll get along a lot better with all kinds of folks. You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view – until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.

You could say, of course – as indeed did George McGovern – that such “Empathy is born out of the old biblical injunction ‘Love thy neighbour as thyself’”; and that many of our laws (both internally and externally administered) have such scriptural origins – particularly this ‘Golden Rule’ or “ethic of reciprocity” – which can be found at the core of many (if not most) faiths and philosophies. But, in truth – to me – this only confirms that such sacred writings have at their hearts definitions of what it is to be ‘good’: a distillation of learned (collective) wisdom and experience (if not our innate altruistic tendencies) that have been encapsulated simply to try and ensure that we all get along.

¶

We all have a tendency to think that the world must conform to our prejudices. The opposite view involves some effort of thought, and most people would die sooner than think – in fact they do so.

– Bertrand Russell: ABC of Relativity

One of the reasons that this hasn’t led to an ideal, peaceful, egalitarian world (yet) – as represented, say, by Gene Roddenberry’s Star Trek utopia – is that some people are born without a capacity for empathy; or have to work harder at developing empathy than others (see here for a meaningful introduction to mirror neurons – especially in relation to autism and theory of mind). And, therefore – even though not everyone accepts that empathy is “a reliable way of doing good” – many (including me) believe it is so key to our existence that it is worth such never-ending hard work; or that it is so crucial to business success, that it can (and should) also be developed corporately – despite the disproportionate number of psychopathic CEOs; and the impression that, to be successful in (modern) government, empathy is actually the last thing you want (which is probably why we’re in such a confounded mess…).

¶

The great majority of men and women, in ordinary times, pass through life without ever contemplating or criticising, as a whole, either their own conditions or those of the world at large. They find themselves born into a certain place in society, and they accept what each day brings forth, without any effort of thought beyond what the immediate present requires. Almost as instinctively as the beasts of the field, they seek the satisfaction of the needs of the moment, without much forethought, and without considering that by sufficient effort the whole conditions of their lives could be changed.

– Bertrand Russell: Proposed Roads to Freedom

Of course, you might find, once your feet are in someone-else’s shoes, that they don’t fit, that what you experience is a deep discomfort, or even pain – a feeling which is brought on by your “own condition”; or, more likely, the shock of a new set of beliefs which are contrary to all you hold dear and true. So how do you then decide which ideology is more legitimate? To whose laws do you refer? Or is it obvious which doctrines are good or bad? (There’s a good reason Bertrand Russell is a famous philosopher, and I am not: although his views on ethics continued to evolve throughout his life.) As a ‘fan’ of both ‘rationalist’ Socrates and ‘sentimentalist’ Hume, I personally agree that “emotion and reason both play critical roles in moral judgment” – but that probably just confirms my own prejudice that both of the two cultures of humanities and sciences are equally valid; and should get together over a pint more frequently.

In silence, an act is an act is an act. Verbalized and discussed, it becomes an ethical problem…

– Aldous Huxley: The Genius And The Goddess

However, in stating this, rather than reaching any sort of conclusion, I seem to have done whatever is the opposite of digging myself into a hole, or painting myself into a corner – opening a can of worms…? – in that I started writing about something particular (and small), and ended up writing about something all-encompassing (and therefore huge, or even infinite). I suppose there is a parallel, though, to be drawn here between those (subjective) rules defined by man, and those (objective) brought about through nature (or even God: should you wish, and have, or believe in, one…) – which I think just about takes me back to where I started.

What do you think…?

The world that I should wish to see is one where emotions are strong but not destructive, and where, because they are acknowledged, they lead to no deception either of oneself or of others. Such a world would include love and friendship and the pursuit of art and knowledge.

– Bertrand Russell: Human Society in Ethics and Politics