Polls, Debates, and Votes

Man-flu is such a curse, and sympathy is of course in short supply.  However after a few short steps on the road to recovery I am hopeful that The Grasshopper may get an outing in a few days.  Until now there has not been the strength to walk to the garage, far less crank the pedals.  The weather has also changed and those fine dry days have been replaced with dreich, wet and windy dreich.  It’s grim outside, just as the first of the daffodils begin to brighten the garden, and get an absolute buffeting at the same time.

So confined to barracks I have been able to get mentally wound up as the election draws ever closer.  The polls are shifting and the first televised debate has been and gone.  The media remain compliant, refusing largely to expose the failings of Elmer.  For open comment I continue to have to rely on Newsnet Scotland, though the CalMerc is not bad at times.

Over at the BBC, political editor Brian Taylor remained utterly silent through two consecutive opinion polls confirming a turning of the tide, and, astonishingly, through the first debate which had been hosted by his opposite numbers at STV.  The BBC continues to have great difficulty in having any comment expressed which is at all critical of the Labour Party, or gives credit to the SNP.  They continue to flog their unionist agenda and are viewed by many as the broadcast arm of Labour in Scotland.  For a publicly funded state broadcaster with a duty of impartiality they remain thoroughly objectionable.

Even Professor John Curtice, the man that BBC continually call upon to explain all things to do with polls and swings, has confirmed he is a Labour man, yet his totally unimpartial opinion continues to be sought, to be aired, and to be used to hide the emerging truth in an attempt to sway voters.

The first debate was truly a disaster for Iain Gray.  He is appalling, and some in Labour seem to be finally realising how bad he really is; too late though to change before 5 May, and he will become a scapegoat.

However the vote on the day will be subject to a backlash against the Westminster coalition.  The vote for the LibDems looks close to collapse, and they have fallen behind the Greens in the latest poll.  The Blue Tories have been a relative irrelevance in Scotland ever since the heyday of Maggie, and Cameron’s cuts will not allow Auntie Bella to rebuild any ground, no matter how well she personally performs at either FMQs or in the debates, though as an outside bet they could work closer with the SNP, depending on the numbers.

Salmond has expressed a preference for another minority government if he cannot get a majority (virtually impossible with a hybrid of FPTP and AMS).  No one is ruling anything out or anything in, with Elmer Fudd even suggesting he could work with Salmond – forgetting that he has voted against absolutely everything for four long years.  After his volte face on council tax, tuition fees and more, it’s surely just a matter of time before Elmer claims to be in favour of minimum pricing (following Labour policy in other parts of the UK).

Sorry Elmer, but a policy of oppose, oppose, and oppose again, especially where you vote against your own budget concessions, just will not wash any longer.  Despite the best efforts of the BBC there is a wider realisation that only one party has the interests of the Scottish people at its heart.  A front bench of Elmer Fudd, Kerr, Baillie and Baker etc are simply not at the races.  They carry neither gravitas nor statesmanship.  Salmond, Swinney, Sturgeon, McAskill, Russell and Co should not be concerned, but they have to fight the media before they even think about the electorate.

The next few weeks are going to be interesting.  A.B.E. – Anyone But Elmer – should be the mantra at least for the regional list vote of all, regardless of preferences in the constituencies, for it is the list members, and the complex method of arriving at them, that will determine which party has the most seats.  A.B.E.

Revolutions

Having just finished reading of the Egyptian revolution of the 1950s I wake to the news that this country has launched a an assualt of 110 tomahawk missiles on Libya.  The world’s peace-makers are making war once again, but at least this one has UN consent, even though the illegalities of regime change may yet turn out to be one of the driving purposes.  We still have the legacies and growing death toll of the last little skirmish, without UN consent and now admitted to have been all about regime change for those taken in by the lies in the run up to the invasion of Iraq.

And so our troops will continue to die, in Iraq, in Afghanistan and now in Libya where they will be felled by the very weapons that Gaddafi’s great buddy Tony Blair sold to him after his very dodgy deal in the desert, whilst the oil rights that BP were then granted would appear to be worth less as war rages on.  At least Scotland can hold her head up having not given credence to the Prisoner Transfer Agreement that was another outcome of Blair’s discussions.

From revolution in Egypt 60 years ago, we now have, right across North Africa, trouble fomenting in Egypt, Tunisia, Libya, Bahrein and beyond, with the great powder keg of Israel, Palestine and Lebanon, just a short missile blast away.  And at the other side of the world we have the repercussions of natural disasters with earthquakes in New Zealand and Japan, the latter amplified by resultant tsunami, and the inevitable near calamity in nuclear power stations.  On the radio yesterday great debates about whether politicians would be happy to have their own children and grandchildren educated within 10 miles of a nuclear power station, even outwith earthquake zones.  Not surprisingly the proximity of nuclear weapons bases did not come into the debate, not being a concern of the elected members of the south east, those who shipped all the weapons off to the Clyde.

Will the replacement of Trident take on more importance in the impending Scottish elections, i wonder.  The unionist parties seem to be trying to hijack their representatives north of the border, trying to view Scotland as a route back to power in Westminster.  We are not electing for Westminster and none of these leaders have a say in the Scottish parliament or even a vote in electing the members thereof.  Send them homewards I say.

Also sent homewards yesterday were the Grand Slam champions elect, at the hands of the Irish, just like their cricket team before them.  O’Driscoll’s troops were magnificant in Dublin and the result was never in any doubt.  It was worth it just to see wee John Inverdale squirming after weeks of Grand Slam grandstanding.  These people will never understand how or why they are so widely despised throughout the world of sport; that they do not have a divine right to every trophy on offer; and that England Expects is simply a mantra for the others, whether from Australia, from Ireland, or even from little Scotland.

On the Bedside Table, the princesses diairies turned out to be a disappointment.  Interesting times in terms of the overthrow of a Royal Family which had only recently evolved from the Ottoman Empire, one embroiled in the aftermath of world wars where they sided with the axis troops, and one where the British Empire was not without influence.  However, not enough on the political shenanigans, of the making and breaking of a country, and too much of their dalliances with the other elite classes across Europe and beyond.  Without any juicy tittle tattle the trials and tribulations of society debutantes and their mingling on the international tennis circuit, was really just a bit of fluff, a remnant from days well gone.

Next up I fancy a return to harsher times, perhaps to the Caucasus with George Kennan in the late 19th century, or possibly to those returning from the Soviet gulags post Kruschev, or even the troubled lands of Afghanistan over the last 50 years.

There will be no other revolutions in these parts today, The Grasshopper remaining firmly garaged on this dreich and damp windswept day.  It has now been cleaned and lubricated but I think the weary legs can rest up today.

Of Reading, and of Writing

Having just traipsed the jungle tracks and villages of Sierra Leone and Liberia, with a wee touch of Guinea, in the company of Tim Butcher as he followed the trail of Graham Greene, my next journey took me just along the West African coast to what is now Benin.  Bruce Chatwin carved a tale from the days of slavery and its abolishment, mingling the mulattos from Dahomey, as it then was, through ancestry derived from the local negroes and the Brazilians from Bahia, as the trade linked the two continents.  Chatwin was a genius and every reading emphasises the tragedy of his early death.

Next up I remain on the Dark Continent, bearing in mind all the troubles currently rampaging along the Mediteranean coast and beyond.  The Diairies of an Egyptian Princess, by Nevine Abbas Halim, will take me back to previous troubles flowing with the Nile.  Halim was born in 1930, and had to leave her home country in 1961.  Egyptian history is a mystery to me, and so it should prove to be an interesting read.  A mention is due of my friends at Eland who made a limited number of this book available in the UK, following publication in 2009.  In these days of the e-reader the role of the independent publisher remains vital, though deeply threatened.

Writing has brought somewhat less in the way of joy.  This week I have seen the prizewinners from the competition run by the British Guild of Travel Writers.  It is no great surprise to finf my name absent, or not to have received a call to attend the ceremony, but it is a disappointment.  My trip to Gdansk had been with this article in mind, and I had real hopes of putting together an article tailored for the Portrait of a City slot in the world’s best travel magazine, Traveller, from the Wexas club. 

So it was not to be, though my effort can be found through the Writing pages on this blog, now that I am free from competition rules to publish elsewhere.  This outlet will have to do, though it remains private at the time of writing.  And so clearly I must do better.  The theme for the annual Bradt competiton should be released early this month, and that is usually a real challenge.  Having been commended in 2010, after a long-listing in 2008, perhaps I can again improve this time round, if the theme is right for me.

The day dawns damp and dreich and hopes of a comfortable run on the bike are receding.  Whilst the wind remains a stranger even a wet cycle is not unattractive, but the clouds seem to be persisting in shedding their load for the moment.  We shall see.  Time now to catch up on developments amongst our politicians as the election moves into the 50 day countdown.  How many ludicrous u-turns will Labour have made this week, deciding now that the various policies which they have continually opposed may now be vital in the race for votes.  They become ever more ridiculous, and that should be highlighted in the penultimate FMQs of this parliament.  Tune in live at 12.00.

Spring is in the Air

The fields are filling with the tempatations of mint suace, rosemary, or harissa spices; whichever way you prefer your lamb.  The long cold winter may be behind us, though the incessant snow yesterday, leaving a crisp white blanket this morning, triggers doubts, and thoughts of climate change.

By midday a warming sun had burned off the early mist and was raising thermals from the drying tarmac, and the birdsong as the siskins battled with the chaffinches at the feeders, was accompanied by a percussions of snow melt as branches and gutters began to shed their load.  Under a cloudless sky on a rare day spared any intrusion from the wind, neither puff nor breath, not even a gust, The Grasshopper was calling; no excuses.  It was a day made for cycling.

And so we set out, one well oiled and energetic, the other creaky and rusting; bike and rider in perfect harmony.  We had an early stop, a rare chance to speak with The Neighbours, not much more than a mile along the road, afore sweat appeared on the brow.  What a delight.  To her close confidants she will always be Mary, some may remember Florence, but to most it is Mrs, and will ever be thus, a born thespian.  We were joined by John, and I knew him to be a fellow bibliophile.  I could have returned home happy on the strength of our blether, but pressed on. 

The early break set the tone for the ride for it was to prove to be a real stop-start affair, and not just at the usual places where the gradient masters the legs and an excuse for a gargle and a rest takes the pain out of the hills.  Despite a splashing from a passing car, thanks for that Anne Marie, I ventured on.  On the long downhill stretch which marks the start of the homeward leg and the end of the worst of the hills, I enjoyed the sun on my face, drying the sweat before it ran into the eyes, and listened to sounds of the countryside.  A buzzard lifted slowly from a telegraph pole, a hidden dog barked, chickens chooked.  Slowly I worked through the gears, free-wheeeling at the fastest stretch, only to come to a grinding halt, foot trapped, pedals refusing to turn.

These things always happen when going at a pace, when the risk of a spill is at its heighest, and when the walk home is at its longest.  I do not usually take my mobile when cycling, valuing the escape from the rest of the world.  I don’t know why I took it today, sixth sense perhaps, but it allowed me to get advice, get aboard again, and return home by pedal power.  As always I am indebted to Ben at Kinetics, who has the patience of a saint as he deals with idiots bereft of any mechanical sense.

It is a day to draw on long deep breaths, to enjoy the now, and to forget the rest.

The Ides of March

Just as we begin to look forward to the hint of a daffodil’s trumpet appearing soon, so the snow returns, shepherded on by a biting wind.  The bike remains garaged for a week.  The football doesn’t even get close to a pitch inspection.  Then the world gets brighter again, amongst deep, deep gloom

The earthquake and tsunami in Japan are horrific and the scenes we are witnessing with each passing day make other issues so irrelevant.  At the moment it remains possible that there could be nuclear meltdown with no less than three power stations in the earthquake zone in trouble.  I am left wondering whether the prevailing winds will carry any leaked radiation eastwards, to the west coast of America, or west to the billions in China, remembering Chernobyl with a fall out over Scotland.  But more importantly why are nuclear plants even built in earthquake zones at all?  Why do we not think of our children ahead of our profits?

And thinking of our children brings me on to the SNP conference which, thankfully, has been given some reasonable coverage from our friends at the BBC.  (Reasonable that is until they go completely overboard and into full luvvie mode for the Labour shindig next week.)  I’m thinking I should have been there; would like to have the heard the First Minsiter’s speech live in the hall.  Labour are for turning aplenty.  Balls was up last week, and balls up has been the hallmark of Elmer’s leadership.  Now they are in favour of freezing the council tax, after voting against such a move for four years, and doing so as recently as last month.  Ditto the proposed embargo on univeristy fees.  No doubt they’ll now come up with a policy on minimum pricing, or supermarket levies.  Methinks London is getting worried and Elmer has had his ear tugged.  Meantime stories continue to prevail about corruption, sleaze and other wrongdoings, either from councillors discussung rape, MPs intervening in planning for their developer friends, contracts from city councils, and a whole host of other unsavoury tales, most of which are completely ignored by our MSM.  My goodness even Wikipedia have had to wrap labour’s knuckles for removing comments damaging to The Party from their site.  How low can this mob stoop?  They are, as we are not allowed to say about our be-knighted accountant friend, a wunch of bankers.  It is time for Scotland to vote for her children, not for our past.

The gloom brightened on the rugby field, with a stirring victory over France by a fighting Italian side in the battle of the best anthems.  Down at Twickers we had another glorious defeat in the battle of the dirges, managing to score a try, succumbing to some questionable decision making, (but not as bad as the one that sealed the Irish fate in Wales), in a heads up high performance that leaves us relying on our celtic cousins in Dublin next week to prevent the horrors of a Grand Slam.

Also on the brighter side is my enjoyment of Tim Butcher’s fine book on his trip through Sierra Leone and Liberia.  This has sent me to the search engines for the works by both Graham and Barbara Greene from their journey in the region, sans maps, in 1935.  Graham’s first print was withdrawn in the light of litigation threats and later editions were amended.  The first therefore is of some value, and rare, but can be had for £5,000 in one instance.  I’m delighted to have tracked down a copy for only two figures (ah the value of a dustwrapper), and also a copy of Barbara’s even rarer tome.  Hopefully both will arrive this week, cheering me up on the literary front after a very disappointing breakdown with a leading online retailer left a nasty taste in the customer service.

In the time to put these thoughts onto the page the ground has been whitened once again; the sky is leaden.  But their are lambs appearing in the fields, the clocks change in a  fortnight, and this week we have the first quiz night for the parents of the school community.  It’s not all doom and gloom, if you forget that Labour exist for just a moment.  And over at the Cricker World Cup there has been a home win for Bangladesh, matching Ireland’s fantastic victory over the founders of the sport, and giving a real possibility that Straus’ band of internationalists not good enough to play for their own countries fail to get Engerlund through to the next stage.

This Week’s Reading

George Kennan’s trek through the frozen wastes of the Siberian tundra in 1866 is now complete and as a change of scene I have moved to the nerve-jangling jungle in post-war, despot ridden West Africa.  For now I am Chasing the Devil with Tim Butcher; plotting a course on the route of Graham Greene’s Journey Without Maps through Sierra Leone and Liberia in the aftermath of the civil war and the overthrow of Charles Taylor.  It promises to be gripping stuff.

That will lead me on to Bruce Chatwin, and the one book of his which I have yet to read.  The Viceroy of Ouidah completed the collection and it now sits enticingly on the bedside table, an apt follow up to Butcher’s journey in the lands of slavery and smuggling.  There might be some late night reading this week.

The blood is up!

Filled with angst today, and not really related to the howling gale blowing outside and the promise of imminent rain and snow, which are keeping these feeble legs from even thinking about taking The Grasshopper for a hurl.

No, it’s deeper than that.  The local community is important, especially in this tiny rural community.  With a primary school serving the needs of 21 families in educating 34 children, I like to do my small bit and try and add value to the Parent Council, with a little time, a few ideas, and the occasional facility.  It’s all to try and help a terrific little school provide the best for our children with very limited resources, and in doing our bit to raise a little extra cash for the school to spend in improving their facilities.

On the horns of a dilemma I’m almost certain to take a back seat, disagreeing as I do with proposal to host a street party for the forthcoming Royal Wedding – the one of the man that our Prime Minister described, not two weeks ago, as the Future King of England!  This I think is just too far removed from the education of our children; if it is of intrest at all it is something which more properly falls within the remit of the Community Council or other local groups, even the church or the Rural.  But not our school.  It is not a topic I have heard raised at any time in all my years in the area, for any number of such events, until it was raised last night by a settler from the south.  I am ever hopeful that our children will be better served in history lessons than previous generations.  Too many of us were denied any history of Scotland and force fed trivia about English kings, queens and battles.  Our own proud history has been suppressed, wrongly.

Of course this wedding takes place less than a week before the elections for our parliament in Scotland, and the thought of endless hours of media coverage of the event, of endless waving of union flags, is not what is needed in the election battle against combined unionists as Scotland tries to regain her political feet.  More importantly it is not an issue for the school and I resent any monies gathered for the school being wasted on such fluff.

The community is also in turmoil for the younger weans.  We have a tiny volunteer toddler group, giving two hours per week for the local children and their parents to interact in the church hall.  Most of the current crop are due to step up to primary school in the autumn, and few will be left, until the next batch of births or new families moving into the area.  We hear that two of our members wish to withdraw, preferring to do other things for those two hours.  This will leave only another two or three youngsters and thus there is a serious risk of the group folding and not being available for generations to come.  I think these two families have moral obligations to do their bit to keep the facility viable, so that others in the future can enjoy all that their children have enjoyed.  Being such a tiny community a group like this is such a vital cog in the wheel, and it would be a real shame were it to be allowed to wither.

The real quandary is in how to deal with these matters.  Each has it’s own problems.  Neither is easily resolved.

One brighter note, which has seriously cheered up The Genealogist, is news that the original school log books have been found.  We had assumed that the school dated to 1889, as witnessed by the old school  badge and an inscription on the wall of the building.  However The Genealogist had trawled records which suggested that 1874 was the start of it all, though the log books were missing from the archives.  They’ve turned up, and we might just get to make a copy before they are returned to their rightful place.  Another little piece of local history may be put right, and records preserved for the future.

But that wedding really rankles, not here, not now, and not in my name.

In Bangalore, to be sure

The blood of my Irish ancestors is coursing through the veins today, will the guid Scots bluid clots.  Having listened to the ball-by-ball commentary live on the radio, then viewed the paltry 30 minutes of highlights afforded us by the BBC last night, the joys of the Irish defeat of the English, in the Cricket World Cup, cannot pass without comment.

Kevin O’Brien hammered the English attack for the fastest 100 ever in the World Cup, off only 50 balls (22 of which he didn’t score off); the team had the highest succesful run chase ever in the World Cup, surpassing England’s total of 328 with 5 balls to spare.  It was gripping stuff, and the best pictures are definitely on radio, where we can share the pain of the commentators and summarisers who turned up with their usual rose tinted glasses in true ‘England Expects’ mode, Geoffrey Boycott as usual and honourable and truthful exception.

I think the emerald green shirt, a relic from the previous World Cup four years ago when the Irish again inspired, will get a winter airing today, as I raise thanks to the McEvoys.  The quest for their roots must resume.

The day dawns under a mist with the late frosts of the previous night slowly receding.  It is a still day and The Grasshopper should get a chance to punish those legs later this morning.  For now it is time to prepare The Urchins for their day ahead, and to be sure they are ready for the school bus.  Meantime the trees are alive with birdsong; crocuses are almsot in bloom; and the daffodils are reaching higher with every passing day.  Springs draws inexorably closer as the long winter fades into memory.

And on the Bedside Table

……… now is George Kennan’s Tent Life in Siberia.  I’ll spare you the rest of the title.  This is one of the books referred to by Ian Frazier and which became an immediate ‘must buy’.  It arrived very quickly, one of the benefits of Print on Demand, for out of royalty works.  Originally published in 1870 this looks to be an utter joy.  Kennan’s style reminds me greatly of Eric Newby in these early chapters.  With huge anticipation of the adventures ahead it is quite possible that I may find myself searching for a ‘first’ for the collection.

Must review the Newby catalogue, and even consider sourcing the missing volumes to aim eventually for the full set.  He was very productive though……..