Soccer Semantics

So, England and Chelsea captain John Terry will face criminal charges relating to alleged racist comments to QPR’s Anton Ferdinand, the Crown Prosecution service have confirmed. Luis Suarez, the Uruguayan striker currently plying his trade for Liverpool FC, has been banned for eight matches and fined £40,000 for using what has been deemed a racial slur during a clash with Man Utd defender Patrice Evra. The beautiful game shows its ugly side again. 

Whilst the Suarez incident was apparently not overheard by other players or match officials, Terry’s alleged misconduct was viewed by millions on YouTube. Interestingly, neither has denied using racially charged language. Terry claims his comments have been taken out of context, that he was actually repeating something that Ferdinand had accused him of saying, by way of denial. Suarez’ defence is more of a cultural clarification. He freely admits calling Evra a “negro”, but says that in his native Uruguay it is not a derogatory term.  The Oxford Dictionary defines a Negro as “a member of the black or dark-skinned group of human populations…” So far so good, but it goes on to say that the term is now “often considered offensive”. No kidding. As Suarez earns £80,000 a week, one imagines he has a highly impressive book collection, but not yet a dictionary, it would seem.

The FA has spent time, money and celebrity endorsements aplenty combating discrimination. Racism’s a stain that works into the fabric of a society, untreated it becomes commonplace, and therefore invisible. Although unseen, it is felt, often silently borne. On the flipside of course, lies the potential to fabricate a situation for one’s own ends. And somewhere in the middle of all that is the truth, if you can find it.

In football, as in politics, there is the tendency to react even to moral issues along party lines. The blue team’s accused, the red team bays for blood, and both wait to see how many headline inches will be thrown at the problem before it blows over or blows up. Sadly, Chelsea manager Andre Villas-Boas has promised to stand by his captain “whatever the outcome”. Liverpool take a similar stance over Suarez. Assumption of innocence until guilt is proven underlines our humanity, but stoical support of an individual in the face of acknowledged prejudicial behaviour is tantamount to endorsement of the prejudice itself. But economics trumps ethics every time. The club is a business, the player’s an asset, the rest is irrelevant. Without prejudging the eventual outcome for the players involved, if, as a society, we can’t hold China to account over human rights abuses because we want cheap fridges, how seriously will we really sanction these feral offerings from our footballers?  

Vote or Veto?

David Cameron may have slipped off a couple of continental Christmas card lists this week. But that’s not bad, it saves trees. He also salvaged the festive feel good factor with Eurosceptic backbenchers, still grumbling into their gin after the EU membership referendum debacle.

Essentially, the Prime Minister used his veto to scupper an otherwise unanimous decision over European treaty reform, aimed (albeit with debatable accuracy) at safeguarding the beleaguered Euro. Not the only leader to voice concerns, David Cameron was, however, the sole signatory out of a potential 27, not to sign up. Boldly putting our money where his mouth is, perhaps, or finding both feet already there?

Very few on this island would really want financial edicts from Brussels. The euro-club has whimsical membership rules, and with some party-goers more solvent than others, it’s likely the bar bill would always be split, regardless of who had been the most thirsty. Worse still, some at the table don’t have a bean, so the major bean counters will either have to compensate, or capitulate. In that instance, if the Euro project falls apart, Cameron’s uncompromising stance will be vindicated. If the Eurozone weathers the storm, however, the bedraggled survivors, and the UKs main trading partners, may well remember who was unwilling to share their wellies when the waters were rising.

What seems curious about the Prime Minister’s mercy mission to protect the City is his timing. Insiders say he waited until the eleventh hour before he flopped his list of demands on the table, allowing virtually no chance of a diplomatic outcome. A congratulatory claret quaffing session at Chequers with his backbenchers was already booked, which seems a trifle previous, as most leaders will have cleared their diaries for a full weekend of well-meaning waffle. Not our David. He said he would play, but only if he could pick the ref, choose the ball, move the goalposts, and their mums had to wash the kit. No surprise then that he was in a taxi by 5am, and with a festively frosty Angel Merkel to keep him company… Oh, to have been the driver.

The headlines heralded a differing domestic reaction, loosely split on party lines, but also founded on how diluted you like your British Bulldog spirit. No man is an island, but this week one man represented ours, and burnt some pretty big bridges. Time will tell if we needed them.

A major sour taste in Cameron’s mouth was the proposed financial transaction tax, and with good reason, few enjoy chipping in for a meal they have little chance of eating. We know. Many of us have not so far relished the increase in VAT, and look set to derive less pleasure still from the austerity buffet served up to pay down the deficit resulting from the banking crisis, and successive governments failure to regulate the financial services industry.

The Prime Minister was committed to protecting the City, granted, it contributes around 10% of the UK tax income. Parents also want to protect their children, but that doesn’t mean giving them the car keys. Of course, they might say if you don’t let them play with power tools on the motorway they’ll move to Hong Kong. But that assumes that their wives’ happiness, kids’ education, and quality of life as they know it, is entirely up for sale for a slightly better percentage.  If that were so, I wouldn’t trust them with the cars keys at any age.

Reading the Riots

Protestors on the streets of Syria risk death daily in search of revolution, those in the square in Egypt are disillusioned with theirs, while the people now taking to the streets of Moscow can’t remember the Russian revolution, but are feeling increasingly like the ones who started it. By contrast, those responsible for the riots across UK towns and cities in August already had freedom and democracy, didn’t know what to do with it, so just nicked trainers.  

Reading the Riots is the recently released investigation into the summer disorder by the London School of Economics and the Guardian newspaper. They interviewed 270 out of an estimated 15,000 rioters, a process that revealed an undercurrent of resentment and antipathy towards the police. Trolling through the 1.3 million words generated from first-hand accounts of those involved in the unrest, researchers found that stop and search practices were one obvious blot on the report card. However, this policy was seen by most as just one symptom of a larger epidemic of police negativity towards young people, and a failure to engage with communities. Sir Hugh Orde, the head of the Association of Chief Police Officers acknowledged that there were “frictions”. Yup, and more than a serving of Savlon will sooth, it would seem.

One might imagine that faced with a pimpled army of hormone high hooligans, the last instinct of anyone juggling with a full set of balls would be to hug a hoodie. But, unless we crack open this particular can of worms to see what makes them wriggle, they’re liable to ruin the lawn again.

Writing in the Guardian this week, the Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams questioned whether, with hard times ahead, “we have the energy to invest what’s needed in family and neighbourhood and school to rescue those who think they have nothing to lose.” He has a point. However, alongside those politicians seduced into dismissing it all as mindless criminality, thereby absolving themselves of any culpability for the perceived plight of the those with no prospects, it speaks of where we have evolved to, that there are those looking beyond the looting, asking why.

One imagines that after the dust has settled, Vladimir Putin too will sit down, cross-legged on his favourite bean bag, a frothy flagon of hot chocolate in hand, and enquire of his fellow Muscovites what could possibly have furrowed their brows…

Just inquiring...

Just Inquiring…

If you cannot personally attend the Leveson Inquiry into press ethics due to work commitments, an absence of appropriate footwear, or indeed a complete lack of interest, you could always catch up with the latest revelations into journalistic skulldugerry in the newspapers. After all, you can be certain of honest and unbiased reporting, because the hacks follow a Code of Practice, denoting ethical standards. In the unlikely event that these standards slip, you could always take the matter up with the Press Complaints Commission, which is a voluntary regulatory body with no legal powers. The PCC has been widely criticised for its lack of action over the phone hacking scandal, the central focus of the Leveson Inquiry. The Press Complaints Commission was set up in the 1990s, replacing the Press Council, which was kicked into the long grass because it was ineffective. Can anybody spot a pattern developing? If I were a betting man, I’d put my tenner on the PCC being forced into early retirement to be replaced with another voluntary regulatory body with no legal powers, and a rather familiar tendency towards abject failure. But that, of course, would be to unfairly pre-judge the outcome.

Set up by the Prime Minister, the inquiry is looking into press practise and ethics, and will make recommendations on future regulation of the industry. Lord Leveson will particularly focus on the “relationship of the press with the public, police and politicians.” In addition, the police investigation into phone hacking, Operation Weeting, is ongoing.

Of course, running the inquiry concurrent with the criminal investigation into phone hacking, and the like, allows alleged victims to put largely unchallenged accusations into the public domain, which one could argue would unfairly prejudice a potential trial. On the flip side of that, editors have been routinely guilty of character assassination over the years. If and when the facts turn out to be fiction, the paper’s slapped with a fine and an apology’s buried on page seven, but the stain on the victim’s public image is not always one that will wash out at 40 degrees. The pen is mightier than the sword, and some are now finding out that their biros cut both ways.

Like the Iraq War Inquiry, this one looks likely to cost as much and take as long as building the Millenium Dome, and may be just as full of hot air. However, it is largely engaging. Comedian Steve Coogan gave evidence last week. Commenting on the balance between publicity and intrusion, he said he “never entered a Faustian pact with the press”, whereas singer Charlotte Church claimed to have been offered just that. When asked to sing at Rupert Murdoch’s wedding, she was offered £100,000, or no fee, but a guarantee of good press. She didn’t take the money, and Murdoch denies the offer even existed. In the murky business of Faustian pacts, it seems if you make a deal with the devil you had better get a receipt. 

Recoil from the Arab Spring

I’m not aware of an official gestation period for human disenchantment, but nine months after the Egyptian revolution, the crowds are back in Tahrir Square calling for change. The unrest of early 2011 gave birth to what seemed on the surface a highly efficient uprising. From the initial protests, through the ‘day of rage’ on January 25^th, the momentum for social and political reform gathered pace until the resignation of President Hosni Mubarak, under six weeks later on February 11^th. Fast work, but not thorough, it would seem. The ruling military powers who undertook to hold the reigns, temporarily, while the dust settled and the wheels of democracy began turning, are still in control. The dust has cleared and the picture looks very much as it did last year, only the cast has changed.   

Amnesty International have now published a report indicating that the Supreme Council of Armed Forces (SCAF) have not only failed to deliver on promises of reform, but many of the human rights abuses that characterised the previous regime have continued, escalating in some cases. Far from a measured devolvement of military powers, the remit of emergency law imposed under Mubarak has effectively been extended, complete with military courts and brutal treatment of dissenting voices. Amnesty say “the tradition of repressive rule” has continued. SCAF admit that 12,000 civilians have been dealt their brand of military justice, 13 of them sentenced to death. Reports of torture in captivity abound, in tandem with failure to investigate reported abuse.

In the face of renewed protest and the glare of the international media spotlight, Field Marshal Tantawi, head honcho in uniform, has promised an accelerated path to democratic rule, simultaneously accepting the offered resignations of the entire cabinet, whilst failing to tender his own. Those tasting tear gas in the side streets of Cairo have reason to doubt his intentions. It comes as no real surprise of course that after the fat cat gets toppled, the stand-in finds he likes the taste of cream too, we’ve all read Animal Farm. The army have been effectively running the show all along, maintaining the status quo by fair means or foul. They will no doubt have assumed that revolution meant a new figurehead to the ship, but the crew keep rowing. But the growing thousands in the streets want democracy. The notion that the army no longer run the show, but carry out the stage directions of a producer elected by the audience, may be a pill they won’t swallow without someone holding their noses. And you would have to reach over a gun to do that.

Septic Blatter

Sepp Blatter may have now taken top spot on the list of figures least likely to get a job with the United Nations. Just above the Duke of Edinburgh. The President of FIFA, football’s world governing body, says there is no racism in the game, and that if words were said in the heat of battle, the affected party should say it is just a game and shake hands afterwards. Never before in the history of kicking stuff has someone so highly ranked said something so highly rank. Unless you count Blatter’s other blurtings on homosexuality and female footballers of course. He’s a joke, the topic isn’t. The FA currently has two alleged cases of racism in football to investigate, while the Kick It Out campaign is the latest initiative set up to tackle the issue.  

It comes in the week that the Stephen Lawrence murder trial begins at the Old Bailey. 18 years after the black teenager was racially abused then attacked by a gang of young white men, his parents are still hoping for the justice that has so far eluded them. In the time from crime to culpability the world has changed, but not everyone in it.

At the time of Stephen Lawrence’s death, in mid 1993, 10.6% of the UK population was unemployed. To put that into context, figures out this week put October’s rate at 8.3%, a 15 year high in itself. Then, as now, Britain was staring down the barrel of a barren balance sheet and folks were feeling the pinch. When the American stock exchange collapsed in 1929, the ensuing economic depression saw the German chancellor embark on a programme of cuts in government spending, wages and benefits. Stop me when this sounds familiar. In the ensuing tide of national bitterness arose one Adolf Hitler. His shiny brand of nationalism offered something to cheer for, and his racial scapegoats offered someone to blame, the rest is history.

Prejudice is the last refuge of the disempowered. When the biscuit tin gets bare, some eyes will always scrutinise with whom they have been sharing the Bourbon Creams. Famine will find out the cannibals, while most of us starve politely. Surely the acid test of any truly civilised society is whether the strong protect the rest, or feed off them. And these are indeed testing times.

Item Clubbing

 The Ernst and Young Item club is not the kind of club where you might find a glitter ball, and this week it is definitely not running a happy hour. The economic forecasting body does, however, have something of a crystal ball, through which they have cut their predictions for UK growth, thinking output will rise by just 0.9% this year, and by 1.5% by 2012. They base their assertions on the Treasury’s own model of the economy, which to all intents and purposes could do with a lot more glue.

The downgrade is based upon the seemingly inevitable ejection of Greece from the back door of the Euro club, the bouncers calling a cab for Ireland and Portugal too. It is felt that the current crisis in the Euro-zone could push Britain’s gross domestic product down to levels below those reached in the recession of 2008/2009. So basically, things are bad, and likely to be worse than the last time they told us things were bad.

The G20 leaders met in Cannes over the weekend, nice work if you can get it, but failed again to agree a comprehensive plan to effectively underwrite the single currency. A trillion Euro rescue package might have allayed fears, had France and Germany been able to say how it would be funded. Angela Merkel was left looking for change down the back of the sofa, and Carla Bruni will be sent out busking.

David Cameron is looking increasingly frustrated with his counterparts from mainland Europe. Not technically part of the team of course, he was heckling from the G20 sidelines, like a Sunday league football Dad this weekend. He said “the world can’t wait for the Eurozone to go through endless questions and changes.” He has a point. The combined might of the collected ministerial grey matter on offer in Cannes sadly went home with still more questions than answers, but change is long overdue. One modification that might help however is a new hand on the tiller in Italy. Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi has finally stated that he will resign after austerity measures are passed to bolster the country’s beleaguered balance sheet. Not before time. He has been gripping so tight to his prime position I’d be surprised if he can still feel his fingers.

 So, Greece may be the first to get the Drachmas out of the attic, will the Lira and the Punt be dusted down thereafter? Of course, if Greece’s ID had been properly checked before they had time to set up a bar tab, then their neighbours might not have been left paying it. You can get into trouble for getting a tax disc under false pretences, what is the fine for an entire financial system? Eyes will roll, but let’s face it, heads probably won’t.

Cathedral City

The Occupy London movement yesterday performed a loosely choreographed mass dance routine to Michael Jackson’s Thriller, in tattered suits and zombie make-up, holding a banner saying “Dancing on the grave of capitalism”. That’ll show the bankers. Almost simultaneously, the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, the Right Reverend Graeme Knowles, resigned from his post, saying that he felt his position had become untenable, and a fresh approach was needed, “ to the complex and vital questions facing St Paul’s.” On the contrary, acknowledging that you might be more a part of the crisis than the cure, is quite the freshest approach in years. Our leaders have made us more accustomed to the last-one-to-realise-I’m-rubbish style of management.  Even the best intentioned can eventually evolve from healer to heal, but all too often they can’t see the writing on the wall until they’re being pushed off it.

Rev Knowles is the next ecclesiastical casualty, after Giles Fraser, the Canon Chancellor quit. He was concerned that any potential eviction of the anti-capitalist camp would amount to “violence in the name of the Church”. His departure was essentially in protest at the prospect of legal action. As Dale Farm displayed, such actions are often elongated, expensive, and exceedingly messy.

In all the comings and goings between protester and Protestant, the bankers who supposedly triggered this outpouring of outrage have been barely mentioned. While the great and the good have been falling on their swords, the City seems to have escaped even a scratch. Again, some would say. Whilst many, large sections of the Church of England included, have sympathy for the protesters’ principles, there is less, perhaps, for their practices. It feels a bit like fleas declaring war on the cat they live on, and may be just as likely to succeed.

If the thermal imaging cameras are to be believed, then many of campers creep home for some comfort of an evening. One suspects that if the TV cameras went home as well, then the campaigners might not creep back for breakfast. But if they are in residence in the early hours as well, then surely nature will effect an eviction of her own. If you really want Glastonbury out of your garden, just be patient. St Paul’s might have saved a few bob, and the odd job, just waiting for winter.

For now, an uneasy impasse exists. In amongst the publicity stunts and sound bites, one question I have heard from the clerics, the commentators and the canvas dwellers themselves, is “what would Jesus do?”  Good point. You would hope that someone running a cathedral might have asked him.

Talking Shop

I don’t know much about boxing. However, I’m willing to bet if you had put Vladimir Klitschko up against David Haye for the unified world titles, and told him he couldn’t punch anyone, but must restrict his assaults to insightful witticisms and maybe some unusually ferocious mime, then the “Haymaker” might still have a belt that’s too big to fit through his belt loops. On the other hand, just winning one round with those odds against you would feel like a moral victory. But surely the result gives power to nobody’s elbow, if one person’s hands are tied. 

In the 1975 referendum on Britain’s continued membership of the European Economic Community, Harold Wilson allowed his ministers to vote with their consciences. In this weeks vote on a referendum on the European Union, David Cameron was not so generous.

 The debate was triggered by the government’s e-petitions scheme, by which any petition of 100,000 signatures will trigger a Commons debate. Democracy at it’s best, you might say. But, the vote carried a three line whip, so you have to do what you’re told, or sit on the naughty step at playtime. And it will be a busy step. 81 Conservative MPs defied their orders. Wit and mime were never going to win this day, but a round on points to the rebels, perhaps.

The vote went against a referendum, 483-111, but given the alleged strong arm tactics of the whips, definitely more than five strokes in the last furlong, it was always a foregone conclusion. This left many MPs squeezed from both sides, under pressure as they were from constituency associations over the European issue. Some of the great disgruntled in the Tory trenches might quietly favour diverting NHS funding into making the Channel a bit wider instead, but a referendum would at least be a chance to have your say.

So, no referendum, but cheer up voting fans, we still have the X Factor. With so much control being lost to Brussels, the bank manager, or down the back of the sofa, at least on Saturday night, armed with little more relevant ability that the possession of a telephone, we can make or break the careers of tomorrows stars of light entertainment. In an uncertain world, when faced with rising unemployment, the rising cost of living, and rising in the dark till spring, it is strangely reassuring. We may no longer be the masters of our own destiny, but for a couple of hours a week, we can be masters of someone else’s. The universal balance is restored.

 

Freedom of Speech

As Liam Fox limps to the back benches, reluctantly relieved of his ministerial majesty, and fragrant protestors shackle themselves to scaffolding in Essex, from which they will be forcibly liberated, one young man in Israel is learning to cope with freedom.

On Tuesday, Gilad Shalit felt the sun on his face for the first time in five years, having been released from solitary confinement at the hands of Hamas, a Palestinian Islamist organisation. He was captured as a young Israeli soldier in 2006, and his freedom forms part of an historic prisoner exchange. Israel has released 477 Palestinians, with a further 550 to follow.

Now, I’m better with words than numbers, but I make it a ratio of 1:1027. Blackmail, bargain, or a price worth paying?  Mr Spock declared that “the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few”, but Monty Python taught us that “every sperm is sacred”, so now where do we stand?

We can be certain that the release of Gilad Shalit marks the removal of a potent diplomatic stumbling block to peace talks, but whether it will herald a new thaw in frosty Middle East manners is an entirely different matter. The deal was done between Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, and Hamas, who have controlled the Gaza Strip since 2007, that stamps on the size 10s of President Mahmoud Abbas, the leader of rivals Fatah, who control the West Bank. It’s a love triangle without much love, and with the interdependent trade and security concerns of other states tacked on, it isn’t even a triangle. That’s enough to elicit a foreign minister’s migraine, without even tackling the tricky topics of Jewish settlements, the blockade of Gaza, suicide bombers, and Tony Blair’s perma-tan.  As Middle East Peace Envoy he must be pulling his expensive hair out, hoping they all shake hands and smile for the cameras before he loses the one job even Gordon the Grumpy wouldn’t grab from under him. 

In all the political posturing and celebratory sabre-rattling, what struck me most was the humility of the man in the middle. Gilad Shalit was on national service when abducted, forcibly detained on a mandatory mission. In neither situation did he have any choice. Among his first acts of freedom was the choice to resist partisan rhetoric. He said he hoped his release would lead to peace between the two peoples, and that he would be happy for the remaining Palestinians held in Israeli prisons to be allowed to return to their families too. The man with arguably the most reason to denounce the talkers and terrorists on both sides said instead; “I hope this deal will lead to peace between the Palestinians and Israelis and that it will support co-operation between both sides.” I’ll drink to that.

Mates Rates

I am surely not the only one to have tried to “friend” Liam Fox on Facebook this week. I’m not sure my DIY skills are up to fulfilling a major defence contract, but imagine the duty free potential! Downing Street have said that the Defence Secretary has made “serious mistakes” in his dealings with friend and best man Adam Werritty, who accompanied him on  22 occasions to Ministry of Defence secure headquarters meetings, and bravely risked sun burn on at least 18 overseas meetings with his former flat-mate. I remember being confused about girls who always went to the loo together, but this is possibly more alarming, and potentially less to do with sharing lip gloss. Now, I must admit to once accompanying a mate on his paper round. But the trip was not state funded, mattered little to national security, and was unlikely to provide me with access to lucrative business opportunities. Although, in the interests of transparency, I should declare that a small bag of lemon bon-bons and a sherbert dib-dab changed hands.

It seems unlikely that Liam Fox benefitted financially from stashing Mr Werritty in his hand luggage, but the same may not necessarily be true the other way around. If the inquiry were to find that the self proclaimed adviser to the Defence Secretary was profiting, the interest has not been declared, and the waters might look a little murky. Now, the great and the good have given Dr Fox their full support, but the footage from the Commons did not show if any had their fingers crossed. On a quiet news week, his goose might be in the microwave, but if the feeding frenzy settles elsewhere, the Fox-hunt might be off. Of course, if it turns out that Mr Werritty was jumping the ministerial gravy train, using a well-placed pal as a mobile job centre, then, as all good friends should, he may soon need to return the favour.

It may fall out to be nothing more that a case of embarrassing mate, a beer brave bridesmaid-botherer at a Westminster wedding. And who has not suffered a dose of that? The cringe-worthy case of Jacqui Smith’s husband and the biological cinema springs to mind. Prince Andrew could hardly be blamed if he quietly dropped Jeffrey Epstein from the Royal Christmas card list. And then there’s Mark Thatcher. Enough said.

Dr Who?

With the world economy tap dancing on thin ice cream over the financial equivalent of a vat of molten marmite, and the once great Gunners threatening to shoot themselves in both feet from close range, like many, I turned on the telly this week seeking news. I found little. No, the remote control had not finally left the telly, citing irreconcilable differences, and my daughter had not finally figured out how to block any channel but Pop Girl. Yes, Pop Girl. Instead, the peddlers of evening emissions had grasped the trial of Dr Conrad Murray, like a Labrador with slippers, and were shaking the life out of every tedious moment.

Gaddafi’s hiding out, Greece wants bailing out, and the world media’s camping out in a courtroom drama whose star has long since left the building.

For those that may have spent this week on Mars, or a lay-by in the Lake District, Dr Murray, is the former personal physician of Michael Jackson. He denies involuntary manslaughter, his defence team claiming that the fatal dose of the drug Propofol was in fact self-administered.  

Now, the death of Michael Jackson was a cogent depiction of the alienation of celebrity culture, and a human tragedy to boot. But what I sat through was protracted legal mechanics and dissected contract negotiations. We pay lawyers to do this stuff because it’s too complex and tedious for us to be bothered with, so why would I want to watch it? Last week I paid a really nice guy to fix our washing machine, but I didn’t put in on YouTube.

A 15 minute hi-lights package would have more than covered the salient points, not the blow-by-blow battering on offer. But, like free newspapers on the train, it’s an easy way to fill the time.

I blame 24 hour news and reality TV in equal measure. There is not enough genuine news for 24 hours, and Big Brother’s enduring legacy to the canon of cultural consciousness was to pass off watching aging pop stars sleeping in a dormitory, as entertainment. Pop the two together, like welding a couple of crashed up Nissan Cherries in a backstreet garage in Peckham, and this is the unfortunate offspring.

Less telly, better telly, say I. But as someone dead and famous might have said, you can’t hold back the tide with a teaspoon.