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.