State of the Union

As the fag-end of the UK pantomime season smoulders to a close, the American equivalent takes centre stage. The only dame dropped out after the first audition, and the principle players are endeavouring to distance themselves from dodgy dialogue and unwise ad-libs from past productions, as the contenders to be Republican Party Presidential candidate for the US election vie to avoid being cast as the panto villain. The protracted process comprises a series of primaries and caucuses, regional votes in which Republican voters select preferred candidates. We whittle down the wish-list, as the results roll in, with candidates capitulating as their funding and fan-bases either enlarge or evaporate.

The contest kicked off in Iowa, with folks from “America’s Heartland” failing to deliver a decisive verdict. Having misplaced their copy of “Democracy for Dummies”, the organisers sent some votes through the wash in their jeans pockets, we’ve all done it, others slipped down the back of the sofa, and it was thought best to call it a split between former Governor of Massachusetts Mitt Romney and “social conservative” Rick Santorum. But the farce did thin the field, with the notable withdrawal of the darling of the Tea party, but apparently not many others, Michele Bachmann. With former Speaker of the House of Representatives Newt Gingrich winning the South Carolina Primary, and veteran Ron Paul hanging on in there, in more ways than one at 76, it’s a four horse race, with the chosen candidate taking on President Obama on November the 6^th.

The mandatory mud-slinging may even get a tad dirtier this time out thanks to a new ruling. Any interested party can now find funding to launch an advertising campaign to compliment or condemn a chosen candidate, providing they are not working for one of them. But presumably you would have to produce a note from your mum to that effect.

In sporting terms, the race to the White House is more marathon than sprint, and tactics can be a long way south of cricket. The “birthers” have been reborn, questioning if the President is really American. Rick Santorum has been repeatedly cross-examined to see if he’s really as anti-gay/abortion/Palestinian as people feared/hoped, delete as appropriate. Mitt Romney has had to flash his tax return, proving he only coughed up 15% of the income from investing his $200 million fortune, and Newt Gingrich starts from the position of being the only Speaker of the House of Representatives to have been disciplined for ethics violations. Ron Paul probably has some skeletons in his closet too, but may have forgotten where he put them.

Although it will be a riveting contest for the neutral spectator, it is unlikely to be a good clean game. You’re guaranteed a few high tackles before the final whistle, but probably not a communal bath after it.   

War of Independence

After much sabre rattling on both sides of the border, it would seem that Alex Salmond, the First Minister of Scotland, will soon be holding talks with David Cameron regarding a referendum on Scottish independence. Despite an ICM survey, and an opinion poll for the Mail on Sunday, suggesting Mr Salmond was swimming against the tide in his preference for independence, his Scottish National Party hailed the proposed pow-wow with the big fish in Westminster a “very welcome development”. As with many potential break-ups, some of the rhetoric has been a tad acrimonious, with both parties taking legal advice, and on more than just who gets the CD collection.

The statistics suggest that English voters are more inclined to support Scottish independence than even the Scots themselves, but at 43% and 29% respectively, neither survey strongly support a separation. Scottish voices in Westminster have not been welcoming either. Former Chancellor Alastair Darling declared “the downsides are immense, the risks are amazing,” and he has lived next door to Gordon Brown. Regarding the slippery issue of currency, Darling pointed out that if an independent Scotland stuck with sterling, it faced the same situation as Euro-zone members. The prospect of using a currency whose central bank is in a foreign country, that controls your interest rates, is hardly mouth-watering to the independently minded. Alternatively, you could swallow hard and join the Euro, an option likely to leave you losing your appetite altogether.

When even the established currencies are barely buoyant, the start-your-own-scenario might also represent a ready-made recipe for disaster. The economic equivalent of home-brew heart surgery, and as likely to succeed, this third theory does, however, conjure up the Caledonian conundrum of which national treasure should grace the coinage in the manifest absence of monarchy. My money would be on Robert the Bruce, William Wallace, or Lulu. 

Labour leans heavily on a support base north of the border, but there are more pandas in Scotland than Tory MPs. Despite that discrepancy, cross party commitment to the union exists in the Commons, alongside the need to debate the when and the how of the proposed referendum. Cameron claims it should come in the next 18 months, Salmond says 2014, to coincide with the 700^th anniversary of the Battle of Bannockburn. That was a significant victory for Scottish independence, but I wouldn’t put many Lulu dollars on another one. 

Leveson vs MacKenzie

When Kelvin MacKenzie left the High Court yesterday and struck a Christ-like pose on the steps outside, it can only be hoped that his tone was something approaching deeply ironic. Unless he was doing an impression of Wayne Rooney after the over-head kick wonder strike against Man City, but after more grazing than training. The former editor of the Sun had been giving evidence in the continuing Leveson inquiry into press ethics, and to the casual observer at least, he did not appear to have any.

Speaking of his editorship between 1981 and 1994, he said; “I didn’t spend too much time pondering the ethics of how a story was gained, nor over-worry about whether it was published or not.” This foreign policy sold papers, but was not always as popular with his proprietor. Having informed Rupert Murdoch of the need to compensate Elton John, to the tune of £1 million, for a fabrication too far, his telephoned-ticking-off lasted nearly three quarters of an hour. But one imagines the media mogul’s motives were more money than morality minded, needless to say, creative copy-writing was not curtailed.

In a customarily bullish defence of the tabloid press, Kelvin Mackenzie claimed that some much maligned methods were as prevalent on broad-sheet publications, but unfairly attracted plaudits in place of punishment. By way of example, he offered the scenario of phone hacking Tony Blair, to prove he was “circumventing the cabinet” to take the country to war in Iraq. “If you publish it in the Sun you get six months’ jail,” he said, “and if you publish it in the Guardian you get a Pulitzer Prize.” He may have a point.

Further to the divide between broadsheet and red tops, he concluded that “there is a tremendous amount of snobbery involved in journalism.” He may have a set of points. But from which sordid source did this snobbery spring? Well, if you edit out breasts and football, and stories about folk whose only talent is the possession of one, or playing the other, then certain papers would just be a TV guide. Snobbery? Not Jesus, not even Rooney, but right on this occasion Mr MacKenzie.

Mixed Messages

I missed the Queen’s speech on Christmas Day, buried as I was under an ocean of well-intentioned seasonal multi-tasking. Somewhere between the construction of complex offspring entertainment systems, each requiring a unique type of battery and a working knowledge of Chinese or Polish, and the military style co-ordination to ensure that edible offerings with 15 differing cooking times all hit the table looking equally burnt, I lost a large portion of my patience, most of my sobriety and any chance of commandeering the remote control.

However, I was among the 200,000 odd to watch the monarch’s message on YouTube, and also checked out other seasonal offerings from the great and the good. With the Olympics and the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee gracing the 2012 calendar, David Cameron, dressed for a funeral, urged us to “go for it”. But he acknowledged that we will be going for it on a greatly reduced budget, citing the rising prices that have “hit household budgets.” Closing with a call to the patriotic, the Prime Minister urged us to focus “on what this fantastic country does best”, although neglected to elaborate on what that elusive talent might be. Policy wise, he made reference to pursuing welfare reform and curtailing excesses in the City. Well, this year I plan to fix the leaking tap in the bathroom, and train the cat to speak Cantonese, and I can’t guarantee putting the same effort into the second task either.

Nick Clegg’s message proffered a policy buffet of tasty treats, from pupil premiums to tinkering with the tax-bands. The Deputy PM trailed a re-balancing of the economy away from the City, and for the stocking-is-half-empty type, he conceded the coming year “will pose great challenges”. The Queen too referred to current hardships, stressing the importance of family, and community in times of crisis. She closed with a call to find room for the message of the angels, do not be afraid, and for the love of God. Her Majesty also spoke about the power of forgiveness, and that sometimes “we need saving from ourselves, from our recklessness and greed,” at which point I’m certain I heard a member of the pinstripe posse choking on a sprout.  

Economically, it seems we start the New Year where we finished the last, on our knees. But, this should prove handy both for prayer, and searching for spare change under the sofa, and it looks as if we’re going to need plenty of both.

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…