Excuses, excuses, excuses

Amidst the morass of bleating excuses from ignoble MPs attempting to defend themselves against accusations of financial impropriety (stealing from us, in other words), even in that repellent quagmire, sometimes one Member's attitude can leave one aghast. Sir Anthony Steen provides such an instance. Having ripped us off, morally if not in law, he blames the Freedom of Information Act for having blown his cover. The Act "caught him on the wrong foot", he says. He should have done it differently, he says, implying not that he shouldn't have claimed the money, but that he should have been more careful in hiding what he was up to. He went on to ask "What right does the public have to interfere in my private life". What is private, Mr Steen, (no, I won't use your title; you're not worthy of it) about making claims on taxpayers' money? It's one of the most public actions an MP can take, even if you then fraudulently use that cash to fund your private life. Yes, you have apologised for the outburst on TV in which you said these things, but too little too late. Yes, you have agreed not to stand at the next General Election, but you're not worthy to stand anywhere. If you have any decency you should walk into the sunset and keep going until the waters close over you head.

And that goes for all the other swine with their snouts in our money. If I hear one more time the excuse that the action an MP has taken to enrich him or herself was "within the regulations" I shall feel like starting a movement to end democracy in this country and install a dictatorship. The first dictator will, of course, be me! Joking aside, it is an extraordinarily arrogant excuse. There are many streets in our cities where the speed limit is thirty miles per hour. Should we then go and drive at thirty, regardless of the potential consequences of such action, regardless of the fact that we may knock down a child or kill a cyclist? Conscience not mere compliance!

The world pulled inside out

Met a lawyer in the pub, as you do. With leaden inevitability the conversation turned to moats, manure and mortgages, and all the other things it transpires we have been providing for our parliamentarians. Mr Lawyer said he wasn't surprised at such goings on as our MPs are so badly paid. Figures started rolling through my head like the symbols in a one armed bandit, as I recalled that an MP gets about £65k per annum, and the most I've ever earned in a year stands in current values at about half that. And that rarely. Lawyer Man also blamed the system for allowing MPs to claim for expensive TVs and their wives' tampons. What about conscience over compliance, I asked. Well, he said, because they're so badly paid, conscience goes out of the window and the vast offers put forth within compliance are necessarily taken up, so that the MP can afford to live. And he seemed to think all this perfectly pukka.

Am I mad? Have I been so terribly naive all my life? While it would be foolish to believe (and I never have) that any bunch of individuals, elected representatives or whoever, would be free of villainy and self seeking, when too many have gone too far with their gluttony and deception, as now, it was amazing to learn from the supposedly learned upholder of our legal system, encountered in the boozer, that complete equanimity about such immorality seems perfectly okay to his suchlike. Inside out indeed.

A -- special joy!

Just occasionally in a lifetime one encounters someone who embodies all you glory in in another person. A wondrous friendship moulds itself into joyous reality. Mutual warmth, support, generosity, compassion, closeness, trust, the ability to disagree without rancour, the giving and taking of advice, and fun!

Such a person is dearest friend A, to whom I referred in my opening blog. I spent an evening with A last week, an evening of a few drinks and a meal, a lot of conversation and closeness.

Thank you, A. My world ticks so much more happily because of you. Thank you for allowing me into your world.

Ponte magnifico!

A couple of years back, Arthur Miller was voted best playwright of the 20th century in the English language. If one needed any reassurance of this truth, the current West End production of View from the Bridge offers it by the pantechicon load. This dark story of betrayal driven by incestual love grinds the gravel into all the senses. The ear, the nose, the taste, the eye, along with the soul, are all assailed by deep, disturbing conflict which draws the onlooker completely, frighteningly not only into the story but into the struggling despair of poor, fifties, immigrant New York. The play haunts one into the night and will probably be there in the moring, too. A perfectly hewn play, not in stone but made of deeply suffering, painful minds and bodies. A perfect play? Yes, probably, inasmuch as we are able to comprehend perfection.

There's more to astound in Lindsay Posner's deeply textured, glooming production, not least one of the greatest performances you'll ever see, from Ken Stott as Eddie Carbone. It's a towering, profoundly disturbing performance. Stott even appears to put on weight as Eddie's troubled mind draws him further into drink, treachery and violence, wheezing, staggering, eyes red as he increasingly can only see the coming moment when the object of his love will finally be taken beyond his grasp.

The production will finish next Saturday May 16th. Do whatever you must to get a ticket -- sell anything and everything, body, soul, the lot, -- but go! Check TKTS in Leicester Square (and now at Brent Cross) for half price best seats, because surprisingly that's how I got in. But if TKTS can't help, this magnificent production of a very great play is worth the full price and more. It's at the Duke of York's Theatre in St Martin's Lane.

Rock off!

A twenty-five year mortgage with Northern Rock can only last up to fourteen years according to the nationalised bank. That is what I've been told by folk at the bank you and I own. What is it with these people? They cannot be unaware that bankers are now the most disliked bunch in the land, even more unpopular than estate agent types and double glazing wallahs. Yet they have unilaterally decided, (thus inviting further opprobrium), that my mortgage must be repaid by the time I'm seventy-five -- a mere eight-and-a-half years from now. It has, indeed, always been my hope that I shall be shot of the damn thing well before that time, but that's not the point. To be told out of the blue that they have unilateraally decided this unreasoned curtailment is immoral, inexcusable and bloody rude. Could they not have opened a civilised discussion about this and consulted me, and any other poor sod they've thrown into the same rotten garbage barge, about future plans? I invite you to avoid any dealings with these contract breaking bastards.

That's all for today.

old man's amazement and ranting

Am I just being an old fart? Last night after a couple (well three, actually) pints in my local, I took myself to a good hamburger place at Belsize Park. About six tables occupied, and at three of them were youngsters of no more than seven or eight. One of them was younger. It was 10.15pm. No grumbles about the kids, who were behaving and being charming, but should they not have been in bed? When I was their age, bed was at about 7.30pm latest, and I slept like a small log (twig?) and got up bright and early the next day. At the 'burger joint, the parents looked knackered and were half asleep. They clearly should have been home and long abed, let alone their next generations! Do they not want their young ones to grow up strong and witty, to take over this morass of a country in due course, and make something succesful and honourable of it? After all, they must realise that their generation is making, as mine made, a right ruddy mess of it.

Department of Gross Greed and Arrogance. The papers have reported that, despite the cataclysmic state banks have brought themselves down to, a total of £7billion is to be paid in bonuses to senior bank personnel for the financial year just ended. Well, I don't know what you'd think, but if the government has any guts (a forlorn hope?) should they not instantly claw this amount back pound for pound, or maybe two pounds for pound, from those banks which have been bailed out with vast sums of taxpayers' dosh? That's our money, thine and mine! The bankers bleat about contractual commitments. Hey, buddy banker, had the good ol' British taxpayer not rescued you, there'd be no contract to bleat about, since you'd all be out of work.

And there's more... Michael Cane is very exercised at the possibility of having to pay 50% tax on some of his income, and threatens to leave UK for USA. "We've got 3.5 million layabouts on benefits, and I'm 76, getting up at 6.00am to go to work to keep them". Very generous, I'm sure! Look, Mikey baby, here's a couple of suggestions.
1) Stop working. You've earned lots. You don't need to earn any more. This will take you below the 50% tax band.
Or 2) go on filming but for much less, even nothing, (which will have the same effect on your tax bill), which would enable film companies to use more of their budgets to employ and pay more actors, many of whom, being out of work, you doubtless believe are amongst your millions of layabouts. (Were you never desperate for work and pay? I seem to remember that you were occasionally, pre- Zulu.)
Or 3) just fuck off to the USA.

Andrew Lloyd Webber (Lord Lloyd Webber, or is Lloyd Lord Webber -- never been quite certain), is also less than happy. He says that the 50% tax band would be "the final nail in the coffin of Britain plc". Don't worry, young Andy, we'll make sure you're in the coffin too (with a bottle or few of red of course), before that final nail goes in.

I feel better now!