I haven’t written much through the course of 2011 as it has been a year of massive change. As I type out these words, I’m living in a different home than I was a little over a week ago. On Monday, I’ll be starting a new career with a new company. And all this is taking place 300 miles (a massive distance in British terms) from where I began the year: I’ve traded the chardonnay coast of Southern England for the more rugged beauty of Yorkshire. Last Monday, I returned a rental car in Leeds and boarded a train home: I passed scenes which hinted at both post-industrial decline and nascent regeneration (some of it funded by the European Union). It was rather like seeing flowers emerge from between the cracked concrete of a demolished factory.

But I like it here. I was taken aback when I went for a walk the other day and strangers were bidding me “Good morning”. My new local GP’s office went out of their way to be helpful in registering me, even though the proof of my new address was slight. My local city council provided recycle bins without the hint of a moan or a demand for a fee. Such courtesy isn’t abundant in the South from either people or institutions. People here tend to be more patient as well; in the process of moving up here, there was a fraught late-night drive which ended at 2:30 AM at a Travelodge along the M1 motorway. The man at the desk had waited for us; the room I’d reserved was still there for me along with the extra towels, tea and coffee that my girlfriend had requested.

This area is more ethnically diverse. A recent ride in a taxi was considerably enlivened by the fact that the driver had on Vibe FM, an exclusively Asian music station. The bouncy anthems were punctuated with advertisements for solicitors and property companies which were read out in a combination of English and Urdu with such passion that it was easy to forget what they were selling. “Yes,” I thought, “this is a much different place.”

There have been changes in other respects. If I had been told a year ago that I would be moving far away from the South Downs, I wouldn’t have been much surprised. Nor would I have been shocked or daunted by the prospect of having to begin again in the information technology industry; academia is convulsed by change at the moment and the tremors have yet to subside. I would have been delighted to hear that I would find a new partner whose personality matches my own far better than anyone I’d previously met and with whom love became something warm rather than something tense. However, I would have been dumbfounded if I had been told that I’d co-own two cats. First, I have been allergic to cats: however Piriton and time took care of the problem. Second, I would have been daunted by the prospect of cat care. It’s certainly true that it can be challenging. For example, on the long road trip to Yorkshire, our cat Amelia took fright at being confined in the car: it meant that an emergency stop off at a veterinarian for cat “happy pills” was required. A rescue cat that my girlfriend and I adopted, and subsequently named Sarah Jane, has had her share of troubles: this has meant anxious visits to the vet, careful monitoring of diets, and acquiring special food. Nevertheless, life is so much richer for having them and I’m grateful that my girlfriend has opened my eyes to this. I often awake in the mornings to find Sarah Jane awaiting me, purring loudly. She wants food, of course, but the way a request is couched can diminish the burden of being asked.

There have been political changes as well. At my previous location, I was very briefly involved with my local Green Party: however, when I attended meetings, I felt like I’d turned up at the wrong address. This sense of displacement didn’t fade: my thoughts on the world and what’s wrong with it remain the same, it’s just a question of finding a suitable method by which I can express myself. I am taking a breather at the moment, or perhaps just taking a deep breath before we plunge into yet another American presidential election year. If the Republicans pick someone as tepid and inoffensive as Romney to be their nominee, they may cruise back into power next year. If they pick someone more lively and erratic, such as Perry or Cain, then President Obama is likely to remain where he is, albeit it will be a bumpy ride.

As for British politics, I think the coalition is going to hold; while my heart was with the students who marked the year’s anniversary of the Demolition protests with yet another demonstration against tuition fees, I have to say that the ship has sailed. No likely political configuration is going to reverse the changes. Indeed, Labour hasn’t even yet found its feet; the idea of Ed Miliband as the successor to giants like Attlee and Wilson is laughable. Nor is he credible as an opponent to fiscal retrenchment. The “cuts consensus” has only been helped by the turmoil in the Euro countries: those nations which eschewed austerity appear to have been punished by the markets and Angela Merkel. Meanwhile, the illogic of the markets has meant that Britain’s bond yields have been pushed down to just above 2 percent, which has helped the government’s balance sheet.

It makes one’s head spin. At the end of the day, there are home comforts. As I type this, the sun is setting in the Yorkshire sky, the clouds are flame orange which contrasts with the deepening cornflower blue. Sarah Jane is out in the hall, curled up and asleep at the top of the steps. My girlfriend, her golden hair freshly cut and her blue eyes looking at me expectantly, and I will likely select a takeaway dinner shortly from the many fine Indian restaurants in the area. Politics may not have improved over 2011, but the biggest change is having reached the end of my rainbow and found a life more fulfilling, a life more interesting, a life more loved.

Like many American boys, I grew up watching superhero cartoons on Saturday mornings. Among them were the programmes that featured “The Justice League of America”: Superman, Batman, Aquaman and Wonder Woman were all present and each week they battled Lex Luthor and his minions. My favourite character was the Green Lantern: I not only admired the power of his ring to create any contraption or structure at will, but I also thought he was the most restrained and low key of the heroes. There was none of the “underpants on the outside” exhuberance of Superman, nor the lacking in mystery mystery of Batman (how anyone failed to spot he was Bruce Wayne was beyond me): rather, the Green Lantern spoke little and often used cleverness to defeat his foes. For example, I recall in one episode he faced his own clone and used a yellow Yield sign in order to deflect a blast from the doppelganger’s power ring.

I suppose it was only a matter of time before Hollywood made a film out of this particular tale. It was also an opportunity for me to give 3D cinema technology a try, something which I had been avoiding. Would the film follow in the spirit of its comic predecessor, or would Hollywood’s influence intrude on childhood’s perspective? Would the technology enhance the film or would it be a distraction?

The result is rather a mixed bag. Ryan Reynolds plays Hal Jordan, a fearless test pilot who begins the story by waking up late, rushing to work in a dilapidated Dodge Charger while he wraps his nephew’s birthday present in newspaper and then Hal engages in a reckless air maneuever to outwit drone aircraft which results in the crash of his own jet. From the start, this seemed out of synch with the mature, low-key Hal Jordan I recalled from the cartoons. The new Hal is a well intentioned ne’er do well, who enjoys bars, fast cars and seducing any woman he can. His real love, however, is Carol Ferris (played by Blake Lively), the daughter of the CEO of the company which produces the drones that Hal defeats. She, however, knows Hal too well and sees that while he has potential, he is too irresponsible for a lasting relationship. In other words, the beginning of the film is burdened with cinematic cliches about jet pilots which are as old as Top Gun.

Matters aren’t helped by the fact that Ryan Reynolds is a comic actor and it shows. Hitherto, I’ve seen few films in which the main hero could be described as “gormless” (to use a British slang term) but Reynolds qualifies: he continually seems on the verge of a prat-fall or letting slip some comic line. This tendency bursts forth when he has his first conversation with Carol in his superhero costume: fortunately the film doesn’t take itself too seriously, and Carol recognises him right away, stating that a mask covering merely Hal’s cheekbones wasn’t going to prevent recognition.

The other weakness in the film is the development of the villains: Dr. Hector Hammond, as played by Peter Saarsgard, could have been given more air time. He becomes an avatar of evil after he’s exposed to an alien residue. However, the characteristics which made him susceptible were already embedded in his psyche prior to his infection: he has an ongoing conflict with his father, a Senator (as played by Tim Robbins), which is again something of a cliche. Furthermore, he too is in love with Carol Ferris, though this is given somewhat light treatment. Altogether, his fall felt too rushed: he perhaps should have had more time to explore the powers which he had accrued and been intoxicated by them. Furthermore, the deforming effects of the new powers seemed somewhat exaggerated.

The other main villain, Parallax, is more of an evil cloud than a coherent being. Yes, he wants to defeat the Green Lanterns and control the universe: but his relationship with the power of fear could have done with more exposition. Furthermore, after defeating Sinestro (a Green Lantern in this film as per the comic tales) and a squadron of his “strongest lanterns”, Parallax’s is rather quickly defeated by Hal on his own.

One final narrative weakness is a divergence from the comic books: Sinestro convinces his superiors to forge a yellow ring utilising the power of fear. The comics say nothing of the kind. Furthermore, the makers of the film chose to wait until after the end credits before Sinestro falls prey to the temptation to put on this new, menacing ring. Most of the audience had departed prior to this important event being revealed.

The other difficulty with this film is its use of 3D technology. A trailer for the new “Fright Night” used this more effectively than “The Green Lantern”: I was rocked in my seat by a crucifix seeming to fly out of the screen. In the case of the Green Lantern, there wasn’t much which seemed to justify the overhead of wearing the special glasses. I don’t recall a single instance in which the action seemed to reach out of the screen in such a way as to startle or surprise. The 2D version is likely much more cost effective.

This all said, the film works a form of light entertainment: it moves briskly, and the audience is never bored. The characters do have human reactions to the power of the Green Lantern, constantly citing how “cool” the new powers are. Hal Jordan may not be the serious, soft spoken Green Lantern of old, but he’s mostly inoffensive and sincere. This movie belongs in the category of “Saturday Matinees”, films which are watchable not because of artistic merit, but merely because they’re fun. Because of this, I do hope that a sequel is made, though perhaps with the addition of Sinestro as a villain, there will be an opportunity to make it a better film than this one. It’s worth suggesting to “The Green Lantern”‘s creators that they should try to make a movie in which the characters have three dimensions and the picture uses only two.

The massacre in Tuscon which killed six (including a 9 year old child and a federal judge) and critically wounded Representative Gabrielle Giffords is more than a tragedy, it’s utterly unnerving. It’s deeply frightening to see lives taken with such a profound lack of discrimination or mercy. America is a nation that craves clear-cut answers: hence, it is simply unacceptable that there is no fathomable rationale for this hideous event. Journalists and law enforcement officials have descended upon Tuscon en masse and are probing every detail of Jared Lee Loughner’s background in the hope of finding one.

I wish them well, but I tend to think that the more they dig, the less they will find: the entire incident’s motif is an absence of why, not just in terms of the assassin’s motives, but also in regards to the conditions which allowed him to get as far as he did.

I’ve had the dubious privilege of viewing Loughner’s YouTube videos. It’s relatively easy to state that these were the products of a disturbed mind, one which was plagued by fears of conspiracies and infused with nonsense about thought control. This assessment only gets us a certain distance in analysing the demons which possessed him. What is even more striking is how pathetic his attempts at profundity were. Let’s be clear: by all accounts, he was one of society’s washouts, at best a marginal figure. In a gentler era, he would have eventually removed himself to a remote corner of Wyoming or Montana, stocked up on canned beans and guns, and taken potshots at any mailman (a representative of the government in a way) who dared venture near his property.

Loughner had prior run-ins with the law because he abused illegal narcotics. He was refused entry into the Army for as yet (formally) unclarified reasons. He was ejected from his local community college, in essence his last chance at an education, due to his disruptive and disturbing behaviour. Yet, the videos are a feeble attempt on his part to position himself as a great thinker; that said, his poor grammar, his hideous sentence structure and his mention of odd concepts such as “conscience dreaming” are proof positive that his is a profoundly small intellect. I also believe that his listing of both the Communist Manifesto and Mein Kampf as “favourite books” have nothing to do with a personal ideological contradiction: he may have been merely listing the important books of which he was aware in order to bolster his intellectual reputuation. In contrast, some of his friends have suggested he is clever: sorry, I still doubt it. His unspeakable acts of violence, under these circumstances, may be a result of his inability to accept his utter irrelevance: he knew he was a genius, the rest of the world refused to acknowledge it. Following the model provided by Mark David Chapman (the man who shot John Lennon), his attempt to kill Representative Giffords was his way of drawing attention to himself and his supposedly radiant thoughts. Yes, Loughner has been silent since his arrest: however, I suspect that he has prepared a public statement which he will deploy at a moment of maximum advantage to satisfy the needs of his outsize ego. I also believe it will be a very disappointing moment for those who desire a better explanation for what he did.

The absence of why extends to another troubling question: why was Loughner permitted to get hold of a firearm? It would be one thing if Loughner was so “off the grid” that the authorities had no way of knowing that he shouldn’t own a gun. However, as previously mentioned, he had run-ins with the law. Furthermore, there is a certain amount of mystery as to exactly why the Army did not want to recruit him: was it because of his previous drugs use (this has been suggested on an “off the record” basis)? Or was there a psychological assessment which suggested he was unfit for service? Surely it was not beyond the wit of government officials to knit together this information. Certainly, it is not beyond the capabilities of information technology to flag up individuals like this, and it does not surpass the bounds of common sense to require at least an interview by local law enforcement before a gun was sold to someone with this kind of background. Yet none of this happened: under these circumstances, it is impossible to argue that the gun laws in Arizona are anything but too lax. Never mind, Arizona was hitherto planning to make the restrictions even more loose: a law presently before the Arizona legislature intends to extend concealed carry rights to college students.

That said, the entire gun culture in the United States also lacks a compelling “Why”. I have had headache-inducing discussions with other Americans about the Second Amendment, whose full text reads:

“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.”

Those in favour of “gun rights” tend to look at the latter part of the amendment. However the first segment is actually the more interesting portion. What did the Founding Fathers mean by “a well-regulated Militia”? It is worth noting that when the Constitution was drafted in 1787, it was a little over 11 years after the Declaration of Independence had been signed. Among the complaints levelled at King George III in 1776 was the fact that he had kept standing armies amidst the citizenry in times of peace. Furthermore, the American War of Independence was largely fought by volunteer militias. Under those circumstances, citizens bore arms as they could be called up to fight for their country at almost any time: a similar arrangement persists in Switzerland today. However, this amendment was not intended to act as a license for individuals who wish to own rocket launchers for personal gain: the text has not kept up with changes to weaponry or military doctrine. In essence, what was intended as a statement of profound responsibility, i.e., one should be prepared to lay down one’s life in the defence of one’s community, has been turned into permission to possess the tools of murder. It is a perversion of original intent, and there’s no good reason as to why except the dubious necessities imposed by self-indulgence.

Some individuals who could be charitably described as “romantic” tend to quote Thomas Jefferson at this point and suggest that the “tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.” Lest we forget, this statement was made during the same epoch as the French Revolution, an experiment in blood-letting that Jefferson supported and which turned out to be futile in the end: it may be radical to suggest it, but perhaps Jefferson had his limitations and moments of naivete. The romantics persist and suggest that should it come down to it, they will use personal firearms to defend themselves against the government’s incursions. However, the last time I checked, the government had a monopoly on tanks, fighter jets and attack helicopters. A few “patriots” armed with semi-automatic or even automatic assault rifles driving Chevrolet Surburbans will likely have little impact. I also suggest that the business of securing liberty lay less in some orgiastic fantasizing about shooting the local sheriff and far more with education, securing a free press, and advancing knowledge through discourse. This is altogether too practical to appeal to the “romantics”, however.

In essence, we are adrift upon a turbulent sea of irrationality. As such, I genuinely hope that that Representative Giffords recovers: by all accounts, she is the kind of politician that is profoundly needed in these troubled times. She was moderate in her rhetoric, calm in her discourse, humble in her service, and possessed by a genuine concern for her community. Hopefully, the same strength which has sustained her so far will find a way to bring her back to the forefront of politics. It would be a terrible shame if the senseless, the mindless and the deranged emerged triumphant in this instance.

My self-imposed vacation from blogging fell at the first hurdle. Admittedly, it has been a rather steep obstacle, indeed one that is impossible to ignore. The British have a penchant for complaining about the weather: seldom has that habit been more justified.

I thought I might be in trouble as I watched the snow come down on Saturday. My flight was and is scheduled for Tuesday, December 21, so I thought that it would be sufficient time for Heathrow to get its act together. Surely, I told myself, I’d be able to get to New York. Certainly, 72 hours should be sufficient time to deal with any ice and snow.

I was wrong, of course. There are times when the nagging voice of doubt is maddeningly correct, and this was one of those instances.

Nevertheless, I am one of the lucky ones. I am sitting in a hotel room, warm and comfortable. I have had a decent meal and will be sleeping in a bed tonight rather than seeking solace in a cold floor and wrapping an aluminium sheet around me: this triumph over adversity was not due to my own cleverness. Rather, since getting to Heathrow is rather difficult even in good weather, I had booked a room for the night before the trip: a dear friend in the travel industry supplied me with a good rate. Once trouble seemed to be my lot, it was relatively straightforward to get the reservation extended for an extra day. If I awake to a cancelled flight, then at least I don’t have to find shelter. I can continue to remain warm and pad around my cosseted confinements in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt.

I cannot stress enough that I am fortunate. I did get a glimpse of what is going on at the terminals: from my present vantage point, they glow in the distance. The lights of the runway, in shades of blue and magenta, are warm and comforting. Occasionally, I hear a plane roaring overhead.

But these outward signs are simply a mask for utter chaos. In order to get here, I had to take a series of trains. The first train I intended to take was cancelled. There was a sudden downpour as I made my way to the train station and it left me soaked and chilly; the added wait did not help matters. I did finally manage to make my way to London, then to Paddington and to take the Heathrow Express. I was comforted by the fact that the young lady at the customer service desk visibly brightened when I told her I was travelling tomorrow. But as soon as I boarded the train, an announcement was made, stating that no more people would be allowed into Terminals 1 and 3 due to overcrowding. My sister phoned as the train began to move; she is taking a similar trip, sadly with an airline which has far fewer flights to New York. She has found it impossible to find out what precisely is going on.

“This is many different colours of stupid,” I said to her. I am unchanged in this opinion: many airports, not least in Scandinavia, have effective techniques for managing snow. That aside, the lack of clear information has likely fed the influx of travellers to the terminals. Just telling travellers that if they don’t have a precise confirmation they shouldn’t come isn’t sufficient. Airlines simply aren’t that forthcoming, as they likely don’t know themselves what services they will be able to run until it’s too late to stem the flow.

The train was quick; the ticket collectors sensibly let the passengers be. I suggest that being particularly bureaucratic in a situation as strained as the one we were in would not have helped. An Australian tourist wearing a grey blouse that was far too revealing given the weather had set her jaw into a firm, hard line and had a determined look in her eye. Most of the other passengers looked simply weary and surly, as if winter had used far too much of them up even before the season had officially begun.

Upon disembarking at Heathrow, my plan was to find the nearest taxi rank and to get to my hotel as quickly as possible. I battled past tourists dragging gigantic cases behind them to a bank of lifts, and upon emerging, I proceeded towards Terminal 3. There were several people camped out in my path: one was a young lady, wrapped up as tightly as possible in a grey scarf and coat, seated on top of her case. Her legs were tucked up beneath her in the Lotus position: her laptop was perched on her knees and she was typing with some vigour. A letter to concerned relatives? A missive to the airline? Both?

Another passenger sat slumped further along in the corridor. Her head was leaning down, as if the hinge by which it was attached to her neck had become loose. I assume she was doing her best to sleep, despite the constant march of fresh passengers that proceeded before her.

Kettling appears to be a theme of this year: I saw passengers bunching up down the tunnel to Terminal 3 Departures. “Ah,” I said aloud: here was the barrier, preventing further passengers from getting in. I turned on my heel and went to Arrivals: the taxi rank, I reasoned, would be more accessible from there anyway. It was less crowded than I feared, and it appeared that Heathrow has been highly successful keeping the shops open. I found the taxi rank: after spending 20 minutes waiting in a queue that stretched the length of the rank, I finally arrived here.

As I look outside my window, I can see that more snow is falling; fortunately its pace is gentle and slow, the flakes are coming down in large, cottony clusters. However, it is difficult to discern from this vantage point any activity that would imply the fresh snowfall is being managed.

I reiterate: I am lucky. It’s entirely possible I will get away tomorrow. There are hundreds, if not thousands of people not more than a mile away from this place who are cold and weary, whose prospects of arriving at their destination prior to Christmas seem rather dim. It’s at this point that we have to ask, how did we get here? Who is to blame? Or should we merely say, ala Mark Twain that “everyone complains about the weather but no one does anything about it”?

Let’s begin with the airport operator: if this weather was a once in a lifetime event, then their inability to respond would be excusable. However, there was a preview on the 2nd of December, which was a substantial snowstorm. Furthermore, there was a freeze even more fearsome than this one in January. What has been learned? What has been done? Apparently, not much.

It is perhaps also due to BAA’s lack of focus on its core business: I’ve been struck as to how much emphasis the airports in their care place on marketing their duty free shops. It isn’t inaccurate to say that the shopping mall aspect of flying is better than ever. However, an airport’s primary concern should be to get people efficiently from one place to another: but presumably the rewards associated with an investment in that activity are less readily obtainable than those which arise from sales of bottles of mint flavoured Irish Cream.

Perhaps the airlines deserve some of the opprobium. Don’t forget, there was a point when flying was considered something special. I recall newsreel films of the 1950′s and 1960′s in which people dressed up to travel. Rather than an experience, travel is now a commodity: the price pressure on this commodity is ever downward, with the exception of when fuel costs determine otherwise. However, the commodity is now so cheap that if passengers are stranded, this is merely unfortunate. After all, travel is no longer special.

It’s justfied to award the government with the proverbial wooden spoon as well. The privatised state has been proven not to work: airports become shopping malls, profit comes before utility, and yet they still adhere to dogma. Furthermore, they appear to have washed their hands of the responsibility apart from giving the airport operators a good telling off. This helps nothing; additionally, it feeds a reluctance to invest in measures which would mitigate the effects of future storms. Another ugly truth that the government doesn’t want to acknowledge is that the wild weather may be due to the effects of climate change, which it should be reiterated, is not the same as global warming.

We, the public, also have a share in this: we demand travel to exotic places instead of cherishing the pleasure of home. That said, the other miscreants in my list are doing a fine job in suppressing this appetite.

Soon, I will be heading off to sleep. If I so choose, I can tune into BBC Radio 3 and perhaps I will catch a Christmas carol or two. With a bit of luck, I will slip through the cracks in the “kettle” around air travel, and at the moment the plane ascends, I will enter into my holiday season, and leave Heathrow’s madness behind. I certainly hope so; and I wish the same escape for those who are stranded in the distance.

I intend this to be my last blog post for 2010; shortly, I will be going on an extended holiday, and hopefully I will feel reinvigorated afterwards. If so, I am likely to have a lot more about which I wish to comment.

This year concludes with more than a tinge of sadness. On my birthday, the office chipped in for a card which featured a picture of a roller coaster. No photograph could have been more apropos. There have been the delights of graduation and my book being published, the troubles from the world of politics, and the lows of emotional turmoil and still-bitter regret. Nevertheless, the storms have been navigated, tasks have been completed, and the year ends with far less loose ends than which it began. So: to walk in the early morning through my town and see the twinkling of Christmas lights in shop windows seems a just reward. Soon I’ll take a trip and eventually come to a door marked “Exit”. My eyes will be bleary, but then light up when I find my family waiting on the other side. There will be the tree, the gentle lie-ins, the more chromatic dawns that are a feature of my place of origin. In a week’s time, I’ll awake, stare briefly at the ceiling, and know that I’m done. The reset button is soon to be pressed. New challenges await, but they can wait a little while.

Those who have read this blog through the year have accompanied me on this journey; I know there are a fair few, and for their presence, even though it was mostly unspoken, I am grateful. For them and for all, I finish up 2010 with a few observations which fill out the year’s end.

Earlier this week, I visited Birmingham on a business trip; I was there for a training course. On the evening prior to the seminar, I saw two couples while out walking: one was a pair of young women, the other a man and his girlfriend. Those who argue against marriage equality would perhaps have been surprised; the more “unnatural” of the two pairings was the latter. The two young women emerged from a store in front of me; my supposition is that one had bought the other a splendid gift. It merited a romantic kiss that took no heed of the world around them. The other couple was perched on the doorstep of Waterstones: they were arguing, the man doing his best to soothe his partner’s anger, which had erupted for an unspecified reason. No doubt the man and woman had their beautiful moments, and no doubt the two young women have their share of spats, but surely a mix between pleasure and pain is the hallmark of a true couple? And if the two relationships are equal in tenor and in the challenges that face them, surely the institutions which support both should be equal as well?

Birmingham was irritating in several respects: I found it very difficult to find a cash machine that actually had any money to dispense. People stood in long queues to few machines at a large branch of Lloyds Bank; I was one of them. It struck me as odd that having saved the banks that we taxpayers could demand no more than the usual. Contempt has rightly arisen in the breast of the body politic for all they do; yet they sail on and try to pretend that nothing has changed. This tension is unsustainable; it may come to a head in nations like Ireland which are sick of austerity. Sinn Fein’s win in the Donegal South West by-election, based on a platform of purposeful default, may point the way to the future. It would be better if the bankers and bondholders came to an arrangement with debtor nations that was far less punishing, lest they lose it all in the haircut to come; do they see this? Well, they haven’t enough sense to keep the cash machines fully loaded in the middle of a busy commercial area.

Another episode that crossed my path in Birmingham occured at the Bull Ring shopping mall. I disliked the old Bull Ring: its successor’s virtue lay in not being its predecessor. I tried to find a suitable place to eat; on the mall’s map, I located a Wagamama. On my way, I saw two security guards dragging off a middle-aged and dishevelled man wearing a blue baseball cap. He spoke in a strong Brummie accent: he complained that it wasn’t right. What the “it” was, I have no idea. I presume he was either drunk or mentally ill: nevertheless, he was troubled. It wasn’t right, he complained. The guards sympathised briefly before continuing to march him to the door and pushing him out in the cold. It wasn’t right. I understand the guards’ point of view: I found the man irritating too. However surely there was something better to be done? If he was homeless, could they not call a shelter? If he was mentally ill, surely a hospital should take him away? It wasn’t right.

The train ride back home was long and tedious. At the start of the journey, Virgin Trains felt the need to explain the rules associated with the issuance of tickets: they were so long and complicated that although my office had booked them, I was gripped by a near-panic at the thought that I might have the wrong kind. Very few types were apparently correct: pay anything other than full fare, unless you have a truly super-duper saver fare and a receipt signed by the (dead) Queen Mother, a penalty charge of £70 could apply. Of course, you could avoid this fate if you decided to get off in Coventry and take a London Midland train, which would arrive in London sometime in February. I do remember a nationalised rail service: while it had its egregious faults, at least the ticket pricing was far less Byzantine. Surely this is something that could be sorted out? Maybe?

It is threatening to snow again here in the South. Up in Scotland and the North of England, it is already coming down. This may be a feature of our future: according to research done in 2005, the Gulf Stream is slowing down. Britain is on the same latitude as Canada, and without the warming influence of the Gulf Stream, we can expect Canadian style weather. The cause? Melting ice in the Arctic may be playing merry hell with the currents. Perversely, climate change may lead to a future in which Britain is colder. Some would say, “it’s just our luck”. Those who wish to deny climate change merely refer to it as “global warming” and point to a dropping thermometer as if it is conclusive proof of their overly optimistic theories. Meanwhile, the problem remains unresolved.

Finally, Time has apparently decided to pick Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg as its “Person of the Year” instead of Julian Assange. It has occured to me that Assange is a litmus test on how one views democracy: leaving aside the accusations of rape, his major crime has been to rip off the mask Western governments wear and show that what we supposed is true turned out to be true, yet no one was ever supposed to say, and we were never supposed to know. Some don’t want to play these games and believe democracy is only served by having a populace which is fully informed. It’s a conundrum: how can we govern ourselves if we don’t have the detail of fact in our hands? Others feel that good government can only operate in the dark. I belong to the former camp. I hope Assange gets his day in court, but only one that is absent of any political taint.

At this point, my thoughts retreat. I think there is space now for engaging with classic episodes of Doctor Who or a work of light fiction and to smile untroubled for a time. Of course serious concerns will return and predominate, but the virtue of December lay in our ability to set them to one side. Pick up pleasure, embrace familial love, put up twinkling lights, be in awe of a tree in the living room. It is an innocent time. I wish that for all this holiday season: that there is space for an essential innocence, the best gift I can possibly imagine. May it be found, relished and cherished.

Happy Holidays.

It’s usually at about this time of year that I become particularly sentimental and my dreams are filled with images of my place of origin. I catch myself awaking with a start in the middle of the night and then feel disappointed that I’m in my bed in England as opposed to where I rest in New York. There is indeed something special about the city at Christmastime: I hesitate to define it in a few words. Perhaps it is its restless energy: at that point in the year, it is concentrated on leisure and enjoyment and it achieves its objectives with gusto. I find myself thinking not only about the crowds at Rockefeller Centre gathered to look at the tree, but also stepping into the building behind it: it is an art-deco masterpiece. It instantly transports me to the Thirties, when the main entertainment was radio and that radio was filled with glowing vacuum tubes. I can imagine a young Sinatra standing behind a large microphone and crooning about Christmas Eve.

Proceeding out into the chilly concrete canyons of the city once more, one finds further tantalising spectacles on Fifth Avenue: there is usually a long queue in front of Saks Fifth Avenue to look at the Christmas displays in their windows. Further down is perhaps one of the most pleasant restaurants in the city, Cipriani’s, which is connected to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel. When one enters the modest doorway, there is a brief opportunity to shake off the cold and bask in the warm, gentle glow of the restaurant. Order a Bellini. Have the gnocchi. Note the fading December sunlight with occasional glances at Central Park. Cherish the end of another year.

All these pleasures lay ahead of me, their promise contained in emails and telephone calls from home which state schedules and plans. All I have to do is get to the end of “working 2010″ and board a plane. Simple. Yet, it is air travel which is dominating the news from America as of late and not in a good way.

By no means do I consider my travels unique: I am sure that many individuals are standing on tiptoe to reach the end of this month and long just as much to grasp the holiday season with both hands. Airports in New York, Chicago, Los Angeles will soon face the onslaught of travellers looking for the right gate, getting shoved into tiny seats and enduring luggage carousels which are in effect glorified roulette wheels: round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows, will the right bag land on the right place? This gruelling, badly mechanised process has now been made worse by the intrusiveness of security: nowadays, passengers are required to subject themselves to a full body scan or a full pat-down which involves one’s genitalia. This is just the latest step on a long, downward stairway to America becoming the Kingdom of Paranoia in which the sole ruler is Fear.

Paranoia is not always counterfactual. It is certainly true that terrorists have attempted to conceal explosives in their underwear. However, paranoia often arises from intellectual laziness: rather than be mostly concerned about finding terrorists, those charged with protecting passengers are more concerned with finding bombs. Note the distinction: finding terrorists actually requires critical thinking. It requires analysis; perhaps a brief interview, as the Israelis do, and testing narratives of travel for consistency is a far better indicator than feeling up nuns. As Richard Reid proved with his cack-handed attempt to set his shoes alight, cleverness is not necessarily a feature of the modern terrorist. The facts suggest a gentler approach can work: beyond the Israeli example, while British air security can be intrusive, it does not reach as far as American procedures. Yet, its track record is sound: the Metropolitan Police continue to heavily rely on intelligence as a matter of course.

If this paranoia were solely limited to air travel, America might consider itself lucky: the damage could be limited to the President being asked, awkwardly, how Chicago is supposed to host the Olympics and thus welcome the world, when procedures to enter the country are so aggressive and difficult. However, the Kingdom of Paranoia does have other narratives: one of the most repeated ones has to do with American decline. Much of what I see out of the States has to do with concern about retreat from the nation’s “founding principles” and worry about the rise of China and India.

Let’s be clear: America is in decline, but it is a relative decline. America should not wish its greatness to be at the expense of say, China being poor and chaotic and Indians living amidst open sewers. The rest of the world was always going to want to improve their lot, and as such, the gap was destined to narrow. To suggest that returning to the past would establish some sort of paradise is incorrect: the Founding Fathers knew very well that theirs was a nation that needed improvement. Note the following phrase from the preamble of the Constitution: “in order to form a more perfect union.” The word “more” is significant: without it, then the idea that the nation was paradise on Day One is established. The “more” indicates that there is work to be done. Things changed, political parties shifted, programmes were provided as men of talent and hacks both tried to grapple with the nation’s needs and achieve “more”. But the propaganda of the Kingdom of Paranoia whispers in the ear, “It was better before”. It was better before women’s liberation, before birth control, before the advances in technology, before improvements to access to education and medical care. It was better when gays were in the closet, better when domestic violence was a private matter rather than a crime, better when political protest was considered an aberration. I humbly submit, no, it wasn’t. However, I am obviously in a minority: the American people just granted a House majority to those who wish to climb back down the ladder of history (admittedly, their opponents just wanted to hang off the rung they were on).

Perhaps America should cherish what it is and what it has, rather than waste time on being fearful. There are problems, of course, but there have always been difficulties: no period represents nirvana, merely the hopes, fears, achievements and troubles of a particular generation. Confidence should arise from realising there is so much good across the land: those travellers who wearily drag their way through airports in December are indicators of strong families (whatever the composition of those families may be), the spirit that the nation is able to summon at times of celebration as well as tragedy indicates that its soul is far from broken. It need not be a Kingdom of Paranoia, since it is a land that has so much good.

I open this review with a bit of a confession. When the last book in the Harry Potter series was released, I was out at midnight in my town, queued around the corner to get into Waterstones. My ex-girlfriend had introduced me to the books; prior to her suggestion, I’d been reluctant to embrace something so populist. A boy wizard indeed, had this not been done before? It seemed like it. However, due to her quiet urging, I eventually read all but the first two instalments, and enjoyed them. Not great literature perhaps, but they were entertaining. So I was relatively happy to stand in the midnight chill, waiting to file into the store. My ex went home early as she felt poorly, leaving me to my vigil.

When at last my turn came, I went inside and found that the familiar shop had been transformed: spiders’ webs, cauldrons, staff dressed as wizards and the bookshelves draped in black added to the atmosphere. I bought two copies with the childrens’ cover (no sense in hiding what it is, I thought) and went home. I brewed a pot of tea, and then my ex and I sat down and read our purchases. At about five AM, we finished more or less simultaneously. As I climbed into bed just as the dawn arrived, I realised I was satisfied. It was perhaps an all too brief good-bye, but nonetheless my appetite was satiated: I had closure in terms of both the plot and the characters, no more need have been explained.

The film version of the Deathly Hallows promises to be a much longer farewell: prior to arriving at the cinema, I already knew it had been divided into two instalments. I read a report which suggested that it could have been divided into three parts. However, time is getting on, and Daniel Radcliffe is only barely plausible as a gawky teenager, so thankfully, they kept it to two.

Once the lights dimmed and after an interimnable series of advertisements, it rapidly became obvious that this is going to be a long goodbye in another sense. Whereas this film’s predecessor had a brisk pace and a tight sense of timing, the first portion of the “Deathly Hallows” proceeds very slowly, almost tentatively, with only a few breaks in pace.

Early indications were positive: the film begins by focusing on Bill Nighy’s eyes; he was playing the role of the new Minister of Magic. A brilliant actor, the tremulous glance he gives the camera says much more than his words: he’s terribly afraid. This was followed by a breathtaking sequence in which Harry has to evade Voldemort’s henchmen to get to safety. However, shortly after this point the plot begins to drag. I couldn’t help but think of a verb known to fans of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, i.e., one is “Jossed”: Joss Whedon, Buffy’s creator, is a gifted storyteller, but his programmes tend to get more complex as time goes on, rendering them impenetrable to newcomers. “Deathly Hallows” is like this: we see characters from previous films process through, performing their swan song, taking a bow, in cases like Helena Bonham Carter’s Bellatrix Lestrange, taking obvious pleasure in being over the top. It’s necessary to cover all the bases, but it draws our attention to how many characters have made their way through the previous films. The procession in Deathly Hallows is punctuated with excellent special effects. There are genuinely touching moments at the death of some characters: however the film is too slovenly to have the same emotional impact as its predecessor.

Worse, there are moments in which the producers seem to indulge some of the dreams of fan fiction writers: there are moments of tenderness between Harry and his friend Hermoine Granger which border on the romantic and nearly tip over, a spectacle that no doubt that left some fan fiction scribblers more than a bit damp with glee. That said, the rickety structure holds thanks to the central relationships in the film between Harry, Hermoine and Ron Weasley. The actors having grown up together on film perhaps enables them to transcend a weak production: it is the one part of the movie that really rings true. They proceed with both intuition and understanding, and the rest doesn’t really matter.

This is not to say there are not other pleasures in the film: the telling of the Tale of the Three Brothers was very effectively done through a stylised cartoon. However, it’s impossible to get away from the fact that the narrative of this film is just too overloaded: the sudden cut off point for Part 1 led me to nearly say aloud a few expletives as it was another peak of interest, but this was followed by a sense of relief that I wouldn’t have to wait any longer to use the facilities. Those who wish to see this film should not do so accompanied by a large drink: even a medium sized one is a challenge.

After I stepped out of the cinema into a bitter November afternoon, I saw that there was a large crowd of parents and children waiting to get in. They looked eager, fresh faced and bright-eyed in anticipation of what they were about to see. In contrast, there wasn’t much chatter among those who were leaving. We are saying good bye to these characters, a slow, sometimes tedious, sometimes painful farewell. What makes means of departure bearable are the occasional smiles, the fleeting charm, the moments which catch the breath. There will be closure and no doubt some satisfaction: but afterwards, there will probably also be a big sigh of relief.

Far from being happy about the violence, most of the students at Demolition 2010 were outraged by what happened, such as the throwing of a fire extinguisher off the roof at police, as this video demonstrates clearly:

I am writing this a few hours after arriving home from the Demolition 2010 demonstration in London, which was organised to protest the tripling of student fees. So far as I can tell, the narrative about the event has been decidedly negative: pictures of students attacking the headquarters of the Conservative Party at Millbank Tower are likely winging their way around the world by now. Channel 4 News led with these violent images. It would seem that the London police, the demonstration organisers, the National Union of Students and my union have not emerged from today covered in glory. The attempts by people of goodwill to distinguish the peaceful majority from the riotous minority are worthy, however, the goal of sending a coherent, powerful and unambigious message to the politicians has not been achieved.

As part of my union duties, I joined the demonstration, though I never made it as far as Millbank Tower. I arrived relatively late, though before the march’s official start, thanks to train delays. In vain, I looked around for people I recognised. I was so desperate to march with someone I knew that I had an overoptimistic moment, saying hi to someone who looked vaguely like an acquaintance of mine. I hastily apologised.

Eventually I found students from my university; while I knew none of them, at least I had the slight reassurance that one might have at a family reunion filled with cousins thrice removed but just met. It was quickly apparent that I was stuck with them: shortly I was surrounded on all sides by protestors. Most were cheerful. Some blew whistles. Chants rose: “No ifs, no buts, no education cuts!” and “9K? No way!” Some clever signs were in evidence, such as “I am the Ghost of Nick Clegg’s Integrity” and one featuring a picture of David Cameron with the legend, “Some of my best friends are poor!”

We moved forward slowly. The crowd was addressed by two speakers who I could not see from my position: the first speaker was quite impassioned, but needed to invest in a better class of amplifier. Much of what he said was muffled. The next speaker was just as vehement and just as obscure. In any event, the noon hour struck and we shuffled forward onto Whitehall.

I felt a bit odd as an older person amidst all these young people: I seemed impossibly ancient. Keen to do something, I sent pictures to Twitter via my mobile and reported on what I was seeing. More signs passed me, “Nick Clegg’s lies make Education cry” and “Fee-Bull”. It was obvious early on that the Liberal Democrats were targets of particular ire: education cuts and additional fees were expected from the Conservatives, however the Liberal Democrats had promised to abolish fees altogether, which had apparently attracted a great many votes from the assembled crowd. The anger was made more visible by a sign which read “Clegg Utters No Truths”: the acronym tells the tale. Others chanted, “Nick Clegg, shame on you, you’re a f***ing Tory too!”: the moral of the story for all politicians may be that sometimes a promise is a promise. In contrast, there were a few “Vote Labour” signs, however, given that Labour introduced student fees in the first place, their presence was rightfully subdued.

The almost festive, if somewhat febrile atmosphere was enhanced by the sounds of drumming. We proceeded down Whitehall, again slowly, raising a cheer once we went past the gates to 10 Downing Street. I saw a sign which apologised for its lack of quality, however that was due to cuts in arts funding. The demonstration came to a halt in front of Parliament Square. A young lady in a flourescent vest and hard hat climbed above the crowd in the middle of a pedestrian crossing and encouraged us to sing the following song:

“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands
“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands
“If you hate the Coalition, then join the Demolition
“If you hate the Coalition, clap your hands.

“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, and should have been a banker
“If you think that Clegg’s a wanker, clap your hands.”

The young lady then informed us that the BBC had said that there were 52,000 people present. Overhead, helicopters hovered: the crowd raised a cry to them. Coincidentally, I think, my mobile’s access to the internet then died. The march then proceeded past the Palace of Westminster. It was liberating to be able to walk down the middle of the street in front of Parliament; the drumming got louder. Some students staged a sit-in. I continued onward. However, the march began to lose its solidity beyond the grounds of Parliament. I saw a group run down a side-street. I followed briefly to take a look, saw nothing, walked back to the embankment. I then made it as far as Horseferry Road, where there is a roundabout. A number of students were there, still chanting, holding signs, generally being peaceful. I thought the protest was over. So it was a surprise when I got the following text from a friend of mine:

“…burning placards and smashed windows at Tory HQ, apparently, that had better not be you!”

I looked around at the students and protestors. There had been a strong presence of a variety of Socialist Worker and far-left groups: because of how rapidly they divide and proliferate into smaller units, I have thought of them as akin to the Judean People’s Front from Monty Python’s “Life of Brian”. Their acolytes had been working the crowds, though with limited success so far as I could tell. At one point I’d been caught up behind a batch of Socialist Students, which was a more substantial bunch. However, the remnants traling behind seemed relatively subdued. I positioned myself in the middle of a pedestrian crossing, waiting for anyone I recognised, so I could ask what was going on. Meanwhile, a large group of police officers marched up Millbank heading towards Millbank Tower. This was followed by three large police vans also headed in that direction.

I decided to go the opposite way, partially because it seemed the body of the crowd was still in front of Parliament. On my way back, I saw students being interviewed by television reporters. The protest in front of Parliament hadn’t changed much since I had proceeded onwards: there was still the rhythmic drumming and chanting. Enough of the internet came back to my mobile for me to take another picture and to decry any violence. By this point the demonstration had lost most of its coherence: the point had been made. I followed a stream of students out past Westminster Abbey and walked towards Victoria Station.

I arrived at Victoria and picked up an Evening Standard as quickly as I could, to see how the demonstration was being received. Initial headlines were positive: the picture was of smiling students decrying the cuts. I got on a train and got out of London quickly: as my internet access improved, it rapidly became clear that the violence at Millbank Tower was going to be the major part of the story. I also read that some demonstrators had decided to lash out at Liberal Democrat Headquarters, though how far that got was difficult to discern. Stuck on a crowded commuter train, it was difficult not to let out a dissatisfied groan. Arriving home has not helped matters: I switched on the news, and the footage was of the violence that I simply did not see while I was there. Gone were the smiling students, their clever banners, their sincere concerns. Washed away was their very real dissatisfaction with the contrast between Liberal Democrat promises and the grim reality. At this point, it looks like a narrative of spoiled, disaffected students who vandalise property may be the one that is emerging, and it could very well be used to ram home the changes that so upset students, lecturers and university staff alike. Hopefully this is not what remains after the Demolition; it was so much more and deserves to be remembered as such.

Our present period reminds me of a line from the French film, “La Haine”: the narrator tells us that a man falling from a great height feels during his descent, “I’m all right”, and continues to repeat this mantra until he hits the ground. The cuts have been made, they are yet to be implemented. It’s difficult to know what to say or to do.

Fortunately, the esteemed journalist Kate Belgrave has an idea where to start. In a persuasive post entitled Fair Trade Starts At Home, she states the following:

Last week, 35 deluded business leaders wrote to the Telegraph to praise George Osborne’s cruel spending review.

I’m joining those who have decide to boycott every single company that those business leaders represent.

There are two reasons for this:

1) The first is that leaders on the list take us for suckers – a trait I rarely care for in people I spend my money with.

They wrote:

“There is no reason to think that the pace of consolidation envisaged in the Budget will undermine the recovery. The private sector should be more than capable of generating additional jobs to replace those lost in the public sector, and the redeployment of people to more productive activities will improve economic performance, so generating more employment opportunities.”

The letter authors decided the advantages of signing the letter meant more than being straight with their customer base.

And they weren’t straight with their customers at all. Liberal Conspiracy was leaked a private email that clearly demonstrated that people on the list had no confidence whatsoever in the nation’s ‘improved economic performance’ or the ‘generation of more employment opportunities’ of which their Telegraph letter spoke. Osama Saeed had the names of those who, when not flying pro-cuts and pro-government flags, were laying thousands of people off and/or telling grim tales about the realities of lie of the fiscal land.

It also seemed that many of the 35 had reasons for cheerleading Osborne’s mad plans – reasons that spoke of vested, rather than national, interests. Arup has just been awarded a major rail contract by the government. Another outstanding piece of Liberal Conspiracy work told us that BT’s government contracts had just been renewed and deals done on government contracts with Microsoft and AVEVA.

2) I do my best to spend my money with ethical businesses.

Companies that support the CSR are failed corporate citizens. They back an ideological programme of cuts that will throw thousands out of work and onto the mercy of a welfare system that itself will barely exist. In private, they have no suggestions for growth. In public, they’re collaborators who run a strong second line in denial. I would no more spend my money with them than I would with companies that beat t-shirts out of child workers in Bangladesh.

I am a consumer. I have money to spend. I will no longer do business with the retailers who appeared on that list. Fair trade begins at home.

Here’s the list, with the retailers I regularly use at the top. Vodafone is in a special mentions category. They weren’t signatories to the Telegraph letter, but I’m guessing Osborne takes their support as written. I’ll never darken their door again anyway.

Update: I went to a TUC-organised union steward’s meeting on Saturday and talked to local union members about the boycott. They thought it was a great idea – it’s something everyone can do. ASDA, Boots, Next and M&S all got special mention – everyone had been in at least one of those in the last week.

@dawnhfoster made this leaflet (PDF 25KB) for distribution and/or in case you want to keep the list on you.

Next
ASDA
Microsoft UK
Mothercare
Carphone Warehouse Group, TalkTalk Telecom Group
Alliance Boots
Marks & Spencer
Ocado
Dunelm Group
L.K. Bennett
Kingfisher
SSL International, moneysupermarket.com, Britvic
Towergate
Dhillon Group
Arup
ARM Holdings
GlaxoSmithKline
Reed Elsevier
Tullow Oil
UMECO
Prestbury Group
BT Group
MITIE Group
Inmarsat; Non-Executive Director lovefilms.com, The Betting Group
Hammerson
AVEVA
ASOS
Inmarsat
Fuller, Smith and Turner
Veetee
Sage
Diageo
Robert Walters
Harvey Nichols
Expansys, Stonehaven Associates, Yell Group

I can only agree with Ms. Belgrave’s suggestion. In the absence of elections and with politics paralysed, we can demonstrate, we can protest, and we can also “just say no” to those who support these draconian cuts.