Last night, I spoke to my father on the telephone. There were a number of matters we discussed, some heavy, some lighthearted, however one thing he said particularly stuck in my mind. He stated that a chapter in my life was ending, another was soon to begin. He finished off the conversation by reminding me that both he and my mother would see me soon.

It is odd how time can condense so starkly. I was awarded my doctorate in January, and formal graduation is now just a little over two weeks away. When I received my certificate in the post on a cold February day, that ceremony seemed very far off into the future. My parents’ arrival from New York was difficult to envisage. Yet so much has happened, so much life has been pushed into a tiny space that it seems a period in excess of five months has vanished in the blinking of an eye.

My father had other reasons for stating that the “chapter is ending”. In addition to my doctorate, my first novel will be released literally any day now. The task now sits with the printer rather than the publisher, and once they are ready, the pre-ordered copies will flow out of Amazon and Waterstones. A book launch is being arranged, as is a signing session. While these will be modest affairs, a humble beginning is nevertheless a start. It is a foundation upon which I can build my future writing endeavours. One day this may lead to the attainment of greater reknown, but that can wait; what was once burning ambition has cooled into soft glowing embers for the moment.

I also can be satisfied with my work. For one thing, in an era of high unemployment, I am glad to have a job at all. While it is not quite the destiny I had planned, nevertheless it has its compensations. I was recently rewarded with the confidence of my colleagues by being granted a more active and prominent role in the local chapter of my trade union. All in all, in terms of achievement and security, there is much to celebrate. My parents are taking my sister and myself to Paris after graduation; I suspect that I’ll have a moment of total peace when I look at the Seine and think, “I’ve made it”.

But again I return to my father’s words, a “chapter is ending”. Unless one is at the very end, that implies another segment is yet to begin. Herein lies a dilemma. Next month is also my birthday; I will be 38 years old. I look in the mirror each morning and see more grey hairs in my beard, fewer hairs on the top of my head. Time is condensing the range of possibilities which are open to me: while there is still a chance, I ask the man in the mirror, do I want to have a family?

I am planning to move by the end of the year. I have carefully looked at a number of areas within commuting distance of my university. However, that single leading question does lead to a modification in my criteria. A man without children may be attracted to the bohemian and seek out good restaurants and cultural venues. A family man must consider schools, must be more cognisant of crime statistics, must think about future prospects. It also has an impact on the type of house one considers: were I to go down the childless route, a two bedroom property would be perfectly adequate. With a family, nothing less than three bedrooms will do. Without children, I look at properties and think about shelf space for my books and getting a builder in to do an estimate. With children, those estimates still apply, but what about a loft extension? An extra bathroom? Should there be apple trees and a patio in the back garden?

Beyond practicalities, there are more emotive questions. Would I be a good father (and husband for that matter)? I have been reassured even by those who know the full measure of my iniquities and failings that I would be. Am I ready for the responsibility? I believe so; but I also have to smile at the thought of how many fathers arrive at that question after their partner gets pregnant.

Do I have the patience? Last week, I took a train to London which featured the Noisiest Child in Britain. He was a blonde haired boy, I estimate about two years old, and he wore a red Thomas the Tank Engine t-shirt. Any fluctuation in mood, from happiness, to sadness, to frustration was punctuated with incoherent screaming. The boy’s mother did her best to try and hold the squirming child to her, but his energies obviously couldn’t find the appropriate outlet; I wondered if sugar was to blame. Would I have the composure to deal with that? Yes and no. No, I couldn’t stop myself from being annoyed. Yes, I wouldn’t let it affect my parenting: though I might be a bit more apologetic to my fellow passengers.

But that was someone else’s child. I’ve considered how challenging a child of my own might be; what is likely to become the kernel of my next novel begins with a scene in which a five year old girl asks her father for a “bailout” of a “trillion yo-yos”. She claims to be in charge of a bank and that her prized stuffed animal is a “puppet who loaned money to muppets”. I do have a wild imagination, but there is something almost biological which enabled me to write that snippet: it’s as if I know my future progeny, and she (in this case) will be a something of a terror.

Finally, there are environmental questions to be addressed. It has been estimated by the United Nations that the world’s population will reach 9.3 billion by 2050. The carbon footprint of the average UK citizen in 2004 was 9.19 metric tons. Given the constraints on the planet’s resources, having children may seem an indulgence too far; my personal fulfilment may have negative consequences for the Earth.

Or perhaps not. One of the most attractive ideas about being a father is thinking about the potential that may lay within one’s child. I can foresee a future in which I hear the cry at 3 AM, and I proceed stumbling in the darkness to the crib and gently pick up my son or daughter. I rest him or her on my shoulder in a gesture of warmth and comfort. A pungent scent alerts me to the reason as to why the baby is crying. With a sigh, I proceed to the changing table, do what’s necessary and dispose of the old diaper into a rubbish bin. The baby is not quite asleep; I switch on a radio which is tuned to BBC Radio 3; “Through the Night” is playing Mozart. I sit on a rocking chair with my child in my arms, supine, resting his or her head on my shoulder, which I’ve draped with a small white towel. As I rock back and forth, looking at the moonlight shining through my window, I know that I’ll be dead tired in the morning. I know that there is work to do and bills to pay. I know that I have to stick money away every month so this one has a chance to go to university like I did. I know that there will be bad behaviour and lost items and terrible decisions to come out of that tiny sleeping form. But in that shape lay all the potential in the world too, to do well and to do good. Perhaps he or she will be the engineer to bring the trans-Atlantic train to fruition. Perhaps he or she will discover a cure for AIDS. Perhaps he or she will be an influential politician who will lead the country into a more enlightened age. Scientifically it may not be possible to quantify a justification for that child being there, and normally one should weigh a doubt against a certainty. But certain things lay beyond logic. It is with that in mind that I say wholeheartedly: if the next chapter of my life does contain the question, “to breed or not to breed”, I’d have to come down in favour of the former.

I suppose the most remarkable thing about the Emergency Budget is how calmly most people are taking it. If one lays out its main propositions in language less flowery than the Chancellor used, it is certainly inflammatory. The average citizen will be hit up for more tax, get less public services, pay more for their childrens’ university fees and unemployment will rise; however corporation tax will be reduced and the banks, which were the cause of much of our present troubles, will pay a small proportion of their income in new taxes. There will be a relatively small rise in capital gains tax and certainly no “Robin Hood” levy. A few have raised their voices against this fundamental injustice; however Labour is constrained by the fact that up until very recently, they too had a cozy relationship with big business. Brown’s praise of the supposed innovative genius of the City must still linger hauntingly in his memory and that of his Party, which perhaps explains his tasteful absence from the Commons as of late. Or at least, one would hope so.

Caroline Lucas, of course, has spoken against the unfairness of the budget. So have the trade unions. But by and large there is a collective shrugging of shoulders, a weariness in the vox populi which merely replies, “Let’s get on with it.”

But why? Surely there should be much more rage that arises from this unbalanced equation? I suspect part of our present passivity has to do with a perception that the entire political establishment is simultaneously corrupt and immovable. They overspent, they took money they shouldn’t have to give themselves a cosseted lifestyle, and now the cheque has come due. Caroline Lucas’ forthrightness raises a smile, but she can’t do it all by herself. This is reality. Let’s just get on with it.

But this “reality”, as has been spelled out by Dr. Lucas, is due to choices. Choices imply “more than one option”. There are other means by which the deficit can be reduced: corporation tax in Britain is already among the lowest in the developed world. Why lower it further? Why not raise it slightly? Every individual home or car owner is well acquainted with the concept of insurance: we pay premiums in exchange for security. Surely the banks should be paying something similar in exchange for the limitless cover they receive? Salaries, particularly in the financial industry, have exploded beyond all rational measure, creating a two-tiered society: namely the super-rich and the rest of us. Surely we should claw this back for the benefit of all? Few say this, more just accept things as they are. Let’s just get on with it.

Perhaps we’re so stitched up because we’re dreaming. Slavoj Zizek, in his documentary entitled “A Pervert’s Guide to the Cinema”, described the dilemma facing Keanu Reeves’ character Neo in “The Matrix”. Neo is offered a choice: one pill which will enable him to go back to the fantasy land which he has inhabited hitherto, and another which will awaken him to grim reality. Zizek then interjected that he wanted a third pill, because he wished to see the illusion contained within reality.

We all participate in building and sustaining such mirages. A couple of days ago, I talked to a couple of work colleagues about one of the most fundamental of them all. I fished a five pound note out of my wallet and pointed to the phrase, “promise to pay the bearer the sum of five pounds”. I asked, “Five pounds of what?” Certainly not gold. Definitely not barley, wheat, even bicycle clips. It’s a fantasy to which we adhere and by which our economy functions. We are trading around illusions of value but they have the force of reality. As this example demonstrates, we are compelled by imagination to blend in elements of fiction into our existence; the problem is that we can become prisoners of the same. At the moment, we are locked in a nightmare world in which inconstant markets can decide that British debt is not worth buying and send our credit rating crashing to the ground. This budget is being done in obeisance to its requirements; in other words, we cannot imagine an alternative to obeying the perceived dictates of an economic system. In our present visualisation of the economy, rather than it being the servant of man, man has become its servant, constantly feeding it with monetary and fiscal measures and paying attention to its needs to the point where we care more about its welfare than those it consumes.

“Lack of imagination” sounds like something that can be easily cured. But the pervasive “let’s just get on with it” mood shows how deep the malaise runs. A reading of the philosopher Jean-Jacques Rousseau suggests that it took root (along with civilisation) at the moment when someone enclosed a bit of land and said “This is mine”, and no one stopped this individual. Rousseau stated that this man should have been called an imposter; yet no one did. A dearth of vision now overrides fundamental notions of justice, the human talent for seeing things as disproportionate, the natural urge to correct and straighten. It has in essence, reduced the populace to mere sheep, and few of those are baying.

Is there hope? Certainly. The lack of universality of present assumptions is a good start. When the pain starts to really bite, then there may be a space in which both more widespread questions and alternatives emerge. Indeed, there is a case to be made which suggests that the Coalition Government knows not what it does: as a result of their policies, they are going to increase unemployment to 8.1% this year. Their assumptions of future growth and employment are based upon the economy having had enough blood sacrifice to satisfy its appetite, a hunger whose satiation is challenging to quantify. The figures could be wrong, and in response, a much poorer populace may start to ask “Why?”, a query which I suggest is the starting point to any great change. In other words, the Government’s lack of imagination in the face of crisis may be the undoing not only of them, but all the supposed facts upon which their policies rest. Yes, for the moment, the sheep are largely quiet and dreaming, but it may just take a few lashings of austerity and the presentation of a new vision to transform them into lions.

It’s been rather difficult to focus on politics lately. Panem et circenses abounds particularly at World Cup time: who really wants to think too deeply about current affairs when England’s lineup is suspect and those bloody vuvuzelas haven’t been banned from matches as they damn well ought to be?

I am not immune to this; I have been saying “Hup, Holland, Hup” with the best of them. As my favoured chant indicates, perhaps oddly, my team is the Netherlands. This is for two reasons: first, I lived there for approximately a year and a half and learned the langauge. Second, Dutch fans, unlike their English counterparts, are generally happy. As was stated in a wonderful book about the Netherlands team, “Brilliant Orange” by David Winner, the point of Dutch football is not necessarily to win, but to play the game beautifully. It’s difficult not to find such adherence to quality beguiling, particularly in contrast to the constant rainstorm of complaint from both press and fans that thoroughly drenches the English team.

Such distractions, however, do serve a political purpose, albeit unintentionally. The government has just announced a series of cuts which in a time with less static would bring our present predicament into sharper focus. £10.5 billion of cuts to projects commissioned in the last days of the Labour government are to go: these include relatively harmless if petty cuts such as eliminating free swimming for pensioners and children, but they also are comprised of items such as the cancelling of an £80 million loan to Sheffield Forgemasters, and the shelving of a £450 million project to build new hospitals in the North Tees and Hartlepool area.

The cut to Sheffield Forgemasters looks particularly ridiculous: it seems the government is merely cutting without thinking about the costs associated with making the cut. If Sheffield Forgemasters either closes or shifts production abroad, how much greater will the bill be in terms of unemployment benefit? How much tax revenue will be lost? How much further will the battered industrial sector decline? It’s upon asking these questions that one can perhaps detect what the Coalition Government is intent on: we’re not in for an “Era of Austerity”, rather, we are embarking on the “Age of Cheapness”.

There is a critical difference between being cheap and being frugal. For example, a frugal person will take great care in buying a pair of shoes: he or she will want a pair that is sturdy, comfortable, and durable. The point of the spending at the point of purchase is not to have to expend money again anytime soon. A cheap person however will just buy a pair of crocs, wait until they fall apart, and then buy another pair. A more stark example was highlighted in “Food Inc.”; the film introduced the viewers a Mexican-American family living just above the poverty line. In order to feed themselves, they relied almost solely on “dollar meals” from fast food restaurants though they knew vegetables would be better for them. However, the family now suffers from diabetes, and the medication required to treat it is hardly cheap; the matriarch of the family described how her husband suffered from attacks without it. In this case, cost was not eliminated, merely postponed. It was spread out over a number of increments, and while there was a “sugar rush” of savings in the first instance, it ultimately proved to be a self-defeating exercise.

However, cheapness appears to be one of the most critical success metrics at this time. Politicians, environmentalists and pundits alike seem to be mystified as to how BP could have gotten itself into its present bind: yesterday, this turned into outright anger as BP’s CEO Tony Hayward testified, blandly and ineffectively, on Capitol Hill. However BP’s problems pre-date Hayward’s arrival in post: his predecessor, Lord Browne, was focused almost entirely on cost-cutting. Shareholders loved him because he delivered improved profits in the short-term. Browne even gained the confidence of Peter Mandelson; as a result, he now heads up the panel which is deciding the future of University student fees. However, his cuts at BP meant that he had gutted research and development as well as engineering expertise; it is entirely likely that he embedded a pernicious culture into BP which has emphasised cheapness which has outlasted his departure. Indeed, one of the few plausible reasons for BP picking a problematic sub-contractor like TransOcean, which has had a string of fatal accidents in 2002, 2003, 2005, 2007 and 2008 as well as today’s calamity, is because they could probably offer their services at a lower price. Worse, because of BP’s cost cutting, they couldn’t effectively inspect the work being done on their behalf. However cheapness in this case was not only fatal for the bottom line, it has literally killed people and brought environmental devastation to the Gulf coast.

Yet, our business and political leaders seem oddly reluctant to learn this lesson: there is so much emphasis on “savings now”, “cuts now”, that they are not considering the price to be paid in the near and long term. Our leaders cut university places today: but what are the economic costs of long-term youth unemployment or a deficit of skills? They cut loans to industry now: yet what is the price to be paid by the business and the other firms which rely on that firm remaining in place? What happens to the skillsets of those workers; does the knowledge die out? They cut hospitals: but what are going to be the eventual costs of clearing up the lack of care for the regions affected? When one considers these factors, the government doesn’t look particularly effective nor prudent: it merely appears to be short-sighted. Rather than showing leadership, this Government seems to be being led by the nose by the markets whose passions have already proved fickle and untrustworthy. No doubt the bond holders will be happy with the Government’s announcement, just as shareholders in BP were once delighted by Browne, but as BP shows, the joy is temporary, the real costs and the genuine pain are to come. If this Government really wants to put the nation’s finances back into order, it needs to embrace being frugal, not cheap. Making qualitative moves may not always make you a short term winner, as any fan of the Netherlands can say with a rueful grin, but in the long run, it means that choices are being on the basis of wisdom rather than convenience.

Food, Inc [DVD] [2009]

Eric Schlosser (Primary Contributor). Dogwoof Ltd 2009, DVD, £8.15

It’s difficult to diet. It’s usually at the point that one decides to cut back that chocolates, cakes and cookies seem to lay in wait in supermarkets and farmers markets, ready to pounce upon one’s tastebuds. The scent of sizzling steak or bacon suddenly wafts through the air, and in the bright early summer sunshine, healthy, hearty individuals appear at tables outside pubs, sipping pints of golden ale.

However, I suggest if you are having trouble getting started with reducing your intake, a good way to begin is to watch Food Inc., which was directed by Robert Kenner.

The film’s stated intent is to peel away the mask from the modern food industry. As it demonstrates at the start, when we think of food, the mental images tend to be pastoral, if somewhat quaint: we envisage cows in a verdant field, chewing on grass. We think of farmers tilling the soil in sun-dappled landscapes. Chickens strut around yards strewn with hay, pecking their way through corn; roosters perch atop fences and crow at the first light of dawn.

However, thanks to the research in part provided by Eric Schlosser, author of “Fast Food Nation” and Michael Pollan, author of “The Omnivore’s Dilemma”, Food Inc. ruthlessly rips apart our assumptions, and shows how awful the food business has become in the United States.

First, there are no verdant fields. The point is driven home by an aerial view of a cattle ranch: I saw no green, rather, it was just a brown patch of earth, with far too many cattle huddled together. I assumed that the brown was not soil. The cattle are given the wrong feed: rather than provided with grass, they are fed corn, which has the unintended consequence of encouraging the growth of the E.Coli bacillus. As a food safety activist recounts in this film, this disregard for safety has led to many deaths, including the passing of her own young son from kidney failure less than two weeks after consuming an infected hamburger.

Was the food industry’s response to switch their cattle to a grass diet? No. Rather, they send ground beef to a plant in Nebraska which literally washes the meat with ammonia. According to the proud owner of the “washing” plant, his business was booming.

After all, a grass diet is expensive compared to corn. The film also explores the perverse relationship between big business, the American government and corn: the crop is subsidised to the point that its price is below the cost of production, a situation which has driven Mexican farmers out of business and encouraged illegal immigration, and then the migrants end up working for large food conglomerates in low paid, dangerous meat packing jobs. The companies themselves are never charged with any infractions, but they do allow the deportation of some of their workers from time to time. More pertinently, the ridiculous system of corn production has led to the crop being utilised as cattle feed, in spite of the obvious drawbacks. It also makes an appearance in many products as high fructose corn syrup, which has long been used in place of sugar. The film shows us an entire list of products which contain it, some of which were a complete surprise.

What both corn and livestock have in common is that they are treated as industrial products, rather than as anything linked to an agrarian heritage or concern for the land; we are informed that the arrival of the fast food industry was a contributing factor. The assembly line nature of cooking McDonalds’ hamburgers led to a situation in which the contributing ingredients were also produced in an mechanised manner. It has led to larger and fewer conglomerates producing food, who use their leverage to squeeze costs, influence the political process, destroy the environment and overcome safety regulations. It means that fast food is cheaper in the United States than vegetables: Food Inc. introduces us to an impoverished family who are suffering from a bevy of health problems as a result, including Type 2 diabetes.

Just when one reaches the point that one never wants to eat in the United States again, the film shows that it’s no fun being a farmer either. Monsanto, which was recently labelled the most unethical company in the world, develops genetically modified soybeans as a mainstay of its business. But even if you don’t buy their soybeans, they have managed to “patent life” as it were: so if a honeybee lands in a field full of Monsanto beans, and then carries pollen to a field which isn’t, the resulting seed is considered Monsanto’s property. We are shown the heartbreaking case of soybean farmers in the Midwest who didn’t want to use Monsanto’s seeds, but nevertheless were sued as if they were stealing them right out of the factory: it proved to be less expensive for the farmers to just settle. A seed cleaner, whose role it is to help farmers preserve seeds for planting the following year, was similarly subjected to rough treatment: he also settled out of court and apparently was forced to shut down his business.

At this point, the question is raised, where is the government in all this? Well, it appears that it is right in the food industry’s pocket: the revolving door relationship between companies like Monsanto and the government is dramatically illustrated. For example, a lawyer who advised Monsanto on genetically modified product labelling is shown to have ended up being in charge of such labelling at the Food and Drug Administration. Supreme Court Justice Clarence Thomas, who wrote the majority opinion on the case which allowed Monsanto to “patent life”, had worked for them in a previous capacity. This is by no means a “Republican problem”; Democrat administrations are just as linked and just as culpable.

So: the film shows that the food supply is unsafe and unhygenic, it exploits both producers and consumers alike, and has thoroughly corrupted the United States government and the justice system. So what’s the good news? Food Inc. fortunately isn’t devoid of it: we are shown an organic producer who refuses to scale up, and by and large, lives up to the mental image one has of a farmer: the animals are rightly placed in verdant fields and even though we’re shown how chickens are taken to slaughter, the sight is strangely appetising. We are also introduced to a larger concern, Stonyfield Farms, which provides organic dairy products; they seem to be operating at a higher level of environmental and social concern despite having been bought by the giant Groupe Danone and becoming a supplier to Wal Mart. However, the special features on the DVD made me worried about the latter case: an interview with the director is preceded by a “sponsored by Stonyfield Farms” message. Nevertheless, the CEO of Stonyfield did make one useful point: it is consumers at the point of purchase who are best positioned to change how the food system works at the present time. Given he American government’s bipartisan collusion with the food industry, it’s difficult to disagree.

After the film ended, I tried to comfort myself with the thought that at least the rules in Europe are tighter and genetically modified shenangians are less prevalent here. However due to previous work I’ve done, I have a passing acquaintance with the food industry in Britain: as constrained as they may be, it’s not because of moral compulsion. Given the opportunity, they would like to ape their cousins across the Atlantic; I recall reading one particularly disgusting article about how pies were manufactured: it seriously discussed using cheaper cooking oils plus more water and filler in order to cut costs, yet ensure “quality” was maintained. Indeed, Food Inc. drives the point home that eating anything that doesn’t come directly from the producer runs the risk of coming from such dubious practices; once again, it proves that when faced with a choice between thinking about the customer or the bottom line, and I suggest these two parties are increasingly in opposition, they will always favour the latter. Food Inc. provides a disgusting, if necessary public service in forcing us to confront this reality, as well as having the side benefit of being an excellent appetite suppressant.

I’m rather relieved that Father’s Day will soon be upon us. After it’s over, I won’t have to purchase any gifts for the next 3 months; given the present strains on my bank account, this is helpful. However, between here and there, I am going to have to find something suitable, write a thoughtful note, and have it shipped. This is a ritual which I’ve been going through repeatedly since Christmas. Once one occasion has been addressed, another follows in its wake: birthdays follow Christmas which are then followed by “greeting card” holidays for Mothers, Fathers and even St. Patrick. I recall standing in a New York mall shortly after New Years Day: while the Christmas lights were still aglow and bright red ornaments adorned plastic pine trees, the displays of various shops were already implying that it was not too soon to make purchases for Valentine’s Day.

Much has been said about consumption built upon the manipulation of desire through marketing; what is less often discussed is the consumerism which is constructued upon a foundation of guilt. The direct implication is that if one does not acquire a certain set of material goods, then one is somehow lacking in appreciation or affection for the individual who should be honoured. All other considerations go out the window at that point. For example, prior to Mother’s Day, my father sent my sister and I the following note:

My Dear Children,

Just wanted to remind you that Mother’s Day (US) is on 9 May.

Dad

There are subtle messages embedded in this jotting. My father was not just reminding us of the date, he also was telling us to get her something. In the case of my family, the gift need not be dramatic. Regardless, there must be some token of affection in order to remember the day, which is itself a gross construct upon a noble foundation. The first suggestion of a “Mother’s Day” in the United States came from women’s peace groups after the Civil War; the event was supposed to be one of reconciliation between mothers on both sides who had lost their sons. We do not question the monstrous distortion that has taken place since, we just scramble to fulfil the requirement, in other words, we are acting in performance of a consumerist ideology. As Marx suggested, this occurs when “We are not aware of this, nevertheless we do it.” My mother has no need to doubt my affections towards her, nor does my father need to question the fact that I hold her in high regard: this is evident in the consideration, affection and kindness I endeavour to show her on a constant basis. Yet, the slate is wiped clean as per the strictures of this “holiday”; by this process, familial affection has turned into an act of material consumption, and lest one thought be lacking in love, one trundles down to the shops.

I wish I could say that I am free of ideology in this regard; I’m not. My last birthday was a particularly traumatic example; upon my awaking, my girlfriend wished me a happy birthday, but had not gotten me a card, nor a gift, nor arranged anything for us to do on the day (fortunately, I had bought theatre tickets). I am not so removed from our present culture as to not have been hurt by this and to question her affection for me. However, perhaps my study of philosophy and political economy came to my aid: they may have granted me a sense of proportion. I was much more hurt by the fact that she blamed her inability to give a gift or a card on my supposed lack of appreciation for any previous gifts she had given me; in contrast, I truly cherished a handmade card given to me by my sister. However, later that day, I operated in performance of the ideology again by getting my girlfriend a bag of chocolate buttons to break her out of a deep sulk: I wasn’t aware, but nevertheless I did it, I bought her something so that her mood would lighten. It worked.

Some may sigh at this point and ascribe this situation to being “the way of the world”. This is false: there is nothing written into the fabric of our DNA which suggests that we have to buy a gift on Mother’s Day. It’s a construction made by people, society and productive relations, and like any edifice, it can be altered. But at this point, the link between consumption, guilt and affection is so deeply embedded it may require a detonation of some of our more rock solid pre-conceptions.

If we must give gifts, perhaps we ought to decouple them from holidays provided by Hallmark. Or perhaps we should try to imbue tokens of affection with meaning; this has been an aspiration of mine, perhaps linked to a writer’s desire to “make words say more than words can say”. For example, a long time ago, I loved a young lady whose favourite book was Virginia Woolf’s “Mrs. Dalloway”. The novel began as a story entitled “Mrs. Dalloway on Bond Street”, which appeared in the Dial magazine in 1923; I secured an original copy for her. The thing was not the thing in and of itself; it was an attempt to say in something other than words, “I hear you”, which perhaps meant more than “I love you”.

Come to think of it, it may be time to get rid of the phrase “I love you”, as it has been undermined by consumption and perverted by what it doesn’t necessarily mean. One can say “I love you”, but while our overall concept of the emotion may betoken trust, intimacy, compassion and forbearance, it is also so nebulous as to be able to exist in the absence of what it implies. There are couples who say “I love you” but don’t trust each other, indeed, on a fundamental level, may not even like each other. “I love you” is also well in evidence after 10 PM in many dance clubs and bars throughout the British Isles, but its sole meaning is “I want to sleep with you” or “I’m very drunk”. Because the term is so debauched, it may be a more meaningful act to skip over “I love you”‘s soggy wretchedness and go directly to “I trust you”, “I want you”, “I understand you”, and “I forgive you”. Unlike “I love you”, the measurements of these expressions are much more direct: love is amorphous, trust is demonstrable. Furthermore, this approach may overcome the consumptive barrier: you can buy a gift on Valentine’s Day, true forgiveness rarely has a price tag.

But then again, I could be wrong: perhaps the Hero (or Heroine) of our age is the one who can imbue “I love you” with direct meaning once more, and can separate out emotional life from material life. I do not present myself as such an individual, nor would I suggest I am anywhere near it. However perhaps one positive instance of “we are not aware, but nevertheless we do it” arises from the hope that still continues to arise from utterances of the phrase “I love you” in spite of the accumulating evidence that it is merely a cover for a transaction or series of transactions (or worse, nothing). We are not aware, but we individually hope for the Hero or Heroine to come, to break the chains which bind both mind and soul, and imbue life with something more meaningful than shopping. The hope may be forlorn, but it suggests that we are more than just consumers: it’s a start.

My take on the horrors which were inflicted on the Gaza flotilla is perhaps slightly different than most. I can’t help at look at the events of the past few days and think Israel has made itself a dunce among nations. If they really wanted to avoid a conflict, they should have let the ships through. Furthermore, they should have allowed them to unload their cargo unmolested. No doubt Hamas would have made a big show of their arrival, fired a few guns in the air, and then the activists would have gone home. It would have been forgotten by the media in about 48 hours as it wouldn’t have qualified for the old maxim, “if it bleeds, it leads”. Afterwards, things would have continued as previously. However Israel decided that it had to appear tough; the fallout from their brutality is becoming more dire by the day. Turkey is referring the matter to NATO, Iran’s Revolutionary Guard have offered to escort further convoys. Machismo in this case made matters so much worse than they could have been; yet Israel is apparently unrepentant.

However this is not the only recent instance in which the need to appear strong has superceded sense. One of the most irritating aspects of the New Labour Government was its near-total inability to admit error. There were a few exceptions which proved the rule. For example, Alistair Darling dared to admit that things were bad, and apparently the “forces of hell” were unleashed against him. More typical was Immigration Minister Phil Woolas, who found it difficult to acknowledge any mishandling of the Gurkhas’ case. The avatar of New Labour, Peter Mandelson, attacked anyone who dared to question his party’s competence or credibility. It was so absurd and insulting that I found myself at times screaming “Be human!” at the television, a rage that was only soothed by the likes of Darling, Nick Brown or Tessa Jowell, who were sufficiently clever to acknowledge fault openly. But overall, Labour hasn’t learned any lessons. It does not appear that the upcoming leadership election is going to be a choice from among the humble: humility is not a defining characteristic of the Milibands, and as for their most obnoxious opponent, I suggest the Labour movement needs less Balls, more brains.

Machismo even transcends the constraints of science and engineering. President Obama is presently in trouble because of his inability to find the right emotional register in relation to the Louisiana oil spill. Apparently the public needs to see him get angry at BP for its lack of care and concern. The President’s Press Secretary, Robert Gibbs, stated when pushed on the issue that the President did indeed get angry, after all, Barack’s jaw clenches. Somehow remaining dispassionate and thoughtful in this instance is perceived as weakness or showing a lack of empathy, rather than as an attempt to be purposeful and constructive.

North Korea is a swaggering state. Its people are subject to famines, yet as a recent trip by the reporter Sue Lloyd of BBC’s Newsnight indicated, they are very hesitant to admit they need anything. For example, during a visit to a collective farm, one of Ms. Lloyd’s minders felt the need to stand in front of an approaching tractor in order to block the view of a prominent European Union logo. The party line was to say that the state produced everything the people needed, in spite of it being absurdly obvious that it wasn’t true.

Emotional incontinence is also prominent feature of economic life. I recently consulted with an academic who is preparing a research project which will examine the cultural aspects of boom and bust. As part of her preliminary work, she had taken some time to absorb the culture of the trading floor. The language used by the brokers is apparently sexual and graphic: if they’ve done well, then the trader has been the perpetrator of coitus, if they’ve done poorly, then the trader has been the unwilling recipient. This is not merely a matter of throwaway statements, it is an ongoing dialogue between the market and the individual. One might expect instead, however, that these people would be attempting to make rational decisions about how and where money should go and what investments to support; not at all, it appears that beating the market is some sort of triumph more akin to the Vikings pillaging a Northumbrian village.

On a more micro-level, I’ve seen mistakes persist in spite of the fact that saying, “I was wrong, I’m sorry, let’s try a different approach” would have been less costly for all concerned. All of the above cases indicate that far too many people are performing for an audience, real or imagined. They are metaphorically stripped to the waist and carrying a short sword in the arena of gladiatorial combat. The blood may race, the pulse may quicken, and even triumphs may be achieved, but in the final analysis, this is killing us. Imagine if Gordon Brown had been able to say, “I was wrong, I’m sorry, let’s try a different approach” at the beginning of the credit crisis? It’s likely he would have been able to enact more progressive policies to alleviate the slump, and while there would have been some flak for admitting failure, at least much of error’s stain would have been expunged by the abandonment of hubris. Imagine if the media emphasised thinking over feeling? Perhaps their focus then would have been on what intellectual firepower President Obama is bringing to bear on the problem of the oil spill; indeed, his focus would be more on solving the actual problem than handling the publicity associated with it. Imagine if market traders operated in an atmosphere in which they carefully sorted through their investments, did their homework and didn’t think of it as series of one-night stands: perhaps they would have looked at the contents of complex derivatives and realised that despite the potential returns, it wasn’t worth the risk. However, some pathological need to appear strong is preventing us from being a stronger society.

I wish I could say that I believe more women in top jobs is a particular answer; I have a tendency not to believe in silver bullets. Margaret Thatcher was certainly not lacking in testosterone, even if excessive use of this quality offended and dismayed colleagues: in the end, this felled her. However, a more gender-balanced approach could help change the culture from one based on pseudo-virility to one based on reason and humility. It is this change that we need; the pervasive poison of our present culture is literally murdering people in settings as diverse as off the shores of Gaza and the famine-plagued cities of North Korea. According to the Catholic Catechism, pride is one of the seven deadly sins: when one first hears it, it may not seem so. After all, what’s wrong with having self-esteem? Progress, however, may be achieved by recognising that in many instances it has tipped over from a matter of acknowledging one’s own worth to being an absolute menace to mankind.

Capitalism – A Love Story [DVD] [2009]

Michael Moore (Primary Contributor). Paramount Home Entertainment 2009, DVD, £6.00

I am not a big fan of Michael Moore’s work. This isn’t because of a big difference in political outlook, but rather, it’s because he suffers from a condition endemic in Hollywood: a tendency to oversimplify. I do understand that the market he is trying to reach generally require more punchy messages than complex facts, but it is a penchant of mine to prefer the latter to the former.

That said, I had read a number of positive reviews of his latest work, “Capitalism: A Love Story”, which suggested that I should take a second look. I also thought that the discussion of a theme as broad as our present economic system perhaps would be more conducive to the type of film Moore likes to make.

Early indications were good: Moore unearthed a clip from a 1950′s documentary regarding the fall of Ancient Rome. The narrator described the factors which led to its fall: a widening gap between rich and poor, a lack of suitable employment for the unskilled, the deployment of violent spectacle in order to distract the populace, and the concentration of power into the hands of an elite. As if these similarities weren’t jarring enough, Moore interspersed pictures of modern Washington and today’s television programmes in order to drive the point home. Moore then delivered another killer blow by showing a forcible eviction occurring in Lexington, North Carolina: thanks to the evictee possessing a video camera, we see the view from the inside as well as out. The pounding on the entrance by what looked like half-a-dozen officers, then the final taking of the door off its hinges was horrific: but again, the point is clear, this is what recession in America looks like, in all its gruesome detail.

Moore’s penchant for oversimplification reared its head soon afterwards: he described a “Golden Age” of capitalism, i.e., the period during which he grew up. While he accurately mentioned that the wealthy paid a 90% tax rate, he ignored the entire global system which had been constructed to maintain the economic order: he never mentioned Bretton Woods (I take it that John Maynard Keynes isn’t on Moore’s bookshelf). Nor was the subsequent collapse of Bretton Woods mentioned; the oil shocks and rise of inflation were also ignored. Rather, we jumped to a powerful and relevant speech by President Carter in which he stated that consumerism was undermining human identity.

The film was at its best when sticking to particular narratives. I was utterly horrified by his expose of a case in Pennsylvania in which a privately run youth detention centre had made an arrangement with a couple of corrupt judges. The officials agreed to funnel almost any young offender into the “care” of the centre, both sides thereby making massive profits in the process. Even more appalling were the stories which described “Dead Peasant” insurance; apparently, companies take out life insurance out on their employees with the firm as the beneficiary. In some cases, it is indeed to the company’s good if their employees die. A bereaved wife found out that her husband’s employer made $5 million out of his death from cancer; a former Wal Mart employee found out that the company made $81,000 when his wife died due to a severe asthma attack.

Having established that capitalism leads to immoral and depraved behaviour, as well as wrecking neighbourhoods across the United States, Moore failed to land a knockout punch: as a number of academics including David Harvey have stated, capitalism (at least in its present form) simply doesn’t work. Moore was right to highlight the complexity of derivatives and show modern finance as being little more than a glorified casino. However, he missed out on how Merck nearly was wrecked by producing Vioxx, a drug it had to withdraw: this was a consequence of an innovation model which no longer works in a era of diffuse information. He also seemed to suggest that the collapse of the financial system was an elaborate swindle: not quite. Moore may not have been aware of Harvey’s calculation that for capitalism to endure that it has to get 3% return, year on year, but the opportunities to achieve that are becoming more and more limited. As a result, capital is attracted to fictions which eventually detonate; we are living in a “post-detonation” period at the moment. The environment also received no mention in Moore’s film; it’s all very well to be nostalgic for a previous era, but even that way of life couldn’t endure simply because the earth can’t take it.

A final oversimplification was Moore’s referral to the “rich”. It’s difficult to take this broad brush description too seriously as Moore isn’t precisely poor himself, though he did his best not to let on. It also failed to make a distinction between the Lloyd Blankfeins of this world and say, the Andrew Carnegies: as much as the latter was a “robber baron”, at least he produced products that people wanted, and left behind educational (Carnegie Mellon University) and cultural (Carnegie Hall) institutions which persist to this day. What can certainly be said is that the parasites do outnumber the benefactors at the present time: however Moore didn’t say this, and it blunted some of his argument.

Moore seems to hope that the election of Barack Obama was a significant political moment, and that somehow Franklin Roosevelt’s agenda for a “Second Bill of Rights”, which had full employment and health care at its core, will be fulfilled. While there have been steps in the right direction, given the presence of people like Larry Summers and Tim Geithner at the heart of government (who Moore rightly castigated), this hope seems somewhat forlorn. But as ever, it was individual stories which made the film sparkle: Obama may not represent a turning point in and of himself, but the tale of the sit-in by the workers at Republic Windows and Doors in Chicago certainly showed that the boundaries of possibility have been extended by Obama’s election. Indeed, this one tale may represent the best of Moore’s film and his message: it is not necessary to accept things as they are. Given a bit of leverage and a willingness to say “no”, the world can indeed shift.

So David Laws, Chief Secretary of the Treasury, is gay. The revelation was exploded forth by the Telegraph and has all the appeal and grace of a Friday night expulsion of cheap lager from the guts of a inebriated teenager. There are already rumours circulating around the internet that Alistair Campbell, New Labour’s chief bile merchant, is responsible: if so, this would hardly be a surprise. There is a grubbiness, a griminess that surrounds this entire episode which speaks of New Labour’s once formidable spin machine. It says much that after its defeat, it is reduced to spewing tawdry gossip.

There are financial issues, of course. Laws claimed rent for a room in his partner’s home, which is apparently a breach of rules set out in 2006. However, had he not claimed, it is entirely possible that he feared the tabloids might start asking questions: there is no doubt that he was firmly ensconced in the closet and had no desire to leave its confines. Every newspaper I’ve read so far suggests that he had hidden his orientation from everyone, including his family. People who feel bound up by secrets tend to do silly things in order to keep them: I recall Harold Wilson’s peculiar attempts to mask some of his communications with Barbara Castle by assigning zoological nicknames for various people. Castle was labelled “Peacock”, for example, and Harold Wilson was “Eagle”. We laugh at this in retrospect, but it proves a point: absurdity and secrecy go often go hand in hand. The absurdity has been revealed, secrecy is no more, Laws is going to pay the money back. Job done? Well, hardly.

At the time of writing, it does not appear that any senior member of the Government, David Cameron or George Osborne or even Nick Clegg, have stepped up and defended their colleague. This may change of course, but this speaks of a serious issue within the Government, much more problematic than a failure to report expenses accurately. The question should be asked: are you, Coalition, a team or not? If you are, do you not realise that a failure to stand up for each other is out of order?

I have experience of managing employees, and I am well aware that people make mistakes, sometimes very serious ones. However, teams are made or broken by how errors are handled. If they are treated as learning experiences, then the atmosphere is improved: solidarity creates an opportunity for sharing and discussing problems before they become more grave. If the reaction of the leaders of a particular team is to throw those who make mistakes to the wolves, this engenders a jumpy, nervous and fearful environment, hardly conducive to creativity or productivity.

More importantly, the team leader should be willing to defend the individual who made the error. I look over my work history in private industry with some satisfaction, but the one episode of which I am most proud occurred after an employee had made a perceived (rather than actual) mistake. At that time, a manager more senior than I was going to go to the CEO of the company to lay the blame at his door. Enraged, I made a point of going down to the company head office and getting in the senior manager’s face to lay out the facts. After a period of silence on his part, I set them out again. In the end, he relented; the crisis passed. Afterwards, the team was more “together” than it had been hitherto; we were also more productive. To this day, we still are in contact with each other.

George Osborne, theoretically at least, is David Laws’ boss. What he should be doing, provided there are no further facts to scrutinise, is stepping outside the door of Number 11 and calling down the thunder. He should tell the press that his faith in Laws’ ability is undimmed. He should say that forcing Laws out of the closet was to the press’ shame. He should say that he believes that Laws has made and will make sound and prudent judgements about the economy and looks forward to continuing to work with him through a very difficult period. In other words, he should be willing to step into the line of fire for his colleague. Showing this amount of courage could turn the Coalition into a team; the spectacle of a Conservative defending a Liberal Democrat would do nothing but cement trust. It would also be an eloquent statement to the Alistair Campbells of this world that their form of political discourse no longer works. Campbell may rant and scream and rave about it, as is apparently his wont, but in essence, he is a very small man in an ever diminishing circle.

Personally, I disagree with Laws and the Coalition on a large number of issues, including the cuts they intend to make; the £6 billion already taken out is going to have a very detrimental effect. However, unlike Alistair Campbell, I believe such arguments should be addressed through reasoned discourse, not by trawling through the back alleys and dark corners of a man’s life. We gain nothing by continuing to allow this kind of politics to live and breathe; indeed, our democracy will only be improved if “governance by spin” is utterly destroyed. The Coalition has a chance to put public debate back into order by defending David Laws: they should take it.

Nothing to Envy

Barbara Demick. Granta Books 2010, Paperback, 272 pages, £12.62

If there was a competition for the “most pointless” country in the world, North Korea would be a strong contender. It has built up a preposterous cult of personality around a political non-entity, and military might on top of a base of impoverished people. It attacks others for no reason, indeed, even when such an action is undeniably detrimental to its own interests. It is a wasteland of blighted lives, stunted hopes, and futile dreams.

The reaction in the West to North Korea’s antics reflects a dilemma: yes, it may be the moral and necessary thing to do something about it, but really, what can be done? All-out war is not the answer. Further sanctions would hurt the average citizen far more than the leadership. Bruce Anderson, a columnist for the Independent, recently expressed the exasperation of many by suggesting the best solution for all concerned would be if China arranged a coup.

Whatever decisions are taken in the capitals of the West or in Beijing, there is one set of victims that should be at the forefront of everyone’s mind: the North Korean people. Barbara Demick’s recent book, “Nothing to Envy” provides a powerful reminder of their continued suffering.

Demick’s study focuses on the industrial city of Chongjin, which is not far from the Chinese border. Rather cleverly, her narrative is not a recitation of cold facts and statistics outlining the stagnation, oppression and decline within North Korea; instead, she focus on individual narratives of those lucky few who have escaped the regime’s clutches.

One of the first revelations is that propaganda, even in our modern, cynical age, still works. A thread of patriotic fervour does run through the North Korean populace, albeit its effect is muted when people are reduced to eating tree bark. With so few sources of outside information, the idea that elsewhere is worse still retains some potency.

Another revelation is the presence of a very rigid class structure: if one has family or origins from south of the border, that immediately makes one suspect, lower class. Anyone from a higher echelon dare not associate with someone from the lower levels. This stuffy hierarchy leads to one of the more touching stories in the book, that of a young lady of a lower caste (named Mi-ran), and a young man from a higher one (called Jun-sang). They could not meet in broad daylight, and the usual awkward fumblings of a blossoming romance were not open to them. Rather, expressions of affection were confined to long walks in the darkness: these sojurns were facilitated by the lack of night time lighting in North Korea, a phenomenon that has been observed from space. They would talk, they felt the pull of love, but the regime’s cultural impositions were so stultifying and blatant that their burgeoning romance was strangled by it.

But even the more-privileged classes have nowhere really useful to go: Jun-sang was admitted to one of the finest universities in the country (described as the North Korean equivalent of MIT), in Pyongyang. He trained in the sciences and technology. However after he defected to the South, he found out that his knowledge was entirely out of date (for example, North Korea doesn’t teach their technologists how to use the internet); his education proved to be utterly pointless. I couldn’t help but think of this as a metaphor for North Korea’s aspirations and efforts.

North Korea’s aspirations for equality were bunk as well. We are presented with the plight of older people; as the economic crisis bit down, factories were closed, and workers told to go home. Many simply starved to death; Demick gives estimates ranging up to 2 million dead due to famine and disease, and we are acquainted with the horrors behind the statistics. Although private enterprise was and is illegal in North Korea, those who wanted to remain alive were forced to become entrepreneurs. Some of the businesses mentioned were stomach churning: I’d rather not think about the faux North Korean version of ice cream which includes bean paste as an ingredient. Another individual whose life is described in detail, a Mrs. Song, sold the North Korean equivalent of cookies, which also sounded less than appetising. Others were forced to become outright criminals; we are also presented with the tale of another young man named Kim Hyuck who was forced to steal in order to live. He was eventually jailed for his offences.

For those with a bit more gumption or perhaps desperation, the Chinese border represented another opportunity: Ms. Demick describes the wonderment of those who are able swim across the Tumen River, even in freezing conditions, only to find that the Chinese are well fed and prosperous. It was via this route that most defected, either alone, or with the assistance of criminal gangs. All in all, however, we are left with the spectacle and travesty of a so-called “workers state” that criminalises its own people in their plight just to remain alive.

One might think that the defectors’ arrival in the South would allow them to pick up the pieces of their lives. Indeed, Jun-sang and Mi-ran, the couple who took long walks in the dark, were reunited: however, their romance was unable to continue in the new setting. Mi-ran had married someone else by the time Jun-sang arrived; the changed circumstances meant that the initial spark was no longer there. Those defectors who were closer to their lives’ sunset than sunrise find it difficult to cope with the sheer din of a truly modern society. At least, however, they now live outside the shadow that threatened them, bullied them, made them enemies merely by existing.

Demick’s book provides an important service: as the international community struggles with North Korea and tries to figure out how best to reconcile with it, we need to be mindful that it is not just other nations which are fighting with the regime, it is its own citizens. The threat to them is far worse than any promises of war that Pyongyang may make. One day, the regime is likely to collapse (to use a Marxist phrase) due to its own contradictions. “Nothing to Envy” reminds us that this moment can’t come soon enough.

A barnstormer of a speech from the MP for Brighton Pavilion and Leader of the Green Party: