As I write this, I am sitting on a futon in Rotherhithe. Just outside my window, the sun is up, and powerful breezes are gusting through the yard. A bird sings a cacophonous tune. To my left, my suitcase, prone on the floor, awaits being refilled with what I’ve taken out of it before I head off to Paris on the Eurostar. Opposite is a green plastic bag which contains a larger garment bag which holds my doctoral robes.

It’s been twenty four hours since I awoke to graduation day, and all of it seems a bit like a dream: everything from the loping down the stair in the early morning light, to making the coffee, to checking the news. Then there was finishing packing, picking up my freshly repaired shoes and taking a shower. This was followed by putting on a dress shirt, my cufflinks, my dark grey suit. I wore a red tie which had both British and American flags as a pattern: I thought it was a suitable reflection of my hybrid origins. Once everything was packed, I proceeded down to the train station, and then to my university.

I met up with my family. I drank a Diet Coke. We then went to the campus and I proceeded to pick up my robes: it was at that moment that it really hit me. The maroon and sky blue robes were in a plain cardboard box, and came with a black hat tied with a maroon silk cord which is unflatteringly called a bonnet. A young fellow with a Superman symbol belt buckle helped me put them on. There was a matter of some debate: there’s the robe, and a loop which goes over the shoulders. I was under the impression that the loop was part of the ritual: the officer at the ceremony called the Esquire Bedell, I thought, was supposed to put that on me as I knelt in front of the presiding official. The young man had no idea. The people at the ticket tent said I was going to get a second loop. Such small matters kept me perplexed and occupied up until I got to the theatre in which the ceremony was held.

My family and I went our separate ways. Two nice young ladies explained to me at the graduate entrance that I did indeed have to take off the loop. Furthermore, I should hold the loop in a rather uncomfortable position so that the Esquire Bedell could pick it up easily. Oh and by the way, the bonnet needed to be kept tucked under my left arm until I left the ceremony. So I sat, loop held in place, bonnet tucked under my arm, and felt how heavy the robes were: made of satin and wool, they added gravity to the proceedings.

As I waited, I thought of all the things which had led to that moment. I thought of the long weekends spent locked in writing; the studying and research, the arguing with myself. I thought of my Norwegian grandfather, the colourful storyteller, who probably gave me the traits that led to this moment. I had found out the previous day that I was the first PhD in Creative Writing to graduate from my university. My colleagues were kind enough to put up a press release announcing this and the forthcoming release of my novel; my grandfather would have been so proud. All of that hard work and determination had led to here. What would happen next? Where would I go? The funny thing about graduation missives is their repeated insistence that everyone in the cohort is leaving, as if we are compelled to instantly proceed out to the far corners of the earth. Oh, and by the way, the marketing materials also say, don’t forget to tell everyone how great the university is! I did not need reminding.

Is that the expectation now, I wondered, that I should go. Will the next phase of my life begin upon departure? What should I do? My life for the past 5 years had been focused on achieving first my master’s then my doctorate, so what next? Another novel, certainly. But like the bird outside my window now, do I insist on singing from the same tree, or do I flit to another one?

I cast a look at the audience: my father, mother, sister and her fiancee were there. They waved; I waved back. At that point, I looked a bit lonely, as I was the only doctor of philosophy in the room. Three others eventually came along, though they were seated in another area: this was partially due to the way the ceremony had been organised, and it was also due to the fact that my doctoral colleagues were archaeologists. Not only first, but in terms of English, I was alone.

The ceremony began; Handel was piped in, and the officials and academics filed up the stairs to their seats. The Dean of Humanities read out name after name of Bachelor’s Degree students. I noticed that the Health Secretary, Andrew Lansley, was in the crowd. The names almost became a litany: I felt sorry for the presiding official, in this case, the pro-Vice Chancellor, as she had to shake the hands and greet every last one of us.

Then it finally came to me. I got on stage, smiled at the people I knew among the dignitaries, knelt on a cushioned stool and lowered my head, clasping my hands together. The loop was placed over my head and around my shoulders. The pro-Vice Chancellor took my hands in hers and urged me to stand. We chatted for less than a minute in a hushed whisper: she congratulated me on completing such an ardous course of study, I pointed out that I worked full time as well, and she said “My goodness”. One more congratulations, then off.

I stepped into the hall outside the theatre so I could go to my original place via the back way, as per the organiser’s instructions. I believe my feelings were best summarised by what I said to the young lady guiding wayward graduates like myself: “Help?” She pointed the way. I went back to my seat.

After a few words from the pro-vice chancellor and more Handel, I went outside into the breeze and sunshine. I put on the hat; it was one of the few days in which it won’t be out of place. Many excited graduates surrounded me: they were clinging to each other or to their families and friends. I smiled. “I’ve made it,” I thought. It was all over. The Head of Education for English shook my hand on his way past me. After a while, my family emerged from the depths of the theatre; I met with several dear friends and colleagues en route to getting photos sorted. I got an unexpected card which touched me. Then my family and I went to dinner, at which point the robes were put into the garment bag in which they now reside.

The rest of the day sustained a dreamlike quality: I went up to London with my sister and her fiancee. The route we took was almost a personal history tour. We went through Richmond, where I did my BA. We went through neighbourhoods I knew and loved, past places where I used to work: London seemed full to bursting with life, with people sitting in outdoor cafes in Knightsbridge, and the lights twinkling throughout. My sister’s fiancee said he’d have problems if he’d ever have to leave London, and from the vantage point of driving past Buckingham Palace, I could see why. There is a grandeur in some parts which can be quite addictive. Eventually we arrived at Rotherhithe, and now I’m here on this futon, after a restful night’s sleep and thinking of the promise of Paris ahead of me. Graduation stupefies, leaves one in a daze for a time afterwards: I know that life has irrevocably changed. It is so odd to have that event condensed into a single day; for the moment, there is no onus on me to figure out what follows. I know that I have a book launch to do; but beyond that, there are no more questions to be answered insofar as my programme of study is concerned. The daze will pass, how this achievement is to be integrated into my life will become clear over time. For now though, at this moment, there is quiet except for the birds and the breeze.

Yesterday, I became aware of a horrific case in Peterborough. The local primary care trust, in its infinite wisdom, had left a man (named Terence Burch) who is paralysed from the neck down due to a spinal infection, without the care to which the trust had said he was entitled. His wife Angela, exasperated by the inaction of the authorities, decided to go on hunger strike, stating that she was prepared to die in order to force the trust’s hand. In her opinion, this had come about due to cost-cutting measures; it is entirely possible that some faceless bean-counter had somehow decided that Mrs. Burch could act as a carer and thus save the organisation some money for an extended period.

Personally, I wince at this particular episode, as my father was struck down with a similar infection last October. When he went to a NHS hospital, the doctors showed the same cavalier attitude towards his condition that Mr. Burch received from those entrusted with his care. My father was fortunate enough to have the wherewithal to get the assistance of a private doctor and clinic, which means that he has been pain-free for a number of months and is now fully mobile; had he not had this treatment, it is entirely possible his fate would have been similar to the unfortunate gentleman in Peterborough.

However, I suggest that Burches’ case will have a satisfactory ending; to be sure, Peterborough would rather not have its reputation tarnished by the spectacle of a grieving wife starving herself. However, the incident is suggestive of a pattern which is emerging: far from “cuts that care”, what is happening is entirely haphazard and it is already having disastrous consequences.

In addition to my normal work at my university, I am a trade union activist; as a result, I am constantly up to my eyes in information about what “savings” are being proposed by management. It has already been announced that 200 jobs are to go; the local unions showed their displeasure by cutting out 200 silhouettes and placing them on the common late last month. Union members were also invited to have their lunch alongside the shadows. The message was clear: the “200 cuts” are people with homes, families and obligations. These people have been performing essential services hitherto; not even management has been so crass as to say otherwise. They have been caught up in what is essentially a deck-chair shifting exercise which is intended to cut budgets while increasing workloads for those who remain. The rhetoric may speak of efficiency and providing “more for less”, the reality is trying to squeeze less people for more. What is even more worrisome is that like most re-organisations I have experienced in private industry, it seems unlikely that it will achieve its stated objectives. Furthermore, quality of provision is destined suffer as a result.

What makes the overall situation even more intolerable is that in the case of both health and higher education, the average citizen pays a great deal for those services already. If one considers how taxation follows an individual from the corner shop to the petrol pump to the high street bank, it becomes apparent that government is constantly reaching its grubby hands into our pockets to grab any loose coppers that may be available, or rather, any money it can conceivably take. This would be considered a social compact if everyone paid their fair share and the public services provided in exchange were consistent, reliable and well managed. This last sentence, however, is more readily considered a joke than a reality.

Worse, it is clear that the government intends to take still more and provide still less: VAT will rise to 20% shortly, which will affect every citizen. Every reputable analysis suggests that while the rich will pay more in raw cash amounts due to this increase, in terms of percentage of income, this rise will mostly hurt those on modest or low incomes. At the same time, school building programmes are being cut, the NHS is under pressure to reallocate its resources “more efficiently”, cuts to welfare, disability benefit, and child benefit are all in train. The Browne review on university funding is likely to take the cap off of university fees, albeit in stages. Meanwhile, the elites in both government and finance which created this unbearable situation rest beneath the tide and they are neither rolled nor roiled by it. One need only go to Mayfair and see the pristine glory of boutiques like Asprey, or go to lunch at Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge and look around at the perfumed and the coiffed. Their lives have been apparently untouched; perhaps they took a bit of a dunking in the recent stock market turmoil, but nothing too serious. Job losses and hunger strikes to get basic services are as far from their lives as the moon is from Earth: visible, sometimes glaring, but overall irrelevant. And while it may be dangerous to generalise, the impression I get is that they don’t care. Raw figures do provide some confirmation of this perception: according to Philanthropy UK, charitable giving fell by 11% in 2009, in particular there was a “noticeable fall in average donations by higher income earners and those in professional occupations”.

Lower down the economic scale, a similar pattern also prevails. In 2008, a pay claim made by the employees of my university was rejected by the management, because it threatened the “hard won financial stability” of the organisation. The university had been through several rounds of expenditure and personnel cuts at that point. Yet, as stated, still more are required: apparently financial stability was more an illusion than a reality, and the leadership did not make adequate provision for the vagaries of the future. Yet none of the cuts will fall upon them; to my knowledge, none has taken a salary cut, nor done anything which suggests that they intend to don the hairshirt of austerity which the rest of us now will have as our main garment. Nor have we heard any apologies which clearly stated “We got it wrong.” Any resignations or early retirements have not been for reasons associated with this lapse in strategic planning. Management’s rhetoric suggests that they are paying attention to the staff’s present feelings of pain and uncertainty; however, this is again the kind of caring that may be akin to expressing birthday wishes for a distant and unloved relative. One knows that the forms must be obeyed, but the heart isn’t really in it.

It should be noted that all this is happening prior to the Comprehensive Spending Review, whose full impact will be felt in the autumn. The excessive verbiage that follows will no doubt concentrate on how “front line services” are being protected; the reality is likely to mean many more Terence Burches. There will likely be so many, in fact, that the media’s narrow attention span cannot possibly take in the sheer breadth of the travesty. The bean counters, like those in Peterborough Primary Care Trust, are in the ascendant. As per Oscar Wilde’s definition of a cynic, these are the kind of people who know the price of everything and the value of nothing; no doubt, they believe they are working towards the nation’s books being balanced yet at the same time happily protecting their bosses and themselves. The real costs and the real casualities, however, are unlikely to receive an entry or even a notation in their ledgers.

It is difficult to predict, but my blog posting may become more sporadic for a time. This is not due to a lack of things to write about; no doubt the worrisome news that is presently streaming out of Whitehall and Westminster will continue to flow unabated. However, I have a lot to do over the coming weeks, especially once graduation is behind me; in particular, I am getting to grips with sorting out my residence and putting it up for sale. On Saturday, I rented a carpet cleaner and used it on the front hall. In order to get the best out of it, I had to clear the area of all the accumulated detritus of 3 and 1/2 years: umbrella stands and plastic shoe boxes, gardening equipment and a stepladder, and a small wooden table upon which the unread post, mostly junk mail, had accumulated. After the carpet was clean and dry, I walked upon it with bare feet. The sun was shining through an open window, a fresh breeze swept in. The dust and cobwebs were gone, replaced by the sharp scent of detergent: this is what it will look like, I thought, once I move out. There is a time to say a final farewell to yesterday, and this day is approaching.

Melancholy adds to the mix. I take no pleasure in saying that I ended my relationship with my long-term girlfriend last week; I do not blame her, nor am I angry. Regret and sadness outweigh any other emotion, but the decision was driven by necessity: not least, it is due to the imperatives resulting from my own mistakes. For her part, she moved to London last autumn due to her work and has not lived with me since. People can grow apart as well as together; this is what has happened in the interim so as far as I am concerned. One wishes it to be otherwise, prays for an alternative to having that most painful of talks, explores other options, but there comes a point when one cannot avoid saying farewell. I hope that nothing but happiness follows her once this period passes, once the pain goes, once the sunlight trickles back into her days.

But not everything is in shadow. I was thinking over the weekend that my task now is to make the house a setting for a much happier owner. Perhaps it will be a young couple, as my ex-girlfriend and I once were. I recall with fondness when we bought the house; we received the keys shortly before Christmas 2006. We celebrated the purchase by opening a bottle of Cava in the cellar and toasting to the new residence. We never managed to make all the changes we desired, but in many respects, the property is better than it was. For example, many of the rooms were painted in lurid colours; the bedroom on the first floor was painted a yellow that was so bright that it was headache-inducing. The study was done up in a nauseating aquamarine, a colour scheme which was “enhanced” by a ceramic fish light-pull. These rough edges were softened. Old carpets were removed, floors were sanded and stained. A new boiler was put in; this was a necessity after a first winter spent unduly shivering thanks to the old one which had been there since Harold Wilson was Prime Minister. A small bedroom was turned into a functional dressing room with well-made, built-in cupboards and closets. Someone else will pick up the task and make the house what it should be, and perhaps inject the consistent joy the place has lacked for a long time.

Also, my final days in my present town will not be entirely absent of sweet recollections. I had a great many errands to do on Saturday, and as a result, I walked a good deal through and around the area. I have lived in my current location since 2004, and now at the end, I can recollect what made it so attractive at the beginning: the pedestrian streets, the medieval monument at the town centre, the Cathedral, the green spaces. I passed by the Indian restaurant which my ex-girlfriend and I used to visit; the owner would greet us warmly every time we crossed his threshold and he always offered us a complimentary after-dinner drink, an amaretto with ice for her, a brandy for me. At other times, we would go to the local Marks & Spencer to buy supplies and to the HMV to see what cheap DVDs were available. In the case of a £3 copy of Twilight, we got what we paid for. The sheer attractiveness of this place made it easy to slip into dreams of a semi-rural idyll: visions which sadly never came to fruition. Time to move on. I know now that there will soon come a day when I go down to the train station for the last time. I will roll a suitcase awkwardly behind me. I’ll buy a one way ticket, board the train, and watch my former home town disappear into the distance. Visits will likely be rare. Eventually, it will probably be a small part of a conversation held among friends and acquaintances: when my town is mentioned, I will say, “Why yes, I used to live there!”

Sometimes tears build up and escape over the walls of reserve. One wonders if things could have been different; I recall the historian Dominic Lieven once saying in a seminar that one should never underestimate the role of contingency. Of course things could have gone an alternative path at an earlier space in time. However, the point had been reached at which no other option was possible for me. Time to put together boxes, separate out items, mark the packaging with the appropriate initials. Take out the trash, sweep the yard. Attack the furniture with lavender-scented polish, wash the towels and the sheets, sweep the floors. At some juncture the next people will arrive: they’ll find the house charming. Deals will be made, money will be transferred, debts will be paid. I will awake in a different bed a year from now, to a bright sunrise in a new town. By then the regrets will have faded; with so much to do, there is a good chance of that they will soon be obscured by lists and labours. Perhaps by then, my ex-girlfriend will have found her way on her road, which has now irrevocably diverged from mine. This farewell to yesterday, as arduous as it is now, should then be consigned to the past, only to slumber gently within the rest of memory.

My grandfather liked to tell the following anecdote: one day, a man is walking down a street, when he spots his friend approaching him. Upon closer inspection, the man notices that his buddy has a rubber band around his head. Upon greeting him, the man asks, “Why do you have a rubber band around your head? Doesn’t that hurt?” The friend replies, “Of course it does, but it will feel real good once I take it off.”

I couldn’t help but recall this tale, and the twinkle in my grandfather’s eyes as he told it, upon hearing about the Coalition Government’s proposals for 40% cuts in public spending. The high figure is the proverbial rubber band, intended to frighten us and shock us, and eventually to make us feel much better when that particular band’s strictures are removed. When we learn about the actual scale of the cuts, which are still likely to be very painful, we are all supposed to say, “Phew, it could have been much worse.”

However, this is just one example of a political landscape which is infested by fear. It seems odd when one considers that there was a period of time in which politics was about limitless ambition. John F. Kennedy’s speech about America’s choice to go to the moon, not because it was easy, but because it was hard, was a good example. Prior to this, Clement Attlee stated proudly, quoting a beloved old hymn, that the “sword shall not sleep in my hand, till we have built Jerusalem in England’s green and pleasant land.” No one sniggered at either of them. With the right leadership, sufficient effort, enough belief, great tasks seemed possible. They proved to be so: America did send a man to the moon, the Attlee government left a legacy which persists to this day, particularly in the form of the National Health Service. Believing in better as opposed to worse was not at all the prerogative of a fool nor perceived to be one.

However, something has shifted within the soul of the populace. Rather than better, we apparently believe in the avoidance of worse. Cuts are unavoidable; let’s choose between unpalatable and totally disgusting. Wars are inescapable; let’s be careful how we fight them, ensure the troops are properly supplied. Poverty, poor health, and unemployment are all facts of life, we just have to do what we can to hurt the fewest amount of people, but in the end we cannot prevent societal pain or social injustice. No grand projects please: we, in the Western democracies, no longer can summon up the faith.

Yet, there are many great endeavours we could undertake. America could build thermosolar plants in the Southwest of the country to supply much of its energy needs; this is a technology that has proven itself in Spain. Europe and America could join hands to build the trans-Atlantic train, in the process revolutionising both cargo and passenger transport. We could continue the spread of digital technologies, perhaps by following Finland, which recently enshrined every citizen’s right to broadband in law. What cripples us is a lack of vision. If both the government and citizenry look not to the horizon but seek solely to avoid “worse”, the best we can do is to bump along the bottom and to muddle through.

A lot of the blame for this situation resides with the politicians. When given hope, the public tends to respond positively, as was seen in New Labour’s 1997 triumph, and more recently, in the election of Barack Obama. However New Labour’s ideals didn’t coalesce around large, clear, comprehensible projects; their illiberal instincts took over, and in the end they became banker-coddling micromanagers. President Obama’s idealism was quickly caught up in the meatgrinder of Congressional politics, smothered by representatives seeking the best possible deal for their constituencies and states. No one can feel entirely comforted by a government that generates 2000 page bills whose full implications are unclear. In light of these failures, and given the large cheque that is coming due, it is no wonder the wider public’s taste for idealism has been blunted: no more dreams, please, they’re too expensive. This may have been the overriding message arising from the 2010 British General Election; the November contest in America may have a similar narrative. No more visions, no more hopes, just managerial competence: let us duck into the blander, safer refuge of tinkering till the storms pass.

The problem with this scenario is that it is an eventual recipe for democratic suicide. Not too long ago, I watched a replay of the February 1974 General Election on BBC Parliament; what astonished me was not only the comparative quality of the coverage but also the turnout figures, many of which were in excess of 80%. The spokesmen for the various parties spoke about clear ideas and policies; Labour was going to repeal the Industrial Relations act, for example. The Liberal Party urged voters to pick something different; in their party political broadcast from that year, Cyril Smith used language which would be considered immoderate even by today’s standards. Turnout rates in of around 60% are more commonplace in Britain now. America is not any better off. Indeed, despite the inspiration provided by Barack Obama and his well-tuned campaign, the 2008 Presidential Election generated a turnout of only 63%, a figure that hadn’t been approached since 1960. If there is no mass participation in democratic politics, then it becomes the purview of a narrow group of the interested; this recipe, by necessity, favours extremists. The effects may have already been seen in the Utah Republican Senate Primary in which the more than right of centre Bob Bennett was dumped for a “Tea Party” backed candidate. The visions that come to the fore in such a scenario are dangerous given their emphasis on simplistic solutions and misplaced nostalgia.

We don’t have a Kennedy nor an Attlee at the moment to guide us and to tap into what Lincoln would call our “better angels”. However, as a trade union activist, I can and do see a potential wellspring of hope: rather than from above, it can come from the grassroots. At the moment, individual movements are focused on individual agendas: whether that is for ending the war in Iraq, or preventing further expansion of Heathrow, or fighting spending cuts. The problem is that each of these movements in and of themselves do not represent a coherent programme. It has been said many times before: the task for a genuinely progressive political party is perhaps to thread the needle, and to stitch these groups together; attempts have been made, progress has been slow. But democracy may depend on this effort continuing, and the eventual success of something far better than worse.

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 2010, DVD, £5.74

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.