A Triumph of Youth

May 24, 2014

Vote 2014 MontageI often find myself in London the day after a major British election. I was here when it was confirmed that Boris Johnson had been re-elected as Mayor; it was as if some hidden force was compelling me to press my nose up against that spectacle. At just about the time that the result was announced, I walked past a storm grate from which a powerful stench arose: it seemed as if the city itself was suffering from terrible flatulence. When Tony Blair triumphed in 1997, I was staying at my parents’ London home: it was a summer’s day brought forward to May, and the sun was so radiant that the blue sky had turned almost white. I remained glued to my television set throughout the day as Blair proceeded to Buckingham Palace and then on to cheering crowds at Downing Street. Now that the 2014 local election has concluded, perhaps strangely, I am here again.

Whenever I arrive in London, I’m struck by the tremendous contrast it provides to other parts of the country. Bradford was once a very rich city: the Victorian homes in Manningham made of alabaster stone tell the tale, as does the resplendent St. George’s Hall in the centre of town, which resembles a Roman temple. Wool made the city fabulously wealthy, but then the textile industry disappeared; what remains are monuments to those boom times. The alabaster terraces in Manningham are now homes to immigrants from Mirpur and other parts of Pakistan who live a stone’s throw from a fast food establishment selling fried chicken. There have been worse times and better times since the term “Bradford industrialist” passed out of common currency, and there are signs of life in the city still, but nothing like the city’s original prosperity has returned as of yet.

London, on the other hand, is currently in the midst of a boom: this is not just evident in the numbers of people queuing to buy overpriced latte in Starbucks at Kings Cross, it was obvious in the cafés full to overflowing near Covent Garden, the little boutiques filled with irrelevant bric-a-brac that were making smartly-dressed professionals reach for their credit cards, the young people hanging off the base of the plinth at Trafalgar Square, smiling for selfies taken by the latest 4G phones to be posted on Twitter with the hashtag #bankholidayweekend. Pass by and roll on to neatly pressed streets; prior to coming down to London, I’d seen a Bradford Moor laundrette entitled “Clean Scene”, the windows were clouded with steam and the white paint on the establishment’s sign was peeling. In London, I passed by the “Celebrity Dry Cleaners”, its obsidian sign was lit with neon. Some people in dark suits, others in bright blue or purple or white tailored shirts stood outside of pubs, smoking and drinking pints of ale. I arrived at one place that not only served a range of foreign lagers, but also fine wines, gourmet cooking and Cuban cigars. No doubt the young woman in a black and yellow dress in that establishment who was chatting earnestly with a middle aged man with sandy hair who was trying to balance a conversation on one hand and glance at his Blackberry in the other felt their conversation was important. Perhaps it was: but it was a scene so full of lucre it seemed untouched by politics.

After finding a more modest pub for dinner, I thought a bit more about the election. All told, it had been a great result for the Bradford Labour Party: Councillor Mohammed Shafiq of Bradford Moor was returned to office, though by a tiny margin of 56 votes. Rizwana Jamil took the previously Tory held ward of Bowling and Barkerend by a massive 1669 votes, securing 56% of the total. And Naveeda Ikram, who in addition to being councillor for Little Horton, also was Britain’s first female Muslim mayor, romped home with 76% of the vote. Overall, Labour managed to regain control of the council.

There were other reasons to be happy with Bradford’s result: the Respect Party, or as it’s known these days, Respect (George Galloway), didn’t pick up a single seat. The UK Independence Party, far from accruing massive gains everywhere as was suggested by its acolytes at the BBC, was confined to Keighley West.

These results contained some disappointments. For example, I was very impressed by Labour’s candidate for Bolton and Undercliffe, Frank Dignan. He’s a barrister, well spoken and very articulate. Unfortunately his voice won’t be heard on the council this time around. In my own ward, Labour was also unsuccessful. Also, I don’t like that UKIP have any foothold whatsoever. Nevertheless, the “UKIP surge” simply didn’t happen: yes, there were some wards in Bradford where they came second, but there were also many in which they didn’t compete at all. All they have now is that one individual who will probably approach Bradford City Hall and find he has no allies in the chamber; he may even have problems figuring out where to hang his hat. No doubt his interventions will be few, his voice, largely ignored. It will be a long, possibly embittering term in office.

The HamiltonsPerhaps, however, he doesn’t qualify for the moniker of the “saddest” member of UKIP; that may be Neil Hamilton. For those unfamiliar with Mr. Hamilton, he along with his wife Christine, is more a reality television personality than an actual politician. The couple were infamous for providing documentary maker Louis Theroux with one of the weirdest of his “Weird Weekends” in which Christine made her unseemly attraction to Mr. Theroux quite plain. More seriously, the Hamiltons were implicated in a Cash for Questions scandal prior to the 1997 election. At that point, anti-corruption campaigner Martin Bell arrived wearing his white suit, and rather like a latter day Gandalf, drew the poison of the corrupt couple out of their Tatton constituency. Nevertheless, the Hamiltons were unable to take the hint that a period of prolonged if not eternal silence would be apropos. They left the Tories, joined UKIP and subsequently thrust themselves back into the limelight. Hamilton just tried to win a council seat in Wandsworth; he only accrued 396 votes, which presumably were from people who had never heard of him. He appeared on Channel Four News after this resounding defeat and spoke of the environment in London being challenging as so many of its denizens had been born elsewhere. The word “cosmopolitan” was also thrown into the mix. This impolitic outburst followed similarly simultaneously flattering yet denigrating comments by Suzanne Evans, a UKIP spokesperson, who said that her party had problems gaining support from the “educated, cultural and young.”

Bradford and London are very different in terms of wealth, both are united by being “young places”. Bradford’s demographic profile makes it one of the most youthful places in the country, London is a place to which the young gravitate and which engenders a youthful, open outlook. The comprehensive rejection of UKIP by youth in both areas indicates that it hasn’t much of a future. Its insular, backward looking philosophy doesn’t fit with the Bradford denizen whose parents came from Mirpur or Bratislava; it doesn’t sit well with the owner of the Celebrity Dry Cleaners who probably has to navigate every sort of accent and language in order to find out whether he ought to apply starch or not. It doesn’t make sense in a world that is ever more driven by interconnected technology and international trade to pull up the drawbridge and tell everyone to go away.

I lingered in the pub for a time last night and drank a pint of golden ale. As I sipped it, I noticed that from the polished wood beams above me hung flags of many nations in preparation for the World Cup. The flags of Bosnia, Italy, Nigeria, Greece, Ghana, Croatia, Japan, to name but a few, were there. Beneath, young people of varying ethnicities, accents and professions were talking and flirting and glancing at mobile phones and sipping on pints of lager, glasses of wine and bottles of mineral water. I had been feeling the past week’s labours and the difficulties of the day’s travel catch up with me; this scene was invigorating. I reflected: far from being an outlier in being “educated, cultural and young”, perhaps such scenes are indicative of where Britain is going. Perhaps far from a surge, what we’re witnessing from UKIP is one last great howl of reaction before modern, diverse Britain finally triumphs.

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Switched On

May 19, 2014

naveedashirtSigns of the imminent election can be seen throughout Bradford: a drive down Upper Rushton Road provides ample evidence of support for Labour’s Councillor Mohammed Shafiq. A few diamond shaped orange Liberal Democrat signs are present along Harrogate Road. Yesterday, I drove through Toller ward and was almost overwhelmed by the number of red banners featuring the visage of Councillor Imran Hussain. In Manningham, a small lorry slowly carried along a massive red, green and white sign advertising the Respect Party, which has apparently been renamed “Respect (George Galloway)” in order to remind people whose party it is. In Little Horton, t-shirts favouring Labour Councillor Naveeda Ikram are all the rage.

At home, leaflets from every political grouping imaginable have been shoved through my letterbox, including one from an obscure anti-EU and avowedly xenophobic group of which I had never heard. I performed an experiment with a UKIP leaflet by placing it in one of the cats’ litter trays; they subsequently avoided it, presumably because they thought it was already full.

Feline diffidence aside, this election is crucial for Bradford: at the moment, no party has overall control of the city council. While there are more Labour councillors than any other grouping, this state of affairs makes running the city more tricky than perhaps it should be. Nevertheless, the Westfield Bradford shopping complex is presently being built; the much maligned “Hole” has been filled with a large construction site. On a bright Spring Sunday afternoon, the City Park, also completed by the current council, is a pleasant place where families gather and wade in its vast pool. Should Labour win a majority, there should be more to come; perhaps the council will build upon the emergence of locally-designed products such as the NFC Ring, and bolster the city’s reputation for creating wearable technology.

That said, elections are often unsatisfying spectacles from a technologist’s point of view. A lot of lip service is paid to the digital economy and many politicians are avid users of social media, but a true understanding of modern technology’s potential and pitfalls is not widespread. Furthermore, there have been a lot of false dawns and unfulfilled promises: for example, David Cameron visited Bradford some time ago and pledged super-fast broadband for the city. This has only been partially delivered, and what we do have is due to Virgin Media and the city’s existing cable television infrastructure. The rollout of its rival, BT Infinity, has been botched: many exchanges are fibre enabled, but in order for residents to take advantage of it, work needs to be done at the various junctions. This is by no means uniform: far too few green boxes have the bright sticker saying that it has been set up. The result is a crazy quilt of services, not truly prevalent super-fast availability with proper competition to hold down prices.

Our current national government is not just clueless about broadband on a local level. They also don’t understand that a national plan for faster broadband is necessary to compete in the “global race” which has been so prevalent in Tory rhetoric. South Korea, for example, has started rolling out 1 Gbps broadband throughout their country. Google Fiber is delivering 1 Gbps speeds in Kansas City, and will soon be bringing the same to Austin, Texas and Provo, Utah. Google and South Korea both understand that it’s not possible to have a digital economy without a proper digital infrastructure. In contrast, Britain’s Conservative-led government hasn’t actively courted Google to get them to extend their Fiber service to Britain’s cities; it would be a great boon to otherwise economically struggling towns in the North. Furthermore, considering the taxes that Google should be paying to the Exchequer, it’s the least they could do. Instead, the present government would rather spend £43 billion on new high speed rail services. While high speed rail is often impressive, and is widely perceived as the latest fashion accessory of a modern country, it doesn’t pass the test of a cost-benefit analysis. The current plans for high speed rail are London-centric: they will not extend to places like Wales and Cornwall, which are some of the most deprived regions in Europe. Indeed, by improving the links to London, this may not act as an incentive for businesses to relocate elsewhere, but rather, may cause more economic activity to tip towards the capital.

Admittedly, a national scheme to roll out 1 Gbps broadband would not be cheap; the nearest comparison we have is the National Broadband Network project which was proposed by Australia’s last Labor government. In order to provide high speed broadband to all, it was estimated that the cost would be in the region of £17 billion. Assuming that Australia’s complex geography and vast size incur exceptional costs, it is likely that it would be far cheaper to roll out a similar scheme in Britain; even if inevitable overruns meant that it cost the same or even more than Australia’s plan, it would still be far cheaper than high speed rail, and furthermore, it would be an improvement that reached every corner of the country.

Having said all this, no major political party in Britain has made broadband an issue in the same way that Australia’s Labor Party did in the 2010 election. Nor has any major political party addressed the major economic changes and challenges which are on their way due to new technology.

raspberrypiWhen the Raspberry Pi single board computer was introduced, it was perceived as a product which would revolutionise technology education. It was thought that a cheap, accessible computer would make it much easier for children to learn how to code. This is true, but the Raspberry Pi, a British invention, has had far greater significance than perhaps was originally intended. This past February, I attended a trade show; I was informed by a gentleman who worked for one of Europe’s most prestigious and stolid passport agencies that they used the Raspberry Pi to develop prototype printing machines. At around the same time, I was told by one of my most forward-thinking technology partners that they believed that future of innovation lay with individual inventors and groups of like-minded inventors (henceforth called hackerspaces) using tools like the Raspberry Pi. This partner also imparted that a lot of companies suffer from an innovation gap: namely, when a scientist in a large firm has a great idea, often this is stopped at the point when the boffin is asked for the potential return on investment. A boffin being a boffin, this is often a puzzling question, as to him or her innovation for its own sake is worth having; furthermore, many boffins simply cannot calculate the return on investment for a particular innovation as it may be unknowable. Indeed, a truly bold innovator will often fly in the face of conventional wisdom. For example, prior to the release of the iPad, Steve Jobs was told that tablet computers were a waste of time. After all, Apple had failed to make money on a previous effort, the Newton. Microsoft had also tried to develop tablet computers and suffered disastrous results. Nevertheless, Jobs believed the innovation proffered by the iPad was worth having as it would revolutionise the market: he was right. But Jobs was a one-off: innovation often remains stunted in corporate silos which are desperately trying not to offend conservatively-minded shareholders.

However, as the Raspberry Pi makes it cheaper for larger concerns (like a passport agency) to innovate, it also makes it easier for individuals and hackerspaces to create inventions which could make their way into mass production. Individuals and hackerspaces can be commissioned to innovate, thus leaping over the current innovation gap. This economic change is empowering: it means that there will be vast networks of craftspeople throughout the world who operate in symbiosis with large firms to deliver the latest and greatest products. This is not a revolution confined solely to the field of electronics engineering, Levi’s is also utilising this model to create new clothes. That said, the current government doesn’t appear to understand or appreciate this enormous change in innovation, development and production. Thanks to the present government, the craftspeople are going to find it much more financially onerous to access higher education at a time when it should be made ever easier to obtain. On a more basic level, the national curriculum as proposed by Michael Gove hasn’t adapted to this changed environment; most children do not receive a Raspberry Pi along with their textbooks. The current government has also not commissioned a new series of standard contracts like the Lambert agreements in order to facilitate contract negotiations between the craftspeople and larger firms. Tax policy is also not geared towards this paradigm shift; it should be. Additionally, the significant breakthroughs in science created by British universities such as graphene are not supported properly. In the case of graphene, China has over 2000 patents utilising this ground-breaking material, the United States, in excess of 1700: Britain only has 50. As these examples illustrate, the government should be there as a partner and facilitator; however, the prevalent ideology of the current regime states that all one needs to do is abscond from the marketplace and all will be well. This ideology is buttressed by hypocrisy: the Tory-led government has actively intervened in the housing market, creating the sugar-rush sensation of prosperity caused by a house-price bubble.

The 2014 campaign has not been animated by such long-term issues: the appalling, yet colourful bigotry of UKIP candidates throughout the land has obscured the intellectual poverty of the current Conservative-led government. Their sole idea is to continue to privatise instead of build. This propensity has been taken to absurd lengths; Michael Gove’s Department of Education has proposed privatising child protection services, which would instantly change their mission statement from the simple, wholesome purpose of helping children to making money for shareholders. The Tories’ Liberal Democrat partners would like us to focus on the tax breaks they secured for the lower paid, though their backing of higher tuition fees has laid a bear trap for the innovation economy we need. This is not to say Labour is perfect: it has its share of technophobes. But at least Labour has one idea that marks it out, which shows that it is the party most capable of being “Switched On”: it believes the state should take an active role. It means that with Labour, education stands a chance of becoming more accessible and relevant, it means there is the possibility that HS2 could be cancelled and National Broadband implemented, it suggests that the necessary foundations for the future economy could be set down. The election of 2014 is a crucial milestone in this journey. So, on Thursday, I’ll get up early, feed the cats, drink my coffee, and get dressed; hopefully it will be a bright morning as I take a brief walk to my polling station. When I get there, I’ll present my polling card and take up a pencil to mark my ballot; it won’t take me long to tick the boxes beside the names of the Labour candidates.

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At the Midnight Veterinarian

January 25, 2014

thomasboxIt was serious. Normally, a litter tray at the end of the day is a mess, but this time, it was a horror show. My fiancée had called me down to take a look: up until that point, it had been a normal work day, with its usual hastily consumed cups of coffee, teleconferences and writing documents and emails. I had driven home and changed into more comfortable clothes; I anticipated nothing more than a little dinner, a little television, another check on work e-mails, and then a chance to sleep.

Our cats are an important part of such evenings: they often process like actors on and off stage, casting a glance at us before departing the tableau. Our cat Amelia is the shy one: the slightest noise or disruption will make her scurry for cover. Another cat, Sarah Jane, is the stubborn and clever one: if I’ve shut the doors and windows, she will examine every last exit and entry point to find a means of escape.

Thomas, a stray who turned up on my doorstep in March 2012, is the soft one. He will often come for affection to either myself or my fiancée, and nuzzle his black and white head up against a hand. He is profuse in his purring and strangely not averse to remaining in close proximity to humans for extended periods of time.

All three are valuable. All three are loved. When my other half called me down to look at the litter tray, she had that odd lilt of forced calm in her voice that indicated panic.

The litter trays are in a spare bathroom on the ground floor. When I arrived, my fiancée showed me one of them: rather than normal urine, there was a profusion of blood.

All I could say was “Oh no.” We humans are actually rather tough creatures, capable of adapting to extremes: we can consume poisons, say, Carling Black Label, in quantities that would kill more sensitive creatures. We can adapt to temperatures that many animals will eschew. We also recover from illnesses better than many other mammals. The contents of the litter tray looked like the result of a kidney problem: for a cat, such issues can be fatal.

At first, it was unclear who had done it. I found Amelia on our bed, she looked nervous, but no more so than usual: she rolled around on her back which is her way of asking for a tummy rub. Sarah Jane sat at the top of the stair, her usual place, looking as watchful and thoughtful as ever. I noted her step as she bounded toward her food bowl: normal. Only Thomas seemed subdued: the look in his eyes was sad. My other half concurred: something wasn’t right with him. When I picked him up, he let out a little yelp: this was atypical. My other half and I looked at each other. It was him.

I retrieved our blue and white cat box: it was stored in an outdoor closet and was cold and needed to have some cobwebs wiped off of it. My other half found an old red towel to line it. She gently urged Thomas into the box: being so agreeable, he did not resist.

It was close unto 7 PM: our local veterinarian shuts at that time. Nevertheless, it was worth a try: my other half had gotten a urine sample which she placed in a small glass jar. The rain was falling gently; my street in Bradford was lit solely by the limited reflected light from the windows of the houses which line it and the orange street lamps. We put Thomas and his box on the back seat of the car. I turned the key and we drove as the rain continued to fall. I put on a classical music station: the orchestra playing, the engine grunting were the only noises which penetrated the silence.

My mind was reeling. Had we not put down fresh water for him? Indeed, we had. His water was changed more or less every day. Could it be an infection? Certainly: but hopefully a shot of antibiotics would clear that up. Cats can get cancer: did he have that?

We arrived. A middle aged woman with sandy hair and wearing a brown coat and a purple scarf sat in the corner of the waiting room: she was dabbing her eyes with tissue. Another man with short grey hair came out of one of the examination rooms: he went over to her and spoke to her, then disappeared back inside.

We tried to see the vet: eventually we were greeted by a nurse wearing navy blue scrubs and holding a large glass bottle with a purple and white label. Her expression indicated deep annoyance.

“Can you not analyse the sample we gave you?” my other half asked. I added that it would be useful to find out if any hormones were within so we could make sure it was Thomas who was having the problem.

“You’ll have to come back in the morning,” she told us.

“Are you sure it’s safe to wait that long?” my other half asked.

“You’ll have to come back in the morning.”

The nurse then returned to the examination room. I looked into the cat box: Thomas was sitting quietly, though his eyes seemed wide, glassy. I pushed my fingers through the metal bars and stroked his head: he purred lightly, as if he was chuckling through fear. The man finally emerged from the examination room. He had a few words with the woman who had been crying. Whatever had been done in this case, I presume euthanasia, was finished. The woman got up, looked at us and said, “You wonder if it’s worth it.” They departed.

There was nothing to do. We drove home; the rain was falling steadily. I let Thomas out of his box in the front hall. He quietly padded his way towards the living room. My fiancée suggested we make him drink: I made a cocktail of 1 part milk, 3 parts water, which I held in front of him. He drank. He drank his fill and lay on a beige ottoman, his eyes three-quarters shut. I stroked his head.

My other half watched us. I wasn’t paying attention to her gaze, I was continuing to pet Thomas and praise him, telling him what a good boy he was and that we didn’t want him to go anywhere.

I remembered when he first showed up. It was in that peculiar March of 2012 when we had a burst of warm spring sunshine. There was a red folding chair set out on the decking: my first sight of Thomas was him sitting on that chair, his paws folded, his face tilted towards the sun as if he was trying to get a tan. He was very friendly: he had no hesitation in approaching us. He ate all the food we gave him. He kept coming back. My other half once examined his paws and found they were covered in callouses, indicative of a wandering lifestyle.

My other half, fearful of becoming attached to him, named him “Tom”, as in “Tom Cat”. I started calling him Thomas after the Apostle, the only one of Jesus’ original followers who went outside the Roman Empire, and thus had travelled far. My partner asked our neighbours about his origins and confirmed he was a stray.

The warmth of March was followed by a vengeful blizzard in early April. Just as the storm hit, I ushered Amelia and Sarah Jane inside, and then Thomas showed up at the back door, crying to be let in. I opened the door. He’s lived with us ever since.

Now when I awake in the morning, usually Thomas is laying there at my feet or on my back, along with his sister Sarah Jane, waiting for me to descend down the darkened stairs to the kitchen to feed them. Once that task is done and I’m typing on my laptop, he will often leap up beside me with a quizzical look on his face, almost as if he’s asking if he can help.

thomascakeattackAs I looked at Thomas laying on the ottoman, his face serene yet somehow suffering, I wondered if all that would be gone. I knew that if consulted others, many would say, “He’s just a cat”. Perhaps he had more personality and eccentricities than most: after all, he has a passion for eating cake. But to many, he would still remain “just a cat”.

I thought Cocteau would disagree, after all he referred to a cat as the soul of the house. Thomas in many ways had added warmth to the spirit of my home. Open a window, could it dissipate into the winter air?

“It’s a pity that they don’t have midnight vets like in much of America,” I said. I was sure that if we were in London that there would be one, but it seemed unlikely there would be such a place in Bradford. The lights in the houses outside were going out one by one, the rain continued to fall, people were going to sleep. Would there be enough demand to sustain such a place?

My other half tapped her iPad: as it turned out, there was one less than 4 miles away. She phoned up: both our jaws dropped at the price of an appointment. My inner Yorkshireman cried “How much?!?” but then I looked at Thomas. Although I quietly wished for an Animal NHS, I said “Let’s do it.”

Thomas went into his box again. We drove along the A6177 Ring Road, and then through the middle of Bradford itself. Though late, the lights hadn’t gone out. I thought: Thomas is a Bradford cat, born and bred. This may have been the only time he’d be taken through the middle of his city. I tried to push such thoughts aside. Some of the other drivers drove at 100 miles per hour and abandoned the idea of using turn signals. The roads glistened with rain and street lights. We finally found a big sign marked “PDSA”, the animal hospital. Without much care for tidy parking, we pulled up.

The animal hospital looked like a large bungalow or a small school in the darkness, albeit it was surrounded by a high metal fence. At the door ahead of us was a large, middle aged man wearing a tan coat; a younger man with greasy hair and wearing a plaid shirt carried a cardboard box. He had a cat in the box. It was scratching, gasping and shrieking in pain.

The door buzzed. We stepped inside. There was a aqua coloured waiting room, the colours made harsh by the fluorescent lights and the late hour. The room was lined with hard wooden benches. We informed the young nurse behind the desk that we had arrived. Thomas sat quietly in his box. The other cat continued to shriek. Two other young men were there, holding an Alsatian who was obviously suffering from a broken paw.

One of the doors to the examination rooms opened: the young men were called in and they carried their dog gently in to be seen. The other cat continued to cry out and try to claw out of the box. My other half spoke to the cat owners: apparently their pet suddenly had been unable to move her back legs. There had been no symptoms, no warning. There was only that piercing cry which punctuated the air every few seconds, followed by gasping and scratching.

Thomas was alarmed. At every cry, he perked his ears up. He himself did not cry. He merely looked through the bars at me, as if he was seeking reassurance.

“It’s going to be OK, Thomas,” I told him. Then the cry rang out again.

Finally, we were called in. My other half did the right thing by letting the other cat go ahead of us. The door of the examination room shut. The cries became more intense as presumably the cat was lifted out of her box and she was examined.

I could only catch snippets of conversation, namely, “This is very serious”, “it’s a blood clot”, “there’s not much we can do”. The cries got louder. The young man whose cat it presumably was, left the room, his eyes glistening as much as his greasy face.

Then, silence.

I heard more snippets: “It happens all of a sudden, it’s unfortunate” “That was her blanket, she can keep it” “No, we don’t want to dispose of her” The door opened and the middle aged man stepped out. Laying on the table inside the examination room, I saw a little white and tortoise shell form, partially draped in a brown blanket.

The door shut. The man went to the nurse. “How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“That’s £232.50.”

He had to run to a cash machine to get the remainder, but left £90 behind.

It was well past midnight and I had been up since 5:30 AM. The adrenalin was pumping, but nevertheless, there was a heaviness in my eyes that was proving difficult to ignore. I pushed my fingers through the bars to stroke Thomas again. He purred slightly.

We were called in again. The examination table had been wiped clean, the streak marks of the disinfectant clearly visible. I placed the box on it.

The veterinarian had bright red hair and wore dark blue scrubs: she had a no-nonsense manner about her. It wasn’t that she was lacking in compassion, I presume the previous patient had forced her to push her emotions down. Thomas stepped out of his box to face her. She then administered a rectal thermometer. As I gently held Thomas while this occurred, I mused on the fact that I’d probably have precisely the same expression on my face as he did if it was happening to me. His yellow-green eyes were wide with shock.

His temperature was normal. The vet thought it would be best to give him some anti-inflammatory drugs but first she took some blood to test his kidney function. We’d have to wait another thirty minutes. She shaved his ankle, took the blood and wrapped it in a blue velcro fastened bandage.

Back to the hard benches: the young men with the dog had returned without their pet, they were apparently waiting for x-rays. Another couple came in: a young, skinny blonde woman and her boyfriend, a friendly, effusive Yorkshireman with close cropped black hair. They were carrying their cat in brown plastic carrier box. The cat looked dishevelled. The gentleman told us that they were from Armley in Leeds: he said that he thought that their cat had either fallen into a can of diesel or worse, had been doused in it by some kids. I mused aloud as to what kind of animals would torture a cat so.

We were called back in. Apparently Thomas’ kidney function was normal: the vet injected him with the anti-inflammatories. The details of his treatment would be transmitted to our usual vet in the morning.

The bill was in excess of £200. I could almost hear my debit card creak as I paid: I wondered if this is what the future of healthcare would be like without the NHS. I remembered the last time I sought help from American doctors, namely to get a Whooping Cough vaccine: the cost at that time was $80. I then looked at Thomas again. It looked as if he was asking to go home.

We did. By the time the front door was shut and locked, it was 1:30 AM. Thomas was persuaded to consume some more fluid and went to sleep. The next day we returned to our usual vet, who was apologetic. Thomas received a further injection of antibiotics and a course of anti-inflammatory treatments. Several days after his ordeal, he is back again to greeting me in the morning, his face arched upward hopefully as I enter the kitchen, and he tries to interrupt me as I work. Those who have never lived with a cat would say in the final analysis that he is “just a cat”. He is “just a cat”: but that doesn’t mean he is incapable of feeling happiness and pain, enjoying life or finding it a misery, being ill or being healthy. It also doesn’t preclude him from the possibility of feeling deep emotion for those who care for him; our usual vet speculated that male cats often suffer from “stress related” conditions which can trigger such blood letting. We had been away quite a lot over the holiday period and Thomas has abandonment issues. If I am in a room where there is a shut door between him and I, he’ll often scratch at it frantically, demanding to be let in.

Regardless of his capability (or not) of loving in a human way, it definitely doesn’t preclude him from being loved by the humans who care for him. The trip to the midnight vet would seem madness to some, but as I type this on a tranquil Saturday morning and the cats lay sleeping in the hall, all is well. Thank goodness.

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A Sensible Surrender

January 3, 2014

Marijuana PlantThe so-called “War on Drugs”, at least as an exercise in law enforcement, may be drawing to a close. On December 11th, Uruguay legalised the trade and possession of marijuana for recreational use. On January 1st, the state of Colorado permitted its sale for the same purpose. On January 2nd, the conservatively inclined Fox Business Network sent a reporter to a Colorado facility which was growing marijuana: the somewhat bleary eyed and distracted owner suggested that fourteen other states were likely to follow in his state’s footsteps and another two were contemplating loosening legislation to allow its consumption for medical purposes. It was also mentioned that the potential value of the market was in the region of $2.5 billion. On the same day, Fox Business’ website reported that the shares of a company called MedBox, which manufactures marijuana dispensing machines, were up by 57%.

When a conservative news network changes the discussion from how to ban a thing to how to make money off a thing, one can be reasonably certain that a paradigm shift has become inevitable. Marijuana will probably be legalised in most countries: the ones that do not do so will be the outliers. This is all well and good.

My opinions on this subject are subject to certain caveats. I am not speaking from an experienced point of view: I have never smoked pot nor do I wish to do so. This is in spite of fact that I lived in the Netherlands in the late 1990’s, a time when “Dutch” was a direct synonym for “liberal” and “tolerant”. Admittedly, I was there for work rather than bohemian purposes; yet, I may have been one of the few foreign residents of Amsterdam who didn’t partake. Being a non-consumer of the product, however, may have sharpened my awareness of its presence. There were many places in Amsterdam which reeked of it: not only did it emanate from the infamous “coffee shops” even in the early morning, it was openly smoked in the streets by passers-by. I intensely dislike the scent of it: I recall my first whiff of it making me sick to my stomach, and this trigger still remains with me. The effects of extensive marijuana smoking are not necessarily pleasant for everyone. I once saw a young man who obviously got a bad batch: after he finished smoking, he sat down in the middle of a central thoroughfare and essentially had a nervous breakdown which manifested itself in the form of hysterical screaming. Eventually, he had to be gently but firmly led away by the Amsterdam police. Despite the distaste informed by my experiences, I would rather that it was out in the open and legal. I believe the problems one can associate with smoking pot are rather similar to another form of substance related recreation: I find how people get drunk to the point that they vomit in public repulsive too. However, at least when discourse turns to those who drink excessively, we generally speak in terms of it being a public health issue. We tend to bring in doctors to pontificate rather than police. We now have an opportunity to move matters on in a similar way in regards to narcotics. We should be asking what is it about modern life, what ennui that lay therein which drives people to abuse themselves in particular ways? Can we construct frameworks, such as minimum pricing, which will allow us to control consumption? What can we do to ensure that vulnerable people, like the young man who lost control completely, receive adequate care?

Beer ReturnsSo long as the anarchy fostered by illegality remained, we were not in a position to ask and address these questions effectively: rather, we were left with the threat of prison, as if humanity could be punished into sensible behaviour. The fateful experience of America with alcohol prohibition in the 1920’s and 1930’s should have proved otherwise; all that fatally flawed experiment did was create a market for poisonous moonshine and made petty gangsters into millionaires. Governments throughout the world have spent billions of dollars in re-learning this particular lesson. The changes put in place by Uruguay and Colorado suggest we’re now at a moment analogous to when Franklin Roosevelt made it legal to drink 2% beer: this small crack in the legal log jam opened wide shortly afterwards.

Fourteen states, $2.5 billion market size: the main danger of legalisation is that the engine of capitalism will start to pick up steam and companies will advertise a particular reefer as better, stronger, and more long lasting in its effects. The facility visited by the Fox Business reporter looked potent enough: my understanding is that the hemp plants raised for this particular purpose give off intoxicating vapours on their own. Furthermore, the reporter and the owner were in an enclosed space. Given this, I was surprised they weren’t experiencing the munchies. I also didn’t expect them to be as lucid as they were. Nevertheless, a reporter from a widely-watched television network visiting such a place is progress of a kind. No doubt a politician will visit such a farm soon and praise the imagination and industry of the growers and may seek campaign contributions. Perhaps a more substantial lobby for Marijuana growers will form in Washington, which will desire tinkering with standards to allow newer, stronger blends to be put on sale.

Yet, this is better. It’s definitely preferable that the sometimes nauseating churn of politics and business happens instead of a young man on a Detroit street corner is thrown in jail after a random stop and search during which he’s found to have a plastic bag of the stuff in his pockets. It’s better that producing pot is no longer racy, but regulated. It’s better that we start having support groups come out in the open for those who wish to give it up. It’s progress, but the kind that comes with caveats, which tends to be the hallmark of a genuine improvement. Yes, the stubborn or the puritanical might construe this as a form of surrender: but giving up when the stand that one takes is proven to be ridiculous is a victory for common sense.

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Happy New Year

January 2, 2014

2014numberNew Year’s is, by and large, tinged with regret. If the year has been particularly difficult, there’s marginal relief to be had at its conclusion; if the year has been splendid, then there’s sadness at leaving it behind and some trepidation as to what the future may bring. Either way, it represents the outer frontier of the holiday season: beyond it, alarm clocks, early mornings, hastily consumed cups of coffee and the commute back to work all beckon. The lights come down, the trees are set out as rubbish, the stores start aggressively marketing Valentine’s Day wares, the holiday season is tucked into the space of memory, revisited mainly when photo albums are opened. Christmas 2013 is finished; the realities of winter remain. As I write this, I am sitting in New York, and a blizzard warning is in effect for this evening. Tomorrow I’ll go out into what the storm leaves behind with my Bradford City scarf tied around my neck and hoist a snow shovel to help ensure my parents’ car isn’t trapped on the driveway.

As I attack the drifting snow, I will remember that Spring will come. There will be trips to the garden centre for pale green seedlings, which always seem so frail in April. The sun will eventually linger into the evening. It will be possible and preferable to sit outside of Nando’s at Bradford’s Centenary Square and have lunch; it will eventually be right to wear sunglasses as I consume my Extra Hot Butterfly Chicken. For the moment, that scene seems a distant dream, something contemplated as one tries to hibernate in the dark or watches the tiny flakes of white descend en masse.

Moreover, January is the poster-child for austerity. Pay day was just before Christmas; the feeling of being flush is gone, replaced with wondering how one is going to stretch one’s finances to the end of the month. According to the Financial Times, British consumer spending in Q3 was up 1.7% though wages only increased 0.2%. This is the month when plain white and brown envelopes are stuffed into mailboxes, the black sans-serif text showing one’s address providing little hint of the cheque coming due. Television and the press encourage us to go on diets: what remains of the turkey is sealed in plastic containers and stuck in the back of the freezer. If Charles Dickens had given us a portrait of pre-transformed Scrooge in January, no doubt the miser would be portrayed as smiling through the month. His view of December’s profligacy, in his mind, would no doubt have been vindicated. It’s no wonder that many Christmas songs plead for the feeling to extend throughout the year, or for it to be Christmas every day.

Dick ClarkSuch pleas are bound to fail. Eventually, we face New Year’s Eve: it’s no wonder so many people get drunk on the night. I happened across one New Year’s Eve television programme which showed a correspondent in Miami who was obviously inebriated. He wandered aimlessly around a hotel with a roving camera team. He made a point of speaking, albeit with slurred and disconnected words, to young women who were all in a semi-state of undress. They appeared to be no more sober than he was. I could easily imagine him waking up the next morning with a damaged career as well as a hangover. Another reporter was in a New York dance club: he was accompanied by women who looked like they were extras from Robert Palmer music videos with their slicked back hair, bright red lipstick, limited dance movements and absolute silence. One of them poured cheap champagne out as freely as if it was water. My father changed the channel and found a testament to how these New Year’s programmes have become ever more mired in mediocrity: there was a show entitled “Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s with Ryan Seacrest”. Dick Clark, the long time host of “American Bandstand” (a programme similar to Britain’s “Top of the Pops”) had presented a New Year’s show right up until the year of his death. He was an American institution and presented the New Year with skill and brio. His successor, Mr. Seacrest, as the title of the programme indicates, obviously lacks Mr. Clark’s talents; indeed, this is one of the very few television shows to my knowledge which refers to a deceased host in order to maintain its attractiveness. Mr. Seacrest also made the ill-advised choice of inviting Miley Cyrus, who wore an oversized white fur coat and a vacant expression. Fortunately, the last ten seconds of all the programmes were the same: at Times Square, the lighted crystal ball descended, the crowd chanted the countdown from 10, the ball landed and a sign reading “2014” lit up. Sinatra’s “New York, New York” rang through the air, couples kissed and confetti fell. My family raised a toast. Then my father switched the television off and bid us all good night.

This New Year’s Day, I went to see the New York house in which I spent a good part of my childhood. To get there, I took a long walk in the early twilight. The wind was biting cold: my Bradford City scarf, my coat and my gloves weren’t entirely sufficient in keeping it out. I passed some familiar landmarks on the way.  There was the County Club, which was set on a vast golf course: it had not given up the ghost on Christmas just yet, the wreaths and garlands were hung out across its freshly painted white walls, each tied up with a large bright red bow. Turn a corner and walk further along, and I found a large school which I never attended, but nevertheless, was a familiar landmark. It was built probably in the 1920’s: it was made mainly of red brick, but its height and tall windows spoke of an era that was far less concerned with energy efficiency. It was topped with a white tower that would not have been out of place atop a New England church. I wondered if it was still open, given how difficult it would be to keep heating such a place: I later found out, to my relief, that it was.

Perhaps it was the arch of a set of trees or the fact that some of the houses hadn’t changed, but I clearly recalled being a child and going trick or treating on this street. I remembered carrying a plastic basket shaped like a Jack O’Lantern and knocking on unfamiliar doors. I remember Almond Joy and Hershey bars being deposited into my basket, to be consumed as I watched television later in the evening.

Further on, and more familiar houses lay ahead. However I noticed there were quite a few which had changed: some had been extended, others completely rebuilt. The Fords and Dodges which were parked outside the houses of my youth had been replaced with Audis and Volkswagens. The area had gentrified. Finally, I found my former home. Or rather, I found the address.

The home I was looking for was a compact house, painted beige with dark brown shutters. It was barely two storeys: upstairs was confined to my parents’ bedroom and a small lounge. There was a full living room in which our oversized Christmas tree usually sat. My strongest memories are of the kitchen: my parents put in a bay window and placed the kitchen table right by it. I remember sitting there on winter mornings with the radio on: I would look out at the snow falling and wondering if I had to go to school or if the school would shut due to the weather. I remember the excitement I felt when my school’s name was announced, the scent of my parents’ coffee, the soft light of the kitchen reflecting off the yellow linoleum floor.

But the kitchen was gone, the house was gone: what faced me was not a compact suburban home, but rather a three storey behemoth, done up in dark brown render with white window and door frames. Even the prominent sycamore tree in the front yard, under which I had sought shade in the summer, had disappeared; it had been replaced by a driveway that was set in a gentle arc in front of the house. I saw nothing of what I once knew.

Perhaps I should have expected as much. I thought if I looked at my old home I could somehow commune with myself at the age of 10. If I could have stepped into a time machine and visited him, I perhaps would have spoken of Yorkshire and provided reassurance as to where he was headed. Maybe life would have been more certain with such information. But at that moment I couldn’t connect the structure with anything that remained in my memory. Everything had changed.

Matt Smith recently reassured us during his final moments on Doctor Who (before he turned into Peter Capaldi) that we all change, and it’s OK. Indeed, everything changes, and it’s OK. But this is not necessarily the “OK” that arises from it being beneficial, it is inevitable: we are set to change. 2013 ends, 2014 begins and brings change. Perhaps the best of 2013 will continue: perhaps 2014 will present an opportunity to remedy what was worst about last year. The holidays are over, it’s back to work: while there is no assurance that 2014 will be better, easier or happier than the year that has just passed, at least there is a chance to make it so. When we come to New Year’s again, yes, there will still be regret: but perhaps we’ll have begun to forget who Miley Cyrus is, the Miami correspondent could be stuck in Cleveland and more monuments to greed, stupidity and avarice might have come down. With these bright possibilities in mind, I say, Happy New Year.

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Review: “The Spirit of 45” directed by Ken Loach

July 10, 2013


Ed Miliband has just announced revisions in the Labour Party’s relationship with the trade unions. Previously, affiliated unions automatically donated part of their members’ dues into the party’s coffers. The forthcoming changes mean that this will have to be a conscious choice by each individual member.

This represents a dramatic shift: there was a time, not too long ago, when such a move would have been seen as preposterous. The Labour Party was the political wing of the trade union movement: if you were a worker who toiled in a coal mine or a steel mill, there was no other way to improve your lot apart from joining with others in a trade union and voting for a Labour MP who would represent your interests.

Since then, the vast industries which once comprised Britain’s industrial might have mainly vanished. I recall watching a replay of an “Election Night Special” from February 1974 in which Alastair Burnett reeled off result after result. He not only made a point of saying the constituency name, but also stating what the primary industry of that area was. Steel, coal, textiles were all mentioned. Nowadays, we have an economy that is mainly built on services and shopping; the trade unions have been emasculated by Thatcher’s labour laws. The Labour Party is not as naturally linked to the unions which remain, and there are smaller parties like the Greens and the TUSC which vie for the hard core union vote.

It’s perhaps apropos that we now have Ken Loach’s film “The Spirit of 45” to give us a glimpse of what we’ve lost. I first saw it in the theatre at Bradford’s National Media Museum: the audience was mainly of an age group that could remember the mills and vast industrial concerns around Bradford in operation. After the film ended, there was a round of applause. It was a rare accolade as one could hear sadness and regret as well as appreciation.

Loach first provides us with a salubrious reminder of what the world of the 1930’s was like: there was widespread squalor, the poor lived in vermin-infested houses, unemployment and irregular employment were rife. It was a world in which people used the pawn shop as liberally as some nowadays use payday loans to overcome problems in cash flow. It was a time in which if you purchased medical treatment, the doctor would often send around debt collectors to ensure you paid for it.

World War II demanded maximum effort from everyone: a new egalitarianism emerged from the conflict. Furthermore, Churchill was forced to form a wartime coalition that included Labour ministers. They ran many key sectors of the economy: Ernest Bevin, for example, was responsible for production and manpower. Given this, Labour was more strongly positioned than they perhaps realised to win a famous election victory in 1945.

Loach reels off the Labour government’s great achievements: key industries, transport and health were nationalised. Nye Bevan created the National Health Service and decent public housing. By the time Labour left office in 1951, Loach suggests, vast improvements had been made: the song which echoes in the background suggests that “life is a bowl of cherries”.

We then jump to 1979 and the election of Margaret Thatcher; what was built up post-1945 is shown to be torn down. Miners are beaten for protesting pit closures. The free market runs rampant: bankers show up in Ferraris. Perhaps the most eye watering statistic lay in the number of pit closures: by 1994 there were only 14 coal mines left open.

Loach suggests that the last stand should be made over the National Health Service, the one legacy of 1945 that remains with us. We are shown a montage featuring groups such as UK Uncut; today’s Labour Party is disdained as being “middle class” rather than “working class”.

I enjoyed the film and it does fire one’s imagination: the unlimited greed of the 1980’s would have been greeted with disgust in 1945. One wonders how we get back to such societal norms. I also wished that I could vote for Clement Attlee, as his unassuming, almost twee demeanour was a mask for sincere, principled radicalism. However, the film does gloss over some key facts.

First, the 1945 Labour government achieved much, but it would be incorrect to assume they established heaven on earth: the film is honest enough to state that nationalisation happened “the wrong way” in many instances, namely state bosses replaced private ones. Also, during this time Britain was bankrupt and had to go cap in hand to the Americans for a loan; the effort required to secure this support killed John Maynard Keynes, Britain’s chief negotiator. The role of Marshall Plan aid in rebuilding post-war Britain is also excised.

Additionally, the fact that rationing was still in force until the mid 1950’s is similarly brushed aside. Housing developments didn’t happen quickly enough: squatting, even on former army bases, was rife.

Barbara CastleFurthermore, by jumping over most of the 1950’s, 1960’s and 1970’s, Loach completely overlooks key events like the struggle between Harold Wilson’s Labour government and the trade unions. Neither Barbara Castle nor “In Place of Strife” are mentioned. One can argue that these ruptures within the framework of a functioning social democracy are preferable to the anarchy and squalor of laissez faire policies, but nevertheless, to ignore them entirely weakens the argument. It also means that Labour’s evolution into the party it is today is more inexplicable: an uninformed viewer would wonder why Labour “dropped” the unions. The truth is, and Ed Miliband appears to understand this, that as work has evolved, unions have evolved too and with it, so has the Labour Party. The mass industries of old no longer exist: there are more self-employed people than ever before. Small businesses, i.e. ones which are not conducive for the growth of mass trade unions, predominate. Labour has had to manage the rather difficult feat of maintaining one foot in the past while taking a step towards the future. Loach does not explain any of this.

Nevertheless, one can look on in something like wonder and even envy: the idea that there was full employment, the chance of a decent home without a heavy mortgage, a reasonable standard of living available to most and a societal emphasis on equality, does make the world of 1945 seem appealing. But perhaps what is most alluring about this era lay in what the 1945 Labour government inspired and fostered most: hope. We live in an era of unbridled cynicism: we accept that things are the way they are and this is how it will always be. This was not always true, and belief has managed to lever off foes like the Nazis and raise up institutions like the NHS. If we did have some of the Spirit of 45, the future might be altogether brighter: because it would not only seem possible to do better, it would be a direct goal.

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A Weekend with Labour

July 8, 2013

Labour ItemsBradford’s summer has rolled up its shirt sleeves, offering its inhabitants a rare but welcome mixture of bright sunshine, blue skies and genuine warmth in the air. As I look out my window, there are no rainclouds on the horizon, rather, a pleasant haze has settled on the city. Earlier, I drove to Bradford Interchange rail station: the taxi drivers in their ranks were no longer huddling in their vehicles for warmth as is their wont during winter but rather visiting with each other. No jackets were worn. Happy chatter predominated, despite the fact that after all, it’s another Monday.

Perhaps the city’s general good mood will be sustained by the sunlight’s continued strength: in such weather, the pedestrian precincts of Bradford become an alluring mix of light and shadow, the Victorian buildings with all their alabaster grandeur standing silently by. Perhaps also it will be kept alive by the afterglow of a pleasant weekend; I can fully sympathise. I’ve just had an enjoyable few days, mostly spent in the company of the Bradford Labour Party.

If one reads the newspapers or watches the news, it is tempting to believe that Labour is presently locked in a life or death struggle with the unions, in particular, with Unite. Blairites and Brownites appear on television and mischievous presenters try and provoke conflict between them. Tom Watson has left his high office as Labour’s chief campaigner; Ed Miliband is portrayed as a latter day Sisyphus – every time he pushes up against the vast boulder of the media’s disdain, and eventually beats it, it rolls back down again, supposedly thanks to the lubricant issued by Len McCluskey. Labour certainly needs to take back control of the narrative: at present it suggests that unions are as reputable as crime syndicates, though there is a strong case for suggesting payday lenders (and Tory donors) like Wonga are the real criminals. To put it another way: somehow, the media has decided that unions, made up as they are mostly of people on modest or average incomes, are worse than the avatars of finance which got us into our current economic predicament and are presently perpetuating the malaise. Ed must stare at the top of the hill, look at the boulder placed in his path, sigh, and push against it yet again.

Yet, all this seemed far removed from my weekend with Labour. It began on Friday evening with a Bradford East constituency meeting at City Hall: this was my first official engagement with the party and in preparation for it, I donned a red shirt. My other half Caroline and I were greeted outside the entrance by Councillor (and formerly Bradford’s Lord Mayor) Naveeda Ikram. Her greeting was effusive, only surpassed by that of my local councillor Ruth Billheimer a few days earlier; I don’t think I’ve ever been welcomed to any organisation so warmly. We went inside: Bradford city hall is as splendid on the inside as it is outside. Its theme is essentially Victorian gothic, windows have stained glass symbols representing the various sections of the city. As we entered the wood panelled room in which the meeting was held, I was greeted with a round of applause by all the members around the table: I was momentarily stunned. All I’d really done was leave the Liberal Democrats. For their part, the local Liberal Democrats weren’t all that concerned that I had departed. Earlier in the week, I had been feeding my cat when I heard a knock on the door; as repairmen had been and gone I wondered who it could be. I rushed down and opened it: there stood a Liberal Democrat councillor I had met a couple of times. He seemed earnest enough, and a smile stretched his grey bearded face.

“Can I speak to Dr. Defoe, please,” he asked. I repeat: we had met on a couple of occasions. He had also mangled my surname.

“Yes, that’s me,” I replied, “we’ve met.”

He was flustered for a moment. He continued, “Well, Ruth Billheimer was boasting that she you had joined the Labour Party. I was in the area and wanted to check if it was true.”

“Yes,” I replied.

He lowered his head slightly. “So it is true. Good bye, then.”

I shut the door. There hadn’t been any attempt to persuade me to return. I tried not to laugh.

The meeting featured the Leader of the council, David Green: he had the air of a man who had too much to do and too little time in which to do it and yet feeling horribly responsible for it all. Having met him, it was less surprising that he had good naturedly submitted to the Twitter hashtag of #blamedave.

He gave us an update on the Westfield situation, which seemed positive. However, he also told us facts of which I had been previously unaware: for example, the Department of Education is demanding that school funding is “equalised”, i.e., a school in the suburbs gets the same as one the city. There is a problem with this approach: city based schools often require extra funding and facilities in order to overcome problems associated with poverty or improving language skills. Thus Bradford’s attempts to bolster schools in more deprived areas were likely to be undermined, leading to poorer outcomes. Furthermore, David told us that the cuts in local government spending were likely to be so severe that Bradford would struggle to do more than offer the bare minimum of services. Nevertheless, he said, the council had delivered on projects like the City Park and would continue to do so.

After the meeting ended, Caroline and I went to Nandos for dinner. We sat at an outdoor table and looked out over the City Park: young people were gathering, the pub next door was filled to overflowing with young people, and youthful music, with its insistent pounding beat, was playing. Had the project been a success? It would be difficult to disagree. Standing by was the City Hall, illuminated brightly against the advancing night.

The next day began with my first “Labour Doorstep” event, held in Keighley. The intention of “Labour Doorstep” is to visit voters, ask them about their future voting preferences and address any issues they may have. I awoke early (partially at the insistence of my cat), made coffee, put 3 folding chairs into my car’s boot: they were for the Canterbury Carnival later in the day.

I was a taxi driver, ferrying Ruth, Caroline and a keen young activist named James to our destination. James’ knowledge of Bradford politics is encyclopaedic, and he apparently has the phone number of every Labour politician in the area. He’s fourteen.

I don’t know Keighley particularly well and my satellite navigation knew even less, its calm, strangely accented voice consistently threatening to lead us astray. Nevertheless, we found the small play area on Arctic Street where the activists were gathering. The sun streamed down: the salubrious warmth began to bake me. It was so bright I wasn’t conscious of the fact that I was wearing sunglasses. For a brief time, I stood there talking to Ruth, talking to my other half, talking to other activists: it was like being at an extended family reunion. Everyone was friendly, some were eccentric, we all had something in common despite being wildly different in other respects. We were even asked to pose for the kind of group photos one sees emerging out of family reunions; many had taken out their mobile phones for taking a variety of snapshots. No doubt if there was a conference hall behind us instead of a playground, we would have sat at long tables, broken bread and talked the rest of the day.

Clipboards, maps and leaflets were distributed: my other half, Ruth, James, another Bradford activist named Michael, a Keighley councillor called Adrian Farley and I were split off into a team. We had to drive to the location: my navigation system went insane again and I ended up at the entrance of a golf course. After trying to coax my satellite navigation into providing a sensible location, we ended up where we were supposed to be: it was along a pleasant road leading to the golf course: on either side were stone cottages, some were relatively new, others were Victorian or older. Few cars were in the driveways: this was one time where pleasant weather was unhelpful. Summer in its shirtsleeves invites out of the house to enjoy its splendour not necessarily hear about the clear and present dangers to the National Health Service.

For the most part, I was watching and learning: I observed as Ruth met a voter who had just finished tidying his yard. He was an enthusiastic Labour supporter and they chatted pleasantly as they stood in his open garage. For the most part, however, few were at home: leaflets from the local Labour councillor were folded and pushed through mail slots.

I personally encountered my first voter while accompanying James. He knocked on the door, and an elderly woman wearing a navy blue blouse emerged. James told her who we were and she stated quickly that she had supported Labour, but voted Conservative at the last election. A swing voter: however, she said she was still happy with her choice and shut the door. A swing voter, perhaps, but one who had swung in the wrong direction.

It was time to go. The sun was still streaming down and I was regretting my decision not to wear a hat. Naveeda arrived in her small Toyota and picked up Ruth: our next destination was Horton Park and the Canterbury Carnival.

Little Horton MosqueEn route, we passed St. Luke’s Hospital. James informed us that it was right on the dividing line of Bradford East and Bradford West constituencies: one half had David Ward for an MP, he noted, the other had George Galloway. We passed the magnificent Little Horton Mosque: a beautiful and imposing structure made of red stone and punctuated by brilliant green domes. James remarked:

“Whenever I hear people say that immigrants come here and just take benefits, I remind them that immigrants built places like this.”

We arrived. Following Naveeda’s car, I had the rather surreal experience of driving along the park’s paved footpaths. The sun was still strong, families were out on the grass, children were playing, the tidy flowerbeds were in bloom. Our little convoy passed by a pond, then climbed up a gentle incline. We parked. Labour had a stand in the shade of a tree: across the path stood a bright orange patterned tent, no doubt this was where the festivities would take place. Naveeda drove on: Ruth, Caroline, James, and I along with Ian, our local campaigns officer and several others set up our stand. We blew up red balloons, set out packets of crisps and orange drink pouches. We tried in vain to fasten the balloons to the table with stickers, eventually Sellotape sufficed. We were ready.

Labour BalloonBusiness was slow at first: a pair of workmen in florescent vests asked for water, we gave it to them. Others sought similar refreshment. We began giving away red Labour balloons to children: unfortunately we had no helium. I discovered a talent for blowing them up and fastening string with slip knots to the ends. We got the parents to sign the petition we had with us, demanding that Cameron cease and desist his changes to the NHS. More children filtered in. The pace of giving away balloons increased. A number of young faces peered at us from around our table, every expression indicating a desire for a balloon. A young blonde boy in a bright green shirt admired Caroline’s red rosette: she gave it to him along with a balloon.

Eventually the Carnival arrived. Naveeda was at its head, carrying a bright red star attached to a tall wooden pole. More children crowded around, more signatures were collected. A Bradford West activist named Khaleed who had come along to help went into the crowds gathering more signatures. Ruth, Naveeda, the Deputy Mayor and Lord Mayor posted for a photograph. A young Indian man performed acrobatics at the top of a pole held by his compatriot: he spun around at the top, impersonating the action of the blades on a helicopter.

We ran out of balloons. We ended with a bang: I accidentally burst the last balloon in my efforts to blow it up. We ran out of pages of the petition to fill: every last space had gone. Naveeda revealed a sumptuous picnic of spicy samosas, onion bhajis and chicken which was second to none. The vegetable samosa in particular had real fire and kick, belting me pleasantly with spices the moment I bit into it. I sat with my colleagues underneath the tree and ate. Nearby, a hawker was selling secondhand clothing for 10 pence per item. The families were beginning to disperse across the park. The sun was beginning its downward arc, slowly processing into twilight. I drank some water: it would be soon time to go.

Already, Ruth and James and Caroline and I were talking about further events. Summer in its shirtsleeves would bring out more fairs and gatherings: we would carry the message outward. Nothing was necessarily inevitable: the cuts weren’t going to help, the changes to the National Health Service had led to an increase in waiting times. The Tories were trapped in an ideology that made a fetish of the market, which was contrary to the spirit of the Health Service. The whole idea of charging foreigners for using it was merely a gateway drug, trying to get the public used to the concept of paying. It was possible to do something different. Perhaps summer in its rolled up shirtsleeves made hope more apparent: it’s difficult to think of such a day when doused by November rain, difficult to see the possibilities when your information comes solely from the popular press. We would have to carry enlightenment with us and spread it outward.

It was time to go home: the next day promised a trip to Halifax to pick up some end tables acquired on eBay and watching Sunday politics programmes. That evening, I happened across a clause in the Labour Party rulebook:

“The party is anxious to encourage the recruitment of new members and to ensure that new members are properly welcomed into the party and opportunities offered to enable their full participation in all aspects of party life.”

I thought, yes, I was just at the start, but at the same time, it felt like I’d been there for much longer. This past weekend, I’d been properly welcomed: indeed I felt like I had come home.

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Why I Joined Labour

June 27, 2013

Cut Up Membership CardSo, I quit the Liberal Democrats and joined Labour.

I’ve been disgruntled for some time. Every time I saw a Liberal Democrat minister or MP appear on television meekly defending the policies of the Coalition government, I cringed. A tinge of nausea followed whenever I recalled I was donating money to this farce. I tried to console myself with the thought that I wasn’t giving them much else: not my efforts, nor my time, nor my support. When I joined, I was already a square peg in a round hole: as time went on, this ill-fitting slot diminished then disappeared entirely. It felt as if the party was keen on my Direct Debit mandate; it didn’t seem they were all that interested in much else.

Nevertheless, I held back on quitting: there are many Liberal ideas which I hold dear. For example, I’m pro-Europe: it’s good that there is a party which wholeheartedly shares this increasingly unpopular view. Furthermore, civil liberties matter greatly to me: I am totally opposed to the “snoopers’ charter” and Edward Snowden’s recent revelations about the extent of surveillance going on in both the United States and United Kingdom are troubling. It’s important that some political force says “No more”.

Additionally, there are many good people in the Liberal Democrats. At the top of the party, there is Vince Cable, who seems to find coalition with the Tories as pleasant as a prolonged colonoscopy. There are many councillors and grassroots activists who find the Coalition as repellent as I do: however, they seem to be increasingly isolated and beleaguered.

I care about Liberal history: I think the ideas of Lloyd George, Keynes and Beveridge are worth preserving in their original wrappings. The Liberal voice which speaks to this tradition still has much to say: too bad it’s been smothered by Coalition. Worse, the combined legacies of Lloyd George, Keynes and Beveridge have been deliberately undermined by their heirs.

After a long period of reflection, what made me finally pull the trigger was the Chancellor’s Spending Review, which was absurd, cruel and anti-intellectual. It’s clear that Osborne is as unfamiliar with the idea of a good society as he is with the “The Paradox of Thrift”.

The Chancellor also doesn’t seem willing or able to address the enigma of companies which do billions of pounds worth of business in the United Kingdom, yet pay no income tax. Rather, he only attacks targets which have a limited ability to fight back: he intends to balance the nation’s books on the backs of the poor, the disabled, and the marginalised. I knew that once Osborne had finished his rancid précis that he would send out Danny Alexander to defend it. Alexander would swallow hard and take a beating in the name of policies which he probably finds dubious if not outright reprehensible. He has the government’s ledgers in his possession, he surely knows that Tory policies aren’t working. He must know also that austerity only works if somewhere else is prospering and willing to buy your country’s goods: this was how Canada was able to mount its sustained cuts programme. Because people wanted Canadian timber, oil and minerals, they could slash the budget: demand came from somewhere and the economy didn’t collapse. We are not Canada: when spending was slashed, confidence nosedived and growth flatlined. The budget cuts didn’t cut the deficit; rather, the automatic stabilisers of welfare payments kicked in, and thus caused the benefit bill to rise. Of course, if cutting the deficit is the main priority, the other option is to cut those payments, thus adversely affecting the poorest. This is the option that has apparently been taken.

I don’t have the trappings of state to keep me at a remove from these facts, nor am I lulled by talk of “governing in the national interest” nor is my conscience stilled by the occasional Pupil Premium. I live in Bradford; our council and public services were already under pressure due to cuts to local government. Our food banks are overextended: demand is such that it’s likely a new one will be set up in Otley. Grant Shapps’ breezy assumption that somehow one can take 10% more without too much bother is purest nonsense. Furthermore, I see Tory ministers who have been promoted far beyond their competence imposing their Manichean world view on British society: in their eyes, there are only “shirkers” and “strivers”. The Tories are doing their best to create conflict between these two segments in order to stay in power and prevent tough questions being asked of the wealthiest.  Specifically, there is an elite in this country which is untouched by the cares that afflict the majority, and even seem relatively unbothered when they transgress the law. Why are there are no policies in train which will bring this aristocracy down to earth?  And why, on the contrary, does their perch seem ever more lofty?  Is it the consequence of bad policy or by design?

Rather than cry halt, the Liberal Democrats continue to prop up this intolerable state of affairs, albeit sometimes with palpable reluctance. Yes, it would probably be electoral suicide for them to walk away now, but an honourable defeat is preferable to sustaining a dishonourable compromise. Once the catharsis of getting an electoral savaging had passed, then perhaps the party could have rediscovered its purpose. I was not alone in feeling this way: I did not have enough compatriots who could make it happen. For my part, there was nothing to stop me from saying, “Sorry, no more. You’ve gone too far already; I can’t bear it any longer.” I wrote a letter saying farewell. Later, I took out my membership card, got a pair of trusty scissors, and cut it in two.

Nye BevanHaving resolved to leave, it didn’t necessarily follow I’d join Labour. Yes, I’ve previously been involved in a trade union; I was even a chapter president for a time.  Yes, much of my economic analysis dovetails nicely with what has been said by the Shadow Cabinet. I’d much rather see a Labour government than what we have currently. Watching Ken Loach’s “The Spirit of 45” recently made me wish I could vote for that pleasant Mr. Attlee. Nevertheless, another spirit, that of Tony Blair, still wanders the corridors of the Labour Party’s soul. My perception is that his shade is fading; once it dissipates for good, then perhaps the genuine idealism that Loach exposited so beautifully will make itself fully evident once more. For example, I can’t imagine Aneurin Bevan tolerating the failings of the Care Quality Commission; he would have been disgusted by the thought of people in the National Health Service simply not caring about patients as they should and being debauched by the ideology of the market. To him, public service was just that: a high and noble calling to work for the benefit of the people. He demanded the best of those who worked in those services; he also believed public services required proper funding, even if that meant that the wealthiest had to pay. The Labour Party, imperfect as it is, is the primary vessel of these ideas. It is also the most likely means by which this ethos will achieve realisation.

Nevertheless, when I filled out the form and set up the Direct Debit mandate, I was uncertain. I had been a member of the Liberal Democrats but not really “in” the party; I was sure that I would likely have disagreements regardless of whatever political party I joined. I am admittedly a cantankerous soul. Additionally, unlike before, would there be a chance to actually help? Would it be possible to make a difference in my community?  I didn’t have to wait long for my answer: I’ve received a warm welcome. I’ve been more politically active and engaged in the past 24 hours than I have been in the past one and a half years.

In the centre of Bradford, there is a mural which celebrates the centenary of the founding of the Independent Labour Party in January 1893. It states, “there is no weal save commonweal”. This work of art celebrates the city’s crucial role in Labour’s formation: similarly, Labour is embedded in Bradford’s DNA. I’d like to think that before any political allegiance I hold, that I am a Bradfordian first. Given this, perhaps joining Labour was only natural.

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City ’til I Die

June 5, 2013

Green PaperI looked at the form. It was printed on green paper; the black sans-serif letters ensured the questions were clear: did I want to be a councillor, was there anything in my past that could embarass the party, and why did I want to do this? As I scanned the paper, I exhaled.

I’ve lived in Bradford for nearly two years; I have become very attached to the city. Last Saturday, this affection was particularly evident to me; I went into the centre of town for lunch, taking advantage of the fact that it was a beautiful day. It was so warm that my usual morning trip to the rubbish bin didn’t require putting on slippers: rather, the pavement radiated a pleasant heat. My cat Amelia followed me out of the open front door. She sniffed the air, and then bounded into the midst of a patch of buttercups growing on a small expanse of green in front of my home. She was ready to frolic.

Despite the lovely weather, I felt some level of trepidation: the English Defence League were supposedly in town. They were there, presumably, to protest against Bradford’s diversity, which in my opinion should be a source of civic pride. However, a quick check on Twitter suggested only 3 people had turned up to their “rally”.

Bradford Pride 2013So, accompanied by friends and my significant other, I went in. After parking the car, our party set off by foot. In the distance, I could hear pop music booming out of outdoor speakers. The sound echoed throughout the city centre, ricocheting off of buildings both illuminated by sunlight and cast in shadow. Upon arriving at Centenary Square, I saw that Bradford Pride was in full swing right in front of the majestic town hall: the city’s LGBT community apparently hadn’t been at all cowed by the threat of the EDL. In fact, I didn’t see any EDL presence whatsoever. In contrast, Bradford Pride was as diverse as it possibly be: a young man was singing on stage, in the audience were two women dressed in niqabs. Couples of all varieties were on show, visiting the beer tent, wading in Centenary Square’s vast water feature, eating at outdoor restaurant tables in the golden light and warmth.

I smiled. I don’t think I’d been happier to live here; elsewhere, the voices of hatred and intolerance were supposedly at full volume. Not here: I later found out via social media that the EDL’s motley band had retreated from Bradford. They apparently went to Leeds and spent a less than productive afternoon harassing shoppers. In London, there were clashes between supporters of the fascist British National Party and United Against Fascism: both groups were dwarfed in numbers by those opposed to culling badgers. There was turmoil, but not in Bradford. Families frolicked in the spring sunlight. The scents of peri peri chicken and fresh beer out of the tap lingered in the air. On stage, a singer tried to reprise Erasure’s greatest hits; what he lacked in raw ability, he made up for in sincerity. A young lady with curly red hair and sporting a rainbow bow tie accompanied by another young lady who was presumably her partner even offered free hugs. All was at peace.

Bradford City FCCould Bradford be improved? Certainly: compare it to London and it’s obvious that there is a vast difference in wealth. Nevertheless, Bradford possesses fertile soil from which the green shoots of a renaissance could emerge: there is fibre optic broadband available in much of the city, it is a particularly young town, and even its industrial heritage makes it appealing to those who like “steampunk” couture. It is held back by a number of factors: central government, for example, seems determined to reduce the city to penury, cutting its budget with all the aggression of a crazed butcher with a chainsaw. Most recently, the National Media Museum, which has a wonderful IMAX theatre, was put under threat. Bradford has also suffered from a notable lack of self-belief, though the recent promotion of Bradford City FC to League One seems to have provided a much needed boost to the city’s psyche. Bradford’s politics are an additional barrier: an electorate that can enthusiastically vote for George Galloway is showing obvious signs of stress. For eight years, as control of Bradford city council passed between Labour and Coalition parties, the development of a shopping mall in the city centre has languished: was this due to political timidity? Was it due to stupidity? Both? It’s only been recently that the end of “the Hole’s” tenure in Bradford has come within sight.

Many thoughts raced through my mind as I examined the green form. It would be easy to look at Bradford’s problems and think that no one person could possibly make a bit of difference. Certainly, my membership of the Liberal Democrats hitherto had left me with the distinct impression that my contribution was neither wanted nor desirable. Hitherto, I’ve been invited to two “chats” on topics including equality and taxation. I played the role of “Mr. Awkward” with some relish at these gatherings, asking questions which perhaps didn’t chime pleasantly: for example, when the discussion turned to the environment, I’d asked why the party had allowed schemes to encourage the use of solar panels to be dismantled. When the attendees were expected to be grateful that the income threshold had been raised so as to remove many poor people from taxation altogether, I pointed out that this wasn’t sufficient to counter rises in the cost of living, including the increase in VAT which the Coalition had enacted. Yet, they sent me the green form; I wondered if filling it out would be an act of futility. I’m probably flattering myself in thinking my name would be recognised, but perhaps it might, and the green form which I was filling out with a black ink pen would immediately be put on the reject pile. Indeed, not only might it be futile to send the form in, it might be a complete waste of time to even think of serving the city. I’m a refusenik, a rebel, a renegade. All that I’d seen so far suggested that the party had two tiers. One was for the hoi polloi who could pass all the resolutions against Coalition policy they liked; the second (and upper) level was for those who actually made the decisions. Loyalty to the leadership was what ensured selection and progression; but, I thought, I’d rather be loyal to the truth and to Bradford. This apparently had a cost; hitherto, I hadn’t even been asked to stuff leaflets in envelopes despite having offered to do so.

Nevertheless, with a swoop of the pen, I signed the form off, folded it, and sealed it within a small white envelope. I then dropped it in the mailbox. As I bade it a silent farewell, I resigned myself to the possibility that it’s likely there will be no reply. No matter: this is a good home, and a home worth giving time, effort and energy to help make it even better; as the fans of Bradford City chant, I’m “City ’til I die!” If one avenue is blocked, no doubt there will be another way.

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On “Muslim Appearance”

May 26, 2013

Michael AdebolajoAs it turned out, those who murdered drummer Lee Rigby were about as nondescript as you could get. The horrifying video of Michael Abedolajo holding blood soaked blades indicated he was wearing nothing more extraordinary than blue jeans, a hoodie and running shoes. A photograph of his counterpart showed he was similarly difficult to spot in a crowd: he wore a khaki jacket which looked like it had been acquired from a discount store.

The focus of most media coverage is rightly on Lee Rigby, his undoubted character, his achievements and his family’s terrible grief; that said, the immediate reaction of the authorities said much about how they behave under stress. This response was counterproductive and hints at an official view of Muslim citizens as separate from the general population.

Let’s review: shortly after the attack, Nick Robinson, correspondent for the BBC, quoted a Whitehall source which said that the perpetrators were of “Muslim appearance”. Robinson was quickly upbraided on social media for using this term, which in the end proved not to be his own. The phrase itself, issued at a point when the news was hot and passions were burning brightly due to the shock and revulsion that the public rightly felt, was cack-handed at best, malicious at worst. The moment it was uttered, it added to a lingering and pernicious narrative of the Islamic world as the source of terrorism, although as ETA in the Basque lands and the various factions in Northern Ireland prove, terrorism has neither an ethnicity nor a religion. Such a statement could only help stir up mindless racists such as the English Defence League, who immediately descended upon Woolwich: they clashed with police at Woolwich Arsenal station. Also, a man was arrested after coming into a mosque in Braintree armed with knives and an incendiary device.

No doubt it would have emerged that the killers of Lee Rigby believed themselves to be followers of Islam and were motivated by “jihadist” causes. Regardless, it was incumbent upon the authorities to be cautious in the language they used, not utilise a phrase like “Muslim appearance”, particularly since the photographs taken in the aftermath indicated that this simply wasn’t true. What perhaps made this cold blooded murder all the more horrifying was how commonplace the alleged perpetrators looked: they could not be picked out walking along Oxford Street on a Saturday afternoon. There was nothing extraordinary about their dress or looks, certainly nothing that obviously said they were extremists.

So why did the Whitehall source say to Nick Robinson that they were of “Muslim appearance”? Could it have been a mere poor choice of words: were they trying to suggest that they believed the crime had “jihadist” motivations and expressed this badly? Or is it a symptom arising from the subconscious of the bureaucracy and political class that is willing to assign a Muslim character to a crime such as this?

The superego of the state kicked in, obviously, and all political leaders have been quick to say, rightly, that this crime is contrary to both the letter and spirit of Islam. However two contrary impulses can exist simultaneously: a political leader may know that Muslim citizens are deserving the same protections as any other, and we should be equal before the law. However, the same political leader may have gut instincts which exist in diametric opposition to what he knows. Sometimes, if not often, emotion lashes out more quickly than reason has the ability to get hold of it and we are left with the aftermath of phrases like “Muslim appearance”.

I live in Bradford; though I am not a Muslim, many Muslims also call this city home. There are plenty of Christians, Sikhs and Hindus who reside here as well. Although there are particular “neighbourhoods”, in suburbs like mine, we live side by side in our homes, working, paying taxes, tidying lawns and washing our cars on the weekend. By and large, this works, because we operate in an atmosphere of quiet tolerance and respect. “Tolerance and respect” in extremis means that if a Pakistani man is killed in Birmingham by a white person, that my Muslim and Sikh neighbours don’t assign this malicious deed a “Christian appearance”; it means that the dreadful murder of Lee Rigby is not assigned a Muslim character by the authorities or myself. Rather, it means that both my neighbour and I look at both murders with mutual outrage and shock: we are thus united, rather than divided, by revulsion and a demand for justice. The authorities’ response indicates an intellectual understanding of the principle, but not an intuitive nor instinctual predilection to act in accordance to it. This gap creates a space for the pernicious weeds of bigotry to grow.

The EDL protests AslanThis void also offers opportunities for those who profit off of division: UKIP proclaims it is “non-racist” or “anti-racist”, but its attacks on immigration chime in a particular way to those who wish to remove influences seen as “foreign”. The English Defence League is an outlet for the anti-intellectual and disenfranchised who despise the world as it is and seize upon the simplistic expedient of blaming the “other”; they too find oxygen in such a space, as their world view is lent some credibility by those who govern us. On the other hand, the preachers of hate and intolerance can also point at the authorities and say that Muslims will never be full citizens in a land that perceives them as alien, and indeed, such a state is anathema and will never dispense true justice until it espouses their faith.

Most people, regardless of individual religious belief, regard the avatars of extremism as cranks and loonies; nevertheless, as the killing of Lee Rigby shows, it only takes a few to wreak terrible damage. It is incumbent on all citizens to squeeze the space in which hatred flourishes into as cramped quarters as possible: it means that the public will need to turn its face away from the subtle and not-so-subtle innuendos dished out in the media, assorted demagogues and by certain political parties. It means using reason to combat passion and emotion, which often cannot contend with complexity. It also means the authorities as well as citizens will need to feel (as well as think) that all who live here are of equal worth and that murder has no religious character whatsoever, rather, it is the mark of madness.

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Picture of meI'm a Doctor of Creative Writing, a husband, a son, a brother, an uncle, a published novelist, a technologist, a student, and still an amateur in much else.

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