The price of conflict

In the last few days details have begun to emerge of the terrible cost of the civil war in Syria. As many as 20.000 civilians have been killed in the fifteen or so months since protests began there in the Arab Spring of 2011.

 

Like father, like son, you might say. Mr Assad pere killed just as many in and around Homs in the 1980s, when the Muslim Brotherhood stood up to him. Today much of Homs in is in smoking ruins again.

 

When we visited Syria in 2008 we marvelled at the amazing Roman city of Palmyra, in the heart of the desert, close to the Iraqi border. We spent an extraordinary afternoon wandering over the Krac de Chevalier, one of the greatest Crusader Castles remaining in the Holy Land. And we shopped in the Byzantine souks of Aleppo, Syria's second city. Today we hear that all these priceless sites of antiquity have been badly damaged in the recent fighting.

Last night, I watched again Werner Herzog's remarkable film "Lessons of Darkness", where he was allowed access to Kuwait in the aftermath of the first Gulf War. Its images, strangely beautiful despite their horror, of the burning oil wells and huge lakes containing millions of barrels of oil, transfixed just as much as they did when I saw the film nearly twenty years ago. The scenes resembled some terrible natural catastrophe; I had to keep reminding myself that this unprecedented act of ecological vandalism was in fact the work of one man.

 

Not that we should be too shocked by all this destruction. In the second Iraq war, American troops placed a major military base right on top of some unique Mesopotamian ruins, destroying them completely. Yeah, they might have commented. War sucks, right? Especially for the losers. Which, when our history is destroyed in the process, means all of us.

GREETINGS, PLEBS.

So. Andrew Mitchell, government chief whip and member of the cabinet was a little miffed at being asked by the police to use a side entrance to leave Downing Street, rather than the wider gate that was also available. Frustrated at not getting his own way, he accused the police officers guarding the gate of being "fucking plebs" and heaven knows what other vile mouthed expletives.

Who's the real pleb here?  The term, which I can't remember using since I was a schoolboy, refers to the "plebeian" class of Romans: Roman citizens, but of distinctly lower rank than the patrician class of nobility, the land-owning class of elite players that ran the Empire. Of course that great "civilisation" was predicated on a culture of slavery and murderous brutality. Perhaps, as so many Tories do behind closed doors, Mr Mitchell longs for a society based on these values, and when angry and frustrated, out pours the true value system that lurks just below the surface of that obnoxious character.

 

There are patricians around today, and they are a rare race indeed: Nelson Mandela, Desmond Tutu, Tim Berners-Lee, Steven Hawking, Jessica Ennis, Chris Hoy. These people are qualified to look down on the rest of mundane humanity from their pantheon of excellence, though I somehow doubt that they would. A horrible little twerp like Andrew Mitchell is not. You know who the real pleb here is, Andrew? You.

 

Look out badgers: they're after you

So. At last it has happened. The government has finally bowed to their natural allies, the landowners, and agreed to a cull of 70% of the badger population over the next 5 years. Last night on Channel 4 news one of these obnoxious types was put against Brian May (who bears a curious resemblence to a badger himself) and had the gall to quote the results of a atudy to support his position, the conclusion of which was that there was NO good eveidence that reducing the badger population has any effect on the incidence of bovine TB in cattle.

My first thought was, why don't they immunise cattle against TB, the same way as is done with humans; why couldn't that be tried before exterminating a wonderful wild animal, one of the last larger wild animals left in Britain. Then Brian produced the same argument. But no, the government gives the green light to a bunch of bloodthirsty killers who will probably relish the slaughter they are about to undertake. These men are dangerous, and should be stopped. If not, what will they want to exterminate next? other feral creatures in our countyside: squirrels, otters, foxes, birds? If the farmers thought they could increase their profits in this way, you can be sure they would. And it wouldn't be long before our "green and pleasanr land" would be strerilised of all life other than profitable cash crops. LEAVE THE BADGERS ALONE!

Oh God what have I done now?

2 years ago I attended the 40 year reunion of my old high school. A few people did little acts, music mainly, and as I had just come back from Palestine where I did my juggling show, I kind of wished I'd shown them a few tricks.

And tonight, when an old friend persuades me to come to another on 20th October, I rashly offered to put on a 3 minute demonstration of prestidigitation.

Wah! No, I'm going to be gentle with myself and only show skills that are withing my comfort zone, but I should be able to do a bit with balls, 1,2,3 and finally 4 for a brief period. Then I'll top it off with some ball spinning. I'll use my big yellow one, which is quite easy to use and looks beautiful in the air.

I have resolved to do 20 hours of practice between now and the date in hand- which is precisely six weeks away tomorrow. So I'll have to keep up a steady half-hour minimum every day, giving myself one day off per week. That's quite gentle really, and will, I think, be easily enough for purpose.

I'm getting excited already!

the truth: an endangered species

COMMENT

Yesterday the full, awful reality of what happened at Hillsborough 23 years ago came to light; indicating an astonishing catalogue of deceit on behalf of, not only the police but also the ambulance service.

Some years ago a brilliant drama-doc shown on ITV gave us the heads-up on what reality happened- how the police basically lost control of a crowd situation and panicked. And how the victims, many of them in a parlous state, but still alive, were simply lined up in a gym, denied access to any medical intervention and basically left to die. Yesterday we heard that as many as 41 people died in this way, people who should have been alive today. The doctoring (as a doctor I have never been comfortable about that term) of reports by the police to make them appear in a more favourable light is one of the most disgraceful scandals to have been perpetrated by the British state since the Amritsar massacre, and make no mistake: this WAS a massacre of the young and innocent.

I heard someone on Sky News this morning say something about "surely this couldn't happen today". Who are they kidding? Of course it could. But we'll have to wait at least 23 years to find out how they're screwing us right now- and then they'll still be saying: "surely this couldn't happen today".

Talk about an Olympic bounce

At last! I have waited my entire life to see a Brit win a tennis Grand Slam tournament, but throughout that time British tennis has, with a few notable exceptions in the women's game languished in the doldrums. Even today, our Davis Cup team lurks among the lowest ranked countries in the world.

But last night all that changed. Andy Murray came through against Novak Djokavic in what was apparently (I admit it, I didn't stay up half the night to watch it, something I may regret to my dying day) an epic struggle. Murray having secured a 2 sets to love lead, saw that lead nullified by a ferociously determined opponent, then came through in a final set of truly heroic stature.

But, you might say, he did beat Djoki in the Olympic final, but I say that was very different. The Olympic final was fought out over three brief sets, and with a crowd delirious with Olympic fever. How could he lose? But the US Open is another matter entirely. All Murray's gold medal proved was that he COULD beat his Serbian friend.

But Andy, you and I know there is one final goal for you, one goal for which the nation has yearned since my own father was a young man: winning Wimbledon itself. Murray has said he likes the surface at Flushing Meadows, which implies he is not totally at home on the grassy sward of the Centre Court. But the mark of a truly great player is the ability to adapt to all surfaces. And somehow, for me to be able to die a truly contented man, he must adapt too. By his stunning victory last night, Andy has shown himself to be the greatest British player of the modern era. But Andy, we need just one more big win- and you know where we need it to happen.

The wrong Betty

My mum was up at her golf club the other day, where she enjoys the honour of being the "mother of the club" being the oldest living member.

There unfolded a strange tale. She overheard one member informing another of the death of "Betty". Horrified, she immediately assumed it was her old friend, another esteemed life-long member. She went home and straight way phoned her best friend to tell her of Betty's demise. The friend, dumbstruck in her turn, lost time in sending a letter of condolence to the family.

And then the truth emerged: Betty had died, but was another Betty, a much younger and more recent member.

Hearing the chaos caused by this little misunderstanding, I took it upon myself to ring the friend myself and attempt to apologise on my mum's behalf. Obviously I had some very heavy weaponry; severe Alzheimer's being the most effective. Fortunately it was soon apparent that after a very nasty little interim, she had taken it in good heart, and accepted that the story, bizarre as it was, at least had a happy ending. Except for the other Betty of course.

She said at one point that she realised there was something fishy about my mum's account when she arrived at the golf club, "And the flag wasn't at half-mast. "They'd have done that for our Betty", she said proudly.

Oscar: you can come out of the shame closet now

PARALYMPIC DISPATCH

Last night Oscar Pistorius, having convincingly won his heat to secure his place in the T43 100 metres race, had the grace to draw back from his ungracious remarks of a couple of days previous. I applaud his new found humility and wish him all the best for tonight's final. Where he will up against our boy, Jonny Peacock, who has the distinct advantage of having one more leg than him. As we have seen, in the 100 metres, which is classically known as a power discipline, having one real leg to push away from the blocks offers a tremendous advantage over the short distance, an advantage which is absorbed in the longer events, where as we saw in the 200 metres, victory and 2nd place went to double amputees, because then balance is more important than simple power.



It has been said that in future the categories of T44 (single amputee) and T43 (double amputee) should be separated at the sprint events, and I'm sure this will have happened by the time Rio comes around. I'm not blaming the organisers for this: the entire area of disabled sport is so new everyone is still learning. Including, it would seem, Oscar himself...

Oscar Pistorius: go to your room and think about what you've done.

PARALYMPICS DISPATCH

Oscar needs to go to the shame closet (he'll find Phillips Odowu and the tennis player Nalbandian in there; they can commiserate about how their failures aren't their fault) and try to recover from the humiliating experience of being overwhelmed by the bitterness of defeat and lashing out in blind rage as a direct result. By blaming other workmen's tools, he showed that he is no longer the Paralympic poster boy, but only a bad loser. I've always loathed them, ever since I was playing cards at school when someone lost a hand, and then pushed the table over and ran off with the pack.

Even by the following morning he was recanting a little, regretting the TIMING of his remarks (which couldn't have been worse), but he's still got a ways to go. My advice: swallow your discomfort into a tight little ball, apologise properly, then go away and get a pair of prostheses like that Brazilian guy's. And then fucking shut up.

The anatomy of a walk in the mountains

Yesterday the wife and I took a walk in the western Brecon Beacons, and courtesy of the "Runtastic" app, I am able to supply the exact 411 on how it went:
Total distance: 7.6 km
Time: 1 hr 48 minutes (not counting a 2 minute break half way up (only needed by me resulting from my COPD affected lungs) and a five minute break at the summit)
vertical ascent: 405 metres.
A mountaineering guide issued by the British Alpine club in the 1930s suggested that it was reasonable to add an extra half-hour to the journey for every 1000 feet of ascent, which makes our transit time quite good, I think. The pitch was steady and unrelenting, going into a series of steep steps at one point, setting my poor lungs on fire, if only briefly. But it gave us a good cardio workout, and in a much pleasanter atmosphere than your average, sweaty, testosterone rich gym.

PARALYMPIC DISPATCH

We are thoroughly enjoying the games, despite an interminable opening ceremony in which it took far too long to bring in all the athletes, making a potentially exciting showcase almost tedious. But perhaps our expectations were too high following Danny Boyle's triumph (though not the closing ceremony, which was an awful mish-mash of inclusiins had no real direction or thrust).

But once the games proper started, we could enjoy, with the rest of the nation, the wonderful feast of athletics, demonstrating what we should already know: that the competitors, regardless of their disabilities, are elite performers at the peak of their abilities and producing competition of the highest standard.
I note also it is now politically acceptable to regard the men and women as sexy (which some of them definitely are) and that other formerly forbidden areas are now up for discussion, as we have seen in Adam Hill's excellent "Last Leg" programme on channel 4, with its highly entertaining section "IsitOKto?..." spot, where people send in questions like: "IsitOK to ask how an athlete with no arms wipes their arse?"
The answer: it is OK to ask, though no one was quite sure what the answer was!