Meet The New Boss; Same As The Old Boss.

Whenever someone has an issue with a self-styled revolutionary, their 'movement' or any of their ardent followers, it's easy to paint them as at best a cynic, at worst a defender of the status quo. In my case, with regard to that charismatic world-changer-wannabe de nos jours Russell Brand, the latter is very much untrue; I'm not sure about the former, given that one person's cynic is another's realist. Of some things I am far more certain, and am prepared to be accused of fusty conservatism (small c) in order to set out my position.

Perhaps it is the case that as one gets older, one's political positions mellow and centralise. That said, my world view is no less critical, radical and non-conformist than that of my 19 year old University student self. What has altered is that I have come to see idealism for what it truly is: a belief in the positive mutability of people, their relationships and their social and political systems. Belief - the key word here. But one that, however far back into history one travels, is met by the unyielding weight of fact: empire building, growth and collapse; revolutionary change, consolidation and corruption; warfare and persecution. Cycles. Boom and bust, growth and recession - terms used to describe the machinations of late capitalism apply equally to human historical endeavour.

The political philosopher John Gray - probably a genuine misanthrope and cynic - writes brilliantly about what he calls The Myth of Progress. This can refer to a religious belief in enlightenment, a secular faith in the advancement of human knowledge (nowadays via science) or the inevitability of socio-political revolution. It strikes me that every generation - often when young, energetic and unaware of subtler shades of grey - believes itself to be the one which will change the world. The revolution (political, social, scientific, artistic, etc), like any longed-for destination, is always just over the next hill. Even within my microcosm of existence, so it was with the neo-Marxist political groupings of the 60s onwards, so it is now with various Occupy and 99% movements.

My belief (yes, we've all got 'em!) is that we are just passing through, strutting and fretting our hour upon the stage. To live as well as possible - to be kind, considerate, generous, loving, and to fight injustices where we can, to take stands where we can - is the best we can do. Because we belong to a species of animals which will not undergo sudden wholesale change, but will be subject to petty squabbles, ambition, greed, envy, territorialism, parochialism - I won't, but could, go on.

Accept all those things which humanise us and try to maximise the positive aspects while you still have breath. The rest is ego, hubris and selling tickets for your latest tour.

Scuse me, love, can I 'ave a word?

When - for whatever reason - you don't write a lot of blog entries, there build up many layers of Things I Was Going To Say in your mind. It's virtual archaeology in there. And as the weeks progress, the earliest Was Going To Say's become fainter and less retrievable. Just a sense remains that there was that something you intended to write about, had you only had the time/ energy/application. I can say at this moment that there are at least six strata, and can remember the content of the top two or three. And there simply isn't the urgency any more to spell them out. Their moment has passed. Which is unfortunate, because at the time they would have been the Finest Blog Entry You Have Ever Read. And you'll just have to take my word for that.

All of which leaves the one that burst through. This little topic has managed to commit me to the keyboard, on account of listening again to a superb song by The Beat (The English Beat in The States - but they're just wrong, because their American The Beat doesn't count). Too Nice To Talk To was a single for the band 33 years ago (yes, indeed, we are all old). It recounted, articulately and movingly as ever in lyrics by Dave Wakeling, unrequited love-lust. However, like so much good (concept warning!) art, its meanings are various. So, on the surface we're looking at a boy bemoaning his lack of success when it comes to connecting with the object of his desire (presumably at a nightclub or party); but so many of the lines cut far deeper. We have the lost opportunities; the temperamental inability to act decisively (The Prince of Denmark springs to mind); the simple twists of fate (Thomas Hardy springs to mind); the self-loathing and how that feeling might be transferred ("my heart is retarded", but "your emotions so guarded", so it could well be your fault after all).

That last example touches on the shadowy realm of Healthy Relating, and the problems intrinsic to interaction in general. Nevermind those endless plains of thwarted opportunity and loneliness: if you finally do get to connect with another soul, you're far from out of the woods. Bin that can and open another. Mmm, juicy worms. Communication with your beloved is dotted with existential potholes, and can be just as difficult as making that leap to talk to the person you've only ever worshipped from afar. Can one ever properly connect with another? Where does deep connection become gooey with co-dependency? Where do you build the fences, and how high should should they be? Can I ever know that what I say is received, processed and understood the way I meant it? And so on and so forth into the multi-million dollar world of the Relating Industry.

I still look back upon my fallow emotional years as the wasted ones, and those spent with the former potential ex-Mrs Cole's (erm, girlfriends would probably have sufficed) as something else. Often far from great years; some dreadful times. But never wasted. And not from a "Whatever doesn't kill you..." perspective, either. I suppose it's more that, however rocky and maddening and frustrating and incomplete the connections could be, I'd had a go. I'd done something human. I'd discovered she actually wasn't too nice to talk to after all. Nobody is.

Mock the Birdie!

Photography in developing countries has long been a contentious issue. Even serious photojournalists have been branded slum tourists or ghouls, made to explain how or why their shots of people in the throes of starvation, warfare or social unrest are justified. You'd be forgiven for thinking that this complex and important subject (which I have no intention of analysing in any depth at this time) has little to do with the sharing of digital photographs of strangers on social networking websites. But I believe they are connected, at a fundamental level.

Every day on the usual suspect sites (Twitter, Facebook, as well as dedicated photo sharing platforms like Flickr and Photobucket) huge numbers of photographs are shared with varying numbers of people. A large proportion of these will contain people who do not know the photographer and were oblivious to the photograph being taken. And a smaller proportion of those will be photographs taken deliberately of people not known by the photographer and then shared without the subjects' consent.

Now, I'm not here to debate the legal ramifications of sharing images of people who are in the public domain. As far as I'm aware it is legal to share photographs of people in public places, provided the poster does not profit from them or the subjects are not ridiculed. I'm thinking about the (warning! warning!) ethics here. Confession time: I have practised street photography in the past, as a keen amateur tog; some of it has been specifically of people going about their daily business. My interest when editing and sharing the pictures was not in whether those people I had snapped would be comfortable with their image being viewed by people they do not know. Yes, I did ensure no one in the pics was caught in any compromising situations. But is that really my judgement to make? I may think someone looked wonderful in one of my photographs, or dignified or intriguing, mysterious or attractive. Pure subjectivity. That same person might have had a dreadful day, full of woe or bad news. They might have been intensely self-conscious about their looks, or incredibly private, and hated the very idea of a permanent record of their image being made without their consent. Does my opinion of the unwitting subject's image take precedence over that of the subject themselves? And does a value judgement comparison between me (or the viewers of my photo) and the subject really matter, when surely the crux is that the person did not consent to my capturing their image in the first place?

All of this assumes that I will be doing nothing but sharing a photograph for aesthetic or artistic reasons. But what if (as in the case of many Facebook groups and internet forums) photographs are taken of people in order to mock them? Obese people, disabled people, financially deprived people are all victims of this kind of online targeted abuse. This is clearly (to my sensibilities at the very least) morally wrong. What of the thorny issue of satire, though? What of people who dress a certain way or practise a certain hobby, for instance, photographed unknowingly in order for their image to be shared for the mocking enjoyment of people they do not know? For many, this is of a higher order, and harmless fun. But something about it sticks in my craw. Partly and simply, because their picture has been taken and shared without their say so (and here I have no leg to stand on, given my history of taking street photos, although my photographs were never taken intentionally to mock). I would like to say now that the other part is because it smacks of playground bullying, and that kind of sophisticated bullying which does not involve fists and boots, but sly words and painful, pointed verbal blows. Except that the victim here is not cognizant of the fact. The techniques of bullying might be taking place, but without a knowing subject, becoming exercised about it is akin to anti-war protesters objecting to Army Training. It's redundant. So, surely it amounts to the kind of behind-the-back judgement and sniggering that might be undertaken over a pint in a pub when 'strangely' dressed or coiffed new punters pitch up. I have been in public places and bitched about strangers with friends in the past. I am fairly certain that in my salad days, when I was wont to dye my hair with lemon juice and wear baggy pastel shirts, it happened to me.

So, apart from the subject's lack of consent, what is the other part of me which finds this so insidious? I think it's less about the intent (mocking 'the other', for various reasons) than the fact that technology enables a permanence of process here. Taking the piss out of people we don't know out in the world is ephemeral. That kind of fleetingness befits everyday life. Strangers are meant to come and go, and despite our better natures we might occasionally judge, mock or laugh at people. But Time's Arrow points on, and we are soon distracted and subsumed by other concerns, large or small. The taking of a photograph (or occasionally a video) allows people to 'capture' (the verb is key) and freeze that subject, and social networking allows them then to share it, so that mockery is freed of the moment, and can be enjoyed at leisure, over and over, and reviewed whenever required. It's a subtlety which may not even deserve an ethical distinction (I shall leave that for the Moral Philosophers), but one which vexes me.

It's all a far cry from the very real ethical dilemma of taking photographs in developing nations, you might still attest; but the Devil is so very often in the detail.

Shaggy dog story

"It seems I only have time to post on this blog when my mental capacity is severely limited. This is not a caveat to excuse the following, merely an observation."

I wrote these words over a week ago, when I'd intended to start an entry which never materialised. This is the way of things, and has been for some time. And so something which might've contained thoughts about classic films or recent events in South East London (both were in the offing) is now going to be a rather reflexive piece about sleep deprivation.

One advantage: by necessity it won't be long, given incapacitated mental function. There'll be no historical or social context; no great psychodynamic overshare on my part either - too tired for all of that. Instead, something struck me just last night about how not getting enough sleep has changed my interior landscape. As I was laying head on pillow - much too late as ever - I realised that for quite some time now I have not been thinking and reflecting. If we're busy, that's hardly an issue, since we're focused on matters at hand. But I'm talking pretty much all the time. My usual maelstrom of thoughts and worries (which become the neurotic) has devolved into a series of mood states. If I were trying to throw a positive spin on this, I'd go all Eastern on myself and contend that it's good to have switched off. Finally I am 'being'. But that would be baloney. Far from some meditative trance state, this is chemical imbalance. Involuntary shutting down.

To use a sturdy metaphor (which is remarkable, given how little of that thinking thing is going on), my inner world used to be a book: sometimes rambling like Proust, sometimes intensely obsessive like Beckett, and sometimes (may I be so bold) as bucolic as Wordsworth or as sharp as Carver. Nowadays, it's not even a picture book. Instead of The Very Hungry Caterpillar we have a Dulux Colour Chart.

Don't get your hopes up, there's no neat summation, no satisfying conclusion here. Just a few more sentences and you can carry on with your day. And don't consider suggesting sleep remedies either, it's not that kind of blog. It's just been one person thinking about not thinking. Which is a strange thing. Maybe I'll write a poem about it. A lazy haiku, though - nice and easy does it.

Don't Read All About It

I should preface this entry with a note of warning: many of these thoughts are not new to me, but this is the first time I have set them down. Please bear with their unsophisticated nature in some cases. There are some things you think and wonder about which are so delicate that they might best be kept private. Others are very sensitive but you feel the need to share. I'm not sure which camp this falls into; nor am I certain that I will be doing justice to the thoughts in my head. But this a blog, not a book. Publishers don't need to be impressed; sales don't matter; no one's reputation is at stake (as if I have one worth protecting!).

Learning of the explosions at the Boston Marathon this week, I soon became entirely swept up in the rolling news coverage. For a few hours of my life, it was the only thing that actually mattered - the only thing that was happening. My mind teemed with theories and the unfolding detail. I became irritated with those on the internet posting or talking about anything other than this story. I went through many of the emotions peculiar to tragic breaking news: shock, disquiet, sadness, anger, confusion, excitement (a darker reaction I'm not ashamed to mention, since I am certain I'm not alone in it). But among all of these there was still a sensation I've long had watching dramatic terroristic events befalling the West: a discomfort. I found it uncomfortable that my (quite legitimate) emotional response to Western tragedy is rarely, if at all, matched when I learn of bombings, attacks, genocide and the like in the non-Western world. I like to see myself as a sensitive, thoughtful man. And news from Syria or Mali in recent months has exercised and upset me hugely. And yet...

...I can catch myself almost rolling my eyes at a non-headline news item on the BBC website chronicling another car bomb or suicide attack in Iraq or Afghanistan. I will quickly give myself a virtual pinch and take a cursory look at the story. But often a home news item or some football gossip will take my fancy, and I'll move on. Here's the thing: I don't think for a second I'm the only one who experiences 'tragedy fatigue', or whatever the media studies folk are calling it this week. And I do think that if there were regular attacks on certain Western cities or regions, I'd just as likely find myself skipping the latest incident after a time. But it's more than simply an overload of bad things in certain parts of the world. There is, without a doubt, a cultural aspect to this. And this is where the discomfort really comes into its own.

I think we all (or at least all but the most self-aware and transcendent individuals) have a natural inclination to sympathise and identify with events occurring in parts of the world which most closely resemble our own day-to-day lives and cultures. Westerners are (either societally or through hard-wiring) going to be more upset by news of a bomb going off in a Western country. We will see shops and adverts and bustle - capitalism in all its glory - disrupted by ne'er-do-wells. And even if those 'evil-doers' are White Western 'lone nuts' rather than far-more-convenient fundamentalists, we still have more fellow feeling than with a comparable scene in a sandy Muslim city (for example). Admittedly, this analysis is somewhat crude, and I do not know enough African or Asian people to confirm whether they would feel the same in similar circumstances, but I will blunder on and suggest that even within the predominantly White Western world there will be stronger and weaker connections. Given the Special Relationship between the UK and the US, and America's enduring pop cultural hegemony, I will tentatively propose that it's likely more British people would be greatly affected by a bomb in the States than by one in, say, Italy or even another English-speaking nation like Australia. Writing entirely personally here, I now have more than a vested interest in Australia and certain Australians. But could I say - hand on heart - that twelve years ago an attack on Sydney would have affected me quite as strongly as the one in NYC? I'm really not sure. And maybe - increasing the magnification again - it's as much about cultural signifiers: something terrible happening in Los Angeles would probably be more powerful and affecting to us than an identical event in Detroit or Houston. Even if we haven't travelled there, then thanks to film, television and commercials we feel that we have a strong attachment to its landmarks and (by extension) its people.

Last but by far not least, we have the subject of what makes the bulletin, and where it sits in the list of priority stories. I'm aware that 'News Values' have long been an area of academic study (the work of the Glasgow Media Group was groundbreaking in its analysis of television newscasting). On the same day that 3 people died and over 150 were injured in the Boston blasts, there was a massive earthquake in Iran which killed at least 30 people in Pakistan and probably many more in the unforthcoming Persian state. That story did not break through most television bulletins, and sat a lowly fourth or fifth on the World News pages of most news websites. But the difference is not only cultural here, it's also practical. What makes a bigger story, and what will fill the rolling feeds: moment-by-moment footage of the aftermath in New England, or vague reports of multiple deaths in Asia? That said, I am almost certain that even had there been video footage of the devastating earthquake, the Boston story would still have headlined.

I don't want to draw definitive conclusions, especially from such broad brushstrokes. There remains the one thing I said earlier: human beings identify more readily with people with whom they have most in common. It's almost too facile to mention. But the ramifications regarding what affects and upsets us, what draws our empathy and concern, what we deem important and valuable in the world, is likely to be interesting and inconvenient.

Best Unfriends Forever!

What can a blog post about Facebook say about Facebook that hasn't been said before? This could be levelled at anyone saying anything about anything nowadays. Even before electronic media 'democratised' opinion and expression, Michael Stipe was suggesting you could "run a Carbon Black Test on my jaw/and you will find it's all been said before." Fast forward about 25 years (sweet Jesus, I am old) and most of us stand no chance positing anything even vaguely original.

This probably isn't the most enticing way to introduce some thoughts about social networking. But, given that you're equally likely to read unoriginal content elsewhere, you might as well stick with this; partly because you've already invested some of your life, so why not see it through, and partly because you might even enjoy yourself. Remember that?

Anyway, Facebook and social networking-based activities: it occurred to me this afternoon that I spend a significant proportion of my offline life thinking about my online life. I was minding my own business out in the Real World of carbon units and responsibilities, when I realised I was wondering about a few people who used to interact quite commonly with me on Facebook, who now do not. I went through a fairly steady process of downplaying ("It's only Facebook, it's not really life - get a grip, man!"), rationalising ("Is it not simply part of the warp and weft of FB that we find ourselves practically living on some people's pages, then we simply move on to others? All places in time are visited, Ad"), self-doubting (Have I said or done anything offensive of late to souls as sensitive as my own?), self-loathing ("In time, almost everyone gets bored of you, once they get the measure of you - and who can blame 'em?") and, finally, righteous indignation ("Fuck 'em! Do you really like 'em that much? Would you be friends with these people in The Real? Why not just unfriend the bastards - they annoy you most of the bloody time anyway! Bunch of wankers!!"). At the end of this frankly exhausting descent into irrational darkness, I found myself repeating aloud the one word: unfriend. Unfriend. Say it to yourself now: it's an ugly neologism. It's awkward. Contrived. Usually I say 'defriend', which befits the world of espionage and danger: it's not far from 'defuse' or 'detonate'. Much more North Korea than dusty laptop. But Unfriend is the official Facebook term, and there's a lot in that little word.

Have I 'unfriended' anyone offline, I wondered? Well, actually, yes. But it's rarely been such a complete, definitive, purposeful act. It's happened due to long-term neglect (usually mutual, sometimes unilateral) or as a result of a 'bust up'. But the bust up itself was never a conscious act to ensure future friendlessness. And even after the bust up, there were overtures from either side at different times, in an attempt at reconciliation. Things happened, like they do offline, messily and organically. This is very notably not the case online. Most things we do or 'say' are (to varying degrees, depending on the individual) considered or determined. This is the nature of having to type, to post, to wait for a reply, etc etc. We are not physically saying anything. In fact, most things we actually say - even when what comes out of our mouths is important (like at work, rather than down the pub with mates) - are directed by a general aim or argument, but do not require moment-to-moment surveillance. That spontaneity is missing online. And the 'Planned Project' aspect of social networking, where rules and boundaries, procedures and protocol are far more obvious and tangible than they are in offline interaction, make online friendships markedly different. You can Unfriend. This is reversible, but it's also instantaneous and clear-cut.

But what does that all mean? That doing things on a screen takes more thought and time than doing things in the outside world? Maybe. That the quality of a solely online friendship is necessarily different because of the delimited communication available? Very probably. Whether online relationships are inferior to 'real world' ones is another, larger, subject. And possibly for another time. I often think of Educating Rita, and Dr. Bryant's worldly-wise comment when Rita has decided to come back to study after dropping out and returning briefly to her old life: "Found a culture, have you Rita? Found a better song to sing? No, you found a different song to sing."

So: different. Not necessarily worse or better. But I can't help feeling, for all my fulminating and self-doubting and concern about the behaviour of my online mates from time to time, that there is something just too clinical and convenient about pressing the Unfriend button. I think we need the mess and the uncertainty of bloody, fleshy break ups. Like broccoli, we might not want it, but it's good for us.

You Are Here

Since writing so soon after news of Margaret Thatcher’s death had saturated every media outlet available to me, more specific (though hardly concrete) ideas have been swimming around in my head. Please forgive me the following meanderings.
The first thing is the concept of ‘opting out’, of not ‘picking a side’ or ‘taking a stand’, and how that is often construed as cowardly, non-committal, lacking in moral fibre; that – perversely in the postmodern age, with the death of overarching ideologies, where membership of Political Parties has fallen dramatically – there still appears to be something ‘wrong’ in not taking a firm line on what are essentially complex political, economic and social issues. Although fewer young people than ever subscribe to the concept of Parliamentary Democracy, there has been a rise in both single issue and ‘generic injustice’ movements (Occupy, 99 Percent, etc). So, despite the fact that it’s highly unlikely any single Party or even movement will reflect any one person’s beliefs on every single issue, there still appears to be a very human need to see others either as onside, or off. Ironically, this was one of Thatcher’s (arguable) strengths: you were either ‘one of us’, or you were out. People who are sure and determined are generally viewed favourably in Western society. Being clear cut and certain of mind usually go hand in hand with being a go-getter, a doer not a ditherer. We value those traits. Perhaps they are intrinsically attractive, and not just in men, with whom they’ve historically been associated (part of Thatcher’s appeal was that self-assurance, that lack of doubt, that Iron). Leave the reflection and the soul-searching to Prince Hamlet, this is the Real World. Here, you take stands.

I used to take stands: marches, demos, meetings. Things were simpler then. Camaraderie and concord were comforting. Is it part of that clichéd arc the conventional father condescendingly spiels to his revolutionary offspring: “Yes, it all seems so clear to you now: down with the Government, equality for all, blah blah blah. But you just wait – when you get older, things won’t seem so black and white”? I’m not so sure. I still have core political values. I still have a compass – an alarm ringing when things don’t sit right. A sense of (uh oh, here comes that word) justice. I’m not sure those values have changed overmuch. But there has emerged in me a recognition of lack of agency, of the sheer unfeasible complexity of almost every single major human undertaking. Yes, ‘bad men’ still do ‘bad things’, but - perhaps just as much - bad things happen despite good intentions. Experts claim to be able to predict the machinations of the market, of financial systems, international commerce. Time and again, they are blindsided or proved wrong. And that chaotic element in Economics is just as prevalent in the dynamics of political and social organisations. In fact, in the dynamics of basic human interaction. The grey; the nuance; the unexpected consequence. In this miasma, it’s so much easier to blame the Bad Guys (or Girls), to see The Dark Side at work. And sometimes the Bad Guys really are to blame. Just not enough for my comfort. And so, I find myself identifying more and more with the brooding Dane.

. . . . . . . . .

Postscript: At the risk of patronising (like the middle-aged dad to his ardent teenage kids), I have been wondering whether there’s something in those people expressing hatred for Thatcher and joy in her death, which is hungry for those days when they fought The Wicked Witch. Those simpler, clearer, younger days. A nostalgia akin to the Top of the Pops 19such-and-such or ‘100 Top Things of the Decade’ programmes. A perverse pleasure to be got from rehashing those divisive times, unearthing those primal feelings. Maybe a sense of feeling truly alive once again in expressing such pure emotion.

And for the record, I was - and still am – vehemently opposed to most of the tenets of Thatcherism. That really shouldn’t have any bearing on these musings, and my saying it at all possibly speaks more of my own human need to be seen to ‘stand’ somewhere.

When two tribes go to war...

As a young man, I opposed the Thatcher governments and Thatcherism wholeheartedly. As an older man, that mixture of rugged individualism, lack of societal sensibility and free market fetishism is still anathema to me. Like almost everyone, I didn’t know her personally, but everything I did and do know about her as a person does not warm me to her. Misunderstood she was not.

And yet, also as an older man, swathes of people exulting in her death makes me incredibly uncomfortable. I see faces bursting with hate and spitting venom as the accused are dragged to the guillotine or the noose. And I see the divisiveness for which she became synonymous in this country played out in the tribalism on my Facebook or television rolling newsfeeds. The demonisation or the hagiography. With ‘conviction politicians’ perhaps there is no other way. They are magnetic; they attract and repel in equal measure.

Which makes it difficult if you are not tribal. To see the damage wreaked by that woman’s policies, but also to be repelled by the bloodthirsty carryings-on. To be dreading the upcoming blanket media coverage (how many different ways can there be to present her humble beginnings, her history-making achievements, her game-changing policies, her bloody-mindedness, her fall, her legacy?). To endure the soon-to-be 'State Funeral – Yes or No?', 'Should there be another statue?', 'More important than Churchill?' debates. I may find myself watching The Voice UK or Ant and Dec’s Saturday Night Takeaway on a constant loop to escape the din from both sides.

And this is not a ‘cop out’ position. It’s difficult and it’s inconvenient not to belong to a side when it comes to such things. There is no lofty pillar. There is simply recognition of complexity, ambiguity, grey.