There was much hand-wringing yesterday as the results of a report commissioned by the Prime Minister were published. It seems that far from being a land founded on the guiding principles of liberty, egality and fraternity, Britain is increasingly controlled by a minority that has a hereditary grip on society.
For example, if your parents paid for your education at an independent school while additionally paying tax to support the education of others, you are likely to do the same.
Moreover, if you are born into a household that bears a disproportionate tax burden, then you too are likely to pay higher tax throughout your working life. Conversely, if you are born into a household that is a beneficiary of social welfare schemes, you too are likely to become a beneficiary of such schemes.
It seems like the dynastic poor have the entire system rigged!
The real worry here is not the curse that the middle classes are passing from generation, however, but the way in which this curse is becoming yet more severe. If your parents attended university free of charge, you are disproportionately likely to incur serious personal debt attempting to obtain a similar education.
If you have a public school education, you are also likely to face an elevated risk of suicide as a consequence of your increased likelihood of entering the notoriously self-destructive health professions.
The bad news just keeps coming.
We could, of course, look to the government to alleviate the misery experienced by many middle class households. Perhaps parents could be weaned off their dependency on private education by improving public sector education?
Perhaps, but the resources required to effect such a change make it more likely that the government will opt for an alternative policy of alleviating the burden of professional affluence by a staged programme of economic attrition and increased taxation. While tough choices may be ahead for Britain's politicians (memoirs or directorship? House of lords or television pundit?) they are hard at work ensuring that deciding between two alternative jobs is a worry that no Briton need face in the future.
We cannot hope ever to be as lucky as those who inherited the path of truancy from their fathers and forefathers, but it is not beyond belief that we may one day be able to say that Income Support is available to all, regardless of educational background.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
It Shouldn't Happen To A Dog
The naming of dogs, as T. S. Eliot once so nearly put it, is a difficult matter.
BNP supervillain Nick Griffin was interviewed by resident B.B.C. intellectual Andrew Marr at the weekend, encouraging the viewer to believe that a great unmasking was in the offing and that those darned meddlesome kids would be blamed at any minute for the would-be Great Dictator's fall. Having softened Griffin up with some tedious policy questions, however, Marr steadied himself for that last question ... the coup de grace. What are the names of Griffin's dogs?
Those, like Sordel, who had heard the story before were one step of the drama unfolding before their eyes, for Griffin's dogs (at least, according to widespread assertion) are called Anne and Frank. Griffin's jet-shoes and discombobulator ray could surely not save him now. The Resident Intellectual had the "genocidal racist" parked upon his own petard on the cusp of detonation.
Except, it turns out that the Griffin hounds are called Bella and Otto.
Now, I'm not sure where I heard that thing about Anne and Frank, but in retrospect it always sounded rather odd. As a thought experiment, the idea of an anti-Semite calling something that he intends to love, feed and exercise by a name that will call to mind a young Jewess does not seem especially likely. Unless Griffin actually bought the dogs to beat - an imputation that even his many detractors have yet to suggest - it would have made more sense for him to have named the pets Adolph and Eva.
Or perhaps, in the light of his patriotism, Oswald and Diana.
The problem is that one is only too ready to believe the worst of Griffin. When a man, with sober rationality, proposes sinking the ships of would-be immigrants, the views that he will espouse in public invite speculation as to the ones that he is concealing.
Gordon Brown for example, speaks of a future increase in public spending, when everyone knows that he is lying through his teeth and intends to cut it dramatically. In the light of this shameless and transparent neglect of the truth by a "mainstream" politician, no great leap of the imagination is required to hop from sinking ships to Arbeit macht frei.
So, perhaps Griffin is lying about the names of his dogs. Or perhaps he is lying about something considerably more sinister.
Either way, the more that Griffin is perceived to have been smeared by his unscrupulous opponents, the more likely it is that the electorate will be to discount even those accusations that have a sound basis in truth.
Which is a worry, because the tag that Griffin used most frequently when referring to those opponents was Liberal elitists.
And, to be perfectly honest (delightful though it might be to meet The Resident Intellectual) Sordel would not wish to do so at the cost of the bring the first up against the wall when the revolution comes.
BNP supervillain Nick Griffin was interviewed by resident B.B.C. intellectual Andrew Marr at the weekend, encouraging the viewer to believe that a great unmasking was in the offing and that those darned meddlesome kids would be blamed at any minute for the would-be Great Dictator's fall. Having softened Griffin up with some tedious policy questions, however, Marr steadied himself for that last question ... the coup de grace. What are the names of Griffin's dogs?
Those, like Sordel, who had heard the story before were one step of the drama unfolding before their eyes, for Griffin's dogs (at least, according to widespread assertion) are called Anne and Frank. Griffin's jet-shoes and discombobulator ray could surely not save him now. The Resident Intellectual had the "genocidal racist" parked upon his own petard on the cusp of detonation.
Except, it turns out that the Griffin hounds are called Bella and Otto.
Now, I'm not sure where I heard that thing about Anne and Frank, but in retrospect it always sounded rather odd. As a thought experiment, the idea of an anti-Semite calling something that he intends to love, feed and exercise by a name that will call to mind a young Jewess does not seem especially likely. Unless Griffin actually bought the dogs to beat - an imputation that even his many detractors have yet to suggest - it would have made more sense for him to have named the pets Adolph and Eva.
Or perhaps, in the light of his patriotism, Oswald and Diana.
The problem is that one is only too ready to believe the worst of Griffin. When a man, with sober rationality, proposes sinking the ships of would-be immigrants, the views that he will espouse in public invite speculation as to the ones that he is concealing.
Gordon Brown for example, speaks of a future increase in public spending, when everyone knows that he is lying through his teeth and intends to cut it dramatically. In the light of this shameless and transparent neglect of the truth by a "mainstream" politician, no great leap of the imagination is required to hop from sinking ships to Arbeit macht frei.
So, perhaps Griffin is lying about the names of his dogs. Or perhaps he is lying about something considerably more sinister.
Either way, the more that Griffin is perceived to have been smeared by his unscrupulous opponents, the more likely it is that the electorate will be to discount even those accusations that have a sound basis in truth.
Which is a worry, because the tag that Griffin used most frequently when referring to those opponents was Liberal elitists.
And, to be perfectly honest (delightful though it might be to meet The Resident Intellectual) Sordel would not wish to do so at the cost of the bring the first up against the wall when the revolution comes.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Just Like The Girl From Dr. No
Q: How many members of the government does it take to change a lightbulb?
A: Two. Gordon Brown to change the light bulb and Peter Mandelson to explain that the bulb hasn't been changed.
Sordel is something of a fan of The (Formerly) Red Baron. In the past, government apologists have always adopted a fixed and ingratiating smile: the physical memory of something passing for charm. Kenneth Baker always had that smile. Ed Balls and his Stepford wife have that smile.
Baron M. does not have that smile.
He conveys to all watching that it is his painful duty to tolerate the stupid questions put to him and then (with an air of high moral seriousness somewhat inappropriate to a man hawking rotten fish) to set the interviewer right on a few points. Like a lidless headmaster exhausted by the folly of his charges his body language indicates that patience is at an end but rectitude in plentiful supply. The man is unflagging, indomitable: like the shapeshifting terminator and just as Protean.
We are only just getting started on his virtues, however, for Baron M. is also the consummate survivor of British politics. If there is a global nuclear war the only things left alive will be the cockroaches and him, but the cockroaches will lack the capacity to celebrate their victory. When Baron M. goes home at the end of the day there must be some fleeting moment (perhaps shortly before, perhaps shortly after turning off the light) when he indulges in a stiff but passionate dance of victory. One can imagine him silhouetted against a window frame, gyrating in unholy exaltation at the thought of his perennial return to power.
Surely every jilted lover has dreamt of the moment when his or her lover would come crawling back for that moment of jubilant closure. Is there a line in Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" that would disqualify it as Baron M. personal anthem? Yet when The (F.) R. B. walked in and found Gordon with that sad look upon his face, he neither crumbled nor lay down & died ... nor declared that he was saving all his lovin' for someone who's lovin' him. The love of Baron M. is boundless, and extends even to a stricken foe.
He walked on the water while the sharks were coming for Brown.
So how can one not admire Baron M.? Here is a man who - given a sow's ear - attempts to make a silk purse: a man who never encounters excrement without having a can of Mr. Sheen at the ready. His attitude is Can Do. His personal motto is The Difficult We Do Right Now, Winning The Election May Take A Little Time.
What's not to like?
A: Two. Gordon Brown to change the light bulb and Peter Mandelson to explain that the bulb hasn't been changed.
Sordel is something of a fan of The (Formerly) Red Baron. In the past, government apologists have always adopted a fixed and ingratiating smile: the physical memory of something passing for charm. Kenneth Baker always had that smile. Ed Balls and his Stepford wife have that smile.
Baron M. does not have that smile.
He conveys to all watching that it is his painful duty to tolerate the stupid questions put to him and then (with an air of high moral seriousness somewhat inappropriate to a man hawking rotten fish) to set the interviewer right on a few points. Like a lidless headmaster exhausted by the folly of his charges his body language indicates that patience is at an end but rectitude in plentiful supply. The man is unflagging, indomitable: like the shapeshifting terminator and just as Protean.
We are only just getting started on his virtues, however, for Baron M. is also the consummate survivor of British politics. If there is a global nuclear war the only things left alive will be the cockroaches and him, but the cockroaches will lack the capacity to celebrate their victory. When Baron M. goes home at the end of the day there must be some fleeting moment (perhaps shortly before, perhaps shortly after turning off the light) when he indulges in a stiff but passionate dance of victory. One can imagine him silhouetted against a window frame, gyrating in unholy exaltation at the thought of his perennial return to power.
Surely every jilted lover has dreamt of the moment when his or her lover would come crawling back for that moment of jubilant closure. Is there a line in Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" that would disqualify it as Baron M. personal anthem? Yet when The (F.) R. B. walked in and found Gordon with that sad look upon his face, he neither crumbled nor lay down & died ... nor declared that he was saving all his lovin' for someone who's lovin' him. The love of Baron M. is boundless, and extends even to a stricken foe.
He walked on the water while the sharks were coming for Brown.
So how can one not admire Baron M.? Here is a man who - given a sow's ear - attempts to make a silk purse: a man who never encounters excrement without having a can of Mr. Sheen at the ready. His attitude is Can Do. His personal motto is The Difficult We Do Right Now, Winning The Election May Take A Little Time.
What's not to like?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Hide & Seek
Occasional readers of this blog may have come to recognise that it is only with great irritation and self-reproach that Sordel condescends to respond to the Pervasive Evanescent.
Nevertheless, the P. E. is always with us, and so it is that I hang my head in anticipatory shame and turn my attention to: Wimbledon coverage on the B.B.C.
(Just be grateful that I am not watching Big Brother this year.)
The stereotypical depiction of an audience watching a tennis match involves the swivelling of eyeballs right and left at regular intervals, and so it is with the B.B.C.: from One to Two and Two to One the audience is invited to pop with the grace of every serve and volley. "Viewers hoping to see the end of this rally should turn to our coverage on B.B.C. Two" smirks the elusive Sue Barker.
Thank God for remote controls, or it would be more exercise than frail flesh can stand.
Worse still, however, is when the entire channel switches channels. You know that moment when a train pulls out of a station and it seems for a second as though the entire world is moving around you? During Wimbledon, that illusion becomes reality. Rather than switch tennis from 1 to 2 they sometimes switch all other programming from 1 to 2 instead.
Try complaining to the B.B.C. about this (go on, I dare you) and your whining, self-pitying epistle about missing The Supersizers do ... The Fifties because Crimewatch has broken & entered into B.B.C. Two will almost certainly be read out on the air. Shortly thereafter, a B.B.C. "executive" will explain (as one addressing a small and exceptionally dim child) that providing coverage of a live sporting event will inevitably mean adjustments to the schedule.
S/he will then go on to point out (as broadcasters have been very keen to do over the last 24 hours) that 12 million people watched Murray's so-called "epic" five-setter. (On which subject, tell it to the Greeks ... they were ten years outside the gates of Troy and knocking a fluffy ball over a net for four hours doesn't compare.)
12 million people can't, it seems, be wrong, even when four million of them are fruitlessly waiting for Crimewatch, two million of them are watching under protest having planned to watch The Supersizers do ... The Fifties and another three million or so are imprisoned by B.B.C. One having earlier thrown their remote controls out of the window in frustration.
Come to think about it, there must be a sizable proportion of the population who can only receive B.B.C. One. That's the only thing that would explain why anyone is watching it in the first place.
Nevertheless, the P. E. is always with us, and so it is that I hang my head in anticipatory shame and turn my attention to: Wimbledon coverage on the B.B.C.
(Just be grateful that I am not watching Big Brother this year.)
The stereotypical depiction of an audience watching a tennis match involves the swivelling of eyeballs right and left at regular intervals, and so it is with the B.B.C.: from One to Two and Two to One the audience is invited to pop with the grace of every serve and volley. "Viewers hoping to see the end of this rally should turn to our coverage on B.B.C. Two" smirks the elusive Sue Barker.
Thank God for remote controls, or it would be more exercise than frail flesh can stand.
Worse still, however, is when the entire channel switches channels. You know that moment when a train pulls out of a station and it seems for a second as though the entire world is moving around you? During Wimbledon, that illusion becomes reality. Rather than switch tennis from 1 to 2 they sometimes switch all other programming from 1 to 2 instead.
Try complaining to the B.B.C. about this (go on, I dare you) and your whining, self-pitying epistle about missing The Supersizers do ... The Fifties because Crimewatch has broken & entered into B.B.C. Two will almost certainly be read out on the air. Shortly thereafter, a B.B.C. "executive" will explain (as one addressing a small and exceptionally dim child) that providing coverage of a live sporting event will inevitably mean adjustments to the schedule.
S/he will then go on to point out (as broadcasters have been very keen to do over the last 24 hours) that 12 million people watched Murray's so-called "epic" five-setter. (On which subject, tell it to the Greeks ... they were ten years outside the gates of Troy and knocking a fluffy ball over a net for four hours doesn't compare.)
12 million people can't, it seems, be wrong, even when four million of them are fruitlessly waiting for Crimewatch, two million of them are watching under protest having planned to watch The Supersizers do ... The Fifties and another three million or so are imprisoned by B.B.C. One having earlier thrown their remote controls out of the window in frustration.
Come to think about it, there must be a sizable proportion of the population who can only receive B.B.C. One. That's the only thing that would explain why anyone is watching it in the first place.
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