Even those who viewed with scepticism Sordel's previous adulation of the Formerly Red Baron cannot deny that Peter Mandleson has had a good couple of days.
Sunday was, of course, the day when he put in his application to work for the forthcoming Conservative government, by announcing during the course of a Sunday Times interview that he would certainly be willing to serve his country during a future Cameron administration. This is entirely consistent of Baron M., since if the thought of working for people who loathed him was uncomfortable to the Great Man, he certainly wouldn't be toiling for Gordon Brown. Indeed, the faces of his colleagues could scarcely be less friendly if they belonged to die-hard Tories.
Monday then saw Baron M.'s speech to conference.
Unlike another prominent Secretary of State for Trade and Industry, Peter Mandleson is not a well-known conference darling. Michael Heseltine - in many ways his closest antecedent as a maverick, egotistical power-broker - returned to the conference podium like a rock star coming to the stage in his home town. Mandleson, however, has merely been tolerated ... like a blob of toothpaste on an adolescent pustule.
The sound-bite that the news went with was "If I can come back, we can come back": a line delivered with a coprophagous grin and the air of one delivering a very simple joke to a very young nephew. He gave a sort of stage chuckle half way through, simulating good spirits in much the way that someone might simulate appetite by licking their lips and rubbing their stomach in a great big clumsy circle.
The line - however well-received in the hall - makes very little sense, though. It's like saying "if herpes can come back, swine flu can come back." The entire point about herpes is that it comes back: a guarantee that does not extend to the Labour Party.
In any case, Mandleson's best line was less widely reported. "I know that Tony said our project would only be complete when The Labour Party learned to love Peter Mandleson ... I think perhaps he set the bar too high." Here we see the essence of the splendid Baron: a man who at the summit of his power can still reproach those who declined to sign their name in blood on the dotted line.
It takes a particularly gloating form of villainy (one not seen since Cary Grant hung from Mount Rushmore providing Eva Marie Saint with a lifeline) to step on someone's knuckles when they are clinging on for dear life. Peter, Übermensch that he is, could do it with a smile.
Not, perhaps, a warm one.
It has widely been reported that the Baron has secured the prime minister's future and won over the hearts and minds of the Labour delegates with his performance.
Sordel suspects that in this case the media and the party faithful have both been misled. To misquote Richard Thompson: they thought he was saying good luck when he was saying goodbye.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Outsider Art
Not since the angel with the fiery sword told Adam and Eve that if their names weren't on the list they weren't coming in has humanity so strained with fury at the injustice of an exclusion.
It seems that Gordon Brown has been refused admission to the cool kids' table. President Obama's dance list was mysteriously full every time that Gordon's party planners suggested a Terpsichorean tryst. If it were a Jane Austen adaptation he would be hiding his face behind a fan and hissing to his sisters at this very minute.
According to FT.com, a spokeswoman has been attempting to play down what lesser news outlets are describing as a snub. "She argued that the two were talking informally all the time – including a short encounter in the kitchens of the United Nations in New York."
Let's script that out shall we?
Obama: "While I'm here can I get a club sandwich?"
Brown: "Mr. President, it's Gordon!"
Obama: "My error ... can I get a club sandwich, Gordon?"
Sordel's amusement at this serious insult that our leader has suffered at the hands of the Rebels (surely the most vexing since the Boston Tea Party) is not unmixed, however, with fellow feeling. I was myself excluded this week: from the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Academy.
Now, it must be acknowledged before I go any further that the exhibition had not, in fact, opened yet, but it was nevertheless galling to be forced to gaze impotently through the glass at corridors that will soon be thronged with milling culture vultures. By the time I am able to form an opinion on this particular exhibition the expiry date for such an opinion will doubtless have passed and I will be left bewildered by discussion of the next artistic sensation.
It was not an entirely wasted journey, however.
For those of us unable to pass the gate, the Royal Academy has provided a very large courtyard sculpture that is best described as a Fizzy Drink. Shiny polished spheres (something of a stock in trade to which Kapoor resorts for his more obviously institutional artworks) effervesce upwards in a loose column, providing reflections of the surrounding buildings and one another.
As a consequence, those of us unable to enter the exhibition were forced to contemplate our own bleak physiognomies peering back at us.
It would be nice to think that Mrs. Brown's little boy will also use his time in the wilderness to indulge in a little self-reflection. In a crowd of little versions of himself he might at last find some friends.
It seems that Gordon Brown has been refused admission to the cool kids' table. President Obama's dance list was mysteriously full every time that Gordon's party planners suggested a Terpsichorean tryst. If it were a Jane Austen adaptation he would be hiding his face behind a fan and hissing to his sisters at this very minute.
According to FT.com, a spokeswoman has been attempting to play down what lesser news outlets are describing as a snub. "She argued that the two were talking informally all the time – including a short encounter in the kitchens of the United Nations in New York."
Let's script that out shall we?
Obama: "While I'm here can I get a club sandwich?"
Brown: "Mr. President, it's Gordon!"
Obama: "My error ... can I get a club sandwich, Gordon?"
Sordel's amusement at this serious insult that our leader has suffered at the hands of the Rebels (surely the most vexing since the Boston Tea Party) is not unmixed, however, with fellow feeling. I was myself excluded this week: from the Anish Kapoor exhibition at the Royal Academy.
Now, it must be acknowledged before I go any further that the exhibition had not, in fact, opened yet, but it was nevertheless galling to be forced to gaze impotently through the glass at corridors that will soon be thronged with milling culture vultures. By the time I am able to form an opinion on this particular exhibition the expiry date for such an opinion will doubtless have passed and I will be left bewildered by discussion of the next artistic sensation.
It was not an entirely wasted journey, however.
For those of us unable to pass the gate, the Royal Academy has provided a very large courtyard sculpture that is best described as a Fizzy Drink. Shiny polished spheres (something of a stock in trade to which Kapoor resorts for his more obviously institutional artworks) effervesce upwards in a loose column, providing reflections of the surrounding buildings and one another.
As a consequence, those of us unable to enter the exhibition were forced to contemplate our own bleak physiognomies peering back at us.
It would be nice to think that Mrs. Brown's little boy will also use his time in the wilderness to indulge in a little self-reflection. In a crowd of little versions of himself he might at last find some friends.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Beam Me Up, Scotty
In my mind's eye it must have been like one of those golden evocations of childhood from European cinema ... possibly German, probably French. A little girl, slightly anxious, slightly hurrying, runs from hiding location to hiding location, but every closet door she opens reveals an older child who shoos her away. As the ominous sound of another child counting towards a hundred gets louder in the background, there seems not a table or bed that does not already conceal a hider.
In this case, the little girl in the story is Patricia Scotland, the soon-to-be-erstwhile Attorney General, and amongst the various bigger children one might find: Gordon Brown (still under the desk and now in desperate need of a bath and shave); Yvette Cooper-Balls (still crying after the B.B.C. interviewer dipped her pigtails in ink); "Whatever Happened To" Jacqui Smith; and Alistair Darling, who now wears the permanently-dazed expression of someone who has survived being struck by lightning. The only one not evidently in hiding is Baron M., and whether this is because his hiding place is too well chosen or because he himself is "coming to get you" is yet to be established.
Poor Baroness Scotland of Asthal! Labour actually has only one big political idea, and it is basically this: get the costs of government paid for twice by the taxpayer by passing back to ordinary citizens the cost of regulation. In this case, employers have been given increased responsibility for ensuring that the people who work for them are not illegal immigrants. Patricia knows all about immigration, not because she was born in Dominica herself but because she was a Q.C. (the first black woman to become one, incidentally) and - oh yes! - she was a Home Office minister who was involved in framing the Immigration, Asylum and Nationality 2006 which tightened those responsibilities on employers.
So, if there was one member of the government you could guarantee would not be caught employing an illegal immigrant, it is Baroness Scotland of Asthal.
(I think when that petard detonated it scared a whole bunch of pigeons that had come home to roost.)
Accordingly - and in a neat piece of role-reversal that will appeal to connoisseurs of irony - the Red-faced Baroness's apology to the nation had to be delivered by Mrs. Brown's little boy, who has become the nation's favourite deliverer of vicarious contrition ever since he apologised for the maltreatment of Alan Turing last week. Surely only the public revelation that his pants were on fire can have dragged the Prime Minister from his customary refuge.
Just when you thought that no member of the government less credible could be found to rush to Scotland's defence, however, Labour demonstrated that in this one critical area they can exceed all reasonable expectations.
The person who was sent onto Newsnight to speak on the behalf of Baroness Scotland of Asthal (Asthal, one notes, being the Oxford village where she now resides, rather than the area of Walthamstow where she grew up) was none other than Keith Vaz.
Keith Vaz, Ladies and Gentlemen!
(Or, if you need to Google him in a hurry, Vaz Scandal.)
Now Sordel is aware that it may be claimed that Baroness Scotland, Keith Vaz and Trevor Phillips attract controversy not because allegations against them are true but because they themselves are not white. Sordel gives due credit to this possibility.
However ... the day that I need Keith Vaz to stand in front of gunfire to protect me, I hope that I will have the courage to talk him out of it.
In this case, the little girl in the story is Patricia Scotland, the soon-to-be-erstwhile Attorney General, and amongst the various bigger children one might find: Gordon Brown (still under the desk and now in desperate need of a bath and shave); Yvette Cooper-Balls (still crying after the B.B.C. interviewer dipped her pigtails in ink); "Whatever Happened To" Jacqui Smith; and Alistair Darling, who now wears the permanently-dazed expression of someone who has survived being struck by lightning. The only one not evidently in hiding is Baron M., and whether this is because his hiding place is too well chosen or because he himself is "coming to get you" is yet to be established.
Poor Baroness Scotland of Asthal! Labour actually has only one big political idea, and it is basically this: get the costs of government paid for twice by the taxpayer by passing back to ordinary citizens the cost of regulation. In this case, employers have been given increased responsibility for ensuring that the people who work for them are not illegal immigrants. Patricia knows all about immigration, not because she was born in Dominica herself but because she was a Q.C. (the first black woman to become one, incidentally) and - oh yes! - she was a Home Office minister who was involved in framing the Immigration, Asylum and Nationality 2006 which tightened those responsibilities on employers.
So, if there was one member of the government you could guarantee would not be caught employing an illegal immigrant, it is Baroness Scotland of Asthal.
(I think when that petard detonated it scared a whole bunch of pigeons that had come home to roost.)
Accordingly - and in a neat piece of role-reversal that will appeal to connoisseurs of irony - the Red-faced Baroness's apology to the nation had to be delivered by Mrs. Brown's little boy, who has become the nation's favourite deliverer of vicarious contrition ever since he apologised for the maltreatment of Alan Turing last week. Surely only the public revelation that his pants were on fire can have dragged the Prime Minister from his customary refuge.
Just when you thought that no member of the government less credible could be found to rush to Scotland's defence, however, Labour demonstrated that in this one critical area they can exceed all reasonable expectations.
The person who was sent onto Newsnight to speak on the behalf of Baroness Scotland of Asthal (Asthal, one notes, being the Oxford village where she now resides, rather than the area of Walthamstow where she grew up) was none other than Keith Vaz.
Keith Vaz, Ladies and Gentlemen!
(Or, if you need to Google him in a hurry, Vaz Scandal.)
Now Sordel is aware that it may be claimed that Baroness Scotland, Keith Vaz and Trevor Phillips attract controversy not because allegations against them are true but because they themselves are not white. Sordel gives due credit to this possibility.
However ... the day that I need Keith Vaz to stand in front of gunfire to protect me, I hope that I will have the courage to talk him out of it.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Balls to (Derren) Brown
Tricks are all very fine, and we admire the work that goes into them.
The Banking industry, for example. One can hardly fail to doff one's metaphorical hat to a business that operates profitably through a boom and then - when the going gets tough - persuades the government to bail it out without apparently conceding in return even a modicum of increased regulation. As bystanders, one cannot help but chuckle appreciatively as the illusionist hands back the bewildered prime minister's watch and handkerchief while unobtrusively tucking his wallet into a back pocket.
(It is only when one remembers whose money was in the wallet that the jokes wears thin.)
Yet when the illusionist turns to the audience and proceeds to "explain" the trick, by reference to the marmoset that, by frequent applications of disappearing ink, he has made invisible before training it in the art of the cutpurse, the audience begins to murmur amongst itself with something less than appreciation. Sure, we want to be deceived. But we don't want to be treated like fools.
Sordel has always enjoyed Derren Brown's act. Hypnotism has always been a part of it, but less of a part than it might first appear, and trying to disentangle a good illusion is always good fun. Sometimes you can "get" a part of it.
Even, however, before Brown explained his latest stunt (apparently forecasting the lottery numbers) it seemed a trifle underwhelming. The numbers were written in felt-tip on a row of ping-pong balls that were apparently visible at all times, but which were only turned to face the camera after the actual result was announced live on B.B.C. 1.
On his explanation show, Brown claimed that there were only three ways he could have done the trick: fake a lottery ticket, rig the machines or genuinely predict the result. Faking the ticket in this case meant that the writing had to be applied to the balls after the result was given; not impossible, I suppose, and Brown certainly misdirected the audience from exploring that option. Not interesting, though.
For most of the hour Brown "explained" how he genuinely predicted the result by averaging the predictions of a special group of people that he had trained for the purpose. This was, of course, complete and utter bollocks.
Brown then, in the last five minutes, outlined another way of doing the trick that involved substituting a heavier set of balls in the Camelot machines. He made a big point of saying that obviously had he done the trick that way he could not admit it, but I also happen to think that the second explanation was bollocks too.
Sordel is not too good at working out how a trick is done, but it seems to me that the only way it could be done was for Brown to know the result in time to write down the numbers before his own programme started. If the lottery result is usually broadcast with a short delay, then he only required the slightest collusion from Camelot to make the stunt work. If it is not usually broadcast with a delay, he needed a little more collusion, but since Brown's stunt was a massive free advert for the National Lottery, it's not difficult to see Camelot's motivation.
The problem is this: the explanation of that trick is never going to be very interesting, and creating a false explanation does nothing to make it more so.
Should the bankers ever do an explanation show, though, I'd watch it. They seem to win the lottery every week.
The Banking industry, for example. One can hardly fail to doff one's metaphorical hat to a business that operates profitably through a boom and then - when the going gets tough - persuades the government to bail it out without apparently conceding in return even a modicum of increased regulation. As bystanders, one cannot help but chuckle appreciatively as the illusionist hands back the bewildered prime minister's watch and handkerchief while unobtrusively tucking his wallet into a back pocket.
(It is only when one remembers whose money was in the wallet that the jokes wears thin.)
Yet when the illusionist turns to the audience and proceeds to "explain" the trick, by reference to the marmoset that, by frequent applications of disappearing ink, he has made invisible before training it in the art of the cutpurse, the audience begins to murmur amongst itself with something less than appreciation. Sure, we want to be deceived. But we don't want to be treated like fools.
Sordel has always enjoyed Derren Brown's act. Hypnotism has always been a part of it, but less of a part than it might first appear, and trying to disentangle a good illusion is always good fun. Sometimes you can "get" a part of it.
Even, however, before Brown explained his latest stunt (apparently forecasting the lottery numbers) it seemed a trifle underwhelming. The numbers were written in felt-tip on a row of ping-pong balls that were apparently visible at all times, but which were only turned to face the camera after the actual result was announced live on B.B.C. 1.
On his explanation show, Brown claimed that there were only three ways he could have done the trick: fake a lottery ticket, rig the machines or genuinely predict the result. Faking the ticket in this case meant that the writing had to be applied to the balls after the result was given; not impossible, I suppose, and Brown certainly misdirected the audience from exploring that option. Not interesting, though.
For most of the hour Brown "explained" how he genuinely predicted the result by averaging the predictions of a special group of people that he had trained for the purpose. This was, of course, complete and utter bollocks.
Brown then, in the last five minutes, outlined another way of doing the trick that involved substituting a heavier set of balls in the Camelot machines. He made a big point of saying that obviously had he done the trick that way he could not admit it, but I also happen to think that the second explanation was bollocks too.
Sordel is not too good at working out how a trick is done, but it seems to me that the only way it could be done was for Brown to know the result in time to write down the numbers before his own programme started. If the lottery result is usually broadcast with a short delay, then he only required the slightest collusion from Camelot to make the stunt work. If it is not usually broadcast with a delay, he needed a little more collusion, but since Brown's stunt was a massive free advert for the National Lottery, it's not difficult to see Camelot's motivation.
The problem is this: the explanation of that trick is never going to be very interesting, and creating a false explanation does nothing to make it more so.
Should the bankers ever do an explanation show, though, I'd watch it. They seem to win the lottery every week.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Rescuers Abroad
This from BBC.co.uk: "The final decision to order the rescue of kidnapped journalist Stephen Farrell was taken by the foreign and defence secretaries, Downing Street has said. Gordon Brown was consulted, but David Milliband and Bob Ainsworth sanctioned it."
Had things gone differently, I suppose Downing Street might have made a different announcement. There would have been Mrs. Brown's little boy, smiling with shy pride and unaffected delight before the hissing flashbulbs of the assembled press, explaining his pivotal role in this Entebbe-esque victory. How Gordon would have beamed.
Failure, however, is an orphan. Worse, it is an orphan who has just been unwillingly adopted by David Milliband and Bob Ainsworth: the sort of punishment that even an orphan asking for more gruel might consider severe.
Special forces operations, like wars, roll a die, and the relationship of risk to reward is a complex one, but in a situation where the best case scenario was freeing two prisoners, it was at best a daring operation to undertake. Saving one out of the two ain't bad I suppose, and if it matters to you that it was the British one that they saved then you may feel that the result was broadly successful.
Nevertheless to save one man from very uncertain death at the price, seemingly, of the deaths of four others - the interpreter, a soldier, two civilians - isn't exactly the sort of thing that gets people hanging out the bunting and draining glasses to the health of the Dear Old Queen. If - as is suspected - Sultan Munadi was killed by the bullets of those attempting to rescue Stephen Farrell, then the success was something worse than equivocal.
The question that most stubbornly occurs, though, is this. What was the basis for the decision made by this pair of politicians (without any collusion whatsoever from our prime minister, who merely peeped out from under his desk while stretching for a cup of tea that had been thoughtfully left on the carpet for him)?
Surely only a cynic could suggest that the Go order was given in the hope of securing a headline-flashing victory in the course of an increasingly miserable occupation?
Had things gone differently, I suppose Downing Street might have made a different announcement. There would have been Mrs. Brown's little boy, smiling with shy pride and unaffected delight before the hissing flashbulbs of the assembled press, explaining his pivotal role in this Entebbe-esque victory. How Gordon would have beamed.
Failure, however, is an orphan. Worse, it is an orphan who has just been unwillingly adopted by David Milliband and Bob Ainsworth: the sort of punishment that even an orphan asking for more gruel might consider severe.
Special forces operations, like wars, roll a die, and the relationship of risk to reward is a complex one, but in a situation where the best case scenario was freeing two prisoners, it was at best a daring operation to undertake. Saving one out of the two ain't bad I suppose, and if it matters to you that it was the British one that they saved then you may feel that the result was broadly successful.
Nevertheless to save one man from very uncertain death at the price, seemingly, of the deaths of four others - the interpreter, a soldier, two civilians - isn't exactly the sort of thing that gets people hanging out the bunting and draining glasses to the health of the Dear Old Queen. If - as is suspected - Sultan Munadi was killed by the bullets of those attempting to rescue Stephen Farrell, then the success was something worse than equivocal.
The question that most stubbornly occurs, though, is this. What was the basis for the decision made by this pair of politicians (without any collusion whatsoever from our prime minister, who merely peeped out from under his desk while stretching for a cup of tea that had been thoughtfully left on the carpet for him)?
Surely only a cynic could suggest that the Go order was given in the hope of securing a headline-flashing victory in the course of an increasingly miserable occupation?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
"Must These Have Voices?"
In retrospect, it wasn't really necessary to wage a massive campaign in Afghanistan to make the country (slightly less un-) safe for voters. It turns out that an honour guard around Hamid Karzai's photocopier would have done just as well.
Personally, Sordel has always felt that we should get democracy working here before imposing it on others. Lest we forget, the man currently cowering under the prime minister's desk was not elected (even by his own party) yet this has not stopped him grabbing the tiller and setting a course for the nearest iceberg. His predecessor was indeed elected, but he spent much of his premiership explaining why (much as he deeply respected the opinions of the overwhelming majority of the electorate) we'd be doing things his way for now. Having promised a referendum before further European integration, Labour decided to ratify the Lisbon Treaty without one, and the low cunning of this decision is confirmed by the failure of Ireland to pass a referendum on the same issue. Et cetera.
This is merely to say that democracy does not operate in the United Kingdom, but let us suppose that it did. Under a constituency system in which the winner takes all, the overwhelming majority of voters will live in a constituency where only two political parties can possibly win. Many people will live in a constituency where one political party has an insurmountable majority.
The smallest parliamentary majority is apparently Crawley, where the current incumbent is handing on by the varnish on her nails to a majority of 37. She's a Labour MP, so I fancy that her chances of holding the seat at the next election are slender. Let us imagine, however, that you live in Crawley at the time of the next election, the seat is won or lost by a single vote, and you find yourself on the winning end. Would this be a validation for you of the democratic system, to have made such a seemingly enormous difference? Or would you consider that the body of votes sloshing backwards and forwards had pretty much made your individual vote worthless? Democracy values all citizens equally, but does not value them highly.
Why, then, are we so persuaded of the value of the democratic system that we are willing to sacrifice lives in order to transform Afghanistan into one? Set aside for a moment patriotic concern for British troops; I am not convinced that is worth the death of a single individual of any nationality to establish a democracy in that country, even were it possible to do so.
Of course, I see that there are significant motives for governments to like democracies, whether domestic or foreign.
But why on Earth should we?
Personally, Sordel has always felt that we should get democracy working here before imposing it on others. Lest we forget, the man currently cowering under the prime minister's desk was not elected (even by his own party) yet this has not stopped him grabbing the tiller and setting a course for the nearest iceberg. His predecessor was indeed elected, but he spent much of his premiership explaining why (much as he deeply respected the opinions of the overwhelming majority of the electorate) we'd be doing things his way for now. Having promised a referendum before further European integration, Labour decided to ratify the Lisbon Treaty without one, and the low cunning of this decision is confirmed by the failure of Ireland to pass a referendum on the same issue. Et cetera.
This is merely to say that democracy does not operate in the United Kingdom, but let us suppose that it did. Under a constituency system in which the winner takes all, the overwhelming majority of voters will live in a constituency where only two political parties can possibly win. Many people will live in a constituency where one political party has an insurmountable majority.
The smallest parliamentary majority is apparently Crawley, where the current incumbent is handing on by the varnish on her nails to a majority of 37. She's a Labour MP, so I fancy that her chances of holding the seat at the next election are slender. Let us imagine, however, that you live in Crawley at the time of the next election, the seat is won or lost by a single vote, and you find yourself on the winning end. Would this be a validation for you of the democratic system, to have made such a seemingly enormous difference? Or would you consider that the body of votes sloshing backwards and forwards had pretty much made your individual vote worthless? Democracy values all citizens equally, but does not value them highly.
Why, then, are we so persuaded of the value of the democratic system that we are willing to sacrifice lives in order to transform Afghanistan into one? Set aside for a moment patriotic concern for British troops; I am not convinced that is worth the death of a single individual of any nationality to establish a democracy in that country, even were it possible to do so.
Of course, I see that there are significant motives for governments to like democracies, whether domestic or foreign.
But why on Earth should we?
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