Where has all the power gone? Part 1

It's life.....

Saturday

 

Although the masters make the rules

For the wise men and the fools

I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

 

 

My daughter, Hannah, and I travel to Putney to see my aunt. Eve, my mother’s younger sister, was born in Kerala in 1925, and at 98 she smiles, but cannot get up. She speaks, but cannot hear. Her powers are, inevitably, fading, but we communicate by means of a whiteboard, and drink a glass of water together.  She is less mobile now than when we celebrated her birthday in March, but her spirit is still strong.

 

She is in the front room of her home, visited briskly three times a day by social workers who get her up from her bed in the morning, help her to the toilet, and then put her back to bed in the evening. Not really very different from my wife, Amanda’s, routines (Although Amanda is in a care home now.)

 

We do not stay very long. I feel guilty but Eve is tiring and I have a ticket to ascend Lift 109, 109 metres up the north-west chimney of Battersea Power Station, whose website pronounces the following:  

 

AN ICON REBORN

 

POWERING LONDON, POWERING CULTURE, POWERING DESIGN

 

Battersea Power Station’s silhouette has long been a prominent fixture on the London skyline. Built in the 1930s and operational as a power station until the early 1980s, at its peak, it generated one fifth of London’s power. Since then, the building has provided us with a whole lot more than electricity, becoming a cultural icon after acting as a backdrop for an array of films, music videos, album covers and more.

 

Which, I suppose, was brilliant. Powering one fifth of London’s power.....  But who has the power now? Well, on the 4^th July, 2012, on the Channel Island of Jersey, a Malaysian consortium comprising Sime Darby Berhad, S P Setia Berhad and the Employees Provident Fund (EPF) acquired London’s iconic Battersea Power Station for £400 million.

 

For S P Setia, one of the leading property developers in Malaysia, the Battersea acquisition is part of its strategy to seek out good opportunities in selected international markets to expand its operations, in line with its long-term objective to become a global property player. At present, the Group has presence in Vietnam, Singapore, Australia, China and Indonesia.

Sime Darby is a Malaysia-based, diversified multinational employing over 100,000 people in more than 20 countries. They are involved in key growth sectors, including: property, motors, industrial equipment, energy & utilities and healthcare. Founded in 1910, its business divisions seek to create positive benefits in the economy, environment and society where it has a presence.

 

And all of this may be fine, but I cannot help but think there is an irony somewhere. Wasn’t Brexit sold as Making Britain Great Again, a populist rant against ‘foreign’ interference?  

 

Standing atop the 109-metre chimney of the refurbished ‘Power’ Station I feel very small, and very powerless.  Almost (in the face of this mega-building packed with merchants, victuallers and accommodation) as frail as my aunt, bless her, is now.

 

I think, for a moment, about Britain’s greatnesses: – 

 

Railways: Seven UK railways are operated or partly-operated by Dutch state railway Nederlandse Spoorwegen (NS), including Merseyrail, Scotrail and the West Midlands Railway. Seven railways are operated fully or partly by French state railway SNCF, including Transport for Wales and the Thameslink.

 

Waterworks: Over 90% of the English water companies are owned by international investors, private equity funds, and banks. Only 8.5% of shareholders in the water sector are UK pension funds....

 

Energy:  If you are looking for a British owned energy company within the “Big Six” then you might struggle. In fact, it's only British Gas and SSE who are British owned. EDF, E.ON, Npower and Scottish Power are all internationally owned.....

 

Car companies:  Morgan is the only entirely British-owned and British-made car company on the list of UK car manufacturers. Only a few hundred cars are made every year at their factory in Malvern, Worcester, hence the waiting list for a Morgan can be up to 2 years.  Rolls Royce and Mini are owned by BMW; Audi owns Bentley; Jaguar Landrover belong to Tata;  the Chinese state motor company SAIC owns MG, and Opel (now owned by Stellantis) wholly owns Vauxhall.... 

 

Steel: In March 2020, British Steel was bought by the Jingye Group, a Chinese multi-industrial company specialising in iron and steel manufacturing. Port Talbot steelworks are owned by Tata (who, apart from owning Jaguar Landrover, also own Tetley’s tea....)

 

Energy companies:  Approximately 60% of the UK energy supply comes from abroad: from countries including Norway, Qatar, Sweden and the Netherlands, among many more. Around 60% of the UK's natural gas imports come from Norway, and 30% of it comes from Qatar....

 

I feel powerless.....  It is all beyond me.  I never have understood economics.  Nor politics.  I don’t apportion blame.  I don’t claim any high ground.

 

But isn’t there something fundamentally awry? This puny island nation voted by a narrow margin to leave the EU on the grounds that ‘we’ could take back sovereignty.  

 

Bring it on.....

 

For them that think death’s honesty

Won’t fall upon them naturally

Life sometimes must get lonely

 

Bob Dylan

 

It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)

[1965]

To whom it may concern

To Whom It May Concern

A tissue, a tissue, we all fall down.....

I was run over by the truth one day.

Ever since the accident I’ve walked this way

So stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Heard the alarm clock screaming with pain,

Couldn’t find myself so I went back to sleep again

So fill my ears with silver

Stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Every time I shut my eyes all I see is flames.

Made a marble phone book and I carved all the names

So coat my eyes with butter

Fill my ears with silver

Stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

I smell something burning, hope it’s just my brains.

They’re only dropping peppermints and daisy-chains

So stuff my nose with garlic

Coat my eyes with butter

Fill my ears with silver

Stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Where were you at the time of the crime?

Down by the Cenotaph drinking slime

So chain my tongue with whisky

Stuff my nose with garlic

Coat my eyes with butter

Fill my ears with silver

Stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

You put your bombers in, you put your conscience out,

You take the human being and you twist it all about

So scrub my skin with women

Chain my tongue with whisky

Stuff my nose with garlic

Coat my eyes with butter

Fill my ears with silver

Stick my legs in plaster

Tell me lies, tell me lies about Aghanistan.

Tell me lies about Israel.

Tell me lies about Congo.

Tell me, tell me lies Mr Bush.

Tell me lies Mr B-B-Blair, Brown, Blair-Brown.

Tell me lies about Vietnam.

Adrian Mitchell

1932 - 2008

Adrian read the original draft of this poem at the International Poetry Incarnation in the Royal Albert Hall in 1965, and added to it throughout his life. He read it when I was a student at Lancaster; and he read it when he and Celia came to visit my school in Rome, (despite a warning from the then Headmaster that he shouldn't.....)

Somewhere up the creek.... without the proverbial paddle

Although the Vietnam war is history now, and generations have grown up without the pictures of American bodybags on the TV news every night; even without the daily flashes of Blair and Brown, the spectre of war has not left us, and this poem was brought to mind once more by Nick Cohen's excoriating piece, headed Lies come in all shapes and sizes. This government is familiar with them all in The Observer on February 13th this year: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/feb/12/lies-lies-and-more-lies-a-government-built-on-lies-is-incapable-of-anything-else 

To quote but two sentences: This is a government that lies. It lies because it is a lame-duck administration of charlatans and clowns, an echoing void where the government of the country ought to be.

No tracks, no trains.....

This is a government that pretends to be working day and night to protect the people of Ukraine, but on the news this morning a British couple in Ukraine with two small babies had been told by the British Embassy that they had to drive for 14 hours across a war zone to acquire documentation that would enable them to return to the UK. Today we hear that the Foreign Secretary, Ms Truss, has enraged (Ras) Putin by her undiplomatic errors sufficiently to drive him to threaten the use of nuclear weapons.....

The people's party.....

Last weekend a Government Minister suggested that refugees from Ukraine could enter the UK with visas if they picked fruit or vegetables.  Last week the Prime Minister proposed to sanction a smattering of Russian individuals and organisations, but conveniently avoided his friendship with Baron Lebedev, of Hampton in the London Borough of Richmond upon Thames and of Siberia in the Russian Federation (ennobled by Johnson in 2020), perhaps because he, like the Prime Minister, has dual nationality; or perhaps even more worryingly, Lubov Chernukhin, the wife of Putin’s former deputy finance minister Vladimir Chernukhin (Pandora papers documents published in October last year suggest he was allowed to leave Russia in 2004 with assets worth about £350m and retain Russian business links). She is now a member of the Conservatives’ 14-strong "advisory board" of donors, with a habit of handing the party six-figure sums.....  For more on this, please see John Harris's article:

The fight for Ukraine is a fight for liberal ideals. So how can Boris Johnson possibly lead it? published on February 27th: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2022/feb/27/ukraine-liberal-ideals-boris-johnson-tories-russian-money

Shadows in the sands....

There may well be those who won't agree with me, but Dictator Putin's vile and deranged attack on Ukraine had long been in gestation, with the West's paltry opposition to his incursions into Crimea and Georgia effectively encouraging his disregard for democratic values (not to mention his unpunished murders on the streets of the UK). But the way that the UK was bamboozled into Brexit, possibly with Russian assistance (the 'Russian report' was stifled by Johnson for nine months.....https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/jul/21/just-what-does-the-uk-russia-report-say-key-points-explained), was another string to his bow. The weakness of the UK now, insular and no longer a part of a united Europe (despite still being part of NATO and the UN), gave succour to the megalomania of the ex-KGB officer.  Vain words from Downing Street can no longer convince anyone that Britain is a world power, although, with a little luck, they may chime with those from other sources.

So, with apologies to Adrian, 

Tell me lies, tell me lies about Afghanistan.

Tell me lies about Israel.

Tell me lies about Congo.

Tell me, tell me lies Mr Trump.

Tell me lies Mr Cameron, Mr Osborne, Mr Johnson.

Tell me lies about Ukraine.

If only you could fly.....

*     *     *     *

I do hope that Adrian Mitchell wouldn't mind the liberties taken here....  I have tried to contact Celia just to check, but so far without success.  If by any chance any of Adrian's family should see this and have any objection please let me know directly....


*     *      *     *

Streets of London

Let me take you by the hand....

In the winter of '71 (I think - it was some years ago.....) I stayed with my second (?) cousin Jasper and his wife.  They had a flat on the third floor in Vauxhall Bridge Road and I was a wayward sixth former with pretensions towards further education...

Anyway, it became dark, and it became quiet, and we realised that it was snowing.  All of a (what's the opposite of sudden?) we realised that this was a Dickensian moment.

So we hurried to explore the city in their Ford Prefect, and soon the headlights were blinded by snowflakes and the wheels were slathering in the slurry of dying snowmen in deserted squares.  

It was an eerie, timeless experience.  I don't believe that anything similar has happened since, in London.....

Until, perhaps, now.... In a curious way, the Covid 19 blight has recreated the silence of those city streets.  I have not walked undeafened in London until now, and it is extraordinary.  This very morning I wandered across the Western centre of our greatest metropolis, and you could hear a bee buzz...

It is (almost) possible to breathe...

It is almost possible to pause and greet a passer-by without feeling it's all improper....

One could almost be enticed to catch a bus  on Regent Street (though there is the fear that that may not be all you would catch....)

And there is also the thought that you could pitch camp on the street and not really cause any harm...

Though the churches are closed, they still embrace wanderers in their porticoes....

And for those with access to wheels, it's a free paradise at the moment...

But, though you may have to crane your neck for them, there are signs that all is not well.  It's a sic-fi world.  Butterflies were trampled years ago for this....

I am about to reach out to this young woman to say beware, this road is dangerous.....  But before I make a fool of myself I see the emptiness around me, and remain a lonely cameraman....

Nearing the great pile of Gilbert Scott's St Pancras Hotel I am almost taken in by the shiny marble, but find that all is not what it seems....

And down the road I am brought back to Ralph McTell's new verse of his legendary hit Streets of London .

First recorded in 1969, the song at one point sold 90,000 copies a day and has been covered by more than 200 artists. It also won Ralph an Ivor Novello award for best song and continues to feature in folk music's "best of" playlists.

In March of this year Fergal Keane talked to his neighbour, and as a result Ralph added a verse to his career-defining hit song.

In shop doorways, under bridges, in all our towns and cities

You can glimpse the makeshift bedding from the corner of your eye

Remember what you're seeing barely hides a human being

We're all in this together, brother, sister, you and I.

Despite, or inspite of, the attempts of the gods of government, the city has lost its heart.  There are signs of life, but they are insipid, and there is no way they will pay the price of this virus.  

I know this will infuriate some, but at the Eurostar terminal things are quiet, and I cannot help but feel that this muffled disaster is like a suppurating wound hidden by the gangrenous bandage of Brexit.  

John Betjeman stands aloof on the first floor, a master of words, but a set of bones sticking through the flesh of the world he loved.  If he were here today, would he understand Dylan's Murder Most Foul?  Or would his attitude be that of amused and befuddled bystander where German Bombs were acceptable on Slough?

I have had enough of this heartless city.  I follow a cyclist down the escalator to happiness...

I wait upon the departure platform to hopefulness...

And then, on my walk home from the station I find traces of life that simply didn't make it....

In shop doorways, under bridges, in all our towns and cities

You can glimpse the makeshift bedding from the corner of your eye

Remember what you're seeing barely hides a human being

We're all in this together, brother, sister, you and I.

So how can you tell me you're lonely,

And say for you that the sun don't shine.

Let me take you by the hand and lead you through the streets of London

I'll show you something to make you change your mind

Ralph McTell

It's strange that those we miss the most 

Are those we take for granted.

John Betjeman

Shropshire; Oh Mercy.....

Most of the Time....

Most of the time

I’m clear focused all around

Most of the time

I can keep both feet on the ground

I can follow the path, I can read the signs

Stay right with it when the road unwinds

I can handle whatever I stumble upon 

I don’t even notice she’s gone

Most of the time 

Up on Offa's Dyke (Hey, You! Get Offa my Dyke...!) it's not hard to forget, for a moment, the things you should remember. 

I am blessed by fine weather on a day in Shropshire, and I climb to the heights where Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Offa organised a ditch and earth wall to form a hard border between his eight century kingdom (Mercia) and Wales..... Oh Mercy.

In Offa’s Dyke: Landscape and Hegemony in Eighth-Century Britain, Keith Ray and Ian Bapty explore how the Dyke may have been built and what it achieved, and consider what can be learned from it.

Besides being built to impress, the Dyke was also designed to exclude the Welsh from their former lands and was probably used as a means to raise revenue by customs control and to monitor what was going on in the area immediately to its west. 

Nope. Doesn't remind me of anything.... Hard border. Customs control..... Nope.....

In c895 AD Bishop Asser [biographer of King Alfred] with the benefit of hindsight.... saw Offa’s Dyke fundamentally as a vainglorious exercise by an unscrupulous and ruthless king..... 

Nope. Can't think of any contemporary who might be thought of as vainglorious, unscrupulous, or ruthless.... Nor any man who would be king....

So it's just another day when I free myself and wander in cloud loneliness, skipping like a girlie, crying Hullo trees! Hullo sky! and I can wrap myself in blue dismembered hills.....

Most of the time

It’s well understood 

Most of the time 

I wouldn’t change it if I could 

I can make it all match up, I can hold my own 

I can deal with the situation right down to the bone 

I can survive, I can endure 

And I don’t even think about her 

Most of the time

Yes. Most of the time any of us can manage our daily needs, and life goes on. Such incidentals as birth and death mere bookends to our feeding and growing, and growing old, and incidentally socialising.....

A road is just a road, whoever travels along it....

A signpost means little to a stranger, and less to a passing fox, but it will stand, pointing, as placed, until some idiot rearranges it.....

And a closed door is still a closed door. But still a door. Which need not remain closed.

And an inn is still an inn, even when closed. Until the law is changed, and the designation is redesigned. By law. 

It is a beautiful day, and I move on up to the Bury Ditches, an Iron Age multivallate hill fort above the village of Clun. The lower slopes are forested, and green,

Though there are seductive angels by the wayside; messages from the destroyers of memory, the disease of conceit.....

But above the trees, on the ridges, the palette is different,

And I am blessed with pale views of hills....

What are these blue remembered hills

What spires, what farms are those?

(A E Housman)

[Answer: The Long Mynd, the Stiperstones]

Most of the time

My head is on straight

Most of the time

I’m strong enough not to hate

I don’t build up illusion ’til it makes me sick

I ain’t afraid of confusion no matter how thick

I can smile in the face of mankind

Don’t even remember what her lips felt like on mine

Most of the time

I move on down to Craven Arms, and to Stokesay Castle.

House Martins career past the windows:

Rest on the battlements:

Preparing their tiny selves for unknown, instinctive journeys; thousands of miles to equatorial climes; no passports, no questions, just strength of will without understanding....

Though on their way they may sing:

Most of the time

 I’m halfway content

 Most of the time

 I know exactly where it went

 I don’t cheat on myself, I don’t run and hide

 Hide from the feelings that are buried inside

 I don’t compromise and I don’t pretend

 I don’t even care if I ever see her again

 Most of the time

Dylan's words - wherever he garnered them from - lend themselves to any interpretation.  My play here is on the idea of taking time out to refresh my mind in the pleasures of free landscapes, taking a break from the tribulations of my family life (Most of the time/I’m halfway content.....) But on interacting with the ancient past I find that we can be brought to face our present.  The present, however, does not then encompass just our own personal circumstances, however difficult, but also the public, political circumstances which may be even more daunting.  But then, above and beyond this, these can pale into insignificance when we realise that the world of small things (for example juvenile house martins) may be way more challenging than anything we (or should I say I?) have to face from day to day.....

I can survive, I can endure 

And I don’t even think about her 

Most of the time

Oh Mercy!

Thank you to:

Most of the Time

Bob Dylan

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