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Issue #114. October 14th - 27th, 2005 I promise to go wandering (Part 1)
There are worse things than being alone
One in Two
Single Review #1 ++Money Can't Music (We will all asphyxiate)
Single Review #2 The Research (The Way we used to smile)
Iraq: Should we stay or should we go?
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I promise to go wandering. ‘All Is Quiet On New Year’s Day’ I cut a sorry sight on New Year’s Day, 2005. Toppled by the sort of flu which made me realize that I’d never had flu before; tanked up with cough syrups, painkillers, aspirin, while working my way through a multi-pack of tissues. I should have been in bed. Most sensible people would have been in bed. But I was lying on a settee, in the conservatory of a friend, staring at a willow tree and watching the dawn gently rising across a Lincolnshire sky. There were reasons for this. Not great ones, but mitigating ones nonetheless. Drawing to the close of years of studying for my Masters degree, I was a survivor of endless bank holidays spent sweating over hot textbooks and writing essays, each word forced out like so much blood on the page, because I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to be with friends on beaches or up mountains, seeing wonderful places because they didn’t have essays to write. It was childish tantrum which had me bundled up in layers of clothing and a blanket to travel halfway across the country on a bitterly cold night. I didn’t see how the universe sending me flu, at my first chance to have fun with everyone else, was fair. So I ignored the flu. The same flu which had had NHS Direct ordering me into the assessment clinic two nights before with suspected meningitis. I couldn’t speak. I could barely stand. I was resting after the half an hour’s intense exertion required to take some plates and cups into the kitchen, two rooms away. But I was in Lincolnshire and something in my rebel mind was stilled. This year, I promised myself, I would see more of Britain. I would make my own day-trips and holidays. Just in case the ‘NOT FAIR’ demon surfaced again, I would have proof on hand. I would find a map of Britain, divided into counties, and I would colour them in as I visited. I would look at it and remember all the wonderful places I’d been in recently. I would endeavour to go to strange places, far away places, where I’d never been before. Like Norfolk. I would have adventures, run feral and play so hard that it would wipe out the memory of each and every one of those trips missed through working. So I did. And by May, I had visited so many of the counties of England and Wales that it was within the outer bounds of possibility to do them all. Roll over Bill Bryson, these are my notes from a country which shrank before my very eyes. Places which were once so far away as to be unreachable suddenly turned out to involve only two hours driving down a motorway… and there were so many wonders there! Whole Iron Age villages reconstructed; Roman soldiers wandering around; Victorian illusions set up to play with; night skies, where the stars dotted and streaked like some celestial being had flicked the entire contents of a bottle of Tipex; mountains, valleys, lakes and sunsets; always pushing the boundaries of both my inner and outer worlds. ‘This Sceptred Isle’ It was hard work mapping England and Wales. I learned that it’s nigh on impossible to work out precisely what and where the counties of England and Wales are. They’ve been messed around with so much as to no longer make any kind of sense. There are the traditional counties; the municipal counties; the ceremonial counties; registration districts; there are places no longer in any county at all, but languishing in some undefined borough or ‘unitary authority’… I’m sure that I’ve visited more places than were strictly necessary, because none of the above bore any resemblance to each other. The map that I ended up with was refined by contacting people in the area and double-checking which county they belonged to, after a strange blob in Shropshire alerted me to the fact that some of these were made up. I sat listening to passionate discussions amongst the Aimhigher East Midlands people about whether or not Rutland existed anymore (it did), but the county of Peterborough had only lived briefly before returning to the Cambridgeshire fold; while a Yellowbelly assured me that, insofar as he knew, no-one had chopped the top off his county, so visiting Lincoln counted as it all; and a Welshman, from the Valleys, confirmed that his area did indeed contain nine different counties, some the size of a large town, with a bit of lawn around the edges, and yes, I had to visit them all. Sometimes I really do have to wonder if anyone knows what’s going on, geographically or otherwise, in this beautiful country of mine… A Start… Before I take you in earnest on our trip around England and Wales, let’s go back to the start. Lincoln… it rises like an optical illusion from the plains of Lincolnshire. We approached it at night, so the cathedral loomed gigantic, brightly lit, against the miniature buildings all around, as if some child, with no sense of proportion, had placed a Barbie accessory-sized cathedral into the middle of a Lego-sized city. Unless that was the cough medicine. I don’t know. I do know that there was a lot of sky and I was personally grateful for any building of supreme height that could hold it up, being from the Black Country, where skies are smaller. Sight-seeing was kept to a minimum, given that I needed to be lifted down off a wall like a three-year-old when my physical strength betrayed my stubbornness by giving in to flu weakness; but the bit of city that I saw was olde worlde (as the Americans like to say). Steep, cobbled walkways leading down into the lower city, lined with interesting looking shops. Up there, there was none of the ‘same city, different name’ effect that you get in High Streets of anywhere in Britain. We meandered into the cathedral, entering an inner sanctuary which our local guide assured us wasn’t usually open. The dean followed us around (not intentionally, I don’t think), which was handy for questions. We saw a tomb, covered in the grotesque imagery given to those in despair after the Black Death, all festering skeletons and terrified eyes; and we saw the Lincoln Imp, complete with some story about clever clericals outfacing demons, but looking to this Pagan soul like a nod to some older God, akin to the Green Man we’d seen already in Saxilby Church. Through an aspirin haze, the city sparkled, inticing, beautiful. I’m going back one day, because it deserved more than I was able to give it at the time, and because it was the beginning of a great, dazzling adventure of which you’re bound to hear more.
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There Are Worse Things Than Being Alone
"There are worse things than being alone" I thought as a ran through the cold dark street dodging the drunk the drugged and the dangerous. Friends are always telling me that. Friends who have partners I might add. Friends who don't really understand what it like not to have someone you can trust with your secret hopes and fears. Friends who don't really understand what it is like to wonder if you'll ever meet a man you can really love and who will love you back. "Look Cath, you have a good job, a great social life, you travel more than anyone I know. Stop worrying. You'll meet someone soon, just remember there are worse things than being alone" And I have to agree, because of course there a lot of things worse than being alone. Babies die from starvation and disease every day, families are torn apart from by war, and George W Bush is still the president of the most powerful nation in the world. All of these things are much worse than being alone but somehow don't make loneliness any easier. No, it is not until I think about alternative that I am really forced to agree. "there are worse things than being alone"... It was the smell that I noticed first. It was hard not to. It hit you the minute you stepped through door. It crept up your nose and down your throat and squeezed at your stomach trying to expel all of its contents as quickly as possible. I tried not breathing for a while but dependency on oxygen has always been a weakness of mine. Besides the smell had already crept back into my consciousness long before I refilled my lungs with the stale putrid air (I couldn't tell you how...maybe it seeped through my eyes). Before you are starting to panic and think to yourself: "I hope people don't think that when they step through my front door." I can assure you even on your worst days they don't. Not unless you happen to live on a landfill site next door to the sewage work and keep two incontinent pigs for pets. But that wasn't the truly terrifying thing, that wasn't the thing that made my stomach lurch and my heart stop beating as the cold icy feeling of panic cut through my alcohol soaked veins as my mind screamed: "What the hell am I doing here?" What the hell was I doing there? Good question, I'd only just met the man. OK we'd spent a pleasant afternoon together and it was nice to spend time with someone who told good jokes, thought my stories were endearing rather than mildly eccentric and let's face it did have a rather charming smile but none these things were reason why I was here. In fact the reason why I was here can be pinpointed to a specific moment in our meeting which went something like this: "go on just one more" "no I should be going I promised my sister I'd babysit in the morning" "if you are sure" he looked at me slightly hurt. Freeze frame - This is where the fatal error occurred. At this point I could have smiled politely, insisted that "I really must leave" I could have returned to my normal smelling house put on a DVD and thought about how nice the afternoon had been. Instead... I hesitated. He looked deep into my eyes, smile returning to his lips. "if you are sure". "oh alright, then just one more" I muttered. And that was how I ended up in the house of a man who for all I knew could have very well been responsible for the murders of the two elderly women which had been all over the local papers last week. "police were still looking for the various body parts belonging to one of them women". I guess that would account for the smell... But as I was saying the smell was certainly not the most disturbing thing about his house. "I, er didn't know you liked the smurfs so much?" I asked cautiously "yes you did. I told you." And looking back he had done. I had remembered laughing until tears rolled down my cheeks as he told me how much he loved the smurfs. "he's obviously being ironic" I thought, impressed by his deadpan expression as he told me that his ideal women was Smurfette. Confronted by a three foot high cardboard cutout of smurfette surrounded by mounds of cuddly surf toys, smurf wallpaper, and a homemade "I love the smurfs" banner which hung across the entire left wall of the room I was in and I was not so impressed. "So how long have you been er, smurf..."
"Most of my life. Since I was 6 probably. Its not a problem is it? I find a lot of women I meet seem to feel slightly threatened by love affair with smurfdom." "they are threatened by YOU! you crazy freak!" screamed my brain. "er no" "good becuase I like you. your eyes remind me of smurfette's" he patted the cardboard cut out effectionately. "wait here. I'll just be a few minutes... I have a suprise for you!" and he disapeared off into his bedroom Wait? Was he kidding? Just as I was opening the front door I turned around. to see him stood looking slightly puzzled in full smurf costume. "Where are you..." I didn't hear the rest. I was running faster than I'd ever done in my life. Lungs burning from lack of practise. "There are worse things than being alone" I thought as a ran through the cold dark street dodging drunk the drugged and the dangerous. And smurfs are defintely worse than being alone.
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One in Two One in two. One in two, and one in two wasn't bad was it? You crawl into your sainted pit on a fragile Friday, pumelled into a three quarter submission, and all you can think about is the one in two and the Simpsons on TV and the stuffed crust homebaked pizza that is four and a half years old.
But still, one in two, all things considered, one in two wasn't bad at all.
And out, onto suburban stone and masquerades, Burberry caps and bluerinse boutiques, and Father Father who art in where as the weekend vacuum rears its ugly head and you think about a lottery ticket and a lottery win that will never come but at least it eats away at the weekend and you know it wasn't supposed to be like this but raise your glass to the one in two, a one in two that you've never come close to in the near half decade thats since meandered and occasionally mauled.
You tried that sex thing, that fucking thing, in strangers bedrooms and against piss-stained alley walls, and somehow it got you through the moment and the moment it got you through enabled you to haul your saggy soul into another one and another one and another one, but never into the one in two.
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Iraq: Should we stay or should we go? The capture of two British soldiers by Iraqi police – and their subsequent jail break with the aid of British tanks showed the growing chaos in Iraq – and how hard it is to tell what exactly is going on there at times. It’s fairly obvious that either the British Ministry of Defence or the Iraqi police and Basra government were lying – or that both of them were. There is plenty of evidence that the Iraqi police have been infiltrated by Shia militias like the Moqtadr Al Sadr’s Medhi army – or a faction which has split from it in this case. This does not represent a small minority though. The occupation has resulted in Al Sadr being transformed from a minor political figure to having the support of two-thirds of Iraqis in polls– and coalition trained Iraqis joining his militia in large numbers. It seems unlikely that the MOD’s version of events which involved an under-cover investigation of infiltration of the Iraqi police force would require the rocket launchers which the two soldiers were armed with. The Iraqi police also claim the captured men were planting bombs. Who – if anyone – is telling the truth is impossible to know.. It seems highly unlikely that the Governor of Basra’s claims that 10 British tanks and helicopters ‘completely destroyed’ the jail where the two were being held. This would have killed the men they were attempting to release. It remains disputed whether the men had been handed over to a Shia militia or were being held by police. The wider issue raised was whether British and American forces should remain in Iraq until ‘security’ or ‘democracy’ can be established for ‘the Iraqi people’ – or whether they should leave in order to avoid causing more bloodshed. The views of the various political actors have been widely discussed in the media – with the notable exceptions being any mention of the views of the majority of the British, American and Iraqi people. A poll of Iraqis in February last year showed over 50% opposed the presence of coalition forces - less than 40% supported their presence. A Gallup poll in March and April last year of 3,500 Iraqis found 57% wanted the occupying forces to withdraw immediately. Polls also show that two thirds of the British public now support bringing our troops home. A majority of Americans in every poll also want some or all their troops brought home from Iraq. The views of the majority in each country got no mention even in the Guardian or the Independent with the latter’s headline page on 21st September naming the Stop the War Coalition and ‘Iraqi insurgents’ as the only people backing immediate withdrawal - rather than the reality - that the majority of Iraqis, Americans and British citizens want the troops home. If we want to build democracy shouldn’t we take into account the opinions of the majority of Iraqi and British citizens? Or don’t their opinions matter? Some argue that the majority are not always right. That may be true – but if we believe in democracy we support the majority view prevailing as long as the fundamental rights of every individual are protected. It is easy to be drawn into seeing Iraq as a tale of good and evil battling it out – with the British and American military on the side of good - imperfect and not entirely good but still aiming for the best of outcomes. The facts are much more unpleasant. Both sides are guilty of atrocities. Neither side is trying to give a choice to the Iraqi people. Those who use force on both sides want power – control over Iraq, its people and their resources. The new Iraqi government forces which our forces are training are using the same torture methods used under Saddam and employing death squads every bit as much as Saddam’s regime did to eliminate opponents. So not all the ‘execution style’ killings are being carried out by ‘insurgents’ – many are Iraqi government forces eliminating opponents of the occupation. This is a pattern previously seen in Vietnam in the ‘Phoenix programme’ (see offline source 1 at foot of page) – a a version of which is now operating in Iraq. Death squads and torturers trained and armed by the CIA were also seen in Nicaragua and El Salvador – organised by some of the same members of the Bush administration responsible for setting up the new government in Iraq – especially John Negroponte and Paul Bremer in their previous roles in the Reagan administration in the 80s. Negroponte was also involved with operationsin Vietnam. Dick Cheney was involved in opposing congressional attempts to cut funding to these programmes. We also know our that both British and American forces torture and also kill civilians. These are the realities of military occupation no matter what rhetoric is used to justify it. No wonder Bush and Blair were so keen to secure the UN resolution that granted their forces immunity from prosecution for war crimes which has allowed them to create a new El Salvador in Iraq - and on the basis of which they prevented the two British soldiers arrested by Iraqi police in Basra being held. Military occupation creates a violent, nationalist reaction which turns the majority towards ‘extremists’ just as the use of military force did in the occupation in Northern Ireland in the past – and just as the Israeli occupation of the West Bank – and their continuing use of force in Gaza – does to this day. The majority are not wrong this time. If we really believe in democracy we should look at the hard and unpleasant reality of what’s happening and trust the views of the majority. Democracy cannot by definition be imposed by force or against the wishes of the majority – it is as much a culture and a set of beliefs as a system of government. Certainly we still have a responsibility towards Iraqis - but we have no right to impose our plans on them by the presence of troops - which just makes the situation worse. We could start paying reconstruction funds and war reparations directly to Iraqis rather than giving contracts from taxpayers' money to extremely dubious firms like Halliburton and Bechtel. Offline Sources – (1) = Marilyn B. Young (1991), The Vietnam Wars , HarperCollins, New York , 1991 , pages 144-146 , 212-213,265 copyright©Duncan McFarlane 2005
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