Approaching my office along a 5th floor SOAS corridor, I paused outside the door because I could hear someone playing a stringed instrument and singing in a room nearby. This wasn't a surprise; SOAS's 5th floor houses both anthropologists and ethnomusicologists. But it reminded me forcefully of when I was 15 and a small group of guitarists at my school would sneak into the school music practice rooms to play and teach each other songs and riffs on rainy lunchtimes. We sneaked because we believed (correctly or incorrectly) that we were not entitled to use those practice rooms as they were reserved for use by 'musos', students who wanted to seriously practice classical music, and we were trying to play songs by Nirvana, The Offspring, Green Day, Radiohead. In our hunt for rooms to sneak into we would pause outside each practice room door for a few seconds to try to figure out if a muso student and/or a music teacher was inside. Sometimes we opened the door to find that we had misinterpreted silence and then we would apologise and move on; other times we opened the door immediately, having heard the sound of energetically strummed powerchords from way down the corridor and knowing that it could only be one or more of our little group that has always been and always will until the end.
Turning this into a brief post and trying to think of an appropriate title for it led me back to Milan Kundera's novel Ignorance (2003), to which I was exposed when a literature PhD student presented a paper on it in 2005 or 6. Kundera reminds us that nostalgia is really a kind of pain in response to knowing two things at once: that there is something or somewhere to which you would like to return, and that return to that thing or place is impossible. I doubt that at the time I read Ignorance I had ever really felt that pain as I do now, or understood that - as Kundera notes - the return is impossible precisely because the thing or place is no longer as you remember it to have been, and in fact to some extent it was never as you now remember it.
Wednesday 14 October 2009
Monday 21 September 2009
When was the last time you wore one of these?
Today, Monday, I boarded an overground train heading into central London at noon. At that time on a weekday, bicycles are permitted on these trains as far as Finsbury Park. I had mine with me, so I stood near the doors with it rather than sit down on a seat. Looking around, my eyes settled on a tall seated black man. He had a big beard and a flat cap on. He caught my eye and I looked away.
A few stations later he came and stood next to me. I became aware of his outfit. He wore a knee-length black coat with large lapels, a white linen shirt, dark trousers and pointy leather boots that looked like they had walked many miles. I stared at them. Then I noticed he was carrying a thick wooden staff with two short, celtic-like curls of silvery metal wrapped round it, one at knee-height and one at the top, just above waist-height.
My eyes were dragged up to meet his when he asked, "When was the last time you wore one of these?" In his hand he was holding a tie. "A while," I said. "What's your profession?" he asked. "I'm a professional student," I said. "And when you finish that, will you go into a profession which requires you to wear a tie?" I answered that I wasn't sure but it was a definite possibility. "I may have to shave off my beard too," I added. He suggested that a tie is so-called because it ties you to your desk, to the supermarket you visit after work, and then to your home, and then back to your desk again in the morning. I replied that a tie isn't a tie, it's a noose. He smiled at that. "What's your profession?" I asked. "I'm a designer," he said. "I don't wear ties. I just found this one." I asked him the last time he wore a tie. "A while," he said.
"Do you read books?" he asked suddenly. I said yes. "Go into Waterstones and have a look at the Koran sometime," he said. "See what all the fuss is about. Don't rely on what the people tell you."
It suddenly occurred to me that when he looked at me he wasn't seeing a fellow member of a counterculture. He was looking at a white youth who he had caught in the act of staring, and had assumed, correctly, that the thought "black, bearded, possibly muslim...terrorist?" had gone through the mind of that youth.
The next station was mine. I got off the train. "Go safely," he said.
A few stations later he came and stood next to me. I became aware of his outfit. He wore a knee-length black coat with large lapels, a white linen shirt, dark trousers and pointy leather boots that looked like they had walked many miles. I stared at them. Then I noticed he was carrying a thick wooden staff with two short, celtic-like curls of silvery metal wrapped round it, one at knee-height and one at the top, just above waist-height.
My eyes were dragged up to meet his when he asked, "When was the last time you wore one of these?" In his hand he was holding a tie. "A while," I said. "What's your profession?" he asked. "I'm a professional student," I said. "And when you finish that, will you go into a profession which requires you to wear a tie?" I answered that I wasn't sure but it was a definite possibility. "I may have to shave off my beard too," I added. He suggested that a tie is so-called because it ties you to your desk, to the supermarket you visit after work, and then to your home, and then back to your desk again in the morning. I replied that a tie isn't a tie, it's a noose. He smiled at that. "What's your profession?" I asked. "I'm a designer," he said. "I don't wear ties. I just found this one." I asked him the last time he wore a tie. "A while," he said.
"Do you read books?" he asked suddenly. I said yes. "Go into Waterstones and have a look at the Koran sometime," he said. "See what all the fuss is about. Don't rely on what the people tell you."
It suddenly occurred to me that when he looked at me he wasn't seeing a fellow member of a counterculture. He was looking at a white youth who he had caught in the act of staring, and had assumed, correctly, that the thought "black, bearded, possibly muslim...terrorist?" had gone through the mind of that youth.
The next station was mine. I got off the train. "Go safely," he said.
Tuesday 4 August 2009
The Visitor
Another rainy day KPA coffee. This time accompanied by The Times. One article on changing immigration policy (1) prompted me to write this blog entry. Thomas McCarthy's film The Visitor (2007) was also an inspiration. I think anyone who has ever commented on immigration policy should watch this film.
The last time I flew from Stansted was with my university windsurfing club at the end of the hot summer of 2004. We were off to Vassiliki on the Greek island of Lekada for a week of sleeping-in, afternoon windsurfing, and nights of ouzo-fuelled dancing. I reached the airport late at night before the trains stopped running, and then snoozed on the floor and chatted vaguely about alcohol and existentialism with the other windsurfers until check-in opened for our early morning flight.
It is presumably for the benefit of the large numbers of travellers taking cheap early morning flights that Stansted dims the lights at night. Yet even though I realised this as I flew into Stansted at midnight a few days ago, I still felt uneasy about the semi-darkness surrounding my fellow passengers and I as we waited to get through immigration. Although we were organised into queues, looking around it was hard to see gaps between the queues, giving the impression of a vast and chaotic crowd of mostly silent and half-asleep people. Ahead of us were the immigration desks, each of them eerily lit by a single white light that focused on the place where a passport would be examined, leaving the immigration officer and the immigrant in semi-darkness. Above us, a vast sign: UK Border. I had a sudden sense that although my feet were on the ground, I was not in Britain yet; I was still outside.
When I reached the immigration desk, the officer scanned my passport and asked, "Where are you travelling from?" I had slept on the flight, and was not fully awake. I opened my mouth but my brain did not immediately engage. Eventually I was able to blurt out "Berlin". The officer smiled sympathetically. "It's that time of night, isn't it." She returned my passport and I crossed the border.
Thinking back to this moment, I recall an article in The Guardian a couple of months ago that described the working life of an immigration officer at Heathrow (2). What had particularly struck me about the article was the description of the psychology involved in 'trying to weed out suspicious passengers'. I wonder how much difference it would make if I was not a white man with a British passport unable to answer the question "Where are you travelling from?" but was instead an Asian woman with a non-British passport. Would I find myself faced with further questions, for example the question "Are you coming into the UK to marry an English man?" which a Korean friend on a student visa faced recently.
I stumbled out of the airport and found the bus that would take me to the car park where my car was parked. On the bus I overheard an irritated English man comparing what he had just experienced with the UK Border Agency with what he had experienced at his holiday destination. "In Rome they just looked at the passport and waved us through. Why do they need to ask us here where we're coming from? When they scan the passport they'll know, won't they?"
I think I need to educate myself further about the new UK Border Agency, formed in April 2008 (3). The UK border is changing rapidly; the border is not only becoming harder to cross but - as today's Times article suggests - is imposing new and vague restrictions on those who do cross it. In the process, we are further institutionalising a divide in society between citizens with full rights and those who have far fewer rights because they are not citizens. We may disagree about whether this division is just, and if it is just, then how it should be managed. One - of many - groups that has strong views and a lot of information on these questions is No Borders (4). Maybe some of us would take different positions on these questions if we knew more about what is going on at our borders today, and if we were able to see that those who are trying to enter our country are humans, just like us. Thomas McCarthy's film is powerful precisely because it reminds us of this.
References:
1. Ford, Richard (2009) "Anti-war migrants could damage citizenship hopes", The Times, August 4, 2009 http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article6737429.ece
2. Snowdon, Graham (2009) "Stamp Duty", The Guardian, June 27, 2009 http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/2009/jun/27/immigration-officer-heathrow
3. UK Border Agency website, http://www.bia.homeoffice.gov.uk/aboutus/
4. No Borders website, http://www.noborders.org.uk/
The last time I flew from Stansted was with my university windsurfing club at the end of the hot summer of 2004. We were off to Vassiliki on the Greek island of Lekada for a week of sleeping-in, afternoon windsurfing, and nights of ouzo-fuelled dancing. I reached the airport late at night before the trains stopped running, and then snoozed on the floor and chatted vaguely about alcohol and existentialism with the other windsurfers until check-in opened for our early morning flight.
It is presumably for the benefit of the large numbers of travellers taking cheap early morning flights that Stansted dims the lights at night. Yet even though I realised this as I flew into Stansted at midnight a few days ago, I still felt uneasy about the semi-darkness surrounding my fellow passengers and I as we waited to get through immigration. Although we were organised into queues, looking around it was hard to see gaps between the queues, giving the impression of a vast and chaotic crowd of mostly silent and half-asleep people. Ahead of us were the immigration desks, each of them eerily lit by a single white light that focused on the place where a passport would be examined, leaving the immigration officer and the immigrant in semi-darkness. Above us, a vast sign: UK Border. I had a sudden sense that although my feet were on the ground, I was not in Britain yet; I was still outside.
When I reached the immigration desk, the officer scanned my passport and asked, "Where are you travelling from?" I had slept on the flight, and was not fully awake. I opened my mouth but my brain did not immediately engage. Eventually I was able to blurt out "Berlin". The officer smiled sympathetically. "It's that time of night, isn't it." She returned my passport and I crossed the border.
Thinking back to this moment, I recall an article in The Guardian a couple of months ago that described the working life of an immigration officer at Heathrow (2). What had particularly struck me about the article was the description of the psychology involved in 'trying to weed out suspicious passengers'. I wonder how much difference it would make if I was not a white man with a British passport unable to answer the question "Where are you travelling from?" but was instead an Asian woman with a non-British passport. Would I find myself faced with further questions, for example the question "Are you coming into the UK to marry an English man?" which a Korean friend on a student visa faced recently.
I stumbled out of the airport and found the bus that would take me to the car park where my car was parked. On the bus I overheard an irritated English man comparing what he had just experienced with the UK Border Agency with what he had experienced at his holiday destination. "In Rome they just looked at the passport and waved us through. Why do they need to ask us here where we're coming from? When they scan the passport they'll know, won't they?"
I think I need to educate myself further about the new UK Border Agency, formed in April 2008 (3). The UK border is changing rapidly; the border is not only becoming harder to cross but - as today's Times article suggests - is imposing new and vague restrictions on those who do cross it. In the process, we are further institutionalising a divide in society between citizens with full rights and those who have far fewer rights because they are not citizens. We may disagree about whether this division is just, and if it is just, then how it should be managed. One - of many - groups that has strong views and a lot of information on these questions is No Borders (4). Maybe some of us would take different positions on these questions if we knew more about what is going on at our borders today, and if we were able to see that those who are trying to enter our country are humans, just like us. Thomas McCarthy's film is powerful precisely because it reminds us of this.
References:
1. Ford, Richard (2009) "Anti-war migrants could damage citizenship hopes", The Times, August 4, 2009 http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/politics/article6737429.ece
2. Snowdon, Graham (2009) "Stamp Duty", The Guardian, June 27, 2009 http://www.guardian.co.uk/money/2009/jun/27/immigration-officer-heathrow
3. UK Border Agency website, http://www.bia.homeoffice.gov.uk/aboutus/
4. No Borders website, http://www.noborders.org.uk/
Monday 20 July 2009
CCR vs. CSS?
This is a tough one. Who wins? Depends on context, I reckon. In Bert's car with the speakers cranked up to some level below maximum, it's got to be CCR, and preferably Suzie Q at that. Standing at the bus stop opposite the KPA (1) waiting for the nightbus and listening to the music from the union with my arms round my girlfriend and a silly hat on - it's going to be CSS every time. Let's make love and listen death from above.
So really it depends on your mode of transportation. Soon I will become owner of my mum's car (2). Then I'll presumably need to find a new acronym.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-read-news-todaykpa-expose.html
2. Mambotango (2009) "The market for lemons", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog,
http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/market-for-lemons.html
So really it depends on your mode of transportation. Soon I will become owner of my mum's car (2). Then I'll presumably need to find a new acronym.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-read-news-todaykpa-expose.html
2. Mambotango (2009) "The market for lemons", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog,
http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009/06/market-for-lemons.html
Wednesday 8 July 2009
shuffle
This post is about being my own boss.
I have good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. Last week was good, very productive, very focused, ordered, structured, etc. But I kept working at that demonic pace until Sunday night and then cracked; lost the rhythm, the beat of the work and, as a result, self-confidence. Since then I've been struggling to get back into that beat or to find a new one. Yesterday I thought I might be finding a new one but this morning it was gone again and I struggled to get out of the house and onto my bike. When I finally did, my MP3 player assisted with the final, Sisyphean hill one has to go up before Keele (the one where people at the top throw rocks down on you as you climb (1)). Shuffle: Jeff Buckley "Everybody Here Wants You", Sublime "KRS-One", Son House "Grinning In Your Face", Gym Class Heroes "7 Weeks". So good I had to blog it. Now I have to try to crack the whip over my own head; but at least I have my teachers (the first three of these tracks) to give me some perspective on what I'm doing, and my fieldwork assistant/soundtrack ("7 Weeks") as a reminder of exactly why we did it to begin with.
References:
1. Dick, Philip K. (1982) Blade Runner: Do androids dream of electric sheep? New York: Ballantine
I have good days and bad days, good weeks and bad weeks. Last week was good, very productive, very focused, ordered, structured, etc. But I kept working at that demonic pace until Sunday night and then cracked; lost the rhythm, the beat of the work and, as a result, self-confidence. Since then I've been struggling to get back into that beat or to find a new one. Yesterday I thought I might be finding a new one but this morning it was gone again and I struggled to get out of the house and onto my bike. When I finally did, my MP3 player assisted with the final, Sisyphean hill one has to go up before Keele (the one where people at the top throw rocks down on you as you climb (1)). Shuffle: Jeff Buckley "Everybody Here Wants You", Sublime "KRS-One", Son House "Grinning In Your Face", Gym Class Heroes "7 Weeks". So good I had to blog it. Now I have to try to crack the whip over my own head; but at least I have my teachers (the first three of these tracks) to give me some perspective on what I'm doing, and my fieldwork assistant/soundtrack ("7 Weeks") as a reminder of exactly why we did it to begin with.
References:
1. Dick, Philip K. (1982) Blade Runner: Do androids dream of electric sheep? New York: Ballantine
Friday 3 July 2009
the trenches of the everyday
Grim title I know, and totally unfitting for what I am about to pronounce: I love Keele. It has taken a while, but today I suddenly have those butterflies in my stomach that are the surest sign of such things.
Why? Well you can never fully answer that question when it comes to love, but the events that immediately preceded the butterflies suggest some elements that might fit into the answer, and once again these events took place in the KPA, as all the best things (procrastination, dancing, drinking, footsie, you name it) do (1). I had just finished 'saving the day' for another defenceless civilian (in this case my sister; yesterday it was my girlfriend; what can I say, I am superfantastisch) and was celebrating with a cup of Earl Grey (trying to stay off the coffee, not because of the earlier top-up exposé (1) but because I've already had 5 cups today and I'm steaming). (I'm now going to cut down on the bracketed asides, as they are cluttering up the text of this blog post).
So there I was with my Earl Grey and the newspaper. I stood outside to enjoy the post-rain air. The barman came out for a smoke and we chatted about my girlfriend, the fat cats who live next to the KPA, and two kids fighting on the bus. I finished my tea and returned to my work. And that's when I got the butterflies, because I suddenly realised that I have been working at Keele for barely 2 months and already it feels like home and as if I am part of the circuit/scene, whereas in my own college of the University of London (which I intend to anonymise in this blog) this has never happened, even though many of our bar staff were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric... in fact I think it never happened partly because they were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric and although I was quite definitely eccentric (or at least I imagine myself to be), I was not pretty damn hip or cool.
Ok, so why does this blog post have this stupid title? Because I am thinking today about vanguardism, Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatistas, and approaches to struggle (2). Gramsci's notion of the 'war of position', a kind of 'cultural trench warfare', the long struggle for, among other things, hearts and minds (3), and the anarchist notion of 'Temporary Autonomous Zones' (4) are what I have in mind when I think of my interactions with the barman as a kind of political act, as a creative performance of the type of spaces that might belong to a world 'to come' (5), a type of world that we might hope to create. Simply put, these kind of interactions don't seem to happen as much in central London, where bar staff, waiters, shop assistants are more likely to be in a hurry to serve another customer, are less likely to have 'regulars', are less likely to feel a tie to the place they work or the locality within which that place is located. Right? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it's an idea I have, and an element in a rationale for a new love.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html
2. Subcomandante Marcos (2003) "I shit on all the revolutionary vanguards of this planet", a communiqué from the EZLN to ETA, http://flag.blackened.net/revolt/mexico/ezln/2003/marcos/etaJAN.html
3. Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from the prison notebooks of Antonio Gramsci edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence & Wishart
4. Day, Richard J.F. (2005) Gramsci is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements London: Pluto Press
5. Patton, Paul (2007) “Derrida, Politics and Democracy to Come” Philosophy Compass 2/6: 766-80), available online
Why? Well you can never fully answer that question when it comes to love, but the events that immediately preceded the butterflies suggest some elements that might fit into the answer, and once again these events took place in the KPA, as all the best things (procrastination, dancing, drinking, footsie, you name it) do (1). I had just finished 'saving the day' for another defenceless civilian (in this case my sister; yesterday it was my girlfriend; what can I say, I am superfantastisch) and was celebrating with a cup of Earl Grey (trying to stay off the coffee, not because of the earlier top-up exposé (1) but because I've already had 5 cups today and I'm steaming). (I'm now going to cut down on the bracketed asides, as they are cluttering up the text of this blog post).
So there I was with my Earl Grey and the newspaper. I stood outside to enjoy the post-rain air. The barman came out for a smoke and we chatted about my girlfriend, the fat cats who live next to the KPA, and two kids fighting on the bus. I finished my tea and returned to my work. And that's when I got the butterflies, because I suddenly realised that I have been working at Keele for barely 2 months and already it feels like home and as if I am part of the circuit/scene, whereas in my own college of the University of London (which I intend to anonymise in this blog) this has never happened, even though many of our bar staff were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric... in fact I think it never happened partly because they were pretty damn hip, cool and eccentric and although I was quite definitely eccentric (or at least I imagine myself to be), I was not pretty damn hip or cool.
Ok, so why does this blog post have this stupid title? Because I am thinking today about vanguardism, Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatistas, and approaches to struggle (2). Gramsci's notion of the 'war of position', a kind of 'cultural trench warfare', the long struggle for, among other things, hearts and minds (3), and the anarchist notion of 'Temporary Autonomous Zones' (4) are what I have in mind when I think of my interactions with the barman as a kind of political act, as a creative performance of the type of spaces that might belong to a world 'to come' (5), a type of world that we might hope to create. Simply put, these kind of interactions don't seem to happen as much in central London, where bar staff, waiters, shop assistants are more likely to be in a hurry to serve another customer, are less likely to have 'regulars', are less likely to feel a tie to the place they work or the locality within which that place is located. Right? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Anyway it's an idea I have, and an element in a rationale for a new love.
References:
1. Mambotango (2009) "I read the news today...", a blog entry in the Never Settle blog, http://mambotangoneversettle.blogspot.com/2009_06_01_archive.html
2. Subcomandante Marcos (2003) "I shit on all the revolutionary vanguards of this planet", a communiqué from the EZLN to ETA, http://flag.blackened.net/revolt/mexico/ezln/2003/marcos/etaJAN.html
3. Gramsci, Antonio (1971) Selections from the prison notebooks of Antonio Gramsci edited and translated by Quintin Hoare and Geoffrey Nowell Smith. London: Lawrence & Wishart
4. Day, Richard J.F. (2005) Gramsci is Dead: Anarchist Currents in the Newest Social Movements London: Pluto Press
5. Patton, Paul (2007) “Derrida, Politics and Democracy to Come” Philosophy Compass 2/6: 766-80), available online
Thursday 2 July 2009
cheese on a bike! #1
I have been a keen cyclist for several years now. 'Keen' doesn't quite catch the fullness of the cycling part of my identity, however; I have in the past toyed with the titles of 'militant cyclist' and 'cycleterrorist', which although too nasty to actually adopt, do capture a larger part of how I look at it. I used to be an advocate of Critical Mass (1); now I am not so sure about it, partly agreeing with my friend Ern who has recently decided never to do another Mass "because there are too many nutters" eager to be confrontational with motorists and the police. The fact is, I do often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; it's just that I don't want to get pulled into whatever battle the nutters within the Critical Mass decide to launch us all into (and I have this concern about the Direct Action Movement as a whole, unfortunately).
This was the reason I decided to begin a series of blog posts dedicated to explaining why I often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; the immediate cause of me initiating this series were a couple of events. Yesterday I cycled home from university in the sweltering heat. As I pulled up at a set of traffic lights (halfway along the stretch of the A525 known as Pooldam), a blue hatchback pulled up alongside me with the windows wound down. A man in the backseat pointed a foghorn at me and blasted me with the sound. Today I cycled to university from home, and as I entered the university car park, passed a minibus from which a crowd of schoolkids were pouring. One girl shouted "Cheese on a bike!"
People frequently feel the urge to shout at me as I cycle past, whether they are on foot or in a car. I don't know why, and I don't really care, even though the inexplicability of it does irritate me. I'm just trying to do my thing; I'm not harming or threatening you by doing so. Nothing more to say.
References:
1. Critical Mass describes itself as an "informal and anarchic celebration and promotion of cycling" http://www.criticalmasslondon.org.uk/main.html
This was the reason I decided to begin a series of blog posts dedicated to explaining why I often feel that to be a cyclist on today's roads is to be at war; the immediate cause of me initiating this series were a couple of events. Yesterday I cycled home from university in the sweltering heat. As I pulled up at a set of traffic lights (halfway along the stretch of the A525 known as Pooldam), a blue hatchback pulled up alongside me with the windows wound down. A man in the backseat pointed a foghorn at me and blasted me with the sound. Today I cycled to university from home, and as I entered the university car park, passed a minibus from which a crowd of schoolkids were pouring. One girl shouted "Cheese on a bike!"
People frequently feel the urge to shout at me as I cycle past, whether they are on foot or in a car. I don't know why, and I don't really care, even though the inexplicability of it does irritate me. I'm just trying to do my thing; I'm not harming or threatening you by doing so. Nothing more to say.
References:
1. Critical Mass describes itself as an "informal and anarchic celebration and promotion of cycling" http://www.criticalmasslondon.org.uk/main.html
Monday 22 June 2009
Thursday 18 June 2009
I read the news today...
...I don't know why I bothered. I wonder why anyone reads the news, in fact. Do people find themselves thinking "Hang on, I'm far too cheerful and optimistic right now, I'd better pick up a newspaper and get myself into a less naive frame of mind about life and the world"? If not, then why do they pick up the newspaper?
Two articles in particular caught my eye.
The first was about British interrogation policy post-9/11. It seems that British intelligence officers were 'told they were not under any obligation to intervene to prevent detainees [of Britain's allies] from being mistreated. "Given that they are not within our custody or control, the law does not require you to intervene to prevent this," the policy said.' The article went on to say that according to 'Philippe Sands QC, one of the world's leading experts in the field', this is a breach of international human rights law 'because it takes no account of Britain's obligations to avoid complicity in torture under the UN convention against torture. Despite this, the secret policy went on to underpin British intelligence's relationships with a number of foreign intelligence agencies which had become the UK's allies in the "war against terror"' (for the article reference see reference 1 below).
Are there two sides to this? I don't think so. Even a child would understand this - as we are taught at school, if you are a witness to bullying in the playground and don't speak out about it, then you are complicit in that bullying. And we know which country the bully is in this case. This revelation is, of course, further evidence (if such evidence were needed) of our ex-Prime Minister's poodle-like relationship to the US, and evidence of the fact that the US rather than the UN calls the shots in today's world.
Of course, I should be careful about writing such things, because the second article I read was about the 'outting' of anonymous bloggers (2). This was particularly concerning for me, as at the very moment I was reading the article I was thinking about an extremely controversial piece of highly secret information that I felt the need to tell the world about through the highly subversive form of my blog. Undaunted, I resolved to spill the beans anyway. This piece of highly secret information is as follows.
First, some context. As I read these articles in the print edition of the Guardian I was wandering in the KPA (for those of you who don't know about this venerable acronym, the Keele Postgraduate Association bar at Keele University) drinking a mid-morning cup of procrastination (3). Moments before I picked up the paper, the following exchange had taken place. I had entered the bar, and asked the barman for a small coffee. I then asked him something which has been on my mind for some time now: "Do you get top-ups with both the 'small coffee' and the 'large coffee'?"
His reply: "Yes, but you only get one top-up with the large coffee, whereas you get two for a small coffee. You're asking why anyone would go for a large coffee, aren't you."
"Yes. Surely you get more coffee in 3 small coffees than in 2 large?"
At this point his colleague entered the fray with the following attempt at crushing critical thinking: "I don't think so."
I responded: "There's only one way to find out: a test."
The test was conducted using a small coffee cup, a large coffee cup, two glass jugs, and water. It was discovered that 2 large coffees does indeed have a larger volume than 3 small coffees.
That is not my expose (I do of course mean expose-ay, as in, the past participle of the French word exposer that we have adopted into the English language, hence the italics - there is an accent missing on the final 'e' which I can't seem to find in this blogging program). The exposé (I copy-pasted the symbol from another website - easy) is that the price of a large coffee is £1.20 and the price of a small is £1 - but the difference in volume between the large and small coffees in no way equates to this difference in price.
I expressed this view to the barman, who was unconvinced (presumably his job was on the line, although he did point out that "we don't make the rules, we just follow them"). I knew he would not let the general public in on this terrible secret and that that onerous task would fall to me. So here it is, in all its brutal, repugnant glory.
I now await my 'outting' as a seditious blogger by The Times. It may be the end of my career (probably not, as I don't have one yet) but I still believe I was right to speak out. After all, we know (and remember, and understand the significance of, in today's surveillance state/society of control) Pastor Martin Niemoller's poem:
First they came for the Jews,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me,
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
References:
1. Cobain, Ian (2009) "Tony Blair knew of secret policy on terror interrogations" The Guardian Thursday 18 June http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2009/jun/18/tony-blair-secret-torture-policy
2. de Jour, Belle (2009) "A dangerous precedent: The ruthless unmasking of the blogger NightJack can only discourage others from speaking out" The Guardian Thursday 18 June http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jun/17/nightjack-blogging-anonymous-whistleblowing
3. Parton, Dolly (1980) "9 to 5" 9 to 5 and Odd Jobs Nashville: RCA
Two articles in particular caught my eye.
The first was about British interrogation policy post-9/11. It seems that British intelligence officers were 'told they were not under any obligation to intervene to prevent detainees [of Britain's allies] from being mistreated. "Given that they are not within our custody or control, the law does not require you to intervene to prevent this," the policy said.' The article went on to say that according to 'Philippe Sands QC, one of the world's leading experts in the field', this is a breach of international human rights law 'because it takes no account of Britain's obligations to avoid complicity in torture under the UN convention against torture. Despite this, the secret policy went on to underpin British intelligence's relationships with a number of foreign intelligence agencies which had become the UK's allies in the "war against terror"' (for the article reference see reference 1 below).
Are there two sides to this? I don't think so. Even a child would understand this - as we are taught at school, if you are a witness to bullying in the playground and don't speak out about it, then you are complicit in that bullying. And we know which country the bully is in this case. This revelation is, of course, further evidence (if such evidence were needed) of our ex-Prime Minister's poodle-like relationship to the US, and evidence of the fact that the US rather than the UN calls the shots in today's world.
Of course, I should be careful about writing such things, because the second article I read was about the 'outting' of anonymous bloggers (2). This was particularly concerning for me, as at the very moment I was reading the article I was thinking about an extremely controversial piece of highly secret information that I felt the need to tell the world about through the highly subversive form of my blog. Undaunted, I resolved to spill the beans anyway. This piece of highly secret information is as follows.
First, some context. As I read these articles in the print edition of the Guardian I was wandering in the KPA (for those of you who don't know about this venerable acronym, the Keele Postgraduate Association bar at Keele University) drinking a mid-morning cup of procrastination (3). Moments before I picked up the paper, the following exchange had taken place. I had entered the bar, and asked the barman for a small coffee. I then asked him something which has been on my mind for some time now: "Do you get top-ups with both the 'small coffee' and the 'large coffee'?"
His reply: "Yes, but you only get one top-up with the large coffee, whereas you get two for a small coffee. You're asking why anyone would go for a large coffee, aren't you."
"Yes. Surely you get more coffee in 3 small coffees than in 2 large?"
At this point his colleague entered the fray with the following attempt at crushing critical thinking: "I don't think so."
I responded: "There's only one way to find out: a test."
The test was conducted using a small coffee cup, a large coffee cup, two glass jugs, and water. It was discovered that 2 large coffees does indeed have a larger volume than 3 small coffees.
That is not my expose (I do of course mean expose-ay, as in, the past participle of the French word exposer that we have adopted into the English language, hence the italics - there is an accent missing on the final 'e' which I can't seem to find in this blogging program). The exposé (I copy-pasted the symbol from another website - easy) is that the price of a large coffee is £1.20 and the price of a small is £1 - but the difference in volume between the large and small coffees in no way equates to this difference in price.
I expressed this view to the barman, who was unconvinced (presumably his job was on the line, although he did point out that "we don't make the rules, we just follow them"). I knew he would not let the general public in on this terrible secret and that that onerous task would fall to me. So here it is, in all its brutal, repugnant glory.
I now await my 'outting' as a seditious blogger by The Times. It may be the end of my career (probably not, as I don't have one yet) but I still believe I was right to speak out. After all, we know (and remember, and understand the significance of, in today's surveillance state/society of control) Pastor Martin Niemoller's poem:
First they came for the Jews,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists,
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me,
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.
References:
1. Cobain, Ian (2009) "Tony Blair knew of secret policy on terror interrogations" The Guardian Thursday 18 June http://www.guardian.co.uk/politics/2009/jun/18/tony-blair-secret-torture-policy
2. de Jour, Belle (2009) "A dangerous precedent: The ruthless unmasking of the blogger NightJack can only discourage others from speaking out" The Guardian Thursday 18 June http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2009/jun/17/nightjack-blogging-anonymous-whistleblowing
3. Parton, Dolly (1980) "9 to 5" 9 to 5 and Odd Jobs Nashville: RCA
Tuesday 16 June 2009
The market for lemons
My girlfriend wants to buy a second-hand car. I think it's a good idea. If and when we do so, it will be the first car that either of us will have owned. Neither of us is a car expert; we are the type whose normal conversations tend to drift onto the politics of the everyday rather than the art of motorcycle maintenance, so to speak (to mix pop culture, academic references, and figures of speech). So how will we be able to tell a good car from a lemon?
Akerlof (1970) and a great many economists since - including one of my first year seminar tutors for undergraduate economics - would doubtless warn us of a great many potential hazards in the endeavour on which we are about to embark.
Fortunately, one of the assumptions behind Akerlof's work does not obtain. My girlfriend is not homo economicus. She's an Indian. She is not going to buy her car from a used-car salesperson. She is going to call one of her Indian friends in the UK, who will perhaps call some other Indians, and put her in touch with an Indian who wants to sell a car. The seller will be a known quantity.
My girlfriend is not stupid; this course of action is obvious to her. Who would do otherwise? In this context, the market is for lemons.
References:
Akerlof, George A. (1970) "The market for 'lemons': quality uncertainty and the market mechanism" Quarterly Journal of Economics 84 (3) 488-500
Akerlof (1970) and a great many economists since - including one of my first year seminar tutors for undergraduate economics - would doubtless warn us of a great many potential hazards in the endeavour on which we are about to embark.
Fortunately, one of the assumptions behind Akerlof's work does not obtain. My girlfriend is not homo economicus. She's an Indian. She is not going to buy her car from a used-car salesperson. She is going to call one of her Indian friends in the UK, who will perhaps call some other Indians, and put her in touch with an Indian who wants to sell a car. The seller will be a known quantity.
My girlfriend is not stupid; this course of action is obvious to her. Who would do otherwise? In this context, the market is for lemons.
References:
Akerlof, George A. (1970) "The market for 'lemons': quality uncertainty and the market mechanism" Quarterly Journal of Economics 84 (3) 488-500
Monday 15 June 2009
Decaffeinated cocktails
I attend a training workshop aimed at teaching graduate students to teach. In one of the afternoon tea breaks, I notice one of my fellow graduate students put two teabags in a cup and fill it with boiling water. One tea bag is peppermint; the other is camomile. I congratulate her; it never occurred to me to mix teas in this way. "Since submitting my thesis I have been trying to decaffeinate," she explains.
The scene struck me as possibly suitable subject matter for Piled Higher and Deeper (http://www.phdcomics.com/). But then, I always thought that the trouble with making cartoons about PhD students is that most outsiders would never believe they are in any way linked with reality. Would anyone believe, for instance, that one of my post-fieldwork anthropologist friends actually said she had started to feel "messianic" towards the community of people with whom she did her fieldwork?
The scene struck me as possibly suitable subject matter for Piled Higher and Deeper (http://www.phdcomics.com/). But then, I always thought that the trouble with making cartoons about PhD students is that most outsiders would never believe they are in any way linked with reality. Would anyone believe, for instance, that one of my post-fieldwork anthropologist friends actually said she had started to feel "messianic" towards the community of people with whom she did her fieldwork?
Friday 12 June 2009
"So you're a helmet-locker, are you?"
This is what my friend Ern says as I bend over my bicycle with my D-lock, to lock it to the railings outside the pub.
"At least you lock the helmet on the road-side of the railings," he observes. "That makes it harder for dogs to piss in it.
"Cyclists I have spoken to are divided on this. Obviously you don't want to carry your helmet round with you the whole time. The trouble is, if you lock it up with your bike, it is the perfect height to provide a cup for the dog's piss - and it is incredibly attractive to the dog because it's stinking of your sweat."
I pick up the helmet and carry it into the pub with me, a helmet-locker no longer.
"At least you lock the helmet on the road-side of the railings," he observes. "That makes it harder for dogs to piss in it.
"Cyclists I have spoken to are divided on this. Obviously you don't want to carry your helmet round with you the whole time. The trouble is, if you lock it up with your bike, it is the perfect height to provide a cup for the dog's piss - and it is incredibly attractive to the dog because it's stinking of your sweat."
I pick up the helmet and carry it into the pub with me, a helmet-locker no longer.
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