They're all socilaists now

 

Ray is spot on in saying that it is not just  Middle England that is sinking  below flood waters of biblical proportions. Having grown up in Staines (before it was upon Thames) we lived in a house that was pretty close to the river and I remember nearby  flooding even back in the 70s. The truth is that ordinary working families are usually in the majority in every part of the country - and they are they ones who inevitably suffer most from any sort of setback - let alone the devastating floods we are seeing.

So I don't take any relish in seeing the suffering of people in areas that are undeniably considerably better off than us in  the inner cities. 

But I am enjoying the irony  of the Mail-reading classes rallying to the cause of 'something must be done'. They are coming out with some prettysocialist stuff; -rally around communities, organise for need not profit - and even send in the army as a civil defence force.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes - but maybe we can say there are no Tories in natural disasters.

Low tech is good tech

I always felt that the Luddites had a bad press. Naturally - after all I ride a Harley. 

But seriously, the Luddites weren't just fighting the introduction of new technology (and a horrific new factory system) simply because it was new - but because they saw that  the changes in their industry were going to make machines more important than people. But this isn't a post about radical movements in the nineteenth century - it's about the triumph of unnecessary gadgetry over common sense on modern motorcycles. 

One of my bikes has been running rough for some time. Spitting, spluttering and back-firing even more frequently that Harleys are prone to do. Then I started getting scary looking warning lights flashing at me for no apparent reason. 

So I replaced switches, checked and re-checked everything. Took it to a mate with a bike shop who did much the same. All to no avail. Then riding home the other day it finally spluttered and died - and I couldn't start it again.

Resisting the urge to launch a Basil Fawlty-like assault on the all too-inanimate object - I tried to work logically through the possibilities: The engine was turning over and there was a spark - so the electrics seemed ok. Next I checked the fuel. I pulled off the hose from the fuel tap (or 'pet-cock' as the yanks call it) and sure enough, petrol splashed everywhere. So all the ingredients for a running engine seemed to be in place.

Then I saw that a much smaller rubber tube going into the fuel tap looked perished and split. I remembered that this must be the vacuum line that connects to the carb and effectively  keep the petrol automatically flowing whilst the engine is running - thereby avoiding the need to turn the fuel tap on and off when you park up the bike. 

A light bulb moment: I connected everything back up and with a bit of contortionism, contrived to squeeze the little rubber tube whilst trying to start the engine - which promptly burst into life - only for it to die again as soon as I let go of the tube.

With the help of a pocket knife I trimmed-off the perished  rubber and replaced it. The bike is now running sweetly and no more scary warning lights that presumably had come on because the bike was momentarily cutting out whilst I was riding.

Weeks of worrying, replacing parts  and needlessly fucking about in the garage - all because  the manufacturer deemed it  beyond the wit of owners to manage to turn the petrol tap on and off. As we have managed to do for generations. 

Now don't even get me started on electronic instruments and diagnostic codes....

History battles.

It's been a bit of a struggle recently to keep up with the blogging. But I do have a piece in The Socialist on Michael Gove and the ideological battle over the history of the Great War. In this centenary year I suspect that there is an awful  lot more of this bollocks to come ...

Vindicated by 1984 papers.

My first reaction on hearing about the government papers released under the thirty year rule was a surprising regret that Thatcher hadn't managed to live another year.

Since 1984, the ideas that there was a political master plan to destroy the mining industry regardless of the economic viability of individual pits; that the police were being politically directed;  or that there were plans to use emergency powers to bring in the army, have all been depicted as the product of left wing conspiro-loons. In fact the papers reveal that these things were all true. Scargill and the NUM were right - and Thatcher and the Tories lied.

And then only a few weeks ago we saw some of Thatcher's surviving colleagues jumping on the Mandela bandwagon and claiming that she had tried to use her influence to secure his release. But we now know the minutes of her meeting at Chequers with PW Botha reveal that no such conversations ever took place.

Of course none of these revelations will make any impression on the unreconstructed Thatcherites. But it is all too easy for those of us who lived and campaigned through the years to underestimate the paradigm shift that has shaped a generation of Thatcher's children. 

We saw a taste of this last year with her (almost) state funeral and her elevation 'above politics' into an iconic statesman-like  figure. Let's hope now that  just a few of those Thatcher's children have their eyes opened by these revelations and see her, and the next generation who defend her, for what they are - vicious class warriors without scruples.

Henry Hyndman and Hampstead

A long traditional Boxing Day walk yesterday taking in part of  the 'Northern Heights' that winds it way across my bit of Northern London - from Alexandra Park to Hampstead Village and back.

This western side of Haringey couldn't be more different from Tottenham - and the walk was rather like taking a cross section through the underbelly of the chattering classes. Barbours, Hunter wellies, those South American hats with the ear flaps,  and all-terrain baby buggies were out in abundance.  The pub at the end of the walk was full of them.  Opposite the pub a blue-plaque on an imposing Victorian mini-mansion caught my geeky eye.  

Here lived Henry Hyndman, founder of the first 'Marxist' organisation in Britain. Also sometime Tory toff kicked out of the Liberal Party, ego-maniac and control freak. He managed to piss off Marx when he wrote a crude introduction to Marxist ideas without mentioning Marx at all. But most significantly he shattered his own organisation and drove out the best elements like William Morris and Eleanor Marx. Amongst other things, he did so by making some seriously fucked-up political decisions including taking money from the Tory party in return for splitting the Liberal vote, and supporting Britain's involvement in the Great War. His final political incarnation was in an organisation with the unfortunate name of the National Socialist Party.

In effect he began the phenomenon of ruling class interlopers screwing up the labour movement - a torch that was picked up most effectively in recent times by Tony Blair. And he couldn't have found a more fitting place to be commemorated than Hampstead Village.

Make room in Tottenham

I've been living here for over 25years  - and watched as Tottenham became left behind whilst so many of the surrounding areas have become gentrified. 

And this isn't a blog about house prices. I don't care about that because I believe that a house is somewhere to live and be comfortable, not a financial investment. But I do care that over these years Tottenham has become ghetto-ised rather than gentrified. A downward spiral of smothering low aspirations and low opportunities in every respect - not just in terms of employment but also in political self-belief.

In the past couple of years things have started to change. Not without controversy, the local council, the mayor's office and Spurs FC have begun a process of 'regeneration'. And let's be clear this policy is about exploiting commercial opportunities and carrying through the 'ethnic cleansing' of the ConDem's austerity program that will drive the poor out of the inner city housing with benefit caps.

It's a local joke that we turned the corner when a run-down record shop that was a favourite hang-out for local youth for years was replaced with a branch of Costa Coffee. In fact that was quite a symbolic change. Good news for the incoming young middle class - not so good for the communities that are already here and fast being left behind.

But it doesn't have to be this way. This weekend I looked in at a tiny pop-up art gallery that has been operating out of a closed down Caribbean take-away. It's the work of a local project aptly called 'Make Room'. A friend of mine who is an art teacher at a local school arranged an exhibition there for some of his pupils' work. It gave them a voice to  put some  input into the changes that are happening around them - and to think of themselves as proper artists.

Of course Tottenham needs a damn site more than community arts projects - and the thought of turning the area into the new Hoxton sends a shudder down my spine. But praise where it's due: Thank fuck for projects like this - and for the commitment of people like my friend - it shows that amidst all the corporate bullshit and political spin, there can be a genuine meaning for local people in 'regeneration'.