Taking the Wrong Line.

There’s a piece on the BBC sports website about Kadeja ‘Bunny’ Shaw, the Manchester City striker who is widely recognised as one of the best strikers in the women’s game, receiving ‘racist and misogynistic’ abuse on social media. The piece carries a statement from the Man City management expressing the usual outrage in the usual predictable terms: ‘There is no place for racism in our beautiful game and we will take all necessary steps to identify the culprits and punish them!’ and other similar platitudes. We’re seeing this kind of thing all the time now.

When are they going to realise that by taking this line they are only making matters worse because they’re letting the perpetrators know that their vomitous bile is having an effect? Social media has become huge now, and trolling comes with the territory. It’s as common as cow dung in the farmyard. So what can the players do about it?

Simple. They need to realise – and it shouldn’t take too much effort – that the women’s game has grown immensely and the top players are now basking in the limelight of celebrity. They are, by the societal perceptions of the day, highly successful people in their chosen field, whereas the perpetrators of abuse are sad little nobodies with nothing better to do. The perpetrators are also very much in the minority among the people who follow the sport.

So don’t publicise the abuse. Ignore it. And if they can’t ignore it, come off social media because it isn’t going to stop while it continues to be given big publicity and made to seem important. Elite sports stars of today are very highly paid and greatly revered by the faithful fans, so why get so upset by the mere squeaking of a flea.

The New Cold War.

Well, what a turn up. The old Cold War was a nice tidy business between, principally, the USA and the Soviet Union. The new Cold War is between the USA and Canada/Mexico. What fun. I wonder whether the fact that Canada is still part of the British Commonwealth of Nations has been given any consideration. Not that it would matter, I suppose. Maybe the French Canadians would even welcome being part of the 51^st state, although I somehow doubt it. Yes, fun indeed.

But I gather there’s a bigger concern – the effect of Trump’s Tariffs on the global macro economy. I remember it being said during Donald’s last occupation of the hot seat that, being a businessman rather than an economist, he understands micro economics but not the macro variety. I don’t suppose we need worry, though. I’m sure there are much bigger fish in the global economic sea than Mr Trump, and I expect they’ll be able to put him firmly in his place if the situation becomes too turbulent.

(Although I have been saying for many years that I can’t see big capitalism lasting forever - so did Karl Marx. It seems to me – and I admit that I know nothing about the intricacies of macro economics – that it’s all based on money, and we all know that money doesn’t exist in an objective sense. It’s all about trust and consensus, and those two pillars of support can be a little fragile when the waves of turbulence swell.)

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By the way, my computer is following my lead. It really, really doesn’t like getting up in the morning. Neither does it like being given too much work to do. I apologise to him frequently, but just in case you hear never more of me…

Imbolc Oddities.

Soon after the clock struck 12 last night…

(What’s brown and sounds like a bell? Du-u-u-ng. I like that one.)

… I remembered that it was the start of the Celtic season of Imbolc, and so I did my usual ‘white rabbits-plus-two-repetitions’ thing as I always do at the start of every month. (Imbolc is a particularly propitious time, you see, because spring is when rabbits are known to multiply. And it’s impossible to know whether superstitions have any effect or not. It’s no good saying ‘I did the white-rabbits-with-two-repetitions thing and nothing good happened’, but you can never know whether something bad would have happened if you hadn’t. See?) And then I listened to lots of Celtic music on YouTube before going to bed.

Now, it is a fact that most of the odd things that happen to me happen in bed. Last night I was dreaming that I belonged to some sort of organisation which was twinned with a German organisation of like mind, and we came by the intelligence that our German friends had made us some soup. The problem was that we were unaware of how much soup they’d made, and so we didn’t know whether there would be enough to go around and that was causing consternation. In fact, so much consternation was being caused that it woke me up, and guess what – I felt chilled. There was no obvious reason to feel that way because it wasn’t a particularly cold night, the bedroom heater was working perfectly, and I was covered with a good quality flannel sheet and a 17 tog duvet. But chilled was what I felt, so I pulled the covers around my head and began to feel my whole body warming up rapidly. That was reassuring until I noticed that my hands were warming to an alarming degree, so alarming that I began to fear that they were about to burn. Seriously! And then they returned to normal.

So what was that all about? The German connection was probably the result of having read about the spat between Mrs Merkel and Mr Merz over the AfD thing (I did say I was keeping an eye on German nationalism, didn’t I?) Maybe the desire for soup was engendered by the fact of feeling chilled. But what about the burning hands? Was that biological, psychological, or paranormal? It’s never happened before so how can I know? But I might add that I’ve started to get intermittent sharp pains at the base of my fingers when I grip things, so maybe there’s a connection.

All I did today was pay my electric bill, which hopefully should ensure that I’ll have a functioning heater in my bedroom for at least another month. And this morning’s walk was uneventful, being entirely devoid of rabbits, Germans, or creatures with flaming talons.

And I know this post is tedious, but I wanted to get something on the blog to mark the start of Imbolc. Such things matter to a mind which spends most of its energy on the question of whether there’s anything meaningful about living a life.

Contrasting Fortunes.

A strange week, this. On the downside have been the aching legs, the tight chest, the usual depressions, and meeting the replacement dentist (who’s actually the practice owner) now that my dear Ms Medeea has sailed away to far off shores. On the upside were the dog fixes, the cow fixes (Mr Robinson’s new, all black bullocks), and the lady fixes courtesy of the coffee shop.

There’s a new one, you see – lady that is. Ellie by name. Yesterday she was on with the established Sarah who appeared to be in charge for once, even though I always feel she should be revising for her A-levels rather than skipping around doing the barista thing more expertly than any others of my acquaintance. Ellie is even younger.

So, in order to break the ice and not appear gloomy in the face of such shining young stars, I offered to recite one of my ditties. Sarah gave Ellie a look which I’m still trying to interpret thirty hours later. I think it was meant to convey: ‘I’ll bet this is going to be a right load of old crap, but he is a customer so I suppose we’d better humour him.’ I warned them that it would be one of my darker efforts (I had just been to the dentist after all.)

And then I began:

As Tom lay sleeping in his bed

A lady came and crushed his head

With talons sharp and molars red

Then sucked his brains ’till he was dead

‘Ooh,’ said Ellie, ‘that is dark. Thank you.’ I told her I would recite a more wholesome one next time, and so I will. Meanwhile, Sarah had walked off to clear and clean some tables. (As much as I do so enjoy the vibrant energy of young women, I suspect I might have lost the ability to impress them. I suppose that’s as it should be.)

And tonight I read the Wiki article on Sylvia Plath. It appears there’s some dispute as to whether she definitely intended to commit suicide that day, and I was reminded again that the gas which now comes through domestic pipes is no longer fatal. Modern times, eh.

Becoming a Reluctant Bad Guy.

Every night I play one game of chess against the computer, and every night I lose. I’ve said before that I simply don’t have the mind of a chess player. I’m too straight thinking and straight dealing for the Machiavellian process of preparing to outwit someone in a process of perpetual threat and counter threat. And since I see it as Machiavellian, I’ve even been led to consider that maybe all good chess players must have a dark and dubious side to their natures.

Tonight I won. Congratulations, proclaimed the little dialogue box, you have won by checkmate. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen that. So here’s the question:

Should my self-image rise a little on the occasion of such a red letter day, or should it slip further than it already is? Whatever the answer to that, I feel I should treat myself to a Bushmills Irish whiskey tonight. It’s rather splendid.

(Incidentally, I was also treated to both a dog fix and a cow fix this morning. Does that settle the question?)

The Leaf and the Lady.

As I was walking through Uttoxeter this morning, well huddled in winter coat, muffler, hat, and gloves, my mood was sombre. The high street was sparsely occupied as it usually is on a Sunday, and the two charity shops which open on the sabbath had offered nothing of interest. The dark sky glowered and the cold, damp wind had a most inhospitable feel. I caught sight of my reflection in a shop window, and saw there a parallel with a fallen, withered leaf rustling mindlessly along a kerb towards the nearest road grid and oblivion. Advancing age sometimes encourages the perception of such a parallel.

I walked down the hill and crossed the road into the retail park, and there I met a young woman with whom I felt an immediate connection. Though not classically pretty, she was certainly fair of face. Much more than that, however, was the air of affability and authenticity which shone from her to an extent which is most unusual. We talked for all of two minutes about the reason for my approaching her in the first place: I’d seen her driving into the car park in an early 90s vintage VW Golf, the like of which I haven’t seen in several decades. (I thought it was a Mk1, but she informed me that it was actually a Mk2.)

The image of the shrivelled leaf disappeared, and it never occurred to me to peruse my image in any further shop windows. But the thought was not lost on me that mood can be so radically lifted by the merest pressure of just the right nature.

America and a Dubious Road.

I watched a YouTube video last night made by an American woman currently living in the UK who raised the question: ‘Will American Patriotism Be Its Downfall?’

She began by citing the fact that American children are spoon fed masses of patriotic conditioning from a very early age, referring to school children being required to swear the Oath of Allegiance every morning, the singing of the national anthem, and the proliferation of Star and Stripes on nearly every spare piece of ground; features which most of the rest of the world find pretty damn silly because they’re just not necessary.

She had a lot to say about this – and did so with a commendable sense of balance, I might add – including the fact that she saw nothing wrong with patriotism as long as it doesn’t step over the line into the area of nationalism. There’s a difference between the two, and nationalism – especially when embraced by a country as powerful as the US – can be very dangerous to everybody else in the world and even to itself. (Inevitably, I suppose, Hitler and Nazi Germany was quoted as an example.)

At this point the post could become very long, but I’m too lazy and tired of life to write lengthy tomes these days so I’ll just mention one thing she included in her argument. She pointed out that the USA is very powerful – possibly the most powerful country in the world – but that, with power comes responsibility. It’s another way of saying that if we want the world to be a reasonably sane place, self-interest has to be tempered with an ethical dimension. To any right-minded person, it’s entirely wrong for a country to use its excessive wealth and power only for its own benefit.

This morning I read that Trump has suspended overseas aid (apart from military aid to Israel and Egypt apparently.) That surprised even me.

And so I wonder again where Trump and his cohorts are going to take the US over the next four years. And I’m tempted to think that the much-vaunted ‘special relationship’ between the US and UK is doomed to become an object of faded regard (with thanks to an American called Zoe who coined the phrase.) It certainly sheds new light on the decision to take the UK out of the EU nine years ago.

On the Trump Card and New Rules.

I gather Donald Trump is promising America a ‘golden age’ now that he’s back in charge. And his best buddy, Elon Musk, said at a post-inauguration rally that ‘the future of civilisation is assured’, before giving what is clearly a Nazi-style salute.

There’s a scary vibe coming out of the US at the moment, but I suppose we need to see what the next twelve months bring in their wake rather than succumb to a knee jerk reaction. And I imagine the less right-leaning European states will adopt a more guarded approach in dealings with America while attempting to keep something of the status quo intact. America does, after all, hold NATO over our heads like a sword of Damocles. (Or maybe it would be more fitting to suggest the analogy of holding the trump card. Isn’t that nicely ironic?)

I’m going to be watching Germany where the far right is clearly gaining ground in the national consciousness. Italy (home of Mussolini, don’t forget) and Hungary have already gone some way along that road, and the whole picture is starting to look a bit messy. And then there’s the possibility of a Russia-China-North Korea axis taking shape in the not-too-distant future. As for the UK, Mrs Thatcher more or less slipped us into America’s back pocket forty years ago, so maybe we have nowhere to run.

But back to American internal politics. Even if nothing particularly drastic happens over the next five years, I find it hard to believe that Trump will simply walk away from the White House quietly in 2029 just because the rules don’t allow a third term. I imagine he will certainly want to be the puppet master if not the actual puppet. And rules can be changed anyway. And what about Mr Musk? He seems to be positioning himself to play Warwick the Kingmaker at least, and maybe even take the crown himself. I know the rules don’t allow that possibility at the moment because he wasn’t born in the USA, but rules can be changed…

Sit!

When the Brexit argument was going on in Britain I argued that if we left the EU we would come increasingly under the influence of America. (Oddly enough, so did Noam Chomsky.) It seemed to me that it was better to be an equal member of a powerful club than be the lapdog of the latest American president. The mostly aged little Englanders disagreed. They were still labouring under the delusion that Britain was a major world power which could stand alone and meet any other power on at least equal terms.

And now there appears to be a bit of a panic going on. The media are wondering how long it will be before Donald Trump consents to a meeting with our Prime Minister, Keir Starmer. There is talk of Trump disliking Starmer, and being bent on keeping the little guy trembling in the corner for a while. That would be typical of Trump’s mindset after all. And then there is the matter of our increasing economic reliance on the US…

And now I’m trying to conjure an appropriate metaphor – something to do with rescue centres, or dog training facilities, something like that. I’ve already used to term ‘America’s poodle’ in an earlier post and repetition won’t do. I suspect it might prove more serious this time. Trump seems to me to be more emboldened than he was last time out.

In any event, my brain is in no fit state to come up with something pithy, so this will have to do.

The Matter of Breath.

Tonight I watched an episode of the BBC dark comedy series Inside Number 9. It was the one in which guests at a dinner party are playing ‘sardines’ – one person hides and the others have to find him/her, and then stay there gathering together until they’re all squashed into a confined space. In this case, it was a double wardrobe in one of the bedrooms.

I found it disturbing because it reminded me that in such a situation the people would be so close that they would be able to smell each other’s breath, and that’s something I’ve always found odious even if the breath has been sweet. I feel the same way if I watch a film or drama in which two people are talking to one another close up and face to face.

I’ve examined this strange aspect of my nature and can only put it down to the fact that when you smell somebody else’s breath, it means you’re taking into your body something that has just come out of somebody else’s body. That strikes me as utterly revolting, and probably stems from my lifelong disquiet with all matters corporeal. I wonder where it comes from.