State of the Union

Friday, 16 September 2022. 

I’m on the way from Edinburgh to London, much like the Queen a few days ago. There’s a fraction less media attention on my journey, which is perhaps just as well, since I noticed on leaving the house that my trousers were already travel-stained. I like to think of this as an ecologically-sustainable wardrobe approach, and know that it will mitigate the disappointment when I spill something on them in the train, as will surely happen.

I have an invite in my pocket, although it’s to my sister’s 50th birthday bash and not a state funeral. I expect the international dignitaries to be largely absent at my sister’s party, although who knows? She does enjoy a bit of pomp and circumstance. 

The past few days have prompted some personal reflection on the monarchy, the constitution, and the Union. On Monday and Tuesday of this week I made the trip into town, feeling surprisingly strong emotions in the aftermath of the Queen’s death, and aware that the presence—in Edinburgh—of her coffin, the King, and the Royal Family, was the rarest of events, possibly completely unique. Given that the lying at rest in Edinburgh only occurs when the monarch passes away in Scotland, it has never happened before, and may never happen again.

On Monday afternoon I walked most of the Royal Mile from Holyrood Palace to St Giles’ Cathedral, and along George IV Bridge, witnessing at every turn the outside broadcast trucks, TV gantries, cameras, reporters, and the beginning of the enormous queue of mourners. I cut a few of the corners and walked into George Square and the Meadows, where I bumped into an old friend. He had joined the queue there at 5.15pm and would eventually file past the coffin just over five hours later. 

I returned home. 

On Tuesday morning, after receiving messages from friends that the queue had lessened dramatically overnight, I made the trip back to the Meadows and joined the again-rapidly-lengthening line just after 11am. My queue buddies immediately in front were from Northern Ireland, and over the course of the next two hours we struck up a friendship, as we moved slowly but steadily through the Old Town, in sunshine and shade, on a beautiful September day.

On the stroke of 1pm I made it into the dignified, reverential atmosphere of St Giles’. With the line of people continually moving, there wasn’t time to stop and reflect at the Royal Standard-draped coffin itself. I found myself simply thinking “Thank you, Ma’am,” as I passed.

I am grateful to have had the opportunity, for I am grateful for her life, her service, and her sacrifice. 

I was saddened to hear of protesters, both in Edinburgh and now in London, holding placards displaying slogans such as “Not my King” and “We don’t need a head of state”.

I confess I am a little ignorant of the precise role and duties of a head of state, but on the basis that someone needs to represent us on the world stage, I reckon we do need one.

However, Edinburgh doesn’t really need the Scott Monument. Nor, for that matter, Edinburgh Castle. Perhaps we should raze them both to the ground and build some utilitarian pre-fab offices instead.

Or perhaps we should acknowledge that beautiful architecture, historical monuments, sculptures, paintings and art are worth holding on to. So too are things that link us to our past (even though our past hasn’t been entirely glorious from start to finish) and are part of the fabric and history of our country. 

It is, I think, the prerogative of the young, and students, to protest loudly about things. But I find myself, with advancing years, increasingly amused by those who seem to think that they get to choose everything about their life.

If you’re a citizen of the United Kingdom today, then King Charles III is your King. You might wish that were not the case, you might think the monarchy should be abolished. You have the right to hold those views and express them, too. But to say he isn’t your King is to deny a fact of life, and is as pointless as protesting that you’re not one gender or the other, although it is seemingly inflammatory to say such things, these days.

Should we have a democratically-elected head of state? Maybe, strictly speaking, that would be more in keeping with a democratic country. However, practically, would it make any actual difference?

I think my friend Jon should be head of state. He speaks well, and diplomatically, and is well-educated. But a friend of mine wouldn’t be head of state. Were we to get to vote for a head of state, we would be given the choice of a few candidates which had been shortlisted by some complex voting system or other. They wouldn’t do a better job of representing me than the monarch currently does. The risk would be that they would do a considerably worse job.

Queen Elizabeth II did a wonderful job of diplomatically representing the UK on the world stage. Who’s to say Charles won’t do the same?

We elected a new Prime Minister recently, or at least, the members of the Conservative Party did. Prior to that we did elect one as a nation, and arguably we didn’t choose very well. We don’t actually have a tremendous track record of voting for people of integrity, dignity and honour.

Later in the week I met some friends on the prom at Portobello for a coffee and catch-up. Talk turned to the prospect of Scottish independence. They are warmer to the idea than I am. I remain unclear as to how being independent would benefit us in any way.

I accept that Scots feel perhaps ignored by Westminster, and that the ruling Tories, bloated perhaps by the complacent corruption and excesses that a long hold over power seem to bring, do not represent them well. I understand that. But ruling parties come and go, and while the Tories have been in place now for a long time, it will not always be so.

Personally, I wouldn’t expect Scottish politicians, running an independent Scotland, to be any better. I put this to a pro-independence friend around the time of the referendum in 2014.

‘Ah, but at least they’d be our corrupt politicians,’ he replied.

Now, it may be because I’m not Scottish, but this seems like a weak argument. I am, for the record, Northern Irish, and grew up in the Unionist side of the ideological divide, and so perhaps I will forever be biased towards that viewpoint. However, other mindsets that I grew up with there I have now discarded, with an objectivity that comes with living outside the Province.

As a very happy and now long-time resident of Scotland, while I will perhaps never have the viewpoint that a true Scot has, I do have a right to an opinion on how Scotland should be governed.

And Scottish Independence continues to make no sense to me.

Along with the sense of being ruled from afar by politicians we didn’t vote for, I accept that Brexit perhaps highlighted a fault line and disparity in thinking between Scotland and England, since “Scotland voted to remain”, and “England voted to leave”.

This, surely, is a massive over-simplification. England is not a single entity, neither is Scotland. England, like Scotland, is a collection of diverse peoples with diverse views. From the independently-minded Cornwall, through the Midlands, Yorkshire and the North-East, I would wager that large chunks of England feel disenchanted with the ruling Conservatives and feel that the majority opinion on various matters doesn’t sit well with them.

This is the challenge of living in a democracy, and as a Union. It’s much like being part of a family. We don’t always get our own way. Often the louder voices shout us down, and we feel marginalised. I daresay many would say they didn’t vote for Boris Johnson, but—as a United Kingdom—we did. Being part of the Union is being part of the “we” and taking collective responsibility. 

It’s not perfect, but that’s life.

Over thirteen million English people voted to remain in the EU, but over fifteen million voted to leave. And England’s population being approximately ten times the size of Scotland’s, the big brother’s overall view held sway.

Is this galling for Scots? Perhaps. Certainly for the Scots who didn’t get their way. Presumably the one million Scots who also voted to leave aren’t feeling the same sense of grievance.  

What the Brexit result highlighted for me personally was how inadequate an instrument a binding referendum of this nature is. Your average Joe in the street, me included, is woefully incapable of making a fully-informed decision of such magnitude. It’s why we elect politicians, who—we hope—are more adequately informed about the ramifications of such decisions, or at least have advisers who are. 

But back to Scottish Independence. How would we survive as a small nation?

Right now, we do have a voice in the UK Parliament. We do also have a devolved Government that can take lots of decisions in the interests of the local population, as they see fit. But…Scotland is not a single entity, with one viewpoint. Given a future independent Scotland ruled (say) from Edinburgh, how long before the Highlands and Islands complain that they’re being ignored by the ruling classes who are out of touch with their needs and desires? How long before Glasgow and the West, with its very different mindset, revolts against Edinburgh? Where does it end?

If Scotland secedes from the Union, and joins the EU (as I understand it, not even a guaranteed outcome), would we not have discarded a centuries-old alliance with nations that we have a lot in common with (e.g. language, culture (with variations), shared history), and within which we do have a significant voice (no matter how it feels at times) in favour of a relationship with neighbours with whom we have very little shared history, very little in common, and as a brand new member probably dependent on financial handouts, very little influence and voice?

It makes no sense to me. Perhaps someone can explain to me how becoming independent will ever be worth the immense logistical and financial pain of separating two countries that have been joined at the hip for three hundred years.

Meantime, I remain a committed citizen of an imperfect United Kingdom, and a loyal subject of our new King, knowing that if I got the chance to personally select every member of all our Parliaments, and for that matter, the Royal Family, they would all still be imperfect, because humans are involved.

Turmeric and the General Election

Turmeric. It’s all the rage among the hipsters, you know. Lots of internet-proven* health benefits including anti-inflammatoriness, being a natural painkiller, and basically eliminating cancer, Alzheimer’s and depression. Also, it provides a glow and lustre to the skin.

Having come down with a cold earlier in the week, I am now fighting fit again. I am confident that my daily intake of turmeric has helped me recover quickly. But it’s always hard to prove these things, and the turmeric may in fact have only made my hair more lustrous.

Meanwhile we’ve had a General Election here in the UK, with a seismic result. South of the border, England and Wales have returned the Conservatives to power with an overwhelming majority. Up here in Scotland, the SNP have further increased their domination.

Which has produced an even-more polarised Great Britain, with England and Wales almost entirely blue, and Scotland almost completely a turmeric shade of yellow. And the inevitable and obvious conclusion that the two countries are completely different, justifying the renewed call for another Scottish independence referendum.

I have three objections to this obvious conclusion.

Firstly, does a resounding win for the SNP on Thursday translate to reasonable justification for a second referendum?

The SNP are – very cleverly – both a party whose main reason for existing is to achieve Scottish independence, and a political party who have proved they can govern competently. I am confident that this second facet of the SNP has gained them more and more votes in both local and national elections in recent years. And so, despite their overwhelming support in Scotland of late, most recently on Thursday, it cannot be inferred that the same number of people are pro-independence.

Secondly, the fact that Scotland has, pretty much en bloc, voted differently to England and Wales, is not especially relevant. The SNP don’t field a whole lot of candidates in English constituencies, you will note, and so English voters don’t have the option of voting for them. Therefore it’s no real surprise that Scotland and England vote differently. If England had a nationalist party which was a credible political force, the map might look different.

Northern Ireland has been voting for Northern Irish parties for years, but it’s never been taken as a justification that the Province needs an independence referendum. Of course, none of those N Irish parties were campaigning for independence for N Ireland, in the manner of the SNP. But that brings us back to the first question – how many of the SNP’s recent votes were votes for independence? We don’t know.

Thirdly, this is a snapshot in time. In this late-2019-snapshot of the political mood of the nation, the Conservatives appear to be rampantly popular in England, and the SNP are equally popular in Scotland. Twas not always thus, and – one imagines – it won’t stay that way forever. Or even, perhaps, for all that long. Political parties have a knack for puncturing their own success, through various means including corruption, scandal, and general incompetence. Leaders change, and lose popularity. Moods change. People change. The electorate shifts.

I have lived in Edinburgh for 27 years. For most of this time, Edinburgh’s political landscape has been utterly dominated by Labour. Now, they hold only one seat. In fact, it’s their only seat in Scotland. This was a completely unimaginable scenario not so very long ago. But things change.

If the SNP, riding a wave of popularity that has been swelling for less than ten years, manage to inveigle the Scottish people to take a decision that will echo for centuries to come, I for one will be monstrously unhappy.

Brexit gets rolled out as another justification for Scotland to leave the UK. Scotland voted to Remain, goes the narrative, whereas the overall UK result was to Leave. That shows how different we are to England and Wales, it’s said. But the Brexit referendum was not based on regions, or constituencies, but on individuals. From the rhetoric, you might be tempted to think that 100% of Scottish voters opted to Remain. They didn’t. 62% did. The remaining 38%, when put together with the results from the rest of the UK, helped vote for the UK to leave the EU.

The majority of voters in Northern Ireland also voted to Remain. Again, no banging of the independence drum there. 

“Westminster doesn’t represent us” goes the cry. Here’s the thing. If Scotland was an independent country, Edinburgh wouldn’t represent the Highlands all that well either. There would be local biases, and parochial interests. Just on a smaller scale.

We’re a nation full of lots of very different people, with different views and priorities. We have a parliamentary system that affords representation to every area in the corridors of power at Westminster. It’s not perfect, it never will be, but let’s stay together Britain. Let’s stay together.

It’s part of being in a union. It’s like being in a family – you don’t always get your own way. Not getting your own way shouldn’t mean you leave.

I apologise for the political post! I promise to revert to whimsy before too long.

The Snow Angels of the Dolomites, part I

It’s April, dear reader, Yesterday’s watery sunshine, luring us briefly into thoughts of balmier weather, has given way to today’s endearingly British rain-hail-sleet combo. Or “April showers” as we like to call them.

But before April came March, which witnessed a couple of important events. Firstly, Britain’s non-exit from the EU on 29 March. Having been guilty in the past of being carelessly ignorant of important goings-on in the nation, I have tried manfully to stay abreast of developments with Brexit. At least every now and then. I have periodically read articles and blog posts by political analysts, which appear to come forth daily. But I find they all follow the same format:

  1. Last night [this thing] happened.
  2. What does [this thing] mean? or occasionally What happens now?
  3. We don’t know

What I deduce from each article is that, really, nothing is happening.

Happily, March also finally witnessed my long-awaited ski trip to the Land of Bialetti, with 23 fellow adventurers. I christened our group the Dolomites Snow Angels, and no-one objected, or at least not too strongly, and so that was that.

On the first or second evening, I can’t quite remember which, Emily – the holiday rep – held court in our neighbouring chalet’s living room. Our chalet was the Traviata, theirs the Violetta. Both named after a Verdi opera. This pleased me.

Every chalet holiday I’ve been on has had one of these introductory chats from the rep. Never have I attended one before.  But this time I was numbered among the crowd that trooped over to the Violetta. And I found myself pondering what my sceptical non-attendance might have cost me all these years, as Emily engaged us in a whistle-stop tour of the area’s skiing highlights.. 

She waxed lyrical about La Longia – the 10.5km red run down into Oritsei, and went on to mention the legendary Saslong men’s World Cup downhill black run in Val Gardena, the La Crusc church in the furthest away corner of the map above the village of Badia, the lovely blue runs of the Alta Badia valley, and the Marmolada Glacier, with its spectacular views from upwards of 3000m, not to mention its WWI museum. 

Clearly all that plus the 1200km of general skiing available wasn’t going to keep us busy, so she was also offering limited places on a trip to Cortina d’Ampezzo and the Hidden Valley on Day 5. Cortina promised yet more stunning and unique Dolomites scenery, a ladies’ World Cup downhill, and a ski run featured in For Your Eyes Only. Meanwhile the Hidden Valley ski run is regularly voted one of the world’s top 10, includes a pub with two resident Alpacas, and the opportunity to be towed the last flat 1km or so by a horse-drawn cart. Oh, and there were tunnels left over from WWI to explore at the top.

Having come to the Dolomites with the express purpose of completing the Sella Ronda, by the time she was done I found myself less invested in that, and much more interested in the variety and quality of the unique skiing experiences to be had here.

Of course, there was no reason why these attractions had to compete, and so on Day 4, ten of us did in fact complete the Sella Ronda, interrupting our clockwise journey at Corvara to head off on a monastic pilgrimage to La Crusc, before rejoining at Corvara and skiing hard all the way home.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Day 1 was, as it always is, a day for re-acquainting oneself with one’s ski legs and remembering forgotten techniques. Having more or less found my way down the hill safely in the morning, I had decided to have an easy and fun afternoon skiing in the fun park, through ice tunnels and over pianos, but took the wrong lift up and instead found myself skiing black runs and moguls in Arabba with the some of the more adventurous Snow Angels.

But I survived, and on the way home found somewhere selling Baileys, with which we toasted St Paddy that evening.

On Day 2 we awoke to falling snow. It had been falling since the early hours, and so we abandoned any plans we might have had to ski hard and long that day. Truth be told, there probably wasn’t a plan for that day. Most days plans were formed late and on the hoof, which is not a bad way to approach a holiday, I reckon.

We headed away from the crowds of the Sella Ronda, up Val di Fassa, and took a gondola ride into a winter wonderland. Not that we could see all that much of it, initially.

Skiing in the falling snow, provided it’s not being propelled into your face by a Force Nine gale, is a wondrous thing. Sounds from across the mountain are muffled by the ever-deepening snowy blanket, and skiing must be done more by feel than by sight due to the reduced visibility. And everything is soft. Everything, that is, apart from my ski, which came off during a particularly inelegant wipeout at the bottom of a black run, and clattered into my face.

After some slope-side ministrations from the amazing Steve, who – Mary Poppins-style – conjured a host of medical supplies from his bottomless rucksack, I repaired to the nearest Rifugio, whereupon a host of friends patched me up with steri-strips, chocolate cake and espressos. I remained there for many hours, entertained by the inimitable Jamie and Kirsty, until I had recovered my courage sufficiently to ski a blue run a couple of times and then retreat back to the chalet.

January on the Wane

January is on the way out, dear reader, which can only be a good thing. The days are steadily getting longer, although not especially warmer, just yet.

Lying in wait is February, and in the blink of an eye it’ll be March, with a ski trip to the Dolomites. I am imagining much in the way of leisurely slope-side pizza-consumption in the early spring Italian sunshine. Followed by Tiramsu, and almost certainly an espresso. Then, with a sigh and probably a burp or two, strapping on the skis and hurtling down the hill towards Brexit Day.

The country feels in a state of some turmoil as Brexit approaches. Personally, I can’t help but think the whole thing was an extraordinarily bad idea.

While I accept that Mrs May possibly hasn’t done as sterling a job as she might in navigating these choppy waters, I do have some sympathy given that she wasn’t for leaving in the first place. And I find myself grieved by the overall air of grasping self-interest that seems to be prevalent in the country, not particularly unusual in Westminster at any time, it must be said, but seemingly magnified just now. It feels like the country’s in a bit of a pickle, and rather than everyone rallying round to try to find a solution, everyone is instead fighting their own corner all the more fiercely, with Ms Sturgeon eyeing an opening to sell independence to the Scots again.

Along with worries about the Irish border, the long-term loss of GDP for the UK economy, loss of jobs, port blockages and the like, of immediate and pressing concern is the state of the nation’s Empire Biscuits, and in particular, the depth of icing. Last Friday the icing was unacceptably thin. This week the Admin Supremo attempted an early EB acquisition on Thursday night at Tesco.

“Never seen such pale Empire biscuits” was the report Friday morning. 

Bring on a second referendum I say.

Meanwhile, January has seen a marked decline in the use of the washing machine at Only Here For The Cricket Towers. Over the festive period in particular, I was delighted by how long my clothes were lasting between washes. It belatedly occurred to me that, in employing the tried-and-trusted Sniff Test each morning to determine my clothes’ eligibility for another day’s use, I had neglected to take into account the cold that I’d been suffering from for weeks, and thereby unable to effectively smell anything.

I do apologise to all my friends, particularly the huggers.

January has also seen a marked upturn in my sleep quality. On becoming more and more aware of the shape and hardness of the springs in my mattress, I petitioned the landlord for a new one, and received the go-ahead a week or so ago. I was reminded of a previous flat tenancy, twenty years ago now, when I inherited a room in a flat on Magdala Crescent. Lovely flat, quiet street, perfect location.

After a month or two living there, I began to question the cuts that were appearing on my torso without any apparent cause, until one day I noticed that some of the springs in my mattress were actually poking through. Not an awful lot, but enough to draw blood periodically. Somewhat timid in nature at this point in my life, I never mentioned it to anyone, and instead found a narrow strip along the westward side of the mattress which was unmined, so to speak, and lay very still every night.

I note with some alarm that Facebook is about to integrate Instagram, WhatsApp and Facebook Messenger. Quite what that means I’m not sure, but I’m alarmed mainly by the implication that WhatsApp is owned by Facebook, a fact of which I was unaware. I was becoming quite fond of WhatsApp too. Ickle Bef uses it to send pictures of swans on the canal, which is charming. And Nicola, sporadically occupied in the Caring Profession between documentaries about the state of the Polynesian rainforests [subtitled], sends occasional informative updates to us all from drug dens in Leith.

If WhatsApp takes a Facebook approach to life and applies its cursed algorithmic approach based on one’s “liking” and “posting” activity… well, no-one will ever see anything I say, ever. 

I might have to start speaking to people in person from here on in. Eek.