Enantiodromia: the EU and the horse trough

For many years now there has been a wonderful skit bouncing around the Internet about the progressive changes to English to formalise it as the standard EU language. It is a real hoot as it gradually and subtly transforms English into German. I was reminded of it as, with widening eyes, I read a Guardian leader on future EU policy for the UK.

Now I must state that I am not a Guardian reader, in fact I do not read any newspaper except on the rare occasions that I pick up an abandoned one on a train or in a dentist’s surgery. I do read the odd article though, usually, as in this case, through links embedded in web pages, or sometimes the odd Telegraph clipping that my wife slips in front of me on her Kindle.

I must also add that I have avoided writing much about Brexit in this blog. Not because I lack a definite and consistent view on the topic, no, more because I have and therefore think that my bookshop blog is not the forum for this sadly divisive topic.

There must be a word for what the Guardian article attempts. The nearest I can find is enantiodromia, but that’s not quite it. Anyway, the manner in which the skit mentioned above turns an intention to standardise on English into the establishment of German as the standard is a good example of what I mean.

The Guardian article generously admits that the people of the UK did vote to leave the EU – then effectively reverses that admission by enantioromia. Take this wonderful paragraph which continues an argument for seeking “as soft a Brexit as is practically possible”:

“The next imperative is to secure the British economy and the prosperity of the public in the long term. That would be best done by remaining within both the single market and the customs union for the duration of the transitional period and, perhaps, beyond. That is not at odds with Brexit. The UK would still cease to be a member of the EU. This would put the UK at a disadvantage, because it will no longer be a single market rule-maker. That, though, is what the public voted for in 2016.”

There you have it! Clear as mud, logical as a fruit cake. No wonder that some complain that the situation is confused: there are people out there determined to confuse us.

While searching for that old skit on the transformation of English into German I came across some funny stories about the EU. One of them is pretty much in line with my own experience of working in Brussels, here it is. A visitor to the commission asked why there was a yellow line along the middle of the corridor and was told: that is to ensure that the workers arriving late do not collide with those leaving early.

Another is rather unkind to the character of my second country: Spain. The EU offers a prize of one million Euros to anyone who can solve the mystery of a fabled black and white striped horse. The German participant spends two weeks in the library researching the subject. The English contender visits a hunting shop and buys all the gear needed to track and kill a specimen in Africa. The French competitor purchases a white horse and paints black stripes on it. The Spanish hopeful goes to an expensive restaurant and orders a top of the bill meal accompanied by expensive wine and champagne. Afterwards he sits in the lounge to enjoy a coffee with Napolean brandy plus a fat Cuban cigar and to think about how he will spend the one million euros.

In fairness though, the EU has been kind to Spain. Above is a photograph I have taken of the ‘much needed’ horse trough beneath our village home there. Note also the sign recognising the EU’s valued contribution - and the lack of horses.

Forget Glastonbury, we had our own festival

I love live music, beer and the open air, so, with that background in mind there was bound to be a moment when I might think, “I want to run a festival”. That thought occurred this year because three things came together: we had recently purchased our own field, it was my 70^th birthday and it was our 50^th wedding anniversary. So I mentioned the festival to Margaret, my long term wife, and she froze! But, after some discussion, her initial fears faded and she became as enthusiastic as I was, if not more.

And so, after months of planning, IvyFest came about on June 3^rd 2017, my birthday. As the great day got closer, I began to think about who we should invite and I froze – there were too few to make it a festival. Then I sat down with Margaret and  the potential list began to rise, peaking at nearly one hundred. We trimmed it down and sent out early invitations, some key people were away on the day, others couldn’t come for other reasons, so we sent out more invites, the numbers went up and began to exceed seventy, our optimum number. Later we had some cancellations: illness, second thoughts, people with better offers – so the numbers went down. Finally we ended up with a list of sixty-nine, which seemed fine.

Then, at last, the marquee arrived and the toilets, I collected the beer and the bread and Margaret got the food together and the guests began to drive into our field - one friend I had not seen for the last fifty years!

The main theme was live music so I had recruited a wonderful double band from Oxford: The Mighty Redox and the Pete Fryer band with their unique combination of original and rocking-cover songs. Good friends and great musicians, they filled the evening spot. In the afternoon we had solos from the honey-voiced Pete Madams singing Leonard Cohen, Willy Nelson and many of his own songs, plus Ken Woodward singing country and western in a shirt that he probably bought in Nashville. The afternoon group, No Horses, played earthy electric blues with spirited harmonica accompaniment. And people danced – yes they danced.

In the midst of all this professional music the scratch male and female voice choirs vied for singers of the festival. Pete, the judge, selected Rob’s Old Boys for the award – based, I think, on entertainment value rather melodic content.

There was a Spanish influence abroad. IvyFest started with a boom from a rocket ignited by Carlos, the Spaniard. Everyone cooked their own food (including a chorizo) on wood fires and many bottles of Spanish wine were consumed along with the barrels of local real ale.

Quite a few people camped on the field and I was the last to leave the dying embers of the fires - or so I thought. I checked around, locked up and went to bed, tired, replete and happy. Next morning, after a visit to the toilet at about seven, I pulled back the curtain and peered onto the field and spotted my granddaughter, Hope, lurking near the marquee. Later I found that I had locked her out and she had “spent the worst night of her life” in the field! Poor girl.

That aside, it was a great day. Some guests were so pleased with IvyFest that they suggested we make it an annual event. Nice thought, but therein lies bankruptcy. IvyFest was definitely a unique one off.

Mind you, a ticket to Glastonbury would set you back nearly £250! Makes you think doesn’t it?

When I was eighteen or so.

When I was eighteen or so I was an apprentice, training to become a telephone engineer in what was then the GPO later to become British Telecom. Yes, I worked for a nationalised industry, one of the biggest in the UK at the time employing some quarter of a million people.

On my first day I cycled to a specified depot to begin my first chunk of work experience with an overhead gang, whatever that was. I arrived dead on the dot of 7.30 as instructed, but was surprised to find no one else there. Gradually people began to trickle in and I was allocated to a particular gang. This gang’s main task was to erect telephone poles and string wires between them, but, as five of us set off in the big lorry, we headed instead to a particular cafe where puzzlingly we had breakfast. I had already eaten mine at home; I had a lot to learn.

The gang had a foreman whose main task, it seemed to me, was to ensure that we were always at least three miles away from the depot at lunch time. Why? Because then we could claim subsistence money! Tea breaks and lunch breaks were strictly adhered to. The gang members read their newspapers and I read the New Musical Express and the Melody Maker (I’m not sure why). There was little discussion and politics was rarely mentioned.

I experienced the various activities of the telephone company and, along the way, became a convinced public servant. We had an important role: the dependable working of the telephone system was vital to the country as a whole and we were the people who made it all work – no one else was allowed to do so. The fact that some engineers did ‘moonlighting’ using the skills taught them by the GPO and sometimes using the materials supplied by the GPO puzzled me. Why would they do that?

I progressed, even went to university to obtain a Master of Science degree and there became an ardent socialist, anti-apartheid protestor and so on. What did I know? I knew that apartheid was evil and still believe it to be so – though I did not understand the complexities of the issue at that time. I knew socialism was the answer and refused to let my zeal be dampened by regular news of its cruel imposition in the Soviet Union and China. That, I thought was not really socialism, those countries forced a certain belief system onto its people, my sort of socialism – for some reason that I never did figure out - would not do that.

What did I really know? Not a lot really. The sociology students really knew about politics and their answer was of course: socialism. Now, looking back, I wonder what any of us did know at that early age. At least I had experienced work and workers at work, though for all of that I still became an idealist. I knew that the council estates of Britain were not ripe for revolution, though many on the left at my university believed they were. The Angry Brigade was active there and they were all for taking up arms and leading the workers against the establishment. But, even then, I knew that people just wanted to get on with their lives, I just would not admit it. My idealistic fuel began to peter out in my early thirties as I too learned to get on with my life rather than attempting to alter that of others.

I hated Thatcher of course. Hated her for denationalising us and then taking away our monopoly. We public servants were doing our best, it was not our fault that it could take up to a year to supply a new telephone line, that’s just how it was. And what would happen to our beloved telephone system once the Johnny-cum-latelys started undercutting us? And what would happen to our jobs?

Actually, in the end, I lost mine. Cut off from the mothership at last by that so feared event –redundancy - I set up on my own and did quite well. This was the last stage in developing my political maturity, I then knew what it was like to be entirely dependent on my own efforts for the income to feed, clothe and bring up a maturing family. It was scary, but also exhilarating and educational. I had no holiday pay, sick leave, union representation, or personnel department – and I was acutely aware of the money being taken off me in personal and corporation tax, and not too keen on Gordon Brown giving my money to babies.

Perhaps young people of today are better educated and more politically aware than we were at their age, though that is not my experience. They are as prone as ever to idealism: many want an ideal to follow and are not too fussy about the creed or personalities that lead them. It is often argued that the young should be given a stronger voice in the big decisions that we face today because it is their future. That is a facile argument. Maturity does bring wisdom to most people, and experiencing the hard knocks of life does not make older people selfish: they are as concerned about the world that their off-spring will inhabit as they are about their own declining years. 

In my own constituency of Oxford there are something like 45,000 students, such a body of young people can materially and unreasonably affect the political leaning and character of our representatives in parliament, yet they themselves will not be in Oxford to experience that. They will be getting on with their lives elsewhere, and hopefully gaining the experience to understand that money does not grow on trees, that it has to come from somewhere. And perhaps also to appreciate the crude reality of the alternative lyrics to the socialist anthem, the Red Flag.

The working class can kiss my arse,

I’ve got the foreman’s job at last.