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Saturday, March 29, 2003
I eschewed breakfast today. Instead, I went and bought lottery tickets, which seemed to be a reasonable response to another penny-pinching Saturday morning when the bailiffs are coming round on Monday. There's always that judgement call when dealing with bailiffs: do you portray yourself as living in genteel poverty attempting to raise yourself back to levels of former glory, or do you show them the full extent of a rat-infested misery? In truth, bailiffs mostly only want money, so they are best pleased with a chunk of dosh straight off and then an agreed payment schedule, so I suppose the surroundings don;t bother them too much. They sit down, take out a clip board and try to threaten you with bureaucracy and then they go away. Largely, I only meet a bailiff once, but over the last couple of years, I got to know one of them quite well. He woudl come round and take his cash and gradually relaxed into himself enough to tell me all about his marital problems and how he really wanted a holiday in Thailand where he could dive into his dual passions of kick-boxing and illicit sex with women who weren't his wife. He sounds seedy, but I think he was just a dreamer. Nice man really. I was quite sorry to pay off that debt.
Anyway, back to the lottery ticket that is sure to raise me from penury. I was stopped on the way to the shop by the local whore, which is surprising because first it was so early in the morning and usually she has her pimp trying to drum up business for her (he's the world's worst pimp, he sort of begs punters to have sex with her and if you give him the opportunity, he'll tell you about how many children he has to support and how the council tax is something fierce this year and shouldn't be allowed). I nodded to her in a neighbourly fashion and pointed out that it was rather early for her to be working. She is a big African lass with a worldweary air about her and truly bad hair (which is odd, given that she lives over a hairdressers'). She explained that she was trying to save up some money for summer because she wanted to take her kids to EuroDisney and that the war was bad for business. We have no military bases in the area so I was surprised that she relied so much on soldiers for trade. Apparently, though, the war has stimulated the libidos of the area's women and they are now more willing to put out when their men stumble home blind drunk from the pub. She complained that even her flow of regulars had slowed down and spat on the floor when she gave her view of war and its effect on business. We both agreed that there would probably be a baby boom in nine-month's time. When we parted, I agreed that if I win the lottery, I'll send her and her kids to EuroDisney, but not her pimp (he annoys me, he's such a maudlin fellow). She laughed and said she'd look forward to being able to put her feet up on Saturday mornings. Which was strange, because that's how I thought she made her money.
2:30 PM
Wednesday, March 26, 2003
Friday 28/3/03 (Ignore the Wednesday date above, Wednesday's entry is below - I know it's confusing, but I'm new at this and just learning how to do it. Apologies)
Started my life today eating dry toast and drinking black tea. No, health fascist, this isn't a diet.This is what happens when a slovern goes to the market for tonic and lemon for gin, but forget the butter and milk for breakfast. Spent half an hour reading the Alice B Toklas Cook Book filling my brain with thickened sauces, eggs and the treasures of a 1930s French larder. If I blink too fast, creamy tears will be squeezed from the corners of my eyes.
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The news from Iraq is horrible, of course. No-one is winning.
In the West we’ve got the weapons and we’ve been assured ‘whoever has the most toys, wins’. That’s a nice little phrase. When its anonymous Sixties originator came up with it, it was a glib aide memoir for the marketing department. Then it made its way across to T-shirts as ‘He who dies with the most toys, wins’. A nice little distinction that. It raises an angelic host of contradictions about capitalism, consumerism and the irony of being the richest stiff in the graveyard. (Hell, it worked for the pharaohs, and we’ve got their dead bodies in our museums to prove it. Pity the poor slave whose tomb isn’t a tourist attraction.)
But our toys don’t seem to be working. We’re facing a conundrum of a country: just past the stone age according to some American rightwing commentators; sanctioned into the stone age according to many European leftwing commentators; and is led by an evil man according to almost all commentators. What’s more, it may or may not have the wherewithal to wipe out the West and all it stands for, a question that still leaves commentators spinning like furious dervishes. However, it has not been a country that has viewed the powers arrayed against it and tumbled over to play dead like a fainting goat.
As we have gone high-tech, the Iraqis have gone low-tech. They look at the size of our weapons and then they look at the size of our brains. If it is fair for us to have bombs capable of levelling cities, they feel it is fair for them to change their clothing, escape their enemy, then turn round and shoot.
And all this takes place against a background of the populace. The Allies want the populace to rise up and throw off the shackles of an oppressive government. The Iraqi government wants the populace to rise up and fight off the imperialist invaders. For the populace, though, if there’s any rising up to be done, they seem to be of the opinion that is best done when it’s relatively safe. And only after they’ve had a bite to eat. And a mouthful of fresh water would be nice, too. Essential, actually. Until those criteria are met, the Iraqis are doing exactly what any other peoples would do: bunkering down, trying to stay alive.
All of which leaves us with the other toys in the game. The West has marketing and we have money. The marketing deal pitched to the Iraqis has been: ‘We’ll bomb you but feed you. All we want is your leader’ To which the Iraqi government response has been ‘They want your land and your children’s future – and we’ve managed to feed you in the past despite the best efforts of these people who are now bombing your homes. Even if we’re not good, you know who we are’.
On the international stage, the US has led the charge that this is all about Saddam. It’s not been oil, it’s not been freedom, it’s not been democracy, it’s not been humanitarian. It’s been about the demon Saddam because Saddam is identifiably bad. The Iraqis responded that it’s not about Saddam, it’s about control of oil, it’s about losing land, it’s about a Christian crusade and it’s about Iraqi men, women and children being killed.
Of course, the Iraqi argument to the Iraqi people is also made down the barrel of a long gun pointed at their heads. However, from the point of view of an Iraqi family in a bomb shelter, the Allied argument is being made with no less a threat.
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Yes, I know this is silly, but do you think Grecian 2000 or other hair-dye-for-men companies rush out special 'leadership' deals every time there is a crisis. I swear to God, Tony Blair's hair has changed colour at least three times over the last week. Either he's dunking it in the old cosmetic pond once in a while or some lighting men are paying off old scores by highlighting shades of grey every time there's a photo-op. And as for George Bush.... for goodness's sake, how many more variations of grey and ash blond can we tolerate?
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Wednesday 26/3/03
Started life today with egg, beans, toast and Linda McCartney (God bless all who sail in her) vegetarian sausages. Did the usual pondering briefly: how many sausages get made from each vegetarian? Then got onto the serious wondering of the day. Was I giving up red meat for Lent, and thereby trying to re-scale the heights of Catholic good grace, or was I giving in to the sermons of the health fundamentalists? Soul or body? Either way, I've decided I'm easily brainwashed and should probably wear earplugs.
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Tony Blair is in Washington to see Bush today.
Blair stands outside the Oval Office.
The Secret Services give him a breath mint to get rid off the smell of alcohol on his breath. Then they make him blow his nose so he doesn't sniff round Mr President. He's perfunctionally frisked for pretzels. They grunt and let him in.
(In the office are Ronald Macdonald Rumsfeld, Wild Duck Cheney and Gulf War Bush)
Cheney: Gentlemen, I think we should start with a short prayer.
(muttered assents)
(An hour and 17 minutes pass)
Blair: Mr President first I would like to offer you my unequivocal support and admiration for the way in which you are conducting this offensive action against the population of Iraq and their currently incumbent dictator Saddam Hussein. You are a beacon of hope in a medieval world. However, I want to bring up the 'road map towards peace in the Israeli-Palestine conflict viz-a-viz the demographics...
(Rumsfeld leans forward with a snarl)
Rumsfeld: Limey, it's the last time I tell ya this. No more than two syllables in a word.
(Blair is quiet for a moment)
Blair (leaning forward to President): War. Go. Good?
President: War good. Raghead bad.
Rumsfeld: Time's up limey.
(Blair gets off his knees and walks backwards out of the room, bowing every third step)
President: What man that?
Cheney: You mean 'Who' you dumb schmuck. Get your grammar right.
President: Grammy good. Raghead bad.
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Ho hum
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5:46 PM
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