Much as I have tried to impose my own personal news blackout on Article 50, Brexit, everything to do with the ignorant moronic fool in the White House and Scotland’s never-feckin-endum – well, it’s not just hard, it’s impossible.
The reasons I prefer to watch Storage Wars: Texas rather than tune into TV or radio news programmes are too numerous to note.
But one strand features strongly across all of the things I mentioned in the opening par – the rise and acceptance of wilful ignorance, not simply from ordinary folks who don’t want to engage with reality but by politicians who now know adopting this tactic is their easiest route to success.
Psychologists say we human beings can experience three types of ignorance: ordinary, wilful and higher.
Ordinary ignorance is when you move from unknowing to knowing through learning; higher is when you accept that there mysterious things, the truth of which may never be known to you.
Wilful is, to my jaundiced eye, the bastard brother of those other types. Because this is a deliberate choice to ignore the facts of what you know to be true and pretend that something else altogether is actually correct, either for peace of mind or for personal gain.
Alt-facts, if you will. Fake news, perhaps.
And I’ve had my bloody fill of it.
Once upon a time (like, a decade or so ago), politicians, policy-makers, academics, experts would be reasonably patient in the face of the wilful ignorance often demonstrated by the public.
The media (I’m not counting the redtops here) would help by presenting the actual facts of a situation or problem – not without their own inherent bias, of course, but not usually, as too often happens now, with their own “twist” on the truth.
I’ve made my feelings plain on Brexit before. For all the faults of the European Union, I believe leaving the EU for an extraordinarily uncertain future is a matter of supreme economic and social self-harm, which will likely lead to the break-up of the UK. And it is based not only on a tissue of lies but also on wilful ignorance promoted enthusiastically by the Leave campaign and elements of a media that has long promoted Brussels as the seat of all evil.
That sort of behaviour is infectious. It happened in the first Scottish referendum in 2014. An element of it swayed the 2015 general election. It swept Trump into power where even his growing number of policy disasters and blatant untruths unveiled since haven’t dented the “belief” of his followers.
It’s the entire modus operandi of UKIP who consistently say one thing – Europe is terrible, we need to be free, immigrants are ruining the country – and do another (fill their pockets with EU money, insist that Welsh farmers should still get European finance after Brexit, marry German women, shag French women…). Black really is white with these chancers.
My sister Louise and I talk about our mum, Frances, all the time, as indeed do all of my brothers and our extended family. Today, on Mother’s Day, Louise and I talk to her one more time.
Fran: It’s been seven years since my mother died. She was two months away from her 77th birthday so I was lucky because I’d had her in my life for a very long time.
We were close – we bickered, of course – but we talked a lot and often about more than just the superficial and everyday. But there’s still so much I wish I had asked her about, so many things about her as a person – not simply as mum or gran or auntie or sister but Frances Condon, the teenager, the young clerkess, the traveller, the music lover – that I would love to know.
Louise: I was a fully fledged adult and mother myself when Mum died so, luckier than some in having her for so long.
You were formidable when I was young, I didn’t dare upset you. Not that you were Mommie Dearest, you just could silence me with a look. Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare disappoint me or yourself. I try it now with mine and it’s nowhere near what your laser glare was. I salute you for that and practise daily to emulate you.
You worked full-time with six kids. For that alone, I am in awe. But you also cooked every meal from scratch, seemed to always be there and looked after not just us but your sister, nieces, nephews, in-laws, never seeming to favour any one over the other. Everyone felt attended to, never ignored. They all still talk about you, as mine do, even though you only met the eldest. You’d adore the youngest, she is a force of nature and you would consider the eldest the daughter you could finally style and dress in your classic elegance.
We have all floundered a little without you. You were the matriarch we gathered around and took strength from.
Here are three things we each wish we could ask Mum today and why.
Fran: Financial constraints meant there was no way you could have gone to university after school, but if things had been different, what career would you have chosen and why?
I always thought you should have been a teacher or a writer. You absolutely loved books and devoured them on a daily basis – that love of reading you’ve passed on to all of us. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who went to the library as much as you. You were also incredibly smart with figures and accounting. That you could budget for a family of six kids on dad’s fairly meagre income over the years still impresses the hell out of me 40-odd years on. I never plucked up the courage to ask – and really, was it ever any of my business? – how much you regretted that further education was simply not an option, that at 17 you had to leave school and go to work; that you then had to give up a job you loved and with it any kind of financial independence when you married. You always struck me, Mum, as the good girl who did what was necessary to make everyone else’s lives a little easier. I wish you had had half the career options that came my way.
Lou: How did you deal with those Groundhog Day moments (apt too as that date is your birthday) when the cooking, cleaning, putting out of fires and general raising of children is shown to be the exhaustive task it is?
I honestly don’t know how you did it. All of us? The boys with their football strips and all of us different ages and stages and attitudes and bullshit? I’m struggling with the difference between a five-year-old and a nine-year-old and I could tear out my already very short hair. I’m fine some days, it’s life, it’s running a house. But by God, I could scream other days. I’m also really sorry for swearing because I know you never did and didn’t like it, but I’m human and you were a saint so, that’s that settled. Next.
Fran: How much did you hate those shopping trips with me and Lou?
Boy, did we cramp your style. You must have despaired that you’d had six sons and not four. I never knew anyone who could shop like you, mum. Remember all those times when you took yourself off into town for hours and would come home with nothing but a smile on your face for the sheer pleasure of browsing for a bargain? I could think of nothing worse. We used to joke that the shopping gene had missed me and Lou out completely. We’d get off the bus or train and within minutes would be angling for lunch or a coffee break while you had your eye on the prize – Lewis’s or Goldberg’s, a whizz round Arnotts and maybe a wander through the perfume counter at Frasers just to try out some new scents. I shudder remembering the times you came home when I was a teenager, having “picked a wee something up” for me that I would hate on sight – I also cringe at how rude and ungrateful I was, especially as you would have loved nothing more than to spoil me with a new outfit. We did laugh about that later on but only once you’d given up on ever buying me a piece of clothing ever again. “Do you think you’ll still be able to wear jeans and T-shirts when you’re in your 50s?” you’d rage at me. Er… yes, mum, I will. I do. But I do wish I had your good taste and sense of style and I always smile when I remember your annual shopping trip to Mademoiselle Anne’s in Stockwell Street where you’d buy a beautifully tailored coat and a couple of dresses so stylish that they never went out of fashion.
Lou: I know you loved to read, but I wonder now if the newspapers and books were an escape not just from your difficult early life but as it continued?
When reading, you were gone, away. I hope that it was as magical an escape as it seemed to be when you would read a few pages, close your eyes and lay the book on your lap. I hope you went right to where you wanted to go. I used to watch you shut your eyes, just for a few moments, and wonder where you went. As ever, Mum, you were away ahead of your time, mindful before we called it that, practising CBT before it was called that, aka “things could be worse”. I wish you were here now, just taking five before getting on with the next thing you had to do. I’d be there to help you do it.
Fran: Why didn’t you ever write down the recipe for your lentil soup?
Mum, I actually pine for your homemade soup. And the Sunday dinners that, even close to the end of your life, you still lovingly prepared “just in case” someone turned up. I make my own soup but it doesn’t taste the same. All the ingredients are there, I put them together exactly the way I watched you – and Nana first – doing it from when I was a tiny tot. I know what’s missing is you. A couple of years ago, I popped in to see your dearest friend Sophie, who sadly passed away last month. She was making soup and her house smelled like yours used to. I was almost paralysed by memory, tears blinding me. Every time I make soup, I wish I was watching you make yours one more time.
Lou: Why aren’t you here now?
We need your wisdom more than ever, people like you Mum. Wise, intelligent and strong. Your kind are thin on the ground. You would see through every shyster like you always did, early on and with a simple shake of your head, you would sum up their character succinctly. I’m kind of glad you don’t have to see it, but I selfishly want you. I want your guidance raising my strong girls, like I hope you know you raised yours. Happy Mother’s Day, from one to another.
To Frances Traynor, 1933-2010 – and mums everywhere.
There are some bonuses to being confined to bed for a short time. Netflix, box sets, on-demand TV are certainly up there. Right now I’m hard pressed to think of many others, aside from being offered and accepting endless cups of tea.
In the eight days since my operation rendered me NWB (non-weight-bearing) and my horizons have been limited to bed, bog and occasionally couch, I’ve started to write a blog about a dozen times.
There’s the other thing about being stuck in one place with your only – ha! – contact with the outside world being social media, 24-hour rolling news and the bing bing bing of texts and Whatsapp notifications.
You are never really alone.
I’ve had weeks – months, in fact – to prepare for this. I told myself I’d use the time productively, that I’d rest properly and use all those quiet moments for contemplation and serious thought as to where I’d direct my future career. I’d start reading that pile of novels by my bedside and even finish ( or at least re-start) writing my own book.
I’ve slept a lot. But mostly I’ve obsessively browsed social media, read far too many think pieces, watched far too much rolling news.
All those other things I promised I’d do? Not so much.
And having done nothing but immerse myself in news, I’ve experienced several times that terrible feeling of being completely overwhelmed by all that’s happening; a feeling exacerbated by the knowledge that, for the first time in my life, I am physically incapable of doing anything in response.
It’s disconcerting, more than a little terrifying and yet has been oddly liberating, too.
Because, for the first time in my life, I’ve accepted I can’t do everything. In fact, I can’t do anything. No more mini messiah complex of thinking only I can help, only I can do it, only I can sort things.
So instead of lying here fretting because the carpets need hoovered and Debbie hates hoovering and I don’t want her to do stuff she hates…
Instead of anxiously and fruitlessly worrying about the effects of proposed healthcare reform on poor Americans…
Instead of obsessively following the machinations of Brexit and Indyref2 and giving myself an ulcer over how I can influence either…
Instead of agonising over the terrible, tragic and pointless loss of life in London and wondering long into the night how I can personally persuade angry people to take a deep breath before saying or doing something they might regret forever…
Well, I’m not doing any of that – not any more.
So I have found one other bonus of being confined to bed. The frustrating time for recuperation has been the space that unexpectedly let me work out that too often I’m busy doing nothing. That my reaction to all those big overwhelming events is too often to throw myself into a frenzy of activity, as if by mere movement alone, I can magic any problem away.
It’s chastening to accept that no matter how essential you think you are to the world turning, the reality is that life goes on regardless of whether you’re spring cleaning, joining protest marches or – as I am right now – adopting a Zen-like approach to an almighty itch halfway down a stookie*.
My recovery from the operation could take up to nine months. I appreciate how lucky I am that it’s not more debilitating, and while I hope I get better faster than that, the long-term aim of short-term physical limitations has to be that I appreciate better the times when I really can do something that matters.
Relax. I’m not actually going anywhere. It’s where I’m no longer going to go that’s important.
Almost six years after I made what friends and old colleagues probably regarded as a quixotic (ie barmy) decision to become a dog walker, next week I shall hang up my poo bags for the last time.
Not only that but I will be returning – sort of – to the conventional office life I had thought I’d left behind forever.
What’s prompted my about-turn is the rather grim news that I need an operation on both of my feet, thanks to a particularly unpleasant orthopaedic condition known as Haglund’s heel.
Essentially I have bony spurs growing out of both of my heels and into the Achilles tendon, causing severe inflammation and pretty much constant pain. Only an op offers a long-term solution, but the recovery can take up to nine months. The first op, on my left foot, is down for March (NHS crisis notwithstanding) with the second one to be done at some point next year.
Dog walking didn’t cause this problem. The design of my stupid feet did. Daily walking on hard, uneven ground for the last half decade simply exarcebated things.
I’ve already been stupid enough to try walking half a dozen dogs while leaning heavily on a pair of crutches, having torn cartilage in my knee a couple of years ago.
The prospect of trying to herd a bunch of recalcitrant pooches in a downpour while limping furiously and risking further damage to my feet is not something I can contemplate.
I’m too young – yes, really! – to be thinking of walking with a stick or, worse, browsing Gumtree to buy a second-hand mobility scooter.
So it’s all over. Lead On Dog Walkers will be no more by the end of the month. My lovely pack will be led by a new dog walker and I’ll have to start thinking of buying corporate workwear again…
I’m sad that it’s ended this way, but I’m determined to look on whatever bright side I can find in this post-Brexit, post-Trump world.
The one constant in life is change. But change also brings opportunities. So I’m embracing both the change and the opportunity to do something else with my life. Let’s face it, we’ll all be in harness til we’re 80 at this rate anyway so I may as well make a start on the third stage of my working life right now.
I’ll miss my doggies, some of whom have been with me since that very first summer. Alfie will miss his canine chums and his four walks every day. I will miss beautiful sunny days on a hill watching the sun glint off the sea.
I won’t miss horizontal rain, my fingers going through a poo bag, getting accidentally nipped while handing out treats or slathering ketchup on to the neck of a dog that’s rolled in fox shit or worse.
I’ll miss fighting for my spot on the couch and being the constant centre of furry attention as top dog.
I won’t miss fighting for my spot on the couch and being the constant centre of furry attention as top dog.
Anyway, that’s my tail of woe (pardon the pun). Now, onwards and upwards. I might even find some time now to finish the damn book…
As a teenager when George first appeared, I didn’t love Wham! I was too busy pretending to be cool and disparaging such pop froth. Secretly I did love the songs and sang along to every word, but I was one of those stupidly binary idiots who thought it impossible to like both the Smiths and Wham! More fool me.
Instead it was George the solo artist whose music touched me, made me cry, made this clod-hopping klutz with two left feet ache to dance.
When I was lucky enough to see him at Earls Court in late 2006, I’m not ashamed to say I wept with the sheer joy of it.
Six months or so later, I was among thousands who packed Hampden Park to dance and sing and wave my arms in the air with an exuberant George in the way I’d never have contemplated as a teenager – again, more fool me.
2016 has been a sobering year in every respect. Inventive unique musical and performing artists who refused to toe any cultural line or conform to societal expectations have gone.
There’s a viciousness to the political forces that have taken root here in the UK and elsewhere, an angry way of thinking that rejects the live-and-let-live philosophy the likes of George and Bowie and Prince espoused, instead preferring to isolate and banish any outsider, whether through ethnicity, religion or sexuality.
As with the deaths of Bowie and Prince, the loss of George Michael diminishes our world that little bit more, makes things a lot less interesting, a lot less fun, a lot greyer.
Thankfully we’ll have always the glorious technicolor video of Outside, where George, dressed as the sexiest cop on the beat, turns a public lavatory into a disco and rips the absolute piss out of the system that outed him.
We must come to see that the end we seek is a society at peace with itself, a society that can live with its conscience.
The words of the inspirational Martin Luther King seem a little hollow this bleak November morning.
2016 has not been a year to celebrate for me or for many of my like-minded relatives, friends and acquaintances.
The result of the US presidential election sets the tin lid on what has been a quite dreadful 12 months.
Intolerance, racism, bigotry, outright misogyny and small-minded nationalism have become the political norm on both sides of the Atlantic.
I can find few positives to take from Britain’s vote to leave the European Union, from America’s decision to elect Donald Trump ahead of the competent, experienced Hillary Clinton or from the general move of political culture to the right across much of Europe (what price Marine Le Pen and her fascist Front National sweeping France’s presidential elections next year?).
I’m tired of hearing how these votes are how the great unlistened to, the uncared for, the ignored are finally telling political elites they’ve had enough.
This is a failure not only of political leadership but of education and aspiration.
These are not votes for change, not votes to rip up the establishment and install a new more equitable order.
These are votes for a past we can never return to. The howl of anguish from mainly white men at an industrial and social world that has changed and evolved to mean much of their autonomy and power has been shared around with women and minorities of all hues.
Angry men – and women, it has to be said – who want to tear down the society they no longer control without any clue as to what horror might replace it.
Well, the rest of us are not going anywhere. Women, minorities of sexuality, ethnicity and religion. We’re here to stay. And the rights so ferociously fought for over decades will not be surrendered.
For those of us who believe in civil rights and equality for all, things have never looked more bleak.
But from the darkness must come light. It’s hard to find any hope in this most desperate of days, but find hope we must.
Again in the words of Dr Martin Luther King:
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: Only love can do that.
And I’m trying to find some inspiration in the words of JFk, one US president the world didn’t recoil in horror from:
One person can make a difference, and everyone should try.
That most slender of Vote Leave victories – remember, 52-48 percent on a turnout of 71.8 percent or 33 million voters – has been spun into a mandate to pull up the drawbridge and declare Britain not only Brexited but damn well closed.
So non-UK medics in the NHS are told they’ll be offski as soon as we train enough doctors to replace them. Which will be 2025. Or when hell freezes over, whichever comes sooner.
The loathesome and tiresome Andrea Leadsom says British teenagers can become apprentices in fruit picking to replace the 67,000 seasonal workers the agricultural industry needs annually, most of whom come from the EU for the season then go home again.
Home Secretary Amber Rudd threatens to jail landlords who rent to illegal immigrants while scaring away the foreign students upon whom our universities depend for their funding.
The hateful, anti-migrant rhetoric of Farage and his fellow travellers has become official government policy overnight.
Meanwhile, the Twitter account of the leader of the official opposition has had this to say on a day that’s seen the UK take an almost unalterable lurch to the right: