The winter of 2014

It is fair to say I am not in the first flush of youth.  I'm not exactly in the final flush of it either.  In fact, middle age is a bit of a misnomer as I near my bus pass, assuming Cameron doesn't scrap them before I get there, at a rapid rate of knots.

I vaguely recall the winter of 1963, or maybe I don't remember it but I think I do because I have photos of me in the back garden, posing with a large snowman who stood there for two months (so I am told).

I have seen the occasional extremes of weather.  

The long hot summer of 1976, the storm of 1987 and now the never ending wet winter of 2014.

This year is, by far, the most depressing and dispiriting of the lot.

I am a great believer in science, not that I understand much of it.

I listen to Professors Dawkins and Cox because they know what they are talking about.  That evolution is a fact and what happened in the Big Bang.  Science tells it like it is, unless someone can come up with a better theory.

The science this year tells us not that this awful winter is because of climate change, but that we are likely to suffer more regular events like this because of climate change.  There has to be something in it.

The sights and sounds from Somerset and increasingly elsewhere make my heart ache.

Ordinary, decent people seeing their lives ruined by the forces of nature, altered by mankind or not: for now it doesn't matter, or maybe this is not the right time to dwell on the likelihood that it is.

In all the distress, and my god there has been enough of it, there are signs of heroism, of community, of courage, of generosity.  The human spirit, though drenched, has not drowned.

And suddenly we have the economics of Keynes, with Cameron's right wing government (correctly) throwing money at this catastrophe as a good socialist would.  Because, and lest we forget, the market, upon which the Conservatives base all their principles, doesn't work in disasters.  

No.  Their much-hated public sector, which for four years has been attacked more than by any other government, even Thatcher's, is all that stands between the people and crushing defeat to the elements.

Suddenly, the heroes helping the citizens are soldiers, firefighters, environment staff, doctors and nurses, police officers, council staff and so on.  No fast buck to made here.

And yet.

The first step this government took in 2010 was to announce austerity and the Department of Environment took the biggest financial hit of all, the biggest cuts of all the departmental budgets.

And what are the big budget items in DofE?  Why it's only flood defences.  The budgets were cut by almost £100m a year.

The Environment Secretary doesn't really believe in climate change either so he slashed by 40% his department's spend on developing the UK's adaptation to the effects of global warming.  You know, like strengthening flood defences, protecting rail links, that sort of thing.

And now the politicians are at it.  

Cameron, at last, arriving for photo opportunities, Eric Pickles slagging off the Environment Agency which is, er, funded by the government.  (If the Tories hated it so much, why didn't they abolish it, or bring it back into full public control?  Because it's easier to blame something semi-autonomous rather than accept blame themselves when something goes tits up.)

I doubt that the people who have seen their lives ruined by water are pleased to see the posing and posturing, although I suspect they have other things to worry about.

The government's reaction to all this was so slow it beggars belief.  But then, why should it?

The government - and usually governments of all colours - have ministers, and indeed Prime Ministers, with skills no greater than us.  Cameron, for example, was a TV executive.

They seem to have been following the unfolding tragedy like the rest of us, by watching on telly.  And now, whilst Somerset drowns and other areas join them, they have twigged something must be done.

Well it bloody should.

Just a few weeks ago, the government confirmed it would be sacking around 1000 Environment Agency staff as part of the government's cuts.  These are not all bean counters in non jobs.  Many are those in the front line, trying to make people's lives better, or at least trying to stop them getting even worse.

I've never seen anything like it.

A great politician - a Blair or a Thatcher, I dread saying - would have risen to the occasion and shown real leadership, but this lot cower in fear of the opinion polls and allow events to unfold before their eyes instead of shaping them.  They will pay a heavy price for this.

Away from the shysters of politics, we must never forget the people paying such a terrible price.

Ordinary people with ordinary lives whose lives are drowning in the floods of 2014.

The public mood is changing because, it seems, very little is being done to help the worst hit.

It's very, very sad to see but the reality appears to be that we cannot afford to be climate change deniers anymore, unless we want more of these disasters which could well be man made.

I think we would do well to assume climate change is for real just to be on the safe side.

Union news

There now follows an essay about the decline in my union, the PCS.  Feel free to fall asleep as you read.

The threat to trade unions by the government’s decision to end the check-off facility for collecting subscriptions is very real and is likely, particularly in the case of PCS, to be extremely damaging, if not fatal.

No one can be in any doubt of the political motivation behind this decision but we need to be very clear that it will have little effect on ordinary PCS members who already find themselves being represented, if that’s the word, by a rag tag and bobtail collection of Toytown revolutionaries who have already taken the union to the brink of destruction.

While it is undoubtedly true that in many, often unseen, areas the union carries out much good work for members but on the national stage it is almost an irrelevance.

Campaign after campaign has faltered and died, only to be resurrected during the annual AGM and election season before being allowed to falter and die, again.

After last year’s hopeless campaign, which appeared to start with pensions and pay but ended with a ‘stop the cuts’ slogan, there was a ‘consultation’ period which passed many of us by but concluded, astonishingly, with the revelation that members still fancy a scrap with the government.

Whilst there is undoubtedly disillusionment and even despair among the ranks, I do not detect the will for a fight, whatever that means.

PCS is inextricably linked with the ultra left in general and the Socialist Party (Militant to us old codgers) in particular and we have, in the view of this tired old hack, reached the end of the road.

The ultra left controls virtually every aspect of the union from full time paid officers, its branches, it’s national committees and it’s annual delegate conference where, despite the fact that hardly any members participate in the ‘democratic’ process (ha ha), the union’s policies are made.

With huge cuts for union time off in the last year, you just know that the only ones who will carry on fighting for the revolution will be the diehards, the Moonies of the ultra left. 

I hear people saying that ordinary punters should stand for election against the Trots but I will argue we’ve tried that already and it didn’t work.  Since 1984, those who reject Trotskyism have tried with decreasing levels of success to turn the union round.  And now it’s all too late.

I hear the voices of those who say that there should be a list of sensible candidates –a slate - to run against the incumbent ultra left but those who say that have no democratic structure behind them and no policies (other than ‘we are not Trots’).

I have agreed with the arguments that there is no point in running a slate to oppose the ultra left.  It’s too big a mountain to climb.  Any fight back would need to start at the bottom up, not the top down, and I see few people who want to enter the fray.  Because if they – whoever they might be – did decide to fight the Trots, they’d need to go in with their eyes wide open.  It would be a long fight, a very ugly and exhausting fight and, without huge resources of people and, dare I say it, money, an ultimately unsuccessful fight.

The current structure of the union sees a huge amount of work carried out by ‘lay’ officials.  With huge cuts to paid union time off, this becomes more difficult by the day.

So what to do?

Like all unions, PCS runs an annual delegate conference where over a thousand representatives get together and support Socialist Party ‘policies’ and turn them into union policies.  Conference costs a fortune, yet only a tiny minority of members participate in the democratic processes, or have the first idea of what goes on.  Nor do they give a toss.

My first decision as the union’s new Tsar would be to abolish conference.  With some of the money saved, I would appoint local organisers to represent existing members and recruit news ones.  They would get a basic (fair) salary but they would get commission if they were successful.

I’d carry out a root and branch survey of the entire union structure and scrap entirely the branch set up. Instead of lots of Bristol branches in different departments, I’d set up one Bristol branch, serviced by a full time paid official.

I would reduce the huge area structures to a bare minimum, as well as the departmental committees, regardless of cries from the far left of impacting on ‘democracy’ as they call their control of the union.

Instead of having ‘editorial boards’ of lay officials for union publications, I would appoint a professional journalist to oversee union publications and literature.

I would cut delegations to affiliates, I would scrap donations to organisations no matter how worthy they appear to be; in short, the union would exist purely to support ordinary members.

I’d abolish all annual elections and make them at least bi-annually, if not every three years.   More frequent elections don’t mean more democracy.

And so it goes.

I’d even seek a meeting with the PM despite everything that has happened, even to the point of offering a ‘no strike’ deal in exchange for better pay and conditions and agreements to avoid compulsory redundancies and transfers.

Surely it would be better than what’s happening now, where PCS heads to oblivion, lions led by donkeys who have far greater ambitions than giving a shit about humble poorly paid civil servants?

Happy birthday

Social networks get a lot of grief these days.

People making racist comments, breaching court conditions and possibly worst of all sick perverts grooming innocent children.

You'd think from the media that this was pretty well it.  Nothing but bad news.

It was my birthday today and I got a whole lotta love through social networks.  I was flattered and even humbled by some of the comments people made.  As I settle down to a nice refreshing glass of Heineken. I should like to thank you all.

2014 could be one of the better years of my life.

There's a chance of getting out of the rat race and working for someone else on my terms - or even working for myself (at what, god only knows).

Either way, there's a light at the end of the tunnel.  Only time will tell whether it's an oncoming express!

The black dog is at bay at the moment but I know, from bitter experience, that if you forget he's there he will bite you on the bum and pretty well everywhere else if he gets half the chance.

Thanks to everyone who has wished me well for my birthday.  I really appreciate it.

Golf

This golf journey, as we must call every life experience these days, has now been going on for some 20 months of my life.

I started off with nothing and I've still got most of it left, as Seasick Steve observed.

Still, it's been a lot of fun, sometimes!

My first round on the Thornbury Par 3, which is much more substantial than a municipal pitch and putt course, saw me card a 94.  That's the sort of score that makes you want to give up.  But I didn't give up and last summer I recorded a 59, just five over par.

Progress, for sure, but I am struggling to progress on the big courses.

Last year, I managed a very impressive 87 on the Woodlands Signature Course in Bradley Stoke and thought I had it made.  Since then, I have rarely broken 100 and some days it's much worse than that.

My first, and to date only, venture onto the Kendleshire saw me card a humiliating 132.  I feel I really should be doing better than that.

My coach, Sam Hughes, has turned someone with no obvious ability into someone with a bit, but I still need him from time to time to smooth over those rough edges.

My driving was abysmal when I saw Sam last week at Saltford.  He sees imperfections in your game and tweaks them and soon I was smacking the ball 200 yards, sometimes straight.  Same with my long iron game.

I put the changes into action at Woodlands on the Masters Course today and for the first six holes I was not that much over par.  But the first six holes are usually the easiest (even though I managed to hit a ball into the lake on the fourth).  Seven was okay, although my short game went to pot on this one, but eight saw me record a piss poor 11.  It's a longish narrow Par 4 and longish and narrow are not my favourite two words.

And it got worse and worse.

On the 12th, where you hit across a small valley (slight exaggeration) I hit it a long way, albeit a long way right too.  I found my ball and hit a five iron to within 50 yards but then there was a terrific hail storm, followed by rain.  I was soaked to the skin within 10 seconds and, shivering, decided in the most cowardly fashion to call it a day.

I fear I may have hit a plateau now, one from which I may never really improve apart from the odd decent round.  Time is against me (old dogs, new tricks and all that) and I worry I might lose my enthusiasm if I don't improve more and maybe get even worse!

There's always tomorrow, I suppose, and I may well celebrate my birthday in the driving range, slicing and hooking some balls around Thornbury.

Maybe I need to play - and practice - even more to improve, or not get worse?

What gigs?

I wonder what gigs are coming along this year.

Last year was pretty good.  Todd Rundgren.  CSN (twice). The Manics and even Caro emerald.  The Ducktails and Treetop Flyers.

My tinnitus is not good these days so I have to pick and choose my gigs but if some acts come over I won't be missing them.

I am expecting Brian Wilson to tour, John Fogerty is doing Europe, Toto are promoting a new album and missed the UK last year. 

My big hope is Joe Walsh in the form of Barnstorm, his legendary band from the 1970s.  This, to me, was the ultimate power outfit.

I'm trying to give up arenas because the sound is so shit and the atmosphere worse.  Bristol Colston Hall is a small hall but it's got a brilliant atmosphere.

Sales

In the absence of much else to do, I took the train into town (well, as near to town as Bristol's main station takes you) to look at a few shops.

I was not born yesterday so I went to the main shopping area, called Cabot Circus (I call it Carboot Circus, which I think is no less silly), in the knowledge that there would be few if any real bargains.  How right I was.

If there were bargains, they were snapped up by the 'I must have this' brigade at 5.00 am on Boxing Day morning.  There was nothing I could see that resembled anything like a bargain.

I went in a couple of stores and although there were signs like 'Everything 50% off', items were still horrendously expensive.  Or maybe it's because my wages have stood still since the mid 2000s - well, that's not true: in actual terms, minus overtime and plus huge increases in pension contributions, they are much lower - and everything else has gone up?

Either way, I kept thinking to myself: I can't afford this and anyway it's no better than the old stuff I've got under the bed.

It's slightly depressing, in the literal sense of the word, to be amongst people who DO have the money to buy stuff, or at least appear to have it.  But as I looked closely, most folk seemed to be shuffling round just looking at things.  There were few staggering under the weight of their purchases.

By Primark, where we do a lot of our shopping, it was a very different story.  It looked rammed and the pavements groaned with shoppers buying at the basement end.  And I got to thinking.

I consider myself to be at the lower end of the squeezed middle.  We neither of us earn large sums despite working hard (thus dispelling the Cameron myth of supporting those who "work hard and want to get on" - no, he doesn't give a shit about us) and things get tighter.  I'm wearing cheaper shoes and much older clothes.  I replace not for stylistic reasons but because I have to.  I buy the cheapest 'name' brands because they last longer than the cheap non named brands when the water gets in the bottom of the old ones.

I can't talk about what I do - I'd be sacked in this free country of ours - but I work hard for ever reducing 'reward' and I wonder, sometimes, why I bother.

Those at the top, from their elite private schools and affluent lifestyles, know nothing about us, the riff raff of the proletariat who struggle by on what they would regard as chicken feed.

I would love to visit my brothers in Vancouver, play golf at some nice courses, buy some nice things just now and then, maybe even go out for a meal at somewhere better than Frankie and Bennys (and that's bloody dear by our standards).

It doesn't help that I am horribly depressed, lurching from one mood swing to the next, but this awful government, enabled by Nick Clegg and his gutless, self-interested party, makes me feel a failure and I think they are rather enjoying it.

Death was final

When someone dies, people often offer their prayers by means of offering the their kindness and support, even those who don't pray.

And non religious people like me wish that the deceased should rest in peace.

I don't pray for anyone because I am pretty sure it's no more than talking to an imaginary friend.  If belief in a god brings comfort to the bereaved, who am I to argue, even if it doesn't make it real?

I wasn't with my mum when she died and I was half the world away when my dad died, but I was with my step dad.

I had the call from his Residential Care Home that he was dying and I'd better hot foot it.

I arrived and he was, obviously, in bed. He was breathing but life was drifting away.

As the moment got near, the guy who ran the home told me it was imminent and did I want to be there?  At first, I said I didn't and I stood in the next room, but I suddenly realised I had to be there.

Shortly after I went back into the room and I heard his final breath, his heart stopped beating and he was dead.  Nothing else changed.  He wasn't moving before he died and I am pretty sure he was in such a deep sleep he wouldn't even be dreaming.

Of course, I felt sad for a while.  This was, after all, the man who came along and made my mum's life worth living for a good few years but then he got struck down with Parkinsons, the most evil disease, and it took away everything that made his life worthwhile.

I watched his final years with a mixture of sadness and despair.  There was nothing positive to say about what the illness did to him.

I loved him but I hated what old age and illness had done to him.

So when that final day came along I was almost ready.

When he died, there was no spiritual feeling, no signs that he was passing into another world; just the end.  I didn't pray, didn't even think of praying.  Here was a god who could kill millions by way of floods, famines and plagues but he couldn't do anything to preserve my stepdad's dignity or make his final days more bearable.

Death was final.