Friday, 18 December 2020

Fleapit Revisited:Small Axe - Education.

An ordinary working class family in north London are going through their morning routine. Getting changed, brushing their teeth, hurrying each other out of the bathroom, and rushing, or even completely missing, their breakfasts before heading out into a familiar world of grey skies and green grass and trying to get on with their lives with minimum fuss.

But this is Britain in the seventies and this is a West Indian family. This is racist Britain in the seventies and this family is black. Steve McQueen's brilliant five part series Small Axe (BBC1/iPlayer) drew to a close on Sunday night with Education, probably the most important (if not the best - Lovers Rock was sublime) and most hard hitting chapter of the pentalogy.

It told the tale of Kingsley Smith (an excellent Kenyah Sandy) and his journey into the world of the 'educationally subnormal' school. What we would now call SEN (Special educational needs) and what we would now, we hope, treat with diligence and care was then, Education shows us, seen more like a prison or borstal. A place where problematic children could be kept away from others and fast tracked into a life of misery.

In the seventies being put into one of these schools was something of a life sentence. 'Graduates' of these establishments would rarely find jobs, certainly not interesting or well paid ones, they'd be unlikely to attract partners or marry, and they'd be labelled thickos for the rest of their, often quite short, lives.

The number of black children sent to these schools was disproportionately high and that was a result of something that all except the most disingenuous of us would now recognise as a form of institutionalised racism. We see one teacher, Miss Gill (Kate Dickie from Robert Eggers' The Witch) tell Kingsley that, should he wish, he can spend his break period swinging from the trees like he's "back in the jungle" - as long as he doesn't hurt himself and get her in trouble.

Another teacher treats the class to a doleful, and dire, acoustic guitar rendition of House of the Rising Sun and others simply leave the class unattended. Resulting in paper aeroplane fights, blackboards graffitied with "SHIT", "BUM", and "POO", and an absolute chaos beyond even organised lessons. Which are often punctuated by a young girl who communicates solely by making the sound of animal noises.

It's, quite clearly, not the best background for young Kingsley, an intelligent child with a keen interest in astronomy but who struggles with reading, or for his fellow pupil Nina (Aiyana Goodfellow) who rolls her eyes with disdain at being asked to read words as simple as 'ambulance' and 'exit'.

Kingsley's struggles with the written word are shown in a 'normal' school where he stutters when asked to read a section of John Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men out loud in class and where we see nasty, and certainly racist, teachers tell him he's a "blockhead" and a "lying little bugger".

While Kingsley prays to God before bedtime to grant him his wish that he grows up to become an astronaut (and play for Tottenham - though at time of writing no Tottenham player, not even Glenn Hoddle or David Ginola, have departed Earth's orbit) his mother Agnes (Sharlene Whyte) and mostly disinterested father Esmond (Daniel Francis) have more realistic and grounded hopes for Kingsley's future and, at first, despite some very obvious disappointment, accept that's he's destined for a 'special school' in Barnet.

Even if it's a bus ride away. Agnes is sold on the idea that the "smaller classes, more focused teaching" approach will work better after she's been softened up by being told that Kingsley has registered a low score in an IQ test. An IQ test that the school are unable, or unwilling, to run for a second time.

It's only the arrival of Hazel (Naomi Ackie), a psychologist from British Guyana, and campaigner Lydia (Josette Simon) that first alert Agnes to how this system (one that was diagnosed and exposed by Grenadian autor Bernard Coard in a 1971 pamphlet How the West Indian Child is Made Educationally Sub-Normal in the British School System) was failing her son and many many others like him.


When Kingsley's sister, Stephanie (Tamara Lawrance), starts to take an interest, Agnes comes to see that Lydia's firm belief that the Inner London Educational Authority were operating a particularly racist policy is true. A group meeting with other parents of children from West Indian backgrounds brings home to her, and us, just how widespread the problem is.

Education, as with all four other Small Axe episodes, dripped with attention to period detail. From the clothes, buses, and lightswitches to the ornaments, radio broadcasts, and the huge numbers of cigarettes smoked (even in small classrooms) and on to the health and safety nightmare that was a 70s British school playground and the distant sound of the Roobarb theme tune on a small television it was something of a McQueen masterclass in mixing the prosaic with the poetic.

Lengthy shots of shoes and mirrors gave an artistic sheen to a story about very ordinary, for which read extraordinary, lives and allowed McQueen to map out a narrative of intersectionality and institutionalised racism while being neither hectoring, po-faced, nor frivolous. As with all Small Axes, McQueen skillfully weaved the humdrum elements that make up a person's life into a rich diorama of the lived black British experience of his youth and how so much of that experience was taken up with facing one seemingly insurmountable problem. That of overcoming a system that is stacked, from the word go, against anybody who stands out and, most of all, against anyone of colour.

That many of the episodes of Small Axe ended on an uncertain note was, I think, intentional. Because the story of British state racism is by no means one that has ended and in the election as Prime Minister of a man who not only uses words like "piccaninnies" and talks of "watermelon smiles" but is celebrated, and promoted, for doing so we can see that the story of the fight against racism in the United Kingdom has embarked on a very ugly new chapter. One which, with Covid-19 still raging throughout the country (a death toll of roughly five hundred per day still) and a potential no deal Brexit looming, looks likely to be juiced by our far right government in an attempt to distract the populace into endless culture wars and add to further uncertainty.

As for Kingsley, Education ends with the hope the announcement of a new Secretary of State for Education and Science may see things improve for him and those in similar situations. Not least because that person is a woman:- Margaret Thatcher. Baby milk snatcher. It's a proposition that leaves us, like young Kingsley, wanting to leave Earth's orbit.



Sunday, 13 December 2020

Kakistocracy V:I Love Slough.

"Why does the prime minister hate Slough?" - Tanmanjeet Singh Dhesi, MP for Slough

"I love Slough" - Boris Johnson

Boris Johnson is Britain's most famous and accomplished liar. As the brilliant writer Marina Hyde observed in a recent column "for Boris Johnson, lying is not second nature:it is nature". He lies to his wives, he lies to his lovers, he lies to his colleagues, he lies to his opponents, he lies to parliament, he lies to the country, and he lies to the world.

He lies on the sides of buses, he lies in newspaper columns, he lies about laying in front of bulldozers at Heathrow Airport, he lies about building garden bridges, he lies about building airports, he lies about how many children he's got, he lies about coronavirus testing capabilities, and he lies that he'd rather be found dead in a ditch than extend a Brexit deadline.

But when he lied about loving Slough even his most hardcore supporters, a curious mixture of educationally subnormal buffoons and greedy capitalist scumbags, can't have believed him. As the former MP of the nearby London Borough of Hillingdon, Johnson would, of course, have had some knowledge of the town so it's possible that he's a fan of the former Slough Trading Estate, Station Jim (the stuffed dog on platform five of Slough station), and the fictional Wernham Hogg stationery office from the sitcom The Office.


It's almost certain that Johnson will have enjoyed Slough's most famous culinary export, the Mars bar, on occasions and he's roughly the right age to have attended, like me, the 1990 Slough festival to see Ride, Curve, Slowdive, The Mock Turtles, Thousand Yard Stare, and Soul Family Sensation. It's just that shoegazing doesn't really seem his kind of thing. It seems more likely that the man who once dreamed of being "world king" would have been far more taken with the castle of nearby Windsor than the more prosaic edifices of Slough.

Like David Brent from The Office, Johnson is more of a "chilled out entertainer" than he is a prime minister. But unlike David Brent from The Office who is a mostly harmless fictional character on television, Boris Johnson is a harmful real life character in charge of an actual real country of over sixty six million people at a time of the worst global pandemic in over a century. When he tells a racist joke or does a stupid dance we don't just cringe, we suffer.

As with Brent, Johnson loves toadies and the more slavering and inept they are the better. Johnson's cabinet has no time for Tim Canterbury types (Martin Freeman's character in The Office) and is populated exclusively by Gareth Keenans (Mackenzie Crook) and Keith Bishops (Ewen MacIntosh, seen enjoying a substantial meal) with the odd Finchy (Ralph Ineson) thrown in to keep things nasty. 


You can see a bit of Finchy's nasty boastfulness in the failed Secretary of State for Education Gavin Williamson who treated the undoubtedly brilliant news that a vaccine would soon be rolled out by announcing that the UK is a "better country" than France, Belgium, or the US (despite the vaccine being created by a Turkish-German team) but for the most direct comparison look no further than Home Secretary Priti Patel

The proven and acknowledged bully (who can neither count nor tell the difference between terrorism and counter terrorism) has recently visited a police station in Bahrain where human rights activisits have been tortured. Your guess is as good as mine as to why she may have made that visit but I can't help thinking that she's probably thinking once we get rid of those pesky EU do-gooders we could learn a thing or two from barbaric states like Bahrain. 

For the role of Keenan or even Bishop look no further than Health Secretary Matt Hancock whose willingness to shill for any of Johnson's ludicrous initiatives (Operation Moonshot anybody?) remains as keen and unabated as ever despite a summer in which, Dominic Cummings aside, he became possibly Britain's most hated man. Hated even more than his boss.

When Hancock pretended to cry in front of Piers Morgan and Susanna Reid on Good Morning Britain it was perhaps the most embarrassing performance seen on television since Mick Fleetwood and Sam Fox presented the Brit Awards in 1989 and the most dishonest once since, well since Boris Johnson claimed he loved Slough.


Johnson's latest wheeze, his most recent fit of bluster, bravado, and dangerous bullshit is to threaten to guard fishing boats around the coast of the UK with gunboats. Actual gunboat diplomacy - but without much diplomacy behind it. Even many of Johnson's backbenchers are not happy about this bellicose language. It was foolhardy enough when the washed up old has been Michael Howard suggested we could go to war with Spain over Gibraltar but it's lunatic behaviour to threaten twenty-seven allied countries with what amounts to threats of violence for acts they haven't even performed yet.

Less than two weeks away from a now likely no deal Brexit it's borderline suicidal - and for what? Fish. Fish and the abstract concept of sovereignty. The sovereignty that, five years ago, nobody but a small cabal of hard right Tory backbenchers and Eurosceptics, even knew we didn't have. As observed by many brighter than me, how come when a fish strays into British waters it automatically becomes a British fish but when a human being does, particularly a brown human being, they most resolutely do not automatically become a British person.

I don't even eat fish anyway so I don't give a fuck but even if I did I'd think fishing rights would be a strange choice of hill to die on when so many other sectors and industries will suffer hugely as the result of any kind of Brexit. Another thing I don't eat is Scotch eggs which is more of a pity as if I did I'm sure I'd have been out for more substantial meals than I have in the last ten days.

With the end of what amounted to nothing more than a social lockdown all of England, bar Cornwall, the Isle of Wight, and the Scilly Isles, was placed under either tier two or tier three regulations. Here in London we're in tier two (with talk rampant of being moved into tier three very soon) so we can meet only with household members or those in our bubble indoors and we can only go to the pub if we have a substantial meal.

I met Pam for a walk around Dulwich Park and Sanda for an outdoor coffee and a walk around Covent Garden, Soho, Fitzrovia, and Bloomsbury to look at the Christmas decorations but the only indoor meet I've had has been with Vicki. We went into The Ring pub near Southwark station and I had spring rolls and chips which were very tasty indeed.


Our server told us, beneath his mask, how the new system works. We could order a drink while we decided what we wanted to eat, then there may be a bit of a wait for food (lots of people were ordering it for some reason) so we might need another drink, and then after we'd eaten we could stay and have a drink or two to wash it down. Basically, as long as we ordered food (and we did, Vicki had calamari) we could stay there as long as we liked.

A breaking of the rules, a 'flouting' of them or a bending of them? I don't think so. We were seated a fair distance from the next nearest diners/drinkers and it didn't get silly. A Covid spore doesn't back away because you've got food on your table but, equally, massive drunkenness does clearly make social distancing difficult. Nothing's 100% safe and we all have to make our own decisions and I was happy with this one.

Whatever you do someone will accuse you of doing something wrong. If you stay at home you'll be accused of 'cowering', if you go out you'll be accused of spreading the virus. Everyone's going to find a different balance and I'm trying hard not to critique people for coming to different decisions to me. I was invited out for a meal this weekend that, in normal times, I'd have attended with glee. But I thought better of it. That decision was right for me. Those that went out and had that meal made the right decision for themselves too.

This government have foisted division upon us as a tactic and I'm no more inclined to do their dirty work for them than I am to spread baseless conspiracy theories about Bill Gates (if he wanted to track people's movements why start at care homes? My nan was in one for the last few years of her life and her movements were very limited and very predictable), George Soros, or 5G. Although it's tempting to share the rather weird and excellent one my hairdresser told me about Matt Hancock.

 

That haircut, as well as those catch ups with Vicki, Pam, and Sanda and the regular Kahoot quizzes have been the social highlights for me since I last wrote one of these Kakistocracy blogs. The rest of the time I've been working, walking, writing, watching television (both Small Axe and Industry have been excellent and The Last Leg remains a hilarious tonic), and sleeping a lot.

If we're (us Londoners) not placed in tier three on Wednesday I have plans to catch up with Valia for a Christmas gift exchange and vague plans to hopefully catch up with Ian and Simon over the festive season too. Possibly Shep and Adam when I'm back in Tadley. Other than that, this year, I'll be spending Christmas Day on my own for the first time ever.

Which is fine. It's what I've chosen. I'll be alone but I don't think I'll be lonely. There will be Zoom catch ups with family and with Sanda, I'll go for a walk, listen to music, have some nice food and drink, and the guy who works at my local shop told me he'll be open for a few hours and if I pop down for more booze he'll slip me one. A drink I hope.

I'm quite looking forward to it. I've always wanted to spend at least one Christmas alone and this year seems a very suitable one to do so. My parents will be at home alone too - just the two of them. I won't be needing presents, gifts, or a feast this year at all. The fact that all of my family and all of my friends have survived 2020 and are still alive and well brings me more joy than any material object ever could. Chill out, shall we, please?



Friday, 11 December 2020

Albums of the Year 2020.

At the end of 2005 I was working in an office and most people had finished for Xmas. I was pretty bored to be honest. So I decided to put together some kind of metacritic list of the albums of the year.

I chose five publications and/or websites that had listed 50 (or more) of their best albums of the year. Selecting the top 50 I awarded 50 points for 1st, 49 for 2nd, and so on down to 1 point for 50th. I then crunched the numbers and made a list of the top 30 scoring.

This silly piece of time wasting proved to be quite popular so I continued and have done every year since. I used to send the e-mails round a few mates who've either expressed an interest or I'm trying to impress in some way. Since leaving my old job I've lost all the lists from 2005-2015. If anyone has them saved please get in touch.

Now I have a blog I'm gonna use this to disseminate the data. So, here we are, no photos, just a list of 2020's Top 30. Enjoy (or not)....

1 Bob Dylan - Rough And Rowdy Ways

2 Fiona Apple - Fetch The Bolt Cutters

3 Phoebe Bridgers - Punisher

4 Fleet Foxes - Shore

5 Moses Sumney - grae

6 Sault - Untitled (Black Is)

7 Bill Callahan - Gold Record

8 Beatrice Dillon - Workaround

9 The Soft Pink Truth - Shall We Go On Sinning So That Grace May Increase?

10 Special Interest - The Passion Of

11 Waxahatchee - Saint Cloud

12 JARV IS - Beyond The Pale

13 Fontaines D.C. - A Hero's Death

14 Nubya Garcia - Source

15 Shirley Collins - Heart's Ease

16 Duma - Duma

17 Run The Jewels - RTJ4

18 Thundercat - It Is What It Is

19 Perfume Genius - Set My Heart On Fire Immediately

20 Laura Marling - Song For Our Daughter

20 Frazey Ford - U Kin B The Sun

21 Jeff Parker And The New Breed - Suite For Max Brown

22 Paul Weller - On Sunset

23 Moses Boyd - Dark Matter

24 Cornershop - England Is A Garden

25 Drive-By Truckers - The Unraveling

26 Destroyer - Have We Met

27 Autechre - SIGN

28 The Flaming Lips - American Head

29 Stephen Malkmus - Traditional Techniques

30 Duval Timothy - Help

View the 2019 list here
View the 2018 list here.
View the 2017 list here.
View the 2016 list here.

sources:-

Pitchfork
the Quietus
The Wire
Uncut
Mojo 


Monday, 7 December 2020

Fleapit Revisited:Small Axe - Alex Wheatle.

"If you don't know your past you don't know your future" - Simeon.

Brixton in the late seventies and early eighties had a bit of a reputation. Atlantic Road and Coldharbour Lane were judged, sometimes correctly, often harshly, to have a bit of edge. For a young well spoken black lad like Alex Wheatle from Shirley Oaks in Surrey you'd have imagined it might have been a culture shock and in many ways, as we see in Steve McQueen's fourth film of his Small Axe series (BBC1/iPlayer), it was.

But Wheatle (Sheyi Cole), despite his accent, despite his uncool PVC jacket, despite asking where Babylon is on a map, despite nodding genially at passing policeman, and despite walking like that "scarecrow on TV" (presumably Worzel Gummidge), is made of tougher stuff than many of his peers realise.

Wheatle went on to become an award winning writer of young adult fiction and even an MBE but Small Axe goes back to a much earlier part of his life than that. We see him growing up in care homes after being abandoned by his mother at birth, we see him physically assaulted and verbally abused by a carer, we see him taunted with monkey impressions at school, and we see him coming of age in a lovingly recreated Brixton at the dawn of Thatcherism and at a time when the National Front were a serious threat.

Wheatle already loves reggae (the soundtrack features both Eek-A-Mouse and Bob Marley and there are Jah Shaka and Coxsone Dodd posters in the background of Brixton's record shops) and we see his eyes light up when he first visits SW9. It's more than a shared sense of affinity, it's almost a revelation.

Taken under the wing of new friends Dennis (Jonathan Jules) and Badger (Khali Best), young Alex is taught streetwise ways, given a crash course in patois (he didn't know corn meant money), and soon enough becomes a founder member of the Special Brew swigging Crucial Rocker sound system under the DJ name Yardman Irie.


To see Wheatle's discovery of himself is enjoyable in a rites of passage kind of way but it's juxtaposed with a much darker story which Wheatle relates, later in life, from his prison cell to his devoutly Rastafarian cellmate Simeon (Robbie Gee). Himself incarcerated for arriving at Westminster Abbey with a pickaxe and trying to attack the tomb of Edward the Confessor.

Not as clunkily expositional as these scenes tend to be, we're shown Wheatle's introduction to police brutality (something of a leitmotif in the Small Axe series and, indeed, in stories of black British lives of the time), we see black and white photos of the New Cross house fire of 1981 that killed thirteen young black people between the ages of 14 and 22 and the Black People's Day of Action that protested police and media inaction over the tragedy (both accompanied by Linton Kwesi Johnson's powerful 'New Crass Massakah'), we hear about the death of the white New Zealand anti-racist campaigner at the suspected hands of the Special Patrol Group of the Metropolitan Police in 1979, and we see how these toxic events fed into the anger that eventually created the Brixton Riots.

The Brixton Riots that Wheatle was sent to prison for his involvement in, and it's suggested this spell in prison, and Simeon's recommendation of CLR James' The Black Jacobins (its second appearance in Small Axe following Darcus Howe's recommendation of it in Mangrove), as the event that awakened Wheatle's dormant love of writing (an earlier scene sees the young Wheatle (Asad-Shareef Muhammad) inspired by listening to Roald Dahl on Desert Island Discs) and the catalyst for a change of direction in his life.

Much of the story is suggested rather than shown and though that's worked incredibly well in other Small Axe films this one, perhaps, needed a stricter narrative device to really hit home with the power it deserved. Alex Wheatle's story is certainly fascinating but Alex Wheatle, the film, very good though it was, was the least compelling of the four Small Axe stories so far. But then it does find itself in incredibly exalted company.



Saturday, 5 December 2020

Fleapit Revisited:Small Axe - Red, White and Blue.

"We're not your truncheon meat, punchbags or statistics to keep the arrest rate ticking over. Just another bloodstain in the back of your Rover" - VHF (Knife Amnesty), Cloth.

The early eighties London of Leroy Logan is a world of grey suburban streets, careworn red brick industrial units, unremarkable cars, drizzle, burger vans, racist graffiti daubed on Asian owned store fronts, and police kicking the shit out of an innocent black man for a perceived minor traffic infraction in broad daylight and in full views of passers by.

It is not, you will have surmised already, the sort of environment in which a young second generation Jamaican lad joins the police but Steve McQueen's Red, White and Blue (the third of five films in his excellent Small Axe compendium, on BBC1 and the iPlayer) isn't some figment of the director's imagination. It's based on the true story of Leroy Logan who joined the Metropolitan Police in 1983, after witnessing police brutality dished out to his own father, and eventually rose to become the chair of the Black Police Association and, in 2000, was awarded an MBE for his role in advancing policing in Britain.

Red, White and Blue isn't about Logan's later years and, except for a brief scene where he's stopped and searched outside a school while still a small boy - to be rescued by his 70s leather jacketed dad, it all takes place over the brief period of time which saw Logan leave his well paid, and "solid", job as white coated lab technician, sign up for the police, attend training college in Hendon, and, eventually, start to walk the beat of his local Islington manor.

He's called a coconut, an Oreo, and a Judas by his peers ("that's Constable Judas to you" he quips back) but the abuse he receives from his fellow officers, and seniors, is far worse and cuts much deeper. Logan's got a steely resolve, for sure, but will it be enough? 

On top of the difficulty in getting on in a famously vicious and racist work environment, Logan (played brilliantly by John Boyega) has to contend with the hornet's nest of tension and resentment his joining up has let loose upon his family. His father Ken (Steve Toussaint) is of the 'police and thieves' persuasion ("all the peace officers turn war makers") and doesn't want his son inside the belly of a beast and not least at a time he's in the process of taking two police officers to court for "wrongful arrest".

For which you can read a solid beating. Logan's mother (Joy Richardson) is quietly supportive and his aunt Jesse (Nadine Marshall), a former police liaison officer, provides regular, and vocal, encouragement to Logan (much to his father's chagrin) as does his running friend Ed (Mark Stanley) who implores Logan to "sign up".

Against a musical backdrop of Al Green, Billy Joel, Marvin Gaye, and Melle Mel's White Lines (Don't Don't Do It), as well as regular hits of Logan's father's string drenched lachrymose country and western music - which seems to be on in the car just as much as it is in the background as they play Scrabble in their flock wallpapered front room, we see Logan move into a new home with his pregnant girlfriend Gretl (Antonia Thomas), excel as the only black face in the boot camp atmosphere of Hendon Police College, and become the face of recruitment for 'coloured' officers and something of a minor celebrity in the police mess.


But not in a good way. His locker is daubed with vile racist graffiti, he's blanked by his colleagues, and, most dangerously of all, he's left to apprehend a violent criminal alone when those supposed colleagues leave him high and dry and in lethal peril. We see all of this cuts Logan to the core but it hurts him even more to see black people who have been arrested being beaten and racially abused (using very similar language to that which John Terry directed towards Anton Ferdinand).

The drama never truly resolves and that's quite correct because racism within the police, and our other institutions, is still a serious and ongoing problem. Though McQueen makes this point abundantly clear he is still, at heart, an artist and he allows a few of his trademark whimsical quirks to sometimes give the film a hazy, dream like, quality.

There are occasional lengthy brooding silences, there are lopsided camera angles, and there is one extended scene of a flock of birds in flight that seems to suggest Logan feels trapped in his environment and would like to free himself of it. Logan's best friend was, and is, Leee John from the band Imagination. Played brilliantly by Tyrone Huntley, it gives McQueen a chance to drop that band's So Good, So Right into the proceedings and he also can't resist a joke about joining "the force" that will no doubt please fans of Boyega's Star Wars character Finn.

But the Star Wars nods, the arty add-ons, the well mined seam of historical family tension, and even the slinky post-disco funk of the Body Talk hitmakers, all make up a wonderfully realistically captured background to the foreground story of a man trying to do the right thing in an environment, in a world, where there are many people out there who will take offence at that.

Logan's only real ally in his local Islington cop shop is the Asian PC Asif Kamali (Assad Zaman) who we see being told by his superior to not speak Urdu to a local shopkeeper who has become the victim of an all too predictable crime. Kamali is excellent and so is everyone else in this brilliant piece of historical drama but it is Boyega at all times you can't keep your eyes from. Logan's pensive and kind nature is underpinned by an almost messianic drive to do the right thing and make life better for everyone in his community and Boyega captures that perfectly and without showing off. It's hardly a wonder he's become such a big star.

The message Red, White, and Blue delivers, feintly portrayed but clearly felt, is that racism in the police force isn't a case of 'a few bad apples' but a wholly rotten tree. It is, and there can be no doubt about this in the wake of the last thirty years and the death of Stephen Lawrence, institutional. A culture of racism permeated the Metropolitan Police from top to bottom and, as with any culture, when that was threatened it closed ranks, protected itself, and sought to attack those that threatened it.

White officers who may or may not have been racist felt that using crude racial epithets enhanced their job prospects and eased them in to the social milieu of the police and anybody who spoke out against it was made to feel uneasy, unwelcome, and even unsafe. It would be nice to say that this was a drama set in a dim and distant past but it wasn't. This was less than forty years and now, in 2020, we have a government so obsessed with division as a means to power and the endless creation of culture wars that, to my mind, the only thing that's changed in relation to racism in the important institutions of the United Kingdom is the optics. They just hide the racism better now.  



Monday, 30 November 2020

Last Orders At The Bar Please? Saving Britain's Pubs With Tom Kerridge.

"Pub! It's where you go to drink. Pub! It's where you go think" - Pub, Six Blokes.

When BBC2 commissioned, and Tom Kerridge embarked upon, his four part series Saving Britain's Pubs With Tom Kerridge towards the end of 2019 neither the station, the man, or us the viewers could have had any idea just how dramatic the events of 2020 would turn out to be. By the time it aired a year later Covid-19 had wreaked havoc on the world, current global death toll - 1,452,608, current UK death toll - 58,030, we'd undergone a near three month national lockdown and we were just about emerging out of a second, slightly less strict and much less successful, lockdown into a tier system that nobody expects to do anything more than dent the escalating daily mortality rate.

People have been missing a lot of things. Primarily family and friends but also holidays, art galleries, restaurants, and perhaps more than those three, pubs. Some are still open for takeaway drinks but what we're missing is getting together in those pubs to see our friends, to drink, to eat, to listen to music, to join quiz nights, to laugh, and to feel alive.

I certainly am. But then I'm a fan of pubs and most of my friends are too. Many people are but with the advent of the Internet and working from home, even before the pandemic, cheap supermarket booze, and a general awareness of health concerns among younger generations pubs having been having a tough time of of it for the last couple of decades. 

Since the turn of the millennium, the UK has lost over fourteen thousand pubs, a quarter of its total. Michelin-starred chef, Saturday Kitchen guest, and owner of a proud Salisbury burr Tom Kerridge's aim, in this series, is to do his best to save four more pubs from joining them. The White Hart in Chilsworthy, Cornwall, The Prince Albert in Stroud, Gloucestershire, The Black Bull in Gartmore, between Stirling and Loch Lomond, and The Golden Anchor, in Nunhead, South East London - my manor.

Each of these pubs is very different but each of them has a very specific charm and it's a charm that's made more so by their loving owners and managers. In Chilsworthy, a non-coastal Cornish village between Bude and Okehampton, Amy is passionate, knowledgeable, hard-working, and very stressed. Her pub, The White Hart, "the only pub in the village", is something of a community resort that hosts potato contests, morris dances, and card games but with its commanding views across the beautiful green valleys of Cornwall it really could, and should, be attracting tourists, and their money, too.

Amy and her husband Ian (who also works as a gas engineer) only take £75 per week in wages for themselves which is not really a sustainable way of living so Kerridge (himself a landlord of three pubs in and around Marlow, Buckinghamshire - ventures he doesn't miss an opportunity to use the national broadcaster for to get free advertising) tasks himself with ways of making sure the pub starts running at a more handsome profit while not losing the essential character of the place.

It's a trick he aims to repeat in Nunhead, Gartmore, and Stroud. The White Hart serves good food but the restaurant area lacks character and Kerridge eats his meal alone while locals fill the nearby bar. You get the sense Kerridge is desperate not to be seen as a gentrifier, or a commodifier, of pubs and I don't think he is but his mind, his non-drinking mind - he's quit the booze, is so business focused he can't help but occasionally come across that way.

It's a delicate balance for sure. While The White Hart undergoes refurbishment ready for a St Piran's Day reopening at the start of March, Kerridge turns his attention to The Prince Albert in Strood. Owned by a 'pubco' (a pub company, think Wetherspoons, Hobgoblin, Greene King, Pitcher & Piano) but with a much better vibe than you'd associate with those 'tied houses'.


Overseen by the affable Lottie and Miles, The Royal Albert sits just outside of town (but with no car park) and it's big on live music. Regular folk gigs take place in front of adoring beardy and boozy fans. Lottie and Miles cook for the bands, provide them with free drinks, and even give them a cut of the 'wet sales' from the bar.

The one thing they don't do is take very much for themselves. Even when the regular mobile pizza chef is invited to ply his trade from the pub he doesn't have to pay for his pitch. The Royal Albert has a great atmosphere, it's a pub I know I'd feel at home in, but it's struggling financially. As is The Golden Anchor in Nunhead. Landlady Lana is so lovely I've made a pledge to myself to visit when I can. Kerridge announces, to my glee, that SE15 is now "a cool postcode to have" (I'm SE23 but a five minute walk takes me into SE15) but The Golden Anchor, to be fair, isn't the coolest pub in the postcode.

There's The Rye, The Prince of Peckham, and John the Unicorn in Peckham itself and even Nunhead has Ye Olde Nun's Head, The Man of Kent, and The Pyrotechnist's Arms to tempt you in before you find yourself at The Golden Anchor. A pub that acts as something of a community hub for the local West Indian population. The front bar echoes to the sound of pool balls and dominoes while locals nurse a bottle of beer or even a glass of water for hours. The back room hosts a dancehall that fills with DJs dropping reggae tunes (multiple rewinds) but only opens for four hours each week.

As with the other pubs, it won't be enough to save it forever. Lana talks of how she's got rid of the 'yardies' and 'gangsters' that made the pub an uncomfortable place to visit for other locals and Kerridge chats to Marcia in the kitchen who's cooking up a chicken soup before he ventures off into Brixton to learn about the history of West Indian run pubs in London at The Market House in Coldharbour Lane. Formerly The Coach and Horses which, in 1965, became the first British pub to have a Jamaican immigrant, George Berry, as a landlord.

Back in Peckham, he takes Lana into The Prince of Peckham to see how a black run British pub can thrive in modern London. With innovation, enthusiasm, good food, a good range of drinks, and a welcoming atmosphere. It's not exactly rocket science but it is dependent, and needs finessing, for the customers the pub hopes to attract.

What works in Peckham is not necessarily what's needed for a pub in a small village in the Trossachs. The Black Bull is entirely owned and run by its locals. It's both pub - and hub. They operate a minibus to drop refreshed patrons back home and Gartmore's only shop is part of the pub. Kerridge is so impressed he buys shares to become a 'Bull believer'.

After a brief detour into the world of tithed landlords, MROs (market rent only pubs), and how pubcos will fight tooth and nail to protect shareholders and creditors rather than protect landlords, managers, or pubs ("that's their model") we start to, finally, see the benefit of some of the enthusiasm, knowledge, and, in the case of The Black Bull, investment that Kerridge has put into these four pubs.


The White Hart is host to glorious and packed St Piran's celebrations as locals and visitors drink, eat, party, and "shout" on the 5th March this year but only a few days later a new visitor arrives on the British pub scene and Covid-19 isn't looking to buy drinks, watch bands, or eat pizza.

As the news greets our various managers, landlords, and landladies there are tears, there is existential angst, and there are, very soon, some very very empty pubs. As you'll recall Boris Johnson's initial approach was to tell people not to visits pubs and/or restaurants but to leave them open and this, of course, meant that different pubs and different pub owners took different approaches to the news.

With no government advice you can't blame them for not being sure if they should stay open or close their doors and when the government, lethally late, finally announced a full lockdown it was almost something of a relief. If not as big a relief as the one that arrived on 4th July this year when pubs, or at least some of them, reopened.

Cautiously, and with new safety measures, of course, The Prince Albert, The White Hart, and The Golden Anchor welcomed locals and guests again and, eleven days later - Scottish legislation being devolved on this matter, The Black Bull followed. 

People were happy. Not just pubgoers but those who own or run the pubs. Lana, particularly, was overjoyed. Lockdown, and the interventon of Tom Kerridge in her business, has given her a chance to reset, to rethink her priorities, and, most happily of all, rediscover herself. She claims she's fallen in love with not just her pub again but also with her life.

So happy was she, it was impossible not to beam with her but, as we all know, there's a very worrying coda to this series. After filming stopped Covid-19 infections, hospitalisations, and deaths all began to spike again. So worryingly that the government, late again - shamefully, ordered a second lockdown that was much less strict on schools, universities, and work places but remained draconian with regards to pubs and the hospitality sector.

As I write we're coming out of that second lockdown into a tiered system of restrictions which won't help either the pub business recover or the Covid-19 death toll fall as much as we'd all hope. December begins tomorrow, a hugely important month, for the pub business but, also, a hugely important month for stopping the likely festive spread of coronavirus.

Despite imminent vaccines, we're nowhere near out of the woods with Covid yet and pubs are just one factor of that. A lot of pubs won't survive these next few months but, more importantly, a lot of people won't survive these next few months. A sense of perspective is important at all times but one day I hope we can raise a glass together in a pub again. In the before times, when the last orders bell rang out, you'd often hear an overworked bartender's voice ring out "ain't you lot got homes to go". This year those homes are the places we've been spending almost all our of time. It'd be a shame if in the future we ain't got pubs to go.



Saturday, 28 November 2020

Those Who Betray Their Homeland Must Die:Berlin 1945.

In the first days of 1945 a now long forgotten film was released called Berlin:Symphony of the World Capital in which the German city was shown to be a place where the sun always shines and life flourishes. There was no mention of World War II or concentration camps. But by the end of that year it had become impossible to airbrush these events out of history any more.

1945 was the year Berlin, and Nazi Germany, fell and Volker Heise's excellent three part documentary (available now on the BBC iPlayer) tells the story of how that happened through black and white archive footage and with historical narration provided by those that lived through it:- German civilians, Wehrmacht soldiers, combat commanders, auxiliary personnel of the Luftwaffe, SS officers, forced labourers, journalists, Jews in hiding, antifascist enemies of the Nazis, and even Hitler's dental nurse.

Voiced by others these testaments, and even those of Harry S. Truman and Joseph Goebbels, give us a feel of what it was like at the time which contrasts with the broader, retrospective, sweep of other acclaimed documentaries like Jeremy Isaacs' astonishing (everyone should watch it) The World at War. Last year BBC2's Rise of the Nazis showed us how Hitler and his gang were able to use hate speech, realpolitik, and blatant untruths to worm their way into power. Berlin 1945 shows us what always happens when such vile hate has been unleashed. It turns back in on its creators.

Berlin, the place where the sun always shines and life flourishes, would soon be in dust. A dust of its own making. December 1945 could hardly look more different to January 1945. Half of Europe had surrendered to the Reich and Berlin was basking in its success as the capital of this new fascist empire. Berliners wrote in their diaries of walks in the snow, stopping off for a beer, and taking a movie in

Casually mentioning that they'd paid their Nazi party subscription fees en route. The screams of tortured Ukrainian prisoners were blocked out by Berliners who simply closed their windows so they could no longer hear them. Soviet forced labourers speak of an unbearable homesickness and mourn a lost, or more accurately - stolen, youth.

On New Year's Day, Hitler gave a radio speech to his "fellow citizens" in which he talked about his people's "struggle" and their "destiny" in an attempt to raise spirits but by then, on the Eastern Front, from the Baltic to the Carpathians, the Soviet offensive was pushing the Germans back. Minister of Propaganda Joseph Goebbels, of course, reported otherwise.

So in Berlin they were oblivious, still, to their inevitable fate. People visited the circus, schnapps flowed freely, and the Fuhrer's speech was rapturously received. Lies in Berlin could not stop truth in Szczecin as the Soviets crossed the Oder, reports said that when 'Stalin's boys' reached Berlin they would not go easy on the Nazis, nor could they alter the fact that British bombs were landing in Germany each night. Mornings would see the dead retrieved from the rubble.

Sometimes legs would fall off these corpses, sometimes the corpses would puke. Sometimes they would lay in the rubble for longer than need be because French, Polish, and Soviet forced labourers were forbidden to touch 'pure' German bodies - even dead ones. The corpses would have to wait for a German to bury them.

The forced labourers lived in a camp surrounded by an electric fence, patrolled by dogs, and fed a diet of soup made of potato skins that they recall as 'pigswill'.  Those that survived would be freed from this soon and so would those who survived the even greater horror of the concentration camps. Reports are received in London telling of 30,000 deaths in Belsen, of decayed bodies strewn along the side of the road.

Nervous Nazis began to burn paperwork pertaining to plans for the final solution in case of the fall of Berlin but pits full of emaciated corpses and truckloads of cadavers couldn't be hidden away so easily. It's a story repeated all over the Nazi empire and its magnitude is often too great to take in. Small stories of individuals often speak loudest in conveying the sheer horror. In one hut, amid the groans of the dying, rescuers find a small girl, barely more than a skeleton, reaching out to them and asking "English? English? Medicine? Medicine?".

Berlin:Symphony of the World Capital wasn't the only film released about the German city that year. 1945 also saw the release of Yuli Raizman's The Fall of Berlin which made use of footage taken by Ukrainian and Belorussian combatants, and captured German footage, to tell the tale of the fall of the city. You'll not be shocked to hear that writer and director Volker Heise takes his cues more from the latter than the former film.

In Berlin, life was going on as normal but there was an awareness of an approaching catastrophe as two and half million Red Army soldiers had gathered outside of the city. Liberation was imminent but it was far from, at that point, certain and Berlin men who had the audacity to complain about the Nazis were still being hung from trees, left for dead with signs hanging round their necks reading, in German, THOSE WHO BETRAY THEIR HOMELAND MUST DIE.

But it was the Nazis who had betrayed their homeland and, soon, for many of them, they would die by the sword they chose to live by. Red Army soldiers were keen to avenge their own losses and were already doing so in cities outside Berlin. 20th April marked Hitler's 56th, and final, birthday and yet, in Berlin, no Nazi flags were flown for the first time in over a decade.

Some Berliners were afraid, others felt Hitler would somehow manage to turn it round and when he emerged from his bunker to inspect a delegation and Goebbels made a radio speech announcing Hitler would be made the "man of the century" (true, perhaps, but not in the way it was intended) there was a brief glimmer of hope for the Nazis.

A hope that was dashed the very next day when Soviet troops entered Berlin. Defenders of the city were called on to stop the "mongol hordes", it's suggested that Berliners shout fight to their death to defend the city, and draconian laws are passed in a final, vein, attempt to prop up the war effort. A Berliner who used, or wasted, electricity for cooking would face the death penalty.

There were genuine fears among the German civilians that they would be kidnapped and taken to Russia, the penny hadn't yet dropped that they were the bad guys, but the most real fear, one that was even accepted by Hitler, was that if Berlin was to fall the war would be over, the Nazis would have lost.

Against this backdrop of fear, retribution, and misinformation the city saw about one hundred suicides and filicides, Nazis fearful of life under anyone but the Nazis killed their own children, and invading forces sadly dehumanise their enemies as surely as their enemies had dehumanised them and some go on rape sprees against German women.

The Reichstag fire of 1933, four weeks after Hitler had become Chancellor, was the pretext for the Nazi reign to get authoritarian and deadly. Twelve years later, the Reichstag was burning again - but this time it was the sign that the Nazi era was reaching its end. On 1st May, a national holiday of the German people, it was announced that Adolf Hitler, the Fuhrer, had 'fallen'.

He'd been killed in action. Or at least that was the story told to the German people. In fact he'd killed himself and when two badly burned bodies are later discovered near his bunker, one a man aged between fifty and sixty with glass splinters in his mouth and the other a younger woman, they are taken to be identified by Hitler's former dental nurse. All that was left of Hitler that was recognisable was his teeth. 

For Goebbels, life no longer had "value" so he and his wife Magda murdered their six children before taking their own lives. Those left leading the Nazis, that had not taken their own lives, surrendered to the allies and soon no amount of liquor would be enough to fuel the celebrations that followed the defeat of the Nazis.

Singing, dancing, feasting, and toasting went on in to the small hours. One punch created even took the happy name of 'Hitler's death' but though Hitler was dead and the Nazis had been defeated the mess they had created across Berlin, across Germany, across Europe, and across the world would take decades to clean up. In truth the damage done to the world by the Nazis has not yet been undone. It never will be.

In Berlin, dead horses lying in the street are carved up to feed the hungry survivors, an observer claims "Berlin has practically ceased to exist", and scenes of shops being looted and destroyed are described by one Berliner as "unbelievable". Which is a bit rich considering they'd presumably been okay with the holocaust.

With the Reichstag covered in Russian graffiti, Berlin's clocks moved two hours forward to Russian time, an antifascist (Arthur Werner) appointed mayor of Berlin, and sermons returning to the synagogues, Berlin had become a place uncomfortable for a Nazi or a Nazi apologist.

But all was still not well. The sermons in the synagogues revealed just how many would never return, rapes continued throughout the city, and STDs like gonorrhea ran riot. As food rations were announced, many fled to France or to be with the Americans who had liberated the western parts of Germany.

Those who remained in Berlin first saw the destruction of Nazi symbols and statues and then saw a plan announced to divide their city into four sectors:- a French one, a British one, an American one, and a Russian one. With the city still smelling of rotting corpses Richard Dimbleby filed the first BBC report from liberated Berlin.

At Potsdam, thirty-five miles south west of Berlin, Churchill met with Stalin and Truman to decide the city's future. There, Churchill told Stalin that the Russians would not need to enter the still ongoing war with Japan as the US would soon bring that to an end with their nuclear missiles. He added, also, that if Stalin had any plans to expand Russia elsewhere those same nuclear bombs could be just as easily used to wipe out Moscow, Stalingrad, Kiev, and Sebastopol. Then they all had dinner together.

However many Russian cities it took for Stalin to get the message. The Cold War begun before the fires of Berlin had even been put out. Before, even, World War II had ended. On August 6th when the Americans dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima (killing over 100,000 people), and then three days later on Nagasaki with a similar death toll, many at the time wondered just how much damage Hitler would have wrought if he had developed such lethal technology.

The final months of 1945 saw American soldiers in Berlin, despite orders not to fraternise with or even trust the German people, picking up local girls and having a high old time. German men would pick up cigarette butts lobbed to the ground by the Americans for something to smoke and with the economy in tatters, cigarettes became an alternative currency.

A tribunal was convened in Nuremberg for twenty-two of the men who had caused death and destruction on a scale the world had never seen before and has never seen since. Twelve of them, including Hermann Goring, Martin Bormann, and Joachim von Ribbentrop, were sentenced to death, others to life imprisonment but some were acquitted and many lower ranking SS functionaries were able to build successful careers and flourish in the post-war years.

If they carried their guilt and demons inside them for what they'd done or if they lived out the rest of their lives in denial it is not recorded. Their dreadful secrets have died with them but those who survived Auschwitz had to live with what had been done to them for the rest of their lives and the pain, as witnessed in an excellent recent documentary made by Robert Rinder of all people for BBC1, has been passed down through the generations.

Many who were sent to Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen, Buchenwald, Madjanek, Dachau, Kaiserwald and other Nazi extermination camps didn't even get to live. In total the Nazis were responsible for over sixty one million deaths. 

When Christmas arrived in Berlin in 1945 there were no trees and no presents. Elsewhere in Europe millions of households had no tree and no presents because the entire family had been wiped out by Adolf Hitler and the Nazis. The children who should have been opening their presents were all dead. Killed by a sick and twisted idea of racial purity and poisoned by the hate that Hitler let loose on the world. Never again.