Lies

A few weeks ago I made a fuss in this series of blogs at the behavior of one of the contestants in the television show, The Apprentice. That was Lee McQueen, who went on to win the show, despite the fact that he was discovered to have falsified part of his history in his resume applying to appear on the Apprentice.

Should we all feel free to sprinkle future job applications with white lies, is there a cost to lying in our modern society?

McQueen claimed that he attended Thames University for two years when he’d been there four months.

"I'd call it information that was miscommunicated, rather than an outright lie," said McQueen, the 30-year-old winning Apprentice.

At the beginning of this weekend the Deputy Mayor of London, Ray Lewis, resigned, despite protesting his innocence of accusations that he had falsified his history when he was enlisted to his job. It turns out that he this man had proven to be unreliable when dealing with other people’s money, according to the Bishop who had been his boss, amongst others.

Oh, by the way, did I mention that he was also a vicar? This same man, it is alleged by a social worker, had also relieved a parishioner of some of his money. It is further alleged that this same chap, undaunted, when vicar in the Windward Islands, managed to write dud checks.

This seems to be the perfect person to be selected as a Deputy Mayor of London. You are left to ask what’s going on. I know that when I fill in any official document to do with anything remotely official or governmental is that you are supposedly strictly vetted. This was the case when I was simply doing some hourly lecturing and had to undergo a full criminal records check.

So how, if this is so, does this joker walk straight past this entire system as if it doesn’t exist? How does our much discussed, very recently elected Mayor of London, Boris Johnson hire and praise this man to the heavens, without apparently having the results of any kind of checking process. David Cameron, the Conservative Party leader, also praised Ray Lewis in the past, which only reinforces the question marks about the efficiency and judgment surrounding the leadership of that party.

Whilst we question the efficiency and honesty of the Conservatives let us not forget that the Labour party is still wallowing in its own cesspit of smelly and corrupt misuses and abuses of expenses. It seems that the only major party not tainted by these types of irregularities might be the Liberal Democrats, for which we must commend them. However this is tempered somewhat by the fact that no one cares about them as they have no realistic chance of winning a general election.

I think the American slang term, employed by their military during the Second World War still applies. SNAFU they would say about both our leading political party’s, by way of an appropriate acronym. It stood for Situation Normal, All F…ed up!

At this point I should declare a special interest regarding London’s new Mayor, Boris Johnson. He looks exactly like a chap who haunted my past when he stole my identity and later admitted that he had been undergoing long-term psychiatric care, including medication. He caused me and mine great aggravation and was Boris’s physical twin. I therefore cannot look at Boris without fear and loathing permeating every fiber of my being. Irrational, of course, but then again my nutcase did look exactly like Boris.

“I’m very sad that Ray Lewis has had to resign” said Boris “we won’t solve the difficulties of this city by hiring antiseptic guys to deal with the knife crime and gangs.” The Mayor explained, after Lewis resigned.

Boris, your man is a liar and a villain and he had to go. What you need, what our wonderful city demands, is efficient and honest policing, being run by incorruptible politicians.

It all comes back to a simple truth; there can be little or no tolerance for misleading your colleagues because it will inevitably lead to disaster. When the guy lied to the people on The Apprentice he should have been thrown out rather than humored. It wasn’t shaving the truth, it was a lie. How do you ever know if you can trust him again?

If society accepts one lie from one person, what’s the difference when a second person covers up a few inconvenient facts?

We simply don’t have any moral certainties any more. Our compass telling us what is wrong and right has been discarded in the pursuit of wealth. We will never be happy or content until we regain our core values and self- respect. We have to re-learn, as a society, the difference between the truth and lies and the importance of absolute values. It is time to stop walking by and shrugging our shoulders when we see something is wrong. If we don’t the consequences will always be bad.

You don’t have to be priest or a moralist to insist that we will sacrifice civilization itself if we don’t clean up the mess this moral vacuum is creating.

Devolution

I want to resume my one-person campaign in favor of further devolution in the United Kingdom. I very much want to hive off Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, which are still part of the UK, leaving England to run its own affairs. The monarch could be allowed to remain head of all these states, just as at present, she is monarch of countries like Canada, without that country being part of the UK. As far as I’m concerned if the Welsh, Scottish and Northern Irish don’t want to be part of one country, our United Kingdom, they should go it alone, and so should we. That means that each of our countries can be virtually independent, although not entirely so. The reason being that our ruling Labour Party will realize that they would never win the newly independent English parliamentary elections. The proof for this is that whenever they have won the UK general elections in the past, they have done so by winning thumping majorities in Wales and Scotland whereas the Conservatives almost always carry England.

The breakup of the United Kingdom into four smaller countries does fly in the face of all common sense since these countries have not flown solo for several hundred years and simply don’t have the critical mass to do so other than as European backwaters.

As matters stand the population of England is about five times greater than the rest of the nation put together and this disparity is set to become wider. The forecasters calculate that by mid century the population of England will pass the current population of the United Kingdom, sixty million, with the rest taken as a whole, amounting to a further ten to twelve million. This is largely due to large scale immigration.

I think an outcome of separation is a great pity since this diminishes all the parts of the great British Isles. When I was growing up I was encouraged to think of myself as British first and English second. In Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland it was always clear that they considered themselves Scottish, or Irish or Welsh first, then British. My identity was, admittedly, more confused, because of my Jewish, Eastern European heritage. As a child I always put English behind British as English had an almost tribal connotation to it. How could I, being of Jewish, Polish, Russian and some German background possibly call myself part of this English tribe?

It reminds me of what an American cousin once said to me. He and I were once chatting over how our family had bobbed along on the ebb and flow of the world’s flowing tides. He turned to me and said, “You know that Chamberlain of yours really let us all down.” I paused, unsure of how to reply, after all I was in his home, “Do you mean Neville Chamberlain?” I asked, quite politely, “yes, “ he continued, “what he did at Munich with Hitler.” A thousand thoughts crossed my mind, first was that my cousin had mislaid the fact that America had arrived a little late for that particular war, but then the proper response bubbled to the surface, “How can you be annoyed at Chamberlain for Munich when our common ancestor was probably selling matches on a street corner in Warsaw?”

That’s the trouble with national identity it’s all so totally fake. Most of the people who think themselves to be pure English or Scottish or anything else for that matter have a bit of the mongrel about them, and are, more than likely all the better for it.

But it feels like England has long subsidized and looked after these little brother countries at our borders. It is ironic that during this great debate we have a situation in which our Prime Minister and quite a few of the leading members of the Cabinet that governs our country is born in Scotland, whereas there is no possibility of similar representation of English power in Scotland. We have, in fact, got England being governed by the Scottish, Scotland governed by the Scottish and the UK being governed by the Scottish. This is like Italy being governed by the Romans, oh yes, that was the case wasn’t it, and that was called the Roman Empire. Should we call Britain today, the Scottish Empire?

This is exacerbated by the fact that there is more spent per Scottish person than there is spent on per English person and it’s English people who pay the majority of this bill. The Scots who run our country will protest that is not the case, but their own Treasury department has confirmed these figures. It is time this was stopped and the answer lies with the ballot box. It is time that these inequities were voiced and sorted out by the Conservative and Unionist party. That is what their name means, and it is high time they stood their ground and made themselves clear as an alternative government.

Hello

Happy July 4th. to all my American and Canadian friends. Though why you Americans should celebrate your independence from the United Kingdom I don’t quite understand.

Yesterday marked the arrival of my fourth grandchild, Oliver. Or Ollie as we shall all call him. He is without doubt the most handsome, clever and alert 6 pounds 11 ounce young man in the known universe.

There are moments in life when the world seems to suddenly move in glutinous slow motion, everything leading to doubts and uncertainties. Your optimism slipping into brave smiles to obscure the hot breath of fear enveloping you. Yesterday morning was such a time for the family and me. Phone calls in the middle of the night, premature visits to the hospital, things going slightly wrong, and then the decision to deliver the baby by Caesarian section.

Because I had a cold I was relegated to a safe distance. Sitting in the corridors, trying to think positively, but for a while there, it was all too easy to remember that phrase, there are no atheists in a foxhole. I offered up all the prayers I could think of in my quiet corner for my little girl to be OK. I don’t know if there is a higher being, which is why I qualify as an agnostic, but I do want to say thank you, if he or she is there, because it did all turn out fine.

Whilst thanking any infinite Almighty I also want to pay tribute to the maternity unit of the Queen Elizabeth 2 Hospital in Welwyn who were a shining example of when the National Health service gets something resoundingly right. The staff were helpful, informative, polite, efficient, hygienic and above all very human under somewhat trying circumstances. The upshot was our very happy and enhanced family smiling hugely.

Furthering my somewhat tenuous medical link I ask you what do Dwain Chambers the runner, and Majid Ahmed, the student have in common?

Both committed offences for which they were punished but are still suffering the consequences.

Dwain Chambers admitted taking substances that enabled him to train harder and recover quicker which enabled him to run 100 meters at around 10 seconds. He was caught, and his punishment was a lengthy ban. After the ban was finished the British Olympic movement reminded him, that under their rules he must never run for our Olympic team again. He is taking them to court to challenge this ruling.

Majid Ahmed is a gifted student, born in the North of England, in Bradford, who dreamed of becoming a doctor. He had qualified as the best student of his school in all of his exams, having received 4 A’s at A level. He even raised a considerable sum for charity and worked as a volunteer. Everything was coming up roses for Majid as he heard from the university of his choice, the world ranked Imperial College in London, that they had selected him to be a student. That’s when the good news stopped because Majid had also told the university that when he was 16 years old he had a criminal conviction for a small part in a burglary that led to his receiving a 4 month long community service. Imperial College withdrew their offer of a place based on their belief that this young man could never be trusted as a doctor.

There is no doubt that both Majid and Dwain had broken the rules and laws of our society. Equally there can be no reservation that their crimes and misdemeanors warranted punishment. Both men, having received their penalties, showed remorse, and have, according to all reports, behaved in an exemplary manner ever since. How can society then justify, after all this, their punishment continuing for the rest of their lives? This is not justice, it is society seeking revenge that exceeds punishment.

Maternity

The best laid plans of mice and men. That should be my theme for the last few days. I had planned a rather clever blog about the gradual separation between England and Scotland and what this will mean but circumstances have again intervened. Yesterday I had one of those awful summer colds, which we men refer to as either the flu, or the dreaded lurgy, and our women call the sniffles. I alone know how terribly afflicted I have been for the last couple of days, and in particular the nights. If my daughter only knew how indisposed I was with this flu she wouldn’t make such a fuss about having a baby.

The article will have to wait this time because our first born, Georgia, is again back at the maternity ward. The latest word, and men, turn away if you’re a bit delicate, is 3 centimetres. I am on my way and will update you tomorrow. By the way I am purchasing a surgical mask on route. I don’t want to catch anything!

Beginning

I’m just starting to write a new book. For any of you who have ever undertaken this kind of creative work you’ll know that I am currently going through the usual pre sit down and do it stage. The kind of thing where you look to see if the seat will actually be comfortable enough, should you have another cup of tea before starting, and trying out the title on people?

Mostly this is a security blanket of ticks and gestures before you start. You know that the idea works for you, kind of, and you have no idea, ever, if it will ever work for anyone else. It isn’t the money, because if you had any sense you would never write thinking about money as your main priority, because if you did you would go crazy before you went broke.

The reason for writing is because you think you have something you want to share with people you have never met, nor will ever meet. It can be very disconcerting when you do meet someone who has read your work, even when they like your stuff. I encountered this when I was commissioned for a screenplay in my early thirties. The executive producer had paid my agent my initial fee, I had written the first draft and submitted it via the agent. A little while later the production company called me in to discuss the first draft. I admit to a great deal of trepidation, and although my agent, friends and family reassured me, I was convinced that I was about to be eviscerated by the executive producer, who had a reputation for being arrogant, tough and unhelpful. We sat down in the portly gentlemen’s vast London office. We were all very polite to one another, myself, my friend Dave, who was producing with me, and the two executive producers, the one who talked a lot and said nothing, Michael, and the other one, also called David, who talked very little but said a lot.

Michael went through various pleasantries, reiterating that he had never made a film before, loved Coronation Street, the long running British TV soap, and that he loved this project. Always a bad sign, that vote of confidence. It’s a bit like the sports franchise owner saying that they will always stand behind their chief coach, immediately before they sack him. He waffled a bit more, all very vague and generalized, and no help at all to me, the writer. In that capacity you need very specific script notes or you’re in trouble. I pressed him a bit for some specifics. Finally, after it had become a bit heated in the room, he rounded on me and said, “Well it is supposed to have comedic elements, it needs to be 35% funnier.” I turned to my colleague David, and he returned my incredulous stare. Their David, the second Executive Producer, also raised an exasperated eyebrow. But such was the balance of power within that company at that time, that we all pretended this was a very fine and specific script note. Michael asked me how long the re-write would take. I had been thoroughly briefed on the correct response to such a question from agents and fellow professional writers, who had cautioned me against the speed with which I handed in my work. So I responded that it would be about six to eight weeks, thinking I could actually do it in three to five. I received assurances from everyone that they would leave me alone to do my work as I told them it became almost impossible for me to do this work if I could feel their hot breath too close to my shoulder.

I retired to my small writing room. I have always favoured the return to the womb type environment, and started to do the re-writes. The comment, make this script 35% funnier was playing on my mind. Did it mean that I should add some additional humour on every third page, or should I do what is usually done in a re-write, do a little and talk about it a lot? It’s very surprising how often a writer finds out that the person who’s meeting with you to discuss your script hasn’t actually read it, having left this irksome chore to a spotty 18 year old undergraduate. Having once been that person myself I knew how true it was. I decided to fastidiously work on the notes that both the David’s had delivered and hope for the best on the Michael comedy front. I’ve always believed funny comes from situations rather than shtick.

After three weeks I was still struggling along with the screenplay, it was proving tough. The telephone rang, it was Michael. He had broken his word and rung me several weeks early. “Sorry about that.” he said in that somewhat plumy voice only English public school types can ever manage, “but I simply couldn’t wait to hear how it’s going?” I hardly paused, “It’s going fine, I’m about half way there.” I responded, “Really?” he enquired, “Yes.” I said, “It’s about seventeen and a half per cent funnier.” There was a pause in the conversation. I don’t remember much more about it, except that he cancelled the film very shortly thereafter. But I do think my joke was pretty good.

Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far in the UK, and of course, to add to my writing woes, I developed an overnight cold. Now I can hardly breathe, my nose is running like a leaky faucet and I’m too hot. Guess what, I just wrote ten pages, more than 2,000 words. I wish I could understand how this all works.

Writing

I’m just starting to write a new book. For any of you who have ever undertaken this kind of creative work you’ll know that I am currently going through the usual pre sit down and do it stage. The kind of thing where you look to see if the seat will actually be comfortable enough, should you have another cup of tea before starting, and trying out the title on people?

Mostly this is a security blanket of ticks and gestures before you start. You know that the idea works for you, kind of, and you have no idea, ever, if it will ever work for anyone else. It isn’t the money, because if you had any sense you would never write thinking about money as your main priority, because if you did you would go crazy before you went broke.

The reason for writing is because you think you have something you want to share with people you have never met, nor will ever meet. It can be very disconcerting when you do meet someone who has read your work, even when they like your stuff. I encountered this when I was commissioned for a screenplay in my early thirties. The executive producer had paid my agent my initial fee, I had written the first draft and submitted it via the agent. A little while later the production company called me in to discuss the first draft. I admit to a great deal of trepidation, and although my agent, friends and family reassured me, I was convinced that I was about to be eviscerated by the executive producer, who had a reputation for being arrogant, tough and unhelpful. We sat down in the portly gentlemen’s vast London office. We were all very polite to one another, myself, my friend Dave, who was producing with me, and the two executive producers, the one who talked a lot and said nothing, Michael, and the other one, also called David, who talked very little but said a lot.

Michael went through various pleasantries, reiterating that he had never made a film before, loved Coronation Street, the long running British TV soap, and that he loved this project. Always a bad sign, that vote of confidence. It’s a bit like the sports franchise owner saying that they will always stand behind their chief coach, immediately before they sack him. He waffled a bit more, all very vague and generalized, and no help at all to me, the writer. In that capacity you need very specific script notes or you’re in trouble. I pressed him a bit for some specifics. Finally, after it had become a bit heated in the room, he rounded on me and said, “Well it is supposed to have comedic elements, it needs to be 35% funnier.” I turned to my colleague David, and he returned my incredulous stare. Their David, the second Executive Producer, also raised an exasperated eyebrow. But such was the balance of power within that company at that time, that we all pretended this was a very fine and specific script note. Michael asked me how long the re-write would take. I had been thoroughly briefed on the correct response to such a question from agents and fellow professional writers, who had cautioned me against the speed with which I handed in my work. So I responded that it would be about six to eight weeks, thinking I could actually do it in three to five. I received assurances from everyone that they would leave me alone to do my work as I told them it became almost impossible for me to do this work if I could feel their hot breath too close to my shoulder.

I retired to my small writing room. I have always favoured the return to the womb type environment, and started to do the re-writes. The comment, make this script 35% funnier was playing on my mind. Did it mean that I should add some additional humour on every third page, or should I do what is usually done in a re-write, do a little and talk about it a lot? It’s very surprising how often a writer finds out that the person who’s meeting with you to discuss your script hasn’t actually read it, having left this irksome chore to a spotty 18 year old undergraduate. Having once been that person myself I knew how true it was. I decided to fastidiously work on the notes that both the David’s had delivered and hope for the best on the Michael comedy front. I’ve always believed funny comes from situations rather than shtick.

After three weeks I was still struggling along with the screenplay, it was proving tough. The telephone rang, it was Michael. He had broken his word and rang me several weeks early. “Sorry about that.” he said in that somewhat plumy voice only English public school types can ever manage, “but I simply couldn’t wait to hear how it’s going?” I hardly paused, “It’s going fine, I’m about half way there.” I responded, “Really?” he enquired, “Yes.” I said, “It’s about seventeen and a half per cent funnier.” There was a pause in the conversation. I don’t remember much more about it, except that he cancelled the film very shortly thereafter. But I do think my joke was pretty good.

Today promises to be the hottest day of the year so far in the UK, and of course, to add to my writing woes, I developed an overnight cold. Now I can hardly breathe, my nose is running like a leaky faucet and I’m too hot. Guess what, I just wrote ten pages, more than 2,000 words. I wish I could understand how this all works.

Today

The poem, Leisure, by W.H. Davies was brought to my attention a little earlier today, just as I was on the run to see how my extremely pregnant daughter was getting on. There is no news on the expected arrival yet, but the poem does put life’s entire journey into a better perspective.

We are all so busy running and jumping through hoops that we don’t pause to look at or smell the roses right in front of us. While I was waiting on news of my daughter I was eating lunch with my grandson, the wonderful Archie, with his grandmother, Val, from his father’s side.

We sat outside in the little park café. The sun was ablaze, the air was succulent with the juice of Summer, young mums were cajoling their ankle biting kids to eat, keep clean, avoid table tops with their heads, stop peeing on the lawn, sit up straight, speak clearly, wipe their noses, eyes, chins, mouths, in fact anything that came into contact with anything else.

Grandparents smiled indulgently as their kids dealt with the grandkids, and all was as it should be. If only every day was like that part of today!