Economic Destitution

The five pence piece has always struggled in the tough world of coinage. Introduced in 1968, inscribed with the bold declaration NEW PENCE, it was the same value as the shilling and issued to familiarise old money die-hards with the dangerously logical world of decimalization.

For years it laboured, the evil twin of one of the nation’s favourite coins. By 1982, when the shilling was withdrawn, the 5p had its chance to shine but discovered its purchasing power could no longer buy a copy of The Beano.

However, by 1990, unloved at home, it had found unexpected popularity in German vending machines and payphones, which were easily fooled into believing it was a Deutschmark.
This proved to be short lived and for reasons that may have been about more than just the UK economy, it was forced to suffer the indignity of reduced dimensions.

The smaller version struggled to find friends.

Aficionados of “Shove Ha’penny Football”, already devastated by the decline in popularity of the gentleman’s nylon comb, had found the large 5p a super-sub in games lacking the ha’penny, and so were as sick as a parrot when they discovered the new lad short of beef up front.

The nineties rolled forward, the pounds piled on and the 5p was all too often cursed as it slipped through the increasingly podgy fingers of an expanding nation.

And now, today, the loveless 5p finds itself subject to abuse from a new group of sniffy people, as the Chancellor increases the cost of a bottle of wine.

It has nowhere left to go: evicted from wallets, out of place in penny jars and rejected by fruit machines.

Unwanted at birth, unloved by its family, it is facing the end of its existence, rammed down the nation’s sofas, aware that it makes little impression on the cushion and, even if discovered, would be cursed for not being one of its more valued brothers.

It is a tragedy of our times.

Changing Times?

Clapham Junction has an intriguing amount of estate agents, most of them conveniently located near the station and perfectly placed for local amenities. At the last count, there was about fifteen, decorated in modern style, complete with on-road parking and making the best use of the available space.

There has to be a host of reasons why Clapham Junction attracts them as, although a lot of them were forced to re-locate in the collapse of the early nineties, they have established themselves with a series of conversions.

The first clue is Clapham Junction’s history.

As Battersea began to develop from marshy land and Lavender Hill slowly surrendered its perfume cultivation, the area gradually became associated with the industrial poor.

The village Clapham, a mile to the east, was altogether more genteel. Having already decided on the location for their new station, the railway companies, to a man, voted to name it “Clapham Junction”, even though it was in Battersea.

They did not want any association with ghastly, urban grime monkeys.

To paraphrase Field of Dreams (“an expansive patch of highly desired land, suitable for musing, schmoozing and snoozing”) spin it and they will come.

With their tendency to demarcate adjacent parts of London pavement with elaborate and implausible phonetics, so that class conscious Brits do not compound their error of using the word “serviette” by spluttering out non-U vowels in their address, estate agents must have felt misty eyed when they ended their pilgrimage in Clapham Junction, possibly chanting “connotation, connotation, connotation”

They are able to offer a range of housing, across a range of prices, none low, in diverse areas on top of each other. As long as the punter can stump up the chunk of change, the estate agents can provide homes for old Oxford graduates who would have liked to have been called the Mayor of London or old lags proud to be referred to as Stevie The Snout.

By describing the area as “Bat-ter-say-a” estate agents were able to both ease levels of middle class anxiety and boost totals of working class mockery.

Sadly, but maybe not surprisingly, those mirth inducing days have gone and some areas are now indistinguishable from those of nearby Chelsea.

It was not always thus.

Up The Junction, a film released in 1968, starring Dennis Waterman and Suzy Kendall, depicts very different social platforms. A girl from Chelsea tries to alleviate boredom by slumming it in Battersea. Nearly forty years on, the premise appears laughable and the Junction appears devoid of divisions.

The nearby Northcote road has a shop called “The Uncommon Touch”, flogging fripperies and providing reassurance to middle class types that their lives need never again be devoid of knick-knacks.

It is a product of the environment but it also faces an estate of flat roofed council flats, looking out of place amongst the two up, two downs.

On closer inspection, contradictions are everywhere: from plentiful cash back on one side of the road to cashed cheques on the other.

Step away from the unifying euphemism of the estate agent and real differences become apparent from the communication used in the communities.

A church in one, predominately poor, area advertises for lost souls with the banner “JESUS WILL SHOW YOU THE WAY”; in another parish, the modest notice board quaintly advertises violin sessions and groups that teach baby signing.

Change focus from architecture to people and the landscape of expressions illustrate lines of social division etched on faces. Turning a corner can cause smiles to morph into frowns, suggesting that by the age of fifty, a person has not the face he really deserves but the one the socio-economic community allows him to have.

The estate agents are putting social classes ever closer together, not by abolishing boundaries but by naming new ones, some as intermingled as the tracks at the station.

Sometimes, in this doll’s house of London, the tremors in the adjacent room are palpable but as long as their craving for new toys can unite the divided, disparate occupants, the foundations remain secure.

Stop consuming and Clapham Junction may experience a crash.

The estate agents, bless them, may yet prove to be the area’s mineshaft canaries.

Social Studies

A survey released yesterday claims that English people going out drinking, on average, twice a week.

That is, once with their friends and once with Andrew Flintoff.

Critcal Matters

Here is a Amazon book review:

18 out of 22 people found the following review baleful:

************* Great!!!!!! Dicky Johnson, London.

Real name

Top 500 reviewer

I bought this book.

I love this book!

I love this book because I bought this book.

You see, when I hand over my cash for purchases I never make mistakes!

Stick with good ole Dicky Johnson and nor will you!!

Was this review helpful to you?

Yes

No

Of course not, but I had already decided to buy the book and I wanted to refrain from reading any critically accurate appraisals of my selection.

Let Me At 'Em

OK folks, today is the day.

For the last three nights I have dreamed about bowel movements.

According to Stearn Robinson and Tom Corbett, authors of The Dreamer's Dictionary, a selection box of pop-Freudian nuggets, " This is a dream of contrary. The more embarrassing the situation, the better the omen. The forecast is of great financial success".

Oh yes!

Somewhat giddy, I searched for people born under the year of the Boar:

"Whatever their ambition, they do what they must with all the strength they have, for their strength is an inner strength that no one can overcome."

Baby!

Fighting hysteria I discovered a Gemini horoscope:

"Take full advantage of this moment to accomplish as much as possible to pave the wave for your future success."

Bring-it-on!

If I thought I can take the excitement I would open a tea bag, brew a cuppa and probably find the face of Jesus encircled in Romanian Ikea ceramic.

My fellow players will not know what has hit them

"Poker playing - where a total disregard for rational thought is fundamental to success"

Jeremiad - Steadily embracing mumbo jumbo since 1971.

Chapter and Verse

I recently joined a book swap club – http://www.readitswapit.co.uk/

It is a free service allowing registered users to create a list of books they are prepared to swap.

Once that is created users can either be passive or assertive – search for a book and your list is emailed to the owner who then either accepts or declines; alternatively allow your list to be hunted down and browse your offers.

Nearly all users will do a bit of both.

It is a highly applaudable site, with a well-populated stock of books, a bubbling forum and the act of swapping engenders a sense of community, taking me back to my “got it, got it, got it, haven’t” Panini sticker days.

It happily exists alongside the library and the bookshop. It is slightly quicker for newer, in demand, titles than the library and one’s bookshelf remains stocked.

I give it a thorough recommendation and I have recently stumbled across the Elvira of the community.

Regular users have five star ratings based on their past swaps. It is almost impossible to be awarded less than four stars.

I think you have to post immaculate, unsolicited Jeffrey Archer novels.

On this basis, I happily agreed to scoot Prozac Nation to a person with an email address staring with “crazychick”

The warning bells went unheeded.

Over two weeks later I’m still waiting for my copy of The Godfather.

I have since looked at her profile.

One star ratings abound and a hell of a lot of pissed off bookish types.

Comments akin to

“What have I ever done to make you treat me so disrespectfully? Don’t tell me you are innocent. Because it insults my intelligence and makes me very angry”

It appears even in the book swap community there are people running rackets.


(PS – don’t let this put you off the site. It is extremely good.)

Vote for me!

The euthanasia piece is an entry to a competition and, if you like it, you can vote for me here:
http://www.lovetolead.info/ViewArticle/tabid/56/Default.aspx?entryid=259

You have one vote per day between now and Thursday and any help will be greatly appreciated.

Cheers

Is Euthanasia Fundamental To A Civilised Society?

When asked what he thought of western civilisation Gandhi famously responded, “I think it would be an excellent idea”.

As his quip wonderfully illustrates, perception is all, as it was in Nazi Germany when, in the name of prevailing values, they set up about a project named “Action T4” that euthanized any under threes that displayed signs of retardation or physical disability.

Anthropologists do not encourage the deployment of the word “civilisation”. They perceive it to be a judgmental concept, steeped in the cultural relativism of the west, that helps divide people into Savages, Barbarians and Civilised. It can also provide justification for colonialism and genocide as the 'civilised' act on their prevailing perceptions.

Civilisations almost always have a complex form of social organisation that has a ruling elite which the state systems maintain. As Brunson Alcott, a US educator put it: “Civilisation degrades the many to exalt the few”.

The elite needs the compliance of the ruled majority. It does not particularly matter on which style of ideology these guidelines are based. If the majority perceives the ideological principles to be sound then the society exists in harmony.

Certain Hebrew civilisations for example, are underpinned by moral and ethical principles lived in accordance with the scripture of Moses. Clearly, euthanasia is not fundamental to those societies.

Problems arise when the view of a society’s citizens clash with the stance of the ruling elite. In his book “Collapse: How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed”, Jared Diamond suggests one of the reasons cultures have collapsed is societal responses to internal and environmental problems.

The ruling elite issues laws that clash with the stance of its citizens. There has been a shift in fundamental principles, the harmony between the elite and the majority destroyed and the conflict causes a lack of moral unity.

The society surrenders in part due to moral disintegration.

Until there is a prevailing perception that to keep people alive who are “unfit to live” is ideologically unacceptable, the issue will not cause moral collapse.

Given there will always be questions of competence, adherence to the Hippocratic Oath and differing theological stances, this change in perception is not likely to happen.

As western nations continue to face the problems of falling fertility rates, aging populations (with rising cases of dementia), so the burden on healthcare and pension systems will probably force more societies to examine their legalisation on euthanasia; but as it is such an emotive, multi faced issue it will never be fundamental to civilised societies.

Communication and debate will.

“Disinterested intellectual curiosity is the life blood of real civilisation”

G.M. Trevelyan, English historian.

Double Fault

Last year, I was experiencing a poker slump when I read a Norman Mailer line in which he describes a type of conservative as “people who went to their piano lessons when they were kids”.

Most poker players are the other type of conservative, people who watched wealthier kids go to their piano lessons and craved the lifestyle.

Although I have no wish for my politics to foxtrot two-steps to the right, the slump made me question my philosophies. I was a piano dodger and didn’t covet the trimmings but I was aware that had I planted my arse on the bench I wouldn’t currently be finding myself in the land of bankroll management, implied odds and explicit sods.

It was time to look for guidance and turn the page.

As helpful as the manuals are, sometimes the best philosophy is found in a biography from somebody whose self-reliance and independence would be assets at the poker table.

The trick is to feel a bond.

I have always admired John McEnroe for the originality of his tennis and his wit in the commentary box. He also gives the impression he was thrashing a six string when he should have been learning his 8th note straddles.

I was particularly pleased when I opened his autobiography “Serious” on a random page and read the observation “effortlessness takes work”.

Brilliant, I thought, being someone who, in my twenties, once received a birthday card from my parents, depicting on its front a cartoon image of an inexplicably content man, feet up, hands behind head, bubbling “take it easy”.

Mac knows.

My perception of a bond grew when I read about his difficulties maintaining focus. From one extreme of foregoing his honeymoon with Tatum O Neal to attend the Volvo Open Tournament at Stratton Mountain, Vermont – “Quick, quick, quick, let’s get married because I love you and I want you to know I’m committed but now I have got to play tennis" – to the other of sabotaging his tennis - “I suddenly found myself with hours and hours to kill in hotel rooms all over the world, it occurred to me that I should actually try taking up the guitar.”

My prowess at poker in no way corresponds with McEnroe’s tennis skills. My card reading ability would have me sweating to qualify for the poker equivalent of the Volvo Open Tournament, an event that probably takes place somewhere like Vilnius in January and is a handy way of boosting the flow of US dollars into the economy

However, I would suggest I share John’s tendency to become bored with the metronomic existence that is necessary, in most cases, to be an expert in any chosen field.

In 2004 my poker career was particularly pleasing and I decided I could cut back my hours, smell the roses and generally become the image on the birthday card. My desire had gone.

This is how Mac puts it – “Once you have lost it, everything spirals out of control and it is difficult to find your way back. The process is gradual rather than sudden and the whole way down you keep telling yourself that things are going to change. Little by little however, the bad days at the office start to outnumber the good ones and the pain begins to replace the pleasure you once took in your profession.”

By his own admission, he never got it back. I was becoming fearful for my poker career until I read his descriptions of two tennis exhibitions.

In 1985 he describes an event called Tennis Over America, in which he played six one night exhibitions: “the first night we had fourteen thousand out to watch us play, the crowd was packed with Swedes. I threw Byorn a bone that night”

By contrast, in 1994, he is a commentator at the US Open when unseeded Andre Aggassi beats Michael Stich in the final.

“One week later I beat Agassi in an exhibition – Andre was probably a little tired but so what?”

Selective appraisals are useless at the poker table – if I am to curse when I am unlucky to lose a hand, I also have to accept the times when I am lucky, I have been outplayed and still win. In poker, sometimes, the loser best records history. I began to gain hope I could recover from my slump but I still craved further insight.

It came from John’s attitude towards the Davis Cup team.

He admits he always found it harder to raise his game for his solo performances but never had a problem motivating himself to play for the team.

I put the book down.

I suddenly comprehended why I believe the best book for poker players is “The Hustler” by Walter Tevis.

It contains character, self-reliance and lessons of composure. It is an invaluable read for anyone craving success at the poker table.

It also depicts a lone wolf, someone who profits from the gullibility of others, who is forced to lead a nomadic existence and has no ties to society.

Playing poker, unless you reach celebrity status and thus rationalise, through TV performances and tournament success, that you provide entertainment, contributes nothing to society.

One’s income largely depends on the sweat of others and at times even the most independent of personalities feels his lack of contribution. His reliance on a nation’s citizens being economically productive, is alienating, indefensible and an indicator of an aggrieved personality.

World-class tennis provides entertainment for millions, it generates hope, awe and inspiration. Poker can create destitution.

It is not a team sport but there has been a recent spate of TV tournaments trying to foster a sense of patriotism by pitting players against those of other nations. It does not work, largely because of the type of personalities involved, the unsuitability of the game to knockout team matches and the difficulty convincing spectators that self-interested players are warriors worthy of a nation’s pride.

Should England win an international poker tournament we won’t see Rajesh Modha, Victoria Coren and Devilfish in Trafalgar Square, enjoying a traffic cancelling reception from their open top bus. Their poker playing does not contribute to a greater good.

Nor does mine.

I realised why the Norman Mailer comment had registered – my method of income clashes with my values as it is not derived from a societal contribution.

Somewhere in the mishmash of pool, poker, piano and tennis, I discovered the awareness to play out of the slump.

I am still looking for the dedication to do something else.