To All The Saints I’ve Loved Before

18 Oct

The Pope had canonized six new saints.  That’s always nice to hear.

Although I myself am not a Catholic, I’m quite sweet on the saints due to an interesting relationship I had as a child with a Catholic family. When I was about nine, in an attempt to keep my brothers out of my room, I taped to my door a list of all the sins that would send you straight to hell. I thought it would give them something to think about before violating my sacred space. My mother, I fear, misinterpreted this as my interest in more spiritual issues. She spoke to a Catholic woman she worked with (New Jersey is thick with them), who agreed to start taking me to her church. Because she had a daughter my age, I was told to accompany her to catechism class.  The focus of the first lesson was the saints.

I was absolutely enchanted by the tales of ordinary people who could do extraordinary things. Seriously, anyone who can bilocate and levitate like Saint Padre Pio deserves more than just a pat on the back. And to top it off he was a stigmatist! I mean, was there nothing this guy couldn’t do?

At the time, I also appreciated the fact that so many saints were children. I was already growing increasingly aware of my own greatness, and it was good to see at least 22% of the American population recognised that children could be worthy of worship, even if not a single percent of my family did.

Finally, I was really intrigued by the concept of praying to a particular saint for a particular need. I encouraged my mother to call on Saint Zita when she lost her keys and told my father to pray to Our Lady of Fatima during that month’s gubernatorial race.  In art class, I sculpted a bust of Saint Matilda of Saxony, to counteract my falsely being accused of instigating a fight between John Gilbert and Kraig Hartley on the playground (surely no greater example of blaming the victim can be found). For my sister’s birthday, I drew a picture of Hilary of Poitiers on her card, as she is the patron saint of backward children. (It was about this time that my mother discontinued my trips to Mass.) Other saints I was particularly keen on were Nicholas of Maya (patron saint of boys), Elizabeth of Portugal (victims of jealousy), Catherine of Alexandria (girls and libraries, a perfect combination) and Jehoshaphat (jumping).  When I renamed my dollies after these saints and began referring to them as “my extended family in heaven,” my mom locked them in the cedar chest, booked me in to see a child psychologist and my excursion into the world of Catholicism was over.

One of the new few to be canonized was Mary MacKillop, Australia’s first Catholic saint, and people Down Under were rejoicing at the acknowledgment of her good work. She was a champion of the poor and of education. Some have suggested she become the patron saint of victims of sexual abuse by priests, but I can’t help wonder if there isn’t a more direct route the Pope could take in dealing with those crimes.

I would like to offer a hearty congratulations to Saint Mary of the Cross and all the other saints who recently became official. Well done all. No doubt you will be inspiring Catholics and under-appreciated child geniuses for many years to come.

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Rich Virtuosi Do Not Have My Permission to Be Uptight

9 Oct

I am extremely disappointed with both Paul McCartney and Johnny Marr, two men whom previously I had held in rather high esteem. They really both let down the ol’ Genius Team (of which I am Activities Co-ordinator).  Apparently, they’ve both put the kibosh on a young and upcoming comedian’s album. First they refuse to donate items to the jumble sale we held to raise money for team uniforms and now they appear to have lost their sense of humour. What next, clever ones, are you going to start kicking puppies?

Harry Hill, a charming big-collared gentleman, was hoping to entitle his recording Sgt Pepper’s Volume 2. He was also going to redo the Peter Blake photo, replacing the human images with knitted creatures. But Paul McCartney and Apple said, “No way, José.” Why? Were they worried that people would really confuse the comedian’s work with the work of the Beatles (a combo often associated with said musician and label)? I’m pretty sure people will be able to tell the difference. Is it because Harry Hill is just a little bit silly? The Simpsons are pretty silly, but I don’t think their take on Sgt Pepper’s did you any damage. Why be so mean to Harry Hill? He’s a doctor, you know.

You are Paul McCartney. No one’s going to forget about your brilliance. They haven’t forgotten about “Ebony and Ivory,” have they? They aren’t going to forget about your good work either.

Now Johnny Marr, where’s your snootiness come from? I thought you might have learned something from being picked on by all the bullies of your youth. (I have no evidence this happened, but I’m willing to bet 50p it did.) Harry Hill recorded a medley of Smiths’ songs to include on the album, and Marr’s “people” (you have people, now, Johnny? Seriously, you have changed) have asked him not to. Outrageous! Is it because you were hoping he’d do a medley of Electronic songs? Dream on. What possible offense could you take from Mr Hill’s cover versions?

If there’s one lesson I’ve learned in my life, it’s that when you have a gift, you will inspire others. This is an honour, something we should be grateful for, not be fussy about. Whether it’s a tribute or a parody, if your work has inspired someone else, it means you’ve done something right. You should be ashamed, Mssrs McCartney and Marr. I hope you have a very good think about what you’ve done as you sit there, watching the darts, eating your Ginsters and counting your money.

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Brother v. Brother: It Only Works If It’s Sexy

26 Sep

I must confess I cannot be bothered to travel to Manchester for the Labour Party conference. I was slightly disappointed that I missed Gordon Brown coming on to the song “Soul Man,” if only because I’m convinced he was dancing Blues Brothers’ style to psych himself up backstage. I imagine his moves were more Elwood than Jake, but either way, that was something I was hoping to see before I die.

The main reason I have decided to stay away, though, is the whole party leadership contest, as I wanted no part of it.  I found the whole Miliband against Miliband thing quite distasteful. It’s not that I’m against a little healthy sibling rivalry. I quite like when Serena and Venus play against each other, and I frequently daydream of William and Harry oiling up and wrestling for the crown. But the two Milibands? Gross.

Of course, my interest in party politics is not limited to how it affects me in the trouser department. After the last election we learned that any of the party leaders may actually help run the country (or at least end up posing for photo ops implying that they do). So what’s the best way to decide who should be in charge? Let’s face it—none of the three parties have made very clever choices the last few goes. If I ran the world (and I still can’t get my head round the fact that I do not), to become the leader of any political party, one has to show well in the most important of all political arenas in Britain: a guest spot on Have I Got News for You. If that were the case, the decision for each party would be dead simple:

 

 

 

 

 

I’m not interested in any of these three fellows tending my lady garden, but at least they make me laugh and that’s got to count for something.

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American Woman, Mama, Let Me Be

17 Sep

Since I’ve been in this country, I’ve taken a fair amount of ribbing about being American. Fair enough. There are many things that America has been responsible for, especially in recent times, that anyone with half a brain would recognise as shameful.

That’s why I was so proud of Americans when they voted in Barack Obama as their first African-American president.  So often, being the first of a certain race or gender to get into a position of power is only possible if one is extremely conservative; well, I say conservative but of course what I mean is pure evil. They break barriers, but the legacies they leave behind them are disastrous. So when, in November 2008, Americans voted in a black man who is intelligent, thoughtful, liberal and not pure evil, I was well-impressed.

Now it’s time for American women to step up to the plate and say, Yes, we can, too. Sarah Palin will always bear the honours of being the first female Alaskan governor and GOP candidate for the vice-presidency—we can’t change her Wikipedia entry now. But what I was hoping to see was sensible American women getting themselves together and making their voices heard. Alas, this has not occurred.

In fact the very opposite has happened and it’s getting my goat something proper. Have a scan of the US political news and the women you will see they are even scarier than Mrs Thatcher because, in addition to being evil, they are also ignorant as all get out (a combination even more dangerous than Pop Rocks and 7-Up ).

American women, as one of your own, I beg of you, do not let the Brewers, the Palins, the O’Donnells and the Bachmanns speak for you. What are you waiting for—things to get worse? When people in other countries picture an American woman’s face, don’t let it be one wearing those ridiculous spectacles. Put an intelligent American woman into office.

Do it for Susan B Anthony. Do it for Elizabeth Cady Stanton. Do it for your children. Do it for yourselves.

And for Christ’s sake, do it for me. Do you know how hard it is for an American woman to get laid around here these days?

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Riders on the Storm

4 Sep

I just got off the phone with a friend in Martha’s Vineyard. Yesterday, they had hunkered down in preparation for the bad weather, but Earl was eventually downgraded to a minor hurricane. This is good news for everyone but reporters, as I know there is nothing they enjoy more than doing those dramatic, “at the scene” updates.

You may remember not long ago a tropical storm named Agatha which wreaked havoc in Central America. At the time I was deluged with emails from fans, asking if the storm had been named after me. I do not believe this to be so.  Wikipedia described Agatha as “weak and catastrophic” whereas I—as you know by now yourselves, dear readers—am a violent and terrifying force for good.

Because we humans take issue with things we can’t control, it scares the living bejesus out of us when we think about the potential destruction natural events can cause and the very little we can do to stop them. Therefore, we devised a policy of giving these events people’s names: by portraying them as just “one of us,” it’s easier to convince ourselves they’re not so powerful.

This is why originally bad weather was only given women’s names. After all, no decent, hard-working Joe in the 1950s could be afraid of little ol’ Tropical Storm Cindy-Lou, now could he?  Of course, the bra burners eventually put a stop to this, and ever since 1978, names from both genders have been used.

How exactly the names are chosen is a closely guarded secret, known only to the staff of the World Meteorological Organization and to myself, owing to the fact that a few years back I met a member of the WMO who felt that revealing this secret to me outside of his hotel would convince me to join him upstairs in his room (it did not, once in the cab was surely enough). Given that this man has recently passed away (well, he’s brain dead so he’s as good as), I feel I can now reveal some of the mysteries associated with these names.

Hurricane Audrey 1957

This hurricane was inspired by Audrey Hepburn, who lost out on the starring role in Gigi, which went into production that year and won the Best Picture Oscar in 1958. The man who named it this thought he might be in with a chance with the beautiful actress by honoring her in this way; however, one of her biographers revealed that she had been appalled when she learned of it and had had ordered the man killed. He was subsequently found shot, execution-style, in the rear parking lot of the Brown Derby. Rumours persist to this day that Desi Arnez was the trigger man.

Hurricane Agnes 1972

When most of Americans think of the most important event of 1972, they don’t think of the Olympics or the Chicago commuter rail crash or the ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment or anything related to the Vietnam War. For them, 1972 was all about the end of the television show Bewitched and therefore that year’s most devastating hurricane was given the name Agnes as a tribute to the wonderful and tastefully costumed actress, Agnes Moorehead.

Hurricane Hugo 1989

There’s a heartwarming story behind the naming of this storm. One of the head meteorologists had just celebrated his fiftieth birthday and to mark this milestone in his life, he decided to finally embrace the homosexual tendencies which he had spent most of his life (except for a few weeks at summer camp) denying. He gave this year’s hurricane the name Hugo, as he claimed it was Warhol’s Polaroid of Victor Hugo which had sent him over the edge. Bless.

Hurricane Dennis 1995

Due to the fact that families were finally realising that Dennis is perhaps the most feeble name on the planet, one unfortunately named fellow at the WMO hoped that giving this hurricane his own ridiculous moniker would lead to more babies being called Dennis. Thankfully, his plan backfired and the name finally died out permanently when this man took his own life in 1997.

Hurricane Floyd 1999


Hurricane Wilma 2005

Hurricane Katrina 2005

Because they knew this one was going to be a doozy, the WMO decided that by associating the storm with one of the world’s most cheerful songs (“Walking on Sunshine”) by Katrina and the Waves (get it?), those who had to deal with the devastation might cheer up a bit. This did not work out as planned.

Hurricane Ike 2008

I’m afraid I do not know the story behind this year’s Earl. I’m sure it’s meaningful to some weather freak somewhere.

Whatever one calls it, a hurricane is nothing to sneeze at. I myself have first hand experience of such a storm. In August of 1995, I was on the coast of North Carolina, vacationing with a dear friend. News came that we were to evacuate the island immediately, due to Hurricane Felix. My companion and I spent a terrified few hours trapped in the back of a car, stuck in the traffic jam on the bridge that led to the mainland. I was desperately trying to update my last will and testament while my friend was weeping over whether or not he would ever see his wife and children again. Luckily, of course, we survived as the storm remained offshore in North America, though I do believe the event was the cause of the rather abrupt end of our friendship. How can damage like that be measured in dollars, I ask?

Of course, that sad truth is that whether a storm is named after a beautiful woman or a respectable man, the effect it has is out of the hands of mere humans. All we can do is board up our windows and hope that we won’t need to rely on governmental bodies to help us clean up the mess. This is an important lesson to keep in mind and, indeed, perhaps a most fitting metaphor for our most intimate relationships.

I’m glad my friend and his property are safe for the moment. Behind Earl is Tropical Storm Fiona, who may not even make it to hurricane status. Let us pray that the season ends soon; if it doesn’t, the storms will be called Gaston, Hermine and Igor, and, without meaning to cause offense, those are bloody stupid names.

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And To Cricket, Those Ten Same Rules Should Apply

29 Aug

Cricket is supposed to be the sport of gentlemen. It’s about playing with honour, trying your best and getting smears on your trousers. It’s about dignity. For goodness sake, they stop play for tea—surely that’s indication that the game’s got distinction?

The no ball scandal at Lord’s has rocked the cricket world this weekend. In many ways, though, it should come as no surprise. Things have been heading the wrong way ever since they started wearing coloured shirts. Unlike footballers with their garish get ups and super injunctions, a man dressed in cricket whites says, I’ve no reason to hide: I am committed to being a gentlemen both on and off the pitch.

I’d love to be able to blame the fall in moral standards on foreign teams, but we must make sure our own hands are clean before we start pointing fingers. The England team is not innocent of drunken or dodgy behaviour and lack of focus. Even our new heroes, Stuart Broad and Jonathan Trott (who, I’ve just learned, goes by the nickname “Booger”) could show a bit more class at times.

It’s a crucial point in the history of cricket. Fans must deserve more respect for the game from our cricketers. I, for one, will do all I can to stop this cancer, and I hope my readers will follow suit. Christopher and I have just returned from our local cricket ground where we staged a two hour silent protest to make our grievances known.

I wore my new black dress. I looked fetching but also judgmental. I hope I’ve made my point.

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Pogo Is, As Pogo Does

25 Aug

Today is the birthday of Walt Kelly, the most important cartoonist who ever drew breath. He knew how to use pen and ink to make a point. He wasn’t afraid to address head-on the problems of the day, whether they be political, religious or environmental.

His most famous creation was a little fellow called Pogo, with whom I have always related. If he weren’t a possum, I believe he’d have made a lovely husband.

There were rumours that one of Kelly’s characters may have been inspired by me, however there’s no way that could be true. I didn’t sleep with him until long after she appeared in print.

Today of all days, we should remember the power that words and pictures can have. Write a letter to your newspaper about an issue that’s been bugging your bear. Draw a picture of the world as a better place. Start a petition to make my books available on Amazon. Do something, for god’s sakes; sales have been down and I need a holiday.

Be inspired, dear hearts!

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Sometimes DH Lawrence Wrote About Nature as Well

12 Aug

DictionaryAs a logophile, I love a good word. There are so many wonderful words out there: tourniquet, crumbly, and trousers, just to name a few. One of my favourite words is nature—it’s brilliant because it’s got so many nuances, so many shades of meaning. Said in a certain way, it may imply wickedness, but, whispered softly, it can be quite lovely (not unlike the word whore).  Despite the fact that the OED takes almost 178 column inches to explain all of its many definitions, ultimately the word can be broken down in two major categories.

Mother Nature

When I was a small child, my parents took me to an ecology rally in Loch Arbour (NJ) where millions of concerned citizens gathered to acknowledge our responsibility to the environment. There I saw a placard (or it might have been a billboard) that read “It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.” This was the first time I had encountered this particular archetype: the caring maternal spirit of the Earth, who provides for all her children. Needless to say, given my personal experience with matriarchs, it did not ring true for me. However, I can see what they were going for. Mother Nature symbolizes everything that the natural (as opposed to man-made) world offers us, not just our basic needs like food, water, clothing and shelter, but also those things which make so many of us happy, like sunshine, the scent of lilacs, birdsong and cannabis. We’ve got to do better at taking care of nature—it’s not just about cleaning up after ourselves; we’ve got to change our whole attitude and show it the respect it deserves before it’s too late.

Human Nature

There’s some dispute about the concept of human nature. Some people focus on our individual characters, our constitutions or outlooks. They believe each of us has a personal nature: we may have a hot temper or the patience of a saint, we may be trustworthy or we may be devious. Our dispositions are determined by many factors, such as genetics or the influence of our parents or the skills of our hypnotherapist or maybe our wires are just wonky. But do groups of people have their own nature? Is it the nature of all artists to be tortured or the nature of all young people to be fucking idiots?  Psychologists and pornographers are also continuously debating the different natures of men and women—does the arrangement of our chromosomes alter our essences, causing some of us to enjoy making sandwiches and others to prefer shifting bricks?

If there were ever a war between the two categories of nature, let’s face it, Mother Nature would be the hands down winner. The most horrible things on Earth—from violence and destruction to pollution and racism—are the domain of humankind. This is why I struggle to look a tree in the eye.

My explanation of the multiplicity of meanings in just one single word serves as evidence that they’re real clever inventions. Basically, the set up is you put some letters into a certain order and together they make a word which you can write as well as speak and which represents ideas, people and objects, really anything you can think of. This actually works in all languages—including the ones with those funny letters.

Clever, eh?

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“Work Is The Refuge of People Who Have Nothing Better to Do”—Another Oscar, I’m Afraid

30 Jul

As my father used to say, “If work was supposed to be fun, it’d be called fun. Work is work, that’s why it’s called work.” Gertrude Stein he wasn’t, but he does make a valid point. So many people today think that success in their careers will lead to happiness. I’m afraid that kind of attitude is going to lead to nothing but disappointment (and premature damage to the respiratory and cardiovascular systems). Very few people can truly say that their work makes them happy. Luckily, I am one of those few. But the rest of the world goes to work, not out of love for their job or compassion for their colleagues or customers, but rather simply for the money. Even Hugh Hefner has admitted, “Bribing young women with dreams of stardom to have sex with my Viagra-fuelled body is not how I prefer to spend an afternoon, but I’ve got to do it to keep up the mortgage on the mansion.”

Ultimately the problem lies in the nature of employer-employee relations. I don’t have the time or energy here to rehash what was so thoughtfully explained by our dear friend Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. The gist of it is this: if you’re the employee, you’re nothing. You will never satisfy your boss; he will never think you give enough. You might have the highest sales figures or land the biggest contract or reach the top of the bestsellers list (for each of your last eleven publications), but he is never going to stop pushing you, pulling you, sucking you dry. He’s The Man and that’s how the Man rolls. You’re fooling yourself if you think you’ll ever be able to overcome this power dynamic. So just stop that silliness right now.

The only thing you can control in a work environment is your approach to your job. So keep two things in mind at all times. First, remember that work is never enjoyable. Everyday you will wake to your alarm, leave your home and head into a fucking nightmare. It might be your line manager blaming you for his mistake, the woman in the next cubicle who smacks her gum, the customer who wants his money back because he didn’t lose the twenty pounds in twenty minutes as your advertising guaranteed he would—whatever it is, it’s going to be horrible. If someone is kind to you, assume it’s a trick. You’re better off expecting the worst and being pleasantly surprised that you’re not emotionally and physically destroyed by home time.

Secondly, maintain a cool distance between you and your job at all times. Don’t give out personal information to anyone at work, not even the mailroom boy you had a fumble with at the last Christmas do. Never call your boss by her first name. Do not sign birthday cards or contribute to going away gifts. When the receptionist goes into anaphylactic shock after accidentally swallowing a peanut, just walk away. Showing you care about any task, person or responsibility associated with work is as good as admitting you’re beat. You might as well bend over, drop trou and let the Man stick it to you.

Keeping these two things in mind will make the experience of work tolerable enough to make it to just one more payday or until you finally hit it big at Foxy Bingo.

When that day finally comes and you are able to bid a fond farewell to your beloved bastard of an employer, remember not to let your guard down. Often we find ourselves feeling a bit more sentimental about our time with a certain company once we know we are leaving. This is a mistake. Remember, you were nothing to those people when you worked there, and you’re even more nothing now that you’re going. A dear friend who is moving on to bigger and better things recently asked me for some advice on writing his resignation letter. He showed me a few drafts he had spent half the night working on, trying to strike the right balance between expressing his appreciation and saying his piece over various grievances. I tore these drafts up in front of his stupid face and sat down to pen this for him (names have been changed to protect the weasels):

Dear Sir,

It is with much regret that I am writing to inform you of my resignation.

When I say “much regret,” of course, I mean “with slight trepidation,” as I am hoping this letter will not lead to any kind of interaction between you and me, beyond the usual meaningless drivel we already share. In fact, this letter need not be acknowledged or discussed in any way. On my final day of work, I will be happy to delete the pornography from my computer, empty my desk and walk away from your life forever. I prefer this company think of me and my time here as if it were a dream–not the best of dreams, not a nightmare, but something in between–a strange but intriguing time where things didn’t really make sense but, in the end, they didn’t really have to.

If you do, however, feel compelled to discuss this issue further, please be aware that I do not intend to bite my tongue about my experiences here. For example, do you remember the woman who invented “The Alastair,” the solar powered vibrator you were convinced she had named after you? The morning after I shagged her, I told her you thought that and she laughed so hard I had to shag her again to stop her from becoming hysterical. Also, if you force me to, I will confess that Phil is the one who’s been pissing in the sinks (I bet you thought it was Tom or John, what with their interest in “watersports”) and that the missing supplies from the stationery cupboard can all be located in Daniel’s lower intestine as he suffers from an inexplicable urge to eat cello-tape. Matt did not earn a degree from Bournemouth; his flatmate (a hobo) is good at both designing fake certificates and writing recommendation letters. Finally, it was James who bought you the inappropriate Secret Santa gift last year; you think he admires you for your stick+it+to+the+mandesign skills but it’s really your arse he is coveting.

I am quite sure neither one of us really wants me to have to share this information. Therefore, why don’t we considered this matter closed?

Sincerely,

The One You Insist on Calling Roger, Even Though My Name is Robert

I’ve no doubt that when he handed in this letter, Robert’s boss was secretly impressed with his coolness towards a company that had employed him for over twenty five years. In fact, I am convinced the suit against him will be dismissed before ever making it to court. He stood firm, calm and collected, and that’s to be admired.

We’ve all got to work (and by we I mean you), so accept it for what it is: a means to an end. Every morning you go, you do what needs to be done, you cash your cheque and that’s all there is to it. It’s not fun, it’s not fulfilling. It’s a job. That’s it.

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“It Is Always With the Best Intentions that the Worst Work is Done”—Oscar Wilde

30 Jul

God bless him for trying, David Cameron. I do believe he’s got the best intentions, somewhere inside that doughy head of his. But he’s got it so wrong that I almost feel a little bad for him.

Take, for instance, his “Big Society” business. According to the Telegraph:

In his first major speech on the theme of the “Big Society” since winning the election, the Prime Minister will announce the “biggest redistribution of power from elites in Whitehall to the man and woman on the street”.

Mr Cameron – who is keen to present his administration as offering optimistic new policies that are not just about cuts – will say that the “liberation” of volunteers and activists to help their own communities is the vision which drives his premiership.

As part of his drive to roll back the reach of the public sector, the Prime Minister will attack the previous Labour government for turning state employees into “disillusioned, weary puppets” and communities into “dull, soulless clones”.

Me oh my. Someone is not taking advantage of his public school education on the power of language. Big Society? I just don’t see that phrase appealing to the youth who loiter outside the leisure centre. I bet their parents wouldn’t even swallow Big Society if it were the name of a pizza which came with free garlic bread. Just listen to yourself. You’re going to liberate volunteers? Volunteers are already free—that’s the whole point.

He will announce that four areas in diverse parts of the country have been chosen to form a “vanguard” in realising his dream of “people power” in which individuals rather than the state come together voluntarily to solve their problems.

The four – the greater London borough of Sutton and Cheam, the leafy Berkshire council of Windsor and Maidenhead, rural Eden Valley in Penrith, Cumbria, and the metropolitan city of Liverpool – were chosen after they petitioned Downing Street to start their own projects.

They will be the first to be invited to submit applications to the Big Society Bank, a fund which will allocate the proceeds of dormant bank accounts worth hundreds of millions of pounds to help set up volunteer schemes to improve communities.

Combining Big Society with the word bank, well, you’re on to a real winner there to earning the public’s trust. Also, if we’ve learned nothing from the MTV Awards, we’ve learned that the word vanguard certainly doesn’t mean what it used to. And little David, people power? Really? What’s next—women’s libbers, rap sessions and hep cats? Get with the program, Prime Minister!

Communities already unite to take care of each other in many ways. The little kiddies at our church do sponsored silences to raise money for the hospital. Last month quite a large group “came together voluntarily” to vandalise Mr Willingstoke’s Bentley after he suggested Jeremy Clarkson open our village fête. We stand up for our community like that. As individuals, we also do good. Look at the help Christopher gives me out of the goodness of his heart. The old man three houses up has a volunteer nurse who comes by to look after him once a week and she’s even willing to do it in costume. Alice Wintergarden and I both read to the blind and sign to the deaf (not simultaneously); neither of us are “dull, soulless clones” (though admittedly some of those we help may be). We don’t need the government telling us how to take care of each other.

But we do need the government for some things. After all, what is the state for, Mister Cameron, if not to help the people?  Build some playing fields. Make sure there’s disabled access in the shopping precinct. Insist the local library carry all of my books, not just those published in the last ten years. Go back to weekly rubbish bin collection. These are the duties of government. These are the kinds of things the government should be doing, instead of coming up with ways for us to do them for ourselves once the budgets have been slashed.

Governments don’t give power to the people, the people give power to the government. You were elected by the people of this nation, well, you weren’t exactly elected, but the thing is you’re there now so do your job, do it right and quit being a dick.

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