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Last month the erupting Icelandic volcano , whose name sounded like a tippling Geordie ordering a strong Belgian lager , sent up a plume of volcanic ash six miles
high into the atmosphere. When the subsequent ash cloud spread as far as southern England and eastern Germany , most European airspace was progressively closed and
UK flights comprehensively cancelled. Was I alone in feeling that the public reaction fell short of the mark by fingering a set of over-cautious air traffic controllers.
What about the Icelandic bankers , probably spending their inflated bonuses on cocaine-fuelled sex-romps in five-star saunas , even as that ash cloud floated towards
Europe ? Surely they had a hand in those eruptions ? And how can we be sure that Sven wasn’t involved in some obscure way ? No matter. They say that every cloud has a
silver lining. Here and across Europe , ferry and railway companies flourished , along with car-hire firms who expediently hiked their prices to meet the transport
crisis. Those people living beneath UK flight paths described their week or two of peace as blissful.
No sooner had all flights been re-instated than the election campaign replaced ash-clouds in newspapers and pub conversation. For “Blame Culture” , a General Election
provides the same hearty prospects as a battlefield provides for vultures. Parties trundle out all the usual suspects for our travails. Work-shy , single-parent
immigrants , the previous x baneful years of muddled misrule , blah blah blah. The present governors seek to convince the electorate of their praiseworthy record
on public health and education while dismissing any “local difficulties” as the result of an economic crisis brought about by forces outside any government’s control.
Choosing between the two main political parties becomes a task no easier than deciding whether the more irksome figure in popular music is Bono or Sting. What sort of
names are those ? The core principle throughout our political system is one of constant economic growth via a free market ideology and no-one seeking power is likely
to challenge this. The whole system’s self-perpetuating tendency resides in the collective sensibility , which has grown addicted to all the dubious benefits of
consumerism and technology.
The media , politicians , bankers , immigrants , single parents …. all unwitting agents of this system , which will change (as all systems must) in due time but no
sane person can expect such a change hinging on the results of this , or any other , election. A finite number of responses to this fact are available. You accept
it , just as you accept volcanic action , traffic jams , plastic bags , budget airlines , nuclear weapons and widespread curtailing of bus service , bank and post
office provision. You may wish to boost your credibility by protesting some detail here or there : battery farming or SUVs , perhaps. Or you suggest that radical
changes of heart and habits are what’s needed if we are to renounce incessant growth and the primacy of markets. You’re not a stick-in-the-mud , a past-worshipper
set against change ? Never satisfied with either nuclear power or that windfarm on the hill , would you prefer us to go back to horses and carts , cooking by
firelight , walking miles to and from work ? Back to a parochial world of perpetual toothache and insecurity , growing decrepit before your natural time , ending
your lonely days in the workhouse ?
Outside a fringe minority of sandal-wearing low-tech vegetarians , who wants to replace electricity-on-tap with candles , to halt car production and long-haul
flights ? How many users of social media would prefer a number of small grocer’s shops stocked with a smattering of locally-grown , seasonal fruit and vegetables
in lieu of those extended supermarket aisles , each day of the year a cornucopia of colourful produce from every corner of the globe ? Students of nineteenth
century social history will remark on the long , bitter struggle for universal suffrage. Today , you may well ask what exactly are the benefits that have
resulted from our great grandfathers and grandmothers wresting from their reluctant political masters the right to vote ? Whether going out to elect Mr. Bland
(“there comes a time to prune the roses”) or Mr. Blunt (“we must all accept a smaller slice of the national cake”) , you might as well save your shoe-leather ,
as my mum used to say. They’re both exhorting us in the posh diction of toffs from a previous age , to accept collective responsibility for discharging the debts
largely incurred by a gambling syndicate of their banking chums in the City.
Wig.
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