Vimy Ridge

(Written 4^th May 2006, following a three day birthday trip to France, Germany, Luxemburg and Belgium with some good friends.)

"Ting, ting, ting
War's a terrible thing."

As Donna, Charlie, Paul and I headed for a light lunch at Laon, the motorway signs indicated that Vimy Ridge was approaching on our left. Charlie mentioned that he intended going there one day, as his third cousin twice removed, Tom Small, was commemorated on the memorial to all the Canadians who fell there during the Great War who have no known grave.

Donna replied that the memorial was the one place she had wanted to stop at as she returned from holiday at Christmas, but the coach driver was more concerned with making it to the ferry on time.

Paul and I travel hopefully. The destination is less important than the journey, if that journey is an interesting one, and this seemed interesting enough for an unscheduled stop. So, turning off, we headed for Vimy, as Charlie and Donna told us the little they already knew about the place. "There are several graveyards..." "You can still see the old trenches..."

As we approached the site, the terrain either side of us became a series of depressions and undulations. "This must be the trenches we're seeing", I thought. "The sides have collapsed, and they're gradually disappearing over time. In time, everything will be smoothed over." I'd have stopped, but signs indicated that visitors were not allowed to walk there. That's an approximation, of course, my French hasn't improved one bit.

We drove up to the memorial, a huge, cloth covered shape. Yes, with our usual timing, it was closed for cleaning and maintenance. (You can see a picture of it here, though: http://tinyurl.com/k8ta7 and a few more here: http://tinyurl.com/fuglo ) What can I say? It's big. That's about it. So I turned the car round and we went to see one of the graveyards.

At the end of a wide avenue of trees there's a field of gravestones. We stopped to walk among them, across the neatly-trimmed grass that lies above the remains of a fraction of the men who died here. "A soldier of the Great War" the first gravestone read, "Known to God". I know what this means... that the body could not be identified. Face disfigured, dog tags gone, whatever. Terribly sad, that there was a family somewhere who had no idea where their son, brother, father ended up. Then I look around me, and it seems that almost all the inscriptions are the same... men whose names are known to God alone. Really, so sad.

Hang on, though, this one's different. "A soldier of the Yorkshire Regiment known to God". And another, "A soldier of the Machine Gun Corps Known to God". So why aren't the others recognised by their corps? Lord, then it hits me. The others were so blown apart, so shredded, that not even their uniforms could be identified. Sad isn't a big enough word, really. Saddest of all - "Two Marines Known to God". They couldn't work out which chunks belonged to who.

There's a little brick structure that is no doubt provided for shelter on rainy days, and on one wall, there's a plaque with much information on it. Firstly, it tells me that there are over 2000 graves in this small field. It is small, too. I know people with bigger gardens. 2000 graves...

The plaque gives a short history of WW1. The Germans advanced through Belgium and France during 1914, the Allies shoved 'em back a bit during early 1915, and then both sides settled down to killing each other in huge numbers for two years without advancing or retreating any significant distance. Then, in 1917, the Allies started to push the Germans back. By late 1918, having had enough, the Germans signed an Armistice. There's big books by eminent historians that go into infinite detail of each advance and retreat, the various battles, the shift of power and advantage from one side to another; but it takes a really short history like this to bring home the sheer bloody stupidity of the human mincing machine that was the Somme, of which the Battle for Vimy Ridge was just one element.

Before we drive to the Visitor Centre, where Charlie has a faint hope of finding some information about Tom Small, I pick a gravestone at random and say a short prayer for the man whose remains beneath will always lie in this field, far from his home. It seems to me to be the best thing to do.

Parking at the Visitor Centre, Charlie heads off to do his research, while Donna, Paul and I walk in a different direction, towards a sign - "To the trenches". But I thought we saw them on the road in?

No. What I saw were shell craters, and some of them were huge, twenty feet across and ten feet deep. I mention my error to French-speaking Donna, who points out that there were signs posted to warn visitors not to walk around there, due to the unexploded ordnance known to be present. Mmm, and I thought they read something like "Don't walk on the grass". I make a mental note to try harder with the French language, on the basis that it could easily save my life one day. (At the Visitor Centre, later, we find that a shell-clearing exercise is still going on, even now.)

A section of the trenches has been preserved, and preserved very well. Concrete has been cast in bricks to resemble sandbags, and the bricks used to replace the walls of the trenches. The ones that lead to the front line are so low that soldiers must have had to duck to avoid shrapnel from German shells, but the walls at the front line are easily eight feet high. Part of the front line trench features a lookout post, a high step that would allow a soldier to keep an eye on enemy movements. I jump up... but why, then, do I crouch, and peep over the top? Here, on a sunny day, nearly ninety years after the last shot was fired? Don't ask me, but I didn't want to stand up and gaze, lest... what? I honestly can't tell you, but it just felt... foolhardy.

I peep across, and there's No Man's Land, and, gosh, there's the German front line... oh, but it's so near, I thought it would be further away. It's too close.

Time to go. There are no ghosts here, but remembrance is stamped on this place so hard that it cannot be ignored. Let's go and find Charlie.

Charlie is in the Visitor Centre, and he's gazing with wonder at the computer screen in front of a young Canadian woman, who is saying "I'm just emailing this photo to your address." On the screen is a photo of a tiny, tiny part of one of the walls of the memorial and at the centre of the photo are letters inscribed in stone - TOM SMALL. Charlie's found Tom, who has no known grave, whose whereabouts will always be a mystery... but from a distance of ninety years and several hundred miles, in a foreign country, Charlie's found him.

And that's why we inscribe names on memorials. So that those who never knew, but can never forget, can one day find those who were once there, remain there, yet left no trace of themselves.

There's a small exhibition at the Visitor Centre, telling the story of Vimy Ridge and the battle that took place in 1917 to claim it from the German forces. Vimy Ridge was of immense tactical importance, and its capture aided an Allied advance to the south. It was also used with great effect to repulse German offensives during 1918. The battle, although fought by soldiers of many nations, was mainly waged by four Canadian divisions, who had already demonstrated that they were one of the most outstanding formations on the Western Front, particularly in offensive warfare. Their victory on Vimy Ridge, despite their 10,000 casualties and 3,500 deaths, had a profound effect on future Allied military planning, as the Canadians had proved that no position was invulnerable to a well-planned attack. Yes, I took notes. What, you think I can write this stuff from memory?

And here in the Visitor Centre, amongst the contemporary photos and easily understood history and maps and recovered shells and bullets and original documents and copies of war poems and accounts of the four Victoria Crosses that were won at Vimy Ridge and line drawings of the position of trenches as at one date and where they were a month later, where bomb craters that could still hold deadly explosives lie a few hundred yards away, where stones mark deaths that are known only to God... here are a couple of stanchions that supported barbed wire ninety years ago, and on top of each one are two rusty helmets. One is German, one is Allied. Both the lids have been torn open by some terrible force.

Brave men who were scared shitless died here, and bravery wasn't a commodity that was confined to Allied soldiers. Canadian, British, German... if they had time to realise, they all died wanting their mummy to make it stop hurting. Nationality and patriotism conferred no discrimination in death.

"And that's why I sing, sing, sing
War's a terrible thing."

Ypres

(Written 6^th May 2006, about the same trip that brought forth "Vimy Ridge". You should read that one first, really.)

"Boom, boom, boom, boom
Boom, boom, boom, boom -"

As an unreconstructed trade unionist, I believe strongly in democracy. My birthday celebration it may have been, but there were three other people in the car, and all suggestions carry equal weight. Donna, for example, suggested that we visit Germany on Sunday, on the way to Luxembourg, and we all thought that wasn't a bad idea. So we did.

(Let's not forget, if anyone looks at a map and notices that Germany is not on the way to Luxembourg if you start from Reims - Paul and I were once driving from Dijon, France to Grenoble, France and decided to go to Switzerland for lunch. And, sitting by Lake Geneva, a very good lunch it was, too. So we may be slightly touched, but we're consistent.)

On Saturday, when Charlie mentioned that his grandfather was buried in Ieper (Ypres), we had a look at the map. It's only in Belgium, and that's just to the right of France, so we asked him if we could go and see Grandfather. A mildly flabbergasted Charlie said yes, of course we could, so that was Monday morning's itinerary sorted.

Ieper is the Belgian name for Ypres, but as we'll be considering more Great War material, I shall refer to the place as Ypres from here on. I only mention the current spelling in case anyone wants to see where it is on a map.

Ypres was a little out of our way, so an early start was needed, but two and a half hours later, we're within a few miles of the town. Luckily, Charlie knows which graveyard Grandfather is in, because there are graveyards everywhere in the area. Take a look at http://tinyurl.com/kfeaf - each pink circle is a graveyard. Grandfather is in the Zillebeke area, and we soon find signs to that, shortly seeing a sign to the China Wall cemetery.

There's almost no traffic, it's cold and drizzling fitfully, and there are no other people looking round the cemetery. As I park by the low perimeter wall, Charlie says "There he is - fourth one in." In less than a minute, the four of us are standing in front of a stone that reads:

Capt Hon. Charles Monck

Coldstream Guards

21st Oct 1914

The drizzle is forgotten, the chilly wind is happening somewhere else. There's suddenly a sense of timelessness... and the realisation that Capt Monck had a terribly short war. He'd already been wounded once, and sent home for a month to recover, Charlie tells us.

The China Wall Cemetery is a quiet place, by a quiet road, with a little farm opposite. It seems to me that it's no bad place for a soldier to take his rest, because surely what all battle-weary soldiers desire is silence, a chance to hear the birds sing and a lay down in pleasant countryside. It's what I'd want for myself... but I'm not sure that I could pay the price of admission to this place.

The saddest memorials here are to those who were buried in other cemeteries that were later battlefields, and whose remains are now lost. Imagine, if you can, shelling a cemetery... or driving a tank through one... and you capture a small part of the horror that is war.

A photo of one of these memorials is here: http://tinyurl.com/gcabp (not 56k friendly).

The China Wall (Perth) Cemetery takes its name from a trench that ran near here. It ran very deep into the ground, and soldiers called it "The Great Wall Of China". Later, a Scottish regiment that used it renamed the trench "The Perth Road". There's a photo of the entrance on the CWGC certificate of the final resting place of Capt Monck, here: http://tinyurl.com/h3a39

It's been good to meet Grandfather.

As we're near, and have a little time, I suggest that we drive into Ypres and see the Menin Gate. It's a big memorial - imagine Marble Arch scaled up by 50%. Now put another one 150 yards away, and a hall connecting the two, and you've got some idea of the Menin Gate. It's only as we walk through it that I find that the Gate is a memorial to all British and Commonwealth soldiers with no known grave. Their names are etched into the stone in letters about 3/4 of an inch high... and they're everywhere, covering every possible surface.

Half way down each side, stairs lead up to the ramparts, and the names continue upward with the stairs. They really are everywhere you look.

It's not a memorial that can be ignored, or missed - the gate spans a main road. In 1914, the "gate" was just a gap in the ramparts around the town which marked the start of the Menin Road, the road that led to the front line of the Somme. Tens of thousands of men marched through it and away to the fighting. Some came back. Some stayed here, like Capt. Monck, and can be visited by relatives, friends and friends of relatives. Nearly 55,000 just vanished. All we know is that they're around here, somewhere. They could be under our feet, or 50 miles away. No one knows.

And that, as I wrote a couple of days ago, is why we put names on memorials like this. Lord Plumer of Messines put it better than I can in his speech on the opening of the Gate in 1927:

"One of the most tragic features of the Great War was the number of casualties reported as, "missing, believed killed.

.............. when peace came, and the last ray of hope had been extinguished, the void seemed deeper and the outlook more forlorn for those who had no grave to visit, no place where they could lay tokens of loving remembrance.......

...........and it was resolved that here at Ypres, where so many of the missing are known to have fallen, there should be erected a memorial worthy of them which should give expression to the nation's gratitude for their sacrifice and their sympathy with those who mourned them.  A memorial has been erected which, in its simple grandeur, fulfils this object, and now it can be said of each one in whose honour we are assembled here today:

He is not missing; he is here!"

Every evening at 20:00, without fail, the police close the road that is spanned by the Menin Gate, and buglers from the Ypres Fire Brigade blow the Last Post. They have done this every evening since 1927, the only exception being when the Germans came back in 1939. The ceremony resumed on the very day in 1944 that Allied forces took possession of the Menin Gate again, despite the fighting that was still going on elsewhere in the town.

We walk on, and Charlie draws my attention to the ancient architecture of the shops either side of the street. It's pretty good, I say. It's been rebuilt, says Charlie. There is hardly a brick that stands in its original place in the entire town, which was almost flattened during the Great War. There's a photo taken from the air in 1917 here: http://tinyurl.com/s7vdr - the large structure at top left is the Cloth Hall, and it, too, has been rebuilt in its original Gothic splendour, as the photo at http://tinyurl.com/s574u shows.

We're passing a shop that sells all manner of books about the Somme in particular and the larger war in general, and as the rain is now becoming steadier, we take a look inside. While browsing, I notice that Remembrance poppies are on sale here all year round, and that bullets and shrapnel balls that have been recovered from the ground are also sold in aid of the British Legion and other military charities. I buy a bullet - an unmarked, undamaged one that clearly hasn't been fired. While it's a good souvenir to take away, I'd shrink from treasuring something that might have killed someone, which is why I don't buy a shrapnel ball - you can't tell with those.

I think I'll carry it with me from now on, and every time I feel a bit warlike towards regimes, countries, or people, I'll reach for the bullet in my pocket and remind myself that war involves using things like this heavy slug with a sharp point.

Maybe I'll have my name engraved on it - for remembrance and for luck.

My stomach reminds me that there's a duck breast in Dunkirque that has my name on it, and the cafe where it waits for the attentions of a skilled chef is an hour away, so allons vite, mes enfants!

Back, then, through the Menin Gate, and all those names... it is a terrible, terrifying, humbling monument to duty unto death, and what lies beyond blind nationalism and colonialism - the slaughter of common people, willing to be slaughtered to defend the values that leaders who they respect or defer to have told them are vital. Just as I carry my bullet, as we walk to the car, I wish that all leaders could carry with them the Menin Gate, a monument that had to be built so that mothers, sons, sisters, brothers, fathers, lovers and friends could have somewhere to weep.

That they could also be intensely proud goes without saying, and it's right that they should feel that way. It's another reason to put names on monuments, after all - this person is worthy, and his name is here to prove that for all time.

Those who seek to lead, though, should have "The Menin Gate is a monument to
failure" tattooed on their souls.

Suitably sobered, we drive off to Dunkirque.

"Boom, boom, boom, boom -"
"Don't tell me - boom, boom, boom, boom?"

"Spooks" 24/9/2010

 (Written shortly after the credits rolled. Sometimes I write reviews of TV programmes, especially when they're terrible, or full of plot holes.)

Just got round to watching the first episode of the new series, and glad to see that it's moving ever further into its own alternative reality. Jo's dead, and romantic Harry judges that weeping, lilies and large black hats mean that a funeral is the very best place to propose to Ruth. Suspecting latent necrophilia, she turns him down.

Meanwhile, Sir Guy of Gisbourne out of BBC's Robin Hood is boarding a well-used, i.e. rusty, oil tanker in a Mediterranean port, together with a fat Slavic (i.e. bearded) type and a good-looking blonde woman, who the Slavic chap berates and later slaps about a bit. So, she'll be the prostitute, then. On further examination, she turns out to be Madame de Pompadour out of Doctor Who. There are a couple of other passengers, and they are Arabic, which, in the world of Spooks is shorthand for Al-Quiada.

The captain seems to be Balkan, as are many of the crew. However, shortly after sailing, the tanker is boarded by Arabic pirates. Yes, Al-Quaida, of course, and they all greet the Arabic passenger (their leader) with cries of "Shalom!" Look, don't bother, I know, alright? Just before the inevitable bursts of AK-47 gunfire, Sir Guy discovers that the Slav has a container aboard that has been welded shut. While the rest of the crew and passengers are rounded up, and one is shot just to prove how hard the gang are, Sir Guy and Madame de Pompadour hide. As terrorists don't know what a passenger manifest is, and cannot count, nobody misses them, not even the other few passengers. They probably weren't Robin Hood or Doctor Who fans.

Sir Guy gets a message to the Captain, who tells the terrorists that something is wrong with the engine and he has to fix it. They meet, apparently inside the engine, where the Captain reveals that he is not Balkan at all, but SBS, which is jolly handy. He arranges for Sir Guy and Madame de Pompadour to get off the tanker in one of the lifeboats, and then rejoins his crew. As Guy and Madame are trying to do this, they are discovered by a couple of terrorists. Sir Guy kills one of them, but is just about to be killed by the other one when a shot rings out and the terrorist drops dead - killed by Madame de Pompadour, who reveals that she is a private security consultant, undercover as a prostitute. Which is, again, jolly handy.

They are shortly captured by the terrorists, though. Luckily, there seems to have been a change in priorities, and they are not killed, but simply locked in an empty container. I imagine the terrorists had a meeting, or something - "Even though they killed two of our guys, they can't be that dangerous, can they? Look, if you see them, just lock them up. We're Al-Quiada, we don't want to get a reputation for indiscriminate killing, do we?"

Back at the London HQ, Harry and Ruth are giving each other Glances, which the rest of the staff are too busy to notice, because it's All Kicking Off, Edna. The terrorists have switched off the tankers unique identifying signal, so the Spooks don't know where it is or where it's going; although the smart money, apparently, is on Plymouth. The Queen is to name a new Navy ship, so it looks like some kind of aquatic 9/11 is on the cards. Luckily, by using computers, the Spooks have identified Mr Big, and he lives in London. They employ subterfuge to get him to send an email, enabling their IT whizz-kid to get his address. He's a weird whizz-kid, too, unable to take any action without saying it - "Identifying router path... reverse engineering IP address... maybe I'll have KFC tonight..." A team of police with rifles, goggles and those black Nazi-looking helmets are despatched to Mr Big's home.

Meanwhile, on the tanker, the terrorists and the fat Slav are leaving, taking the passengers and crew (who really ought to realise that their life expectancy can be measured in minutes) with them, but allowing the Captain to stay aboard. There's a lot of "Shalom"-ing again, nobody questions whether anyone actually knows Arabic - and they leave one of their companions to tell the Captain what to do. In the locked container, Guy and Madame hear two splashes, as of lifeboats being launched and accelerating away.

The Captain kills the terrorist and switches on the identifier thing. In London, the tanker reappears on someone's screen, and the be-goggled cops are stood down. The Captain releases Guy and Madame, they verify that the welded shut container is now both open and empty, yet no lifeboats are gone. In a series of dazzling computer-assisted plot twists, it is revealed that the fat bloke supplies fast submarines and that the terrorists are heading to the Houses of Parliament in a couple of explosive-packed examples of fat bloke's wares. (They are, indeed, fast, as they seem to cover the distance from the Bay of Biscay to the Thames Barrier in less than two hours.) It's not a problem, of course - simply close the Barrier and the bad people will go boom there. Let's hope it's not a high tide tonight, eh, kids? You know, what with the Thames Barrier being all blown up and that.

Except that there's a problem - someone's hijacked the Barrier computer system, it can't be closed!

Harry springs into action - "It's Mr Big, we'll force him to release the system! Go cops!" The police bust down the door of Mr Big's semi, thrust him and his Asian (uh-oh...) wife to the floor, barking orders which seem to baffle them. "We don't know anything about a Thames Barrier..." Other cops have raced upstairs, where they find Mr Big's teenage, half-Asian (uh-oh...) daughter in traditional Asian dress (UH-OH!), pouring petrol over herself from a handy jerry can and brandishing a lighter, while, next to her, a computer shows details of the Thames Barrier system. We know this, because there's a massive header on the screen that reads "Thames Barrier System".

Incidentally, I bet her mother had been nagging her about this - "Honestly, Christine, why you have to store petrol in your room, I don't know. You're fifteen, it's not as if your car is likely to run out of juice, is it? And you were up to all hours playing that Thames Barrier game last night, I don't know what you see in it, really I don't."

Young Ms Big's lighter is smacked out of her hand, so she gets her pet lip out and sits on the bed, glaring at the cops, and Sir Guy, who has just arrived. Screaming "Tell us the password!" has precisely the same effect as screaming "You're not to see that boy again!" would have on any fifteen year old girl, i.e. sullen silence where the unsaid "F'koff, 'smylife" is fairly bouncing off the walls.

Realising that information is not going to be forthcoming, Sir Guy goes for extreme interrogation. "Get her mother up here!" He presses an automatic against Mum's head - "Tell us! Or I'll shoot!" Luckily, in the parallel world that is "Spooks", Ms Big stops behaving like a fifteen year old and tells them exactly what they want, rather than saying the more likely "So? I don't care, shoot the bitch."

The Barrier is raised, but... too late! The subs are through it! How the Spooks know this is never explained, given that they never knew where the subs were before this moment, but trying to point this out leads to the person who is watching with you crying, "Oh, shut up, I want to see it, not discuss it!", accompanied by a blow of some force, I can report.

Harry has a tough choice to make. Only he knows that there's an EMP bomb in a chamber under Parliament ("But surely the people who installed it - ow!") that, if detonated, will generate a pulse one kilometre wide, taking out both subs and any heart pacemakers in the area. Harry takes a bullet, bites it, dials a certain number and utters the fateful words "On my mark..." A pulse is generated, the subs fall to the river bed, several elderly people clutch their chests, and Her Majesty's Brittanic Isles are safe once more. Incidentally, I'd love to have that telephone number, just so that I could call it and say "On my mark... I'd like a Hawaiian Special with extra jalapenos. This is Domino's isn't it?"

In a short coda, Harry and Ruth meet on a bridge over the Thames. It's night, and London is quiet. "So..." Harry muses, "I only killed nine people, then." Ruth reassures him - "Yes. The generators at St. Thomas' Hospital kicked in just in time." And the credits roll, preventing us seeing Ruth begging Harry not to watch the news when he gets home, what with an EMP pulse being certain to take out any emergency generator system, also every electronic device in the City, including cars, and that the one kilometre reach of the pulse includes the direction "Up". In other words, all the patients in the hospital who were on life-support have had their support withdrawn in a rather terminal way, the Stock Market has been unable to trade, the Bank of England has been blind to a number of moves that now mean the pound is worth slightly less than a turnip, and Flight 39 from London City Airport to Guernsey has crashed onto the Houses of Parliament.

I expect it'll all be repaired by next week, though.

Pensions

(Written 19/12/2002)

I've defended New Labour for quite some time now, but my patience is wearing thin. The latest idea that us folks should work for longer to secure a decent pension is an idea too far, in my opinion.

So the share prices fell and the investment analysts lost some gambles. Boo hoo. Looks like there's a world recession, boo hoo. Future pensioners didn't put enough money in, silly people, especially when share prices are falling and analysts are losing bets made with the investers' money. These foolish people that trusted company pension schemes ought to have realised that investments can go down as well as up.

Except that there's a side of the story that isn't being mentioned, and it's yet another tale of corporate greed. Here's what hasn't been mentioned so far, or at least so far as I've seen.

Pension schemes budget to make a certain amount of money at a certain time. Acturial tables will tell the trustees of the scheme how much they will need at any given date, so investments are made to realise profits at the time they will be needed. With me so far? OK. In other words, because next year you know you will need £Xm, you invest whatever it will take to be certain of getting £Xm. Investment values can fluctuate, so you actually plan to make £Xm plus a bit more - that way, even if some of your choices ("bets") don't come off, you'll still get the £Xm you need.

However, if all your choices pay out, you get far more than you need to pay the pensions, and this is where it gets interesting. Every three years, company pension schemes have to revalue themselves, to make sure that there is enough to pay all the future pensions, and they have to make this information available to all the subscribers to the scheme. It's one of those publicly accessible things that nobody ever notices and claims later not to have known about. "But the plans were available for anyone to consult! They were displayed in the disused wing, behind the door marked 'Beware of the leopard.'"

Given the investment policy outlined above, it should be clear that in bad times, pension schemes make money. In good times, though, they make money at a huge rate. All the bets pay out, at better odds than they were taken out on. This is where the fat cats' noses start twitching....

See, the employers own quite a lot of the company pension scheme, and they can do with it as they wish. It's all perfectly legal, all they have to do is make sure that the scheme can still pay all the pensions, now and in the future. During the last couple of booms in the economy, lots of companies raided their pension schemes... uh, that would be "used the pensions surplus for corporate consolidation."

Before all this is dismissed as lefty conspiracy theorising, I ought to reveal that I have been a party to all this. As a senior Trade Union person, I was also a trustee of the company pension scheme. Yes, I've sat with merchant bankers in the City and debated the finer points of investment policy... know your enemy, I say. (Just to keep the lefty credentials, I once had a fierce row about investment in China. I opposed it on the grounds of their human rights record.)

So I can report first hand on the corporate raiding that went on. Every three years, the employers grabbed their chunk and headed towards the bank, while throwing some cash our way - to be used for the benefit of the scheme. The last chunk of cash I was handed was a paltry £11m, so we're not talking beans here.

Given my TU role, and the need to justify pay claims with proof that the employers could afford it, we spent a lot of time tracking the things that the pension surplus was used for. In the main, it was used to reduce costs that the City would find unacceptable, thereby making the company look efficient, and a good investment.

You can see where I'm headed - if the surplus had been reinvested in the pension scheme.... well, there might still be a small crisis, but it wouldn't be the problem it seems to be now.

Bluntly, making money from investments isn't difficult; you just have to have enough money to get into the game. I'm no great financial brain, but I know one. He advises me, and most of the time I take his advice. I've mentioned my own rules here before, and they are quite stringent - no investment in alcohol, tobacco, drug companies, Murdoch, countries with a dodgy human rights record or polluters - but until about two years ago, I was making 20% a year, every year. It's become more difficult these days, but I haven't lost money. The key is to spread it around a bit, because someone, somewhere, is making money.

Now, if I can do this with a few thousand, imagine what it's like for a corporate scheme, where the deals are in millions. Ooh, it's a great feeling when the building you bought for ten mill sells for thirty! (We bought The Trocadero in Piccadilly Circus, and sold it at a profit, but not for the sums mentioned above.)

Like I said, I'm no expert on finance, but if I can make a few bob with all my bleeding heart liberal rules and values, pension schemes ought to be able to do so in spades, with fries to go. Maybe the difference is that when I was making 20% a year, I didn't take the profits, but reinvested them, because I reckoned that one day I might not be making 20%.

Those of you who are in corporate pension schemes, find out who your trustees are, and get to know them well. Ask them stuff. And if your employer tries to raid the scheme, raise hell and join the fight to have pensions classed as "deferred earnings", that way the employers won't own most of the surplus.

As to bloody New Labour, the idea that we can all carry on working until we are 70 is unfair, divisive and just plain offensive. The MD of ICI won't need to. The person who cleans his office will. The bosses will still retire at 60, the admin people will have to put in another ten years. The school-leavers of limited education won't find any entry-level positions; they're all occupied by older people of limited education. So limited that they believed that the company pension scheme would provide for them. The fools.

If this is socialism, the world has been turned upside down. If this Govt has any shred of the Labour Party left in it, then I am a banana.

Basra way (uh-huh, uh-huh) I like it

(Originally written 20/9/2005, in response to a news item on a riot in Iraq, where a British armoured vehicle had one or two petrol bombs thrown at it. I described it as a tank, but my pal Neil - "The Sarge" - insists it was an Armoured Personnel Carrier. He's almost certainly right, because he used to be in command of a tank, and I daresay he knows his armoured vehicles. The word "tank" was funnier, though, so “tank” it remains. The chap leaving the vehicle, the attack on the police officer and the prison break really happened. Gunner Pratt is fictional.)

Let me just check that I've got this right...

In the most peaceful city in Iraq (measured, of course, by revolutions per minute), a British tank comes under attack from a mob armed with petrol bombs. Despite tanks being constructed to certain standards ("Withstands bullets, small shells, having large objects dropped on it and burning petrol. Really, we're not kidding about the petrol thing." - Challenger owners manual.) at least one member of the crew reckons he'll be safer making a few points face to face with aforementioned mob and bloody GETS OUT. Mmm, wouldn't you like to be there at the debrief? "Gunner Pratt, you are charged with abandoning your equipment, namely, one tank, and acting the bleedin' idiot. How do you plead?" "Well, sir, I -" "SILENCE when you speak to an officer!" "Sorry, sergeant."

At or near the same time, two "plainclothed" troops decide to take a shot or two at an Iraqi police officer, possibly on the basis that every other group in Iraq are shooting at police officers and not to do so might blow their cover. "Hello, that grubby native just passed a copper without attempting to separate him from his breath. You reckon he's CIA?" "Nah, SAS. The CIA bloke is over there, in the Calvin Klein dish-dash with the curly cable coming out of his ear."

Given that Iraqi police officers are notoriously jumpy even on a good day, let alone when there's a burning tank down the street with a tank commander yelling "Come back, Claude, what am I supposed to tell the Sergeant Major? Claude, STOP asking if anyone has a fire extinguisher in their car!", a mob yelling a variety of slogans on the "Death to the tyrant!"/"Hooray for the tyrant" theme, someone selling Socialist Worker (there's always someone selling Socialist Worker) and the owner of the Texaco garage three doors down is hanging off his sleeve and asking how much he can charge for a bottle of petrol, because the pumps don't recognise less than a litre, and the mob came with empty 330 ml Coke bottles... it's not entirely surprising that arrests took place.

Am I OK so far? Good. So, a singed tank, Claude nowhere to be seen, and two soldiers, complete with their plain clothes, in chokey. Enter a British armoured vehicle. Through the wall of the top Basra lock-up. Pausing only to collect our lads, the armoured car exits. 150 Iraqi criminals immediately devise an exit plan and leg it. Once the Governor of Basra has been calmed down, he releases a statement calling the jailbreak "a barbaric act of aggression", which is a sight better than the first draft which called into question the parentage of Tony Blair, the Queen, Winston Churchill, Bobby Moore, PG Wodehouse and every other British cultural icon he can think of, including Edd the Duck.

Right... if my summing up of the situation is correct, may I ask one question?

WHO THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO BE FIGHTING?

I used to think that I'd quite like the job of Foreign Secretary, after all, it's mostly indoors, no heavy lifting, generous travel allowance, plenty of duty free fags, a slap-up feed from time to time... Well, here’s notice that I no longer want the job. I mean, I don't fancy talking to a grim-faced Iraqi Ambassador bearing a rolled-up copy of the latest attempt at a Constitution in one hand and a tube of lubricant in the other. Nor do I like the idea of dealing with a phone call from the Commissioner of Police (Basra Division) who wants to talk about the reconstruction of Iraq, specifically the reconstruction of his wall, through which "Fingers" Al-Haroun has just slipped. All that, plus Claude's parents are on the other line, desperate for news of their son, and the last known intelligence suggests that he's sold his equipment, his uniform and his passport for a half-share in a kebab stall in downtown Fallujah.

You know what? I think I'd prefer to be on patrol in Tikrit, at night, alone, with a busted radio, wearing a luminous uniform and a neon badge that flashes "I am Donald Rumsfeld, and we own you."

Babba - wondering how many people in the Middle East, Europe and the US went to sleep tonight only to wake up as terrorists tomorrow.

It's war, apparently

(Written 1/10/2002 - before the invasion of Iraq. In hindsight, I wish I'd circulated it more widely than just within the small group that I contribute to. Even if he'd read it, I doubt Tony Blair would have been influenced, but at least there might have been more people shouting "You're a liar!")

Be honest, did you think I could keep quiet?

Tony has delivered the dossier, and it proves that a certain S. Hussein (a butcher of Baghdad) is a very dangerous person. Except.... we've been watching Iraq via satellite and spy plane for some years now. Whenever the Iraqi military have made a move, we knew. If a plane took off, we knew. Whenever a factory seemed to produce something that it shouldn't, we bombed it.

If Saddam has managed to build up "weapons of mass destruction", he's been damn clever, and the US and UK security services should be handing in their resignations en masse.

A little thought, divorced from the rhetoric that has been handed down, might set things in perspective, I feel. Maybe I'm wrong, always happy to be, but even my rudimentary knowledge makes me uncertain about some of the "facts" we've been handed.

Like - nukes? Forget it. Plutonium can't be bought, it's the most expensive substance in the known Universe, it can't be moved without extensive precautions and quite a lot of people knowing. Satellites spot it quite easily. Uranium isn't too hard to buy in "yellowcake" form (5% uranium in some other crud), it takes several years to process into plutonium, and any dictator wishing to do so would need a large plant, a huge supply of electricity, lots of specialist machinery (cyclotrons are best, that's why cyclotrons appear on the list of "things that Iraq may NOT order from scientists"), and quite a lot of security measures - guards, barbed wire, searchlights, regular patrols, that kind of thing.

Crikey, if we've missed an installation that size, we ought to be asking for our money back from Satellites-R-Us...

He can make chemical weapons though, can't he? Well, if he can, the list of "things that Iraq may NOT ask Boots to deliver" needs updating. After the Gulf War, the weapons inspectors proved that Hussein had Sarin and VX available, and also reported that he'd bought the raw materials from Germany - really, the Germans ought to have known better... The weapons inspectors destroyed such stocks of chemical weapons that they could find. And nobody ever wondered why Hussein chose not to deploy them during the Gulf War. Nobody except me, it seems.

It wouldn't have been from humanitarian grounds, after all, he used them on his own people, apparently. That leaves me thinking that:

1) He didn't have a targetable delivery system – wait, I’m getting to that – or

2) They didn't work.

Still, he's got the biological stuff - except that he doesn't have the technology to make any more of it, 'cos we bombed all his technology, and continue to bomb anything that looks like a weapons factory. The biological weapons he may have had suffer from degradation (military talk for "bacteria tend to eat each other when confined to a warhead with nothing else to eat"), so if he has old biological weapons, they're filled with gunge. Fairly safe gunge, too.

Mind you, I’m told he's got all these underground factories that the satellites can't see. Goodness knows what's being made down there!

Er - made by people who have to be fed and watered. So they need supplies. Even I can recognise that a road that stops in the middle of nowhere must lead to something. Especially if lots of lorries go down it, stop for a while, then go back. If the people who are watching Iraq haven't noticed that, they should be issued with white canes.

Hussein is a bad person. He's killed and ordered the killing of many people, seemingly indiscriminately. But when I'm handed propaganda of such a farcical nature, I wonder why there is such a desperate need to convince me that "the free world" is in danger. So he's got 20 Al-Hussein missiles? They can reach Cyprus... but they can't be targeted, so he couldn't hit Cyprus if it was nailed to a barn door.

I refuse to add my voice to those who would call for an attack on Iraq until Blair and Bush stop treating me like a stupid person. If Hussein is developing weapons of mass destruction, he'll need to have a delivery system. If he's developing rockets, they have to be tested somewhere. On the ground, they'd be spotted immediately. Underground, the exhaust gases have to be vented somewhere - where they'd be spotted immediately. And how can you test for targeting without a ground to air test?

Of course, he could send suicide agents to the US, the UK, or any other country, bringing "dirty nukes", anthrax sprays and the like in their suitcases. However, it would be a great deal easier to send those agents in unarmed and get them to put together the bombs/sprays in the country of his choice. So searching Iraq for WMD would be useless - it would be like searching Afghanistan for the 9/11 conspirators in the days, weeks or months before that tragedy.

As we move towards war (Bush needs to do it for his Daddy, and the oil companies that would dearly love to have a stake in the Middle East, Blair knows what the Falklands did for M Thatcher in her second term) I have a question that doesn't seem to have been asked.

What happens after Hussein has been got rid of?

Free and fair elections? That will be a novelty in a country that has never embraced democracy and chooses its leaders on the "last one standing when the smoke clears" principle. And, given their numbers, what if the Kurds get power? Ooh, Turkey will love that. Will members of the Hussein family be allowed to stand for election, I wonder? Hussein heads a political party, what if they are elected and invite him back?

Even if Iraq has nukes, whatever happened to "mutually assured destruction"? It worked with the USSR.

Oh - but they didn't have much oil.

Spam names

( Written 2^nd December 2006. Several friends were discussing the fatuous names that appear at the end of spam emails, and I was feeling very silly.)

Sue wrote:

> "Sam Wilkins" I can believe in

And so you should. One of the first of the gentleman farmers, he invented the Raddling Nancy, which replaced hand-raddlers within a couple of years. Thrown out of work, and with no opportunity for retraining, the raddlers mainly became itinerant beggars, eking out a poor living in the "raddler's ghettos" that quickly sprang up around major towns. If you're very lucky, you may find someone who still sings the old song "I am a raddling gypsy-oh", the first verse of which goes:

I am a raddling gypsy-oh
That you may oft have seen
Thrown off my land by Wilkins
And his God-damned machine
I've raddled since I were a lad
Thought I'd raddle till I was old
Now I pray you, stop and listen
Till my raddling tale's been told.

> but "Antinanco Burwell" and "Hermogenes Hull" show a
> sort of wonderful poetry, a kind of "you couldn't make it up" freshness
> that real people would just never think of.

I'm sorry? Antinanco Burwell (1554-1616?), professor of Alchemy at Oxford University, author of such erudite tomes as "Whatt Nott To Do With Elements, A Prakticall Guide For Ye Curious" and "Whenne Ye Roofe Came Off - Things I Ought To Have Put In Ye First Booke". He was responsible for building the Alchemists Hall that can be found off the Cowley Road, a replacement for the first Hall, which one of his experiments melted. His death has always been something of a mystery, as recorded in the college records at the time: "It being a little after eleven of the clock, a loud "pop" was heard from Master Burwell's rooms, also screams and a smell of daffodils. On entering the room, nought could be seen of Master Burwell, save his shoes, from which smoke arose. With the toes all curled up, too." Burwell's own notes of the final experiment are preserved in the Bodleian Library, from which the following is extracted - "An experiment to examine the properties of saltpetre and spirits of nitre. In this, I am assisted by those stout gentlemen, Merrick and McCulloch. The ingredients are mixed together, and I send Master Merrick to bring Mistress Fluffy, a cat, in order to determine whether noxious vapours have been emitted. Meantimes, Master McCulloch prevails upon me for a spark to ignite his tobacco. Having recently concluded my work with sulphur, I show him how to conjure flame from dry powder..." The notes end at that point.

Hermogenes Hull (1859 - 1923) is less widely known. Son of an Athenian barmaid and a Welsh whaler who spent his life pursuing the tiny Mediterranean whale (also author of autobiography, "It's Not A Bloody Dolphin!"), Hermogenes grew up as any normal lad did. Well, as any normal lad with a deranged father and a mother who was behind a bar until 4 a.m. every night did, anyway. On leaving school, though, Hermogenes determined to visit the land of his father, and opened the first Greek restaurant in Betwys-y-Coed. The opening night, on the 17th August 1879, featured kebabs, retsina and Hermogenes in full Greek costume (white skirt, white stockings, red slippers with bobbles on them), smashing plates with a will.

Barely escaping with his life, he spent several years working on the docks of Tiger Bay, seeking a post as Whaling Officer on the ships that sailed from that port and being laughed at. Yet Hermogenes nursed a dream... and in 1891, he returned to Greece and opened the first Welsh restaurant in Athens. The first night featured lavabread, cockles, the finest Gower claret and a male voice choir.

Barely escaping with his life, Hermogenes took refuge in Albania, opened a coaching inn and prospered. He is chiefly remembered these days from diaries of those who took the Grand Tour and were lucky enough to stay at the inn on one of his "special" nights, when he would serve dolphin sandwiches and dance to the music of the bouzouki, smashing plates on his miner's helmet.

> I'm rather fond of Arnulfo
> Hatcher at the moment - I see him as a sort of Art Nouveau dilettante
> footnote in the biographies of minor members of Aubrey Beasley's circle.

Oh, very close! In fact, Arnulfo Hatcher was the alias of Terence Drip, who hung out with the arty crowd in the early 60's. With his swarthy features and early adoption of the Zapata moustache, he easily passed for the obscure Spanish performance artist he claimed to be. (In fact, the nearest he got to any kind of art was three attendances at the life drawing classes at Lewisham Poly, after which he was ejected for dribbling on the model.)

A modest - some say perfunctory - knowledge of art, and a lucky encounter with a pissed-up David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton led to Hatcher/Drip being lionised by the experimental artists of pre-swinging London. David Hockney painted him, Bridget Jones washed the paint off him. Sarah Miles, in her memoir "Crouch End Mornings - A Diary Of Forgotten Wonders" simply refers to him as "the Spanish gentleman".

At a party in 1963, and challenged to define his influences by Peter Blake, Arnulfo claimed inspiration from "Er, art-o nueve-o". On being informed that this was Spanish for "the art of nine", Hatcher glimpsed his glittering future... "I see 'nine' in everything?..." he ventured. Blake stepped back, dazzled by his brilliance. Partygoers gasped. Mary Quant fainted dead away. And a young Japanese artist took notes... and, years later, persuaded John Lennon to say "Number nine" over and over again in tribute to the genius of Arnulfo Hatcher.

Jimi Hendrix recorded "If Six Were Nine" after seeing Hatchers' installation at the Hayward Gallery, "Six Naked Women With 9 Written On Them" executed in felt tip pen and dribble. Pink Floyd used Arnulfo's "scribbled nines" slideshow as a backdrop to their 1968 college tour. In 1972, an original Hatcher "Nine" painting in acrylic sold for £35,000. Today, it's conservatively valued at £2m.

Despite his early success, and later wealth, Arnulfo Hatcher has remained true to his performance artist origins. For the last twenty years, he's been engaged on his massive project, "Artist being waited on by naked women with nine written on them in paint, or biro if the artist forgets to go to Homebase".

Hope this is of some assistance, Sue!

Now, Sophie asked:

> Actually, since you know so much about these chaps, could you tell me
> anything about one Brigham Salinas, who sent me an e-mail about pain
> relievers this afternoon?

As a matter of fact, I can. Glad to hear the old chap is still around, to be honest. Carys, in a later post, suspected that he was a snake-oil salesman, and indeed, that was his profession for many years. However, fashions change, and the public tired of oiling snakes - just one more folk tradition that has gone by the way.

Seeking to take his once thriving, now terminal oil business to new markets, Brigham was transfixed when reading the diaries of Dr Livingstone, noting the almost daily entries along the lines of "Tripped over a snake...", "On arising, found a snake in my boot...", "Snake for dinner again..." and "My birthday. The chief of the Ngobo tribe arrives with a present. Only another bloody snake, does the idiot think I have some kind of fetish?" Salinas booked passage to Darkest Africa that very day, landing in Equatorial Guinea some three weeks later, and strode into the jungle with his cans of oil.

He had little success persuading the tribesmen he met that "An oiled snake is a happy snake!" As most of them pointed out, using crude gesticulations (some drew pictures), the average African cares little for the comfort and wellbeing of snakes. Broke, exhausted, and frustrated beyond reason, Brigham determined to amaze the natives of the next village he came to with a demonstration. Greeting one and all with "Gdanga nkosi tuck-tuck, hbili dong" ("I sell oil for snakes, good day to you") the phrase he'd had translated by a dockworker on his arrival, he walked into the centre of the clearing, followed by a fascinated group.

(Scholars may note that the literal translation of "Gdanga nkosi tuck-tuck, hbili dong" is actually "I am a daft Englishman, but bear with me because I will do something stupid real soon", proving that dock workers in Equatorial Guinea have a sense of humour, too.)

Grabbing the nearest snake, Brigham oiled it, and held it aloft as the tribesmen gasped. As well they might, having never in their lives seen a sunburned, raving European deliberately pick up one of the most venomous snakes in all Africa, then enrage it by pouring a can of recycled engine oil along its length. The snake, considering all the possibilities open to it, bit him smartly on the leg.

Tribal knowledge saved the day. As Brigham's teeth began to close in the terrible rictus of death, someone shoved a stout stick between them. They opened the wound and sucked the poison out, as Brigham writhed in awful agony. Then they bound the cut leg with the leaves of a nearby boabab tree... and as they did that, it seemed to Brigham that all pain left his body. He'd discovered a miracle pain suppressant!

I'm so pleased to hear that he's still flogging the old boabab plasters, liniment, pills and bath salts. For goodness' sake, don't buy any, though, because they have no effect. Sooner or later, he's bound to find out that the stick his teeth clamped around was cut from a bush that secretes a natural and powerful analgesic, now patented and synthesised by Pfizer.

Should you reply to his email, though, do give the old boy my best regards.

Teaching music

(Written 30/9/2010)

A long time ago, I was at a trade union weekend in a hotel, and a bunch of us were drinking in the bar, where an upright piano stood against the wall. After certain volumes of drink had been taken, our District Secretary, Mike, sat down at the piano and quietly began to play. With both hands, and using both the black keys and pedals - in other words, he was quite good.

After a couple of tunes, he had a word with the barman, and was given permission to carry on, seeing as he clearly knew what he was doing and he didn’t cost anything. Now, we were astonished, as he'd never given any indication of musical talent before. Mike played lots of well-known songs, and he had that gift of turning the end of one song into the start of another. At one point, I asked him if he knew any Gershwin, and he played "Rhapsody In Blue". From memory. Gaw.

Now, Mike was a bearded single geek, but that night he became Mr Cool, and was something of a hit with the women in the bar. He judged his moment right, when there was a lot of singing along happening, and went into a medley of Barry Manilow tunes. He finished playing, whispered something in a very attractive woman's ear, and they left the bar together. Such is the power of knowing how to play an instrument well.

I was reminded of this when visiting a couple of friends last weekend who are much higher up the social scale than I am. Put it this way, they used to have Charles and Diana round for dinner, and they now have Charles and Camilla round from time to time. ("It's not as much fun, though", mutters the husband.) Their youngest is learning to play the violin, so I asked him how it was going. "OK..." he said... but he can't play what he'd really like to play, which is Lady Gaga. (He also mentioned other beat combos, but they were as a foreign language to me.) I told him that I knew a violin player that he might like, and pulled up YouTube on their computer. "The Hiring Fair" seemed to be as good an introduction to the work of Ric Sanders as anything else I could find easily, and so it proved.

Now he wants to know how to play "The Hiring Fair", of course. He also wants to know how to play like Dave Swarbrick, Seth Lakeman and Phil Beer. Tempted though I was to respond with the old chestnut, "You gotta practice, kid", I had a look at the music he was learning instead. Friends, my heart sank. Where I'd hoped to find a merry sea shanty, a jig or a reel, there were only dry pieces, clearly composed for easy violin with all the compositions biased toward improving technique rather than entertaining the ear. Indeed, I was surprised not to find "Fairy Bells", so beloved of Molesworth Jr.

What was missing from that book of music was anything recognisable, anything contemporary, and, most importantly, anything that the new violinist could have fun with. And that, my friends, is not only truly wrong, it helps to explain why most people can't play an instrument, yet many have tried.

I took Music at school, and absorbed enough dry academic stuff to gain an O-Level in the subject. I didn't care much for Music, but it was easy enough. I also learned to play the piano for a couple of years. Again, I didn't care for it. And yet, when I was 14, a guitar-playing pal showed me the sheet music for the current chart-topper, "American Pie". (A pedant writes - "Actually, it only ever made No 2 in the charts. Nilsson's "Without You" held it off.") What the sheet music had was boxes to show you where to put your fingers. As I was mad keen on "American Pie", I bought a copy of the music, borrowed a guitar, and learned to play the song in two weeks.

I can still play the piano, in the same way that a walrus can operate a chainsaw. I can play the guitar quite a lot better, though, and it's a skill that's never left me. I learned a lot about playing the guitar through mixing with other guitar players, who'd pass on tips and tricks. I'm no professional, but I get a lot of pleasure from playing my guitar. What's more, I always have, even when I was clunking my way through "American Pie" with many buzzing strings and long pauses before chord changes.

There, then, is the driver for learning my instrument - pleasure. A driver that is missing from my young friend's life, and one that I fear will continue to be missing unless and until Lady Gaga pops into his dorm with some musical instruction. I'd say the same of Ric, Dave or Seth, but honestly, I think Lady Gaga might just have the edge.

Now, I'm not saying that the young feller ought not to learn how to play "The Ancient Oaks", "A Sea View" or any of the other technical exercises in his book, he should. I'm hampered by my technical knowledge, I have to think both hard and quickly when transposing, or playing an inverted chord because it's easier to finger than the original, and the blues scale is a complete mystery to me. I am saying, though, that I learned to move quickly from one chord to another when playing easy music with other guitar friends. I'm also saying that technique is a fine thing, but having fun sawing away on the fiddle with other fun-loving musicians, no matter how terrible all of them are, is a finer thing.

So here's my solution. Like all my solutions, it's hare-brained and requires far more influence than I will ever have, but I reckon the Minister for Education, the Minister for Art, and a few high-profile figures in the music industry ought to persuade popular bands and artists to give away the sheet music for one or two of their biggest songs, rearranged if necessary to make them easier to play, like in the key of C, rather than F. Young people don't want to play along with the record, they want to play with their friends. Make the music a free download for schools only, and have music teachers hurl printed copies at their pupils, crying "It's not homework, just have some fun!"

You see, that's what most people learning to play an instrument want - fun. They're not daft, they know they have to practise, but they need a bit of fun, too, preferably with some friends who are about as good at playing as they are. The middle classes are pretty good at teaching deferred gratification, and my friend's sprog knows full well that he needs to work hard to get ticks for his sums so that he can progress to another good school, then go to Oxbridge so that he can make connections that will eventually mean that he's as rich and influential as his Dad. Nobody, though, seems to have explained that learning how to play "A Stormy Sky" is not an end in itself - because they're not raising him to be first violin in some orchestra, and they're certainly not raising him to be a fiddle-player. Therefore, while the little lad likes the idea of making music, he can't see the point of it unless he can make the music he wants to, and currently, he'll settle for scratching out the melody of a Lady Gaga tune. Or "The Hiring Fair". That, though, is not on offer.

I don't know if any of you have ever been backstage after a Fairport Convention gig and seen Ric talking to a young person who is learning to play the violin, and whose parents have brought their half-size fiddle along? You should, because Ric will get them to play him something from whatever music book they're learning from. Then he'll say "Can I join in?" and play along with them – as slowly as they need him to. Wow, they're playing with Ric out of Fairport! The best is yet to come, though. Ric will ask them to play again. This time, though, he'll weave some quiet counter-melody under what the tiny fiddler is playing and that's when The Penny Drops. It's no longer a child playing with Ric out of FC. It's two fiddle players together, and it's better than great, it's fun, it's us enjoying making music together.

When they're done, Ric will sign the music book with "From one violinist to another." He'll also say how much he wants to play with them again, next time FC are in town, so they'd better carry on learning, and you know what? I bet they do.

I might still be playing the piano if someone had shown me how to bash out some basic boogie-woogie when I was younger, or shown me how to play "Get It On" (T Rex, younger readers.) They didn't though, and probably for the same reason that my young friend's music teacher doesn't scribble down the notes to Lady Gaga. It's because it's "easy", because it's "not the direction we're trying to go in", because "it won't stretch him". Possibly all true, but it will be fun, and he'll probably practise like mad so that he can play it at the right speed with no bum notes. He'll also realise why he has to learn the technical stuff, and suffer mastering "The Lonely Forest" as a step on the way to playing the fiddle solo in "The Hiring Fair". (Assuming his parents will buy him a violin pickup, an amp and an Echoplex, of course.)

Talk to a top violinist who has just played, say, "Air On The G-String", though, and s/he'll confirm that playing it at the right speed with no bum notes is pretty much what they try to achieve.

If you've read this far, folks, hand it to every music teacher and Cabinet Minister you know. With luck, by Christmas, young people who are learning to play violins, pianos, flutes, recorders, guitars, sousaphones and who knows what else will hear their teacher say "Well, 'Goblins' Dance' is coming on very well, so why don't we have a bit of a blast through 'Poker Face'?" If nothing else, it'll please my young friend enormously.

He's a little too young, and his parents are too good friends, for me to mention the other reason for learning how to play the violin well, though - that being, if he gets good enough to play "Air On The G-String" really well, in a few years time, he might get the chance to take Lady Gaga's off.

Copenhagen

(Written 10/12/2002)

I worked there for a while.

Sipping the free champagne and nibbling on a skewer of salmon and prawns at 35,000 feet, I remembered that this isn't the worst of jobs. If only there were more of them! Danish public transport is superb, so the journey from the airport to the hotel was easy and cheap.

My hotel was in the north-eastern quarter of Copenhagen, a short stroll from Nyhavn, a section of canal where the fishing boats tie up for the night. The street is lined with pubs, restaurants and nightclubs, taking advantage of the romantic night-time scenery of boats at rest, their job of catching, killing and gutting done for the day. Hans Christian Anderson lived in three of the houses on Nyhavn at seperate times, proving that shouts of "Fairy stories? I'll bloody give you fairy stories, write something that will pay the rent!" don't carry very far.

As our various breweries produce "Winter Warmers", the Danish lager brewers produce "Jule Ogg" - a darker brew, lager of the colour of mild and bitter, carrying a significant hit of alcohol. Maybe we should draw a curtain over the rest of the week, the ordinary beer costs £4 a pint, Jule Ogg costs a minimum of £5 a pint, looking in my wallet makes me feel faint....

Oh, and at the top of Nyhavn, there's a roundabout called Kongens Nytors, a big garden area that is circled by an even bigger tarmacked pedestrian area. I'm told that it's traditional for graduating students to run naked around the tarmacked circuit. (Babba Mac, now seeking any job in Copenhagen at graduation time.) In December, the track is flooded, a generator is plugged in and ice results... Skates can be hired for around £1.... Every city should have one.

Organisation problems meant that my training courses were delayed. And then postponed for a day. Then another day slipped past... finally, I called my employers and told them that the courses could not be scheduled in the remaining time. "OK," they said, "We'll go for next week. Do you want to fly back on Friday, or stay there for the weekend? Actually, it's cheaper if we pay you to stay there." No problem, a free weekend in Copenhagen was an unexpected perk.

(Lest you think that I spent most of my time doing nothing, I should point out that I was helping the other team members who were trying to get the damn computers to work. Twelve and thirteen hour days were the norm, trying to configure Danish and Finnish BIOS settings. The EC technical translation website at http://europa.eu.int/eurodicautom/login.jsp was particularly useful.)

The rest of the team flew home on Friday night. My hotel for the weekend was a short stroll from the Tivoli Gardens, which open in December to host a Christmas market. They are closed for the rest of the winter, so the first weekend in December is one of the busiest. Swedes and Germans add to the Danes that come to enjoy the Christmas lights strung in the trees, the displays, the old wooden fairground rides and the stalls that sell almost everything needed for a traditional European Christmas. Wandering around with a mug of Glogg (mulled wine with rum or aqavit, slivered almonds and raisins) was just magical. The spirit of Christmas was abroad, all it needed was snow, and I was saddened to think that the 25th December in Britain seems to be just an opportunity to sell more.

On Saturday morning, I walked north towards the harbour. I like to walk in a city; you learn more and get a feel for the pace of life there. On the way, I took a detour into Christiania, a unique experiment in communal living. Thirty years ago, a group of squatters took over a disused army barracks and declared independence from Denmark. (When Denmark joined the EU, they declared independence from that, too.) At first tolerated, now accepted by the local council, the people of Christiania live an independent life, earning a living from selling art, souvenirs, feeding the tourists who come to gawp, building and selling bicycles (best in Copenhagen) and selling cannabis in all its forms. Dope is illegal throughout Denmark, but Christiania isn't part of Denmark... Anything harder than dope is not tolerated. Indeed, many junkies go to the commune in order to get off their addiction, knowing that they will be able to live in a hard drug free environment.

It's a lifestyle that will appeal to many, no taxes, plenty of dope, friendly people - but many couldn't cope with taking total responsibility for their lives, no management, no sick pay, organising your own refuse disposal, etc. I was enormously cheered by the existence of Christiania, though. It's a testament to the tolerance of the Danes and the determination of the people of Christiania to make it work. They've made it work for over thirty years, and long may they continue to do so.

On, then, to the place I had set out for, the Museum of the Resistance. Denmark tried to be a neutral country when WW2 broke out, but Hitler indicated that he quite fancied a lengthy tour of Norway, and Denmark was the easiest route there. The Danes pointed out that they never said he couldn't use their roads, had they? Very welcome to, just keep going, huh?

The Germans didn't, some of them stayed - "To protect you from the British." Very kind of them. It suited the Third Reich to allow Denmark to remain an autonomous country, albeit supplying the German troops with everything they needed, like Danish butter. However, by 1943, the Danish resistance was becoming a severe annoyance and martial rule was imposed. At this point, things became decidedly awful. However, the Danes managed to smuggle 31,000 Jews out of the country to Sweden, a remarkable achievement.

The museum displays are in roughly chronological order, and are in turn interesting, worrying and finally intensely moving. At the start, I was fascinated to see a real Enigma coding machine. I'd seen plenty of pictures before, but never a real one. For the advanced student of the history of coding, it's a four-rotor job.

Amongst the exhibits of arms, underground newspapers, models and Nazi ephemera is a real SS uniform, clothing a wire dummy. Now, I'm not what you'd call a psychic person, but I have to say the uniform gave off a very strong feeling of evil. Real, absolute evil. I know a fair amount about WW2, and I know that in addition to fighting fascism our fathers and grandfathers were fighting the subversion of the Christian religion. I have to say that nothing I've read compared to standing a foot away from that uniform. It's difficult to explain, but it was almost a physical blow as my attention turned to it. I'm convinced that it was owned and worn by a very bad person, following the orders of a truly evil organisation.

Just before the final exhibit are objects from the end of the war, and one of these is the actual typed message announcing that the German forces were standing down, that was handed to the newsreader working at the Danish section of the BBC whilst he was reading the news. Despite the wording being in Danish, the scribbled note at the top can be fairly easily translated - "Read this NOW!" Fascinating.

And so to the final exhibit, and the most moving. In front of a specially commissioned stained glass window of abstract design, a few letters are displayed. They are the last letters written to families by Resistance members who had been caught and sentenced to death. An English translation is provided next to each. Impossible, these days, to imagine the courage that they had, or their feelings when composing these letters. Then, off to one side, the wooden posts that all condemned people were tied to before facing the firing squad. It's greatly moving.

A fine museum, small, but it uses the space well.

Due to further organisational cock-ups, I had to move hotels on Saturday afternoon, so I had to walk back and get myself and my luggage over to the other side of town. Walking back, I noticed a chap with his dog a hundred yards or so away. The dog, a huge black Labrador, clearly recognised a friend and hurtled toward me, ignoring the Danish equivalent of "Come here, Satan!" being bellowed by his owner. Dogs don't have to be on a lead in Denmark, apparently. Still, the Labrador made much of me, and at least I knew how to introduce myself by this time... phonetically, it's "God Morn" (good morning) or "Hi" (hello, but the "i" part rises, unlike the English "Hi"), "Mit narm et Mark" (oh, come on, you can guess.)

Dogs are a great icebreaker, and thank goodness all Danes speak English, lots of them very well. The owner of the Labrador and I had a fair old chat, I told him about the Border Collie I'm occasionally allowed to look after, he suggested that this was a most intelligent dog - all the stuff that dog owners love to talk about, and which bore non-doggy people senseless.

Having moved out of a room on the 26th floor of the SAS hotel - damn, I've got an SAS frequent flyer and sleeper card, the extra points would have been useful - and relocated to another hotel, I spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the complex of streets called "Stroget". Alan Partridge would hate them, they're pedestrianised, although delivery vans, police cars and people on bicycles can use them. Speaking of bikes, I could have used one - there are thousands of "city bikes", just grab one, insert a 20 kroner coin (under £2) to release the lock, ride where you will and when you get there, lock it to something and you get your coin back.

Christmas was breaking out all over, the illuminated street decorations were up, and the Illum department store even had a snow machine on the roof. Every minute or so, there was a swooshing sound from above, and a flurry of real snow would fall. Nice.

All the bars had signs in the window advertising Glogg, made to their own particular recipe, some with rum, some with aquavit, some with just wine, all claiming to be the best. On the advice of the Danes I was working with, I went into a supermarket and bought a bottle of "Glogg extract", together with a couple of packets of "Gloggmix" - raisins and slivered almonds. Add these to a bottle of heated red wine, I'm reliably informed, and Christmas Eve will bring back memories of Denmark. I look forward to it.

Sunday.... cripes, is that the time? An indifferent Chinese buffet (all you can eat for £6, all I would like to eat again £2) and Danish 30-channel TV had kept me up late. A swift stroll took me to the Museum of Police History. I have one or two pals in the local police, and the museum is only open on the first Sunday of the month in the winter, so it seemed a pity to miss it. As I tried to pay to go in, one of the two retired Danish cops asked "English?" Hmmm, cosmopolitan disguise penetrated then, they must have been detectives. "We have a leaflet in English... here it is. But you know that everything inside is in Danish?" OK, I daresay I can work a few things out for myself, it will still be worth the £2 entrance fee.

After looking at some stuff that I didn't understand, and some stuff that I did - a police motorcycle can be understood in all languages, that's why it's painted and ornamented that way - one of the retired cops found me and said "My English is not good... but I can answer any questions..."

OK, what's the secret of life? Maybe not, but the opportunity of being shown around by someone who can translate the Danish (eventually or occasionally) was helpful. He knew his stuff, very good on the historical displays, but once we got to the exhibits he'd used, the chap was positively animated. "Ah, now here is the riot clothing I was using during student riots in 1968! Oh, and here is display of police guns - this is the gun I was given when I joined in 1960, and here is the Heckler and Koch pistol I had when I left... and down here is submachine gun still used today! I never fired it, though (lengthy Danish word, meaning, I think 'Buggrit'.)"

If only he hadn't had eye-watering halitosis... but I can't complain, it was a kind offer to show me around. As we started toward one room, he asked if I'd had breakfast that day "because maybe we shouldn't go in here." I reassured him that I had a strong stomach, and so we went into the room containing a display of murder evidence, including weapons. The display itself is not particularly disturbing, but each exhibit has a number on or by it, and beneath the cabinet are numbered drawers. Each drawer contains the scene of crime photos and other papers from the various cases, and these could be quite worrying for some people.

One example, that my cop pal was involved with, so he knew all the details - a foot was recovered from Copenhagen harbour, not the sort of thing that happens every day. A few days later, a leg was found on the other side of the city... then other body parts started turning up all over town. It seemed like they were from the same person, so the police got a pathologist to prove it. Then the pathologist stitched the hacked-apart person back together and photographed the body, I believe for identification purposes, but the Danish/English interface kind of failed at that point. The artefact on display was the deathmask that had been taken from the face, but in the drawer were photos of a true Frankenstein, rather bizarrely sat in a chair, together with photos of the various parts of the body before reconstruction. Personally, I was fascinated, but others might find it horrifying.

A clever way of displaying the items, though - it's your choice to open the drawer, if you don't want to see the gore, you don't have to.

I'm glad I saw the museum, and lucky that I was in town on the one day of the month it's open. Lots of the Danes that I was working with didn't know it existed, but I suppose people rarely read tourist guides about their own city.

It was lunchtime when I left, so I grabbed a hot dog from one of those kiosks that seem to be everywhere in Europe. It was really tasty, unlike the flavourless mechanically recovered animal sludge that seems to be all that is available in Britain. Then off to the station, to take advantage of the cheap public transport and see Roskilde, the ancient capital of Denmark, some 40 km away.

A quick digress about the transport - all the stations are arranged in zones radiating out from Copenhagen Central. You buy a ticket for the zone you want, and you than have an hour (longer for journeys outside Copenhagen) to get to where you want to go. You can stop off on the way, do whatever you have to do, but the ticket is valid for a certain period. It's valid on trains and buses, so when you get to the nearest station, you can hop on a bus going to your destination, just show the ticket to the driver, no further charge. It's a great system, it works and amazingly, it's all run by a private company.

The cheapest way to get to Roskilde was to buy a 24 hour "anywhere" ticket. This is valid everywhere, and cost just under £8, for which I purchased to right to travel wherever I wanted by train or bus, until lunchtime the following day, and I reckon that's cheap.

The main attraction in Roskilde for me was the Domskirke, or cathedral. All the kings and queens of Denmark are buried there. "But I couldn't find the grave of Hamlet", I joked to one of the people I was working with, later. "Oh, no, he's in Jutland", came the reply. There really was a Hamlet. Whoops.

I enjoy looking round churches, and the Domskirke is the Westminster Abbey of Denmark. Huge tombs dominate the place, great halls running off the nave holding the last resting places of entire dynasties, a set of five massive monuments radiate back from the main alter - just the place for a gloomy Sunday afternoon that threatened rain.

There's a Viking museum in Roskilde, and it has five real Viking boats that were recovered from the harbour. I understand it's interesting, although you probably have to start out with an interest in Viking boats. For me, one old boat is much like another. (Good job I wasn't on lookout duty in Saxon England, then - "It's a Viking! No, hang on, it's the very last of the Romans leaving.") Anyway, I'd walked enough, the rain had arrived, I wasn't sure the Viking museum was open and it seemed a bit expensive as well, so I caught the train back to Copenhagen and vegged out in the hotel. And that was the weekend.

Back at work, organisation still proof that studied incompetance can triumph over sheer bloody hard work any day, but I managed to complete the training I'd been hired to provide. I really didn't want to... I wanted to stay...

Still, the team and I managed a few nights out, even with the cost of beer. The pubs of Nyhavn were the usual starting point, but all roads eventually led to a particular Irish pub. Most of the bars featured live music, mainly of the Irish folk kind, of which the Danes don't seem to get enough. Still, my Fairport Convention t-shirts and sweatshirts ("Don't you have any other kind of leisurewear?" one team member asked. No.) were frequently recognised, and attempts were made to play FC-friendly music. Mainly Dylan, some McTell, never FC.

By Wednesday, I was sad to be leaving. It's a great country to visit, lovely people with a sense of humour similar to ours, and everyone speaks English. They have to, most TV is in English with Danish subtitles. The Danes I worked with were not all lovers of the life there, and this is where working in a country is sometimes better than taking a holiday there. You get to know what the place is really like.

Denmark is a socialist country, has been for ages. Consequently, taxes are high. The top band is 60%. There is a great determination to be as "green" as possible, so things that deplete resources, or pollute, get taxed. Hotels have to pass on a special tax to their guests, as they use more resources than a house does - more water, more electricity, more laundry, detergents, and so on. Purchase tax on cars is an incredible 180%.

Social benefits, though, are better than we enjoy. Maternity leave is longer, you can live on unemployment benefit, healthcare is free and effective. If I break my leg in Britain, it would be fixed for free. If I get cancer... well, it depends on my postcode. Not, it seemed, over there. Most of the other benefits were broadly better than in the UK. Legislation is in place to protect the rights of groups facing discrimination - sexism, racism, ageism and any number of other -isms are illegal, gay people can marry... I could go on. Perhaps the most visible effect is the legislation that assists disabled people. All public transport, all taxis, all places of entertainment, all public buildings, all museums and art galleries, MUST be accessible to disabled people. No exceptions. (Shops and restaurants didn't seem to be included, though.)

Copenhagen enjoys real weather. In the summer, it's hot. In the winter it's cold, and it snows. I'd like to live there. Socialism suits me, it's nice to know that if it all goes pear shaped there is a system that will make sure I don't starve, freeze, or get sick through neglect, and when I get old and daft (cease those cries of "Whaddya mean, when?") I'll be cared for, and I don't mind paying for that. Anyway, I reckon I could make a few bob around the pubs of Nyhavn, playing the FC songs that no one seems to know, a few singalong numbers, one or two of my own... and that would pay the extra tax.

But, as this very long fan letter to Copenhagen proves, I flew back. The champagne was very nice, thanks, but I had to limit myself to just the two glasses as I had to drive home.

May I apologise in advance? Every year, as Christmas approaches, I know I'll bore at world-class level when I say "I wish I was in Copenhagen." Maybe I will be, though.

Band members - a guide

(Written 21/06/2006)

I used to be a roadie. My friend Ben asked me to confirm the stereotypical view of drummers.

My first-hand knowledge is very out of date, but from my days as a roadie, yes, if there's a nutter in the band, it's 99% likely to be the drummer. If someone's floating face down in the hotel pool, it's the drummer. Which member of the band ingested an unknown powder/pill/organic substance that someone threw on stage? You guessed.

There's a widespread view that drummers are thick, but that's not entirely true in my experience. They're more likely to indulge in acts of reckless bravado, and because they have the most physically demanding job in a band, they're usually very fit and have a lot of upper body strength, so they get away with such acts. They also know that they are lowest in the band pecking order, with the least opportunity to add to their income from songwriting credits, so there's sometimes a slight resentment going on. This shows up after the second bottle of Jack Daniels, or when the groupie's experimental drug cocktail kicks in.

BTW, band pecking order, particularly when on tour:

1. Singer. Gets all the women. Is usually friends with guitarist, and shares songwriting revenue with him. Most likely to suggest concept album.

2. Guitarist. Gets most of the women. Is usually friends with the bass guitarist, tolerates singer during songwriting sessions. Secretly hates singer, who only has to sing, while guitarist does all the clever stuff. Most likely to suggest acoustic/world music album.

3. Bass guitarist. Gets women who want to talk, especially during sex. Closet intellectual. Is usually friends with the drummer. Nobody knows why. Has written a few songs, all of which have been rejected by singer/guitarist collective. Most likely to suggest jazz/fusion album.

4. Drummer. Gets women, and is thankful. Is friends with all other band members, or so he thinks. Closest friend, though, is lighting rigger with nickname "Shithead", who shares upper body strength attribute and similar attitude to reckless adventure. Most likely to suggest a nice cup of tea.

Unknown = Keyboard player. Can appear anywhere from 3-5 in pecking order. (Rick Wakeman's career with Yes can be seen as a slide from 3-5.) Will never get higher than 3, as he writes really good songs that the band want to record, but writes both the music and the lyrics, frustrating singer and guitarist. Gets women who have absolutely no interest in singer or guitarist, adding to their frustration. Knows more about "proper" music than anyone in the band, having been classically trained. Also knows more about computers than anyone else. Most likely to suggest individual solo albums.