My fun life

As usual, in this excavation of my hoarded treasures, what can I say really? Some pages from my ‘holiday notebook August 4-18, 1979’; first holiday without parents at Watermouth Holiday Villas, near Ilfracombe, with big sis Tracey and her mate, and my mate Mandy. I remember having a great time, and (conveniently) don’t remember detailing aspects of the holiday so obsessively thoroughly.

My spending list, across the two weeks, was so thorough I even detailed a ‘jelly welly’ (2p) and ‘bits and pieces’ (5p). (‘Omega Factor’ was the book based on a  tv show, I barely remember). Nice to see my still favourite Double Decker there at a much lower price of course. Food, well that is a consistent theme in my diaries, so I ain’t surprised to see a meal list. I don’t remember a peach instant whip and I’m not sure what a ‘sweetheart’ is, but otherwise, standard holiday nosh. I am surprised, and a little bit shocked, about my daily weather diagrams. I was a laugh riot. Clearly.

Breakfast in London

“Hey, boys, what’s it like having a room to yourselves?”
“Tom’s soooooo irritating…”
“No I’m not!”
“You are. You talk through everything you’re doing. As you do it! You even woke me up this morning to tell me you were going to the toilet.”
“That’s cos I didn’t want you to wake up and find me gone. You might have thought I’d been attacked or something.”
“Attacked? By what?”
“A rabid bear.”

The Rausings

I just wanted to have a scooby at the reporting of the Rausing case here, parking the obvious tragic dimension to the story.

The bare bones; a 48 year old woman died at home, possibly/probably through drug use, and her husband hid her body in a bedroom for up to two months. He was charged with ‘preventing the lawful and decent burial of his wife’ and given a suspended sentence. He was also charged with driving ‘while unfit through drugs’.

“Unfit through drugs” is the first sub-heading on the BBC report. Rausing’s drug driving is constructed as a ‘mild’ charge. Less damning than drink driving.  His suspended sentence stipulates attendance at a residential drug rehab treatment programme for two years. Eh? A residential drug rehab programme? Where? And at whose cost? These details, for the very rich, don’t need to be provided. Most drink and drug related crimes involve punitive sentences, not throwaway sentences that involve checking into programmes that are beyond the reach and knowledge of drug and drink related offenders. The unseen mechanisms that protect and facilitate the distancing of unimaginably rich people from the rules governing the rest of us are remarkable.

An outcome of Louise Casey’s recent ‘report’ is that problem families (that is, those whose homes were centres of drug dealing and whose children were ignored and neglected – cough cough) have been pilloried and picked over carelessly and nastily in the media. But Rausing, the BBC informs us, is a shy and awkward character.

“In a statement read to the court earlier, Rausing said he had been unable to confront the reality of Mrs Rausing’s death.

I tried to carry on as if her death had not happened and batted away any inquiries about her”

Oh. Okaaay…

“The court heard that Rausing told police in a statement after his arrest: “I do not have a very coherent recollection of the events leading up to and since Eva’s death. Safe to assure you that I have never wished her or done her any harm.”

Phew. You run along then, matey. I almost weep at the thought of how many other people, caught up in horribly tragic situations, would have have dreamt of such a respectful engagement with their experiences (I won’t even sully this by naming names). The use of so much direct reported speech by a defendant is, in itself, unusual. The BBC clearly treat Rausing differently to your run of the mill crim.

“He added: I did not supply her with drugs. I have been very traumatised since her death. I do not know what caused her death. I did not feel able to confront the reality of her death..”

The families Casey interviewed, judged, condemned and spouted about, are not given this space and dignity. The presentation of Rausing as a “shy and socially awkward man” isn’t one afforded to others.  This sugar coating is absent from judgemental and damning portrayals of other sector sectors of society. Casey’s families were solely to blame for their chaotic lives. The Rausings’ were down to the glass of champagne Mrs R was unable to resist one New Year’s eve. Oh, and the stress of being so rich. I just want to add they also had a fucking shedload of options and opportunities that Casey’s chosen few never got a sniff of.

Ironically, David Cameron’s brother was QC for Rausing. He drew on elitist gobeshite defence rubbish; “In the words of Shakespeare, the defendant committed this offence while the balance of his mind was disturbed”. So, the story was dealt with as painlessly, tastefully and smoothly as possibly.  Middle England and the Chippy set barely ruffled a feather.

Rausing got a suspended sentence. Free to shoot himself up in the comfort of his Chelsea mansion. And Louise Casey’s ‘report’ on ‘Problem Families’ continues to inform policy and practice. Stay classy San Diego.

Jelly bean tears

Overheard, from the front room:

“Can you get our sweet day sweets when you go out Dad?”
“No. You had them yesterday.”
“No we didn’t! We didn’t get any in the end!”
“Oh.”
“And we haven’t had them for weeks.”
“Tom, we’re like getting a bit old for “sweet day sweets” bro…”
“I’m THIRTEEN!”
“Well it ain’t “sweet day” now.”
“You’re 19 and saying we’re too old for sweets when you had them till you were at least 16???”
“Yeah. Well, come on, you did get a lot of added benefits being the youngest…”
“Yeah, like playing ’15’ games when you’re only THIRTEEN..”
“Yeah! And the rest!”
WHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAA…
“Er, what you doing Tom?”
“I need some tears.”
“Eh, what?”
WHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA… I need to test my tears.”
“What?”
“I need to test my tears for sweet stuff. Kids’ tears should taste like jelly beans. And sweet stuff.”
“Eh?”
“Not vegetables.”

Hilarious.

But I’m right back with Willy Wonka… singing Pure Imagination.

Unashamedly.

 

Louise Casey, Problem Tsar

Louise Casey, who calls herself Director General, Troubled Families, published a report this week; ‘Listening to troubled families’. This report generated headlines and television news coverage across the UK. There has been some criticism. Zoe Williams provides a good summary here.

So why am I bothering to write anything? I suppose because I feel incensed. Because I’m a researcher and I hate to see fake ‘research’. Especially published fake ‘research’. Especially in a government publication. And most importantly, because this sort of toxic bile sticks. I can imagine how it’s been reported in the Daily Mail and Telegraph. Middle class people across the country turning their noses up at these ‘feral families’ over their breakfast tea and toast. It’s wrong.

So, where shall I start? Well, Casey’s certainly overstretched herself with the report. It’s poorly written, repetitive and drips with judgemental statements. Even the foreword (written by herself) is rambling, repetitive nonsense. I keep coming back to ‘why did she do it’? She ain’t no researcher. There’s a ton of up to the minute, well researched studies the government could have drawn on. I can only think she was given the ‘problem families’ gig (why?) and took it upon herself (in a self important way) to go and ‘interview’ some families, select extracts from the interviews (bypassing the essential stage of analysis) and vomit text around them. Text that reeks of her own fears,anxieties, assumptions and prejudice. The random referencing of academic study underlines a woeful lack of engagement in this area.

A bug bear of mine when providing student feedback is meaningless, throwaway statements. Louise has got a real handle on these;

In some cases there are clearly negative consequences for children growing up in these structurally unstable families, especially where the instability is accompanied by violence. [You don’t say..]

She also shines at lobbing in unsubstantiated, judgemental statements;

Some of the families reported being able to cope with the children when they were younger but as they got older found it more difficult, as they often started to display more challenging behaviour – often borne of their early experiences.

Many of the people interviewed were just not very good at relationships –  unsurprising perhaps in light of their own upbringing.

There is a leaning towards a Mills and Boon type style of writing. Not your usual government report lingo;

For example, as soon as the relationship between the parents breaks down, the father disappears from the family never to be heard of again.

But mostly it’s meaningless nonsense, again openly framed by Casey’s view of ‘good’ (middle class) parenting;

In some cases the mother’s idea of protecting their children seemed extremely far away from what most would consider acceptable. “Yeah so Owen left and then I think Clare must have been probably the age of going up to secondary school herself and she was fine in her first year. She got to 12 and I don’t know what happened. She changed completely. Horrible child…she basically took over the house…” Jill

In the next extract, Louise seems to equate living in the same area for a long time as isolating. But I think she probably means living in the kind of area these families live in means they don’t mix with ‘normal’ people and this leads to some sort of interbreeding and more problems.

The impression of families’ isolation from more ‘normal’ or positive friends or networks came across strongly. While many families moved around from one place to another fleeing violence, others had never left the area they had grown up in. Their partners came from the same street or moved between women in the area. They tended to stick within a network of other dysfunctional peers.

She gets herself in a bit of a mess in the next section. When it comes to parents blaming services, she suddenly tries to inject some objectivity into the report and spouts gibberish;

Many of the families complained about professionals or agencies involved with them, and in particular, social services. However it would not be fair to always lay the blame there when looked at dispassionately [???]. Undoubtedly, some families have reason to feel let down. But there were often unwarranted feelings that their problems were not of their making, and that they had no control over the problem or its solution; that it was they that had highlighted problems, with services simply failing to intervene and do what they were entitled to expect of them.

She manages to slip in that some families want larger council houses and makes it clear that while the mothers raise challenges they face, such as overcrowding, unsupportive schooling and a lack of effective support, the problem is firmly located within the family. To the extent that she refuses to acknowledge that some of the kids had learning difficulties. This is kind of hilarious in a way. But of course it’s not.

In certain cases there were undoubtedly problems with children that any parent would find difficult to deal with. But for many it was clear that the reasons for that behaviour had come from the household itself – the poor parenting skills, the constant changes in the home, family and partners, and the ongoing verbal and physical violence (among many other factors no doubt).

Yep, she actually added that last bit in brackets..

The conclusion is firmly within Mills and Boon territory with “starkest messages” about these dysfunctional families “who are not beyond help and hope”. I am not going to even repeat any of her nonsense conclusions because they ain’t worth the paper they are written on.

I’m left with a few questions really;

  • How can this piece of billy bullshit (or bileshit) be presented as a government report?
  • Why is Louise Casey Director General of Troubled Families and what does this mean?
  • Are there any other Director Generals and if so, who are they?

The spreading of such toxic bile is deeply alarming, but so is what it demonstrates about this bunch of chocolate teapots running this country.

My diary (2); Christmas Day

Browsed a bit more of my diary this afternoon. I was waiting to upload some photos and it sort of called to me from its recent position under my computer screen. Next to the packet of Rajah Extra Hot Chilli Powder and the spotty sock.

The page fell open at ‘Christmas Day’. Wow. Now this should be a cracking entry. We always had a great Christmas Day as kids. All that excitement, atmosphere, lovely food and fun. Always fun times.

The verbatim entry;

Christmas Day

Up at 6.30. Opened stocking – Yorkie, tic tacs, book, paper clip, piggy bank, make up, biro, rubber, Abbey National notebook.

Went downstairs. Cup of tea. Unwrapped pressies – cardi, Parker pen and biro, Barry Manilow* LP, Ludlum book, Neil Diamond single, record cleaner, Bogeyman book, Pooh calendar.

Brekky. Got dressed. Listened to Barry Manilow LP. Read book. Had orange drink then Florida Orange. Listened to Beach Boys, Paul Simon, The Police. Tracey worked.

Christmas dinner. Afterwards watched TOTP with No.1s. Bit of George and Mildred, Putting on the Ritz (Fred Astaire), James Bond (Man with the Golden Gun). Went upstairs to my room. Downstairs. Watched Airport 75 -terrible. Bed.

Eh? Where is everyone? Where’s the excitement? The drama? The interaction? The fun?

Why did I keep a daily record of my life based on stuff, the TV I watched and daily activities like waking up and going to bed?

Mind boggling and hilariously, weirdly, odd.

*I ain’t gonna apologise for Bazza. I loved him then and I still do. Mr Ultimate Cheese with the mysterious background. I do wonder about the Abbey National notebook and Neil Diamond single though. 

Bill Clinton, Posh Fish and the work do

Just like I nearly met Michelle Obama a few months ago, today I nearly met Bill Clinton. Small world and all that. We were at a work do in a local hotel when we noticed some security type geezules with ear pieces prowling the corridors. Very atmospheric, and slightly surreal. The hotel is based in an old prison.

“Ooer.. someone important here tonight then?” we chittered, moving towards the photographer to have our work pics taken.
“Hey, is Bill Clinton talking to you lot tonight then?” asked the photographer, conspiratorially.
“Eh, wha? Bill Cer-linton? Here?” We looked round.
“Yep, I saw this security guard earlier in town and asked to take his photo. Then I heard from the guys in the office that Bill Clinton walked passed Posh Fish in a white suit. I just saw the same security guard walk in a moment ago…”
“Wow.”
“A white suit?”
“No, he ain’t talking to us.”

The action hotted up as an older man rushed past, dressed just like like a US reporter in the movies.

“Ah. He’s a journalist from the New Yorker.”
“Did you just recognise a journalist from the New Yorker?”
“No, he said ‘I’m from the New Yorker’ on his phone when he went passed.”

More security people gathered in the exercise yard. Looking very serious. Scanning the area. Was Big Bill about to arrive?

New Yorker guy rushed passed again.

“Excuse me, is something happening this evening?” I ventured.
“Happening? No idea?” he answered with a big, fake shrug, rushing off again.

Blacked out cars filled the front of the hotel. A posse of security guards, the size of minibuses, came in from the rain.

“A ‘V.I.P.’ is going to be filming out back”, one of them said. With a serious, Bill Clinton related, nod.

“Well I’d love to hang around and meet him”, I thought to myself. “But it’s Tom’s birthday and I’ve got meself some butterfly cakes to ice.”

(Un)easyJet, home movies and Mexican waves

I don’t know. I get rumbles that some people think a) I make this stuff up/embellish it, or b) I actively manipulate some of the (travel) situations I find myself in to create blog fodder.

I don’t. And I wouldn’t.

Take my trip to Milan. Starting from Gatwick departure lounge. A place that still gives me anxiety sweats and prickles. Passengers for Flight Number Schmumber stood obediently under the announcement board from the second the departure gate was expected. I think we all knew easyJet rules about getting to the boarding gate on time. But nothing happened. Half an hour after the flight should have taken off, still nothing. No one moved their eyes from the board. I kept fingering the boarding pass in my bag. Just checking. Then the board changed;

‘Flight Number Schmumber. Gate 23. Gate closed’.

Whoa!

Pandemonium. Trolley cases burning rubber along moving walkways. The less speedy falling foul of the speedy.  Shouts of “Oy!” “Wait!” that couldn’t possibly reach easyJet staff, 15 gates away. At the gate it got a bit ranty, even though the gate wasn’t really closed. The speedy and bog standard boarders were united. The easyJet staff blamed Gatwick, passengers blamed easyJet. Then Italy scored and a Mexican wave rippled through the queue.

Once on the plane things took an unusual turn. I had an aisle seat (essential if possible). A large Italian guy dressed in a black suit and white shirt pitched up and took the middle seat next to me. Glossy mac air and glossy hair. He was Glossy Man. He cranked up his laptop and started watching a movie. Jesus of Nazareth. Without headphones.

‘Ooh.. bit controversial’, I thought. ‘No headphones? In a public type space??’

The sound was low though and other people were chittering away, so I kind of ignored it.

But then Olivia Hussey was replaced by a long, blonde haired woman in what looked like a road movie. Arty, careless shots through a car windscreen, the open road, a broad panorama of desolate scenery. Within a minute, it was over and he clicked on the next film in his itunes libary. Just seconds of footage of the same woman. Doing stuff. Cycling through a forest, walking round a house, dancing on a beach, standing in a car park.

Eh, wha?? Home movies? On a plane? With sound?  I tried not to peek but it was kind of compelling viewing. Maybe because of the seemingly careless ordinariness of the content. Maybe because I’m a sucker for reality TV.  By clip 28 I was creating narratives or imaginaries. Filling in the gaps. She was a government operative missing in action since 2003. Off the Dalmation Coast… She was a lost love, rather than the woman who might be waiting for him at arrivals. He’d lost her through his uncompromising behaviours…

“Ciao!” she shouted at the camera at one point, waving. “Ciao! Arriverderci!” I nearly shouted back.

Then the clips started to appear more haunting or sinister. For no reason. I started to watch them differentIy.

“Ti amo!” I imagined him shouting to her, his voice thick with emotion.

“Leave me alone you glossy stalker you!” she shouted back. “And take your mac air with you. Glossy bastard.”

I was relieved when we landed and she was minimised and turned off. He sped through passport control. I was stuck (as always, in the queue that stopped moving). She might have been waiting in arrivals. I don’t know.

An hour later, still on my journey, I was in the city centre.  Gridlocked in the back of a taxi, surrounded by celebrating Italian football fans. There were more Mexican waves. And an ironing board.

Bonsai trees in the Marriott lobby

One thing led to another, this afternoon, in the Marriott Denver-Tech-Center hotel lobby.  A baking hot afternoon. A war between suburban hotel shuttle services. I was left waiting for about 45 minutes to get from the conference hotel (on the edge of a 12 lane motorway), to the hotel I was staying at (in the middle of nowhere). A hell hole industrial wasteland of nowhere. I ain’t joking.

I hung out in the lobby which was the size of a small football pitch. Chatting to the ‘bell/concierge’ person every now and again. She was working her socks off trying to negotiate ways out of the hotel for a constant stream of large and small groups of people who wanted to go somewhere.

I watched delegates from the Vision of the American West Bonsai Convention carefully wheel their trees away on luggage trollies, and vaguely regretted not spending more time at their exhibition. Various delegates from the disability conference I was attending, milled around, on foot, in chairs, on scooters, chatting, signing, discussing where to eat that evening. There was a lively, end of the day conference buzz. I met a delegate from Witney who had emailed me months ago. Funny old world and all that.

Three young men came through the revolving doors dressed in US naval uniform. They visibly responded, seeing a small group of conference delegates standing by the entrance. One of them stopped, momentarily and stared. He was given a brief hand squeeze on the shoulder by his colleague. There were the tiniest of half grins, a small cough, then faces were rearranged into studied disinterest.

All in the Marriott lobby. On a baking hot afternoon. That’s all.