"Young upwardly-mobile professionals"

This post may seem a little thin, but I hope to add to it and develop it into a section for Kim's book.



Above: Diary of a Yuppie by Louis Auchincloss. Much of the literature of the period was written by American authors who were less inhibited than their British counterparts at recording changes in society in the 1980s. Bright Lights Big City by Jay McInerney, Slaves of New York by Tama Janovitz and Bonfire of the Vanities by Tom Wolfe are examples of this genre. In the United Kingdom Michael Bracewell is the most vivid chronicler of the yuppie demographic. Other British writers such as Robert Elms (In Search of The Crack) and Rupert Thomson (Dreams of Leaving) chose to ignore the yuppies that populated the 1980s London they were attempting to describe. This refusal to face reality is interesting in itself and deserves further study.

Yuppie was originally a marketing term that sought to identify and segregate a demographic known as "young upwardly-mobile professionals". Because this group was characterised by large disposable incomes and a willingness to spend freely on aspirational status items it was often the target of marketing campaigns. Although vilified today, yuppies characterised the 1980s, and the demographic represented a mechanism by which working class people who had entered well-paid jobs were recruited into the middle class (and through the purchase of private education for their children were able to propel future generations into the upper-middle class).

This is a particularly difficult subject to research since nobody today will admit to having been a yuppie, although in reality a huge section must have fallen into this classification, and an additional group (almost as large) assumed the identity of a yuppie and funded their yuppie lifestyle through credit.

Simultaneous with the emergence of yuppies was the "discovery" and recording of the Sloane Ranger demographic (I use the term "discovery" since some elements of this group were of considerable antiquity, although other attributes were new and a few traits were invented and projected onto the sub-class). Researching the Sloane Ranger class is problematic since the field is dominated by Peter Yorke, former editor of Harpers & Queen magazine. Effectively a Sloane Ranger was whatever Peter Yorke said it was (and equally if he said something was not Sloane Ranger it is hard to argue against him). Sloane Rangers appear to have been (I use the past tense since once again, no-one today will admit to having been one) a melange of lower aristocracy; London relatives of the landed gentry; and urban rich people (with oldish fortunes and private educations). This generally unremarkable collection of inter-connected families would have remained in obscurity were it not for the marriage of Lady Diana Spencer to the Prince of Wales in 1981 (in what must have been the upwardly-mobile act of the century since it was the first time a commoner had married the heir to the throne for several hundred years).

The shinto-like worship of the Princess of Wales by all classes led to the Sloane Ranger style (which she epitomised and popularised) becoming a mainstream phenomenon. In what can only be described as the mass indulgence of sympathetic magic a plethora of imitative behaviours and purchases resulted in an unusual social construct whereby the Thatcher revolution in society was masked by the re-emergence of a very traditional and conservative lifestyle (just as society was becoming atomised and individualised it was dressed up in the clothes of extended families and collective country communities, change was disguised as continuity). This led to some unexpected coincidences - when the Princess of Wales waved her hair in a particular style George Michael and a million others dyed their hair blonde and waved it in the same way.

The question asked by this chapter is how far (if at all) yuppies merged into Sloane Rangers, what was the process by which this happened, and when did this process start and finish.

Being interested in issues surrounding branding, I will attempt to answer the question by referring to the way in which very traditional luxury brands were, during the 1980s, sold to yuppies as a way of attaining and confirming their new upmarket status. I only have a few examples at present, but I hope to add to this post in the coming weeks and months. If anyone wishes to contribute to this study do please let me know.



Above: this is a modern artwork by Grayson Perry but it illustrates the way in which luxury brand names formerly synonymous with the aristocracy have entered popular consciousness (Dior, Chanel and Hermes were particularly exclusive and expensive brands, far more than they are today). Personal identity, which originally was conferred by family, religion, political allegiance, cultural upbringing, occupation, sporting clubs etc is now acquired by shopping for brands, and even wearing clothes where the brand name is prominently displayed. Acquisitive materialistic shopping has replaced religion as a provider of solutions to the insecurity and guilt which most people feel most of the time, and this transition began during the 1980s.



Above: the Hermes store in Sloane Street. Prior to the 1980s the Hermes brand cultivated exclusivity and reputedly instructed their sales assistants to deter people they did not like the look of from entering their shops. Increasingly however their products were made more accessible (“Sloane Ranger novelist Charlotte Bingham wrote about characters who gave Hermes scarves to London debutantes – you can see this in her nineteen eighty-three novel Belgravia”).



Above: this profile of Hermes designer Eric Bergere appeared in 1986 in the magazine Blitz (which had a high yuppie readership). Is this evidence of cultural transition? Today Hermes products have completed the journey from badges of a closed social caste to signifiers of material success (women will pay ridiculous amounts of money for an Hermes handbag and will insist their life is incomplete without one).



Above: just as interesting as the brands which made the transition to popular consumption are the ones that did not. Smytheson was another brand that defined the Sloane Ranger demographic, and yet it was not taken up by yuppies (who presumably bought their writing paper from Paperchase). Why was this?



Above: I thought initially that it was because of a decline in letter-writing, and yet the Royal Mail ran a major campaign during the 1980s promoting the writing of personal letters. The ads are romantic in style and talk about the way in which hand-written letters have a permanent quality. Obviously there was no e-mail in the 1980s.

Sloane Ranger icon HRH The Princess Of Wales: http://farm1.static.flickr.com/119/311906117_a41c5592c3.jpg

Yuppie icon George Michael: http://cache.boston.com/bonzai-fba/Globe_Photo/2008/05/16/1210959930_4463.jpg

For more on sympathetic magic see the relevant chapters in The Golden Bough by Sir James Frazer.

Sent by e-mail:

 

Lord Mandelson was interviewed by Evan Davis on the Today programme on BBC Radio 4 this morning.

 

It was not a good perfromance as Peter Mandelson came over as very tetchy - he accused Evan Davis of being cynical and the Opposition of being hypocritical and was sarcastic throughout the interview ("Are you finished?" he asked Evan Davis, at one point).

 

But apart from the content the style of the interview was interesting.  It seemed to be a classic example of a Parent/Child exchange as defined by transactional analysis.  Peter Mandelson assumed the role of a patronising parent and Evan Davis (who can be patronising himself) immediately took the role of a pleading child.

 

More on transactional analysis:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transactional_analysis 

Sent by e-mail:

 

Do the scare stories that appeared yesterday about projected food shortages represent YET ANOTHER attempt by this corrupt and discredited government to "bounce" the British population into accepting genetically-modified food?

 

Why is the Labour government so determined to force this through?

 

As Deep Throat advised in the '70s, we should follow the money.

Sent by e-mail:

 

I thought it was really good news that there might be independent regulation of the supermarket cartel.

I have just tried to book an appointment to see a doctor about my chest infection.  The person who answered the 'phone told me very cheerily, as if she was enjoying being unhelpful, that my doctor was on holiday for two weeks, and the other doctor I sometimes see is also on holiday.  Eventually I managed to book an appointment with a doctor I have never seen before, for next Thursday.

 

Why are doctors going on holiday in the middle of a 'flu pandemic?

 

These people are paid (so we are told) an average salary of a quarter of a million pounds per annum.  For that sort of money one would expect a bit more in the way of commitment.  And how much holiday leave do NHS staff get anyway - they always seem to be on holiday?

 

The answer is not one fat cat doctor on £250k pa but five doctors on £50k pa so they can cover each other's holiday leave.

 

And if they are not happy with that arrangement and want to go and work for more money abroad let them go - but make them pay back the cost of their medical training before they leave.

Reading

Above: the offices of the Sons of Temperance Friendly Society in Blackfriars Road, designed by Arthur Russell and opened in 1910.

I have been very ill with what is obviously swine 'flu, although NHS Direct maintained it wasn't on the grounds that I hadn't come into contact with any known sufferers (although we now know that the disease is everywhere). The television screens have been full of people telling us how "mild" the illness is (these are no doubt the same medical "experts" who assured us with absolute certainty that mad cow disease could not spread to humans). Anyway, the illness knocked me out for two solid weeks, and when I finally returned to work I was regarded with suspician as a malingerer ("It's supposed to be mild...").

A month later and I'm still not well.

One of the compensations has been the amount of reading I have been able to do. I am currently reading George Orwell's Coming Up For Air. I was surprised by the opening pages in which Orwell (via the main character) attacks building societies as agents of the financial enslavement of the lower middle classes.

Apologies

Once again I have to post an apology for not updating this blog. I have been very ill with 'flu, and still have a croaky sore throat and feel tired all the time. I was off work for two weeks, and when I finally returned to the office the backlog of work was so enormous I am still struggling with it.

Plus we have a new "Head" of the agency who is so demanding there is little time during the day to think about blogging.

And when I get home all I want to do is sleep.

Prime Minister's Questions, 15th July 2009

At lunchtime today I went up to the Board Room to watch the last Prime Minister’s Questions of this parliamentary session. Andrew Neil explained the MPs would now be on holiday until mid-October, and consequently his political programmes will also be off-air (is this long break really necessary? – the world doesn’t come to a stop just because MPs are lazing away the summer). On the studio panel Kevin Maguire, political editor of the Daily Mirror stood in for Nick Robinson.

The cameras went across to the House of Commons. The Speaker, the odious John Bercow, looked ridiculous in the huge Speaker’s chair (he is a little man). Ironically he has rejected the traditional Speaker’s wig and robes, which may have helped him fill the chair a bit more adequately.

The government front bench looked drab (apart from Peter Hain’s lurid pink tie). On the other side the Opposition seemed to have grouped pastel cream colours around their leader, giving the camera shot a fresh-looking appearance. These subliminal details are important (but I know colour psychology is hard to get right).

This was a remarkable Prime Minister’s Questions – possibly the most remarkable I have seen. David Cameron, leader of the Conservatives, effectively used his six questions to force an emergency debate on Afghanistan, using twenty minutes of the half-hour PMQs to talk about the most important issue facing the country. The Speaker tried to stop this interlocution but was rebuffed by David Cameron.

Gordon Brown told us once again: “We have got to make sure terrorism does not hit the streets of Britain, which is why we are in Afghanistan…” This ignores the issue that since we are an island, with only so many points of entry, surely if the budget and personnel currently allocated to the war in Afghanistan (9,000 men and women and £2.5 billion) were reallocated to border security (and monitoring those demographics generating “home grown” terrorism) how would it be possible for terrorism to take place on “the streets” of Britain? The case has not been logically made for ensuring the security of the United Kingdom by fighting a war in central Asia.

David Cameron did not challenge the principles on which the war was being fought, but returned again and again (in a very measured and considered way) to the issue of inadequate provision, especially equipment, to fight the war effectively. He referred to “four defence secretaries, two shared procurement ministers, and a defence secretary that is twenty-first in rank in the Cabinet.” It seemed a damning comment on what ought to be our most pressing political and national endeavour.

The rest of the questions were hardly worthy of mention. There did seem to be, however, an absence of planted questions. The only planted question I could identify was by Anne Begg who asked about the Speaker’s Conference on the Diversity of the House of Commons (an unintended ironic question since Speaker Bercow is a former white supremacist who in his FCS days apparently resembled an extra from Mississippi Burning).

The war in Afghanistan has entered national consciousness, after a long dormant period. It is uncertain how this new awareness will impact on the political situation, especially as a mood is arising that something must be done. Presumably resources must be allocated to ensure “victory” or the British forces should be withdrawn.

I was reminded of past neo-colonial conflicts: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YnpaCbUV2eY&feature=channel_page

The reaction of the police has been a disgrace

Since getting 'flu three weeks ago I have been unable to do much. I went back to work a week ago, but when I get home all I can do is rest. Consequently I have not been able to do much on this blog.

But I have been following the revelations in The Guardian about the way News of the World journalists have been routinely breaking the law to spy on people (hacking into phone lines). This is a story equal in importance to the MP's expenses scandal, but so far the coverage by other newspapers has been muted (which is very depressing as it probably means they are doing the same). The broadcast media have given the story some prominence, especially Andrew Neil's Daily Politics and This Week.

The reaction of the police has been a disgrace (and very disquieting in the suggestions that police take "payments" from journalists - what are these payments for, who regulates them, do they even pay tax on the income???).

John Whittingdale, Chairman of the Commons culture, media and sport committee, will be interviewing News of the World editor Colin Myler, on Tuesday 21 July.

In my opinion the conspiracy laws should be used to put all the senior News International staff (including Rupert Murdoch) into a court and get a judge to sort it out (including any concomitant prison sentences).

Village show

Another village show, like all the other shows put on before it (except that the background music was different, Sophie Ellis Bexter's Heartbeat Make Me A Dancer proving to be the sound of the 2009 summer



Above: there was a flypast by a Dakota, a Spitfire and other historic aircraft.



Above: in the main marquee the cauliflowers were ranked in strict accordance to the Rules.



Above: the prize-winning cabbages glistened with self-satisfaction.



Above: the prize-winning broad beans were artfully arranged in swirls.



Above: security was more interested in looking at the pretty girls than guarding our fine farm produce from sinister enemy attack (even here we must be alert to the shadowy forces that, we are told, constantly threaten us).



Above: old codgers dressed in tweed rode antique bicycles around the central ring.



Above: they were watched by young lovers.



Above: a school band marched up and down playing popular tunes.



Above: they were watched by young lovers.



Above: a local dog training group put on a display (including a very naughty Yorkshire terrier).



Above: they were watched by young families (note the Basset hound pointedly looking the other way).



Above: it began to rain and so I went into the poultry marquee and had a very interesting talk about the rearing of game birds.

North Britain with Ailsa 2 - the eve of the longest day

Eventually I must have fallen asleep about three o’clock, and woke again at nine.

Lying in bed I could hear beyond the door the sound of Ailsa and her mother talking in the large kitchen-dining room. I had to go through this room to get to the bathroom, and because I had not brought a dressing gown I swathed myself in the thin duvet. The door opened with an explosive crack (warped with age, there was great tension in the doorhandle) and revealed Ailsa and her mother sitting at the round pine table occupied with tea and toast and marmalade.

The bathroom was a tiny room off the central passage, very awkward in layout, so I kept knocking things over.

By the time I had finished breakfast it was nearly eleven.

We discussed what we would do with the day.

Ailsa’s mother suggested looking round “the commune”. We got into her car and drove to the other side of the bay and turned off into what appeared to be a caravan park set among pine trees. We parked the car by a New Age shop and got out.

Ailsa’s mother led the tour. A tall slim woman in her fifties, she was totally unlike Ailsa, and had no trace of a Scottish accent. She had a flawless complexion (supposedly maintained by drinking a cup of gallium tea each day).

“These caravans are the earliest part of the commune, founded in the sixties” she said. “I first came here on a retreat twenty-five years ago, then left for a while, then moved back permanently. Many people come here for a few weeks and stay for the rest of their lives.”



Above: the art gallery is the building on the right.

We came to the art gallery, which Ailsa’s mother described as “world class”. This was no empty boast – the exhibition hall was beautifully designed in a modern style, and had a programme of events and exhibitions that would be coveted by any major city. We looked at a room full of Jon Schueler abstracts – not the sort of thing I like, and yet I found them enchanting.



Above: the gallery attracts many high-profile shows.

Ailsa rootled round in some racks and produced an old catalogue of a John Byrne exhibition, and pointed at the long-haired flower-bedecked hippy on the cover. “Look at this guy” she whispered. “This is exactly what the commune is all about, except that the hippies have got old and retired – you’ll see when we meet some.”

We moved into the area known as “the eco village”. This part of the commune consisted of architecturally distinguished detached houses laid out like a garden suburb planned by Ebenezer Howard. Open views with the pine woods and the white sand beaches just beyond the dunes.



Above: this house is apparently made of straw. Other houses were made of recycled materials. The “natural sewage” system is of great pride to the three thousand residents.

Several people greeted Ailsa’s mother as we walked around. They all seemed to be educated middle-class professionals. The day was gloriously hot and sunny.



Above: we had lunch at a café in the commune.

We came to some community buildings and had lunch in a communal café. As well as the permanent residents who live in the houses and caravans there are also thousands of people going through “the programme”. Ailsa explained: “You can enter the programme and stay as long as you like living communally and the commune will find you work, give you food and clothes and pocket money and take you through all the seminars and meditations and stuff. Lots and lots of divorced women come here trying to find themselves. Personally I think it operates like a cult.” Ailsa’s mother listened to this with a serene smile on her face, as if her daughter was talking complete nonsense.



Above: the important people in the commune are displayed on this wall.

We went into a sort of community centre which included a large theatre area where many famous actors have performed. There were impressive mosaics set in the floor of the foyer, again a gift from an artist. A wall covered with photographs showed all the senior people in the commune and their place in the informal hierarchy (“There are no elections” said Ailsa, “the leaders just emerge”).



Above: buildings set aside for meditation.

There was a persistent spiritual theme throughout the commune with buildings set aside for meditation, peace gardens (one designed by a famous landscape gardener), prayer flags etc. The spirituality pursued by the commune seemed to be a sort of syncretism. This mysticism has been firmly disapproved of by the traditional ministers in the adjacent village.



Above: yurts.

“Are those yurts” I asked.

“Yes, those are yurts” Ailsa’s mother said with an amused smile.

“But they are yurts with wood-burning stoves” scoffed Ailsa.

From the commune we walked along into the village. The New Age community has penetrated this very traditional fishing settlement, and gradually the houses are being bought up by wealthy ex-hippies who want to be near the commune but not actually live in it. “Being very cynical” said Ailsa, “I think it is a way for nineteen-sixties former hippies who have become successful professionals to drop out in their retirement and revist the ’sixties of their youth going to yoga and talks by environmentalists and theatrical productions all paid for by the drones who go through the programme”.



Above: leaders of the commune used to go to the top of the hill in the distance to meet extra-terrestrials.

We stopped on the side of the shore and Ailsa pointed across the bay to a shallow hill topped by a tower. “In the nineteen-seventies the entire commune went to the top of that hill to wait for the end of the world, and when it didn’t happen they had to come down again. Eric Sykes based one of his comedy shows on the incident.”

Note: I have searched on Youtube for the Eric Sykes show The End of the World, but it seems there are no remaining copies.



Above: looking to the west at about ten o’clock at night.

As it was the night before the longest day Ailsa’s mother stayed up until the dawn, taking her deckchair onto the beach. We joined her for about five hours, wrapped in blankets and drinking the local whisky Benromach. It never got completely dark – you saw a patch of blue sky move from the left-hand horizon to the right-hand one.



Above: looking to the east about three in the morning – at this point I went back to the house and went to bed.



Above: this article about the summer solstice appeared in the Guardian on 22nd June 2009.

The next day The Guardian had a big feature on the summer solstice which Ailsa’s mother read with interest. I pointed out that the Celtic solstice should not be confused with the traditional English midsummer which is on St John’s Day, 24th June. We discussed the Guardian article by Cole Moreton, which was full of errors.

Although Moreton quotes Ronald Hutton he seems to have missed Hutton’s point that the “Celtic ritual year” with four festivals on the quarter-days is probably a nineteenth-century academic invention and has no real supporting evidence (and in any case has no relevance to the four agricultural seasons).

Moreton also seems to be confused about the origins of English religion (unless he subscribes to Francis Pryor’s silly theory that there were no Anglo-Saxons and that the present English population is in fact prehistoric). Modern paganism cannot, in England, be a revival of pre-Christian religion as there is almost no evidence as to what religious beliefs the early Anglo-Saxons brought with them. Probably early Saxon religion consisted of local cults based on geographical features in the landscape, and therefore lost their relevance after the migration across the North Sea (this would account for the relative speed with which the Anglo-Saxons subsequently converted to Christianity).

He needs to read Stenton, Whitelock and Loyn.

North Britain with Ailsa

The train from Kings Cross traveled northwards, sometimes rushing, sometimes trundling. The first five hours I mostly slept or read newspapers – Telegraph, Guardian, Independent. Later I looked through Ailsa’s copy of Essentials, and then read some of her book (The Victorian Chaise-Longue, a ghost story by Marghanita Laski).

More sleeping. The sun shone and the humidity within the train became intense. The train stopped at the old military capital of North Britain, a big castle on top of a mountain (supposedly Bede’s Urbs Giudi).

Several members of the “national” basketball team for North Britain got on and sat at the table obliquely opposite to ours. They were taciturn and stone faced. When they got off I mentioned to Ailsa that none of them had said a word the entire time they were on the train.(she waved towards the passing landscape and said “All this distilled glowering has entered into the national character”).

More tea in card cups.

I began to pay more attention to the changing view outside the window.

Scots pines crowned the ridges. Bright-yellow gorse bushes covered the landscape like so many Mosaic burning bushes. Purple mountains in the distance.

The rail line was mostly on an embankment so that although the terrain was hilly I had the sense of looking down on it, until the ground heaved up into mountains in the distance. The overcast weather made the colours dull, but the landscape turned to a vibrant pea-green when the sun came out. Only once did it rain (heavily) as we went through an ancient capital of the Picts - we speculated what the Picts might have looked like (“nasty, brutish and short” said Ailsa in broad Glaswegian), and selected a candidate from among the passengers who got on when we stopped, but he turned out to be an American.



Above: only once did it rain, when we passed through an ancient Pictish settlement, now marked by a cavernous Victorian station.

Ailsa talked about the local nationalism, trying to alarm me with stories of how English people can be treated. When I failed to be alarmed she talked about false Ossianian romanticism. “If the BNP is a sinister Wagnerian production, the SNP is a comic Italian operetta” she said.

Mountains wrapped in grey veils of cloud like shawl-wrapped keening “Och, ochón!” women (Ailsa’s mock romanticism was becoming infectious). The mountainsides came ever closer so that we were traveling for miles through a narrow defile, the steep sides covered in thin forest interspersed with wild purple rhododendrons (the flowers past their best) cascading down like mauve waterfalls. Masses of ferns covered the ground, indicating the dampness of the environment.

Occasionally the defile would widen briefly and we would cross over nameless watershed rivers, shallow and full of light in the gathering “gloaming”. Horned cattle stood in meadows as if they had been arranged by Landseer. Sheep were grazing in strips of grass alongside the rivers.

The train rolled forward, maintained by a type of male railway operative that seemed to deserve their own anthropological classification. In railway uniforms, they were all slightly below average height, lean build, with middle-aged pinched and lined faces and youthfully-gelled spiky hair. They fussed and bustled up and down the train checking tickets, pushing trolleys of tea and coffee, collecting rubbish in giant bags, blowing whistles at the stations, waving paddles, running up and down on the platforms with incredible energy.

The mountains closed in, the trees came even closer.

We talked again about the local nationalism. “It’s based on fear” Ailsa said. “This is a fearful country afraid of being discovered and raped by the modern world” she said, adding matter-of-factly “England has already been raped and left for dead.”

Little half-hearted spatters of rain fell on the windows, lasting no more than a few seconds. Ailsa recounted a long list of grievances – clearances, evictions, diasporas etc. “All these jumbled resentments have been thickened with the blood of low-level conflicts so that they become a sort of ethno-nationalist black pudding, the gross ingredients seasoned with ethnic culture so that it becomes delicious to certain palates.”



Above: the landscape opened up

The landscape opened up and rolled away from the railway line. We crossed over rivers that were packed with smooth grey stones. White sheep studded the brown heather of the hills.

High up near the top of a rounded mountain I saw two long patches of white, incredulous that it could be snow.

The sun came out again at quarter past seven. We stopped at a station where ornamental trees had been twisted and stunted by the winds. Through woods of silver birch, a different sort of fern covering the ground.

Then we seemed to enter a holiday area, with chalets set down any-old-how and caravans in little parks. Plantations of conifers. We stopped at station where dozens of back-packers got off and walked down the platform purposefully, as if braced for mountain hiking.



Above: every table was covered with detritus.

The train suddenly seemed empty. Every table was covered with detritus (despite the rubbish-collecting forays of the staff). We went along a great viaduct curving forward towards the coast and the small city where the train would terminate.

Arriving at the terminus it was still broad daylight at eight o’clock. We had an hour and a half to wait until the branch line train would leave. We went out into the city centre which seemed half-deserted.



Above: the national heraldic beast had been set up on a column.

Gulls cried overhead. There was a persistent smell of curry from various Indian restaurants. We walked through a shopping plaza where the national heraldic beast had been set up on a column.

“This is the capital of the north?” I asked Ailsa.

“This is no capital, this is a shit-hole” she said, “you don’t want to be here on a Saturday night.”



Above: there seemed to be many outlets selling ethnic costumes, also available over the internet.

We looked for somewhere to eat, but nothing seemed suitable (we had been eating all day on the train, so were not really hungry). We were carrying our luggage and so could not walk too far. After wandering aimlessly for a while we went back to the station and sat down on a bench to wait.



Above: the railway terminus was festooned with banners proclaiming pagan fire festivals.

By twenty past nine the sun had gone but the daylight was still clear. The local train took us along the coastal branch line, beside a muddy flat shore. Long views across the sea, long shafts of light under the dull grey clouds, long pauses of melancholic contemplation as we neared the end of our journey.

“This is the Brighton of the north” said Ailsa as we got off at a small station and met her mother, who had come to meet us. We drove through the small town which looked entirely unlike Brighton. After about fifteen miles we turned onto a coastal road along one side of a peninsula, the bay beautiful on our right.

Ailsa’s mother lived in a small pebble-dashed bungalow. I was shown into my room, which was sparsely furnished and had a hard single bed. After a cup of tea and an hour of talking we all went to bed, although it took me ages to get to sleep (and I was conscious of mice scrabbling in the far corner of the room).

The degradation of the office of Speaker

Above: Bremner Bird & Fortune have stopped trying to satirise the Expenses Scandal. They simply portray what is actually happening and the audience falls about laughing. The Expenses Scandal is beyond satire and the feelings raised go very deep.

After a few days in Scotland I have gone down with ’flu. I am very weak, and have an incredibly sore throat and hacking cough. All I want to do is sleep.

Nevertheless I have been following the shenanigans at Westminster as the Expenses Scandal and its fall-out continues.

The House of Commons finally published all the material relevant to MP’s expenses but in such a censored and bowdlerized format it was widely seen as an insult to ordinary people.



Above: in response the Daily Telegraph brought out a glossy publication listing the outrageous greed of the “Honourable” members of the House of Commons. This magazine reminds me of the souvenir issues produced after royal events or great sporting occasions. I certainly intend to keep my copy – as an historical document it will be sought-after in fifty years’ time as a relic from the most serious constitutional crisis of the post-war era (“constitutional crisis” seems to be justified, as the people have lost all confidence in their representatives).



Above: the latest fiasco involves the “election” of a new Speaker.

Yesterday the House of Commons elected a new Speaker in an attempt to “draw a line” under the Expenses Scandal and “move on”. However John Bercow appears to be such a controversial figure that the uproar is likely to continue. Certainly he appears to have only factional support from Members of Parliament.

Little is known about John Bercow apart from the fact that he was a white supremist in his youth and is now characterized by an extreme political correctness and sympathy for New Labour. His early racist indiscretions are portrayed as youthful exuberance, but this was no reactionary backwoodsman unthinkingly supporting the status quo. As a national student leader John Bercow advocated removing black and brown people from British society, and his defence of the apartheid regime in South Africa (sustained over several years) represented an ideological commitment to the doctrine of white supremacy.

In addition he has behaved badly over Capital Gains Tax (a crime in my view, despite being “within the rules”), and has alienated the Conservative MPs in the House of Commons (not a crime obviously, but hardly the behaviour of a unifying candidate).

Is he not to be questioned about all this?

And what of the precedent that is being set - are we now supposed to overlook and forgive the racist excesses of Andrew Brons on the grounds that they were just silly things he did in his youth?

While I can accept that someone might go from being mildly racist to mildly liberal during the course of a lifetime, to go from extreme racism to extreme liberalism does not inspire confidence. Either he is mentally unstable and lacking integrity (literally his integrated world-view must have come apart). Or he is just chasing power and money and changes his political views to maximize benefits to himself.

When I saw him on Newsnight last night I thought he looked a spiv.

Is this the person we are supposed to accept as Speaker, in a “within the rules” fixed election?

Are the ordinary people to have no say in this?

One consolation of the degradation of the office of Speaker is that it should dissuade the lobby that wants to abolish the monarchy and make the Speaker head of state.

The Daily Telegraph

Above: last Saturday's cover of the Daily Telegraph was a classic. The headline about Lord Mandelson was positioned alongside a terrifying picture of Christopher Lee playing Count Dracula (Christopher Lee received a knighthood in the Queen's Birthday Honours). Both Lord Mandelson and Count Dracula are known (for varying reasons) as "the prince of darkness".

Out of the jostling for position that has marked recent competition among the broadsheet newspapers, the Daily Telegraph has emerged as the clear leader. This is due to the Expenses Scandal "scoop" which has transfixed the nation, humbled the ruling elites, and delivered day after day of sensational stories (with a narrative theme, which is always good). Not sure how the circulation figures look, but for serious journalism the Daily Telegraph's reputation currently beats all comers.



Above: the entrance to the Daily Telegraph's offices in Buckingham Palace Road.

Owners of the Telegraph Group are twin brothers David and Frederick Barclay. They had a humble upbringing in Shepherd's Bush and gradually built up an immense fortune in property, retail and media. They live in a Quinlan Terry castle (which must be worth seeing, although it is never likely to be open to the public).

Chairman of the Telegraph Media Group is Aidan Barclay - I can't tell you much more about him.

Chief Executive of the Telegraph Group is Murdoch MacLennan. He has a ruthless reputation for getting rid of "deadwood". However, I'm not sure he is making the right decisions (I liked a lot of the deadwood - they added a unique charm to the publication).

Editor of the Daily Telegraph is Will Lewis. Wikipedia says he was educated at a London comprehensive. His brother has just become Gordon Brown's PR adviser (not a healthy development).

Oh, and I don't like Stephen Pile's columns - too smug by half.

I'm sorry I havn't a clue

I listened to the return of I'm sorry I havn't a clue on the way home this evening.

This used to be one of my two favourite radio shows (the other being the News Quiz).

The new chairman was Stephen Fry.

I wanted it to be the same, but it wasn't the same. Occasionally it was very funny, but a lot of the time it seemed to be a bit too self-knowing. It was an ironic version of an ironic comedy.

Also I felt Stephen Fry was the wrong choice of chairman. He is a ubiquitous presence on broadcast media, so that although he can be very funny, his funniness is acquiring a "vanilla" quality. It is disappointing the BBC couldn't find someone completely new.

As for the News Quiz, I used to laugh continuously all the way through. Then the chairperson changed and consequently the show changed (the panellists began talking to themselves rather than performing for the audience). Last Saturday I actually switched it off half-way through.

Patronal Festival

Hot June day. I was in the county town this morning and went to Holy Communion at a church on the old Roman road leading south to London. The church has a narrow frontage on the street, with a Saxon tower, an eighteenth-century nave and chancel behind, the whole filled with Victorian high church paraphernalia.

The main entrance was through a narrow door under the west tower. It was the day of the church's Patronal Festival. A good attendance, the nave about half full, subdued noise of the traffic on the busy road outside.

We sang For All The Saints as the clergy processed around the church (And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long; Steals on the ear the distant triumph song...). I watched as the big silver cross led the way, followed by the priest in gold embroidered red cope, a censor spinning the thurible round in circles so that the bitter incense flooded the interior ("there's so much incense you can hardly see sometimes"). One of the children at the back began to talk excitedly, hushed by her mother.

The first reading was from Genesis and referred to Jacob's pillow stone. The second reading was from 1 Peter and referred to the stone that was rejected which became the cornerstone. The psalm was 122 - I was glad when they said to me, 'Let us go to the house of the Lord'.

In his sermon the priest talked of the church as a spiritual focus of the community, a centre of prayer for those who didn't attend services as much as for those who did.



Above: Looking towards the high altar you can see the six candles on the altar lit before William Watkins' elegant 1878 reredos. During Communion we sang Jerusalem the Golden (The pastures of the blessèd are decked in glorious sheen). The Eucharist was brought down into the nave for those too frail to walk to the altar.



Above: after the service came the bustle of the teas and coffees. There was a notice about a pilgrimage to the ruins of an abbey in the south of the county. In a glass case were old photographs of previous parish events.

Heavyweight

Two weeks ago:

Wednesday

The day started with a meeting in Andrea's office (graphic designer Neil, my boss Andrea and myself) about a car rental client that has resurrected itself (we havn't done any work for them for over a year, and suddenly they are asking for a campaign). However, there are so many restrictions on what we can and cannot do that there is almost no room for creativity (creativity being one of the ways we achieve impact). Designing the ads for this client is like a paint-by-numbers exercise, using their corporate style guide to put the things together.

When Neil had gone back to his room (which he has started calling "the studio") Andrea told me she was apprehensive about the new agency head arriving this afternoon ("It's not her starting at a new agency, it's us").

Our American toys client rang up furious about a press release we had put out - I managed to calm him down even though I didn't really know what I was talking about (the release had been sent out by our Managing Director Terry, boasting about how much the client was going to spend with our agency).

I didn't go out at lunchtime, wanting to see the new agency head arrive. The tension began to mount, and I could tell everyone was slightly on edge. One o'clock passed, and then two o'clock...

Lynn, one of the admin staff from upstairs who was leaving today, came round to say goodbye. "Watch your backs" she warned us, saying Terry was ruthless in the way he treats people. "No-one has ever left this company without bitterness."

Then the new head arrived.

When talking of the new head Terry had often used the word "heavyweight". Seeing her, it was easy to see why the adjective had sprung to mind. She was big thick-set woman of "forty-nine" (Patricia, Terry's PA, shook her head when we discussed the new head's age later). Expensive dowdy clothes (Jaeger). Ash-blonde hair that was obviously dyed (the grey roots were showing). Big navvy-like hands ("She looks capable of strangling someone" said Douglas, one of the upstairs Account Execs).

We are to call her Yvette.

Andrea had a very long meeting with Yvette, and when she came out there was considerable friction between her and junior Account Exec Duncan (whom Yvette had not even spoken to yet). My meeting with Yvette was practical and straightforward, going over the clients we handle. She gave me a book on Ways To Beat The Recession. Her voice was harsh, but she was not unfriendly. It was clear there are going to be sweeping changes in the agency. I am no longer reporting to Andrea, but will report directly to Yvette.

Later Yvette had a meeting with Chris who does our accounts (part time). When Chris came out she was red-faced and worried. She was shocked at the criticisms Yvette had made about the management reports Chris produced each month.

At the end of the working day Yvette went up to see Terry. I kept watch on the stairs while Andrea went through Yvette's papers, photocopying anything that looked useful. Then I went home feeling very uneasy.

Alan Sugar

I've had to cut back on blogging as I am not well at the moment and need to rest.

But I had to say something about Gordon Brown's Cabinet reshuffle.

I am appalled that Alan Sugar has been invited into the government. This man is a monster. Arrogant, bullying and (in all the important things in life) stupid.

Attitudes towards the Expenses Scandal

And still it goes on, the most devastating (and in its way exciting) scandal of the post-war period. What are the historical implications of all this? In decades to come will the Brown government acquire the taint of cowardice and decadence associated with the downfall of the French Third Republic, or will all the anguish and humiliation be forgotten in the rush to embrace a successor regime?

From all the columns of written opinions and incessant vox populi I have attempted to distill as many different arguments as possible. I have made no attempt to assess how widespread a particular viewpoint it. My intention is to record the widest number of “I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” before the instant historians with their revisionist tendencies impose on us an authorised version.

I have toned the language down as much as possible, and removed most of the hysterical emphasis (which tended to make the text unintelligible).



Above: the Expenses Scandal has overwhelmed the government and threatens to bring it down.

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number One

The present "shower of shit" (sic) in the House of Commons are just in it for themselves. They represent a kleptocracy comparable to any corrupt African dictatorship. There’s nothing wrong with the system per se, it’s just that the present lot are uniquely bad, and we need to remove them in a general election (or alternatively punish them with the fullest force of the law; or alternatively line them up against a wall and shoot them).

This argument is by far and away the most often repeated and I have not expanded or developed it because it is so familiar.



Above: there is considerable scepticism about the "reform" proposals being circulated, mainly because they seem to represent an attempt by vested interests to fix the system (for instance how can Gary Younge possibly portray abolishing the monarchy as empowering the people - there is absolutely NO popular appetite for replacing the monarchy with yet another politician).

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Two

The system is at fault and needs radical reform. We must seize this opportunity for comprehensive constitutional reform which History (capital H) so rarely provides. In this argument the fall of the Speaker is compared to the Glorious Revolution of 1688. Joanna Lumley is compared to a (very charming) demagogue and her presence in Parliament Square with an “army” of Ghurkas is compared to Mussolini’s march on Rome in 1922. While there is a popular appetite for radical change we must put before the people a complete reform package including proportional representation, an elected second chamber and, why not, an elected President. Carpe dium – this moment will not come again in our lifetime.



Above: Labour has suffered more than the Conservatives in this scandal mainly because the Major years associated the Tories with sleaze whereas the Labour Party PROMISED the electors they would be "whiter than white".

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Three

This mild stench of corruption is the hall mark of a government that has been in power too long. It happened at the end of the Tory period 1951-63; it happened at the end of the Tory hegemony 1979-97; and it’s happened at the end of New Labour. All that happens is that a powerful election machine attracts to it people who want money and power for their own sake. The idealists such as Robin Cook and John Smith have been replaced by their bag-carriers, who in turn have been replaced by their own bag-carriers. When this stage is reached the party in question needs to go into Opposition to reform itself and shed the creepy hangers-on. It’s a Darwinian view of party politics.



Above: the fall of the Speaker is seen as a 1688 moment

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Four

The key to understanding public fury is contained in the phrase “within the rules”. For years politicians have been using this concept to ignore public opinion and impose their own interpretation of what the public ought to have, rather than what the public actually wants. Therefore the public can’t have a referendum on the Lisbon Treaty because it is “within the rules” for the government to ratify the Treaty anyway. The government can wage war in Iraq (and subsequently in Afghanistan) because it is “within the rules” for them to order British forces into battle without reference to the people. Judges can be authorised to impose light sentences for often very heinous crimes because it is “within the rules” for public opinion to be ignored. However, with the Expenses Scandal the public have finally identified a flaw in the “within the rules” argument and are using it to bring down the whole political system – and having cornered the politicians they are not going to let them go again.



Above: are Scottish and English politicians so culturally different that they cannot understand the political settlement of the respective regions? Margaret Thatcher's government is supposed to have antagonised the Scottish people. Has the Blair/Brown government done the same to England?

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Five

The problem is cultural. The English political settlement is very subtle and depends upon abstract concepts such as self-restraint, modesty and proceeding with consensus. However New Labour has had such an overwhelmingly Scottish leadership that they simply have not understood the English subtleties. This has been apparent in other areas of government policy such as lack of respect for individual privacy, or ignoring the idea that one is innocent until proven guilty. There is no great mystery about all this – how can you expect Scottish politicians to practice (or even understand) English self-restraint? It is a classic example of cultural misunderstanding – a Scottish culture of carpet-bagging has replaced the English culture of restraint.

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Six

The physical corruption we see from politicians is a manifestation of their moral corruption. There is no morality anywhere now, in either public or private life. Anything goes if you can get away with it. It’s a hallmark of the decline of religion – everything becomes relative (and so excusable).

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Seven

It’s the result of an old-fashioned and out-moded system that nobody really understands anymore (and bear in mind that most Members of Parliament work extremely hard – they don’t have time to meticulously record receipts). This idea of Parliament as a gentleman’s club has staggered on into the twenty-first century until it has inevitably collapsed under the weight of its own inconsistencies. All that needs to happen is for a cool reappraisal and an impartial outside body to implement a new system.



Above: there have been so many surreal expenses incidents that this issue of Private Eye had to construct a multi-image front cover.

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Eight

It’s all got up by the press to sell newspapers. It’s the worst kind of pandering to the petty jealousies of little people who can’t understand the great issues of state but instead have a fixation about the price of a glittery loo seat. It’s voyeuristic cruel bullying of the very nastiest kind.

“I’ll tell you what it’s all about…” – Number Nine

It is classic crusading journalism comparable to the Watergate expose in America. Thanks to the Daily Telegraph and the Barclay Brothers the democratic process is being reinforced and corruption rooted out. It proves the value of a free press able to call over-mighty politicians to account.