Let's Talk About...

… distance. As in the distance required to be considered safe. Take public transport, for instance. It’s off-peak time, so the expectation is that there will be plenty of empty seats on the tube. The issue is that they are all randomly placed. That means that you have a split-second decision to make as soon as you board the train. Where to sit? Or more specifically, where is it appropriate to sit?

In the grand scheme of things this dilemma can be filed away under the category “First World problems”. Yet, if you get caught in the middle of it, you are painfully aware of what I have just described. You rush into the carriage and without a second thought sit next to a woman immersed in her book, or as it is more common these days, glued to her mobile phone. It is only when you look at your surroundings that you realise what you have done. There are twenty-odd empty seats in the rest of the carriage. You suddenly feel self-conscious. What is worse, you now feel her eyes on you. Is she thinking the same thing? You do the only honourable thing. You get off the train at the next stop and wait for another.

Another example is open spaces, like parks. With the recent high temperatures we have had in London, it goes without saying that we have been enjoying the outdoors a lot more. Plonking your personal self in a park should be hassle-free. After all, London is probably the city in Europe with most parks and green areas. The only problem is when the thermometer hits 34 degrees and you find half the neighbourhood down your local park. Space becomes an issue and distance between sun-seekers awkward. This situation is more difficult for adults on their own. I count myself amongst those. Many a time I have been cycling, when all of a sudden I have decided to rest my weary bones on the soft grass of one of the many parks that dot my adopted city. The look I get is a mixture of distrust and hostility. Especially if you should happen to choose a space in between two Prosecco-guzzling groups. Eventually eyes are turned towards me, voices are lowered and belongings moved closer to owners (this tends to happens in the leafier parts of London. I live in a deprived area. No one bats an eyelid if I decide to sit on my own next to them). Luckily, I usually carry the weekend Guardian or a copy of The Observer with me. As if by magic bags go back to where they were before.

Distance is just another bone in the skeleton of social awkwardness, a structure that underpins the way many denizens on these isles interact with others. There are more components such as conversations about money (as in salary) and class. Distance just happens to be more visual.

Going back to my first example: where is it appropriate to sit? Well, whoever talked about sitting? I usually remain standing.

© 2017

Next Post: “Food, Music, Food, Music, Food, Music… Ad Infinitum”, to be published on Thursday 6^th July at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About

… the English language. Specifically, how it has suffered throughout this dire and needless election campaign.

Do not be surprised if on Friday 9^th June a battered, bruised and heavily swollen amorphous figure turns up at the Royal Courts of Justice, on the Strand, central London to sue all the major political parties, except for the Greens. That figure, my dear readers and fellow bloggers, will be the English language.

Where to start? Enough has been said! Actually, that is a good place to begin, “enough”. Was it used as an adjective a few days ago, describing adequacy and sufficiency, or as an adverb, meaning “fully” or “quite”? Or perhaps it was deployed as an interjection? Enough is enough!

But the truth is that enough has been enough for quite a long time. What the speaker forgot to add was that when it comes to cutting police numbers to the bare minimum, thus, putting the UK population at risk of terrorist attacks, enough is enough. That on the subject of stripping the education budget to the bones, leaving headteachers holding a begging bowl instead of a book, enough is enough. That when it comes to privatising our free healthcare, one of this nation’s proudest achievements and leaving it under-resourced with overworked staff, enough is enough. There, I sussed it for ya.

If you happen to be a businessperson and you are desperate to close a deal, especially one where you have not got the upper hand at all and you are at the mercy of the other party, how can a “no deal” be better than “a bad deal”? Especially, if your livelihood and that of your tribe depend on it. English language, I beseech thee, pray, tell me, is the world going mad or is a transaction that can always be improved in the future  not a better option than one where there is no transaction at all and no bargaining possibility?

Sometimes the best answer is honesty. Of course, I am not saying that every time an interviewer asks a question, the interviewee should answer: “Honesty”. What I mean is that if you don’t know the answer, please, just say “I don’t know”. You see? That’s easy. Or, “I don’t know the answer to that question now. I do have the figures you asked me about but I am going to have to check them and come back to you.” Fluffing your lines, being seen checking your iPad and mobile, doesn’t cut it. And the worst thing? That amorphous figure on the corner. It has just been decked once again.

I am aware that in the world of fake news we all suffer, including language. I am just hoping that the English language can mount a challenge, a counter-attack against those who have mistreated it so much recently. Perhaps we could help. After all, enough is enough.

© 2017

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 10^th June at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

… the good old days. C’mon, you know what I’m on about. We live in times when even people in their early 30s preface their sentences with: “Do you remember when…?” When, what, exactly? When you were born and Thatcher was in power

Let’s talk about a certain epidemic sweeping through these isles. It’s a “selective memory” condition that reminisces about past times, carefully and skilfully leaves the bad bits out and focuses mainly on the good ones.

It is not an ailment that affects solely the Brits. I had the opportunity to see the same phenomenon in my country of birth when I visited last summer. Perhaps, because Castro’s demise was imminent, but I ran into people who went out of their way to romanticise a past they had only slagged off three years before on my previous visit.

The elements that make up this “golden era” evocation in the UK are different, though. We live in times when technology, to mention but one factor, has challenged normal conventions. Social norms, educational practices, human interactions, they have all been transformed. For many, these changes have been for the worse. Loss of manners, addiction to gadgets and lack of social etiquette are some of the side-effects of swiping and scrolling. It is natural, therefore, to look at the emotional spaces carved out in one’s childhood as a comfortable refuge to inhabit.

But beware. Bygone eras do not come all under the same banner and with the same content. Let’s talk about the good old days, but what years exactly? Before the 1910s, you say? If you were a woman you did not have the vote. If you were poor there was no free healthcare and seeing one’s offspring dying was common. 1930s? Rise of antisemitism in Europe, so, if you were a Jew, you were not safe. 1940s? There was a war going on. And whilst Britain fought on the side of what I call “the good guys”, the truth is that when your city is being bombed to bits, you do not look back on those days with fondness but rather with horror. 1950s? OK, I’ll give you that one, but only if you were not gay, you did not need an abortion and you were not black (the racially-motivated Notting Hill riots took place in 1958).

This is not to say that these eras lacked pluses. There were many: outdoor play was part and parcel of growing up; allergies were not as rife as now (as spring time comes upon us, I am already fretting over which allergy will attack me first: pollen-caused hay fever, the tree variety or the grass type?); dieting was mainly the preserve of celebrities and community carried a real meaning.

Say what about my health?

The danger is that as our future becomes more frightening we retreat further away from it. And by moving away we invariably drift towards that “past as a foreign country”. Of course they do things differently there. For starters, they have not got mobile phones. They did, however, cane you. Remember that?

Let’s talk about the good old days. But when we do, let us remember, too, that not everything was rosy pink. Outside toilets, bullying, bigotry, and domestic violence were so normal that people would not bat an eyelid if you brought these subjects up in conversation. That is why I think it is better to think that no era was golden. They all had their pros and cons and idealising them does no one any favours. Plus, at least we have mobile phones now, don’t you think?

© 2017

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 25^th March at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

… cuteness. But not in an attractive, pleasantly pretty way. That definition we know. That definition is the cat-falling, hundred-laughs-a-minute, regular You Tube dose to which we submit during our working day (oops, sorry, for turning you in. Didn’t mean that).

No, the cuteness I want to discuss tonight is not that one pertaining to little toddlers giving you the two fingers (or the middle one, in the States). Let’s talk about the other cuteness. The one with a sinister – albeit unintended – connotation and detrimental effects.

After my first ten years living here in Blighty, I realised that I had acquired an unasked-for trait: that of looking at my own country and its population through British eyes. It was a strange sensation. One minute you were still the Cuban in London, the next, you were back in Havana, looking at your birthplace through foreign eyes. There was no warning or rehearsal. The transition was swift and unexpected.

This is where the “cuteness” factor kicked in. I began to notice how “cute” we, Cubans, looked to non-Cubans (now, from my resident-in-Britain vantage point). My reaction was a mix of amusement and irritation. The latter was born out of a frustrated attempt to explain our way of life to foreigners (regardless of where, on the political spectrum, they sat) through a non-romanticised, more reality-based lenses. The former came about after listening to some of the “comrades” and “free-marketeers”. Occasionally both amusement and irritation got mixed up, resulting in a concoction I would term amuse-ritation (sue me, Oxford dictionary, I dare you).

In between working as a free-lance interpreter, translator and tour guide for a few years in Cuba and becoming an (in)voluntary immigrant in London, I amassed enough experience to formulate a hypothesis as to why we, Cubans, are so “cute” to foreign eyes. Not to all foreign eyes, I hasten to add. There are people who "get" us from the word go. The, again, these are the people who are not interested in "cute" locals, regardless of the country they visit. Any note of sarcasm you find in this article is completely intentional.

So, why do so many visitors to Cuba find us cute?

-         Because we’re not just cute, but “so fucking cute” (you have to say this in the same voice as Thom Yorke in Radiohead’s “Creep”)

-         Because of the way we pile up in cars (especially American cars). Eight, nine, ten; they always seem to grow extra seats, these cars. Never mind that the temperature is infernally hot and some people pass out during the journey. The whole situation is so “cute”.

-         Because of the way we walk in the middle of the road at a leisure pace, shaking our money-makers (both men and women, by the way. Money-makers know no gender boundaries in “cute” Cuba). Never mind that the reason for walking in the middle of the street is because of the risk of being buried under a derelict building, pieces of which are usually found… on the same road.

-         Because of the way we use our horns liberally when we drive. Hesitate behind the wheel for a split second when the light changes to green and the driver behind you (usually a bloke) will let you know in no time that you have to move off. On the same note, American cars have a funny beep. It’s so “cute” that it makes me cry.

-         Because of the way men leer at women. Women of all ages, from middle-aged to pre-pubescent (unacceptable, in my opinion). But, then, again, who am I to say it is not OK to look at an eleven-, or at a twelve-year-old lasciviously? I’m just a Cuban and Cuban men are doing what Cuban men do: be “cute” to foreigners.

-         Because of the way ”parqueadores” insist on telling you how to park your car, even when they themselves do not know how to drive (see previous post).

-         Because of the way we sound as if we are doing you, customer, a favour most of the time, when all we are doing is our job.

-         Because of the way children laugh. Once, back in the 90s, I took a British couple around the city on a sightseeing tour. That night, sitting on El Malecón, under a starry night and with a full moon on the sky, we discussed various topics. A group of Cuban children played nearby. Did you know, the man said to me, that in London children don’t laugh? My face must have shown puzzlement because he pressed on with his comment. Nope, children don’t laugh. And you can’t see the moon either, added his wife. You can’t see a full moon like this. Imagine my surprise a few months ago and many years after that meeting, when I saw a strawberry moon… in London. As for laughing children, well, at the time of writing my son is cracking up upstairs and has done so for the most part of his eighteen years. Must be the Cuban genes!

-         Because of the way we are, one minute, complaining about the state of the country, and the next minute, we are praising El Comandante. The fact that we fail to join the dots make us “cuter” than “cute”.

-         Because of the way our machismo is the in-your-face type. All hand-waving and crotch-grabbing. What would normally get a ticking-off from feminists everywhere in the western world gets a free pass in Cuba because Cuban men are so “cute”. Even when they hit their wives/girlfriends/partners.

-         Because of the fact we insist on carrying on living in dilapidated Instagram-perfect, old buildings (not that we can do anything about it). Those faces poking out of buildings that look as if they have just been subjected to an air strike are photo-cute.

-         Because of the way the “internet zombies” (copyright, moi) gather near hotels and tourist hotspots, holding their arms aloft, hoping to get an Etecsa signal to update their Facebook status or watch the latest reggaeton video.

"Cute" people galore

All this and a lot more are the reasons why we, Cubans, are “cute”. Or as Thom Yorke would probably say, so “fucking cute”.

© 2016

Photo by the blog author

Next Post: “Thoughts in Progress”, to be published on Saturday 1^st October at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

… fitness. More specifically, running. Yep, let’s talk about running, mainly mid-life-crisis-driven-weekend-runner (and sometimes during the week, too). I realised this was an epidemic when at my former school a fifty-something colleague told me: “You know what I really enjoy about picking up exercise again? That I get to buy and wear all this fantastic gear!”

And what gear! There’s the hundred-quid Garmin watch that measures heart rate, calories and movement.  The base layers that promise “to manage your moisture” (which sounds like a line from a porn film). The Adidas/Nike Run Bottle Belt. The list goes on.

Let’s talk about when “jogging” became “running”. A change so subtle that I never noticed it. One minute I was talking about “jogging” back in uni more than twenty years ago, the next minute I was discussing the miles I had “run”.

Counting the miles and the pennies

Running (or jogging) is probably the most democratic of sport activities. Or, at least it used to be. After all, you just put your old trainers on and run. On the street, in the park, on gravel, on tarmac, it did not matter; it was your body and mind working together. No wonder, corporations did not make much money from jogging before.

That has all changed in the last ten to fifteen years. I leave it to the specialists, the sociologists, psychologists and stand-up comedians to do the analysis as to why there is as much money in flogging running gear as there is in selling football kits. One thing I know: running has become sexy.

Understand that this is not sexy in relation to sexual intercourse. This is sexy as in "look sexy". We want to be seen running. This new approach is not gender-specific. Both men and women spend vast amounts of money on gadgetry and performance-enhancing gels and food. And you know what? Yours truly is part of that group. There is no way I am going to get up on my high horse. That horse has already run off and left me behind (probably with its own £400 GPS watch).

In my defence all I will say is that in order to complete my recent marathon I had to follow a strict training regime, the like of which I had never done before. Still, my Run Media Arm Pocket was a luxury. If I am going to be completely honest I have not spent thousands of pounds in my running gear. However, I know that the main reason for that is that I have not got those thousands of pounds to spend. Otherwise...

I can understand how breaking into a new pair of Lycra jogging shorts or purchasing a £20 set of Climaheat Gloves make the average John and Joanna Public feel more accomplished, more focused, better prepared, more efficient. I have had the same adrenaline rush. My run becomes more effective, or at least I think it does. In reality it is nothing more than the equivalent of a sugar rush. Shopping as an “upper”.

Let’s talk about fitness and more specifically about running. Or, as we used to say, back in the day, jogging. Simple, basic and easy. Put your trainers on. Go to the local park and do a few laps around it. After all, even Pheidippides managed the 42 kilometres between Marathon and Athens. True, he died as he delivered the message he had been tasked with. Who knows? Perhaps, if he had had a hydration rucksack with a few energy gels in it to help him along the way the outcome would have been different.

© 2016

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 11^th June at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

… urban self-cannibalism. A condition from which I believe my beloved adopted city of London is suffering now.

In The Flesh (La Carne), the late Cuban writer Virgilio Piñera’s satirical short story, a whole town runs out of meat. After the vegetables, to which they resort in order to survive, threaten to go the same way as the meat, one of the village’s inhabitants happens upon a solution. Looking at his boneless buttocks, he cuts a slice off the left one and fries it like a steak on the pan. Little by little the rest of the town follows his example, including the mayor.

This tale came to my mind the other day when I read Rowan Moore’s excellent analysis on London’s urban self-cannibalism. Like Piñera’s characters, entering an inescapable circle of self-annihilation, some parts of London have got stuck in a commodification-focused hamster wheel. Believe me, even hamsters get tired and come off the wheel. Yet, Londoners are stuck in there.

Housing, the high street, pub culture, these are all victims of London’s new-found gluttony. A gluttony that is driven mainly, although not exclusively, by overseas investors. Whilst the city eats itself, the billionaire in Malaysia or Singapore invests on the “body part” that has just been devoured.

Let’s talk about London’s urban cannibalism. Let’s talk about the city that prices out its poorest to make way for multimillion-pound residential developments that cater chiefly to the hedge fund manager, the City banker or the football club owner. Let’s talk about the third-generation-run shop that is forced to close, not because a Mc Donald’s is replacing it (that is so 20^th century) but because the area has been earmarked for “regeneration”; the dreaded word that heralds upmarket, boutique-like, hipster-influenced culture. No more flat caps, but ironic beards, no industries, but internet start-ups.

A reptilian London

London eats itself but does not digest its prey totally. It regurgitates it in tourist-friendly walking postcards. They are the artists that give the city its vibrancy and yet have to move constantly because their studios happen to be in much-sought-after prime “niche” locations. The sort of places that render a city – for instance, London – “authentic”. This authenticity then becomes food for the future investor who lives… in Thailand.

Piñera’s tale ends with the disappearance of a town and its inhabitants as they all eat themselves out of existence. I doubt London will vanish into the ether, although many of the people who make it the vibrant place it is will eventually fade into the abyss of forgetfulness, swallowed whole by the city that begat them.

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be posted on Saturday 18^th July at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

... Christmas, or rather, let’s talk about the toys your child/nephew/niece/godson/goddaughter was given for Christmas.

Yes, I know that Christmas is now a distant memory, buried in a two-month-old grave only to be resurrected like St Lazarus as early as... September. But, spare a thought for the volume of plastic tat that has already been chucked out.

I have said here before that I did not grow up with Christmas around me. Therefore, I completely missed out on the annual razzmatazz that is present-giving at Christmas. I did get toys on other occasions especially, as also mentioned here previously, on 6^th January to celebrate The Three Wise Men (that was down to my late Catholic grandmother). But the 25^th December was just another date on the calendar.

That means that I only began to experience the actual phenomenon of Christmas and its ancillary gift-bearing and gif-offering (without any Greeks involved, mind you) pantomime in the last seventeen years. This has given me plenty of time to notice a few changes.

For instance, by the time I got acquainted with the “bearded guy” in the red and white costume, I don’t recall seeing many wind-up toys around. Most of the sets my wife and I bought for my son first and later on for our daughter were battery-powered. They were novelty for some time, until the battery ran out, by which time our toddler(s) had moved on. With wind-up or more rustic-looking toys, on the other hand, we noticed that our children tended to bond more, but their attention was inevitably diverted once another battery-powered Thomas the tank engine arrived on the scene.

Let’s talk about the post-Christmas toy graveyard that seems to spring up around January and February and expand its boundaries every year. Let’s talk also about attention span.

What came before, the chicken or the egg? What came before, short attention span or the visual onslaught of plastic tat on our little ones?

Let’s talk about that moment – dreaded moment as I have found out in recent years – when your little cherub opens the first Christmas present, sits there, mouth agape, heart pumping and broad smile adorning its angelic face. Fifteen presents later and the debris of opened and discarded wrapping paper littering your lounge floor, the same angel has suffered a transformation: she/he is the devil incarnate. The way they tear through the flimsy gift paper, looking for yet another present, the equivalent of a sugar rush (shall we call it Christmas-toy-giving rush?) is enough to want to open a savings account in order to put some money away for the psychologist your little angel will probably end up visiting in years to come.

May I have your attention, please?

Just like a dog is not just for Christmas, a toy should be for longer than two months. But what to do when faced with a gallimaufry of brightly coloured, battery-powered items ensconced away in your child’s bedroom? Meanwhile, she or he is downstairs playing on the iPad bequeathed to them by a generous uncle from... fill in the blanks with the name of the country yourself. And here you are, being winked at by Buzz Lightyear, the lagniappe of a trip to McDonald’s or KFC. Oops, you just pressed his chest by mistake. To infinity... and beyond!

Let’s talk about Christmas toys. Even if they are not of the wind-up type.

© 2015

Next Post: “Saturday Evenings: Stay In, Sit Up and Switch On”, to be published on Saturday 28^th February at 6pm (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

... housework. Or rather, let’s talk about how much housework chaps get up to do during the week.

Housework remains the last frontier to be crossed and conquered, the territory where we will plant our Male of the Species Flag once we have orbited around the sink and landed in front of the ironing board. This time, though, there will be no talk of conspiracy or dodgy images that might confuse viewers. We will have a dust-filled Hoover to prove our case.

When the moment arrives, we will be able to say that we, men, have finally claimed true ownership of housework. The glass ceiling has been broken. And whilst you are there, smashing that menacing and ubiquitous overhead surface do us a favour and get rid of the cobwebs, please. You know what spiders are like at this time of the year.

Joking aside (well, only just and that’s half-joking, by the way), what is it with us, blokes and housework? We have crossed other boundaries, for instance, our open-minded approach to grooming gave us the “metrosexual” years ago who has now metamorphosed into the “spornosexual”. With a full Brazilian. No problems with sharing girlfriend/wife’s night cream but sorting out the dirty laundry? You might as well book a place in the next “watching paint dry” avant-garde art show (possibly a future Turner prize?).

Your blog host has a confession to make. I am fond of some house chores. Cooking, cleaning (including vacuuming), doing the washing-up, ironing and mowing the lawn (I know it’s an outdoor activity but still inside the home, so it is technically speaking, housework)? Count me in. Doing the laundry, tidying up and dusting? Don’t like them. Especially the tidying up as a lot of the mess in our house is my responsibility.

It wasn’t always thus. If I were to attempt to chart my evolution in the housework chain in a scale of one to ten, one representing minimum housework and ten maximum, I’ve gone from zero (years lived in Cuba) to seven or eight (years lived in the UK.so far). The reason is simple: I grew up with four women in a one-bed flat in downtown Havana. Until thirteen the only other man in the house was my dad and when he finally got kicked out by my mum I remained as the sole beneficiary of my late Nan, late auntie, mum and – to a lesser extent – cousin’s attentions. If I ever picked up a broom to sweep, my grandma asked me with a straight-looking face: “Are you ill?” and snatched the broom away from me.

A fellow fighter in our campaign

That is why my form of rebellion arrived in the form of housework. Whereas some of my male contemporaries still have a laissez-faire attitude to domestic chores, I am of the opinion that this is where the next revolution will come from.

Let’s talk about housework, fellas, because this will be our first wave of “masculinism” (it’s not a proper words, by the way, I’ve just made it up. Sorry, I’m still working on the marketing side of this campaign. It’s not even a good word, I confess. Unlike “feminism” with three, “masculinism” has four syllables which makes it not catchy at all). So women fought for the vote, and then for their reproductive rights and later on for their right to wear whatever they wanted to wear? Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet, because we, men, will fight against the myriad prejudices, still rife in our society, that tar us with the unfair brush of being anti-housework. We shall fight these misconceptions on the beaches, we shall fight them on the landing grounds... Sorry, wrong speech. We shall fight them at the sink (not with fists, but with our Marigolds on), we shall fight them behind the couch, we shall fight them with an ironing board; we shall never surrender.

Let’s talk about housework. And let’s also talk about the first wave of “masculinism”. Now, fellow male bloggers and male readers, who of you will side with me? You can start by helping me find a new name for the campaign and get rid of the cobwebs.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 26^th October at 10am (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

... erections. Sorry, I meant elections. Elections. Is that clear? Let’s talk about elections. With a big, massive, capital “L”. E-lec-tions.

Although, come to think of it, given the amount of testosterone displayed in the last couple of weeks in the local and European elections here in the UK, we might as well leave that “r” hanging in there, a tumescent poisoning of the political landscape.

Our politicians might still carry the look of late 90s, early noughties  metrosexual man (I challenge you, reader, to tell Nick Clegg and David Cameron apart, the two of them standing together on a dark corner around midnight. C’mon, c’mon, you know you’ll fail). They might still try to present a clean-shaven, soft, almost effete face to us proles, but scratch the surface and it’s still the same rampant machismo underneath.

Let’s talk about the recent local and Euro(pria)pean elections. Especially, let’s talk about women’s absence from the political scene. The sole female voice heard above the din of brawny, male vocal power was that of Natalie Bennett’s, leader of the Green Party. She was given a ten-minute slot on Radio Four, of which half that time was taken up by the interviewer rudely interrupting Natalie to ask her a question she was already in the process of answering before being so rudely interrupted. Then, Farage was given twice as long. I bet he was probably holding a pint in his right hand and a ciggie in his left as he made sure that each soundbite came out the way his supporters wanted it. The dirty old sod! But that’s why his army of Ukipers love him (doesn’t the word “Ukiper” feel like “Belieber”, the term used to describe Justin Bieber’s contingent of screaming, deranged, cult-following devotees?). He is Nigel the Lad, one of the boys. Proper English bitter in hand.

Priapus: the face of British politics

Let’s talk about the vacuum in British politics of female power. Not girl power, no. I was never a fan of the Spice Girls and it always seemed to me a tad bit suspicious that girl power had to come wrapped up in a mini-skirt with the Union flag stamped all the way around it.  No, I’d rather talk about the absence of women from politics and the need to have them as part of our discussion on policies and laws. Especially with so many women bearing the brunt of the coalition’s cut-throat measures. With a general election a year away I am fed up of the shouting, screaming and hysterics our political debates are peppered with. And that’s just the (male) presenters on the Today programme. What we need is the calmer, reassuring tone that women bring to politics. You don’t even have to agree with their politics. I am not a supporter of the Green Party myself, although many of their policies are appealing enough for me to consider them as my second option. But what will certainly drive me round the bend from now until May 2015 will be to see yet again three (or four now, with the rise of Ukip) men trying to out-muscle each other verbally whilst the essence of their message, i.e., their policies, gets lost amidst a sea of semantic fisticuffs.

Mind you, this is mainly applicable to English and Welsh politics. In Scotland the Member of the Scottish Parliament and Deputy Leader of the Scottish National Party, Nicola Sturgeon is packing up a mighty punch with the upcoming vote on Scottish independence. Her radio interviews and television appearances have so far shown a calm, articulate and determined politician. Again, I am not a fan of her or the SNP (in fact, I don’t even know whether I would vote for them if I lived in Scotland), but she brings balance to a rather phallus-centric world.

Let’s talk about politics and let’s talk about the lack of balance between male and female power in this area. It is the only way we can ensure that we don’t mistake “elections” for “erections” ever again.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 1^st June at 10am (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

... Vladimir Putin, one of the gayest (in a homosexual sense, although he might also lead a merry life, who knows?) dignitaries of the 21^st century.

It is clear that Putin is in denial. That could go some way to explain all the anti-gay laws recently passed in his backyard, sorry, Russia. It has long been thought that in the privacy of his boudoir, the president lets his imagination run wild and the real Vladimir comes out of... oh, well, there’s no other way of putting it, is there? Comes out of his shell. Apparently one of his minions caught him once clad in Chelsea blue, including Samsung logo stuck on his chest, running around his room pretending to have scored a goal whilst from a nearby stereo a Cockney-accented choir screamed out: Stick Your Blue Flag Up Your A**e! West Ham supporters will recognise this chant as one of the many ways in which they serenade those who swear allegiance to the team based in SW6. It is not known where Putin’s loyalties lie, but what his servant, sorry, minister, did notice was how elated he became on hearing the final three words. The chant was on a loop, his official remembers, and the louder and more climaxing the voices became, the more Putin ran and the higher he jumped. The spectacle was similar to watching a performance of Kamarinskaya, but instead of the full orchestra, the butler, sorry again, the minister had to content himself instead with thousands of Eastenders belting out simultaneously: ...Up Your A**e!

After that Vladimir Putin went for a horse ride shirtless. And had his photo taken, of course.

A gay icon for our times?

Let’s talk about this über-macho of world politics. Putin, the Invincible, Vlad the Impaler (he is probably half-Romanian anyway. There’s probably some hidden great-great-great auntie somewhere along the line), Herr Judoka par excellence. All this points at Homo Super Masculinus, doesn’t it?

And yet...

I sense in Putin a perpetual sense of alienation. A feeling of estrangement from an ever-enclosing reality that refuses to go away. This creates a need that he can’t satisfy because... well, because he is a homo super masculinus and besides, isn’t the other side a gay conspiracy that wants to pervert the minds of the little ones? Aren’t they all paedophiles? But on his own and with Lyudmila at a safe distance, Putin can allow himself to lose that mask. Besides, even he must realise that gay people come in all guises. He, like many others, has probably mistaken “camp” for “homosexual”. Yes, some camp people are gay, but not all gays are camp. That is, I believe, what Vladimir is really afraid of. He is afraid that he might be a “normal” gay. Not a Village People impersonator or a disco fan. But someone who likes to go fishing (I’m sure that's Russian slang for “cruising”) and take his top off. And have more photos taken of his hairless torso.

Let’s talk about Vladimir Putin, probably the gayest politician nowadays. Let’s look beyond his tough-guy image. It’s just a mask. Deep inside, we know who you are, Vlad, and it’s OK, we understand. After all, you don’t even like Pussy... Riot.

© 2014

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 16^th February at 10am (GMT)

Let's Talk...

... About Christmas. And excuse me whilst I channel my inner Scrooge. From now on I won’t be so much the “A Cuban in London” as “the Cuban version of Ebenezer in London”. I bet you anything that the first comment left in the box below tonight will be “Bah, humbug”. Well, bah-humbug back to you, my friend!

When does Christmas really start? Is it when mince pies go on sale (I saw some on a display window in Shropshire back in August when I was there. I kid you not!), or perhaps when my weekend papers begin to assault my senses with endless John Lewis, PC World/Currys and M&S A5 catalogues? How about when the lights of your town centre are switched on? Mine have been beaming out their Christmassy electric energy since mid-November.

Let’s talk about Christmas indeed. More specifically about our modern notion of the birth of one of the most important figures in the history of mankind: Santa Claus.

Despite my previous words, I do not despise Christmas. But, not having been brought up with the tradition (we used to celebrate Christmas’ Eve back home. However, even that was hush-hush as Fidel’s government clamped down on all things religious), I find myself at a loss over what is considered proper Crimbo etiquette. What I have noticed is that there is an unhealthy commodification around this yearly celebration.

That is why I think that Scrooge was on to something. You might have thought I was joking when I invoked his spirit at the beginning but, in reality, Charles Dickens gave us a visionary in Ebenezer. A prophet who saw the shape of future Christmas to come. Or at least the ghost of them.

Miser or visionary?

Scrooge has always been accused of being tight-fisted. Yet what he really represented was the resistance to the market forces that were already making themselves felt in Victorian Britain. He was thrift versus future profligacy. He got labelled (undeservedly in my opinion) a miser. How unfair, I say! All he was doing was alerting the world to the Wongas of the noughties. The payday loan companies whose annual interest rates can reach up to 5,000%. True, Scrooge lost his fiancée Belle. His critics blame his procrastination. He wanted to hit the jackpot before saying “I do”. But what man does not want to provide for his beloved? Especially in those pre-feminism years when women still did not have the vote and marriage was just another way to keep them down? I think Scrooge was way ahead of his time here and by hoarding saving his money, he taught future generations how to administer their cash better.

Ebenezer did not despise the poor. He loved them! But he knew what was coming to them. He could smell it (God, he had a huge nose. At least in the screen versions). Bad credit cards habits, debts, round-the-clock advertising, mental and spiritual poisoning of the young, you name it, our modern version of the yuletide season covers them all.

Let’s talk about Christmas. Especially, let’s talk about the real meaning of it now that secularism has given the Overweight Citizen from the North Pole the heave-ho-ho-ho. Is it family time with Morecambe and Wise on telly? Clad in our new PJs and gorging on chocolates? Frantically and aggressively tearing up the impressively wrapped presents from friends and relatives? Taking a selfie? Discreetly putting aside one of the aforementioned presents? Checking your status on Facebook, whilst your mum goes to the kitchen to check on the turkey? Discussing the meaning of life? Having yet another chocolate and promising yourself that “no, no, this will be the last one”? Taking another selfie?

Scrooge’s intention was to rein in this excess. Maybe he went about it the wrong way. But his message of simplicity ought to be heeded in our current race to exterminate ourselves through shopping. In the meantime, pass us some mince pies, will you?

© 2013

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 1^st December at 10am (GMT)

Let's Talk About...

... you, my morning nemesis, clad in black, Lycra shorts, black vest, black helmet and racing in front of me... on a bike.

 

Yes, let’s talk about you, my daily companion (look, it’s just an expression, all right?), as you speed away from me, ducking cars, weaving your way around lorries and jumping red lights.

Which one will jump the next red light?

 

That’s where the problem lies.

 

It is not the fact that your bicycle is better than mine, that you are taller than I am, that you have longer legs and therefore ride faster than I do. It’s the fact that you seem to have almost no respect at all for the Highway Code.

 

A code, by the way, by which we all ought to abide: motorists, bikers, lorry drivers, skaters and... cyclists.

 

Is it a sense of superiority that consumes you? The thought of overtaking each and every cyclist you whizz past on the road. I see them as you leave them behind, huffing and puffing. Breathless. I, too, get breathless. And all the time you, looking regal and majestic, ducking cars, weaving your way around lorries and jumping yet more red lights.

 

I could live with the ignominy of defeat. After all I get my own back on the 8:12am guy. You know the one because by the time I cheetah past him you are a good two hundred yards ahead of me. What I cannot live with, though, if the thought of the damage you do to cycling.

 

Listen, brother, we are the baddies in this story. Even if we are the ones who get crushed under the wheels of an LGV. We are the cyclists riding on the road two abreast, we are the ones who climb onto pavements (you are, actually!) and we are the ones with the Lycra shorts (as if showing off our well-shaped legs were a crime). Finally we are the ones who run through red lights (you, again!)

 

So, let’s talk about you, Mr Early-Morning-Rush-Hour-Fast-Rider.  Let’s talk about the hateful looks drivers give me after you have jumped yet another red light. I stay behind, you see? I am the scapegoat for their anger. Lorries close me in, bus drivers pretend not to see me on their side mirror and bikers compete with me for the small gap in between cars. This is the consequence of your selfish actions: you leave me, your fellow cyclist, in the middle of this Roman gladiatorial arena. With most thumbs pointing down.

 

I know I will see you tomorrow again. And the day after tomorrow. And the day after that. I wish I had the opportunity to let you know at least half the message I have written here tonight. But I know that won’t happen. Tomorrow, as I come up from one of the many side roads near my house and turn right on to the high street, I will wait for that instant, that moment when you will overtake me, without so much as a nod of the head, speeding away into the distance, leaving this motorists’ bête-noire muttering obscenities under his breath as you duck cars, weave your way around lorries and, not for the last time this week, jump another red light.

 

© 2013

 

Photo taken from The Daily Telegraph

 

Next Post: “Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music”, to be published on Sunday 13^th October at 10am (GMT)