Sunday Mornings: Coffee, Reflections and Music

Dear Britain,

I never intended to make this letter public. You see, you and I have had our disagreements over the years but on the whole our relationship has been rather solid. I love you, Blighty, royal warts and all. But this latest twist of events in your current social affairs has got me worried.

I thought that the tide had turned against working class people. In my innocent Cuban mind, to call someone “working class” in 21^st century Britain was to liken them to skivers, benefits fraudsters and scroungers. In this respect I had come to the conclusion that the Cameron-led coalition had unfortunately won.

How wrong I was. Not on the working class bit, mind you. They are still seen as “chavs” with all the negative bias that that word conveys. No, I was wrong because it is not just hoi polloi who are despised, but also posh people. Who would have thought that the very upper class so admired – envied, some might say – by many denizens on this pleasant and beautiful land are also derided and mocked?

Don’t believe me? Exhibit A: Andrew Mitchell. Now, if you are resident in the UK, you probably remember what got Andie in hot water last year. Apparently the former Conservative cabinet minister called a policeman a “pleb” after a verbal spat with the officer outside the Downing Street gate. Let’s forget for a moment the rather patronising comment by the high court judge who oversaw the case. To quote him verbatim, our learned friend opined that the officer in question was not the sort of man “who had the wit, the imagination... to invent in the spur of the moment what a senior cabinet minister would have said to him”. Make of that what you will. But what to say of Andrew Mitchell? Or rather, what did the papers say of him? They went for his jugular. At the centre of their attack on Mr Mitchell was that word, “pleb”. Like a swearword let out accidentally in a roomful of children in a nursery, this is one of those terms that has the label “toxic” scribbled all over it. It is also a word that carries with it a sense of superiority and entitlement on the part of the user.

I've made my point, you pleb! Now, I shall cycle off.

Sense of superiority could be the link to our Exhibit B: David Mellor. Another Conservative former cabinet minister, Mr Mellor found himself recently in a black cab with his wife leaving Buckingham Palace. Following a disagreement with the driver over which route to take, David Mellor proceeded to give the taxi driver a piece of his toff mind. What ensued was a volley of insults from the politician to the cabbie, from calling him a “smart-arsed little git” to that old do-you-know-who-I-am chestnut “I’ve been in the Cabinet, I’m an award-winning broadcaster, I’m a Queen ’s Counsel. You think that your experiences are anything compared to mine?” Unfortunately for David, the cab driver was recording him all along. On finding out that his arrogant tirade had been captured on record, Mr Mellor told a tabloid: “I will leave the public to judge his actions”.

I will leave you readers to judge his actions, too. And those of Andrew Mitchell. Two specimens who suffer from the same self-delusional illness that apparently makes its victims behave like total idiots. Idiots with a sense of superiority.

But Britain, back to you. I thought, I honestly thought that you would side with these two “sweaty, stupid little shits” (to use David Mellor’s words when confronting the cab driver. Don’t you love it when a supposedly erudite man stoops so low to show off his power?). After all, according to a recent documentary called Posh People: Inside Tatler, we are apparently fascinated by the lives of those who live “upstairs” whilst laughing at those who live “downstairs”. Yet, this is not what happened to David and Andrew. They were taken apart by both right-wing and left-wing media. Could it be that we are witnessing a grand occasion in the history of class in this nation? The moment when the playing field is finally being levelled? Or, could the reason be a more mundane one? Editors need to sell more newspapers and both stories were too good to take into consideration decades-old political allegiances. Let rip and rake in the profits.

Still, Britain, you owe me an answer. Proles or toffs? Plebs or posh? Who is really Public Enemy Number One?

Yours truly,

Your Favourite Cuban In London



© 2014

Photo taken from The Daily Telegraph

Next Post: “Living in a Multilingual World”, to be published on Wednesday 10^th December at 11:59pm (GMT)

Road Songs (1st Mov 'Grave', 2nd Mov 'Allegreto')

In his 1993 film 'Falling Down', US director Joel Schumacher uses Michael Douglas' character, Williams 'D-Fens' Foster, as a parable to illustrate the pressure cooker American society has become. In the movie, Foster, desperate to get home to celebrate his daughter's birthday finds himself in a traffic jam. As incident after incident start to pile up, so Forster's patience begins to wear thin. Until he reaches his boiling point. And he snaps. And the consequences, as those who have seen the picture know, are not pretty.

Moral tale apart, it is very clear in the movie that Williams has succumbed to the road rage syndrome. This condition is defined as 'a fit of violent anger by the driver of an automobile, esp. one directed toward and endangering other motorists or pedestrians.' Although I have never been affected by this phenomenon (touch wood), nor have I been at the receiving end of someone's verbal or physical abuse as a consequence of road rage, I am wary of if. That's one of the reasons why I always have a bag full of CDs with me, both on short and long journeys in case I suddenly find myself inadvertently in that dangerous and maddening traffic jam.

Recently, after teaching an Afro-Cuban dance masterclass at The Basement in Islington, as a guest teacher at Damarys Farres' Cuban dance course, I gave a lift to a former dancer of Havana University Folklore Company, Ariel Rios. After dropping him off across Manor House tube station I took a left turn to get to Turnpike Lane and immediately realised my mistake. With dread I watched as the traffic stretched for what looked like miles on end. And it was not moving one single inch.

Luckily, I had my CD bag with me.

It was an unusual warm October evening and whilst the cars in front of me moved slower than a couple of turtles doing the 'danzon', I had my window rolled down and Ray Barreto and his Orchestra singing 'Te Traigo Guajira' on the car stereo. Pure bliss.

What follows are some of my suggestions to combat the first signs of road rage. You know: the frustration at seeing the standstill on the street ahead, the anger at vehicles cutting in in front of you, despair when pedestrians cross the road carelessly. Just take a deep breath and allow those nice melodies to seep in and stroke your senses. And make sure that none of those tunes IS 'Road Rage' by Catatonia.

Copyight 2008