Alternative Vote? It's the only way forward.

I am really irritated that many of Labour’s old farts are trying to sabotage the plebiscite of voting reform, in much the same way as their wrong-headed ‘intellectual’ predecessors went all out to drag the UK out of the European Economic Commission just two years after it had entered, when the Labour Party was given freedom to choose sides. It was the weakness of Harold Wilson that compelled him to give vent to this (akin to the Presbyterians of Scotland rejecting London’s centralising control prior to the English Civil War, mirroring the conflict that afflicted Labour in the early 1980s) and it is the same trait in Ed Miliband – they cannot control their party.
We can understand the Tories not voting for it because when they can never get more than 50% of the public ballot, such a reform will dilute their chances of untrammelled power. It is the same motivation of these New Labour ‘old methodologists’. They don’t want to share rule, even if they only secure 35% of people’s choice. It is not about reflecting better the electorate’s will, but their own, even if its in a system that is little improved on the ‘rotten boroughs’ (though with the size of some Labour constituencies, they may be used to it). When a party achieves a greater share of the vote than the previous general election, yet their representation in parliament falls, as happened with the Liberal Democrats, it surely is the sign of a corrupt and broken system. The Lib Dems had to make a lot of sacrifices to get this on the statute books (not certain even yet), but at least the Conservatives were offering it. Despite being in their own manifesto, the Labour coalition negotiating team were not prepared to cede any ground to the Lib Dems (proof that they had not adapted to the ‘new’ politics), on any matter. On one Lib Dem proposal, Peter Mandelson spluttered “Haven’t the rich suffered enough already?” At least David Cameron was ready with a deal far more generous than many of his backbenchers wanted. Labour did not want a partner; they wanted an appendage that would allow them to continue on their previous path.
Let’s look at Labour’s ‘unprogressives’. Lord ‘Charlie’ Falconer, one of Blair’s old chums (need we say more?), a right twit, but let’s replace the vowel in that noun with another. Lord Reid, a man who when in the cabinet had nine jobs in as many years and failed in all of them, a man whose people skills caused all of Scotland’s football referees to go on strike, a man who tried to block a smoking in public places ban in England because his constituents wanted to die slowly down the pub even though his seat was in Scotland, which already had a ban in place. He himself ‘is not fit for purpose’. Another Lord (I like this democratic consensus) is John Prescott and he hardly left his position unblemished. Out of government but still writing in right-wing rags is Jack Straw, an unreconstructed authoritarian on everything from law and order to illegal invasions.
Then we come to Margaret Beckett. I love her justifications for opposing voting reform. She cites how few countries use AV (hmm, how many genuine democracies mirror the British political system, especially with an unelected upper chamber?). Those that do employ them she carps are Fiji, which is abandoning it and Australia, which had a dramatic fall in turnout with it in place, they resorted to compulsory voting. Fiji is run by a military junta that came to power in a coup that opposed how the ethnic minorities had a say in how the place was run and was kicked out of the British Commonwealth for its lack of democracy and human rights. What a nice ally of Beckett. Moving to Australia, being a modern, industrialised democracy, it suffers from the voter apathy that comparable countries fall victim to, so to ascribe it to AV is either misjudged or a lie. Indeed, turnout in the UK fell in each of Labour’s three triumphs (1997, 2001 and 2005), only rising in 2010 when they were being kicked out. And what about compulsory voting – wasn’t that floated by your erstwhile conspirator-in-arms, Geoff Hoon, in the bumbling, failed palace coup against Gordon Brown. Furthermore, why is compulsory voting (or paying a small fine) such a bad thing?
A more motley crew, if ever assembled, I scarce can imagine and to pitch themselves with dyed-in-the-wool Conservatives proves the adage that the political spectrum is just a circle, when extremists can find common cause while officially disdaining the other. Yet the polls suggest that a majority would vote ‘no’. This can be explained by asking people “do you want to keep something that you vaguely know how works or change to something you know virtually nothing about?” Most sane adults would choose what they already know rather than leap into the unknown. It is about public information. Even such an ardent supporter of voting reform as I, know little about whether it is AV or AV+ (Roy Jenkins’ half-way house proposal between alernative vote and pure proportional representation), though I fear it is the former. Still, half a loaf is better than none at all. There are idealists who won’t vote for AV as it is not PR, but these are utopianists. AV is not perfect but it is fairer than first-past-the-post. And if the Labour wants to toast the Lib Dems because they were spurned (no matter how reasonable that spurning), they may find it backfires on them as the Tories stay in power for a generation and another plebiscite not to be offered for decades. That is a prospect I find unacceptable as it is unpalatable – for my vote not to count for so long.

Liberal intelligentsia? Both words are debatable here

The BBC are a little behind the times in using when they (figuratively) torch over a gas hob – as they report on rising gas prices - £20 bank notes using the celebration of Michael Faraday’s achievements, ignoring not just Adam Smith but his predecessor, Edward Elgar, too. Why don’t they also show the Irish punt when reflecting on the trouble regarding the currency currently prevalent through Ireland?
On another news organisation, my grandfather related to me that, when on a survey of which quality newspaper he would like to read in a shake-up to his routine, he found The Guardian rather peevish. His point was illustrated this morning when Alan Rusbridger defended his newspaper co-operating with Wikileaks in the release of diplomatic cables. Making a rather unconvincing case, that if his and other newspapers did not get involved, Wikileaks would just do a mass dump on the web, not so daintily evading the nub that these documents should ever be leaked in the first place. Moreover, he said that if the Yemen government lied to its people, the absence of a free press there made it imperative that his organisation get this scoop. Yeah, because I’m sure most newsstands in S’ana and Aden have bundles of Guardians stoked with them. Sir Christopher Meyer is not a favourite character of mine, but his suaveness was a lot more persuasive in rebutting Rusbridger.

In less than a week, England’s football World Cup bid will know whether it has succeeded for hosting the 2018 World Cup or whether it will be three score years between potentially staging the World Cup for the mother nation. The head of the Spanish FA, one of the English bid’s rivals, pithily said “All the fish are sold.” In other words, all the FIFA members are bought. Don’t be surprised if Spain/Portugal will be the next stop of football’s carnival after Brazil, with Qatar, a state not much bigger than Kent, selected for 2022 (with a possible nuclear-armed Iran across the water). On a final note, let’s not forget one Sunday newspaper rendered the FA leaderless, all for the sake of a scoop, while another got two FIFA members who were favourable to the English bid suspended, all for the sake of a scoop – nice going guys. To top it all off, the BBC will rake over old ashes in an attempt to antagonise those remaining on the FIFA panel who might vote for England, just because they want to be seen as editorially independent. And journalists wonder why ordinary people (and FIFA) see them as scum. They will have played their part if England loses by one vote or two.

I have become accustomed to regard the serial Garrow’s Law splendid fare for the night of the Sabbath. Yet I dare to venture that the most recent performance was, for the most part, fiction, seeking to achieve greater resonance with its modern-day patrons by featuring a court case that was in regard to the love that dare not speak its name and the ‘criminal conversation’ that one had not only discontinued from the other at the behest of the former’s harridan wife, but had brought it to the attention of the gentlemen of the law. I make the charge that this was not cribbed from archives of the august Old Bailey for late in the tale the judge advises his scribe to strike from the record the whole proceedings, owing to the paucity of convention in its nature. Not that this in away should diminish the inherent quality of this instalment and this is no large surprise, since it was no less than Tony Marchant who cradled the quill that committed finest ink to parchment, he of fame determined by, what was it now, Existence on the roof of the abode of the Roman god of war? I look forward to observe the next social cause Mr Garrow embraces with his rapier wits and how he will deploy his charms as he does battle with the obsequious and maladroit discourse of his peers and betters. Unaldulterated I cannot vouch for, but intensely superior, is this historical escapade.

Watching films on their last rounds in the cinema can be much better than on their opening few weeks – you get to sit where you want, fewer people making noise and you get a sense of finality with the film as if you watching a moment passing in time (before it transfers to DVD).
This I have done with The Town and The Social Network. The former continues the resurrection of Ben Affleck’s career (for after its nadir of Gigli, it was clinically dead). Affleck is even returning to something approaching a blockbuster (in which he had a hand in writing), with high-tempo action in what is essentially a one-last-time heist movie. He is ably supported by a cast that includes the impressive Jon Hamm (fresh out of Mad Men) in the guise of a sharp FBI man and ever dependable Pete Postlethwaite as a psychotic florist(!). It’s an enjoyable, if brutal, ride and Affleck’s scenes with Rebecca Hall (born in my town, London, two months before I came into the world) are touching as you are kept guessing how his involvement with this former hostage of his gang will resolve itself (the ending is not Hollywood-style conventional). The grand finale is set at the Boston Red Sox baseball ground, with much free-plugging of John W Henry’s stateside venture. Should the film be remade in a British setting, no doubt some of Liverpool’s more deprived areas would be a neat fit with the background, climaxing in an assault on the Anfield ground – although this time John W Henry would perpetrating grand larceny on himself by purchasing the becalmed football club.
The Social Network is a very good film in a different way, charting the rise of Facebook. Jesse Eisenberg plays Mark Zuckerberg, the computer genius who dropped out of Harvard to become the world’s youngest billionaire. Eisenberg’s portrayal, speaking in near-binary with the sarcastic asides programmers occasionally slip into their projects, in hand with Aaron Sorkin’s lacerating script, makes the movie a real hatchet job on Zuckerberg. Arrogant, condescending, jealous, but hey, he’s not an asshole, he’s “just trying to hard to be one.” From what I have seen of Mark Zuckerberg’s public appearances, he appears confident and charismatic, much closer indeed to Justin Timberlake, who features in the movie as a well-cast Sean Parker, the creator Napster, though Parker doesn’t emerge from this picture in a good light either (which is not what I am implying about Zuckerberg). A magnetic personality who is also a visionary, Parker also comes across as a narcissistic user of people, a real cold bastard. The third protagonist (if you discount the Winklevoss grouping) is Eduardo Saverin, a co-creator of Facebook, who was frozen out and lost virtually all his stock holding when the company went public. Andrew Garfield plays him as a put-upon, loyal and cautious, persisting with a girlfriend, Christy (Brenda Song), who with no character development swerves from easy-going girl (in more ways than one) to an insane nightmare of a squeeze, purely for script purposes to illustrate an angle of Saverin. It is a little confusing at the start, as the various law-suits cascade into each other, but as the film progresses the jigsaw fits together. The David Fincher-directed, Kevin Spacey-executive produced flick ends with a question that the audience can decide upon, along with the hackneyed moral that money doesn’t buy you love. It is a great ride though, which keeps you talking with who you went with all the way home.

Roman Holiday

Rome, the Eternal City, one-time capital of a glorious empire, the locus classicus for all western state-builders, from consuls to kaisers to tsars. And it was the privilege of Altaa and I to experience that from Monday 1st November to Friday 5th. I say ‘privilege’ for although we had to pay for our expenses to get and live there, the sheer joy of the experience was a far more bounteous gift to us.
On Monday, we had inadvertently arrived on an Italian national holiday, All Hallows (the commemoration of saints, from which the eve Halloween has been derived), so almost all the shops were closed and our shuttle bus agent from the airport was marooned alone behind her desk having to operate three phones near simultaneously. It took an hour in that queue to get to the front and when handed our boarding slip at 1 pm it had 12.45 typed out on it, but the bus driver was still hanging around to get a reasonable complement for his transport. Added to this, it was tipping it down outside, like someone was empting a bath through a colander. Whipping along the motorway, visibility was sharply reduced through the immense quantity of water coming down, but reaching the city a few sights of historical structures and districts raised the spirits. Getting in to our bed-and-breakfast accommodation was another matter. As we later found out, B&Bs aren’t allowed to advertise themselves as a result of a law formed from the pressure of lobby groups for established hotels. This extends to not even having a sign on or next to the building entrance. The bus driver, therefore, was most nonplussed, driving around the block three times and getting out on numerous occasions to dash through the rain looking in vain for a sign before insisting that this was building number three and that we should get out. Our B&B host, Paolo di Gangi, shortly came to meet us.
Our bedroom was very spacious and the shower room/toilet was very stylishly equipped (though the jets from the shower were unforgiving). We had a panoramic view over the Roman skyline to the south-west and if we leaned slightly out the window we could see San Giovanni di Lateran – the Lateran Palace, former residence of popes and still a working church.
Altaa was seriously ill that night and Paolo abandoned his break with his family at midnight to drive us to the San Giovanni hospital just inside the city walls. He stayed until 3 am with Altaa and I, translating to the Italian medical staff and to us. Altaa was kept in overnight and I was driven back by Paolo to the B&B, on the advice of the doctor. I visited Altaa the next day in the morning and she was recovering well. Furthermore, our passports (and wedding certificate) were all the documentation needed for the care and the prescription drugs to be free. The hospital corridors may be a bit Spartan, but the help we received was much better than might have been expected from the NHS. Altaa signed herself out in the afternoon and I came to collect her.
Earlier in the day (with the weather rapidly improving), after leaving the hospital, I aimed to walk back to the hospital the same way I had came but distracted by the majesty of the Aurelian Walls (designed in the 3rd century AD to keep out the barbarians), I took a wrong turn. So, walking down a street alongside what I later identified as the Palatine Hill, I came across a structure in the distance. It’s distinctiveness was limited to the narrow aperture of the street by which I viewed it, but quickly it dawned on me. I know that. Oh gladiator, you should see the Colosseum! To stumble upon one of the most famous places in the world was magical. It summed up what Rome was to be in the next few days. I gave it a good walk round, saw the Arch of Constantine, the distant remains of the Forum and the Flavian gladiatorial training area to go with the Flavian amphitheatre and returned home via Via San Giovanni di Lateran, passing the impressive piazza and building and buying a delicious jam tart in a nearby bakery. I had a good rest outside the palace, admiring it while also puzzled by its lopsided nature, with the much later wing created by Borromini (handsome though it is), giving it this nature – a corresponding wing should have been added the other side for there is more than enough open space for this.
We had a deep sleep that night (especially as I had consumed half a litre of wine with our restaurant meal), waking up very late on Wednesday morning. We didn’t do much, soaking up the atmosphere.
Thursday was different. We got up early and headed straight for the Vatican City. It would not do to visit Rome without looking in on the world’s smallest country. The view of St Peter’s Basilica from the embracing piazza was enough to dissolve the heart in its sublime beauty. The summer sun was back in full swing now. I was in short-sleeve shirt and slacks, but some of the tourists were just a bit too slack in their clothing. The Vatican has a strict dress code – no exposed shoulders or above the knee shorts or skirts and one sultry lady, oblivious to the sign warning of it this, was promptly stopped by two officials. The guards were flexible though – a member of her party had a heavy-duty jacket slung over his shoulder and they made her wear this around her legs before she could enter.
We had seen a magnificent Renaissance church abutting the Palatine on Tuesday but the artwork was fading. In St Peter’s, the lodestone of the Roman Catholic faith, it was startling. We were allowed into the central Greek cross part of the cathedral if we were either going to prayer or confession - I opted for the former. I’m not of the RC denomination, but as a practising Christian I can pray anywhere I like to God and so I did.
One cannot capture any thousandth of Rome on camera and it would be churlish to try. Here was a prime example of that you can’t live a holiday through a lenses and if you try the experience will be diminished. So I imbibed the wonder of the place. After exploring the main hall, we went down to the crypt. Here were the tombs of former popes and John Paul II’s stands out in austere, whitewashed glory, with many adherents praying to the late bishop of Rome for miracles. As in life, his resting place was a blockbuster as well. We also observed the exterior wall of the original basilica built in the reign of the Emperor Constantine before it was demolished to make way for an even greater marvel.
Next we climbed to the top of St Peter’s dome. It was certainly pretty exercising and those in inappropriate footwear would have struggled, as would those who are more than a bit chubby for some of the passageways were narrow in the extreme. Stepping out onto the top, the view was astounding on this cloudless day – a true panorama. Not just the city of Rome too, for we could see right to the snow-capped mountains of the Apennines. Then we climbed down to the main roof of St Peter’s and had a relaxed breakfast of croissants and tangerines that we had brought with us – a highlight of the journey in Italy. We also wrote some postcards and sent them via Vatican post – not your everyday mail system.
We followed this up with a trip to the Vatican museums. We went at 11.30 am and went straight in without delay. Passing by the Vatican walls the next day, a queue in all possibility two hours long was in attendance at 9 am. We did well. We didn’t go straight to the Sistine Chapel, taking in the Egyptian section and the Map Room. There wasn’t time to see all the museums present in the Vatican as, despite the heat, the sun still set early and we had other parts of Rome to catch. Still, the closer we got to the Sistine Chapel, the more dazzling was the art on all four sides – walls, ceiling and floor. Finally, reaching the main attraction, it was spectacular but having been sated with excellence already, the brilliance was as heart-stopping as it would have been had one come to it immediately. Still, one can view it in more ways than one as the apex of luminescence in the place.
Altaa was tiring and insisted we catch a bus. This took us away from the route I had planned and we may have ended up doing more walking as a result. We took in the Spanish Steps, the Vittorio Emmanulle II dedication in front of the Italian parliament, Trajan’s Column and several fora. We also took a peek at the walls of the immense Baths of Caracalla. Altaa went home to rest and I went out in the evening to meet Eva Diaz, a Spanish friend whom I had met in Finland in my ERASMUS year and was now in Rome, teaching French. We had ice-cream (in November!) and talked for so long, before I escorted her back to her apartment building.
The next day was to be a whistle-stop tour, for me at least. Altaa was going to shop for fashion, I to hit the sights I felt I still had to see before leaving. So, I took the Metro to the Vatican, walked from there to the Castel Sant Angelo (formerly Hadrian’s mausoleum, in addition to being an erstwhile residence/fortress of the popes), then Piazza Navona, followed by the Pantheon and then the Piazza Trevi, popping in to a couple of churches along the way to admire the art. The Pantheon, with Raphael’s tomb, was also used for Mass on Sundays.
We were picked up from outside our hotel at 12.30 pm. The driver was determined to be stereotypical, driving furiously, gesticulating determinedly, cracking puns continuously. He reminded me of Bruno Tonioli from Strictly Come Dancing. But he was a solid professional too, pointing out Donatella Versace’s hilltop abode, largely secluded from the motorway by trees and he was good at compliments, enlivened greatly by the Ghostbusters T-shirt I was wearing.
I really feel I left a bit of my heart in Rome. Such a compelling and beautiful city. Only St Petersburg and Venice come close to matching it on my travels. The artwork and the buildings blow you away. The people, even when they aren’t trying to be fashionable (though they frequently are), have an elegance and poise about them, absent from most British people. The women are exceptionally attractive and I got the eye from a few stunners myself, which is a boost to the confidence whilst being committed to my wife. The food is far better. The health service is great. The Metro transport though not extensive because of so many archaeological remains, is very efficient and supplemented by buses and trolleybuses. Transport and food is decisively cheaper. There is no measure of any significance on which anywhere in Britain is better than Rome. If I could speak fluent Italian and had a good job available, I would seriously consider emigrating to this fascinating city. The glory of Rome is very much alive.