Sorry for the long break since my last blog - health issues and a trip abroad have conspired to cause the hiatus. During this break, the nation has apparently been gripped by the implementation of the government's commitment to a referendum on Europe. Should Europe continue to exist by virtue of the continuation of Britain's semi-detached membership, or should it be abolished by Britain voting it away? This political solipsism dominates the present public discourse as though only by virtue of Britain's acknowledgement can Europe continue to have meaning. Will Brexit free us from the shackles of interminable red tape, forcing us do untenable things like limit carbon emissions, control the number of hours people can be made to work, impose impertinent requirements to have clean seas and breathable air, threaten to make banks pay a tiny tax on their massive financial transactions, even make us have human rights? The list goes on and on, all of it limiting the most fundamental right of all - the right for hard-working company directors, bankers and owners of capital to go on accumulating more of the nation's GDP for themselves. The only problem with this view is that the financial community seem to be generally in favour of allowing Europe to go on existing, though definitely not with any kind of financial tax. This should tell us something important about the direction the EU is taking.
The government's position is, of course, to allow Europe to continue to exist by us continuing to acknowledge it, but only if it is 'reformed'. Reform here is used in the same way that the media uses terms like 'hard-line', 'extremist' or 'moderates' and 'modernisers'. Those who challenge power are inevitably described in the pejorative terms of the former, while those who defend the status quo are always presented in terms of the latter and used as though these are value free descriptors. The remaining Blairites in the Parliamentary Labour Party who continue to expound the disastrous experiment in neo-Liberal economics of the Thatcher and Blair years seem to me pretty extreme given the economic chaos that has overwhelmed us all as a result, while Corbyn's rather restrained programme of regulation of markets and fairer distribution of wealth seems rather moderate - but clearly I am misguided in my terminology.
The Labour Party is now (a little reluctantly) committed to allowing Europe to continue to exist by voting 'in'. Europeans must be breathing a collective sigh of relief. The Left has always been internationalist in outlook, at its Marxist end because communism can only be realised on an international basis in Marx's analysis and in its socialist wing because it embraces wholeheartedly the idea of a universality of human need, regardless of ethnicity and culture. It is, historically, the right that eulogises nationalism and cultural difference, usually on a hierarchical basis with white Anglo-Saxons at the top. Thus, it would seem logical for those of the left to be of the 'in' persuasion. Regardless of the shortcomings of the European Union, it is an international alliance of countries from West to East and it seems almost impossible that the European carnage of the 20th century could ever be repeated under the new dispensation. This, though, means an alliance with the larger part of the Tory party and means giving credence to Cameron's 'reformed Europe', allowing him to crow - a la Thatcher - of his brilliant humiliation of Johnny foreigner in wresting invaluable freedoms for Britain from Europe's grasp whilst simultaneously eulogising the virtues of EU membership.
There is, of course, a left position on opposition to the EU and arguing for an 'out' vote. In the 1975 referendum, Tony Benn and Michael Foot argued to come out on the basis of regaining control of national politics and seeing the then EU as cementing the division in Europe between East and West - that is, anti-internationalist. The beginnings of the movement that culminated in the formation of the European Nuclear Disarmament campaign were already forming, and the view that the EU entrenched the divide in Europe between the Western and Soviet blocs in an increasingly threatening manner was expressed in END's launch manifesto "We must learn to be loyal, not to ‘East’ or ‘West’, but to each other, and we must disregard the prohibitions and limitations imposed by any national state "
However, those who opposed continuing membership found themselves on the same side, albeit for very different reasons, as Enoch Powell, arch reactionary and racist. Of course, those countries previously in the Soviet bloc are now either part of, or are soon to be, members of the EU (exacerbating tensions with Russia, of course). Today, the left case for 'out' has been ably made by Tariq Ali and, initially, Owen Jones, though he has now changed his position. Tariq Ali has characterised the present moment as the era of 'the extreme centre', meaning that the terrible injustices and cruelties inflicted on ordinary people under the auspices of neo-liberalsm - the wars, the abolition of worker rights etc.- are now characterised in the media (see use of 'extremist', 'moderniser' above) and by mainstream politicians, as 'normal' and the only way to run things. Ali signed a letter to the Guardian that expressed his view thus:
'The EU is irreversibly committed to privatisation, welfare cuts, low wages and the erosion of trade union rights. This is why the dominant forces of British capitalism and the majority of the political elite are in favour of staying in the EU. The EU is irrevocably committed to the Transatlantic Trade and Investment Partnership and other new trade deals, which represent the greatest transfer of power to capital that we have seen in a generation.'
He makes a powerful case and, as happened in 1975, finds himself on the same side as his political polar opposites (but for very different reasons) - such political grotesques as Jacob Rees-Mogg, Boris Johnson, John Redwood and Nigel Farage.
He makes a powerful case and, as happened in 1975, finds himself on the same side as his political polar opposites (but for very different reasons) - such political grotesques as Jacob Rees-Mogg, Boris Johnson, John Redwood and Nigel Farage.
This leaves people like myself with something of a dilemma. By temperament, I am an internationalist and it is possible to see the EU as a means for furthering the internationalist agenda by staying in and pushing for root and branch reform making it democratic and responsive to human needs (unlike the utter ineffectiveness of the EU over the migrant crisis and the total lack of humanity shown in its response) rather than those of business / capital. And now we see the EU cosying up to the authoritarian dictatorship of Erdogan in Turkey as their only way out of accepting collective responsibility for dealing with the appalling human disaster on the EU's doorstep. Send them back is the only - shameful - policy. In return we will fast track a repellent dictatorship for membership.
However, reform looks a forlorn hope at the moment. Just look at what happened to Greece when it flexed its democratic muscles - imposition of crippling debt repayments and privatisation to bring profits to financial speculators - and the way that Spain was cowed by threats of similar treatment if it dared to challenge the neo-liberal orthodoxy. It is for these reasons that I feel that the Corbyn Labour Party's support for a yes vote is rather half-hearted. Maybe it's the best of two unattractive propositions - continue with the status quo, or vote for withdrawal with all its economic disruptions in the hope of electing a socialist government here prepared to take on the city and international capitalism. I'm genuinely unsure of which way to vote and probably will be right up to June 23rd.
The only 'in / out' problem I had to contend with in my last year at junior school in 1961 was whether I would be in the elite group moving on to the grammar school, or out in the cold of the secondary modern, about which horrifying rumours multiplied around the school of the tortures that would be inflicted on all new arrivals as rituals of entry. Head down the toilet was only the first. Running a gauntlet of bigger kids with hard fists was another threat and being held down while Chinese burns were inflicted also on the list. I imagined it as a kind of Victorian work-house, overseen by frightening figures in long frock coats twirling canes in their claws assisted by bigger kids like my nemesis, Georgie Burton, only too eager to fulfil their sadistic inclinations upon new victims. Since no-one ever seemed to go to the grammar school, it was never mentioned, so I had no preconceptions about it at all. I'm sure it was not out of an enlightened view on the school's part that the 11+ should not be mentioned either in case we grew too nervous about the whole thing, but our teacher, Mr. Hoddy, didn't really do much in preparation for this life-determining exam, and so I drifted on, like all my friends, pretty much oblivious to its significance. Except that my mother did worry. She really did not want me to end up at a school where 'O' levels (early form of GCSE's) were not even taught and every one left at fifteen to learn a trade. She did her best not to make me feel anxious, but the very fact that she was obviously doing this only made me feel, well, anxious. I sublimated this as much as I could.
Bromley was in the county of Kent, and Kent was one of a small number of counties to have a tripartite secondary school system - that is, the 11+ determined whether you would go to one of three types of secondary school: a grammar, a technical or a secondary modern. It was believed that, on the basis of a child's performance in the 11+ exam, he or she could be confidently placed in one of the three types of school. This, in turn, was predicated on the now discredited idea, promulgated by the equally now discredited psychologist, Sir Cyril Burt, that human intelligence was largely inherited and could be measured through, among other predictable assessments, rather bizarre abstract reasoning tests. These were a little like simpler versions of the kind of test that MENSA offers to those who wish to join its smug and self congratulatory club. I have always felt that the very act of wanting to join MENSA is itself a sure sign of an impoverished intellect. Anyway, one Summer's morning we were all issued with a series of 11+ exam papers covering Maths, English and various abstract reasoning tests and forced to work our way through them under exam conditions for what seemed like hours. I had never encountered anything quite like this before, but I actually found the English tasks quite fun to do. The rest I was quite baffled by. Having endured this assessment of my suitability for either being educated or trained, I got on with my life and thought no more about it.
My main concern around this time was getting my own back on Wendy Keiller, a clever and very tough girl in my class. We had had an argument about something and I had called her a gypsy (this was long before concerns over such issues as ethnicity / gender etc. were seen as areas of sensitivity) mainly because she looked very similar to a picture of a gypsy in a book I'd been reading. She took unkindly to this comment and at lunch-time took a run-up from behind me and barged me straight off my feet. I fell awkwardly and broke my arm in two places. All I remember about the incident is the pain. Not like anything I had come across before - an unrelenting, deep, throbbing agony. I ended up at the hospital and was duly swathed in plaster and then spent a couple of months recovering. The only plus side to this was that, when the plaster was eventually removed, I had to do physiotherapy which meant an afternoon off school once a week. Wendy Keiller seemed inordinately pleased with the outcome of her action, and I could think of no way to get my revenge, try as I might. It became an obsessive concern of mine, but every plan I came up with seemed more likely to get me in trouble than cause her any problem. My 11+ result concerned me not in the slightest, I'd forgotten all about it - the case of Wendy Keiller obliterated all other concerns. She, of course, was to have the final victory, but that will be in the next instalment.
The only 'in / out' problem I had to contend with in my last year at junior school in 1961 was whether I would be in the elite group moving on to the grammar school, or out in the cold of the secondary modern, about which horrifying rumours multiplied around the school of the tortures that would be inflicted on all new arrivals as rituals of entry. Head down the toilet was only the first. Running a gauntlet of bigger kids with hard fists was another threat and being held down while Chinese burns were inflicted also on the list. I imagined it as a kind of Victorian work-house, overseen by frightening figures in long frock coats twirling canes in their claws assisted by bigger kids like my nemesis, Georgie Burton, only too eager to fulfil their sadistic inclinations upon new victims. Since no-one ever seemed to go to the grammar school, it was never mentioned, so I had no preconceptions about it at all. I'm sure it was not out of an enlightened view on the school's part that the 11+ should not be mentioned either in case we grew too nervous about the whole thing, but our teacher, Mr. Hoddy, didn't really do much in preparation for this life-determining exam, and so I drifted on, like all my friends, pretty much oblivious to its significance. Except that my mother did worry. She really did not want me to end up at a school where 'O' levels (early form of GCSE's) were not even taught and every one left at fifteen to learn a trade. She did her best not to make me feel anxious, but the very fact that she was obviously doing this only made me feel, well, anxious. I sublimated this as much as I could.
Bromley was in the county of Kent, and Kent was one of a small number of counties to have a tripartite secondary school system - that is, the 11+ determined whether you would go to one of three types of secondary school: a grammar, a technical or a secondary modern. It was believed that, on the basis of a child's performance in the 11+ exam, he or she could be confidently placed in one of the three types of school. This, in turn, was predicated on the now discredited idea, promulgated by the equally now discredited psychologist, Sir Cyril Burt, that human intelligence was largely inherited and could be measured through, among other predictable assessments, rather bizarre abstract reasoning tests. These were a little like simpler versions of the kind of test that MENSA offers to those who wish to join its smug and self congratulatory club. I have always felt that the very act of wanting to join MENSA is itself a sure sign of an impoverished intellect. Anyway, one Summer's morning we were all issued with a series of 11+ exam papers covering Maths, English and various abstract reasoning tests and forced to work our way through them under exam conditions for what seemed like hours. I had never encountered anything quite like this before, but I actually found the English tasks quite fun to do. The rest I was quite baffled by. Having endured this assessment of my suitability for either being educated or trained, I got on with my life and thought no more about it.
My main concern around this time was getting my own back on Wendy Keiller, a clever and very tough girl in my class. We had had an argument about something and I had called her a gypsy (this was long before concerns over such issues as ethnicity / gender etc. were seen as areas of sensitivity) mainly because she looked very similar to a picture of a gypsy in a book I'd been reading. She took unkindly to this comment and at lunch-time took a run-up from behind me and barged me straight off my feet. I fell awkwardly and broke my arm in two places. All I remember about the incident is the pain. Not like anything I had come across before - an unrelenting, deep, throbbing agony. I ended up at the hospital and was duly swathed in plaster and then spent a couple of months recovering. The only plus side to this was that, when the plaster was eventually removed, I had to do physiotherapy which meant an afternoon off school once a week. Wendy Keiller seemed inordinately pleased with the outcome of her action, and I could think of no way to get my revenge, try as I might. It became an obsessive concern of mine, but every plan I came up with seemed more likely to get me in trouble than cause her any problem. My 11+ result concerned me not in the slightest, I'd forgotten all about it - the case of Wendy Keiller obliterated all other concerns. She, of course, was to have the final victory, but that will be in the next instalment.
