Whilst enjoying an early morning cuppa, I was half listening to the silly old bird who twitters away (in the more conventional meaning of twitter that is), when she read out a report that Monsieur Sarkozy is only wanting short-arse security guards around him, to, er , lessen the contrast. Now yon radio bird observed that it seems to be OK to report on someone’s height, when you wouldn’t be permitted to define someone by their colour or, and I quote, sexism –it’s OK girl, we know what you mean. Such references were, she went on, actually heightist. Fair point I thought, (chuckling to myself about Terry Pratchetts ‘equal heights’ dwarf campaigners) before the nice lady went straight into a comparison between the heights of various World Cup footballers. She does like to stick her foot in it.
Mind, she is still less toe-curling by far than the old twerp who used to have the early slot on Sundays. As you might recall, he became consummately proficient at interrupting the guests he was interviewing, telling them what they thought before they could answer. Given this was a vaguely religious show, where he was ‘encouraged’ to bring members of other faiths into the studio, he would often phrase questions that corrected their misguided and erroneous beliefs before they could even speak. It became, in latter years, almost worth listening to for just this dreadful treatment.
For the record, I don’t suppose I could do better. Try phoning me at that hour on a Sunday, and see what sense you get! (No. On balance, I’ll save you the bother, phone me at that hour and all you’ll get will be expletives)
Anyway, back to the radio. We then got to the news, wherein a report advised of the planting of some genetically modified crop in, and again I quote, ‘a high security location’. Oh? And where could you plant GMOs for field trials in a high security location? A vegetable patch in the grounds of the local prison perhaps? Maybe they’ve dug up the lawns at Sandringham?
I’d better move right along from this line of thought, seeing, as many of you must know and anyone could soon work out, Alison and I rent Coaker Hall from a lovely ex navy chap who lives up in Gloucester, who is well known for his organic leanings. (You know the fella, married that lass Camilla). Wouldn’t do to upset ‘em.
Sorry, before we do move along, I’ve taken a new tack with the never ending stream of junk mail and unsolicited telemarketing calls. (We seldom get door knockers now, for some reason. Shame really, as I’ve to buy food for the dogs now) But anyone who phones, trying to flog me double glazing, or sends a letter addressed to ‘the home owner’, is simply referred to the actual owner of the property. Curiously, few of them seem to think they’ll have much luck, although one or two brighter ones quickly ask I’ve got a phone number (which I haven’t). I wonder how many enquiries get through?
Right, onwards. I have been perusing something quite chilling over my sangoes this lunchtime. I’ve been looking at a beautiful picture book, which chronicles the by-gone era of rural life before tractors and livestock wagons, combines, and quad bikes, and round balers and chainsaws. The editorial is whimsically rueing the loss of all the crafts which were interdependent before this ‘oil-age’, crafts and skills developed over centuries, millennia even, centred on the usage of horses and oxen to till the land, and any task they couldn’t perform being carried out by men with hand tools.
The Britain portrayed struggled – helped by the ‘empire’- to support perhaps a third of the population it carries today, a great many of whom still worked on the land. Seasonal help had to be drafted in from villagers living close at hand, in numbers scarcely believable now. (Can you imagine rattling up the village ‘locals’ now, to rustle up some help hoeing young crops, or forking sheaves, or to sort through 50 tonnes of clamped teddies? I don’t know that you’d have that much luck, certainly not once the rain started).
It’s beautiful, looking at the countryside just a century ago, and realising how much of it is still visible, unspoiled, today. But as a peasant farmer, while the pages of grainy old picture of rows and rows of stooks and sheaves and ricks and faggots might look picturesque, I also saw the weeks and months of hard graft involved. I saw the hardened yellow hands of the folk who worked the land, and the shine on the handles of their tools.
It was starkly clear how far oil and technology has taken us from what actually was, more or less, sustainable. Do we have the vision to build a society, beyond fossil fuels, where we shall be able to live as we now like to live? That, my flower, is the big question.
As an after thought, I did notice that despite being caught at their hard physical graft, and obviously having, and living on, very little, most of the subjects in the book seem happy enough with their lot. I wonder if their descendants, wherever they are, look as happy in their work today?
Anyroad, I’ll be off, Anton