Can You Trust Truss?

What makes you angry?

Let me tell you what makes me angry.  First, is dishonesty.  That can be simply saying something is true when it isn't, or vice versa.  It can also be allowing an untruth to stand when there was an opportunity to correct it, but you didn't.  

Second, is being caught in a 'cleft stick'.  In other words, being in a situation where there are two options, neither of which is the right thing to do or say, but that the right thing isn't on offer.  If someone asks me a question, I may go all round the houses to explain something rather than give a 'yes' or 'no', if I realise that my answer depends on circumstances beyond the question, and neither would be an honest answer.

So, I often get angry when I'm listening to a radio interview, and the interviewer asks "would you back so-and-so?"  As often as not the interviewee begins to explain the circumstances when she would do so and when she wouldn't, but he pushes again for a simple 'yes' or 'no', talking over the attempted explanation (genders introduced there solely for clarity). I get angry and either shout at the radio, or turn off in disgust.

Third, is when people fail in management and still are rewarded with a magnificent bonus, when by all that's just they should be sacked and replaced.

I could go on and on, but time - and my readers' patience - doesn't permit.

We have a new government because the previous one made me angry (Well, not directly, but I think you will get my meaning).  I'm not sure the new one is going to be any good at reducing my anger levels, though. 

Somewhere else along my list would be doing something that's completely counter-productive when a far better solution to the problem at hand is staring you in the face.  

I like the idea of 'the polluter pays'.  If you make a mess, you clear it up.  Similarly, if you find a few extra thousands in your bank account because someone put the wrong number on a transaction that was meant for someone else ... do you go on a spending spree, or make an effort to return the money to the right place?

When all the world is saying "tax the excess profits that energy companies are making from the increased prices, and relieve the pressure on those who are juggling food and heat instead of enjoying both", it seems the height of nonsense to ignore that advice and instead introduce measures that will make the rich richer and do nothing to help the poor, in the vague hope that wealth will 'trickle down' to where it's needed.

Someone said - many years ago - "An engineer knows that water trickles down.  Put it uphill and let it go and it will reach the driest little spot.  But money trickles up.  Give it to the people at the bottom and the people at the top will have it before night, anyhow.  But it will at least have passed through the poor fellow's hands."

I'm still angry.

Reasons, Causes, Explanations and Excuses

Readers who have followed this blog for a number of years may remember times when I have expressed feelings about the island of Ireland, its people and its history.  As I ponder these feelings and their roots, I think one of their origins dates back to a visit my wife and I made to an exhibition about the Great Famine of the 1840s-50s ... possibly to mark the 150th anniversary.  I can't recall where it was, but the pictures of the suffering have remained with me.  Then, when I discovered that the radio in my van could pick up RTÉ, I learned a lot about modern Ireland and its present culture and electoral systems.  Time knits all these things together.

I recall one particular post in which I drew a comparison between the news coverage here in England of affairs in Scotland and Wales on one hand and affairs in Northern Ireland on the other.  It seemed to me - and still does - that events on this island of Great(er) Britain were far more likely to make the news than anything happening on the island that, by default, could be described as Lesser Britain.  Less in size, means less in importance, one could imply.

It is little wonder, I feel, that some people there fear that they are 'second-class citizens' because of where they live, that they must constantly remind the authorities of their existence, their rights and the problems that are peculiar to them as a result of their location.  And yet, as the travels of the King and Queen Consort this week have underlined, Northern Ireland is just as much part of the United Kingdom as Scotland or Wales.

During all the time Brexit was being discussed, planned and negotiated, I had the feeling that the problems resulting from the land border between the UK and the remainder of the EU were being largely ignored.  One morning, I listened to a BBC news bulletin as I drove through the streets of Dublin to catch my ferry back to the UK; I shouted to the radio "But that won't work!"  I won't delve further into the specific difficulties of squaring the circle and the protestations that were made about there not being a border down the Irish Sea.

And so we are where we are today.  Here in Great Britain, there are protests - with good reason - about the lack of even the announcement of a date until after the late Queen's funeral, for a statement on the planned financial assistance regarding the energy pricing crisis.  That's a two week wait at most.  Just consider for a moment, what outcry there would be if Parliament were not to sit for six months!

And yet, that is the situation in Northern Ireland.  Since the elections earlier this year - that's one-third of a year! - the Northern Ireland Assembly has not sat.  The DUP, in its wisdom, has declared that it will not take part in the country's government until that circle has been squared, pointing out that the fact that Northern Ireland is being treated differently from the rest of the UK is an unfair discrimination between equal parts of the United Kingdom.  

In a way, their action (or, more realistically, inaction!) is little different from the striking railwaymen I wrote about last week.  It's a way of bringing their legitimate concerns to the attention of those in authority.  The difference is that while, in one case, (only) those who rely on the trains are inconvenienced, and that only for a few days and, meanwhile, other - albeit slower or more awkward or expensive - alternatives are available; in the other case, (all of) the people of Northern Ireland are being deprived of the functions of a legitimately elected devolved government.  

In each case it's not the people who have the solution in their hands who suffer the consequences.  But I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide who ought to resolve the problems, and how!

The Train Now Standing ...

Earlier this week, I watched a video about the celebration of the 150th anniversary of the Great Western Railway.  Filming took place in 1985, just a week before the closure was announced of its great engineering works at Swindon.  All that remains of that today is a network of streets of uniform houses, purpose-built in the 1830-'40s to accommodate the great numbers it had employed.

The presentation included many stories of whole generations whose lives had depended upon and benefited from the success of what many referred to as 'God's Wonderful Railway'.  Sons had joined fathers, just as years later their sons would join them, among the thousands in its workforce.  There were many who had been born in those houses, and had grown up there with no thought other than of following father and grandfather into the engineering shops.

It was said that, despite nationalisation in 1948, the camaraderie & esprit de corps was possibly stronger in 1985 than at the centenary 50 years earlier.  Tales were proudly told of annual outings and free passes for staff, of a workforce that was appreciated and therefore willing to serve.

In the middle of my home county, Norfolk, lies the village of Melton Constable.  In 2011 it had a population of just 618 but a century earlier the number was almost twice that size when it was the centre of the sprawling Midland & Great Northern Railway.  With its four arms reaching north, south, east and west from this complex junction, the M&GN was but one element of a comprehensive network of lines that covered East Anglia from the Wash to the Orwell, and from the east coast to the fens and beyond.

Its demise immediately conjures up the smiling moustachioed image of Dr. Beeching, whose report in the early 1960s led to the closure of half the nation's network.  But in the case of the M&GN the axe preceded this notorious blow to our public transport system, for virtually all of this proud network was closed in March 1959.  A steep decline had begun at the Melton works when the London & North Eastern Railway took it over in 1936 and transferred a lot of work to Doncaster and Stratford.

As at Swindon in the late 1980s, the age of corporate loyalty and service, of 'jobs for life' had gone for ever.

Towards the end of the twentieth century, it was decided to unpick nationalisation, and franchisees were sought to run segments of the railway system.  Could privatisation re-create that atmosphere of a past age?  I think the clue to the answer is in the question.  It was a past age.  Much had been lost in that particular 50-year span.  Technology in all its forms had moved on at a faster pace than ever before, and many who are of an age to remember the immediate post-war years now realise that the life of the 1990s - let alone the present day - was beyond anything they could have imagined in their youth. 

During that interval, as well as a decline in demand caused by a change in industrial and engineering patterns and the increase of road transport both for business and leisure, there had been a dramatic lack of investment in the whole organisation behind that proud lion-and-wheel BR symbol.  In many ways it was allowed to drift forward into the diesel and electric age in just the same way that it had drifted out of steam-power.

Like so much in life, the ever-present trains had become something to take for granted and in great measure no envious thought was given to what had already been lost in the 'sixties, 'seventies and 'eighties.  No one, it seems, had given a thought to the possibility that the falling away of demand had led to reduced earnings, and a lower than necessary level of maintenance.  The system was on its knees by the time private companies were invited to take it on, with all the attendant extra expense of corporate organisation, dividends to shareholders and the level of executive salaries to those running them.

Fast forward a couple of decades and more, and the situation is worse rather than better.  Fares have been pushed up as much as the franchisees can get away with, but even so, there's not enough income to meet the true cost of running the railways.  Yes, there are plush new stations and (more franchises) attractive catering booths at the bigger stations, but many of the smaller ones have become unmanned halts of the very simplest of designs, with nowhere to buy a ticket and no security whatsoever.  

These facilities would require a greater workforce but, as we're seeing at the present time, the workforce they do have are not being paid all that they feel entitled to, given the present increases in living costs and rising inflation.  With their financial hands tied, and a government unable or unwilling - or both - to inject further support, the management are unable to play a realistic part in negotiations to achieve the modernisation that they see is vital to the continued development of the service.

And so, when plans are made to make a certain journey in the coming months, when it would be good to 'Let the train take the strain', my first thought - and that of thousands of other potential passengers - is to the car, and the already clogged motorways.

Felix Domesticus

Cod Latin it may be, but few will fail to understand the translation of my title this week.  There are an estimated 12 million of the little darlings in this country, and over a quarter of our households admit to owning at least one of them.

I readily confess to having been one of those owners in my past.  I admit, too, that I wasn't the most responsible of cat owners.  It seemed like a nice idea at the time and accommodated the needs of a friend who was embarrassed by the arrival of another litter, but he was soon relegated to the level of a household possession that required regular attention, like the hoover and the washing machine.

Cartoonists often portray believable contrasts between cats and dogs, the one being fiercely independent, purposeful and single-minded, the other loyal, loving, malleable and 'man's best friend'.  I find these amusing as well as true to life (as I see it), and readily share them on social media.  

But what's my own experience, now I'm no longer a cat-owner?  I quickly became aware that my next-door neighbour has two cats.  Even without the visual evidence, proof of feline proximity was an early discovery as I began to clear the vegetation from the garden before turning it into a 'low-maintenance courtyard'.  While I was still collecting redundant vegetation, the green bin was a convenient disposal route but sadly, once the granite chips had been installed, the arrival of excrement continued.

One day in a fit of rage I gathered the unwanted offering and flung it over the fence, returning it whence it came.  It was followed at the earliest opportunity by an apology and, in the ensuing conversation, I learned that after seventeen years of utilising this convenience the culprit was unlikely to change his habits, despite the existence of adequate and well-attended indoor facilities.  We agreed a mutually acceptable disposal procedure - a more civilised 'over-the-fence' method - and so the status quo continues.

Probably due in great measure to this situation, I feel no affection for this hairy black quadruped.  Often as I sit by my window, I find myself under the gaze of two green eyes observing my every action and giving me the feeling that my negative emotions are reciprocated in full.

Beyond two fences, the neighbour whose house is in the next street has two dogs.  They, too, follow the cartoonist's stereotypes and are quite content to adorn their owner's yard,  They're also vocal, unlike my black sentry-on-the-fence with his cold and silent stare and, if I should venture outside, they lose no opportunity to announce my emergence to the whole neighbourhood, to their owner's annoyed embarrassment.

If nothing else, my experience has made me glad that my tenancy has a 'no pets' clause, reinforcing my own preference for solitude and protecting me against any lapse in this resolve.