El Escritor Inglés: October 2012

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Student Inactivism

Students used to be a militant bunch. Remember the Kent State massacre of 1970? Although only four years old at the time, I know what happened. US National Guardsmen shot dead four innocent students and wounded nine others during a mass protest against the American invasion of Cambodia (Figure 51.1). The military operation, conducted on the opposite side of the globe, did not disadvantage any of the protesters personally, but that was immaterial. The students could see the wider picture, and their activism stemmed not from expediency or self-interest, but from steadfast moral principle. Tragic though the outcome was, a clear message was sent to the White House: millions of young people disagreed with foreign policy, and they would not stand to have their intelligence insulted.

Figure 51.1: A student protester lies wounded at Kent State University, Ohio on 4th May, 1970.

British undergraduates, too, have a proud history of passionate student activism. When I (crash-) landed at university in the mid-eighties, the campus was bursting with (mainly left-wing) firebrands, all spitting bricks at injustices real or merely perceived. Those were the days of Live Aid, Thatcherism, CND, violent Irish republicanism and London street riots. There was plenty to shout about, whatever one’s views (Figure 51.2).

Figure 51.2: Every one of these lapel badges was familiar to 1980s’ students.

As things were then, so they are today. Individual issues come and go, but fundamental politics is as much a corruption of human ethics as ever. In Britain alone, the debt crisis threatens to impoverish future generations; and the corrupt, profligate, anti-democratic European Union is succeeding in destroying hard-won self-determination where Hitler failed – and without a single shot needing to be fired. The likes of Mahatma Gandhi, Apostolos Santas and Nelson Mandela were prepared to sacrifice their lives in the name of representative self-government; and yet, today, the British people relinquish basic liberties to a foreign power with their brains switched off and eyes tight shut.

Why, then, when standing so close to the precipice, are today’s students silent? With the exception of a half-baked objection to education funding cuts in 2010, there has been barely a squeak of dissent from British campuses. What has changed?

Forty years ago, only 5% of British school-leavers attended university. The present figure is close to 40%, despite students being demonstrably no more capable. Consequently, if the drop-out rate is not to rocket, academic standards must be lowered. Furthermore, extra funding, on a massive scale, becomes urgent. Given the unprecedented level of public debt, there is no chance of such costs being met by the taxpayer. 21st-century students are obliged to pay their own tuition fees, inevitably by means of (subsidized) loans. Anyone quitting prematurely leaves higher education with an unsettled loan agreement instead of a degree certificate. Reminiscent of the brainless commitment to mixed-ability teaching in British schools in the 1960s and 70s, the most able undergraduates spend half their time freewheeling, while the least able – a whopping 9% – play out a twelve-month stay of execution prior to being thrown out, debt-ridden and demoralized.

As a result of ‘dumbing down’, today’s students are not only, on average, less intellectually astute than those of previous generations but, also, far less politically aware. How do I know? Well, I completed two university stints – 1985-9 and 2006-9 – and feel well qualified to judge the difference. ‘Uni’ has become a comfortable rite of passage, more social than educational. During my second course, whenever I entered the campus library, the majority of its occupants seemed more concerned with social networking than with cerebral endeavour. Political activism did not even register, which struck me as ironic, as Facebook is a godsend to any parties aiming to orchestrate mass action.

So I ask: why are so many young people now being encouraged to attend university at all? Is it to prevent unemployment figures going stratospheric, thereby reflecting adversely on politicians? Perhaps it is. Back in the 1950s, millions of British school-leavers were paid to complete apprenticeships. Today, it is largely the reverse: in order to equip themselves, both intellectually and vocationally, teenagers are made to pay one institution with a vast sum of money borrowed from another. The debt mountain thus grows and grows, and, of course, the taxpayers of tomorrow are the students of today. Former U.S. president Herbert Hoover (1874-1964), paraphrasing Matthew 5:5, foretold the future thus:

‘Blessed are the young, for they shall inherit the national debt.’

That was 1936. The difference between then and now is that today’s apathetic students dwell in ignorance and sink into debt as the terms of their future subjugation are set in stone outside their own land (Figure 50.3).

Figure 51.3: More and more commentators now refer to the EU as the ‘Fourth Reich’.

Come on, students, spit bricks – if you still know how.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Through My Keyhole (Pt I)

I am writing this post from a hospital bed. Hooked up to a sodium lactate drip, I have plastic tubes pumping oxygen up my nose and a fetching pair of surgical socks gently squeezing excess venous blood from my feet and calves. As a general rule, I avoid doctors. Apart from gashes requiring stitches, annual flu jabs and a freak shoulder dislocation, good health has enabled me to give hospital medics a wide berth. Well, we caught up with each other a few days ago.

I have never experienced pain like it. After being whistled out of the house on a stretcher, the first few hundred metres of the ambulance journey reinforced my existing view on the state of the local roads. It felt as if we were on hexagonal wheels, tramming along the world’s longest rumble strip (Figure 50.1).

Figure 50.1: Aboard the emergency boneshaker

http://homepages.ihug.co.nz/~scottart/index.htm

Opening my eyes in the emergency room, I saw a twenty-years-younger version of myself looking inquisitively down at his latest casualty. It was not a clear-cut diagnosis, he said, after giving me a good poking, and so would require immediate confinement and a wide range of both clinical and laboratory investigations. That was fine by me. Google ‘upper central abdominal pain’ and all sorts of ghastly conditions will be suggested, which is why online self-diagnosis is rarely a smart move. Pancreatic cancer has perhaps the worst prognosis. Thankfully, it was not that. The senior admissions doctor could not decide between a hiatus hernia, gall stones or depressed liver function. It turned out to be a combination of all three, each a consequence of the others.

After being deposited in the surgical assessment ward (Figure 50.2), it became instantly clear to me why so much written comedy and general black humour are predicated on emergency medical scenarios. The first patient I saw, an old man sitting upright in bed, was sporting a huge gauze packing just beneath his black-and-purple nose. When I asked what had happened, he explained that the matron had ordered him to get back into bed and he had replied with the equivalent of, ‘Make me.’ His humour was in better shape than his hooter. The alcoholic next to him was sporting two unbelievable, Beano-style black eyes, which gave him the appearance of a malnourished panda in photographic negative. The real tragedy of his ‘dancing-with-the-pavement’ escapade was having been stone-cold sober at the time. My first encounter with him was after he had walked assuredly along the corridor from the bathroom, oblivious to the fact that his dick was hanging out.

Figure 50.2: Still smiling

The prospect of having an endoscopic camera, complete with ultrasound probe, fed down my throat sounded far worse than it actually was (Figure 50.3). Lying on my side, throat semi-anaesthetized, I waited for the IV sedative to kick in. I was still waiting when the procedure was over. No matter, it was a comfortable few minutes, and I enjoyed viewing out of the corners of my eyes the live images on the monitor – The Sky At Night meets Space Invaders, for the benefit of anyone who can remember either.

Figure 50.3: Endoscopic ultrasound scan (EUS) – upper, not lower!

Earlier today, Ol’ Black Eyes disappeared for his own endoscopic experience. Unlike me, however, he was wheeled into the room feet first. No oral insertion for him. He re-emerged an hour later, flat on his back on the trolley, either still spaced out or just mentally traumatized by The Invasion of the One-eyed Python, and disappeared into his bay with the curtain drawn hastily around him. A few moments later, the nurse pulled the plug. I hope she was standing well back. The resulting musical ‘note’ sounded like an air-raid siren on the short-wave radio, its intonation going wildly up and down for an impressive ten seconds, and seemingly amplified through a PA for the whole ward to hear. Now, as any physical scientist would testify, sound waves travel faster than diffusing gas molecules. Unfortunately, that particular truth did not occur to me until there was insufficient time to leave the room. After the air-attack warning came the inevitable smell which was even more stupendous in its intensity. Then, as if right on cue, my lunch arrived.

As I close for the night, another alcoholic has just been wheeled in, singing ’O sole mio.

I am scheduled to be ‘released on bail’ tomorrow. Stand by for keyhole surgery in Pt II. Until then, life will go on as before (Figure 50.4) – it is to be hoped, minus the pain. In the words of the inimitable Joe Walsh: if I had known I would live this long, I might have taken better care of myself. Just as well I am not a boozer.

Figure 50.4: The benefits of having a personal nurse

Tuesday, October 02, 2012

Apologies To HRH

The Worshipful Company of Haberdashers (Figure 49.1) is one of the City of London’s most prominent Livery Companies. Once a City Guild responsible for regulating cloth merchants, it is today concerned principally with charity and education. Haberdashers’ Aske’s School, in Hertfordshire, is one of its many successes, being this year’s top independent boys’ school in the entire UK. It is an organization to which I feel privileged to belong. Should I – heaven forbid – kick the proverbial bucket before my children’s education is complete, the Company would grant assistance; not that my family would do anything other than decline its offer with gratitude and humility.

Figure 49.1: The Haberdashers’ Company plaque

I became a Haberdasher at the age of 24, following in the footsteps of my father, grandfather, great-grandfather and great-great-grandfather. The honour I feel, with regard to both the Company and my Spradbery forebears, is immense. I was made a Freeman of the Company at the City’s (old) Haberdashers’ Hall by its then Master, Colonel David Sime, OBE (Figure 49.2), a delightful former soldier who had recently celebrated his 70th birthday. Sitting alongside him at lunch that day, he described the two of us as ‘a young bull and an old one,’ aptly referring to his cattle-breeding background. Prior to farming, he had read Economics at Cambridge and won the Military Cross during World War Two – not that he thought to mention either.

Figure 49.2: The inside cover of a book presented to me by Colonel Sime, on behalf of the Haberdashers’ Company, 22 years ago today. The ‘old bull’ passed away on 29th December, 2010, aged 90. I shall never forget the hours I spent with him.

Last month, I received an invitation from the Company (Figure 49.3) to attend its Diamond Jubilee Ball at the new Hall (Figure 49.4), which had been opened by the Queen in 2002. HM did not attend; she was instead represented by The Earl and Countess of Wessex (Figure 49.5). Unfortunately, being hundreds of miles away, I could only apologize for my inevitable absence, which was a great pity.

Figure 49.3: Invitation to the Ball

Figure 49.4: The new Haberdashers’ Hall, 18, West Smithfield, City of London. (Raining, naturally!)

Figure 49.5: HRH The Earl of Wessex meets young musicians at the Hall. The Countess is obscured by the gentleman in the foreground.

I was, however, sent a selection of photographs of the event. This is what I missed (Figures 49.6 to 49.9).

Figure 49.6: I have loved the happy sound of steelpans ever since attending the Notting Hill Carnival in 1988. I am sure the students in the picture were wonderfully entertaining.

Figure 49.7: Dinner ...

Figure 49.8: ... dancing ...

Figure 49.9: ... and more music ...