The Old Hack

As I write this, I have just watched the grand final of « Britain’s Got Talent ».  I am convinced that Britain has indeed got talent – from a father and son comedy dance act, through a young man who made his saxophone weep to a young lady with a voice way beyond her tender years.  Oh.  And Susan Boyle.

 I mention Susan Boyle last not because I do not believe she has talent.  Her initial performance brought the whole country to its knees and elicited more comment than probably any other “reality” TV show for some time.  Like everyone else, I am awaiting the results.  For Susan’s sake I hope she wins tonight.  But I can truly say the same of every other act.  They would not be in the final if they did not stand a chance of winning.

 I heard a comment from a psychologist earlier today that if Susan Boyle does not win tonight’s show it will ruin the rest of her life.  I beg to disagree.  The obvious talent she possesses has been spotted by others throughout the world, and win or lose she will go on to make money and to live a changed life.  Susan Boyle, said the psychologist, has been in the headlines for so long now that her name has become synonymous with winning the title.  If she doesn’t win, her name will be forgotten.

 And if she does win?....

 You have thirty seconds to tell me the names of the acts who came first, second and third last year – all together now!

 Do I make my point?

Expat Brits in France have a love/hate relationship with the airline that enables us to travel back to various parts of our native land.  Not that there is only one airline.  Easy Jet, Air France, British Airways and others all offer flights, but the predominant provider is one which is often in the news and whose proprietor never misses an opportunity for television time to tell us all how wonderful he and his organisation are.

By now you will have recognised the airline of which I speak.  Offers of discounted flights arrive in the inbox with monotonous regularity, but rarely fall within the areas to or from which we wish to travel.

A couple of weeks ago, Mrs Old Hack and I arrived at our local airport to take a pre-booked flight to Liverpool.  It hadn't been a particularly cheap flight, but it was convenient to our needs and because I had booked it some weeks in advance I had probably saved a little on the deal. 

A new innovation offered by the airline is the facility to book baggage in online.  Previously, of course, one bag per ticket holder was allowed within the price, but now each bag checked in must be paid for.  I decided to take advantage of the facility to check in on line.  the cost was thus 10 euros per bag as opposed to the 20 euros per bag which would have been charged had I opted for the "check in at airport" option.  Not a huge saving, admittedly, but as another retailer keeps reminding us: "Every Little Helps."

Arriving at the airport in plenty of time to check in for our flight, we produced our bags and e-ticket reference, had our bags weighed and expected to be handed our boarding tickets. No such luck.  "You will need to pay 40 euros at the desk before I can give you your boarding passes."  "And why is this?", I enquired, "as I have already paid 20 euros for each bag to check in online?"  Because, I was politely told, only certain airports offer the check in online facility, and apparently our local airport is not one of them.  Could I reclaim the 20 euros I had already paid?  No.  Could I have a discount on the 40 euros required of me at the airport desk?  No. 

So by trying to save myself 20euros I ended up spending 30 euros per bag.  This is the same airline who refused to refund me a flight last year which I could not take because of one of its planes from another destination being stuck on a runway so that I could not take off.

Will I be using this airline again?  Yes.  Simply because I often do not have a choice.  Will I take advantage of their online check in "saving" again?  Not likely.  My advice - check with the airport before trusting this bunch of charletons.  What looks too good to be true usually IS too good to be true.

As my late father gave me an appreciation of France and most things French, so my mother contributed greatly to my love of words and expressions.  At school in the nineteen thirties, she learned whole poems by heart which she recited to me during my childhood and which she continued to remember right up until her final months in this world.  They ranged from the rhythmic “Cargoes” by John Masefield through some of the doggerel of John Betjeman (if I may be so dismissive of a poet laureate) to the dark and brooding, almost psychotic “Jealousy” by Rupert Brooke and taking in the delightful nonsense of Lewis Carroll and Edward Lear somewhere along the way.

 I should say straight away that my mother was not so cruel as to read me “Jealousy” in my formative years – I was not aware that she knew this by heart until the very year of her death, when she was rehearsing a poetry reading and was unsure of a line, asking me to check it out on the internet for her.

My mother, unlike my father, was not one to show her emotions.  Although she was known to succumb to an occasional belly laugh and taught me more vulgar jokes than I care to remember, she remained a private and undemonstrative person, sometimes quite cold.  Now that I reflect on her life and death I can see that the range of poetry she so keenly devoured was perhaps, in some way a substitute for her own anger, grief, sorrow and even happiness. 

Mother died nearly a year ago at the age of 88.  At her request, her ashes were scattered last week at Newby Bridge, Cumbria – a spot very dear to both her and my late father and which he had immortalised in a painting which once hung on the family wall in Portsmouth and now graces my office here in France.

The event was attended by her grandchildren, her three great grandsons and her favourite nephew.  We enjoyed a family lunch in beautiful Spring sunshine, having said our private goodbyes in our own ways and according to our various beliefs (on reflection, probably as eclectic as her collection of remembered poetry)

As my mother’s ashes floated down into the river, I would like to have had the composure to recite an appropriate poem.  I could neither bring one to mind nor remain calm enough to have done such a poem any justice.  Today, thinking of my mother and father in some spiritual way reunited after nearly a decade, I dedicate this poem by one of my own favourite writers to both of them: 

if there are any heavens my mother

if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses

my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)

standing near my

(swaying over her
silent)
with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
hands
which whisper
This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow) 

ee cummings 

 (Martha) Marion Morley  b. 28.05.1920  d. 04.06.2008

Today should have been a day for celebration.  Let me correct that statement.  Today IS a day for celebration.

 Today would have been my father’s 90th birthday.  The fact that he is not here to enjoy it detracts from celebration; the fact that his legacy of kindness, good humour, encouragement and forgiveness lives on in those he knew and loved makes celebration very appropriate. 

Ernest William Morley (Bill)  b. 10/01/1919  d. 06/03/2000

 I shall be raising a glass of local Pineau to you today, dad, from our lovely little house in rural France.  I know you would have adored this place.  You would have savoured the beauty of the landscape, enjoyed the richness of the local dialect and delighted in sampling the regional wines and cuisine.  You gave me my love of France from your own rich experience, and I know that under different circumstances you would have loved to be living here yourself. 

 Your paintings, both of French and of English Lake District landscapes take pride of place on family walls.  I only wish I had inherited your artistic talent to capture some of our local views, but I have to make do with my digital camera.  I wonder what you would have made of that technical innovation.  I suspect you would have embraced it enthusiastically as you did most things in life.

 What of the rest of today’s changed world?  I think you would continue to curse politicians for their inability to turn rhetoric into reality.  I remember how you re-joined the Labour Party after Tony Blair took the leadership – and how quickly you were disappointed by the whole sham and tore up your membership.  I remember how you despaired at George Bush senior’s aggression in the Middle East.  You didn’t live to see his moronic son mount an invasion of Iraq and put the world deeper at risk of war than ever.  Maybe that is some kind of a blessing.  It would have made you deeply sad and angry.  I think you would have laughed and cheered with me when the shoes flew at his last Iraq press conference – but the laughter sadly would have been short lived.

 In politics as in life, Dad, you always stood up straight and proud for what you believed to be right.  Most of the time we agreed, but even when we didn’t I never failed to admire you for your courage and your determination to do whatever little you could to make life better for those around you.  You’re a very hard act to follow, Dad, but a tremendous influence.  If I can manage to leave just a half of your legacy when my time comes I’ll be very satisfied.

As all that is left of the Christmas turkey remains good only for soup; as the indigestion of Christmas feasting becomes a memory; as the wise men, shepherds and donkeys pack up and head for home – what of the Holy Land where the Christmas story started?  In what has become a familiar post Christmas scenario, a handful of Moslems fire some home-made weapons at the occupying forces and the occupying forces respond by meting out an aerial bombardment, killing indiscriminately.

 Neither side can claim a just cause.  Neither side can win.  Their plight is their complete inability to realise that the God they each worship, should he exist, is no doubt wringing his hands in utter disbelief that he could have got it all so dreadfully wrong.

 This year, though, there is perhaps the faint glimmer of hope.  The security council of the United Nations has accepted a proposal drafted by Russia calling on both sides to lay down their arms forthwith.  Of course, neither side will do any such thing.  But agreement on the proposal was so swift as to suggest that the civilised world is beginning to realise that criticism of either side in this dreadful and ongoing conflict need be seen neither as anti Islamic or anti Semitic.  Criticism of the killing on both sides is a sensible and measured response.

 Hamas is not representative of all Islam.  Israel is not representative of all Judaism.  Each is a religion of peace and goodwill and in the government of Israel and the organisation of Hamas, Judaism and Islam respectively have been allowed to fall into the hands of extremist fanatics with no care nor regard for anything other than self-promotion and power.   

 Were the UN proposal to have been drafted by the United States or Britain it would have been seen to be more sabre rattling in the Middle East in the wake of the Iraq fiasco and would have received little support, particularly in view of the United States ongoing financial support for Israel and more importantly the fact that it has consistently used its veto in the United Nations to scupper any resolution remotely critical of Israel.  Whilst the current resolution is carefully drafted, it does not fall far short of criticism of Israeli action.

China’s voice remains controversial in all quarters.  France, along with the US and UK, supplies arms to Israel and cannot be regarded as neutral.  Russia, in spite of a somewhat dubious human rights record, remains the least directly involved permanent member of the Security Council.

 So now the toothless tiger that is the United Nations has gently growled very close to Israel’s ear.  While this action is symbolic rather than overtly aggressive, the glimmer of hope it provides is that it gives those peacemakers in Israel some space to whisper in the ears of their bullish masters and tell them there is now room to soften their stance against a Palestinian state.  The Resolution gives them the ability to take a step back without losing face and appearing weak. “It wasn’t our choice”, they can plead. “The UN forced our hand…”

 Will it happen?  Will Palestine get a step closer to gaining its rightful recognition and shaking off the occupying Israeli army?  About as likely as Imam dancing hand-in-hand with Rabbi, you may think.  But according to Christian tradition, Christmas is a time of year for miracles.

As a non-religious outsider I can only cross my fingers and hope.

Today's image is by Pablo Picasso.  Prints can be bought online at just $9.10 (US) via globagallery.com