Am I a redhead, or a ginger? A brace of questions I find myself confronted by in these modern times of multi-channel social networking, on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Pheed et al. Read More…
It’s all about what it looks like and it doesn’t look so good anymore. Read More…
Three days on from her death and the debates are still fiercely raging about Margaret Thatcher’s time as PM. They all seem to revolve around the same theme: that Thatcher’s spiteful policies ruined lives and divided the country.
In the twenty-year period since she left office the debate has become criminally over-simplified and certain myths persist, almost entirely unchallenged.
The most significant of which is that she destroyed the British coal mining industry.
This is simply not true.
The fact is that she inherited an industry already in precipitous decline, largely due to increasing global competition from places like Australia, America and even South Africa. See the chart below:
The majority of mine closures had already occurred under her two Labour predecessors, Harold Wilson and James Callaghan.
And the 1984 (UK) Monopolies and Mergers Commission found that 75% of British coal mines were losing money, costing the taxpayer an annual £1.3 billion in government subsidies.
The truth of which couldn’t be avoided: British coal was on life support and showing few signs of ever regaining consciousness.
All that was left to Thatcher and her Conservative government was to pull the plug –which they did.
It is perhaps here that one could take issue with the way in which Thatcher decided to handle it. She viewed it not only as laying to rest a dying industry but also an opportunity to completely crush the trade unions, who she believed were destroying Britain.
So she fought ideologically with ideologues. And won.
But what was lost amidst all the political grandstanding, were the genuine fears and concerns of the coal miners, who for generations had only ever known that type of work and that type of life, and for whom the prospect of retraining and having to begin again was daunting.
And that was why they fought as hard as they did. However misinformed they might have been about the future of British coal.
Maybe if she’d tried to reach them directly and explain the economic realities of their situation, they would have understood that if they didn’t take the pain now that one day their children would have to. That they could be part of a new Britain, that they’d be helped through this cruel time.
But the actions of their union leaders, in the past, had ensured the downfall of her predecessor and Thatcher was determined not to suffer the same fate. The miners were unfortunate collateral.
Could she be accused of coldness? Yes. Arrogance? Maybe.
But, deliberately destroying the coal mining industry and the lives of the coal miners? No.
Their lives were, by harsh circumstance, caught up in an elephantine battle between two competing visions for Britain; against the backdrop of a rapidly changing global economy, beyond the control of anyone, least of all Thatcher.
Season Six, Episode One: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”
Death. It’s the first thing you thought of when Don Draper presented that ad with the rumpled pile of clothes lying on the beach and footsteps leading off from them into the unknown.
It was beautiful. It was art. But it was dark.
And so it went for the long anticipated premiere of Mad Men season six. It began with a voiceover from Don silently quoting from Inferno:
“Midway through our life’s journey I went astray from the straight road and awoke to find myself alone in a dark wood.”
This sober sentence seemed somewhat incongruous with its setting: Don, in Hawaii, on Waikiki beach, reading Dante; Megan, in a summery bikini drinking a blue cocktail.
Surely this is Heaven and not Hell?
Beautiful. Art. But it was dark
Don’s dissatisfaction, however, is evident. He seems somehow detached from this colourful scene. Megan is happy and chit chattering; Don is quiet (he has no dialogue for the first five minutes) and his smile strained. They have sex and Megan is giggling but it seems he’s only going through the motions. It’s a pensive, slightly unsure Don, not the confident, alpha male we’re used to, although he still quite convincingly wears that costume, even if it is starting to look a little anachronistic.
He’s played Don Draper for a long time, the lead role in a hit play. But the audiences are moving on, the supporting characters are starting to shift around him and the set is slowly being dismantled. The future has finally caught up with him.
Back at Sterling Cooper Draper Pryce it’s clearly the late 1960’s, the men are starting to look shaggier and shabbier and are definitely turning on and tuning in. The ubiquitous liquor bottle has been replaced with the marijuana cigarette. And as generously as SCDP’s senior executives partake of the grain, so do the younger generation of the herb.
As in Hawaii, Don feels awkward in these surroundings. He’s still creatively brilliant but but…
One night at the hotel, whilst still on holiday in Waikiki Beach, he’d been sat having a solitary drink at the bar, when a drunken young soldier serving in Vietnam had engaged him in conversation. “Were you in Korea?” he asks.
“Briefly,” answers Don. Or was it Dick? Which one answered? Both served, both died and were then reborn.
This well-intentioned young man reminds him of that fraud, that stolen identity.
He is an impostor, not just Dick Whitman playing Don Draper, but for all his outward success he still feels like that hapless failure inside. “Noone loves Dick Whitman,” as Megan had jokingly cooed in the season premiere of season five.
In Dante’s tenth circle of Hell, the deceptive are punished. These are the alchemists, the counterfeiters, the perjurers and the impostors. As they afflicted mankind with their disease, they are afflicted with diseases in the afterlife.
Sinon suffers from a burning fever; Myrrha is mad.
And Don is himself and no more.
Image Credit: AMC. Artist: Brian Sanders
Britain”s leadership deficit and the state of utter stagnation.
Despite being such a great influence on cultures the world over, Britain is, in some ways, a strange society to live in. It does have certain clear advantages over South Africa, notwithstanding the weather of course, but in terms of its stability, its fascinating vibrant history, its centrality and primacy on the world stage, the availability of just about everything; all owing to it being something of a global hub between Europe, America and its former colonies, there is much to praise.
That being said, most of the optimism about Britain relates to its past and it is difficult to find individual citizens who are genuinely optimistic about its future. The stagnation of its political culture has run parallel to an increased pessimism about its society and even a sense of resignation about the whole process.
What is curious about Britain, and perhaps apparent only to those who live here for any length of time, is that its national demeanour and political culture has come to resemble the aforementioned weather: grey, unchanging, moist and stagnant. Of course, some sense of melancholy is perhaps inevitable after the loss of its empire followed by half a century of stable shrinking as a world power; one gets the sense from talking to a fairly broad cross-section of society that the greatest things have passed, the heroism of the Trafalgar, the Battle of Britain and D-day replaced by the dystopian squalor of reality television and celebrity gossip; the Britain of Charlie Brooker’s Black Mirror. A sense of guilt runs parallel to this, those who are not lamenting the loss of Britain’s past, are apologetic that it happened at all, the middle ground is hard to find. This social malaise has been a gradual process amplified in recent years by economic decline as has the loss of animus in the political system.
Despite their mutual acrimony, the three main political parties share some common ground in their inability to offer any kind of vibrant vision for Britain’s renewal. The Labour party have lost what was previously their main USP: their perceived moral high-ground. Tony Blair, a shrewd and skilled politician and a far cry from Labour’s previous naive idealists, took a leaf out of both the respective left-wing hard-line unionist and right-wing Thatcherite books in his fairly autocratic style of personality politics. There are aspects of Blair that I admire but, having run Britain like a mafia organisation for a decade and embroiled it in an unpopular and damaging foreign conflict it is hard for Labour to claim to be the voice of the common man any longer. They now tread a deft line between uncharismatic incompetence, thinly veiled corporatism and champagne socialist hypocrisy, elegantly distilled in their gormless leader Ed Milliband; a man whose election as leader over his more charismatic brother was predicated on his endorsement by Britain’s racketeering unions and whose main political tactic is the repetition of the hypocritical mantra of “same old Tories!”
The Liberal Democrats, for a time, seemed to offer a middle way. Prior to the last election their popularity climbed, their leader was young and fresh-faced with a strong academic background and they were untarnished by the historical baggage of the other two. Indeed their own history as a breakaway party gave them increased credibility of a sort. However, the ominous signs were there in the run-up to the election for those who knew what to look for. The Lib Dems didn’t so much offer a fresh new vision so much as one that slalomed between the views of the other two. During the prime ministerial debate Nick Clegg commented that the more David Cameron and Gordon Brown bickered, the more alike they sounded, however, this did not bode well for him either as he was attempting to secure the apparently centrist gap between the two. The party has now been abandoned by swathes of former supporters on the left and right, their personality assimilated into the murk of coalition politics. To the right they are pliant and ineffectual, useful only insofar as they were able to make a Tory government more palatable to liberal voters in the form of the coalition. To the left, they are sell-outs to the right, pure and simple.
The Conservative party too, seem to have lost their identity. In their scramble for the centrist position they are led by an ungainly bunch of what Thatcher would have called ‘wets’, with the Tory old guard playing their part from the shadows. For many libertarian or conservative citizens, Britain’s last fifty years has been a repetitive cycle of Labour coming into power on the basis of popular but idealistic and impractical policies, leaving the Tories with the task of having to clean up their mess by implementing unpopular but necessary readjustments. After years of money-squandering from Labour and a turgid public sector bursting at the seams, fiscal Conservatism seemed like an attractive prospect for many disillusioned Brits but since they have come to power, they have stumbled from one humiliating catastrophe to the next. Even staunch Conservative voters who have never deviated from their core party even during Labour’s glory years of the late 90s, are now cradling their foreheads in embarrassment; the administration is doing itself no favours.
Enduring both crippling economic woes and an almost pubescent political identity crisis is certainly taking its toll on Britain’s morale and collective will. The weakness of both leadership and the opposition is serving to prolong the recession and, by extension, the loss of optimism; they are without a doubt, mutually reinforcing problems. Is this a new phase of terminal and permanent decline? The political scene is desolate but Britain is a an island nation with cold grey winters, battered by countless wars and invasions over the years, and thus imbued with a unique ability to limp on. What is needed for some sense of renewal in this country is more than cabinet reshuffles and bitter opposition. British political parties need to stop trying to have it both ways in the battle for the centre ground and to regain their sense of identity. Reinvention is inevitable and the party faithful of all three entities are nearing the end of their tether. It is essential that neither they nor the electorate recede into nihilism and resignation. But who knows how long this slump will continue?
Whereas America thrives on patriotism and optimism, Britain gets by on irony and lugubrious self-deprecation. So until we find a way out of this economic and existential ditch, we will at least have the capacity to enjoy complaining about it
The issue of censorship and free speech has been centre stage, globally, throughout the month of September with online, social and print media ablaze with conflicting views on the matter.
Only last week the heads of state of Egypt, Iran, Pakistan and Yemen stood up at a United Nations summit to call for the curtailment of what many people in the West consider a fundamental right. Amid all the bitter turmoil surrounding this issue, Banned Book Week provides us with an opportunity to take time out from the good fight and celebrate its victories in the literary world.
From a quick glance at the list of historically banned books on the BBW’s website, one can draw one concrete conclusion: the censors always lose eventually. Books that are banned by a dictatorial political system or puritanical religious movements tend to become classics at least partly for that very reason; they represent a moment in time and an eventual victory over it. As South Africans this concept has a special significance for us.
Censorship is a subtly suicidal act, seemingly a reaction to some subliminal awareness of the assured failure of any attempt to hold the intellects of others in bondage. The South African Liberation Struggle, the American Civil Rights Movement, the sexual awakening of the sixties, the rise of secular humanism and the struggles against communism and fascism are, to varying extents, defined and chronicled and even facilitated by the works that the forces of reaction and censorship tried to prevent us reading and, in so doing, helping to dig their eventual graves.
The censorship of certain works can tell you a lot about the censor, particularly those banned for sexual indecency or immorality; it is a widely recognised truism that the prohibition of certain activities often masks the secret desire on the part of the individuals insisting on their prohibition to participate in them. But the more historically significant reason that censorship is inherently self-defeating is that it forces the citizen to confront the inevitable question: to whom would you delegate this role of deciding for you what you can and cannot read, see or hear? The answer to this question is always the same, there is no one who is qualified to fulfill this role and in inadvertently forcing this question on society, the censor reveals their incompetence, not only in this role, but in the ability to make any meaningful decisions on behalf of others.
So if you need your flagging spirits lifted and you have a few minutes to spare, take a moment to peruse the list of great works, many now rightly taught to our children of works, not only of literature, but of history, and be reassured of how many victories have already been won.
As Mr Rushdie put it, “If writing is ‘thing’ then censorship is ‘no-thing’ and as King Lear said to Cordelia, ‘no-thing comes from no-thing.’”
“What we must do, all of us, is insist that this society is one of open discourse.”
It may seem like this memoir has been a long-time coming, as Rushdie’s life story garners as much public interest as his vibrant and fantastical novels; but, given the harrowing nature of his experiences, it is not surprising that it took over two decades before he could commit the events to print. In February 1989, in response to claims that Rushdie’s novel constituted blasphemy against the prophet Mohammed, the theocratic leader of the Iranian dictatorship at the time, the Ayatollah Ruholla Khomeini, offered a bounty in his own name for murder of Mr Rushdie – a man who was neither a practising Muslim, nor an Iranian. It has been noted by many since then that this extraordinary offence to morality, free speech and the rule of law represented a foreshadowing of what we could expect from religious fundamentalism in years to come.
It was a watershed moment, an opportunity to set a precedent for how such barbarism could expect to be confronted in the future. But the reaction was less than satisfactory. While Rushdie himself has always been vocal in his praising of the agents assigned to protect his home; the diligence of the British authorities in assuring his safety; and the support of his friends and family, the response from religious figures the world over confirms the importance of protecting free expression from bogus claims of blasphemy. The Pope, Chief Rabbi of Israel, the Archbishop of Canterbury and many other nodding heads of various religious institutions, closed ranks and condemned the novel and its author. Elements of the intellectual and political community were also not without blame and many dithered as to whether he deserved their support and whether they could afford to offer it. In other words, offending a verminous religious dictator with the resources to fund and facilitate your assassination is a very efficient way of discovering who your friends are.
The years immediately following this debacle only grew darker for Rushdie; family, friends and colleagues (and even their families) were threatened and attacked, his Italian translator stabbed, his Japanese translator murdered. Desperate to appease his tormenters in order to put an end to such attacks, he published an article declaring that he had embraced Islam and apologising for his previous blasphemy, but this fell on deaf ears. Here again, was a foreshadowing of things to come; Rushdie discovered that the nature of fanaticism is that it cannot be reasoned with and does not seek dialogue. A similarly dark lesson was learned too late by Theo van Gogh who was murdered in the street for the film he made in partnership with Ayaan Hirsi Ali about the plight of Muslim women in Holland; as he lay in the street having been shot off his bike, he tried to reason with his killer before his throat was cut (Ms Hirsi Ali has since had to live a life of constant surveillance and protection comparable to that of Rushdie’s).
During his years on the run, possibly due to the publicity surrounding the initial circumstances, his life was erroneously characterised by some as a kind of glamorous Bond-esque existence; the international man of mystery always accompanied by black-suited anonymous agents. For his part he has always been puzzled by this association, “To me it felt like prison”. This is illustrated most harrowingly in his description of the panic he felt when a minor miscommunication about the whereabouts of his son led him to believe that he had been taken, the horror of such a thing is probably more vividly understood by those who have children, for my part, I can only imagine.
Ever since he became a hunted man, he has become a kind of go-to talking head when matters of free speech and offence, particularly in a religious context, are brought to the public square. And the multiple interviews and re-posting of his old articles over the past week have almost served to obscure his more comprehensive commentary on the matter: the book itself.
The interest in his story should not be surprising; Rushdie himself concluded that the tumult surrounding the publication of The Satanic Verses was bigger than either him or his work. I believe most people instinctively recognise the relevance of such cases to their own lives and to democracy. Others, sadly, recoil in fear. A number of rather flaccid platitudes (still in use today in relation either to Mr Rushdie’s case or to other examples of so-called ‘blasphemy’) were employed by those who failed to recognise the relevance of this struggle and wished to distance themselves from him. One Rushdie himself finds rather amusing is “he knew what he was doing”. In Rushdie’s words “it would be really strange, I thought, to spend five years writing a novel and not know what I was doing; what would that be, that act?” The absurdity of such a statement aside, the other implication is that he was trying to cause offence and expecting a response – which was simply not the case. Despite being a secularist, Rushdie’s writing is, for the most part, an overwhelmingly colourful homage to the diverse religious and cultural traditions of India and not an attempt to denigrate them. In fact, the ‘offensive’ chapter was an abstract dream sequence based on a religious myth that in no way sought to attack Islam or the Prophet Mohammed. However, even if he had sought to offend, as the creators of the recent controversial ‘film’ appear to have, it says nothing to justify the actions of those who react to it through a campaign of violence and intimidation, nor does the fact that the film is devoid of artistic merit. Indeed, another tactic adopted by those who sought to abandon Rushdie was to dodge the blasphemy question entirely by attacking the book on purely literary grounds, thereby spinelessly absolving them of the responsibility to stand up for freedom of expression. The literary or artistic worth of the material makes little difference to those who seek an excuse to commit acts of violence or surrender to them. To paraphrase Rushdie, when asked about the events of the last week, defending free speech sometimes involves defending people you don’t like and free speech includes the right to behave badly.
In Rushdie’s own words, “Censorship changes the subject and introduces a more tedious subject; it creates a more boring world.” Censorship does not respect the difference between trash and art. If we remove the right of the less pleasant elements of society to make trash, we give up great art as well. In a world where the right to ugly speech is not defended alongside the right to beautiful speech, we would possibly have already lost Salman Rushdie and his writing. Salman Rushdie’s journey should remind us all of the importance of defending what we have in free societies. Indeed, such cases as his are not merely a matter of private trauma but affect us all. This was eerily illustrated by Christopher Hitchens, who, in the conclusion of the chapter in his own memoir, detailing his friendship with Rushdie and his defence of him after the issuing of the fatwa, employs the phrase mutate nomine de te fabula naratatur, “change only the name and the story is about you.”
Markets have arisen independently of intentional design, just as the human eye, for the non-religiously inclined at least – as useful and as complex organism as it may be – evolved independently of intentional design. Counter-intuitively, therefore, it is fallacious to regard markets as a human invention. Markets are so intrinsic an aspect of human living that we may regard them as a correlative of human life as much as a swelling belly is a correlative of pregnancy. They are as intrinsically a part of human life as the formation of groups, communities or societies. They are the default position that occurs under conditions of freedom. They are – quite literally – as old as the existence of homo sapiens. Anthropologists have formulated many biological categories to identify the earliest homo, but the one that Dawie Roodt and I have formulated for use in our impending book Maverick Economics is homo tradiensis – trading man. When two people or more form a group, they form, a market; it exists independently of their volition.
Markets exist as a consequence of the fact that no single human being can ever do everything to sustain life by himself or herself. The earliest forms of markets took the form of co-operative trades: trades of strength, of speed, of dexterity, of guile. Author Haim Ofek in his book Second Nature argues that the biological evolution of the free hands of the bipedal hominid led to the use of weapons, which led in turn to the emergence of tradable private property.
Ofek suggests that fire makers and custodians exchanged access to their fires for food. Fire makers were pioneers in the exchange of services for things. They set up their markets in caves in wooded areas, carefully nurturing several hearths used to kindle fires for other groups in exchange for food, skins, and other resources. Trade allowed the fire keepers to concentrate on maintaining the all-important fires, while simultaneously freeing the other groups to specialise in food and resource acquisition. Work specialisation and private property rights not only provided the grounds for intra-kin trades, they inevitably provided the grounds for extra-kin trade, because extra-kin trade provided access to an endlessly increasing range of specialisations and rewards. Within this axis of specialization, private property rights, and extra-kin engagement markets were born, and markets provided the necessary impetus for the evolution of the large brain. Markets were thus not the consequence of the emergence of casino online species homo sapiens, but its cause – which is why we call our earliest forebear homo tradiensis.
The proposition that markets are not a human invention is not one that people will naturally agree with, even people who regard themselves as “free marketers”. This is because markets have every appearance of being an enormously useful institution that we actively form or establish to our great advantage. We elect, for instance, to form a stock market, or a Saturday morning village market. But I would like readers to consider that, in establishing a market, we are not establishing the concept of a market, because the concept of a market is intrinsic. It might strike some as a fanciful analogy – sorry, I can’t think of another one – but we don’t invent the concept of love every time we fall in love. We simply do what comes naturally, in the same way that we do what comes naturally when we “go to market”.
Markets are not systems.
Markets are not systems. They are not comparable with any –ism designed to achieve a utilitarian outcome. They are neither intrinsically good nor bad, and since they are not designed to deliver a normative outcome, it makes absolutely no sense to talk of “market failure”. It is humans who succeed or fail, not markets. Whilst markets have a great many characteristics we may choose to regard highly if we want to – they are inimical to war, they are socially enriching, they build cultural and linguistic bridges, they transform production into wealth, they meet material needs of consumers – they are actually not specifically designed to achieve any of these purposes.
For these reasons I occupy what may be regarded as the unhelpful position of regarding arguments about the value or otherwise of markets as what the lawyers call (I think) supererogatory – proving the existence of something that doesn’t need to be proved. Striving to prove that one is alive is also supererogatory. Markets are not in a competition against any other form of organised behaviour, just as breathing is not in a competition against dietary supplements. Those who claim they don’t like markets love to present us with an apparent choice between markets and person-made systems like central planning or price control. These are bogus choices. The real choice is better presented thus: you can have markets, or you can ban or disallow markets. The concomitant choice is: you can have freedom or you can have servility. The opposite of reason is not emotion, it is unreason; the opposite of markets is not state control, it is no markets
Markets are not brought into existence by virtue of the apologia we make for them, or the rationale we may – mistakenly in my view – make on their behalf, just as love isn’t brought into existence by love poetry. People who claim to dislike markets are liars; everybody loves markets, and everybody makes use of markets. Markets exist when two people come together to make a private transaction; they exist at the side of roads; they exist in towns and villages where people buy local produce; they exist in rural communities; they exit in all their glory in Fez and Marrakesh, and throughout the Arab world; they exist in Portobello Road; they exist on the Internet; and of course they exist on bourses. Markets are pervasive; they inhabit every single nook and cranny of our lives, except when they are physically prevented from existing by human intervention, an intervention always characterised by a limitation of freedom. But no amount of illegalisation or proscription will ever finally extirpate market transactions: witness the global trade in narcotics, in rhino horn and in stolen goods.
So, in answer to the question: why do markets matter? I don’t provide an answer, but instead I ask market antagonists a question of my own: why don’t markets matter? Of course, they never will provide an answer.