Queen Bees (the Danish edition)

I’ve fallen in love again. It happens every few years. Never let it be said I don’t have a type!

So who (apart from hubby) is the individual who can claim my heart (and the wide, fixed cheesy grin on my face) every time I see her smile?

Why, Sidse Babett Knudsen of course. You don’t recognise the name? Shame on you! But then neither did I until six weeks ago. Not until hubby suggested we give the Danish political drama, Borgen on BBC Four a go. Naturally (and perhaps predictably) I stuck my nose up at first. (As I recall it was in that purse-lipped, shrivelled up fashion where it looks as though I’ve just noticed the drains are up). Six weeks later and the fictional election and government of Birgitte Nyborg as Denmark’s first female Prime Minister (Statsminister), leading her Moderate Party into a centre-left coalition is in full swing. And I simply can’t get enough.

Borgen or The Castle is the nickname for Christiansborg Palace, which houses all three of Denmark’s branches of government: the Parliament, the Prime Minister’s Office and the Supreme Court.

On the one hand, Borgen is on a par with any other political serial; full of Machiavellian twists and turns, big bloated egos, double dealings and double bluffs all conducted with one hand outstretched and the other in the pocket of big money, big industry, big society, or all three by the time the denouement comes around. How can a somewhat naive, honest and underestimated middle-aged married mother of two hope to lead the government of one of the richest and most developed nations on Earth, when that government is only loosely held together by warring, disparate values, and, perhaps most crucially to the drama, the under-stated yet resounding strength of Nyborg’s own personality?

There’s that smile again!

Feeding off and into this big political bubble, where even the most casual nod, wink, whisper or half-truth gets magnified out of all earthly proportion sits a bloody-mouthed carnivorous media populated by its own bloated egos within its own bubble waiting, just waiting (and hoping) for Nyborg to slip up. Vested interests, hidden agendas, heroes, villains, diplomacy and conspiracy all play their part while all about, the randomness of current events swirls around the major players adding an edgy chaos to their professional and personal lives.

Borgen may very well be as one Youtube commentator put it,

“An amazing series from empowered Scandinavia (and) a great advertisement campaign for ‘enlightened’ gynarchy, where men quite simply aren’t good enough to lead.”

Or to put it another way,

“Manginas will really and truly and absolutely dig this show. Its the kind of stuff that sends rad-feminazis and their neutered male poodles, into wet-dream induced paroxysms.”

(Perhaps I’m to be found in there somewhere?)

But on the other hand, Borgen has something very different to offer. How many serial dramas have you seen that offer an insight into Denmark’s political, cultural and social relationship with Greenland; a former Danish colony from 1814 ultimately self-governing from 2009 (albeit with a hefty annual subsidy totalling DKK 3.4 billion)? How often do we merely concern ourselves with endless analyses of relationships within our own small corner of the planet, whether it be Anglo-Irish historical enmity, the Entente cordiale with our nearest continental neighbour, or the perpetual West Lothian Question. How refreshing therefore to be exposed to another perspective on a world view that is by no means alien to us, that of continuing, evolving colonial legacy.

It was, I suppose inevitable that I fall for her. Just like Battlestar Galactica’s President Laura Roslin before her (epically portrayed by Mary McDonnell), Statsminister Nyborg has a whole heap of Janeway qualities and mannerisms; authoritative, intelligent and feminine, with an icy death stare that could shrivel even the most obdurate, egotistical set of testicles. Oh and if you’re wondering what a Janeway is, don’t bother coming round here anymore, ever.

So similar are all three fictional characters – Nyborg, Roslin and Janeway, I can’t help but consider what it is about these women that attracts me and drives me so completely to distraction. They are, of course all women of a certain age, they are all queen bees. They are also highly principled and infuriatingly stubborn. Consequently each becomes completely immovable after a certain point in the plot is reached. One could say they are all self-sacrificing to a certain degree, but not to the extent they become victims. Granted, there may sometimes be a whiff of martyrdom on the air, mixing effortlessly with the scent of hand cream and ultra-hold hair mousse, but the concept is light, feathery and ethereal enough to disappear long before you get the chance to consider it for too long. In their shadier moments, it is also probably true to say each is capable of using subterfuge and of exploiting other people’s weaknesses. But it is done only ever in pursuit of the worthiest of goals, and always without compromising the aforementioned principles, of which there can never, ever be any deviation. The ends certainly do not always justify the means, and you’d be ill-advised to second-guess.

And then of course as far as Borgen and Sidse Babett Knudsen is concerned, there’s the language…

It’s a curious thing to become so used to hearing an actress speak in her native Danish tongue (while hastily soaking up the subtitles), that when she suddenly launches into speaking fluent, unfettered English and the subtitles cease, it’s my mother tongue that suddenly sounds very odd. In a strange way, it takes time for my ear to acclimatise to English again, despite the fact it’s the language I live with. It really is the darnedest thing. Needless to say without the subtitles I wouldn’t be able to understand anything save for a few words she or anybody else said. But it’s my lack of comprehension that adds gravitas to her voice, it adds mystery. It colours my perception of the character too. So then, upon hearing English spoken so effortlessly and without warning, Statsminister Nyborg is suddenly somewhat softer – the peaks, troughs and intonation of her sentences are no longer mysterious. She appears less opaquely political and more vulnerable. Dare I say it, more (classically) feminine.

Perhaps that is ultimately why Borgen and Birgitte Nyborg inhabited by Knudsen tick my boxes so fully? Strip away the 21st century European politics and what you have left is a woman revealing intelligently, yet softly what it means to be, a woman.

What is there not to love?

Related Links:

Borgen Official Website

Playing catch-up

I’m sofa-jigging again.

I know I’m very late to the party. It happens more and more as I age. But if I tell you I gave up watching music television as far back as 2003 (sometime after Beyoncé announced she was Crazy in Love), that I’ve only ever watched The X Factor or The Voice long enough to change the channel, and if I confess I don’t listen to Radio 1 unless I’m forced to and don’t really reach for radio in general with anything approaching regularity, you’ll perhaps understand why the latest Cheryl Cole auto-tuned Americanism and Nicki Minaj vagina monologue tend to pass me by. You’d need to go back further still to find the point where music and the hedonistic weekly pursuit of what was “new” and “now” were my singular priority.

What exactly is it I do with my time?

Hmm. I’ll get back to you on that one.

Nowadays I guess I’m more concerned with grown up matters, whatever they are? Perhaps if I had children I’d be exposed to the latest music media machines a lot more? Although whatever they were listening to, I’d probably only be berating its volume while boiling pasta for dinner, surreptitiously hiding vegetables in the purée, waiting for the fourth load of washing of the day to finish in the machine and like Solomon, arbitrating over yet another “it’s mine” scenario.

God bless the parents!

But no, instead I have a curious level of affection for Alex Salmond that only a disenfranchised sassenach could ever possess, I’d sooner tweet to BBC weathermen than Will.i.am, I’m suddenly at my most relaxed reviewing risk assessments and dead-heading nasturtiums, and the only homework I have to worry about is my own. I’m aged 39, sofa-jigging, forever playing catch-up and quite happy doing so.

It’s not the first time it’s happened. I think the last occasion was when I missed Gaga’s planetary invasion in 2009, only falling prey a full year later in the summer of 2010 when she let Alejandro lose on my senses. It must’ve taken the same length of time for Single Ladies to force its way into my conscious mind. And I will admit, it’s not as if I’ve only heard this particular little ditty for the first time this evening. I’ve been tinkering with it for a while already, but only now has its influence reached critical mass and I’m reduced to humming it while doing the dishes, ironing my shirt, phoning my mother, feeding the cats and driving to work.

Ah, that’s what I do with my time!

I suppose I could bemoan the fact that at the moment of initial impact I was so apparently disconnected that I breezed through it all completely unwise and unaffected, and that’s even with the multiple access opportunities of the modern wifi age, even when something is being continuously played at me and sold to me, supposedly after the ad breaks have finished. I suppose the charge could also be levied against me that what I’ve found myself bobbing along to is hardly cutting edge – if anything, it’s the inane sound of mass marketed melisma which bears no comparison to what marvels I’d be exposed to if I took the slightest interest in exploring whatever passes for counter-culture these days. But I quite like being a couple of steps behind, and any false embarrassment I felt at being observed listening to anything that didn’t have the notion of “cool” attached to it vanished along with my copy of Jam and Spoon’s Age of Love and the death of Tony De Vit. The unceasing call to “upgrade” is wasted on me. I enjoy stumbling into things once the hyperbole has grown tiresome and the initial brightly coloured sheen has worn off. If nothing else, the advertisers have moved on and I’m not forced to sit inert for 3o irritating seconds while Vevo tries its damnedest to sell me anti-perspirant or the latest Florence and the Machine vignette.

30 seconds? Since when did I become so impatient?

Hmm. I’ll get back to you on that one.

A breast-plate filled with diamonds

I understand the attraction of monarchy.

I understand the comforting sense of cohesion it brings, the steadfast idea of nationhood it evokes.

I do not underestimate its influence; its fortified power and the enduring psychological effect it has on people. Across the world today, nations are ripping themselves apart in search of what it means to be a nation, killing each other along the way. How fortunate we are, some surely say, that we have a pair of such experienced, unflappable hands on the tiller. Elizabeth the Great (“Mummy”) is at the helm.

Britannia steers a true course through choppy seas.

Matters can appear sadly disparate on our islands sometimes. And as waves of separateness continue to sweep in, affecting all of us in their path, I’m sure nothing makes people feel safer than something as familiar, as concrete and immovable as the rock on which British monarchy is built. To many it must be a real tonic to warm the body against the frightful chilly winds of disconnect that have buffeted all the other immovable institutions we used to fool ourselves into believing in, to shreds.

I have heard people talk about the monarchy in the most cosy of terms over this weekend. They swoon, sigh and giggle as they transform back into children before my very eyes. Suddenly they are mollified, pacified and anaesthetised, full up on “Mummy’s” breast milk. Wow! What a crazy drug it must be. How blissfully numbing it must feel to willfully lobotomise yourself and sink into a kaleidoscopic psychedelic sea of red, white and blue, of a Britannic breast-plate filled with diamonds.

I get how intoxicating it is. But no matter how close I may come to succumbing to peer pressure, to being convinced of all the monarchy may positively, tribally reinforce, the whole concept leaves a nasty, sour taste in my mouth.

For there is nothing more distasteful to me than the calculated spectacle of two generations of heirs to Elizabeth the Great’s throne standing beside her, aloft on a balcony while the pomp and circumstance of her family’s continuing power thunders around her. What greater testament to inequality could one ever hope to see? Even more saddening is the almighty cheer that arises from the street below the balcony, through the drizzle and Spitfire exhaust fumes.

Therefore, it is on a weekend such as this that I must stay away and keep my own counsel. For it appears that a large majority of my countrymen seem content to continue to champion and cheer hereditary privilege and a hierarchical class mentality, come what may, no matter what the cost to themselves.

In this regard, the flag-waving, wet-nursed hoards need have no fear; the line of succession is alive, well and waiting in the wings;

Long to reign over us.

Related Posts:

Presenting Representations

Going to Word

Rohypnol in the glove compartment

Aren’t you gonna stop and help that poor guy pick up what he dropped when you barged past him? It was your fault, lady. Perhaps you should spend more time looking where you’re going and less time making kissy faces at that blasted camera. Honestly! And as for the petty theft of that guy’s phone, I’m sure that lip-synching snippet you left on the memory card will spare the police no end of hassle tracking you down and hurling you, hot pants-first into a urine-sodden holding cell. It’s no less than you deserve. Still, by the look of the rest of those reprobate mutants stacked ear to nipple in that sweaty holocaust shelter, a night in the cells is the least of your worries. Thank heavens you’re not given to tart yourself up in one of those meat dresses – all those docile, starstruck pedestrians dribbling and salivating into their cups would rip you to shreds before you’d strutted even halfway down Old Compton Street (in those ridiculously sexy heels). Just please, do me one favour sweetheart, next time you hop into a waiting convertible with a stranger at the wheel and Rohypnol in the glove compartment, put your feckin seatbelt on woman, for the love of disco! Do you really want to end up through the windscreen and under one of those London buses (thrown in to let the foreigners know where you’re supposed to be).

Oh to hell with it. I’m done worrying about you. Stay out as late as you like. I’m just going to put your egregious errors in judgement and blinkered insensitivity towards everyone else who happened to be sales shopping that day down to your pampered lifestyle and plastic, tupperware skin-tone. I’ll be honest, if I could fit my hips into an Edward Scissorhands original the way you do, burp out an epically infectious, erogenic ditty like this, and conduct it all without the meerest hint of pretension, I’d probably have an honest A-list swagger in my step and playful larcenous tendencies too.

Besides, I’m with you, girl. I wanna dance like it was the last dance of my life.

Oh, by the way, red hanky in rear right pocket could get a girl into a fistful of misunderstanding in Soho. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Related Posts:

Glittered Fashions

The World According to Mincey Strider

Mandolin chords and quirky foreign charisma

“Now I hear them moving, muffled noises coming through the door – I’m feel I’m crackin’ up!”

I’ve been auditorily kidnapped and I gotta say; Stockholm Syndrome never felt (or sounded) so good. I swear they came out of nowhere, my assailants – 4 in total; 2 women and 2 men. The funny thing is they’ve played this trick on me many times before. They’ve been leaping out and scaring the pants off me pretty much my whole life – they’re hardly what I would call strangers. Nevertheless they’ve had me dangling in a vice-like grip for over a week now and damn their exquisite harmonies and unusually articulate rhyme, they just ain’t showin’ any sign of retreating and letting me go.

Not that I want to be released anytime soon. I’m trapped in a prison wrapped in a prism of my own design; of flared 70′s Euro-exuberance, synth-ridden matrimonial breakdown, 80′s vocoder overdubs and enough man-made fibres and gaudy colour coordination to make my retinas ache. Absolutely everywhere I turn I’m met by a kaleidoscopic frenzy of lacquered green snakeskin and azure blue eye shadow. What’s more the air is thick with the smell of Hai Karate and Vosene hair shampoo, and I’m absolutely dripping wet with hot Swedish Erotica.

“Andante, Andante!”

The truth of it is I’m being stalked by obscure ABBA songs.

Trust me, this isn’t just a passing crooked lip-synch, a facial profile phasing in and out of focus or even a couple of repeats of Dancing Queen. I can’t stand Dancing Queen anyway. Dancing Queen is to ABBA what Bohemian Rhapsody is to Queen – a fantastic crowd pleaser during a greatest this or that countdown, but a royal pain in the neck to anyone who’s ever dipped more than their big toe into the full back catalogue. Anyone who tells you Dancing Queen is their favourite ABBA song is a fucking troglodyte! Ask them to talk to you about their appreciation for the haunting, existential funereal coda behind The Day Before You Came or the psychedelic description of the mistreatment of Soviet political dissidents in The Visitors, and then they can call themselves a fan. Any of us can “see that girl”, all of us can “watch that scene”, but quite frankly, I need a little bit more meat on the bone.

Ok, I know I’m laying it on a bit thick. I tell you what, I’ll settle for someone who can get past Waterloo and consider its predecessor Ring Ring a much better Eurovision contender.

“… the happiest sound of them all.”

Don’t for goodness sake allow yourself to be lulled into a false sense of security by their pleasing demeanour and quirky, foreign charisma. This is no friendly Fernando campfire sing-a-long. They must’ve locked me inside the archives, somewhere deep in the bowels of Polar Studios, 58 Sankt Eriksgatan and let me tell you, this is no place for wispy, airy-fairy cover versions of I Have A Dream, or even Madonna’s hijacking of the Gimme, Gimme, Gimme riff. I’m groping about in the darkness, vicariously enduring Agnetha’s tortured separation anxiety, humming the mandolin chords from Chiquitita, all the while wading through some seriously full-on contradictory joyous, Scandinavian melancholia. This is real original hardcore shit!

“This park and these houses, old streets I have walked. Everything dear – will it be here, one day when I am returning? My friends will get married, have children and homes. It sounds so nice, well planned and wise – never expecting surprises”

It’s all I can do to wrap my head around Hole In Your Soul with its rock and roll rhythmic high-jinks or I Wonder (Departure) and its heart-rending emotional counterpoint, and marvel at how such diametrically-opposed musical artistry could sit neatly on the same piece of vinyl alongside chart monsters such as Take A Chance On Me and The Name Of The Game, all without the meerest hint of formula, and all with seemingly the least amount of effort. It is perhaps no surprise they called that particular record ABBA – The Album. By that point in their story, titularity was completely superfluous. By 1977 the quartet had already gone stratospheric, out-selling Volvo cars as Sweden’s number one export.

Oh I know it’s all hopelessly nostalgic but everything in life is cyclical. This isn’t the 1st time the four of them have scooped me up from wherever I happen to be only to plonk me head-first into a bonkers Bang-a-Boomerang repeat shuffle of the likes of Two For The Price Of One, As Good As New and Me and I. I’ve learned through experience that it’s best to embrace it when Frida, Benny, Agnetha and Björn decide to gatecrash my, otherwise quiet little life. To be honest with you, I’m damned if I can remember a time when they weren’t there, looming in the gloom;

“Like an angel passing through my room.”

Related Links:

ABBA Official Website

Retro Boogie (part one)

The Buttons Blog Abba YouTube Channel

Travelling from Paris to Jerusalem on horseback

Why, when I look back to the points in history that appeal to me, do I always find myself inexorably drawn to the women in the story?

England’s medieval monarchy has always been a corner of history that excites me. If you wanted me to be even more specific, it would be the Plantagenet dynasty that really sets my imagination racing. But for all your Henrys, your Richards, your Geoffreys and your Johns, it’s the Mauds, the Matildas and of course the Eleanors who leave their burnished mark upon me.

When people speak of Henry II – the first Plantagenet King (1133-1189) they talk of a ruthlessness, a passion and a hot-headedness inherited from his Angevin father, Geoffrey. His intelligence, they say, he inherited from his mother, Matilda.

Wasn’t it always thus?

Matilda was England’s first ever Queen – in all but name. She was the only surviving legitimate child of King Henry I, following the disastrous sinking of the White Ship off rocks at Barfleur in 1120, where her brother, heir to the throne, perished. Her father, Henry even went as far as proclaiming her next in line to rule. But she was never crowned and is normally excluded from the list of English monarchs. Upon Henry’s death, and while pregnant with her third child, Matilda’s cousin Stephen of Blois laid claim to England’s throne before she could reach London. It was this act of betrayal which threw the whole country into a succession crisis. With the lords, barons and bishops split firmly down the middle, England entered a period of bloody civil war. It was a time that would become known as The Anarchy.

It won’t surprise you to know that a woman’s lot in 12th Century England was not exactly what we would consider equal, even for those of high birth. Choices were slim. Generally, women were considered completely unintelligent and base, fit for either bearing children, whoring or (if born into nobility) working at needlepoint. Should a woman of rank become widowed, their sole decision was to either re-marry (as quickly as possible) or to retire to a nunnery. What is remarkable about Matilda is that despite being widowed (at the age of 23) and being forced by her father into a violent, loveless marriage to Geoffrey of Anjou, she took an active role in all military campaigns against the usurper, Stephen. She is even recorded as being present (albeit from a distance) on the battlefield – something unheard of for a woman. Her greatest triumph came in February 1141 when Stephen was captured and effectively deposed at the Battle of Lincoln. Unfortunately for Matilda however, she never consolidated her advantage and ultimately failed in her bid to become (crowned) England’s queen.

On the one hand, there was Matilda and on the other Stephen of Blois, and his wife – the Queen consort, Maud.

Stephen is generally considered to have been pious, modest and very rash – thoroughly unsuited to the harsh realities of the role of Medieval monarch. Bedeviled by rumours of his father’s cowardice his whole life, it remains debatable whether he would have ever seized the crown at all were it not for the stronger will and personality of his wife, Maud.

Maud was in fact Matilda’s first cousin, and that she was her husband’s strongest supporter there is no doubt. Following Stephen’s capture at the Battle of Lincoln on 2 February 1141, Maud hit back, first journeying north to treat with David I of Scotland, then returning south where she besieged and routed Winchester, ultimately capturing Matilda’s half-brother, Robert of Gloucester. In the end, on 14 September 1141, it was the two women who met and negotiated an exchange of prisoners – Stephen for Robert.

So much for needlepoint.

It was after Winchester that Matilda finally accepted Stephen’s governance and, realising her moment had passed, began to sink all her efforts into ensuring her son, Henry ascended to the throne after Stephen’s death. And in this, she was utterly and completely successful. Maud may have been victorious in safeguarding her husband’s reign come the end of The Anarchy, but the continuation of the House of Blois would not, ultimately come to pass.

What’s my point?

It is simply this.

Men may be the ones who bluster about with their swords sheathed in blood, claiming victory and the glory for themselves, but it is the women behind them and beside them who build dynastys. They are the progenitors of our societies.

For proof, one need only look to Eleanor of Aquitaine – Henry II’s one and only wife. She was Duchess of Aquitaine in her own right before marrying Henry, having also been Queen of France following her first marriage to Louis VII. It was during this marriage that she journeyed to the Holy Land to participate in the unsuccessful Second Crusade.

Let’s just consider that for a moment. A 12th century woman travelling from Paris to Jerusalem and back , on horseback!

She bore 10 children in all – 7 with Henry. She survived a succession of uprisings and revolts against him – on occasion she even instigated them herself. She lived through her two tempestuous marriages, all the while contending with her sons shifting loyalties and their constant brinkmanship over land, titles, fiefdoms and ultimately, the throne. In no uncertain terms, Eleanor was the glue which held together all of that which Henry considered his – his family, his lands, and his throne. While he, it could be argued, was busy amusing himself with an invasion of Ireland, Eleanor was literally holding the fort in Aquitaine, doing the difficult job of placating her southern French barons, most of whom were hardly Henry’s staunchest allies. Her husband and her sons may have laid claim to each of the lands of the Angevin Empire as over-lord at one time or another, but in the end, she outlived all but the last, John.

For the likes of Maud, Matilda and Eleanor to succeed in overcoming the disadvantage in being (of all things) a woman in Medieval Europe, cannot be underestimated. This, at a time when it was common knowledge that all women were directly descended from Eve and therefore personally responsible for all Sin. To bear this unchallenged misogyny while providing an inexhaustible amount of children, travelling the length and breadth of the known world, all the while managing the affairs of state while their husbands either hunted, squabbled or bedded concubines leaves me aghast with awe.

No man could ever do what they did.

Eleanor was a remarkable 82 years old when she died on 1 April 1204.

Through her (and Henry), the House of Plantagenet bore a total of 14 other monarchs, the line only ending 280 years after Eleanor’s death with Henry Tudor’s victory over Richard III at the Battle of Bosworth Field on 22 August 1485.

In today’s Britain, the descendants of the Plantagenet dynasty (legitimate or otherwise) are some of the wealthiest landowners in the country, including the current 11th Duke of Beaufort, David Somerset – descendant of Edward III, Eleanor’s great, great, great grandson.

Ignoring the elephant on the forecourt

So, what was all that about?

No, I’m not talking about the unseasonably summer-like temperatures we’ve all enjoyed over the last 10 days or so. I’m referring to the 72 hours of petro-madness that had forecourts running dry country-wide.

A lot has been made of the so-called collective panic that gripped us all on Tuesday evening through to Friday morning of this week; how all it took was one off the cuff remark from a little known Cabinet Office Minister to have us buying up Halford’s entire supply of jerry cans, queueing at the pumps, fighting each other on the forecourts, and; in one extreme case, decanting petrol in the kitchen (of all places) with the dinner cooking and ending up with 40% burns.

A lot has been made of the possibility of government conspiracy, designed to fire the first shot in a defining “Thatcher moment” against the UNITE Union and their strike ballot of tanker drivers. Other theories talk of either an engineered crisis to swell government coffers before the end of the tax year, or of a convenient distraction from what has been, in anyone’s language, a truly awful week for the government. First there was the Budget, its tax cuts for the wealthy and pension income freezes for the over 65s. Then there were covert recordings of nefarious offers of influence over government policy, but only if you could afford the quarter million price tag for dinner with Dave. And then, to top it all off with a nice tasty crust, there was (of all things) the pasty tax!

Perhaps it’s not that silly to consider that any political animal, of any persuasion, would gladly rub their hands with glee at the prospect of turning all those awful headlines on their head, by whatever means necessary. We’ve already established that the majority of our representatives are woefully removed from what most of us would consider an ordinary life. (How many of us have garages to store petrol in anyway?) Combine that with an unyielding desire to change the subject at any given moment and it’s easy to imagine Whitehall boffins without an ounce of common sense between them suddenly dreaming up the bonkers notion of creating a panic for fuel when all they had to go on, in fact, was a UNITE Union vote – nothing more.

Stranger things have happened.

But, to my mind, all of this theory and anger directed towards the people running the country misses the gigantic elephant in the room (or in this case, on our nation’s petrol forecourts) that everybody seems content to ignore.

It wasn’t collective panic we witnessed this week – there was nothing collective about it. If we had all been thinking of our collective need, Francis Maude’s comments would’ve already been forgotten. The fact is, it was individualism of the most selfish kind that created the scenes we saw. It was about our disconnect from the people and the communities around us, both locally and nationally. We’ve all been out for ourselves over the last few days, to hell with everyone else, and we should all hang our collective heads in shame. Indeed, the inevitable clamouring for Maude’s resignation since yesterday is evidence enough of the fact that the process has already begun. But it’s always very convenient and perhaps predictable that we transfer our shame into anger and re-direct it at someone, anyone so that we don’t, collectively, have to question our own actions and how completely distasteful they were. But the reality is, we’re not angry with Francis Maude, we’re angry with ourselves. We’re angry that we could be so inconsiderate, so unreasoning, so selfish, and so completely ignorant of the needs of others.

And so we should be.

There can only be one positive outcome from this alarming episode. We have to learn from what we’ve just witnessed within ourselves. It’s no good blaming our own behaviour on silly remarks from daft Cabinet ministers. On any other day of the week we wouldn’t trust a single word of what they said. We need to stop looking for a scapegoat for our own narrow self-centredness and be a bit more grown-up. That means looking at ourselves fully in the blackened, oil-soaked mirror and being honest about our own vulgar, heedless, self-destructive actions. Only by accepting how completely cannibalistic we became, can we ever hope to guard against it happening again. One has to be hopeful that this is a lesson learned. Because it is only a matter of time before real energy crises develop as the Age of Oil enters its death-throes. Perhaps we’re already there? Perhaps all we saw on our petrol forecourts this week was a crude exhibition from a bunch of drug addicts scrapping and hollering for one last fix? If that’s the case, each one of us should be quite rightly panicked. Not by a need to stockpile the stuff. But by how hopelessly ill-prepared we are for when the pumps really do run dry.

Related Links:

Pennorama

John Hefford