Misandry - the acceptable face of discrimination

Most people reading this blog will, I imagine, be familiar with the term 'misogyny'. It's strict definition is a hatred of women, though its meaning has been broadened in the mainstream media to include any act of discrimination by males against females. It's something which ageing male television presenters seem to be accused of on a fairly regular basis, and of course a misogynistic attitude is wrong, plain and simple.

Who among you, though, is familiar with the term 'misandry'? Scholars of ancient Greek will recognise the fragment of 'andros' in there, the word for 'man', and so it should take no great leap of the imagination to discern that we're discussing a 'male equivalent of misogyny'. That is, after all, the term I put into Google to find 'misandry', though in my defence it's such an underused word that none of the spell-checkers on my computer include it in their standard definitions.

This is wonderful news, isn't it? A term so underused that it doesn't even appear in the dictionary. Surely, then, incidents of misandry are so rare as to be impossible to find. I wish it was so.

Misandry is woven into the fabric of modern popular culture. Don't believe me? Well, I can give you four common examples, and I'd be really surprised if you haven't come across at least one of these in the last six months.

• Diet Coke ads
  This is one which just keeps running and running, and has even been updated recently. If you're not familiar with the concept, allow me to explain; it's not very sophisticated... The idea is that a bunch of modern career ladies are working hard, and deserve a break. What better than a Diet Coke, because of course women are always worried about their weight, right? This advert is guilty of misogyny too!
  
  But of course, it's not that simple, because by some convoluted and not quite believable reason, there's a hunky guy strutting around their office performing some manual task or other, over whom they drool, thereby objectifying him in a manner which would cause outrage if the gender roles were reversed. But it's OK, because it's just a man, and they don't mind being made into sex objects, right?
  
• Silly Daddy Pig
  Peppa Pig is a very important part of many young girls' lives. I really can't object to the program as a whole - it's harmless, quite funny and moderately educational, and not even too annyoing for the parents (well, me at least. Can't speak for everyone here). However, one character takes a misandric bullet in almost every episode. Daddy pig is clumsy, lacking in common sense, prone to outbursts of anger and/or grumpiness, and generally seen as another dependent for Mummy Pig to look after.
  
  Wow. Stereotyped much? This falls squarely into a view of the world where the mother in any given modern nuclear family is the capable one, the one who manages the family, and the father is just another kid, albeit bigger. See also, the next point, regarding pharmaceutical adverts.
  
• Pharmaceutical and Pharmacy adverts
  What happens when winter comes? Daddy and the kids all mope around the house dying from a minor case of the sniffles, whilst mummy, who is suffering from real flu, period pains (their cliché, not mine) and possibly malaria, runs around doing everything. This usually includes the Christmas shopping, and Christmas dinner. All while holding down a big job in the city, making nativity costumes and curing cancer in her spare time. And how does she manage this? Well, apparently it's by taking Nurofen products and shopping at Boots.
  
  Really? Doesn't work that way in my house, and I suspect not in yours either. Mums are often amazing, don't get me wrong. But dads can be OK, too; they don't have to be (and often aren't) infantile dependents.
  
• Twilight moms
  Possibly the most disturbing case of double standards in recent times is the habit of middle-aged women screaming like pubescent girls over the teenage characters in the Twilight film franchise. I've used the American spelling of 'mom' since it's typically a US trend, though not exclusively so.
  
  Imagine this was a group of middle aged men getting hot and bothered about a teenage girl in a film. In public. With signs. And screaming. OK, that last part wouldn't happen anyway, one suspects, but just the very idea would have the Daily Mail up in arms about perverts. It's OK the other way around, though.
  
  Double standards are discrimination by exclusion - why should one group of people be allowed to behave in a certain way when another cannot? Or, rather, why should these women be allowed to get away with behaving in this (quite frankly disturbing) manner?

Why is this such an important issue? After all, haven't men been treating women in this way for centuries? Isn't it time for a bit of payback?

Well, no, not really. You see, even if misandry is deemed acceptable (and it certainly seems to be, according to mainstream media), that doesn't mean we should allow it to be part of our society. You see, following the logic of the 'payback' argument goes something like this:

1) Misandry is no different from misogyny.
2) Misandry is acceptable, because it's only fair.
3) Misogyny, being equivalent to misandry (see point 1), is therefore acceptable.

Um, no. No, it isn't. So, you see, if you make misandry acceptable, you're not only doing damage to the image of men, but serving to counter women's rights. Oops.

There's a second string to the 'damaging women's rights' bow, too - the idea that misandry is quite reasonable only serves to lower the tone of the argument. it says, "Look, we're just as bad as you are, now!" It serves only to reduce everything to the lowest common denominator. It's a race to the bottom, a fight to see who can be more discriminatory.

You might also be thinking to yourself that this isn't quite as important a fight as women's rights, or gay rights, or race rights, or the rights of any other oppressed minority. You're kind of right, I'll concede that. But, you see, if you blithely accept one form of discrimination, that leaves the door open for all of the other sorts. I'm not concerned that this misandry will have a significant effect on the role of men in society. What bothers me is that it is (and I really hate to use this term, because it's always used by those with a not-real-world view of the likely outcomes of anything) the thin end of the wedge. If this is OK, what else will be?

Two recent images

A couple of recent images to share. First up, a recent art project, on the subject of puns through sculpture. It's called "Cloud Computer", and is based on an old aluminium heat sink.

Second is "Nuclear Hospital", because that's sort of what it looks like...

Dear Pan-European Advertisers...

There's a bit of a habit sprung up in our modern word, where brands are global, and it's indicative of a thorough misunderstanding of the average British person. You see, we're not like other Europeans, not really. Oh yes, there are significant cultural divides right across the continent, but there's one way in which a great number of our European neighbours are quite similar - they don't mind crappy adverts. 

You know the ones I mean, the 'humourous' ones with plastic-looking, very European families. He is slick of hair and clean shaven, she looks like she's just stepped out of a salon, and the kids are dressed by Gap, and one of them carries a perfectly unused skateboard. They're hip, they're happening, and nothing like them has ever been seen west of the North Sea...

Then the advert gets dubbed. Badly. Because it's the same brand, we'll definitely have the same values when it comes to advertising, right? I mean, it's just an advert, isn't it? Well, no. Not exactly...

You see, here in the UK we get a bit antsy about adverts. We didn't have them for ages, then this channel started up called ITV, and it was paid for by advertising, and the whole game changed. Those precious moments when we could be watching the program we tuned in to watch, but are instead watching a sales pitch, are something to be treated very carefully. We don't want to be watching the advert, but if we have to it had better be damned good. Funny is a good place to start, but merely cool-looking will do. Expensive in look and feel is a definite, unless you're selling something cheap, in which case we'll forgive you, and ignore your product.

Adverts are a battle ground in the British media, a place for rival ad companies to try to outdo each other with their genius. The adverts get better and better, and we can tell when someone hasn't bothered. We can really tell when someone has just dubbed over an advert they've already used in Spain, France and the Czech Republic. And we resent it. Resent the laziness, and the assumption that we're anything like that unwashed, uncultured bunch over there on the continent (etc., etc.). 

Adverts on British television are an intrusion, and as such had better give us a damned good party trick or we'll boot them back out the way they just came in. 

So now you know.

Two rather important images

Firstly, it's important that you know that Amazon now sells Nerf guns by the ounce, like drugs (click image for larger, more readable version). I have no idea how this compares to the street price of cocaine. Anyone?

Secondly, it is also important that you know about the astonishing event taking place in Sheffield this Christmas. Just imagine "the magical blend of Christmas and the circus.... on ice!" I'm not sure one exclamation mark is enough to convey the excitement...

Why Americans need to be careful about who they vote for

There are plenty of reasons, I'm sure, for choosing one political party over another in the race for the American presidency. I imagine there's a fair amount of history involved, too - if your parents voted for one party or another, you're fairly likely to follow them, once you've got over your youthful rebellious phase. And of course, for the rest of us in the wider world, the outcome is extremely important - if the Democrats get in we'll get to hear rabid nonsense from Republicans for another few years about how America is going to waste, and if the Republicans get in we're likely to die in a massive nuclear war. Joys.

But Americans really need to have a good, long think about how they vote, because the direction of politics in America has a very profound affect on how the country is seen around the globe. Americans might suggest that they don't give a damn about what we think, and if that's their attitude that's fine. But it's short-sighted and naive, and I'll tell you why: without the export trade and the influx of tourists, the American economy is trousered.

These revenue streams are governed both by the strength of the American economy, and also - crucially - the perception of the American public across the wider world. People won't go to American if they think it's full of tub-thumping rednecks, and let me tell you one little thing you may have missed, America: if you elect Mittens Romney, people will think that you're a dangerous bunch of idiots.

Tourists will be shit-scared of your border agencies. Anyone who fails to believe in puritanical, Americanised Christianity will fear for their rights of religious freedom, and anyone living east of the Mediterranean will imagine themselves being arrested upon arrival for being a "damn Commie".

If you elect a Republican president, the world will, I'm afraid, have no option but to think of you as having potatoes instead of brains. You can complain all you want that I don't know the first thing about American politics, and you'd be mostly right, but this isn't about knowing American politics, it's about knowing how non-Americans think. And America, I've had years of practice at doing that...

Car Park Bingo: Sunny Day

Maserati Quattroporte! Only need the MC12 to complete my Maser line-up, as I've already had the GT in the same car park. Note the poor parking - squashed front off-side tyre.

For those unfamiliar with the rules of Car Park Bingo, it's quite simple: spy an exotic four-wheeled thingy in an everyday situation (supermarket car park, on the street, etc. - no motor shows!), and snap it with whatever photographic device is to hand. Upload it to your blog/Twitter/Facebook/other feed and label it 'Car Park Bingo'. There are no prizes and everyone's a winner!

Car Park Bingo: Upgrade!

I've had the V8 Vantage before, now I've got the V12 too...

Should we ban tobacco outright?

Recent legislation in the UK has seen another blow to the tobacco industry, with retailers no longer allowed to display tobacco and tobacco products on their shelves. Instead, these products must be kept in shuttered cabinets, with the shutters only opened at the precise moments of need. This is a further attempt to discourage youngsters from viewing the purchase of tobacco as a 'normal' activity, and further legislation might well get passed which enforces the sale of these products in plain, non-brand-designed packaging, to increasingly de-glamorise the industry. This move is already being implemented in Australia from December this year.

Clearly we are heading towards the point where sales of tobacco are eventually eliminated entirely. Certainly the current direction of policy is to marginalise the practise of smoking as much as possible - it is becoming harder to buy cigarettes, and the ban on public smoking sends addicts (an inflammatory term I very deliberately use) out into the freezing rain to get their fix. It would seem, then, that we are moving toward a society where smoking is banned outright.

Let me go on the record now to say that I agree with this outcome. Smoking should be banned, because it is an addictive, harmful activity with no benefit other than to satisfy a craving which only exists due to smoking in the first place. It costs the NHS something like £5bn per year, as well as having a knock-on effect onthe family and friends of smokers, not least through second-hand smoke inhalation.

Pro-smoking lobbying groups (often sponsored by, if not officially part of tobacco companies themselves) will argue that to smoke is the right of the individual, and that it should be a personal choice. To some extent it should be considered thus - after all, who are we to prevent others from making their own choices in these matters? On the other hand, though, imagine if tobacco was introduced to the world for the first time in 2012 - it would instantly be legislated against as a harmful drug, probably in Class C of the UK system, much like cannabis. It is only our history of using this drug, coupled to a perceived lack of impact on personality (unlike, for example, heroin use), which prevents it being considered quite as harmful as perhaps it should be.

Of course, a total ban is probably an impossible dream. Tobacco companies know they can't win the war, but they're fighting all the way. They support both the Conservatives and Labour in the UK, and as such can guide policy towards measures which, while they appear to be aimed at curbing the uptake of tobacco, will have very little effect on existing users - if you need your fix, you'll get it. We must also consider the revenue from tobacco sales, which is predicted to be £12.1bn for the 2011-2012 UK tax year, a not inconsiderable sum. Pro-smoking groups would argue that losing this revenue would dramatically harm the UK economy, and to a point they have a decent argument - the revenue certainly outweighs the quoted cost to the NHS, though in my sums I'm ignoring costs to the economy due to time off for smoking-related illnesses.

I don't know the answer, but I suspect it lies in the re-invention of the tobacconist, a shop type which has morphed into what we would now call a newsagent. Further marginalisation of the sales process is probably the only feasible means by which we will continue to decrease the demand for tobacco and tobacco products. Eventually there will come a time when the revenue from smoking begins to fall (according to the figures quoted in the link above, they have steadily climbed since 1990, and probably before that), and we will see a decline in the power of the pro-smoking lobbyists. Only at that point will a complete ban be on the cards.

Very Cross Words

In an attempt to rebuild my ailing internal thesaurus (which was, at one time, not entirely useless), I've been spending a fair amount of time recently doing crosswords. The simple kind, you understand, but it's those simple ones which help flex the imaginary brain muscles upon the strength of which ones synonym-system operates.

Mostly, I am able to complete these with ease, with the exception that on each an every crossword there is at least one clue which utterly confounds me, and it is typically related to some obscure matter of what, for want of a more accurate (or even slightly accurate) term, I shall call general knowledge.

It goes something like this:

"Three across, 'finger', five letters, ends in 'T'. Hmmm, well, that must be 'digit'.

"Nine down, 'thing for remembering', six letters, blank-blank-emm-blank-arr-blank. Easy: 'memory'.

"Right, nineteen across, five letters, '17th century Taoist monk'.... what the f***?"

In case you're wondering, it would be Zhang, as in Zhang San Feng, the inventor of Tai Chi...

That's not even the most awkward of them. My current favourite clue, still unsolved, is 'Common febrifuge'. I don't even know what a febrifuge is! Well, I do now I've Google'd it; but before that? No chance. I'll bet none of you do either, without looking it up. In case you can't be bothered, it's a fever-reducing herb. When was this  crossword set, the 14th century?

There really isn't a point to this, other than to rant about the deliberate efforts of Telegraph Quick Crossword setters to catch us all out. You have been warned.

When debating goes south

Before I begin to get into things, let me just go on record to state that this article has nothing to do with any opinions I might or might not have regarding the role of religion in the world. This article is nothing to do with that, it's all about how some people who should know better allow themselves to fall into a mode of argument which weakens the foundations of their arguments. Anyway, on with the rant...

There's very much been a recent trend towards a cheap, unintelligent approach to the debate over the relevance (or lack thereof) of religion in the modern world. I'm not intending to debate the rights and wrongs of religion, but rather to discuss a prevalent habit for lazy argument which makes its proponents look rather absurd.

Leading the way in this field is the humanist Richard Dawkins; you may have come across his work. He is according to all available accounts a fairly intelligent man, but he does have at least one serious failing - his inability to discuss his anti-religious feelings without highlighting them as exactly that: feelings. Dawkins approaches his arguments with a zeal which, were it not painfully ironic to do so, we would happily liken to a religious fervour.

That he is enthusiastic about his subject is not in itself reprehensible - quite the opposite in fact - but when he claims to represent the cold, hard face of reason, he cannot afford to allow his feelings to interfere. He must be the Jedi, the Vulcan, the dispassionate warrior of logic and reason. By not being so, he cripples his own argument.

And there is another angle to the modern anti-religious argument which is self-corrosive: the "sneering" attitude, which aims to suggest that the owner of the attitude isn't even willing to get into a debate about religion, because it's somehow beneath them, or the argument is pointless because it's already been won.

I'm a huge fan of Stephen Fry, a witty, urbane, intelligent man with a sense of humour which can dissolve me into fits of laughter. But he is prone to a rather sneering attitude to the issue of religion, an attitude which can be summed up as "oh, I'm sure it's a lovely thing for some people, but come now, it's not really something serious, is it? Haha".

I'm not interested in having a discussion about whether his views are right or wrong, but his approach to the argument, which simply put assumes that it is impossible for an intelligent person to examine religion and subsequently wish to join in, is rather crass and unworthy of the man. I'm convinced there are a number of really rather intelligent people involved in religion all over the world, and to assume that their faith comes as a result of some sort of failure of reason really does insult that intelligence.

I suppose my angle here is that I dislike sloppy argument with weak foundations. The same accusations could, I have no doubt, be levelled at the religious communities of the world, but, and here's the fundamental difference, religions never claimed to be based on cold, hard logic. Opposing views often do claim to be logical, and therefore arguments submitted by the anti-religion lobby need to transcend any possible emotional colouring, or the laziness of the condescending "come, now". Without being beyond reproach, these arguments begin to look a little childish, and therefore lacking in fundamental validity.

The Vitriol of the Left-handed Man

The world has, in the past, been a bad place for left-handed people. There are endless accounts of lefties being associated with evil of every kind, and left-handed people have been mistrusted and treated like social lepers in the past. Some of the anecdotes are quite personal to me, too: my own grandmother had her left hand tied behind her back in an effort to make her write with her right. It didn't work, and eventually the bastards relented.

At this point I should mention that I, too, am left-handed. I've never been adversely affected by 'leftism'. I don't have difficulty with daily tasks, and a lot of things I do in the way a right-handed person would, simply because it's easier that way. I'm lucky in a way, because although I have difficulty writing with my right hand, most other tasks are possible, or even preferable. I'm a pretty good pool player left handed, but not far behind right handed, so in some ways I even have an advantage. I play football, hockey and tennis in a right-handed manner, and operate my computer with the mouse to my right.

None of these things bother me particularly, and I'm not about to get up in arms about discrimination or anything. But being a father has highlighted one of the areas in which leftism has a personal impact - the area of language.

Regular readers might have an appreciation of the fact that, to me, language is a rather important thing. I really rather enjoy writing, and get a great deal of pleasure from exploring the origins of language, of understanding why a particular word or phrase has come to have a certain meaning.

At the moment, we are trying - in a small, irregular and rather messy way - to teach our two-year-old daughter the difference between right and left, principally to ensure that the right shoe goes on the right foot. And there is the problem. The 'right' shoe on the 'right' foot. What we mean, of course, is the correct shoe on the correct foot, unless of course we really are talking about the right-hand shoe on the right-hand foot.

Do you know why the word 'right' has become synonymous with 'correct'? It's because its opposite, 'left', was considered 'incorrect'. The right side was the correct side, and so the word 'right' replaced the word 'correct' in most of the places it is used in our language. Probably because it has half the syllables.

This use of 'right' even extended to the naming of animals - the Southern Right Whale is so named because it was considered the 'right' whale to catch - good blubber or something, I presume. It should be called the Southern Correct Whale, though with my environmentalist hat on I should point out that there is no such thing as correctness in whale hunting, except for by those who rely on it for food (Inuit peoples often do).

I'm not after a revolution here, but sometimes I'd like people to think about the origins of the words they use.  Trying to teach a two-year-old that there are two senses for a word is a complex business, especially when it's one of the more fundamental concepts they will have to grasp. And in case you're wondering, there's no sign yet of handedness in her.

A Little Thing about Punctuation

I'm not a "grammar Nazi" (horrible term), but I do strongly believe in the importance of proper punctuation in written communication*.

Punctuation exists for one reason, and one reason alone: so that the readers of a document are able to determine how its author would like them to read it. It sets the rules for how a sentence should be construed. As such, there really aren't any rules about how punctuation should be applied. People will tell you there are, but there aren't. Take, for example, the work of Agatha Christie - she abuses hyphens like they've done her some personal injury, but you get her point.

The only rules lie around the common interpretation of the symbols we use. For instance, we all know that a full stop (or 'period'. Ew...) signifies in our minds that we should pause and take a mental breath. Or a physical one, if reading out loud. Similarly, a comma indicates a lesser pause, and a semicolon somewhere in between; though we should only use the semi when we're going to continue along the same lines with the second half of the sentence (or when separating items in a list which follows a colon).

As long as there's agreement and understanding on what these little dots and squiggles mean, you really should use punctuation how you see fit. And word order? Well, that matters hardly at all; hardly matters at all, in fact.

But God help you if you can't tell the difference between there, their and they're. That's just stupid.

*There's a subtle difference between grammar and punctuation, but that's not really the point here.

Since I've been away for a little while, here's some car park bingo for you.

Ferrari 328 GTB

Maserati GranCabrio

Just a couple of visitors at a rather exclusive little hostelry in Southwold, Suffolk. Also spotted were a Boxster Spyder and a V8 Vantage.

Film Piracy - gaarrgghhh!

And no, I'm not talking about Captain Jack Sparrow... or, for the record, piracy of television programmes. 

I'm bored, bored of the same old arguments surrounding online piracy. Apparently, a study has just concluded that online piracy of films has risen by 29% over the past five years. This, my friends, is hardly headline news - the availability of high speed internet has increased rapidly in that period, removing the last serious barrier to the downloading of massive content, so what did they expect? The example set by music pirates was bound to be followed.

On the one hand, I disagree wholeheartedly with pirating. As an aspiring author, copyright is important to me, and I don't like to see an artist's income damaged by the activity of a group of people whose only defence is that it's too expensive to actually buy music or film. That's a little like trying to defend stealing a television from Dixons on the basis that you can't afford to buy it. It's ridiculous, and you'd never get away with it in real, physical terms, so why do you think it's OK to do it online?

On the other hand, the film industry kind of had it coming, and I have little sympathy. For years they have charged ridiculous prices to watch films in the cinema, and then they're upset that people are trying to find a way around having to take out a mortgage just to see the latest in a long line of rather average films. Seriously, guys? Come on. Cinema is, quite simply, fantastically overpriced. You can't even blame the cinemas themselves, as it's well known that the only way they make a profit is through food and drink sales. It's the distributors who set the prices in reality.

And it's not as though the production companies and the stars of these films are underpaid so that the distributors make a profit. Quite the opposite, in fact. Last year alone (2010), the top three earners in Hollywood (James Cameron, Johnny Depp and Steven Spielberg) earned a total of $437,000,000. That's a ludicrous sum.

Before you spit out your coffee, I'm well aware that most actors and producers/directors earn nowhere near those sums. In fact that disparity simply adds another string to the bow of my argument that Hollywood has nothing to complain about - only in a den of such thorough corruption could some individuals be paid so well and yet others practically starve.

Hollywood, it would seem, is beginning to reap what it has sown. For too long the industry has lived in a bubble, believing itself to be far more valuable and important than it really is. Will the world cry if the film industry collapses? Probably not. I certainly won't.

Car Park Bingo: Summer Special

Not sure why this is summery, but the sun was shining and it's July, so there.

Porsche Panamera Turbo S

Two recent photographs

Alnwick Castle

Lucky poppy - nearly weeded it out the day before it flowered. Thought it was another yellow one...

Time warp

Samurai-san looks a bit surprised to be coming up against a Styracosaur. For the record, Baseball Bob was quite happy.

Beautiful, wonderful interwebs

I've expressed my love of the internet before. I think it's great. There are so many genuinely life-improving elements to the web that even as a den of iniquity it is still a thing of wonder. It connects me with things I'd never have known about, and has expanded my interests and improved both my writing and my drawing capabilities. Fan-blinkin'-tastic.

It's also good for opening your eyes, be that in regard to political or social injustice or simply to the musings of a group of people who are genuinely convinced of the existence of extra-terrestrials among us. I'm not for or against the ET crowd, because it strikes me that I only know a very small corner of the world, the corner which I inhabit. Oh, I learn fragments of other things when I can, but I have hardly scratched the surface of the rich diversity of human life.

Whilst scanning around the Google Analytics stats for our company's website I found that we had been visited by the Navy Network Information Centre (NNIC). Curious about this traffic source, I popped over to Google and had a quick search. One of the first few hits directed me to a site called abovetopsecret.com, which appears to principally deal with the concept that the US government has a lot to cover up. Fair enough, they probably do. Perhaps it's their business, and they did what they did for the right reasons, and perhaps it isn't, and they didn't. Who am I to say? I've not seen the facts. However, from this website I followed a link to another site, ufo-blogger.com, and this page (clicky).

The page contains a traffic source report from the site highlighting the visit of the NNIC to ufo-blogger, having apparently followed a link from Google, generated by the search term "bob dean and wikileaks ufo". Apparently, this means that the NNIC is "Crawling Internet Ahead of Upcoming Wikileaks UFO Disclosure". Now, if like me you study the report carefully, you'll notice one visit for the day - and three in total - with the latest lasting 1m22s.

I don't really want to burst their bubble, but I can't help feeling that perhaps this was someone who works at NNIC having a surf of the internet over a coffee. You can almost hear the conversation now.

Jim: "Hey, Bob, those wackos on the internet reckon they're going to leak some filers about UFOs. Haha!"
Bob: "Really, Jim?"
Jim: "Yeah, Bob. Hell, all you have to do is search for 'bob dean and wikileaks ufo' and you'll see what I mean!"
Bob: "Haha! Yeah, I'll do that while I'm drinking this cup of coffee."

Somehow three hits hardly seems to be conclusive evidence that the US government is after our souls. Of course, it might just be cleverly designed to make us think that way...

The truth is out there. In a box set of the X-Files. 

The Queen’s Democracy: An Utterly Fictitious Political Satire

Anthony Flair paused by the mirror and adjusted his perfectly tied tie, checked his crisply starched collar one more time, and dismissed any lingering doubts about the smile. They accepted the smile now. It was okay.

The door was opened for him – Rupert, this morning, wasn’t it? Or David – and he stepped out into the grey, unrelenting drizzle of yet another day in office. It was brightened temporarily by the pinging flashes of a handful of bored paparazzi across the way. There, too, was that Nick guy from the Beeb. Pleasant chap, wasn’t he? Must keep his guard, though, can’t be too friendly with the press, never know what they’re going to say next.

The car door thunked closed behind him with a satisfyingly British air of Jaguar solidity. Something in that, perhaps, some rhetoric about nationality? Could do with a bit of that these days. Perhaps mention it to Alex Clodwell later – he always knows the right thing to say. The driver was new this morning, wasn’t he? Normal pool was all off with avian flu or something, hadn’t that been the note on the table? Nearly ate it instead of the toast again. Darling Charlie had grown so exasperated with him about working at the breakfast table, but he’d promised her another baby and everything had been alright.

A towering pile of papers sat on the crumpled leather seat beside him, a permanent passenger on his daily commute. He idly wondered who put these files there, and whether or not he was meant to do something with them. No-one had ever said, and no-one had checked that he had ever done so much as glance at them. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was one of those yellow books on Prime Ministering for stupid people.

Traffic was bad this morning. Nothing new there, not that the mayor seemed to be doing anything about it. He’d have to have a word. Actually, perhaps not. Scary little guy, the mayor. Glad he could ship him out of the party to look after the city, really. Better to just imagine he was doing something. He was bound to be. There was no reason to haul him up about it if he didn’t have to. Yeah, that was it he would just –

Funny. He didn’t remember the car being upside down this morning. Yet here he was dangling awkwardly from his seatbelt. Why would that be? And what were all those sounds, those wailing ones? For a moment his heart leapt – there wasn’t a terrorist attack somewhere in the city was there? Oh, the sounds were getting closer. Maybe it was somewhere nearby. And he still seemed to be upside down for some reason. Oh, and the papers, the papers were scattered all over the car. Someone would be angry. He had no idea who.

Ah, a friendly face. She would know what was going on. He tried to speak, but nothing came out. She just smiled at him and said nothing, and out came a hand with something shiny in it, and suddenly things were a bit wobbly, and was it getting dark?

---

Oh, the sumptuous pleasantness of waking between crisp white sheets on a sunny morning, with the breeze playing through an open window. Perhaps it was early, and he could stay in bed for a while. No sound from the kids’ room, good. A quiet, insistent beeping from somewhere though. Whose alarm clock was that? Damn. Still, keep your eyes closed, pretend you’re asleep, Anthony. Don’t break the spell.

Perhaps Charlie was enjoying it, too. Maybe she was awake and they could, well, you know. Look the other way, Lord, we are about to make another believer. He stretched a hand sideways to feel for her. Hmm. Metal. Cold metal. Why was there cold metal on the bed? Maybe this was one for the eyes to deal with.

He tried to open them. Hmm, must have slept well, they were welded shut. He tried again. That’s better, open now. Blink once, twice. That doesn’t look like the ceiling. Why doesn’t that look like the ceiling? The lights are different, that’s why.

Suddenly it occurred to him that perhaps this wasn’t his bedroom. He raised his head and looked around. A small room in a hospital. Why was he in a hospital. His heart started beating faster, and the beeping became more insistent. Sitting up was out of the question, his muscles wouldn’t respond. Why not? A sedative, maybe? He’d had one of those once, paralysed him almost completely. Bit of an overdose.

He sank back into the pillows, breathing deeply to calm himself. OK, so he was in a hospital. Something must have gone wrong somewhere, but he was safe now. He didn’t even feel too bad. Perhaps a nurse could tell him what was going on. Ah, there was one now, maybe she would be able to help.

“Excuse me.”

Nothing. She just carried on fussing around the bed, tucking him back in, twiddling dials on the machine next to him. Try again, perhaps.

“Er, nurse?”

Nothing. She just adjusted the angle of the bed slightly, sitting him up, and then walked out of the room without a backward glance, the door shutting softly behind her.

Time passed unevenly. Sometimes glancing out of the window at the grey, anonymous buildings which made up the entire view would waste a whole quarter of an hour. At other times, minute examination of his surroundings passed no more than thirty seconds, whilst feeling like an aeon.

The door opened smoothly, on silent hinges, and a middle-aged doctor with greying temples entered the room. Classic, competent British doctor. Heart and soul of the NHS, that sort of thing. A silver fountain pen in his coat pocket. He came and sat in the chair at the side of the bed, reading his notes for a few moments before raising his eyes – they were a startling blue.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. How are you feeling?”

The voice was low and resonant, and deeply reassuring.

“I, er, I’m fine doctor. What’s wrong with me? Why am I here?”

“Do you not remember the car crash, Mr. Flair?”

The man on the bed shook his head.

“No, nothing after breakfast. What happened?”

“You were hit by a bus, Mr. Flair. Turned the car over. No real harm done though, bit of muscle damage in your back and neck, and a scrape or two from broken glass. Nothing that ought to keep you out of action for too long. Just need to rest for a few days.”

“My wife. Can I see my wife?”

The doctor rose again, the warm smile back on his face.

“She was here whilst you slept, Mr. Flair. I’m sure she will be able to return this afternoon.”

Once again he was alone with his thoughts.

---

When the door opened again, another middle-aged man entered the room, this time with an unblemished head of black hair and a far more serious look on his face. He was followed in by a tall, slim, younger man, who has an earpiece in. The younger man went straight to the window, glancing out and around carefully before turning the blinds to exclude the world.

“Clear, sir,” he said to his boss, but remained facing the window. 

Ah, thought Anthony, this will be the security debrief. All feels rather familiar. That’s why Charlie isn’t allowed in yet. She’ll understand, obviously. He scratched around the corners of his mind for the month’s password, and eventually alighted upon it.

“Rhubarb,” he said to the elder man, who looked at him with an expression of utter and bizarre confusion.

The younger accomplice helped him out.

“That’s MI5 for the month, sir. I did pass on the list.”

“Yes, yes,” said the elder irritably, as if it was all too regular an event to be shown up by his junior. “Well, Mr Flair,” he continued, “it seems you have your wires crossed. We’re not from security. Or rather, not from the security forces with which you are familiar.”

Anthony’s heart beat faster again, causing the machine to his side to start bleeping furiously. The younger man crossed the room quickly, and with skilled fingers instantly silenced it.

“Thank you, Roberts,” his superior said. “Now, Mr. Flair. A quick question, and then some answers. First of all, what does QDF mean to you?”

Anthony racked his brains. Nothing. Abolsutley nothing. He shook his head.

“Ah, good. As I’d hoped. It may help to know that when we have a  male monarch, we are the KDF. It means Queen’s Democratic Force, Mr Flair, and if even our illustrious Prime Minister is unaware of us, we are doing well. Her Majesty will be pleased.

“What are we, then? Well, most of the time our work is done in the background. This is certainly the most impressive, public thing we’ve done since I joined the service. Don’t like the style myself, but there you go, it's not my place to make the decisions.”

“Why?” asked the now thoroughly flummoxed PM.

“Ah, you see, that’s to the very core of what we do, Mr. Flair. We help, where possible, to make sure the right thing is done. We are interventionaries, you might say. A little tweak here, a quiet word there, a subtle blackmail from time to time. All in the name of ensuring that this country stays on the straight and narrow, you see, no matter who happens to be at the helm.”

He paused, folding his hands on his lap, apparently satisfied for now. Anthony summoned the strength to speak.

“Are you telling me the Queen has a roving force of mercenaries enforcing her decisions about how the country is run? That’s dictatorial!”

The man shrugged slightly, a benevolent smile still upon his face.

“You might look at it that way, Mr Flair, though there is no need to be quite so dramatic. You yourself have been accused of ignoring the people on occasion, yes? We do nothing more than Her Majesty’s bidding. She wishes the voice of the people to be heard, Mr. Flair. We are their megaphone, you might say.”

“And what does Her Majesty want me to hear that she could not tell me herself?” the Prime Minister spat.

“Come now, Mr. Flair. No need to take that tone. Her Majesty merely cares that her subjects are listened to on key topics.”

Anthony Flair sighed. He couldn’t understand how it could come to pass that Her Majesty felt unable to discuss policy with him, and that she needed to reach him in this manner.

“What would Her Majesty like to suggest?” he asked wearily. The man smiled and leaned forward, whispering into the Prime Minister’s ear. The PM’s reply was immediate and resolute, his voice filled with horror.

“Never!”

“Very well, Mr. Flair. We will pass your response to Her Majesty. She will make a decision.”

“A decision about what? What decision?”

But the question went unanswered. Both men swept from the room, and the door closed silently once more. He was left alone. Lengthening shadows hinted at the closing of the day, and yet there was no sign of Charlie and the kids. And what of the press secretary – surely he should be preparing a note to the nation? And there never was a proper security debrief, was there?

---

Newsflash

Government sources say they are still puzzled by the vanishing of the Prime Minister on Tuesday morning. He was seen on CCTV leaving Downing Street in his usual car, but both car and driver mysteriously left their police escort seven minutes into the journey, somewhere near Pall Mall. The car vanished and cannot be traced, along with the driver and the PM. Mr. Flair’s emotional wife, Charlie, made this plea on the steps of No. 10 today:

“If anyone has Anthony, please just let us know he’s alive. Please. All he wants to do is serve the people. Please just let us know. His children miss him so terribly.”

---

When Anthony Flair woke the next morning, the two men were once again in his room. He tried to speak, but found that he could barely lift his head. The older man smiled at him.

“Good morning, Mr. Flair. Her Majesty has given her answer. Do you want to hear it? I believe you should just about be able to nod. Is that right, Roberts.”

“Correct, sir. Just his head.”

“Excellent. Down to business, then. I shall ask a series of questions, Mr. Flair. Just nod or shake, OK?”

Nod.

“Good. Now, do you remember why we came to see you yesterday?”

Nod.

“Do you remember what I asked you to consider. Or, rather, asked you to consider not doing?”

Nod, nod.

“Good. Now, Her Majesty was quite emphatic last night. She was terribly upset that you seemed unwilling to change your mind. ‘Such a waste’, I believe she said. But she was unwavering, Mr. Flair. She sees your decision to go ahead as being utterly against the will of the people. She has sanctioned me to ensure that you do not go ahead. Do you understand?”

Shake, shake.

“Ah, I see. Well, if you decide to go ahead, we will be required to stop you, using one of our fascinating range of specialist techniques. And if you decide to change your mind, you may return to your family unharmed and unaltered. So, would you like you change your mind?”

Stillness for a minute. Shake, shake.

“Are you sure, Mr. Flair? One last time. Would you like you change your mind?”

Shake, emphatically this time.

“No? Very well, then. Her Majesty will be upset, but she was very resolute on this one, I’m afraid. Mr. Roberts, if you would be so kind.”

The young man turned from the window and produced a thin syringe from his coat pocket. He flicked off the cap as he approached the bed, then roughly grabbed Anthony’s arm, turning it so that he could access the veins on the inside of the elbow. There was no pain as the needle bedded home, and no sensation as the orange liquid entered his body.

---

Newsflash

The Metropolitan Police anti-terrorist branch today confirmed that they have no solid leads in the case of PM Anthony Flair, whose mind has been left irreparably altered by non-surgical means. Mr Flair was found in a central London location last Friday, stripped to the waist and with the phrase ‘No war in Iraq’ tattooed onto his chest. Unconfirmed reports of an arrest in the case were made last week, but no further details have emerged. Mr. Flair has himself spoken for the first time, apparently expressing surprise that he was once allowed to run the country, and asking why he was allowed to do so.

In related news, police are labelling as ‘hearsay’ reports that stand-in PM Gareth Black was briefly reported missing just hours before the key speech in which he pledged not to follow the United States on their ‘modern crusade’ in the Middle East. More to follow.

"What news, good sir, of the hunt for the Lesser-Spotted Tigueg?"

VW cars are pretty good, let's be fair, but they can be guilty of a bit of confusion-making.

The principle source of this perpetrated upon the masses is the decision to bridge the gap between Touran (a proper MPV) and Touareg (a proper SUV) with the Tiguan (a mini SUV).

I don't have a problem with the product itself - it fills a bit of a fashion-over-function niche, which isn't my favourite reason to design a car, but that's economics for you. What I don't quite get is the naming convention. Not because I think they've made a huge mistake, but rather because it leaves an unfilled, unsatisfactory niche.

The gap they've created by filling a gap which wasn't there (still with me?) is for a mini-MPV. Some say the Golf Plus fills this niche, and again that's fair enough. But it's not called what it ought to be called; if one follows the VW naming convention, it should be called the Tigueg.

Should I tell VW, or are you going to?