The Hairy Bikers

The Hairy Bikers

This is probably one of my favourite TV programmes. The BBC's Hairy Bikers is one in a long line of cooking duos, but for me the Bikers have something special.


Firstly there is the chemistry Between David Meyers and Simon King that turns the programmes into documentaries not about food but about their own relationship. For me, the recipes, which, incidentally work first time, somehow occupy a secondary place in the whole development of the programme. It is the action and the interaction of the Bikers which really fascinates me.

Indeed, each programme is a buddy movie and a road movie rolled into one - with the particularly British twist of attention to small, quirky details and larger-than-life  quirky individuals interviewed in their kitchens, shops or farms. It is completely absorbing.

Perhaps the Hairy Bikers is an illustration of what the BBC does best - present a somewhat idealised view of Britain to the British.

For me, an ex-pat yearning to return to GB, idealised Britain is a mixture of quirkiness, friendship, interesting individuals and neighbourliness. Please note I say idealised because obviously this picture is not 100% true. But hey, who has ever let the truth stand in the way of a good story? Caricatures are always based on an underlying truth and for me the Hairy Bikers present us with a vision of this truth.

The same can also be said, I feel, of Michael Portillo's Great British Railway Journeys. And long may such programmes grace the airwaves. We learn more about our own country. We learn more about ourselves.

Dubbed Films

Having lived in Spain for over 20 years, I have become used to seeing films that have been dubbed into Spanish. In many other countries they are merely subtitled which is cheaper and arguably better in artistic and language-learning terms.

However, nothing can detract from the fact that the dubbing is excellent; the lip-synch is perfect, not like when it is done from another language into English. Given the fact that English is a far more concentrated language which can communicate more in far less syllables, this is no mean feat. Very often in Spanish-dubbed films  the voices are also almost identical.[1]

Yet I do have some gripes. The first is that a lot of background noise is lost so that voices do not change according to location. An exaggeration, but a fairly good illustration, would be that actors sound the same in an echoing tunnel as in a small bedroom with lots of soft furnishings.

Gripe number two is that if a character sings a song or a nursery rhyme, it is translated literally and the poor dubbing actor has to sing non-rhyming blank verse with more syllables than in the original and shoehorn it into the original music. Why not simply use a Spanish song or nursery rhyme with the same subject matter? Now, it seems, many dubbing studios are beginning to realise that they have to do something and so they leave the original actor's voice singing on the sound track or the dubbing actor sings the original song.  

Gripe three is a lack of quality control in the translation. Usually the translation is quite good, but occasionally an idiom escapes the translator. In Spanish to have cold feet simply means that your feet have a lower temperature than the rest of your body. A rather silly question for one bank robber in LA to ask another just before entering the First National, I feel.

I am a great fan of TDT and DVDs. All I have to do is press the corresponding button or make the correct choice and I can enjoy the film in English. At last.

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[1] In most cases. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Clint Eastwood and, other tough guys all have the same deep voice in Spanish – the same voice that advertises latex mattresses on TV. It can be rather unsettling listening to hear the Terminator falling irretrievably in love with Merryl Streep in the Bridges of Madison County and then during the break hear him trying to sell you a mattress!

AUNTIE KNOWS BEST

I have always opined that if souls and heaven existed and if countries could have souls, Britain's soul would have no problem entering the kingdom of heaven on the strength of the BBC.

Now, however, with all the scandal surrounding Jimmy Savile many have begun to doubt the BBC's integrity. How could the organisation allow such depravity to continue for so long, especially since anyone with half a brain could have seen that there was something not quite kosher about Jimmy Savile? Isn't it just the tineist bit suspicious that he didn't have a steady partner, male,  female or even animal?

I must admit, that when I listen to Radio 4's 'Feedback' the self-importance and sanctimonious attitude of some programme-makers is breathtaking and I would not be in the least surprised to discover that these blinkered people who only see what they want to see and hear what they want to hear (plaudits) could explain away the depravities of this yodelling clown., mentioning his good works etc.

I have always regarded public demonstrations of lavish charity to be somewhat suspicious. For example, if I were in a position to set up charitable trusts, I would never endow them with my name. Surely the satisfaction to be gained from charitable acts is not to see one's name in the paper, but to see the name of those helped there.

Hindsight is a wonderful thing, but Savile was such a creep that he should have been rumbled decades ago. Unfortunately he wasn't.

However, child abuse and paedophilia - indeed all sexual perversions -  have been with us since the beginning of time so, in historical terms, it is really no surprise when such a scandal erupts. At least now the scandal does indeed erupt and is not smothered. At this very moment there will be others across the globe in positions of power practising equally despicable acts. With any luck they will be caught and punished a bit sooner than the unfortunately late Jimmy Savile.

Now of course we have to wait to find out exactly who else was involved, and how such abominable acts could continue for so long.

However, we must also acknowledge the fact that finally the truth came out and that the BBC is facing up to its responsibilities. Neither must we forget that although one BBC programme pulled its report on Savile's evil deeds, another, Panorama, has aired its investigations - this in itself is a tribute to the organisation's ability to preserve independence between different producers and programmes and to its Board's non-inteference in editorial decisions.

How many other broadcasting organisations would be able to publicise their own disastrous failings in so much detail and without seeking to justify itself or gloss over the issue? Not many, I would venture.

Auntie Beeb may not always know best; neither may she always act correctly but in the end, she always lives up to her own high standards even if she is rocked by unsavoury and, by any standards, despicably unacceptable behaviour on the part of some of her shadier "celebrities".

GOOD FRIENDSHIP AND A PLATE OF BEANS AND RICE

Ever since I heard on BBC Radio 4’s book of the week and subsequently read Paul Richardson’s Cornucopia: A Gastronomic Tour of Britain I have been fascinated by the differences in regional cooking throughout Britain. This incidentally has also made me a great fan of the Hairy Bikers about whom I want to blog on a not too-distant date.

One of the most fascinating recipes in Cornucopia is the recipe for baked beans, a dish that is not as humble as the tinned beans we all love and enjoy may lead us to think. They have a fascinating history and I would recommend you read the book and make them yourself, but be warned – it is a long process but well worth the effort

Tinned baked beans are, I think, the ultimate comfort food and a cheap, filling fast snack.

This morning, a good friend invited me to his home for lunch –  beans and rice. Is there anything more enjoyable than an unexpected invitation to a home-cooked lunch with a friend? This is probably one of life’s greatest small pleasures.

So, after work, I took the train up to his home where a fragrant pan of beans was simmering slowly on the hob. They were delicious and simple. The recipe?

1lb of black Tolosa beans, an onion, a roughly-chopped carrot and a dash of olive oil cooked in the pressure cooker and served with Basmati rice.

Usually a Spanish bean stew includes a large piece of chorizo, a slab of belly pork and perhaps a black pudding and is a filling, delicious dish. You can find an example of such a full-bodied meaty recipe here. However, my friend’s beans were completely meat-free. I am a dyed-in-the-wool carnivore, but they were exquisite.

The warmth of friendship, intelligent conversation and a good, filling hot autumnal meal. Can anything really better that?

SELF-CENSORSHIP

Is self-censorship a good thing or a bad thing? Or both, depending on the context?

Probably in our relativistic world, the last option is the best course. We might censor ourselves so as not to upset people we love with opinions that might be hurtful. We have all received from proud children crayon-drawn houses with a chimney jutting out from the roof at an angle instead of rearing perpendicularly as it should. What good would it do to point out to the drawing’s creator that chimneys are not like that, and next time, please remember to draw it properly? Would we be adding to the sum of human knowledge and achievement? Are there any adults who you know (conceptual artists and challenging architects apart) who continue in this error?

So, what would this truth achieve? An upset child who will think twice next time before offering you the fruit of its considerable labours. You lose.

We might self-censor when faced with authority in the form of our boss, royalty or an overbearing policeman.

We might self-censor in order to avoid friction with friends, neighbours, colleagues etc.

We might self-censor and make a short-term concession for a long-term gain.

Or simply we might self-censor for our own existential good. Usually I spend part of my weekend writing the posts that I will later put on my blog. These posts are inspired by what has happened to me during the week.  This week has been particularly nasty at work. I wrote 3 posts and I am surprised that the computer screen did not melt due to the vitriol with which the posts dripped.

Vituperation was not my aim when starting this blog and so they were deleted forthwith. This, therefore, is my short meditation on self-censorship. Perhaps it is not always a good thing. On the other hand, when all that a non-censored barrage will do is engender non-productive negativity amongst both writer and reader, the best thing to do is go out and garden – which is exactly what I did.

CHACUN DOIT CULTIVER SON JARDIN

If memory serves me right, thus ends Voltaire’s ‘Candide’. In general terms, I tend to avoid philosophical thinkers like the Peste[1], or plague. Here, however, Voltaire has hit the nail on the head if your aim in life is to live as happily as possible – and perhaps with only one buttock – both on an individual level and with those who surround you

I take Voltaire’s garden to mean all that surrounds the central core of your life. If that core is your home and you and yours, then the garden is everyone and everything else that revolve around this precious nucleus.

In terms of real estate, maybe your physical garden is nothing more than a window box; perhaps it is 300 acres or more of parkland. No matter. Everything contained therein is your concern and responsibility. If properly maintained, your garden will bring beauty and happiness to you and those who see it and who know how to appreciate it.

As in your garden, it is in life. Once the decision has been taken, weeds and infestations must be ruthelessly dealt with – even if it means sacrificing a once-favourite plant to save the rest. Such a sacrifice may be a wrench as we pull it from the earth, but long-term, both its surroundings and your own peace of mind will be the better for it.

Obviously, I am not advocating the wholesale permanent eradication of annoying neighbours, night-barking dogs, workmates etc., although some gun-owning lunatics, mainly American, do indeed regard this as a feasible, indeed logical, option. Before acting we should be careful. We all fall into someone else’s ‘needs-to-be eradicated’ category. As Donne said, ‘no man is an island’. What I am advocating is that we should not hesitate to grasp the literal and figurative nettle when it starts to sting. At least we should try as much as possible to distance ourselves from sources of frustration and anger. For our good and for that of the source.

Quite soon I hope to start my yearly tidy-up of the land[2] behind my house. This year I plan to plant some espalier fruit trees along the wall. Quinces are quite thorny and prevent neighbour’s dogs (and even neighbours!) from entering.

I will also be lopping off of some branches from my beloved almond trees. Perhaps I might also chop down an olive tree prior to planting a cherry in its place. These decisions are not taken lightly. No such decision should be. Trees are living beings and should be respected. It is, however, great fun when the cutting and chopping is over and feeding the waste into the shredder for composting begins.

Obviously the larger logs are cut into 2-foot lengths and dried for the fire. Olive wood burns beautifully due to the fact that the whole tree is full of oil. Sometimes beautiful patterns in the grain emerge and can be quite captivating. I often wonder if I could put this wood to better use. Ironically, I sarcasticaly suggested in an earlier post , that maybe all degree courses should include a carpentry course. Now, as I think of it, it does not seem such a silly idea. Hoist by my own petard!

When the rains finally fall consistently and the brown earth begins to turn green - even as the trees shed their leaves, I will upload some photos of my efforts.

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[1] A-Level French; where would we be without it?

[2] It sounds grand, but is in fact about the same size as a good back garden in an English semi. Garden, however, does not describe the steep, wild, rocky piece of mountain that is my – literal – lot.

A Dedicated Follower of Fashion

or Fashion Victims

… and I am not talking about clothes. Would that I were.

Where I work, our glorious leaders have suddenly discovered the Internet. And with devastating results. Obviously, we have been sending emails, using Word documents and Powerpoint presentations for years – some of us have even ventured into the blogosphere!

But first let us go back in time. Anyone who has had the pleasure of discovering Silvertiger’s blog and has taken the time to browse his blogroll would have found this blog on Victoriana and the quack remedies using the miraculous power of electricity and/or radiation.

We might laugh complacently at the inventiveness of the charlatans and the ignorance of their victims now - how could they have been so dumb to believe such arrant nonsense? But take pause. We are not that far away from our credulous ancestors; today any e- or i- thing[1] is the solution to all of our problems – at the very least.

In the Higher Educational Establishment where I work, the section to which I belong has had e-learning suddenly thrust upon us by a Technofascist and a Technofashionista. Obviously, this does not affect their particular sections, but hey, what does that matter? The whole organisation is suddenly technologically cutting-edge. Indeed in a rather inaccurate newspaper interview on the changes in our Section – an interview in which the Section did not participate and did not even know about until it was published – we learnt that the reduction of face time with our lower-level students (from 3h. per week to 1h. – this also obviously means that the number of groups we “teach” has been multiplied by 3) would actually result in a closer relationship with them! 

So how did this happen?

It was decided for us by other Sections which have a fraction of our students and a relatively easy time of it. One Section, for example, has one teacher and 18 students divided over 4 academic years with 18 hours’ teaching time divided among 4 groups. Our Section has 23 teachers and over 7,000 students. As our American cousins say, do the Math and imagine what that particular teacher does during the 3-month exam period. Seville, by the way is only a short drive away from the beaches of Cádiz, Huelva and Málaga.

To prepare for this shift (or should I have omitted the “f” in the last word?), we have had a single 15-hour course given to the whole section (with wildly varying IT skills amongst us) over 2.5 days. This supposedly taught us the basics of how to lay out  documents and upload an online course. We have now got 3 weeks to design online courses for two different levels.

Not one of us is a course designer.

We are teachers.

And our students?

How did our ancestors learn languages before the Internet? 

One of the great enigmas of pre-history. Image courtesy of

ALAMY 

Thanks to the political machinations of our Department’s Technofascist and Technofashionista, and to the Higher Powers that Be, our students will be deprived of valuable class time and will supposedly have to make up for it with personal study.

It is amazing how many lives egocentricity, blind ambition and blind faith in the latest panacea can blight – even in a supposedly democratic educational institution.

I truly feel for our Section’s students who need to pass one of our level exams[2] in order to get their degree, whatever subject they are taking. There are already thousands – yes, thousands – of graduates in Seville who cannot get their degree certificate because they need to pass our (largely irrelevant) exam[3]. This is no doubt true for the rest of Spain as well. For our own students the task of passing our exams has just got harder, even though this particular Higher Educational Establishment can now boast of 3 "cutting-edge" online language courses[4].

On the subject of cutting edges, our students are soon going to find that their own Higher Educational Establishment’s administration has taken a hatchet to their future in order to satisfy its own short-term aims.    

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[1] Perhaps we should pause a moment to consider this: for centuries Sevillian businesses and organisations have named themselves after different Saints, statues of Christ or of his mother, probably trying to invoke their divine intervention and protection.

Then came the 1992 Expo in Seville. The result? During the late 80s all new businesses were Expo- this or Expo- that. In the first decade of the new century, they plumped for  Euro-prefixed names. Now, given the fact that neither divinities, the Expo or even the EU (don’t make me laugh!) can drag this backward city out of its wilfully egocentric mire, it seems they are futtocking around with half-baked ideas, invoking the i- or e- shibboleths for protection instead of actually facing up to the painful truths and doing something to solve the problem.

[2] A condition imposed by the Bologna Process on all of those countries foolish enough to sign up to it. Thankfully this is one mess that Britain kept well away from, while still remaining within the EHEA, or European Higher Education Area. The EU has a lot to answer for.

[3] Learning foreign languages is all fine and dandy, but I think that to demand a certain level (B1, whatever that means) of a foreign language to pass a degree in an unrelated subject is completely ridiculous; why not demand a certain level in carpentry, for example? Are the signatories to this ridiculous treaty really going to deprive their countries and the rest of the world of skilled lawyers, engineers, Maths teachers, doctors etc., just because they can’t speak a foreign language??? Would you suddenly start to question your dentist’s ability to give you a filling if you discovered he had failed his German GCSE? How many official foreign language certifications did Einstein, Alexander Fleming or Steve Jobs have? Indeed, to shape the present and the future of our Society how many did they need?

[4] One of which (not from our Section I hasten to add! And in spite of a much longer gestation period) is plagued with conceptual incongruities, grammatical errors and spelling mistakes from the initial page onwards. It is downright embarrassing, though a good laugh for those outside this particular Establishment.

Yesterday I saw a Viking

Yesterday I saw a Viking in the last place you would reasonably expect to find one.

But first let me set the scene. For the last five years, my old motorbike has been languishing in a garage. Every now and then we have started it up and driven it up and down the road to give it some exercise – blow away the cobwebs I believe is the technical terms. Apart from that, it has been hibernating the uneasy sleep of motorbikes that are too valuable to scrap, too old to sell and too slow to excite.

In a crisis however, things change so my old bike is now, funnily enough, more desirable on the second-hand market. The time came to invest some cash in getting it reasonably ready for market. The bike however decided otherwise, wanting to continue its hibernation and dreams of yesteryear by refusing to start – even after installing a new, fully charged battery.

The solution lay in phoning the insurance recovery service and getting a tow truck around to take it to El Pirata, my local, 100% trustworthy, motorbike repair shop, despite the bucaneering name.

So along came the tow truck and out jumped a muscular blond mechanic with Celtic tattos on his arms. Blond Spaniards are not as rare as you might think – both the Norsemen and the blond Berbers came to Andalusia in quite large numbers about 1,000 years ago.

After the customary greetings, comments on the good and bad points of my model of motorbike etc. the mechanic wheeled the 150-kg bike up the steep incline out of the underground garage as if wheeling a pushbike along a level road. He then pushed it onto the extended bed of the tow truck and holding it unsecured with one hand pushed the remote control he held in the other. The extended bed began to rise none too smoothly back onto the chassis of the tow truck and it was then that I saw the Viking.

He stood holding the bike unconcernedly in one hand and the remote control in the other while looking forward, a mechanic transformed magically into an imperturbable Norseman. Standing at the bucking prow and holding one of his longboat’s shrouds in one hand and his battleaxe in the other, the Viking gazed unconcernedly forward as his ship breasted the waves, bound for conquests new.

Eventually, the tow truck bed crested the zenith and began its descent. The prow of the longboat slowly settled and the dragon ship started to wallow on a completely flat sea. The Norseman left his lonely post in the prow and the mechanic took shape again. Suddenly I was back in 2012, the waves and spindrift replaced by the heat and humidity of an autumnal Sevillian afternoon

The motorbike safely secured, the mechanic jumped down (once again the ghost of the Viking accompanied him, doing the same but jumping from the longboat onto the unsuspecting sands of a new conquest), asked me to sign all the necessary documentation and set course for El Pirata.

Never would I have imagined that something so mundane as an old, recalcitrant motorbike could transport me to the heaving waves of the North Sea 1000 AD and enable me to witness an actual Viking land from his dragon boat, tie down a prisoner and then carry her off to a Pirate’s lair.

Where will it the take its rider when it works? 

THEY CALL ME LITTLE BOY

Little Boy Quique is a Bluesman and a friend of mine. I have known him since he was a teenager, when he used to sit on a bench in the local square. Sometimes we’d talk and share a joint while he played on his guitar.

He is now in his mid-40s and can be seen busking in Seville’sAvenida de la Constitución. Apart from the occasional concert which could be a well-paid gig at a festival or a gig in one of the local bars, this is his only means of sustenance. This daily struggle elevates his music into true Art; he does not merely interpret the words and experiences of others, the words may not be his, but the experiences are most definitely his own.

He knows no other life. He has never had a steady job – such jobs in the private sector in Spain are now as rare as rocking horse teeth – even rarer for an unqualified Bluesman. 

Quique is a product of the Spanish Transition[1] where unrestricted Freedom ruled supreme and any type of limit was regarded as facha – or fascist. Like many others the flame of Little Boy’s naturally Bohemian spirit was fanned by the politicians who swept into power in the new Democracy.

Compared to their British counterparts, left-wing Spanish politicians are a race apart. They still cling to outdated idealism instead of trying to be pragmatic in political terms.

The only real pragmatism demonstrated by Spanish politicians of any hue is when it comes to screwing money out of the system in allowances, free travel, etc. etc. in Spanish it’s called chupar de la teta – suckling at the teat. If in GB we thought the MPs allowances scandal of recent years was immoral, it is nothing compared to Spain with its 17 regional parliaments and a Senate that does nothing except provide the Senators with a large salary, free travel a chauffeur-driven armour-plated Audi A6 or A8, and an office – somewhere comfy to doze after a good lunch paid for out of their excessivley generous expenses.

In the early 80s, the PSOE promised to create 800,000 new jobs[2]. Instead, Spain began to lose jobs. Permissiveness, anti-capitalism and anti-enterprise propaganda were great vote winners. Indeed they still are, but what the politicians ignored, willingly or otherwise, was the fact that there was a whole generation of young, uneducated[3], working-class Spaniards who actually believed what they were told. As a result they became unemployable. However, they remained stalwart voters of the left-wing parties who continued to tell them that they were victims of an evil capitalist plot to deprive them of their rights.

Obligations were, of course, a fascist concept.

People in this situation will unthinkingly parrot half-digested political ideas. However, they have insufficient arguments to back them up, rather like a religious zealot reciting a catechism. However, as these ideas are all that they have to cling to, cling to them they do.

So it is that Quique, a good friend, finds himself busking on a street corner with little prospect of ever improving his lot. His life was blighted for him before he even had the tools to decide for himself. Indeed, he never really had the tools. And there are tens, perhaps hundreds, of thousands like him, but without the gift of being able to play an instrument to earn a crust.

Little Boy follows in the true traditions of the original Bluesmen. He is poor, powerless and quasi-disenfranchised. He has never voted – why bother? It won’t change his life a jot and he knows it. To the politicians of all parties people in his situation are as invisible as Afro-Americans were to US whites until relatively recently. They exist only as shocking numbers with which to emabrrass the party opposite.

Even his Art is looked down upon in a city where Flameno dominates all. Furthermore, in the region of Andalusia clientelism has ensured that the same party has been in power for nearly 30 years. Flamenco has been railroaded and is now the régime’s default music. Hence Blues is best ignored, along with all other “non-approved” types of music.[4]

But Little Boy isat his pitch in all seasons – even in the inhuman heat of Seville in August (45ºC+) – playing Blues and on the qui vive for the local police. If they catch him they will confiscate his guitar and amp in lieu of the fine he could never hope to pay, thus condemning him to absolute poverty. I admire Quique. He will never give up; he will play on until he has wrung the last note out of his soul like the true Bluesman he is.

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[1] Neither should we forget that all revolutions/transitions/elections are nothing more than a struggle between different sections of the upper and middle classes where ‘The People’ is an abstract concept. Indeed, in Spain’s case it is no real surprise to discover that great numbers of the high-fliers in the Socialist party are the children or grandchildren of high-fliers in Franco’s régime.  The same is also true of the right-wing People’s(?) Party, but this is only to be expected. Perhaps I could argue that to a certain extent, elections notwithstanding, in Spain political power is inherited.

[2] Indeed, they probably did – sinecures for their friends, family and other assorted hangers-on – at the tax-payer’s expense.

[3] Through no fault of their own. Spanish educational standards plummeted and as the economy of the time depended on manual jobs, many youngsters thought – and no-one disabused them – that education was boring and a complete waste of time.

[4] To such an extent that only about once every 18 months will a world-famous group play in one of Seville’s many stadia. Promoters do not seem to be encouraged, even thought the gigs are always sold out.

THE SHARD & TORRE PELLI

In a recent comment I made on Silver Tiger's blog  I stated that my own opinion of The Shard was a positive one. I, however, do not see it every day, I do not know what was demolished to make way for its construction and I do not know how it affects,  enhances or blights the surrounding area.

Common sense arrives at the Gorbals -
 almost 50 years too late.

What I do know, however, is that it is visually more exciting than the rectangular monstrosities that arrogant architects and greedy construction companies vomited over Britain's cities in the 60s and 70s as a result of trying to digest Le Corbusier's unpalatable visions.

Times have changed to some extent. I wouldn't go so far as to say that the greed and overweening self-confidence of those in the property development trade has diminished, yet I would suggest that up-ended concrete shoe boxes are a thing of the past. Today's mega-buildings try to engage the viewer - in much the same way as palaces always have. In other words, such buidings' functions include those of inspiring awe, confidence in the owner and perhaps a sort of vicarious pride. Perhaps the greatest example in London of a building with a message is the solid, austere, imposing White Tower of William the Conqueror*. It certainly let the recently-conquered English know who was boss!

Whatever aesthetic progress has been made, I still opine (not very originlly, I admit)  that economic reasons apart. The justification behind building such thrusting, phallic, erections is, as well as visually communicating a city's strength, vigour and confidence, quite infantile at heart: "mine is bigger than yours, so there".



 Seville has also decided that in order to be a really modern city it needs a proper skyscraper, higher, much higher than its cathedral's bell tower. 

So we have the elliptical Torre Pelli (180.5m). It is being built at the entrance to the old Expo '92 site and so is outside the heritage area. I like it. For more pictures, click here

Artist's impression of the finished tower

Last week, I had the privilege of seeing it wreathed in the early morning mist. As it is still open to the elements, the mist was flowing through it instead of around it and both the top and the base of the building were completely shrouded. It was a truly breathtaking sight and one that will be lost when it is finally enclosed. Unfortunately, as I was driving I was unable to take any pictures 

At the moment building work has stopped as both the company that was to install the façade and the glassmakers who were to manufacture it have gone bankrupt. To make matters worse, the glass was patented by the manufacturer and so is the object of legal wrangles by the company's creditors

Still, hope springs eternal; work on the Cathedral was started in 1401, it was consecrated in 1507 and was terminated in 1927, so perhaps there's plenty of time left for me to snap the unfinished Torre Pelli in the mist.

Finally, Gentle Reader, if you are from London, please try not to indulge in Shardenfreud as you compare the two towers that are the subject of this post!

*Strange to relate, in Spain William is known as William the Bastard. Even stranger is that the Anglo-Saxons don't call him that, but we all know that history is wrtten by the victors.

SERFING THE WORLD WIDE WEB

Slowly, perhaps not that slowly, we are sliding back to feudalism. Since the Black Death and the dearth of workers it caused, the common man has, in general terms, been gaining political and economic power as well as attaining ever more individual freedoms. This is now being reversed.

Let us first look at feudalism. The basic social set-up was triangular with the King, responsible to no-one but God, at the apex. Beneath him was the land-owning nobility, in all its different gradations, and at the bottom the serfs, bound to their squires’ lands and with no freedom whatsoever. Interestingly, as we scale the triangle and power is ever more concentrated in the hands of fewer individuals, the freedom of the individuals in question increases. We could therefore argue that the greater the power wielded by the individual, the more freedom he enjoyed. I say “he” because at the time, women were regarded as mere chattels and therefore, do not even enter into the Medieval equation.

As mentioned before, God floated above the whole as the ultimate auditor, the great tithe-taker in the sky, payment to whom could be deferred until going gently – or not so gently –  into that goodnight. Perhaps indeed, payment might even avoided by a timely confession – just like the tax amnesties practised today by cash-strapped governments to squeeze money out of rich tax-dodgers or to give their mate a chance to money-launder bribes.

Just like today, however, those at the bottom of the heap had to make their regular payments otherwise dire retribution was not far behind.

In those far-off days the Church also had a stranglehold on knowledge, and so all knowledge passed through the filter of its own interests – indeed even the teachings of the Bible were unavailable to the layman in his own language. One great advantage of the Church was, however, that to a certain extent it was a meritocracy, recognising the intellectual skills of the commoner and welcoming him into the fold where he could then progress and prosper benefiting both himself and the Church. Let us not forget what Pres. Harry S. Truman said about a problematic adviser “it’s better to have him inside the tent pissing out than outside the tent pissing in.” Obviously, however, Truman did not have a handy pyre on whcih to burn his heretics.

Those outside the charmed circle of power and knowledge were left to grub about on their hands and knees, fearful for their nasty, brutish and short lives until they found release in the grave.

Unfortunately for the feudal system, too many found their release in the grave during the Black Death and all of a sudden the common man found that he was a scarce resource and slowly but surely began to improve his lot. It was a struggle that lasted centuries and with it, among other benefits, came the rise of the middle classes, the Industrial Revolution, the 19th-Century Workers Institutes, the Trades Unions, Free Universal Education, Universal Suffrage, the Welfare State.

And here we are.

And here we are at a moment in history where slowly we are regressing to serfdom. I am not a conspiracy theorist. I do not believe that there is a group of evil billionaires and politicians who are consciously plotting to turn us into serfs, but that is the way that history is taking us.

The increasing political, social and even geographical freedoms of the individual were the fruits of scientific, technological and economic progress. This progress has required and ever-increasing number of literate and numerate workers to maintain momentum. The individual has become accustomed to more wealth, comfort and rights than what was enjoyed by the previous generation.

However, as our wealth has increased, so have the means to take it from us. Who hasn’t got a reasonably new car, a flat-screen TV, a mobile phone, an iPod or a computer – and who doesn’t aspire to an iPhone and iPad or similar? Who hasn’t got children who enjoy all of the above, plus at least two games consoles? Do we need all of this? Now yes. Ten years ago, no.

How do we afford all of this? We don’t. Our banks lend us the money to acquire them and then take a slice of our earnings to service the debt. How do we power these devices? With energy that is increasingly expensive, whatever its form. The State too takes its tithe – more than its tithe – in the form of direct and indirect taxes.

Where does this leave us? In Serfland. Like our ancestors the serfs who were incapable of penetrating the Mysteries of the church we cannot even begin to grasp the Mysteries of the invisible, ineffable, all-seeing, all-knowing Internet upon which our daily existence – our daily bread - literally depends.  Like our ancestors the serfs we are tied to the land. In our case we are tied to our homes by mortgages from which only death will release us. We are also tied to our towns and villages by the cost of transport which makes it evermore difficult to travel either in our own vehicles or by public transport due to the remorseless rise in costs.

So what can we do? Stay at home and watch TV or serf (sic) the World Wide Web. It’s not in Latin, but most is in the new universal language: English. In temporal terms, it is definitely more powerful than our ancestors’ Medieval God. Perhaps, though,  it is more like Satan. It acts on the information we give it to tempt us into yet more purchases that add to our poverty. Today no-one sells their soul; they mortgage their life. Modern money, like medieval power, is concentrated in the upper part of the triangle. Until the flow is partially reversed. How, I do not know, things will get even more medieval on our asses. Let’s hope that the solution is not as traumatic as the Black Death.

Let's hope my next post is a bit less pessimistic. 

EL HOSTAL CONFORT

OR

THE LAST BROTHEL IN CADIZ.

What I am about to relate happened a long time ago – more than ten years at the very least.

For work reasons I had to go to Cadiz every weekend and as a lover of decay I chose to stay in the different run-down pensions, hostels and flophouses instead of in decent, clean, anonymous, anodyne hotels. Luckily my partner of the time also shared this nostalgie de la boue. One such hostel was situated in the winding streets that surround the Town Hall.

The hostel occupied what had been a mansion. All traditional Andalusian palaces, mansions or farmhouses follow the same groundplan, probably inherited from the Roman villas. This is a square complex revolving around a central courtyard open to the elements, usually boasting a fountain in the middle. In town houses the ground floor composed the summer quarters and the upper floor the winter habitations. Usually both floors have an open gallery running around them.  

Courtesy tripadvisor.co.uk

 Many such mansions had been left to decay, as the city's economy decayed with the loss of the colonies. Over time they were usually subdivided and became corrales de vecinos, or tenements. This particular mansion had escaped that fate and still seemed to be undivided.

  

A decaying portico, Cadiz,
courtesy fmschitt.com

As with all such mansions, its imposing, if crumbling, porticoed entrance led visitors through a vestibule into the central courtyard. Placed at the far end of the vestibule was a screen, preventing passers-by from seeing in. This too is architecturally interesting as it hearkens back to the Moorish building tradition of turning one’s back on the exterior world, jealously guarding one’s own privacy. I soon found out why this tradition had been maintained here.

When penetrating into the courtyard, apart from the familiar layout of large dusty potplants - aspidistras and the like, central fountain and moth-eaten bull’s head to one side of the staircase, I was surprised to find about eight to twelve women wearing rather unbecoming housecoats sitting around, smoking and chatting familiarly to the men who also occupied the space. It was then too that I noticed that the reception desk at the far end of the courtyard was piled high with threadbare, but scrupulously clean towels. Drawing closer, my partner pointed out that the rooms were rented by the half hour. We had stumbled into a brothel!

What to do? Turn and walk out? Pretend to be tourists and ask for directions? But it was too late. The receptionist had already greeted us and was asking us how long we wanted a room for. There was nothing for it but to tough it out. An hour would suffice; we said and paid up front. We were given huge shiny iron key to our room on the first floor – and a towel. The room was a windowless chamber with a single super low-wattage bare bulb. Even so long ago this hostel was making its own contribution to the environment! We spent about three quarters of an hour listening to the, ahem, comings and goings of the hostel clients before venturing out and giving back the key.

We thanked the receptionist and chatted a bit to one of the ladies nearby who had asked us for a cigarette and then we left.

Everything from start to finish had been conducted with the utmost civility. In fact I would go so far to say that I have been in few places where such a relaxed, yet formal atmosphere reigned supreme.

Thus ended my unintentional visit to a brothel and I must admit it was a unique experience. There was no brash sexuality, none of the plush, pianos and potted palms that films have led us to believe is the norm, I saw no naked women; no parade of erotic underwear, just people going about their daily business with no fuss.

Nor was it like the modern pick-up joints full of young illegal immigrants imported and exploited by obscure mafias. This was a purely neighbourhood ("family"?) brothel where the atmosphere was relaxed, everyone knew each other and there was time to sit around and chat with no apparent pressure on anybody to consume or turn a trick.

I am not romanticising prostitution. It is a hard, difficult, often dangerous job for those who exercise the profession. As workers, prostitutes deserve our respect while those who exploit them deserve our contempt. However, on that particular day in that particular place, I saw a completely different side to the sex trade.