Chapter 30

One Summer – 2012 Vintage

Plus a few thoughts on patriotism, nationalism and royalism

It had been a miserable year so far.

A harsh winter with snow causing regular travel disruption was followed by a cold, damp spring with April the wettest ever recorded for the UK.  The economy was tanking, sliding into the predicted double-dip recession, and George Osborne’s remedy for dealing with the nation’s debt mire that had its root cause in the 2008 financial crash was to turn off the taps.  Austerity would apparently be the solution to the balancing the books and those affected (most of us) would just have to tough it out.  So what if the waiting lists began to get longer, the schools started to crumble, crime levels increased again, and libraries and support groups closed?  Apparently, increasing taxes wasn’t an option.  Desperate to prevent a full blown depression and recognising that infrastructure expenditure was now politically unacceptable as a tool, (unlike in Germany, France, the USA and pre-Cameron Britain), the Bank Of England lobbed another £50 billion of ‘quantitative easing’ into the City in the hope that some of it would find itself lent out for investment and subsequent growth.  As a tactic, it’s unclear just how much of a positive effect on the economy it realised.  One thing’s for sure though, all that money slopping about in the financial markets kick started the stock markets again and anyone who had any spare cash did very nicely thank you.  And, just a few years since the banks had brought the planet to its economic knees, bonuses were back in the City.  It was scant reward that at least a couple of the culprits had been publicly shamed; Fred Goodwin lost his knighthood for the chronic mismanagement of RBS and Bob Diamond resigned as CEO of Barclays after being caught allowing his managers to manipulate the Libor rate.  The 2.7 million unemployed had more important things to worry about: looking for the helping hand they might have expected, they found it had been withdrawn.

We really needed something to lift the gloom.  Or someone?

Like it or not, if the country’s in a crisis, then turning to the monarch will provide at least a temporary distraction.  There’s no doubt that the Royal Family played their part in helping keep spirits up during the last War and Her Majesty usually managed during her long reign to engender a ‘feel good’ whenever it was time for a wedding or anniversary.

This time it was her Diamond Jubilee and most of the nation fell in line to celebrate with the usual street parties, fly-pasts, beacon lighting and tribute pop concerts.  Those who weren’t stuck in a traffic jam heading optimistically to the coast for an extended Bank Holiday weekend would have watched on Friday 4th June the remarkable spectacle of a huge and varied pageant of boats that accompanied the Royal Barge carrying the Queen and the Duke along the Thames.  The weather was atrocious but she and Philip stood resolutely on deck throughout; it kind of summed up their stoical sense of duty and remains an abiding image.  And, by the end of the weekend, the sun was beginning to put in an appearance; those in work went back to their jobs and those without work might have felt a little more optimistic.  Perhaps the summer wouldn’t be as bad as feared. Perhaps there might be some good news around the corner?

Could it come from Russia where the football Euros were being held?  In England at least, hopes were high that our footballers might actually win this time.  Okay it was only the Euros but we’d take that as a stepping stone to possible World Cup glory two years later.  The FA also needed some redemption after failing conspicuously to deal effectively with the blatant racist comment to Anton Ferdinand made by John Terry, the England captain, earlier in the year.  It had left a sour and divided taste across the national football scene and we looked to the team to clean the slate and give us something to cheer about.  They tried, and for a fortnight we kept the faith, but eventually, inevitably, we went out in the quarter-finals on penalties. It had been good while it lasted and the flags and banners were put away with a sigh until next time.

It was a similar story for the rather dour Scot, Andy Murray, at Wimbledon.  For a fortnight, he’d battled his way through round after round; raising the mood and hopes of a first British men’s win at Wimbledon for 76 years. So near and yet so far; beaten by Federer in the final.

But just wait a minute.  It seemed like something was happening in France.  A British cyclist called Bradley Wiggins was leading in the Tour de France as the gruelling three-week event approached its final few days.  If he could just survive those last few mountain stages then surely he would do well enough in the time-trial to claim the title on the final day on the Champs-Elysées, the first Brit in the hundred-year event ever to do so.  Those in the know appreciated what a massive achievement it would be, what a huge step forward had been taken by Team Sky and how influential an impact it would have on mass cycling in the UK.  Late in the day, the mass-media cottoned on and the nation were treated to the TV images of ‘Wiggo’ sealing the famous yellow jersey with a barnstorming time trial and dominant ride into Paris where he led out another British cycling phenomena, Mark Cavendish, to a stage sprint win on the Champs-Elysées.  Paris was overwhelmed by celebrating British cycling fans but you didn’t have to be a cycling aficionado to appreciate what had just happened. 

At last there was something to cheer about as we optimistically, nervously, turned our attention to the biggest sporting event to happen in the country in years, maybe ever.  Would it be a success? Would it be a disaster?  Many of the gloom-mongers were predicting empty seats, traffic chaos, and under-performance; and as for the Opening Ceremony, whose daft idea was it to put it in the hands of that ‘leftie’ Dannie Boyle?

A bunch of us watched things unfold that first evening at a barbecue in Mike and Bridget’s back garden.  The heavy afternoon showers had cleared and Mike had rigged up an old sheet as a screen and linked his laptop to a projector.  It did the trick and, having over-dosed as usual on sausages, chops and burgers, we settled down to watch.  The content had been kept secret and, to be honest, for ten minutes I wasn’t sure…. the stadium had been turned into some gigantic Telly-Tubby or Hobbit landscape, complete with sheep and whiskered gents playing cricket.  Were we to become the laughing stock of the 900 million watching viewers across the world?  Another ten minutes and another transformation.  To a thumping rhythmic drumbeat, the grass was rolled back to be replaced by the mills and chimneys of the Industrial Revolution and, by the time five huge rings had been forged in the fires by the leather-aproned workers and supervised by dozens of top-hatted Brunel lookalikes, and then lifted, sparks showering downwards, high in the sky to form the Olympic symbol, I was beginning to think it was going to be a success.

For the next hour, thousands of volunteer performers, many of them children, treated us to a joyful, rollicking celebration of much that is good about the British cultural, social, literal and musical heritage.  It was a whirlwind performance, sometimes difficult to fully appreciate at the time.  Flying Mary Poppins to a parachuting Queen and her special agent James Bond; Roald Dahl monsters to NHS beds and nurses; Swinging Sixties to the World Wide Web and the optimism of youthful ethnic diverse society. And the background soundtrack swung seamlessly between British orchestral favourites and rock classics.  Elgar, The Who, The Beatles, Vangelis (remember Mr Bean’s cameo role?), The Stones, The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Mike Oldfield.  By the time Emeli Sande wrapped up the first part of the ceremony with ‘Abide with Me’, we knew we had witnessed something different.  General consensus in the back garden was that Danny Boyle and his team had pulled it off but heaven knows what the media might make of it.  There had been no reference to Nelson, Henry V, Wellington, WWII or even Vera Lynn.   And there was one last twist.  The Olympic cauldron and the athlete who would have the honour of lighting it had been another closely guarded secret.  When it became apparent that seven youngsters would jointly share the responsibility, having been nominated by seven sporting heroes, it met with general approval and the artistic achievement of the seven ignited stems and associated 200 petals merging to form the cauldron was just brilliant.  Not for the last time in the next two weeks I had a lump in my throat and I don’t suppose I was the only one.  We wound our way home as the party ended with fireworks and McCartney conducting the 100,000 athletes, spectators, volunteers and officials in the stadium in endless renditions of ‘Hey Jude, na na nah na….’

Watch it on I-player (One Night in 2012), or on You Tube, if you’re feeling a bit low and need a lift.

It was a hard act for the athletes to follow and for a few days it looked like Team GB might flatter to deceive.  The news channels couldn’t help themselves: ‘Another day passes without a British medal,’ doing their best to puncture the optimistic mood of the nation with their usual gloomy search for something to criticise.  We needn’t have worried; five days in and the rowers Helen Glover and Heather Stanning broke the nation’s duck and opened a deluge.  It was hard to drag ourselves away from the telly as suddenly we had finalists everywhere and the Union Jack was continually being hauled up flag poles across a variety of familiar venues.  Wiggins imperious in the Richmond Park time trial; Kenny, Trott, Hoy, Pendleton, Thomas in the architecturally-stunning velodrome; a whole stack of rowers down by the Thames at Eton; a Daley medal off the high board; Andy Murray at the Excel; dancing horses at Greenwich; paddlers on the artificial rapids at Lee Valley; Jade Jones and Nicola Adams, gold-winning pioneers for the women fight scene, and the Brownlee brothers doing a one-three in the Hyde Park triathlon.  We took a day trip down to Weymouth, standing on the harbour wall, watching the flotilla of racing sails a few hundred metres offshore, with no idea who was winning (Ben Ainslie, who else, amongst other medalling Brits) and wandering around the buzzing town, happy to be part of the scene. 

We’d been successful in the ticket lottery for an evening at the stadium.  On a baking hot Wednesday, the boys and Sue and Ade accompanied us, catching the train up to the capital and wandering around the impressive, thronging, Olympic Park during the afternoon.  The feel good factor emanated from everywhere; stylish architecture, broad flag-lined thoroughfares, grassy banks and wildflowers, smiling volunteers, large screens showing the action elsewhere, happy visitors.  And the athletics that night didn’t disappoint and highlights included the ‘Lightning Bolt’ powering to an Olympic record 200m gold and David Rudesha leaving the field for dead to win the 800m in a new world record.  It had been a great day and, catching the last train back to Bristol that night, it felt like we’d been part of something special.  Actually not all of us made the train home; Stuart had quietly mentioned he’d be staying on in London for a few days at the home of a university friend.   ‘That’s nice,’ said his Mum. ‘What’s his name?’ 

‘Lucie,’ was the slightly sheepish response. (10 years later they’ve just got married)

Every day there was something to anticipate, to cheer, to share the disappointment, or celebrate the success but Saturday the 4th August was something else! I barely moved from the sofa.  Two golds in the morning rowing, another one for the girl pursuit cyclists in the afternoon and a night of possibilities on the track.  Sue and Ade popped round to watch the evening unfurl.  In a crazy 45 minute period, we saw the graceful, modest, determined Jess Ennis claim the heptathlon, the gold-winning leap of Greg Rutherford and the 5000m triumph of Mo Farah.  We nearly missed his last couple of laps; a huge thunderstorm temporarily knocked out our satellite signal and it was a panicky scramble to fire up I-Player on the laptop to watch in time to see him hang on for gold. Unbelievable, unprecedented, breathless stuff.  This sort of thing just doesn’t happen to British Olympic teams and their supporters!  For once, the phrase ‘Super Saturday’ was justified.

And then it was all over.  The most successful Games ever. 65 GB medals, flawless organisation, unforgettable performances.   The Closing Ceremony, a shameless two hour presentation of British music, art, and fashion didn’t quite reach the heights scaled three weeks earlier but as Elbow sang their stadium classic ‘One Day Like This’,  the cauldron was finally extinguished and the flag passed on to Rio, it felt like the nation had done a good job.  For a couple of months we’d escaped the real world, lost in the swirl of Union Jacks and with the national anthem on continuous repeat. 

2012 – A vintage summer.

Patriotism or Nationalism?

Is sport the acceptable face of nationalism?  I think the answer is ‘yes.’  On the pitch, on the track, in the pool, the vast majority of competitors know where the boundary lines are that define respect, fairness and pride in the shirt.  Hard competition, handshakes, tears, even friendships.  A far better substitute for demonstrating strength, skills and prowess than the blood and battlefields of earlier times.  And supporters can engage on the same level.  Empathy, admiration, patriotism.   Nobody gets hurt, nobody gets killed, and everyone has another chance the following race, match or event.   Even the full-on physical warfare of international rugby usually ends in handshakes.

Let’s have the conflicts on the pitch or in the ring and then leave them there.

Of course there are always a few who don’t see it like that: idiot fanatics, populist papers, opportunist politicians, fascists.  The whistles, boos, blatant racism and angry, sometime violent tribalism of a small element of most football crowds is both embarrassing and frightening.  I’m also uncomfortable with the partisan frenzy surrounding big night boxing. In contrast, I nevertheless warm to the banners, trumpets and good-natured chants of the sun-burnt faces and portly bellies of cricket’s long-suffering Barmy Army.

Maybe these views give a clue as to where my views on nationalism sit.  We should be proud, and celebrate modestly the healthy characteristics and positive achievements of our people and country, not just recently but over the centuries.  Let’s feel more than satisfied with our contributions to science, the arts and literature, exploration, social progress and so on.  Let’s recall how close we came to an invasion by the Armada in the sixteenth century and remember with pride the backs-to-the-wall defence of our island and the battle to free large parts of the world from tyranny in WW2.  Let’s note that when the chips are really down after some geographical disaster or human tragedy, we usually try to help and, even if I think we should do more, our support to the developing world is better than most. 

We should acknowledge, rather than deny or even shout about the mistakes of history.  Boris Johnson, half-joked in a speech to the UN, that the country he represented had, over the centuries, either invaded, or at least tried to invade, 173 of the 193 members.  And, despite what we might have been taught in school, the perceived benefits of the British Empire in organisation, democracy, communication and development also brought misery, poverty, oppression and a rip-off theft of resources under the guise of commerce.  We should recognise publicly that a proportion of the money for the elegant stately homes, the beautiful parks and gardens, the grand civic buildings and universities, and the wealth of a rising middle-class, was acquired in far from innocent circumstances.  Apart from a military perspective and the recognition of an against-the-odds victory, there’s nothing we should really celebrate about Agincourt or Rourke’s Drift; we shouldn’t have been there as aggressors in the first place. The persistent annual Orangemen marches celebrating the 1690 battle of the Boyne is the perfect example of an out-of-touch mentality still, over three centuries later, rubbing catholic noses in it and blind to the fact that the British Crown were the invaders.

It’s going to take a while to adjust our perspective on our past, and hopefully in the future find something more balanced.  We can start though with how we learn our history.  More on the social evolution, the hardships, the exploitations, the reformers, the achievements.  More on the political evolution, the fight for the vote, the rights of women, workers and minorities.  More on the evolution of power and religion and the allocation of wealth.  The good, the bad and the ugly in a realistic, unbiased story. 

It’s one thing changing how we educate and inform through the public channels of schools, museums and exhibitions.  It’s another how we change the message in the media that can influence and foster certain storylines, prejudices and mistruths.  Hardly a week goes by without the usual headlines in the usual newspapers on the usual subjects; immigration, European bureaucracy and the like all being obstacles to the restoration of a British golden age, that nebulous entity that weaves together the ‘best’ bits of the Anglo-Saxon, Elizabethan and Victorian eras.  And social media algorithms have just perpetuated the drift towards more populist and narrow-minded views.  How do we get the message over that we now live in a multi-racial society and have a wonderful diversity of culture?  Or the fact that we always have lived in such a culture, right back to the first waves of migrating dark-skinned tribes crossing over from Europe after the ice retreated 15,000 years ago.

But the little things help.  Telly and radio comedies, dramas and documentaries can bring the story to life; positive educators rather than negative stereotyping.  Contrast the recent ‘Small Axe’ BBC dramas that lifted the lid on police and judicial attitudes to race relations in the Seventies with the attitudes portrayed in ‘Love Thy Neighbour’ and ‘Till Death Us Do Part’ and the routines of many popular comedians of the time. 

And what about music and songs?  It’s certainly possible to tell tales of past glories, injustices or hardships; in fact they form the basis of much of folk music.  Just listen to Capercaillie singing about the Enclosures Act in ‘Four Stone Walls’, Simple Minds highlighting the murder of Steve ‘Biko’, or U2 publicising ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’.  But it’s also possible to over-stoke the fires of nationalism.  I’m not in the ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘Jerusalem’ jingoistic fan club; give me a humorous rendition of ‘The Great Escape’ or ‘Three Lions’ any day.   And what about national anthems?  For me a big proportion of them belong in the historical dustbin with their claims of national superiority, past victories and pompous military music.  Some might have a more acceptable theme, like Australia’s ‘Advance Australia Fair’ that champions the land and its people, but most we can do without.  And the prize for one of the dullest and out-of-touch anthems on earth belongs to us.  Just look at the words, not just of the first verse, the only one most of us know, but the other verses too.  Most of us like the Queen (and King), but do we really want to sing about how subservient we are to her, or appeal to a God many of us don’t even acknowledge to save her majesty and scatter our enemies.  I wonder how many of those representing today’s Great Britain sport teams feel comfortable with being expected to sing the anthem before a match or feel a bit disappointed with the music when on the top step of the podium.   

Personally I would struggle with it and my heritage isn’t one that’s been exploited or under-valued in the past.  If I was an England footballer, I’d much rather sing along to ‘Three Lions’ (note the Lionesses post Euro celebration) and if I’d just won Olympic 100m gold, I’d want anything but GSTQ.  How about if a gold medallist could choose their own favourite track to accompany the flag rising up the pole?  Trouble is, assuming we’ve got to have one, I don’t think there’s much chance of the National Anthem being replaced.  We’ve been persuaded over the years by the Establishment, the popular media, and our own version of history that it’s just such an integral a part of our nation’s traditions that anyone suggesting anything different would be instantly shouted down.

Any thoughts on an alternative national anthem?  ‘All You Need Is Love’ comes to mind as a good sing-along option. Bit slow maybe?  One friend with a straight face even suggested ‘Crest of a Wave!’  I have to say that most of my sensible friends, when canvassed for an opinion, have opted to ‘stay as we are’ arguing that it’s more about the tradition, pride and pomp than the actual words.  Maybe they’re right but I’m still not a big fan so guess I’ve just got to acknowledge that I’m in the minority.

And that little bit of opinionated thought on our National Anthem allows me to easily segway into the chance to express a bit more opinionated thought on Her Majesty and our royal family.  Now, for starters, let me declare that I’m not a Royalist.  If we didn’t have a monarchy and were starting from scratch as a nation, I wouldn’t be advocating any unelected head of state that was based purely on inheritance and I certainly wouldn’t be funding from the public purse the fringe family members.

But we are where we are; a largely unbroken chain of monarchs stretching back 1500 years, most of whom have inherited rather than snatched the crown.  Accompanying the history of all these individuals is a heritage of stories, dramas, and tragedies, a wealth of castles, parks and stately homes and a whole load of acquired pageantry and tradition.   It’s what’s helped form us as a nation and should be maintained, understood and appreciated.  But not worshipped, and fawningly, uncritically, subserviently treated as anything superior to what many, many other people and institutions have contributed over the millennia.

I believe the Queen should stay; she undoubtedly works incredibly hard and many people adore her.  There is surely a benefit she brings to the nation’s economy from tourism and the nation’s mood.  And that probably means that we can and should expect the same from Charles and William when their time for the throne arrives.  So we need to continue to fund the immediate family and the children associated with the direct line.  So in my scenario, Charles, Anne and Edward (Andrew’s foregone the right) get funded along with Charles’ children, William and Harry. But only William’s children get funded and so on.  This helps cut down the privilege, the hangers-on and the associated soap-opera.  On a similar theme, we need to recognise that the wealth acquired through having the titles, be it treasures, arts, land or buildings, belongs to us all.  At the moment, it’s far from clear why Buckingham Palace is only open two months a year, or why I have to pay to walk on a footpath through the Balmoral Estate.  Maybe the care and access should all be assigned to a public body we can usually trust, like indeed the National Trust, and any pricing and costs made more transparent and accessible.

Move with the times, share the wealth by making things accessible, keep the  traditions that we are so good at, and have a serious think about making the ‘religious bit’ of the monarch/state/church relationship more relevant to today’s society.

God Save the Queen.

Note - Three months after penning this, Elizabeth II died after 70 years on the throne.  I give huge respect for her and the performance in the role she carried through the decades.  Not for me the wave of mourning that engulfed the media, and swept up a sizeable chunk of the people in an emotional whirlpool.  Let’s recognise her and say  a big ‘thank-you’ by just doing what we do best;  the traditional handover of the crown and a spectacular funeral with all the pomp and ceremony we can muster.

God save The King 

Image removed – The Queen  Getty Images  Wiggo and Cav on the Champs-Elysees 

Images removed: Opening ceremony Rings Daily Telegraph    Industrial scene Daily Mail/ Workers Photos Rex Features

Images removed:  Bolt, Ennis, Farah, Rutherford   Getty Images/Wall street Journal      USA Today/ Leo Mason US Presswire   Getty Images/ Streeter Lecka PA      

Image removed: Barmy Army  Behind the Spin/Herald