Synchronicity.

So just how is that 'Big 'ol Society' coming along, Dave? Still on track, is it? Lord alone knows that some of us are doing our bit. After all, we're all in this together, aren't we? Just like a perfectly choreographed dance, I would imagine, precision synchronicity!

More for my own reassurances, that things were progressing satisfactorily, than for any other reason, I decided to conduct my own, limited, survey. Not as easy as I first thought! Absolutely fraught with problems, it was. First and foremost, in a depressingly long list of hurdles, was the obvious one; that nobody seemed to be absolutely certain as to what it was that our Dave was alluding to. Obviously this abstract concept can't be overly concerned with sharing, can it, I thought? A multi-propertied millionaire talking about an aspiration towards a more sharing society, to a population who are becoming increasing concerned about getting food on the table, paying utilities bills or hanging on to their one solitary home; I didn't think so!

A second hurdle was that, given the hazy nature of things, it was almost inevitable, I assumed, that some less-scrupulous individuals would see fit to interpret the amorphous term, 'Big Society', in vastly 'different' ways to that in which it was, I had thought, being sold to us. Factor in the consequent, self-serving, publicity that some 'participants' will be seeking, and then compare this to the modest anonymity sought by many of those who will probably be doing the most and you can begin to appreciate the scale of the problem with which I expected to be faced. Further skewing the issue here were my own health and family commitments, for which I most humbly apologise.

Thanks to slynkycat.

My early hopes had been to create a 'comprehensive' survey, based upon the 'Big Society' undertakings, or absence thereof, of at least thirty, randomly selected citizens. Thus, my severly truncated efforts, based upon the 'work' of just the five individuals, was of considerable disappointment to me.

But whilst it would be fair to point out that the consequent results may not be fully representative, I absolutely maintain that they are still well worth a second look.

For further clarification I feel that I should attempt to loosely explain the elected criteria for my survey. I endeavoured, during my research, to ensure especially two things. The first being that sample individuals were entirely randomly selected, from across the whole population of the UK, in so far as this was possible, and the second being that any unearthed 'Big Society' contributions were to be undertaken entirely at the behest of the person- not, say, a P.R. consultant or such like- and carried out entirely for the benefits of the wider community, rather than for any personal gains. Let's be honest, most of us will be able to appreciate the vast opportunity that exists here for the personal betterment of many self-publicists. It has become abundantly clear that  there is no depth to which certain individuals will not stoop?

Thanks to Mr Greenjeans.

Of note here: my 'whole' society may not be quite as inclusive as the ideal of a whole society. Think, therefore, more of the 'whole' world from which the 'world's' most handsome man was selected, or the 'world's' most beautiful woman, should you accidentally happen to read a copy of OK Magazine, before using it correctly and then flushing it away.

All my sample individuals were painstakingly selected through a personally devised process, not greatly dissimilar to sticking a pin in a map. Space alone has prevented me from further elaboration of my, somewhat extensive, methods.

So, on to the pertinent details. My random 'pins' had eventually arrived at five characters. Sadly my first female candidate was quickly found to be working illegally, without a valid work permit and for a wage easily below the legal minimum, thus 'selfishly' depriving others of the opportunity to acquire gainful employment. I immediately felt obliged to report the lady to the immigration department, declining well-remunerated bids for 'the story' from two of our 'highly esteemed' national tabloids. The councillor, for whom the lady regularly cleaned, was understandably shocked to be acquainted with the full facts, 'politely' requesting that damaging details were not to be exploited, later backing this up with a far more curt legal package.

My second subject, one David Scholey, seems to have approached the 'Big Society' role with purely 'egalitarian' ideals, helping to clear dangerous part of our planet from unnecessary hazards- where conceivably, 'hard-working' British families might fall prey to savage mishap. David, at great personal expense and placing himself in severe danger, was able to bravely destroy a fully-maned lion, armed only with a high velocity rifle, an armoured vehicle and a full retinue of protecting underlings. Well done indeed, David, I seriously doubt whether anyone could have hoped for an alternative ending.

Thanks to slynkycat.

My third sample individual, whilst nowhere near as 'brave' as the previous, is currently battling determinedly to ensure that the nation's heritage (specifically Roald Dahl's writing shed) is not to be further depleted. And I think that we can all appreciate precisely how easily this sort of wholesale butchery is often permitted to slip through the safety nets, during these times of global recession. Do you know, I think that I could be persuaded that certain less-scrupulous characters may even regard these times of austerity as cashing-in opportunities.

Anyway, my third sample subject was one Sophie Dahl, another 'cash-strapped' individual, struggling to make ends meet under difficult circumstances. And, before you jump in with more of that judgemental stuff that I've been reading in our outrageously 'left-wing' press, I feel it is only fair to point out that wealth and poverty, in the 21st century, are very much relative things. We may, from our single, dilapidated home, judge Sophie to be 'having a laugh', but who amongst us can appreciate the immense cost of maintaining homes on several continents, probably also footing the upkeep of some sort of gigantic yacht somewhere or other, maybe a fleet of chauffeur-driven vehicles, a globally flamboyant lifestyle and lord alone knows what other expensive (but highly necessary) oddities? Well done to Sophie Dahl, for recognising where the foundations of a successful 'Big Society' reside.

Thanks to Big Grey Mare.

A fourth sample- no I, too had never before heard of this woman- was one Sue Rabbitt Roff, a social scientist, no less. Sue had already been devoting decades of her life to all manner of social issues that might affect the smooth running of the larger society. However, it is the manner in which she has ingeniously tried to help the less wealthy to climb from that mire of debt that has, apparently, most impressed the wider public, and finally brought her 'selfless' efforts into the public eye. Sue has devoted much time to finding the means, by which less fortunate souls might be able to quickly write off some of their mounting debts.

What could be more simple than giving up a space-cluttering vital organ. I'm sure that I recall reading that George Osbourne, Wayne Rooney, Prince Philip and numerous other public figures have also, at some time or other, been driven to selling off important parts of their bodies in order to make ends meet, so why shouldn't we too be able to access this probably-once-in-a-life-time opportunity? Thanks Sue, the 'Big Society' acknowledges your sacrifice. In absoultely no way, should this be seen as a cynical means of 'putting the concept out there', on behalf of several far darker individuals, with their inhuman vested interests half-geared-up and ready to start the harvesting.

Thanks to spike55151.

Finally- and really, what are the chances of this?- the pin came down, metaphorically writing, on Eric Pickles. My first thought was that this might be some other Eric Pickles, but no. My second thought was that I should really give someone else a chance to shine, but when I soon unearthed proof of the lengths to which this man is prepared to go, in order to help others, I simply felt compelled to give my own personal thanks, in the form of this congratulatory passage, to this 'selfless paragon of virtue'.

Thanks to Ollie Crafoord.

Eric Pickles, it has to be written, has fought tirelessly on behalf of nearly 620,000 British citizens, of which I am almost certain he cannot be one. Incredibly, this is almost 1% of the whole country. Well done David Scholey,  Sue Rabbitt Roff and Sophie Dahl, but please step aside and marvel at the efforts of dear Mr Pickles.

His work, thankfully at long last gathering certain admirers, is devoted entirely to ensuring that 'cash-strapped' individuals will soon be able to keep a tiny bit more of their 'hard-earned' money, thus hopefully ensuring that these  'unfortunates' may not be driven to wrapping themselves in old blankets in order to stave off the freezing winter temperatures in their own homes. It is to be hoped that this long-overdue change to our unjust tax system will also soon put a nutritious and warm meal into the deserving bellies of these forgotten souls.

I may not have fully appreciated the aspirations towards a 'Big Society' at the outset of my research, but please count me solidly in the supporting camp now. Go, Dave, go! 'Big Society', I'm your new number one fan!

Freedom (of Speech).

Three cheers for Eric Pickles and Roger Bootle; at long last somebody has had the courage to speak out, against this nonsensical tax system, currently in operation (still as of 8th September 2011). The 50p tax rate is, we have been reliably informed, clearly "self defeating", and is "doing lasting damage to the economy". In short, the gist of what both are saying is that the 50p tax shows that "Britain is not interested in attracting all those hard-working people to the UK". Wise words indeed, from two impeccable characters who speak from the heart and obviously without hidden agendas. The message is now at least, thankfully, out there in the aether, free to roam and work its much esteemed and enlightened logic upon those few hard core remaining doubters.

Let us all just sit back and allow the statement (or its sentiments, at least) to wash over us, shall we, to seep into our pores, to work its magic upon our illogical reservations? Doesn't it feel so, so good? So refreshing?

Politically perfect from bigjom.

But, just hold your horses one darn cotton-picking moment, rewind... "Those hard-working people"? "Those"? What exactly does this say about 'these' hard-working people, the ones of us who are already here, and already 'working hard'? What about we few 99% of the population who are deemed not 'hard-working' enough to be paying 50p in the pound? How come we're not being mentioned in these embraced wisdoms, not also, perhaps, being described as "hard-working"? Where are we in this reckoning?



Special thanks to From one to another source.

In the absence of a mention from these great thinking gentlemen we are left merely to speculate, as I have been so doing. Where 'we' are, in this kind of statement, I would venture, is absent, and not just absent by omission. No, we are also absent from even the smallest, fleeting thoughts of these characters, these (shall we call them) Big Society thinkers? Absent in every sense, from almost every tiny aspect of their ideas of the real "Big Society".

Oh, that I were considered 'hard-working' enough to qualify for that higher rate of income tax. I like to think that, were such the case, I would at least be egalitarian enough not to bemoan the fact that I were deeming myself worthy of something in excess of £150,000 per annum. Remember, what these individuals seem happy not to point out is that the 1% who are currently wealthy enough to be paying the 50p rate are only doing so on the money they pay themselves, in excess of £150,000 per annum. In excess of £150,000!



The bigger picture by Reg Mckenna.

So apparently 99% of us are not pulling our weight, certainly not 'hard-working' enough, according to the enlightened definition of such, by the much esteemed Mr Pickles or Mr Bootle. Maybe it's just that I lack the sort of imagination required to envisage the sort of 'hard-working' society, the 'Big Society", to which these gentlemen refer.

Or maybe, just maybe, these soul-sucking dogmatists have become so, so, blindingly self-centred and downright greedy that they have completely failed to appreciate, or even notice, the crucial roles that bus drivers. road sweeps, nurses, multifarious office workers, shop keepers, teachers, ambulance drivers, paramedics, train drivers, social workers, the list really is immense, play in a properly functioning society.



Thanks to Walter Buller.

Either that or, alternatively, I, a non-50p-tax-payer, am just not qualified enough or intelligent enough to understand the bigger picture. Yes, that must be it! Roll on Big Society, the one where nurses, even most doctors, do not appear to exist- remember we only want the hard-working ones!

But, before you step into your personal utopia Mr Pickles, in particular, I think you might just consider that, no matter how poorly qualified to enter your utopia we might be we can all recognise a heart attack about to happen. And remember that, in your Big Society, there doesn't appear to be any room for most of those upon who you may yet come to rely.

"You think you're free, try going somewhere without money!" The words of the late, great Bill Hicks.

Castles made of Sand.

Just the other day weather and chance found me contemplating our wonderful Norfolk coast. The tide was out and the- much depleted in recent year's- bird migration had been pushed back, virtually to the distant horizon.

Being interested in nature and most things nature-wise (as well as many things less so) I would have far preferred that the tide were bustling fully in, the waves angrily rearing up, before pounding down with unholy force upon the trembling shore, whilst birds in their thousands slipped the peaks and troughs, winging their ways to pastures new, in preparation for the changing season. But, as I have already made clear, this was not the case.

Instead I happened to find myself contemplating the marvellously weathered groynes, in speechless awe of the manner in which nature is able to quietly work its undeniable magic, subtly reclaiming these meagre defences against the stealthy depletion of our sand. I watched, from a distance, as a wizened salty sea dog, some thirty metres away, worked loose an embedded stone, from a sand smoothed crevice in the timbers.

Thanks to Robert Radford.

So fascinated was I, by his patient determination, that I allowed myself to drift into one of those other-worldly trances, where time most certainly slows to a crawl. I have not the faintest idea for how long I stood in entranced observation, neither, I am sure, would science have been able to enlighten me further as to the duration. Outside, in the fuller world, probably no more than a dozen or so silky rippled waves would have had time to snake their meandering ways across the sodden sands, yet, encased inside my skull, I had been free to wander back and forth in history, conversing animatedly and at length with several significant characters, even drinking deep into the night with one such, in a tavern that common sense tells me had almost certainly nestled not more than a strong-armed stone's throw from where I presently stood. That there is no longer any sign of such a place, nor any reference to such in any unearthed historical document, does little to convince me of the error of my unswerving certainty, from my conviction that there it once rose, proudly from a nook in the cliff's pinnacle.

Perhaps at that very spot, mesmerised still, I would have remained, had I not been rudely startled back to the present by the suddenly close up and more confrontational face of the self same sea dog. Perhaps he was right to have enquired of me what the blazes I was doing- it matters not in the grander scheme of things- rooted knee-deep in the North Sea, gesticulating wildly, as if in conversation with another.

Upon rejoining the present I was initially somewhat relieved to have been redirected, albeit rather too late for the satisfactory salvation of my best pair of Testoni, hand-made shoes. Fortune is not always the most companionable of colleagues, but it transpired that he had, this time at least, chosen to deal me a mixed hand. My shoes may have been ruined- the cheque for replacement is already winging its way over seas- but the sea dog was not, as I had earlier presumed, in the slightest degree confrontational. On the contrary, he was- mistakenly, I can assure you- more concerned for my mental health. The deeply creviced face, as deep as if rivulets of flood water had been eroding the same for decades, presented as a delta of life's experiences. And I again risked more hostile challenge as I stared in amazed embarrassment- like a Victorian gentleman at a thankfully-now-discredited freak show- when the features before me softened, morphed and realigned themselves in to what I still like to think of as some sort of a smile. I had inadvertently amused the character, I think, by disclosing the precise sum of money paid for my unsalvageable shoes.

Thanks also to wandee007

Had the aforementioned tavern still been present I am certain that we would, by now, have become regulars; highly likely the best of friends. Instead, we had to settle for the warming tipple- actually rather fierce for my tender and sophisticated palate- that issued forth from a curiously battered and misshapen hip flask, shared upon the very spot where the certain tavern had once stood. Few could be so fortunate as to have shared such enriching conversation with one so generous of opinion and anecdote. Few could be so fortunate as to have been gifted such life-lessons, gleaned from such hard-earned and pained experiences. It is indeed one of life's more valuable lessons to have expended so much energy and so many words, over such deeply vital and learned topics as I was privileged to have done that afternoon. This was tempered only slightly by my own poor memory, with regards to many of the finer points discussed, and not helped in the grander scheme by the cruel and thudding headache with which I still find myself. Undoubtedly such an intellectual workout will make heavy demands upon the unaccustomed brain.

Unearthed from the wisdoms hiding in the darkened corners of memory I was, I certainly recall, further enlightened as to one fascinating historical point; one which alludes cyclically back to the groynes to which I now feel so deeply indebted. Indeed so indebted do I feel that I am driven to share such, before memory devises yet more cruel tricks upon my ailing brain.

The earliest groynes, you will no doubt already know, were built with a somewhat different purpose to that with which we associate them today. Perhaps what you have not yet learned is that the earliest builders of these magnificently defiant structures were highly superstitious. Why would they not be, what with so much that was happening in their world still largely open to misinterpretation and misunderstanding?

Whilst struggling with the ocean's currents, the power of the waves, the drawing of the shifting sands away from their feet and their attempts at securing lasting foundations, the groyne builders would naturally have had time to ponder the huge weight of seemingly insurmountable forces waged against their efforts. They, naturally, searched for signs and clues as to exactly what they were pitched against and they found these signs, or rather thought that they had, in the conspicuous cormorant.

And again to Arvind Balaraman.

The cormorant, a bird that they had watched for decades, openly depleting their own fish stocks, darkly watching and waiting until the humans were on the verge of capitalising upon their efforts before darting in and, often, making off with many of the very best specimens. The builders already 'knew' that black was the colour of the night, a time of human vulnerability, one of untold mysterious sounds (not yet understood) and otherworldly happenings. Obviously these birds were not to be trusted; rather they were birds that necessity dictated would need close watching. And, as we all know, when something is watched more closely than perhaps we are accustomed to new, fresh and previously unnoticed observations are sometimes chanced upon.

Thus, it was noticed that the cormorant, contrary to centuries of assumption, was not actually a bird at all. How could it be, with its strange habit of slowly sinking into the very waves that it was pretending to embrace, its bizarre 'dragon-like' habit of standing with its wings outstretched against the drying winds? No wonder so many ships were being lost at sea, what with so many free-moving dragons bobbing upon its surface, or watching its ebb and flow from various vantage points; seemingly hungry birds during the day but, now-understood-to-be, only far smaller shadows of something considerably more sinister of a dark night.

Many of the earliest attempts at groyne building were, of course, unsuccessful. Some, painstakingly erected, and proudly exclaimed to be thoroughly storm-worthy structures, would disappear without trace during the persistent ravages of a winter's night, before even the first signs of seaweed or barnacle were able to set up home, much to many a patron's distress and cost. By this time the builders, by necessity nomadic, travelling on to wherever the next job might be, had long since gone, taking with them the full and unjust payment for their shoddy workmanship. If only there were some means of testing the stability of these 'finished' groynes, before nature's next destructive visit to the same shores?

And, finally, thanks to Worakit Sirijinda.

Luckily, there was a then cabin boy, quickly to climb to third in command of the Mary Rose (thus prematurely lost on the 19th July 1545), by the name of Sebastian Threaks, who loved nothing more than to fritter away the hours, making observed notes about nature. Had his reputed to be copious notebooks survived the wrecking of King Henry's favourite ship (and had they not in some manner been found to be sacrilegious) it is possible that he may have set the course of natural history forward by centuries and have become as much of a household name as the likes of Charles Darwin. Alas, the fickle finger of fate!

The one and only surviving detail that has travelled down the centuries, believed to have been passed on through word of mouth, via a close colleague and rather more fortunate sailor upon the Mary Rose, was that Sebastian had noticed that no cormorant had ever been seen to settle upon the end of an un-seaworhy groyne. It was almost as if these mysterious non-bird creatures were able to sense the groyne's foundations shifting beneath the sands and, naturally, not being a true and thus confident swimming bird, the creatures were unprepared to risk being cast, still sodden, back into the seething ocean.

So, based purely upon the stated observations of one Sebastian Theaks, a system was devised, whereby no payment for a finished groyne would exchange hands until the patron had witnessed the settling of a cormorant upon this same groyne. If the cormorant settled for long enough not only would it ensure full payment for the builder, it might also find itself on the receiving end of a well-aimed rock or spear, ensuring the builder also a full bounty from the Lord Admiral himself, in gratitude for his efforts at helping to rid the sea of its night-time haunts.