Shame About England.

"It's a real shame that those things don't come with some sort of money-back guarantee, isn't it?" I ventured to the elderly gentleman. His skin had assumed the cankerous hue of a well-weathered, desiccated leaf; all the more reason to remain fully-shirted one might have assumed. Alas the curse of that rare phenomenon, British sunshine!

The gentleman in question was animatedly assuring me that there had been a time, presumably dim and distant, when the tattoo in question had borne a remarkable and almost lifelike resemblance to an actual Blue-collared Lizard. And so, not wishing to deflate the chap further, I dutifully concurred. My own summation, that the poorly 'crafted' 'ink-stain' had assumed the approximation of some kind of disfiguring burn, was definitely not a thought best shared at this juncture.

Thanks to tricky (rick harrison)

Several ales and an undeniable lifetime of limited ambition had seriously depleted the chap's vocabulary whilst, ever-ironically, whetting his appetite for meaningless 'conversation'. I tucked my book away into my rucksack and wrestled my assumed facial expression into one of relative compliance, snatching a further surreptitious glance at the bus timetable.

"Shame about England, isn't it?" he threw into the mix, from somewhere way out of left field. Where to start, I considered.

Shame about England...

The words seemed almost to echo inside my head. Naturally, we'd both been somewhat distracted by the mother and child, also waiting, but demonstrably less patiently, at the same bus stop. I'd hoped, desperately, that their's would transpire to be a different wait. Junior had mastered the oft-witnessed 'skill' of aggressive egocentricity, which the mother seemed misguidedly eager to overindulge. She'd even splashed out on some of those sagging, homage to prison life, jeans. I wiped away a tear of 'genuine' respect for the 'forward-thinking' clothes manufacturer concerned. 'So, they 'design' them for children as young as five, do they,' I thought. I could definitely relate to the old man's comment.

Shame about England...

Or perhaps, I considered, he was alluding to the recently estimated 100,000 multi-millionaires who have been evading income tax, via this newly-unearthed K2 scheme. But it's okay, because apparently they're actually 'avoiding', not 'evading', which would be just plain wrong. Hats off to Gary Barlow, I say; surely he deserves some sort of kick-back after proudly organising all of those queenie birthday celebrations. Or alternatively, it really was a 'shame about England,' I found myself edging, ever more, towards unanimity.

And again to trancedmoogle

Regarding the point of tax evasion, our 'highly representative' government would, I feel most certain, be rabidly over-eager to point out that Britain's growing status as a genuine tax haven for the mega-wealthy is a 'necessary' tweak, concerned with incentivising all of those amorphous 'investors'. Apparently, all we now need to do is to sweep away all of that backed-up regulation and red tape that's stalling our recovery- 'trivia' like minimum housing requirements, protection for sites of special scientific interest, disability rights, all of that sort of 'unnecessary' stuff- and the road to recovery will be laid clear. A few long overdue instances of deregulation are just itching to bribe their way through parliament, and on to the open market. Heads down, everybody else!

Shame about England... 

Or, just maybe, the chappy was expressing his disappointment at the aforementioned queen's begging letter to 'our' government, for access to 'her own' pensioner's winter fuel allowance. The 'poor' old dear, must be absolutely freezing, rattling about in all of those massive, oh-so-expensive-to-heat-properly, palaces. England; indeed it is a bit of a shame, isn't it, I nodded in silent acknowledgement.

Shame about England... 

An honest appraisal? The old guy didn't present as the sort of person who's ears might prick up at such a rumour but, then again, first impressions can often be wildly deceptive. I'm assuming, for example, that even Bob Diamond must have thoroughly impressed someone, at some point, somewhere along the line. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, the elderly gentleman, like myself, had caught wind of the whispered rumour that...

Pens out and eyes to the front, this is a numbers thing. It's not unduly complex but the figures are, should they concur to be true, absolutely staggering! So, here we go; apparently, during the last financial year, the country's thousand richest individuals have increased their relative wealth by (here it is) £30,000,000,000 more than the entire national debt. That's, "more than the entire national debt!" That means that, if true, those thousand individuals could repay all of the national debt, without recourse to bothering the rest of the nation, and still have enough left over to squirrel away £30,000,000 each. And this would be on top of their usual, already disgustingly large 'usual' annual takings.

Shame about England... The echoes were definitely becoming more pronounced.

And finally, thanks to  robswatski

Of course, when we talk about the national debt, we seldom seem to allude to the flip-side of the same coin, do we? To whom might this debt be owed?

Well, this is just a guess but might not at least some of that massive increase in income, that I've just alluded to, be, in some tiny way, connected to the massive debt that is never far from the news headlines? It's just a thought.

And, yes, I realise that it's just a rumour. But it's a big, big numbers rumour, that's leaked out of somewhere, in a country where, essentially, nearly all the means of large scale communication are in 'questionable' hands, so it's unlikely to have the full broadcasting support of, for example, The Financial Times, News Corporation, ITV, any bank, the BBC, almost any politicians, any of the tabloids, or most other larger corporations.

My gut is telling me to go with it. There is no doubt that, if such a rumour reached the wider audience, there would be all manner of denial, and financial counter-expertise at the ready, and all of those 'alternative figures' to conjure with, but, even if it did turn out to be an exaggeration, I bet that's all it would be, an exaggeration. There's no smoke without fire, as they say. Shame about England...


Nodding solemnly, I was teetering upon the very verge of absolute concurrence.

"Bloody penalties again!" he slurred with something akin to passion. Another can of high strength lager had somehow materialised, perhaps from within that sagging mass that might have, in another life, passed as some sort of trouser.

Absolutely, I thought, get behind 'our' boys, 'our' tax evading, self-serving, product-placement mannequins, in their focused task of becoming ever more a symbol of the inequality that is Britain today. "Indeed," I muttered, "Shame about England!"


I declined a swig from the proffered can.

Aaaahh!

Or conceivably, "Aaargh!" or possibly something very close to this approximation. Memory fails to recall exactly how a scream of anguish or of pain was represented, in those 'long-ago' comics that were so popular in the days before technology upped and stole the show.

Edvard Munch's 'Scream' has just been sold for £74,000,000. I write 'Scream', whereas what I should, more accurately have written, is one of Edvard Munch's 'Scream's' has sold for £74,000,000. An astounding amount of money in anyone's books, you'd think. Seventy-four million pounds, or one-hundred-and-nineteen-point-nine million dollars. This happened in a fast-bidding battle that lasted around ten minutes; a speedy affair that does not suggest, to me, someone agonising, with a calculator, over whether he can afford, maybe, another twenty quid. I tried displaying this sum in dollars on my calculator, but it doesn't have enough digits to represent the final amount!

Thank you to Juan Glez

As an enthused art student I can recall gawping, spellbound, at one of the originals- sadly, not the one with the inscribed poem- and, in response, 'The Scream' managed, somehow, to reach out and encapsulate the tiniest whisp of my soul, which remains forever Munch's. Simple- almost naive, in the manner that was so crucial to the work of Chagall- and almost certainly understated, yet unequivocally mind-blowing. It was around that time that I began to discover the immensity of that arguable gulf that lies between 'Art' and 'technical proficiency', not that the two are mutually exclusive, if only it were that simple.

Somewhat ironically, the aforementioned 'gulf' is rendered that much greater by virtue of its invisibility or partial invisibility; that undefinable 'gulf' between art and other things pertaining to art. As a general rule the 'gulf' is essentially unrecognised by anyone who has ever used the term, "I know what I like," in justification of an 'artistic' preference. Although, even this is, at best, vague and more than a touch pretentious to here contest. Either way the 'gulf', or some sort of similar divide, seems to exist. Conceivably the boundaries of such are less than clear, or remain subject to an element of flux, or could be argued slightly wider or less so according to certain qualified interpretations but, even to contest the existence of such a thing is, in a sense, an admission of its possible existence.

I would tentatively prefer to think of this 'divide' as being in a state of almost constant flux; sometimes more clearly defined, at others far, far less so. Thus leaving all manner of 'art works' teetering somewhere in the realms of nervous uncertainty.

When one version of 'The Scream' was stolen, in 1994, the 'gulf' was perhaps a little bit more evident. By the time that a second version of 'The Scream' had also been purloined the 'gulf' had become far more amorphous and ill-defined. And, give or take the odd minor fluctuation in the general public's perception of 'what is art', the trend toward greater obscurity has pretty much continued, right up to the present day.

I blame advertising and the wider exploitation of art, for the purposes of- what else could it ever be?- making bucket-loads of cash. Rather like that meticulously crafted piece of Baroque music that has been hacked to buggery in order to boost the sale of some soap product, or that spine-tingling breath of perfect music for ballet that has been nail-botched on to some god-awful piece of so-called TV entertainment, the visual arts have been judged as ripe for exploitation. I'm sure we can all number more than a few of the ways in which Munch's 'Scream' has been inappropriately used.

Thanks, very much to purplemattfish

Thus the 'gulf' becomes yet more ill-defined. Could it be argued, for example, that 'The Scream' has become so commercial that the process has almost, by some sort of cultural osmosis, exhausted and cheapened this (once) great masterpiece? Writing purely for myself, I could still stand and gawp at (even a relatively fine copy of) Munch's work but, to appreciate 'The Scream' in the same manner as before, I'd have to work jolly hard at scything through all of that vulgarisation that has become encrusted around the edges, rather like mould or water damage that might affect a misplaced but otherwise cherished object.

I much prefer to hope that it's not possible for all of that peripheral baggage to have somehow demeaned any piece of art, or to have mysteriously detracted from its artistic credentials. But, dating back to that seminal moment, when art began to shift, irretrievably, from the confines of religious icon and into the far wider world of aesthetic and/or cerebral 'thing', the impact of 'a history', upon an object, has also altered. Certainly, a painting that has, everyday, been viewed by queuing thousands, dating back decades, should have been imbued with a greater provenance than one that has been squirrelled away, unseen by a discerning soul, locked in some investor's vault for several decades, but this will often transpire not to be the case.

And, much in this manner, how several decades of sitting (quite possibly) in an investment banker's vault might affect 'The Scream's' monetary value, to a tiny minority of, almost certainly artistically bankrupt, billionaires, and how this same incarceration might affect the same work's artistic credentials, could be judged to have seriously diverged. Either way, those wishing to unearth the art beneath the hype might need to approach certain art works with one very sturdy metaphorical excrement shovel.

What might the anonymous, and possibly only, viewer of 'The Scream' be thinking as he- it's almost certainly a 'he'- stands (will it be) in awe of the work? Will it be, "Wow, seventy-four million quid; all mine!" or will a tiny inkling of the inner machinations of the deceased artist's mind mesh, inextricably, with the 'soul' of the new 'owner'? We could, of course take serious issue with either of these words (soul and owner) on any number of points. Will the thoughts that are generated within the aura of the work somehow interfere with the manner in which others might one day view it? "See that, Beyonce-Starshine; that 'painting' was once owned by the world's richest man. Now, are you gonna give daddy one of those raspberry-flavoured sherbet-screams?"

Given the short poem that is inscribed upon 'The Scream's' frame, we might safely assume that, whatever precisely Edvard Munch had in mind when he created the iconic work, it almost certainly wouldn't have been to boost t-shirt sales, or increase the production of ceramic tat or to create yet another print-your -own-money avenue for Hollywood. And, I would like to think that, being a man who chose to communicate largely through his art, he wouldn't much have cherished the idea of his work sitting in a darkened vault, clicking virtual-digital-zeros into the bank balance of one man, with whom a short conversation on the shared perceptions of art might have been neigh on impossible.

Of course, money doesn't necessarily exclude artistic appreciation, but it certainly doesn't enhance it. At best, it merely affords one an enormous leg-up, onto the platform of publicly broadcast 'insight' (I say insight) into the work of art, thus almost certainly cheapening the art considerably for the wider, not-necessarily-discerning, public.

In my humble opinion 'The Scream', or one of them, has just been stolen for a third time. This time, more elaborately planned, more expensively undertaken, but sadly, and highly probably, far more irretrievably than on either previous occasion.

Rite of Passage

I'm afraid that I've been a bit remiss of late. More than remiss, I've been distracted. Trying to sort out a few things, investments and the likes, and the ol' blogging's taken a bit of a back seat. Thus, I've really barely had time to sit down and partake of a nice cuppa.

Still, 'time is money, my friend', as all of those ' nice', high-profile and monied types like to repeatedly remind us. 'Always looking forward; never looking back'. I'm sure that somebody once- more than once, probably- similarly advised me. And I intend to do just that, to not look back.

The thing is, it's often difficult; more than difficult, truth be told. When life suddenly changes, in such a manner, it's almost impossible not to keep glancing over one's shoulder, wondering what the former self might have been doing now, at this precise moment in time.

Allow me to elucidate. Euro-Lottery; had a bit of a windfall. I say windfall, it was more of a landslide really. It's absolutely no exaggeration to write that it knocked me for six, it really did. I quite literally couldn't stop shaking, and it wasn't just that I hadn't been able to afford to heat the house properly. It's strange, don't you think, how such things can help to clarify one's mind on all manner of issues. All those areas of uncertainty, the misty corners of the arguments, the alarming inconsistencies, are suddenly all made crystal clear, in the blink of an eye.

I'd rather not say exactly how much I've bagged, if it's all the same to you. Needless to say, it's one tidy sum! More than enough to set the pulse racing, boost the flagging energy reserves, that sort of amount. I've set the winning ticket aside, not even cashed it in, so theoretically nobody else knows yet. Although, as will soon be made clear, one or two individuals might already suspect that something's up.

First things first, I booked myself an appointment with one of those fancy lawyers in the city. Needed to find out how to slip seamlessly into that world of 'different' taxation; don't want my 'hard-earned' money paying for all those slackers in the Public Sector. S'funny really, until the 'moment of clarity', I'd always assumed the Public Sector to be a vital backbone to our unequal society, picking up the damaged pieces as it were. Now I realise that things aren't ever quite so black and white.


To site an example, have you heard what that 'nice' Mr Wilshaw (new head of Ofsted) has been saying? And I'm sure that he must know what he's talking about; our elected representatives wouldn't just put any old hate-riddled, char-souled bigot into such an important role, charged, as he is with 'motivating' our teachers, getting the very best out of this under-fire workforce. Only the other day my usually uber-benevolent old neighbour actually used the word 'despot' whilst talking about the man. Sadly, what Sid doesn't seem to realise is exactly how many of our hard-earned taxes are simply frittered away unnecessarily, on education for example. So, yes please, Mr Wilshaw, some well-aimed efficiency savings; what possible harm could that do?

After all a great deal of that education-tax money is now what I like to call mine. I think it only fair to point out that I've invested wisely and, finally, I've seen my boat come in. And really, my lottery 'investments' are, essentially, not that different to all those made by the rich banking fraternity; it's just that when I lose I don't end up bankrupting the whole country. So taxes like Tony, Dave and George, from now on please; no point in paying the full whack if you don't need to, is there? Anyone got Tony Blair's number?

Invest, that's what the aforementioned lawyer suggested I do, so I've been putting out a few feelers in that area too. Had a word with a suggested city developer who's currently putting up twenty or so small dwellings in this wonderful, prime location. Apparently one can sidestep all sorts of planning regulations if one uses the term 'first time buyers' in the paperwork. Marvellous! Anyway, I've persuaded this 'development' chappy to see if he can't just squeeze in a few more properties; said I'd buy the lot, as an investment you understand. It's almost beyond belief, how much you can knock people down when you're a cash buyer.

I figure that if this chap can slot in another, say, six homes I'll be able to rent them out for pretty much the same amount. That way I'll be able to house (thus help out) half a dozen more families. Admittedly these dwellings are already, in the planning stage, a touch on the small side, but you can't get much for your money in the capital these days. A good steady income for me too, so 'win win!' I'll probably be slipping the proceeds into something off-shore-ish, I should imagine. The lawyer's currently drawing up the paper work; apparently he's very good and highly sought after in certain circles; no names, you understand.

Damned phone keeps ringing; you can be certain that someone's caught on and set the begging bandwagon in motion. Last night I somewhat reluctantly drew up a list of old friends that I might need to let slip into the past tense. I'm sure that a more appropriate set will soon replace the old. It's only when you're in this sort of position that you realise exactly how hard these wealthy people work for their money. More money, maybe, but consider the responsibilities and worries that I've already taken on board.

Anyway, I've also got my eye on this lovely Georgian house, set in the most idyllic location. It would be unrealistic to expect to be able to keep in touch with all of my 'old' friends if I'm going to be moving quite so far away- petrol's so expensive, isn't it? And anything less than a Bentley isn't going to sit at all well in the driveway. You see, that's another reason for quietly moving on. Luckily there's also a garage- I say garage, extensive stables really- for the 4x wheel drive that I'm also going to 'need', for when I trek up to Scotland, to the delightful bolt-hole that I've recently had my eye on. I've always considered multiple home ownership a tad immoral, but things are far more complicated now. Heaven alone knows that I'm going to need somewhere abroad to retreat to, if I'm going to pull off this tax deal. And another car! Even in the Seychelles Public Transport's no laughing matter.

Another thing that my 'hard-earned' cash has enabled me to do is to view this recession- you say potato, I say kumkwat- with a more discerning eye. I mean, it's only really a recession if your not prepared to alter your viewpoint, isn't it? Obviously it's a shame that a few people are a little bit worse off, but you've got to move on, rather than dwell in the past. And on the other hand all sorts of opportunities have quite literally blossomed before us, if we only know where to look and how to recognise those oportunities.

For example, I've found a highly competitive workforce to be at my disposal. Minimum wage is going to present a few problems, but I've got high hopes for common sense winning the day. If only a few more people would be prepared to listen closely to the wisdoms of the likes of Ron Paul (Republican), in the States; they seem to have a far clearer economic plan over there, don't you think? I'd never really listened to the Republicans before, always assumed them to be slightly racist, homophobic, almost Nazi in several respects, but suddenly I have seen the light. If you, like I, can only see past these old prejudices the answers are all there. We simply need to grab the bull by the horns, so to speak.

Entirely on a negative note and trying to muddy the economic waters somewhat, I noticed that Brock University- there's always someone, isn't there?- has sought to undermine those of us seeking to rebuild the economy by claiming that there is evidence linking more right wing ideologies with that of a lower intellect. Undoubtedly just a bunch of lefty-leaning Trots. Obviously nobody at that place ever took the time to listen to the likes of George Bush, Ronald Reagan, John Prescott or Sarah Palin, in full and elegant flow. If one ever needs to refresh the mind, with some of the most eloquently delivered rhetoric of our times, one need search no further.



From the lady's mouth, care of tpmtv

So, on to my business plans, once we find the right players- none of this union nonsense, I'm afraid- and manage to negotiate salaries and the likes. Sadly, I won't be able to offer security as such, but with a lot of hard graft and flexible working- maybe some sort of internship might be in order- I'm sure we can all pull together. We've got to keep it in mind that we work in a global economy now; we've got to be competitive! I think that, only this morning, I was listening to some pretty sound thinking on the BBC, regarding open and global competition. Reward the hard working in this society and the sky's the limit! I doubt if any of my workers will quite be able to afford to rent one of my investment properties just yet-awhile- they really are set in a highly desirable location- but I'm sure that if they're prepared to share one of  our capital's many highly sought-after bedsits they'll be able to find something. I'm afraid there just isn't room for hand outs and freebies in this highly competitive world marketplace.

Presently, it's a toss up between off-shore wind farms or something in the newly opening-up NHS; I'm being urged strongly towards the latter. A nod and a wink from a man with his finger on the pulse has explained precisely why the NHS market is so popular. Apparently it's because it can't be allowed to fail; obvious really. Why risk your business on the open market when you could, far more easily and with all the risks removed, 'invest' in the NHS. No wonder there's such interest in the sector. No wonder 'our' politicians are desperate to do something for their mates in the city; you scratch my back and...

Still, it's very tempting, although I think that I might have already missed the boat with something a bit breast-implanty. Works not unlike Private Finance Initiatives, I should imagine; rich rewards for abject failure. I should point out, at this juncture, that 'failure' is not at the forefront of my thinking, but, having said that, a little bit of insurance wouldn't go a miss.

Now, if I can only get my face on TV...