Friday Ephemera (710)

Never mind the extensive testimony and physical evidence. Gotta have reasons to hate whitey.

It does seem to be the chief motivation. And to achieve that end, some contortion may be required. I was reminded, for instance, of a certain Guardian columnist:

Readers may recall the Guardian’s Emer O’Toole, a “postcolonial theorist” and assistant professor of Irish Performance Studies, for whom all cultures past and present are equally vibrant and noble, except of course the culture in which she currently flourishes, on which opprobrium must be heaped ostentatiously and often.

Ms O’Toole famously bemoaned the colonial propagation of Shakespeare, whose works she denounced as “full of classism, sexism, racism and defunct social mores.” And worse, “a powerful tool of empire, transported to foreign climes along with the doctrine of European cultural superiority.” The possibility that at any given time one set of values and insights might be preferable to another, even objectively better, bothers her quite a bit.

Her article was accompanied by a photograph of New Zealand’s Ngakau Toa theatre company performing Troilus and Cressida in a distinctively Māori style. To me, it looked fun and worth the price of a ticket. But this cross-cultural fusion saddened Ms O’Toole, who dismissed notions of the Bard’s universality as “uncomfortably colonial.” She then presumed to take umbrage on behalf of all past colonial subjects, whose own views on Shakespeare and literature she chose not to relate. She did, however, get quite upset about “our sense of cultural superiority” – a sense of superiority that, she insisted, has long been “disavowed by all but the crazies.”

It may be a tad indelicate, even improper, but I can’t help wondering how Ms O’Toole might have felt had she been among the 19th century English colonists who encountered a Māori culture that was all but prehistoric, with no discernible literature or science, in which the average lifespan was about thirty years or so, and where cannibalism was not unknown. Faced with such things, I’m sure Ms O’Toole would have resisted the wicked urge to think herself a little more culturally advanced.

It’s not so much thinking, or indeed theorising, as a weird compulsion. 

I think it is still funny

The Other Half and I have been listening to episodes in the car on long journeys. They basically devised a format that allowed them, in effect, to tell the same jokes every week with minor variations – it’s basically a series of riffs. But if you like, say, the 60s Carry On films and farcical double entendre, there’s some amusement to be had. 

I suppose it depends on whether you’re entertained by rustic songs about nadgers and futtocks, and splod cobbling. Or the camp duo Julian and Sandy as lawyers with “a criminal practice that takes up most of our time.” Or the tale of the enormous crumpet baked for Queen Victoria. Things of that kind.

What a way to go.

“Deploy the weapon.”

I have no reason to think my experience of the NHS is atypical. Soviet, yes. Atypical, no.

Not atypical at all. Pretty much the norm, and increasingly so.

It’s the envy of the (third) world, you know.

Ah, here we are – presented below in abbreviated form. If I repeat the whole saga, you’ll be gnawing at your own elbows:

On Sunday morning I went to the local NHS hospital to return a pair of crutches. I made my way to the main reception desk, behind which a large woman was staring intently at a celebrity gossip magazine. I stood directly in front of her, smiling expectantly. For several seconds, almost ten. Nothing happened.

“Morning,” I said, still smiling. “I’m returning these crutches. Could you tell me where I can leave them?” The receptionist’s eyes moved, very slowly, from the magazine to me, but the enquiry was met with a blank stare and an awkward pause. I assumed the receptionist hadn’t heard me on account of the gripping contents of her magazine. Just as I started to repeat the question, the large woman mouthed one word: “Hydrotherapy.” I looked around at the maze of doors and corridors, hoping for a sign marked ‘Hydrotherapy’ – to no avail.

“Sorry, can you tell me where I’ll find Hydrotherapy?” As I asked this, I sensed I was already testing the woman’s patience as her stare lifted again from the magazine. Another awkward pause followed by a vague gesture in no particular direction and an irritated tone of voice: “Down that corridor, on the right.” “Thanks,” I said, determined to sound civil, albeit unilaterally.

The corridor in question was quite long with numerous right turns, none of which, it turned out, was marked ‘Hydrotherapy.’ However, after a walk of maybe 70 metres or so, I did spy a door on the left with a sign to that effect, through which I found another long corridor and, eventually, another reception desk, where three members of staff sat chatting in a near whisper. Again, I stood right in front of them, hoping to be noticed. And again, nothing happened.

“Morning,” I said, smiling with doomed optimism. Again, nothing happened. Evidently, I was expected to stand there patiently until the chatting had reached a crescendo and the subsequent laughter had concluded.

“I’m returning these crutches,” I said. “I’ve been told I should leave them here.” The second, equally blank receptionist glanced at the objects clutched in my hand, but not at me, then said, distractedly and apparently to the room in general, “There’s no-one here to take them. Have you tried main reception?”

I should stress I do not exaggerate for comic effect. This is what happened. And presumably, this is what happens every goddamn day. 

It seems like anything run by government eventually becomes primarily a jobs program with the original purpose being secondary.

Having visited the hospital several times, as next of kin rather than a patient, my impression of the place is that, while there are competent and friendly doctors, surgeons and nurses, the admin staff is a very mixed bag and largely unfamiliar with notions of customer service or even common civility. As illustrated above.

Competence, too, is very hit and miss, and during my recent experience, escorting a patient, an important appointment notification was never sent, a set of records was accidentally deleted, and a set of x-rays was simply lost, never to be found. For just one patient with one ailment. None of which was regarded by the staff as particularly unusual or embarrassing. Which I suppose might explain the lack of any apology for wasting my time and effort, or indeed the time and effort of the patient.

And because the notion of customer service is apparently so alien, the result was of being made to feel like an inconvenience, as if we should be grateful for any attention at all, however belated and inept, because they’re doing us a favour, don’t you know.

Let me first take the Weim Crime Syndicate on their post-breakfast walk so they stop mudging me and make a second cup of coffee so I can enjoy these links in peace and serenity.

[ Taps watch, peers over spectacles. ]

No more Vice.

Why, it’s a mystery for our times. And yes, I laughed.

This trope that all cultures are equally good/valuable is sickening. 

The pretence seems to be that all cultures are, and always have been, not only congenial, but morally and culturally equal – geographically, across space, and historically, across time. Except, of course, for our own culture, which is, and always has been, somehow uniquely corrosive and depraved. As pretensions go, it’s unconvincing and weird, certainly. And often mouthed by the kinds of people to whom one shouldn’t entrust car keys – or the education of one’s children. 

[ Considers possibility of fish and chips. ]

Or as in for supper?

As in can’t-be-arsed-to-cook-tonight.

[ Chomps fish and chips. ]

They offer the service of repositioning them in a more masculine location,

[ Slurps coffee, checks positioning of nipples. ]

He’s surrounded by kids. Who does he want to “look sexy” for? 

A middle-aged male teacher vamping around the school in tarty heels, while telling us “I like to look sexy,” is sending an unhappy signal, even if done as part of some wider ‘fun teacher’ role-play. 

And for many modern male educators, looking “sexy” or “cute,” complete with painted nails and makeup – ostensibly for the benefit of other people’s children – seems more of a kink disguised as a kindness, a favour – and, entirely coincidentally, a basis for pretentious in-group applause.