The Evening Star

She will come as a vision in the meadow:

As the summer's evening sun

Trickles down the westward sky.

She will come gently in her loveliness,

Beautiful and slow.

She will come as a bright day's warmth

Amidst the winter's chill;

As the February hour that steals

Another minute's light from the dark.

As a peace after the tumult,

As birdsong in the spring's morn,

As a brook in the fastness of the forest,

As the whispered promise of dawn,

She will come,

And past pains will rest at last

Sleeping deeply with present joys.

She will come at her own time,

Upon her own day, at our own rhythm,

When the steps of the dance are such

As to unite us out of this heady swirl.

She will come as a lone star

Peering through the dark clouds of the night,

And by that slender, shimmering light,

She’ll lead me home. Home. Home, again.

Notebook: Intellectual Dishonesty in the Press, Gove's Gory Commemoration, and Sexism in Sport

The Guardian's Selective History Highlights Need for Vigilance

It’s that time of year when the National Archives yield up more of their secrets. The fact that this even happens is underappreciated. Government secrets are necessary though undesirable (sorry, they are, but that’s for another blogpost), but the fact that we have a framework for the eventual release of (most of) them within a generation is rather good really.

As we move through the next few years, more and more documents will be released from the 1980s, a decade of unparalleled importance in the recent history of Britain. Individual newspapers will present their Pot Noodle Histories – quick and easy to make, maybe initially satisfying, but ultimately ghastly and bad for your health.

A particular area of interest is the revival of 2013’s favourite comparison: Mandela v Thatcher. The claim being advanced by The Guardian this morning is that Thatcher, contrary to the claims of her supporters, applied very little pressure on South African President PW Botha to release Mandela. This is presented under the broad historical statement “Margaret Thatcher 'made no case' for Mandela's release”, and the article has been doing the rounds on twitter. Interestingly, Kevin Maguire of the Daily Mirror decided to tweet this article, rather than using anything from his own paper.

As readers, we must be very careful here, because the statement in that headline simply isn’t true, and it is an example of how newspapers, particularly in the age of the 140-character-history, manipulate the facts.

The newly released documents from 1984 certainly demonstrate that Thatcher was not exerting tremendous pressure for Mandela’s release, but she was attempting diplomatic ways of influencing significant change in the Apartheid regime, having decided that isolation was not the best way to get peaceful progress in South Africa. These methods were, naturally, incremental.

By 31^st October 1985, Margaret Thatcher wrote this letter to Botha, in which she explicitly urges him to release Nelson Mandela. It also shows how many plates Thatcher was spinning, throughout the Commonwealth and worldwide in the pursuit of her foreign policy. One can debate her decisions and question how successful and influential her tactics were, but the suggestion that she was a supporter of the Apartheid division is just plain wrong, nor is it correct to say that she “made no case” for Mandela’s release.

Now, in fairness to The Guardian, the article does detail a lot of facts that place Thatcher in a good light, noting that she told Botha that it was “totally unacceptable” that rights were determined by skin colour, and it is also made apparent that the Government at that time had supported calls for Mandela’s release. However, that doesn’t prevent the headline being poor history, and the structure of the article being such as to encourage a view of history that is erroneous but beneficial to that paper’s particular worldview. What that amounts to is total intellectual dishonesty.

We don’t tolerate this sort of nonsense from The Daily Mail, and rightly so. We must be consistent. Of course, all papers do this. As Charlie Brooker noted in his excellent 2013 Wipe, a large part of the job of newspapers is to spew the readers’ views back at them, and no doubt someone will find that the Mail has been hagiographic to a fault today (I refuse to take the Mail unless absolutely necessary). Nevertheless, we owe it to ourselves to be better. We should read wider, consider more calmly and, hard though it might be, resist the urge to reduce everything to 140 characters, nor to think that any single tweet contains the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Let This Be a Time of Remembrance, Not Sickening Commemoration

The Royal Mint has unveiled new designs for coins in 2014. Amongst them is the first of many commemorative coins to mark the centenary of the First World War. The design features the infamous poster “Lord Kitchener Wants You”. At the same time, Michael Gove has attacked dramas such as Blackadder for spreading left wing myths about the First World War, arguing that they have served to create a simplistic narrative where the blundering elite sent thousands upon thousands to unnecessary deaths.

The centenary is a deeply difficult time to navigate, but the government is botching it in typically schoolboy, Ripping Yarns-esque style. Whilst I agree with Gove that the common view of the First World War has become lacking in nuance and simplistic, it doesn’t take away from the fact that the conflict was preceded by the needless power-games of the nations involved, and defined by the obsolescence of their strategies and the incredible wasting of human life in absolutely hopeless and pointless endeavours. The horror of what happened (which, incidentally, Blackadder Goes Forth portrayed magnificently) is what must be remembered.

The Government’s rhetoric seems utterly opposed to this, seeking commemoration rather than remembrance and some kind of reconsideration of WW1 as a noble conflict. Gove sees it as a glorious fight against Social Darwinism. It wasn’t. It was the hideous extension of 19^th Century wars of conquest, imperialism and pride, driven by opportunism, ambition and the lust for vengeance. Minting a coin to commemorate this, and using a poster which ultimately sent huge numbers of men to a vain and pitiless death, is just sick.

Sexism in Sport Remains Insidiously Present

There was a muted outcry at the end of the year, as Andy Murray went unrecognised in the New Year’s Honours List. Murray, who collected an OBE from the 2012 list during the last year, had been widely tipped to receive a knighthood after winning the Wimbledon Men’s Singles Titles last July. Meanwhile, Ann Jones, Ladies’ Singles Champion in 1969 received a CBE.

The expectation that Murray was to receive a knighthood whilst Jones has only just now received a CBE (largely in recognition of her work in tennis administration), indicates the persistent and irrational sexism that pervades our perception of sport in general. Tennis is now one of the most egalitarian sports in terms of pay, but we still seem to treat female players with less regard.

Whilst one may enjoy in a purely emotive way one gender’s game more than the other’s (perhaps enjoying the higher speed that the Men’s game is played at, for instance), it is ridiculous to treat the achievements of female players any less. Murray will eventually get his knighthood. He deserves it, but if that is so then Jones and Virginia Wade (the last female winner of Wimbledon, who currently has an OBE) should be Dames.

I Fear for Peter Hitchens

I’m worried about Peter Hitchens. He wants to do bad things. He is compelled to do these bad things. Every day, he wakes up and he is assailed by temptation. Jesus had it easy in the wilderness compared to the trials and travails that he suffers. The only thing stopping him from lighting a crack-pipe, getting drunk and disorderly and, presumably, going on a terrible crime spree is his immense, monolithic, immovable self-will, and what remains of the Criminal Justice System.

Why do I worry about this? Well, in his now much re-tweeted debate about Drugs Courts on Newsnight with Baroness Meacher and Matthew Perry, he said this: “The whole point of the Criminal Justice System, and we forget this all the time, is to deter people from committing crimes.”

He is, of course, absolutely right about this. I know from personal experience that I am but a judge’s-day-off away from mass-murder. Every day, Peter and I must have the same experience. We want to tear into the streets with sub-machine guns, give into our ids, and gorge ourselves on the buffet of potential delinquencies available to us. We don’t, but only because we are deterred by the Criminal Justice System. That is what it is there for. That is “the whole point” of it. If it weren’t for that, we would be unleashed.

I am, of course, being facetious – displaying the sort of "levity" that Hitchens aspires to but can never attain, the sort of activity that he tries so hard to deploy but fails to deliver, and therefore resorts to self-righteous spite and venomous disrespect instead (note how he gets gradually more defensive on Newsnight) – but, of all of his ridiculousness and Matt Perry’s flippant rejoinders the other night, that single statement has to be the most stupendously ludicrous, and the most disturbing.

“The whole point of the Criminal Justice System … is to deter people from committing crimes.” The nonsense of this is immediately apparent. The Criminal Justice System enforces the law, certainly with an eye to deterring (something which, incidentally, you can never measure the success of, for there are no records of people who consider committing a crime and then don’t, nor of what their reasons for their change of heart was either), but it also has a look to retributive justice and, we hope, rehabilitation. None of this is easy, but all of it is necessary. The approach to law, morality, and justice must always be highly nuanced and considerate of each individual case according to its circumstances. There must never be a “whole point”. We can never afford to be so blinkered.

It is when you dwell on it that the sheer unpleasantness of thought behind that statement reveals itself. Its implication is that the only thing stopping some people from committing crimes is the threat of punishment. He seems to think, though, that human beings are inclined to failure, to laxity, to wrong-doing, and therefore we need a “stern and effective” CJS to keep us on the moral path prescribed.

Hitchens has no time for rehabilitation. He seems to have no time for considering the complexities of retribution. He is merely interested in the rules of the game. Transgress them, and you are gone, not because you have done something morally wrong necessarily, but because you have made a life-choice that Peter finds disagreeable. To jail with you then, so that others may choose better. Such a view is smug, arrogant, self-centred, uncompassionate, ill-informed, flat-out stupid, and, in his case, probably intellectually dishonest.

To err is human, but should erring (if erring this be) be greeted as something worthy of harsh punishment, solely for the reason that others may be deterred from erring again? Not only is this an unjust form of reasoning, it is also a rod for one’s own back. The recurrence throughout the ages of drug-abuse, for instance, suggests that this is a problem we will not be able to eradicate. If it is a scourge, then it is not one we can defeat, as the failure of drug policies worldwide have demonstrated. The condition is too rooted in human nature.

One needs to rise above the level of the primary school headmaster in our thinking here in order to find better solutions. Hitchens, the crotchety, snarling, disgruntled school teacher par excellence, is not the man whose reasoning we should follow.

The Sherlock Solution?

Having just rewatched The Reichenbach Fall, I am madly excited by the prospect of Series 3 of Sherlock (BBC1, 9pm, New Year's Day), not least because we will get the solution (we're told it's satisfying) to the greatest TV conundrum since Richard Whiteley revealed one with a Q and no U in it.

Theories have abounded, though I have to admit that I haven't gone looking for any of them. Here at any rate is my shot in the dark as to how Sherlock survived his fall from the roof of St Bart's Hospital.

Here are the facts:

1. John got a phone call saying Mrs Hudson had been shot, when she hadn’t been. This caused him to leave St Bart’s, but he would inevitably return within a broadly predictable period of time – the length of a return cab journey to and from 221b Baker Street.

2. Sherlock picked the location on the roof of St Bart’s. He may have guessed that he was going to be required to jump off the roof, or not. That is unclear, but he certainly chose that location.

3. Moriarty is definitely dead. His brains are all over the roof. If you look closely, there’s actually a little piece of brain. The rule of Sherlock is always trust your senses, and we saw his brains on the masonry, so he is dead. Dead. Finished. Extinct. A former-Andrew Scott. Bereft of life, he rests in peace. He’s run down the curtain and joined the criminal fraternity invisible. This is a late nemesis.

4. Sherlock definitely jumped. John saw him.

5. We definitely see a body hit the floor. Obviously, there are issues about what’s broadcastable and so on, but it doesn’t look like it’s hit the floor at a particularly fast speed.

6. When we first see “the cadaver” (marvellous word), it is partly obscured by a rubbish truck that is quite full with rubbish.

7. Before he can get to the body, John is hit by a cyclist. Afterwards, he is dazed and confused.

8. The cadaver on the floor is definitely dead.

9. Sherlock is definitely alive.

So, here’s my theory:

If Sherlock had jumped from that height and hit the ground he would be dead. He did jump from that height, and is alive. Ergo, he did not hit the ground.

The obvious option would be the rubbish truck. There doesn’t seem to be any other option for anything intercepting him with suitable cushioning to prevent him from dying. He must have landed in there.

Did he get lucky? No. I reckon Sherlock must have worked out that Moriarty wanted him to commit suicide to complete his story, and so he has this all set up, including exact timings. He would have found out what time the bins are usually collected, or there is another option which I’ll return to later.

That explains how he might have survived the fall, but not how we saw “Sherlock” dead upon the ground. Molly’s help is enlisted, and working, as she does, in the morgue, she will have access to cadavers. Find one that fits the symptoms of a severe trauma from a heavy fall, make it up to look like Sherlock and you’ll fool most, but not John. Surely not?

John can’t have been seeing straight. He saw what he feared he would see. When have we heard that before? Why, in The Hounds of Baskerville of course, with the gas that causes terrifying, suggestible hallucinations. So, give John some of that and he will see the dead Sherlock he fears he will. How would that be administered? By the cyclist – only option.

NO WAY. No way Sherlock could have organised that collision between cyclist and Watson. Apart from with the homeless network. That he could have done. He could also have arranged a similar thing with the rubbish truck. Because Sherlock picked the location, we can safely assume that he is in control of the environment to a reasonable degree.

Here’s the problem. Witnesses. Moriarty pointed out that there’s a crowd. People are milling around, buses are going past, and people rush to the body very quickly. It would be an unreasonable degree of control if it’s suggested that he controls all the people going past St Bart’s. So, how does the cadaver get there? Because at no point can that body be Sherlock’s. If it were, he would be very dead, which he isn’t, so it can’t be him.

So, how does Molly get the cadaver out onto the floor and how do people not notice that Sherlock actually landed in the truck? Molly must have dropped the cadaver from a lesser height – third or second floor, something like that. Then, it’s a magic trick. You see the body fall, you see a body hit the ground. Suggestion, distraction – it may well be seen, but it is not perceived.

Ok – even I’m not convinced by that last bit, but I can’t see any other way.

So, over to you Messrs Moffat and Gatiss. How did you do it?

Hard and Fast

The District and Circle

Are filled with prepubescents tonight –

Awkward, oblivious & nervous

In their youth.

And am I not a little envious?

Well,

Happiness is fleeting,

Unless it comes

Once in a while.

I’ve envied passers-by more
When they were with friends

Than when they were with lovers.

Your lover’s not my lover

After all.

Though she may share the same body

As mine once did,

Her face is somehow different.

And mine is waiting behind some other visage now –

By good grace, I hope,

Less mercurial than before.

There’s a reliability –

Sweet Reliability! –

In the laughter that has no other requirement

Than that you

(and it could only have been you)

Said that:

When people value not

That you have been funny,

But that you have been

You.

These friends I see,

Unknowingly across from me,

May not last,

But their memories will endure –

Through thick and thin,

Sickness and health,

Richer and poorer –

Hard and fast.

The 17:00

Fair Waverley, nestled in the ‘Burgh,

‘Neath castles and bridges,

A hidden gateway to the carnival above.

Fair Waverley sends us trickling, then trundling, then hurtling

Into the views of cliffs and forests of fir

And past rivers and seas quietly rippling.

Stirrings of magic here,

In the age-old glacially sculpted hills.

Wisps in the trees?

Endless childhoods of boundless imagination,

Flit past the eye as the train gathers speed

And a stirring brews with this quickening -

The heart rushing to keep pace.

Then, ‘cross the Tweed,

Into the elegant North,

The proud North,

The grand North:

Forged by its sons and its daughters

Into a breathing Turner,

A multi-dimensional Constable,

Replete with castles and cathedrals of stone and steel.

Teeming Newcastle gives way to stately Durham,

And vistas tumble forth like dreams

As the Lark ascends.

Onwards! Southwards!

Towards Summer’s heat -

Away from Summer’s sun.

Then comes the lingering warning.

Yorksire is undulating beauty, from Godliness to grimness,

As men spurned the divine for devilry,

Senselessly building Drax, Goole and Donny.

The clouds are gifted a corona of early evening sun,

And the violent, vivacious land revels below – majestic to the brim –

But steadily, imperceptibly declining.

The Midlands: pleasant monotony,

Dimpled and disturbed by small peaks and troughs of homes and hills.

A tame, mellow pastoral symphony –

Troubled by the rushing onward,

Onward,

To the metropolis.

As it draws closer, the dull accedes.

Dull, dull, flat, flat, flat,

Dull Anglia.

Flat Anglia.

Anglia – a melody of nothing

Save the cacophonous spouts of man’s unimagination.

And dull Anglia’s “jewel”: direst Peterborough.

Plastic, grey, vividless.

City of dark in the light.

Scented with all pervading hopelessness.

Saved by the sunset and the moon was Anglia.

Crescent glaring down on the Rothko painted death of day.

Divinity saving humans from men.

Then dark outside, and nothing to be seen, until,

Suddenly, Finsbury,

Before rolling stock slows respectfully for Islington,

So as not to disturb the middle classes,

Or clandestine, ill-fated political deals.

And finally grand but homely King’s Cross, and journey’s near-end.

What a vibrant mausoleum this is.

Filled with memories, once sweet, now bitter –

Or perhaps now mercifully bittersweetened

By the calming truth of life’s contradictions accepted.

The lark has now descended,

And a gently smoking saxophone teases through the night,

Under the looming lights, beneath the glass and steel.

Where are the stones and the hills?

Left some hours behind and

Buried beneath some years ago.

Only painted memories live here now

And, when time comes, merciful portals of escape,

To a splendour too crudely spent,

To a wealth that cannot be measured,

Beyond the accountant’s towers.

Equinox

Blue light on the leaves that fall

As they twist and turn on the breeze.

Past glories sadly admitting to present beauty.

The descent a slow and final dance.

Where is the heat of the sun?

Only remembered, in the ghostly forest –

Grey overhead and brown underfoot.

The promise is whispered in the branches

Of new roses coming into bloom –

But not now.

For when the sun breaks through bright

It shines cold on the skin.

Spark

My head turns to catch it,

But it is vanished in the trees.

There! Again!

This time it is truly glimpsed –

A floating ember slowly turning to flame,

Before flitting to nothing between the evergreens.

Again! Again! Again!

Like a will o’the wisp

And ever swifter.

It smokes into a blaze and disappears –

Dances through the forest

Abandons all paths.

It gains a voice,

Resonates with song

Echoing off the trees.

And, imperceptibly, the flame billows into form.

She glances over her shoulder –

Laughing, teasing with delight.

She promises everything.

She guarantees nothing.

Growing.

Consuming all sight.

And all the while vanishing,

And reappearing.

She lights all.

Devours none.

Then

Fades into song alone.

Leaving all alone

With nothing but fragments of music on the wind.

And the dimmed day upon the fallen leaves.