A SALUTE TO WOMANKIND

In this season of goodwill, it behoves Men to pay a full and generous tribute to Women and I wish to make my own modest (and prudent) contribution. Men and Women are so unlike, yet are so bound together. One writer has said Men are from Mars and Women from Venus, but I do not go quite that far. I know little of Linnaean taxonomy defining kingdom, class, order, family, genus and species and I concede that both Men and Women are mammals but I like the familiar analogy with cats and dogs – feline Women, subtle, graceful, light-footed, contrasting with canine Men, brave, loyal and, alas, often stupid. They are too different for me easily to accept they even belong to the same species, but in all events, Vive la Difference!

A wonderful animal magnetism draws us together, mad carnal passion strengthens that intimacy and we are bound together by habit with hoops of steel. Unlike Men who can be stolid and boring, Women are always on the go, always dynamic, always inventive. Many Men are academically clever, but Women have instinctive knowledge and a brilliant ear for the nuances of relationships, even leading to the unworthy suspicion of witchcraft. Women are simply irresistible, with their natural elegance, tinkling laughter, enchanting smiles and seductive aroma – what fabulous creatures! In short, Women bring radiant beams of warm sunshine into Men’s prosaic and chilly lives.

And yet…..It would be untruthful to say that every Woman is perfection. Even Women have their little foibles. Maybe it is a touch of vanity – that insistence on acquiring that little black Chanel number, that wildly overpriced Hermes Birkin bag or those tight but chic Jimmy Choo boots. But these are tiny faults in the great scheme of things. Sometimes Men simply misunderstand the workings of Women’s logic – whatever she acquires is a wonderful bargain, irrespective of cost – and Men can only stand by in speechless, if baffled, confusion. Moreover, whatever happens Women are always in the right and it is one of Men’s functions to apologise at the end of any little disagreement. Always to be wrong is Man’s inescapable fate and privilege.

The tremendous accomplishments of Women resound down the ages; few of them are shrinking violets. Thus Eve outsmarted Adam, Jezebel ran rings around King Ahab, Delilah seduced and destroyed mighty Samson, Cleopatra scored a double whammy over Julius Caesar and Mark Anthony, Boadicea made short shrift of Colchester, London and St Albans, low-born yet imperious Theodora led Justinian by the nose and stunning blonde Lucretia Borgia allegedly dispensed deadly poisons from her hollow ring to the Italian aristocracy during a glittering career. History also tells us of Britain’s choice Women, wildly indiscreet Mary, Queen of Scots, formidable if enigmatic Queen Bess and opinionated but passionate Queen Victoria. What a gallery of talent, perhaps lending some little weight to Kipling’s phrase that “the female of the species is more deadly than the male!”

Women’s power over Men, exercised with such ease and insouciance, has always been their trump card. Indeed for some, exercising this power became a profession. They were of course the grandes horizontales those hard-headed Women like Madame de Pompadour, Madame du Barry, Lillie Langtry, Mata Hari or La Belle Otero who bathed in jewels provided by their many admirers, kings, rich moguls and well-born idiots. The later worship of media celebrities like Grace Kelly, Jackie Kennedy and Princess Diana was the 20^th century version of a similarly glamorous café-society.

But you do not need to be a queen of beauty or a Botox-pumped celebrity to be an enormously successful Woman – Golda Meir, Maggie Thatcher and Angela Merkel prove that point instantly. Most Women, at least in the West, live their fascinating lives in circumstances of comfortable domesticity. They captivate their husbands, organise their households, pursue their careers, control and manipulate their children with total aplomb. Their inner lives are often private and mysteriously impenetrable to mere Men. Only their soul-mates, often female friends, understand their real ambitions and motivations. Their self assurance is very evident; gone for ever are the bad old days of the “innocent” bottom-pinch, the sure-fire male chat-up line, the patronising phrase like “the little dears”: even old fashioned good manners are now deplored – not long ago I chivalrously offered my seat on the Underground to a young Woman, who spat back “Sit down, Grandpa!” her lip curling menacingly. It is all in the great good cause of female emancipation, the smashing of glass ceilings and wholly deserved equality.

Very rarely, discordant alarm calls emanate from Women. The first is a low moaning noise, known as a “whinge”, usually set off by being denied some desired object: the other is, to return to the feline analogy, the shrill “caterwaul” often used in an emotional emergency and, in a common ploy, accompanied by tears before which Men are helpless. These little stratagems simply add spice to all our lives together, usually conducted amid harmonious celestial music. I do however recall many years ago drinking with a friend one Christmas Night and politely asking him if his family Christmas lunch had gone well. He answered “It was rather a mixed occasion – my sister tried to kill my father – she threw her knife at him!” This alarming event had been set off by some heavy seasonal banter at the sister’s expense from the rumbustuous father. Women’s emotions can easily spill over.

Apart from tiny contretemps of this kind, Men exist at peace with Women. My own dear father, taking the line of least resistance in the thrall of my gloriously assertive mother, lived the life of the happily hen-pecked. I have the great good fortune to have a beautiful Greek wife, and if she sometimes leaps to the wilder shores of female logic, I am thrilled to be bamboozled and toyed over by her in her dynamic and shimmering elegance. The battle of the sexes can only have one winner and I ask you all to lift a glass to toast all-conquering Womankind!

SMD

17.12.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

CHRISTMAS CHEER

The great spending beano of Christmas is almost upon us and we will check our wallets with more than usual dismay this 2011 “Festive Season”. Before we dive into the conventional materialistic splurge and gorge ourselves sick on shiny and overpriced novelties and on numerous items we certainly do not really need, we are always urgently encouraged to think about the “real meaning of Christmas”.

The conventional supposition is that we should think about that little child in a manger in Bethlehem, surrounded by shepherds, multitudes of the heavenly host and adored by the Magi. He grew up, it is said, to redeem our sins and suffer and die for us and rise again to sit on the right hand of God to judge the quick and the dead. Well, I guess thoughts of this depressing kind are very far from most peoples’ minds at Christmas and anyhow the facts are at variance with the above narrative.

Was Christ born at the start of the Christian era? Er..no, even biblical scholars reckon he was born in about 6-4 BC. Born in December in Bethlehem? Er..no, Bethlehem would be too far a journey from Nazareth (there was no census to attend) and nobody travelled in winter. Witnessed by shepherds, tending their flocks by night? Er..no, the fields would be dormant and empty in December. Multitudes of the heavenly host and gift-bearing Magi present? Er…yes, if you believe credulously any tall tale peddled by 2^nd century religious fanatics. The whole Nativity narrative is a myth, set out by Matthew as a realisation of the Jewish prophecies, and embroidered by imaginative Luke – there is no Nativity narrative in Mark and John.

The gospels are a-historical documents, grinding theological axes and are no guide to what actually happened. Personally I am not even convinced Christ ever existed, so I am not impressed by the alleged merits of his subsequent career. I cannot connect with any historical personage unless someone can tell us what he looked like, how tall he was, what his favourite tipple was or whether his boots squeaked, all absent in the case of young Christ J. Before a heavenly thunderbolt shrivels me up, I declare I will observe 21^st century European Christmas with every enthusiasm; I am deficient in religious belief, not impervious to religious sentiment.

Christmas is emphatically a secular, not a religious festival in the modern world and the “traditions” of Christmas are relatively recent. The date of 25 December was chosen as it was near enough to the winter solstice – Sol Invicta (the Unconquered Sun) was a popular Roman deity and Yule a powerful Norse god linked to the rebirth of the sun – and it also coincided with the Roman Saturnalia, a popular festival giving some licence to slaves and associated with gift-bearing. In short the Church hi-jacked a long-established mid-winter time of celebration.

Christmas was fitfully observed and relegated well below Easter and Epiphany for about 1,500 years. Slowly it flickered into life with a few carols appearing in the 16^th century, including carol singing round the houses, but this was confused in England with cider apple-tree fertility “wassailing” often sung on 12^th Night. The move from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar in most countries confused matters further.  Christmas music flourished in the 18^th century, but it was a sophisticated, metropolitan taste – Bach’s Christmas Oratorio runs for about 3 hours unedited and Handel’s Messiah, (only partly Christmas music), much longer. Although “Adeste Fideles” appeared in the 18^th century, “Silent Night” only came in 1820, “Hark the Herald Angels sing” in its current form in 1833 and “Good King Wenceslas” in 1853. The Anglican Church was long sniffy about carols, seeing them as coarse folk songs and not permitting them to be sung in church until the late 19^th century. The iconic Festival of the 9 Lessons and Carols was first performed in Kings College Chapel, Cambridge as late as 1918, and was only invented 30 years earlier in remote Truro.

The secular side soon gained strength. New York shop-keepers in 1820, wishing to avoid aping the genial English Father Christmas (Papa Noel etc in Europe) dreamt up Santa Claus from the supposed Dutch saint Sinterklaas. The American poem “The Night before Christmas” appeared anonymously in 1823 but after Dickens published his Scrooge tale in 1843, there was no stopping the commercialisation of Christmas. Dickens popularised the idea of a convivial family Christmas, with hearty helpings of goose for the plebs and turkey for the gentry. The Christmas tree had long been popular in Germanic Europe and Prince Albert delighted Victoria by having a tree in every room in Windsor. An 1848 woodcut showing the royal couple beside a decorated tree sparked off its wide adoption throughout the English-speaking world.

As usual, Christmas had its detractors among the party-pooping Puritans. They said it was all unbiblical and miserable old Cromwell managed to ban Christmas in England during the Commonwealth, earning him well-deserved unpopularity. The blue-nosed Pilgrim Fathers took an equally dim view of Christmas in the American colonies and the dour Scots Presbyterians were not much better, only acknowledging Christmas as a public holiday as late as 1957.

Happily the tide of materialism and conspicuous consumption could not be held back. Today we enjoy an unbridled retail feeding frenzy, with Harvey Nicks, Bloomingdales, Harrods and all global emporia besieged by gift buyers, doing great things for their local economies, and moving a huge stock of goods of debatable intrinsic value. Eateries will thrive mightily with expensive special menus and millions of home kitchens will be producing delicious turkeys, stuffings, trimmings, plum puddings, brandy butter washed down by gallons of stimulating beverages. Enjoy it shamelessly! Dismiss from your mind all hocus-pocus about the Word made Flesh – the main religious news will be the traditional punch-up between the monks of 3 sects at the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. Forget all that, let the plastic rip, have a great time and then look forward to the January Sales!

SMD

5.12.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

THE EURO ON ITS DEATHBED

It has been a long drawn-out process, with many a missed deadline and many an ignored ultimatum, but finally it looks this weekend as if the Euro cannot avoid collapse. Unless Germany agrees to underwrite the sovereign debt of all the 17 Eurozone countries and takes rapid steps towards fiscal union, the Euro project will fail. Italy has to sell substantial amounts of bonds early next week; a debacle then could trigger off a run on its banks and the seizing-up of credit throughout the Eurozone, the European Union and in other world markets. It may take a little longer for reality to break through. Whatever, hold on to your hat, the ride will be very bumpy.

I am not sufficiently expert to explain precisely why events have taken this turn. The obituarists of the Euro will have time a-plenty to delve and analyse. It has become clear that a currency union needs a much larger contingency bail-out fund than the EFSF on offer. The absence of a lender of last resort, in other words a responsible central bank, has been a fundamental design fault – the ECB’s powers have been constitutionally far too limited. The absence of a defined exit procedure has also proved fatal leading, as Hague said, to a panicking group trapped in a burning house with the doors locked and barred.

More technically 3 policy errors have been highlighted. It was a mistake of France and Germany to threaten Greece with expulsion – bond buyers were spooked into a flight from all dubiously credit-worthy sovereign borrowers. It was unnecessary (if prudent) to force banks to mark their bonds to market, as it made demands on their capital they could ill afford and deterred further bond buying. Worst of all, it was dishonest to claim that any Greek default would be “voluntary” for the private sector. This intentionally nullified contractual credit default swaps, the commonly used market method of hedging against sovereign default. A currency which reneges on its contractual obligations is one to avoid like a plague.

I am not inclined particularly to blame the Germans for this mess. Mrs Merkel vigorously filled a gap left by the incompetence and complacency of the Eurocrats in Brussels and cobbled together various deals. However the Eurozone is not ready for total German domination, which the original EEC was specifically designed to prevent. Merkel herself may favour fiscal union but her coalition and tax-paying electorate do not. It simply cannot be delivered politically at present. I believe sprightly Strauss-Kahn of the IMF would have been much more active in proposing solutions than passive Mme Lagarde, but it is doubtful he could have made a game-changing difference.

But manoeuvres in Brussels would never have been enough. The Eurozone, like the European Union itself, lacks democratic legitimacy. Brussels has a contempt for the wishes of the European people to whom it must ultimately be accountable. Like many a political class, the Eurocrats think they know best and complex matters of economic direction are not matters to be put to popular votes. So when the French and Dutch parliaments and the Irish people by referendum voted against the Lisbon Treaty in 2008, Brussels wangled a change of the French and Dutch resolutions and an insistence on a second referendum in Ireland until the “right” answer could be achieved. In 2011, when Papandreou sought to put the EU-ECB-IMF bail-out to a Greek referendum, Brussels was horror-struck and encouraged the replacement of Papandreou by unelected banker Papademos. With Italy in turmoil and Berlusconi’s support ebbing away, EU president Herman van Rompuy (who? who?) pronounced that elections would have to be postponed and so unelected banker Monti took the helm. The democratic deficit has become a chasm.

Here in Greece, the serial delinquent and arguably the fons et origo of the Eurozone’s catastrophic collapse, the populace is as baffled as ever by the crisis. They hate the austerity measures, but then turkeys do not vote for Christmas. Internally Greece remains anarchic, having just discovered that collecting the new property tax via electricity bills and threatening disconnection is contrary to EU law. There is no evidence that the rich have started paying taxes or that the political class has surrendered any of its outrageous privileges. However the squeeze on cash has been remorseless and anecdotally workless doctors and architects have been joining the soup-kitchen queues managed by the Orthodox churches. Asked if they favour a return to the drachma, most say they want to stay with the Euro, but seem to ignore the logical consequences.

A new and unlikely British hero has been discovered. Nigel Farage, MEP and leader of UKIP, has been a consistent critic of the Euro. Two recent punchy speeches at Strasbourg, one on 18 November castigating the 4 undemocratic “villains”, van Rompuy, Barroso, Junker and Rehn in graphic terms, (http://citywire.co.uk/money/nigel-farage-breathes-fire-at-stunned-eurocrats/a544631) another on 24 November concentrating on van Rompuy, have been repeatedly run on Greek TV. So have earlier speeches, with Farage being suitably rude about the Lisbon Treaty shenanigans and ridiculing ex CND treasurer “Baroness” Ashton, now unelected EU foreign minister. The Greeks are not used to British debating rough and tumble; their own regimented parliament listens to their deputies’ claptrap politely without interruption or cat-call. Now people in shops and tavernas say, thank God someone has had the guts to say what they all think.

Quite possibly the Greeks will be the first to crack. Shorn of his strength by the Delilahs in Brussels, I can see one last heave from the eyeless Greek Samson, pulling down the pillars of the temple upon the heads of the Eurocratic Philistines…. and great will be the fall thereof. Do not despair. In Britain the reputations of Blair, Heseltine and Clarke will be consigned to the dustbin: the stock of Gordon Brown will rise and Maggie Thatcher will see a bright shining light of vindication in her elderly confusion. Europe will rise again, not a centralised bloc but L’Europe des Patries in de Gaulle’s earlier vision, a democratic Europe co-operating closely but fulfilling its destiny as an association of proud nation-states.

SMD

26.11.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

NOT A DRY EYE IN THE HOUSE

I have to confess I am a sucker for a sentimental movie. In the final scenes of the 1956 musical Carousel, Billy Bigelow (Gordon MacRae) has come down from Heaven for one day to comfort his poor widowed girlfriend Julie Jordan (Shirley Jones) and their ostracised daughter Louise (Susan Luckey). It is Louise’s high school graduation ceremony and the country doctor, the secret heavenly friend of Billy, after handing out the diplomas, recites an old verse about “When you walk through a storm” and Billy whispers words of love and encouragement to Julie and Louise, who are greatly heartened; Billy is then summoned back to Heaven to the swelling celestial strains of “Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone”. I blubbed then when I first saw it as a tough 15-year-old, I have blubbed every time I have seen it since – probably at least 20 times – and I am blubbing now as I write this, my keyboard wet with tears. Yes, okay, I am a big girl's blouse!

My mawkish reaction to Carousel may be peculiar but the combination of drama and feelings of pity is an ancient skill. The classical Greeks wanted to achieve catharsis, a purging of the emotions, purifying the soul of the spectator. I do not know if the ancient Greeks burst into tears when they realised that Oedipus had killed his father or married his mother, just as the modern Greeks are weeping today when they are squeezed by the Eurozone with a tragically swingeing property tax. Feelings of pity for the unhappy Greeks are not much in evidence at Brussels or Berlin – we have yet to see wheel-chair bound German Finance Minister Wolfgang Schauble dabbing his eyes with a hankie.

Shakespeare does not much move us to pity (although Lear has several depressing enough moments) – mind you, his attempts at comedy are pretty limp too. The admiration of Sentiment came with the 18^th century Enlightenment, originally meaning that human feelings were often a route to the truth. Fairly quickly the idea degenerated into Sentimentality, the excessively emotional reaction to events. In the 19^th century such sentimentality was popular and met a human need. In Britain, a hard life for the great majority coupled with the buttoned-up tradition of the “stiff upper lip” required a safety-valve. Thus Dickens in 1841 reduced the nation here and across the Atlantic to tears with his heart-rending death-bed scene of Little Nell in The Old Curiosity Shop. The Italians loved their theatrics too, as illustrated by the ethnic domestic melodrama in New York portrayed in The Godfather. At a slightly higher level, they invited us to weep over “On with the motley” with the sob-wracked tenor in Pagliacci.

Back to Britain, the music halls could lay on the sentiment. The Coster’s Laureate, singer Albert Chevalier, tugged the heart-strings with his memorable “My Old Dutch” (not everybody knows, Duchess of Fife / Wife in Cockney rhyming slang). In the 20^th century, Harry Lauder was capable of reducing a packed Scottish theatre to tears with “Keep right on to the end of the Road” which resonated so piercingly after the losses of the Great War. This followed in a Scottish, Welsh and Irish traditional strain of loss and yearning – as in “Will ye no come back again?”, “The Minstrel Boy”, “My ain Folk” or “The Londonderry Air” – all songs to bring a lump to the throat.

Predictably politicians have tried to jump onto this bandwagon. Their problem was that they could not just leave their audience sobbing, there had to be a finale of uplift and inspiration. Mr Gladstone was said to have mastered this art and after horrifying his audience with accounts of the Bulgarian or Armenian atrocities, he sent them home determined to face the Turk or at least say a vehement prayer for God’s intervention at the local chapel. President Woodrow Wilson was, in H.L Mencken’s words, a master “of reducing all the difficulties of the hour to a few sonorous and unintelligible phrases, often with theological overtones… he knew how to arrest and enchant the boobery with words that were simply words, and nothing else. The vulgar like and respect that sort of balderdash….Woodrow knew how to conjure up such words. He knew how to make them glow, and weep. He wasted no time upon the heads of his dupes, but aimed directly at their ears, diaphragms and hearts.” Our contemporary politicians have lost this talent and if they weep themselves they become figures of fun – certainly a sobbing Ed Miliband or David Cameron may not be to many people’s taste.

The great store-house of sentimentality remains Hollywood. The Yiddish word Schmaltz well describes the worst excesses and Hollywood often tilts the level playing field by introducing lovable kids or cute dogs; Shirley Temple crooning “On the Good Ship Lollipop” in 1934’s Bright Eyes or Disney’s adorable 1961 Skye terrier in Greyfriars Bobby are cases in point. Much earlier, in 1921, Chaplin produced an unforgettable image of the Tramp with The Kid (Jacky Coogan) in the silent classic while the 1948 Bicycle Thieves directed by De Sica has a very affecting closing scene of father and son, a classic of Italian cinema. Frank Capra had a strong line in weepies with “It’s a Wonderful World” in 1946 giving James Stewart a chance to receive the heart-warming appreciation of his community. Greer Garson heroically nursed her amnesiac husband in 1942’s Random Harvest. But Greer was most effective in war-time Mrs Miniver, also 1942 – who can forget the sermon in the badly damaged church, after grievous village losses, and the congregation bravely singing “Onward, Christian Soldiers” with the film closing with a V for Victory RAF fly-past over the stricken church.  Ah, what a warming confluence of pity, piety and patriotism!

With these emotional recollections, I will now curl up with Carousel and a large box of tissues.

SMD

23.11.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

THANKING OUR LUCKY STARS

 

As the financial crisis rumbles on and the spectre of a new Great Depression is regularly invoked, people of my generation in Britain – those born during or not long after the war – should give heartfelt thanks that most of our lives, say the 60 years since 1951, have been years of more or less constant peace and prosperity. We have reaped generously where earlier generations have selflessly sown.

We have enjoyed peace. To be sure, there have been numerous conflicts, from Suez to Cyprus, from Malaya to Afghanistan and all military casualties are grievously mourned. Essentially however these conflicts have been on a small scale. In 10 years in Afghanistan Britain has lost 388 service personnel. In the 4 years and 3 months of the Great War, Britain is estimated to have lost killed and missing 1,017,000 people and in the Second World War, the total dead over 5 years and 8 months is put at 452,000 of whom 67,000 were civilians. Our generation has mercifully been saved from slaughter on anything like that scale.

Material living standards have improved out of all recognition. As Britain emerged out of post-war austerity, economic growth has been steady and sometimes spectacular, even if some other countries have performed better. We take for granted household appliances which earlier generations simply did not have, washing machines, dishwashers, central heating which make life so much easier. Communication via television, computer and mobile phone shrinks distances. Car ownership, once an impossible aspiration for many, has become a universal expectation. Foreign travel has become commonplace, even to the most exotic destinations.

It cannot yet be claimed that poverty has been abolished, but absolute poverty has been replaced by relative poverty – income substantially below the average. The Welfare State ushered in by an idealistic Labour government in the difficult post-war period has ensured, through a maze of benefits and allowances, that everyone gets at least some kind of income to live on. Subsidised housing has hugely helped the less affluent and although the system is expensive, it has surely been right to end the haunting financial insecurity of unemployment and family need.

Full employment has been an important target and although there have been some quite sharp recessionary years, generally Britain has provided decent working opportunities for the great majority. The workplace itself has been more relaxed, less hierarchical, more meritocratic and less exploitative. Working hours have been controlled, wage rates negotiated, a minimum wage introduced, casual labour restricted, health and safety measures enforced.

We and our children are much better educated than our parents and grandparents. The school-leaving age has been raised and often cherished small local schools have been closed to make way for larger establishments capable of offering a broad syllabus. The digital revolution has made the world of information easily accessible. The path to university education was eased by generous subsidy (ending economic reasons for leaving school too soon) and the opening of many new places of tertiary education. From the 1950s to the 1980s bright pupils from modest backgrounds could go free to college or university and receive a maintenance grant to live away from home. Maybe this system became unsustainably expensive, but millions benefited and the current prospect of students having to pay deferred fees of up to £9,000 per annum is worryingly retrograde. Although many school leavers have limited educational attainments and there is still a mountain to climb to improve standards, in Britain illiteracy is rare and diminishing, schools no longer dispense corporal punishment and the basic rights of children are recognised and protected.

We are much healthier and eat better than our forefathers. The National Health Service has been an enormous social advance, providing universal free healthcare. The undersized scrawny runts of yesteryear have disappeared and the pendulum has swung to the problems of obesity. The state cares for the populace from the cradle to the grave with no worries about doctors’ bills or the cost of medicine – a huge boon, despite the inevitable imperfections of the system. War-time rationing brought paradoxically improvements in diet and prosperity since has allowed us to eat a huge variety of good food.  How lucky we are!

The progress that really matters is not just the material things but also the change in our minds. Compared with 1951, our society is an open one. Class distinctions have withered for ever, women’s rights are fully recognised, racial discrimination is outlawed and homosexual equality won. Justice is mercifully dispensed, and in spite of populist outcry, the right of criminals after serving their sentence to start again with a clean sheet is recognised. An age of tolerance has been established - we are much the better for it and always need to defend it.

Our generation has thus been extremely fortunate but what legacy will we pass on? It is possible to be doom-laden, to write of unaffordable housing, high personal indebtedness, economic stagnation, tensions within Europe, high crime and excessive immigration. There are certainly daunting problems but every government faces the issues of its time. We can take some quiet pride that we built on the efforts of our predecessors with very large new social investment, making Britain more secure at home and abroad and created a broad consensus binding the people together in a prosperous, happy country with much to contribute to the 21^st century world.

SMD

19.11.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

GREEK SHOCK - HORROR!

After months of tedious negotiations and fraught Brussels summits edging towards a deal to stop Greece leaving the Eurozone and saving the banks, some kind of cobbled-together pact emerged on 27 October. Sighs of relief all round, and the leaders were sent home to tell the good news to their grateful nations. It has lasted 3 days. Yesterday Greek premier George Papandreou exploded a bomb under it all by insisting that, assuming he can survive a parliamentary vote of confidence this Friday, he wants to hold a referendum in January so that the Greek people can approve the deal he has so laboriously brought home. The Eurozone is in uproar at this unexpected turn of events, some trumpet that the original 27 October deal is off and global stock markets have yet another reason frenetically to palpitate and wobble.

Many independent commentators in Europe, UK and USA calculated months ago that Greece had no prospect of paying its debts, that Bailouts Mark 1 and Mark 2 only made matters worse – its debt forgiveness so laden with sweeteners to bond-holders that the net gain for Greece was negligible – and that an orderly default and a euro exit were preferable. Even the German finance minister Wolfgang Schauble favoured this at one stage. The Eurocrats, however, strove to keep Greece in the Eurozone, at almost any price, but saddled her with such harsh deflationary austerity measures that her already weak economy is flat on its back and some other remedy must now be found. No exit mechanism was originally envisaged nor has one now been agreed.

To any Greek government, the prospect of years of austerity and squeeze, micro-supervision from Brussels, high (and payable) taxes, butchered benefits and huge public sector redundancies is decidedly unappealing. No compensatory stimulus is offered even in distant prospect. Greek sovereignty, even a sovereignty so historically misused and corrupted, is as valued by its citizens as in any other country and the bailout deals seem aimed at eliminating Greek political independence. The Eurozone supervisor of Greece, or Gauleiter as he is unflatteringly nick-named, a German bureaucrat called Horst Reichenbach, was supposed to start work today. Calling for a referendum at least addresses the “democratic deficit” so deplored by many Europeans.

Our timbers will soon be shivered by commentators painting a ghastly picture of the consequences of a Greek default, orderly or disorderly. Bust banks in many parts of Europe, a global stock market catastrophe, in Greece riots, pestilence and famine – or at least swingeing capital controls and food and energy rationing – that is the Doomsday vision. It is probably over-egged, though a nasty period may be inevitable. But surely the core of Europe will readily bounce back with its native advantages and even Greece should find her path forward at some suitable level of economic activity. The people of Europe should not be eternally punished to protect the shareholders and depositors of over-cherished banks whose crass lending errors created the crisis in the first place.

In fact it is doubtful that the Greek referendum will ever happen. It is much more likely that the Greek PASOK government will soon lose its parliamentary majority; there are also various political manoeuvres afoot which can force an election. An election would end PASOK rule but probably result in a fractured parliament – with a solid conservative bloc but strong far Left – and a Grand Coalition government. This coalition government would try to negotiate a much better deal with Brussels, but the pull of independence may be too strong and an agreed departure of Greece from the Eurozone may be the ultimate result. But at least the people will have spoken.

The performance of Greek politicians has been lamentable. Premier Papandreou sounds honest enough and may be well-meaning, but never looks as if he has mastered his brief. His referendum call has caught everyone on the hop including his own cabinet and party. It is perhaps the dice throw of a desperate man. His smart but obese Finance Minister Venizelos, worn out by the wrangling in Brussels, has entered hospital with possibly “diplomatic” stomach pains, to avoid the no doubt frequent and furious calls from the IMF, ECB, EU Commission and his unhappy counterparts in France, Germany and all points North. The rest of the government is as trustworthy as a wagonfull of monkeys – Berlusconi would look like a plaster saint in their company.

If the Greeks were liberated from the euro, which they should never have joined in the first place, and were left to finagle and hornswoggle among themselves in their own inimitable way, what of the euro? The North-South imbalances would remain a difficult structural problem and perhaps the Mediterranean states, Spain, Italy and maybe France will launch their own weaker currency and leave the euro to the industrious North, Germany, Benelux, Austria and later Scandinavia. There will always be a periphery of states which do not quite fit. Greece has been a case in point and if it has been the catalyst of an ultimately beneficent reconstruction of the European financial system, it will unwittingly have done Europe a signal service.

SMD

1.11.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

A DRIVE THROUGH EUROPE

It is said that travel broadens the mind but it is just as likely to fortify one’s prejudices. Whatever, travel brings many pleasures when you have the leisure to indulge in it. For more than 20 years my wife and I have driven regularly from London via the Brenner Pass to catch the ferries to Greece from Venice or Ancona. We set out below many of the agreeable places to visit (in italics) in this relatively narrow corridor. We only describe places we personally know and there are many omissions - often we meandered off the straight route. It is a jaunt we can highly recommend and you do not have to be herded through, delayed at, or stressed out by crowded airports. Footnotes give details of particularly memorable hotels and restaurants, but these are always subject to change, so do check up on Google before visiting.

The drive from London to the channel ports is rather a slog and we used to take the slow but bracing car ferry to Calais, Ostend or Zeebrugge. Since 1994 we usually preferred the quick, if joyless, Channel Tunnel and you either turn east and go through Belgium or proceed south through Northern France and divert east much later.

Bruges

Belgium is rather underrated and we love the Flemish cities. From Zeebrugge, the first stop is medieval Bruges truly a northern Venice, criss-crossed with canals, great art galleries (for Memling and van Eyck) churches and its fine Burg. What a pleasure it is to eat hotpots of mussels with chips and mayonnaise in the Belgian fashion in the Markt square.(1). Not far away is Ghent, a rival to Bruges in beauty with its unmissable van Eyck altarpiece in St Bavo’s Cathedral, Town Hall and lovely Graslei river harbour.

Adoration of the Lamb, Ghent

 A diversion takes you to historic Antwerp, on the Scheldt, ever associated with Rubens, whose paintings can be seen in several sumptuous churches and in the excellent Royal Museum of Fine Arts (van Dyck too). Antwerp is also a place to shop and sup.(2). Before leaving Belgium, take in the university city of Leuven (Louvain) with its flamboyant late Gothic Town Hall and its beer - Stella Artois is brewed here.

The odd geography of the area allows you to stopover in Dutch Maastricht, with its lively student population, attractive centre and fine bridge over the Meuse. Drive on to Germany past Charlemagne’s Aachen to sparkling Cologne, overlooking the Rhine, inviting a modest boat trip. The huge cathedral dominates but there are also great churches, fine restaurants and shops.(3). An alternative route through the Ardennes makes our first German stop ancient Trier on the Moselle, Roman capital of Gaul with many fine buildings like Constantine’s Basilica, the Porta Nigra and rococo St Paulin, though also, alas, the birthplace of Karl Marx.

Cologne Cathedral

The long drive down the Rhine valley, taking in the grand imperial cathedrals of Speyer and Worms, is scenic although the famous Lorelei rock is rather anticlimactic. This is a frontier area of profound historical significance and takes you down to Strasbourg, attractive capital of Alsace with its towering Gothic cathedral and riverside restaurants, a place happily symbolising Franco-German reconciliation.

If we had taken the route through France at the tunnel exit we might have stopped overnight at unpretentious St Quentin (4) with its Basilica or eaten well in Arras on the exquisite Grand Place (5). Laon should not be missed for its influential Gothic cathedral high on its hill, with stone horned cattle prominent on the roof, the coronation place of early French kings. The motorway takes us through the pleasant Champagne country towards the classic Gothic cathedral of Rheims, with its chevet chapels and flying buttresses.

Grand Place, Arras

Turning east affords the agreeable stop at Metz, capital of Lorraine, but for a real treat divert south to gorgeous Nancy, whose Place Stanislaus is hailed as the finest square in France – son et lumiere shows there in the summer. (6). We rejoin the main route at Strasbourg. Alsace has a famous cuisine and delicious wines and there are many fine hotels and restaurants (7) between Strasbourg and peaceful Colmar.

Place Stanislaus, Nancy

Re-entering Germany we speed south, passing Ulm with its lofty cathedral steeple, and then stopping off at the fabulous rococo riot of Ottobueren. The royal castles of Neuschwanstein and Hohenschwangau are picturesque but boring within and can safely be missed before proceeding to splendid Garmisch-Partenkirchen (8) overlooked by that unfortunately named peak, the Wank.

Staircase, the Residenz, Wurzburg

Moving east we can instead explore parts of the Romantic Road from Augsburg to Wurzburg. Wurzburg itself is a wonder, where the fabulous rococo Royal Chapel and Bishop’s Palace (Residenz) were designed by Neumann, whose great staircase, exquisitely decorated by Tiepolo, ravishes the eye. Further south our particular favourite is Rothenburg ob den Tauber, the beautifully and completely preserved 17th century town, with a full circuit of city walls (9) fine shops and a medieval Macdonalds. Further south is Dinkelsbuhl, another pretty example of a traditional German town. Not far away are Ettal with its splendid abbey and devout Oberammergau where colourful wall murals abound.

Rothenburg ob den Tauber

For a diversion even further east we can visit lovely Regensburg (once Ratisbon) – twinned with my home town of Aberdeen - which boasts a notable cathedral, many fine churches and a famous sausage-kitchen on the banks of the Danube serving delicious specialities. Not far away is politically incorrect but impressive Walhalla, a large replica classical Greek temple honouring German heroes – Adolf once hoped for a plinth there.

Walhalla

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The great regional magnet is Munich with its beer-gardens, lovely baroque and rococo churches and court theatre, wide boulevards and the Wittelsbachs’ Nymphenburg Palace nearby. Crossing into Austria you make a final exit from the German motorway (Ausfahrt as they indelicately put it).

Salzburg

When an Austrian motorway appears it takes us to dull Innsbruck but we are better advised to detour to historic Salzburg, home of Mozart with fine vistas, cobbled streets, wrought-iron shop signs and sinful cream cakes (10). Soon enough the motorway takes us through the Brenner Pass and the massive obstacle of the Alps starts to recede. (We have not burdened you with the alternative route via Chamonix, the Mont Blanc tunnel and Aosta).

The Dolomites

After the Brenner Pass sun-kissed Italy beckons, but we are still in the Dolomites, one of the loveliest parts of Europe (11), at first proudly German-speaking in Bosen (Bolzano) and Meran (Merano) but soon Italian in the green alpine meadows of Cortina. The road drops steeply and torrential rivers accompany us, past Counter-reformation Trento and finally to Lake Garda (12). The famous city of Verona (13) welcomes us on the banks of the fast-flowing Adige. Excellent hotels, restaurants and chic shops sit cheek by jowl with historic churches, monuments to Dante and the well preserved Roman Arena. Spectacular summer opera performances take place here, though I confess the uncomfortable seats made me think Violetta was taking an unconscionable time a-dying!

The Arena, Verona

The road east from Verona speeds us to the university and art city of Padua, venerated for St Antony at its large Basilica and famous for the early renaissance frescoes by Mantegna at the Scrovegni Chapel (difficult to visit thanks to preservation restrictions). Nearby we find the attractive Riviera del Brenta (Venetian Riviera) centred on Dolo.

Il Redentore, Venice

It is only a short drive to Venice, with which many readers will already be quite familiar. Locking up the car, the vaporetto takes us down the magical Grand Canal to our hotel (14). In our view no superlatives are adequate to describe this lovely city, packed full of great art (the Venetian 3 T’s, Titian, Tintoretto and Tiepolo), glorious churches, piazzas and palazzos galore, sinister alleys (and wall-to-wall tourists awaiting a fleecing!).

Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna

Turning south for Ancona, stimulated but poorer after Venice, we divert a little to take in Ravenna, for centuries a Byzantine outpost with highly distinctive buildings (15), like the 5th century Mausoleum of Galla Placidia and the Basilica of San Vitale with its famous mosaics of Justinian and Theodora. The main motorway south takes us to Rimini, but commercialisation and over-development have made it unbearable – better to stop off at tatty but fun San Marino in the nearby hills. The pleasant Adriatic resort of Pesaro (16) holds a Rossini festival, but the real cultural treat is inland Urbino (17) behind its walls, whose lovely Ducal Palace was one of Kenneth Clark’s favourites. Journey’s end is nigh as Ancona is not far away graced by its imperial benefactor Trajan’s Arch. Onward to Greece!

Urbino

This canter through parts of Europe reflects our personal tastes and others will have entirely different preferences. The history of Western Europe is so dense that even otherwise unremarkable places often have at least one treasure. The people share a common standard of civilisation, which is a great asset. We hope we have whetted your appetite for a journey to these parts.

SMD

22.10.11

Text copyright Sidney Donald 2011

Footnotes

1)    Bruges  Hotel Crowne Plaza. Well situated, first class: restaurant Breydel de Coninc, off main square, good seafood.

2)      Antwerp Restaurants La Perouse, smart French on docked boat. Neuze Neuze modern food.

3)      Cologne Hotels: Hyatt, first class by the Rhine. Sofitel, friendly, convenient for Cathedral. Restaurants: Walfisch. Good seafood; Fruh, near Dom, pubby, hearty.

4)      St Quentin Hotel. Les Canonniers, welcoming comfortable stopover near centre.

5)      Arras Restaurant La Faisanderie superior French food in basement on main square.

6)      Nancy, Hotel de la Reine. In Place Stanislaus, high standards.

7)      Alsace Restaurant Le Cerf, Marlenheim. Was Michelin starred. Excellent; Hotel Chateau d’Isenbourg, Rouffach, near Colmar, lovely hotel, 2 pools, good restaurant.

8)      Garmisch, Grand Hotel Sonnenbichl, comfortable, panoramic views, decent restaurant.

9)      Rothenburg ob den Tauber Hotel Eisenhut, an institution in the town centre, lovely rooms, excellent piano bar and restaurant.

10)  Salzburg Hotel Schloss Monstein, expensive, superior, good restaurant.

11)  Tyrol, Romantik Hotel Turm, Vols am Schlern/Fie allo Sciliar, in Bolzano area, lovely alpine situation, good food.

12)  Garda, Locanda Albergo San Vigilio, venerable, small, smart hotel on Lake Garda. Antique filled rooms, good restaurant.

13)  Verona Hotel Due Torri, best in town, pricey: Victoria perfectly acceptable. Restaurant Re Teodorico, panoramic, chic. Torcolo, excellent Italian dishes at reasonable prices behind the expensive Arena strip.

14)  Venice Hotels Metropole, near Doge’s Palace, reliably good. Attractive Cavalletto, on side canal near St Mark’s Danieli Hotel Restaurant, panoramic, pricey, inconsistent.

15)  Ravenna Hotel Bizanio, pleasant. Restaurant Tre Spade, lively.

16)  Pesaro Restaurant da Alceo, good seafood.

17) Urbino Restaurant Vecchia Urbino, honest Italian cooking.

THE ENIGMATIC MOUSTACHE

I am in two minds about moustaches. The matter does not trouble me unduly nor keep me awake at night and it is truly not a matter of world-shattering importance. I merely cannot decide whether to approve the clean-shaven look or to prefer the hairy upper lip.  Of course the expression “clean-shaven” is itself a value-judgement and so the argument may already be unfairly biased against the ‘tache. Let me be as impartial as possible.

One of the problems is the occasional rabid exhibitionism of the moustached.  I see on the telly those World Moustache Competitions wherein some Indian appears with a hideous 5-foot growth of which he is inordinately proud. And who can forget Tory MP and bounder Sir Gerald Nabarro, handle-barred, booming and bumptious? He gave handle-bar moustaches a bad name, yet I know a gifted golfer and general good egg with just such a fine ‘tache and I always enjoyed comedian “Professor” Jimmy Edwards, similarly adorned.

It would be wrong of us to treat moustaches as comic in any way.  Of the 20 male prime ministers of Britain since 1901, as serious a bunch as you would wish, 9 were moustachioed and 11 clean-shaven. Balfour and Bonar Law had luxuriant growth of the walrus variety, Campbell-Bannerman, Lloyd George, Macdonald and Chamberlain were conventionally hairy, Attlee’s was rather a feeble, austere effort and MacMillan’s wore a decidedly moth-eaten aspect. Much the best was Anthony Eden’s, well groomed and dapper, indeed when I first saw Eden in 1956 I thought him the most handsome and distinguished man I had ever clapped eyes upon – pity about his sadly disastrous Suez premiership.

ANTHONY EDEN

ARTHUR BALFOUR

                                                                                                   

In the modern era British premiers have tended to be clean-shaven, but John Major had a tantalisingly empty upper lip, which to my mind cried out to be occupied by a hirsute rug, but it was not to be – probably Central Office advised against. The great orator, Enoch Powell had a thin moustache through which he was able to sneer and declaim in his learned, logical, memorable, and sometimes unhinged, way. Oddly, almost all Britain’s wartime commanders sported those trim Army moustaches, Alanbrooke, Alexander, Montgomery, Wavell, Maitland Wilson and Auchinleck. Did this give them an unfair advantage?

I will ignore Latino moustaches as an ineradicable part of the local scene, but certainly outside the UK moustaches hold a place, sometimes of honour, sometimes of shame. In the shame corner one would nominate Adolf Hitler of the notorious toothbrush, Saddam Hussein, Muammar Gaddafi and Joseph Stalin while in the honour corner one recognises Charles de Gaulle, Chaim Weizmann and Albert Einstein. Somewhere in between stands baffled, earnest Greek premier George Papandreou and hero/villain General Franco. The Russians have a sinister line in the murderous moustachioed, though horrible Beria and dubious Khrushchev and Brezhnev were clean-shaven. In the United States the luscious mo’s of Teddy Roosevelt and Howard Taft must have sated the electorate - since Woodrow Wilson all US Presidents have been clean-shaven.

Touching upon the US takes us to Hollywood. I ignore the here-today-gone tomorrow moustachioed (“mustache “in the local lingo) like George Clooney and Brad Pitt, who will be clean-shaven in a few months. I want to honour the pencil-moustached heart throbs like Clark Gable and Errol Flynn, supplemented by pros like William Powell and David Niven and more recent stars like Tom Selleck. Gable and Flynn set the hearts of a whole generation a-flutter and I ascribe this mainly to the aphrodisiac influence of those manly moustaches.

CLARK GABLE

ERROL FLYNN

                                                              

The truth is that to wear or not to wear a moustache is essentially a matter of transient fashion. It may take 2 weeks to grow a recognisable moustache, time enough to enter the in-crowd. My own experience is that wives do not much care for prickly ‘taches especially in passionate clinches. There is also a prejudice against a moustache which harbours hay-fever mucus in its upper storeys and yesterdays’ soup in its lower ones. There are elaborate china cups which provide a resting place for the moustache when tea or soup is to be drunk, but I confess to being a messy eater and these articles were of limited assistance to me.

My grandfatherly advice to any young man is to grow a moustache and see how it suits you and do not hesitate to take the razor to it at the first sign of trouble. Above all, never compliment your lady-friend on her moustache; the loss of her sense of humour will be instantaneous…..

SMD

4.10,11

Text copyright Sidney Donald 2011

KEEPING FIT

One of the most astonishing phenomena in recent years is the profusion of health clubs in every high street and the dedicated enthusiasm of the younger generation for what they have to offer. I must confess from the start that these establishments leave me cold; ever since my schooldays I have detested gymnasia (I could never climb up a rope or vault a horse), I believe treadmills should have been left to Victorian convicts and I echo Oscar Wilde’s dictum “To get back my youth I would do anything in the world except take exercise, get up early or be respectable.”

My negative attitude leaves me, I know, in a small minority. One of my sons lifts weights every morning, his wife is a Pilates fanatic, another son goes roller-blading, an old friend has completed at least 15 marathons and many people I know have run the full gamut from what my father called physical jerks to Swedish drill, PT, yoga, jogging, Wii board exercises and aerobics. They always tell me they feel much better for it and it is not for me to query these assertions.  Between ourselves, and don’t say a word, I think they are all quite mad.

The madness derives from a disproportionate obsession with health and body weight. We would all probably subscribe to Juvenal’s ideal “Mens sana in corpore sano” and recent research supports a connection between the presence of parasites and infections in the mother and the child’s brain development. Average IQ in disease-ridden Equatorial Guinea is about half that in hygienic Japan, so good health certainly brings huge gains; but you do not need to tie yourself into yoga knots to achieve a sensible level of good mental health.

Physical good health is a more elusive concept. Commercial advertising and Hollywood values extol the body beautiful, the flat stomach, the unlined face and the bulging biceps. This body is a mirage, impossible to achieve for the great majority or only achievable at an absurd physical and financial cost. I am convinced that there would be enormous psychic benefits if most denizens of health clubs, plastic surgery parlours and jogging tracks ceased chasing some chimerical body profile and lived normal lives, sharpening their wits with a daily crossword, taking the odd walk and playing sport only for pleasure.

Which brings me on to the vexed question of weight. I am 69, 5ft 10in and weigh a wobbly 17stone. According to some computer programme my BMI (whatever that is) is 34.1 and should be no more than 25. The computer tells me that I must shed 4 ½ stone, an amazing command as I have not weighed 12 ½ stone since I wore short trousers. I reluctantly concede that in an unlikely ideal world I should lose a stone, but to lose 4 ½ stone would probably hasten my demise by a goodly number of years. Actually I intend to live to 100, mainly to spite the NatWest Pension Fund, but also to show that being a fatty pays off.

My food intake is what I judge to be sensible for a man of my age. I am not quite the enthusiastic trencherman of old, attacking steak and kidney pudding with sprouts and floury potatoes with barely controlled gusto and going back for seconds, but I still adore fried fish and a few chips, roast beef, lamb, liver and bacon – just the sort of things dieticians tut-tut about. Yes, I eat salads, boiled vegetables and fresh fruit too (good boy) and ice cream, pastries and trifle when I can (naughty). But Nature helps too; just as one’s height diminishes as you grow older so too your stomach shrinks, and thus there is a useful kind of genetic adjustment.

I am broadly happy with my weight and eating habits and have no intention of going for a jog. I shall never forget stricken Jimmy Carter collapsing after too strenuous a jog, gasping like a gaffed salmon and giving vice-president Walter Mondale an all-too-brief adrenalin rush of hope: or sadly the case of driven Leonard Rossiter, who gave us such manic fun as Rigsby and Reggie Perrin, dying at the theatre after a surfeit of squash-playing.

It is when the subject of drink comes up that fitness fanaticism truly bares its fangs. On an averagely dull day I will drink half a bottle of wine (6 units) and a can of beer (2 units). These 8 units are classed by the UK medical profession as “binge drinking!” What planet does this profession inhabit?  I would judge 3 times that consumption slightly excessive but by no means a bender, the kind of drinking many people indulge in every weekend. There are saner voices. I recall mildly remarking to the nurse when being assessed by a new doctor in the Cotswolds that “maybe I drink too much”. Her cheerful reply was that “most people do around here” and she splendidly recommended several local pubs! It is true that alcohol merits careful handling and is best used as a lubrication rather than a motive fuel. As an austere, reserved Scotsman, I know my ice melts after a drink or three and I do not need to see some specialist’s horror photographs of pickled livers to know that there are limits.

Like many of my vintage, the esteemed medical profession makes heroic efforts to keep us alive. I swallow a daily dose of 5 pills to avoid strokes, heart attacks, clogged arteries, high blood pressure and gout and have been doing so for about 15 years. I am bright-eyed and bushy-tailed today but I am not sure this is because of, or despite, this cocktail of pills. The truth is that doctors are only at the foothills of understanding how the body works and the pharma industry is very young. They do their best, but you only need to glance at the many health scare pages of the Daily Mail, to see how uncertain our remedies are and how divided the specialists.

Patient readers may well recommend that I go on a diet. Please do not bother.  No subject is more a hornets’ nest of quackery than diets from Atkins diets to cabbage diets to banana diets. Rather like Climate Change and the Millennium Bug, diets are a hotbed of false science, profiteering and posturing “experts”. I hear the bees buzzing in my bonnet, so I will stop. Just as the Polar icecaps will not melt, we will not eat ourselves into an early grave or much improve our lives by doing 50 press-ups and over-stretching our pelvic muscles. Fatties of the World, unite!

SMD

16.10.11

Copyright Sidney Donald 2011

THE VIRTUES OF THE GREEKS

No country has had a worse Press than Greece in recent months. Biting scorn, international contempt and acid sarcasm has been the lot of the Greeks and it has hurt them. As I spend much time in Athens, I share the widely-held dim view of the Greek government. Suffice it to say, a political elite, corrupt and greedy beyond words, has guided the Greek economy beyond redemption and maybe beyond rescue. It is not surprising that the Greeks are reluctant to pay any taxes to such a government, but that is a longer story. I want to counter the prevailing ill-feeling and extol the positive aspects of the generally likeable Greeks.

Greeks are not much like other Europeans. Living in a chronically failed state has long forced them to be self-reliant. They do not parade their hardships, real as they are. They know that nobody else will help them, as they live in a feeble parody of a modern welfare state. The Greek grows a protective shell around him. This is in part the source of his self-absorption, his total egotism, his firm belief that he “can do what he likes in his own country”.

This belief manifests itself in a variety of ways. Oblivious of planning laws, he will build his house wherever he can and in whatever way he wishes. As traffic regulations only apply to others, he will drive the wrong way down one-way streets, park on a neighbour’s front door step and, defiant of others, jump a queue without any compunction. In short the Greek is almost ungovernable, as invading Ottomans and Nazi Germans discovered. To some, this is what the French call incivisme, lack of community feeling, and we British call “bloody-mindedness” but I prefer to characterise it as admirable independence and the absence of a slave-mentality.

This self absorption is best illustrated in the rembetico solo male dance. A Greek, full of confidence, dances alone in front of some admiring, usually lady, onlookers, concentrating on the insistent rhythm of the plangent mandolins and executing the complex steps with robust energy, oblivious to his surroundings. He enjoys the applause but his real pleasure derives from the assertion of his masculinity. There is nobility, long lost in the West, in this display of male dominance.

The Greek most cherishes his family circle. His mother is placed on a pedestal of purity and high worth, his arrival deemed to be a Virgin Birth after an Immaculate Conception. Father is respected and must pay the bills, but only has a walk-on part. Granny (Yaya) is looked upon as a fount of ancient wisdom and interfering aunts complete the profoundly matriarchal system. In return Greek male children are spoiled and pampered, commonly living with their parents well into their 30s.  Moving out into a world of which they are not the centre must be a nasty culture shock, which they are reluctant to accept, hence their chronic over-assertiveness. It is their Mums’ fault!

After his family, the Greek values his home town, village or island. Usually a second generation resident in Athens or Thessaloniki, he has a primeval urge to return to his birthplace like a migratory salmon, on many a public or private holiday. But just as in ancient times Spartan distrusted Athenian, Lakonian distrusted Arcadian, so the modern Greek peasant distrusts the town-dweller and any outsider. Although he will be hospitable in the obligatory traditional way the Macdonalds of Glencoe were hospitable to the Campbells, at heart the Greek is a confirmed xenophobe. Outsiders historically brought trouble. Why should he trust an Italian or a Briton, let alone a German or an American? I will not even mention the Turks…… Problems in his relations with Europe are explicable in this context.

Despite relative poverty, the Greek enjoys an enviable, if simple, life-style.  Work is an inconvenience and often resented, as testified by the legendarily rude civil servants and shop assistants. But in his element, at leisure, the Greek can be delightful. He bursts into song easily as he drives to the warm seaside for a swim. This is followed by a lazy taverna meal of fried squid and salad, washed down by ouzo or cold beer, as the Med laps gently by your table.  Even in the modest island café, the Greek laughs and jokes in his vest, exchanging loud banter with his friends, eating a plate of beans and drinking cold draught wine and maybe playing tavli (backgammon). Okay, the French will deprecate the culinary standards, the English the lack of table linen and the German the casual service, but if a Greek prefers stewed goat to something dreamt up by Escoffier, who is to say his simple tastes are wrong?

Above all the Greek loves to talk. Oscar Wilde said the Irish were the greatest talkers since the Greeks. The modern Greek keeps up this tradition and if the conversation is not up to that of the ancient Symposia and Dialogues, he expounds his views on a huge variety of subjects at some length and with much passion, with his friends fully participating. Who does not cherish this lifestyle?

It is true that the Greek is undisciplined and does not do rules and regulations. There are for example only a handful of golf clubs in Greece. I sometimes have a nightmare that I am secretary of a Greek golf club and have to stop members driving from the wrong tee, racing tractors down the fairways or stamping on their opponents ball. The line between the free spirit and the anarchic one is thin.

It is not strange that the Greek finds the rules of the Eurozone alien and he is in baffled denial. Sadly his representatives now have to bone up on the rules, rather late in the game, as the Greek is in the humiliating position of not standing his round and having to cadge from richer members. It could be said that the Greek is “unclubbable” but Sarkozy struck the right note a few days ago when he drew an analogy with a family. When a family member gets into trouble, he said, the rest of the family rallies round.

The Greek has the same humanity as we do. Yesterday the 19-year old daughter of a friend sat beside my wife and me in a café in the square and squeezed herself with pleasure as she told us she had passed her piano exams with flying colours. Last night a young neighbour, short of work, replaced 10-year old flower beds in front of our house and provided new earth and new plant cuttings. He would not take payment but, as a keen gardener, wants to tend the flowers himself.

Such are the Greeks. They are basically good people.  Maybe they are the black sheep of the family, but family members they should remain and be helped through their present difficulties, if at all possible, and the smile brought back to their faces.

SMD

2.10.11                                          Copyright Sidney Donald 2011