I blame the scapegoats (16 page)

In the hysteria of the moment all wars can
seem justifiable. During the War of Jenkins' Ear, all the woolly liberals were
going around saying, 'Well, this Jenkins, chap did have his ear chopped off
after all, so I think an all-out war against Spain is the only justifiable
course of action.' But if the invasion of Iraq is such a great idea, why
weren't we lobbying America to pursue this policy before they told us about it
when they faxed through the infantry request form? We would all love to see
Saddam Hussein being overthrown, but this has to be brought about by the people
of Iraq. There are plenty of appalling regimes around the world and some we arm
and some we bomb. In Saddam's case we have done both just to be on the safe
side. If ever Arab support for peace in the Middle East needed to be courted it
is now. So what does the American President think? 'I know! Why don't we invade
Iraq? Because things are so quiet between Israel and the Palestinians at the
moment that a US bombing of an Arab state would probably go down really well.'
I had PE teachers more intelligent than George W. Bush. Tony Blair has to put
some distance between himself and the Global Village Idiot. The Labour Party
might be able to forgive its leader for behaving like a president, but they
could never forgive him for behaving like
that
president.

And then our Prime Minister should explain to
Bush that Britain can only go to war in extreme circumstances and when very
precise criteria have been met. 'I'm sorry, George, but Britain can only bomb
or invade a country where the leader has not been democratically elected and
where the regime has recently executed British citizens. Oh no, hang on, that's
America, isn't it? Um, look, I'll get back to you . . .'

6
April 2002

Today
is the Grand National, the toughest challenge in the horse racing calendar and
preparations are already under way. All leave at the glue factory is cancelled
and the dog meat vans are reversing up to the side of the course. Perhaps it
would be a fitting tribute to our recently departed Queen Mother's love of
horse racing if the winners of this year's Grand National were used in
Tuesday's funeral procession. It would certainly speed things up a bit to have
the gun carriage pulled along by a couple of galloping racehorses, clearing the
fence into St James's Park, leaping over the water and then speeding down the
final straight of Whitehall as thousands of punters cheered them on from behind
the crash barriers.

The Grand National used to be a special date
in the British calendar because it was the one day a year when everyone would
have a flutter; one harmless dabble in the world of gambling and that was it.
Then suddenly the National Lottery had us throwing our money away fifty-two
weeks a year, soon followed by a second mid-week draw just in case anyone had
any income support still left by Wednesday. But still this wasn't enough. Now
Britain's gambling laws are being relaxed after Robin Cook bet Tony Blair that
they wouldn't be. The government has announced it is repealing those petty
regulations that for some reason had banned one-armed bandits from nurseries,
churches and operating theatres. Apparently the idea is to help tourism by turning
Blackpool into a British Las Vegas. The gangsters of Nevada must be really
worried - all those hardened American gamblers who now play poker and blackjack
are suddenly going to be rushing over to Lancashire to try their hand at bingo.
'Guns on the table and clickety click, eyes down for a full house! Two lines of
coke - eleven! A pair of Uzi pistols - seventy-seven!'

But where was the demand for all this? Where
were the demonstrations from outraged citizens denied the right to give all
their money away to dodgy casino owners? How often have you sat in a pub and
thought, 'The trouble with this place is there just aren't enough fruit
machines!' (It is no longer politically correct to call them 'one-armed
bandits', following intensive lobbying by a number of people who are actually
bandits by profession and have lost one of their upper limbs in robbery-related
accidents.)

It's not a question of being a kill-joy,
because there is very little joy in today's instant forms of gambling. Where's
the fun or skill in scratch cards, fruit machines or the Lottery? You spend a
quid, and in one split second suddenly realize you've just lost a quid. Wow,
that was worth it! The reason that horse racing is such an infinitely superior
way of throwing your money away is that it provides a narrative, an unfolding
drama in which you discover that, despite all your expert analysis of the form
and conditions, random factors have conspired against you, and so after a few
minutes' thrilling or exasperating entertainment your money is finally lost. Or
rather the money your partner put in that charity envelope by the front door is
lost. And now you can even bet from home; online betting is replacing many
bookmakers as computers are programmed to grunt at you and give you the wrong
winnings.

The liberalization of gambling wouldn't be so
bad if it was being used to raise more money for public services. But the tax
charged at bookies was recently repealed so the Treasury no longer even gets 9
per cent of the child benefit back again. The National Lottery established the
principle that gambling could benefit good causes, but this opportunity should
have been taken to make all gambling give a similar percentage to charities. Or
even better, nationalize all casinos, bookmakers and the Lottery and keep all the
profit for our schools and hospitals. Imagine the scene in Park Lane at the
glamorous setting of British Casinos, the new state-run gaming club:

'Place your bets,
ladies and gentlemen!'

'Fifty pounds on
thirteen black, please!'

'No, you can't really place your bet here -
you have to go over to our other office in Peckham, fill out form CF/R7 -
unless your stake is over a hundred pounds, in which case you need form CF/R12.
Send it off to the sorting office at Didsbury and we should have that bet
processed for you in three to four months' time.'

Today's
big steeplechase would be a nationalized Grand National, though the tannoys
might relay a slightly different commentary: 'We apologize for the late arrival
of the runners and riders for today's three o'clock. This is due to jockey
shortages. For those horses that wish to travel to Becher's Brook, a temporary
bus service is in operation.'

But
I still think it's a great idea. New Labour to nationalize all gambling? You'd
be able to get pretty long odds on that one.

13
April 2002

This
week a writ was submitted to the High Court which stated, 'The words
"working classes" are not now capable of any meaningful definition.'
The judge looked up from his copy of the
Daily Star,
took
a stubby pencil from behind his ear and said, 'Ooh dear, nah, mate, a court
case like that's gonna cost yer innit? And we're booked up for ages - tell you
what, I'll see if one of me mates can adjudicate for yer, I'll just get me
mobile from the van.'

The
assertion that the working classes no longer exist is being made by a property
company who want to develop a site in central London for luxury housing despite
a 1929 covenant which states that the land may only be used to provide housing
for the working classes. The clause goes on to say that they must have stone
cladding and a satellite dish on the front, a car stacked up on bricks in the
front garden and a doorbell that plays an electric version of 'Maybe It's
Because I'm A Londoner'.

The
original 1929 clause was clearly intended to safeguard housing for ordinary
people doing low-paid jobs, and today this need is greater than ever. Obviously
the working classes are not the same as they were in the 1920s. They're not all
wearing flat caps and saying to a wobbly-black-and-white camera, 'Well, I'm
just a simple working man and don't know nuffink about no gold standard but if
that Mr Churchill says we's ought go back on it, well that's good enuff for the
likes of me!'

To
hear some of the commentators on this story over the past couple of days you
would think they'd never met a working-class person in their lives. (Presumably
their cleaners are from the Philippines so that doesn't count.) It's like we're
talking about some near extinct species that could only be tracked down after
days spent trekking through the urban jungle. You can almost imagine the next
nature documentary from the BBC, featuring a memorable piece of footage in
which David Attenborough encounters a surviving family group of the endangered species
known as 'working-class people'. He whispers to camera that he is going to try
to get closer. At first they are wary of him; the dominant male grunts and
furrows his eyebrows before returning to feed on his natural diet of crisps and
Tango. The mother seems anxious about her new offspring; he's still not back
from the shop with her fags, but the older cubs are more playful, and before
long are climbing all over David Attenborough and nicking his mobile phone.

In the old days you could tell what social
class people belonged to by the way that they voted. The middle classes voted
SDP and the working classes all voted for Maggie. If you go further back in
history it was even more confusing: the rich people were fat and the poor
people were all thin. Apparently the poor didn't eat much and had to walk
everywhere; in direct contrast to today, of course, where the Royle family lie
around all day in front of the telly eating bacon butties while the high
earners are starving themselves on a lettuce leaf and spending an hour a day on
a Stairmaster treadmill. But there are also all sorts of ways in which the
classes overlap. I might decide to get myself a proletarian supper of fish and
chips, but then I'll go and give myself away by asking if the vinegar is balsamic.
(I hadn't had such a funny look since I asked if it was organic free-range
chicken in the KFC bargain bucket.) Ultimately it still comes down to money.
The working classes are embarrassed that they don't have more of it, and the
middle classes are mortified that they have so much. All of these determining
factors will be gone over in the High Court later this year. My prediction is
that the court will rule in favour of the property company, thereby finally
establishing in law that the British working class is indeed finally extinct.
In other words, the law courts will have sided with the posh chaps from the
property company in Surrey. And what more proof do you need that the English
class system is alive and well and still screwing the working classes as much
as ever? It makes my middle-class blood boil so much I want to tut and say,
'Honestly!', but best not make a fuss, I suppose.

20
April 2002

The
day before the budget the government heard some terrifying news. The
Conservatives stated that they would not support increased health spending
unless it was accompanied by reform. Panic spread through the cabinet. 'Oh no -
the opposition have threatened to oppose us! What are we going to do? Without
those crucial votes the budget will only be passed with a wafer-thin majority
of a hundred and sixty-seven votes.'

By
endlessly talking about the need to reform the NHS, political leaders are
implying that the Health Service is somehow to blame for its own shortcomings.
'You can't solve these problems just by throwing money at them,' they say.
What, problems like shortage of money? 'Exactly,' they continue. 'You might
think that the solution to under-funding would be more funds, but nothing could
be further from the truth.'

Maybe doctors should attempt this trick on
the next politician to be rushed to casualty? 'Quick! He's lost four pints of
blood; get him a transfusion quick!'

'Yes, but you see you can't just solve this
shortage-of-blood problem by throwing blood at it,' says the doctor.

'But my blood pressure is dangerously low!'
gasps the politician lying on the trolley.

'Not in real terms,'
says the doctor. 'The rate of decrease is actually levelling out and it's still
much higher than it was under the last government.'

'And my temperature is a hundred and five -
that's critically high, isn't it?'

'Not when seasonally adjusted, and we remain
firmly committed to a year-on-year reduction to bring it into line with the
European average by two thousand and seven.'

It is of course wonderful news that this
Labour government is committing £40 billion to the National Health Service so
soon after ousting the Tories in, er, 1997. In the NHS the effects were immediate.
There was a sudden drop in the number of Labour Party members being treated for
severe depression. The budget was cheered by Labour back-benchers because,
unlike previous budgets, they understood several words of it. The sentence
'more spending on the NHS' is actually five words in a row and constitutes a
record for the longest any MP has concentrated on a budget speech without closing
their eyes and dreaming that they are Martin Sheen in
The
West Wing.