Breakfast At Tiffany’s

“You’ll say, we’ve got nothing in common.  No common ground to start from.  And we’re falling apart.”

A lovely little one-hit-wonder from Deep Blue Something that takes us back to the autumn of 1996 when the Spice Girls had just shot to fame, England were half-decent at football and Dolly the Sheep became the first mammal to be cloned successfully from an adult cell.

It was also a time of relative calm between Jewish and Muslim communities, as the Oslo Accords had helped reduce the number of suicide attacks in Israel by Hamas and Islamic Jihad to just a few each year.  Good times.

Sorry, but things are about to get heavier.

The 18 and a bit years since have witnessed countless murders of Jewish men, women and children by extremists, a similar number of excessive and bloody reprisals by Israel – including last year’s horrendous and drawn out bombing campaign in Gaza – and the export of violence from the region into far-removed places such as a kosher delicatessen on the outskirts of Paris.

A great many positive things happened in these years as well, so keep your chin up.  But few could deny that most of the images beamed into our sitting rooms over the years make it abundantly clear that if Jews and Muslims celebrated Christmas, few would make it onto each other’s card list.

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Time to lighten the mood again.  Momentarily.

“You’ll say, the world has come between us.  Our lives have come between us.  Still I know you just don’t care.”

Good old DBS.  Fairly recently, the band’s lead singer, Todd Pipes, revealed that promoting the song became tiresome: “As the song had Breakfast in the title, radio stations thought it would be genius to have us on at breakfast time.  We’d be up till 3am and they’d wonder why we were pissed off playing at 6am.”  Well, at least Todd and the boys have had plenty of opportunity to sleep in the years since.  The world hasn’t come between them; it’s left them well alone.

The same can’t be said for Jews and Muslims.  Although the origins of their animosity are complex, it’s painfully apparent that the world – represented here by the United Nations and its members – handicapped their ability to live side by side in peace.  I’m talking, of course, about the bugger’s muddle made in managing the formation of a Jewish State in territory held sacred by both Jews and Muslims.

Far more learned people than I have pondered how it could have been done differently.  But it doesn’t take a scholar to see that things couldn’t have gone a whole lot worse: 70 odd years of West Side Story meets Groundhog Day, in which Bernardo blows up Riff on a bus, Tony launches retaliatory air strikes killing Bernardo, his family (including Maria) and neighbours, and Chino fires mortars at Tony’s apartment block.  And then the same thing happens the next day.  And the next.  Oh, and there’s no love angle in West Bank Story.  Or music.  But the special effects are quite something.

Thanks, the world.

“And I said what about Breakfast At Tiffany’s?  She said I think I remember the film and, as I recall, I think we both kind of liked it.  And I said well, that’s the one thing we’ve got.”

That damn catchy song comes to our rescue again and wades us through dangerous waters to the point of this post: despite their many differences, Jewish and Muslims communities appear to have a little more in common than they realise.

Friday’s front page of The Times reminds us of one shared ritual: Breakfast At Tiffany’s where the eponymous restauranteur piles their plates high with meat obtained in one of the most appalling ways imaginable: slow death from blood loss following an incision through the jugular vein, carotid artery and windpipe.  And would you like ketchup with that, sir?

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Now, I bloody love meat and, as a consequence, I accept that animals have to be bred and killed for my pleasure.  But I strongly support current legislation requiring those responsible to refrain from causing or permitting the animals to suffer any avoidable pain.

In line with the law, the majority of animals killed for meat in this country are put out of their misery pretty quickly and painlessly.  To achieve this end, it’s been mandatory since 1979 for a stunner to be used on all EU livestock pre-slaughter, subject to certain religious exemptions addressed below.  By “stunner”, I don’t mean Emily Ratajkowski, but a mechanically operated device broadly similar to that used to tumble Princess Leia to the deck early in Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope.

The purpose of stunning an animal is to leave it insensitive to pain prior to ending its life (rather than to make it easier to haul it before Lord Vader and admit where it’s hidden the secret plans).  When you think about it, it seems the very least we can do.

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But, as things stand, the law does not require pre-slaughter stunning in kosher and halal abattoirs.  Why?  Because vocal sections of Jewish and Muslim communities believe that books and scriptures written thousands of years ago prohibit it.  And remember, these books aren’t even written by celebrity chefs or anything.

Followers of Judaism believe that for meat to remain kosher the animal must be healthy and uninjured when the “schechita” process is carried out.  They argue that a stunned animal would fail this criteria.  Many also contend that animals feel no pain during the ritual, pointing to certain inconclusive scientific studies and the dubious doctrinal argument that their God would only provide for a merciful and compassionate method of killing his creatures.  

Islam differs in the sense that it only requires the animal to be alive when its throat is cut to qualify as halal.  Due to this lower threshold, many halal abattoirs follow the rest of the industry in stunning animals pre-slaughter.  But a significant and growing number of British Muslims operate under the misconception that stunning often kills the animal.  In Friday’s article, written by Ben Webster, it’s reported that in 2013 some 37 per cent of sheep and goats, 25 per cent of cattle and 16 per cent of poultry brought onto halal premises were killed without being first stunned.  This is a very significant increase from the figures for 2011 and mean that, in 2013, some 2.4 million sheep and goats were killed in halal and kosher abattoirs.  No figures have been given for cattle and poultry.

“Oh, crikey!  There’s a lot of talk about slaughter here, isn’t there?  Can’t we go back to that tune again, eh?  What about the instrumental bit two-thirds the way through?  “De-de-dew de-de-dew de-de-dew de-de-dew”.  So catchy.”

Sorry, folks, but not even the best DBS could muster can drag us away from the blood and guts quite yet.  According to Webster’s article (taking its figures from the European Food Safety Authority’s scientific panel on animal health and welfare), it can take up to 20 seconds for a sheep to lose consciousness once its throat is cut, up to two minutes for cattle and “two and a half minutes or more” for poultry (an odd choice of words suggesting that poor Chicken Licken sometimes waits an eternity before its sky falls in).

An unlikely brotherhood of Jews and Muslims downplay the significance of these statistics, by pointing out that no-one really knows whether animals suffer during this time lag.  Even Webster is only prepared to say that the gap between throats being cut and losing consciousness means “that they might experience pain for that period.”  But why should the burden of proof fall on the rest of society?  If the EU has already determined it inhumane for abattoirs not to stun first, slaughter later, shouldn’t the onus be on these communities to prove (at least beyond reasonable doubt) that no additional pain and suffering occurs.

And if they can’t, what then?

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I agree that all this is rather horrible but I respect, above all else, people’s right to practice their religion“.  Not a DBS lyric, but a conceivable response nonetheless and one with which, for now at least, the Government agrees.

As stated above, it seems that Muslims can adhere to their religion and meet the standards set for the rest of society.  Use a stunner.  If they won’t, compel them to.  Legislation could actually help the Muslim community in this regard, as the Koran permits Muslims to eat non-halal meat if there’s no other halal food available and he or she is forced by necessity (Surah 2:173).  Problem solved.

Of course, Kosher meat is tougher (especially if overcooked) owing to the different test applied.  We’ve got to ask ourselves a very important question here: what rights (if any) should be placed above the right of people to practice their religion freely?  The indignation voiced by many following the recent Charlie Hebdo killings seems to confirm the primacy of free speech over religious dogma.  But, in a civilised society, can the humane treatment of animals be ranked lower than the freedom to draw, print and disseminate insulting cartoons?

The Danish Government doesn’t think so.  It outlawed all non-stun slaughter in early 2014, announcing that “animal rights come before religion“.

It’s surely time for the British Government to follow suit.  The alternative is to pick the low hanging fruit and clamp down on halal practices only.  In a country where many Muslims already feel marginalised, this option is wrapped in risk.  The better approach must be to ban non-stun slaughter from halal and kosher abattoirs and, in the process, give the Jewish and Muslim communities something else in common.

Fortunately, there are a good number of similarly minded people in this country, including the British Veterinary Association which has launched a petition calling for the matter to be debated in the House of Commons.  On Thursday, the number of signatures passed the 100,000 mark and it remains open until the end of March 2015.

The petition can be signed here and I urge you to do so.

It could form a common ground for us to start from and has to be better than watching that awful film again.

A Little Less Conversation

Oh, God.  It’s already started.  The 7th of May 2015 is over three months away, but it’s already started.

In an effort to stay informed about what’s occurring on this daft little ball of land, water and reality TV, I rely on a number of respectable news sources.  And then, when I’m feeling bored, I click on the most-visited English language “newspaper” website in the world, the MailOnline.

Before the page finishes loading, I set my neuroreceptor filter to “wry” to reduce the chance of being tricked into caring about its insultingly simplistic, hypocritical and inaccurate portrayal of modern life.  And normally the wry filter does the trick.  But I think it’s going to be different this year.  Because it’s already started.

“It”, in this context, is electioneering – a conversation that, in many ways, never stops.  The Right constantly bashes the Left with its jewel-tipped cane and the Left responds with anything it can grab hold of, be it a pint glass, crowbar or Little Red Book (in hardback of course).  The sensible souls in the middle alternate between dodging the swinging cudgels and using Right or Left as a human shield against the other.

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It was ever thus and there’s nothing to gain from preventing different viewpoints across the political spectrum from being vented.  Provided that the right people, that is politicians and the public, are doing the venting.

Unless you live under a rock, you’ll know that the MailOnline and its parents (the Daily Mail and The Mail on Sunday) lean to the Right.  There’s nothing wrong with that; there’s also nothing wrong with biased journalism.  Every news reporter has Limb Length Discrepancy of one form or another and witnesses events from a certain personal or paymaster-mandated stance.  That’s why the wry filter works most of the time.  It allows broadly intelligent folk to see beyond attention-grabbing headlines and over the top of lenses through which the writer views the facts.  It’s basic source analysis that kids are taught on day one of their GCSE History curriculum.

Problems arise when newspapers go a step further: when they stop reporting on the news and begin to make it up, crossing the line between informing readers of their take on an event and just filling eyes and brains with unadulterated prejudice.  News agencies often overstep this line, sometimes with little fallout.  But in an election year, it’s especially troubling when the tail (or the Mail) begins to wag the dog.

Take yesterday, when the MailOnline published a “news item” under the morosely uninspired headline, “Is that you in Plasticine, Mr Miliband? New Shaun the Sheep character bears uncanny resemblance to Red Ed”.  Reading on, the “story” concerned a trailer lasting 2 minutes, 27 seconds for the latest children’s film to trot out of the Aardman Animations stable.  The trailer features, for less than one hundredth of its duration, an unamused waiter who, journalist Sian Boyle claims, “bears an uncanny resemblance” to the Labour leader.  Ha ha!  He does a little, if you sort of squint and ignore the dramatic differences between their hairstyles, face shapes and skin colour.  Wicked!  You’re great, Sian!

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Even if we were to accept Sian’s assertion that the clay creation looks like Miliband, this isn’t a news story.  It’s simply an excuse to remind the readership how odd a potential leader of our country looks and subliminally to bawl at them: IS THIS WHO YOU WANT TO REPRESENT YOU?  THIS WEIRDO?  IS IT?  YOU MAKE ME SICK, YOU COMMUNIST BASTARDS.

Of course, Miliband looks odd and is almost unrewardingly easy to laugh at, especially when undertaking herculean tasks such as eating food, ingesting fluid and, well, breathing.  But since when has looking odd been a bar to public office?

Look around Europe.  Who’s the best at securing the most beneficial outcome for their country?  Angela Merkel.  And that’s despite the fact she has the sort of build and features that would make you suspect that Germany’s been led by a helmut for 34 of the last 41 years.  Looking inwards, this country has a rich history of strange looking premiers.  So much so that Miliband probably wouldn’t even make it into the Top Ten of Ministerial Mingers.

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So why does Sian care about his looks?  Is it because she’s as shallow as a camel’s piss puddle?  Or because she was put up to it by her overlords?  Or, as seems most likely, both?

A quick google suggests that Sian (who continues to spell her name with a circumflex, despite the casual disregard shown to such archaic niceties by email addresses, twitter handles and this blog) had the good fortune of avoiding the ugly stick which beat poor Ed (but spared his brother), unless she’s just better at troweling on the Clarins.  Either way, with or without any slap, she’ll never be accused of falling out of a Play-Doh pot.

But less charitable people could mistake her for having stumbled off the set of a production even less sophisticated than an animated sheep guiding his flock away from the Big City with hilarious consequences: TOWIE.  Shame on you, uncharitable people.  However, Sian would do well in the Land of the Vajazzle if we trust the veracity of the article she had published in the Independent last year, entitled “Cameron Diaz is wrong about pubic hair. The bush is not back”.  With the following opening (if you’ll excuse this clumsy term), it’s no wonder the MailOnline snapped her up to write about politics: “DON’T ELECTROCUTE MY CLIT!”, I screamed as I writhed on the table.  I wrenched off my goggles, panting, before the bemused beautician lowered the Intense Pulsed Light laser gun.  “Don’t worry, it will be fine”, she said, before duly zapping away at my crotch.”  Insightful stuff, I take it all back.  Until I get to this line: “It’s a cruel analogy, but the staunch defence of hairy fannies reminds me of very overweight over-eaters who say they’re “happy as they are”.”  Just wow.

And what would lead us to suspect that Sian was encouraged by her bosses to lampoon a man who may be uglier and less likeable than a flatulent Chinese Crested dog, but who has more intellect in his little toe than Sian has in three generations of her family?  Well, who can forget Geoffrey Levy’s charmingly tasteful article published on the MailOnline on 27 September 2013, headed “The man who hated Britain: Red Ed’s pledge to bring back socialism is a homage to his Marxist father.  So what did Miliband Snr really believe in?  The answer should disturb everyone who loves this country” and the somewhat unapologetic editorial that followed.  Or this hyperbolic headline to Matt Chorley’s piece published on 12 November last year: “Miliband is the least popular leader EVER: Devastating poll reveals just 13% think he is ready to be PM as Tories build 3-point lead“.  Circumstantial evidence, I agree.

A bit like the pubic hair Sian detests so much, I’m straying from the point.  The point is that organisations such as the MailOnline have a huge amount of power at their disposal and must wield it responsibly.  If they keep crossing the line between reporting and creating news, they can quickly manipulate swathes of the electorate into thinking about things that shouldn’t matter.

In any General Election, we should focus on one question: who’s the best person and party to lead our country?  Yet it’s a sad fact that on the 7th of May, many voters will shuffle along to their polling stations and vote according to familial or class-based influences, or simply because they’ve seen countless occasions where David Cameron photographs better than that funny looking one who likes cheese and crackers.  And that isn’t the sign of a healthy society.

For example, I consider myself reasonably informed on politics, but could I honestly tell you in any detail what Miliband stands for, other than the buzzwords routed into my ear canals by the mainstream media: NHS, mansion tax, public services?  Do I know how my life would be directly affected by a Labour-led government?  Do I know Miliband’s views on foreign policy?  Or his relationships with the international leaders and businesses on which we now depend?  No, not really.   But I do know that his black-suited bodyguards will twitch every time the man picks up a sandwich.  I rely on the newspapers to fill in the blanks for me but they rarely do.

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So something’s clearly going wrong.  Over the past decade, there’s been no shortage of navel-gazing over in Westminster about why people are so disillusioned with their elected representatives.  “Ah,” they say, “it’s because of the Iraq War!  No, it’s tuition fees!  Expenses!  Launch an inquiry!  And another!  That’ll make the plebs happy!

Well, yes, momentarily.  Until the inquiry takes several years, we move on to raging about something else and forget why we were so angry about the issue in the first place.  Then what do we do?  We comfort ourselves with the thought that it’s just stupid old British politics and go back to our box-set tales of cover-ups and political manoeuvrings somewhere more glamorous.  Oh, but the people in those programmes are so much more watchable.  And wasn’t she in Forest Gump?

But the constant clamour for inquiries misses the point because here’s the crux: British people aren’t really disillusioned by what politicians do.  They’re disillusioned by what they think politicians do.  The average person doesn’t get to hear the good things MPs do day-to-day, how hard they work, how much they’d earn in industry if they were less concerned with creating a better country for everyone to live in.

Instead, he or she reads lurid headlines and watches teary statements read outside family homes when one’s caught doing something he (and it’s usually a he) shouldn’t.  They get no sense of what these people are or what they’re about.  Instead, the public’s left with a budget version of Take Me Out for ugly people hosted by Huw Edwards.  Is it any surprise they no likey?

What’s the answer?  There must be a way of shedding some lighty on the real meat of politics.  It won’t start on the MailOnline, even if we want it to.  The reason it succeeds is that it couldn’t care less whether we like what we read.  All that matters is that the MailOnline’s lovers and haters click on it every day (for that reason, I’ve avoided hyperlinking any of the articles referred to above).

No, the revolution needs to come from the very top.  Somehow, the party leaders need to realise the nation hates all of them, just some a little less than others.  When that penny drops, these smart people should think collaboratively how to get better publicity for the political classes.  Start by giving credit where credit’s due, recognise successes, end the knee-jerk trash talk.  It shouldn’t take a war or commemoration service for people who supposedly want the same thing (i.e. the country to succeed) to stand shoulder to shoulder.

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It’s radical, but it can only help.  Something has to change because , in the words of Elvis, “all this aggravation ain’t satisfactioning” anyone.  There needs to be a little less conversation, a little more action, please.

The revolt could begin right now by cutting out the expensive American-style posters attacking each other in a way that would embarrass a teenager and make politicians of yesteryear spin in their graves.  But it won’t happen.  The Conservatives have fired the starting pistol with a series of crudely photoshopped efforts to convince would-be UKIP voters they risk handing the keys to Number 10 over to Red Ed, Tartan Alec and Balaclava-ed Gerry.  Labour will inevitably respond, portraying Cameron as a member of the smug landed gentry, running around quaffing “sticky” in NHS waiting rooms while Gideon Osborne sits next to him absentmindedly tearing the heads off fox cubs.

If all this doesn’t stop, where are we headed?  In May, low voter turnout.  Before then, the Tories responding with a poster of Miliband’s weird head crowning out of a middle-aged woman as several doctors look worried, mouthing: “OLD LABOUR: OLD DANGER”?  And what then?  A Labour parry-riposte showing Sam Cam’s head stuck onto a porn star’s body while she fellates CEOs of various corporations and informs the viewer that “DAVID LETS BIG BUSINESS TAKE WHATEVER IT WANTS”?

Stop.  We’re just giving them ideas.

Modern Life Is Rubbish

Modern Life Is Rubbish.  So said Blur, but what do they know?  Lest we forget, this is the same gaggle of geeks that informed us it’s not easy to get your head “checked” by a jumbo jet, whatever the hell that means; the same lazy lyricists who introduced their fans to an obscure French novelist, Honore de Balzac, in a desperate attempt to rhyme something, anything, with Prozac (a trade name of the antidepressant Fluoxetine, whose popularity in the 1990s coincided with Blur’s rise in the charts).

Although I didn’t admit it at the time, or to many people since, I never really liked them.  They acted “all cool”, but were the sort of kids who would’ve been ignored at school, lacking the Oasian arrogance to rule the roost or the Radioheadic courage to say what they really felt even if they got a shoeing from the roost-rulers for their troubles.  And what becomes of the Great Ignored?  Well, they tend to do rather well: pass their exams, attend a good college or university to study something impractical and eventually become lawyers, befriend politicians, dabble in the arts (without ever really caring that much about them) and, once their swimmers have sauntered their way into the private members’ clubs of others in their clan, patiently tap the one-armed name-generator bandit until it spits out the sort of vomit-inducing middle-class combination that will really help their children fit in at playtime.

But while success may be drawn to them, the Great Ignored usually lack the streak of genius that sets apart the great from the good.  Or maybe it’s the hunger.  The roost-rulers have it: the only difference between childhood and adulthood being the size of the stadium they have to fill with the standing ovations starved of them as babies.  And the courageous kickees?  They’re just relieved to find a platform from which they can continue to deliver their brand of honesty, this time without retribution.  Like the roost-rulers, their hunger is easy to understand: you’ve always dreamed of this, so why would you ever want to wake up?

What about the Great Ignored?  Who?  Oh, them.  Those who show the ability to tap into the zeitgeist (a rung or two below genius) and a decent appetite for what’s on their plate don’t normally last when the music stops.  Gravity pulls them back to where they’re comfortable: they become lawyers (Dave Rowntree), befriend politicians (Alex James), dabble in the arts (Damon Albarn) and excel themselves on the name-generator (Graham Coxon, father of Dorelia Amaryllis Bee and Pepper Bäk Troy).  Take a bow, Graham: you’re the proud father of an insect and a Thai side dish.  I can’t bring myself to list the names of Alex James’ five children.  Do that in your own time, not mine.

Now, where’s that jumbo jet?

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Anyway, I digress.  Blur were wrong.  Modern life isn’t rubbish.  It’s much worse than that.

Rubbish is the unwanted stuff we toss in the bin: something of no further value robotically transferred into increasingly larger containers until, two weeks later, some thick-necked oddballs in high-vis jackets feed it to their lorries and discard its last-known abode carelessly onto our lawns.  But while modern life includes all manner of things we’d like to throw binwards (used and abused teabags and their left-behind basin stains, moulding strawberry hulls entombed in ice at the back of the fridge, passels of pointless plastic packaging, a flashbacked hangover brought on by the sight of more glass bottles than there should be), the wanton mass of waste material won’t move.  Modern life sticks onto all surfaces it touches.  It can’t be shifted.  And it won’t let you ignore it.  It’s the classroom cretin constantly trying to catch your eye by flicking freshly-picked-and-rolled greeners at you until you give it the satisfaction of looking its way.

What can you do with it?  You’ve got two options: move away or learn to deal with this prick.  Unless you possess the insanity or spirituality to give up your worldly possessions and take off into the woods, the first choice isn’t terribly attractive.  So, how can you deal with modern life?  Get a taste for bogeys?  No, thank you.  This is what you do: you pick your own and you flick them back.

And that’s what I’m doing.  Dear readers (if any are out there), consider this blog to be a growing heap of my nasal detritus, projected not towards you – you understand – but right back at modern life when its attention-grabbing efforts become too much.  I can’t rule out the possibility of you getting caught in the crossfire.  If you don’t mind it, that’s great.  If you do, you can always move away.  Or flick some back, I suppose.  BUT IF YOU DO THAT, WHERE DOES IT END?

Instead, I urge you to sit back, relax, and pop on some music while I harvest some more greens.  But not Blur.  I never really liked them.