Dick Jones' Patteran Pages
A patteran is a coded configuration of leaves, sticks and stones left at the roadside by Gypsies to communicate with each other. This is my digital version, left for any passers-by...














































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03 June 2004
 

AND ANOTHER THING…

 

SATIRE – ‘the use of ridicule, irony, sarcasm etc., to expose folly or vice…’  All too often the satirist is represented as the cynic who stands by the edge of the highway, parodying, lampooning, belittling the best efforts of the Great & the Good to fulfil their difficult & thankless tasks. 

 

Well, I’d be lost without vintage satirical fortnightly magazine Private Eye.  I’ve been buying it on & off since its inception in the early ‘60s.  It’s never lost its raffish, cut-and-paste (glue & paper style) format, nor has it ever shaken off the sense of being run by a group of undergraduates with too much time on their hands.  But behind the not infrequent wielding of blunt instruments & the sometimes prurient glee that informs their reports of breaking scandals, there is often a fierce moral fervour.  Private Eye is not afraid to ‘speak truth to power’ & private cant, hypocrisy & plain crookery made public seldom escape its scrutiny.  A couple of stories caught my attention this week, one to do with the naked exploitation of poser, the other the implied exploitation of naked flesh.   

 

Dick Cheney, it reports, was warned about the use of torture by American troops as far back as 1992. When he was George Bush Snr.’s defence secretary it was brought to his attention that during American ‘counter–insurgency’ activities in Central & South America abusive interrogation techniques were being routinely employed.  Indeed, two CIA manuals being used to train interrogators recommended the use of torture, notably techniques similar to those recently exposed as being widespread in Abu Ghraib prison.  Although these manuals were subsequently amended, Spanish language versions, appropriate for the theatre of operations, were being issued unaltered. 

 

A memo passed by Cheney’s desk to the effect that ‘offensive & objectionable material in the manuals undermines US credibility (that) could result in significant embarrassment’.   The memo was stamped ‘SECDEF HAS SEEN‘ & Cheney had scribbled on it, ‘I concur’.

 

An interesting coda to the story is that the then ambassador to Honduras, location of torture revelations that led to a senate investigation, was implicated in the scandal.  His name is John Negroponte & he is now the US ambassador to Iraq.

 

A turn of the page revealed a neat little paradigm of the relationship between noisy moral outrage & cynical exploitation.  The Sun newspaper is an ugly journal whose sweaty-palmed obsession with sexual revelation sells millions of copies a day.  Current editor Rebekah Wade last year led the paper into a stridently shrill campaign to expose paedophiles’ addresses so that concerned local citizens might then arrange for their removal.  In the face of near-universal condemnation on the part of the news media & the police, the campaign continued its crusade with the entirely predictable effect of driving large numbers of paedophiles underground. 

 

Private Eye reports that, having last year featured 12-year-old Emma Watson (Hermione Granger in the Harry Potter films), The Sun this week presented a double-page ‘World Exclusive’ with photos of the 14-year-old showing how she is ‘growing up… into a teen beauty’.  Reporter Grant Rollings grilled her on the adults that she fancied & reported breathily that ‘she will have romantic scenes in the fourth Harry Potter movie’.  Nice…


10:53:30 PM    Mmm? []

AND ANOTHER THING...

 

Hold the front page!  RU in response efficiency horror!  I overpaid them when purchasing extra space &, via Lawrence (to whom all praise & blessings), asked for a refund.  Within a week the cheque arrived.  So, until my upstreaming goes downstream again, they can do no wrong.

 

#

 

The baby’s due in 7 days.  Emma’s cantilevering herself around & about, with a centre of gravity that keeps shifting like cargo in a storm & sciatica that strikes like lightning.  People keep fixing us with manic grins, squealing, “Oh, you must be so excited!”  God knows, they mean well & one wants so much to grin back & say, “Mmm. Can’t wait!”  But it’s not the case & I just make those vague, half-formed affirmative sounds that work perfectly well if you trail them over your shoulder as you move away.

 

The thing is, the two of us keep pausing in doorways to watch Reuben going about his business.  Or we spend a moment or two longer by his bed while he’s sleeping, just looking down at him. He seems so entire of himself, such a totally centred character, already well on his journey & it's impossible to imagine there soon being another one in the world, equally determined, focussed & utterly herself. 

 

The problem is that, on one level, it’s inconceivable that the consuming love you feel for your child is somehow divisible.  It’s beyond the grip of the imagination that there could be located a further fund of absolute devotion, the same in essence, which might be dispensed in equal strength & quality.  It’s understandable that Emma should feel this way: Reuben is her first child.  But I have a grown up son & daughter &, feeble father though I was in many ways when young, I loved both equally, simply as a matter of course (as I do still).

 

For those who lack religious belief, I guess that the transcendent state of grace is to be found in loving another human & being loved back.  For all my past neuroses (whose name was legion…), I found beneath it all that love for both kids was exponential: as they grew into themselves so the bond gained in strength & substance.  And for all my present neuroses (their name is legion…), I know beneath the apprehension, beyond the ‘cloud of unknowing’ between myself & the unborn child, the same mystery will unfold & the same resolution will take place.

 


12:26:02 AM    Mmm? []


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