FraserWords

It was Father’s Day yesterday and here at Fraser Towers…. Nothing happened. Nothing at all.

This was not entirely because other members of the clan regard me as an inconvenient and grumpy presence mainly there to cook, clean, complain and fart, not necessarily in that order.

No: nothing happened because I had said that nothing should happen. Unusually, and probably because it saved them from spending any money, they all listened and the day passed without notice. I was proud of them all.

Because it’s difficult to resist society’s instructions to consume. Thankfully, Father’s Day is pretty much under the radar as far as wider peer pressure is concerned, unlike the farce of Mother’s Day. Then, children are forced to construct sickly cards at school and pre-school and emotional blackmail gives an enormously welcome boost to the florists’ and chocolatiers’ trades.

Possibly because fathers are involved, Father’s Day doesn’t get quite the same treatment, though I notice that in the eyes of the event industry, all fathers are boring, sexist, Union Jack bedecked, plump and like Stars Wars, the Simpsons, DIY, beer and football.

I quite like the Simpsons and beer, but I loathe being ordered to do anything. I particularly loathe being ordered to give a public demonstration of my love for my mother, my father or my partner. I would rather choose when I tell them (past tense in my poor mother’s case, of course) that I love them. Maybe I would like to choose a gift for my partner other than horrifically designed cards, expensive chocolates or blowsy flowers.

Similarly, I loathe the way other events have become so commercialised – Hallowe’en, for example, with its vile trick or treating imported from the land of the free of brain, America. And don’t get me started on the industrialisation of weddings. Why on Earth the gay community wants to get involved defeats me utterly.

I suppose the greetings card industry has at least achieved one thing, in that it regularly reminds me that I should make gestures of love and support and interest on my own initiative and think of things to say for myself.

I also loathe the way this distressing modern fashion has annexed the word ‘special’. ‘Special’ is the adjective of choice for people who can’t think of any words: “I love you because you’re….. um…. Special.” “Today was great because it was…. Er…. Special.””You’re a special mum”. Why so? Did she give birth by means of alien abduction? Did she give you to wolves to raise? She must have done something to make her “of particular or peculiar kind; not general”.

Anyway, all this is why, on this special day that’s special because it isn’t special, I’ve written a poem declaring my undying devotion to my beloved, which I shall place on her soft pillow this evening next to a single red rose lovingly plucked from the bedusked garden, fresh with a light dew:

My darling, my love, my angel, my friend,

I rejoice every day that together we spend;

I’m here for you when life seems a drag –

I love you, dear. Now fancy a …?

Under orders

I’m sure that economically we should all be grateful cataclysm has not occurred because the Greeks narrowly voted for the establishment. Probably, if the Germans are pleased then all will be well, for the Germans seem to like things to be strict, organised and managed.

I rather regret that the Greeks have not voted overwhelmingly against austerity and against the diktats of a corporatist Europe that’s heading for further impractical unification.

I rather regret that we haven’t this morning had to confront a Europe in which people make up their own minds about their own governments and their own currency, regardless of superimposed bureaucracy and rulings. Those things, after all, are what resulted in the Euro… and even though Everything Will Now Be Fine because a tiny majority of the Greeks did as they were told, everything will in truth not be fine.

This vote won’t get us back the hundreds of billions of pounds already spent shoring up the corporatist currency; neither will it save governments spending hundreds of billions more when it slavishly responds to the trading initiatives of the profiteers on the stock markets to shore up the next problem country.

Neither will it explain to me why there’s money galore to pump endlessly into keeping the banks afloat without requiring any accountability in return, in the shape of nationalisation or regulation, while there’s no money whatsoever to pump into people’s lives…

A vision of Britain

Ahhh. Danny Boyle’s going to present us with a vision of England’s green and pleasant land for the opening ceremony of the Olympics.

It seems a missed opportunity. For £27 million, for example, we could have invited samples, chosen by reality TV show, of course, of people who’ve lost their homes, or jobs, or learning support, or support for their disability, or their place on a hospital waiting list, or their savings to keep going, or their children’s university place because of the fees, or… you get the picture. We could have invited a parade of them to precede a colourful pageant re-staging our traditional inner city riots, and then given everybody £1,000 each, a Big Mac with fries and a new iPhone from Curry’s. Wouldn’t that have been more symbolic of Britain?

And finally

It was good to hear that Brother Numbers had recovered from the spectacular excesses of Old Father Cullingham’s and Management’s Golden Wedding. But on an open-top bus? In Cornwall? In the summer? Hope he didn’t catch pneumonia, or trench foot, to add to his hangover.

And finally, we must all congratulate Grandpa Fiddle and his daughter, our Sister Lucy and her partner Lea, on the safe arrival of little Archie. Archie, consider yourself our Brother!