Despise not a man in his old age; for we also shall become old.
Ecclesiasticus/Sirach, Chapter 8, Verse 7
Two years have now gone past. How am I coping with being retired? If you asked me in the street, as people do, I’d tell you that I was enjoying it. And to the inevitable follow-up, did I miss work?, I’d answer, I miss the people. While, I suppose, these answers are accurate, they fall far from a strict truth. Without work to structure my life around I spend most of my time doing nothing very much. Other pensioners are constantly wittering on about retirement unleashing a, new phase of my life and saying how busy they are. What are they doing that I’m missing? Why amn’t I busy? Why do I remain leashed?
I often see them, these other pensioners, the unleashed, what we’ll call the younger of our old-adults, battering around. They’re gregarious, they flock, they chatter. I see them along the canal, walking, running, wheezing along in great chains of bikes. They go to the gym, they do pilates, they join night classes, I see them taking art lessons in the wee shop down the road from me, heads bald, gray, or both, bowed to their work; restaurants and cafés are chock full of them, watching the world smugly, stuffing cakes into their pie-holes, having a chat. What is it with them? This fitness and self-improvement? Isn’t the time well passed for that? Perhaps they think that they’ll escape dementia? Live longer lives? A glance at the older of our old adults, you see these as well, with their sticks and their go-carts, should give them pause, you want to live longer like that? I do none of these things. Even if I was interested the thought of mixing with other young old-adults would put me right off.
I don’t watch TV anymore, but my wife does, so sometimes I hear the adverts. I don’t know what she’s watching but it’s clearly younger old-adult stuff, the adverts are all directed at people of our age, who have some money and can still move about a bit. Paying for your own funeral (it costs nearly £4000 and they want the money right away an old woman whines, well that’s your problem, I’ll be dead) and holidays feature heavily. The trip of your life, accompanied by others of your seniority. Cruises seem to be popular, I can think of nothing worse. You might have trouble fleshing out the full details of your own personal hell, I have no trouble with mine, it involves being on a cruise ship. Banged up in a pathogen filled metal box, on a wobbly ocean, unable to escape from the ghastly old people, with tour guided day-trips around tourist-trap ghettos thrown in as an extra. Ballard should have written about a cruise ship running amok, instead of a High Rise, it would have been more realistic, almost not fiction at all. No, no holidays for me thank you.
What do I do? Well I paint a bit, I’ve taken up oil painting, I play online chess and Magic, and I write this. I read a lot. I had intended to spend more time playing with my toy soldiers but having the money for a decent collection rather spoiled that. When I had no money I had hours of fun planning my next purchase, dreaming about my perfect army, doing my best job with what I could get. Now that I can buy more-or-less what I want I’ve lost interest. It might even have always been a work thing; I did most of my painting at school when I was on overtime; and all the games I played, I played after school with the young adults. I do still think about getting back into it, especially after I’ve read a history book about some long-ago war. But for now it’s got lost.
Mostly I spend my time on the computer. I programme a bit, I might find an itch to scratch soon and get more into that. But the bulk of my time is spent surfing news sites and despairing about the state of the world. I don’t do social media, not for me the cesspits of x, and the other echo-chambers of bile, or the body parts of snaptwat, so I might miss some of the worst things. Still what I read seems bad enough. The poor old four horsemen are well overworked. They should complain to their maker (is that god or the other guy?) about their unsustainable workload; we need at least two more anyway — one for AI and one for environmental disaster. Everywhere you look there’s suffering, all the old favourites and spanking brand-new man-made cruelties and ills. It’s hard not to believe that some end is near, that finally, we’re going to kill ourselves off. And perhaps we deserve it? Surely the world is in a worse place than it’s ever been before?
In general I don’t think that we live in an especially difficult age. There’s a tendency to see today’s problems as of a different order from the past; that current times are changing particularly fast and are peculiarly tough. That we face new, more complex, existential problems unknown to the past. People in the past had it easier — those were simpler times, where things moved slowly and any dangers were minor and mostly far off. I doubt it.
I remember my grampa telling me that when he was born mankind couldn’t fly and well before the end of his life we’d been to the Moon. Rapid technological change has been with us since the start of the industrial revolution. But rapid change has always had a part in our lives anyway, I’ll bet Hezekiah thought that the world was moving quite fast enough when Sennacherib’s army pitched their tents in the Valley of the Cheesemakers. So, sure, just now we don’t want for problems, it’s how we rise to the challenge that matters. We’re clever Monkeys, surely we can come up with some decent plans?
When you think of Victorians you probably think fussy prudes. They’re much maligned I think. They faced huge problems too — cities full of slums and disease, poisoned water, poisoned air, a working class, poor, without education, overworked, who died young without hope. An owner class who felt that a load of dead proles was just a normal cost of doing business. They had the courage to face up these problems, they didn’t always succeed but they did at least try. And they had a lot of success — they passed laws, they built houses, infrastructure, they created parks and gardens. If you look around today’s towns you’ll still see their works everywhere. Our shit still flows away through the sewers they built. My own working life was mostly spent working in Victorian schools, over a hundred years old, still in use. Even when they stop being schools the buildings get used, they’re still good buildings. The Victorians did things, they fixed what they could, they didn’t throw their hands up and say, nothing can be done! They tried to make their world a better place for everyone.
The people driving these changes didn’t have to do this, they often had a lot to lose, they were doing very nicely out of the way things were. So why did they do it? Fear of revolution will have played its part, but I suspect that religion was the main driver. They committed unspeakable crimes in their god’s name but they did do a fair lot of good. We can’t expect religion to help us out too much these days. The loud, white, righteous men who make all the noise and have influence seem to favour more of the unspeakable crimes.
So what can we expect from the other leaders of today? What are our billionaires doing with their cash? Well apart from planning to replace us with robots and surgically altering their partners to fit more snuggly into the valley of disgust, they’re building spaceships! Now if the plan is something like the Golgafrinchan B Ark, but an A Ark, for the important people — the billionaires, the bankers, the hedge fund managers, the internet influencers, the CEOs of large companies. The people who get stuff done. If they’re all going to relocate to Mars, leaving us useless mouths behind, I can get on board with that. They seem to be stupid enough to fall for it, a lot of them went to Epstein island without noticing all those teenage girls. What did they think was going on? Did they think he was running some kind of finishing school? Alas, apart from Musk I doubt if they’re that stupid. No, we can expect no help from them. In fact what they want is to make things much, much worse for us, because they think that it’ll make things better for them. What are we to do then?
When I was at university we spent many long nights coming up with plans to make the world a better place. Many of these involved a working class uprising (we were mostly lower middle class). A general strike would bring down the government and usher in… we weren’t very sure. But it was going to be much better! This was at the beginning of the Thatcher years — inflation and unemployment were rampant, factories were closing down, it seemed like everybody was heading for the dole. Even astrologers could predict the coming miners’ strike. When I got thrown out of university, got a job in the Post Office and met a section of the working class I began to see some issues with these plans. Unions were for getting better wages, they weren’t there to change the world.
I remember going on strike once. It was in support of a Nurses’ strike, in those days secondary action was still quasi-legal, other unions had been asked to come out for a couple of hours and join the picket line (that would be against the law now). Only Iain and I were willing to do it, management tried to stop us, but the real pressure came from the union, they did not want us to strike. We went anyway, and because we worked on the counter, and nobody would scab by taking our places, our strike was noticed. The queues were out the door apparently, when people found out the reason threats were made against our lives. For a while Iain and I were marked out as Trots. This wasn’t too much of a problem — the Post Office was a family place in those days. That the youngsters might kick against the system was expected, they’d grow up soon. I remember a postman coming over to us in the canteen to say that he was, proud of you young lads. Still, it made me realize that working class solidarity was a fiction, I could dump any syndicalist plans.
For a while there was hope in Labour. Michael Foot was leader, the party said all the right things, and did all the wrong ones. Then came the Falklands and a miners’ strike, unions looked out-of-control again; the economy got a wee bit better, Charles and Di tied the knot, the country could be proud again, we’d won a war and Di looked like an angel in her dress. The Tories romped the next election. We’d need some other plan if we wanted to change the world.
After I started working as a janny, which could be loosely described as working in education, I decided that education was the answer. (This is an example of me finding a good reason for doing something after I’d done it.) After all it makes sense — bring up the next generation to avoid our mistakes, be better people, build a better future. I was being a wee bit optimistic, education must be part the plan, but it’s going to take more than that to solve our problems. Still, working as a janny, I could pretend to myself that, in a small way, I was doing something to build a better world. Now that I’ve retired what am I doing to improve the world?
That, I think, is the root of my dissatisfaction with myself — I feel that I’m not doing anything worthwhile. Not that I ever really did. But I must be able to pretend to myself that I’m still working for the revolution. But what am I to do?
I could join a political party? Eh, no. Who would I join? The SNP? I don’t see how would that help. I’m all for independence, decisions should be made as close as possible to the people that they are going to affect, but the nats have lost their way. They’ve been in power for too long, they’ve developed a taste for it, they’re too comfy, they’ve lost their fire, they’re making bad mistakes. The greens? I like some of what they are saying, but they’re neophytes, if they got into power they’d badly cock-up. It takes a while for an insurgent party to develop the knowledge and assemble the people that they’re going to need if they do want to make a big change. No we need independence, which will rattle things up and force us, as Scots, to finally decide what type of nation we want to become. That will need all of us, we’ll have to listen to everyone. It may involve more break-ups — the Scotland that Oban sees, never mind Kirkwall, is a very different place from the one that you see from the ramparts of Edinburgh Castle. There’s a good chance we’ll get it wrong. We must try, but we’re scared, it might take something horrible to push us into it. So I’m stuck in a bad place — contemplating a reform government that will be so awful that we’ll be forced to go our own way. But we can’t have that, too many people will get hurt, too much will be destroyed. I fear for our immediate future. Again I’m going to have to fall back on the long term. There I see signs of hope.
Herodotus tells a story about the burial customs of two groups of people, one who bury their parents, the other who eat them once they’re dead. Each are horrified about how the other one disrespects their parents in such a disgusting way. Some god or gods will be involved somewhere I suspect, but they can’t both be right. A prophet wasn’t listening properly when god was laying down his rules, or some auger misread the sacrificial tripes. I’ve always felt that this, probably made-up, tale has a lot to say about the human condition.
If these groups lived within marching distance of one another it’s not hard to predict what’s going to happen. The local big men, spying a chance for a bit of extra power, will whip up the hatred; the priests will avow that the gods are onside. Pretty soon the blood will be flowing, spears will be flung, regrettable atrocities will occur, fires will be set. Nobody will win, they’ll just weaken themselves so that the group over the other hill, who throw their parents out for the Vultures, can sweep in and enslave what’s left of them.
Now on the whole I’d prefer not to be eaten by my in-laws, but I don’t believe that there’s going to be anything left of me after I’ve died to care. If they were going to kill me so that they could have me with two veg for their dinner that would be a different matter. But if I’m already dead? I think that I could cope.
Few things are as sensitive to humans as what we do with the corpses after what once moved them has gone. That people do nasty things with their parents carcasses can be a cause of strife. And eating other humans has always been a bit of a no-no. The early christians were accused of this. It’s always been a bone of contention as to what, exactly, is going on in the mass. So it wasn’t too unexpected that the Romans suspected that it was some form of cannibalism. Which lead to the christians getting eaten by Lions. Which wasn’t in the scriptures at all. To me it doesn’t really matter, as long as you don’t eat my dad go ahead. But I can see that the different disposal methods for dead parents that these groups had would have been an issue. I just think that it didn’t have to lead to war.
I think the main problem was that these groups didn’t know each other, they were strangers, false tales could be told. Here in Scotland we once had two groups of protestants who believed much the same things, whose rituals were very similar. The only difference is that one sect had bishops, which the other didn’t like. Lots of people died because of that difference. These sects lived in different districts, once they started mixing, and got to know one another they agreed that you were allowed to differ. The lord’s prayer that I recited every morning in primary came from a hymnbook that caused a riot (and war) in Scotland when Charles I tried to introduce it. Now it was safe for the kids. Time and familiarity make molehills out of mountains.
So what would happen to these groups if they grew up together? Shared a village, worked together, played together, got bevvied together down at the inn. That ‘er next door buried her mother might be seen as just a wee foible.
——Mummy, can I go round to Jimmy’s? They’re having a party.
——Alright. But whatever you do don’t touch the pie.
If we live together, know one another, we can put up with even quite great differences in culture. In fact we can come to enjoy them.
The people we hate fall into two categories — those close to us, and those whom we don’t know at all. We might dislike our acquaintances but we never really hate them. And it’s all too easy to think about murdering some of the people who we only see on TV.
Surely we don’t hate our loved ones? Well the murder statistics would suggest that we do. An astonishing number of people die in their own kitchen, stabbed by the partner who bought them a ring. Hate is a strong emotion, it’s not one that comes easily to us. It’s not like anger, which comes and goes quickly. Hate starts small, it builds, it stays with us, it only ever worsens. If you are constantly interacting with someone you’re close to hate’s like a pan on the hob, getting hotter and hotter, it’s likely to boil over. Such hate is a visceral thing, there’s no arguing with it. It’s personal. You can’t really feel it about your bus driver.
The other hate is the hate of the tribe for outsiders, it’s a group thing, its built into our brains. Humans are suspicious of strangers, but after a while, when they’ve got to know one another a wee bit, that usually wears off. Unless, for some reason, the suspicion gets whipped up into hatred. There are people out there who see a use for hate.
You probably guessed I was going to end up talking about Hitler. People usually do. But let’s look at what use Hitler made of hating Jews.
There weren’t actually that many Jews in Germany as a percentage of population, but for Hitler’s purposes they made a perfect hate group. The Jews who were noticeable were either rich plutocrats, bankers, shopkeepers, industrialists. Or they they were involved in culture, actors, film stars, novelists, sexual deviants. Both groups made good targets — it’s easy to hate rich capitalists and bum-fondling lefty aesthetes. Most other Jews probably went about unnoticed, being Jewish was a handicap after all, best not to mention it. So they were hidden traitors. The bulk of Germans didn’t know many Jews personally, and the ones that they did would fall into the category of, not them.
You might, like me, have experienced something like this. You’ll be talking to somebody who insists they aren’t racist who wants to, send them back where they came from.
——You mean Ella and Dora? You mean Muhammad and Ramesh?
——No not them! I mean the others…
The Jews were a perfect hate target. They could be made out to be other, either spies or exploiters. Taking the rewards, which you weren’t getting at the moment, that were rightfully yours. Hitler didn’t really have a political programme, he just said things would get better if we got rid of the Jews.
Is there a hate target being set up today, so that a bunch of evil chancers can use them to come into power? Oh yes! Today’s favoured hate group would seem to be Muslims, and you see quite a lot of Muslims around. Some of them look quite different, always a plus if you want to attack them. The propaganda is relentless. And we have the generic immigrants available for hating as well. I can’t help but notice that, apart from, ridding us of these outsiders there aren’t many ideas for fixing our real problems being suggested. They claim they are going to fix the NHS, where a lot of immigrants work, but they’re light on the details.
I think they might struggle to convince enough people so that they can seize power and start the deportations, there are already too many people who are, not them. And Britain does have a culture, just not the one that the haters are always banging on about — it involves fairness and decency. If you try to introduce mass deportations, like they’ve tried in the USA, it’s likely that a lot of us will go politely berserk; the British are a passive race, until they are aroused, then they can get quite unpleasant. No, I trust my fellow Brits, they are fundamentally decent. There’s another thing happening, in Scotland, at least. These outsiders are starting to become us.
It’s very hard to go through the Scottish educational system and turn out as anything other than a Scot. You can retain your own culture, but you’re going to be Scottish. It’s going to show. For example both labour and the nats had leaders who were Muslims, very few Scots could see them as anything else but Scottish. Poor old Rishi had to fend off claims that he wasn’t perfectly English, that didn’t happen to Sarwar and Yousef. Typical Scots popinjays they loved to don kilts, Muslims have their own tartan. It’s a sure sign of them trying to import their culture — aping our ways.
I’m not saying that the battle is won, in hard times it’s easy to think that there’s an easy solution, Brexit perhaps? Racism is never going away, it’s too useful for some people, it plays on a weakness built into our guts. But I’m hopeful — the airwaves and internet cables might be chock full of loathing, the rich white men who own them are agreed that we must hate, that doesn’t mean that we’re really like that. And I think that the slope of the future dips down our way.
I had my political awakening in the Thatcher years, where we lost, and we lost and we lost once again. I did learn some things, what wasn’t possible, what might be, I became an effective speaker from the floor of a meeting. I had a few, very small, wins. It was still mostly losing and I lost faith in my comrades — they had silly ideas and made evermore ridiculous plans. I told everyone that the miners’ strike was a trap. They only talked to each other, they couldn’t see the world as it is. It’s the same these days of course — I assume that you have to fail some kind of intelligence test to join Just Stop Oil. Still we did win in places. People forget that the Thatcher project wasn’t all about crushing the unions and freeing the capitalists to sate their greed. It was also a moral crusade — Victorian and family values and section 28. Well the family values stumbled a wee bit, her MPs couldn’t keep their cocks in their trousers, and few people bat an eyelid about homosexuality today. Why? I think it’s an example of what I’m trying to say here — people got to know gay people, they didn’t believe that they were all paedos, they saw that they were just normal people who weren’t a threat. I hope that the same thing will happen with trans people, what they’re being accused of today is very like what homosexuals were accused of back in the day. If hate is what you are selling there must be someone to hate, I think that these victims are going to become harder to find.
The world is always changing, for the better and getting worse; the world I grew up in is long gone, I wouldn’t have wanted to live in it anyway. Only fools predict the future but I’m going to risk it. For Scotland anyway. Maybe I’m mistaken, I only really know Edinburgh, but if Edinburgh isn’t exactly typical at least I can hope it leads the way. If we can tackle racism and sexism it would at least be a start. I think I see it happening. At ground level at least.
When I look out my window I can see children playing in the playground, boys and girls together, children of all hues. When I grew up we were all white; the boys played cowboys and indians, british bulldogs and japs and commandos, we all owned at least three cap guns. The girls, in a separate playground skipped and swapped scraps. The boys were to grow up to be violent, like Chaucer’s host, perilous with knyf in honde, the girls were to grow up to be wives. Nowadays children play together, they don’t see colour, boys and girls interact. The girls aren’t going to be denied a place in this world, the boys won’t resort to their fists every time someone pisses them off, and, I’m afraid my dear racists, your dreams won’t come true in the long run.
I could be like the other young old adults, and spend my time and the money I haven’t earned having, what they call, fun. Going on holiday, sitting in cafés, going to spin class. That isn’t me. I might not be able to do anything, perhaps I never could have, but at least I can watch. As I’ve always said, you’re politically active if you stay up to watch the election results.
I must get out more, I need to cheer myself up.
So, there you have it, my nature journals, some bits of my life, some thoughts from my head. From the shape of what’s missing you might be able to tell something more. Now that I’m finished it’s time for a walk, it’s raining, the canal will be quiet. I’ll have it to myself, so, as I walk, I can think about what I want to do with the rest of my life. For it is spring.
