Tag Archives: History

A Stateless Nation

01/11/2012 By in Politics Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

On growing up in the nationalist heartlands of the North East of Scotland and with parents of Anglo-Irish descent, I am a first generation Scot. Always sensitive to any hint of anti-English sentiment, I remember my first impressions of nationalism and I considered it back then to be inherently nasty, bigoted and deeply parochial. Largely this was a result of a feral loathing of the English football team and the hysterical fear of the ‘auld enemy’ winning the World Cup. Laughable as this might sound to educated observers, especially anyone who knows anything about football, the populist cry was that ‘we would never hear the end of it’ and they are right. It would be absolutely unbearable but our European partners usually come to our aid whenever this is in danger of happening.

Football might seem frivolous to some but the social consequences of this nationalist hysteria led to me preferring the union. As a result and unaware of the grim economic conditions taking place outside of the affluent fields of Aberdeenshire, I felt very comfortable being simultaneously Scottish and British. While I always considered myself Scottish, I owed my existence to parents and as a son of economic migrants; I was a product of oil rather than the Mearns soil.

Although looking back my British identity crisis was an emotional form of solidarity with my parents. It co-existed with my Scottish identity, which back then was a geographical and localised phenomenon. T.C. Smout, the brilliant social historian, once stated that ‘what is unusual about Scotland is the widespread acceptance that national identity does not have to coincide with state identity’. He succinctly tapped into the political separation of powers of the 1707 Union settlement, where Scottish cultural and religious nationalism was allowed to flourish outside the sphere of the British state.

Shaped by the desire to secure a Hanoverian Protestant succession in the early eighteenth century, British identity has been formed around the crown, empire, industrialisation and the emotional solidarity of two World Wars. In the twenty-first century, the contemporary framework of British identity has shifted radically. With the British Empire now confined to the dust columns of history, the BBC, NHS, Royal Mail and celebrity television shows such as the X-Factor and Big Brother provide ‘Britons’ with a shared cultural identity.

On being entirely comfortable with being both Scottish and British, I can trace my slow conversion to independence from attending two of Scotland’s oldest universities. On first attending Kings College in Aberdeen, I took great pride in learning that until 1858 Aberdeen had two universities, the same number as the whole of England. Education always appeared to be a great Scottish virtue and with the devolved Scottish administration paying student’s tuition fees since 1999 it became clear that education in Scotland is a universal right and not something confined to the privileged few.

On transferring to Glasgow University and studying History, I slowly developed the opinion that Scotland had everything in place to be thriving independent nation but somehow shied away from taking full responsibility. A country blessed with huge natural resources, a brilliant university network, untapped green energy, a booming tourist industry and two of the greatest cities in Northern Europe only 40 minutes apart. Scotland has enormous potential to become a progressive and wealthy European state.

If Scotland were to vote for full independence in autumn 2014 then the British state will cease to exist but Britishness will not. Norwegians, Swedes, Finns and Danes are still Scandinavian despite living in politically autonomous states. The Scandinavian nations co-operate on matters of shared national interest such as security, immigration, energy and tourism. There will be no custom officials and razed wire fences in Berwick-upon-Tweed or Gretna Green if Scotland were to go their own way. And by retaining the Queen as the head of state, the SNP have offered an olive branch to unionists uncomfortable with the pace of radical constitutional change.

With his High Excellency Alex Salmond at the helm in Holyrood anything now feels possible. A truly outstanding political operator, the SNP has been blessed with the most gifted political communicator in the British Isles since Tony Blair. Commanding over an extremely disciplined and ‘on message’ party, Alex Salmond is gradually persuading the Scottish people there is nothing that cannot be achieved by ourselves. On turning full circle I now believe in independence. The wheels of progress have been slow but the destination now feels inevitable.

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Nobody Expects the Spanish Revolution

06/20/2011 By in Politics Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

As Madrid is more of a national capital than an international one like London or Paris, the British press have perhaps not given Spain’s “los indignados” the attention they deserve. Over 60, 000 Spanish youths held spontaneous protests in Madrid, Barcelona and Valencia in May 2011, rebelling against the socialist government’s austerity measures. A decade of unemployment and emigration beckons for tens of thousands of Spanish graduates. Youth unemployment among 16 to 29-year-olds is estimated to be around 45 per cent. Upturned in the Puerta de Sol are stolen crates, graffiti slogans and multiple plastic tents full of sticky protesters eating tinned food in brutally hot temperatures. Indignant in their defiance, the “los indignados” are demanding new jobs, public investment and changes to the government’s austerity plans but their wishes have fallen on deaf ears. Spain like so many other debt-ridden European nations has elected a centre-right government into power.

Madrid’s tent city should perhaps serve as a reminder that political dissent has not always been tolerated in Europe. For this red scar of rebellion may be gathering momentum in 2011 but situated in a former hospital is a heart stopping reminder of Spain’s fascist past. Forming an integral part of the holy trinity of Madrid’s historic art museums, the Museo Reina Sofía is renowned throughout the world for hosting Picasso’s Guernica. Awe inspiring and superbly displayed, this icon of twentieth-century European art is one of the few universal masterpieces that commands a religious silence from all visitors. Displayed on the second floor, the art crowds flock to Guernica all year round and cross-legged school children listen attentively to the horrific origins of the painting. Picasso painted it as a response to the Luftwaffe bombing of Guernica for the Spanish Pavilion at the Paris International Exhibition in 1937.

As a universal symbol against the fight against fascism, Guernica is a brutal reminder that under General Franco Spain was a military dictatorship until the late 1970s. On forming a one party state, the Falange, political censorship was vigorously enforced under Franco. Trade unions were banned. Catalan, Basque and Galician languages were severely censured and political opponents were mercilessly executed. The majority of Britons will be unable to comprehend the level of repression suffered in Spain during this period. Most people in the UK understandably take the liberal fruits of universal suffrage and freedom of speech for granted.

Britain is one of the oldest and most stable democracies in the modern world, and has enjoyed peaceful growth from 1945 until the present day. Guernica is a potent reminder that Britain has enjoyed its most comfortable, safe and prosperous period in its living history. The global recession of 2008 has triggered violent rioting in Greece and led to tens of thousands of protesters kicking spokes in the hub of Madrid’s wheel.

Britain’s anti-cut march in London attracted over 200, 000 people but it feels strangely weak and deeply uninspiring compared to the demonstrations in Madrid. The protest was quickly forgotten after a day’s headlines. And it will be most likely remembered for the self-aggrandising violence of a hundred upper-middle class anarchists. Spain feels different. Although history will judge how effective the Spanish revolution will be in what is going to be a very difficult decade for Europe. A generational time bomb is slowly ticking because of this economic crisis. Unemployment and living costs continue to rise across the continent. But if history is to offer any guide, and hard as this is to admit, sometimes you have to travel across your own borders to realise how lucky Britain really is.

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A View from a Bridge

05/10/2011 By in Travel Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

Dream Collapsing

On flying over Northern Spain on route to Oporto, I remarked to a Portuguese nurse sitting next to me about how wonderfully green the landscape appeared from above. With evergreen forests and misty pockets of silver trailing in my wake, the descent upon Portugal’s second city had already begun to take shape. Any assumption that Portugal is a geographical extension of Spain is woefully misleading on a number of levels. Unlike the Iberian aridity of the south, the Douro region is predominately Celtic and Germanic in stock. Situated in the corn, cabbage and port region of Portugal, the northern green fields could easily pass of as Ireland to an unknowing visitor. For there are more flowers and bushes in Portugal and there are more trees, including the sprawling eucalyptus, which are noticeably absent on the neighbouring Castilian plateau.

Somewhat fittingly Portugal has now followed the Irish Republic to become the third member of the eurozone to be bailed out by the EU and IMF. Economically weak in an uncertain world, the Portuguese frontiers have remained virtually unchanged since 1139. They removed their last dictator, António de Oliveira Salazar, in 1970 and had a democratic revolution in 1974 and like the Portuguese nurse on the plane; they are one of the most congenial of Europeans.

Youth in Revolt

According to my erudite source on the plane, the country’s student population celebrate Queima das Fitas (Burning of the Ribbons) in the first week of May. On arriving in a university town on the verge of a drunken apogee, I checked in at the Porto Spot Hostel, and booked myself a sleepless night inside a white walled dorm. Despite my room having the capacity to host three weary bodies, I fortunately only had to share with a pepper bald German man.

Travelling is a privilege and after exploring the continent in my early twenties, I still have fond memories of budgeting every penny and dining in car parks eating ripped bread and cheese. Despite growing up and finding myself desperate to progress beyond shared accommodation, I all too frequently discover the invisible hand of economics has a far greater influence over my upwardly mobile pretentions.

Fortunately the money you might save on accommodation can be invested elsewhere and on departing the boutique hostel, I began to explore the melancholy splendour of Porto. Most normal cities would consider being labelled ‘workmanlike’ an insult and the commercial district does stir with ordinariness. Deeply atmospheric and exceedingly ramshackle in places, many of the city’s buildings are in a dilapidated state of repair. Most of their finest religious buildings are adorned with blue mosaic tiles, which are the ubiquitous emblems of Portugal, and provide the country with a truly beautiful motif.

Close to the Praça dos Leões lies one of the most outlandish and beautiful bookshops in Europe. Opened in 1906, Livraria Lello is an intricate wooden cathedral with a stunning fairy tale staircase inspired by the Parisian galleries of Lafayette. There are not too many bookshops in the world with a neo-Gothic staircase and a stained glass skylight. With a luscious red carpet leading its readers towards a literary heaven, English speakers may not be able to buy a book in a familiar language but the art nouveau exterior is worth the hike up Rua das Carmelitas on its own.

On arriving at the 18th century quayside, the iconic double-decker bridge, Ponte Dom Luis I, provides a truly magnificent spectacle across the River Douro. This marine blue bridge is one of the wonders of Portugal. Hosting a progressive and modern tram network and providing stunning views of the Cais de Ribeira quayside and Vila Nova de Gaia. Squawking seagulls can be seen following wooden boats full of white-shirted visitors from Germany and the Home Counties. And old ladies and housewives can be seen hanging their washing out to dry.

Porto’s charms lie in its unspoken cracks and idyllic forgetfulness, something no tourist board could ever successfully advertise. More discerning visitors to Porto like to enjoy samples of Portugal’s famous port lodges such as Sandemans or Grahams in the independent municipality of ‘Gaia’. Famous brands advertise their lodges using large Hollywood signs in a bold attempt to seduce tourists over from the Cais de Ribeira to the rickety winding lanes of time forgotten.

Bom Apetite

Vila Nova de Gaia is a romantic throwback to the 1930s and grapes have flown down the river for over three centuries. This historic process helps provide wine lovers across the globe with ruby, tawny and white tipples, which are traditionally enjoyed at the end of a beautiful meal. Fittingly back at the river front, I enjoyed my first evening dish with a regional Porto delicacy – the infamous Francesinhe. Scotland would never have been able to live it down if they had served up this culinary invention. Drenched in saturated fat and quite literally a heart attack on a plate, Francesinhe means “little French girl” in Portuguese. Inspired by the story of a returning emigrant, the sandwich’s composition involves multiple layers of bread, cured ham, sausages and steak, which is outrageously soaked in melted cheese and tomato beer sauce.

Sitting on one of the hundreds of outdoor café tables looking across the river, I instantly regretted not eating one of their freshly caught sardines. The local ‘delicacy’ is so violently nefarious, I personally believe the Francesinhe should made be illegal under European Law. Alas not all southern Mediterranean cuisines are healthy but Porto remains a city with a poetic sensibility. From the lush vegetation of its surrounding countryside to the urban charms of the city centre, rarely if ever will visitors be offered such a rich casket of wonders.

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East End Film Festival

04/30/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

As a global audience of billions watched Prince William and Harry arrive at Westminster Abbey dressed up as The Libertines. Spare a thought for the royalist street urchins Pete Doherty and Carl Barat, who as part of the 10th East End Film Festival, will remain forever young in their famous 2001 attire as part of Roger Sargent’s exhibition at Spitalfields Market. Like the well-wishers camping outside Buckingham Palace, The Libertines believed in a poetic vision of Arcadia, a seemingly more innocent age, which in the years and decades to come, many bunting flappers will realise has no grounding in reality. The festival’s opening gala began with the world premiere of ‘There Are No Innocent Bystanders’  inside a 1930’s Art-Deco cinema in Limehouse. This much anticipated documentary explores the mythology driving the group, and their emotional ties with the East End.

Opening the festival with a retrospective documentary about a by-gone era proved to be a masterstroke in light of the Royal Wedding celebrations. Old Spitalfields Market looked like East Belfast with Union Jacks fluttering on display on every street corner. Cider street parties were all the rage, and the stylish kids descended upon The Water Poet in Norton Folgate, which is a gentrified cobbled area popular with affluent students and RBS bankers. Unruly boys who don’t know how to behave would have been at home in Norton Folgate in the 1700s. Back then it was entirely responsible for its own affairs and thus developed a reputation for debauchery. Petty crime went sky high, travellers were robbed, traitors were hidden and the area became a haven for criminals, prostitutes and drunkards.

Although times have changed and the cobbled hooves of Spitalfields appear to have been scrubbed clean with a gigantic toothbrush. Sordid outbreaks of plaque and decay have not left the East End entirely though. Instead it has spread eastwards towards forgotten districts such as Stepney Green. Deep inside this Stalinist council estate, most visitors are more likely to get stitched up than enjoy a festival screening with foreign subtitles. However, the Genesis Cinema is one of the finest independent theatres in the area. A 1980s throwback with dodgy seats, popcorn and affordable ticket prices, and while it might look a bit rough on the outside, beauty, as you know, lies within.

As Spitfires roared over Britannia’s nostalgic skies, the East End Film Festival celebrates the lives of little people in their little houses. With intelligent foreign titles, British debut features and extraordinary archive footage from the First World War up to the Golden Jubilee. The East End Film Festival thankfully remains a wily celebration of London’s rainbow population in what feels like an increasingly deferential age.

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Same Jeans

04/18/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 1 Comment

As a Scot who once neglected to wear a kilt at a local girl’s wedding, I know from personal experience the emotional power of sartorial nationalism. On being subjected to bitter scorn for rejecting Scotland’s national dress, I had not only betrayed a local tradition but my country’s sense of identity too. Although anyone walking around Scotland today is unlikely to see any men wearing kilts on their way home from Tesco. The Highland veil of tears is nowhere to be seen on the high street and Scottish citizens wears the same jeans, t-shirts and dresses as everyone else.

Germans describe the purpose of clothing as Schutz, Scham and Schmuck - protection, modesty and ornament. Clothes are essentially a non-verbal language and wearing a kilt has always been a clear demonstration of Scottish identity. Ironically there has always been a long tradition of anti-Highland satire throughout Scottish history. Lowland poets such as William Dunbar and Sir Richard Holland caricatured the Highlander as being feckless, violent and stupid, while his costume, the belted plaid (see above) was an object of ridicule. The use of tartan to symbolise a pan-Scottish identity rooted in antiquity still resonates today but it is grossly unrepresentative of everyday life.

As illustrated in Niall Ferguson‘s recent televised series Civilisation: Is the West History?, the advent of mass consumption has now consigned traditional dresses to the laundry basket. Previously there had been a spectacular variety of styles all over the world. In 1909 the millionaire French banker, Albert Kahn, set out to create what he called an ‘archive of the planet’. The 72,000 photos he collected reveal an astonishing variety of costumes and fashions.

All over the world it was clear that clothing defined national identity. However, with the rampant power of American consumption leading to an unprecedented convergence of Western fashions, people are simply no longer what they wear. Even some of the most ornamental fashion scenes in London’s trendiest districts are grounded in uniformity.

Anyone walking down Brick Lane on a Sunday afternoon will see thousands of young people listening to lesbian Bulgarian folk music and drinking Chai Lattes. Invariably middle-class and well-educated, the young gentleman on display will be wearing second-hand jeans as oppose to anything on sale in Top Shop. Meanwhile their female counterparts will be snapping up colourful vintage dresses from pop-up shops throughout the city’s alternative style mile.

Seemingly original at first but when thousands of people start re-buying old clothes on a mass scale. Even self-styled individualists begin to look very familiar, especially when they all congregate in the same street. No more so than outside British railway stations, where teenage skate-punks loiter outside in the identikit black uniforms imported on mass from the United States of America.

Superficial groups may appear to diverge away from the majority culture but compared to the astonishing ethnic and regional diversity captured in Albert Kahn photographs. Everyone in the West wears the same uniform cottons on a truly unprecedented scale. Sartorial nationalism still manifests itself in a post-modern fashion, where countries such as Scotland celebrate their national identity by wearing kilts on formal occasions. Uniformity of course provides a feeling of solidarity, which I discovered to my cost when I wore an English tuxedo at a Scottish wedding.

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New Found Land

03/10/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

On wanting to visit the parts of London that Time Out and Spoonfed don’t care about, I decided to make a voyage to the hitherto unexplored district of Wapping. The former maritime community has recently been transformed by the East London Line. The billion pound train line has carved open the capital’s rust belt and provided London with its first community tube service. By grafting through the industrial scars of the east, the fresh orange line is largely free of tourists as Hank and Wilma are highly unlikely to be dining in Shadwell on vacation.

The East London’s line extension northwards towards Highbury and Islington has led to a rush of culture trails and alternative pub crawls along its tracks. With visitors now able to celebrate the rusting underbelly of the capital, the forgotten holes of Wapping and Shadwell are becoming worthy of further exploration. The housing market along the East London Line has soared since its completion last year and as HSBC threatens to abandon the UK for tax breaks abroad. The banker sponsored affluence of Wapping becomes immediately apparent on arrival.

Best known for hosting the unelected court of James and Rebekah, the Docklands community is also resting place for the financial services industry. Wapping’s streets appear to have been scrubbed clean with a gigantic toothbrush as BMW’s and Mercedes ripple over the cobbles of the past. As the wealthy symbols of city boy lifestyles flaunt their tyres along the new streets of commerce, reminders of Wapping’s docking past hang from the walls of converted warehouses.

There is however a residential emptiness to Wapping and the sound of cranes, barges and tugs have long since been transferred to India. The Victorian facade of warehouse conversions provide a crisp melancholy flavour and nostalgia is readily available on tap inside the Prospect of Whitby. Dating back to 1520, the rickety old inn sits on the banks of the River Thames and overlooks the financial crisis on a daily basis.

Regrettably even one of the oldest of pubs in England still thinks it is appropriate to serve Stella in the 21st century and those wanting a more cerebral experience may like to stumble across the Wapping Project instead. Deeply enigmatic from the outset, the cultural centre of Wapping’s renaissance is very poorly signposted and built in traditional red brick; the post-modern restaurant could easily be mistaken for a poor house in Manchester.

The former Hydraulic Power Station is one of the strangest restaurants in London with its austere green interior and avant-garde exhibitions. Fittingly the next installation is devoted to iconic Japanese designer Yohji Yamamto and involves an oversized silk wedding dress in the Boiler House.  The Yohji Making Waves exhibition will only be fully visible from a small wooden boat, and future visitors will be rowed to the centre by a boatman every 15 minutes.

Unsurprisingly the Wapping Project doesn’t serve pie and mash to their arty visitors and prefers to indulge in a spot of braised osso burro, saffron risotto, kale and gremolota on a Saturday afternoon. And while their city boy neighbours continue to buy up properties along the water, further inland towards Shadwell there is a depressingly familiar story of urban deprivation. Raw, uncompromising and a throwback to the 1970s, the inner city suburb is best known as the birthplace of Bob Crow.

As the source of muscular trade unionism in the 21st century, Shadwell provides a stark contrast to the gentrified Wapping only five minutes away. With its ceremonial symbols of a maritime past no one in the area has ever known, there is a disconnection that not even a billion pound tube line can hope to make equal. Meanwhile the cultural pursuits and middle-class drinking games will only continue as millions of passengers set on board a cinematic journey inside London’s industrial past.

East London Line photo used with kind permission by Chris Hill-Scott

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Up in the Air

02/13/2011 By in Politics Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

On writing from a rented box in the sky, I find myself staring out towards a concrete forest of tower blocks, cranes and scaffolding. With the average price of a room in London costing up to £150 a week, I like many others have found myself lured by the promise of cheaper rents in the east. Having spent my first six months in the capital living in genteel Chiswick, I felt bound by the invisible hand when I moved to East London. Unless you have a professional job or enjoy the luxury of being subsidised by your family, the cost of housing in the capital is increasingly unaffordable. Where the majority of people now have to enter the Gumtree lottery and throw a huge portion of their income on mediocre accommodation.

After tiring of coming up for air in West London, I decided to abandon suburbia and make a radical lifestyle change in late 2007. On moving to Whitechapel in search of affordable housing, I can recall my first evening exploring the Victorian side streets and becoming acquainted with inner city life.

Whitechapel is physically unattractive and only really comes into life in black light, where it becomes a true urban menace with sirens, graffiti and encroaching cranes. There are skinhead cockney geezers sitting on broken bar stools and outside you will discover complete freaks walking past you like an abandoned crisp packet. When I refer to ‘freaks’ I don’t mean alternative middle-class people in ‘controversial’ attire.These freaks are complete fucking weirdos, who grunt aggressive noises and there was one in particular that made me want to court an instant metallic death just to avoid making eye-contact.

Whitechapel is an extremely vibrant place and ugliness is always like to have a seductive tonic. After making eyes with the Katie Holmes barmaid the other night I almost dropped my glass in shock. It only lasted a few seconds but it just goes to show how rewarding life can be when you unearth a flower in the dustbin.

Undeniably raw, angry and glittering underneath the Gerkin, I found myself estranged in this new world order. Like those before me, I came in search of affordable accommodation and while initially I felt out of place in Whitechapel. Economic chains do ultimately bind us all and like the Bengali men selling fruit and vegetables in plastic tents, I came across another demographic earning a living on the floor.

Whitechapel regularly hosts walking tours for middle class tourists wanting to discover more about Jack the Ripper’s murder spree in the late 19th century. Although why a misogynistic killer has now become a form of street entertainment for middle class tourists is a fascinating one. At the end of this century will Rothbury become a tourist attraction for huddled groups wanting to discover more about a sadistic Huck Finn with a sawn off shotgun?

As the Gerkin continues to shine in face of violent cuts in public spending, I find the housing situation in London virtually unbearable. With modern advancements in technology, I feel very frustrated that employees must continue to live within commuting distance of the workplace. If people could work at home on the internet like so much of our social and daily lives. Then no longer would people have to pay ridiculously high rents for rooms in squalid locations.

While you may still find yourself paying £150 a week for a double room it would no longer have to be confined to Central London. Rents in places such as Whitechapel would be able to drop down and greater diversity would be spread across the regions. If only this practice were in place now I could be writing high up in sky overlooking the Mediterranean. Something only mercenary landlords and tube station muggers could take issue with.

Pictures by kind permission of Louis Berk from his book “Walk to Work: from the City to Whitechapel”.

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Nationalism is a Created Product

01/25/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , Leave a comment

After attending the Pioneering Painters exhibition at the Royal Academy of Arts, I began to question why I never learned about the Glasgow Boys at school. Radical, bold and fervently European in their outlook, the Glasgow Boys represent a new progressive Scotland. But the movement remained off my cultural radar until I attended Glasgow University and stumbled upon their works at the nearby Kelvingrove Museum. On re-examining their most radical and exciting works at the Royal Academy of Arts, I drew an immediate contrast with Burns Night.

Reflecting back on my primary school days in Aberdeenshire, I vividly remember my P6 teacher’s poetry recital classes with ‘A Man’s a Man for all That’ being the proverbial jewel in the crown. With my Anglo-Irish vowels, I always dreaded Burns week and felt extremely self-conscious that I couldn’t recite verses in guttural Doric like my Aberdonian peers. While I eventually grew to admire some of Burns vernacular gifts, I have remained curiously ambivalent about Burns Night. It always felt somewhat contrived to me. Almost like a post-modern image of Scottishness which bears no relevance to day-to-day life.

Burns Night is arguably the biggest literary event in the world with an estimated 9 million people participating last year. A typical Burns night has poetry recitals, bagpipes and three courses of traditional Scottish fair, which usually involves cock-a-leekie soup, haggis, neeps and tatties and a complimentary dram. With the greatest respect this dour cuisine is certainly not the most alluring of European dishes. If there is a Scottish restaurant in Rome or Barcelona then I certainly haven’t seen one. All the while the Haggis represents a comic sentimental image of Scotland to outsiders. But I find it deeply regrettable that a foul peasant condom is Scotland’s national dish when our glens, forests and lochs are home to some of the finest game and fish in Northern Europe.

Whereas other countries define themselves around wars, revolutions and kings, Scotland remains a stateless nation and embraces cultural nationalism to exert her identity. Burns Night remains consistent with the twee sentimental image of Scotland constructed by Sir Walter Scott in the 19th century. After nearly two hundred years of progress, Scotland is still renowned for its kilts, whisky and majestic Highland landscapes. Anyone walking past a triumphant Visit Scotland billboard will be in no doubt of the country’s national identity. What is fascinating is that the Glasgow Boys emerged towards the end of the 1870s and radically vowed to challenge the sentimental Victorian obsession with the Highlands.

By challenging this twee conservative vision of Scotland, I found inspiration from the Glasgow Boys exhibition that there is an alternative to Robert Burns and Sir Walter Scott. The Glasgow Boys were bold, radical and experimental painters, whose stunning collection of works represent a genuinely progressive movement. A collection of artists that dared to look towards the Mediterranean and Japan for inspiration instead of turning inwards towards the Highlands.

What I find surprising is that the Glasgow Boys remain a quirky afterthought in Scottish culture. If I hadn’t stumbled upon their paintings in the Kelvingrove Museum, then I could easily have remained ignorant of their existence. A truly confident country should look outwards for inspiration and I see no reason why the Glasgow Boys shouldn’t be universally affiliated with Scotland like Dali, Gaudi and Picasso are with Spain. It is deeply regrettable that this radical confederation of painters have been unable to excert a greater cultural influence in their own country. Robert Burns remains Scotland’s most iconic and influential poet but anyone tucking into their Haggis tonight should be under no illusions that nationalism is anything other than a created product.

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Evolving English

01/20/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

If reading your Facebook page doesn’t send you into a murderous rage then obviously you don’t have any issues with the English language. Such is the eclectic range of friends in my feed, I frequently find myself laughing at some of the witty, charming and hilariously stupid updates. One anonymous connection of mine  ‘…wishes this abses would go awa no am nae gan 2 the dentist i hate them al burst it myself’. Facebook inevitably provided this young Scotsman with counselling and advised him ‘Dina mean to scare u but my fiance’s cousin died from one, burst and all the poison went into his blood and into his brain. Better get it sorted!’ And while that does sound extremely painful, what I found interesting was not his abscesses but the near impenetrable use of the Scots dialect.

On wanting to discover more about phonetics, I decided to go along to the Evolving English exhibition at the British Library.  The concept behind the exhibition is the historical, political and social origins of the English language from 5th century runes to 21st century ‘txt-speak’.  As a matter of principle I have always written text messages in proper English. Such is my aversion to typing without vowels; I regularly had to endure severe financial penalties throughout the pay as you go era. With a flush new phone contract, I can now compose long messages without having to scratch a voucher card every other day. But with unlimited text bundles and small screen technology no longer so constraining, there are no excuses for txt-speak anymore. Yet in everyday life I find this linguistic phenomenon remains as potent as ever before.

For nearly a decade now I have dismissed txt speak with a barely concealed contempt. Some of my prejudices were further exposed in an innocuous conversation with a womanising guy who insisted ‘all girls use LOL’ when they are texting. By doing so he unknowingly confirmed that getting a ‘LOL’ out of a girl is an essential part of the modern courting process. Laughing out loud I passively acknowledged his sexual prowess and considered LOL to be feminine ever since. In stark contrast any self-respecting man using this abbreviation is beyond contempt in my opinion. But why I am being so blatantly sexist by inferring only women can get away with such frivilous language? Modern text abbreviations are often open to interpretation as this heart warming tweet reveals below.

Considering that nearly 2 billion people on earth speak varying forms of English, I began to question my own relationship with the language.  Despite having a distinctive regional accent, I have always composed my words according to how I think rather than how I speak. And while I love reading dialect in novels, stories and poetry, I continue to mock ordinary people who express themselves in txt talk. Following the finest traditions of prejudice, I have always dismissed txt-shorthand as a form of illiteracy and those who use it to be really ignorant and lazy.

Although this is to disregard the evolutionary nature of English and texting is just another example of the malleability of the language. Constantly changing and evolving from the 5th century, English has never remained static and while txt speak is subject to serious derision by conservative academics. It isn’t that much different than some of the ludricious office jargon I have to endure on a daily basis, where mangled words such as ‘hyper local’, ’granularity’ and ‘consumer facing brands’ are considered gospel.

Even some of the most cultured and intelligent people I know are prone to a good LOL now and again. Indeed I have a new found affection for people who Laugh Out Loud but for reasons unknown to me I still think men who use it are idiots. Alas despite being enlightened by the British Library, I refuse to use LOL on grounds of principle. Instead I have an alternative expression of mirth in the form of ’haha’, which I regularly use when reading about ex-school colleague’s gum problems on Facebook.

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The King’s Speech

01/13/2011 By in Arts & Culture Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 2 Comments

The King’s Speech is expected to triumph at the 83rd Academy Awards next month and following the five star reviews from the international press. It is clear the film has managed to strike an emotional cord not just at home but across the world. But while this superbly acted drama produces some fine performances from Colin Firth, Geoffrey Rush and Helena Bonham Carter. The underlying message of the King’s Speech remains one of ceremonial privilege and grovelling deference to the upper crust of society.

Although the essence of the story is of a reluctant king trying to overcome his phobia of public speaking, the film only serves to reinforce Britain’s constitutional monarchy. Despite an outstanding performance from Colin Firth, the film veers towards ordinariness and never rises above the stiff upper lip clichés of old. While it would be foolish to disregard the cinematic elegance and superb casting, the King’s Speech is an essentially ossified picture and follows a predictable narrative of when the upper-classes and commoners collide.

In one of the most poignant and memorable scenes of the King’s Speech, a young Prince Albert (Colin Firth) arrives at Wembley Stadium on the bequest of his father King George V for the 1925 British Empire Exhibition. On approaching the microphone and staring into thousands of expectant faces, anyone who has ever been a nervous best man will recall the horrifying spectre of choking on your words. On being forced to endure this terrifying trauma, the reticent Prince did what most people do in times of stress and reverted to type.

On striking this emotional cord, the future King offered his subjects a truly egalitarian moment of fallibility and set the tone thereafter. Albert’s nervous stammer offered a rare glimpse of royal vulnerability but what followed was frustratingly conservative. The Kings Speech might well have been written, produced and conceived in England but its distribution was almost exclusively geared towards US audiences. It is here where the problem lies and the King’s Speech only serves to reinforce a series of royal stereotypes and deference to the ruling order.

Frustratingly the most electrifying sub-plot of the King’s Speech, the 1936 abdication of King Edward VIII (Guy Pearce) is glossed over. The ambivalent relationship between Prince Albert and the flamboyant Nazi sympathiser would have provided a fascinating insight into the darker elements loitering around Buckingham Palace. Instead King Edward is briefly exposed as an obnoxious bully with a sexually active American mistress. By failing to explore their relationship, the King’s Speech missed a great opportunity and is passed over for a more predictable route to stardom. The fawning press adulation is almost certain to ensure that The King’s Speech is crowned at the Oscars next month, and while deeply moving in places, the linear predictability of this story was never in doubt.

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