Richard Peters -in the Sai Kung Country Park

An Epistle to Hong Kong - Chapter 3 - "Hong Kong and the Future"

This final of the trilogy is an attempt to review the current zeitgeist of Hong Kong, to suggest directions it should now pursue and to make summary of our time living in Hong Kong. Blogs are essentially rants, often angry and best forgotten, but this post is written with a sense of the gravity of impending times. So please allow repetition of what was said in the first of the trilogy, that I make appeal to that which moves a person and that it should strike a resonant chord in order to provoke discourse and, hopefully, action. It is also noted, with some serendipity, that this is my 100th post!

In the previous post a brief sketch of the political background was given along with brief outlines of education and the undelrying theme of the centrality of wealth acquisition. Although within this excellent city there are innumerable fascinating examples from which to choose, those in this post are language and ethnicity, domestic helpers, and housing and accommodation. This post has caused some difficulty, not least because the intention was to steer away from sounding like another useless complaint against the inescable negative foibles thrown up by life in the Pearl of the Orient. In fact, the beloved city of Hong Kong and its beloved people have a charmed place in the world – one that requires wisdom and intelligent direction.

Language and Ethnicity

In our time here Hong Kong's population has increased by at least 1 ½  million to a little over 7. This statistic appears to contradict the fact that the fun-loving boys and girls of the city are simply not having enough babies to effortlessly sustain this growing economy – 0.9 per child-bearing woman, way below the required replacement rate of 2.1. In fact, the increase has been achieved largely through immigration. The city has always been a transient place and because of the nature of work here will probably always be thus, nevertheless each year more settle than leave (or die). The constant and consistent population growth has been one of the largest engines of this perpetually expanding economy fuelling the demand for housing, services and infrastructure and constantly prompting the expected sale of government land to this end. More on this later, but future economic dependency must surely encompass other dimensions and not merely rest on the bedrock of lucrative land sales to already-profitable individuals and companies. Hong Kong and the world deserve something better.

94% of Hong Kong's population is ethnic Chinese, either home grown or specially imported (everything, even the people, are imported from China). That ethnicity, however, is somewhat difficult to ascertain because the perception of one's origins –Guangzhou, Shanghai, Beijing, Bognor Regis– can get a little blurred after a few years domicile in Kowloon City. Obviously this is a very personal thing, but has to do with an established and local mind-set: Hong Kongers are tearful, flag-waving Chinese only up to a point! Even ethnic Chinese returning here from western countries can find it hard to fit in and may forever feel like outsiders: their co-patriots sneeringly call them bananas – yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Apart from the more obvious minority skin differentiations amongst South Asians, real ethnic identity appears, therefore, to be focused on mother tongue usage, particularly at home. Some families may speak three or more languages each day, but prefer one when seated around the dinner table. Indeed, it is possible to walk down Nathan Road and hear 20 or more languages and dialects being casually spoken, and yet most are able to get by using Cantonese.

Getting by in Cantonese, however, can be a minefield of uncertainties. It may begin with a puppy-like glimmer of semi-encouragements, grow in to a confusing mix of happy discoveries and semi-encouragements only ultimately to miserably sit a constant and dismal puddly reminder of overall linguistic failure. How is it 20 million people learn this language as babies but I can't ask the time properly? There are no tenses, for God's sake! God knows I've tried – indeed I cannot recall how many times I have given taxi drivers simple directions in the clearest, best-remembered Cantonese only to be met by furrowed brows that deepen with each more sinicised repetition until finally something clicks, there is a long "Ahhh!" and those very same words with identical nuance and tone is parroted. I swear, and sometimes audibly, that they bloody do it out of grudging and deliberate obduracy... Sorry, I promised not to rant!

By the way, there's no Knowledge required of taxi drivers as there is with the London cabby – Hong Kong's taxi drivers simply queue up to buy their license, get in, start her up and wander about, puzzled passenger within, until they find the required address – or not! If they don't know where they're going they may a) 'fess up with a "You show me?", or b) bluster merrily until the see by your red-faced interjections that they're going the wrong way. And don't get me started on the evaporation of taxis in the rain or at 'changeover' time, whatever that is, or of charging double for the tunnels, or the shameless shouting down the phone to their mates, or of belching, farting and drinking beer whilst driving or of leaving bottles of taxi driver's lemonade at the traffic lights... Upon our emigration in '98 drivers we learned a lot about Hong Kong from good and amicable taxi drivers, but they have ceased bothering to chatt, amicably or otherwise, in English at all. They are a belligerent lot, as are taxi drivers in any city of the world, but surely it's time the public required them do a better job, one worthy of Asia's World City? Sorry – this has become an extended taxi rant!

Sadly racism, like many other negative and primitive hindrances in our social make-up, appears to be near-universal on this planet. Although Hong Kong was no stranger to racism in the past, largely by the colonial Brits, public and physical demonstrations of a racist nature are pretty much unheard of or kept carefully hidden behind the closed doors of slang Cantonese in schoolrooms or unleashed from the carefree tongues of market traders. Funny foreign names, especially south asian ones, may merely provoke titters or unequivocally act as surreptitious hindrances to flat viewing and job opportunities. Having said that, as outsiders in a new culture the Mem and meself felt no outward hostility upon our arrival and, apart from the odd quizzical checks askance on the minibus or at the local Wellcome supermarket, we have felt entirely comfortable and fully at home here: I guess compared with some we're lucky. In truth, it has been hard to leave this comfort zone. For the local population racism may not be fully recognised or even viewed for what it is, but it is a cancer that requires excising – from all walks of life and if legislation is required then so be it: only good can come from such a focus.

Domestic Helpers

If in this city, as elsewhere, wealth is the indicator of status then those at the bottom of the Hong Kong heap are the most despised – the homeless, those with menial jobs, asylum seekers, anyone with dark skins. Included in that are the ubiquitous domestic helpers, the invaluable labour force of around 274,000 – that's 4% of the population. Many of these poor girls from the Philippines, Indonesia and Sri Lanka may be expected to work more hours than their employer is awake, daily scour floors and walls, provide gourmet meals on every occasion, keep the car spotless inside and out, endlessly child mind, care for elderly parents, provide security when the family are elsewhere AND sleep without air-conditioning, sometimes in a shed on the roof or on the kitchen floor with the dog (this is still expected by some employers). This they do for the minimum wage provided: HK$3,920  (US$505) per month. The employer may also be expected to provide a food allowance of HK$875 (US$112) per month. Whilst this sum amounts to more than a lawyer or doctor would acquire outside Manila, Jakarta or Colombo, in practice these human beings are often expected to work under near-slave-like conditions and may suffer from endless berating, beatings and sexual abuse. Other than their holiday time, their only glimpse of their own children growing up at home may be the occasional photo or phone call. In addition, the employer may take away their passport and not pay wages for months only to ultimately plant jewellery in their suitcase and call the police. Then there's the case of a helper 'falling' from an apartment window when that troublesome payment time ultimately came round. In reality, accused domestic helpers don't have a legal leg to stand on (it's their word against the employer's), they will almost certainly be jailed only to be deported, never again able to obtain employment in HK or elsewhere unless desperation drives them to choose somewhere like Saudi Arabia.

Why do some put up with all this? Permanent employment in Hong Kong means that their families back home have the chance to escape poverty; it's probably very few of us reading this blog share a similar background. Millions of people rely on regular incomes sent home to alleviate suffering, build houses and pay for their family's education (remittances account for a yearly US$24 billion injection into the Philippine economy). So it's ok to have a seat with the family at a restaurant (glass of water if you're lucky) in order to chase the fidgety children around the tables all evening whilst the parents get on with the business of eating and having a good time, it's ok to be daily shouted at, to be cursed, to keep all your possessions locked in a suit case: the monthly remittances are Western Unioned home and the families offer thankful prayers on Sundays and late-night phone calls in return.

Unlike the United Kingdom, many Hong Kong families, including our own, have employed domestic helpers, enabling both parents to work, the dog to get walked, the house to be cleaned and the children be safe at home. To obtain a good reliable helper is an achievement in itself and for some she becomes an extension of the family. Any helper will tell you that being employed by a gwailo family is often a better and less demanding deal for them too. So, it's not all that bad for some in ole Hong Kong: each Sunday after church they gather in their thousands at any available open space and do what Filipinas love the most – sitting around chatting, eat chicken wings and letting off a bit of steam. Sometimes they'll get a group together and sing and jig about to the sound of guitar and tambourine, praising God for his miracles in their lives. If they're lucky they may find love interest, maybe a serious boyfren' or even husban' – the answer to the whole family's daily prayers...

Perhaps one way to view the way domestic helpers are treated is as an indicator of the health of Hong Kong society, a barometer of social trends regarding the way Hong Kongers think about their city and those within it. And yet – to broach discussion on such things with many-a local Chinese is to court a certain amount of ire. Long-gone are the days of the poor pig-tailed Chinese amah who sweatily argued for cheap bean sprouts at the local market stall, baby on hip. Some of my students saw domestic helpers only as lazy, opportunistic, money-grabbing spongers that the local population only endured because they needed squeaky clean clothes each morning and a squeaky clean car to drive the kids to school. I've seen so many children (and parents) get a little too used to proxy parenting; picking up after them, tidying their rooms, walking five paces behind them carrying their bags to school, their only care when sick. These permanent babies never learn how to pick up after themselves or use the Hoover or know how to iron or even cook and wash-up and it is almost certainly expected that they will have their own domestic helpers in adulthood. So ingrained are they kids to this life that in classroom discussions it was sometimes hard for them to see that the difference between indentured slavery and the lot of some Hong Kong domestic helpers can oft be slim indeed. Yes, it may be worse in other countries, but that doesn't make it right in Hong Kong.

Accommodation

On paper Hong Kong has it all – a welfare state by which all needs are met from cradle to grave. In truth, this society deals a mixed hand to those that require benefits. When all eyes are turned upwards it may be hard to look down. School and kindergartens are packed sometimes with 40, 50 or even 60 to a class. Hospital wards are infamously crowded because of the economic benefits of meeting their needs en masse. Some patients decide not to return home to their even-more crowded apartments and stay for years, even if each ward has 24-hours of TV blaring cartoons and Cantosoaps. 'Retirement' homes are truly dreadful, dingily-lit waiting rooms of death where waist-height partitions separate the unfortunate and uncomplaining old folks.

Even in this land of superstition and ancestor-reverence the bodies of the dead are sometimes forgotten and left for the government to deal with: after the customary burial time the relatives are supposed to disinter the fleshless remains for transference to ossuaries or commit the remains for final cremation. This rather unpleasant duty, however, is increasingly not done by the more fussy of families – a constant headache for the government's Cemeteries and Crematoria Department. Land prices are so high that 'coffin spaces' in government graveyards are not held in perpetuity! After six year's interment, and regardless of family consent, the space is re-used, the remains disinterred and cremated and then re-interred at the Sandy Ridge cemetery near the border with Shenzhen.

Hong Kong land prices hold such a vaunted premium and command a value way above their actuality in raw materials. As mentioned earlier, land sales are one of the most-revved engines of the economy and forms a permanent grip on the average Hong Konger's psyche that one of the litmus tests for any des res area is the number of realty or estate agents shops. This is how the engine works:

• the government mandarins are ever-seeking politically-expedient ways to generate income and regularly does so through the tried-and tested selling/auctioning off of gazetted sites dotted all over the territory,
• the boys who 'have' (corporations/powerful and rich families) put in their tender for development as close as dammit to their margin of profitability,
• the sale usually goes to the highest bidder,
• most of the planning gets whizzed through and processed pronto (unless some bearded lefty cries the frightful words 'environment' or 'heritage'),
• building starts using imported (and illegal) cheap Chinese labour who get killed in accidents,
• by this time the realty agents with connections to the developers begin pitching – this results in multiple besuited property agents on the streets eager to escort potential customers around showhome apartments or office space in cut-throat competition,
• all flats/offices are bought immediately and then sold again for profit – square feet of sky can exchange hands several times before the builders even get there,
• by this time the average Wong or Chan family have scraped together enough dough to put up the deposit for an apartment, office or retail space is a slightly different kettle of fish,
• the flat is rented out to cover cost of mortgage or the retail/office rent is set for maximum income within the allotted lease (usually 2 years) with the management taking note of the success of the business.

The whole economy benefits from development – the government coffers are filled, the developer's stock value increases, the workers get paid, the café owners sell lunches and taxi and bus drivers transport to and fro, the Wongs and Chans get a foot on the property ladder (and a little social caché), the new occupants get a home and service providers get income. Above all, the financial institutions of Hong Kong benefit from every transaction at every level.

So what's wrong with this system? It is that people are considered less than the dollar at each point in the process: yes, there isn't a Hong Konger who doesn't like it when the government is in the black, or that work is plentiful, or that they are able to buy and rent new properties, but people come second to the mighty dollar. This inevitably leads to social problems for some – overwork and stress, bad borrowing and the inevitable complications for family life and overall social stability. It has also led to staggering inflation in the housing market to impossible and unsustainable levels – since 2009 property prices have risen by a staggering 110%! Great for developers, very very bad for first-time purchasers or low-income families that may wayit for years from the Housing Authority Department.

The bubble that is the Hong Kong housing market has long-been expected to burst. Thus far price have consistently risen largely on the backs of cheap borrowing and a plethora of mainland Chinese investors hoping to put their cash into something more solid than that available in China – something beyond their shores yet not too far away. The Hong Kong housing market has hitherto seemed the most secure of investments. But all good things must come to an end and just as in 1997 property prices inevitably took a dive, and sank all those chained with them, it looks like that time may be immanent.

For many the government policy regarding housing appears to have been mostly the latter of an all-or-nothing approach, a timid floundering around the edges aware only of the political value of everyone's greed and unbridled success and unable to take on the necessary and steely boldness of governance faced with tough decisions. No-one wants to be told they can't make as much money next year as they did this, or that their property's value may not actually equal the price paid, but if the government had not been so hands-off in the past few years then the expected property crash would not be so severe and uncontrolled. In truth, it's what has been experienced the world-over since 2008, but by its very nature Hong Kong has been immune to this.

The expected property devaluation, however, will not be the real issue for many Hong Kongers. Human cogs in the various machines of wealth, many are happy merely to put rice on the table and hope not get ill and take dips in wages or have to pay medical costs. At the very bottom of the ladder are those who can afford little more than a box to inhabit, such is the chronic state of public housing. Over the years, and with limited success, the government has tried many grand housing schemes, such as clearing slums and erecting massive public housing estates and even building new towns in the boondocks, but people vote with their feet and overcrowded and often dangerous private housing is rife.

Apart from cardboard boxes under flyovers, the infamous cages have always been the very cheapest accommodation in the city. These squalid, Dickensian conditions just should not exist in one of the world's richest cities – they are another testament to what is wrong in eden: their inhabitants the detritus of society, the poorest, most powerless and least heard of all Hong Kong's people.

To Conclude

Many Hong Kongers do not realise they have such an amazing role to fulfill as those who really have it all – money, opportunity, political awareness and individual conscience. Perhaps growing up in the territory has engendered amongst many a sense of entitlement without responsibility (whereas it could be argued the converse may hold more sway over the border). It could be argued that Asians relish the comfort the certainty that comes with the collective mind. Craftily formed, this collective mind of Hong Kong could be that best suited to bridge east and west and become a model for the rest. As exemplars of enlightened pan-Asians, others would look to the 'Hong Kong Way' as the most successful in financial, social, political and even religious considerations. I believe the wonderful tolerance and acceptance exhibited by many Kong Kong Chinese could be the watchword for success.

Instead, and unfortunately, there sometimes appears to be the worst of both where individual greed is seen as unquestioningly good, unhindered material self-interest the ultimate goal of life and rather dull middle class social mores are bludgeoned into the lives of the rest. At the moment it looks as if Chinese investors will be able to take advantage of overseas stocks: Hong Kong is once again ready to capitalise on a massive rush of investment from domestic mainland Chinese. But I hope that's not the sum total of Hong Kong's projected achievement potential. It also looks like Hong Kong will remain closed to outsiders, especially the domestic workers who now cannot apply for residency no matter how long they have lived there. The poor, the real poor of Hong Kong do not benefit from such investments either directly or indirectly.

So, what should be done to improve things?

• Change government policy and, as in Singapore, make English the official language – this will encourage trade across continents and make Hong Kong less dependent on cronyism and Beijing-focused sinophiles.
• Change government policy over discrimination and racism – ensure equality of opportunity for all regardless of the colour of their passport. This also will make Hong Kong a better place to do business and comfortably live without hindrance.
• Change government philosophy regarding intervention in the marketplace – ensure the sale of land occurs using different priorities in order to take heat out of housing-based economy, encourage diversification and make housing fairer for all. In particular, it is vital to take matters in hand regarding the Small House Policy.

In fairness, the Hong Kong government does promote socially-aware policies through its social health and welfare departments, but they seem a little like diversions from the real business of making lots of money. Please don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating a Socialist revolution, but the current system favours none but the powerful and well connected. And a lifetime of acquisition means that they're not likely to share their wealth anytime soon and will use the government to defend their money, their lifestyle and their means of income. In the end it all comes down to power and who has it.

I am not proposing that the Hong Kong government leads the way. There's enough good people out there who work for and with charities, indeed it's big business now, and God-only knows how much tax avoidance is done through charitable donations from businesses great and small, but we live in the 21st century and the role of individuals is now greater than ever before. Just as the government surely encompasses more than merely lawmaking, citizens should be more than mere consumers and now be giving more thought to what happens in their city and beyond. The alternative is simply to ignore any and all problems and merely hope the government is competent and diligent enough to pick up the pieces and that's where we are now.

Unrestricted laissez-faire capitalism has given us the Hong Kong we see today, warts n' all. Perhaps it's time for something else, something better and something good. It won't be easy and it may be painful, but in the end the struggles for a better society make it worthwhile.

Related articles

An Epistle to Hong Kong - Chapter 1 'In the Beginning'

An Epistle to Hong Kong - Chapter 2 - 'Muddling Through'

From the Republic of Ireland to the Czech Republic

How to Stop Giving to Charity

Blog of Blogs

I think it’s about time I did the meta-thing: a blog entry to discuss my blog. I know this might seem a little… introspective, but keeping a blog, albeit irregularly, is somewhat fascinating. Perhaps I ought to blog about this blog entry too: Oh, conundrums and mysteries and wheels within wheels!

To be more precise, I want to write about the route by which fresh eyes rest upon the site and the sometimes circuitous route by which this blog page is opened by the curious, not-so curious and (quite probably) the furious.

With a review of blog stats, I can also view the links that have lead General Public to the blog. I do have the regulars, of course  –those that follow and those who directly check on posted links from Facebook. For those folks that haven’t yet, why not click on “follow” –y’all come back regular, ya hear? 

I suppose the real reason I write on this theme today is the last astonishing Search that lead a needy soul here. It was, and I kid you not, “a juicy vagina being nicely fucked by a penis”. Quite apart from the mental image or the fairly artistic phraseology (I’m somewhat compelled by the implication of juicyness/niceness), perhaps the more astonishing aspect is that with the Everest-sized mountain of porn out there my humble blog achieved any kind of hit at all!

Another recent novelty was a traduction Français of the blog entry on the Siege of Malta –the tangled web of the web reaches even those shadowy Gauloises-smoking and mustachioed cheese eating regions. I also get a lot of hits for my review of 1000 Years of Annoying the French! 

Hitherto the most salacious search that ended with ‘Richard Peters in the Country Park’ cheerily pop up onto a screen glowing in the dark was shortly after the bombing in Marrakech. My blog entry irresistibly piqued the interest of someone looking for ‘sexy Moroccan boys’. Hmmm… Perhaps I should be embracing the more corporeally-minded African enthusiasts amongst the general public. Just give ‘em what they want, that’s what I say. Bread and circuses? Free tissues and guilt-free jiggly tits, more like.

Like most ploddy blogs, most hits are from the embedded pics. I admit that many of them are actually mine and I do spend quite a bit of time resourcing the other images for the sake of accuracy. In the true Anarchist spirit that all property is theft, I probably get as many of my images nicked as I liberate. I’m not even going to enter into discussion about intellectual rights or crediting internet image sources –I often feel the need to sleep. Oh, brothers and sisters, oh for a utopia in which the need to freely lift is gone…

My biggest hit for an image is a picture of a human kidney removed mid-surgery. I wrote a quick throw-away entry about a kid in China who sold his kidney for an I-pad and I-phone and lifted the best image I could source. This one pic accounts for about 80-90% of all picture searches, a fact that has led me to a horrible deduction about thems that conducts the searches –people that want to buy a kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for life) and people that want to sell their kidney (the desperate, pleading and praying for cash). Either way, these searches indicated a lively trade in even-livelier body parts I’m none-too keen on (the issues surrounding Transplant Surgery require a much more tactful blog entry for another time). I suppose I should be grateful that I’m comfortable enough that I can view such astonishing things with incredulity.

My biggest hit on one day has been 78, my least none. And that’s the instant problem with counting pageviews –watching those distracting numbers and… yes… come on… yes… nearly there… woo-hoo… 5000 hits!! Consider the ridiculous millions of hits notched up on something inane such as Cat Face cartoon or WTF Kitty (all hits by puerile bedroom door-locked pre-teens who, from the state of their poorly-spelt, offensive or inane congratulatory messages, can’t be very far along the road to Mental Acuity Town). I see this stuff and want my 30 seconds of life back and despair about humanity.

So has this bloggy stuff taught me anything? Not much, but it is fun; an excuse to rant a bit, to examine something I find of interest and then leave a quippy -30- (that’s American journalistic parlance for the end of a story, don’t ya know), to show whoever is prepared to see the wonders of the Sai Kung Country Park, to wear a bit of my heart upon my electronic sleeve. I hope you will find it's the sort of thing that can be merrily read over a weekend morning cuppa.

Now, all I can presume is that if fresh eyes have reached this page it’s likely their search has has been concocted from, “juicy vagina”+ “penis”+ “porn”+ “sexy Moroccan boys”+”jiggly tits”+ “images”,+“pre-teen” + “kidney”. Now producing THAT sort of heady webpage gets you a visit from the Feds!

J.R.R. Tolkien and the effects of being a Catholic

Humphrey Carpenter's 1977 authorized biography, Tolkien, has been a fascinating read. His emphasis on the reflection of the man's life within his written work is probably spot-on: it is, after all, family approved. What comes distinctly through in his evaluation of the great man's life is his devotion to Roman Catholicism.  But to say that he was a bit of a catholic is to say the sun is simply a bit of a source of heat; Tolkien's identity was fiercely catholic, his life was moulded in reaction to popular English sentiments against it, he saw his writings as an embodiment of true catholic identity and integrity.

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's early years in South Africa were abruptly curtailed by his father's sudden death. His mother sought solace with her family back in Birmingham. Later, together with her sister, she found a spiritual satisfaction in Roman Catholicism switching allegiance from the family's traditional Baptist, Methodist, and Unitarian traditions. The family's reaction was unfortunately bigoted and they set about disinheriting her. This fact alone must have created such bitterness in the loyal and loving Tolkien boys and they faithfully remained forever within the adopted tradition. When John met and fell in love with his future wife Edith, their future plans had to begin with her catholic conversion and a full catholic wedding.

Tolkien, however, adopted more than just a method of worship, an understanding of creed and a taking of catechism. He adopted a world view that recognised the universality of Catholicism (with a big 'C') that had its' unalterable and unquestionable foundations in truth. This view did not accept any variation of catholic identity, such as those found within Anglican or Lutheran assumptions (which he considered plainly erroneous and irritating) and his personal relationship with C.S. Lewis was often tempered by the latter's rejection of Tolkien's reasoning and denomination (he was a Protestant Ulsterman, for God's sake!). In short, Tolkien intellectualised his catholic faith, it coloured his mind, tempered his relationships and filled his written works. 

But before you whip out a pencil to begin underlining passages of The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings that you reconsider reveal Popish propaganda, you'll have to understand that Tolkien never really wrote about his catholic faith, directly or by allegory. Indeed, he didn't like allegory.  When his publisher Stanley Unwin suggested an allegory between the Lord of the Rings with the German Nibelungenlied, he wrote, 'Both rings were round, and there the resemblance ceased... Do not let Raynor [Unwin] suspect "Allegory". There is a "moral", I suppose, in any tale worth telling. But that is not the same thing. Even the struggle between darkness and light... is for me just a particular phase of history, one example of its pattern, perhaps, but not The Pattern; and the actors are individuals -they each, of course, contain universals, or they would not live at all, but they never represent them as such.' This, of course, emerged from a deeply romantic view steeped in a love of pre-Shakespearean literature and in so much Anglo-Saxon and High German subject matter -his professional wordsmithing life. 

Let's face it, Tolkien was a bit of an old fuddy-duddy. He lived a very conservative (one could argue 'reactionary') lifestyle in suburban houses with no TV, marking schoolboys essays for cash during the family holidays at seaside resorts, mowing the lawn, cycling to mass in the morning and sinking into a mass of disorganised paperwork in his office at home. Literary success didn't change him -he continued to undertake many of these mundane activities and on regular shopping trips and at lunch would count the pennies. His inner thoughts were, however, as high and developed as any could be -his philological mind was, quite simply, astounding.

As a writer, John Tolkien took his time. A perfectionist, he had to draft, review, reorganise and re-write nearly every word he wrote, to the point where his colleagues and publishers were clearly infuriated. He was fastidious about detail, seeing the life of characters not only in their nuanced and natural dialogues or through accurate narrations and descriptions, but in the undeniable truth of the existence in their world, even down to the accuracy of the maps and history of place names. In this he was a universalist -a catholic. He appreciated detailed enquiries from fans and saw in them a justification for his care. It can also be inferred that although there is never a direct referrence to religion per se, his writings are permeated with it; the old world and the new, the champions and villains, those with integrity and those in perfidy, the powers and counter-powers  -even in the elves, dragons and wizards. One could argue that The Lord of the Rings is one of the most moral of all moral tales. 

This biography is the worthy description of a quiet life, but also of a extraordinary mind. Even though it is plain that Tolkien must have been a difficult man, one cannot help extending much respect, if not a little love, towards him.

A Night with Jules Verne up the Eiffel Tower

The Parisians may be accused of being a little proud, arrogant and even downright rude, but they are rightly proud of their city -it is magisterial in pomp, rich in history and brilliant in scintillement bourgeoise. That they think they have the best city in the world is obvious and is the sort of pride that would get right up a proletarian Anglo-Saxon's nose. Bloody posh frogs...

But as one wanders along the boulevards humming La Marseillaise one is drawn to the conclusion that they might actually have something. A bit of mis-spent tax-payer's money here, a conniving maire's vote-winning preferment there, et voilà -the city looks très attractif! In our close adherence to the principles of fair play and honesty of government we have overlooked the spectacular benefits of self-aggrandisement and our cities are a little more drab.

So it is with the Eiffel Tower. Commissioned as nothing more than a spectacular gateway for the International Exhibition of 1889 to commemorate the Revolution's centenary, Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel's design won over 700 others (one in the form of a giant watering can, another as a giant guillotine to honour the victims of the revolutionary terror). The design immediately ran into veciferous local opposition by the Committee of Three Hundred -one member for each metre: how, they asked, could anyone allow this iron monstrosity to emerge forever "over the city of Paris still vibrant with the genius of so many centuries... spreading out like a blot of ink, the shadow of this disgusting column of bolted tin"?

The Exhibition, like the three before it, was expected to lose money and the wily government would not put up more than a third of the cost -less so for the tower. Besides, it was not clear whether anyone would come to an event based around celebrating a violent revolution. In the end, it was an astonishing financial success and every major nation's manufacturing sector, irrespective of their government's political opinions, was presented. Monsieur Eiffel astutely acquired independent investment to finish the tower (agreeing to cover any losses) and recouped his money within the first year thereby aquiring boucoup des richesses. 

The 'giant spike', it was thought, would give the Exhibition something special -a signature feature. The design was exclusively bought by Eiffel who then persuaded the committee to accept his design. The exposed ironwork was considered too vulgar, too modern. Garnier, who designed the beautiful yet traditional Paris Palais Opera house, claimed even after the tower's completion, "They have only erected the framework of this monument. It has no skin." Eiffel the experienced builder of bridges was exact in his technical specifications and included these in the design's proposal. It seemed only natural, therefore, upon successful completion to attach his name to the tower's title. So there you have it, the Tower reflects la gloire d'un homme.

There are plenty of marvellous statistics about the ole Tower, but that's not the point of this entry. The Memsahib and meself had left off visiting the place all week. Eating at various wonderful Parisian cafés and other discoveries such as Le Soufflé, we had found cuisine in the French capital to be generally good but no better or expensive than elsewhere: quality of ingredients appeared to be the determining factor. I knew about the restaurants on the Eiffel Tower and had booked a table at Le Jules Verne before leaving Hong Kong. Back in 2007 Alain Ducasse took over the restaurant bringing with him the determination (and much of the menu) seen in Spoon at the Intercontinental Hong Kong.

Arriving by cab, we took ourselves to the entrance of the splendid restaurant named after the fine French futurist and author. Escorted in a private little elevator to the Tower's second stage, we smiled as we left the underprivileged hoi-poloi below in long snaky queues eagerly waiting to ascend the four big lifts. There must have been move than 10 people that meeted-and-greeted us somewhat tiresomely before we even got to sit down: it felt like a security detail. One maître d' (and this may have been the experienced Francis Coulon mentioned in the on-line blurb) was particularly pleased to greet us utilizing what can only be described as Parisian Cockney.

We settled down with our Manhattan cocktails to 'study' the menu and wine list -that's such a poncey term, particularly in this case when there are only 19 items à la carte (25 including the set menu). The sommelier, in our case Amar Chebrek, was keen to offer advice, but perhaps a little too ready to agree with our preference -a difficult line for anyone to walk. A friendly bloke, at least he wasn't as snooty as some of the bloody waiters. 

We began with slow cooked veg and snails for me (we're in France after all), both served with a pouring of little separate sauces. Exquisite: beautifully presented. I must also mention the bread which without doubt was the finest I have ever tasted -ever. A freshly-baked salted brioche swirl sounds so simple, yet a meal of this light bread alone would have been worthy of praise. It was a pity the Memsahib could not taste it, but the restaurant was happy to accommodate her wheat intolerance, at least to begin with.

Billecarte-Salmon rosé champagne, being our favourite, went very well with all our choices. The pigeon was, by the Memsahib's account, delicious and the steak was perhaps the best I've had -the knife literally fell through the meat. I'd been saying all week how I wanted to have steak-frites in Paris, it now being the national dish, and here it was in its' fully glammed grandeur. The accompanying pommes soufflés, thin slices of potato fried once and left to cool then fried again at a very high temperature so that the insides puff up, were parfait! 

Accompanied by a glass of sensuous Maury, the chocolat framboise and abricots rôtis were further examples of high quality this time under the direction of renowned pâtissier-chocolatier-glacier Christophe Devoille. Light and full of delicate nuances, each dessert had the right balance of sweetness and flavour, although I took so long eating mine it degenerated at the end into bowl of school canteen mush-up. The restaurant is run by teams, one for each of the three restaurant sections (the kitchens being on the fourth corner). Along with the few couples at table, there were a number of large parties eating at the restaurant, each with accompanying decorative femme fatales and their somewhat outshone opposite numbers, femme attrapées -of which there were more: clearly, one hosts at the Jules Verne to create the right impression.

Coffee and choccy petits four came on, but we were stuffed and there was obviously some wheatflour in the framboise and it was beginning to tell on the Memsahib. But it was past 10.30 and we'd been throroughly enjoying the food, wines and ambiance for three hours. The view, of course, is the reason for this particular restaurant surpassing in comparison practically any other eatery in the world. Our table overlooked Paris from the Champs-Élysées and Montmartre all the way to the Orly airport and bands of rain could be seen wafting across the cityscape and then clearing away to the south. 

 

Upon our leaving the waiters asked if we wanted to take in the city view of which they were rightly proud. The City of Lights spread before us did indeed glimmer with all the bourgeouisee it could muster. We descended the elevator with a little sadness: the Jules Verne experience had been, as Alain Ducasse wished on his website, "the most beautiful place in Paris to enjoy the pleasure of a contemporary and accessible French kitchen." He may be happy to hear that I have to concur.

Euphemise Your Way to Freedom!

I must confess being a little not myself the other day: I had a dose of the trots¹, the urgency of which was measured by the number of rapid Turkish two-steps² (why Turkish?) that would ensure I got to a place of safety³ before what had hitherto been innocent blasts on the trouser trumpet⁴ would this time result in a untimely Brad⁵ in me jocks⁶. Needless to say, I only just got there before I fartoodeetood⁷, emptied like a magician's hanky⁸ before the final kakatoa⁹ that would signify all the shoes had fallen out of the loft¹⁰.

I use the above delicate description as an intellectual means of introduction to the wonderful world of euphemism. This much-overlooked genre of informal talk has actually been much-researched and in the most thorough fashion. Without them our lives would, of course, be much the poorer. For although the absence of euphemistic references to parts and functions of our bodies, to work and business, medicine and sickness, sport, sex, crime and punishment, race and ethnicity, war and even death might result in a much nobler, and straighter appreciation of our lives, it would also result in a stilted language, an eternally formal means of address that would be of far less interest, not to mention far less funny. Simply put, where would we be if no-one flew off the handle¹¹ for being given the old heave-ho¹², or if no-one bit the bullet¹³ and then went to sleep in Jesus?¹⁴

Many might look down their noses¹⁵ at euphemisms and idioms and attempt to snobbishly give them a bit of a wide berth¹⁶ for fear of causing offence, whether perceived or real. But they, along with puns, appear to have been with us since the beginnings of language. Complex syntax, in particular, lends itself very nicely to  complex creativity. In general, euphemisms utilize the substituting of simple, innocent words with those loaded with allusion, ambiguity and double entendres. It is obvious that Shakespeare particularly enjoyed describing the efficacy of women's weapons¹⁷ or the delicious picture evoked by the beast with two backs¹⁸!

To be precise, euphemisms can be classified as abstractions or ambiguities (bun in the oven¹⁹), indirections (being in the altogether²⁰), mispronunciations (feck!²¹), litotes (being economical with the truth²²), changing nouns to modifiers (to be letched after²³), names and slang expressions (Mr Bond²⁴). Political Correctness, itself a euphemism, whilst seeking to remove the cutting edge of many of language's more unkind pejorative references, has been guilty of adding some hilarious contempt-inviting examples: 'wheelchair' being substituted with Personal Anti-Challenge Enablement Vehicle.

On the whole, it appears that men employ more euphemisms than women -who may even protest that they find them crude, off-putting and sometimes completely unfunny. It might be that women will not include them in their speech anywhere near as much lest the impression is created that they approval of vulgarity and, by implication, that they are somewhat unrefined and immodest. Indeed, if women include euphemisms, they may be more polite and less-sophisticated substitutions that possibly reflect more innocent experiences in childhood or child-related issues (front bottom for vagina, little fireman for penis). It appears that women may just prefer straight-talking -please correct me if I am wrong.

We may, however, unconsciously employ brakes with regard to exactly what can be said. This is largely dependent upon where and with whom we find ourselves: in polite company, with the vicar, upon meeting royalty or lecturing at the women's institute, euphemistic utterances will be considerably less direct or, at best, less risqué. In such circumstances, clever use of euphemisms, however, may sometimes go un-detected by those less on the ball²⁵ -that's a demonstration of real skill. After all, being caught doing your business²⁶ on the bishop's lawn could result in a fate worse than death!²⁷

Jehovah's Witnesses, God bless 'em, are specifically instructed not to use euphemisms.

Any compendium of euphemisms, acronyms, idioms (of which there are about 25,000 in English alone) and slang terms will always be a work in progress. It must also be cautionary: some cannot distinguish the line between a colourful peppering of juxtaposed adjectives and nouns and a vulgar stream of obscenities, between inventive invective and slanderous slur, between jocular xenophobia and blatant racism. Ill-thought adolescent explosions of sweary profanity are usually unfunny, embarrassing and quickly forgotten (unless you are another spotty adolescent), whereas carefully chosen euphemisms may keep the listener amused for eternity -such as discussing Uganda.²⁸

Euphemisms are also codes of reference and subterfuges of meaning that often follow the rule that the longer it takes to comprehend the funnier it may appear. The context is crucial -e.g. cross-referencing sporting terms with sex or war injects relief and humour into hazardous and delicate situations: e.g. long ball game 1. In football, a series of aimless pokes in the direction of the box in the hope of scoring. 2. In bed, a series of aimless pokes in the direction of the box in the hope of scoring.

Rhyming slang euphemism has a long and glorious connection with many parts of the UK and, by extension, the Commonwealth countries where it has evolved a life of its own. Too large a subject for this blog entry, suffice it to say that for many of us, the prospect of staying at home for a Tommy Tank usually does not involve the Rev W Awdry in any way, shape or form.²⁹

Euphemistic acronyms appear to be heavily used by Americans, Whitehall mandarins and aspiring ESF teachers. After all, why use a lengthy phrase when a string of first letters creates the full meaning. There are pages and pages of these codes that appear to make our desciptive life easier (once we know what they mean). Often seen as a little crass, they are now generally less direct or inventive than aforetimes -compare the majestic FUBAR³⁰ and glorious SNAFU³¹ of the 1940s with George Bush's stinking TWAT.³² Some may actually take longer to enunciate than the string of words they replaced -try World Wide Web then WWW. And here in glorious Hong Kong there have been more opportunities than I care to mention when the long-established, and sometimes painfully true, FILTHK³³ has been oh-so appropriately employed when used to describe the lucky-but-meritocratically-challenged.

There is no end in sight for the honest euphemism. Long may it remain in the hands of the people. Democratically-appointed by the masses, they are the last bastions of free criticism that cannot be silenced by any censorship.

So remember, next time Aslan's on the move³⁴ and you might have to play the Bangladeshi bagpipes,³⁵ or your gentleman's friend³⁶ is decidedly unfriendly and the wife's taken to playing the invisible banjo,³⁷ allow your euphemisms full flow. And remember, a euphemistic library is an arsenal of liberty!

Please add your own euphemistic utterances by comment below.

¹ The trots -a run to the lav whilst shouting, "please help me, dear lord baby Jesus, that spicy pad thai has given me an awful case of the trots"

² Turkish two-step -a somewhat urgent charming Anatolian dance

³ Place of safety -the lav

⁴ Trouser trumpet -a loud, but musical, breaking of wind

⁵ Brad Pitt -do I have to spell this? Wife: "ello darlin hows your day bin"? Husband: "Not bad luv, an' I'll tell yer 'bout it inna minute, but I'm burstin ferra Brad."

⁶ Jocks -male briefs

⁷ Fartoodeetood -an amusing, burbling, polyphonic flatulent outburst that sounds not unlike a certain Star Wars robot's indecipherables

⁸ Magician's Hanky -excretions that just keep going and going, like the endless knotted cloths pulled from conjurer's hats

⁹ Kakatoa -the ultimate in explosive effluence

¹⁰ Load of old shoes falling out a loft, like a -descriptive of a heavy bout of loose, lively diarrhoea.

¹¹Fly off the handle -lose one's temper

¹² Given the old heave-ho  -termination of employment

¹³ Bite the Bullet -to stoically face the situation

¹⁴ Asleep in Jesus -being in a condition non-conducive to life

¹⁵ Look down one's nose -to act with disdain

¹⁶ Giving a wide berth -steering clear, a nautical term

¹⁷ Women's weapons -tears, "let not women's weapons, water-drops, Stain my man's cheeks." King Lear Act 2, Scene 2

¹⁸ Beast with two backs -copulation, "I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs." Othello Act 1, Scene 1

¹⁹ Bun in the oven -pregnant

²⁰ Being in the altogether -naked

²¹ Feck! -Irish. See 18. Need I really explain this?

²² Being economical with the truth -as infamously employed by Robert Armstrong during the Spycatcher trial of 1986 

²³ To be letched after -ogled

²⁴ Mr Bond -a particularly buoyant turd that returns to the surface even after flushing. "Ah, so we meet again, Mr Bond"

²⁵ On the ball -those ready to run on the balls of their feet (apparently)

²⁶ Doing your business -well, that depends what your business is...

²⁷ Fate worse than death - As Charles Hawtree as the Duke de Pomme-Frites in Carry On Don't Lose Your Head says, "Oh I've tried that -it's not as bad as everyone says"

²⁸ Discussing Uganda -see 18

²⁹ Tommy tank -committing the sin of onanation

³⁰ FUBAR -Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition

³¹ SNAFU -Situation Normal, All Fucked Up

³² TWAT -The War Against Terror

³³ FILTHK -Failed in London Try Hong Kong

³⁴ Aslan's is on the move -something to say the day after a big curry, when your stomach emits a huge roar and you have to run to the crapper before your entire digestive system ends up in your underpants like a big steaming pile of wildebeest entrails (entire quote from Roger's Profanosaurus)

³⁵ Bangladeshi bagpipes -quaint Bengali musical tradition

³⁶ Gentleman's friend -your source of solace and comfort (whichever sex)

³⁷ Playing the invisible banjo -George Formby-style female self-amusement

'Oui!' to 1000 Years of Annoying the French

I have always loved France –close enough to home to be accessible, far enough away to be different, holidays there were fun and full of the nicest things possible; cheeses, wines, meats, restaurants, boulangeries, beaches, interesting and helpful locals –well, maybe not the last one. One year we were holidaying in Languedoc,went to la plage and set about frolicking in the sea, tanning on the sands and trying not to peer too long at the topless French ladies –fwoarr! With a keen eye for a quick franc, the local supermarket had set up a stall in the car park for waffeur-thin steak et frites and we happily queued. Grabbing my newly fried frites, I proceeded to cover them all in lovely French tomato ketchup only to summarily squirt the biggest massive splurge of said red sauce all over the poor seller’s crotch (much to his severe annoyance): the container having just been refilled, the nozzle pointed away from my lovely chips.

Such an unfortunate incident, I think, properly illustrates our trans-marche relationship. More often than not, les anglais have squirted their tomato ketchups (and worse) onto the noble Gallic crotches (and other tender parts) and this has led to war. And just as jobbing steak frites sellers have cursed the holidaying rosbifs, so the kings, emperors and presidents of the nation of franks have cursed their cousins across the water: the last 1000 years have been punctuated with at times incredibly violent international relations. But we are the best of friends now, n’est-ce pas?

Stephen Clarke has made this slightly weighty (517 pages) romp through history about as entertaining as a English-type who lives and works in France could. What’s catchy is the way in which each well-known Franco-British historical scene is set up with the usual accompanying myths and legends only to have them re-examined and re-explained from the perspective of our divergent yet mutual histories. Beginning with the wicked exploits of William the Conqueror (who was not French actually, but Norman –about as French as the next Dane) and concluding at the right royal diplomatic faux pas of 2008 meted out on Nicolas Sarkozy which involved showing him lots of pictures of Waterloo (the battle, not the station), the book is a joy to read. It’s obvious that he’s used up his two years compiling these stories in lots of reading. Each chapter, however, has that I’ve-just-read-a-few-books-about-this-topic-therefore-I-will-write-about-it feel to it and the book occasionally seems a little formulaic.

Here’s a few of Clarke's important historical observations:

·      William the Conqueror died whilst fighting the French

·      Joan of Arc was tried and sentenced by the French

·      The Burghers of Calais were not executed by the English (or even at all)

·      Mary Queen of Scots was, to all intents and purposes, a French princess

·      France lost America because of a cow

·      The English invented champagne

·      The guillotine was invented in Halifax

·      The stormed Bastille contained only 7 prisoners –four forgers, two lunatics and one count accused of helping his sister run away from her husband

·      Napoleon nearly became an English mariner

·      The French did not invent croissants, baguettes or steaks grillés

·      The innocent sounding WWI song, ‘Parley-vouz’, is about patriotic French Mademoiselles who serviced British soldiers hundreds at a time

·      de Gaulle took part in the D-Day landings 8 days later with only 177 French soldiers

In short, the French view the past through Tricolore-tinted glasses, but then don’t we all with our histoires? The English love and admire French style and elegance and early morning hot chocolate croissants from le boulangerie du village, the French love and admire English pop culture, cool Britannia and decent packets of biscuits.

Stephen Clarke’s other book, A Year in the Merde, plods the well-worn track of The Innocents Abroad, a Mark Twain novel, has become an international best-seller, printed in France as God Save La France. He has said of living in Paris, "I love France because here you are working for a living and not vice versa". Ah, the wisdom of it.

We get on now because it’s in our interests. But, as Stephen Clarke says in a France 24 interview, our mutual past has a habit of rearing itself up and interrupting the best of intentions with troublesome recollections. So it is that each Frenchy that descends onto the platform of Waterloo Station is unhappily reminded of Napoleonic defeat and national chagrin.

Ah well –plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose…

Excellent Big Lychee/Hemlock's Rant on English, the ESF and Pierce Lam (who he...?)

A frequent diversion (in proper grown-up's language) on matters Hong Kong can be found at Big Lychee, a long-established territory-centred blog. I have yet to find a poorly-worded or ill-thought comment (by the author, at least).  Each entry is bang up-to-date and well-researched. The opinions can be quite scathing, but are generally fair -after all, this city of ours is a bit of a mad, mixed-up and contradictory circus and if you hang on for five minutes someone is bound to say something crazy or do something worse!

The blog has been around for quite a while, was hitherto known as Hemlock, and has connections with the wonderful, but sadly buried, Not The South China Morning Post.

I therefore have no hesitation in endorsing this blog -particularly the review, about two-thirds of the way down, of the recent outing by a letter written to the South China Morning Post by a certain Pierce Lam (Central) on April 11th. This finely-worded rant, it appears, hails from a Chinese with big fat chips on his shoulder regarding the use of English in Hong Kong, deep-seated reserve towards anything non-Sino focused and the pointlessness of the English Schools Foundation. The Big Lychee correctly points out that these efforts may have their origins in a troubled past. More worrying, at least for me, would be the effect such an opinion might have on a government policy-maker or, if such a position properly exists, government economic planner.

Heightened attention on China, and centrally-'controlled' Chinese economics in particular, is likely in the coming weeks. I think the news will all be negative, if not downright dire. It's tempting to become a doom-monger and hail the end-of-the-world (as we know it), but from desperate times often come desperate measures. I only hope that the English-bashing rhetoric of those such as Pierce Lam will be drowned in a sea of good-old Chinese common-sense.

Talking of which, aerial pigs are expected over Hong Kong skies anytime soon.

Joan, is the Pope a Catholic?

Pope Joan didn't last very long in Hong Kong: December's preview at the Broadway Cinemathéque and a couple of days screening at the IFC Pacific Place then -'puff!!'

Despite unfortunate difficulties, the producers appeared to use their $22 million wisely on good actors (John Goodman as the pope, David Wenham as Count Gerold -Faramir from Lord of the Rings and the lead role of Johanna Wokalek), on lavish sets and on seamless CGI inserts of a post-Roman Rome. But each clichéd scene could have been pulled from a copy of Cinematography for Dummies -smoke on the water as the lonely boat drifts downstream, orangey fire streaming from burning windows as the Vikings rampage the wedding scene...

It must be said I expected just a little more. The acting, particularly of the children, was stilted and the dialogue painfully stiff and wooden -lots of unecessary expansions of ordinary verbal contractions (cannots and will nots) that only make sense if an un-English speaker had closely edited the script. This uneasy small talk falseness simply killed it for me and I found my attention increasingly bothered to the point where I cared little for the development of this girl's unhappy story. On more than one occasion I was itching to leave my seat: Sönke Wortmann's uninspired direction lacked originality and was a german as the Kaiser's cock.

The movie's 'philosophical' pitch:

Basically, a woman becomes pope! The idea for the movie as a feminist dailectic of womanly involvement in matters ecclesiatical was a rather thick stick to beat a tired old debate. There was little to endear even in the love interest. Although the portrayal of brutal male figures may have properly represented the chauvenistic hegemony in it's true 8th century light, this theme did not move the film into new ground, but merely served to irritate: Brutal (English) father, the priest of the village, returns home to find his pagan-converted wife telling harmless tales of Wodin to the young Johanna. He punishes and rapes his terrified wife whilst instilling good Christian virtues. The children flee and hide. I mean, could it get more dumb?

Of course, through accident and design Johanna becomes a scholarly cleric, meets and falls in love with a handsome young Count Gerold and when forced to flee takes on the monks' cowl. I don't think I'll be spoiling things too much for you if I tell you that she takes an interest in medicine, goes to Rome, cures the Pope of gout, wins his trust and upon his death succeeds to the papal throne. By this time she is firmly esconced in the arms of Count Gerold again (who has just become commander of the papal army) and she becomes pregnant. She is, of course, a sound and thoughtful pope. In her final moments Gerold is cruelly assassinated and she publicly miscarriages and dies on the steps of St Peter's.

This Pope Joan is an adaptation of the 1996 novel of the same name by Diana Woolfock Cross. I will not bore you with a cross-referencing of either. Neither will I discuss the details of the legends of Pope Joan. I think the story has, over the centuries, been so contaminated by those with axes to grind, whether catholic or anti-catholic, that the truth of the matter can no longer be properly determined. It's not a historical story, but many years ago I remember hearing that upon her eventual discovery she was ripped to pieces by an angry mob in Rome.  

Other films, theatre productions and even a musical have been made on this theme, The Devil's Imposter (1972) starring Liv Ullman being perhaps the most famous.

Another problem I have with these blasted historical outings in ancient Rome, Greece or Egypt is the likelihood of filming (with cheap extras) somewhere like Tunisia or Morocco. The actors are obviously American/North European doing their thing in front of a population of cued-up and obviously non-plussed Berbers. I mean, aaaargh!!

So, forgive the rant, but I didn't feel particularly moved by this outing, either in the characterization (Wokalek's fragile portrayal left her quite unbelievable) or even by the story. I think I was looking forward to this a bit too much.

But maybe I'm wrong -other reviews are favourable. At least I've added a few pics to brighten up the blog.

Eins, zwei, drei -leere Ihr Krug! (One, two, three -empty your pitcher!)

Well, there it is -another first (surely can't be too many of those in life left?) in a German Bierfest.

The Hong Kong Marco Polo Hotel German Bierfest is in its' 19th year. It has the air of something not quite right for Hong Kong -a tent full of beer swilling foreign devils singing gwailo oompah...

Except, of course, the tent appeared to be full of locals (and a few of their paying bosses). Maybe it's a sign of how far (or low) things in the Territory have come that it is considered acceptable or even normal for ordinary Chinese folk to be swilling beer-jau with the foreign devils and singing along to the gwailo's dreadful oompah. Whatever next -will the Chinese begin emulating western-style elections with one-man-one-vote? Surely not.

 

Sitting with a contingent of decent Hong Kong Welsh Choristers, Bren was suitably attired in dirndl and skirt. Next year I must get me some proper Bavarian lederhosen complete with Bollenhüte unt edelweiss.

You can imagine the evening -beer, lots of questionable meats, beer, pretzels, red-faced chaps showing their knees, beer, alpenhorns, beer and... beer.

Brenda won the alpenhorn-blowing competition. I swelled (and continue to swell) with pride at her excellent blowing skills. This is a side to Bren that has not had enough airing. Prepare to hear the sound of the alpenhorn wafting across the Sai Kung hills.

The Eyes Do Have It!

Top quality! First class! Kept me spellbound for the whole 2 hours! Bravo!

Not mere hyperbole, but perhaps I should start at the beginning -in much the same way as in the most excellent Argentinian film, The Secret in Their Eyes (El secreto de sus ojos). Don't read any spoilers if you're going to see this (only other screenings are Sunday 3rd & Monday 4th Oct).

Tis not often I get to see something of which I know nothing beforehand. More often than not, someone refers a title or I hear a revue on the radio driving home. This one, however, came straight out of the blue, I had no inkling as to what it would be about and was all the better for it.

The basic plot: Federal Justice Agent, the wonderfully reserved Benjamín (Ricardo Darín), is called to examine the body of a brutally raped and murdered young woman. Although the rest of the film is his story regarding the impact of this terrible crime, the real interest lies in his relationships with his boss, the beautiful Irene (Soledad Villamil), and with his boozy aide, Sandoval (Mariano Argento). These relationships keep you interested primarily because the characters are wonderfully real -beautiful! The actors are simply superb and make you want to watch them delve deeper into their parts' lives. The film's director, Juan José Campanella, carefully constructed and lovingly recreated the scenes in the 70s and 90s. The actors are also convincing in their ageing, not just through make-up and hair, but in appropriate posturing and mannerisms. It is no wonder the film received an Oscar last year for best Foreign Language Film. One of the best scenes is the 5-minute continuous take of the football stadium -from above, among the players, in the crowd and on the chase for the elusive suspect: a technical marvel.

The film is an adaptation of Eduardo Sacheri's book, La Pregunta de Sus Ojos (The Question in Their Eyes). Lots of films lose the essence of the books that inspired them, but I'm pretty certain this is not one of them. Don't take my word for it; Metacritic gave it 81/100 which means 'Universal Acclaim'!

All this and a trip to the Broadway Cinematheque in Mongkok too -can't be all that bad living in HK...

Empire of China 1 – Empire of Japan 0

Pay tribute, kow-tow and be in awe of the great and glorious PRC!

So the China-Japan crisis has finally blown over with the release of the Chinese trawler skipper, Zhan Qixiong. His actions may have been part-panic part-belligerence, but he certainly caused one of the biggest international brouhahas in recent times. The Japanese have pleaded their case that the incident was not worth pursuing against the deterioration in international relations. It is clear from the customary near-hysterical rhetoric that the Chinese would not back down –never, as a matter of principle over pragmatism, as if national pride was a stake.

This sort of boating incident regularly happens all over the world. Coast Guards are supposed to intervene when faced with illegal fishing out there in the big blue yonder. Why, then, did this event threaten the stability of the region and lead to such unhappiness on the part of both governments? Why did the Chinese take such an unyielding, intransigent stance over a fisherman?

It has, of course, to do with history and how each nation sees itself.

The little Senkaku Islands (or the Diaoyu Islands if you’re Chinese) are a string of uninhabited islets between Taiwan and Okinawa about 340 miles from the Chinese Coast. They hold much potential not so much as opportunities for flag-waving by each of the three nations (Japan, China and Taiwan) so much as the staging posts for the mineral extraction on the East continental seabed. Just as the Russians staked a claim on future mineral wealth extraction from under the Arctic Ocean by planting their flag on the seabed, so are the unstated aims (of the acquisition of huge potential undersea gas fields) that underpin all diplomatic exchanges. But that won’t stop nationalists having a field day. 

That the fishing boat collided with the Japanese Coast Guard vessel is not in question. Whether the skipper was acting with malicious intent, negligence or sought to endanger other marine traffic is not so clear and will not now be judiciously assessed in a Japanese court. In fact, that’s not really the point. The incident highlights several religious, historical and social factors; most prominent for me is the Chinese Confucian perception of China and its relationships with quarrelsome neighbours.

China always sought tribute as part of its’ Mandate of Heaven which is something like the divine right to rule. The gods of heaven approved of the incumbent of the throne and rewarded his perfunctory religious and imperial activities with a wealthy China and happy subjects. Of course, only one premier enjoyed this privilege and only one nation (the biggest) would expect it without question. A Chinese emperor, therefore, could hold power only as long as the gods approved and the oligarchies kept him in power. Moreover, to fund the great imperial mechanism within which they thrived taxes had to be raked in and the bordering nations needed to know their place. That is why there was such emphasis on harmony –of both the celestial and earthly kind. It also meant China not only enjoyed this ‘right to rule’, but took pains to actively seek it. If earthquakes, disasters and famine stalked the land, it was surely a sign of godly disapproval. If rebellion caused the end of one emperor the gods, it was presumed, were happy with the new one! To the victor truly went the spoils. Under the de facto legitimacy of the Chinese Communist Party, the Beijing boys enjoy their rather strict harmony –perhaps even more so now they have added monetary, military and political clout as a means to secure it.

This stubborn need for legitimacy is as much a part of Chinese thinking as moneymaking, ostentatious displays of wealth and gambling. They give the Papacy a run for it’s money in terms of infallibility. Even the characters for China 中國 (which mean ‘Centre Country’) refer to a self-perception of China as being at the centre of the world. This is not hubris nor a projection of power, but a recognition of what a properly-ordered and divinely-sanctioned society must surely be. To the Chinese imperial mind-set no other nation was as civilized and none so blessed by the gods. The Emperor and the Forbidden City in Beijing were at the venerable centre of known universe and the further one traveled, the more barbarous the people. It was, indeed, the duty of the Chinese to influence their neighbours with all the munificence they could muster. Thus, even the invasion of Tibet in 1950 was and still is seen as ‘liberation’ and henceforth the Tibetans should show gratitude for the saving intervention of Mother China.

In the past, the neighbours therefore knew their place and paid tribute, either with words or gifts. It showed the order of things. From the words of Mencius,

"If one should try to prevail over others with force, their minds do not submit even though the people outwardly succumb to force. But if one prevails over others with virtue, then their minds are inwardly joyful and they submit sincerely, just as the seventy disciples submitted to Confucius. As The Odes says, “From west and east, from south and north, everyone submitted.”

Historically, the imperial policy was that no other nations could possibly be of equal status as China. It took a short drugs war with Great Britain and the Treaty of Nanjing in 1842 to force an amendment of this view. The unequal treaty, of course, meant a modification of the Chinese self-image, particularly with regard to the ceding of Hong Kong. Such loss of face in the intervening years was only really rectified after the 1997 handover.

Chinese loss of face also followed Japanese meddling in mainland China from the latter part of the 19^th century onwards. After the Meiji Restoration this once-vassal state took 20 years to modernise whilst the imperial Chinese languished in outdated opinions of its own greatness. The Japanese took their technology to war with the Chinese on-and-off for 50 years. Hence, the Chinese may now buy Japanese products, drive Japanese cars and eat sushi, but everyone knows who the real bad guys on the block are. Chinese school history books say it, the government says it and the recent actions of those wicked criminals across the Yellow Sea prove it.

So, to sum up, the Chinese government objected to the way one of its citizens was treated by a historical enemy and summoned more than enough invective to paint the Japanese once again as the bad guys. Their justification not only focused on the perceived unlawful detention of its skipper but also the question of ownership of the off-shore islands and historical perception of neighbouring states. There was no question of backing down to a lesser power in the sinosphere. The Chinese had nothing to lose but face and that just wasn't going to happen. Not now, not ever. With a Mandate of Heaven, China continues to teach the barbarians who's in charge. 

Contemporary Topical Latin Poetry and the Pope

I don't normally post other people's stuff, but I had to include this heard on the World Service driving home this afternoon. It's by a bloke called Adam Taylor who is, I believe, resident poet for the BBC, or perhaps only with the WS or maybe just for The World Today programme. The poems are read proper-like by a BBC announcer on the WS -there's a link on his website.  

Encyclica Britannica

Saluto populi.
Orbi et urbi.
Disturbi et perturbi.

Et tu Britannia.
Tua culpa.
Et sui generis.
Et orbis tertiis.

In nomine patris
et filii
et embryonicus sancti,
quo vadis?
Ad hoc?
Ad liberalismus?
Ad secularismus?
Ad egalitismus aggressivemus?

Toto est causa
per rex delinquante
in flagrante,
Rex Henry Octus.
Imperium in imperio.
Homo hereticus
et diabolicus.

Pax Britannia
est contra et versus 
pax Vaticana.

Habemus Papam,
Pontifex Maximus
et Germanicus.
Rottweiler Dei.
Capo di Tutti 
Cardinales.

Pontifico,
dogmatico,
pugnatico

contra relativismus
et homosexualismus
et matrimonia samesexismus,

contra contraceptum
et condominium
in Africanium.

Nil desperandum,
ego est pro.
Pro status quo.
Contra quid pro quo.

Pro memorabilius
et collectibilius
cum Benedictus.
Contra consumerismus
et materialismus.
Non est Christmas.

Pro dickensium
et chastitum
et celibatum.

Et paedophilio?
Mortificato
et discombobulato.
Convocato et censura
in camera obscura.

Et ultimato, declarato:
Anglicanis Prodigalis,
reverto ad Papa,
ad paterfamilias.
Ego Benedict.
Ego veritas.
Nil disputandum,
non est erratum.
Papa Benny
est infallibus.

 

La Comparaison Française Passionnante de Café

'Sacred Blue' et 'Mon Dieu' all 'ta Mere est Belge' all rolled into one: What a Gallic week!

First I had my first meeting with my Morocco Atlas Adventure team: Crazy French speaking snail scoffers, one-and-all. I think I'm going to have to brush up on the old parlez a bit or this school trip will consist of me barking l'instructions en Anglais to a bunch of quizzical shrugging Gauloise-smoking non-commitals.

Perhaps I'd better explain. I have foolishly volunteered to organize a school trip in October to my niece's High Atlas homestay some distance from Marrakech, Morocco. She married a Berber, ya know! Me not being fluent in Arabic or the local ancient Berber languages, Tachelhiyt or Tamazigt, I thus thought it prudent to bring une bande de Française parlez-ing henchmen to corral the sweetest of sweet Hong Kong children there and back again and chat amicably with the locals in the ex-colonial patois. We'll see in October if my trans-marche judgement was misplaced.

I must say that research into the local Moroccan tongues has been fascinating. The Berber folk have had a separate identity that pre-dates Arab, Christian and Roman invasions and possibly even the ancient Egyptians. They have had their script since the grand old Punic times of ancient Carthage and Hannibal. Theirs is a proud culture which appears to centre around sweeping down from the hills, setting fire to things and then carrying slaves back up into thum thar hills. I've looked around, but it appears local bookshops are out of stock of Cantonese-Tamazight dictionaries, so if anyone knows how to say, "Stop kidnapping me, I'm an ESF teacher!" in any Hamito-semitic dialects, please let me know.

*

Yesterday I did a foolish thing. Actually, it began a while ago when Brenda (quite rightly) complained that I had been away with the choir to concerts in Bangkok and Manila and had a jolly good time, whereas we have not been away together (without the girls) for as long as we could remember. That will, of course, change and we'll go away somewhere exciting soon. So, despite keen invites to dinners and friendly cajolings to see bands and other social events, I decided to stick with Plan A and take Bren to the pictures last night - in lieu of future outings! I turned to the Broadway Cinematheque webpages to book something. And I duly did, rushed out with Brenda from school at 5-ish, got angry being lost behind slow moving vehicles in Yau Ma Tei (not so difficult -have you tried the one-way system lately?), finally parked at the cinema and ran upstairs to quickly present my credit card -no tickets! It appears I had booked the right film at the right time, but in all my haste had booked the wrong bloody cinema. (By the way, there's a season of French Cinema coming up in June -see link below)

The choix du jour, then, was between "I Love You Phillip Morris", a humourous gay film starring Jim Carrey and Ewan McGregor or some French award-winning filme, Le Refuge. Not feeling particularly humourous (not particularly gay for that matter) I plumped for the latter. Hmmm...

I have a cool-headed admiration for French cinema. Some of the best cinematic moments I can recall have emerged from the froggies; They seem to be able to take matters very seriously indeed with not a smile in sight (a very mature attitude set quite apart from the English schoolboy sniggering when, for example, we see exposed lady parts) and also seem to be very amicable again and again (in joyous romps like Taxi, Taxi 2, Taxi 3, etc). But I digress...

The Refuge, or Le Refuge, concerns a Parisienne addict called 'Mousse' who, after her lover takes an overdose, awakens to find herself pregnant. The rest of the film concerns her trying to come to terms (or not) with this overwhelming fact whilst accompanied by her dead lover's gay adopted brother and his boyfiend who is also her housekeeper. Are you with me still?

I'm not a big sympathiser of smack-heads. I'm sure there are desperate reasons for their plight and better ones for their re-integration and re-introduction into societé, but the portrayal of this vache égoïste left me cold. I realise the point of the film was to let me in on her world, the life from death, the escape from addiction, the building of something new, etc, etc, but her self-obsession angered me. Maybe, as I'm sure the Director François Ozon would be only too keen to point out, that's the point: her life is turned around. Both Brenda and I left feeling a bit empty. We didn't much enjoy (even with les popcorn et dogs chaud) watching the protagonists shoot up. From then on it went from bad to worse. The holiday home in Normandy, on the other hand, was to die for. But that got me thinking more about me holidays than Mousse's upcoming delivery. The denoument was a bit of a disappointment, réalisme notwithstanding, and left me caring even less for her character. I know, I know, Monsieur Hulot's Holiday this certainly was not, but could he not have had a positive message, any kind of hint that it was a story worth telling and which might arouse some sort of interest. Ah well, back to my Gauloise (puff, puff...)

The Broadway has a fantastic DVD shop, unlike any other in HK. I picked up another couple of titles, including one in the second category I earlier mentioned. L'événement le plus important depuis que l'homme a marché sur la Lune, or A Slightly Pregnant Man, by Jacques Demy, is a gentle comedic outing from a simpler era. This 1973 film co-starring Catherine Deneuve concerns a Parisian driving instructor who manages to become pregnant. Following the surprise, fame and fortune beckons much to his bewilderment. It is a charming window on a France I grew up knowing was on the other side of the Channel -Renaults and tabacs, magasins et moustaches. This is no great masterpiece, but it makes you smile. C'est un film heureux!

One thing struck me. In both films the breakfasting French did not use les demitasses for their morning coffees. Instead, they used bloody great cornflake bowls! This is something I've not seen before. Tell me, please, is this a 'normal' activity over there? Do all of our Gallic cousins take their early caffeine hits thus?

People from Hull (Hullites?)

"Err nerr, doo ya nerr..?"

Some years ago I had the great pleasure of living in Hull. I say that, of course, with a little satirical inflection. Hull was, quite simply, an experience. Perhaps it's all about self-awareness and the remote location -a deliberate focus on the idea of social solitude and meditation. What is 'Hull'?

 

Maybe we should begin with the pronunciation. Most think it should be said in much the same way as 'a ship's hull'. But I remember hitch-hiking to Hull one wintry night on th'M62 Motorway and was getting no-where. At a transport caff, uncomfortably looking for a lift from truckers in the car park, I came upon a Dutch/German trucker poring over an enormous map. He looked puzzled at the name, then his face changed and he let out a loud "HÜÜL!!"

 

The Memsahib was in her second year of her degree at the lovely Hull College of Higher Education. I had just begun a two year catering course at North Devon College and was desperately missing her by the week/day/hour/minute. I put in for a transfer and was grateful that I got it. Grateful to leave North Devon College on Sticklepath Hill. Grateful to leave home in Lynton. Grateful, I tell you..! At last we could be together.

 

You have to understand I was young, deeply in love, my head full of nothing but the Memsahib, Memsahib, Memsahib. I would have stoically gone through fire and water merely to be with her. It was in her second year that she shared college digs with three other young 80s females a full 1 1/2 miles from the Howarth Arms on the lovely Cottingham Road (pronounced "rerr'd") . I hitched up there sometime in the summer and stayed for a few days. So loved up, I thought it all charming and the heady cloud of female pheromones made my stay one massive non-stop-24-hour-turn-on! 

 

For her first year the Memsahib and her friend Jackie shared a room in a little terrace house, 10 Ash Grove, just off the Beverley Road, complete with a marvellously stocky and widowed Hull landlady, Joan (pronounced "Jern") . In her third year the situation changed. Her new flatmates in Cottingham Road were unsocial misfits. So she and her flatmate Jackie moved back in with Joan. In January 1986 I rolled up from Devon to be near the Memsahib. Joan had an adult daughter, Suzie, brain damaged at birth. She was often sat upon the floor of the dining room enjoying "What Kind of an Animal are You?" by Burl Ives. Meanwhile, the Memsahib and meself had to make sure we weren't caught kissing and canoodling in the bedrooms. So we went out a lot in the car

 

Let me say now that Hull was a cheap place to live. I think my rent with Joan was ten quid per week and that included dinner and breakfast! Joan obviously enjoyed having young people around. For her last year the Memsahib was promised her own college flat, but it was not ready in time. I found a free flat in the centre of Hull (which I shared with a couple of Botswanans!) and the Memsahib lived again with Joan for a short while. I remember traipsing through the snow to her house and throwing little stones at her window so she would let me in...

We also both lived for a while with the Memsahib's aunt on the 18th floor in the lovely Sutton Park. Then we looked for and found a one-bedroom hovel in Ella Street which cost us £11 per week. It was freezing, had a big draughty bay window and holes in the skirting through which one of our poor hamsters departed -never to be seen again. The 50p slot for heating the bath water in the shared bathroom devoured all our cash, so I only remember quick tepid dunks (Brenda first, of course). We bought a telly and sofa bed and spent our evenings shivering under the duvet. Before it all became too much the Memsahib's brand-new flat was ready: Bliss!

Up until my move to Hull, my only exposure to anything remotely Yorkshire-like had been a part in a school play Thunder, which first surfaced at the Ilkley Lit Fest and Edinburgh festival in 1973. I played the Parson Patrick Brontë, the Brontë sisters' thundery father. Some of the dialogue mentioned place names like Cleckheaton and Heckmondwyke:

"4 villager: T'whole congregation quit service -

1 villager: -wi' clatterin' and clumpin' o' clogs!"

Quite unintelligible to a schoolboy in Harrow!

The first thing to strike me was that these Hull people were like no other. Yes, it was in 'Humberside', whatever that was, but there was clearly a distance thing from the rest of the world. There were a lot of red-haired folk -a remnant from happy Viking days? The Housemartins had just made it big time and were keen on still popping back for a bit of local kudos. London 0 Hull 4 had just come out and everyone was humming along to Happy Hour and the video on Top of the Pops was essential viewing. Hull had, and still has, it's own telephone system with white phone boxes and local calls that cost 5p for all day. It snowed a lot (being a bit closer to Scandinavia) and there was not much to do unless you had a bob or two for a beer (which we didn't). When we did go out it was to the local student union bar, The Oasis (pronounced "o-wear-sis") and seemed to get trolleyed for about £2. Local people had a sense of humour that took me a little while to get used to and then adopt: It seems to revolve around personal insults and ridicule. 

Hull's most famous son, William Wilberforce, the abolitionist, is the reason I am writing all this Hull-based tosh. At work I am showing the recently-made film of his life, Amazing Grace, with the growling Ioan Gruffudd as lead, to year 8 students. This is all part of an attempt to inculcate the kids that religion is something not all that bad, citing the religious Wilberforce as a positive agent of change. Peering out over the entire city of Hull from the rooftop library at the Hull College of Further Education I was not to know that Wilberforce on his magnificent columned statue in front of the massive and decaying, wind-beaten 1960s building would later feature in my career.

 

Which brings me to my point: did William Wilberforce have a "Hull" accent?