The first episode of Michael Palin’s “Ripping Yarns” began with a quote from G. K. Chesterton: “The follies of men’s youth are in retrospect glorious compared to the follies of old age.” I didn’t expect to think of this when I bought my tickets to see “American Pie: Reunion”. I thought I’d get a dose of comedy and it would be ridiculous and awkward. I also had the passing fear that it would be an absolute stinker. After all, I thought, it could be a teenage comedy that lacked teenagers. But a statement about youth and old age and the follies that befall both? That seemed unlikely.

I’d seen the original film, I hadn’t seen the intervening ones. I had heard the basics about the plot of the sequels: essentially the awkward teenager of the first film, Jim (Jason Biggs) married the girl who took his virginity, Michelle (Alyson Hannigan). I presumed some talk of an orgiastic Band Camp, the ravishing of baked goods and the character Stiffler (Seann William Scott) acting like a presumptuous fool were consistent themes throughout the series. I probably would have left it at that; my other half persuaded me that this latest offering was worth a look.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked by how much the actors have aged; with the exception of Jason Biggs, these formerly teen stars have very visibly matured. For example, I almost didn’t recognise Mena Suvari, who returns as Heather; I had to look at her several times to be sure it was the same actress. In line with the actors ageing, their characters have also picked up adult responsibilities: Jim and Michelle have a 2 year old son. Kevin (Thomas Ian Nicholas) is a stay-at-home architect. Oz (Chris Klein) works as a successful sportscaster, albeit his career is interspersed with an embarrassing episode on a celebrity dance competition. Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas) is still sophisticated if somewhat mysterious, but his years have caught up with his persona. Their problems have matured as well: for example, Jim and Michelle have difficulty keeping the spark in their marriage, Jim seeks solace from the internet. Only Stiffler still firmly holds onto the follies of youth: while he works merely as a dogsbody in the office of an investment firm, he still is as sexist, inebriated and crude as he was in 1999.

The real star of the film, however, may be the irrepressible and ageless Eugene Levy, who returns to play Jim’s dad, Noah. He continues as both a source of advice and far too much information. In this episode, Noah has been a widower for three years. Yet, he is reluctant to return to the dating game.

A high school reunion provides the context for all these characters to meet again. Almost as soon as Jim unloads the car in front of his childhood home, he is reminded of the pleasures to be had in youthful follies: his young neighbour Kara (Ali Cobrin), whom he babysat when he was a teenager, has turned into a voluptuous young woman who evidently desires him. Stiffler tempts his friends with endless shots of hard liquor and engages in pranks more suited to someone half his age. Oz finds his teenage love for Heather still smoulders in his heart and ponders the mistakes he’s made, in particular, dating a hedonistic model. Finch shows up on a motorcycle, presenting himself as far more daring than his prosaic reality would suggest. Yet they are adults now, and apart from Stiffler, they have accepted this as part of life’s natural progression: they realise the blossom of their youth has faded, and this only becomes more evident when they see teenagers at the same places to which they used to go. There is a wistfulness in their discovery that their horizons have narrowed; there is even comedic value. For example, Jim, as a responsible adult, tries to get a very drunk Kara back to her home and family; in the process she gets in every manner of position to incriminate him despite his complete and often baffled innocence. Nevertheless, all these characters apart from Stiffler have grown: Stiffler’s stunted development is shown to be a road to nowhere. It is perhaps this aspect, most of all, that makes the film work. If the original was all about the humour inherent in the awkwardness of growing up, this one refuses to keep drawing its laughs from the same source.

Additionally, credit can be given to Eugene Levy’s portion of the film; his character could use more than a bit of folly, a rush of fresh air in a life which is shown to have become musty and stale. He finds it in getting his eyebrows plucked (a scene which is comedy gold), trying on a variety of unsuccessful outfits, getting wildly drunk and acquiring a surprising new girlfriend.

This film doesn’t succeed on every level; Michelle’s outrage at Jim’s antics seems overblown, especially since she’s known since 1999 that he’s a well meaning if accident prone goofball. Less is perhaps made of the fact that Jim is a father than could have been done; his little boy mimicking some of his behaviours and words was perhaps a missed comic opportunity. The teenagers are uniformly attractive, as if they’d walked out of lingerie and sportswear catalogues: the main characters remark that the young women are “sluttier” than they used to be, perhaps a nod to the fact that the original film presented adolescents as not necessarily being at all attractive. Too much effort may have been made in including all the characters from the original: for example, this film bothered to include two minor ones (two boys who repeatedly shouted “MILF” at a portrait of Stiffler’s mother) which I’d completely forgotten. I didn’t need to know that the pages of Jim’s teenage pornographic magazine collection were stuck together. A cameo by the still extremely alluring Rebecca de Mornay was much too contrived and obvious. Michelle and Jim’s reconciliation in a high school band room was as silly as much as it was touching.

Nevertheless, I liked this film; I enjoyed it much more than the first in the series. Whereas I had to put my hand over my eyes at times while watching the original, in this instance, I laughed far more than I cringed. I cheered on Eugene Levy’s Noah, I wanted Jim and Michelle to find a way forward; I wanted a happy ending, in a figurative sense, for them all. Unexpectedly, given the story’s roots in an unrestrained portrayal of adolescence, the films have grown up; I suggest that by abandoning the follies of youth, and showing the joys, irritations, happiness and sorrows of maturity, they’ve become much better.

[AMAZONPRODUCT=B004U5BYZQ]

Generally speaking, I only write reviews for films and books which I’ve enjoyed. Part of it comes from being a writer: I’m loathe to criticise others’ artistic endeavours given that I work so hard on my own. The other reason is that it’s all too easy to succumb to the pleasures of writing negatively: there is a cathartic effect associated with venting one’s spleen. Praise without delving into sycophancy is a fine art, and difficult to master; it’s more of a challenge.

However, I will have to make an exception in the case of “The Iron Lady”, as it’s a film that is perceived to be exceptional, and indeed bears the laurel of Meryl Streep’s Academy Award, yet is barely touching mediocre. In this instance, it’s justified to take a feather duster and swipe away the cobwebs of spin and marketing.

When I bought this Blu-ray, I was under the impression that I was going to get something like a definitive portrait of Lady Thatcher. I didn’t expect fidelity to every last factual detail, however, I believed that a well made film could distill her essence in a way that a history book simply couldn’t. I thought that through carefully crafted scenes, the audience would gain a new perspective on what drove her, what made her so lacking in empathy and so unrelentingly ambitious. She did change the face of Britain: here in the North, it’s relatively easy to find the broken pieces of once mighty industry, the edifices shattered by the policies that her government pursued. I don’t have to drive far to find abandoned coal pits, and communities still lingering in a blighted afterlife in which people are pushed to get off benefit and work, but don’t have any work to do. These consequences were widely foreseen; why did she do what she did? What drove her? What made it impossible for her to relent? Who is she?

The film only achieves something near an explanation in two places: first, we are shown an episode in young Margaret’s life while she and her family are hiding from German bombs. As they cower in an improvised shelter, her father asks if the butter has been covered; as he’s a shopkeeper, this is more than an idle query. Young Margaret rushes back into the house, defying the blitz in progress, to ensure that the butter is protected. Her father’s extreme parsimony and her fear of paternal disappointment evidently being stronger than her concern about meeting death are telling clues.

The second time in which fidelity to her character is achieved is while the aged, senile Lady Thatcher is receiving a medical exam. The doctor asks her how she feels. She responds with a blistering soliloquy about the modern emphasis on feelings and her lack of interest in such things. Rather, she states, she is much more intrigued by what people think. At that moment, I thought Ms. Streep had earned her Academy Award: her performance rang absolutely true.

The rest of the film, however, is a disappointment. As the makers say in the Special Features portion of the disc, they tried to stay away from political statements apart from a comment on the indignities of old age. Lady Thatcher is shown as a shrivelled, doddery old woman who isn’t at all recognisable on the streets, nor when she shops for a pint of milk and a copy of the Times. This is difficult to believe, as she remains one of the most photographed women ever to have lived. To be sure, the elderly are less visible, but that much?

Worse, the narrative takes place in the context of her dementia: memories are triggered by, say, the presence of a statuette of soldiers sitting on an end table. Perceiving this causes her to re-live the entire Falklands War, or rather, just a precis. The reminisces come as a near-incoherent flood, at best there is a procession, but little cause and effect. We are told the facts, but one of the most involving forms of narration is not to tell, but show. It would have been better, for example, for Mrs. Thatcher to have seen the poll tax rioters on television, and to be gripped by a moment of visible doubt, then right herself. No words need have been said, but it would have been a much more powerful representation of her character: it would have revealed something that is not shown in this film, an altogether human inconsistency. Without such qualities, we have no real thread of continuity from the shy, quite vulnerable young Margaret, to the steely mature one.

Jim Broadbent, a fine actor, is wasted. The Denis Thatcher of this film is almost a cardboard cutout of the man, precisely what he was portrayed as by the press: an amiable, if somewhat inebriated, fellow who had a touch of the buffoon about him. For example, after the bomb in Brighton goes off, he is, rather oddly, left holding his shoes. Surely there must have been more to him than this comic figure in order to appeal to someone of Lady Thatcher’s intellect and ambition; I recall reading in one of her books that she said of him, “What a man.” An elaboration of what brought on such an admiring phrase would have been apropos. Or was this statement a sop to someone weak and pliable? The film doesn’t say. Rather, we have a few cliched images of Young Denis and Young Margaret holding hands as they attend a performance of “The King and I” and the opera. When Denis proposes, young Margaret rather oddly and uncharacteristically bursts into tears.

The overall effect of the film is disappointingly paltry: it is like having cinema popcorn as a meal. There is a crunch, a flavour, but the substance is little more than air. In the special features, the makers of the film confess that Lady Thatcher is difficult to know, and hence Denis is there as the only person who truly understands her, even though the film is set after his death. But without understanding her, then it’s difficult to see how Denis’ place in her life could be accurately portrayed; Denis can’t act as a catalyst, he is far too inert. Now, the shades of night are falling on Lady Thatcher’s memory and she is receding into the shadows. I had hoped that “The Iron Lady” would cast some light on someone so consequential to our present time; I also hoped that it might show she failed in many instances by her own yardstick, e.g., I don’t believe she wanted people to get themselves deep into debt due to consumerism – this didn’t happen. More the pity: given this failure, we may never truly understand her, and thus the events whose repercussions are still all too felt in the present will also remain something of a mystery.

The Queen’s Speech was long on pomp, short on circumstance. I’ve listened to a fair few of them since I arrived in Britain over 20 years ago, but I don’t recall one quite like this. The Queen is a consummate professional, and she usually reads out these speeches without any trace of emotion. Her words are deliberate, her tone is steady. However, this year I thought I heard a difference: it sounded to me as if she was bored. The programme she outlined was singularly unambitious: we’ll attend to the economy, it stated. Well, given that this is at the forefront of everyone’s mind, this item was no particular surprise. It said, we’ll do House of Lords reform, if we can: meaning, if the Coalition partners and Labour can stop bickering over it. We’ll improve the lives of children: and here I was thinking that they would publically state they’d take away their pocket money and teddy bears. We’ll reform the banks: hopefully, but given how hand in glove the Conservatives have been with financiers and how in thrall to money they remain, good luck with that. Apart from this, it was small ball, small beer, a shrunken, shrivelled agenda which will achieve, at best, incremental change.

Indeed it was so unambitious that crucially important items were put into “draft bills”, which mean they are “incomplete proposals to be finalised later”: among these were pressing issues like care for the elderly and regulation of the water industry. Given that people are being reduced to penury in order to maintain their well being in their dotage and that the water companies are so feckless that they want to maintain a hosepipe ban after the wettest April in many years, you would think that a bit of urgent action was required. However, this government can’t even bring itself to enshrine in law its commitment to giving .7% of GDP to the poorest countries; it says it will do it in practice, as Caroline Spelman, the Environment Secretary, was at pains to point out on Radio 4’s PM Programme yesterday, but there is an altogether Prufrockian standard being upheld by its inability to set the matter in stone. After all, “in a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.”

Taken as a whole, the Queen’s Speech was a series of clichés mixed with platitudes, a soporific to the sensibilities of an intelligent electorate; after 60 years on the throne and having dealt with the likes of Winston Churchill, Clement Attlee and Harold Wilson, it was no wonder that Her Majesty was unenthusiastic. Her current ministers, in contrast to Ernest Bevin, Roy Jenkins and Harold Macmillan are a singularly uninspiring bunch: they cower before television cameras rather than stand in defiance of what might be said about them. Manny Shinwell, the famous Labour Minister of Fuel and Power responsible for nationalising the coal industry, once challenged his critics to come down to the mines and help dig; it’s difficult to imagine anyone other than Vince Cable throwing down the gauntlet with such flair. The men in government now are altogether smaller, greyer and worse, they preen.

Nevertheless, one can take some satisfaction from this situation. Look at Greece: their politicians are long on charisma and rhetoric about smashing the banks, smashing the ruling class, crushing, breaking, changing, ripping up. Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of renegotiation, they say. However, the result is near anarchy and a credit rating that wouldn’t merit a loan from Wonga.com. Perhaps in an era that’s all too exciting in many respects, being dull and uninspiring is a better option. We may grumble, we may stand in the thin drizzle of disappointment underneath the grey skies of cynicism, but at least we know where we are. There is little room to be disappointed: no one has promised utopia or even a pleasant suburb within commuting distance. Cameron has even begun to parrot Gordon Brown’s phrase from the darkest days of the recession: he said he was taking “tough long term decisions”; shortly after uttering this, the stench of political death followed Brown right into an election night rout. Maybe the biggest glimmer of genuine hope is that a similar fate will befall his Tory successor. Maybe we should just accept that the hour of talent has passed, and that we are in an “X Factor” world, one in which the public chooses the least mediocre among mediocrities.

Or maybe not. If the Queen’s Speech was a profile in timidity, yesterday, President Obama provided starkly contrasting portrait of courage.

The President is taking a massive risk: it’s an election year, after all. In order to secure a second term, he needs to win states like Ohio and Florida, neither of which are necessarily liberal on social issues. In 2008, he won the state of North Carolina; North Carolina has now enshrined a ban on same-sex marriage in its constitution, a proposal that won in excess of 60% of the vote. We can now safely assume he has thrown away this state and its precious electoral tally.

Furthermore, saying anything positive about marriage equality pumps oxygen into the lungs of the conservative movement, which was moribund after a bruising Republican primary. It also sets the evangelical cauldrons to boil and steam and rage; the far right, which was hitherto unconvinced by Romney, will definitely be at the polls this November. Romney now has an issue which he can use to portray Obama as a radical. Any positive statement was incredibly risky, even dangerous; it was also unnecessary. He could have just have easily made soothing noises, said something about the time not being right, and yet maintained the support of his base. However, President Obama had considered the matter, come to a conclusion and took a stand. All hell has already broken loose on American talk radio and in the festering media citadel of Fox News: but Obama apparently decided, “This is right.” Rather than cower before his opponents, he has defied them. He has made himself an altogether more consequential figure because of his willingness to contend with adversity; if he rises above it, his greatness will be secured.

It is difficult to see David Cameron or Ed Miliband being quite so courageous. The bravery they excude is the kind that comes from having a position that is difficult to assail. Miliband may launch effective rhetoric bashing the government, but it is difficult to see what he would do differently: his own ministerial front bench often has problems backing strikes, despite the fact that it was the trade union movement which created the Labour Party in the first place. What would he face down to fix the deficit? Whose interests would he defy? Would he inflame a great opponent, dare them to take him on and then rise above them? I’m not sure; and the wavering of the polls over time suggest that the public isn’t sure either.

As for Cameron, he only faces down opponents that the public picks for him. The public is worried about the deficit; he’ll fix that. Prior to the deficit being an issue, he was “sharing the proceeds of growth”. Does the public want crime to be tackled? Yes, he’ll do that too. Cameron can always be seen leading the charge from the back, and if he’s accused of aimlessness and drift, he’ll blame his coalition partners, as he did in the Daily Mail yesterday, for his timidity. In the meantime, the drizzle of disappointment continues to fall, the country stagnates, progress becomes a word for yesteryear.

We should not accept this. Even in the era of 24 hour news and relentless media coverage and Twitter spewing forth opinions (both informed and otherwise) in a flood, President Obama proves one can be a rock standing tall and proud against the tide. Perhaps if he’s successful, his profile in courage will be accepted as an example to others. Perhaps the circle will turn, and the hour of the inspired will arrive once more.

The Left had much to celebrate over the long weekend: not only was the Conservative Party routed in Britain’s local elections, the triumph of Hollande over Sarkozy in France and the success of socialist and social democratic parties in Greece and Schleswig Holstein suggest that the political tide is turning red. Austerity has been discredited; Hollande has promised to provide hope to all of Europe. Perhaps this political change may lead to genuine change. It is a precious moment, one in which optimism is in the ascendant.

Or is it? I have my doubts; hitherto, where the Left has been in charge, as in Spain, it was booted. Where the right has been in charge, it too has been kicked out, or in the case of the Netherlands, it collapsed in on itself. Hollande’s anti-austerity policies certainly have their attractions, but at the same time, Sarkozy’s inability to do much was probably the main reason he was dispatched. If looked at from this perspective, what is going on looks more like a reaction rather than a genuine shift. The economy throughout Europe is in terrible shape. Unemployment is rife, the politicians seem unable to prescribe any medicine other than astringents, and these cures don’t appear to be working. If one doctor is unable to cure a disease, then it’s natural to turn to another in the hopes that a different course of treatment might achieve something. This is the logic that lay behind the most politically dangerous in period in world history, the 1930’s. In 1928, the Nazi party received less than 3% of the vote. Yet less than 5 years later, the Nazis were in power: there were twists and turns in this journey, but the main motif was that the Social Democrats lacked the ability and the will to sort Germany’s problems. Hitler was a quack, his diagnosis of what ailed Germany was racist nonsense, but people pushed to the edge were more willing to fall off it than to remain where they were. At least dictatorship shielded the German people from having to contemplate messy and complicated truths, let alone deal with them.

We would like to think we’ve learned lessons from history. However, Greece is a case study in how little we remember. Greece shouldn’t be at all susceptible to the charms of any neo-Nazi group: their country was first attacked by the Fascist Italians in October 1940 and subsequently invaded by the Germans in April 1941. It was then occupied by Italy, Germany and Bulgaria. Over 300,000 people in Athens alone starved due to the Axis occupation. Yet, the neo-Nazi Golden Dawn group, whose flags and symbols have an eerie Third Reich feel to them, scored over 7% of the vote in the Greek election and now have 21 MPs. Disturbingly, the contempt that this group has for a free press has already been on display; after the election, their skinhead acolytes demanded that journalists stand at attention for their party leaders prior to a press conference.

Furthermore, Golden Dawn have already talked about putting immigrants into work camps as well as placing landmines on the Turkish border. Their programme is extreme. From the outside, it appears to be mad. However, they learned much from their German predecessors: in a seemingly fatal situation, they provide hope, welfare and defiance. The rich inheritance of Greek history has fallen away, at least for some. Similar impulses lay behind the third place showing for Marine Le Pen in the French Presidential election: give us something, anything, just no more of what is now. Bring back our jobs, our homes and our pride, the electorate say: the pragmatic politicians are reluctant to state with certainty that they can, the unrealistic madmen promise the heavens above. Human beings are more than capable of self-delusion and many succumb. But nevertheless, the hard realities of economic crisis remain, and tearing them asunder means either default or violence. Since the financiers will not countenance the former, the latter may be the result.

I cannot help but recall William Butler Yeats’ prescient words in his poem, “The Second Coming” –

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

And –

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Yeats was writing just after the end of the First World War, a conflict which was referred to as “The Great War” and “The War to End all Wars”. This summation was premature; nevertheless, we thought we had learned something from the horror and bloodshed, which left so many empty chairs at family tables and new graves filled with the bones of the fallen young. Yet a mere 20 years after Yeats set his pen to paper, an even more horrific conflict took place. Human history seems to be forever slouching towards Bethlehem: the rough beasts, thanks to man’s capacity for invention, are ever more horrific on delivery. Crisis is the means of conception; we seem unable to provide a “morning after pill”. Reason has difficulty in triumphing over emotion; we have problems discerning what really ails us and curing the illness.

Something has to give. In the case of Greece, what needs to be done is relatively simple: we need to acknowledge that there is no freedom without the truth, and the truth is Greece needs get out of the Euro, devalue and default. Yes, this won’t be pleasant, but at least this programme provides a direction, rather than continuance in a painful stasis. In the case of France, again, the truth must again be told: if austerity goes too far, too fast, the economy will be crushed and bond traders won’t get paid any returns whatsoever. The bond traders too must realise that any investment involves risk, and that there is no way to guarantee that every cent they put in will be repaid in full. Hence, it’s time for the markets to be told firmly to back off and have policies implemented to that end. In the case of the Euro, it’s necessary to provide a means of escape as well as a mechanism to join. This is all straightforward. However, paranoia about what may happen and the current “pragmatism” about markets and creditors means that this is unlikely to occur: things will continue until they cannot. We are seeing the point of “cannot” in Greece; yet only more pressure is being applied. The Germans, a heavily indebted nation after World War I, of all people, should know where this leads: but they too forget, and don’t want to recognise that what was once unleashed in themselves could be set loose in others.

My understanding is that while Greece still reels from instability, at least the French are basking in their moment of defiance. Crowds apparently poured out onto the steets of Paris after Hollande’s triumph and celebrated. Maybe their optimism is justified; maybe when Hollande meets with Merkel, he will convince her that it is time to change course. Perhaps Greece will be allowed to exit the Euro and thus escape immediate danger, via structured and carefully crafted means. Maybe for once, we will consult the dusty pages of history and heed the wisdom that lay therein. The slouch towards Bethlehem is a choice, not pre-ordained: the rough beasts conceived out of human greed and mendacity need not be born.

As the final results of the 2012 local election were tallied and reported, London was the place to be. I hadn’t planned nor scheduled it this way: it was a mysterious happenstance that meant that just before Boris Johnson’s re-election as Mayor was confirmed, I was making my way back to my hotel in the shadow of the Tower of London. I was arm in arm with my other half; we proceeded slowly, burdened by fatigue from a long journey and devouring a tastily carnivorous if overpriced meal at an American barbeque restaurant. The loving marriage between American Samuel Adams lager and a pint glass perhaps hadn’t helped matters. Sleep had entered my eyes, the compelling gravity inviting me to shut out the world. Everything seemed to be beckoning me to get to my hotel room as quickly as possible, and lay my head down on the crisp white pillows.

We passed by 10 Trinity Square just as a distant clock struck a quarter to midnight: with tall Corinthian columns and a massive bare breasted statue carrying a ship’s wheel which represents maritime commerce, it’s a deeply impressive structure. I found out later that it was the headquarters of the Port of London Authority. It was also the site for the inaugural meeting of the United Nations; it looked like a citadel of global power.

Further along Trinity Square, there was a more modest structure; part of it was in brick, the other in stone: the legend on its sign read “Trinity House”. I knew from my old book of flags that it had been issued its own standard at one point in its history. Its banner wasn’t flying that night, but nevertheless, the building too spoke of importance: The Corporation of Trinity House still has responsibility for lighthouses and provides expert navigation for ships in Northern European waters.

Grand, imposing, historic. However, as we crossed the street on our way back to the hotel, a stench arose, possibly from one of the storm grates. My other half let out a small exclamation of surprise and disgust. We were glad to get past it: it was as if the city itself had terrible flatulence. Not long after, the Mayoral election results were announced and Johnson gave his victory speech. It would be tempting to find a cosmic alignment in these two events, but nevertheless it is just a coincidence. It is less of a stretch to say that something is wrong: yes, London is a big city and a great city. In one day, I went from Bradford to Leeds: the latter has more modern buildings and developments than the former. Then I went from Leeds to London, and the two are worlds apart. London heaves, bustles and there are more opportunities there than in most parts of Britain. Yet it also constantly seems on the edge of bursting, as if it is a balloon with air molecules colliding at an ever faster rate underneath its placid surface. At some point, it’s reasonable to assume that the thin membrane of order must burst.

There are many points which could give way. London’s transport and sewage systems were initially designed and built by 19th century engineers like Joseph Bazalgette. Bazalgette was a genius, but how could foresee the demands of the future, e.g., the home with 2 bathrooms or more, power showers, people dumping moldy takeaway curries down the loo? As of today, the London is home to nearly 8 million people; include the metro area and the numbers rise to 13.8 million. The Olympics will bring hundreds of thousands more to the city: posters on the Underground warn about changes to travel patterns and one poster (humorously, I think) suggested that pole vaulting might be an alternative means of getting around the city. This speaks of a system under enormous strain.

It could be that poverty makes the bubble burst. Last night, my other half and I passed a homeless woman outside Waterloo station. She wore a hoodie, or rather, the remnants of one, and sat on a collection of plastic bags as sort of a mat. She had a pit bull with her, either as just a companion or also for the purposes of personal protection. A light rain was falling; not a pleasant spring shower, but a cold, almost autumnal drizzle. She had gotten to the point where she was barely asking anyone for change; if she did, I didn’t hear her. Beside her was a placard for the Evening Standard, which read “Boris Heads for Victory”.

Generally speaking, I’m reluctant to give money directly to the destitute. Charities, yes, the vendors of “The Big Issue”, absolutely, a food bank run by the church, certainly – but directly to someone on the streets, no. My other half works for a food bank, and personnel there are advised not to give cash, as it may exacerbate people’s problems. Nevertheless, my other half gave her £10. The young woman receiving the cash didn’t say “Thank you” or greedily snatch it up: she looked up with deep, sad eyes. The bags underneath were red; she looked as if she hadn’t slept in a very long while: rather than take the money, she replied with a weak “Are you sure?” My girlfriend insisted, and shed a few tears as we headed off. After all, we had a warm bed and crisp white sheets ahead of us; all that young woman had was the rain and the cold, with her dog as perhaps her only solace.

Because I visit London infrequently, changes are very noticeable to me: for example, passing through the newly refurbished Blackfriars station was probably more of a surprise to me than for people who live in the city. What I noticed most of all, however, was the substantial increase in the numbers of homeless. Again at Waterloo station, I saw an enormous man in a tan jacket dragging two shopping trollies: he was conversing with two sellers of the Big Issue, asking how he could become a vendor. It seemed an unlikely job application: the stench of cheap alcohol from him was overpowering, his words were slurred and disjointed, he wobbled on his feet rather than stood his ground. To make matters more complicated, he was blind. Not too far from there, polished Rolls Royce and Maserati cars are parked serenely near Old Bond Street: surely the tension inherent in this paradox is not sustainable?

Of course, London has shrugged off disaster before. It endured the Great Fire of 1666, German bombs and terrorist attacks; perhaps this teetering on the edge is always going to be part of its character. But there are bad times and better times; I remember when I first moved to London in the late 1980’s. While the Underground was still as ropey, the city felt safer, less tense and less intense. I could be out very late and not feel worried at all. This is not the London of now: perhaps instead of being a world apart from cities like Leeds or my home town of Bradford, it can be called a distillation. London has concentrated most of Britain’s problems into one crucible: inequality, poverty, despair, crumbling infrastructure and leaders which cross the border from ridiculous to dangerous. In his victory speech, while parts of London reeled due to the city’s flatulence, Johnson said to his constituents, “May the Fourth be with you.” It was actually May the fifth by the time he said it. In the shadow of the Tower of London, in times like these, buffoonery is unhelpful. It may be all that we can expect.

Last weekend’s edition of the Financial Times led with three articles about Spain. They catalogued nothing but misery: a quarter of Spaniards are unemployed, the country’s financial position is worsening, Spain’s bonds have been downgraded by two notches, Spain is crying out for help, seemingly into a void. The FT’s attention is justified; Spain is important, Spain matters. If Spain falls prey to the markets, it could take the entire Euro system with it. It’s clear there are not enough reserves, not in Germany, not in the entire solvent portion of the European Union, to save them. A Spanish collapse could lead to a renewed global downturn.

Given this turmoil, it may seem strange that Spain was once viewed as a land of hope and opportunity: the Francoist past had been airbrushed out of recent memory, Spain was a cheap place for British people to retire or merely have a good holiday. Spanish art, design, cuisine were all in vogue. Woody Allen descended upon Barcelona just prior to the advent of the financial crisis in order to make his romantic comedy “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”, starring the versatile Javier Bardem, Penelope Cruz and Scarlett Johansson. While the relationships in that film were tinged with sadness, regret and even violence, Barcelona itself was painted in warm colours, touched by golden sunlight. It seemed a perfect place for artists and poets, where ridiculous but tragic love affairs could take place and inspiration take wing.

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This Spain, or as the residents of Barcelona would prefer, this Catalonia, still exists. Go to El Jardi, an outdoor restaurant located in the garden of Antiguo Hospital de la Santa Creu. Sip an excellent glass of Estrella Damm beer, or even better a Moritz, brews which put the homogenous concoctions of mega breweries in America and Britain to shame. Order the chorizo, which will arrive nearly sizzling. A gentleman in a black shirt with a trimmed beard and moustache will be along in a little while, carrying a guitar. He’ll hail the restaurant staff as his “amics” and then will make his instrument sing sweetly as the late afternoon slowly fades into night.

The bonhomie infused into the atmosphere at El Jardi didn’t arrive by accident: it came after the city drowned in sorrows. It’s a deserved spot of sunshine following the torrential rain. Barcelona bears the hallmarks of a metropolis that rose high and subsequently crashed into the dust. Great buildings such as Palau Nacional, built for the 1929 International Exhibition, speak of times when Barcleona welcomed the world. The 1992 Olympics was another such occasion: the magnificent Olympic stadium still stands atop Montjuic, it is almost classical in its grandeur on a sunny day. Yet Barcelona has also been a battlefield: it was the last outpost of the Republican forces during the Spanish Civil War. It finally fell to the Nationalists in January 1939 after a bloody battle. I have seen spots of discoloured concrete on buildings along Las Ramblas and wondered if these were patched over bullet holes.

The people of Barcelona in 1992 and 2006 perhaps thought sorrow belonged to the past. After all, they had been fully admitted into the European family, war had been banished, prosperity had arrived. The city could celebrate luminaries like artist Joan Miro and cellist Pablo Casals without fear of being dragged back into the the darkness.

However, there is a second film of Barcelona, perhaps the best movie ever made, which provides a contrasting vision to Vicky Cristina Barcelona: it’s entitled “Biutiful”. It too stars Javier Bardem. The film describes a vastly different city. Indeed, the fact that it is Barcelona and not some dystopian vision is not immediately apparent. Bardem plays a street hustler named Uxbal, who works organising the production of cheap knock-off goods by illegal Chinese migrants and the sale of these items by just as illegal African immigrants. This Barcelona is a city of the dead and dying: Uxbal earns money on the side by conversing with the deceased on behalf of the bereaved, Uxbal himself is plagued by terminal prostate cancer and has very little time to sort affairs out for his two young children. Their mother is mentally unstable, his brother is an incompetent and uncaring petty criminal; he’s on his own. The best that Uxbal can do before he passes is entrust his children and the money he has to the wife of one of his African employees who is about to be deported. Life in this city is on the margins: the poor die unlamented, illegal immigrants are killed in tragic accidents, their bodies are dumped at sea and wash up on a beach, the Africans run in terror from the police.

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The truth of this film is evident even to the passing tourist. Take a train from Vila Seca to Barcelona: African men carrying faded and beaten up rucksacks or wares covered in black bin liners will get on board and later leave at the tourist spot of Tarragona, intending to hawk their wares. They have come from all over sub-Saharan Africa; I heard one group break into the occasional English phrase like “Not bad, not bad at all”. Others mixed French into their patois.

As “Biutiful” suggests, the Chinese are in Barcelona too: not far from Gaudi’s architectural masterpiece, the Sagrada Familia, is a small restaurant. The decor is dated: red linoleum floors predominate, but the establishment is pristine in its cleanliness. There, I had a coffee, served by a Chinese man. His little daughter, with big bright eyes and pigtails, sat at a corner table, drank orange juice out of a box container and watched cartoons on the restaurant’s television. The establishment was nearly empty. The only other patrons besides myself, my other half and the proprietor’s daughter was an old man in a navy blue beret who leafed slowly through his newspaper, and a young woman who came in and ordered a glass of San Miguel. I wanted to ask the owner if he was disappointed with the choice he had made by coming to Barcelona. Were all the sacrifices he made in order to set up in a new land in vain? China has a future, Spain had a glorious past and an almost future. Now the proprietor was stuck with a good establishment amidst the tattered remnants of an economy.

After I left and walked hand in hand with my other half, it occurred to me that the damage created by real bombs is relatively straightforward to manage: we can see the blasted out buildings, discern the rubble strewn in our path. Once the guns fall silent and the airplanes stop flying overhead, regardless of who brings peace, tranquility does return and there is a chance to sweep up the mess. Barcelona is psychologically better equipped to do this than many cities; the Gran Teatre del Liceu is symbolic of its capacity to rise from the ashes. The theatre burned down in 1861, was damaged by bombs in 1893, and burned down yet again in 1994. Yet parts of the old facade remain, and the gilded letters “Teatre del Liceu” still tower over Las Ramblas with gravitas; this older portion is buttressed by a modern building. Its life and its place in Barcelona’s life goes on.

The damage caused by an economic detonation is far more subtle and much more complicated to clean up. While El Jardi is full of tourists, not far from there are stores going into final liquidation, screaming out in black letters on flourescent yellow signs that every last bit of stock must be sold. A man sleeps on a bit of grass at the harbour end of Las Ramblas: his Levis and brown jacket hint at former prosperity, the holes in both garments and his leathery skin indicate his good fortune’s passing. His face is turned towards the direction pointed to by the statue of Columbus, out to sea. Switch on the television back at the hotel: the queue of unemployed cover their faces as the news cameras film them going into the welfare office. Projects outside Barcelona appear to be abandoned: the station at Vila Seca bears a sign promising redevelopment by the Ministry of Transport, however, the concrete on the platform is broken, unfinished, guarded by a temporary steel fence that looks all too permanent. Graffiti, a scream of protest in paint, is everywhere in Catalonia: two young men assault the walls of Vila Seca’s railway yard with spray cans and are entirely unmolested and unchallenged. In Barcelona itself, the iron shutters which protect stores are also marked: virtually everywhere has at least some squiggle, line or scrawl. The metal sheds outside Barcelona Sants train station bear legends calling for revolution with the crossed out A for anarchy. So much for the gilded dreams of 1992’s “beautiful horizon” or the artistic meanderings of Vicky Cristina: the Barcelona of “Biutiful” seems to be chewing the rest of city up, bit by agonising bit. It is a template for disappointment, despair and perhaps even violence. Spain and Catalonia cry out, Barcelona bleeds, but because the wounds rarely are as striking as the image of a once prosperous man sleeping incongruously on a tiny patch of grass, it is ignored, consigned to warnings on the financial pages.

I repeat: Spain is important, Spain matters. Catalonia’s hour is close to midnight, it proceeds through time rather like Bardem’s Uxbal makes his way through the streets of Barcelona: it survives as best and as long as it can, having a few moments of joy, but finding life for the most part remorselessly bleak. Hearts may be moved to pity; however, it is worth remembering that not long after the Spanish Civil War ended, World War II began. As it was then, Spain now may be a preview of our own future: the sorrows of Catalonia are not necessarily confined to there alone.

Outrage, but no surprise. Jeremy Hunt’s close relationship with Rupert Murdoch’s empire is the subject of widespread disgust, nevertheless, genuine shock is rare. I was once told that each political party specialised in a particular type of scandal: the Conservatives’ corruption usually involved sex, e.g. David Mellor’s spanking activities while wearing Chelsea Football Club gear, and the Labour Party’s usually involved money, e.g. donations by Bernie Ecclestone to preserve Formula One’s exemeption from tobacco advertising regulations. This truism exists, perhaps, because everyone expects Conservatives to be on the take: look at their acolytes, whether dressed in chalk stripe suits or rolled up Armani shirtsleeves. The odour of privilege goes before them, stinking out the sensibilities of anyone who sees the love of money as pernicious. Jeremy Hunt, closely allied to Rupert & Co? Outrageous, disgusting, terrible, it shouldn’t happen: but is anyone really surprised? Without surprise, is it that much of a scandal?

Hunt will probably have to go; it won’t do to have him in place for the Olympics, during which he and his department are supposed to feature prominently. His departure may be a sad loss for the fans of Cockney Rhyming Slang, who hoped that James Naughtie’s botched but sensible introduction on Radio 4 would mean lasting infamy for the hapless Culture Secretary. No doubt Number 10 will push out a series of tiresome press releases and briefings which will lull the gullible or the ideologically motivated, like BBC Political Correspondent Nick Robinson, to say that the storm has passed. Life will go on, at least until the next scandal.

Is that it, though? Or is this a symptom of something more troubling? This may be an opportunity for one to gaze deeply into the soul of the Conservative Party, such as it is. Personally, I find nothing but a void. Hunt’s advocacy for News International points clearly to this soullessness. In fact, I think the question should be raised: is the Conservative Party dead?

I don’t mean that the Conservative Party has ceased to function as an organisation: throughout much of the land, there are the Conservative Assocations, party activists, the Blue Rinse Brigade, hangers on and the up and coming, all keeping the party machine ticking over. It also has plenty of wealthy donors willing to pay for images of badly drawn trees splashed onto glossy brochures. However, I recall a trip to Parliament I made as a student nearly 20 years ago. We were shuffled into a meeting room: I was impressed by the oak panelling, the green leather chairs, the musty odour of old books that seemed to pervade the place. We callow students were addressed by a Conservative MP whose name escapes me: one of the questions from my tutor related to the various ideological divisions within the Tories, in particular regarding how Britain should engage with Europe. The MP told us bluntly that the only principle which held the Conservative Party together was opposition to socialism. This seemed far-fetched at the time: after all, the afterglow of the Thatcher years still burned throughout the land, and regardless of her having to be taken out of office, her ideology was still in the ascendant. But look what happened once Labour stopped being socialist: they dropped Clause 4, the Conservative Party then surrendered itself to the violent passions stoked by membership of the European Union, Major presided over a fractured cabinet, the Tories were smashed in 1997. Some Tories, such as Shaun Woodward, found it relatively easy to walk across the floor and join a new, non-socialist Labour. Without the catalyst of opposition to socialism, the Tories fell apart and wandered through a dark wilderness which seemed to promise nothing but oblivion. Opposition to socialism had turned merely into opposition to the Labour Party: but as the Labour Party had apparently picked up many of Thatcher’s ideas, the Conservative Party was in essence ideologically opposing a reflection of itself: there were degrees of difference, not a particular contrast. No commanding heights of industry were nationalised during the New Labour years; businessmen were just as comfortable with Blair, if not more so, than they were with John Major. The Bank of England was made independent. The City was untouched. Mandelson was intensely relaxed about people getting filthy rich. Don’t pay any attention to the inflating credit bubble: let the good times roll.

The saying goes, nature abhors a vacuum. Nevertheless, the Conservatives have hitched themselves to a vacuity, namely David Cameron, who was a public relations man. The ideological battles fought and won, what was left? The Big Society? Yes, that’s it, a slogan which requires the government to do little, but theoretically throws open the doors to self-improvement. My other half used to work in the Civil Service; not long after we met, I asked her the following question: “What do the Tories expect us to do? What are we supposed to be good at?”

She shrugged and replied, “They expect everyone to sort it out for themselves.”

This is as good a summary as any of Cameronism: schooling? Sort it out for yourself; open a free school. Benefits? Sort it out for yourself, there’s a cut on the way. Housing? You’re on your own, move out to somewhere cheaper. Health care? You’ll get choice, namely between Virgin Health and Serco, but it’s up to you.

Say what you will about Mrs. Thatcher, but as Andrew Marr rightly stated in his “History of Modern Britain”, there was a moral agenda behind her policies: she thought that deregulation and free markets would lead to a thrift-oriented, more hardworking mentality taking hold. Instead, it led to free markets running rampant on the back of get rich quick schemes which subsequently came undone to the impoverishment of us all; ask the question, is the nation more or less thrifty as a result of her time in office? Look at how personal debt has exploded for an answer. Are the British people working harder, or just working longer hours? Productivity growth has been a long standing problem although hours have increased. By Thatcher’s own yardstick, her ideology is a failure: but at least she had one. An ideology indicates a desire on behalf of those who craft it and those who believe in it that the world can somehow be made comprehensively better than it is at present. The Conservatives have abandoned ideology, shunned responsibility, soothed the remnants of conscience with drivel about the “Big Society” and now can be said merely a political lobbying group on behalf of the corporations and rich individuals who sponsor them. As a fountainhead of ideology, a defender of a political faith and a purveyor of a comprehensive point of view, it is effectively dead. Or rather, it is a zombie: it wanders in the land of the living, but it has no soul. It only holds power because the Labour Party faced a crisis of renewal: familiarity breeds contempt, mistakes accrue and once they threw in a leader untutored in the arts of public persuasion, the last Government more or less collapsed. Perhaps voters understood this on a subconscious level and chose not to give David Cameron a majority on his own: unfettered by Coalition, unencumbered by a particular programme apart from the naked achievement of gain, how much worse would the scandals be? Would we know about them?

Jeremy Hunt’s removal is almost a given. Even if his name doesn’t make into the lexicon of Cockney Rhyming Slang, he will have a good deal of infamy to live down. I have no doubt that Cameron in the end will present his loss as a burning sacrifice, which will serve as an example to other ministers and indeed act as a catalyst to cleanse the Conservative Party and politics as a whole. No one will truly believe this, but then again, in the dead Conservative Party, belief doesn’t matter: all that is worthwhile is taking the call from Richard Branson or Bernie Ecclestone or Serco or whoever paid to be at the top table, doing their bidding, and carrying on. Not to a bright future, nor towards a land of a free people, rather there is no destination, just continuance.

The Trafford Centre is an undeniably impressive place. I could see its large glass dome from the motorway. The areas allotted for car parking are vast. I went in along with my other half via an signpost marked “The Orient”: this was followed by a set of tall columns and a stone statue bearing gilded lightning bolts which overlooked the huddled masses of automobiles. Inside, it was just as palatial: a gargantuan set of marble steps led up to the first floor. As we proceeded further inward, we saw a “cruise ship” motif take hold, complete with lifeboats and a painted starry sky above. The Centre’s “neighbourhoods” such as “China Town” and “New Orelans” were just as passable as anything I’d seen at Epcot Centre. It is truly a temple to modern consumerism.

I wasn’t there because I wanted to be, however. My girlfriend approaches shopping with a gusto that is only matched by my loathing of it. One of the reasons why I’m an internet devotee is because I cherish the idea of never having to go into a shopping mall again. I like the idea of not having to be asked if we can go to such and so place, a query which barring fatal disease can never be answered “No”. I despise having to break up the pleasures of a quiet weekend to turn the key in the ignition, hear the engine coughing to life, watch the automatic windscreen wipers coming on to deflect the rain, then the backing out, the slow procession of traffic, the maze of yellow signs and speed cameras which must be navigated, the struggle to find a parking space and finally going into a store which holds absolutely no appeal to me and the interminable quest for something which is invariably a compromise.

Like everyone else, I have my specialist areas of knowledge: fashion is not one of them. Thus, I’m frequently being put into the following impossible position: my other half wants my opinion on what she wishes to buy although I have no idea whether it’s good or not. My understanding of haute couture is so poor that I cannot recall which kind of stripes, horizontal or vertical, are supposed to be slimming (I believe that there are a number of opinions on the subject). If Fashion TV was hacked into and replaced with endless repeats of “Top Gear”, I’d laugh. Yet, I often find myself sitting in a quiet corner in places like Monsoon, checking my mobile phone and hoping that I’ll have a few moves to complete in Online Scrabble. Failing this, I’ll peruse Twitter. Meanwhile, my other half will be ransacking the store, looking for a dress, a scarf, a blouse, or shoes.

For me, clothes are a completely practical matter: they prevent nudity, a forestallment which in my case is more than welcome, and provide cover from the Yorkshire chill and rain. My sole fashion statement is usually a political one: I have an enviable collection of t-shirts devoted to lost causes including my purple “Yes to the Alternative Vote” shirt. My shoes are comfortable, my coat is aged, I have a lot of hand-me-downs, I only buy new when the old wear out.

But as I sit in the usual nook devoted to shopping’s malcontents, I’m painfully aware this isn’t my other half’s view. Somehow, the idea has gotten into her head and as well as that of the others with furrowed brows as they examine gossamer blouses and flimsy shoes that the wrapping is as important than the present. This runs in contra to reality: for example, I didn’t decide to be with my girlfriend because she was well dressed. The first time I met her, it wasn’t her jacket or shoes or dress which impressed me: it was a brilliant smile and a modest little shrug on a warm spring day that caught my eye, as these were indications that she was happy to be right where she was. I also saw modesty, a sense of humour and an endless joie de vivre in her demeanour. It didn’t require being fashionable: fashion changes, being wonderful never goes out of style.

Nevertheless, her devotion to shopping is a quirk which I accept just as readily as she accomodates my foibles. Offering an opinion is still a minefield: there are few things more difficult than to present a view when one has a blind spot. How does one avoid being offensive while noncommittal?

The question comes: “Do you like this?” I am looking at my other half wearing a black and white striped dress. I think of zebras. I recall seeing them in Africa and charging across an open plain away from a Land Rover. Are zebras fashionable? Or was that in the 1970’s?

Safe option. “It’s OK,” I reply, “Do you like it?”

Of course, one could be cynical and say that my views don’t matter and what is being sought is a confirmation of her opinion: I believe that’s incorrect. If I actually hated it, I presume she wouldn’t buy it. But for me, there is no passion associated with this. My other half picks up something with a floral print. “Do you like it?” she asks. “It’s OK,” I reply. “It looks like wallpaper,” she retorts. “William Morris, perhaps,” I say. She carries it with her.

I look around and see similar conversations between other partners taking place. There are plenty of people who appear just as fatigued as I am. I cast my gaze to outside of the store and I spy a Starbucks across the way. Normally I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near there as their coffee has the unmistakable petrochemical hint of having been roasted by a flamethrower, but at this moment it looks like a refuge from the multicoloured silken hell in which I presently reside.

“Do you like it?” “It’s OK.” As I say the response, I mentally tick over an odometer. There are only so many times that one can use the term “OK” before it becomes irritating. I mull over alternatives: acceptable, suitable, agreeable, not bad, fine. All of them, I think, sound much worse than “OK” which is the perfect adjective for the indecisive who don’t want to appear so. I would like to echo a Monty Python sketch and say “Splunge” but as she’s not a devotee of Michael Palin and Co., she wouldn’t get it.

After several cycles of trying things on and subsequently rejecting them, she makes a few choices. We go to the payment counter. I breathe a sigh of relief and am glad that there isn’t a branch of this store in Bradford. I take her bag for her and we walk out. Wandering among the rows of shops without actually going in is much less stressful, indeed pleasant on a changeable day. A bit of afternoon sunshine is intermittently cascading down through a skylight. Her hand clasps mine, the next store looms ahead.

I know that eventually the shops will close for the day. A young man in a bright red Trafford Centre jacket will press a button and a steel shutter will slowly slide down, preventing further ingress. There will be a lot of disappointed people who didn’t find the shoes or shirt or jacket they wanted. I know that lurking in the background there are forces which are also frustrated by this failure: the Chancellor wants us to splash out in Monsoon because he collects the VAT on the goods and the corporation tax on the profits. The company wants people to believe that they need more than what is necessary; the CEO may have his eye on an Aston Martin or Bentley, the brochure with models and colours circled in Mont Blanc blue pen discreetly tucked away in his polished walnut desk. Society somehow expects people to wear certain shades, to be painted a particular way, to be, in essence, more perfect than they are. This is modern consumerism’s motif: it’s rare that any wholesale questioning of its value takes place except on the political fringe. The closest society came to crying “halt” was during the worst of the financial crisis: something was truly, deeply wrong and there was a lot of soul searching as to why. Eventually, we found it easier just to blame the bankers for their greed: this was certainly a major cause of the collapse. But perhaps the worst thing that the financiers did was prevent us from blaming ourselves: we extended our credit limits to the point of bursting, not just for clothes, but for electronics, homes, cars, all the accoutrements of a lifestyle that we had borrowed, not earned. This hasn’t stopped, it’s just been slowed. We are still filing into the Trafford Centre, which was sold in January 2011 for £1.6 billion, an indication of how valuable it remains. We are still throwing credit cards after dreams of fulfillment which are better served by a captivating smile and a modest shrug on a beautiful day in May. In other words, the fall has happened and we are being set up to fall again. But why break the habit of a lifetime? Do we like it? As it resides in our collective blind spot, our reply seems to be, “It’s OK”.

“Did you enjoy your stay?”

The question, posed by the young lady stationed at the reception desk of the Paloma Renaissance in Beldibi, carried no hint of being rehearsed. Doubtless it was something she had been trained to ask: the query’s formulation was as professional and crisp as her tan jacket. Nevertheless, she looked hopeful rather than stoic.

I smiled. “Yes, very much,” I replied, “we’ll be back.”

“Oh please do,” she said. She then offered me a card with some contact details so I could send in my feedback.

I thanked her and walked off to another part of the lobby; there, I awaited my bus back to the airport. As I settled into a dark brown leather sofa and held my other half’s hand, I took one last look around me: I’ve stayed in some very fine hotels, but I don’t recall ever being more comfortable. The first time I saw the Paloma Renaissance was after a long bus ride from the Antalya airport: beyond the resort’s gates, the drive was lined with tall trees. It looked cool, lush and inviting. When my girlfriend and I stepped into the lobby, we were impressed by the marble floors, the tasteful decor, and the very helpful bellhop who took our suitcases inside. Our room had a balcony which overlooked some magnificent mountains. The bed was super king sized. The main restaurant had enough delicious food to serve an army. The a la carte restaurants (in particular, Safran, which specialises in Turkish cuisine) were wonderful; the fresh hot Turkish bread went well with the hummus, the chicken kebab with bulgar wheat was mouthwatering. The Efes pilsner was good and cold, the Turkish coffee was strong and had the right amount of sugar when ordered “medium sweet”. On our first night, my other half and I strolled down to the beach: there was the scent of grilled fish in the air from the Sunset restaurant. We found two deck chairs and looked across the water to the bright lights of Antalya. The waves gently rolled in. There are few moments of perfect contentment in life, but that was one of them.

We did have a few hiccups: for example, there was a wake up call that kept disturbing us at 2:30 AM. The response from Tom of Customer Relations was exceptional: he not only changed our room, he also sent someone into our former accomodation at 2:30 AM to await the call. The phone rang, apparently; the next day we were sent flowers, fruit and a bottle of red Turkish wine as an apology.

Did I enjoy my stay? Absolutely. We’ll be back.

My memories of Turkey are not just confined to the pleasures of the Paloma Renaissance; for example, we visited the Roman ruins at Perge and Aspendos. This tour was only partially spoiled by the fact it was an excursion offered by Diana Travel: for example, our guide only knew about several paragraphs’ worth of information about Perge. She mentioned the Hittites and completely missed out that it was the home of the great Greek mathematician Apollonius of Perge, the man who gave us the ellipse, the parabola, and the hyperbola as we now know them. The missionary visits of St. Paul and St. Barnabas to the city were also left out; I looked up most of this information on Wikipedia later. Fortunately while I was there, imagination kicked in and I was able to envisage what it was like for myself; I’ve read Byzantine and Roman history sufficiently to have an idea of how it must have been. As I mused how the streets must have appeared, sounded and smelled when they teemed with Roman centurions, market traders and politicians, I passed by groups of German and French tourists: my German and French language skills are sufficient for me to know that they received a more thorough explanation and that their guides’ grasp of their languages was better than our guide’s English. Never mind. At Aspendos, I climbed to the top of the ancient amphitheatre once the guide left us to our own devices. It was precarious at times: the authorities had patched up some of the stones, but many were very worn down by time. I felt the heat of the afternoon sun on my neck, my heart pounded as I reached the top. When I finally got there, I looked down and waved to my other half who, perhaps wisely, had decided not to accompany me. She waved back, a tiny figure in the distance. I looked out of a portal and saw rolling green hills stretching off into the distance. The magnificent carvings in alabaster stone at the front of the amphitheatre were even better from an elevated angle. It was a moment when the stones of antiquity speak for people who don’t want to be forgotten; they aren’t.

Additional memories were provided by another Diana Travel excursion: my other half wanted to shop for gold and leather, I wanted to go to the old part of Antalya. We went on a trip which offered both. I had a mental image of how this would run: I thought we’d go to some souk in ancient Antalya, a place crammed with craftsmen selling leather jackets and gold trinkets made somewhere in the city’s winding back streets. My other half is an expert at haggling; I thought she’d enjoy it and we’d come away with some bargains. Then we’d be able to wander amidst the cobbled stone streets holding each other’s hand, alternating between sun and shade as we walked.

My heart sank when we were provided with the same tour guide as we had on the Perge and Aspendos excursion. My heart sank further when we were first shuffled into a large modern building belonging to a company called “D’Enver Leather” located not far from the city airport. We were seated in a room with a catwalk: the lights dimmed and models strutted out wearing a variety of leather outerwear. I did some mental arithmetic: to pay for the opulent building and the models, the prices would have to be extortionate. The lights went up and we were guided into a large showroom. My other half found a jacket she liked and looked at the label: it was in excess of €1800. We were told that we could bargain off about 60% of the price but even then the costs rivalled that of Paris, Milan and London and without the benefit of a designer label to justify the cost.

Shopping in Turkey is not for the fainthearted. Merchants are often practically doing cartwheels in front of you in order compel you to do business; at D’Enver, however, this commercial impulse was enhanced to the point of being positively creepy. My other half and I were followed around by a tall saleswoman with curly hair who refused to understand that we found the prices extortionate. Like many in our party, we fled quickly, but not before having to run the gauntlet of a concession which sells leather bags and belts, also at very high prices. Outside, however, there was relief: the sun was shining, the skies were clear blue. Two very young tabby cats were in a courtyard chasing crickets. One of them was quite friendly and bid us hello by rubbing its head up against us. I stroked its head in reply. “And now we’re happy,” my girlfriend stated. “Good morning,” I said to the kitten, “thank you for making the trip worthwhile.”

We proceeded out to an overpriced café where a large number of French and German tourists were waiting to leave; in retrospect, this probably was unsurprising as it was difficult to see how D’Enver catered to either French fashion consciousness or Teutonic frugality. In the distance, the mountain range which overshadows Antalya was on display: the snowcapped peaks were beautiful.

It should come as no surprise that the gold part of the tour was very similar to the leather portion. We were brought to the Club Hotel Sera on Lara Beach: the Turkish government sensibly banned gambling some time ago, so what was once the casino had been turned into a jewelry centre. We were again shuffled into a lobby; the decoration was a combination of over-gilded faux Ottoman Empire and Liberace; think of a Seventies American designer with a surplus of gold paint trying to capture ancient Oriental opulence and you’re not far off. We were met by an English speaking host. His name escapes me: I think of him as Mr. Smarm. He chided us in a rather oily way for not having visited Turkey or his hotel before; he suggested that the extravagant decor was Byzantine. Oh really? As there was no religious iconography and the effect was tacky rather than holy, this was a preposterous statement. Either he thought we were stupid or he simply hadn’t read his history. Never mind. Mr. Smarm told us, with a smile, that what lay ahead was “Heaven for ladies, hell for the gentlemen.”

Again, what we found was overpriced. One of the salesmen showed us a ring that he proudly boasted replicated a Tiffany setting; I wondered what Tiffany would think about this potential theft of intellectual property. After deflecting this advance, my other half wasn’t feeling too well: there were a couple of comfortable red chairs in a corner. A sign said that they were reserved for tour guides: given that no one was sitting there, we didn’t see the harm in her having a seat for a few moments. As she sat, we mused about the benefits that the tour guides get: we were provided a basic lunch on the Perge / Aspendos tour, our guide and the bus drivers had a separate table and much better food. Generally, tour guides get plush seats and free coffees. We also wondered if there were financial benefits, possibly a commission, accruing from the likes of D’Enver. We didn’t have much time to discuss this. Very shortly after we’d sat down, we were chased out by one of the salespeople. She told us curtly that if we wanted to rest, we’d have to go outside to the café. I gathered that the idea was to keep tourists flowing past the various display cases in order to keep the pressure on. I understand that people have to make a living, but pestering someone who was feeling unwell was too much; we left immediately. Again, we found ourselves in a café. It was even more overpriced than the last, and it was positioned by a dusty and busy road. But the sun shone through; despite the cost, I had another Turkish coffee.

I think our guide gave up on the group after this point; my guess is, although we had paid for the tour, she saw us as tight-fisted and uncooperative English people who weren’t going to lay out the money so she could get a good commission. After a further bus journey, we arrived at the centre of Antalya; there is a large and impressive statue of Atatürk there, and she gave us a cursory explanation as to who he was, namely the “father of the country.” Well hang on, back up: there is a reason why his face is everywhere in Turkey. He appears on advertising billboards and on every banknote and coin; many of the shops I went into had his picture hanging on the wall. From a British perspective, it would be rather like finding Lloyd George’s portrait hanging up in every Tesco. The reason for this veneration is that Atatürk saved his country and set it on a modernising course: after the end of World War I, in which Turkey was allied to the defeated Central Powers of Germany, Austria and Bulgaria, the empire was smashed up, the Sultanate discredited and dissolved. Atatürk defeated a Greek invasion, clawed back territory, set up the Republic, encouraged science, education and industry and went so far as to switch the Turkish alphabet from Arabic script to European letters. More importantly, he restored the nation’s pride: in my experience, only the United States utilises its flag as often and in so many ways as a motif as Turkey does. He is central to understanding modern Turkey. He’s also the man responsible for setting up the systems and laws which enabled our guide to have her career, such as it is: treating him so lightly bordered on disrespect. I was glad to get away and proceed into the heart of the old town with my other half’s hand in mine.

We did have one more commercial interaction that bordered on the shuddersome. As we passed two gentlemen sipping Turkish tea, we were asked where we were from. My other half replied “England”; this was a mistake. A thin fellow with a balding head and extravagant moustache came over and told us that his cousin lived in Newcastle but had a home in Antalya. He lured us into his silver shop and showed us an anonymous picture of a baby on his mobile phone: apparently this was his nephew. He then invited my girlfriend to examine his wares: she wasn’t particularly impressed. We politely told him we wanted some lunch: he recommended a restaurant just further along and wrote down its name and the name of its owner. He made us promise to come back for tea later.

We found the restaurant: it was in a sunny courtyard next to some crumbling stone buildings. The furniture was basic black aluminium lawn chairs with cushions adorned with a red tulip pattern. Nevertheless, there was a certain amount of pride: the flowers in the centre of the table were fresh, and the beer was cold. The grilled chicken in paprika was tasty; however, time was short and we settled up with the owner, a burly gentleman wearing a blue and white striped shirt. He saw the piece of paper given to us by the silversmith: he explained that the silversmith was his “friend” and they were both Kurds.

“The Mayor of Old Antalya,” I thought. Down the winding streets of this old town, I imagined, everyone knows each other; I guessed he knew more than most.

My girlfriend and I proceeded deeper: there were more cartwheels of commerce turned in our path. However, we finally happened on a silver shop she liked. The window frames of the store were made of polished light oak; the displays were less ostentatious than most, indeed, tasteful and laid out in green velvet. We went in and met the silversmith: he was a short man who wore wire frame glasses and had thin grey hair. The tools of the gentleman’s trade were resting on a desk, a white and grey cat was fast asleep on a chair with a green cushion. As a cat owner, I know that they are very selective about whom they choose to associate themselves with: the fact that the cat had chosen this jewelery shop to rest was a good reference. We talked for a while, my other half tried on several rings. Time was pressing: we took his card and proceeded on.

We continued in what appeared to be a long, winding loop: I smiled and gripped my girlfriend’s hand more tightly. This was the walk in sun and shade that I so desired. Then all of a sudden, the Mayor of Old Antalya emerged from another silver shop. He was not threatening, but it was uncanny to say the least: he queried us about our promise to have tea with him. We told him, truthfully, that we were doing a tour around the old town and that we wanted to go to the mosque. He led us through the back streets, being careful not to pass any other store. A man with grey hair and a sizeable belly came up to the Mayor, with what I presume was his young son in tow. The man seemed somewhat desperate; he pleaded for something. The Mayor carried on regardless, only throwing a few words over his shoulder. Somehow we escaped with quick apologies and made it to the safety of Antalya’s old mosque.

I entered it with bare feet; my other half covered her head with a sheer green cloth. The red and blue carpet, marked out in individual squares for worshippers, was soft. In the corner by a window, a man sat on his knees and quietly read what I presume was the Qur’an. Two gentlemen in another corner knelt and prayed. There was a stone stairway up to what looked like an altar with a scroll draped in green velvet with gold lettering: I presume that was the Qur’an in scroll format. I looked up at the dome; black plaques with gold Arabic script were positioned around its base. I whispered to myself “In the beginning there was the Word, and the Word was God”. It was one of the few places in the city that wasn’t bustling. I enjoyed the moment of peace. We left quietly.

As I think about it, there are many memories which rush in. I recall the remarkable taste of mulberry flavoured Turkish Delight, a confection that puts our terrible facsimilies to shame. I remember the food market at the town of Göynük and the fish seller who was delighted to be photographed and the taste of green almonds. I recollect sweating in places I didn’t know I could perspire from at a Turkish bath. I think about my struggles with a hammock on the grounds of the Paloma Renaissance and finally settling in, watching the beach and the waves beyond the end of my feet. I recall staying up beyond midnight writing and sipping yet another Turkish coffee. I remember waking up late and feeling like it didn’t matter, and truthfully, it didn’t. I remember dipping my feet into the clear water of the Mediterranean, only to find it was very cold but nonetheless refreshing. Not everything beyond the Paloma Renaissance was perfect, but it’s seldom that the best vacations are totally pristine: it’s a combination of sights, sounds, tastes, experiences that allow one to luxuriate in one’s comfort zone and just as firmly be pushed out of it.

The young lady at the front desk who asked me if I enjoyed my stay couldn’t know how good everything had been. I’d built up a treasure trove of memories which I’ll revisit long after the last piece of mulberry Turkish Delight is consumed. Yes, we’ll be back: though next time we’ll bring a bigger guide book and rent a car rather than go on a pre-arranged excursion. We’ll find the souks we seek and explore much beyond Antalya; I saw on my last day that the Paloma offers a quick Turkish language lesson on Fridays, we’ll do that too. Yes, we’ll definitely be back. Above all, it’s passing sweet to know that our potential hosts’ reply to this prospect is “Please do.”

I have been to a dead city. I am not referring to a town that inspires the sentiment of “Marietta’s Lied” from Korngold’s “Die Töte Stadt”; rather, I speak of the Roman city of Perge. It once thrived but now only is home to stray dogs, of which there are many to be seen sleeping amongst the ruins, and tiny black tadpoles in stagnant pools. These residents cannot appreciate the cracked marble which once adorned magnificent facades, the deep cold pool of a Roman bath which once was filled with water and now contains only brown and green moss growing on its floor. They don’t know that it was a place of learning: the famous Greek mathematician Apollonius of Perga once resided there. They have no means to discern that it had significance in the life of St. Paul and his companion St. Barnabas, who preached there twice.

Perge was once one of the wealthiest and most splendid cities in the ancient world. Now the grand avenue now runs towards a bleak horizon, and smashed columns and blocks of stone litter its sides. Only the occasional plinth inscribed with Greek or Latin words or a column with a figure carved into its top provide a discrete clue as to its former residents.

Where are they? Fled, felled by disease, murdered, bred out, died. Gone, long gone. The electricity pylons on the surrounding hills were built by a people who speak a different language and inhabit a land that has vastly changed due to the work of their hands. Their cities are alive; the red flag with white crescent and star flutters over a vibrant nation. The dead city is kept as a monument to their vanished predecessors.

As I walked over broken stones, I wondered how such things happen. After all, the people who lived in the dead city once had everything: food was plentiful, indeed, a wild grape vine was to still be seen. The baths, the focus of Roman life, were large and splendid. Scratch beneath the dirt and magnificent marble tiles where its patrons once walked are to be found. No doubt, the city was once filled with the scents of bread baking, odours of animals and the omnipresent aroma of olive oil. Its streets echoed with voices speaking a variety of tongues: arguing, talking, selling. Eventually, Roman proprietorship shifted to the Byzantine, and afterwards the city lasted well over a millenium. Why did it then die?

The historical record suggests that Perge declined due to Arab raids, and then was gradually abandoned during the Seljuk period. But is there more to it than that? I cannot help but think of the old dictum: hubris turns to nemesis. The moment of victory is the time when the seeds of eventual defeat are sown. The inhabitants of Perge worked to build a magnificent city, which stood as a tribute to effort and invention. But having arrived at that destination, they could not sustain their place at the pinnacle of success. Hubris turned to nemesis: complacency perhaps set in, mismanagement and corruption may have followed thereafter, the quality of leadership probably declined. The Arabs, inspired by the fervour of new-found religious faith might have seen decadence as weakness and brought Perge down. Now all that reigns there is the quiet, apart from the chatter of tourists and their guides, the soft ripples on the water from the tadpoles, the gentle patter of the stray dogs feet.

The desperate sadness I felt at seeing Perge made me glad to leave. It was tremendous comfort to climb into a modern, air conditioned bus and drive away from the site. A lunch by a nearby river, a cold beer, a moment to bask in the sunshine awaited. But I couldn’t escape the thought that what happened to Perge could just as easily be our fate. Antalya bustles with life and construction: I wonder if it is on its way to becoming the Turkish equivalent of Miami. Men sit outside in shirtsleeves under the shade of orange trees and drink thick Turkish coffee while chatting happily to friends. This, end? How could the wide paved roads of Antalya or of London or New York turn into the broken avenues of Perge? How could the shattered skyline of the dead city be transposed onto our modern metropoli?

I cannot know the precise means, but history does have an inescapable logic at work: that which rises, must fall. We may collapse due to a change in the world order, perhaps one as profound as the rise of Islam. The present ascent of China suggests a possibility: maybe the cities we know won’t die in that instance, but change beyond all recognition.

An environmental catastrophe is another potential fate: I recall the pictures which beamed into my television set after the Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami in 2011. A picture of a harbor is burned into my mind: a tide of black water rose and swept all before it, overturning large boats and collapsing river defences. This was a strong reminder that nature has the power to frighten and scatter: while this is not what happened to the dead city, Perge does resemble the remains after a natural catastrophe.

We could simply destroy ourselves. Our technology may run far ahead of our wisdom, and in the process, we could cause a catastrophe which causes life as we know it to stop. Our efforts to manipulate genes could go wrong. Our use of nuclear energy could go haywire. Our desire to embed computers in every nook and cranny of existence could be a recipe for disaster.

However, we just don’t know, and so we cannot prepare. We have only graves and poetry to remind us of our impermanence. Shelley’s immortal words came to me as I looked upon Perge’s shattered agora and overgrown aqueduct: “look upon my works, ye mighty and despair”; they echoed in my mind as the bus climbed a hill and the golden sunlight of a beautiful April afternoon penetrated the dusty windows.

If we accept that our time of glory as a civilisation is as fleeting as life itself, then perhaps we can stop being obsessed by it. I notice that the Americans are still locked into the idea of being “number one” in the world; they believe that their selection of a President this November will somehow make a difference. It may or it may not, but the idea that America can dominate the world in the same manner as it once did is madness: as other nations rose, America’s stature was always going to suffer a relative decline. It’s what you do with your legacy that matters: the Romans left us a legacy of law, literature and culture which remains with us today. Were I to examine every piece I’d ever written, no doubt Roman and Greek DNA would be found in the vocabulary and grammar. The very framework by which I view the world is influenced by the Graeco-Roman tradition that lingers in Western education. Perge is dead, but the legacy of its inhabitants is very much alive. Perhaps rather than worry about how we will remain on top or at least in contention, we should focus on what kind of legacy we leave, how our voices will carry down through the generations. How do we become people whose skylines may one day be shattered and visited only by passing tourists, yet still remembered?