The why behind the magpie

Recently the news broke that the post box painted gold to mark Andy Murray’s success as Olympic tennis champion had to be repainted. Apparently residents of Dunblane, where the post box is situated, have been chipping off sections of the gold paint to keep as mementos of the local hero’s achievement, to the extent that little of the original paint remained. Clearly one person had the idea and then several other residents joined in. At one point there was probably a queue, as there is outside a cinema. Were paint chipping tools shared or did each person bring their own? How long did the post box take to strip? It must have been done pretty quickly, before anyone with the post box’s welfare in mind noticed, and what an odd scene it must have been. However, it is a story that chimes exactly with the national obsession with souvenirs, whatever their shape or form.

The British have a history of collecting unusual items as souvenirs of a momentous event. On the coronation of Elizabeth I the carpet she walked on in her procession to Westminster Abbey was demolished by members of the public looking to take a piece of it home as a keepsake. It was relatively common for people to dip their handkerchiefs in the blood of victims they had just seen executed, a ‘one for the family album’ syndrome, much in the way that we might buy a programme after a performance, or keep a ticket from a gig. One wonders what they did with the handkerchiefs afterwards. Was there a wall of tiny hooks, neatly catalogued? It is strange to think back to an age where whipping out a bloody handkerchief in a social situation was acceptable, even encouraged. However, a piece of a carpet and a section of gold paint aren’t exactly worlds apart. Perhaps it was reassuring or even a signal of restraint that at the Royal Wedding the happy couple were left with anything to walk over when they left the service. But the British penchant for unusual keepsakes is still alive and well in certain respects – specially designed sick bags were sold in large numbers to mark the Royal Wedding, or rather to mark the aversion some people had to its saccharine elements.

It’s not just gold paint that is the object of avarice. Street signs are often the subject of many a despairing council meeting. Beetles fans, it would seem, are particularly prone to stealing signs. The ‘Penny Lane’ sign has been the object of frequent theft. Similarly the ‘Abbey Road’ sign was often stolen until it was mounted high up, and out of reach. Presumably there is a certain prestige to running off with such an ungainly, and almost branded souvenir, something that other people will immediately recognise. Rather like the student who steals a traffic cone on a night out, and then displays it proudly in their house for the rest of the year, as a strange sort of signal to other students that might see it, an ‘I am fun’ reminder.

But the appeal of the gold paint is more in line with the appeal of a shell picked up from a beach on holiday, completely meaningless without the history behind it. Perhaps it is part of a quirkiness that is so British, the ‘what random thing can I collect that has a good story’ factor. Because we do love a good story. The stories we can tell about our lives are a reflection of who we are, and the items we collect that have value, not in themselves but in connection with the event they relate to will naturally reflect on us. Grabbing keepsakes is grabbing a stake in the action, it’s associating ourselves with it.

Not that I am condoning the vandalising of an innocent post box you understand, only pointing out how what might seem like a strange story on first glance, isn’t in fact so strange after all. However I won’t be chipping away at my nearest post box, or rustling any famous signs for the simple reason that the random things I keep remind me of landmarks in my life, rather than other peoples’. I am the proud possessor of several ticket stubs, many programmes, and even two keys to a flat where I lived in Bologna. The only reason I can think of that I insist on keeping these things is the hope that in those twilight years, where heavy living has got the better of me, I can open a folder stuffed with remembrances and use them to recall exactly what I got up to in my misspent youth.

The Olympic Opening Ceremony – who cares if you’re a ‘leftie’ or not?!

So now along with class distinction we have another distinction in Britain; did you like the Olympic Opening Ceremony or didn’t you, or rather, did you think that it was ‘leftie,’ socialist or a downright manifesto for the Labour Party?

It seems that if, like me, you liked the ceremony and didn’t really notice its ‘leftie’ connotations, you are branded as someone who will automatically vote labour in the next election, and that you endorse the spectacle as an vote winner for Ed Milliband. This is mainly due to the fact that the Industrial Revolution, that symbol of British ingenuity and achievement, was depicted in the Opening Ceremony as a bad thing, apparently. Really? While it is true that the actors playing mill owners looked on as soot stained dancers fled out of smoking dens that resembled a scene from Dante’s Inferno, I would have pegged this as stylised, but never the less realistic. The many did make the few richer. That’s not being socialist, that’s just a fact. Thousands of people died young in dreadful conditions in the Victorian equivalent of sweat shops; conditions so bad that after a period of reform successive laws were passed, with the result that working conditions were improved. Another fact. Is it really so terribly leftie to think that a realistic portrayal of the bad as well as the good, in a period that made Britain powerful, is so very bad?

But beyond this, those who make black and white political statement for or against the ceremony are missing the fundamental point; the portrayal of a black, flaming, hellish Industrial Revolution eating up and rising out of a countryside idyll is fundamentally British. Look at the art of the period, the soft depictions of rolling hills harking back to an England that seems to be slipping away. Factories are either drawn clinically and factually to show exactly what worked where, or as smoky, mysterious, often in red or orange hues but never in a positive light. The Opening Ceremony echoed these visuals perfectly.

 

Similarly there is British literature that expound this view. Hardy continually harps on about the lost traditions of a fading countryside with eldery Wessexians ruminating about the time of their grandparents. In a less wistful and more practical tone, George Elliot also  questions the values behind ‘progress.’ Even Tolkien picks up this theme, contrasting rural Hobbiton with the industrial nightmare created and represented by Saruman, a nightmare that the hobbits have to overcome twice in order to return Isengard, then their own home to its natural state of peaceful countryside.

Whether it was meant as a political manifesto or affirmation or not (I think not) on an occasion that is supposed to be about sport, can’t we just concentrate on the er…sport? The Olympics was founded to bring nations from all over the world together in the united desire to celebrate sporting talent. Let’s just do that shall we? I’m off to watch the synchronised diving.

 

 

 

The solution to national gloom: Carnevale?

When I lived in Italy I loved the fact that during the most miserable months of the year, in most parts of the country it was customary to celebrate ‘Carnevale,’ that festival made famous by the Venetians and their masks. While the sheer hedonism of this might have become more muted over the years, and in Venice the masked balls are frequented by more Americans and Japanese than Italians, the idea still remains and carnival parties are thrown all over Italy and to my mind this is a really excellent practice. The darker and viler the weather, the more important it is to make lots of noise, enjoy oneself, and have fun, to follow the primal urge to keep the darkness at bay. What better way to do this than to don a mask and a outlandish costume, get together with some friends and toast away the dark with shared and often experimentally mixed alcoholic beverages?

You would have thought that the UK would have embraced this idea by now, particularly with the state of national gloom that clogs up the streets and lanes of this country at the moment. We are a nation that needs some light relief. Yes, I know that we have some big celebrations coming up this summer in the shape of the Jubilee and the Olympics, but rather than spending millions of pounds, what could be better than just making a mask?! Having a simple excuse for diversion rather than endless debates about the cost of both events on every media channel, so that no matter how hard we try not to think about it, there is always at the very least a small tinge of outrage at the strains that will be placed on the public purse, which gets in the way of any enjoyment we might actually feel when the Jubilee and the Olympics finally arrive. What we need is guilt free light relief.

It is often the case that times of most unease breed the most hedonistic parties, as if deliberate enjoyment were as much of a reaction as a protest. I have to confess that I would rather be dancing the night away as a big and general two fingers up at circumstance than trudging through the streets of London trying not to be kettled, (which I gather is an occupational hazard for the committed protester these days.) If we look at evidence from the time, the Ancient Romans, particularly those from the patrician or upper classes knew how to throw a good party, yet apart from Vespasian, I struggle to think of a single emperor who died of natural causes, and the constant political upheaval must have been exhausting to those involved as they dodged about trying not to be be killed, impoverished or just forgotten. That’s an extreme example of course, but in the same vein 1930s Berlin, the setting for ‘Cabaret’ and city known for its hedonism, was also a city plagued by fear and unease. Even more recently the illegal raves and parties of the early nineties drew thousands of ravers, who danced in a climate of recession unemployment and riots similar to the downturn of today.

So come on Britain, where is your zest for life? We need a general upturn in national mood to battle against the atmosphere of depression prevalent at the moment. Yes, the weather is crap, yes we are all poor, yes we don’t trust anyone from politicians to newspaper journalists to NHS workers, but all the more reason to get on our party shoes and no matter what age or sex we are, do what we all do best in this country: carry on regardless, make the best of everything and have a damn good laugh. Let’s create our own Carnevale.