Archive for the ‘Music’ Category

Wonderful World

June 20, 2020

If you look for Sam Cooke’s Wonderful World—an absolutely wonderful song—you’ll find a whole page of Louis Armstrong’s homonymous tune, so you need to dig a little deeper.

Cooke goes through a series of school subjects and topics—I’ve always found the lyrics poignant and amusing, and when I play it I change the line ‘don’t know what a slide rule is for’ to ‘don’t know what a spreadsheet is for’, to reflect modern scholastic ignorance.

Toward the end, the young Sam Cooke informs us that he ‘don’t know much about the Middle Ages’, which is fair enough—no one does.

The Middle Ages are widely seen as a period of historical darkness, sitting somewhere between the end of the Roman Empire and the Italian Renaissance, and no one is quite sure of the start and end dates.

We’re talking about a period that spans a thousand years—no mean feat. Between the Vth and XVth centuries, Europe lived through systematic violence and abuse—France came up with the three estates—clergy, nobles, and commoners—and that convenient concept (if you weren’t a peasant) was widely adopted.

The first two estates, clerics and nobility, were largely exempt from taxes—these were borne by the peasants—a movie that could never end well, as Marie Antoinette found out.

My first book was about the Age of Discovery, associated to the renaissance, and my account of the marvels of Portuguese naval exploration was followed by a book on the travails of Columbus, a man who is overrated in his achievements but not in the consequences of his discoveries—for centuries, the English, French, and Spanish preferred to fight their battles in the Americas and left Asia and Africa to the Portuguese, and to a lesser extent to the Dutch.

Now, I’m sinking back into the dark ages, the Hundred Years War, and the great lords of France—violent and intractable men who thought it shameful to die in your bed, and that adultery was the only true form of romantic love.

The nobility and its troubadours coined the term ‘courtly love’, and in De Amore (About Love) the XIIth century courtier Andreas Capellanus (the surname means chaplain!) wrote that ‘marriage is no real excuse for not loving’—part of this concept stems from the fact that nobles entered into arranged marriages to consolidate property, wealth, and power—love didn’t come into it.

My mentor is Barbara W. Tuchman, a lady who, like me, took up history and made it fun, and was criticized by professional historians who resented the inroads of an amateur and the easy and humorous style of her prose.

Tuchman died in 1989, on the cusp of digital discovery, and I am sure if she were still writing today she could report on amazing things—I could never have been a writer without the internet: it’s given me facts, made me friends, and opened doors.

In the medieval period, education was predicated on seven ‘liberal arts’, and I quote:

Grammar, the foundation of science; logic, which differentiates the truth from the false; rhetoric, the source of law; arithmetic, because ‘without numbers there is nothing’; geometry, the science of measurement; astronomy, the most noble of the sciences because it is connected with divinity and theology; and lastly music.

I find the choice as bizarre as the definitions—certainly science depends as much on mathematics as on the study of natural phenomena such as the flow of a river.

The question “How much water comes out of the Mississippi River?” has a standard answer: “As much as goes in.”

This may seem glib, but a complete answer requires an understanding of precipitation and evaporation, drainage basins and gravity flow, and percolation through the soil. After those topics are mastered, in other words with a working knowledge of geography, geology, and meteorology, a reasonable approximation can be produced without ever actually measuring the flow of the Mississippi.

The relationship between astronomy and religion is typical of the misconceptions of the era—God above was taken literally, and astronomers formulated deeply flawed models where the sun went round the earth and the atmosphere was a pathway to a set of seven heavens.

Medicine was not classed as a liberal art (duh) but considered analogous to music because its purpose was to promote the ‘harmony of the human body.’

History was straightforward and finite—the world began with Adam and Eve and would end with the second coming, which would be followed by judgement day. Perhaps that’s the genesis of the T-Shirt slogan ‘Look Busy, Jesus Is Coming’.

In the United States, creationists live by these rules, despite clear evidence to the contrary—they deny natural selection, and speculate on the end of the world based on opinions uncontaminated by facts.

Tuchman’s interpretation is that in a world of finite history leading to an examination on judgement day, there was no requirement for humans to improve themselves morally or socially in this world—that would come in the next. This is nicely captured in the song ‘The Weight’, where the narrator and Luke sit waiting for the judgement day.

 

My interest in the Medieval Period, which in many ways is paroxysmally boring, came from the present pandemic—I’ve avoided mentioning it so far, but it seems obvious that more’s-a-comin’—and in particular my interest in the Black Death.

It’s impossible to analyze the Middle Ages in Europe without considering the plague. The disease was first observed in October 1947, when a Genoese merchant ship full of dead and dying men anchored at Messina, Sicily. The ship had come from Caffa in Crimea, a trading post owned by Genoa—the town is now called Feodosia, after the old Greek name Theodosia—it was once part of the Greek empire.

Caffa was one of the world’s most important slave markets, and the bubonic plague arrived from the east, brought by the Mongolian Golden Horde.

Just as with COVID-19, the pestilence spread with great speed—slower due to the lack of globalization, faster due to the lack of hygiene and hospitals.

The Welsh talked about the ‘shilling under the armpit’, a reference to the egg-sized buboes (thus bubonic), or swellings, that appeared in the groin or armpit.

The buboes oozed blood and pus, and the skin quickly developed black splotches due to internal bleeding. The black blood that appeared in the lungs, sputum, urine, feces, and buboes gave the disease its name.

Europe lived in perplexity about many phenomena that are well understood today—which makes it all the more remarkable that cretins like the orange man and his tropical cousin refuse to act on that understanding.

To the medieval populace of Europe, the plague was the end of the world.

It was inevitable, in the religious fervor of the age, that the Jews would get blamed. As a consequence, well before the time of the Spanish Inquisition, widespread pogroms ensued.

Jews carried the plague from Toledo in little packets or a ‘narrow stitched leather bag’. These messengers brought with them rabbinical instructions for poisoning wells and springs. Many Jews were burned alive.

The word that best describes the Middle Ages in cruelty. Ignorance comes a close second.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Main Street

June 6, 2020

American folk music speaks of simple things: love, loss, the yen to up-and-go. Often, the travel is about running away—because deep down, those simple things aren’t simple at all.

Families made and broken, war and death, the call of the highway, the freight train, or the wild country—that’s Main Street.

Those are values people understand: a job, a place, watching a boy become a man, a girl turn into a woman…

So how did it all go so horribly wrong? What made simple things not matter?

I took a trip down memory lane to revisit the market meltdown of 2007-2008, a result of extraordinary institutional greed and regulatory neglect. On Wall Street, even traders who saw how fragile the system was continued pushing it, like a heroin addict who knows he’s killing himself but can’t stop.

My journey down that road began with an English trader of humble Pakistani origin and a book called Flash Crash by Bloomberg journalist Liam Vaughan.

Navinder Singh Sarao—Nav, to his mates—was accused by the US Department of Justice of cheating the Chicago Mercantile Exchange, or CME, and causing the stock market flash crash of May 6th, 2010. The fact that he did it from the comfort of his own home, located in an immigrant neighborhood near London’s Heathrow Airport, was even more remarkable.

That got me into the fascinating world of automated trading—in other words, computers. Put it this way—if you trade shares manually, it’s like running the hundred meters in flippers.

As I revisited the sub-prime mortgage scandal of 2007 and 2008 that led to the worldwide collapse of the banking system, the bankruptcy of Lehman Bros., and the bailout of AIG—the world’s largest insurance company—by the federal government, all I could think about was venality and greed.

And what the fuck was an insurance company doing in the sub-prime housing market anyhow? Greed, greed, fucking greed!

At a speech in Houston in 2008, George W.Bush—an intellectual stalwart by today’s presidential standards—went off the record:

Wall Street got drunk, that’s one of the reasons I asked you to turn off the TV cameras. It got drunk and now it’s got a hangover. The question is how long will it sober up and not try to do all these fancy financial instruments.

When you look at the way things are going now, with Wall Street on a tear and Main Street in the ditch, it’s pretty clear the market is back swigging from the poisoned cup.

For a fee, brokers supply a mechanism called web services that allows anyone with the money or the know-how to design and implement their own trading strategies—that’s the way the game is played in the new millenium.

In the lead-up to the mortgage crisis, traders were looking at the most bizarre stuff. This is how rogue trader Mark Wendale sums it up in my 2013 book, Atmos Fear.

“You got property goin’ up a steady six points or more, re-fi in suburbia is hotter than wife swapping. Yup, we’re good for a while yet,” said Wendale, the consummate trader.

Only one or two of the more clear-headed understood that the ship was headed for the rocks. After all, selling mortgages to sub-prime clients, charging the interest on only half the principal and then adding the unpaid part to the total owed, so that the new homeowner’s debt went up over the years instead of down, was bound to end in tears. But for pretty much everyone in finance, it was boom time. Dot com all over again.

“Some of those products we reviewed, I rather think they might put one in a spot of hot water.”

More Brit pinstripe-speak.

Wendale was now trading CDOs squared, and even cubed, where the product was supported on an identical product, making it increasingly difficult to grasp what the exposure was.

The height of bizarre, both in name and purpose, was called the Gaussian copula—I’ll spare you the sex jokes.

In 2000, David Li, a Wall Street mathematician employed by the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce—a touch of the Raj, methinks—worked out a formula to co-correlate probabilities, and the formula became a Wall Street darling.

But the formula was flawed—in worked well in some circumstances, in others it was disastrous.

Don’t blame Gauss—he’s one of my heroes. At three years old, Johann Carl Friedrich Gauss was correcting his father’s arithmetic. At seven, he came up with a lovely way to add consecutive numbers.

If you want to add the numbers between one and a hundred by hand (or mentally), it’s a tedious job. Bear in mind we’re in 1784, when the child prodigy was seven—no calculator. No Excel.

One of my math teachers told me that all good mathematicians are lazy—that’s why they find quick ways to solve problems.

Young Carl realized that 1 + 100 = 101. No prizes there. But he also figured out that 2 + 99 = 101. Better. And 3 + 98. And 4 + 97. And 50 + 51. Wow!

So, after he discovered that every convergent pair added to 101, he understood that 101 multiplied by 50 (one hundred numbers gives fifty pairs) gave the result he was after: 5050.

Pretty cool.

I played around with his trick and worked up a formula. Then I tested it in Excel. I’m sure any mathematician will laugh—this is old hat. But it made me happy, and the Gauss formula will add any list of consecutive numbers, for instance 102346 to 2487371. Instantly.

The answer is 3 088 271 188 821. This would take you a while in Excel. On a calculator, if you entered a number every five seconds, never made a mistake, and didn’t sleep, it would take you twenty-three days.

If you want to try a simple example, add the consecutive numbers from 1 to 4. Gives you 10. So does (1+4) X 2 (there are four numbers in the series, or two pairs). Try 3 to 6. That’s 9 X 2, or 18. I am easily amused.

What I don’t find nearly as amusing is the market rock ‘n roll. That’s how simple became complicated, and how we all got screwed.

Greed and irresponsibility is what I see. Trading mountains of mickey mouse money leveraged on virus bailouts.

I’ll leave you with a country tune, maybe we’ll get back to our roots.

Kind of crazy, with summer coming on, but all I see is black clouds.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Reboot

May 31, 2020

Anyone who’s been through a life change knows exactly how this year feels right now.

The kind of change I’m talking about is a crappy thing—a battle against cancer, the death of a child, total financial loss, an acrimonious separation, a jail sentence. A good plan for life is to minimize the chance of such things happening—but of course they do.

But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men
          Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
         For promis’d joy!

Robert Burns, November 1785

I’m sorry to hurl a Scottish poem at you without warning—I always had a hard time with poetry, unless someone put it to music—then it becomes lyrics and all is well.

Interpreted: The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray and leave us nothing but grief and pain instead of promised joy.

Nils Lofgren put the concept into a song called Black Books that has one of my favorite acoustic solos—it’s a very dark tune, which earned it a slot in Season 2 of The Sopranos.

The main problem with a reboot is that things never seem the same—what the pundits like to call the ‘new normal.’

To a lot of folks, it seems like the first half of the year simply disappeared. Vanished. Travel plans. Weddings. Vacations. Puff! All gone.

2020 is about to reboot.

I see people around me coming out of this in a kind of daze—you start to do stuff but you’re not used to it any more. It happens to me. I don’t have the appetite to get on a plane—it’s become a big deal instead of an everyday thing.

You have questions. If I go, will restaurants be open? Will I be comfortable riding a subway or a bus? In a meeting or a conference, will I want to sit in a small, packed room?

Eating out feels weird. For about three months I’ve been eating at home, playing guitar over my lunch break, and I’ve adjusted to it. I like it. One quarter of a year. My days have been (over)stuffed with Webex and Zoom. I don’t like that, but I deal with it.

I’ve started going out. All the waiters wear masks. Every place is like Zorro’s trattoria. I’m not sure how I’d prefer it. With or without. But it feels weird. I sense it all around me—every table—it makes me uncomfortable.

I can only compare it to the austerity years of a decade ago. And some things linger since then—I still don’t buy newspapers—I found another way, and I doubt I’ll go back.

There is much speculation on the economic recovery—will it be v-shaped, as the orang-u-tan preaches? Or perhaps u-shaped, as many others believe? If there’s a second peak, maybe it will be w-shaped. And there are another twenty-three letters in the alphabet—it could be an m.

The key difference between this plague and the previous ones is connectivity—in 1918, commercial air travel was a millionaire’s pastime, now it’s everyone’s god-given right. A century ago, hotels and restaurants were scarce—there was no such tradition, and there was no disposable income—now there’s Airbnb.

I’m worried it’ll be people like me who’ll stop the recovery—we’ve changed, and all it took was three months. John Le Carré made a revelation about his father, a celebrated English conman called Ronald Cornwell; after being released from jail, Ronnie would stop in front of a closed door waiting for someone to open it—we are easily formatted.

There seem to be a lot of people like me—I was supposed to be in Maine right now, but instead I ended up on a video conference this week with twenty people—two whole days, it was like pulling teeth. Someone was delayed due to a traffic jam. I asked, “What’s a traffic jam?”

Once in a while, one of the tiny squares on the screen would bemoan our predicament. “Won’t it be great when we can meet again in person? At next year’s meeting…” As the ever-hopeful business owners tirelessly tell us, we are social animals. We’re gregarious, we love company.

But despite these moans, not one person was able to suggest a meeting venue and date. I suspect that if they had, others would have been quick to point out that ‘well, at this stage…’

People ask me about flights and I tell them that I now own a collection of vouchers. I have no appetite to add to my collection, particularly since the vouchers all need to be used within one year.

Memorial Day weekend was supposed to mark the start of economic recovery in America—throngs packed the beaches and citizens went on camera with the usual fallacies. The president doesn’t wear a mask, so I don’t either, said a youngster from Alabama. We all have to die of something, said an older man sitting in his deck chair.

That weekend, the one hundred thousand mark was closing in—by Wednesday, May 27th, the virus that populists invariably labeled ‘a small, seasonal flu’ blasted through the barrier—as I write it’s already three percent higher.

Around that time, fueled by tweets, America erupted. Lots of folks going out, but not on a shopping spree—the flavor du jour was looting. The orange man was quick to capitalize on the tragic death of George Floyd—nothing like a spot of rape and pillage to divert attention from the pestilence.

The poor are dying from ‘rona, the rich are taking a staycation. And many of those poor are black—there’s no evidence of health links to minorities, it’s spurious correlation.

Spurious correlation

This excellent (but spurious) correlation (r=0.955) between train wrecks (how appropriate) and oil imports reminds us of something every lady knows—statistics are like men: properly manipulated, they’ll do anything you want. View more wonderful stats here.

As an American friend told me this week, the level of support for the orang-u-tan, given his lack of condemnation for such abhorrent acts, suggests racism in the US may be endemic in half the population—who knew?

America is now truly going through ‘fire and fury’. Instead of campus protests, hordes of youngsters who were confined at home have suddenly been let loose by social media and are busy tearing the place apart. Effective protests have a start and an end point, and a collective goal—riots, on the other, are a typical consequence of the madness of crowds.

As successive cities descend into chaos, the stark consequences of populism are on display. The great nation of the United States of America has become a populist plaything.

And now it truly is broken.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

The Four Horsemen

May 24, 2020

Over the past weeks, my articles have been a bit of a covidfest. Mea culpa (sound of chest beating), my friends, but since in a roundabout way I write about history, I think what we are all (hopefully) living through is a planetary event of huge historical relevance.

There I was thinking I’d invented a new word, when an obscure group of idiots (yup, covidiots) from an obscure town called Ipiaú in Brazil shattered my illusions.

A collection of young fools on the way to their ‘covidfest’, stopped by Brazilian military police.

These geniuses—I count fifteen, six boys with hands behind their heads and nine girls—were all breaking curfew on their way to a self-described covidfest, but the most fascinating bit of irresponsibility is the white pick-up.

All fifteen, and there may be a couple of extra off-camera cretins, were in that pick-up, some possibly already on top of each other.

In the Book of Revelations, the four horsemen of the apocalypse ride out on white, red, black, and pale horses. In the New Testament, these guys carry pestilence, war, famine, and death.

In today’s metaphor, white is Trump, red is Putin, black is Bolsonaro, and pale is Boris. The colors of the nags are quasi-serendipitous: the white supremacy, the ex-KGB (an oxymoron in itself), the country that gave us the mulatto, and the pale English rose.

These four strong men, peerless populists of the new century, exemplify everything that is wrong with… populism. So did Hitler and Mussolini, so did Napoleon, so did the others who twist down the tunnels of history, back to the Roman Empire, to the Egyptian pharaohs—ever since men were able to lead other men, right back to the creation of the species, populists have been the ruin of societies.

Populism thrives on discontent—in our times, this stems from job erosion, widening of the wealth gap, competition with immigration, and globalization. For Western working class and middle class families, hope shall be restored by a strong man—not a lot of populist women out there if you exclude French wannabe-has-been Le Pen—whose firm hand will guide a vessel lost at sea.

If the pre-pandemic perspective was a society devoid of compass and sextant, casting citizens adrift in an evermore choppy ocean, I wonder how all those good people feel now.

Those four strong men represent ten percent of the world’s population.

They are collectively responsible for forty-nine percent of the planet’s COVID-19 cases, and forty-seven percent of the world’s deaths. Case closed on geopolitical and historical significance!

Worse, I fully expect these numbers to change, and not in a good way. Time for a bit of music…

This old tune brings back memories of simpler times, when a payphone operator requested forty cents to keep a romantic call going for a period of three minutes—phones don’t have periods anymore, it’s all good clean fun nowadays.

The US and Brazilian case fatality rates, or CFR, hover at around six percent, two to three points above the best testers. In the meantime, a video made public over the weekend shows the Brazilian president swearing like the proverbial fishwife—an edifying example of what populism is really about.

The UK and Russia sit at opposite ends of the CFR spectrum—it’s pretty clear that the UK has a lot more cases than those reported, but the Russian number is the most interesting.

Putin’s nation seems indestructible—at one percent, it has the lowest fatality rate in the world. Right now, it has the same number of cases as Brazil, but you just can’t kill off the Russians—only three thousand six hundred dead have been reported.

Russia attributes this to a rigorous forensic approach—every casualty is autopsied, and if the cause of death is for instance found to be pneumonia, even when the victim tested Covid-positive, the death is flagged as non-rona.

I call BS on that one—if I have a heart attack while driving and die in the resulting crash, what was the cause of death?

Rona is much like AIDS, a disease that is mostly an indirect cause of death. An immune system weakened by HIV provides an entry point for opportunistic diseases to kill the victim—conditions including pneumonia, tuberculosis, and Kaposi’s sarcoma, a viral cancer, are just some examples.

That’s why many nations use a straightforward assessment: if a coronavirus-positive patient dies of respiratory failure, it’s a coronavirus death. Just as with the Spanish flu one century ago, the COVID-19 strips the body of its defenses and the opportunists come knocking.

These discrepancies in assessment, caused by politics rather than public health considerations, only have one winner.

Not the world, nor the country, not the people, not the populist.

The virus.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Stormy Monday

May 17, 2020

In the European Union, countries are tentatively opening up. Like an old man after a bad fall, it’s all small steps and handrails.

Outside my window I can hear an airplane—first time in weeks—and a high-pitched whistle brings back childhood memories and sets the neighborhood dogs off.

A common sight in Southern Europe back in the day, and a creative use of a bicycle wheel.

It’s a knife-sharpener making his pitch—one long tone followed by a short burst of lower notes—guaranteed to tickle the tympanus of any red-blooded hound.

In Southern Europe, cafes and restaurants begin to open their doors, loosening the garotte that has strangled the hospitality industry over the last months—and increasing the risk of a new wave of virus cases.

Next Monday,  May 18th, begins a phase known in many EU countries as ‘regional responsibility’—we’ll see how it goes.

A six-day moving average shows the decline in new cases and fatalities in Portugal, back to the situation in late March, but this time on the good side of the curve.

The basis for this ‘deconfinement’—part of an outbreak of new Coronavirus terms—lies in charts like the one above; data are always ‘noisy’, so a simple smoothing method can be used for trend analysis.

Portugal has been a shining example of common sense and public responsibility, which accounts for the fact that it has less than forty percent of the Irish death rate, relative to total population.

I know a number of people who have been tested, and could easily have been tested myself—the county where I live currently offers a free test to establish whether residents have had the virus.

This is in sharp contrast to the UK, where some doctors who do frontline work for the National Health Service have been unable to get a test.

If you consider the UK deaths in proportion to Portugal, the equivalent population of Britain would be two hundred ninety-four million, rather than the existing sixty-six million—this is because the death rate in the UK is about five times the Portuguese number.

A similar analysis for the United States would mean an equivalent population of seven hundred sixty-two million, about double the actual number.

The troublesome part of all this is that while the EU curves are all flattening, the UK and US are still going up, so these calculations are over-optimistic.

Boris is safe in his seat, having just won a general election, but the orange man is on the wrong side of the cycle—November is just a heartbeat away.

The history of the Spanish influenza continues to amaze me—there is so much to be learned about the current pandemic if we would only read a little history.

The estimated fatalities in the Spanish flu of 1918 were fifty million worldwide—the US number was six hundred and fifty thousand, around 1.3% of the total.

The equivalent number today? Over twenty-eight percent of fatalities worldwide are in the United States—an extraordinarily high number, considering America’s status as a ‘developed’ nation.

As an aside, the messages coming out of the States are increasingly bizarre—the president has gone from being a national embarrassment and international joke to becoming a public danger.

I was particularly bemused by the statement ‘If we didn’t do any testing, we would have very few cases.‘ While that is certainly true, surely the number of corpses is the real issue, not the cases—and dead bodies are pretty obvious…

The recent comments about a ‘warp-speed’ vaccine are also bizarre. There are steps that must be fulfilled in order to ensure a vaccine is both safe and effective. Some of these are concurrent, but most are consecutive—you cannot test in animals and humans simultaneously.

The science behind vaccine development is so critical I enjoin you to read it here right now. This should make it clear why ‘vaccine’ and ‘warp-speed’ cannot be used in the same sentence. As Warren Buffett famously said, ‘some things just take time and patience—you can’t make a baby in one month by getting nine women pregnant.’

The truth is that the orang-u-tan feels the election slipping away from him—but it actually slipped away at the start of the year, as soon as it became clear that the danger and consequences of a potential pandemic had been horribly misunderstood and hopelessly mismanaged—a triumph of science over ‘gut-feeling’ at a terrible, terrible cost that pleases not a single scientist.

I guess that makes him the index case when it comes to covidiots, one of the new words spawned by the pandemic. Others that I like are blursday, since everyone loses track of time, quaranteams for teams WFH (working from home), and rona—a short name for the virus itself.

Even better, if you like cockney rhyming slang, is Miley. Miley Cyrus? Coronavirus… As in “Boris came down with the Miley.”

During the Spanish flu pandemic, some doctors tried ‘remedies’ like the typhoid vaccine, or quinine—then widely used to treat malaria. Here again we see history repeat itself with the hydroxychloroquine spoof.

Most US states are about to reopen—considering where they sit on the curve, they should consider that Miley is also ready to reopen.

In the West, Stormy Monday awaits, and there is some expectation that the EU will see a resurgence in virus cases—in the US, you can drop the prefixes—it’ll be a surge.

A further snippet of pandemic history provides food for thought. Although the index case of Spanish influenza was registered in Haskell County, Kansas, in January 1918, not only did that spring—like this one—prove tragic, but the disease emerged with far greater lethality in the fall.

Unfortunately, it did not stop there. Every subsequent year until 1922 had serious outbreaks and many deaths.

Some of the greatest medical minds continued working on the disease for decades after—during the pandemic itself the causative agent was often thought to be a bacterium called Bacillus influenzae, also known as Pfeiffer’s bacillus. The bug is now called Haemophilus influenzae—it took until 1933 to unequivocally establish the viral nature of flu.

By then, many of the great scientists who worked on the problem were getting old.

The great XIXth century  British biologist Thomas Henry Huxley once quipped, ‘A man of science past the age of sixty does more harm than good’, but Oswald Avery was sixty-five when he published a seminal paper that established that it was desoxyribonucleic acid (DNA)—rather than proteins—that carried the genes.

The year was 1944, and Avery had been working on influenza for over twenty years—he should have won the Nobel Prize (all his close colleagues did); Avery was nominated in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, but died at the age of seventy-seven without the prize—one of the great injustices of the Swedish academy.

We must thank science for the advances of the last one hundred years, and for the chances that a vaccine somewhere in the middle of 2021 will get ‘rona’ under control.

After that, we’ll need to rebuild the shattered lives of so many people whose income, family stability, and self-esteem have been destroyed by the heartless selfishness and cavalier attitude of snake oil politicians.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Blue Notes

May 9, 2020

My love affair with music got off to a rocky start when I was eight or nine years old. The Rabbit decided it would be a good thing to put me in a conservatory—no, not a greenhouse enclosure, though lord knows I deserved it, but a music school. Apparently in the UK it’s also called a ‘conservatoire’—oh, how posh!

My memories are of cold, wet nights in the hilly, old part of town, rain shining off the black and white cobblestones, and a musty ancient building with large wooden double doors. Inside, various rooms with high ceilings and crumbling plaster, containing serious and aged people tasked with teaching kids music theory and making them repeat vocal exercises that numbed everyone into oblivion.

I cannot remember a single thing I was taught, so I can conclude I learnt nothing.

But a couple of years later I discovered rock ‘n roll, and it changed my life forever. By then I had developed a life-long aversion to structured learning and a great interest in learning by doing—the Rabbit bought me a fifteen dollar guitar.

It was made by the Suzuki Violin Company of Nagoya, Japan and bore the number 34. Now, Suzuki may sound exotic, but it’s the second most common name in the land (as opposed to the house) of the rising sun—the equivalent of Johnson in the United States.

Suzuki means bell wood, and Johnson means er… Johnson, so I can see a connection there also, but I digress. I now had a guitar and an epiphany—the guitar was right-handed but I was a southpaw.

Some decades—and many guitars—later, I found the Suzuki Spanish guitar, hundreds of miles from my home, and in surprisingly good shape. I had it properly set up—a number of changes needed to be made to turn it into a leftie—and in the process added another guitar to my collection.

More than one guitar.jpg

School was very different in those days—I had a teacher who played guitar during woodwork lessons—the students would begin sawing and nailing and he would chill out and play a beautiful dreadnought steel-string instrument. Those of us in the class whose interest in music exceeded our enthusiasm for carpentry almost sawed our hands off in excitement.

My first chords were learnt from the photocopied sheets he gave to his music students. I didn’t get those from the classes, I got them from a girl who took the classes—I was all done with lessons. He was a cool teacher, with long hair and hippie ties, in a Portugal that was paralyzed by fascism, dark suits, and short back and sides.

Not long after, I got hold of a book that showed the five pentatonic scales—the mothership of playing the blues. There was a big black guy with a Gibson electric guitar on the cover, and the book was full of weird and wonderful names I’d never heard of—Robert Johnson, T-Bone Walker, Elmore James, Albert King, Freddie King, B.B. King—in fact a whole courtload of kings.

And the little book illustrated how they played—their style. The bending, the hammer-ons, pull-offs, slides, everything that turned a guitar solo into a quasi-sexual experience.

And it didn’t have a single sentence on music theory—I was in heaven.

After many years of playing the blues without a care in the world (oh, the paradox) I’ve used the triple C—Coronavirus confinement context—to get into some of the music theory, and it’s been fun.

The major doh-re-mi bla bla scale—which most of us can have a sporting try at humming—was corrupted by the early bluesmen by ‘flattening’ some of the notes. The entire major scale (including the first and last doh or C) has eight notes, and the blues flatten the third (mi or E), fifth (sol or G) and seventh (si or B)—which is why they’re called blue notes.

Its always struck me that the guitar fretboard is a picture of mathematical logic—a direct consequence of the mathematical basis of music—and I’ve always liked math, so maybe that’s why I like music.

What I didn’t realize is that there are seven scales, and they all have Greek names—the ancient Greeks were good at math, and they figured all this stuff out. So the major scale is Ionian, and the minor scale is Aeolian, named after the Greek god of winds.

And there’s even a Lydian scale—I’d love to think it was named after my Rabbit.

I like the seven scales—it goes with the seven days of the week, the seven heavens of Christianity, and the seven notes of each scale. It all has a nice ring of Illuminati and conspiracy theory.

The master of the seventh is of course Muddy Waters, as you will see from the second verse of his classic tune, Hoochie Coochie Man. And when you’ve seen that one, watch Clapton put it to bed.

As for me, it’s time to go see how my Suzie is doing.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Murder Most Foul

March 28, 2020

Last week I told you we need music at this time, so today I’m going down that road.

Yesterday Bob Dylan released a new song called ‘Murder Most Foul.’

What’s it about? The seventy-nine year old Nobel Laureate would reply, “Oh, it’s about seventeen minutes,” and flash his ironic iconic smin—that’s a cross between a smirk and a grin.

The analysts, of which I am one, were quick to point out that it’s his longest song ever. It bests tunes such as A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall, Gates of Eden, It’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding), or Lily Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts.

When you listen to Murder Most Foul, you realize it has little pretence of a tune—in essence it’s a poem recited to some background piano lines, vaguely drifting along the standard blues theme, with a drumbeat coloring the mix here and there.

I closed my eyes yesterday lunchtime in the bright sunshine of early spring, buds in my ears to shut off extraneous sounds, and let my mind wander through seventeen minutes of poetry—it was like a journey through my life.

No one is exactly sure when this was recorded, since Dylan has put out nothing for eight years, and this release—along with eight other songs—was accompanied by a cryptic tweet:

Greetings to my fans and followers with gratitude for all your support and loyalty across the years. This is an unreleased song we recorded a while back that you might find interesting. Stay safe, stay observant and may God be with you.

I would interpret the last sentence in light of coronavirus, and perhaps ‘observant’ as keeping a watchful eye on politicians—you know who you are.

After all, this is the man who wrote:

Come senators, Congressmen, please heed the call
Don’t stand in the doorway, don’t block up the hall
For he who gets hurt, will be he who has stalled
There’s a battle outside and it is ragin’
It’Il soon shake your windows and rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin’

and who told us in ‘It’s Alright Ma’ that Even the president of the United States sometimes must have to stand naked.

Only Dylan is able to give us a poem of rambling coherence, starting with the shooting of JFK and ending with darkness and death, and in those seventeen minutes—enough for almost six songs back in the days of the three-minute single—cover the gamut of American popular music, with a few Brit names thrown in for good measure.

While Dylan goes full circle round the events of Dealey Plaza, he takes us from Gone With The Wind to Charlie Parker, with references to heroin and the famous blues crossroads in Clarksdale, Mississippi, which I was fortunate enough to visit this time last year.

On the way he crosses the Mersey, chats to Pete Townshend, speaks with Benny Siegel, the legendary (and crazy, i.e. ‘bugsy’—but not to his face if you valued yours) Jewish gangster, and touches down in Love Field, Dallas, where Texan Lyndon Johnson was sworn in as president at 2:38 pm on Friday, 22nd November 1963.

When I sent the link to a friend yesterday she thought Trump had been shot, a reminder of the difficult times we are traveling now. Bill Gates, who probably knows more about medicine than quite a few medical professionals, was on CNN a couple of days ago talking about the partial shutdown and partial reopening—once again, the emphasis is on the economy rather than public health, and the price will be huge.

Folks don’t realize that the orang-u-tan will do what he does best, since he’s an expert in reactive ‘management’. No one in their right mind will pack churches at Easter, and the ecclesiastical authorities should be the first to firmly address the faithful on that subject—for Catholics, that means the pope, for the multitude of other US flavors of Christianity, it means homegrown church leaders, many of whom are too beholden to party politics to stand up and be counted.

When asked about US states with two hundred cases, Gates mentions an infection rate of thirty-three percent per day. A very simple model projects that to half a million cases inside a month—go do it in Excel.

Now factor in a 3.4% mortality rate, according to World Health Organization estimates—total infection halves, but at a cost—thirty-six thousand dead. Fascinating numbers. Then review this analysis in The Lancet, which discusses the uncertainty of the CFR, or Case Fatality Rate, estimates, and plug in 0.99%.

Oh, before you do that, understand, as Gates does, that growth is exponential, so rounding up to 1% makes a big difference. Here are the numbers, crunched for you on a beautiful sunny Saturday, when hospitals all over Spain are at breaking point, and the only music you hear in the packed corridors is the chorus of a dry cough.

The numbers tell a story: 0.99% gives you over four hundred thousand infected in a month, and seventeen thousand deaths. That tiny 0.01% change? After thirty days it’s an extra one thousand cases.

So we’re all sorcerers’ apprentices now, and we should definitely take this a lot more seriously than the president of the United States is doing. Except of course he will explain to everyone when things go tits up that he never said anything like this at all, shout down a few reporters and claim fake news, and come out squeaky clean, inheriting the mantle of Teflon Don from the late John Gotti.

Customer in a hazmat suit at a European supermarket. I spent some time stalking him through the aisles in search of the ideal snap.

But my reflections today are about music, so let me spend the last couple of lines on the one name that Dylan mentions almost as much as Kennedy. I’m talking about the Wolf, Wolfman, Wolfman Jack.

I first came across him in the cult movie American Graffiti, a must for any fan of rock ‘n roll. He’s the guy with the gravelly voice who plays, well, himself as DJ of the new music sweeping the world in the nineteen sixties.

His emblematic style (‘lay your hands on the radio and squeeze my knobs’) and fabulous music choices made him a favorite all over the US, and artists like Jim Morrison, Leon Russell, and Freddie King wrote him into their songs.

So take your seventeen minutes of quarantine, close your eyes, open your mind, and enjoy the sunshine.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

The Black Death

March 22, 2020

Last week, the ISIS newsletter al-Naba had a gem for its readers.

The healthy should not enter the land of the epidemic and the afflicted should not exit from it.

This was taken to mean that terrorists should not travel into Europe or other parts of the West where the current flavor of coronavirus is flourishing—it led to a rash of commentary in Western, Indian, and Arab media.

Most of those comments were er… rash, and this week’s edition of the terrorist organization’s newsletter dispels any comfort that it has no plans for renewed attacks in Europe.

And they must have no pity for the disbelievers and the apostates even as they are at the height of their tribulation, and they must intensify the pressure on them so they become more pressured and incapable of harming the Muslims by the permission of God the Lord of the Worlds.

It’s a particularly risky time for such an attack—the suicide bombers will be  home-grown, as they largely have been, and I suspect they won’t be too concerned about dying from the pandemic—the timing will most likely be the predicted infection peak.

This lack of concern mirrors Trump’s approach over the past two and a half months—enough intelligence material was circulating in the corridors of power in DC to prompt alleged insider trading by various senators on both sides of the aisle, but as usual the president’s gut knew best.

The US reacted far too slowly and in a completely fragmented fashion—at the federal level it focused on the economy instead of public health, like someone trying to fight melanoma with cold cream.

Finally, some of the right noises are coming from above, mainly from Anthony Fauci, head of NIAID, and a member of the White House Coronavirus Task Force—a man worthy of respect.

Trump, on the other hand, is adept at sowing confusion, with glib suggestions about the efficacy of the malarial drug hydroxychloroquin—the most up-to-date information from the Centers For Disease Control is not nearly so sanguine, but folks don’t read that—they stick to Twitter and WhatsApp.

On March 18th, Bill Ackman, CEO of Pershing Square Capital, raised the bar on CNBC, asking for America to shut down, along with affected areas in the rest of the world—governors in several US states have shown clear leadership on this while the federal government showed none.

In the United Kingdom, the approach has been similar—the tail wagging the dog. The narrative from the prime minister is as confusing as his hairstyle, drifting from tepid to lukewarm—Brexit lurks everywhere, since the government cannot possibly align with the EU in this brave new world. Finally, the pubs are shut, following Ireland’s lead one week ago—and it took balls to shut them forty-eight hours before St. Patrick’s day!

Leadership, balls and ovaries, and good ideas—Yossi Sheffi, director of MIT’s CTF, came up with a brace of them this week—my favorites? 3-D printing of ventilators, one-way aisles in supermarkets, and getting rid of the asinine term ‘social distancing’ by calling it what it actually is—physical distancing.

And when it comes to leadership and balls, observers have been quick to point out the contrast between Andrew Cuomo’s pledge that ‘the buck stops on my desk’, contrasting it with the president’s utter rejection of responsibility.

The analogy between republican president Herbert Hoover’s mishandling of the Great Depression and the leadership shown by Franklin D. Roosevelt, then democrat governor of New York, escapes no one, particularly in an election year.

As the song goes, and we need music at this terrible time, it makes me wonder.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Touted

October 26, 2019

Last Saturday night, I got touted.

I’m using the verb in an unusual way—by convention, when something is touted, it is promoted or claimed.

But when I say I got touted, I wasn’t in any way the object of promotion. On the contrary, I got screwed.

Back in the day (and they’re still around) a tout might approach you at the subway exit, or in a park next to a sports stadium or a concert venue. The show may vary, but the game is unvarying.

I grew up with analog touts—always guys, always shady, slightly more presentable than a heroin dealer, slightly less pushy than a mugger.

The typical tout would operate on behalf of someone else, the toutmeister—the guy with the capital to purchase a stock of tickets in the first place, and to take the financial risk—just as with drugs, and so many other businesses: risk it, buy it, flog it.

But where a human tout might nag and cajole you, there were only three ways he could scam you—falsely persuade you that box office tickets were sold out, hike the price, or sell you a fake ticket.

That last one is a little tricky—to the extent I will only find out in December if the tickets I was touted with are genuine—there may be a Touted Part II.

Many years ago, an English guy I knew was driving along in southern Portugal. A traffic policeman flagged him down and he pulled to a stop by the side of the road, by a row of olive trees. The day was hot, and the cop waited until the dust settled on the verge; then he walked up to the Ford and saluted.

Documentos,” he said.

The Englishman only knew two words in Portuguese. Cerveja—beer, and obrigado—thank-you. In those days, Portuguese people got by in French better than in English, but the two words, together with a little mime, usually did the trick.

Documentos,” the cop repeated.

The man handed him the car registration. The policeman wanted ID.

The Englishman reached into his wallet and produced a single quarter-sheet of paper. It was official-looking, contained his name in an underline at the top, and a list of items below that, together with some numbers and a signature.

The traffic cop scrutinized the British driving license—he had never seen one before. He examined the document again, unable to fathom what any of the words or numbers meant.

Boa tarde.” Satisfied, he handed back the documents, saluted, and headed to his vehicle.

The Englishman put the paper back in his wallet and drove off, grinning. This would make quite a story in the pub. The quarter-sheet was a laundry bill from a Hertford dry cleaner, made out to Mr. Jack Ramsey. Itemized were one pair of trousers and three shirts.

Fake tickets are not easy to spot.

Last week they finally got me—I was touted online. I paid eight times more for a rock concert ticket than the face value printed on it. No redress, no way back.

From time to time, we all find ourselves in situations where we spend more than we planned—I have two cures for that: don’t make the same mistake twice, and work a little harder the following week.

So, I can’t get my money back. But I have a weapon. The pen is mightier than the scam, so let’s get into the weeds.

I was touted by Viagogo, one of a number of sites that specialize in the secondary market for tickets. The company is legally based in Geneva, and therefore neatly dodges EU regulation on consumer protection.

When I looked into Viagogo, I found out that it has been publicly condemned by the UK’s digital minister, Margot James—I didn’t realize Britain had such a thing, and she’s also notched up points in my book by resigning from government on July 18th, 2019, to vote against the prorogation of parliament.

I really didn’t want to go down the hellhole of Brexit today—compared to that, a tout is but a fart: smells foul but disappears quickly—but Margot further warmed my heart by having the whip removed on September 3rd, in what will become known as the Boris Brexitovsky purges.

So, Ms. James told BBC Radio 5 Live that she warned consumers away from ticket reselling platform Viagogo, branding it “the worst”. Apparently, the company had already fallen foul (there’s that smell again) of the British Advertising Standards Authority for imposing “hidden” fees on customers.

Ed Sheeran has also condemned the Viagogo touts—didn’t cheer me up much, but at least I’m in good company.

Digital touts, or more accurately, internet touts, have provide a major disservice to music—and that, friends, is a capital crime in my book.

You may be familiar with the concept of bots. Just as you can read me on your tablet or cellphone, so a bot can access this page, traverse all other links, and collect a history of my mentions of the words ‘sex’, or ‘China’, or ‘orang-u-tan’.

Bots are what allows Google to index pages and process them to help you find stuff. They’re also responsible for the annoying Captcha stuff, and the occasional requirement to click on images with buses—Boris could do that for a living rather than managing a dog’s breakfast.

The secondary market sites got into the bot business—they sent out bots to buy online tickets to concerts, sports events, you name it. Digital touts therefore sucked out the primary market—by the time you heard about a concert, the primary market was empty.

Musicians want fans, and fans want affordable music. This sets door prices, until robotouts screw the whole system—at that point, ticket prices skyrocket, and the audience shifts towards the wealthy—as Lennon famously said in the Albert Hall, ‘the rest of you, just rattle your jewellery.’

Viagogo traps you using four tricks. First, they have a bar at the top of the page where you select the number of tickets you want. My magic number was 2, and I was shown a price. In very small print, and a discreet color, the column header says:

(each)

No matter what number you select—customers in good faith will choose the one they need—the price never changes. Even when they break down net costs and tax, they only ever use the single ticket price, with e.g. 4X slyly inserted off to the side.

Second, as soon as you make a choice, a timer window appears, counting down the seconds to pressure you to complete your purchase.

Third: never, throughout the process, are you ever told the face value of the ticket you are buying.

Finally, the total amount you’re spending is not shown at checkout, only in a post-purchase confirmation screen, aka a gotcha screen.

Touts in the UK, Scalpers in the US. Scum of the earth anywhere.

After I fell for this scam, I wondered if I was the only fool in the market… sadly, no. An excellent article published this August in Wired tells us:

Favourite band coming to town? Good luck getting tickets. The touts have already snapped them up – and they’re now listed for ten-times the face value on Viagogo and StubHub. But digital touts may be facing extinction. New technology is making mass buying more difficult, governments are closing in on rogue resellers and even Ticketmaster is shutting down its own resale sites. The only problem? Getting hold of on-demand tickets is unlikely to get any cheaper or easier.

I found out Viagogo has company. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, there’s Viagogo, Stubhub, Seatwave, and Get Me In. Four unpolishable turds.

Notice how often I’ve written Viagogo’s name—ordinarily I wouldn’t do this, but I want Viagogo imprinted in your mind, and I want to increase the visibility of this article when some poor sucker searches for Viagogo on the net—I just refuse to link them.

Companies like Viagogo are a collective danger—they disenfranchise the less well-off, make culture less accessible and more elitist, and help widen the gap between the appointed and the disappointed.

These are the recipes for the politics of extremes that has invaded Western society, only three generations after World War II.

As for Viagogo? To use a popular, if unfulfilled, promise, may they die in a ditch.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.

Blonde on Blonde

September 29, 2019

Blonde on Blonde is one of Bob Dylan’s greatest records—with artists like Dylan, The Beatles, Clapton, or The Stones, it’s wonderful to be able to say that—there are enough great albums that you can’t choose the best.

The two blondes in this article are the exact opposite—they’ve done so much crap it’s hard to choose the worst in their record. And to cap it all, one of them isn’t even blond—he is in fact a dubious shade of orange—bring on the spectrometer.

I have strong ties to both America and Britain, and good friends in both countries—the image projected by those great nations at present reflects the worse that nationalism and populism can offer.

In the nineteen twenties and thirties, Europe was destroyed by National Socialism—almost one century later, the Western World is being destroyed by National Populism.

As usual, I thought I’d come up with a new phrase, only to find that an entire book, called National Populism: The Revolt Against Liberal Democracy, was published last year on this very subject. The authors are Roger Eatwell (really) and Matthew Goodwin, and the LSE blog gives it a positive, though somewhat mixed, review.

Eatwell and Goodwin (sorry, I love that) blame the ‘four Ds’. I appreciate appropriate alliteration, so here come the ‘D’s:

Distrust, destruction, deprivation, and de-alignment.

This is quite good, if self-evident: distrust in the political class; destruction of communal identity due to globalization; deprivation linked to class inequality (The Hourglass); and de-alignment of personal identity with political parties or brands.

So here we have the raw material for the likes of Steve Bannon, Nigel Farage, Marine Le Pen, or the late Pym Fortuyn.

The demagogue wallows in this fertile swill—it breeds an easy narrative of corrupt pols, job losses to China and Bangladesh, Goldman versus Burger King, and identity crisis—you know who you are because of Facebook and Instagram, and you drift in a current of posts, memes, and viral clips.

Suddenly you’re important—you have friends. You’re pulled along with the tide, but you’re in out of your depth, and only one thing can happen at that stage as you drift back and forth.

Go figure!

You start to sink, not at all sure how far the bottom lies—and at some point, along comes a nice blond (or potentially orange) man with a great idea, one that solves all your problems.

When that kind and generous hand is extended from above, you—who are maybe on benefits in Sunderland, England, or Ohio, USA—grab on to it with vigor, knowing that finally, there’s someone up there who gets it, someone who’s on your side.

And in this case, their background is so uncannily similar to yours! Why, one was born into a family of millionaires, skipped the Vietnam war, and has systematically abused immigrant labor and contracted manufacturing abroad to further his own ends; and the other, like most folks in Sunderland, is Eton and Oxford-educated.

What you perhaps didn’t know, and may garner a wry smile, is that Boris Johnson was also educated at the European School in Brussels. I suspect that on October 17th he will be continuing his education.

Both men have ridden the same wave of National Populism, which I have just christened the NAPPI movement.

And in both cases, events have shown that chaos is the inevitable consequence of scheduling appointments for foxes inside hen houses.

In Trump’s case it took three years, Boris only took three months—but the consequences of this kind of ‘government’ are abundantly clear—it’s an experiment with one hell of a cost.

In the US, the office of president has been utterly debased, abused for personal advantage, and sunk, in the eyes of many Americans and of outside observers, to unimaginable lows. The kinds of conversations that have recently come to light may signal the end of this nightmare, and yet the current administration has ridden scandal after scandal using well-tested fallacies.

A letter signed by more than three hundred US national security professionals emerged this week, denouncing the exchange between Trump and the new president of the Ukraine. Out of all the signatories, all but two were either ‘former’, or ‘retd’—either those in active service think these are appropriate actions, or there is a serious lack of courage with respect to opposing the administration.

I suspect the latter—there’s a good deal of fear inside the federal government, because a witch hunt is undoubtedly going on—not of the president, as he constantly and falsely repeats, but of any who oppose him.

To an outsider, it’s incomprehensible how the Republican Party let itself get hijacked, and why at this stage, a majority of senate republicans, who clearly cannot abide Trump, should not simply support impeachment and get rid of him once and for all—hold their noses, vote with the democrats, and ‘Bye Felicia!

When it comes to Boris and Brexit, Churchill’s quote on Russia comes to mind: “a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, inside an enigma.”

All we can really forecast at present is that things will end badly, but no one knows how or when. After his trouncing by the British supreme court, Bojo was forced back from New York. The current state of play is as follows: (i) a Brexit deal by the next meeting of the European Council seems highly unlikely; (ii) the British PM will either ask for a delay, refuse to ask and accept the legal consequences, or resign; (iii) there will be a general election within the next three months.

A Bojo resignation is highly unlikely, so he would have to be forced out—also unlikely. A Labour victory in the election is unlikely, particularly with the LibDems splitting the vote, making a Tory plus Brexit party win a real possibility—an alliance conditioned by a policy decision on a no-deal Brexit will be the outcome.

The alternative scenario would be a Labour plus LibDem government, a second referendum, and further mayhem.

That’s what we know.

We also now know that remembering history is a good thing, and that experiments with combustible materials can burn the house down.

The India Road, Atmos Fear, Clear Eyes, and Folk Tales For Future Dreamers. QR links for smartphones and tablets.


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