Andrea XI – Miserable old sod

‘...and then, lo and behold, it turns out, surprise, surprise, one of the oil companies had been sitting on the patent the whole time, so just in the nick of time, the good old US of A comes through and saves the world...’
I’m holding forth somewhat again. She looks bored and pissed off. I’m not even sure what her point was. I asked her earlier if she would rather we just stop meeting, give up, move on. I’m sure she must have something better to do but she says no, it’s fine. So here we are.
‘That wasn’t actually proved – the thing about the patent’ she says.
‘It was leaked to Greenpeace.’
‘I know, but they’re not exactly the most reliable source...’
‘But it’s suspiciously convenient don’t you think?’
‘It was convenient I’ll grant you, but you should be happy. No more global warming, no more smog? I’d have thought you’d have been overjoyed.’
‘And I was. Really. It’s just... It just means we can go on with even more so called “development” – owning ever more pointless junk and having ever more meaningless “experiences”. I suppose I’d just like us to have been forced to take a bit of a look at ourselves, think about what life is really about.’
‘But we probably wouldn’t have.’
‘Wouldn’t have what?’
‘Looked at ourselves, thought about it.’
‘I don’t think that’s true’ I begin. ‘It was only the bloody USA as usual, dragging its feet, and they only released the technology because the oil was running out and they didn’t want to be dependant on the likes of Venezuela and Russia. They didn’t give a toss about the environment.’
‘That’s crap Gabriel. Mithras* made a hell of a difference to life in places like Nigeria and Brazil.’
‘Only because the USA wanted the cheap imports.’
‘I still think it probably did more good than bad’ she says but we both know it’s highly debatable. Despite the almost unlimited energy it could have provided for development in the places that needed it most, like northeast Africa where Andrea spent most of her time, the licences were mostly restricted to commercial developments in more secure locations. Plus ça change, plus la même bloody old chose, as I always say...
‘Ok, so here’s the question’ I say. ‘You were in Africa until the end. Did you really see any tangible improvement in people’s lives? Really?’
She takes a while to think about that. She looks quite upset. Suddenly I fear I’ve gone too far.
‘No’ she admits quietly. ‘Not really.’
She sits back, arms crossed, frowning, looking at the floor.

I look around at the room. I’m disappointed in myself to find that I still don’t seem to be able to control this urge to try to push someone else’s opinions to destruction. But, to be fair, she started it this time – telling me how much difference the multi-nationals had made to life in Sub-Saharan Africa while she was there. Needless to say I scoffed at that. I don’t think much of myself when I’m like this but I don’t seem to be able to stop it. I tell myself that I still have something important to say, something about there being more to development than consumerism but without much hope. We’ve been through all this before.
Actually I’m more disappointed in us. Something happened to us last session, something’s gone from us, from the way we are together. Now we’re just passing time until the end of the voyage and suddenly we don’t seem to have anything to talk about. So we have reverted to this.

I had one of those dream memories the other night, about a girl I’d known back in the nineties. I’d completely forgotten about her. It was one of those festival romances. Laura her name was. We were inseparable. We spent the entire four days together talking and strolling around. We did the sweat lodge together, and ‘danced the wave’, which I never would have normally. Every evening we were there together in the main yurt, me sat behind her with my arms around her. We kissed and nuzzled a little but that was all. It was enough. There was this electricity between us – anticipation of what was to come. We were so good together.

We saw each other a couple of times afterwards but she told me it was too complicated and could we just be friends? So we spent a couple of evenings at her place, sat at opposite ends of the sofa, and had absolutely nothing to say to each other. Actually, by the end of that second evening, by the time I left we really rather hated one another. This feels like that. I still don’t know what happened.

‘Do you really believe in all this stuff Gabriel?’ she says at last, giving me that cold appraising look she sometimes has. ‘All this stuff about capitalism and colonialism and all the rest of it? Or is it just some sort of game to you, a sort of competition?’ She’s hugging herself tightly now, hunching down, pushing her breasts up under her chin, like she’s dug herself in behind her sandbags.
‘Well, if you’d lived the life I did...’ I say, attempting flippancy.
‘That’s not it. Sorry. Millions of people get made homeless each year. Most of them are just preoccupied with their day-to-day struggle for survival. Hardly any try to work out a global geopolitical justification for it.’
‘I’m a philosopher. What can I say?’
She raises her eyebrows at me.
‘That and the fact that I couldn’t bear the idea that my parents might be right.’ It was meant to be a joke.
‘Aha’ she says, triumphantly. She smiles at me and shakes her head knowingly. ‘So actually (since you wanted to talk more about what happened with your parents and your work and the rest of it) all you’ve actually been doing for the last (what is it?) forty odd years, is sticking two fingers up at your mum and dad. It’s just all been one long adolescent strop. You’re just forever pissed off that the world won’t do things your way. You think the world is crap but there’s no point in actually trying to do anything about it. You were just a miserable old sod, sitting on his allotment, bitching about it. All your “politics” is just about blaming someone else. And meanwhile I was... Oh Gabriel... Grow up!’
I sit and gather myself. I wasn’t quite expecting this tirade. Strange how, although I always expect people to despise me sooner or later, the actual moment it comes, and the form it comes in always take me by surprise. I’d like to say she’s beautiful when she’s angry but she’s not. Argument is really overrated as an aphrodisiac.
‘That’s not it’ I say, genuinely hurt. ‘I don’t think everything’s crap. And I’m not just blaming society or whatever.’ She just looks more exasperated with me than ever. ‘No, actually’ I say ‘come to think of it I take that back. I am blaming society. I don’t see why I should take all the responsibility. I didn’t fit into their plans. Yes, actually I do blame society.’
She observes me. I half expect her to say ‘life’s not fair’ as my mum would have and I’ll have to restrain myself from going over and slapping her.
‘The world’s not going to change just to suit you Gabriel.’
‘Not just me’ I say quietly.
‘So what’s your answer Gabriel?’ she says huffily. ‘What’s the solution?’
I take a deep breathe. ‘I don’t know’ I say.
‘What?’
‘I don’t have a simple answer. I don’t believe there is just this one monolithic solution to everything. Sorry.’ She looks disappointed, not, I suspect, because she was hoping I had a solution, but because I’ve deprived her of the opportunity to sneer at my simple-mindedness.
‘What I do know’ I continue, ‘is that nothing changes until it is widely acknowledged that something is seriously wrong and that things need to change. Once that happens, solutions begin to become more obvious.’
‘But you have to be practical.’
‘No I don’t. People used to think it was impossible to run a civilisation without slaves. If the anti-slavery lobby had got bogged down in the economics they’d never have got anywhere.’
I can see she’s thinking about it. That’s good.
‘But there’s still slavery’ she says quietly. ‘I saw it for myself.’
‘I know. But that doesn’t means it can’t change. Everybody knows it’s wrong... And anyway, even if it’s not practical... We still have to try. It’s like child abuse. Nobody seriously thinks it’s possible to simply put an end to it for all time but nobody’s saying we shouldn’t bother trying. That’s all I want – people to agree there’s a problem and that something should be done.’
‘That’s all?’
‘For a start. Look, maybe you don’t agree with me. Maybe you don’t think there’s a problem. Fair enough. End of conversation, but if you do agree... which I think most people do... everything else follows from that. You can’t just shrug and say “It’s terrible but there’s nothing we can do about it.” Do you see what I’m getting at? You can’t know what’s possible until you try. I believe the reason the world is not a better place is not because people think it’s ok as it is, or because change is not possible, but because people who stand to lose money and power really don’t want us to try.’

She nods wearily but it’s not because I’ve convinced her. It’s because she’s had enough, and so have I. Suddenly I feel very weary too. I don’t want to fight any more, but I also want her to understand something about me – that it wasn’t just a tantrum. I really did believe things could change, even if I had no idea how. I want her to understand that people don’t get angry if they think there’s nothing they can do. That just leads to apathy and self-indulgence. Anger comes from knowing things could be better. Anger comes from hope, not from despair. I need her to see this. I wasn’t a miserable old sod. That’s not fair.

* Mithraic cells (Mithras™) was a photovoltaic system developed to be installed as easily and cheaply as ordinary roof tiles or other roofing material. It made most new buildings, even in temperate climes more or less self-sufficient in electricity and created a vast surplus of energy in the tropics and subtropics. Hydrogen became cheaply available by electrolysis of water (HydroGen™) and quickly replaced petrol and kerosene as the fuel of choice. This led to unprecedented development in some of what had been the poorest countries, the end of conflict in what had been the main oil producing areas, the dropping of plans for more nuclear power plants and the almost complete cessation of carbon dioxide emissions from the burning of fossil fuels. There were suspicions at the time that one of the larger oil companies had been sitting on the patent for over thirty years when it’s existence was leaked to an environmental pressure group.

Andrea I – Politics

‘You don’t think you need to be especially intelligent to get rich?’ says Andrea, bemused. She’s a gorgeous curvy white-skinned redhead and she also happens to be my guide this time around.
‘Have you met these people?' I say. 'Smug, arrogant nonentities the lot of them.’
‘That doesn’t seem to me very likely, considering...’
‘They’re only in charge because half the time they’re so obnoxious nobody wants to argue with them.’
She looks at me very sceptically.
‘Oh look’ I say, ‘no doubt some of the rich are very clever and charming but I don’t think there’s any particular correlation. They know what they need to know. They know how to make money.’
She looks away and huffs a bit.
‘You naively assume’ I continue, ‘that knowing how to make money out of a thing necessarily implies some real aptitude for the thing itself. Do you imagine the bloke who runs a vast chain of, I don’t know, shoe shops for example, has any particular talent for making shoes?’
In the course of our debate her expression veers from polite attention to cool indifference to wry disdain to, as time goes on, intense irritation. I don’t like it but it doesn’t make what I’m saying wrong. I press on.
‘Of course he hasn’t. He simply takes the credit. “Look at these wonderful shoes I’ve made” he says. Bollocks he hasn’t so much as touched them. I wouldn’t mind so much if I thought that the people actually on the shop floor, the actual craftsmen, the artisans got paid properly – you know “a fair days pay for a fair days work” and all that’ I look into her face. ‘That’s Marx in case you were wondering.’ She appears unmoved. ‘How revolutionary is that?’ I add sarcastically.
She gives me a tight little smile in return, humouring me. ‘You’re surely not going to tell me you’re still a Marxist’ she says.
‘I have certain sympathies’ I say, ‘but no. I reject all labels, as they say.’
‘But I’d have thought, after Stalin and the gulags and all that...’
‘I’m in little doubt that Marx would have been spinning in his pit if he’d seen what became of his ideas. Actually I suspect Jesus would feel the same way about some of his followers, but anyway, as I was saying, in my humble opinion...’ (I used to use that phrase a lot, although despite my frugal lifestyle I refused to be humble.) ‘In my humble opinion the individuals I’ve come across who earn the most are the ones doing the most completely pointless jobs...’
‘I suspect my father would have had something to say about that.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He was a doctor.’
‘Well, that’s a grey area. Do you know, the most highly paid person among all the people I knew wrote press releases for a firm of accountants? How bloody crucial a role in society is that? And I knew quite a few teachers and nurses too. A dustman does a more useful job of work.’
She sits forward, making an obvious effort to engage with me.
‘Well there’s the stress I suppose...’ she offers, ‘the long hours, years of training...’
‘So, pay them for their hours. I don’t have a problem with that – double time for weekends and bank holidays if you like.’
‘Ok, but it’s not just that is it Gabriel? There’s all the responsibility. I don’t know why I’m even trying to explain – you must know all this.’
‘Stress and responsibility?’ I laugh, pretending to be amused. ‘Everybody has stress and responsibility. My dad had so much stress and responsibility it killed him, and he was just a bloody gardener. The only stress and responsibility is screwing up and losing your job. And that’s the same for everybody.’
I catch myself jabbing hard with my finger at her, making the point. It’s an ugly, intrusive gesture. I don’t like it. I put my hands down and take a deep breath.
‘But some people have more to lose than others’ she says quietly.
And I’m off again.
‘Oh, right’ I laugh sarcastically. ‘So if you haven’t got anything much in the first place you won’t mind if you lose it. Interesting theory.’
‘Oh you know what I mean.’
‘No I really don’t.’
‘But if you’re a manager there’s all the other people under you who might also lose their jobs, and the customers...’
‘With all due respect, that’s rubbish. They don’t give a toss about anybody else, these people. Something goes wrong they just find some insignificant underling to blame. Top executives only get the sack as a last resort. And you know this Andrea. I don’t know why I'm trying to explain. Losing their jobs is all that scares them, and that’s universal. Anyway, these executives – they love all that wheeling and dealing, risk taking... It’s what they do.’
‘I’m sorry’ she says, huffing somewhat ‘I can’t agree with all this. Some of them work bloody hard and...’
‘And nurses and teaches don’t?’
‘Well...’
‘Look, let’s cut to the chase. These people get paid what they do because they are in a position of power – they control things, they can dictate terms. You may or may not want to justify that but lets not kid ourselves that they earn all those millions in bonuses because they do something a hundred thousand times more important than a dustman. Come on, they make money and money is power.’
‘You make it sound like some sort of extortion racket.’
I give her my most infuriating grin ever. Clever girl. My point exactly.
She sits and frowns at me, her arms crossed over her (rather lovely) bosom.
‘Well, I don’t know’ she says, shrugging. ‘I thought they were supposed to be creating wealth, and growing the economy...’
‘Ah, the jolly old trickle-down effect. I saw a lot of that in my time. Also known as getting pissed on from a great height. You know the only thing scarier than a revolutionary communist is someone who truly believes in the free market economy. Seriously.’ (That’s not my line – I read it somewhere but I always like to quote it when I get the chance.)
She looks impassively at me from her chair across the room. Her legs are crossed, Buddha style, her toes tucked under the arms of the chair. I warned her at the beginning she’d soon be heartily sick of me. She said ‘Why’s that?’ and I said, ‘Oh, any number of reasons.’
Well now she knows.
Light is streaming in through the windows above us. I lean back in my chair, one leg over the arm, nursing my glass of water in my lap. This is our third session. I always seem to end up going on about politics. I want to talk about other things but it always comes back to this. I know she thinks I believe the world is out to get me. And I do actually, but not just me – millions like me – misfits and weirdos. I’ve always believed in political analysis more than psychoanalysis where people’s problems are concerned. I mean, I had my faults like anyone but that doesn’t explain everything. And anyway, why should it always be me who has to change?
‘It always seems to me’ I resume and I see her take a deep breath, readying herself, ‘that the people who get the money are merely the ones who are good at looking good, saying the right things, playing the game – not the ones who actually know how to do things, who actually make things, or have to deal with actual people. I understand this is not an original observation but somehow you still don’t hear it said often enough.’
Andrea is obviously not convinced. Do I really imagine I am changing her mind? Do I really imagine she even gives a toss? After all, all this stuff is in the past. What does it all matter here?
‘You don’t believe that you can have what you want if you put your mind to it and buckle down and work hard?’ she says.
‘Oh come on. Seriously?’ I laugh. She lets it go with a smile and a shrug. I sense she doesn’t really believe in that particular fairy story either. Well that’s something.
‘So you considered yourself an “artisan” as you put it?’ she says ‘one of the ones who actually does the work...’
‘Not me so much. I was a bit of a slacker. But my dad, millions like him, my sister Justine...’
‘And these “bosses” are somehow conniving to prevent you from getting rich like them?’ She’s getting weary and impatient but I don’t appear to be able to let it go.
‘No, A, they are not conniving and B, I merely wished to make a living. I never said anything about getting rich’.
‘Well, you seem to have thought of everything. So how come you were unemployed most of your life?’
Later on I work out what I should have said to her at this point, but at the time it hit the target and disabled me. I should have said that that was because I refused to play their greedy egomaniac games. But I feel like a fraud. I really did never want to be rich, but somehow pressing the point seems like protesting too much.
‘It didn’t work out for me, no’ I say, looking at my hands.
‘You feel like you missed out – didn’t get a big enough slice of the cake.’
I look up at the smug cow. I hate all this.
‘I can see why someone like you would have to assume that envy would be my motivation’ I say, a little nastily I admit.
That shuts her up. I feel mean for taking such a low shot, but I think she’s been just as mean for implying that I have the same cynical motives as the people I’m complaining about – people who like to find little ways to catch you out, to show you that deep down you are just as cynical and compromised as they are, people who find that this somehow makes them feel better about themselves.
Except her view is, of course, common sense – the politics of envy and all that bollocks, and therefore, she believes, not offensive. She just thinks I’m naïve for not admitting it to myself. She after all was the one who went to Uganda or some such place in the middle of a war, with Medecins sans Frontiers or whoever it was, to look after AIDS victims. What did I do? I kept up with my recycling, bought free-range eggs, signed a petition about an incinerator they wanted to build locally. And yet I’m certain, deep down, she really believes the poor are that way basically because they are stupid or lazy (she could excuse the children – they knew no better). I know there are a thousand reasons why the poor are poor – laziness and stupidity, in my experience, least among them. I’d have thought Africa (not that I’ve ever been) would have at least demonstrated that to her. Still, what can you do? She had a rich daddy (a consultant in IVF or something) from a ‘good’ family. Before she went to Africa she used to practice reiki and tai chi, and had her own practice in Hove apparently, plus working all the hippy festivals in her tee-pee with her massage table and her essential oils and wot-not. She did quite well I gather. Nobody in my family ever went to university or owned their own business. Andrea went to med school, I suspect, not because she was particularly bright, or compassionate, but because she could. She went to Africa because it would look good on her CV and, to hear her tell it, as a brand of extreme sport. I overheard her tales of the sons of American investment bankers and lawyers, supposedly there to save the planet, running about the forest in the dark, giggling, stoned out of their heads, dodging bullets, playing Heart of Darkness. At about that time I’d have been in my garden, struggling to keep the slugs off my brassicas without the use of chemicals. Could I have done better than them? Abso-bloody-lutely, except my folks couldn’t have afforded to send me off on a ‘gap year’ even if they’d known what a bloody gap year was. Shit heads. I bloody hate the lot of them.
So anyway I want to press my point. What do I have to lose? Andrea’s good opinion of me, that’s what. It’s probably best not to fancy your guide if you can possibly help it.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I really did just want some job satisfaction, some security, enough to live on, a bit extra for fun...’ I know it sounds a bit feeble. I’m trying to be reasonable, but it comes out submissive.
‘That’s all?’ she says humourlessly.
‘That’s all’ I say. ‘That and a good woman...’
I didn’t mean to flirt with her but she’s clearly unimpressed anyway.
‘I just didn’t fit in I guess...’ I add, conciliatory, backing down. Why am I always the one to bloody back down?

This ‘not fitting in’ has always been my problem. I always say to myself that I have a right to be the way I am. It’s not like I’m a psychopath. I have my talents. I’m not evil (not usually). I wash. But deep down I’m not convinced. I don’t fit in, it’s true. I never did. I tell myself it’s their loss, and I genuinely believe it is. Who knows what I could have achieved, given the chance, but they don’t miss me, the employers, the managers and so on. My face didn’t fit. I wouldn’t play their stupid game. They could do without me. They’d rather have had someone who’d do as they’re told than someone who actually cares. Bosses hate to employ people who actually know what they’re doing because it shows them up.
‘I’ll tell you the difference’ I say, resuming suddenly. I’ve had these conversations so often before – it’s just a matter of getting the lines in the right places. ‘Someone like me would say “This is what I love doing – I wonder if I can make a living at it?” The businessmen would say “What can I do to get rich?” and he wouldn’t much care what it was.’ I sit back to catch my breath.
‘Live and let live’ she says glibly shrugging.
‘But that’s it – they won’t let you live. They’ll put you out of bloody business if they can. And no, before you say it, it’s not a game. It’s never a game. Games are things you do for pleasure. You don’t have to join in if you don’t want to. This is real life I’m on about – health, housing, education. Play the game? Be a team player? They’ve completely changed the meanings of the words to make conformism sound like fun. Can’t you see what I’m talking about? It’s the new totalitarianism – free-market, global, corporate bloody dictatorship...’

Sometimes, when I get going like this I find I can’t breath. Maybe I’m hyperventilating. I’m not sure. Andrea looks at me uncomfortably. I feel the need to break the silence. Can’t stand silences, never could. ‘I’m sorry’ I say. ‘Got carried away... again.’ She smiles coolly and says it’s fine, but I don’t think it’s fine. I tend to get into these rants during our sessions. She’s actually a lovely girl, and she doesn’t deserve to sit and listen to this boring old fart going on at her.
The reality is, in any case, that I achieved bugger all in my life. I fondly imagine, in theory, that I had/have talent, that, given the chance, I could have done something exceptional – make myself a living as an artist, be respected, ‘important’, but I really don’t know where I got that idea. It wasn’t a result of anything that happened in this life – that much I can tell you. I was a big disappointment and an embarrassment to my mum and dad, and although at some level I know there’s good reasons why that was and I did what I could, at another, more insistent level, I agree with them. I just didn’t try hard enough. People have said they think I’m smug, or arrogant even but I’m not. I didn’t make a difference. I didn’t stand up to be counted. I copped out, that’s what I did and I’m ashamed of myself for it. I couldn’t beat them and I couldn’t bring myself to join them, so what did I do? I went and played with myself at the bottom of the garden, as I’d always done.
But who can you make a stand against these days anyway? Faceless functionaries and government wonks, shop assistants and call centres – never the real villains – torturers and despots and profiteers. Terrorists? Who’s ever even met one of those? So people take it out on the poor bloody immigrants and even the kids and teenagers these days get blamed for everything.
Child molesters – that’s who’s left – the last legitimate target, the final bogey man, about whom we can all get royally self-righteous.

I retire to my bunk and look out at the sea. It’s a bright but misty day outside but I want to stay inside and think about Andrea.