Coming Home to Story

When it was originally aired, between 1999 and 2006, during Bill Clinton’s and George W Bush’s presidencies, Aaron Sorkin’s White House drama The West Wing, a fictional representation of competent, humane, political leadership was a beacon of hope. I remember watching it unfold season by season, a vision of how things could be in a better world.

Until Barack Obama’s election in 2008, Jed Bartlett played by Martin Sheen appealed to many of us as the best president American never had. The series even presaged Obama’s victory in the Hispanic character Matt Santos who succeeded Bartlett to the fictional presidency.

But watching The West Wing now would be a futile and painful exercise in nostalgia. The promise of the Obama years has given way to the demagogic mummery of Trump and his pack of alt-right hyenas. Like all would-be tyrants they are both terrifying and ludicrous (the more terrifying for not being able to see how ludicrous they are).

Obama was an articulate, intelligent, and decent president, stymied at every turn by a Republican majority in Congress determined to prevent the implementation of progressive policies at all costs. Ironically, their very success ultimately created Trump’s impoverished and disenfranchised constituency. Their irresponsible and self-interested opposition to Obama created a monster who despises them as much as he does the Democrats.

In 1992, American political scientist Francis Fukuyama wrote a book called The End of History and the Last Man in which he argued: “What we are witnessing is not just the end of the cold war, or a passing of a particular period of postwar history, but the end of history as such: that is, the end point of mankind’s ideological evolution and the universalisation of western liberal democracy as the final form of human government.”

Plato knew better and we would do well to heed his warning. In Book VIII of The Republic he explains in some detail how tyranny arises from the failings of democracy to care adequately for all its people. When things get bad in a democracy, he says, the people look for a saviour:

And is it not always the way of a demos to put forward one man as its special champion and protector and cherish and magnify him?

At first, an elected demagogue provides hope:

Then at the start and in the first days does he not smile upon all men and greet everybody he meets and deny that he is a tyrant, and promise many things in private and public…

But when promises fail and opposition arises:

Then the tyrant must do away with all such if he is to maintain his rule, until he has left no one of any worth, friend or foe…

And ultimately:

[He] is always stirring up some war so that the people may be in need of a leader… that being impoverished by war taxes they may have to devote themselves to their daily business and be less likely to plot against him…

The end of history? I think not.

Captain Midnight here aboard the Henriette Antoinette.

She’s a fine vessel, built in 1920 and still going strong, which Himself – also being a bit long in the tooth – found very encouraging. Herself took the picture from what he insists on calling the pointy end, as she navigated us through the treacherous, crocodile infested, backwaters of The Loosdrechtse Plassen, somewhere between Utrecht and Amsterdam.

Himself was First Officer, under my command as Captain (naturally) with Herself as pilot. He’d like you to think otherwise, but frankly, he didn’t have much to do apart from turning the wheel now and again when we told him to.

When we got to the lake, we crossed a stretch of open water to dock at the local equivalent of the Royal Yacht Club for a spot of lunch. Disgracefully, even old sea dogs like me weren’t allowed inside the premises so the entire ship’s company dined on the terrace instead: a rare and welcome act of solidarity.

The return voyage offered frequent opportunities for viewing the indigenous wildlife. Herself alleged that she saw many aquatic birds but by the time she had pointed them out, all we could see were ripples where – according to her – they had been until the moment before we looked. We did manage to scare up a family of geese by gunning the engine, but old Henriette Antoinette was no match for a pair of black Friesian stallions galloping by the waterside.

Back at the mooring, Himself got out his fishing tackle and lobbed the line over the side of the jetty. We had a tricky moment when I mistook the float for a ball and jumped in to rescue it. He accused me of “frightening the fish away” and yelled at me to get out of the water.

Calls himself a fisherman?

He couldn’t catch a cold.

International dog-about-town Captain Midnight here, reporting from the mean streets of Utrecht. Herself was very keen for me to come and meet her Dutch family. I’m pleased to say that they are a friendly bunch and have made me feel very welcome.

Himself would have pined if we’d left him behind in England so we let him come along as well. But he’s a country boy really, not much used to traffic (especially all those bicycles) and a bit prone to panicking and dashing off after pigeons. So, as a precaution, I’ve been taking him everywhere on the lead. It’s also coming in handy to stop him jumping in the gracht.

That’s Dutch for canal, by the way, for all you monoglots.

Walking on the lead is an important skill. It takes a bit of practice but it’s worth the time and effort required to train your human. Mine is coming on quite well although his performance does still leave something to be desired.

He usually obeys direct commands but I don’t think Himself actually understands the practical implications of being joined to another creature by a piece of rope. Namely, that the arrangement works best when both are heading in roughly the same direction at roughly the same speed. Also – obvious though it may seem to you and me – that it is not possible for us to pass a lamppost on both sides at once.

He can generally be trusted not to run off when we get close to home so I sometimes let him off the lead to make his own way indoors. He looks so pleased with himself when he finds the right front door that I wag my tail to tell him what a good boy he’s been. Positive reinforcement and lots of encouragement are, as we know, the keys to successful training.

Now we’re safely indoors again, it’s time for a delicious locally-sourced supper (VitaKraft Beefstick and Biscuits) and an early evening snooze.

So long for now, superdog fans.

A few hours before the attack on Westminster Bridge on 29 March 2017, I was far away in Oxford working with an international group of students at Saïd Business School. Halfway through a tutorial, sitting at a table next to the plate glass windows of the Club Room, I heard a sudden thump and looked up to see a female blackbird fall to the ground, killed instantly by flying full-tilt into the glass.

The speed of the transition between life and death was shocking and I was reminded of it when hearing the news later that day of the human lives that had been snuffed out by a terrorist driving his car at innocent tourists and stabbing PC Keith Palmer. Flying to Dusseldorf that evening I began writing this poem as a tribute to the fallen and finished it yesterday morning.

Harbinger

It was a small life, the blackbird’s,
a windborne incarnation,
plumed with joy and light.

Heedless of our heavy-footed need
to touch the earth below;
an arrow loosed in flight.

We, engrossed in earnest work,
startled by a single thud,
turned our heads around,

Looked up in time to see her fall,
a limp and lifeless thing,
perished on the ground.

Death had caught her unawares,
dashed her life-blood out
against the window pane,

Snuffed her like a candle flame
to sing her holy requiem
amongst the newly slain.

A few days ago, Hedda and I watched the recent sci-fi drama Arrival directed by Denis Villeneuve, starring Amy Adams, Jeremy Renner, and Forest Whittaker. The story has been echoing in my imagination ever since. What a joy it was to see a film that engages with “otherness” with such intelligence and depth of feeling.

At the heart of the film (without spoilers) is the challenge to communicate with a species whose minds and language are structured in such fundamentally different ways that they support an entirely different kind of consciousness and understanding of the physical universe.

It also seemed significant that we watched it on International Women’s Day because it’s a female character – linguist Dr Louise Banks, played brilliantly by Amy Adams – who cracks the code of the aliens’ language and solves the mystery of their appearance on Earth.

Ultimately the film is about the difficulties and the possibilities of connecting across difference. Fear is never far beneath the surface but we see that it does not have to prevail. Arrival is about as far from the ludicrous, war-mongering triumphalism of Independence Day as it is possible to get.

Like all great science fiction, the film speaks to real contemporary dilemmas. Fear of otherness, fanned by right-wing extremists and neo-Fascists in Europe, the United States, and elsewhere is perhaps the greatest threat we face to a humane and civilised way of life.

Building walls to keep us separate from others is easy but it preys on our fears and makes us smaller. Building bridges to connect with others nourishes our hopes and helps us grow; it calls for compassion, courage and magnanimity.

Thank you to the makers of Arrival for reminding us that we are capable of more than “kicking some serious alien ass.”

Captain Midnight here from Madame Archbold’s Salon.

I’ve decided that it’s about time to launch my memoir – a compendium of my wildly popular blogs. The only thing holding me back is finding a title that will do justice to my literary prowess. I have some possibilities (see below) but I could really do with your help. All ideas gratefully accepted.

Captain Midnight Rides Again
Lady Windermere’s Afghan
Confessions of a Cockerpoo
Raiders of the Lost Bark
The Beagle Has Landed
Les Pensées d’un Pooch
Lady Chihuahua’s Lover
In the Midnight Hour
The Lovely Bones
Ted Talks

Publication imminent (when I find an agent… hint hint).

Captain Midnight here from the heart of Cornwall.

We’re spending a few days in the land where Himself and Herself were born, twenty miles and a few years apart. As you can see, they forgot to bring an alarm clock so naturally I help out in the mornings.

They seem to be on some kind of religious quest, stopping every five minutes to ooh and aah at old buildings and bits of stone. I’d understand their enthusiasm if we were up north where I come from, but you can’t even get a decent pint of stout down here.

What’s more, the people talk funny.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re friendly enough but they all seem to think my name is Ansum. “Look at ‘im,” they say. “He’s Ansum,” or else they get over-familiar and take liberties: “Alright, my Luvver?”

The beaches are good though and I’m training Herself to manage the two-ball trick (throw one, catch one, bring one back, drop one, throw the other one). It’s pretty advanced stuff but she’s quite bright and I’m optimistic that she’ll have cracked it in a month or two.

I’m also told that the pasties are excellent. I only have it on hearsay because (as those of you familiar with this blog will have anticipated) not a morsel came my way. They sat there last night, stuffing their faces with huge lumps of steak and pastry (from Warren’s Bakery in St Just: The Oldest Cornish Pasty Maker in the World) but nothing for me except dog biscuit and a scrap of tasty topper.

Got to stop now because Himself says we’re going out dreckly.

I’m think he means quite soon but you can’t be certain.

The crow was dead. No doubt about it.
The dark-feathered wreckage of his body
proclaimed his undeniable demise.

The corpse preternaturally displayed
to public view, half way up a tree,
wings outstretched, as if caught in flight.

A sovereign perhaps, deposed by his foes,
cursed by Corvid law to die an outcast
stripped of title, lands, and crown.

Had he tumbled like a de-frocked cleric
from his lofty pulpit to breathe his last,
impaled on a branch in sight of the ground?

Or been tried for some imagined crime,
a malefactor condemned by the mob,
crucified like Saint Peter, upside-down?

None stepped forward to testify the truth
of this gruesome death and fealty forsworn,
and none (save I) stayed back to mourn.

© Geoff Mead 2017

In Kingscote Woods I saw today,
shrugging off their leafy shroud,
a choir of snowdrops standing proud.

Heads meekly bowed in silent prayer
like angels who had journeyed thence
to greet us with their innocence.

And further down the track I found
ablaze with green and yellow light,
a patch of winter aconite.

Soon the bluebells in their turn
will from the fecund earth bring hope
to soothe this weary misanthrope.

© Geoff Mead 2017

Captain Midnight here: super-dog, protector of the weak, scourge of the wicked, reporting from the front line. Quite literally, as you can see in the picture of me at the BBC Media Café.

Ah yes, dahling, I am so W1A these days. Mwah, mwah.

This week, Himself had some important work to do, abroad. He slipped away one morning, before daybreak, without a sound, left no trace. Didn’t even tell me the slightest detail of his mission. Not that I mind, being left in the dark. Clearly he has an important job to do and the less that’s known about it, the better.

Mind you, I did overhear him talking to Herself in hushed tones about ‘action’, ‘research’, and ‘agents for change’ so I assume he’s gone undercover again in some capacity or other, to change the world for the better.

Naturally his departure for Europe left me in charge of matters here in the UK. To ensure I had a proper alibi, I had to take Herself with me when I went snooping – erm, ‘newsgathering’ – around the BBC today. She did okay, considering she’s new to the work.

She hung around the café for a bit, chatting to some louche types over a coffee, pretending to chat earnestly yet nonchalantly, occasionally laughing gaily as if she hadn’t a care in the world, so as to leave me free to get on with the investigative work.

There’s all sorts one can smell out! Take those cigarette butts for instance. The ones on the pavement, right next to me. What? No, no they’re not mine! They were there already. The casual passer-by pays scant attention to these sorts of clues lying around – but as a proper news-hound I can tell you: that fine nose of mine immediately put me on the scent of what’s brewing at the BBC.

Absolutely. But that’s all I can tell you. The meat of it is confidential. Top secret.

Nope: I’m staying mum till I can debrief with Himself.

Just a few more sleeps and He’ll be back…