The seven key problems we face

First, and above all else, is climate change. Compared to that, none of the others are in the same league. If we do not get this one right, then there is no future – simple as. This fact may not sink into people's heads, but this will not go away; and it has to be tackled collectively and globally. There is no hiding place from it, and there is no opt out from it. So that is why it is number one.

Second is, and very much because of the first, the need for conservation. The conservation of environments, of the eco-systems in them and of the richness of those systems. We are already witnessing a mass-extinction which we ourselves have triggered. If we try very hard, we may stop it getting worse, and perhaps, only perhaps, reverse it. 

The third key problem is the need for sustainability in the light of finite resources. We need to conserve them because once they are gone, they are gone. We need to build sustainability into all that we do. We need to build in resilience into our life styles. We need to make our lives low impact. 

The fourth key problem is globalisation. It is just the one world, and, with modern communications, that is a very small world. Nowhere much is more than twenty-four hours away from anywhere else. Almost everywhere can be contacted instantly. This is one deeply interwoven world. It is the first time in history that the whole planet has been interconnected and interacting. We need to learn how to live with that. Just now in Britain I think we are failing in this – we are erecting barriers, as if we want the rest of the world to go away – which of course it won't. 

The fifth key problem is automation. The impact on jobs is already considerable. It will get worse. As long as we tie income directly to work for the mass of people, then the vanishing of work will create mass poverty. Already our younger people are poorer than the previous generation. This is the first time that has happened for perhaps two hundred years. When large parts of the population are redundant, then what? 

The sixth key problem is inclusion. We cannot have a world where only some – perhaps only a few – enjoy an extravagant life, and where the rest are slowly pauperised – but that is the prospect. A basic economic truth is that we need a balance between consumption and production, between productive work and meaningful life-styles, between consumers and producers. Inclusion is about power and about sharing, about having a say and being listened to; about who benefits from the bounty produced by our amazing technologies; about the balance between communal and private assets. 

And the final key problem is alienation. The less we include, the more we alienate. We need to think carefully about modern life and how it can be enriched, about how well-being can be increased, how life can be made more fulfilling. In this the notion of the Gross National Happiness – as they have in Bhutan – must play an increasing role. Wealth, beyond the point where primary needs are fully met, adds very little: it is a diminishing return. Meaningful occupation, the esteem of others, a sense of community, a sense of purpose – these are what enriches lives and guards against alienation. The alienated turn on the societies that have excluded them, and, ultimately, we all pay the price for that.

Every cloud has a silver lining

Have they any idea what they are asking? I mean – a silver lining to every cloud?

Yeh – I know. Like they don't have to fit them do they.

Nope – just leave it to the usual fools. Oh, It's ok. We can do it. That is so much their slogan – but who has to do it – that's what I ask. As if we don't know!

Yeh – now stop moaning and give us a hand with this one.

I don't know, floating around up hear fitting all these clouds. Why can't they just let them be – you know – like they is. None of this fitting on silver linings. Must cost a fortune.

Size 15c I think.

What?

Size 15c, I said.

Oh OK – nope hang on – we're clean out.

Damn!

Careful – don't let Y-K-W hear.

Oh – he's too up his own to be listening.

Yeh – usually – but you never know do you. Might just pull another sneaky like he did with that other crew.

Yeh – but they were really asking for it. What with thinking He was out and all, and that jackass going and sitting on His throne and pretending. He were only mucking around I heard. Not like he really meant it – and then zap! Thunderbolt everywhere. Fried them good and proper.

I know – like that He is. Misses comes down on him for something and the moment He gets back SOMEONE”S GOT TO PAY.

Poor SOMEONE

Yeh – bad choice of name that. Bet his mother never saw that coming. Bet she thought “That's a nice name”.

Well – no-one had used it before – well not as a name that is.

I know.

And it was different.

I know.

But then He goes and invents a language and sticks that word in.

Yeh – poor SOMEONE! There he was with a unique name, and, whoops, Y-K-W had just shoved it into some language or other, and then makes that the official language of up here.

Not as bad as some of the guys!

I know.

Poor Coal-Scuttle!

Yeh!

And what about Piss-Take?

I know.

And Shit-Face!

Yep!

Still, you didn't do too badly, did you Aftershave?

Nope. Neither did you Sunset.

Keeps me smiling.

Which you've got to do when you'r up here, cloud fitting, 'cos there's not much hold you up.

True.

So – what about this bugger – no 15cs. S'pose we could bend a 257A to make it fit.

Yeh – but you know Y-K-W doesn't like shoddy work.

Well – he can damn well see that there's enough 15cs then!

Yeh – but like it's supposed to be the recycling mob's job to see that there's plenty of retreads for us to use.

Anyway – why do them humans need silver linings?

Think they'd just realise what a short deal they've got if there weren't. As it is, no matter how shitty it is they can look up and say “Every Cloud's got a silver lining” - and so long as that's true they feel OK. So we've got to keep it true, so it is OK.

But silver – I ask you!

I know!

Just don't they think how hard it is getting it to stay up here!

I know.

Heard talk as how design department got ideas of making it a silver spray on.

Well that would be easier – but wouldn't that be cheating them down there? Like, if it's not real silver?

Be a hell of a lot easier for us!

Yep – one quick squirt and then your done. None of this careful fitting. And Y-K-W want it all done neat and tight, so you better look out, 'cause if you don't and He decides to do a spot check, then – Zap.

Yeh – trellah trellah and squirt squirt. Happy times!

Nah! They'l never do it. It will still be us up here with 15 tonne length of the real McCoy, fitting them close on every last cloud that stupid puff dragon blows out, keeping them down there in illusion-ville.

If only they knew!

Defrocked

“Typical of a man-woman - any guy would know exactly what their car is. Only women don't.” said in a slightly dropped voice as an aside to the other bloke in the room: a shared confidence of a knowing between real men. So it starts, the separating off, the marking you out. The labelling. You’re different, and that difference is now flagged up between the reals. You feel the undertow of condescension. Your right to be fully human — a member of the man-club — is no longer there.

A chance to reprieve yourself is proffered. OK. You have replaced your car. So how many miles had the old one done? The question is asked.

“I don’t know” I reply, honestly, falling straight into the elephant trap.

Another aside - audible, but only just, and knowing looks exchanged between real men:

“Just what you would expect from a man-woman; men always know how many miles their cars have done!”

I am caught out. Defrocked. A sinking feeling of disappointment — I had hoped for more — some tolerance, if not acceptance — and now I have that feeling of a yawning gap opening — a knowing inside that my difference has been spotlighted — that it matters, that it can’t simply be accepted — that it cannot be left uncommented on. It needs to be drawn to attention: the real men closing ranks.

I can’t help being me, and I know that my difference is always likely to be on the radar, but I hope on hope that it does not matter, that it will pass unremarked, just accepted, like differences in height, or the pitch of voices, or signs of ageing, or the colour of eyes. I would love people to think “That’s how you are — OK — fine — no problem, after all we are all different.”

But then something confuses, something is not acceptable, something cannot be left to pass. It discomforts. I can hear the thinking: “This seeming man — are you really a man? Or do we switch into reacting to a woman mode? Definitely not — you seem to be mostly a man — so maybe your a gay? Or perhaps your a trans? Your not giving out gay man signals, so perhaps you a mix up - a man-woman – a transsexual – or whatever the freaks call themselves. So how do we react to you? Your not a woman so we can't react that way. You do not seem to be gay, so we don't need to fear you coming on to us, and we don't need to give you big put-downs, or think of beating you up. So what do we do? – because you are not completely a bloke, whatever you are.”

It would be so much simpler if I were clearly a woman. They’re different in men’s minds. They are the other. They do not function the same. They are the ones you ogle, the ones you pass comment on as to their ‘fitness’ — that is, their shaggability; or comment on the strangeness of their minds — so utterly unfathomable — that inability to even understand what seems so self-evident, so simple and so important — like how the wires go in a plug, or how to change the oil in a car. No one needs telling those things, no one needs to be shown, not once they are a bloke. It is just understood that you know. You learned as you grew up - just absorbed it. You watched other guys and that’s that. From then on you know. But women, you tell them, you show them, and then you have to tell them again! Yes again! Unbelievable! It like they don’t want to remember - or can’t remember — even simple things, like what is the right order for turning on the heating, or for setting the security alarm. And they stick together, think in harmony, gang up on you with glances and looks to each other; and then on goes the disapproval. And they are emotional time bombs. You are never quite sure what is going to freak one out — and then an utter torrent of accusation and blame — and whatever you say is simply shredded. No, women you handle with safety gloves. You make forays with sexual teasing – just in case they are game – will she, wont she flirt? – is she up for it? That is if she is not a minger, or a moose – but who would with one of those? Or at least who would admit to with one of those? Well you have to sometimes – but never let the boys know. As for the old trouts – the wrinklies and crinklies – humour them or patronise them – but keep well clear. And then when you are safely with the other guys, disparage and belittle the whole tribe with a few shared demeaning remarks and shrugs of agreement as to their incomprehensibility: a shared distain. Its OK, women are not actually fully human, not like men; they are not lords of the earth – they are not part of the man-army. They cannot march with the guys. They have to be set apart, set aside, confined.

But I am not a woman — but then neither am I totally a man. I’m a blend, a cut-and-shut job - dropped by nature to be somewhere between in that no-man’s-land that is neither fully the one nor the other. I don’t trigger that “react to a woman mode” that blokes fall into, somewhere between condescension and allure. Neither do I trigger the “it’s OK, he’s one of us and he is not gay” which lets you into the club. No. First the tacit acceptance, then, slowly, some puzzlement. Something doesn’t fit, something discomforts. The reactions are just wrong. The movements not wholly manly. Then it’s the reaching for another label - the man-woman sticker - the she-male; and you can feel the caution and the distance, and, most obviously, the contempt and the pity. It oozes, unspoken.

In Memorium for a Brother: Scenes from a Childhood

Picture, if you will, a brother who has discovered the joy of inverting games to play with his baby brother. The baby, now five, is getting pocket money, but clearly, beyond the immediate value of money as potential sweets — to be got as soon as possible from the newsagents at the top of Bank Street — it is of no interest to that little barbarian. Money in the hand  gets sweets in the mouth. A simple and straightforward equation to be applied with the maximum of speed to ensure the shortest delay between receiving the money and converting it into something useful, like liquorice, like sweet cigarettes, like Cart-wheels, like Smarties, or even a bottle of pop. But older and wiser brothers know better. They know there is more to money. It is a thing of value in itself. It has intrinsic worth that should be appreciated and respected. Oh, the wisdom of being 13.

So a game is invented, to regulate and control the unconditioned greeds of the baby barbarian. To educate, to inform, to engage the unruly dirt ridden, squirming, demi-human. And so the “Bank of Elbury” was invented, complete with paying-in book, withdrawal book, account ledger, and most importantly, a good strong metal box with a lock to act as a coffer, which served to prevent the little barbarian from making unsanctioned withdrawals. Best of all, the Bank of Elbury came with an imposing and important figure - its own Bank Manager. A Bank Manager who took much delight in fashioning his role, and playing it with total conviction; honing such phrases as “the bank cannot allow this”, or “It is not in our customers best commercial interest to remove all of their money, so we, the bank, cannot sanction it.” Phrases which seemed baffling and perplexing to the sniffling, dirt encrusted, socks askewed, cut kneed, barbarian - but which seemed to contain some weird magic of authority — and were not to be challenged!

Or picture this. A summer’s day with the light dwindling slowly into dusk. The same small boy, now seven and just as barbaric, stands in front of a high garden wall that separates home from the garden of the vicarage next door. A cricket ball is being thrown at him over and over, until he finally gets the idea that it is less painful to catch the ball than to be hit by it. His instructor, ever the perfectionist, explains over and over how the ball must be caught with a sweeping motion so that the ball “decelerates”, thus stopping it bouncing back out of the hand.The instructor is determined: he will have his imagined cricket matches on the lawn. He will train the barbarian into being a fit opposing team. First the catching, then the batting, and finally the mysteries of bowling - underarm at first, and then overarm.

At last “trained” the first match is planned. A score card is carefully drawn up. Two teams of eleven, names all chosen from the current Test Match squads. The instructor is of course, to be England, and England is to bat first. Ten wickets must fall before the barbarian’s team can come to the crease.

The barbarian labours long, though the morning, the afternoon and into the evening, bowling and bowling again. Six balls to an over, then a change of persona. The barbarian donning a new name on the score card and adding to another dreadful set of bowling averages. Eventually, the last wicket falls, and on the next day, at ten o’clock, strictly in accordance with the best cricketing traditions, the barbarian must take his place at the crease. His tourist team is soon swept aside - all ten wickets falling, for so few runs. The follow-on is forced, and the barbarian must bat again, if the ignominy of an innings defeat is to be avoided. The ignominy is not avoided. Victory falls once more to England.

That was out of doors, but indoors the sound through the house, enchanting, intriguing, mood music - the piano. Not practised, but played. A tune heard once is repeated, played, varied, inverted, its tempos exquisitely varied, its keys changed and changed again - now played on the right hand, now on the left. It becomes part of a tapestry of sound, that flows on and on. It was through his hands, through his music that my brother lived his emotional life when we were young. It was his lightening conductor, earthing all the confusions and distress of growing-up, of becoming, of being driven to a goal - the goal of university.

He was to be made to achieve what our mother had been denied - the chance of a scholarship place at Cambridge. A chance she had won by excelling in her sixth-form. She had woven words like magic. The warp of reason softened by the weft of passion. Her essays sent by her headmistress to an old friend at Newnham College, Cambridge, But then the dashing of dreams. “I have worked so that you do not have to” her father said, believing himself to be invulnerably wealthy, not realising how deeply ironic the twist and changes of our mother's life would make those words. She had been thwarted in her ambition - her ambition for her first born son was not going to be thwarted, no matter what! There was the terrible tension of the driven and the driver in the house - and music was the consolation and the safety valve. It was where all the frustrations and passions, all the repressed anger, all the angst of youth went.

We grew as though in a pressure chamber, he and I. His escape was her realisation of ambition. Mine, an exile into the purgatory of boarding school.

Later, now in our twenties, a friendship and companionship grew. We climbed Skiddaw, Coniston Old Man and other Lakeland heights together; and he visited me when I was studying at Bangor. Snowdon was too good an opportunity to be missed. That was strolled in an afternoon! And we shared a love of music, his patience unlimited at my stumbling efforts to accompany him on bass - but it was the sharing that mattered.

What was Roger like as a brother? - awesome. Inventive, caring, a constructor of shared fantasy worlds. A giant, whose benign shadow marked paths into adulthood.