Training in the art of patience.

The perils of public transport, or a lack thereof. Last night, I wanted to get to Mill Hill; seemingly, the more urgent it became, the less TFL (the organisation responsible for Transparently Failing London) cared.

Cricklewood, seven o'clock, minus the http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6nvKN_H4e-I melodrama. Stood on the platform, I waited well over an hour for my Luton-bound train. At first, delays were explained by a 'shortage of supply chains', no doubt a piece of meaningless jargon designed to placate soon-to-be angry passengers. It does raise the question, though: what, exactly are they supplying the trains with? Is there a war - one that I know nothing about - being waged as I write this? (If warfare is to be fought this way in future, it might not be such a bad thing). Either way, I am envisioning mid-station refuelling of the type undergone by over-priced transatlantic fighter craft, soon to be scrapped by the government, of course. Before long, excuses had morphed into the equally-tedious, 'a train has broken down on the line'. Now don't get me wrong: both of those excuses, taken together, are possible, notwithstanding their sheer dullness. They are the TFL equivalent of 'sorry sir, but my dog ate it'. If excuses were rated according to creativity, or some other less addled and wearisome metric (and believe me, that shouldn't be too hard), then perhaps passengers would more readily cut train operators some slack. After all, we're only human...robots.

But it didn't end there. I mentioned that I waited for an hour. What I omitted was that the train never came. 15 minutes from every ETA, TFL would proffer another predictably jargonised excuse, delaying the train by another 10 minutes. Eventually, after an hour of this tantalising game, just when I was about to give up hope, they dashed it for me: the train was cancelled. So I walked towards West Hampstead, seeking an express train along the same line. Alas, this was also cancelled.

Plan C involved ditching trains and turning to those bastions of reliability, buses. I caught one towards Golders Green. Sadly, this method was also doomed because, at the first set of make-shift traffic lights, two buses entered head on and were soon stuck. Rather than wait for some painful siamese-style extrication, I walked the rest. The tube to collindale, followed by another bus and a short sprint ended an eventful, if stressful, journey to somewhere, with hindsight, I wished I hadn't gone.

For once, I cannot blame this on the failings of politicians. Humans must, sometimes, be afforded margin for error. In fact, we, the public would benefit from a more patient demeanour. It could cure the chronic short-termism that cripples political judgement; it could lend politicians more scope and opportunity to prove their worth, rather than turfing them out after a single slip-up; it could help us to watch public policy borne out instead of screeching at the sound of reform or cuts. Patience, in short, is a virtue. Get it now.

Annual competition

I have long been a competitive type; much more competitive than you in fact. And this recent bout of VVD (virtual verbal diarrhoea) has its roots in that primitive drive. You see, I was scanning my blog, proudly surveying my work, and it struck me that I was more prolific in my past. As I write this, there are only 8 pieces from 2011; yet there are 11 from 2010. So I am competing for myself, with myself, and by myself. (Not that I would ever claim to have anything on Mr. Lincoln).

All this makes me rather sad. And it is hardly a fair competition either. Currently, I am furiously typing away, striving to close that post-gap. Soon, I hope, I will have overtaken 2010, a year I never liked anyway. But any race must have two runners. Otherwise, if one is immobile or dead, the result is necessarily unjust. So to appease my conscience, I must accept a handicap. Only then can I claim true victory. (That's a lie; I would happily do so anyway). The only problem with a handicap is that I am, as a writer, so immature (or crippled) already that any further disruption would yield a totally unsatisfactory (or even illegible) product. This is no mere scaremongering. This is an accurate reflection of my unquenchable desire to better my previous attempts, even if they cannot respond or laud my spectacularly modest achievement.

YES. I WIN.

(according to independent reports)

Tremors

Quivering slightly, my hands strain for the keyboard. Maybe it's because this post threatens to contain more personal content than any before, (as evidenced by the chattier-than-usual style, innit). Or perhaps I am having withdrawal symptoms - after a staggering 24 hours away from my blog, and only (non-inflatable, non-imaginary) friend.

Today, something happened which shattered my confidence. It happened when I discovered that my friend had sex with my other friend's girlfriend of 3 years. Naturally, the political link is tenuous. Ostensibly, I mention it because in politics, bad things happen; nasty people will do nasty things; virtuous people stray off the path of righteousness. Truistic, you might assume. I'm not so sure. In politics, just as with friends, there is surely a correlation between moral resistance (whether provided by friends, family, colleagues), and the extent of wrongdoing. It is a fact of human nature that people will push boundaries, right until people force them to desist. Internal moral compasses (albeit conditioned by social norms) are flexible; our conscience allows us to go as far as people will let us. Evolutionary explanations abound, but I think there is a deeper message: it is incumbent upon us to act as a moral check on the behaviour of those around us, even if their ethical vertigo has not yet led to tangible wrongdoing.

In the run-up to the financial crash of 2008, bankers were being greedy; They were rich beyond avarice and yet they wanted more. A minority - and that is all it took - were subverting the system (by, say, repackaging sub-prime debt to mask its true value) long before the market caught up with them. Bubbles, then, like other painful consequences arise because people adjust their moral conceptions and expectations according to how other act. The problem with his relativist strategy, known to psychologists as 'herd instinct' is that the trajectory invariably heads in a negative direction. To put it bluntly: morality slides towards the doldrums.

So this is an explanation for how bad stuff happens. Systems are at fault, is the common explanation; processes, initiated by economists and governments, were unsustainable. I don't doubt that. But I feel that, underpinning those systems are people. Market economies, to use the obvious example, are comprised of the preferences of millions of apparently free-thinking, rational agents. For me, we have a responsibility to stand up for values we believe in (even if they are neo-ahmist and totally barmy), because if we follow the rest (or take too many cues from them), we cannot strive for the best moral framework.

Bad memories

My other realisation on returning my blog, currently entitled 'punch political philosophy', is that it is incredibly teenage, akin to a kitschy diary of the sort that, with hindsight, you wish you could burn.

The first of these reasons has been partially dealt with. I can now write competently enough to be understood by a semi-telepathic native speaker. This is in stark contrast to my previous magna opera (a word I have always sought to deploy in the plural). Looking back, it is near-impossible to miss the irony. Now, though, I have achieved functionality. My next task, I suppose, is to make it worth reading. (Humour classes or some such are in order).

The second has barely subsided. Indeed, by some accounts, it has increased. (That I am referencing it now is probably testament to that fact). And yes, it is true, I am depressingly pretentious; political chat-up lines are my favourite.

"I wanna screw you like Thatcher screwed the miners in the 1980s,"

springs to mind, re-iterating calls for those humour classes, I am sure. I may or may not have used this at a recent bash - to mixed reactions.

The third is most encouraging. Truthfully, I detest what I wrote because I wrote it, and at such an irritating age. I now have the arrogance to assume (or wilfully ignore the painful reality) that such a state has long passed. To adulthood, and beyond! (Note: this is not to say that I believe in an afterlife).

Front-seat driving

Set the gas...find the bite...release the handbrake...and...STALL. (repeat fully eight times until every car in London is behind you).

I can now announce, truthfully, that I am a less-than-capable driver. Just now, I went for a spin with my father - generally, and for these purposes, of a calm disposition - which left him wondering whether he had finally gone grey, something his skull has been threatening for years. On the one hand, it is about time, frankly. On the other, I should re-examine my technique and accept that handbreak turns at junctions are rarely, if ever, advisable.

So after lionising driving, maybe it does not matter that much. In any case, backseat driving is more fun. Then again, I might just be saying that.

Backseat Drivers

I often tell people that I am no good at driving. That is a lie. The truth is that I am lazy and never bothered to learn. But, like with most things, you cannot run away for ever. Driving away from them is faster, though a good deal more expensive.

I mention this because, long after I should have, I have started scanning the necessary books for the Theory Test. All I can say is that, to a thick person, driving must seem like bags of fun. Choose obtusely (or, if stupid, naturally), and you come to the most ridiculous set of conclusions about safe practise on roads. You might surmise that driving is a joke, which of course it is not, he said sternly.

I suppose that I am just jealous. Everywhere, I spy (people who, in my estimation, are incompetent half-wits) drivers and am convinced that I should be in their place. Which makes me think, maybe I should take the driving seat for a change.

Not to be sniffed at

If I place a football in front of my baby brother, metres away from a window, and the upshot is broken glass, my parent's response can be easily predicted: you should have known better, they would say. So why, when drug dealers sell mind-altering substances to their clients, knowing full-well that they are increasing the likelihood of criminal damage, are they not held accountable for their actions? Here, I will argue for a change in the law to close this responsibility deficit.

Under the proposed model, claimants - victims of crime - could press claims against the drug dealers - the perpetrators - for damages to their property or person. In other words, dealers would be liable in the civil courts for negligence.

It is insufficient, however, to rely on intuition alone, or to extrapolate principles from isolated analogies, like the one I began this piece with. So I will endeavour to explain and establish the legal precedents which underpin my argument while claiming that, in all regards, this delivers superior victims' justice.

Drug dealers facilitate crime, albeit indirectly, since it is eminently foreseeable that when they sell dangerous substances to dangerous people, many will be inspired to do dangerous things. Hand an unstable person an addictive pill, one which encourages him to disregard social taboos - like not attacking strangers - and it is all too easy to predict the outcome. Added to this, dealers tend to be rooted in a community. Because of this, and because of the incentive know the disposition of the client (making it a less risky transaction, safer in the knowledge that he is less likely to blab to the wrong people), they have a reasonably informed view of their customers. Hence they can anticipate how these people will act both when under the influence, and following the event when desperate for another 'fix'.

Addiction is another thing that dealers understand perfectly well. They actively use it to manipulate their customers. Often, they will initiate proceedings with inexpensive, 'softer' drugs, ratcheting up the price and addictiveness until customers are either totally hooked or unable to pay any more. Meanwhile demand becomes more inelastic and dealers gain greater leverage over their increasingly-dependent customers. In this way, dealers fuel addictions to maximise their profits, seemingly without regard for the consequences of their actions.

What are the consequences? Accumulative crime, in the main. If the addict needs quick-cash to fund his or her addiction, then he will likely turn to crime, for the reasons outlined below. In many cases, were we to chart the path of money, we would not be unduly surprised by the perverse directness of it: addicts steal cash which goes straight into the pocket of the dealer and further up the criminal network. So, by allowing victims to sue addicts, we are, in effect, allowing them to retrieve what was originally theirs. Just as courts ask people to pay damages, so in this case dealers are being forced to give back what they, however indirectly, have stolen from hardworking citizens.

As has been illustrated, dealers are responsible, at least to some degree. 'Ah', I hear you exclaim, 'but what about the real criminals, the ones who actually inflict the damage? Are they now free to walk away?' No more than before, is the answer; nothing mentioned (in this quite separate, civil suit) would downplay the severity of their crime or the sentencing they would expect to receive. This merely confers an additional layer of responsibility, a concept to which there is no theoretical limit. To appreciate why there is no fixed-pot of responsibility, consider the two extremes: In some instances - most notably insanity cases - we apportion no blame; In others - such as involving a getaway driver abetting a murderer - the misdeeds of the driver do not absolve the principle agent; both are charged on separate counts, as if the other were not present at the trial.

Ultimately this model benefits the victims. Under the status quo, they are only able to prosecute the drug addicts. Typically, this is not a profitable or worthwhile venture, since addicts are cash-poor - the sheer cost of drugs, and their deleterious effects take care of that. So why bother? Now, though, they can sue the men with the money, recouping what is rightfully theirs. The addicts may well still be subject to criminal prosecutions but, whereas, once upon a time their victims suffered in silence, now they can attack those beneath the surface, behind the crimes that blight their lives.

Other arguments can be made about how this might reform the behaviour of drug dealers or lead to a crime reduction. The thinking might go that under this model, the risk-reward ratio has changed, encouraging dealers to introduce more stringent filter mechanisms to determine to whom they sell drugs. By selling to more stable characters, they could thereby limit their own exposure to the law. Still, expecting dealers to grow halos overnight seems a bit idealistic. But even if they refuse to change a thing, there will still be more money available for victims. That cannot be too bad.

But as I say, drug dealers are smart; they give candy to babies and then ask for it back. If they can manage that, they can probably outsmart this scheme too.

Settlements

Apparently this lapse in sanity cannot be slept off: I am here to stay, or so it seems. As of yet, the only problem with this new-found addiction is the displacement; instead of reading and absorbing, I am now writing and pontificating, the result being that I feel politically under-nourished. This coming from a current-affairs-junkie.

That aside, I am going to spout some more. This time, more specifically, I will address settlements and their simmering tensions. Mention 'settlements', and people on all sides will rant about their illegality and how they present an obstacle to peace. In this, though, I will concentrate on their potential to be a flashpoint, possibly sparking a third intifada in the worst-case scenario.

There are a couple of reasons for this. First, and most obviously, in geographical terms they are on the front line. Indeed, by some estimates, they are beyond the 'front line' and have encroached well into 'enemy' territory (depending on the perspective you share). Moreover and often for religious reasons, their inhabitants refuse to erect borders or physical defences. Rather, to defend themselves, they turn to M-16s and other live rounds. Until now, this has not presented a serious problem (though, since 2007, there has been an uptick in settler violence inflicted on Palestinians and IDF soldiers), not least because there has been little provocation. But if there is an upstart in violence, they are a proximate and vulnerable target.

Second, as was mentioned earlier, settlements have become a popular target for the ire of the international community. Those who seek to 'delegitimise' Israel point chiefly to these communities which, they claim, are built upon 'occupied territories', something in violation of the Fourth Geneva Convention and international law, as ruled by the International Court of Justice. Palestinians, rightly or wrongly, feel that this is their land. Added to that, they have the sympathies of the world. They might reason, then, that attacks on these settlements would be more justified than elsewhere, and even help promote their cause, either by raising publicity or forcing a temporary settler withdrawal.

Of course, all this is all speculation; more populous targets are generally preferred, and the gratuitous violence would probably alienate their western supporters. Still, I would not want to live there after the UN vote flops.

Middle Eastern Mania

Borders and division of the land; strong emotions relating to the conflict on both sides; Palestinian concerns over Israeli settlements in the West Bank; status of Jerusalem; Israeli security concerns over terrorism, safe borders, incitements, violence; right of return of Palestinian refugees living in the Palestinian diaspora. These minor quibbles are all that stand between the Middle East and peace. Small wonder that it has not been achieved already. Or is it?

In my last post, I made passing reference to the 'deep end'. If anything, that was an understatement, for the following affair is not so much the 'deep end', as the end with no visible bottom.

At the outset, I should say that I am hardly qualified to blog on this issue, still less to speak on behalf of any of the stakeholders. The purpose of this, however, is twofold: first, and crucially, I wish to use this forum as an opportunity to assess and re-assess the quagmire that is the Middle East. Ultimately, I hope to formulate my own opinions, though these will need be as flexible as events. Secondly, I wish to treat this as a political petri-dish. Over the coming months and years, my experiment aims to chart and understand events, eventually allowing me to review the history in a more direct way, without relying on the spin or selective histories which currently flood the market.

Middle Eastern politics has long been a thorny issue. Today as ever, different groups - some living in the region, some not - approach it with different prejudices, interests, and goals. These groups, while attempting to solve the competing claims which have dogged the peace process, have also succeeded in entrenching two increasingly-exclusive narratives. All this leaves an impoverished consensus, arguably the cornerstone of meaningful dialogue, and, by extension, makes peace more elusive.

Every so often, windows of opportunity have arisen, from the Rogers Peace Plan to the latest round of direct talks, through Oslo, Madrid, Beirut, and various other initiatives. In fact, the road to peace has been littered with attempts, most of them sincere, all of them with potential, but none of them, as yet, with the desired outcome.

So far, so bad. But the latest episode, where the Palestinians turn to the UN to advance their statehood, may be another chance to break the deadlock. Many commentators have concerned themselves with the modalities of this vote and whether it will pass through the various organs of the United Nations. Rather than that, though, I will focus on the consequences.

Back to business

I know what you are thinking. He doesn't post for over a year and then, suddenly, he goes crazy, posting on multiple occasions during a single afternoon. Well, I'm all about consistency; consistent inconsistency, that is.

The tone of this post (and hopefully the content too), though, is set to be more serious. But rather than jumping in at the deep end with the big story, I thought that I'd ease me in with a gentler dose of punditry: party conference season.

Whether you are yellow, red or blue, the time has come to spend a week in a claustrophobic town with over-ambitious hacks. For some, that is the ideal holiday. For others, it is a nightmare. Those who thrive in that environment, I always feel, are cut out for the realpolitik of party life. Those who don't are more likely to be consigned to the oblivion of backbench-life, far away from the limelight of government. (Not that this is a dishonourable vocation, but do people still enter politics to be the 'local champions' of old? Do they not all have more grandiose ambitions?).

But for all that, these are not make-or-break events. Most speeches are immediately forgotten, though that it is not to underplay their importance. Sometimes it is because they do not attract unwanted attention that they are successful. (Think Nick Clegg's speech to conference over the past two years, both attempting to diffuse coalition tensions and persuade the party that they had made the correct choice). Some will temporarily revive political fortunes. Gordon Brown's speech (or, more specifically, his wife, Sarah's) to the Labour Party Conference raised his political stock for a while, yet was unable to change the unerring, downward trajectory of his career. Others may serve as a shot to the arm, injecting new ideas into a stale discourse, notably the Conservative Party Conference in 2009 where he discussed the parlous state of public finances and the deficit reduction it would have to entail. Crucially, though, this was not a game-changer on its own. It took commentators and politicians of all hues to cotton onto these ideas (and even then a further year) for the narrative to become an economic one.

Perhaps, then, I understate their potential. What I mean is that they seldom strike a direct connection with voters. Instead, they appeal to opinion-shapers - the political class, the journalists, and those who, ultimately, do play a significant role in determining the way we vote.

Read, yellow or blue, they should be listened to, this time by you (not the bloke who 'translates' their statements).

Welcome home, me

They say that a week is a long time in politics. I don't know who 'they' is, or how 'they' would react when informed that I had deserted political cyberspace for 486 of those revolutionary time-spans. But I am back, hopefully this time to stay provided, of course, that I can stand the sound of my own voice.

So far on this blogging journey, I sense that I have been playing something akin to verbal ping pong with a brick wall; 'playing' because, for much of it, I treated it as a game. First up, it was a competition to out-blog a friend who had started a similar enterprise. His blog actually gathered followers. Then, to distract myself from this blatant defeat, I turned my attentions to sucking up to universities instead. Gone were the days of competing with my peers for competition's sake. I now had something to fight over, something worth fighting for. So I posted another series of contrived entries, this time designed to showcase my perspicacious temperament. As is now evident, this never really took off. All I managed was a feeling of smugness, tempered only by another rejection, this time by the universities.

But enough of this self-pity, because I have not come crying back. I return this time for myself; 'as if', I hear you cry. Well, sort of. I want to hone my writing skills which, as the above passage demonstrates, could do with some honing. A lot of honing even. If I were being particularly pessimistic, I might even hazard that I would be honing until my fingers dropped off.

To hone or not to hone, is a question I can ask, safe in the knowledge that no-one will reply, not even to criticise this appallingly arrogant pastiche. Welcome back, barrington, we have missed you lots.