As has been my fetish since around 1968 I trained on New Years Day. Although I don’t think the aspiring athlete of well over half a century ago would recognise my shuffling attempt to race walk as worthy of the epithet, ‘training’. On the other hand, 2024, a year of relative sickness, has sapped me of my long-standing confidence in an ability to fend off the years. It wasn’t snowing in our Cretan village but Marilyn’s lovely watercolour of a route I used to run back in the day brought back frozen memories of the joy of movement. As it was my slow progress allowed me to take in the beauty and tranquillity of my pine-filled surroundings, enabling my affectionate conversation in both English and Greek with dogs, cats, sheep and goats along the way. I swear they look forward to me coming! Back home in virtual reality, slumped at the computer, I pondered a New Year’s message to my less than adoring public.

It’s been a lean year for posts on this website. Meanwhile the world continues to be in collective, apparently crazed convulsion. Genocide is normalised. There is not just talk of crisis but of polycrisis. I find myself claiming to be confused. There is so much going on I can’t see the roof for the tiles. This tame assertion contains grains of truth but is no more than a limp excuse. For I do possess an overview of what’s happening in the world and, to an extent, I outlined this perspective, however flawed, a year ago. Indeed, when I go back to the three or four pieces I published back then, there is little I would change and much I would add – see the link below.

The Inextricable Relations of the Struggle around Class, Race, Gender and Sexuality

In claiming that I have some kind of overall insight into the present course of history (and in the light of observations I have made, in particular, about the COVID melodrama) I open myself to the curt dismissal that I am a simpleton, a conspiracy theorist. The knee-jerk charge, whether explicit or implicit, allows its prosecutors, drawn initially from the professional milieu or the ‘knowledge industry’, to pass judgement without recourse to dialogue. This facile reasoning does trickle down, courtesy of a largely grovelling mass media, into day-to-day discourse. Only so far, though. There is also a widespread reaction, which questions the patronising certainty of today’s priests – experts, politicians, journalists, technocrats, professionals, academics, influencers, Ursula van Leyden, Uncle Tony Fauci and all – who demand, despite their often demonstrable deceit, that society submits to their unswerving hierarchical faith and trusts the[ir] Science.

Inevitably this refusal or, at least, reluctance to comply takes many different forms, which in themselves, are strewn with contradiction. However the necessity of grappling with the intertwining, oft conflicting tendencies within those who demur, is spurned by those who know better. The generalisations, the stereotypes flood and drown debate. Who are we talking about here? Who are the refuseniks, the populists, that dubious and derided category of humanity standing in the way of progress ? Amongst them in the States are Clinton’s deplorables, Biden’s garbage, Obama’s sewage. Whilst in the UK and Europe we find racist, xenophobic, working class Brexiteers, far right nationalists of differing hues. All of whose wayward opinions are being given succour, so the narrative goes, by an eclectic and politically diffuse array of authoritarians and anti-authoritarians, peopling the airwaves of the alternative media with its daily dissenting diet of live coverage and lengthy podcasts, the latter the very opposite of superficial sound-bites. My oldest grandson, Ben swears by the strength of the podcast in challenging him to think critically, outside of the status quo. Of course, in my naivete, I’m overlooking that this motley crew of Far Right sympathisers, especially its lumpen elements, is in thrall to strong leaders, symbolised by Trump, a fascist by all ‘progressive’ accounts and has no legitimate agenda of its own. This arrogant trivialisation of grass-roots unrest is symbolised by the demise of the Democratic Party in the USA, which even the loyalist Bernie Sanders admits has abandoned the working class.

On a personal level I am disturbed by the way in which my public outlook and practice has been infected by the dominant narrative and I’m long out of the orthodox bubble. Sure, my nerves are not at all what they were. Age and illness have taken their toll. Just a fortnight ago, a concerned neurologist sent me for an MRI scan to determine further, if possible, the reason for my debilitating tremors and disorientation. As best can be seen, Parkinson’s is not on the horizon but the doctor spoke of ‘accelerated ageing’. Like it or not, this notion does fit with how I’m feeling! This self-centredness aside, I do find myself shaking externally and internally when overhearing in the taverna the predictable pronouncements on the state of the world proffered so confidently by well-off English-speaking tourists and migrants. Nowadays it matters little whether these prejudices are garnered from the Daily Mail or the Guardian. They are uttered shamelessly, unhesitatingly. To my shame I keep my gob shut.

How to understand this level of anxiety around standing up for what I believe? And what is it I believe and why does it feel so problematic to give voice to my opinion? After all since the mid-70s haven’t I often been a disagreeable voice within personal, professional and political situations? Perhaps I exaggerate but I often felt disaffected colleagues looked to me to be their spokesperson. What were the balance of forces into which I was intervening? Let me answer my question somewhat crudely. Certainly within the professional and academic world it was a matter of challenging the liberal order with a demand that the relations of exploitation and oppression be addressed. What of now? In my head and my heart I wish to express still an anti-capitalist, humanist and universalist opposition to the desires of those upstairs, the powerful. I strive to stay true to the memory of my dear friend and comrade, Sue Atkins. Yet I feel down if not out. She would not have approved of my dismay.

I’m at odds with a so-called progressive politics, which in Malcolm Ball’s turn of phrase wishes ‘to change the word and not the world’. Of course words as well as sticks and stones are hurtful. Indeed, in the part-time youth worker training I organised and facilitated in the late 1970s, we engaged directly with the impact of racist, sexist and homophobic language upon ourselves and young people. Although, on reflection, our missionary zeal foreshadowed some of today’s unforgiving insistence on prescribed verbal adherence.

I’ll stop here as I’m opening a receptacle of wriggling rats such as global governance and the nation-state, censorship and surveillance, the climate crisis, identity politics, Zionism, the material and the spiritual, all of which and more needs serious unravelling, It remains to be seen whether I do so. For what it’s worth I’ll try to post links to stimulating writing from across the spectrum. I promised this last year and failed. I’m going to begin revisiting stuff I’ve written in the past, which still seems relevant. I suspect I carry a chip on my shoulder about how much of it has ever been read! Finally I have embarked on a pretentious project, an autobiography. The rough draft of a first decade from 1958 to 1968, from passing the eleven plus to leaving teacher training college awaits revision, At the very least it is helping me to understand better how I’ve come to be who I am today. If, nothing else, it ought to keep me out of mischief.

Καλη χρονια με υγεια

Yours in struggle, as best I can