Farewell to Southampton

And in keeping with the character of that city it was both low key and somewhat alternative.

Thanks to flight times and the pretence of security which in effect traps you in airports for sufficient time to be tempted to buy the overpriced rubbish on sale airside I am used to leaving Southampton in the early hours, keeping lonely guard over my piles of luggage by the bay into which I hope that the coach for the airport will arrive. I think one can judge the nature of a coach driver by his choice of bay…those who pull in where there is a queue and those who do not.

This time, though, I was not alone. A friend had accompanied me to the bus station, our journey enlivened by a sighting of her husband returning from the casino somewhat the worse for wear as he crossed the river by the Itchen Bridge using both hands on the parapet to propel him homeward like a crab seeking the safety of its rock.

Neither were we alone. As we trundled the suitcases to the waiting area a figure emerged from the shadows. Woolly hat a la Compo, jowly beard, puffer jacket and sock lined wellies, with a bag resembling grandmother’s knitting bag writ large, he addressed us.

Would the Pullman arrive?

Supposing that he meant the National Express coach we reassured him that it would.

But there are no signs!

No…the bus station offices are closed…you look at the timetable and it will tell you when the coach arrives.

Please? I am Italian. I do not understand. I am student at university. I am going home. I need the Pullman to come or I miss my flight.

Both wondering how he would benefit from a course at a British university if he had limited English we assured him that the Pullman would indeed arrive. Just look at the queue which was gathering!

How they know? There are no signs….

The coach – or Pullman – arrived and pulled into our bay….one up for the driver.

Our Italian friend was the first in the queue as we marshalled my luggage, assisted by a couple of students going home for the Easter holiday.

He faced the driver.

Gatwick Sud?

Ticket?

Gatwick Sud?

I tried in Spanish. I have no idea what ticket is in Italian but he seemed to get the idea, produced the e mail on his phone and was allowed to board.

Once underway all went well except that at every stop he would rise and enquire

Gatwick Sud?

To which the driver, face ruddy from stress, would reply

No Sir. If you listen I will announce each stop. The bus runs through Fareham, Portsmouth Hard, where we are currently standing, then Chichester, Gatwick North and finally Gatwick South.

At which our passenger announced that he was sorry to be breaking the driver’s balls but was this stop Gatwick Sud?

I had the strong impression that if the driver had not voted to leave the European Union previously he would now be doing so at the earliest opportunity which presented itself.

So…goodbye Southampton.

It being early spring the parks had been alive with flowering trees and swathes of daffodils, while gardens enjoyed from the bus windows showed camellias, their blossoms brown edged by frost, jews mallow flopping against walls and fences, flowering currant with the buds just colouring up over jewelled clumps of primulas, and everywhere a haze of pale green buds against a hard blue spring sky.

A fine last sight to remember.

Over the years I had become fond of the place….village style high streets in the suburbs with proper shops, good public transport, a restaurant where the owner’s Staffie bitch trotted among the customers, old fashioned pubs in the old town and all the glitz of the entertainment and shopping complex at West Quay.

Certainly there had been downsides…more and more people sleeping in shop doorways….. whole blocks of city centre premises torn down to be replaced by blocks of student residences as the two universities pulled in the money from overseas students’ fees…… the deterioration of the Friday market from one with a bit of everything for everyone to huts selling New Age balls and overpriced food.

But there was still a real market down at the pretty village of Hythe, so all was not lost to the forces of destruction.

I shall miss Southampton, but my reason to go there ceased to exist when my mother died in late March…my last visit was thus to attend to her funeral.


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Panama U.K.

Nombre_de_Dios

Panama has been in the news recently thanks to revelations of the activities of one of its law firms which specialises in helping rich buggers to get richer by avoiding taxes which those of us whose net worth is peanuts are forced to pay.

For Scots, Panama has another claim to fame: the collapse of the  Darien scheme of the late 1690s, a project aimed at breaking the restrictions on Scottish trade posed by he English Navigation Acts by  setting up a trading entrepot straddling the  the Atlantic and Pacific oceans.  Given the level of investment lost in its downfall Scotland was effectively bankrupt and thus  weak enough to allow the movers and shakers of the time to abandon independence  and accept the Act of Union with England in 1707.

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

And in the waters of Panama, off the port of  Nombre de Dios, lies the body of Sir Francis Drake..inveterate foe of Spain who attacked their silver fleets and their colonies in the Americas year after year…not forgetting his participation in the defeat of the Armada celebrated in  Newbolt’s poem:

Drake’s drum was returned to England at his death and forms another of the legends concerning heroes who will arise from sleep when their country is in peril.

Finn McCoolCadwalader, King Arthur….every country seems to have one – though typically enough the only Scottish one that comes to mind is Thomas the Rhymer. – but then the Scots, ‘secure in valour’s station’, don’t need dead heroes to stir them up….

But it appears to me that it is well time someone started to beat out that rhythm on Drake’s drum, to summon him to the rescue of his country which is fast going not to the dogs, but to the hyenas.

Britain has a referendum to decide whether or not to stay in the bosom of the European Union with  the unforeseen consequence that it will force voters to look at the state of their country as they try to decide whether to keep ahold of nurse or whether ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world’..

Can the U.K. survive outside the E.U. is the question.

But the answer demands an examination of the U.K. as it stands.

Does the U.K.have an industrial base? Does it make anything that people wish to buy?

Decades of successive governments have willfully destroyed the industrial potential of the U.K., replacing it with a financial services sector. Do other people wish to buy these services?

Certainly.

Despots, oligarchs, exploiters of the human race are all in favour.

London is the money laundering capital of the world.

This provides rich pickings for the bum brushers of the City  of London…but nothing for the rest of the population.

In those same decades education has suffered both in availability and quality….

The National Health Service too – in the cause of letting private profit exploit public need.

Employment now means existing on precarious contracts – how can one found a family life on that? How can one buy goods beyond the bare essentials for life?

The country is in hock both financially and morally.

Slavery lives in the U.K. as official life turns a blind eye to the fate of indentured servants of wealthy Arabs who come to live in the country….

Arms are sold to countries who support groups which are a threat to the U.K…..

U.K. politicians support armed interventions which benefit only the U.S.A. companies who direct its government – and bring risk to the general population who do not benefit from the security surrounding the rich and powerful.

I have both fear and hope: fear that the generations accustomed to cowed acceptance of propaganda rather than suspicion of it will  let things stand as they are – hope that being forced to make a decision will make people look further; ask themselves if the U.K.is the country they want it to be…and, if not, what they can do to change it.

And Sir Francis Drake…arriving at Plymouth Hoe, dripping water from his suit of armour? I suspect he would take one look at the U.K. and, had he acquired  a grasp of the Glaswegian vernacular in his sojourn in the hereafter, announce that if anyone thought he could solve the problems  – drum or no drum – then  their ‘erse was oot the windae’.

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