Two Minutes of Hate

The Nudge Unit was established by David Cameron’s government in 2010 with the intention of applying ‘Behavioural Science’ to public policy. It came into its own during the Covid epidemic, which with full blown media support generated sufficient fear to allow an almost totalitarian government. It also encouraged a degree of well meant but lunatic hysteria.

The Thursday evening ritual of banging pots and pans for ‘our NHS’ was started by a Dutch lady, Annemarie Plas, living in London. The speed with which it was taken up not only reflects a generalised hysteria, but the power of the establishment and a compliant media. What the country experienced was less a nudge more a nuclear-powered elbow, involving ministers, politicians, and celebrities of every kind and encouraged by news bulletins with their selective interviews.

It was perhaps a straw in the wind.

It used to be said that ‘money makes the world go round,’ but when the money runs out, hate takes its place, and hate is now the fastest growing currency. Capitalism has always appreciated pitting one section of the exploited against the other: in the C19th, Irish immigrants sometimes scabbing for striking Welsh miners, undercutting wages in general; West Indians stepped up to the mark in the C20th. 

There is now, though, an added complication: the internet and social media. Hate has become democratised, whether it is foreign actors stirring up mischief or home-grown individual grievance-mongers with chips on their shoulders. We live in supermarkets of hate, trundling our trolleys through aisles of the stuff, Muslims, Jews, Trans-activists, Terfs, incels, Brexiteers, Remainers, Tory scum, Labour troughers, Trumpers, anti-Trumpers, all of them screaming their wares. 

On the one hand, it’s doing the establishment’s job for them, distracting and dividing, preventing any coherent opposition to the status quo. It is also anarchic and potentially dangerous and perhaps accounts for a new determination by the establishment to control the internet so that orthodoxy and only orthodoxy prevails. In other words, there should be only one ‘nudge unit’ — especially at a time when the western world for the first time feels threatened by external forces.

It was easier in the past, when hostile powers popped up one a time. England vs Spain. England vs France, the Dutch, later the Germans, and more recently Communism. You knew where you were, a common enemy, one you were encouraged to hate and fear—an art perfected in the C20th. 

Misinformation and propaganda reached new heights during the First World War, continued during the Vietnam war with ‘the domino theory’ that made the war necessary. The domino theory has been resurrected with the present Russo-Ukrainian conflict, ie should Russia prevail other European states will topple like dominoes. Hence the line must be drawn in Ukraine, marked with bodies over there and manufactured hatred for Russia over here. 

But it’s not just Russia. We now face the ‘Axis of Evil’ —the West is surrounded— Russia, Iran, China, North Korea, along with their proxies in the so called Third World. Which way do we turn? Will war make or break the economy? Is it the only way to burn our way through the coming recession?

When the ice-floe shrinks, the velvet glove becomes threadbare and the iron shows beneath. I’m reminded of Orwell’s 1984 and his famous ‘Two Minutes of Hate.’

“The horrible thing about the Two Minutes Hate was not that one was obliged to act a part, but, on the contrary, that it was impossible to avoid joining in. Within thirty seconds any pretence was always unnecessary. A hideous ecstasy of fear and vindictiveness, a desire to kill, to torture, to smash faces in with a sledgehammer, seemed to flow through wthe whole group of people like an electric current, turning one even against one’s will into a grimacing, screaming lunatic. And yet the rage that one felt was an abstract, undirected emotion which could be switched from one object to another like the flame of a blowlamp.”

Orwell’s Oceana faces a never-ending war with Eastasia and Eurasia, and all that Oceana’s citizens know about the world is what the Party want them to know. 

A Parable for Our Time

'The uninvited guest from an unremembered past'

 

This is part of a large installation made from dead organic materials meandering through the house.  To me it looks nothing more nor less than a gargantuan bowel movement, but I'm glad to be corrected. “These materials hold traces of memory, exploring ways of listening to past, present and future, inviting us to reflect on Tyntesfield’s history.” I’m trying to get my head around ‘listening’ to this. Is it accompanied by bowel movement sounds?

For all the ‘word salad’ interpretations, let’s not beat about the bush. This is poo oozing its way through the house. And why? The hapless Gibbs family—all four generations—owned no slaves so they can’t be ‘got’ at on that score. Their vast wealth was based upon imported guano (sea-bird poo) from South America. As they say, ‘there’s money in sh-t,’ but in fairness they invested in beauty. Judge for yourself.

House and chapel

Drive and entrance

Hall with hearth in distance

Hearth close up, its statues representing the four virtues. 

The rooms lend themselves to film and TV work and if you ever see Trollope’s Dr Thorne, Agatha Christie’s Crooked House, Dracula, The Famous Five, Sherlock (The Abominable Bride) and even Dr Who (Hide) you may recognise some of the rooms shown above and below.

A library to die for – well at least experience a slight cold.

The Games Room

The oratory, ie a room once dedicated to family and staff prayer. Now superseded by a grand victorian gothic chapel.

Hall, stairs and landing from different angles

The gothic corridor to the chapel

The family chapel. A modest affair

                                And an evocative exit from the chapel to the gardens outside.

 Tyntesfield reflects late Victorian gothic at its finest—an idyllic country retreat for a country gentleman with taste and a fortune from guano. Earlier representatives of the National Trust recognised its beauty and significance. It was saved for the nation in 2002 and a public appeal resulted in 77,000 people donating over £8 million in a 100 days. It also benefited from a grant of £17.4 million from the National Heritage Memorial Fund. The National Trust today sees guano. A parable for our times perhaps.  

 

Sexburga and Heat Pumps

Whenever I go to church, I always browse an opened book near the entrance. It lists the feast days  of the saints for that week, and rarely am I bored. Who could not be intrigued with saints such as: Werburga, Withburga, Notburga, and my favourite (because I’m basically very childish) Sexburga. 

Wer —Not —With— Sex. There’s a story in there somewhere.

My favourite saint has to be St Christina the Astonishing. 

At the age of twenty-two, she suffered a seizure, was assumed to be dead and carried in an open coffin for her funeral service. Halfway through the mass, Christina sat up and soared to the roof where she perched on a beam. (There is quite a history of levitating saints.) When the mass was over, the priest persuaded her to come down and she explained. She had experienced death, visited Hell, Purgatory and finally Heaven, but on her return she found the stench of humans so foul she could no longer live amidst them.

From that point on she sought solitude—on tops of trees, in dark caves, and desolate towers. She even fled into a hot oven unscathed to avoid a fellow human. She died in a convent aged 74. As to why she is a saint, God knows.

This whole business came to mind because there’s a new book out, which I’ll probably buy when it comes down in price—Saints: A New Legendary of Heroes, Humans and Magic by Amy Jeffs.

It is by all accounts a thoughtful book, though what appeals to me are the stories: ships sailing through turf, resurrected birds, trees bowing to offer their fruits ( I wish my damson trees did that). These two also tickle my fancy: a quarrelling husband and wife wake up to find every inch of their bodies covered with penises and vaginas. I’m thinking party games, a new variant of ‘Twister.’ I’m also wondering whether they had one to spare for the unfortunate man the devil tricked into castrating himself.

It seems to me it’s a poorer age without such stories to tell over the fire. It’s an even poorer age when we’re discouraged from lighting them. It's not the same huddled over a heat pump.

 

Tewkesbury Abbey

 

The Abbey is reputed to be haunted by slain warriors, along with  monks dispossessed by Henry VIII. It is also the backdrop to the most savage battle of the War of the Roses, the battle of Tewkesbury 1471. Fleeing from an advancing Yorkist army but trapped by the rising waters of the Avon and Severn, Margaret of Anjou and the Lancastrian heir Prince Edward fought to the last man. Those Lancastrians who fled into the Abbey were hunted down and slaughtered, blood running thick down the aisles.

The ceiling dates from 1340, its grace a nice counterpoint to the heavy Norman columns. The architectural historian Nicholas Pevsner had his own take: ‘beautiful (but) producing a somewhat crushing effect.’

Above shows ‘The Sun in Splendour,’ the symbol of Yorkist kings added after the battle of  Tewkesbury. Rubbing salt into the wound is the grave of the Lancastrian,  seventeen year old Edward Prince of Wales with the inscription:

Here lies Edward Prince of Wales, cruelly slain whilst but a youth  Anno Domini 1471, May fourth. Alas the savagery of men. Thou art the soul light of thy Mother, and the last hope of thy race.

Other than Yorkist triumphalism and the tragedy of the slain prince, what truly knocked me out were the glorious stained glass windows, a happy marriage of the Medieval, Victorian, and the C21^st  in the form of Thomas Denny.

In the past, my photographs of stained glass have always proved unsatisfactory with washed out colours and poor definition. My new iPhone 15 pro max was a revelation, and I make no apology for posting so many, but if you zoom and slowly flit through them, the effect is hallucinatory. Some Gregorian chants and a good bottle of port will heighten the effect. 

Close ups of altar windows

Scenes from Christ's life, many instantly recognisable

And because so much might otherwise be missed in Thomas Denny’s brilliant work, I’m including context and explanation below—for those who like to explore stained glass.

The Colour Blue

 

Friends we haven’t seen for years bought us an intriguing present for our Ruby Anniversary. A superficial mind might consider a ruby red bottle might be more fitting, but who could drink gin from a red bottle? Are there any alcoholic drinks in red bottles? No, blue is the perfect colour whether Gunpowder Gin or Bombay Saphire. Green works too ie Tankeray, Gordons too if you’re on a budget.

I spent some time admiring the colour, unwilling to break into it too early. The small piece of cardboard around the neck of the bottle provided further distraction, especially when I opened and read it. 

Who was P J Rigney? And what a journey!  And all in search of botanicals. I felt vaguely transgressive. Was he another imperialist I should be ashamed of, plundering other cultures and nations for unknown and exotic plants? My imagination took me back to ‘The Great Game’ when the Russian and British empires vied with each other for influence in Central Asia. 

Men  like Colonel Charles Stoddart, British officer and diplomat active in Central Asia, and sent on a mission to the Emir of Bokhara in 1838. 

Colonel Charles Stoddart

He went with two aims: persuading the Emir to free some Russian slaves, and to sign a treaty of friendship with the British Empire. Stoddart was promptly arrested by the Emir and languished in a hot and dusty cell. In 1841 Captain Arthur Conolly arrived in Bokhara to negotiate Stoddart’s release. 

Captain Arthur Conolly

The Ark Fortress Bokhara

This was stressing the Emir out and the two men were beheaded the following year on the square in front of the Ark Fortress. Was JP Rigby cut of the same cloth—an imperialist adventurer, his obsession with botanicals his cover in the Great Game? I lived in hope, but alas no.

P J Rigney is alive and kicking, an Irish distiller who has been in the drink  industry for well over twenty years and was for a time associated with Bailey’s Irish Cream. He may not be an adventurer in the Victorian mould, but an entrepreneur he most certainly is—with an interesting taste in botanicals:

 “kaffir limes from Cambodia, Chinese lemons, and gunpowder tea from China, Orris root from he mountainous regions of Morocco, as well as juniper berries from Macedonia.”

I think it’s going to take several bottles of Drumshanbo* Gunpowder Irish Gin for me to detect the full range of his botanicals. More additions to the bucket list. 

*Gaelic for old sheds on the ridge. A town in Leitrim, Ireland.