The cafe with five faces, p.24
The Café with Five Faces, page 24
“It’s tantamount to committing national suicide but excluding yourself from it by making sure you’ll be OK,” added James, although his point was almost identical in meaning.
“Brexit is like self-harm.” Mike continued the painful analogy. “If you self-harm, the best thing others can do is to stop it somehow and treat the causes. If you don’t stop it, it so often leads to suicide. And that’s the same with Brexit – national suicide.”
“Which is why we need to go back and treat the causes rather than kill the future,” John summarised forcibly.
This was an unusual moment in my Cape Town room. The dialogue was all too often a monologue, if that actually makes any sense, with Mike holding forth, and James and John nodding and making the occasional comment when the speaker paused for breath or, as was more likely, beer. On this occasion, parity of contribution had almost been achieved. We all knew it was unlikely to last, or be repeated in the foreseeable future, but James and John were all for making hay while the sun shone (not literally in March, obviously).
“Imagine,” began James, and there was something teasing in his tone and eye as he said the word, “if there was an election in which you were compelled to vote and the only candidates were representing the ERG and Momentum, what would you do?”
There was no question that this possibility, however remote it seemed, was one to cause shock and silence for a few moments before facial contortions became those associated with brain strain.
“Probably take some delusional drugs because I could never, ever, in a million years, with a clear conscience, support either of them.” Mike’s answer was as definitive as it usually was.
“I can’t argue with that,” concurred John, while James nodded in assent.
There was more synchronised beer swilling for a few moments, during which Mike was seen to shudder, presumably an aftershock of the unthinkable earthquake-like scenario raised by James.
James was clearly in possession of a proverbial spoon with which he continued to stir. “So, what do you think will happen with the Brexit votes this week?”
“With any luck,” said Mike, clearly with a preconceived vision of upcoming events, “May’s deal will once again be defeated by a huge margin and the only remaining options will be a totally disastrous ‘no deal’ or a People’s Vote. Common sense points to the latter, but there is a ridiculous government and an equally ridiculous opposition at the moment, so common sense might not prevail. That’s my big fear: party politics defeating the long-term interests of the country with most politicians equally culpable.”
You could almost feel James and John metaphorically leaning back in their seats to allow Mike to take up his usual centre-stage platform. I say metaphorically, because I have no chairs in Cape Town and the three men all were semi-erect, propping up the bar.
“It’s shameless, really,” continued the would-be political orator. “On one side, Corbyn ignores conference policy and the apparent majority of his support, and almost seems to treat Brexit as an inconvenient irrelevance he just wants done and out of the way, regardless of the outcome or impact. On the other side, the disgrace of the ostrich, in other words, Theresa May, continues apace.” James and John couldn’t hide their amusement at the expression, although not at the implication. “Having bought the DUP’s allegiance by throwing money at Northern Ireland, she is now attempting to bribe Labour politicians in Leave areas in a similar way, just to support her ludicrously bad deal, ignoring the fact that the same areas would actually be better off if we just stayed in the EU!”
“Beggars belief.” John’s almost trademark expression was guaranteed to lighten the mood in most cases; in this particular instance, the respite was brief.
“And you still have this insidious interference from other countries,” continued Mike, two sips later. “And by countries, I mean men.” There was a meaningful pause. “And by men, I mean the Trump and Putin.” Knowing sighs ensued. “Did you hear what Putin told Theresa May?” James and John exchanged looks of surprise with Mike’s usual preferred target, ‘the Trump, escaping his immediate vitriol. “‘Stick to your guns, Theresa May; democracy is democracy,’ or some similar twaddle. I mean, what does that man know about democracy? It isn’t ‘one man, one vote’, but ‘one vote, one man’ as far as he’s concerned.”
“Yeah, I know,” said James, as John opened his mouth to speak. “It beggars belief!”
I appreciated the lightening of the mood, which I further facilitated by introducing a new South African craft ale from the Cape Brewing Company which I had taken quite a liking to.
A political analogy for 2019 – attempts at dragging some common sense out of the morass of British government? Either way, I love this picture of a farmer steering his buffalo – at least, I think it was that way around! – through a rice field in Hoi An, Vietnam.
2019: 42: Beirut: The Hypocrisy of the Ostrich
If you’ve read the 2018 reports on my eavesdropping – and if not, why not? – you will know that my Beirut room is so named out of affection for the said Lebanese capital, even though the inspiration for the furnishings came from a royal palace in Dubai and an unlikely teashop in the centre of Katowice, Poland. I see it as my intimate, romantic room. The customers who mostly frequent it have deemed otherwise.
On this particular afternoon, Micky was propped up against the deep Arabic cushions looking melancholy. This was nothing to be surprised about in itself as the said individual was a one-man walking romantic disaster zone. There may even have been a touch of perverse pride in his admission that, in former times, four of his girlfriends had left him in favour of one of their exes. Neither I nor his regular companion, Jo (female and tactless in approximately equal measure), actually believed this claim, as Micky was as shy as Jo was blunt.
However, we can’t always be right.
“I’ve done a recount,” announced the unexpected ‘Casanova’. At this point we hadn’t been oriented to the topic of the conversation and his miserable expression did not provide enough contextual clues.
“I don’t think there’s a daily limit on the safe consumption of Yunnan Green,” Jo hypothesised incorrectly.
“I think it was six.” We were none the wiser.
“Women.”
“I know what you mean.” My contribution was pointless and uninformed.
“Six women I went out with went back to their husbands or exes.”
Jo spluttered in response; whether this was in disbelief or astonishment was rendered inconsequential by the fact her mouth was full of Algerian mint tea at the time and those of us in the line of fire got unexpectedly damp.
Had I been Micky, I would have kept this confession quiet, unless he was considering setting up a business with the mission of reconciling broken relationships by going out with the female half to make them realise how lucky they had hitherto been.
Jo found a packet of tissues and tried to alleviate the effects of her liquid outburst. At that moment, the curtains covering the entrance to the room billowed suddenly and Misha stumbled in, failing, as always, to see Jo’s clumsily placed footwear and consequently getting tangled up in the loose fabric (note to self: check health and safety about that). In his frantic efforts to remain upright, he dislodged his sunglasses with one hand and then, in trying to push them back on mid-stumble, only succeeded in knocking them to the far side of the room. The whole, brief spectacle was mildly amusing.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” he mumbled in a somewhat disoriented manner, vainly hoping no one had witnessed his arrival.
“I didn’t realise we had an appointment,” said Micky, unperturbed by the disturbance.
“Or a date,” said Jo wickedly.
Even though Misha, along with old readers (by which I mean previous readers, not those of a geriatric disposition), was well aware of Jo’s lack of interest in men of any age, shape or size, his de-shaded eyes looked rather startled. He covered his bemusement by trying to rearrange both shades and dignity at the same time, unfortunately not succeeding in achieving either.
It took him somewhere in the region of thirty seconds to regain something of his usual composure. “I’ve just been waylaid by that Mike character in Cape Town,” he finally said. “He was ranting on about The Hypocrisy of the Ostrich. Is that some kind of 1980s concept album by a substance-laden rock band?”
Jo dissolved into only semi-mock hysterics and even the sad one raised the corners of his mouth into some semblance of a smile, although it rather resembled a grimace.
“Allow me to explain in simple terms,” said Jo condescendingly. “You’re not the first to be accosted by Mike today and I very much doubt you’ll be the last. The ‘ostrich’ is Theresa May, so called because her head is stuck so deep in the sand, she is outside the range of common sense. The ‘hypocrisy’ is that she keeps bringing her damned rotten deal back to parliament, and is bullying and bribing and pleading to get it passed, no matter how many times it takes, in the apparent name of democracy, while the poor old British public only get one shot at a referendum.”
“Ah,” said Misha with dawning realisation. “You’ve got to admit, he’s got a point.”
“A hundred per cent got a point,” concurred Jo.
“You see what happens when you only get part of the intended communication,” said Micky. Having almost forgotten he was there in the kerfuffle of Misha making his entrance, Jo and I looked at each other and, in a burst of synchronicity, mouthed the word ‘Rebecca’, the said girl being just one byline in Micky’s dismal catalogue of non-relationships with the opposite gender. We had been on the receiving end of his communication model and his inability to follow his own advice a few months ago, and the information had surprisingly remained in the longer-term memory.
“Anyway, I don’t like seeing my country turned into an international laughing stock, so let’s leave the politics in Cape Town,” redirected Jo. “We were just having an, erm, interesting conversation about Micky’s lack of numeracy skills in counting the women he’s driven back to their exes.”
“What, again?” Misha was dismissive, as he often was when someone else’s lothario-like behaviour was in the spotlight rather than his own.
“Apparently, it was six.”
Misha looked almost impressed. “It isn’t all that bad,” he said, almost consolingly. “At least you get the fun without the commitment.”
“Who said it was fun?” responded the object of the consolation prize.
Misha raised one eyebrow and then the other with an expression typical of a commitment-phobe who doesn’t see much beyond the benefits of short-term relationships.
Micky rethought again. “Actually, most of it was fun, but I didn’t like the endings. Rarely happy ones.” He thought again. “Actually never.” Glumness returned to his visage and one was once more reminded of a basset hound having a bad day at the office.
“You need to get back on the horse,” said Misha, returning to his more familiar unsympathetic nature. Jo didn’t like the analogy but only displayed it through a facial contortion Misha couldn’t see behind the shades which seemed to be covered in finger marks following their recent bid for freedom. “Start courting again and stick to one at a time if you feel you must.”
Jo laughed out loud. She was spluttering and chortling as though she was personally responsible for maintaining the bonhomie in the room. “Courting? You’re showing your age, Misha, my dear! No, Micky, I think you should woo someone instead.” The word ‘woo’ was uttered as dramatically as she could muster, accompanied by an equally dramatic and sudden waving of her arms which once more endangered Misha’s shades. She continued giggling to herself and her cheeks reddened a little as the two targets of her sit-down comedy routine exchanged glances of bafflement. She returned to her mint tea and, thankfully, this time, managed to dispose of it in the direction intended.
Misha recovered more quickly from the insinuation that he was lexically dated than he had from his flailing advent. “If we’re talking about the past,” he began, although I detected a tenuous link on the horizon, “don’t you think things were better then?”
This was clearly a very open question, as there can be little doubt many ‘things’ were better in the past, while, just as irrefutably, many ‘things’ are better in the present day.
Jo didn’t appreciate the potential for ambiguity in the word ‘things’. “I presume you have something specific in mind?” she responded with a rising intonation indicating the interrogative form.
“These days, you have to think all the time about being politically correct and doing things according to nanny-state regulations.”
“Ah,” chorused Jo, Micky and, I think, I.
“These days, you can’t do this, you can’t do that, you can’t climb trees…”
Jo had clearly pictured Misha halfway up a tree and once again broke into a fit of giggles. I had never identified her as a giggler before, so she was either in a very good mood or just faking it. I was yet to determine which.
“I was referring to kids,” said Misha, betraying slight annoyance but obviously recognising Jo’s interpretation. “When I were a lad,” he continued, displaying his very northern roots, “we could stay out all day long, play in the streets, walk in and out of neighbours’ houses, and, yes, climb trees without anyone making a fuss.”
“Well,” said Jo at some length, “that’s partly the nanny state and partly a sad reflection on the way society has changed, certainly in terms of health and safety.”
“I survived without being pampered by the state!” Misha’s annoyance seemed to be growing, which wasn’t a common occurrence.
“Those who did, did,” retorted Jo, rather obviously. “And those who didn’t are the reason for all the regulations.”
Misha opened his mouth to speak but realised there was some logic behind Jo’s argument. He decided to try another tack. “What about the laws concerning touching?”
If Micky was having trouble counting his exes who had performed a volte-face, I had certainly done likewise with how many times Jo had burst out laughing.
“I might have known women would be involved somewhere!”
“Actually, I didn’t initially mean that,” said Misha, whose anger seemed to be rising stride for stride with Jo’s amusement. “I was referring more to ideas that grandparents shouldn’t be allowed to hug their grandchildren without their permission. I don’t know if that’s a law or some extremist’s suggestion, but either way, it’s ridiculous.”
“Fair point,” said Micky, who had said so little recently, I’d wondered if he’d got lost in the cushions.
“And touching is nice!”
“We’ve been here before, though,” said Jo. “So long as it’s wanted by both sides; and in your case, I doubt it always is.”
“But, as a relative, you have to show affection for children,” said Micky. “Children can’t grow up without love, and contact is one way of showing that.”
“Not everyone who touches a child is a molester,” Misha agreed.
“I agree it’s a shame the actions of a very small minority have made people think otherwise,” sighed Jo.
“And I grew up in a period when touching was seen as a normal,” Misha continued. “I know I’m probably over-tactile, but that’s something which was a feature of my time. It’s the times which have changed rather than me, and it isn’t always easy to keep pace.”
“Especially if you don’t particularly want to.”
Misha shrugged with a coalescence of acceptance and helplessness.
“Like many other things in life,” Jo pronounced, “it’s a matter of balance. With adults, you need to be sure it’s wanted or completely inoffensive, and with children, you need to be sure they and their parents or guardians are happy with it. You’re right to say children need affection and love, but these days, sadly, you’ve just got to think and be careful, and not act on impulse.”
It seemed that after a long and meandering path through a jungle of opinions, an unlikely consensus had been reached on at least one point. Several others remained up in the air, no doubt to be brought back to the debating chamber known as Beirut just as often as that damned deal on Brexit rolls up in parliament.
I’d love to see Misha climbing one of these – a wax palm in the valley of Cocora, near Salento, Colombia.
2019: 43: Hebden Bridge: Back from the March
“I read your book, young man.” Mrs Regular placed her comment carefully between two sips of Darjeeling, with the milk added first. I was quite flattered, twice over. It wasn’t the first time she had called me young, but a few months had passed since the last time, so perhaps I was ageing well. Mind you, everything’s relative. I was doubly flattered by the fact she had bothered to read my book, especially as she didn’t seem to be your most obvious target market for online literature.
“You cheeky bugger,” she added. I reddened slightly at the accusation, but this lightened to a more delicate shade of rose pink as she smiled at me in a semi-approving manner.
“So, you, erm, liked it?” I asked, fishing for compliments whilst fearing I might catch something inedible.
“I’m saying nothing.” There was something in her eye which could have suggested amusement or reprobation. I decided to treat myself and believe the former. I also decided not to push it and diverted my attention elsewhere.
I was quite surprised to find Mike, James and John in Hebden Bridge; they weren’t sitting on the leather-effect sofas but were, in their usual semi-erect poses, leaning against whatever was available. They were in deep conversation with Mr and Mrs Tourist, as they had all been on the bus to London the previous day to protest against Brexit and the dire mess otherwise known as British politics in 2019. Well, since 23rd June 2016, to be more precise.
