British public space increasingly seems to be governed by the poetics of the Poor Law, with designers trying to find ways of preventing people stopping and socialising, at least unless they’re willing to pay Starbucks for the price of a coffee. The main – and unspoken – purpose, of course, is to prevent the poor (and perhaps the young) from stopping and socialising, lest they lower the tone of the place, and its asset value.
It can only be a matter of time in England’s unkind political culture before one of Theresa May’s Special Advisers proposes whipping vagrants and ne’er-do-wells to the parish boundary before then fulminating that the Human Rights Act prevents them from introducing this essential reform.
Most discussion of the future of work assumes that the work, or the lack of it, is our coming problem. But what if we’ve got the question the wrong way around? What if we’re slowly, or not so slowly, giving up on the idea of work? After all, we all know that most work is dull. And even the interesting stuff is exploitative, somewhere along the line.
The thought struck me while reading Dan Hancox’ book The Village Against The World, about the anarcho-syndicalist village of Marinaleda, in Andalusia. After 20 years of intense political struggle, the village won some land for itself, and later added some food processing plants. Unemployment there is five or six per cent, a fraction of the level in other parts of Andalusia. But the young people, generally, are less willing to work in either. Work in the fields is hard; work in the processing plants is boring. And this is, pretty much, a universal truth.
Post-crisis politics aren’t about right or left. They’re about the core versus the periphery
One of the problems of political science, and social science generally, is that it is hard to prove a hypothesis. A sceptic can always say that there were particular circumstances that affected the outcome. We only get to play our history once.
But the recent events in Brussels in which the ‘Institutions’ settled with Greece have, without any doubt, vindicated the work of the late political scientist Peter Mair. His book Ruling The Void, assembled after his sudden death by his lifelong friend and colleague Francis Mulhern, argued that we were watching a long secular decline in party political engagement, and secondly that our political institutions were being shaped so that they had the appearance of being democratic, but none of the structure. His critical case was the European Union; it looked as if had the right institutions in place, but it was not designed to permit opposition or the expression of representative democracy.
I’ve been watching the Flemish drama Cordon – three episodes in, seven to go – which tells the story of a pandemic arriving in Antwerp. Since one of the things that public health officials sometimes say is that we’ve been lucky so far with our pandemics, and it’s not if but when a significant killer hits us, it’s interesting to watch a fictional version of that scenario playing out.
These are just some quick impressions.
The illness itself is well-judged. Yes, it’s highly contagious, but only if you’re close enough for contact or exchange of a fluid (a sneeze, for example, can be fatal). So the rules from the public health authorities are to stay two arms-lengths apart and not to touch each other. It’s striking how socially awkward not touching is: no comforting, no shaking hands.
The cordon of the title is an exclusion zone in the city centre. It stretches around NIIDA, the medical research institute where the first patients were taken to, and the adjacent streets. It’s built from shipping containers, which has a level of irony, since the Afghan man who may be Patient Zero arrived in the city smuggled in a shipping container.
There is constant tension between the city authorities, the police, the doctor/scientists and the journalists. This is exacerbated by social media. The Mayor is asking the scientists to “give her something” so she can keep the media onside; the doctors are telling her that they can’t be certain (they also believe that the virus is mutating quickly); the journalists, of course, believe the authorities and police are holding things back from them.
One of the points of tension in the newsroom is about public responsibility as against freedom of information. The editor has had a telling off from the Mayor about not inflaming fears; the journalist thinks that people have right to know. When the journalist gets a video blog from a dying woman inside the cordon, the editor refuses him permission to use it – so he publishes it anyway, through an anonymous blog. But even the editor can’t help himself. “What we need for your blog is a top ten of epidemics through the ages.”
Business starts to break down, even outside of the cordon. It’s only a fragment of information in the story, but a kind of informal exclusion zone opens up outside the cordon, as businesses close their offices and tell people to work from home.
It doesn’t take long for food supplies to start to break down. Those inside the cordon are starting to ration food after 72 hours, and the authorities have to organise a food drop through the “sluices,” as the gates in and out of the cordon are called. By that stage there’s already some looting going on. Before the food drop, two of the research scientists are fantasising about food:
“I’d really love some chocolate.”
“Me, I’d love some spaghetti.”
Some of the toughest pressures are on the command and control structures. When the food drop goes wrong, and one of the police officers is touched by people trying to escape the cordon, the police commander leading the team sends him into the cordon – to the disgust of the other officers. Video of the incident surfaces, of course, and the commander has to explain himself to the media (“You were following the rules,” he’s told to say.) It’s a defensible position, but he doesn’t want to talk to them. Even after three days fatigue is affecting judgment.
The technologies of control are surprisingly old-fashioned. Apart from the shipping containers, there are guns and water cannon, as well as megaphones and loudspeakers attached to vehicles.
Despite everything people try to maintain rituals. In the research institute they’re having to burn the bodies of the dead, because the morgue is getting over-crowded. The instruction is to try to keep some of the ashes so they can be given to relatives afterwards.
Other people have visited this territory before, of course, including the movie business. Belgium isn’t a big television market, so the production budget for Cordon is smaller than for, say, 28 Days Later. This has the effect of making the aesthetic more realistic. It feels more as if it would or could happen like this.
It is a scenario of course, but does it feel like a reasonable one? So far, three episodes in, it feels like it is. And I suspect that things will get worse before they get better.
The BBC trailer is here:
In an earlier post in my “long waves” series I wrote briefly about the war school and the different theories that existed within it. After this post, I plan mostly to move on from Joshua Goldstein’s 1988 book, Long Cycles: Prosperity and War in the Modern Age. In summary, there are three “war” theories: The leadership cycle school, based on the work of Modelski; the world-system school, led by Wallerstein; and the power transition school, which has emerged from the research of Organski. Goldstein summarises these differences well:
The leadership cycle school focuses on the role of global war in establishing a new international order under a world leader roughly every century. The neo-Marxist world-system school focuses on hegemony and rivalry in the core of the world economy, linking hegemonic cycles to pairs of long waves. The power transition school focuses on changes in national power and their effects on war and hegemony.
There are several reasons to watch President Obama’s eulogy at the funeral of the Reverend Clementa Pinckney, one of the nine people shot in the Emanuel AME church in Charleston, South Carolina, in June.
The first is that it is, simply, an outstanding piece of political oratory, one of the best you might hear, beautifully constructed and masterfully delivered, full of light and shade, with changes in tone and timbre, in which the pauses are often as important as the words. Yet it doesn’t seem, at least not obviously, to draw on many of the familiar tropes of political speech, such as the “rule of three“. So it’s also distinctive.
The website Five Books has a simple proposition: it asks people to nominate five books on a subject and then it interviews them about their choices. Anyway, I was privileged to talk to Bea Wilford of Five Books about futures and futures books recently, and the interview has now appeared on the site.
The books I chose are in the picture:
- Arie de Geus, The Living Company
- Bill Sharpe, Three Horizons: The Patterning of Hope
- Carlota Perez, Technological Revolutions and Financial Capital
- Richard Normann, Reframing Business
- Donella Meadows et al, Limits To Growth: The Thirty Year Update
Looking back six generations is a ‘utopian trick’. And looking back at the last six generations suggests that capitalism might have been a transition.
Danny Dorling has posted the audio of the talk he gave in Bristol recently on “Utopian tricks”, and it is worth a listen. It’s subtitled, “thinking ahead 100 years and back six generations,” and therefore links to a couple of my previous posts on here: on six (or seven) generations, and on looking forward a hundred years.
His argument is that utopia is a journey, not a destination. We tend to look forward a hundred years, as Keynes did in his famous “grandchildren” essay, which looked out from 1931 to 2031 (a date which Keynes’ critics sometimes overlook). It’s a shorthand, as Dorling said, for “after I am dead”. When we go back, we tend not to go further back than six generations, or two hundred years. Which reminded me of one of Paul Saffo’s rules of forecasting: look twice as far backwards as you look forwards.
The second post in my series on long wave theories
The idea of long waves is associated with the Russian economist Nikolai Kondratiev, who was eventually shot by Stalin for his troubles. But the first versions of the theory came from two Dutch scholars a decade earlier, van Gelderen and de Wolff. Kondratiev studied price data (and therefore effectively was looking at long swings in economic investment activity), but other long wave theorists have developed their theories based on different drivers of change, from innovation, to capitalist restructuring, to long-run capital investment, to war.
My plan in these posts was to review the different theories by re-reading the various theorists, but the American academic Joshua Goldstein has done a lot of this work in some detail in his 1988 book Long Cycles: Prosperity and War in the Modern Age, and has also posted the whole of the book online. I’d say his book is essential reading if you’re interested in the idea of long wave theory.
This post will draw on some of my wider reading, but will mostly synthesise the painstaking work that Goldstein has done.