I WASN’T much good at poetry in school. Still, you have to keep plugging away. That guy was right about inspiration and perspiration, whoever he was. Anyway, today is the big day. The Editor of T2 has agreed that I can print one of my poems in the paper. It took me ages to write, so I hope you like it.
It is called, for reasons that I am sure will be obvious when you read it, Democracy. But enough throat-clearing, here it is:
There’s no escape.
The big pricks are out.
They’ll fuck everything in sight.
Watch your back.
I apologise for using foul language. However, as I am sure Wayne Rooney will agree, there are some points that you simply can’t make without it.
I hope you can see how much progress I’ve made as a poet. I’m particularly proud of “Watch your back”. This may not go with the rest of the verse, or have anything much to do with democracy, but I have found it useful advice in the past and wanted to share it with you, so that in future you, too, will watch your back when necessary (tip: use a mirror). I didn’t think any harm would come from sticking this advice on the end there, because the rest of it is such a masterpiece of brevity.
It is time, now, to explain my influences, which you will need to know about when you come to unpick Democracy at the next meeting of your book club.
The two biggest sources of my inspiration were John Stalker, the retired policeman, and Carol Smillie, the TV presenter.
Democracy would not be appearing in this column were it not for my obsession with John Stalker’s adverts for garden awnings. I have spent hours pondering this question — why would anyone be more likely to buy a garden awning because it was recommended by John Stalker? The same goes for Carol Smillie and her promotion of financial products. What was that all about?
And why do companies pay for the right to be the official tissue of the Olympic Games? The reason is that two of the strongest principles of social psychology concern association with success and obedience to authority. A desire to associate themselves with success and attractiveness is what makes people call a winning football team “we” and think of a car as sexy because a sexy model poses on top of it (as research shows we do).
Obedience to authority is such a strong instinct that we are prepared to do what we are told by someone wearing a uniform even if they are not an authentic authority figure. So we will buy garden awnings when told to by an ex-copper, and the likeable Carol Smillie helps us to love our loans.
Thus if my ludicrous, crass, offensive, second-rate, obscure-to-the-point-of-meaninglessness poem had been written not by me but by a modern giant of the literary scene such as Harold Pinter, it would be taken seriously as an important statement. This is fortunate, in the circumstances, because it was. The great man published the poem Democracy in 2003. It is a Pinter, not a Finkelstein, original, I’m pleased to say.
Last week, Pinter announced that he was giving up writing plays and in future would concentrate on his poetry and his politics. This was treated as an important announcement, featuring, for example, on the BBC News.
This is of a piece with the general response to Pinter’s statements. And to his poems. A decade or so ago, after the Gulf War, he wrote one that began: Hallelujah!/ It works./ We blew the shit out of them./ We blew the shit right back up/ their own ass/ And out their fucking ears . . .
When this gem was turned down by mainstream newspapers (bravely citing his language as the reason), he made a fuss and it was published in the Index on Censorship. He’d have saved time if he’d sent it in the first place straight to the Index on Terrible Rubbish.
I’m not wrong, am I? I’ll take it all back if I am. I’m no poetry expert. But these poems are simply dreadful, aren’t they? In a few days’ time Pinter will receive the Poetry Prize from The Wilfred Owen Association.
He’s not much better in prose. The great dramatist has the right to intervene in politics, just as anyone else has. But he doesn’t have the right to be taken seriously. Pinter simply has nothing interesting to say.
I am not writing this because I disagree with him. There are plenty of opponents of both this war and other conflicts who make sharp, incisive, subtle points. Pinter offers embarrassing rants instead.
It’s time we stopped buying cars because of sexy girls. And time we stopped taking idiotic swearing seriously because it comes from Harold Pinter.
Oh, and one more point.
Watch your back.
Tax and spend?
THERE was a fascinating little row at the weekend about tax.
John Redwood described the Tories’ promised tax cut as a “down payment” and said “it will be more if all goes well”. Labour hurried to describe it as a gaffe and said that it would require spending cuts.
This is an example of my “rapid rebuttal” rule of politics. This says that rebuttal almost always contains more interesting political content than the item it was responding to.
In this case Labour appears to be saying that if the Tories made future tax reductions it would involve spending less than Labour plans to.
This tells us two things. The first is that Labour has decided to keep increasing public spending so rapidly throughout the next Parliament that tax cuts would be absolutely impossible. The second is that they regard tax cuts as a threat, which the electorate might be scared by, rather than a promise.
Very interesting.
Watch out
ONE OF the joys of my life, as I’m sure it is of yours, is spam e-mail. Some of it is offensive in a general way, but doesn’t get to you personally.
Last week, however, I received one that announced in its subject line: “Even you can afford a Rolex.” When I opened the message, I found they were selling fakes.
Fearon loathing
I AM unmoved by the news that Brendan Fearon, the man who broke into Tony Martin’s house, has been paid by the BBC to appear in a documentary.
Of course, it is totally wrong and shouldn’t have happened. It is also quite beside the point.
I am always keen to point out that what matters about Fearon is not what has happened to him since he became notorious, but what happened to him when he wasn’t famous.
Before Fearon was sentenced to a month in jail he had been a criminal for eight years and been found guilty of theft, obtaining property by deception, burglary, handling stolen goods, assault, theft again, criminal damage, criminal damage again, attempted burglary, theft from a vehicle, burglary and theft again.
Put this sort of thing right and we won’t have to worry about documentaries.
daniel.finkelstein@thetimes.co.uk
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