canada day winnipeg

Another Canada day. A day to sit in the sun, swat mosquitoes, drink beer, take the kids to a street festival, ooh and ahh at fireworks or curl up in front of the TV and watch the celebrations from Parliament Hill featuring acts that no one outside Quebec City jazz clubs or seedy Toronto bars has ever heard of. Basically ‘Up with People’ only more bland and inane.

It’s a day to celebrate all things Canadian…the great Canadian smug fest where we all reflect on how lucky we are to live in the world’s greatest country with the world’s greatest and friendliest and bestest and most giving people and how its all just so special and great that we all get along so well.

Canadians can over do it a bit.

But why not have a bit of pride in your country? And it could be worse. We could be in Afghanistan. I bet they don’t have face painting, beaver tails, folk festivals and fireworks on their day. The only enjoyment you get there is adulterer stoning and deep fried cave rat on a stick.

Canada Day is typically Canadian. Cheap, a bit slapdash, all about the children, strenuously multi-cultural and generally dull. And Quebec doesn’t take part.

Britain doesn’t have a ‘day.’ What would you celebrate? Magna Carta Day? Well, that wouldn’t work as no one know when that it is and it’s probably in February. Victory over the Boche day…well, Britain is all very European and let bygones be bygones and all that. Agincourt/Crecy/Poitiers/Waterloo/Blenheim/Trafalgar Day then…sorry sorry. The Queen’s birthday? Well she has two and frankly both are pretty dull. Lots of trooping and marching and riding around in open top coaches or addresses from the shooting room at Balmoral.

And you have the Scots to think about too. Perhaps they want a day. Act of Union day sounds kind of naughty so maybe not. Ireland has St Patrick’s day and I have commented on how St George’s Day (and St Andrew’s and St. David’s come to think of it) is ignored.

The Last Night at the Proms always seemed a little over the top to me and vaguely vulgar in its patriotic display and so I think until Britain becomes a republic and creates a constitution there will be no real holiday…just the strangely named Bank Holidays. Which was a bloody laugh as every day was a holiday for the banks.

Well I am going to enjoy a beer on my deck, enjoy the sun and actually reflect on how lucky I am to live in this fine land and how really wonderful my neighbours are and…oh god I’m becoming one of them.

The current shenanigans in Iran remind me of one of those evenings that were so surreal that you wonder if they ever really happened.

I went to Holy Cross School, a nice Catholic school that churned out hooligans, atheists and some decidedly un-virginal catholic girls. My best friend went to Chatham House, an all boys Grammar school that seemed to churn out potential university candidates, young men who would go onto great things in fashion, interior design and theatre and a large proportion of definite virgins. I digress.

It was around 1980, after the Iranian Revolution. Americans were taking hostages and the SAS were rescuing hostages in the Iranian Embassy in London. I was still an impressionable youngster although a little hipper to the ways of the world or so I thought. My friend Nigel (this is England after all) had met an Iranian guy at school and invited me over to a card game at this guy’s house and being the swanky sophisticate I was in. I frankly don’t remember the guy’s name.

At that time my card playing abilities ended at Snap! But it seemed like a plan and Iran was in the news and I never met an Iranian. Ramsgate was not real big on foreigners. More on that in another post.

The get together was on a street I neither knew or can even remember now. It is odd that you can live somewhere for years in a relatively small place and still find a street or building you’ve never noticed before. It was a swanky place for sure. Exotically furnished and very dark. This guy’s parents were away seemingly for a very long time and so the idea of a 16 year old having his own house seemed pretty swell to us.

Nigel and I arrived and began playing what amounted to gin rummy or something equally lame and started pounding back this Iranian’s parent’s liquor once we had finished our single can of Strutock’s Old Dirigible Ale (as that was all we could afford). In retrospect, we were probably knocking back some really expensive stuff not that our young palettes either knew or appreciated it.

Now a little drunk, we moved onto the real reason for the evening. Our host disappeared and brought back a bunch of envelopes. Nigel sort of knew what was happening, apparently news travelled fast in Chatham House. The Iranian guy began handing over wads of photographs taken during the revolution. He was very vague about how he obtained them or who took them but there were hundreds of pictures of dead bodies, shot in the streets or in buildings. Bloody corpses, beaten people, dead and dying. Blood, flesh, gapping wounds and the faces of the dead. Who these people were I couldn’t tell….did the Shah’s police kill demonstrators or were they the shah’s people killed in retribution. To be honest I don’t think I heard the answer. I think it was both.

There were hundreds of these pictures. Our host explained they had been smuggled out during the revolution and taken by a family member, presumably a doctor or even a cop. I think my rosy childish view of the world changed in that moment. Handling pictures that were the original item and of such horrific images seemed so much more real than anything on I’d ever seen on TV. I think I also began to suspect that the news people didn’t tell us everything either for sensibility or more sinister reasons.

I came away from our evening a changed person. Shocked that stuff really happened like that in real life and more disturbed that I hadn’t heard about it on the news. My eyes were opened a little that night.

Of course, now these sorts of images are de rigueur on the internet and no one would be  shocked anymore. We are immune and slightly bored by it. And yet the media and government can’t hide it anymore. With everyone twittering and youtubing from Iran today, I think technology is a good thing. They wont be able to hide a lot of bloody shit this time and no one is going to be shocked six months later.

Bristol Harbour redevelopment

I finally got three minutes to myself today and, unfortunately, wasted it watching Relocation Relocation. I think my wife has the hots for one of the hosts. Given that he is a balding English guy, you can see why. But I digress. My wife asked me as we watched the beautiful Devon countryside if I could ever live in England again. The hosts were in a hundred year-old, 50 square-foot hovel with perhaps inside plumbing, which was on sale for about six hundred thousand dollars and my reaction was no, I could not live there. Even if I wanted to, how could I afford it? And having lived in North American housing with its space, land and amenities, I don’t think I want to spend 1,500 bucks paying rent in slum housing in a ghetto on the edge of Bristol.

That is not to say there are not plenty of great things about England and plenty of things I miss. And really, housing isn’t everything.

The hosts…who also include the strangely attractive Kirstie Allsopp…even her name is a bit dirty…then described how Bristol is redeveloping its downtown. It is spending 1.5 billion dollars on redevelopment, housing, retail and revamping some of its neighbourhoods. Other English cities such as Manchester, Newcastle and Birmingham have all invested similar amounts in redevelopment. It is the way you do it.

Winnipeg on the other hand can barely scrape together five bucks to fix a pothole. As a city it is feeble, wishy-washy, timid, lame and just bush. Sorry, but it is. I live here, by choice of sorts and there are things to recommend the place. But, for the most part, it is a bit of a dump.

Perhaps that it has something to do with a difference in national mentalities. England tends to be brash, loud, cynical and aggressive. Canada a bit passive, quiet and restrained. Canadians need to pick it up a notch and be a little bolder. The beard and cardigans are always out in full force to protest any redevelopment here, so it would take someone with some intestinal fortitude and an ability to take them on and stop their incessant whinging to get anything done. Sit down Sammy, it’s not you.

What the city needs is a bold plan for its downtown and someone with some balls to make it happen. It can’t be done piecemeal and can’t be done half-assed. The reality is these English cities have the vision and boldness to make things happen. Winnipeg is, unfortunately, a bit lame. Getting an IKEA is proving to be a bit of virago. Getting a simple aprtment building built a huge crisis.

I was in the village this afternoon. It is supposed to be the hip area of town. But in the harsh light of day, it is a bit grotty. The sidewalks are crumbling, lots of litter around and half the restaurants and bars are closed during the day. It’s all a little depressing. I had a relative visit recently, and was sort of embarrassed by my hometown. Winnipeg doesn’t have anywhere that is really cool. Mildly interesting at times but nothing really cool. And that is a shame. Winnipeg could have so much more, but it would require someone actually cool to do something about it. So that rules out city council then.

So maybe I should hire a couple of TV real estate agents and look at those places in Devon.

Pretty much sums it up really

So today was the big European parliament election. Who is actually voting for this? What do Euro MPs do. They are so of the equivalent of the Canadian Senate. Except for the election bit.

Clive of India puts in the thali order

 

“Now, two boys have been found rubbing linseed oil into the school cormorant. Now, some of you may feel that the cormorant does not play an important part in the life of the school, but I would remind you that it was presented to us by the Corporation of the town of Sudbury to commemorate Empire Day, when we try to remember the names of all those from the Sudbury area who so gallantly gave their lives to keep China British.”

- Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life

I Just finished a really interesting book about the British Empire Called Empire: The Rise and Demise of the British World Order and the Lessons for Global Power by Niall Ferguson. The book stirred up some controversy when it was published a couple of years ago because of its central theme that stated that while there was a lot of injustice, violence and oppression committed in the name of the Empire, overall it was a positive thing for the world. Ferguson’s main point being that for all its faults, the alternatives to the British Empire were probably a lot worse. And while colonialism has a lot to answer for, the fact that the British Empire crippled itself financially to defeat the Nazis and Japanese and Italian Fascism it deserves a bit of a break. And given that today George W. Bush was crowing about victory in Iraq, it is interesting to see how the mantle of imperialism has been passed from the British to the Americans.

It was said that the British Empire happened in a fit of absent mindedness. The American Empire seems to be forming in spite of itself too. Rather than Britain’s mercantile ports slowly growing inland, America’s imperial adventure seems to growing territories around a bunch of airfields created to protect oil supplies.

And the bete noirs of the British Empire –Afghanistan, Iraq and Sudan are still the places perplexing the new American imperium.

I think what attracted me to the book, aside from my interest in history, is my ambivalence to the whole idea of a British empire. I was looking at the title of my blog and wondering upon the whole idea of British North America. The idea of empire is deeply antithetic to me although if it wasn’t for the Empire I would probably be speaking German, wouldn’t be living in Canada and would be a whole lot poorer. If it wasn’t for the necessity of protecting the semblance of the remaining Empire with a big navy I am sure my parents would never have met and I wouldn’t be here either so I have a lot to thank the Empire for I guess.

Growing up in the punk era in England, the idea of an empire was one that repulsed me somewhat. My conservative Grammar school friends and older people yearning for the Raj seemed more like the pathetic death rattle of a discredited and corrupt old system. “God Save the Queen, because tourists are money,” indeed.

I am still not sure there is anything to be proud of about the Empire. Perhaps the Battle of Britain. Perhaps that fact that once the idea of slavery became anathema to the British they worked to wipe it out worldwide. Perhaps that democracy and civility were exported around the world and gave people some hope in the roughest parts of the world is something to be grateful for. And while colonialism can be blamed for a few things in places like Africa, corruption, despotism and intra-tribal racism can be blamed for more.

I grew up with stories of Rourke’s Drift and Clive of India. Decidedly non pc stories today.

While it seems like such a long time ago and such a weird concept to grasp, the Empire is still with us. In Winnipeg, the whole Fort Garry debate is about a little bit of Empire history, although as usual it has been twisted from trying to rebuild the first outpost of civilization in a desolate land to honouring the last bastion of Metis and aboriginal resistance. My left leaning side can see that and I read about the slave trade that fueled the early Empire and the brutal repression in places like Jamaica and Sudan it makes you stomach turn and you are ashamed to be British. Half of my ancestors come from the earliest British colony of Ireland and I have some empathy with the crap that went on there in the name of Anglo Saxon Protestant civilization.

My right leaning side on the other hand is quite comfortable believing that the alternatives were always going to be worse. Aboriginal people need only look south of the border to discover how worse things could have been. And the Irish would be speaking German and hunting down non Christians with zeal.

Visiting India will give you an insight into the legacy of the Empire both good and bad. About a week into visiting India I started taking on the demeanor of some English Raj sahib. I wanted to stamp my feet and demand “order!” It was odd how that actually worked in places. Few places on earth could have been more odd to the English. Chaotic, irrational, loud and hot, India was the ego to Britain’s id. The historical revisionists of our post colonial world slam the British in India and just the thought of the English trying to rule the place seems absurd today. But had the Empire not been in India, today it would not be a democracy, wouldn’t have rule of law, wouldn’t have the great school system it has, women would still be throwing themselves onto funeral pyres and Hindi would be a second language to Japanese. As George Orwell pointed out, Gandhi could only have been Gandhi in a British India. If India had been ruled by the Soviets he would have been in the basement of the local prison with a bullet in his head about 30 seconds after bringing up the whole non violent resistance thing. The Soviets were nothing if not ironic.

The remnants of the British Empire are all around. The Queen is still the head of state; her mug still appears on the coins. Canada is still called a dominion. But things are changing. If the Aussies dump the Queen and become a republic, Canada will probably follow suit. We like to differentiate ourselves from the Americans and that is one way we do it, but as the confidence grows in the country the ties that bind are loosened. I don’t know of anyone who refers to Britain as the mother country anymore. And why should they? The Union Jack is still on the provincial flag, although I would be all for removing it and getting with the program of the other provinces. Mind you in this province redesigning the flag would cost ten million bucks, take five years and everyone would still hate it.

Sitting in another airport. When on earth did travelling become such a pain in the nuts? You feel like cattle, Especially if being a cow means being stuck in a tiny seat while being served awful coffee by a hinky guy in eyeliner for six hours.

Makes me yearn for a time when travel was fun. Even if it was all the time.

People in Canada, certainly western Canada, are a little perplexed when I mention I took the train to school. Ramsgate to Dumpton Park. A trip all of two minutes. It was a strange ritual every morning – buying my little cardboard ticket — 25p return — from some grumpy old bastard behind a piece of glass so thick it could withstand a small atomic blast. Then to the tunnels where an equally old and equally grumpy old bastard would clip your ticket and you were on your way to the platforms.

Ramsgate station was an odd building, ridiculously large and airy. Even the most silent of farts could be magnified to the sound of thunder. Perhaps the grumpy old guys were annoyed at the echoes of teenagers running through the place farting and screaming Eton Rifles at the top of our lungs.

While the place was actually built in 1920, it felt Victorian. The smell of urine certainly seemed Victorian. And the wonderful patina left by the soot of steam trains was seen as a design feature and so wasn’t washed off at any point. I was there a couple of years ago and it hasn’t changed one bit. Still smells like urine. Still stained by soot.

I still remember the sing song announcement of stations on the Victoria bound train - Dumpton, Broadstairs, Margate, Westgate, Birchington, Herne Bay, Chesterfield, Whitstable, Faversham, Sittingbourne, Rainham, Gillingham, Chatham, Rochester, Gravesend and Victoria.  Actually it sounded more like nhhar harhh narrhh haahhrnn nardhh dhhhh hrrrnnnnnah and Victoriah. Cue anxious and confused looks from passengers.

The train would shoot out of the station over the great Victorian brick viaduct. Looking out the window and feeling the wind in our faces you could look out as a flurry of light bulbs extracted from the compartment lights were dispatched from the train windows over the viaduct onto the street way below. How insane was that?

Clickety clack as the train arched around St. Lawrence College, mooning the hooray henrys and sons of sheiks as they warmed up for “rugger.”

Then into a garbage-strewn cutting before emerging at a Dumpton Park. Certainly a dump and no park. Journey over. Two minutes.

The heavy clunk of the metal doors as we spilled out onto the single platform and rushing past yet another old bastard looking for our tickets.

Now that was travelling. I wonder if I could get those bulbs out of the seats above my seat. Lobbing it out the window might be tricky.

Ham Sandwich sign kent

I was just reading a new blog…called Codswallop and Fries written by a fellow Brit living in North America. He had some interesting points on the relative differences between the English and American concept of a sandwich. I grew up a couple of miles from Sandwich, the home of the guy that invented them and, strangely, near the town of Ham. Hence the sign.

The English sandwich is indeed an odd thing. I used to take the train to school and the British Rail sandwich was something to behold – bread so thin it could only have been sliced by a laser and cheese of a variety that would make most Frenchmen throw up. These sandwiches were of an indeterminate age and would actually roll themselves up and were presumably relabeled ‘Cheese Roll.’ Other items in the British Rail Café, or Caff as it was pronounced, were foodstuffs unknown outside Russian chemical weapons test labs.

The British just don’t do cuisine. So how come every chef on TV today is British? Nigella Lawson, Jamie Oliver, Gordon Ramsey, Heston Blumenthal. Today, cuisine seems to mean British. How did that happen?  Maybe the British are just better at TV. I watch Nigella’s shows and I can’t remember a thing she cooks. Does she cook? I can’t say I have noticed. “Just grate some fat into the butter, pop into an oven, drink some Pinot Grigio. How easy is that? Oops I spilt a little whipped cream on one of my boobs. Oooo how bad is that?”  Ramsey. I don’t watch him to see what he cooks I watch him to tell some poor slob that they are a stupid idiot disgrace and to f off. Blumenthal I just watch the top of his bald head and can’t get that theme tune out of my head. Jamie Oliver it’s all about bunging some stuff in a bowl mixing it up and drizzling oil over it woaaaa and then toss again there ya go guv’nor easy peasy innnit. And this new Marco guy just looks skuzzy and greasy. He looks like most of the chefs I have met.  So it really isn’t English cuisine. And as we know all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.

I do miss good fish and chips though. The nearest I have ever tasted in Canada is at a chip stand in Kenora. And I once had a really good Windsor soup once at a pub in Charleswood.

 But what else is there to miss?The full English breakfast can be pretty disgusting in some places so it isn’t that great. Black pudding, undercooked eggs and beans anyone? Apple and Brie sandwiches in pubs are pretty good…although Brie c’est Francais ne pas? And a proper ploughman’s lunch with a pint is pretty good, but then a rough hunk of bread, a wedge of cheese, a slice of ham and a dollop of Branston pickle is pretty much designed for the cuisine-challenged pub landlord isn’t it.

So that leaves Wimpy’s then. I went to a Wimpy’s in Delhi once and had a goat burger. That sucked too. Wimpy’s was pretty much it for fast food when I was a kid. Home of the 1/16 of a pounder. “Ya wont chips wiff it?” 

So what am I cooking tonight? Meguez sausages, haloumi cheese and roasted red peppers. I got the recipe out of Nigella’s book, which I read for the articles.