2013-05-24T03:10:11-04:00 Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/author/index.php?author=marcus-moore Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Marcus Moore Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1209135 2012-01-16T16:06:43-05:00 2012-03-17T05:12:01-04:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Etymologists tell us 'dole' comes from the Old English dál, or 'deal'. In imperial Rome, it was grain, handed out free to plebeians. That the Latin verb dolere means 'to suffer pain or grief' is entirely coincidental.

An intern was, until recently, an 'assistant resident physician or surgeon in a hospital.'

It's all been rather sneaky, in my view: the gradual shift from means-tested entitlement to income support to begrudging allowance to the latest initiative:

"If you don't do as you're told and spend a fortnight stacking shelves in Poundland, you'll get sod all."

It's no surprise that certain supermarkets, food and drink corporations, oil companies and banks have all quickly offered salvation to the country's one million unemployed youngsters. The 'deal' goes as follows.

The government will give you £53 a week to live on as long as you do their bidding. This now includes a mandatory period of 'training' with a large employer, who will get your labour for nothing. They might offer you a job interview, but are under no obligation to do so.

And why should they? Cheaper and easier to wait for the next batch of unpaid trainees to arrive. As neat a wheeze as any I've come across for helping wealthy companies become even wealthier.

It's tough being unemployed. Most people not only lose heart and self-confidence, but also feel inadequate and ashamed. And now this.

Call it what you will - internship, work experience, condition of benefit payment or job seekers' penance - the practice of paying anybody nothing in return for their labour is insulting, demeaning and disgraceful.

Compassion? Past its sell-by date, it seems.

(Marcus' recent blogs include memories of working with Bob Holness, revisiting his childhood home on Google Earth, and the sad decline of the apostrophe.)]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1165505 2011-12-22T12:26:14-05:00 2012-02-21T05:12:02-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
OCTOBER

Nobody is quite sure of anything, the morning after.

It is like waking from a medieval night of revels: dazed, damp-blanketed, sore-boned, needing a pee:

"What have I done? Why am I here? Who is that?"

Makeshift tents, discarded placards, cathedral pillars, lines of police, a daybreak harmonica: Occupy the London Stock Exchange slowly gets to its feet, like a newborn calf.

"It feels like people have finally..." an elderly woman breathes out a long sigh, "...decided we've really had enough."

"My name is Giles Fraser. All is fine and there's a very calm atmosphere here. I've asked the police to move on and they have. The bad news for those sleeping is these bells are spectacularly loud!"

"I don't really have any political leanings, it's just that I care about my fellow human beings and here I'm caring in a very direct way. Oh, thank you, guys. I'll get breakfast on in maybe half an hour."

Gifts are placed in the manger: bread, water, vegetables, fruit.

They mill, campers and sightseers, photographers and mask-wearers, activists and onlookers. Donations are made at the Info Point; there's talk of a library; medical personnel are among the first volunteers.

The calf stumbles on the barn-yard stone, hesitant, crooked of haunch, timid-eyed in the sunlight of autumn.

"Consensus is contentious. We want to build what a society should look like."

Optimism attends the day's assemblies: many hands waved in agreement with ground rules. It is chilly but dry on the stone steps. Barriers prevent access to Paternoster Square. The Latin means 'our father'. A cardboard sign, taped to a concrete pillar, reads: Forgive Us Our Trespasses.

"Hippy scum!" shouts a stern passer-by. "Go get a fucking job!"

"We have one," a girl whispers to her boyfriend. "It's to make things better."

Their held hands tighten, knowing love.

NOVEMBER

Tent City University hosts an address by Professor David Harvey. Hundreds sit on the broad steps below St Paul's, most bare-headed in the dry evening air. A red London bus noses its way down Ludgate Hill, once, it is said, the site of a Roman temple to Diana, goddess of the hunt, of the moon, and birthing.

"You're in the heart of the beast, the belly of the beast, and your job is to give the beast a stomach-ache."

He stands on a rostrum of pallets, talking into a microphone. Some sip beverages from the Tea Tent. Placards and posters hang on railings. There is no litter, no chanting, no anger.

"But the more stomach-ache they get, the more grouchy they're likely to get. And then you have to stiffen your resolve."

Stiff-standers, dilly-danders, lookers, crookers, and a wig-wag. The camp is stronger, a month into the occupation: the weaned calf grown sturdy, frolicsome, rounder-bellied. On full-laden, wooden shelves in the kitchen stand cartons of milk, jars of honey.

Visitors linger longer now: browsing in the library; thumbing The Occupied Times; glancing at watercolours in street artists' sketch-books; tinkering on the upright piano, also under canvas.

"This is going to be a long haul for all of us, I think. This is a marvellous site and a marvellous initiative that you've taken."

Professor Harvey has been speaking, without notes, for half an hour. General Assemblies stop when the cathedral, busy again after a week's closure, is soon to hold a service. There are more wanting to sweep the steps than available brushes.

"And this is going to change politics in a very fundamental way. Keep at it, keep at it, keep at it."

The applause is that earned by a respected academic: no prolonged ovation, no hero worship.

In the kitchen, a young man announces he's going to cook meat.

"We only do vegetarian here."

"Call yourselves anarchists! I thought the idea was that there'd be no fucking rules!"

Out he stomps, spittle-mouthed, red-templed, shot-eyed. Like a roused bullock.

DECEMBER

Wind, raw-knuckled and unforgiving, ripped the legal tent from the encampment's womb-warmth, damaging others, herding the calf-young into a huddle among the sanctuary of stalls. Winter stalks the thinned figures, the occupied fingers. Tarpaulin and sand-bag defences strain against onslaughts, some of malice, some goaded by malcontents.

"If we lose the court case, nobody will be able to seek sanctuary on the steps of St Paul's ever again. In its three hundred year history, nobody has ever slept rough here before."

There are seventeen bells housed in the cathedral towers, including two quarter-jacks cast in 1707, adding forty-eight long hundredweight to the belfry: ringing the changes.

Slippery now are the stone walk-ways, steel-sharp the frosts, dark and drenching the rain-pours. Those on Nightwatch tread cautiously in and out of shadow.

"I'm good for up to minus ten degrees. Or do I mean down to?"

Several have strayed from the original camp to occupy other sites: Finsbury Square, the Bank of Ideas, an abandoned court-house in Old Street: grazing land for foals; barns for roosters, doves and night owls; roofs over frowned heads and cavaliers.

"This is only the beginning of the beginning. People are having to re-learn forgotten ways of doing things. Everyone's been talking at once. We need to remember we have two ears, but only one mouth."

The high court judge, with entourage and carrying a furled umbrella, has visited the camp. The hearing draws to a close. Whatever the outcome, choral voices will celebrate the coming feast days; hugs will be embraced; assemblies will be held and consensus reached.

"We're opening up about feelings: why we're there, what irritates us, what inspires us. Some have said they'd rather die here than anywhere else."

Bulls champ on neighbouring land, maybe yet to be unleashed in fierce stampede. And there remain those desirous of slitting the throats of the calf-young, of further engorging their obese bellies with cuts of tender veal.


(Each of Marcus's daily blogs is 2011 characters in length. A small increase is expected shortly. His writings include observations on education, topical socio-political issues, and the arts.)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1154938 2011-12-19T19:11:35-05:00 2012-02-18T05:12:02-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Maybe I should switch allegiances and ask global warming to get its skates on.

The tax year ends in early April. Why they set the following January as a deadline is beyond me. It would be beyond me if it was June, July or any other month, but do we really need a gestation period of 40 weeks? Surely 90 days would suffice. This is paperwork, goddammit, not procreation.

They might say they are doing us a favour, but I call it cruelty. It condones ill-discipline, legitimizes dithering and lends support to that rapidly-increasing breed of sorry individuals who are anything but sorry when it comes to punctuality, preferring, as they do, not to apologize when ringing to tell you they're going to keep you waiting, but informing you that they...

"Seem to be running late."

... as if they were a washing-machine cycle or a train held up by signalling problems in the Chippenham area.

There are fixed penalties for the filing of tax returns: one day late and it'll cost you £100: a threat that works for small fry like me.

So, yesterday, I sent the relevant figures and documents off to an accountant. I know, I should do it myself, but his rates are very reasonable and I'm easily scared by phrases like 'disallowable expenses' and 'corresponding deficiency relief'.

What annoys me most, however, is the time it takes.

No, not the time collating the information - which, because I keep efficient and up-to-date records of income and expenditure, I can complete within a couple of hours - but the weeks and months I spend not doing it.

It's been on my list of jobs since May, carried forward week after week. Why? There's nothing to stop me dealing with the damned thing on a rainy morning in June. And yet, I never do. Grrr!

Time, I think, for some self-assessment.

(Marcus' recent blogs include observations on snow, the Occupy movement, and the closure of a local hospital.)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1128169 2011-12-04T14:37:48-05:00 2012-02-03T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/ The Chimes, stood all day long just outside a church-door and waited there for jobs: a 'breezy, goose-skinned, blue-nosed, red-eyed, stony-toed, tooth-chattering place it was, to wait in, in the winter-time'.

It is a sad tale, written, according to John Forster, the author's friend and biographer, as a 'plea for the poor', in which Dickens 'was to try and convert Society... by showing that its happiness rested on the same foundations as those of the individual, which are mercy and charity not less than justice'.

One hundred and sixty-seven winters later, a motley assembly of individuals has gathered outside another church to do the same.

Although chosen almost by happenstance, the location of Occupy London is pleasingly symbolic. Rabble commoners have had the audacity to lay siege to the most powerful bastion in the land. I applaud their courage and the irrefutable reasoning they represent.

Meanwhile, a City of London Police Terrorism/Extremism update for the London Business Community, published two days ago, tells us that 'the worldwide Occupy movement shows no sign of abating'.

It's six weeks today since I first did a bit of washing-up at the encampment alongside St Paul's. Never thought of myself as a 'domestic terrorist' before, but, deep down, I knew I'd one day get my comeuppance for insisting on keeping a tidy kitchen.

My researches - if casual, random and lacking the 'suspected hostile reconnaissance' available to the police - have reached the same conclusion. More and more people are questioning the social and economic injustices of a country riven by division, deprivation and a despair one could describe as Dickensian.

The Chimes includes this pithy quatrain:

O let us love our occupations,
Bless the squire and his relations,
Live upon our daily rations,
And always know our proper stations.

The author called it a 'Story of Some Bells that Rang an Old Year Out and a New Year In'.

I expect next year to see countless more commoners being summoned by the bells of St Paul's to join the common cause for a more common-sense approach to the questions of fairness and freedom.

(Marcus has written ten pieces on the Occupy movement, from the satirical to the sombre to the optimistic.)

]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1084917 2011-11-09T17:35:07-05:00 2012-01-09T05:12:02-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Twice lately I have been accused of being childish - on a Facebook thread, for suggesting elected parliamentarians should not call each other 'honourable' and 'right honourable' because they aren't (besides, it smacks of smug, self-aggrandizement)... and, as a supporter of the Occupy movement, by Revd Peter Mullen who thinks we're doing nothing more other than shouting 'it's not fair!', likening us to a class of infants.

"The poor are always with you," he reminds Daily Mail readers, as if that, in itself, was a justification for Barclays paying CEO Robert Diamond £10 million in salary and bonuses last year.

When you're a senior citizen, being called childish hurts. You feel belittled and dishonoured.

It takes a bit of getting used to, this pensioner malarkey: the longer Post Office queues; the fiddly machines that have replaced human beings at railway stations, in libraries and supermarkets; the decreased mobility and the increased sense of vulnerability.

You get your free bus pass and a leaflet about bowel cancer screening, complete with do-it-yourself motion sample collecting kit: how exciting - I haven't been in a collectors club since joining the I-Spy Tribe, aged about eight.

And I'll be off to get my free eye test on Friday. Difficulty reading the small print, you see; especially those hidden news items you need a stronger pair of specs to spot; for example...

The world is likely to build so many power stations, factories and inefficient buildings in the next five years that it will become impossible to hold global warming to safe levels, and the last chance of combating climate change will be "lost for ever", according to the most thorough analysis yet of world energy infrastructure.

...which today's BBC News and Daily Mail websites don't consider important enough to report.

But worrying about the planet's welfare is probably just me being childish.

(Marcus has blogs about the Occupy movement, here, there and elsewhere)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1065069 2011-10-29T10:09:58-04:00 2011-12-29T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
"Anything in particular?"

"Helping in some way. Doing the washing up perhaps."

The General Assembly has finished: mostly announcements about discussion groups, recycling, banners and sanitation. No fuss, no ranting or chanting. It could be Freshers' Week or a National Trust open day. There is a pleasing matter-of-fact-ness in what is said, and done.

It is more evolution than revolution. And it will not be televised.

Ben gets his wish and we wash the dishes. You don't ask if or what, but just roll up your sleeves and relieve the previous shift. Large tureens contain curry, rice, soup and coins. Nobody takes from the latter, which seems cold, tasteless, uninviting. More food is donated than eaten. That the kitchen is today serving more sightseers than campers is neither questioned nor relevant.

I don an apron, cross Cannon Street to fill water containers, sluice slops down a drain, listen to street musicians while having a fag break on the cathedral steps of history.

Sharing resources is a difficult conceit. Could be a while before it takes off. There are, after all, still countless citizens who would rather besmirch, berate or butcher the needy than feed them.

A teenager asks me for a cigarette; a Hackney Citizen reporter wants my opinion; a City of London Corporation policeman does not. Hundreds of passers-by read the slogans and dissertations taped to walls and tied to metal barriers. A cardboard message asks St Paul's to "forgive us our trespasses".

Ben has finished his stint at the makeshift sink. Ross is wiping the few remaining utensils and Rampaul chopping vegetables. A poet friend, Catherine, greets us with a hug. Her three-person tent is occupied this weekend but we're welcome to use it any time.

We stroll over the Millennium Bridge, talking about our children, rational thinking, and how good is to be alive, to bear witness to this peaceful process.

Needing the loo, we go into The Globe: once a vision, now a solid structure.

(Marcus writes a daily journal, with each entry exactly 2011 characters in length. Recent contributions include thoughts on Occupy globally, Question Time, and the joys of being a grandfather.)


]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1026283 2011-10-22T08:58:19-04:00 2011-12-22T05:12:02-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Critics, however, are not impressed.

"Why are these scroungers camping out?" they ask. "Why don't they do an honest day's work for a change? They should smarten themselves up and get down to the Job Centre."

Police are keeping a low profile, awaiting the order to evict them. It's expected that most of the East African unwashed hippies - who prefer to refer to themselves as 'refugees' - will eventually leave and go back to... er... go back to... er... Anyway, that's their problem, not ours.

The camp even has a First Aid centre. I tried to interview one of the workers there, but she was most unhelpful, making some excuse about not having the time because a child was busy dying every few seconds. This suggests that the number supporting the campaign continues to fall.

The drop was not unexpected as the majority of people still don't understand what this movement's goals are.

Meanwhile, following the pattern of protests against poverty started in the 60s and 70s, a group of anarchists calling itself Occupied Territories has been taking over expensive properties across North America and Europe.

"We have developed the tactic of moving from place to place," an anonymous man in a suit told me. "It could be a luxury apartment in LA today, a Mediterranean villa tomorrow, one of several yachts over the weekend. We don't want to make it any easier for any jumped-up Criminal Justice system to find us."

Many of this latter group will be back at their desks for a few hours next week, proving that Occupy has attracted followers from all walks of life, while each camp reflects the differences appropriate to its cultural heritage.

Meanwhile an OAP in Gloucestershire is quietly seething, not because of his reduced winter fuel payment, not because everything is costing him more, not because many local services are being cut... but because so few people seem to make the same connections he makes.

And that is why he is proud to be a supporter of Occupy, because he would like his children, his grandchildren, and children everywhere to inherit a planet where humankind finally grows up. He believes it is time the world put moral and ethical principles above the failed financial systems that are currently running - and ruining - everyone's lives.


(Marcus writes a daily journal, with each entry exactly 2011 characters in length. Recent contributions include thoughts on Occupy LSX, a mobile phone orchestra, and the weather.)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1021106 2011-10-19T22:59:15-04:00 2011-12-19T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Calling themselves 'The City' and funded by worldwide donations to their cause, the occupants are confident of surviving the cold winter ahead.

"We simply line our pockets," one of the many anonymous figures told me, keeping his identity hidden behind an expressionless mask.

It's immediately evident to any casual passer-by that the camp is well organised. Security guards prevent troublemakers getting into the larger tents, all of which have toilet facilities, coffee-making machines and internet access. Despite rumours of the presence of drugs and alcohol, the police don't appear to be planning to evict anyone within the Square Mile.

But why are they there? What do they want? Will they be publishing a manifesto?

"We prefer to call it a portfolio. Anyone with the same financial benefits can join us. Millions of people give us money every day. They wouldn't do that if they didn't trust us... would they?"

The City does indeed have many followers. Their banners and slogans have been erected across the globe:

"Don't Give More to the Tax Man! He'll Only Spend it on Things Like Hospitals and Schools! Want to Find a Haven for Your Investments? Talk to One of Our Advisers Today!"

The occupants have also established a strong working relationship with the media. Their approach is simply to refuse to be interviewed about corruption or corporate greed.

"Our City of London Corporation doesn't abide by the usual democratic processes. It stops those who live here having any say in the affairs of those who work here. And don't forget it was the last Labour government that revised the rules in our favour. We may not be popular with everyone, but the bonuses we get in The City far outweigh anything else."

Justice has a long, hard road ahead before these determined anarchists abandon their camp to the forces of Morality and Equality.

(Marcus's recent blogs on why he left teaching, journeys on the 51 bus, and memories of 1964.)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1016337 2011-10-17T16:01:47-04:00 2011-12-17T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
It was first coined by Richard Dawkins in The Selfish Gene, being derived from mimesis, the ancient Greek word meaning 'imitation', from which comes μίμημα (that which is imitated), from the core of which Dawkins plucks his monosyllabic 'meme': a catchy abbreviation, which, he tells us, 'should be pronounced to rhyme with 'cream'', going on to give as examples, 'tunes, ideas, catch-phrases, clothes fashions, ways of making pots or of building arches'.

The very word has, therefore, itself become a meme.

The Oxford English Dictionary defines it as 'a cultural element or behavioural trait whose transmission and consequent persistence in a population... is considered as analogous to the inheritance of a gene'.

In other words, we can perhaps look at it as a trend, a tendency, a bright idea that takes off.

Not really the tangible product, but more of a social phenomenon: from All You Need is Love to bridal showers, from watching X-Factor to using the word 'like' at least once in every sentence when chatting with teenage peers on the bus.

Memes it seems, will only become memes when used far and wide. Like mass movements. Which have to start somewhere.

My mind has been much occupied of late by the Occupy movement, to the extent that I shall offer a few hours of support when in London this weekend.

People are keen to donate to the cause. I've posted an idea on their website...

"Global Bucket" is a financial institution which started out as nothing more than a plastic tub on a table near St Paul's Cathedral in London in October 2011. Every citizen in the world opened an account there, without realising it. Global Bucket's basic policy was (from the start - and remains) to be non-profit-making, to share its resources with those in need, and to neither charge nor pay interest. It is now the world's largest so-called 'bank'.

...adding, mischievously, that the above could be from a Wikipedia entry in 2021.


(Marcus's recent blogs: Quantum Economics; Don't Bank On It; Alarm Clocks and Bells)
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1010342 2011-10-14T04:47:30-04:00 2011-12-13T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/ The Spectator, used that description of himself when he was a performance poet. It has stayed with me, as witty truisms often do.

Again disgruntled by its obsession with audience participation, I abandoned Radio 5's Drive yesterday when they went for the patronising ending called 'balance': a cross-section of listeners' texts, twee-ts and other irrelevancies.

There was a time when news editors at the BBC chose to report facts, not opinions. At 61, maybe I'm supposed to be grumpy, although I'd rather not be.

My father died of a heart attack at the same age. I shall overtake him, so to speak, on March 11th next year. I have no fear of death or dying, but would rather follow his way out than spend tedious, bed-sore-ridden days in hospital, awaiting the inevitable.

Mum reached 86, dying at home in her sleep: not for her either the irreversible suffering of cancer or conditions arthritic, dementative or motor neuronal; thankfully.

In no position, therefore, to draw any personal conclusions on how well elderly patients are treated in hospital, I would nevertheless be inclined to pay more attention to the findings of the Care Quality Commission - following unannounced visits by its staff - than those of a news outlet deciding that X happened to Mrs Y in Birmingham, therefore the same must be happening everywhere.

The Health Secretary blames 'failings in nurse leadership'. Presumably he missed the bit about staffing levels on page 13 of the report.

As for compassion and dignity... I reckon we need a National Death Service, providing wards that resemble classy hotels, medical staff to visit home patients daily, and something akin to maternity leave for relatives.

Of course it would be costly, but do we not also have a national system that allows a footballer to be paid the same as 1,000 nurses?

Shabby treatment of the elderly and failings in leadership? Care to look in the mirror, Mr Lansley?

Marcus's recent observations on Quantum Economics, The Citizenship Test, and Read Dating.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1008332 2011-10-13T02:11:28-04:00 2011-12-12T05:12:02-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
I suspect he is behind the latest codswallop coming from Downing Street about the Life in the United Kingdom Official Citizenship Test.

The whole thing is an embarrassment. To pass, you must score 75%, answering correctly eighteen of the two dozen questions, which range from the brutally difficult...

6. TRUE or FALSE? Ulster Scots is a dialect which is spoken in Northern Ireland.

...to the frankly ludicrous:

11. The number of children and young people up to the age of 19 in the UK is a) 13 million b) 14 million c) 15 million d) 16 million.

Ten times now have I tried the online practice test, always failing, comfortably. My Venezuelan son-in-law passed first time with ease, having bought and read the official study guide.

I must conclude, therefore, that the test has been devised to reflect typical UK values: prove you can rattle off a few facts from memory and you'll be one of us. Our education, legal, political and economic systems are based on the same solidly British principles.

The afore-mentioned Hilton, a keen cyclist, is said to want the government to be more 'green', despite his support for another London airport, wanting to use cloud-bursting technology to provide more sunshine, and commuting to work once a month from his luxury home in California.

Being an 'outlandish maverick' known for 'thinking outside the box', he would no doubt like to make the Citizenship Test compulsory for all UK residents.

Those who failed would be arrested, have their DNA tested and family histories checked. Anyone unable to prove themselves 100% pure Anglo-Saxon could then be deported. This would reduce unemployment and decrease the demands on the NHS.

Perhaps I shouldn't have put that last bit. Steve Hilton's wife works for Google.

Marcus' recent blogs on Quantum Economcis, some Alarming News, and a work in progress. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1002418 2011-10-09T14:13:46-04:00 2011-12-09T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Those of you aware of my fondness for obscure words will, I hope, forgive my need to mention the clepsydra - 'water thief' - of ancient Greece. Such clocks were common 2,300 years ago, their uses including the imposition of strict time limits on visitors to Athenian brothels.

The inventor Ctesibius later added elaborate devices, enabling pebbles to strike gongs and compressed air to blow trumpets.

For years I had a wind-up clock with two self-satisfied-looking bells on top: great for waking you up, but with a shut-off lever too intricate for sleepy minds. It seemed to ring even louder after you'd knocked it off the bedside table on to the floor.

Why I switched to the Today programme on the radio is beyond my later comprehension. Brian Redhead's accent and manner were affable enough, but is it prudent to open our daily ears to the dull despair of global gloom? Though unconvinced by most conspiracy theories, I am damned sure John Humphrys is one of those brutal sleep deprivation techniques used at Guantanamo.

Nowadays I rely on Radio 3. The programme editors are very smart, for they rarely broadcast anything too strident before breakfast: more strings and woodwind than brass or percussion. I awake in gentler mood when the end games of dreams are underscored by a Bach cantata or Haydn quartet.

But when it comes to serious alarms, dear reader, consider only the small print of this week's news. Not banks or battles, but bees, dying in their millions, perhaps poisoned or brain-damaged by diesel fumes.

According to Einstein, "If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live."

It is time we all woke up to the nightmares of our own making.


Marcus's recent blogs on Quantum Economics, Censorship, and National Poetry Day
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.985229 2011-09-28T12:10:55-04:00 2011-11-28T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
By the time you've finished this article, dear reader, many tiny particles known as neuros will have undergone a significant change, leaving your savings or deposit accounts and travelling across immense distances to relocate themselves in pockets called Goldman Sacks.

It is not yet known how or why this happens, but economists admit these are truly remarkable findings.

"We may have to revise our thinking about everything. Until now, quantum economics have been based on the universally accepted law of common-sense: look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves. But these results challenge that fundamental principle."

Neuros - the nth fraction of an electronic currency used by all Europeans - are invisible to the naked eye. Read your bank balance in an hour's time and it will no doubt look the same as it does now. It will, however, have decreased in value. A number of neuros will have been lost, following the bombardment of all monetary particles by the Large Having-you-on Colluder.

"Essentially, this is about dark matter," an expert told me. "It's easier for us if you're kept in the dark about matters that don't con-CERN you."

There is already convincing evidence of black holes in the banking system, with billions of neuros inexplicably transferred, according to the accounts of Diamond and Green, pioneers of the theory, 'the more you fail, the more you get paid'.

Economists are now expected to re-double efforts to find the Scroggins-Bonus particle, named after a cleaner from Pontefract. She first hypothesised that all neuros had a tendency to disappear down the back of the sofa.

Does the new discovery make time travel possible? Apparently not.

"Anyone thinking they'll get their money back is living in a parallel universe," said an economic spokesman.

M(o)ore observations from Marcus here]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.970747 2011-09-19T18:25:00-04:00 2011-11-19T05:12:01-05:00

Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/ per capita donations, despite suffering a serious economic recession at the time.

Red Nose Day 2011 achieved an 'on the night' record-breaking £74.3 million; Children in Need can expect £20 million this November; Oxfam received over £100 million last year from donations and legacies alone.

People give generously to good causes

In recent years, however, there has been a large fall in the amounts given to charities through receptacles on shop counters. Dropping coins into the one where I bought tobacco today, I heard the same hollow echo in its stomach as last week. And the week before and the month before.

The reason is obvious: plastic: the material which has not only replaced the tin of the collecting container, but also the cash in the pocket. Only when we make purchases with hard currency are we likely to consider chucking a few loose coppers into a charity box.

I can't be the first person to have considered the potential for a plastic card equivalent of the collecting tin. The setting up of an organisation called Small Changes requires only a couple of influential figures and an act of faith from some major retailers - Tesco, Boots, Mark & Spencer would do for starters - for the rest will surely soon follow out of a sense of noblesse oblige.

Anyone purchasing goods by credit or debit card is asked by the cashier the simple question, "Small Changes?"

"Yes," indicates a wish for the amount payable to be rounded up to the nearest 10p.

For example: a book on sale at £8.95 is sold to the purchaser for £9; a basket of supermarket items totalling £34.56 costs £34.60. The 9p change from these two transactions is initially credited to each store's Small Changes account and transferred from there to a national account at the end of the day, week, whatever. The scheme requires only a simple adjustment to existing software.

Once a year, a panel of citizens, chosen at random and assisted by an impartial team of advisers, would meet to decide where to allocate the funds raised.

According to statistics available from BT, there are half a million credit/debit card transactions per hour in the UK. If only one card-holder in three regularly supported Small Changes, the panel would have £50 million a year to give to worthwhile causes of their choice. The average donation per household would be about 4p a week.

The sums that could be raised across Europe, or globally, are too large for my small brain to calculate.

But if you have the ear of somebody famous who's popular with the British public, or of a leading company director who'd like to be awarded that elusive gong, please do email them with a link to this page.

Marcus's recent blogs here.

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Marcus Moore http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marcus-moore/
Then, one day, marauders rode into town. These were cold-tempered men and women, ruthless plunderers who lived outside the law. Their arrival could only mean one thing. A sacrifice would be demanded, a life would be taken, or an innocent and respected figure would be snatched from their midst, to be dragged mercilessly away from loved ones and, no doubt, subjected to years of torment and torture.

Inscrutable outriders ordered everyone to gather in the market square for the customary announcement. One of the glib-tongued, grim-faced Spokes Men addressed the onlookers.

"The fact of the matter is," he began, "it's a big ask for hard-working families, but, going forward, in order to incentivise frontline services at this moment in time, we are introducing a package of measures that will go way beyond any previous paradigm shift in raising awareness."

Nobody in the crowd dared utter a word.

"Let me clear about this," he continued. "Any time soon, all the evidence tells us, we will have to step up to the plate to meet the challenge of a fairly unique sea change. The truth of the matter is that, without an ongoing year on year agenda, we can expect all the hallmarks of a perfect storm and the possibility of an inclusive epic fail."

Several listeners were nodding off. Guards gave them a curt heads up.

"So, we are rolling out an effective programme of initiatives for real people in the real world. And the key to this ongoing project is a fit-for-purpose game-changer."

He paused, for effect, gazing with intent at the beleaguered victim, who realised it was in her DNA and no longer would she be able to do what it said on the tin.

The deal was sealed, the naming and shaming actioned. The citizens dispersed, seeking the security of hearth and home.

Masked thugs marched Spin off to the tower, cackling at the success of their raid. The captive would be put to good use by the hard-hearted Guvver Munt, as the language looters were known - although they preferred to call each other Honour Bull Members, in acknowledgment of their worshipping the gods of Falsehood and Deception.

Yes, there would be much rejoicing for countless years to come in the assassins' impenetrable stronghold of West Mincer.

Marcus's recent blogs on politics and social issues]]>