Two really entertaining inductions into British life came to pass for me this weekend.
The first was a football match (Southampton), and the second was a leftwing village festival (Tolpuddle). I’m not going to be drab and compare football to communism, even if both had people dressed in red singing and waving their arms. As interesting as the marriage of sports and political metaphors can be, I will sum it all up for you so you don’t have to use up any more time on the matter: blah blah football blah international differences blah blah camaraderie blah. There you go. Feel free to thank me anytime.
Anyway, the football match was hilarious for me, as you don’t really get that volume of singing and shouting at any American sport. I don’t care how many Americans might argue the contrary out of loyalty, you just don’t. I was as equally captivated by the pen of singing people as I was by the game. I’m pretty positive some of the songs were more than a little bit rude, and the fact that half of the people there had their kids singing along just made it all the more beautiful. You’ve just not lived until you’ve seen thirteen year olds swearing at Portsmouth in song.
Anyway, the pen of singing people (which I can only deduce is fuelled by beer) taught me a bit about football. I learned that even when your team is really sucking it up, you can will them to play better just by emanating beer-favored good vibes. I saw it work, no joke. I also learned to yell at someone named Rasiak. As in “move your ass Rasiak!” because apparently he doesn’t. Though as a result of that lesson, he’s the only Southampton player I can actually name. After awhile I think I started shouting at Rasiak even when he wasn’t actually on the field. It’s ok though, he’s always there in spirit, because one of the other lessons I learned about British football is that there must always be someone for the crowd to yell at for being a lazy git.
After we watched Southampton lose like no one has ever lost before, we went to Tolpuddle festival. Tolpuddle is an amazing little village where apparently there were martyrs a long time ago who paved the way for trade unions. Every year they celebrate these guys and use it
as an opportunity to talk about all sorts of other stuff. I was all excited to find out the back-story, because everyone likes a good juicy martyr story, and then I found out that they didn’t actually die. What the hell kind of martyrs don’t die? Someone TOTALLY used the wrong terminology here. Because I looked into the whole “sacrifice” thing, and here’s how it went. They got in loads of trouble, and tragically got shipped off to Australia as convicts. I can deal with that as a term of their martyrdom, because back in the day it is possible that Australia could have been pretty crappy. (You know, poisonous snakes and fanged kangaroos and all.) But then, after some serious campaigning by their friends and families, they CAME BACK. So… that pretty much ends the sacrifice then? They were away in Australia for a few years and then they were done? That’s like someone throwing a bucket of water on Joan of Arc after her feet were slightly crispy (I mean, she’d be traumatized, sure, but not dead) and saying, “ok, we’re done here now, thanks”.
I was hoping I got this whole martyr thing wrong, because let’s face it, it has been a few years since I’ve read the dictionary cover to cover (real page-turner, that one). So I consulted the source of all concrete hard-hitting knowledge, Wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martyr Notice the focus on death throughout the entry. So it’s not just me.
I don’t want to stomp all over a really great little festival though. There were some amazing highlights. I loved the people with the banners and causes and petitions. Inside me lives a good ol’ fashioned protestor. I wished I had a sign to carry, I really did, their excitement was contagious. The wind was so intense that they were all like little campaigning ships.
While I sat there snapping pictures of them on my phone, I started thinking back to my old protesting days. During the Iraq war protests I went to, I took the most amazing photo. I don’t have it anymore, because sadly this was back in the days of actual film. It was shoved in a shoebox in a closet somewhere and is likely halfway to Narnia by now.
Anyway, the following excerpt was part of my novel, but I’ve since decided that the novel is junk and that I need to start over (you know, part of the “process” apparently). So I’m going to be a lazy ass and recycle it here (which only seems fitting, as I recycled actual bits of my life into a novel in the first place, so now I’ve come full circle. Kind like being sent to Australia and then getting to come back again.)
It was a picture I had taken when I went to the Iraq war protest at the state capital building in Boise. Most people there were university students or retired hippies, but there were a few housewives and businessmen and people you don't usually peg as the protesting type. All of us university students were trying to recapture the vibe our parents had tapped into when they protested Vietnam. We'd even borrowed their slogans. People carried signs that said things like "Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity" and "The ones who call the shots are not among the shot." I was also a big fan of "My parents went to the polls and all I got was this crummy Orwellian nightmare." There were a few that were original to this particular war, like "Let's bomb Texas, they have oil too" and "The last time we listened to a Bush we wandered in the desert for forty years." It was all very illuminating.
My photo was of a woman about age 25, who had her son (who couldn't have been more than three) in a little red wagon. The wagon had a sign on the side that said "Peace Train", and her son was sitting in it playing with a GI Joe. His GI Joe was about a foot tall, complete with cammo and mini plastic machine gun. I remember watching them, all of us (including his mother), shouting "No blood for oil!" and watching him playing with his toy soldier and making war sound effects to himself. The American flag that hangs on the capital building is just visible in the background, and I thought to myself as I snapped the photo, if this isn't a sign of the times then I don't know what is.
The first was a football match (Southampton), and the second was a leftwing village festival (Tolpuddle). I’m not going to be drab and compare football to communism, even if both had people dressed in red singing and waving their arms. As interesting as the marriage of sports and political metaphors can be, I will sum it all up for you so you don’t have to use up any more time on the matter: blah blah football blah international differences blah blah camaraderie blah. There you go. Feel free to thank me anytime.
Anyway, the football match was hilarious for me, as you don’t really get that volume of singing and shouting at any American sport. I don’t care how many Americans might argue the contrary out of loyalty, you just don’t. I was as equally captivated by the pen of singing people as I was by the game. I’m pretty positive some of the songs were more than a little bit rude, and the fact that half of the people there had their kids singing along just made it all the more beautiful. You’ve just not lived until you’ve seen thirteen year olds swearing at Portsmouth in song.
Anyway, the pen of singing people (which I can only deduce is fuelled by beer) taught me a bit about football. I learned that even when your team is really sucking it up, you can will them to play better just by emanating beer-favored good vibes. I saw it work, no joke. I also learned to yell at someone named Rasiak. As in “move your ass Rasiak!” because apparently he doesn’t. Though as a result of that lesson, he’s the only Southampton player I can actually name. After awhile I think I started shouting at Rasiak even when he wasn’t actually on the field. It’s ok though, he’s always there in spirit, because one of the other lessons I learned about British football is that there must always be someone for the crowd to yell at for being a lazy git.
After we watched Southampton lose like no one has ever lost before, we went to Tolpuddle festival. Tolpuddle is an amazing little village where apparently there were martyrs a long time ago who paved the way for trade unions. Every year they celebrate these guys and use it
as an opportunity to talk about all sorts of other stuff. I was all excited to find out the back-story, because everyone likes a good juicy martyr story, and then I found out that they didn’t actually die. What the hell kind of martyrs don’t die? Someone TOTALLY used the wrong terminology here. Because I looked into the whole “sacrifice” thing, and here’s how it went. They got in loads of trouble, and tragically got shipped off to Australia as convicts. I can deal with that as a term of their martyrdom, because back in the day it is possible that Australia could have been pretty crappy. (You know, poisonous snakes and fanged kangaroos and all.) But then, after some serious campaigning by their friends and families, they CAME BACK. So… that pretty much ends the sacrifice then? They were away in Australia for a few years and then they were done? That’s like someone throwing a bucket of water on Joan of Arc after her feet were slightly crispy (I mean, she’d be traumatized, sure, but not dead) and saying, “ok, we’re done here now, thanks”.I was hoping I got this whole martyr thing wrong, because let’s face it, it has been a few years since I’ve read the dictionary cover to cover (real page-turner, that one). So I consulted the source of all concrete hard-hitting knowledge, Wikipedia. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Martyr Notice the focus on death throughout the entry. So it’s not just me.
I don’t want to stomp all over a really great little festival though. There were some amazing highlights. I loved the people with the banners and causes and petitions. Inside me lives a good ol’ fashioned protestor. I wished I had a sign to carry, I really did, their excitement was contagious. The wind was so intense that they were all like little campaigning ships.
While I sat there snapping pictures of them on my phone, I started thinking back to my old protesting days. During the Iraq war protests I went to, I took the most amazing photo. I don’t have it anymore, because sadly this was back in the days of actual film. It was shoved in a shoebox in a closet somewhere and is likely halfway to Narnia by now.
Anyway, the following excerpt was part of my novel, but I’ve since decided that the novel is junk and that I need to start over (you know, part of the “process” apparently). So I’m going to be a lazy ass and recycle it here (which only seems fitting, as I recycled actual bits of my life into a novel in the first place, so now I’ve come full circle. Kind like being sent to Australia and then getting to come back again.)
It was a picture I had taken when I went to the Iraq war protest at the state capital building in Boise. Most people there were university students or retired hippies, but there were a few housewives and businessmen and people you don't usually peg as the protesting type. All of us university students were trying to recapture the vibe our parents had tapped into when they protested Vietnam. We'd even borrowed their slogans. People carried signs that said things like "Bombing for peace is like fucking for virginity" and "The ones who call the shots are not among the shot." I was also a big fan of "My parents went to the polls and all I got was this crummy Orwellian nightmare." There were a few that were original to this particular war, like "Let's bomb Texas, they have oil too" and "The last time we listened to a Bush we wandered in the desert for forty years." It was all very illuminating.
My photo was of a woman about age 25, who had her son (who couldn't have been more than three) in a little red wagon. The wagon had a sign on the side that said "Peace Train", and her son was sitting in it playing with a GI Joe. His GI Joe was about a foot tall, complete with cammo and mini plastic machine gun. I remember watching them, all of us (including his mother), shouting "No blood for oil!" and watching him playing with his toy soldier and making war sound effects to himself. The American flag that hangs on the capital building is just visible in the background, and I thought to myself as I snapped the photo, if this isn't a sign of the times then I don't know what is.
1 comments:
MARTYR
Noun
Meaning Number 2
One who makes great sacrifices or suffers much in order to further a belief, cause, or principle.
The six Tolpuddle Martyrs and their families were starving. Their meagre wages were continually being reduced instead of being increased. They formed a union to protest against this and to protect their rights, and as a result they were transported to Australia and sentenced to seven years in a penal colony. At the time that was a virtual death sentence. Even if they had survived the trip there, which was unlikely, the conditions and the work when they got there were so harsh that they could not have expected to survive for very long, let alone any have prospect of seeing their families again.
The treatment of these six men was completely unjust. The government had sent them to Australia to get them out of the way and out of the public conscience. Their action completely backfired and had the opposite effect of stimulating protests, petitions and rallies in their support. As a result of this the six men were eventually set free and given a free passage home.
The fact that these men eventually made it back to England does not mean that they were not martyrs for their cause. They suffered great hardship in order to further their beliefs and to some extent we are all indebted to them for doing so.
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