Post-Marxist Political Momentum

The 2017 general election may not have ended in a total victory for the Labour Party, but it was in so many ways a huge personal victory for Jeremy Corbyn and a massive personal defeat for Theresa May. Everything the Prime Minister stood for has been put to the sword; she has put the future of her country at risk and she has the lost the respect of her Party. After a successful campaign Corbyn and McDonnell need to take credit for re-founding the Labour Party to the Left; a 'rebranding' the like of which has not been seen since Blair and Brown shifted the Party to the Centre Right. The period has ended which saw Labour wandering aimlessly in the a political vacuum, chasing rainbows, this is indeed the second New Dawn. Gone, are the political science graduates, focus group policy makers, and media moguls; back are the authentic leaders of the British Working Class. New Labour is dead, long live political authenticity.

However, whilst the political momentum is with the Socialists in the field, there are still the Nationalist castles to overcome. True, the UKIP vote has collapsed, but in favour of the Tories by a ratio of 2:1. The Tories now represent the Unionist vote in Scotland and will rely on the Unionist vote in Northern Ireland to govern. According to these facts, for the Nationalist vote, Brexit was less about immigration and more about the Sovereignty of the UK. For Sovereignty, read power; and for power read the triumvirate of war: the oil, arms, and finance industries. In contrast, Corbyn has been unable to avoid his association with Sinn Fein, his pacifist principles and his sympathies for unilateral disarmament. 

So what has attracted voters back to him from UKIP? Arguably it is the Re-Nationalisation of our vital public services.

On immigration Corbyn, along with many other Marxists in the trade union movement, believe that freedom of movement is bad if it involves an increased supply and exploitation of labour that drives UK wages down. Thus, he wants to restrict freedom of movement in the EU, but only in traditional manual labour occupations. On the other hand he is not against the internationalist aspirations of EU University graduates who continue to be net contributors to the UK economy. Thus, Corbyn want a form of 'quota system' and managed migration. Although few commentators have drawn attention to it, this position is not that different to UKIP's position. Both Left and Right wing now seem to agree with the basic Marxist theory, that wealth is created via the exploitation of labor. They simply differ in their moral attitudes towards that fact. 

But the Democratic Socialism espoused by the UK Labour Party, and therefore Corbyn, is not Marxist. After all it is not Marxist to want to eradicate the inequalities between the upper and working classes (and the basis of the Aristocratic/Feudal system) through growing a capital owning Middle Class. It does not entail a proletarian revolution but it does require trade routes to international markets whose security is 'underwritten' by the Nation State. It is not Marxist to want to maintain democracy, educational opportunity and freedom of speech: empowering individuals to question and challenge the abuse of power. It is petit bourgeois, perhaps, but only in the sense that it requires a professionalised Middle Class who carry their capital assets with them in their knowledge, skills, attitudes and languages; these commodities are valuable to the Upper Classes because they have greater evolutionary potential than the people who possess them. Thus, the class consciousness of the Middle Class poses a threat to Feudalism but it could be the bastion of Capitalism. A Middle Class consciousness tends to recognise that it is not accessible to all; and some degree of redistribution of wealth needs to be dictated by government in order to balance the needs of the many with the wealth of the few; but it sees that the level of redistribution has to be set at an acceptable level, that does not extinguish the aspirations of Capitalism. 

Thus, clealry, it is not Marxist to want to grow a macro-economic, international focused, capitalist economy, based on the contradictory forces of individual diversity and economic inequality. But there does appear to be a post-Marxist consensus forming that wants to use those contradictory forces to justify the regulation of the socio-economic gradients. Going forward, I believe this means that all the material assets of the nation state should be held under common, public ownership; with the division between public and private ownership being based on the division between the general needs and specific abilities of its citizens to maintain and increase the sum total of good quality life years. The sum quality adjusted life years is the metric used by the NHS to make its life and death decisions. This should replace GDP as a measure of the success of our modern political-economic system. 

Junk Rock: an Economic Epistemology

I have to admit to having a dirty little habit: I like junk. I like to hang out in car boot sales, charity shops and architectural salvage yards. They are like living, breathing sociological museums to me; a library of anthropological artefacts. When I get a chance I watch programmes about buying and selling junk, there are quite a few: Antiques Roadshow, Antiques Road Trip, Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is, Bargain Hunt, Flog It!, Money for Nothing, French Connection and more. It’s a very popular theme. I suppose this habit started when I was at art school when I had to think about designing stuff that some people might want to buy. Since then I have become fascinated by the market forces that determine the price someone is willing to pay for a piece of 'junk'. I guess this is the only form of economics education I have ever had and I’m taking a moment to reflect on what have I learnt.

We can assume that everything has its price but something is only worth what someone else is willing to pay for it. That much is a given, but it does not help us determine what the price should be. Beyond that the first principle seems to be that ‘quality always sells’. That means that the unique aesthetic, technical skill, knowledge, discipline and labour of ‘the craftsman’ can add a certain value to an object over and above the functional utility of its rivals; either because it gives the object some additional durability or beauty or technological advantage. ‘Provenance’ is also important: the history of the object’s use or possession by significant others along with the narrative regarding its inheritance. That means that the social and cultural meaning of the object along with its authenticity in comparison to others of the same quality can also add to its value. Quality and provenance probably combine to create 'pedigree', as in the genetic thoroughbred.

The next most important determinant is condition. This is problematic in some ways because the finish that comes with age can be valuable, i.e. it has an antique patina, whereas irreversible damage to or tarnishing of an object can render it worthless. This determinant is clealry related to the rarity of an object; the more rare it is the more likely that damage will occur. The sphinx is no less valuable to us because it is damaged; but if someone were to find a perfect undamaged version this would probably become the more prized possession. The question of rarity brings us on to demand and supply. The more collectors there are who want to own an object then the higher the price it will command at an auction. But the level of demand at any one time/place, i.e. the number of people at the auction and the number of competitors who are bidding for the object, is dependent on a number of other factors, like marketting, weather, other things in the sale, and so on. Thus, the value of an object is not solely dependent on the intrinsic qualities of beauty, durability, provenance or condition but also the extrinsic factors of the market on the day. Furthermore, it tends to be the latter that creates the greatest variability in the sale price, confounding the experts the most.

This is all quite interesting from the economic point of view because it relies on an underlying epistemology (theory of knowledge). Not only do the experts have to know what class the object belongs to, they have to guess its intrinsic origins and relative rarity. They also have to be able to judge the current emotional attachment of the market to the object, which is variable within the same class of objects, depending on the unique history of the object, and place a monetary value on that unique relationship. Further, they have to be able to guess the constitution of the market on the day of sale and this depends on a number of environmental circumstances whose interaction is often indeterminate. Expert knowledge is not distributed evenly across the whole of the market on the day of sale and further allowances have to be made by the experts for how much the market will know and whether this is more or less than the experts themselves will know. Thus the epistemology of market economics has many known unknowns that determine the sale price in addition to the many known knowns that determine the expert’s valuation.

In theory, market economics works because it is rational. The buyer distinguishes the good product from the bad and this is reflected, through the demand and supply mechanisms, in the price people are will to pay for the product. But this only works if every buyer (end-user) in the market has perfect knowledge of all the different products they could buy and all the products are all equally available to them and they each make their decisions independently of each other. Clearly, this is far from the case in the real world. Product manufacturers know that these knowledge inequalities exist in the market and the class structures of the capitalist economy; they attempt to exploit them through ‘creative’ media and marketing campaigns. For example, many cold-calling salespeople now start their pitch with ‘I’m not here to sell you anything but…..’ which is, in theory, fraudulent deception. Further, most companies will employ a form of intellectual elitism that hides many contractual details in ‘the small print’. They later rely on these details to refuse a contracted service to the customer and blame the customer for not having read the details. But the point is that the consumer is being fooled into agreeing to pay a direct debt over a number of years to honour a contract that they have less than perfect knowledge of. In theory, this is again fraudulent deception.

To admit these inequalities is to admit the failure of the ‘free-market’ as an ideological enterprise. Arguably, it was the exploitation of inequalities in consumer knowledge by aggressive sales teams that led to the US sub-prime mortgage market crashing in 2008 and the global recession that followed. In the end, markets need to be regulated. By that I mean the financial governance of businesses needs to be policed more closely. In addition, business knowledge regarding any product on the market needs to be produced independently by an impartial government service that has the interest of the market, not the market competitor, at its heart. This means an end to 'creative' media and marketing campaigns, the psychological sciences that feed off them, and the customer services that defend them. Or at least, a restructuring of these industries through legislation in order to deliver a more equitable and safe public service to those customers who need to use them.

The Nature and Nurture of IQ

If IQ is distributed as normal and the population is given an IQ test at random then a ‘fail grade’ would be set at a certain percentage for each level of education.

Assume the average grade is 50% and the fail grade at level 4 is 40%.

However, knowledge (in theory) is not like IQ; knowledge is specific to certain areas of practice, certain trades and professions; as such, it has an association with organisations and cultures.

Therefore, as a population's knowledge in a specific area increases then the distribution will become positively skewed. The tail of the distribution will become extended as the average increases, e.g. to 60%, and the pass mark stays the same.

If so, less people will fail at 40%; but those who would of failed but now pass are those who have benefited (most) from the education or knowledge available within their organisation/culture. Those at the top would suffer a ceiling effect, as more people achieve the maximum limit of knowledge within that community.

The ones who would have failed and still fail are therefore ‘true’ low IQs in the area of knowledge concerned; whereas the ones who would have failed but now pass are therefore ‘false’ low IQs in the area of knowledge concerned.

If culture is a repository of knowledge for certain adaptive purposes then each culture will leave in its wake a trail of ‘true’ low IQs.

Furthermore, seeing as IQ is a multi-dimensional construct it should be possible to ascertain what culture adds in terms of knowledge/educational value by comparing the type of IQ deficits the different cultures leave behind. These can be considered as part of the spectrum of the ‘developmental disorders’.

In theory, if verbal language is the main repository of cultural knowledge in the West, the developmental disorders that involve the comprehension and production of verbal languages, viz. the dyslexias, will tend to be exposed the most; and this is certainly true, at least within the educational organisation/culture.

However, there are also some cases where cultural knowledge is transmitted across generations imperfectly, so that it is the environmental rather than the genetic component which causes the deficit in knowledge and, therefore, the construction of a ‘developmental disorder’.

These are still 'true' low IQs but low IQs that have a different cause; and potentially a reversible one.

Thus, although childhood trauma has been linked to some forms of damage in the brain, this may be a result of the environmental, rather than genetic, causes. This may or may not be reversible.

The Typewriter

The morning was misty, dark blue and cold. Swen flicked on a table lamp and sat down at his typewriter. His chair scraped across the wooden floor toward the table. As he shifted his center of gravity he began to collect his thoughts. His fingers engaged the steel enameled keys, embellished with the familiar code; he hunched over his place-setting, just like he was sitting down to breakfast.

The light from the lamp cut through the blue; he felt its warmth on his face. His thoughts began to work in unison with the machine; transferring his words to the page almost instantly. His voice worked internally to trace a line around a few stable concepts, like a tailor pinning an old cloth around the body of a new customer.

The words did not come easily: occasionally he got lost in the infinite number of permutations. He had to re-shape his sentences a number of times and fit his edges to their contours. He had not set out with any specific plan but he had felt a need to fill the absence in his world with something that had the power to hold his fascination.

The arc of each hammer fell perfectly to the center as the ribbon rose to secure the page. He felt the weight of the machine as it drummed each letter home. When it felt like he had captured almost all of the complex structure; when his mind had exhausted all the permutations he could muster; when he had finally pinned the cloth down to a reasonable amount of words; he took a deep breath; looked at the page in front of him; and read the first line:

“Culture: Keep-Sake or Lingua-Franca?”

Dissociating himself slightly from the world he was inhabiting and the abstract line that was now distracting him, he sat back. A smile flashed across his lips. He noted a brief surge of arousal and a mildly uncomfortable feeling in his belly. He dismissed the feeling, like the chatter of a marketplace, and returned again to his task. The lines continued:

“The current political debate in Europe defines culture as either: a precious ‘keep-sake’, that we have inherited from God, a symbolic fragment of our past that needs to be protected and preserved against external threats. Or an amorphous language, a ‘lingua franca’, that is continually re-invented to share the experience of displaced Europeans, like a wound that has the means to heal itself. All culture has an organic basis.”

And in this moment of reflection lay the whole of his dilemma. He coughed. 'Culture'. It was just a word to him now, but outside, in the living, breathing corpus of humanity, it could mean more than one thing to more than one person. It could also mean division and hatred and war and famine and terror. He looked at his definition and found himself staring at his own internal contradiction.

Words should not contradict themselves. He admitted that much. His definition of ‘culture’ had unearthed an internal fold, a kink, interrupting what was supposed to be a seamless, beautiful, logic; a logic that should unify all the sentences ever uttered towards an eternal, internal truth. His world of order and peace and security was suddenly being undermined by this fractured seem of rock; a social stink-bomb! He briefly smiled again, sarcastically this time.

He rubbed his eyes. He was tired and exhausted and alone in the room with this conflict now starting to churn up somewhere deep inside. He reached out and raised the paper with the return a couple of times. The real world was far away, but he knew at any moment it could appear at his door or pounce upon him when he was least expecting it. This was Europe; this was his mission; this was his politics; this was his logic, after all.

As he allowed his mind to settle his contradiction began opening out along the entire expanse of his memory; it began to take in the history of his life. Yes, he knew he was magnifying the imperfect detail of a small insignificant idea; he was a small cog in a large machine; but each part of the machine must reflect its position in the whole, even if the function of the whole is, in the end, greater than the sum of its parts.

He felt his eyes begin to close. The cold blue and shining golden moment met his breath as he exhaled. His lungs filled up again with the cold damp air. The room was drawn to move within him; through his warm veins and into his overheated brain. It really was a strange magic that he enjoyed liberating; this machine was his vehicle; guided by his fingertips; enabling the morning shadows to escape into the light of the day; he briefly smiled again.

His feet settled against the wooden floor boards; his mind blended into them and out towards the walls; the walls stood silently as always, against the cold dawn. He could almost touch the wind moving the trees outside and he was suddenly aware of the random tap of swirling debris, having been caught up in the passion, testing the wet windows.

He awoke, with a start, as his head began to fall and the reflex to action took a few minutes to subside. The sun was getting bright outside. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand and returned to the page in front of him. Two political interpretations were now united by a third in his mind. He inserted another sentence into his text:

“But ‘culture’ is just a way of doing things; a structural order within which ‘normal activities’ can take place. So it exists without meaning unless meaning can be found within it; it has no words or symbols unless it produces them for itself. Culture is a system of internal order and external exchange. Culture promises great rewards, in return for the suppression of the animal instincts and the sharing of mutual goals. But its goals are neither memories nor friends. Its only goal is its own survival. Compliance with a culture has rewards but the rewards are not chosen by the individuals who abide by its laws, they are chosen by God and by 'God' I mean, natural selection.”

He had cultivated the small garden outside his backdoor for over a decade. He had recognised the battle between order and entropy, the theatre of war, playing itself out against the backdrop the of the solar and lunar cycles. He had struggled to maintain a non-native flower that had no economic value to recommend it apart from its beauty, against the will of the indigenous weeds, insects and diseases. He had experienced the world as an organic whole; that knew itself through constant electrochemical exchanges within and between its internal organs; he felt implicitly that this communication was a consciousness that had existed before life had organised itself around it. He had always doubted the reality of any idol who had promised material rewards in exchange for a man's obedience to its will but he had never doubted the reality of nature. Given food, water, shelter, a Sun to live by and air to breath, he could be happy. He didn't have to see his garden to know it was there. By the same token, he knew that other people's conscious experience of their lives and their Gods were very different to his own. There were other gardens, other flowers, other weeds, insects and diseases. What then, was his reality? Was there more than one? If more than one, then more than one God, or culture, or idol could claim him as one of their own: could this mean danger? He resorted to reason:

"Cultures are defined by their practices; some practices must be common to all cultures and others must be peculiar to one. Etymologies evolve in political spaces and semantic conflicts define their boundaries. We can take different positions in relation to the same practice but that doesn’t mean we have to kill each other before we can survive. That is a logical contradiction. We all see the rainbow but no-one ever sees the same rainbow. The line of sight to the Sun for each one of us is slightly different but we all see the same thing. We know each other to be there. If we can each learn to express our positions, allow our words to express our internal states, when we have shared our emotions, then we can find alternative courses of action. Our words have come to govern our spaces but we have the authority to govern our words. Compliance with the conventions is the key to understanding culture and culture is the key to understanding each other and oursleves."

The clock ticked quietly on the mantle piece. The low bright sun had now obliterated the dark; his insignificance was abandoned; he flicked off the lamp. The weight of his thoughts became more apparent. The ink had coded his thoughts; the paper had held them; the darkness had vanished, along with his discomfort. He shivered as another fact bore in upon him:

“The reward of obedience is the avoidance of anxiety; the resolution of internal conflicts created by external forces; and the maintenance of culturally specific communication channels over background noise. This is where the ‘lingua-franca’ must begin.”

In a corner of the ceiling over his right shoulder a spider had spun her web. The dawn began to dry out the moisture in the air. Her silk talons amplified her consciousness to each corner of her web and, by extension, to each corner of the room. She could feel Swen's movements and, in that way, she had shared a part of his consciousness but she could never know his thoughts. They both knew his thoughts were coded in a different language, one that she was not equipped to decode. It is true that every culture is bound together by its lexicon; a dictionary of self-defining words; like a web with its own internal code. The more complex and ambiguous things known by a culture tend to have the most culturally specific names given to them; the nodes at the nexus of many different arcs may have the least possibility of a direct translation to another web. The translations become harder, the deeper and more complex the existence of a symbol within a culture becomes. This is the theory of the 'keep sake'. This was, for Swen, the beauty and scary thing about a complex word like 'culture'. It might help him catch a thought on a piece of paper but it also led him to perceive the cleavage of his deeper consciousness. The contradictions between us are real but extinct, he thought. He reasoned further:

“But the complex expression that is the 'keep-sake' may not have a direct translation in another culture; a phenomenon may only exist within the culture that gives it its name. That means that mythological beings, and the mnemonic quality of the ‘keep-sake’, are inventions that make sense, only within a culture.”

The keys were falling like rain against the page now; the table top thundering under the force of his intellect. His words were just an epiphenomenon; they were fantasies; they expressed something that had no physical existence; they were technological devices; they did a certain amount of intellectual and emotional work; within a certain political environment; they had meaning within a lexicon that was changing at its extremities; as the territorial limits of his mind expanded and interacted with new worlds at specific points on his mental map:

“The 'keep-sake' must, therefore, provide the stability for the 'lingua-franca' to grow as an adjunct and branching structure. Archetypal images may appear in all cultures but their expressions are, of course, all different. We identify with the similarities that we recognise between these phenomena, collectively, intersubjectively, and allow them to define our cultural identities; but ultimatelty they must evolve along with the complexity of the emotions and lives that they encode.”  

The Meaning of Angst

Swen waited until her breathing had slowed to a deep lulling unconsciousness. He knew he had nothing left but he didn’t know how to tell her. He had tried, my God how he had tried, but something kept getting in the way. Some other emotion would swoop in and take over. Take them both away. On some mad swirling twisted tornado of feelings. She would cry and he would apologise. Eventually, yeh, but always, he smiled. She would forgive him. Immediately at times. When he told her he loved her so much it tore him up inside. She would look at him with the depth and need that he wanted to see so much. Even when she didn’t say so, he could see it in her eyes. It didn’t matter how long it took. If not immediately, then eventually. She would forgive him. Always.

He started to cry. Somewhere deep inside. His eyes welled up. But he couldn’t hear himself because he was lost to himself. He was lost and he had nothing left. He had lain there until she was asleep. Waiting until his darkness could reveal itself. Waiting for her to fall away into the deep. And then he rolled away. Heaving his great cold limb away, like a huge sodden tree trunk after a storm. Broken. Useless. Fallen. Heavy. Dead. Cold. His limb. Her limbs. She fell away and into him, through the hours of darkness, her warm breath rising and falling against his bones, in the stillness of the moon.

He told himself to go to sleep but he could not stop. History was now. How could they have forgotten the simple things so easily? He worried about his wife; he worried about his children; he worried about now. They thought they were invincible. He knew they were vulnerable. But he was growing old. So old. He was haunted by his own youthful invincibility; by his dead heroes; by his reckless valor; by his stupid mistakes; by his secret vanity; by his submerged fears. His horror of his past; and his visions for his future. He felt that no-one could see what he saw. He was unknown even to himself. How could he teach them? She knew every inch of his sullen limbed and lifeless body, but she never knew what he was thinking. His mind was a furnace, his face reflected a moon, his limbs were cold and dead. His brain raced away like a steam train through the shivering mists and lamenting thickets. Onward to infinity. But she was a thousand miles away. Sleeping silently beside him in the darkness.

He looked out into the vast black distance that opened up before him and he saw his own torment. He saw that he was inside and outside of himself. He was a torn and knotted sheet, a reflection passing in a window, a half-remembered word. He was inside and outside of himself. He wanted to be at one with the Gods; with all their spiritual gifts; their abundance of luck; their natural justice; their plurality and unity; in the light of their judgement; under their truth; within their beautiful ideas; their faith and their holy dreams; their innocence, honesty, peace, compassion and love; he wanted to be remembered by his children; and his children’s children; to be in their memories; in their words of kindness; and live within the law. But he owed his body to the Kings, with their pious gold and envied jewels; their armies and their weapons; their jealousy and their greed; their prisons and their lust for power; their taxes and their contractual bonds; their slaves and their brutal battles for survival; their murder and their deceit. He hated himself for it but with every day that passed with him in their service, he was helping them to drill into the molten core of the earth; to unleash its nuclear forces; upon a tender world; that screamed in pain and terror. The Kings alone - imperious, victorious, merciless - screamed louder than the hell, that surrendered its soul, unto their ears, in the flickering flames of the night.

Now he could make out the faint ghost of the ceiling three meters above his nose. He disliked the wallpaper that he could not see but knew was around him, and he sighed. His forehead began to twist in and upon itself. He rolled his trunk further away from her, in the twisted sheets, but unconsciously her hand fell out to touch his back instinctively. He reminded himself that he would always be an animal of the material world. He knew he was - because he had always given in to her, in the end - well didn’t he? His emotions were numb, but his blood kept returning to his brain, again and again, like the fire that drove the burning engines, that kept on pounding their fists into the sodden ground. His heart kept pumping through the night, on to the infinity, without him thinking. His spirit could not will his blood to stop churning, but it had tried, how it had tried. He knew it would keep pumping even if he tried to cut his entangled life away from his fallen broken body; his heart would keep pumping, until all the life was drained from him, out into the infinity. He knew he could not stop that at all. To the infinity: the place where the Gods are always hiding; just out of reach; always just beyond the horizon; the train of his life, always on an uphill track, to some silent destination beyond the moon; where she was now, is now, and will always be. A thousand miles away.

(A few years after the second World war existentialist philosophers in Europe were grappling with the meaning of their lives. The industrial revolution, that had signaled the end of the old Feudalist systems of production had led to a World so full of nuclear weapons it could destroy itself 10 times over. Europe was divided between the totalitarian institutions of communism in the East and the laissez-faire inequalities of capitalism in the West; socialists in the West were struggling to find a 'third way' between the humanism of the Utopian Socialists (e.g. the 'Fabians') and the materialism of the Marxists. 'Swen' is struggling with the exigencies of living in that epoch. His feelings resonate with a post-Industrial, post-Soviet, post-Modern World; the same old political and economic dialectics, re-inventing themselves today in the battle between the Nation State and the Globalised Markets. 

Budapest December 2016: Is Nationalism the New Socialism?

We arrived at twilight; the icy black depths of the Danube were glistening under the full moon. A few naked trees stood together in pockets; some lit up along the main shopping routes. We drove through the city making small talk. Row upon row of cold Soviet era prefab concrete; block upon block of voided lives that, we guessed, were now filled with a certain brand of Swedish flat-packed furniture; the standard grid repeating itself indefinitely. Reaching the commercial centre the cubist uniformity gave way to iron and stone arches in crumbling 'belle epoch' facades. Bistro males collected in dimly lit wooden bars: wearing wire spectacles, smoking long thin cigars and sporting large bovarian moustaches. Can diversity and equality grow together like this? As long as we all dream the same dream and slumber on; the dream is good; the dream will keep us warm.

We entered the apartment. I made myself comfortable and switched on the TV. The state channel had an obligatory suit interviewing part-time footballers; video images of hostile pink nostrils flaring between local rivals began to spill onto the screen; a medieval sporting contest erupting across the floodlit terraces. The BBC World Service endlessly repeated its chant: Russian bombs are dropping in Allepo; Russian doping has cheated the Olympics; Russian hacking has corrupted the US presidential election. It seems Vladimir Putin has succeded where 100 years of Marxist-Leninism had failed? The Soviets had a dream that became a nightmare. We know. The truth afforded by victory was the first casualty of war. Whether the first truth was made of love or not, all of its offspring were condemned to die from some variation of abuse and neglect.

We saw a city at a crossroads of many different cultures; battling feelings of isolation and inequality. Shadowy figures crossing; too close to us on this path. We have felt their cold and their warmth, our hearts have been broken too. Standards kept, but conversations witholding truth, throwing only more shadows out into the dark. Behind me. Young aspirants and guilt ridden grandparents; a history of facism and secret police; silent screams from torture chambers beneath the expensive hotel; an uncertain future with no unifying direction of travel. Now we appreciate. Material wealth will only grow from the roots of emotional and spiritual wellbeing.

The old Palace houses the national gallery with nothing but Hungarian artists on display; even though they copy the styles from all the corners of continental Europe, the other artists are all nameless. The exhibition has its own internal language, meant for private Hungarian consumption, but I thought I understood 'a little'. "What did the Nazis think of Hungarian art?" I asked the custodian. "Did they steal or destroy any of the paintings?" A blank face met my gaze and stared back at me, eyes motionless searching my face for clues to meaning. I blinked first: "You know,  1945?". Finding a question he can answer, and my ignorance, he is jolted into action, "ah yes post-1945 is on the next floor". "And the nazis?" I insist. He turns mute again and walks away looking blankly at his freind. "No" he states unequivocally. His freind looks at me and can say nothing. He walks off after him.

Later after we have descended into the streets below the Palace, into the Western shops, where the new money in Budapest, is attracting the young, I look back. There is no nationalism down here. Foreign money is buying up the streets and peddling dreams to those thirsty for a globalised popular culture. Fame and fortune not history nor citizenship is being made and sold here. In the chrome and glass and marbled stone; every size and colour you could wish for; all of your pleasures are catered for. I see the Palace on the hill become a castle. Standing out in the dark, cold and alone, against an imperial capitalism, against an invasion of the infidel, against the enemies of Christendom. Is Putin's brand of Nationalism the new Socialism? The Woodsman turning the arts and crafts movement to pit its wit against the nihilism of mass production. In the epoch of post-industrial austerity; post-truth; post-modernism. Calling to the disenfranchised working class to return to waive a flag from the Palace-on-the-Hill. We know. The Russian eagle has two heads: but the icy black Danube can only flow in one direction.

Out of Touch?

So the Country has chosen to leave the EU. As I travelled on the London tube in the morning, past the City, (who got their predictions massively, entirely wrong as b##### usual) and Westminster (where Cameron was probably explaining his career prospects to his wife over a Continental breakfast) the mood seemed to be amazingly sanguine: it was a surprise, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. Of course, the sluice gates of another round of vitriolic witch-hunting were suddenly re-opened: torrents of radical revolutionary fervour were swirling amidst stoic institutional pillars of the status quo. But that was nothing unusual, those are the normal undercurrents of London life; tidal flows as old as the frothy brown sewers of the Thames.

I was attending a conference at the Tavistock. Nearly every speaker commented on the previous night's events. This was an interesting vantage point, from which to view the unfolding drama. But my attention was drawn to one important theme that was close to my heart. How could the Labour Party have got its 'traditional voters' so wrong? So I would like to try and answer that question. But I want to try and avoid rehashing the same old worn out rhetoric about 'young Oxbridge career politicians who have never worked a day in their life.....'. They are not going anywhere and they are still in need of an education. So let us look at some of the rhetoric from the Leave campaign that seems to have 'won the day' and try and explain that.    

First up: "it's all about immigrants coming over here and taking our jobs" comes from the sort of protectionism that has characterised both sides of American politics for decades. Protectionism is considered to be the default position for the American consumer, even if the rest of the world sees America as an imperialist power. Looking at the official statistics for the UK, the number of immigrants who are working in this country is almost exactly equal to the number of British workers who are actively looking for work. So there is a political argument here. However, this is not a reason to leave the EU because during the campaign it was revealed that 70% of immigrant workers are from the Commonwealth countries, the old British Empire. Thus, if the Leave campaign were serious about reducing immigration they would have been trying to undo our links with the Commonwealth, not the EU.

Second: "it's not racist to want to discuss immigration". No, it's not, but it is xenophobic to blame immigration for your child not getting into the school of your choice, you getting stuck in traffic on the way to work, the price of milk in the shops, and your grand-daughter not being able to afford a mortgage. And it is narcissistic to believe that you have a right to something that should be denied to others based on their place of origin. Taken together, xenophobia and narcissism are powerful emotional tools that can be used to overcome the intellect during a democratic campaign. People who study the history of conflict in Europe, and I assume there are a few of them who have passed through the doors of the Tavistock in their time, have written about how xenophobia and narcissism were important parts of the racist ideology of National Socialists of 1930s Germany, aka the "Nazi" Party. What makes Farage's rhetoric different to Hitler's is the absence of fascism, the belief that power comes from military power not the exercise of democratic choice; I suspect Farage, like the rest of us, does not want to repeat the mistakes of history; but others, like Boris, are much more aware of what a dangerous game he is playing.    

Third: "I don't want the EU controlling our country and telling us what to do all the time". This issue is generally referred to as nationalism. Fair play - the British have an honourable and noble tradition in deposing foreign dictators and promoting 'liberal free market democracies' across the British Empire, I'm sorry, I mean, across the known World, including the rest of Europe. As a citizen of the UK you are bound to feel a certain loss, or a massive gain, of sovereignty, if you have moved from a democracy of 60 million to a democracy of 500 million in the last few years, depending on who was in charge in your own country previously. What I think amazes Corbyn and the rest of International Socialism, is that the Leavers blamed the EU for all the things that have gone wrong with this country rather than those in charge, i.e. the Conservative Party. The Old Etonians must be laughing all the way to the bank as their mates in the City reap the rewards of the post-war Austerity Agenda. It wasn't the EU that caused the credit crunch, it wasn't even New Labour, it was the greedy psychopaths who rule the international money markets through Machiavellian subterfuge and a forensic mastery of the detail. It wasn't the Bullingdon Boys who had to go to the Food Banks, it was us; in the same way that the Polish, the Romanians, the Syrians, etc, came to this country to escape the poverty and terror that had been caused by our honourable and noble pursuit of our own "national interests".

So here we are, alongside the Thames in an old Roman settlement, with its French nobility and German monarchy, trying to vote our way out of, what has the potential to be, one of the most powerful democracies this world has ever seen. Perhaps it is the madness of the British that gives us our humanity, our humour, our freedom. I hope that, just like the Thames, it never stops, only that its rolling thunder will respect the stone monuments that our ancestors erected in its honour.