Showing posts with label Bandera. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bandera. Show all posts

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Dai-aspora


This is a momentous day for all Welsh and conspiracy theorists, not to mention the free people of Australia. For in that mulleted land on the outer edge of the earthly disc has the fearsome Welsh Lobby faced its sternest task.

Readers of this web blog will be aware of the sheer slate power of the Elders of Capel Seion, the cabal of chapel-goers, eisteddfod adjudicators, thirsty sopranos and plum-faced newsreaders who have screwed up every English political endeavour since the Battle of Morfa Rhuddlan.

No Good Boyo's new friend, the moderate Scotchman Hyperbore, has recently drawn the attention of a world struck mute with horror to Wales's internationalist mission to spread political misery where ever English and other non-Welsh languages are spoken.

He notes that the WikiLeaks revelations that civilians die in wars in Afghanistan just as elsewhere stem from one Bradley Manning. Although a US citizen born to English parents, young Bradley spent his youth in Wales - long enough to be recruited as a sleeper agent.

He joined the US Marines, gathered his documents and, when the moment came to sabotage the Anglo-American plot to impose social democracy on the happy helots of Herat, Bradley unbuckled his belt.

What other evidence is there of Cambrian confusion abroad? Consider the following:

1. The Confederate States of America had everything going for them. Easily defensible territory, a cautious US Congress, excellent military leaders and the tacit support of much of Europe. So who did they choose as their one and only president? Jefferson Davis, whose family hailed from Glamorgan.

The South might as well have burned down Atlanta itself and saved everyone three years of having their balls blown off.

2. Somalia had the makings of a successful state, believe it not. Unlike much of Africa it has an homogeneous population, convenient location on modern trading routes, decent ports, a proper alphabet and a thriving market in the export of glamorous models. The plucky Somalis even managed to oust their dictator Siad Barre all by themselves.

Then along came General Hersi Morgan, who combined the military efficiency of his father-in-law Barre with a devotion to famine and pestilence to rival that of any Horseman of the Apocalypse. The Somalis have not managed to hold a government together since, too preoccupied are they with avoiding al-Qaeda, the Ethiopian Army, pirates, Ridley Scott and one another.

3. Staying in Africa, take a look at Zimbabwe. Comrade Bob is no Welshman, as far as I know, but our ways are more subtle than that. Knowing what it's like, we assumed the International Community would press President Mugabe to cut a deal with the opposition rather than send in the brace of French paratroopers it would take to topple him.

Enter Morgan Tsvangirai and the rather obvious Welshman Ncube. Don't expect Mr Mugabe to be retiring any time soon.

4. Indeed, you could say that Africa's entire ghastly colonial experience came down to a Welsh. Dr Livingstone was as lost as a fisherman in Fortnum's and faced certain death by Mau Mau when he was rescued by Henry Morton Stanley, a hack from Denbigh who specialised in being a literal bastard on three continents.

The ensuing publicity stoked the Scramble for Africa, blighted the place with Bibles, and gave Stanley the chance to resume the career of killing black people that his capture and defection from the Confederate side had cut short during the American Civil War. His sole act of humility was to cede to King Leopold II of the Belgians not only the whole Congo but also the title of Worst White Man of the 19th Century.

Wales has tried to compensate Africa by adopting Lesotho, the only case of one country twinning with another, but we still get Christmas cards addressed to Mr Kurtz.

5. We have not neglected the lesser continents, either. South America seems relatively Waliserrein, apart from the agrarian simpletons of the Chubut Valley in Argentina. These religious pastoralists resented the way science, the telegraph and life-long teeth were ruining their traditional ways in Bala, and so set off for what they thought would be a verdant Eden in the Pampas.

They managed to turn the shrieking rocks and numbing desert that Buenos Ayres had sold them into a fair copy of Cardiganshire, but hopes of autonomy met the same fate as any attempt to rule Latin America that didn't involve ridiculous peaked caps and misuse of the power supply.

The Welsh of the Wladfa, as we call the Chubut colony, avenged themselves on the grim gauchos, though but. The Argentine junta's last gamble was the Falklands grab of 1982, a debacle that led to the election of Raul Alfonsín (a Welsh Foulkes on his mother's side) as president.

Good show, you might say, democracy and all that. Except that Alfonsín, in blazing a trail for the free market and constitutional rule, set up the liberal movements throughout the continent for a fall. Their European sensibility and advocacy of civil society clearly rankled with the Latin soul, as the voters whom they had freed soon ousted them in favour of lunatics, rabble-rousers and mini Castros.

Hell, even the Sandinistas made a comeback.

6. Our impact on Asia seems slight, but consider the heroic work of Agent Anna Leonowens (née Edwards). She encouraged the King of Siam to reform his country to such an extent that he was honoured with a musical, no doubt to the delight of the ladyboys of his elegantly debauched realm.

Again, what's not to like? But Anna's target was not the fragrant Thais, but the neighbouring British and French empires in India and Indochina. A strong Siam frustrated their efforts at expansion. Britain would have ruined their cuisine and the French their womenfolk. Instead they had to make do with Burma and Cambodia, countries renowned for their beastly food, absurd languages and razor-toothed, truculent beldames. In these respects they were a little reminder that Wales is never far away.

7. Even Europe is not immune. Literacy, the Code Napoléon and any sort of plumbing has kept the Welsh out of Charlemagne's patrimony, but the lost lands of Byzantium and the Third Rome are ripe for wrongdoing.

So far we've managed one success. The Orange Revolution in Ukraine was always going to be a disappointment, given the mediocrity of President Yushchenko and the mendacity of his prime-ministerial nemesis, Madame Tymoshenko, but its solid achievement of a free press, democratic process and the rule of law ought to have outlived it.

Not with President Viktor Yanukovych in power, I'm afraid. This carp-brained golem would have been nothing without the backing of the colliery oligarchs of Donetsk - a city and industry founded by, and once named for, Welsh coal baron John Hughes. Soon the proud Cossacks will envy their Belarussians neighbours to the north, with their abundant swamps, radiation and carefree inbreeding.

8. Which brings us back to Australia. This model of sturdy democracy and constitutional progress was dragged in and out of war by Billy Hughes, an Antipodean Lloyd George who cast parties and policies in his wake like teeth on a rugby pitch. The only parliamentary group he didn't wreck in his endless political career was the Country Party, which he could count on to continue his cussedness long after he had descended cackling into Annwn.

The Australians are a generous folk, and their Labor Party decided to give Wales another chance when it chose Julia Gillard, a russet Kinnockette from Barry, as its leader all of two months ago.

The result of Saturday's snap election, as Hyperbore further wrote, shows that she turned a ten-point poll lead into a double defeat - not only are Labor in second place behind the Liberal Party, but with no overall majority it looks like Australia will be run, Israeli-style, at the whim of nutjob independents.

Shall we weep, like Alexander, with no more worlds to conquer? Not while Antarctica lies untaffed, and possibly English planets wink in the Welsh sky. Mae'r Anghenfil yn y Lloer.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

My Universities: Canadian Diplomat


Canada is seen as being an America for losers. While the Republic got the Mafia, Jews, film stars, atomic boffins and Beyoncé, the Dominion ended up with Ukrainians, Eskimos, lots of people called MacKenzie and the French.

Maybe it's because I'm Welsh, but I've always been fond of this Transatlantic also-ran. I've not been there, and don't want to ruin the fantasy of gruff Québécois skating home across the tundra from the 'ockey-stick factory with a plate of poutine in one hand and a Labatt Bleu in the other, pausing only to pleasure Margaret Trudeau over the back of a moose. Dressed as a Mountie.

I'm proud to have served that noble federation as an informal consular official in Moscow in 1988, although I'm not sure whether my efforts were fully appreciated in the Ottawa doughnut shops of power.

I was at one of those frequent crossroads in my life, where one track led to serious achievement in the academy and the other to dicking around with my mates in a grubby dictatorship. Naturally I found myself in the Soviet Union, my thesis on homosexuality in the Tsarist Navy rightly abandoned, and so skint I was reduced to smoking Gitanes.

The switch to spontaneously-combustible Soviet fags was only days away when the Canadian cultural attachée asked to see me. I'd befriended this fine lady out of curiousity about her job - how many Denys Arcand film festivals can one person organise? Or did she spend her time ushering rat-kings of Soviet schoolkids around exhibitions of Inuit penile gourds?

The answer was that she ran a lending library of Mordechai Richler's novels and, like all Canadians, spent much of her time appeasing her Québécois colleagues. She asked whether I'd like to earn some money helping out at the consular section, and arranged an interview with the Consul.

This chap, who really was called something like Guy de Gardebois, assumed I spoke French and hired me on the spot. He passed the next four months muttering asides to me in the gritty gibberish that passes for the language of Cantona up there, and I'd grunt the odd reply in Welsh. We were so happy.

Next day I turned up at the embassy, which nestled next to the house where Khrushchev had spent his grateful retirement, if only to find out what the job entailed. That was when Guy set out the whole horror of perestroika.

"A little while back we were like pigs in clover," he began. "Perhaps a dozen Ukrainian peasants and a Latvian gravedigger would turn up a month seeking tourist visas. They had notarised invitiations from the League of the Avenging Sword of St Adolph the Unreasonable in Winnipeg, and their nieces had ingested the dialectic of various Carpathian policemen in order to obtain their brand-new Soviet passports.

"Then it all changed. M'sieur Gorbachev gave Soviet citizens passports on demand, and our Department of External Affairs decided to double the disfavour by handing out visas to anyone who turned up with a letter from their Uncle Bohdan saying 'Gee, Slavko, it would be neat to like see you and the guys over here sometime, eh?'

"C'est affreux, ça, M'sieur Boyo! Now the embassy lobby is packed daily with a hundred Hutsuls and their hand-me-down breath, and the Russians won't let us bring over any more diplomats to cope with the rush. Now that's where you come in."


Little did I know that this was the beginning of a long and lubricious association with the Ukrainian people.

I had a couple of Soviet lady assistants. They had performed acts of acrobatic self-degradation with KGB underlings in order to land the plum job of being allowed to humiliate their fellow-citizens on foreign territory, and were not best pleased to be doling out precious visas to provincial crones who made their own underwear out of twigs.

As a result they lost no chance to close the consular section because of overcrowding and wiggle off to the Café Arbat for a faceful of compensatory cake.

I dealt with this problem by circumventing protocol and talking to the Soviet policeman outside. Constable Nakeroff was also tired of herding Haidamaks around his shiny pavement, and readily agreed to my proposal to let only ten people into the embassy at a time.

Guy was happy, the travelling Cossacks were happy, the police were happy, and the Soviet female staff were livid. My days passed in a blur of grateful peons clutching scraps of toilet paper with scrawled signatures on them, punctuated with interpreting for Guy at immigration interviews.

Canada operated a high-minded immigration system based on accruing points. Having a useful trade like computer programming or bear-trapping helped. Quebec had its own criteria, among which the ability to speak French and nurture a grievance won you dix points and your own snow plough.

I enjoyed an interview with a glossy young Nicaraguan Communist. She was studying economic mismanagement and electoral fraud at the Patrice Lumumba International University of Ineptitude, and worried that the forthcoming ouster of the Sandanistas back home would harm her prospects of getting a job as a complete bitch in some dusty Managuan ministry.

Guy asked why she wanted to emigrate to Canada when, as a Communist, she would be made most welcome in the Glorious Soviet Union? She pointed out that Russia was a "terrible place", but assured us that she would try to turn Canada into something similar through the Magic of Marxism.

"Heu, l'évêque chauffard, tabarnac', sur la main, hein?" whispered Guy, from what I could tell. "Application denied! Au suivant!" I translated.

The social life of a Canadian diplomat was also most agreeable. The embassy bar welcomed Mounties, senior political officers, grease monkeys and the occasional student in a democratic debouch.

The British embassy's "Britannia Club", in contrast, was as insufferable and impenetrable as Princess Anne. It was staffed by members of the Sunningdale Golf Club c. 1954, transplanted to modern Moscow by some malign sprite.

British diplomats were easily the most unplesant people in the Soviet capital, which is saying something. These slovenly and snobbish drunks served only to provide shrill but slatternly wives for the jaded postgraduate community to bed.

Summer drew to a close and soon I would have to return to London to explain myself to the university authorities, British Academy and various parents, as usual. Just before I left for the day Constable Nakeroff stuck his head round the door. It was nearly five o'clock and I'd just packed away the John Bull Visa-Printing Kit, so I wasn't best pleased.

"Can you squeeze one last old geezer in?" he asked. "He's just turned up from fuck knows where and he smells like he walked the whole way through the sewers. He's spoiling the entire nice pavement thing I've got going on here."

I agreed, and in tottered an ancient Ukrainian bearing the regulation passport and a letter from a nephew saying "come and visit if you're not dead and those Communist bastards have worked out how to fly a plane without bombing everything in its path".

The application form has a question asking whether you've ever been to jail. It should include a note explaining that we don't care whether you're a war criminal or not, just write "no" and spare us bureaucrats any bother. The codger had written "yes".

"I'll tell you what happened," he began, settling his brittle buttocks on our helpless upholstery. "It was after the war, and the Soviets were rounding up Bandera rebels. They had a quota of four arrests per school, and I was unlucky. They gave me ten years. I was 16.

"Then Stalin died, and they let me out. I got a letter saying I'd been wrongfully arrested etc, and everything was ok."

I stamped his visa in relief, as Canada welcomes victims of Stalinist repression. He gazed at the visa for a while, then said "Best part is that I was a rebel - a sniper, in fact - evenings and weekends. And the buggers never knew. You're the first stranger I've told that. Thanks, son!" And off he went.

I'm all for encouraging healthy outdoor pursuits among the young, and I hope the Canadian forests provided opportunities for him to revive his dormant marksmanship.