Keep Calm And Vote For Merkel

Interesting posters have recently appeared all over our town, calling for our citizens to vote for Angela Merkel in the upcoming German Federal elections at the end of this September. They appear to be the work of the Junge Union, the youth organization fraction of the CDU and the CSU, the two German conservative parties who, together with the FDP, form the coalition government of Germany, also referred to as the second Merkel cabinet.

The posters (see photo) appear to the unitiated eye to be very low-key and straightforward, with a pleasant blue background and a simple white font. The text is "Cool bleiben und Kanzlerin wählen" which literally means "Stay cool and vote for the Chancelloress" (that's Angela Merkel). In case you were unsure whether it was about Angela Merkel, the text is capped by a little logo of a pair of white hands with the fingertips pressed together, which is Merkel's signature pose. The hand logo appears, as mentioned, above the text, almost like a little crown.

Now I bet you're thinking, that sounds familiar. But most of our townspeople are walking past it without batting an eyelid. In contrast to this cupcake, who upon seeing it for the first time, chortled, pointed, chortled again, said, oh that's clever, and promptly took a photo.

If you ask the average German here what they think of the poster, they'll tell you that the blue background is very pretty, and also neutral - not the usual color of the CDU, whose colors are usually black or orange. They also find the little hand logo amusing. Anything else? I ask. Nope. Do you know where the idea for the poster comes from? Yes, the Junge Union.

What I love about this is that the Germans, long reproached with a lack of humor, have taken something quintessentially British and humorously turned it into their own. We've been seeing various humorous versions of the second World War poster "Keep Calm And Carry On" for quite a while now, but this is the first time I've seen a German version of it. And when I explain its significance to my fellow townspeople, they are surprised, even slightly amused, but I can tell that they don't really get the joke completely.

The irony of course is that the original poster was referring directly to a state induced by events that would be created by Germans. And it was intended to encourage the British public to show the Germans what they were made of. That was what was going to help the British win the war. So the poster really falls into the category of anti-German war propaganda.

I am wondering if the Junge Union's decision to customize this poster in a propaganda parody was a bit "tongue-in-cheek" or whether they just thought it would be a really good idea to use (what they thought was) a well-known slogan. Basically, it's falling a bit flat here, and that's sad. The Junge Union, clearly staffed with a bunch of Bright Young Things, might just have been a bit too clever.

Duties And Lessons

An extract from my diary of 1972, when I was 13. All names have been changed.

I had to read the lesson in church this morning. I have to tell you it was not a success.

I wish I didn’t have to read the lesson. Mum asked Father Clement if I could read every few weeks and Father Clement said yes, but otherwise only a couple of men used to read it, and I am the only young person and also female to be doing it. And I have to read it about every three weeks. It is awful, I hate being up there and in front of the whole church, I feel that they are all thinking that I want to be the centre of attention or something. And I don’t! It’s like getting up on the stage every time, and if I don’t rehearse, my performance is very bad. But I can’t let Mum down. I think she’s so proud of me.

Dad doesn’t come to church, he’s a Protestant, and he actually doesn’t go to church at all, except on Christmas Day, but because we’re Catholics we have to go all the time. I mean, every Sunday and Feast Days. Mum always takes the children and me, although sometimes the children can get away with not going if they’re sick.

At least it’s not in Latin any more.

Anyway, why Mum wants me to read the lesson is a long story. The thing is, when we moved to London, I started to talk with a London accent. That really annoyed Mum. It’s difficult, because everybody I know talks with a London accent, that’s because we’re living in London. But Mum says you won’t get anywhere in life talking like that and you should speak with an “accentless accent”. Although frankly, everybody always thinks Mum talks with an Irish accent and is always asking where she comes from in Ireland. Mum has never been to Ireland in her life, so this is a kind of joke. She says it is because she grew up with Irish nuns.

Stolen Time

This is another excerpt from my unpublished novel The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund and follows the chapter Fish and Chips in the Park

The week after the meeting with A.J.F. and Peter Grisham, John requested two day's leave. It was only about five weeks until Christmas, but John still had several days leave due to him for the year, and he explained to A.J.F. that he needed to start decorating the house, in preparation for the sale, and that he needed to spend some time with his family.

It still seemed uncertain whether his relocation would take place in the following summer, or several months later. Of course, John could travel to Peterborough on day trips for the initial period, A.J.F. explained. Maybe on one-week trips. Complete relocation, however, would be required by the summer of 1973 at the latest. That was a whole eighteen months away. But eighteen months could pass by very quickly. It had been nine years, this month, since they had moved to England from Calcutta, and they had really only just started to feel that this was their home here. Although deep inside, John knew that he and Aileen would never really be at home here.

Falling In Love At Fatty George’s Saloon

Just before my 21^st birthday in 1980, I went to spend six months in Vienna as part of my university degree course. I had a place at the Wirtschaftsuniversität to study banking for one term, followed by a three-month internship at a small paper-manufacturing company. Two friends from my university course in England were also on placements in Vienna at the time, and we all stayed in rented student accommodation in the southern part of the city. I was particularly lucky as I got to share a large room with an English student from another university called Hannah, who played the guitar and sang, and who was full of exciting, spontaneous ideas.

All the others were already on their internships so I spent the first few days journeying by myself to and from the university, which was at the other side of Vienna from where we lived. I did that until one of the most prominent and popular professors, who also taught one of my classes, made a pass at me. He had invited me and a few other students in my class to dinner at his apartment, and while the others were carrying the dishes into the kitchen afterwards, he grabbed hold of me, put his hand up my sweater and in one swift movement removed my bra and grabbed a breast. I stopped going to the university after that.

We celebrated my 21^st birthday in the Heurigen, the local wine restaurants which are plentiful in Vienna, and particularly in the southern district where we lived. It was there and then on that night that Hannah decided I needed a boyfriend, and she knew just the chap – her boss. Hannah worked at the most prestigious bank in Vienna, the Zentralsparkasse, which in 1980 was The Bank To Bank With. The Viennese have a strict social and professional hierarchy, in which those with both social and professional titles are attributed due respect. Where you work and live play an important part in this system, as does being seen at the right places with the right people. And Hannah’s boss was placed quite highly in a lot of these categories.

There Will Be Sad Memories

There will be sad memories
To replace these sad memories
They will be new and fresh
They will burn brighter and
Singe those others like charred paper or
Turn them into shadows flickering behind a candle
And the old sad memories
Will be almost forgotten till
A word or smell or color or place reminds me
And the pain will be sudden and very sharp
And I will cry instantly and
Spontaneously but very briefly.


There will be sad days
To replace these sad days
I will be older and less adaptable
I will remember times
When I was younger and
Life was easier and all before me
And the old sad days
Will be almost forgotten till
A voice or touch or sound or view reminds me
And the pain will be fast and deep
And I will cry instantly for what was lost
Spontaneously but very briefly.

Before

Another excerpt from my unpublished novel "The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund"

Tuesday 9^th November 1971

John came into the office to find a note from Lynda on his desk: “Mr Parfitt would like to see when you come in.”

So A.J.F. was already up and prowling. John removed his coat and hung it up on the coat-stand. Well A.J.F. wasn’t going to make him jump through a hoop like a tiger at the circus. It was raining and the tube up to Mayfair had been packed. And the train up to Cannon Street had been packed as well. John sat down at his desk, and checked his calendar. There was just one phone call he had to make, and it would be sufficient if he called this afternoon. And Lynda had also left the usual file containing the typed-up letters awaiting his signature. Normally, this would be a casual day. He hoped A.J.F. would have coffee served, if it were to be a serious meeting. But probably it wouldn’t.

He waited exactly 10 minutes and then called A.J.F.’s extension.

“Parfitt,” A.J.F.’s clipped voice answered.

“Oh good morning, A.J.F., it’s John Osborne here. You left a message for me?”

“John. Could you come up to my office straight away? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

Oh. Someone he’d like him to meet. Really. Who might that be then.

John took the stairs to the 4^th floor. He made the formal knock on A.J.F.’s door and entered almost immediately, only just overlapping A.J.F.’s confirmation of “Come.”

I’m An Alien, Get Me Out Of Here

During my last year at primary (elementary) school in England in the 1960s, we had a girl in our class who, for the purposes of data protection, I shall call Martha Ann Dickens. Martha managed to inform all of us several times each day that her initials spelled out MAD, and that she was indeed mad. That was her claim to fame apparently.

Having, myself, a mother who managed to inform me at least once a day that all four of my grandparents were “off their heads”, I lived in constant fear of the crazy gene spontaneously and uncontrollably leaping out and manifesting itself in myself, thus alerting all around me to my own inherent madness. So Martha’s pride in her craziness astounded me – she was not trying to hide but to advertise it, and if you didn’t get it straight off after a couple of minutes, she would jump out and bang you on the nose with it.

Martha was, according to her own statement, an alien. I don’t mean that in the resident without a British passport sense, but in the like she was from another planet sense. She would attach herself to her person of choice for that day and spend the rest of the day following them about spouting on about herself. Usually it was me. With Martha there was not much in the way of conversation, it was more of a long monologue for whom she required a listener. She talked as much as possible in school, during breaks, in the lunch hour and on the walk home – unfortunately we lived only two streets away from each other.

Fish And Chips In The Park

Another excerpt from my unpublished novel "The Mummy and Daddy Christmas Present Fund"

John had almost finished making breakfast by the time Aileen came into the kitchen. She closed the sliding door behind her, the one he had made and fitted last year after he had had all his ideas about saving space in the kitchen – installing a sliding door, making a table by fixing a large piece of wood to the wall by brackets and dispensing with table legs. She sat down at the bracket table and looked away as he placed a cup of tea in front of her.

"There's toast," John said.

“I don’t want toast.”

“Well, there’s… eggs.”

“I don’t want any damn eggs.”

He sighed. He helped himself to a fried egg and some toast and sat down with a cup of tea.

“Why do you have to humour her like that, Lizzie’s just a bloody spoiled child! Needs a damn clip over the ear!”