I wish I was clever...

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I wish I was as clever as those people who write about how thick other people are. It must be fab being so super brainy. Every day you see this but the writers merely display their arrogance. For sure they want us to be in awe of their intellectual majesty - ho ho ho we're supposed to respond as we smile at the daring criticism of whoever it is our genius has decided makes two planks of wood look like a proto-Einstein.

If only I had the supreme confidence to declare a cabinet minister a "thicko" despite never having met that person, had a conversation with them or looked at their skills, experience or knowledge. It is a joy to behold that arrogant confidence in another's stupidity - even one who went to Cambridge and had a 20 year business career before getting to parliament.

I am not so confidently clever, I doubt my beliefs every day. When someone challenges my thoughts or comments a shudder of that doubt runs through my body.

But then I like doubt. My arm is elbow deep in that spear wound. Doubt is what keeps us from torturing people because god said so. Doubt is what makes us hesitate, makes us ask whether the other person might be right, makes us check. Makes us listen.

Over the past years I've changed my mind about a lot of things - climate change, gay rights, Europe, immigration, community, even god. But my mind is still not made up. So keep telling me I'm wrong - just as I'll challenge what you say. Just try not to to call people stupid, dumb, thick, ignorant, immoral - that's not helpful, kind or - much of the time - accurate. And it will never change anyone's mind about anything.

....

...and I suppose you think that's funny, eh?

"I was trying to catch a nap"

Class - you'll know it when you see it

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I’m fed up with the politics of class – not only is it awful, divisive politics but it reinforces our gross misuse of the word.

Class is…

Writing a personal note of thanks to all the speakers in your group after every Council meeting

Walking out from a vote because you know someone on the opposition isn’t there because their child’s ill with cancer

Putting your child’s education ahead of a political party – even if it gets you the sack or results in ridicule

Trudging three miles through the snow to a meeting
because you’d said you’d be there – and not complaining

Handing back embarrassing papers to someone and
refusing the chance to exploit what those papers contain

Sticking anonymous allegations and complaints in the bin – the only place they deserve to go

Understanding the difference between personal insult and the rough and tumble of politics – and apologising if you get it wrong

Class isn’t about where you were born. It isn’t about your school. Or your university. Or the clothes you wear. Or how much money you’ve got. Or who your friends are. Class is doing the right thing – a matter of attitude not origin. Norman Tebbit has class; Cecil Parkinson doesn’t. Ernest Bevin had class: Aneurin Bevan didn’t. Bobby Moore had class; Vinnie Jones doesn’t.

Perhaps if we worried more about how we behaved. If we stood more on our own hind legs. If we looked to ourselves to solve our problems. If we looked out for others. Perhaps, if we tried not to find excuses or to blame…we mind finally find out what class means.

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