#2024 euro elections

[fangirlshameblog]

me, before I hit the play button [desensitised]: meh, dickslapping the local branch of the EPP twice a week is his hobby back home, how hardcore can this be?

*two and a half minutes later*

[the-blue-sandglass]

Not even American but if you voted Trump or pulled the ‘not voting’ bullshit when not voting lets the convicted criminal win and go on to fuck over Palestine, Ukraine, any immigrants who enter the U.S., LGBTQ+??

You’re a prick.

Obviously this isn’t to generalize and if you voted Harris then you’ve done your part, but if you didn’t vote then you’ve pretty much fucked over everyone.

[all-the-heart-you-cannot-see]

[missdollytheog]

[itsallpoliticsstupid]

It's not coming home

Which means no extra Bank Holiday for us in England.

That certainly would have got the country united behind Keir Starmer if it had happened. But now...

...guess he'll have to find something else to appease all those who didn't vote for him.

[stardustinthesky]

I VOTED

[meganelixabethh]

The tories are out, the sun is shining and England are in the semis. We are healing

[thequietabsolute]

perhaps. … the england football team will play much better under a labour leadership abababa ⚽️

[nelsonakis]

Too much is happening at the same time

[bopinion]

2024 / 25

Aperçu of the week

"The future looked better in the past."

(Karl Valentin, Munich original who actually invented comedy at the beginning of the 19th century)

Bad News of the Week

France is heading for a standstill. Which is called "cohabitation". This means that the president and his prime minister, appointed by parliament, come from different political camps. This paralyzes the executive and legislative branches in many ways. How could this happen?

On the evening of the European elections on June 9, in which Marine Le Pen's right-wing populist party, the Rassemblement National, won 93% of the constituencies, President Emmanuel Macron pulled a strange rabbit out of the hat: new elections. After just three weeks. As a litmus test to see whether the people really want to move so far to the right. And as a shot that could backfire badly if the current polls are to be believed. Because they also see RN clearly ahead in the early parliamentary elections.

One day we will read in Macron's memoirs whether this was deliberate political suicide or "just" a fatal miscalculation. Because the third possibility (and I would love to be wrong), that the French will decide completely different at national level, is more than unlikely.

What makes the whole thing so hard to bear for us neighbors is that Macron is an avowed friend of the European idea. And does a lot for it. And Le Pen is an enemy. Who will do a lot against it. After all, RN's declared program is to reduce the European project to a single economic market. Nothing more. Jacques Delors, François Mitterrand, Jacques Chirac and many other convinced Europeans would be turning in their graves.

Good News of the Week

No more "brain dead" or "obsolete": since Russia's war of aggression against Ukraine, NATO has been more vital and agile than it has been for a long time. I am an absolute pacifist. But even I have to recognize that the principle of deterrence is a protective shield for Europe. That it must continue to exist as long as there are despots who don't give a damn about international law or human rights. Now Sweden and Finland have become part of the military alliance, troop units are being deployed to the countries on the eastern flank, never before have more member states invested the targeted 2% of national economic output in their defense.

Yet the North Atlantic Treaty Organization is anything but a martial club of snarling generals, but rather a political factor. Jens Stoltenberg understood this. The former Norwegian Prime Minister has been leading the alliance as Secretary General for 10 years with a sense of proportion instead of sabre-rattling. He sees the organization as a force for order in an increasingly unstable world. He actually wanted to retire two years ago. But then the war in Ukraine intervened. Now, however, a successor has been found who seems to have the necessary support of the member states (the heads of state represented include after all "personalities" such as Viktor Orbán, Recep Erdogan and Robert Fico).

Mark Rutte is now waiting in the wings. The Dutch Prime Minister has been in office the longest in the history of his country. And during this time, he has not stood out as a dogged right-winger, but rather as a mediator and bridge-builder. He has confidently led four completely different party alliances. He is undoubtedly pro-Europe and pro-multilateralism. He has always clearly criticized Vladimir Putin and is a true transatlanticist. And he practically always comes across as positive, not to say in a good mood. That can't really do any harm.

Personal happy moment of the week

It was my birthday. And my kids got me a very special present. I had to solve a homemade crossword puzzle with questions like "What was the name of your daughter's first teacher?" or "What was the name of your son's favorite stuffed animal?". The answer resulted in a weekend where the children invite me to a city I've always wanted to visit. I can look forward to many personal happy moments. Thank you!

I couldn't care less...

...that Federal Education Minister Bettina Stark-Watzinger gets fire under her ass. Her ministry has arranged for a funding cut to be considered for professors who have shown solidarity with pro-Palestine actions by students. A clear violation of academic freedom and freedom of expression. As far as I'm concerned, she can quit tomorrow.

It's fine with me...

...that Federal Economics Minister Robert Habeck is talking to Beijing about distortions of competition caused by subsidies for Chinese electric car manufacturers. Anything is better than a fight over punitive tariffs. The fact that the Green politician is jumping over his own shadow here, just as he did with his liquefied natural gas purchases in Arabia during the energy crisis, is pragmatic - and not a betrayal of ideals.

As I write this...

...the third match day of the European Football Championship is underway. The public viewing areas are full, television ratings are high, spirits are good and practically everyone is an expert all of a sudden - and still can't explain the offside rules. I just find it relaxing that the headlines are also about Harry Kane's weaker foot or Kylian Mbappé's nose instead of always listing disasters.

Post Scriptum

Once a year, the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution publishes a "State of the Nation" report. With a balanced choice of words, strict neutrality and no political agenda - after all, it is a state-supporting, non-partisan institution. This year, however, a certain alarmism can be detected in the report on the protection of the constitution. This is because the Office sees a clear increase in threats from left-wing extremists, Islamists and, above all, right-wing extremists. They all often have anti-Semitism and hatred of Israel in common.

Even if I question the latter a little - after all, I have the feeling that anyone who advocates a two-state solution or criticizes Benjamin Netanyahu's right-wing cabinet is immediately considered an anti-Semite - this is a worrying development. The radicalization of individuals who no longer feel perceived or respected by politicians is spreading, thanks (in part) to social media. Do we need appropriate regulation after all, or is this all covered by freedom of expression, which has simply become louder these days? I'm not sure...

[lemonhemlock]

as i'm heading to the polling booth (🇪🇺) just a little psa for my fellow fruits: this new season of hotd is going to air alongside the european championship, so expect quite a fair share of football posting for the following month as there will be matches nearly every day 🫰

also guess WHO'S going to the semifinal in munich 💅

[helmstone]

BBC declares iPlayer the fastest growing UK VOD service

BBC declares iPlayer the fastest growing UK VOD service

While noting there’s a difference between growth and size, I read the BBC’s latest news on the rising popularity of iPlayer with interest. In their words “The truly distinctive British service continues to break records – up over 20% this year so far“. From the article, we learn: The truly distinctive British service continues to break records – up over 20% this year so far. BBC iPlayer’s…

[ahmed-fathi-gaza]

@90-ghost

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[freedformwriter]

English quartet

Wrote this last weekend but was then too non-covid but basically covid to post. It's supposed to be a return to daily micro-blogs but, meh, long format seems to be my energy at the moment.

4th July, 2024

There are things you notice for the first time when you don’t know how to vote: the suppressed hopefulness of the red-rosette pollster, the beatific care with which the volunteers scan down the registry, but mostly it’s the special pencils. I’ve got a lovely hexagonal half stub in my hand. It’s fatter than the average pencil and in a tasteful monochrome. Most alluringly, it’s labelled the property of the UK Government. The urge to untie it from the rickety booth and slide it into my pocket is almost overwhelming. I wonder if there is a black market for these things. I was entirely prepared to vote Green when I sauntered into the Mormon church that doubles as a local polling station. Now I’ve been staring at the same three names for five minutes. And they all belong to one man. Can I really vote for a man with three Christian names? Who keeps such a surplus? It’s suspect. And I’ve absolutely nothing else to base my impression of the candidate upon because I haven’t looked up a single person running in this election beside the incumbent. We were so excited when she won a historic race here in 2017. Now her name is branded with bitter X-fuelled feuds between Terfs and anti-Terfs and she can’t show up for Hustings because of security concerns. Why did I not look up a single freaking other candidate? My government-issued pencil drifts that towards the Labour box. Stop. I close my eyes and do some of those grounding exercises. What truly matters to me in this moment? My friends. My friends’ kids. This second thought sets me off. The sheer helpless terror of being the parent of a trans kid right now is something I cannot even encompass. It’s possible I’m going to cry in the government-approved booth. Fuck this. Mr Three-Christian-Names it is. I’m back out the door, shades on to hide my expression. Thank god it’s a sunny day.

I later learn the Green candidate is a jolly sort who runs the local bike repair charity. And wouldn’t, my friend reasons, the world be a better place if it was made up of people like that?

5th July 

The world has changed and the weather drips from the brim of my walking hat. In my all-black rain ensemble, I feel like a modern-day mourner. I just don’t know whose funeral I’m attending, or even if one is scheduled. The social rupture of the General Election has reopened old fissures. The grief leaked into my friends’ last-night communications, the ones who poured themselves into the Labour movement in the Corbyn years. Their momentum is now officially a stumble, in the same way we minimise the significance an old relationship once we find The One. Crossing the Stour where the picturesque plankton-filled river takes on punts, I hear a man singing. High above the water, a scaffolder in a harness and bright blue quick dry t-shirt belts out a sentimental ballad about finding love at last. Come on! he calls to an unseen man below. It’s unclear whether it’s a call to join in or to hurry up. My mood lifts. Not everyone is miserable today.

When I arrive at my appointment, the craniosacral therapist opens the door looking like the embodiment of fresh English summer: a floral sundress, pink cheeks, and flowing waves of loosely bound hair. You’re dressed for the weather, she declared. I want to be dressed for her weather. I lie on the table in the beautiful old treatment room in the heart of Canterbury, trying to tune out the fluctuating high-pitched hum of the air purified as she moves her hands around the energy centres of my body. How are her hands so warm? She truly exists in another climate. I try not to think of anything negative, or wildly inappropriate, under her touch in case it filters through. It’s time for her assessment. When you first came in and we were talking, you didn’t seem tired at all but – here she tilts her head to a sympathetic angle – but your body is really tired.

Tonight, the football is back. I’m really delighted at how willing my hosting friend is to join me. I’m backing Portugal despite the nausea-inducing presence of Ronaldo at the helm. She is supporting France because she enjoys going on holiday there. I’ve previously signed off on similar claims about the superior charms of Spain and Turkey – better food and more attractive men – but I draw the line at France. Why? They’re the villain, I say. What, as in some kind of ancestral enemy of England? Yes..maybe… I don’t know. My relationship with the technical country of my birth is complicated. The England-France rivalry is not. France plays their role so well: producing grand triumphs followed by epic collapses. They are an incredibly satisfying antagonist and for that reason alone, yes, I will always root against them. Mbappé even obligingly wears a black mask. Whether they are a mustachio-twirling villain, a protesting troubadour, or a stranger in this town, we always need the man in black.

6th July

No problem, I will just read some Cervantes. This is not the response I am looking for when I announce the England game is about to start. Especially as the man speaking is sitting in the very middle of my friend’s sofa. Technically, I am just as much of a visitor as he is, but this is the television facing sofa and why can’t he read classic literature on the other one with the non-optimal angle? But I can already tell tonight’s entertainment will be a hybrid experience. He and my friend are prepping for the open mic she hosts tonight. She has tap shoes and a slide whistle out for a Klaxons style mating dance. He’s got the book open to the passage in which Don Quixote attacks some marionettes. The night’s theme is puppets. Pick a side, I tell him, and slot in prepared to do battle.

Men, particularly older men, always find something comical in my watching football. Tonight is no exception. Oh listen to you, you could be the next Gary Lineker, he says after twenty minutes. I’m not sure if it’s the Americanness or femaleness – probably both – but I get these comments lot. Where is my can of lager? Can they hear my football bellow? I infinitely prefer watching with women who discuss the match, rather than my watching of it. But as the minutes tick on, and England isn’t playing absolutely shit, something a bit special happens. This man has always struck me as an art and music lover for whom London is the centre of the world. Now, through the medium of share viewership, we’re transported back to his boyhood in Middlesbrough. He’s not nostalgic for it – horrible place, god the accents – but is channelling the energy of the rough, mid-century stadium he attended every weekend all the same. I remember a chant we did for the opposing fans, he announces, then changes his voice: you’re going home in a Teesside ambulance – oi!

I traipse into the open mic event late – worth it for that penalty shootout – and watch the mating dance. Then a woman in Birkenstocks works a skeleton puppet through a synth performance (absolute fucking genius). During the inevitable ambient musical interlude, I make the Franz Kafka marionette journey through his own dreams. At the end, we are all instructed how to make a swizzle, the technical term for the bit of card and spit that transforms your voice into Punch. Terrifyingly loud, it would attract attention in even the most raucous stadium.

Do you want to go to a mummers’ play? My friend issues this invitation while I’m still groggily stretching myself out on a Sunday morning. It’s this kind of impromptu invitation that more than makes up for the mental overwhelm I often experience staying here. Camped in her overfilled central living space, my control-obsessed brain has to ignore the old rescue furniture, the new music equipment, and theatrical props accumulating by the door. But the Jack-of-the-Green costume – a sort of burlap cage denuded of its festive vines – is not just an unwieldy obstacle, but a connection to a whole performance community. The sort who revel in arcane folk traditions. I take my porridge with berry compote in the car and we’re off to Sandwich. I forgot what an absurdly charming town it is. We used to ride our bikes here on long summer weekends, stopping at, yes, a sandwich shop attached to a posh deli.

The pageantry is in full force when we arrive at St Peter’s Church. A blonde woman about my age in a white rugby shirt emblazoned with ‘George’ is going several rounds with a fire-breathing dragon. Parking ourselves on the curb, we cheer as George dispatches the dragon with the aid of protective potholders. Next, we have the French knight. Sir Fleur de Lis, with his waxy moustache, withdraws a white handkerchief. George counters. The fight very much resembles the troops of Morris dancers taking over the town for this folk and ale festival. This, I say to my friend, is why we root against France in the football. It’s just another form of pantomime.

The dispatched French knight now lies on the ground, a lance projecting from his body at a 45° angle. An incredibly tall man in a long white doctor’s coat, a top hat, and myopic spectacles seeks help from the audience to remove the weapon. Is there no one in the audience who can help remove the lance? He approaches a little boy who stares up with wide terrified eyes, then a little girl who ducks into her father’s side. Sensing that there are no sufficiently patriotic children to take up England’s Excalibur, the doctor approaches my friend, child height from her position on the pavement. Do you think you can pull it out? She hops up and runs to the fallen French knight with what I can only describe as a scamper.

After she hoists the lance – huzzah! – and the knight is at last resuscitated – ‘When all else fails, drink some Kentish ale’ – we move about taking in the food stalls and more flag-waiving dancers in tabards. Do you remember we saw that one old man perform the ‘The Ladies’ Fancy?’ my friend asks me. It was in Cambridgeshire; and I do. Ribbons were involved. English villages are so weird. Am I really thinking of moving back here?

[trashlord-watson]

like, i'm not gonna deny we've played an unsavory euro so far, but.

ngl but i'm savoring everyone's tears in the tag rn lmao

[smellofwater]

Reasons to be cheerful

On the fourth of July 4th 67% of the voters of Redcar chose not to vote for the conservative party.