“It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts…”
    — Mahatma Gandhi, Non-Violence in Peace and War

Unwilling though we may be to admit it, violence is an integral part of human nature. Any civilised society needs to come to terms with it, and find an appropriate, sanctioned outlet through which its population can release those aggressive tendencies. In olden times, war was the release-valve of preference: ship you angry young men off to the front, and let them kill someone else’s angry young men. Not a problem – at least, unless you’re one of them. But what do you do when society is stable, and there are no convenient wars to hand?

Simple: you fake it. Nowadays, you can get your fix of cathartic violence on TV, through the carefully choreographed spectacle of the WWF or the latest Arnie movie. Two thousand years ago, however, the nearest you got to video was running past a frieze at 24 panels per second. So they had gladiatorial combat instead. Although this spectacle started off as a way of honouring dead warriors, it was clearly an idea to good to waste on corpses, so it eventually became an entertainment in its own right. The scale of some of these events was striking: in AD 107, the Emperor Trajan staged a victory celebration which included 10,000 combatants.

Even the fringes of the Empire got in on the act. London had an amphitheatre in what is now Guildhall Yard, capable of seating 7,000 people. This shows just how popular a spectacle it was: the total population of the city was only 20,000 at that time, and you didn’t tend to get many away supporters either – “Gaw’n, Christians!” Recently, the Museum of London staged a demonstration of gladiatorial combat on this very site, and I went along, keen as ever for my fix of cathartic violence, and clad appropriately enough in a Stone Cold Steve Austin jersey…

Despite the ambulance parked outside, there was no death and not even any mutilation – much to the chagrin of one passing small child who was heard to mutter “Those swords aren’t sharp…” with obvious disappointment. But as a spectacle, it was still impressive – what the weapons may have lacked in the edge department, they made up for in heft, and they weren’t holding back: you could see sparks flying. Any misplaced blow would have shattered your arm like a toothpick, and on one occasion, a sword broke mid-shaft, spinning down to the dirt. The feel of danger was enhanced by the not-exactly secure matting which was used on the courtyard in lieu of dirt – it wasn’t fixed down properly, making any movement fraught with danger.

I confess to having had a special cheer for the women gladiators, who were every bit as impressive as the men. Recent excavations in London turned up the remains of one such competitor, the first physical evidence to support written records. In a strange parallel with the likes of Chyna in the WWF, they were generally regarded as outsiders, even among the mix of low-lifes, prisoners of war and condemned criminals, that made up the bulk of the fighters. In AD 90, the Emperor Domitian presented combats between women and dwarves but a later successor, Septimus Severus, banned them in AD 200.

Indeed, the whole spectacle had more than a touch of professional wrestling about it; the crowd hollering for their heroes while booing the villains, the flashy costumes, combat as a public spectacle and (in this re-enactment at least!) the spectacular but choreographed violence. But, if anything, gladiators had more rules to follow: attacking an opponent from behind was forbidden and would get you a lot more than a stiff talking-to from the referee — you were killed by the stadia guards. No blind-side chair shots, by request.

Such historical sidelights meant that this event was probably a bit more educational than the usual edition of Nitro. As well as the fighters, there were other “citizens” taking roles, from the businessman sponsoring the games, up to the emperor who made the final decision as to whether losers got the thumbs-up or down (the coup de grace could also be applied if injuries were deemed too severe). And it was also nice to see some members of the audience thoroughly getting into it, judging by the objects being thrown into the ring after the final bout was won by the emperor’s champion, though one suspects plastic bottles might not have been historically-accurate ammunition…

But such qualms aside, it was an impressive event, that did a good job of recreating the general atmosphere, albeit without the gore-drenched slaughter. Probably for the best, since we’re not as barbaric these days, are we. Are we?

This editorial really came about from two directions: firstly, an email which arrived here at TC Towers:

Are your comments about the English your own views or do you mean it tongue in cheek (The English are all scum etc.)? These might not be your sentiments as I got the link from a review of Braveheart…I meet lots of Politicians – Alex Salmond and Rosie Cunningham, most of the time. As Alex is at the moment trumpeting ‘The new Maturity of the Scots in their dealings with their southern neighbours’ I am sending examples to him of various Scottish web sites with a virulent anti English Bias. Of course its a two way traffic (See the England supporters web site and comments about who they term the ‘Sweaty Socks’) I’m just sad that this sort of hatred seems to be on the increase.

My reaction to this email was one of some bafflement – largely because I wasn’t sure whether the writer was joking or not. I suspect not, although he was largely vague on what he found on the site which qualified as “virulent anti-English bias”. I obviously pointed out that I’ve been living in England for 13 years, so I can’t think it’s that bad, but also suggested that he take a look at Hollywood — this is largely a film site, after all, and there seems to be a growing number of films with English villains, for more or less justifiable reasons. Gone in Sixty Seconds and X-Men both have them, although the latter as least has Patrick Stewart leading the good guys too. Which brings me to the second point: a savage mauling of The Patriot in yesterday’s Daily Telegraph (disclaimer: I only bought it for the fantasy cricket scores), in which the film was ripped apart for being historical “porn”. My feelings on this are somewhat ambivalent. Part of me wants to say “It’s only a movie, get over it.” But the problem is, that a Hollywood production is quite likely to have more of an impact on people than long-forgotten history lessons, and the potential for, at best, confusion, is significant.

There is an inherent problem with basing films on real-life dramas. Real-life is not cinematic – it doesn’t come in convenient three-act structure, with a tidy ending. So something has to give, and it’s usually the facts. But when you start discarding them, what you are making is effectively a propaganda film, since you are skewing the truth towards a certain point of view. This applies whether we are talking about The Patriot or Schindler’s List: both are equally dubious (though I doubt the former is quite as blatantly manipulative). And this is on top of the questions about history in general: it’s generally written by winners, and so is rarely a reflection of what actually happened. If the Nazis had won the war, for example, we would certainly be hearing what a total bastard Churchill was.

With ancient history (and in these terms, I mean anything beyond living memory), this is probably less important: it’s not that crucial whether some people in mid-West America think Robin Hood had an American accent. But the closer you get to the present day, the greater the dangers, as recent fusses over films like U-571 and the proposed Colditz Story shows, where history is being rewritten to show Americans in the fote-front of World War II, rather than turning up three years late (albeit with much enthusiasm). Because if present history gets a little bit skewed, then down the line, that “little bit” has the potential to become “a lot”, and the cinematic version also has a better chance of getting locked into popular consciousness. I imagine there are people out there who think, thanks to Schindler’s List, that the Holocaust was invented by Hollywood, and took place in black-and-white. The risks of this hardly need mentioning…

…or, at least, slightly more sun-tanned than I was when I left for pastures Arizonan two weeks ago. Thanks largely to the liberal application of factor 60 sun-block, I managed to survive the furnace of Arizona in June, though I now have a huge respect for those who settled and lived there before the arrival of industrial-strength air-conditioning. A laid-back and unhurried lifestyle becomes less an option, and more a medical necessity, during the months on end when the top daily temperature hits levels never seen in Britain, outside a deep-fat fryer.

My qualms about the wildlife (emphasis on “wild”) also proved largely unfounded. The closest call came while tubing down the Salt River — this involves a group of you roping inner-tubes together and drifting lazily down a local stream for 3-4 hours, a cooler full of beer and snacks occupying another tyre. Fine, except that when you’d wedged in your tube, you can’t move with any speed, and believe me, I wanted too, when an F-sized wasp landed on the edge of my tyre. It looked at me; I looked at it; it began an inexorable crawl towards the cool and shady leg of my shorts. I attempted to move, capsized, and executed a manoeuvre not seen in any diving manual, but worthy of at least a 5.8 from the judges. I could swear I heard the sound of waspish sniggering as it flew off.

I returned to this country for one night, before Chris + I headed off to Paris; a potentially fraught affair given her low tolerance for rudeness, and the “somewhat variable” reputation the French have in this area. I’ve never had any problems; being British, I’m perhaps just too cowed to make a fuss. Thought it best not to tell Chris that, in an obscure part of their penal code, French waiters still have the right to guillotine fractious tourists on the spot. However, there were no major undiplomatic incidents to report: about the worst thing was the train home being delayed three hours. This was especially galling, as it was the night of the Euro2000 final, and so we could only hear the rest of Paris celebrating, as we waited, burdened with luggage and unable to move, in the Eurostar departure lounge at the Gare du Nord.

Otherwise, Paris was enjoyed, and stuff bought, though I drew the line at the fluorescent-pink fur, stuffed-toy Eiffel Tower, complete with beret. Even stumbled across some laser-disks, in the back of a discount music shop (special editions of 12 Monkeys and Crying Freeman for under six quid will do very nicely). The Eiffel Tower was looked at – from the bottom, the queues to go up it being insanely long – the Sacre Couer admired, and Notre Dame drifted past. Perhaps the unexpected highlight was the Museum of Erotic Art, located in a seven-floor building sandwiched between sex-shops in the middle of Pigalle. This was almost completely unerotic, but did introduce me to the totally mad artwork of Jacques Brissot. A lot of his creations remake classic paintings by the likes of Brueghel, using scraps apparently culled from porno mags; the overall effect falls disturbingly between Salvador Dali and Larry Flynt.

I now find myself back in Tulse Hill: normal (dis)service has been resumed, though I feel somewhat gloomy and rather wish it hadn’t. Still, immensely cheered by Tony Blair’s son getting done for being drunk and incapable — can anyone arrest Blair Sr. for being sober and incapable? Can’t blame the kid for giving false details: “sure, son, pull the other one”, would be the inevitable reaction to anyone who gave ’10 Downing Street’ as their address. Also, very kind of him to provide, by tossing his cookies in Leicester Square, a perfect example of the “drunken, noisy, loutish and anti-social behaviour” the Prime Minister railed against less than a week ago. Proof – as if any more were wanted – that politicians who try to pontificate about morality need to ensure they are wearing bullet-proof socks.

Have I said, “I told you so” yet? Except that even in my wildest dreams, I didn’t envisage England cocking things up so spectacularly. As Oscar Wilde said (or would have, had he been a TV pundit), “to lose one half-time lead is a misfortune; to lose two smacks of incompetence”. To go down to a penalty, for a Sunday pub-team tackle, was merely the icing on the cake, and made losing five quid to the guy on the next desk at work, not just bearable, but a wholly satisfactory investment. Though even if England had got through, it would have been Italy in the quarter-final, and does anyone really think you’d have beaten them?

I suspect the best thing is, it absolves me from the need to track down football…sorry, “soccer”, during the upcoming holiday in America, and concentrate on the matter in hand: survival. For, while plans to move out there at the end of the year advance apace, this will be the first time I’ve been out in Phoenix in the summer, previous visits have been in months like February or October when, while it’s still warm, the heat is rather less pronounced. And when I say “heat”, I’m not kidding: remember how hot it was over the weekend? Chuck another 30 degrees on top, and you’ll be there or thereabouts.

Told of such things, it’s no surprise to learn that I am preparing for a week spent scampering from air-conditioned home to air-conditioned car to air-conditioned mall to air-conditioned baseball stadium. Yes, baseball stadium. It has a retractable roof, which they close a few hours before each game, and then crank the coolers up to eleven in order to get the temperature down to comfortable by start time. I quite like the idea of working there…or perhaps even moving house under the stand somewhere.

You may have realised heat is not a favourite commodity of mine. Cold can always be countered with another jumper, but especially for those who work in a bank, there are certain minimum dress standards one is expected to meet — in quantity, if not necessarily quality. It’s really quite unfair: women get to flounce around in loose skirts, or anything this side of G-strings, while us blokes aren’t even allowed to loosen our ties without the risk of a fatwa from the office God-Emperor.

I do have to say that I feel certain quality thresholds should be required, and this applies both to men and women. Now, I’m no Adonis, but I do at least have the decency to keep myself largely covered. As one friend commented, “Englishmen shouldn’t wear shorts” (unfortunately, choosing to make the statement while sitting next to…yep, you guessed it, an Englishman wearing shorts), and there’s something to be said for this. Countries where hot weather is common have a far better idea of what looks good than places like Britain, where the summer lasts seven days, scattered between June and September.

Love for the sun makes people do strange, self-mutilating things, which result in large areas of pinkish skin. I’m firmly in agreement with the Victorians, who regarded a sun-tan as evidence of a life spent labouring in fields, and thus something to be avoided. However, this is probably tied in with my hypochondria, which inevitably elevates any mole to a malignant melanoma, and puts going into the sun in roughly the same risk category as unprotected sex with a male prostitute.

You will, given this, probably be wondering how I am going to cope with the thermonuclear temperatures to be found in the American South-West. But it’s not an issue that concerns me (though we’ll see how it goes for the next week). I’m perhaps more worried about wildlife which bites, stings, or simply looks as if it does. What do we have in this country which can compete? One slightly poisonous snake, which no-one I know has ever seen, and which would trigger reptilian laughter from its Arizonan siblings, were it to slither along and try to gain admittance into the annual VenomCon.

Because, let’s face it, we in Britain are remarkably insulated from such things. As well as having fauna that belongs in a petting zoo, there are effectively no earthquakes, volcanos, or other natural disasters to speak of. The weather is temperate, without tornados and hurricanes, and the political situation is stable to the point of utter tedium — if Britain was ever to have a military coup, it would probably involve the consumption of tea and biscuits, and be so well-mannered that no-one would notice it had happened.

I have to say, if you look at what made Great Britain great, it’s all in the past; these days, we are associated less with empire and industry, and more with football hooligans, the Millennium Dome, and a bunch of dysfunctional aristocrats. Which is why I have few qualms about leaving this place; America may be screwed up in a million and one ways, but at least they are good at the sports they invented, albeit largely because they don’t let anyone else play them. [Conspiracy theorists may care to ponder whether the real reason behind the USA’s embargo on Cuba, is because they were getting a bit too good at baseball.] Seen in this light, the failure of the English football and cricket teams is less a cause than a symptom.

Do I care? Only in a strange, abstract sort of way, in much the way I feel for a relative I’ve never met, and only been told about. At one time, I used to be quite patriotic — that’s just ebbed away and, now, I’m not sure whose country this is any more, but it’s not mine. And so, having set what I think is a new record for editorial topic drift, I’m going to pack a bag full of every light-coloured T-shirt I possess, and head off. Ice-cubes ahoy!

It’s not normally a nice thing to take joy in other people’s misery. But on occasions, I’m prepared to make an exception, especially when it’s England we’re talking about, and especially especially after that delightful 3-2 defeat at the hands of Portugal earlier in the week. Laugh? I nearly wet myself. It made the elimination of Scotland worthwhile, just to watch Kevin Keegan’s face change from “smug satisfaction” (2-0 up) to “deer caught in headlights” (3-2 down).

It happens every couple of years. England reach the finals of the World Cup or European Championships and the nation immediately decides they not only can win it, but it is their god-given right to do so, because they invented the game. Scotland used to do this sort of thing too: but only once, in the 1978 World Cup with Ally’s Tartan Army. We lost to Peru, scraped a draw with Iran and had a player fail a drug test before deciding “Fuck it” and beating eventual finallists Holland (thanks to Archie Gemmill’s wonder goal) to be pipped on goal difference. We learned our lesson and, since then, have only ever turned up at tournaments for a laugh, with any football incidental. On the other hand, England are the dogs of world football: no matter how much of a kicking they get, they always come crawling back again, insistent that this time (more than any other time), they’ll get it right.

This perennial optimism flies in the face of all the objective evidence. Putting it into perspective, England squeaked into the finals this time the same way as the likes of Slovenia: via the playoffs, and they only just managed that, having to rely on Sweden to beat Poland in their last game. Their warm-up games saw a creditable draw against Brazil, victory over the mediocre Ukraine side knocked out by Slovenia, and then a 2-1 win against the footballing superpower of Malta, thanks to them missing a last-minute penalty. [Bet he was a cross Maltese…] Given this, expectations should be modest, with the quarter-finals a credible target. But no…

Mere optimism would be fine. However, it manifests itself in nasty jingoism and pointless patriotism — why are newspapers giving out free posters exhorting “Come on, England”? Who are they trying to impress? Neither the England team nor their opponents will be found hailing taxis in central London this week. I passed at least one venue with a big screen saying “Watch England Win Here”, which is the kind of arrogance I love to see taken down a peg or two. And even as someone who’s no fan of Mr.Posh Spice, the abuse he got was pretty indefensible. All of this helps turn me into a raging Braveheart, which provokes howls of outrage from some English friends, who protest they’d support Scotland if the roles were reversed. This is missing the point: they view Scotland as part of Britain; we see it as an occupied state. And given England’s grossly dominant role in the UK, all the outer provinces are going to take any chance we get to laugh at the invaders, even if it means becoming temporarily Portuguese, Romanian or – most of all – German.

This is why I shall be parked in front of the TV at home on Saturday night (watching it down the pub is simply too risky), waving my frankfurter around, balancing a plate of Schwarzwalder Kirschtorte mit Schlagsahne on one knee, and a foaming mug of Holsten Pils on the other. It’s just a shame England are meeting the Germans so early this time, as there’s no chance for a “heartbreaking” penalty shoot-out. I’m not sure what would be better: defeat at the hands of the Germans has been so frequent over the past 30 years, it ceases to appeal. So perhaps this time, a plucky England victory will do, followed by a brave draw against Romania, and a tragic exit on goal difference. [The sad thing is, I doubt if even the worst humiliation imaginable will make the English race shut up about bloody sixty-six — I mean nineteen rather than ten, but they were both a long time ago. Time to get over it.]