Notes & Queries response: Is progress possible – or will our problems always be with us?
This is my response to a question that appeared on the Notes & Queries page of The Guardian website on 29th January, 2023.
The Guardian is apparently no longer happy to host my comments on their site, so it is appearing here instead.
This blog is obviously not affiliated with The Guardian. Its reference to a question that appeared in Notes & Queries is presented here under the terms of fair use.
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Is progress possible – or will our problems always be with us?
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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“Give me some elbowroom, Brighty,” said Anthony Mabe. “You are rather encroaching on my territory, if you don't mind me saying.”
He expanded the pages of his copy of The Telegraph to their fullest extent, indignantly rustling the paper between his clenched fists in what amounted to a threat display. The waves of heat that were coming off the fire were causing the edges of the broadsheet to flutter in imitation of the dancing flames, in a manner that was rather hypnotic; the corner of a front-page headline concerning a shortfall in funding for the armed forces, beckoning across the room in a sort of 'come hither' motion that I hadn't been on the receiving end of in a good while.
Yearwood had seated us all at the big table. I will be the first to admit that it counts as something of an obstacle, especially when fully populated, situated, as it is, in the middle of the room, albeit slightly off-centre (to avoid a long-extinct draught), among the members' armchairs. The unspoken argument for it remaining in place, is that it was here before all of the other furnishings, and probably hasn't been moved since the club was established. So there it continues to stand: Four tons of tradition, resting on a set of four giant oaken legs (which, if club legend is to be believed, each conceal a gold sovereign underneath, pressed firmly into the floor by now) – a spanner in the works of modernity, and in that sense rather symbolic of the men who had gathered around it on that wet Sunday afternoon in February, 1996.
Michael Hyde, who was on bail at the time for insider trading (he was sentenced to six years; served two and half, but you already know that), had come straight from his granddaughter's birthday party. He was now delivering a state of the world address on what he considered to be the unrealistic and unproductive nature of that subset of contemporary party games that are targeted at the ages of five and under.
“The problem with Snakes and Ladders is that, regardless of where you are on the board, you are still playing Snakes and Ladders,” he opined, at a volume that could no doubt be clearly discerned as far away as the club kitchens. “One can be ahead of another player, relatively speaking, but it's an illusion of superiority. You get to the end of the board and what have you got to show for any of it?”
“Oh for pity's sake, Hyde,” snapped Mabe. “Would you please keep it down. Some of us our trying to read.”
From across the room Yearwood managed to silently convey an equal measure of concern and censure, seemingly without changing his expression.
“I think the idea is that, after you finish the game, you fold the board in half and do something more productive,” said David Swanborough. “I don't know, maybe dress up as a pirate and run around in the garden.”
He expanded the pages of his copy of The Telegraph to their fullest extent, indignantly rustling the paper between his clenched fists in what amounted to a threat display. The waves of heat that were coming off the fire were causing the edges of the broadsheet to flutter in imitation of the dancing flames, in a manner that was rather hypnotic; the corner of a front-page headline concerning a shortfall in funding for the armed forces, beckoning across the room in a sort of 'come hither' motion that I hadn't been on the receiving end of in a good while.
Yearwood had seated us all at the big table. I will be the first to admit that it counts as something of an obstacle, especially when fully populated, situated, as it is, in the middle of the room, albeit slightly off-centre (to avoid a long-extinct draught), among the members' armchairs. The unspoken argument for it remaining in place, is that it was here before all of the other furnishings, and probably hasn't been moved since the club was established. So there it continues to stand: Four tons of tradition, resting on a set of four giant oaken legs (which, if club legend is to be believed, each conceal a gold sovereign underneath, pressed firmly into the floor by now) – a spanner in the works of modernity, and in that sense rather symbolic of the men who had gathered around it on that wet Sunday afternoon in February, 1996.
Michael Hyde, who was on bail at the time for insider trading (he was sentenced to six years; served two and half, but you already know that), had come straight from his granddaughter's birthday party. He was now delivering a state of the world address on what he considered to be the unrealistic and unproductive nature of that subset of contemporary party games that are targeted at the ages of five and under.
“The problem with Snakes and Ladders is that, regardless of where you are on the board, you are still playing Snakes and Ladders,” he opined, at a volume that could no doubt be clearly discerned as far away as the club kitchens. “One can be ahead of another player, relatively speaking, but it's an illusion of superiority. You get to the end of the board and what have you got to show for any of it?”
“Oh for pity's sake, Hyde,” snapped Mabe. “Would you please keep it down. Some of us our trying to read.”
From across the room Yearwood managed to silently convey an equal measure of concern and censure, seemingly without changing his expression.
“I think the idea is that, after you finish the game, you fold the board in half and do something more productive,” said David Swanborough. “I don't know, maybe dress up as a pirate and run around in the garden.”
“Put yourself in the shoes of a five year old, basking in the glow of victory that comes from besting your friends in a hard-fought game of Snakes and Ladders, and I imagine that it means a great deal,” said Adrian Bright. “Naturally, as the years wear on, one's achievements in that particular arena take on less meaning. I assume that you did win.”
“I came-in a credible second,” said Hyde. “And I beg to disagree. Who here can honestly say that they can recall a single occasion in their childhood when they either won or lost a game of Snakes and Ladders. None of you can because the game is not meaningful. It is the illusion of progression, writ large across a grid of gaily-coloured squares that have become infested with snakes, and strewn with carelessly-positioned ladders. Nobody has ever meaningfully improved their lives by playing. Honestly, it is a complete waste of time, at any age.”
“I suppose that you could introduce a measure of progress with the inclusion of some small prize to be awarded to the winner,” said Swanborough. “A keepsake commemorating the good fortune that you squandered on moving your plastic tiddlywink up the ladders, while avoiding any snake territory.”
At the head of the table, John Wallrock, temporarily ceased in his efforts to dismantle a sturdy looking pie, and weighed-in on the discussion:
“Well, I think that you are all missing the point of the game, which is to educate children on the role that luck plays in the success or failure of any given endeavour. For example, Hyde: Your recent well-publicised woes could be framed, if one were to describe them in terms that could be understood by a child, as you sliding down the loose coils of a considerably large snake.”
“Well, we'll see about that, won't we,” said Hyde, puffing himself up. “Yacomen says that I have a strong case going in. I should think so too, the money I'm paying him.”
“What about you, Guest?” advanced Wallrock. “You've kept your head down through all this. Is that how you made your millions - backroom gambling on games of Snakes and Ladders?”
“Well, as you all know by now, we grew up poor,” I said, my well-worn admission greeted by a mounting chorus of customary groans.
“We made our own entertainment,” I continued, to yet more groans.
“If I may be allowed to continue, from the age about nine years old, to when I was almost twelve, my family lived in a very rundown house, in the middle of a short terrace, that overlooked a giant car park, which sloped towards the houses.”
“I think I can see the way this might be going,” said Hyde.
“Well, the top of the hill, on the opposite side was where the lorries used to park overnight. Most of the trucks would creep forward about an inch, even with the wheel brakes on. What me and my sisters used to do was race the lorries. We would each choose a candidate and then mark the tarmac around the front tires with coloured chalk. In the morning we would rise early, before the lorries departed, and run across the car park to see which had travelled the furthest during the night.”
“Well,” said Hyde. “If you don't mind me saying so, this all sounds about as pointless as the game of Snakes and Ladders that I participated in earlier, as part of my responsibilities as a grandfather.”
“I haven't told you how it ended,” I said. “One night, the brakes failed on one of the lorries. It came careening downhill and smashed through the front room of the house, two doors down from our own. The impact was so great that the entire terrace was deemed to be structurally unsound and condemned.
“I came-in a credible second,” said Hyde. “And I beg to disagree. Who here can honestly say that they can recall a single occasion in their childhood when they either won or lost a game of Snakes and Ladders. None of you can because the game is not meaningful. It is the illusion of progression, writ large across a grid of gaily-coloured squares that have become infested with snakes, and strewn with carelessly-positioned ladders. Nobody has ever meaningfully improved their lives by playing. Honestly, it is a complete waste of time, at any age.”
“I suppose that you could introduce a measure of progress with the inclusion of some small prize to be awarded to the winner,” said Swanborough. “A keepsake commemorating the good fortune that you squandered on moving your plastic tiddlywink up the ladders, while avoiding any snake territory.”
At the head of the table, John Wallrock, temporarily ceased in his efforts to dismantle a sturdy looking pie, and weighed-in on the discussion:
“Well, I think that you are all missing the point of the game, which is to educate children on the role that luck plays in the success or failure of any given endeavour. For example, Hyde: Your recent well-publicised woes could be framed, if one were to describe them in terms that could be understood by a child, as you sliding down the loose coils of a considerably large snake.”
“Well, we'll see about that, won't we,” said Hyde, puffing himself up. “Yacomen says that I have a strong case going in. I should think so too, the money I'm paying him.”
“What about you, Guest?” advanced Wallrock. “You've kept your head down through all this. Is that how you made your millions - backroom gambling on games of Snakes and Ladders?”
“Well, as you all know by now, we grew up poor,” I said, my well-worn admission greeted by a mounting chorus of customary groans.
“We made our own entertainment,” I continued, to yet more groans.
“If I may be allowed to continue, from the age about nine years old, to when I was almost twelve, my family lived in a very rundown house, in the middle of a short terrace, that overlooked a giant car park, which sloped towards the houses.”
“I think I can see the way this might be going,” said Hyde.
“Well, the top of the hill, on the opposite side was where the lorries used to park overnight. Most of the trucks would creep forward about an inch, even with the wheel brakes on. What me and my sisters used to do was race the lorries. We would each choose a candidate and then mark the tarmac around the front tires with coloured chalk. In the morning we would rise early, before the lorries departed, and run across the car park to see which had travelled the furthest during the night.”
“Well,” said Hyde. “If you don't mind me saying so, this all sounds about as pointless as the game of Snakes and Ladders that I participated in earlier, as part of my responsibilities as a grandfather.”
“I haven't told you how it ended,” I said. “One night, the brakes failed on one of the lorries. It came careening downhill and smashed through the front room of the house, two doors down from our own. The impact was so great that the entire terrace was deemed to be structurally unsound and condemned.
"While my late mother was searching for a new place for us all to live, she met Clarence Newstead, who she later married. I was yanked out of poverty and deposited in a bedroom that was larger than the ground floor of my old house. Meanwhile, the car park was re-levelled. The terrace was knocked down and replaced by a row of new houses.”
“There you go, Michael: Progress,” said Swanborough.
“Either that or blind jammy luck, more like,” said Wallrock, as he returned his attentions to his pie.
I hope this is of help.
“There you go, Michael: Progress,” said Swanborough.
“Either that or blind jammy luck, more like,” said Wallrock, as he returned his attentions to his pie.
I hope this is of help.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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