Earlier this week the local Nottingham Police and Crime Commissioner and ex-MP Paddy Tipping was
speaking of the problems in the translation service available to both the local
and national legal systems. Whatever the points he was making Mr Tipping clearly felt there was a problem
and told reporters "I think you need to tell it how it is and this is, let me say it
on camera, a crap scheme. It needs to be taken away, torn up and started
again." Now, Mr Tipping may
well have a point to criticise the service – I’m pretty sure that like many of
our services – both public and private – the translation service leaves much to
be desired. But his phrase “.....you need
to tell it how it is.....” and
subsequent his use of an increasingly commonly used, but non-the less potentially offensive, word
is in modern Britain increasingly the norm.
“You need to tell it
how it is” – well, maybe! Clearly there are situations when absolute, no nonsense clarity about a
situation is totally appropriate and exactly correct, but I might argue, there are probably equally
as many occasions when a little consideration might be in order and when the choosing of
one’s words are critical. If I go to the doctor and the results of tests he has
done suggest that I have a terminal illness it might be quite correct that he “tells me how it is” but I’m pretty sure that if and when this event
occurs I would like him to consider his words carefully before uttering them.
And I might add that a good doctor would, I believe, try to choose the right
words for a particular patient. Some might be able to take it on the chin “Oh, the tests show that it’s terminal –
you’ve got 2 months at the most...any questions?” whilst others might want something a bit
more oblique and gentle, where they can arrive at that conclusion through sympathetic
thought and discussion.
I’m also concerned about Mr Tipping’s claim at another level.
My experience is that when people use this phrase (and they more often than not
accompany it by an aggressive or abusive word or words) their “telling it as it is” is more often than
not a selective and simplistic view rather than a balanced argument which recognises all the
factors. Clearly in Mr Tipping’s case – he may well have a point that the legal
translation service needs improvement, but he fails to take into account some
of the many problems and issues involved that have got us to this stage – to him
it is just “crap”. In writing this I think of the thousands of parents I
have spoken to when working in school – at parents’ evenings and the like. I
might “tell it how it is” and say “Johnny is lazy and could work a great deal
harder” or “Mary is useless at spelling” These
may both be absolutely correct and “telling
it as it is”. But experience tells me that in doing this I leave myself
wide open to two things – an aggressive response back which equally tells me "how it is”. From Johnny’s
parents there might be the quite legitimate argument “Well, you're paid to make him work - so make him” and Mary’s mother might quite rightly "tell me how it is" by saying “But it is your job to make Mary good at spelling – you are supposed to be a teacher”.
“Telling it as it is”,
is a double edged sword!
And finally, that word “crap”
– it has like so many words that were previously thought unseemly become
part of the mainstream. It might be acceptable in the pub or in certain
company but I’m not too sure it is appropriate
as part of what should be a meaningful discussion or commentary upon an
important issue – and, I believe, certainly inappropriate for a man in Mr
Tipping’s position. It legitimises the use of potentially unacceptable language.
If it is alright for Paddy Tipping as the local Police and Crime Commissioner then
why not for the pupil in his confrontation with the teacher, or the witness as
he stands before the judge or the child as he speaks to his parent? Or, does being a senior person - the Crime Commissioner, Headteacher, Editor, Managing Director, MP or Prime Minister et al - give some kind of right, legitimacy and prerogative to use boorish, thuggish, foul and abusive language? I think not.
As I read Tipping’s outburst I reflected upon how many times
I had said to young children over my years in school to think before they
spoke. “Sticks and stones might break my
bones but words will never hurt me” is
manifestly untrue – words do hurt and need to be chosen carefully. Once a word
is spoken it cannot be unspoken – it has already done its damage. I often
reflect – and increasingly so as I get older, that writing something down
rather than speaking it has many implications but might often be a better option.
Yes, when you write something down it is there for everyone to see, you cannot
claim to have been misunderstood. But at the same time I usually find that this
also makes one think a little before writing it down. In the heat of a
discussion I might say something I regret, but I can always deny I said it or
try to explain it more fully when taken to task. If I write it down then I am
committed – it is in black and white – that is why legal documents and
contracts are written down and we sign
them as a true record of our feelings and understandings at that point in time. The result is, or should be, that we
think very carefully before committing ourselves to paper – or indeed, in the
case of Mr Tipping before sounding off on TV or in print.
In thinking this, however, I am reminded that in this age of
24 hour news, tweeting, facebook, text messages – and, yes, blogging – things
have become much more difficult. In days past when one had to think before
putting pen to paper it was a long and inevitably thoughtful process – it encouraged
due consideration about what was being written. A wrong word or a spelling error might mean the whole thing has to be laboriously re-written - one had to think before writing! Today this is not so – with computers
and mobile phones it is so much more instant. Words can be whizzed off with a minimum
of effort, spell checkers correct what you write and with one press of a button
the message has gone and is immediately out of your control. Where previously
that letter you wrote may have sat on the side for a few hours before you posted it
- and in that time you had the opportunity to reflect upon what you had
written - today your words are gone in an instant and you cannot take back what you have said. And in this modern world, it is very easy to come out with a quick one
liner to express your feelings and later live to regret what you have said. All
too often the media and social networking sites are based upon the quick
comment, the sound bite, the “telling it
as it is”. With something like twitter you have to squeeze what you want to
say into 140 characters – not a lot of space there for nuance, explanation or
qualification. If you doubt the veracity of these points visit the "posts" on any of the major newspapers and read the comments posted there - blunt, frequently abusive, little or no context, qualification or explanation and little thought as to the feelings of other readers or contributors - all "telling it how it is". In addition, the frequent lack of proper punctuation in e-mails
and text messages and the like and the use of “text speak” guarantees that what
emerges at the end is potentially misleading, easily misunderstood and presents
a very hard edge. In short, you have to cut things down to the bare minimum -”tell
it as it is” and just maybe that is a small part of the explanation
of things like cyber bullying. What is said over the internet and in text
messages is potentially harmful and brutal in its brevity and pointedness – sometimes unintentional, but always with
the capacity to be hurtful for there is
no opportunity (or maybe even desire) to go into detail, present a balanced
argument or write with any sort of empathy and engagement with the reader. It
is communication at the lowest level.
I would add one final point. I long since came to the conclusion that those who use the phrase “tell it as it is”, and thus try to justify their actions, must be treated with care. They rarely tell it as it is – instead they tell their version of how it is; they are nearly always potential bullies; they hate other people telling them “how it is”; and finally, their tongues or their texting finger usually work rather faster than their brain cells. Had they thought first then they might well have said something else.
I would add one final point. I long since came to the conclusion that those who use the phrase “tell it as it is”, and thus try to justify their actions, must be treated with care. They rarely tell it as it is – instead they tell their version of how it is; they are nearly always potential bullies; they hate other people telling them “how it is”; and finally, their tongues or their texting finger usually work rather faster than their brain cells. Had they thought first then they might well have said something else.
In writing all this I am reminded of two things from my
past. Of all the assembly stories that I told over more than thirty years of leading a school assembly each
day one stands head and shoulders above the rest in that it always elicited a
response and further discussion – especially from the older children. It is
from the Arabian Nights but occurs in
many other forms of Islamic culture and literature. It seriously questions this
notion of “telling it as it is”. It
is a story of tact and graciousness and seeing the bigger picture and in the loud crass world of Paddy Tipping it is something that serves as useful reminder to the strident
voices of the societies in which we live.
The tale tells of a tribe of poor wandering desert people
who are thirsty – the water holes and oases have dried out. Despite travelling
many hundreds of miles water cannot be found. The chief of the tribe instructs
several of the young men to go out on their horses and camels to seek water on
behalf of the tribe. One of these men travels for several days – without
success and at last, exhausted, he takes rest at night in a cave. It is dark and he
falls fast asleep. When he awakes at dawn, the cave still gloomy and dark he realises that his hand is wet – it
is lying in water. He quickly scoops some of the water into his hand and
greedily drinks. Refreshed, he fills his various water bottles up, lets his
horse drink and hurriedly sets off back to his tribe.
As he gallops across the desert he comes upon the king – the mighty, feared, great and wise Caliph Harun al-Rashid - out hunting with his courtiers. The Caliph commands him to approach and asks where he is going in such a great hurry. The terrified man
gasps out his story and tells the Caliph he has found the most wonderfully
refreshing water, the water of
paradise, the sweetest, most wonderful drink imaginable and that he is hurrying back to his people with the news so that they too might drink the "water of paradise". “Would your majesty like to
drink some?” he asks. To the horror of the courtiers the Caliph smiles and readily agrees and takes the man’s grubby water bottle to his lips. The water
is foul smelling and brackish – scooped up from the earth of the cave. The
Caliph drinks, and then bows and smiles kindly “You
have indeed found the water of paradise, my friend” he says “it is the most wonderful taste I have ever
tasted. Thank you for sharing it with me, your King. I am honoured
indeed.” The Caliph then takes out of his saddle bag a pouch filled
with a thousand gold dinars and passes it to the man. “Take this”, he says “and
return to your people. Use the money to build a well near where you have found
the water of paradise and your tribe and their children and their grandchildren
must then guard the water for all eternity so that this wonderful water is always there for weary
travellers and for yourselves – and, when I wish to drink of it again, I will come
to you”. The man is overcome. He falls to the ground and worships the
Caliph and promises he will do as instructed. The money is such a vast amount
that it will indeed keep his tribe in food and water for years to come. He
climbs back on his horse, bows again to the Caliph and disappears into the
desert. And, the story tells, his family and their descendants are still,
today, guarding the cave and that “water
of paradise” is always available for weary and thirsty travellers.
 |
| The great and wise Harun-al-Rashid |
Clearly the Caliph had a different take from Paddy Tipping on “telling it as it is”.
And the other thing from my past – a little nearer to home.
For many years, until he died, I used to do the garden and keep the hedges tidy
for an old man who lived down the road from me. Frank Wilson was one of the
world’s nice guys – a true gentleman in every respect. He had an ailing wife
and, sadly, his only son was mentally handicapped and in a home. Although Frank
had had a very successful working life I’m quite sure his home circumstances could
have been more joyful. He never, however, complained. For much of his life he
increasingly suffered from increasingly painful and debilitating arthritis and
for the last 20 years or so was confined to a wheelchair, hunched up and often unable to even open his hands. When his wife
died he was dependent for many years upon carers who came each day to get him
dressed, bath him and put him to bed and so on. Even the simplest jobs such as
holding a knife and fork were painful for Frank – but he always had a smile and
never, ever, complained. On a sunny day he would often sit at the end of his
garden path and talk to anyone who walked past his gate – and there was nothing
he liked better than the odd risqué joke – especially if he thought he could
get away with telling it to one of the many ladies (including my wife) who
would pop in and ask if he needed any shopping. Pat would often come back
chuckling saying “Have you heard the
latest one from Frank?”. In his latter years, each morning when I got up I
would stand in my bathroom and look out of the toilet window – from there I
could see into Frank’s kitchen and know that he was up. If the blind was still drawn then I knew
there was a problem – he was ill or the carer was late and the poor guy was
“trapped” in bed, unable to move. But most mornings Frank was up and as I peered
out of the window he would wave and I knew that all was well.
Each Sunday morning I would go around to Frank’s with my
lawn mower and other bits and pieces and
keep his garden in some kind of order. I am not a gardener – I have little
interest in it and know nothing of plants but will mow the grass and keep
things tidy. Before becoming incapacitated Frank had been a keen gardener – his
roses, his hedges and lawn the envy of all who lived on the road. Each Sunday
as I pushed the mower up and down his back lawn or hacked at some wayward part
of the hedge he would sit in his kitchen and watch me – smiling and waving if I
looked his way. Occasionally he would ask me to prune a particular bush or
shrub. If the weather was pleasant he would emerge in his wheel chair and sit
at the edge of the lawn chatting each time I passed with the mower and all the
time I suspected that he was thinking how sad he was to see his beautiful
garden reduced to my hacking and unskilled labour. Where once there was a lawn
like a bowling green now it was covered on moss and chopped at rather than
lovingly cared for. It must have been so disappointing for him – but, even
though I say it myself, it was at least tidy and not unpleasant – as long as
you didn’t look with an expert’s eye or too closely!
 |
| Nottingham Arboretum |
I did Frank’s garden for many years – until he passed away.
He often wanted to pay me for doing it but I didn’t do it for payment - I got
my reward in another way, and much more important. As I came to the end of the
task and began putting the tools away (by this time it would be about 11.30
a.m.) Frank would wave through the window and point to a sherry bottle sitting on his kitchen working surface. I would
smile and wave back. By the time I returned, sweaty and grubby, to his kitchen
there would be, standing on the working surface, two glasses of sherry
which we would enjoy as we put the world to right – talked about the latest
football score, moaned about the government, talked about the week’s events or
Frank told one of his risqué jokes. We would talk for about half an hour and
then I would gather up my belongings to leave – I knew that my Sunday lunch would
be on its way and that Frank’s carer would soon be bringing him his Sunday
dinner. His plate was already warming on the oven and his specially designed
knife and fork ready and waiting. And then came my reward. Each and every week
– without fail – as I said good bye, Frank would look out into his garden and
say “That’s a grand job, Tony – it looks
just like the Arboretum”. The Arboretum is a park in the middle of
Nottingham - beautifully laid out, a place of shady walks, bandstands,
fountains, manicured lawns and immaculate flower beds where once Victorian ladies and
gentlemen wondered and dallied and is still today a very pleasant place to pass
a summer afternoon. Of course Frank’s garden didn’t look like the Arboretum and
we knew it didn’t – I knew and he knew. I had just hacked at his garden – it
was far removed from the beauties of that lovely parkland and I’m sure that
deep down he thought, nostalgically, to when it did look like the Arboretum
when he tended it as a younger man. But boy – did it make me feel good. It was
better than any payment and made me want to come back next week.
No, Frank didn’t tell it as it was, although I’m sure he
must have often thought it. I suppose the lovely Mr Tipping and many others
today would have told me “how it
was”.......... that my efforts were just unskilled hacking
and that it was (to use Mr Tipping’s sort of language) “crap gardening”. And, I know they would be right – but that
doesn’t seem to be the point. I suppose that Frank knew what the Caliph knew –
that “if I, too, wish to be noble
then I must treat him with the nobility that his kindness demands.” And in doing so Frank made me feel a million
dollars each week and, much as I hated gardening, more than willing to return
week after week for more of the same.
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