Brits routinely sneer at the American gun laws, cheered on by America's chattering classes through such liberal, "thinking" media as the New Yorker. The exact meaning of the Second Amendment to the US Constitution, regarding the right to bear arms, is examined minutely by those for and against banning guns, to grab what comfort they can to support their cause.
But I believe the British sense of superiority is seriously misplaced. It has been commonly observed that anyone who wants can get hold of a gun in Britain, although illegally, and everyone admits that it is difficult to control knives, though again the law is in place to enable the police to stop anyone and confiscate knives. Indeed, there is no legal excuse for carrying a knife, other than to transport it from a shop to your kitchen or toolbox.
But I think the nature of the weapon is a smokescreen. Far more relevant, and a factor in which Britain is in a far worse position than the US, is alcohol abuse.
Nearly all killings in Britain are fuelled by alcohol, whether by murder, manslaughter or accident. Cars are far more widespread as lethal weapons than guns or knives: all you have to show is evidence that you know how to handle them.
And one of the big differences between Britain and the US is that in America alcohol is far better controlled, not by the police but by drinkers themselves. Sure, Americans get drunk. But it is far more isolated, and tends to involve individuals rather than large groups.
Contrast that with the centre of any small to medium-sized town in Britain on a Friday or Saturday night. Whether it is Chippenham in Wiltshire, Oxford in Oxfordshire or Canterbury in Kent, drunkenness is rife. It can be peaceful, people falling asleep on benches or holding their heads. But too often it turns into anything from a rumble to a riot. Injury is common - alcohol is by far the biggest single cause of admission to hospital emergency departments. And death is a regular consequence.
The latest example was last Saturday night's riots on the London underground, to 'celebrate' the last day on which travellers were permitted to consume alcohol. Through Facebook, several parties were organised, mainly on the circle line. No one was killed, but that was more through luck than judgment. Several people were injured and the whole evening got ludicrously out of hand in a way that would be hard to imagine in New York, San Francisco, Los Angeles or any other US city that has an underground train system. Whole stations, such as Liverpool Street, were beseiged by drunken mobs in what was simply an excuse for mass anarchy. For the full flavour, see http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1023417/Pictured-Chaotic-scenes-alcohol-fuelled-Facebook-party-mark-end-drinking-tube-ends-violence.html. See also http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1023923/Country-faces-crisis-drink-violence-MPs-told.html.
I am indebted to Steve Lamb, the Sage of Altadena, for pointing out that in America too most gun- and car-related deaths involve alcohol, and alcohol underlies most visits to US emergency rooms. The difference is Britain's tendency to go in for drunken mob violence, often at a low level of vandalism and fist fights but sufficient to drive non-drinkers off the streets of otherwise blameless towns, as well as causing damage and injury. Pedestrian precincts offer a convenient arena for these exhibitions, and Lamb reports that American planners are nevertheless leaning towards pedestrianising central areas.
Just as many Americans are in denial about guns, or say the risks are worth it, and are supported by an influential manufacturers' lobby, so the giant alcohol makers resist any attempts to curb consumption of their products in Britain. Indeed, during the past 30 years alcohol has become far cheaper there, partly in a misguided attempt to bring UK duty into line with the rest of Europe (where, as in America, drinking is handled far better), and bar opening hours have been widened so booze is available round the clock. And the British attitude to alcohol, and behaviour while under the influence, is totally different - see http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1024051/The-worlds-worst-Britons-tourists-hoteliers-nightmares.html.
Neither US guns nor UK alcohol can be curbed, let alone banned, overnight. They are complex long-term problems. But both should be seen in the same light - as outdated phenomena that blight their respective countries - and tackled with the same determination, no matter what big business says.
Drink-driving reduction campaigns have saved measurable hundreds of lives as the message has gradually sunk in that drivers' control of vehicles is significantly impaired by even minimal alcohol consumption. US law must be tightened state by state to ensure that only responsible people with good cause are allowed to possess guns, backed by gradual confiscation of existing ownership. And British alcohol consumption, especially by the under-40s, must be radically curbed.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Funerals LA style by Bill Kay
Rose Hills is vast. To call it a mere cemetery is to belittle it. Laid out on rolling hills near Whittier, just east of the 605 freeway, it makes Forest Lawn look mean by comparison. And this was where I yesterday witnessed my first American funeral.
They may do things differently in other parts of the country, I wouldn't know, but there was a peculiarly LA feel to the place and the event. I was attending the funeral of Edgar Bullington Snr, father of Edgar, a good friend from the Monday night gatherings at Conrad's diner. I had never met his father: Lynne, Ian, Jim and me amounted to a delegation from Conrad's to lend support to Edgar at this difficult time. His father had suffered a massive heart attack at 83 and lingered for an agonising few days that look brief in retrospect but must have felt like forever while they were unfolding.
The first indication of the size of Rose Hills is the line of cars asking the information post where their funeral is being held. Most received a large sketch map marked appropriately in yellow marker pen. Even then, we went round in circles and had to ask another cemetery official exactly where to go.
From a high point on the hill, activity is everywhere. Like Forest Lawn (but not the Hollywood Forever cemetery behind Paramount Studios), there are no gravestones, or even mausoleums that we could see. Instead, graves are marked with flowers, ribbons, balloons, personal keepsakes, dotting the rolling green fields. Like most large cemeteries these days,Rose Hills allows only ground-level stones so that the vast area can be mowed more easily. But the sod where we were was so spongy and uneven (one nearby marker was a couple of inches higher than one right next to it) that cutting the grass could be a problem. Still, somehow it was kept remarkably trim.
A few chapels dominate the landscape, presumably for the grander funerals. For most, a bare purple awning near the graves protects two rows of folding chairs from the midday sun.
After losing the way, we arrived nearby at about ten minutes before the scheduled 1 pm start time. No one was there. Eventually people emerged from cars and made their way up the steep, grassy slope to the graveside. A young US Navy petty officer in white uniform was a sign of things to come.
By about ten past one around a dozen people were sitting and standing chatting, making the usual stilted conversation that loosely connected strangers attempt on these occasions. Black was very much an optional colour. Some men wore suits and ties, others didn't. Some women were formally dressed, others much less so. A baby cried. Several of the more elderly mourners breathed heavily from the ascent.
Last to appear were the white hearse and six white-gloved pallbearers, led by Edgar. I felt for them, and fervently prayed for their sakes that there would not be an Evelyn Waugh moment as they slowly carried the coffin, draped in the Stars and Stripes, up the grassy slope. Thankfully, they laid their burden to rest without mishap and the service began.
The military honors came first, led by a naval officer with the petty officer as bugler. The officer read an imposing but impersonal account of Old Glory, the flag, which he invited us to imagine was being spoken by the flag. After Taps, Old Glory was folded into a triangle and presented ceremonially to Edgar. The US government provides this free of charge to veterans as a way of showing the nation's gratitude. For more details, see http://www.militaryfuneralhonors.osd.mil/.
The pastor then took over, reading a description of the deceased provided by his son and calling for impromptu oral contributions from the mourners. While this part was inevitably disorganised and disjointed, it had the virtue of heartfelt honesty and allowed those who wanted to a last formal opportunity to express their emotions. Like the service as a whole, it was untidy and lacked shape but fitted the occasion.
Times have changed. Pastors, priests, vicars, no longer tell their congregations what to do but act instead as enablers or conduits. The first consequence of that is that those congregations (or, in this case, mourners) no longer feel obliged to dress or behave in a rigid style, and services no longer follow a predetermined shape beyond the bare minimum. Whether this leads, in funerals, to less respect for the dead is a matter of personal judgement. I don't think it does. Families and friends still mourn their loss, and modern funerals still let them do so in a dignified and satisfying way. All societies mark the passing of their members in their own way, and none more so than at Rose Hills.
The need to give vent to pent-up and suppressed emotion is universal, whether it be called a wake, a funeral breakfast, a repast or, as yesterday, just plain lunch. We drove to Edgar Snr's favourite restaurant, Chris & Pitt's Bar B Q in Whittier, and let the food, drink and talk flow for about three hours. Result: catharsis, a cleansing of the emotions and a platform for Edgar Jr and family to move on.
They may do things differently in other parts of the country, I wouldn't know, but there was a peculiarly LA feel to the place and the event. I was attending the funeral of Edgar Bullington Snr, father of Edgar, a good friend from the Monday night gatherings at Conrad's diner. I had never met his father: Lynne, Ian, Jim and me amounted to a delegation from Conrad's to lend support to Edgar at this difficult time. His father had suffered a massive heart attack at 83 and lingered for an agonising few days that look brief in retrospect but must have felt like forever while they were unfolding.
The first indication of the size of Rose Hills is the line of cars asking the information post where their funeral is being held. Most received a large sketch map marked appropriately in yellow marker pen. Even then, we went round in circles and had to ask another cemetery official exactly where to go.
From a high point on the hill, activity is everywhere. Like Forest Lawn (but not the Hollywood Forever cemetery behind Paramount Studios), there are no gravestones, or even mausoleums that we could see. Instead, graves are marked with flowers, ribbons, balloons, personal keepsakes, dotting the rolling green fields. Like most large cemeteries these days,Rose Hills allows only ground-level stones so that the vast area can be mowed more easily. But the sod where we were was so spongy and uneven (one nearby marker was a couple of inches higher than one right next to it) that cutting the grass could be a problem. Still, somehow it was kept remarkably trim.
A few chapels dominate the landscape, presumably for the grander funerals. For most, a bare purple awning near the graves protects two rows of folding chairs from the midday sun.
After losing the way, we arrived nearby at about ten minutes before the scheduled 1 pm start time. No one was there. Eventually people emerged from cars and made their way up the steep, grassy slope to the graveside. A young US Navy petty officer in white uniform was a sign of things to come.
By about ten past one around a dozen people were sitting and standing chatting, making the usual stilted conversation that loosely connected strangers attempt on these occasions. Black was very much an optional colour. Some men wore suits and ties, others didn't. Some women were formally dressed, others much less so. A baby cried. Several of the more elderly mourners breathed heavily from the ascent.
Last to appear were the white hearse and six white-gloved pallbearers, led by Edgar. I felt for them, and fervently prayed for their sakes that there would not be an Evelyn Waugh moment as they slowly carried the coffin, draped in the Stars and Stripes, up the grassy slope. Thankfully, they laid their burden to rest without mishap and the service began.
The military honors came first, led by a naval officer with the petty officer as bugler. The officer read an imposing but impersonal account of Old Glory, the flag, which he invited us to imagine was being spoken by the flag. After Taps, Old Glory was folded into a triangle and presented ceremonially to Edgar. The US government provides this free of charge to veterans as a way of showing the nation's gratitude. For more details, see http://www.militaryfuneralhonors.osd.mil/.
The pastor then took over, reading a description of the deceased provided by his son and calling for impromptu oral contributions from the mourners. While this part was inevitably disorganised and disjointed, it had the virtue of heartfelt honesty and allowed those who wanted to a last formal opportunity to express their emotions. Like the service as a whole, it was untidy and lacked shape but fitted the occasion.
Times have changed. Pastors, priests, vicars, no longer tell their congregations what to do but act instead as enablers or conduits. The first consequence of that is that those congregations (or, in this case, mourners) no longer feel obliged to dress or behave in a rigid style, and services no longer follow a predetermined shape beyond the bare minimum. Whether this leads, in funerals, to less respect for the dead is a matter of personal judgement. I don't think it does. Families and friends still mourn their loss, and modern funerals still let them do so in a dignified and satisfying way. All societies mark the passing of their members in their own way, and none more so than at Rose Hills.
The need to give vent to pent-up and suppressed emotion is universal, whether it be called a wake, a funeral breakfast, a repast or, as yesterday, just plain lunch. We drove to Edgar Snr's favourite restaurant, Chris & Pitt's Bar B Q in Whittier, and let the food, drink and talk flow for about three hours. Result: catharsis, a cleansing of the emotions and a platform for Edgar Jr and family to move on.
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