The risk of catastrophic and irreversible disaster is rising, implying potentially infinite costs of unmitigated climate change, including, in the extreme, human extinction.
In the run-up to the 2016 Brexit referendum, politician Michael Gove attempted to dismiss the negative economic forecasts. “People in this country have had enough of experts”, he famously said. These days, everybody considers themselves to be an expert. Whether it’s Brexit, Climate Change, or championship whist, the internet has allowed the democratisation of truth. Each of us is now entitled to our own version of the facts.
In my wayward youth when I was still smoking cigarettes, it was the evidence of Doctors rather than tobacco giants that convinced me to quit.
When CFCs were suspected of causing the hole in the ozone layer, I believed the scientists rather than the deodorant manufacturers.
I’m not an expert. I’m neither a scientist nor an academic. All I can do is put my trust in those that I find the most credible. Consequently, I’m going with the overwhelming majority of scientists who believe that immediate action on climate change is needed to avert serious consequences. This is in spite of what some bloke on Twitter says.
I broadly support the aims and methods of Extinction Rebellion. I support ‘using non-violent direct action to persuade governments to act justly on the Climate and Ecological Emergency’. And however unpopular they are in some quarters, I believe it’s having an impact.
And yes, they’ve caused a lot of inconvenience for many people. But in the future, if your grandchildren ask you why you’ve handed them such a mess, I don’t want you to have to tell them it was too inconvenient to do otherwise.
N.B. There’s a lot of photos here, but I spent two days with them and shot three rolls of film. Extinction Rebellion, Trafalgar Square, London / Nikon F90X & Nikon F100 / Kodak Tmax 400 / Developed in D76 +1
Spending the afternoon at the Beach in West Wittering, it seemed fitting to take that archetypal holiday camera, the Olympus Trip 35. Millions were sold during its lengthy production run from 1967-1984, during which time there were hardly any changes made to the original genius design. No batteries required; a solar-powered selenium light meter measures the light, and even though selenium photocells don’t go on forever, mine still meters perfectly. If you’re of a certain age, you’ll remember those classic commercials in the 70s with fashion photographer David Bailey.
Camera: Olympus Trip 35
Film: Fomapan 100
Coco The Cocker loves the sea
She may be 15, but Daisy still gets excited about going for a walk. The square format and the belly level perspective probably give away that this was taken with a twin lens reflex camera, in this case a Yashica Mat.
If you’re shooting a meter-less camera and using sunny 16 to calculate exposure, then these sunny cloudless days are the easiest. You can set and forget. I’ve it said that in the UK full sun is never that bright and we should actually use sunny 11, but 16 always works out perfectly for me. Perhaps it’s different if you’re further north.
Camera: Yashica Mat 124G
Film: Ilford FP4
When I step outside my home first thing on a sunny morning, this is one of the first things I see
Camera: Pentax KM
Film: Kodak Tmax 100
And this is the view coming back after my morning coffee
This is not a great photo of The Copper House, mainly because it gives no sense of scale or location. Next time I’ll do better. It’s a statue of George III mounted on a plinth in 1831, atop of Snow Hill in Windsor Great Park. When I’m cycling round the park, this is my favourite pace to stop and have my sandwiches. On a clear day you can see the control tower at Heathrow and the arches of Wembley Arena.
My current home of Chertsey is one of the oldest market towns in England. Of particular historical note is Chertsey Abbey. Founded in the ungodly year of 666, it was sacked by the Vikings in 875, who burnt it down and killed all the monks. Bastards. It was later rebuilt in stone, although all that remains is a pile of several dozen bricks, and I’m not totally convinced of their provenance. Its former presence is evidenced more strongly in many local names however, for example Abbey River, Abbey Fields, and Monk’s Walk.
Monk’s walk is an enclosed footpath that apparently once started from the Abbey, but now begins several hundred yards further along in Ferry Lane. It runs for about a mile and a half and you emerge quite suddenly next to St Mary’s Church in Thorpe. The exact date when the Church was built is unknown, although in 1963 a Roman cinerary urn was dug up in the churchyard and subsequently dated to around 150 A.D., indicating that the site itself has been of religious significance for going on 1900 years. It seems likely that the church itself was built in the 12th century, and perhaps Monk’s Walk was indeed a secret route between the Church and the Abbey.
When I cycle along there now the first thing you notice, at least in the summer, are the screams. It runs along the back of what is now Thorpe Park, and through the wire fence you get occasional views of some of the rides. Despite the presence of CCTV and razor wire-topped fences, I think there’s still a few opportunities to sneak into the park, if you’re so inclined.
For fast 35mm film I tend to flit between Tri-X and Tmax 400. Tri-X is a classic, but Tmax has very fine grain for a 400 speed film. I’ve seen ISO 100 films that are far grainier than this.
Camera: Nikon F90X
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
We went to pick our own at Durleigh Marsh Farm. I specifically voted to remain in the EU so we could continue to exploit East Europeans and I wouldn’t end up having to pick my own damn vegetables </sarcasm>
These photos were taken on a pro-European march a few weeks back. I should probably write a bit more about it, but since legislation was introduced in the late 1990s to make civil discussion about politics on the internet illegal, I’ve found it’s best just to keep quiet.
London, Sep 09 2017
Nikon F90X / Kodak Tmax 400 / Developed in D76 1+1
Those of us who work in the London office and who spent May in the US supporting the Southwest project were rewarded with a party. We gathered on the side of the river and were whisked away on a cruise along the Thames. Sadly I very quickly lost the light and was only able to fire off half a roll before having to go digital with the X100T. Which is probably a good thing, as thanks to the free bar things got seriously out of focus soon after.
Atlanta, Georgia. Not my final destination, but US regulations dictate that I clear customs and immigration at the first point of entry. I’m nervous. I’m midway along a twisting line that’s snaking its way towards the cubicle one hundred feet ahead. Inside, a granite-faced immigration officer. My hands are clenched into solid fists and I feel the beads of sweat popping out on my forehead. In front of me, a young Hispanic woman with nervous eyes clutches a mewling baby. Behind me, an elderly couple argue in Polish, the man hissing at his wife through clenched teeth. You could slice the atmosphere with a taser.
I’m told that US immigration can be tough. Grueling. That they ask you questions. Ideological questions. One wrong answer and you’re on the next flight home. Or worse. I use my balled hands to knuckle the perspiration from my eyes. My Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down like a monkey on a stick.
I’m near the front of the queue now, and get a better view of the officer. He’s younger than I initially thought. Severe brush cut. Impassive expression. Aviator mirrored sunglasses. One of those black-eyed aliens from The X-Files springs to mind. The only movement in his face is the slight chewing motion of his jaw; gum, presumably. Other than that he’s as still as death.
And then it’s me. I hand over my passport. He swipes it. Thumbs through it. I see him pause on the visa for Kazakhstan and the Egyptian entry stamp. Then the photo. He scrutinises it, looks up at me. Reflected in the sunglasses, a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair and a face that looks like it’s been dipped in flour stares back at me with insane eyes.
“What exactly is the purpose of your visit, Sir?”
I’m stammering. I could be fifteen again, struggling to explain exactly why it is that I want to take his fourteen year old daughter to the school dance. I’m dimly aware of someone babbling something about work, business trip, aviation industry, reservation systems.
He watches impassively as I ramble on, then removes his sunglasses and glares at me. “Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?” His eyes narrow to dark slots.
“Donald Trump? That orange dude from The Apprentice? Well, I’ve gotta be honest – the UK version of the show is far superior.”
He freezes. There’s silence. The air seems to have been sucked out of the room. Blood gushes and pounds in my ears. Very slowly, he raises himself up to his full height. I hear a ptui sound of tongue between teeth, followed by a plop, and a quarter-sized blob of brown chewing tobacco appears on the cap of my shoe.
“Boy,” he says, towering over me, “We don’t like your sort here.” He signals towards a couple of security guards in the corner, who start to stride over. “And what we’re gonna do is haul your sorry ass downtown and throw you in an empty cell. Empty, that is, ‘cept for a single bunk and a big, lonely guy called Bubba. And when you’re squealing, squealing like a pig on on its honeymoon, we’re gonna ask you again what you think of our President.
The security guys are upon me now, each grabbing an arm and forcing me to my knees.
“Hey, c’mon guys,” I plead, but they drag me along the floor, nearly yanking my arms out of the sockets. I’m panicking, my eyes imploring the people in the queue for help. They avert their gaze or look at their feet. I start to shout. “Please, someone help me,” I scream. “Please!” Tears are flowing down my cheeks. “Help! Please! Someone rush to Starbucks and bring me one of those Coastal Elite Lattes to catch my liberal snowflake tears. “HEEELLLLLLLPPPP………..!”
Okay, wait. Hold it right there. Now’s not the time to be flippant. Let’s think this through. I can do better than this. Okay. Try again:
He removes his sunglasses and glares at me. “Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?” His eyes narrow to dark slots.
“Oh I’m sorry. I don’t follow pointless celebrities on Twitter. That’s because I’m not a twelve year old girl.
“Let me just ask you this: what do you think of Mr Trump?”
And then it’s me. I hand over my passport. He swipes it. Thumbs through it. I realise that’s he’s not actually wearing sunglasses, neither is he chewing tobacco. He scrutinises the photo, glances up at me, hands it back. I turn to go.
“Just hold it right there.” I freeze. The words sound menacing. Slowly, very slowly, I turn to face him. “Welcome to America,” he says, a friendly smile stretching across his face.
‘Well, that was easy,’ I think as I follow the signs for baggage reclaim. ‘I don’t know why people make such a fuss about these things. Damn snowflakes.’
Camera: Nikon FE
Film: Kodak Tmax 400
Process: Developed in D76 1+1