This (see http://www.iomtoday.co.im/news/isle-of-man-news/jeremy-clarkson-loses-fight-over-langness-1-4490271
) was sad news.
Stripped of legalese, what it means is that the daughter of
the only Manxman ever to win a Victoria Cross cannot prevent rubbernecking ‘nature
lovers’ pressing their noses up against her windows under the pretext of observing
local wildlife. This is really a bad joke, considering such peeping toms are
more of a freak of nature than any known wildlife, and get way more public
subsidy than the endangered species that dwell in Sites of Specific Scientific
Interest around Langness. Bit of a mystery how these freaks breed in the first place
really, given that most seem to be of indeterminable gender or age (though all are
startlingly bearded and/or otherwise hirsute) and with drab plumage which biologists
would agree should repel rather than attract a mate.
As I have mentioned before, I once worked down the road from
the cottages, and two workmates were sons of the last lighthouse-keeper, so I
know the inside of the cottages, the footpaths and the Bennies (as we nicknamed
them) who troll there quite well. So, I have no doubt that (a) there is no need
for walkers to go so close to the window (b) the action of the Bennies is deliberately
intrusive (c) many are so trapped in a deluded little bubble that they are
mentally incapable of understanding that they have duties or that others have
rights (in fact there are valid arguments as to why they should not be allowed
in a public place without competent adult supervision) but (d) that any court
or legal proceeding staffed by objective, capable professionals would be able
to find a way through this which allowed decently minded nature lovers to
wander around enjoying themselves without the Clarksons having to sit at home
with drawn curtains all day. Sadly, the Manx legal system is the last refuge
(outside politics and the civil service) of rich, self-serving thickos who
would otherwise be begging in the streets, so common sense or justice were
never options open to the Clarksons.
Which leaves them with a dilemma – what to do next?
If I was them I would consider turning the tables on the
Bennies.
The thing is, when I first encountered examples of this
species in the early 1980’s, it struck me I had not seen any offshoot of Homo
Sapiens so odd since nursing patients stricken with GPI (General Paralysis of
the Insane) in Devon back in the last decade of the Victorian asylums.
GPI was not, strictly speaking, a medical analysis. It was a
polite term for the feeble-minded offspring of Plymouth prostitutes born in the days when
that city was still a major military port, syphilis was rife and penicillin not
widely available. As the poor creatures were inevitably institutionalized once
diagnosed the last of them were dying out even as I worked there. Granted, rumour
had it that 10p and a Mars bar still bought patients the favours their mothers
once sold for slightly more, but in reality once confined to asylums for life
they could not have children, and as anti-biotics and the downfall of Empire
ended both the oldest profession and its side-effects outside asylum walls GPI ended
too.
When you see horror films featuring old school mental
hospitals, the wild-eyed stereotype of the patient in the straitjacket is the
nearest you will see to the GPI sufferer. Needless to say, it has not been seen
in a real mental hospital in decades. In the early 1990’s, while at college, I
did a few night shifts at the last ‘old style’ Yorkshire
asylum. Staff close to retirement vaguely recalled the name GPI, but no-one
younger had seen a living example, which makes the Benny even more of an Object
of Interest.
Who can account for it? More importantly, how much cash
would you part with to see one?
So, instead of being trapped at home by slack-jawed yokels,
why not turn Benny-watching into a business opportunity? If wealthy Brit tourists
will pay a fortune to look at lions and tigers in Africa ,
they would surely shell out for a weekend break watching equally exotic wildlife
closer to home? It would be far cheaper, far funnier and less dangerous. While
getting the wrong side of a lion gets you half-eaten, the worst a Benny can do
is drool on your sleeve – and if the glass between the two parties is thick
enough, it need not even come to that.
Forget the heritage-themed loser scripts on which the Manx
tourist industry has bet our future. Forget scraping the barrel to try and find
even one viable example of Manx life in past times which would interest more
than half a dozen anoraks on limited incomes.
We have a real life freak show to sell the world, the
Clarksons may own the theatre and they should clean up, if only to get
compensation for the injustice and blinkered attitudes they have to put up with
from the Manx government.