Visiting California, I’m always shocked how Americans — even vaping, Prius-driving, liberal Democrats — treat their Mexican staff. Need someone to toil in the sun for 12 hours on minimum wage? Need a nanny who won’t kick off when you’re constantly late? Hire a Mexican. Employers engage little with these people who inhabit their yards and homes (the language barrier is cited) but if they do, the tone is exquisitely patronising. Mexicans aren’t so much individuals as a class of biddable, brown Untermensch.
Likewise President Trump has addressed the Mexican government like a lazy pool-cleaner, a bus-boy who dropped a tray.… Seguir leyendo »
Outside UCLA hospital they gather with their candles and their teddies, spooky lookalikes in full Thriller garb, wan teenagers wearing a single lace glove. They sway and sing I’ll Be There with sad faces to disguise the serotonin buzz from their frenzied collective mourn-in. Fans cry now for Michael Jackson, but they killed him. They always do.
I met Pete Doherty’s mother a few years back when he was at his most vulnerable, flicking between rehab and jail, just one misjudged fix from extinction. And she told me about his fans, who’d slip him gear when he was struggling to quit, tell her they went to every gig he ever performed “just in case, you know, it happens to be his last”.… Seguir leyendo »