Don’t You Open That Trapdoor!

We had similar feelings of unease when we came across a Financial Times article written by Simon Kuper the other day. Titled The Middle-Class Trapdoor, it is essentially a warning piece on the consequences of a possible Greek rejection of the bailout on offer. Kuper uses his experience in the restaurants of Buenos Aires in 2002 as the basis for some dark predictions: if the Greeks don’t accept, they will have to live in the murky world beneath the trapdoor.

Now it’s been a long time since we first saw it, but pegamequemegusta would hardly be the creditable blog it is if we didn’t do some research from time to time. Sure we can’t actually travel beneath the trapdoor, but upon reading Mr Kuper’s piece we were reminded of a series of documentaries from the 1980s that dealt precisely with the situation that would be awaiting the Greeks should they refuse the stringless bundle of cash on offer. The series revolved around the daily vicissitudes of Berk, Boni, Drutt and The Thing Upstairs. In the series, Berk is a butler of sorts for the Thing Upstairs and lives downstairs with Boni and Drutt. In the middle of the room they spend most of their time in, there is a trapdoor. In most episodes, Berk opens the trapdoor for some reason and, distracted by the demands of the tyrannical Thing Upstairs, forgets to close it. Invariably, the monsters that lurk beneath come out and cause mischief until they are eventually restrained and sent back underground, resolving the crisis.

In the episode we are going to watch today in class, however, dear voluptuous students, Berk, fed up with these constant intrusions, decides to nail the trapdoor shut. Yes, my 21st century Adonis at the back, just like the Greek protestors. Despite his best efforts, however, a Thingy emerges and causes all sorts of distress. The Thingy changes the characters into various shapes, thus inverting power relations and creating a situation where Berk, the main figure of authority in this microcosm of the superstructure, is almost gobbled up by his diminutive yet voracious companion Drutt, who represents the lower classes. Indeed, my raven-headed Paris, Boni would represent the Kuper figure here.

Pero… ¿qué me vienen a coger
a mí con la pija muerta?

Pegamequemegusta doesn’t do travel. There are practical reasons for this, of course, chief among them being the loss of our wheelchair to Rusty, our irascible neighbour in the next cave over, and the fact that, midst the privations of last winter, the cat ate our crutches. Even if we were sufficiently mobile, however, we’d have to give the matter some serious thought. For the shallowness of the sensations and impressions stopovers bring, merely dipping one’s toe in the fascinating cesspools that constitute the world’s various cultures, seems as satisfying, as rewarding, as tenuous a grip on the horrifying spectacle that is the world, as absent-mindedly flicking through the channels whilst you glare peremptorily at your electric kettle. Disgracefully sluggish, you tut, I deserve better. 

Of course, living in a foreign country is no guarantee either of getting to the bottom of the host nation’s psyche (let’s presume such a thing exists). Not even skinning one of the natives and wearing his/her hide as a coat is likely to broaden one’s perspective on things too considerably, unless one is looking for insights into the workings of their judicial system. Moreover, many ex-pats tend to associate almost exclusively amongst themselves. They go to ex-pat bars, set up ex-pat 5-a-side teams, etc., and have relatively little contact with their adopted society. Indeed, it is not at all uncommon to find ex-pats who, despite having spent many years in a foreign country, have nothing but disdain for the place, constantly tut-tutting, scoffing and rolling their eyes at the latest fuck-up on the part of the natives. Such wanton ignorance hardly warrants consideration, though. One gets the impression that such people must have had their heads just as firmly up their arses in their country of origin.

When it comes to journalism, and the construction of/manipulation of narratives, however, these matters are a tad more important. For, strangely enough given the ‘globalised world’ many publications love to trumpet on about, there still exists the curious figure of the globetrotting journalist or reporter. Wherever there’s a conflict or a happening, they show up. They’re equally comfortable discussing economics, fashion shows or major sporting events. Most even look good in a flak jacket. From time to time they are dispatched like secret agents to spend a few days in a place – hell, maybe even a few weeks – meet people and write up their experience, invariably with gonzo-style intrusions of the first-person for the devoted fan-reader to relish.

In this regard, dear handsome reader, you no doubt recall our hissy-fit at esteemed Sports Illustrated journalist S. L. Price last year. Other examples spring to mind, however. Lara Marlowe used to write an excellent column for the Irish Times, for example, where she would talk about life in Paris, the political and cultural goings-on and other things she was well qualified to speak about. When the US war machine decided to invade Iraq, however, because of her very charm and brilliance at her previous post, she was upgraded to international correspondent, which mainly consisted of sitting in hotel rooms and hoping the yanks didn’t shell her. In the months leading up to the invasion she was sucked into the narrative weaved by the American scoundrels, the once impeccable correspondent committing to print her newfound doubts as to whether we could live in world where we couldn’t be sure if Saddam had weapons of mass destruction or not. The root problem in cases like this is not just the irresponsibility of professional journalists holding forth on matters they don’t know much about, but their getting so close to a topic they forget the game is rigged.

We had similar feelings of unease when we came across a Financial Times article written by Simon Kuper the other day. Titled The Middle-Class Trapdoor, it is essentially a warning piece on the consequences of a possible Greek rejection of the bailout on offer. Kuper uses his experience in the restaurants of Buenos Aires in 2002 as the basis for some dark predictions: if the Greeks don’t accept, they will have to live in the murky world beneath the trapdoor. 

Now it’s been a long time since we first saw it, but pegamequemegusta would hardly be the creditable blog it is if we didn’t do some research from time to time. Sure we can’t actually travel beneath the trapdoor, but upon reading Mr Kuper’s piece we were reminded of a series of documentaries from the 1980s that dealt precisely with the situation that would be awaiting the Greeks should they refuse the stringless bundle of cash on offer. The series revolved around the daily vicissitudes of Berk, Boni, Drutt and The Thing Upstairs. In the series, Berk is a butler of sorts for the Thing Upstairs and lives downstairs with Boni and Drutt. In the middle of the room they spend most of their time in, there is a trapdoor. In most episodes, Berk opens the trapdoor for some reason and, distracted by the demands of the tyrannical Thing Upstairs, forgets to close it. Invariably, the monsters that lurk beneath come out and cause mischief until they are eventually restrained and sent back underground, resolving the crisis. 

In the episode we are going to watch today in class, however, dear voluptuous students, Berk, fed up with these constant intrusions, decides to nail the trapdoor shut. Yes, my 21st century Adonis at the back, just like the Greek protestors. Despite his best efforts, however, a Thingy emerges and causes all sorts of distress. The Thingy changes the characters into various shapes, thus inverting power relations and creating a situation where Berk, the main figure of authority in this microcosm of the superstructure, is almost gobbled up by his diminutive yet voracious companion Drutt, who represents the lower classes. Indeed, my raven-headed Paris, Boni would represent the Kuper figure here. But let’s watch. 

Eventually the beast disappears and society’s traditional hierarchy is reestablished. Moreover, while it does not end in a wedding, since this is a comedy, there is no anagnorisis, no awakening to the ‘true’ state of affairs. Drutt does not question his (her?) subordinate status, nor does anyone wonder, aloud at least, if the unseen master upstairs has anything to do with the perpetual misery of the rebellious monsters below the trapdoor. We are left with only one response, imparted by the moralising dictator of the narrative: Don’t you open that trapdoor!

According to Simon Kuper’s article, when the trapdoor is opened photographers can no longer buy the latest novel from Amazon, architects end up having to sell eggs for a living, couples who once owned their own news agency can no longer go to Paris on holidays. The humanity. It’s a shame he doesn’t mention how these people are doing today, now that we are almost at the ten year ‘anniversary’, or even how they were doing five years ago, say. For, just as in the episode of Trapdoor, things in Argentina seem to be more or less back to normal (note: the 90s in Argentina were no more normal than they were in Ireland). 

Another shame is the inclusion of a crude and, frankly, bizarre generalisation regarding the Argentines’ attitude to the corralito:

Intellectually there are two sorts of people: those who don’t believe conspiracy theories (mostly white middle-class westerners) and those who do (mostly poor people). Thus most white middle-class westerners believe that the US killed Osama bin Laden, whereas most Pakistanis seem to believe his “death” was faked as part of some conspiracy. In 2002 most white middle-class westerners believed that Argentina had collapsed due to absurd economic policies, whereas many Argentines blamed a conspiracy led by the International Monetary Fund.

Now pegamequemegusta is all for groundless assertions but it’s disagreeable and cheap to suggest that anyone who questions the probity of hegemonic world forces is an idiot and/or a kook.

In our experience, the Argentines do not foist the blame for the actions that culminated in the 2001 crisis on the IMF. They blame Menem. Even today if you mention his name you’re supposed to touch your left testicle to ward off bad luck. 

Yet neither does it seem too far-fetched to throw some of the blame the way of our beloved IMF. For while Argentina fell more or less alone, – little Uruguay being the only other major casualty – taking out the savings of private citizens, the situation in Greece is rather different. All sorts of powerful interests are keen to keep the Greeks just about alive in order to prevent the contagion they hold in their rotten entrails seeking a new host.

Another questionable part of Kuper’s article is the quote conveniently uttered by Joe Greek Author. Once the trapdoor is opened, he says, “the danger to human rights […] violations is paramount.” Kuper even draws a parallel with the German people’s desperate turning to Nazism faced with their own financial difficulties. 

In Argentina, however, it must be said that human rights, far from being forgotten about in difficult times, like green politics, have been pushed to the forefront. Since the late Nestor Kirchner took over in 2003, they have arguably enjoyed greater status than when the middle classes were able to consume their way to amnesia. Those responsible for heinous crimes, murder, torture and and financial opportunism under the dictatorship finally began to be prosecuted. It’s a tricky business raking over the past like this, and is definitely open to abuse and demagogy (as when Cristina said of the revoking of TyC/Clarín’s exclusive tv rights for Argieball: “They kidnapped our goals until Sunday, just like they kidnapped 30,00 of us”) but on the whole it has been positive. Moreover, pegamequemegusta wonders how far human rights are up the list of preoccupations of those demanding the Greeks disregard all else but the repayment of interest on loans to pay off interest to pay off etc. 

This is not intended to paint too succulent a picture of life in Argentina these days. Essentially Kuper is right: being poor is a bit shit. He probably doesn’t even go far enough. What’s more, the cases he covers in his article as typical of the middle class sound quite strange to us. A couple who own their own news agency are hardly middle class. For us, a teacher is middle class. Then again, the phrase ‘middle class’ is uselessly vague. Moreover, it is somewhat misleading in that it implies a tripartite structure where the other two classes have more or less the same dimensions. It doesn’t take into account the phenomenon of extreme poverty that, we are tempted say, simply doesn’t exist in Europe. You would have to take the lower classes in a European system and then abseil down into the abyss to get a better impression of how far removed those in extreme poverty are from the middle classes. They’re not just urchins in a Dickensian street, they’re people you just don’t even see unless by chance or motivated by some perverse instinct to gawk (or desire to help, we suppose) you make the effort to go and take a look. As in the poem we translated for your ‘edification and guilt’ last Christmas Eve (but which we’ll reproduce now as, ahem, no-one read that post):

Segregation Poem No 1 – Carlos German Belli

(in the manner of a cultured yet primitive painter)

Me, my mother and my two brothers

and many ickle Peruvians

carved out a deep, deep hole,

where we shelter,

because everything above has an owner,

everything’s under lock and key,

tightly sealed,

because everything above’s been reserved:

the shadow of the tree, the flowers,

the fruit, the roofs, the wheels,

the water, the pencils,

and we choose to bury ourselves

in the bottom of the earth,

ever deeper,

as far as we can from the owners,

between the legs of the ickle animals,

because above

are the people who run everything,

those who write, who sing, who dance,

who speak beautifully

and, us, scarlet with shame,

we just want to turn into

dust.

Speaking of upper and lower classes is far too simplistic. It even implies a fairness, a naturalness to both categories, as if they were inevitable or karmically justified.

This is getting far too hip, so to conclude we’ll say: on the one hand, if, nearly ten years after the 2001 ‘crash’ in Argentina, not so many people are able to lead what the Financial Times regards as the good life, things have more or less acquired an acceptable enough level of stability. More, say, than that enjoyed by Berk, Boni & Co. The debate in the run-up to this October’s presidential elections are not dominated by what programs have to be cut but rather more willowy questions of what the country is all about and where it wants to go. On the other hand, only now are we seeing some of the real effects of the 2001 implosion. Whereas, thankfully, in Ireland almost all of pegamequemegusta’s friends and acquaintances are lucky enough to have both their parents, in Argentina many people we know frequently have to attend funerals for the parents of friends and relatives. Although the Irish parents are all in their early to mid-60s, over here people are losing loved ones in their mid-to-late 50s. The strain and day-to-day difficulties inherent in working longer hours, having fewer rights and benefits, little or no holidays, having to do more just to get by, living more uncomfortably in general, they all take their toll. Not to mention the shortcomings of a health system still struggling to recover from neoliberalism. People simply die younger.

This is not the Heart of Darkness image Kuper seeks to evoke with his cheap trapdoor metaphor.  It’s not tragedy. It’s just FT-sponsored capitalism. Perhaps that’s what the trapdoor is, che.

Trapattoni, Dunga & Maradona

So has Maradona matured as a manager or is he turning into his erstwhile nemesis, Dunga? Has he become a purveyor of dull, negative football sure to be undone the first time they come up against a good team or go behind in a game? Or are we seeing the genesis of a World Cup winning manager, a pragmatic Maradona intent, as so many times before in his long career, on getting the best from apparently limited resources and/or compensate for lack of time to impart his wisdom with a strategy no doubt learned on the potreros of Fiorito and which could be pithily summarised on the back of a napkin as: “Stay back there and just give the ball to me; i’m better than you.”

So the day after the perplexing match of the night before, there are enough two cents doing the rounds in the papers and in Olé to stock all the sliding coin machines in Bundoran. Happily enough – for which read ‘i’m a smug cunt’ – most commentaries i’ve read coincide with my Argentina-are-the-new-Ireland-theory.

In a good article in Olé, Luis Calvano points out that Jonás Gutierrez is in many ways the symbol of this Argentine team: “his presence gives a clear indication of one of the key concepts of this team [….]: commitment, attacking but always with a mind to help out his defence, all heart but little more.”

If you think back to the beginning of the disillusionment with Trap’s Ireland, the home Cyprus match, when murmurs of discontent became accusations of liberties being taken and the game plan being downright “wrong, wrong, wrong”, the situation is more or less the same: relief at what looks very much like the end of a horrible time in the country’s football but disquiet at a perceived lack of class, a nagging perception that against a better team – or the same team on another night – the ghosts we so recently thought banished, shot down in blinding streams of ectoplasm, could come back to slime us. Look at the youtube clip of the analysis: for Di María, read Duff (remember the run for Robbie’s goal?), for McGeady read Messi, for Verón read Whelan/Andrews, for Otamendi read McShane. Would that make Cambiasso Andy Reid, and for Zanetti, I don’t know, Steve Carr?

Cambiasso, chief cherry-on-cake-man in 2006

As for the Andy Reid saga – Riquelme is in the Stephen Ireland role but in a Bizarro World twist, this time he’s right – the “best midfield player we’ve got”, in Giles’ phrase, would have to be Cambiasso, in his current form at least. Martín Eula, in a piece entitled 100% Bilardo, again in Olé, compares Diego’s latest team – the same for two games now, wow! – with the ’86 World Cup winning team. Messi, obviously, is supposed to emulate Maradona himself, and “he wants Verón, somehow, to be his Burruchaga,” man of the match in the final, lest we forget (according to El Gráfico at least).

Verón le manda un besito al Burru, goleador en el '86

For his part, Angel Cappa, former manager of the brilliant but brutally dismantled Huracán team that thrilled in the Clausura of 2009, lamented the lack of real full backs in Argentina today, saying that neither Otamendi nor Heinze looked particularly comfortable. “[We need] full backs who play a part in the move, who push on so as to support their teammates and open up the pitch, not just to put in the odd cross.” He goes on to say that the current set-up is geared to play on the counter attack, utterly dependent on individual moments of brilliance, “but on very few occasions on collective play.”

Surely the most important player in this set-up, then, is Verón, who should be more accomplished than Andrews/Whelan or Gilberto. However, Calvano draws attention to the fact that he “very rarely managed to develop any kind of meaningful interaction with his teammates that would get the ball moving (and in the second half, indeed, he repeatedly ceded territory and gave the ball away to the Germans who, in spite of the generous offer, between them couldn’t think of one useful thing to do with the ball).”

Thankfully, this time at least, the journos resisted the temptation to castigate Messi, as is their wont, recognising that the few times he actually got the ball he looked dangerous, but that far too often he received ‘dirty’ ball, with his back towards goal in the middle of a crowded pitch. His frustration showed when he ripped down the hated Lahm in the last few minutes.

So has Maradona matured as a manager or is he turning into his erstwhile nemesis, Dunga? Has he become a purveyor of dull, negative football sure to be undone the first time they come up against a good team or go behind in a game? Or are we seeing the genesis of a World Cup winning manager, a pragmatic Maradona intent, as so many times before in his long career, on getting the best from apparently limited resources and/or compensate for lack of time to impart his wisdom with a strategy no doubt learned on the potreros of Fiorito and which could be pithily summarised on the back of a napkin as: “Stay back there and just give the ball to me; i’m better than you.”

Sentences such as the last one, however, are examples of why even i’d rather listen to Maradona.

Alemania v Maradona

Gonzalo makes the most of his chance to become Argentina’s number 9 in South Africa

While the Lahm-roasting I was hoping for was not to be, Argentina won well enough against a German team so stodgy and turgid it made me long to spend a day in the lungs of a tubercular poet. It took the intervention of the Cacau-el-cabrón to bring a bit of life to the proceedings – with not a little skill and more attitude than Bette Midler – exacting terrible vengeance on Mascherano for some harshly spoken words shortly before.

Besides Otamendi, who looked hopeless, Argentina’s defence did look alright:  Samuel was man of the match for me. Still, the limitations of such a negative approach, playing with four centre backs, are obvious enough. The most important fact of the match is that Germany were useless: despite having much more of the ball, they created next almost no decent chances. Compared to Germany, Ireland yesterday looked like… I don’t know, Brazil (oho).

Like Ireland, there was no-one to distribute the ball to Di María, Jonás or Messi. But surely that’s what Verón is there for: spreading the ball wide to lift what there was of German pressure. Except for one free kick, which he belted from an acute angle at the keeper with Burdisso rushing in for a flick, he spent the whole game sitting too deep, hanging back too far in general and contributing little or nothing. The strange thing, though, is that this was his job in the game: but why wasn’t he further forward playing more or less as a number 10? For some reason he was always behind Mascherano – that is, in Masche’s position, getting in his way and confusing things. 4-1-3-2, yes, but with Verón as the number 5 and Mascherano pretty much lost, unable to do what he does best.

So to sum up: in the first half Argentina played quite well and looked canny and smart, vivos as they say here. In the second half, though, they just looked out of ideas, bored (and boring) and without much inclination even to impress a very impressionable manager.

Not everyone can pull off this look

Speaking of whom, the best thing of the afternoon was almost undoubtedly el Diego in the press conference. He refused to be interviewed with a German player beside him! With a smile on his face, he said it “wasn’t normal for a manager to give a press conference with another player beside me… I’ll wait if you want… Over there [pointing to the side of the podium].” A man with a Spanish accent kept insisting that he stay but he ended up getting up and waddling off to the side where he signed a few autographs. The German player, Muller, stood there on the podium on his own with a morto look on his face.  After an awkward moment or two he set off towards Maradona… but walked right past him and out the door, whereupon the manager of the Selección waddled back up onto the podium.

In general he was in good humour, laughing at the interruptions of the fussy German’s translators (- Sorry but would you let me translate… – Well if you let me finish speaking, you can translate it afterwards!) and looking bemused, playing with his water bottles, as he waited for them to finish. He wouldn’t accept any comparison with the German team of ’86, nor with the supposed ‘dichotomy’ between the Barca Messi and the Argentina Messi, saying he just thanked God Messi is Argentinian.

As regards what he actually said, there wasn’t much: he said that Argentina were better than Germany in every part of the pitch, that they were comfortable enough defending Germany’s crosses, that he was chuffed with the clean sheet and that, “We wanted to show, against one of the powerhouses of football, that we’re alive and well.” The best frase maradoniana, all the same, and the most accurate, I reckon, was that “We both threw a load of meat on the barbeque and the weight and class of our players made the difference.”