I was off sick all last week. I'd been at a wedding in the UK the previous weekend and woke up the the next day with what seemed to be the Mother of Hangovers. It was only through bouts of shivering, hot sweats and numberless calls of nature that gradually the truth dawned. I was stricken with a particularly nasty gastric condition. Immodium just about got me home without mishap, but I had to ring in sick the next morning.

I sank into that langourous, decadent state of passive self indulgence which non-incapacitating illness brings with it. I could with an entirely clear conscience abandon the 1001 chores, responsibilities, projects, plans, letters, bills, emails, telephone calls, and blogs which hound my everyday existence and do exactly as I pleased. It is a useful, if salutory, experience for a man to have first-hand knowledge of his default position. Mine's pretty vacant - float around doing nothing in particular, a laboured sudoku or two, read a bit, nothing too challenging, mindlessly zap around daytime TV etc. It was in the course of one of these brain-dead zap sessions that I stumbled over a fascinating programme about a back-to-nature community in some remote part of Alaska. A score of young idealists had decided to move to the wilderness of Alaska in order to live an authentic life close to nature. They didn't live in a commune, but in relative proximity to each other (100 miles or so!), each family in its self-built log cabin, in a mutual self-help network. My heart skipped a beat. It was pure "Whole Earth Catalogue". They were seeking to live a freer life, free from the trammels of vulgar materialism and conspicuous consumption. They wanted to get back to the land and set their souls free.

But they were very practical and competent about it, the harsh nature of the climate not permitting of casual improvisation. They shot and killed their own food (moose etc.), but without pretending to total self-sufficiency. They traded animal furs in order to buy fuel for a generator in order to enjoy certain modern comforts such as a washing machine and a hi-fi. I didn't see any computers, but I suspect it was an old piece of documentary from before the "computer revolution" or maybe they just couldn't get broad-band! On reflection, there weren't any phone lines. Inevitably numbers dwindled over time. The critical factor was the children's education. Parents were able to teach their own children up to certain age, with the support of a sort of itinerant government back-up system, but once the children reached the age of 12 or 13, the parents generally felt that they couldn't decently deprive them of a peer group with which to socialize. Very responsibly they moved into town for the good of the children. The programme ended with a quotation from Thoreau's "Walden" to the effect that: when I come to the end of my days, I would want to feel that I had lived before I died.

It all reminded me of how as a young man I had a secret hankering after being American. It was all bound up with a notion of freedom. From my own hide-bound, stiff-upper-lip, public school background, Americans seemed so relaxed, so not uptight, so uninhibited in their right-on, can-do attitude. That's how I wanted to be, and still do in a way. Certainly, when people talk about freedom and America in the same breath (which is much too frequently), that is the only freedom which makes any sort of sense to me. What other sort is there? The freedom to make a lot of money (if you're lucky)? The freedom to practice loopy religion (God help us)? The freedom to think you're great just because your Umerkan (please)?

In my reduced condition I was able to read "Freakonomics", subtitled "A Rogue Economist Explores the Hidden Side of Everything". It's by a self-confessed economics nerd, Steven Levitt, in collaboration with New York Times journalist, Stephen Dubner. It's the sort of dreadfully overhyped thing that I try to avoid as a matter of principle, pedantically refusing to succumb to publishing industry overkill: "A phenomenon", "Brilliant", "Prepare to be dazzled", "A sensation", "The mot du jour", "Total controversy" etc. etc. etc. Despite the gush, it's really a book about methodology. Levitt basically expands the notion of economics beyond the study of mere pecuniary exchange and investigates the broader field of "incentives". People do things for money, but also for reasons such as peer-group respect or to conform with certain moral principles. Given sufficient information, these incentives can be identified and measured, helping to explain why certain things are the way they are - a methodology, in other words, for measuring why people do what they do. So we learn of the hidden side of a number of disparate phenomena: how and why teachers and Sumo wrestlers cheat; how real-estate agents and the Klu Klux Klan are essentially exploiting an "information asymmetry"; why drug dealers live with their Moms (because the drugs industry is a very broad based pyramid with only the very top guys making a pile of cash); that the drop in the crime rate is largely attributable to easier abortion; that, in bringing up children, nature is much more significant than nurture; that there is a fascinating, though inconclusive, statistic on the names given to children by various socio-economic groups at various times. The charm of the book is its weakness. It is gloriously unsystematic, but it actually falls well sort of a methodology of human behaviour. What it does show is that inspired interpretation of statisitics can reveal some unexpected truths. It also confirms for me that Steven Levitt is my kind of American - brilliant, unaffected, original and fearless. God bless him!

The Finnish Gymnich was held in Lappeenranta in Karelia, close to the Russian border. The Presidency has made relations with Russia one of its priorities, and arranging the informal Foreign Ministers' in this ancient fortress town testified to that ambition. Alongside Iran and the Middle-East, Russia was the third area of debate which had been pencilled in for free discussion over a day and a half. Clearly, history and geography both bolster the Finns claim to having a special insight into the nature of Europe's giant and often inscrutable neighbour. The fortress of Lappeenranta fell to the Russians in 1741 after the Swedish defeat at the battle of Willmanstrand (its Swedish name). The reader will forgive me if I digress on the context and background to that defeat, as it throws up a number of fascinating historical points.

The battle was the most decisive event in the course of the so-called "hattarnas krig" - the war of the hat party. The hat party, as opposed to the bonnet party (mössarna), was intent on war with Russia in order to win back territory lost at the treaty of Nystad of 1721. The treaty of Nystad concluded the long period of hostilities between Sweden and Russia initiated by the Swedish "warrior-king", Charles XII. Under that treaty, the Baltic ceased to be a Swedish inland sea. Russia became the area's major power. Sweden, under considerable pressure, was forced to make huge concessions, ceding Ingermanland (the country around the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland), Estonia, and Latvia. It succeeded, however, in retaining Finland, apart from Vyborg and part of Karelia. Twenty years later, the hats were again busy nurturing fantasies of great power status, cultivating an almost mystical belief in the invincibility of the Swedish soldier. War was declared in July 1741, in the expectation of a speedy reconquest of the lost provinces. The result, however, was the very opposite. Inadequate supplies, disease, desertion and poor military planning brought defeat at Willmanstrand in August. The following year, the entire Swedish army, shut up in Helsinki, was forced to capitulate. Under the Treaty of Abo (Turku in Finnish)1743, the Swedes lost further territory in the east of Finland.
What conclusions can we draw from this sorry tale? First of all, the all too depressingly obvious one, that militaristic adventurism is the very antithesis of sound political management - the modern parallells stare us screamingly in the face! Then there's the fact of just how difficult it is not to gasp in disbelief at Sweden "having a go" at Russia! In a modern geopolitical context the notion seems utterly absurd. And thirdly, one cannot help wondering: "what happened to the Finns?" It was Finland that was being fought on and over, yet the Finns are conspicuous by their total absence from the visible spectrum of this bellicose panorama.

And the meeting? I don't think I'm in breach of the official secrets act when I say that the most fascinating aspect of the meeting was the décor of the room. The plain white walls had been hung with a magnificent collection of the works of Ilya Repin, on loan from the Russian State Museum in St. Petersburg. I could vaguely remember having seen his famous "Volga Boatmen" during an earlier stay in St. Petersburg, but this was different. An exhibition devoted exclusively to a single body of work, with some fifty different examples of his production, from small drawings to life-size canvasses, gives a much deeper and broader impression of the sensibility of the artist. There is something of Rembrandt about him in his ability to reveal an inner soulfulness in his portraits, a quality which speaks of a deep compassion, a profound sense of solidarity with his fellow-man. Allied to that is an extraordinary lightness of touch and a breathtakng technical dexterity, but above all else an unrelenting power of observation, a sustained focus of attention of which few are capable. I was struck by a portrait of a student studying a book. Repin had somehow captured the unaffected seriousnes of this act of study in a way which momentarily evoked in me a sense of shame at my own habitual flippancy. There was a very fine portrait of Repin's friend, Rimsky-Korsakov. Above all, there was the incredibly poignant full-length portrait of Tsar Nicholas II, gazing down on proceedings throughout the meeting - living, or rather dead, proof of the fact that political decisions have their consequences. Andy and I were particularly taken by a small pencil drawing of a young peasant bride in traditional costume - a beautiful face, but with a certain movement of the eyebrow suggesting an interrogation, a reticence, a reluctance. It was exquisite.

Repin takes on a special interest in a Finnish context as a result of an accident of borders. Repin designed his own home "Penaty" just to the north of St. Petersburg. After the 1917 revolution Penaty was incorporated into Finland. He was invited by Lenin to come back to Russia but refused the invitation giving the excuse that he was too old to make the journey. With the exception of a portrait of Provisional Government head, Alexander Kerensky, he never painted anything substantial on the subjectof the 1917 revolutions or the Soviet experiment that followed. In 1930 he died in Kuokkala, Finland (now Repino, St. Petersburg Oblast).

As for the press conference, no secrets of state - we agreed that there is a possible "window of opportunity" with a new, post-Lebanon European role in the Middle East; we should try and keep talking to the Iranians without letting them off the hook; and we should continue to keep a close eye on developments in Russia - particularly the museums and art galleries, presumably!

EDITORIAL NOTE. ASBO is now, very flatteringly, it must be said, the subject of a gagging order. He has been warned off writing about the content of meetings for fear of upsetting un-named parties who, it would appear, wield considerable influence and could potentially damage the interests of the SCIC in particular and the Commission in general. ASBO, while maintaining that his postings were never in any way deliberately inflammatory, has accepted these arguments with good grace.

The new editorial policy will mean that:
- accounts of meetings will be restricted exclusively to information in the public domain.
- there will be no "ad personam " references in any meeting sketches.
- back-postings have been edited according to the new guidelines.


Readers still desirous of "saucier" content, however, may wish to visit the new, subscription-only ASBO II, the address of which will be made known to the "cognoscenti".

And so the new season starts. I hit the ground running with back-to-back weekends in Finland. I caught a flight on the afternoon of Wednesday 30 August to get to an Ecosoc gig in Helsinki the following day. I checked into my functional hotel, relaxed by watching a film in Finnish which I couldn't really understand. However, what I was able to deduce from the images, body language etc. was that it was about the confrontation of an older, more innocent Finland with the trendy, "liberated" world of late sixties flower-power. The story-line was, very basically: country lad falls for rock-chick visiting a summer house. She leads him on and returns to the city. He looks her up in town as she hangs out with her band cronies and she gives him the bum's rush. Rude awakening. He takes a boat out on the water and it sinks. He is rescued by his nerdy mate. End of story. What this précis fails to convey is the sense of affection for quirkiness, which I suspect is something very close to the Finnish soul and the real point of the movie.

Film over, I quit my cell to get with the action on the streets. Drifting down from hotel-land in the direction of the station, I move through a semi-abstract environment of super-rectangular modern buildings and souless restaurant-bars. Unwilling to patronise such establishments as a lonely single diner, I continue on down to the station, the inevitable magnet for that great mass of human flotsam-and-jetsam of which I am now a part. I order a bratwurst and beer at a hot-dog joint. The robotic night-staff reveal no emotion, but I know that they know that I know that they know that I am just one more of the mad and the bad and the sad who habitually congregate here at humanity terminus. My suit and tie do not debar me from the company of my fellow losers. This is the most democratic club in the world. Here you are taken for what you are, and what you are is a saddo with nowhere better to go.
I sip my beer and observe the clientele...the homeless shell-suited youths, the semi-comatose drunks, the tarts, the pimps, the faggots and the junkies, the upright citizens with no business being here, the lonely, the insane, the phantasists, the eighteen-year-old perfect doll seeking admiring eyes, the young "artist" dressed all in black with his cocked Dutch bonnet, the ageing sports cyclist in full regalia at eleven at night. The blond, blank-eyed, poker-faced staff work on mechanically, monosyllabically. I strike up a conversation with my neighbour at the bar. He's a Swede. We talk about Finland and Sweden and Denmark. There is an unspoken consensus not to pry too deeply, but he has the manner of an unemployed roadie, ekeing out what little money he has travelling, not to get anywhere particular, just to seek some relief from an unbearable inner loneliness. I buy him a beer in exchange for a cigarette. I draw hard and, having grown unused to the effects of nicotine, am immediately high as a kite. The whole drugs thing becomes instantly clear. When you're right down there YOU DON'T CARE. Any relief from the present reality, however momentary, however self-destructive, is infinitely desirable. The conspiratorial bond of the shared high is the nearest thing to human warmth you can hope to experience. The only cure - a reason for living. Our society does lifestyles, the consumerist simulacrum of a life's purpose, but what suffering humanity needs is a sense of participating in a meaningful Life. I know how you don't achieve this - by setting up as your greatest goals the hellish Trinity of Money, Sex and Prestige.

Perhaps that should be the title of the film. Maybe I can get the maker of the quirky country-boy meets flower-child movie to help me. Probably all you'd need to do is hide a camera and film the comings and goings at the hot-dog place. Surely the truth will be stranger than any fiction.

Rome. One can almost feel the word vibrating on the page. I seem to remember one of the great psychologists, I think it was Jung, who despite repeated attempts, could never quite bring himself to visit the city, so in awe was he of its history and reputation. We suffered from no such inhibitions. In fact, I'd already been there on three or four occasions, but only to work, which, however enjoyable, is never quite the same thing as being on holiday. We'd booked ourselves into an hotel near the Piazza Navona for four nights, giving us three whole days to "do" Rome. Three whole days! Ridiculous really, but we weren't there to prepare a doctoral thesis. What we were looking for was the opportunity to gorge our senses on the sights, the colours, the sounds, the texture, the smell and, of course, the tastes of what the ancient Romans called the urbs, the city.

Our hotel was in an old palazzo which had been recently and creatively converted, with a fantastic (and long!) circular stone staircase which led us up to the third floor. The climb was amply repaid, however, as we were ushered into the archetypal "room with a view". Throwing open the shutters, the light poured gorgeously into the room and we were confronted with an exquisite view across the jumble of red-tiled roofs to the dome and towers of Sant'Agnese in Agone - a Baroque jewel of elegance and charm.

What is it about the colours of Italy which is so magical? It must have something to do with texture and the way the light is reflected off the walls of the buildings. Perhaps, but there remains something quite unique about the the infinite nuances of pale mustard yellow through to the deepest ochre, the siena reds, the delicate pinks set against the rich blue-greys, creating a perfect setting for the cream-white marble of the monuments and churches. All of this, don't forget, somehow melded and unified by, as it were, an ancient patina, blurring overly sharp distinctions, disguising inconsistencies and flaws, creating an effect similar to the felicitous accidents of a spontaneous watercolour. And this tastefully sensuous orgy of painter's colours is contained within a harmony of line which seems somehow to correspond to some innate aesthetic sense. Seeing the "sights" of Rome is, at bottom, no more than a thin pretext to allow oneself to move through this aesthetic vision and partake of it...Beauty as food.

We did all the "usual" things, getting just a little bit lost as we meandered across the Piazza Navona, dawdled on to the Pantheon, continuing on to the Fontana di Trevi, along to the Via Tritone and the Via del Corso, stopping to take in the column of Marcus Aurelius and back to the hotel again, using all the back streets we could find. By the time we had stopped and admired, and photographed and drunk coffees and written postcards and eaten ice-creams and had lunch at a busy trattoria, it was mid-afternoon when we got back to the air-conditioned haven of our rooms for a retreat from the madding crowd and a well-deserved siesta. Of course, Rome is a powerful magnet for tourists from around the world, but they are somehow absorbed into the urban landscape, becoming integral to it, in a way that defies that (snobbish?) sense of irritation at having to "share" one's experience with a mass of people. In fact, it is hard to imagine that there was ever a time in the history of Rome when it was not so. Ancient Rome must surely have thronged with awestruck outsiders.

Ancient Rome is omnipresent in the modern city. So near - and yet so far. It seems sometimes that some vast psychological gulf seperates us from that older world. Wandering around the Foro Romano and the Palatino and more obviously still in the Colosseum, one is deeply impressed without being touched. Nowhere does one see that aspiration to humility which, if only unconsciously, still informs our own civilisation. One has the sense that there is a ruthless and brutal materialism at the heart of the Roman vision of the world. The Romans were very obviously brilliant soldiers, administrators, engineers, organisers of sadistic spectacles, but all their creations are somehow self-referential, the central message being: "Behold and bow down! Are we not far and away the biggest shots around?"

And if one is brutally honest, some of that same spirit seems to have spilled over into the Vatican. St. Peter's is magnificently impressive in its Baroque pomposity, but nothing could be further from the notion of Christian humility. For me, St. Peter's is about one thing and about one thing only - the power and prestige of the Church in general and the Papacy in particular.

Where, however, we did begin to have a sense of the numinous was in the church of San Clemente. Just up beyond the Colosseum, excavations have revealed three architectural layers. One enters a twelfth century church with its charming Romanesque frescoes, but for small fee one can gain access to the two lower levels - a fourth century church and below that again, ancient Roman buildings, including a Temple of Mithras. I surreptitiously attached myself to a small guided party. The guide was obviously a young American Art and Archeology PhD student, who was able brilliantly to explain the significance of the stones. She told us an awful lot about Roman bricklaying techniques, brick and mosaic paving methods, water supply technology, the Mithraic cult. The Mithraic cult, it seems, was a secret society, exclusive to men, popular with the miltary, which had at its core a ritual shared meal of bread and wine. "Wow!", as one of the young American guidees exclaimed! The fourth century church also contained primitive frescoes depicting the life of St. Clement, including what our guide claimed to be the first known example of written Italian. So much to learn about, so little time. Maybe I can come back as an archeologist and write a doctoral thesis...