Belching Out the Devil by Mark Thomas Page B

and Nike in the 1990s. In these particular instances the clothes giants had outsourced their production to factories in the developing world that operated sweatshop conditions. It was not Nike or Gap who forced the workers to do long hours for poor pay, it was the contractors. However, campaigners insisted the companies should have enforceable human rights standards applied throughout the supply chain, compelling the companies to take action. The argument was then, and is now, that no matter where the human rights abuse occurred, if it’s your name on the label then you’re responsible for sorting it out. In The Coca-Cola Company’s case the argument is made more compelling by the fact that, although they franchised Coke production to Bibedas y Aliementos and Panamco, they held 24 per cent of

    Panamco’s shares 5 - a controlling interest. Which gives them considerable clout in how the business is run.
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    This view of the Company’s responsibilities is shared, in particular, by Councilman Hiram Monserrate from New York City. He represents a large Latino community and through some of his constituents became aware of the situation. Appalled, he took up the matter and has investigated Coca-Cola’s response to the events. And so I visit New York for the first time, to talk to him.

    I love New York. I nearly bought the I ♡ NY T-shirt but for adhering to the only rule of fashion that I know: namely don’t buy things worn by people you don’t like. Walking around the place I keep pointing and shouting, ‘That’s where King of Comedy was filmed…see, that’s the bridge in that scene from Saturday Night Fever …if that’s Ben Stiller let’s heckle him…’. The city is a vast historic map of films and music. I get a coffee on the Bowery hoping that the Ramones once sat here before appearing at CBGBs. Lexington gets me singing the Velvet Underground and Central Park has me quoting Woody Allen.
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    Tall apartment blocks are dotted with white air-conditioning units sticking out of the windows, as if a swarm of flying fridges have just crashed straight into the side of the building. And the sight of them is suddenly wonderful. The plethora of pointy water towers stuck on rooftops like fat fireworks on stilts is amazing. I’m happy enough to gaze idly at hanging traffic lights suspended over the streets or fire escapes and ladders that criss-cross entire blocks. I am a fan. So much so that when I wander past a blue wooden police barrier outside a mosque, presumably ready to corral anti-Islamic
demonstrators, I instinctively squeal, ‘Oh look bigotry…they have that here too.’
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    My visit coincides with Super Tuesday, the big day in the US Primaries when Democrats and Republicans vote to decide who will be their presidential candidate. It is the Democratic race between Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama that focuses New York. Stickers on cars proclaim ‘I’m backing Billary!’ and Obama’s face decorates Brooklyn windows.
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    I’d gone into a deli to eat and the primaries were the talk of the lunch queue. Now, being English, I’m a little baffled by the number of decisions required to get a sandwich: you have to choose your bread, spread, filling, dressing, condiments, extras and opt out of getting a pickle. Essentially you have to tell them how to make the bloody thing, leaving me momentarily resentful and wanting to shout, ‘I’m not Jamie Oliver, all I want is a sandwich!’
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    As I ponder on rye or sourdough a man behind me strikes up a conversation. He’s on a wheelie Zimmer frame, has a face like a tomato with stubble and is dressed in a green jacket. He looks like he should smell of alcohol, though he actually doesn’t.
    â€˜Yew voted today?’ He says as I catch his eye.
    â€˜No, I’m not eligible to vote, I’m English.’
    â€˜Yew want me t’vote for yew?’