Just when I was about to post about the social menace of the MP3 phone, the Urban Woo beats me to it. They are truly horrible things. I fear I'm part of the last generation to place a premium on high-fidelity audio. Moving from vinyl (yes, I know the arguments about audiophile vinyl, but how many teenagers can afford a Bang and Olufsen rig?) and cassette to CD was a moment of glorious liberation, but the yoof of today seem happy with over-compressed MP3s played through tiny, tinny speakers that make Radio Luxembourg on medium wave sound like a wideband Decca blue-back stereo pressing. This is just one of many ways in which they are being palmed off with fool's gold, IMHO. The Mighty Boosh, anyone?
Anyway, yesterday, I got on the Lowestoft train at Norwich, and saw a young chap trying to make an ill-fitting window stop clattering in sympathetic resonance with the engine. Helpfully, I stepped forward and wedged a redundant ticket in between the window and the frame, rendering it silent. The young chap then thanked me by playing tuneless R&B on his phone nearly all the way home. If I'd been on my own, I'd have challenged him, but I had a small, defenceless and rather beautiful dog with me, so, for her safety, I said nothing. Eventually, somewhere around Reedham swing bridge, the ticket worked loose, and the window started banging away again. Pitted against the MP3 phone, it truly was the lesser of two evils, despite being considerably louder. The noise made matey boy turn his crap music off, mercifully. The truly galling thing is that I had with me several hours of Steely Dan and Donald Fagen, plus a pair of decent headphones, which let very little external noise in, and even less of my music out into the general atmos. If only the batteries hadn't given out on the London-Norwich portion of the journey. I shall be operating the patented Masterton sing-along method in future.
On another occasion, I did say something. Heading to London, a man old enough to know far better got on at Ipswich and proceeded to watch DVDs without headphones. I stepped forward and asked him if he minded using headphones. His reply was stunning in its lack of logic: "It's not a Walkman". My reply was stern: "I don't care what it is. Use headphones or turn it off". He came back with "Am I allowed to talk?", to which I answered "You got on the train on your own. Nobody in this carriage wants to talk to you. If you want to talk to yourself, and you look like the sort of person who might, I can't stop you". As he got off the train at Colchester, he gave me a defiant 'You're a very lucky man' look. As he was about 8 stone soaking wet and a good 5 inches shorter than me, all I could do was laugh. Once he was off the train, another passenger thanked me for intervening, but it's come to a pretty pass where decent people doing nothing is the default position.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Monday, February 18, 2008
I've paid farewell to the London Library. My membership lapses at the end of the month and I've returned all of the books I had on loan. The parting is not without sadness. I've spent a fair bit of time there over the last 5 years, working first on my history of the record industry, then on my soon-come history of light entertainment. Their collection is unrivalled, except by the British Library, but the London Library lets you take the books home, sometimes for years on end. The atmosphere is wonderful if you like to be surrounded by dark wood, leather-bound books and snoring gentlemen with hairy ears. It's not just a haven for bookish buffers, though. There's free wi-fi access for members too. So, why am I giving up on such riches? As you may be aware, the subscription has gone up 80% from £210 a year to £375, to pay for an extension to the building. It sounds a lot, but it's still cheap for a base in the centre of London with hot and cold running wi-fi, a lot of wonderful books, and an iron-floored shelving stack that sounds like the gantries of HMP Slade when you walk through it. I'm just spending less and less time in London these days, and I don't have £375 to spare at the moment. Even before the rise, I was umming and ahhing about whether I could justify the outlay. The rise made my mind up for me, accompanied by an astonishingly puffed-up circular from Sir Tom Stoppard justifying the rise and suggesting that anyone who disagreed was a twat. I'm hoping that my exile is a temporary one, as I can't think of a better waste of £375, but until I have that much to pee up the wall, Sir Tom will have to do without me.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Like many television enthusiasts (all male, obviously), I have a tendency to record programmes that I never get around to watching. In my case, it's simple forgetfulness and lack of time. One close relative, however, uses 3 VCRs to record a vast amount of material, almost all of which is then labelled and filed, unviewed. Only when others ask him 'did you see...?' or a laudatory review appears does he dig the tape out and watch the programme. If the programme passes without comment from trusted advisors, the tape is re-used and so the cycle begins again. It's a quite brilliant system in a way, almost like an Ofcom logging operation, and in the days before BitTorrent, he was a reliable source of programmes we'd missed. I'm in the process of educating him on the subject of hard drive-based PVRs, which I suspect he'll adopt with gusto once the initial learning curve is negotiated.
For my own part, last week, I had a sudden urge to watch the 1964 'Wednesday Play' production of Jean-Paul Sartre's 'Huis Clos', translated as 'In Camera'. This play is best known for being the origin of the phrase "Hell is other people". I found it on a disc with a 1963 BBC West regional documentary about Swindon Town FC, directed by John Boorman. Both were recorded during BBC4's 'Summer in the 60s' season in June 2004, so it's only taken me 3 and a half years to get around to watching them. Back then, I didn't even have a DVD recorder, so they've been transferred from VHS, still unwatched, at some point since then. Strange how the archival mentality works.
Anyway, as my expertise is comedy not drama, I'll spare you a review of the play. Suffice it to say that I was gripped, that Harold Pinter - in a rare acting role - was superbly sinister, and that I'm slightly in love with Catherine Woodville, the future Mrs Patrick Macnee, who played a flakey socialite with a dark past. The one thing that I feel does need a special mention, however, is, rather aptly, considering the title of the production, the camera work. As with most drama of its era, it's a multi-camera studio production. Moreover, it's from the days before lightweight shoulder-mounted cameras. Every camera used will have been a cumbersome valve-filled box from the factory of EMI or Marconi (probably the latter, for reasons explained by Martin Kempton just below here), on a gas-operated Vinten pedestal with the footprint of a woolly mammoth. And yet, everything moves in a fluid, graceful manner, while one shot would appear to be impossible. At one point, Woodville walks around and around in a circle followed by a camera. A revolution or so would have been easy enough, but sooner or later, the camera cable would have got caught up and forced a jerking halt. There's evidence of this on a 1970s edition of 'Magpie' where a similar shot is attempted with the lovely Susan Stranks. Very soon, the cameraman is forced to admit that this is as far as he can go. In this play, however, the camera goes way past that point. How the hell was it done? Well, according to Bernie Newnham, ex-BBC cameraman and producer, this shot became a legend in Corporation circles, and was the work of his mentor, Jim Atkinson. The camera was hung from above, with the cable also hanging from above, thus not trailing on the floor and getting wound around the pedestal. Another of Jim Atkinson's trainees has since offered an alternative technique: the shot was done using a standard floor pedestal, with the cable arranged around it so that it unwound rather than tightened. Either way, I'm not surprised it became a legend. It's still a jaw-dropping piece of craftsmanship, however it was done. UPDATE: 18/2/2008 - Bernie has located someone who worked on the play, and the definitive answer is that the camera was on a conventional pedestal, but the cable was suspended from the lighting grid.
Bernie's excellent Tech Ops site (broadcasting history as written by the infantry rather than the generals, which is always worth hearing) has a page on Jim Atkinson, and I present the clip in question here.
For my own part, last week, I had a sudden urge to watch the 1964 'Wednesday Play' production of Jean-Paul Sartre's 'Huis Clos', translated as 'In Camera'. This play is best known for being the origin of the phrase "Hell is other people". I found it on a disc with a 1963 BBC West regional documentary about Swindon Town FC, directed by John Boorman. Both were recorded during BBC4's 'Summer in the 60s' season in June 2004, so it's only taken me 3 and a half years to get around to watching them. Back then, I didn't even have a DVD recorder, so they've been transferred from VHS, still unwatched, at some point since then. Strange how the archival mentality works.
Anyway, as my expertise is comedy not drama, I'll spare you a review of the play. Suffice it to say that I was gripped, that Harold Pinter - in a rare acting role - was superbly sinister, and that I'm slightly in love with Catherine Woodville, the future Mrs Patrick Macnee, who played a flakey socialite with a dark past. The one thing that I feel does need a special mention, however, is, rather aptly, considering the title of the production, the camera work. As with most drama of its era, it's a multi-camera studio production. Moreover, it's from the days before lightweight shoulder-mounted cameras. Every camera used will have been a cumbersome valve-filled box from the factory of EMI or Marconi (probably the latter, for reasons explained by Martin Kempton just below here), on a gas-operated Vinten pedestal with the footprint of a woolly mammoth. And yet, everything moves in a fluid, graceful manner, while one shot would appear to be impossible. At one point, Woodville walks around and around in a circle followed by a camera. A revolution or so would have been easy enough, but sooner or later, the camera cable would have got caught up and forced a jerking halt. There's evidence of this on a 1970s edition of 'Magpie' where a similar shot is attempted with the lovely Susan Stranks. Very soon, the cameraman is forced to admit that this is as far as he can go. In this play, however, the camera goes way past that point. How the hell was it done? Well, according to Bernie Newnham, ex-BBC cameraman and producer, this shot became a legend in Corporation circles, and was the work of his mentor, Jim Atkinson. The camera was hung from above, with the cable also hanging from above, thus not trailing on the floor and getting wound around the pedestal. Another of Jim Atkinson's trainees has since offered an alternative technique: the shot was done using a standard floor pedestal, with the cable arranged around it so that it unwound rather than tightened. Either way, I'm not surprised it became a legend. It's still a jaw-dropping piece of craftsmanship, however it was done. UPDATE: 18/2/2008 - Bernie has located someone who worked on the play, and the definitive answer is that the camera was on a conventional pedestal, but the cable was suspended from the lighting grid.
Bernie's excellent Tech Ops site (broadcasting history as written by the infantry rather than the generals, which is always worth hearing) has a page on Jim Atkinson, and I present the clip in question here.
Monday, January 28, 2008
It pains me to admit this, but I've become jaded, musically speaking. This chap, who once pored over release schedules and went to the record shop most Mondays to pick up something farm-fresh, hasn't bought anything new for ages. Don't get me wrong. I still love a nice tune, but there's just nothing being made today that makes me go 'bloody hell, who's that?'. The next CD I buy (do you want woofers and tweeters with it, grandad?) will be something from the Sensational Alex Harvey Band catalogue, to follow up on my recent purchase of a 'best of' compilation (although how it can claim to be a 'best of' without including 'Boston Tea Party' is beyond my comprehension), but I'm currently undecided which one to go for.
The first problem is that when I hear something 'new', I can usually pick it apart and identify all of the influences. In particular, it rankles that so many bands have done well by sounding like a pale imitation of XTC or Squeeze, while either band has yet to receive even 1/10 of the kudos and royalties they deserve. I admit that it's always been the case. My mum would come into my bedroom (never bloody well knocking, until a traumatic incident made her very punctilious in this regard) asking "Is this Three Dog Night?" when I was listening to something I thought was wonderfully original. I've just crossed over to the other side of the fence.
Secondly, there seem to be a lot of artists who have become successful not by exciting anyone's passions, but by being acceptable to a large enough number. I'm sure it's always been the case, but it just seems more obvious now. Even the wock and woll webels are crushingly ordinary. The Kaiser Chiefs seem to be about the best we can manage, but the strongest reaction they provoke in me is 'meh'. Does anyone really get passionate about them, or have they become big because nobody really minds them? Meanwhile, who let that mumbling bore Jack Johnson - for people who find John Mayer a bit too edgy - become famous?
I'm not asking for uneasy listening. As I get older, I find myself unapologetically reaching for my Dean Friedman (Maturity = realising what a bloody clever song 'Lucky Stars' truly is, wisdom = realising that he did loads of other songs that were even better on that album alone, including 'The Deli Song (Corned Beef on Wry)' and 'Rocking Chair'), Andrew Gold ('Hope You Feel Good' from 'What's Wrong With This Picture?' being a real stand-out) and Rupert Holmes (I'll see your 'Pina Colada Song' and raise you the sublime, cynical 'Him' - complete with 'my Mini-Moog's broken' comb and paper solo) records. Even Peter Skellern. Stuff like 'You're a Lady', 'Hold On To Love' and 'Our Jackie's Getting Married' is quirky pop of the highest order. I can take or leave the faux-1930s stuff he did later - it's nice, but it comes across as a good musician relieved to find a lucrative niche after years of struggling with his own original material. I just find their modern equivalents paralysingly dull.
Or maybe it's just me.
The first problem is that when I hear something 'new', I can usually pick it apart and identify all of the influences. In particular, it rankles that so many bands have done well by sounding like a pale imitation of XTC or Squeeze, while either band has yet to receive even 1/10 of the kudos and royalties they deserve. I admit that it's always been the case. My mum would come into my bedroom (never bloody well knocking, until a traumatic incident made her very punctilious in this regard) asking "Is this Three Dog Night?" when I was listening to something I thought was wonderfully original. I've just crossed over to the other side of the fence.
Secondly, there seem to be a lot of artists who have become successful not by exciting anyone's passions, but by being acceptable to a large enough number. I'm sure it's always been the case, but it just seems more obvious now. Even the wock and woll webels are crushingly ordinary. The Kaiser Chiefs seem to be about the best we can manage, but the strongest reaction they provoke in me is 'meh'. Does anyone really get passionate about them, or have they become big because nobody really minds them? Meanwhile, who let that mumbling bore Jack Johnson - for people who find John Mayer a bit too edgy - become famous?
I'm not asking for uneasy listening. As I get older, I find myself unapologetically reaching for my Dean Friedman (Maturity = realising what a bloody clever song 'Lucky Stars' truly is, wisdom = realising that he did loads of other songs that were even better on that album alone, including 'The Deli Song (Corned Beef on Wry)' and 'Rocking Chair'), Andrew Gold ('Hope You Feel Good' from 'What's Wrong With This Picture?' being a real stand-out) and Rupert Holmes (I'll see your 'Pina Colada Song' and raise you the sublime, cynical 'Him' - complete with 'my Mini-Moog's broken' comb and paper solo) records. Even Peter Skellern. Stuff like 'You're a Lady', 'Hold On To Love' and 'Our Jackie's Getting Married' is quirky pop of the highest order. I can take or leave the faux-1930s stuff he did later - it's nice, but it comes across as a good musician relieved to find a lucrative niche after years of struggling with his own original material. I just find their modern equivalents paralysingly dull.
Or maybe it's just me.
Friday, January 25, 2008
I'm just working my way through Q6, Q7 and Q8, Spike Milligan's BBC2 shows from the second half of the 1970s. A gangling presence in many of them is Chris Langham. His recent conviction makes no difference to my ability to enjoy his work as a comic performer. Judge the work, not the man - if the reverse were applied consistently, the world's art galleries would be empty.
Langham's encounter with Dr Pamela Connolly on More4's 'Shrink Wrap' made infinitely more uncomfortable viewing than any of Langham's comedy. Whatever the erstwhile Ms Stephenson's qualifications, the whole programme seemed a nasty, cynical exercise - tabloid prurience hiding behind a skimpy veil of serious, scientific enquiry. Nonetheless, I'm glad that Langham was allowed to discuss his situation at length. On many Internet forums, the prevailing view seemed to be 'no platform for nonces', with anyone arguing otherwise being painted as either an apologist for child abuse or a potential abuser themselves.
My problem with the knee-jerk reaction is two-fold. Firstly, we stand even less chance of understanding and preventing child abuse if we don't listen to its practitioners, however distasteful we find what they say. Secondly, I don't think that Langham is a paedophile. While there is obviously considerable room to doubt his 'research' mitigation, gratification is not the sole motivation for looking at any unpleasant images. I looked at the Ken Bigley beheading video when it was on Ogrish. Does that make me a terrorist or a decapitation fanatic? Or just someone trying to understand the unpleasant world he lives in a little bit more?
There is no doubt that Langham was wrong to access the material that he saw. There is also no doubt that a legal redress of some kind was appropriate, although I believe that an especially heavy sentence was doled out, as this was a high-profile case and a perfect opportunity to present a deterrent example to others. However, to state unequivocally that Langham has to be a paedophile is not something that any of us outside the psychiatric team that evaluated him, post-trial, is in a position to do. I can only speak in terms of my perceptions, thoughts and beliefs with regard to the matter, and I am careful to do so. The most I can do to support my view is to suggest that Langham being allowed to return to his wife and young family - one of 11, one of 13 - indicates that the assessors concluded that while he is undoubtedly many things, he is not a risk to children.
I respect the right of others to doubt Langham's sincerity, but I condemn their tendency to present their own ill-informed surmises as unassailable fact.
Langham's encounter with Dr Pamela Connolly on More4's 'Shrink Wrap' made infinitely more uncomfortable viewing than any of Langham's comedy. Whatever the erstwhile Ms Stephenson's qualifications, the whole programme seemed a nasty, cynical exercise - tabloid prurience hiding behind a skimpy veil of serious, scientific enquiry. Nonetheless, I'm glad that Langham was allowed to discuss his situation at length. On many Internet forums, the prevailing view seemed to be 'no platform for nonces', with anyone arguing otherwise being painted as either an apologist for child abuse or a potential abuser themselves.
My problem with the knee-jerk reaction is two-fold. Firstly, we stand even less chance of understanding and preventing child abuse if we don't listen to its practitioners, however distasteful we find what they say. Secondly, I don't think that Langham is a paedophile. While there is obviously considerable room to doubt his 'research' mitigation, gratification is not the sole motivation for looking at any unpleasant images. I looked at the Ken Bigley beheading video when it was on Ogrish. Does that make me a terrorist or a decapitation fanatic? Or just someone trying to understand the unpleasant world he lives in a little bit more?
There is no doubt that Langham was wrong to access the material that he saw. There is also no doubt that a legal redress of some kind was appropriate, although I believe that an especially heavy sentence was doled out, as this was a high-profile case and a perfect opportunity to present a deterrent example to others. However, to state unequivocally that Langham has to be a paedophile is not something that any of us outside the psychiatric team that evaluated him, post-trial, is in a position to do. I can only speak in terms of my perceptions, thoughts and beliefs with regard to the matter, and I am careful to do so. The most I can do to support my view is to suggest that Langham being allowed to return to his wife and young family - one of 11, one of 13 - indicates that the assessors concluded that while he is undoubtedly many things, he is not a risk to children.
I respect the right of others to doubt Langham's sincerity, but I condemn their tendency to present their own ill-informed surmises as unassailable fact.
Friday, January 18, 2008
There are times when I'm ashamed to be a journalist. This is one of them. How is '75 year-old man goes shopping' a news story? I bet the photographer has a whole memory card full of pictures where Mr Bough's looking perfectly happy with his lot, but "Oooh, look. There's one where he's looking a bit pissed off because they're out of sun-dried tomatoes/his pound jammed in the trolley. Let's call it the tragic life of a forgotten broadcaster". I'm guessing that this sort of crap is exactly why he avoids the limelight. Sure, he did some foolish things back in the day, but his worst crime was getting caught. I'm sure that no Daily Mail journalists or executives have ever taken cocaine or paid for sex. Take no notice, Mr Bough. He was a consummate professional on Nationwide and Grandstand, and quite frankly no scandals can take that away from him. I hope that he and Nesta are having a lovely retirement.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Ricky Gervais needs to make up his bleeding mind. Is he the 'aw shucks' regular guy that declares "I’m more famous than I should be", or is he the hideously arrogant knob-end who states that he's too good for British television? No, really. The exact words being “You know when you play tennis with someone who’s nowhere near as good as you, and you have to say, ‘Okay, you can play in the doubles area and I’ll only use one arm’? That’s what me and Steve feel like when we’re doing comedy in England".
I suspect that the former is closer to Gervais' real attitude, and that the latter is merely the sort of thing said by a man who's been watching too many Muhammad Ali interviews. Maybe he knows precisely how limited he is and how incredibly lucky he has been. Lucky not only to parlay up a successful career out of such a meagre act, but also to convince apparently intentional, rational people that the meagre act is a performance of depth, range and integrity. Keep saying you're the best and some people will begin to believe it, however overwhelming the evidence to the contrary.
Gervais is right to say that the British comedy scene isn't in the rudest of health, but throughout his career, he has relied on the deficiencies of others to make his own mediocrity look like spun gold. Channel 4’s Eleven O’Clock Show was one of the worst comedy programmes ever made and Gervais was the best thing on it. Amid such rubbish, a mediocre comic could only shine. He must also share some of the blame for the current malaise. There were some nice moments in The Office, but it wasn't the greatest sitcom ever made, as many seem to claim. It wasn't even as good, funny, clever or innovative as the now-largely-forgotten People Like Us, which beat it to the mock-docusoap format by a good few years. However, it has come to be regarded as the gold standard for modern TV comedy, and with the bar set so low, the state of the rest of the industry is a natural consequence.
Festive lethargy led me to watch the Extras Christmas special from beginning to end, where I've only managed to stomach one episode from each series of the normal run. It reinforced my conviction that Andy Millman = David Brent = a slightly amplified version of Gervais himself. It also reinforced my view that Stephen Merchant is the brains of the outfit, both as a writer and performer. The joyous sight of him, Shaun Williamson and Dean Gaffney dancing to ringtones like a Care in the Community version of Wilson, Keppel and Betty bought the whole show a hell of a lot of goodwill on my sofa. Goodwill that was, sadly, pissed away when Gervais/Millman went into his rant on the nature of modern celebrity while in the Big Brother house. When Merchant and Gervais gave Brent his moment of redemption at the end of The Office - standing up to the odious Finchy, and possibly on the verge of real love - it was worthy of respect. It was an about-turn in the character's development, but it didn't jar. In contrast, Millman's apparent redemption was over-blown, cloying and seemingly calculated to show what a serious artist Gervais is.
Or believes himself to be. While obviously not a stupid man or completely without humour, I don't believe that Ricky Gervais is either as clever or as funny as he thinks he is. Witness his tendency to bring race and disability into his comedy at the drop of a hat, while hiding behind the slenderest 'comedy of embarrassment/confronting attitudes' defence. A spaz joke's a spaz joke, and there are some good ones in existence - just be honest about your motivations.The hype machine has meant that expressing this view in public has been the modern equivalent of an HM Bateman cartoon. However, it seems that the backlash is getting underway. If his next big project is about a slightly different tubby man with a Reading accent, maybe the scales will fall from the eyes of even his doughtiest defenders. The conclusion of the interview in which he claimed to be bigger than British TV comedy is very very interesting.
“When I first came into this, I was scared of the press. Now, I’m not scared of them. How can they hurt me? Them saying I’m rubbish can’t hurt me. Them not liking me can’t hurt me. Them saying I’m fat and stupid and not funny can’t hurt me....Only I can ruin my career. Only I’ve got that power. Only I can ruin this. Only I can ruin it.”
He's wrong, of course. Many comedians have seen their finest work decisively ignored by the public. He seems rattled. Maybe it will spur him on to create something that finally convinces people like me that there's more to him than has been previously displayed. Maybe he'll realise the game's up, and he'll just sit back and count the money. We shall see.
I suspect that the former is closer to Gervais' real attitude, and that the latter is merely the sort of thing said by a man who's been watching too many Muhammad Ali interviews. Maybe he knows precisely how limited he is and how incredibly lucky he has been. Lucky not only to parlay up a successful career out of such a meagre act, but also to convince apparently intentional, rational people that the meagre act is a performance of depth, range and integrity. Keep saying you're the best and some people will begin to believe it, however overwhelming the evidence to the contrary.
Gervais is right to say that the British comedy scene isn't in the rudest of health, but throughout his career, he has relied on the deficiencies of others to make his own mediocrity look like spun gold. Channel 4’s Eleven O’Clock Show was one of the worst comedy programmes ever made and Gervais was the best thing on it. Amid such rubbish, a mediocre comic could only shine. He must also share some of the blame for the current malaise. There were some nice moments in The Office, but it wasn't the greatest sitcom ever made, as many seem to claim. It wasn't even as good, funny, clever or innovative as the now-largely-forgotten People Like Us, which beat it to the mock-docusoap format by a good few years. However, it has come to be regarded as the gold standard for modern TV comedy, and with the bar set so low, the state of the rest of the industry is a natural consequence.
Festive lethargy led me to watch the Extras Christmas special from beginning to end, where I've only managed to stomach one episode from each series of the normal run. It reinforced my conviction that Andy Millman = David Brent = a slightly amplified version of Gervais himself. It also reinforced my view that Stephen Merchant is the brains of the outfit, both as a writer and performer. The joyous sight of him, Shaun Williamson and Dean Gaffney dancing to ringtones like a Care in the Community version of Wilson, Keppel and Betty bought the whole show a hell of a lot of goodwill on my sofa. Goodwill that was, sadly, pissed away when Gervais/Millman went into his rant on the nature of modern celebrity while in the Big Brother house. When Merchant and Gervais gave Brent his moment of redemption at the end of The Office - standing up to the odious Finchy, and possibly on the verge of real love - it was worthy of respect. It was an about-turn in the character's development, but it didn't jar. In contrast, Millman's apparent redemption was over-blown, cloying and seemingly calculated to show what a serious artist Gervais is.
Or believes himself to be. While obviously not a stupid man or completely without humour, I don't believe that Ricky Gervais is either as clever or as funny as he thinks he is. Witness his tendency to bring race and disability into his comedy at the drop of a hat, while hiding behind the slenderest 'comedy of embarrassment/confronting attitudes' defence. A spaz joke's a spaz joke, and there are some good ones in existence - just be honest about your motivations.The hype machine has meant that expressing this view in public has been the modern equivalent of an HM Bateman cartoon. However, it seems that the backlash is getting underway. If his next big project is about a slightly different tubby man with a Reading accent, maybe the scales will fall from the eyes of even his doughtiest defenders. The conclusion of the interview in which he claimed to be bigger than British TV comedy is very very interesting.
“When I first came into this, I was scared of the press. Now, I’m not scared of them. How can they hurt me? Them saying I’m rubbish can’t hurt me. Them not liking me can’t hurt me. Them saying I’m fat and stupid and not funny can’t hurt me....Only I can ruin my career. Only I’ve got that power. Only I can ruin this. Only I can ruin it.”
He's wrong, of course. Many comedians have seen their finest work decisively ignored by the public. He seems rattled. Maybe it will spur him on to create something that finally convinces people like me that there's more to him than has been previously displayed. Maybe he'll realise the game's up, and he'll just sit back and count the money. We shall see.
Monday, December 31, 2007
I'm deeply saddened by the news of Kevin Greening's premature demise. When he turned up on Radio 1 in the early 1990s, his bone-dry wit was a welcome counterpoint to the wacky but ultimately humourless cack that had gone before (Gary Davies' Sloppy Bit, Willy on the Plonker, etc). I was a student at the time, and it took a lot to wake me before midday (no change there, then), but I regularly made the effort to catch at least the last half-hour of his weekend breakfast show, as a prelude to Danny Baker.
He wasn't just a funny man, though. Years later, I found myself sitting in a cubicle at BBC Norwich, being interviewed down the line by Greening for a World Service programme on the state of the record industry. He had either read my book thoroughly or been provided with an excellent precis, and the ensuing interview was one of the best and most perceptive I've ever been involved with. Before the recording started, I took the liberty to thank him for all the great radio he'd funnelled my way. All the Raymond Sinclair stuff, etc. I felt a bit of a gushing pillock at the time, but I'm glad I did it now. He'll be missed.
He wasn't just a funny man, though. Years later, I found myself sitting in a cubicle at BBC Norwich, being interviewed down the line by Greening for a World Service programme on the state of the record industry. He had either read my book thoroughly or been provided with an excellent precis, and the ensuing interview was one of the best and most perceptive I've ever been involved with. Before the recording started, I took the liberty to thank him for all the great radio he'd funnelled my way. All the Raymond Sinclair stuff, etc. I felt a bit of a gushing pillock at the time, but I'm glad I did it now. He'll be missed.
Friday, December 28, 2007
When it comes to the German people, one of the most enduring stereotypes is that they have no sense of humour. This is unfair and untrue. If nothing else, they are connoisseurs of slapstick, which explains the enduring popularity of Dinner for One, an old British music-hall sketch that the German television networks show every New Year's Eve.
The setting for the piece is the 90th birthday party of an aristocratic female called Miss Sophie. Her table is set for a group of friends, all of whom have predeceased her. Not daunted, it falls to her butler, James, to pour the guests' drinks. As he does so, he asks Miss Sophie if she wants him to follow "the same procedure as last year", to which she replies "the same procedure as every year". The same procedure being that he has to drink the drinks himself, supplying a brief impersonation of each guest. Unsurprisingly, with a different booze being specified for each course, he becomes thoroughly Rowley Birkin-ed, and a rich vein of comedy ensues as he tries to dish up the dinner while utterly paralytic. His attempts to negotiate a path round, over or past a tigerskin rug are particularly joyous. In short, it's a masterclass in physical comedy. Finally, Miss Sophie declares that she is ready to retire to bed. "Same procedure as last year?" asks James. "Same procedure as every year," replies Miss Sophie, and they disappear upstairs together.
The piece, which is believed to have been written in the 1920s, was the star turn of the comedian Freddie Frinton. Despite being the star of the BBC sitcom Meet the Wife (very few episodes of which survive, despite being enough of a smash hit to be namechecked in a Beatles song), it appears that Frinton never performed his most famous sketch on British television. Certainly, if he did, no recording has survived. The German recording resulted from a visit to Blackpool in 1962 by German entertainer Peter Frankenfeld and his producer Heinz Dunkhase. Frankenfeld persuaded Frinton to come to Germany and perform it in his live show, and at one performance in March 1963, an outside broadcast unit from the Norddeutscher Rundfunk network captured it. Frinton had served in World War II and had the hatred of Germans that many of his generation and experience shared, but he overcame that to accept the offer. That Frinton's greatest fame should be in a country he disliked so intensely is as noteworthy as the fact that, despite being a superb comedy drunk, he was, like Jimmy James, a teetotaller. The broadcast went down well, but it wasn't until it was shown on New Year's Eve in 1972 that it began to acquire its ritualistic status. Since then, it's been shown every year, at various times of the day by the regional German broadcasting networks. The German recording has never been shown on British television, but it's been part of my own New Year's Eve ritual - along with Rikki Fulton, Still Game, the Edinburgh Castle gun, a bottle of single malt and not even thinking about leaving the house - ever since my friend Gavin Sutherland gave me a tape years ago. We can rest assured that if the BBC had ever screened it, the tape would now be wiped or misfiled. Or, even worse, only ever dragged out for clip shows where a nanosecond would be shown as a prelude to five minutes of Barry Shitpeas passing a judgment along the lines of "Yeah, right, and they're going to have sex. They're really old. Gross. What's all that about? Can I have my money now, please?" despite not being able to display one iota of Frinton's comic craftsmanship in his own work.
Frinton died in 1968, just before he was due to return to Germany to remake the sketch in colour. In recent years, the original tape has been colourised fairly sympathetically, and this is the version I present here for download. It's a 200MB AVI file, suitable for viewing on Xvid/Divx-compatible DVD players. May it bring as much joy to your Hogmanay celebrations as it does to mine.
The setting for the piece is the 90th birthday party of an aristocratic female called Miss Sophie. Her table is set for a group of friends, all of whom have predeceased her. Not daunted, it falls to her butler, James, to pour the guests' drinks. As he does so, he asks Miss Sophie if she wants him to follow "the same procedure as last year", to which she replies "the same procedure as every year". The same procedure being that he has to drink the drinks himself, supplying a brief impersonation of each guest. Unsurprisingly, with a different booze being specified for each course, he becomes thoroughly Rowley Birkin-ed, and a rich vein of comedy ensues as he tries to dish up the dinner while utterly paralytic. His attempts to negotiate a path round, over or past a tigerskin rug are particularly joyous. In short, it's a masterclass in physical comedy. Finally, Miss Sophie declares that she is ready to retire to bed. "Same procedure as last year?" asks James. "Same procedure as every year," replies Miss Sophie, and they disappear upstairs together.
The piece, which is believed to have been written in the 1920s, was the star turn of the comedian Freddie Frinton. Despite being the star of the BBC sitcom Meet the Wife (very few episodes of which survive, despite being enough of a smash hit to be namechecked in a Beatles song), it appears that Frinton never performed his most famous sketch on British television. Certainly, if he did, no recording has survived. The German recording resulted from a visit to Blackpool in 1962 by German entertainer Peter Frankenfeld and his producer Heinz Dunkhase. Frankenfeld persuaded Frinton to come to Germany and perform it in his live show, and at one performance in March 1963, an outside broadcast unit from the Norddeutscher Rundfunk network captured it. Frinton had served in World War II and had the hatred of Germans that many of his generation and experience shared, but he overcame that to accept the offer. That Frinton's greatest fame should be in a country he disliked so intensely is as noteworthy as the fact that, despite being a superb comedy drunk, he was, like Jimmy James, a teetotaller. The broadcast went down well, but it wasn't until it was shown on New Year's Eve in 1972 that it began to acquire its ritualistic status. Since then, it's been shown every year, at various times of the day by the regional German broadcasting networks. The German recording has never been shown on British television, but it's been part of my own New Year's Eve ritual - along with Rikki Fulton, Still Game, the Edinburgh Castle gun, a bottle of single malt and not even thinking about leaving the house - ever since my friend Gavin Sutherland gave me a tape years ago. We can rest assured that if the BBC had ever screened it, the tape would now be wiped or misfiled. Or, even worse, only ever dragged out for clip shows where a nanosecond would be shown as a prelude to five minutes of Barry Shitpeas passing a judgment along the lines of "Yeah, right, and they're going to have sex. They're really old. Gross. What's all that about? Can I have my money now, please?" despite not being able to display one iota of Frinton's comic craftsmanship in his own work.
Frinton died in 1968, just before he was due to return to Germany to remake the sketch in colour. In recent years, the original tape has been colourised fairly sympathetically, and this is the version I present here for download. It's a 200MB AVI file, suitable for viewing on Xvid/Divx-compatible DVD players. May it bring as much joy to your Hogmanay celebrations as it does to mine.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I'm not sure whether this qualifies as a Christmas song, but it's easily my favourite piece of music with 'Christmas' in the title. And what a title, too. Ladies and gentlemen, get festive with the Sensational Alex Harvey Band and their pub singalong from the Planet Zanussi, 'There's No Lights on the Christmas Tree, Mother, They're Burning Big Louie Tonight'.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Another beauty from Wikipedia, this time from the entry for Pope Benedict XVI:
Pope Benedict XVI (Latin: Benedictus PP. XVI; Italian: Benedetto XVI, born Joseph Alois Ratzinger on 16 April 1927) is the 265th and reigning Pope, the spiritual head of the Catholic Church, and as such, Sovereign of the Vatican City State.[1] He was elected on 19 April 2005 in a papal conclave, celebrated his Papal Inauguration Mass on 24 April 2005, and took possession of his cathedral, the Basilica of St. John Lateran, on 7 May 2005. Pope Benedict XVI has both German and Vatican citizenship. He succeeded Pope John Paul II, who died on 2 April 2005 (and with whom he had worked before the interregnum). Benedict XVI is also the Bishop of Rome.
Pope Benedict XVI (Latin: Benedictus PP. XVI; Italian: Benedetto XVI, born Joseph Alois Ratzinger on 16 April 1927) is the 265th and reigning Pope, the spiritual head of the Catholic Church, and as such, Sovereign of the Vatican City State.[1] He was elected on 19 April 2005 in a papal conclave, celebrated his Papal Inauguration Mass on 24 April 2005, and took possession of his cathedral, the Basilica of St. John Lateran, on 7 May 2005. Pope Benedict XVI has both German and Vatican citizenship. He succeeded Pope John Paul II, who died on 2 April 2005 (and with whom he had worked before the interregnum). Benedict XVI is also the Bishop of Rome.
PERSONAL MOTTO: "I <3 PORN"
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
In response to the Andrew Gold cover in this post on The Urban Woo's blog, here's Gold and Graham Gouldman (Say what you like about 10CC - I ruddy love 'em - but he wrote Bus Stop, and that's enough to warrant the keys to heaven as far as I'm concerned) on TOTP in 1987, miming to the majestic 'Bridge to Your Heart'.
What didn't strike me fully at the time was how much the man who wrote 'Bus Stop' (etc.) looked like someone in my year at school who went on to become head boy. Wherever he is now, I hope he's well and prosperous. If not, he could always form a 10CC tribute act, although I seem to recall his main field of musical expertise was playing bassoon, and I don't recall there being a rocking bassoon solo on 'Good Morning, Judge'.
What didn't strike me fully at the time was how much the man who wrote 'Bus Stop' (etc.) looked like someone in my year at school who went on to become head boy. Wherever he is now, I hope he's well and prosperous. If not, he could always form a 10CC tribute act, although I seem to recall his main field of musical expertise was playing bassoon, and I don't recall there being a rocking bassoon solo on 'Good Morning, Judge'.
Sunday, December 16, 2007
While I'm in a YouTube jazz kind of mood, here are some other clips that have caught my eyes and ears. We'll kick off with Ella Fitzgerald in London in 1965, with the Johnny Spence orchestra and the much-missed Tubby Hayes on tenor saxophone. I'm happy to report that you can see the whole show from which this performance comes on BBC4 on Christmas Eve at 9.30pm, following a documentary about Ella.
That Ella Fitzgerald Sings special was a Terry Henebery production, as was the 1987 edition of Parkinson One to One from which this next clip comes: a blistering Buddy Rich Orchestra tearing into Matt Harris' killer-diller arrangement of 'Just in Time'. Not sure who the trombonist is, but the trumpet solo is by Greg Gisberg. As good as the solos are, it's the Clarke-Boland Band-style unison ensemble work from 2:02 onwards that gets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
Talking of Kenny Clarke and Francy Boland, here's one of my own uploads - 'Sax No End' from a 1968 German TV special. I think that, if I could go back in time to see any past jazz ensemble in concert, it would be this one. As it is, I shall just have to settle for a memorable evening in a Wigan hotel bar with Johnny Griffin. Again, solos great, ensemble playing (from 2:30 onwards) greater. Just so dextrous, powerful and tight.
Here's another swinger, and one that doesn't quite come off, but it's an fun and interesting experiment, nonetheless: John MacLaughlin with the Tonight Show orchestra in 1985, ripping into 'Cherokee'. It sounds ever so slightly as though JMacL's fighting the band while he's stating the theme, but when he takes off into his solo from 1:12 onwards, I find it hard not to be rendered breathless by the gusto of his playing. Some accuse him of playing too many notes, and they may have a point, but the notes he does play are always impeccably placed and pitched. Sometimes I think less is more, sometimes I'm ready for the works.
Moving into the fusion arena, I had a major thing for Weather Report in my teens - RIP Joe Zawinul. I still love their work dearly, but don't listen quite as obsessively to them as I did 20 years ago. Around that time, Channel 4 had a music strand called The Late Shift, in which Charlie Gillett and Vivien Goldman - both commendably knowledgable and broad-minded - introduced bought-in concert footage. One night, they showed Jaco Pastorius live at the Montreal Jazz Festival, a show that opened with a ferociously groovy number called 'The Chicken'. Weather Report's music was given to odd squawks and warbles, and that was a large part of its charm, but on his own, Jaco liked to dig deep into the pocket, and 'The Chicken' is a perfect example. Yes, there's some flashy playing from Bob Mintzer on tenor and Randy Brecker on electronically-treated trumpet, but the groove - to which the great Pete Erskine's drumming makes no small contribution - is rock solid. Here's the Montreal version that blew me away, with a link after that to a big band version recorded in Japan. Both are just jaw-dropping.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJfiYdQcQtc
Back to the 1960s, and around the same time that Ella visited the UK, we were graced by a visit from saxophonist, composer and arranger Benny Golson. Terry Henebery (that man again - jazz history owes him a great debt) got Golson into the BBC Television Theatre with an orchestra of the best British musicians, including Tubby Hayes, guitarist Dave Goldberg and multi-instrumentalist Alan Branscombe, all of whom died far too young.
Another of my own uploads, but what the hell. This is the Victor Feldman Trio rattling through 'Swinging on a Star', and it just makes me smile every time I hear it. That's Rick Laird from the Mahavishnu Orchestra on bass, and it's Ronnie Stephenson on drums, a great, underrated British player (for my money, one of the best and most musical jazz drummers there's ever been - he was very fond of playing the tune in his breaks and fills), whose best-known work is the excellent Drum Spectacular album he made in 1966 with Kenny Clare and a host of names like Stan Tracey and Tubbs. When not playing jazz, Ronnie was a session giant, providing the drums for tracks like Dusty's 'You Don't Have to Say You Love Me'.
More will follow.
That Ella Fitzgerald Sings special was a Terry Henebery production, as was the 1987 edition of Parkinson One to One from which this next clip comes: a blistering Buddy Rich Orchestra tearing into Matt Harris' killer-diller arrangement of 'Just in Time'. Not sure who the trombonist is, but the trumpet solo is by Greg Gisberg. As good as the solos are, it's the Clarke-Boland Band-style unison ensemble work from 2:02 onwards that gets the hairs on the back of my neck standing up.
Talking of Kenny Clarke and Francy Boland, here's one of my own uploads - 'Sax No End' from a 1968 German TV special. I think that, if I could go back in time to see any past jazz ensemble in concert, it would be this one. As it is, I shall just have to settle for a memorable evening in a Wigan hotel bar with Johnny Griffin. Again, solos great, ensemble playing (from 2:30 onwards) greater. Just so dextrous, powerful and tight.
Here's another swinger, and one that doesn't quite come off, but it's an fun and interesting experiment, nonetheless: John MacLaughlin with the Tonight Show orchestra in 1985, ripping into 'Cherokee'. It sounds ever so slightly as though JMacL's fighting the band while he's stating the theme, but when he takes off into his solo from 1:12 onwards, I find it hard not to be rendered breathless by the gusto of his playing. Some accuse him of playing too many notes, and they may have a point, but the notes he does play are always impeccably placed and pitched. Sometimes I think less is more, sometimes I'm ready for the works.
Moving into the fusion arena, I had a major thing for Weather Report in my teens - RIP Joe Zawinul. I still love their work dearly, but don't listen quite as obsessively to them as I did 20 years ago. Around that time, Channel 4 had a music strand called The Late Shift, in which Charlie Gillett and Vivien Goldman - both commendably knowledgable and broad-minded - introduced bought-in concert footage. One night, they showed Jaco Pastorius live at the Montreal Jazz Festival, a show that opened with a ferociously groovy number called 'The Chicken'. Weather Report's music was given to odd squawks and warbles, and that was a large part of its charm, but on his own, Jaco liked to dig deep into the pocket, and 'The Chicken' is a perfect example. Yes, there's some flashy playing from Bob Mintzer on tenor and Randy Brecker on electronically-treated trumpet, but the groove - to which the great Pete Erskine's drumming makes no small contribution - is rock solid. Here's the Montreal version that blew me away, with a link after that to a big band version recorded in Japan. Both are just jaw-dropping.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RJfiYdQcQtc
Back to the 1960s, and around the same time that Ella visited the UK, we were graced by a visit from saxophonist, composer and arranger Benny Golson. Terry Henebery (that man again - jazz history owes him a great debt) got Golson into the BBC Television Theatre with an orchestra of the best British musicians, including Tubby Hayes, guitarist Dave Goldberg and multi-instrumentalist Alan Branscombe, all of whom died far too young.
Another of my own uploads, but what the hell. This is the Victor Feldman Trio rattling through 'Swinging on a Star', and it just makes me smile every time I hear it. That's Rick Laird from the Mahavishnu Orchestra on bass, and it's Ronnie Stephenson on drums, a great, underrated British player (for my money, one of the best and most musical jazz drummers there's ever been - he was very fond of playing the tune in his breaks and fills), whose best-known work is the excellent Drum Spectacular album he made in 1966 with Kenny Clare and a host of names like Stan Tracey and Tubbs. When not playing jazz, Ronnie was a session giant, providing the drums for tracks like Dusty's 'You Don't Have to Say You Love Me'.
More will follow.
Jazz appeals to a niche audience, and this is why legendary figures can be found playing regularly in pubs and clubs with no need for giant video screens or opera glasses. I've lost count of the happy hours spent at the Bull's Head in Barnes listening to Stan Tracey and Bobby Wellins, with Andy Cleyndert on bass and Stan's son Clark on drums, and a host of special guests including Guy Barker, Don Weller and Ben Castle (son of Roy, and a superb tenor player). In particular, I remember Weller and Wellins raising the roof with a stunning version of 'Comme d'Habitude' a few years back. For the uninitiated, that's the original title of the song that Paul Anka ruined by turning it into 'My Way', so to hear Stan and the chaps attacking it as a ferocious samba is always a delight.
I've been to Dublin only a couple of times, but my first act on arrival has always been to find where and when Irish jazz guitarist Louis Stewart's playing that week. The quietest and most unassuming of men (I don't think he realises how good he is, or, if he does, it's still not good enough for him - no matter, the big name American players like Pat Martino all hold him in the highest esteem), Louis is nothing less than a god. His gorgeous, rounded tone is matched by a lightning speed and, most crucially, a great sensitivity and an unrivalled sense of when to hold back and when to let rip. Here he is, letting rip on 'Four'.
I first became aware of him on a Stephane Grappelli concert shown by BBC2 when I was 11. On that occasion, he was playing rhythm guitar to Martin Taylor's lead role, and for most of the show was blocking out chords. However, on the last number, 'Sweet Georgia Brown', he got to solo and I realised that - immense as my love of Martin Taylor is - this was no second banana. Over the years, I became more aware of Louis' work with Benny Goodman, Tubby Hayes and many, many others, and my respect for his playing just grew and grew. Recently, when I found this clip of him and Peter Ind (whose Tenor Clef club in Hoxton was a very important part of my late teens) performing on Q7, introduced by another hero of mine (a man who knew his jazz, too), I couldn't believe my luck.
I've met and spoken to Louis on a number of occasions, most memorably after the 60th birthday concert mounted in his honour by RTE in 2004. Shortly after that, I was asked by Crescendo magazine to interview Louis when he was in London. I travelled to Southend to see him play and set up the interview, and all was agreed over a drink in the interval. The next day I turned up at the agreed spot and Louis was nowhere to be seen. It became clear that he had 'gone shy'. If I'd had the recorder with me the previous night, he'd probably have talked, but given time to think about it, he had reconsidered and done a vanishing act. I'd have been angry with almost anyone else in the same situation, no matter how legendary, but knowing Louis a little, I realised I had to respect his decision and return to my editor empty-handed. And, no matter what stories he could have told me, sometimes, the music is all that matters. This version of 'Scrapple from the Apple' just takes flight.
These clips are only the tip of the iceberg. If you have even the slightest liking of jazz, I urge you to go to YouTube, put his name in the search box and watch everything that comes up. He's very special.
I've been to Dublin only a couple of times, but my first act on arrival has always been to find where and when Irish jazz guitarist Louis Stewart's playing that week. The quietest and most unassuming of men (I don't think he realises how good he is, or, if he does, it's still not good enough for him - no matter, the big name American players like Pat Martino all hold him in the highest esteem), Louis is nothing less than a god. His gorgeous, rounded tone is matched by a lightning speed and, most crucially, a great sensitivity and an unrivalled sense of when to hold back and when to let rip. Here he is, letting rip on 'Four'.
I first became aware of him on a Stephane Grappelli concert shown by BBC2 when I was 11. On that occasion, he was playing rhythm guitar to Martin Taylor's lead role, and for most of the show was blocking out chords. However, on the last number, 'Sweet Georgia Brown', he got to solo and I realised that - immense as my love of Martin Taylor is - this was no second banana. Over the years, I became more aware of Louis' work with Benny Goodman, Tubby Hayes and many, many others, and my respect for his playing just grew and grew. Recently, when I found this clip of him and Peter Ind (whose Tenor Clef club in Hoxton was a very important part of my late teens) performing on Q7, introduced by another hero of mine (a man who knew his jazz, too), I couldn't believe my luck.
I've met and spoken to Louis on a number of occasions, most memorably after the 60th birthday concert mounted in his honour by RTE in 2004. Shortly after that, I was asked by Crescendo magazine to interview Louis when he was in London. I travelled to Southend to see him play and set up the interview, and all was agreed over a drink in the interval. The next day I turned up at the agreed spot and Louis was nowhere to be seen. It became clear that he had 'gone shy'. If I'd had the recorder with me the previous night, he'd probably have talked, but given time to think about it, he had reconsidered and done a vanishing act. I'd have been angry with almost anyone else in the same situation, no matter how legendary, but knowing Louis a little, I realised I had to respect his decision and return to my editor empty-handed. And, no matter what stories he could have told me, sometimes, the music is all that matters. This version of 'Scrapple from the Apple' just takes flight.
These clips are only the tip of the iceberg. If you have even the slightest liking of jazz, I urge you to go to YouTube, put his name in the search box and watch everything that comes up. He's very special.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Recent spurious revelations about the harmlessness of binge drinking while pregnant apart, we all know that the best policy for a modern, expectant mother is to retire to bed for the whole nine months, padding the abdomen well with cotton wool. How different it was in 1968, according to the British Medical Association's You and Your Baby part 1.
According to modern advice, liver is a no-no, because of the high concentration of vitamin A. In 1968, mothers-to-be were advised to get as much vitamin A down them as they possibly could, and it was considered that "Foods such as liver and pork contain excellent amounts of vitamins, and also iron, as well as protein, so do try to eat them once or twice a week".
As for drinking, Guinness have a full-page colour advertisement, stressing the medical benefits of stout. Quite right too. I'm guessing that the mothers of most people over 30 drank in moderation through their pregnancies, with no obvious harmful effects on their offspring.
I keep looking for a section advising mothers to cut down to 40 fags a day, or 20 if they're untipped, but I might have to locate a copy of the 1958 edition for that sort of advice.
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
Last night, viewers in the Anglia region were treated to a programme called Bygones, in which presenter Eddie Anderson met a man who collected ceramic railway telegraph insulators. The chap was allowed to explain his obsession in some detail, while Anderson appeared genuinely interested in what he had to say.
Although ceramic railway telegraph insulators aren't my bag, it was refreshing and heart-warming to see an out-and-proud anorak presented on TV without masses of ironic detachment and 'ha, look at this sad wanker'-type sneering. The modern media has a 'too cool for school' wariness when it comes to enthusiasts, but all too often relies on them to do its research for free. In a recent survey, it was discovered that 98.7% of all modern TV documentary makers regard Wikipedia (which, apart from the libellous bits about Bryan McFadden, is the province of altruistic anoraks) as a primary source. Meanwhile, I've lost count of the number of times that friends in the archive TV collecting world have been contacted by 'we're so good at telly' pisspots who expect them to reveal all they know in exchange for a pat on the head, a complete and utter lack of understanding of any material thus supplied and a credit that's going to be squeezed to oblivion and talked over anyway.
It's not just the media. In general, modern Britain seems to have a bias against knowledge. Anyone who actually knows anything is instantly categorised as Rain Man. All too often, when someone asks an arcane question about cultural ephemera in my presence, I find myself feigning vagueness and replying with another question: "Wasn't it Freddie 'Parrot Face' Davies? He's coming to mind for some reason". The reason being that I know it's the right bleeding answer, but to come out with it in an authoritative and unequivocal manner would make me look unacceptably smug and twatty.
Well, bollocks to it all. I know about a lot of esoteric things and I like knowing about a lot of esoteric things. Anyone who thinks I'm a bit of a spanner for doing so can work it up their arse. Better something useful like a spanner than a dildo made of blancmange. It's hip to be square. So there.
Although ceramic railway telegraph insulators aren't my bag, it was refreshing and heart-warming to see an out-and-proud anorak presented on TV without masses of ironic detachment and 'ha, look at this sad wanker'-type sneering. The modern media has a 'too cool for school' wariness when it comes to enthusiasts, but all too often relies on them to do its research for free. In a recent survey, it was discovered that 98.7% of all modern TV documentary makers regard Wikipedia (which, apart from the libellous bits about Bryan McFadden, is the province of altruistic anoraks) as a primary source. Meanwhile, I've lost count of the number of times that friends in the archive TV collecting world have been contacted by 'we're so good at telly' pisspots who expect them to reveal all they know in exchange for a pat on the head, a complete and utter lack of understanding of any material thus supplied and a credit that's going to be squeezed to oblivion and talked over anyway.
It's not just the media. In general, modern Britain seems to have a bias against knowledge. Anyone who actually knows anything is instantly categorised as Rain Man. All too often, when someone asks an arcane question about cultural ephemera in my presence, I find myself feigning vagueness and replying with another question: "Wasn't it Freddie 'Parrot Face' Davies? He's coming to mind for some reason". The reason being that I know it's the right bleeding answer, but to come out with it in an authoritative and unequivocal manner would make me look unacceptably smug and twatty.
Well, bollocks to it all. I know about a lot of esoteric things and I like knowing about a lot of esoteric things. Anyone who thinks I'm a bit of a spanner for doing so can work it up their arse. Better something useful like a spanner than a dildo made of blancmange. It's hip to be square. So there.
Friday, November 30, 2007
The business in the Sudan makes me despair. I could just about take the Sudanese authorities citing 'rules is rules', and giving her a mild, but nonetheless unjustified jail term. This was aided by the sight and sound of most high-ranking British Muslims shaking their heads very sadly and very publicly, stating that the whole thing is a terrible misunderstanding and a ghastly mess, thus confounding the 'all Muslims are dangerous' lobby and doing much to defuse tension. My tolerance is, however, tested by the reported thousands of protesters marching on Khartoum demanding that Gillian Gibbons be shot. If that's your idea of a solution, I think the governments of the world should get together and make lack of perspective a capital offence, with full extradition.
I understand the importance of respecting other people's beliefs, just as I expect them to respect my utter lack of faith. In this case, I've seen nothing to indicate that the poor woman did anything other than go out of her way to respect the predominant faith of her adopted home. Unless I've misread the situation wildly, it seems to have gone something like this. Teacher says "What shall we call the bear?". Class of children says "Muhammad, miss". Teacher says "You know that's not really allowed". Class of children says "Pleeeeeeeeease, miss, or we'll hold our breath until we keel over". Teacher, quite understandably, says "Oh, all right then". Teacher then sends letter to parents explaining that the children chose the name, that she tried to explain that it wasn't on, but just you try reasoning with 30 anklebiters with a rudimentary understanding of collective bargaining. Parent dobs her in. All the nutters come out to play.
The only bad thing I've heard from the Gibbons side of the affair was professional Scouser and proven ambulance chaser Pete Price on the wireless last night, talking loud and saying nothing about his imprisoned friend. Surely he can't know everyone on Merseyside personally?
I understand the importance of respecting other people's beliefs, just as I expect them to respect my utter lack of faith. In this case, I've seen nothing to indicate that the poor woman did anything other than go out of her way to respect the predominant faith of her adopted home. Unless I've misread the situation wildly, it seems to have gone something like this. Teacher says "What shall we call the bear?". Class of children says "Muhammad, miss". Teacher says "You know that's not really allowed". Class of children says "Pleeeeeeeeease, miss, or we'll hold our breath until we keel over". Teacher, quite understandably, says "Oh, all right then". Teacher then sends letter to parents explaining that the children chose the name, that she tried to explain that it wasn't on, but just you try reasoning with 30 anklebiters with a rudimentary understanding of collective bargaining. Parent dobs her in. All the nutters come out to play.
The only bad thing I've heard from the Gibbons side of the affair was professional Scouser and proven ambulance chaser Pete Price on the wireless last night, talking loud and saying nothing about his imprisoned friend. Surely he can't know everyone on Merseyside personally?
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
More from the scurrilous back passages of Wikipedia, this time from Radio 1 DJ Annie Mac's page:
"Annie's brother Davey MacManus is in the British band The Crimea. Annie also has a sister named Rachel and one other brother. She is also very close friends with fellow DJ, Edith Bowman. They have been known to finger each others vagina while presenting radio shows together. Pictures had been posted on her Flickr picture thread. Only to be taken down from webmasters due to rile violations."
What on earth are rile violations? I adore the fact that there's a link to the vagina page, just in case you were unsure. If you see any similar mash-ups and derailments, do please alert me. I can usually do with a laugh.
"Annie's brother Davey MacManus is in the British band The Crimea. Annie also has a sister named Rachel and one other brother. She is also very close friends with fellow DJ, Edith Bowman. They have been known to finger each others vagina while presenting radio shows together. Pictures had been posted on her Flickr picture thread. Only to be taken down from webmasters due to rile violations."
What on earth are rile violations? I adore the fact that there's a link to the vagina page, just in case you were unsure. If you see any similar mash-ups and derailments, do please alert me. I can usually do with a laugh.
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