Wednesday, 13 May 2009

They Were The Resurrection And The Life

20 years since the Stone Roses' first album, before their second, Oasis and lad-rock killed proper indie. To celebrate, here's their appearance in Wolverhampton: at the Magistrate's Court, for trashing their label's office in revenge for being completely ripped off.


Stick to the first, transcendent album if you don't know their stuff. It transformed the UK music scene after a terrible few years. The 2nd, The Second Coming, is mostly poor, and the bootlegs aren't worth getting because Ian Brown can't sing (and, it turns out, write music on his own). Despite being overplayed at every indie disco ever, that first album still sends a rush of blood to the head.

Atten-SHUN

Already overrun with ex-bizzies expounding the joy of 'kettling' peaceful protesters, my esteemed institution is toying with the idea of a degree for squaddies. As we've just merged with the Law school, how about 'Spotting an Illegal War for Dummies', and 'What Actually Constitutes Torture and Why It's A Bad Thing'?

Gorky's, how could I forsake you?

Somehow, shamefully, I'd forgotten how good Gorky's Zygotic Mynci's Barafundle album is. I've played four Pastels albums now, so it's on to bucolic Welsh psychedelia.

Who was Jack the Ripper?

Let's assume the existence of backwards time travel (we're already going forwards, and relativity says time travel's possible, given enough energy). That way, we can slander anyone we want by immortalising their names in conjunction with the Ripper's.

My money's on David Cameron. I know people who worked with him before he was an official Tory Bastard. They say he has an appalling temper and unpleasant personal manner. He owns a top hat. Case solved!

Your thoughts?

(Yes, I am marking a Ripper-themed 3rd-year dissertation).

Every day is cloudy and grey

I've got a lot of marking to do today, so I've rewarded myself with treats. Having managed 40 lengths in 27 minutes (backstroke), I had a cinnamon swirl. I'm listening exclusively to The Pastels because I have the office to myself and I damn well like Scottish indie lo-fi, I'm reading Moominpappa at Sea and I'm going to see Serious Money tonight.

Actually, Moominpappa at Sea isn't very comforting. My PhD is about failed masculinity in 1930s Welsh political novels, and many of the same themes are emerging in this Moomins book. Poor old Moominpappa finds that his existing model of masculinity and paternalism is all over - they don't need him to protect him, so he gets depressed. He thinks about starting a forest fire, then moves the whole family to a lighthouse (very phallic) on a remote island so that he can refound the family on conservative lines. Moominmama seems to know that it's a phase she'll endure and seek to mitigate - I'm sure he'll learn the error of his ways in the end.

I hope I haven't just ruined the Moomins for you. They're amongst my very favourites.

How much are the police snorting?

I meant to rant about this yesterday, but had so much to do that I forgot.

The police and their shady friends were all over the press yesterday proclaiming their amazing success in restricting the flow of cocaine into the country, increasing the wholesale price. Paul Flynn rips this PR bollocks apart over on his site. Also, the Ministry of Defence claimed that they'd seized £50m of heroin from the Taliban a while back: Bad Science's analysis reveals that actually, this was PR-speak (i.e. lies) for $126,000 of opium, or $250,000 of heroin, and so on.

What interested me was that the boys in blue said that the street price hadn't changed because dealers were mixing the coke with any old shit they found lying around.

Well, that's OK then. What a result. Lots of stupid people are being poisoned because they're snorting rat poison, Persil or whatever, as well as a little bit of coke. It seems to me that the cops have got totally the wrong end of the wedge on this one. We're always going on about the NHS becoming a health service rather than a sickness service. In the 'war on drugs', we should be reducing demand for drugs (mostly through education and treating addiction as an illness) rather than by firebombing Peruvian peasants and encouraging dealers to poison their customers.

!Whatthefuck?

Occasionally, we're all faced with periods of introspection. Our lives seem worthless, our activities pointless, our presence a drag on our families, friends and colleagues.

I have the solution. Whenever you have a self-esteem crisis, open the website of !Whatif? They're an 'innovations' company. I've read their site and still don't know what they actually do (or even how to pronounce it). I have divined that they wear zany facial hair, combats, and revere Nathan Barley as some kind of god. They charge companies big fees for sounding like they know what's hip - that's as close as I can get. Their name makes me scream with impotent fury. It encapsulates a mindless kind of trendiness, covers utter intellectual bankruptcy. This is what we've done to this country. Honest people making things have been sacked. Bullshitters with no regard for the decencies of grammar run the world. How I hope the recession sends them back to the fields (or as in The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, perhaps they'll be on the first ship to a new planet. We'll follow you, honestly).

There does seem to be a total loss of confidence in company names now too. British Telecom is now officially BP. Vesper Thorneycroft is now VT. The BBC's privatised engineering wing is Red Bee. British Airways is BA. British Petroleum is now BP. West Brom's failed art-gallery-and-whatever is 'The Public' and on and on - what's wrong with a name which says who you are, or what you do? Especially for the shameful industries - BAe (formerly British Aerospace) should be Shiny Weapons of Mass Destruction No Questions Asked, Bribes Available.

MPs housing crisis solved

I've been ranting a bit recently about the more egregious abuses of MPs - and they deserve it. However, someone on Radio 4 this morning pointed out that this distracts us from the major ripoffs. David Cameron is immensely wealthy. Membership of the Bullingdon Club (pictured below) was £10,000 for each student. Yet he claimed £100,000 to cover his mortgage expenses. It seems to work like this: if you're a Tory, you want a bloody big house. So you buy one and charge us for a mansion.

I have a solution. We should only pay for the London house. But here's the cunning bit. We buy them a council house on a sink estate. Not to punish them, but to remind them how millions of people live. After a couple of months, I bet you'd find pressure on local services to improve absolutely everything!

This is the same reason why I suggested that the Supreme Court be based in Stoke, Birmingham or somewhere equally prosaic, rather than cossetted by gentlemen's clubs, fine dining, the old boys' network and corridors of power.


Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Happy birthday, yet another sister

May is very expensive, or it would be were I a more generous man. Dad, two sisters, my brother and an uncle, plus numerous friends and colleagues were all born in May. What was going on in August? Today is my second-youngest sister's birthday - 26 (I hope), and she's marrying in July too. I remember the flush of youth. Awful. Not nearly enough to be bitter and snarky about. Wait! Yes there was! It's other people who enjoyed their youth! Bastards.

Twitter this, you hairstyled chancers

Rather than mark essays, I spent the last hour at Alchemy (a pleasant café which turns into something less salubrious at night), attending a 'Black Country Social Media Café'. It was as revoltingly smug, self-congratulatory and self-regarding as it sounds. Lots of businessmen on the make and people with 'directional' haircuts preening themselves for having heard of various items of software. A local 'journalist' (' ' because she works for the Express and Swastika) was present, as was a gimp with a camera. Needless to say, I hovered around the edges, repressing rage.

I'm offering a remedial style consultation today. I would like to stress that a custom-made t-shirt bearing your Twitter address is NEVER, EVER ACCEPTABLE. You arrogant, narcissistic idiots.

Mmmm vinyl

I've just received the Holy Grail of Scottish nerd sex pop: a triple vinyl remastered copy of everything The Vaselines ever did, with a posh booklet, MP3 version included, and all on the delightful Sub Pop records. Shame the lead singer looks exactly like my unlamented ex-boss.

And now I've stupidly downloaded several Pastels albums even though I have them on vinyl.

John Cale - Y Cymro

Who linked the high art world of experimental modernist music to art happenings with Warhol and the smacked-up confrontation of The Velvet Underground? A nice viola-playing Welsh-speaker, that's who: and now he's Wales's representative at the Venice Biennale (an important art thing).

Never mind the MPs - look what's happened to science

What happens when capitalist governments get their hands on the nation's science work? Greedy bastards get rich and science suffers, that's what (as George Monbiot summarises).

Amazing what you can pick up in the bogs

I've just learned an awful lot about surveying, thanks to my colleague Steve's discovery of a set of notes concealed in the toilets - presumably by one of the students doing an exam across the corridor. Naughty!

What's 'in' this season: enquire within

I have a lot of marking to get on with today: I'll need some diversion.

So: for one day only, as I'm a suave, sophisticated gentleman-about-town, send me your fashion conundrums (conundra?) and I'll adjudicate on your sartorial problems! I plan to use words such as 'piece' and 'directional' to encapsulate my 'look' this season.

See? I'm a natural.


Pigs in pools

I'm loving this MPs sleaze story. Every news broadcast finds another red-faced cheat saying 'the system's totally rotten'. They all agree that it's totally rotten and has been for years. It's obviously a complete coincidence that they've realised it's open to corruption in the same week that a national newspaper paid some thief a lot of money for the details. Very brave.

I'm also enjoying it because the details reveal that the class structure is alive and well. All the New Labour class traitors are behaving like the 80s yuppies they so admire: John Prescott charged the taxpayer for some beams to make his house look more Fake Tudor. Others claimed for designer goods and posher houses. The dear old Tories, meanwhile, lived up to their image of Lords of the Manor by claiming for chandeliers and, my personal favourite, Douglas 'Viscount Hailsham' Hogg's MOAT maintenance. Isn't that wonderful? Presumably their are also claims for mantraps, armour-polishing, drawbridge oiling and jousting equipment. Michael 'Marquess of Lothian' Ancram, a millionaire many times over, charged the taxpayer for maintaining his swimming pool heater.

Other highlights:
Sir Michael Spicer - thousands for trimming his helipad.
James Arbuthnot - swimming pool cleaning paid for by us, despite the fact that he managed to pay for a £2 million house without even needing a mortgage.
David Davis: £5,700 on a 'portico' (essential to his work for the nation).

Essentially, the Tories appear to feel that their expenses are a kind of National Trust fund: they get a second, third or fourth stately home, and we get to pay for it.

(Paul Flynn, the honest, decent Welsh Labour MP, is similarly outraged).

You all know that I think Hazel Blears is the epitome of everything that went wrong with the left. It appears that Steve Bell agrees (click here for the original):


Today's cultural icon

Last night's BBC2 was particularly good value: double Heroes, Newsnight and The Wire. However, greater than all these was Lauren Laverne reading John Keats' 'On Leaving Some Friends At An Early Hour' as a promo for the upcoming Poetry Season! I could have swooned… Unfortunately, Youtube has failed me and the BBC hasn't posted it yet (but watch this space).What's not to love about Lauren? Kenickie were a great band, she genuinely loves poetry, and she called the Spice Girls 'Tory Scum'.




More fresh meat

Emma has started a blog. Only one introductory post, so encourage her. You MUFC fans may find it a more genial place to hang out while you eat your prawn sandwiches and discuss motorway routes to Manchester. I believe that Newton Heath is short for MU's first incarnation as Newton Heath Lancashire and Yorkshire Railway FC.

Monday, 11 May 2009

A home without books is a body without soul. (Cicero)

That's enough for today. My claw-hand aches, my eyes hurt, and I've finished the PGCE stuff for now. I've received two books and ordered three, and spent the day torturing my colleagues with Juliana Hatfield. I've also bought tickets for Serious Money on Wednesday. (Student tickets are £15). All in all, not a bad day. Now home - to do some ironing and watch Heroes! Or perhaps to read.

iPod - weapon of choice

Seems like the US Army has co-opted the cool kids' toy for use in Iraq.

Scherma-chic

In Italy, fencing clothing has been given the seal of approval by Italian Vogue, no less. I shall be wearing my breeches to work in future…

Down at the trashier end of the book market

2 more books acquired today. The first is Tolkien's verse translation of the Volsungsaga, The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun, the ancient Icelandic/Norse tales. I haven't enjoyed Tolkien's fiction since I was 15, and have reservations about the deliberate archaicism of his Gawain translation. However, he was a professional philologist and linguist, so I thought I'd give this one a go.

Also got a Juliana Hatfield CD. Mmmmm.

The second book is a donation from Sarah, my office-mate, who knows I have a short fuse for quackery. It is Francis Marshall's Living With Spirits, which purports to contain 'authenticated, detailed case studies of actual sightings' and 'disturbing examples of the rich and famous who have been spooked, from Princess Diana to Mick Jagger'. I'm really looking forward to it. There's a 'science' chapter, and one on sexual encounters with ghosts, including that of a man in a Herne Bay pub who had sex with a ghost transvestite!

Here's Cilla Black's intro paragraph, as a taster:
Blind Date TV star Cilla Black was surprise-surprised out of her skin when the spirit of a melancholic teenager first appeared by the side of her bed one night. But there were a lorra lorra visits yet to come.

'I was shaking like a leaf - or a Blind Date virgin'.


Bibliophilia

I had a whole week off ordering books. Now I've proved I can quit anytime, I no longer feel the need to. So I've just ordered A. S. Byatt's The Children's Book and Richard Overy's The Morbid Age: Britain Between the Wars. I was also sorely tempted by Ernest Millington's memoir (he died yesterday, the last Common Wealth Party MP) but resisted.

Oh for St. Monday

Morning all. What does today have in store for you? I'm off swimming in a few minutes, then it's back to the office to write one more insincere PGCE essay, then the marking marathon begins…

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Salford United v. Manchester City

Somehow, this blog seems to have been taken over by a nest of Reds. So I thought I should introduce you to my old friend Neil.

Like you Manchester United fans, he doesn't live anywhere near Manchester.
As one of Murdoch's News International team, he too has a 'privileged' relationship with the regulatory authorities, and lives to wipe out the opposition.

Unlike you, he's a Manchester City fan. Let's hope Everyday Isn't Like Sunday for you, Neil!

(Sorry. Bit of Mancunian music-based humour there. But you did ask for more jokes, and everybody ignored my comment about Hazel Blears and the large TV).

Idle thoughts of an idle fellow

I should be working, but really I'm just waiting for my dinner to cook. I'm having free-range rare breed ham hock with vegetables, casseroled in dry cider. Hence I've had the first glass of cider in over a decade - bearable, though I'm not sure why you'd want to drink it rather than cook with it.

Anyway, I thought I'd direct you to feministing.com, Jessica Valenti's fun, furious and feminist blog (not just for women). I've read it on and off for a while, but an interview with her in today's Observer reminded me to recommend her.

Oh dear - wildlife show on 2 just said, very solemnly, 'albatross chicks are sitting ducks'.
And now the voice-over has claimed that the Easter Island statues were built because the islanders 'had time on their hands'. So much for the 'inform' and 'educate' bit of the BBC's mission.

Serious money

This isn't the first terrible recession we've been in. It isn't even the first one since I were a nipper. So it's a particularly good time to get down to Birmingham Repertory theatre, where they're restaging Caryl Churchill's Serious Money. It's a dark comedy about what happened when the boring world of raising money for companies to invest was invaded by horrible, loud, greedy, arrogant, selfish yuppie bastards - and in this case they'll stop at nothing, including murder, to get their way. It's funny AND it's true.

There's a story that City types saw it less as an attack on them and more as a lesson, leading to them block-booking theatres in 1987 so they could celebrate themselves. The gits.

Tickets range from £10, it's on until 23rd May. There's a captioned performance on the 16th, an audio-described show on the 21st, and a BSL one on May 22nd.

I'm going. It's rude (and long - 2h 35) and very instructive for our times.

Watch with horror

as a Texas school board votes 11-3 on the age of the universe (they go with the Ian Paisley hypothesis). Still, that's saved a lot of money. Now they've decided, we can close all those costly science labs, university departments and so on. *hat-tip to Pharyngula

Hailing Frequencies Open

I guess, as a man with a blog, that my attendance at Star Trek last night was somehow predestined. Despite being a bit rushed, and depending heavily on Oedipal themes (wit elements of The O. C. and 'bromance'), I loved it. There were plenty of in-jokes without excluding new viewers, the plot was suitably familiar but still well done, the action and effects were impeccable. I've long dreamed of a decent space opera on the big screen (some Iain M Banks? M John Harrison?), and this is the closest I've seen for a while.

I also particularly liked Hikaru Sulu, who volunteers for a mission demanding personal combat skills. Once on board, he confesses that his skill is fencing (though his fight showed little grasp of the discipline, partly because a good fencing bout is over in seconds without any blade contact, while a film fight demands clashing, to-and-fro etc.).

However, I received a considerable degree of ridicule, even from fellow nerds, for professing my preference for Star Trek over Star Wars. I certainly wouldn't want to defend Deep Space Nine or The Next Generation and haven't seen Enterprise, but the original series, some of the films and perhaps Voyager and all the themes tackled are so much more grown up and culturally significant than Star Wars.

Partly this is because Star Trek was a TV series, though it didn't last long. It could respond to current affairs that much more quickly than a film series, and it appeared in a tense moment in history. Through the two series of the TV show, you can detect themes of international relations (hence the presence of Sulu, a recent enemy for Americans and Chekhov - a current one), race (Uhura - black space secretary who gets kissed by Kirk) and war. Star Trek dealt with Vietnam while the war was going on - moving on from being reluctantly in favour to eventually strongly against. Sometimes the franchise has been plain wrong, at other times embarrassing - TNG was horribly touchy-feely bollocks, and sometimes interestingly countercultural (capitalists look very old-fashioned in Deep Space Nine), but it's never claimed that anything is simple and clearcut.

Which brings me to Star Wars. Appearing in the late seventies, you'd be forgiven for thinking that plucky rebels fighting a crushing, technologically superior Empire led by a corrupted leader was a parody for Vietnam with the Rebel Alliance being the North Vietnamese and the Empire being the US, lead by disgraced Nixon and the other presidents.

But no: it's an attempt to kick the Vietnam Syndrome by recasting the Americans as leaders of a disparate band of freedom fighters, looking back to the only time this was even vaguely true, the American War of Independence. There's something in the American psyche that clings on to this despite all the evidence piling up that it is an Empire in the mould of (but even more powerful than) the British and Roman versions. Having had their bottoms kicked by the peasants in Vietman, Spielberg appropriates the Vietnamese narrative to help the losing side feel better about itself.

In doing so, the universe is reduced to the moral equivalent of an old-fashioned Western of children's parable. Nobody ponders their actions, nobody possesses shades of grey - they're Good or Bad, give or take the odd deathbed repentance (which itself is desperately hackneyed). Say what you like about Star Trek's hokey liberal idealism, characters face difficult choices, often fail, and have to come to terms with the ramifications of their actions. This film lives up to those ideals (and has genuinely good jokes)

Given the choice between America as Star Wars and America as Star Trek, I say Beam Me Up.

Dignity is all

I love this, from the Observer's 'Said and Done' feature, especially the last two sentences:
Adriano's ex-girlfriend Joana Machado says the striker's high-profile romps with Rio porn stars Strawberry Woman and Caviar Woman are "sad". "When we were together in Milan he was a very jealous guy, very twitchy. Now we're apart, he despairs." Machado says she'll have a tattoo of his name removed from under her breast before resuming a career for Playboy Brazil. "Dignity matters to my family."

Slow thinking

OK, there seems to be some enthusiasm for my slow motion online culture club. We're not there yet, but I think it might be a goer. Here's a few thoughts about how to run it - please add your ideas.

Money would be a problem - let's say that nothing should cost more than £10. This means no hardback books, few concerts (though students get into CBSO events for £5 - the classical world is actually really generous to low-earners because it's a condition of getting massive public subsidies) and few gigs.

Books are easy - we can use charity shops, ABE (global second-hand book shop network) and Amazon's used books, and cheap CDs or illegal downloads are fine. We could also cover free things - TV, websites, Youtube, walks and places to go, all taking photos on a particular theme: anything really, as long as we can all do it within a month.

Everybody's invited, so tell your friends. and you're welcome to remain anonymous. But this comes with responsibility. You have to play the ball, not the man. This means that you can despise whatever that month's thing is, but you can't abuse the person who suggested it, or those who like it/don't like it.

We should do something different every month, as Cynical Ben suggested. So a book can't follow another book. However, you should have a go at everything, even if you don't like the sound of it. I'd like us all to be surprised by something.

Many of you are students: no suggesting things you have to write an essay about! Likewise, I won't suggest anything simply because I know a lot about it, or because it's 'educational'.

Everybody will get their turn to suggest something, and nothing legal will be excluded. I hate horror films and eating fish (actually cheap restaurants and recipes might be an idea), but if that's what comes up, I'll do it.

That's all I can think of right now, so add your thoughts (and we'll need a name).


And the prize for consistency goes to:


…who tells The Observer that women politicians shouldn't be judged by their looks.

Caroline Flint, the minister for Europe, who is interviewed in today's Observer Woman, says media attention on her looks is insulting

She's absolutely right. Even better, she utters these timeless truths (in the news section teaser for the interview) across the space of several pages of the Observer Woman, while posing in a range of beautiful, revealing dresses while sporting the hair and maquillage of a Fifties femme fatale.

Needless to say, this softest of soft interviews (does she have leadership ambitions) doesn't find space to point out that she is the hardest, most elitist of the Blairite clique. You couldn't switch on the TV in the late nineties without seeing her advocating benefit cuts for the very poorest or some other mean-spirited, arrogant attack on the underclass, all delivered with a straight face as she claimed that sating the bitterness of the Daily Mail was socialism in action. Who cares that she's damaged the lives of women in this country (never mind the Iraqi victims of the war she loved), when she looks stunning in pastel silk?

She's hard, selfish, determined and utterly soulless - she'll go far. Still, policy is so last century - it's how she looks in a frock that seems to matter, which is an odd stance for a liberal newspaper's women's magazine to take, but there you go - we've been down the post-ideological rabbithole for a long time now.

Saturday, 9 May 2009

Folletted

Why does Barbara Follett need £25,000 of private security - all paid for by the taxpayer?
She's a millionaire anyway.
She's Minister of Tourism, not Defence/FCO/Northern Ireland etc. It screams self-important, narcissistic loony.

The only enemies she has are the Labour MPs she mercilessly bullied in the 90s, when it was apparently her job to make them buy designer suits and have trendy haircuts to show how 'New Labour' they were (which insultingly assumes that voters actually make their choice by consulting GQ rather than on political matters). Her husband Ken also has enemies - literary critics and anybody who's bought one of his books at the airport.

Immigration + Daily Mail = pure lying poison

As if anyone needs more evidence of this paper's corrosive influence on journalism, Mailwatch fillets the Mail's disgraceful dependence on nasty little pressure groups and their press releases which it then distorts even further to scare selfish racists (i.e. their core readers).

It might just work

How do we feel about starting a slow-motion, online book/cultural activity club? We could set up a blog and share the passwords, then agree to read the same book, see the same play or film, listen to the same album or attend concerts by bands or orchestras which are touring the country, then leave our critical judgements on the site. We'd take turns, agree not to suggest anything just to annoy everybody, and steer clear of anything course-related (and I'd promise not to pull rank).

It's just an idle thought - what do you reckon?

Tricksy postmodernist git

Cynical Ben has spent most of the last week setting up a variety of blogs under pseudonyms. It now appears that they are all part of a new genre of writing - a novel of sorts consisting of characters' telling their parts of the story on their own blogs. He's provided a central site from which you can access the various facets.

I'm seriously impressed - the concept is fascinating, the characterisation's good, and it makes use of the possibilities of the technology. What do you think? Leave your comments on his site(s).

Despite being Least Worst Best Man at his wedding (alongside Neal and Mr Radford Sallow's young friend Daniel), I'm increasingly convinced that Cynical Ben is simply a sock-puppet for legal eagle Jo Judge.

Update - according to Loose Ends on Radio 4, the overlap between a book and a blog is a 'blook'. Revolting.

Pure Hull

Consolation goal for Hull in the 5th minute of stoppage time - then hit the side-netting in the last 30 seconds - after lots of Hull 'fans' have left. We've made it: survival (and a rather decent pay-off for me from the bookies).

Blackburn survive - damn.

I know this isn't Kansas, Toto

I've no idea what Sean Tevis is really like, but anyone who says good things about evolution and science, and steals ideas from XKCD for his campaign deserves your attention, Kansans.

Random meanderings on football, books and bike theft

Like, I assume, the rest of you, I'm listening to Hull v. Stoke City on Radio 5. We're 2-0 up and guaranteed survival, which pleases me mightily, though I'd like Hull to stay up too. I'm particularly happy that the entire world is listening to the match on the World Service. What a great way to encounter the quality, the class, the sheer magic of the English Premier League.

Over at the Hawthorns, West Brom are storming to a win over Wigan too: fantastic. We always beat them, they play attractive football and their fans are brilliant, so I hope they pull off a great escape.

I should be writing the final piece of this month's PGCE essay, but I've wasted the day reading the Guardian - which means ripping out more book reviews, leading to more purchases. There's a brilliant essay by Elaine Showalter on her favourite eight overlooked American female authors - a good corrective to the endless lionisation of cigar-chewing, gun-toting grand old men of American letters.

The only wrinkle on the day was the end of Neal's birthday. He left his bike at Wolverhampton Swimming Pool overnight, and found this morning that some utter wanker has smashed it up, really gone to town on it. If it had been stolen, I could understand the logic, but the sheer mindlessness of deciding to smash up somebody else's bike because it's there completely defeats me. (Obviously, the security cameras are only trained on the car park - cyclists are beneath the attention of all authority). Still if anyone has a housemate with spokes stuck in their shoes, let me know.

It's also a bit annoying because I gave Neal a micro-techno-super-pump and a bicycle bell for his birthday. Perhaps I'll attach the bell to his shoes.

Still - tonight I shall be attending the Star Trek movie. On my own, like a proper Trek fan.

In the fucking loop

I spent yesterday afternoon swearing, with admittedly more perspiration than inspiration. so perhaps yesterday evening wasn't the best time to see In The Loop, the big-screen extension of The Thick of It, Armando Ianucci's cynical, brilliant examination of the way politics has been reduced from principles to venal positioning. It is without doubt the sweariest film since South Park. It is superior to the latter, however, thanks to its relentlessly innovative swearing. This is a family blog, so I won't quote any of the horrifyingly memorable phrases, but urge anyone who thinks that swearing is neither big nor clever to see this film. It will convert you. I certainly found it difficult to shake the habit after yesterday. Steve Coogan's cameo is also brilliant.
This clip is extremely unpleasant so don't play it if you're sensitive to finely-crafted Anglo-Saxon.



After the film we went to the Dilshad restaurant in Wolverhampton. We chose it because it has hundreds of photos of formerly popular entertainers who'd eaten their after performing at the nearby Grand Theatre. My favourite photograph is of Jonathan King (celebrity unrepentant paedophile), Gary Bushell (unrepentant, untalented, unpleasant far-right 'journalist') enjoying the company of a rather young boy. Perhaps they'd ordered the chicken…

I'd intended to take a picture of this historic summit for your delectation, so imagine my horror to find that the venue had undergone a tasteful, minimalist, stylish makeover. Yes, the food was stunningly good, but something special has been lost.

To console ourselves, we subsequently attended the Posada and then the near-deserted Little Civic. I love that place when it's empty. The DJ is open to requests and has a highly-developed love of pre-Britpop Real Indie which I share. Without the check-shirt-and-shaven-head brigade in evidence, I (and occasionally one or two of my friends) could dance like thirty-something losers without the usual mockery and contempt. For the first time ever, I heard Stereolab in a public place, and this DJ hero played Felt, Field Mice and the Go-Betweens without even being asked. Some good Breeders and Jane's Addiction were introduced to the mix as well. 'Props' to this unsung hero, as I believe some people say in these situations.

Friday, 8 May 2009

Escape at last

I'm giving up before my potty-mouth gets me in more trouble. I haven't even been able to follow the cricket today. Hope Onions did well again. See you all on Monday.

Now I'm embarrassed

Someone's just come in to ask me to turn down my swearing because students are doing an exam. I'm normally very mild-mannered, but PebblePad is turning me into a dishevelled wild-eyed monster. I've had to turn up Tosca to drown out my Tourettish cursing. I could actually have finished the outstanding piece of work, were it not for the 4 hours it's taken so far to upload a few documents. It shouldn't take 5 goes to highlight a piece of text or add a link.

I've also sent an angry letter to the PGCE people.

What's the worst piece of software you've ever used?

A bit nerdy I know, but I'm boiling with fury.
Windows doesn't count, by the way. Not that I use it.
I'm nominating PebblePad. If you work in the real world, it's a proprietary e-portfolio designed by someone in Wolves University.

PebblePad has been designed to three key tenets: advanced functionality, maximum flexibility and simple usability

Bollocks. I'm a semi-professional geek. I love computing, so if I'm screaming at this pixellated turd, it's definitely crap. It's older than my gran and less user-friendly. To upload a document requires a training session and a MINIMUM of ten actions, none of them intuitive. It runs slower than than a disabled snail and has all the grace of a Bosch gargoyle. Half the PGCE course was spent trying to make us use this bloody thing, until they realised that the only way to do it was to make us submit our work using it. The effect, however, is to reinforce my hatred and determination that none of you, students, will ever have to go near it on any of my courses again (if I keep my job after this post of course).

I'm having to listen to a lot of Sigur Ros to keep my blood pressure down.

I'm adding 'use PebblePad' to the 'list of things I won't do for love'.

Happy Birthday, Neal


He strongly resembles Tom Cruise from the Magnolia era ('respect the cock' - I could have chosen a much more vomit-making picture) and he's a year closer to death. We'll be attending In The Loop at Wolverhampton Lighthouse at 5.40, then consuming curry before The Drunkening. All welcome to attend any or all component of the festivities.


We think we've got problems

Over at Cardiff Uni, they're savagely slashing continuing education courses and jobs - mostly in humanities. It's clearly a matter of profit-seeking rather than being committed to the intrinsic benefits of education. With the posh universities, extramural/continuing education are tempting targets because they hardly see themselves as part of the local community in the way that Wolves Uni does. Who cares about a few poxy beginners' Welsh courses if you can spend that money on importing a Nobel laureate? I'm a double graduate of the University of Wales (Bangor), which took a completely different view, and managed to attract students and staff from across the globe while simultaneously caring for the needs of the local community. Why can't Cardiff do the same?

Friday's conundrum

Mr Meat Loaf proclaimed that he would do anything for love, but he wouldn't do 'that', which in his case presumably meant 'diet'.

What wouldn't you do for love? As you're my readers, you're probably lonely, desperate and vulnerable - like me - so I'm guessing that very little self-abasement is excluded, but let's hear it.

What wouldn't I do?
Hazel Blears
vote Tory
praise Ocean Colour Scene
eat fish
recognise Nagorno-Karabakh
read Coelho or any other self-help book
endure Tarantino films

I'm sure there are more.

Hazel's squirrelling nuts away

Imagine my joy! I've had occasion to take Ms. Blears to task before, so it's sweet to be vindicated. Not only is she a moral and political void, the epitome of mechanoid politics, she's on the take. She's spent nearly £2000 on two TVs - why not a couple of £250 units, Hazel? Perhaps the thinking was that if she bought a 52-inch screen, she could watch her own appearances in life-size!

Worst of all, she's been playing the property market like a Tory, using our money to do places up, then sell them on - claiming on three houses in one year. Clearly Hazel has been using her mega-screen TVs to watch 'Trading Up' or some such evil, Thatcherite programme. I imagine my cousins the weasels are denying any relation to her right now.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

And so to bed, finally

Finally, I can go home, after twelve hours in the office. I'll be back here in 11.5 hours, after my swim. Which I do so that I can live a little bit longer and therefore spend more hours, days and years in the office…

Always smash up your hard drive

I see that a discarded computer contained details of a nuclear missile defence system and its workers. The only second-hand computer I ever got contained the membership list of an Edinburgh Masonic Lodge. Think I should post the details?

Believe it or not

The University of Wolverhampton is a leading British university with an outstanding academic reputation

(Thanks not to Ewarwoowar but to whoever mailed me with this (sorry both of you) - it's from Wikipedia). It's true - even though we're supposedly 102nd in the league tables (as though education can be treated like a pub darts league).

Onions makes it 5-38 on his debut. 5 wickets gets you on the honours board in any case - but in your first match it's stunning.

Now down to serious business

Does poncy lager aid the creative process? We're about to find out. Meanwhile, Windies are in all sorts of trouble - 117-4.

Update - 117-7 in time it took to visit the post room.

Update - 128-9. Onions is making the West Indians cry, 4 wickets on his debut!

Insert content here

I'm horribly busy today, and not enjoying a bit of it - the PGCE is weighing on my mind. The sun's shining, the cricket's chuntering away happily (Windies 70-2), and I've no time to blog in any serious way. Perhaps later. Try to entertain yourselves in my relative absence. Perhaps argue about the merits of association football in the comments section. Or tease Christians.

Mischief managed!

For you little student darlings, I've just sat through a 2 and a half hour meeting to restructure our curriculum. Nothing will change for next year, but anyone around the year after that has a real intellectual treat in store. We think. Possibly. Maybe, anyway.

Poor, poor Felix

Visiting my friend Felix, entombed in suburbia, made me rant a little. Now it's even worse: his next-door neighbour is a Daily Mail 'reporter'. He'll catch cancer! Or will she cure it? I can never keep up. Anyway, she must hate living next door to a German - despite her paper's notorious enthusiasm for all things Nazi in the 1930s.

Readership flagging?

Can't get your hit rate up? Then ENHANCE your blogging power by winding up Christians. I did, and got 50-odd extra hits overnight from every continent except Antarctica, thanks to alphainventions.com, which featured me in some odd way I can't work out. Thanks, guys! Come for the sarcasm, stay for the lo-fi.

Told you so

Vindicated - Barcelona march onwards to glory. Arriviste cockneys throw their toys out of the pram (though I hear the referee was somewhat lacking).

Relax, we're in safe hands

…because my institution has set up a pig flu committee ('Pandemic Flu Management Team'). Let's hope they don't catch it first, or we'll all die of management failure. The advice seems to consist of 'stay in your homes and surf the web'. The question is, will it be a short fat pandemic or a long thin one (that's an obscure institutional joke that only colleagues will get).

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

Spread the Good News

Young Americans are dumping religion! Could it be because fundamentalists have caused wars, damaged the environment and generally degraded American public life? I think it could.

Say Cheese!

I wandered around with a camera in Whitmore Reans, Gnosall and Norbury Junction (the Cheese Boat), and my parents' place in Shropshire over the weekend. Click the links for more photos (of yellowhammers, herons, cheese, map twats and sparrows) or on these shots for bigger versions. I like the urban one for the mix of sunset artificial lighting.








Farewell, Melyvn Barg

Over at the Guardian, Mark Lawson laments the end of Melvyn Bragg's South Bank Show. Personally, I'm overjoyed that this preening bighead is off the screens. How I wish Radio 4 would do the decent thing and put down In Our Time, his radio show in which he pretends simultaneously to be as ignorant as us and as clever as the scientists and intellectuals he has as guests. Let's leave him alone with his endless novels about clever, misunderstood northern grammar school boys coming down to Oxbridge and becoming clever, misunderstood novelists etc. etc. etc.

That said, old Melvyn's ITV show is their last figleaf against accusations that the channel is an insulting, steaming turd of naked commercialism. This decision essentially says 'we know what you're like, viewers. You're all lazy, stupid slobs who want Jade'n'Ant'n'Dec'n'policecamerapropaganda'n'nonews'n'nothingyou'renotalreadyfamiliarwith and if that's too highbrow for you, we've got ITV4 waiting, you scum.

Or, as Lawson puts it:
Twenty five years ago, ITV scheduled a two-part special about the French modernist composer Olivier Messiaen in peak-time on Good Friday. Nowadays, there would be more chance of a second coming of Christ.
Are people more stupid, less curious, less interested in the outside world? I refuse to believe it, even of my students (joke). But they are given fewer and fewer chances to develop interests outside the dullard mainstream. Schools and universities can't, because they've got targets to meet. The WEA and their ilk are all but dead. 'High' culture is expensive, and TV executives have decided that cheap TV is 'what the people want' - so that's what we're getting. The future is Davina, stamping on your face, over and over and over and over.

Everybody relax: N'Dubz are safe!

The BBC saw fit to announce to the world that somebody from N'Dubz doesn't have swine flu. It's not even the amiable, dim chap who turns up on Never Mind the Buzzcocks occasionally - Dappy. Beats me why they even have names - helps the marketing strategy I suppose.

Zoot - you might like N'Dubz. If you buy anything by them, can you explain their name to me?

Ivor Binhad is in the building

Turns out that Rosetta Hampshire is a literary avatar for Cynical Ben. She's his alter ego (the nice one), and an exercise in creative writing.

'She' certainly had me fooled - I thought she was a feisty old dear with opinions and a writing style worth reading (as well as lots of supporting material). Who'd have thought it was the same person as young Cynical!

Anyone else following the cricket?

If not, England are struggling but Bopara's doing well. I'm meant to be writing PGCE essays but the force is weak in this one. England 224-5, Bopara 97, Broad 16.

The Horrors - an apology

This is for Cynical Ben, who must have the day off, as he's commenting every ten minutes.
Yes, The Horrors' first album was excremental. The new one, however, is rather good. Somehow, they've managed to escape the 'trendy band on pushy record label' pressure to churn out more chart-friendly pap. Perhaps we're seeing a return to giving bands a second chance rather than dumping them for not producing a clone of Album No. 1. Remember: Blur were bloody lucky to get a second crack after the fun-but-derivative Leisure - then we'd never have had Modern Life is Rubbish.

Zoot Horn has a cunning plan

He's buried it in the comments to another post, so here it is.

I've just worked out how to structure my reading and stop you buying books.

I'm going to systematically read all of those books that I've told people I've read, or that people think that I have read, but that I actually haven't. I figure that this way I can be better read without actually appearing so, and when somebody recalls a conversation about books that we once had I will appear to have total recall of the discussion and be able to convince people that my contributions were much more interesting than they actually were by asking tricky questions that only someone who actually knows the book in question and remembers the debate with uncanny clarity would know about. This will add a subtle mystery to my character by persuading my friends that their memories are fading but mine are crystal clear and, indeed, intensify with the passage of time.

You, of course, will then be forced to re-read more thoroughly books that you already know and have spoken to me about, which means that you will desist from book buying and begin re-visiting those you already own.

Unless you were faking too of course...

I'd like to point out that I have read everything I talk about, that I do re-read books, not that I ever have any piercing aperçus, and that your plan WILL make you extremely well-read!

An alternative view of Wolverhampton Wanderers

It's safe to say that 'Days of Enlightenment' isn't a fan, judging by his splendidly written invective.

Bricks are, like, heavy, know what I mean?

Having spent yesterday listening to Tortelier's recordings of the Bach Cello Suites, I'm having a 90s female indie day: Veruca Salt, Juliana Hatfield, L7, The Breeders, Babes in Toyland, Bikini Kill, Huggy Bear and so on. Bliss was it to be alive in that time of para boots, floral dresses and spiky guitars. Where are the riot grrls of yesteryear?

Update - just bought some Juliana Hatfield and received the new The Horrors album, as it's so much better than the first. Anyone rate Luscious Jackson?

Mistle-thrush for dinner

Admit it, that's a tasty little dish that Rosetta remembers from her childhood.

Let's get UKIP

This is what the Advertising Standards Authority told me when I inquired about complaining about UKIP's disgraceful and cynical appropriation of United States of Europe enthusiast Winston Churchill for their grubby little campaign:

Dear Dr [Vole]

Thank you for your e-mail to the Advertising Standards Authority.

Advertising or marketing communications whose principal function is to influence votes in local, regional, national or international elections are exempt from the advertising Codes so we are unable to investigate complaints about these.

Kind regards


Cynical Ben, in an earlier comment, suggests that this means we can found a 'Nick Griffin is a Twat' party and save up for posters proclaiming this principle. Anyone up for starting a kitty? We could extend it to UKIP as well.

So farewell then, Marilyn French

Zoot Horn reminds me that Marilyn French died a few days ago. Her novel The Women's Room isn't just a feminist classic, but a classic in its own right. Read it.

Mystery solved

So now we know who Barcelona are going to beat in the Champions' League final: Manchester United. Phew!

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Camera Obscura alert

If anyone sees some Camera Obscura CDs lying around at work, they're mine. I left them on the counter in the coffee bar. Dammit!

Obama - the cricket fan?

It seems that Obama is reading Hiberno-Anglo-Dutch author Joseph O'Neill's Netherland: a 9/11 book (sort-of) which examines America through the medium of New York's cricket scene. No, really, it's a brilliant book.

Isn't it great though? An American president who actually reads books!

Swimming in lovely books

3 today - Sutherland's Jane Austen's Textual Lives, Harman's Jane's Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World and Sally Nichols's Season of Secrets.

Gawain Towler - rushed off his feet

The little-Englander defending UKIP's appropriation of pro-EU cheerleader Winston Churchill for their grubby little campaign (in the comments on my earlier post) turns out to be Gawain Towler. He told North Dorset's UKIP party (held in a phone box) when they made him their prospective parliamentary candidate:

“From the age of 14, when at school in Iwerne Minster, I have dreamt of fighting this seat, I am honoured that the membership chose me last night”.

The last few years must have been a living nightmare for poor Gawain, who spent the years between 14 and 40 years old working for, and repeatedly standing in elections for, the Scottish Conservative and Unionist Party (some unions are OK, I see, Gawain). Well done for your 8.22% (fifth out of six) in Glasgow Kelvin - what made you jump ship?

But Gawain - surely a busy, Brussels-based UKIP press officer should have more to do than post disingenuous blog comments. I bet Alastair Campbell had someone to do it for him, but then he worked for an organisation which was slightly more than a golf club-cum-masons lodge for red-faced ranters specialising in fraud.

I reproduce this photograph of Mr Towler (on the right) without comment, other than to note that they think it's good publicity.


UPDATE: I asked the Advertising Standards Authority if they had regulatory powers over political ads. Unfortunately they don't, so the lying turds can carry on lying.

Blears - the lynch mob forms

Monbiot weighs in this time - a head-to-head (actually, her head to around his knees) interview. Compelling, unless you have little stomach for mechanoids.

Monday, 4 May 2009

I'm pond life


as Doonesbury sometimes points out. Click on the strip for a larger version

For reliable medical advice, read the Daily Mail

Welcome to my blog list The Daily Mail Oncological Ontology Project which tracks that rag's obsession with dividing the world into things which will give you cancer and things which will cure it. Being the Mail, the same things are likely to be on both lists…

I get readers - accidentally

I've had an astonishingly lazy day - got up disgracefully late and read the newspapers until now. I'm not even awake enough to be angry about anything (except for the Gillette advert which uses the word 'refuel' to make using moisturizer 'macho' - which merely reinforces sexual stereotypes). Almost got me there  - but an ad for Star Trek has calmed the bile. 

I know the web is meant to reforge social networks - but how does someone in South Africa searching for 'West Midlands Limo Hire' get to my thoughts on Jade Goody?

Sunday, 3 May 2009

You're not singing any more

Finally tonight, two great pieces in the Observer Sport Monthly: one on football chants, which can be utter genius, and another on Rwanda's nascent competitive cycling culture (I'm a sucker for road racing, despite the competitors being stuffed with more drugs than an American steak). The new team is more than just sport - it's a way to transform lives and Project Rwanda deserves your money. I'd also like to see their traditional wooden bike race.

Cheating dishonest UKIP scum


You may have seen this billboard for UKIP (BNP for the Mail-reading accountancy classes), the United Kingdom Independence Party, recruiting Winston Churchill to their anti-European cause. (As an aside, how do they manage to oppose the European Union while defending the United Kingdom Union?). The accompanying election poster declares, amidst a load of largely inaccurate bullshit, that Winston wouldn't let it happen. 

Er… let's see what Churchill (largely a bad man with the necessary skills needed to save Britain in its darkest hour) had to say about a United Europe shall we?

"I wish to speak to you today about the tragedy of Europe. (...) Yet all the while there is a remedy which, if it were generally and spontaneously adopted by the great majority of people in many lands, would as if by a miracle transform the whole scene, and would in a few years make all Europe, or the greater part of it, as free and as happy as Switzerland is today. What is this sovereign remedy? It is to recreate the European Family, or as much of it as we can, and to provide it with a structure under which it can dwell in peace, in safety and in freedom. We must build a kind of United States of Europe. (...) The first step in the recreation of the European Family must be a partnership between France and Germany."

Winston ChurchillSpeech at Zurich University 19th September 1946

(http://www.historiasiglo20.org/europe/anteceden2.htm)

Now UKIP might claim that Winston wanted an EU to keep France and Germany peaceful without Britain necessarily being a member, but there's no denying that he was a fan, and the Franco-German union is merely 'the first step'. Even better than this, fact fans, is his plan presented to Parliament in 1940 for a united British-French nation. Eat that, a-historical little Englander bigots. 

(I'm an itchy, intolerant leftwinger. Traditionally the left sees the EU as a capitalist plot, whereas the right sees it as a socialist plot). In many ways, they're both right - but I'd rather have a reformed united Europe than the centre-right government we have now). 

Fisked!

Over at George Monbiot's place, we get the final of his Christopher Booker prize, awarded for the most unscientific bullshit in environmental journalism, calculated by errors per words (and named after the Telegraph's resident conspiracy theorist and nutter. The winner is John Tomlinson of the Flint Journal for an article which is riddled with howlers, as Monbiot painstakingly and exhaustively (but entertainingly) points out:

He has now seen off all possible contenders (except perhaps a repeat performance by his good self), with a cracking 38 howlers in one short column for the Flint Journal. Ironically he made these errors in response to my exposure of his previous claims.

Amazingly, this even beats his own provisional world record for density: the ratio of falsehoods to words. His first column averaged one misleading statement for every 26 words. This one delivers one per 21 words. I intend to submit his second column to the Guinness Book of Records as the most inaccurate article ever published in a newspaper.

Secondly, this astonishing wealth of disinformation means it has probably taken me 100 times longer to respond to his article than he took to write it.

Everyday is like Sunday…

I've popped home to see the aged parents for a day or so - I've got a taste for greenery now, and I couldn't abide being in Wolves while it's packed with triumphalist Wanderer's fans. Though it was really sweet to hear my boss and a student discussing their signing potential and premiership plans as though it was a proper grown-up football team. Still, it means that the mighty Stoke is still assured of an easy 6 points from West Mids teams despite West Brom's sad demotion. 

Today the spot list includes a gloriously unconcerned fox and two ostriches. Yes, there are ostriches living in Wolverhampton - in the yard of a pet shop near the railway viaduct. I wouldn't have seen them if I'd taken the train, but because it's a holiday weekend, we were packed into a coach which gave me the perfect vantage point to see these poor animals. 

I see the Observer's front page story is 'Key Minister savages PM over 'lamentable' failures'. As it's journalism, you have to overlook the two inaccuracies in 7 words - Hazel Blears isn't a key minister (the headline is an attempt to con people into buying the paper) and she doesn't 'savage' Brown, rather notes that some strategies haven't worked. 

Most astonishing of all, however, is the sub headline: 'We must appear more human - Blears'. Now, I've met Hazel Blears twice. The first time, she exuded all the warmth of a komodo dragon. The second time, the only connection between organic life and her was the komodo-like poison dripping from her lips (I say this as a Party member). You could easily find more empathy in your average traffic light than from Hazel. It's hard to describe how inhuman her little black button eyes are. Perhaps the closest I can get to summarising her is to say that she's the only person I've ever met who seems more real on television than in the flesh. If she zipped her head open like that Dr. Who episode, I wouldn't be at all surprised. She's classic New Labour, so obsessed with purging the few remaining socialists in the party by promoting more and more rightwing ideas that she has no vision left at all - she's HAL, running forever with no discernible purpose other than to betray her comrades. The only human character she reminds me of is Dolores Umbridge from one of the Harry Potter books - a threatening sweet smile which only accentuates the horror. 

There, that feels better. 

Sat-Nav

Hello all. As it's a holiday weekend, I won't be troubling you with too many ramblings, opinions or links. What are you all doing with the break? I should be marking projects and writing PGCE essays, but as I accidentally left my Mac at work, I'll have to find some other ways to fill in the time. 

Friday saw the ascension into the firmament of Keiti Gachevska, who handed in her PhD thesis. If there's anything you need to know about organised crime in Eastern Europe, she's your go-to gal. Needless to say, a modicum of alcoholised liquid was taken in celebration. 

Saturday was also a long-awaited day - the arrival of the Cheese Boat at Norbury junction. Our motley crew (Emma, Neal, Dan and - eventually - James) converged on Gnosall (love those anglo-saxon names), walked for a couple of miles to stimulate our appetite, then set of (with a minor detour to a pub) for the junction, another couple of miles down the canal. We saw herons, a yellowhammer, lots of flowers, ducklings, and great views of the Wrekin. I'll post some photos when I get back into the office. 

The Junction hosted a rally of canalists, who are clearly divided between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat as us landlubbers. Some went for beautifully painted narrowboats, satellite dishes, those horrible painted cans and twee names. Others opted for functionality - black paint, scuffed and marked, logs and battered bikes slung over the top. 

The Cheese Boat saw us coming. Apart from stiffing me for the pickle I paid for, we were pretty impressed by the interesting variations on cheddar, and very impressed by Perl Las and Perl Wen, two organic Welsh soft cheeses. Needless to say, we bought a massive amount, and washed it down with beautiful buttery bitter (Junction Best) from the pub. 

Already suffering from tendonitis, I added sunburn to the injury list - not the last wound I'd suffer that fateful day either. Thanks to my interestingly-pale (or pasty, as my 'friends' put it), I'm a bit paranoid about sunburn, as I blister in the presence of candlelight. However, yesterday looked overcast and I forgot my hat and factor 50. Thus by the time I returned to Wolves ready for Irina's party and Blast Off, I looked like a tomato with eczema - as a disconcertingly large number of former friends pointed out. 

We made a cameo at the Bulgarian-and-assorted-computational-linguistics do, then determinedly headed out to the Civic for Blast Off, Wolverhampton's best - and only - indie night. I'd prefer more Gorky's, Tindersticks, Stereolab, Field Mice and Neu! personally, but it's pretty good. One of my media students kindly mixed me a decent cocktail and James, Neal, Emma and I added to our walk-related injuries by dancing like loons until 2.30. Somewhere along the way, I added to my injuries. Finding something determinedly attached to the sole of my Doc Marten (of course), I tried to yank it off, only to discover that it was a large and jagged chunk of glass - cue much blood. Thanks to the Civic's security and First Aid people - kind, friendly and efficient, despite the absence of a pair of scissors. I was soon 'bopping', as I believe the young folk call it, to Hot Chip as though major haemorrhaging was nothing worse than a stubbed toe. 

The only downside to the day was Stoke's battling defeat at home to West Ham, only slightly balanced by Emma's beloved Munster getting hammered by unfancied Leinster. 

Friday, 1 May 2009

Twelve men good and true

What a public-spirited citizen - and he got away with it! Not that I'd want him on my jury.

I did jury service a few years ago. It felt like being inducted into to a lynch-mob. They all read the Daily Mail and kept saying things like 'he must have done it - he's in court' and 'he must be guilty because he doesn't look sorry' (the chap was pleading innocent and we'd seen him for all of five minutes before being sent out for legal argument. I didn't endear myself to my fellow jurors by affirming rather than swearing on a holy book, by reading the Guardian, and for pointing out that voting guilty on particular charges because he'd obviously done something wasn't really the point. I felt sorry for one guy though - he shared the bus ride home with the defendants every evening, which seemed a bit odd.

The trouble is, we worked hard as a jury, and the court officials, lawyers and police appeared not to have done so. Important questions weren't asked, important problems weren't raised, and the judge seemed to live in a different world - which is a problem. I don't mind a judge not knowing that Stella is known as 'wifebeater' or (in one defendant's words) 'loopy-juice', but you have to question the worldliness of a man who asks the defence 'What is this Stella?' ('a lager, m'lud') and follows it with 'and in what quantities does one consume this beverage?' (in pint glasses, m'lud).

Was justice done in the cases I sat on? Case one came to an 11-1 verdict of guilty. Guess who voted not guilty? I thought he had committed criminal acts, but that no evidence had been presented. We voted not guilty on the second case because we thought that he probably was guilty but that the prosecution and coppers could have done some fairly easy work to nail him, but didn't.

Anyone else been on (or in front of) a jury?


Under observation

I think I survived my tutorial observation. Three really outgoing and hardworking students came so I didn't really have much to say other than 'well done' and offer a few tips. It would have been really useful to see someone who was struggling - but people who need help often don't ask for it.

Send us your feckin' money

The Deer Friend seems not to approve of my Book Aidan idea - I've just received from her a suggestion that despite the apocalyptic gloom of the recession, we're all pretty well off compared with the vast majority of humanity, so we should send money to:
Kinderhilfe - helping Afghan children
Reporters sans frontieres - freedom of speech activism and defence.

Poetry please

U. A. Fanthorpe died yesterday - she was a very cool poet.

On the plus side - Carol Ann Duffy is now poet laureate. I hope she isn't a monarchist (I doubt many lefty lesbian poets are), but if we have to have a state poet, she's a good one - try The World's Wife. Let's just hope that the curse of the job (producing duff doggerel for dull occasions) doesn't befall her.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning was briefly considered in 1850, but no woman has ever been given the job. Apparently the other contenders were Simon Armitage and Roger McGough - both would have been brilliant. Duffy's giving the £6,000 annual pay to the Poetry Society for a prize, but is demanding to be given the large amount of booze traditionally awarded up front. Very wise.

The whole truth



(click on the strip for a larger version)

Teaching English and Cultural studies is all about destabilising fixed world views. I wish my lot would start political arguments though. Apart from the opportunity to foment revolution, there's nothing more validating to a thirty-something's sense of self-worth than destroying the beliefs of a teenager (that's a joke, see?).

Book Aid!

I've discovered a glorious solution to my book addiction. In this month's copy of the Literary Review was a flyer for Book Aid's Reverse Book Club. It reads 'Three books for £6 and you'll never receive any of them!'. All sorts of books are sent to readers of all ages in Africa - useful ones (including Braille), not knackered obsolete school books.

So I can buy books, without having to read them or store them! I'm going to send them a chunk of cash. Alternatively, you could enrol in the same kind of scheme for me ('Book Aidan'): you buy books from reputable online stores and get them sent to me. I'll post a synopsis which you can then recycle on your blogs, in your essays, at your Reading group or dinner party. How about it?

Students: you could join the Book Aid club, send the books to Africa and get them to write your essays for you! Your marks may even improve!

Take the skinheads bowling, take them bowling

I went bowling last night with my housemates and assorted nerds from the computational linguistics department. Very charming nerds they are too.

The bowling was surprisingly good fun. Turns out it's not simply what teenagers do before they can get served in pubs. My performance veered between atrocious and surprisingly good, though what made the difference, I don't know! I was later humiliated at air hockey by a computational linguist who shares a hairdresser with Fellaini (no skinhead he)!


Anyway, today's a big day. My fourth sister (youngest of the six of us) is 23 today, I went for a fast swim even though tendonitis is turning my hand into a hook, and I'm being observed by my PGCE mentor while I offer individual tutorials to 1st-year English students. Must practice caring voice (especially after a colleague described a recent piece I wrote as 'sarcastic… dripping with contempt'). Does that sound like harmless little me?

Tomorrow is full of cultural delights - primarily the cheese boat calls at Norbury Junction, a light walk, then the Little Civic for some fine lo-fi.

Put the pliers down, Torquemada!

A while ago, I posted links to research showing that religious people buy more porn. Now, as Pharyngula notes, religious people are more likely to condone torture. Guys! You're meant to be horrified by crucifixion, not inspired! It does explain all those rather detailed paintings of hell (and the past 2000 years of history).