that a young lady in possession of a fortune should never mention Fight Club.
(Accents apart, this is capital).
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Elegy Written In A Pub Carpark
Inspired by these particular lines, I've written a poem for Simon Armitage.
One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
(With apologies to poor old Gray and his 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'). I've kept some of the original lines (with a tiny change) and the iambic pentameter.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
Alone we drank the bitter dregs of pain,
From this bleak place we all must go away
Abandoned by him for whom we came.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Si, for thy sweet words we all caught colds!
Honeyed words mean naught when oaths haply take flight
A promise from a poet us despoils.
Let not Ambition mock our useful toil!
The poetaster, ARMITAGE take heed
Legs ache; thy feet, one trusts, are one vast boil!
Think of thy faithful lest no more they read.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
With hearts aflame and hampers full of nosh
Came three Map Twats, one more with JO, Ben's wife.
In dark and age shoulds't thou now fear my cosh!
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Shall some wag say in mirthless northern jest
He'll truly rue the day he e'er was born
Lines to 'scape our fury need be his best.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
Lies POETASTER, heeding not our thirst
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
Afore ye wake let buzzards eat you first.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
ARMITAGE scoffs at fame, and sales, and trust,
While drunk on fumes thy congregation yawn,
And vow 'No more our lucre, 'twould be just'.
As you've probably worked out, Armitage disappointed us. We went to his reading in Mytholmroyd, which was sheer delight: excellent poems, good banter, warm white wine. I took some pictures, which I'll post on Tuesday when I'm back with my own computer.
On Saturday, Cynical Ben had arranged a picnic for Armitage along his Pennine Route way, as he suggested. Two more poetry fans were there, and mighty good company they were as we waited for three hours, cheering on the labouring cyclists as they staged private Tours de Lancashire, drinking beer and fantasising every more baroque accidents which might have befallen our lyrical hero.
Alas, three hours is enough even for the hardiest poetry fan and we trudged wearily home, perhaps musing on Catullus's words, slightly changed: 'the words of a poet should be written in wind and running water'. From now on, I'm sticking with Andy McNab.
I've just thought - perhaps he's been swallowed up by the same black hole that's claimed by errant and elusive MP, Paul Uppal?
Then we went to Manchester to drink Hawaiian cocktails in honour of Jo's birthday. Which was nice. On the way, we saw some of the fighting Mancunian spirit I admire so much. Passing three police vans dealing with a pub brawl, I noticed a woman bleeding profusely from the huge cuts on her arm (probably from a pint glass). Pained and wounded as she was, she clung on to her cigarette for dear life. I salute her.
One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
(With apologies to poor old Gray and his 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard'). I've kept some of the original lines (with a tiny change) and the iambic pentameter.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
Alone we drank the bitter dregs of pain,
From this bleak place we all must go away
Abandoned by him for whom we came.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Si, for thy sweet words we all caught colds!
Honeyed words mean naught when oaths haply take flight
A promise from a poet us despoils.
Let not Ambition mock our useful toil!
The poetaster, ARMITAGE take heed
Legs ache; thy feet, one trusts, are one vast boil!
Think of thy faithful lest no more they read.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
With hearts aflame and hampers full of nosh
Came three Map Twats, one more with JO, Ben's wife.
In dark and age shoulds't thou now fear my cosh!
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Shall some wag say in mirthless northern jest
He'll truly rue the day he e'er was born
Lines to 'scape our fury need be his best.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
Lies POETASTER, heeding not our thirst
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
Afore ye wake let buzzards eat you first.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
ARMITAGE scoffs at fame, and sales, and trust,
While drunk on fumes thy congregation yawn,
And vow 'No more our lucre, 'twould be just'.
As you've probably worked out, Armitage disappointed us. We went to his reading in Mytholmroyd, which was sheer delight: excellent poems, good banter, warm white wine. I took some pictures, which I'll post on Tuesday when I'm back with my own computer.
On Saturday, Cynical Ben had arranged a picnic for Armitage along his Pennine Route way, as he suggested. Two more poetry fans were there, and mighty good company they were as we waited for three hours, cheering on the labouring cyclists as they staged private Tours de Lancashire, drinking beer and fantasising every more baroque accidents which might have befallen our lyrical hero.
Alas, three hours is enough even for the hardiest poetry fan and we trudged wearily home, perhaps musing on Catullus's words, slightly changed: 'the words of a poet should be written in wind and running water'. From now on, I'm sticking with Andy McNab.
I've just thought - perhaps he's been swallowed up by the same black hole that's claimed by errant and elusive MP, Paul Uppal?
Then we went to Manchester to drink Hawaiian cocktails in honour of Jo's birthday. Which was nice. On the way, we saw some of the fighting Mancunian spirit I admire so much. Passing three police vans dealing with a pub brawl, I noticed a woman bleeding profusely from the huge cuts on her arm (probably from a pint glass). Pained and wounded as she was, she clung on to her cigarette for dear life. I salute her.
Friday, 23 July 2010
Those who are about to rock…
There's a part of me that will forever be a 14 year-old. And that 14 year-old is a metal kid. Never mind that I own precisely one metal album (by Slayer), my heart thrilled to the news that the Big Four are touring together for the first time ever: Metallica, Slayer, Anthrax and Megadeth one on bill. The egos, the anger, the leather, the angst and - for the crowd - neck injuries to excel an osteopath's wildest dreams.
They remind me of Disaster Area, the loudest band in the universe: 'Their songs are on the whole very simple and mostly follow the familiar theme of boy-being meets girl-being beneath a silvery moon, which then explodes for no adequately explored reason'.
Ah, to be young, furious and unfocussed again.
They remind me of Disaster Area, the loudest band in the universe: 'Their songs are on the whole very simple and mostly follow the familiar theme of boy-being meets girl-being beneath a silvery moon, which then explodes for no adequately explored reason'.
Ah, to be young, furious and unfocussed again.
What rhymes with Mytholmroyd?
Because I'm going there tomorrow (it's Ted Hughes's birthplace and the name's beautifully Scandinavian) for a reading by the wonderful Simon Armitage, who's giving performances as he walks along the Pennine Way.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Joined-up government
The Sustainable Development Commission costs £3m and advises the government on energy-saving and efficiency.
This year, it has saved the government £70m, which even with my GCSE C-grade, seems to work out at £67m 'profit'.
To 'save money', the Tory Scum government has abolished it. Magnificent. This doesn't stink of ideological bitterness at all.
This year, it has saved the government £70m, which even with my GCSE C-grade, seems to work out at £67m 'profit'.
To 'save money', the Tory Scum government has abolished it. Magnificent. This doesn't stink of ideological bitterness at all.
No justice for Ian Tomlinson
Ian Tomlinson was a middle-aged man who accidentally got caught up in a demonstration as he was walking home.
Having been refused permission to get through the police cordon, he turned with his hands in his pocket and walked away.
At this point, a police officer smashed him with a truncheon from behind. Tomlinson collapsed. No officer offered first aid - only protestors did so, having carried him further from the police.
Tomlinson died where he fell the second time.
The police initially told the press Tomlinson was a protestor, and that he died from a heart attack, on the basis of a post-mortem carried out by their pet doctor - a man in deep trouble with the medical authorities for other slapdash work. A second post-mortem revealed the cause of death to be internal bleeding.
I don't care what the cause was - it's hard to think that heart failure was unconnected to being bludgeoned by a policeman in a surprise attack. In any case, the result isn't the core issue: it's the unprovoked violence by an officer of the law.
Now the results are in: no criminal charges for the policeman who did this. The investigation took so long that assault charges are out (what a handy loophole), and they decided not to go for intermediate charges (such as grievous bodily harm) for unclear reasons. Turns out you can do whatever you want if you've a uniform. And people wonder why I'm wary of the police.
Update: even the Independent Police Complaints Commission thought this was manslaughter, and told Tomlinson's family so.
And let's see what the forensic pathologist said:
Having been refused permission to get through the police cordon, he turned with his hands in his pocket and walked away.
At this point, a police officer smashed him with a truncheon from behind. Tomlinson collapsed. No officer offered first aid - only protestors did so, having carried him further from the police.
Tomlinson died where he fell the second time.
The police initially told the press Tomlinson was a protestor, and that he died from a heart attack, on the basis of a post-mortem carried out by their pet doctor - a man in deep trouble with the medical authorities for other slapdash work. A second post-mortem revealed the cause of death to be internal bleeding.
I don't care what the cause was - it's hard to think that heart failure was unconnected to being bludgeoned by a policeman in a surprise attack. In any case, the result isn't the core issue: it's the unprovoked violence by an officer of the law.
In a written statement the CPS admitted that there was sufficient evidence to show the officer had assaulted Tomlinson, but claimed a host of technical reasons meant he could not be charged.
Tomlinson's son Paul, flanked by his mother Julia, who was struggling to hold back tears, said: "It's been a huge cover-up and they're incompetent.
In a detailed letter setting out its reasons, the CPS said that the actions of the officer – seen striking Tomlinson with a baton then shoving him to the ground on footage obtained by the Guardian – amounted to assault.
It said: "The CPS concluded that there is sufficient evidence to provide a reasonable prospect of proving that the actions of PC 'A' in striking Mr Tomlinson with his baton and then pushing him over constituted an assault. At the time of those acts Mr Tomlinson did not pose a threat ... There is sufficient evidence to provide a realistic prospect of proving that his actions were disproportionate and unjustified."
Now the results are in: no criminal charges for the policeman who did this. The investigation took so long that assault charges are out (what a handy loophole), and they decided not to go for intermediate charges (such as grievous bodily harm) for unclear reasons. Turns out you can do whatever you want if you've a uniform. And people wonder why I'm wary of the police.
Update: even the Independent Police Complaints Commission thought this was manslaughter, and told Tomlinson's family so.
And let's see what the forensic pathologist said:
He told the Guardian prosecutors made a factual error in dismissing a charge of actual bodily harm.
He said his report contained clear evidence that Tomlinson suffered injuries sufficient to support a charge of ABH.
But the CPS dismissed the injuries as "relatively minor" and thus not enough to support a charge of ABH in its written reasons given to the family.
Cary, speaking for the first time about the case, told the Guardian: "I'm quite happy to challenge that. No the injuries were not relatively minor. It is a flawed approach. He sustained quite a large area of bruising. Such injuries are consistent with a baton strike, which could amount to ABH. It's extraordinary. If that's not ABH I would like to know what is."
"You're some kind of hillside grazer of culture. A sheep. A cow"
I think I should spread the word on Rich Hall's series on American culture. I thought he was just an acerbic comedian on Mock the Week and similar shows, but this series has been utterly fantastic ("you're a ruminant. Fuck you"). He's more conservative than I am (who isn't?), but his explorations of topics such as representations of the American South, and of the cultural significance of the Western (last night's episode - UK only, sorry) are brilliant: passionate, informed and individual. He's not just reading someone else's words either - he wrote them.
There's not a lot a Cultural Studies academic won't know, but the detail, the overview and the readings of cultural texts are top quality. Highly recommended.
Here's a taste:
There's not a lot a Cultural Studies academic won't know, but the detail, the overview and the readings of cultural texts are top quality. Highly recommended.
Here's a taste:
Morons! The Bus is Leaving!
Weirdly, I was trawling up and down the pool this morning, avoiding the harpoons from the Japanese fleet which shadows my every stroke, thinking about lines from Groundhog Day, which I haven't seen for 15 years.
Then I see this interview with Bill Murray, the kind of thing I wouldn't normally read if I hadn't had one of his films on my mind.
It's got some funny lines. This is my favourite:
Then I see this interview with Bill Murray, the kind of thing I wouldn't normally read if I hadn't had one of his films on my mind.
It's got some funny lines. This is my favourite:
Well, how about Garfield? Can you explain that to me? Did you just do it for the dough?
I looked at the script, and it said, "So-and-so and Joel Coen." And I thought: Christ, well, I love those Coens! They're funny.
So I sat down and watched the whole thing, and I kept saying, "Who the hell cut this thing? Who did this? What the fuck was Coen thinking?" And then they explained it to me: It wasn't written by that Joel Coen. That's why, when they say, "Any regrets?" at the end of Zombieland, I say, "Well, maybe Garfield."
Vive le Tour
I'm addicted to the Tour de France. I know that most of the riders are or have been on drugs, and that the route is several hundred miles shorter than it used to be, but there's no contest on earth like it.
Over the course of three weeks, a group of men - most of whom are there only to support their star rider - cover over 2000 miles of France and neighbouring countries (1926 was 3570 miles), from cobblestones to the mountains which have killed several of their predecessors, including Tom Simpson who died on the insane Mont Ventoux in 1967, exhausted and suffering from the effects of amphetamine use, which was state of the art doping for the time and was the only way for a working-class cyclist to win enough to keep his family. His last words: 'Put me back on my bike'
The overall winner is only one of several bitter contests - time trials, points winners, King of the Mountains and even the Lanterne Rouge (last place) are cause for jockeying. They fight, cheat, try to break each other, yet there's also a strong code of honour (which the current Yellow Jersey, Alberto Contador, broke a few days ago when he took advantage of Andy Schleck's broken chain to steal a stage. In the early days, riders would cheat (sometimes taking the train or getting a lift), while fans would beat up their favourites' rivals.
Today's a Col de Tourmalet mountain stage. There are several mountain stages, all graded except for Tourmalet and a select few which are considered so extreme that they're unclassifiable (hors catégorie). Basically, a car struggles to get up them, yet 140 cyclists manage it. Tourmalet's so high that the ski station is only two thirds of the way up - and the Tour is visiting it twice this year.
Over the course of three weeks, a group of men - most of whom are there only to support their star rider - cover over 2000 miles of France and neighbouring countries (1926 was 3570 miles), from cobblestones to the mountains which have killed several of their predecessors, including Tom Simpson who died on the insane Mont Ventoux in 1967, exhausted and suffering from the effects of amphetamine use, which was state of the art doping for the time and was the only way for a working-class cyclist to win enough to keep his family. His last words: 'Put me back on my bike'
The overall winner is only one of several bitter contests - time trials, points winners, King of the Mountains and even the Lanterne Rouge (last place) are cause for jockeying. They fight, cheat, try to break each other, yet there's also a strong code of honour (which the current Yellow Jersey, Alberto Contador, broke a few days ago when he took advantage of Andy Schleck's broken chain to steal a stage. In the early days, riders would cheat (sometimes taking the train or getting a lift), while fans would beat up their favourites' rivals.
Today's a Col de Tourmalet mountain stage. There are several mountain stages, all graded except for Tourmalet and a select few which are considered so extreme that they're unclassifiable (hors catégorie). Basically, a car struggles to get up them, yet 140 cyclists manage it. Tourmalet's so high that the ski station is only two thirds of the way up - and the Tour is visiting it twice this year.
Discovering an unmade road rendered impassable by snow, Steinès dismissed his driver and continued on foot. He got lost, fell down a ravine and had to be rescued, but the following morning, in a gendarmerie in the hamlet of Barèges on the way down from the 2,115m summit, he cabled his boss: "Tourmalet crossed stop very good road stop perfectly practicable stop Steines."
As Lapize crossed the summit of the next pass, the Col d'Aubisque, he hurled a famous imprecation at the commissaires. "You are all assassins," he shouted with what remained of his strength. "No human being should be put through an ordeal like this. That's enough for me." Nevertheless he carried on, thereby establishing a precedent for an ineluctable combination of cyclists, mountains and suffering.
Some riders, a select few, have made light of the Tourmalet's challenge. The great Spanish climber Federico Bahamontes, forever known as the Eagle of Toledo, led over the summit on four occasions, and in 1954 he even stopped for an ice cream to let the others catch up and accompany him on the descent, a skill at which he was less adept.
Another triumph for The Hegemon
Yes, it's a £230,000 grant reduction as a punishment for recruiting too many students last year: student fees cover a small proportion of the actual cost of teaching, and the government pays the rest. They're not pleased. Oddly enough, this sum is roughly the same as the Vice-Chancellor's salary. Hmmm, I can see how we can make this saving very easily.
Meanwhile, all the universities are having their teaching budgets by £82m cut as an emergency measure because all our money has saved the banks - on top of the £1bn cut already announced. No news yet of how much we're going to suffer, but it won't be easy.
Still, not as cold as this school, in Bridgwater. Despite Britain being the 5th largest economy in the world, these kids will still be struggling along in a cold, leaky shipping container. Oh well, it all pays for the Tory Scum reduction in corporation tax and for the 'free schools' nonsense.
They're not an extreme example, either. In the same constituency, as school designed for 300 people holds 1200 kids.
Meanwhile, all the universities are having their teaching budgets by £82m cut as an emergency measure because all our money has saved the banks - on top of the £1bn cut already announced. No news yet of how much we're going to suffer, but it won't be easy.
Still, not as cold as this school, in Bridgwater. Despite Britain being the 5th largest economy in the world, these kids will still be struggling along in a cold, leaky shipping container. Oh well, it all pays for the Tory Scum reduction in corporation tax and for the 'free schools' nonsense.
They're not an extreme example, either. In the same constituency, as school designed for 300 people holds 1200 kids.
It's getting cold in here.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Grammar Nazi
I share a look, birthday, tailor and opinions with David Mitchell. In light of my previous apostrophe comment, I thought I should post this. I really am like this.
A challenge for my readers
From a colleague: name 5 current first-class county cricketers whose careers began on or before 1990.
At a guess: Cork, Gough, Grant Flower (played for Zimbabwe in 1990), Ramprakash. Any other suggestions gratefully received.
Meanwhile, I'm filling in a reference for a student who wants to do a PGCE through our education school. How shameful that that particular department knows not how to deploy apostrophes. Must try harder. See me!
At a guess: Cork, Gough, Grant Flower (played for Zimbabwe in 1990), Ramprakash. Any other suggestions gratefully received.
Meanwhile, I'm filling in a reference for a student who wants to do a PGCE through our education school. How shameful that that particular department knows not how to deploy apostrophes. Must try harder. See me!
They never did find the Clangers
Today's the 41st anniversary of the moon landing (or if you spend too much time on the internet, of the faked moon landing).
It's one of those events which brings into conflict two sides of me. The romantic, childlike side of me will never stop admiring the decision to go to space, against all the odds. Likewise, the sadness of the missions is stamped on me: the pointlessness (Shepard played golf there, FFS), the danger, that photograph, the isolation.
The adult, rational, Marxist side of me is much more cynical. The moon landings achieved nothing other than to intimidate the Russians and develop more sophisticated weaponry. They were overseen by Wernher von Braun, a Nazi whose skills meant he never had to say he was sorry. The moon program can be seen as an expensive way of diverting Americans' attention from Vietnam, from the Cold War, from campus protester killings, from the mass starvation and environmental destruction which characterises day to day life.
Perhaps, too, the moon landings were the last hurrah of a technology-based superpower, of a nation which believed that new gadgets would give them freedom and domination for ever. Instead, the space program is a sad shadow of its former self - see J G Ballard's Hello America, Myths of the Near Future and The Terminal Beach for the heartbreaking melancholy of post-space America, all drained pools and ex-astronauts going mad under the derelict towers of Cape Canaveral. Technology is more democratically available than ever envisaged, and the Big Industry of the US is in dire straits, undercut by the Chinese and soon, by India (both of which want a space programme for bragging rights too).
The space program then was perhaps a fantasy of simplicity - the fragile men alone in the void - away from the complications and demands of everyday life and other people. But it's a fantasy I like to entertain in more emotional moments.
So -what do you think? Noble endeavour? Triumph of technology? Pointless diversion? All three?
It's one of those events which brings into conflict two sides of me. The romantic, childlike side of me will never stop admiring the decision to go to space, against all the odds. Likewise, the sadness of the missions is stamped on me: the pointlessness (Shepard played golf there, FFS), the danger, that photograph, the isolation.
The adult, rational, Marxist side of me is much more cynical. The moon landings achieved nothing other than to intimidate the Russians and develop more sophisticated weaponry. They were overseen by Wernher von Braun, a Nazi whose skills meant he never had to say he was sorry. The moon program can be seen as an expensive way of diverting Americans' attention from Vietnam, from the Cold War, from campus protester killings, from the mass starvation and environmental destruction which characterises day to day life.
Perhaps, too, the moon landings were the last hurrah of a technology-based superpower, of a nation which believed that new gadgets would give them freedom and domination for ever. Instead, the space program is a sad shadow of its former self - see J G Ballard's Hello America, Myths of the Near Future and The Terminal Beach for the heartbreaking melancholy of post-space America, all drained pools and ex-astronauts going mad under the derelict towers of Cape Canaveral. Technology is more democratically available than ever envisaged, and the Big Industry of the US is in dire straits, undercut by the Chinese and soon, by India (both of which want a space programme for bragging rights too).
The space program then was perhaps a fantasy of simplicity - the fragile men alone in the void - away from the complications and demands of everyday life and other people. But it's a fantasy I like to entertain in more emotional moments.
So -what do you think? Noble endeavour? Triumph of technology? Pointless diversion? All three?
Books will set you free
Whenever I think of Texas, images of George Bush, the Confederate Flag, the illegal annexation of the formerly Mexican state, rednecks, the Klan and other negative things form in my mind. Unfair, but they're the constantly circulated stereotypes put forth by popular media (and George Bush).
So imagine my surprise to read about the Changing Lives Through Literature project, in which criminals are sentenced to a reading group and probation rather than prison. Now the obvious joke is that many of my students act like prisoners in my seminar groups, but I think there's something to this: well-chosen books widen your intellectual horizons and explore complicated emotional landscape: perhaps they can be therapeutic.
What books would you put on the reading list? Presumably not crime novels, which could act as manuals for the incompetent criminal, nor stories of heroic escapes. I'd guess that A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch would be a good deterrent (it's set in a gulag), as would Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban ('go straight, or we'll make you read it again'). But what else?
Joking aside, this is the perfect riposte to philistines like the new government (50% cut to arts funding/admin announced today, as well as the abolition of the Sustainable Development Commission), who despise the humanities as pointless.
So imagine my surprise to read about the Changing Lives Through Literature project, in which criminals are sentenced to a reading group and probation rather than prison. Now the obvious joke is that many of my students act like prisoners in my seminar groups, but I think there's something to this: well-chosen books widen your intellectual horizons and explore complicated emotional landscape: perhaps they can be therapeutic.
Repeat offenders of serious crimes such as armed robbery, assault or drug dealing are made to attend a reading group where they discuss literary classics such as To Kill a Mockingbird, The Bell Jar and Of Mice and Men.
Rouse's group was run by part-time lecturer in liberal studies at Rice University in Houston, Larry Jablecki, who uses the texts of Plato, Mill and Socrates to explore themes of fate, love, anger, liberty, tolerance and empathy.
Groups are single sex and the books chosen resonate with some of the issues the offenders may be facing. A male group, for example, may read books with a theme of male identity. A judge, a probation officer and an academic join a session of 30 offenders to talk about issues as equals.
Of the 597 who have completed the course in Brazoria County, Texas, between 1997 and 2008, only 36 (6%) had their probations revoked and were sent to jail.
A year-long study of the first cohort that went through the programme, which was founded in Massachusetts in 1991, found that only 19% had reoffended compared with 42% in a control group.
Instead of spending a lifetime in prison at a cost of more than $30,000 (£19,520) a year, Rouse's "rehabilitation" cost the taxpayer just $500 (£325).
What books would you put on the reading list? Presumably not crime novels, which could act as manuals for the incompetent criminal, nor stories of heroic escapes. I'd guess that A Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovitch would be a good deterrent (it's set in a gulag), as would Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban ('go straight, or we'll make you read it again'). But what else?
Joking aside, this is the perfect riposte to philistines like the new government (50% cut to arts funding/admin announced today, as well as the abolition of the Sustainable Development Commission), who despise the humanities as pointless.
Poor old cops
I felt genuinely sorry for the cops and criminals outside my flat last night. They were like a pair of tired old tap-dancers in an empty hall, going through the old routine one last time without interest or enthusiasm.
Two youths (ill-fitting baseball caps, branded t-shirts, tight tracksuits with the trousers tucked into socks to display their white trainers) decide to start hitting each other, right in front of the police car which has just come round the corner. They weren't very good pugilists: even I could have landed more telling blows. The police officers sit there for a second, clearly deciding whether or not it was worth even bothering to get out of the vehicle. Eventually they do. The 'fight' stops and the kids submit to the rozzers without any show of defiance or injustice.
For all concerned, it was like an ancient religious ritual whose significance has long been lost - as meaningless and regular as the weather. The teens bore each other and the police no ill-will, and the officers were kind to them in a weary kind of way, no doubt resigned to a pile of administration over a petty argument, leading to no further action.
It certainly wasn't like The Bill, which is going out on a high.
Two youths (ill-fitting baseball caps, branded t-shirts, tight tracksuits with the trousers tucked into socks to display their white trainers) decide to start hitting each other, right in front of the police car which has just come round the corner. They weren't very good pugilists: even I could have landed more telling blows. The police officers sit there for a second, clearly deciding whether or not it was worth even bothering to get out of the vehicle. Eventually they do. The 'fight' stops and the kids submit to the rozzers without any show of defiance or injustice.
For all concerned, it was like an ancient religious ritual whose significance has long been lost - as meaningless and regular as the weather. The teens bore each other and the police no ill-will, and the officers were kind to them in a weary kind of way, no doubt resigned to a pile of administration over a petty argument, leading to no further action.
It certainly wasn't like The Bill, which is going out on a high.
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Who'd have thunk it?
According to a book by Gordon Brown's pet pollster, British people are a bit thick, and Labour Party members (probably all party activists), of which I'm one, are a bit weird!
I guess you do have to be a little it obsessive to care about participatory democracy rather than just hope it carries on without any help, and it can be time-consuming, but I'm a bit miffed by the arrogance of this rich cosmopolitan parasite. Activist keep the parties alive, raise the money, pick candidates, hear about voters' concerns… all things that the centralised marketing scum who run party HQ want to abandon. To them, party members are the annoying ticks who keep reminding them that beliefs and policies are more important than soundbites and acquiring free lunches and lucrative directorships. The bastards.
I don't think voters are thick either.
Unless, of course, it's possible that a pollster is just one rung up from an advertiser in the intelligence/values/trustworthiness stakes…
Labour's 2010 election slogan – "a future fair for all" – was confusing. "Voters misunderstood, thinking that this might refer to some sort of futuristic theme park – a 'future fair'," Mattinson writes.
Basically, they are all a bit weird. I mean, what they had in common wasn't their political opinions – they covered the whole spectrum, from centre-left to far left – they weren't united by any ideology or political belief.
No, it was that they were all slightly strange people ... strange personally, I mean. They were people who really did want to spend their evenings sitting in church halls or community centres agonising over quite arcane points of detail.
And they weren't just doing it that night, but every night – the committee for this, the committee for that, the council, whatever. They were sort of lonely and socially odd.
I guess you do have to be a little it obsessive to care about participatory democracy rather than just hope it carries on without any help, and it can be time-consuming, but I'm a bit miffed by the arrogance of this rich cosmopolitan parasite. Activist keep the parties alive, raise the money, pick candidates, hear about voters' concerns… all things that the centralised marketing scum who run party HQ want to abandon. To them, party members are the annoying ticks who keep reminding them that beliefs and policies are more important than soundbites and acquiring free lunches and lucrative directorships. The bastards.
I don't think voters are thick either.
Unless, of course, it's possible that a pollster is just one rung up from an advertiser in the intelligence/values/trustworthiness stakes…
Greetings, Tory Scum
I've just had a visit from Conservative Central Office.
Hello boys and girls.
In case you come back, let's make my feelings perfectly clear.
I don't like you, mostly because you don't like any of us. You don't like the poor, the brown, the foreign, the regional, the working-class, the intellectual and the public-sector. You don't act in the interests of the population as a whole, and you appear to valorise greed and selfishness.
Your MP for my constituency is apparently lazy and uncommunicative.
Your policies on education will thicken us.
Your policies on health will sicken us.
Your policies on the economy will ruin us.
But your friends will get rich.
Here's some Alan B'Stard, featuring an early mention of oil shale, and of the phrase 'Tory Scum', around the 9.30 mark.
That's basically why I don't like Tory Scum.
| chugai-pharm.co.uk ? (U.K.) | ||
| IP Address | 194.203.158.# (Conservative Central Office) | |
| ISP | UUNET |
Hello boys and girls.
In case you come back, let's make my feelings perfectly clear.
I don't like you, mostly because you don't like any of us. You don't like the poor, the brown, the foreign, the regional, the working-class, the intellectual and the public-sector. You don't act in the interests of the population as a whole, and you appear to valorise greed and selfishness.
Your MP for my constituency is apparently lazy and uncommunicative.
Your policies on education will thicken us.
Your policies on health will sicken us.
Your policies on the economy will ruin us.
But your friends will get rich.
Here's some Alan B'Stard, featuring an early mention of oil shale, and of the phrase 'Tory Scum', around the 9.30 mark.
That's basically why I don't like Tory Scum.
Scientologists: as ***** as "Dr" Gillian McKeith "PhD"?
Some organisations haven't worked out that responding to every little pinprick with a hammer makes you look oppressive and moronic.
Hot on the heels of Shitty Gill's Twitter foolishness comes the "Church" of "Scientology". Rather narked by a Welsh Councillor's description of them as 'stupid', they're trying to have him sacked because his Twitter account was "CllrJohnDixon" and therefore 'official' - which seems moronic. Even worse, they claim that the use of 'stupid' is an attack on 'religious freedom' - as if having an opinion is unacceptable.
Now, I've got a title too. It's 'Dr', and it's a real one, from a genuine accredited university with a letterhead and everything. I also have a job.
So with my PhD, I think I can confidently provide a list of adjectives for Scientology to go alongside the stupidity. Let's see if they try to get me fired.
Sinister
Creepy
Nautical
anti-scientific, despite the name
Made-up (like all religions but in a rather more business-like fashion)
the Goldman Sachs of religions
Litigious
Humourless
Bonkers
Disgraceful, opportunistic, shameless and tasteless
Can you think of any more words for them, children? For a cult invented by a terrible science fiction writer in the 1950s because it was lucrative and tax-efficient? For a group obsessed with recruiting the rich, the famous and the powerful, one which treats its own members badly and preys on the vulnerable, weak and lonely?
Oh yes. It's a religion.
Hot on the heels of Shitty Gill's Twitter foolishness comes the "Church" of "Scientology". Rather narked by a Welsh Councillor's description of them as 'stupid', they're trying to have him sacked because his Twitter account was "CllrJohnDixon" and therefore 'official' - which seems moronic. Even worse, they claim that the use of 'stupid' is an attack on 'religious freedom' - as if having an opinion is unacceptable.
Now, I've got a title too. It's 'Dr', and it's a real one, from a genuine accredited university with a letterhead and everything. I also have a job.
So with my PhD, I think I can confidently provide a list of adjectives for Scientology to go alongside the stupidity. Let's see if they try to get me fired.
Sinister
Creepy
Nautical
anti-scientific, despite the name
Made-up (like all religions but in a rather more business-like fashion)
the Goldman Sachs of religions
Litigious
Humourless
Bonkers
Disgraceful, opportunistic, shameless and tasteless
Can you think of any more words for them, children? For a cult invented by a terrible science fiction writer in the 1950s because it was lucrative and tax-efficient? For a group obsessed with recruiting the rich, the famous and the powerful, one which treats its own members badly and preys on the vulnerable, weak and lonely?
Oh yes. It's a religion.
Book 'em!
More lovely books arrive today. Look, some are for work, and I've had vouchers for my birthday, so please don't mention the book diet. I'll get back on it tomorrow.
Anyway…
A lovely old (1911, I think) edition of Wild Wales, by George Borrow - a seminal work of colonial romanticism.
Two Oxford reference books: the Dictionary of Word Origins (did you know that blancmange used to be a dish of white meat or fish in cream sauce?) and the Dictionary of English Idioms. I love books like this. Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (previous edition online here) is the daddy of them all: quirky, not always reliable but always entertaining. The Oxford doesn't give derivation very often, which is a shame, but it's pretty good, particularly for English learners, as the language is so idiomatic.
Volumes 1 and 2 of Jason Lutes' Berlin. It's a graphic novel which tracks the rise of Nazism through the prism of Jewish and Communist young people in 1920s and 1930s. Good drawing, lovely writing.
G. A. Cohen's Why Not Socialism? As you can probably guess, I see no reason why not anyway, but it's a lovely little volume.
Finally, the latest in the excellent Writers of Wales series of short biographies - this time it's Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Norman-Welshman who helped oppress the Welsh while ensuring that their culture gained the attention of the French overlords: he was the first to mention Arthur outside Welsh-language poetry. He was an early historian, but also a shameless liar. Jankulak's done an excellent job.
Still some credit left: what books do you recommend? Everyone's reading Wolf Hall, so I should give that a go, but what else?
There's an excellent online etymology dictionary here, though it didn't recognise 'gitwizard' or 'snazzwank', probably because Neal made them up. Hours of fun though.
Anyway…
A lovely old (1911, I think) edition of Wild Wales, by George Borrow - a seminal work of colonial romanticism.
Two Oxford reference books: the Dictionary of Word Origins (did you know that blancmange used to be a dish of white meat or fish in cream sauce?) and the Dictionary of English Idioms. I love books like this. Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable (previous edition online here) is the daddy of them all: quirky, not always reliable but always entertaining. The Oxford doesn't give derivation very often, which is a shame, but it's pretty good, particularly for English learners, as the language is so idiomatic.
Volumes 1 and 2 of Jason Lutes' Berlin. It's a graphic novel which tracks the rise of Nazism through the prism of Jewish and Communist young people in 1920s and 1930s. Good drawing, lovely writing.
G. A. Cohen's Why Not Socialism? As you can probably guess, I see no reason why not anyway, but it's a lovely little volume.
Finally, the latest in the excellent Writers of Wales series of short biographies - this time it's Geoffrey of Monmouth, a Norman-Welshman who helped oppress the Welsh while ensuring that their culture gained the attention of the French overlords: he was the first to mention Arthur outside Welsh-language poetry. He was an early historian, but also a shameless liar. Jankulak's done an excellent job.
Still some credit left: what books do you recommend? Everyone's reading Wolf Hall, so I should give that a go, but what else?
There's an excellent online etymology dictionary here, though it didn't recognise 'gitwizard' or 'snazzwank', probably because Neal made them up. Hours of fun though.
The High Life
Very little would tempt me to visit the US again, mostly through guilt about the environmental damage the flight would involve.
That said, I'd love to see the High Line - a wonderful piece of architecture and gardening which will transform the way pedestrians see New York.
Essentially, it's an old elevated railway which has been turned into an aerial garden, a linear park moving through the city. This is the kind of project that regenerates places in a subtle way, creating a greener and gentler place without the anguish caused by major relocations and corporate projects.
See a gallery here or here.
That said, I'd love to see the High Line - a wonderful piece of architecture and gardening which will transform the way pedestrians see New York.
Essentially, it's an old elevated railway which has been turned into an aerial garden, a linear park moving through the city. This is the kind of project that regenerates places in a subtle way, creating a greener and gentler place without the anguish caused by major relocations and corporate projects.
See a gallery here or here.
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