Zappa! thou should'st be living at this hour.
Satire tends to stop at the water's edge when it comes to the recent death of the good, the bad and the ugly. Jade Goody, of whom there was much to be said to the detriment, still flutters in angel's wings with a halo, and now there is another angel (possibly black, possibly white) fluttering beside her in the firmament. How wrong was Shakespeare when he wrote that "The evil men do lives after them; / The good is oft interred with their bones."
Frank Zappa, of course, also died prematurely: shortly before his fifty-third birthday. Unlike those of Goody and Jackson his life was not beset with even the shadow of scandal, but such was his relentless irreverence that he was minded to scourge the famous even when more prudent tongues fell silent. Back when the worst thing you could say about Michael Jackson was that he had too much plastic surgery, Zappa sang about it. Almost certainly, he would have sung about the other stuff as well.
And why not?
My sticking point with Jackson is not that he shares a sub-genre of adolescent comedy with Gary Glitter but this. Imagine that a trusted friend of yours, a man in his 40s whom you had known many years, told you that he occasionally shared his bed with a child unrelated to him. Then imagine that his reason for doing so was merely preference, recreation ... personal enjoyment. Imagine your reaction: incredulity? bewilderment? suspicion? condemnation?
Not, surely, worshipful indulgence.
Yet Jackson was not the trusted friend of the majority of the people now sobbing on television to the delight of the news editors. Even before he ran into scandal, he was regarded as a bizarre eccentric: a man more properly described as infantile than childlike. Even at his best (and it is for once not an exaggeration to say that his best was great) his strengths did not lie in singing or songwriting. The only ability that he held to an extraordinary degree was to command a stage and dance.
The bathos is all there in his title. King of Pop. What next, The Emperor of Ice-Cream?
Of course, thanks in no small part to Quincy Jones, Jackson did record some great singles. To be honest, I've always had a soft spot for "Rock and Roll parts 1 & 2", "I'm the Leader of the Gang (I Am)" and even "I Love You Love Me Love" as well. And we certainly owe a debt of gratitude to Phil Spector for the many classics in which he played a part, although our debt does not quite extend to unlocking his cell door.
Much more was proved against Spector and Glitter than was ever proved against The Artist Formerly Known As Wacko.
But, as tributes flood in, I wouldn't recommend that we let all our former doubts get washed away in the flood.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Mouldering Edifice
They're cranking open the roof of the laboratory at Labour Central Office again and praying for a stormy night.
It is a source of amazement to me that Margaret Beckett is regarded as a serious candidate for the role of Speaker. Were Russell Brand to stand for election as Commissioner for Standards in Broadcasting, there is a slim chance that he might defy expectations and not mention his willy in the acceptance speech. There is, however, no chance at all that Mags would reform the Commons. She is the steady-as-you-go-Lads-and-you'll-be-needing-those-spoons-for-gravy candidate.
This is, after all, a woman who actually managed to have a claim for expenses declined by the Fees Office. So incompetent was her fleecing of the public purse that she actually put in a receipt for having her pergola painted. Officials accustomed to swallowing camels strained out this gnat, so the patched horror was required to dip into her own resources.
Is it any wonder that her campaign slogan is "No Gazebo Left Behind"?
John Bercow, another front runner for the Speaker's job, is regarded (when standing next to Margaret Becket) as a reform candidate, but is in fact a member of the "£23,083 Club": those members distinguished for having claimed the maximum allowable in '07-08. The man does backflips for fish and was forced to write out a cheque for £6,508 at about the same time that his colleagues were shoving thick copies of Hansard down their breeches in expectation of a caning from the Beak.
All of which leaves Ann Widdecombe (the Have I Got News candidate) looking surprisingly acceptable for the role. HIGNFY is, you will recall, the route by which Boris Johnson managed to get elected as London Mayor. On the principle that brand recognition is better than a glowing c.v., Miss Widdecombe becomes the natural People's Choice.
Moreover, she actually managed to make it into The Telegraph's "Saints" section. The poor thing actually commutes to London and doesn't claim for a second home at all.
So she won't win it.
By the time you read this, the issue will probably have been settled, but informed rumour (i.e. baseless speculation) has it that it is the Goldilocks candidate - George (Not Too Hot, Not Too Cold But Just Right) Young - who may yet be dragged protesting to the Speaker's chair. Another member of the £23,083 Club, he has nevertheless avoided the whiff of scandal thus far and does not require a bolt of lightning for reanimation.
On the whole, though, it would be somehow fitting were the Speaker to require the periodic reattachment of limbs. The stench of recent disinterrment would be a reminder to Gordon Brown that he long ago traded the sweet smell of success for that of impending ruin.
It is a source of amazement to me that Margaret Beckett is regarded as a serious candidate for the role of Speaker. Were Russell Brand to stand for election as Commissioner for Standards in Broadcasting, there is a slim chance that he might defy expectations and not mention his willy in the acceptance speech. There is, however, no chance at all that Mags would reform the Commons. She is the steady-as-you-go-Lads-and-you'll-be-needing-those-spoons-for-gravy candidate.
This is, after all, a woman who actually managed to have a claim for expenses declined by the Fees Office. So incompetent was her fleecing of the public purse that she actually put in a receipt for having her pergola painted. Officials accustomed to swallowing camels strained out this gnat, so the patched horror was required to dip into her own resources.
Is it any wonder that her campaign slogan is "No Gazebo Left Behind"?
John Bercow, another front runner for the Speaker's job, is regarded (when standing next to Margaret Becket) as a reform candidate, but is in fact a member of the "£23,083 Club": those members distinguished for having claimed the maximum allowable in '07-08. The man does backflips for fish and was forced to write out a cheque for £6,508 at about the same time that his colleagues were shoving thick copies of Hansard down their breeches in expectation of a caning from the Beak.
All of which leaves Ann Widdecombe (the Have I Got News candidate) looking surprisingly acceptable for the role. HIGNFY is, you will recall, the route by which Boris Johnson managed to get elected as London Mayor. On the principle that brand recognition is better than a glowing c.v., Miss Widdecombe becomes the natural People's Choice.
Moreover, she actually managed to make it into The Telegraph's "Saints" section. The poor thing actually commutes to London and doesn't claim for a second home at all.
So she won't win it.
By the time you read this, the issue will probably have been settled, but informed rumour (i.e. baseless speculation) has it that it is the Goldilocks candidate - George (Not Too Hot, Not Too Cold But Just Right) Young - who may yet be dragged protesting to the Speaker's chair. Another member of the £23,083 Club, he has nevertheless avoided the whiff of scandal thus far and does not require a bolt of lightning for reanimation.
On the whole, though, it would be somehow fitting were the Speaker to require the periodic reattachment of limbs. The stench of recent disinterrment would be a reminder to Gordon Brown that he long ago traded the sweet smell of success for that of impending ruin.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
On The Whole, Not To Be
Watching bad Shakespeare is a misery from which only an interval can set one free. Thus it was that Sordel & Party streamed eagerly from Wyndham's Theatre and spared themselves further hours of Jude Law's Hamlet.
Hamlet is something of a star vehicle, but here that logic has been taken to an extraordinary degree. Kevin McNally, more than capable of a memorable villain, seemed to be under the misapprehension that Claudius is a bank manager. Penelope Wilton, one of the better actresses of her generation, stood rooted to the spot like a debutante startlet uncertain as to whether she had hit her mark. Neither appeared to have benefited from any actual direction, while lesser-known members of the staff looked like sixth-formers struggling to shine in a below-par school production. In the group scenes lines were spoken withBREATHLESSdeterminationANDrandomemphasis: thrown away in a bid to get back to Law's prince and another interminable soliloquy.
Law himself chose an interesting way to dramatise the dilemma of action and thought. With a pantherish physicality he prowled the stage (frankly at his best when miming a crab or squatting on his haunches), spitting out most of his lines (replete with jarring misreadings) in an effort to get to the next good bit of verse. Once he arrived there, he became ruminative and lifeless, like a teenage Lothario unrolling his poetry to a besotted paramour. Perversely, he was actually the best thing in the production, and on occasion (such as his interrogation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) actually quite good.
But the times when Law was at his best were not the things for which one goes to see Hamlet.
The blame for all this must line with the Michael Grandage, who delivered one of the best Shakespearean productions that I have ever seen with Chiwetel Ejiofor's Othello at the Warehouse yet has seemed all at sea at the Donmar's temporary home. Kenneth Branagh evidently received good notices for Ivanov, but the play was dismal and unconvincing. Judi Dench found herself mired in one of the most celebrated turkeys of the decade in Mishima's Madame de Sade; not a critic had a kind word to say about it. In both cases, however, the comparative unfamiliarity of the material kept Sordel in his seat until the final curtain.
But Shakespeare - especially Hamlet - is so well known to its audience that once you've seen one act you have pretty much seen the entire thing. This isn't team sports: a stern talking-to from a coach at half time is hardly going to teach the cast how to speak poetry.
Inevitably, the weaknesses of the production will raise further questions about the value of productions that have become focused on headline-grabbing casting, yet in this case Denmark was rotten from the top of the bill to the bottom. When not a single actor shines in a production, you can't blame the star.
But you can walk out.
Hamlet is something of a star vehicle, but here that logic has been taken to an extraordinary degree. Kevin McNally, more than capable of a memorable villain, seemed to be under the misapprehension that Claudius is a bank manager. Penelope Wilton, one of the better actresses of her generation, stood rooted to the spot like a debutante startlet uncertain as to whether she had hit her mark. Neither appeared to have benefited from any actual direction, while lesser-known members of the staff looked like sixth-formers struggling to shine in a below-par school production. In the group scenes lines were spoken withBREATHLESSdeterminationANDrandomemphasis: thrown away in a bid to get back to Law's prince and another interminable soliloquy.
Law himself chose an interesting way to dramatise the dilemma of action and thought. With a pantherish physicality he prowled the stage (frankly at his best when miming a crab or squatting on his haunches), spitting out most of his lines (replete with jarring misreadings) in an effort to get to the next good bit of verse. Once he arrived there, he became ruminative and lifeless, like a teenage Lothario unrolling his poetry to a besotted paramour. Perversely, he was actually the best thing in the production, and on occasion (such as his interrogation of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern) actually quite good.
But the times when Law was at his best were not the things for which one goes to see Hamlet.
The blame for all this must line with the Michael Grandage, who delivered one of the best Shakespearean productions that I have ever seen with Chiwetel Ejiofor's Othello at the Warehouse yet has seemed all at sea at the Donmar's temporary home. Kenneth Branagh evidently received good notices for Ivanov, but the play was dismal and unconvincing. Judi Dench found herself mired in one of the most celebrated turkeys of the decade in Mishima's Madame de Sade; not a critic had a kind word to say about it. In both cases, however, the comparative unfamiliarity of the material kept Sordel in his seat until the final curtain.
But Shakespeare - especially Hamlet - is so well known to its audience that once you've seen one act you have pretty much seen the entire thing. This isn't team sports: a stern talking-to from a coach at half time is hardly going to teach the cast how to speak poetry.
Inevitably, the weaknesses of the production will raise further questions about the value of productions that have become focused on headline-grabbing casting, yet in this case Denmark was rotten from the top of the bill to the bottom. When not a single actor shines in a production, you can't blame the star.
But you can walk out.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Topless Tennis Star In Magazine Cover Shock
Well, I say magazine. It's The Radio Times. Or RadioTimes, as a cunning rebranding that I somehow missed in the (probably) several years since it was made would have it.
The tennis star in question is Andy Murray, who is standing in his white shorts with a yearning expression in his eyes supposedly indicative of a thirst for future sporting accolades. Unfortunately, given his somewhat unnecessary pectoral exhibition, it looks to me rather like the expression of longing found in the eyes of a small boy who has just been told that the other team is Shirts.
Yes, Wimbledon is upon us again: a sporting fixture that Sordel used to watch for hours a day as a wee bairn but which has rather passed him by in the last decade or two. Grim psychological tussles between well-matched opponents used to be the stuff of summer afternoons back before the opening rounds became a series of thrashings delivered by the top seeds. Generally speaking, tennis up until the quarter finals (at least) is currently a game that might better be resolved by an extended system of byes.
As ever, though, a patriotic heart beats in the breast of the Great British Public when one of our lads takes to the court. Murray has inherited the mantle of Henman (and seemingly, in this cover shot, wishes that it was of a more tangible form) so we will all be rooting for him, while the Scots gaze frostily Southward and complain that the English are misappropriating their tennis stars as avariciously as we previously swiped their oil.
Meanwhile, our nation continues to reel at the shock of success in Formula 1, one of the few sports where we have a more or less unbroken record of comparative success. Lewis Hamilton ("och, Hamilton, he must ha' been a Scots boy") won last year and Jenson Button stands fair to displace him. There is a danger that those who chase the Union Jack wherever it may be flown in a sporting context (whipping themselves up into a chauvinistic fervour at our tremendous performance in the latest international tiddlywinks or dwarf-tossing competition) will hardly know which way to turn. Already party shops are reporting a shortage of white and red make-up in anticipation of the face-painting orgy that is bound to ensue.
For my part, I wish Murray well and (for reasons that perhaps do not need underlining) will be hoping for a future resurgence in the British Ladies' game.
The tennis star in question is Andy Murray, who is standing in his white shorts with a yearning expression in his eyes supposedly indicative of a thirst for future sporting accolades. Unfortunately, given his somewhat unnecessary pectoral exhibition, it looks to me rather like the expression of longing found in the eyes of a small boy who has just been told that the other team is Shirts.
Yes, Wimbledon is upon us again: a sporting fixture that Sordel used to watch for hours a day as a wee bairn but which has rather passed him by in the last decade or two. Grim psychological tussles between well-matched opponents used to be the stuff of summer afternoons back before the opening rounds became a series of thrashings delivered by the top seeds. Generally speaking, tennis up until the quarter finals (at least) is currently a game that might better be resolved by an extended system of byes.
As ever, though, a patriotic heart beats in the breast of the Great British Public when one of our lads takes to the court. Murray has inherited the mantle of Henman (and seemingly, in this cover shot, wishes that it was of a more tangible form) so we will all be rooting for him, while the Scots gaze frostily Southward and complain that the English are misappropriating their tennis stars as avariciously as we previously swiped their oil.
Meanwhile, our nation continues to reel at the shock of success in Formula 1, one of the few sports where we have a more or less unbroken record of comparative success. Lewis Hamilton ("och, Hamilton, he must ha' been a Scots boy") won last year and Jenson Button stands fair to displace him. There is a danger that those who chase the Union Jack wherever it may be flown in a sporting context (whipping themselves up into a chauvinistic fervour at our tremendous performance in the latest international tiddlywinks or dwarf-tossing competition) will hardly know which way to turn. Already party shops are reporting a shortage of white and red make-up in anticipation of the face-painting orgy that is bound to ensue.
For my part, I wish Murray well and (for reasons that perhaps do not need underlining) will be hoping for a future resurgence in the British Ladies' game.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Prophetic Top Trumps
Top five Old Testament prophets? Anyone?
Well, obviously Jonah rates highly on intelligence alone, but it is impossible to imagine him in the flesh without associating him with the strong smell of fish guts. On balance then, I'd have to give pride of place (as, incidentally, did the Israelites) to Elijah.
One of the most interesting stories about Elijah is his confrontation with the Priests of Baal: a gameshow of sorts in which, instead of getting over three oversized red balls, the contestants were required to prove whose god was the more powerful. Given that religious power within the Kingdom of Israel was at this point balanced on a knife-edge between Yahweh, the tribal god of the Israelites, and Baal, the tribal god of Queen Jezebel, the stakes were high.
The nature of the contest was to see which of the two gods (Yahweh or Baal) would accept the sacrifice of a bullock. The Priests of Baal (450 in number) might have done better to choose a task where they could bring their numerical supremacy to bear. A tug of war perhaps. Instead, they fell into Elijah's trap and spent the day doing the best that they could to entreat Baal to signal his acceptance of their sacrificial bullock, which he was required to do by setting it spontaneously alight.
During their vain attempts, Elijah mocked them for the benefit of the audience, saying "Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked." (Irreverence is not a modern invention.)
At the end of this, the Priests gave up, Elijah prepared his own altar (complete, one suspects, with mirrors and a large painted sign saying The Great Elijah) and arranged for his bullock to be inundated with twelve barrels of water (or, as even a mild cynic must suspect, lamp oil).
At this point Elijah called upon Yahweh, at which we are told that the following happened. "Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that [was] in the trench."
Whether Elijah kept his eyebrows is unrecorded in Biblical history.
Now this story may seem at first to be of little consequence, but it seems to me that it is one of the most important episodes in the history of religion.
Yahweh is a water god: He moves on the face of the waters; He drowns the world; He parts the Red Sea; He brings water out of a stone; He turns water into wine; He walks on water. As befits the god of a desert tribe, He is most strongly associated with the medium that brings life, and when He deals with fire it is often (not exclusively, but often) in opposition to it, as when the three men emerge unharmed from the burning fiery furnace.
Elijah does not only defeat the Priests of Baal, but - by setting a task to be answered by fire - he also dramatises the crucial step for a monotheistic religion from an elemental deity to an all-encompassing God, which is the basis of monotheism. And monotheism is both the greatest strength and greatest weakness of the religions that adopt it.
While I will admit, therefore, that a cackling voiceover from Richard Hammond would probably have improved things ... that's what I call entertainment.
Well, obviously Jonah rates highly on intelligence alone, but it is impossible to imagine him in the flesh without associating him with the strong smell of fish guts. On balance then, I'd have to give pride of place (as, incidentally, did the Israelites) to Elijah.
One of the most interesting stories about Elijah is his confrontation with the Priests of Baal: a gameshow of sorts in which, instead of getting over three oversized red balls, the contestants were required to prove whose god was the more powerful. Given that religious power within the Kingdom of Israel was at this point balanced on a knife-edge between Yahweh, the tribal god of the Israelites, and Baal, the tribal god of Queen Jezebel, the stakes were high.
The nature of the contest was to see which of the two gods (Yahweh or Baal) would accept the sacrifice of a bullock. The Priests of Baal (450 in number) might have done better to choose a task where they could bring their numerical supremacy to bear. A tug of war perhaps. Instead, they fell into Elijah's trap and spent the day doing the best that they could to entreat Baal to signal his acceptance of their sacrificial bullock, which he was required to do by setting it spontaneously alight.
During their vain attempts, Elijah mocked them for the benefit of the audience, saying "Cry aloud: for he is a god; either he is talking, or he is pursuing, or he is in a journey, or peradventure he sleepeth, and must be awaked." (Irreverence is not a modern invention.)
At the end of this, the Priests gave up, Elijah prepared his own altar (complete, one suspects, with mirrors and a large painted sign saying The Great Elijah) and arranged for his bullock to be inundated with twelve barrels of water (or, as even a mild cynic must suspect, lamp oil).
At this point Elijah called upon Yahweh, at which we are told that the following happened. "Then the fire of the LORD fell, and consumed the burnt sacrifice, and the wood, and the stones, and the dust, and licked up the water that [was] in the trench."
Whether Elijah kept his eyebrows is unrecorded in Biblical history.
Now this story may seem at first to be of little consequence, but it seems to me that it is one of the most important episodes in the history of religion.
Yahweh is a water god: He moves on the face of the waters; He drowns the world; He parts the Red Sea; He brings water out of a stone; He turns water into wine; He walks on water. As befits the god of a desert tribe, He is most strongly associated with the medium that brings life, and when He deals with fire it is often (not exclusively, but often) in opposition to it, as when the three men emerge unharmed from the burning fiery furnace.
Elijah does not only defeat the Priests of Baal, but - by setting a task to be answered by fire - he also dramatises the crucial step for a monotheistic religion from an elemental deity to an all-encompassing God, which is the basis of monotheism. And monotheism is both the greatest strength and greatest weakness of the religions that adopt it.
While I will admit, therefore, that a cackling voiceover from Richard Hammond would probably have improved things ... that's what I call entertainment.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Black Balls For White Supremacists?
Short of having a peerage, could Gordon Brown be less democratic? As an MP for a Scottish constituency he, like so many of his auld acquaintances, owes his place in the Commons to a West Lothian bye. He was never elected to his place as leader of the Labour Party, and never elected to be prime minister either. If he wants someone in the cabinet but can't get them elected (such as Peter Mandelson) he hands them a peerage. Moreover, at a time when it is painfully obvious to everyone that he can command the support neither of the country nor his own party (nor, quite possibly, his own cabinet), he clings on to power with the same Nanny-knows-best logic as his predecessor.
This is the man showing a new zeal for parliamentary reform.
It is interesting that he - and others - have been attacking the old abuses of the Commons with the emblem of a "gentleman's club". This comparison suits the class war mentality that he and Baron Mandelson seem to believe plays to a Great British Public resentful of privilege, yet it also seems a remarkably thin comparison. Gentlemen's clubs are, it is true, known for their leather armchairs, but extensive redecoration of the Commons is scarcely affordable, let alone necessary. Clubs are also known for their sleepy atmosphere, but - given the tireless energy that the members have been putting into their expenses - clearly there has been little time for napping between debates.
Moreover, it is worth bearing in mind that gentlemen's clubs supply a luxury that is paid for by its members, and not taxed out of the pockets of those milling outside its doors. People don't enter gentlemen's clubs to make money; they generally have it on the way in and somewhat less of it on the way out.
Presumably the basis of the comparison, then, is this: clubs are exclusive. They keep out the people who don't "fit".
It is interesting, then, that recent news has taught us a lot more about the ways of democracy with regard to the BNP. Evidently the other political parties have been colluding to run additional candidates in areas of local BNP strength in order to dilute their vote. There is, in short, a conspiracy against the BNP. When Nick Griffin said last night that the egg-throwers were only doing what the major political parties wanted them to, he was far-right on the money.
Now, I can't say that I like the BNP much, but amongst the reasons for Hitler's rise a prominent one was the defects of the Weimar Republic, and the roots causes of support for the BNP are not so distant. The Labour government spent years whipping up anti-Islamic sentiment in an effort to persuade us that fighting a war abroad was the only way to prevent domestic terrorism here. It was shameful fear-mongering, and has resulted in a country where dislike of foreigners now has an institutional root. Open the door to xenophobia (for contemptible political ends) and racist politicians will squeeze through.
Another factor to consider here is politicians tend to be made in the image of the tactics used against them, and the eggs are only the latest of the harassment used upon Nick Griffin, who has been unsuccessfully prosecuted for inciting racial hatred twice and was, of course, prevented from attending the vote count on Sunday at his first attempt by the mob demonstrating outside.
According to Wikipedia, Nick Griffin has a Boxing Blue from Cambridge. He apparently took up the sport after a "brawl with an anti-fascist". He will learn and employ tactics appropriate to those used upon him.
It goes without saying that there is no moral equivalency between racial hatred and spangly loo-seats but I do have a nagging fear that the true threat to the British political system is not the people clamouring to get into our parliament but the people fighting so ignobly to stay there.
This is the man showing a new zeal for parliamentary reform.
It is interesting that he - and others - have been attacking the old abuses of the Commons with the emblem of a "gentleman's club". This comparison suits the class war mentality that he and Baron Mandelson seem to believe plays to a Great British Public resentful of privilege, yet it also seems a remarkably thin comparison. Gentlemen's clubs are, it is true, known for their leather armchairs, but extensive redecoration of the Commons is scarcely affordable, let alone necessary. Clubs are also known for their sleepy atmosphere, but - given the tireless energy that the members have been putting into their expenses - clearly there has been little time for napping between debates.
Moreover, it is worth bearing in mind that gentlemen's clubs supply a luxury that is paid for by its members, and not taxed out of the pockets of those milling outside its doors. People don't enter gentlemen's clubs to make money; they generally have it on the way in and somewhat less of it on the way out.
Presumably the basis of the comparison, then, is this: clubs are exclusive. They keep out the people who don't "fit".
It is interesting, then, that recent news has taught us a lot more about the ways of democracy with regard to the BNP. Evidently the other political parties have been colluding to run additional candidates in areas of local BNP strength in order to dilute their vote. There is, in short, a conspiracy against the BNP. When Nick Griffin said last night that the egg-throwers were only doing what the major political parties wanted them to, he was far-right on the money.
Now, I can't say that I like the BNP much, but amongst the reasons for Hitler's rise a prominent one was the defects of the Weimar Republic, and the roots causes of support for the BNP are not so distant. The Labour government spent years whipping up anti-Islamic sentiment in an effort to persuade us that fighting a war abroad was the only way to prevent domestic terrorism here. It was shameful fear-mongering, and has resulted in a country where dislike of foreigners now has an institutional root. Open the door to xenophobia (for contemptible political ends) and racist politicians will squeeze through.
Another factor to consider here is politicians tend to be made in the image of the tactics used against them, and the eggs are only the latest of the harassment used upon Nick Griffin, who has been unsuccessfully prosecuted for inciting racial hatred twice and was, of course, prevented from attending the vote count on Sunday at his first attempt by the mob demonstrating outside.
According to Wikipedia, Nick Griffin has a Boxing Blue from Cambridge. He apparently took up the sport after a "brawl with an anti-fascist". He will learn and employ tactics appropriate to those used upon him.
It goes without saying that there is no moral equivalency between racial hatred and spangly loo-seats but I do have a nagging fear that the true threat to the British political system is not the people clamouring to get into our parliament but the people fighting so ignobly to stay there.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Brownian Motion
So: the big result is in.
The charming thing about The Apprentice is that it isn't decided by a public vote. Going back to my earlier comments on elitism, we should celebrate an area of televisual competition in which victory is allocated solely on the basis of the decision of a single judge who (rightly or wrongly) is acknowledged as the expert. Generally unerring though Simon Cowell may be, he is still forced to share power with the two lesser lights on his various panels, and is then forced to submit their collective decision for ratification to the collectively tin ear of Britain. The future Lord Sugar stands alone; it is indeed his way or the highway.
Had the European elections been settled on a similar system, the BNP would probably not have won its first two seats last night. Someone (quite possibly - on the basis of his extensive experience of European voting systems - Graham Norton) would decide for us all, and the inevitable confusion that follows from allowing the Great British Public to settle any question of moment would have been avoided.
The downside of all this, however, would have been that the losers would not have been able to call upon an enormous range of fanciful excuses to explain their failure.
If you listen to the Labour faithful (as we must now describe Lord Mandelson, who has engineered the biggest turnaround since Saul stopped persecuting Christians and changed his initial letter to P) then we all want him and Gordon to get back to the serious business of sorting out the economy. The anti-Labour vote was seemingly a slap on the wrist delivered to all politicians but focused upon the ruling party. The vote for the BNP was cast by people too stupid to be trusted with the vote in the first place, who evidently have no idea that the BNP is a racist party. So, at least, run interpretations repeated last night with such unanimity that any teacher worth his salt would have inferred collusion.
This post hoc gerrymandering, in which the vote is explicated one way or another to suit the standpoints of the politicians, is what happens when the usual excuse for ignoring the British public - "the only poll that counts is the one held this week/next week/sometime/never" - is rendered fatuous by an election actually having taken place.
What we really want is someone with the authority of the soon-no-longer-to-be Surallan to tell us all Why I Fired Them. In the absence of that certainly, the paths of our political masters are as inscrutable as the movement of pollen particles in water.
We can only congratulate ourselves that so many of them have sunk without trace.
The charming thing about The Apprentice is that it isn't decided by a public vote. Going back to my earlier comments on elitism, we should celebrate an area of televisual competition in which victory is allocated solely on the basis of the decision of a single judge who (rightly or wrongly) is acknowledged as the expert. Generally unerring though Simon Cowell may be, he is still forced to share power with the two lesser lights on his various panels, and is then forced to submit their collective decision for ratification to the collectively tin ear of Britain. The future Lord Sugar stands alone; it is indeed his way or the highway.
Had the European elections been settled on a similar system, the BNP would probably not have won its first two seats last night. Someone (quite possibly - on the basis of his extensive experience of European voting systems - Graham Norton) would decide for us all, and the inevitable confusion that follows from allowing the Great British Public to settle any question of moment would have been avoided.
The downside of all this, however, would have been that the losers would not have been able to call upon an enormous range of fanciful excuses to explain their failure.
If you listen to the Labour faithful (as we must now describe Lord Mandelson, who has engineered the biggest turnaround since Saul stopped persecuting Christians and changed his initial letter to P) then we all want him and Gordon to get back to the serious business of sorting out the economy. The anti-Labour vote was seemingly a slap on the wrist delivered to all politicians but focused upon the ruling party. The vote for the BNP was cast by people too stupid to be trusted with the vote in the first place, who evidently have no idea that the BNP is a racist party. So, at least, run interpretations repeated last night with such unanimity that any teacher worth his salt would have inferred collusion.
This post hoc gerrymandering, in which the vote is explicated one way or another to suit the standpoints of the politicians, is what happens when the usual excuse for ignoring the British public - "the only poll that counts is the one held this week/next week/sometime/never" - is rendered fatuous by an election actually having taken place.
What we really want is someone with the authority of the soon-no-longer-to-be Surallan to tell us all Why I Fired Them. In the absence of that certainly, the paths of our political masters are as inscrutable as the movement of pollen particles in water.
We can only congratulate ourselves that so many of them have sunk without trace.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Reality TV
So, Big Brother started again last night, which rather confuses things.
For example: "The House this year will be a place for wholly unsurprising twists." Is that the Big Brother House or the House of Commons? "The General Public will lose interest in activities within The House unless they see arguments and intrigue." BB or HoC? "Voters will be throwing people out of The House until mid-Summer, when there will only be a handful of fame-hungry eccentrics left." BB or HoC?
It's so difficult to tell.
This year, the only way to stay in The House is evidently to shave off one's eyebrows and draw spectacles and a funny moustache on your face in permanent black marker. (No, I've stopped playing that game now.) Those who have watched the series in previous years will shrug and yawn at the tedium of watching an assortment of page 3 girls and homosexuals go into a studio very quickly and come out again very, very slowly.
Meanwhile, in the other House, the entertainment value is noticably higher but impossible to keep up with even in so evanescent a medium as a blog. Last night, as the polls closed, we discovered that the Minister for Eating Biscuits had resigned, or so it appeared on Breakfast Time today where the only video the BBC had managed to scrape together of James Purnell was of his conspicuously filling his face while Gordon Brown held forth of a topic of national importance to his left.
It wasn't so much the biscuits that were important to the video, I suppose, but his positioning as Brown's literal "right-hand man". Nevertheless, it was the biscuits that formed the crucial semiotic element of the picture, and I only infer that it was biscuits on which the future rebel was feasting based on the unlikelihood that cabinet meetings are supplied with anything else. It may have been custard creams that he was hitting with the urgency of a man who missed breakfast and last night's supper, but he may have been tucking in to a full thali with complementary popadum for all I know. Whichever, the BBC was keen to show that in that moment of contemplative mastication the future savour of treachery was developing.
Either that, or they couldn't find a better clip of him.
Newsnight, which begins so precisely after the end of Big Brother that a segue is implicit, covered the Purnell story in an extended programme, which would be laudable had the programme been extended to cover the Purnell story. Instead, it was extended to give viewers a preview of Newsnight's forthcoming coverage of the General Election.
That's right: Newsnight is beginning a year-long schedule of activities including: commentary from an American pollster and - wait for it! - three people sitting around a table talking about politics.
Watching someone shave of their eyebrows and draw spectacles and a funny moustache on their face suddenly doesn't sound so bad, does it?
To be fair, Newsnight does have one actual new idea, which is a Dragon's Den style series in which members of the public pitch political ideas to a panel of so-called experts, but that does go merely another step further to adding to our confusion. All we need is Surralan to step into the picture and ... oh ... this just in ...
Perhaps if the editors of Newsnight want to increase their viewing figures by speculating about the future occupants of The House a year out, they picked the wrong House to cover.
For example: "The House this year will be a place for wholly unsurprising twists." Is that the Big Brother House or the House of Commons? "The General Public will lose interest in activities within The House unless they see arguments and intrigue." BB or HoC? "Voters will be throwing people out of The House until mid-Summer, when there will only be a handful of fame-hungry eccentrics left." BB or HoC?
It's so difficult to tell.
This year, the only way to stay in The House is evidently to shave off one's eyebrows and draw spectacles and a funny moustache on your face in permanent black marker. (No, I've stopped playing that game now.) Those who have watched the series in previous years will shrug and yawn at the tedium of watching an assortment of page 3 girls and homosexuals go into a studio very quickly and come out again very, very slowly.
Meanwhile, in the other House, the entertainment value is noticably higher but impossible to keep up with even in so evanescent a medium as a blog. Last night, as the polls closed, we discovered that the Minister for Eating Biscuits had resigned, or so it appeared on Breakfast Time today where the only video the BBC had managed to scrape together of James Purnell was of his conspicuously filling his face while Gordon Brown held forth of a topic of national importance to his left.
It wasn't so much the biscuits that were important to the video, I suppose, but his positioning as Brown's literal "right-hand man". Nevertheless, it was the biscuits that formed the crucial semiotic element of the picture, and I only infer that it was biscuits on which the future rebel was feasting based on the unlikelihood that cabinet meetings are supplied with anything else. It may have been custard creams that he was hitting with the urgency of a man who missed breakfast and last night's supper, but he may have been tucking in to a full thali with complementary popadum for all I know. Whichever, the BBC was keen to show that in that moment of contemplative mastication the future savour of treachery was developing.
Either that, or they couldn't find a better clip of him.
Newsnight, which begins so precisely after the end of Big Brother that a segue is implicit, covered the Purnell story in an extended programme, which would be laudable had the programme been extended to cover the Purnell story. Instead, it was extended to give viewers a preview of Newsnight's forthcoming coverage of the General Election.
That's right: Newsnight is beginning a year-long schedule of activities including: commentary from an American pollster and - wait for it! - three people sitting around a table talking about politics.
Watching someone shave of their eyebrows and draw spectacles and a funny moustache on their face suddenly doesn't sound so bad, does it?
To be fair, Newsnight does have one actual new idea, which is a Dragon's Den style series in which members of the public pitch political ideas to a panel of so-called experts, but that does go merely another step further to adding to our confusion. All we need is Surralan to step into the picture and ... oh ... this just in ...
Perhaps if the editors of Newsnight want to increase their viewing figures by speculating about the future occupants of The House a year out, they picked the wrong House to cover.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
The Rat That Missed The Piper
Last night (in true Les Mis fashion) Sordel dreamed a dream, and in this dream the Labour Party presented one of those surreal it'll-never-happen European Election Broadcasts in which the spokesman was inappropriate to a surreal degree. You know the sort of thing ... talking giraffe, Lord Lucan, badger in spectacles and a hat?
Except that in this case it was Eddie Izzard. And it wasn't a dream.
Back in the days of Cool Britannia it used to be the case that Labour liked to adorn itself with celebrity bling because it was so widely supported that even the likes of Oasis felt that it could take the Blair shilling without, um, shilling too conspicuously. The cash-for-bangers Popular Vote is a nice little runaround for most of the year, but to show off one's success one does like a rock star for the one dry Saturday in July.
Unfortunately, at a time when even the cabinet are high-tailing it out of Dodge like a bunch of banditos with the posse on their tail, watching a celebrity endorsement is rather like seeing a bag lady in a moth-eaten mink coat. There is a definite suspicion that Izzard was bumbling through the studio improvising a brilliant monologue full of hilarious non sequiturs when Jacqui Smith handed him a mic before casting a nervous glance over her shoulder and bolting for the nearest exit.
"Tell them why you're voting Labour, Eddie!" a director must have hissed, mopping sweat from his brow like the producer of the last radio station in government hands in the midst of a South American military coup.
And, like the trouper that he evidently is, Izzard ventured upon a heroic defence of The Labour Party (circa 1948) while, out the back, the editors spliced in some fanciful propaganda in which pensioners complained that David Cameron was intending to take away their bus passes. Short of suggesting that David Cameron was bayonetting babies, the broadcast could not have been more traditional in its selection of canards.
Of course, it remains open to Izzard to claim in future years that it was all a wry, ironic joke. Or, for that matter, he may don a woman's weeds and vanish in the crowd.
It will be a poignant moment, however, when darting a quick, mascara'd glance around him from under a Quaker bonnet he comes face to face with Gordon Brown, similarly arrayed and wearing the same shade of lipstick.
__________________________________
Errata and Corrigendum
In a blog of 6th May, 2009, Sordel inadvertantly implied that Jacqui Smith "never would be missed". I wish to apologise to Mrs. Smith for any distress that this error may have caused either her or her family. What I should have said is that she never will be missed.
Except that in this case it was Eddie Izzard. And it wasn't a dream.
Back in the days of Cool Britannia it used to be the case that Labour liked to adorn itself with celebrity bling because it was so widely supported that even the likes of Oasis felt that it could take the Blair shilling without, um, shilling too conspicuously. The cash-for-bangers Popular Vote is a nice little runaround for most of the year, but to show off one's success one does like a rock star for the one dry Saturday in July.
Unfortunately, at a time when even the cabinet are high-tailing it out of Dodge like a bunch of banditos with the posse on their tail, watching a celebrity endorsement is rather like seeing a bag lady in a moth-eaten mink coat. There is a definite suspicion that Izzard was bumbling through the studio improvising a brilliant monologue full of hilarious non sequiturs when Jacqui Smith handed him a mic before casting a nervous glance over her shoulder and bolting for the nearest exit.
"Tell them why you're voting Labour, Eddie!" a director must have hissed, mopping sweat from his brow like the producer of the last radio station in government hands in the midst of a South American military coup.
And, like the trouper that he evidently is, Izzard ventured upon a heroic defence of The Labour Party (circa 1948) while, out the back, the editors spliced in some fanciful propaganda in which pensioners complained that David Cameron was intending to take away their bus passes. Short of suggesting that David Cameron was bayonetting babies, the broadcast could not have been more traditional in its selection of canards.
Of course, it remains open to Izzard to claim in future years that it was all a wry, ironic joke. Or, for that matter, he may don a woman's weeds and vanish in the crowd.
It will be a poignant moment, however, when darting a quick, mascara'd glance around him from under a Quaker bonnet he comes face to face with Gordon Brown, similarly arrayed and wearing the same shade of lipstick.
__________________________________
Errata and Corrigendum
In a blog of 6th May, 2009, Sordel inadvertantly implied that Jacqui Smith "never would be missed". I wish to apologise to Mrs. Smith for any distress that this error may have caused either her or her family. What I should have said is that she never will be missed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)