Like the Periodical Cicada, Marcus de Sautoy is observed only occasionally on British television and presumably at prime intervals. When last seen, in 2009, Sordel's favourite boffin was frolicking on a beach with everyman-for-hire Alan Davies, but now he is out on his own, trying to solve The Code, which is his post-Langdonian nomenclature for boring old mathematics.
"The Code" is evidently all around us, a mysterious and enthralling puzzle that demands our awed investigation. Consider, for example, an ancient standing circle whose circumference and diameter Marcus enterprisingly appraised with a tape measure before sitting down with a notebook to divide the larger number by the smaller. There we go: 3.2 ... the number that underpins all things.
Well, perhaps not. It turns out that the number that underpins all things is not 3.2 but another number. If you can work out what that number is then you are streets ahead of this programme, where the well-meaning du Sautoy attempted to demonstrate all sorts of extraordinary things and failed conspicuously.
From the statistics of a fisherman's daily catch, knowing only how many years that fisherman had been fishing, du Sautoy was able to work out the weight of the largest Dover sole that the fisherman had ever caught. Three pounds, declared Professor du Sautoy. When the fisherman said that his biggest Dover sole had been "three to three-and-a-half pounds" one half expected the mathematician (who looks disarmingly like Simon Pegg's smarter brother) to turn to the camera and say "well, we all know what liars fishermen are."
The problem with all this popularisation should have been obvious at the outset: boring old mathematics works wonderfully on paper, but du Sautoy's attempts to show it in action run up against the fundamental inability of the audience to keep pace with even his most pedestrian insights. Leaning over the shoulder of a flight controller, du Sautoy explained how the calculations involved in Radar depend on the Imaginary Unit. (Go on, click through that link ... I dare you.)
The bemused controller (presumably thinking: who let this guy in here and where's his handler?) smiled with good-natured befuddlement and said that there was nothing imaginary going on in his tower.
But of course there was.
Imaginary educational television: a world where experiments that don't work are substituted for explanations that you can't possibly understand.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
Gee, Officer Krupke
Anyone looking for a handy excuse for bad behaviour can now shorten their list by reference to Charlie Gilmour, whose defence on a charge of violent disorder seemed to use an awful lot of them to little effect.
It was regarded by the defence as a mitigating factor that Gilmour was drunk (in addition to being on a cocktail of valium and LSD). David Spens, the defending QC, also advanced one of those arguments that would be enough to make any mother proud: "up until Topshop, the worst of his behaviour was playing the fool, showing off, posing for the cameras." High praise indeed.
It was argued on his behalf that the Cambridge history student was unaware of the significance of the Cenotaph when swinging from it by a flag. The Judge, Nicholas Price QC, specifically rejected this claim when handing down a 16 month jail term today.
More troublesome, however, was the claim that Gilmour's psychological decline had been due to having been rejected by his natural father, the poet Heathcote Williams. This was a case in which family looms large.
According to the headlines, Gilmour is the son of Dave Gilmour, and much of the brouhaha attendant on his involvement in the riots sprang from the idea that he was the feckless millionaire offspring of a rocker who had quite possibly served as a very poor moral role model to him.
Son of Rock Star in Riot is a headline; Son of Poet in Riot less so.
Of course, to all intents and purposes Dave Gilmour is indeed Charlie's father, having adopted him when the boy was only four or five, yet such is the destiny of blood that the boy looks very like his natural father: slender, with black wavy hair sufficiently striking to have persuaded Charlie to register with a modelling agency.
Who knows what psychological drama may have unfolded in Charlie's mind if indeed he were to have been rejected by his poetic sire? And, who cares?
Investigations into the roots of crime are doubtless of great sociological interest, but the circularity of blame becomes less than compelling when the crimes are of the order of throwing a waste bin or sitting on the bonnet of a car.
We do not inquire into the root causes of crimes that are trivial, and we cannot afford to consider the root causes of crimes that are immense.
It was regarded by the defence as a mitigating factor that Gilmour was drunk (in addition to being on a cocktail of valium and LSD). David Spens, the defending QC, also advanced one of those arguments that would be enough to make any mother proud: "up until Topshop, the worst of his behaviour was playing the fool, showing off, posing for the cameras." High praise indeed.
It was argued on his behalf that the Cambridge history student was unaware of the significance of the Cenotaph when swinging from it by a flag. The Judge, Nicholas Price QC, specifically rejected this claim when handing down a 16 month jail term today.
More troublesome, however, was the claim that Gilmour's psychological decline had been due to having been rejected by his natural father, the poet Heathcote Williams. This was a case in which family looms large.
According to the headlines, Gilmour is the son of Dave Gilmour, and much of the brouhaha attendant on his involvement in the riots sprang from the idea that he was the feckless millionaire offspring of a rocker who had quite possibly served as a very poor moral role model to him.
Son of Rock Star in Riot is a headline; Son of Poet in Riot less so.
Of course, to all intents and purposes Dave Gilmour is indeed Charlie's father, having adopted him when the boy was only four or five, yet such is the destiny of blood that the boy looks very like his natural father: slender, with black wavy hair sufficiently striking to have persuaded Charlie to register with a modelling agency.
Who knows what psychological drama may have unfolded in Charlie's mind if indeed he were to have been rejected by his poetic sire? And, who cares?
Investigations into the roots of crime are doubtless of great sociological interest, but the circularity of blame becomes less than compelling when the crimes are of the order of throwing a waste bin or sitting on the bonnet of a car.
We do not inquire into the root causes of crimes that are trivial, and we cannot afford to consider the root causes of crimes that are immense.
Long Spoons, Short Memories, Tall Stories
Short of toppling a statue of Rupert Murdoch and beating at it with their shoes, Britain's MPs could scarcely have depicted themselves in recent days more like the long-suffering victims of the despot's whip.
For displays of pomposity, self-congratulation, mutual back-slapping and retrospective posturing, the last week has known no equal. There were members of parliament standing up in the Commons on Wednesday declaring that in their handling of the News Corporation scandal they had collectively expunged memories of the Expenses scandal.
Gordon Brown - a man who can turn any amount of public sympathy to eye-rolling apathy with a single word - explained to skeptical government benches that it would all have been done on his watch but for those meddlesome kids at the Civil Service.
Faced with an open goal, the honourable members have not so much kicked a ball through it as dived bodily into the net. As Sordel writes, there are politicians, responding to the news of the resignation of Rebekah Brooks, flailing wildly in self-made toils in their desperation to press some new demand.
Yet where was all this a month ago?
To the peasants who stream, torches in hand, to Baron Frankenstein's castle, the news that this is the birthplace of the monster is at least news. Indignation is at least comprehensible.
Britain's politicians can hardly claim innocence in the original and subsequent cover-ups of wrongdoing at the News of the World. If Rebekah Brooks had a fiduciary responsibility (to know who was being paid by her paper, and for what) then so did politicians: to ensure that the investigation into the original hacking case was a little more probing than accepting the assurances of the very organisation being investigated.
The story of the News International scandal is not only about journalists going rogue in search of a story. The greater blame falls on the police and government that were supposed to prevent or punish that wrongdoing.
The spite with which MPs are attacking the Murdochs would perhaps be justified in small boys overpowering a bully. It rings false from people hitherto only too happy to turn a blind eye for the chance of an invitation to dinner.
For displays of pomposity, self-congratulation, mutual back-slapping and retrospective posturing, the last week has known no equal. There were members of parliament standing up in the Commons on Wednesday declaring that in their handling of the News Corporation scandal they had collectively expunged memories of the Expenses scandal.
Gordon Brown - a man who can turn any amount of public sympathy to eye-rolling apathy with a single word - explained to skeptical government benches that it would all have been done on his watch but for those meddlesome kids at the Civil Service.
Faced with an open goal, the honourable members have not so much kicked a ball through it as dived bodily into the net. As Sordel writes, there are politicians, responding to the news of the resignation of Rebekah Brooks, flailing wildly in self-made toils in their desperation to press some new demand.
Yet where was all this a month ago?
To the peasants who stream, torches in hand, to Baron Frankenstein's castle, the news that this is the birthplace of the monster is at least news. Indignation is at least comprehensible.
Britain's politicians can hardly claim innocence in the original and subsequent cover-ups of wrongdoing at the News of the World. If Rebekah Brooks had a fiduciary responsibility (to know who was being paid by her paper, and for what) then so did politicians: to ensure that the investigation into the original hacking case was a little more probing than accepting the assurances of the very organisation being investigated.
The story of the News International scandal is not only about journalists going rogue in search of a story. The greater blame falls on the police and government that were supposed to prevent or punish that wrongdoing.
The spite with which MPs are attacking the Murdochs would perhaps be justified in small boys overpowering a bully. It rings false from people hitherto only too happy to turn a blind eye for the chance of an invitation to dinner.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Tomfoolery
Here's a challenge: try to think of some characters from Four Weddings and a Funeral and write down either the character name or the name of the actor or at least some distinguishing characteristic. Four or five should do.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
All done?
Now, take a look down your list and see if you have Tom, played by James Fleet. You may have described him as "upper class nitwit and brother to Kristin Scott Thomas's character, Fiona", although if so you would seem to have been taking this exercise more seriously than I anticipated.
What's that you say? Not at the top? Didn't really think so.
Now, to my point. Sordel believes that the very best that David Cameron can do in his entire career is to come away with a place in people's hearts as dear as James Fleet's Tom. That's it. It doesn't get any better. Cameron was never going to be the romantic lead of British Politics.
Tom is the quintessential example of the tolerable aristocrat. If someone were building a guillotine, his would be the last head in line for the basket, and by the time he arrived for execution he would have so won over the crowd that he would be set free with a gentle cuff of the ear.
Under the terms of their Hippocratic Oath, all would-be Toms fall under a strict enjoinder to "do no harm". They are also sternly admonished to keep well out of the way of trouble: something that Cameron has managed quite ably thus far, but "Golly ... bloody Thunderbolt City!" is still some way off.
If one is aiming to be Tom, the last thing one wants to do is to create the impression that your jacket is out at the elbows from brushing up against the likes of Andy Coulson and Rebekah Brooks.
Moreover, finding yourself on the other side of the issue to Hugh Grant, unlikely wielder of the Sword of Truth, is definitely a misstep.
The trouble with Tom is that really, deep down, the British Public has an instinctive hatred for him that only some clever mugging and a self-deprecating joke can attenuate. He who would be Fleet must first be fleet.
The News of the World scandal is Cameron's first real crisis, and it will be very interesting to see how he weathers it.
Go ahead, I'll wait.
All done?
Now, take a look down your list and see if you have Tom, played by James Fleet. You may have described him as "upper class nitwit and brother to Kristin Scott Thomas's character, Fiona", although if so you would seem to have been taking this exercise more seriously than I anticipated.
What's that you say? Not at the top? Didn't really think so.
Now, to my point. Sordel believes that the very best that David Cameron can do in his entire career is to come away with a place in people's hearts as dear as James Fleet's Tom. That's it. It doesn't get any better. Cameron was never going to be the romantic lead of British Politics.
Tom is the quintessential example of the tolerable aristocrat. If someone were building a guillotine, his would be the last head in line for the basket, and by the time he arrived for execution he would have so won over the crowd that he would be set free with a gentle cuff of the ear.
Under the terms of their Hippocratic Oath, all would-be Toms fall under a strict enjoinder to "do no harm". They are also sternly admonished to keep well out of the way of trouble: something that Cameron has managed quite ably thus far, but "Golly ... bloody Thunderbolt City!" is still some way off.
If one is aiming to be Tom, the last thing one wants to do is to create the impression that your jacket is out at the elbows from brushing up against the likes of Andy Coulson and Rebekah Brooks.
Moreover, finding yourself on the other side of the issue to Hugh Grant, unlikely wielder of the Sword of Truth, is definitely a misstep.
The trouble with Tom is that really, deep down, the British Public has an instinctive hatred for him that only some clever mugging and a self-deprecating joke can attenuate. He who would be Fleet must first be fleet.
The News of the World scandal is Cameron's first real crisis, and it will be very interesting to see how he weathers it.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Boring Writer Declares Less Boring Writer "Boring" Shock
In the days before Sordel suffered the misfortune of subscribing to a newspaper, I admonished a friend for writing a vituperative series of blogs about columnists. "Set your gaze upon a target lofty enough for your critical muse," I encouraged him.
Yet it comes to this.
Richard Brooks, the "veteran arts reporter" of The Sunday Times, writes what is intended to be a bitchy gossip column by the name of Biteback. This week he turned his attention, inter alia, to Tony Blair, and this (in full) is what he had to say:
"Tony Blair has selected nine of his favourite books for a new literary magazine, We Love This Book. I'm gobsmacked he has actually read nine. Even so, three are religious tracts - no surprises there. At least he remembered to list the boring Ivanhoe, by Walter Scott. After all, it was the one he chose on Desert Island Discs 15 years ago."
Really, Richard? You are gobsmacked that Tony Blair has read nine books? You really are very susceptible to surprise; I would have thought that Tony Blair is exactly the sort of person who would have read nine books.
In any case, it's the sort of line that would be pretty thin if used of Wayne Rooney, but it would need some dressing up for him. Something like: "Wayne Rooney has selected nine of his favourite books for a new literary magazine: I'm surprised his colouring pencils held out that long." (It's not comedy gold, Ladies and Gentlemen, but at least there is a genre of Rooney stupidity jokes.)
With Blair, the jokes are all to do with how much of a liar he is, or how superficial. "Tony Blair has given us a list of his favourite books, which only leaves us to wonder which of them he didn't enjoy and which of them he hasn't read."
Such a missed opportunity.
I'm not convinced by the other jokes, either. I'm sure that many people find Blair boring, but it isn't exactly a satirical staple. Is the joke that Blair is boring and therefore likes boring books? Or is the joke that Walter Scott is boring? If the former, a better joke would be to say that he is too exciting by half. If the latter, well, Scott entertained a lot more people than Brooks ever will and his books are scarcely the dust standard of literary dullness.
Oh, and those "religious tracts"? A look at the Bookseller reassures us that there are no religious tracts in Blair's list. The books are Jesus Was A Jew, The Crusades Through Arab Eyes and Martin Lings's biography of Muhammad. These are not exactly the books that one would choose if you were seeking to characterise Blair as a joyless Catholic.
Then again, perhaps Brooks was counting The Lord of the Rings as a religious tract. When it comes to titanic battles of Good and Evil, Blair may have been more Tolkienesque than was entirely to the interest of the rest of us.
Yet it comes to this.
Richard Brooks, the "veteran arts reporter" of The Sunday Times, writes what is intended to be a bitchy gossip column by the name of Biteback. This week he turned his attention, inter alia, to Tony Blair, and this (in full) is what he had to say:
"Tony Blair has selected nine of his favourite books for a new literary magazine, We Love This Book. I'm gobsmacked he has actually read nine. Even so, three are religious tracts - no surprises there. At least he remembered to list the boring Ivanhoe, by Walter Scott. After all, it was the one he chose on Desert Island Discs 15 years ago."
Really, Richard? You are gobsmacked that Tony Blair has read nine books? You really are very susceptible to surprise; I would have thought that Tony Blair is exactly the sort of person who would have read nine books.
In any case, it's the sort of line that would be pretty thin if used of Wayne Rooney, but it would need some dressing up for him. Something like: "Wayne Rooney has selected nine of his favourite books for a new literary magazine: I'm surprised his colouring pencils held out that long." (It's not comedy gold, Ladies and Gentlemen, but at least there is a genre of Rooney stupidity jokes.)
With Blair, the jokes are all to do with how much of a liar he is, or how superficial. "Tony Blair has given us a list of his favourite books, which only leaves us to wonder which of them he didn't enjoy and which of them he hasn't read."
Such a missed opportunity.
I'm not convinced by the other jokes, either. I'm sure that many people find Blair boring, but it isn't exactly a satirical staple. Is the joke that Blair is boring and therefore likes boring books? Or is the joke that Walter Scott is boring? If the former, a better joke would be to say that he is too exciting by half. If the latter, well, Scott entertained a lot more people than Brooks ever will and his books are scarcely the dust standard of literary dullness.
Oh, and those "religious tracts"? A look at the Bookseller reassures us that there are no religious tracts in Blair's list. The books are Jesus Was A Jew, The Crusades Through Arab Eyes and Martin Lings's biography of Muhammad. These are not exactly the books that one would choose if you were seeking to characterise Blair as a joyless Catholic.
Then again, perhaps Brooks was counting The Lord of the Rings as a religious tract. When it comes to titanic battles of Good and Evil, Blair may have been more Tolkienesque than was entirely to the interest of the rest of us.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)