I went to a pub quiz in Peterborough two weeks ago. It was to celebrate a friend's birthday and I think we were being ironic. It was dark by the time we parked up so I could be wrong, but the pub seemed to be in an industrial estate; I was reliably informed that this was the posh part of Peterborough though it still looked a little like the Slough Trading estate. The quiz was supposed to be the main event of course, and a large number of teams had turned up. In the end, it wasn't the most highbrow affair, with three of the four rounds being 'General Knowledge' (or at least questions taken from the GK section of the quizbook that the barman got for Christmas). The other round was the more intriguing 'Things that happened in 2010' - not exactly topical, but I was looking forward to a few brain-teasers about the recent local history of this Town. Not a bit of it - each question started with 'Who won...' and ended with the name of a reality TV show. Dancing on Ice, X-Factor, Strictly were all there, though I was disappointed to note an absence of winners from ratings success 'Pointless'. I'm not sure if we got any right - my only stab was at the winner of The Apprentice 2010, which I got wrong. I think this has a lot to do with the fact that he/she has disappeared without trace (though may be on QVC I suppose) or maybe because all these pinstriped wannabe Sugars just tend to merge into one homogenised mass of macho soundbites and trouser suits after so many years.
I always used to think that The Apprentice was the standard bearer for non-shit reality TV. At least there was some talent involved, a worthwhile prize at the end and some genuine business-based tasks for some of the more promising of Britain's young business minds to get their teeth into.
This has now disappeared, and the series is yet another lazy tired piece of reality dross, being flogged to death by an unimaginative corporation to a public that seem to be able to stomach year after year of formulaic posturing. There are many flaws and aspects that really grate, but here are the worst IMO:
1. The show is no longer about finding 'The Apprentice'. The winner now gets to set up a new business using some of Alan Sugar's money. In fact, after the first series, the show become less about finding an apprentice at all and more about creating water-cooler TV where pushy 20 and 30-something business people could play-off against each other for who had the more cringe-worthy soundbite. Listening to 21 year-old yuppies talking about how they 'always get results' and 'don't care who they trample over to get them' gets rather tired by series 8, though the line of 'don't tell me the sky's the limit when there are footprints on the moon' was a personal favorite.
2. The tasks themselves are the same every series, and in the same order. There's the one where they have to make a food product (ice-cream, ready-meals) and then sell them (farmers' market, tube station); there's the one where they get a mystery set of items they need to buy for as little money as possible; there's the one where they get interviewed by some of Alan Sugar's cronies (questions tend to be along the lines of 'you're not very good are you?' and other playground insults); there's the one where they have to go and buy some original Art and then sell it on. The tasks are of course designed to make good TV, not to identify anyone with particular business sense.
3. The ridiculous set-up of every task. This usually begins with a phone-call from Alan's PA at 4.45am, asking them to be at a London Landmark (British Museum, Tower Bridge) by 6am. 'The cars will pick you up in 15 minutes'. I'm never sure why this should be part of the test. Do all top businessmen and women have to prove their skill in the early morning and limited make-up time, or are we just supposed to think that Alan's up selling Amstrads at this time? The links between the locations and the tasks provide the most entertainment in the whole show, and I've not once guessed the nature of the task from the start location. Usually Alan's cronies will be standing six feet apart, when Alan makes an entry between them from a lift or a pile of dry ice. His first few lines tend to go something like:
'We're in the British Library; there's lots of books here; books have pages; Elaine Paige once sung Total Eclipse of the Heart; lambs have hearts; you're going to Smithfield market to buy offal which you then need to sell to paying customers at St John's Wood tube station....
4. Team names. Why? This merely adds to the cringe-factor as they come up with names that sound like the ones rejected from 90s TV series Gladiators (think insignia, prime, triumph, Hunter (ok, so maybe he was a Gladiator...)
5. The fact that Alan Sugar is now thought of by the new generation as someone to whom people should aspire. When I was growing up, he was the person that got his fingers burned at Spurs and whose company made crap computers. He's now Branson and Trump rolled into one, pretending that his Essex offices occupy most of the Gherkin and regaling us with tales of how he built up a business from nothing (every week).
6. The way they hold their mobile phones as though they're suspiciously sniffing the area where you connect the charger.
Or maybe the most disappointing thing is that so many people still tune in. The Apprentice is now adopting the old Perry/Croft maxim: if you just do and say the same thing every week, people will like it. It's like a big pin-striped comfort blanket. And I don't care who I hurt by writing this blog, because I'm on my way to the top and I won't stop trampling on people until I get there.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Tuesday, 13 March 2012
Whatever happened to the enfant terribles?
One sure-fire way to guarantee that you've made it in life is when you've been awarded your very own epithet. It's that short phrase that characterises you and before your name is even mentioned everyone knows what kind of person is being discussed. It's even better if the epithet leads to you directly; surely there's none finer than the 'mad, bad and dangerous to know' Lord Byron, and at the opposite end of the scale I'm sure that King Ethelred wouldn't have been too happy with his own moniker 'The Unready'. Harsher still is to be found in the list of Ottoman Sultans, where sandwiched in between Ahmed III ('The Warrior') and Osman III ('The Devout') lies the rather unforunate sounding Mahmud I ('The Hunchback').
Various people have been given the epithet 'enfant terrible', and it doesn't seem to matter what field you are in. All of the following have been described as ETs at one time or another: you can be the enfant terrible of the kitchen (Marco Pierre-White, Tom Aikens), the enfant terrible of music (Jonny Rotten) or the enfant terrible of comedy (Ben Elton).
Marco Pierre-White ejected diners from his restaurant if they made negative comments about the food and cut open a chef's whites when he complained of being too hot; Aikens had 2 michelin stars by the time he was 26, became obsessed by detail and even branded one of his sous chefs with a hot palette knife for failing to make his exacting standards; Jonny Rotten was the epitome of anarchic youth in the late 1970s and the face of the punk movement; Ben Elton was a lead figure in the alternative comedy movement of the 1980s, attacking Thatcher's Government with his original brand of left-wing satire.
But what's happened to these principled passionate firebrands now? Elton is more likely to be seen at the Royal Variety Performance, toadying up to the Royals as he counts out the cash from the uber-dull tourist trap Queen musical 'We Will Rock You'. Aikens is now a 'celebrity' chef, appearing on the mind-bendingly awful 'Ironchef UK', Marco now advertises Knorr Chicken stock cubes and John Lydon has become the face of British butter. That's right - butter. Growing up has never seemed more dull. Where once Lydon offered a voice for disenchanted youth, he now champions one particular brand of dairy produce. Where once Elton dripped with political satire, he now drips only with cash.
The enfant terribles have become national treasures by virtue of not dying along the way. We shouldn't be drawing these washed-out folks to our collective breast, we should be putting them out to pasture, their work done. There's plenty of quiet places for them to go, like weekends on radio 2. When the great old British eccentrics become simply part of the furniture, it is indeed a sad day.
And to give you an idea of what a proper enfant terrible looks like, here's Ken Russell's obituary:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2011/nov/28/ken-russell
Barking mad, and quite brilliant.
Various people have been given the epithet 'enfant terrible', and it doesn't seem to matter what field you are in. All of the following have been described as ETs at one time or another: you can be the enfant terrible of the kitchen (Marco Pierre-White, Tom Aikens), the enfant terrible of music (Jonny Rotten) or the enfant terrible of comedy (Ben Elton).
Marco Pierre-White ejected diners from his restaurant if they made negative comments about the food and cut open a chef's whites when he complained of being too hot; Aikens had 2 michelin stars by the time he was 26, became obsessed by detail and even branded one of his sous chefs with a hot palette knife for failing to make his exacting standards; Jonny Rotten was the epitome of anarchic youth in the late 1970s and the face of the punk movement; Ben Elton was a lead figure in the alternative comedy movement of the 1980s, attacking Thatcher's Government with his original brand of left-wing satire.
But what's happened to these principled passionate firebrands now? Elton is more likely to be seen at the Royal Variety Performance, toadying up to the Royals as he counts out the cash from the uber-dull tourist trap Queen musical 'We Will Rock You'. Aikens is now a 'celebrity' chef, appearing on the mind-bendingly awful 'Ironchef UK', Marco now advertises Knorr Chicken stock cubes and John Lydon has become the face of British butter. That's right - butter. Growing up has never seemed more dull. Where once Lydon offered a voice for disenchanted youth, he now champions one particular brand of dairy produce. Where once Elton dripped with political satire, he now drips only with cash.
The enfant terribles have become national treasures by virtue of not dying along the way. We shouldn't be drawing these washed-out folks to our collective breast, we should be putting them out to pasture, their work done. There's plenty of quiet places for them to go, like weekends on radio 2. When the great old British eccentrics become simply part of the furniture, it is indeed a sad day.
And to give you an idea of what a proper enfant terrible looks like, here's Ken Russell's obituary:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2011/nov/28/ken-russell
Barking mad, and quite brilliant.
Tuesday, 14 February 2012
Happiness in Bangor
It's half term now, or Long Exeat as we call it, and I'm enjoying the week off doing very little apart from reading books. I've been reading the 'Weird Tales' of H P Lovecraft, which are pretty weird in a Victorian Gothic ghosts and ghouls-type way. I've obviously not switched off from School completely though, because I came across an article in last week's TES which makes Lovecraft seem like the epitome of normality.
The article is by Maths teacher Jonny Griffiths, who teaches at a Sixth Form College in Norfolk. In it he attempts to explain that whereas we are all frustrated by the low motivation and work ethic of some pupils, the opposite can also be the case, and pupils do exist that are 'driven' and 'obsessed' and sometimes these can be 'just as draining'. He gives the example of one of his pupils called 'Michael' (this can't help reminding me of the Franz Ferdinand song, which is unfortunate given its strong homoerotic message). Anyway, Michael is an able mathematician, who has done well in his A level modules, but is worried that he has lost some marks along the way that may mean he does not secure the A grade he needs to attend Cambridge.
Here's where Jonny steps in, and says:
'Michael, apart from you, who cares what you get in your A level?'. [controversial line, needs some back up]
Later of course, the moment that Jonny is right all along dawns on Michael in a cringe-worthy final paragraph. Michael answers a question in class (wrongly) and is corrected by another member of the class. He then turns to look at Jonny, a smile breaks out over his face, and then he realises....what? That he was crap at Maths all along, that he might as well go to Bangor, that he doesn't really give a shit either way, or maybe Franz Ferdinand were right all along, and that he and Jonny should head down to Disco X right there and then.
The real problem here is that there is a very important and valid point that Jonny is trying to get across, but that it's been lost in a clumsily-worded article. The problem is that the current examination system has heaped extra pressure on pupils, pressure that did not exist until about ten years ago when the examinations went modular.
One of the main purposes of examinations (and I do mean examinations, not education) at Sixth Form level is to sort a very large number of pupils into two distinct categories: those that go to university and those that don't. Within the former category, the examinations need to assign pupils to universities and courses that are appropriate to their interests, talents and ambitions. Students at university should be appropriately challenged academically, but it's wrong for someone to end up on a course that is too demanding for them as to end up on one which is conceptually beneath them.
So what's the problem?
1. You can do the exams several times
Some papers can be taken four times through the course of the Sixth Form, and only your best mark counts. Most universities don't care how many times you had to take the paper to gain the best mark.
2. Some subjects are much easier than others
Studies show that there's about a two-grade difference between the hardest and easiest subjects. This means that the same pupil (without specific talents in one subject over another) would get two grades higher for, say Film Studies, than they would for Physics. Even within the same subject, the percentages of A grades are different depending on what exam board you take. The differences here are smaller, but not negligible.
3. You can pay for examiners to come in and tell you the answers
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/secondaryeducation/8941589/Exam-boards-WJEC-chief-examiners-caught-on-film-telling-teachers-what-is-in-next-years-GCSE-history-paper.html
4. Formulaic examinations
I very rarely hear pupils telling me that they don't understand topics, or that they don't possess the knowledge to be able to answer questions. The oft-most cited reason for losing marks is 'examination technique', as in 'I knew everything about that question, but my exam technique let me down'. Never mind; all we have to do is work through a filing cabinet-full of past papers, and all the examination technique problems will disappear. Except they won't; all that will happen is that you will do the same style of question so many times that you've developed a rote manner for answering that particular question. It doesn't matter that this particular brand of technique will never be required again, so long as they help you gain that A. These formulaic examinations also reward a particular type of pupil, the automative 't-crosser'. This type of person is useful if you want a large data-entry to be completed accurately, but they aren't necessarily the kind of creative thinker that's going to deal with the population/economic/energy crises.
5. Grade inflation
1980: 8% of A level grades were A. 2011: 8% of A level grades were A*, with around 30% at grade A. Grade inflation is happening, and it's not that teachers are getting better or pupils are getting cleverer. It's also not that exams are getting easier, which is often seen to be the public's belief. It's simply that much more teaching is focused on how to pass these exams. This isn't really what teachers want, but this is what has happened, and it's understandable why. By cramming so many grades awarded at the top end, we are struggling to differentiate between pupils, and this is the reason that Jonny's pupil Michael feels quite so under pressure. He knows that to get AAA twenty years ago would put him in a real academic elite; nowadays, this isn't good enough. He needs A* grades, maybe two of them. He's stuck with 'gymnastics scoring', where 9.975 is good, and 9.895 is frankly rubbish.
6. Unfair grading
Every now and again, I mention to non-teaching friends of mine that it's possible to get 320/400 marks at A level to gain an A*, and to get 379/400 and gain an A. They think it's ridiculous and so do I, but it's the truth. Bearing in mind that top universities use A* grades in their offers, they're not even certain of separating out the top pupils by marks any more.
7. Extra filtering
Pupils can now be filtered out of top courses on their GCSE grades, and it's very unlikely that anyone will get an offer from Oxbridge without at least 6A* grades on their CV. But why does a Maths GCSE matter for a brilliant linguist and why should an aspiring medic be discriminated against for being only quite good at French? Pupils at different Schools take different numbers of GCSE subjects, and some subjects are harder than others. Due to the grade inflation point above, universities need extra ways of filtering out pupils. Looking at GCSE scores makes little more sense than looking at hair colour.
So what's the solution?
Place more emphasis on problem solving in examinations; take away an over-reliance on past papers; add an abilities test to the end of Sixth Form examinations; scrap GCSEs; allow universities to set their own entrance papers; do away with coursework; don't allow re-takes; cap the number of A grades that are awarded each year; break the links between chief examiners and School visits; have fewer Sixth Form subjects - not every course needs to have an exam at the end of it to be educational.
And finally, don't let Jonny Griffiths write an article in the TES again.
The article is by Maths teacher Jonny Griffiths, who teaches at a Sixth Form College in Norfolk. In it he attempts to explain that whereas we are all frustrated by the low motivation and work ethic of some pupils, the opposite can also be the case, and pupils do exist that are 'driven' and 'obsessed' and sometimes these can be 'just as draining'. He gives the example of one of his pupils called 'Michael' (this can't help reminding me of the Franz Ferdinand song, which is unfortunate given its strong homoerotic message). Anyway, Michael is an able mathematician, who has done well in his A level modules, but is worried that he has lost some marks along the way that may mean he does not secure the A grade he needs to attend Cambridge.
Here's where Jonny steps in, and says:
'Michael, apart from you, who cares what you get in your A level?'. [controversial line, needs some back up]
His Bambi eyes look at me in a bewildered way, as if he has just seen me kick a puppy.
'I mean, I care, of course,' I add, swiftly. 'But what is better: to go to Cambridge with three As and hate it or to go to Bangor with three Cs and love it?' [classic argument fallacy - limit the options, neither of which sound that great to me]
"Michael is too stunned to reply."
Later of course, the moment that Jonny is right all along dawns on Michael in a cringe-worthy final paragraph. Michael answers a question in class (wrongly) and is corrected by another member of the class. He then turns to look at Jonny, a smile breaks out over his face, and then he realises....what? That he was crap at Maths all along, that he might as well go to Bangor, that he doesn't really give a shit either way, or maybe Franz Ferdinand were right all along, and that he and Jonny should head down to Disco X right there and then.
The real problem here is that there is a very important and valid point that Jonny is trying to get across, but that it's been lost in a clumsily-worded article. The problem is that the current examination system has heaped extra pressure on pupils, pressure that did not exist until about ten years ago when the examinations went modular.
One of the main purposes of examinations (and I do mean examinations, not education) at Sixth Form level is to sort a very large number of pupils into two distinct categories: those that go to university and those that don't. Within the former category, the examinations need to assign pupils to universities and courses that are appropriate to their interests, talents and ambitions. Students at university should be appropriately challenged academically, but it's wrong for someone to end up on a course that is too demanding for them as to end up on one which is conceptually beneath them.
So what's the problem?
1. You can do the exams several times
Some papers can be taken four times through the course of the Sixth Form, and only your best mark counts. Most universities don't care how many times you had to take the paper to gain the best mark.
2. Some subjects are much easier than others
Studies show that there's about a two-grade difference between the hardest and easiest subjects. This means that the same pupil (without specific talents in one subject over another) would get two grades higher for, say Film Studies, than they would for Physics. Even within the same subject, the percentages of A grades are different depending on what exam board you take. The differences here are smaller, but not negligible.
3. You can pay for examiners to come in and tell you the answers
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/education/secondaryeducation/8941589/Exam-boards-WJEC-chief-examiners-caught-on-film-telling-teachers-what-is-in-next-years-GCSE-history-paper.html
4. Formulaic examinations
I very rarely hear pupils telling me that they don't understand topics, or that they don't possess the knowledge to be able to answer questions. The oft-most cited reason for losing marks is 'examination technique', as in 'I knew everything about that question, but my exam technique let me down'. Never mind; all we have to do is work through a filing cabinet-full of past papers, and all the examination technique problems will disappear. Except they won't; all that will happen is that you will do the same style of question so many times that you've developed a rote manner for answering that particular question. It doesn't matter that this particular brand of technique will never be required again, so long as they help you gain that A. These formulaic examinations also reward a particular type of pupil, the automative 't-crosser'. This type of person is useful if you want a large data-entry to be completed accurately, but they aren't necessarily the kind of creative thinker that's going to deal with the population/economic/energy crises.
5. Grade inflation
1980: 8% of A level grades were A. 2011: 8% of A level grades were A*, with around 30% at grade A. Grade inflation is happening, and it's not that teachers are getting better or pupils are getting cleverer. It's also not that exams are getting easier, which is often seen to be the public's belief. It's simply that much more teaching is focused on how to pass these exams. This isn't really what teachers want, but this is what has happened, and it's understandable why. By cramming so many grades awarded at the top end, we are struggling to differentiate between pupils, and this is the reason that Jonny's pupil Michael feels quite so under pressure. He knows that to get AAA twenty years ago would put him in a real academic elite; nowadays, this isn't good enough. He needs A* grades, maybe two of them. He's stuck with 'gymnastics scoring', where 9.975 is good, and 9.895 is frankly rubbish.
6. Unfair grading
Every now and again, I mention to non-teaching friends of mine that it's possible to get 320/400 marks at A level to gain an A*, and to get 379/400 and gain an A. They think it's ridiculous and so do I, but it's the truth. Bearing in mind that top universities use A* grades in their offers, they're not even certain of separating out the top pupils by marks any more.
7. Extra filtering
Pupils can now be filtered out of top courses on their GCSE grades, and it's very unlikely that anyone will get an offer from Oxbridge without at least 6A* grades on their CV. But why does a Maths GCSE matter for a brilliant linguist and why should an aspiring medic be discriminated against for being only quite good at French? Pupils at different Schools take different numbers of GCSE subjects, and some subjects are harder than others. Due to the grade inflation point above, universities need extra ways of filtering out pupils. Looking at GCSE scores makes little more sense than looking at hair colour.
So what's the solution?
Place more emphasis on problem solving in examinations; take away an over-reliance on past papers; add an abilities test to the end of Sixth Form examinations; scrap GCSEs; allow universities to set their own entrance papers; do away with coursework; don't allow re-takes; cap the number of A grades that are awarded each year; break the links between chief examiners and School visits; have fewer Sixth Form subjects - not every course needs to have an exam at the end of it to be educational.
And finally, don't let Jonny Griffiths write an article in the TES again.
Sunday, 5 February 2012
Bruce's Britton
I'm no social or cultural historian, as if you hadn't noticed already, but I do take an interest in fashions and fads; in particular the question of whether the sort of fads that seem to grip the nation are dictated by what people actually want to wear, watch or listen to, or whether there's some kind of conspiracy by higher powers to see what people can be made to wear, watch or listen to. I can understand the popularity (past or present) of X Factor, Downton Abbey, Masterchef, Ugg Boots, Take That in boy and man incarnation, jeans tucked into boots (Uggs or otherwise), small plates of food and pop-up restaurants and cinemas. I can even just about comprehend the very short lived fad of staying up half the night to watch some hatchet-faced Scottish Grandmother win a Curling medal at the Winter Olympics (it was only a one-night thing, after all). I'm not sure why my 'Dead Pool', in which one predicts which celebrity deaths will occur over the next twelve months has not caught on yet, but it's got time to become a fad that'll grip the nation, and my next blog will feature the crop for 2012.
The latest TV fad seems to be the travel + food-umentary, and it looks as though everyone's cottoned on to this sure-fire ratings winner. The Hairy Bikers, Oz and James, Jamie Oliver, Michael Portillo, Ade Edmondson, Rick Stein, some posh twit mates of Hugh F-W, Rory McGrath and Paddy McGuinness and the soap dodger from single-serious curate's egg 'One Man and his Camper-van'.
The premise is quite simple, and by this, I mean cheap. It involves a man, or maybe a couple of men, or sometimes even three men, driving around Britain, meeting local people, usually doing a bit of cooking along the way and generally reminding us what a great place this island nation is to live. The rules seems fairly simple, and consist of the following:
1. A regional stereotype must be wheeled out at every opportunity.
2. The vehicle in which the man/men travel around the country must be 'vintage', ideally caravan/campervan.
3. Any cooking must be done on location, ideally using a mini-stove from said campervan.
4. (optional) - some kind of challenge might be involved, presumably to add a competitive edge. This might involve the protagonists needing to cook only food that they can catch/barter/work for/steal. It is never explained why this should be necessary.
A perfect example of how one can cram all three of the above rules into just 5 minutes of television came from the truly awful 'Ade in Britain', starring Ade Edmondson. This show seems to have been put together simply because someone thought the title was good, and there's only one famous Ade out there of course, which at least keeps him in work. One stop on Ade's trip was Morecambe. He pulled up in his Mini Cooper, complete with small cavannette/stove being dragged behind. He visited a local man that made potted shrimps, obtained the recipe, re-created it from his very own camper-stove before feeding the fruits of his labour to four buck-toothed men from the George Formby appreciation society (we knew this because they each had a ukelele); all this took place in the shadow of the Eric Morecambe statue.
Why has there been a sudden explosion of TV shows of this kind? Has there been an outcry from the public, demanding a fusion of game-show, travel and al fresco culinary travails? Or have a group of media moguls suddenly come to the same conclusion that this is what our screens have been missing? Or are they just cheap, and require little or no budget/planning? I think I know which one it is.
Hugh F-W seems to have had the best idea, in that he doesn't even appear in his latest culinary road-trip. Instead, three snaggle-haired photogenic posh-boys hammer round the South West in (you guessed it) a camper-van, with no money, eating only food they have earned, before cooking it all up on a ring-burner in the back of their vehicle. Hugh merely provides a voice-over, and even that looks to associate him a little too closely with this rot.
I await the next installation of the format with baited breath. 'Bruce's Britton' perhaps, featuring Bruce Forsyth and Fern Britton. Bruce and Fern drive around the country in a 1973 Austin Allegro, compete with the sort of caravanette you used to win on Bullseye. They visit artisan food producers, but can only eat the food if they manage an arm-wrestle win. Voice-over by Vernon Kay. I'd watch it. Wouldn't you?
The latest TV fad seems to be the travel + food-umentary, and it looks as though everyone's cottoned on to this sure-fire ratings winner. The Hairy Bikers, Oz and James, Jamie Oliver, Michael Portillo, Ade Edmondson, Rick Stein, some posh twit mates of Hugh F-W, Rory McGrath and Paddy McGuinness and the soap dodger from single-serious curate's egg 'One Man and his Camper-van'.
The premise is quite simple, and by this, I mean cheap. It involves a man, or maybe a couple of men, or sometimes even three men, driving around Britain, meeting local people, usually doing a bit of cooking along the way and generally reminding us what a great place this island nation is to live. The rules seems fairly simple, and consist of the following:
1. A regional stereotype must be wheeled out at every opportunity.
2. The vehicle in which the man/men travel around the country must be 'vintage', ideally caravan/campervan.
3. Any cooking must be done on location, ideally using a mini-stove from said campervan.
4. (optional) - some kind of challenge might be involved, presumably to add a competitive edge. This might involve the protagonists needing to cook only food that they can catch/barter/work for/steal. It is never explained why this should be necessary.
A perfect example of how one can cram all three of the above rules into just 5 minutes of television came from the truly awful 'Ade in Britain', starring Ade Edmondson. This show seems to have been put together simply because someone thought the title was good, and there's only one famous Ade out there of course, which at least keeps him in work. One stop on Ade's trip was Morecambe. He pulled up in his Mini Cooper, complete with small cavannette/stove being dragged behind. He visited a local man that made potted shrimps, obtained the recipe, re-created it from his very own camper-stove before feeding the fruits of his labour to four buck-toothed men from the George Formby appreciation society (we knew this because they each had a ukelele); all this took place in the shadow of the Eric Morecambe statue.
Why has there been a sudden explosion of TV shows of this kind? Has there been an outcry from the public, demanding a fusion of game-show, travel and al fresco culinary travails? Or have a group of media moguls suddenly come to the same conclusion that this is what our screens have been missing? Or are they just cheap, and require little or no budget/planning? I think I know which one it is.
Hugh F-W seems to have had the best idea, in that he doesn't even appear in his latest culinary road-trip. Instead, three snaggle-haired photogenic posh-boys hammer round the South West in (you guessed it) a camper-van, with no money, eating only food they have earned, before cooking it all up on a ring-burner in the back of their vehicle. Hugh merely provides a voice-over, and even that looks to associate him a little too closely with this rot.
I await the next installation of the format with baited breath. 'Bruce's Britton' perhaps, featuring Bruce Forsyth and Fern Britton. Bruce and Fern drive around the country in a 1973 Austin Allegro, compete with the sort of caravanette you used to win on Bullseye. They visit artisan food producers, but can only eat the food if they manage an arm-wrestle win. Voice-over by Vernon Kay. I'd watch it. Wouldn't you?
Sunday, 29 January 2012
Football's dark secret
I've just been listening to a bit of football on the radio. Quite an exciting bit of football as it happens: Arsenal football club have just scored 3 times in 15 minutes at the start of the second half and now lead Aston Villa 3-2 in a highly entertaining cup tie. This is just one of many football stories this week, though as ever with the beautiful game, what happens on the pitch only makes up a fraction of what ends up written in the papers and discussed in pubs across the land.
This week we have Luis Suarez's continued ban for racially abusing Patrice Evra, John Terry's court 'appearance' for racially abusing Anton Ferdinand. Ferdinand himself received a spent shotgun cartridge in the post this week, which seems rather more than harsh; whether he was racially abused or not, he has surely done nothing to deserve this threat of death?
Football has been blighted by accusations of racism for many years, though thankfully we seem destined never to return to the peak of the 1970s and 80s when it was common for black players to receive monkey chants and have bananas thrown onto the pitch. The 'Kick Racism Out' campaign appears to have been successful, though it's probably more a case simply that times have changed, along with the notion of what is acceptable and the values of a more enlightened population in general have been reflected in the behaviour of the average football supporter.
So far so good, but as Alan Hansen said recently on Match of the Day whilst talking about the issue of racism in football: 'there's still a long way to go'. He's right of course, and until racism is 'kicked out' completely, we must continue to campaign and to educate. Unfortunately, in talking about racism, he also used the term 'coloured people', which meant that his sane message was lost in a tumult of calls to the BBC demanding his resignation for using such a derogatory term. OK, so the word coloured isn't exactly fashionable these days; it's a term more closely linked to 70s sitcom 'Mind your Language' and it does tend to imply that there are only two races in the world: 'Whites' and 'Coloureds'. But we all knew what Hansen was trying to say, and if his terminology was perhaps less than sound, at least his logic was fine. In any case, the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People (NAACP) surely couldn't have had a problem, given that the word coloured makes up a pretty key part of their message to the world.
Maybe Hansen should have used the word 'Black'? I was under the impression that this was more offensive than 'coloured', but I have been informed by several of my friends that this is not so, and actually this term is far less controversial and far less likely to offend. However, returning to John Terry's court appearance, we find that he has been investigated and subsequently charged with the offence of calling Anton Ferdinand a 'black c*nt' during a recent West London Derby. Thank God he didn't call Ferdinand a 'coloured c*nt', then the shit would really have hit the fan. Actually, now I reflect further, isn't the word c*nt actually rather more offensive than either 'black' or 'coloured'? Admittedly it has no racial connotations, but I reckon it's about the most offensive individual word than one can utter in conversation.
Racial abuse is simply a sub-section of abuse, but due to the behaviour of past generations, it's a sub-section that lies far higher up the 'likely to cause public outrage' scale. There are undeniably some ignorant cromagnon football supporters that genuinely do believe that black people are genetically inferior to whites, but these are few and far between and are loathed unanimously within the football community. Most racist abuse is not indicative of an ideology that is unsound; it is simply a clutching at straws way of insulting another member of the human race. If John Terry called Anton Ferdinand a 'black c*nt', it shows him up to be an unpleasant man, not necessarily to be an institutional racist. Much of the debate around Luis Suarez's ban concerned the question of whether using a racist term necessarily meant that he himself was a racist. Surely this is just a case of labeling and semantics? If I laugh at a sexist joke am I necessarily displaying a serious tendency towards misogynism? Probably not, though it doesn't rule it out either. I would in either case not like to think that my entire belief system and ideological 'soundness' could be summarised by one outburst or reaction to a joke.
The problem with football, and more precisely with the fans that follow the sport, is that their own beliefs seem to take a back seat whenever it comes to issues regarding their club, the manager and the players. Do all Liverpool fans believe that Suarez is not a racist? Do all Manchester United fans believe that he is? Do all Chelsea fans really believe that John Terry is not a racist? Do they even have enough evidence? Loyalty to a club is one thing, but these issues go far beyond mere support from the terraces. It is perfectly possible for me to hope that my team will win, whilst also being disappointed in the behaviour of an individual that happens to play for the side I follow. Football supporters tend to lose their ability to think for themselves on issues involving their club, instead choosing to agree with any sentiments uttered by their players and manager. It's so much better to be told what to think by people that you admire rather then actually taking the time to have an opinion yourself.
But maybe they are the sensible ones, bearing in mind how difficult it is to engage anyone on the subject of racism without either being labelled as a woolly liberal or as a racist oneself. After all, several of my best friends are coloured, or should that be black?
This week we have Luis Suarez's continued ban for racially abusing Patrice Evra, John Terry's court 'appearance' for racially abusing Anton Ferdinand. Ferdinand himself received a spent shotgun cartridge in the post this week, which seems rather more than harsh; whether he was racially abused or not, he has surely done nothing to deserve this threat of death?
Football has been blighted by accusations of racism for many years, though thankfully we seem destined never to return to the peak of the 1970s and 80s when it was common for black players to receive monkey chants and have bananas thrown onto the pitch. The 'Kick Racism Out' campaign appears to have been successful, though it's probably more a case simply that times have changed, along with the notion of what is acceptable and the values of a more enlightened population in general have been reflected in the behaviour of the average football supporter.
So far so good, but as Alan Hansen said recently on Match of the Day whilst talking about the issue of racism in football: 'there's still a long way to go'. He's right of course, and until racism is 'kicked out' completely, we must continue to campaign and to educate. Unfortunately, in talking about racism, he also used the term 'coloured people', which meant that his sane message was lost in a tumult of calls to the BBC demanding his resignation for using such a derogatory term. OK, so the word coloured isn't exactly fashionable these days; it's a term more closely linked to 70s sitcom 'Mind your Language' and it does tend to imply that there are only two races in the world: 'Whites' and 'Coloureds'. But we all knew what Hansen was trying to say, and if his terminology was perhaps less than sound, at least his logic was fine. In any case, the National Association for the Advancement of Coloured People (NAACP) surely couldn't have had a problem, given that the word coloured makes up a pretty key part of their message to the world.
Maybe Hansen should have used the word 'Black'? I was under the impression that this was more offensive than 'coloured', but I have been informed by several of my friends that this is not so, and actually this term is far less controversial and far less likely to offend. However, returning to John Terry's court appearance, we find that he has been investigated and subsequently charged with the offence of calling Anton Ferdinand a 'black c*nt' during a recent West London Derby. Thank God he didn't call Ferdinand a 'coloured c*nt', then the shit would really have hit the fan. Actually, now I reflect further, isn't the word c*nt actually rather more offensive than either 'black' or 'coloured'? Admittedly it has no racial connotations, but I reckon it's about the most offensive individual word than one can utter in conversation.
Racial abuse is simply a sub-section of abuse, but due to the behaviour of past generations, it's a sub-section that lies far higher up the 'likely to cause public outrage' scale. There are undeniably some ignorant cromagnon football supporters that genuinely do believe that black people are genetically inferior to whites, but these are few and far between and are loathed unanimously within the football community. Most racist abuse is not indicative of an ideology that is unsound; it is simply a clutching at straws way of insulting another member of the human race. If John Terry called Anton Ferdinand a 'black c*nt', it shows him up to be an unpleasant man, not necessarily to be an institutional racist. Much of the debate around Luis Suarez's ban concerned the question of whether using a racist term necessarily meant that he himself was a racist. Surely this is just a case of labeling and semantics? If I laugh at a sexist joke am I necessarily displaying a serious tendency towards misogynism? Probably not, though it doesn't rule it out either. I would in either case not like to think that my entire belief system and ideological 'soundness' could be summarised by one outburst or reaction to a joke.
The problem with football, and more precisely with the fans that follow the sport, is that their own beliefs seem to take a back seat whenever it comes to issues regarding their club, the manager and the players. Do all Liverpool fans believe that Suarez is not a racist? Do all Manchester United fans believe that he is? Do all Chelsea fans really believe that John Terry is not a racist? Do they even have enough evidence? Loyalty to a club is one thing, but these issues go far beyond mere support from the terraces. It is perfectly possible for me to hope that my team will win, whilst also being disappointed in the behaviour of an individual that happens to play for the side I follow. Football supporters tend to lose their ability to think for themselves on issues involving their club, instead choosing to agree with any sentiments uttered by their players and manager. It's so much better to be told what to think by people that you admire rather then actually taking the time to have an opinion yourself.
But maybe they are the sensible ones, bearing in mind how difficult it is to engage anyone on the subject of racism without either being labelled as a woolly liberal or as a racist oneself. After all, several of my best friends are coloured, or should that be black?
Saturday, 21 January 2012
All rather depressing
So the roving eye of the British public moves on. Bored of 'occupy', bored of bankers and bored of arguments over who's being racist on twitter (for the moment), it settles on the issue of depression, and depression in sport in particular.
Gary Speed kicked it all off when he went and hung himself. It was as shocking as it was surprising. That day, twitter was full of the standard 'RIP Gary', but was also inundated with messages urging people to spread the awareness about depression. This seemed odd; no valid reason has ever been suggested as to why Gary Speed would take his own life, and yet the twitter-ati clearly decided that it was an open and shut case, and the D word needed to get out. This made no more sense than the average man in the street, who upon hearing about a plane crash, immediately campaigns for greater public awareness of testicular cancer.
Depression does seem to affect a large number of sportsmen, and the incidences of suicide (especially in cricket) are certainly higher than most other professions. Marcus Trescothick's well publicised battle with the disease is a case in point, and it's clear that many sportsmen struggle to cope with life once their playing careers are finished. Ex-Hull City striker Dean Windass spoke to the Guardian this week, keen to admit (possibly as catharsis) that he was 'close to ending it all' this week.
I'm not an expert, but the link between sportsmen and depression seems to make sense. The weight of public expectation, the mighty highs and cavernous lows and the 'back to earth with a bump' that accompanies the end of one's playing career would indeed cause some of the less robust personalities to struggle to deal with the harsh realities of 'real' life. I was amazed that a colleague of mine chose to rail against this phenomena, expressing utter contempt for these sufferers and an amazement that they could be afflicted in this manner, given that they were performing in a role that many ordinary folk would give their eye-teeth to take on. 'Let them go and meet the maimed soldiers from Afghanistan' she wailed, 'then they'd know how lucky they are'. I'm pretty sure this is not how depression works. It would be easy to snap out of things if all one had to do was to be introduced to someone more worthy and/or more unlucky. I'm sure that the bi-polar Stephen Fry is aware that he is a clever, successful man, and very much the nation's favourite uncle. This doesn't seem to make him snap out of the medical condition with which he is afflicted.
As if to satisfy the public's curiosity with all things depressive, and hot on the heels of Gary Speed, came Andrew Flintoff, who opened his heart on his depressive past. Less convincing this one: his depression apparently co-incided with his only tour as England captain. As England slumped to only their second ever 5-0 Ashes defeat, and their first for 85 years, Flintoff admitted that he had felt down and had struggled to get out of bed in the morning. He had even started to drink too much. None of this seemed all that surprising. Legendary boozer Flintoff had carried on boozing. He had also felt pretty low and gutted that his team were being comprehensively thrashed. This isn't a depressive episode, it's just a bad day (or few weeks) at the office. Miraculously, this depressive episode seemed to pass once England started playing a little better.
Fintoff's mate Steve Harmison has now chipped in, blaming his lack of form on foreign pitches on depression. 'I didn't realise it at the time, but that's what it must have been'. Give it a label Steve, just to make yourself feel better.
The saddest thing of all is that many people do need to change their opinion of his disease, which is misunderstood and brushed under the carpet all too often. However, the more that celebrities trivialise depression and use it merely as a catch-all label to magic away the natural lows of their profession, the more that it will remain misunderstood. Ironically, by bringing it into the public eye in this manner, it is likely to provide just a few minutes of pub chat, and less likely to kick-start any worthwhile debate on the issue.
It's all just so depressing.
Gary Speed kicked it all off when he went and hung himself. It was as shocking as it was surprising. That day, twitter was full of the standard 'RIP Gary', but was also inundated with messages urging people to spread the awareness about depression. This seemed odd; no valid reason has ever been suggested as to why Gary Speed would take his own life, and yet the twitter-ati clearly decided that it was an open and shut case, and the D word needed to get out. This made no more sense than the average man in the street, who upon hearing about a plane crash, immediately campaigns for greater public awareness of testicular cancer.
Depression does seem to affect a large number of sportsmen, and the incidences of suicide (especially in cricket) are certainly higher than most other professions. Marcus Trescothick's well publicised battle with the disease is a case in point, and it's clear that many sportsmen struggle to cope with life once their playing careers are finished. Ex-Hull City striker Dean Windass spoke to the Guardian this week, keen to admit (possibly as catharsis) that he was 'close to ending it all' this week.
I'm not an expert, but the link between sportsmen and depression seems to make sense. The weight of public expectation, the mighty highs and cavernous lows and the 'back to earth with a bump' that accompanies the end of one's playing career would indeed cause some of the less robust personalities to struggle to deal with the harsh realities of 'real' life. I was amazed that a colleague of mine chose to rail against this phenomena, expressing utter contempt for these sufferers and an amazement that they could be afflicted in this manner, given that they were performing in a role that many ordinary folk would give their eye-teeth to take on. 'Let them go and meet the maimed soldiers from Afghanistan' she wailed, 'then they'd know how lucky they are'. I'm pretty sure this is not how depression works. It would be easy to snap out of things if all one had to do was to be introduced to someone more worthy and/or more unlucky. I'm sure that the bi-polar Stephen Fry is aware that he is a clever, successful man, and very much the nation's favourite uncle. This doesn't seem to make him snap out of the medical condition with which he is afflicted.
As if to satisfy the public's curiosity with all things depressive, and hot on the heels of Gary Speed, came Andrew Flintoff, who opened his heart on his depressive past. Less convincing this one: his depression apparently co-incided with his only tour as England captain. As England slumped to only their second ever 5-0 Ashes defeat, and their first for 85 years, Flintoff admitted that he had felt down and had struggled to get out of bed in the morning. He had even started to drink too much. None of this seemed all that surprising. Legendary boozer Flintoff had carried on boozing. He had also felt pretty low and gutted that his team were being comprehensively thrashed. This isn't a depressive episode, it's just a bad day (or few weeks) at the office. Miraculously, this depressive episode seemed to pass once England started playing a little better.
Fintoff's mate Steve Harmison has now chipped in, blaming his lack of form on foreign pitches on depression. 'I didn't realise it at the time, but that's what it must have been'. Give it a label Steve, just to make yourself feel better.
The saddest thing of all is that many people do need to change their opinion of his disease, which is misunderstood and brushed under the carpet all too often. However, the more that celebrities trivialise depression and use it merely as a catch-all label to magic away the natural lows of their profession, the more that it will remain misunderstood. Ironically, by bringing it into the public eye in this manner, it is likely to provide just a few minutes of pub chat, and less likely to kick-start any worthwhile debate on the issue.
It's all just so depressing.
Monday, 28 November 2011
Small talk
Here's a couple of lines from the Hitch-hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, much of which I seem to be quoting at the moment, or at least searching for inspiration within the text:
One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right? At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behaviour; if human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up.
Conversation with other human beings is still the main method we use to communicate with each other, at least in a face to face manner. There's nothing particularly personal about email after all.
Small talk is the glue that binds social gatherings together. Social gatherings such as weddings and house parties tend to be characterised by a lot of people standing around making small talk, usually holding a glass in one hand and a food morsel in the other. The mouth opens and shuts, and the brain spends most of its time wondering when is the right time to attack said food morsel and whether it's a one or two-bite canape.
There's nothing wrong with small talk, in fact it's vital to the success of any conversation. It's like the suet the holds the Christmas pudding together. It provides a vehicle for the good bits, and otherwise you'd just be eating mouthfuls of dried fruit laced with alcohol (actually, maybe that doesn't sound too bad). However, suet on its own makes for a pretty dull pudding, and small talk on its own makes for very dull conversation, and I'd argue that small talk alone becomes conversation simply to avoid the alternative: silence.
Just as Christmas pudding needs the fruit, small talk needs to be laced with occasional moments of big talk. I define big talk as matters which are personal, matters which are important, matters which are controversial. Small talk is the low-risk inoffensive patter that skirts these bigger topics.
I'd like to see some rules invoked nation-wide, so that people are clear on the small talk/big talk balance. These rules could be displayed in wedding venues, hired-out rooms above pubs, even people's living rooms when it's time to get the street round for Christmas drinks. Pubs generally have pool-table rules laid out clearly next to the tables to avoid confusion and argument, and this would merely be providing the same service for social gatherings.
Here are the rules, as laid down by me. (You should feel free to add to this list, or amend as necessary. Once people become au fait with the rules, you might want to take your A1 sheet down from the wall, but it may be wise to have small laminated rule cards on your person, just to dish out to any surprise guests, or first-time conversationalists.)
1. Always start with small talk
Never bring out the controversial topics too early. Everyone likes to settle in with a nice wide loosener or half-volley, and you'll swiftly find yourself on your own if you come in with a rant about the immigration problem in the area. Try kicking off with a conversation about how you know the host, or maybe a query about what your conversation partner happens to be driving at the moment.
2. Choose your moment to bring in the big talk
Wait for an appropriate prompt. If your chosen chat-protagonist regularly uses a Boris bike (small talk), this is the moment to bring in your thoughts about the coalition's handling of the debt crisis (big talk). Don't miss your chance mind, and shy away from the big talk. Now is not the time to mention Boris' buffoonery on HIGNFY.
3. Some small talk is too small
There are some topics of conversation that are so small, so pointless and so clearly just a way of avoiding silence that they should be banned from ever raising their heads. These include questions such as how did you get here? or where are you for Christmas this year? No-one cares.
Right, I'm off to find someone in the street to ask them whether they feel that religious belief implies the existence of a God-like being. Wish me luck.
One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about humans was their habit of continually stating and repeating the very very obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you all right? At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behaviour; if human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up.
After a few
months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favour of a
new one. If they don't keep on
exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working.
Conversation with other human beings is still the main method we use to communicate with each other, at least in a face to face manner. There's nothing particularly personal about email after all.
Small talk is the glue that binds social gatherings together. Social gatherings such as weddings and house parties tend to be characterised by a lot of people standing around making small talk, usually holding a glass in one hand and a food morsel in the other. The mouth opens and shuts, and the brain spends most of its time wondering when is the right time to attack said food morsel and whether it's a one or two-bite canape.
There's nothing wrong with small talk, in fact it's vital to the success of any conversation. It's like the suet the holds the Christmas pudding together. It provides a vehicle for the good bits, and otherwise you'd just be eating mouthfuls of dried fruit laced with alcohol (actually, maybe that doesn't sound too bad). However, suet on its own makes for a pretty dull pudding, and small talk on its own makes for very dull conversation, and I'd argue that small talk alone becomes conversation simply to avoid the alternative: silence.
Just as Christmas pudding needs the fruit, small talk needs to be laced with occasional moments of big talk. I define big talk as matters which are personal, matters which are important, matters which are controversial. Small talk is the low-risk inoffensive patter that skirts these bigger topics.
I'd like to see some rules invoked nation-wide, so that people are clear on the small talk/big talk balance. These rules could be displayed in wedding venues, hired-out rooms above pubs, even people's living rooms when it's time to get the street round for Christmas drinks. Pubs generally have pool-table rules laid out clearly next to the tables to avoid confusion and argument, and this would merely be providing the same service for social gatherings.
Here are the rules, as laid down by me. (You should feel free to add to this list, or amend as necessary. Once people become au fait with the rules, you might want to take your A1 sheet down from the wall, but it may be wise to have small laminated rule cards on your person, just to dish out to any surprise guests, or first-time conversationalists.)
1. Always start with small talk
Never bring out the controversial topics too early. Everyone likes to settle in with a nice wide loosener or half-volley, and you'll swiftly find yourself on your own if you come in with a rant about the immigration problem in the area. Try kicking off with a conversation about how you know the host, or maybe a query about what your conversation partner happens to be driving at the moment.
2. Choose your moment to bring in the big talk
Wait for an appropriate prompt. If your chosen chat-protagonist regularly uses a Boris bike (small talk), this is the moment to bring in your thoughts about the coalition's handling of the debt crisis (big talk). Don't miss your chance mind, and shy away from the big talk. Now is not the time to mention Boris' buffoonery on HIGNFY.
3. Some small talk is too small
There are some topics of conversation that are so small, so pointless and so clearly just a way of avoiding silence that they should be banned from ever raising their heads. These include questions such as how did you get here? or where are you for Christmas this year? No-one cares.
Right, I'm off to find someone in the street to ask them whether they feel that religious belief implies the existence of a God-like being. Wish me luck.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Teardrop
It's worth getting one thing straight before I start: children in need is a good thing. Anything that raises nigh on 30 million pounds for various children's charities cannot be anything other than a good thing. Whether one finds dancing newsreaders a little bit hackneyed and probably best left in the 70s with Angela Rippon and Morecambe and Wise, and whether it's patently obvious that Sir Terry should have been mothballed along with Sir Bruce years back, that doesn't make CiN anything other than a good thing. It's a British institution; it's proof that we're not all greedy bankers and we're willing to give to a good cause; it's a good thing. Have I protested too much? Probably. Have I made my point? Hopefully.
I've just watched 'teardrop' by 'The Collective', which is the official CiN single. It's a curious mix of young black British musical talent, Ed Sheerin rapping (well, speaking) in a sort of 'mock-ghetto public-schoolboy in his bed-sit with pictures of Tupac on the wall' accent, and an occasional focus on Gary Barlow doing what I presume is the face he would do were he to come across a run-over, though still partially alive, kitten.
It's a terrible cover of what is a very good song. It's basically the same music, with a lazy rap done over the top. It's got some strings in it; you can tell this because of the Gormenghast-relic bearded chap doing some conducting in the middle of the video. But, with CiN being a good thing, even this poor song represents a case of the end justifying the means. And if one sees it as nothing but a bad song making some money for a good cause, well, it's probably a good thing too, all in all. At least it's better than 'The Stonk'.
The mistake I made was to listen to the lyrics. They're such incredible dross. It takes a while to get going, but it's as if by the two minute mark, the lyricists decided that it was time to get all insprirational. Thus we have gems like:
1. 'you can be anything you dream of...'
This is patently untrue. I'd like to be a professional footballer thanks. What's that? I'm not good enough at football? But Ed Sheerin said...
2. 'value everything you own, somebody probably dreams of the bed that you sleep on'
Nice guilt trip. As long as I own a bed, that should be enough to make me feel guilty. Unlike the rabble of x-factor types in the video, who have really had to struggle with the instant fame and fortune conferred on them.
3. 'be anything, it's your choice'
A similar conundrum to point 1. It may be your ambition, but very rarely is it your choice. You can be a writer, but you still need a publisher to get your words out there. You can be a singer, but you still need a record deal to get your music heard. And you'll never be an astronaut or a footballer - best just get used to it.
4. 'always speak your mind'
This is a bad idea. Questions such as 'do I look fat in this?' and 'isn't he such a cute baby?' may get you into a awful lot of trouble for speaking your mind. There are times when speaking your mind is a good idea, and no-one's trying to suggest you should be a wall-flower at all times, but there will be times when the advice is plain irresponsible.
5. 'you can turn silver into gold with 4 coins'
A mathematical question. With one 50p coin, two 20p coins and a 10p, you can indeed turn silver into gold (a pound coin) though I'm pretty sure that they're not made of gold. Then again, the 'silver' coins mentioned above are mostly nickel-alloy; nevertheless, it works mathematically, despite the confusion between colour and value of coin. Having said it, this is probably the only true part of the song, though I doubt many people will be inspired by the basic metric system of currency.
Maybe I've looked into things in too much depth. In fact, I know I have. But sometimes things aren't glamorous, they don't represent instant gratification and they don't always end with the success you've worked towards or the success you deserve. Sometimes things only come with hard slog, and even then, you're not going to be famous doing them. But you should be happy with your own achievements, even though you have to realise that you can't do anything you want, or be anything you wish. Better to hear the truth now.
If you're after inspiriation, eschew Barlow, and head to another great man, Marcus Aurelius:
'Be like the Rocky headland on which the waves constantly break. It stands firm, and round it the seething waters are laid to rest'
I've just watched 'teardrop' by 'The Collective', which is the official CiN single. It's a curious mix of young black British musical talent, Ed Sheerin rapping (well, speaking) in a sort of 'mock-ghetto public-schoolboy in his bed-sit with pictures of Tupac on the wall' accent, and an occasional focus on Gary Barlow doing what I presume is the face he would do were he to come across a run-over, though still partially alive, kitten.
It's a terrible cover of what is a very good song. It's basically the same music, with a lazy rap done over the top. It's got some strings in it; you can tell this because of the Gormenghast-relic bearded chap doing some conducting in the middle of the video. But, with CiN being a good thing, even this poor song represents a case of the end justifying the means. And if one sees it as nothing but a bad song making some money for a good cause, well, it's probably a good thing too, all in all. At least it's better than 'The Stonk'.
The mistake I made was to listen to the lyrics. They're such incredible dross. It takes a while to get going, but it's as if by the two minute mark, the lyricists decided that it was time to get all insprirational. Thus we have gems like:
1. 'you can be anything you dream of...'
This is patently untrue. I'd like to be a professional footballer thanks. What's that? I'm not good enough at football? But Ed Sheerin said...
2. 'value everything you own, somebody probably dreams of the bed that you sleep on'
Nice guilt trip. As long as I own a bed, that should be enough to make me feel guilty. Unlike the rabble of x-factor types in the video, who have really had to struggle with the instant fame and fortune conferred on them.
3. 'be anything, it's your choice'
A similar conundrum to point 1. It may be your ambition, but very rarely is it your choice. You can be a writer, but you still need a publisher to get your words out there. You can be a singer, but you still need a record deal to get your music heard. And you'll never be an astronaut or a footballer - best just get used to it.
4. 'always speak your mind'
This is a bad idea. Questions such as 'do I look fat in this?' and 'isn't he such a cute baby?' may get you into a awful lot of trouble for speaking your mind. There are times when speaking your mind is a good idea, and no-one's trying to suggest you should be a wall-flower at all times, but there will be times when the advice is plain irresponsible.
5. 'you can turn silver into gold with 4 coins'
A mathematical question. With one 50p coin, two 20p coins and a 10p, you can indeed turn silver into gold (a pound coin) though I'm pretty sure that they're not made of gold. Then again, the 'silver' coins mentioned above are mostly nickel-alloy; nevertheless, it works mathematically, despite the confusion between colour and value of coin. Having said it, this is probably the only true part of the song, though I doubt many people will be inspired by the basic metric system of currency.
Maybe I've looked into things in too much depth. In fact, I know I have. But sometimes things aren't glamorous, they don't represent instant gratification and they don't always end with the success you've worked towards or the success you deserve. Sometimes things only come with hard slog, and even then, you're not going to be famous doing them. But you should be happy with your own achievements, even though you have to realise that you can't do anything you want, or be anything you wish. Better to hear the truth now.
If you're after inspiriation, eschew Barlow, and head to another great man, Marcus Aurelius:
'Be like the Rocky headland on which the waves constantly break. It stands firm, and round it the seething waters are laid to rest'
Monday, 24 October 2011
Confusion reigns
Life is confusing.
It's confusing from a philosophical point of view (what is our purpose in life?) but it's also pretty confusing from an everyday point of view (what's the difference between all these coloured nespresso capsules, and how does one operate the machine anyway?)
Many people manage to avoid this confusion by choosing the simple life, and by this I don't mean heading off into the wilderness a la 'into the wild', or tagging along with Paris Hilton through the hick backwaters of the US. I mean the simple life from yesteryear, where all that mattered was having a menial job which enabled one to put food on the table, and raising a couple of kids who stayed on the straight and narrow. One can add to this the watching of X factor and the occasional KFC bucket and some lottery tickets, but for many, this is life as it should be lived in little Britain. This mass of people are required to keep the country going. They are the gammas and below of Huxley's 'Brave New World', and they represent the glue that binds society together.
There are others that ponder the big questions; the questions that are concerned with the advancement and future of mankind. Crucially, they also end up in a position to be able to do something about it. These are the betas and upwards of BNW, the thinkers and do-ers in Douglas Adams' 'The Restaurant at the end of the Universe'. In a demoncracy, these are the people (and those around them) that we rely on to get the big decisions right in order the safeguard the future of nations.
In 'The Restaurant at the end of the Universe', the residents of a planet whose future was known to be doomed, decided to leave the planet via spaceship to colonise another. They left the 'useless third' of the population behind, having taken the 'thinkers' and 'do-ers' away with them.
So can we isolate the useless third of our planet, those that are left when all the thinkers and do-ers are taken out of the equation? Not quite that simple, but with the world population having just hit 7 billion, we can't afford too many passengers on this over-crowded planet.
I'm more concerned with the state of 'protesting' in general. There's a lot of protestors out there at the moment; granted that there's certainly plenty to protest about. However, whereas you can do a menial job very well without too much thinking, to protest without thinking can be quite a dangerous thing.
If you're in any doubt what I mean, have a look at these chaps in this clip:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-15322134
They're from the 'Occupy London' protest. Their names are confused person 1 and confused person 2 (not really, but that's how I like to know them). They are protesting against corporate greed, which is generally taken to mean bankers. Fine. But if you listen to their ramble, they're also protesting about lack of political intervention and control, Murdoch's control of the media and the 'rule' of the aristocracy (as if they have any actual power?). Is this precisely what all the people outside St Paul's are protesting against? I very much doubt it. At least the second chap is articulate, albeit in a rather stereotyped student way; the first guy seems to have no idea what he's protesting about, except to say that there's a lot of anger on the streets (well there is if you live in a tent on the streets around St Paul's); he seems to have been dragged along in this current of anger. He's a rebel without a clue.
More confusion: I heard a group of protestors at Aberdeen airport speaking on the radio recently. They had chained themselves to one of the runways (not sure how this is done...), and were protesting at the emissions of carbon dioxide from the burning of fossil fuels in aircraft leading to global warming and its associated environmental problems. They had attached themselves to the runway to stop the planes from landing. That's right, landing. Not taking-off, but landing. Their protest ensured that the planes either had to stay in the air, burning more fuel, until another runway becamse available, or they had to be diverted to another airport entirely, with similar consequences. The group seemed rather crestfallen when this was pointed out by the interviewer.
Yet more confustion, from abroad this time: I was in Vienna this week, where their version of the 'slutwalk' was taking place. For the uninitiated, this involves a group of women (and men) marching the streets in protest against the remarks made by a Toronto policeman at a safety lecture earlier this year. He suggested that women should avoid 'dressing like sluts' to minimise the risk of attack from men. He has since apologised for this incredibly crass statement. I'm not sure that anyone would argue that rape is good (hence this is akin to a protest against murdering people), and I'm also unsure that one idiotic statement from one policeman should be taken to mean that every nation in which the protests have taken place gives out the message 'don't get raped' as opposed to 'don't rape', but what was more interesting was the level of confusion displayed by the participants of the protest. Some clearly seemed to have understood, and were scantily clad in 'slut-wear', which is the point of the walk, namely that individuals should be free to wear what they like without fear of being judged, or fear of assault. Others held banners of 'support feminism', which I guess is related, though I'm not sure it's a key feminist principle. Others held 'smash capitalism' banners. Surely these people are confused? Does a capitalist society promote rape? Or were they just keen to piggy-back one protest for another?
Confusion brought about by a lack of thinking. Dangerous stuff.
It's confusing from a philosophical point of view (what is our purpose in life?) but it's also pretty confusing from an everyday point of view (what's the difference between all these coloured nespresso capsules, and how does one operate the machine anyway?)
Many people manage to avoid this confusion by choosing the simple life, and by this I don't mean heading off into the wilderness a la 'into the wild', or tagging along with Paris Hilton through the hick backwaters of the US. I mean the simple life from yesteryear, where all that mattered was having a menial job which enabled one to put food on the table, and raising a couple of kids who stayed on the straight and narrow. One can add to this the watching of X factor and the occasional KFC bucket and some lottery tickets, but for many, this is life as it should be lived in little Britain. This mass of people are required to keep the country going. They are the gammas and below of Huxley's 'Brave New World', and they represent the glue that binds society together.
There are others that ponder the big questions; the questions that are concerned with the advancement and future of mankind. Crucially, they also end up in a position to be able to do something about it. These are the betas and upwards of BNW, the thinkers and do-ers in Douglas Adams' 'The Restaurant at the end of the Universe'. In a demoncracy, these are the people (and those around them) that we rely on to get the big decisions right in order the safeguard the future of nations.
In 'The Restaurant at the end of the Universe', the residents of a planet whose future was known to be doomed, decided to leave the planet via spaceship to colonise another. They left the 'useless third' of the population behind, having taken the 'thinkers' and 'do-ers' away with them.
So can we isolate the useless third of our planet, those that are left when all the thinkers and do-ers are taken out of the equation? Not quite that simple, but with the world population having just hit 7 billion, we can't afford too many passengers on this over-crowded planet.
I'm more concerned with the state of 'protesting' in general. There's a lot of protestors out there at the moment; granted that there's certainly plenty to protest about. However, whereas you can do a menial job very well without too much thinking, to protest without thinking can be quite a dangerous thing.
If you're in any doubt what I mean, have a look at these chaps in this clip:
http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-15322134
They're from the 'Occupy London' protest. Their names are confused person 1 and confused person 2 (not really, but that's how I like to know them). They are protesting against corporate greed, which is generally taken to mean bankers. Fine. But if you listen to their ramble, they're also protesting about lack of political intervention and control, Murdoch's control of the media and the 'rule' of the aristocracy (as if they have any actual power?). Is this precisely what all the people outside St Paul's are protesting against? I very much doubt it. At least the second chap is articulate, albeit in a rather stereotyped student way; the first guy seems to have no idea what he's protesting about, except to say that there's a lot of anger on the streets (well there is if you live in a tent on the streets around St Paul's); he seems to have been dragged along in this current of anger. He's a rebel without a clue.
More confusion: I heard a group of protestors at Aberdeen airport speaking on the radio recently. They had chained themselves to one of the runways (not sure how this is done...), and were protesting at the emissions of carbon dioxide from the burning of fossil fuels in aircraft leading to global warming and its associated environmental problems. They had attached themselves to the runway to stop the planes from landing. That's right, landing. Not taking-off, but landing. Their protest ensured that the planes either had to stay in the air, burning more fuel, until another runway becamse available, or they had to be diverted to another airport entirely, with similar consequences. The group seemed rather crestfallen when this was pointed out by the interviewer.
Yet more confustion, from abroad this time: I was in Vienna this week, where their version of the 'slutwalk' was taking place. For the uninitiated, this involves a group of women (and men) marching the streets in protest against the remarks made by a Toronto policeman at a safety lecture earlier this year. He suggested that women should avoid 'dressing like sluts' to minimise the risk of attack from men. He has since apologised for this incredibly crass statement. I'm not sure that anyone would argue that rape is good (hence this is akin to a protest against murdering people), and I'm also unsure that one idiotic statement from one policeman should be taken to mean that every nation in which the protests have taken place gives out the message 'don't get raped' as opposed to 'don't rape', but what was more interesting was the level of confusion displayed by the participants of the protest. Some clearly seemed to have understood, and were scantily clad in 'slut-wear', which is the point of the walk, namely that individuals should be free to wear what they like without fear of being judged, or fear of assault. Others held banners of 'support feminism', which I guess is related, though I'm not sure it's a key feminist principle. Others held 'smash capitalism' banners. Surely these people are confused? Does a capitalist society promote rape? Or were they just keen to piggy-back one protest for another?
Confusion brought about by a lack of thinking. Dangerous stuff.
Monday, 17 October 2011
What if there's no future?
I was asked this morning, just in passing, which decade I would most like to have lived in. It's a question I've been asked surprisingly often, but which I mean it's been asked approximately once every six months for as long as I can remember. It's one of those questions people use to find a way in to another conversation, about the music of the '60s, or the family values of the '50s. No-one seems to be very interested in my response, which is why my standard answer of the 1920s provoked little more than a shrug this morning. Mind you, I wouldn't be very interested in anyone else's answer, whether it was the 3010s or the 1290s. I've come to justify my answer with some ramble about Fitzgerald and glamour and other such things, but the point is that it's not interesting because it's not possible. None of us ever get the choice of which decade we're born into, and so it will forever remain a little ice-breaker, along the lines of 'would you have sex with the Corrs, if you had to do the bloke too?', which I seem to remember was an important dilemma for a while, probably when the Corrs were big news, so a little while ago.
I quite like living my 30s through the 2010s, though I can't imagine that my life would be significantly different if I was this age in the 1990s. I've now reached an age where I've got about as much future as past. It's an ideal age: the past is recent enough that I can remember it, I can revel in my triumphs and I can learn from my mistakes. There's a quite a bit of future too, and I reckon I've still got quite a lot to look forward to. I asked one of my classes at School to write about the future or the past, from any point of view. All by one pupil wrote about the future. Of course they did - they've got far more future than past, and even though the future is uncertain, it's also exciting. At age 16, you're pretty bullet-proof, and there's a myriad of paths in front of you. Even if you take the wrong one, you've got time to return to the junction to take another, and it might just lead you somewhere exciting anyway. Time passes very slowly when you're 16; there's not even much past to remember, so you can recall things easily.
Being old doesn't interest me, which is a puffed-out chest way of saying it scares me a little. I remember waking up one night when I was about 8 or 9 years old, literally in a sweat from the realisation that I would die, and that it would be forever. My life would be as a flash of light between two eternities of dark, and even at 8 years old, that was a worrying thought. When you're old, you've got a very limited future, and most of what you have is past. When you're young, the future is uncertain, but that's exciting, and it's brimming with possibility. When you're old, even the past is uncertain; there's so much of it to remember, so much to regret and so much on which to ponder. You've had your one chance, and there's nothing you can do about it.
I'd like to remain in this state of middle-ground for a while. I acknowledge both what's gone before and what's still to come. I like my memories to remain vivid, not seen through frosted glass, and I like to think that my mistakes yet to come won't be un-correctable.
Dan Wheldon, the Indy car driver, died yesterday in a crash at the Indy 300 in Las Vegas. I have a picture of my School year in 1991, and he'd been at School only a month by then. His future was uncertain, and it was certainly exciting, though ultimately tragic. I wonder if he'd have swapped the excitement for a long uneventful life, Achilles-like?
I quite like living my 30s through the 2010s, though I can't imagine that my life would be significantly different if I was this age in the 1990s. I've now reached an age where I've got about as much future as past. It's an ideal age: the past is recent enough that I can remember it, I can revel in my triumphs and I can learn from my mistakes. There's a quite a bit of future too, and I reckon I've still got quite a lot to look forward to. I asked one of my classes at School to write about the future or the past, from any point of view. All by one pupil wrote about the future. Of course they did - they've got far more future than past, and even though the future is uncertain, it's also exciting. At age 16, you're pretty bullet-proof, and there's a myriad of paths in front of you. Even if you take the wrong one, you've got time to return to the junction to take another, and it might just lead you somewhere exciting anyway. Time passes very slowly when you're 16; there's not even much past to remember, so you can recall things easily.
Being old doesn't interest me, which is a puffed-out chest way of saying it scares me a little. I remember waking up one night when I was about 8 or 9 years old, literally in a sweat from the realisation that I would die, and that it would be forever. My life would be as a flash of light between two eternities of dark, and even at 8 years old, that was a worrying thought. When you're old, you've got a very limited future, and most of what you have is past. When you're young, the future is uncertain, but that's exciting, and it's brimming with possibility. When you're old, even the past is uncertain; there's so much of it to remember, so much to regret and so much on which to ponder. You've had your one chance, and there's nothing you can do about it.
I'd like to remain in this state of middle-ground for a while. I acknowledge both what's gone before and what's still to come. I like my memories to remain vivid, not seen through frosted glass, and I like to think that my mistakes yet to come won't be un-correctable.
Dan Wheldon, the Indy car driver, died yesterday in a crash at the Indy 300 in Las Vegas. I have a picture of my School year in 1991, and he'd been at School only a month by then. His future was uncertain, and it was certainly exciting, though ultimately tragic. I wonder if he'd have swapped the excitement for a long uneventful life, Achilles-like?
Saturday, 27 August 2011
It's the sound of the police
Much has been written in recent weeks about the alienation of young people from society. I've already explained why I think this is a parental issue far more than a societal one, but I'd also add that it's actually quite difficult to bring young people into the (big) society fold. Young people (and by this I really mean teenagers) are not exposed to many of the important issues that are faced by adults. As a teenager, you are shielded by your parents, or at least you should be. You shouldn't need to worry about getting a job, renting/buying a house etc, and the people that you deal with on a day to day basis (your friends) aren't ready to contribute much to society either, and this is exactly as it should be. Teenagers are often by nature non-conformists; they're keen to rebel, albeit usually in a harmless way, against their parents, teachers and polite society in general. Very few people dress like they did when they were a teenager, and listen to the same music; many of us take up, and then give up, smoking as teens. This is all part of growing up; it's doesn't suggest any fracture within society, but teenagers are always going to exist on the margins of society - there's plenty of time for them to become their parents later on.
When one becomes an adult, it's far easier to define yourself as a useful, upstanding member of society. But what does one have to do to achieve this? I think that most people would agree with that the following is key: be employed, and to earn one's keep, ideally in a job where you are clearly performing a useful role in society, and not earning far more than perhaps your contribution would suggest is reasonable.
I think most people could suggest a job that fits this criteria (nursing, teaching), and could also suggest some that would not (banking). One job that clearly fulfils the above would be the police. It's a job with difficult hours, the pay is reasonable but no more, it's essential to society.
So why do we continually run down our police force? Why have the policemen and women become the target for such criticism and marginalisation from all angles?
To quote examples - lack of riot training/riot equipment for police to deal with the recent troubles, major Government cuts to the police, accusations of police brutality (Ian Tomlinson), accusations of police timidity (London riots), people spectating at the riots in London, the goading of the police by rioters more interested in capturing evidence on their phones than making a political point. Even the title of this piece is taken from a piece of music criticising police brutality, though the real meaning of the song has been lost amid the amusing siren sounds, and though none of us pay any real attention to them, the sentiments can become lodged. None of us are surprised to hear Dr Dre's line of 'so muthaf*ck the police', and none of us are shocked as we would be were he criticising an ethnic minority, or women. There is an inherent need for young people to rebel, but should we still be doing the same thing against our police force as adults?
The most obvious contrast from the police would be the British Army. My brother was an officer in the cavalry for a decade, and has since joined the metropolitan police. I've never had the conversation with him, but I suspect that he's quite surprised about the difference in public feeling towards the two (fairly comparable) roles. The British Army are often referred to as heroes, and the charity 'Help for Heroes' is now one of the richest in the UK. How about a similar charity for police officers wounded in the riots? Would there be a similar outpouring of national feeling (and cash)? Maybe it's because the Army are sorting problems in foreign lands, where the local people there deserve all they get, and maybe here our natural inclination is an anti-authority standpoint where we regress to our teenage feelings of rebellion towards those that enforce polite society, but it seems like a confused message to give.
So who feels more alienated from society - the teenager, who has yet to have the chance to contribute, or the police officer, providing a vital role than many of us wouldn't do for twice the money, and being pilloried by the very society that they protect?
When one becomes an adult, it's far easier to define yourself as a useful, upstanding member of society. But what does one have to do to achieve this? I think that most people would agree with that the following is key: be employed, and to earn one's keep, ideally in a job where you are clearly performing a useful role in society, and not earning far more than perhaps your contribution would suggest is reasonable.
I think most people could suggest a job that fits this criteria (nursing, teaching), and could also suggest some that would not (banking). One job that clearly fulfils the above would be the police. It's a job with difficult hours, the pay is reasonable but no more, it's essential to society.
So why do we continually run down our police force? Why have the policemen and women become the target for such criticism and marginalisation from all angles?
To quote examples - lack of riot training/riot equipment for police to deal with the recent troubles, major Government cuts to the police, accusations of police brutality (Ian Tomlinson), accusations of police timidity (London riots), people spectating at the riots in London, the goading of the police by rioters more interested in capturing evidence on their phones than making a political point. Even the title of this piece is taken from a piece of music criticising police brutality, though the real meaning of the song has been lost amid the amusing siren sounds, and though none of us pay any real attention to them, the sentiments can become lodged. None of us are surprised to hear Dr Dre's line of 'so muthaf*ck the police', and none of us are shocked as we would be were he criticising an ethnic minority, or women. There is an inherent need for young people to rebel, but should we still be doing the same thing against our police force as adults?
The most obvious contrast from the police would be the British Army. My brother was an officer in the cavalry for a decade, and has since joined the metropolitan police. I've never had the conversation with him, but I suspect that he's quite surprised about the difference in public feeling towards the two (fairly comparable) roles. The British Army are often referred to as heroes, and the charity 'Help for Heroes' is now one of the richest in the UK. How about a similar charity for police officers wounded in the riots? Would there be a similar outpouring of national feeling (and cash)? Maybe it's because the Army are sorting problems in foreign lands, where the local people there deserve all they get, and maybe here our natural inclination is an anti-authority standpoint where we regress to our teenage feelings of rebellion towards those that enforce polite society, but it seems like a confused message to give.
So who feels more alienated from society - the teenager, who has yet to have the chance to contribute, or the police officer, providing a vital role than many of us wouldn't do for twice the money, and being pilloried by the very society that they protect?
Thursday, 18 August 2011
I predict a riot
Actually, I didn't predict the London riots, but at least I had the excuse that I was abroad, on holiday. Whilst I was away, I watched Question Time on the BBC Parliament channel (it's amazing that I have a girlfriend, isn't it?), and from listening to those sage political commentators, you'd be convinced that each of them had predicted these precise events a long time ago. Many of them (Prescott, Paddick etc) spoke of a kind of inevitability about the London riots, which was surprising, as no-one to my knowledge had warned the country of this powder keg about to blow at any point before certain areas of the capital were on fire, by which time most people would agree that it was a little late. The shocking events of last week are made even more shocking by the fact that they came as a surprise to most people.
Public (and media) reaction has broadly fallen into two wildly simplistic categories. The liberal view is that we have a mass of young people (mainly young black males) that have been 'failed by society'. This failed by society line (henceforth to be known as FBS) is trotted out often, but no-one has yet to give a satisfactory answer as to what it means. Still, it sounds good, and it gave the Guardian a chance to wheel Russell Brand out to emphasise the FBS point. Mr Brand clearly gave so many soundbites after the death of Amy Winhouse that he's now required to comment on all major news stories. I await his coverage of the US presidential race with baited breath. Back to the main point, but in what way has society failed these young rioters? One news channel suggested that it was the fault of the 'nice things' industry, which has created 'must-have' items such as iphones and D+G clothing. The theory is that young people cannot afford these things, therefore their self-worth is defated, meaning there is nothing left for them to do but smash things, and nick things. Does anyone actually believe this is the truth? There's lots of things that I can't afford (a yacht, for example), but you won't see me down at Brighton Marina at midnight in a hoodie, making off with someone else's.
Having nice things doesn't make you happy and content. These young people are angry because they don't aspire to anything, and the majority of the fault lies with the parents. Quality parenting is about setting your child up well for life, and guiding your child as best you can until you are able to remove the stabilisers, and they are free to make their own way in society. This usually means some form of understanding of what is right and wrong, a respect for your fellow human beings, and a little bit of education along the way. Is that too much to ask? Only yesterday, my hairdresser was bemoaning the fact that so many of her friends are pregnant (they're all about 21, and the babies are unplanned in general; I did a bit of research). Why are these people so happy to have kids, when they're generally so unhappy with the raising them properly bit? True satisfaction comes from earning things: not having them given to you, and not from nicking them. There's a good message from which to start. Labour were totally wrong in the assertion that 50% of people going to university would be a good thing. In fact, fewer people going to university would be a good thing, and more people doing apprenticeships and learning a trade would be an even better thing. All young people have talents, and the sooner they find out what they are good at the better.
On the flip side to the liberals and their seeking to justify this behaviour comes the 'lock em up and throw away the key' brigade. Those that think it's reasonable to lock up two morons from Cheshire for 4 years each for trying to incite a riot via facebook. I don't know what's more tragic, the long sentence or the fact that nobody came. This knee-jerk reaction attempts to placate a public that is baying for blood, but we cannot allow public opinion to override rational decision-making. Handing out over-tough sentences as an 'example' has been proved not to work; someone isn't going to refrain from hurling a brick through a window because the sentence length for criminal damage has increased by 33% in recent times. We need to consider the root causes of this anti-social behaviour to prevent it - to cure the cause, not to hammer the consequence.
We are a confused country. Are you proud to be British? Am I? Do we know what it means? The spectacular failure of Cameron's Big Society suggests that the Thatcherite ideal of greed is good still looms large over the country. Better parenting to start, more opportunities for kids to learn a trade early, less emphasis on having to go to university (fewer universities even) and far less exposure for Russell Brand.
That can't be too tricky, can it? Or maybe Huxley had the best idea after all?
Public (and media) reaction has broadly fallen into two wildly simplistic categories. The liberal view is that we have a mass of young people (mainly young black males) that have been 'failed by society'. This failed by society line (henceforth to be known as FBS) is trotted out often, but no-one has yet to give a satisfactory answer as to what it means. Still, it sounds good, and it gave the Guardian a chance to wheel Russell Brand out to emphasise the FBS point. Mr Brand clearly gave so many soundbites after the death of Amy Winhouse that he's now required to comment on all major news stories. I await his coverage of the US presidential race with baited breath. Back to the main point, but in what way has society failed these young rioters? One news channel suggested that it was the fault of the 'nice things' industry, which has created 'must-have' items such as iphones and D+G clothing. The theory is that young people cannot afford these things, therefore their self-worth is defated, meaning there is nothing left for them to do but smash things, and nick things. Does anyone actually believe this is the truth? There's lots of things that I can't afford (a yacht, for example), but you won't see me down at Brighton Marina at midnight in a hoodie, making off with someone else's.
Having nice things doesn't make you happy and content. These young people are angry because they don't aspire to anything, and the majority of the fault lies with the parents. Quality parenting is about setting your child up well for life, and guiding your child as best you can until you are able to remove the stabilisers, and they are free to make their own way in society. This usually means some form of understanding of what is right and wrong, a respect for your fellow human beings, and a little bit of education along the way. Is that too much to ask? Only yesterday, my hairdresser was bemoaning the fact that so many of her friends are pregnant (they're all about 21, and the babies are unplanned in general; I did a bit of research). Why are these people so happy to have kids, when they're generally so unhappy with the raising them properly bit? True satisfaction comes from earning things: not having them given to you, and not from nicking them. There's a good message from which to start. Labour were totally wrong in the assertion that 50% of people going to university would be a good thing. In fact, fewer people going to university would be a good thing, and more people doing apprenticeships and learning a trade would be an even better thing. All young people have talents, and the sooner they find out what they are good at the better.
On the flip side to the liberals and their seeking to justify this behaviour comes the 'lock em up and throw away the key' brigade. Those that think it's reasonable to lock up two morons from Cheshire for 4 years each for trying to incite a riot via facebook. I don't know what's more tragic, the long sentence or the fact that nobody came. This knee-jerk reaction attempts to placate a public that is baying for blood, but we cannot allow public opinion to override rational decision-making. Handing out over-tough sentences as an 'example' has been proved not to work; someone isn't going to refrain from hurling a brick through a window because the sentence length for criminal damage has increased by 33% in recent times. We need to consider the root causes of this anti-social behaviour to prevent it - to cure the cause, not to hammer the consequence.
We are a confused country. Are you proud to be British? Am I? Do we know what it means? The spectacular failure of Cameron's Big Society suggests that the Thatcherite ideal of greed is good still looms large over the country. Better parenting to start, more opportunities for kids to learn a trade early, less emphasis on having to go to university (fewer universities even) and far less exposure for Russell Brand.
That can't be too tricky, can it? Or maybe Huxley had the best idea after all?
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
You're the one for me, fatty
It's been a week of grim news, and as I keenly scanned the BBC website for an uplifting tale, instead I can across this depressing headline: 'calorie counts on menus prompt healthy choices'.
This research comes from across the pond, where calorific information has been displayed on New York menus since 2008. The results of this survey do seem patchy, with the headline being just one conclusion from a scattered set of data points. Subway, for example, showed an increase in calorific intake by customers once the calorie information was displayed on menus. This is likely to be due to the fact that people have decided to eat twice the portion of a 'healthy' option that contains only 75% of the calories. The Yanks have few faults, but maths is clearly one of them, at least amongst Subway customers. UK restaurants have now begun to ape this trend of putting calorific information alongside food options, from the lowly (KFC and McDonald's) to the Michelin starred emporium of Alexis Gaultier in Soho. We ignore much of what is best about the US (cheap fuel, good service) and yet copy some of the worst (American gladiators); this is another fad that we would have done well to leave alone.
I am all for education regarding diet and healthy living, but this should come from parents and in Schools. It is important that children are made aware of what is meant by a healthy diet (to my mind there are no such things as 'healthy' and 'unhealthy' food items, seeing as no one food can supply all the nutrition that we need); it is important that we are aware of portion control (something which the Americans have lost sight of); it is important that we are aware of seasonality and its impact on lowering food miles; it is important that children are encouraged to eat a varied diet; it is important that they are able to cook.
Placing calorie information on menus seems to ignore the education side of food (as above), and instead looks to the strategy of trying to catch the horse's tail in the stable door. Healthy eating is not all about calories anyway; avocados are very calorific, and yet most people would say they are a 'healthy' option. Iceberg lettuce has virtually no calories, and yet it has no nutritional value either, and therefore can hardly be defined as being healthy. Education via calories might teach people how to become thin, but that's not the same thing as a good diet. Also, whatever Kate Moss thinks, some food really does taste far better than skinny feels (I'm looking at you, foie gras).
I don't think that calorie information works at either end of the gastronomic spectrum. Take Gaultier Soho, a fine dining restaurant (tasting menu £68 pp). How often are you likely to go to this restaurant, or any restaurant like it? Once a month, if that? This is an occasion restaurant for a partner's birthday, or a significant anniversary. This restaurant represents the opportunity to be decadent and hedonistic, to start a meal with champage and finish with a cognac over coffee. It's certainly not your everyday meal. Surely the last thing you want to do is to make meal choices based on calorie content? If anything, let's live like it's the last days of Rome, be perverse and have the most calorific choices on the menu. Part of the pleasure of fine dining is that it's totally out of the ordinary, a one-off treat, and one about which you shouldn't feel guilty. On another note, if you're eating at a place like this and you can't tell that the grilled fish is less likely to clog those arteries than the foie gras on brioche, you probably wasting your money as you're someone who eats only to live.
At the other end of the spectrum we have KFC and McDonalds. I'm sure that some people think the food here is great, but these people are mostly 12 or under, and as we've already discussed, it really is the parent's responsibility to educate children about food. For most of the rest of us, the output of McDonald's or KFC are pre-football food, hangover food, bored at the airport food; some don't touch them out of principle, but fast food provides an important option when needs must. I don't think anyone would argue that a standard meal of fried chicken/burger and chips is not brilliantly healthy, and it's not good to eat them too often; I hope I'm not overestimating the intelligence of the average Brit, but I think this should be a given. Placing the calorie information next to a Big Mac, informing us that it's got a lot of calories, shouldn't be a surprise, and neither should it put us off buying one. The introduction of the McGrapes and McCarrotsticks about ten years ago was truly bizarre; surely people go to McDonald's for only one thing: some greasy cheap food. If you wanted some grapes, just go and buy some from the nearest supermarket, though maybe I'm underestimating how ubiquitous McDonald's really is.
Food shouldn't really be complicated; people need only a few clear guidlines, and they can make their own choices from these. The '5 a day' for fruit and vegetables has passed into common parlance, though there's no real reason why it should have been 5, and not 4 or 6. If kids are given a varied and balanced diet, and taught how to cook a few simple dishes, people should be fine to make their own decisions. I'm glad that the research (despite the headline) showed no distinct pattern, and certainly didn't seem to support the need to expance the calorie information to all sorts of other menus. As with many things, it's the education, the pro-active strategy that tends to work, and as soon as one adopts the reactionary approach, we run the risk of having to deal with a nation of fatties, rather than ensuring that we don't produce these big units in the first place.
This research comes from across the pond, where calorific information has been displayed on New York menus since 2008. The results of this survey do seem patchy, with the headline being just one conclusion from a scattered set of data points. Subway, for example, showed an increase in calorific intake by customers once the calorie information was displayed on menus. This is likely to be due to the fact that people have decided to eat twice the portion of a 'healthy' option that contains only 75% of the calories. The Yanks have few faults, but maths is clearly one of them, at least amongst Subway customers. UK restaurants have now begun to ape this trend of putting calorific information alongside food options, from the lowly (KFC and McDonald's) to the Michelin starred emporium of Alexis Gaultier in Soho. We ignore much of what is best about the US (cheap fuel, good service) and yet copy some of the worst (American gladiators); this is another fad that we would have done well to leave alone.
I am all for education regarding diet and healthy living, but this should come from parents and in Schools. It is important that children are made aware of what is meant by a healthy diet (to my mind there are no such things as 'healthy' and 'unhealthy' food items, seeing as no one food can supply all the nutrition that we need); it is important that we are aware of portion control (something which the Americans have lost sight of); it is important that we are aware of seasonality and its impact on lowering food miles; it is important that children are encouraged to eat a varied diet; it is important that they are able to cook.
Placing calorie information on menus seems to ignore the education side of food (as above), and instead looks to the strategy of trying to catch the horse's tail in the stable door. Healthy eating is not all about calories anyway; avocados are very calorific, and yet most people would say they are a 'healthy' option. Iceberg lettuce has virtually no calories, and yet it has no nutritional value either, and therefore can hardly be defined as being healthy. Education via calories might teach people how to become thin, but that's not the same thing as a good diet. Also, whatever Kate Moss thinks, some food really does taste far better than skinny feels (I'm looking at you, foie gras).
I don't think that calorie information works at either end of the gastronomic spectrum. Take Gaultier Soho, a fine dining restaurant (tasting menu £68 pp). How often are you likely to go to this restaurant, or any restaurant like it? Once a month, if that? This is an occasion restaurant for a partner's birthday, or a significant anniversary. This restaurant represents the opportunity to be decadent and hedonistic, to start a meal with champage and finish with a cognac over coffee. It's certainly not your everyday meal. Surely the last thing you want to do is to make meal choices based on calorie content? If anything, let's live like it's the last days of Rome, be perverse and have the most calorific choices on the menu. Part of the pleasure of fine dining is that it's totally out of the ordinary, a one-off treat, and one about which you shouldn't feel guilty. On another note, if you're eating at a place like this and you can't tell that the grilled fish is less likely to clog those arteries than the foie gras on brioche, you probably wasting your money as you're someone who eats only to live.
At the other end of the spectrum we have KFC and McDonalds. I'm sure that some people think the food here is great, but these people are mostly 12 or under, and as we've already discussed, it really is the parent's responsibility to educate children about food. For most of the rest of us, the output of McDonald's or KFC are pre-football food, hangover food, bored at the airport food; some don't touch them out of principle, but fast food provides an important option when needs must. I don't think anyone would argue that a standard meal of fried chicken/burger and chips is not brilliantly healthy, and it's not good to eat them too often; I hope I'm not overestimating the intelligence of the average Brit, but I think this should be a given. Placing the calorie information next to a Big Mac, informing us that it's got a lot of calories, shouldn't be a surprise, and neither should it put us off buying one. The introduction of the McGrapes and McCarrotsticks about ten years ago was truly bizarre; surely people go to McDonald's for only one thing: some greasy cheap food. If you wanted some grapes, just go and buy some from the nearest supermarket, though maybe I'm underestimating how ubiquitous McDonald's really is.
Food shouldn't really be complicated; people need only a few clear guidlines, and they can make their own choices from these. The '5 a day' for fruit and vegetables has passed into common parlance, though there's no real reason why it should have been 5, and not 4 or 6. If kids are given a varied and balanced diet, and taught how to cook a few simple dishes, people should be fine to make their own decisions. I'm glad that the research (despite the headline) showed no distinct pattern, and certainly didn't seem to support the need to expance the calorie information to all sorts of other menus. As with many things, it's the education, the pro-active strategy that tends to work, and as soon as one adopts the reactionary approach, we run the risk of having to deal with a nation of fatties, rather than ensuring that we don't produce these big units in the first place.
Thursday, 21 July 2011
Familiarity and contempt
I've used the Stephen Fry expression to describe friendship before. The Nation's favourite Wildean uncle claimed that he 'likes to taste his friends, not eat them'. Aside from the obvious innuendo, it's a sentiment with which I agree. Some of my favourite people are those that I don't see for a couple of years, and when we do meet up, it's like we've never been apart. I've just spent a week in the states with a friend I hadn't seen for 3 years (we keep up only through twitter) and it led to some of the most enjoyable, entertaining and easiest conversation you could imagine. Some people like to surround themselves with a small group of close friends, and these people act like a kind of social comfort blanket. Friendship lines are drawn, everyone knows which topics are there to be debated and which are off-limits, opinions are generally well-known, and conversation can be dominated with everyday chit-chat.
I'm certainly not saying that the better I know people, the less I like them, or even the less interesting I find them; I do consider however that the friendship of those people that I rarely converse with and meet up with even less often can be just as valuable. It's like music and books. Some books you are happy to read and re-read, and there's some music that you never tire of listening to. There are other books that you loved first time around, but you have no desire to read again, at least not in the immediate future. Some music is like this too; I love it, and then I love re-discovering it, but only at a much later date.
As I'm on holiday at the moment, I've had the opportunity to do quite a lot of reading. I've been reading a couple of authors that I thought I liked a lot: Malcolm Gladwell and Jay McInerney. The more I've read of them, the less I like them. Maybe that's a little strong, but the less interest I have in them; their freshness is notable by its absence. In McInerney's case, I've read him pretty much chronologically, starting with the fantastic 'Bright lights, Big City'. His later novels (less so the short stories) resemble less good versions of his earlier work. The themes are similar, the humour more forced, the material less fresh. People say that you write about what you know, but he seems to have written about all that he knows in the first couple of books, and has spent much time re-hashing old material after that. Gladwell is more odd, because I read Outliers (2008), then What the dog saw (2009) then his breakthrough novel The Tipping Point (2000). Gladwell certainly has a brilliant easy-reading style, and it has been said of him that he 'makes you feel as though you are the genuis'. It's a very leading style though, and many of the conclusions that he comes to, which appear watertight at first, do not stand up to any kind of rigorous scrutiny. His standard technique is to take a one-off event, re-tell it as an incredibly entertaining story, and then to draw far reaching conclusions from this single event that usually challenge general thinking on the subject. Thought and discussion-provoking certainly, but hard evidence? almost certainly not. The more I read, the more I feel that I'm being worked on, albeit very gently, into believing the genius of Gladwell, and I find that irritating, and just a little bit subversive.
This isn't the case with all authors. If one reads Orwell chronologically, things culminate with 1984, and all of his other writing and experiences feel like a build-up to this. It helped that he died young, and knew that he was dying, and maybe that's the key: to die before one's output starts to tail off. Morrison, Dean, Fitzgerald have nothing duff in their back catalogue; they simply didn't have time. Conversely, the longer that Jagger or McCartney hang on, the more hapless the material they produce has become. This is similar with Dave Grohl, who sounds more like un-edgy bad Nirvana with each album. I used to think that Dali was a genius, until you realise that you've seen all the good stuff in the first 10% of his output, and the rest of his career was a re-hash of former ideas.
Perhaps there's a limit to creativity, and it's best to stop when you feel genuine creation is harder to come by. Bowie and Picasso manage to stay creative forever by continual re-invention. They are the genuine outliers; these are people with whom one can be fully familiar, and feel nothing but admiration for their genius.
I'm certainly not saying that the better I know people, the less I like them, or even the less interesting I find them; I do consider however that the friendship of those people that I rarely converse with and meet up with even less often can be just as valuable. It's like music and books. Some books you are happy to read and re-read, and there's some music that you never tire of listening to. There are other books that you loved first time around, but you have no desire to read again, at least not in the immediate future. Some music is like this too; I love it, and then I love re-discovering it, but only at a much later date.
As I'm on holiday at the moment, I've had the opportunity to do quite a lot of reading. I've been reading a couple of authors that I thought I liked a lot: Malcolm Gladwell and Jay McInerney. The more I've read of them, the less I like them. Maybe that's a little strong, but the less interest I have in them; their freshness is notable by its absence. In McInerney's case, I've read him pretty much chronologically, starting with the fantastic 'Bright lights, Big City'. His later novels (less so the short stories) resemble less good versions of his earlier work. The themes are similar, the humour more forced, the material less fresh. People say that you write about what you know, but he seems to have written about all that he knows in the first couple of books, and has spent much time re-hashing old material after that. Gladwell is more odd, because I read Outliers (2008), then What the dog saw (2009) then his breakthrough novel The Tipping Point (2000). Gladwell certainly has a brilliant easy-reading style, and it has been said of him that he 'makes you feel as though you are the genuis'. It's a very leading style though, and many of the conclusions that he comes to, which appear watertight at first, do not stand up to any kind of rigorous scrutiny. His standard technique is to take a one-off event, re-tell it as an incredibly entertaining story, and then to draw far reaching conclusions from this single event that usually challenge general thinking on the subject. Thought and discussion-provoking certainly, but hard evidence? almost certainly not. The more I read, the more I feel that I'm being worked on, albeit very gently, into believing the genius of Gladwell, and I find that irritating, and just a little bit subversive.
This isn't the case with all authors. If one reads Orwell chronologically, things culminate with 1984, and all of his other writing and experiences feel like a build-up to this. It helped that he died young, and knew that he was dying, and maybe that's the key: to die before one's output starts to tail off. Morrison, Dean, Fitzgerald have nothing duff in their back catalogue; they simply didn't have time. Conversely, the longer that Jagger or McCartney hang on, the more hapless the material they produce has become. This is similar with Dave Grohl, who sounds more like un-edgy bad Nirvana with each album. I used to think that Dali was a genius, until you realise that you've seen all the good stuff in the first 10% of his output, and the rest of his career was a re-hash of former ideas.
Perhaps there's a limit to creativity, and it's best to stop when you feel genuine creation is harder to come by. Bowie and Picasso manage to stay creative forever by continual re-invention. They are the genuine outliers; these are people with whom one can be fully familiar, and feel nothing but admiration for their genius.
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Funny business
Comedy is the new rock n' roll. This isn't really the case of course, any more than Rupert Murdoch is the new 'all say awww', Clive Dunn-esque, loveable Grandad figure who'd slip you onto his knee and drop a Werthers' original into your mouth soon as look at you. It's a phrase that gets trotted out quite a lot though, and what it really means is that comedy has become incredibly popular; stand-up comedy in particular. Comedy has always been popular, but live comedy has really boomed over the past decade or so, such that it's not unusual to find comedians packing out huge stadia, when they used to be found in smoky dingy clubs, dealing with front row hecklers. Newman and Baddiel were the first comedians to play Wembley stadium, and whereas their show now looks remarkably dated, they were the 'comedians as rock n' rollers' trailblazers, to be followed by Peter Kay, and latterly, Michael McIntyre. Peter Kay seems to be universally popular, despite the obvious 'Northern-ness' of his humour, and punters and peers like him equally. It's difficult not to like Peter Kay.
Michael McIntyre has been in the news a lot this week, coming under fire (so he says) from others in his profession. He's clearly popular with the punters, but his peers don't seem to like him much, to the extent that his wife got a load of reflected stick at a recent awards ceremony, despite the fact she'd bought a new dress specifically for the occasion (this is the sad story, as recounted by Mr McIntyre on desert island discs this week). Stewart Lee was singled out as perpurtrating the greatest amount of anti-McIntrye bile, describing McIntyre's material as 'warm diahorrea', though he's since claimed that the material was taken out of context, and that he was in fact 'in character' when he wrote this line (a minor part of a 30,000 word show).
I'm sure that many will take McIntyre's side in this argument, and some will take Lee's. But is it an argument with any merit? Is it an argument that can lead to a conclusion?
The argument is very similar to that which tries to compare different types of popular music, and bearing in mind that comedy is the new rock n' roll, let's see how far we can get with this comparison. Arguments rage from the pub to the playground over which music is 'better', but rarely do two people agree on any definition for the word 'better', at least in this context. One can define better as meaning more popular or more influential or more original, but none of these definitions hold more universal sway than any other. One of the most obviously good things about comedy is that something with no comedic merit at all never even makes its way into the public eye (with the possible exception of Rotherham's finest, the Chuckle Brothers). This is certainly not true for music, where Jedward are able to sell millions. So that's a disappointing start.
Michael McIntyre is the Take That of the comedy world. Almost universally popular; pretty much everyone would admit to liking him (and them) at least a bit. Stewart Lee is the Elbow of the comedy world. He's someone that you know (if you consider yourself intelligent) you're supposed to like, but you can't get over the feeling that it's just a bit dreary, and takes itself a little too seriously. Michael McIntyre is trying to be as funny as he can, and is trying to make as many people laugh as he can. There's no great sophistication to his humour, just as there's no great sophistication to the music of Take That, but you'd probably feel in a better mood after listening to either of them for ten minutes. They are both unashamedly populist, and exist merely to create enjoyment for people, and by doing so, to fatten their own coffers. If McIntrye's comedy was so base and easy though, wouldn't it all have been done before? His brand of everyday observational comedy can't be that straightforward, can it? Similarly, Take That; how many other similar groups have tried and failed to recreate their success?
Stewart Lee (like Elbow) seems to be trying to do more with his comedy; he's trying to educate, to make people consider the everyday in greater depth, to debate our beliefs and prejudices. He's probably not as gag-heavy, but the humour certainly has an ulterior motive. This is a very obvious choice that he's made, and that's why he exists at the other end of the comedy spectrum from Michael McIntyre. I like listening to Stewart Lee, but only for a while. He's certainly original and thought provoking, and there's clearly plenty of worth in listening to him; just like Elbow though, it just gets a bit too whiny and repetitive after a while (in Lee's case, literally so, as he continues to pound the same phrase down your throat). After a bit of Lee, McIntyre comes as light relief. It's not long before one tires of him too, with his skippy smily fatty routines, and there's only so much of this one can stand. You're not likely to replace one Take That album with another straightaway, but I'd be amazed if anyone wanted to sit through more than 12 songs of Elbow.
The concept of 'better' is pointless in music just as much as it is in comedy. It's probably more important to be open to all different styles of music, comedy, art, theatre, film, food etc than it is to champion some things to the detriment of others. There's merit in all sorts of diverse culture, and we have the opportunity to dip in and out of all of them whenever we please.
Wouldn't it be dull if we all liked just one thing?
Michael McIntyre has been in the news a lot this week, coming under fire (so he says) from others in his profession. He's clearly popular with the punters, but his peers don't seem to like him much, to the extent that his wife got a load of reflected stick at a recent awards ceremony, despite the fact she'd bought a new dress specifically for the occasion (this is the sad story, as recounted by Mr McIntyre on desert island discs this week). Stewart Lee was singled out as perpurtrating the greatest amount of anti-McIntrye bile, describing McIntyre's material as 'warm diahorrea', though he's since claimed that the material was taken out of context, and that he was in fact 'in character' when he wrote this line (a minor part of a 30,000 word show).
I'm sure that many will take McIntyre's side in this argument, and some will take Lee's. But is it an argument with any merit? Is it an argument that can lead to a conclusion?
The argument is very similar to that which tries to compare different types of popular music, and bearing in mind that comedy is the new rock n' roll, let's see how far we can get with this comparison. Arguments rage from the pub to the playground over which music is 'better', but rarely do two people agree on any definition for the word 'better', at least in this context. One can define better as meaning more popular or more influential or more original, but none of these definitions hold more universal sway than any other. One of the most obviously good things about comedy is that something with no comedic merit at all never even makes its way into the public eye (with the possible exception of Rotherham's finest, the Chuckle Brothers). This is certainly not true for music, where Jedward are able to sell millions. So that's a disappointing start.
Michael McIntyre is the Take That of the comedy world. Almost universally popular; pretty much everyone would admit to liking him (and them) at least a bit. Stewart Lee is the Elbow of the comedy world. He's someone that you know (if you consider yourself intelligent) you're supposed to like, but you can't get over the feeling that it's just a bit dreary, and takes itself a little too seriously. Michael McIntyre is trying to be as funny as he can, and is trying to make as many people laugh as he can. There's no great sophistication to his humour, just as there's no great sophistication to the music of Take That, but you'd probably feel in a better mood after listening to either of them for ten minutes. They are both unashamedly populist, and exist merely to create enjoyment for people, and by doing so, to fatten their own coffers. If McIntrye's comedy was so base and easy though, wouldn't it all have been done before? His brand of everyday observational comedy can't be that straightforward, can it? Similarly, Take That; how many other similar groups have tried and failed to recreate their success?
Stewart Lee (like Elbow) seems to be trying to do more with his comedy; he's trying to educate, to make people consider the everyday in greater depth, to debate our beliefs and prejudices. He's probably not as gag-heavy, but the humour certainly has an ulterior motive. This is a very obvious choice that he's made, and that's why he exists at the other end of the comedy spectrum from Michael McIntyre. I like listening to Stewart Lee, but only for a while. He's certainly original and thought provoking, and there's clearly plenty of worth in listening to him; just like Elbow though, it just gets a bit too whiny and repetitive after a while (in Lee's case, literally so, as he continues to pound the same phrase down your throat). After a bit of Lee, McIntyre comes as light relief. It's not long before one tires of him too, with his skippy smily fatty routines, and there's only so much of this one can stand. You're not likely to replace one Take That album with another straightaway, but I'd be amazed if anyone wanted to sit through more than 12 songs of Elbow.
The concept of 'better' is pointless in music just as much as it is in comedy. It's probably more important to be open to all different styles of music, comedy, art, theatre, film, food etc than it is to champion some things to the detriment of others. There's merit in all sorts of diverse culture, and we have the opportunity to dip in and out of all of them whenever we please.
Wouldn't it be dull if we all liked just one thing?
Wednesday, 6 July 2011
In pursuit of happiness part 2
I've just finished reading David Nicholls' 'One Day' which I liked a lot. It didn't look quite as good on the tube as, say, Satre or Proust, but it did look a lot more believable. It's full of humour, pathos, emotion and class-related awkwardness. I really liked the book, and it was about as British as 'Friends' is American. I think that the 'cleverness' of the format (catching up with the main protagonists on the same day over a twenty year period) is actually a bit limiting, and I don't think that this gimick is necessary, but I can't remember the last time that I read a book quite so quickly, and felt as though I knew (and cared about) the characters quite so much. It's a bit disappointing that the book has to be turned into a film; the film serves little purpose, save to pander to those with little or no imagination. If the characters are as you imagined, it's just like reading the book again, and if they're nothing like you imagined, well that's just irritating.
It's the characters in any book or film that make it stand out. Getting you to care about these fictional people is a large part of the battle. The characters in 'One Day' were drawn in 3D, and when they weren't, that was clearly deliberate, almost as a way of making the key characters stand out. One of the reasons that I dislike soaps so much is that every character exists completely in 2D, and displays such a limited range of emotions at any one time as to represent nothing but cariacature. 'One Day' is about life, chance, fate, friendship and love, and despite the condensing of a year into a day in every chapter, it's clear that all of these occur in parallel, not in series.
One of the overriding thoughts I had upon finishing the book was about how unhappy the characters seemed for much of the time, and how surface happiness often masked some kind of inner turmoil. I'm sure this isn't what I was supposed to be left with, but there you go: lots of money or too little money, hectic social life or no social life, relationship or single life, unrealised ambition or unfulfilling present: it didn't seem to matter which stage we were at, there was always something gnawing away at our heroes, making sure that true happiness remained just out of reach. And maybe this is true to life; maybe we can't ever be 100% blissfully happy at any one time; there's always things going that worry us, things that could be better, and even if it were possible to attain a state of happy nirvana, wouldn't that just make us all too aware that we were at the top of the mountain, with only one way to go?
I actually find this thought that unobtainable (complete) happiness rather comforting, and it does take the pressure off somewhat. If it's never possible to be 100% happy, it should never be possible to be 100% sad: they're just opposite sides of the same coin, and there's no one without the other. No matter how rough things get, you can always grab hold of lots of happy thoughts, of things that are going well, just like golden tickets (I'm thinking more Crystal Dome than Wonka here). Each day should be a nice mix of sad and happy thoughts, of moments of elation and moments of despair (ok, maybe that's a bit strong for every day, but you get the idea). It's these extremes of emotion that remind us that we're human, that remind us that we're alive. No-one wants to hang around the person who's a perpetual misery, whose glass is always half-empty, but there's a reason why the word 'grinning' is often followed by the word 'idiot', and anyone who claims to be happy all the time maybe just hasn't got a particularly well developed sense of emotion.
So go forth, rejoice and be happy. Or sad. Just try and make sure they exist in approximately equal measure.
It's the characters in any book or film that make it stand out. Getting you to care about these fictional people is a large part of the battle. The characters in 'One Day' were drawn in 3D, and when they weren't, that was clearly deliberate, almost as a way of making the key characters stand out. One of the reasons that I dislike soaps so much is that every character exists completely in 2D, and displays such a limited range of emotions at any one time as to represent nothing but cariacature. 'One Day' is about life, chance, fate, friendship and love, and despite the condensing of a year into a day in every chapter, it's clear that all of these occur in parallel, not in series.
One of the overriding thoughts I had upon finishing the book was about how unhappy the characters seemed for much of the time, and how surface happiness often masked some kind of inner turmoil. I'm sure this isn't what I was supposed to be left with, but there you go: lots of money or too little money, hectic social life or no social life, relationship or single life, unrealised ambition or unfulfilling present: it didn't seem to matter which stage we were at, there was always something gnawing away at our heroes, making sure that true happiness remained just out of reach. And maybe this is true to life; maybe we can't ever be 100% blissfully happy at any one time; there's always things going that worry us, things that could be better, and even if it were possible to attain a state of happy nirvana, wouldn't that just make us all too aware that we were at the top of the mountain, with only one way to go?
I actually find this thought that unobtainable (complete) happiness rather comforting, and it does take the pressure off somewhat. If it's never possible to be 100% happy, it should never be possible to be 100% sad: they're just opposite sides of the same coin, and there's no one without the other. No matter how rough things get, you can always grab hold of lots of happy thoughts, of things that are going well, just like golden tickets (I'm thinking more Crystal Dome than Wonka here). Each day should be a nice mix of sad and happy thoughts, of moments of elation and moments of despair (ok, maybe that's a bit strong for every day, but you get the idea). It's these extremes of emotion that remind us that we're human, that remind us that we're alive. No-one wants to hang around the person who's a perpetual misery, whose glass is always half-empty, but there's a reason why the word 'grinning' is often followed by the word 'idiot', and anyone who claims to be happy all the time maybe just hasn't got a particularly well developed sense of emotion.
So go forth, rejoice and be happy. Or sad. Just try and make sure they exist in approximately equal measure.
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
In pursuit of happiness part 1
I'm currently experiencing the first few days of 'nothing' that comes with an 'all or nothing' job. The 'all' is term time, and the 'nothing' is the holidays. This is a job like no other; I reckon that I probably work the same number of hours per year as someone in a comparable Monday to Friday job, and I'm certainly not trying to suggest (as many teachers would) that I work any harder over the course of an average year. However, I cram my working year into about 35 weeks, as opposed to the 48 that is the norm. This isn't necessarily better or worse, it's just different. I have lots more days off, some that I cherish, others that bore me rigid. It's irritating that in order to attend a wedding on a saturday, I need someone to cover my lessons for me; when I go on holiday, it's always expensive flight time. On the flip side, I spent yesterday afternoon in Chelsea barracks, looking enviously at art that I'll never be able to afford and drinking free Ruinart champagne. My official next day of work is 1st September, so there are definitely perks too.
I'm always amazed at how many teachers spend term-time weeks wishing their life away, raising eyebrows in the common room towards the end of term as they wearily state 'just ten more days', as if the job they do is some kind of pergutaory before the joy of long holidays stretch out before you, brimming with exciting possibility. These are often the same people that when you speak with them at awkward staff drinks at the start of the next academic year (very probably the only time you'll talk that year) describe their summer activities as having been spent 'just pottering about'.
It's a difficult balance to strike. Most 'normal' people work very hard from Monday to Friday, and are delighted at the arrival of the weekend - Friday night drinks, saturday lie-in with Adam and Joe, sport in the afternoon, Ant or Dec in the evening. Sunday papers, late gastropub lunch with friends, sunday night work panic; it's got a nice sense of familiarity. This doesn't happen in my world. It's seven day a week boarding School life, then acres of holiday time. Monday is the same as Friday is the same as Sunday, in the holidays as well as at work. At work, my life is structured to the nth degree, and every minute tends to be planned out. The holidays hit, and my life-framework is pulled apart, and suddenly I have decisions to make. 'The Wright stuff' of Jeremy Kyle? It's not a life-or-death one, but the very fact that either have become possibilities makes it imperative to get out of the house as often as possible.
But how does one turn from a frankly boring one-conversationed teacher to exciting holiday-type fun-seeker? It soon becomes patently obvious that most people don't have the time for long lunches, and if they do, they have to go back to work at some point in the afternoon. Going on holiday is one thing, and being away from home (actually on holiday in the traditional sense) makes it easy to put work behind you. Reading is another pleasure that is curtailed for 35 weeks a year, and my rate of getting through books during term-time is embarrassingly low. I'm piling through 'One Day' at the moment, and that's the part 2 of the happiness theme. County cricket (one place where it's de rigeur to look like a lonely man) is another saviour of the summer.
One of the things that makes me feel that I'm in the right job is that I probably enjoy term-time as much as the holidays. If I were to live for the holidays, I'd consider that too much of my life (the work part) was being wished away. If I felt at a total loose end for 9 weeks every summer, that would be wholly depressing. Life's full of specks of happiness, and I probably get as many of them during work periods. The fun rarely lasts so long, and is far less hedonistic, but it's also the sneaky snatched nature of it that makes it such fun in the first place. Holiday fun can be far more more exuberant and showy, but when you've no contstraints of time or money, it's always going to feel a little more hollow. Score draw all round I say; after all, Gatsby never seemed all that pleased by the time his 'pulpless halves' went out on a Monday morning....
I'm always amazed at how many teachers spend term-time weeks wishing their life away, raising eyebrows in the common room towards the end of term as they wearily state 'just ten more days', as if the job they do is some kind of pergutaory before the joy of long holidays stretch out before you, brimming with exciting possibility. These are often the same people that when you speak with them at awkward staff drinks at the start of the next academic year (very probably the only time you'll talk that year) describe their summer activities as having been spent 'just pottering about'.
It's a difficult balance to strike. Most 'normal' people work very hard from Monday to Friday, and are delighted at the arrival of the weekend - Friday night drinks, saturday lie-in with Adam and Joe, sport in the afternoon, Ant or Dec in the evening. Sunday papers, late gastropub lunch with friends, sunday night work panic; it's got a nice sense of familiarity. This doesn't happen in my world. It's seven day a week boarding School life, then acres of holiday time. Monday is the same as Friday is the same as Sunday, in the holidays as well as at work. At work, my life is structured to the nth degree, and every minute tends to be planned out. The holidays hit, and my life-framework is pulled apart, and suddenly I have decisions to make. 'The Wright stuff' of Jeremy Kyle? It's not a life-or-death one, but the very fact that either have become possibilities makes it imperative to get out of the house as often as possible.
But how does one turn from a frankly boring one-conversationed teacher to exciting holiday-type fun-seeker? It soon becomes patently obvious that most people don't have the time for long lunches, and if they do, they have to go back to work at some point in the afternoon. Going on holiday is one thing, and being away from home (actually on holiday in the traditional sense) makes it easy to put work behind you. Reading is another pleasure that is curtailed for 35 weeks a year, and my rate of getting through books during term-time is embarrassingly low. I'm piling through 'One Day' at the moment, and that's the part 2 of the happiness theme. County cricket (one place where it's de rigeur to look like a lonely man) is another saviour of the summer.
One of the things that makes me feel that I'm in the right job is that I probably enjoy term-time as much as the holidays. If I were to live for the holidays, I'd consider that too much of my life (the work part) was being wished away. If I felt at a total loose end for 9 weeks every summer, that would be wholly depressing. Life's full of specks of happiness, and I probably get as many of them during work periods. The fun rarely lasts so long, and is far less hedonistic, but it's also the sneaky snatched nature of it that makes it such fun in the first place. Holiday fun can be far more more exuberant and showy, but when you've no contstraints of time or money, it's always going to feel a little more hollow. Score draw all round I say; after all, Gatsby never seemed all that pleased by the time his 'pulpless halves' went out on a Monday morning....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)