Damnit

Andrew Rawnsley is a key reason to read The Observer.  His most recent column explained rather too well I thought that Cameron and Osborne are not from the Dark Side, do not get their rocks off by slashing public spending (and thus causing thousands to be brutally sacked), and are entirely sincere in their wish to improve the British economy.  It makes sense, damnit.  I'd far rather be able to despise them both if some of the aforementioned were actually true, but life is too complex for such simple-minded, one-sided prejudices to long survive the sort of rigorous political analysis Andrew Rawnsley is so good at.  Double damnit.  My only consolation is that they can be both sincere and sincerely wrong but I do sometimes wish that I could be self-righteous, ideologically blinkered or in some way less tolerant, fair and open-minded if only for a day - just to see how it feels to be a Tory politician.  (Sorry, cheap jibe, couldn't resist it.)

Bathroom etiquette

I am the last person to be hidebound by rules governing socially acceptable behaviour or any other arbitrary regulations  that dictate how we should live our lives.  However, bathroom etiquette surely demands the following.  First, it doesn't matter at all whether the toilet lid is either up or down.  Why should men kowtow to women in this respect?  Toilet lid positioning is a matter of free choice.  Second, when having a shower the user must make sure the bathroom window is open otherwise the person immediately following has to open the window and then endure whatever icy blasts are coming through.  This is iniquitous and should stop.  Third, the International Convention on Bathroom Towels clearly states that used towels must be rotated so that the fresh, dry ones are at the top of the heated towel rail.  It goes without saying that bath towels should be folded at all times.  Fourth, toilet rolls when empty should, (a) be replaced and, (b) disposed of as appropriate.  Fifth, hair trimmings should be wiped clean from basin or toilet bowl.  Sixth, wives should not nag husbands if, occasionally, bathrobes are dropped on the bathroom floor (for convenience and reasons of efficiency first thing in the morning) and not hung on the natty little wooden pegs she painstakingly screwed into the back of the bathroom door (and which anyway have become shoogly lately).  There is no number seven because our toothpaste tube tops are always screwed back on again.

Robert Fisk

 I miss Robert Fisk.  I moved from reading The Times to The Independent at least in part because of his journalism.  When I decided some years ago to quit The Independent in favour of The Guardian, a newspaper whose distribution problems in my part of the world always hindered my reading of it, I abandoned Fisk (and his equally enjoyable journalistic colleague Patrick Cockburn) with regret.  Now dipping into the online version of his writing I am reminded anew of his power and fluency as an astute observer of Middle Eastern affairs, in particular the current revolutionary demonstrations in Egypt.  Time and again his writing throws up an arresting phrase:  'The problem is the usual one: the lines of power and the lines of morality in Washington fail to intersect when US presidents have to deal with the Middle East. Moral leadership in America ceases to exist when the Arab and Israeli worlds have to be confronted.'  And in his final paragraph Fisk seems to me to be prescient, weighty and yet guarded in a way many commentators are not in these heady days of profound political change in the Arab world: 'The end may be clear.  The tragedy is not yet over.'  So good is he that I am sorely tempted to renew my subscription.  I hope The Independent pays him well.  He certainly deserves a bonus.

Not Cleopatra

Ok, so it's definitely not Cleopatra but it's certainly more nubile than the only truly 'authentic' image of Cleopatra previously discussed.  I wonder what she's thinking?  And how heavy were those wigs?  Surely they would have been hot and uncomfortable to wear, and itchy?  Ancient Egypt was pretty much entirely desert after all.  I wonder if the Ancient Egyptians were the first people to build sand castles?  Did they invent sandpits?  Sandbags?  Not sandwiches, I know that much already.  But then whoever believed the ridiculous story that the Earl Of Sandwich, or his valet, invented sandwiches?  Does anyone really believe that people hadn't slipped something tasty to eat between two bits of bread before the eighteenth century?  Ha!  I'll bet this pretty lady wouldn't have said no to a bacon butty.

Cleopatra and Steinbeck revisited

Is this really the only likeness of Cleopatra that can be historically verified?  Oh, dear.  I do believe Mary Beard (from whose blog I pinched this photo) but I am still disappointed.  So farewell Elizabeth Taylor and all of the other more nubile nymphets who portrayed this iconic figure from the Ancient World.  I need to rethink my previous assumptions and adjust the mental image I have of The Egyptian Queen.  Kathryn Hughes disappointed me further in today's Guardian by arguing persuasively that private letters are only an oblique, partial insight into a person's life (in discussing recently published letters of John Steinbeck).  I have a clear memory of writing on the value of private letters as a valid historical source at university but yet her arguments sweep aside my undergraduate analysis with a compelling counterblast. In essence we write letters, as all documents, with an audience in mind and so tailor our tone, our language and editorialise the content according to the effect we wish to produce, the impression we hope to create on the reader.  Letters are important, an essential building block in erecting a meaningful three-dimensional autobiographical structure, but they do not allow the degree of insight into the letter writer's mind (and life) that so many people, myself included, believe to be the case.  I agree, not at all reluctantly. Kathryn Hughes is clearly correct in her analysis.  But I was young, intellectually naive, and  I find this sort of historiographical revision refreshing.  I enjoy being challenged,  I enjoy being corrected.   How dull would it be to hold on to the same thoughts, the same ideas, the same opinions now as thirty years ago and not to expand by an iota one's knowledge and understanding of the world and all its wonders?  (Does that last sentence sound slightly Biblical?  I think it does.  Good ol' King James!)

Pregnant with spam

 I do like the phrases once used of astronauts, 'Spam in a Can', coined by Chuck Yeager in response to the fully automated Mercury space flights in the 1960s. Never did get the hang of enjoying the processed meat product however.  Even as a child I found it unappealing, verging on the inedible, and my parents would often boost the saturated fat content by frying the damn stuff  to have with eggs (which my mother famously used to cook in a deep-fat chip pan).  Or we would have it as part of a salad with slices of pickled beetroot staining the pale pink meat a lighter shade of purple.  Worst of all was when it appeared as the filling in a sandwich.  I still gag slightly at the thought of biting through the fluffy white bread spread with margarine and into the slimy, slightly gritty texture of the spam itself.  It was always more chewy than it should have been.  It's seeming indigestability often made my stomach turn sour, leaving me feeling heavy, pregnant with a solid slab of processed pork.  Shockingly spam sales seem to be on the rise again because consumers perceive it be a 'good buy' at a time of economic crisis and financial stringency.  Oh, dear.  If it helped the space race I still wouldn't eat spam.

Sleep tight

I was very disturbed to learn that bedbugs smell of coriander.  Well, according to Dr Lou Sorkin of The American Museum of Natural History they do.  This is a source I trust and the olfactory reference has now stuck in my brain like a, er, bad smell.  It is no good now reading that the smell of bedbugs has also been compared to a sickly sweet or musty smell, the aroma of ripe raspberries, or even that the smell probably results from bedbug sexual pheromones.  If anything, that is even more disturbing.  At one time, any time before The Second World War in fact, people would recognise and be able to identify the smell of bedbugs because they were so common.  They could then take the necessary steps to eradicate the little buggers.  Ironically because bedbugs are now much less common, although making a significant comeback in some urban areas, people neither recognise the warning signs nor possess the knowledge necessary to eradicate an infestation.  I think I knew they sucked human blood but it's information that  I wish I didn't have, especially since it's almost time for bed.  Eek!

Tallness

The International Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat publishes on its fascinating website a list of 'crteria for tall buildings'.  It begins by saying that a 'tall building ... is a building that exhibits some elements of tallness' (sic).  It then goes on to suggest some more precise definitions, such as 'height relative to context and proportion' -  buildings which are not particularly tall but, because they are slender, look tall.  The CTUBH site defines 'supertall buildings' as those that reach more than 300 metres, or 984 feet.  Of the two examples featured, the O-14 building in Dubai is a bizarrely attractive if rather squat looking construction.  The ICC building in Hong Kong is more impressive and, again, strangely attractive.  Full marks to the design teams in both cases.  But what idiot decided that 'a tall building ... is a building that exhibits some elements of tallness'?  No, really!  I'm going to take a wild stab at this, but would a 'small building' be one that 'exhibits elements of smallness'? 

Good news and bad

Oliver Burkeman again, first describing a visit to a Scientologist Life Improvement Centre (in our house we call it Majestic's): 'I hadn't been enlightened.  Nor had I been sucked into a terrifying cult.  But if the feeling you're after is mild bewilderment, combined with the sensation that you might  have just wasted a small portion of your life, I can recommend the Life Improvement Cente'.  And then explaining why large corporations indulge in so many meetings: 'Only because they cannot actually masturbate'.  Brilliant!
Sadly, this cheery mood was swiftly dissipated by reading about Blair's most recent appearance at the Chilcot Enquiry - 'the leader who burned with such righteous convictions' as Jonathan Freedland described him.  But Philippe Sands, Professor of Law at University College, London surely has (almost) the last word:  Blair 'ignored the law, and deprived the cabinet and parliament (and the British public) of key information ... his legacy is an unlawful and disastrous conflict that continues to cause misery and claim lives, shredding public trust in government, diminishing Britain's role in the world, and undermining the rule of law.' That's one hell of a legacy, Tony B.

Mysteries of maried life #1

I don't understand razors. The variety of choice baffles me and my bathroom is littered with stems from the two major manufacturers Gillette and Wilkinson Sword.  What annoys me most is being in thrall to the duopoly they enjoy (discounting supermarket generics as inferior) and knowing full well that they charge below minimum price for the stem and then sting you mightily for the blades.  They also have the infuriating habit of changing the stem locking mechanism to prevent the blades being interchangeable between different models.  All of this provokes both irritation and inconvenience in equal measure as I scrabble to find the right blade for the right stem first thing in the morning (never a good time for me - see previous blog).  And when  it comes to buying new blades I am frankly baffled by the range of little packets on the supermarket shelves and usually end up buying none of the above. Here is where the Mysteries of Married Life #1 comes in.  My wife does know which blade fits which stem and more often than not I have to ask her to buy them for me.  But how does she know?  How does she remember?  It's a mystery.  

The guilty party

Guilt arrives from the strangest directions.  A few days ago I had agreed with my wife that she would make dinner on Tuesday  - Thai pork curry with pineapple - and I even phoned her from work to make sure it was still ok before I left to come home.  She is anyway better at these things than I am (too heavy handed with the Thai red curry paste) but I also felt it would be nice to have a break from cooking  (usually my preserve because I come home first and I usually do enjoy it).  Ironically it coincided with a grotty day at work and I was doubly grateful that she said she would make dinner.  But the guilt, oh the guilt crept in swiftly and at several times I found myself in the kitchen wondering if I should at least do some prep for her, chop something, wash the rice perhaps.  I resisted stoutly (because I can sometimes interfere by way of being helpful when she is making something in the kitchen) and thoroughly enjoyed the meal when it was served.  As the food vanished mouthful by delicious mouthful, the guilt dissipated too.  Tonight however I made sure to have dinner ready when she walked through the door (pork chops with lemon and roasted sweet potatoes with peppers, served with buttered spinach).   No guilt, no angst of any kind, unless you include the slight twinge of self-reproach that followed nibbling first on Stilton cheese and crackers and then Christmas cake with coffee. But hey, food is one of life's major pleasures.  I hate the phrase 'guilty pleasure'.  Why should so many of the things we enjoy - food, wine, sex - often carry with them the sobriquet 'guilty pleasures'?  I blame St. Augustus, more of whom later.

Nurse Galyna Kolotnytska

Tunisia again.  I was tickled by Mona Eltahawy's description of Muammar Ghaddafi, the 'world's longest serving dictator', in today's Guardian newspaper as 'a Botox-using neurotic inseparable from a voluptuous Ukrainian nurse'.  The writer was quoting from leaked US diplomatic cables courtesy of Wikileaks (God bless 'em, every little one!) and went on to rightly criticise Ghaddafi for his comment that the Tunisians 'were now suffering bloodshed and lawlessness because they were too hasty in getting rid of Ben Ali'.  I also liked her translation of that very silly remark as: 'I am scared witless by what happened in your country'.  Full marks finally to Google because when I entered 'voluptuous Ukrainian nurse' into their search engine I got both pictures of Gaddhafi himself and the one I've included here, 38 year-old nurse Galyna (although I suspect she may be a stock photo model, but even so).

'eenie, meenie, minie, moe'

I did enjoy reading today that the Speaker of the House of Commons has been criticised by his predecessor, Betty Boothroyd, for refusing to wear the traditional and to my eyes very silly wig and costume that so added to her dignity and stature (sic).  She claims it's 'bad for parliament' and that people around the country, as well as other parliamentarians, have less respect for John Bercow as a result.  What utter nonsense!  It's about time this country divested itself, literally, of the absurd costumes and wardrobe horrors people in public life are often compelled to wear.  Let's start with the comical horsehair wigs and academic gowns of judges and courtroom lawyers, proceed through every nook and cranny of the legal and parliamentary systems, unwrap people from the invented tradition that's so often claimed as an 'essential part of our cultural heritage', and end this sartorial nonsense once and for all.  Tourists might be charmed by the flummery and regalia it but it has no place surely in a modern democracy?  Oops!  Silly me.  We still have a hereditary monarchy, an unelected second chamber, the honours system.  So not quite a democracy then, but good on John B. for at least doing something to make us look less ridiculous.  If people want to dress up like extras in 'Trial by Jury' they should join their local Gilbert and Sullivan Society.

Toasted cheese and bedtime

When should you go to bed?  Being tired is clearly an important criterion, but what happens if you are exhausted and ready for bed and your partner isn't?  That happens to us all of the time.  Should I make an effort to stay up and watch 'CSI' on late-night tv (always my wife's preferred choice), or attempt to seduce her into joining me in bed for some nooky?  Or should I simply go to bed alone (which often happens ... sigh!) and listen to the radio or read a book?  Generally I am in bed half an hour, sometimes an hour or more before her.  Usually I'm asleep by the time she comes to bed and so our opportunity for conversation, cuddles or coition is limited.  Is this necessarily a bad thing?  Do I sleep too much?  People say that sleeping for too long is bad for your health and reduces your life expectancy, although I have never quite understood why.  Experts confuse the matter by then saying that everyone is different.  It certainly reduces the amount of time available for other things - reading, listening to music, watching dvds and tv.  So when should you go to bed?  And why is eating toasted cheese immediately beforehand such a heinous crime against the digestive system?

The perky Tudors

 I dislike the royal family intensely.  No, that's not strong enough.  I despise the royal family and everything that it stands for with a vengeance - the honours system, deference, patronage, the class system, big country houses, snobbery, palaces (although not castles strangely), the House of Lords of course, and all of the ridiculous tomfoolery and invented tradition that follows them.  It's not personal.  I'm sure that the royal family contains the same mix of heroes and villains as every extended family, albeit slightly more inbred than most. But these people enjoy untold wealth, a life of unimaginable luxury, privilege, and some of it paid for by the British taxpayer.  How ridiculous is that?  One of the richest group of individuals in the world being subsidised by the British taxpayer?  I really wish someone would explain that to me.  Their opinions on matters great and small are not only sought after but listened to and acted upon. But that's good ol' British democracy for you.  Anyway, this disgust with the motley aristocratic crew  that too many sensible people still kowtow to, prevents me from enjoying one of the best films of the year, 'The King's Speech'.  Good friends of mine have seen it and warmly recommend I overcome my prejudice and enjoy it too.  But no, I have my principles to stick to and stick to them I will.  I do sometimes worry however that the phrase 'my principles' is synonymous with obstinacy, particularly on this occasion. I had no scruples about watching and thoroughly enjoying the recent tv series, The Tudors, which is clearly about a dynastic royal family, although the films were most definitely enlivened by the frequent nudity and rumbustious sex scenes.  (Did all Tudor women really have such perky boobs?)   So perhaps my bias is time-limited?  Perhaps my intolerance of things royal has a self-imposed, if sub-conscious expiry date?  Tudors yes.  Elizabethans of course.  Hanoverians also good, Georgians too.  But Victorians, now they are starting to be beyond the pale.  And as for the Saxe-Coburg Gothas, sorry  Windsors, a thousand times no.  As if to highlight my hypocrisy I enjoy reading about the last Imperial family of Russia, the current Japanese royal family, the current Spanish king too.  And, shame on me, I relish stories in which any member of any royal family experiences a setback, misfortune or just sheer bad luck.  A sort of patrician schadenfreude.  So where do I stand on the death of Diana?  Bring on Clark Gable because, 'Frankly my dear.  I don't give a damn.' 

Solo dining

Please tell me that this has happened to every couple who ever ate out in a restaurant.  Your partner goes to the toilet and the next moment the food arrives.  What do you do, start eating or wait until your partner returns?  If you do wait, for how long?  Are there no limits?  Larry David would know what to do.  Me, I try to nibble inconspicuously so that no-one else in the restaurant can tell I'm eating alone, and so that my wife won't know I've started when she comes back to the table.

Definition of an idiot

Beware the amateur political commentator.  Me.  Thank goodness for the wise ones in the BBC.  Adam Mynott.  He corrects my somewhat limited understanding of the Tunisian crisis and, for example, questions the role of the army in the decision of Ben Ali to flee into exile.  Well, maybe.  Adam Mynott does point out that events are moving quickly in Tunisia and to say that these are 'uncertain, dangerous times' is something we can all agree on.  So quickly are events moving indeed that Mohammed Ghannouchi, the Prime Minister who is well-regarded by former British diplomats, was only a temporary (and illegal) Head of State.  He has now been replaced by the legitimate caretaker President, Foued Mebazza, Speaker of the Tunisian Parliament.  Curiously, the reaction of some holidaymakers flown back to the UK by their tour operators is one of great annoyance.  In this morning's Observer, one buffoon was quoted as saying that he thought it was all a bit of an over-reaction. The holiday companies are already saying that 'normal booking conditions' apply and that no refunds will be given to customers who wish to cancel future holidays.  So here is today's dilemma - would you still want to go on holiday to Tunisia?  Foreign Office advice is: 'We advise against all but essential travel ... a State of Emergency has been declared ... The situation is changing rapidly and is unpredictable ... There is a general threat from terrorism ... Attacks cannot be ruled out and could be indiscriminate ... You should take out comprehensive travel and medical insurance before travelling.'  Just love that last bit.  Taken the FO's advice into account, why on earth would any traveller flown urgently out of Tunisia feel anything but the utmost gratitude and relief?  But I suppose that's why the word 'idiot' was invented.  Who though would now want to go to Tunisia for a holiday, at least in the short term?  Wouldn't the fear of 'indiscriminate attacks and terrorism' take the edge off your enjoyment just a little?  And what would you pack?  Steel helmet?  Flak jacket? 

Beethoven and the banjo

Whatever next on my beloved Radio Three?  Beethoven's Moonlight  Sonata played on the banjo?  Er, why not?  I imagine that Beethoven wouldn't have minded if he had been paid his royalty fee.  It was strangely appealing and quite enjoyable.  The arrangement was by the ace banjo player Bela Fleck and it would be fair to say that the banjo played a secondary role to the cello, which carried the main theme.  Curiously I picked up a second-hand dvd called Copying Beethoven yesterday.  I had never heard of the film before but I look forward to watching it. Although classical music dvds have been reviewed for some time in my Gramophone magazine, classical music dvds are not something I have really gotten into.  Saying that, I do remember being thrilled by watching Beethoven's Third Symphony being played in some grand Viennese palace by, I think, the Academy of Ancient Music dressed in period costumes.  Sadly, I have never really enjoyed watching opera on dvd either, even with our vastly improved tv surround sound system.  It just doesn't work for me.  But then opera in general doesn't work for me if I know too much about the storyline and the lyrics that I'm listening to.  I'm sure I must be missing out on several important dimension of this great art form but my preferred method of listening to opera is just that, listening to opera without regard to what's happening in the drama.  The briefest of plot synopses is enough for me. Perhaps I need to see more of it preformed live. 

Parmesan wars

Everyone knows that when the Great Fire of struck London in September 1666, Samuel Pepys risked life and limb to rescue his precious Parmesan cheese wheel from the larder and had it buried safely in his garden.  My older son knows this story.  I've told him that Parmesan is the single most expensive ingredient that we have in the kitchen (if you ignore the saffron and dried Porcini mushrooms).  But still when he makes pasta for himself he will insist on shaving enormous quantities of the stuff onto his meal.  Worse, he leaves small piles of expensive Parmesan shavings on the worktop (which I then scoop up and eat, following my mother's mantra of 'waste not, want not') He clearly considers my frugality with Parmesan as just one more of his father's quirks, but I do have a point I think.  Certainly Samuel Pepys would agree with me.  What is even more annoying about these father / son disputes is that he is at all times insufferably polite, restrained and wholly rational in the arguments he deploys to great effect against me.  More often than not I end by conceding some or all of the points he is making.  Which is why I am resolute in my stand against his Parmesan profligacy.  The Parmesan War is one that I am determined I shall win.

The ruins of Carthage

In 146 BCE Carthage, close to the site of modern-day Tunis, fell to the Romans.  In January AD 2011 popular discontent has led directly to the fall of the Tunisian President.  I am pleased to note that the French, who controlled Tunisia as a colonial protectorate from 1883 until 1956 (year of my birth, my goodness), apparently declined a request that President Ben Ali be allowed to enjoy his exile in France.  And a luxurious exile it will be thanks to the squiliions his family have undoubtedly siphoned from state coffers and then squirreled away in  secret Swiss bank accounts. But two questions remain.  First, why do so many of the world's most odious political leaders and their cronies end up living out their exiles in Saudi Arabia?  Idi Amin, for example.  Now Ben Ali.  Secondly, why do the Swiss banking authorities allow these people to retain their ill-gotten gains, rather than returning them wholesale to the countries concerned?  Is it beyond the wit of an international court to deprive these despots of the money and other material possessions they have clearly stolen?  International criminals can now be more easily stripped of their illegally acquired assets, it happens to the leaders of drug cartels all of the time, so why not individuals like Ben Ali? 


I was tempted to use an extended metaphor about a newly reborn Tunisian democracy arising Phoenix-like from the ashes of the Ben Ali despotism, but I resisted that temptation and decided to end with a nice photo of Ancient Carthaginian ruins instead.

The authority of moral standards

More good news.  The rapacious Tunisian autocrat Zine al-Abidine Ben Ali has been forced out of office and he has fled the country to Saudi Arabia.  Hooray!  Last elected, sorry, returned to power in 2009 with a Stalinist-era style 89.62% of the, er, popular vote, he has in all likelihood been persuaded, sorry, told to go by a combination of the ruling elite and the army who are the real power brokers in the country.  Whether this coup can lead to the necessary democratic and economic reforms remains to be seen.  The Prime Minister Mohammed Ghannouchi, who has taken 'temporary' presidential powers, is surely the former President's 'own man' and too intimately associated with the corruption, repression and economic woes of the 'old regieme' to lead the country into better times?  Unfortunately Tunisia may descend into chaos and the unrest may spread, perhaps to neighbouring Algeria and for broadly similar reasons.   But surely it is time for the West to speak out strongly against the political corruption and stagnation in the region, the absence of human rights and the dynastic autocracies that dominate much of the Middle East?  Pragmatism is one thing.  Being able 'to do business' with nation states whose governance is morally repugnant may be a reality of international relations, but are there no limits?  I cite again the conclusion to Steven Lukes' book Moral Relativism, and I paraphrase slightly: 'There are multiple best ways for human beings to live, but this should not preclude making moral judgements and recognising the authority of moral standards.'

A bear of very little brains

The snow has gone.  Well, almost.  All we have left are dirty pyramids of scummy snow squatting on street corners and the occasional scab of ice waiting to be picked clean by the warmer weather.  The roads and pavements are still covered in grit and it's like walking to work through muesli.  Better that however than skidding and sliding.  Most people I know, myself and my wife included, have fallen at least once in the recent snow and ice. It's also warmer now of course and the central heating in the house can be returned to its normal settings.  No more 24-hour heating at full blast needed, a boon to the planet but a dent in the profits of the energy companies.  Won't they have made a killing during the cold snap!  Why doesn't Osborne slap a one-off tax on them, a Cold-Weather Excessive Profits Tax, as well as the Odious Bankers Obscene Bonuses Tax?   No, sorry, I'm being silly.  He's a right-wing Conservative politician and a very rich man in thrall to big business.  Not to mention a bear of very little brains. (Sorry Winnie, no insult intended.)  Why on earth would he want to do that?  Why, isn't it true that the additional revenue that will accrue to the Treasury because of the increase in VAT to 20% (a 'progressive tax', remember) is roughly equivalent to the sum of money the bankers will pay themselves?  I do like  Alex Ferguson's riposte to a player's agent who asked for a bonus because of his goal-scoring record. 'He's a striker.  Strikers score goals.  Why should he get a bonus for doing his job properly?'  While you're thinking about that, which of the characters in the delightful E.H.Shepherd drawing above is Cameron and which is Clegg?  And which of the characters below is Osborne?

dem bones, dem bones ...

I could easily become a vegetarian, especially after watching the latest episode of Brucy Parry's travels with Inuit hunters in Greenland on BBC2.  He ate 'chewy steaming stomach lining', raw liver and eyeballs from a seal.  Then he patronised his hosts by arguing that having accepted some of the trappings of the modern world - supermarkets selling both rifles and mobile phones - they had to learn to bend with the prevailing conservationist winds and accept hunting quotas.  So hypocritical and patronising at the same time then.  I didn't take to the man in the first programme I saw and don't feel inlcined to spend any more time in his company.  He has nothing interesting to say, nor does he offer any real insights into the people or the cultures he visits.  I wonder how he would get on in the company of cannibals?  That would be a real test of Parry's tolerance and how far he would go to immerse himself in an 'exotic culture'. 

the honey trap

A startling image.  Let's try to deconstruct it. It could be something to do with sexual ecstasy.  Maybe some kind of horticultural bondage session.  Are they vines or serpents?  If they are entwined serpents that suggests zoophilia.  Unless the snakes are symbolic of something else, like a penis maybe.  We could abandon the sexual imagery altogether and interpret it as a scene from Greek mythology, but where's the fun in that?  The guy on the left seems to have been pierced through the breast by the serpent / penis / vine thingy.   Is he a banker perhaps and the naked maiden an irate citizen demanding an end to huge bonus payments?  Come to think of it, it looks as if she's already emasculated the greedy bastard. So there we have it - nude woman exacts revenge on chairman of RBS.

the demons of stupidity

In what alternative universe sits the BBFC moron who decided that the phrase, 'contains strong language in a speech therapy context' enlightens the nervous viewer enough for them to make a reasoned choice about whether or not they should watch the film and risk being offended?  Strong language is strong language.  Surely if you're going to be upset by the word fuck the context is irrelevant?  It also begs a question about the intellectual arrogance, the condescension that is involved in the notion that one group of adults feel they have the right, nay the moral duty, to censor films before other adults can safely watch them.  Definition of being patronised please someone?

Judicial thuggery

In today's Observer there is a fine review by William Skidelski of a book by Stefan Collini.  Skidelsky quotes from Collini: 'While there are various ways to show respect for people some of whose beliefs and practices differ from our own, exempting those beliefs and practices from criticism is not one of them.'  Agreed.  As the dreadful saga of the murder of Salmaan Taseer in Pakistan, and the sentence of death handed out by judicial thugs to Aasia Bibi demonstrates, criticism in even the most oblique fashion carries with it enormous risks.  By remaining silent however the silent majority condone the murder of Salmaan Taseer and condemn Aasia Bibi to a bleak and  uncertain future.  As Stephen Fry memorably observed, religion is shit.  So too is the society that allows religious intolerance to victimise the innocent.

Cojones

My day was considerably brightened by the news that the former MP David Chaytor has been jailed for fraud and false accounting.  He may well be released in May but, given that the defence used by the convicted felon was the preposterous one that MPs enjoy legal immunity by virtue of parliamentary privilege, this is very good news indeed.  Proves too that there is still life in the old British democratic dog yet.  All we need now is for the coalition government, sorry, 'A Plague on Both their Houses', to find their cojones and do something about the obscenity of banks paying billions of pounds in bonuses to their workers.   I fear however that this will never happen.  And the government is once again seeking to impose the business ethics and working practices of the private sector on the public sector because, it is argued, they are both more efficient and inherently superior.  Explain that to me, please? 

Is there such a thing as a postal fairy?

Due to the vagaries of the weather and the Post Office I today received a cd I had ordered in early December.  It's by Harry Christopher's and The Sixteen ('Christus natus est') and it is marvellous.  A number of tracks stopped me in my tracks and this is clearly going to become a favourite cd of mine. Glorious music wonderfully sung. After a busy first day back at work after the Christmas break I was happily reminded of the importance of music in my life.  Perhaps the postal fairy planned it this way, so that I could receive this life-affirming cd when I would most appreciate it.  If there is such a thing as a postal fairy it might be the same sprite who out of malice - or spite - burns or buries other desirable letters and packages but always makes a point of delivering bills and junk mail by the kilo. 

Morning sickness

I am not a morning person.  I can do mid-morning, late-morning, but not first thing.  If we have to get up very early to catch a flight somewhere, anything before 6am, then I simply cannot function.  I can't talk, I can't think clearly, I can barely walk.  I certainly cannot drive.  It won't be until just before we're due to board the plane, following several espressos, that I become fully conscious.  On these occasions my wife takes over and leads me by the - metaphorical - nose to make sure I arrive at the airport safely, navigate the various check-in hazards, and puts me somewhere to sit out of harm's way until the caffeine kicks in.  How she manages to do all of that plus drive our car, find the airport, and so on, is beyond me.  The nice photo is sunrise over Crater Lake and Wizard Island  in southern Oregon.  Even such a splendid vista as this wouldn't quite be enough to shake me out of my sleepy state, not unless sunrise could be rescheduled for, say, 10am.

Vive la difference!

Ah, the sound of the harpsichord.  Is it the Marmite of the instrument world?  Either you love it or you hate it.  Me,  I love it.  Not sure about my wife.  I think that she can take the sound of the harpsichord in small, measured doses.  This is a pity because I acquired some years ago a box set of the complete Scarlatti harpsichord sonatas played by Scott Ross and I haven't yet worked my way through all 34 cds.  Not that she is to blame for this.  It all has to do with mood, the right time and the right place, but also momentum I suspect.  Once you lose the head of steam you've built up listening to a boxed set of something - or watching a boxed set of dvds - it's easy to lose track of what you have and haven't listened to - or watched.  Some people I know make little pencil marks on the sleeve but this is something I could never do.  I tend to be a tad anal about my cds, their cute plastic boxes (brittle plastic though they often are), liner notes, and so on. Thankfully I'm not counting my 2011 resolutions but here is another one: to finish listening to the Scarlatti sonatas aforementioned, plus the Haydn string quartets, Shostakovitch symphonies, etc.  Ditto with 'The West Wing', 'Seinfeld', 'The Sopranos'.  The complete Larry David I have already watched several times over, much to the irritation of my wife who enjoys it about as much as getting a root canal fixed.  Watching Larry David is something she doesn't enjoy even a little bit.  Funny that.  Doesn't make us incompatible though.  Seems to me couples claim they are incompatible only when they no longer have the energy or will to make their relationship work.  Imagine the horror of two people who enjoyed and disliked exactly the same things all of the time.  Too freaky for me.  I don't like Marmite, my wife does.  Vive la difference!

Guilty pleasures

The world seems to have returned to work today, at least those fortunate enough to have jobs during the recession, but not me.  I don't go back to work until tomorrow and all day long I have experienced a strange sense of guilt, at one point even expecting a phone call  from the office to ask where I was.  So anxious did I become that I twice checked the dates for my official return, a literal double-check. And it is definitely tomorrow. But I have enjoyed a relaxing, fruitful day nonetheless and made two different soups for dinner tonight - broccoli with cheese and mushroom - to allow the family a modicum of choice.  I even broke the habit of a lifetime and used bouillon powder rather than freshly made vegetable stock.  What would Julia Child think of me!  Nor is there a pudding scheduled.  Following the common sense advice that dieting begins when you eat less, I have decided to eschew an official second-course.  The trick is to enjoy guilty pleasures without feeling guilty and so a gap of a day or two, a brief period of abstinence, should be enough to allow us to reinstate our dessert course.  Not that we always have dessert.  Often we make do with cheese, cake, biscuits or chocolate - in moderation.  The fattest person in the UK is currently hovering (if that's the right word) around the 70 stone mark and hoping, through surgery, to reduce that significantly.  There are lessons here for all of us.  Eat less and weigh less.  Exercise more.  Avoid unnecessary surgery. It does raise the interesting question of how a person becomes that obese.  At what point do they suddenly look at themselves and say, 'Oops!  Gotten a little overweight recently.  Now how did that happen?'  A key role, leaving aside psychological, environmental and familial factors, is that of the food provider.  Somebody must have been buying and preparing the food for them.  A 70 stone guy isn't going to be able to push a shopping cart around a supermarket.  With restraint and sensible portion control we hope to be able to shed a few pounds, starting with the odd ounce here and there, without having to abandon our foodie favourites.  Not forgetting the wine, that is.  Now there's more than just a few calories to be aware of.  I have a theory that the health benefits that accrue from enjoying good food and wine, in terms of establishing and then reinforcing a sense of personal well-being, accumulate in inverse proportion to the absence of guilt one feels.  Which is why, as Pontius P. suggests, it's always important to wash your hands before a meal.

A government of all the talents

Petition #2 for 2011: George Orwell to be resurrected using DNA genetic cloning techniques and made Minister of Truth and Justice in a new government 'of all the talents'.  John Maynard Keynes would be Chancellor of the Exchequer and Mary Wollstonecraft Education Secretary.  Charlie Chaplin would be Arts Minister and Charles Dickens Home Secretary.  The Foreign Secretary would be Jane Austen and the Secretary of State for Health Florence Nightingale.  Other ministerial nominees to follow.

Shifty crows

To the beach for a walk, taking the precaution of wearing several layers of warm fleeces topped with heavy duty windproof jackets and trousers.  Despite the low, gloomy cloud cover it was exhilarating and we walked for miles into the chill breeze towards St. Andrews and then back again for a picnic lunch of smoked salmon pate on ciabatta rolls washed down with mugs of not-quite steaming Earl Grey tea.  Being outside always acts as a tonic and being on the beach doubly so.  I presume the ozone has something to do with it.  We were intrigued to find thick ice among the dunes covering shallow ponds and even lichen covered rocks slippery with the stuff.  The ice on the ponds, which were more like small lagoons, was sloped towards the middle, at an angle of twenty degrees or more, where the water was still flowing.  Beach combing opportunities were disappointingly sparse and we only managed to pick up a lump of coal and a shell.  Perhaps the lack of flotsam and jetsam on the beach had something to do with it being New Year.  No seals sighted and precious few seagulls.  Crows dominated the shoreline looking slightly shifty and forlorn.  No mermaids either, although I suspect my wife wouldn't have allowed me to take one home anyway. She would have taken the same line as she does to my suggestion of acquiring an au pair.  I wonder what would happen if we came across a merman?

The kindness of gifts

Sarah Vaughan or Ella Fitzgerald?  It's like asking whether you prefer malt whisky or cognac.  Two different drinks for different  moods that evoke different responses when imbibed.  I like both and for different reasons.   Strangely I rarely buy either.  Mostly I have been drinking the kindness of gifts.  But Sarah and Ella I do buy for myself and in considerable quantity. I am a magpie when it comes to collecting cds and I often wonder if at least some part of the fun to be had is in the acquisition stage.  I do enjoy the music, without question, but surely the pleasure of 'being a collector' is just that - collecting.  So, no answer to the question any more than you would expect from a Mozart or Beethoven variant, or a Dickens versus Jane Austen.  Different strokes for different folks. And is this how Austen might have looked?  I don't really care on this occasion.  It's how I would like Jane Austen to look and so that's good enough for me. On closer inspection she does look a little bit like Constanze Mozart (see below) but I'm sure there's a reason for that.  Question: can you buy gifts for yourself and, if so, is it an act of kindness or simply being greedy?  The answers must surely be, yes you can buy gifts for yourself although they may no longer be classified as gifts since a gift 'is a thing given'.  And no, it wouldn't be greedy unless it was excessive - defined as 'extravagent and unreasonable'.

Bubble-headed sex kitten

The Mozart season on BBC R3 continues to enthrall.  This morning there was an excellent programme in which Jane Glover spoke about the various women in Mozart's life, including his wife Constanze.  It turns out that she was quite unlike the slut  in the Peter Shaffer version of Mozart's life, enjoyable though the film Amadeus was.   In a Guardian article from 2005, Jane Glover wrote of the Shaffer version that Constanze was 'portrayed as a vulgar, bubble-headed sex kitten, lacking any appreciation of her husband's phenomenal gifts'.  In reality Constanze was intelligent, talented, a determined and shrewd business woman and their marriage was 'unquestionably a success'.   Jane Glover's description of  Mozart's final moments as he tried to finish the Requiem with Constanze present at his bedside was incredibly moving. The music when it came brought me close to tears. 

The picture above is probably a fairly accurate likeness of Constanze.  The photograph, taken in the 1840s, is more controversial but it seems  likely that the woman seated at the far left is Constanze Mozart.  I always find it hard to interpret character from portraits and I am reminded of a comment made by a pathologist that in death it is of course impossible to tell the intelligent from the dim-witted, the kind from the cruel, the talented from the wastrel.  There's always the temptation to ascribe to portraits character traits you know already know to be present in a personality from other sources.  Speaking of which, I now need to add Jane Glover's book, 'Mozart's Women', to my 2011 reading list and I do believe there is a copy sitting next door in the book room.

The value of pomanders

There is still snow on the ground.  Ice too.  The cycle path behind our house is still treacherous to walk on and the hard-packed snow is at least eleven inches deep in places.  Then of course there is the dog shit.  I can't decide if the wintry weather predisposes dogs to shit more.  Or if because it's bitterly cold their owners feel no obligation, moral or legal, to clean up after their hounds.  A third possibility might be that because of the snow the shit is frozen, fails to break down quickly, the ground can't absorb it because of the permafrost effect, and so it just sits there ugly and obvious but not yet smelling of anything (because of the cold).  And there is a great deal of it.  The turds present a formidable challenge to the walker already struggling to keep his balance on the slippery surface.  When the thaw comes, the makers of pomanders have a ready made marketing niche to exploit.

KV 292

I understand that my mystery Mozart from last night was his Sonata for Bassoon and Cello KV 292, and not to be confused with the stellar object KV42 (pictured below courtesy of the Canada France Elliptic Plane Survey) which is just now orbiting the sun in a backwards motion.  It's nicknamed Dracula and is Trans-Neptunian (rather than Transylvanian ... lol!)  meaning it's in the Kuiper Belt region of the Solar System. I write this not knowing exactly whereof I speak.  Although fascinated by the planets and stars, I find it a subject difficult to get into.  I struggle with the concepts of size, scale and distance involved in astronomy.  When I'm told that the Andromeda Nebula is 2,300,000 light years away from the Earth, when a light year is equal to 5.88 trillion miles, my brain starts to hurt.  I'm going to speculate that my difficulties stem from my mathematical incompetence and leave it at that for the moment.

My favourite colour

Pink.  Oh, yes, Pink.  Well, my wife often accuses me of enjoying pop videos (and, in days gone by, programmes such as Top of the Pops) because of the accompanying images of partly dressed and usually curvaceous young women cavorting across the screen which are in - her words, not mine - sexist and blatantly erotic dance routines.  Choreography as pornography, in other words.  Not true, says I.  I enjoy Pink because of the catchy tunes and funky often socially relevant and contemporary lyrics.  Ditto Rihanna, Girls Aloud, Jessica Simpson, The Black Eyed Peas, Eliza Doolittle et al.  The attractive visuals that often accompany such fine pop music are a bonus, eye candy nothing more.  With the exception of operatic tenors, it is well known that I favour the female over the male voice.  Check out my vast cd collection for evidence of this.  The female to male ratio for singers is easily 10:1.  This applies throughout the musical genres and across the ages.  Now before I start to sound defensive, I'm going to stop there.  Oh, and if you're wondering, the picture below was chosen because green is my favourite colour, symbol of new growth, regeneration, and so on.  Why, the Hindu god Vishnu, who 'bears the weight of the world', is often depicted as a tortoise with a green face.  Need I say more?

Second thoughts

Oh, dear.  The Radio 3 Genius of Mozart season is starting to grow on me already.  Last night I heard in bed a wonderful piece of bassoon music in A Mozart Miscellany.  (All I have to do now is work out what it's called because my pesky Radio Times doesn't tell me.  All it does is teasingly list a 'selection of great works by the compser' without attributing specific time slots.  Perhaps I should address the issue through the message boards?)  As I write Mozart's Gran Partita is weaving its magic spell and having the same effect on me as being wrapped inside a soft duvet:  I feel  warm, cosy and content, which are never bad things to be.  I'm reminded of what Einstein once said about changing his mind and being happy to do so when the facts themsleves had changed, asking rhetorically of his interrogator, 'What do you do when the facts change?'  I'm even sanguine about the section on the BBC website entitled Play Mozart for me: email your Mozart requests to .... well, almost.

first apercu of 2011

I like this.  It comes from Robert Frost: 'a liberal is a man too broadminded to take his own side in a quarrel'.  Nothing more to say really.  Except to add that Frost is one of those writers that I know I should read more of.  (I can feel another resolution taking shape.)

The use of 'apercu' in my title arose simply because I like the sound of the word and it seemed to fit, although my Shorter Oxford English Dictionary insists (on page 85) that it's 'A summary exposition, a conspectus'.  Further enquiry (page 407) reveals that 'a conspectus' is 'A comprehensive survey, a synopsis, a digest'. Nonetheless I still like the word and will continue to use it in this context.  Indeed, I will steadily compile apercus throughout 2011.

 

As for the elephant, it's the Hindu deity Ganesh, associated with many things including knowledge, intellect, wisdom.  It appeared when I Googled 'apercu'.  According to Pliny, elephants stare longingly at the full moon 'waving freshly plucked branches', which makes his description of the the eruption of Vesuvius slightly suspect.  I certainly prefer knowing that the elephant symbolises kingship and stability rather than the - again slightly suspect - Aristotelian notion that it represents chastity because of the long gestation period female elephants experience and the consequent reluctance of bull elephants to have sex with them.  In Buddhist thinking, when set on top of a pillar, an elephant 'evokes enlightenment'.  More like a miracle of animal husbandry and civil engineering I would think, but still a fascinating image.

I resolve ...

Resolutions, resolutions, resolutions. New Year resolutions are, like male erections, quite often unreliable.  Sometimes they work, sometimes they don't.  The media has been full of advice today about whether people should have them or not.  Oliver Burkeman argues for abandoning them entirely because, he says, 'willpower is a unitary, depletable resource'.  He suggests instead focusing on 'one new habit every month'.  Other commentators argue for the value of positive thinking even if it has negative results because it helps you to get up and out of bed in the morning.  I lean towards the latter point of view, every day is a fresh start sort of thing, but I also see the sense in the former.  (So, my 2011 resolution to 'be more decisive' has clearly fallen at an early hurdle.)

I remain to be persuaded about the wisdom of the Radio Three wall-to-wall Mozart season that has just started.  Now I like Mozart as much as anyone and I voted for the (non-winning entry) in their 'favourite bit of Mozart' competition recently.  I am then willing to play along.  I don't even switch off the Breakfast programme when it becomes infuriatingly 'interactive' and presenters read emails from listeners or, worse, play requests.  (Why don't radio producers have faith in their own  professional judgement and to hang with asking Mardge from Woking for her opinion?)  But non-stop Mozart?  I'm not sure about that.  Perhaps the argument is that people dip in and out through the course of a day and so don't really listen to the entire output.  They cannot therefore be overwhelmed by it.  However one of the glories of BBC radio is its variety and this is clearly lost when R3 devotes itself exclusively to Mozart.  I know there are documentary interludes (perhaps too many?), but even so.  I suspect the Radio Three message boards are buzzing with comment.  I must find one and add my own point of view.  If the BBC wants its listeners to be truly interactive then truly interactive I shall become.

P.S. It will be interesting to see if my opinion of the Mozart season changes over the next few weeks.