Ignorant Fascists (No, not the BNP)
Hat Tip to
http://mrishmael.blogspot.com/
These two clowns are dressed up as police officers. Only they are acting like dicks at a clap clinic.
Are you unable to think for yourself? Are you so dense that light particles go around you? Do you like to take out your unresolved personal anger problems on the public (not including gays, women, Muslims or Peers)? Then join the modern police force, where I am sure you will be very welcome.
While the truncheon may be used in lieu of conversation, words will always retain their power. Words offer the means to meaning, and for those who will listen, the enunciation of truth. And the truth is, there is something terribly wrong with this country, isn't there? Cruelty and injustice, intolerance and oppression. And where once you had the freedom to object, to think and speak as you saw fit, you now have censors and systems of surveillance coercing your conformity and soliciting your submission. How did this happen? Who's to blame? Well certainly there are those more responsible than others, and they will be held accountable, but again truth be told, if you're looking for the guilty, you need only look into a mirror.
Weasel is taking a break from blogging or commenting. There is no more to say.
Thank you for dropping by.
BTW. If you are a musician or in a band, go here:
www.jukeboxjudy.com
and join the site.
Weasel's QT/BNP bloground
First off, I didn't see the show. Don't have a TV. Don't watch car crashes.
Iain Dale:
"He was nervous, trembling, acting with exaggerated gestures, grinning at inappropriate moments and at times incoherent"
- nobody told me Gordon Brown was going to be on it
Political Betting:
- a lot of people knew that Griffin and his ideas won't stand the light of day, even if he is right on some of the substantive issues.
Tom Harris:
I haven’t watched it yet – I have better things to do, but if I’ve nothing better to do tomorrow I might watch it then.
- that makes two of us then, Tom.
The Spectator:
Griffin embarrassed himself in front of the cameras - he was given scant opportunity to gloss over his more unsavoury views; he looked terribly uncomfortable whenever the debate ran away from him; and the other panellists scored most of the major points (Pete Hoskin)
Add your reactions below!
Iain Dale:
"He was nervous, trembling, acting with exaggerated gestures, grinning at inappropriate moments and at times incoherent"
- nobody told me Gordon Brown was going to be on it
Political Betting:
A hostile highly articulate audience facing a man who, being blunt about it, didn’t get over any message very well and seemed, at times, to be inarticulate.
I was expecting well thought-out sound-bites on how his party was fighting for sections of society that didn’t get heard and who were being ignored by the mainstream parties - something like that could have been powerful and brought benefit to the BNP.
From the extracts seen so far that didn’t happen and you’ve got to conclude that he fluffed it - he simply appeared unprepared for the likely grilling.
- a lot of people knew that Griffin and his ideas won't stand the light of day, even if he is right on some of the substantive issues.
Tom Harris:
I haven’t watched it yet – I have better things to do, but if I’ve nothing better to do tomorrow I might watch it then.
- that makes two of us then, Tom.
The Spectator:
Griffin embarrassed himself in front of the cameras - he was given scant opportunity to gloss over his more unsavoury views; he looked terribly uncomfortable whenever the debate ran away from him; and the other panellists scored most of the major points (Pete Hoskin)
Add your reactions below!
We know who the Nazis are
Over at Political Betting, they are conducting a poll on whether Nick Griffin should be on QT. The overwhelming opinion is that he should.
Meanwhile, if you want to find Nazis, that is, a mob of people whose sole purpose is to terrorise and intimidate, to disrupt, to shut down freedom of speech, then look no further than the gates of the BBC.
Public opinion won't go away just because of a few unwashed lefties. I am hoping that the next Government are shitting themselves over this. I am hoping they will grow a set of cojones and acknowledge what the issues are.
If not, let's just have a fucking revolution and change the system. Why not? The country is going to be more like Pakistan than England in 50 years time anyway. The default is not an option.
Meanwhile, if you want to find Nazis, that is, a mob of people whose sole purpose is to terrorise and intimidate, to disrupt, to shut down freedom of speech, then look no further than the gates of the BBC.
Public opinion won't go away just because of a few unwashed lefties. I am hoping that the next Government are shitting themselves over this. I am hoping they will grow a set of cojones and acknowledge what the issues are.
If not, let's just have a fucking revolution and change the system. Why not? The country is going to be more like Pakistan than England in 50 years time anyway. The default is not an option.
And now, even the flag has flown
A sad day in history: The last known surviving Union Jack to be flown at the Battle of Trafalgar has been sold to a private American collector after the National Maritime Museum dropped out of the bidding.
Here's a personal story.
Spencer Eastick looked down at his bloodied left hand and took out a handkerchief with his right, with which to wrap it. A moment's distraction whilst sharpening his sythe. He was used to it. The sun was not shining that day. Two years of bad harvests and the small bit of land his family rented had yielded only enough, just enough to feed himself, his sister, his mother and the old man who helped him.
Relaxing later at the inn, Spencer took out three pennies and ordered one more tankard of ale. It tasted bitter and stale, but he got a slice of bread and a piece of cheese into the bargain. It was quiet in the Inn. There was no mail coach to set the place a flutter. No clamour from the men after the harvest. That evening, the only other inhabitants was old Jem, who was mad, and a quiet travelling man who had been thrown from his horse and who had ordered three chops to eat and some burgundy.
The door of the inn was thrown open wide. Spencer looked up, somewhat drowsily and his blood ran cold enough to bring him straight to his senses.
"We are here in the King's name", said one. "And you, young man will take the King's shilling".
Spencer knew there was no point in fighting them off, no point in pleading. He was tired. Tired of struggling to live, tired of the burden of responsibility that had been thrust upon him at the age of fifteen, two years earlier when his father died. And so it was that he went quietly with the press gang to their muster point. A ship was anchored at Yarmouth, which he boarded. That day was the last on dry land for 11 months and when he finally made landfall, it was in a different world. By that time he could meet his cousin John and mock him gently for being a Marine and not a proper sailor.
Spencer's life in His Majesty's Navy was not all bad. He was popular and capable, and the rank of Able suited his character. Spencer Eastick was indeed able. He became strong on the enormous quantities of food on board; huge lumps of meat, stewed for hours on end, hard biscuits,poultry, ale, rum and suet pudding - the likes of which he had only seen at home at Christmas and during the good years of the harvest.
He shared life on board the Achilles with 520 other souls - a 74 gunner that measured less than One hundred and forty feet long by forty five at its very widest.
Nelson's reputation preceded him. Everyone in the Wooden World new when he was in charge. As always, the trepidation and fear that arose naturally out of the approach of battle was at least in part assuaged by this little, one-armed, one-eyed, hero of the Nile. Men smirked when his name was mentioned because he lived openly with his mistress, but they had confidence in him and felt proud to serve him. Whilst waiting for battle, a crew sewed a huge Union Jack together, out of pieces of ship's bunting. It would go into battle and show the enemy what they were made of.
As battle commenced, Spencer crouched ready by his gun and thought of home, of the Fens, of Norfolk and the life he had left behind. He knew he might be lucky, he knew he might not. He looked up at the flag and under his breath, piped, "for England, then".
Footnote:
Two of my ancestors served with Nelson.
The Battle of Trafalgar, took place on 21st October, 1805. On the Bellerophon there was John, rated as Private, Marine. On the Achilles there was Spencer, rated Able.I do not know their fate, but on the Bellerophon,74, there were 27 killed and 123 wounded, and on the Achilles, 74, there were 13 killed and 59 wounded.
Here's a personal story.
Spencer Eastick looked down at his bloodied left hand and took out a handkerchief with his right, with which to wrap it. A moment's distraction whilst sharpening his sythe. He was used to it. The sun was not shining that day. Two years of bad harvests and the small bit of land his family rented had yielded only enough, just enough to feed himself, his sister, his mother and the old man who helped him.
Relaxing later at the inn, Spencer took out three pennies and ordered one more tankard of ale. It tasted bitter and stale, but he got a slice of bread and a piece of cheese into the bargain. It was quiet in the Inn. There was no mail coach to set the place a flutter. No clamour from the men after the harvest. That evening, the only other inhabitants was old Jem, who was mad, and a quiet travelling man who had been thrown from his horse and who had ordered three chops to eat and some burgundy.
The door of the inn was thrown open wide. Spencer looked up, somewhat drowsily and his blood ran cold enough to bring him straight to his senses.
"We are here in the King's name", said one. "And you, young man will take the King's shilling".
Spencer knew there was no point in fighting them off, no point in pleading. He was tired. Tired of struggling to live, tired of the burden of responsibility that had been thrust upon him at the age of fifteen, two years earlier when his father died. And so it was that he went quietly with the press gang to their muster point. A ship was anchored at Yarmouth, which he boarded. That day was the last on dry land for 11 months and when he finally made landfall, it was in a different world. By that time he could meet his cousin John and mock him gently for being a Marine and not a proper sailor.
Spencer's life in His Majesty's Navy was not all bad. He was popular and capable, and the rank of Able suited his character. Spencer Eastick was indeed able. He became strong on the enormous quantities of food on board; huge lumps of meat, stewed for hours on end, hard biscuits,poultry, ale, rum and suet pudding - the likes of which he had only seen at home at Christmas and during the good years of the harvest.
He shared life on board the Achilles with 520 other souls - a 74 gunner that measured less than One hundred and forty feet long by forty five at its very widest.
Nelson's reputation preceded him. Everyone in the Wooden World new when he was in charge. As always, the trepidation and fear that arose naturally out of the approach of battle was at least in part assuaged by this little, one-armed, one-eyed, hero of the Nile. Men smirked when his name was mentioned because he lived openly with his mistress, but they had confidence in him and felt proud to serve him. Whilst waiting for battle, a crew sewed a huge Union Jack together, out of pieces of ship's bunting. It would go into battle and show the enemy what they were made of.
As battle commenced, Spencer crouched ready by his gun and thought of home, of the Fens, of Norfolk and the life he had left behind. He knew he might be lucky, he knew he might not. He looked up at the flag and under his breath, piped, "for England, then".
Footnote:
Two of my ancestors served with Nelson.
The Battle of Trafalgar, took place on 21st October, 1805. On the Bellerophon there was John, rated as Private, Marine. On the Achilles there was Spencer, rated Able.I do not know their fate, but on the Bellerophon,74, there were 27 killed and 123 wounded, and on the Achilles, 74, there were 13 killed and 59 wounded.
Part of my morning ritual is to check the front door for mail. We have a lobby. Actually it is the best lobby I have ever had. It is covered in coconut matting, like a mat, only carpet sized. For the first time ever, we have a row of pegs over a radiator so that outdoor "wets" will dry. There is a place for the wellies and mucky shoes. Also there are two bags of chicken feed that have not quite found a home yet.(We moved two months ago). That's just dandy, but what messes the whole thing up is junk mail. You know, of course that the Royal Mail actually invites junk mailers to post their stuff, for a price. I never quite know what to do with junk mail. It seems to sit in the lobby, along with redirected junk mail addressed to former occupants. Yes it's interesting to find that Somerfield are doing 12 cans of Stella for £6.99, but actually, I already do my shopping in person and am clever enough to spot these offers. So I don't need anybody to remind me that every supermarket on the planet does special offers.
Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that it must be six months since I last got a personal letter through the post. By that I mean, from a friend, actually written by hand. I generally only correspond by email. The only time I send a proper letter is if it has some legal ramification and needs to be recorded or copied. Most of my bills are assigned to direct debits, so statements are merely a courtesy, and an unnecessary one at that. In all honesty, if the Royal Mail goes on strike, all I am going to miss is the junk. I certainly buy things on line, and they have to be delivered, but as you know, this sector is no longer commandeered by a Stalinist state monopoly.
So, I don't know what you are missing, but right now, I think the Royal Mail strikers are pissing into the wind.
Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that it must be six months since I last got a personal letter through the post. By that I mean, from a friend, actually written by hand. I generally only correspond by email. The only time I send a proper letter is if it has some legal ramification and needs to be recorded or copied. Most of my bills are assigned to direct debits, so statements are merely a courtesy, and an unnecessary one at that. In all honesty, if the Royal Mail goes on strike, all I am going to miss is the junk. I certainly buy things on line, and they have to be delivered, but as you know, this sector is no longer commandeered by a Stalinist state monopoly.
So, I don't know what you are missing, but right now, I think the Royal Mail strikers are pissing into the wind.
Question Time on Thursday. Sorry I'm busy.
I wont be watching the "BNP" edition of the BBC's Question Time on Thursday. First of all, I do not have a television, and secondly, I don't like to watch people having slanging matches, which is inevitably what it will turn into.
Much more interesting to watch will be the reaction of the public, and the commentators. My guess, having read a lot of articles around this issue is that unless Nick Griffin messes up, public opinion will be on the side of free speech.
Straight MPs are still not in favour with the public. Almost all of them have been found out to be grasping thieves. The Government is not popular, Brown is not popular and we are facing considerable fiscal discomfort.
People are very angry that we have been lied to about almost every issue of public concern. People are angry about our involuntary linking with the EU Treaty and the failure of all mainstream parties to deal with immigration and Islamic fascism.
Ordinary people are being pushed towards the extreme parties because of the failure of Labour and the Tories to address the issues.
It is ironic, but when Hitler came to power he banned things and made it very difficult for certain sectors of the population to go about their business. Fascism is alive and well, it seems. In the Labour Party.
So, I shall watch the reaction, not the event. Of course I shall dismiss reports in the MSM, since they too have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. But I shall read the blogs, dozens of blogs, from all corners and tell you what I find.
UPDATE:
I fished this out of the Archives of the Independent. I had no idea they kept it. An early incarnation of Wrinkled Weasel:
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/letter-yes-you-with-the-yellow-spots-1468469.html
Much more interesting to watch will be the reaction of the public, and the commentators. My guess, having read a lot of articles around this issue is that unless Nick Griffin messes up, public opinion will be on the side of free speech.
Straight MPs are still not in favour with the public. Almost all of them have been found out to be grasping thieves. The Government is not popular, Brown is not popular and we are facing considerable fiscal discomfort.
People are very angry that we have been lied to about almost every issue of public concern. People are angry about our involuntary linking with the EU Treaty and the failure of all mainstream parties to deal with immigration and Islamic fascism.
Ordinary people are being pushed towards the extreme parties because of the failure of Labour and the Tories to address the issues.
It is ironic, but when Hitler came to power he banned things and made it very difficult for certain sectors of the population to go about their business. Fascism is alive and well, it seems. In the Labour Party.
So, I shall watch the reaction, not the event. Of course I shall dismiss reports in the MSM, since they too have a vested interest in maintaining the status quo. But I shall read the blogs, dozens of blogs, from all corners and tell you what I find.
UPDATE:
I fished this out of the Archives of the Independent. I had no idea they kept it. An early incarnation of Wrinkled Weasel:
http://www.independent.co.uk/opinion/letter-yes-you-with-the-yellow-spots-1468469.html
blogpost of the day
This is something I nearly blogged about myself, but somebody else put a witty spin on it, thereby pointing out the hypocrisy of the original..
http://goingfastgettingnowhere.blogspot.com/
Specifically, this:
http://goingfastgettingnowhere.blogspot.com/2009/10/ressi-zum.html
http://goingfastgettingnowhere.blogspot.com/
Specifically, this:
http://goingfastgettingnowhere.blogspot.com/2009/10/ressi-zum.html
Where is Archbishop Cranmer?
A great deal of concern has been expressed over at
http://www.archbishop-cranmer.blogspot.com/
since the writer of the blog posted a very miserable piece that sounded like a suicide note.
His Grace writes:
If Cranmer has indeed given up the ghost, then the blogosphere is going to be a worse place for it. If anyone can tell me what's going on, if AH is generally well, please let me know.
http://www.archbishop-cranmer.blogspot.com/
since the writer of the blog posted a very miserable piece that sounded like a suicide note.
His Grace writes:
The depths of despair are deeper than the ocean, and the black void is a taste of death.
His Grace is not sure that he has the strength to continue or the will to live, if, indeed, his ashes could be said to have ever re-lived in a corporeal sense at all. He needs to spend some time in the company of Beethoven: his Sonata Op 106 in B Flat Major is already playing. Vivat, vivat. If His Grace again returns to the earth in dust, he thanks his loyal readers and communicants for their congenial fellowship over these years
If Cranmer has indeed given up the ghost, then the blogosphere is going to be a worse place for it. If anyone can tell me what's going on, if AH is generally well, please let me know.
wikileaks crashes over BNP list
Wikileaks, the site that publishes material "they" don't want you to see, has crashed under the volume of traffic today, after publishing what purports to be an up-to-date list of British National Party supporters, together with addresses and phone numbers.
Elsewhere, Peter Hain tried to mount a fatuous legal challenge to the BNP, as have the usual suspects the UAF.
The Times has been foaming at the mouth on a daily basis, planting stories that amount to anti-BNP propaganda.
Now, I don't know about you, but I think the Establishment is seriously rattled.
Having failed, seriously failed, to mount a democratic and benign rebuttal, we are now firmly in the realm of state-sponsored dirty tricks. Disregard the fact that the BNP gets more seats on local councils than the Greens, in relation to the number of candidates fielded. Disregard the fact that they now have two MEPs, thanks mostly to the collapse of the Labour vote. Disregard the fact that our present Parliament is mired in sleaze and has failed to address the woeful failure of "multiculturalism"
Where do the public turn to when we have been totally let down by the main parties?
Yes. Of course the proles can have democracy, as long as you vote for the three main parties. As soon as the hoi-polloi get out of hand, this is what happens. A concerted establishment effort to retain the stinking abuse of power they presently enjoy.
It's democracy, Jim, but not as we know it.
The author in no way wishes the above post to be taken as a support of a far left party. The author abhors discrimination on racial or other grounds. No animals were hurt in the writing of this post. The value of your comments can go down as well as up
Elsewhere, Peter Hain tried to mount a fatuous legal challenge to the BNP, as have the usual suspects the UAF.
The Times has been foaming at the mouth on a daily basis, planting stories that amount to anti-BNP propaganda.
Now, I don't know about you, but I think the Establishment is seriously rattled.
Having failed, seriously failed, to mount a democratic and benign rebuttal, we are now firmly in the realm of state-sponsored dirty tricks. Disregard the fact that the BNP gets more seats on local councils than the Greens, in relation to the number of candidates fielded. Disregard the fact that they now have two MEPs, thanks mostly to the collapse of the Labour vote. Disregard the fact that our present Parliament is mired in sleaze and has failed to address the woeful failure of "multiculturalism"
Where do the public turn to when we have been totally let down by the main parties?
Yes. Of course the proles can have democracy, as long as you vote for the three main parties. As soon as the hoi-polloi get out of hand, this is what happens. A concerted establishment effort to retain the stinking abuse of power they presently enjoy.
It's democracy, Jim, but not as we know it.
The author in no way wishes the above post to be taken as a support of a far left party. The author abhors discrimination on racial or other grounds. No animals were hurt in the writing of this post. The value of your comments can go down as well as up
Minstrels and Mead
We are entering what ancient people (I won't call them Celts, for that is not what they called themselves) the period known as Samhain, or in Scots Gaelic, Samhuinn. Not far from my house I can look out onto fields and hills that have recently been busy with the harvest that signals the end of summer. Particularly, and with not too much craning of the neck, or footfall, I can see Traprain Law and Castle Rock, in Edinburgh. These two peaks were, in ancient times, the home of the Votadini. To borrow a quote, "No one knows who they were, or.. what they were doin'"
Well, not quite. The Kingdom of the Votadini stretched down into the fertile plains of the tweed and beyond into Northumberland. They were successful farmers who had yields surplus to their own requirements and could accordingly trade and become rich. This fact is born out by a hoard, much of it Roman in origin, found atop Traprain Law. Their chief customer, it seems, was the Roman Army of Occupation. It was observed by the Romans that, at certain times of the year, the Votadini would make merry, and get thoroughly bladdered. Such a festival as Samhain would have served that purpose.
What became of them? Well, to cut a long story short the Votadini were subsumed by another tribe , the Gododdin. This kingdom fell to the Angles and was renamed Bernicia. The rout is commemorated in a late 6th or early 7th century poem, Y Gododdin.
Men went to Catraeth at morn
Their high spirits lessened their life-span
They drank mead, gold and sweet, ensnaring;
For a year the minstrels were merry.
Red their swords, let the blades remain
Uncleansed, white shields and four-sided spearheads,
Before Mynyddog Mwynfawr's men
I am now going to jump across historical themes and alight upon the recent find known as the Staffordshire Hoard, which possibly was made around the time the Gododdin were fleeing in terror, but long after the Roman occupation and obviously in a different part of the country.
The now well known inscription on one of the finds reads:
Rise up O Lord, and may thy enemies be dispersed and those who hate the be driven from thy face.
The end of the sixth and the beginning of the seventh centuries reflect an almost intoxicating mix of Pagan and Christian belief. Ritual and belief appeared to be a mixture of the two.
The fields I look out onto from my house have been worked by man for at least 2000 years to the same purpose - sustenance and commerce. Be it Samhain or Harvest Festival, at this moment, I am grateful for the earth's provision and make merry with minstrels and mead.
Do we need a revolution?
The elements of confusion and dissolution which are making themselves felt in British life, in the concept of life itself and the will to national self-preservation, cannot be eradicated by a mere change of government. More than enough of those changes have already taken place without bringing about any essential betterment of the distress that exists in Britain. As time has gone on the thought and practical life of our people have been led astray into ways that are unnatural to them and injurious. One of the causes which brought about this condition of affairs must be attributed to the fact that the structure of our State and our methods of government were foreign to our own national character, our historical development and our national needs.
The parliamentary-democratic system is inseparable from the other symptoms of the time. A critical situation cannot be remedied by collaborating with the causes of it but by a radical extermination of these causes. Hence under such conditions the political struggle must necessarily take the form of a revolution.
It is out of the question to think that such a revolutionary reconstruction could be carried out by those who are the custodians and the more or less responsible representatives of the old regime. Nor would it be possible to bring this about by collaborating with these institutions, but only by establishing a new movement which will fight against them for the purpose of carrying through a radical reformation in political, cultural and economic life.
When the average political party wins a parliamentary victory no essential change takes place in the historical course which the people are following or in the outer aspect of public life; whereas a genuine revolution that arises from a profound ideological insight will always lead to a transformation which is strikingly impressive and is manifest to the outside world.
Link
The parliamentary-democratic system is inseparable from the other symptoms of the time. A critical situation cannot be remedied by collaborating with the causes of it but by a radical extermination of these causes. Hence under such conditions the political struggle must necessarily take the form of a revolution.
It is out of the question to think that such a revolutionary reconstruction could be carried out by those who are the custodians and the more or less responsible representatives of the old regime. Nor would it be possible to bring this about by collaborating with these institutions, but only by establishing a new movement which will fight against them for the purpose of carrying through a radical reformation in political, cultural and economic life.
When the average political party wins a parliamentary victory no essential change takes place in the historical course which the people are following or in the outer aspect of public life; whereas a genuine revolution that arises from a profound ideological insight will always lead to a transformation which is strikingly impressive and is manifest to the outside world.
Link
Postman Prat
One of the last of the preposterous monopolies, The Post Office, hidebound by restrictive practices and over=manning, is going down (and down they will go) like the legless, armless knight in "Monty Python's and the Holy Grail" - "Come on you bastard, come here and I'll bite your ankles"
A union official came up with this gem:
"This is about a culture of management that seems to think in a democracy that the workforce have to do just what they’re told"
Well, sorry, but among other things, most workers do have to cover for people who are off sick, and surprise surprise, most of them don't sign on for an eight hour day and do four.
The Royal Mail is hanging by one, very significant thread. By a ruling that defies logic, it has kept its VAT free status. If that is taken away, TNT will be delivering your mail.
As for "democracy", it works both ways old bean. The management are perfectly entitled to employ who they want.
It's the last gasp of an anachronism. I remember all the arguments from the print unions, another cash rich, inflated bunch of bandits. I remember working in Fleet Street at the time, watching them sign on in the morning and then pissing off to the Mucky Duck. They are history. If the Royal Mail unions carry on like this, they will be too, for, this time they have no friends in the Labour Party.
A union official came up with this gem:
"This is about a culture of management that seems to think in a democracy that the workforce have to do just what they’re told"
Well, sorry, but among other things, most workers do have to cover for people who are off sick, and surprise surprise, most of them don't sign on for an eight hour day and do four.
The Royal Mail is hanging by one, very significant thread. By a ruling that defies logic, it has kept its VAT free status. If that is taken away, TNT will be delivering your mail.
As for "democracy", it works both ways old bean. The management are perfectly entitled to employ who they want.
It's the last gasp of an anachronism. I remember all the arguments from the print unions, another cash rich, inflated bunch of bandits. I remember working in Fleet Street at the time, watching them sign on in the morning and then pissing off to the Mucky Duck. They are history. If the Royal Mail unions carry on like this, they will be too, for, this time they have no friends in the Labour Party.
The full Brazilian
At Interlagos, the venue for the Brazilian Formula One Grand Prix, Jensen Button fianlly joined the ranks of British Championship winners after winning what was a classic, and quite interesting race.
And so it's over for another year (apart from what amounts to a parade race in Abu Dhabi)
Years ago, I saw a movie called, simply, Grand Prix (1966). Directed by John Frankenheimer, it caused a stir because it was one of the first and one of the few Cinerama films. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won three. I saw it at the Leicester Square Odeon in its intended, space-age format. I have no idea what it looks like today, but then, with the wrap-around three projector screen that must have been 20 feet high and sixty feet across, it was incredible. Moreover, the film captured the melodrama of Formula One motor racing. Far more incredible though, in terms of melodrama, is the rise from the ashes of the Brawn GP team from the demise of Honda: the story of how a team in financial ruin, on the verge of implosion, went on to win the twin honours of constructors and drivers championships. I would have thought that story might not have made it into the script because it was too unbelievable.
But back to Brazil.
As Murray Walker said before the race of the Sau Paulo track, "It's a bit run down, it's a bit shabby, but the atmosphere there is absolutely incredible"
The chequered flag was waved by Felipe Massa, who so very nearly won the championship at the same track last year but who was out this season after a serious head injury caused by bits of flying debris from a Brawn car. Unlucky? Not as unlucky as his fellow Brazilian who was a World Champion; he was hit in the head by debris from his own car and was killed. Of course, I write of the late, great, Ayrton Senna. What a fine line there is between "quite interesting" and "tragic". On today's track there were tears all round. I am pleased to say, they were tears of relief and joy.
And so it's over for another year (apart from what amounts to a parade race in Abu Dhabi)
Years ago, I saw a movie called, simply, Grand Prix (1966). Directed by John Frankenheimer, it caused a stir because it was one of the first and one of the few Cinerama films. It was nominated for seven Academy Awards and won three. I saw it at the Leicester Square Odeon in its intended, space-age format. I have no idea what it looks like today, but then, with the wrap-around three projector screen that must have been 20 feet high and sixty feet across, it was incredible. Moreover, the film captured the melodrama of Formula One motor racing. Far more incredible though, in terms of melodrama, is the rise from the ashes of the Brawn GP team from the demise of Honda: the story of how a team in financial ruin, on the verge of implosion, went on to win the twin honours of constructors and drivers championships. I would have thought that story might not have made it into the script because it was too unbelievable.
But back to Brazil.
As Murray Walker said before the race of the Sau Paulo track, "It's a bit run down, it's a bit shabby, but the atmosphere there is absolutely incredible"
The chequered flag was waved by Felipe Massa, who so very nearly won the championship at the same track last year but who was out this season after a serious head injury caused by bits of flying debris from a Brawn car. Unlucky? Not as unlucky as his fellow Brazilian who was a World Champion; he was hit in the head by debris from his own car and was killed. Of course, I write of the late, great, Ayrton Senna. What a fine line there is between "quite interesting" and "tragic". On today's track there were tears all round. I am pleased to say, they were tears of relief and joy.
The Code of Obeyed Taboos
"As for the rage to believe that we have found the secret of liberty in general permissiveness, from the cradle on, this seems to me a distastrous mentality, which, whatever liberties it sets loose, it loosens also the cement that can bind a society into a stable compound. A code of obeyed taboos - I can only recall the saying of a wise Frenchman, that liberty is the luxury of self discipline"
These words are from Alistair Cooke, the journalist and broadcaster, who over a long and distinguished career, sent us his Letter from America, a weekly 15-minute talk broadcast on the BBC. Cooke defines this code of obeyed taboos further as that which your conscience will not allow you to do. It is self-regulation, a personal moral code.
In an interview shortly before his death, Cooke said that it seemed to him that there has have been in the last 30 years, perhaps two generations who have no moral guide.
Cooke was an atheist. He saw the church in decline, even though his adoptive country had, and still has, more than 50% church attendance, but he felt the need to argue for a moral lead to be taken from some quarter.
His death in 2004 had a rather macabre footnote. His body parts were stolen by a criminal gang and sold on as transplant tissue, his bones for dental implants. Cooke had cancer and so most of the parts were unsuitable for transplant, even if consent had been given, for the 94 year old's corpse to become donor material.
I am very angry
Just seen the front page of the printed edition of tomorrow's Sunday Telegraph, courtesy of Politics Home.
If you needed proof that the cult of celebrity is out of hand, look no further than this. A big photo of the Gately funeral. Whilst I have sympathy for the grief of his family and friends, let us not forget, he was a member, one member, in a manufactured boy band, who apart from Boyzone had a somewhat chequered solo career, including leaving a touring production of Godspell after getting risible reviews and poor ticket sales. In fity years time he will be forgotten. Not so, those who gave their lives in the service of our country.
When every paper in this country shows the coffins of our fallen soldiers, and names each one, in large type, then I might believe that some semblance of sanity has returned. but for now, we have to put up with this travesty of societal integrity.
Anti Hunt nutters - welcome here
So the Tories plan to repeal the fiasco that is the legislation which bans fox hunting with hounds.
It is just one of the simply terrible and frankly, unworkable bits of legalised class hatred on the statute book. Nick Herbert, the Shadow Environment Secretary confirmed the move in an interview in The Sunday Telegraph.
Herbert says:
Now before the stinkies get their green ink ready, or threaten to exhume my granny or send me letter bombs or bomb my children, I must let you know exactly where I stand on this.
I do not hunt and have never hunted. Frankly, the idea does not appeal to me because I do not ride horses and I do not get pleasure from hunting live animals. I am happy to kill anything I eat myself, though. I do however know that foxes are a menace and need to be culled. Anybody who keeps livestock knows this. Furthermore, this is an ancient country pursuit, fairly harmless as country pursuits go, and hey, I really do not mind if people dress up in pink coats to do it, or drink sherry or speak in squeaky, upper-class voices verwy, verwy lidely.
In the scheme of things, this was a vindictive piece of law that singled out the posh and those who aspire to being posh. But perhaps the biggest reason this nonsense should be done away with is that it interferes with individual liberty.
And so it is that, by this time next year, all those shamefaced prosecutions of people who wish to engage in country pursuits such as this will be consigned to the stink bin of history. And all those people who are consumed with class hatred will have to make up another reason to persecute country folk.
And if you are rabidly anti hunt, please leave a message. I am used to them and they are always unconsciously funny and semi-illiterate. I am sure my regular readers will find it highly amusing. But remember, you have no right to determine the way other people lead there lives as long as they do not harm you.
It is just one of the simply terrible and frankly, unworkable bits of legalised class hatred on the statute book. Nick Herbert, the Shadow Environment Secretary confirmed the move in an interview in The Sunday Telegraph.
Herbert says:
Above all, the Act sits with ID cards, the attempt to introduce 42 day detention and the removal of trial by jury for fraud cases as an affront to civil liberties. It is but one of Labour’s laws that have overridden individual rights and asserted the power of the State.
For all these reasons, there is a compelling case to sweep this law off the Statute Book
Now before the stinkies get their green ink ready, or threaten to exhume my granny or send me letter bombs or bomb my children, I must let you know exactly where I stand on this.
I do not hunt and have never hunted. Frankly, the idea does not appeal to me because I do not ride horses and I do not get pleasure from hunting live animals. I am happy to kill anything I eat myself, though. I do however know that foxes are a menace and need to be culled. Anybody who keeps livestock knows this. Furthermore, this is an ancient country pursuit, fairly harmless as country pursuits go, and hey, I really do not mind if people dress up in pink coats to do it, or drink sherry or speak in squeaky, upper-class voices verwy, verwy lidely.
In the scheme of things, this was a vindictive piece of law that singled out the posh and those who aspire to being posh. But perhaps the biggest reason this nonsense should be done away with is that it interferes with individual liberty.
And so it is that, by this time next year, all those shamefaced prosecutions of people who wish to engage in country pursuits such as this will be consigned to the stink bin of history. And all those people who are consumed with class hatred will have to make up another reason to persecute country folk.
And if you are rabidly anti hunt, please leave a message. I am used to them and they are always unconsciously funny and semi-illiterate. I am sure my regular readers will find it highly amusing. But remember, you have no right to determine the way other people lead there lives as long as they do not harm you.
Florence Nightingale was not just a pair of big tits
Raymond Tallis has decided to have a go at celebrities and the cult of celebrity. Glance below and you will see I have "awarded" him quote of the week, when he declared:
The heart of the celebrity culture is an individual emptiness gawped at by a collective emptiness
He goes further; "an appalling squandering of human consciousness".
What the hell does he mean by that? It sounds so arrogant, so aloof and doctrinaire, as if we were born to contemplate the meaning of life - and Marshall McLuhan. Is this man mired in a Sixties bubble of strange imaginings, like one who wakes up and finds he is a giant beetle? Doesn't he watch television for God's sake? Doesn't he realise that Shakespeare is merely a collection of cliches? He alludes to Victoria Beckham and Madonna. In 100 years time they will be beatified.
Ok, ok, I was being facetious. But he did not mention Anton de Beke, the preposterous puffball who scandalised us by a. being instantly famous, and b. not quite being without sin. De Beke (or plain Tony Beak, his real name) for me is the current paradigm, but I forgive Mr Tallis for not being in the loop on that one. You see, that is the problem; the rift between his world and the ephemeral world of celebrity. It moves on too quickly, far too quickly for an individual to subject themselves to academic rigour or sustained inspection. Clever that, but as a concept, it can be.
Celebrity is not new, Mr Tallis says, hence his Nightingale reference. He cites the cult surrounding Florence Nightingale, but you could just as easily insert, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron or Dr Johnson. The difference is, of course, that all these people had talent. The celebrities of today merely emulate, often awkwardly, like a kid in a talent show pretending to sing a torch song, the mores. the posture of fame.
This, I think, is where simulacra comes in, and particularly the role of television. As Marshall McLuhan said, "All media exist to invest our lives with artificial perceptions and arbitrary values" It has now been established beyond doubt that TV does indeed rot brains and rewire them to facilitate uncritical acceptance of what effectively is emptyness. Years ago on this blog I dredged up the research. http://wrinkledweasel.blogspot.com/2007/01/quote-of-week.html
This piece of academic research includes:
By the time the youth of today have grown up, they have already been trained in the art of the fake, of accepting a copy of a copy as real - the quintessence of celebrity. Why then, are they so desperate to join in, to become "famous?" Because it has become their God. Because they have bonded, not with reality, not with the tactile, not with conflict or smell or dimension or an immovable object, but with a machine which creates infinitely the appearance of things, not as they are, but as we wish them to be.
The heart of the celebrity culture is an individual emptiness gawped at by a collective emptiness
He goes further; "an appalling squandering of human consciousness".
What the hell does he mean by that? It sounds so arrogant, so aloof and doctrinaire, as if we were born to contemplate the meaning of life - and Marshall McLuhan. Is this man mired in a Sixties bubble of strange imaginings, like one who wakes up and finds he is a giant beetle? Doesn't he watch television for God's sake? Doesn't he realise that Shakespeare is merely a collection of cliches? He alludes to Victoria Beckham and Madonna. In 100 years time they will be beatified.
Ok, ok, I was being facetious. But he did not mention Anton de Beke, the preposterous puffball who scandalised us by a. being instantly famous, and b. not quite being without sin. De Beke (or plain Tony Beak, his real name) for me is the current paradigm, but I forgive Mr Tallis for not being in the loop on that one. You see, that is the problem; the rift between his world and the ephemeral world of celebrity. It moves on too quickly, far too quickly for an individual to subject themselves to academic rigour or sustained inspection. Clever that, but as a concept, it can be.
Celebrity is not new, Mr Tallis says, hence his Nightingale reference. He cites the cult surrounding Florence Nightingale, but you could just as easily insert, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron or Dr Johnson. The difference is, of course, that all these people had talent. The celebrities of today merely emulate, often awkwardly, like a kid in a talent show pretending to sing a torch song, the mores. the posture of fame.
This, I think, is where simulacra comes in, and particularly the role of television. As Marshall McLuhan said, "All media exist to invest our lives with artificial perceptions and arbitrary values" It has now been established beyond doubt that TV does indeed rot brains and rewire them to facilitate uncritical acceptance of what effectively is emptyness. Years ago on this blog I dredged up the research. http://wrinkledweasel.blogspot.com/2007/01/quote-of-week.html
This piece of academic research includes:
In contrast to the way real life unfolds and is experienced by young children, the pace of TV is greatly sped up." says Christakis. His research appears in the April 2004 issue of Pediatrics. Quick scene shifts of video images become "normal," to a baby "when in fact, it’s decidedly not normal or natural." Christakis says. Exposing a baby’s developing brain to videos may overstimulate it, causing permanent changes in developing neural pathways.
By the time the youth of today have grown up, they have already been trained in the art of the fake, of accepting a copy of a copy as real - the quintessence of celebrity. Why then, are they so desperate to join in, to become "famous?" Because it has become their God. Because they have bonded, not with reality, not with the tactile, not with conflict or smell or dimension or an immovable object, but with a machine which creates infinitely the appearance of things, not as they are, but as we wish them to be.
Matthew Parris - don't miss.
One article this week stands out like an iceberg waiting to sink the Titanic. It is by Matthew Parris. A curious tale of divine guidance leading to a telling encounter. You will have to read it for yourself, but as an obiter dictum, one of the most memorable quotes is Matthew's description of Westminster Cathedral - if you have ever visited it you will know what he means.
Quite. People who can write one-liners like that end up writing columns in The Times.
The substance of the piece is even more of a revelation...
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article6875245.ece
As he says, God help us.
"Westminster Cathedral: a vast, gloomy, late 19th-century, brick-built cavern combining memories of Byzantium with aspects of a biscuit factory."
Quite. People who can write one-liners like that end up writing columns in The Times.
The substance of the piece is even more of a revelation...
http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/comment/columnists/matthew_parris/article6875245.ece
As he says, God help us.
One country which managed to outstrip my prior imagination of it is Finland. My home has lots of Finnish stuff in it, mostly practical, I have to say.
Finland has 60,000 lakes, much of it is covered in ice and snow for several months of the year. One of the biggest reasons for deaths on Finnish roads is not just drinking (absolutely kielletty to drink and drive) but Elks. Elk-related rtas are about contribute half as many road deaths as drink driving. Hit an elk and you know about it. In Finland, you live in the woods. In Helsinki you sit cheek by jowl with ministers of state and fishermen, on the many wharfside cafes. In Finland you can look glum without people asking if you are alright. Finland has become wealthy by moving with the times. Nokia, for example began by manufacturing tree fiber-based communications media, also known as paper, and later moved on to phones. Finland joined the EU, without a referendum, but the less said about that, the better.
And so it is that the Finns have announced that Broadband internet is now classed as a legal right.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/broadband/6337698/Finland-makes-fast-broadband-a-legal-right.html
It is not easy to make that kind of deal in a country as geographically challenged as Finland, but then again, they don't cancel trains when it snows either.
So at first, they are only saying it should be 1 Mbps, but its a start. I only get 2-3 Mbps and I have the top package from BT and I live less than 15 miles from the Capital of Scotland.
With an entire population less than that of London, the Finns are now well ahead in the broadband revolution. Friends. We are fucked.
Finland has 60,000 lakes, much of it is covered in ice and snow for several months of the year. One of the biggest reasons for deaths on Finnish roads is not just drinking (absolutely kielletty to drink and drive) but Elks. Elk-related rtas are about contribute half as many road deaths as drink driving. Hit an elk and you know about it. In Finland, you live in the woods. In Helsinki you sit cheek by jowl with ministers of state and fishermen, on the many wharfside cafes. In Finland you can look glum without people asking if you are alright. Finland has become wealthy by moving with the times. Nokia, for example began by manufacturing tree fiber-based communications media, also known as paper, and later moved on to phones. Finland joined the EU, without a referendum, but the less said about that, the better.
And so it is that the Finns have announced that Broadband internet is now classed as a legal right.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/broadband/6337698/Finland-makes-fast-broadband-a-legal-right.html
It is not easy to make that kind of deal in a country as geographically challenged as Finland, but then again, they don't cancel trains when it snows either.
So at first, they are only saying it should be 1 Mbps, but its a start. I only get 2-3 Mbps and I have the top package from BT and I live less than 15 miles from the Capital of Scotland.
With an entire population less than that of London, the Finns are now well ahead in the broadband revolution. Friends. We are fucked.
There is something mean spirited about being anti-monarchy
I just read an article in The Times about HM the Queen, who attended, quite without fuss, a West End play, strictly in a private capacity. What appalls me is that some people think it is a waste of time to report this at all. ("Who cares?" wrote one, though, for the life of me, I don't know why he bothered) I don't. It shows that the Royals take an interest in culture and do not in fact, think the world smells of fresh paint.
The Monarchy no longer rules this country but takes an interest in its Government. It costs next to nothing to run and reaps the benefits of being a major tourist attraction. The Monarchy is also a living example of a nation that was once great enough to rule the waves. Attempts at getting rid of it strike me as historical revisionism at its worst.
It is impossible to attribute malign intent to Her Majesty. As far as I know, her life has been spent in service to the nation and the Commonwealth. Her advisors appear to be a lot less partisan or silly than the Government when it comes to handing out honours. Her properties belong to the nation - she can hardly flog them to an Arab, and so to all intents and purposes she is a tenant.
The Port of Leith is now a regenerated bit of Edinburgh, popular with the beautiful people, and now the home of the former Royal Yacht, Britannia. The Yacht was there first, and everything sprung up around it. It is massively popular as a visitor attraction. In it's day it was the height of luxury, though, seeing it now, it is somewhat faded, and by Oligarch standards, distinctly pokey. But it stands as an importan artifact of the Colonial period which some are so keen to sweep under the carpet.
The Royal Family does not run the country. It does, however, remind us of who we once were. And for that, I believe they should remain.
The Monarchy no longer rules this country but takes an interest in its Government. It costs next to nothing to run and reaps the benefits of being a major tourist attraction. The Monarchy is also a living example of a nation that was once great enough to rule the waves. Attempts at getting rid of it strike me as historical revisionism at its worst.
It is impossible to attribute malign intent to Her Majesty. As far as I know, her life has been spent in service to the nation and the Commonwealth. Her advisors appear to be a lot less partisan or silly than the Government when it comes to handing out honours. Her properties belong to the nation - she can hardly flog them to an Arab, and so to all intents and purposes she is a tenant.
The Port of Leith is now a regenerated bit of Edinburgh, popular with the beautiful people, and now the home of the former Royal Yacht, Britannia. The Yacht was there first, and everything sprung up around it. It is massively popular as a visitor attraction. In it's day it was the height of luxury, though, seeing it now, it is somewhat faded, and by Oligarch standards, distinctly pokey. But it stands as an importan artifact of the Colonial period which some are so keen to sweep under the carpet.
The Royal Family does not run the country. It does, however, remind us of who we once were. And for that, I believe they should remain.
Duvet day
Ten minutes ago, I had a king sized duvet cover over my body. Yes, you will say, I suspected Weasel was kinky. Not so. If I wanted to dress up as Caspar the Ghost for the bedroom, I would hire a costume from a joke shop, but it had to be changed. Duvet's are the Tetra Paks of Slumberworld. I find them traumatic and humiliating.
Celebrities - Quote of the Week
It's almost impossible not to have read a book by polymath, Ray Tallis, who sounds curiously like Dan Hannan. Anyway, as a guest of the Cheltenham Literary Festival he began a talk with this definition of celebrity:
The collective emptyness, gawping at the individual emptyness.
And if you have really been reading the last post, you will realise it is what I have been on about.
The collective emptyness, gawping at the individual emptyness.
And if you have really been reading the last post, you will realise it is what I have been on about.
Weasel says, Relax
After the last post, I thought, hey, Weas, lighten up. Decadence can be fun. Yes it can be, as long as you don't worship it. The point about Oscar Wilde in the last post was that Wilde played with decadence like a musician plays on an instrument - essentially an artististic muse, a canvas on which to paint your thoughts.
Same here with Frankie. This is priceless stuff. It was a great track in 1983 and it still is. This is the 2009 remix, with an invigorated, great looking Holly in an elegant, very droll video.
Same here with Frankie. This is priceless stuff. It was a great track in 1983 and it still is. This is the 2009 remix, with an invigorated, great looking Holly in an elegant, very droll video.
Stephen Gately and The Apotheosis of Decadence
Google the word "decadence" and you will see what I mean, you will get a trail of associations, night clubs, and fan sites dedicated, dedicated, to decadence. Not that half of them understand what it is or was; to them, a vague notion of being naughty, doing something rude, etc, usually at night, usually dressed in something tight, made from purple velvet. Venus in Furs.
To understand the idea properly you have to at least have a passing acquaintance with its progenitors.
London in the 1890's was, like France, a hotbed of decadence - if you knew the right people. A man of the 1890's considered himself liberated, post-Darwinian, and, bereft of purpose and meaning.
It was a struggle that captivated and determined the course of one well-known life, that of Oscar Wilde, whose novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" was a handbook of Decadence. Except that it is, as Wilde protested, a deeply moral book, (the narrative declares of the famous painting: "a visible symbol of the degradation of sin").
Here is typical Dorian:
Wilde set out the stall in the book as a kind of handbook of Decadence, often including lists of all the bad things one could do - in case your own imagination faltered. Wilde writes that Dorian was "poisoned by a book". That fictive book was almost certainly inspired by Huysman's Against Nature - a satire on literary realism and decadence. It outdid Wilde on several levels, especially on lists of bad things to do, including, getting a tortoise and covering it in jewels, and having a black dinner party where the food was tinted in dark colours, served by naked negresses, clad only in stockings.
Wilde, like many of us duelled with the good and bad side of human nature. His Dorian was Lord Alfred Douglas, who stuck with Wilde like a clam in the days of fame and success, and who deserted him as soon as disaster struck. Wilde was the artist, Douglas, his homosexual lover, was the parasite. (For the sake of brevity, I have to make this sweeping generalisation - Douglas had some competency as a poet.)
Wilde's downfall, the trials, the imprisonment, the ignominy and his death in a cheap Parisien hotel, are due to his succumbing to the lower tastes, indeed the lower life that Bosie offered him. (You can read all about it in De Profundis). It is not that Wilde was not thoroughly homosexual or thoroughly promiscuous, it is that Bosie distracted him from going on to further heights. When the fall took place, Wilde was, as they say today, on a roll. He had three of his plays running in London theatres. Together they were spending obscene amounts of Oscar's money, with the result that Wilde was bankrupted soon after his imprisonment for the kind of money he would spend in a week.
In a nutshell, Decadence was not so much about sins or committing them, but about staving off boredom and perhaps attempting to discover meaning through new sensations. In order to be decadent you first had to be rich enough to indulge yourself, usually because, unlike the working classes, you had free time. Decadents affected the word "Ennui". It is only now in the 21st Century that it has taken on a different meaning, and that is the pursuit of pleasure and excess for its own sake. Wilde would have been mortified. He saw decadence as a means of artistic inspiration and at worst, a distraction from the serious business of writing.
All this brings me to Stephen Gately, a young man who found some fame, if not in life, then certainly in death. I am not here to discuss the artistic merits, if any. but you may observe that in the end, as he lay motionless on the sofa, whilst his "husband" and someone they picked up at a gay bar were busy in their bedroom, that decadence, for want of a better word, ruled the day and condemned his partner, to a lifetime of regret. I am not suggesting there is a connection between cause and effect here, merely that Gately's partner may have cause to reflect upon the shallowness of his life and how, by accident, that apotheosis of indulgence and selfishness was in the ascendent in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
To understand the idea properly you have to at least have a passing acquaintance with its progenitors.
London in the 1890's was, like France, a hotbed of decadence - if you knew the right people. A man of the 1890's considered himself liberated, post-Darwinian, and, bereft of purpose and meaning.
It was a struggle that captivated and determined the course of one well-known life, that of Oscar Wilde, whose novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" was a handbook of Decadence. Except that it is, as Wilde protested, a deeply moral book, (the narrative declares of the famous painting: "a visible symbol of the degradation of sin").
Here is typical Dorian:
One evening about seven o'clock I determined to go out in search of some adventure. I felt that this gray, monstrous London of ours, with its myriads of people, its splendid sinners, and its sordid sins, as you once said, must have something in store for me. I fancied a thousand things..
Wilde set out the stall in the book as a kind of handbook of Decadence, often including lists of all the bad things one could do - in case your own imagination faltered. Wilde writes that Dorian was "poisoned by a book". That fictive book was almost certainly inspired by Huysman's Against Nature - a satire on literary realism and decadence. It outdid Wilde on several levels, especially on lists of bad things to do, including, getting a tortoise and covering it in jewels, and having a black dinner party where the food was tinted in dark colours, served by naked negresses, clad only in stockings.
Wilde, like many of us duelled with the good and bad side of human nature. His Dorian was Lord Alfred Douglas, who stuck with Wilde like a clam in the days of fame and success, and who deserted him as soon as disaster struck. Wilde was the artist, Douglas, his homosexual lover, was the parasite. (For the sake of brevity, I have to make this sweeping generalisation - Douglas had some competency as a poet.)
Wilde's downfall, the trials, the imprisonment, the ignominy and his death in a cheap Parisien hotel, are due to his succumbing to the lower tastes, indeed the lower life that Bosie offered him. (You can read all about it in De Profundis). It is not that Wilde was not thoroughly homosexual or thoroughly promiscuous, it is that Bosie distracted him from going on to further heights. When the fall took place, Wilde was, as they say today, on a roll. He had three of his plays running in London theatres. Together they were spending obscene amounts of Oscar's money, with the result that Wilde was bankrupted soon after his imprisonment for the kind of money he would spend in a week.
In a nutshell, Decadence was not so much about sins or committing them, but about staving off boredom and perhaps attempting to discover meaning through new sensations. In order to be decadent you first had to be rich enough to indulge yourself, usually because, unlike the working classes, you had free time. Decadents affected the word "Ennui". It is only now in the 21st Century that it has taken on a different meaning, and that is the pursuit of pleasure and excess for its own sake. Wilde would have been mortified. He saw decadence as a means of artistic inspiration and at worst, a distraction from the serious business of writing.
All this brings me to Stephen Gately, a young man who found some fame, if not in life, then certainly in death. I am not here to discuss the artistic merits, if any. but you may observe that in the end, as he lay motionless on the sofa, whilst his "husband" and someone they picked up at a gay bar were busy in their bedroom, that decadence, for want of a better word, ruled the day and condemned his partner, to a lifetime of regret. I am not suggesting there is a connection between cause and effect here, merely that Gately's partner may have cause to reflect upon the shallowness of his life and how, by accident, that apotheosis of indulgence and selfishness was in the ascendent in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
Last Month I picked out a prediction about the pound hitting parity with the Euro, because I was shocked to read it.
Today I found a similar doomy outlook from Jane Foley, Research Director, Forex.com, written a couple of weeks ago:
"the recent rapid drop in the value of the pound has raised speculation that euro-sterling could see parity again in the not too distant future"
(Source: City A.M)
Today's rate is 1.0643 -
That is not far off parity. Only Two years ago, in October 2007, the rate was 1.4367.
Then your Euro cost you about 70p. Taking a hit of 30 pence in every pound has certainly changed my plans to travel abroad. Has it affected yours?
I am not good at figuring this data, but it seems to me that apart from the visible hikes in taxation, we are faced with eye-watering "taxes" on travel abroad, due to the weak pound, which is after all, deliberately weakened by fiscal policy.
Perhaps an economist can enlighten us.
Today I found a similar doomy outlook from Jane Foley, Research Director, Forex.com, written a couple of weeks ago:
"the recent rapid drop in the value of the pound has raised speculation that euro-sterling could see parity again in the not too distant future"
(Source: City A.M)
Today's rate is 1.0643 -
That is not far off parity. Only Two years ago, in October 2007, the rate was 1.4367.
Then your Euro cost you about 70p. Taking a hit of 30 pence in every pound has certainly changed my plans to travel abroad. Has it affected yours?
I am not good at figuring this data, but it seems to me that apart from the visible hikes in taxation, we are faced with eye-watering "taxes" on travel abroad, due to the weak pound, which is after all, deliberately weakened by fiscal policy.
Perhaps an economist can enlighten us.
Chicken, Dinosaurs and Black People
A new kind of dinosaur has been found, one with feathers. I am not a paleontologist, so cannot contribute to the discussion on the significance of this find. I was however, tickled to discover that some scientists have come to the conclusion that dinosaurs became chickens.
According to Scientific Blogging,
Picking over the bones of modern culture is a pastime I enjoy, but I am quite depressed about the culture of offense we have drifted into. Hardly a day goes by, it seems, when one c-list celebrity or another gets into hot water over an off-the-cuff remark that became a bad remark the Tuesday before. What I am saying here is that a new, Newspeak dictionary is being published every week now, and you have to be pretty sharp to keep up with the banned words and phrases. Words like "cunt" seem to be ok now, even on television. I can still remember when Kenneth Tynan said "Fuck" on the BBC and the papers talked about it for weeks. Recently, I would say, no longer than a twelvemonth, it has become de rigeur to blank out the words "Nigger" and "Paki", as if these words in themselves are so terrible, so beyond the pale, that even mention of them in parenthesis is a bridge too far.
Who decides these things I am not sure. You have to ask an anthropologist. All I know is, that in certain quarters, you had better have up to date information on which words you can use and then make sure that you are entitled to use them, for nowadays linguistic hegemony has fragmented into minority usage and you can only use certain words if you belong to that minority.
Someone coming from, let's say Retford, let us say, an average bloke (can I still use "bloke" or "average"?) who has an average job and is of average intelligence, is still going to use words that would call for resignations and perhaps, a meeting with the law, had they not been from Retford, and had the disadvantage of being ordinary. I am not sure why celebrities are singled out. They have a rough ride; one day they are censured for alluding to racial stereotypes by perhaps mentioning "curries", the next they are being told that, because they directed a movie, they are entitled to rape at least one 13 year old.
If these were children, who need clear boundaries, we would be confusing the hell out of them. I must conclude that the arbitrary nature of celebrity censure is the result of a society that does not know right from wrong.
I recently got a new chicken, a black frizzle. I call her Mahalia, after the wonderful Gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson. To hear Jackson, you are witnessing liberation, of the soul, the spirit and the body - an almost paranormal experience mediated by this woman of unremarkable origins who to me, represents all that is great about the Civil Rights Movement. It is difficult to listen to her rendition of "We shall overcome" without being, well, overcome. You cannot secularise the Southern Freedom Movement, it was steeped in the knowledge of the Word of God and the deep, unshakeable understanding that, all men are born equal under God.
Well, Mahalia, the chicken is unwell. We inherited her with a disease called scaly leg. Sufficient to say it is very unpleasant and would in time mean that she would lose her limbs. The only time to catch a chicken, without a great hoo-ha, is at night. And so it was that, after dark, we gently tried to extract Mahalia from her perch to begin her treatment. The trouble is, she is black and her feathers are curly. In the dark I am afraid that, not only could I not see her, I could not tell her one end from the other. It wouldn't surprise me to find that black people are harder to see in the dark, given the logic of the situation.
Am I a racist?
According to Scientific Blogging,
Researchers from Harvard Medical School and Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center have captured and sequenced tiny pieces of collagen protein from a 68 million-year-old Tyrannosaurus rex. The protein fragments—seven in all—appear to most closely match amino acid sequences found in collagen of present day chickens.
Picking over the bones of modern culture is a pastime I enjoy, but I am quite depressed about the culture of offense we have drifted into. Hardly a day goes by, it seems, when one c-list celebrity or another gets into hot water over an off-the-cuff remark that became a bad remark the Tuesday before. What I am saying here is that a new, Newspeak dictionary is being published every week now, and you have to be pretty sharp to keep up with the banned words and phrases. Words like "cunt" seem to be ok now, even on television. I can still remember when Kenneth Tynan said "Fuck" on the BBC and the papers talked about it for weeks. Recently, I would say, no longer than a twelvemonth, it has become de rigeur to blank out the words "Nigger" and "Paki", as if these words in themselves are so terrible, so beyond the pale, that even mention of them in parenthesis is a bridge too far.
Who decides these things I am not sure. You have to ask an anthropologist. All I know is, that in certain quarters, you had better have up to date information on which words you can use and then make sure that you are entitled to use them, for nowadays linguistic hegemony has fragmented into minority usage and you can only use certain words if you belong to that minority.
Someone coming from, let's say Retford, let us say, an average bloke (can I still use "bloke" or "average"?) who has an average job and is of average intelligence, is still going to use words that would call for resignations and perhaps, a meeting with the law, had they not been from Retford, and had the disadvantage of being ordinary. I am not sure why celebrities are singled out. They have a rough ride; one day they are censured for alluding to racial stereotypes by perhaps mentioning "curries", the next they are being told that, because they directed a movie, they are entitled to rape at least one 13 year old.
If these were children, who need clear boundaries, we would be confusing the hell out of them. I must conclude that the arbitrary nature of celebrity censure is the result of a society that does not know right from wrong.
I recently got a new chicken, a black frizzle. I call her Mahalia, after the wonderful Gospel singer, Mahalia Jackson. To hear Jackson, you are witnessing liberation, of the soul, the spirit and the body - an almost paranormal experience mediated by this woman of unremarkable origins who to me, represents all that is great about the Civil Rights Movement. It is difficult to listen to her rendition of "We shall overcome" without being, well, overcome. You cannot secularise the Southern Freedom Movement, it was steeped in the knowledge of the Word of God and the deep, unshakeable understanding that, all men are born equal under God.
Well, Mahalia, the chicken is unwell. We inherited her with a disease called scaly leg. Sufficient to say it is very unpleasant and would in time mean that she would lose her limbs. The only time to catch a chicken, without a great hoo-ha, is at night. And so it was that, after dark, we gently tried to extract Mahalia from her perch to begin her treatment. The trouble is, she is black and her feathers are curly. In the dark I am afraid that, not only could I not see her, I could not tell her one end from the other. It wouldn't surprise me to find that black people are harder to see in the dark, given the logic of the situation.
Am I a racist?
A Fly on the Wall
Three weeks ago, just before the Labour Party Autumn Conference, Alastair Campbell got a call from a former colleague at Number 10.
"It's changed. Gordon cannot go on. we have to have an exit strategy".
Campbell, sighed. "Who else thinks this way?"
"Nearly everybody. I had a word with Peter and basically, he's not listening to anything or anybody anymore. He's just going around saying we've got to fuck the Tories, fuck Cameron."
Alastair said, "They are cunts. They will fuck themselves. How is the speech going?"
"Its all about fucking the Tories".
"Who is talking to Gordon?"
"Mostly Peter and me"
"And Charlie?
"Not speaking"
"Balls?"
"Do me a fucking favour.."
Campbell drew breath. "Who is in the frame?"
"Milliband"
"Yeah, which one?", Campbell allowed himself a little laugh. " Ed will do what he is told".
"We want you to come in and find a way to get Gordon out, tastefully, dignified and soon. Get him a job with the World Bank or Safeways or something."
"Everybody I talk to say he is losing it. Everybody is asking me.ME, for fuck's sake! The blogs are full of the medication story and it's going to spill over into the papers and nobody is doing anything to stop it. Are you sitting in your offices being wanked off?"
Campbell ended the call. Two minutes later, he rang back.
"Health grounds. Problems with the eye, needs rest. put a small piece out, nothing flashy but do it after the Conference. It will fuck Cameron. Camerion will look as if a cat with cystitis pissed in his eye. Gordon resigns in January which gives us time to sort out Ed, but for fuck's sake, don't tell him and don't tell Peter. I'll talk to Peter. Now I am going to go away and think about how to win the election. Please excuse me and fuck off."
"It's changed. Gordon cannot go on. we have to have an exit strategy".
Campbell, sighed. "Who else thinks this way?"
"Nearly everybody. I had a word with Peter and basically, he's not listening to anything or anybody anymore. He's just going around saying we've got to fuck the Tories, fuck Cameron."
Alastair said, "They are cunts. They will fuck themselves. How is the speech going?"
"Its all about fucking the Tories".
"Who is talking to Gordon?"
"Mostly Peter and me"
"And Charlie?
"Not speaking"
"Balls?"
"Do me a fucking favour.."
Campbell drew breath. "Who is in the frame?"
"Milliband"
"Yeah, which one?", Campbell allowed himself a little laugh. " Ed will do what he is told".
"We want you to come in and find a way to get Gordon out, tastefully, dignified and soon. Get him a job with the World Bank or Safeways or something."
"Everybody I talk to say he is losing it. Everybody is asking me.ME, for fuck's sake! The blogs are full of the medication story and it's going to spill over into the papers and nobody is doing anything to stop it. Are you sitting in your offices being wanked off?"
Campbell ended the call. Two minutes later, he rang back.
"Health grounds. Problems with the eye, needs rest. put a small piece out, nothing flashy but do it after the Conference. It will fuck Cameron. Camerion will look as if a cat with cystitis pissed in his eye. Gordon resigns in January which gives us time to sort out Ed, but for fuck's sake, don't tell him and don't tell Peter. I'll talk to Peter. Now I am going to go away and think about how to win the election. Please excuse me and fuck off."
Brown to resign on health grounds
Bit of a hostage to fortune here, but since I correctly predicted the departure of Charles Kennedy from that party, erm the Demerol Limocrats, I think, way before he actually went, I think I have form you can follow with confidence.
When a story like the health of the PM gets into the MSM the first question you ask is, "in whose interests is it that this story is made public?" Since the health of Gordon Brown and his medical details are personal and private, this must have been made public with the approval of Number 10. I see the deft hand of Alastair Campbell all over this.
Be in no doubt folks. GB is leaving the building. Before the election. Why? Because he has always run away. Because he is incapable of running against anybody else. Because he is a coward. He knows he is going to lose the election for Labour. He cannot face that because he is in denial. This is his way out. And he will take it.
Addendum/Update: I found the original Charlie Kennedy prediction, made on Thursday 15th December. As late as 18th of December, the Liberal Leader was denying everything:
"on 18 December 2005 when asked "Has it been a battle to stay off the booze, have you had to have medical support in any way at all?" Kennedy replied "No, no, no, that is not the case.." (ring any bells?)
Kennedy resigned on 7th January, 2006.
http://wrinkledweasel.blogspot.com/2005/12/curse-of-weasel.html
Thinking about it - it's a bullet-proof way to go, after all the opposition can't kick a man when he goes on health grounds can they? Labour will pick up a few points with the exposure that a leadership election gives to a party, the new man will be seen as a new broom, and many will want to "give him a chance". The new leader calls an election and, bingo, he can spout a brand new set of lies. Perfect. Well done Alastair.
When a story like the health of the PM gets into the MSM the first question you ask is, "in whose interests is it that this story is made public?" Since the health of Gordon Brown and his medical details are personal and private, this must have been made public with the approval of Number 10. I see the deft hand of Alastair Campbell all over this.
Be in no doubt folks. GB is leaving the building. Before the election. Why? Because he has always run away. Because he is incapable of running against anybody else. Because he is a coward. He knows he is going to lose the election for Labour. He cannot face that because he is in denial. This is his way out. And he will take it.
Addendum/Update: I found the original Charlie Kennedy prediction, made on Thursday 15th December. As late as 18th of December, the Liberal Leader was denying everything:
"on 18 December 2005 when asked "Has it been a battle to stay off the booze, have you had to have medical support in any way at all?" Kennedy replied "No, no, no, that is not the case.." (ring any bells?)
Kennedy resigned on 7th January, 2006.
http://wrinkledweasel.blogspot.com/2005/12/curse-of-weasel.html
Thinking about it - it's a bullet-proof way to go, after all the opposition can't kick a man when he goes on health grounds can they? Labour will pick up a few points with the exposure that a leadership election gives to a party, the new man will be seen as a new broom, and many will want to "give him a chance". The new leader calls an election and, bingo, he can spout a brand new set of lies. Perfect. Well done Alastair.
Things I miss Number 37
Regular readers of this blog may have detected a nostalgic turn. It's just the way I feel now.
This time it is the Night Ferry.
29 years ago, in late October, I boarded the Night Ferry - the Continental Sleeping Car train that departed from London Victoria each night, bound for Paris and Brussels. At Dover, it was loaded onto a ship and unloaded at Calais or Dunkirk. By a complete stroke of luck and serendipity it just happened to be the last one, ever.
I was greeted by the carriage conductor who led me down the corridor. It was cloaked in the smell of perfumes, French cigarettes and fresh linen. The main luggage was sealed in the fourgon and I carried the rest into the cabin. There was a sink, with a self-emptying potty underneath it, a cupboard with two glasses and a carafe, on which was engraved the crest of the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits et des Grands Express Européens.
There was a communicating door with the next cabin. Underneath the bed was a life-jacket. Fat lot of good it would have done if the ship had gone down - the wagons were well below the waterline. It was a genteel way to travel, one that promised the kind of excitement you would associate with "The Riddle of the Sands" or an early James Bond tale. One could imagine how, after the War, Churchill had the train stop specially at his local station to take him across the water, or The Burtons (Richard and Elizabeth) would settle in to the comfort of a double cabin and order champagne to be brought. Perhaps the odd spy would make a discreet visit under a false identity. That was the kind of train it was.
The idea was revived sometime later; a through train from Glasgow to Paris was planned to the extent that the rolling stock had been built and fitted. Labour cancelled it. They really have no imagination, do they?
al-Qaeda suspect was researcher at CERN
You know CERN, the place in Switzerland that is going to create a massive black hole into which we are all going to be sucked?
Well, it turns out that one of the researchers there is an al-Qaeda suspect, an Algerian arrested yesterday.
I can imagine the conversation when finally, they get this massive thing running.
"By the way Mohammed, don't flip that switch or we shall all meet our maker!" jokes Hans.
Well, it turns out that one of the researchers there is an al-Qaeda suspect, an Algerian arrested yesterday.
I can imagine the conversation when finally, they get this massive thing running.
"By the way Mohammed, don't flip that switch or we shall all meet our maker!" jokes Hans.
Gary McKinnon
One of my less successful pursuits, in terms of personal happiness, was working in a locked facility for Asperger's Adults. I was unhappy in it, not because of the residents, but because of one member of staff who decided to humiliate me whenever he could do so, (without it being obvious) and expose me to unneccesary danger. This included placing me with the most dangerous of our clients during my first few weeks. There are people like that in all walks of life, but for some reason the "caring" professions have more than their fair share.
I cannot go into personal details of course, about those inside this unit, for whom release in their lifetime was very unlikely; sufficient to say that some were violent and had murdered people.
The lesson I learned during the first few days was that, if you were to have met any of the residents in a pub, it is unlikely that you would have noticed any behaviour that gave away their condition. Many Asperger's people are highly intelligent, like Gary McKinnon, who has lost his extradition appeal to the USA after hacking into their military computers. Despite the medical evidence, McKinnon has been declared fit enough to stand trial in America.
I said that you would find it difficult to spot an Aspie. It would take some time to do so, and then you would have to be looking for it. The symptoms are often very peculiar to the individual. But the reason my residents were incarcerated was that they had had a serious brush with the law. More often than not, their view on this was bafflement. Aperger's people live a life of trying to understand signs and signifiers that they seem doomed never to comprehend. The clever ones learn to fake reactions. They may well listen to a joke and laugh, but that is because they have learned that a certain string of words and a certain type of language is a "joke". There are many high-level Asperger's people who hold down jobs, such as accountancy or almost anything that requires obsessive attention to detail. But for some reason they are unable to control their temper. When this happens, all hell breaks loose and people can die, as a consequence of them merely being in the way.
I don't know the details about McKinnon, but it is possible that he presents himself as intelligent, lucid and sane. That is because, in his personal hell, he learned to hide the terror within.
I cannot go into personal details of course, about those inside this unit, for whom release in their lifetime was very unlikely; sufficient to say that some were violent and had murdered people.
The lesson I learned during the first few days was that, if you were to have met any of the residents in a pub, it is unlikely that you would have noticed any behaviour that gave away their condition. Many Asperger's people are highly intelligent, like Gary McKinnon, who has lost his extradition appeal to the USA after hacking into their military computers. Despite the medical evidence, McKinnon has been declared fit enough to stand trial in America.
I said that you would find it difficult to spot an Aspie. It would take some time to do so, and then you would have to be looking for it. The symptoms are often very peculiar to the individual. But the reason my residents were incarcerated was that they had had a serious brush with the law. More often than not, their view on this was bafflement. Aperger's people live a life of trying to understand signs and signifiers that they seem doomed never to comprehend. The clever ones learn to fake reactions. They may well listen to a joke and laugh, but that is because they have learned that a certain string of words and a certain type of language is a "joke". There are many high-level Asperger's people who hold down jobs, such as accountancy or almost anything that requires obsessive attention to detail. But for some reason they are unable to control their temper. When this happens, all hell breaks loose and people can die, as a consequence of them merely being in the way.
I don't know the details about McKinnon, but it is possible that he presents himself as intelligent, lucid and sane. That is because, in his personal hell, he learned to hide the terror within.
movers and shakers
You used to be able to go to Woolworths and buy a small device which allowed you to convert a wine bottle into a table lamp. To make this lamp, you would take your bottle - perhaps one of those Chianti bottles, the kind with raffia - because it looked "continental", and stick the socket gadget in the mouth of the bottle. Having bought a cheap lampshade or made one from a wire framework and covered it yourself with decorations, you would give it pride of place in your sitting room; a room that hitherto had one incandescent bulb in the ceiling, and perhaps a "standard" lamp.
This sitting room comprised a sofa, two arm chairs, a mirror, one solitary ornament of no discernable style, one picture and perhaps a radiogram. That was it. In the 1960s, the period I am on about, life was remarkably uncluttered. I forgot to mention; in order to display this table lamp, you then had to get yourself a small table, or place it on something we called a sideboard. This was the beginning of the DIY era, a left-over from the austerity of make do and mend of the war. This was done from necessity and because we began to be aspirational middle classes.
Move forward 30 or so years and we find ourselves knee deep in ..well..clutter. All my aspirations have not only been fulfilled, they are now trying to subsume me.
As I write, I sit in my study, surrounded by boxes (partly due to last month's move). These boxes contain "things we might need", or remnants of projects or things that were on sale at the time and seemed like a good idea. You know what I mean?
The news this week that Tesco, a sort of commercial Big Brother who loves you, has gone into partnership with Safestore, a self-storage company. Self-storage is not something you would have heard about 30 or 40 years ago. If you needed to store something in the 1950s or 60s, it was probably because you were joining the Colonial Service, in which case, Pickfords would collect it from you. Otherwise, you literally had no reason to store anything, for, you did not have clutter.
Safestore began in 1998 with three properties. It now has 90 throughout the UK. It is practically recession proof, for even in these difficult times, people need to store things, sometimes, as an alternative to renting commercial space.
I blame IKEA. IKEA is the Noughties equivalent of the Barry Bucknall 50's DIY era. From it, and its siblings, such as B&Q or Dobbies, we transport huge quantities of stuff. Things that seem useful or decorative or provide a "solution" as they seem to say in the trade.
Which sort of brings me to the point. A few weeks ago, I revealed that one of our cars is a Peugeot Partner Combi - basically a van with carpets. They all do them - Citroen, Renault, Fiat, Vauxhall, Mercedes - all of them. Furthermore, they are now hugely popular. Why then, apart from a niche market for wheelchair users, are these vehicles so popular? I think you need look no further than a weekend at IKEA, watching tired couples struggling with their Gorms, their Ektorps and their Billys. We are the clowns of convenience. We scurry to and fro and make our nests. We are a nation of movers and shakers, and nothing is going to stop us.
Have a nice weekend.
Bookmakers are in a bad way
If I was to be self-critical for a moment, a regular pitfall of this blog is that I tend to blog about "worthy" stories - things that are newsworthy and comment worthy. This has been hitherto an unconscious thing, but from now on, I will be mindful of falling into cliche territory.
Summers in the 1960s always seemed long and hot. None longer and hotter than those we spent on the terrace of a family friend, where the jazz men got together and played trad jazz and the kids ran around being kids. This family friend became my step-father, but that is another story. In the mid sixties, he was a bookmaker - a wealthy one. The terrace, which became the venue for Sunday lunch-time jazz sesssions, part of an impressive, custom-built house. There were garages, cars (including a rather nice Radford conversion Mini ) rooms for the championship winning dogs and a paddock for the horses. These were the golden days for independent Turf Accountants. Bookies were always on the edge. They were on the edge of legality right until the early 1960s when off-course betting was legalised. They were always coming into contact with the forces of law or the forced of disorder.
Every bookie knew the local criminals and knew the bent coppers. The way it worked with the coppers (before legalisation) was that the bent copper would call the bookie and say "we have to raid you today". The bookie would then make sure the regulars were out of the way and the evidence was minimal enough to get a fine or a caution. My step-father told me that one of these bent coppers, who regularly got a brown envelope, rose to be a chief constable. Occasionally, someone - an anonymous voice - would ring up from London. The voice would explain that Mr X was in town and was to be given credit betting facilities. This was no more and no less than a protection racket, but it was absorbed into the business.
Bookmakers were able to be rich in the sixties because there was no betting tax and every bookie had two books; the one they kept in the safe, and the one they showed the taxman. There was so much cash flying around it was difficult to spend it. I said they lived on the edge - well they also lived on the edge of the entertainment industry, for, like the drug dealers of today, doors were always open to them. My stepfather met Jimmy Jewel and Ben Warriss, who were huge in the 40s and 50s, and inexplicably took the name of their act from a novel by Joseph Conrad. Another duo with whom they flirted was Bud Flanagan and Chesney Allen. Flanagan, you may recall, recorded the theme song for "Dad's Army", a parody of wartime propaganda, shortly before he died. One of Flanagan and Allen's songs was "Underneath the Arches". In their stage show they preceded the song with a review of the papers of the day, reading each other the headlines; "Do you remember when we first read that paper Bud? It was Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Three"...
One of the "headlines" was, "Bookmakers in a bad way" (a ficticious one that played upon the activities of the characters the duo inhabited). "Ah, that'll be the day!"
As far as I know, all the independent bookmakers are gone. It's all run by William Hill and Ladbrokes. My stepfather struggled on until he could barely pay the wages. His brother (the business one) got out much earlier and diversified into more lucrative sidelines. Today I read that Ladbrokes is in debt to the tune of £962 million.
Well, Ches, that day has come. Bookmakers are in a bad way.
Summers in the 1960s always seemed long and hot. None longer and hotter than those we spent on the terrace of a family friend, where the jazz men got together and played trad jazz and the kids ran around being kids. This family friend became my step-father, but that is another story. In the mid sixties, he was a bookmaker - a wealthy one. The terrace, which became the venue for Sunday lunch-time jazz sesssions, part of an impressive, custom-built house. There were garages, cars (including a rather nice Radford conversion Mini ) rooms for the championship winning dogs and a paddock for the horses. These were the golden days for independent Turf Accountants. Bookies were always on the edge. They were on the edge of legality right until the early 1960s when off-course betting was legalised. They were always coming into contact with the forces of law or the forced of disorder.
Every bookie knew the local criminals and knew the bent coppers. The way it worked with the coppers (before legalisation) was that the bent copper would call the bookie and say "we have to raid you today". The bookie would then make sure the regulars were out of the way and the evidence was minimal enough to get a fine or a caution. My step-father told me that one of these bent coppers, who regularly got a brown envelope, rose to be a chief constable. Occasionally, someone - an anonymous voice - would ring up from London. The voice would explain that Mr X was in town and was to be given credit betting facilities. This was no more and no less than a protection racket, but it was absorbed into the business.
Bookmakers were able to be rich in the sixties because there was no betting tax and every bookie had two books; the one they kept in the safe, and the one they showed the taxman. There was so much cash flying around it was difficult to spend it. I said they lived on the edge - well they also lived on the edge of the entertainment industry, for, like the drug dealers of today, doors were always open to them. My stepfather met Jimmy Jewel and Ben Warriss, who were huge in the 40s and 50s, and inexplicably took the name of their act from a novel by Joseph Conrad. Another duo with whom they flirted was Bud Flanagan and Chesney Allen. Flanagan, you may recall, recorded the theme song for "Dad's Army", a parody of wartime propaganda, shortly before he died. One of Flanagan and Allen's songs was "Underneath the Arches". In their stage show they preceded the song with a review of the papers of the day, reading each other the headlines; "Do you remember when we first read that paper Bud? It was Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Three"...
One of the "headlines" was, "Bookmakers in a bad way" (a ficticious one that played upon the activities of the characters the duo inhabited). "Ah, that'll be the day!"
As far as I know, all the independent bookmakers are gone. It's all run by William Hill and Ladbrokes. My stepfather struggled on until he could barely pay the wages. His brother (the business one) got out much earlier and diversified into more lucrative sidelines. Today I read that Ladbrokes is in debt to the tune of £962 million.
Well, Ches, that day has come. Bookmakers are in a bad way.
There is a God
I love it when this happens. Two outrageously drunk yobboes decided to assault two law abiding citizens, who happened to be men dressed as women. Unfortunately, the men in question were cage fighters in fancy dress. After being picked on by this drunken piece of shit, they decked him. Big Time. Result! Watch, and know that sometimes, there is justice in this world.
Mandelson in fancy watch shock
Peter Mandelson, who I am told has simple tastes, such as half a pint of stout at lunchtime with a Melton Mowbray pork pie, whilst discussing whippets and gravel with his mates from the brick factory, was spotted wearing a £21,000 Patek Phillipe wrist watch, whilst addressing the Labour faithful about poverty. There must have been some mistake on this. Surely Peter Mandelson, the architect of New Labour, does not indulge in such bourgois trinkets?
Meanwhile, those nasty Tories have been caught bang to rights, swigging Champagne at their conference. I am shocked! Shocked I tell you!
Oligarchs.
Meanwhile, those nasty Tories have been caught bang to rights, swigging Champagne at their conference. I am shocked! Shocked I tell you!
Oligarchs.
The Silent Revolutionary
The title of this post is obviously something of a contradiction in terms. Revolutionaries are noisy, especially gay ones. But more on that later.
There is a blogging hazard, if you like, a kind of latent explosiveness, about doing "gay" posts. Iain Dale gets it all the time, but of course he is gay. The hazard, of which I write, is that it is almost impossible to write about gay issues without attracting criticism. I don't know why this is, because sanity (or pragmatism) should have prevailed long ago along the lines that, some people are gay, they demand to be (and should be) socially equal with the rest of us, now move along, sonny, there is nothing to see. Or snigger at.
Iain Dale gets criticism because, when he does a post about gay issues or gay people, he gets a lot of comments that amount to asking him why, as a gay man, he does not just leave it out and stop banging on about his sexuality. I find this position unreasonable and unsupportable because homosexuality is still political and personal and as relevant as any other aspect of one's make-up. He also, and this is quite rare I think, makes very sure that, whilst be positive about his sexual orientation, he does not apotheose it - idolatry being the chief sin of the homosexual community today.
Because being gay is political, and by that I mean it is (unlike heterosexuality) subject to arbitrary public opinion. It is not a default aspect of humanity that is so taken as read that it has, by familiarisation, ceased to be noticed.
I get criticism for being homophobic, merely because I am a straight man who dares to discuss the subject at all, and possibly even be critical sometimes. Which is a bit like discussing Christmas and being criticised for moaning about the commercialisation of our winter festival. I am challenged by gays because I am not considered an insider, and suspected by heterosexuals of being secretly gay. All of this I can deal with - it is water off a duck's back.
Which brings me to two stories running today. The first is a story, all but buried under a welter of Tory Conference stories, that the boss of Stonewall, Ben Summerskill, has boycotted a conference event - described as a "pride" event - because of the presence at the conference of a right-wing European politician called Michal Kaminski. There is no doubt in my mind that Kaminski is someone I would avoid myself. There is no doubt that his views on many things (homosexuality in particular) are offensive, and there is no doubt that his presence at the conference is an anathema to many. Not that his path was due to cross with Summerskill's. Just that out of a conference of several thousand delegates and hangers on, both were at some point in the same building.
Which brings me to an observation. Stonewall's raison d'être is subversion and what used to be called agitprop. They exist to challenge and change societal views and actions on homosexual issues. Simply walking away from an event, is in my view and own goal, and looks churlish. More importantly, such a group, any group, that exists to be a pain in the arse, ensures the pain goes away when they do. Sorry Ben, you left the building. You have not made your contribution as a key speaker. Nobody is going to be outraged or challenged because of that.
The second story is the news that the former civil partner of the comedian/actor/writer Matt Lucas has apparently committed suicide. This is not a gay story, this is a bereavement story. My condolences to those Kevin McGee left behind.
There is a blogging hazard, if you like, a kind of latent explosiveness, about doing "gay" posts. Iain Dale gets it all the time, but of course he is gay. The hazard, of which I write, is that it is almost impossible to write about gay issues without attracting criticism. I don't know why this is, because sanity (or pragmatism) should have prevailed long ago along the lines that, some people are gay, they demand to be (and should be) socially equal with the rest of us, now move along, sonny, there is nothing to see. Or snigger at.
Iain Dale gets criticism because, when he does a post about gay issues or gay people, he gets a lot of comments that amount to asking him why, as a gay man, he does not just leave it out and stop banging on about his sexuality. I find this position unreasonable and unsupportable because homosexuality is still political and personal and as relevant as any other aspect of one's make-up. He also, and this is quite rare I think, makes very sure that, whilst be positive about his sexual orientation, he does not apotheose it - idolatry being the chief sin of the homosexual community today.
Because being gay is political, and by that I mean it is (unlike heterosexuality) subject to arbitrary public opinion. It is not a default aspect of humanity that is so taken as read that it has, by familiarisation, ceased to be noticed.
I get criticism for being homophobic, merely because I am a straight man who dares to discuss the subject at all, and possibly even be critical sometimes. Which is a bit like discussing Christmas and being criticised for moaning about the commercialisation of our winter festival. I am challenged by gays because I am not considered an insider, and suspected by heterosexuals of being secretly gay. All of this I can deal with - it is water off a duck's back.
Which brings me to two stories running today. The first is a story, all but buried under a welter of Tory Conference stories, that the boss of Stonewall, Ben Summerskill, has boycotted a conference event - described as a "pride" event - because of the presence at the conference of a right-wing European politician called Michal Kaminski. There is no doubt in my mind that Kaminski is someone I would avoid myself. There is no doubt that his views on many things (homosexuality in particular) are offensive, and there is no doubt that his presence at the conference is an anathema to many. Not that his path was due to cross with Summerskill's. Just that out of a conference of several thousand delegates and hangers on, both were at some point in the same building.
Which brings me to an observation. Stonewall's raison d'être is subversion and what used to be called agitprop. They exist to challenge and change societal views and actions on homosexual issues. Simply walking away from an event, is in my view and own goal, and looks churlish. More importantly, such a group, any group, that exists to be a pain in the arse, ensures the pain goes away when they do. Sorry Ben, you left the building. You have not made your contribution as a key speaker. Nobody is going to be outraged or challenged because of that.
The second story is the news that the former civil partner of the comedian/actor/writer Matt Lucas has apparently committed suicide. This is not a gay story, this is a bereavement story. My condolences to those Kevin McGee left behind.
Young Weasel
Spare a thought for Young Weasel, Richard, today. He is attempting the Three Peaks Challenge. This is in aid of The Nepali Children's Trust. Later this month, YW is flying out to Nepal to make a film about the work of the Trust.
UPDATE:
Richard and his mate have just about completed their task of walking up Ben Nevis, Scafell Pike and Snowdon. I just spoke to him and he was having a cup of coffee on the summit of Snowdon. Apart from running late, he is in good shape, but tired. They did Scafell Pike in the dark and got lost, creating a few hours delay, but all in all they have managed it, assuming the walk down from Snowdon goes ok. Not 24 hours, nearer 36, but not bad, considering they were new to all three routes.
Weasel's weekend window on the World
First up is the Irish referendum on the Lisbon treaty. You see, the Irish, being incredibly thick, did not vote the right way the first time, so those terribly nice people in Europe decided they would be given a second chance. And if it goes the way the EU wants, that terribly nice Mr Blair will become Ruler of the Universe. This pisses me off bigtime, but hey, I'll be dead in fifty years, max, and I will have been in prison for most of that time for thought crimes (i.e. I will have been thinking, "Central control of my life by a bunch of unelected oligarchs isn't right)
This week, Iain Dale had a bit of bother with the Daily Mail. As usual I gave more than my two pennorth on his blog, but the short answer is, the Daily Mail still cannot get over the fact that he is gay and still, in the year 2009 feel it is ok to make homophobic comments. Yes, of course as a libertarian, I believe they are entitled. But I am entitled to think they are wankers.
Thanks to all those who voted in the poll on Gordon Brown's state of mental health (see side bar) If you havn't already, please do!
At the beginning of next month, I shall be going to the wedding of someone I met on the internet, and who I then had the pleasure of having as a guest at Weasel Hall a couple of times; someone who ran a funny and entertaining blog for a while and then upped sticks from the Smoke and went oop North. To say that her life took a 180 degree turn is an understatement, but sometimes fame and fortune isn't the answer, and she has exchanged liquid lunches at the Groucho and bylines in the Red Tops for something sensible.
My favourite story of the week is the Flight Lieutenant who took a wonderful swipe at Gordon Brown's handling of the Afghan affair in front of the world's press and the officer commanding of that particular debacle.
Flight Lieutenant Victoria Anderton, I salute you. May you do your duty and may God go with you. (She is quite a looker, corrrrrrrrrrr!) The Story is HERE
So have a nice weekend. Go to your record collection and fish out an album you havn't played in ages and remember why you bought it in the first place! And if you can't be arsed to do that, why, here's a fab and funny track just for you! (dedicated to Doubting Richard, who gets commenter of the week..not because I agree with him but because he made me think.)
(Building a Religion - Cake)
This week, Iain Dale had a bit of bother with the Daily Mail. As usual I gave more than my two pennorth on his blog, but the short answer is, the Daily Mail still cannot get over the fact that he is gay and still, in the year 2009 feel it is ok to make homophobic comments. Yes, of course as a libertarian, I believe they are entitled. But I am entitled to think they are wankers.
Thanks to all those who voted in the poll on Gordon Brown's state of mental health (see side bar) If you havn't already, please do!
At the beginning of next month, I shall be going to the wedding of someone I met on the internet, and who I then had the pleasure of having as a guest at Weasel Hall a couple of times; someone who ran a funny and entertaining blog for a while and then upped sticks from the Smoke and went oop North. To say that her life took a 180 degree turn is an understatement, but sometimes fame and fortune isn't the answer, and she has exchanged liquid lunches at the Groucho and bylines in the Red Tops for something sensible.
My favourite story of the week is the Flight Lieutenant who took a wonderful swipe at Gordon Brown's handling of the Afghan affair in front of the world's press and the officer commanding of that particular debacle.
Flight Lieutenant Victoria Anderton, I salute you. May you do your duty and may God go with you. (She is quite a looker, corrrrrrrrrrr!) The Story is HERE
So have a nice weekend. Go to your record collection and fish out an album you havn't played in ages and remember why you bought it in the first place! And if you can't be arsed to do that, why, here's a fab and funny track just for you! (dedicated to Doubting Richard, who gets commenter of the week..not because I agree with him but because he made me think.)
(Building a Religion - Cake)
Kristin Lavrandsdatter - a review
I got back to some serious reading with a vengeance; Kristin Lavrandsdatter, the very long trilogy by Sigrid Undset. It's Norwegian, with a recent translation into English, by Tiina Nunnally.
Here is my review, that I also sent up to Amazon, where if you are curious, you can buy it.
I have only read the first part of this, (The Wreath) The prose is accessible and transparent and gets at the kind of nuances you do not expect from a translation. Expectations run high for this work, especially given the fulsome introduction in this edition. The implication is that you will inhabit the world of the characters and feel bereaved when you leave it. I don't think I shall be that distraught, for Kristin is a tiresome, self-possessed, tedious woman. She manages to create mayhem wherever she goes, more or less from page one. Other characters come and go, but seem to serve little purpose apart from delivering the odd bit of homespun philosophy. Dialogue is sparse. More often conversations are described by the author rather than reported, so you never quite get to meet them first hand, as it were.
All I have to compare this with is my experience of Knut Hamsun, another Norwegian novelist, who won his Nobel Prize some eight years earlier. I feel Undset lacks the wit with which Hamsun describes his characters, however miserable or reprehensible they are. Hamsun's taught paratactic style has an ease and confidence that Undset lacks. Hamsun's peripheral characters enrich the panorama and are often popped back into the narrative as a knowing authorial joke about deux ex machinas. Many return later in the timeline as old friends, recognisable but changed. They speak for themselves and reveal themselves, teasingly and with great wit, by the contradictions between what they do and what they say, just as we all do. I think particularly of Geissler in "Growth of the Soil" In The Wreath, Kristin meets a monk called Brother Edvin and one imagines, given his important seeming speeches, that he will somehow be plot relevant or at least be a character who makes a difference. He does not. The plot points are glaringly obvious, led by Kristin, of course, who is responsible for an almost comical number of deaths. At first, I attributed this style to a homage to the Sagas, but not for long. This is far too contrived and plodding compared to the peremptory catalogue of sudden death, hard-living and unequivocal tribal positioning that makes the Sagas go like a runaway train.
*****
All I will add to this is that I have read some more and not changed my mind. There is what may be a technical point about the praise heaped upon the book, and that is that earlier translations appeared in a kind of cod Medieval English which probably fooled people into giving it more credence than it deserves. This edition, in modern idiom is like someone trying to write a Mills and Boon romance, but failing miserably. It is not great literature - despite her winning the Nobel Prize for it which, according to shitipedia:
Historically accurate it may be, but as a work of literature it is just not good enough. If you want to read Norwegian literature, go for Knut Hamsun. Start with Women at the Pump, or Growth of the Soil or Mysteries.
BTW, I hope at least a few of my readers are remotely interested in this review or what other books I read. If you are, please say so.
Here is my review, that I also sent up to Amazon, where if you are curious, you can buy it.
I have only read the first part of this, (The Wreath) The prose is accessible and transparent and gets at the kind of nuances you do not expect from a translation. Expectations run high for this work, especially given the fulsome introduction in this edition. The implication is that you will inhabit the world of the characters and feel bereaved when you leave it. I don't think I shall be that distraught, for Kristin is a tiresome, self-possessed, tedious woman. She manages to create mayhem wherever she goes, more or less from page one. Other characters come and go, but seem to serve little purpose apart from delivering the odd bit of homespun philosophy. Dialogue is sparse. More often conversations are described by the author rather than reported, so you never quite get to meet them first hand, as it were.
All I have to compare this with is my experience of Knut Hamsun, another Norwegian novelist, who won his Nobel Prize some eight years earlier. I feel Undset lacks the wit with which Hamsun describes his characters, however miserable or reprehensible they are. Hamsun's taught paratactic style has an ease and confidence that Undset lacks. Hamsun's peripheral characters enrich the panorama and are often popped back into the narrative as a knowing authorial joke about deux ex machinas. Many return later in the timeline as old friends, recognisable but changed. They speak for themselves and reveal themselves, teasingly and with great wit, by the contradictions between what they do and what they say, just as we all do. I think particularly of Geissler in "Growth of the Soil" In The Wreath, Kristin meets a monk called Brother Edvin and one imagines, given his important seeming speeches, that he will somehow be plot relevant or at least be a character who makes a difference. He does not. The plot points are glaringly obvious, led by Kristin, of course, who is responsible for an almost comical number of deaths. At first, I attributed this style to a homage to the Sagas, but not for long. This is far too contrived and plodding compared to the peremptory catalogue of sudden death, hard-living and unequivocal tribal positioning that makes the Sagas go like a runaway train.
*****
All I will add to this is that I have read some more and not changed my mind. There is what may be a technical point about the praise heaped upon the book, and that is that earlier translations appeared in a kind of cod Medieval English which probably fooled people into giving it more credence than it deserves. This edition, in modern idiom is like someone trying to write a Mills and Boon romance, but failing miserably. It is not great literature - despite her winning the Nobel Prize for it which, according to shitipedia:
This work formed the basis of Undset receiving the 1928 Nobel Prize in Literature, "principally for her powerful descriptions of Northern life during the Middle Ages"; her work is much admired for its historical and ethnological accuracy.
Historically accurate it may be, but as a work of literature it is just not good enough. If you want to read Norwegian literature, go for Knut Hamsun. Start with Women at the Pump, or Growth of the Soil or Mysteries.
BTW, I hope at least a few of my readers are remotely interested in this review or what other books I read. If you are, please say so.
John Singer Sargent
I popped into the Scottish National Gallery the other day and spent some time admiring this picture.
It is breathtaking. It is breathtaking because Sargent clearly loved his subjects and had a hugely flamboyant and bold brush. It is difficult to show this, but the real thing is, on close inspection, a series of broad, brave brushstrokes, light, careless and sublime. (You can enlarge the picture by clicking on it.)
I am going to try to get inspired enough to do a painting that pays homage to his mastery of the medium and his passion for women subjects (even though he was gay as a spoon).
Anyway, this is me, the real me, with one of mine in the background.
Thanks (I think) to Jim Baxter who has decided that this pic
has some relevance to this post.
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