WW's Weekend Window on the World

Two Stories interested me this week; the first is the spectacle of three Labour MPs and a Conservative Peer in the dock on charges under section 17 of the Theft Act, crystalises, for me, the depth of our collective depravity. I use the word depravity carefully. One definition of the word is

corruption: moral perversion; impairment of virtue and moral principles; "the luxury and corruption among the upper classes"; "moral degeneracy ...

I also use the word collective with care. These people were voted in by the public and there are still a lot of people who will vote Labour in the forthcoming election. Fifty nine of Labour's Prospective Parliamentary Candidates are either members of powerful unions or former employees. The Unions in this country have bought New Labour by the back door. Labour is in hock to the Unions and would go bankrupt without them. Be in no doubt, there has been a very significant shift in who pulls the strings in this country, and it is anti-democratic and covert.

As for those on trial, we await justice. Interesting that Baroness Uddin, the Labour Peer who fraudulently claimed £100,000 by claiming that an empty flat was her main residence. But of course, she is not only a woman, but she gets to play the race card too, for the noble baroness is a Muzzie, and as we all know, Muzzies are treated differently here, and either rarely come to justice at all or get of with derisory penalties, like Lord Ahmed, who texted whilst driving and killed man. That of course was presided over by a judge who was so close to New Labour and Jack Straw, as to raise questions about impartiality.

The second story of the week is the news that senior workers at Toyota warned the management right at the top of the firm that fundamental design briefs for new cars were cutting safety corners.

According to the Telegraph

An internal memo, written in October 2006 by a dissident union member to Katsuaki Watanabe, Toyota's chief executive until July 2009, blasted the car manufacturer for putting "amateurs in charge of the factory" and for failing to act on safety information in spite of continued problems. 

And this, after a week in which another Prius nearly killed its occupants after the now notorious accelerator fault appeared.

This Toyota story has wider impications about company ethos. I am well aware of how this can happen. Some twit in the boardroom says "We need new blood, new ideas and a modern management approach" Then they head hunt some embryo who is interviewed with white powder still smeared on his upper lip, who tells them what they want to hear. He tells them he can increase productivity by 15%, reduce the workforce, and increase sales. And they all go "wow" and give him £750,000 dollars and stock options and bonuses. And this filters down to a mature workforce who know the business. They have seen "Charlie" before, he has come and gone a few times. Like a super nova they soar and then futter out, leaving the old faithfulls to pick up the carnage. And dare I say it, this is about depravity too.

I am glad the cool posts generated some discussion. You, know, we all want to be cool. Sorry.

I devised this little graphic before I heard about Sir Andrew Aguecheek and the new musical wot he wrote.

Any way peeps, have a nice weekend and if you have any of your own incisive and coruscating views on the week, please feel free.

PS. I was saddened to hear that regular commenter and friend Dave has had another bout of illness this week. Think of him if you will please. He is going through it. In the meantime, you can listen to one of his own compositions, Here to There, which is a fantastic road song that must be played very loud as you boogie down the B25.

Cool Central

You are now entering Cool Central.

Leave more Cool Queries Here. I shall be adding further lessons in How to be Cool, or more correctly, how to know if you are cool, later today. In the meantime, an earnest writer asks "Are Museums Cool?" What about Coffee Shops?" I have reposted my reply:
Are Museums Cool? They certainly are.

Every single museum on the planet, from the niches ones, like the Barometer Museum: http://www.barometerworld.co.uk/ to the British Museum are all, very safely within the margins of cool and you can visit, safe in the knowledge that Buddy Holly or Janis Joplin or Jimi Hendrix would be just as interested in how things work and the way things were, as you are. Indeed my Rock Star friends always do museums when they are over from LA.

And now the very important issue of Coffee and Coffee shops. Coffee is cool. It will never be not cool. However, when entering a coffee shop, ask only for a "Normal, medium Coffee" or a double espresso. All the rest - the skinny lattes and the machiofellatios with marshmallows are for interior designers, people who like Elaine Paige and people who iron their duvets and Peter Mandelson. Am I making myself clear? Don't buy the muffins. They are made of children from third world shitholes or recycled tires. To sum up, buying fancy coffee with names that, until recently, you had never heard of, is not only not cool, but you may as well give up and wear a baseball cap with "I am a dick" written on it.

And while on the subject of hats: This is tricky. I depends on the hat and where it is. A hard hat on the parcel shelf of a Mondeo is not cool. It does not really imply you are a civil engineer charged with repairing the Forth Road Bridge, it is more redolent of "I'm on the move, I'm a hod carrier and a member of a Village People tribute band. I wear a black french beret from time to time, but only with my battered black leather coat, which makes me look as if I am in the French Resistance or The Stranglers. Women should wear hats. I like a woman in a hat, so that when she takes it off her hair falls out of it and makes her look wild.

Reflective jackets are not cool, even if you rely on them to stay alive, such as on a motorcycle. Motorcyclists do not generally consider "staying alive" to be a priority. Marlond Brando did not wear a dayglo jacket in The Wild One or smoke Camels with health warnings. There are clues, if you look for them.

How to be Cool

I am often asked, "Ged, how can I be cool, like you?"
It is a sad fact that many people out there still wear Farah slacks, drive ecological cars  and listen to Radio Two. Some try to be with it, by feigning interest in popular culture. Some try to get into music that is made up of "samples". (Point 1: Carpet salesmen use "samples". Anybody else, is a dick, including Massive Attack, especially if they come from Bristol.) Lemon Jelly is maybe OK, but that is because they sample cool people. Some people buy phones with applications they are never going to use, such as the one which enables you to find a gay cruising partner near you. This is just not cool - it does not expose your gay friendly credentials, it merely exposes your dearth of real friends.

Lesson one about being cool is that cool dates. Things that were cool once are not cool now. Hamburgers in a Wimpy bar were once cool. In 1954, the year of my birth, Wimpy Bars enjoyed a moment of Cool value. 2cvs were cool at the time when Jean Paul Belmondo still had black hair. Now they are largely driven by vegetarians, and as you know, anything used or eaten by a vegetarian is de facto, uncool.

In fact, small cars, with the possible exception of a Daihatsu Copen, are not only not cool, they are ultimately depressing. Ladies know a lot about cool. They know, for example, that it is uncool to wear leather trousers if you are over thirty. They know that it is uncool to drink Pinot Grigio in public and have a membership card for the local gym. Nobody cool ever goes near a gym. Nobody. Believe it or not, flared trousers were once cool, and in some ways they still are, but here is a warning, and point number two, Cool is age sensitive; if you can remember wearing flared trousers in the Seventies, wearing them now is certainly not cool. Artists were once, by definition, cool. Not any more. Damien Hirst is a wanker and Tracy Emin is a silly bitch. It is cooler to be an ice-cream salesman (as long as you leave a copy of Steinbeck's "Travels with Charley" by the box of Cadbury's flakes.) It is cool to grow things. Very cool. It demonstrates many cool attributes, the main one being that you no longer fall for the idea of buying microscopic vegetables, wrapped in cling film, in a polystyrene tray,  that have been transported 2000 miles from a repressive African State in an airplane. It is cool to keep chickens.

So, I have said enough for now. I invite questions. I am happy to pronounce on what is and what is not cool, in order for those who struggle, to be a bit cooler. And by the way, struggling to be cool...is not cool.

The rage of Caliban

When Dorian Gray looks at his portrait, he sees Caliban in his own nature. Wilde's view not only looks back to the eighteenth century but also foreshadows W.H. Auden's post Freudian conception of Caliban as the darkness inside us we seldom face but cannot avoid.

(Shakespeare's Caliban: a cultural history. Vaughan, Cambridge University Press, 1991)

One of the purposes of this blog is to send out Messages in Bottles. Perhaps a message from an enchanted island, but whatever the origin they are calculated to stir up a storm. A  message in a bottle is possibly the purest of messages, since it has no hidden agenda. How can it? It states a position that must be of necessity, explicit, and awaits a reply that of necessity is abstract. Since there can be no possible connection between author and recipient - the transaction is randomized, like a control - then the "reply" must be considerably purer, and devoid of hyperbole and caveat. This does not affect the quality of the reply, for the recipient may be either bright or stupid, but what all random recipients have in common is their response to raw data, uncluttered by the sort of riders you apply to, for example, reading an article in the Guardian, or watching the BBC's Question Time. The data is raw and elicits a raw reply. Another purpose of this blog is discourse, which is what my regular readers engage in. I cannot think of an analogy, but it is unlike the message in a bottle because it is knowing and has previously laid out rules, which are an incredibly complex series of suppositions and counter-arguments.

I have to admit that my posts sometimes push the limits of what is generally held to be "acceptable" and "appropriate", and that some posts are to some recipients supposedly "offensive" My take on this is that this is a false reaction, based upon the recipient's own insecurity. Insecurity about what they believe and what they should believe. It is, for want of a better analogy, the rage of Caliban seeing his face in a mirror; the darkest thoughts laid bare. The offense is purely the horror of revelation, as if revelation is intrinsically offensive and that the messenger should indeed be shot forthwith.

Raw data, received as it is by an interpretive community which has long adopted the role of Witchfinder General, is accordingly treated not reflectively, but doctrinally. The first level response is frequently "friend or foe". If an enemy is discerned, the response is a first strike, button pressing missile, or a cliche word, usually a portmanteau word that is used more defensively, but more importantly to assert which flag the recipient is flying.

I recently sent a message in a bottle with my post entitled Savages, and also my post about Steven Purcell. Unfortunately, my cast of regular readers know me well enough, and are intelligent enough to think about it, and argue a point before branding me a racist or a homophobe. (The whole thing falls down with a regular readership; they are tainted and knowing and understand that some kind of dialogue is taking place) It may well be that these posts are racist or homophobic, but that is not the point. The point is to see what people think. How people react, not for reactions sake but to understand better the zeitgeist, the received wisdom of the population and to fully understand the social implications of ones own abstract and often desultory, thinking.

Someone sort of suggested this blog may be a bit fascist. Of the Steven Purcell post, an anonymous commenter said,

"Your previous comment and your poor defense of it place you firmly in the same boat as gutter journalism. Show a little humanity"

and also

"I believe it is necessary to stand up for the little person, those with no voice. I stand against the fascist. You stand very near to fascist behaviour."

I am not sure what the last comment referred to, or how they discerned this - which is why it is so interesting. You have to agree there is a purity about this comment that defies contamination by loyalty and politeness and indeed any foreknowledge of me or my five years of blogging or my private correspondences with commenters and bloggers.

My response to these comments was two-fold. The first was to challenge my understanding of fascism, and then, having assured myself that I understood the idea, and did not need a major rethink, to try and figure out what prompted the poster to use the word "fascist".

I leave my regular readers to answer that one, because, messages in bottles are ok, but once in a while you need to have discourse*


"According to Foucault, truth, morality, and meaning are created through discourse*. Every age has a dominant group of discursive elements that people live in unconsciously." 

https://www.msu.edu/~comertod/courses/foucault.htm

(anal seepage type posts will resume shortly) 

Anal Seepage 2

Top Down

It's been a very sunny day today, so I fired up the MG and went for a couple of spins with the top down. I also wore a flat tweed cap and a yellow scarf, together with a blue windcheater, and decided I could pass for Mike Hawthorn. Sad to hear Stirling Moss took a tumble down his lift shaft last week. He is 80, and rides around London on a Scooter in order to mend the washing machines in any of the many flats he rents out. Not that he needs to. His flat in Shepherd Market, Mayfair, is worth a cool £10 million. My dad lived around the corner from him in years gone by, but that is another story. Shepherd Market used to be a fabulous little village in the middle of hotel land. All sorts of exotic people came and went. I used to get my hair cut at Trumpers in Curzon Street, the same place Terry Wogan sends his hair to.

Sorry about the lack of blogging, but the weather has been so nice and I really did not want to think about anything at all. Later on tonight, I shall post a big story which will reveal the truth about how Iain Dale is really a lizard and a Bilderburger. (Or is that a Cheeseburger?)

Jealous? Moi? Anal Seepage

The Weasel is living in genteel poverty. This does not mean I have to buy Tesco Value gin and put it in a decanter. Not that bad. What I mean by "genteel poverty" is not being able to have three bottles of single malt, such as Caol Isla, Old Pulteney, or Dailuaine on the go at once, all the time. Indeed, I have a dearth of decent 16 year-olds. I am sure Gary Glitter would understand.

I have re-instated the home brew barrel this week, not entirely due to financial strictures, but because I like real ale and because bottle real ale is still beyond my price range in the quantities required by me and any 15 year old who just wants to get pished. I may even get my own still.

And so to my subject. My first wedding had high points and low points. It was "disapproved" of and we had to initially finance it ourselves, which actually was not so bad because we did it our way, including having the use of a horse drawn phaeton, which even now makes me cringe.  At this wedding were two chums, one my best man and the other a good friend and colleague. Last year, the best man picked up a cool £10 million - a little consolation present for having been a partner in a very prestigious City firm of stockbrokers that got sold on. This Ten million was in addition to his already inflated portfolio that extends across the world. I am sure he looked at it as a nice way of getting the magnolia paintwork done at his flat in his listed Georgian flat. Or his villa, or his town house.  I have no idea. We have not spoken since my I split from my first wife. The other chum, who I have more or less lost contact with, has had a distinguished career as a broadcaster and writer, and is not unknown on the book prize shortlist circuit.

Well, the first guy, the multi-millionaire, has an unremarkable name. If you ever met him you would assume he is a sales assistant in Halfords - the kind you would avoid because they don't actually drive a car (he doesn't). He is just another eminence grise in the City. Consequently, there is not much point in Googling him.

The other chap, the broadcaster is eminently Googleable, but not as much as me!!!!

The Weasel gets over 27,000 entries currently, whereas, me old mate at the Beeb gets less than 14,000, which is a couple of thousand less than "anal seepage". So, when I am down, and down to my last drop of Balvenie, I stare into the bottom of the glass, think of anal seepage, and chuckle at the misfortunes of my old wedding guests.

The true meaning of Fascism

Whilst waiting to catch a bus one day, I stood thinking the same kind of disconnected and semi-abstract thoughts that I do at such times; not so much focused as to forget my purpose, but not focused enough to make best use of the moment of grace.

In front of me in the queue were two elderly Americans, whom I observed were "sprightly"; tall, well turned out, neat and easy-going and interested in everything around them. A bus, a Routemaster to be precise (for this is salient) turned up, but it was not mine. The conductor looked at the American couple with an unsaid question and they said,

"Does this bus go to Piccadilly?".
"Yeah".
"How long does it take please?" 

The conductor had just run out of patience, but did not show it in any other way than a sort of muffled shrug.

"Half an hour do you want to get on, or not?"
"Is it a nice ride?"
"Aw, fer ferk's sake" 

The conductor tugged on the bell. The bus went off without them.

Now you may feel this was a little harsh - the conductor clearly did not have the time to engage in Tourist Information services and he had a schedule to keep to, but the sprightly old couples expectations were different. Indeed this is a good example of what can happen when the gulf between expectation and delivery of services appears. The sprightly old couple were operating to a different set of expectations that day and they clashed.

But I digress. We demand some kind of order in society. We demand that things like trains and boats and plane run on time and we get very very upset when they do not. And yet, we get equally upset when we reach the check-in desk just after it has closed. Indeed, hardly a week goes by when we do not hear of a very public individual suffering a very public meltdown when their expectations (usually of deference and privilege) are not met.


It put me in mind of something Henry Kissinger said:

If I had to choose between justice and disorder, on the one hand, and injustice and order, on the other, I would always chose the latter.

Can you imagine five more years of Brown?

Five more years of Gordon Brown and Labour. Five more years of lies and profligacy in which, not only will you pay more towards the self-preservation of party loyalists, and their quangos, and their bent judiciary and their propaganda arm, the BBC, but also, your children will pay for this. And what of the alternative? In England and Wales, there is only the Tories. Stagnation. That is all you will get if the Tories win a majority. More of the same, except that maybe, the spending may get less. Maybe. A few of the more absurd initiatives may be binned. Maybe. We already know that the political and fiscal infrastructure has been changed so that many of the reversals of policy will be impossible. The British public has no appetite for radial solutions. In fact the British public appears to be interested in nothing but its own affairs.

We have reached a moral low in this country. There is a blind refusal to declare the obvious, which is that British public life operates in a morality free environment, in the mistaken belief that is according all comers a level playing field, whether they be axe-murderers or nuns. I am astonished that some people are already making out Steven Purcell to be some kind of Martyr. This disgusts me. He is clearly a man of low character, whose response to being found out is to flee to the other side of the world, after failing to shut people up with the threat of legal action and hiring fancy PR firms. God only knows how rotten Glasgow City Council must be to have kept this quiet for so long.

This is the true face of Labour; it is all about control and command by any means. Truth, and integrity and decency apparently count for nothing. This is your country. This is what it has come to. Five more years of Brown will make no difference. It is the people of Britain who go along with it that I am angry about ad unless they wake up to the fact that you have to have some kind of value system, based upon an understanding of what is right and what is wrong, this country will descend to the level of a third world country.

Great civilisations, such as Britain once was, decline because of two things: decadence and economic disaster. It can be equally asserted though, that they rise, initially, because of greed and conquest. Neither these states are acceptable. But there are places in the world that have avoided both extremes, and they have an uncanny knack of spotting the rot and doing something about it.

This will probably be the last year this blog continues in this form. It is just not worth the hassle of arguing with people who have no idea what it going down, especially when censorship and government sponsored harassment will make it impossible.

Savages

This, from the Times:

Nigeria's security forces have been put on high alert after a new burst of sectarian violence left over 500 people dead, most of them women and children hacked to death by machete wielding gangs.

Please, nobody try to tell me that Africans in general have achieved the same degree of civilisation that we in Western Europe have. Please, nobody try to tell me that Colonialism was evil. Post Colonial Africa has done what all post colonial societies do, including ours; they revert to type. The continent is wracked by tribalism, genocide and ignorance. Boy, do they have a long way to go, about four to five hundred years more of social evolution. Let's just remember that when we next "celebrate multiculturalism", or get an out of hours doctor who believes that HIV can be cured by eating carrots.

Gotye

This is a great song and a great video. I first saw it on a web site that is now, sadly, dead - Special Ten TV, catchline "curating the web". I don't know why Special Ten vanished. It did everything from music to art house shorts. This is Gotye; real name Wouter De Backer, born in Belgium, raised in Australia.
The video has a sort of hipgnosis look to it.

Sandra Bullock accepts a "Razzie"

Razzies are the opposite to Oscars, awarded to the worst of everything. It cuts through the crap. I never guessed that Sandra Bullock would show up to the Razzie awards to accept her trophy for "worst actress" in All about Steve. As the Oscars are being handed out to the politically correct Hollywood elite, and those who are "hot" and those who have cancer, or are just plain commie pinko fags, it is refreshing to see something that reflects the truth a bit more.

Gastro Weasel

One of the stressful, but regular aspects of life is needing to eat when on the move. Those of us, most of us, who go from one place to another have coping strategies. Mine is to take a hamper with homemade delights on planned journeys. This of course is not always possible. And then it's time to play Russian Roulette. I have a few rules to impart for your enlightenment, but first, a little anecdote that brings out the better side of victualling whilst traveling the highways and byeways by modern motor vehicle.

We were coming back from Leeds, after a very pleasant weekend with a dear friend, and we pulled off the A1 somewhere near Theakston, in North Yorkshire, I think. It was just a pub. We had never been there and it was about 2 o'clock and we were ready for something to eat. I never, as a strict rule, walk into a pub and order food. I order a drink first, look around, inspect the glass, check the loos, look at the other punters, and the landlord. Well, it seemed to pass muster, apart from the inevitable damp labrador that seems to have taken over from fag smoke as the number one aroma in country pubs. So, gingerly I asked about food. This is the point at which every proprietor in all the towns in all the world will look at you as if you have asked to sacrifice his youngest daughter in a Wicker Man. I have been around a bit, and the reaction is believe me, universal. Owners of restaurants and pubs and cafes cannot believe that anyone asking for food outside the hours of 7-9, 12-2 and 6-8 is anything other than an escaped convict.

Well, there was a bit of bluster and the landlord said, "I can make you a sandwich". Dubiously, I asked, "what do you have?" "What do you want?", he countered, suspiciously. I could see this was turning into a test of manhood. So, after consulting Mrs Weasel (which I do from time to time) I said, "How about some ham and some beef?" "Ok," he said, "but I shall have to make them", which to me sounded fair enough.

Well, the sandwiches were perfect. I mean, they came in crusty white bread, cut by hand, and contained wonderful roast beef with a hint of redness in the middle, and some ham off the bone, and some real pickles and fresh salad. Remarkable!

You never know!

Weasels tips for eating out whilst on the move:

• Check the car park. Avoid anywhere where there are boy racers or any car with go-fast stripes, obvious MOT failures and a preponderance of Rovers.
• Never order food straight away. Always check the lavatories and look at the fingernails of anybody who serves you. A nasty stink of stale food and wee wee can be a clear indicator of unpleasantness, as can someone else's bogies attached to the table top.
• Never enter a pub if there are weedy, miserable single men standing outside smoking a fag.
• Remember, you will be tired and emotional. Plan to eat before you absolutely need to or else it might end in divorce, and well, navigators are difficult to get at the best of times, particularly when their sole purpose in life is to be shouted at.
• Never order anything enclosed in pastry or with the word "bites" or "nuggets". If in doubt, and desperate, order chips. It's all frozen anyway and who can ruin chips?
• Never expect to find that perfect little place that will just be "our little secret". Even if you do, next time you go it will be under new management.
• If you fail to find a place to eat, stop, have a little cry and head for home.

Steven Purcell

I know very little about Steven Purcell, former leader of Glasgow City Council whose public meltdown is clearly the tip of a very slushy iceberg.

A lot of people knew about Purcell's not so secret life and did nothing. He appears to have been the subject of police investigations and there is much more that should be made public about someone who has wielded so much power and influence while, under the influence. I just cannot help thinking that his immersion in a shady hedonistic subculture, where drug taking is a fundamental part of the lifestyle, and where secrecy and favouritism is rife, is a form of corruption, and an offence against the standards of public office. Some very important people knew what was going on and stayed silent. Considering the seriousness of his drug taking, I wonder why, when the police knew of this habit, that he has not been arrested? And what of the death of a young man who apparently "worshipped" him?

Purcell has fled the country for Australia. So much for the media relations company and the fancy libel lawyers. He's frit. I wonder why? More importantly, in the murky world of the Scottish legal and political elites who protect their own at the cost of natural justice, will any truth ever come out?

Peterloo in our time?

Two stories have emerged in the last 24 hours that have caused me to fire up the Pentium. The first is Gordon Brown's surprise visit to Afghanistan and the second is the revelation that the idea of imposing VAT on food is being "talked about".

The Brown story is coupled with the announcement that money is to be invested in 200 new army vehicles; better armoured than the heavily criticised "Snatch" Land Rover. Of this story, coming hard upon the heels of Gordon's appearance at Chilcot, contrdicted by Army Chiefs, in which he asserted "disingenuously" that no request from the Army for funding was refused, I can only say that this is most cynical political ploy I have seen in a long time, and though welcome, is timed to do nothing more than take the heat off the lying bastard.

The second story, that after the election, a plan to impose VAT on food is being seriously discussed in Whitehall is frankly, beyond my ability to comprehend right now. If ever this happened, it would be a tax on living and would hurt the poorest. I cannot see it being in any way politically possible. A government that imposed VAT on food would be sending us back to the 19th Century and the Corn Laws, except that, instead of protecting the landed gentry, this would protect the bloated public sector and its bottomless pit of expenditure that Socialism today squeezes from every person who works for a living.

The people rioted then. If they introduce VAT on basic foodstuffs in this country, I will do everything I can to oppose it, including violence and mayhem if necessary. The time will have come. The Time will have come.

WW's WWotW - from Non-Doms to Condoms

In this week's Weekend Window on the World, I am currently mildly irritated because Simon Heffer has written the kind of coruscating philippic of the BBC that I wish I had written. The BBC does not have many friends left - that is, not many friends who are straight and don't vote Labour. What Heffer is saying is that the Corporation has little to offer as defined by its Reithian terms of reference. Heffer says:

There is little the BBC does that by any objective standards is worth doing and that the private sector would not provide. 

 He concludes:

a drastically reduced BBC would eliminate much of the Leftist influence that dominates it. Socialist dramatists, reporters, editors and presenters could take their chances in the private sector. Oddly enough, I suspect that might be the last we would hear of them: which is precisely why the BBC will fight like a hellcat to retain as much of its present functions as it can.

 Heffer is basically telling us what we already know, which is that the BBC is a job creation scheme for Lefties, something of course they are very fond of, having bloated the public sector from one to five million since Labour came to power.

I did something I rarely do these days - watched a BBC news bulletin. It headlined with Lord Ashcroft, the well known Non-Dom. (I still don't know what one is). The BBC was very helpful; its bombastic opening "The row over Lord Ashcroft, boom boom, what it is all about, boom boom, and why it is important." Well, talk of flogging dead horses. If you have to explain why it is important - then it isn't. End of story. But full marks to George Alagiah for being the "drawn sword, parting the darkness of ignorance". Perhaps the Ghost of Lord Reith visited him in the night. He was looking a lot whiter than usual.

Condoms. Well as reported earlier, those Swissies are going to be providing smaller sized rubber johnnys for kids. When will GUM clinics have those little play areas in them, like they do in Doctor's surgeries, you know, the ones with a bit of lego and some large print story books and maybe one of those junior Peekaboo pole dancing kits you used to be able to by in the toy section at Tescos ?




I got to thinking about my old home town, Boston. apparently, in a Town of 60,000, 65different languages are spoken, most of them emanating from former Eastern Europe and Portugal. There has been a massive influx of migrants to the town and its environs, and a lot of them do the kind of jobs the locals used to do (mostly agriculture) before it became easier and more lucrative to claim benefits. The entire industry has always been totally bent. Don't forget the tragedy of the Morcambe Bay Cockle Pickers, who were discovered to have been part of the black economy. Well, Boston always had a black economy, which suited everybody in the old days. Whether it does now, I don't know. It is bound to cause tension, all this change, in a place that is as stagnant as a pool on the moon.

When I was growing up there, there were only two black families in the entire town, and the head of one was known as, and responded to the nickname "Darkie" in exactly the same way people in the 40s and 50s were called "Chalkie" or "Ginger".  Those who knew him would shout, "Hello Darkie", from across the street, and Darkie would say, "allo, Duck". There were one or two foreigners, a few Chinese and a few from the medical profession but that was it. How an entire town of latent racists is coping with immigration on these levels must be of interest to a lot of ologists everywhere. It certainly gave the Chipmunk, little Hazel Blears something to say:

Giving evidence to the Commons Communities Select Committee yesterday, Ms Blears revealed that one in four of the 58,300-population of Boston, Lincolnshire – where there are now 65 different languages spoken – is from Eastern Europe. 

And by now, they will all be able to greet you in the normal Boston way, as we do with any citizen of Boston, which is "allo, duck"

You can click on the pic to enlarge it if you are interested. The large red brick house on the left is Witham Bank House, where, 35 years ago, I had a flat. The building overlooks the river bank and was as nice a place you could get in Boston, though you only had to go under the railway arch at the back to get into the badlands that frequently featured in the court pages of the Lincolnshire Standard.

I don't go to Boston any more. It is what I was, not what I am now, and on the very occasional visit, of perhaps an hour, once every decade, It feels creepy and alien and oppressive, and as one friend of nearly fifty years, now a Londoner, said to me, "You get the feeling something violent is going to kick off at any time". Quite. You visit, you quickly move on and thank God you got out.

None of the places I had anything to do with, schools, hospitals, cafes, etc, exist any more. Even the place the prozzies hung out has been gentrified:

This was all slumlord territory 30 years ago, it is called South Terrace, just along from the  Boston General Hospital, where I was born. The hospital was demolished and flats built.

All of this tears me two ways - one is a return, that is impossible, and the other is to be all the more determined to make where I am now, a source of fond memories for the future, not just for me, but for my kids and their kids.

Mystery Voice

Enough ranting for a bit. Let's have some fun. Weasel has been digging in the archives in order to find a mystery voice which you can have a go at guessing. Earthlings will struggle, I hope. All you need to do is name the voice.



And also...Guess that show. Here is the theme tune of a huge American Show from the Sixties. This one may be difficult so here is a clue. The Star is impossible to Google if you have the parental lock on.



UPDATE: Time to put you out of your misery and, for those who have not yet listened and want to guess SPOILER ALERT! This Link will reveal the Mystery Voice. The equally cheesy sig tune is revealed in the comments section.

(For some reason the code for the two clips keeps getting mixed up. Sorry. We apologise for the technical fault and assure you that normal service will be resumed as soon as possible.)

Right Wing? Moi?

Everytime I think to myself, "you can't say that, it's too right wing and reactionary" and then post something anyway, my stats soar and I get more people following the blog.

This may sound a bit craven and a bit crass, but I am not sure if it is me that has gone further and further to the right of the political spectrum, or merely that the climate of opinion in this country has become so nihilistic and politically correct that any sane person would seem right wing against that background.

And policemen seem younger. And so does Santa Claus.

PS. Both the Times and the Telegraph are leading with Ashcroft. As if there are not more important and relevant stories to address. Is it me, or have you noticed that the press is becoming more and more transparent about its allegiance, the nearer we get to an election?

President Zuma

To read reports of Gordon Brown's fawning and utter capitulation over Zimbabwe, during the visit to Britain of the South African President, Jacob Zuma, is sickmaking, with a side order of rotten puke.

To start with, Zuma has rehearsed all the glib twaddle about British Colonialism. To paraphrase a well known meme, "What did the British do for us, apart from education, roads, sanitation, health and security" They now have self determination; fine, I am all for that, but look at where it has got them - millions dying and infected with HIV/AIDS, due in part to the government position on the virus, which largely consists of advising people to eat vegetables.  Zuma himself is not pure as the driven snow, oh no, not by a long chalk.

Brown's capitulation over Zimbabwe is vile:

"We applaud the efforts that President Zuma is making to bring stability and change to Zimbabwe"

That's bollocks, and Brown knows it. Zuma is supposedly here to convince Brown and the EU to go easy on Zimbabwe sanctions, claiming that the process is interfering with free and fair elections in the country. How he makes this connection defies my understanding. (A bit of recent history here, Mr Zuma - Many in civilised Europe campaigned actively for sanctions against South Africa when the whites were in charge, on the basis that sanctions worked. What changed, Mr Zuma?)

All in all, Britain is feting and entertaining a savage in a suit, for reasons I am not aware of. Oh how the mighty Britannia has fallen.

I'll buy smaller condoms

Those wonderful Swissies, the people who have banned rampant Islamization and have introduced defibrillators in Brothels, have now come up with something I feel is very practical - smaller condoms.

The idea is simple enough: as more and more children have sex, no doubt encouraged by their uman rights and they have a note and everything and that Tracy's a right slut and Mrs Thursby will give you a blowjob if you get your homework in on time...

Where was I? Oh yes, small condoms. The story is HERE I shall certainly be buying them - for my less fortunate friends. I can see the scene in the shop...

"Bonjour, Madame, un paquet de préservatifs petite s'il vous plaît. Ah euh, ils ne sont pas pour moi, ils sont pour mon fils, et euh, je vais avoir un paquet d'extra large pour moi"

Home Schooling and liberty

I was inspired by Ruth to have a look at this subject, though I have always been someting of a fan of alternative education in general.

I have to say I did not pay much attention to my kids' formal primary education. They had gone to private nurseries - much against my will, actually, and went on to the local state primary where, at best they coasted, and at worst fell a long way behind. Their further education took place in the independent sector, and I have to say, it was the making of them and it corrected the years in which my children fell behind. A lot of the decisions about their education were taken away from me by my first wife, who did everything she could to serve her own needs above theirs. (Bitter twisted bit over)

This is all a pre-amble to say that I have always felt that the home schoolers had a point. This point being that education is something that happens naturally, with a bit of simple help. You do not need to be an expert to teach, most of the real work is done by the kids themselves. In the early years, a teacher is merely a facilitator. Growth, in terms of education and as a person, is dependent upon quality of interaction and the inculcation of desire for knowledge. It is also something that should not be too heavily subject to tests and trials at the beginning, for, kids evolve at different rates and this should be reflected in the challenges placed before them. This just cannot happen in a class of 30 children.

We are all also individuals and notionally free. We deserve the right to educate our offspring as we see fit, provided that the core tools of reading, writing and rithmatic are also taught. The rest is so arbitrary, as are pedagogic theories, that all attempts to go beyond the basics have always been political rather than practical.

So where is this country at as far as home schooling is concerned? Nobody knows how many kids are home-schooled and estimates vary from 20-80,000 - which is not a lot. Oddly, local authorities are not required to find out.
The first fright headline I found was "home schooled children at double risk of abuse", which is nonsense. This of course is a precursor to justifying even more heavy handedness from local authorities.

The crux of this article is here:

The Children, Schools and Families Bill, which is going through Parliament, will implement Mr Badman’s recommendations, which mean local authorities will set up registers of home-educating parents in their area.
Officials will also have new powers to visit the home and, crucially, speak to the children involved. Under current law they can inspect the part of a home to be used for home schooling, but do have not power to see the children.
However the Conservatives say they will scrap the new law as it stigmatises home educators.
Michael Gove, Shadow Schools Secretary, said parents who educated their children at home did a wonderful job. "Government should support them and we won’t allow the current Government’s plans to stigmatise home educators to get through," he said.

Did you know this bill was on the cards? No, neither did I, but it is interesting that at last, here is one area where there is a real difference of opinion between the Tories and Labour, the latter, as usual, using any means, any justification, to control our lives that little bit more.
Home schoolers already cooperate with schools inspectors, so why more legislation and more control?

Well, you can see where this is going can't you? "We feel, Mrs Smith, that Jimmy should be learning about Climate Change, and Gay Sex, and Multiculturalism"

We are lucky in the UK. Home Schooling is banned in Germany. There was a case recently of a family who sought and got political asylum in the United States because they were being harassed by German authorities for attempting to home-school.

The best piece I could find, one that seemed balanced, was this:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/mortarboard/2009/jun/05/home-education-badman

which highlights the way Labour and Ed Balls are planning to plug this particular gap in their brainwashing programme. The article cites research: a comprehensive study by academics at the University of London recently concluded that such informal learning at home was an "astonishingly efficient way to learn".

I shall not go into the Badman report here, or why Ed Balls is so keen on it, but it appears to be yet another way of chipping away at civil liberties on the specious pretext of some sort of extreme behaviour which, inevitably in this case was predicated on the tragic death of a poor child whose incredibly stupid and evil Muslim parents have now set the bar low enough to accommodate them, and with them, the rest of us.

More Police ignorance compounded by harassment

This video (Hat Tip to Old Holborn) is yet another demonstration of the abuse of Police power.

Things to remember: First they will try and stop you recording the encounter. This is to attempt to pervert the course of justice.

Second, they will attempt to pursuade you that what they are doing is within the law, which in this instance, is not.

Third, they undermine public faith in the Police Force.
Oh, and for what it's worth, the guy in the film with the megaphone is a dick head. But it is not yet illegal to be a dick head or act like one.

PMQs Harman vs Hague

I have never seen such a one-sided PMQs. Hague was statesmanlike and assured, Harman was crap. Go here for the video if you have not seen it.

Of course, the Bottler, the Snot Gobbler was too cowardly to attend PMQs in a week when Britain has effectively lost its Triple A credit rating, instead choosing to cite as an excuse, the visit of (as if he really gives a flying fuck) the President of South Africa.

This woman is hopeless. I can now understand why both Bliar and Brown were distraught when she was elected deputy leader. Really, at this week's PMQ's, a sixth form school girl would have done better. It's frightening. These people are running the country. Especially when she had the most expensive private education money can buy. Yes, she went to Saint Paul's, the most exclusive, the most expensive prep school for girls. Best quote from Hague: the one about Mr Harman being parachuted in to a safe Labour seat which inexplicably did not have one of Harperson's all girlie shortlists.

Michael Foot

Michael Foot, former Labour leader has died at the age of 96. It is a shame really. We could have done with him as leader of the Labour Party today. At least there would be no pretense about their intentions.

Thank Foot, by the way, for the Health and Safety at Work Act, so beloved of those who refuse to save drowning kids from canals. I saw him once at a do. He had been invited by a much younger lady, who I knew reasonably well. who made no secret of her "attachment". He was in fact a known shagger, but the press never spilled the beans while he was in politics. Odd really. He looked like Worzel Gummidge. Perhaps there is hope for me.

So fucking bored with politics

This political stuff is so boring. Danny Finkelstein says as much in today's Times . What he says is that nobody real, that is the civilians, are bothered about what Lord Ashcroft does with his money, or what Gordon does with his Nokias.

When I was learning to become a broadcaster, we were told about something called the moving train theory. I won't bore you with it, but basically, it is the idea that you should start with what people know if you want to communicate with them.

Now, it seems to me that none of the party leaders or their grey, homogenized bag men know the moving train theory. They want to talk about anything, except what we want to talk about. We want to talk about the way the state intervenes on every level of our lives. We want to talk about the way we are taxed. We want to talk about the way the BBC extorts money from people who want to watch television. We want to talk about the way our children are taught. We want to talk about the way Muslims are inciting hatred, war and murder on our streets and nobody is doing a fucking thing about it.
And what is the big story today? Lord Ashcroft's tax arrangements. They are having a fucking laugh.

See below

Whilst researching background for the post below, I came across some material which, though off topic, is in a sense, the kernel of my argument, which is BBC bias, and not gratuitious homophobia.

It concerns the way the BBC treats people it does not like. Of course, if you are gay, you can get away with murder, because the BBC likes gays and the more perverse and novel they are, (see Mark Oaten) the more lauded and applauded. Oaten not only got praise from the QT panel for just appearing, the audience loved him.

No, this is about how certain sectors of society come in for special disapproval, in particular Christians. This piece, from an article in Zenit, the Catholic news service:

The BBC has also been blamed for more subtle instances of anti-Catholic bias. Discussion panels, news reports and web articles tend to focus on the sensational; they also often comprise contributions from secular figures or dissenting Catholics but hardly ever from orthodox Catholics who will properly convey the Church's teaching.

The corporation's treatment of clergy not infrequently involves interrogations by disparaging and dismissive presenters who seem to view them as guilty until proven innocent. Stephen Glover, a non-Catholic British newspaper columnist, wrote how a BBC television interviewer, quizzing English Archbishop Vincent Nichols in 2007, "treated him like a member of some extreme sect, interrupting him continually, and sneering at him as though he were a half-wit."

Bias

Most of this bias is attributed to a predominantly secular mindset in the corporation that embraces, or is sympathetic to, the culture of death, whether it be abortion, radical feminism, the homosexual agenda, euthanasia, or unethical science such as embryonic stem cell research. "The BBC," Glover once wrote, "represents a materialist, mechanistic consensus which has rejected God, and deludes itself that science is capable of providing a complete explanation of existence."

Strangely, this kind of interviewing extends to Tories. Nicolas Winterton, who is clearly a twit, got drawn into a row with a BBC presenter about First Class rail travel for MPs. The presenter enabled Winterton to look like an idiot, which was not difficult, but he basically bullied the MP into an impossible position, the purpose of which was to demonstrate that Tory MPs should not travel First Class. I wonder how certain overpaid BBC executives view this line?

The BBC loves to do propaganda puffs for gays.They are uncritical and hagiographic, particularly with respect to Stonewall, the Government funded gay pressure group.Here are two such examples:

The March of Gay Politics
and
Stonewall gave me new Gay role models

They also adore Greens and Climate Change people and do not dispute their bias:

In 2007 there was a demo/”peace camp” near Heathrow Airport where people were camping and generally disrupting business. The BBC reported it in what I must describe as the most slewed piece of drivel since the dodgy dossier.

It was, according to the organisers, a “temporary eco-village”. All the BBC reports of the time were biased. One began:

“As the tanned, cheerful twenty-somethings set up their tents, you could be forgiven for thinking this was the summer’s latest music festival.”

(http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6944526.stm)

The report was later stealth edited ( a favourite tactic with the BBC) to tone down the negative adjectives ascribed to the Police.

Another report declared:

“The protesters, most in wet weather gear and many wearing clown wigs, began setting up mobile pop-up tents in the BAA car park under the watchful eye of police in riot helmets bearing plastic shields.

Dance music and A Spoonful Of Sugar, from the musical Mary Poppins, were played on a bicycle sound system.

In the newly-arrived crowd were bongo drummers, magicians, jugglers and small children fast asleep in all-terrain buggies. ”

(http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/6954116.stm)

I am sure you can add your own examples. Basically, the BBC is well past its sell-by date as a concept. And the fault lies within.

The BBC is "hideously" Gay

What I am saying here is that the BBC, a publicly funded broadcaster, is populated by a overly powerful, protective clique of homosexual men, who are effectively preventing criticism of a a certain type of gay lifestyle that is by any standards, perverse and destructive, and in so doing, are compromising their impartiality.

A while back, that cheeky chappie we all love, Greg Dyke, remarked that the BBC is "hideously white".

Well, it is also hideously gay. If you look at it in the cold light of political correctness, we should, in our public institutions, maintain strict demographic parity when it comes to employing people. Only, at the BBC, for some reason, it employs more people with left wing views and more homosexuals. It always has done, long before anybody talked about it. The only reason the traitor, Guy Burgess got away with it for so long was because he was part of the silent homosexual mafia who, in those days, protected each other out of necessity.

Patrick Muirhead, former BBC newsreader, continuity man and journalist, who is also gay said that being gay at the BBC is "practically compulsory" He was joking of course.

Anyone who has worked there knows it. Anyone in Entertainment knows it, and of course this is hardly surprising. The BBC is also hideously druggie. However, when a group, any group of common interest or predeliction belong to a public body, such as the BBC, there is a clear conflict of interest. What? Well, when was the last time you saw any really negative depiction of homosexual lifestyles? The BBC are perfectly happy to pillory and pull apart the lives of straight white Tories, but what about Mandelson? He is currently attempting to smear Lord Ashcroft over his tax arrangements. Where is the dredging up of his murky financial dealings? Don't forget, for years, everytime John Redwood had anything to say, it was preceded by a clip of his embarrassing failure to sing the Welsh National Anthem. Indeed, they had to be reprimanded and forced to stop using it. Mandelson, for some reason, managed to suppress any mention of his sexual orientation for years, until he was outed, not by a bad straight guy, but by Matthew Parris. The Muirhead quote, though facetious, is crucial. It shows something interesting. I proves to me that there are gay people out there who understand what is going down. They can see outside of their little world and see that any kind of masonic cabal is inherently corrupt. So will gay folks who have some integrity start biting the hand that feeds them?

The number of stories that are emerging about gays at the BBC and elsewhere who die through a fatal attraction to excessive and perverse lifestyles is now reaching epidemic proportions. Not so long ago, Kevin Greening, a former BBC DJ, died similar circumstances:

At the time, Mr Greening was still wearing a rubber suit and still had cling film and "gaffer tape" wrapped around his torso. (Sky)

Today, we hear of the tragic death of another self-indulgent gay BBC employeee who had everything, but wanted more. No doubt, as I write, people are rushing to tell us how wonderful he was, just as they did when Stephen Gately died while his so called "civil partner" was having sex with a rent boy. Perhaps he was. But it is also possible he was just like one of many at the BBC who have entered its hallowed portals through a nod and a wink and a special hand-shake, and who, instead of being told to behave properly, were egged on in the "celebration" of a lifestyle that is decadent, harmful and occasionally, fatal. When will somebody stand up and say that this kind of culture is so obviously destructive, especially when it is mixed with illegal substance abuse? When will decent ordinary gay people stand up and declare that they want nothing to do with this celebration of nihilism that seems to take so many lives prematurely?

I very much look forward to a BBC documentary which explores the phenomena, or a fictional drama where a young man dies after being drugged and buggered by three gay men and is then dumped in a swimming pool and left to die, having been savagely injured internally. Or is that being a bit negative?

Star Trek - Warpspeed death

What do you think Scientists are busy doing? Well, apart from re-booting that Large Hadron Collider at the weekend, and then switching it off very quickly because of a "cryo intervention", somebody has delivered yet another lecture about Star Trek science and has typically generated hundreds of comments, over at The New Scientist.

It seems that, should you ever achieve warp speed in a Star ship, you will die. It is all down to an intense beam of hydrogen gas. I think. According to the NS

The fatal dose of radiation for a human is 6 sieverts. Edelstein's calculations show that the crew would receive a radiation dose of more than 10,000 sieverts within a second. Intense radiation would also weaken the structure of the spacecraft and damage its electronic instruments.

This is like standing in the LHC when it finally gets to working at full power.

Edelstein presented his results on Saturday at the American Physical Society meeting in Washington DC.

A Space Cadet

Election? Don't hold yer breath

Just before the weekend, there was talk of an announcement. Yes, finally, Gordon was going to the Queen to ask for a dissolution. Even Guido was leading on this, telling everybody that leave had been cancelled at the Beeb and extra chocolate hob nobs were being ordered to keep the troops going.

Nothing happened.

I have been fairly consistent in my stance on this: Brown is a bottler, and will not go to the country until the bitter end. He will be forced to have a June election because he is incapable of making decisions. In effect, the Parliament Act will make the decision for him.

So, don't hold yer breath. act normally and don't hoard tins of pineapple chunks and twiglets. Gordon Brown is not about to call an election.

A quick word on non doms. People have a right to put their hard earned cash where they want. Altruism is not legally required. If you want to live in Switzerland to avoid paying taxes, or still want to fund political parties, why not. This is a global village, and the idea that living outside of England is in some way wrong is purely a social construct.

WW's desert island discs #8

My final choice is a duet, so I get two for the price of one. Fred Astaire you know, but some may not be familiar with Jack Buchanan, who coincidentally showed up on my radar when I listened to Tom Baker, during his moment as a Castaway. I should have included Tom in my "WLTM" list.
Jack Buchanan sums up for me all that is good and quintessentially English, though ironically, Jack was a Scot, borne in Helensburgh. Perhaps my favourite track of the lot, and perhaps then, it is no coincidence that I feel so at home in Scotland, among those Scots who shun Iron Bru and deep fried Mars Bars. (There are a few) Jack Buchanan's tailor was Hawes and Curtis. I got my first bespoke shirt from them when they were in the Burlington Arcade. I passed my driving test in that shirt.  He was one of the few stars of the pre-war years who could afford to take an entire entourage on a passage to America, first class, and then get his shirts sent back on the return journey of the ship, to Hawes and Curtis, for laundering, because the Americans starched everything. Buchanan had a Rolls, and a driver, and a butler, and would dine at Ciro's, which is now part of the Royal Dental Hospital. How very modern. And shirts are important. Never forget that.

As for the books and the luxury. Mmm. The Bible and Shakespeare are important to me, and I get them anyway. I notice that the incredible mathematician, Marcus Du Sautoy, had Hermann Hesse's The Glass Bead Game for his book, so I shall borrow it to read again if that is allowed. I won't speak to him though, because maths frightens me. It is the nearest thing to witchcraft I know.

I shall take as my book, Larousse Gastronomique, which will explain how to cook almost anything, though Janet Street-Porter has a copy as her choice. My luxury would be a cocktail cabinet and a crate of vodka, and if Janet Street-Porter was prepared to swap from time to time, I would get Elizabeth David's Mediterranean Cookery.

If this mythical island contained just me, I could cope. I am quite happy on my own, even though I enjoy company. I would spend a lot of time remembering my life, mostly fondly but always with a sense that I have had some wonderful friends and family, especially my wife, K.


Phew. That's done. Any regular readers who want to try their own, please let me know!

WW's desert island discs #7

I mentioned my daughter, Judy in the last post and so it is only fair to dedicate one to my son, Richard. Yes, quite coincidentally, they are called Richard and Judy. Richard had such a sunny smile, from the day he was born. We shared a lot together and he has grown up to be fine fellow, full of determination and character. And so has Judy. I am immensely proud of them both. Richard could stand, and walk and talk by the time he was one year old. One of his first words was "more". This next track is unashamedly sentimental; originally made popular by Paul Robeson, this version is sung by Mel Torme with George Shearing on the piano. Occasionally, I need to cry. This sets me off.

WW's desert island discs #6

Not having a Beatles record is just not going to happen. In order to pick this one, I shall have to imagine myself on this desert island. I have just imagined it, and it is full of celebrities and piles of the Bible and Shakespeare and useless luxuries.

People I should not like to meet on this desert island, former castaways that is, include Stephen Fry, Ruby Wax, Heston Blumenthal. Morrissey, Piers Morgan and Ricky Gervais. Surprisingly, in the entire history of the show there are not that many who I could not at least be civil to. The above are excepted. I would hope they would accidentally tread on a scorpion or eat Fugu by mistake.

Those I would perhaps nod to for a few years and then have the courage to strike up a conversation with would include: Joan Bakewell, Brian Rix, Humphrey Lyttleton, Darcy Bussell, Jack Buchanan, Oliver Postgate, and, as a double act, Raymond Tallis and David Starkey. The idea of having those two, together, on a desert island gives me the giggles. I would also seek out Sir Charles Mackerras who may be able to pull a small orchestra together. Finally, I would have Anthony Julius, whom I would instruct when my marriage to Tracy Emin inevitably disintegrated in bitchery and rancour.

Well, then, its a Beatles record, and here is one to remind me of my beautiful daughter, Judy, and is great for a singalong around the camp fire. I first heard this track in Harrods "Way In". "Way In" had been set up on the fourth floor of the store the previous year, in 1967. It was painted purple from top to bottom and you could hardly see enough to walk about, let alone see the goods. Anyway, you could sit there for hours while obliging sales assistants wired you up to a turntable. From there you could watch all the hip and groovy clothes flying off the rails and straight into peoples' inner coat pockets.

WW's desert island discs #5

Here is a bit more about what I was listening to between Cliff Richard and Jethro Tull. Classical Music. My mother was a fan, though not a particularly informed one. She had romantic notions about it and so a lot of the early classical music I heard was stuff like"The Sleeping Beauty" or "Carmen" or "Peer Gynt" and they always had quaint pictures of snow scenes on them or woodland and were invariably conducted by Sir Malcolm Sargeant. What we might call very Classic FM these days. I tried to amuse my mother by, either conducting to them, or dancing to them. School kids had a BBC radio programme called Music and Movement, that I used to enjoy - probably more than was good for a young boy. My mother appeared to have crushes on conductors. Years later I recall that she was keen on Vladimir Ashkenazy and I went to a lot of trouble to get a signed copy of his biography for a birthday present. I learned that she took it to a local branch of Smiths and convinced them to give her a refund. I am not sure if she even read it.

Memory does not permit me to recall which Classical piece was my first. I was given a few, mostly by my uncle, who was a Bassoon player in the Band of the Royal Marines. He encouraged me to take an interest.

The first Composer who got under my skin was Sibelius. I first bought a cheap compilation of short pieces conducted by Von Karajan, and then the Symphony Number Two, which is remains a favourite, both in the days when full-price albums were 32/6d and people with 2/6 pocket money, or later 10/- could not even think about paying that kind of money. There is something very reassuring about starkness, about a landscape that is stripped to the bare essentials. If you know Lincolnshire at all, you will perhaps understand that. Sibelius captures this in a soundscape and creates crystal clarity and depth; sometimes unashamedly romantic but at other times dark and uncompromising.
The piece I have chosen is the second movement, the Ballade, from the Karelia Suite. This version is played by the Gothenburg Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Neem Jarvi. I believe the Karelia Suite has the dubious distinction of having two movements, the Intermezzo and the Alla Marcia, used for not one but two Television programme themes. This is the movement that was not.

WW's desert island discs #4

I seem to have gotten ahead of myself a bit, because before I leave the sixties, I must make references to two influences that well, influenced me.

In 1961 or 62, my father and mother set off in a white MG Magnette convertible for Rome. I was left behind, as usual, with the grand parents. Upon their return, they produced an LP called "Top Italian Hits" and it got played to death. "Roman Holiday" and "La Dolce Vita" had played big in those years, Volare was a big hit, and some people were starting to cook something called Spaghetti Bolognese, made with olive oil bought in 10cl bottles from a chemist. Being able to make spag bol in 1962, and play authentic Italian music, together with a bottle of Chianti in a raffia case, was a definite puller as far as my dad was concerned. He was an arch philanderer. He once told me, in a moment of drunken sincerity, that he had shagged my aunt at a party. Most women in my own town, of a certain age, looked wistfully into the distance when I mentioned I was his son. My hopes of being "continental" were stirred then, and the lure of Europe became an ambition. "Top Italian Hits" was my window into the world of La Dolce Vita.

So here then, is Tintarella di luna, by Mina.

WW's desert island discs #3

This series of blogs has been hard to start, but now I have started I now have a pattern that will carry me through. If you don't like these, skip them please - normal service will be resumed. I am doing them for my kids, who may one day be interested in who I was.
My Jazz experience was one of osmosis. I was barely aware of it at a conscious level. I did it like people watch TV or play football or sit in a chair.

I have to now jump to the Autumn of 1969. So much had changed. 1969 was for me a crucial year. I was fifteen years old, but a lot older in some ways. All my friends of that time were older than me and my musical tastes had matured somewhat. I had an affected way of dressing that made me look effeminate. I was at a terrible, free school, having been parachuted in from a prep school,  after my dad had cleared off and left us with no house and no money. It was vile. I was beaten up badly for being posh and gay (I am neither, by the way) and left that year. When I wasn't being beaten up or victimised by the teachers, another boy brought an album into the class room and we listened to it, one Friday afternoon, on the school record player. That album was Stand Up, by Jethro Tull. It is fair to say that, between "All in the Game" by Cliff, and "Witches Promise" by Jethro Tull, I did little more than buy Beatles records which, though ok, did not do that much for me. Tull were different. Jethro Tull looked like Tatterdemalions. Anderson looked crazy. They all looked crazy. Even today I could believe that Clive Bunker was the model for Muppet Drummer, Animal. Martin Barre was the quiet one. Glenn Cornick looked cool and wore clothes that I just had to have and played a mischievous, melodic bass that for me defined the sound. I wanted to be Jethro Tull.

This is not so surprising, for Tull came out of a jazz/blues background that morphed into their own unique style. Stand Up is on the cusp of that. They evinced a  strange new idea that they had somehow emerged from under some rotting leaves in the depths of a wood, it seemed to me, as if discovered by a Jack in the Green.

In my first choice, the Cliff and the Shadows record, I eventually got to meet my heroes. Well, amazingly, I did it again! I met Clive Bunker and Glenn, who is now my friend and has visited with his family twice, and stayed with us. I don't spend a lot of time talking Tull with him, but the stories do come out. One strange one (not a Tull story, strictly speaking) concerns his first wife Judy, who was sharing a taxi one night on the way home from a club - the Speakeasy, I think, with Jimi Hendrix. The next morning, Jimi Hendrix was found dead. She was probably the last person to see him alive. Judy Wong died not so long ago but is immortalised in a Fleetwood Mac track, "Jewel-eyed Judy".

And so that brings me to record number three. I cannot pick out a favourite Tull song. It is like choosing your favourite child. 
It is "We used to know", and a while back, I did a photo montage to go with it. Some of the pics are personal, some of them stock, but it kind of captures the spirit of the time.

WW's desert island discs #2

The Fan Worship of Cliff and the Shadows wore off gradually until one day in the summer of 1963 when I bought "It's all in the Game", a Cliff ballad. I was nine. The record was cheesy and sentimental, and I knew it then. End of Cliff. Of course, by then, the Beatles were about to release "With the Beatles" and I had already heard "Love Me Do" and "Please Please Me". I became, and still am, a Beatles fan. In 1964, I was given a Rolling Stones EP with "Bye Bye Johnny" on it, and by then, Cliff was an embarrassing memory.

In the meantime, there was the Jazz Club. I tell people I was brought up in a Jazz Club. This is true. The Club was a loose association of jazzers who gigged as and when, until the early sixties, when my father and some friends got together and transformed a cavernous Victorian warehouse adjacent to our house, with high beams and ornate clerestory windows. into a jazz venue. It was all done on the cheap - an artificial ceiling was eventually added, made from a theatre curtain. Coloured lighting was added, shaded by cheese graters. But there was a bar and a raised performance area with what was supposed to be an accoustic ceiling, and my dad made huge paintings in the manner of Toulouse-Lautrec on a wall and the place was duly called "Club Montmartre", but everyone knew it as Boston Jazz Club. I spent nearly every Sunday evening between about 1962 and the mid 70's sitting, nursing a Schweppes bitter lemon, listening to trad jazz. The Club is still going, though does not have its own premises. Only Ronnie Scott's has been going longer. It was on a Sunday night, a Jazz night, that I came into the club to tell astonished and disbelieving punters that the President of the United States had been shot dead. I know where I was, exactly, on November 22nd, 1963.

There were many characters in the Jazz Club and I developed a life-long ability to be comfortable with bohemians and freaks. There were drugs, (I learned later) everyone was shagging everyone else in all the combinations, and I met these big American jazz players who wore sharp suits and pinned down collars and looked like gangsters - people such as Ruby Braff and Wild Bill Davison. To a small town boy in the mid sixties, this was something special. When, years later, I did get to spend an evening in Ronnie Scott's, it was like coming home, right down to the gingham table cloths and the candles and the smell of cigars. Everyone was a more or less functioning boozer, if not a full-on alcoholic, like my dad, who despite the booze could play the Mozart clarinet concerto from memory as a warm-up, before going on. The front man for the club was someone called Ivan Jessop, who was a trombone player and who more or less kept it from folding when my dad upped and left town, and us. Had it not been for Ivan, I don't think it would have had the momentum. My mother had an affair with Geoff the drummer, who eventually left his wife for her and they were married some years later. I was in the middle of all of this and it was mostly shit because my dad was violent and prone to take a swing at people. Barry is dead now; long gone, a combination of 40 Player's Plain and two bottles of Vodka a day. The only bright thing he did was to marry an ex-nun who nursed him in his last years, which were spent in Australia, funded by a brief career as an international confidence trickster and chef.

And so we come to the disc. By a stroke of incredible luck, somebody decided to do a professional recording when Ken Colyer performed at the club in June 1972. It didn't work out so well, and the recording guy had to do it on a Uher four track at 7&1/2 ips and three AKG mikes and apparently lost a few numbers while frantically changing reels. But a CD exists and can be bought HERE. The Club was considered a "hard blow" by the musicians and caused Alex Welsh to opine, "Never mind Boston Massachusetts, this is Boston Bad Accoustics".

Well, here is me, aged 18, (somewhere in the audience) listening to Ken Colyer and his Jazzmen, playing, Mahogany Hall Stomp.