I found this on a walk tracing the original route of the River Fleet. It was the entrance to one of the back street garages that gave the motor trade such a bad name in the sixties and seventies. And eighties and nineties.
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Just a picture
I found this on a walk tracing the original route of the River Fleet. It was the entrance to one of the back street garages that gave the motor trade such a bad name in the sixties and seventies. And eighties and nineties.
Friday, 18 May 2012
An act of kindness
Anyone who has owned a pet will tell you that there are times when the object of their love and affection is so ill that the only reasonable option is to put it out of its misery. It leads to guilt and sorrow, but really it's for the best, and everyone knows and accepts that. The Euro is the pet project of European politicians, and what is clear even to the most casual observer is that it is a creature that is so severely wounded that a lethal injection is the kindest thing to be done. It's just a month to the next Greek elections with a racing certainty that they'll veer even more towards the politicians that won't impose austerity. The almost inevitable consequence will be a bankrupt Greece ejected from the Euro with confidence in the currency collapsing across the globe. Difficult as it may seem, the sensible choice is to give the Euro that injection now; the one that will put it and us out of our collective miseries.
Whilst I'm on a rant, let me just mention ratings agency Moody's again. They downgraded a number of Spanish banks last night, including Santander in the UK. But it takes only thirty seconds to discover that Santander in the UK is independent of the Spanish operation and actually a strong, well managed business (some customers may disagree with this). So in my books this is yet more proof (if any was needed) that the ratings agencies are pig-ignorant and should be banned from rating anything more than a cup of coffee.
Amongst my list of pleasures, I rate sleep very highly indeed. Unlike The Cat, who has turned it into an Olympic sport in which she wins gold every day, I find sleep quite a challenge. I think I must have a switch on the side of my head. More often than not, the moment my head hits the pillow, my brain switches on and I can't stop it. Grandma in Cyprus would tell you that even from a young age my mind was very active at night...giving me the most terrifying nightmares. Even now The Cat's Mother will tell you know I will regularly have animated conversations in the middle of the night in between thrashing around, sitting up and waving limbs in one direction or another. My dreams can be so vivid, that I'm affected by their mood for the entire following day. But at least if I'm dreaming it means I'm asleep. More often than not just getting to sleep can be an impossible task. Sometimes I just lie there, and on others I get myself out of bed, and wander downstairs. Once there I can be found doing a variety of things.
Last night I checked how many tickets we have for the Temper Trap next week - four, not the two we thought, so we need to find a couple of people to come with us. I then proceeded to sprinkle ant powder around the conservatory and kitchen to fend off the advancing ant army whose advance party has been breaching our Maginot line for several weeks now.
I then headed to my laptop to catch up on some of the blogs I've missed over the last several days. The thing is being a bit dopey, I managed to put my blog's web address into Google. And what a surprise it was.
Poor old Langley Grammar School evidently uses it as source material for their AS Geography course!!! ???? So apologies to all those lads and lasses who will end up with an E as a result.
On the other hand, I discovered some kind soul (please step forwards and get your well deserved pat on the back and vigorous handshake) has nominated me for the MAD blog awards in the photography category. I had no idea, I'm quite delighted, I didn't/won't win, but the nomination created a nice warm glow which enabled me to climb back up to bed, lay my head on the pillows and sleep soundly.
And it has inspired me a little. So for the next year I am going to post a picture every morning. Some will be old, some will be new, some will be technically good, some bad, but I'll do my best to make them interesting.
Here's the first
Surely only in Paris, on the bank of the Seine, could you find a saxophone being played in the middle of the day. From our trip to France last year
Whilst I'm on a rant, let me just mention ratings agency Moody's again. They downgraded a number of Spanish banks last night, including Santander in the UK. But it takes only thirty seconds to discover that Santander in the UK is independent of the Spanish operation and actually a strong, well managed business (some customers may disagree with this). So in my books this is yet more proof (if any was needed) that the ratings agencies are pig-ignorant and should be banned from rating anything more than a cup of coffee.
Amongst my list of pleasures, I rate sleep very highly indeed. Unlike The Cat, who has turned it into an Olympic sport in which she wins gold every day, I find sleep quite a challenge. I think I must have a switch on the side of my head. More often than not, the moment my head hits the pillow, my brain switches on and I can't stop it. Grandma in Cyprus would tell you that even from a young age my mind was very active at night...giving me the most terrifying nightmares. Even now The Cat's Mother will tell you know I will regularly have animated conversations in the middle of the night in between thrashing around, sitting up and waving limbs in one direction or another. My dreams can be so vivid, that I'm affected by their mood for the entire following day. But at least if I'm dreaming it means I'm asleep. More often than not just getting to sleep can be an impossible task. Sometimes I just lie there, and on others I get myself out of bed, and wander downstairs. Once there I can be found doing a variety of things.
Last night I checked how many tickets we have for the Temper Trap next week - four, not the two we thought, so we need to find a couple of people to come with us. I then proceeded to sprinkle ant powder around the conservatory and kitchen to fend off the advancing ant army whose advance party has been breaching our Maginot line for several weeks now.
I then headed to my laptop to catch up on some of the blogs I've missed over the last several days. The thing is being a bit dopey, I managed to put my blog's web address into Google. And what a surprise it was.
Poor old Langley Grammar School evidently uses it as source material for their AS Geography course!!! ???? So apologies to all those lads and lasses who will end up with an E as a result.
On the other hand, I discovered some kind soul (please step forwards and get your well deserved pat on the back and vigorous handshake) has nominated me for the MAD blog awards in the photography category. I had no idea, I'm quite delighted, I didn't/won't win, but the nomination created a nice warm glow which enabled me to climb back up to bed, lay my head on the pillows and sleep soundly.
And it has inspired me a little. So for the next year I am going to post a picture every morning. Some will be old, some will be new, some will be technically good, some bad, but I'll do my best to make them interesting.
Here's the first
Surely only in Paris, on the bank of the Seine, could you find a saxophone being played in the middle of the day. From our trip to France last year
Thursday, 17 May 2012
Not Grandma in Cyprus' birthday*
I can't deny that travel was a problem.
As we were traveling on days not frequented by the package holiday set, we went out on Aegean Airlines and came back on the world's favourite airline. Going out, the seats were six abreast with an aisle in the middle, meaning that I got the window seat, The Cat's Mother was beside me, and then there were three clear seats to the young woman staring out the port window. At least that was the case until we'd been in the air for 40 minutes, by which time The Cat's Mother was asleep. An older woman came and sat across the aisle, proceeded to take out the sick bag and begin vomiting, which she continued to do for the remainder of the five hour flight. She used up all the sick bags around her. The stewardesses did their level best to ignore her. I would have been sympathetic....but why the feck did she think it was better for her to puke near us rather than her traveling companions?
On the way back, we arrived nearly four hours early, 'just in case' - there was a taxi drivers' blockade of the airport, and we thought we may have to walk a long way to get to the terminal. As it happens, the police kept the entrance to the airport open...although they were less fussed about letting people out. Behind us on the plane sat a man-mountain...he was literally that shape, and would put Ben Nevis in shade. All was well until the captain announced twenty minutes before landing that we would be arriving at Terminal 3. We had departed from Terminal 1. We could have walked from Cyprus quicker than it takes to walk from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1.
We had pre-booked the parking to save costs. But I hadn't realised that I'd turned into Car Park 1, not Car Park 1a...our designated parking area. No wonder then that our ticket wouldn't work, and then when we got the machine to read it, it demanded £259. On the upside, the help desk girl must get this happening several times a day and let us go without a fight. On the downside I was more than a little agitated.
As there wasn't enough room at Grandma in Cyprus' house with my brother and his family there, we stayed at a hotel. Our hotel was the five star Adams Beach Hotel. And very nice it was too. So thought all the Russians that were staying there. There may have been two dozen Brits, not more, in a hotel of three or four hundred rooms. I don't know if you've ever come across the Russians en masse, and for a Brit they are an interesting bunch. I'm told that unlike the Brits abroad, they don't spend money, so that doesn't make them popular. It would explain why in the breakfast area (outside...it was a pleasant 30 degrees) Russian mothers could be spotted great piles of food from the buffet into their babies' buggies to keep them going through the day.
It would be fair to say that there were plenty of attractive young Russian women staying at the hotel. On the beach they wore dental floss to protect their modesty. Initially attractive to any young male, it soon wore off and the phrase 'less is less' came to mind. Off the beach they wore short, clingy dresses and high heels that last saw service in Debbie does Dallas. I wandered into the hotel shop at 9 in the morning to be confronted by young filly dressed in matching scarlet lycra dress and scarlet high heels. An hour later she was to be seen walking on the golden sandy beach in the same outfit...heels sinking six inches down before stripping off to her floss. By contrast, even at a young age, it appears the Russian men take the shape of a T34 tank. As enormous and unkempt as the young women are skimpy and 'beautifully' presented.
The other Russian highlight was the photograph taking. For you or me, all that's needed is to turn and smile at the camera whilst the picture is taken in a jiffy. For the Russian guests, it was a major operation. Finding the right place to pose would take minutes...perhaps even hours. And then there were the poses. If you've got a copy of Playboy handy, it would make my life easier as I won't have to describe the contortions they got themselves into to get the perfect shot. This was the case even when the person behind the camera was their father. Or may they were their lover. Either way it left us feeling queasy.
* warning: contains mild peril and racism
As we were traveling on days not frequented by the package holiday set, we went out on Aegean Airlines and came back on the world's favourite airline. Going out, the seats were six abreast with an aisle in the middle, meaning that I got the window seat, The Cat's Mother was beside me, and then there were three clear seats to the young woman staring out the port window. At least that was the case until we'd been in the air for 40 minutes, by which time The Cat's Mother was asleep. An older woman came and sat across the aisle, proceeded to take out the sick bag and begin vomiting, which she continued to do for the remainder of the five hour flight. She used up all the sick bags around her. The stewardesses did their level best to ignore her. I would have been sympathetic....but why the feck did she think it was better for her to puke near us rather than her traveling companions?
On the way back, we arrived nearly four hours early, 'just in case' - there was a taxi drivers' blockade of the airport, and we thought we may have to walk a long way to get to the terminal. As it happens, the police kept the entrance to the airport open...although they were less fussed about letting people out. Behind us on the plane sat a man-mountain...he was literally that shape, and would put Ben Nevis in shade. All was well until the captain announced twenty minutes before landing that we would be arriving at Terminal 3. We had departed from Terminal 1. We could have walked from Cyprus quicker than it takes to walk from Terminal 3 to Terminal 1.
We had pre-booked the parking to save costs. But I hadn't realised that I'd turned into Car Park 1, not Car Park 1a...our designated parking area. No wonder then that our ticket wouldn't work, and then when we got the machine to read it, it demanded £259. On the upside, the help desk girl must get this happening several times a day and let us go without a fight. On the downside I was more than a little agitated.
As there wasn't enough room at Grandma in Cyprus' house with my brother and his family there, we stayed at a hotel. Our hotel was the five star Adams Beach Hotel. And very nice it was too. So thought all the Russians that were staying there. There may have been two dozen Brits, not more, in a hotel of three or four hundred rooms. I don't know if you've ever come across the Russians en masse, and for a Brit they are an interesting bunch. I'm told that unlike the Brits abroad, they don't spend money, so that doesn't make them popular. It would explain why in the breakfast area (outside...it was a pleasant 30 degrees) Russian mothers could be spotted great piles of food from the buffet into their babies' buggies to keep them going through the day.
It would be fair to say that there were plenty of attractive young Russian women staying at the hotel. On the beach they wore dental floss to protect their modesty. Initially attractive to any young male, it soon wore off and the phrase 'less is less' came to mind. Off the beach they wore short, clingy dresses and high heels that last saw service in Debbie does Dallas. I wandered into the hotel shop at 9 in the morning to be confronted by young filly dressed in matching scarlet lycra dress and scarlet high heels. An hour later she was to be seen walking on the golden sandy beach in the same outfit...heels sinking six inches down before stripping off to her floss. By contrast, even at a young age, it appears the Russian men take the shape of a T34 tank. As enormous and unkempt as the young women are skimpy and 'beautifully' presented.
The other Russian highlight was the photograph taking. For you or me, all that's needed is to turn and smile at the camera whilst the picture is taken in a jiffy. For the Russian guests, it was a major operation. Finding the right place to pose would take minutes...perhaps even hours. And then there were the poses. If you've got a copy of Playboy handy, it would make my life easier as I won't have to describe the contortions they got themselves into to get the perfect shot. This was the case even when the person behind the camera was their father. Or may they were their lover. Either way it left us feeling queasy.
* warning: contains mild peril and racism
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Grandma in Cyprus' birthday
Just to clarify, we abandoned the teens at home, because they were just about to start their exams. AS levels are important, very important, so we had been faced with a dilemma, but ultimately decided that at 17 they were old enough to look after themselves providing we stocked the fridge until it was fit to burst, and there were regular visitations from local relatives. It would have been marvelous if they could have come with us, but the harsh realities of modern schooling meant that not a moment could be wasted in the quest for that best possible grade.
These four days were unusual: it was the first time my brother, I and our mum have been together for more time than any of us could remember.
80 is a big birthday so everyone had made a very special effort. Even Grandma in Cyprus who even did a double count on the years, as was not convinced that the 80 years between 1932 and 2012 could possibly have gone so quickly.
When we had been thinking about what to do the first decision had been where the celebration should be held. We had decided Cyprus as that is where her friends are...the people who she enjoys spending her days and evenings with. There are still plenty of family in the UK, but actually I think birthdays are for friends first and foremost.
The celebration meal took place in her favourite restaurant with 25 of her closest friends, her two sons and their families. We ate and drank 'til late in the night, before retiring to her home for further celebrations and cake cutting. Her dogs joined in too at that stage.
The next day we'd hired a boat. Big enough for forty, it took just seven of us down the coast. Very calm, very civilised, very relaxing. Whilst the captain cooked, we went swimming in the very nearly warm Mediterranean sea. Our sweetcorn worked best as fish food, driving the fish into a frenzy, that made you think they may just have been piranhas and we'd had a lucky escape.
The third day of celebrations involved just one thing. Her Grandson's present which you can see below:
Life begins at eighty.
These four days were unusual: it was the first time my brother, I and our mum have been together for more time than any of us could remember.
80 is a big birthday so everyone had made a very special effort. Even Grandma in Cyprus who even did a double count on the years, as was not convinced that the 80 years between 1932 and 2012 could possibly have gone so quickly.
When we had been thinking about what to do the first decision had been where the celebration should be held. We had decided Cyprus as that is where her friends are...the people who she enjoys spending her days and evenings with. There are still plenty of family in the UK, but actually I think birthdays are for friends first and foremost.
The celebration meal took place in her favourite restaurant with 25 of her closest friends, her two sons and their families. We ate and drank 'til late in the night, before retiring to her home for further celebrations and cake cutting. Her dogs joined in too at that stage.
The next day we'd hired a boat. Big enough for forty, it took just seven of us down the coast. Very calm, very civilised, very relaxing. Whilst the captain cooked, we went swimming in the very nearly warm Mediterranean sea. Our sweetcorn worked best as fish food, driving the fish into a frenzy, that made you think they may just have been piranhas and we'd had a lucky escape.
The third day of celebrations involved just one thing. Her Grandson's present which you can see below:
Life begins at eighty.
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Top Cat, Deputy Dawg
Tomorrow we fly to Cyprus for a short break. It's Grandma in Cyprus' 80th birthday on Saturday, so celebrations are in order.
Democracy is a curious beast. In Greece it could lead to the collapse of the Euro. To be fair to the Greeks, if you've been used to being paid for 14 months in every twelve, retiring almost before you've started, with a pension that would make a banker weep with envy, and had a job that is done by ten people, austerity must be hard. So I have some sympathy...even though the consequences of the hope to renege on their commitments will be a disaster for the global economy. The French too are making it all look a bit tricky. Some of the proposals of the new President (how on earth did the French elect someone called Hollande?) make me raise my eyebrows...reducing the retirement age (for some) to 60 from 62, whilst the rest of us have to work until we stagger into the grave. But I do quite like the concept that there's merit in trying to make the economy grow, rather than grind it down as Punch and Judy are trying to do here.
As an amusing little side-note, someone in our office has had their mortgage application rejected because it was printed on 80gsm paper rather than 100gsm. If you're not familiar with paper weights (as opposed to paperweights) 80gsm is the sort of paper that EVERYONE uses in their printer. Frankly it's no wonder we continue to live in economic misery.
I've learnt a lesson...never comment on one of Nursemyra's posts from your mobile phone. a) because it's tricky b) because Wordpress automatically subscribes you to follow-on comments. It seems impossible to turn them off, no matter how many times you click the unsubscribe box. And Nursemyra gets a lot of comments. And she lives 'down under'...so the comments tend to arrive through the night on your phone. I blame Wordpress, certainly not my techno-incompetence.
One of the absolutely marvellous things about being a parent is that occasionally your offspring give you such a sense of pride, that you can puff your chest out and march down the street happy, smiling, and bathing in the reflected glory. First off The Cat has been made Head of House...a fine achievement of which the Cat's Mother and all the family are cock-a-hoop.
The Boy has been made Deputy Head of his house...again a fabulous achievement. They're both much liked and respected at school, both participate and show the qualities of leadership that will do them well in future life.
The Boy has also been awarded 'Best Cadet'..a fine silver cup which will have his name added to it. We've got our fingers crossed that he may be put in charge of the Contingent...but are certainly not counting our chickens as there are more than enough animals in this post already.
Today I like being a parent...
Democracy is a curious beast. In Greece it could lead to the collapse of the Euro. To be fair to the Greeks, if you've been used to being paid for 14 months in every twelve, retiring almost before you've started, with a pension that would make a banker weep with envy, and had a job that is done by ten people, austerity must be hard. So I have some sympathy...even though the consequences of the hope to renege on their commitments will be a disaster for the global economy. The French too are making it all look a bit tricky. Some of the proposals of the new President (how on earth did the French elect someone called Hollande?) make me raise my eyebrows...reducing the retirement age (for some) to 60 from 62, whilst the rest of us have to work until we stagger into the grave. But I do quite like the concept that there's merit in trying to make the economy grow, rather than grind it down as Punch and Judy are trying to do here.
As an amusing little side-note, someone in our office has had their mortgage application rejected because it was printed on 80gsm paper rather than 100gsm. If you're not familiar with paper weights (as opposed to paperweights) 80gsm is the sort of paper that EVERYONE uses in their printer. Frankly it's no wonder we continue to live in economic misery.
I've learnt a lesson...never comment on one of Nursemyra's posts from your mobile phone. a) because it's tricky b) because Wordpress automatically subscribes you to follow-on comments. It seems impossible to turn them off, no matter how many times you click the unsubscribe box. And Nursemyra gets a lot of comments. And she lives 'down under'...so the comments tend to arrive through the night on your phone. I blame Wordpress, certainly not my techno-incompetence.
One of the absolutely marvellous things about being a parent is that occasionally your offspring give you such a sense of pride, that you can puff your chest out and march down the street happy, smiling, and bathing in the reflected glory. First off The Cat has been made Head of House...a fine achievement of which the Cat's Mother and all the family are cock-a-hoop.
The Boy has been made Deputy Head of his house...again a fabulous achievement. They're both much liked and respected at school, both participate and show the qualities of leadership that will do them well in future life.
The Boy has also been awarded 'Best Cadet'..a fine silver cup which will have his name added to it. We've got our fingers crossed that he may be put in charge of the Contingent...but are certainly not counting our chickens as there are more than enough animals in this post already.
Today I like being a parent...
Monday, 7 May 2012
Image is everything
It's been a little while since I put any pictures up...I've lost my photo mojo (or is it just that I'm lusting after a new camera so anything I take with my current camera is just not good enough?)
This bank holiday weekend we repaired to Brighton to do as little as possible...it's not something we're very good at, but at least we try. This month is Festival month, so there's plenty to see and do, but we managed to continue my track record of not actually seeing any festival events. Which is odd, because as you know we love theatre...I'm not sure why The Brighton Festival never gets our attention. At the same time it is Open House, where the very many artists in and around the City open their houses so that you can see and buy their cleverness. We went round looking at a lot...to see the art, as well as to sate our nosiness about our neighbours' properties. We ended up at Roedean, which is celebrating 100 years of it's art studio. they have had some talented people there including Enid Marx, whose second cousin thrice removed you may be more familiar with. She also taught the designer of the cover for The Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band...you'll have to look that one up! Although really you ought to know. Also a more recent pupil who has won an MBE for shoe design...and is the grand-daughter of one of the Chinese Revolution's leaders...sorry I didn't catch the names. Evidently English boarding schools are very, very popular with wealthy foreigners from developing countries...so there is a good chance Britain's place in the world is safe for a generation or two yet.
And back to my pictures:
The quay at Orford in Suffolk
The old warehouses where I work are now mostly offices, and it's good to see how the character has been preserved
Just a boat bobbing up and down in the sea off teh Suffolk coast
I think this labrador rather enjoyed himself too much....
Crab pots or are they for lobsters at Orford
You may have to look twice...at first it's a beautiful view, until you see the drunk sleeping off his hangover mid-morning
This Coca Cola umbrella was a God send as I sat supping a cold drink whilst waiting for my next train in Lyon
This is Gare de Lyon in Paris. Oddly the French have mastered hi-speed rail, but their stations are still in the dark ages - beautifully designed when originally built, they've failed to keep pace with the needs of the modern traveller
The Shard, now officially Europe's tallest building...less than half . the height of the world's tallest
The Cat and The Boy on the way to see Bugsy Malone
This bank holiday weekend we repaired to Brighton to do as little as possible...it's not something we're very good at, but at least we try. This month is Festival month, so there's plenty to see and do, but we managed to continue my track record of not actually seeing any festival events. Which is odd, because as you know we love theatre...I'm not sure why The Brighton Festival never gets our attention. At the same time it is Open House, where the very many artists in and around the City open their houses so that you can see and buy their cleverness. We went round looking at a lot...to see the art, as well as to sate our nosiness about our neighbours' properties. We ended up at Roedean, which is celebrating 100 years of it's art studio. they have had some talented people there including Enid Marx, whose second cousin thrice removed you may be more familiar with. She also taught the designer of the cover for The Beatles' Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band...you'll have to look that one up! Although really you ought to know. Also a more recent pupil who has won an MBE for shoe design...and is the grand-daughter of one of the Chinese Revolution's leaders...sorry I didn't catch the names. Evidently English boarding schools are very, very popular with wealthy foreigners from developing countries...so there is a good chance Britain's place in the world is safe for a generation or two yet.
And back to my pictures:
Friday, 4 May 2012
Them woz the days....
If you look closely, you'll see I've added a few more blogs to my reading list on the right. They're actually ones I've been reading and enjoying for many, many months but for no particular reason they remained hidden on my dashboard reading list. So, of course, I highly recommend you turn your attentions there....such a shame that Going Gently is a sad, sad post today.
We're not great TV watchers...it's not that we don't enjoy it, it's just that we have other things to do, and once you're not in tune with the TV schedules it's easy just to forget to watch. Generally we have one series that we watch at a time, and at the moment we are enjoying the Beeb's series on the Seventies. In those days I was young, smart and my life was full of promise. So it's not surprising I look back through rose-tinted spectacles, and the programme has come as quite a shock to me and The Cat's Mother. We've just watched episode three (my maths suggests that as they do two years each episode there are five to watch) and we've seen all the promise of the sixties evaporate into the doom of economic, political and social failure. Of course, we both remember most of the events, but frankly when you're a smug teenager your awareness of what's really happening in the world and it's implications is minimal. We saw the world changing events as nothing more than stories in the newspapers whilst our dear parents had to bear the stress, strains and turmoil that was going on around them.
It's hard to imagine inflation running at 25%. It's not so hard to imagine everyone going on strike. Nor is it so hard to imagine savage public sector cutbacks being made...albeit by the Labour Government, rather than the current coalition. We probably all remember hopelessly unreliable and outdated cars being built by Leyland (renamed to Austin Rover by the time I went to join them in the eighties). And who can forget Punk Rock...less a musical statement and more a call for social and political change...oh that we could have Neo-Punks now!
The Seventies seems to be the forgotten decade - we all know about the swinging sixties, and the booming eighties, but the seventies seemed to be a blur of glam rock, terrible fashion and the falling pound. In fact so unrelenting is the bad news in this series, that I'm beginning to feel that the current recession is something of a golden age. I guess it's all a matter of perspective. And I have a sneaking suspicion that we're just being softened up for the arrival of Maggie who will be presented as someone who rode to our rescue...next week will be a very interesting programme indeed.
So for your delectation here's some pictures from the seventies
We're not great TV watchers...it's not that we don't enjoy it, it's just that we have other things to do, and once you're not in tune with the TV schedules it's easy just to forget to watch. Generally we have one series that we watch at a time, and at the moment we are enjoying the Beeb's series on the Seventies. In those days I was young, smart and my life was full of promise. So it's not surprising I look back through rose-tinted spectacles, and the programme has come as quite a shock to me and The Cat's Mother. We've just watched episode three (my maths suggests that as they do two years each episode there are five to watch) and we've seen all the promise of the sixties evaporate into the doom of economic, political and social failure. Of course, we both remember most of the events, but frankly when you're a smug teenager your awareness of what's really happening in the world and it's implications is minimal. We saw the world changing events as nothing more than stories in the newspapers whilst our dear parents had to bear the stress, strains and turmoil that was going on around them.
It's hard to imagine inflation running at 25%. It's not so hard to imagine everyone going on strike. Nor is it so hard to imagine savage public sector cutbacks being made...albeit by the Labour Government, rather than the current coalition. We probably all remember hopelessly unreliable and outdated cars being built by Leyland (renamed to Austin Rover by the time I went to join them in the eighties). And who can forget Punk Rock...less a musical statement and more a call for social and political change...oh that we could have Neo-Punks now!
The Seventies seems to be the forgotten decade - we all know about the swinging sixties, and the booming eighties, but the seventies seemed to be a blur of glam rock, terrible fashion and the falling pound. In fact so unrelenting is the bad news in this series, that I'm beginning to feel that the current recession is something of a golden age. I guess it's all a matter of perspective. And I have a sneaking suspicion that we're just being softened up for the arrival of Maggie who will be presented as someone who rode to our rescue...next week will be a very interesting programme indeed.
So for your delectation here's some pictures from the seventies
That's me on the right, my brother on the left and in between us Grandma and Grandpa in Cyprus. I think we were in Eastbourne on the pier at the time.
And here in the middle is my Grandmother
Thursday, 3 May 2012
Bookish
I read today that Mr Tony Blair is thinking of making his presence felt in politics again. I hope not. I really hope not. I'd like to see him locked up in jail and the keys thrown away. For someone who offered so much before he was elected, he delivered nothing of any value and left a legacy of global conflict. I hope he rots.
But enough of that.
I've been reading. Actually I've been reading pretty much all my life. There's real pleasure to be had from literature that simply cannot be found at the cinema or on TV. Is it because you get to use your mind to visualise the characters, the settings and the emotions? My reading goes in fits and starts, and I'm not a great one for remembering either book titles or the authors...my interest starts with page 1 and finishes at the end. So that generally makes it difficult to get recommendations out of me. So it's unfortunate that I can't tell you the name of a book I read earlier this year that I thoroughly enjoyed...it was set in an Irish catholic school run by priests...all I can remember is that the last part of the title was ".....is dead" Which fairly reflected the fact that the key character dies within the first two pages.
I see nothing wrong with judging a book by its cover....when you're in the book shop confronted by shelf upon shelf of novels, you've got to start somewhere. Perhaps this is why digital books don't yet appeal to me...I need to explore before I choose. To make my selection I always turn to somewhere in the middle of the book and read a couple of pages. If I like what I've read, the book is bought. So far it's been pretty failsafe.
When I went away skiing I took with me 'Do androids dream of electric sheep'. It was an unusual choice as I don't usually read science fiction, and I've never before bought the book that a film is based on after I've seen the film...Blade Runner. The film is brilliant, one of my all time favourites; the book itself is not so brilliant...and deeply confusing when it's different to the film which I'm so familiar with. In my head Dekkard was still Harrison Ford, and the characters in the book continued to be portrayed by the actors in the film. So perhaps my mistake to read the book in the first place. But I'm glad I did.
Neither in the book, nor even in the film script
I then picked up Rivers of London by Ben Aaranovitch....a light hearted magical romp which is a sort of metropolitan police Harry Potter...probably better written and with a few swear words added. It was fun, but tellingly, I suspect, I realised that I tended to scan rather than read many pages because I was neither gripped not involved. It's probably aimed at teenagers anyway who'll enjoy the unnecessary swearing.
And the current read is The Master by Colm Toibin...it's a portrait of Henry James. And I absolutely fell in love with the language on page one. It's quite dense, so even after a week I've only got to page 75, but it ticks every box for me...there's not a lot of action, it's all emotion, the writing conjours up the most beautiful, atmospheric imagery and the characterisation is superb. I guess it's a bit like a French film really. Anyway, it's worth picking up. As it's my the last book in my unread pile, I'll need to find some more...so any recommendations will be gratefully received....as we have long journeys to make next week.
There is, of course, another sort of literature, and I was amused to see that someone I knew at school set up a sex shop almost the moment he walked out of the hallowed portals. He's just bought a brand new £250,000 Bentley with personalised registration. I'm not sure how his education contributed to this, but I doubt the school is holding its head up high on this one.
But enough of that.
I've been reading. Actually I've been reading pretty much all my life. There's real pleasure to be had from literature that simply cannot be found at the cinema or on TV. Is it because you get to use your mind to visualise the characters, the settings and the emotions? My reading goes in fits and starts, and I'm not a great one for remembering either book titles or the authors...my interest starts with page 1 and finishes at the end. So that generally makes it difficult to get recommendations out of me. So it's unfortunate that I can't tell you the name of a book I read earlier this year that I thoroughly enjoyed...it was set in an Irish catholic school run by priests...all I can remember is that the last part of the title was ".....is dead" Which fairly reflected the fact that the key character dies within the first two pages.
I see nothing wrong with judging a book by its cover....when you're in the book shop confronted by shelf upon shelf of novels, you've got to start somewhere. Perhaps this is why digital books don't yet appeal to me...I need to explore before I choose. To make my selection I always turn to somewhere in the middle of the book and read a couple of pages. If I like what I've read, the book is bought. So far it's been pretty failsafe.
When I went away skiing I took with me 'Do androids dream of electric sheep'. It was an unusual choice as I don't usually read science fiction, and I've never before bought the book that a film is based on after I've seen the film...Blade Runner. The film is brilliant, one of my all time favourites; the book itself is not so brilliant...and deeply confusing when it's different to the film which I'm so familiar with. In my head Dekkard was still Harrison Ford, and the characters in the book continued to be portrayed by the actors in the film. So perhaps my mistake to read the book in the first place. But I'm glad I did.
Neither in the book, nor even in the film script
I then picked up Rivers of London by Ben Aaranovitch....a light hearted magical romp which is a sort of metropolitan police Harry Potter...probably better written and with a few swear words added. It was fun, but tellingly, I suspect, I realised that I tended to scan rather than read many pages because I was neither gripped not involved. It's probably aimed at teenagers anyway who'll enjoy the unnecessary swearing.
And the current read is The Master by Colm Toibin...it's a portrait of Henry James. And I absolutely fell in love with the language on page one. It's quite dense, so even after a week I've only got to page 75, but it ticks every box for me...there's not a lot of action, it's all emotion, the writing conjours up the most beautiful, atmospheric imagery and the characterisation is superb. I guess it's a bit like a French film really. Anyway, it's worth picking up. As it's my the last book in my unread pile, I'll need to find some more...so any recommendations will be gratefully received....as we have long journeys to make next week.
There is, of course, another sort of literature, and I was amused to see that someone I knew at school set up a sex shop almost the moment he walked out of the hallowed portals. He's just bought a brand new £250,000 Bentley with personalised registration. I'm not sure how his education contributed to this, but I doubt the school is holding its head up high on this one.
Wednesday, 2 May 2012
Roughly 140
Last night was the start of our rehearsals.
Confidentiality is a key message that was drummed in over and over and over again.
There were I guess some four hundred of us gathered last night of all shapes and sizes. Clearly it wasn't a beauty parade. But the enthusiasm was infectious.
I now have my Olympics ID card, and an Oyster Card reserved just for Olympic participants. We all felt pretty special.
Danny Boyle was there, of course, and he's a charming, delightful man. Whether he'll manage to maintain that demeanour as the opening day approaches, will be interesting to see.
The choreographer is the man that choreographed War Horse....Toby Sedgewick. We were asked who had seen it. Everyone's hands went up. Then we were asked who'd seen it on the stage, and only a few of us left our hands in the air.
After an introduction...we should remember that we are the true embodiment of the Olympic spirit because we volunteered and have given up a lot to participate, unlike the athletes who will make shed loads of money (I'm only quoting here)...where we were shown the stadium and how it will look on opening night, we were taken through our section of the evening's entertainment. Like a terrorist cell we were given only the information we needed, so we don't have a grand view of the entire ceremony...just our part.
It's been meticulously planned, and I can say that if it goes according to plan it will be a night to remember. Nothing like the Beijing ceremony, but spectacular, engaging and something for participants and viewers to be proud of.
So that's the first four hours of a total rehearsal time of 140 hours over the next two months done. It would have been literary dynamite if it had been 127 Hours, but you can't have everything. I'm looking forward to the next 136, and desperately hoping I can live up to it.
Confidentiality is a key message that was drummed in over and over and over again.
There were I guess some four hundred of us gathered last night of all shapes and sizes. Clearly it wasn't a beauty parade. But the enthusiasm was infectious.
I now have my Olympics ID card, and an Oyster Card reserved just for Olympic participants. We all felt pretty special.
Danny Boyle was there, of course, and he's a charming, delightful man. Whether he'll manage to maintain that demeanour as the opening day approaches, will be interesting to see.
The choreographer is the man that choreographed War Horse....Toby Sedgewick. We were asked who had seen it. Everyone's hands went up. Then we were asked who'd seen it on the stage, and only a few of us left our hands in the air.
After an introduction...we should remember that we are the true embodiment of the Olympic spirit because we volunteered and have given up a lot to participate, unlike the athletes who will make shed loads of money (I'm only quoting here)...where we were shown the stadium and how it will look on opening night, we were taken through our section of the evening's entertainment. Like a terrorist cell we were given only the information we needed, so we don't have a grand view of the entire ceremony...just our part.
It's been meticulously planned, and I can say that if it goes according to plan it will be a night to remember. Nothing like the Beijing ceremony, but spectacular, engaging and something for participants and viewers to be proud of.
So that's the first four hours of a total rehearsal time of 140 hours over the next two months done. It would have been literary dynamite if it had been 127 Hours, but you can't have everything. I'm looking forward to the next 136, and desperately hoping I can live up to it.
Tuesday, 1 May 2012
1-0
Last night The Cat's Mother asked what I was doing seventeen years ago. I had to think before I answered.
Today is The Boy's 17th birthday.
This morning I felt I was the luckiest person in the world when, as I crossed the street, I pulled out the money to pay for my coffee and managed to let three £20 notes flutter off towards an open drain cover. Miraculously, none of them went down the hole. So I ended up paying £2.50, not £62.50!
On Friday night we went off to Tate Modern to get a guided tour of Damien Hirst's first retrospective. Actually I arrived an hour early and used the time to buy myself (yet another) Anish Kapoor book...he's been my favourite artist for a couple of decades now...and a coffee in the Members Room. All very relaxing. Which was good because the guide was somewhat manic. But thank heavens we had him. Otherwise we'd have just been looking at flies feasting on dead meat, a giant ashtray, a shark, some sheep and cows cut in half and some butterflies pinned to a wall. Because we had the guide we were able to realise that wasn't what we saw; instead we were looking at a commentary on the fragility of life. Evidently you're supposed to look at the famous shark head on and ponder on the thought that you are being at the same time confronted by certain death whilst realising that it is the shark that is dead, rather than you who will be...The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living. I quite enjoyed it, as did we all, but there was certainly a feeling as we left the gallery that Mr Hirst is a smart showman who would have made a fortune whatever he turned his hand to. And let's hand it to him, he did shake up the British art world and made a fortune whilst doing it...although the souvenir shop is yet to sell any of his limited edition £36,000 skulls they're offering the gullible. I like his concepts...but really the execution is hardly artistic.
More modern art on Saturday with a fleeting visit to Gilbert and George at the White Cube Gallery. A series of pictures which bring together in categories headlines from the Evening Standard from the last several years. Very nice. It kept us interested for at least ten minutes.
We then headed to a new production of Educating Rita starring the unfortunate Matthew Kelly and ex-Brookie Claire Sweeney. We felt an affinity to dear Claire as one of our friends was dating her for a while, and couldn't help but mention that he was helping her learn her lines. Anyway, she was a shrill Scouser from beginning to end, and probably not as responsible as Mr Kelly for sending six of the eight of us to sleep during the first half. Sadly, he wasn't up to the part...merely repeating his lines without much sign of emotion or commitment. He was hindered too by some poor staging plus being required to change his cardigan every scene to demonstrate the passing of time. There were a lot of scenes. Plus, the truth is that the themes are quite dated, so it's quite difficult to empathise with the play. I didn't much like the concept and the execution struggled with its artistry See the film with Michael Caine, you'll enjoy it much more.
Yesterday I was at The Tribunal. The other side wanted to do a deal. And I let them. My natural state is confrontational, so I thought it would do me well to enjoy the process of negotiation. Their barrister was a delightful fellow. Oddly he seemed to be on my side...which I guess is their art. Anyway I got everything I asked for, which I suspect means that I've been gently shafted from behind without me realising it.
P.S. if anyone can tell me why all my most recent posts have that strange formatting...with the white background halfway down, please let me know...and more importantly let me know how to fix it!
Friday, 27 April 2012
The big one
It's a big week next week. Really big.
The Boy is 17. That's the last one before he's officially grown up. And only a year to go before he can take me down the pub and buy that pint I've been demanding for some years now.
It will also be the first birthday where I've not been there to celebrate with him. Tuesday is my first Olympics rehearsal. From 5.30 through to 9.30. Not surprisingly I'm rather excited. Not surprisingly I still haven't shaken off the cough and cold that laid me low last weekend, so I'll be wheezing around the studio trying not to look like I'm breathing my last. To celebrate I bought a new pair of trackie bottoms...probably the first pair I've bought for 35 years. And the last ones I ever will.
Before then I'm at a property tribunal fighting the cause against a greedy, avaricious, deceitful and dishonest freeholder. To make sure I'm best placed to win my case, I asked a solicitor to prepare the paperwork whilst I was on holiday and submit according to the timetable we'd been given. That was a couple of weeks ago....yesterday I received a call to say the paperwork was not correct. I spent the morning getting it right and taking it to the Tribunal, but the reality is there's a reasonable chance my case will simply be thrown out. Depressing. Expensive. I may have to sue the solicitors. That won't be good for my well being. I'll know more on Monday.
And before then we have some friends down for the weekend. It's a busy schedule starting tonight. Tonight we're seeing the Damien Hirst exhibition, and then off for a meal. Beyond that I don't know: The Cat's Mother never tells me anything, and when she does I don't listen. It's a dangerous combination.
The Cat's Mother says that I should check the You Tube video I put up. Evidently, the Shirley and Shirley one yesterday is inappropriate. As is Ginger Blush. As is Richard Herring. But you're safe watching the Frisky and Mannish one. Anyway, I'm not listening.
The Boy is 17. That's the last one before he's officially grown up. And only a year to go before he can take me down the pub and buy that pint I've been demanding for some years now.
It will also be the first birthday where I've not been there to celebrate with him. Tuesday is my first Olympics rehearsal. From 5.30 through to 9.30. Not surprisingly I'm rather excited. Not surprisingly I still haven't shaken off the cough and cold that laid me low last weekend, so I'll be wheezing around the studio trying not to look like I'm breathing my last. To celebrate I bought a new pair of trackie bottoms...probably the first pair I've bought for 35 years. And the last ones I ever will.
Before then I'm at a property tribunal fighting the cause against a greedy, avaricious, deceitful and dishonest freeholder. To make sure I'm best placed to win my case, I asked a solicitor to prepare the paperwork whilst I was on holiday and submit according to the timetable we'd been given. That was a couple of weeks ago....yesterday I received a call to say the paperwork was not correct. I spent the morning getting it right and taking it to the Tribunal, but the reality is there's a reasonable chance my case will simply be thrown out. Depressing. Expensive. I may have to sue the solicitors. That won't be good for my well being. I'll know more on Monday.
And before then we have some friends down for the weekend. It's a busy schedule starting tonight. Tonight we're seeing the Damien Hirst exhibition, and then off for a meal. Beyond that I don't know: The Cat's Mother never tells me anything, and when she does I don't listen. It's a dangerous combination.
The Cat's Mother says that I should check the You Tube video I put up. Evidently, the Shirley and Shirley one yesterday is inappropriate. As is Ginger Blush. As is Richard Herring. But you're safe watching the Frisky and Mannish one. Anyway, I'm not listening.
Thursday, 26 April 2012
Life is a Chabaret
The weather is not good for my health. It's not that wet and damp is getting to my lungs, it's just that in this very wet weather ("More than two month's rain in 48 hours" screamed this morning's newspaper) it's not been possible, or sensible to cycle into the office. So having started the year well, it' snow over three weeks since I put foot to pedal. As it's the only exercise I do, I can feeling the muscles wasting away and the flab piling on. So I'm hoping for a turnaround in the the grey skies for the sake of my health and well being.
Hope you've been following the Leveson Inquiry...it's entertaining stuff even if you're not much interested in newspapers or politicians. Essentially you seem to have one bunch of grubby little men (and women) having a pop at another bunch of grubby little men (and women). And none of them come out of it with any credit. Would you give any of them house room? I know I wouldn't. This week we have The Murdochs (junior and senior) realising that their goose is cooked so far as having any real influence any more...and therefore adopting a scorched earth policy...taking down everyone they can. Nice. It would be good to think that at some stage we will have reason to admire the political and economic elite rather than just gaze on at their unrelenting awfulness. Wouldn't it?
You may have noticed that we have quite busy lives. This can be fun. Indeed it is fun. We like it that way. But has its downsides. Exhaustion being one of them. Hence the need to be fit, to keep up the pace. We're flagging a bit.
Last night The Cat's Mother and I took ourselves off to Pizza East...the cutting-edge pizza restaurant in uber trendy Shoreditch. We were the oldest by about 50%. Damn we must learn to act our age. It was good that The Cat's Mother was there because the last time I was ate at Pizza East, it was a Saturday night and I was with friends without her. Some of her friends spotted me, and it caused something of a scandal. Even though everything was innocent and above board. It was just that I'd abandoned her ill at home in bed whilst I went out gallivanting. Totally innocent.
We then went downstairs to 'Concrete' to enjoy and intimate cabaret...Chabaret!...we estimate the audience was 100 - 150 folks. The evening was in aid of Twelveathon - a mad bugger running twelve marathons in 2012 to raise £12,000 for UNICEF and a less well known but very worthwhile cause Scene and Heard.
As ever with cabaret there was a mixed bad. Compared pretty spectacularly by Radio 6 DJ Shaun Keaveny we got to enjoy the delights of:
A unnamed juggler who's work was cut out by the low ceilings...ever tried juggling with the ceiling just a foot above your head? He was excellent, so I wish I had his name. He even managed to apparently cut his arm off by throwing a knife. Of course we ALL KNEW it was a trick...but, but, but it provoked uncontrolled hysterical laughter. I was weeping with mirth...
"The Blue Peril – Benjamin Louche from the Double R Club is the world’s newest superhero. You’ll believe a man can fly. Just not this man."
Shirley and Shirley - I can't tell you what they did with a slice of Brie, nor a two foot long sausage, but they were very funny indeed.
Ginger Blush who did a slightly odd 'burlesque' version of Back to the Future, which nearly went hideously wrong when she couldn't clip her bra. I couldn't find a video of that performance, but here's another for your delectation
Sarah Louise Young as Bernie St Clair - the bitterest mother you'll ever meet. Funny if you're not a mother. She's also one member of Fascinating Aida, so this gives me an excuse to post my favourite piece by them (although she's not actually in it)
The very hilarious Mandy Muden, magician
The very funny Richard Herring, who told us about his life philosophy - "The enemy of my enemy is my friend". Which worked well until his enemy chose "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". He then went on to talk about his wife of thirty nine day's list of 100 things to do before she dies which he first read when the met years ago. Number three was build a Ferrero Rocher pyramid..as per the ambassador's ad. Not difficult, but as he pointed out, she couldn't be bothered to do it. So he decided to help her out by buying her a Ferrero Rocher on their anniversary. Second year he realised this was going to take a long time so he bought two. Year three he realised he'd got to buy four, then 8, 16, 32...you get the picture. Evidently by 2020, he'll be having to build some two million full size pyramids. But then he'd discovered she'd been eating the chocolates. Well you probably had to be there. Here's a clip
And finally, Frisky and Mannish who do very clever, very funny mashed up versions of your favourite pop songs in the style of other pop stars. It got quite confusing with Old MacDonald Has A Farm...but we laughed ourselves off our seats.
Hope you've been following the Leveson Inquiry...it's entertaining stuff even if you're not much interested in newspapers or politicians. Essentially you seem to have one bunch of grubby little men (and women) having a pop at another bunch of grubby little men (and women). And none of them come out of it with any credit. Would you give any of them house room? I know I wouldn't. This week we have The Murdochs (junior and senior) realising that their goose is cooked so far as having any real influence any more...and therefore adopting a scorched earth policy...taking down everyone they can. Nice. It would be good to think that at some stage we will have reason to admire the political and economic elite rather than just gaze on at their unrelenting awfulness. Wouldn't it?
You may have noticed that we have quite busy lives. This can be fun. Indeed it is fun. We like it that way. But has its downsides. Exhaustion being one of them. Hence the need to be fit, to keep up the pace. We're flagging a bit.
Last night The Cat's Mother and I took ourselves off to Pizza East...the cutting-edge pizza restaurant in uber trendy Shoreditch. We were the oldest by about 50%. Damn we must learn to act our age. It was good that The Cat's Mother was there because the last time I was ate at Pizza East, it was a Saturday night and I was with friends without her. Some of her friends spotted me, and it caused something of a scandal. Even though everything was innocent and above board. It was just that I'd abandoned her ill at home in bed whilst I went out gallivanting. Totally innocent.
We then went downstairs to 'Concrete' to enjoy and intimate cabaret...Chabaret!...we estimate the audience was 100 - 150 folks. The evening was in aid of Twelveathon - a mad bugger running twelve marathons in 2012 to raise £12,000 for UNICEF and a less well known but very worthwhile cause Scene and Heard.
As ever with cabaret there was a mixed bad. Compared pretty spectacularly by Radio 6 DJ Shaun Keaveny we got to enjoy the delights of:
A unnamed juggler who's work was cut out by the low ceilings...ever tried juggling with the ceiling just a foot above your head? He was excellent, so I wish I had his name. He even managed to apparently cut his arm off by throwing a knife. Of course we ALL KNEW it was a trick...but, but, but it provoked uncontrolled hysterical laughter. I was weeping with mirth...
"The Blue Peril – Benjamin Louche from the Double R Club is the world’s newest superhero. You’ll believe a man can fly. Just not this man."
Shirley and Shirley - I can't tell you what they did with a slice of Brie, nor a two foot long sausage, but they were very funny indeed.
Ginger Blush who did a slightly odd 'burlesque' version of Back to the Future, which nearly went hideously wrong when she couldn't clip her bra. I couldn't find a video of that performance, but here's another for your delectation
Sarah Louise Young as Bernie St Clair - the bitterest mother you'll ever meet. Funny if you're not a mother. She's also one member of Fascinating Aida, so this gives me an excuse to post my favourite piece by them (although she's not actually in it)
The very hilarious Mandy Muden, magician
The very funny Richard Herring, who told us about his life philosophy - "The enemy of my enemy is my friend". Which worked well until his enemy chose "Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer". He then went on to talk about his wife of thirty nine day's list of 100 things to do before she dies which he first read when the met years ago. Number three was build a Ferrero Rocher pyramid..as per the ambassador's ad. Not difficult, but as he pointed out, she couldn't be bothered to do it. So he decided to help her out by buying her a Ferrero Rocher on their anniversary. Second year he realised this was going to take a long time so he bought two. Year three he realised he'd got to buy four, then 8, 16, 32...you get the picture. Evidently by 2020, he'll be having to build some two million full size pyramids. But then he'd discovered she'd been eating the chocolates. Well you probably had to be there. Here's a clip
And finally, Frisky and Mannish who do very clever, very funny mashed up versions of your favourite pop songs in the style of other pop stars. It got quite confusing with Old MacDonald Has A Farm...but we laughed ourselves off our seats.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Roa..art's not what it used to be
In amongst the post-holiday exhaustion, we managed to pack a few things in last week. No doubt it was that which gave me a nasty bout of man flu from Friday through to today.
Friday we went to the opera to see a production written by Neil Hannon...better known the Divine Comedy. As The Divine Comedy he is divine. He may be a divine opera writer, but apart from the scene about Natasha, I suspect not. As The Guardian says
"Since 2010, the ROH2's OperaShots initiative has offered a range of composers working outside the operatic medium a chance to try their hand at the genre. It's a worthy idea, but it's fair to say that thus far the results have been disappointing; too many of those commissioned have turned out to lack a sufficiently strong set of technical skills to create something viable.
Friday we went to the opera to see a production written by Neil Hannon...better known the Divine Comedy. As The Divine Comedy he is divine. He may be a divine opera writer, but apart from the scene about Natasha, I suspect not. As The Guardian says
"Since 2010, the ROH2's OperaShots initiative has offered a range of composers working outside the operatic medium a chance to try their hand at the genre. It's a worthy idea, but it's fair to say that thus far the results have been disappointing; too many of those commissioned have turned out to lack a sufficiently strong set of technical skills to create something viable.
This problem recurs in this year's double bill with Neil Hannon's Sevastopol, written to his own libretto and based on Tolstoy's experiences in the Crimean war, as recounted in his Sevastopol Sketches. Hannon tells his episodic tale with spoken introductions leading into individual sections that don't cohere. The word-setting is awkward, the harmony and instrumentation drab and the ideas frequently kitsch; one or two moments suggest an audition piece for a West End musical, but without the necessary theatrical vitality.
John Lloyd Davies's staging cannot disguise the piece's static nature, though the cast give it a good shot, with Richard Burkhard's Tolstoy holding the centre ground."
At the other end of the artistic scale we went to see the new exhibition of Roa's works. I'm an absolute groupie when it comes to Roa, so had gone to some lengths to get to the preview. Contrary to most people's expectations, these street artists are not daft...they're confidently commercial, so no wonder we walked away with a limited edition book that cost several times the price of the next most expensive book I've ever bought. The show was in two places...and it was just absolutely magical to see his talent. One of the great things about street artists is that they don't mind you photographing their work...in fact it's positively encouraged.
Monday, 23 April 2012
Unsinkable
Meanwhile we're getting ready for the Royal Jubilee by adding to our collection of limited edition Marmites...we love the stuff, so Ma'amite will go down well on the day.
In an example of ocer-reaction which is all too common these days, I see that a local fair in Northern Ireland was in all sorts of trouble for having an inflatable slide for the kids...it was in the shape of a sinking ship, and evidently a lot of people were upset. So they probably wouldn't appreciate The Boy's antics. He renamed his iPad The Titanic...just so that when he plugs it in it will sync...or not...
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