By now, you may have guessed that I am trying to publish a daily post, whether it is an opinion, a piece of fiction, a poem or simply what I did that day. Because I am going to be Internet-less for a couple of days and typing even a couple of hundred words on the mobile will be tedious in the extreme, there will be a brief break in service. I will, however, return very soon for your edification and entertainment.
See you soon...
Friday, 9 January 2015
Thursday, 8 January 2015
Cartoons and killing
I want to say that I can't believe that 12 people have been killed in Paris because a tiny minority get so annoyed over some cartoons that they feel the only proper way to express their disgust is to take the lives of the cartoonists. I want to say that, but I can't as it was probably only a matter of time before some ignorant, murderous fool decided to apply their own form of censorship via the use of an assault rifle. I refuse the murderers the right to claim this was done in the name of religion: I can think of little that is less Godless that cold-bloodedly shooting dead people who have done no more than poke a little fun at the religion the killers claim to espouse. Equally, I will refuse any argument that this was done on behalf of all muslims across the world: these criminals speak only for themselves and a scant handful of other deluded individuals who have twisted their 'faith' into a weapon of hate. The vast majority of muslims are appalled at the outrage perpetrated in Paris yesterday. I hope the killers are caught and spend the rest of their lives being helped to reflect on the inhumanity they displayed through their actions.
Predicatably, however, social media has been lit up with calls to 'kill all muslims' or for some 'action to be taken'. The former reaction characterises a school of thought esposed by some (Britain First, the EDL and some UKIP-loving members of a local politics group I was once a member of - you know who you are) that see all muslims as terrorists or, at best, would-be terrorists. The latter stance, on the other hand, is the directionless rage that demands a scapegoat be found and killed in retaliation and I think we know from the aftermath of 9/11 where that leads to. Either reaction legitimises the acts of the killers: it reinforces the idea of the West as hating Islam and all who follow its ways and it marginalises peaceful muslims - the 99.9% - who want no part of the hate war these people wish to inflame. To this end, I am not sure that republishing the offending cartoons at this moment is the right reaction, even if it does say that we refuse to be silenced. While only a few saw fit to kill in response to the cartoons, there may be many more moderate muslims who were offended by their publication. While I believe that any religion, if it has enduring strength and integrity, should be able to laugh off the pinpricks that such satires inflict, at a time of great sensitivity, it might be best to try and keep everyone inside the tent with the idiots isolated on the outside.
Free speech should not - cannot - be silenced by such barbaric actions. Our thoughts and prayers should be with the families and friends of the employees of Charlie Hebdo and the policemen killed in the attack. But we must avoid indiscriminate hate as a response - hate the killers by all means. Find them and bring them to justice. After that, however, let's consider the wider picture and think a little what should happen next...
Predicatably, however, social media has been lit up with calls to 'kill all muslims' or for some 'action to be taken'. The former reaction characterises a school of thought esposed by some (Britain First, the EDL and some UKIP-loving members of a local politics group I was once a member of - you know who you are) that see all muslims as terrorists or, at best, would-be terrorists. The latter stance, on the other hand, is the directionless rage that demands a scapegoat be found and killed in retaliation and I think we know from the aftermath of 9/11 where that leads to. Either reaction legitimises the acts of the killers: it reinforces the idea of the West as hating Islam and all who follow its ways and it marginalises peaceful muslims - the 99.9% - who want no part of the hate war these people wish to inflame. To this end, I am not sure that republishing the offending cartoons at this moment is the right reaction, even if it does say that we refuse to be silenced. While only a few saw fit to kill in response to the cartoons, there may be many more moderate muslims who were offended by their publication. While I believe that any religion, if it has enduring strength and integrity, should be able to laugh off the pinpricks that such satires inflict, at a time of great sensitivity, it might be best to try and keep everyone inside the tent with the idiots isolated on the outside.
Free speech should not - cannot - be silenced by such barbaric actions. Our thoughts and prayers should be with the families and friends of the employees of Charlie Hebdo and the policemen killed in the attack. But we must avoid indiscriminate hate as a response - hate the killers by all means. Find them and bring them to justice. After that, however, let's consider the wider picture and think a little what should happen next...
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
The Lament of Epiphany
Christmas is finally over.
The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.
The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.
The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.
Christmas is finally over.
The decorations have been unhooked from the tree, wrapped carefully in tissue paper and returned to storage for another year. The pictures on the wall have all lost their faux-pine garlands, each decorated with dried orange slices that once smelled as good as they still look. The collection of snowmen, bears and Santas have been removed from the fireplace and now sleep soundly in boxes waiting for the magic of Christmas to reanimate them once again.
The cards, some proclaiming simply "Best Wishes" while others tell a family story of the previous twelve months, all await recycling (save for the cards my love and I exchanged which will soon join 32 years-worth of previous Christmas wishes preserved in boxes upstairs). The lights, disentangled from the tree, are wound carefully onto reels and, along with the festive gold and red tablecloths, are packed away. The wreath from the front door is taken down to advertise that, in this house, Christmas is no more.
The tree - a mangificent beast, taller than our high-ceilinged room when it arrived and six feet wide at the base - though still green and retaining (nearly) all its needles, has been stripped of its branches ready for taking to the tip. It cuts a forlorn figure, a lanky, naked trunk seemingly waiting to be dressed in the pile of branches that now lays beside it.
Christmas is finally over.
Monday, 5 January 2015
Disconnecting
"You're breaking up!" He yells this at the hands-free as if sheer lung power is going to overcome the combination of the foul weather and the road about to be swallowed by the tunnel ahead. The line goes dead as the final gossamer thread of the crackling conversation with his wife snaps leaving only the clatter of the rain and the rhythmic swoosh of the wipers as they endlessly fail to clear the windscreen. As the car enters the tunnel, the noise of the wipers and the rain ceases and suddenly, he is able to able to gather his thoughts.
He hates this job. Travelling, always travelling. Driving here, flying there, hotel rooms that all blend into one well-appointed, lonely cell. Yes, he is well paid - ridiculously so, some might say. This has enabled him to buy all the toys that allow him to 'play hard' when he isn't working his arse off: the joint ownership of the ski chalet (hardly manage to get there); the home gym (barely touched, his once toned body now seems to spread to fill the seat of the Merc); the golf club membership (not even sure where his clubs are); and the house in the Cotswolds (although he gets there fairly regularly, it just provides a change of scenery for emailing, business calls and report writing). Somewhere along the way, he seems to have managed to find the time to marry well (she's old money, terribly sweet and knows how to organise dinner parties although the sat-nav probably says more to him in the course of the week than she does) and to have two young children. When business colleagues ask about his family, he sometimes finds himself struggling to recall their ages. Hell, it was only a couple of weeks back, he even got one of their names wrong. Still, the job pays for them to have the best start that money can buy. They won't have to fight their way up the greasy pole in the way he has had to, no sir. Much as he hates the job, it pays for the perfect lifestyle, the lifestyle that others envy. Whenever he feels it all becoming a little too much, when he feels a tingle in the left arm, the racing pulse, the shortness of breath, he tells himself that it is all worth it in the end.
His reverie breaks as he realises that he is out of the tunnel and the storm has mostly blown itself out. The console display suddenly flashes and the soothing female voice of the car's comms system purrs "You have voicemail". The network must be up again after the storm he thinks and, pressing a button on the steering wheel, he settles back to listen to the message from his wife and over the course of the next one minute and twelve seconds, he finds that the message is still breaking up: his family, his world, his hard shell of success. One too many parents' evenings missed, one too many dinner parties not attended, leaving his wife to hold the babies once too often. All in a voicemail. One minute and twelve seconds. Disconnected.
He hates this job. Travelling, always travelling. Driving here, flying there, hotel rooms that all blend into one well-appointed, lonely cell. Yes, he is well paid - ridiculously so, some might say. This has enabled him to buy all the toys that allow him to 'play hard' when he isn't working his arse off: the joint ownership of the ski chalet (hardly manage to get there); the home gym (barely touched, his once toned body now seems to spread to fill the seat of the Merc); the golf club membership (not even sure where his clubs are); and the house in the Cotswolds (although he gets there fairly regularly, it just provides a change of scenery for emailing, business calls and report writing). Somewhere along the way, he seems to have managed to find the time to marry well (she's old money, terribly sweet and knows how to organise dinner parties although the sat-nav probably says more to him in the course of the week than she does) and to have two young children. When business colleagues ask about his family, he sometimes finds himself struggling to recall their ages. Hell, it was only a couple of weeks back, he even got one of their names wrong. Still, the job pays for them to have the best start that money can buy. They won't have to fight their way up the greasy pole in the way he has had to, no sir. Much as he hates the job, it pays for the perfect lifestyle, the lifestyle that others envy. Whenever he feels it all becoming a little too much, when he feels a tingle in the left arm, the racing pulse, the shortness of breath, he tells himself that it is all worth it in the end.
His reverie breaks as he realises that he is out of the tunnel and the storm has mostly blown itself out. The console display suddenly flashes and the soothing female voice of the car's comms system purrs "You have voicemail". The network must be up again after the storm he thinks and, pressing a button on the steering wheel, he settles back to listen to the message from his wife and over the course of the next one minute and twelve seconds, he finds that the message is still breaking up: his family, his world, his hard shell of success. One too many parents' evenings missed, one too many dinner parties not attended, leaving his wife to hold the babies once too often. All in a voicemail. One minute and twelve seconds. Disconnected.
Sunday, 4 January 2015
A grand day out
Thanks to our obtaining some free tickets for a film preview, we found ourselves actually doing something with a Sunday rather than spending the morning in bed with the papers and the afternoon on the sofa with US TV box sets. And, reader, we greatly enjoyed our day out! The venue for the film showing I chose was the Museum of Film and Photography in Bradford so, naturally, that meant having a curry for lunch (when in Rome and all that) and after that there would still be time to mooch around the museum.
Firstly, the film. It was Clint Eastwood's latest film (as a director), American Sniper. After watching the brainless crap that is The Interview (see yesterday's instalment), this was at the absolute opposite end of the scale: good acting (Sienna Miller is a bit of a revelation), plenty to think about and a feeling of being cinematically satisfied when I left the cinema. And it is the first film in ages that I have been to where no one moved as the credits began but the only time where no one spoke as we left the cinema: nothing, nada for a good minute or two. I shall say no more other than to urge you to go and see it.
Onto lunch. We had planned to eat at the Kashmir, just round the corner from the cinema (as those dodgy homemade ads used to say in between films in the 1970s). I had phoned them the previous week to check if they opened on Sundays. Yes, I was told, "after 11". When we arrived at about 1:30 - that is still lunchtime, isn't it? - it was not only shut, it looked as if it had not been open at all that day. Obviously I should have asked the question "Are you open next Sunday" - I didn't realise I needed to be quite so specific. Anyhow, this being Bradford,there were plenty of other curry house to choose from and we went to Omar Khans's. The food there was great and different - lots of things on the menu that I had never seen before. Between us, we went totally adventurous and tried all sorts. Well-spiced, well-priced and recommended.
Finally, a trawl around the museum. A lot of it is targeted at kids (and none the worse for that), but there was plenty to entertain the big kids. I especially liked the special exhibition based on the work of a Catalan photographer who documents 'miracles' and fantastical animals, many of which were on display in the exhibition: deer with the wings of an eagle, birds with turtle shells, a clam with two tiny ams so it can use tools to catch its prey. All completely crackers but hugely entertaining. There were so many times when I laughed out loud.
Finally, as we drove back on the M62, we found ourselves heading into the most beautiful sunset - a suprisingly pale blue sky as the light faded but shot through with pinks, orange and red. A sublime vision to end a lovely day. I think we might try to make more use of Sundays in future.
Firstly, the film. It was Clint Eastwood's latest film (as a director), American Sniper. After watching the brainless crap that is The Interview (see yesterday's instalment), this was at the absolute opposite end of the scale: good acting (Sienna Miller is a bit of a revelation), plenty to think about and a feeling of being cinematically satisfied when I left the cinema. And it is the first film in ages that I have been to where no one moved as the credits began but the only time where no one spoke as we left the cinema: nothing, nada for a good minute or two. I shall say no more other than to urge you to go and see it.
Onto lunch. We had planned to eat at the Kashmir, just round the corner from the cinema (as those dodgy homemade ads used to say in between films in the 1970s). I had phoned them the previous week to check if they opened on Sundays. Yes, I was told, "after 11". When we arrived at about 1:30 - that is still lunchtime, isn't it? - it was not only shut, it looked as if it had not been open at all that day. Obviously I should have asked the question "Are you open next Sunday" - I didn't realise I needed to be quite so specific. Anyhow, this being Bradford,there were plenty of other curry house to choose from and we went to Omar Khans's. The food there was great and different - lots of things on the menu that I had never seen before. Between us, we went totally adventurous and tried all sorts. Well-spiced, well-priced and recommended.
Finally, a trawl around the museum. A lot of it is targeted at kids (and none the worse for that), but there was plenty to entertain the big kids. I especially liked the special exhibition based on the work of a Catalan photographer who documents 'miracles' and fantastical animals, many of which were on display in the exhibition: deer with the wings of an eagle, birds with turtle shells, a clam with two tiny ams so it can use tools to catch its prey. All completely crackers but hugely entertaining. There were so many times when I laughed out loud.
Finally, as we drove back on the M62, we found ourselves heading into the most beautiful sunset - a suprisingly pale blue sky as the light faded but shot through with pinks, orange and red. A sublime vision to end a lovely day. I think we might try to make more use of Sundays in future.
Saturday, 3 January 2015
The forbidden fruit tastes like....pants!
People, I have seen it! "The Interview" - the film that North Korea tried to stop! The film that caused Sony to defy the nation's constitutional right to freedom of speech! The film that...is just another Seth Rogen vehicle: puerile, childish and scatalogical. I can't believe that Pyongyang was so offended by this pile of weak-assed frat-boy gags that it supposedly resorted to cyberwarfare against Sony to try to stop its release. This film is as subversive as having afternoon tea at Fortnum's. I really am bemused if such tecnological expertise was employed to counter such a dud, unless the Supreme Leader really does have so fragile an ego that he would be offended by his portrayal as a bit of a brat and a bully (albeit with nuclear weapons at his disposal).
The current hit musical in the West End, The Book of Mormon, offers better gags great songs, better acting AND a good bit of fun-poking at the Mormon religion. What was the response of the Church of the Latter Day Saints of Jesus Christ? They took out advertising space in the programme for the production. They also ran ads on the side of London buses when the production opened. They understood that by flapping their arms and gnashing their teeth and trying to ban the production, it would merely serve to heighten the digs that were made in the musical. Instead, they used the energy generated by the show to their advantage and rode on its coattails for a while. By pompously threatening retaliation on the nation that spawned 'The Interview' if it was shown in cinemas, North Korea have played up to the stereotype of humourless Stalinists and confirmed the impression that virtually every American citizen holds about that country.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I smell the nasty odour of PR: Seth takes the completed film to Sony who take one look and are appalled - not by the potential for upsetting Pyongyang but because, in keeping with the Thanksgiving release date planned, it is a turkey of gigantic proportions! How to salvage something from this vanity project gone wrong? Make it the film that 'they' don't want you to see. Play up the image of North Korea as the bogeyman, claim there have been worrying threats and pull the film from its initial release date. Then, when there has been sufficient time for sympathetic journalists to help fan the flames and the film has become a cause celebre, the forbidden fruit the consumer craves, offer a limited release in a few cinemas and online. Et voila! - suckers like me want to see what all the hype is about and find that it is...the emperor's new clothes, but big style!
I wanted it to be something worth getting worked up about. I guess the words 'Seth' and 'Rogen' on the poster should have told me that that was never going to happen....
The current hit musical in the West End, The Book of Mormon, offers better gags great songs, better acting AND a good bit of fun-poking at the Mormon religion. What was the response of the Church of the Latter Day Saints of Jesus Christ? They took out advertising space in the programme for the production. They also ran ads on the side of London buses when the production opened. They understood that by flapping their arms and gnashing their teeth and trying to ban the production, it would merely serve to heighten the digs that were made in the musical. Instead, they used the energy generated by the show to their advantage and rode on its coattails for a while. By pompously threatening retaliation on the nation that spawned 'The Interview' if it was shown in cinemas, North Korea have played up to the stereotype of humourless Stalinists and confirmed the impression that virtually every American citizen holds about that country.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I smell the nasty odour of PR: Seth takes the completed film to Sony who take one look and are appalled - not by the potential for upsetting Pyongyang but because, in keeping with the Thanksgiving release date planned, it is a turkey of gigantic proportions! How to salvage something from this vanity project gone wrong? Make it the film that 'they' don't want you to see. Play up the image of North Korea as the bogeyman, claim there have been worrying threats and pull the film from its initial release date. Then, when there has been sufficient time for sympathetic journalists to help fan the flames and the film has become a cause celebre, the forbidden fruit the consumer craves, offer a limited release in a few cinemas and online. Et voila! - suckers like me want to see what all the hype is about and find that it is...the emperor's new clothes, but big style!
I wanted it to be something worth getting worked up about. I guess the words 'Seth' and 'Rogen' on the poster should have told me that that was never going to happen....
Friday, 2 January 2015
Don't tell me your resolutions, please...
I don't do New Year's resolutions. Never really have and I am not about to start now. Don't get me wrong - in the past I have had a vague thought somewhere around midnight on several 31sts of December that in the coming 12 months I might stop smoking/drink less/exercise more/learn to meditate etc. etc. The reality, however, is always the same: I was smoking again by the second week of January, exercise and meditation remained stubbornly unticked in the 'To Do' section of the diary received as a Christmas present and as for drinking less, well somebody has to deal with that EU wine lake for heaven's sake!
So, at the start of a new year with all the possibilities that such a blank canvas provides, we too often set ourselves up with a big stick to beat ourselves with. By taking on resolutions that are full of good intention but without the will or strategy to see them through to completion, we are heading towards a big, fat downer when the failure happens. We can then beat ourselves up about it, promise to better next year and start the whole sorry cycle again. Why inflict this on ourselves? I have found that most often, change happens in ways that are nothing to do with resolutions: I quit smoking because I started to smoke fewer and fewer cigarettes each day until I found that having one or two cigarettes a day to remind myself that I was a smoker becaume a silly thing to do - that action of inhaling the smoke from burning vegetable matter became absurd!
If you are going to set resolutions make sure thay are few in number (having a list a mile long guarantees that some will be failed - why not set a list you can achieve?), your goals are realistic and achievable and - really important this one - have a deadline attached that is not some vague notion of "by the end of the year": you will kid yourself that you will get around to it at some point in the next 12 months, but you won't. And there is one more thing: you really need to want to achieve this goal. A friend has been trying to quit smoking for some while without success. The trouble is though, he enjoys it. Leaving aside the known health risks (we all know 'em), why is he going to deprive himself of something he enjoys. An attitude has to change before a resolution can be fulfilled.
So, I am avoiding the possibility of failure by not setting myself any 'disappointment targets' (or resolutions, if you prefer) for 2015. Apart from one. I'm not saying what it is but it should be come obvious as we progress through the year. Let's see if I can stick to the task, shall we?
So, at the start of a new year with all the possibilities that such a blank canvas provides, we too often set ourselves up with a big stick to beat ourselves with. By taking on resolutions that are full of good intention but without the will or strategy to see them through to completion, we are heading towards a big, fat downer when the failure happens. We can then beat ourselves up about it, promise to better next year and start the whole sorry cycle again. Why inflict this on ourselves? I have found that most often, change happens in ways that are nothing to do with resolutions: I quit smoking because I started to smoke fewer and fewer cigarettes each day until I found that having one or two cigarettes a day to remind myself that I was a smoker becaume a silly thing to do - that action of inhaling the smoke from burning vegetable matter became absurd!
If you are going to set resolutions make sure thay are few in number (having a list a mile long guarantees that some will be failed - why not set a list you can achieve?), your goals are realistic and achievable and - really important this one - have a deadline attached that is not some vague notion of "by the end of the year": you will kid yourself that you will get around to it at some point in the next 12 months, but you won't. And there is one more thing: you really need to want to achieve this goal. A friend has been trying to quit smoking for some while without success. The trouble is though, he enjoys it. Leaving aside the known health risks (we all know 'em), why is he going to deprive himself of something he enjoys. An attitude has to change before a resolution can be fulfilled.
So, I am avoiding the possibility of failure by not setting myself any 'disappointment targets' (or resolutions, if you prefer) for 2015. Apart from one. I'm not saying what it is but it should be come obvious as we progress through the year. Let's see if I can stick to the task, shall we?
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