TV SUPPLEMENT: LIFE'S TOO SHORT
Ricky Gervais's rise to megastardom has been little short of miraculous. The success of "The Office" on both sides of the Atlantic placed him above so many artistes who have swept all before them in Britain, but still failed to crack the much harder American market. But then a few unkind remarks about American celebs, like John Lennon's intemperate comment about being more popular than Jesus 4 decades earlier, threatened to nullify the effect of all his brilliant comedic skills.
Ricky has had his detractors over here too, not least my friend Pat Graham, who through his Smileofthedecade blog has raised questions about his apparently growing obsession with the cult of celebrity. Pat cites his Twitter pronouncements, which have passed me by as I am not yet initiated into the arcane world of Mr Tweet. In which case I doubt if Pat will have been too impressed with Gervais/Merchant's latest offering, "Life's too Short" which features talent from the Glitterati in every episode: Johnny Depp, Trevor Nunn, Cat Deeley et al put in appearances, all foils to the quite outstanding performance of Warwick Davies as the Dwarf who would be King of stage and screen, but under the sheer weight of his own unpleasantness fails spectacularly every time.
Ricky has got himself in hot water in Britain too with his unashamed comments about "Mongs" and other disabilities, but in this series he has cocked a triumphant snook at those in the PC brigade (and here I do not refer to Pat) who would like to claim you shouldn't make jokes about "difference". Ricky has shown that nothing is taboo, as long as it's funny- which every episode of Life's too Short so is: wickedly, sqirmingly, riotously funny.
Good on you Ricky- you're one of our best men- keep it up!
Tuesday, 27 December 2011
Sunday, 25 December 2011
pissing christmas
I write at around 9.30 on Christmas Night. We have just settled down and thoroughly enjoyed "The Ladykillers" on Film4. We were both a little shell shocked, however, having had our father who art in insanity over for the big day. All went well for the first few hours; Christmas lunch (carefully designed for a man with few teeth- him, not me by the way- I can almost eat anything now though I've actually forgotten how to eat food that requires any chewing)was fine. Then we settled down to watch "The Divorcee", a DVD from my "Forbidden Hollywood" collection, but maybe he took the title to heart, for at one point I went out into the kitchen and found him relieving himself on the floor in one corner, the same corner, interestingly, that one of our cats used to favour for the same purpose. Before I could stop myself I exploded with:
"What are you doing? What the hell's wrong with you?"
but immediately felt bad, because the answer to the question "what's wrong with you" came to me with vivid force: a lot...
As for you and yours- happy Christmas and a great new year to you all- just don't let me find you pissing in the kitchen, all right?
"What are you doing? What the hell's wrong with you?"
but immediately felt bad, because the answer to the question "what's wrong with you" came to me with vivid force: a lot...
As for you and yours- happy Christmas and a great new year to you all- just don't let me find you pissing in the kitchen, all right?
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Pelagius takes the piss
Apologies for missing my last posting deadline, but I was busy, tasting my own urine, as it happens. The anarchists have a rule (yes, I know, that's an oxymoron) that at least once a week you should do something you've never done before. This can prove quite difficult in practice, but on the weekend I did it. This was the first time I have tasted my own urine, though not the fist time I have tasted urine. The first time was at the insistence of a teaching consultant at medical school, who wanted us to perform this special test on the urine of a diabetic. It did indeed have a noticeable sweetness about it; hence the Latin term that has been applied to the main kind of diabetes since Roman physicians identified the disease in precisely this way: diabetes MELLITUS.
My own alarmed me a little with its pronounced salty taste: was I taking too much salt in my diet? Perhaps it was related to the meal of mackerel I had had earlier in the day, or perhaps the cannelloni and chips I ate later on. It is of course well known that urine's taste and smell is influenced by what has been taken into the body over the previous few hours, meat especially giving it the strongest smell and flavour. I do not, however, intend to repeat the test after eating different foods. The fact is that as well as being salty, it was also extremely unpleasant. Even after repeated mouthwashes with fresh water, the taste lingered in my mouth for over an hour. So I don't necessarily recommend the practice...
My own alarmed me a little with its pronounced salty taste: was I taking too much salt in my diet? Perhaps it was related to the meal of mackerel I had had earlier in the day, or perhaps the cannelloni and chips I ate later on. It is of course well known that urine's taste and smell is influenced by what has been taken into the body over the previous few hours, meat especially giving it the strongest smell and flavour. I do not, however, intend to repeat the test after eating different foods. The fact is that as well as being salty, it was also extremely unpleasant. Even after repeated mouthwashes with fresh water, the taste lingered in my mouth for over an hour. So I don't necessarily recommend the practice...
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Praying for fair weather
I'm calling this "The Great Depression". A vast area of low pressure has engulfed North-Western Europe, and as huge wafts of polar and warmer, wetter Atlantic air sweep round it in an anti-clockwise manner, our weather flips between the usual murky and damp conditions we expect in December and much more active conditions, such as hail, thunder and snow.
All of which gives rise to concern about my mum, living in isolation in her lovely home by the coast, deprived of her car and now, it seems, her food as well. A local cafe, half a mile distant and formerly provider of much of her staple diet, is about to close. Moreover, a minor fault in the kitchen that prepares her meals-on-wheels has caused that also to shut down for a month. She has been given an alternative, a private company that will deliver frozen meals enough for a week, but all this demands more organising skills on her part, skills she simply does not possess. And what if, like last December, the weather closes in, blocking her road for days at a time? Please God we can be lucky enough to miss that this year. If not, she will be in deep trouble...
All of which gives rise to concern about my mum, living in isolation in her lovely home by the coast, deprived of her car and now, it seems, her food as well. A local cafe, half a mile distant and formerly provider of much of her staple diet, is about to close. Moreover, a minor fault in the kitchen that prepares her meals-on-wheels has caused that also to shut down for a month. She has been given an alternative, a private company that will deliver frozen meals enough for a week, but all this demands more organising skills on her part, skills she simply does not possess. And what if, like last December, the weather closes in, blocking her road for days at a time? Please God we can be lucky enough to miss that this year. If not, she will be in deep trouble...
Sunday, 11 December 2011
What the hell is wrong with us?
So Britain has shied away from an EU treaty designed to ease some of the terrible pain caused since the collapse of Lehman Bros and everything that has gone down since then. 26 countries thought it was a plan, but DC thought not, not enough protection for our financial services apparently. At one level you can see why. Finance wheeling and dealing forms a bigger part of our economy than that of any other European country, and, so the argument goes, if we don't suck up to the money men they will fly away and set up in Singapore or some other place that really lets capitalism rip. So we fall over ourselves to make it nice for them.
In 2007, just after Gordon Brown came to office (I say office, rather than power, echoing Norman Lamont's famous aside) the leaders of every EU country met in Lisbon to sign the treaty. Except Gordon, who for some reason couldn't bring himself to attend and sent his foreign secretary instead. What I'm saying here is that it isn't just DC and his rabidly anti-EU cronies like Bill Cash (and what a nice weekend he must be having) who are suspicious of all things European. If the public opinion surveys are anything to go by (and they are) DC has taken a substantial fraction of the British population with him. It seems most of us are afraid of throwing in our lot with our neighbours, at almost any level.
Why? I fear the answer is not pretty. It has to do with the innate xenophobia we feel for anyone different from ourselves, from slitty-eyed Asians to darkies of almost any hue other than pure pink, extending all the way to the Welsh and Irish. We're better than them, and we'd rather have as little to do with them as possible, secure in our green and (not so) pleasant land
In 2007, just after Gordon Brown came to office (I say office, rather than power, echoing Norman Lamont's famous aside) the leaders of every EU country met in Lisbon to sign the treaty. Except Gordon, who for some reason couldn't bring himself to attend and sent his foreign secretary instead. What I'm saying here is that it isn't just DC and his rabidly anti-EU cronies like Bill Cash (and what a nice weekend he must be having) who are suspicious of all things European. If the public opinion surveys are anything to go by (and they are) DC has taken a substantial fraction of the British population with him. It seems most of us are afraid of throwing in our lot with our neighbours, at almost any level.
Why? I fear the answer is not pretty. It has to do with the innate xenophobia we feel for anyone different from ourselves, from slitty-eyed Asians to darkies of almost any hue other than pure pink, extending all the way to the Welsh and Irish. We're better than them, and we'd rather have as little to do with them as possible, secure in our green and (not so) pleasant land
Saturday, 10 December 2011
Let us now praise famous men
It began with a 1950s American sitcom about family life called "The Honeymooners". Then in the 60s the idea was lifted directly into an animation show so popular it became the first cartoon-format show to be broadcast at primetime: "The Flintstones". Two decades later a jobbing cartoonist called Matt Groening developed a very similar idea into "The Simpsons", quite deservedly the most successful cartoon series, and indeed one of the most popular TV shows ever made.
It has made wealthy men out of Groening and his fellow producers as well as the supremely talented cast, and literally billions for the Fox Network who distribute it. I have seen it dubbed into most European languages as well as Arabic and even Mandarin while on my travels abroad, showing its universal penetration.
The Simpsons has achieved its spectacular success, not by luck or clever marketing (though these are always factors in television) but by the skill of its writing (some of the best in American television) and of the voice actors, chief among them the quite wonderful Dan Castellenata. He plays Homer, as well as Apu, Krusty and a host of others. His colleagues, especially Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer underline the depth of quality involved in its production.
Now a new luminary has appeared on the scene, latest in this illustrious line of brilliantly written and voiced animated series: Seth McFarlane. Around the turn of the Millennium he began to produce, write and star in "Family Guy", which has been consistently the funniest thing on British TV since it was introduced here a few years ago. And young master Seth turns out to be almost as talented as Matt Groening and Dan Castellenata put together. A dazzlingly inventive writer, he is also the possessor of a fine baritone singing voice and an amazing ability with voice characterisation that challenges anything to be found in its grand daddy, the Simpsons. I hope he acknowledges his debt to that show. Without its wickedly irreverent take on American life breaking the ground, Family Guy would not have been possible. The Simpsons is suitable for all ages, but Family Guy is aimed at a more adult audience, taking the plot lines and dialogue closer to the edge than ever before, to the dismay of Fox who actually cancelled the show after 3 series, only to be forced to bring it back by popular demand. I doubt if they have regretted their decision. Family Guy, and its successors, "American Dad" and "The Cleveland Show" are now sold around the world.
Shows like the Simpsons and Family Guy usually have only 1 writer credited, but the fact is they are written by a team of some of the best writers in America, and the result is shows packed with one liners, visual gags and sheer cleverness from first frame to last. Never mind a laugh a minute: in these marvellous shows there's a laugh, a smile, a murmur of appreciation every three seconds, sometimes more than that. As the yanks themselves say: what's not to like?
It has made wealthy men out of Groening and his fellow producers as well as the supremely talented cast, and literally billions for the Fox Network who distribute it. I have seen it dubbed into most European languages as well as Arabic and even Mandarin while on my travels abroad, showing its universal penetration.
The Simpsons has achieved its spectacular success, not by luck or clever marketing (though these are always factors in television) but by the skill of its writing (some of the best in American television) and of the voice actors, chief among them the quite wonderful Dan Castellenata. He plays Homer, as well as Apu, Krusty and a host of others. His colleagues, especially Hank Azaria and Harry Shearer underline the depth of quality involved in its production.
Now a new luminary has appeared on the scene, latest in this illustrious line of brilliantly written and voiced animated series: Seth McFarlane. Around the turn of the Millennium he began to produce, write and star in "Family Guy", which has been consistently the funniest thing on British TV since it was introduced here a few years ago. And young master Seth turns out to be almost as talented as Matt Groening and Dan Castellenata put together. A dazzlingly inventive writer, he is also the possessor of a fine baritone singing voice and an amazing ability with voice characterisation that challenges anything to be found in its grand daddy, the Simpsons. I hope he acknowledges his debt to that show. Without its wickedly irreverent take on American life breaking the ground, Family Guy would not have been possible. The Simpsons is suitable for all ages, but Family Guy is aimed at a more adult audience, taking the plot lines and dialogue closer to the edge than ever before, to the dismay of Fox who actually cancelled the show after 3 series, only to be forced to bring it back by popular demand. I doubt if they have regretted their decision. Family Guy, and its successors, "American Dad" and "The Cleveland Show" are now sold around the world.
Shows like the Simpsons and Family Guy usually have only 1 writer credited, but the fact is they are written by a team of some of the best writers in America, and the result is shows packed with one liners, visual gags and sheer cleverness from first frame to last. Never mind a laugh a minute: in these marvellous shows there's a laugh, a smile, a murmur of appreciation every three seconds, sometimes more than that. As the yanks themselves say: what's not to like?
Saturday, 3 December 2011
If it's nearly working, don't fix it
After some prompting from friends and loved ones, I contacted the ophthalmologist I saw a couple of weeks ago to ask some follow-up questions. Uppermost in my mind was whether it might be worth goig to see some renowned expert at the Moorfield's Eye Hospital in London. Surely my eyes were worth it weren't they? After all, I've spent getting on for 10 grand on the gnashers this year- my sight must be worth twice, three times that or more. Right? So, I asked him, if it were him, or his mum, what would he do?
It was then he corrected something of a misapprehension regarding my general prognosis that I had gathered through not listening properly before. Fuch's dystrophy is a slowly progressive condition. However, any interference in the cornea runs a significant risk of making it worse. A 15-20% risk, in fact. So it is a waiting game, he explained.
"So you wouldn't even be thinking about surgery until you can't pass the driving test for vision".
As it happened, I had pulled off the road to take his call, and at that moment,
explaining what I was doing, I jumped out of my car and took 20 long strides away from the car parked next to mine. I looked back: I could read the number plate easily.
And there we are. With any luck I am years away from failing that test, and at that point the stakes would have risen sufficiently to warrant the risk of operation. Easy! Plus it won't cost a cent. Even better!
I feel greatly relieved now I know the score, but there is also a grimmer reality waiting for me out there. If my lifetime of smoking doesn't kill me, and it doesn't kill everyone, then I stand a significant chance of living out my late Autumn years a freakin blindy. Oh well, they the say the other senses become more acute when one is lost. I look forward to seeing how that works out...
It was then he corrected something of a misapprehension regarding my general prognosis that I had gathered through not listening properly before. Fuch's dystrophy is a slowly progressive condition. However, any interference in the cornea runs a significant risk of making it worse. A 15-20% risk, in fact. So it is a waiting game, he explained.
"So you wouldn't even be thinking about surgery until you can't pass the driving test for vision".
As it happened, I had pulled off the road to take his call, and at that moment,
explaining what I was doing, I jumped out of my car and took 20 long strides away from the car parked next to mine. I looked back: I could read the number plate easily.
And there we are. With any luck I am years away from failing that test, and at that point the stakes would have risen sufficiently to warrant the risk of operation. Easy! Plus it won't cost a cent. Even better!
I feel greatly relieved now I know the score, but there is also a grimmer reality waiting for me out there. If my lifetime of smoking doesn't kill me, and it doesn't kill everyone, then I stand a significant chance of living out my late Autumn years a freakin blindy. Oh well, they the say the other senses become more acute when one is lost. I look forward to seeing how that works out...
Thursday, 1 December 2011
Pelagius spreads the word
A couple of weeks ago I wrote to our local rag reporting my recycling project. In it I explained what I was doing and why, namely that the street cleaners, according to a number that I have spoken while on my "rounds", simply do not have the time to recycle anything they find on the street. "If it isn't in a green sack it goes straight to landfill" appears to be their rule. Finally I asked what was so difficult about taking recyclable rubbish home to recycle it, and why so many people go for the chucking it into the gutter option. I also suggested some ways street cleaners could recycle material they pick up without taking up much time or expense.
They printed my letter, awarding it "letter of the week" status, but if I am to make a difference I need more column inches. So I have contacted someone on their features desk and they have said they will get back to me. So far zip. But the project continues.
This morning, I took a 3 km walk along a busy trunk road to our local supermarket in order to secure 6 months supply of aspirin and a bottle of whisky (14 year old "old oak" matured Glenfiddich: £25; £6 off) thereby ensuring the health of my arteries well into the future. En route I filled a large plastic bag with cans, glass and plastic bottles no less than 4 times, emptying it along the way in other people's green sacks, uncollected from the yesterday owing to the Public Services strike. This constitutes the better part of 2 completely filled green sacks.
This is how I like to operate now: making less specific collecting forays and more collecting while on other missions, like shopping. And as for my quest for publicity, it ain't over.
They printed my letter, awarding it "letter of the week" status, but if I am to make a difference I need more column inches. So I have contacted someone on their features desk and they have said they will get back to me. So far zip. But the project continues.
This morning, I took a 3 km walk along a busy trunk road to our local supermarket in order to secure 6 months supply of aspirin and a bottle of whisky (14 year old "old oak" matured Glenfiddich: £25; £6 off) thereby ensuring the health of my arteries well into the future. En route I filled a large plastic bag with cans, glass and plastic bottles no less than 4 times, emptying it along the way in other people's green sacks, uncollected from the yesterday owing to the Public Services strike. This constitutes the better part of 2 completely filled green sacks.
This is how I like to operate now: making less specific collecting forays and more collecting while on other missions, like shopping. And as for my quest for publicity, it ain't over.
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
November book and film review
Welcome to this month's media review. Just a reminder that the films and books reviewed have been encountered by me for the first time this month. Now read on...
BOOKS
HEART OF DARKNESS, by Joseph Conrad. Around the turn of the century, an agent for a European Ivory trading company sends one of its people to track down a trader who has "gone native", deep in the jungle of the Belgian Congo. Like "Lord Jim", the tale is told through the mouth of the narrator "Marlow", who describes his journey up the Congo river, deep in the Equatorial rain forest. No wonder this is one of Conrad's most famous stories. One is quickly enveloped by the oppressive heat, humidity and murderous danger that lurks in every shadow of that dark and mysterious place. No wonder Francis Ford Coppola based his film "Apocalypse Now" on this amazing book. Only small changes needed to be made to turn it into one of the great films about that other "heart of darkness", the Vietnam War.
AND QUIET FLOWS THE DON, by Mikhail Sholokhov (Volume 1). An every day story of country folk in early 20th century southern Russia. Life proceeds as it has done for hundreds of years. Then the Germans declare war... Absolutely terrific story of love and death among the rural cossacks. The great river Don itself, with its gentle curves and lonely sandbanks is one of the principal characters, forming a backdrop to almost every scene. Marvellous characterisations and dialogue make this an important and extremely satisfying book. I look forward to reading the 4 other volumes in this series.
CALYPSO, by Ed McBain. A calypso singer is found shot to death. Then, in succeeding days, other people with connections to him start turning up dead too. A return to form in this 1979 book, which maintains its pace throughout and includes a strong erotic element. Excellent holiday reading.
FILMS
ANGEL OF MINE (2008) D-Safy Nebbou. (Fr) A woman becomes convinced another family's daughter is her own. But didn't she die 7 years ago in a hospital fire? Sounds like a case of psychotic grief reaction to me... Understated tale of considerable power, with a terrific twist in its tale.
UP (2009) W-D- Pete Docter. An old man launches a quest to realize his late wife's great dream. Along the way he picks up a boy scout, anxious to get his badge for "assisting the elderly". Charming and really quite touching story from the Disney/Pixar stable, with the great John Lassiter in the background as executive producer.
THE RECKLESS MOMENT (1949) D-Max Ophuls. An emotionally repressed housewife will stop at nothing to protect her family. Full of deft directorial touches from one of the European masters, this is a remarkable piece of movie making, though to be fair some of the plot devices, such as James Mason's blackmailer appearing to fall for the woman he is blackmailing, are hard to swallow. But Joan Bennett's lead is splendidly played, full of barely suppressed emotion.
RED HEADED WOMAN (1932) D-Jack Conway. A young girl (Jean Harlow) decides to use her allure to seek a better life. A film banned under the Hays Code because of its "questionable moral content", illustrating that it wasn't just scantily clad ladies it objected to, but ideas and concepts as well. And if that isn't morally questionable, I don't know what is. Best line:
Harlow: Can you see through this dress?
Shop assistant: I'm afraid you can, dearie.
Harlow: I'll take it.
CHINA SEAS (1935) D-Tay Garnett. Sea captain Clark Gable is betrothed to an English society girl, but Jean Harlow is also aboard, and she don't care... Harlow refused to wear underwear in any of her movies, arguing that they would spoil the line of her clothes, and despite the pernicious Hays code it is abundantly clear in this delightful little number that her rules are still pertly in place (warning: perv alert-Ed) Best line: Upon arrival in Singapore, one drunken passenger walks on the gangplank which is not yet connected with the shore. Landing in the water, he announces:
"The condition of the streets here is deplorable!"
RANDOM HARVEST (1942) Greer Garson falls for amnesic soldier Ronald Coleman. Naturally it all gets highly complicated. One of the great "women's films" of the 1940s . As an unashamed tearjerker, it is almost unequalled in its melodramatic intensity.
V FOR VENDETTA (2005)D-Jonas McTeigue. In a future totalitarian society, a kind of latterday Zorro fights the forces of darkness. I'll admit it: I decided to watch this after I saw a number of the "occupy London" protesters outside St Pauls wearing the now famous sardonic mask. It's glossy and fast-paced; what we might expect with the Washowski brothers as producers, but painting the hero as some sort of politically aware Ninja just didn't do it for me. Meant presumably as a "1984 for the Millennium", it relies too much on vivid action sequences while remaining emotionally empty. 1984 it most certainly ain't.
LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNE (1945) A couple admit they are no longer in love. She seems to take her lover's admission well, but in secret plans a terrible revenge on him, encouraging him to fall in love with a girl who, unknown to him, is a prostitute. Once again, Bresson weaves his quiet, pervasive spell over the audience in this fascinating piece of film making.
BOOKS
HEART OF DARKNESS, by Joseph Conrad. Around the turn of the century, an agent for a European Ivory trading company sends one of its people to track down a trader who has "gone native", deep in the jungle of the Belgian Congo. Like "Lord Jim", the tale is told through the mouth of the narrator "Marlow", who describes his journey up the Congo river, deep in the Equatorial rain forest. No wonder this is one of Conrad's most famous stories. One is quickly enveloped by the oppressive heat, humidity and murderous danger that lurks in every shadow of that dark and mysterious place. No wonder Francis Ford Coppola based his film "Apocalypse Now" on this amazing book. Only small changes needed to be made to turn it into one of the great films about that other "heart of darkness", the Vietnam War.
AND QUIET FLOWS THE DON, by Mikhail Sholokhov (Volume 1). An every day story of country folk in early 20th century southern Russia. Life proceeds as it has done for hundreds of years. Then the Germans declare war... Absolutely terrific story of love and death among the rural cossacks. The great river Don itself, with its gentle curves and lonely sandbanks is one of the principal characters, forming a backdrop to almost every scene. Marvellous characterisations and dialogue make this an important and extremely satisfying book. I look forward to reading the 4 other volumes in this series.
CALYPSO, by Ed McBain. A calypso singer is found shot to death. Then, in succeeding days, other people with connections to him start turning up dead too. A return to form in this 1979 book, which maintains its pace throughout and includes a strong erotic element. Excellent holiday reading.
FILMS
ANGEL OF MINE (2008) D-Safy Nebbou. (Fr) A woman becomes convinced another family's daughter is her own. But didn't she die 7 years ago in a hospital fire? Sounds like a case of psychotic grief reaction to me... Understated tale of considerable power, with a terrific twist in its tale.
UP (2009) W-D- Pete Docter. An old man launches a quest to realize his late wife's great dream. Along the way he picks up a boy scout, anxious to get his badge for "assisting the elderly". Charming and really quite touching story from the Disney/Pixar stable, with the great John Lassiter in the background as executive producer.
THE RECKLESS MOMENT (1949) D-Max Ophuls. An emotionally repressed housewife will stop at nothing to protect her family. Full of deft directorial touches from one of the European masters, this is a remarkable piece of movie making, though to be fair some of the plot devices, such as James Mason's blackmailer appearing to fall for the woman he is blackmailing, are hard to swallow. But Joan Bennett's lead is splendidly played, full of barely suppressed emotion.
RED HEADED WOMAN (1932) D-Jack Conway. A young girl (Jean Harlow) decides to use her allure to seek a better life. A film banned under the Hays Code because of its "questionable moral content", illustrating that it wasn't just scantily clad ladies it objected to, but ideas and concepts as well. And if that isn't morally questionable, I don't know what is. Best line:
Harlow: Can you see through this dress?
Shop assistant: I'm afraid you can, dearie.
Harlow: I'll take it.
CHINA SEAS (1935) D-Tay Garnett. Sea captain Clark Gable is betrothed to an English society girl, but Jean Harlow is also aboard, and she don't care... Harlow refused to wear underwear in any of her movies, arguing that they would spoil the line of her clothes, and despite the pernicious Hays code it is abundantly clear in this delightful little number that her rules are still pertly in place (warning: perv alert-Ed) Best line: Upon arrival in Singapore, one drunken passenger walks on the gangplank which is not yet connected with the shore. Landing in the water, he announces:
"The condition of the streets here is deplorable!"
RANDOM HARVEST (1942) Greer Garson falls for amnesic soldier Ronald Coleman. Naturally it all gets highly complicated. One of the great "women's films" of the 1940s . As an unashamed tearjerker, it is almost unequalled in its melodramatic intensity.
V FOR VENDETTA (2005)D-Jonas McTeigue. In a future totalitarian society, a kind of latterday Zorro fights the forces of darkness. I'll admit it: I decided to watch this after I saw a number of the "occupy London" protesters outside St Pauls wearing the now famous sardonic mask. It's glossy and fast-paced; what we might expect with the Washowski brothers as producers, but painting the hero as some sort of politically aware Ninja just didn't do it for me. Meant presumably as a "1984 for the Millennium", it relies too much on vivid action sequences while remaining emotionally empty. 1984 it most certainly ain't.
LES DAMES DU BOIS DE BOULOGNE (1945) A couple admit they are no longer in love. She seems to take her lover's admission well, but in secret plans a terrible revenge on him, encouraging him to fall in love with a girl who, unknown to him, is a prostitute. Once again, Bresson weaves his quiet, pervasive spell over the audience in this fascinating piece of film making.
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Gary Speed RIP
Wales reels in shock at the news of the untimely death of their national side's inspirational new manager.
He will be sadly missed, but after his family it will be that side itself which will feel the loss most keenly. Under Speed's direction, Wales's transformation on the international footballing scene has been quite amazing. A series of spectacular wins sent them shooting over 70 places higher in the World rankings, and Wales is now a better side than any since the days when John Charles wore the red shirt. What now of their prospects? Please God they can recover from this terrible blow and somehow maintain their momentum.
TV SUPPLEMENT:
THE FIRST 48 (Crime and Investigation Channel)
In grimly restrained tones, the narrator begins each film with the words:
"If detectives fail to solve a crime within the first 48 hours, the chances of making an arrest falls by half."
Then we hear an actual 911 call, with someone reporting a body, or bodies, lying dead or dying, a spreading pool of blood around their heads. The police respond, and the quest to piece the story together begins. All too often a story of a drug deal gone wrong, or some explosion of murderous rage emerges. As the police interview witnesses and family members, collect forensics and perhaps, if they're lucky, get a tip from an informer, the number of suspects dwindles to one pretty quickly. But how to build a case which will stand up in court?
In a sober, unhysterical delivery the films show the police at work in a very favourable light, which probably explains the extreme latitude the film crew are granted to show exactly how things go down. We see a bunch or ordinary, but highly committed professionals who day after day find themselves in the midst of the horror of mundane life, but somehow seem to retain their sense of humour. The grief of the families is shown, but there is also a sense of grief at the perpetrators, almost always young men barely out of their teens, their futures destroyed by a single reckless act. As "real-life" cop shows go, this is one of the best out there.
He will be sadly missed, but after his family it will be that side itself which will feel the loss most keenly. Under Speed's direction, Wales's transformation on the international footballing scene has been quite amazing. A series of spectacular wins sent them shooting over 70 places higher in the World rankings, and Wales is now a better side than any since the days when John Charles wore the red shirt. What now of their prospects? Please God they can recover from this terrible blow and somehow maintain their momentum.
TV SUPPLEMENT:
THE FIRST 48 (Crime and Investigation Channel)
In grimly restrained tones, the narrator begins each film with the words:
"If detectives fail to solve a crime within the first 48 hours, the chances of making an arrest falls by half."
Then we hear an actual 911 call, with someone reporting a body, or bodies, lying dead or dying, a spreading pool of blood around their heads. The police respond, and the quest to piece the story together begins. All too often a story of a drug deal gone wrong, or some explosion of murderous rage emerges. As the police interview witnesses and family members, collect forensics and perhaps, if they're lucky, get a tip from an informer, the number of suspects dwindles to one pretty quickly. But how to build a case which will stand up in court?
In a sober, unhysterical delivery the films show the police at work in a very favourable light, which probably explains the extreme latitude the film crew are granted to show exactly how things go down. We see a bunch or ordinary, but highly committed professionals who day after day find themselves in the midst of the horror of mundane life, but somehow seem to retain their sense of humour. The grief of the families is shown, but there is also a sense of grief at the perpetrators, almost always young men barely out of their teens, their futures destroyed by a single reckless act. As "real-life" cop shows go, this is one of the best out there.
Monday, 21 November 2011
Milan postscript
Home now, after the fog lifted enough at both Linate and Heathrow airports to enable, after a delay of nearly five hours, our respective departure and arrival.
I should perhaps mention the high and low points of our four day sojourn in what the Milanese certainly believe to be the most civilised and sophisticated city in Italy. The high point was perhaps our visit to Leonardo's celebrated "Last Supper". Painted, rather appropriately, on a wall at one end of a huge monastery refectory, we were admitted in a group of just 30 people, given 20 minutes to drink in its mastery and to absorb the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of that very special space. Very different, then, from the near-hysterical atmosphere of the Sisteen Chapel in the Vatican, where the crowds are packed in, shoulder to smelly shoulder.
The low point was our visit to La Scala to see Rossini's opera "The Lady of the Lake", based, apparently, on a poem by Sir Walter Scott. Having paid 120 euros each for tickets in a box, we found the warning that came with the tickets, that a view of the stage might be difficult, proved all too correct. The forward seat, at the front of the box, was all right, but the rear seat offered no view whatever of the action. Again, information which came with the tickets anticipated this, saying that it is "the music one comes to experience".
Very possibly. But while sitting in the shadows at the rear of the box, I had time to count the boxes around the sides of the auditorium, and calculated that upwards of 200 people had spent a substantial sum of money that evening to enjoy no better a view of proceedings than I did. I call this a shameless exploitation of the opera going public, who can, one might argue, probably afford it, but I still think it is wrong that La Scala should get away with trading on their exalted reputation as the most famous opera house in the World in order to rip people off. Pelagius says: it's a disgrace!
I should perhaps mention the high and low points of our four day sojourn in what the Milanese certainly believe to be the most civilised and sophisticated city in Italy. The high point was perhaps our visit to Leonardo's celebrated "Last Supper". Painted, rather appropriately, on a wall at one end of a huge monastery refectory, we were admitted in a group of just 30 people, given 20 minutes to drink in its mastery and to absorb the quiet, peaceful atmosphere of that very special space. Very different, then, from the near-hysterical atmosphere of the Sisteen Chapel in the Vatican, where the crowds are packed in, shoulder to smelly shoulder.
The low point was our visit to La Scala to see Rossini's opera "The Lady of the Lake", based, apparently, on a poem by Sir Walter Scott. Having paid 120 euros each for tickets in a box, we found the warning that came with the tickets, that a view of the stage might be difficult, proved all too correct. The forward seat, at the front of the box, was all right, but the rear seat offered no view whatever of the action. Again, information which came with the tickets anticipated this, saying that it is "the music one comes to experience".
Very possibly. But while sitting in the shadows at the rear of the box, I had time to count the boxes around the sides of the auditorium, and calculated that upwards of 200 people had spent a substantial sum of money that evening to enjoy no better a view of proceedings than I did. I call this a shameless exploitation of the opera going public, who can, one might argue, probably afford it, but I still think it is wrong that La Scala should get away with trading on their exalted reputation as the most famous opera house in the World in order to rip people off. Pelagius says: it's a disgrace!
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Milan dispatch
A close friend informed me just the other day that Milan was a "dump", but he couldn't be more wrong. Arriving here 2 days ago, just as the mists of evening lay a film of grey over the land, we have enjoyed ourselves greatly, drinking deep of its artistic and cultural treasures. So much so, indeed, that at times I almost forgot about the deep, boring pain emanating from my right sacro-iliac joint. This afternoon we climbed the 250 steps to the top of the legendary Duomo to watch the sunset, and on returning to ground level I found my back in a better state than it has been since it first went into spasm 4 days ago.
This is my kind of city: churches dating back to the 4th centrury, museums featuring some of the greatest triumphs of the Renaissance (a couple of Leonardos are missing; currently gracing the walls of the Nat Gal in London), to say nothing of the hordes of very attractive young women thronging the streets at all times of the day and night. I ask you, what more could a priapic old git like me wish for?
To answer my own question, perhaps I might add that we could have done without the threat of an air traffic controllers strike hanging over us from the moment we got here. But not all threats are carried out, and it seems this one has evaporated with the morning mists: all signs now point to our flight being on time tomorrow with no danger of it being cancelled- yet. Please God. I like Milan, sure, and I will probably come back, but tomorrow night I want to be sleeping in my own bed, as planned.
This is my kind of city: churches dating back to the 4th centrury, museums featuring some of the greatest triumphs of the Renaissance (a couple of Leonardos are missing; currently gracing the walls of the Nat Gal in London), to say nothing of the hordes of very attractive young women thronging the streets at all times of the day and night. I ask you, what more could a priapic old git like me wish for?
To answer my own question, perhaps I might add that we could have done without the threat of an air traffic controllers strike hanging over us from the moment we got here. But not all threats are carried out, and it seems this one has evaporated with the morning mists: all signs now point to our flight being on time tomorrow with no danger of it being cancelled- yet. Please God. I like Milan, sure, and I will probably come back, but tomorrow night I want to be sleeping in my own bed, as planned.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
the eyes have it
A big problem, that is. I went for my appointment at the eye clinic this morning, and the news wasn't good. It seems my optician was right in the summer when he discovered my "Fuch's syndrome" and predicted it would make the treatment of my cataracts much more difficult. Fuch's is a degeneration of the endothelium, or inner lining of the cornea,and repairing a cataract in the normal way can indeed accelerate this degeneration, leading in the worst cases, to blindness. Great. My ophthalmologist, knowing his limitations, will now refer me to a corneal specialist who will make a pronouncement on how best to proceed.
In the meantime, I was given an advance notice of how it's going to be as I walked home from the clinic. Pupil-dilating drops were instilled in order to facilitate full scrutiny of my inner eye, and these cause a blurring of vision for the next 6 hours. My visions of having to tap my way along swishing a white cane may be slighty premature. Slightly...
On the back front, a very uncomfortable night was followed by a nightmare when trying to get out of bed. The 2 mile walk home from the hospital has loosened it up a little, and I have now put myself on a 4 hourly 1G paracetamol dose which I shall probably maintain throughout our sojourn in Milan, which begins tomorrow. We have secured business class seats, which also entitles us to the executive lounge, where we shall pig out on free booze and canapes before boarding the plane. That at least I am quite looking forward to.
In the meantime, I was given an advance notice of how it's going to be as I walked home from the clinic. Pupil-dilating drops were instilled in order to facilitate full scrutiny of my inner eye, and these cause a blurring of vision for the next 6 hours. My visions of having to tap my way along swishing a white cane may be slighty premature. Slightly...
On the back front, a very uncomfortable night was followed by a nightmare when trying to get out of bed. The 2 mile walk home from the hospital has loosened it up a little, and I have now put myself on a 4 hourly 1G paracetamol dose which I shall probably maintain throughout our sojourn in Milan, which begins tomorrow. We have secured business class seats, which also entitles us to the executive lounge, where we shall pig out on free booze and canapes before boarding the plane. That at least I am quite looking forward to.
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
brokeback pelagius
Two days to go before our trip to Milan, and, as has happened so often in the past in the days leading up to a holiday, something has gone wrong. This morning I was putting on my socks when my back suddenly tweaked; moments later my lower left back locked up. This time it it is not particularly severe (or not yet at least); I can walk relatively pain free, and when sitting the discomfort almost disappears. But a sudden movement, getting out of a chair, into a car and so on brings about an unpleasant little spasm of pain.
Sometimes these episodes last only a few days; sometimes it can last for several weeks. I am reluctant to call my magic masseuse as I am fearful of using up too many favours, but we shall see. If it is worse tomorrow (and this could happen), I might ring her.
Yesterday at work I found myself giving the same little lecture to about five separate patients. These are people who have had their cholesterol measured, and are found to have raised levels. Nearly always when the global figure is raised a breakdown reveals that in addition the level of LDL, or "bad" cholesterol, is also raised, while the level of HDL, or "good" cholesterol is depressed, except in occasional cases where the patient favours oily fish such as mackerel, when the HDL level is also elevated. So I explain this, and suggest tactics for bringing their levels down without the recourse to cholesterol lowering drugs. In brief, I suggest that the main offenders in western diets are red meat (of ALL kinds) and dairy products, most notably cheese. I can see their hearts sinking as I pronounce this last titbit. Nearly everybody in the west loves cheese (don't you? I certainly do) though interestingly, the Chinese and Japanese do not share our fondness. They hate the stuff, right down to its smell; indeed, they think Europeans stink of the stuff permanently.
So I hand this wisdom out to my patients who go away to see if they can make changes to their diets which will result in a lower reading the next time they are tested, say in 6 months. But habits are hard to change. Many will record little difference even after what they tell me are the most titanic efforts. In reality I suspect people love cheese so much they can't bring themselves to say good-bye to it. I know I can't...
Sometimes these episodes last only a few days; sometimes it can last for several weeks. I am reluctant to call my magic masseuse as I am fearful of using up too many favours, but we shall see. If it is worse tomorrow (and this could happen), I might ring her.
Yesterday at work I found myself giving the same little lecture to about five separate patients. These are people who have had their cholesterol measured, and are found to have raised levels. Nearly always when the global figure is raised a breakdown reveals that in addition the level of LDL, or "bad" cholesterol, is also raised, while the level of HDL, or "good" cholesterol is depressed, except in occasional cases where the patient favours oily fish such as mackerel, when the HDL level is also elevated. So I explain this, and suggest tactics for bringing their levels down without the recourse to cholesterol lowering drugs. In brief, I suggest that the main offenders in western diets are red meat (of ALL kinds) and dairy products, most notably cheese. I can see their hearts sinking as I pronounce this last titbit. Nearly everybody in the west loves cheese (don't you? I certainly do) though interestingly, the Chinese and Japanese do not share our fondness. They hate the stuff, right down to its smell; indeed, they think Europeans stink of the stuff permanently.
So I hand this wisdom out to my patients who go away to see if they can make changes to their diets which will result in a lower reading the next time they are tested, say in 6 months. But habits are hard to change. Many will record little difference even after what they tell me are the most titanic efforts. In reality I suspect people love cheese so much they can't bring themselves to say good-bye to it. I know I can't...
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
my wife has 99 friends. I have none. Is that bad?
As they say in Liverpool, my wife is made up at the moment. She is about to make her 100th friend on Facebook. Popular creature that she is, she actually knows, and quite well, every one of them. Her score is scarcely remarkable though. There is a girl in Palestine who has over 4000, though whether she knows them all intimately is another matter. I was on the Big F for about 9 months before I finally became frustrated by the shallowness of the posts nearly everybody (though not everybody)was publishing.
Someone has pointed out that F'book, like Twitter is all about NOW. People seem anxious to tell the World exactly what they are doing: that they have just eaten a Mars bar, drunk a cup of coffee or are feeling a bit hung over. So what? I find myself asking. Why do people think others are going to be even faintly interested in the boring minutiae of their lives? I'm fascinated by what people think and feel, about what makes them laugh or cry, what they they believe in, what they revere and what they revile, and why. Whether they picked their nose five minutes ago is of no particular interest to me.
But my wife, and my psychiatrist, worry about my social isolation. I told him the other day a typical day for me:
Lie in bed until around 9.30 watching TV.
Get up and collect recyclable rubbish from the streets for about an hour.
Write for 2 hours.
Have lunch.
Read for 2 hours.
Watch a bit more TV, perhaps a film or something else I have recorded from the previous night.
Wifey comes home and I make tea.
More TV, this time with her, leavened by a moderate amount of alcohol or other relaxant.
OK, not much contact with other humans, but is it such a bad life? I venture to suggest not.
POSTSCRIPT
Watching "This Morning" this morning (OK, it was a low point), I saw the estimable Max Clifford saying how he wouldn't represent Dr Murray should he be requested to do so. A guilty man, who was responsible for the death of one of his (Max's)greatest heroes, it would be a step too far. But he did, he revealed, represent OJ Simpson, because he "honestly did not believe he was guilty". Really Max? Really? I always used to have a bit of respect for you; often supporting the "little guy" against the dark forces of the media (eg Antonia de Sancha vs David Mellor), but now that respect is gone. That you could still support a man who every little piece of evidence points unerringly to the blood on his hands, shows there is something deeply wrong with your value system.
The Juice was found not guilty through the consummate skill of Johnny Cochran's defence team and a jury fearful of inciting riots like the ones that rocked LA only a couple of years earlier, following the aquittal of the police officers who beat Rodney King. But Max, guilty is guilty, whatever a jury might say. And if you can't see that there's something terribly wrong with you.
Someone has pointed out that F'book, like Twitter is all about NOW. People seem anxious to tell the World exactly what they are doing: that they have just eaten a Mars bar, drunk a cup of coffee or are feeling a bit hung over. So what? I find myself asking. Why do people think others are going to be even faintly interested in the boring minutiae of their lives? I'm fascinated by what people think and feel, about what makes them laugh or cry, what they they believe in, what they revere and what they revile, and why. Whether they picked their nose five minutes ago is of no particular interest to me.
But my wife, and my psychiatrist, worry about my social isolation. I told him the other day a typical day for me:
Lie in bed until around 9.30 watching TV.
Get up and collect recyclable rubbish from the streets for about an hour.
Write for 2 hours.
Have lunch.
Read for 2 hours.
Watch a bit more TV, perhaps a film or something else I have recorded from the previous night.
Wifey comes home and I make tea.
More TV, this time with her, leavened by a moderate amount of alcohol or other relaxant.
OK, not much contact with other humans, but is it such a bad life? I venture to suggest not.
POSTSCRIPT
Watching "This Morning" this morning (OK, it was a low point), I saw the estimable Max Clifford saying how he wouldn't represent Dr Murray should he be requested to do so. A guilty man, who was responsible for the death of one of his (Max's)greatest heroes, it would be a step too far. But he did, he revealed, represent OJ Simpson, because he "honestly did not believe he was guilty". Really Max? Really? I always used to have a bit of respect for you; often supporting the "little guy" against the dark forces of the media (eg Antonia de Sancha vs David Mellor), but now that respect is gone. That you could still support a man who every little piece of evidence points unerringly to the blood on his hands, shows there is something deeply wrong with your value system.
The Juice was found not guilty through the consummate skill of Johnny Cochran's defence team and a jury fearful of inciting riots like the ones that rocked LA only a couple of years earlier, following the aquittal of the police officers who beat Rodney King. But Max, guilty is guilty, whatever a jury might say. And if you can't see that there's something terribly wrong with you.
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
rare event dept
COMMENT
RARE EVENT 1: PALESTINE WINS, ISRAEL AND US LOSE
Yesterday Palestine was adopted into UNESCO (United Nations Educational,Scientific and Cultural Organisation)despite the determined opposition of Israel and its sponsor the US; the latter of which was so piqued that it has threatened to withdraw its funding to said organisation. They would have used their veto if they could, but admission to the ranks of UNESCO is by a simple majority of voting members, of which they secured a comfortable margin. True, this is a small victory, but victory it is, and such things are a rara avis for that would-be nation. But by such small victories the World changes...
RARE EVENT 2: OBJECT TRAVELS FASTER THAN LIGHT PROVING EINSTEIN WAS WRONG
Researchers at CERN recently announced that their instruments had shown that neutrinos may have been recorded moving faster than the speed of light. According to Einstein this is supposed to impossible, so what the hell is going on? What indeed. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that their measuring instruments might have been wrong, does it really mean Einstein's theories have to be discarded? I think nottle.
Neutrinos are mass-less particles (whatever that inherent paradox means)and as it is mass that limits everything to the velocity of light as a maximum, this rule does NOT apply to the neutrino. Funny thing is, neutrinos do not have mass, but they DO have momentum, and here's another paradox: momentum is the product of mass x velocity, so how come? I have heard this troubling concept described as "disembodied spin" - now there's a head-fuck for you. The fact is, particle physics is full of these head-fucks: for example, I heard the astronomer Brian Cox saying the other day that electrons are capable of being at every point in the Universe simultaneously- say what? It is probably best not to argue with the large-brained toothy one, but where does it leave us? I think I need another drink...
RARE EVENT 1: PALESTINE WINS, ISRAEL AND US LOSE
Yesterday Palestine was adopted into UNESCO (United Nations Educational,Scientific and Cultural Organisation)despite the determined opposition of Israel and its sponsor the US; the latter of which was so piqued that it has threatened to withdraw its funding to said organisation. They would have used their veto if they could, but admission to the ranks of UNESCO is by a simple majority of voting members, of which they secured a comfortable margin. True, this is a small victory, but victory it is, and such things are a rara avis for that would-be nation. But by such small victories the World changes...
RARE EVENT 2: OBJECT TRAVELS FASTER THAN LIGHT PROVING EINSTEIN WAS WRONG
Researchers at CERN recently announced that their instruments had shown that neutrinos may have been recorded moving faster than the speed of light. According to Einstein this is supposed to impossible, so what the hell is going on? What indeed. Leaving aside for the moment the fact that their measuring instruments might have been wrong, does it really mean Einstein's theories have to be discarded? I think nottle.
Neutrinos are mass-less particles (whatever that inherent paradox means)and as it is mass that limits everything to the velocity of light as a maximum, this rule does NOT apply to the neutrino. Funny thing is, neutrinos do not have mass, but they DO have momentum, and here's another paradox: momentum is the product of mass x velocity, so how come? I have heard this troubling concept described as "disembodied spin" - now there's a head-fuck for you. The fact is, particle physics is full of these head-fucks: for example, I heard the astronomer Brian Cox saying the other day that electrons are capable of being at every point in the Universe simultaneously- say what? It is probably best not to argue with the large-brained toothy one, but where does it leave us? I think I need another drink...
Monday, 31 October 2011
october book and film review
BOOKS
HAIL TO THE CHIEF, by Ed McBain. A street cleaner finds six dead bodies in a roadworks. They have been carefully shorn of identifying features. The cops have to find out who they are, then somehow bring their killers to justice. Ed McBain wrote countless books in his "87th Precinct" series, and they're all strong on authentic police detail, which brings them to life in a way a lot of detective-type thrillers don't. I fear, however, that this was not one of his best. Still pretty good though.
PHINEAS FINN, by Anthony Trollope. A young Irish politician is gifted a seat in Parliament and finds himself drawn into the highest echelons of London society. My wife, who has read the entire canon of Trollope's work, selected this one for me as an "entry level" Trollope. And bloody good it is too. Trollope was a master of dialogue, and today, perhaps like Dickens, he would be at home writing for Corrie or Eastenders. I greatly enjoyed his meticulous style, and look forward to delving more deeply into the good postmaster's oevre.
SELECTED POEMS AND LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS, edited by Robert Gittings. My wife and I were watching Jane Campion's biopic of Keats called "Bright Star" the other night. We both found it so irritating we turned it off after 20 minutes. But it tweaked my interest. I (who know little of Keats) asked my wife how she rated him in the pantheon of English literature. She replied: "Massive". OK then, I thought. Time to investigate the guy. I looked him up in our Oxford Companion of English Literature, which was as effusive as my spouse in his praise, and includied a quote from TS Eliot, who pronounced his letters "the greatest written by any poet at any time". Good then, that my book included a number of his letters as well as extracts or complete versions of his greatest poems. What can I say? What can I add to the reams that have already been written about one of our greatest word magicians? Only, perhaps, that I was entranced, transported and moved, and profoundly so.
FILMS
INCEPTION (2010) D-Christopher Nolan. In a world where the technology exists to enter someones dreams and manipulate them, a master operative is hired to place sub-conscious thoughts into a business rival's mind. Things do not go according to plan... Mark Kermode pronounced this the best film of 2010, and who am I to argue with the good doctor? It is undeniable that the film looks great; the production values are peerless, and the acting and direction are top drawer. But it is a little confusing. Right from the opening sequence I found myself thinking that annoying thing: "hang on, what's going on here, exactly?", and it never went away. OK, maybe that's the directors intention, to keep you guessing in order to somehow simulate the strange, unreal landscape that is a dream. But for me, excellent film that it is, it is not cinematic art at the highest level.
VIVRE SA VIE (1962) D-Jean-Luc Goddard. An intelligent, middle class young woman makes a conscious decision to explore the world of prostitution. Now, this is what I'm talking about! Here is a really terrific film, full of innovative and imaginative bravura, laden with surrealist and even Dadaist symbolism, it leaves one almost breathless at the end of its brief run. Goddard keeps unsettling you in unexpected ways, filming subjects from behind, jump-cutting just where anyone else wouldn't even think of and generally staying a couple of steps ahead of the viewer. Now THIS is truly great movie making.
DAY OF WRATH (1943) D-Carl Dreyer. And so is this. In 17th century Denmark, a repressed parson leads a witch-hunt against local women, but the real witch is much closer to home... Frightening and powerful story of love, lust and black magic set among the night and fog of Scandinavia. Brilliant.
DESPICABLE ME (2010)D- Pierre Coffin and Chris Reynaud (animation) Gru, an aspiring super-villain, needs money to carry out his fiendish plans, but along the way somehow adopts a couple of kids from a local orphanage. Highly successful cartoon which has proved a great hit with "the young people" and even I, a has-been old git enjoyed it rather a lot. Steve Carrell's voicing of the anti-hero is excellent, though Russell Brand's casting was probably a mistake.
HOUSE OF CARDS (1968)D- John Guillermin. A young American man is employed as tutor to the son of a Parisian socialite, but becomes involved in a neo-nazi plot. I am thinking of writing an essay about Inger Stevens, the Swedish beauty who was making a big impact in 1960s Hollywood when she was found dead in mysterious circumstances in April 1970, and this might be considered part of my "research". This was perhaps one of her best roles as the slightly unhinged wife of a Parisian scion, who sees in George Peppard a way of escaping her private hell. Although the film has dated a lot since it was made, the chemistry between the two stars shines vividly, and it is indeed a shame she was never to achieve her full screen potential.
THE FRONT (1976)D-Martin Ritt. A blacklisted Hollywood writer uses Woody Allen as a "front" to get his work out there. A highly authentic and troubling insight into the terrible world of fifties Hollywood, where McCarthy's witch hunt against all things "Un-American" destroyed the careers of many a talented, but slghtly left of centre film maker. Martin Ritt himself was blacklisted as was the screenwriter, Walter Beernstein, so they should know...
THE DAY OF THE LOCUST (1978) D-John Schlesinger. An aspiring screen writer tries to carve out a career in 1930s Hollywood. A stange mix of "Thoroughly Modern Millie" and "Sunset Boulevard". Yet again it seems to take a foreigner (like Louis Malle with "Atlantic City") to hold a mirror up to the American dream and show what a soulless thing it is at heart. A very fine movie.
GREENBERG (2010)W-D-Noah Baumbach. A recently released mental patient struggles with life on the outside. Ben Stiller shows that a good comedic actor has to be a plain good actor deep down, as he turns in a terrific performance as the on-the-edge loonie given every opportunity to settle into "normal" life, but for whom demons from the past and from within threaten to destroy everything he values. Excellent.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS (animation) (1978) D-Ralph Bakshi. Bakshi established his reputation with a screen version of Robert Crum's "Fritz the Cat" and after years of hard work shmoozing the money men, he finally got the cash to make his animated version of Tolkien's classic tale. The money ran out about half way through;
the intention was originally to make a scecond film, though in the event that never happened. Using the "rotoscope" method, an extremely laborious technique which, frame by frame, blends live action with animation, this film ends about halway through the second book, but still leaves us with a fragment of remarkable skill and power. Required viewing for LOTR fans, and anyone else interested in the movie art.
HAIL TO THE CHIEF, by Ed McBain. A street cleaner finds six dead bodies in a roadworks. They have been carefully shorn of identifying features. The cops have to find out who they are, then somehow bring their killers to justice. Ed McBain wrote countless books in his "87th Precinct" series, and they're all strong on authentic police detail, which brings them to life in a way a lot of detective-type thrillers don't. I fear, however, that this was not one of his best. Still pretty good though.
PHINEAS FINN, by Anthony Trollope. A young Irish politician is gifted a seat in Parliament and finds himself drawn into the highest echelons of London society. My wife, who has read the entire canon of Trollope's work, selected this one for me as an "entry level" Trollope. And bloody good it is too. Trollope was a master of dialogue, and today, perhaps like Dickens, he would be at home writing for Corrie or Eastenders. I greatly enjoyed his meticulous style, and look forward to delving more deeply into the good postmaster's oevre.
SELECTED POEMS AND LETTERS OF JOHN KEATS, edited by Robert Gittings. My wife and I were watching Jane Campion's biopic of Keats called "Bright Star" the other night. We both found it so irritating we turned it off after 20 minutes. But it tweaked my interest. I (who know little of Keats) asked my wife how she rated him in the pantheon of English literature. She replied: "Massive". OK then, I thought. Time to investigate the guy. I looked him up in our Oxford Companion of English Literature, which was as effusive as my spouse in his praise, and includied a quote from TS Eliot, who pronounced his letters "the greatest written by any poet at any time". Good then, that my book included a number of his letters as well as extracts or complete versions of his greatest poems. What can I say? What can I add to the reams that have already been written about one of our greatest word magicians? Only, perhaps, that I was entranced, transported and moved, and profoundly so.
FILMS
INCEPTION (2010) D-Christopher Nolan. In a world where the technology exists to enter someones dreams and manipulate them, a master operative is hired to place sub-conscious thoughts into a business rival's mind. Things do not go according to plan... Mark Kermode pronounced this the best film of 2010, and who am I to argue with the good doctor? It is undeniable that the film looks great; the production values are peerless, and the acting and direction are top drawer. But it is a little confusing. Right from the opening sequence I found myself thinking that annoying thing: "hang on, what's going on here, exactly?", and it never went away. OK, maybe that's the directors intention, to keep you guessing in order to somehow simulate the strange, unreal landscape that is a dream. But for me, excellent film that it is, it is not cinematic art at the highest level.
VIVRE SA VIE (1962) D-Jean-Luc Goddard. An intelligent, middle class young woman makes a conscious decision to explore the world of prostitution. Now, this is what I'm talking about! Here is a really terrific film, full of innovative and imaginative bravura, laden with surrealist and even Dadaist symbolism, it leaves one almost breathless at the end of its brief run. Goddard keeps unsettling you in unexpected ways, filming subjects from behind, jump-cutting just where anyone else wouldn't even think of and generally staying a couple of steps ahead of the viewer. Now THIS is truly great movie making.
DAY OF WRATH (1943) D-Carl Dreyer. And so is this. In 17th century Denmark, a repressed parson leads a witch-hunt against local women, but the real witch is much closer to home... Frightening and powerful story of love, lust and black magic set among the night and fog of Scandinavia. Brilliant.
DESPICABLE ME (2010)D- Pierre Coffin and Chris Reynaud (animation) Gru, an aspiring super-villain, needs money to carry out his fiendish plans, but along the way somehow adopts a couple of kids from a local orphanage. Highly successful cartoon which has proved a great hit with "the young people" and even I, a has-been old git enjoyed it rather a lot. Steve Carrell's voicing of the anti-hero is excellent, though Russell Brand's casting was probably a mistake.
HOUSE OF CARDS (1968)D- John Guillermin. A young American man is employed as tutor to the son of a Parisian socialite, but becomes involved in a neo-nazi plot. I am thinking of writing an essay about Inger Stevens, the Swedish beauty who was making a big impact in 1960s Hollywood when she was found dead in mysterious circumstances in April 1970, and this might be considered part of my "research". This was perhaps one of her best roles as the slightly unhinged wife of a Parisian scion, who sees in George Peppard a way of escaping her private hell. Although the film has dated a lot since it was made, the chemistry between the two stars shines vividly, and it is indeed a shame she was never to achieve her full screen potential.
THE FRONT (1976)D-Martin Ritt. A blacklisted Hollywood writer uses Woody Allen as a "front" to get his work out there. A highly authentic and troubling insight into the terrible world of fifties Hollywood, where McCarthy's witch hunt against all things "Un-American" destroyed the careers of many a talented, but slghtly left of centre film maker. Martin Ritt himself was blacklisted as was the screenwriter, Walter Beernstein, so they should know...
THE DAY OF THE LOCUST (1978) D-John Schlesinger. An aspiring screen writer tries to carve out a career in 1930s Hollywood. A stange mix of "Thoroughly Modern Millie" and "Sunset Boulevard". Yet again it seems to take a foreigner (like Louis Malle with "Atlantic City") to hold a mirror up to the American dream and show what a soulless thing it is at heart. A very fine movie.
GREENBERG (2010)W-D-Noah Baumbach. A recently released mental patient struggles with life on the outside. Ben Stiller shows that a good comedic actor has to be a plain good actor deep down, as he turns in a terrific performance as the on-the-edge loonie given every opportunity to settle into "normal" life, but for whom demons from the past and from within threaten to destroy everything he values. Excellent.
THE LORD OF THE RINGS (animation) (1978) D-Ralph Bakshi. Bakshi established his reputation with a screen version of Robert Crum's "Fritz the Cat" and after years of hard work shmoozing the money men, he finally got the cash to make his animated version of Tolkien's classic tale. The money ran out about half way through;
the intention was originally to make a scecond film, though in the event that never happened. Using the "rotoscope" method, an extremely laborious technique which, frame by frame, blends live action with animation, this film ends about halway through the second book, but still leaves us with a fragment of remarkable skill and power. Required viewing for LOTR fans, and anyone else interested in the movie art.
Sunday, 30 October 2011
man's ego dented part deux
The winners of the Rhys Davies short story prize being announced by then of October, and having heard nothing from them, I can only assume I have not won or even been placed. I can ascribe this to the following three possible explanations:
1. My stories were not good enough.
2. The judges don't know a good story when they see one.
3. My stories were good, but that even better ones were submitted.
I have been trying not to be too disappointed by this development, reminding myself that many great writers never won a competition in their lives, and also that sometimes competitions are fixed. Franz Kafka won a short story prize early in his twenties, and the victory marked the blossoming of his career. Decades later it emerged that his publisher had nobbled the jury to ensure his success.
But then, just as I was resolving not to let this reverse adversely affect my morale, an even more bitter blow struck home. I read one of my better stories to a close friend who had not read any of my other work. She pronounced the ending "weak" and my general style "flowery". Could there be a worse condemnation of one's work? I think not. The listener was not a writer herself, but an avid reader, and therefore a legitimate judge at least at one level. Flowery! I am still reeling from this devastating dismissal of my literary efforts. One thought is never to write another word, a feeling which I am struggling to get past and somehow regain my confidence. But how?
1. My stories were not good enough.
2. The judges don't know a good story when they see one.
3. My stories were good, but that even better ones were submitted.
I have been trying not to be too disappointed by this development, reminding myself that many great writers never won a competition in their lives, and also that sometimes competitions are fixed. Franz Kafka won a short story prize early in his twenties, and the victory marked the blossoming of his career. Decades later it emerged that his publisher had nobbled the jury to ensure his success.
But then, just as I was resolving not to let this reverse adversely affect my morale, an even more bitter blow struck home. I read one of my better stories to a close friend who had not read any of my other work. She pronounced the ending "weak" and my general style "flowery". Could there be a worse condemnation of one's work? I think not. The listener was not a writer herself, but an avid reader, and therefore a legitimate judge at least at one level. Flowery! I am still reeling from this devastating dismissal of my literary efforts. One thought is never to write another word, a feeling which I am struggling to get past and somehow regain my confidence. But how?
Tuesday, 25 October 2011
william saves the day
A difficult and onerous task faced me today: going to mum's bank to register my lasting power of attorney. First I had to find the place in a town not familiar to me, though in the event Google maps came through for me. Once in the bank the mechanics of the process were not particularly hard, but the emotional overlay, the underlying significance of the occasion cast a deep shadow, which I think perhaps embraced the pleasant female assistant manager who dealt with my case.
My gloom lifted entirely on the return journey, however. Radio 4 broadcast Richmal Crompton's deathless piece of prose: "Mr and Mrs Pennyman Pass on the Torch", beautifully read by Martin Jarvis. If I may lapse into textspeak, I LOL'd several times during the reading, and I was transported briefly to my childhood, where the "Just William" tales afforded me endless hours of pleasure.
I have already mentioned Frank Richards' "Billy Bunter" and Anthony Buckeridge's "Jennings" stories in these pages, but I have been remiss in not mentioning hitherto these classics of children's fiction. If you journeyed through your childhood without these friends by your side, especially the inimitable William, I pity you.
Radio 4 followed this up with a 15 minute spot on insomnia; a fascinating little journey through the agony of this most human of conditions. Proust was an insomniac, so was Dickens, the Brontes and Sylvia Plath. But they should have mentioned Richard Gwyn. His semi-autobiographical novel "The Vagabond's Breakfast" contains within its pages one of the greatest expositions on this subject to be found anywhere in literature. It is gripping, intriguing and terrifying. I Thank God every day that I have never really had a problem with that slide into death-like unconsciousness that is a good night's sleep...
My gloom lifted entirely on the return journey, however. Radio 4 broadcast Richmal Crompton's deathless piece of prose: "Mr and Mrs Pennyman Pass on the Torch", beautifully read by Martin Jarvis. If I may lapse into textspeak, I LOL'd several times during the reading, and I was transported briefly to my childhood, where the "Just William" tales afforded me endless hours of pleasure.
I have already mentioned Frank Richards' "Billy Bunter" and Anthony Buckeridge's "Jennings" stories in these pages, but I have been remiss in not mentioning hitherto these classics of children's fiction. If you journeyed through your childhood without these friends by your side, especially the inimitable William, I pity you.
Radio 4 followed this up with a 15 minute spot on insomnia; a fascinating little journey through the agony of this most human of conditions. Proust was an insomniac, so was Dickens, the Brontes and Sylvia Plath. But they should have mentioned Richard Gwyn. His semi-autobiographical novel "The Vagabond's Breakfast" contains within its pages one of the greatest expositions on this subject to be found anywhere in literature. It is gripping, intriguing and terrifying. I Thank God every day that I have never really had a problem with that slide into death-like unconsciousness that is a good night's sleep...
Sunday, 23 October 2011
memoirs are made of this
I am now well into my new big writing project: my autobiography. Why not? everyone else seems to do it, right down to 21 year-olds who have barely begun to live. Sometimes, less often, they write them themselves. I at least have lived long enough to have something to write about, though thus far my energies have been directed to dredging up memories from the distant past.
After about 18,000 words I have nearly finished the 4th chapter, which covers my time at medical school, finishing with my qualification in 1974. I have noticed an interesting phenomenon while setting the words down, and one confirmed by a close friend who has also been working on his memoirs: the more one thinks about the past, the more comes back, including things thought to have been long buried and decayed under the welter of years. It is actually quite amazing, akin to remembering dreams. At first you can't remember a thing about them, but then when you begin to think about them or discuss them with another person, they begin to seep back into consciousness. It really is true: nothing is lost, only secreted away in a dark, safe place, waiting for the mental archaeologist to excavate them. I shall keep the reader advised of my progress, though I expect it to be a full year before I have completed it. Whether anyone other than me will be interested in reading it is, of course, another story entirely.
TV SUPPLEMENT
THE DOG WHISPERER (National Geographic Wild Channel)
I have never owned a dog. I have always thought of them as dirty, slavering creatures that crave affection from man in a way a cat would never stoop to. Also they can be dangerous, snapping and biting in an unpredictable and frightening way. So watching the extraordinary Cesar Millan work with "troubled", or out of control dogs, or at least dogs whose owners are unable to control them, is a revelation. With patience and a brilliantly clear and practical intelligence, he invariably identifies the problem within minutes of arriving at the family home. Almost always, it seems, it is the same problem. The human, who should always take the role of "pack leader", fails to assert him or herself through poor self esteem, a misplaced sense of kindness or just abject stupidity. It's a bit like child psychiatry, I suppose. I remember an eminent psychiatrist telling me once:
"There is no such thing as child psychiatry; only the psychiatry of parents."
But dogs want their masters to be pack leader, and don't really know what to do with their power when they find themselves de facto pack leaders themselves.
The programme makers put together a highly professional show, allowing Cesar to work his unique magic, which he usually succeeds in doing within a very few minutes. You can see the humans having their "Eureka moments" as Cesar shows them how easy it is to modify a dog's behaviour by the calm display of power and consistency.
"Your mind is stronger than the dog's" he explains to little ladies frightened of their sometimes massive dogs. "Remember, a cat can control a Dobermann in certain circumstances; it's not a matter of physical power." It's true: sometimes we see how how a toy poodle can effortlessly control two adult humans- until Cesar shows up.
And there we have it. In the space of an hour he will have solved the problems of 3 or 4 pet owners, almost always with the same anthem:
"You are the pack leader, not them."
After watching one programme I turned to my wife and said: "
I guess I'm the pack leader in this house."
"Yeah, right", she responded. "You go on believing that..."
After about 18,000 words I have nearly finished the 4th chapter, which covers my time at medical school, finishing with my qualification in 1974. I have noticed an interesting phenomenon while setting the words down, and one confirmed by a close friend who has also been working on his memoirs: the more one thinks about the past, the more comes back, including things thought to have been long buried and decayed under the welter of years. It is actually quite amazing, akin to remembering dreams. At first you can't remember a thing about them, but then when you begin to think about them or discuss them with another person, they begin to seep back into consciousness. It really is true: nothing is lost, only secreted away in a dark, safe place, waiting for the mental archaeologist to excavate them. I shall keep the reader advised of my progress, though I expect it to be a full year before I have completed it. Whether anyone other than me will be interested in reading it is, of course, another story entirely.
TV SUPPLEMENT
THE DOG WHISPERER (National Geographic Wild Channel)
I have never owned a dog. I have always thought of them as dirty, slavering creatures that crave affection from man in a way a cat would never stoop to. Also they can be dangerous, snapping and biting in an unpredictable and frightening way. So watching the extraordinary Cesar Millan work with "troubled", or out of control dogs, or at least dogs whose owners are unable to control them, is a revelation. With patience and a brilliantly clear and practical intelligence, he invariably identifies the problem within minutes of arriving at the family home. Almost always, it seems, it is the same problem. The human, who should always take the role of "pack leader", fails to assert him or herself through poor self esteem, a misplaced sense of kindness or just abject stupidity. It's a bit like child psychiatry, I suppose. I remember an eminent psychiatrist telling me once:
"There is no such thing as child psychiatry; only the psychiatry of parents."
But dogs want their masters to be pack leader, and don't really know what to do with their power when they find themselves de facto pack leaders themselves.
The programme makers put together a highly professional show, allowing Cesar to work his unique magic, which he usually succeeds in doing within a very few minutes. You can see the humans having their "Eureka moments" as Cesar shows them how easy it is to modify a dog's behaviour by the calm display of power and consistency.
"Your mind is stronger than the dog's" he explains to little ladies frightened of their sometimes massive dogs. "Remember, a cat can control a Dobermann in certain circumstances; it's not a matter of physical power." It's true: sometimes we see how how a toy poodle can effortlessly control two adult humans- until Cesar shows up.
And there we have it. In the space of an hour he will have solved the problems of 3 or 4 pet owners, almost always with the same anthem:
"You are the pack leader, not them."
After watching one programme I turned to my wife and said: "
I guess I'm the pack leader in this house."
"Yeah, right", she responded. "You go on believing that..."
Tuesday, 18 October 2011
one Israeli is worth a thousand Palestinians
COMMENT
Is I suppose how the Israeli government justified its actions to its people, some of whom are furious at the prisoner exchange taking place today. An Israeli journalist was interviewed on Sky News this morning, who displayed, for a member of the press, an alarming lack of objectivity when asked about the affair. She explained how one noble young man is being swapped for "a thousand murderers", though this is scarcely the case. True, many have been convicted of murder, though by Israeli courts, not exactly the body of people most likely to give a hated Palestinian a fair hearing. Many were simply caught throwing stones at Israeli soldiers, armed in their turn with fully automatic rifles.
The reality is that the Israeli leadership has probably been pressured to do this by the Americans, anxious to be seen to be doing something positive in a region that needs all the positive moves it can get. But nearly 10,000 Palestinians remain in Israeli jails, most of them guilty of no more than protesting their treatment at the hands of a brutal and racist regime. And they aren't likely to taste freedom any time soon.
Is I suppose how the Israeli government justified its actions to its people, some of whom are furious at the prisoner exchange taking place today. An Israeli journalist was interviewed on Sky News this morning, who displayed, for a member of the press, an alarming lack of objectivity when asked about the affair. She explained how one noble young man is being swapped for "a thousand murderers", though this is scarcely the case. True, many have been convicted of murder, though by Israeli courts, not exactly the body of people most likely to give a hated Palestinian a fair hearing. Many were simply caught throwing stones at Israeli soldiers, armed in their turn with fully automatic rifles.
The reality is that the Israeli leadership has probably been pressured to do this by the Americans, anxious to be seen to be doing something positive in a region that needs all the positive moves it can get. But nearly 10,000 Palestinians remain in Israeli jails, most of them guilty of no more than protesting their treatment at the hands of a brutal and racist regime. And they aren't likely to taste freedom any time soon.
Sunday, 16 October 2011
hunting highs
Yesterday, under glorious azure skies and temperatures that might persuade us the Indian Summer had returned, we travelled to the South Wales valleys to climb a mountain above the former great steel town of Ebbw Vale. A nasty, steep little pitch of nearly 300 metres got us up to the trig point at 551 metres, affording impressive views of the area where, a generation ago, thousand upon thousand of Welshmen mined coal and turned iron ore into steel. Today all is quiet, in a setting that is almost a rural idyll.
This time of year is perfect to find magic mushrooms, "psylocibe semilanceata", also known as liberty cap mushrooms, or "laughing mushrooms", to use the term of my mother's Derbyshire childhood. Each one contains a small amount of the potent psycho-active alkaloid psylocibin. Eaten fresh, about 10 will produce a potent hallucinogenic experience which lasts for about 6 hours, before fading and leaving no after-effects. When dried in the sun, in which condition they remain active for years, about 30 will be needed to produce the same effect.
They are free, and until recently, legal, until the alcohol lobby, concerned that their profits might be eroded to even the tiniest degree, were able to influence parliament to proscribe it. Magic mushrooms offer a less intense trip than LSD, and a completely safe transcendental experience for those with the pluck to give it a try. Although taking too many would not necessarily produce a very pleasant expereince, it is impossible to overdose on them, and no one has ever died as a result of their use. Which I think is a little more than you can say about alcohol...
This time of year is perfect to find magic mushrooms, "psylocibe semilanceata", also known as liberty cap mushrooms, or "laughing mushrooms", to use the term of my mother's Derbyshire childhood. Each one contains a small amount of the potent psycho-active alkaloid psylocibin. Eaten fresh, about 10 will produce a potent hallucinogenic experience which lasts for about 6 hours, before fading and leaving no after-effects. When dried in the sun, in which condition they remain active for years, about 30 will be needed to produce the same effect.
They are free, and until recently, legal, until the alcohol lobby, concerned that their profits might be eroded to even the tiniest degree, were able to influence parliament to proscribe it. Magic mushrooms offer a less intense trip than LSD, and a completely safe transcendental experience for those with the pluck to give it a try. Although taking too many would not necessarily produce a very pleasant expereince, it is impossible to overdose on them, and no one has ever died as a result of their use. Which I think is a little more than you can say about alcohol...
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
grimmer monday
Dealing with the problems of loved ones is one thing; one's own problems naturally are even more onerous. Yesterday a young man whom I know well sat down and regarded me coolly before speaking.
"I thought you should know I'm thinking of suing you, but I felt I wanted to have it out with you face to face before I did anything."
Not a good start, then. He went on to expound at length his grievance, which was long and complex. Some years ago, apparently, I had mistreated him in some way that had caused him to develop an ulcer, which later perforated, nearly bringing about his death. I advised him that his version of events would be challenged vigorously in court should it get that far, which was highly unlikely in view of the circumstances. His manner and delivery were extremely insulting as well as being factually inaccurate, and I was about to call a halt to proceedings, intending to close with a line like:
"You go to your lawyer then. It's your right, but I warn you it won't get you very far." But he had one more brickbat to hurl:
"I heard about your son, by the way. So sad he died like that, of a heroin overdose."
This, as they say, was the last straw. Angrily I pointed out that an exhaustive post mortem and subsequent inquest had been unable to find a cause of death and that a toxicology screen had failed to show any drugs in his system, prescription or otherwise. And with that I threw him out fairly unceremoniously. But I was left badly shaken by the incident. This morning I apprised my practice manager of the events of the previous day; she relayed it to the senior partner who, much to my gratification, was horrified. She examined the records and confirmed my own belief that there was no foundation to the young man's accusations. But it was his parting shot that disgusted her most of all. She intimated that bringing personal issues of the doctor into the consulting room was completely out of order, and ordered him to be struck off the list immediately. I have to say that on hearing this news my day brightened considerably.
"I thought you should know I'm thinking of suing you, but I felt I wanted to have it out with you face to face before I did anything."
Not a good start, then. He went on to expound at length his grievance, which was long and complex. Some years ago, apparently, I had mistreated him in some way that had caused him to develop an ulcer, which later perforated, nearly bringing about his death. I advised him that his version of events would be challenged vigorously in court should it get that far, which was highly unlikely in view of the circumstances. His manner and delivery were extremely insulting as well as being factually inaccurate, and I was about to call a halt to proceedings, intending to close with a line like:
"You go to your lawyer then. It's your right, but I warn you it won't get you very far." But he had one more brickbat to hurl:
"I heard about your son, by the way. So sad he died like that, of a heroin overdose."
This, as they say, was the last straw. Angrily I pointed out that an exhaustive post mortem and subsequent inquest had been unable to find a cause of death and that a toxicology screen had failed to show any drugs in his system, prescription or otherwise. And with that I threw him out fairly unceremoniously. But I was left badly shaken by the incident. This morning I apprised my practice manager of the events of the previous day; she relayed it to the senior partner who, much to my gratification, was horrified. She examined the records and confirmed my own belief that there was no foundation to the young man's accusations. But it was his parting shot that disgusted her most of all. She intimated that bringing personal issues of the doctor into the consulting room was completely out of order, and ordered him to be struck off the list immediately. I have to say that on hearing this news my day brightened considerably.
Sunday, 9 October 2011
grim sunday
The atmosphere in our house is pretty dour this weekend. On Tuesday we shall be seeing the social worker for my father in law in order to decide what is to be done with him. We have had reports that he is repeatedly going to the church (which he attended for most of his life) at inappropriate times, bursting in on yoga classes or playgroups or half way through services.
The vicar himself is as sweet as could be, but last week during a choir practice it was noticed that my FiL had wet himself, leaving a large puddle, but appeared to have no awareness of what he had done. This and other incidents are slowly drawing us to the belief that he can no longer sustain a life of his own and will very soon need to be admitted to a home where they specialise in residents with memory issues.
Naturally my poor wife is in a dreadful state about this momentous step, knowing that it might well bring about his death in short order (as often happens in such cases) and it has "all gone to her stomach". But we have nailed our courage to the sticking post, and will go with that decision if the social worker agrees this is now the only option. Even then there will be a delay of perhaps months, and everyone involved is afraid for what could happen to him in the interim.
Meanwhile my own mum's condition continues to deteriorate on the same trajectory, running a year or so behind my father-in-law. She has now lost her car, as I reported in earlier blogs, and her life too is slowly contracting towards a single point. God help us all...
The vicar himself is as sweet as could be, but last week during a choir practice it was noticed that my FiL had wet himself, leaving a large puddle, but appeared to have no awareness of what he had done. This and other incidents are slowly drawing us to the belief that he can no longer sustain a life of his own and will very soon need to be admitted to a home where they specialise in residents with memory issues.
Naturally my poor wife is in a dreadful state about this momentous step, knowing that it might well bring about his death in short order (as often happens in such cases) and it has "all gone to her stomach". But we have nailed our courage to the sticking post, and will go with that decision if the social worker agrees this is now the only option. Even then there will be a delay of perhaps months, and everyone involved is afraid for what could happen to him in the interim.
Meanwhile my own mum's condition continues to deteriorate on the same trajectory, running a year or so behind my father-in-law. She has now lost her car, as I reported in earlier blogs, and her life too is slowly contracting towards a single point. God help us all...
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
man's ego dented
Last week I took my mum for a day out. We took a walk along a beach in divinely warm autumn sunshine, and got talking to a man with a dog. Then my mum moved away to examine a nearby tree (she likes trees). Then the man said: "Your wife seems very interested in plant life."
I have to admit I was shattered. "You think that's my wife? Actually she's my mum."
"Oh, sorry", he replied, "but she is very well preserved."
But I couldn't leave it there.
"Well, I thought I was quite well preserved too, so I don't know where that leaves us. Either she is very well preserved or I am very poorly preserved."
To which he could only shrug. In order to preserve my ego, the only course I could take was to conclude he must have been a fucking idiot. But the incident continues to rankle. Do I really look that grizzled? And with my new teeth too? This is terrible.
I have to admit I was shattered. "You think that's my wife? Actually she's my mum."
"Oh, sorry", he replied, "but she is very well preserved."
But I couldn't leave it there.
"Well, I thought I was quite well preserved too, so I don't know where that leaves us. Either she is very well preserved or I am very poorly preserved."
To which he could only shrug. In order to preserve my ego, the only course I could take was to conclude he must have been a fucking idiot. But the incident continues to rankle. Do I really look that grizzled? And with my new teeth too? This is terrible.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
warm weather at wrong time of year: how annoying!
While you're basking in some of the highest temperatures ever seen at the beginning of October, spare a thought for the hapless clothing manufacturers. Poor things! Just as they launch their autumn and winter collections onto the high street, the punters are looking, not for coats and corduroys, but shorts and sandals. My God! This may mean a loss of profits for them of anything up to, ooh, 1%. I swear if they could make it rain or snow right now they would. But their shareholders shouldn't worry too much. The Indian summer (and screw the PC brigade, who have nonsensically branded the term racist) is due to fizzle out by the middle of next week, and then Primark, Peacocks and the rest can go back to making money like they're used to.
LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
I am working on my autobiography at the moment, and as I am currently writing about my childhood I have devoted some time to recalling the books that I enjoyed in those far off days. Chief among them were the exploits of the fat owl of the remove, Billy Bunter, created by Frank Richards (real name Charles Hamilton). Set in a minor public school, Greyfriars, the books conjured a disappeared world where England ruled the waves and where decency and "playing the game" ruled in the classroom. It was an easy, comfortable and secure world to enter, and the skill of Richard's writing was to welcome you in in such a way you almost felt you were one of the "Famous Five" yourself. Sure each book would usually feature some sort of bad apple, but he was always vanquished or reformed by the end.
Hamilton wrote hundreds of books based on this formula and was also the principle writer for the famous "penny dreadfuls" of the early 20th century, "The Gem" and "The Magnet". It seems almost impossible for one person to have written all this, and indeed George Orwell in his famous essay, "Boy's Weeklys", believed there must have been a team working under Hamilton's supervision. There wasn't. It was all him. At his peak, he was churning out anything up to 80,000 words a week, and in his lifetime he is estimated to have written 100 million words, placing him as the most prolific writer (for whom a word count has been established) who has ever lived. Or was he?
In my 1965 edition of the Guinness Book of Records, the actual award should go to the 16th century Spanish writer Lope Felix de Vega Carpio. Known to his contemporaries as "the Phoenix of Wit", and familiar to Samuel Pepys, who attended readings of his tranlslated works, he was responsible for:
"...About 1800 comedies (of which only 470 survive), 400 autos sacrimentares, 2 novels and an immense amount of poetry."
Take that, Charles Hamilton!
LITERARY SUPPLEMENT
I am working on my autobiography at the moment, and as I am currently writing about my childhood I have devoted some time to recalling the books that I enjoyed in those far off days. Chief among them were the exploits of the fat owl of the remove, Billy Bunter, created by Frank Richards (real name Charles Hamilton). Set in a minor public school, Greyfriars, the books conjured a disappeared world where England ruled the waves and where decency and "playing the game" ruled in the classroom. It was an easy, comfortable and secure world to enter, and the skill of Richard's writing was to welcome you in in such a way you almost felt you were one of the "Famous Five" yourself. Sure each book would usually feature some sort of bad apple, but he was always vanquished or reformed by the end.
Hamilton wrote hundreds of books based on this formula and was also the principle writer for the famous "penny dreadfuls" of the early 20th century, "The Gem" and "The Magnet". It seems almost impossible for one person to have written all this, and indeed George Orwell in his famous essay, "Boy's Weeklys", believed there must have been a team working under Hamilton's supervision. There wasn't. It was all him. At his peak, he was churning out anything up to 80,000 words a week, and in his lifetime he is estimated to have written 100 million words, placing him as the most prolific writer (for whom a word count has been established) who has ever lived. Or was he?
In my 1965 edition of the Guinness Book of Records, the actual award should go to the 16th century Spanish writer Lope Felix de Vega Carpio. Known to his contemporaries as "the Phoenix of Wit", and familiar to Samuel Pepys, who attended readings of his tranlslated works, he was responsible for:
"...About 1800 comedies (of which only 470 survive), 400 autos sacrimentares, 2 novels and an immense amount of poetry."
Take that, Charles Hamilton!
Friday, 30 September 2011
september book and film review
BOOKS
VAN GOGH: THE FLOWERS, by Judith Bumpus. With art books, there is a reliable working rule: enjoy the pictures, don't bother with the text. Judith Bumpus (good name) has got round this here by quoting extensively from the Great One's letters. Van Gogh was a prolific and highly articulate letter writer, especially to his brother Theo, in which he often speaks of his love of nature and his struggle to do justice to it in his his paintings. But ultimately his pictures speak more eloquently than words ever could.
LIFE'S NEW HURDLES, by Colin Jackson. I read this at a single sitting; scarcely an achievement since it is barely more than 10.000 words in length. He writes of his superlative athletic record, shy only of the greatest award of all: an Olympic gold medal. And on this subject he is disarmingly honest, admitting that his obsession to achieve a world record as well as the gold led him to injure a stomach muscle in the heats, which handicapped him in the final. Colin then describes his career beyond athletics, with his work as a commentator for TV and his doomed attempt to win "Strictly" (well, he was Welsh, black and gay so he never really stood an earthly)
AUGUSTUS JOHN, by Michael Holroyd. Where Claire Tomalin was stymied by the paucity of letters that survived Jane Austen's death, Michael Holroyd had the benefits of literally thousands of missives that John fired off to his numerous friends and family members throughout his long life. And an extraordinary picture emerges of a man touched by the Gods but who somehow never achieved the dizzy heights his early promise might have suggested. But a handful of pictures, especially some portraits of his loved ones and the portrayals of gypsy life (which he so loved and attempted to emulate in his own life), stand as some of the greatest examples of British art in the 20th century. And what a life it was! The man for whom the term "Bohemian" might have been invented, he bucked convention to such a degree that even today, never mind 100 years ago, he would be thought of as an icon of counter-culture. And indeed, it is the "heroic nature of his personality" as Lord David Cecil described it, which will remembered as being just as important to posterity as the paintings themselves. A terrific book, and one of the best biographies I've ever read.
FILMS
SITTING BULL (1954) D-Sydney Salcow. Oh dear. This alleged story of the great Indian leader is in the event simply a backdrop for a romance played out between a general's daughter and a compassionate junior officer. Lamentable.
MIAMI BLUES (1990) D-George Armitage. A youthful Alec Baldwin plays a psychopathic thief who finds Jennifer Jason-Leigh, a charming tart-with-a-heart who (nearly) reforms him. Watchable.
COOL WORLD (1992) D- Ralph Bakshi. A cartoonist creates an artificial world, then finds there's a way into this world for real people... Following the success of "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" they threw a lot of money at Ralph Bakshi to make this blend of animation and live action which is played less for laughs than thrills and glamour. Bakshi established his reputation through the subversive "Fritz the Cat" and an animated version of Lord of the Rings, but here he seems to have lost his way somewhere along the line, and the result lacks heart and conviction. Kim Basinger, however, remains gorgeous whether in life or in her cartoon incarnation.
WINTER'S BONE (2010) D-Debra Granic. When arrested, a father puts up the family home as bond, but then disappears. Realising her family are about to be evicted, his 14 year old daughter sets out to track him down... Absolutely superb piece of film making with an astonishing performance from the star, newcomer Jennifer Lawrence. Perhaps the best new film I've seen this year.
BOB LE FLAMBEUR (1956) D-J.P. Melville. An old lag with a gambling habit realises he can shorten the odds by robbing the casino. Splendid and highly atmospheric example of the French "New Wave", from the guy who, along with Jean-Luc Goddard, they invented the term for.
THE COURT JESTER (1955) D- Melvin Frank and Norman Panama. Danny Kaye showcases his enormous and varied talents in this nonsensical, but hilarious take on medieval England. My favourite Danny Kaye story? Jonathan Miller apparently idolised Kaye in his youth, but when they eventually met in New York during a run of "Beyond the Fringe", Miller found himself struck dumb in the presence of his hero. And I bet that didn't happen too often to Jonathan...
TIN STAR (1957) D- Anthony Mann. A green-horn sheriff (Anthony Perkins) is shown the ropes by a more experienced hand (Henry Fonda). Anthony Mann specialised in tough, realistic and supremely exciting westerns, and this is no exception. Superior stuff.
MILLER'S CROSSING (1990) P-D-The Coen brothers. Gabriel Byrne floats between rival gangs in a Chicago-like town, gets punched a lot, but avoids being shot, a fate that awaits almost everyone else in the cast, and emerges victorious. The IMDB reviewer though this their best film, even better than "Fargo", but that's wrong. The latter was one of the great films of the 90s, and while this is good, it doesn't have the class of its far more illustrious successor.
THOR (2011) D-Kenneth Branagh. Thor falls out with his daddy, Odin, who punishes him by projecting him, minus his super-powers, into the 21st century. Branagh must have pitched brilliantly to get Hollywood to pour millions into this project, and the result is certainly entertaining, though the film seems uncertain whether to play itself for laughs or thrills and spectacle. The result is a bit of a mish-mash. Kinda fun though...
VAN GOGH: THE FLOWERS, by Judith Bumpus. With art books, there is a reliable working rule: enjoy the pictures, don't bother with the text. Judith Bumpus (good name) has got round this here by quoting extensively from the Great One's letters. Van Gogh was a prolific and highly articulate letter writer, especially to his brother Theo, in which he often speaks of his love of nature and his struggle to do justice to it in his his paintings. But ultimately his pictures speak more eloquently than words ever could.
LIFE'S NEW HURDLES, by Colin Jackson. I read this at a single sitting; scarcely an achievement since it is barely more than 10.000 words in length. He writes of his superlative athletic record, shy only of the greatest award of all: an Olympic gold medal. And on this subject he is disarmingly honest, admitting that his obsession to achieve a world record as well as the gold led him to injure a stomach muscle in the heats, which handicapped him in the final. Colin then describes his career beyond athletics, with his work as a commentator for TV and his doomed attempt to win "Strictly" (well, he was Welsh, black and gay so he never really stood an earthly)
AUGUSTUS JOHN, by Michael Holroyd. Where Claire Tomalin was stymied by the paucity of letters that survived Jane Austen's death, Michael Holroyd had the benefits of literally thousands of missives that John fired off to his numerous friends and family members throughout his long life. And an extraordinary picture emerges of a man touched by the Gods but who somehow never achieved the dizzy heights his early promise might have suggested. But a handful of pictures, especially some portraits of his loved ones and the portrayals of gypsy life (which he so loved and attempted to emulate in his own life), stand as some of the greatest examples of British art in the 20th century. And what a life it was! The man for whom the term "Bohemian" might have been invented, he bucked convention to such a degree that even today, never mind 100 years ago, he would be thought of as an icon of counter-culture. And indeed, it is the "heroic nature of his personality" as Lord David Cecil described it, which will remembered as being just as important to posterity as the paintings themselves. A terrific book, and one of the best biographies I've ever read.
FILMS
SITTING BULL (1954) D-Sydney Salcow. Oh dear. This alleged story of the great Indian leader is in the event simply a backdrop for a romance played out between a general's daughter and a compassionate junior officer. Lamentable.
MIAMI BLUES (1990) D-George Armitage. A youthful Alec Baldwin plays a psychopathic thief who finds Jennifer Jason-Leigh, a charming tart-with-a-heart who (nearly) reforms him. Watchable.
COOL WORLD (1992) D- Ralph Bakshi. A cartoonist creates an artificial world, then finds there's a way into this world for real people... Following the success of "Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" they threw a lot of money at Ralph Bakshi to make this blend of animation and live action which is played less for laughs than thrills and glamour. Bakshi established his reputation through the subversive "Fritz the Cat" and an animated version of Lord of the Rings, but here he seems to have lost his way somewhere along the line, and the result lacks heart and conviction. Kim Basinger, however, remains gorgeous whether in life or in her cartoon incarnation.
WINTER'S BONE (2010) D-Debra Granic. When arrested, a father puts up the family home as bond, but then disappears. Realising her family are about to be evicted, his 14 year old daughter sets out to track him down... Absolutely superb piece of film making with an astonishing performance from the star, newcomer Jennifer Lawrence. Perhaps the best new film I've seen this year.
BOB LE FLAMBEUR (1956) D-J.P. Melville. An old lag with a gambling habit realises he can shorten the odds by robbing the casino. Splendid and highly atmospheric example of the French "New Wave", from the guy who, along with Jean-Luc Goddard, they invented the term for.
THE COURT JESTER (1955) D- Melvin Frank and Norman Panama. Danny Kaye showcases his enormous and varied talents in this nonsensical, but hilarious take on medieval England. My favourite Danny Kaye story? Jonathan Miller apparently idolised Kaye in his youth, but when they eventually met in New York during a run of "Beyond the Fringe", Miller found himself struck dumb in the presence of his hero. And I bet that didn't happen too often to Jonathan...
TIN STAR (1957) D- Anthony Mann. A green-horn sheriff (Anthony Perkins) is shown the ropes by a more experienced hand (Henry Fonda). Anthony Mann specialised in tough, realistic and supremely exciting westerns, and this is no exception. Superior stuff.
MILLER'S CROSSING (1990) P-D-The Coen brothers. Gabriel Byrne floats between rival gangs in a Chicago-like town, gets punched a lot, but avoids being shot, a fate that awaits almost everyone else in the cast, and emerges victorious. The IMDB reviewer though this their best film, even better than "Fargo", but that's wrong. The latter was one of the great films of the 90s, and while this is good, it doesn't have the class of its far more illustrious successor.
THOR (2011) D-Kenneth Branagh. Thor falls out with his daddy, Odin, who punishes him by projecting him, minus his super-powers, into the 21st century. Branagh must have pitched brilliantly to get Hollywood to pour millions into this project, and the result is certainly entertaining, though the film seems uncertain whether to play itself for laughs or thrills and spectacle. The result is a bit of a mish-mash. Kinda fun though...
Tuesday, 27 September 2011
did you see? dept
The weather has been beautiful today. It is perhaps a little early to call it an "Indian summer" (I think you need at least a week of much-better-than-average weather for that), but it is predicted to get even warmer towards the end of the week so we can only hope. It will at least compensate a little for the very disappointing June, July and most of August Britain and indeed much of northern Europe has had to endure this year.
I deployed the good conditions to tidy up my father-in-law's back yard. In a physically draining process that lasted more than 2 hours, I filled 12 black sacks with builder's rubble and other general crap, as well as an Audi's bootfull of cuttings from the shrubs that line the area and were threatening to bar access to the space completely. I promised my wife that, even if I hadn't done the job well enough to satisfy your average obsessional neurotic, she would at least be able to see a difference. She'd bloody well better...
COMMENT
Last night there were 2 exceptionally fine pieces of TV journalism. The first, on Channel 4, entitled "The Wonderful World Of Tony Blair", showed how the Quartet's "Special Envoy to the Middle East" has been occupying his time. Oh, he's been very discreet, working behind the scenes to advance the peace process is what he'd tell you; so discreet indeed thao he's made no observable difference to the lives of ordinary Palestinian people. But he has managed to broker a couple of deals which have been highly lucrarive to the American "superbank" JP Morgan, who (and obviously there is NO connection) just happen to pay Mr Blair £2 million a year as a consultant. Hmm.
Then over on BBC 1, "Panorama" showed a horrifying little film about Syria's "Spring", though by now it is heading rapidly towards being a winter of discontent (sorry). The details have confirmed all our worst fears, as we saw a large group of mostly young men advance on the troops from the ultra-loyalist 4th division, armed, not with weapons but with camera-phones.
"These are our guns!" they chanted.
"The truth!"
The soldiers opened up with their fully automatic weapons in a quite incredible fusilade. In moments, forty of the young men lay dead. Their deaths were not wholly in vain however: the images they captured with their phones have now gone around the World, showing up Assad's murderous regime for what it is.
I deployed the good conditions to tidy up my father-in-law's back yard. In a physically draining process that lasted more than 2 hours, I filled 12 black sacks with builder's rubble and other general crap, as well as an Audi's bootfull of cuttings from the shrubs that line the area and were threatening to bar access to the space completely. I promised my wife that, even if I hadn't done the job well enough to satisfy your average obsessional neurotic, she would at least be able to see a difference. She'd bloody well better...
COMMENT
Last night there were 2 exceptionally fine pieces of TV journalism. The first, on Channel 4, entitled "The Wonderful World Of Tony Blair", showed how the Quartet's "Special Envoy to the Middle East" has been occupying his time. Oh, he's been very discreet, working behind the scenes to advance the peace process is what he'd tell you; so discreet indeed thao he's made no observable difference to the lives of ordinary Palestinian people. But he has managed to broker a couple of deals which have been highly lucrarive to the American "superbank" JP Morgan, who (and obviously there is NO connection) just happen to pay Mr Blair £2 million a year as a consultant. Hmm.
Then over on BBC 1, "Panorama" showed a horrifying little film about Syria's "Spring", though by now it is heading rapidly towards being a winter of discontent (sorry). The details have confirmed all our worst fears, as we saw a large group of mostly young men advance on the troops from the ultra-loyalist 4th division, armed, not with weapons but with camera-phones.
"These are our guns!" they chanted.
"The truth!"
The soldiers opened up with their fully automatic weapons in a quite incredible fusilade. In moments, forty of the young men lay dead. Their deaths were not wholly in vain however: the images they captured with their phones have now gone around the World, showing up Assad's murderous regime for what it is.
Saturday, 24 September 2011
palestinian bid for freedom dead in the water
COMMENT
Yesterday, to fanfare and ridicule in equal measure, Mahmoud Abbas (peace be upon him)laid his doomed plan for statehood before the general assembly at the UN. Doomed, of course, because America's position, regardless of who happens to occupy the White House, is to support Israel, right or wrong. Learned observers of the scene have suggested that Palestine's bid is premature because "there is no peace yet". And whose fault is that exactly? Not the Israelis, apparently.
In his speech, Mr Netenyahu (and has there ever been a cleverer and more charismatic Israeli leader than this guy?) painted his country as seeking peace in the face of implacable opposition from the Arabs. "The solution has to be negotiated" he intoned, but the fact is that every time peace talks have been attempted, whether in the open or behind closed doors, as has been revealed by the Wikileaks documents, while the Palestinians were prepared to make enormous concessions, even to the point of tolerating the illegal settlements, the Israelis remained completely intransigent, not even promising to slow the rate of building on the West Bank.
Let me say this loud and clear: Netenyahu's speech was a disgraceful tissue of lies, designed (and probably successful in its aim) to marginalise a whole population and reject its legitimate demands to enjoy the same human rights as their Israeli occupiers.
Palestine's bid for statehood will fail, and indeed may not actually be the best solution anyway. Bob Fisk, as wise an old owl as has ever surveyed that immensely complex anthill which is the Middle East, has suggested that the only real and lasting solution lies in a single state of Greater Israel, where all sides live together enjoying equal rights, equal freedom of movement and self determination. For that to happen the Palestinians must accept the state of Israel's right to exist, which means somehow putting a stop to the radical, and wholly unrealistic demands of Hamas. Unfortunately, however, every new brutality enacted by the Israelis simply strengthens, rather than weakens, Hamas's hand...
Yesterday, to fanfare and ridicule in equal measure, Mahmoud Abbas (peace be upon him)laid his doomed plan for statehood before the general assembly at the UN. Doomed, of course, because America's position, regardless of who happens to occupy the White House, is to support Israel, right or wrong. Learned observers of the scene have suggested that Palestine's bid is premature because "there is no peace yet". And whose fault is that exactly? Not the Israelis, apparently.
In his speech, Mr Netenyahu (and has there ever been a cleverer and more charismatic Israeli leader than this guy?) painted his country as seeking peace in the face of implacable opposition from the Arabs. "The solution has to be negotiated" he intoned, but the fact is that every time peace talks have been attempted, whether in the open or behind closed doors, as has been revealed by the Wikileaks documents, while the Palestinians were prepared to make enormous concessions, even to the point of tolerating the illegal settlements, the Israelis remained completely intransigent, not even promising to slow the rate of building on the West Bank.
Let me say this loud and clear: Netenyahu's speech was a disgraceful tissue of lies, designed (and probably successful in its aim) to marginalise a whole population and reject its legitimate demands to enjoy the same human rights as their Israeli occupiers.
Palestine's bid for statehood will fail, and indeed may not actually be the best solution anyway. Bob Fisk, as wise an old owl as has ever surveyed that immensely complex anthill which is the Middle East, has suggested that the only real and lasting solution lies in a single state of Greater Israel, where all sides live together enjoying equal rights, equal freedom of movement and self determination. For that to happen the Palestinians must accept the state of Israel's right to exist, which means somehow putting a stop to the radical, and wholly unrealistic demands of Hamas. Unfortunately, however, every new brutality enacted by the Israelis simply strengthens, rather than weakens, Hamas's hand...
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
man regains power of speech
Turns out I needn't have worried. Over the weekend I was still having trouble with my sibilants, but already, and seemingly without any specific effort on my part, my clear enunciation has returned. I'm such a terrible wuss sometimes!
On Monday an unusual experience at work. A 50 year old man with asthma came in with dyspnoea, and on being told that it was not a chest infection but pure asthma, which I proposed to treat with a course of oral steroids, he immediately went into a severe panic attack from which he seemed about to collapse right there in front of me. I took him firmly by the hand and intoned softly:
"It's OK, it's not a life threatening situation, you're going to be fine. Just try to control your breathing, slow it down."
But it got worse. "You seem to breathing even faster now. Come on now, slow that breathing down. You can do it."
And very slowly he calmed down. GPs quite often see panic attacks in the surgery, but the sufferers are usually teenage girls. To see it in a mature and intelligent man is definitely a rarity.
LUMBERING FAT BASTARD DEPT
Last month I treated my brother to a drive of my Mazda MX5 roadster. As he got in, he plumped his 17 stone frame down heavily onto the seat. The following day I noticed that the seat heater on the driver's side had failed. Obviously I was not about to use it; presumably some instinct led me to check it. I went for my annual service today, and got my man to look it over. It was busted, and would need a replacement that would have to be shipped over from Japan. The cost? £406. And the cause? Was it indeed related to the massive rump scenario? Oh, definitely, I was told. Can I bring myself to tell him about this? I doubt it, though this is not the sort of thing one can forget quickly...
On Monday an unusual experience at work. A 50 year old man with asthma came in with dyspnoea, and on being told that it was not a chest infection but pure asthma, which I proposed to treat with a course of oral steroids, he immediately went into a severe panic attack from which he seemed about to collapse right there in front of me. I took him firmly by the hand and intoned softly:
"It's OK, it's not a life threatening situation, you're going to be fine. Just try to control your breathing, slow it down."
But it got worse. "You seem to breathing even faster now. Come on now, slow that breathing down. You can do it."
And very slowly he calmed down. GPs quite often see panic attacks in the surgery, but the sufferers are usually teenage girls. To see it in a mature and intelligent man is definitely a rarity.
LUMBERING FAT BASTARD DEPT
Last month I treated my brother to a drive of my Mazda MX5 roadster. As he got in, he plumped his 17 stone frame down heavily onto the seat. The following day I noticed that the seat heater on the driver's side had failed. Obviously I was not about to use it; presumably some instinct led me to check it. I went for my annual service today, and got my man to look it over. It was busted, and would need a replacement that would have to be shipped over from Japan. The cost? £406. And the cause? Was it indeed related to the massive rump scenario? Oh, definitely, I was told. Can I bring myself to tell him about this? I doubt it, though this is not the sort of thing one can forget quickly...
Saturday, 17 September 2011
man gets new set of teeth; loses power of speech
Last week I spent nearly 2 1/2 hours in the dentist's chair undergoing the preparations for the 6 porcelain veneers that are to be affixed to my upper teeth. To facilitate the process, the enamel on each tooth had to be filed down to make room for the veneer, an exceedingly uncomfortable process despite the 4 cartridges of local he deployed. At that time temporary veneers were applied.
Yesterday, these were painfully chipped off, and the permanent veneers applied. Dentisti had said "This is the easy bit", but I would say it was only 10% less unpleasant than the initial session. I was certainly in the chair for a good 100 minutes.
The payback: my wife was dazzled by my brilliant new smile. The downside: at present, my mouth seems overfilled with teeth; it has got used to managing with less teeth for so long that this is the shock of the new and unfamiliar. Whatever the case, I am now completely unable to enunciate clearly, especially sibilants, which come out half way between a lisp and a slur, making me sound like some middle class drunk after a liquid lunch. I am rather fond of my voice, and I believe it is rather a nice one. Was, anyway.
Wifus assures me I will get the hang of my new mouth quickly, and that I should relax. But to emphasise the fact that there really is a problem, she added the caviat that I would be well advised to continue working on my voice every day.
OK then, if that's what it takes...
Yesterday, these were painfully chipped off, and the permanent veneers applied. Dentisti had said "This is the easy bit", but I would say it was only 10% less unpleasant than the initial session. I was certainly in the chair for a good 100 minutes.
The payback: my wife was dazzled by my brilliant new smile. The downside: at present, my mouth seems overfilled with teeth; it has got used to managing with less teeth for so long that this is the shock of the new and unfamiliar. Whatever the case, I am now completely unable to enunciate clearly, especially sibilants, which come out half way between a lisp and a slur, making me sound like some middle class drunk after a liquid lunch. I am rather fond of my voice, and I believe it is rather a nice one. Was, anyway.
Wifus assures me I will get the hang of my new mouth quickly, and that I should relax. But to emphasise the fact that there really is a problem, she added the caviat that I would be well advised to continue working on my voice every day.
OK then, if that's what it takes...
Wednesday, 14 September 2011
many americans killed; some others
COMMENT
Last Sunday, the American nation came together in a way not seen since the death of President Kennedy. The occasion was the marking of 10 years since 9/11. In a day of solemn remembrance, the names of all 3000 innocent victims of that terrible day were read out, a process which took several hours. Yet if the names of all the equally innocent victims of the Iraq War were to be read out, to say nothing of the civilian dead in Afghanistan since that fateful day, it would take several weeks, for they number in the hundreds of thousands. But they came from poor countries, "loser countries" as Homer Simpson would describe them. And for that reason, and to save embarrassment, America has consistently refused to allow the exact figures to be released.
Where's the solemn day of remembrance for them? They remain unmourned outside their own families, ignored by a world preoccupied by the far more pressing issue of the financial crisis and anxious to move on.
Last Sunday, the American nation came together in a way not seen since the death of President Kennedy. The occasion was the marking of 10 years since 9/11. In a day of solemn remembrance, the names of all 3000 innocent victims of that terrible day were read out, a process which took several hours. Yet if the names of all the equally innocent victims of the Iraq War were to be read out, to say nothing of the civilian dead in Afghanistan since that fateful day, it would take several weeks, for they number in the hundreds of thousands. But they came from poor countries, "loser countries" as Homer Simpson would describe them. And for that reason, and to save embarrassment, America has consistently refused to allow the exact figures to be released.
Where's the solemn day of remembrance for them? They remain unmourned outside their own families, ignored by a world preoccupied by the far more pressing issue of the financial crisis and anxious to move on.
Saturday, 10 September 2011
keeping an eye on the prize
Earlier this week a form came through the post from my local hospital. Regarding my upcoming appointment at the eye clinic for them to treat my cataracts, it was asking me if I was still alive, and if so, did I still want my appointment? If yes, I should tick the box marked "yes" and return ASAP. The form carried a dire warning about failing to complete the form resulting in my being placed back at the bottom of the waiting list. As you might imagine, the form was completed and posted back within minutes of its arrival.
I was originally referred in May, and I was expecting a wait of around 28 weeks. However, when I could see that my eyes were continuing to deteriorate, and that I was in danger of failing the DVLA criteria for driving, namely reading a number plate at 20 metres, I felt I had to do something, and returned to the optician who had referred me in the first instance. He inspected the peepers once again and pronounced he could see the cataracts opacifying almost as he was watching and duly sent a further letter requesting expedition of my appointment. As an aside, he casually let drop the fact that he though I had a degree of "Fuch's Dystrophy" in the left (the more affected) eye. This is a defect of the corneal endothelium, the cells of which act as a kind of filter pump, keeping the pressure in the aqueous humour constant. If they fail, fluid builds up in the aqueous, disturbing the vision. And a cataract procedure can sometimes make it worse... Normally the chances of a cataract operation going wrong are around 1%. With Fuch's dystrophy, however, the risk increases to about 5%. Oh, great, I thought. I guess I can only hope that the odds of random chance acting my favour turns out to be a little better than my experience in the casino of 2 weeks ago. Please God, just this once, can you cut me a break here?
It would be nice to have them fixed (successfully, preferably) by the time we go to Milan in mid November for 3 days of culture and general diversion in Italy's most sophisticated city. Already my teeth are progressing nicely. On Thursday I had the crowns fitted to the implants on my right and left upper 2s. And with temporary veneers fitted to the upper teeth, I now have a prettier smile than I have been able to sport for over 30 years. Then all that will remain is for the 3 crowns to be fitted to the implants on my upper right jaw. These aren't for beauty, you understand: these will enable me to eat on the right side for the first time in 4 years. And that's going to be a great feeling...
I was originally referred in May, and I was expecting a wait of around 28 weeks. However, when I could see that my eyes were continuing to deteriorate, and that I was in danger of failing the DVLA criteria for driving, namely reading a number plate at 20 metres, I felt I had to do something, and returned to the optician who had referred me in the first instance. He inspected the peepers once again and pronounced he could see the cataracts opacifying almost as he was watching and duly sent a further letter requesting expedition of my appointment. As an aside, he casually let drop the fact that he though I had a degree of "Fuch's Dystrophy" in the left (the more affected) eye. This is a defect of the corneal endothelium, the cells of which act as a kind of filter pump, keeping the pressure in the aqueous humour constant. If they fail, fluid builds up in the aqueous, disturbing the vision. And a cataract procedure can sometimes make it worse... Normally the chances of a cataract operation going wrong are around 1%. With Fuch's dystrophy, however, the risk increases to about 5%. Oh, great, I thought. I guess I can only hope that the odds of random chance acting my favour turns out to be a little better than my experience in the casino of 2 weeks ago. Please God, just this once, can you cut me a break here?
It would be nice to have them fixed (successfully, preferably) by the time we go to Milan in mid November for 3 days of culture and general diversion in Italy's most sophisticated city. Already my teeth are progressing nicely. On Thursday I had the crowns fitted to the implants on my right and left upper 2s. And with temporary veneers fitted to the upper teeth, I now have a prettier smile than I have been able to sport for over 30 years. Then all that will remain is for the 3 crowns to be fitted to the implants on my upper right jaw. These aren't for beauty, you understand: these will enable me to eat on the right side for the first time in 4 years. And that's going to be a great feeling...
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
back to the war zone
After 3 long weeks we put our friend Issa back on the plane bound for Jordan, thence on to his home in Bethlehem. Normally a quite volatile character, sharing that personality trait in common with many of his Arab countrymen (warning: racist comment- Ed)he had to keep in check while staying with his gentile occidental friends, but we have had word that it broke down almost immediately he was away from us. On the plane, 2 yanks were speaking in loud, disparaging tones about Arab people in general (a bit chancy, as the plane was peopled almost solely by Arabs)when Issa took them on and eventually got the flight attendants to stop their mouths on pain of arrest at their arrival. Apparently he received a rousing cheer from his fellows as the rude Americans were put in their place. Good on you Issa mate!
It has been quite a 3 weeks. Lots of snooker, the first I have played since my boy died 5 years ago, lots of alcohol, most unusual, though not unprecedented, the foray to the casino, fun outings to the Welsh mountains and also to Tewkesbury Abbey, but most of all, and certainly most surprising, the tremendous hitting-off between him and my mum, who instantly took him to her heart; this feeling strongly reciprocated on his part. Perhaps it speaks to the great esteem mothers are held in by Arab people. All I know is it was a wonderful thing to witness. We shall miss him, and the trail of aftershave and anti-perspirant he left behind him everywhere he went. I look forward to seeing him and meeting his family (in my case for the first time) when we visit the Holy Land again next year
It has been quite a 3 weeks. Lots of snooker, the first I have played since my boy died 5 years ago, lots of alcohol, most unusual, though not unprecedented, the foray to the casino, fun outings to the Welsh mountains and also to Tewkesbury Abbey, but most of all, and certainly most surprising, the tremendous hitting-off between him and my mum, who instantly took him to her heart; this feeling strongly reciprocated on his part. Perhaps it speaks to the great esteem mothers are held in by Arab people. All I know is it was a wonderful thing to witness. We shall miss him, and the trail of aftershave and anti-perspirant he left behind him everywhere he went. I look forward to seeing him and meeting his family (in my case for the first time) when we visit the Holy Land again next year
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
august book and film review
BOOKS
DAVID COPPERFIELD, by Charles Dickens. A young boy is orphaned and finds himself in the clutches of 2 emotionally repressed martinets. But he escapes and carves his own path to success. Described by the great one himself as his favourite book (he cited Martin Chuzzlewit as his best, which is slightly different)and perhaps this is because it is also his most autobiographic. Dickens has a marvellous flair for character, as we see here with Mr Micauber, Uriah Heep and the perfectly hideous Murdstones. To me Dickens does not quite ascend the heights of Middlemarch or, say, Persuasion, but he is certainly a master of the story-telling art. Both my wife and my "tutor" Richard Gwyn suggest I should try Bleak House next- the perspective of time has now given it the mantle of his greatest creation. Come back to me next year on that one.
PUT ME BACK ON MY BIKE (In search of Tom Simpson), by Arthur Fotheringham. In his day Tommy Simpson was Britain's greatest ever racing cyclist. He may now have been eclipsed by Chris Hoy and Mark Cavendish, but Simpson will hold his place in history for his tragic end: dying of a combination of dehydration, heat-stroke and amphetamine intoxication on the cruel slopes of the Ventoux in the 1967 Tour de France. In a work of fine journalism, Fotheringham attempts, with some difficulty, to separate the man from the legend. A supremely driven man, clearly prepared to risk everything, even his life, in search of victory. Very readable.
BOY WITH A TRUMPET (short stories)by Rhys Davies. Having submitted 5 of my own short stories for this year's Rhys Davies Prize, I thought it only fair I should familiarise myself with the eponymous one. Also, call it a bit of a shiboleth, if you like. I found a number of good, if not absolutely brilliant, stories of Welsh life from the late 40s and 50s. The exception is the story which gives the book its name. This one, definitely the best, tells the story of an emotionally damaged young man whom a prostitute takes under her wing in the chaos of wartime London. This was deep, mysterious and evocative of an era in a way superior to anything I have written. Don't worry, though: I'm still working on it.
VULCAN 607, by Rowland White. As the Falklands are occupied by the Argentine military in April 1982, an audacious plan is hatched in London to bomb the only airstrip on the islands. Small problem: London is 8000 miles from Port Stanley, and the only aircraft that are capable of carrying out the mission are about to be mothballed. In order to achieve their aim, an elaborate system of in-flight re-fuelling must be devised, and if the slightest thing goes wrong, the planes won't make it home. On the front cover it states that Jeremy Clarkson loved it, which is scarcely a recommendation. However, the simplistic writing style, which reads a bit like Dan Brown writing non-fiction: short chapters, lots of italics, including whenever a character's thoughts are described. The result is highly addictive reading. I flashed through it in less than a week, though not as fast as Simon Winchester, who allegedly "read it at one sitting", which, as it is over 500 pages long, is quite an achievement. That, or the guy has way too much time on his hands...
FILMS
FINAL DESTINATION FIVE (3D) 2011, D- Steven Quale. A young man has a premonition of his awful demise and, along with some friends, manages to avoid his fate. But Death will not be denied his due... That's right, this latest offering in the highly successful franchise follows an identical format to all the others: pretty girls and personable young men meeting a variety of terrible and highly spectacular ends. The 3D effects were faintly interesting I suppose, though to me they just made it look like the whole thing had been shot under heavily overcast skies. Good for a wet bank holiday.
THE ANIMAL KINGDOM (2010)D- David Michod. A family of low-lives in Melbourne have their own twisted moral code, and when one of their number is shot by the police they swear terrible revenge. Really rather intelligent piece of cinema from Australia, which in itself is quite unusual. Guy Pearce, as usual, is strong and believable.
SHREK FOREVER AFTER (2010) D- Mike Mitchell. Shrek meets Rumplestiltskin, who does a "Wonderful Life" thing on him and shows him how the world would be if he had never been born. It isn't a pretty sight... Is it me, or is the Shrek thing getting a bit tired?
THE TAKING OF PELHAM 123 (remake, 2009) D- Tony Scott. A New York subway train is highjacked, not by terrorists, but by criminals out for a few million fast bucks. I know it's money that drives remakes like this, though I wish they wouldn't mess with perfectly good originals, like the one here, when the 1973 version with a very scary Robert Shaw constituted an excellent thriller. Tony Scott at least doesn't descend to the disgraceful ploy of doing a shot-for-shot remake as is the current fashion, and produces a creditable, if unnecessary, result.
COSH BOY (1952)D- Lewis Gilbert. A delectable 17-year-old Joan Collins falls for a nasty piece of work (a bit like Pinkie in Brighton Rock?) who attacks old ladies for their purses. Notable for the closing scene where the police arrive to arrest the little shit but then leave to allow his step father to give him a well deserved thrashing wi' his belt. I imagine the Daily Mail readers must have been cheering in the aisles.
MIX ME A PERSON (1962) D- Leslie Norman. Adam Faith finds himself railroaded for a murder he didn't commit, but Ann Baxter is determined to get him off. These quasi-socially-aware movies were the vogue around this time in Britain, but like Cosh Boy, suffers from stilted acting and not very good writing.
FUUNY GAMES (1997) D- Michael Haneke. A middle class German family spend the weekend in their remote holiday home. A couple of nice young men in tennis whites knock on their door, take over the house and begin to torture them, one by one... Absolutely terrifying essay in "how to make a horror film" by one of Germany's most talented film makers. I'm usuallly pretty cool about horror movies, but such was its authenticity I tell you I've never been nearer to hiding behind the sofa. Terrific stuff.
DAVID COPPERFIELD, by Charles Dickens. A young boy is orphaned and finds himself in the clutches of 2 emotionally repressed martinets. But he escapes and carves his own path to success. Described by the great one himself as his favourite book (he cited Martin Chuzzlewit as his best, which is slightly different)and perhaps this is because it is also his most autobiographic. Dickens has a marvellous flair for character, as we see here with Mr Micauber, Uriah Heep and the perfectly hideous Murdstones. To me Dickens does not quite ascend the heights of Middlemarch or, say, Persuasion, but he is certainly a master of the story-telling art. Both my wife and my "tutor" Richard Gwyn suggest I should try Bleak House next- the perspective of time has now given it the mantle of his greatest creation. Come back to me next year on that one.
PUT ME BACK ON MY BIKE (In search of Tom Simpson), by Arthur Fotheringham. In his day Tommy Simpson was Britain's greatest ever racing cyclist. He may now have been eclipsed by Chris Hoy and Mark Cavendish, but Simpson will hold his place in history for his tragic end: dying of a combination of dehydration, heat-stroke and amphetamine intoxication on the cruel slopes of the Ventoux in the 1967 Tour de France. In a work of fine journalism, Fotheringham attempts, with some difficulty, to separate the man from the legend. A supremely driven man, clearly prepared to risk everything, even his life, in search of victory. Very readable.
BOY WITH A TRUMPET (short stories)by Rhys Davies. Having submitted 5 of my own short stories for this year's Rhys Davies Prize, I thought it only fair I should familiarise myself with the eponymous one. Also, call it a bit of a shiboleth, if you like. I found a number of good, if not absolutely brilliant, stories of Welsh life from the late 40s and 50s. The exception is the story which gives the book its name. This one, definitely the best, tells the story of an emotionally damaged young man whom a prostitute takes under her wing in the chaos of wartime London. This was deep, mysterious and evocative of an era in a way superior to anything I have written. Don't worry, though: I'm still working on it.
VULCAN 607, by Rowland White. As the Falklands are occupied by the Argentine military in April 1982, an audacious plan is hatched in London to bomb the only airstrip on the islands. Small problem: London is 8000 miles from Port Stanley, and the only aircraft that are capable of carrying out the mission are about to be mothballed. In order to achieve their aim, an elaborate system of in-flight re-fuelling must be devised, and if the slightest thing goes wrong, the planes won't make it home. On the front cover it states that Jeremy Clarkson loved it, which is scarcely a recommendation. However, the simplistic writing style, which reads a bit like Dan Brown writing non-fiction: short chapters, lots of italics, including whenever a character's thoughts are described. The result is highly addictive reading. I flashed through it in less than a week, though not as fast as Simon Winchester, who allegedly "read it at one sitting", which, as it is over 500 pages long, is quite an achievement. That, or the guy has way too much time on his hands...
FILMS
FINAL DESTINATION FIVE (3D) 2011, D- Steven Quale. A young man has a premonition of his awful demise and, along with some friends, manages to avoid his fate. But Death will not be denied his due... That's right, this latest offering in the highly successful franchise follows an identical format to all the others: pretty girls and personable young men meeting a variety of terrible and highly spectacular ends. The 3D effects were faintly interesting I suppose, though to me they just made it look like the whole thing had been shot under heavily overcast skies. Good for a wet bank holiday.
THE ANIMAL KINGDOM (2010)D- David Michod. A family of low-lives in Melbourne have their own twisted moral code, and when one of their number is shot by the police they swear terrible revenge. Really rather intelligent piece of cinema from Australia, which in itself is quite unusual. Guy Pearce, as usual, is strong and believable.
SHREK FOREVER AFTER (2010) D- Mike Mitchell. Shrek meets Rumplestiltskin, who does a "Wonderful Life" thing on him and shows him how the world would be if he had never been born. It isn't a pretty sight... Is it me, or is the Shrek thing getting a bit tired?
THE TAKING OF PELHAM 123 (remake, 2009) D- Tony Scott. A New York subway train is highjacked, not by terrorists, but by criminals out for a few million fast bucks. I know it's money that drives remakes like this, though I wish they wouldn't mess with perfectly good originals, like the one here, when the 1973 version with a very scary Robert Shaw constituted an excellent thriller. Tony Scott at least doesn't descend to the disgraceful ploy of doing a shot-for-shot remake as is the current fashion, and produces a creditable, if unnecessary, result.
COSH BOY (1952)D- Lewis Gilbert. A delectable 17-year-old Joan Collins falls for a nasty piece of work (a bit like Pinkie in Brighton Rock?) who attacks old ladies for their purses. Notable for the closing scene where the police arrive to arrest the little shit but then leave to allow his step father to give him a well deserved thrashing wi' his belt. I imagine the Daily Mail readers must have been cheering in the aisles.
MIX ME A PERSON (1962) D- Leslie Norman. Adam Faith finds himself railroaded for a murder he didn't commit, but Ann Baxter is determined to get him off. These quasi-socially-aware movies were the vogue around this time in Britain, but like Cosh Boy, suffers from stilted acting and not very good writing.
FUUNY GAMES (1997) D- Michael Haneke. A middle class German family spend the weekend in their remote holiday home. A couple of nice young men in tennis whites knock on their door, take over the house and begin to torture them, one by one... Absolutely terrifying essay in "how to make a horror film" by one of Germany's most talented film makers. I'm usuallly pretty cool about horror movies, but such was its authenticity I tell you I've never been nearer to hiding behind the sofa. Terrific stuff.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
another expensive mistake
On Saturday night, still fizzing with our casino escapade (to say nothing of the can after can of red bull I had consumed in the course of the evening)I blew a candle out prior to my final collapse au lit.
However, I must have blown too forcefully, because liquid wax shot out in all directions, covering various objets d'art, but most disastrously, my glasses. It was immediately apparent that the hot wax had terminally damaged the coating on the lenses, fogging them like a window thick with condensation. Today I went to my opticians to order a replacement pair. They come in, I was told, at £195 each. Ouch!
Worse, I now have to endure the better part of a week with vision significantly reduced. My spare pair is an ancient prescription and of very little use to me now. I managed to wing this morning's surgery without anyone asking me if there was something wrong with my eyesight. Only another 5 sessions to get through and I'll be back to normal again. In the meantime, I hope no one shows me anything small to look at...
However, I must have blown too forcefully, because liquid wax shot out in all directions, covering various objets d'art, but most disastrously, my glasses. It was immediately apparent that the hot wax had terminally damaged the coating on the lenses, fogging them like a window thick with condensation. Today I went to my opticians to order a replacement pair. They come in, I was told, at £195 each. Ouch!
Worse, I now have to endure the better part of a week with vision significantly reduced. My spare pair is an ancient prescription and of very little use to me now. I managed to wing this morning's surgery without anyone asking me if there was something wrong with my eyesight. Only another 5 sessions to get through and I'll be back to normal again. In the meantime, I hope no one shows me anything small to look at...
Monday, 29 August 2011
life's a gamble, then you're broke
One of the things our Palestinian friend really wanted to do while he was over here was to go to a casino, so on Saturday night we duly turned up at our city's premier gambling outlet.
I have never visited a casino, and my image of them is based largely on James Bond films, so I actually enquired whether I would require a DJ in order to secure entry. In the event, the only dress code was no trainers, and indeed, the place seemed peopled, not by urbane sophisticates with dazzling, jewel-bedecked blondes on their arms, but by a cross section of our city's low-lives and general scumbags.
I had decided in advance I would "spend" £100, giving the same amount to my wife. I had also decided on a "system" (all right, I know there's no such thing), namely the famous "Martingale" method which is applied to roulette. In this, a single unit is placed, say, on red. If it wins, a single unit is placed again on red. If it loses, the unit is doubled, and doubled again each time it loses until a win is secured, at which point a single unit is again placed. In theory it should work, though the system may require a big back-up of funds if there is a run of losses, because the doubling method very quickly stacks up. Especially in this case, where the minimum stake allowed on "evens" bets was £10. Then of course there is the small problem of the zero... In my case this was never a factor, because after only 3 spins of the wheel I was £70 down and unable to follow through, so I repaired to the blackjack table where my remaining £30 was clipped in less than 5 minutes. Neither Issa nor my wife fared any better, and after an hour we were skint, and down a total of £400.
They say you should never gamble more than you can afford to lose, and I at least managed to follow that axiom, but as an evening's diversion I can't say it's something I shall be repeating any time soon. If ever.
I have never visited a casino, and my image of them is based largely on James Bond films, so I actually enquired whether I would require a DJ in order to secure entry. In the event, the only dress code was no trainers, and indeed, the place seemed peopled, not by urbane sophisticates with dazzling, jewel-bedecked blondes on their arms, but by a cross section of our city's low-lives and general scumbags.
I had decided in advance I would "spend" £100, giving the same amount to my wife. I had also decided on a "system" (all right, I know there's no such thing), namely the famous "Martingale" method which is applied to roulette. In this, a single unit is placed, say, on red. If it wins, a single unit is placed again on red. If it loses, the unit is doubled, and doubled again each time it loses until a win is secured, at which point a single unit is again placed. In theory it should work, though the system may require a big back-up of funds if there is a run of losses, because the doubling method very quickly stacks up. Especially in this case, where the minimum stake allowed on "evens" bets was £10. Then of course there is the small problem of the zero... In my case this was never a factor, because after only 3 spins of the wheel I was £70 down and unable to follow through, so I repaired to the blackjack table where my remaining £30 was clipped in less than 5 minutes. Neither Issa nor my wife fared any better, and after an hour we were skint, and down a total of £400.
They say you should never gamble more than you can afford to lose, and I at least managed to follow that axiom, but as an evening's diversion I can't say it's something I shall be repeating any time soon. If ever.
Tuesday, 23 August 2011
busy boy
A full day at work today, and another extra session on Thursday, with the same next week to cover partner's holidays, make it the busiest work schedule for me since my retirement. And to add to the strain, this morning I was told that as patients learn I am in work more often at the moment, literally dozens have been queuing up to see me specifically. Obviously this is a personal compliment, though somewhat of a mixed blessing as it only adds to the length of already packed surgeries.
And of course Murphy's Law also applies: namely, that the busier a surgery becomes, the more complex and difficult-to-solve problems occur with it. Like the man this morning complaining of sudden reduction of vision in 1 eye. Something about him makes me think he is lying; that he is fabricating his story in order to hustle his routine appointment at the eye clinic to investigate his allergic conjunctivitis. But you can't just sit there and accuse a patient of lying, so I arranged (with some difficulty) his emergency appointment. If he is making it up, they will work it out soon enough and send him packing. If not, then I will have done a good job.
And of course Murphy's Law also applies: namely, that the busier a surgery becomes, the more complex and difficult-to-solve problems occur with it. Like the man this morning complaining of sudden reduction of vision in 1 eye. Something about him makes me think he is lying; that he is fabricating his story in order to hustle his routine appointment at the eye clinic to investigate his allergic conjunctivitis. But you can't just sit there and accuse a patient of lying, so I arranged (with some difficulty) his emergency appointment. If he is making it up, they will work it out soon enough and send him packing. If not, then I will have done a good job.
Saturday, 20 August 2011
london: prospects changeable
Just home from 24 hours in the Great Wen with our Palestinian friend Issa in tow, who did a very good impression of the wide-eyed tourist. Carefully arranged to catch the sunrise, we rode the full circle in the London Eye, something we never would have contemplated without a guest. To be fair, it was actually a highly enjoyable touristic experience, especially when the dying sun caught the sides of several skyscrapers and set them aflame in a divine crimson hue.
One of his greatest fascinations in the week he has spent with us is the (for him) incredible variabilty in the weather, changing, as it has been doing, from brilliant sunshine to heavy rain as often as 4 times in an hour. Where he hails from, the weather is so predictable that it is rarely a subject for discussion and no one ever feels the need to catch a weather forecast.
Today, in sultry conditions, we visited at his specific request, London Zoo, a place I have not visited for nearly 50 years. My highlights: an incredible ant-lion in the insect house, and then, after the heavens opened and drenched animals and humans alike, a group of zebras sheltering shoulder to shoulder under a tiny lean-to. Sensible...
One of his greatest fascinations in the week he has spent with us is the (for him) incredible variabilty in the weather, changing, as it has been doing, from brilliant sunshine to heavy rain as often as 4 times in an hour. Where he hails from, the weather is so predictable that it is rarely a subject for discussion and no one ever feels the need to catch a weather forecast.
Today, in sultry conditions, we visited at his specific request, London Zoo, a place I have not visited for nearly 50 years. My highlights: an incredible ant-lion in the insect house, and then, after the heavens opened and drenched animals and humans alike, a group of zebras sheltering shoulder to shoulder under a tiny lean-to. Sensible...
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
pelagius defeats palestinian champion!
In a stunning display of controlled power, or outrageous luck at least, I actually succeeded in taking a frame off my friend Issa. I should probably mention that he gives me 4 blacks start, he was breaking in a brand-new cue at the time, and I scored several quite remarkable flukes. Nonetheless, a win is a win, and I can feel justifiably proud of my minor achievement. In all fairness I should say that I played at my (miserable) best, scoring several breaks in the teens and playing some good safety shots too. So it wasn't a totally sham victory. I feel now, however, that he won't be giving me any more easy wins. He has his face to think of, after all, and we all know how important that is to an Arab...
Sunday, 14 August 2011
we're number 1!
Off to Heathrow yesterday to pick up our friend Issa who comes from Bethlehem on his first trip to Europe.
Today I enrolled him at our local snooker hall where he demonstrated why he has won the Palestinian Open 3 times. There is no doubting it; he is a class act, holing pots I would normally deem impossible. Roald Dahl once observed that he played snooker "for 30 years and got worse", and although I was a useful player in my youth, I haven't hit a shot in anger since my son, with whom I often played, died, nearly 5 years ago. Obviously I was rusty, but it was a highly enjoyable experience. And as he is due to stay with us for 3 weeks, it is one, I anticipate, that we shall repeat several times before he departs.
COMMENT
England's latest and decisive victory over India has placed us at the top of the world rankings, a first in my lifetime. I rate this as one of most illustrious sporting performances ever. How did we pull it off?
Asking a knowledgeable friend this question, he was reluctant to name individuals, preferring instead to pay tribute to the team as a whole, and how magnificently they have worked together. When pushed, he nominated Stauss's captaincy (reminding me that a cricket captain's job is far more crucial than that of almost any other team game)as being critical. Other players "mentioned in dispatches" included Alistair Cook, Jimmy Adamson and that extraordinary match-winner, Stuart Broad. But he also wanted to cite the vital role played by the coach Andy Flowers.
All I know is that the boys done us proud, and there should be knighthoods etc in the offing, and in abundance- I say you chaps: well done!
Today I enrolled him at our local snooker hall where he demonstrated why he has won the Palestinian Open 3 times. There is no doubting it; he is a class act, holing pots I would normally deem impossible. Roald Dahl once observed that he played snooker "for 30 years and got worse", and although I was a useful player in my youth, I haven't hit a shot in anger since my son, with whom I often played, died, nearly 5 years ago. Obviously I was rusty, but it was a highly enjoyable experience. And as he is due to stay with us for 3 weeks, it is one, I anticipate, that we shall repeat several times before he departs.
COMMENT
England's latest and decisive victory over India has placed us at the top of the world rankings, a first in my lifetime. I rate this as one of most illustrious sporting performances ever. How did we pull it off?
Asking a knowledgeable friend this question, he was reluctant to name individuals, preferring instead to pay tribute to the team as a whole, and how magnificently they have worked together. When pushed, he nominated Stauss's captaincy (reminding me that a cricket captain's job is far more crucial than that of almost any other team game)as being critical. Other players "mentioned in dispatches" included Alistair Cook, Jimmy Adamson and that extraordinary match-winner, Stuart Broad. But he also wanted to cite the vital role played by the coach Andy Flowers.
All I know is that the boys done us proud, and there should be knighthoods etc in the offing, and in abundance- I say you chaps: well done!
Tuesday, 9 August 2011
I predict a(nother) riot
COMMENT
If there was anything more revolting than seeing children looting JJB outlets before setting fire to them, it was Theresa May endlessly parroting the line devised by her masters, namely: "it's criminality, pure and simple, and these criminals will face the consequences of their actions."
I swear I heard her say this 9 times in a single 3 minute interview on radio 5.
In fact, she and the government have been so anxious to sell this line that I begin to feel they do not actually believe it themselves, and that the real cause is indeed the revenge of a disaffected youth railing against the further privations the latest round of Tory cuts has brought about in their lives. In which case I can only stand with them, at least in a moral sense, as they torch the emblems of a capitalist establishment that cares little for them or their kind.
If there was anything more revolting than seeing children looting JJB outlets before setting fire to them, it was Theresa May endlessly parroting the line devised by her masters, namely: "it's criminality, pure and simple, and these criminals will face the consequences of their actions."
I swear I heard her say this 9 times in a single 3 minute interview on radio 5.
In fact, she and the government have been so anxious to sell this line that I begin to feel they do not actually believe it themselves, and that the real cause is indeed the revenge of a disaffected youth railing against the further privations the latest round of Tory cuts has brought about in their lives. In which case I can only stand with them, at least in a moral sense, as they torch the emblems of a capitalist establishment that cares little for them or their kind.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
tragedy on Svalbard
COMMENT
Yesterday on Svalbard, a remote island north of the Arctic Circle, a hapless outward bound student was attacked and killed by a polar bear. It succeeded in badly mauling 4 other young people before it was eventually dispatched with a bullet.
The dead boy was 17. That's a rotten age to leave the world: you haven't really had a chance to live yet. And the parents, inconsolable in their loss.. "Who'd a thought he'd go that way", they must be puzzling.
But what happened really there? A party of young people, more or less a tourist group, is taken into the domain one of the most naturally aggressive animals in the world, and one who looks upon human beings as food sources. And at the height of the summer, when the sea ice is all but gone, the bears are nearing starvation. They must abandon the sea which is their normal habitat, and eke out their meagre existence on the unfamiliar, and in this one's case, dangerous, land.
I have a suggestion : in view of the environmental pressure those magnificent but beleaguered creatures are under, they should be left alone in their dwindling habitats as far as possible. And that means no more tourist groups of whatever description. It might help more people survive, and perhaps more bears too. We owe it to them, if we are to consider ourselves an advanced civilisation.
Yesterday on Svalbard, a remote island north of the Arctic Circle, a hapless outward bound student was attacked and killed by a polar bear. It succeeded in badly mauling 4 other young people before it was eventually dispatched with a bullet.
The dead boy was 17. That's a rotten age to leave the world: you haven't really had a chance to live yet. And the parents, inconsolable in their loss.. "Who'd a thought he'd go that way", they must be puzzling.
But what happened really there? A party of young people, more or less a tourist group, is taken into the domain one of the most naturally aggressive animals in the world, and one who looks upon human beings as food sources. And at the height of the summer, when the sea ice is all but gone, the bears are nearing starvation. They must abandon the sea which is their normal habitat, and eke out their meagre existence on the unfamiliar, and in this one's case, dangerous, land.
I have a suggestion : in view of the environmental pressure those magnificent but beleaguered creatures are under, they should be left alone in their dwindling habitats as far as possible. And that means no more tourist groups of whatever description. It might help more people survive, and perhaps more bears too. We owe it to them, if we are to consider ourselves an advanced civilisation.
Wednesday, 3 August 2011
beurocracy gone mad dept.
On Monday I was asked to do an urgent house call on the way into surgery. Consequently I did not have the benefit of having her notes with me. Fortunately, as I knew her well they were not really necessary. Or so I thought.
On my arrival, having been let in by an elderly neighbour, I found a confused old lady, off her feet (a doctor's expression for being unable to walk) and, as she was living alone, completely unable to look after herself. I phoned the local hospital to arrange emergency admission, something I have done literally hundreds of times in the past. I gave the patients' details, then was asked to give the postcode of her house.
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know it", I responded.
"Can't the patient supply it?"
"I'm afraid not. She's rather confused, you see, as I explained earlier."
"Well I'm sorry, doctor, but I can't send an ambulance out to you until I get a postcode."
I will admit that at this point I became a little testy.
"Oh really? So if the patient simply sits here at home and dies of neglect, I can tell the coroner's inquest that although I gave you the correct address, you wouldn't send an ambulance here because I didn't give you the postcode? How do you think that's going to look?"
"There's no need for you to adopt that tone of voice with me, doctor. I'm just doing me job as I've been trained to do."
It took a lot more persuading, cajoling and, eventually, abuse, before the operator accepted the admission. But before I put the phone down, I said:
"Thank you for that. I'm now going home to memorise the postcode of all 4000 of my patients. Goodbye."
On my arrival, having been let in by an elderly neighbour, I found a confused old lady, off her feet (a doctor's expression for being unable to walk) and, as she was living alone, completely unable to look after herself. I phoned the local hospital to arrange emergency admission, something I have done literally hundreds of times in the past. I gave the patients' details, then was asked to give the postcode of her house.
"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know it", I responded.
"Can't the patient supply it?"
"I'm afraid not. She's rather confused, you see, as I explained earlier."
"Well I'm sorry, doctor, but I can't send an ambulance out to you until I get a postcode."
I will admit that at this point I became a little testy.
"Oh really? So if the patient simply sits here at home and dies of neglect, I can tell the coroner's inquest that although I gave you the correct address, you wouldn't send an ambulance here because I didn't give you the postcode? How do you think that's going to look?"
"There's no need for you to adopt that tone of voice with me, doctor. I'm just doing me job as I've been trained to do."
It took a lot more persuading, cajoling and, eventually, abuse, before the operator accepted the admission. But before I put the phone down, I said:
"Thank you for that. I'm now going home to memorise the postcode of all 4000 of my patients. Goodbye."
Sunday, 31 July 2011
july book and film review
BOOKS
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI AND OTHER STORIES, by O Henry. The language and style of these stories have dated somewhat in the 100-plus years since they were written, but O still teaches how it is done: good characterisation, a narrative that sucks you in then delivers a surprise ending almost in the last sentence. If you only want to try one, then read the story from which the book derives its name: it's an absolute gem.
PARIS STORIES, by Mavis Gallant. Gallant's stories are much subtler than O Henry's with layers of meaning unstated in the text, but floating in the air around the story. Absorbing.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S and other stories, by Truman Capote. The story that brought the attention of the world to Capote's great creation, Holly Golightly. Quite simply, a minor masterpiece. And the other stories, especially "House of Flowers" are a delight too.
THE SONG OF ROWLAND (French, anon, early 12th century) In the 8th century, Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne and his trusty lieutenant Rowland clash with a Moorish army intent on occupying France and converting all Europe to Islam. An epic tale of valour and betrayal that they ought to make into a Hollywood blockbuster. One is immediately drawn into an alien and frightening world, which continues to hold its grip on the reader even 800 years after it was first set down on paper.
FINNEGAN'S WAKE, by James Joyce (Naxos audiobooks, read by Jim Norton) Well known as one of the most impenetrable books of the 20th century, this is perhaps a reasonable taster for the real thing. It may be abstruse or even apparently gobblydegook at times, but it is also extremely funny and moving. Jim Norton's gentle Irish brogue brings the narrative to life, while the listener settles into a world of delight and confusion.
My best FW story: a friend, an eminent man of letters who read classics at Oxford, told me the only person he'd ever met who'd read it all the way through was the night porter at Merton Collage. Sweet...
FILMS
SALT (2010) D-Philip Noyce. Angelina Jolie plays one of those communist sleepers (remember the Manchurian Candidate?) but exactly whose side is she on? It's a slick, high-end actioner, but the end result is essentially sterile.
FLASHPOINT (2007) D-Wilson Yip. In pre-handover Hong Kong, cop Donnie Yen fights the evil drug dealers. The new Bruce Lee he ain't, but if you like a lot of highly authentic-looking kicking and punching, you'll like this a lot.
THE TURNING POINT (1979) D-Herbert Ross. A prima-ballerina is approaching her sell-by date, while her friend, who abandoned her dancing career to raise a family, compare notes. With a stellar cast (Shirley Maclaine and Anne Bancroft) and a top director, this should have been excellent, but it seems strangely dated today. Only the scenes of the actual performances, especially when the incomparable Baryshnikov is on screen, still shine.
CENTRAL STATION (1998, Brazil)D-Walter Salles. A woman befriends an abandoned child, and for reasons unclear even to her, helps him search for his father. A touching little piece, beautifully realised.
MAN OF ARAN (1934) D-Robert Flaherty. In the remote Aran islands off Ireland's west coast, a family ekes out an existence that hasn't changed much for a thousand years. One of the first "mocumentaries", this moving, highly naturalistic film was enormously influential in the development of the documentary film. Amazing.
THE DEVIL, PROBABLY (1977) D-Robert Bresson. A young man tries politics, psychotherapy and even the Catholic church in his search for meaning, but despite the fact that a number of very good-looking women seem to find him irresistible, happiness remains elusive. One of Bresson's best, with his usual slow-motion style nonetheless gripping the attention throughout.
SHE DONE HIM WRONG (1934)D-Lowelll Sherman. A good-time girl gets mixed up with the mob, while an incredibly youthful-looking Cary Grant can't take his eyes off her. But is he everything he seems? Early Mae West vehicle which showcased her talent as the wise-cracking vamp who's smarter than everyone around her. Watchable.
THE VIRGIN SPRING (1959) D-Ingmar Bergman. A family of devout Christians live out their lives in rural Sweden, but their adopted daughter makes secret offerings to Odin... Tremendously atmospheric piece from the master. Unmissable.
RESIDENT EVIL: AFTERLIFE (2010) D-PWS Anderson. From the sublime to the... One of those movies that has spun off from a computer game, and it shows. Most notable for its strong female leads (Milla Jovavitch and Ali Larter) who don't need no men to prevail against evil.
IT'S COMPLICATED (2009)D-Nancy Meyers. Yes, and a bit boring too. Streep has been distinguishing every movie she's been in for 3 decades, but even so I found this over-long and pleased with itself.
TAMARA DREWE (2010) D-Stephen Frears. A novelist and his wife rent their house to aspiring writers, but then their own behaviour begins to provide material as well as B and B for their guests...Based on Posy Simmonds' graphic novel, this is the kind of film we Brits do well. Good acting, writing and directing make this a perfectly satisfying and undemanding piece of light entertainment.
THE GIFT OF THE MAGI AND OTHER STORIES, by O Henry. The language and style of these stories have dated somewhat in the 100-plus years since they were written, but O still teaches how it is done: good characterisation, a narrative that sucks you in then delivers a surprise ending almost in the last sentence. If you only want to try one, then read the story from which the book derives its name: it's an absolute gem.
PARIS STORIES, by Mavis Gallant. Gallant's stories are much subtler than O Henry's with layers of meaning unstated in the text, but floating in the air around the story. Absorbing.
BREAKFAST AT TIFFANY'S and other stories, by Truman Capote. The story that brought the attention of the world to Capote's great creation, Holly Golightly. Quite simply, a minor masterpiece. And the other stories, especially "House of Flowers" are a delight too.
THE SONG OF ROWLAND (French, anon, early 12th century) In the 8th century, Holy Roman Emperor Charlemagne and his trusty lieutenant Rowland clash with a Moorish army intent on occupying France and converting all Europe to Islam. An epic tale of valour and betrayal that they ought to make into a Hollywood blockbuster. One is immediately drawn into an alien and frightening world, which continues to hold its grip on the reader even 800 years after it was first set down on paper.
FINNEGAN'S WAKE, by James Joyce (Naxos audiobooks, read by Jim Norton) Well known as one of the most impenetrable books of the 20th century, this is perhaps a reasonable taster for the real thing. It may be abstruse or even apparently gobblydegook at times, but it is also extremely funny and moving. Jim Norton's gentle Irish brogue brings the narrative to life, while the listener settles into a world of delight and confusion.
My best FW story: a friend, an eminent man of letters who read classics at Oxford, told me the only person he'd ever met who'd read it all the way through was the night porter at Merton Collage. Sweet...
FILMS
SALT (2010) D-Philip Noyce. Angelina Jolie plays one of those communist sleepers (remember the Manchurian Candidate?) but exactly whose side is she on? It's a slick, high-end actioner, but the end result is essentially sterile.
FLASHPOINT (2007) D-Wilson Yip. In pre-handover Hong Kong, cop Donnie Yen fights the evil drug dealers. The new Bruce Lee he ain't, but if you like a lot of highly authentic-looking kicking and punching, you'll like this a lot.
THE TURNING POINT (1979) D-Herbert Ross. A prima-ballerina is approaching her sell-by date, while her friend, who abandoned her dancing career to raise a family, compare notes. With a stellar cast (Shirley Maclaine and Anne Bancroft) and a top director, this should have been excellent, but it seems strangely dated today. Only the scenes of the actual performances, especially when the incomparable Baryshnikov is on screen, still shine.
CENTRAL STATION (1998, Brazil)D-Walter Salles. A woman befriends an abandoned child, and for reasons unclear even to her, helps him search for his father. A touching little piece, beautifully realised.
MAN OF ARAN (1934) D-Robert Flaherty. In the remote Aran islands off Ireland's west coast, a family ekes out an existence that hasn't changed much for a thousand years. One of the first "mocumentaries", this moving, highly naturalistic film was enormously influential in the development of the documentary film. Amazing.
THE DEVIL, PROBABLY (1977) D-Robert Bresson. A young man tries politics, psychotherapy and even the Catholic church in his search for meaning, but despite the fact that a number of very good-looking women seem to find him irresistible, happiness remains elusive. One of Bresson's best, with his usual slow-motion style nonetheless gripping the attention throughout.
SHE DONE HIM WRONG (1934)D-Lowelll Sherman. A good-time girl gets mixed up with the mob, while an incredibly youthful-looking Cary Grant can't take his eyes off her. But is he everything he seems? Early Mae West vehicle which showcased her talent as the wise-cracking vamp who's smarter than everyone around her. Watchable.
THE VIRGIN SPRING (1959) D-Ingmar Bergman. A family of devout Christians live out their lives in rural Sweden, but their adopted daughter makes secret offerings to Odin... Tremendously atmospheric piece from the master. Unmissable.
RESIDENT EVIL: AFTERLIFE (2010) D-PWS Anderson. From the sublime to the... One of those movies that has spun off from a computer game, and it shows. Most notable for its strong female leads (Milla Jovavitch and Ali Larter) who don't need no men to prevail against evil.
IT'S COMPLICATED (2009)D-Nancy Meyers. Yes, and a bit boring too. Streep has been distinguishing every movie she's been in for 3 decades, but even so I found this over-long and pleased with itself.
TAMARA DREWE (2010) D-Stephen Frears. A novelist and his wife rent their house to aspiring writers, but then their own behaviour begins to provide material as well as B and B for their guests...Based on Posy Simmonds' graphic novel, this is the kind of film we Brits do well. Good acting, writing and directing make this a perfectly satisfying and undemanding piece of light entertainment.
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