BOOKS
THE CARRETA, by B Traven. A young Mexican Indian boy makes his painful way in the world; a world where only money and power matters, and he has neither. The first of Traven's "Jungle" series of novels set in Mexico. With their intense humanity and strong libertarian bias, this is a cracking little read, with a political message that is as relevant today as when it was written in the 1930s.
PAUL SIGNAC, 1863-1935, by various authors. This elegantly produced coffee table book was made to accompany a major retrospective of the Artist's work at MOMA in New York. Everyone knows about Georges Seurat, the founder of "pointillism", that artistic technique whereby the image is composed of little spots, or "points" of colour to produce a magical, nacreous effect. Less is known about his greatest admirer and emulator, a man who, following Seurat's untimely death in 1891, took up the baton of the "neo-impressionist" movement as it was also known, and produced a series of scintillatingly beautiful images in that style. But it's the usual thing with all these books: enjoy the pictures: the text is far less important.
THE CHINESE GOLD MURDERS, by Robert van Gulic. Judge Dee, a newly appointed magistrate in an 8th century Chinese provincial town, is faced with solving the murder of his predecessor. Van Gulic was a Dutch diplomat and scholar who spent his life in the Far East and became fascinated by this series of "Judge Dee" mystery stories he unearthed. He wrote several books where he adapted those ancient stories for a more modern audience, sticking to their format with only a few exceptions, like revealing the identity of the murderer at the end, rather than the beginning as was the medieval custom. Interesting stuff...
FILMS
LE CORBEAU (1943) D- George-Henri Clouzot. In a rural French village, someone is writing poison-pen letters to various dignitaries. The community all but tears itself apart trying to uncover the source. A mystery thriller which owes a debt to Hitchcock, even though it was relatively early in the latter's career. One wants to see it through to the end, but the journey is a slightly uneven ride.
WIN/WIN (2011) D- Thomas McCarthy. A struggling lawyer agrees to care for an elderly man, but dumps him in an old people's home and pockets the fee. Then someone finds out what he's doing. A sweet, low-profile little movie Hollywood is getting gradually better at, with the estimable Paul Giametti very strong (isn't he always?) in the lead.
PHILADELPHIA (1993) D-Jonathan Demme. A young lawyer tries to conceal his HIV status from hos employers. When they find out, he is fired. He then sues for wrongful dismissal. The film that made Tom Hanks a megastar (for better or worse; we haven't been able to get rid of him since) All the horror about AIDS looks a bit odd to us now, but the appallingly judgemental way those hapless individuals were treated at the time should not be forgotten.
PRIMARY COLORS (1998) D- Mike Nichols. An idealistic lawyer assists a presidential hopeful in his race to the White House, but finds he has feet of clay... Opens tremendously well, with Travolta at his best, but the last half-hour deflates alarmingly and leaves one slightly unsatisfied. Shame; it could have been a masterpiece.
NO GREATER LOVE (2010) D- Michael Whyte. The lives of a community of Carmelite nuns, living out their lives of silent prayer and contemplation. For 7 years Michael Whyte tried to persuade the Mother Superior of this Notting Hill nunnery to allow him to make this film. At last they relented and we are the winners, as we witness the slow, totally ordered lives of these brides of Christ. They reveal themselves (in the brief periods each day when they are allowed to speak) as highly intelligent, deeply pious and infinitely gentle human beings. The pace of the film reflects the pace of the community itself: slow, sedate and exuding a sense of perfect calm.
THE HOBBIT: AN UNEXPECTRED JOURNEY (2012) D- Peter Jackson. They're back! All your old favourites: Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel et al, set in a time sixty years before the LotR cycle, though oddly looking slightly older (how that?- Ed) and ready to fight ancient evils or whatever. I mean, it all looks splendid, but haven't we seen all this before somewhere? And how come they need three films to cover a book which isn't half the length of even one of the LotR books. The answer, I fear, is filthy lucre, and in this case I imagine, literally tons of the stuff. Just don't ask me to see the other two.
THE HUNGER GAMES (2012) D- Gary Ross. In a post-Apocalyptic world, a number of young people are brought together to fight to the death for the entertainment of the masses. Owing something to The Running Man, and rather more to the Japanese film Battle Royale, this film has gone down well with the "young people" and at one level I can see why- it is fast-paced, and features a strong leading woman in the shape of Jennifer Lawrence (Winter's Bone). But for me, the style is not to my taste:: the camera work is made to look like shaky hand-held work, and I couldn't help thinking after it had begun to make me feel faintly nauseous, they spent a fortune developing steady-cam technology, why would they leave it in the cupboard now?
DARK HORSE (2012) D- Ted Holonze. A geek who at 30 is still living at home and unhapplily working for his dad, thinks he can see a way out when a pretty girl appears to fall for him. But it ain't that easy...Another one of those acutely observed little set-pieces (like Greenberg) which as I pointed out in my review of Win/Win, is the kind of movie Hollywood is slowly learning to make and market successfully. Jordan Gelber is excellent as the overweight cuckoo in the nest.
TROUBLE IN PARADISE (1932) D- Ernst Lubitsch. (written by Sam Rafaelson) In high society Paris, a con artist and a pick-pocketess realise they can work together and maybe make a killing. Or maybe not... Now here we go! This is what I'm talking about! An absolutely stunning movie, funny sweet, clever, extremely saucy and with such innovative cinematography we are still seeing echoes of it in movies made today. Terrific.
Monday, 31 December 2012
Sunday, 30 December 2012
Review of my year
I take my cue today from history's greatest diarist, Samuel Pepys, who at the end of each year looked back over his exploits of the previous year.
I am about to complete my second year of retirement, though it has still felt quite busy for all that. I have worked a number of sessions for our out-of-hours service, covering the bank holidays (understandable; they pay double then), but I have now decided to cease my involvement with them as an initial step towards winding down my responsibilities. Two other practices in the city have been quite anxious to use my services, and over the past year I have averaged out one extra session per week above my 1 1/3 sessions I still work for my old practice. This has provided useful extra income to the Pelagius coffers, though one does wonder whether I really need the extra cash. My NHS pension is handsome by most standards, and perhaps I should start getting used to living on that alone before I decide to do so in January of 2016.
At home we have have installed a new shower in our bathroom, though the workmen have had to call back on numerous occasions to put right little faults that have developed. And the power remains disappointing. If only we had a shower as good as the average gog standard unit you find in even the cheapest motel in the States. Now that would be heaven!
I have completed my autobiography and am in the process of trying to get it published. No defintive offers have emerged as yet, but I am aware that this bit of the process can be a lot harder than writing the damn thing, so I'll keep trying and try to remain patient. If all else fails I'll publish on line, but I'm giving myself most of next year to approach publishers in the UK, and perhaps in the US too. You never know your luck...
Since the death in the summer of the second of two cats we acquired in 2008, in November we got two new kittens, a boisterous ginger tom called Rufus, and a rather more reserved calico cat called Matilda. They lighten our days with their chaotic antics. The last two cats we had, obtained from a cat rescue centre, must have been traumatised somehow before they arrived there. For weeks it was only possible to entice them from their hiding place behind the fridge with the promise of food. They ended up being able to relax, though they never learned to purr. By contrast, these two purr like lawnmowers at the slightest encouragement.
One of my friends made the helpful suggestion that, rather than getting cats we should adopt a child, but they clearly don't know me as well as they thought they did. She has been a semi-pro foster mum for years and is superb at her "job", even adopting one fully. But I couldn't take the stress of that kind of commitment, and my wife feels the same. I'm too old, too screwed up and far too selfish for that to work. So the cats it is. Let's hope they live a bit longer than the last two. When we lost Leon in July it was a shattering blow, bringing back all the feelings of loss from the death of my son. It was six years ago it is true, but the pain in many ways is as strong as it ever was.
We've had some good holidays this year; in Denmark (slightly marred by a viciously spasming back) and Sweden (when it had thankfully receded somewhat), in Paris in the Spring and a couple of fun weekends in London. But not many visits to the country, where we and everyone else has been hampered by one of the wettest years since the end of the last Ice Age. For Chrissakes, when's it going to fucking stop raining? Well at least we were never flooded, like thousands of others, many of whom were sold new houses built on floodplains. The builders didn't care; the government doesn't seem to care, so I guess they''ll go on being flooded next year too.
I wish you a dryer year in 2013, and a happier one too if you too have lost someone or something precious. Hey! The world didn't end, and that can't be bad. So let's go out next year and fulfil our potential as humans. Go for it people!
I am about to complete my second year of retirement, though it has still felt quite busy for all that. I have worked a number of sessions for our out-of-hours service, covering the bank holidays (understandable; they pay double then), but I have now decided to cease my involvement with them as an initial step towards winding down my responsibilities. Two other practices in the city have been quite anxious to use my services, and over the past year I have averaged out one extra session per week above my 1 1/3 sessions I still work for my old practice. This has provided useful extra income to the Pelagius coffers, though one does wonder whether I really need the extra cash. My NHS pension is handsome by most standards, and perhaps I should start getting used to living on that alone before I decide to do so in January of 2016.
At home we have have installed a new shower in our bathroom, though the workmen have had to call back on numerous occasions to put right little faults that have developed. And the power remains disappointing. If only we had a shower as good as the average gog standard unit you find in even the cheapest motel in the States. Now that would be heaven!
I have completed my autobiography and am in the process of trying to get it published. No defintive offers have emerged as yet, but I am aware that this bit of the process can be a lot harder than writing the damn thing, so I'll keep trying and try to remain patient. If all else fails I'll publish on line, but I'm giving myself most of next year to approach publishers in the UK, and perhaps in the US too. You never know your luck...
Since the death in the summer of the second of two cats we acquired in 2008, in November we got two new kittens, a boisterous ginger tom called Rufus, and a rather more reserved calico cat called Matilda. They lighten our days with their chaotic antics. The last two cats we had, obtained from a cat rescue centre, must have been traumatised somehow before they arrived there. For weeks it was only possible to entice them from their hiding place behind the fridge with the promise of food. They ended up being able to relax, though they never learned to purr. By contrast, these two purr like lawnmowers at the slightest encouragement.
One of my friends made the helpful suggestion that, rather than getting cats we should adopt a child, but they clearly don't know me as well as they thought they did. She has been a semi-pro foster mum for years and is superb at her "job", even adopting one fully. But I couldn't take the stress of that kind of commitment, and my wife feels the same. I'm too old, too screwed up and far too selfish for that to work. So the cats it is. Let's hope they live a bit longer than the last two. When we lost Leon in July it was a shattering blow, bringing back all the feelings of loss from the death of my son. It was six years ago it is true, but the pain in many ways is as strong as it ever was.
We've had some good holidays this year; in Denmark (slightly marred by a viciously spasming back) and Sweden (when it had thankfully receded somewhat), in Paris in the Spring and a couple of fun weekends in London. But not many visits to the country, where we and everyone else has been hampered by one of the wettest years since the end of the last Ice Age. For Chrissakes, when's it going to fucking stop raining? Well at least we were never flooded, like thousands of others, many of whom were sold new houses built on floodplains. The builders didn't care; the government doesn't seem to care, so I guess they''ll go on being flooded next year too.
I wish you a dryer year in 2013, and a happier one too if you too have lost someone or something precious. Hey! The world didn't end, and that can't be bad. So let's go out next year and fulfil our potential as humans. Go for it people!
Thursday, 27 December 2012
Worst Christmas ever?
The Big Day was different for us this year. We decided to take my wife's dad to church on Christmas morning, something I'm sure he must have done in an uninterrupted streak since early childhood. But the occasion was less joyeux and more les miserables. The choir outnumbered the bums on pews, and an atmosphere of doom and gloom lay heavy over the crib. Even the carol singing, tunes surely familiar to all of us, was lamentable, with my wife's and my voice clearly audible above the one or two others actually prepared to give voice. The vicar, God bless him, did his best to enliven the proceedings, but with little success. Is this how it is these days in the Protestant Church? I know church numbers have been steadily in recent years, but on Xmas Day?
Once we had given the FiL a snack ( he was looking forward to Christmas lunch with his fellow inmates at his OPH), we settled down for an afternoon and evening of dark depression. My wife was missing her late mum; I was missing my dad; we were both missing my late son and we both harboured a sort of impotent guilt about her dad, apparently happy, but who can say? in his OPH. So we hardly ate a thing (I eventually persuaded my wife to have a plate of beans on toast with little sausages wrapped in bacon plus grated cheese). I think the only thing that marginally lifted our spirits out of the gloom was watching a series of topical animated films: Raymond Briggs's marvellous "Father Christmas", "A Christmas Carol" and "The Snowman and the Snowdog" (based on Raymond Briggs's idea, but unfortunately clearly demonstrating his lack of direct involvement).
Things did not begin to improve till the arrival of Boxing Day, when we pulled ourselves together a little and went on a lengthy walk, choosing a brief window of opportunity between extended "pulses of rain" as the weather men like to say. My wife and I are similar in many ways: neither of us has the capacity to stay down for very long before we strengthen our resolve and resolutely cheer up. But my God, I'm glad it's over and we won't have to endure it for another 364 days. And for that, I give thanks to the Almighty.
Once we had given the FiL a snack ( he was looking forward to Christmas lunch with his fellow inmates at his OPH), we settled down for an afternoon and evening of dark depression. My wife was missing her late mum; I was missing my dad; we were both missing my late son and we both harboured a sort of impotent guilt about her dad, apparently happy, but who can say? in his OPH. So we hardly ate a thing (I eventually persuaded my wife to have a plate of beans on toast with little sausages wrapped in bacon plus grated cheese). I think the only thing that marginally lifted our spirits out of the gloom was watching a series of topical animated films: Raymond Briggs's marvellous "Father Christmas", "A Christmas Carol" and "The Snowman and the Snowdog" (based on Raymond Briggs's idea, but unfortunately clearly demonstrating his lack of direct involvement).
Things did not begin to improve till the arrival of Boxing Day, when we pulled ourselves together a little and went on a lengthy walk, choosing a brief window of opportunity between extended "pulses of rain" as the weather men like to say. My wife and I are similar in many ways: neither of us has the capacity to stay down for very long before we strengthen our resolve and resolutely cheer up. But my God, I'm glad it's over and we won't have to endure it for another 364 days. And for that, I give thanks to the Almighty.
Saturday, 22 December 2012
The Apocalypse: how was it for you?
Yesterday at 11.11, GMT, nothing happened. What did you expect? A mighty asteroid, a megatsunami, or perhaps a super-eruption? Get outa here. These are the stuff of life for the documentary channels, and they do actually happen- just not on cue because a few relentlessly persistent "doomsday preppers" say so.
I am now old enough to remember a number of these End-of-the-world predictions. The first was in 1975, when the Jehovah's Witnesses insisted the great Cleansing was imminent. It wasn't. The Millennium became a focal point for many doom-sayers; including as notable a luminary as Isaac Newton, who was apparently convinced it would mark the coming of Armageddon. Oops! Wrong again.
The end of the world won't come trumpeted. It will creep up on us without anyone noticing, and it will be our fault because we didn't take sufficient care of the spaceship we call home. Please God we can recognise the danger before the worst happens. Meanwhile, as we all still appear to be here, Happy Xmas!
I am now old enough to remember a number of these End-of-the-world predictions. The first was in 1975, when the Jehovah's Witnesses insisted the great Cleansing was imminent. It wasn't. The Millennium became a focal point for many doom-sayers; including as notable a luminary as Isaac Newton, who was apparently convinced it would mark the coming of Armageddon. Oops! Wrong again.
The end of the world won't come trumpeted. It will creep up on us without anyone noticing, and it will be our fault because we didn't take sufficient care of the spaceship we call home. Please God we can recognise the danger before the worst happens. Meanwhile, as we all still appear to be here, Happy Xmas!
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
Danny Boyle: class act
After Danny Boyle's astonishing triumph at the opening ceremony of the London Olympics, I blogged to the effect that he should immediately be knighted for his sterling service to the nation. Now it emerges that he has stated that he would turn down such an honour if offered it. His argument is that the message of the ceremony was that the British nation is composed of a community of equals, and that it would be wrong to artificially place himself above others by accepting a knighthood.
A few years ago Benjamin Zephaniah turned down an MBE with the comment that he felt uncomfortable about accepting any title that had the word "Empire" in it, for self-evident reasons. The islands of the Caribbean, let's face it, have more reason than most to regret there ever was such a thing as a British Empire. Later I read a piece by Yasmin Alabi Brown in which she admitted that on hearing these sentiments, she now had to think carefully whether she would continue to hold onto her own gong (an MBE I think) I wonder if, like the Beatles, she gave hers back in the event. I also admired Jon Snow enormously when he turned one down on the grounds that as a journalist he had to stay objective, and that accepting an honour from the State would place him firmly in their camp.
There are lots of things wrong with the honours system in this country, from the awarding of honours to civil service hacks who have done little other than do their jobs efficiently and avoid embarrassing the government in any way, to the awarding of honours to pop stars who have caught the public ear this year, but will be forgotten the next.
But is this sour grapes? Would I turn down an honour, in the extremely unlikely event I was offered one? As someone who has professed anarchic views since his teens, it would be a tad hypocritical to say the least.Tell you what. Arrange to give me one and we'll see if I'm as good as my principles.
Finally, back to Danny Boyle. OK, he won't be a knight of the realm, but I think we can agree on one thing: after what he's achieved, he can't get arrested any more.
A few years ago Benjamin Zephaniah turned down an MBE with the comment that he felt uncomfortable about accepting any title that had the word "Empire" in it, for self-evident reasons. The islands of the Caribbean, let's face it, have more reason than most to regret there ever was such a thing as a British Empire. Later I read a piece by Yasmin Alabi Brown in which she admitted that on hearing these sentiments, she now had to think carefully whether she would continue to hold onto her own gong (an MBE I think) I wonder if, like the Beatles, she gave hers back in the event. I also admired Jon Snow enormously when he turned one down on the grounds that as a journalist he had to stay objective, and that accepting an honour from the State would place him firmly in their camp.
There are lots of things wrong with the honours system in this country, from the awarding of honours to civil service hacks who have done little other than do their jobs efficiently and avoid embarrassing the government in any way, to the awarding of honours to pop stars who have caught the public ear this year, but will be forgotten the next.
But is this sour grapes? Would I turn down an honour, in the extremely unlikely event I was offered one? As someone who has professed anarchic views since his teens, it would be a tad hypocritical to say the least.Tell you what. Arrange to give me one and we'll see if I'm as good as my principles.
Finally, back to Danny Boyle. OK, he won't be a knight of the realm, but I think we can agree on one thing: after what he's achieved, he can't get arrested any more.
Saturday, 15 December 2012
Got everything ready for the end of the world? (sorry, I mean, Christmas)
According to the Discovery channel, the world will end next Friday. Apparently that's when the 5000 year Mayan calendar runs out, so those rumours of the Apocalypse must be right, right? Wrong. We don't even know they meant that they believed the world was going to end then. I've got a calendar which predicts (accurately this time) solar eclipses up until the year 3000. Will future seers look at that and infer the world is going to end in the year 3001? Only if they're idiots.
As the redoubtable Mitch Benn said on "The Now Show" last night, if the Mayans were so good at predicting the future, how come there are no Mayans around now? Clearly they didn't see all those droughts, pestilences and Conquistadors coming. And neither can we. We don't know what's coming next, and indeed, that's half the fun of living: we just have to wait and see what happens. We can anticipate to some extent, which is why we're advised to get a pension sorted while we're young, just in case we live long enough to need one. Otherwise it's all a bit of a lottery.
The Mayans may have chosen this years winter solstice to finish their calendar for a less apocalyptic, but nonetheless important reason. It marks a very special astronomical event, and one that the Mayans must have had extraordinary skill to be aware of: the day marks the alignment of the galactic core with the sunrise on the winter solstice. This only occurs once every 26,000 years, and to predict it the Mayans must have been aware of the phenomenon of the precession of the equinoxes, that is to say the wobble in the Earth's axis. The fact that they worked this out is a huge tribute to their amazing mathematical and astronomical abilities.
As for Xmas, we've got our Christmas dinner planned already, and because a) my mum will be in London and b) my father-in-law is having his dinner at his OPH, we shall be having what we always said we would when we were free to do so: beans on toast, with grated cheese on top. That's if we're not all dead, of course.
Good luck with your festive plans.
As the redoubtable Mitch Benn said on "The Now Show" last night, if the Mayans were so good at predicting the future, how come there are no Mayans around now? Clearly they didn't see all those droughts, pestilences and Conquistadors coming. And neither can we. We don't know what's coming next, and indeed, that's half the fun of living: we just have to wait and see what happens. We can anticipate to some extent, which is why we're advised to get a pension sorted while we're young, just in case we live long enough to need one. Otherwise it's all a bit of a lottery.
The Mayans may have chosen this years winter solstice to finish their calendar for a less apocalyptic, but nonetheless important reason. It marks a very special astronomical event, and one that the Mayans must have had extraordinary skill to be aware of: the day marks the alignment of the galactic core with the sunrise on the winter solstice. This only occurs once every 26,000 years, and to predict it the Mayans must have been aware of the phenomenon of the precession of the equinoxes, that is to say the wobble in the Earth's axis. The fact that they worked this out is a huge tribute to their amazing mathematical and astronomical abilities.
As for Xmas, we've got our Christmas dinner planned already, and because a) my mum will be in London and b) my father-in-law is having his dinner at his OPH, we shall be having what we always said we would when we were free to do so: beans on toast, with grated cheese on top. That's if we're not all dead, of course.
Good luck with your festive plans.
Tuesday, 11 December 2012
Project mercury update
In my previous blog I made mention of my dawn raid on planet Mercury. I said how it had failed this time, but it turns out I was wrong.
I did see it; in the sense that I spent some time staring at the right portion of the sky, and also observing it through a pair of high quality Leitz 7x42 night-glasses.. Therefore I can say with certainty that photons steaming from the sun had bounced off its ancient, cast- iron surface and were for a number of seconds directly impinging on my retinae. Obviously it was a trifle unfortunate that my eyes were no longer sharp enough to register anything at the time. Indeed, I only know of my "siting" now because I have had a chance to study and magnify the images I captured on the ground.. Idly scanning the pictures on higher magnification, I found one little star, very faintly pink, hovering just below the crescent moon.
A brief scan of the net confirmed it was the genuine article, in precisely the correct spot according to the star charts for this morning.
It is a bit of a shame that Mercury can no longer be classified as a "naked eye object" in my case , but that is the way of things. My eyes have never been that good: I had to be fitted with a pair of specs to correct my myopia at the age of ten. But the spectacles did at least restore my vision to "normal", or average. Until 2 years ago, that is, when I realised that my latest prescription; giving me the best vision possible, was no longer good enough. It was an unpleasant moment, which I have to say caused a little spasm of consternation to run through me.
Now I've begun to get over myself about my slowly fading vision. There are worse things. And besides, I've always believed that the greatest telescope, offering the greatest images, can be found inside the mind. I can never go to the Moon. No one can ever go inside a black hole, or linger near a supernova. But in my mind I can do all this and more. Sit on a photon say, or wink at a quark. And what I can't see with my naked eye, I'll just magnify till I can.
I did see it; in the sense that I spent some time staring at the right portion of the sky, and also observing it through a pair of high quality Leitz 7x42 night-glasses.. Therefore I can say with certainty that photons steaming from the sun had bounced off its ancient, cast- iron surface and were for a number of seconds directly impinging on my retinae. Obviously it was a trifle unfortunate that my eyes were no longer sharp enough to register anything at the time. Indeed, I only know of my "siting" now because I have had a chance to study and magnify the images I captured on the ground.. Idly scanning the pictures on higher magnification, I found one little star, very faintly pink, hovering just below the crescent moon.
A brief scan of the net confirmed it was the genuine article, in precisely the correct spot according to the star charts for this morning.
It is a bit of a shame that Mercury can no longer be classified as a "naked eye object" in my case , but that is the way of things. My eyes have never been that good: I had to be fitted with a pair of specs to correct my myopia at the age of ten. But the spectacles did at least restore my vision to "normal", or average. Until 2 years ago, that is, when I realised that my latest prescription; giving me the best vision possible, was no longer good enough. It was an unpleasant moment, which I have to say caused a little spasm of consternation to run through me.
Now I've begun to get over myself about my slowly fading vision. There are worse things. And besides, I've always believed that the greatest telescope, offering the greatest images, can be found inside the mind. I can never go to the Moon. No one can ever go inside a black hole, or linger near a supernova. But in my mind I can do all this and more. Sit on a photon say, or wink at a quark. And what I can't see with my naked eye, I'll just magnify till I can.
Farewell Patrick Moore
Like almost everyone with the slightest interest in the skies, Patrick Moore is an important part of my life. I have memories of him going back to the 60s, when his wit, asperity and scintillating intelligence shone as brightly as a supernova. He was always interested in what you could see with the naked eye or a pair of binoculars, making the discipline of astronomy come alive for ordinary folks without access to a powerful telescope.
I met him once, when he was on his way to Mexico to see the great Solar Eclipse of 1991, and he was every bit as good a raconteur as you might have expected- until he got onto politics, when one suddenly discovered his views were rabidly right wing.
He really only made one mistake in his professional life: when he forecast that Shoemaker-Levy 9 would be a damp squib, "like firing a peashooter at a rhinoceros", I think he said. In the event of course, the impact of that comet into Jupiter was one of the most stunning events of the 20th century. Well, no one gets it right every time.
Patrick should be remembered, not just for his popularisation of astronomy (the "David Attenborough of the skies" you might say), but for the fact that he was a foremost example of that rare breed: the Great British Eccentric. We have few enough of those as it is, and now we have lost one our greatest.
This morning, taking his last piece of advice offered in his last "The Sky at Night" programme last week, I rose before dawn to attempt a view of Mercury rising before the sun. I failed this time, but I will have another chance before too long. Patrick has had his last chance, but he won't be too worried: he's seen so much.
I met him once, when he was on his way to Mexico to see the great Solar Eclipse of 1991, and he was every bit as good a raconteur as you might have expected- until he got onto politics, when one suddenly discovered his views were rabidly right wing.
He really only made one mistake in his professional life: when he forecast that Shoemaker-Levy 9 would be a damp squib, "like firing a peashooter at a rhinoceros", I think he said. In the event of course, the impact of that comet into Jupiter was one of the most stunning events of the 20th century. Well, no one gets it right every time.
Patrick should be remembered, not just for his popularisation of astronomy (the "David Attenborough of the skies" you might say), but for the fact that he was a foremost example of that rare breed: the Great British Eccentric. We have few enough of those as it is, and now we have lost one our greatest.
This morning, taking his last piece of advice offered in his last "The Sky at Night" programme last week, I rose before dawn to attempt a view of Mercury rising before the sun. I failed this time, but I will have another chance before too long. Patrick has had his last chance, but he won't be too worried: he's seen so much.
Wednesday, 5 December 2012
Behold the new crusader castles
Nine hundred years they came to the Holy Land: bands of robber barons with their private armies, intent on dominion and plunder. They gained the high ground, and there they built their fortresses of stone, and from their redoubts they would sally forth, looting and killing at will. Profit and land were their motives; only secondary was their professed desire to free Jerusalem from the hated Musselman.
Today the castles are back. All over the West Bank you can see them: cities of whitewashed concrete huddled on the hilltops. The locals are not welcome there, unless of course they have been contracted to work, enticed by better wages than they could obtain in their home towns. And like the crusaders, the Israeli settlers are not content to stay inside their fortresses. Regularly they come down onto Palestinian land, burning their olive groves (the ones they have not already stolen and placed out of their reach behind the Great Wall) or pour oil or foul sewage water over them. The effect is the same: the locals are deprived of their means of making a living from their land, what little they have left.
Just outside Bethlehem there is a huge development, housing thousands of Israelis, and following Israel's "defeat" at the UN last week, the government, in an extraordinary fit of diplomatic pique, ordered a huge expansion of this settlement, which will effectively cut Palestine in half. Already the half-hour journey from Bethlehem to Palestine's "capital" Ramallah has turned into a 2 or even 3 hour drive, because of the continual interdiction with checkpoints and roadblocks, set by the Israelis. If the new plans are realised, the journey will become practically impossible, and Palestine will have been severed in two.
But has Israel gone too far this time? Around the world there has been categorical condemnation of its latest, vengeful move (which includes withholding $75 million of tax revenues that was due to the Palestinian Authority; money that impoverished region desperately needs). Even the UK, Israel's avowed "friend", has expressed its strong disapproval. Israel's motive is clear: they want to provoke another Intifada, or protest, a protest they can use to say to the world: Do you see what we're up against? A group of terrorists, intent on destroying the Jewish race, and one we must subdue to ensure our own survival.
This time the world may not be fooled by this strategy of lies. Perhaps the time is approaching when even the US says enough is enough, and refuses to support Israel in everything it does. And when that happens, just like South Africa, it won't be long before the injustice is exposed for what it is, and freedom returns once again to the Holy Land.
Today the castles are back. All over the West Bank you can see them: cities of whitewashed concrete huddled on the hilltops. The locals are not welcome there, unless of course they have been contracted to work, enticed by better wages than they could obtain in their home towns. And like the crusaders, the Israeli settlers are not content to stay inside their fortresses. Regularly they come down onto Palestinian land, burning their olive groves (the ones they have not already stolen and placed out of their reach behind the Great Wall) or pour oil or foul sewage water over them. The effect is the same: the locals are deprived of their means of making a living from their land, what little they have left.
Just outside Bethlehem there is a huge development, housing thousands of Israelis, and following Israel's "defeat" at the UN last week, the government, in an extraordinary fit of diplomatic pique, ordered a huge expansion of this settlement, which will effectively cut Palestine in half. Already the half-hour journey from Bethlehem to Palestine's "capital" Ramallah has turned into a 2 or even 3 hour drive, because of the continual interdiction with checkpoints and roadblocks, set by the Israelis. If the new plans are realised, the journey will become practically impossible, and Palestine will have been severed in two.
But has Israel gone too far this time? Around the world there has been categorical condemnation of its latest, vengeful move (which includes withholding $75 million of tax revenues that was due to the Palestinian Authority; money that impoverished region desperately needs). Even the UK, Israel's avowed "friend", has expressed its strong disapproval. Israel's motive is clear: they want to provoke another Intifada, or protest, a protest they can use to say to the world: Do you see what we're up against? A group of terrorists, intent on destroying the Jewish race, and one we must subdue to ensure our own survival.
This time the world may not be fooled by this strategy of lies. Perhaps the time is approaching when even the US says enough is enough, and refuses to support Israel in everything it does. And when that happens, just like South Africa, it won't be long before the injustice is exposed for what it is, and freedom returns once again to the Holy Land.
Sunday, 2 December 2012
A Weekend with the nutters
My wife and I have a problem shared with millions of people up and down the country: dealing with the Alzheimer's epidemic. The following account is typical of little dramas playing out throughout the developed world.
Yesterday I went to see my father-in-law,who is now living an OPH specialising in EMI (Elderly Mentally Infirm). He shares his new home with 30 other, more or less similarly disabled EMI cases. Some appear to be "high functioning" and can carry on apparently rational conversations, though they tend to break down on more detailed questioning. Others are much worse: one old lady wanders the rooms constantly, whimpering quietly to herself whilst hugging a grimy plastic dolly. On this occasion I could find no good reason not to walk him the 400 metres back to our house for a cup of coffee. We know he is likely to empty his bladder at any moment, and keep a careful watch on him for suspicious signs of imminent urination. But I was not in time to prevent him hawking up a gobbet of phlegm and launching it on to a rather fine Indian silk rug in our living room. Instinctively I remonstrated with him, reminding him thatit is not customary to spit on the cartpet in someone's home. And my first, rather uncharitable thought was, well, I shan't be inviting you back home again any time soon.
Then in the afternoon I received a call from my mum's carers, who found her nauseous and faint. This is a classical behaviour mode of hers every time she is worried about anything; this time I think it is her upcoming visit to London where she will spend Xmas with my brother. Or it could be the antibiotics she was given the other day for a urinary infection. Whatever. Anyway, we drove the 30 miles to her place and found an anti- nausea drug in one of her drawers and persuaded her to take it As usual it worked fairly quickly. While we were there we found that her upstairs toilet seat had broken, this despite the fact that I replaced thesame seat only a few months ago. What is she doing? One thing is for sure: she can't tell us. Although she is perhaps 2 years behind my FiL in terms of memory loss and is still (just) able to live at home independently (though requiring a care package to enable that), she is still completely unable to account for what happened five minutes ago.
The fact is that if one you lose your short term memory, your life is shattered. And throughout the world, more and more people are living long enough for this disaster to befall. It could happen to you. It could happen to me. And don't think being intelligent to start with, or doing lots of "brain training" is going to help you. All you can hope is that you stay lucky. Good luck with that.
Yesterday I went to see my father-in-law,who is now living an OPH specialising in EMI (Elderly Mentally Infirm). He shares his new home with 30 other, more or less similarly disabled EMI cases. Some appear to be "high functioning" and can carry on apparently rational conversations, though they tend to break down on more detailed questioning. Others are much worse: one old lady wanders the rooms constantly, whimpering quietly to herself whilst hugging a grimy plastic dolly. On this occasion I could find no good reason not to walk him the 400 metres back to our house for a cup of coffee. We know he is likely to empty his bladder at any moment, and keep a careful watch on him for suspicious signs of imminent urination. But I was not in time to prevent him hawking up a gobbet of phlegm and launching it on to a rather fine Indian silk rug in our living room. Instinctively I remonstrated with him, reminding him thatit is not customary to spit on the cartpet in someone's home. And my first, rather uncharitable thought was, well, I shan't be inviting you back home again any time soon.
Then in the afternoon I received a call from my mum's carers, who found her nauseous and faint. This is a classical behaviour mode of hers every time she is worried about anything; this time I think it is her upcoming visit to London where she will spend Xmas with my brother. Or it could be the antibiotics she was given the other day for a urinary infection. Whatever. Anyway, we drove the 30 miles to her place and found an anti- nausea drug in one of her drawers and persuaded her to take it As usual it worked fairly quickly. While we were there we found that her upstairs toilet seat had broken, this despite the fact that I replaced thesame seat only a few months ago. What is she doing? One thing is for sure: she can't tell us. Although she is perhaps 2 years behind my FiL in terms of memory loss and is still (just) able to live at home independently (though requiring a care package to enable that), she is still completely unable to account for what happened five minutes ago.
The fact is that if one you lose your short term memory, your life is shattered. And throughout the world, more and more people are living long enough for this disaster to befall. It could happen to you. It could happen to me. And don't think being intelligent to start with, or doing lots of "brain training" is going to help you. All you can hope is that you stay lucky. Good luck with that.
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