COMMENT
Yesterday we were all glued to the box as powerful people were brought to book over the failings of their subordinates (or so they would have us believe). But an aid worker speaking on this morning's Today Programme brought us back to Earth. Everyone was obsessed, he said, with a shaving-cream pie in the face trick, whilst in the Horn of Africa a famine had been called, but almost ignored.
Good old Britain has "poured" £52 million into alleviating the problem, but don't we spend nearly as much as that every week in Afghanistan? Come to that, one of the world's richest countries lies just across the narrow expanse of the Red Sea, and what are they doing to help their co-religionists in Somalia? I fear the answer is not a lot. Why not? Is it, I hesitate to ask, because they is black? Maybe they just say it's the Will of Allah. It is what they usually say when something goes wrong, like that time a few years ago when a crowd in Mecca panicked in a tunnel during the Haj and 1200 were crushed to death. I can't help finding that attitude a tad complacent, but then my maco-politics have always been a bit naive.
There is no reason on Earth why a famine should happen anywhere today. The resources are there to solve this problem; indeed, to prevent it happening in the first place. Somalia itself has lots of money, loot the pirates have purloined in the last few years. Is any of that going to be used to help their own people? I doubt it. Is any of the $40 billion of the Murdoch empire going to be aimed at it? See above.
Once again, ordinary middle-class people in the West will dip into their pockets to finance the aid agencies, and nations will donate minute fractions of their GDPs to addressing the problem. And, as always, much of this money will never find its way to ground zero, where millions of men, women and children face one of the most unpleasant fates there is: slow death by starvation and the horrible diseases that engenders. I tell you, we're a shitty planet sometimes, and I'm a part of it. So are you...
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
johnny doesn't lose his marbles
COMMENT
As many expected, not a lot has emerged out of the grilling of the Murdochs and the Big Haired One, apart from the fact that their media groomers have done their job well, earning their 5 (or even 6?) figure sum for their services. Except perhaps that Murdoch Snr, who hasn't retired, but looks and sounds as if he probably should. He is 80, for chrissakes. My vote for unvarnished honesty goes to Jonnie Marbles, who did what millions must have heartily wished they'd had the guts to do. Good on ya mate!
And let us remember what kind of person dear Rebakah is: a few years ago she was attending a party where she bumped into Chris Bryant. "It's after dark, Mr Bryant", she said. "Shouldn't you be on Clapham Common?"
Her husband at the time, Ross Kemp, was moved to say: "Shut up you homophobic cow."
Their marriage did not survive for long...
As many expected, not a lot has emerged out of the grilling of the Murdochs and the Big Haired One, apart from the fact that their media groomers have done their job well, earning their 5 (or even 6?) figure sum for their services. Except perhaps that Murdoch Snr, who hasn't retired, but looks and sounds as if he probably should. He is 80, for chrissakes. My vote for unvarnished honesty goes to Jonnie Marbles, who did what millions must have heartily wished they'd had the guts to do. Good on ya mate!
And let us remember what kind of person dear Rebakah is: a few years ago she was attending a party where she bumped into Chris Bryant. "It's after dark, Mr Bryant", she said. "Shouldn't you be on Clapham Common?"
Her husband at the time, Ross Kemp, was moved to say: "Shut up you homophobic cow."
Their marriage did not survive for long...
Saturday, 16 July 2011
awkward illness
While we were away in Budapest my mum informed me that my brother had been rushed into hospital. She didn't have any details, and I reasonably assumed it was his kidney stones again. But no. Turns out he had returned from his second home in Burgundy sporting a high fever and barely conscious. Officially he was a case of "PUO", or pyrexia of unknown origin, though their money was on some tic-borne disease such as Rocky Mountain spotted fever, which despite its name is not confined to the American mid-west. The hospital (in Canterbury, where he lives)cracked him on a range of powerful intravenous antibiotics and he improved slowly but steadily each day.
I decided it would be wise to see for myself what was going on, so I made the lengthy journey cross-country to check him out. I was shocked by what I found. He had lost weight and looked very weak and grey. The fact that he hadn't shaved for over a week probably didn't help. But he was ready to be discharged, as his blood indices had improved since his admission to the point where they had now returned to normal, and indeed all the tests failed to provide a definitive diagnosis. There had been an idea for him to come over to my mum's place to convalesce, which considering her parlous state did not seem the greatest idea, but it was clear he would be hard put to look after himself for the next few days, so I acquiesced. Irritatingly, because of the Open golf being played out only a few miles away, I was unable to secure any accommodation nearer than Sevenoaks, more than 50 miles away (my brother's own house being unavailable for reasons I do not intend to discuss here).
So yesterday I brought him back by car and deposited him at my mum's house. No moneys were offered to offset my considerable out-of-pocket expenses, though I was handed a nice bottle of 2006 sauternes for my trouble- better than nothing. How long he will stay au maman is uncertain, though I would calculate anything up to a fortnight. I wish them both well...
I decided it would be wise to see for myself what was going on, so I made the lengthy journey cross-country to check him out. I was shocked by what I found. He had lost weight and looked very weak and grey. The fact that he hadn't shaved for over a week probably didn't help. But he was ready to be discharged, as his blood indices had improved since his admission to the point where they had now returned to normal, and indeed all the tests failed to provide a definitive diagnosis. There had been an idea for him to come over to my mum's place to convalesce, which considering her parlous state did not seem the greatest idea, but it was clear he would be hard put to look after himself for the next few days, so I acquiesced. Irritatingly, because of the Open golf being played out only a few miles away, I was unable to secure any accommodation nearer than Sevenoaks, more than 50 miles away (my brother's own house being unavailable for reasons I do not intend to discuss here).
So yesterday I brought him back by car and deposited him at my mum's house. No moneys were offered to offset my considerable out-of-pocket expenses, though I was handed a nice bottle of 2006 sauternes for my trouble- better than nothing. How long he will stay au maman is uncertain, though I would calculate anything up to a fortnight. I wish them both well...
Tuesday, 12 July 2011
a trip down memory lane
This afternoon I accompanied my mum to her twice-yearly visit to the memory clinic.
The poor love is still preoccupied by her driving embargo, and indeed an appeals form was sent to her while we were away in Budapest. Despite her promising to wait for me to return before completing the paperwork, she did just that and popped in the post straight way. I find it hard to believe she filled the forms in perfectly (which of course they must be) and certainly she did not include a current photo which they asked for, on the grounds that "they've already got one". Give me strength!
Her performance at the clinic was good, although her subtracting serial sevens from one hundred was poor, but then a lot of people have lousy mental arithmetic. In the end her "mini-mental" score was 28 out of a possible 30, which sounds like there isn't a lot wrong with her, but this speaks more to the inadequacy of the test than anything else.
Humourous note: on Sunday she asked us to bring her a copy of the last NoW, having cottoned to the fact that it was closing down. On looking at the many sample headlines from their illustrious past, she saw one which ran:
"JACKO DEAD"
"Jacko dead?" she cried, incredulous.
.
The poor love is still preoccupied by her driving embargo, and indeed an appeals form was sent to her while we were away in Budapest. Despite her promising to wait for me to return before completing the paperwork, she did just that and popped in the post straight way. I find it hard to believe she filled the forms in perfectly (which of course they must be) and certainly she did not include a current photo which they asked for, on the grounds that "they've already got one". Give me strength!
Her performance at the clinic was good, although her subtracting serial sevens from one hundred was poor, but then a lot of people have lousy mental arithmetic. In the end her "mini-mental" score was 28 out of a possible 30, which sounds like there isn't a lot wrong with her, but this speaks more to the inadequacy of the test than anything else.
Humourous note: on Sunday she asked us to bring her a copy of the last NoW, having cottoned to the fact that it was closing down. On looking at the many sample headlines from their illustrious past, she saw one which ran:
"JACKO DEAD"
"Jacko dead?" she cried, incredulous.
.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
hack hacks; hacks then hacked: now all hacked off
COMMENT
Every time I leave the country something seems to happen. Boy, did it ever this time. On Thursday afternoon I was sitting in my un-air conditioned room in Budapest's elegant hotel Gellert, where the temperature was only a few degrees below the 36 it was outside, when Sky News announced that the NoW was to be sacrificed at the alter of capitalism. Already it is clear what is going on.
Allow me to look inside the mind of James Murdoch:
"Well, Dad told me to cut it loose, and I couldn't care less. I hate newspapers as much as dad loves them, but he loves the idea of controlling BSkyB even more. So with all the advertisers jumping ship and polls of the public indicating no one is going to buy it again, it was already dead in the water. Never mind. Dad can have a "son of NoW", a "Sun on Sunday" or whatever, so he'll be happy, and we'll soon me making millions again. Not that that matters too much. Our family's still making billions from our other holdings, so who cares? Dad also told me to be nice to the big-haired one. Knows too much, apparently, even about us. Christ! Can't let all that come out. Me? I've never trusted redheads. In fact if I could put a contract out on her I would, but I suppose it wouldn't look good having her die in a car crash right now."
Every time I leave the country something seems to happen. Boy, did it ever this time. On Thursday afternoon I was sitting in my un-air conditioned room in Budapest's elegant hotel Gellert, where the temperature was only a few degrees below the 36 it was outside, when Sky News announced that the NoW was to be sacrificed at the alter of capitalism. Already it is clear what is going on.
Allow me to look inside the mind of James Murdoch:
"Well, Dad told me to cut it loose, and I couldn't care less. I hate newspapers as much as dad loves them, but he loves the idea of controlling BSkyB even more. So with all the advertisers jumping ship and polls of the public indicating no one is going to buy it again, it was already dead in the water. Never mind. Dad can have a "son of NoW", a "Sun on Sunday" or whatever, so he'll be happy, and we'll soon me making millions again. Not that that matters too much. Our family's still making billions from our other holdings, so who cares? Dad also told me to be nice to the big-haired one. Knows too much, apparently, even about us. Christ! Can't let all that come out. Me? I've never trusted redheads. In fact if I could put a contract out on her I would, but I suppose it wouldn't look good having her die in a car crash right now."
Thursday, 7 July 2011
reporting live from budapest
Yes, we are in the Hungarian capitol for 3 days, and a good thing too. I phoned my mum this morning, who told me it was grey and cool at home, with heavy rain on the way. Here the sky is an unbroken blue, and the temperature hovers around 32 degrees. Fortunately the humidity is low, so the heat is bearable; indeed it is quite gorgeous. I was born for this sort of weather, though admittedly as I write I have retreated indoors until it cools a little. There is no air-con in the room, but there is a powerful fan and the curtains and windows are closed to prevent ingress of the oven-hot air. This will count later on when we try to sleep.
Budapest is an ancient city, with evidence of settlement going back well before the Roman occupation. However, much was destroyed in the convulsions of the 1848 revolution, and what was left was smashed flat by the Russians as they roiled through here on the way to Berlin in 1945. Consequently, trying to find things of interest here is a bit tricky. I don't really fancy their biggest thing, the parliament buildings (modelled on the British Houses of Parliament, allegedly, though I don't recall the Brit version featuring a huge red-tiled dome)) so this morning we visited the "Castle District" (there's no castle- bombed out and not rebuilt), but there is St Mateus's church, heavily restored in the late 19th century and fortunately not smashed by the Ruskys. It seems to be a blend of Eastern orthodox and neo-Byzantine influence. It must be of interest to the Chinese and Japanese, who throng the place in their hundreds and thousands. I tell you, their penetration is absolutely world-wide these days.
This afternoon we shall sample the famous hot spring baths which are part of the hotel, and in the list of top ten sites in Buadapest according to our travel guide. And it's right downstairs! Tomorrow night we are off to a concert by one of Hungary's most famous sons, Kodaly, in a performance of "Hari Janos". Hari, an old soldier, tells his life story through a series of tall tales a la Baron Munchausen. It's great favourite of Hungarian children, apparently. Sounds promising...
Budapest is an ancient city, with evidence of settlement going back well before the Roman occupation. However, much was destroyed in the convulsions of the 1848 revolution, and what was left was smashed flat by the Russians as they roiled through here on the way to Berlin in 1945. Consequently, trying to find things of interest here is a bit tricky. I don't really fancy their biggest thing, the parliament buildings (modelled on the British Houses of Parliament, allegedly, though I don't recall the Brit version featuring a huge red-tiled dome)) so this morning we visited the "Castle District" (there's no castle- bombed out and not rebuilt), but there is St Mateus's church, heavily restored in the late 19th century and fortunately not smashed by the Ruskys. It seems to be a blend of Eastern orthodox and neo-Byzantine influence. It must be of interest to the Chinese and Japanese, who throng the place in their hundreds and thousands. I tell you, their penetration is absolutely world-wide these days.
This afternoon we shall sample the famous hot spring baths which are part of the hotel, and in the list of top ten sites in Buadapest according to our travel guide. And it's right downstairs! Tomorrow night we are off to a concert by one of Hungary's most famous sons, Kodaly, in a performance of "Hari Janos". Hari, an old soldier, tells his life story through a series of tall tales a la Baron Munchausen. It's great favourite of Hungarian children, apparently. Sounds promising...
Sunday, 3 July 2011
party weekend
It was our big summer bash yesterday, with nearly 50 people attending in shifts between 4 pm and around 1 am when we gave up and threw the stragglers out. Many of our oldest and dearest friends showed. Some old timers had excellent alibis, but in the event it didn't matter as unexpected people appeared as in their place. One girlfriend from more than 20 years ago came; older and more experienced in the face to be sure, but as svelte and fizzing with life as she ever was. I invited several patients so they could catch a glimpse of me as someone other than their doctor. This worked extremely well.
What also worked well was my wife, flitting effortlessly about the place with her matchless shmoozing, but I know for a fact she worked bloody hard throughout proceedings.
At one point in the early evening, with a warm sun still bathing the scene, all the painters seemed to gather in a circle in the garden. There they conversed in quiet, meaningful tones and as they did so, waves of brain power rippled out from them. I felt 8% more intelligent simply by being near them.
Elsewhere, the subjects were drinking steadily. By kicking out time one had lapsed into a very strange altered state which enabled her to sing a song quite sweetly, but which none of us had no way understanding in any way, except that it appeared to be about pain. And we all know something about that. It was sort of beautiful in a way, though I was little preoccupied by the fear that she might heel over mid-warble and sweep down some objet d'art en route to the deck. It never happened, and even our brand-new sofa remained free of cigarette burns.
All in all a great, great party.
What also worked well was my wife, flitting effortlessly about the place with her matchless shmoozing, but I know for a fact she worked bloody hard throughout proceedings.
At one point in the early evening, with a warm sun still bathing the scene, all the painters seemed to gather in a circle in the garden. There they conversed in quiet, meaningful tones and as they did so, waves of brain power rippled out from them. I felt 8% more intelligent simply by being near them.
Elsewhere, the subjects were drinking steadily. By kicking out time one had lapsed into a very strange altered state which enabled her to sing a song quite sweetly, but which none of us had no way understanding in any way, except that it appeared to be about pain. And we all know something about that. It was sort of beautiful in a way, though I was little preoccupied by the fear that she might heel over mid-warble and sweep down some objet d'art en route to the deck. It never happened, and even our brand-new sofa remained free of cigarette burns.
All in all a great, great party.
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