Or, asking the impossible.
OK, it was in the 60s, but Holly Armstrong, a renowned PR consultant once said...
...Up to the age of 18 a woman needs good parents, from 18-35 she needs good looks, from 35-55 she needs personality and from 55 on, she needs money.
Here’s a thought...
...Up to the age of 18 a man needs a good woman’s advice, from 18-35 he needs a good woman’s love, from 35-55 he needs a good woman’s understanding and from 55 on, he needs a good woman’s friendship.
A collision of reality and romance
The greatest English filmmakers of all time are Michael Powell and Emeric Pressburger, the Archers. Largely, Powell directed and Pressburger wrote the scripts. Of course, Pressburger was a Hungarian émigré. Which is very English.
Here’s one of my favourite scenes from my all time favourite film (not movie). A film that not only defines England for me, but also happens to be the greatest film of all time.
David Niven, the quintessential English gentleman actor, is playing Squadron Leader Peter D. Carter who has bailed out of his crippled plane without a parachute over the English Channel. He awakes, believing he is in Heaven.
England for me is the possibility that you may be somewhere more than just a country. England is a place where man does not control the forces of nature but is subjugant to their vagaries. England to me is not taking life for granted, but engaging with wonder. England is a dedication to duty, a suspension of belief, and a collision of reality and romance.
Abusing the weed
The ban on smoking tobacco in the Netherlands started two days ago and applies to public places, including the coffeeshops, where even locals cut their White Widow with tobacco for fear of falling in the gracht.
Pot smokers will be fined Euro 300 for a first tobacco 'abuse', then a stunning 2,400 euros for a fourth!
This is akin to saying you can’t drink beer in bars, only alcohol over 40 per cent proof.
Since the ban, I have camped outside several local coffeeshops and photographed the results first hand. I warn you, it’s not pretty, either way you look at it. Only problem I can't remember which was before and which was after!
How close do you come before you hit?
I love the ‘La Chute’ photo exhibition of Denis Darzacq, inspired by the Parisian riots of ’05.
Darzacq claims ‘La Chute’ captures a generation in freefall, where no-one sees or cares if these youths will fall from the sky to their deaths on the concrete.
For me, however, they hold out hope. They have not yet hit. They are passive. There is choice. There is a moment which is not yet decided.
Perhaps I see hope because despite the claim that these bodies are falling, we all know that B-boys and traceurs can defy gravity. Youth does not die. It just gets older. And heavier.
See ‘La Chute’ here.
Or is it the Worst?
Suburban Kids With Biblical Names
Shut Your Eyes And You’ll Burst into Flames
Seagull Screaming Kiss Her Kiss Her
They Came From The Stars I Saw Them
And a self genre’d ‘Screamo’ name that made me laugh out loud when I heard it, then laugh even harder when I heard the music...I Would Set Myself On Fire For You.
In fact, they are so terrible I may just set up a tribute site. I am truly impressed.
UPDATE: Oh no! I Would Set Myself On Fire For You have split up! I need to retire to my boudoir now. I am upset. Will you join me in the campaign to get them back together?
There is nothing more to say...
A good friend reminded me that each time we play our song, we express it differently. But each time we play our song, it must be from the heart.
That is what makes us human.
Or what they do in Oudewater for fun
This weekend I took a trip to Oudewater, a small village near Utrecht in Holland, with my girlfriend. The reason? To prove we are not witches.
Oudewater is famous for its ‘Heksenwaag’ - the witches scales. During the 16th Century hundreds of thousands of people accused of being witches were offered a chance of proving their innocence. The logic was that a witch has no soul and therefore weighs significantly less than an ordinary person; which allows the witch to fly on a broomstick. Too heavy, and you can’t be a witch!
After weighing, they received an official certificate proclaiming them not a witch. Stepping on the scales, I was confident that, to the best of my knowledge, I have no sorcerial tendencies. I was wrong. Both me and my girlfriend were pronounced witches.
Oudewater holds its annual witchy festival on the 27th and 28th June every year. If we can avoid the Inquisition for a year, we’ll be back to prove our innocence!
Who will tell it like it is, now?
I have been away for a couple of days and just heard George Carlin had passed away. Sorry, died. He was old.
If as Bill Hicks said, we have a prankster God, then he now has his Holy Trinity of Comedy - Hicks, Carlin, Pryor - three comedians who made me cry with the truth they told, and laugh at the absurdity of it.
Difficult to choose, but here’s a few of my personal faves -
George Carlin on soft language...
Richard Pryor on Love...
Bill Hicks on marketing, no fundamentalists...
With apologies to an anonymous donor
Patrick: 'Ello, I wish to register a complaint.
(The owner does not respond.)
Patrick: 'Ello, Miss Borroso?
Barroso: What do you mean "miss"?
Patrick: I'm sorry, I have a cold. I wish to make a complaint!
Barroso: We're closin' for lunch.
Patrick: Never mind that, my lad. I wish to complain about this Lisbon Treaty what I purchased not one half an hour ago, from this very boutique.
Barroso: Oh yes, the, uh, the Lisbon Bullshitter...what's,uh...what's wrong with it?
Patrick: I'll tell you what's wrong with it, my lad. 'It's dead, it's crap that's what's wrong with it!
Barroso: No, no, 'e's uh,...it's just resting.
Patrick: Look, matey, I know a dead Lisbon Bullshiter when I see one, and I'm looking at one right now.
Barroso: No no it's not dead, it's, it's just restin'! Remarkable resilince these Bullshitters, isn’t it, eh? Beautiful art-work, typeface!
Patrick: The art work don't enter into it. It's stone dead.
Barroso: Nononono, no, no! 'It's just resting!
Patrick: All right then, if it's restin', I'll wake it up!
(shouting at the cage) 'Ello, Mister Lisbon Bullshiterzzzzzz! I've got a lovely fresh paragraph for you if you show...
(Barroso hits the cage)
Barroso: There, he moved!
Patrick: No, he didn't, that was you hitting the cage!
Barroso: I never!!
Patrick: Yes, you did!
Barroso: I never, never did anything...
Patrick: (yelling and hitting the cage repeatedly) 'ELLO Mr Bullsh*terzzzzzz !!!!! Testing! Testing! Testing! Testing! This is your nine o'clock alarm call! (Takes Lisbon Bullsh*terzzzzzz out of the cage and whacks it on the counter. Throws it up in the air and watches it plummet to the floor.)
Patrick: Now that's what I call a dead Bullshitter
Barroso: No, no.....No, 'its stunned!
Patrick: STUNNED?!?
Barroso: Yeah! You stunned it, just as it was wakin' up! Lisbon Bullshitters stun easily, major.
1+1 = 3
It’s really about time, you know. For the past four or five years we have had to endure a rapid recycling of pretty much every pop music genre since known to man.
From the 60s girly soul-pop of Winehouse and Duffy, through the skinny-tied post-punk and Northen soap romanticism of the Editors, Kaiser Chiefs, the pop-trash mash of Mika and Scissor Sisters all the way to the 80s punk-funk moroder recycling of LCD Soundsystem, we have seen it all.
It’s not that there aren’t any great tunes there, and a few decent albums, but my gripe is that I have yet to hear many bands that transcend their influences. So at last, it’s hugely refreshing to hear the Fleet Foxes. I won’t say I am a huge fan. Yet. But I am intruiged.
Their close harmony bears comparison with Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, The Beach Boys, So-Cal pop or even Appalachian folk, but as their eponymous full length debut album reveals over it’s 40 minutes, the overwhelming feeling is not that you are listening to a band absorbed by influences, but by one who are reaching towards something new.
The effect is magical. Completely out of step with the current genres and trends, Fleet Foxes do more than reproduce the sounds of the past, they point the way towards a glorious, sun soaked and plangent future that is as tragic as it is beautiful. As likely to succeed as a black man for the US President with a rhetoric of hope.
Oh, wait a minute…
Vancouver Podiatric Puzzler
In what has to be one of the most bizarre ongoing news stories of the past year, the AP today reported that another human foot has been washed up off the coast of British Columbia.
This is the fifth in less than 12 months. Just like the others, the foot does not appear to have been forcibly removed from the leg. Like the others, the foot was found inside a trainer (aka 'sneaker'). Unlike the others, this is a left foot.
This casts serious doubts on oceanographer Curtis Ebbesmeyer’s claim that it may not be a coincidence they were found in the same area as left foot wear and right foot wear float differently.
If you are furrowing your brows right now, don't worry, you are not alone.
The rumours that Constable Benton Fraser of the Royal Candian Mounted Police is being taken off the search for the graves of the missing Franklin expedition to apply his olfactory investigatory skills are unsubstantiated at the time of writing this post.
Blogs...blah, blah, blah, blah
It appears that, today, the BBC has suffered a massive shortage of news: and skilled journalists.
In this article, the BBC reports that 64 people have been arrested for publishing their views on a blog since 2003. This according to the University of Washington annual report. The article goes on to say that in 2007 three times as many people were arrested for blogging about political issues than in 2006: and more than half of all the arrests since 2003 have been made in China, Egypt and Iran.
Now forgive me, but where exactly is the news value? I have had to read the article a dozen times, but no, still can’t find it. Should I expect a follow up article on how many writers have been arrested this year for airing their political views on paper? How about hardback versus paperback?
Blogging is a 10 year old technology. The closest thing approaching an analysis in this article appears to be; “Oh, and by the way, sometimes you can’t tell who wrote a blog, so like, sometimes, the figures of people who were arrested for speaking out about stuff, but had a blog as well, could be higher. If you see what I mean.”
I think the writer of this news item should be made to have his or her own blog, and have each post edited to death by armies of student journalists.
Either that or go and work for Fox.
Ferdinand Arkogan
Islas Arborea
Gate 4
11-07-2134
Dear Counsel member,
In response to the honorable members -
Change? It takes all sorts, and if you have to liquefy some of the more leafy suburbs of your imagination to do it, then so be it. The trick is to not get too huffy about it, but just bluff an eyeful until you succeed. No one will know the difference. Believe me, I know.
The huffy ones, by and large, either earn or buy their playful oils in lofty jugs until the gigs exceed their full whack. It’s only when your Hyde isn’t credible enough, you’ll fail. And if some jig buyer, yogurt over his lip, tells you it isn’t going to outgo, then you just out it. You’ll have hertz more than he ever will.
Mine should tell you that this isn’t, for me or for you, at dud. Any old john can jig that one. Even some fresh hag can outgo if the john is too uppity. Just get yogi oil and make the marker buy it. I, and my ilk, say Mrs. Kuhn can buy any jug off any poor ultra lid.
For me, sat on the yacht, it’s a cinch. Just like grilled ice from the right dill. With ropy time I’d dance any jig and pour the oath over and ever. Redo. I’m not a liar. The ilk would sag if they knew. Almost every time a red lax liking will fall like teardrops from your lughole. Dirty irises will flinch, but not all yet, and not all forever.
So take your rat and jeer if you must. It’s all oil. And if you must, jeer but rejoin. You rejoin and you’ll gain your origin. A little recoat, small orate, and an obit.
Yours graciously,
Ferdinand Arkogan
Post script: I bid thee - take the orient. Redo as if the teat orgy led you. All’s not dirt, just take yon oat, and follow the ox. FA.
EU and War Crimes. It’s a funny old game.
Time for a little politics for a change, dear Reader!
Yesterday, as widely reported, Stojan Zupljanin, the Bosnian lawyer charged with war crimes in the former Yugoslavian conflict of ’92 to ’95, was finally arrested after 13 years in hiding in Serbia.
Zupljanin’s arrest is a blatent attempt by Serbia to appease the Dutch and Belgian governments, who, yesterday re-announced their refusal to ratify a key accord for Serbia’s advancement towards the EU for non-cooperation over it’s fugitive war criminals.
Serbia’s gesture would carry much more weight had they given up Bosnian Serb General Ratko Mladic, Goran Hadzic, or even Radovan Karadzic, who are all still at large, and indicted variously for war crimes, crimes against humanity and genocide.
However, that wouldn’t leave enough ‘big guns’ for the next crucial point in Serbia’s potential EU accession in autumn. I wonder when Hadzic, will be miraculously ‘found’?
That still leaves around four more years in Serbia’s EU accession process and three major fugitives from International justice. Mladic circa spring 2009?
As for Karadzic, you had better ask the United States’ Ambassador Richard Holbrooke.
A Tale of Tarut
A few years ago, while working in Saudi, I was told by most American families living in the compound nearby that it was dangerous to venture outside of Dhahran. Bearing their advice in mind, but wanting to find out for myself, I rented a car and took a short trip North. After only a few kilometres, I came
across an Island - Tarut.
As I approached the port, I saw dhows pulling in to the harbour. Curious to see more, I drove closer. Suddenly, a uniformed guy stood in my path, waving his gun and gesturing for me to get out of the car.
As I stepped out, I smiled, raised my hands, and showed him my ID. He didn’t speak any English, but after a few moments, he relaxed. “Tourist” and “Manchester United” translate into any language. We were then joined by another gentlemen, who introduced himself as the Harbour Master. We chatted more, and finally, they explained why they were armed.
Tarut has been a port for more than 7000 years. The native Saudi fishermen used to dive for pearls here, but the pollution in the Gulf from industry brought the sharks and began to silt up the harbour. Since then, the port ell into a slow decline. The wooden dhows rotted, and the tradesmen became unemployed. Some of the divers kept their dhows and switched to fishing. Over time, these divers became Captains, brought Tamil's and other workers to crew and mend their boats. Today, they mainly make a living providing fish and shrimp to the local markets.
However, recently, there had been an increase in smuggling through Tarut. Drugs, guns, even people. The Saudi authorities have been fighting to control this for years and, post 9-11, they were even more conscious and ever more alert to stem the tide. After a while, the Captain and the Harbourmaster invited me for a ride into the Gulf.
While riding round the harbour we talked about our families, our countries and the history of Tarut. After an hour’s wonderful trip, we returned to the Port. Docking the Dhow, the Captain, who spoke no English, then invited me back to his house for a drink.
Inside his house, he introduced me to his sons, who had never met an Englishman, and I even met his wife’s gloved right hand, waving her greeting from behind a screen in their lounge. We sat and talked, the host constantly refilling my coffee cup every time I finished it.
Saudi coffee is strong, and I was getting a bit jittery until I remembered that placing your coffee cup on the floor face down, was the way to show you had drunk enough. I did so. Presently, I left, promising to return, should we ever be in Saudi again.
This really is typical of the old-fashioned courtesy and hospitality I frequently encountered in Saudi Arabia, and in fact, throughout most of the Middle East.
Do you think the same would happen in London? New York? Amsterdam? My guess is not.
A Partial Review of Mega Breakfast
Listening to the Chap is like watching Christopher Walken act.
You know they are a band you enjoy, but you are not sure how they do what they do and why it works. It really shouldn’t. But it does. Fantastic fun and astonishingly odd.
Their music leaves you knowing you are hearing something special and not caring where it came from, just glad it’s there.
And the partial review of their latest album, Mega Breakfast (Lo Recordings LCD68), goes a little like this…
Fun & Interesting is Chrisopher Walken in Click.
Ethnic Instrument is Christopher Walken’s Three Little Pigs on Jonathon Ross.
Carlo Walter Wendy Stanley is Walken as Captain Coons.
PS - saw them live in Amsterdam on Friday last. You should have been there. Go here to find out what live Chap tastes like.
The BBC and the Cult of the Dispossessed
Reading Haruki Murakami’s novels has been described feeling like you've just awakened from a deep sleep and you aren’t sure if you're still dreaming. I agree. But I'm pretty sure I have woken up from this one. Pretty sure.
In “A Wild Sheep Chase”, the 1982 novel which cemented Murakami’s cult reputation in Japan, there are no kimonos. He strafes his prose with pop culture references. His style is reminiscent of Vonnegut and Carver peppered with the surrealism of Lynch and even Monty Python.
The “Wild Sheep” of the title, a possibly mythical beast, is a power hungry sheep set on global domination, with a red star emblazoned on it’s back. The characters, mostly nameless except for “Rat”, are seeking self identity in the face of anonymous modern culture.
In the novel, only the places and landmarks have names. “I”, the protagonist, is a freelance writer in the Tokyo ad industry. He is tasked by a mysterious “leader” to find the sheep or never work again. On the chase “I” stays in the Dolphin Hotel, site of the Ovine Association. The novel’s denouement takes place in Hokkaido, where “I” meets the mysterious “Sheep Man” who may or may not exist, and may be animal or man.
All the reviews I have ever read of this novel focus upon the hip references, the cool style and slick prose. They consider the subject as a 'screwball comedy', a 'detective story', a critique of contemporary Japanese culture. Hm.
In a BBC news report today, Phillipa Fogarty reports that; “In the 19th Century, Japanese people called the northern island of Hokkaido “Ezochi”. It meant "Land of the Ainu": a reference to the fair-skinned, long-haired people who had lived there for hundreds of years. The Ainu were farmers, hunters and fishermen with animist beliefs.”
The Ainu communities and traditions were eroded by waves of Japanese settlement and subsequent assimilation policies, including the Soviet invasion of the Ainu’s home islands and the Ainu’s subsequent expulsion from their homes.
For over 140 years, the Japanese government has refused to acknowledge their existence. There is no definitive theory as to where the Ainu come from. The Ainu frequently did not name themselves for fear of persecution. They only named places. The Ainu were persecuted in their thousands by the Soviets. The Ainu traditionally wore animal skins in winter. Their language shares no common roots with Japanese, or any other language known.
Feel free to join the dots.
Oh by the way, the news the BBC reported today was that the Japanese government finally officially acknowledge “the existence” of the Ainu.
Does this mean the novel no longer exists?
No, it’s not a typo.
Maybe it’s the same where you live, but I hate it. Walk down the streets of Amsterdam, the Hague, any big city in Holland and you are surrounded by yexing youths.
Let me clarify. Yexing is spitting. Now without being a prude, who wants to constantly sidestep spittle on your way to work?
Isn't 'yexing' a great word? That's the only reason I wrote this post, actually. You can find more fantastically obscure words at the Phrontistery - a real treasure trove of a Logorrhea. Sorry, an online dictionary of obscure and rare words.
Great for scrabble too!
Check it out here - The Phrontistery
Or why John Cooper Clarke is Heavy
Way back when, I was sat on the bottom of the stairs below the gallery in the Band on the Wall, Manchester. I was there to watch Victor Brox, an amazing blues and jazz musician reputed to be the favourite singer of both Hendrix and Tina Turner.
Although it was a fantastic set, some wise-guy from the gallery kept heckling him. Normally, that wouldn't have been a problem for a musician with the pedigree of Brox. But this heckler was good. He had half the audience in stitches with his pithy comments, and the band absolutely furious.
After some time, two bouncers pushed past me on the stairs, heading for the gallery. Things quietened down for a little while and Brox played on. Then without warning, during a particularly sensitive and quiet piano solo, there was a swallowed scream from above me. I turned just in time to see a mass of spiky black hair and pipe cleaner legs flying through the air and heading straight for me.
I just had time to think, "Oh! John Cooper..." before he landed square on my head. I lay stunned for a second on the floor. Then, as quickly as he flew, he was gone. His weight miraculously lifted. A bouncer had grabbed him by one arm and one leg and was carrying him bodily out of the club. Before I had chance to do anything, I too, was grabbed from the floor and ejected. I didn't even have time to protest my innocence.
After being dumped unceremoniously on the street, I looked up to see JCC primping himself. The genuine article, the self proclaimed 'Bard of Salford', the be-shaded, sugar puffing punk poet of Manchester, John Cooper Clarke.
He continued to primp. I continued to watch. Before I had a chance to form suitable words of greeting, the great JCC turned to me and said; "And f*** you too you scrawny wazzock", and disappeared cursing into the night. I stood there, not quite sure whether to be impressed or upset.
A true punk poet. And deceptively heavy. Respect.
Affleck's Palace is old warehouse-cum-market-traders-haven that I remember from the early 80s. It was a slightly scary, but exciting place, ideal for an early teen keen to know what was happening in Manchester - and by default most of Western Europe at the time.
Every Saturday, grabbing my pocket money, I would head from Warrington station and jump the morning train to Oxford Street, Manchester. Past the arches, the Hacienda, off the train, head for Piccadilly, cutting through the backs, I was there - Affleck's Palace.
Affleck's, as it is known today, was filled with floors and floors of ad hoc traders, performers, posers, and teenage reprobates trying their best to look cool, sniff out rare vinyl and check out the latest in hand-made and second hand fashion. I personally spent weeks waiting to find a Blue Bowie suit that fit me. Unfortunately, I found one.
In the 90s, it became the stomping ground of Oasis, Inspiral Carpets, the Happy Mondays, Stone Roses and Morrissey. Members and fans alike used to hang out in the cafe on the top floor. You could get a bowl cut, baggy flares, T-shirts, glo-sticks and as much psychedelia as you could stomach.
Post 'Madchester', Affleck's Palace was an important meeting and cultural meeting point of many more recent Northern bands such as Elbow, Badly Drawn Boy and the Doves, as well as giving birth to Red or Dead, Vicky Martin, Fat City Records (Andy Votel) and many more.
At this time the traders seemed much more commercial, although the fashion and music scene was regurgitating much of what had happened over the past 20 years, so I guess that's not surprising.
After surviving a bomb blast, fire and the regular onslaught of uniformly applied chrome fittings over the years, it was recently thought we may have seen the last of Affleck's Palace as the former owner's 25 year lease expired this month.
In a bid to save Affleck's, the building has been bought by it's developer-owners and they are looking for a new owner to buy the lease from them.
Fancy leasing the Heart of Manchester?
We all face problems. Every day. In work. In our personal life.
At the moment, that's all I seem to be doing. Tcha. Such is life. It's hard to remember what you already know, to repeat your successes and avoid the mistakes you made in the past. Hence, this post - just to remind me of what works.
1. Keep Moving: inertia is a killer. If you are stuck with a problem, do something else for a while. Gain momentum. Then come back and try shifting that heavy problem now. Lighter, isn’t it?
2. Understand the problem: if you don’t know what you are dealing with, then how can you solve it? Brute force is not enough. Gather the facts, speak to trusted (and not trusted!) friends, colleagues. Google it! Perspective yields solutions.
3. Blog it!: or at least, write it down. Paper has a way of reducing problems to a bite size, especially in times of stress. Keep the problem and the perspectives handy. Look at them. Now you understand the problem, don’t force it, let your subconscious work on it too.
4. Smile: a sense of humour always helps cut that monster down to size.
5. Understand the solution: once you have solved the problem take a while to remember how you did it. The process you went through. How did you feel at the start? Midway? How do you feel when you solved it? remember that feeling. Make solving problems part of your natural way of being.
6. Be splendid!: at the end of the day, problem solving in life never stops. Don't waste your time trying to solve every problem like it is your last - there will always be another one. Exercise your problem solving in a healthy way. Enjoy the growth. Keep growing.
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