Have you heard about 'finger fluting' a neologism seemingly coined by American anthropologists at Cambridge University and released to the waiting world via segments on Radio 4 this morning?
Finger fluting is not, as one might expect - or hope - a new method of teaching the recorder; nor is it a decorative style arising from dragging the fingers through soft material such as clay.
In fact finger fluting is prehistoric painting: swirls, lines and zig zags smeared by stone age children onto the cave walls (inevitably in the Dordogne) where their parents were depicting antelope, an occasional mammoth and the inevitable crowds of bison.
I am glad children of those far-off times were allowed such artistic licence. Certainly my two have never had a great deal of parental support for their efforts in recolouring the wallpaper. Clearly times have changed in the past 10 or 12 millennia.
Leaving the visual arts aside, I am much more concerned with the words that have come to describe this speliological endeavour. Why 'fluting'?
I've just been through the full Oxford English Dictionary (yes we do own one in the office) to find nothing that would bring us close to the concept. Indeed fluting implies a more complex series of manual processes that simple markings in paint.
I suspect alliteration is to blame. Something that goes with fingers ('nails' not starting with an 'f').
But with that in mind, should anthropologists not have come up with 'digital daubs'?
Friday 30 September 2011
Monday 26 September 2011
SKIN DEEP
I am not really blogging - not just at the moment. It's more that I'm taking a break from ironing.
Yes, I iron. Actually I rather enjoy it and I also enjoy the faux military neatness that I can achieve (only to destroy the impression with a lost button or, worse, an ironed-in stain). And I suppose it gives one time to think, or to listen to the radio or to think about amusing lines.
Did you hear about the diner at the café who asked if there was any alternative to the Quiche Lorraine. "No," replied the waitress, "there's no Flan B."
Leaving this aside, I have to tell you that I am slightly worried about my face - one of those parts where the iron must not reach. I was seduced into buying face products the other day. Well accurately a couple of parties I've been to recently were giving patent unguents away and so I felt I should buy some as well.
I have Facial Fuel and something from Cetuem which has 'Active Ceramides' and also I have something from Kiehls that comes with a glass eye dropper although I rather suspect the eyes are the last place this smoking liquid should be dropped.
But the thing is that the treatments aren't working and it looks as though I am never going to achieve my ambition of rejuvenating in the same way that Captain James T Kirk of the Starship Enterprise easily does in the later Startrek movies. In fact, I seem to be going the other way.
Not only does unguent a (or b or c) hurt but the facial results, the morning after, put me in mind of one who has spent the hours of darkness wrestling with the undead only to become one himself.
Lines? There are more lines than Hamlet and deeply engrained (not only in the skin but increasingly in the psyche).
Bags? Ditto the conveyor belts at Heathrow.
Eyes? Not really visibly to my eye (if you see what I mean).
Whatever happened to Wright's Coaltar Soap with its distinctive smell of failed chemical experiments (a far superior product to Lifebuoy if you ask me)? I mean that was a real cleaning agent. I left some on my flannel one night long ago at boarding school and the next day it have gone right through. It became much more popular after that but not perhaps in the way the manufacturers intended - after all boys will be boys.
Yes, I iron. Actually I rather enjoy it and I also enjoy the faux military neatness that I can achieve (only to destroy the impression with a lost button or, worse, an ironed-in stain). And I suppose it gives one time to think, or to listen to the radio or to think about amusing lines.
Did you hear about the diner at the café who asked if there was any alternative to the Quiche Lorraine. "No," replied the waitress, "there's no Flan B."
Leaving this aside, I have to tell you that I am slightly worried about my face - one of those parts where the iron must not reach. I was seduced into buying face products the other day. Well accurately a couple of parties I've been to recently were giving patent unguents away and so I felt I should buy some as well.
I have Facial Fuel and something from Cetuem which has 'Active Ceramides' and also I have something from Kiehls that comes with a glass eye dropper although I rather suspect the eyes are the last place this smoking liquid should be dropped.
But the thing is that the treatments aren't working and it looks as though I am never going to achieve my ambition of rejuvenating in the same way that Captain James T Kirk of the Starship Enterprise easily does in the later Startrek movies. In fact, I seem to be going the other way.
Not only does unguent a (or b or c) hurt but the facial results, the morning after, put me in mind of one who has spent the hours of darkness wrestling with the undead only to become one himself.
Lines? There are more lines than Hamlet and deeply engrained (not only in the skin but increasingly in the psyche).
Bags? Ditto the conveyor belts at Heathrow.
Eyes? Not really visibly to my eye (if you see what I mean).
Whatever happened to Wright's Coaltar Soap with its distinctive smell of failed chemical experiments (a far superior product to Lifebuoy if you ask me)? I mean that was a real cleaning agent. I left some on my flannel one night long ago at boarding school and the next day it have gone right through. It became much more popular after that but not perhaps in the way the manufacturers intended - after all boys will be boys.
Monday 15 August 2011
THE BIGGEST RUSH
I suppose I should write about the riots although there has undoubtedly been too much 'ink' (to use an old-fashioned phrase) spilled on this subject already and we haven't seen the half of it yet.
You know, the politicos and the chattering classes seem, generally, to agree that this outbreak of lawlessness that affected quite a number of English cities, was a key indicator of some sort of breakdown in society.
Maybe, but I am less inclined to think in such dramatic terms.
The line I find most telling about this whole affair was the comment made by one of the defendants in court when asked by the judge why she went on the rampage, as it were. She answered that it was the "biggest rush" she'd had felt in her life.
And that's the point. Think about it. Suddenly you have the opportunity to run around the streets, being chased as if in a video game (only this time for real!) by the boys in blue and you're more or less free to break windows, torch cars, steal those things you've always wanted to own and - at the same time - you have a very good chance of not being caught. Being caught means you lost the game.
For me, this explains the rapid spread of the disturbances. There was, just briefly, a sort of riot tourism. People came into the cities to smash and grab and the very time that the frightened masses - the workers, you and me in other words - were hurrying in the other direction. It was indeed a rush - nothing like it had ever occurred, ever been available, during the (thus far short) lifetimes of the rioters.
Does this explain arson and the deaths - were these a mere function of over-exuberance getting out of hand? No of course not, it neither explains nor condones. These darker issues almost certainly arose from long-time criminals working under cover of the confusion for their own ghastly purposes or, alternatively, from racists seeking to settle scores (or to open wounds).
None of this makes things right but I think it's as good an explanation of any other. Society is, if you're young (and whether dispossessed or not) boring. Yes of course there are role-models we wish all the young folks would follow, but no everyone can be an Olympian or, indeed, an Eagle Scout but almost everyone, at the age of the majority of the rioters, was energetic and somewhat hormonal and, no doubt, keen not to be told what to do (at least for a while).
You know, the politicos and the chattering classes seem, generally, to agree that this outbreak of lawlessness that affected quite a number of English cities, was a key indicator of some sort of breakdown in society.
Maybe, but I am less inclined to think in such dramatic terms.
The line I find most telling about this whole affair was the comment made by one of the defendants in court when asked by the judge why she went on the rampage, as it were. She answered that it was the "biggest rush" she'd had felt in her life.
And that's the point. Think about it. Suddenly you have the opportunity to run around the streets, being chased as if in a video game (only this time for real!) by the boys in blue and you're more or less free to break windows, torch cars, steal those things you've always wanted to own and - at the same time - you have a very good chance of not being caught. Being caught means you lost the game.
For me, this explains the rapid spread of the disturbances. There was, just briefly, a sort of riot tourism. People came into the cities to smash and grab and the very time that the frightened masses - the workers, you and me in other words - were hurrying in the other direction. It was indeed a rush - nothing like it had ever occurred, ever been available, during the (thus far short) lifetimes of the rioters.
Does this explain arson and the deaths - were these a mere function of over-exuberance getting out of hand? No of course not, it neither explains nor condones. These darker issues almost certainly arose from long-time criminals working under cover of the confusion for their own ghastly purposes or, alternatively, from racists seeking to settle scores (or to open wounds).
None of this makes things right but I think it's as good an explanation of any other. Society is, if you're young (and whether dispossessed or not) boring. Yes of course there are role-models we wish all the young folks would follow, but no everyone can be an Olympian or, indeed, an Eagle Scout but almost everyone, at the age of the majority of the rioters, was energetic and somewhat hormonal and, no doubt, keen not to be told what to do (at least for a while).
Friday 5 August 2011
SHETLAND WEST OF WALES
Pembrokeshire is often described as "little England west of Wales". Be that as it may, the 'house' where I've been staying for the past 12 days is, from its twee Scots name, a little piece of Shetland on the Pembrokeshire Coast.
It would have been better had it been England!
Here's some holiday advice - particularly if you, like me, are somewhat suspicious of the Scots and their purposes: Do not hire a Scottish house (accurately 'terraced cottage') in Wales from people who live in Essex. The combination is not agreeable even if the location, Newport Pembs, is very attractive indeed.
OK, Ok. I know I'm very tall but the doorways were low even by dwarfish Shetland standards. One puts up with that sort of thing (just) even though it means having to creep about like an octogenarian. But what about that architectural afterthought than an estate agent might risibly describe as the 'bathroom complex'?
Do you know the old joke: "When I was young we had an outside lavatory; then we saved up some money and bought a house." Well there was something of that.
Let me take you in by the front door. As you enter you are immediately faced by an unexpected and, to be fair, attractive black laquered staircase rising to the two small bedrooms. Avoiding this one ducks left into a parlour with a floor embellished with rush matting held to the rather worn tiles by silver gaffer tape.
Crouch through a door that even Mickey Rooney would have trouble with and into the kitchen area where on the left, in a nod to geography, is a Welsh dresser stacked with non-descript china that one may not use - it's there for the look.
Duck under an arch for the tiny washing-up 'zone' and then again duck (having moved no more than a further six feet) through what was originally the back door.
Notice something missing - like the loo and bathroom for instance?
Aha. Now we're into an outhouse with a second back door to the left and rough concrete flooring underfoot. There's a captivating display of old shoes and boots to the right and an Edwardian wood and cast iron drying-rack above, just in position to give a good whack to the cranium just in case one has managed to dodge all the other obstacles to that point.
Finally to the right we have a bathroom and separately a loo where the lavatory itself is only barely attached to the ground (I hesitate to say 'floor') and gives the impression - should one choose to shift position and set off a bout of rocking - of being at sea. There's something about water in the lavatory pan slopping about to confirm one isn't at home.
It would have been better had it been England!
Here's some holiday advice - particularly if you, like me, are somewhat suspicious of the Scots and their purposes: Do not hire a Scottish house (accurately 'terraced cottage') in Wales from people who live in Essex. The combination is not agreeable even if the location, Newport Pembs, is very attractive indeed.
OK, Ok. I know I'm very tall but the doorways were low even by dwarfish Shetland standards. One puts up with that sort of thing (just) even though it means having to creep about like an octogenarian. But what about that architectural afterthought than an estate agent might risibly describe as the 'bathroom complex'?
Do you know the old joke: "When I was young we had an outside lavatory; then we saved up some money and bought a house." Well there was something of that.
Let me take you in by the front door. As you enter you are immediately faced by an unexpected and, to be fair, attractive black laquered staircase rising to the two small bedrooms. Avoiding this one ducks left into a parlour with a floor embellished with rush matting held to the rather worn tiles by silver gaffer tape.
Crouch through a door that even Mickey Rooney would have trouble with and into the kitchen area where on the left, in a nod to geography, is a Welsh dresser stacked with non-descript china that one may not use - it's there for the look.
Duck under an arch for the tiny washing-up 'zone' and then again duck (having moved no more than a further six feet) through what was originally the back door.
Notice something missing - like the loo and bathroom for instance?
Aha. Now we're into an outhouse with a second back door to the left and rough concrete flooring underfoot. There's a captivating display of old shoes and boots to the right and an Edwardian wood and cast iron drying-rack above, just in position to give a good whack to the cranium just in case one has managed to dodge all the other obstacles to that point.
Finally to the right we have a bathroom and separately a loo where the lavatory itself is only barely attached to the ground (I hesitate to say 'floor') and gives the impression - should one choose to shift position and set off a bout of rocking - of being at sea. There's something about water in the lavatory pan slopping about to confirm one isn't at home.
Saturday 4 June 2011
ROWING RANT
I am very raw. I feel the stupidity of one who has committed himself far to enthusiastically to a cause and, in so doing, involved other people as well, only to find fulfilment ripped away literally at the final second by a twist of fate (and, candidly, the stupidity of a cox).
I won't do this again, I won't be supporting my old college at Oxford's Summer Eights regatta or anywhere else. I will not to sucked in to the ambitions (and emotions) of others who I barely know and with whom I have nothing in common barring an occasional tendency to wear Pembroke College pink. (And the way I am feeling, I won't be doing much of that again either).
I wanted the Pembroke Woman's First Eight not only to win but to go Head of the River. They are the only college women's crew since about 1976 whose names I have known and whom (in some cases) I have met and spoken to on more than one occasion.
And they should have done. With two World silver medallists (also winning blues) plus others of a calibre much better than anything in any other college, what we had here was arguably the fastest Women's Eight ever put out by an Oxford college.
And what happened? On Thursday they got away with rowing into the bank. At the time, because it came out OK, everyone thought this was a lucky thing - a piece of serendipity but no, we should have foreseen that one piece of bad steering or bad control can lead to another; can lead in fact to missing a bump that was sitting, in the middle of the river, waiting to be taken.
And then making such a cock-up of the post bump phase (a phase where the bumpee had refused to acknowledge that anything had happened bump-wise): Stopping, starting. God there was a chance they could have ended at the bottom of the Divison not the top.
I am writing this before I know the outcome of appeals. But Head Crews are not removed on appeal and even if Bailliol do go down to Pembroke, who cares now? It's the riverbank where these things count not a desk somewhere in OUBC.
I feel sorry irrelevantly for me but I feel dreadfully sorry for Natalie Redgrave, a woman for whom I have huge respect and, today, an equal amount of sympathy.
Well rowed Bailliol.
I won't do this again, I won't be supporting my old college at Oxford's Summer Eights regatta or anywhere else. I will not to sucked in to the ambitions (and emotions) of others who I barely know and with whom I have nothing in common barring an occasional tendency to wear Pembroke College pink. (And the way I am feeling, I won't be doing much of that again either).
I wanted the Pembroke Woman's First Eight not only to win but to go Head of the River. They are the only college women's crew since about 1976 whose names I have known and whom (in some cases) I have met and spoken to on more than one occasion.
And they should have done. With two World silver medallists (also winning blues) plus others of a calibre much better than anything in any other college, what we had here was arguably the fastest Women's Eight ever put out by an Oxford college.
And what happened? On Thursday they got away with rowing into the bank. At the time, because it came out OK, everyone thought this was a lucky thing - a piece of serendipity but no, we should have foreseen that one piece of bad steering or bad control can lead to another; can lead in fact to missing a bump that was sitting, in the middle of the river, waiting to be taken.
And then making such a cock-up of the post bump phase (a phase where the bumpee had refused to acknowledge that anything had happened bump-wise): Stopping, starting. God there was a chance they could have ended at the bottom of the Divison not the top.
I am writing this before I know the outcome of appeals. But Head Crews are not removed on appeal and even if Bailliol do go down to Pembroke, who cares now? It's the riverbank where these things count not a desk somewhere in OUBC.
I feel sorry irrelevantly for me but I feel dreadfully sorry for Natalie Redgrave, a woman for whom I have huge respect and, today, an equal amount of sympathy.
Well rowed Bailliol.
Thursday 19 May 2011
IS JUSTICE BLIND ENOUGH?
I am becoming increasingly concerned about the growth of victim culture - this idea that the victim of a crime should have some (perhaps a considerable) part to play in the decision about the sentence meted out to a convicted offender.
This unsatisfactory notion reared its head again the other day with a Commission talking about burglary and saying that the sentencing of the burglar should take account of the 'value' of items stolen in a much broader sense than just financial.
An example was given of a thief who took - for no known reason - an ultrasound picture of a baby in utero something, the mother who lost the photo said, correctly, could never be replaced. Such a heinous act should carry a heavier penalty than simply whipping away a microwave, so members of the Commission seem now to be saying and when challenged with the reasonable comment that the burglar could not be expected to know what was psychologically valuable and what was not, one expert replied that this was part of the risk a burglar ran.
Attractive as this idea may seem at first sight, I upon examination find it profoundly disturbing. The reason the statue of justice over the Old Bailey is blind-folded is to symbolize that such considerations should not be included within the judicial process.
Burglary is burglary, it is worse the more that is taken and thus the penalties for being caught carrying off the neighbour's toaster are lighter than those for stealing a private jet (not strictly burglary, I agree unless one has an astonishingly large house and keeps the 'plane inside it). But it should not be for the victim to list the emotional value of items taken to add extra days/weeks/months to a custodial sentence or pounds to a fine.
Running this to absurd extremes, let's take the case of a house and contents owned in common by husband and wife that is burglarized (to use that horrific neologism). Some items will have much more 'value' or at least meaning to one or the other party and in (as I say) 'extreme' cases, one side might be happy to see the back of a whole series of items whose disappearance leaves the other, heartbroken.
Shoud one party be able to strengthen a sentence because an emotionally charged china cat was taken and the other be able to reduce the sentence for the same reason? Certainly I'd be happy to see a burglar knocking off some of the family portraits that infest our walls.
More seriously, the dangerous issue is allowing those who are emotionally affected by a crime to bring that emotion to the sentencing table. Justice must be impartial and set out and organized by the clear-headed to protect those who, for whatever reason, are not.
This unsatisfactory notion reared its head again the other day with a Commission talking about burglary and saying that the sentencing of the burglar should take account of the 'value' of items stolen in a much broader sense than just financial.
An example was given of a thief who took - for no known reason - an ultrasound picture of a baby in utero something, the mother who lost the photo said, correctly, could never be replaced. Such a heinous act should carry a heavier penalty than simply whipping away a microwave, so members of the Commission seem now to be saying and when challenged with the reasonable comment that the burglar could not be expected to know what was psychologically valuable and what was not, one expert replied that this was part of the risk a burglar ran.
Attractive as this idea may seem at first sight, I upon examination find it profoundly disturbing. The reason the statue of justice over the Old Bailey is blind-folded is to symbolize that such considerations should not be included within the judicial process.
Burglary is burglary, it is worse the more that is taken and thus the penalties for being caught carrying off the neighbour's toaster are lighter than those for stealing a private jet (not strictly burglary, I agree unless one has an astonishingly large house and keeps the 'plane inside it). But it should not be for the victim to list the emotional value of items taken to add extra days/weeks/months to a custodial sentence or pounds to a fine.
Running this to absurd extremes, let's take the case of a house and contents owned in common by husband and wife that is burglarized (to use that horrific neologism). Some items will have much more 'value' or at least meaning to one or the other party and in (as I say) 'extreme' cases, one side might be happy to see the back of a whole series of items whose disappearance leaves the other, heartbroken.
Shoud one party be able to strengthen a sentence because an emotionally charged china cat was taken and the other be able to reduce the sentence for the same reason? Certainly I'd be happy to see a burglar knocking off some of the family portraits that infest our walls.
More seriously, the dangerous issue is allowing those who are emotionally affected by a crime to bring that emotion to the sentencing table. Justice must be impartial and set out and organized by the clear-headed to protect those who, for whatever reason, are not.
Wednesday 27 April 2011
SPY MANIA
I note my previous blog was about the First World War and regret, therefore, that this one briefly treads that same ground.
This is an extract from a book called Myths & Legends of the First World War by James Hayward. In the opening chapters, Mr Hayward talks about the rumours, legends and false-sightings that swept across Britain as the war ground into action from August 1914.
It seems that things reached such a pass that many legitimate, pro-British activities, were caught up in a net of suspicion. Consider the following:
"At this period [Sep 1914] the disease [spy mania] attacked even naval and military officers and special constables. If a telegraphist was sent on a motor-cycle to examine and test the telegraph poles, another cyclist was certain to be sent out by some authority in pursuit. On one occasion the authorities dispatched to the Eastern Counties a car equipped with a Marconi aparatus and two skilled operators to intercept any illicit messages that might be passing over the North Sea. They left London at noon: at 3 they were under lock and key in Essex. After an exchange of telegrams they were set free, but at 7pm they telegraphed from the police cells in another part of the country, imploring help. When again liberated they refused to move without the escort of a Territorial officer in uniform, but on the following morning, the police of another county had got hold of them and telegraphed: "Three German spies arrested with car and complete wireless installation, one in uniform of British officer."
This is an extract from a book called Myths & Legends of the First World War by James Hayward. In the opening chapters, Mr Hayward talks about the rumours, legends and false-sightings that swept across Britain as the war ground into action from August 1914.
It seems that things reached such a pass that many legitimate, pro-British activities, were caught up in a net of suspicion. Consider the following:
"At this period [Sep 1914] the disease [spy mania] attacked even naval and military officers and special constables. If a telegraphist was sent on a motor-cycle to examine and test the telegraph poles, another cyclist was certain to be sent out by some authority in pursuit. On one occasion the authorities dispatched to the Eastern Counties a car equipped with a Marconi aparatus and two skilled operators to intercept any illicit messages that might be passing over the North Sea. They left London at noon: at 3 they were under lock and key in Essex. After an exchange of telegrams they were set free, but at 7pm they telegraphed from the police cells in another part of the country, imploring help. When again liberated they refused to move without the escort of a Territorial officer in uniform, but on the following morning, the police of another county had got hold of them and telegraphed: "Three German spies arrested with car and complete wireless installation, one in uniform of British officer."
Friday 15 April 2011
OH WHAT A LOVELY WAR
A couple of days ago I went to see the fine, Trevor Nunn production of Terence Rattigan's play 'Flarepath' at the Theatre Royal, Haymarket.
The play is about a love and duty during wartime and is set in a boarding house very near an aerodrome for a squadron of Wimpeys (Wellington bombers).
The finish is with a slightly reworded (for the RAF) version of the WW1 song, "I don't want to join the army, I don't want to go to war" and this led me to remember another version of this song, this time contemporary with WW1, but very much a woman's version.
Sadly, I don't remember all the words but here are some of them:
"Monday, I wake up with a soldier;
Tuesday, I wake up with a tar;
Wednesday, I go out with a young boy scout
Thursday, a hussar
Friday, I tie-up with the Navy
- I've always liked the look of something blue.
But on Saturday I'm willing,
if you have got a shilling
to make a man of any one of you."
Or something like that.
The play is about a love and duty during wartime and is set in a boarding house very near an aerodrome for a squadron of Wimpeys (Wellington bombers).
The finish is with a slightly reworded (for the RAF) version of the WW1 song, "I don't want to join the army, I don't want to go to war" and this led me to remember another version of this song, this time contemporary with WW1, but very much a woman's version.
Sadly, I don't remember all the words but here are some of them:
"Monday, I wake up with a soldier;
Tuesday, I wake up with a tar;
Wednesday, I go out with a young boy scout
Thursday, a hussar
Friday, I tie-up with the Navy
- I've always liked the look of something blue.
But on Saturday I'm willing,
if you have got a shilling
to make a man of any one of you."
Or something like that.
Friday 1 April 2011
ARS GRATIA ARTIS
Do we need the Arts Council at all? Indeed do we, in this year of cuts, even require a Ministry? Let's free Art and Culture from government control!
For me there has always been an inherent contradiction in the notion of government supported 'arts' (taking the broad meaning of that word to include performance, creative, applied and so on). There was a time when this implied, for example, that there was a statutory requirement that bodies even as grand as the Royal Opera House were required in return for their Arts Council grants, to ensure some of their seats (of course the ones in the 'gods' whence no one can see anything) should be cheap enough to encourage broad attendance by the public.
But this argument hardly applies now and it certainly doesn't seem to apply to that uber-government event, the Olympics where even the cheapest seats, for example for the heats of the Graeco-Roman wrestling are, when transport costs are added, out of the reach of many.
There are other arguments - I saw one in the Standard yesterday evening - that point out that the anticipated cuts in Arts Council grants will result in the demise of over 200 theatre companies. I wonder, if considered holistically, whether this is true? Will individuals desist from assuming the motley because Whitehall has withdrawn the King's Shilling? No; no more than schools will give up the school play or colleges and universities will halt revivals of "Charlie's Aunt".
The majority of the failing and fading theatre groups are, I would argue, failing and fading because they are 'experimental', often another term for 'unwatchable', and while I have no argument at all with those who wish to mount shows of this type, I see no reason why such events should not be supported by the altruism implicit in the concept of Cameron's "Big Society" rather than by the Ministry.
I am not a great believer in other people of whatever cultural background or enthusiasm, expressing themselves at my (i.e. the taxpayer's) expense. Also, while I do agree that some theatre or show seats should be cheaper than others, I would leave this to the commercial and social judgment of impressarios because there's another side of that coin.
Even if seats were one pound each, there are a lot of events where I would happily not be present and I am sure that holds true for everyone (albeit the events themselves may differ - it's this that supports the cultural milieu). In other words, price/money is not the issue. Many football matches are sell-outs at high prices and many are half-empty with low prices. And doesn't it annoy you when it's discovered that Wimbledon tickets, or Michael McIntyre tickets or Glastonbury tickets or, for all I know, tickets to watch Carlos Acosta perform his grand pliés are going for many times face value on the black market. Certainly when I hear such a thing, I am cross that the venue or operator - inevitably a taxable entity - is selling its wares too cheaply.
In fact one could argue that a sell-out event has been priced too lowly.
Many would say that the 'Arts' should not be about money - and I would agree. But they are about money as far as the government and, by derivation, the population of today is concerned.
In Paris, in its mind the capital of a more egalitarian state that Britain, entry to museums is not free except one day a week (Tuesday from memory). No one thinks this stray or unfair. In England, that major celebration of cultural identity, the Notting Hill Carnival, does not receive government grants and no one thinks this strange or unfair.
So if we want to be 'experimental' with Arts and Culture, let's experiment with cutting all but the bare minimum of State involvement. The results would, I promise you, be very exciting for the culturally attuned and for the Treasury's accountants!
For me there has always been an inherent contradiction in the notion of government supported 'arts' (taking the broad meaning of that word to include performance, creative, applied and so on). There was a time when this implied, for example, that there was a statutory requirement that bodies even as grand as the Royal Opera House were required in return for their Arts Council grants, to ensure some of their seats (of course the ones in the 'gods' whence no one can see anything) should be cheap enough to encourage broad attendance by the public.
But this argument hardly applies now and it certainly doesn't seem to apply to that uber-government event, the Olympics where even the cheapest seats, for example for the heats of the Graeco-Roman wrestling are, when transport costs are added, out of the reach of many.
There are other arguments - I saw one in the Standard yesterday evening - that point out that the anticipated cuts in Arts Council grants will result in the demise of over 200 theatre companies. I wonder, if considered holistically, whether this is true? Will individuals desist from assuming the motley because Whitehall has withdrawn the King's Shilling? No; no more than schools will give up the school play or colleges and universities will halt revivals of "Charlie's Aunt".
The majority of the failing and fading theatre groups are, I would argue, failing and fading because they are 'experimental', often another term for 'unwatchable', and while I have no argument at all with those who wish to mount shows of this type, I see no reason why such events should not be supported by the altruism implicit in the concept of Cameron's "Big Society" rather than by the Ministry.
I am not a great believer in other people of whatever cultural background or enthusiasm, expressing themselves at my (i.e. the taxpayer's) expense. Also, while I do agree that some theatre or show seats should be cheaper than others, I would leave this to the commercial and social judgment of impressarios because there's another side of that coin.
Even if seats were one pound each, there are a lot of events where I would happily not be present and I am sure that holds true for everyone (albeit the events themselves may differ - it's this that supports the cultural milieu). In other words, price/money is not the issue. Many football matches are sell-outs at high prices and many are half-empty with low prices. And doesn't it annoy you when it's discovered that Wimbledon tickets, or Michael McIntyre tickets or Glastonbury tickets or, for all I know, tickets to watch Carlos Acosta perform his grand pliés are going for many times face value on the black market. Certainly when I hear such a thing, I am cross that the venue or operator - inevitably a taxable entity - is selling its wares too cheaply.
In fact one could argue that a sell-out event has been priced too lowly.
Many would say that the 'Arts' should not be about money - and I would agree. But they are about money as far as the government and, by derivation, the population of today is concerned.
In Paris, in its mind the capital of a more egalitarian state that Britain, entry to museums is not free except one day a week (Tuesday from memory). No one thinks this stray or unfair. In England, that major celebration of cultural identity, the Notting Hill Carnival, does not receive government grants and no one thinks this strange or unfair.
So if we want to be 'experimental' with Arts and Culture, let's experiment with cutting all but the bare minimum of State involvement. The results would, I promise you, be very exciting for the culturally attuned and for the Treasury's accountants!
Thursday 10 March 2011
The Ford Bonus
Professor Tim Congdon was on the radio a few days ago taking a hard line against critics of British banks and in particular against Mervyn King, Governor of the Bank of England. Without rehashing Prof Congdon's specific points it's fair to say his general argument was that successful banking is about confidence and the more, therefore, that bankers are criticized, the less likely it is the banks (and their shareholders - don't forget the shareholders) will prosper. For this reason, Prof Cogdon said effectively that Mervyn should get back in his box and stop knocking the very people and institutions it was his business to protect and promote.
Many would consider Prof Congdon's argument to be too extreme - a view potentially reinforced by his view that the credit crisis was caused by politicians and not by bankers. (Actually I have some sympathy with this notion but this is really the result of a visceral dislike of politicians rather than a series of well-reasoned thoughts). But it is interesting in this regard that bonuses, for example the £9 million or so to be paid to Barclays' boss Bob Diamond, is front page news whereas other, larger payments, scrape onto the bottom of the inside pages.
Consider this example. Some three years ago, as the financial crisis began to take in the United Kingdom, the government of the day was forced to buy up majority holdings in Royal Bank of Scotland and Lloyds/Bank of Scotland. Barclays, which was in very nearly the same parlous state as the aforementioned, chose not to take government money (or at least British government money) and instead sold a chunk of equity to the Qataris (a chunk that I believe it has now bought back).
Recently, Barclays has returned to making exceptional profits and Bob Diamond has been roundly criticized in the media for being awarded his thumping great bonus.
Equally, some three years ago, as the financial crisis began to take hold in the USA, the government of the day was forced to buy up large slices of equity (or provide favourable loans) in two of the nation's leading car makers: GM and Chrysler. Ford, which was very nearly in the same parlous state, chose not to take government money and instead battled through its problems to the extent that the shareprice which in the depths of the crisis was down to about $1, is now at around $16 and its two leading lights, Alan Mulally and Bill Ford Jnr are to pocket $98 million in Ford shares as a performance related bonus.
And where is the media criticism there?
Yes, great bankers such as Diamond, make a lot of money - but so do successful executives in many fields of commercial endeavour.
So what?
Many would consider Prof Congdon's argument to be too extreme - a view potentially reinforced by his view that the credit crisis was caused by politicians and not by bankers. (Actually I have some sympathy with this notion but this is really the result of a visceral dislike of politicians rather than a series of well-reasoned thoughts). But it is interesting in this regard that bonuses, for example the £9 million or so to be paid to Barclays' boss Bob Diamond, is front page news whereas other, larger payments, scrape onto the bottom of the inside pages.
Consider this example. Some three years ago, as the financial crisis began to take in the United Kingdom, the government of the day was forced to buy up majority holdings in Royal Bank of Scotland and Lloyds/Bank of Scotland. Barclays, which was in very nearly the same parlous state as the aforementioned, chose not to take government money (or at least British government money) and instead sold a chunk of equity to the Qataris (a chunk that I believe it has now bought back).
Recently, Barclays has returned to making exceptional profits and Bob Diamond has been roundly criticized in the media for being awarded his thumping great bonus.
Equally, some three years ago, as the financial crisis began to take hold in the USA, the government of the day was forced to buy up large slices of equity (or provide favourable loans) in two of the nation's leading car makers: GM and Chrysler. Ford, which was very nearly in the same parlous state, chose not to take government money and instead battled through its problems to the extent that the shareprice which in the depths of the crisis was down to about $1, is now at around $16 and its two leading lights, Alan Mulally and Bill Ford Jnr are to pocket $98 million in Ford shares as a performance related bonus.
And where is the media criticism there?
Yes, great bankers such as Diamond, make a lot of money - but so do successful executives in many fields of commercial endeavour.
So what?
Friday 18 February 2011
ARMS AND THE MAN
Yesterday's news that security forces in Bahrain have killed three anti-government protestors has prompted a kneejerk reaction from Britain's Foreign Officer Minister, Alistair Burt. Mr Burt wants an immediate enquiry to determine whether any of the crowd control weapons - tear gas, CS gas, thunderflashes and the like - that UK manufacturers sell to Bahrain under formal and legal licenses were used in this recent fight. Well they may have been or may not have been but I don't really see that this matters much.
The key point is whether Britain should allow the manufacture of arms, for if manufactured arms must be sold and the natural sales targets are friendly powers like, until apparently the beginning of the week, Bahrain.
I agree with America's National Rifle Association about very little but I do have some sympathy with that organization's oft repeated mantra that "people kill, not guns".
Some people see arms manufacture as an immoral activity. I have no comment here but I will say that the sale of arms, provided it is conducted above-board, is to my mind amoral. The fact that those to whom arms are sold may turn out to be undesirable rascals is an acknowledged risk but not one that can be dealt with in retrospect.
I leave the last words here to that estimable show, "The West Wing", specifically one of the sixth series episodes about Middle East peace talks. On this occasion the President drives the Israelis and Palestinians to the negotiating table rather than take the popular course of bombing Palestine after a terrorist incident in Gaza leading to the deaths of two congressmen and a former Chief of the Defense Staff.
President Bartlet's refusal to bomb leads to a terminal confrontation with his Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry who in answer to Bartlet's forceful question, "Tell me how it ends, Leo", shouts back even more forcibly, "Sometimes we don't know how it ends".
The key point is whether Britain should allow the manufacture of arms, for if manufactured arms must be sold and the natural sales targets are friendly powers like, until apparently the beginning of the week, Bahrain.
I agree with America's National Rifle Association about very little but I do have some sympathy with that organization's oft repeated mantra that "people kill, not guns".
Some people see arms manufacture as an immoral activity. I have no comment here but I will say that the sale of arms, provided it is conducted above-board, is to my mind amoral. The fact that those to whom arms are sold may turn out to be undesirable rascals is an acknowledged risk but not one that can be dealt with in retrospect.
I leave the last words here to that estimable show, "The West Wing", specifically one of the sixth series episodes about Middle East peace talks. On this occasion the President drives the Israelis and Palestinians to the negotiating table rather than take the popular course of bombing Palestine after a terrorist incident in Gaza leading to the deaths of two congressmen and a former Chief of the Defense Staff.
President Bartlet's refusal to bomb leads to a terminal confrontation with his Chief of Staff, Leo McGarry who in answer to Bartlet's forceful question, "Tell me how it ends, Leo", shouts back even more forcibly, "Sometimes we don't know how it ends".
Sunday 23 January 2011
BACKGAMMON BLUES
Why is it, that neither for love nor money, one cannot throw a double five when one wants one, needs one ... would give one's first born for a sniff of one? Or even a single five?
Yes, I have been sucked into the murky world of internet gaming - backgammon specifically. And at £2.50 for a three game match! And yes, I did win one last night but tomorrow is another day, a day with dice that don't have fives on them, apparently.
This is a dangerous business. And I don't mean just playing for nickels and dimes (apologies for the change of currency but it sounds better), but the whole business of submerging oneself into the demi-monde of electronic gambling in the backstreets of the web. I mean who plays backgammon for money at 11.00 in the morning? Well apparently I do for one, but I suspect my opponents, those who have exact control of their dice, have been up for hours refining their push button techniques. There's probably an individual in Cairns now heading off to the pub to buy a tinnie or two on the back of the ill-gotten gains he's just taken from me.
Hmm.
I'll get him tomorrow.
Yes, I have been sucked into the murky world of internet gaming - backgammon specifically. And at £2.50 for a three game match! And yes, I did win one last night but tomorrow is another day, a day with dice that don't have fives on them, apparently.
This is a dangerous business. And I don't mean just playing for nickels and dimes (apologies for the change of currency but it sounds better), but the whole business of submerging oneself into the demi-monde of electronic gambling in the backstreets of the web. I mean who plays backgammon for money at 11.00 in the morning? Well apparently I do for one, but I suspect my opponents, those who have exact control of their dice, have been up for hours refining their push button techniques. There's probably an individual in Cairns now heading off to the pub to buy a tinnie or two on the back of the ill-gotten gains he's just taken from me.
Hmm.
I'll get him tomorrow.
Wednesday 19 January 2011
ICONOCLASM ROCK
I suppose it's inevitable that each generation views its icons as seminal contributions to world culture despite the fact that, historically, very few such sacred cows haved proved to have longevity. Today's Buzz Lightyear toys are yesterday's gonks; many of today's Man Booker Prize winners will be as consequential as Thomas Carlyle's novels.
(Do you know Carlyle? His only book now in print, I believe, is "History of the French Revolution" but 180 or so years ago, Charles Dickens said that he, Carlyle, was the unchallengeable top of the literary tree whereas he, Dickens, was a merely squirrel in the branches - I paraphrase).
This came to mind yesterday morning when listening to a piece on BBC Radio's "Today Programme" about the growth of clubs devoted to "Classical Pop" (or some such phrase) which require initiates to sit in sepulchral silence listening to both sides of a vinyl 33rpm LP. (I mention the fact it's an LP especially because, according to the rules of the featured club, somewhere in the West Country, explained by its American High Priestess, no talking is allowed, "not even when I go to turn the record over".)
The given raison d'etre for such theatres of the absurd is to act as a counter to the one-track-at-a-time download culture brought about by iPods and MP3 players. According to the priestess, this arrangement blocks today's great popular music creators from putting together what used to be called 'concept albums'. There's no continuity, no flow and equally no opportunity for in depth appreciation of the important works of the past.
Her words were backed by a music critic who said that great albums, Ziggy Stardust was mentioned, should be compared to the works of Charles Dickens (remember him). Yes, he said, Dickens provides entertainment if dipped into but is much more fulfilling if read from cover to cover.
True, but the comparison is invidious and certainly one is allowed to go to the lavatory when reading Dickens whereas, it turns out, such a thing is not permissible while Astral Weeks is on the turntable.
I have to say that when hearing about all this silence and reverence applied to the works of the Grateful Dead or, for all I know, to Every Road Leads Back to You by the unmatcheable Leapy Lee, I was led to think that this is all the fault of Woodstock and not Apple (the IT Company not The Beatles label).
Is each silent listener trying to get to his or her version of Woodstock 1969? Is the silence attending the music really appreciative or is it an unwitting parody of being stoned and unmoving? Because I'll tell you what, the 1969 generation weren't very big for what The Times once described as the 'deserted wastes of the double LP', either. After all, they were born into the Juke Box era.
Yes, indeed The White Album sold in its millions but everyone has their favourite songs, it's not a question of starting at "Back in the USSR" and working one's way through to "Good Night". Please god, may we leave out "Everyone's got something to hide except me and my monkey", for example.
The reason these recordings are called 'Albums' is because this is what they are: a collection, very rarely a composite. They are designed to be 'dipped into'. And this is also why, 'Best of' albums often sell far more than the more culturally consequential offerings which, if we're honest about it, always contain a few duff tracks or fillers that we don't need to hear again.
Put the kettle on someone.
(Do you know Carlyle? His only book now in print, I believe, is "History of the French Revolution" but 180 or so years ago, Charles Dickens said that he, Carlyle, was the unchallengeable top of the literary tree whereas he, Dickens, was a merely squirrel in the branches - I paraphrase).
This came to mind yesterday morning when listening to a piece on BBC Radio's "Today Programme" about the growth of clubs devoted to "Classical Pop" (or some such phrase) which require initiates to sit in sepulchral silence listening to both sides of a vinyl 33rpm LP. (I mention the fact it's an LP especially because, according to the rules of the featured club, somewhere in the West Country, explained by its American High Priestess, no talking is allowed, "not even when I go to turn the record over".)
The given raison d'etre for such theatres of the absurd is to act as a counter to the one-track-at-a-time download culture brought about by iPods and MP3 players. According to the priestess, this arrangement blocks today's great popular music creators from putting together what used to be called 'concept albums'. There's no continuity, no flow and equally no opportunity for in depth appreciation of the important works of the past.
Her words were backed by a music critic who said that great albums, Ziggy Stardust was mentioned, should be compared to the works of Charles Dickens (remember him). Yes, he said, Dickens provides entertainment if dipped into but is much more fulfilling if read from cover to cover.
True, but the comparison is invidious and certainly one is allowed to go to the lavatory when reading Dickens whereas, it turns out, such a thing is not permissible while Astral Weeks is on the turntable.
I have to say that when hearing about all this silence and reverence applied to the works of the Grateful Dead or, for all I know, to Every Road Leads Back to You by the unmatcheable Leapy Lee, I was led to think that this is all the fault of Woodstock and not Apple (the IT Company not The Beatles label).
Is each silent listener trying to get to his or her version of Woodstock 1969? Is the silence attending the music really appreciative or is it an unwitting parody of being stoned and unmoving? Because I'll tell you what, the 1969 generation weren't very big for what The Times once described as the 'deserted wastes of the double LP', either. After all, they were born into the Juke Box era.
Yes, indeed The White Album sold in its millions but everyone has their favourite songs, it's not a question of starting at "Back in the USSR" and working one's way through to "Good Night". Please god, may we leave out "Everyone's got something to hide except me and my monkey", for example.
The reason these recordings are called 'Albums' is because this is what they are: a collection, very rarely a composite. They are designed to be 'dipped into'. And this is also why, 'Best of' albums often sell far more than the more culturally consequential offerings which, if we're honest about it, always contain a few duff tracks or fillers that we don't need to hear again.
Put the kettle on someone.
Wednesday 12 January 2011
WORLD OF RUBBER
I think it's time we thought more deeply about Wellington boots - but not of their originally dry-foot function so much as their new role as, apparently, fashion accessory.
These days, by which I mean in the past couple of weeks as the snow (at least in the south of England) receded, every splash of rain or hint of drizzle prompts an immediate efflorescence of rubber boots on the streets, in the tubes, on the buses and in the bars.
This is not about fashion as is made clear by the fact that female wearers of such items give the clear impression they have never done so before (and equally they've never worn North Face anoraks or H&M feather filled jackets before). Instead this is the, "I've had to buy these items so I'm damned well going to wear them whenever I can" syndrome brought about by the fact the weather was so filthy around Christmas that trippy heels, low slung courts and indeed the universal trainer just would not do.
You know, it's rare in the home counties to suffer weather that is so intense that one can't get away, in terms of dress, with just being a bit cold or a bit damp (or both). But it's interesting that, for southern softies, there have been no moves to emulate the dress 'sense' of some of those used to intense cold for some part of the year, every year.
No coatless short-sleeved Zurichers to be found on the snowy streets of Oxford; no T-short wearing denizens of Calgary hopping nimbly from frozen puddle to frozen puddle across St James's Park.
But at least this means we won't be subject to what the Russians call 'snow drops' - people who (usually post the consumption of volumes of potato vodka) fall in Russian streets during the long winter night, are covered by snow and are only revealed in their putrid glory, weeks or months later when the thaw sets in.
Which is all a long way from the humble wellie.
These days, by which I mean in the past couple of weeks as the snow (at least in the south of England) receded, every splash of rain or hint of drizzle prompts an immediate efflorescence of rubber boots on the streets, in the tubes, on the buses and in the bars.
This is not about fashion as is made clear by the fact that female wearers of such items give the clear impression they have never done so before (and equally they've never worn North Face anoraks or H&M feather filled jackets before). Instead this is the, "I've had to buy these items so I'm damned well going to wear them whenever I can" syndrome brought about by the fact the weather was so filthy around Christmas that trippy heels, low slung courts and indeed the universal trainer just would not do.
You know, it's rare in the home counties to suffer weather that is so intense that one can't get away, in terms of dress, with just being a bit cold or a bit damp (or both). But it's interesting that, for southern softies, there have been no moves to emulate the dress 'sense' of some of those used to intense cold for some part of the year, every year.
No coatless short-sleeved Zurichers to be found on the snowy streets of Oxford; no T-short wearing denizens of Calgary hopping nimbly from frozen puddle to frozen puddle across St James's Park.
But at least this means we won't be subject to what the Russians call 'snow drops' - people who (usually post the consumption of volumes of potato vodka) fall in Russian streets during the long winter night, are covered by snow and are only revealed in their putrid glory, weeks or months later when the thaw sets in.
Which is all a long way from the humble wellie.
Tuesday 11 January 2011
A GOOD THRASHING
Max Mosley is a grubby individual whose attempt, in Strasbourg today, to strengthen the walls of privacy against incursions by the press should be thrown out. I expect it will be.
Some months ago, Mosley won £60k damages from the News of the World in recompense for that paper's revealing tales of sado-masochistic orgies with which Max, apparently, prefers to occupy his time rather than watching, 'Strictly Come Dancing'.
The point Mosely is making, or trying to make, at Strasbourg is that once the veil of privacy has been torn, it cannot be repaired and that financial compensation is a trivial thing by comparison to the damage done by embarassing revelations.
Of course, on that specific point, Mosley is quite right. Once one has seen the photos of a nude Carla Bruni on the net, looking at her clothed is never quite the same. Similarly, the knowledge that the avuncular Frank Bough liked, before retirement, to have bat put to balls during cricket's off season was not neutralized by his choice of inappropriate TV sweaters.
BUT, but ... The oft-cited issue here is whether press exposures are in the public interest.
Fine, but what does this mean? I am a member of the public and I am interested. It may be prurient interest but none the less for that.
"Oh no, no," many will say in response to this; "you're being trivial". 'In the public interest' properly means that we should know if people of power i.e. people in some way capable of affecting our lives, are up to no good, or at least no moral good. Cecil Parkinson and Sarah Keyes, John Major and Edwina Currie, perhaps. But then we have that role model for future generations Wayne Rooney or again, that near-perfect swinger, Tiger Woods. No one is saying we shouldn't have breached their privacy and yet it's hard to argue they have some sort of key role in the development of their respective nations.
Grubby people who involve themselves with other grubby people will, in the end, always been found out and, indeed, perhaps they want to be. Equally, women who choose to post nude photographs of themselves must accept they will become part of the public record - and many do accept that and, indeed, seem to revel in it. To quote Wilde, "the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about."
The only way to preserve one's privacy is either to do nothing or to do whatever one does not want made public, on one's own. I, for example collect stamps ... damn, I didn't mean to say that!
Some months ago, Mosley won £60k damages from the News of the World in recompense for that paper's revealing tales of sado-masochistic orgies with which Max, apparently, prefers to occupy his time rather than watching, 'Strictly Come Dancing'.
The point Mosely is making, or trying to make, at Strasbourg is that once the veil of privacy has been torn, it cannot be repaired and that financial compensation is a trivial thing by comparison to the damage done by embarassing revelations.
Of course, on that specific point, Mosley is quite right. Once one has seen the photos of a nude Carla Bruni on the net, looking at her clothed is never quite the same. Similarly, the knowledge that the avuncular Frank Bough liked, before retirement, to have bat put to balls during cricket's off season was not neutralized by his choice of inappropriate TV sweaters.
BUT, but ... The oft-cited issue here is whether press exposures are in the public interest.
Fine, but what does this mean? I am a member of the public and I am interested. It may be prurient interest but none the less for that.
"Oh no, no," many will say in response to this; "you're being trivial". 'In the public interest' properly means that we should know if people of power i.e. people in some way capable of affecting our lives, are up to no good, or at least no moral good. Cecil Parkinson and Sarah Keyes, John Major and Edwina Currie, perhaps. But then we have that role model for future generations Wayne Rooney or again, that near-perfect swinger, Tiger Woods. No one is saying we shouldn't have breached their privacy and yet it's hard to argue they have some sort of key role in the development of their respective nations.
Grubby people who involve themselves with other grubby people will, in the end, always been found out and, indeed, perhaps they want to be. Equally, women who choose to post nude photographs of themselves must accept they will become part of the public record - and many do accept that and, indeed, seem to revel in it. To quote Wilde, "the only thing worse than being talked about is not being talked about."
The only way to preserve one's privacy is either to do nothing or to do whatever one does not want made public, on one's own. I, for example collect stamps ... damn, I didn't mean to say that!
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