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.
Sunday 23 January 2011
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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