Ms Prudence Dailey (dwell on that name) is not surprisingly a guardian of tradition within the religious community and is the Chair of the Prayer Book Society. Today the Times reported her spat with Letts, the diary producers, who have printed 2010 diaries without the traditional Latin names for the days leading up to Lent. For instance they would normally have printed the Sunday before Ash Wednesday as Quinquegessima.
Prudence Dailey, from Oxford as one would expect, has a nice turn of metaphor when aroused by various assaults on religious tradition. When speaking, passionately back in 2008, about the possible schism in the Anglican Church over women priests she said , "..the ladder that women were attempting to climb was about to smash down through the Church's stained glass ceiling”. I dare say Pru that a man is footing the ladder but I am very charmed by your peculiar Englishness, eccentricity and delightful name which must, in itself, be a reference for us all in our daily lives.
Last weekend 12/13 December I succumbed to what I now name and know as a disruptive and very worrying development in ones psyche. Random Observation Syndrome (ROS) is the casual connection with prime time TV and the resulting fixation. Making us happy senseless viewers of anything the stations choose to lob down the cathode tube or whatever now serves as the vehicle which delivers our telly programmes.
ROS will hit you at one of those moments when you have set down your Kant or Kierkergaard, ignored the light relief of Rado 3’s Saturday night Rachmaninov concert and chosen, or in my case had chosen for me, the vaunted and much watched X Factor.
“Randomly observing” can quickly become compulsively addictive. X factor goes straight into the main artery and leaves you begging for more. And the “more” I took was firstly the Sports Review of 2009 (all 2 hours of it), the final of X Factor and a substantial hit of “Strictly” with regular rushes from the week’s frequent couch interviews with X Factor winner, Joe “Dimples” McElderry
Without even having to go to Lourdes or Fatima I was delivered of my addiction, the methadone being Fulham’s 3-0 win over Man Utd yesterday. Miraculous as it may seem I am now clean but must not forget those of you whose lives must be hurting with the loss of that turgid telly as all of it exploded over two orgasmic weekends, like a great big party popper
The joy of X factor and its allied psychotropic programmes that come from all the mainstream broadcasters is that one can get into some serious voodoo. We all deep down hate celebrities. Celebrities are never truly celebrated unless they happen to be, in my case, the Fulham midfield!
Let’s face it Louis Walsh is about as big a prat as you could wish to encounter. In the semi final the adorable George Michael opined dangerously close to little Joe’s ear that he must be nervous, particularly being “around people like himself and Robbie Williams”. Oooooerrrr, never a truer word spoken.
Cheryl Cole is redeemed by an accent which I associate with the good humour of the BT help desk in Newcastle and has the disarming ability to emotionally unfold at the sight of a wounded cockroach. Sadly she shares the same eyebrows as Danni Minogue who thankfully barely spoke during my exposure to X Factor.
Eyebrows are an issue for star making programmes and I remember, before I understood Random Observation Syndrome (ROS) that Susan Boyle had to have her eyebrows mown and it has not escaped me that Cheryl is a friend of Laura Luke, the lass from South Shields who is doing good business with beauty tips on YouTube; which are now published in the Guardian.
Having read the previous paragraph I recognise that I might have progressed beyond ROS and acquired the full blown ROS + which is “Rectal Observation Syndrome”
As for the rest of it, “Strictly” viewers did the decent thing by arranging the win of Chris Hollins, a less than svelte figure who won for all fans of John Seargeant, in my opinion. The Sports Review of 2009 had virtually no sport included, but lots of lights strobing the 12,000 person audience in search of an astonished expression which finally occurred with the announcement that Ryan Giggs had edged golden boy Jenson Button and Ryan appropriately looked like a rabbit in the headlights. Well done Ryan.
In time all our TV might be dominated by Simon Cowell. He is a funny little bloke who, publicly, stands with his head to one side as though he is seeking his mother’s approval.
Simon also has “Britain’s Got Talent” which this year lost it’s nerve as a man from Coventry prepared to decapitate himself with a chainsaw. I did not particularly want to see a man die on telly but I did realise that Cowell is just a ring master. He takes chances with other people’s lives and hopes that nothing will go too badly wrong
Getting a good dose of Random Observation Syndrome (ROS) has been very good for me and I hope the cryptography is well received and not misunderstood.
Becoming totally TESOLated by Friday last week (27th Nov), I am now in a position to restart the blog. I passed the exam, part of which was a 2 hour written paper composed of three sections: grammar; phonetics and lesson planning. This test was a personal triumph which I romped through gaining an exciting and rewarding 52%! A small miracle conjured from the course administrators, Lisa and Anna. They are either well paid or have a strange sadomasochistic spirit dwelling in their beings which tempts them to subject unsuspecting passers-by to an exhausting, excoriating, initiation in the art of English Language teaching. They are the Ant and Dec of TESOL
The course was a version of “I’m a Celebrity...” without the insects and food. Never have I endured such a nerve wracking 4 week period. The contestants (AKA as the student teachers), shed tears; smiled through gritted teeth; hugged and hissed; competed; in one case just sadly disappeared, and generally presented a public image of competence in delivering lessons to students of English who had volunteered largely, I suspected to keep out of the rain. Amazingly they seemed to actually learn English; which was the object of the exercise I was once pithily reminded by either Ant or Dec.
In order that the contestants (student teachers) could appreciate the difficulty in learning a foreign language and to understand the darkness and isolation that could envelope one when faced with a totally alien linguistic environment we were taught Norwegian by a jack-in-the-box called Jake! In my life I have never encountered anyone so animated in the face of complete ignorance. How he could have summoned up such enthusiasm can only be attributable to mind altering drugs or intense bouts of yoga. And I hope it’s the latter. Anyway if I am ever strolling the streets of Hammerfest I can now politely ask the name of a passing reindeer - Q. Hva heter du A. Jeg Heter Rudolph. If Jake stumbles on these words – “Respect!!!”
What I do now with the certificate, at my age, is beyond me for the immediate moment but I could never replicate these last few weeks. Never could I wish to engage with such a great group of contestants. As for Ant and Dec I know they know I love them really. For instance I hope that you don’t ever again have to consult your astrological chart to check out that the boyfriend isn’t shacked up with someone else. I hope also that I will receive good vibes sent down the appropriate channels.
To, Emma, Catia, Kat, Ben, John, Ania, Jane, Ivana, Cristina and to Gus who didn’t make the finale I offer you my greetings from Worthy Heights
To the course teachers (far left; far right and centre with chin in palm) thanks!
"Nice, very nice, yessssss, that was excellent, nice”
I have been TESOLated! For the last 10 days my world has been overwhelmed by my pursuit of a qualification to teach English as a foreign language. Whether I survive the next 20 days is more the issue than whether I actually pass the exam, but let me tell you this is no walk in the elysian fields of education.
While bloggable episodes pass by such as the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall, I am joined at the hip of grammar. Gist, compound nouns, blind infinitives and continuous past particples, collocations, idiom and the various nuts, bolts, fly wheels, pistons and palaver of the machinery of our language
Fascinating really. Hopefully I will soon be able to cut loose on my happy memories of the Fall of the Wall......
.....in the meantime its back to the subject, object and meaning of the English Language as the world's lingua franca
Set against the post below, I suggest, slightly whimsically, that the Roman Catholic global marketing strategy might be most ably assisted by the election of Tony Blair to the position of first EU Council President
Being a recent convert to Catholicism one could argue that Blair should become the first Holy Roman Emperor since Francis II lost it all to Napoleon.
Many regard Charlemagne as the father of European unity and Charlemagne was the first Holy Roman Emperor to be inaugurated by Papal blessing. If he were to pull of his power putsch, would it not be fitting that Blair should bend his knee to Benedict, in Rome, the capital city of Tony’s mate Berlusconi.
With Merkel up for it (in a manner of speaking) and Sarkozy diminutively supportive, Blair would slip seductively into the role graphically depicted above
As an ex Roman Catholic and a person who believes in human beings seeking solutions through a broadly existential philosophy I should be mildly amused at the hostile bid made by Rome based Christianity for the Anglican Church.
The week long spat which has seen people from Frank Skinner for the Catholics to Lord Carey, retired Archbishop of Canterbury for the C of E and the Anglicans, swapping polite, but slightly acerbic verbals should be food and drink to us non-believers . But it remains very worrying that the Rome based brand of Christianity is globally in a marketing push carrying with it, views which have long been dismissed by most decent people in the developed world on the various issues of human rights including contraception, homosexuality and gender equality.
It should be noted, so soon after the Nick Griffin Show, that Mr Griffin is as one with Rome on blokes snogging in public
In today’s Times (26/10) The Bishop of Fulham, the Right Rev. John Broadhurst, campaigner against women priests and head man for the conservative Forward with Faith group supports the alignment with Rome and says “that’s what God wants”. He doesn’t say how he found out it was, what God wants and indeed how frequently he has discussed the issue with God or if God might be available for comment. But of course, as an ex Catholic I should remember that the Pope is God’s infallible spokesman on earth and he should know unequivocally what God wants. Infallibility does somewhat throttle debate. Among my dictionary definitions of infallible is “trustworthy”
Some new pals of John Broadhurst, collectively the Diocese of Wilmington, Delaware, recently filed for bankruptcy on the eve of a trial concerning sexual abuse by Catholic priests thereby delaying the claims of more than 140 victims (link here) and (here). The trial was to have been the first of 8 trials. The attorney for the claimants described the bankruptcy filing as a “desperate effort to hide the truth from the public and conceal thousands of pages of scandalous documents” from being aired in court. I wonder if bankruptcy for the diocese of Wilmington was what God wants
Richard Holloway, ex Bishop of Edinburgh and a man of faith I respect and whose books I have read, most courageously, I felt, chose part of a quote from a rather controversial and radical Russian Christian philosopher, Vasily Rosanov, as the title for an excellent and broad minded book entitled Looking in the Distance
“All religions will pass, but this will remain: simply sitting in a chair and looking in the distance”, Rosanov wrote.
Pope Benedict, The Right Reverend John Broadhurst and the Right Reverend Francis Mulooly of Wilmington Diocese have yet to spend enough time looking in the distance
While Mark Lawson of Radio 4’s Front Row was interviewing writer Susan Hill
(Woman in Black along with about 40 other novels) he said that he read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby every year.
Having just finished it I know why. It is an immense little work (184 pages) of extraordinary story-telling, stuffed full with wisdom but above all it is a book that one lives in. Two other books had a similar effect this year. Mr Golightly’s Holiday by Sally Vickers and Flaubert’s Madame Bovary.
The Great Gatsby is set in the Jazz Age, The Roaring 20s, and there is no doubt that there exists in this novel a salutary lesson for the early part of our new millenium. Extreme yet utltimately fragile prosperity, for some, to be followed by utter despair and poverty for many – The Great Depression
F.Scott Fitgerald enjoyed the high life and he sure knew how to commentate and find the right metaphor for that life style at speed. Driving provided him with this idea in response to the notion that it is safer to be a bad driver. I have to paraphrase – eventually you will meet another person who is just as bad a driver and that person is your nemesis
Finally I quote precisely from F Scott Fitzgerald towards the end of the novel
“I couldn’t forgive him or like him, but I saw that what he had done was, to him, entirely justified. They were careless people, Tom and Daisy-they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness, or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clear up the mess”
In line two replace “Tom and Daisy” with “The Bankers”.
During a week when the media has been wetting itself with excitement at seeing supplicant (or otherwise) MPs explaining their largely trivial expenses, bankers are now back at the trough gorging themselves, with evident impunity, on the swill of their global endeavours. Tonight Goldman Sachs anticipate a big bonus year for their big hitters.
Earlier this week the Telegraph (link here) reminded us of the unfinished business from the Lehmann Brothers affair and bankers who brought it about. Only 12 months ago the rapacity of these unconscionable denizens of dystopia brought the global community to the brink of social and political meltdown. Democratic government across the globe with an unusual collective resolve, headed off a collapse that may well be about to visit us again if left to the laughably inept money movers
On Monday I learned that Riccardo Banchetti, former European Joint Chief executive of Lehmann, one of many Lehmann claimants, was pitching for £16 million despite having only a few weeks service leading up to the collapse. He is joined by several other claimants who filed recently for a total of £70 million and included, Kieran Higgins, Georges Assi, David Bizer, Harsh Shah and Giancarlo Saronney. The two latter being UK based. I write these names because it gives me pleasure to make a small contribution to the exposure of such astonishing disregard for the wider community.
Anyone reading the Telegraph editorial to its conclusion will learn also that claims are being sold on to ambulance chasing lawyers saving the bankers time and money as they pursue further illusory pots of gold
Bertrand Russell, in a memorable essay from many years ago, ridiculed the ludicrously fragile idea of digging up gold in South Africa only to re-bury it in the vaults of the Bank of England. Now we don’t even bother with anything of such substance!
“Two Jags” Prescott will be missed set against the multi Ferrari-ied Sir Fred Goodwin who accidentally dropped £28 Billion on behalf of RBS in the greatest corporate loss in British history. Politicians may be silly enough to claim for bath plugs, duck houses and moat cleaning but at least we ordinary citizens have a say in the matter at elections and we should all remember that, next year, when we have the opportunity to exercise our greatest freedom
Occasionally one can become rooted in humanity, and joyful about our potential as a result of seeing a great play or film or reading a very good book. Just recently a transvestite, known as Claire, re-arranged my mood.
When Grayson Perry is offered his inevitable knighthood for servcies to the arts he deserves to have the ultimate accolade of choosing between being a Sir or a Dame. He doesn’t seem like a person who would care much for the status but his artistic achievements set alongside the deeply interesting philisophical observation on gender , the transendence of stereotypical male and female norms, the penetrating investigation and dissembling of the bigotry of English traditional life whether it be religous, political or social, delivered with an acerbic and yet charming wit are in the manner of our country’s greatest social commentators; a group of extraordinarily talented men and women who are revered yet ultimately dismissed by a shallow religous/politcial moral stance which permeates our country at times. Grayson’s presence centre stage at the outset of this millenium is encouraging. He is so English, so eccentric and so essential for our sensibilities.
Last Saturday, at the Towner Gallery Eastbourne, Grayson Perry, with no evidence of self-consciousness, addressed an enchanted audience, dressed as a Panto Dame; as though to wear a patchwork frock of brightly coloured material, hung with bells, a floral headress and heavily rouged cheeks, is actually the way a bloke should be in Eastbourne on a Saturday night. High heeled boots with curley toes, tipped with more bells, were of the Morris Dancer mode. There could not have been a woman in the house who would not have lusted after the capacious handbag.
Yet the seriousness about his artistic journey was never in doubt. The psychology, the search, the discovery was explicitly and freely given to an audience not drawn from the inner suburbs of London but from a seaside town which is renowned for its conservatism. And it was immnesely appreciated.
Thank you Dame Grayson Perry. Thank you for the empty pedestals where parents, over-ambitiously expect to stand. Thankyou for the witty euphemism for masturbation – self dating. Thanks for the "Map of Nowhere", a copy of which now hangs at the Towner and deserves some regular reference. Thanks for the pots, the like of which we may not have seen since Pompeii was suffocated. And above all thank for your honesty about life, art, imitation, humility and the onward journey
Visiting The Globe in October is a bit daunting but luck was with us. A New World: A Life of Thomas Paine, by Trevor Griffiths was an ideal production for the Globe space. What I wonder is why the extraordinary life of this revolutionary man of the people has never reached the cinema.
The Globe production is a film script which found its way to the stage having been ignored by the film industry. Am I being overly suspicious or a conspiracy theorist in suggesting that it was politically expedient for George Washington to ignore Paine’s imprisonment in revolutionary Paris and near appointment with Mme Guillotine. And that an attempt to dramatically record the life of a man who openly fought with and criticed both Franklin and Washington might not meet with public approval in the USA.
In fairness I now learn that Obama quoted Paine in his inaugural address but only this week Obama is under fire from the Right over his Nobel Peace Prize. The President may well be the heir to the Paine principals but will Barrack Obama be hounded into compromise and relative obscurity.
The contributing artists to Pop Life, the new show at the Tate Modern, clearly got their way in changing the show’s name from Sold Out and if it was Tracey and Damian et al who were responsible for the name change then they clearly lack a sense of humour and an appreciation of irony. Or did they, all along think their work was witty and wonderful
Pop Life is a trawl across the bottom of what became an ocean of egotism as various overpaid and creatively under-nourished patrons and aficionados handed out bucket loads of money for work which was very evidently mediocre and existed entirely on the back of the spurious claim that it might be, at least, satirising the excess.
Unfortunately there is something quite engaging about what is a historic commentary on the “getting away with it” years spanning the late 1980s to the early part of the millennium. One of the real achievers of that period was Jeff Koons who got away with it well and had it away with La Cicciolina and recorded it in a series of pictures which are execrable. The marble bust of Koons and Ilona Staller (La Cicciolina) is bloody awful. In one of last weekend’s papers a reviewer described Koons’ inflatable bunny as “horrifying yet inanely reflective”. With acolytes making remarks like that one understands how they got away with it for years. Koons went to art school but honed his trade as a Commodities Broker on Wall Street, went back into the studio and continued as a commodities broker. The Koons room at Pop Life bears an adults only warning. It should read “Adults Only if Accompanied by Children” so that children could see how utterly dim grown-ups can be
Damian and Tracey, with one or two other luninaries of YBA, have a section and oddly it ain’t bad as an historic representation of art and life in Blair’s Britain. Some artist’s probably deserve a more contemplative approach but in this environment it’s just a gig but a gig worth seeing.
The timing of the opening of Pop Life could not be better with Hirst having a Pauline experience and returning to painting and Tracy Emin hopefully bound for France with its more lenient tax system and intuitive recognition of great art. I can’t wait to see her alongside Carla Brunni and Nicolas Sarkozy;the kind of people that Tracy is used to and who will presumably inspire her to great works.
My favourite part of Pop Life was a corridor of porn recording a show at the ICA in the 1970s. Tate Modern has assiduously searched press archives for the righteous responses by various sections of the press and the Sun’s ironic 1976 assault on the Guardian for being purveyors of porn is a gem of Sun journalism.
Overall Pop Life is a good visit. But is it art? Nobody seemed to really care one way or another. Thankfully after this show at Tate Modern one only has to walk a very short distance to see Miro, Matisse, Monet, Rothko and Picasso – all for nothing. And the latter is somthing Ms Emin would do well to remember in this creatively barbarous society
I listened, in awe, to Woman's Hour today. Dr Heidi Kastner, forensic psychiatrist, was given the daunting task of uncovering the history of Josef Fritzl, infamous for his appalling crimes against his daughter while he held her captive at his home in Austria.
This is worth listening to and you have about 7 days to do so. People who can express themselves well in more than one language are truly intelligent and Dr Kastner is a prime example. Brilliant. here is the link
This week I downloaded the great music of Florence and the Machine and Flo might be surprised that she has moved me, at my age, in the midst of an autumnal trawl through my mind and body.
With the exception of this blog my brain has barely been exercised in the interest of anything much during this year and then I learn that we have nearly arrived in a Decade of the Mind (2010-2020) and a conference was held in Berlin, 10-12 September. Looking at the agenda the delegates got down to some interesting thinking on social policy, education and health.
As you will know, those who have actually read any of my words, during a good part oflate August I had access to the student mind under pressure. To my amazement I learned that there are lots of students who have completed varying degrees of degree with liberally dispensed Ritalin, a drug I always imagined had been designed to aid the less well parented child who suffered from ADHD. Attention deficit is clearly a problem for any student who has shaded a few lectures after nights out and to lean on something like Ritalin at a crucial period in their education actually doesn’t surprise me.
What does surprise me is that pharma companies have geared up a series of mood drugs that can cognitively enhance the brains of those that can afford them, whether prescriptively or commercially. These drugs being described very aptly in last weekend’s Observer Magazine as cosmetic surgery for the brain. Go here for the full storywhich first appeared in the New Yorker back in April. The writer, Margaret Talbot, really gets into the grey matter and there are no grey areas. People who use this stuff for cognitive enhancement are doing so to give themselves an edge in the workplace and elsewhere and are evidently starting to believe the ultimate miracle of life. That there is no death.
Ms Talbot’s article includes mention of this web site which I strongly recommend. Here you will find young attractive, obviously well off, classy, educated people with “PhDs and great careers” who are clearly onto something; such as everlasting life. At the home of the Institute of Immortalists you will find Immortalists who believe that in their lifetime there will be everlasting life. How strange is that concept? To discover everlasting life within the confines of mortality
The 1hour 45 minute film at Imminst.org is no better than watching any other eccentric sect that inhabits the mediocre minds of over-bred, unblemished, bourgeois white people. And when they talk of everlasting life, saving lives and then requesting donations and building communities, with a backdrop of nice children on swings, it all starts to become clear that behind the cognitive enhancement lies all the insecurities that build mindless religions.
While Imminst offer dreams of eternal life, surgically enhanced bodies and new drugs to underpin their moderate intellects the life span of human beings in parts of Africa remains at around 40 years
Science will gradually and progressively improve and extend our lives and we may well inhabit space. But science should never advance without good philosophy. The human mind and its lifelong production is arguably immortal but the physical vehicle which bears it through life becomes a little uninteresting
Thanks to the ancient Greeks we can learn of ataraxia. To my mind ataraxia is the intellectual, all knowing, shrug of the shoulders. When I was young, eternal life meant perpetual time with people I wasn’t keen on. The Immortalists can get on with it
The ladies and gentlemen of Decade of the Mind seem to have a more realistic and sociable agenda and Florence and her Machine can continue to make art. “A Kiss with a Fist is Better Than None”!! Thanks Florence
Somebody is doing something right with the programming at the theatres in Worthing. Stewart Lee is giving us a gig. Although he may just be on a fact finding mission for a new set. Nonetheless I shall be there on 7th October. For more info on the 41st best stand up go here
On my desk sits a picture of Bertrand Russell “…with pipe and slippers”, a picture I discovered in Rome last year at the same time as I was nearing the completion of Russell’s “History of Western Philosophy”. I installed the picture at the suggestion of a friend who thought Russell would provide inspiration. The book, which was an Xmas gift from my son, has been both inspiring and extremely useful for reference. The picture, however, has had no magical, spiritual or material influence on my life and I dare say Russell would have found it amusing that his picture was in place rather as a holy picture might have been in my young Roman Catholic years
Now though, the picture is festooned with Postit notes as is the rest of my desk area, which I ceded to my son when he arrived at my place to complete his Master’s dissertation. He completed the work last Monday and is now in Greece. The Postits remain as I endeavour to absorb these prompts.
To the left of Russell’s head is “Hegel – Universality+particularity ANTAGONISM”. To the right “explain exploitation and then why the proletariat would want to recreate it (?)”. Then there are these - “ideology comes from the material conditions, and so they must be abolished (universal revolution)” “ideology is the capitalist’s drive” “crisis is the crowning point of ideology”.
On the first anniversary of the Lehmann Brothers collapse and having recently learnt from a very sound informant that one top banker spends £2000 per week on food for his family of four, for me to be contemplating these slightly arcane Postit messages has been straightening and finally informative. I think I might get to like Karl Marx
During my commercial and general work life I have experienced many stressful, demanding periods but nothing had prepared me for the time I spent with my son as he approached the delivery day for his work. During the final 36 hours he slept for just 90 minutes. I didn’t manage much more myself although I did manage to complete a cryptic crossword for the first time in many years
During the build up to Delivery Day, 7th September, there was occasionally some humour and this took the biscuit for me
“I need a copy of the Communist Manifesto!!” he announced rather overbearingly.
…….it was Friday afternoon, 4th September, and the tension had reached a level I had not envisaged. Only two clear days to go before the delivery of this piece of work, his dissertation for an MA, which, by then was grafted onto me and living uneasily alongside a very separate perception of urgency, importance and the Marxist view on the current economic situation
Living in Worthing is often intellectually challenging. Challenging from the ankles up. To suddenly be in need of the communist manifesto in a town which has not produced a Labour Councillor in 40 years is a truly shocking thought. Could one find a Walnut Whip widely available at a Weight Watchers convention?
Waterstones was Luke’s suggestion. The Waterstones which is only 50 metres from my front door files philosophy under “Mysticism and Alternative Therapy”. The local library did not answer the phone. The Communist Manifesto discussion ended behind a firmly closed door.
In time the need for the Communist Manifesto had, somehow, been diminished by his new train of thought. I had retired to some ironic ironing.
I can’t remember exactly how much time Luke spent with me but it has been one of the most profoundly stimulating times of my entire existence. My life played out roughly as normal but against the utterly unfamiliar academic backdrop. I do know that the acquisition of knowledge, the development of ideas and the sharing of all that information is humankind’s highest achievement
I must see if I can find a Communist Manifesto in Worthing.
...... this blog has provided me with inspiration during, about, seven years. When I changed my mind about the invasion of Iraq (supported it) in December 2002, Norm provided a place of refuge and he has inspired me now to "persevere and remain positive". What is more I astounded my son today when I told him that I had been a regular visitor to the blog home of Norman Geras, a man he has quoted, and recognised, in his dissertation. Thank you Norm, simply for your presence in this realm and for upholding the views from the left that are widely debated at your site and support freedom and democracy. And to underpin that I suggest yougo here to get a sample of what is available
Why would any self-respecting Ad Man agree to marketing a deodorant called Arctic Dive.
More of that later......
.......sharing my flat with my son as he nears the completion of his Master’s dissertation which is to run to about 20,000 words most of which are already etched into my life one way or another, has been an edgy business so far. Not renowned for self-restraint and having only a medium length fuse to my superficially amiable character the prospect of near nuclear detonation has not been far away these past 10 days. Which explains my paucity of words at WorthyHeights but as a novice blogger I now become aware of the psychological importance of blogs and the escapism that blogging provides. It’s keeping the safety catch engaged. No ominous mushroom cloud over Worthing quite yet!
On the positive side my flat has taken on an academic aura with the lounge floor now strewn with books mostly on or by Karl Marx one of which., I am reliably informed is an original 1960s printing produced in Moscow in the depths of the Cold War. That’s cool and if Sussex Uni would agree I would like to keep this volume as an interior design piece. A little statement of my pseudo-intellectual clout
However on the negative side, having recently delivered my son from the clutches of one of Brighton’s many dodgy landlords (does everybody in Brighton own a “buy to let” and have hair highlights – more of that another time) I now find my bedroom looks like the “returns” department of Currys. And my main bathroom, a previously personal and cherished space, is overrun by post-modernist ideas and its accompanying cosmetic products. Would Marx have approved of the politically ephemeral, bourgeois“eleastic shaping” hair wax by the stylist and head honcho of hair products Paul Mitchell. No known relative of mine
Eau d’Issy has now been ousted by Arctic Dive. Each morning my son is enveloped in a nimbus of this execrable detergent which reminds me of jock straps and rugger players. The aromatic collision between Issy Miyake and Addidas may not be as important as the collision between Marx and Engels but it matters to me.
Why name a deodorant after a cold continent. Do polar bears smell like this? Is there a polar opposite, Antarctic Ice? In which case the under-evolved penguin springs to mind
It is worth knowing about RICE with regard to minor breakages. According to the medical practitioner who attended me this week RICE is an "anachronism" for Rest, Ice, Cold Compress, Elevation,
Living in Worthing one can truly feel anachronic and maybe she was playing with words
WEIRD is Worthing's Existential, Interbred, Recondite, Disposition
At my age having a Carlos Casteneda’s moment on last Saturday morning came as a welcome release from the Saturday Guardian’s usual disconcerting sections – “Money” - not got any; “Family”- in decline; “Employment” - now unemployable.
For those of you who were not fixated in the 1970s with a “Separate Reality” or a ”Journey to Ixtlan” or finally “The Teachings of Don Juan” you need to know that Castenada claimed to have liberally experimented with mescalin in pursuit of his separate reality.
Having a mescalin experience without actually using the magic peyote was quite beautiful and rewarding. Listless in the penumbra of waking and sleeping, among other things I saw heavy, polished egg shaped stones laying in marble crucibles which surmounted doric columns
In such a state I was readied for a second visit to the Towner Gallery in Eastbourne, the South Coast’s new contemporary art flag carrier. The building I like a lot. Unsurprisingly uncomplicated, this is Eastbourne after all, The Towner swirls, unobtrusively yet lovingly around the Congress Theatre. I had principally come for the Jodie Carey exhibit which is extraordinary. More of that later. We, sadly, firstly chose a tour starting on the ground floor which turned out to be amazingly dull.
The guide announced that he had not had the chance to study the exhibits for longer than 30 minutes but he was very familiar with the artists’ other work. The key to the ground floor exhibits, evidently, was German Romanticism and in one piece a fog filled fish tank by Mariele Neudecker was a modern manifestation of the classic Romantic tradition, inspired by the “…greatest philosopher of the last 300 years – Immanual Kant”. Kant is a philosopher of the last 300 years, not the greatest.
The fog of the fish tank remained resolutely undisturbed, as did I and so the hidden landscape of this work remains a mystery. Perhaps lurking behind the fog was the grim neglected urban landscape of 1960s London which featured later in one of Mariele’s photos. Neudecker is probably a fine artist but the Towner, to my mind does not serve her well. It was a full hour before we emerged in to Room 2 where the ground floor livens up.
The first floor exhibition is relatively small but entertaining and literally eclectic. But if you are heading to Eastbourne, the work byJodie Carey on the second floor isawesome. The central pieces are three immense chandeliers, each weighing a tonne, made from cast human bones. These pieces being surrounded by the detritus of media overkill. Piles of newspapers, magazines and cardboard boxes
Then the Red Arrows descended on Eastbourne, as if on cue, did some aerial pirouettes, let loose some red, white and blue vapour trails at various angles, delivered from dangerously close formation flying and then left almost as quickly as they arrived. G-forces; gee whiz. Beat the hell out of static fog.
In the evening, blagging access to the That’ll be the Day at the Worthing Pavilion put the day in perspective. Here was a show that should only be attempted on mind altering drugs. Alcohol would be pointless. Reprise shows are one thing but to include Shut Uppa Your Face as a foot stomping, hand clapping finale makes out a good case for the arts in their most extreme and self indulgent form.
Really good writers have a habit of providing the antidote to misery simply by piling on more misery with their well observed work and so it was with Sally Vickers’ “ Mr Golightly’s Holiday” which I finished last night
The book is not wrist-slashingly depressing by any means. In fact it is extremely amusing at times but what I loved was the perception and neatly written allegory upon allegory. The Book of Job played out on Dartmoor……enough, please read it
Apart from slamming my head mercifully between its pages and waking me up from a strong attack of self- pity, Ms Vickers, most propitiously, introduced me to the word “flexion”. My flexion toe being the cause of some of my misery. Job I clearly am not
Monday morning, mid Vickers and Golightly, I decided to pay some bills on line which lead to a fit of pique, an angry stroll through my flat and the resulting crack of the foot against a wall. And crack it surely did after which my right little toe was pointing in an unfamiliar direction.
Being alone and un-mithered (no woman to heal the fallen warrior or something like that) I had to call NHS Direct. For the benefit of non-locals this is a DIY telephonic health service through which one gains emergency guidance
The conversation went like this:-
NHS Direct: Good morning how can I help you Me: I think I have broken my toe NHS: Do you have symptoms of swine flu Me: If a pain in my toe is a symptom then I may have swine flu NHS: I see Me: (with a touch of irony) Will you be sending an air ambulance? NHS: Not on this occasion
After much turning of pages at her end the conversation continued
Me: There is no woman at hand to help me. Could you send a woman? NHS: No we cannot send a woman. This is not an escort service Me: More’s the pity NHS: (After more page turning) Bind the toe above and below the knuckle. Do you have any frozen peas? I crawl to the freezer Me: Only frozen asparagus NHS: Place the frozen asparagus on the foot and secure with a towel. Call us again after 24 hours if there is no improvement. Oh! and don’t refreeze the asparagus or consume after it has been tied to your foot Me: Thank you NHS Direct: Thank you for calling NHS Direct – have a nice day
Maybe they had NHS Direct at the time of Lazarus. It’s amazing what a bit of faith will do
Worthing, the World and Maybe Something Cosmic This is all about the arts, literature, politics in Worthing and beyond
(Scroll down for a letter to the Worthing Herald regarding the media coverage of the Open Houses Event 2009 in relation to the ludicrous coverage given to Jim Davidson's recent gig)
21st November 2006–9th August 2009 Flying time!!
Arriving in Worthing about 3 years ago and observing a much changed scene from the inner suburbs of London I decided a blog would at least record, for me, the day to day issues of my life by the sea before heading for the beach one last time in anticipation of a huge playful wave which may suck me back the several million evolutionary years whence I came. Thereby upholding my strongly held Darwinian and humanist beliefs. God, not my favourite person of fantasy or fact, had a major humour bypass on the day that he invented the extremely lethal tectonic plate but it would be a suitable way of dealing with his less worshipful subjects
This past week(1st-9th August 2009) has been a Big Dipper of a week rolling over Joyce and Byron, Sally Vickers and Talking Heads, the death of a dog and a little “walking in the mind”. It therefore seemed like the perfect time to resuscitate the latent early words some of which were a little uncomplimentary to my new community and I have spared myself the embarrassment and possible reprisals by deleting the most offensive stuff. Although I must say that many more women wear Puffa jackets in Worthing than South Molton Street!
The blog only reached template form and progressed no further than a few idle paragraphs which never made it to cyber vellum. I was diverted by various campaigns which seemed to be worth fighting, the best of which was to help secure the Desert Quartet for the town of Worthing. On the masthead is a close up of one of these wonderful sculptures which remind me, not always effectively, “….to be silent unless what I have to say is better than silence”.True to myself and the blogosphere I must have the courage of my convictions and let loose the paragraphs written in draft on 21st January 2007. Although as I have already stated this really starts in earnest as of now, 9th August 2009
In Italics is where I was going with my blog on 21st January 2007
It is precisely 2 calendar months since I arrived in Worthing. 21st November 2006 I washed up down here having sailed my simple craft safely from the suburban, stultifying vortex of Teddington TW11. More of Teddington later
So I enter the blogosphere later than I intended but I can barely tell you how joyful it is to be here. The initial buzz of blogdom is the knowledge one can write knowing full well ones “work” will be published. And what is more I am saved the indignity of being edited by some juvenile with a 2/2 media degree from the University of Nowhere.
Early last week I learned from an Andrew Marr Radio 4 prog ( I can be deceptively high brow) of an interesting book by Brian Appleyard entitled “How to live forever or die trying”. It just seemed such an interesting contemplation particularly now that I live in Worthing which has one of the oldest populations in Britain. Harvests to be grimly reaped
The activities of joggers along the sea front suggests that they are either on the personal trainer’s “live forever” exercise programme or they can’t afford the personal trainer and are now just hurrying the whole death process along a little
ENDS!!!
The week which finally ran the project down the launch ramp 1st-8th August…..
…Walking in My Mind
James Joyce, Byron, Sally Vickers, David Byrne and Talking Heads plus various interactions both positive and negative, The Hayward Gallery’s summer show, Bergson’s impact on Futurist founder Marinetti and the death of a much loved dog have finally got me going on my blog. This stuff of life broadly tends to present ideas in abstract form and they joined forces in my head and have helped to deliver this slightly meandering stroll through my mind. As the Hayward’s summer show is called “walking in my mind” it all seems neatly encapsulated under that heading
Big Books
Quite recently I decided that, each year, I should read one large tome of literature which is widely recognised as a classic. So far I have amazed myself with Marcel Proust’s finding time again , Russel’s History of Western Philosophy and currently Don Quixote. Cervantes’ knight errant being a little bit close to my own character for comfort!
2010 has to be Ulysses year and I was delighted to meet an old contact, last Saturday, who provided me with the inspiration to get it on. Having read the Joyce novel three times and heard it recited on tape quite often he has dispelled the near mythical impenetrability of the Joyce work which runs to 260,000 words. Thanks Brendan. 2010 will be busy – right into 2010 probably. Anodyssey. The Joycean Epiphany!!
Sally and Cosmic Journeys
Why this is relevant to my week and to my blog is that the arts and literature can bind together people of similar views and ideas which is a coalesced planetary group orbiting various individual works. Occasionally us planets are pulled together for a quick natter about our stars and I notice that the like-minded are guided to these happy gravitational collisions which are luckily not fatal or indeed dangerous comings together
Sally Vickers is one of those stars around which I evidently, occasionally orbit, and this week I found a copy of Mr Golightly’s Holiday which has led onto much conversation about her very special story telling style. I first encountered Sally Vickers at Kendal and to the very good friend who led me to her I tip my hat! To the two other people I know who enjoy this amazing writer’s skill with a story I say, “Glad to be in your galaxy”. To my Kendal Baptist I offer these words from “Golightly” – “But it is a sad fact that a zest for human psychology is not always sharedby the objects of its concerns”. Please see the humour in that.
Just a rant
Now my interest in all these illustrious people who compose write paint and present themselves through often quite abstract ideas might suggest that I am a bit of an intelligent beast with some seriously pretentious overtones. Well I am not. I am just the living evidence that everything in the arts is available to everybody. Those who would turn the arts into an arcane world specifically for the educated middle and upper classes are dismantling social cohesion with their own ends in mind.
One Great Talking Head
Monday 4th August was the long awaited arrival of ex Talking Heads front man David Byrne. Last time I saw him was around September 1979 when they had just released their early album, Fear of Music. Working as a part time coach driver for Len Wright Travel I toured with them for 2 whole days of roadie fame!!! But I became a huge fan of a band that proved themselves to be not only extremely talented but very likeable and unpretentious people off stage.
The white haired Byrne still rocked it up for a largely middle aged audience in a theatrical style which is unique, intelligent and downright bloody good entertainment. Even my son Luke recognised some numbers and enthusiastically put his hands together - bravo
The gig at the Barbican was unforgettable for me and he kindly sung “Heaven” which is the song which I want at my funeral please. You need to see the Byrne humour in this so here is a lyrical sample.
“Everyone is trying to get to the bar, the name of the bar is Heaven. The band in Heaven play my favourite song. Play it all night long .
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens
There is a party. Everyone is there. Everyone will leave at exactly the same time. When this party’s over it will start again. Will not be any different It will be exactly the same………..
Heaven
When this kiss is over it will start gain. It will not be any different……
It’s hard to imagine that nothing at all could be so exciting could be this much fun
Heaven is a place where nothing ever happens”
Art that Eats Itself
Bertrand Russell has become one of my heroes for his witty and intelligent presentation of some very often obscure philosophical ideas in his History of Western Philosophy. Anybody who reads this wonderful book cannot remain certain of any “truth”. I kissed the cover when I finished it. And his prescient essay “In Praise of Idleness” and the other essays under that title written during the big financial wind down pre WW2 should be read by all bankers spending their exorbitant pensions while sunning themselves on exotic beaches
Russell, therefore being my philosophical torch bearer, was who I turned to unravel the Tate’s Futurism show. Russell was less than complimentary about the rather prescriptive Bergson who was the philosophical inspiration behind Marinetti and the Futurist movement
Some of the paintings were exciting and energetic and I particularly liked Boccioni and Severini but it does occur to me that Futurism is a handy label but the movement officially established by Marinetti was thankfully dead almost before it had achieved puberty. Artistic movements luckily consume themselves, serpent like, before they can do serious political damage
Walking in the Hayward Mind
The Hayward’s summer show was nowhere near as enticing as, say Gormley in 2007 but Walking in My Mind had some intriguing work which I liked. Thomas Hirschorn’s literal walk in his mind, if mechanised, would have made an exceptional attraction at an adult theme park. But Piplotti Rist’s work, outdoors, was right on the money when it came to the exhibition theme and I reckon it justified the admission fee.
And of course these artists have an awful lot of sex on their minds and good for them!!
R.I.P Lawrence
Last weekend was so sad for several reasons but probably the loss of Lawrence the dog that I lived with for about 5 years walked for a further 3 approximately and visited too infrequently when he started to become less active. I wasn’t sure how to express my respect for an animal so I wrote him a poem……
Lawrence
Dog, lived, played, wagged
Dogs don’t brag
Dog that smiled even when he was sad
Chin and jowls on the floor
Eyes set for the door
Dog free to leap, and swim
Fuck the gym
Dog that knew the way, every day
Silent friend that may just stray.
Always there at the end
Dog of restraint, buttoned strength
Eyes of infinite depth
Dog has no words or human thought
Rarely a response to a whistle
Thanks Lawrence – hence this epistle
Letter The Worthing Herald
31st July 2009
The Editor
Worthing Herald
The Arts or Jim Davidson
Over the weekends of 18-19 and 25-26 July the arts community of Worthing staged its annual “Open Houses” project with 22 venues showcasing a variety of arts which was an amazing and inspiring insight into the talent that exists in this town. Talent both professional and amateur which is dependant, virtually entirely on its own resources, imagination and determination. The second weekend happily collided with the Lions Festival. One major feature of that festival being the transformation of Montague Place into an acceptably lively environment delivering us from the execrable, demoralising, architecturally outrageous intrusion which is the wall of death, once of Woolworths soon to be the wall of H&M. I wish to be the first person to ask that new and very welcome arrival in town, H&M, to give artists of Worthing the opportunity to change that dismal flank wall
The arts in Worthing are hopelessly under-funded and under-represented. The business community and the media in Worthing have overlooked the value of a vibrant arts community to the economy, the living environment and the prestige of the town.
My heart sank when seeing the front page of the Herald entirely devoted to a has-been entertainer and career bigot, Jim Davidson. And then the inside pages being littered with pitiful responses to his juvenile invective. Not one journalist managed to review what was, without doubt a true highlight of the Worthing arts year. The Open Houses event had evidently tripled in size in participation and visitors and to my mind had a vibrancy and energy which positioned the efforts of Arundel’s equivalent programme into a kind of “twin set and pearls” mind set. Worthing’s Open Houses provided everything from a beautifully restored 1960s caravan to a Madonna and Child by the alter ego of an ex-patriot Polish female fighter pilot. From the erotic to the truly esoteric, there was no creative stone unturned
MORE/
The Arts or Jim Davidson ………….
From Gateshead to St Ives to the South Bank in London and across the SouthCoast in Hastings, Bexhill, Eastbourne, the arts have started to re-generate a variety of areas, many of them previously depressed. Worthing has not even officially recognised the Desert Quartet, “one of Europe’s finest monumental public sculptures of the 20th Century”. There exists no information about the Desert Quartet in any tourist office. I personally know of a group of 45 people coming to this town in September to view 20th Century art and architecture and obviously the Elisabeth Frink sculptures. Worthing provides no cultural visitor information whatsoever and evidently has no cultural strategy
This town has to identify certain events and areas where it can promote itself not only to the public from inside and outside Worthing but also to major sponsors who can see an opportunity to be associated with quality events.
Splash FM bemoaned the loss of major sponsors Norwich Union for its Garden Party. Hits from the 1970s and 80s probably work for the Lions Festival and who can resist clapping their hands for the “Dancing Queen” but Splash FM could be doing better for the local music scene and this town has a decent contemporary music heritage. If I was holding the purse strings at Norwich Union in this financial climate I would be looking to something more challenging than tribute bands and one only has to look around at the big ticket projects to see what attracts the sponsors. Local bands need local support and this town occasionally deserves something other than regurgitated tunes from another era.
The choice is stark. Stick with the image of this town lost somewhere in past times or give people the inspiration and a helping financial hand to deliver us from the banal criticism levelled at us by Mr Davidson and ably supported by the front page coverage in the Herald. This town has creative talent in narrative, performing and visual arts and it was all on view during Worthing’s “Open House” weekends as it is each year at Northbrook’s end of year arts show.
There exists an opportunity for Worthing to alter its image but there is an urgent need for an arts policy that is well administered, that interacts with the community and that is allowed to pervade all areas of influence in Worthing.
Central government’s Sea Change project has provided £1/2 million for the regeneration of Splash Point. If the town gets this wrong then we can start engraving the headstone for the arts in Worthing and we could have a plot set aside for the decrepit Jim Davidson because he should surely theatrically “die” in Worthing.
