Does it sound too cliched to talk about our society becoming like Orwell’s 1984? Probably. Certainly it conjures up overblown pseudo-“liberal” articles like Zoe William’s latest guff (“If sex with HIV is a crime, so is swimming with verrucas” – okay, so there are two major problems here – one: HIV is a serious life threatening disease. Verrucas are not. Two: there is a cure for verrucas. Have you a cure for HIV Zoe? I thought not. So shut it and stop trying to make other sensible liberals look like complete morons.)
From a governmental point of view, it is obvious why politically aware Britons accuse our country of suffering from”1984” syndrome. In this country alone millions marched against the Iraq war with no result. All we got were embarrassing TV cameos from Blair moralising to the nation about how a war with Sadam was a righteous conflict. Okay, and nothing to do with sucking up to Bush or getting ourselves truck loads of oil then?
And it’s not as if we don’t fight all dictators is it? Apart from Thailand’s Thaksin Shinawatra, who was ousted in a coup by his own people in 2006 or Egypt’s Hosni Mubarak who puts anyone who opposes him in prison. Or Iran’s Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, under whose government: “respect for basic human rights in Iran, especially freedom of expression and assembly, deteriorated in 2006,” says Human Right Watch, adding: “the government routinely tortures and mistreats detained dissidents, including prolonged solitary confinement.”
Even closer to home we have Italy’s Silvio Berlusconi and Turkey’s Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. Berlusconi maybe considered a bit of a joke in this context, I agree, with his Dale Winton tan and “folksey-jokesy” local corruption. But Turkey have one of the worse human right’s records in the world, with children as young as twelve being prosecuted and imprisoned simply for taking part in demonstrations. Turkey, a founding member of the United Nations (how ironic) is now being assisted by us as it deals with its financial and economic problems. Of course, from a human perspective I understand that we need to help the ordinary people. But the government (particularly the judiciary system) still has a lot to answer for.
And so, with Iraq and Afghanistan, can we truly be honest and admit that we don’t give a fig about the politics? We only care because they’re taking something that we want. If they weren’t doing that we’d let them get on with it wouldn’t we? How else do you explain all the countries with similar problems but with fewer goodies that we ignore every day?
Moving on to a much more mundane topic. Why is it, that much like in 1984, the “proles” (i.e., those who actually buy into this sort of rubbish) are handed “lottery tickets” in the form of Hello and Okay and Look At Me I’m A Sort Of Celebrity, blah blah blah. These are ten a penny in the shops and almost always have the same torrid (or boring, depending on your point of view) headlines and the same pretty faces or fat tummies on the cover. Are we really that easily distracted? Apparently yes.
In October 2008, the newspapers and magazines had a heyday when comedians Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand made an insulting phone call to Andrew Sachs on Brand’s Radio 2 show. Only two complaints were made in the week after the show, but low and behold, the newspapers made a meal out of it and suddenly everyone was furious. Hey, they may not have actually heard it, but they all reserved the right to get righteously indignant about it! This led to the Controller of Radio 2, Lesley Douglas tendering her resignation and the two naughty boys being suspended.
It’s poor Douglas that I feel sorry for because almost instantly Satanic Slut Georgina Baillie (who by the way had already sold her sordid story about Brand to The Sun months before), represented by none other than Satan himself Max Clifford, was heard to remark in a weekly mag a few days after she had stalwartly said that Brand and Ross were a disgrace and should be sacked, that actually it wasn’t so bad and that they shouldn’t be sacked really. Great thinks Douglas, thanks for sharing. Bit late now though isn’t it?
But nobody seems to notice when a Z list celeb changes their tune from Monday to Tuesday. After all, it’s just candy floss for the masses isn’t it? Just something to distract you from what’s really going on. No, no, nothing terribly exciting; not a Welles stunt like War of the Worlds or anything. Come on people! We all love a bit of nonsense, but doesn’t it get a bit sickening when it’s constantly the same boring “I’ve done nothing but have big boobs and possibly an on -off relationship with my Z-list boyfriend” crap?
It’s not that I expect everyone to care about what’s going on in the wider world. I would be hypocrite even to suggest that. After all, although I do care about it, I don’t do a lot to change it. And admittedly I do love a bit of candyfloss now and again. But can we at least enjoy candyfloss that is fictional and has decent writers? If you are interested in real life, be interested in REAL LIFE, not whether Jordan is being insignificant with one man or another. These magazines and reality shows are so blatantly manipulative, I’d bet my friend’s two year old niece Ava would turn the page.
Honestly. It might sound like a rant (and okay it is) but can’t you see my point? Since (and probably even before) the influx of reality nonsense, people actually care more about whether Big Tits No Talent McGee is shagging Six Pack Nobody McKenzie, more than they care about millions of people dying in poverty and squalor on a daily basis. Is this 1984? Bloody hell I wish it was! If so, then I’d only be a one year old and as such wouldn’t have had to put up with this ridiculous twaddle. Or even more importantly, would have the good sense to turn it off.
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Monday, 23 August 2010
A Touch of Magic or a Touch of Meh? Rah reviews The Tempest at the Old Vic
When I heard that Sam Mendes was returning to the English stage to direct The Tempest at The Old Vic, both my boyfriend and I were instantly champing at the bit. Me mostly because Mendes is a huge Hollywood name, and Harry because The Tempest is his favourite Shakespeare play.
Unfortunately Stephen Dillane's Prospero was relatively disappointing. His voice didn’t carry and he had the “hand-in-his-pockets” look of someone who would be better suited to addressing a sitting room rather than a theatre. I was expecting a bit more “sturm und drang” and instead Prospero seemed no more than a nice old man, which diluted the effect of his journey from betrayed castaway to magnanimous lord.
Miranda (Juliet Rylance) and Ferdinand (Edward Bennett) were suitably smitten as the lovers, although a touch too generic to be really convincing. However, Rylance does have a wonderful voice for the stage and she was one of the few cast members whose every line was crystal clear.
Ariel (Christian Camargo) and his antithesis Caliban (Ron Cephas Jones) were both appropriately otherworldly, although as with Prospero, there was a general want of feeling. Ariel, apart from one outburst at the opening, spends the rest of the play sulkily awaiting his freedom. Caliban, after a wonderfully terrifying entrance through a hole in the ground, moodily plots against his erstwhile lord, without demonstrating any truly monstrous anger.
Fortunately, the jewels of the piece were the two drunkards, Stephano (Thomas Sadoski) and Trinculo (Anthony O’Donnell), whose inebriated antics and slapstick comedy really brightened up the whole performance.
Set designer Tom Piper’s minimalist approach, with a stark backdrop and traditional circle in the middle of the stage worked well and was beautifully offset by Paul Pyant’s ethereal lighting.
So, to sum up, an enjoyable show, but a little too tame for my liking. Perfectly watchable but lacking in that intangible touch of magic.
Unfortunately Stephen Dillane's Prospero was relatively disappointing. His voice didn’t carry and he had the “hand-in-his-pockets” look of someone who would be better suited to addressing a sitting room rather than a theatre. I was expecting a bit more “sturm und drang” and instead Prospero seemed no more than a nice old man, which diluted the effect of his journey from betrayed castaway to magnanimous lord.
Miranda (Juliet Rylance) and Ferdinand (Edward Bennett) were suitably smitten as the lovers, although a touch too generic to be really convincing. However, Rylance does have a wonderful voice for the stage and she was one of the few cast members whose every line was crystal clear.
Ariel (Christian Camargo) and his antithesis Caliban (Ron Cephas Jones) were both appropriately otherworldly, although as with Prospero, there was a general want of feeling. Ariel, apart from one outburst at the opening, spends the rest of the play sulkily awaiting his freedom. Caliban, after a wonderfully terrifying entrance through a hole in the ground, moodily plots against his erstwhile lord, without demonstrating any truly monstrous anger.
Fortunately, the jewels of the piece were the two drunkards, Stephano (Thomas Sadoski) and Trinculo (Anthony O’Donnell), whose inebriated antics and slapstick comedy really brightened up the whole performance.
Set designer Tom Piper’s minimalist approach, with a stark backdrop and traditional circle in the middle of the stage worked well and was beautifully offset by Paul Pyant’s ethereal lighting.
So, to sum up, an enjoyable show, but a little too tame for my liking. Perfectly watchable but lacking in that intangible touch of magic.
Sunday, 22 August 2010
Football: "The Beautiful Game". Or is it? A hung over Rah reports.
“So you’re not good at sports. It’s a very small part of life.”
So says Marge Simpson to her daughter Lisa, just as Homer walks in chanting: “sport sport sport sport sport sport sport sport.”
As I watch episode upon episode of The Simpsons on a particularly hung over Sunday, I’m reminded by my yellow friends that sport is a huge part of some people’s lives and totally irrelevant to others. Take me for example. My brothers and father are all extremely sporty; my dad used to play squash for Kenya, my older brother is hoping to compete in the 2012 Olympics in the 800 metres and has already run for Great Britain and my younger brother played county rugby. As you can imagine they’re all very fit and healthy. Even my mum is a fan of sport and regularly plays tennis and takes part in charity fun runs and bike rides. I seem to be the only member of the family who thinks sport is a bit meh. And for those who aren’t au fait with the word “meh”, in my case I would define it as “not interesting enough to care about.”
Don’t get me wrong - I undoubtedly appreciate the physical prowess and skill that it takes to play professional sport and the discipline required to perfect one’s art. And, let’s not mince words, certain sports stars are very easy on the eye (hint: the man I’m thinking of plays rugby and was once going out with Kelly Brooke. Initials DC.) To be honest I can even understand why people enjoy watching sport; I imagine it’s exciting if you’re into that sort of thing and besides, everyone has to accept very early on in life that different people happen to like different things. My boyfriend drinks whiskey and beer, both of which I find repellent and conversely I love cheese in an overtly reverent manner and Harry can’t stand the stuff. My best friend at university liked Samuel Beckett, whereas I found his stuff needlessly esoteric. I loved WB Yeats and she thought his writing was a load of drivel. In short, different horses for different courses.
My real gripe isn’t with sport in general; it’s with football. I can’t stand the disproportionate way that people worship it. It seems unreasonable to get that worked up over something which is only meant to be for entertainment purposes. Oh okay, and is sometimes a remarkable display of human talent which should be justly admired, blah blah blah. But quite clearly there are some things going on in the world which are truly worthy of our abject attention. Wars, poverty, crime, injustice, sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia and naturally the scourge of The Daily Mail and its loyal morons to name but a few. The answer to this puzzle is obvious: thinking about the above is depressing. I don’t need to take a poll to know that most of us would much rather watch a sitcom than the news. But just because human nature is unlikely to change, doesn’t mean that (for the most part) we don’t all know deep down that we should care more about the important issues and less about which team won the Premier League (or in my case, which celebrity has just been dumped.)
My second problem with football is the money. Motor racing is also an obvious candidate for a dressing down, but football’s got to be the worst. At least with motor racing the guys are risking their lives – in “the beautiful game” they keel over at the slightest provocation and feign injury. Wake up chaps; there’s a rather well known game called rugby where guys really do get the stuffing knocked out of them; we’re not impressed by your wet blouse theatrics. These ill educated, immature thuggish fairies get paid thousands of pounds a week, in many cases earning more in a year than thirty average Britons. How is that fair I ask you? For crying out loud, nurses get paid around twenty one to twenty seven thousand a year, and what they’re doing must be a gruelling and often thankless task, but is undeniably vital, unlike football. Again the answer for why these spoilt men-children are disproportionately rewarded is simple. There’s a ton of money in football and there’s hardly any in the bottomless NHS pit.
But I’m not going to let a little thing like practicality or reality divert me from my Utopian society, where sport is appreciated with an appropriate level of adulation. A world where boys can actually afford a season ticket to see their team play and where teenagers aren’t plucked out of school before they’ve even passed a GCSE so they can spend the next twenty years earning millions for kicking a ball about (and probably cheating on their wives and girlfriends in between matches and coke binges.) And most importantly, a world where grown men don’t think it’s acceptable to brawl or weep bucketfuls because their team lost. Wouldn’t it be a breath of fresh air to hear a Millwall supporter utter the words: “hey, it’s just a game”? Because let’s face it, it is!
Just think what the earth would be like if a huge portion of the money that’s pumped into the bloated football industry was sent to third world countries or used to provide jobs and houses to the world’s many homeless? Imagine if those who gleefully participate in game-related punch ups were prepared to get up and fight with such avid passion for women’s rights or Amnesty International. Picture the loyalty and lover like devotion football fans have for their teams and transfer it to the plight of an African child. You have to admit it would be a very different world to live in. Almost certainly a better one. But unquestionably the most persuasive incentive for subscribing to my Utopia would be that ol’ kill joys like me would cease our insistent ranting and turn our talents to something more useful. Like getting off our fat self righteous arses and taking up a sport.
So says Marge Simpson to her daughter Lisa, just as Homer walks in chanting: “sport sport sport sport sport sport sport sport.”
As I watch episode upon episode of The Simpsons on a particularly hung over Sunday, I’m reminded by my yellow friends that sport is a huge part of some people’s lives and totally irrelevant to others. Take me for example. My brothers and father are all extremely sporty; my dad used to play squash for Kenya, my older brother is hoping to compete in the 2012 Olympics in the 800 metres and has already run for Great Britain and my younger brother played county rugby. As you can imagine they’re all very fit and healthy. Even my mum is a fan of sport and regularly plays tennis and takes part in charity fun runs and bike rides. I seem to be the only member of the family who thinks sport is a bit meh. And for those who aren’t au fait with the word “meh”, in my case I would define it as “not interesting enough to care about.”
Don’t get me wrong - I undoubtedly appreciate the physical prowess and skill that it takes to play professional sport and the discipline required to perfect one’s art. And, let’s not mince words, certain sports stars are very easy on the eye (hint: the man I’m thinking of plays rugby and was once going out with Kelly Brooke. Initials DC.) To be honest I can even understand why people enjoy watching sport; I imagine it’s exciting if you’re into that sort of thing and besides, everyone has to accept very early on in life that different people happen to like different things. My boyfriend drinks whiskey and beer, both of which I find repellent and conversely I love cheese in an overtly reverent manner and Harry can’t stand the stuff. My best friend at university liked Samuel Beckett, whereas I found his stuff needlessly esoteric. I loved WB Yeats and she thought his writing was a load of drivel. In short, different horses for different courses.
My real gripe isn’t with sport in general; it’s with football. I can’t stand the disproportionate way that people worship it. It seems unreasonable to get that worked up over something which is only meant to be for entertainment purposes. Oh okay, and is sometimes a remarkable display of human talent which should be justly admired, blah blah blah. But quite clearly there are some things going on in the world which are truly worthy of our abject attention. Wars, poverty, crime, injustice, sexism, racism, homophobia, xenophobia and naturally the scourge of The Daily Mail and its loyal morons to name but a few. The answer to this puzzle is obvious: thinking about the above is depressing. I don’t need to take a poll to know that most of us would much rather watch a sitcom than the news. But just because human nature is unlikely to change, doesn’t mean that (for the most part) we don’t all know deep down that we should care more about the important issues and less about which team won the Premier League (or in my case, which celebrity has just been dumped.)
My second problem with football is the money. Motor racing is also an obvious candidate for a dressing down, but football’s got to be the worst. At least with motor racing the guys are risking their lives – in “the beautiful game” they keel over at the slightest provocation and feign injury. Wake up chaps; there’s a rather well known game called rugby where guys really do get the stuffing knocked out of them; we’re not impressed by your wet blouse theatrics. These ill educated, immature thuggish fairies get paid thousands of pounds a week, in many cases earning more in a year than thirty average Britons. How is that fair I ask you? For crying out loud, nurses get paid around twenty one to twenty seven thousand a year, and what they’re doing must be a gruelling and often thankless task, but is undeniably vital, unlike football. Again the answer for why these spoilt men-children are disproportionately rewarded is simple. There’s a ton of money in football and there’s hardly any in the bottomless NHS pit.
But I’m not going to let a little thing like practicality or reality divert me from my Utopian society, where sport is appreciated with an appropriate level of adulation. A world where boys can actually afford a season ticket to see their team play and where teenagers aren’t plucked out of school before they’ve even passed a GCSE so they can spend the next twenty years earning millions for kicking a ball about (and probably cheating on their wives and girlfriends in between matches and coke binges.) And most importantly, a world where grown men don’t think it’s acceptable to brawl or weep bucketfuls because their team lost. Wouldn’t it be a breath of fresh air to hear a Millwall supporter utter the words: “hey, it’s just a game”? Because let’s face it, it is!
Just think what the earth would be like if a huge portion of the money that’s pumped into the bloated football industry was sent to third world countries or used to provide jobs and houses to the world’s many homeless? Imagine if those who gleefully participate in game-related punch ups were prepared to get up and fight with such avid passion for women’s rights or Amnesty International. Picture the loyalty and lover like devotion football fans have for their teams and transfer it to the plight of an African child. You have to admit it would be a very different world to live in. Almost certainly a better one. But unquestionably the most persuasive incentive for subscribing to my Utopia would be that ol’ kill joys like me would cease our insistent ranting and turn our talents to something more useful. Like getting off our fat self righteous arses and taking up a sport.
Tuesday, 3 August 2010
Magnificent Maps at the British Library
What was it that Allan and Barbara Pease said about women and map reading? Oh yes: women can’t read maps. Well, far be it for me to criticise a book I haven’t read, but there is one thing I can state for definite. You don’t need to be able to read maps in order to enjoy the Magnificent Maps exhibition at the British Library. You don’t even need to have a particular interest in cartography, although I’m sure it helps. Quite frankly if you're interested in art, history, politics or even a touch of the absurd, then this exhibition may well tickle your fancy.
The first two things I noticed on my initial circuit were that (a) some of the maps are simply superb works of art and (b) a lot of them are (in geographical terms) incongruously wrong.
If you (like me) are more concerned with pure aesthetic enjoyment, the majority of maps are utterly magnificent. Vivid pinks, blues, ochres and golds are the order of the day, accented with depictions of creatures, both mythical and real. Some of the maps even have inscriptions on them denoting areas of interest, which I deduce were scribbled by the explorers themselves and add a splash of sociological interest.
As for the factual errors, in some cases this might be down to an understandable lack of knowledge (being that back in the “olden days” photographic and/or cartographic equipment was either non-existent or plainly not as accurate as what we are lucky enough to enjoy in the modern era). However, in many cases the inaccuracies appear to be of a much more Machiavellian nature. Often the country of origin appears much bigger than it really is (presumably for the purpose of intimidation or revelling in national pride) and frequently includes a plethora of desirable commodities amongst the typically lush and vitally reproduced landscapes (perhaps a veiled attempt to gloatingly cock a snook at the visiting lords of neighbouring lands?)
When viewed in this light, the purpose of maps in bygone ages becomes increasingly clear. They were not merely there to educate, interest or entertain - some were political tools, drawn for the purpose of war; either to wage it or to prevent others from waging it on them.
Amongst the more traditional maps, hang intricately woven tapestries. These, certainly worthy of prominence as status symbols, can easily be pictured hanging in the studies or great halls of rich noblemen, specifically those which designate huge tracks of land to a single family. I was delighted to recognise, on one of these gargantuan embroideries, the village of Great Bedwyn were my partner’s family live and the nearby town of Marlborough where I myself went to school.
By far my favourite piece in the entire collection is the map of London, drawn by Steven Walters. It is an illustration of astounding intricacy, depicting London as it if were a huge island, with the neighbouring towns represented as tiny isles, just off the coast of the vast capital body. If you don’t go to this exhibition for any other reason, then go purely for this. It’s definitely worth it. The detail is astonishing; I could have spent the entire day looking at just this and still not noted every feature.
So from “women can’t read maps' to a far more apt and satisfying quote. As Miguel de Cervantes wrote in Don Quixote: “Journey all over the universe in a map, without the expense and fatigue of travelling, without suffering the inconveniences of heat, cold, hunger, and thirst.”
For that is what you can do at the British Library, and you won’t only be traversing the world, but time as well. And, as an added bonus, you can always pop outside to the over priced café if you start to feel a bit too fatigued.
The first two things I noticed on my initial circuit were that (a) some of the maps are simply superb works of art and (b) a lot of them are (in geographical terms) incongruously wrong.
If you (like me) are more concerned with pure aesthetic enjoyment, the majority of maps are utterly magnificent. Vivid pinks, blues, ochres and golds are the order of the day, accented with depictions of creatures, both mythical and real. Some of the maps even have inscriptions on them denoting areas of interest, which I deduce were scribbled by the explorers themselves and add a splash of sociological interest.
As for the factual errors, in some cases this might be down to an understandable lack of knowledge (being that back in the “olden days” photographic and/or cartographic equipment was either non-existent or plainly not as accurate as what we are lucky enough to enjoy in the modern era). However, in many cases the inaccuracies appear to be of a much more Machiavellian nature. Often the country of origin appears much bigger than it really is (presumably for the purpose of intimidation or revelling in national pride) and frequently includes a plethora of desirable commodities amongst the typically lush and vitally reproduced landscapes (perhaps a veiled attempt to gloatingly cock a snook at the visiting lords of neighbouring lands?)
When viewed in this light, the purpose of maps in bygone ages becomes increasingly clear. They were not merely there to educate, interest or entertain - some were political tools, drawn for the purpose of war; either to wage it or to prevent others from waging it on them.
Amongst the more traditional maps, hang intricately woven tapestries. These, certainly worthy of prominence as status symbols, can easily be pictured hanging in the studies or great halls of rich noblemen, specifically those which designate huge tracks of land to a single family. I was delighted to recognise, on one of these gargantuan embroideries, the village of Great Bedwyn were my partner’s family live and the nearby town of Marlborough where I myself went to school.
By far my favourite piece in the entire collection is the map of London, drawn by Steven Walters. It is an illustration of astounding intricacy, depicting London as it if were a huge island, with the neighbouring towns represented as tiny isles, just off the coast of the vast capital body. If you don’t go to this exhibition for any other reason, then go purely for this. It’s definitely worth it. The detail is astonishing; I could have spent the entire day looking at just this and still not noted every feature.
So from “women can’t read maps' to a far more apt and satisfying quote. As Miguel de Cervantes wrote in Don Quixote: “Journey all over the universe in a map, without the expense and fatigue of travelling, without suffering the inconveniences of heat, cold, hunger, and thirst.”
For that is what you can do at the British Library, and you won’t only be traversing the world, but time as well. And, as an added bonus, you can always pop outside to the over priced café if you start to feel a bit too fatigued.
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