Asbos for Dogs….

Yep, that was the news this week in the UK. Unbelievable isn’t it?
The British media, long heralded among their peers as being the standard bearers for impartial, in-depth quality reporting, ran with a story about Asbos for dogs on Wednesday.

An Asbo, for those who don’t know (and after reading this don’t care) is the short form of Anti Social Behaviour Order. For the last few years Asbos have been issued to the kind of people who drink cider on street corners, terrorise old dears in shopping centres, tuck their tracksuit bottoms into their socks and wear hooded jumpers 24/7. The kind of people, in short, that most of us would avoid given half a chance. In essence an Asbo is a banning order, issued by the police, to stop people doing whatever it was that got them the Asbo. There was also an Asbo issued to a woman who screamed too loud during sex much to the amusement of most.

Anyway, back to the point. This week, apparently due to a lack of anything better to do, certain people who make these decisions (I’m thinking former Oxbridge graduates who made it to Westminster on Daddy’s coattails…) floated the idea of unruly dogs being issued with an Anti Social Behaviour Order. Clearly, the number of dogs harassing pensioners in public while wearing a hoodie and swigging strongbow must be on the rise….or else the world really has gone mad.

I could go on about the ridiculous nature of this particular initiative – the paperwork alone must be a giggle, “ Name and address?” “Woof, Woof!” – but the thing that really gets me about this is what it implies about my country. Do the French waste time and money working out how to create the necessary bureaucratic process to deal with unruly canines? Do the Germans, in their own efficacious manner, spend their days issuing admonishing letters to man’s best friend? I think not. They have better things to do.

And so, dear reader, do I.

TTFN

Der Ball ist rund.....

OK, football. It would seem appropriate to comment given all the coverage this weekend, so deep breath and here goes.

Firstly, the whole Bridge/Terry issue. I applaud Bridge for sticking to his guns and not shaking John Terry's hand at the game, why should he at the end of the day? If only half the speculation is true then clearly Bridge has been wronged and is within his rights to refuse to shake hands before the game. That being said, I sincerely hope the whole matter can now be forgotten, or as near to as possible with the British press. The only thing that should really matter in my opinion is the England team and the World Cup in summer. If Bridge says he cant play in the same team, then so be it. Decision made, move on.

Talking of England, I can't help but be a bit pessimistic, and that is nothing to do with our hopeless record in the last 40 odd years, but more to do with our lack of a decent first 11.
Hypothetical as it may be, imagine the tournament starts tomorrow.....

Who is the keeper?
Defence - Johnson (injured), Ferdinand (injured), Terry, Cole (injured)
Midfield - Lennon (injured) Barry (out of form), Lampard, Gerrard
Strikers - Rooney, Heskey (really?)

So we have half a team, and of those only Rooney is really playing well. Look to the bench then, who is second choice right back? stand in centre half? left back? right wing? I could keep going.
Thankfully, the tournament doesn't start tomorrow, but still, hardly bodes well now does it.

The other big football story is the plight of Portsmouth and their now confirmed administration.
Somehow the world of football seems to think that it is exempt from the rules of business, and moreover, the rules of capitalism. Indeed the very rules that helped football as an "industry" to grow into a multi-billion pound business in this country.
The rules I am referring to are simple - spend more than your bring in, and you will soon be in trouble. Portsmouth have done just that, to the tune of around £70 million apparently. Hardly surprising that the administrators have been called in. Yet what is surprising is that due to the rules of the Premier League, in such circumstances, the first people to get the money owed to them are the players. Not the tax man, or the banks, or the guy who runs the bar in the stadium, or washes the kit, or drives the coach - no the multi-millionaire players. In any other industry the workforce are among the last to get what is owed to them, and even then they are unlikely to get the full amount. If a construction company goes under owing a supplier £150k that supplier will be lucky to get 10p in the £1 as payment, if at all. I know, because it just happened to me. yet in the cartoon world of professional football things are different. But they shouldn't be, if football wants to be a business and attract the billions it craves, then it has to play by the same rules as everyone else. More on this another day.....that is a rant in itself.

Right, that's me for today...more soon.

Sorry for the delay.

Right kids, it's about time I got back into the swing of writing this blog. My commitment over the last 18months or so has been verging on non-existent, so here I am. There was no reason for the ridiculously long hiatus, no holiday, no illness, no infidelity with a twitter shaped mistress, nothing at all. I just didn't post anything. And when I think of the opportunities I missed....ah well, regrets are for people whose dreams are distant memories, and I am not that old yet, so as one (or more) opportunities may have been missed, plenty more will present themselves shortly I'm sure.

So, short as it may be, and indeed fairly uninteresting, consider this the beginning of the comeback......

'till tomorrow then. or the day after. maybe

Vive La Revolution!

Revolution, it seems, is a dirty word in England.
Revolution, it seems, is something best left to the less civilised people of the world, something to ease their boredom.
Revolution, it seems, is certainly not the kind of thing e would do in England, and definitely not during the summer. The Ashes start in less than a month for goodness sake!

Forget the romanticism of Che and Fidel, ignore the success of the Parisian mob of 1789 and don’t even mention the Russians, England does not revolt. It does however sometimes disgust. Let’s start with the war in Iraq - a topic covered in depth in this blog, so outraged were the British public by the idea of an invasion that more than a million too to the streets. 3 weeks later it had been forgotten. Then there was the whole case for war, its highly public debunking, the incredibly suspicious death of the Government scientist David Kelly and renewed claims for a proper legal investigation into the whole debacle. Again a short while later all this was seemingly forgotten.

Now, were this France, things would have been slightly different of course. The Revolution of 1789 which left the king without a head and ultimately began the process by which the French got rid of their monarchy, began when the price of brad went up. I think it is fair to say that even if the price of a loaf of bread in Britain were to quadruple in the next week the chances of a revolution would be slim to none. It is simply not in our psyche to take to the streets and protest. Instead we are a nation of armchair revolutionists.

Had Ernesto Guevara been born in Altrincham as opposed to Argentina then the world would be a very different place

Fast forward a couple of years from the Iraq war, the Kelly affair and the departure of Tony Blair and we find ourselves in the middle of two different financial crises. The first of course is the now slightly passé Credit Crunch, and the second is the far juicier Expenses Scandal currently rocking what is left of the British Government. This is good news for many, me included, as the credit crunch was becoming a bit boring really, after 2 years there is only so much finger pointing you can do.

Thankfully the government has popped up with yet another newsworthy display of shambolic financial ineptitude to keep me busy. It seems that nobody is exempt from blame either, Tory MPs claiming cash for having their moats cleaned and their suits or armour polished, the PM claiming twice for the same bit of plumbing work, unknown backbenchers claiming 3 mortgages each for houses that don’t exist…….frankly the whole thing is an embarrassing mess for a country that claims to be the home of the world’s oldest democracy – a brand of democracy it actively and forcibly exports to other countries no less.

I used to think tha the reason we didn’t take to the streets as much as the French was based on the weather after all who wants to protest during persistent drizzle? But the real difference is that the French understand democracy far better than we do.

In a true democracy the people give power to an elected group of leaders, who in return are answerable to the people who elect them.

In Britain we seem to have things decidedly arse about face. Hands up those who voted for Gordon Brown? At least when Bush “won” the election in 2002 his name was on the ballot paper.

So yes the weather is crap yes the ashes are due to start and no we don’t have a bearded cigar smoking Latino poster boy for the Revolution. But if ever the time was right for the people of Britain to take to the streets………

The Comeback Kid

Hardly a worthy title clearly, but i had to put something didn't I?
Anyway, I'm back from an unexplainable 8 month hiatus. I haven't been anywhere or done anything to prevent updating my blog, I just got out of the habit I guess, and to be honest the last 8 months have been pretty dull really - credit crunch, doom and gloom, more credit crunch.....the only think of interest was of course Obama's victory, which surprisingly went without comment within these pages. Anyway fear not, things are getting interesting again, and although I cant promise regular updates akin to 2007-2008 when I lived in Austria and had an incredibly monotonous and boring job I will endeavour to at least a monthly update or two. By the way, for those wondering, my job is still less than thrilling but it is infinitely more tiring, and requires a lot more hours of the day. Gone I am afraid are the lunchtime finishes on a Friday! Oh, and it is summer and I live by the beach.

Right, onwards and upwards.....

A good day to bury bad news…

I forget who it was in the cabinet that infamously sent an email out on the day of the Hatfield train crash, suggesting that it would be a rather opportune moment to bury bad news, but you have to feel at the moment that a few people might just be thinking the same thing. Obviously the circumstances are considerably different, and the burial of bad news today wouldn’t be quite as reprehensible as on the same day as a fatal train crash of course, but if I had some bad news….

…so I had a little look through the stories not quite making the headlines today (for those of you not in the know the main story today is the impending implosion of the capital markets and all that the west holds dear – more on which at a later date no doubt).

The first thing I came across was the now almost forgotten plea by the government to pass a law allowing the police to detain suspected terrorists without charge for a maximum of 42 days. This is a 14 day increase from the current limit of 28 days. Now, before you get all fired up and start shouting “guantanamo” at the computer screen, don’t worry I am now here to argue in favour of such a law. Indeed, the man I heard on the radio today arguing in favour of the change gave me all the ammo I need to argue against it. He was asked, and I wish I could remember his name so I could send him a letter of thanks, whether the change was a reaction to the current deadline of 28 days not being long enough, and specifically whether that deadline had indeed been broken regularly to prompt such a move.

His reply was straight out of the Tory Guide to Blustering and Bumbling, except of course he was a New Labour MP (again, more on that subject later too I promise). He said, while no doubt turning red and removing his monocle, “oh, ah, but yes that’s not the point now is it, yes ok 28 days has been fine until now, but what about tomorrow?” you could almost here his pipe fall out of his mouth as he became more animated. The point here of course is that the House of Lords, whose job it is to decide on such matters, have rejected the proposal my a rather crushing majority. Unfortunately they do not move in the same intelligence circles as the chap from the radio, who is aware of the impending doom that will befall us all tomorrow. Again, forgive the rambling, but I can’t help but feel that on any other day this would be somewhat newsworthy, particularly given who Gordon Brown fought for this bill to even pass the House of Commons. Indeed I will go as far as to say that on any other day, such a crushing defeat for old Gordon may have lead to renewed calls for a leadership election within New Labour.

I admit that this isn’t necessarily a concrete case of burying bad news, given that the debate in the Lords had been planned for today, but you cant help but feel that Gordon will be breathing a sigh of relief into his cocoa tonight.

The second story that caught my eye today was the interview in The Times with the interim Iraqi Prime Minister/Interim US puppet Nouri al-Maliki. The highlight of his interview was his assertion that British Troops should leave the south of the country, and Basra in particular, where they are no longer needed. I will refrain from rehashing the old War arguments here, but if the guy in charge of the country, who our boys are supposed to be helping, tells us it is time to bring our troops home, then maybe we should listen? Of course, the cynics among you will suggest that bringing home a few thousand troops into a recession-dogged economic climate might not be the best thing to do economically speaking, as a certain percentage would immediately leave the forces to seek alternative employment, far better to leave them where they are in full employment.

It will be interesting to see what is made of this in the press over the next few days, but again I feel that at any other time this would be headline news…


Of course, what is hogging the headlines at the moment is the ongoing credit crisis, the impending collapse of numerous financial institutions, the nationalisation of countless more, the complete lack of accountability/blame in the whole mess, the reactions of the governments of the world and essentially the potential death by a thousand cuts of capitalism…but I shall save that for my next post!


Bye for now

"insert comedy title about Barcelona".....

When I was going through all the little things I like about France way back when, I forgot to mention one aspect of French life that I find particularly appealing. The French like a drink. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m by no means an alcoholic, in fact I’m not even a regular drinker. However, every now and then like most people I like to indulge. The difference, however, between the drinking culture in France and the drinking culture in, say, the UK for example, is that the latter has entirely negative connotations, with the associated mental images of football hooligans, stag parties and girls asleep on the pavement with their boob tubes around their ankles. Whereas in France you think of a nice bottle of Château Lafite, a family meal, a game of Pétanque in Marseille on a Sunday morning or an interview to become a Gendarme.

It is just not the same is it? Somehow, like with their understated elegance when it comes to clothing, the French seem to be able to pull off being drunk with a faint air of sophistication. I don’t mean they all stagger around waving cigarette holders and eating foie gras instead of kebabs, but even when blind drunk a French person can still explain fairly clearly the failings of the French Communist Party in the late Seventies and their resulting decline throughout the Eighties. And the thing is, whereas the Brits, and to a certain degree the Germans and Austrians, save their drinking for a Friday night, the French are at it at all hours. A beer before lunch in a street café, a couple of glasses of red to go with the Magret de Canard at lunchtime, a Martini or glass of Rosé for the aperitif before eating, then maybe glass of white or two with dinner. Obviously this isn’t what everyone does, and certainly not daily, but it isn’t as much of an exaggeration as you might think. In fact I once went for a meal in France where instead of being confused by the cutlery, as is the norm, I was overwhelmed by the sheer number of glasses placed before me – champagne as the aperitif, rosé to go with my salade de crevettes, a nice drop of red for the steak, a desert wine to accompany the pineapple carpaccio and a glass of wonderful Finnish vodka to ease the digestive process before going back to the office. I’m joking of course; it was a Friday evening, but still.

Then of course, in the south of France, where I spent a year at University, more or less every meal, appointment, conversation or hour of sunlight is accompanied by a glass of Pastis, the local aniseed based tipple. All of which, in the most round about way possible of course, brings me to my next topic: Barcelona.

Towards the end of my year in Aix en Provence I did a little bit of translation work and managed to get a little bit of money together, enough in fact to see me through the summer. So rather than head back to Blighty to what I imagined would be a miserable summer of rained off games of cricket and poverty, I enrolled on a 6-week Spanish course in Barcelona. Anyone with a little bit about them would of course have realised that in Barcelona the language of choice is Catalan not Castellan Spanish. However, my budget wouldn’t have got me much further, and there is a direct bus from Marseille, so decision made.

I left Aix in early July if memory serves, slap bang in the middle of what would become the hottest summer in Europe for thousands of years or something ridiculous. Had I known that at the time I probably would have booked the first flight north, but instead I carried on south. After taking the train to Marseille I boarded a coach to Barcelona with all my worldly possessions in a rucksack. I was joined on the coach by a woman in her early twenties, and a group of about 8 pensioners. We spread out on the bus in a most un-Austrian fashion and I set to reading my book, ironically “Toujours Provence” by Peter Mayle.

However, and this is where it all becomes relevant I promise, I got no further than the bottom of the first page before I realised that one of the pensioners was talking to me. He was dressed in the way that only men of a certain age can pull off convincingly: white tennis trainers, socks, a pair of well ironed military looking shorts, pale blue shirt, sports jacket and a white flat cap that looked distinctly as though it would be waterproof – think the kind of hat that cricket umpires wear. Men of a certain age in the south of France also have another distinguishing factor, they speak a different language to everyone else, which with its nasal “ing” “eng” “ong” and “ang” sounds is something like a hybrid between French and Cantonese. Fortunately, the word for beer is the same, so I accepted with a grateful nod and smile and watched, bemused, as he retreated to his fellow oldies.

I opened my can of Kronenbourg and turned my page, taking a big gulp and smacking my lips like a peasant in a Stella Artois advert. Then I realised what was wrong. It was just after 9 am, and let me tell you that beer mixed with the aftertaste of Colgate is not great. Somehow, after my year of living France, leaving the country on a coach with drunken pensioners seemed a fitting end. But, if you have to leave France, there are worse places to arrive than Barcelona. Although, within Barcelona there is no worse place to arrive than the bus station, unless you are a crack dealer, in which case you have hit the jackpot.

Fortunately, I had booked a hotel room someway from the station, at Placa de Catalunya to be precise. Through a friend of a friend of the guy who ran the pub football team in Aix I had managed to get a room in an unbelievably posh hotel in the centre of town for 38€. To be honest, to this day I am reluctant to ever go back in case they sting me for the full charge, because I am at a loss as to explain how it was so cheap, even with the help of someone who worked in the travel agency. And for the same reason there is absolutely no chance of me mentioning the hotel’s name within these pages! In a similar fashion to my rather irrational dislike of Italian food, I am not a great fan of hotels. I find the prices most places charge simply beyond comprehension, especially when 90% of the time I spend in a hotel I am asleep. But, there is little I can do to change that unfortunately. However, when you know that in financial terms you have the upper hand, staying in a posh hotel is really quite enjoyable. In total I think I probably spent about 14 hours in the place, but at less than 3€ per hour that is a bargain. I particularly enjoyed the breakfast, with the availability of wine causing particular amusement. I assume the French pensioners must have been staying there too. When my time was up I checked out and caught a taxi to the language school I was due to study at, in order to pick up the keys to my flat, which would become my home for 6 weeks of the summer.
* * *

My trip in 2003 was the third time that I have had the pleasure of spending some time in Spain’s second city, although my previous trips had been for one day and three days respectively, but even on my first visit (on another school trip) at the age of 15 there was something about the city that I liked immediately, and I remember talking to my best mate about it at the time and telling him that one day I would like to come back.

That first trip was interesting to say the least for a number of reasons. Firstly, like I said it was a school trip, but no ordinary trip. It was essentially a trip for members of the orchestra and choir, and it may surprise you to know that I was neither a singer nor a musician. Instead, my best mate Wheels, a girl called Hannah and I managed to blag our way onto the trip by claiming it would have two major benefits. Namely, we could all practice our Spanish (we were in our GCSE year and all studying it) and secondly we would do all the translating. The head of music was a very pleasant and slightly bumbling man by the name of Mr Payne, and he agreed to let us tag along much to our surprise, and so it was that we found ourselves on the coach from the school car park to Barcelona. A journey you would have to pay me a lot of money to repeat might I add, given that it took nigh on thirty hours.

As a little aside I have just realised that my old school seemed to have a bit of a monopoly on interesting names among the staff. We had the aforementioned Mr Akse and Miss Fox, and together with the recently mentioned Mr Payne we also had a history teacher named Mr Bland, a geography teacher called Ms Trotsky, an economics teacher called Mr Hazard, maths was taught by Mr Moon, while Mr Bird taught Biology but Mr Starling taught design, as did Mr Daft, and all of them carried out their duties under the watchful gaze of the deputy head, Mr Sheriff. To be honest it is a wonder I passed any exams at all with all the comedic possibilities on offer

Back to Barcelona, the first thing we noticed when we arrived was that we weren’t actually in Barcelona, but rather a place just along the coast called Castelldefells. This was in 1997, so it was before the days of Ryan Air, but I often wonder if Mr Payne isn’t in charge of route planning over in Dublin these days, planning flights to Vienna (Bratislava) and the like.

The second thing that struck me was that Castelldefells was more or less a one street town, and to put it mildly it seemed fairly quietly, even for April. This was confirmed when we entered the Hotel Bel Air to discover that there was not a single person in the building that spoke English to anything like the level of Manuel in Faulty Towers. Cue the Spanish speakers. It was at about this point that I think Mr Payne realised the error of his ways.

By this stage I had had just about enough revelatory moments for one evening, particularly given how tired I was from the journey, but I soon learnt something else of value. Namely blagging your way onto a school trip under false pretences is one thing, but doing so on an orchestra trip is just plain foolish. As soon as Mr Payne realised that our Spanish was sketchy at best he put us to good use carrying the instruments from the bus into the hotel, and when you have been on a coach for over a day there are more amusing things to do, believe me.

Things soon picked up however, as we redeemed ourselves in the eyes of the other members of staff (who shall remain nameless but feel free to take your pick from the list above) when we found a shop selling booze round the corner from the hotel. This was the kind of Spanish we were good at, and soon half the group were walking back and forth with clinking school bags full of beer. Again, had Mr Payne realised he may have severely regretted letting us come, or at least asked us if he could borrow the bottle opener.

The aim of the trip was for the orchestra and choir to perform at various churches, town squares and museums around the area that we shall politely term “Greater Barcelona”. I am assuming looking back after about 10 years that this was all pre-planned, and the venues had been contacted in advance, but given some of the translation we had to do I have my doubts. I am all for steep learning curves, as my family holiday in Majorca probably confirms, but at the age of 15 with only a passable knowledge of Spanish I think trying to talk my way into a church with 30 expectant, instrument wielding classmates behind me was a little bit too much. In the end we set up shop, or whatever the technical term is, outside the church in a small square, much to Mr Payne’s delight. He was less happy when he realised that Wheels and myself were working the crowd with a collection tin. Anyway the upside of not being in the orchestra or choir was that we had a lot of time to kill during the days, and although most of the places we went to were fairly small and lacking in distractions, at least on the day we finally did make it to Barcelona we were free to roam and explore.

The rest of the group were busily entertaining a handful of bemused museum workers outside the Contemporary art museum, so we made our way over to the centre of town, beginning with the Placa de Catalunya. The square itself is firmly dominated on one side by the rather imposing Corte Ingles shopping centre, which looks a little bit like a slightly out of place Ocean Liner. Incidentally, the name means “The English Cut” which although it sounds like the kind of pub you would find near the docks in Glasgow, actually refers to the cut of our clothes rather than anything sinister. The other sides are home to various department stores, hotels and banks, while in the middle is a square which seems to be the new home to all the pigeons that caused Ken Livingstone so much offence in London. Placa de Catalunya is also the central hub for the underground and busses, as well as being the bus stop for the airport shuttle.

At the time, walking around with my two classmates, I probably didn’t take much of this in to be honest. We were too busy wandering around in wide eyed wonder, gazing up at the towering buildings, fighting our way through crowds of people and generally feeling a little bit lost and out of place. This is not to say that Barcelona is overcrowded, or that the centre is overrun with high rise buildings, the main issue is that until the day we stepped off the bus in Barcelona with a handful of pesetas in our pocket and strict orders to be back on the bus by 4pm, I had never been to a proper city before. And by proper I mean a place with over a million people, a place with an underground system, a place with huge cathedrals and sweeping boulevards, in short, I had never before been anywhere like Barcelona.

I come from a small village about 6 miles from Bradford originally, so my first trip to a big city was always likely to leave an impression. Of course I had been into Bradford and Leeds before, but when I was growing up “going into town” was a bit of an event. Not quite in the same league as going to the airport, but almost. One of the reasons was that back then, and yes I realise that makes me sound old and nostalgic, the only reason to go into Bradford or Leeds was to buy something big. Most things could be bought locally, especially food and household items. But a trip to town usually meant a new appliance of some kind, or a carpet, or sofa or something equally exciting – I was young at the time remember. It is also fair to say that despite having many of the characteristics of a big city, Bradford just doesn’t quite match up to most places I have been to since unfortunately. So, Barcelona was a bit of a shock to the system to be honest, but in a positive way of course.

While unfortunately my recollections of the Placa Catalunya come from a later visit, one thing I do remember from my school trip is the single most striking building I have ever seen. We had made our way back to the bus on time, and thought we would be heading straight back to the Hotel before the entrance was blocked with tumbleweeds, but evidently one of the teachers had a little bit of personal sight seeing in mind, as the bus began to head into town, rather than out towards the coast.

We drove around for maybe half an hour or so, evidently lost in the grid like street layout of the city. Then something magical happened, we turned a corner, heard a yelp of delight from the front of the bus, and gawped out of the windows and the sight before us: La Sagrada Familia.

The Temple Expiatori de la Sagrada Familia, to use its Sunday name, is by far and away the most famous building in Barcelona, if not Spain. Each year millions of tourists visit the city with the Sagrada Familia at the top of their “to do” lists, making it the most visited tourist attraction in Spain, and each time I have been back to Barcelona since it is the first place I go. I admit that for someone who is fairly sceptical of all things religious that may sound strange, and indeed I seem to have spent a large part of my travels visiting religious buildings and monuments. For the most part, these visits are more through obligation than choice; spend a day in Cologne, Vienna or Milan and I promise you will see the cathedral whether you want to or not. But La Sagrada Familia is a little bit different, and although I promised not to harp on about churches and cathedrals please indulge me for a few minutes.

The first difference is rather obvious when you arrive, and indeed, is one of the reasons why it is so famous in the first place. You see, and I believe I mentioned this earlier, la Sagrada Familia is very much “under construction”. To a certain degree the exterior is more or less complete, in that two of the three external façades are now in place, with work underway on the third. However, inside, at least when I last went in 2003, is simply a collection of wooden planks, scaffolding and workers on a tea break.

The second difference is that unlike in Milan or Florence, La Sagrada Familia is not in the centre of town in the middle of a grand square, but rather a little bit out of town in the l’Eixample district (The Extension in English), and aside from a small square in front of the main entrance, the rest of the building is surrounded by roads, banks, shops and flats. I am sure that every property owner in the district is waiting patiently for completion date when the house prices in the area will probably explode. The cramped nature of the area adds something to the attraction for me, it really makes you look at the cathedral, and also gives a sense of perspective that is lacking in Cologne or Milan, where the backdrop is endless, and the impact reduced. Similarly it also adds to the feeling that the building is somehow growing out of the ground, which I will come back to shortly.

The third major difference of course is the style of the building. Most cathedrals in Europe owe a heavy debt to gothic influences, as most were begun in the Middle Ages and completed in the 18th and 19th centuries, when the Catholic Church was particularly strong. La Sagrada Familia on the other hand is one of the most striking buildings in the world, religious or otherwise, and the reason for this is a certain man by the name of Antoni Plàcid Guillem Gaudí i Cornet, who thankfully is more commonly known as Antonio Gaudi. Gaudi was a fully committed and paid up member of the Modernist-Art Nouveau movement, and there is some speculation that the English term “gaudy” stems from his name. Don’t let that put you off though, even if Modernism is not your thing, a visit to see Gaudi’s masterpiece is a must. I realise I sound like a tourist guide there, so let me explain a bit more about old Antonio and why I could visit the Sagrada Familia each and every year for the rest of my life without wanting it to ever be completed.

Gaudi was, according to the man who awarded him his diploma as an architect, either “a nut or a genius, only time will tell”. When you first see some of his work it is hard to disagree. In all walks of life there is a fine line between genius and insanity, but when it comes to architecture, and creating buildings that are intended to last for centuries it is difficult to know where the line is. Tastes and styles change, and architecture like all forms of art is very subjective, but whether Gaudi is remembered as a nutter or genius is entirely irrelevant. I don’t like all of his work, and find some of it frankly ludicrous, but like it or loathe it La Sagrada Familia, with its contrasting façades and unique style, is a remarkable building.

As part of his rejection of classical styles and techniques Gaudi took great inspiration from nature, and the way animals and plants grew and supported their weight, and rejected more tradition geometric designs and structures. This is immediately evident when standing in front of the “nativity” façade, which gives the impression of a building stretching and straining to reach the skies, with its uneven lines and curves almost suggesting that the building is growing skywards. Of course almost all churches and cathedrals aim this way, with towers and spires mimicking proximity to the heavens, but Gaudi was nicknamed “God’s Architect” for a reason. Again the effect is helped by the location, it is difficult to view the building in full from more than about 50 metres in most places.

Gaudi was a very devout catholic by all accounts, and devoted the last 15 years of his life entirely to this project, and although it is easy to see that he rejected classical designs and traditions in building La Sagrada Familia, the building itself has lost none of the religious symbolism as a result. Indeed, the three principal façades, The Nativity, The Passion and The Glory, each tell the story of a different phase of the life of Jesus through intricate carvings and statues, in the same way that traditionally this was done on stained glass windows or through interior artwork. The façades also represent various virtues associated with Catholicism, again underlining the architect’s beliefs. A total of 18 towers are also planned, with four atop each façade representing the 12 apostles, and a further six across the span of the roof.

Work on the building began in 1882, Gaudi was 30 at the time, and already involved in various other projects throughout the city. Over the next 25 years or so work progressed gradually on the building, but various events in Gaudi’s life led him to stop working on what he saw as “secular” architecture and concentrate instead on what he saw as his most valuable work. Cathedrals, given their size and intricate detailing, take a while to build. In fact, that is a little bit of an understatement, Cologne cathedral took 650 years for example. La Sagrada Familia is scheduled to be completed in 2026, the 100th anniversary of Gaudi’s death, but as with all such projects that date is likely to change. It is particularly hard to imagine that this deadline will be met when you see the building as it is today, and I always used to believe that it would be never be finished in my lifetime, and this used to make me feel slightly annoyed that I would never see the completed work. But now part of me doesn’t want the builders to ever finish, for each time I see it something has changed, something has been added, or the plans have been altered slightly, and this just adds to the feeling that the building is growing under its own volition, which suits me just fine. Gaudi was once asked if he was worried about the length of construction (in total he worked on it for 40 years before his death), to which he replied “my client is in no hurry”. Well, in that case, neither am I.

There is a lot more to Barcelona than the works of Antonio Gaudi, but his imprint can be seen throughout the city, be it the buildings he designed or the park he built overlooking the city – the view is the worth the journey alone. All of his work is worth a visit, if only to try to gain some kind of overview of his work and style. But for now I will leave Gaudi behind and get back to talking about other things, in fact, suggestions are welcome at tdjcblog@gmail.com


Adios

67 days to go…….

It probably seems to most of you that I am showing a rather unusual and unhealthy interest in the forthcoming US Presidential Elections, and to a certain degree I suppose that is true, after all I cannot actually vote for anyone. However, this being 2008, and the USA being the world superpower that it is, there is little to stop me sharing my views on what essentially could prove to be the most important election in recent history. Of course it could be argued that either of the last two could carry that title, with Al Gore inexplicably losing to Bush in 2000 and Kerry doing likewise in 2004. However, that, as they say, is history, and therefore not worth dwelling on here.

So, today Barak Obama was officially confirmed as the democratic candidate, joining his republican counterpart John McCain in the race for the Whitehouse. And, as the title suggests, there are a little over two months left until voting day. What can we expect in the meantime? Well, no doubt a good deal of mudslinging from both sides, McCain and his team trying to point out Obama’s lack of experience, his flip-flopping during the primaries on key issues and ultimately the fact that he didn’t win the Democratic nomination until very late in proceedings, which although in itself is neither here nor there, it does suggest he is only barely the favourite among his own party. And from Obama’s side there will be plenty of suggestions that McCain is too old for the job, too out of touch with the modern electorate and like the man he hopes to succeed his grasp of the economy is feeble at best.

But strangely for a political contest one thing we won’t hear much about is policies. In the UK the main parties publish their election manifestos ahead of time to give people, in theory at least, a chance to make an informed choice. As I have previously mentioned on these pages they rarely stick to these promises anyway, so in many respects the point is moot. However, the absence of true political debate is highly indicative of the current state of world politics.

Essentially, the two candidates will fight for the Presidency over policy details rather than actual policies. The reason is that the election in the US, as with the election in the UK, will be won and lost in the centre ground. Gone are the days of left leaning socialists or hard line right wingers, politics today is a game of popularism, appealing to the most people while upsetting as few as possible. One reason for this of course is the proliferation of capitalism, arguably the best economic theory until the next one. As a result the traditional left wing parties such as Labour, the SPD, the PS or indeed the Democrats, have nothing to argue in favour of, their “viable” alternative having died a death in all but three or four countries of the world. As such they have had to modify their ideologies (new Labour anyone?) in order to find a base of support from which to launch a leadership bid. Equally for traditionally right wing parties like the Conservatives, the CDP, UMP or Republicans the case against voting for the opposition has all but disappeared.

It’s politics Jim, but not as we know it.

So over the next few weeks Obama and McCain will be fighting over details, and as a result the outcome is difficult to predict. Obama has momentum on his side, McCain has pragmatism on his. Both have huge support within their parties, the key battle will therefore be the independent, or undecided voters, and the eventual victor will be the man most capable of luring enough of this group to the polls.

I think my colours have been firmly nailed to the mast over the course of the last year or so regarding who I want to win. And given the recent rock star tour of Europe it seems most of the continent agrees with me, if I could vote I would put a cross next to the name Barak Obama. Except in Texas of course where doing so would somehow result in Bush getting a third term.

So, the question on everone’s lips, is “how can Obama win?” By the way, I am secretly hoping that Mr Obama himself googles that very question over the coming days and ends up here!

In my opinion, the answer is very simple. Three words sum up the ineptitude of the current administration, “Iraq” “Katrina” “Subprime”. In many respects, the election is Obama’s to lose, but as we have seen that means little in US politics. But there is a difference here, and it plays to Obama’s great strength.

All three events named above have one thing in common, namely their impact on “Everyday America” – the people like you and me who go to work everyday to earn a modest living and who in the last 8 years have lost family members to war, homes to natural disaster and financial mismanagement and ultimately faith in the ability of their government to do just that, govern. The very principle of democracy, and let us not forget that the US claims to be the world’s greatest democracy, is that the government is answerable to the people, and should act in their interests. Bush and his cronies have done the very opposite.

If Obama has proven one thing over the last few months, it is his ability to appeal to a large cross section of the population, largely due to his polished skills as an orator and his use of technology as an election tool. But, and here is the point, if Obama can harness these skills and simplify his message to appeal to a yet broader range of people he stands a real chance of winning with ease. And what should that message be? Simple, return America to the land of the free, reignite the American dream and reclaim the land of hope and glory. Sounds cheesy I know, and I’m a bit ashamed for using those terms, but for once I actually believe them.

In a world of economic and military instability, where frankly America’s standing in the world is slipping daily, there is only one way to win the election – freedom. Freedom from trading constraints and protectionism, freedom from military conflict, freedom from the cronyism that has sullied previous administrations, freedom from crippling medical costs, freedom from being seen as the most dangerous rogue state on the planet. Easier than it sounds maybe, but given the current wave of momentum in his favour, if anyone can achieve it…….

Till whenever.....

T'Olympics.

What better time for me to write a little something about the Olympic Games in Beijing? (well, before they began would have been good I suppose but...) I am talking of course about the successful weekend for "Team GB" as the press insist on calling our team of athletes. 8 Golds in two days is good going by anyones standards, even more so when you consider that prior to the Games our hopes were been talked down. So, congratulations Team GB, even if yours truly is slightly dubious about the merits of some of the sports we won gold in...

....I'm sorry but i can't help it. It is Monday evening and I have just watched the highlights of the weekend, rowing, cycling and sailing dominated proceedings, seemingly for a Brit to win a medal it helps to be sitting down. In my understanding the Olympics were conceived to test the relative merits of men and women, to find out who was the fastest on their feet, who had the endurance to compete over long distance, and who was the strongest person in the world....at no point did the Ancient Greeks want to find out who was the best BMX rider, or Baseball team, or Trampoliner! Essentially the original events revolved around track and field events, with a bit of wrestling and boxing thrown in for good measure - the Olympic motto is : Citius Altius Fortius, or faster, higher, stronger to you and me. Nowadays it seems that anything can get a time slot in the Games, and in my opinion that cheapens the Games, and also the individual sports and their respective international tournaments. Take Football for example, World Cup every four years, European Championships, African Nations Cup, Confederation Cup, Copa America......all opportunities for countries to test themselves on the world stage. So why bother having football in the Olympics? The same goes for practically all team sports, the Olympics are a test for individuals, not teams.

I know it sounds like I am not entering into the spirit of things much here, but come on, we won a medal in Kayaking the other day!

Another thing that comes to mind with the Olympics is the issue of drugs and doping. Testing is on the increase and there is mounting pressure from within the sports for drugs cheats to be named and shamed, but unfortunately, like the Tour de France, many athletes competing in Beijing will have taken drugs and win medals – whether we catch them remains to be seen. One medallist has already been caught, the guy who took silver in the pistol shooting apparently. Two things spring to mind, 1) what the hell was he taking to help him fire a gun?! 2) why the hell is pistol shooting in the Olympics?!

On a more positive note the Americans are having a decidedly average Olympics, at least according to the rest of the world. The Medal table, which is the accepted measure of success, lists China in first place, the USA in second and Team GB in third. Countries are listed according to the number of Gold medals they have won, this has been the system used for decades……..yet for reasons best known to the American TV network NBC, they have proclaimed their own team the current leader based on total medals won, not just Gold. It remains to be seen if by the same token they will count a 4x100m victory as 1 medal, or 4! To be fair though, the Jamaicans will win that anyway if Usain Bolt manages to actually sprint the full distance for once, rather than cruising the last 30m!


Right, enough for now!

Time to Rant!

Hello Dear Reader(s)!

Obviously, it has been a while since I updated this little Blog of mine, and being the creative, intelligent sort of chap that I am I could regale you all with a long list of witty, and undoubtedly far-fetched excuses as to why I have been absent for so long…..However, I am mellowing a bit in my old age, and feel that honesty is the best policy, I couldn’t be bothered really.

So why the update now? Well, to be honest, a few things have got my goat in recent weeks, so time to rant! By the way, for non-English readers, I don’t actually have a goat, nor has anyone stolen it.

Firstly, fuel and car tax in the UK. Clearly this a hot topic at the moment, with fuel prices showing their largest single month increase (6%) in the month of June. The government accounts for around 53% of the price of a litre at the moment, and people are up in arms all over the country. Now, firstly, our fuel is not the most expensive in Europe despite what the tabloids will have you believe, but our government does take the largest proportion of the sale price in Europe. I for one have no real problem with the price of fuel at the moment – obviously it is expensive, but oil is a commodity, and prices fluctuate. The fact that it is a finite and non-renewable commodity means that almost by definition the price will increase. This much I understand. Demand is increasing globally for oil, based primarily on the rapid development of the so-called BRIC countries (Brasil, Russia, India, China), yet the current spike in prices is not as a result of this demand, but rather an artificially created “shortage” instigated by the oil companies and OPEC – who are keen to take advantage of the surge in demand. This is where the problem lies, and where our attention should be focussed clearly.

That being said, these companies and countries can more or less do what they like, as they are privately owned, and just happen to produce and sell something everyone in the world needs. Fair? Not for me to say, but in capitalist world who can judge the fairness of anything?

Secondly, car tax in the UK/. This week our embattled PM finally admitted that under new car tax laws around 9million car owners would be worse off. Hardly a surprise really, everyone worked this one out straight away. The problem is the increase in duty on old cars, which are by nature more likely to be heavier polluters. Think about it for a second, the change in the law punishes those who own large cars with high emissions and low performance – read, 4x4, sports cars, large executive saloons etc – and anyone who owns old, high polluting vehicles – read any car owned by people on low incomes. So essentially, if you can afford to buy a Lexus 4x4 you pay an extra £150 a year as punishment for owning a gas guzzler. And if you cant afford anything more than a 12 year old VW Polo, well guess, what, you have to pay an extra £150 too. Fair? See above.

So what is the solution? First thing I would do, is scrap the retroactive nature of the tax, apply it to all new cars by all means, but at least give people the choice to buy a car with all the information to hand. Use the cash to improve public transport while we are at it too. Secondly, forget taxing the end user – as I have already suggested those who choose to buy a car with high-emissions can afford the extra couple of hundred quid, so it is neither an apt punishment nor a deterrent. Instead, hit the car manufacturers. As a country we could set limits on emissions for all vehicles, meaning the manufacturers would be obliged to change their cars at risk of losing a market in which to sell them. Tell ford that unless they halve the emissions of all their cars we will not allow them into the country, and you may get somewhere.


Moving on. Mugabe. It has all been said a hundred times before I’m sure, but it is beginning to piss me off now. The guy is a murderer, a tyrant, a despot and I am willing to bet he used to steal peoples dinner money at school. For years he has been killing, stealing and generally ruining Zimbabwe while the rest of the world looks on. It is a similar situation to the one in Iraq in many respects, the country is run by a dictator, different ethnic groupings are being targeted and murdered, there are no free elections, no semblance of democracy and oh, before I forget, the west (read the UK and US) helped create the situation. I will spare you the details, but the US and UK governments helped Saddam Hussein come to power, and also helped hand over the former UK Colony of Rhodesia to Mr Mugabe. Now, don’t get me wrong, I am not for one minute suggesting Rhodesia was in particularly good hands before Mugabe took power, Apartheid however it is dressed up is morally, ethically, politically and well any other kind of Wrong frankly.
But I digress, the point is why did the world intervene in Iraq, while we leave Zimbabwe to rot? If you don’t know, go back and read the first part of this update. Fair? See above again.


Right, that’s enough from me for now, rant over.

Viva La Revolución!!
Hasta luego compaňeros !

Something a little bit different.....

Somehow, it wasn’t quite what he had expected…

The gates loomed ominously in the distance, half a mile or more from where he was currently standing. Or rather, shuffling. The path was narrow, eighteen inches at best, and progress was painfully slow. Rocks and pebbles littered the way, and the dark, viscous water of the river on either side lapped at the path, threatening to cover it at any moment.

The river seemed to breathe rather than flow; the body of water moving slowly, silently as one, and then receding. Slowly his bare feet continued to shuffle forwards, bringing him ever closer to his destination. The air was dry and heavy, working his lungs harder with each breath, and despite the water lapping at the path, the earth under his feat was warm; feet already scratched and blistered.

At present the light was holding; light enough to see where he was going, too dark to see how far he had come. Probably just as well. His foot caught a stone and sent it scuttling across the path into the water; no ripples, no splash, the river simply swallowed it without a thought.

The gates in the distance were still visible, though the light was fading now. Eyes fixed on the ground ahead he kept walking, the deafening sound of silence surrounding him, pulling him closer to the darkness ahead. A few hundred feet to go, and something cracked underfoot, a stone maybe, or something else. He quickened his pace slightly, raising his head to look at the gates once more. Though dark he could make out two imposing towers of blackened stone, one either side of the gates, each adorned with a statue of some animal or other, too far to make out clearly. Still his feet were dragging him forwards, lungs tightening and lips dry.

The gates were closed, that much was clear, and they too were black.
Iron, he assumed.

About twenty feet left and he stopped, stood stock still, eyes rising slowly upwards, over the bars of the gates to the statues on the gateposts. Vultures. Each as a big as a man, intricately carved from stone.

The fading light that had led him here had now all but disappeared. He flexed his blistered toes slowly, eyes dropping to his bare, dusty feet, nails cracked and jagged. Suddenly two flashes of light cut through the darkness from above, the statues were ablaze, jets of fire coming from their beaks, illuminating the gates below. Shadows danced across the arid earth before him and subconsciously he took a step backwards. The gates were visible now, not iron, but rather bones. Hundreds of charred bones lashed together, forming a lattice of death before him.

He swallowed hard, throat dry and tongue swollen in his mouth. He watched, mesmerised by the flickering flame as the gates began to part, the one to his left swinging inwards soundlessly, a gap of a couple of feet beckoning. The air became thicker still, the acrid smell of sulphur sucked into his lungs through his nostrils. Five or six strides and he would be through. He hesitated for a second, left foot suspended in mid air before it fell to the ground in slow motion, kicking up a cloud of dust and shaking the earth. Four more steps and he reached out a hand to push the gate open further, but he was stopped in his tracks by a cough from behind him.

“You sure about this?”

He dug a blistered heel into the ground and spun round, the owner of the voice raised an eyebrow in greeting.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked, adjusting his eyes to the gloom, staring at the stranger. Two arms, two legs, but the rest was wrong, inside out. The muscles, sinews, tendons and veins all visible, no skin to hide them, every single movement making the whole body ripple with energy.

“No, no choice.”

“Who are you” he asked, though really he meant what are you?

“I’m you in many respects. And I’m everyone you have ever wronged. And right now, I’m your guide.” A smile sent a wave rolling across the skinless face, cascading over the jaw line down the neck and shoulders, stopped only by the regular pulse of a black heart, pumping slowly in full view.

“My guide?” Half a step backwards again, hot air lapping at his ankles.

“Yes, so are you ready?”

“No choice you said” slowly reaching a hand out, feeling for the gate.

“Indeed”

The guide stepped forwards, reaching into a leather pouch that hung around its waist. “Before you go, take this”. Five small groups of bones, connected by pearly white tendons, separated by soft purple muscle, slick with blood, reached into the pouch.

He took a step forwards, intrigued. The naked hand proffered a small black box, which he accepted carefully, blood coating his fingers. The box opened to his touch; cigarettes.

He took one out, nipped it between his cracked lips. The same hand offered a light, and he sucked hard on the filter, inhaling and exhaling deeply. Quickly he took the cigarette between his fingers, half turning to the gate. With his left hand he opened it a little further, then turned his head,

“Thanks. But why?”

A smile, or a smirk, then a hand in the small of the back; pushing, pressing, guiding. One foot crossed the threshold, hot air rising past his knees.

“Because” a sharp push, second foot through, landing on nothing but air, “everyone smokes in hell.”

And then he fell, in silence.

Just what he had expected.

Quick update.....

Ok, so I am back in God's own country (Yorkshire) albeit temporarily. My life is currently contained in a variety of boxes and suitcases at the moment, and as such this post will be fairly short - I can procrastinate with the best of them, but today I actually have things I need to do!

But, before I disappear to sort all my things out, how about that review of Sweeney Todd i promised last time out?
First things first, I am a big fan of Johnny Depp, so this will be a slightly biased review. If anyone is doubting my opinion I suggest watching Donnie Brasco, the boy can act. Secondly, I am a huge fan of Tim Burton's films. Burton's films just look and feel different to most other directors, his use of colour for one is at times startling, but it's the atmosphere he manages to create that is really special - the magic of cinema at its best. So, once again, I am biased.
So, the film then. For a start it is to all intents and purposes, a musical, with around 90% of the lines being sung. But, aside from the very first scene, when Depp arrives in London via the Thames, you don't really notice the singing. Somehow it just all blends in to the scenery, it helps that the the two main characters deliver their verses in a fast paced, staccato style, with few notes being held for more than a second or two, and it also helps that somewhat to my surprise, Johnny Depp can actually sing. Sure, he is no Pavarotti, in fact with his mockney accent he is more like Bowie than anything. In fact Depp's accent is the only minor disappointment in what is otherwise an almost perfect film. If you have seen Pirates of the Caribbean it is hard not to think of Captain Jack when Depp first opens his mouth. The accent is maybe not quite as pronounced as in Pirates.....but it is very similar.
That is a minor point however, and as i said, there is little else to fault. It is dark, gruesome and at times has you turning away from the screen cringing, but that is all part of the ride. Go see it, it is brilliant.

right, enough for now, next stop the dreaming spires of Oxford. Until then.......

News glorious news!

Ok ladies and gents, it has been a while since I wrote something spontaneous, so sit back and get comfy, this could be long!

When I first started this blog, one of the ideas in my head was to write down my thoughts on various topics that interest me, in the rather egocentric hope that someone might want to read it. It has to be said that over the months I have tended to wander from that initial idea, writing about anything and everything that too my fancy, but today I will stick to one topic, namely the news from the last few days.

Strangely, I have picked a rather good day as a certain story has just broken that it would be rather remiss of me to ignore. So, in no particular order, here goes.


Prince Harry has been serving in Afghanistan for the last two months or so, and today various news agencies decided to break the embargo which had been in place to stop them telling the world what we now know. First and foremost, I am in favour of Prince Harry being on the front line, he chose to join the army and serve his country and should be allowed to do so. I have absolutely no objection to sending a future king (unlikely, but true) to fight a war if he wishes. There is the rather obvious concern for his fellow soldiers, in that he may be seen as something of a prized target, but that is something for him to discuss with them and his commanding officers, not for public debate. But, obviously all this is now moot, as some trigger happy hack has decided to cash in. the main question that comes to mind is why? Profit? Unlikely to be honest, in the UK news doesn’t sell newspapers these days unless it concerns footballers and/or page three girls, and with the internet the news will be spread around the world in seconds (this blog being a prime example of course). Was it then out some kind of moral belief that the public should know? Again, unlikely, as he has been there for two months, so why now? The truth is, as far as I can work out, that the only motivating factor that is left over is notoriety. A bit like the trader who purposely lost a few hundred dollars in order to push the oil price over $100, there is absolutely zero potential gain from breaking the story other than becoming the subject of the news. Warhol got it right, everyone gets their 15minutes, some more honestly than others. I would be amazed if Harry is still out there right now, he will have been put on the first plane home no doubt, as he has now become a real risk to his colleagues. You can’t help but feel sorry for him really, all he was doing was fighting for grandma and country, and it was ruined by the press. And worse still, no single pres agency has made anything of the shocking fact that Harry is the only royal currently “earning” a living. There is a missed opportunity if I ever saw one.


Switching topics, and continents slightly now, the biggest piece of news of the last week was the “retirement” of El Comandante himself, Fidel Castro. I am intrigued by this to say the least, because whatever you think of the guy, you have to admire his longevity. How many Presidents and Prime Ministers have come and gone since he came to power? How many times have the Yanks tried to assassinate him? To be honest, his story, and that of Cuba, is almost beyond belief. And for that reason alone there is a small part of me, the romantic, idealistic and highly naïve part, that kind of wishes he would keep surviving, if only to stand as a lasting reminder to America that it isn’t all about the Benjamins. Without him Cuba will undoubtedly be better off, how much so depends on two things -1) Whether his brother has the cojones to carry out the reforms he keeps talking about. 2) Has Fidel retired, or expired? The difference will be huge. If he his still kicking around smoking cigars and wearing lurid tracksuits, then little will change in the short run – how could his own brother reject the revolution they both fought for along with everyone’s favourite T-shirt pin up? Things will continue largely unchanged, maybe a relaxation of certain laws here and there, maybe a small opening of specific markets to some carefully selected foreign (*cough* Venezuelan *cough*) investment, but nothing to make you jump up and belt out a rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. And frankly, with such a camp name, why would anyone want to sing it? But if old Fidel has smoked his last Cigar, well, then things could get very interesting, not least because Chavez will be there in a flash to fill the Charisma void left behind simply to piss off America even more. So, my advice, watch this space…

Sticking with the theme of Communism, Russia is holding an election this weekend. Obvioulsy, this being Russia, this is not the kind of election where there is a choice in who to vote for, but still, as long as they keep the gas and oil pipelines flowing CNN will keep calling it an election. Yep, unfortunately a lot of my “news” comes from CNN these days, which is hard work believe me. Everything, and I mean everything, is treated as entertainment of American news channels. Cinematic voice overs, video montages of ballot papers being put in boxes and worst of all the most ridiculous, over the top presenters you have ever seen. Thankfully I am returning to the UK in two weeks, where normal service will be resumed. Back to Russia. On Sunday Putin will hand over the keys to his office to his chosen successor a fellow by the name of Medvedev, and Vladimir will himself pick up the keys to the Prime Minister’s office. So, more so than usual in Russia, this is a pretend election at very best. Putin will pull the strings, Mednevev will pay a little more lip service to the west, while continuing to threaten much of eastern Europe at every given opportunity and what will the rest of Europe and the western world do? In a word, nothing. The Russkies can threaten Kosovo and Ukraine and Georgia as much as they was as long as our lights don’t flicker and our cars don’t run out of fuel. The Iraq Invasion is proof enough of how our own foreign policies are decided and aligned.

All of which brings me nicely to the final topic for today, the US Elections.
As much as I hate CNN, and as much as I hate the American Electoral System, I admit to being particularly engrossed this time around. McCain has all but got the nod for the republicans, but given the way his opponents were often portrayed in the media it is hardly a surprise. Of the top of my head here are some reasons not to vote for other republicans:
Giuliani – three marriages, no stance on abortion and is pro-gay marriage
Huckabee – plays guitar, doesn’t believe in evolution, Baptist
Romney – Venture Capitalist, Mormon, according to Huckabee believes that Jesus and the Devil are related.

I could go on, but what is the point? Who cares how many marriages Rudy has had or what he thinks about abortion or gay marriage? Who cares how Romney made his money or what he believes? Huckabee, in all fairness I find hard to defend, have you seen him play guitar? The point is that these facts should not be decisive in the election of the self proclaimed “greatest democracy on Earth”. That they are is merely a sad reflection on both society in general and the media who feeds it. So 72 year old John McCain is the man for the Republicans, and if Hilary wins the democratic nomination he will be the next President of the USA.

But will Hilary win? I, for one, hope not. She is like the spoiled brat at school who wants what she cant have, and will scream and scream until she gets it. All the fake tears and sobbing declarations about her desire to serve, her right to lead…yada yada yada. The thing I find most repulsive about her is that she claims to be a child of 68, the year when the whole world smoked too much pot and decided to fight for what they wanted. If that is the case Hilary, why the hell are you still in politics? Step aside, let the younger generation have their say like in 68. It pains me to say it because I liked Bill Clinton, to be fair what man doesn’t? But I really dislike Hilary, she wants the job too much, and sees it as her right for some reason. I am not for one minute suggesting that Obama or McCain would be much better as a leader, but at least they give the appearance of wanting to do the job for the good of the people, and not for purely personal satisfaction.

Anyway, I’m ranting again about America, and I told myself I would stop, so I will.

Next time, who knows, a review of Sweeney Todd perhaps? We shall see….


Bye Y’all.

France Part Deux!!

It didn’t end there though. Once day we went to Rouen, with the intention of seeing the sites, soaking up the atmosphere and ultimately visiting the cathedral. We had split into groups at one point during the afternoon, and met up again on the main square. Mrs Day explained that we were going to go into the cathedral, but first someone needed to go find out how much it cost to get in. Thinking about it now, as I write this, I think it maybe wasn’t a coincidence that she chose me, though at the time I didn’t link it to the veal incident at all. Anyway, she took me and my mate Richard Johnston to one side, and in hushed tones and using various hand signals – I think she was maybe a fan of Allo Allo - explained to us that we were to go over to the entrance and ask the woman standing there how much it cost, and whether it was cheaper for a group. I suppose you could say that this was similar to giving a five year old a phrase book really.

So, off we went, whispering to each other along the way that neither of us had the foggiest what we were going to say. As we got to within about 15 feet of the entrance the old woman straightened up a little, and held out her hand expectantly. We mumbled something in pigeon French about “Entrer” and “Combien” then pointed back at where the rest of our group was standing and not looking in the least bit suspicious. She mumbled something back at us that we didn’t catch, and then she pointed at the rather impressive range of half full carrier bags on the floor behind her, before mumbling something else. We decided that a tactical retreat was in order, and went back to tell our teacher that the woman obviously spoke with a strong accent or something.

Judging by the look of disappointment on her face, Mrs Day didn’t believe the accent story one bit, and set off to ask for herself. Something, that being the teacher, she should probably have done in the first place. I mean there must be a part of the Geneva Convention about getting schoolkids to haggle for you. After a few seconds conversation Mrs Day realised what I am sure is now abundantly clear to everyone; the woman on the door wasn’t quite what you would term an official employee of the cathedral, in fact she wasn’t an official employee or resident of anywhere for that matter, unless “tramp” is a job. So, rather sheepishly Mrs Day came back and we went to the cathedral as planned, without further incident thankfully.

And that is pretty much that as far as my early experiences of France go. Not much to show for the first 18 years of my life really, but needless to say I began to make up for it almost immediately after arriving on the campsite. Most of the interesting stuff I intend to save for my future autobiography obviously, but I will share a couple of little stories with you at a later date!

A+

France.....part 1

I first moved to France in the summer of 2001, a couple of months before my 19th birthday. I had finished my first year at University in Newcastle and arranged to spend the summer working as a receptionist on a camp site in the south west, about an hour south of Bordeaux in a sleepy little village called Gastes. The village itself was no more than a few houses and a tennis club, with about 400 inhabitants in total. There was a town about 5 miles up the road called Parentis en Born where most people worked and did their shopping. In the height of summer the camp site was home to some 4000 holiday makers, so in comparison to the local village it is fairly big. How I ended up there is a bit of a blur to be honest. In first year at University I worked at Newcastle United Football Club as a match day barman in one of the corporate bars, and did the occasional shift working evening functions or award ceremonies. One day I was working serving refreshments during a recruitment fair, and remember seeing the sign for Haven Holidays, with a big map of France on a display stand. The next think I remember is receiving an invite to an interview in Hemel Hempstead for a summer job in France. It is a good job that I was studying at the time, for getting to Hemel Hempstead from Newcastle in time for a lunchtime interview on a wet weekday in April requires a degree in itself. I remember changing at Leeds, Manchester and I think Watford too, then taking a taxi to the office where I was to have the interview. Looking back it does seem a rather complex way of doing things, but I imagine my budget was the main issue, and as such a direct train to London and then one back out to Hemel Hempstead was probably out of the question.

The interview itself was a breeze, I think they were grateful to find someone who hadn’t lied about being able to speak French on their CV (I was studying languages at the time), and after about 10 minutes they offered me a job. I say job because that is the word they used, but with a wage of £100 per week (essentially £2 per hour) I think a rethink is needed. This was after the introduction of the minimum wage in England might I add, though no such law existed in France unfortunately. So, in early June I boarded a train to London, then a Bus to Bordeaux, then a train to Ychoux where I was met and taken to the campsite in what I later learned was the Maintenance man’s repair van. Again, a rather complicated way of arriving at my destination I admit, and I wasn’t even paying for it this time. I liked France immediately, even though my first job was to make the beds of 20 caravans in 30 degree heat. In case you have never experienced what it is like to be in a metal box in the sun, let me tell you it is far from pleasant. But France in general, or at least the campsite on the first day, was altogether very pleasant, and I found myself walking around with an inane smile of my face, amazed at how French everything was. I suppose it is something of an anomaly that despite studying for a degree in Languages, 50% of which involved studying French, I had only ever spent 5 days in the country by the end of my first year at University. 5 fairly eventful days I seem to remember too, what with it being a school trip at the age of 13.

We stayed in Dieppe, which if it isn’t twinned with Bradford bloody well should be. Essentially Dieppe is famous for being the port at which all tourists who travel by ferry but want to avoid Calais arrive at, and then quickly leave by the nearest available motorway, B road or dirt track. I remember thinking something similar when the coach trundled off the ferry and into town, only the driver didn’t seem to be looking for a way out of town, but rather a place to park in town. To the dismay of about 30 13 year olds he found somewhere, conveniently opposite the world’s worst hostel. We arrived in time for tea, or the evening meal to keep things generically non-northern. The menu was simple, in that there wasn’t one. We sat down, hungry after a long coach journey as you can surely imagine, patiently waiting for our first mouthful of the famous French cuisine we had heard and read so much about. After a while the first few plates arrived, greeted with lots of mumbling and tentative fork prodding. I hold my hand up now and accept full responsibility for what happened next, even at the time I wondered why I said what I said, when to lie would have been so much easier, but even now, 12 years later I am at a loss as to explain my actions.

It is worth pointing out that all this occurred in 1995, a year when the evening news was dominated by one news story – the inhumane (inbovine?) transportation of cattle to be slaughtered for use in restaurants specialising in veal. I had never heard of veal at this point by the way, and nor I doubt had most people at my school. Certainly none of my friends were regular veal eaters, or if they were they kept it in the cupboard when I went round for tea. But in 1995 everyone in England had a rather negative view of veal, given the pictures we saw on a daily basis of calves crammed into the back of lorries to be transported hundreds of miles to slaughter. It was even on Newsround, that’s how serious it was.

Anyway, back to the meal. When my plate arrived a few people had already raised the question of what we were eating to our teacher, a perpetually overwhelmed woman by the name of Mrs Day. Personally I thought she was a great teacher and her husband would later manage the football team I played for, but that is by the by. Essentially what we had before us was a piece of meat covered in a sauce that looked like it could benefit from an ingredient other than dirty dish water. Mrs Day was fairly evasive in her answers, and people were growing slightly anxious, not to mention hungry, so I decided to ask the waiter myself.

“Excusez moi Monsieur, qu’est-ce que c’est?” I asked, using all the words I could remember.
“Escalope de Veau” he replied, without even the faintest hint of being impressed with my French.
“Veau?” I replied, flicking the vocabulary pages of my memory but coming up blank.
“Oui, Veau. Petite vache”

I admit that while at the age of thirteen I displayed an above average grasp of French, sadly my acting skills were woeful. In the seconds it took to put my jaw back together everyone on the table had turned to look at me,

“Well, what is it then?”
“Little cow. It’s veal”

I could have said anything, we were thirteen, we wouldn’t have known the difference between lamb and pork, I could even have said it was dog and the reaction would have been better. Needless to say the sound of forks being dropped was fairly deafening. That was more or less the end of meal times at the hostel; I remember eating lots of sandwiches on the bus after that.

A la prochaine mes amis...

A (young) Northerner Abroad.....how it all began!

I remember my first ever trip abroad quite well, although it was some twenty years ago now. Majorca was the destination, 1987 the year and I’ll be damned if I don’t have a vague recollection of my mother in a swimsuit with shoulder pads. It was the 80s after all. My parents were in their early thirties at the time, and though they had both travelled abroad before, they were far from experienced travellers. As such, we didn’t go alone. Oh no. We were in a group that totalled at least fourteen, mostly my dad’s colleagues and their respective families and I was the youngest by a long, long way. A fact that didn’t stop my mother entrusting me with the Spanish phrase book though, well they do say it is best to start young. The holiday started at about 3am one morning when we filled our Ford Orion with suitcases and set off to meet the others at a petrol station on the outskirts of Bradford, from where we drove in convoy to Manchester Airport. Thinking about it now it seems utterly ridiculous to drive to the airport in convoy, it is about 50 miles at most, but back then it was a big thing I suppose, going to the airport probably seemed like a holiday in itself. Either that or we were counting on safety in numbers when we crossed the border into Lancashire.

Most of the holiday seemed to be spent round the pool during the daytime, playing cards in the evening (3 card brag was the only game we could play in such a big group, it meant my winnings were high though) or watching my mum embarrass herself and all who knew her the rest of the time. As I am writing this from the safety of my flat in Vienna, and I know she can’t hit me, let me tell you a couple of stories.

When we arrived, there was a bit of a cock up with our room, and with hindsight it seems fairly obvious that we were placed in a temporary room above the bar while our room was cleaned. However, this was 1987, the hotel staff weren’t used to English guests and didn’t have a great grasp of the language, and I was still on the numbers page of the phrase book, so we didn’t realise this at the time. We unpacked our bags, and went to the pool, stopping for a minute or two to let my dad complain in the way that dads do best, basically timidly explaining that we would like another room, nodding and agreeing with whatever was said to him, then getting angry with us when we asked what was going on. So, like I said, we went to the pool. And I think it is fair to suggest that my mum may have mentioned that as were on holiday it would be rude not to have a little drink, to celebrate or something. That was all the encouragement my old man needed so off he went to the bar. By the way, the shrewd among you will have already worked out that a 3am start would have us at the airport by 4.30, on the plane my 7, in the hotel by 10 and at the bar by five past. But, we were on holiday, it’s fine, really. Anyway, I was a bit worried about dehydration so I only had a shandy. I’m joking obviously, shandy wasn’t in the phrase book.

Another thing that my inexperienced mother hadn’t considered, other than the consequences of drinking at breakfast time I mean, was that in Spain they don’t really measure drinks in the same way we do at home. It is not so much volume in centilitres that is used as weight in pounds. So a Gin and Tonic in Spain is probably like three back home. She should have realised though as it was served in one of those large coca cola cups you get at McDonalds. Long story short, by the time she had finished her drink her English was about as good as the receptionist’s, and she announced, while pushing her white patio chair backwards and into the pool, that she was going to enquire politely as to whether there had been any progress regarding our accommodation. I’m doing her a favour there, her exact words, or rather word, was “I’llshhaveshawordswiththeseschStanishhpeoplesh”. Fortunately for her, and the poor “Stanish” receptionist who would have had a job understanding her had she managed to find her way back to the hotel, our new room was ready and waiting.

However, my dear mother is a great believer in not learning from your mistakes, and starting as you mean to go on. One of the nights when three-card brag was off the menu after we lost a card, we decided to watch the hotel entertainment, who happened to be a hypnotist. Thankfully my mum wasn’t required to pronounce the word hypnotist when she found herself on stage. Now, I should point out that she blames me and my dad for volunteering her, but anyone who has ever met her would know that we wouldn’t be that stupid. Anyway, he wouldn’t have heard us over her shouting. So, the long and short of it, and that comment will make more sense in a second, was that my mum was on stage under hypnosis along with a few other holidaymakers. Now, most of them managed to get away with just pretending to be a chicken, or a train or something, but somehow my mum was told that she had superpowers. To be more specific, she had x-ray vision that could see through clothes. Seriously, he couldn’t have picked a better person. There was no stopping her, in between the sound of everyone in the hotel falling off their chairs with laughter you could faintly here a Yorkshire accent saying “Ohhh, oh would you look at that…ooh, and you, oh dear, ah that’s, erm, interesting….oh I’ve never seen, oh oh”
I think my dad was unsure whether to laugh or cry really, and I was hurriedly looking up the Spanish for embarrassed in the phrase book.

It probably sounds as though my parents were being a touch irresponsible through all of this, what with the breakfast drinking, gambling and general lewd behaviour but remember who they gave the phrase book to, they knew they were in save hands with me around.

On that note, Hasta Luego….or “I’lllssheeeeyoulatershhh” in proper Stanish.

Ohhhhhh Fffffffffffffffffffffffootball!

Yesterday I made a slightly rash comment to provide something a little lighter as my next blog post. Little was I to know that the bloody English national football team were going to disgrace themselves against the mighty Croatia at the home of football. So, politics this is not, it’s far more serious than that.

So, Euro 2008 will be played in my current place of residence without the country of my birth actually taking part. In fact you could even stretch it a little and suggest that come June next year I will be one of the top English footballers in Austria. Anyway, why oh why have we failed once more? The manager? Yes he has a poor record, no pedigree to speak of, a fairly tenuous grasp of any tactics that don’t require throwing on 3 strikers in the last 15 minutes when you are already 3 goals down, and he looks a little bit like the fella who plays Ken Barlow on Coronation Street. But is it all his fault? Of course not, these are professional footballers we are talking about, paid millions a year because they are the best we have to offer. I would like to think that my mum could be in charge for a game or two and drag a performance out of them. So we can blame the players then, certainly they are the ones who are out there for 90 minutes failing to beat the opposition. And supposedly this is the best crop of players we have had for ages (I assume that whoever said that assumes we can play all three of our goalkeepers at once). So let’s blame the players then, they lack passion, they lack pride, they lack direction, and with Michael Owen displaying the qualities of porcelain china recently, they lack a goal scorer. I disagree, no matter what the press say, no matter what me and my mates say, ask anyone to pick the best 11 England players and the team would not change by much. Admittedly in my team anyone named Neville, or friends with anyone named Neville, would not be picked, but football has nothing to do with that.

So, if it ain’t the manager, and it ain’t the players, who is to blame? Rupert Bloody Murdoch, that’s who.

Ten years ago the premier league’s 20 clubs had 87 foreign born players between them, I know, I counted at the time for an essay I wrote. Today the top four teams in England have 76 foreign born players between them. Notice something?

I don’t blame the players for one second, nor am I trying to suggest that they are directly affecting the current national team. The players playing in the English National Team are good players, many of them could play for other national teams based on merit. But here is the problem.

10 years ago, and in fact way before that, successful British players often opted for a spell in a foreign league, lured no doubt by the warmer climates, the god like status afforded to them, and to a lesser degree, the cash on offer for a short contract. Glenn Hoddle, Gazza, Kevin Keegan, Ian Rush, Mark Hughes, Chris Waddle, Luther Blissett and many more all tried their hand abroad. With the notable exceptions of the four English players who have played for Real Madrid in the last 5 years, it is becoming increasingly rare for our players to leave the island. The reason is simple, the money on offer, the money that brings all the foreigners to play over here, is far better than in any other league in the world. Yes the foreign players who come to play in the premier league are taking places that English players could otherwise take, I understand and appreciate that fact, but the English players who do make it and rise through the ranks are arguably better players for it. The key is the experience of playing solely in the premier league is only beneficial to the foreigners.

Think about it. The premier league is often billed as the best league in the world. It isn’t, but it is the most exciting to watch because the game is played in a traditional, British manner. High tempo, tough tackling, very direct and lots of goals. For Spaniards and Italians who are used to more technical football, with a slower build up and more emphasis on technique, it must be quite a shock. But, if you are already blessed with great technique and tactical awareness, and then you learn to play in the Premier League, then you instantly become a more versatile and ultimately successful player. If however, you learn your trade in the youth team of an English top flight club, and stay there your entire career, every now and then you are going to get caught out and embarrassed.

The money in the premier league is astronomical, not just the wages of the players but the TV revenue, the merchandising, the ticket sales everything. And it is all down to Murdoch and BSKYB. From a fan’s point of view it is brilliant obviously, 5 or 6 games a week to watch, some of the best players in the world, but it is a case of style over substance where the national team is concerned.

So the solution? Haven’t got a clue to be honest. You could start by reducing the number of teams in the league to 18 instead of 20, introduce a quota of home grown players in the squads (The EU would stop that of course), restrict the number of games shown on TV, try imposing a lay whereby reserves teams have to be entirely composed of home grown players, or even make the Carling Cup a British Only cup, with no prospect of European football for the winner, but the prospect of some British players getting valuable first team experience.

Of course, the next problem is finding a home grown manager to manage the team….there aren’t many in the Premier League to choose from for similar reasons.

Sicko vs Sarko

Well, what can I say, it has been a while! My defence? None really, laziness maybe, lack of internet access in my new flat, too many recent trips abroad? No, think I will stick with laziness, it has got me a long way so far in a little over 25 years!

Ok, weird title this time I suppose, unless you have already worked it out of course in which case it is probably already looking a little mundane and old fashioned.

So, let’s start with Sicko, the documentary film about the US health system. I saw it a couple of weeks ago here in snowy Vienna, and on the whole I enjoyed it thoroughly. There are, however, one or two minor points I would like to make. Firstly, about an hour into the film, after the footage of the man sewing his own knee back together, and the story of the fella who lost his fingers in an accident and could only afford to have one put back on, the film heads over the water to Europe to do a little bit of compare and contrast. Now, obviously Mr Moore is allowed a little bit of artistic licence to exaggerate slightly to prove a point, I don’t have a problem with that, but to suggest that the NHS is some kind of medical Utopia is going a little bit too far in my book. Yes it is free, yes doctors do earn a pretty decent salary and yes medicines are relatively cheap when prescribed by a doctor. However, there was no mention of the waiting lists, or the waiting rooms in casualty for that matter, or the shortage of beds, the shortage of staff, or the Superbugs that seemingly render most visits to a hospital more dangerous than an auditioning to be a blind knife throwers assistant. Of course, to mention such things would somewhat take the gloss off the rosy picture he is trying to paint. And we wouldn’t want that in a documentary would we?

Then there is France, a country with a equally wonderful health system, where the staff speak better English than the fat American asking the questions, and where the state provides child care, lengthy maternity leave and someone who can cook you carrot soup of an evening should you desire. Why you would want carrot soup I’m not quite sure. Again, having lived in France I know that it is not quite as rosy as he makes out, but why let the truth get in the way of a good documentary! (Notice I haven’t even mentioned his little trip to Cuba) The problem for me is that what is obviously a very noble aim, i.e. to highlight the current problems with the Healthcare system, the whole thing lacks credibility due to his methods, and his selective use of the facts. Add to that that he doesn’t even mention the taxation levels in the UK or France which pay for the system and I left the cinema feeling a little bit let down. There wasn’t even any sensible alternative suggested. That brings me nicely onto the second part of today’s post, namely Monsieur Nicolas Sarkozy, Président de la République!

Now, I had the good/bad fortune to be in Paris last week. Good, because I love Paris. Bad, because it felt like the whole bloody country was on strike. In reality it wasn’t, only the train companies were striking (well there were some others but they didn’t really affect me at the time). The reason they are on strike is to do with pensions, and how long they will have to contribute to the state run scheme before retiring. For most people it is 40 years, but for the so-called “Special Regimes” it is 37,5 years. Sarkozy wants to make it 40.

The first thing I should point out is that one of the things I like most about France, apart from the food, the women, beaches, the wine, the pastis and the lifestyle, is the level of political engagement present in the average French person. As such, there is a very strong and deep rooted social movement that regularly leads to demonstrations, marches, and frequently strikes. I think it is brilliant that the people have so much interest and power, so much so in fact that the government is scared of the people. In the UK if the government said “right, from now on you all have to work 4 years longer, pay double the taxes and take less holiday” sure we would complain, and grumble, and threaten all sorts of things, but ultimately we would just get on with it. Not so in France. This has been going on for hundreds of years in France, and part of me hopes it will continue. At the same time, I understand that if it does continue it spells bad new for the country as a whole.

Strikes are a regular occurrence, but this one is a little bit different. Sarkozy won the election with a very clear message – France has to change in order to survive. At the time I likened the situation in France to that in the UK in the late 70s – high unemployment, social unrest, strong unions and protectionist policies that were crippling competition. Sarko said that this would stop, and he would push through the necessary reforms. So, he told us what he was going to do, and the French people said a fairly resounding “Oui”. Then he started to do it, and there was much waving of hands, a sharp intake of breath, and a fairly clear “Non”. And now, not only are the trains on strike, but every bugger else too. Judges, teachers, baggage handlers, post men, you name it, they are currently sitting at home with their feet up.

The question is how long will Sarko hold out? In 1995 Chirac lasted three weeks before giving in, if Sarkozy is serious about changing the country it could take a lot longer than that. Personally, I think he will compromise sooner rather than later, and lose a lot of credibility along the way. In the meantime, good luck to all my French friends!

Something lighter next time, I promise.

Au Revoir!

A Short History of Nearly Everything

Now, Science is not one of my strong points, I feel I need to state that at the beginning. I am never going to be found on Mastermind answering questions about Quantum Mechanics, Newtonian Physics or anything similar. No, Science to me is very much like Tequila. Something I enjoy every now and then, it always seems like a good idea at the time, but invariably I end up with my head in my hands with my brain playing its own little Keith Moon drum solo between my ears. I could put this down to many things really I suppose. I could claim that I have more artistic leanings, or that I prefer to channel my energies into expanding other areas of my (lack of) knowledge. But the real reason, in my head at least, is the fault of a Northern Irish supply teacher we had at school for three weeks during the early days of our GCSEs. At the end of the first lesson he told us to go away and read the section in the text book concerning “Paarr”, as there would be a test the following week. I am a competitive bugger by nature, so this, I thought, would be right up my alley. Now, being the studious type I spent a fair amount of time looking through the book for the right bit, however, I couldn’t find it. Days and nights I spent reading, researching, trying desperately in vain to find out something about the elusive “Paarr”. I assumed it must be some kind of law of Physics, but more than that I had no idea.

I was wrong, obviously.

The teacher meant “Power”, I had just failed to decipher his accent. I decided there and then that Physics wasn’t for me.

So, it will probably come as a bit of a surprise to see that the subject of this little Book review is Bill Bryson’s “A Short History of Nearly Everything”. Bryson, as I am sure you know, is famous for his travel writing. He has written books about Europe, the USA, the UK, Australia, Africa and a few others besides, and all are very, very good. This book, in terms of subject matter, is just about as far removed from his comfort zone as possible. Essentially, it is a history of scientific progress and achievement, detailing how we know what we know, how it is that we came to know it, and now that we know it, what else is there to know. Confused? Read the book, it is brilliant, and not at all confusing. All the major discoveries are covered obviously, but the most interesting, and indeed entertaining parts, are the stories behind the discoveries. For example Darwin, the godfather of evolution (think of him as a bookish James Brown), spent 5 years sailing the world and collecting thousands of specimens that would later contribute to his ground breaking theory. He did this on a ship called Beagle, and was chosen to accompany the captain because the captain liked the shape of his nose. Or Sir Isaac Newton, who pushed a needle normally used for mending shoe leather between his eyeball and eye socket “just to see what would happen” – amazingly, nothing! Evidently, in order to make a scientific discovery of any merit it helps to be stark raving mad. There are hundreds of anecdotes of famous and not so famous, figures from history who offer undeniable proof that the line between genius and nutter is very, very thin. And of course, this being Bryson, you will find yourself laughing regularly.

Laughter and science are not the most likely bed partners I admit, but what helps is that Bryson is no scientist. In his own words he realised that he didn’t really know much about the world around him, so he decided to do a bit of reading. Three years later it seems he has worked his way through most of the books, articles and journals of merit, and produced essentially a concise summary for us to enjoy. The most remarkable thing is that while summarising what are undoubtedly fiendishly difficult sources to understand, he has managed to make his book accessible to pretty much everyone. Of course there are some parts that delve a little deeper than others into the actual science, but even these left my head mercilessly ache free. In general it is simple, concise, and most of all riveting. This is the history of the Earth as we know it after all, if that doesn’t interest you maybe you should leave the planet!

So, my advice would be to buy it, and then read it. Obviously.

Bye for now