07Sep04 — 26

A Catholic Sociologist Writes

And overcomes my prejudices. Everyone (many Guardian contributors, for example) who thinks that US politics is dominated by a simplistic Right-wing agenda, sponsored by fundamentalist Christians, should be made to read this New York Times article that the Anonymous Economist drew to my attention. (S)he also sent this snippet from a meet-the-people piece, “In an Old Coal Town, the Old Party Labels Are Faded“, about part of one of the critical states in the presidential election:

“NEW LEXINGTON, Ohio, Sept. 3

“Sharon Alfman, the cook at the little County Seat Diner here, might seem to be a likely John Kerry supporter. She has voted Democratic most of her life. She has no health insurance through the diner, and her husband’s insurance ran out after he was on disability for more than a year. But she already knows that she is going to vote for President Bush.

‘Mrs. Alfman, 51, said that if the Democrats could do anything about health insurance, they would have done it under Bill Clinton. Now, she said, the Democrats have ‘burned themselves out.’ And like several other people here in this gritty patch of southeastern Ohio, she has already tuned Mr. Kerry out. A Kerry commercial, in which he says his economic plan would provide ‘good wages and good benefits,’ came on the overhead television by the kitchen, and no one seemed to notice.

‘Kerry doesn’t know what the working-class people do; he hasn’t done any physical labor all his life,’ said Mrs. Alfman, who gets up at 4 a.m. to start her job. ‘Bush’s values are middle-class family values.‘”

06Sep04 — 1

Qualification Inflation

Apologies to those of you outside the UK who can’t access this whole article from The Times for free. [Email me if you want more info 😉 ] This education story attracted my attention yesterday:

“TEENAGERS in middle-class areas have begun to turn their backs on university, putting at risk the government’s drive to increase the number of graduates. New government figures show that in many affluent areas the proportion of 18-year-olds going to university has dropped.

“The worst affected area was Wokingham, Berkshire, where there was a 5.4% fall in numbers in just one year resulting in 27.3% of 18-year-olds entering higher education. The borough has some of the best-performing secondary schools in the country. The second-worst affected area was North Lincolnshire, where the proportion fell by 4.7%.”

“… Howard Glennerster, professor of social policy at the London School of Economics, said some of the apparently weakening attraction of university for the middle classes was because of the smaller financial gains they stood to make. Average income for working-class graduates is boosted by 16% compared with non-graduates; for middle-class students, the figure is 12%.

Glennerster said: “Higher education puts people in touch with information and a jobs network. Working-class students get most benefit from this because middle-class people already have access to much of that network and information.”

Students turning their backs on university often have as their role models successful non-graduates such as Sir Richard Branson, the Virgin tycoon, John Major, the former prime minister and Sir Tom Farmer, founder of the Kwik-Fit car repair chain.

Farmer said: “I didn’t go to university but when I joined a small tyre company the management encouraged people like me to go to night school.”

Government figures suggest the financial rewards of a degree may be falling. Previously, the education department has estimated that over a lifetime a graduate could expect to earn £400,000 more than a non-graduate. This has now been cut to £120,000—about £3,000 a year more than non-graduates.”

06Sep04 — 1

All Bald Men Look The Same: II

I am in a UK airport branch of Dixons. I am trying out the keyboard of an ultra-portable notebook computer to see if it’s large enough for me to touch-type on. An American tourist approaches with his eleven-year-old-looking son. He smirks at his offspring and then says to me: “That’s small enough for you to give one to Mini-Me as well.”

My giant laser beam is trained on the White House. All of the people of the United States will pay for this single individual’s unthinking insolence!

06Sep04 — 1

Count Yourselves Lucky

I wrote a violent movie spoof last week that I didn’t post because of what happened in Russia. Yes, PooterGeek had a rare attack of taste and decency. Rest assured that it will appear once everyone in the media has forgotten the latest “9/11”. Next week, probably. Now, however, might be a good time to link to this piece of satire, especially when there’s a new biography of this man appearing in good bookstores.

06Sep04 — 0

“I Didn’t Spend Six Years At Evil Medical School To Be Called ‘Mr Evil'”

Everything else had failed. Ken Starr gathered together his life savings, remortgated his house, and hired the professionals to get mediaeval on Clinton’s ass:

“AFTER ‘harvesting’ bypass vessels from their former president’s arms and legs, US surgeons will cut into Bill Clinton’s sternum with a circular saw. His ribs will be eased to the side to reveal a beating heart, which, following a few understandably vital steps in between, will be stopped.”

06Sep04 — 5

A Toast

I’ve just added the fierce and furry Hak Mao to the ‘Blogroll. (And, if you don’t write something soon, Timbeaux, I’ll be de-rolling you. How can I read a ‘Blog that isn’t?)

Hak comes from the land of my favourite bread: Vogel’s. It’s the anti-Nimble. The ingredients of Vogel’s are harvested from the hearts of collapsing stars. It’s so dense that I just unscrew the Marmite lid, hold the jar in the vicinity of a slice and watch it spread itself on the surface by gravity alone. Line your stomach with stuff like that in the morning and you can deal with anything that The Today Programme has to throw at you. I am slightly worried the Atkins™ androids have become interested in it as a “low-carb” alternative to other bread, but after slathering my second and third slices in jam, I don’t think I can be acccused of eating it according to the current re-animated celebrity diet fad.

Enough product placement for ya, Will?

05Sep04 — 19

Today’s Headlines

Further to Eric’s observations, I bring you the main frontpage banners from England’s Sunday papers.

The Independent on Sunday:

“Inside School Number One: the full horror of Russia’s 9/11”

The Sunday Times:

“Terrorists hid bombs weeks ago”

The Observer:

“The Last Goodbye”

The News Of The World:

“322 DEAD”

The Sunday Telegraph:

“Russian school death toll rises over 350 as families curse Putin”

The Sunday Express:

“CHECHEN BUTCHER TARGETS BRITAIN”

The Mail On Sunday:

“LABOUR TO BAN HUNTING WITHIN WEEKS”

I don’t need a manifesto or a bible when the Mail will always be there to remind me of whatever I should be against at any given time. It collects the truisms of the polo-shirted golf club bore, the complacency of the not-as-pretty-as-she-used to be but still well kept trophy wife, the certainty of the line-toe-ing “executive” and edits them into a handy tabloid package of pure wrongheadedness.

The Book tells us that the accursed ones must cast aside their earthly robes at the gates of Hell and don papier-mâché nethergarments fashioned by the slaves of the Evil One from the pages of the works of The Associated. Though they are bound by the saliva of demons, their fibres offer no respite from the heat, nor shall they be kindled by the flames of the fiery pit; they serve only to deny the damned the pleasures of the flesh. Verily, I say unto thee, the Mail is the stuff of Satan’s underpants.

05Sep04 — 0

Ain’t That The Veritas?

And now a perfect contrast from the grumpy copper:

“Alcohol plays a large part in my professional life, many people I meet are under it’s influence, and those who say they aren’t usually are. I heard the other day that Russian police officers simply hose down their drunks (with a high pressure hose) and release them back into the community, without referring them to any outside agency! Amazingly, consumption of alcohol seems to give people an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of the law, “You can’t do that!” is something I often hear from drunks as I arrest them for beating their mistresses, or damaging their neighbours’ property.

“Women are responsible for lots of crime. Indirectly of course, it’s their menfolk who do the crime, but it’s usually in the name of the women in their lives. When called to a domestic assault, I like to ascertain the facts in the following way:
“Did you hit her?”
“Basically, I really love her, but she just pushed me too far this time.”
“I see, so you didn’t really mean to do it.”
“No, I just lost it, I really love her.”
“So you say. Are you drunk?”
“Well, I’ve had a few.”
“So you’re a violent drunk?”
“You’re twisting my words.”
“And you’re under arrest.” Strike one for justice.
Returning to take the statement from the battered (and not in a fish and chips way) female, I ask penetrating questions:
“How long have you been together?”
“On and off for 18 months.” (It’s always “on and off” in these cases).
“Has he always been violent towards you?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“And at what point did you decide he would make an ideal father for your child?”
“Well it just sort of happened.”

“So there it is: beer, women and insanity. Next time: drugs.”

05Sep04 — 0

Doing It In Style

I didn’t watch the England game yesterday evening, thank God; I went to a barbecue held by a couple of nice people I know—calling them friends would be an exaggeration, though I certainly wouldn’t be ashamed to do so. N is an old-school, self-taught computer whizz with an interesting life history. I know him through H, his partner, who drove me in her car a long long way for free without knowing anything about me—which, I suppose, could be considered foolhardy. N is already something of a ‘Net personality, but performs most of his most interesting online activities—making life difficult for racists for example—under a pseudonym, so I won’t give any more personal info.

Every year N has a barbie and fireworks night. They are, I am told, always quite an event, but this year’s was special. We watched the amazing noisier fireworks (some of which he sourced through another pyrotechocrat I recommended to him who runs an import business) and listened to his specially programmed music on a local grassy field. He and his sidekick scuttled around in the darkness with their torches and lighters, detonating explosives. Every corny firework show accompaniment blasted out of his portable stereo (including the 1812). And, in the quieter moments, people (including me) teased them from a safe distance about how “this is what happens when little boys earn serious money before they grow up completely”.

Then we moved to his and H’s garden where he surprised almost everyone with the climax of the show. After a few quieter rockets and candles, N lit a huge firework heart. The words “Marry Me” blazed in its centre. Luckily H said yes or I suspect some of the other women present might have taken up his offer. More than once later in the evening I heard the (almost entirely) ironic complaint “You didn’t do that for me!” from already-married women present. Even the blokes were impressed. Now that‘s how to propose to a woman.

04Sep04 — 1

Churchill’s Record As Orator Safe From US Vice-President

ABC News brings us the wit and wisdom of Dick Cheney:

“It’s not only wildfires that shift with the wind,” Cheney told supporters Friday.

“As westerners, the president and I understand the challenges that we face here in Nevada, especially when it comes to protecting residents from wildfires,” Cheney said here during his first post-convention campaign swing.

But Cheney said Kerry has a different view. “He says he’s in touch with the West,” the Republican said with a smile before delivering the punch line. “He must mean western Massachusetts.”

And, whilst you’re at ABC News, twist yourself into a strange shape trying to find a position you could defend down the pub on the bizarre, but lucrative careers of the Giraffe Women of Thailand.

03Sep04 — 1

“Hello?” Again

Whilst Backword Dave is around, I should point out that earlier I wasn’t have a go—even indirectly—at him for being frivolous, but I was having a go at The Today Programme. He doesn’t need to explain himself; ‘Bloggers, by definition, should be able to write about anything they like. I could hardly have a go at, say, a Beanie Baby ‘Blog for failing to address global terrorism. But “the most popular early morning news programme in Britain” might have been expected to make a special effort to cover the events that led to this carnage.

03Sep04 — 7

All Bald Men Look The Same

The Susurrator nibbles at the shoelaces of titans as he vainly attempts to reduce us, the shining stars of the UK ‘Blogosphere to one-liners. Do you know who I am, child?!

And apart from having shaved heads, Irish forenames, and the finely-sculpted bodies of gay icons, where is the resemblance between me and this person?

Dermot almost grins
Damian [click to enlarge]
Damian grins
Dermot [click to enlarge]

I think I am going to have to lightning you, young man.

If you were going to compare me to a famous person, you could at least chosen someone beige:

Vin, Damian, and Roland wearing only sweaters
Vin Diesel, anonymous loser, Roland Gift [click to enlarge]
03Sep04 — 1

They’re Coming To Take You Away

The hippies at Libra Aries are, I think, onto PooterGeek. Now they are choosing the books they put in their window specifically to vex me. Today’s volume is Alex Constantine’s Psychic Dictatorship in the USA. Of course it would be easier to mock if the Republican Party wasn’t seriously considering mental health screening for all children (possibly as part of the creepily named “New Freedom Initiative” for the disabled) and this hadn’t been on the agenda in Illinois.

[Thanks to Hind and one of the serious medical journals, but I can’t remember which one. Perhaps They erased my mind.]

02Sep04 — 18

What Would Make You Vote Tory?

I’m winging it even more than usual this evening because I have lots to do, so apologies for this post being particularly loosely thought out—it’s coming straight off the top of my head out to the keyboard and it requires you lot to do the hard work for me. I’m not hopeful on either count. When I write two lighthearted lines here I get page after page of argument; when I invite people to participate in some serious political debate I get nothing. Here we go anyway.

Last week a clever and successful woman who I only know through ‘Blogging wrote me a long email about her journey from the Tories to the Liberals to her present and very longstanding Labour membership. She jokingly said in that message that “perhaps [people like us] should form our own party”. She set me thinking.

What kind of policies would be consistent both with Right-wing ideals and with the UK Conservative Party winning the votes of long-term, but independently-minded, Labourites like me—and possibly you? (I was going to call myself a long-term Right-wing Labourite, but a lot of my dream policies are comfortably to the Left of even the Respect Coalition. That made you jump, didn’t it?)

Your mission, dear readers, is to devise or choose policies that might make you even slightly more likely vote Tory. To play this game you have to be someone who has voted Labour in the past (or, if under voting age, intends to do so in the future) and the policies you suggest should be consistent with at least one strand of “Conservative” thought. I will interpret that broadly enough to include “one-nation” types, traditionalists, wets, Thatcherites, and even Portillistas—but not Heath-ite throwbacks.

Here are my suggestions to get you started (or to start a fight). I hope you’re not reading this, Michael Howard, because I would probably have some kind of blackout on my way to the polling station if you adopted my proposals and I was forced to vote for your lot on principle.

Bring back selection in schools, scholarships, and rigorous public exams; privatize the universities and let them set their own fees. All of these policies are completely consistent with a meritocratic, small government, free market administration that aims to target financial assistance to those most in need of it and those most willing to “get on their bikes”. (They should also appeal to traditionalists, too)

Get rid of the DTI and instead have a powerful, tightly-focused government competition department with the money to pay for bloody good lawyers. It would challenge cartels, monopolies, and the abuse of intellectual property law. This would be completely consistent with a belief in entrepreneurial and openly competitive British industry (and, incidentally, help the surprisingly Anglo pharma industry escape the creeping research and development paralysis caused by growing thickets of bad patents).

Legalize (that is make available under licensed prescription) all drugs. When the next recession bites you can bet drug-related crime will climb, but even in the present good times, criminalized drug users are a comfortable niche for blood-borne infectious diseases and drug sales fund terrorist groups. Oh, and druggies are not generally very happy people either.

Any of these—especially the first—would make me wonder if maybe it was time I started wearing stripey shirts, brogues and a Barbour. All three and I might even get measured up for a blue-rinsed bouffant wig and comfy slacks.

I’m off now. Do your worst.

01Sep04 — 3

Hello?

200 Russian schoolchildren have just been taken hostage by terrorists, some wearing bomb belts. Israel has destroyed the house of a “militant” who was involved in a suicide bombing on Tuesday that killed 16. Yesterday, twelve Nepalese hostages were murdered by terrorists in Iraq.

Meanwhile, the last three items on the The Today Programme have been Tim Robbins plugging his new play, the levelling off of house prices in the UK and (as I type) the director of There’s Something About Mary is talking about the influence of Alice in Wonderland on Jefferson Airplane. UPDATE: Now it’s something about sharks in Australia.

It’s the original final sequence of Invasion of the Bodysnatchers. I am stumbling between cars on the interstate, waving at them as they approach. “They’re here! They’re here!” No one stops. They all think I’m crazy. As I roll off the front of one of the vehicles, the sound of its radio Dopplers out through the window. I can just hear the voice of Sarah Montague. She’s telling me about the weather.

30Aug04 — 1

Funny Ha Ha

[UPDATE: I’ve been told that the following collection of gags originally appeared in a letter to The Independent. This explains why I haven’t seen it before 😉 .]

Steve K is back at God Save The Queen. He has some serious reflections on serious things he saw at the Edinburgh Festival. Meanwhile, here at PooterGeek, I link to a collection of Fringe one-liners posted at The Motley Fool. Here are my faves:

Colin & Fergus at the Pleasance:

“Dodo died, Dodi died, Di died, Dando died… Surely Dido’s looking a bit worried.”

Ahmed Ahmed at C34:

“I went to the airport to check in and they asked what I did because I looked like a terrorist. I said I was a comedian. They said, “Say something funny then.” I told them I had just graduated from flying school”

Jimmy Carr at the International Conference Centre:

“A lady with a clipboard stopped me in the street the other day. She said, ‘Can you spare a few minutes for cancer research?’ I said, ‘All right, but we won’t get much done.'”

Karl Spain at the Gilded Balloon:

“I joined a dating agency and went out on a load of dates that didn’t work out. And I went back to the woman who ran the agency and said: ‘Have you not got somebody on your books who doesn’t care about how I look or what job I have and has a nice big pair of boobs?’ And she checked on her computer and said: ‘Actually, we have one, but unfortunately, it’s you.'”

Patrick Monahan at the Gilded Balloon:

“My dad is Irish and my mum is Iranian, which meant that we spent most of our family holidays in Customs.”

Jimmy Carr at the International Conference Centre:

“My dad’s dying wish was to have his family around him. I can’t help thinking he would have been better off with more oxygen.”

Rhod Gilbert at the Tron:

“When I was in prison I played football for the stalkers. We weren’t bad players but when one of us would go for the ball, we’d all go. There was no one looking for space.”

Steven Alan Green at C34:

“A dog goes into a hardware store and says: ‘I’d like a job please’. The hardware store owner says: ‘We don’t hire dogs, why don’t you go join the circus?’ The dog replies: ‘Well, what would the circus want with a plumber’.”

Ahmed Ahmed at C34:

“An American girl hit on me in a club and asked me to make her an Egyptian princess. So I threw a sheet over her head and told her to be quiet.”

Colin Ramone at The Stand:

“Ask people about God nowadays and they usually reply, ‘I’m not religious, but deep down, I’m a very spiritual person.’ What this phrase really means is: ‘I’m afraid of dying, but I can’t be arsed going to church.'”

30Aug04 — 9

Cults

There were two other things I enjoyed reading in the edition of The Independent‘s “Review” that I mention below: Andy Gill’s record reviews, of course—he has this anachronistic tendency to write about the music itself and listen to black artists (without making excuses for them)—and a review of yet another book by a middle-class mother recounting the horrors of giving birth and looking after a new-born baby. The bit that stuck with me was this quote from the memoir:

“Children are actually a form of brainwashing. They are a cult, a perfectly legal cult”

The quote also started me thinking about various “British” cults.

A friend of mine is currently writing, amongst other things, about why Britain doesn’t and hasn’t had as much trouble with anti-Semitism as the rest of Europe. I think one reason is that we just don’t feel comfortable with people who take things too seriously. Never mind taking the hatred of Jews seriously (and/or constructing crazy conspiracy theories around them), even taking war, or love, or football seriously is considered suspect. The British distrust intellectuals, dislike pretension and the putting on of airs, and they don’t do fundamentalism. “Passionate Briton” is not a phrase you read very often. Perhaps this is why certain other phrases fall into an English conversation like false teeth into a punch bowl.

For example: you are discussing some misfortune in yours or someone else’s life. The person you are discussing it with chimes in empathetically, “I remember I was distraught when my mother died. I lost my way.”

The second sentence makes you wince inwardly, guessing but wishing against what is going to follow.

“Then, I found Jesus…”

No, no. Please no. I’m stuck on a train to Edinburgh with a God-botherer.

But there are worse things than finding out you will be spending a long journey sitting opposite a born-again Christian.

You are walking through a Tube station tunnel and mutter some flip remark about the song a busker is playing. Your companion, doesn’t hear you properly. All he hears is “Dylan”. That’s all he needs.

“Of course, Like A Rolling Stone is nothing like his best composition. I think the finest collection of his songs as poetry as well as his best songwriting per se is on a 1976 bootleg that I picked up at a convention in Hamburg…”

No, no. Please, no. I’m going to be stuck in a London pub all evening with a Dylan-obsessive.

(I know just enough about music to be embarrassing, so an extra layer of torment for me is that Bob Dylan is the perfect musical enthusiasm for people who know absolutely nothing about music. I’ve been lucky enough to hang around with and perform with a number of truly superb musicians [suckers!] and not one of them has expressed any enthusiasm for the bloke’s work. He’s a kind of shibboleth in the trade, a bit like Oasis—who are inexplicably popular and admired by consumers, but universally considered a waste of good recording tape by musos. This is not in itself a reliable measure of the quality of a writer or performer, but interesting all the same.)

Here’s my provisional list of Brit-bores: Monty Python fans, Tolkienists, photographers who are more interested in photographic equipment than photographs, vinyl record collectors, keen gardeners, anyone who enjoys going to IKEA, and people who compile lists. Readers are welcome to add to it.

30Aug04 — 6

Charlotte Jones Is Everywhere

When I was about 16, Charlotte Jones, now a playwright, beat me in the final of a public speaking competition. Because we were released from the green room to compete one-at-a-time, I didn’t meet her in person until a couple years later when we wound up undergraduates at the same college. We then spent far too much time hanging out together. We were like one of those met-in-Freshers’-Week couples, except we weren’t a couple; we were good Catholic virgins, and, like all the other female undergraduates I knew, Charlotte didn’t fancy me. She had a terrible run-in with one of her tutors, but still got a Geoff Hurst. I dropped out, came back, and somehow scraped an Attila. Her posse of girls passed on their shared rented house in Summertown to our posse of boys. We both hated much of our time at university.

These days she is famous and successful and I am neither, but she is not in the least bit snotty, though I only meet up with her occasionally. She now lives in Brighton and the last time I saw her was when I was gigging there with Richard Brincklow. We took a break from rehearsals to walk Richard’s dog Rainbow and bumped into Charlotte in the park, jogging. She invited me round for dinner later, where I met her son for the first time and heard about the pleasures of working with Andrew Lloyd Webber.

On Friday I wander into the Genome Campus library and, as I very rarely do, open The Independent‘s “Review” supplement. “Blimey!”. People look up from their papers. The randomly chosen pair of pages I open give over one third of their area to a photograph of Charlotte’s face, illustrating a piece about the same collaboration.

30Aug04 — 1

The Decline And Fall of British Popular Music: Part XXXVII

Nick Barlow at What You Can Get Away With links to this piece by Sandy Hunter about errors made by the judges in that international gathering of peaceful competition, the World Air Guitar Championships (“If you are holding an air guitar you cannot hold a rifle”). Nick Barlow asks, why no air drums? Sandy Hunter asks, why no Canadians? I ask, why no Brits? We gave you Jeff Beck, Steve Howe, Jimmy Page, and Nigel Tufnel. Surely things aren’t so bad now that we can’t even muster a World-class finalist in a rock music competition where you don’t even need a musical instrument?

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