Buy The CD. Listen To The Band.

Tonight in Brighton, A3 Music, purveyors of this fine album, will be staging another showcase for their artistes. One of the acts will feature two hardened old music business pros on piano and drums respectively and a geek on vocals. Happy am I to be growing old at a time when The Young People are listening to Radio 2 and queuing round the block (and they really were the first time I did one of these things, God help 'em) to listen to my deeply unfashionable contribution to popular music. Apparently, m'lud, the genre is known as “chillout”.

On The Beneficial Effects Of Tea Upon The Constitution

Tony Blair in Number 10

Hi. Tony here.

My friend and colleague Damian has kindly let me onto his Interblog to say a few words to you, our allies and friends in America, on this special day. [Blokey twist of head. Adjusts tie. About-to-tell-joke half-smile.]

Y'know, it seems only yesterday that I was practising the chords of Steppenwolf's “Born To Be Wild” for a jig with my band Ugly Rumours. Given that our bass-player, the Hon Collum Bentley is now a High Court judge, “Crazy” Hugh Montague gave up playing rhythm guitar to take over his father's commodities broking firm, and drummer “Sticks” Fanshawe died tragically in a horrible croquet accident in '74, I suppose it would be difficult to argue that we've grown up to be “wild”, but Cherie says I can still be quite a handful sometimes after a night out with the boys. [Cheeky grin. Adjusts hair. Flattens tie.] Especially when one of the boys is Euan. [Smirk. Wait for laughter. Tighten jaw and straighten face for serious bit.]

But it's not just rock'n'roll music and fast food and Hollywood movies and all the other undemanding pleasures of popular culture that you have given us, the British people, since you so bravely negotiated your de-merger over two hundred years ago. No, the contribution of Americans to our freedom, to our security, to our very survival as a democratic and tolerant state is so much deeper than that; deeper than Shirley Bassey and Supertramp; deeper than Charlie Chaplin, Alfred Hitchcock, and Cary Grant.

[Gimlet gaze. Pause for effect. Lift hands in gesture of intelligent forcefulness.] Since that terrible mutual misunderstanding in Boston over export duties, Americans have given their very lives for the defence of the precious values our two great nations share. As your ironically named Central Intelligence Agency puts it, we are indeed “slightly smaller than Oregon“, we cannot build a reliable bathroom shower, and our burger bars have not yet implemented the bottomless Coke. All of these things are true, but our armed forces have demonstrated in conflict after conflict, operating alongside your own, that they not only kick righteous failed state arse, they do so more politely than any other regime change agents—and without the unnecessarily provocative headwear.

Yes, we are fewer in number, less wealthy, and our teeth are in need of attention, but I come to you humbly on this, the anniversary of your nation's birth, to address you all on behalf of the people of the United Kingdom, to apologise for past slights, to recognise our kinship, and to return your countless kindnesses with a unique offer of our own. [Stroke collar. Give Condoleeza that look that Cherie likes. Take deep breath.]

I have a modest but radical, novel but traditional, bold but reassuring proposal for you all. Let us on this day, the Fourth of July, the year of Our Lord Two-Thousand-And-Four, forge a new kind of transatlantic alliance, one informed by the mistakes of the past; one tempered not just with the blood, sweat and tears of our shared struggles in two World Wars, but built upon a more ancient foundation: [cliffhanger hesitation] a shared monarchy. To you, the people of The United States of America, I offer today our very own Queen Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, and of her other Realms and Territories, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith. [Wait for hubbub to subside. Step back from lectern. Take deep breath.]

Yes, I realize this may seem to some of you like a retrograde move, but please hear the full extent of the proposition I am presenting for your consideration here, today, in all sincerity and goodwill. Rest assured that your adoption of our Head of State would not carry any tax obligations whatsoever: you would not be expected to license your televisions; your “gas” would remain cheaper than urine, and, save for some ceremonial soldiers hanging around the gates of the Queen's Washington residence with dead animals on their heads, this plan would entail no significant UK military presence on your soil. No, what I am proposing [bask in audience's relief] is best thought of as a minor constitutional reform—hardly even that. This would be a tiny, but hugely beneficial, “tweak” to the noble and widely admired machinery of your state.

The next time the President of The United States dallies with a junior member of staff on government property or the representatives of the two main political parties tie for the number of votes cast in a presidential election then, instead of domestic turmoil and international mockery, a simple solution will be at hand: everyone will pop round to Queenie's to sort it out over a nice cup of tea. No embarrassing scandals in the press; no problems with a politicised judiciary; no lawyers running about trying to set national precedents. Your leaders will pull up an upholstered regency chair, stroke a corgi, and chat with our Liz about what would be the most sensible solution. Instead of your administration being paralysed by agonising weeks of legalistic navel-gazing, everything will be sorted out over a couple of creamy scones.

The rest of the time she will merely be a figurehead. You'll be able to hang on to your assault rifles (hey, you'll have a real excuse for keeping those militias well-regulated and ready-to-go), retain your idiosyncratic spelling of our language, and we'll even let you carry on calling it “football”. [Aw-shucks grin. Knit hands. Raise eyebrow at George.]

People of the United States, thank you for listening so generously to my suggestion, and congratulations again on your freedom. Remember: she'll visit that much more often (as will her eligible grandsons) and she won't cost you a single one of your cotton-pickin' dimes.

Good afternoon and happy Independence Day, fellow citizens!

[All rise as Humphrey Lyttelton leads Charlotte Church and the Band of The Royal Scots Dragoon Guards in “The Star-Spangled Banner”, sung to the tune of “God Save The Queen”.]

[Remove lapel mic. Ask aide if now would be the right time to mention the Tony Blair–Jenna Bush dream ticket. Smile and wave.]

Decree Absolute

My dad introduced me to G. She came to Tamworth from Manchester. If you've grown up in the Midlands it's tempting, but wrong, to see southern types as inherently more sophisticated. She might have suffered from dyslexia, but she was so much cleverer and kinder than her snooty rivals that it was hard not to fall for her. I thought of myself as well informed; still she managed to teach me a lot about feminism and politics and world affairs. After I went off to college I still saw her there fairly often. As often happens with studious girls, she got better looking as she got older.

Once I graduated I could afford to see her a lot more, but this growing familiarity made the first signs of trouble all the more obvious. One day we were in the cornershop, about to go out somewhere together, and I glanced at her with the usual warmth—only for her to answer my interest by saying something so thoughtless, so spiteful and silly that I walked out right then, leaving her behind.

That's when things started getting complicated. We both moved to London separately. As soon as I arrived I had my head turned by a much younger metropolitan type. I'd pick G up occasionally and have breakfast or lunch with her, but she wasn't first choice any more. Even when we spent whole weekends together it was never the same. I didn't change, but she did, very much for the worse—especially after she started hanging out with her gossipy little celebrity-loving friend. She wanted to have her cake and eat it: cultivate an educated front, while still drivelling on about junk TV and fashion and crystal healing.

By the time I moved to Cambridge she'd become seriously kooky. Sure, she could pass for coherent a lot of the time, but she'd taken up with an awful crowd of fuzzy thinkers, conspiracy theorists, extremists, and mystic bullshitters. I wouldn't have minded so much if she'd left the hocus-pocus to them, but then she started spouting the same kind irrational opinions they did. When I encountered her—as inevitably I did from time to time, going about town—I'd look at her briefly and walk away. I didn't want to be seen with her any more.

If you're reading this, G, I was tempted just for a moment today to get back in touch with you, but everybody's been talking about you and Seumas and George this week. Now I can never forgive you.

The truth is, I don't want anything more to do with you.

'Blogwatch

Before I start, people of the 'Blogosphere, could we have some snappier names for your 'Blogs, please?

There is a thoughtful and thought-provoking recent post at God Save The Queen.

If you haven't already, you should enjoy this amusing and surreal Colin Powell story at What You Can Get Away With.

Meet Mia in Hong Kong, who has just started a funny and revealing ex-pat 'Blog called Discombobulated In Hong Kong [via Chase Me Ladies I'm The Cavalry].

Ponder on another good post over at Oliver Kamm's place.

Black Triangle has a slick new look, and proprietor Anthony, unlike me, shrewdly upgraded to the latest version of Movable Type when giving his site an overhaul.

In the wider 'Blogging world, according to Technorati, this Boston Globe story about John Kerry wanting to put on a Pops concert is attracting lots of commentary, while this story from the same newspaper about Kerry pumping up his support for Israel isn't even in the top 75.

Argh

Yesterday, my old PooterGeek pages were attacked by comment spammers. That brought down all of my Websites and probably some other peoples' too. I'm very, very sorry.

As for the scum responsible: we're on your case. Get your beards trimmed ready for your court appearances.

Things are slowly being fixed here. In the meantime I cannot be emailed yet at any of my counsell.com or pootergeek.com addresses. Please try again this afternoon.

UPDATE: EMAIL IS BACK UP.

How The Mighty Fall

Traumatised both by France's failure to stop the Iraq war and its soccer team's embarrassing and premature exit from Euro 2004, international footballing legend (and amateur philosopher) Eric Cantona disappeared last weekend.

Today, psychiatric nurses from the Centre Hospitalier Sainte Anne in Paris safely removed him from a makeshift underground refuge he had constructed for himself on the outskirts of the city and led him into custody for his own protection. After showering, and despite his clear distress, Cantona posed for pictures.

“Cynical”

People who love English because the language can be precise and powerful can't protect it from people who love English because they love the sound of their own voices speaking it. Words like “disingenuous”, “chaotic”, and “appalling”, for example, have distinct and useful meanings. To the journos and pub bores and politicians they have become fashionable with, these words are fancy-sounding labels for anything members of those groups disapprove of. “Cynical” used to mean “disinclined to recognize or believe in goodness”; now it's just an adjective randomly applied to things or people you don't agree with. Today the BBC reacquaints us with the essence of the word.

While the British Broadcasting Corporation has been coy about the “motivation” of the Sudanese government in its not-very-indirect support of ethnic cleansing, the Beeb decided today that it was worth questioning why the USA is so interested in discouraging mass rape and slaughter. As thousands of Sudanese refugees “rushed to welcome” Colin Powell, the US Secretary of State, Elizabeth Blunt asked if Powell's visit was “driven by oil” or by “pressure from right-wing Christian groups” or by “Sudan's place in President Bush's war against terrorism”.

The truth is that the Amer-cans just want another opportunity to carpet-bomb innocent civilians in their relentless bullying greed and desire for conquest. Once Bush has razed the country to the ground he will build sweatshops where Halliburton will employ displaced farmers to produce cluster bombs for the military-industrial complex and reformed chicken snacks for the McDonald's restaurants that will spring up from the rubble. The Sudanese will be made to join evangelical Christian sects who will demand their followers' disposable income to pay for buses to take the Joooos back to The Zionist Entity in time for Armageddon. Colin Powell is an Uncle Tom. Bush is Satan is Hitler. War is Peace. Freedom is Slavery. Ignorance is Strength. This is the BBC.

What Are You On, Tom?

Talking of blowing it, Tom Watson (Labour) MP attacks his Lib Dem tormentors by denouncing their party for being soft on drug addicts. This is like attacking the Monster Raving Loonies for supporting representative democracy. [Once you've read the parent post on his site I warn you no to go any further; some of the comments appended are shockingly daft.]

Below that, Watson accuses a Birmingham Lib Dem candidate of thinking that mobile phone masts aren't necessarily a bad thing. That's because she can't hear the voices that they transmit. (And neither can I, now that I have my tinfoil hat.)

Pull yourself together, man. The Lib Dems have so many policies that are genuinely barmy. Surely you could link to one of them?

Militant Accountants Against The Occupation

The Anonymous Economist sends me Paul Krugman's opinion piece in the New York Times today. Krugman meets expectations: he makes some valid points about American incompetence and corruption in Iraq's reconstruction; then he blows it with his conclusion:

“Let's say the obvious. By making Iraq a playground for right-wing economic theorists, an employment agency for friends and family, and a source of lucrative contracts for corporate donors, the administration did terrorist recruiters a very big favor.”

And Osama melted two Manhattan skyscrapers because Bush failed to sign up to the Kyoto agreement.

I can see it now. A young hot-head is led into a hideout of the leader of the terrorist group Actuarial Jihad. His blindfold is ripped off and the new recruit is challenged to explain himself:

“I heard today in the mosque that those Yankee bastards have stitched up the radio bandwidth auction! I knew then it was my destiny to destroy their Humvees with a roadside explosives and behead the infidels who drive them. Only when the crusaders' dog lackeys are crushed can we secure the transparent audit that God has willed!”

[Article may require free registration. Keep from direct sunlight.]

David Duff's Book Club

Also doing my work for me today is PooterGeeker David Duff. He's back from his hols and emails with book reviews. He recommends The Ice Harvest by Scott Phillips. David writes:

“Like all good pulp fiction, it is very cynical and morally dubious but an absolutely cracking read.”

He points those looking for something rather more substantial at 1815: The Road to Waterloo by Gregor Dallas and Margaret MacMillan's Peacemakers—the latter he jokingly describes as:

” the story of the 1919 effort to settle Europe's affairs once and for all”

Another Sheet On The Roll

In the absence of anything amusing from me, read someone else. I've added Mick Hartley's 'Blog to the PooterGeek 'Blogroll, having inspected it at the recommendation of Backword Dave. You might want to wander over and enjoy the righteous kicking Mick gives Bianca Jagger today—no, not that Mick. I salute a man ready to lay down fifteen minutes of his life to read an article by a celebrity Leftie in the New Statesman. [UPDATE: Blimey, GSTQ is recommending the latest New Statesman too!]

One of Mick's earliest posts, an insightful observation about—rather than critique of—Chomsky's intellectual outlook, led me to this informative site, devoted to the factual (and sympathetic) fisking of that man's works.

WordPress Update

For Backword Dave and Timbeaux and any other 'Bloggers interested, here's my list of gripes/tips from my two weeks of using WordPress:

  • You can get yourself in a terrible mess if you forget who you are logged in as. Don't.
  • WP takes forever to timeout from pinging back URLs when you press Publish, so just disable pings beforehand if your entry's links won't point to responsive 'Blogs.
  • The absolute distinction between what you can do with draft posts and what you can do with published posts is maddening—you even have to Publish posts you aren't happy with so you can delete them easily.

Hit Me Baby One More Time

When Dolly the Sheep was cloned from a single cell of her mother/twin's udders, one of the science-fiction-horror side-effects of the manner of her conception was the premature ageing of Dolly's own cells.

Someone should tell Britney that the terrible downside of being created from a flash-frozen scraping of Madonna's left breast is that she is doomed to live Madge's life at a hugely accelerated pace. At this rate it will be three years before Britney is speaking in a fake London accent and being directed by her nth husband in a terrible desert island movie.

Bang Per Buck—or Why I Willingly Sponsor Killers

My mate Tony Blair's emailing me again. After I complained about the Word documents he kept sending me, he kindly switched to HTML mail with minimal formatting and a graphic of his signature at the end. He attaches a slightly more elaborate PDF document telling me what's wrong with the Tories' plans for the National Health Service.

Tony's bruiser sidekick, John Reid, sent me one the next day, too, about the same thing, except it had a picture of his hard face trying to flex into a smile at the top. (Don't get me wrong; there's nothing I enjoy more than listening to Rottweiller Reid bury his canines in the twitching leg of John Humphrys during a Today Programme interview on BBC Radio 4; I just wouldn't book him as a children's entertainer.)

What spooks me about Tone's own missive is that, perhaps because Alastair Campbell doesn't provide the content any more, his former master's insistent, posh-but-trying-not-to-be voice rings out from every word. When you read a stirring sentence like this:

“Without investment in capacity and in essential standards and facilities, sustained not just for a year or two but year on year as a matter of central national purpose, there is no credibility in claims to be able to extend choice to all.”

you can feel the impression of Anthony Charles Lynton's borderline loopy stare boring into your forehead from your computer screen. I'm sure he's more-or-less right about “choice” in public services, but I'm only slightly less interested in what's happening on Big Brother than I am in the details of implementation of Labour's policy on foundation hospitals.

If we're talking value-for-money in reducing the sum of human suffering, I'm happy handing over thirty-odd percent of my pre-tax income to fund the gyro in a cruise missile targeted on the offices of Saddam's secret police or sponsor the left leg of a wiry SBS man jogging from a river into the West African jungle to take out a pack of machete-wielding child rapists.

What would be nice, Tony mi ol' china, would be to have the bastards arrested/killed/vapourized specifically in my name. I propose a scheme for willing supporters like me to have their tags embossed onto, say, hand grenades before they're tossed into the path of marauding wannabe martyrs, ambushed on the Iraqi border on their way to fill some schoolgirls with shrapnel.

The idea of a homicidal Jew/gay/woman-hating zealot heading off to blow himself up, along with a queue of Iraqis, but instead being intercepted by a bunch of cheerily brutal squaddies fresh from Colchester lifts me more than seeing a Live Aid truck delivering grain to the starving when I was a sixth-former. When they come to take “my” “insurgent” away in a special purple armoured personnel vehicle, I want the fucker to wave his cuffs in mystification at the distorted McDonald's logo on its side.

The last words he'll offer before they bundle him in will be: “What is 'PooterGeek'?'. The grunt with the SA-80 will reply: “Oh he's a cowardly nerd who writes one of those online diaries, but he declares every last penny for every visiting lecture he gives, in the hope that one day it'll help to put shit like you behind bars. Though obviously, like you, he'd prefer it if you resisted arrest and we had to give you a painful gunshot wound first. Now duck your head down, mate, so we can fit you through the door. We want you just about here so you're first in the firing line of any of your friends' RPGs.”

In Praise Of The Little Guy (And His Girlfriend)

This another oldie, but it's never too late to read a story about the Mail on Sunday being humiliated. Mil Millington wrote a Webpage and a newspaper column and a book and, soon, a film—sorry: “major motion picture”—called “Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About”. [Mil's homepages might be funny, but they're ugly and use frames. Why doesn't his girlfriend pick an argument about that?]

When Millington wouldn't let the MoS publish the content of “Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About” Webpage, they just stole it anyway. Fortunately, every right-thinking person—including a cool bloke called Dave Green who I remember from University College (Bill Clinton's alma mater)—hates the Mail. And they joined the fight on his behalf.

Crime News

11 English tourists were robbed last night in the Portuguese capital. One of the party, Londoner Solomon Campbell, 29, said to reporters: “I was sure I'd put it away safely, but, by the time we'd returned to our hotel everything we'd worked so hard for was gone.” Although a Swiss David Bowie impersonator, currently touring Portugal with an international production of The Rocky Horror Show, has been helping local police with their enquiries, witnesses agree that, at the time of the theft, he was too far away from the area to know anything about the incident.

Distractions

Leasey brings us a fascinating tiny game. I could warn you of the little wrinkles, but you'll have more fun working them out for yourself. She also recommends that we catch up on the latest drama in Britney's life.

It's not just the world of international refereeing that's gone topsy-turvy: pork scratchings are becoming a health food according to Anthony; The Australian says Saddam Hussein doesn't like the way he's being treated in prison (but the Beeb says he's okay and so does The Guardian); oh yes, and a giant baby threatens to eat Germany.

Brummies have sex. Guardian is shocked. Cypriot police take a close look. Tim is on it.

Festival Round-Up

Despite featuring the towering talent of Morrissey, this year's “alternative rock” Lollapalooza tour in the States has had to be cancelled because of poor ticket sales. You mean the young (ha!) people don't want to hand over their hard-earned to witness the still-fresh and boundary-breaking virtuosi of the Pixies and Sonic Youth? Say it isn't so! Boring, musically-challenged blokes who work in the “creative” industries must be weeping into their microbrews across the USA.

And, reflecting on the UK's own Glastonbury festival in The Times, the often-sensible Stephen Pollard seems to have completely lost it. There's no need to drift off into a “bloody long-haired hippies with their drugs and wailing pop music” tirade to make the case against “Glasto”. Three words are sufficient: Oasis are headlining. The biggest draw at the event is an ugly, charisma-free, inarticulate, immobile, lazy, hamfisted, pub duo whose tired Beatles tribute act would be booed off Stars In Their Eyes.

The emperor of indie rock has been stark bollock naked for years. His mistake was to cross the Atlantic and expose himself to the locals. Now the Americans are pointing at his dangly bits and laughing—those Americans who aren't ignoring him completely and hoping he'll be picked up by the police so he stops embarrassing everyone.

Whoda Thunkit?

Join me on the bleeding edge of radio broadcasting, where Tony Blackburn and Cliff Richard form a radical alliance against corporate music programming. No, I'm serious. The cheesy, 61-year-old Blackburn is a true rebel and has put his job on the line to prove it. I find myself in the disturbing position of supporting him completely.

More Cheap Innuendo

The headline alone is worth a 'Blog post, but Christopher Saigal, one of the medics involved in the ground-breaking study showing that "Sex Life Can Improve When Obese Men Lose Weight" is going to wish he'd been on the media training course when his colleagues start reading this quote out aloud in the doctors' mess:

' If you lose the weight, you may regain sexual function,' Saigal said. ' That's a carrot for an obese individual'

Money Tip

Since moving from New York to The Jewish State a few years ago, Judith has discovered that popular prejudice about the country's inhabitants is wrong in many ways. One less important example is that Israelis repeatedly demonstrate to her and her husband (ex-Wall Street workers both) their chronic incompetence in the supposedly competitive field of financial services. I mean, how can they run a global banking conspiracy when this how they run the Bank of Israel?

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