How Entertainment Industry Feuds Begin

In the space of a few days, My Scarlett Johansson post has become the subject of a round of Bloggese Whispers.

First, Clive Davis linked to my “review” on his Spectator blog. One of God’s little jokes is that Clive Davis, London Times music critic, shares his name with Clive Davis, US record producer, executive, and TV talent show judge. To his credit, the Clive I know spends too much of his (often transatlantic) professional life explaining to people that he isn’t the Clive Davis a million aspiring Mariah Careys want to get to know better. (Men, ask yourself honestly what you would do if desperate young women kept mistaking you for someone who could get them a recording contract?)

Secondly, and unfortunately, my original comment about Johansson’s singing, which was embedded in praise for her other artistic endeavours, has now been attributed by another blogger—not just to Clive Davis the journalist, who was quoting me, remember—but, via another step in the chain, to Clive Davis the mogul, who has nothing whatsoever to do with this. How long before the World reads on the front page of The National Enquirer?:

“TOP RECORD PRODUCER: SCARLETT SINGS LIKE A DOG.”

Falling Down

There is an upside to my not being a drop-dead gorgeous superstar: whenever I’m working with a bunch of stubbly musicians and my singing’s not up to scratch, they tell me, bluntly. I got my first paid residency after helping a pianist move a piano to a restaurant. He asked me to take over from an extraordinarily handsome bloke who wowed the female diners but sang like a drain.

Scarlett Johansson is a drop-dead gorgeous superstar—a talented actress who, I’m sure she is relieved to read, is beautiful enough to overwhelm my mild (and redundant) prejudice against blondes. Despite her youth, she has already had a dazzling career, characterized by her shrewd choices of acting roles, public behaviour, and dress designers. I wouldn’t put my money on her appearing in an Uwe Boll film, being the subject of a “secret” sex video, or being photographed with her thong peeking above the waist of a pair of towelling slacks.

She has, however, a singing voice like two labradors spinning in an industrial tumble dryer. This is not a matter of taste; it’s a purely technical assessment based on her demonstrated inability to pitch notes accurately. If I had to comment on the texture of her voice I would have to rummage deeper in my bag of similes. Watch this video [via the Flea]. How long can you last with the volume turned up? Look at the expressions on the faces of the more-than-competent backing musicians. It’s almost the opposite of certain recent Bob Dylan live performances, in which seasoned session players fix their eyes on His Bobness to watch out for whatever batshit crazy thing he’s going to do to one of his songs next, knowing at least that, under the willful musical perversity, the guy has some understanding of the Western system of harmony. The scene on the other end of that link, instead, captures the only circumstances under which you can see a room full of men, gay or straight, conspicuously not looking at Scarlett Johansson.

Hasta la vista, Aunty

OPRAH: I’d just like to say what a great privilege it is to have you with us on the show today, Barry.

BARRY: Thank you, Oprah. I’m so grateful to God for my good fortune just to be here, but my good fortune is all the greater for my both being here and being here with you.

OPRAH: [holding up large white hardback book with a picture of small beige boy weeping on its jacket] We’ve talked about a lot of memoirs on the show—Steve Pilbrow’s Please Do It To The Cat Instead, Daddy1, Susan Woomera’s Tears In My Gruel, and Desmond Moines Ouch, That Smarts—but yours is something special, following on as it does from your multi-million selling Dreams from My Father and The Audacity of Hope.

BARRY: Could I just take this opportunity to thank all my readers, from all parts of this great nation—black, white, Hispanic, Asian-American, and Jewish; rich, middle-class, and bitter—who have been kind enough to buy my previous books?

AUDIENCE: [applause, whistles, whoops]

OPRAH: …Sure, Barry. Of course…

BARRY: …When I was a young man, working as a volunteer in a soup kitchen at the Church Of The Thrice-Damned Honky, fighting with the unholy temptations of drugs, wondering if I would ever see my African daddy again, struggling to find an identity, sometimes I dreamt that one day I would have just this kind of opportunity, an opportunity to talk to all the people of America, the people in the red states and the blue, in boardrooms and on porches…

OPRAH: …Now, your new and most recent volume of reminiscences brings your amazing life story right up to date. In Not Without Lube, Aunty! you have dropped perhaps the biggest bombshell yet of your extraordinary career. You tell a shocking tale of how a previous close and trusted family friend, whom you only refer to in the book as “H”, together with her husband “W”, stalked you across all 58 states of America and subjected you to a sustained and systematic campaign of abuse…

BARRY: …I think we gotta be careful here not to exaggerate the scale of her cruelty, Oprah…

OPRAH: …Barry, I have to stop you there. I have to say that “abuse” is the only word that’s appropriate. We’re talking about a pattern of destructive behaviour that—as you write in the terrifying climax of your book—only stopped when you persuaded her husband W to shoot her with a grenade launcher and push her into a vat of molten metal…

BARRY: …Did I mention my daddy was a goatherd? In Africa?…

  1. I stole this []

Pussy Pedantry

My last post prompted a reader to send me photos of her tortoiseshell cats. [Thank you!] Such a flow of cat pics is of course unconventional in cat blogging, but it gives me an opportunity to point out that it’s only some of the much rarer male tortoiseshells that are the true chimeras, mixtures from two distinct embryos of different colours; and that even those obviously aren’t interspecies chimeras, just as the human example I linked to isn’t.

Since female tortoiseshell cats are a gross manifestation of the phenomenon of sex-specific gene expression knowns as “X-inactivation“, and so-called “Barr bodies” in individual cells are a microscopic one, this also gives me a chance to link, radio DJ-style, to an example of the kind of Frankensteinian activity even relative beginners in the lab have been up to for years.

One of the first things I learned to do as a research assistant was to take blood from human volunteers, purify out the white blood cells, and transform them with Epstein-Barr virus into immortal cancerous tumours. Then I grew them in incubators. It’s the sort of thing no one in the business gets the slightest bit upset about, but it sounds deeply yucky to many outsiders, especially when they are told that you have to be careful to keep the growing cell cultures away from their donors for fear that you might give them a lymphoma that their immune systems would be unable to fight—a real consideration when the people you have taken blood from are, for convenience, often your co-workers.

Growing Up

[UPDATE: Edited to use the version of the body text that actually makes some sense with the originally posted title.]

I’m not that old, so I’m often puzzled by people who make historical pronouncements in ignorance of recent, relevant history, sometimes history that happened within their lifetimes but not mine. Of course, as Catholic dogma would have it, not having been born is no excuse for failing to see the light: those who speak in ignorance like this, even the greybeards, should know that it’s now easier now than ever to get hold of information about events that happened before they came into the World.

You know the sort of people I mean from your days at university: trivial examples include those who skip a century and overlook, amongst others, these guys and think that popular music began with the Beatles (and conclude, for example, that performers who don’t write their own songs can’t be any good); slightly less trivial—I’m not being sarcastic—examples are student “radicals” who think that socialism started with Marx, when Marx defined his ideas against what his contemporaries called socialism. (It’s funny, but I can think of few people who would agree with my belief that communism isn’t socialism—outside the early communists. This also explains in part why most (all?) of the states with “socialist” in their names have not been a) socialist b) places you’d want to live.)

Anyway, on a similar theme, I haven’t paid much attention to the current debate about the regulation of hybrid embryo research, but I haven’t noticed a single commentator point out that we’ve been fusing together different species of living cell—including human cells—since the 60s. I know this because I studied it when I was at university myself, but also because, in the mid-90s, my boss’s boss was one of the first people to have done it. [Go here, type the phrase “cell fusion” into the search box, and browse to the end with the results ordered by date of publication.] There hasn’t been anything “Frankensteinian” about the results since then and there won’t be now. (We’ve used cell fusion to make antibodies, amongst other useful things.) I understand that originally cell fusion was indeed controversial at the time—not because a bunch of priests and politicians and journos got their knickers in a twist about it, but because the development of the technique gave rise to a rather more interesting debate about the scientific meaning of the genetics of the fused cells.

I’m well aware that even scientists don’t treat human embryonic material like just another laboratory cocktail ingredient, but much of the antis’ rhetoric reads as though the very idea of combining biological material from different species is unlike anything that has ever been done before. It isn’t. Never mind cell fusion, the word “chimera” doesn’t just mean a monster from Greek mythology, we’ve been creating them in labs for years. “God” has been doing cell fusion and making chimeras for rather longer. There’s a chance your cat is a chimera. Your wife might be one. Being forced by our inclusive, balanced media to listen to reactionary, superstitious, old windbags bloviating about the artificial mixing of embryonic tissue from different species as though it represented some completely unprecedented phenomenon makes me yearn for the supposedly more religious and conservative past that they can’t be bothered to look up.

Thamesmead, Riverside School, 76–78

For a long time, PooterGeek’s homepage has been decorated with a school photo of me shot in, I think, 1979. I’ve taken the sensible advice of one of my readers and moved it. It’s still here, but on the “About” page where it doesn’t unbalance the new site design.

The original print from which the image is scanned is in focus, well lit, and correctly exposed. It’s also rubbish, in that it tells you very little about the little person in it at the time it was taken. It’s a straightforward and accurate record of my surface appearance back then, but otherwise it’s the kind of photographic portrait I try to avoid taking, even at formal occasions.

Via the frontpage of the Website of the Guardian [which I have resolved to stop linking to, following its publication yesterday of an opinion piece from Hamas], I found this Flickr collection of scanned images taken at around the same time at a comprehensive in London by a science teacher there. They aren’t rubbish. Many of them are superb.

A teacher at a comprehensive school in England and Wales almost certainly couldn’t take similar photos today. I’m even wondering how long it’ll be before the police are around to raid the photographer’s place and rummage through his negatives for anything “inappropriate”. The weekend before last, I phoned up the organisers of the Brighton Festival Children’s Parade to ask if I could bring along my camera, pointing the woman on the other end of the phone at my Website and telling her I had a CRB certificate. She said that it would be fine—it was a public event after all—but I should make sure that none of the children in my photographs could be recognized from them. I stayed at home.

Busted By Aunty Beeb’s Licence Nazis

Stephen Pollard (under the title “Is the BBC out of control?”) and the Centre Right Blog at Conservative Home (under the title “Big Brother Corporation“) embed video of the recent, and undoubtedly threatening, ad warning unlicensed TV viewers of the completeness of the TV licensing authority’s database of UK addresses. In SP’s comments, Nicholas writes:

Yep, it’s sinister and repulsive. The actress doing the voiceover should feel absolutely ashamed of herself for participating in this video nasty. The fact that there are people in positions of decision making authority who increasingly think that this kind of threat advertising is acceptable is even more sinister. They have flexed their authoritarian muscles and feeling no resistance will flex them more.

At least at the end there is just a knock on the door and not the full-on smash-the-door-down SWAT team assault which seems to be the norm these days.

I’ve not owned a television for about ten years, during which I’ve lived at at least four different locations. I know what that “knock on the door” leads to. At the risk of frightening the citizens of Airstrip One still further, I shall relate the consequences of not having a TV licence while living under ZaNuLab’s jackboot:

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: [Knock knockity-knock]

POOTERGEEK: [opening door, thereby displacing inch-deep drift of unopened warning letters from the TV Licensing Authority addressed hopefully to “The Occupier”] Hello.

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: Hello, Ms Kreutzenberger. Do you live in Flat B?

POOTERGEEK: I do, but I’m not Ms Kreutzenberger. She died two years ago in a horrible gardening accident. How can I help you?

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: According to our records, there is no television licence at this address.

POOTERGEEK: Yes, that’s because there’s no television at this address.

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: Would it be possible for us to have a look around inside?

POOTERGEEK: Yeah, if you don’t mind the mess.

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: [not entering] Oh, that’s alright.

POOTERGEEK: Huh?

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: People who have a television don’t usually invite us in.

POOTERGEEK: Oh.

[PAUSE]

POOTERGEEK: Does this mean you’re going to stop sending me letters threatening to imprison me if I don’t buy a TV licence?

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: Well, if you write to this address explaining your situation, yes.

POOTERGEEK: Why should I have to write to you to stop getting junk mail?

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: Well, er, that’s how it works.

POOTERGEEK: Hmm.

PERSON WITH CLIPBOARD AT DOOR: Thank you.

POOTERGEEK: Er, yeah. Thanks.

[POOTERGEEK closes door and retrieves partially inflated woman from wardrobe.]

“Unpleasant thuglike looking Jew” Also Jungle Bunny

Like me, Clive Davis is a product of one of those godless unions of black and white, but, because I am an expert on the conspiracy of sinister media Jews, when I took his byline photo I offered to make him look more Jewish in order to help his career. Now see what’s happened. I hope he doesn’t expect a refund.

[p.s. From my recent visitors I see that I am currently high up in the Google search hits for “Boris Johnson albino“—and about to become higher.]

“A new, important, effective way of grieving”

Perhaps you remember this story that I read in a “true life confessions” mag in a waiting room?:

MY SISTER’S BRUTAL KILLING INSPIRED MY BUSINESS PLAN

It seems that, a couple of years on, a US entrepreneur has had the same idea and the result is a similarly Onion-esque report in Wired. Under the headline:

MONSTER.COM FOUNDER STARTS SOCIAL NETWORKING SITE FOR THE DEAD

the man in question is quoted:

I’m extremely bullish about this business—it’s not a question of if it will explode, but when,” says Taylor, who spun the business off his baby boomer social networking site Eons.com. “I’ve watched and built a career on migrating the whole newspaper to the web, and the obituary section is the laggard category.

“We need to learn from MySpace. For example, when a teenager dies there are thousands of condolences,” Heald says. “It’s a new, important, effective way of grieving.”

Tarting Up PooterGeek

PooterGeek is now running version 2.5.1 of WordPress and has a new theme, officially “PooterGeek 4.0”. (I’d planned this makeover long before the Harry’s Place mob moved into their nice new place and the redesign of their site was not my work, but I congratulate them on their choice of blogging software.)

Most of my readers browse PooterGeek on wider, higher contrast screens than when I last spring-cleaned so I have tried to take advantage of that, by using larger, serif fonts and paler colours to make the text easier and pleasanter to read, rather than by using the space to cram more squinty content in—blogs aren’t newspapers (though newspapers are turning into blogs). At the risk of sounding like someone on a house makeover show, my intention was to give the site an overall look that got away from all the dark panels with rounded corners fashionable on the Web these days. Let me know what you think. If you really don’t like it then scroll down to the bottom of the sidebar on the right and choose “PooterGeek 3”, PooterGeek Classic if you will, from the drop-down theme selection menu and everything will go back to the way it used to be—for you at least. [Note: depending on your Web browser, you might have to positively select “PooterGeek 4” before you can select “PooterGeek 3”.] You can always change to New PooterGeek by making the same selection from the sidebar of the old design.

If you are nerdy enough to be interested in such things, the underlying structure of PooterGeek is now, er, semantically richer, being based on Sandbox [link dead at time of writing], and is compatible with a wider range of browsers, being based on YAML. I recommend both frameworks to WordPress tweakers everywhere.

This new version of PooterGeek is, as Microsoft’s CEO recently said of Windows Vista, “a work in progress”. It’s probably buggy. Do please let me know about things that don’t work.

Signs Of The Times

WOMAN TORTURED EX-LOVER: PICTURES

The “pictures” included a front-page one of the torturer dressed in a pink nurse’s outfit that stopped just above the tops of her black stockings

For those of you not up to date with the PooterGeek soap opera, having been made redundant from my first permanent job in science (when the Medical Research Council closed down my place of work), I now make my living taking pretty pictures with outdated technology and giving people advice on how to store things digitally, from biomedical data to news articles to old documents and, of course, photographs. For a number of reasons, including my wanting to get away from academic science and disappointment, I moved from Cambridge to Brighton and Hove to do these things. You don’t have to be Alanis Morissette to see the irony in my accidentally moving into a street with a scientific recruitment company at one end of it.

Now, the irony has, as ironies often do, compounded itself. The office of that tech agency has been taken over by a weight loss franchise, and joined on the premises by a homeopath and a “therapy centre” offering reflexology, massage, and “nutritional therapy”—for which I read: “fad diets”. Sometimes I feel a stab of nausea when I pass by their stacked wall plaques. Perhaps I should see a crystal healer about these attacks.

Gravy / Train

Last week I travelled oop North to Wigan—TWO HUNDRED AND SIXTY ONE OF OUR POUNDS STERLING for a Standard Open Return on a smart, modern, and nausea-inducing Virgin Pendolino. There, I had to give (as I admitted to the audience) the hardest kind of talk: one where you stand in for someone who really knows what he’s talking about—in this case a former pharmaceutical industry statistician.

On the last part of my journey, I did, however, make an important discovery. My epiphany came on my (very) short walk through town from Wigan rail station to Wigan Town Hall. I came closer to the answer to a puzzle that has troubled generations, a question that has echoed down the ages, a mystery so long-established and widely-known that it has even become a frequent topic of public debate at sporting gatherings all over the English-speaking world, namely: “Who ate all the pies?” The answer is, statistically speaking, very likely to be: “Someone in Wigan”.

Chips n Tourism
Welcome to Wigan. Have some lard.

open-fronted pie shop
Wiganian street café culture.

Station Café
The Station Café [click image for close-up of special offers]

Busy Tone

I’m so tired with work I’m starting to have hallucinations. I’d swear Richard Dawkins starts rapping 1 minute and 6 seconds into this YouTube video. (Christopher Hitchens throws shapes from 1:49 or thereabouts.) Go here for the torrent.

[via]

It’s That Time Of Year

The last time I made an offer like this here it was very useful for me so I’m going to do it again. Before the wedding season starts in earnest, I’d like to experiment a bit with some new techniques on non-paying jobs (and burn up a few rolls of out-of-date and unusual film). If you have an event coming up in the next couple of weeks that you’d like some arty shots of, but you don’t mind if the results aren’t necessarily up to my usual standards, then email me and, if it’s feasible and fits in with my timetable, you can get yourself a photo session for free—with extra prints at my usual low rates.

Bear With A Big Head

KNUT the polar bear has turned from a cuddly cub into a publicity-addicted psycho, one of his keepers has claimed.

Markus Roebke said Berlin Zoo’s celebrity animal was obsessed with the limelight and howled with rage when denied an audience.

“Knut must go and the sooner the better,” he said, insisting that the bear should be sent to an animal park where he received less attention

“He is addicted to the whole show, the human adulation. It is not healthy.

“He actually cries out or whimpers if he sees that there is not a spectator outside his enclosure ready to ooh and aah at him.

“When the zoo had to shut because of black ice everywhere he howled until staff members stood before him and calmed him down.”

Knut was rejected by his mother after he was born in December 2006, prompting some animal activists to say it would be better for him to die than to be weaned by man.

The zoo let him live however and he has become a major attraction, pulling in millions of dollars in revenue so far.

Now Knut is bigger, the crowds are larger – and, his keeper warns, his mental health is deteriorating

Mr Roebke added: “The trouble is that he identifies himself as a human and not as a polar bear.

“And as long as he is with us he will always think of Thomas Doerflein, the keeper who brought him up when he was a baby, as his father. Knut needs publicity and that must change.

That’s news? PooterGeekers read it here first, a year ago.

NUTters

Every year the National Union of Teachers conference can be counted on for some beyond-parody educationalist nonsense. I enjoyed this one today from the BBC News site. As part of the perennial moan that children are being tested too much an NUT delegate worried that:

Even nursery-age children were being taught to spell and write in readiness for the tests waiting for them at primary school.

Think of all that valuable finger-painting time being wasted on acquring language skills. How will the little plebs be kept in their place if they learn to read and write like the posh kids?

In related news, the Cuban government believes that by 2010 its people will be mature enough to buy their own toasters.

Future News: Headlines Of 2108

NASA ASTRONAUTS ARRIVE ON CENTAURI IV AND ENCOUNTER POPULATION OF HUMANOIDS SO PRIMITIVE THAT THEY STILL HAVE FACEBOOK ACCOUNTS.

PANEL OF HISTORIANS VOTES ON MOST HATED FIGURES OF 21ST CENTURY. SADDAM HUSSEIN, CLONED HITLER, HEATHER MILLS-MCCARTNEY TOP POLL.

HUMPHREY LYTTELTON FORCED TO STAND DOWN AS PRESENTER OF I’M SORRY I HAVEN’T A CLUE AFTER EXPOSURE TO SUNLIGHT LEAVES HIM SEVERELY BURNED.

HAVING DRIVEN JEWS INTO SEA, MIDDLE EASTERN GOVERNMENTS NOW TURN TO TASK OF BUILDING THEIR DEMOCRACIES. GIGANTIC OCEAN-GOING HOVER-VESSEL FULL OF FORMER ISRAELIS BRANDED “APARTHEID ARK” BY UK ACADEMIC.

ENTIRE CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY DEPARTMENT OF NANOTECHNOLOGY SWALLOWED BY YORKSHIRE TERRIER IN HORRIFIC BISCUIT MIX-UP. GRATUITOUS IMAGE OF RACQUEL WELCH IN WHITE JUMPSUIT ON PAGE FIVE.

PRESIDENT TUPAC OBAMA PROMISES U.S. WITHDRAWAL FROM IRAQ BY SUMMER 2109 “FO’ SHIZZLE”.

Maggie Out

While I’m on the subject of Tories, this evening, I finally got round to watching the second part of the very good Michael Portillo documentary about Thatcher and the Conservative Party (The Lady’s Not For Spurning) that I downloaded from the BBC’s excellent iPlayer site. I put it off for so long because I was busy. I was able to put off for so long because I removed the Digital Rights Management (DRM) “protection” built into the download. If I hadn’t done this then the half-watched file would have “self-destructed” after a preset number of days and I would never have found out whether or not that creepy Mr Howard character beat that nice Mr Blair in the big vote.

Under Windows XP, I used FairUse4WM, which you can find and set up for yourself with a bit of rooting around the Web, to free up the video and, under Linux, used DeVeDe to convert the resulting unprotected WMV file into something I could burn to DVD for a friend overseas who can’t access the BBC’s site. According to the advert I have to sit through before I watch legitimately bought or rented DVDs, my applying this jiggery-pokery is morally equivalent to stealing a handbag from a woman in the street. Which is apt, given that it’s Thatch we’re talking about.

King’s English

Burger King’s slogan “HAVE IT YOUR WAY™” really is a Registered Trade Mark. Luckily for those looking for a similar marketing gem to promote their products or services, “IT’S YOUR FUNERAL” and “SUIT YOURSELF” are still available.

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