Author: bowlingatvincent

A treatise upon the role of alcohol in social intercourse

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The title’s a fraud, don’t worry. Just fancied donning the white coat of pseudo-science for a fleeting, triumphant moment. Imagine me delivering some lecture whose fierce magnificence has the students of that kind of stuff awestruck; fixed to the history-laden benches of their musky auditorium, their pallid faces faintly lit by the star-bearing genius of my hypothesis.

The truth is I’m hung over. Reflecting through a pretty decent quality blow-to-the-head cloud formation. Needing shades. Needing to either sleep, or do something demanding woolly-head defying grit. Hence the post. Plus the fact that yet again last night was evidentially revealing re- the delicious/delirious connect twixt people, bars, guitars.

I attended a sort of boutique pub quiz, populated by a talent-rich crowd. There were A list journo’s, a high level motivator/performance consultant, teachers, musicians, brilliant, convivial people from business as well as arts and media. The quiz was essentially good-natured family fare, with a competitive edge evident but not prevailing. Question One was delivered somewhere about 10.30pm. By then almost everybody was legally unable to drive. By Question Thirty-Five the volume of demands for clarity from the quizmaster (my brother) and general background colour were of a strikingly higher, bolder, noisier nature.

Post the quiz certain people were either volunteered or sheepishly took on the role of folky entertainer. I had rich and intense conversations with some geezer from Victoria/Vancouver and the Performance Man – we were on times too rich, too genuine, too loud for the fair observance of the folky rituals going on around us. So we hushed and then re-ignited between songs. (I really wouldn’t want to judge the quality of the entertainment at hand, it being absolutely a matter of families or individuals doing turns – a phenomenon I entirely applaud. I did think, however, that it cried out for somebody to do a refreshingly spiky version of “Ever Fallen In Love With Someone You Shouldn’t Have Fallen In Love With?” to up the ante.)

In short, the evening was a minor classic of its atmospheric type. Loquaciously, the beer was really talking.

Shine on

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It’s a good time for cricket. Here in Wales, in GB and Ireland generally, it’s a good time. At my own club we have both alarmingly good activity and back-up for the kids and the seniors playing every week. Good people – and the ECB talks unashamedly loftily and ambitiously about producing better sportsmen and humans as well as better cricketers – with coaching which is typically helpful, fair, instructive, well-judged. Some of us, by current coaching protocols talk too much, but in general I am pleased to report strong numbers of boys and girls committing to the sport and a universally great attitude. (My own possee are brilliantly, refreshingly up for it and are supported superbly by parents or guardians.) Consequently, it’s a pleasure to be involved.

But where has this swell feeling come from? How much of it is due to the gathering momentum provided by successful England sides? Has the near-sensational TV coverage of recent times – where the poetic/dynamic/mesmeric nature of the game is literally being seen more clearly than ever before – had an energising effect? Does it matter why stuff’s going so well… and being rewarded by bums as it were, in pads? Possibly not.

Yet clearly having pretty close to the best women’s side in the world and now the male equivalent is at some level inspiring. Winning draws attention, attention can be good – especially if you have great role models/characters/guys or gals fans rate. Regrettably, even with an outstanding record over the last couple of years, our women stars are traceable only to the very few who follow further/deeper than the occasional media coverage deems worthy. A brilliant team remained sadly and predictably relatively faceless – even when Aussies were getting relentlessly tonked out of sight. For the blokes, it’s different.

And this may be inexcusable, but I would nevertheless like to make some comment on The Best Cricket Team in the World.

(I leave a para’ entirely out of smugness; for emphasis, in the unlikely hope that an Australian will ever read this blog).

Firstly, my pet theory. At the top level cricket is now a game for athletes; guys and gals who throw themselves around the place, who can sprint/dive/convincingly high five, or sport fashionable haircuts and go to hip nightclubs rather than the village pub. Or as well as the village pub. Occasionally. After important series have been won. None of this was achievable by Mike Gatting/Colin Cowdrey/generations, actually, of cricketers until about 2000. When it apparently became important to train for the thing.

Now, wonderfully, a kind of gnarly litheness is pretty much non-negotiable – Strauss being arguably the least gymnastic of a side full of tall, lean, cool(ish), good-looking, finely –honed sportsmen. And ludicrous as it might sound I am absolutely clear that this dramatic gearing-up in terms of dynamism, the dive around like a loony factor, has been essential to drawing in and keeping young hipsters involved. (Is it spooky but appropriate that I have associated cricket (of all things!) with ‘hipness’ twice now in two paragraphs?) See! Cooke is tall, dark and Englishly cool; Pietersen tall, near smouldering and transvaally gifted and cool; Swann tall, chopsy and mercurially sharp; Anderson creamy, athletic vanilla. Because they can all react like a bird-chasing cat and they love to dive round the place. Like kids.

Beyond this, I can tell you from personal experience that the system for developing coaches in UK cricket is particularly good – possibly the world leader? – and that the clobber/the kit/the facilities whilst inevitably variable, are generally adequate or substantially better. So it is a good time.

I find it kindof reassuring that in an age when the web of distractions/opportunities/pressures provided by the weapons of capitalism might either suffocate or entrance many kids back to the death-womb of their bedrooms (to ‘play’ with the latest weapons of capitalism), that increasing numbers of boy and girls are chucking a cricket ball about. A cricket ball, a proper one. That lovely aesthetic shiny red thing with a seam.

Well, go on then

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So the Premier League allegedly got going yesterday. But pardon me… who, exactly played? Liverpool/Arsenal? The one in mid-possibIe ascent, the other mid-possible turmoil – King Kenny having undoubtedly revitalised the ‘pool, but Wenger looking increasingly lined and drawn with Goonercares.

I confess to having plugged in to MOTD rather more deeply under a blanket than might have been the case if it felt like the Premier League had started. Given the nature of the (few) fixtures both in terms of likely quality and scale, it was no wonder the 3 Wise Men in Generally Shiny Shirts and Lots of Black seemed disinclined to animate the thing. Of course one of these aperitifs before City/United/Chelsea/arguably Tottingham legitimise the menu could have proved energising to the project. The wounded magnificence of Liverpool; the frilly glam that is QPR? They both predictably disappointed. If any side brought a smidge of class to the day… it was probably Bolton. Nuff said?

There seems to have been an elementary cock-up with the scheduling – one that is entirely appropriate to the smug hegemony of PL ‘presence’. They think they’re the unchallenged best, these folks – why else would they offer such an uninspiring entree? The fundamentals of earning the right to an audience, perhaps wanting to increase that audience, appear to be as irrelevant as fair ticket prices.

Depressingly though, it may be that despite the sombre mood and the real difficulties many look destined to face, this absurd balloon-thin carnival may continue to be the receptacle for the nations deluded passions. The thought strikes me –no pun intended – that the moment yesterday when alleged hard man and thug Joey Barton yanks Gervinho up (thuggishly) and then, having received a girly slap, drops shamelessly to the ground in order to get his assailant (I mean fellow professional) sent off, is appropriate, in its cheap, amoral, ludicrous way to the times.

Perhaps that’s how we should understand this new beginning.

This petrol emotion

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Hey look I’m living some kind of idyllic family thing in Pembrokeshire. So I’ve undoubtedly ‘escaped’ to some degree. And I feel conflicted – isn’t that what they say? – about even talking about this rioting thing. What right have I? etc etc. But… let me make some contribution to the debate please.

In no particular order – like is there any order? – the following strike me;

  • The cops may have bollocksed up this Duggan thing; by again failing to be brilliantly sharp and clear and aware and sensitive when they absolutely needed to be bringing out their A game. (They can’t afford to be doing that).
  • A pile of (working class?) people – families even – have been disgracing themselves by ‘joining in’.
  • The Daily Mail, amongst others, has again been shockingly inflammatory – an agent of cheap division when we need intelligence.
  • The race card has been predictably but insidiously played.
  • Certain public figures have sounded off, apparently unaware of the delicious ironies implicit in this – some of them being both embarrassingly privileged and guilty of abusing that privilege through exploitation of expenses protocols, for example.
  • There are issues; there is an underclass.
  • Many of these rioters deserve a hiding. (It wouldn’t help).
  • There is no foreseeable possibility of resolving either the exclusion or disenfranchisement or the cheap, cynical, materialist ignorance of those who perpetrate the criminality, or the casual/’incidental’ (re)actions.
  • The exclusion of some of these people from opportunity is, for want of a better word, criminal.

So we go round. Thugs and communities; brave men in uniform; the outraged, the sinned against, the scumbags. Dark shadows. The whiff of petrol. But what if we really do think about this? If we use its energy positively? Get beyond the obvious, take the emotion out; maybe even put some philosophy, some generosity in?.

Clearly we are right to penalise those guilty of ‘trashing their own communities’. We can unite in our disgust/moral outrage/sadness at that. But can we, if we are to reasonably judge, take the emotion out? Put a sensible, even helpful, constructive value on the quality of wrongdoing and then penalise it and take steps to legislate, in the broader sense, for improvement.

By this I mean (for one thing) improvement in terms of respecting defining principles; such as ALL ANIMALS ARE EQUAL. Why not start with that one?

That might necessitate a fairly acute look at aspects of the aforementioned privilege. The still stunning domination of Public School/Oxbridge alumni throughout higher levels of government/media/business. The facts and figures, historically and now, re- top earners in relation to those on the breadline. Perceptions around the knowledge of that. For one view might be that unforgiveable as much of the recent action has been, it may be a historically inevitable consequence of a perception of inequality. If that were true would that mean that the following were worthy of consideration?

  • The abolition of private schooling.
  • Bigger, better, intelligent government; government that led.
  • The imposition of some kind of wage-capping, for proportionality.
  • Steps to curb both the notion that growth is god and indeed the acceptance that capitalism per se works for ALL ANIMALS.

These are, of course, hilarious, post-coital and anti-social suggestions arising from liberal/shared gay sex with E P Thompson, Ken Livingstone, Angela Carter, Ken Loach and Elvis Costello on a Red Wedge weekend in Brent. Much more realistic and practical solutions are offered below;

  • Use water cannon upon every gathering of more than 2.
  • Use plastic bullets on every gathering of more than 4.
  • Send all convicted rioters to Marines standard boot camp.
  • Blame teachers.
  • Blame parents.
  • Reduce the school curriculum to the learning of reading, writing and arithmetic. And entrepreneurism.
  • Tell kids god will be their judge.
  • Tell kids they will never be paid to think.
  • Tell kids they need more products… like blackberries, flat screen TV’s, designer labels, watches, gold stuff, shiny stuff, stuff everybody’s got – stuff you can get young kids to nick for ya, when it gets wild. Late, right, in the dark shadows, with the sirens going off and all, and the feds goin’ ballistic, but… like… when they can’t touch ya man.

Enter the dragons?

~ bowlingatvincent ~ 1 Comment

So, this weekend lots of sporty stuff gets going; England/Wales at Twickers; The Championship; The Charity Shield. Already the distant gleam of silverware. Papers are foaming with the Fabregas thing, the Mancini thing(s), the Road to Glory thing. The usual wunnerful daft disproportionate bollocks many of us lap up – no, too unfortunate an analogy – many of us get caught up in every pre-season.

But is it a sign of something meaningful I wonder that the footie stuff in particular finds me less compelled towards engagement? For although I speak as one proud of family connections to the pro game, with a decent pedigree in turning defenders inside out, I am currently experiencing difficulties of association with the typical Top Footie Player. And I drift more towards the relative sporting class – dignity even – of the rugby boys.

Spells coaching rugby at junior level recently renewed my familiarity with the utter contempt in which footballers generally are held by the rugby community. This goes beyond the guffawing at laughably poncy reactions to the kind of ‘injuries’ we as skinny 9 year-olds would have wiped away in a moment. It goes beyond the envy at decent but not extraordinary athletes being paid obscene amounts of moolah. What offends more deeply, I suspect, is the pervasive arrogance and disrespect for the sport itself. Players diving or faking to get fellow players booked or sent off; players endlessly whining at officials; players frankly pissing on notions of fairness and honest competition between respected adversaries. The thin, arguably cowardly cynicism.

I know there are examples of cheating/faking etc etc. in rugby. However I am clear that the general level of sporting integrity displayed by elite rugby players – under massively more physically demanding circumstances than footballing equivalents – is still a treasure. Rugby players get battered; taking punishment that would reduce the likes of Nani/Drogba/you name your own pussy to a tearfully exasperated heap. Given the testosterone-worship inevitably present, rugby folks like being tough; but this tendency is expressed typically alongside a more sophisticated appreciation for… say it again… sporting behaviour. From junior level upwards, players are discouraged from celebrating in a fashion that insults the opposition; contrast this with Balotelli/Adebayor. There is a healthy understanding of commandments within the game.

Fortunately, there are certain sparkly-things in the footie firmament, Barcelona being the obvious one. Let us hope the magnificent generosity of their carousel persists, post their revered manager’s (likely) desertion to Chelsea. Their elevation of the purist, short-passing practise to a position of such command is heart-warmingly important, surely? But even here, though we absolutely revel in the unlikely domination of sublime skill over all-coming cloggers, we have to note the Barca boys propensity for an Oscar-nominated fall. Likewise the near-saintly Mr Ryan Giggs has certain ahem… imperfections. As do individual stars from premier class rugby, of course.

So I confess to again regurgitating dangerously general feelings on issues which may only absurdly be compared. Feelings that may not withstand laser-like or anorak-backed counter-theory. May I – should I? – then withdraw with the following, meekly? That though footie is absolutely in my (English-in-Wales) blood, ’tis to the giants of the oval ball game that I shall most eagerly be turning. For confirmation of the red-blooded, fire-breathing but relatively untainted truths.

Womad; that allegedly difficult follow-up

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My previous blog was mid-stumble around the essences and indeed challenges of a Womad Festival experience. In it, I have tried to say something about both the fascination and the concern I have regarding how the music was – and is – performed and received.

For example I personally found Baaba Maal’s Saturday night headlining gig relatively dull. But I freely accept that this was in part due to choosing to waft around the perimeter of the crowd where the degree of engagement from all parties was decidedly lower than say ten yards from centrestage. Also, Baaba Maal chose to play what I imagine he hoped was a thought-provoking, dignified, suitably atmospheric set. There was a fair lump of acoustic strumming and relatively little dancing action from his generally flamboyant cohorts. I absolutely respect the choices he made but feel that relatively few punters really connected.

Earlier I had wandered into the leafy space that was and always is the location for the BBC 3 Stage. It’s intimate in the sense that it’s pretty much wrapped in trees and therefore the natural capacity is maybe 300. Most folks are sitting down in the balmy heat. In truth I had found myself there slightly against my instincts, being sure that some middle-aged Moroccan geezer with tricksier young’uns called the MoRoccan Rollers was likely to be a let-down, given the dodgy name and all. But Hassan Erraji was delightful; the band playing in a decidedly joyous groove that insinuated its way through the gathering. We all found ourselves smiling: some danced. It was consistently, appropriately, effortlessly gorgeous and understood: one of the quiet gems that Womad, year on year, does place quietly in your palm with a knowing wink and perhaps a “ssshh”.

Did Hassan know something special or expertly/knowingly deliver something special? Does he keep on doing that? What was really the making of that experience?

I ask these obtuse questions

  1. As a music lover (honest)
  2. As one, therefore, who actively wants to like that which presents itself
  3. As one who believes in goodness and heart shining through
  4. As one who will not tolerate indulgences.

AnDa Union – a Mongolian/Chinese troupe of singers, dancers and players had just started as I approached left of stage about 1-ish Saturday pm. From the first moment there was something extraordinary and yes moving about what held me/I hope us. It was majestic without the ostentation, it was swirling warmly like an exotic spice. Principally it was the sound of what I am prepared in my ignorance to describe as Chinese cello’s, beautifully milked by hands – apparently softly cupped hands – drawing bows easily across horsehair strings. In a truly memorable minute or ten, an immaculate female vocalist, arms outstretched expressively, absolutely nailed some unknown classic. I like to use and enjoy using the word sensational. These moments were sensational.

Donso I found by accident, during one of many wanders around the circuit of 5 principal stages. They had something, something understandably associated in the programme with Malian techno-traditionalists(!) They brought us an old/new, fluid, unforced French/African groove. They were maybe under-supported I felt – or rather their gently shimmering colours were fit for and worthy of a higher, dancier billing. (But nobody knows them).

The events I have singled out were truly diverse in nature; I did not go seeking a particular niche or for re-affirmation of some musical loyalty. I just went with faculties generally switched on, prepared to do enough de-construction of my discoveries to more fully appreciate those I chose (somehow) to believe in, and dance to. And maybe, as a friend said in another, loftier intellectual context, to ask questions – always to ask questions. I hope to have a relaxed view of any need for conclusions.

Come the Sunday night it felt like what the festival had slightly lacked for me was some good old-fashioned NRG. Dub Pistols were an honourable exception to this, so I guess I’m referring to bill-toppers; and I confess to being unhelpful in the generality of this assertion. The phrase this is how it felt – which I now intend to apply – suggesting a fair degree of bias/insight/unreliable but well-meaning judgement that I do not expect to fully vindicate nor intend to, is maybe not as loose as it may sound. This is how it felt.

It felt amazing and exciting, perhaps for the first time exciting, when Gogol Bordello launched into the first twenty minutes of their set. They were on it bigtime. Spunky, brassy, cool, noisy, raw and even from some distance – I checked – awesome and affecting. As soon as that magnificent tide turned in their set, I drove the family home to Wales.

But a last rider. Many things were great, as always, with Womad. However, apart from those briefly noted above, and in the previous blog, it may be that the real jewel (for me!) was being intimately exposed to the film animations of David Shrigley and William Kentridge. That these were shown in shipping containers by-passed unawares by many may, on reflection, be a matter of regret. I for one will be following up on this discovery.

Womaddening or… or gladdening?

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Look I’m decidedly post Womad. By that I mean that my head is kindof woolly, my feet ache and there’s that run-down bad-breathy feeling going on in me throat. Not good. So lock oneself away, maybe find a piece of Kendal’s Mint Cake – yup, sorted! – and unwind those tired (pre)tensions and racy uncertainties. About individual bands/the nature of performing to largish bundles of folk. Mm. Because I’m medium vexed or maybe just fascinated by certain notions this whole festival thing has cast; shadows over the undoubted sunshine.

But lest you worry, sagacious reader, that I may be veering in blissful ignorance towards Grumpy Ole Gitsville, like some ancient vicar at the helm of a Morris Traveller, let’s start with the joys, the highlights I personally encountered. And there were several, which I will recount in a meaningless but instinctive order reflecting either something very profound, or something like partial memory loss.

  1. El Tanbura (Egypt)
  2. Dub Pistols (UK)
  3. Hassan Erraji’s MoRocan Rollers (Morocco/UK)
  4. Anda union (Mongolia/China)
  5. some of Donso (Mali/France)
  6. Anda Union (cooking and playing)
  7. Gogol Bordello (USA)
  8. Giving Soul – film animation.

All these offered something special… and there is no doubt I missed plenty of unmissable stuff too. Like your favourites?

I cannot, however, proceed any further without briefly alluding to the context of my Womad experience, as the presence of my own nuclear family – kids aged 12 and 8 – plus former longish term Tanzania resident (known out of earshot as The Wife) inevitably enriched/compromised said experience both qualitatively and in terms of consumption.

I watched a fair bit of stuff with an 8 year old girl bopping either enthusiastically or limply upon my shoulders. I watched some stuff drifting stealthily through the comatose flanks, from beneath cooling trees, or ideally placed by the sound men – whom I may have pretended to oversee, authoritatively. I could not, in other words, smash down tequila pops and then MASH IT UP with either Dub Pistols or Gogol Bordello – both of whom I saw and enjoyed in a regrettably rather mature fashion. But this is, I contend, the nature of the festival scene, often its strength; being exposed to the colours of the thing as a group.

Which brings me to El Tanbura. Friday, 3pm, on the open air stage. Classic Womad, being billed as the “Musical elders with the soundtrack of a revolution”; being welcomed with well-earned R.E.S.P.E.C.T. from us Guardian/Indie and crucially, Womad Festival Programme reading masses. Being a quietly acquired joy, engaging and truly worth our attention. Being probably absolutely what a festival of this nature is all about – music as conscience as well as toe-tapping opiate. Respect and even that pinko-tinged but genuine feeling of brotherhood was unmistakeably in the air for the soundtrackers of Tahrir Square. What have they seen, compared to us, in their recent past! If I could I would bless them.

The programme then drew a lump of us over to watch Taraf de Haidouks – “the true Gypsy kings”. But they were apparently playing at the wrong speed and their trebly, virtuouso shrillness was not, alas, for me. Similar but different were The Boxettes, an “all-female beatboxing quartet”, who were intermittently striking but I felt not well served by indifferent sound. Their extraordinary vocal bass notwithstanding, it felt like a gig that wasn’t working. I needed a break and food.

Dub Pistols brought the street-wise energy and mosh-pit testosterone levels right up, being the “renegade furistic skank” artists the label described. Those of us influenced and indebted to Two Tone and punk enthusiastically re-stepped the skankified ground of the Specials with these spiky geezers, these lads. It was a show fit to headline and close the night… and when we walked out of the darkening Big Red Tent it seemed frankly weird that having seen all this, it was only 8.20 pm.

So I prob’ly didn’t need or much want anymore. Not that same Friday night. Consequently either I failed to engage with Alpha Blondy, or he failed to engage with me.

There was, by this time, already the feeling that too many “How you doin’ Womad’s?”/elongated introductions to band members/laboured calls for audience ‘participation’ etc. etc might be undermining the truth of things. I’m not looking for a particularly purist entertainment folks, don’t get me wrong. But is it just me or is there something of an issue with global musical awareness – amongst artists(?) – inevitably leading to fusionization of individual musics? So nearly every major African headlining act gets a western-sounding Les Paul wielding axeman for those suddenly necessary breaks. And you have to have appropriate stagecraft. And get the audience to sing something back at you. Are these the inevitable consequence of time/familiarity/knowledge/the need to entertain large numbers of folks all at the same time?

I’m afraid I’ve gotten a tad distracted with this one… but is festival fever (surely an interesting social phenomenan in its own right?) complicit in the bastardization or undermining of real world music whilst at the same time bringing it, wonderfully, to a wider, newer audience?

Can I leave you to think about that one whilst I put on the metaphorical kettle, returning later with hopefully a stress-freer review of some of my own real highlights. Of which there were several.

Amy come back.

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I’m ill at ease with my previous blog. Apart from its cheap ego-centrism – how dare I call into question her realness when all around are saying Amy Winehouse was absolutely (and possibly uniquely) the real deal? An apology may yet be in order. But I do cling with a little confidence to the notion that I can legitimately make some argument here a) because I have to my knowledge no beef with the woman (not even for her later, unappealing habit of pooping on her fans) b) because there were years in my life when music was The Most Important Thing Bar None and c) I could, in the words of another icon of The Smoke, be wrong.

So setting aside the ripeness of the moment – which I fully understand may be difficult for the majority – I think the process of appreciation for any real artist is such a rich and rewarding and on times such an enlightening thing that I ask you to persevere right on past my gaucheness. To, ideally, a place where I can ask whether that instrument of hers was that of a truly great jazz/soul singer?

Sure it was magnificently easy; there was something of the sublime there, in the cadence of the thing. It was utterly in tune with a smoky, druggy London; out on the town with it, swigging bourbon and creasing into cleavage-wobbling laughter. And most of that appeals to the wannabe metropolitan in most of us – happy or sad. What I’m not sure about is how moving any of this carousing was.

It may be a mistake to entirely associate greatness with the ability to truly ‘move’. Pop can be great/a horn section can be great; what does that tell us about commonalities between great human noises? Naff all. The matter may then be complex but the issue at hand is this; whether or not Amy Winehouse went past music into the colours of the heart. Many would answer an emphatic YES to that one.

Me, I wouldn’t. So I’m going to have to listen to ‘Back to Black’ again, ‘properly’. Check out whether these were good songs or ordinary songs. Whether there’s anything being said as well as whether that voice was really special. I’m looking forward to that.

Judge the work

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I’d like to write a post about Amy Winehouse that doesn’t get too trapped. Or that’s what I was thinking. Partly because although there is no question that she was a talent, and it is (always) a loss, I have to confess that I found her voice affected rather than affecting.

By that I think I mean that I felt she was kindof pitching at some role rather than truly expressing her self.   Consequently I let the music drift away – or maybe even pushed it. Right now that feels a pretty shockingly harsh judgement, but my soul’s response to that salty/soaked velvet croon was to simply fail to believe in it. It was unreal. And in the face of so much contrary emotion, I find that interesting, even if it does reflect badly upon me.

Now I’m aware of the absurdity – insensitivity even – of indulging in this particular moan at this particular moment. It may be something to do with wanting to ‘balance’ the understandable hyperbole. And I am heavily aware of the relative weakness of my position in terms of critical opinion. But when the critics and many of the great unwashed are foaming, look out, right? Especially when so much cool factor is invested, right?

Acclaim is surely a fickle and politicised beast; sometimes we suspect its motives as well as any intellectual quality it may have or lack. In addition, in the Winehouse situation, the thing is loaded with edgy but marketable ‘issues’ – drugs/irresponsibility/stridency/the inevitable car crash factor – all, arguably, clouding anyone’s ability to judge. For how many of us remain neutral in the Heroin debate, the What’s Her Family Been Doin’ debate, the Rehab With Your Loyal But Heavily Disappointed Fans debate?

On the one hand, cruelly, it seems Amy had a lot of support. On the other a void, an absence – her own. She wasn’t there when she needed her and presumably neither were the real friends that might have supplanted the illness. Or likely not.

We are fortunate that the music persists; the relatively small back catalogue that so gripped the handers-out of major awards as well as millions of ‘ordinary fans’. As is always the case with an artist – judge the work.

That’s entertainment?

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So, whilst a newer, finer democracy may be fighting its way out of the News International web, what the Ten O’clock News seems to be keen to remind us – sorry, report – is that M Senior (80) is being closely supported by a wife ludicrously higher up the shaggability ladder. Meaning she’s actually on it, being 30-odd. Outrageous, perhaps, but this is pretty much how this particular story might be spun in Ole Rupert’s formerly finest rag, or, to be fair, in half the NOTW’s tabloid competitors. In other words, there’s a lot of cheap crap flying about, even now the story’s gotten beautifully serious.

Beautifully because there is just the tantalising possibility that a more fragrant public life may be waiting for us all. Serious because 1. Somebody died now. 2. Important people are in the mire. 3. It’s increasingly apparent that The Law and The Papers have been bent. Things have snowballed in the way that news often does; but rarely has the quality of the snow been so high.

Murdoch Senior is, however I maintain, a hugely unattractive individual. I find the politics of his empire offensive as well as the bottom-feeding fish set of his jaw. But my guess is that beyond the humiliation of the now, his banner will thrive after this extraordinary period. The UK business, as he suggested today, is relatively insignificant; only if the perception of the shocking practices of the NOTW impacts on US morals and under US law (which seems possible) will Roops be really in the poops. Otherwise the carousel of nonsense and right wing Foxiness will surely swing lustily into the future – possibly beyond the man himself. It seems dangerously imprudent to do much predicting of that future, but is it too much I wonder to hope that the local unravelling of NI and the exposure of appalling standards at The Met, in journoville and yes generally in parliament might lead to uplifting and enervating change in how we construct and receive our world?

For though I’m absolutely with Tony Judt when it comes to judging our pervasively gutless and witless lack of discourse regarding political matters – where are we going? Why is growth good? – I see some potential for important change here. The shackles may be off; there might be more trust around; people might really talk. Parliamentarians – ministers even – may be able to express themselves relatively openly and honestly in the kind of quality debate cherished by Real Humans Who Happened To Be MP’s such as my old mate Bob Marshall-Andrews. It might be entertaining as well as invigorating for democracy. If only.

More likely, sadly, is that whilst a few folks will go to jail, the self-whipping nature of party politics may engulf this opening for radicalism and truths. What a missed opportunity that would be – and what other opportunity is parliament likely to be gifted in the long haul back to public favour? After a near-exhilarating phase of real, engaging news, are the Great Unwashed destined to drift apathetically away again? And just when we thought that the public castration of a media mogul had them right in our sweaty palms…

July 19th 2011.