Generally speaking, I don't have much time for the Royal Family.
I don't wish them dead on a spike, or any other sort of personal harm, but I could live without the drain on the taxpayer (who, if memory serves, directly provides at least two of the five main sources of the Windsors' mammoth annual income).
I could live without seeing them float between their many opulent residences. I could live without hearing about how wonderful this old woman is because, oh look, she visited a hospital for half an hour and smiled half-heartedly at a sick little boy who's probably going to die because his parents can't afford to go private, yet the jewels in her personal collection could fund three billion brain operations and still have change left over.
What of the junior doctor standing next to her who's worked a 72-hour shift, saved the kid's life three times over and is about to drop on his feet, just as soon as he's overseen the installation of a new brand toilet so the Queen doesn't have to feel the unpleasant warmth from someone else's arse cheeks, should she need to take a tinkle during her brief visit? Oh, no one cares about him because he's not Royalty. We all want to coo over the staggering courage of an elderly multi-millionaire who has lived her entire life in luxury and privilege and never done a day's work since the moment she plopped into the midwife's pan, yet has still managed to endure the hardship of a short journey in her chauffeur-driven Jag and fifteen minutes of glad-handing the riff raff. Ma'am, where would we be without you?
I could live without knowing the Queen has power of veto over the Government's plans if she really wanted to flex it, because in what is undoubtedly the world's leading democracy (yeah America, I said it) a ceremonial role which can actually make decisions on important stuff like who's going to run the country is pretty ludicrous.
Most of all, the thing that absolutely offends me - in that real, grating, soul-aching way that only happens when you're properly pissed off, like REALLY pissed off - is the bowing and scraping, the insufferable pomposity of people not being permitted to speak before the Queen does; of not being allowed to walk down a corridor that she's due to infest at any moment, lest the presence of another human being should cause her little blue blood vessels to burst with indignation. The suggestion that if you are not 'of the aristocracy', whatever the hell that means, you are not fit to command the attention of this very ordinary old lady and her spawn, regardless of whether you want it or not, is just incomprehensible to me.
How stuffy and ridiculous life must be for staff at Buckingham Palace is just beyond my wildest facilities of imagination. And for what? An accident of birth, that's what. She accidentally got born to a particular guy, who was only where he was because one day, many centuries ago, one bloke probably cut another bloke's head off and nabbed the crown, sticking his tongue out and shouting 'I'm the king of the castle!' And just like that, he was.
So yeah, I'm not the biggest Royalist you'll ever come across. And when the tremendous broo-ha-ha about Prince William's impending nuptials to Kate Middleton kicked off, I could not have been less interested. The bank holiday was a bonus, but it was hardly going to be the heart-warming festival of joy that everyone kept promising. Above all else, I just felt a crushing sense of sorrow for the poor girl.
When I've revealed this to people, they've practically choked on the words as they've tried to remind me that she's marrying into staggering wealth and comfort, with not a financial care ever again, as long as she doesn't do a Fergie. Any children she has won't have to lift a finger in this life either and that's got to be a nice thought to keep you warm in bed at night.
But I'll tell you what - rather her than me. I wouldn't trade places with Princess Catherine even for all those millions that will be cushioning her from now on. Imagine it - she'll now have surrendered her privacy forever. She's got the Queen as her grandmother (I'm sure she's a barrel of laughs once you get the karaoke out but come on dear, smile!!!), she'll be absorbed into all that soul-destroying rhubarb of pomp and circumstance that surrounds the Royals and, worst of all, she'll have to go to church EVERY CHRISTMAS DAY. Ugh, makes my blood run cold.
But you know what? Even with all this back catalogue of slightly sour feeling towards the Royals, I enjoyed the wedding. I actually thought it was rather nice. Because although it was all hideously overblown, as the day approached, I found myself being drawn into the patriotic feeling of celebration. I planted a red, white and blue hanging basket without a thought. I actually felt a pang of regret that I had to work and couldn't join the crowds in London. And - don't tell anyone I said this, but - I even shed a little involuntary tear when Prince William turned to see his bride for the first time and evidently told her she looked beautiful.
Because at the end of the day, these were still two young people getting married. Pledging to spend their lives together. Unlike Wills' parents - who had reportedly only met 13 times before the big day and were more manufactured than Ken and Barbie - these two had known each other for ten years and the genuine intimacy was clear in their warm glances, their little shared jokes, the glimpsed holding of hands in the carriage when they had a brief respite from the endless waving. This was real. I hope for their sakes they are truly in love but either way, there seems to be a friendship there and hey, that's better than nothing.
And Kate did look absolutely stunning. She looked every inch the princess and I actually felt excited for her and Wills as they rode off towards Buck House, the good will and affection from the thousands gathered along the route being palpable, even through the television. Even if the tide of public opinion turns against the new Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, as it inevitably will, at least no one can take this day, and those wonderful moments, away from them. Nor from the crowds and the people watching across the globe, for whom I really believe the Royal wedding was a festival of joy after all.
Friday, 29 April 2011
Sunday, 24 April 2011
Review: Electricity by Victoria Glendinning
When a friend and I were discussing favourite books some months ago, they mentioned this novel, saying that although they didn't remember masses about it, the story had left its mark on them.
That intrigued me so I kept my eye open for it, without success. Until a copy finally found its way into my hands a few weeks ago, via a chance find in a second-hand book shop. And I'm really glad it did. Because not only was it a really enjoyable story, but I felt something which I find is quite rare in literature. Beyond simply entertaining and beguiling me, it seemed to have a connection to me; it spoke to me about my life and experiences, about my hopes and concerns.
Electricity is not the most uplifting of tales, I suppose, but neither is it a depressing one. It seems to me to be an honest reflection on Life, on its disappointments and elations. A thoughtful consideration of all that is offered to us, or taken away, from the point of view of a young woman who simply wants to know how it all works.
Brought up in a narrow house in Victorian London, by a repressed mother and a father who possibly has more interest in his daughter than is strictly healthy, Charlotte is a typical and rather mediocre middle class girl. Her dour lifestyle is enlivened considerably when the charismatic Peter comes to lodge at her home and the excitement of breathless young love blossoms - an experience denied to so many woman compelled to marry for financial or emotional security, both then and now.
Peter is an enthusiastic disciple of the newfangled electricity that is literally lighting up Victorian society and his career soon takes the newlyweds to a large house in the country, to install the new technology for a wealthy lord. Here, Charlotte will learn more about the unstoppable energy that flows through her veins, just as formidably as the electricity in the wires.
From the start, Charlotte tells her story with unflappable honesty, seeking to neither dress up her motives nor inflict punishments on herself that she does not feel are deserved. Although she is not the warmest of characters, what shines through is her curiosity and the sense of adventure that slowly seeps through the hard veneer applied by a Victorian upbringing. In a cool, uncomplicated way, she is independent and inquiring. She pushes at the boundaries placed upon her physical and emotional life and cannot seem to understand why she shouldn't experience all the things that are offered up to her, regardless of whether they are deliciously thrilling or tortuously painful.
Even when recalling the headiest days of early love, she is able to view it with a cool eye and draw conclusions that are not cold, but are insightful. She strives to make sense of the sensations and emotions that make us all helpless, yet without attempting to deny the magic or view romance with too cynical an eye.
There is no doubt that she does terrible things and sacrifices other people's happiness in order to explore Life's outer edges. All she wants to do is to live Life to its full potential, to escape the needless ties that bind, and her ability to choose her own path, for good or ill, is carried as a theme throughout the book. Yet Charlotte is not callous and the dragging ache of remorse at her more selfish actions is not glossed over. But she seems to accept the emotional consequences of her decisions with as much resignation as the practical ones, and this ability is perhaps the real key to her freedom.
That intrigued me so I kept my eye open for it, without success. Until a copy finally found its way into my hands a few weeks ago, via a chance find in a second-hand book shop. And I'm really glad it did. Because not only was it a really enjoyable story, but I felt something which I find is quite rare in literature. Beyond simply entertaining and beguiling me, it seemed to have a connection to me; it spoke to me about my life and experiences, about my hopes and concerns.
Electricity is not the most uplifting of tales, I suppose, but neither is it a depressing one. It seems to me to be an honest reflection on Life, on its disappointments and elations. A thoughtful consideration of all that is offered to us, or taken away, from the point of view of a young woman who simply wants to know how it all works.
Brought up in a narrow house in Victorian London, by a repressed mother and a father who possibly has more interest in his daughter than is strictly healthy, Charlotte is a typical and rather mediocre middle class girl. Her dour lifestyle is enlivened considerably when the charismatic Peter comes to lodge at her home and the excitement of breathless young love blossoms - an experience denied to so many woman compelled to marry for financial or emotional security, both then and now.
Peter is an enthusiastic disciple of the newfangled electricity that is literally lighting up Victorian society and his career soon takes the newlyweds to a large house in the country, to install the new technology for a wealthy lord. Here, Charlotte will learn more about the unstoppable energy that flows through her veins, just as formidably as the electricity in the wires.
From the start, Charlotte tells her story with unflappable honesty, seeking to neither dress up her motives nor inflict punishments on herself that she does not feel are deserved. Although she is not the warmest of characters, what shines through is her curiosity and the sense of adventure that slowly seeps through the hard veneer applied by a Victorian upbringing. In a cool, uncomplicated way, she is independent and inquiring. She pushes at the boundaries placed upon her physical and emotional life and cannot seem to understand why she shouldn't experience all the things that are offered up to her, regardless of whether they are deliciously thrilling or tortuously painful.
Even when recalling the headiest days of early love, she is able to view it with a cool eye and draw conclusions that are not cold, but are insightful. She strives to make sense of the sensations and emotions that make us all helpless, yet without attempting to deny the magic or view romance with too cynical an eye.
There is no doubt that she does terrible things and sacrifices other people's happiness in order to explore Life's outer edges. All she wants to do is to live Life to its full potential, to escape the needless ties that bind, and her ability to choose her own path, for good or ill, is carried as a theme throughout the book. Yet Charlotte is not callous and the dragging ache of remorse at her more selfish actions is not glossed over. But she seems to accept the emotional consequences of her decisions with as much resignation as the practical ones, and this ability is perhaps the real key to her freedom.
Friday, 15 April 2011
Discovery of the Week
Richard Madeley gets right on my tits.
He's been doing that for a while, but I should probably explain why that's particularly on my mind right now. He's been sitting in for Chris Evans on Radio 2's breakfast show this week and although I try to thrust my iPod cable into the requisite stereo hole and drown out his glass-of-water voice as quickly as possible, sometimes early morning slumpiness gets the better of me and a few gaseous snippets of banality leak out, threatening to overwhelm me with a sudden realisation of the futility of Life.
However, there have been a few occasions when I've been unable to divert my ears quickly enough to avoid hearing his boring stories about the adventures of himself and his equally charmless wife, the excruciatingly bland Judy Finnigan. Mostly, these moments have been painful and traumatic. But, against all expectations, his time on the breakfast show has actually brought about something - wait for it - pleasant.
On Monday, he chose a record of the week. Here we go, I thought. This'll be former members of ABC joining forces with Kenny Thomas to record a funk-pop version of No Woman No Cry. But it wasn't. It was a country-style song called Me and Tennessee, a duet sung by Tim McGraw and (this is a turn-up) Gwyneth Paltrow. And I absolutely love it.
In recent years I've been exposed to quite a lot of country, roots and bluegrass music in local venues and I've mostly really enjoyed it, much to the surprise of my own preconceptions. This isn't hardcore shit-kicking, but it's got enough of a flavour to give the lyrics about disappointed love the tortuous wrench that country does so well.
But the real surprise is Gwyneth's voice. I realise she's sung before - most recently on the squeaky clean sickbag that is Glee - but this song demonstrates that she has a really great country voice. I'm going to buy this single and investigate if she's done anymore along those lines, because I owe her a big debt. She's actually made it possible for me to get through a three-minute interval in Richard Madeley's company without wanting to steer the car off the nearest motorway bridge. And that's no mean achievement.
He's been doing that for a while, but I should probably explain why that's particularly on my mind right now. He's been sitting in for Chris Evans on Radio 2's breakfast show this week and although I try to thrust my iPod cable into the requisite stereo hole and drown out his glass-of-water voice as quickly as possible, sometimes early morning slumpiness gets the better of me and a few gaseous snippets of banality leak out, threatening to overwhelm me with a sudden realisation of the futility of Life.
However, there have been a few occasions when I've been unable to divert my ears quickly enough to avoid hearing his boring stories about the adventures of himself and his equally charmless wife, the excruciatingly bland Judy Finnigan. Mostly, these moments have been painful and traumatic. But, against all expectations, his time on the breakfast show has actually brought about something - wait for it - pleasant.
On Monday, he chose a record of the week. Here we go, I thought. This'll be former members of ABC joining forces with Kenny Thomas to record a funk-pop version of No Woman No Cry. But it wasn't. It was a country-style song called Me and Tennessee, a duet sung by Tim McGraw and (this is a turn-up) Gwyneth Paltrow. And I absolutely love it.
In recent years I've been exposed to quite a lot of country, roots and bluegrass music in local venues and I've mostly really enjoyed it, much to the surprise of my own preconceptions. This isn't hardcore shit-kicking, but it's got enough of a flavour to give the lyrics about disappointed love the tortuous wrench that country does so well.
But the real surprise is Gwyneth's voice. I realise she's sung before - most recently on the squeaky clean sickbag that is Glee - but this song demonstrates that she has a really great country voice. I'm going to buy this single and investigate if she's done anymore along those lines, because I owe her a big debt. She's actually made it possible for me to get through a three-minute interval in Richard Madeley's company without wanting to steer the car off the nearest motorway bridge. And that's no mean achievement.
Sunday, 10 April 2011
30 Minute Song Challenge
There's a thing doing the rounds on Facebook at the moment. No, not crabs (though no doubt they're positively thriving among certain local Twitter groups) but a little list thingy that people seem to be enthusiastically embracing.
It's called the 30 Day Song Challenge and basically, if the title isn't quite self-explanatory enough for you, you have to choose one song per day for a month, with a different criteria to consider with each new dawn. Tedious and self-indulgent to everyone else, this is a source of great fascination for those of us who love compiling lists and would put their own poos in order of satisfaction if the demand was there.
But I can't be arsed taking a month over it, so I'm going to knock out my candidates now. Only to immediately regret my choices and think of something else tomorrow, I expect, but there's impatience for you. I make no apology for the fact that Elbow will probably be all over this because, like it or not, they seem to have written a song for just about every emotion you could expect to encounter in this life, from agonising heartbreak over a lost love to the mild disappointment brought on by a poor episode of Springwatch. But I'll try to restrain myself.
Here goes... (where the category is blank, I just couldn't muster the brain power to come up with an answer right now.)
My favourite song
Mirrorball by Elbow
(Obviously, this is practically impossible to answer. One can't spend 31 years on this planet and undergo the relentless audio assault that brings, then be able to choose one three-minute piece of music that I prefer emphatically to all else. And music is so subjective, according to your mood. Christ, ask me in the middle of an office party after four glasses of sauvignon blanc and I'd probably claim that Wham's Club Tropicana was the greatest piece of composition in living memory. But today, at this time in my life, it's this.)
My least favourite song
A song that makes me happy
I Believe in a Thing Called Love by The Darkness
A song that makes me sad
Don't Leave by Faithless
A song that reminds me of someone
1999 by Prince
A song that reminds me of somewhere
Bootylicious by Destiny's Child
(This song and its video reminds me of bumming around the Greek Islands for the summer when I was 21 - unfortunately I seemed to spend more time in English-speaking bars with MTV than traditional Greek tavernas, doh!)
A song that reminds me of a certain event
Wings of Speed by Paul Weller
(My parents' divorce. Bummer.)
A song that I know all the words to
Upside Down by Paloma Faith
A song that I can dance to
You Can Do It by Ice Cube
(Though only when simultaneously drunk and horny.)
A song that makes me fall asleep
Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez
A song from my favourite band
Forget Myself by Elbow
A song from a band I hate
Year 3000 by Busted
A song that is a guilty pleasure
Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7
A song that no one would expect me to love
Rock 'n' Roll by Led Zeppelin
A song that describes me
Creep by Radiohead
A song that I used to love but now hate
I'll Stand By You
(I remember buying The Pretenders' original version on cassette when I was at school and playing it to death, Chrissy Hynde's distinctively reedy voice giving the rather saccharine lyrics a genuine sense of gut-wrenching heartache. Only for Girls Aloud to turn it into a ballad-by-numbers yawnfest a few years later, crushing the life out of it like a kitten under a washing machine. Surely there have got to be laws against this sort of thing?)
A song that I often hear on the radio
Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer
(AAAARRRRRGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)
A song that I wish I heard on the radio
Statues by Foo Fighters
A song from my favourite album
Some Riots by Elbow
A song that I listen to when I'm angry
White Lies by Paolo Nutini
A song that I listen to when I'm happy
Do I Do by Stevie Wonder
A song that I listen to when I'm sad
I Shall Believe by Sheryl Crow
A song that I want to play at my wedding
Gravity by Embrace
A song that I want to play at my funeral
Let's Face the Music and Dance by Frank Sinatra
A song that makes me laugh
Wonderboy by Tenacious D
A song that I can play on an instrument
I'm Not In Love by 10CC
A song that I wish I could play
Stranger Things Have Happened by Foo Fighters
A song that makes me feel guilty
White Blank Page by Mumford & Sons / Jesus is a Rochdale Girl by Elbow
A song from my childhood
Love in the First Degree by Bananarama
My favourite song at this time last year
Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons
It's called the 30 Day Song Challenge and basically, if the title isn't quite self-explanatory enough for you, you have to choose one song per day for a month, with a different criteria to consider with each new dawn. Tedious and self-indulgent to everyone else, this is a source of great fascination for those of us who love compiling lists and would put their own poos in order of satisfaction if the demand was there.
But I can't be arsed taking a month over it, so I'm going to knock out my candidates now. Only to immediately regret my choices and think of something else tomorrow, I expect, but there's impatience for you. I make no apology for the fact that Elbow will probably be all over this because, like it or not, they seem to have written a song for just about every emotion you could expect to encounter in this life, from agonising heartbreak over a lost love to the mild disappointment brought on by a poor episode of Springwatch. But I'll try to restrain myself.
Here goes... (where the category is blank, I just couldn't muster the brain power to come up with an answer right now.)
My favourite song
Mirrorball by Elbow
(Obviously, this is practically impossible to answer. One can't spend 31 years on this planet and undergo the relentless audio assault that brings, then be able to choose one three-minute piece of music that I prefer emphatically to all else. And music is so subjective, according to your mood. Christ, ask me in the middle of an office party after four glasses of sauvignon blanc and I'd probably claim that Wham's Club Tropicana was the greatest piece of composition in living memory. But today, at this time in my life, it's this.)
My least favourite song
A song that makes me happy
I Believe in a Thing Called Love by The Darkness
A song that makes me sad
Don't Leave by Faithless
A song that reminds me of someone
1999 by Prince
A song that reminds me of somewhere
Bootylicious by Destiny's Child
(This song and its video reminds me of bumming around the Greek Islands for the summer when I was 21 - unfortunately I seemed to spend more time in English-speaking bars with MTV than traditional Greek tavernas, doh!)
A song that reminds me of a certain event
Wings of Speed by Paul Weller
(My parents' divorce. Bummer.)
A song that I know all the words to
Upside Down by Paloma Faith
A song that I can dance to
You Can Do It by Ice Cube
(Though only when simultaneously drunk and horny.)
A song that makes me fall asleep
Heartbeats by Jose Gonzalez
A song from my favourite band
Forget Myself by Elbow
A song from a band I hate
Year 3000 by Busted
A song that is a guilty pleasure
Don't Stop Movin' by S Club 7
A song that no one would expect me to love
Rock 'n' Roll by Led Zeppelin
A song that describes me
Creep by Radiohead
A song that I used to love but now hate
I'll Stand By You
(I remember buying The Pretenders' original version on cassette when I was at school and playing it to death, Chrissy Hynde's distinctively reedy voice giving the rather saccharine lyrics a genuine sense of gut-wrenching heartache. Only for Girls Aloud to turn it into a ballad-by-numbers yawnfest a few years later, crushing the life out of it like a kitten under a washing machine. Surely there have got to be laws against this sort of thing?)
A song that I often hear on the radio
Kiss Me by Sixpence None The Richer
(AAAARRRRRGGHHHHHH!!!!!!!!)
A song that I wish I heard on the radio
Statues by Foo Fighters
A song from my favourite album
Some Riots by Elbow
A song that I listen to when I'm angry
White Lies by Paolo Nutini
A song that I listen to when I'm happy
Do I Do by Stevie Wonder
A song that I listen to when I'm sad
I Shall Believe by Sheryl Crow
A song that I want to play at my wedding
Gravity by Embrace
A song that I want to play at my funeral
Let's Face the Music and Dance by Frank Sinatra
A song that makes me laugh
Wonderboy by Tenacious D
A song that I can play on an instrument
I'm Not In Love by 10CC
A song that I wish I could play
Stranger Things Have Happened by Foo Fighters
A song that makes me feel guilty
White Blank Page by Mumford & Sons / Jesus is a Rochdale Girl by Elbow
A song from my childhood
Love in the First Degree by Bananarama
My favourite song at this time last year
Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons
Review: Everything Happens in August by John Budden
In my previous incarnation as a local newspaper reporter, I used to get sent books to review. I didn't generally get the big new titles, obviously - what would they want with the column inches offered up by a community rag whose readership was probably eclipsed three times over by the author's Twitter followers? Usually it was stuff that wasn't quite on the Sunday Times' radar or which had some sort of local connection, thus standing a good chance of a mention.
I can't remember which one this was, as I think it slumped onto my desk more than a year ago. Often, those books aren't particularly great, if we're honest with ourselves here. It wasn't unusual for them to be dispatched by the marketing arm of some vanity publishing house, who would happily describe any old shit as the 'next JK Rowling / Stephen King / Henning Mankell' (delete in accordance with genre) as long as the author had selected the Premium Package when they signed away their self-esteem.
Everything Happens in August actually stood out quite early on, to be fair. When clearing my desk on departure from said position, I left a lot of unread crap behind and was relieved to do so, but when a quick scan of the first page of this one actually raised an impromptu chuckle, it went into my cardboard box. And I finally got around to reading it, several months later.
You know what, it's good. It's really very good indeed. I can't see John Budden on the Man Booker Prize shortlist just yet, but the potential is there. Light, funny and rather addictive (the very short structure of the chapters really helps to lead readers on), this is a very entertaining read that adds just enough weight of genuine interest to the humorous fluff. The punctuation is a bit questionable throughout, which was slightly irritating, but I got through it very quickly and would recommend it to anyone in need of a light-hearted distraction.
The premise is a bit of an unpromising one, if I'm honest, which is probably why the back cover blurb alone didn't have me reaching for the bookmark. It's a bit of an ensemble piece, but the action is led by Jefferson Tweedy, a recently redundant accountant who is inexplicably offered a high-powered job by his pompous father-in-law to be.
Jefferson is to be made chief executive of StanEd, an innovative new examinations board that will replace all the existing examining bodies, thus assessing all schools with exactly the same papers. This is surprising because not only does Jefferson have no expertise whatsoever in the field of education, he's also a bit of a div. But he's happy to accept a show of nepotism and is completely untroubled when, from day one, it becomes clear that he will be earning a healthy salary for doing precisely bugger all.
Even several months into the job, when Jefferson is still whiling away his days reading the paper on the lav and has no idea what he is supposed to be doing, his colleagues and father-in-law are still assuring him that he is doing an excellent job, despite no one seeming to know what that job actually is. But eventually, a shifty trip to the toilet leads to Jefferson overhearing something that sounds a bit fishy...
Meanwhile, a dynamic young headmistress tries to bully a failing comprehensive into submission, while over the road, the arrogant head of a feted public school revels in the indisputable privilege and comfort of his position. Add to the mix a disenchanted journalist who longs for a story with meaning, and you have the ingredients for bit of a showdown.
It's true that most of the characters in this book are pretty unlikeable, but I don't think that matters really. In comedy, it's the truths of Life that are much funnier than the romantic fictions we would love to impress on it. And the book itself has great appeal and charm, which makes up for all their failings.
I can't remember which one this was, as I think it slumped onto my desk more than a year ago. Often, those books aren't particularly great, if we're honest with ourselves here. It wasn't unusual for them to be dispatched by the marketing arm of some vanity publishing house, who would happily describe any old shit as the 'next JK Rowling / Stephen King / Henning Mankell' (delete in accordance with genre) as long as the author had selected the Premium Package when they signed away their self-esteem.
Everything Happens in August actually stood out quite early on, to be fair. When clearing my desk on departure from said position, I left a lot of unread crap behind and was relieved to do so, but when a quick scan of the first page of this one actually raised an impromptu chuckle, it went into my cardboard box. And I finally got around to reading it, several months later.
You know what, it's good. It's really very good indeed. I can't see John Budden on the Man Booker Prize shortlist just yet, but the potential is there. Light, funny and rather addictive (the very short structure of the chapters really helps to lead readers on), this is a very entertaining read that adds just enough weight of genuine interest to the humorous fluff. The punctuation is a bit questionable throughout, which was slightly irritating, but I got through it very quickly and would recommend it to anyone in need of a light-hearted distraction.
The premise is a bit of an unpromising one, if I'm honest, which is probably why the back cover blurb alone didn't have me reaching for the bookmark. It's a bit of an ensemble piece, but the action is led by Jefferson Tweedy, a recently redundant accountant who is inexplicably offered a high-powered job by his pompous father-in-law to be.
Jefferson is to be made chief executive of StanEd, an innovative new examinations board that will replace all the existing examining bodies, thus assessing all schools with exactly the same papers. This is surprising because not only does Jefferson have no expertise whatsoever in the field of education, he's also a bit of a div. But he's happy to accept a show of nepotism and is completely untroubled when, from day one, it becomes clear that he will be earning a healthy salary for doing precisely bugger all.
Even several months into the job, when Jefferson is still whiling away his days reading the paper on the lav and has no idea what he is supposed to be doing, his colleagues and father-in-law are still assuring him that he is doing an excellent job, despite no one seeming to know what that job actually is. But eventually, a shifty trip to the toilet leads to Jefferson overhearing something that sounds a bit fishy...
Meanwhile, a dynamic young headmistress tries to bully a failing comprehensive into submission, while over the road, the arrogant head of a feted public school revels in the indisputable privilege and comfort of his position. Add to the mix a disenchanted journalist who longs for a story with meaning, and you have the ingredients for bit of a showdown.
It's true that most of the characters in this book are pretty unlikeable, but I don't think that matters really. In comedy, it's the truths of Life that are much funnier than the romantic fictions we would love to impress on it. And the book itself has great appeal and charm, which makes up for all their failings.
Friday, 8 April 2011
Just Another Frantically Dull Friday
Not so long ago, Friday used to be my favourite day of the week.
Well, that's not entirely true. The day itself could jog on as quick as it liked if I was at work, but the evening - ah, Friday evening. How full of promise and joy you used to be.
Because it's all anticipation at that point. Much like walking out of the school gates on the last day of summer term, your time off stretches away before you to a barely discernible horizon. The idea of all that freedom is intoxicating and it feels inconceivable to think that Monday morning will ever arrive.
All the things you're going to do. All the jobs you're going to get done, all the fun you're going to have, all the hard living you're going to crank out in those 48 hours. It won't be like last weekend, when you wasted time reading in bed instead of springing into action at 8am. You won't spend any more hours relaxing, reading on the loo or just schlumping around the shops when you've got huge DIY projects to conquer, novels to write and bodies to hone. No way. This weekend is going to be different. You're going to be active. Effective. Dynamic.
And Friday is the gateway to all this opportunity. The lull before the storm and a wonderful moment of indulgence before the business of the weekend gets underway. It's not the BIG night of the weekend - that's Saturday, obviously - but it's a time when you can get away with popping out for a few beers or even just getting hammered and lying comatose on the sofa until 3am. Because it isn't a school night and that thought is just magical.
Traditionally, Fridays always used to boast the best telly. I seem to recall that when I was a teenager, Friday was THE night for comedy - you had at least a couple of hours of mouthwatering prospects, from Have I Got News For You through to the distressingly hilarious Beavis and Butthead. (As I got older, Gardener's World became the kick-off point for my pre-weekend telly fest - yeah, what of it???!!)
Sadly, that idea seems to have been relegated to the dim and distant past, much like my clubbing days and Blankety Blank. Now that my two current favourite shows are on alternative nights - MasterChef on a satisfying Wednesday (more than halfway through the working week, yay!) and Boardwalk Empire on an inconvenient Saturday (shit, it's Sunday tomorrow...) there is little to entertain me as I wait for the weekend to begin.
Because, tragic and hopeless though that sounds, it feels like that's all I do these days. Just wait. Wait for my life to begin again. For sad and stunted situations to resolve themselves and for my existence to have some meaning to it again. It feels like I'm stuck in a giant u-bend, waiting for a plug of hair and waste matter to be removed so I can be swept out of the stagnancy and into free flow once again.
I know that's a loser-ish thing to admit, but it's how I feel. So right now, Fridays are no more thrilling to me than any other day. It's just another set of 24 hours to get through - another chunk of time to be negotiated without accident, as I wait for things to get good again.
God, you sad cow. How ridiculous that looks written down. Take control again, for Christ's sake, and sort it out...
Well, that's not entirely true. The day itself could jog on as quick as it liked if I was at work, but the evening - ah, Friday evening. How full of promise and joy you used to be.
Because it's all anticipation at that point. Much like walking out of the school gates on the last day of summer term, your time off stretches away before you to a barely discernible horizon. The idea of all that freedom is intoxicating and it feels inconceivable to think that Monday morning will ever arrive.
All the things you're going to do. All the jobs you're going to get done, all the fun you're going to have, all the hard living you're going to crank out in those 48 hours. It won't be like last weekend, when you wasted time reading in bed instead of springing into action at 8am. You won't spend any more hours relaxing, reading on the loo or just schlumping around the shops when you've got huge DIY projects to conquer, novels to write and bodies to hone. No way. This weekend is going to be different. You're going to be active. Effective. Dynamic.
And Friday is the gateway to all this opportunity. The lull before the storm and a wonderful moment of indulgence before the business of the weekend gets underway. It's not the BIG night of the weekend - that's Saturday, obviously - but it's a time when you can get away with popping out for a few beers or even just getting hammered and lying comatose on the sofa until 3am. Because it isn't a school night and that thought is just magical.
Traditionally, Fridays always used to boast the best telly. I seem to recall that when I was a teenager, Friday was THE night for comedy - you had at least a couple of hours of mouthwatering prospects, from Have I Got News For You through to the distressingly hilarious Beavis and Butthead. (As I got older, Gardener's World became the kick-off point for my pre-weekend telly fest - yeah, what of it???!!)
Sadly, that idea seems to have been relegated to the dim and distant past, much like my clubbing days and Blankety Blank. Now that my two current favourite shows are on alternative nights - MasterChef on a satisfying Wednesday (more than halfway through the working week, yay!) and Boardwalk Empire on an inconvenient Saturday (shit, it's Sunday tomorrow...) there is little to entertain me as I wait for the weekend to begin.
Because, tragic and hopeless though that sounds, it feels like that's all I do these days. Just wait. Wait for my life to begin again. For sad and stunted situations to resolve themselves and for my existence to have some meaning to it again. It feels like I'm stuck in a giant u-bend, waiting for a plug of hair and waste matter to be removed so I can be swept out of the stagnancy and into free flow once again.
I know that's a loser-ish thing to admit, but it's how I feel. So right now, Fridays are no more thrilling to me than any other day. It's just another set of 24 hours to get through - another chunk of time to be negotiated without accident, as I wait for things to get good again.
God, you sad cow. How ridiculous that looks written down. Take control again, for Christ's sake, and sort it out...
Sunday, 3 April 2011
Review: Elbow - Live at the O2
To be honest, I've never been much of a one for concerts.
As a teenager, I didn't spend all my holiday job money getting spaced at Glastonbury or taking a slingshot to Wembley so I could propel my knickers onto Jason Donovan's forehead. It just wasn't my thing.
Don't get me wrong, I have always loved music and I could not have got through my formative years without the aid of Paul Weller, Oasis, Blur, Depeche Mode, et al. They were vital companions in those long hours of moping, mooning and moaning about the harsh futility of Life.
In my later teens, I went to see quite a few crappy small bands in various pubs and indie clubs, and more recently I've seen a lot of obscure but good acts in decent local venues. But I just never really liked one band enough to make the effort when it came to shelling out big money to squeeze up against 40,000 other people in an arena environment. This might have been a more appealing prospect had I lived within stone-flinging distance of civilisation, but as coming from Devon meant a five-day camel ride to anywhere which boasted anything bigger than a village hall, I just couldn't muster the energy.
So moving to the South East several years ago has actually been rather a treat. Suddenly I didn't have to take a long weekend off work to see someone play in London. Suddenly I could go and see bands after work, without taking a whole packet of Pro Plus in anticipation of a 20-hour day just to make the round trip.
I can't say I've swarmed all over this opportunity like a tramp on chips. But the proximity of the rather excellent O2 has put a few impossible-to-resist temptations in my way and this week, I was more glad than ever that I no longer live down among the farmers.
Elbow were playing two dates in Greenwich and as soon as I saw the tickets going on sale six months ago, I knew I had to be there. Just that morning I'd announced a rather essential economy drive, but my future security went out the window when that email alert came through. My flexible friend was made to flex one last time before being cast aside with contempt. I was going, and that was that.
And by George, I'm glad I was reckless and irresponsible with my money that day. I don't have very much experience of massive concerts, but I had thought that nothing could surpass seeing Stevie Wonder singing live on stage. Sorry Stevo, but Guy Garvey and pals have just elbowed you rudely into the wings (geddit?).
As usual, the wait for the main band to come on stage seemed interminable, but once they arrived, I never wanted them to shuffle off again. Echoing the new album, they opened the concert in thunderous style with The Birds and it became apparent immediately that this was going to be something special. I've always loved Guy's voice, but just listening to the recordings, it is very easy to underestimate it and simply view it as a rather workaday instrument. Not true, friends, not true at all. His voice just soared, hitting every note and revealing this dark horse to be one of the forerunners when it comes to the great voices of his generation.
Not only that, but he is also a surprisingly charismatic showman. You wouldn't think it to look at him, being no Robbie Williams (thank the Lord), but Guy had 20,000 people eating out of his hand. Funny, warm and engaging, his down to earth approach was a charming balance to the majestic beauty of the songs.
They did all my favourites - Mirrorball, The Bones of You, Weather to Fly and Station Approach among them, along with the essential bone-shaking rendition of Grounds for Divorce. And of course there was never going to be any other finale than the sublime One Day Like This, which seemed to sweep the entire audience up in a tsunami of good will and joy.
Because last Monday's concert was just that - a momentously joyful occasion. Clearly delighted by the adoration of their fans, the band gave it everything and the result felt like an evening among friends. (Of course, I had the standard issue couple of wankers sitting behind me, kicking seats and laughing like hyenas on crack, but even they were flummoxed into silence once Elbow got to work on them.)
It turned out that Guy's mum was in the audience that night and it occurred to me how wonderful it must be for any parent to see their child achieve something so amazing; to send 20,000 strangers away into the London night with an almost post-coital afterglow, believing that they had indeed, to quote Weather to Fly, had 'the time of their lives...'
I seriously considered going back again the next night, because I just didn't want the magical feeling of being surrounded by that music to ever end. But I'll see them again as soon as I can, and as many times as I can, until they stop doing what they do. Which will be a sad day for all concerned. Because nights like that make you realise that, whatever else might be going on that makes Life seem hard and tiring and possibly not worth it, music reminds you that being alive can be immeasurably wonderful too.
One day like this a year would see me right, for Life.
As a teenager, I didn't spend all my holiday job money getting spaced at Glastonbury or taking a slingshot to Wembley so I could propel my knickers onto Jason Donovan's forehead. It just wasn't my thing.
Don't get me wrong, I have always loved music and I could not have got through my formative years without the aid of Paul Weller, Oasis, Blur, Depeche Mode, et al. They were vital companions in those long hours of moping, mooning and moaning about the harsh futility of Life.
In my later teens, I went to see quite a few crappy small bands in various pubs and indie clubs, and more recently I've seen a lot of obscure but good acts in decent local venues. But I just never really liked one band enough to make the effort when it came to shelling out big money to squeeze up against 40,000 other people in an arena environment. This might have been a more appealing prospect had I lived within stone-flinging distance of civilisation, but as coming from Devon meant a five-day camel ride to anywhere which boasted anything bigger than a village hall, I just couldn't muster the energy.
So moving to the South East several years ago has actually been rather a treat. Suddenly I didn't have to take a long weekend off work to see someone play in London. Suddenly I could go and see bands after work, without taking a whole packet of Pro Plus in anticipation of a 20-hour day just to make the round trip.
I can't say I've swarmed all over this opportunity like a tramp on chips. But the proximity of the rather excellent O2 has put a few impossible-to-resist temptations in my way and this week, I was more glad than ever that I no longer live down among the farmers.
Elbow were playing two dates in Greenwich and as soon as I saw the tickets going on sale six months ago, I knew I had to be there. Just that morning I'd announced a rather essential economy drive, but my future security went out the window when that email alert came through. My flexible friend was made to flex one last time before being cast aside with contempt. I was going, and that was that.
And by George, I'm glad I was reckless and irresponsible with my money that day. I don't have very much experience of massive concerts, but I had thought that nothing could surpass seeing Stevie Wonder singing live on stage. Sorry Stevo, but Guy Garvey and pals have just elbowed you rudely into the wings (geddit?).
As usual, the wait for the main band to come on stage seemed interminable, but once they arrived, I never wanted them to shuffle off again. Echoing the new album, they opened the concert in thunderous style with The Birds and it became apparent immediately that this was going to be something special. I've always loved Guy's voice, but just listening to the recordings, it is very easy to underestimate it and simply view it as a rather workaday instrument. Not true, friends, not true at all. His voice just soared, hitting every note and revealing this dark horse to be one of the forerunners when it comes to the great voices of his generation.
Not only that, but he is also a surprisingly charismatic showman. You wouldn't think it to look at him, being no Robbie Williams (thank the Lord), but Guy had 20,000 people eating out of his hand. Funny, warm and engaging, his down to earth approach was a charming balance to the majestic beauty of the songs.
They did all my favourites - Mirrorball, The Bones of You, Weather to Fly and Station Approach among them, along with the essential bone-shaking rendition of Grounds for Divorce. And of course there was never going to be any other finale than the sublime One Day Like This, which seemed to sweep the entire audience up in a tsunami of good will and joy.
Because last Monday's concert was just that - a momentously joyful occasion. Clearly delighted by the adoration of their fans, the band gave it everything and the result felt like an evening among friends. (Of course, I had the standard issue couple of wankers sitting behind me, kicking seats and laughing like hyenas on crack, but even they were flummoxed into silence once Elbow got to work on them.)
It turned out that Guy's mum was in the audience that night and it occurred to me how wonderful it must be for any parent to see their child achieve something so amazing; to send 20,000 strangers away into the London night with an almost post-coital afterglow, believing that they had indeed, to quote Weather to Fly, had 'the time of their lives...'
I seriously considered going back again the next night, because I just didn't want the magical feeling of being surrounded by that music to ever end. But I'll see them again as soon as I can, and as many times as I can, until they stop doing what they do. Which will be a sad day for all concerned. Because nights like that make you realise that, whatever else might be going on that makes Life seem hard and tiring and possibly not worth it, music reminds you that being alive can be immeasurably wonderful too.
One day like this a year would see me right, for Life.
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