Friday, April 14, 2006

Normal service will be resumed shortly...

Any of you who uses my feed to keep up with this site, and you should, it's terribly clever, you'll be impressed by my prolific morning of updates. Hundreds of them. You may also be disappointed to see the net result of all this work being this measily post. Sorry, I've been doing a bit of maintenence on my archives and hitting update blog too much. You won't see any differences unless you look really hard, but it makes me feel better.

And for anyone who thought I had a car crash on Monday (see post below). I didn't, IT WAS A METAPHOR.

Monday, April 10, 2006

Car crash Mondays

There are few greater experiences than a car crash Monday. Its what happens when you exit Sunday too quickly, usually having been propelled by a fantastic Saturday, or in this case, Friday. This weekend spat me out at a such a velocity I don't think I landed until Monday lunchtime.

Friday was Katie and James' superb wedding, surrounded by my favourite people in the whole world. Saturday was our baby class, which despite all expectations to the contrary, has been excellent. We are now fully licenced to turn our lives inside out. Then I had a sleep deprived out of body experience at the football, which was absolute garbage, but I no don't care. Saturday night was more time with my favourite people (sadly not all of them, this time). Sunday, I had to endure some extreme nesting from Emma (which basically involves smashing the house to pieces), then over to mum and dad's for dinner, then...

Petoowee! car crash Monday. Ace. Again! Again!

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Not many men can wear cuban heels

Ah bless, one cherubic poster on the Depeche Mode message board was ruing the fact so few people turned up to Friday's NEC gig in iconic Violator era Dave Gahan leather jacket, Aviator sunglasses and white jeans. Apparently this was his garb du jour. Some years ago it wasn't unusual to see Depeche fans dressed like this, but now they're defined by their girth, not their dress. Many still wear tour merchandise of various vintages (generally speaking Devotional t-shirts have survived years of wash and wear best) but most freakish obsessives limit themselves to comedy Gestapo leather coats because they're more slimming than white vests.

Despite the tired, lazy, media coverage about their doom laden Essex boy electro pop, The Mode still give great show. It's a little grungier than the polished electronica from the first time we saw them sixteen years ago, but sometimes its good to indulge in proper portentous stadium rock. Gahan makes no excuses for his well rehearsed rock god performance; happy to lead an arms in the air clap-a-thon or screech "C'MOWN!" in an odd LA drawl. He appears to have added a subtle Spanish theme to his stage show for this tour, and a 'bolted horsey' foxtrot. Ah well, he's 44, even he has to be embarrassing dad once in a while.

Of course he's supported by the awkward, but brilliant, Martin Gore who now seems permanently attached to his lead guitar. Conversely, the band's other stalwart, Andy Fletcher, sticks with what he knows; bouncing behind his space aged console on lead, em, Excel. His presence on stage disguising the fact his principle role is actually as the band's accountant.

The beauty of stadium rock is its slickness; video, song and sensible health and safety regulations meld as one. Films of demure, usually half naked, models bathed in brooding coloured light are interlaced with live action band close ups that reveal years of drug abuse and peculiar sex are not without consequence. Like the venue, the show is convenient, safe and well thought through. The live drums and guitar mean they're a bit more ragged than usual; they have to restart Personal Jesus after attempting to play the whole song in the intro, but even this cock up is suspiciously slick. In the end the set is predictable; a song from the new album, an couple of classics, a couple more songs from the new album, then classics right through to the encore; pop gems Just Can't Get Enough and Everything Counts are rounded off by the ever tumultuous Never Let Me Down Again. At the end Gore and Gahan stroll out to a small stage in the middle of the arena to do the ballad Goodnight Lovers. Its an unusual choice to end a show, but it reveals that, perhaps for the first time in years, they seem to enjoy playing together. Art, its not. A stupendous night out? Well, yes.

The baby enjoyed the show, dancing most to Enjoy The Silence. Emma, just three weeks from the pop, hobbled valiantly from the car park to the arena over a walkway. On the way back one of the stewards stopped us from going back the same way; "You're not walking over there again, I saw you coming down. There's a shortcut down there, ask my mate (another steward) to show you". The pain and suffering seemed to capture the mood perfectly.

Saturday, April 01, 2006

Some lies I tell about my friends

Penny was a 16 stone teenager
Jo was a teenage goth
Katie is the member of a mafia family running a small Buckinghamshire village
Willy rents her husband from an agency

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

Geographically challenged

I've heard some stupid things shouted at football matches, but Saturday capped it all. The triumphant return of Jim Smith to Oxford lit up what would have been a drab end of season meander against Peterborough, that's Peterborough in Cambridgeshire. Half way through the first half the Oxford crowd quietened, allowing the 'borough fans an opportunity to sing out. The bloke behind me shouted...

"SHUT UP YOU COCKNEY SOUNDING TWATS"

Sunday, March 26, 2006

Birthing partners

Although I like the idea of community hospitals and community shops; I'm not really a community person. I don't find myself on committees campaigning for new flower beds to be placed in the middle of the road or saving historic wheelbarrows (used by some dead bloke during the war). I guess I'm the kind of person that's destroying communities, I live in my own bubble of friends and family and shop at Tesco. My non-community milieu is probably the reason I have little need for community centres.

The uncomfortable plastic chairs and scuffed magnolia paint job was exactly what I expected, but probably not for the spiritual contemplation that was to be our ante natal class. I wasn't sure what to expect to be honest (which didn't help given that the first session was to write down what we expected). My only reference point was the midwife who made thinly veiled comments about how National Childbirth Trust classes would be more appropriate for people of our, ahem, background. This made me think that we might end up spending hours discussing homeopathic remedies and chi... on a Saturday morning.

The session opened with a bit of getting to know you. Whilst the girls compared twinges, the men made lame jokes about football, pints and pies; posturing whilst sounding each other out.. I can't remember who broke the deadlock of actually admitting we did care and that we weren't there under duress, but when it happened we all loosened up.

Thankfully, it wasn't all beanbags and scented candles, the class was pretty straightforward; we had lots pictures of wombs and foetuses in that 'Joy of Sex' 1970's line drawing style and simply worked through the birthing process. Some people were able to quote the parts of the womb in Latin and support their arguments with a rich supply of statistics and research papers, some (me) looked blankly and cracked jokes.

People I know who have done these classes have talked about the friends they've made through it. Personally I was wary of being enveloped in a little clique of baby bores. It's nothing like that, thankfully, it's a good group that's happy to have a laugh at what is a whole world of goop and poo. Maybe I am a bit of a community person after all.

Monday, March 20, 2006

Word of the wise

Emma’s grandma offered us a plethora of parenting advice yesterday, my favourites were:

‘Of course, you get no joy from your first’ (number of children she had? One)

‘Well, in my day Family Allowance was a Crown a week, nowadays they get POUNDS!’

The latter comment sparked a(nother) diatribe about the state of the social welfare system. Apparently people now get their benefits delivered 'to their door' (these people being all lazy good-for-nothings). When asked if she went to the Post Office to collect her pension she replied “Oh no dear, I get it paid straight into the bank”.

Sunday, March 19, 2006

Get rich or lie trying

I like the Money Programme's pop economics editorial policy - analysing the strategies of Tesco rather than meticulously tracking the nuances of futures and derivatives. Their slightly one dimensional analysis of Fifty Cent's 'business empire' was a bit of a let down though. It seemed to have been driven almost exclusively by the fact they'd managed to gain a brief audience with the man himself. For this read; they stood around some palatial hotel room while he absent mindedly played his own PS2 game. The programme basically concluded that Fiddy made a lot of money by putting his name to a lot of merchandise. This was validated by asking a self-confessed Fiddy obsessive, Chanice. They asked whether she would buy a pair of trainers with his name on. The answer was, it seems, yes, which is strange that from an obsessive fan. The conclusion was neither damning, praising or explanatory, the 50 Cent success story was just, y'know, a thing.

Lucien, a brand consultant with a public school education and an American drawl who pronounced leverage as beverage not lever as diva, concluded that Mr Cent had a gangster image, made a lot of money and that the corporations who associated with him may be taking a risk but it may be one that's worth taking. Thank you Lucien. DJ Semtex was equally enlightening when trying to explain why McDonalds had failed to attract a hip hop star to endorse their burgers. His explanation went something like "McDonalds, like, no way, its wack". They failed to mention that Destiny's Child and Justin Timberlake had both been successfully recruited by Maccy D; admittedly they're not very hip hop, but they are very big.

Chanice's mum didn't mind her daughter's obsession with the ex-drug dealing gangster so much (although she doesn't like it when he says "Mother F"). She said that 'he's only reflecting what's happening on the streets'. Really? asked the presenter who they'd deliberately dressed in achingly conservative brogues and Thomas Pink shirts. "Yes", said Chanice's mum, "In Rainham", she qualified with some force. They live in Gillingham, where presumably drive-by shootings are less frequent.

This is a common assertion made by hip hop stars, that their gansta flow is street commentary. But this makes no sense, Fifty Cent isn't reflecting what's happening on the streets. The reason he's hauled moderate talent onto a world stage is because he's been shot nine times. It's a fantastical story upon which an all action vigilante image has been built. He seems like quite a nice guy and understands his business, which helps; but the reason we know he's been shot nine times because most people are not shot nine times in their lifetime. He may be able to mumble humourlessly about his own life, but he's not reflecting what's happening in everyone else's life. If being shot nine times were a reflection of what's typically happening in the world; it would be the equivalent of me leveraging the fact I shop at Tesco in order to foster a multi-million pound music career.

On the otherhand, if Fiddy can rap about Candy Shops, maybe there is something to lever here... "I'm going to the Tesco shop, it has adequately varied stock"

Sunday, March 12, 2006

The geeks come out

E4's Beauty and the Geek is a majestic programme. OK, the geeks aren't quite as geeky as they're portrayed - they're university graduates, but one presents a radio show, another is a comedian and Will managed to end up on the front of the Sun snogging Christine Hamilton. The beauties aren't really that beautiful either; they're mostly second division lad mag standards managing to tick all the right boxes (tall, slim, good fetlocks) but never quite achieving that Keira Knightley natural allure. None the less, both sides play their roles with aplomb; the beauties are shockingly shallow, the geeks awkward and cerebral.

Anyway, like all great reality TV shows, Beauty and the Geek is a straight forward gameshow with a dark brooding undertone. Ably narrated with sneering cynicism by David Mitchell of Peep Show, what starts as a straight forward game where the beauties and geeks pair up for a series of science (for the beauties) and pop/fashion tasks (for the geeks) slowly evolves into a ferocious melodrama depicting the evils of greed over emotion (and we all know what a laugh that can be). Will "My idea of getting ready for a big night out is putting on a slightly stripier shirt" starts to fall for Elissa. Who in turn, realises that "not all geeks are, y'know, bad people" - because she claims that Will's massage (one of the early challenges) was 'like sex'. Will's partner, Alex, has other ideas and when it comes to nominating someone for eviction (the prize for winning a task is to nominate two couples for a survival play-off). Will wants to prolong Elissa's participation, having once brushed her arm or something equally intimate, but Alex views Elissa and partner, Ben, as strong contenders so she wants them off. Will's only opportunity of going out with a 'beauty' slips away, but hilariously, he's incapable of persuading Alex to change her mind. "I have a very strong affection for her" is the best he can do.

When Elissa and Ben survive; Ben, becomes a confidante for the permanently moody (and crying) Sam; whose basic beef is that Ed, her partner, is the gawkiest geek of them all. Ed wasn't very good in the massage challenge, mainly because Sam would let him touch her when they were supposed to be practising. Ben's gentle unrequited romanticism towards Sam ("I just want to envelope you in my arms") is roasted when Elissa wants Ed and Sam out (again, for being a threat to the £40k prize money). This causes Ben, the woosy sap, to burst into tears and run off. Ed, cast as the obtuse social commentator, believes the girls are simply seducing the boys for the purposes of survival - possibly because he's right, possibly because everything all he knows about girls is what he's read in books.

Quixotically, Ed and Sam survive, giving Ben more time to envelope Sam in his arms. Incidentally, that week's challenge was for the geeks to dress the beauties without the benefit of knowing their size etc. When Ed produced a dress Sam liked she burst into tears in relief; "I'm so proud of you, I didn't think you could do it" - she said as though he'd just returned from an unarmed mission deep into Iraq. At this point she crumpled on the bed and sobbed loudly; Ed could only stare, rock from one foot to the other and self consciously take his hands in and out of his pockets. The following week, however, the beauties were charged with giving the geeks a make-over. Jon, Teri's partner, who typically dresses in bright puffer jackets, elaborate hats and vintage sportswear like those jazz funk Svengalis you see bouncing around the back of the stage at a Bent or Young Disciples gig, is made over like a mid-table Premiership fringe player - all fake tan and multi directional hair.

Sam proving that she is not shallow at all, instantaneously announces Jon to be 'hot' and without warning cheers up and, with the power of hypnosis or perhaps drugs, lures Jon to her milieu. This instant switch marginalises Ben even further. Then they're presented with a challenge for the geeks to go to a club and collect telephone numbers. Newly galvanised Jon beats Ben to every girl in the club causing him to retreat to the toilets for a cry. Jon then attempts to progress his relationship with Sam, usually by deliberately dumbing himself down; but when he makes a physical advance she rebukes him, turfs him out of the room they're in and asks Ed to come back - which the dutiful puppy does.

Last week the challenge was to solve a series of puzzles which appeared more complicated than they actually were (neat, because they appeared to be aimed at the geeks, but they were more suited to the beauties). When faced with the challenge of getting a key from a block of ice, whilst Ed cursed himself for not remembering the molecular structure of ice, Sam kept asking why they didn't just "'Frow it against the wall?". She was right. Ed and Sam have a beautiful chemistry, making them my favourite couple for next week's final.

Come on you dozy geek and moody sow.

Monday, March 06, 2006

Sophie

“Auntie Emma, when you wee will the baby fall out?”

For a three year old to understand the link between giving birth and the hole through which it comes out of is impressive. Apparently my Grandma was unsure moments before she had my uncle because nobody told her what was going to happen. What’s less impressive is that although we know it won’t fall out, we’re not wholly sure why.

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

I fought the law

Ah human resources, what a fine profession you are. HR is all about taking an interest in people - this is an important point, to be addressed later. Originally, this interest was in a time and motion context; basically sickness and holiday records. It was little more than a mundane admin process. Like all admin processes; it was a cost to the business; there is very little benefit apart from making sure that people weren't off work too much and didn't take too much holiday. When times are lean, big bosses drive costs out of their business by reducing the amount of admin cost it has to saddle. This made HR people vulnerable to redundancy as well as generally unvalued (and therefore poorly paid).

In an attempt to protect these people-beancounters, the professional discipline of Human Resources was invented. HR people did more than holidays and sickness, they brought direct value to the business by hiring and firing (more admin) and providing training and development structures. Now, training has a very linear relationship between a need and how that need is satisfied - can't use Excel? do some Excel training - again, not hard to do if you put your mind to it. Development, on the other hand, is like spiritual enlightenment; no one knows what it is, how you achieve it, but you're afraid if you don't have it you're missing something. It's like trying to heard cats... cats made of jelly. Development is the emperors new clothes of HR; Did you know that Waitrose staff can actually get trips to the cinema and theatre paid for by the partnership because its viewed as a "developmental opportunity"? Development is such a rampant and conveniently amorphous beast, if you don't provide "developmental opportunities" you're a bad company. Why should we believe this? Because it's on every job advert... adverts that are written by HR people. And so HR's self fulfilling prophecy is complete; we're important, because we say we're important.

Every company is now expected to have an HR function to show what a progressive company they are. If you're a small company it's unlikely that you can afford a properly trained HR person or justify employing them full time. This means the role inevitably falls to someone who has an interest in people (i.e. the fundamental pretence of HR); what they earn, what their problems are and so on. In other words, this is a perfect role for the office gossip.

Being a gossip of any kind is all about power; having something that others haven't got. If you hold something others haven't got, that gives you one degree of power, if you're mandated to have some control over people then power increases exponentially. A mandate to write HR rules that dictate peoples lives is manna from heaven for an office gossip.

So why am I telling you all this? well, working for a small company and being the first person in its history to need paternity leave means I've get first hand experience of the small company HR person in action. Our HR person was detailed with writing a paternity leave policy. I'm the only person this policy applies to because I'm the only man in the company of a realistic child bearing age who isn't gay.

HR Woman comes in to tell me the policy is written and it basically says I get 2 weeks at £100 a week - what is known as the statutory minimum allowance. Like all statutory rates they're basically set to give some protection from unscrupulous employers to sweat shop workers whilst protecting small businessmen from being bankrupted with onerous payments. I'm not a sweat shop worker and my employer is not on the brink of bankruptcy, therefore our policy should reflect the attitude of the company towards its employees. However HR Woman is not enlightened to such thinking, she sees that the policy should reflect her ability to wield her power over others. The more onerous the policy, the more powerful she is. The joy of telling me I was about to lose nearly half my monthly salary on her whim was unconfined. I began my challenge, I questioned why the company has taken on board a punitive policy when a. it's a financially sound company, b. we readily spunk the said amount on a hopeless procession of consultants (including, it turns out, a consultant who suggested the policy to her in the first place) and c. that my salary was all budgeted for and effectively a sunk cost... and d. and e. and f. and so on.

In challenging her legitimacy in having and applying this power over me she began to recoil; she smiled broadly, suggested I talk to our MD, shrugged her shoulders and said... "there's nothing I can do... it's the law". I composed myself, gathered my thoughts and told her that was "fucking rubbish" and that did she really think that it was illegal for the company to pay over the statutory minimum. She shrugged. Then I realised that maybe she wasn't talking about the law of the land, but the law of the HR person; what she was actually saying was "Sorry, I have to ignore your personal situation and apply a rigid regressive policy just to make you unhappy... it's my job" her smile, however, reminded me that the company was at least supportive of my overall development. And for this, at least, I am grateful.

Monday, February 27, 2006

Pointless Ruffles activity number 4,507

I could be painting the nursery but I'm not, of course, I'm compiling my second annual top 50 albums. Compiled with no reference to last year's list, I'm impressed, at least with the consistency. Only 9 albums made the list last year that didn't make this year's list, highest ranked being 26th, Louder Than Bombs by Smiths. Congratulations to 2 Many DJ's for shooting in at number 10... although why it wasn't in the top 50 last year I couldn't tell you.

Still, no logic or reasons given, here's the list.

1. It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back - Public Enemy (1)
2. 101 - Depeche Mode (2)
3. Tricks of the Shade - The Goats (3)
4. Live at the Heavenly Social Vol 2 - Jon Carter (9)
5. 70 Minutes of Madness - Journeys by DJ - Coldcut (7)
6. The Stone Roses - The Stone Roses (5)
7. (What's the Story) Morning Glory - Oasis (23)
8. Nevermind - Nirvana (20)
9. Pills 'n' Thrills and Bellyaches - Happy Mondays (6)
10. As Heard on Radio Soulwax Vol.2 - 2 Many DJs (-)
11. Music for the Masses - Depeche Mode (-)
12. O.K Computer - Radiohead (10)
13. Orbital 2 - Orbital (4)
14. Rage Against the Machine - Rage Against the Machine (8)
15. Paul's Boutique - The Beastie Boys (28)
16. Songs of Faith and Devotion - Depeche Mode (48)
17. Technique - New Order (17)
18. The Chronic - Dr. Dre (16)
19. Abbey Road - The Beatles (24)
20. Licensed to Ill - The Beastie Boys (-)
21. Dummy - Portishead (21)
22. Black Sunday - Cypress Hill (30)
23. Copper Blue - Sugar (37)
24. Hunky Dory - David Bowie (11)
25. Parklife - Blur (42)
26. The Beatles [The White Album] - The Beatles (25)
27. Republic - New Order (15)
28. Hatful of Hollow - The Smiths (-)
29. Leftism - Leftfield (12)
30. The Bends - Radiohead (13)
31. Violator - Depeche Mode (19)
32. MTV Unplugged In New York - Nirvana (14)
33. Raising Hell - Run DMC (27)
34. Low Life - New Order (-)
35. White Room - KLF (38)
36. Blue Lines - Massive Attack (29)
37. Protection - Massive Attack (18)
38. 3 Years, 5 Months and 2 Days in the Life of... - Arrested Development (-)
39. Bizarre Ride II the Pharcyde - The Pharcyde (40)
40. The Queen Is Dead - The Smiths (22)
41. 3 Feet High and Rising - De La Soul (44)
42. A Rush of Blood to the Head - Coldplay (45)
43. Adventures Beyond the Ultraworld - The Orb (33)
44. Debut - Bjork (32)
45. Connected - Stereo MCs (50)
46. Screamadelica - Primal Scream (-)
47. The Prodigy Experience - The Prodigy (-)
48. Straight Outta Compton - N.W.A. (-)
49. Teaser and the Firecat - Cat Stevens (36)
50. Definitely Maybe - Oasis (-)

Tuesday, February 21, 2006

United nations

German, Ivorian, Ivorian, Swiss, French, Belorussian, Brazilian, Spanish, Swedish, Spanish, French, French

The nationalities of Arsenal's starting eleven tonight; the first English club to beat Real Madrid in Madrid. Don't get me wrong, I have a soft spot for Arsenal, call me old fashioned, but just how English is this team? 


Sunday, February 19, 2006

Never mind the Brits, here's the Ruffs

The music scene is pretty good at the moment and this year's Brits was a demonstration of its general good health. Things are still a bit polite for me, though, I like to live vicariously through our naughty pop stars. Coldplay have mastered that MTV swagger (copyright: US MTV friendly 'alternative' bands); ramshakling onstage like a gang 'o' lads whilst ensuring the aesthetic of the camera's arena wide sweep isn't upset. James Blunt is such an endearingly bewildered buffoon you want to beat his legs with a bike chain and make him cry. And, if the world has to have a KT Tunstall, then this KT Tunstall is better than most. The Gorillaz were great because they're a multimedia project suited to multimedia performance. Unlike, say, the exceptional Kaisers, who play indie pop better suited to dark sweaty venues. I particularly enjoyed the (intentional?) irony of Paris Hilton announcing American Idiot as the best international song.

Anyway, in the spirit of all things celebratory; here's the Top 10 of Ruffles' 2005 purchases (Last year's winner: Felix Da Housecat).

1. If You Can't Join Em, Beat Em - DJ Format
2. A Bugged Out Mix - Erol Alkan
3. Silent Alarm - Bloc Party
4. Hot Fuss - Killers
5. Playing the Angel - Depeche Mode
6. Taste the Secret - Ugly Duckling
7. Fabriclive 19 - Freestylers
8. Brassbound - Ordinary Boys
9. Push The Button - Chemical Brothers
10. LCD Soundsystem - LCD Soundsystem

And whilst I'm fiddling around with iTunes, some random facts from my iPod...

Shortest tune: Runaway Dreamer - Felix Da Housecat (0 minutes 0 seconds)
Longest tune: Timeless - Goldie (21 minutes 3 seconds)
First in alphabetical order - A Ballad to Forget - Soulwax
Last in alphabetical order - Zuton Fever - Zutons

I could, theoretically, makes a compilation CD (74 minutes) with 125 songs on it. The shortest compilation would have 5 songs.
It currently has 13.6 days of music on it, which is 4,704 tunes, which averages out as 4 minutes 9 seconds... there are 15 'average' songs, two of which are by 50 Cent. Hmm.

Sunday, February 12, 2006

36 different ways of sliding

The games of the 20th winter Olympiad; an opportunity to take an obsessive interest in sports you wouldn't normally glance at if they were played naked. In truth there are precious few winter activities that can be made into sports; ski-ing, skating, sledging, snowboarding. It's a wonder they haven't found a way of competing in snowballing or snuggling up with a big cup of cocoa. The Games are packed with derivations of these four principle activities with some differences invisible to the naked eye; downhill skiing is about skiing downhill, slalom is about skiing downhill with lots of twists and turns, giant slalom is about skiing downhill with less twists and turns than slalom but more than downhill skiing. They also have super giant slalom; which I'm sure is just a test to see if anyone's really paying attention.

Still, there's a lot to enjoy about the Games; not least their soporific quality. Most of the sports involve the competitors taking turns one by one dressed head to toe in a curious mix of Lycra cat suit and motorcycle protective wear. It's impossible to tell one competitor from another. What's more, they don't even wear anything like their national colours. Skiers from Austria are most likely to wear pink and yellow, figure dancers wear sequinned boob tubes. Add this anonymity to the indistinguishable differences between first and last - fractions of a second - it makes it fantastically undemanding to watch.

Secondly, British commentators rarely know what they're talking about, usually they rely on a 'British number 1' to provide expert analysis; even though they attained their status as the best UK speed skater through a rollerskating competition in a Tesco car park. For reasons I've yet to fully fathom I prefer Eurosport coverage to the BBC; perhaps because of their wide-eyed relentless 24/7 coverage. They seem so pleased to cover the event that they don't care whether anyone is watching the Nigerian cross country skier or Egyptian luge champion, they show it all in full regardless.

Last night we watched the final thrilling (probably) rounds of the Women's Freestyle Skiing. At first this simply looks like slalom in big trousers because the competitors wear cool urbanwear over regulation Lycra. Closer analysis reveals this is a sport that seems to involve skiing over knee-crunching bumps (moguls) until you hit a ramp and do a jump; this is followed by more moguls another 'air' and over the finish line. The winner is not the quickest; it's judged by a panel of anonymous judges (although for all I know it could be by a Scandinavian TV text poll). Originally invented for the cool snowboarding set, it's become detached from its roots because those who look coolest are the ones who are penalised for making it look really difficult and fast - those who are most tediously efficient win. Disappointingly, for the marketing men at least, It was won by the (comparatively) plain looking Canadian Jennifer Heil. Heil is a Matrina Navartilova to the Chris Evert Lloyd of Norwegian hotty Kari Traa who claimed silver. Traa spent most of the competition sparkling into the camera whilst her fellow competitors tried, and failed to beat her score. As the competition progressed the commentator's filling became more desperate. Finally he resorted to; "There she is, Kari Traa, with her classic Norwegian looks - blonde hair, blue eyes and a casual freestyle skiing technique"

Yup, you can tell a Norwegian a mile off by their casual freestyle skiing technique.

Sunday, January 29, 2006

Gallows humour

I like to think of myself as a democrat who is liberal minded. This would suggest, therefore, that I'm a good fit for the Liberal Democrats. I know, however, that liberalism is kinda boring, so I try to take a side if I can, to the left in the main. Inside, though, I know I'm a bit boring; I don't climb mountains, grow giant mangoes or go seagull racing at the weekends. This is OK, not being very interesting allows me to exist within my own comfort zone.

Then the cuddly boring Liberal Democrats disintegrate in a storm of alcoholism, rent boys and secret bisexual-ess-ness. This is just not my brand of boring; this is not the dull uneventful middling life I signed up to. None of it adds up, how do you find the time to watch low impact reality TV and find Tesco Self-Scan exciting when you're buggering rent boys in an alcohol soaked stupor?

Then, just when I thought my belief system was more aligned to Leigh Bowry than, ahem, Lea-fy Buckinghamshire; George Galloway erupted in the Big Brother house and it all became clear to me. I spent the last couple of weeks trying to spot what was so distasteful about Galloway. I hadn't read that much about him, so my thoughts weren't coloured by the press. He was against the war and spoke a common man rhetoric that was easy to subscribe to. He pissed off the Americans, which didn't seem a crime. He just seemed like a intelligent, thoughtful, slightly conservative middle-aged man. Not a million miles from where I'll end up, I think. But he's friends with Pete Burns and Saddam Hussain, am I really more aligned to these people than cuddly Charles Kennedy and his merry band of terribly sensible people? It seems, perhaps, my naiveté lulled me into a false sense of security becuase when Galloway opened up it was quite evident that he wasn't really interested in the substance of the debate; he was simply interested in his role in it. It's not a question of whether his argument is stronger, its more that if he's in control then he's winning.

That's when it dawned on me that Galloway isn't like me; we may claim to stand for similar values, but our motives are different. Whereas he chooses to ride on these values for his own self aggrandisement, my motives are rather more simple. I think these values are right because its better to be good to people than to be bad, because life is better that way. Perhaps this is one of life's great failings, the argument is too simple. You can't work into a passionate tirade about going about your normal business, not bothering too many people and generally being nice, polite and straight forward. Instead people who have something else to promote; themselves, for example, can use this liberal minded language as a screen for another, more sinister, agenda. Galloway uses it to promote himself and people like me are seduced into being supportive because they're not otherwise represented in the circuses of the mainstream media and politics. Who is more the fool, eh?

Sunday, January 22, 2006

Maybe baby

I haven't really talked much about the baby and its impending arrival in April. I remember reading that Norman Cook asked his label boss to drop him should he produce an album of peans to his son and I'm acutely aware I could fall into the same trap. I'm paranoid of talking incessantly about 'precious gifts' and 'special times'. In truth, six months in, the whole pregnancy has been rather uneventful. Emma is slowly changing shape (though still in her own clothes she'd want me to point out), and I have sung more songs to her belly than anyone else's (December: Christmas carols, January: Beatles, February: I'm thinking Yardie ragga). Otherwise, you tell people, then you wait a bit, then the baby turns up.

Sort of. As the year turns, our thoughts are becoming crystalised on getting ready. Once you enter the baby economy, you realise the baby business is big business. Put 'baby' in front of a product name and you can mark it up by about 10 times. Take this baby bath from Bloomin' Marvellous. According to the blurb, it puts the baby into a position that simulates the baby in the womb thus providing a sense of safety and blah. In essence it's a bucket; 99p from B&Q, £18.99 from Blooming Marvellous.

We're also booked onto ante-natal classes; albeit several months late. We're going with the National Childbirth Trust classes rather than NHS. This was recommended by the mid-wife who viewed our uber-middle class house as a sign that we shouldn't be pitched in with the teenage mothers on the NHS class (lesson one: how to tell your headmaster you'll be missing next Tuesday's double French). Apparently you should be booked on after three months, we left it until 6 months so now we're on an overflow class at the end of March. I'd like to go in with no pre-conceptions; but try as I might I can't.

Most recently we had a tour around the hospital. Well, nearly. We went last week with Vicki (due March), arriving at 6pm and then waiting nearly an hour to be told that the hospital had sent out leaflets all over the county saying that the tour was every Thursday (it's actually Wednesday). An hour in a maternity ward gave us ample opportunity to observe the many freaks and dweebs who are populating the country (says the man who, from an outsiders point of view, looked to have fathered two children with two women without any apparent problem to either party). Watching the enormously pregnant fourteen year old waddle out the door to have a cigarette makes you realise how lucky you are. Still, this is not as surprising as hearing from one of the people complaining to the big boss of the maternity ward about the tour mix-up that "It's disgusting, there are heavily pregnant women here".

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

All seeing Ruffles

Things I've noticed about Big Brother...

  • Celebs smoke strangely; Pete Burns smokes out of the corner of his mouth, probably for good reason, Sam Preston puffs like a spiv, holding his fag like a dart, presumably to enhance his Mod credo,

  • Though it pains me, George Galloway, comes over as quite a rounded individual. Although Ihis assertion that Sadam Hussain was loved by the Iraqi people, does at least give me one hook to hang my hat of hate on,

  • You Spin Me Round is a TUNE! (so is King's Love and Pride, jesus, how easy is iTunes?)

  • It is secrectly reassuring to find out that d-list celebs like Jodi Marsh are exactly how you want them to be: perma-tanned big titted gobshite on the outside, broken human being on the in,

  • When people talk to Dennis Rodman they talk like Dennis Rodman, for this read: Jodi Marsh talking about 'lickin' hot pussy', and Fariah Alam going on about "fucking a Paki bitch"

  • Pete Burns; who looks like a cgi character from a Playstation Game, and Barrymore who looks like every other fifty something on the planet, are essentially the same person and if either ever realised this they would explode.

Monday, January 09, 2006

Hunka hunka burning mouse

OK, so you come out of your little house, looking for some cheese. Without warning some bastard picks you up and slings you out the window. You know you're doomed, your life is slowly slipping away... what do you do?

Sunday, January 08, 2006

Ghost wars - Steve Coll

This is a superb book charting the history of the CIA's involvement in the Middle East from the Afghan war through to September 10th 2001. The narrative is a chronological look at how the US covertly supported the Mujhaden , via Pakistan's secret service, when the Soviets moved in to support Afghanistan's faltering government. The mujahaden was made up of a pathwork of warlords fighting in the area. The US, sensing a Soviet march to oil in the middle east, supplied political, humanitarian and eventually, military aid to the resistance. They chose not to back an Afghan nationalist warlord, General Ahmed Massoud, because he did deals with the Russians. Instead they chose to back the General Hekmatyar; an Islamic radical and a ruthless idealogue.

By supporting Hekmatyar the US failed to recognise how the increasing surge in political Islam could grow to threaten all non-Islamic nations, including the US. When the Soviet Union withdrew so did the Americans, allowing the civil war to continue. Political Islamists; Hekmatyar, Osama bin Laden and the Taliban built a foundation from which al Qaeda could build its strength. What's more they were able to spread their influence through Pakistan, the Islamic world and through terrorist networks - employing tactics which attracted a high media profile and using modern technology to spread the word.

The Afghan war jihadists came from all over the region, including Saudi Arabia, partly attracted by the concept of religious war against the Soviet infidels, and also disillusioned by the increasing westernisation of traditional Muslim nations, modernisation which arose from the oil wealth in the region. Afghanistan, its chaos and poverty, represented an opportunity for a fundamentalist version of Islam to be built; the birth of the Umma - the community of Islam. with the fall of the Soviet Union, American interest in the region was limited to speculative commercial opportunities such as tapping the gas fields of Uzbekistan. Even when concerns were released reactions were stymied by relations with Islamic states including Pakistan and Saudi Arabia, a poor understanding of the region or political islam, and their residual commercial interests in the region (a lot of time was spent trying to do commercial deals with the resolutely pious Taliban).

Having let al Qaeda's influence fester for years, when the US government finally decided that Osama bin Laden was a serious threat to the US, Bill Clinton, paralysed by the Monica Lewinsky impeachment, got the yips when it came to an assasination. Several opportunities were missed. By September 10th 2001, President Bush had become tired of 'swatting flies' when it came to Osama bin Laden and the Taliban and decided it was time to take affirmative action. As the wheels began turning to provide arms to Massoud's Northern Alliance; Massoud was assassinated by al Qaeda suicide bombers and the 9/11 mission was commencing...

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