Innage

I doubt many people would have noticed, but we were forced off the internets for most of the last two weeks.

After the first twelve hours outage (and replugging everything, and turning it all off and on again,) I rang Virgin, our current, but soon to be no longer, provider, and of course they asked me to turn everything off then on again, as expected. No dice. Then after examining some chicken entrails, the phone support guy determined that we needed a new cable modem. Fair enough, I thought, the one we’ve got isn’t doing the trick. Three to five working days, I’m told; again, fair enough (sort of.)
Five working days pass, we call again, “where’s the modem?” “What modem? Oh, that modem… that’ll be ten days.” Steam pressure builds in customer – luckily the modem arrived in two. Was plugged in, turned on: nothing. Ring Virgin. “Ah. We’ll have a technician look at that. Give us a couple of days. Later that afternoon, a phone message: “Um, we’re terribly sorry [yeah, right], but that will take 5 days.”

This suddenly becomes too much for Linda, who promptly rang and served them, with extreme prejudice. Some guy at the other end of the line says internet outage? Here you go, all fixed.” And it was.

One bloody button press from ‘turn subscriber’s service off’ to ‘turn subscriber’s service on’ solved the problem, after wasting ten days of our time (and money – we do pay for this ’service’.

Hello, some other ISP. Virgin, you are truly fucked.

Cats

Today we’ve had tea, poached eggs on toast (with chipotle Tabasco and Worcestershire sauces,) followed by a walk up to the markets, where we bought peas and broadbeans and smoked eel and smoked mackerel and heritage tomatoes and mozzarella di bufala (English-made) and asparagus and strawberries and early-season cherries (bloody great!)

Came home and had oysters, then a pea and bean risotto for lunch. Bloody amazing for about £10 for the two of us.

Just been listening to Cat Empire. It’s a sunny summer’s day (the longest one, it’s the solstice!) and they’re brilliant. I’ve been trying to work out how to define what they do – a bit ska, a bit gypsy, a bit mariachi, a bit wog, a bit of a bunch of other stuff, all fun, all great. Feeling good, sitting in the sun with a drink, couldn’t be better.

Then Cat Stevens comes on- Tea for the Tillerman. Great songs, it has to be admitted, but what a palooka. Sorry, but anyone who can happily commit to a fatwah is in my book necessarily an idiot. Come to think of it, anyone who can happily commit to a religion is in some way deeply defective, as far as I can tell. So the music is poisoned. Such a shame.

Yay for Cat Empire, oysters, peas, beans and rice!

neologism time

Well today I came across a good new word, in an article about the death of Ian Tomlinson at the recent G20 unhappiness in London, and the state of British policing in general: testeria.

Built directly on the foundation of the outmoded, anatomically ridiculous ‘hysteria’, ‘testeria’ has an apparently greater claim to bodily relevance, referring as it does to those testosterone-fuelled raging enthusiasms for violence that many men seem prone to, and have come to characterise the expected behaviour of the police involved in crowd control.

I’m just waiting for the adjective to come into vogue – “settle down, you’re getting testerical!”, or the substantive “pay him no mind, he’s always been a bit of a testeric…”

Brussels – not always boring!

I’m working, at the moment, at the arse-end of Evere, on the north-eastern fringe of Brussels, just shy of NATO headquarters, and halfway between the city and the airport.
At least the locals, Flemish, Walloon, Moroccan, Turkish, whatever, seem friendly enough. I visited a small pub with a cow orker, and it’s the only place I’ve ever been where everyone in the place bought a round for everyone else. There were only about 6 of us, but still…

And then there was the ‘manifestation.’ No, Belgium is not noticeably haunted – it’s apparently the word they use when Something Important is happening at NATO, just around the corner from where I’ve been working.

I noticed a lot of police activity in the morning, convoys of (mostly empty) police buses, but that happens. I thought nothing of it, until I tried to go to work. I unlocked the gate to the driveway – the building I work in is set in a largeish yard with lawn (kept tidy by bunnies) and trees and a car-park – and locked it behind me. Suddenly a small car with four un-uniformed but very efficient looking men pulled into the drive. They got out, and the driver came forward. “How did you get in there?” he asked. “I have a key,” I replied. I could see lots of heavy-duty equipment bristling under his jacket. This is where I learnt about the ‘manifestation.’ “Manifestation?” I asked, wondering if Belgium really took its ghostbusting that seriously. He explained briefly that it was a term that was used in the context of NATO ’security,’ then asked me to prove that I actually let myself in with the key I had brandished. So I opened the gate, not having seen any form of ID from these fairly threatening-looking dudes, and a little voice in the back of my head said “this a the part where they rush the gate, kick the crap out of you and cut off your thumb for the biometric front door lock.” Luckily that little voice had been watching too many Hollywood movies. The men thanked me and went about their other business.
But this is the kind of security that, a couple of hours later, had 5 mounted (heavily armed) police come into the company’s premises because my colleague, who is a lightly-built blonde Kiwi girl (that day wearing a miniskirt, presumably that’s interpreted as terrorist chic here), wanted to go home. 100 metres around the corner. They came onto the company’s privaat eigendom (what they call private property in Belgium) and bailed her up against a hedge, and told her that she needed to go back inside – forbidding her to leave work, or indeed be on the streets at all!
Our manager was not pleased when he heard about it, but that was an hour later and the ‘manifestation’ was more or less all over by then, save for the constant drone of helicopters…

Note to self: stay the hell away from centres of bureaucracy, military or otherwise, and other hotbeds of security theatre. They do nothing to reinforce ones faith in humanity.

Eternal vigilance

Is eternal vigilance ever going to be enough to combat the horrific admixture of eternal stupidity and eternal malevolence that governments seem to embody?

Just when I hear some potentially good news about the proposed Australian net-nanny, or to be more accurate, slap-you-around-’til-you-(want to)-forget-which-way-you-voted censorship, laws, the UK comes up with another in a long list of terrifying idiocies, Clause 152 of the Coroners and Justice Bill.

In short, it appears that the UK Government is attempting to gain the power to access any information about anyone, from any source, and aggregate it, and be allowed to use it for any purpose. That includes passing it on to private sector bodies doing ‘governmental’ work.

It has been suggested that this is an attempt to overcome the energy crisis with the use of a couple of large magnets and a careful winding of copper wire around George Orwell’s bones.

It may, on the other hand, be that 1984 has turned into more of a blueprint than a cautionary tale.

Either way this has to be one of the most outstandingly egregious grabs for power in any supposedly civilised country.

Here’s an open letter from a number of Britain’s top health officials outlining some of the dangers from their perspective. With any luck, arguments like these will hold some sway. If not, the EU might prove itself useful in helping to shoot this idiocy down – I’ve heard some rumours about the proposed legislation falling foul of EU human rights conventions, which, unless Britain’s considering seceding from the union, should be able to override illegal local policy.

Here’s hoping for the best.

Tell ‘im ‘e’s dreamin’!

Or, There’s No Place Like Home.

It’s big, and we finally saw the damn thing. Australia, that is.
Despite Our Germaine, despite The Honourable Peter Costello, BA, LLB, MP, despite a host of people telling us to the contrary, we actually went and saw and judged for ourselves. And lo, it was good!
No, it’s not a documentary, as some seem to have assumed, despite the factual existence of the place in the title.
It’s a rollicking story, sentimental, sympathetic, funny and fictional, though hung on a framework of historical events, in the same way as a zillion other WWII dramas, comedies and romances have been.
I honestly don’t know why there’s been such a white, middle-class backlash against this film (as it seems that there’s been, given at least the two reviewers above,) unless it can be said that they either feel vaguely guilty about being white and middle class, or they just don’t get it.
Baz is telling a meta-story, a story about telling stories, and the importance of telling stories, and the importance of growing up with stories to tell. He has fun with that notion in a filmic way, using the language of cinema, quoting from other big film stories, using broad strokes on a broad landscape, and generally being entertaining. The film is long, but it didn’t feel long – I was never bored. It’s blatantly emotionally manipulative, but that comes with the genre, and I didn’t feel it was cynically so.
I remember seeing Strictly Ballroom at the Sydney Film Festival when it came out, and the horror that surrounded it. It was as though Australians had never heard their own accent played back to them before – the Cringe was palpable! How could that terrible Mr Luhrman portray Australians like this, people were saying, and yet that film has entered the Australian cinematic canon, it has been taken to heart around the world, even in the Mother Country, Our Germaine’s adopted home, the UK TV classic Come Dancing has become Strictly Come Dancing!
Maybe it’s time the cringe was dropped, and it was accepted that if we tell Baz Luhrman he’s dreamin’, that might be a good thing. Even Australians have stories to tell.

staged events, part the second

So, still buoyant from our happy time at the Gielgud theatre, we went a couple of weeks later to the Mad Max inspired Millenium Dome, now much more branding-consciously called the O2 Arena, essentially a yurt on steroids filled with American-themed steak-and-cocktail eateries, drinkeries and clubbings. With a stage of some sort attached. We were there to see Monkey: Journey to the West, a production of the ancient Chinese story of the Buddhist priest Tripitaka (or more properly,  Xuanzang) and the Monkey King, Sūn Wùkōng (or Qítiān Dàshèng, “Great Sage, Equal of Heaven”) and their journey to India to collect the famous three baskets of sacred scrolls (the actual tripitaka, which gave the priest his honorary name.)

The story has been a staple of Asian legend for hundreds of years, and was brought to my attention by the Japanese TV series made of it between 1978 and 1980. I didn’t get around to looking up the printed translation until about 4 years ago. A very fun read, so I was very pleased to hear of the new stage production here.

Especially pleased because of the creative team behind it: Chen Shi-zheng, Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett, very stylish gents all, in their fields. So off we went to the cultural Arena, or more precisely, to a second sub-tent ’round the back of the main über Petri dish. I have to say I was impressed. I think it was the first theatre performance I’ve seen where I thought I could sit through it all again straight away (over 2 hours plus intermission!)

There were subtitles to read (it was all performed in Mandarin, the cast being mostly, if not entirely Chinese), though not many, but with so much going on on stage that I was torn between keeping my eyes riveted to the antics and acrobatics and flicking them offstage to the projected text on either side.

The first half focussed on the birth and life of Monkey, and the eventual formation of Tripitaka’s expeditionary troupe, much the way the translation I read did. If you’re more familiar with the TV show this will come as a bit of a revelation, as it glossed over that bit in the intro, then got down to what happens after the intermission of the stage production, the battles with the monsters (which makes it perfect TV fodder – the Chinese original had 81 Monsters of the Week already written in!) Eventually the troupe makes it, despite all adversity, to the temple which is their destination, to pick up the scrolls and be blessed by Buddha. Yay!

Apparently they do travel back to China, sacred scrolls in hand, where Tripitaka spends the rest of his life translating, reciting, and teaching them, but that wasn’t covered in this production. Phew.

Excellent staging and all ’round production values, I thought, though I’m far from an expert. Two thumbs up.

That’s two wins from two performances! Just before xmas, we have cheap tickets to Spamalot. We’ll see if we can get the hat-trick. Wish us luck…

staged events

Well, we’ve braved the theatre twice in recent days, much to our surprise!

Neither of us are big fans of stuff on stage, but we found, in the cornucopia that is London, a couple of things to tickle our fancy.

Me personally, I find all that stagecraft guff a bit heavy on the “stagey”, and a bit light on the craft. Like the production of The Glass Menagerie we saw here in a West End theatre last year. The critics, amateur and pro alike were falling over themselves (maybe each other, I don’t know, I didn’t get that close) to laud its virtues, whatever, and however thin, they may have been. “Yawn”, I say, “yawn” again. Just not my scene. Plays? Emotional drama on stage? I see over-wrought waiters in tights (or whatever the costumes might be.) For emotion, give me the gritty close-ups of film (or real-life, even) any day.

If you’re going to entertain me, make me laugh, I say! Even bitterly, in recognition of human foibles and follies. Dazzle me with wordplay, thrill me with gymnastics, but don’t try to embroil me in the emotional intrigues of characters (people I don’t even know, or like!) because I’ll be yawning all the way to the tube-station.

So, back to the main story, first up we saw The wonderful Bill Bailey, who was already familiar from stage and screen – if you don’t know him there’s plenty to find on Youtube for a glimpse into his quirky and deconstructed world (”how many amoebas does it take to change a lightbulb?”*). There’s not much I can say about him that can’t be gleaned from the online recources, except that if you get a chance (and you’re into that sort of thing) go and see him. He’s my kind of funny.

More in the next instalment, coming soon…

*one – no, two- no, four! – no, eight…

Hmm, a Quote

From someone who knew a thing or two about the topic:

“Fascism should more appropriately be called Corporatism because it is a merger of state and corporate power.”

Benito Mussolini.

I don’t really feel the need to editorialise about this. It just struck me as funny, in a bitter, ironic way.

The Flavour of Mystery

It is a mysterious taste, as it turns out, because only about 700 people in all of Great Britain have actually tasted anything like it. Good, fresh food, that is (maybe a tiny exaggeration).

The mystery began, as you may remember, when we booked a meal at Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s River Cottage HQ. The secret handshake survived the emailing, and as per instructions we walked with a map carefully memorised (but not eaten, lest it spoil the feast to come), and proceeded on foot down the darkening unsignposted country lane to the designated rendezvous point.

From there, with a group of fellow secret-handshakees, we were conveyed to the final destination by (relatively) unmarked stealth-tractor.

Out of the tractor and into the welcoming yurt (!) (arrayed with chilled Somerset apple brandy apéritifs and marvellous crab canapés) we hors d’oeuvred around the small cheery wood-burning stove warming the cool Devon evening. Then, suitably refreshed, we were welcomed to River Cottage proper. Once on the premises, we discovered, it was pretty much open slather. ‘Don’t disturb the Head Gardener, that’s his place over there, and don’t go into the room that’s been booked for the private function’ were our only real proscriptions. ‘Wander around the kitchen garden, visit the pigs, the geese (and they were delightfully friendly!), the ducks, the generator room, the kitchen, annoy the chefs, that’s what they’re here for!’ The place was ours. ‘Even look at the menu, if you want, before the meal starts!’ The veil of mystery had been whipped away to reveal…

We ate and drank (look here for some of the delicious beverages we imbibed) and yapped copiously in a converted barn, on two long trestles, about 15 to a side, couples across the table from one another, so every couple had four strangers to talk to. Once seated, there was a complimentary glass of English sparkling wine, and the head chef (Noni, Australian, gorgeous) made an appearance to commend the food to us, and tell us the names of the animals (and vegetables) that had given their lives that we might be sated. The bubbly, accompanied by a wild sea-bass ceviche (a bit bland for our taste) was, surprisingly, very good, and the names of the beasts, ‘pig’ and ‘lamb’, weren’t too off-puttingly personal.

— from James Rose – (?)

So to the food, should you be interested – I liked the pig’s liver pâté. It had a rustic granularity, and lightness, lent to it by breadcrumbs, but Linda thought it should have been smoother [it's pâté! pâté! (ed)] The fish soup was a winner. Hearty and fabulously full of stocky richness, well matched to the chorizo chunks swimming lustily back and forth across the bowl. The lamb was pretty damn good, but could have been, in an ideal world, a little bit more succulent (the poor little thing was sacrificed for us and was cooking for about 24 hours and still managed to be a teensy bit dry). The cheeses were a fine mix of assorted goat and cow varieties, with plenty of flavour, but all hard cheeses basically, some more variety in texture would have improved the plate hugely. Also, who knows how many hedgerows had to die to make that jelly? And so to the strawberry fool, what can you say? Fruity, sweet and creamy – quintessential dessert! [Linda didn't like it at all].

So yes the food was good – not the greatest we’ve had, but close to the best we’ve had in Britain; and the fine, fine staff made the evening top stuff (if ever you read this lovely people you were wonderful – human and informed and all the right things) but the secret to the whole affair was the throwing together of a bunch of strangers, adding lovely tucker and lots of yummy beverages et viola! A top time was had by nearly all. Linda even got to sing along to Big Yellow Taxi with a lovely Cornish lass. What more can you ask for from an evening?

River Cottage rocks!

And we must tell you about the Chicken Out campaign soon.