The Cyprus Problem - The True Villains

Cyprus a tiny island whose population amounts to less than 1 million has caught the European headlines since announcing over the weekend a staggering tax on peoples wealth, the Cypriot population and those affected by the obscene proposals have been broadcast to all major news channels, bewildered and angry people shout "Oxi" at local bank branches, "no".  Can we really blame them?  Wouldn't you be just as outraged?  I know I certainly would - but let us not forget the political rhetoric of the last few years since the banking crisis.  Certainly in London and in most of Europe indeed most of the West the call has gone out to tax the wealthy with Robin Hood style taxes as propagated by leading 'economic intellectuals' such as Bill Nighy.
Cyprus is feeling the effects of a natural extension of this leftist dogma that has seeped its way into mainstream politics, which has lead to the introduction of a wealth tax, which still to most rational minded people is obscene. In turn it leads to an examination of the definition of wealth.  Wealth is a relative term, what we are now discovering in today's climate anyone lucky enough to have savings is by definition better off than most and in turn, wealthy - however modest the deposits they hold.  It can never be equitable to punish so severely the hard work expended to find the resources to put money away, money that has already been subjected to the tax process.  The deal the EU offers is draconian compared with its liberal and lax approach to the other embattled economies of the Eurozone.  Russia remains a player and Cyprus needs to utilise her, to negotiate the best possible deal which for all intents and purposes seems to be the cause of the delay in enforcing this package.  

This tax is in my opinion tantamount to theft, as it taxes moneys already accumulated and already subjected to the proper tax system, such as income taxes, vat, corporation tax etc, by enacting it Cyprus and the EU will have crossed a Rubicon - and if crossed we are all in danger of suffering the same fate.  Cyprus is a guinea pig, if an audacious money grab like this works on a small scale with little resistance it will be tried elsewhere, in larger economies, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Greece, Ireland, France the UK, indeed Angela Merkel felt the need to tell the German people that savings in Germany were safe, make no mistake this blatant theft will be mimicked wherever possible.  Also it is important to reflect that the promise made by the EU that savings up to 100,000 Euros would have their safety guaranteed is also now null and void.  It was the powerhouse of the EU - the Commission who posited this plan and they who will ultimately break the relationship between rulers and ruled.

The term banker in the last 3-4 years has come to denote a certain type of villain they have been more vilified even than the worst types of criminal.   Indeed much of the literature surrounding this EU dictated Cypriot wealth tax in the blogosphere use the term "Bankster" (Banker and Gangster combined) and it is they who have somewhat missed the prevalent point.  Banks operate in the environment governments allow them to, the banks that are now toxic would have failed years ago had politicians not decided to bail them out with taxpayer guarantees, the banking crisis is a result of political failings.  So tax the banks, tax everyone who works at banks, tax everything the banks have got...except the only thing banks do have is our hard earned money, which I think generally speaking people would rather wasn't tampered with any more than it is.  Governments across Europe and the technocrats and autocrats that manage the EU have become corporatist in their outlook, picking winners, subsiding where required and bailing out failed governments and private sector entities to cover up their own mess, they have begun to realise that they need to approach matters differently and have decided to make Cyprus a lab rat.  It is the politicians who deserve your wrath and where anger should be directed, to the many Presidents and Prime Ministers of Europe, both elected and unelected as the case may be - to the European Elite a clear message must be sent - to the likes of Borosso and Van Rompuy indeed to the less than useless Baroness Ashton for they must understand that so long as they are unelected they should have no given right to dictate economic policy.  Not only are they dangerously dictatorial they are by no means benign.

If Cyprus is to rejuvenate herself she needs to unshackle herself from the Euro decouple and devalue - the same for Greece, and all other Southern Mediterranean countries lest they become vassals of Northern Europe and their ability to self govern extinguished. European Elections are on the horizon - use your vote wisely.

Will the Lambs Stop Screaming?

A cause for celebration.  This blog has had over 1000 unique readers.  Outstanding, I appreciate that it is an eclectic blog and that is primarily because I am an electric sort who takes an interest in a great many things, at the same time I have tried to make it as easy going as possible and as such most of the posts have been about cultural items both old and new, this post will combine both.

An old friend recently informed of the up coming "Hannibal" TV series.  At first I was reserved.  Having been a big fan of the Thomas Harris literature surrounding the Lithuanian cannibal from a disturbingly young age I've always felt in a way that translations don't always do the works justice, with the exception of The Silence of the Lambs.  Hannibal was a let down, the psychological edginess present in Lambs was sacrificed, excuse the pun, in favour of the grotesque and the ridiculous wasting a fantastic cast, Oldman, Moore, Giannini, Liotta and of course Hopkins himself.   Red Dragon was an improvement but by that time the whole premise of the Hopkins era adaptation had begun to feel tired, and the less said about Manhunter the better.  Adaptations of Harris' work have had a somewhat up and down ride from the lofty heights of Lambs to the betrayal of content and deletion of so many characters in Hannibal, or the overall poor film that was Hannibal Rising, though I personally can't help but feel that that was because the source literature simply wasn't as sublime as its predecessors. 

Anthony Hopkins in Silence of the Lambs, moving away from this adaptation is a bold, but smart move.

The trailer for the new series holds a great deal of promise however, it looks bold, the cast is fantastic, Mads Mikkelsen seems an inspired choice for the deranged doctor, and the supporting cast would all be at home on Hollywoods A-List.  By delivering via a TV serial rather than a film this project should be able to deliver the detail, intrigue and character development that made Lambs the classic it is, while indulging the bloodthirsty among us with scenes we hope of an extreme graphic nature.  It will be interesting to see how on script the story will be as it seems from the advertisements that it will follow the Red Dragon novel.  Will see a lot more background to Lecter and Will Graham?  One hopes so because it seemed to me it was an undeveloped relationship in both Red Dragon and Manhunter so as to suit the limits of a film.  A TV series solves that problem.

Oh yes and before I forget to mention yet another lead role in an US TV series for an English actor Hugh Dancy.  The invasion continues and lets hope his Will Graham will have us all gripped on the edge of our seats for another taste of cannibalistic fun and games.

Hannibal Trailer

A House Well Built

Huge congratulations to Netflix for making what I think is arguably the best adapted transatlantic television show yet.  Forget "The Office," and a whole host of hit reality TV Shows, "House of Cards" is an amazing example of a show well translated.  Its a show that combines all the power struggles, posturing and intrigue of the Soprano's with the high brow content of the original series in a way that doesn't alienate the common man - I include myself in that category.  The on-line content providers have done outstandingly well with the cast, the script, and in creating a gritty and realistic plot full of scheming and conniving acts that made the British adaptation so successful.  The fact that it has been produced by an online-streaming firm opens up all sorts of questions as to the future of the industry and where things are headed, but this series has been done so well that frankly If this is a mark of things to come its a welcome change.

Series 2 is currently being filmed.

Kevin Spacey brings a real and odd likeability to Underwood who is essentially a villain, we want to see him succeed, just so the plot can unfurl and more and more of the unwitting victims become ensnared and enslaved to his biding.  Spacey really does give the character a lot of depth and his depiction of the Machiavellian Francis Underwood is a joy to watch.

The British version had a similar giant in Ian Richardson who was also sublime as Urquhart, both he and Spacey are Shakespearean actors and these are the kinds of roles where it really shows.  However the casts in each series are not so comparable.  The people at Netflix really put in the extra mile to weave together a cast that performed well individually and together Spacey is well complimented by accomplice and lover Kate Mara and on screen wife Robin Wright, whereas the British version was somewhat let down by actors in roles that were either to big for them to play or were poorly written.  The British version was very much a one man band, that's not to say it wasn't a great one man show but too many scenes were far to camp or overplayed or indeed unconvincingly played such as the balcony scene in the last episode, whereas the Netflix version really does feel gritty and real, each character has been well thought out and the approach to taking a life is much more plausible and just as sinister.

One need only compare the interesting and tragic "Peter Russo" (Corey Stoll) with his equivalent in the British series the hard on his luck Irishman "Roger O'Neil" (Miles Anderson), to see the jump above the re-imagining has made.   Russo's story is one people are able to access he has been given the background and exposure that O'Neil never had, and Underwood's actions are all at once horrific but at the same time startlingly easy to understand.

The US show has also tastefully transplanted specific scenes that further examine the difference between the two leads such as the euthanizing of the dog, watching both Richardson and Spacey in these situations as both Urquhart and Underwood respectively show how much change can be made by an actor to the same act.  Richardson was a great deal weaker showing us his vulnerability whereas Spacey demonstrates exactly how menacing and cold blooded he really is even when breaking the 4th wall, cold to the core one might say.  Both men however are experts in the art of convincing themselves of the morality and mercy of their acts, creating for themselves god-like pedestals, which in both cases works brilliantly.    

However that does not mean to say that the original House of Cards was without merit, it has dated yes, and it is a one man show but it is a very good one.  Both actors bring different qualities to their characters. Urquhart's aristocratic charms are compared with the on the surface likeability of Underwood's self-made-man of the people, both however are brilliant at showing their teeth revealing the shark in each man.  It will be interesting to see if the Netflix adaptation follows the same pattern as the British in that the following series  are renamed to correspond with the literature or whether, as with other adaptations such as Game of Thrones, no such change occurs.  Either way the story is riveting and I cannot wait to see if Zoe Barnes has her "Mattie Storin" moment.   I just hope its more convincing.

Ian Richardson as Urquhart 

Spacey as Underwood

Music of a forgotten time...

Apologies for the delay in posts - my schedule for a change has been a busy one that has not afforded me a great deal of spare time to indulge myself in my writing.  Recently I have been approached and signed by a recording company to create two original songs - and it has inspired me to write this.

For those of you who don't know I am a music geek - a man stuck in the wrong era - I have spent the week walking the streets of Bethnal Green and the surrounding area humming, whistling, singing and probably annoying and or disturbing people on their daily routines with the sounds of a singer most people will not have heard of, but some may recognise, I speak of Matt Monro.

Some brief background - he was born and lived very close by to my locale in East London, and gained a reputation as a singing bus driver before international stardom came knocking.  His voice was truly unique and his style was truly classy.  He is, in my opinion, an under rated and somewhat unsung voice of British music.  I as an aspiring singer/songwriter very much influenced by the style of Matt Monro and I dedicate this post to him, and hope I too can emulate his successes, though I appreciate the market for this particular genre of music may have dwindled in the last few decades I am sure there are those who miss it.

So - whilst I don't drive a bus - I have worked at a train station - and not to compare myself to the late great Matt Monro but I do enjoy travelling the world singing and bringing enjoyment to the masses - so if anybody out there has a vast fortune they are willing to throw my way to aid this endeavor  please feel free to, if on the over hand you care to indulge me and listen to my version of a Matt Monro classic - feel free!

Matt Monro - We're Gonna Change the World

and for any of you interested here is me singing a Matt Monro standard Bornfree at the tender age of 17.

Enjoy.

Le Miserables - Average at best

Its not a great film, its not a good film, Le Miserables was pathetically average in every sense of the word.  I am not particularly a fan of the sung-through film nor musicals but I thought given the acclaim and hype there must be something worth seeing here...there really wasn't.

When making a musical the first thing the casting team should probably find out is whether or not the leads can sing - Russell Crow's Javert may as well have been played by Shane Macgowan - lets be plane there were no stand out singers in this entire adventure - Crow was just the most noticeably bad given his characters screen time.  Some critics such as Adam Lambert have suggested that instead of using live vocal they should have studio recorded.  That is one suggestion I have a better one - why not cast actors who can sing?  Surely that is the answer?  That way it doesn't sound bad and it doesn't sound fake.  Too simple I'm sure

Asides the dreadful karaoke-at-best singing the acting was all together competent with nobody really standing out in the dramatic sense.  Sasha Baron Cohen and Helena Bonham Carter proved a fun duo on screen and Cohen's Fagen-esque portrayal of the Land Lord was highly amusing.  That rather brings me to point - Le Miserables was supposed to be tragic yet I didn't shed a tear for any of the characters, in the whole film it seemed very few people actually died.  This a film set in the backdrop of one of the most horrid periods of French history with rife starvation, disease, revolution and yet we see little in the way of pain or death asides Hathaway's.  The whole production felt contrived and manipulative prompting the viewer to cry at the appropriate time - except that's not how these things work, it has to be a natural connection with the characters which just didn't exist, perhaps the medium is the problem and not the content, this may well be a film that is better seen on stage rather than the cinema.  If you want to see somebody suffering and feel a connection to the character you would be hard pressed to find something better than this chap:

Les Miserables turned out to be The Mundane (which google translate reliable informs me is Les Banales in french).  I'd find it hard to believe that it will stand the test of time with the other great film musicals - Sound of Music, Oliver, Singing in the Rain or in fact any of the great tear jerkers. 

The Gambler

Lately I have been working on my very own side project as mentioned in my very first post, it has become The Gambler - my very first short story.  Seeing as I am a novice I have decided to publish it as a blog post feel free to read, critique, comment, enjoy, or detest:

The Gambler

by Sean Harry Redmond

He had enjoyed a flutter, ever since he was young.  He’d never had much money to speak of but for some reason, as soon as the money came in, be it from legitimate or illegitimate means there he would be, it fuelled him, gave him vitality, it could also cripple him, but he needed that too, losing was part of the product an integral part of the bargain he struck on an almost daily basis.  He wasn’t educated per se; he had attended school for as long as he could stand it, and left with the minimum his potential afforded him, an achievement that still fell short of the government targets, though such targets are subject to change as they so often do, just like odds.  He never felt that that had disadvantaged him.  But then again he never had any great dreams, stricken by the poverty of ambition perhaps, but not of opportunity, or ability.

  

In all he was contended, so long as he was here.  This chapel of statistics, with its very own paradise, and its very own hell, it had been his personal theatre, it had been the scene of many a triumph and much slaughter, yet each victory and each defeat felt as fresh as the first.   Each moment while at once individual was also fluid, and part of a singular hive.  His memory could recall some of the more impressive or depressing moments, but frankly he had been here so often, and gone about his business with such a frequency, that distinguishing one moment from the next was difficult to say the least, he preferred not to dwell and was loath to reminisce.  There could be no end, and he could not remember the beginning, but he knew that whatever happened today would have happened before, and that whatever would happen in the future, will have happened in days and months passed.  It was a loop that comforted him.  Whilst any 2 given days could be completely different, they would in fact be entirely the same.  This was why he came.  He loved this, he would return to this point eternally, if he could.

Though by admission he was a compulsive perhaps even obsessive gambler he did not himself feel addicted. There was a thin, yet clear distinction.  He could walk away if needs demanded he leave, and often they did.  It was only on very rare occasions that he would actually watch the race, or game he had money on.   He was generally a busy man and so finding something to do was rarely a problem.  He didn’t feel like a junky, didn’t demand he be here, and sure he lost money, but then again he found he didn’t need a great deal in his day to day life, and didn’t have that many people in his life to spend it on.  Gambling quenched a thirst in him, it was the loss of control that he enjoyed, the act of throwing dice in the air and letting them land wherever the universe determined. 

The bookie was a sanctuary, a place to forget, and a place to escape because when an individual relinquishes control, they no longer stress, worry, or panic, at least he didn’t.  He always imagined it as though it were an old saloon, but not the kind with the dancing girls and the mundane and aimless fighting from a Western, more a desolate lonely place, with room only for 3, himself, the bartender, and of course, his beverage of choice – short, and blue, and the guiding hand of fate, it was this potent, yet ever reliable friend that would see him through.  

He handed over his cash and his slip; the cashier gave a familiar smile, “To the boozer?” as if the question need be asked.  “Where else?” came the reply.  “See you tomorrow Johnny?” 

“Hopefully in a few furlongs time,” collecting his coat and arranging his pockets, his soul purged for now he left the bookies.  Walking the length of the high street had become arduous and a test of his mettle.  He did not fit in here anymore. This place had changed since he was young shops had changed hands so many times, faces changed, in this part of London even the language was changing.  It was odd to think that to some people’s eyes he was in fact once part of a change.  Though anyone who did think that was long dead by now, long dead and forgotten.   Johnny was well versed in the background of East London.  Every immigrant population that has become a part of the British nation finds its origins here.  Be they Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, Irish, Polish, or French they all started here.  There was an odd sort of pride in that.  It was a shared heritage he identified with.   Though it did not stop him feeling out of place.  That he could not help. 

He didn’t blame the latest in a long line of newcomers for his feelings of loneliness but rather those who had left him.  Most of his generation had found a ‘better life’ in the suburbs though he wondered what that really meant.  Yes they drove lovely cars, and lived in great big houses with fantastic gardens but how could that be what they really wanted?  They must have missed the old place, the laughs, and the booze, the knowledge that you know almost everybody in your block of flats, and the block of flats opposite and the block of flats behind, point being you knew everybody, and everybody knew you.  That familiarity was something he missed. 

When he was a young man the local boozers were the places to catch up have fun and live life to its fullest.  Now the pubs that were left had become rescue centre for those left behind, and not the cheap kind.  There was a time when he could walk into any pub within a mile and be assured that he would see a face, not always a good looking one or a friendly one, but at the least recognizable.  He would often find himself mourning the past.  It was impossible not to when so much had gone, and what had replaced it was entirely unimpressive.  It was difficult to find food to eat here now that wasn’t Halal prepared, he was never too sure what that meant, he knew it was a religious preparation and he had never taken religion seriously.  Perhaps he should have, maybe he should have tried to learn more about the people around him, perhaps then he wouldn’t be the proverbial fish up a tree?  It was too late now. 

Suddenly John couldn’t catch his breath, everything stopped, “Honk!” panting and in a semi state of shock he jumped back from the road, “you stupid old git” John could only mumble to himself, death to whatever it was the driver of the car had said.  He had no doubt it was stronger than git.  He stood on the pavement collecting his breath, as he looked down the road where the car had sped off. 

One thirst had been quenched but his other thirst had intensified. The dry green arches that had welcomed him here so many times before had started to wane, and rusted metal had begun to seep through, the rheumatic walls would be here much longer than himself.  The glass was single pained, and the windows dingy.  His first step in and he had already smelt what was not there.  The smell of tobacco – strange how he missed it, he didn’t smoke but he missed the smell a great deal.  Now all that lingered in the air was stale beer and piss it was palpable, wretch worthy.  He much preferred tobacco to that.  That had been the beginning of the end he felt.  It seemed that after the smoking ban the price of his pint had increased year on year, and with every passing year another pub closed.
Bang.

Looking over at the jukebox he remembered that this was one of the ‘infected zones’ a pub where the students and young professionals who had flocked to the relatively cheap parts of London had taken over.  The kind of people who wore sunglasses no matter what the weather was like, where the blokes weren’t blokes at all and spoke “oh so very effeminately”.  They wore jeans that must have constricted blood supply so much that there balls must have blown up from the constant strain.  That probably explained the ladylike way they all spoke.  At least the music they played was familiar, most of the time.  That was part of the reason they flocked to pubs like this.  It was very cool and retro to be here.  An old ska song faded out, and silence overpowered the room as one of the kids by the jukebox fed the machine.

“Bitter Johnnie?” Frank was keen to be busy besides John the toddlers by the jukebox were the only custom. “I’m always bitter” John lied, and did so the only way he knew how, with a smirk on his face that twisted ever so slightly to the right side of his face “ESB, its bloody cold out.”  Reaching into his pockets John pulled out a £5 note and completed his second transaction of the day – though this one gave him no fulfilment.  Sipping his pint and collecting his change all the while staring at the unceasing news coverage of a missing girl.  “Bunch a cunts these journo’s…” It wasn’t a question.  “Probably turn out its one of the parents, they say that half of em are”.  John heard what Frank was saying but didn’t really listen, the words just swept over his as the muted coverage on the television was joined by a song …“Stop your messing around...Better Think of Your Future” 

It was probably time by now.  “You still get teletext on that thing?” Whilst he might not watch the race he wanted to know the winner so he could get back to the bookies, there was a lot on today, Football, Rugby, Horses.  He made a point of backing one thing at a time, any more would divide his attention.  Frank handed him the remote, “You know I can’t fucking make heads or tails of this”.  John grumbled, “Give it ‘ere…what was it horses?”

“Cheltenham.” Inwardly John’s body was pulsating, blood pumping nerves tingling; outwardly he was calm, but his insides were a veritable hive of activity.  “How much you have on it then?”  Straight face John replied “Knicker”.

“Fuck off knicker! I know you well enough to know that a knicker is about the most you’re willing to leave the bookies with,” Frank muttered but John caught the last word “addict!”  One of the youths from the jukebox had snuck up behind John as he turned to Frank and in turn John decided to take issue as eloquently as he could. 

“Frank, you know I object the use of that fucking obscenity, now tell me who won the fucking race or shall be forced to take my custom elsewhere”

“Haha, calm down, fuck sake I can’t read it from here, can you?”  Both men squinted at the screen hanging from the ceiling neither able to decipher what may as well have been Greek.  In the end both gave up. 

“What can I do you for?” The youth handed over his empty pint glass and ordered his “Strongbow” as confident as could.

“Couldn’t do me a favour boy could ya?  Read that teletext for me tell me who won the 13:00 at Cheltenham?  Frank give him the handset”

“Yes sir, of course sir is that all you require?” one could taste the sarcasm Frank injected in his words, but to John they left no sting.  This had been their way for decades.

“Just give him the fucking handset” The young man didn’t have time to respond, and immediately got to work finding the right page.  “Did you say 1 o clock?  John nodded. 

Upon hearing the name John was thirsty.  He sipped at his pint, but it did nothing for him.  He quickly thanked the young bespectacled man in the chequered shirt, and left a quarter of his pint in his glass, before telling Frank that he would be back in a while.  It was all very rushed and very quick.  He had to get back fast.  Not because he had won, but because he had to put money on a few more games, a few more horses, there was always something else.  It didn’t matter that he had won £250 and that was what people didn’t understand.  This was the rush he lived for, knowing he was returning to go through the processes again.  His heart fluttered, and his mind traversed what he had read earlier, a collection of form, odds, fixtures, race times, his fingertips tingling.  Saturdays were best for this, so many things to put his money on, he was spoilt for choice and now his mind was dead set.   The pub was long behind him, it was only now he realised that he had forgotten his coat, but he wouldn’t go back for it, it would be there on his return.  He had the receipt, he had his ticket to ride.  His mind raced through the weekend fixtures, “Leyton Orient away defeat, Arsenal home win, Chelsea score draw, West Brom home win…”

He collapsed, clutching his chest, he tried to take air in but his body rejected it, he tried to exhale but there was nothing to be expelled.  Passers-by ignored at first.  They just stared.  His mind was still walking to the bookies.  He was willing his body to get up and go but it just wouldn’t respond as if he were caught in the grip of an ever tightening clamp.  The more he fought the tighter its grip seemed to get. His eyes slowly closed, and opened slower.  Each time they closed he could see it.  The bookmakers, he had to get there.  He would get there.  His eyes opened, he could see more people gathering round, another talking to him, loudly, but he couldn’t make out the words.  The pain in his chest was ever-present, and his breathing laboured.  John’s stiffened arms were no longer his, and they no longer clutched at his heart.  Instead they were starting to weaken, with all the tenacity he could afford he opened his mouth.  At first a raspy gasp escaped but he was sure that he had managed to evacuate the one thing that mattered to him, “Nietzsche’s Ghost”.

There was no prophetic flashback of his life there was no light that he could run towards, none of it.  There was only the horse.  There was only death.  

Morose Mondays Strike Back!

Has it been that long since last we met?  A whole week since my last post - apologies to you all I know you were so eager to read more about me and my interesting musings, but its far more interesting to see how far afield my readers dwell from Angola to China, Japan to Slovenia people have spend their time reading this blog.  With that in mind I shall try to limit the anglocentric form it appears to have taken and attempt an international feel for the blog.   Feel free to subscribe to the blog by clicking what should be a follow button at the top of the page - feel free to share the amusements with your fellow men and women.  

To business - and Morose Mondays - Part 4.

Having an interest in the performing arts I felt it proper to include a related post.  This week I bring you the unfortunate passing of Jean Baptiste Poquelin or Molière as he was better known.  Molière was the comedy giant of his day - approved by Royalty, loved by the masses and frowned upon by the religious establishment  he was a consummate performer.  

Molière- No Laughing Matter?

Poor Molière met his demise in the performance of his play titled 'Le Malade Imaginaire' roughly translated as The Hypochondriac.  The character he played was as the title suggests one who had a overwhelming anxiety regarding ones health, Jean gave the performance of a lifetime.  Coughing so convincingly that it actually brought on a fit of coughing and hemorrhaging.  At first nobody believed that he was dead, rather that his commitment was so immense that this was the intended effect.  Nobody suspected he had become the victim of pulmonary tuberculosis, at least no one could accuse him of being dead pan (geddit?).  There we have it, a renaissance Tommy Cooper - died doing what he did best - inducing laughter and committed to the show until the very end.

His life eventually became the subject of a film Molière 2007, though I can't promise it will be a barrel of laughs...

Until next time you lovely people.

Matters Political.

It was never my wish for this blog to contain any serious political opinion but rather for it to be a facility to relieve my boredom.  In that task it has partially succeeded.  However I have a desire to post something somewhat serious, almost confessional.  Firstly I would like to point out this is a work of opinion, and so therefore will not be footnoted and will not cite authority at any given opportunity, most of what I say will most likely not be truly original in its grand idea but neither will it be copied from any source material.  Secondly whether you agree or disagree I welcome any comment.

I am for all intents and purposes a conservative though I hope you note with a small c, which sub-genre I am not sure.  To say that you are conservative is an ordeal in itself such are the politically charged times we live in, politics feels dirty and no matter which side you bat for the dirt flung from either side hits all the same.  Perhaps I should quickly summarise my beliefs.  I believe that the state should be limited in its powers and keep out of affairs that are personal including marriage and religion, as an adage I believe in personal liberty and personal responsibility for ones actions, and a part of my being does feel that some things are best done slowly and with consideration with all that has come before and will yet come.  I hope based on those beliefs I am not too objectionable a character.

I believe all these things yet I cannot bring myself to believe that in the context of UK politics such a force exists, at least in the political mainstream.  Essentially I suppose I feel disenfranchised.  Abandoned by the 3 P's, politicians, politics, and parties.  I suspect it is not a feeling that I am alone in feeling, nor do I suspect it is one limited to persons of my political persuasion.  I do not wish to indulge in nostalgia - I am not suggesting that any particular generation "had it so good".  Rather that the gap between the ruled and rulers has widened.  I speak generally of course, as always there will be exceptions that constituency MP who really does work hard for the voters, taking there concerns to parliament and using his or her judgement to best suit the interests of the people.  However its hard to deny that the politician as a generic sub-species is looking increasingly clone like.  They work in think tanks, or PR, by the age of 30 they are elected to parliament by a party system that seeks nothing more than to elevate them as quickly as possible.  The professorial politician.

Now more than ever Westminster is becoming a world of its own, a political class trained to work on its benches rather than feeling any civic duty, its own vernacular with statements that say a lot and mean little, where language is used to confuse simple ideas.  Does anybody feel they can honestly relate to any of the big political headlines over the last couple of decades?  I personally find it hard to.  Pleb-gate being a case in practice, the political scandal of the decade thus far.  Did we all care so much about that one man called another a name?  A name indeed that no longer holds relevance in today's lexicon?  My background is firmly working class - I use the word pleb as an endearing term to throw at friends during acts of immense stupidity - usually on the football pitch not as an indication of their class. The papers had a field day and convinced us otherwise - this was a class war the truth much duller - establishment infighting - the government, the police the media 3 organisations who have become too bloated and forgotten there duties. Sky News, BBC News, the totality of mainstream broadcast media were live at the scene of the heinous offence.  Blame needed to be apportioned, somebody had to go - and go he did.  Though recent revelations appear to suggest a degree of injustice present in the whole saga.  That I suppose is the biggest fault of the system - the need to attribute blame has reached a level where facts no longer matter, events no longer matter.  All symptoms seem to point to a political industry that chronically runs around chasing its own tail like a demented dog.

This Parliament consists of members who have dipped there hands in the till from the money we permit them, who accuse others of violating laws they themselves seemingly fall foul of, who in fact do not even take the care to read the very law they enact.  Surely these are the things that should vex us?  Instead the trebuchet is loaded with the political tittle tattle that interests only a select few, politics has become an extension of the daytime TV revelation chat show, and the press its glossy magazine parasitical companion, one need only look at the incestuous relationships at the very top, Blair the godfather to Murdoch's baby, Adam Boulton is practically related to the Labour Party, Cameron and Brooks the list goes on, no side can claim any sanctimony and the examples could fill the government spending gap.  Yet they remain our elected representatives - and I suppose the blame must fall on us - the electorate.  We are the fools who give them office and in turn power, and must never forget that fact for we and we alone are the only means of removing them and until we do will only have ourselves to blame.

Its a sorry state of affairs.  The political elite have created a system where they are largely unaccountable. By transferring power to organisations and bodies both foreign and domestic that are not subject to the simplest form of democratic procedure (that is direct vote) policy remains largely unchanged no matter what party holds office.  That is because politicians that we elect to make decisions on our behalf no longer make them. This is not always a terrible thing to do, in some instances such as restraining inflation by removing the governments ability to set interest rates for short term political gain has proven effective but it should not be applied to every branch of government.  Ultimately I can't help but feel that an entity that holds office, and power without tangible responsibility - where one is more likely to lose a job for a PR gaffe than stealing money from the public at large will only become further corrupted and further detached from its source of power - the people.

The gradual shredding of responsibility has I suggest created a lawless political elite, that left unchecked will lead us all to a darker tomorrow.  Then again what will I do to stop this?  Write a blog - post a comment here and there.  My laziness is indicative of a generation, we have accepted the status quo and deserve our fate.

Enough bile, perhaps something light hearted next time.

Insider sources tell me that the Tories will be using this as a party political broadcast at the next election...Enjoy

Morose Mondays Return of the Morosity

Just when you think you're out - I pull you back in the infamous if distorted words of either Silvio or Don Corleone.  That's right the highlight of your working week returns.  Morose Mondays is back and with it another interesting and amusing journey in human morbidity.  Last week the impassioned lawyer taught us an invaluable lesson in knowing when to quit, and before that the cannibalistic proletariat in post revolutionary France that one should not waste a good meal.  Though one should not be duped into believe that these posts impart any advice whatsoever.  The sole purpose of Morose Mondays is to impart some mildly amusing and interesting deaths.  I solemnly vow that this post will at all times place interest and amusement above any attempt to teach anybody anything.  

And so we move on.  The artistic types have always been a source of sorrow and fragile fluctuating emotions, be they musicians, painter, sculptor or Mario Balotelli there exists something in their psyche  that brings the wider public to believe them frankly unstable at best.  To be honest the reference previously was just a conduit to add this hilarious picture below.  

Poetry In Motion?

This week we journey to the year 2002, and the slightly sad yet amusing tale of one Richard Sumner (no relation to Gordon or Gotye - they must be related they sound too damn similar).  A tragic story really Richard was suffering from schizophrenia when he had the idea to to travel into deepest darkest Wales and handcuff himself to a tree.  Having succeeded in doing this he eliminated his route of escape by throwing the keys beyond his reach.  Fast forward 3 years and what must have felt like the opening scenes in Bones or Silent Witness became a reality for an unfortunate lost dog walker. The skeletal remains of a man who had handcuffed himself to a tree who the coroner noted "later changed his mind"...er not such a good idea after all

An artistic mind deep in the doldrums takes his own life "as lovers often do" if only he were less elaborate.  A lesson?  If you go down to the woods today you're sure of a big surprise...

For a funny interview with Gordon Sumner - YouTube has the flesh:

Southampton on the Adkins diet...

I am a terrible man, may I be forgiven, I promised in my last post that I would not make impassioned posts based on the behemoth that is football.  In light of the footballing headlines, that have been regurgitated more times than last nights pre-catwalk snacks, temptation got the better of me.  I make a solemn promise that the post after this one will not be sports related at all.

Nigel Adkins this week received perhaps the most undeserved firing since Roberto di Matteo, or Carlo Ancelloti, or Rafael Be...wrong month.  All I can do is add to the chorus of outrage that football fans from all over England currently feel.  What does one have to do right?  He successfully dragged Southampton from League 1, to the Championship, and now they are a Premier League team, this a proud club who not long before Adkins appointment endured the shame of administration.  Not only was Adkins at the center of one of English footballs finest stories of redemption, he also instilled with in his team a desire to play the game as it should be, on the ground, fast paced and with as many goals as possible.  Some credit has to go to Alan Pardew of course for stabilising the team, and injecting some fresh talent, such as Jason Puncheon scorer of midweeks equalising goal at the Bridge. 

Let us reflect on the start of the season, newly promoted Southampton faced both the Manchester clubs performing valiantly against United only for the genius of Robin van Persie to thwart them and Arsenal in their first 4 league games.  Unsurprisingly the points tally after these games was perhaps more familiar to any British Eurovision fans - nil poi - however did anybody truly expect any different? Yet for all his hard work Adkins was still according to the tamest media reports headed for the exit.  So less than 6 months on, Southampton sit in 15th place, looking as though they may yet be suited to life in top flight football having taken a point against two of the leagues "big boys" and all of a sudden, from nowhere Adkins is fired.  This begs the question why? There exists no other business model where year on year success is rewarded with such callous disregard.  Politicians probably would have felt disgusted by it such was the incredulity of the decision, if of course they knew anything about football or indeed where Southampton was located.

It seems to come back to the old adage that English managers just aren't fashionable.  Like him or hate him it was a point best made by Sam Allardyce some years ago, he pointed out that if his name were pronounced with an accent his managerial situation would have been greatly elevated, and that seems a fair analysis.  Ever since the initial success of managers such as Arsene Wenger almost every demagogue who runs a football club has been keen to bring in someone more continental.  Perhaps the best example of this is Christian Gross, poor chap.  

Nicola Cortese must have decided that Adkins was not fashionable enough, because seemingly his successor has little to boast in terms of achievement.  Perhaps Mauricio Pochettino is a man who will better attract continental talent? Who knows?  The fact is the English game has become a playground for people who either want to earn a quick buck or buy all the toys in the shop so none of the other kids can play with them. I suspect Cortes is an ideologue of the former rather than the later but both types can be as destructive as each over.  The quick buck earners drain quality from the game and the rich kids tend ensure the playing fields are constructed without a bubble level leaving the rest firmly in the shadows.  Cortese's handling of this matter has drawn the ire of the clubs fans, who in this day and age of the global armchair fan are increasingly overlooked.  If it were my team I would suggest a general boycott to reverse the ludicrousness, though that is fantasy.    Football has become more and more a theater than a sporting event, and Cortes has made himself the latest villain.  Its a sad point that thus far the villains seem to bathing in triumph (not Aston Villa), and there is little hope that any decency will survive in the game.

A delighted Roman Abramovich lauds the work of Cortese with his famous billionaire exaggerated slow-clap.

Asides all this dire and angry bile, there was other breaking news today - chiefly that Theo Walcott the accomplished striker and all round complete forward (and not a turns in a decent performance every few games at best squad player for a big club) has committed himself to not winning any trophies for the foreseeable future.  The saga that nobody really cared about, (except maybe Liverpool fans) has finally come to a dull conclusion.  Arsenal the financially hardened almost Dickensian club stuck to their guns and made Theo sweat to the point where he had to accept a paltry £100,000 per week contract.  Arsenal made it clear as far back as August that they would not be bullied or ransomed in to paying Walcott the £100,001 he demanded.  Well I hope Theo has learned a valuable lesson, I suspect the rest of his average squad will do well to learn it.  Staying with Arsenal AW has stated that having Diaby return to the first team squad is the equivalent of 10 signings and if he gets injured again which can't possibly happen then Arshavin may be utilized as a tough tackling holding midfielder for the remainder of the season.  

Theo Walcott "top top quality?"

Lastly I implore anyone who is thinking of having a punt this weekend or as Ray Winstone would say "Have a bang on" to check out the tips on Next Bet - Jamie Ellis' weekly article is scarily accurate and guaranteed to provide a few giggles before kick off not to mention the fact that he's an all round nice guy. See link below. 

http://www.nextbet.co.uk/something-for-the-weekend-18012013/

Anyone looking for a stage managed belly laugh check out this exclusive talk sport interview with the man of the hour himself Josep Guardiola and why Germany was the right destination all along, at least Rafa will sleep somewhat easier now:

Having fulfilled my quota of bile, sycophancy and cynicism I bid you adieu.  Now if you are not a football fan and you made it to this point then my sincerest thanks, and stay tuned for something that I categorically state will not be football related.

How to put and end to the pedaling...or not

Firstly I have breaking news, Morose Mondays Part Deux now has the enviable prize of being the most read post on this blog, hopefully not for long!  I intend to implement a Japanese style business ethos to this blog - a dogmatic and unrelenting adoption of continuous improvement or Kaizan, which Wikipedia reliably informs me looks like this 改善 for all you logophiles.

I am a self confessed football fan, and worse yet an Arsenal fan, for those who do not share this affliction, fear not my blog will not turn into the ravings of yet another football madman, but a sporting story has caught my eye.  Lance Armstrong's cheating and his as yet unseen attempts to address what he did, mark an unsurprising final chapter in the saga.  Or not as the case may be.

Oprah Winfrey has gone on to say that she found the interview "surprising", and was "mesmerized and riveted by the kiss and tell.  The whole thing reeks of attempting to redeem a villain.  His voice is no longer needed. Lance Armstrong has along with the likes of  Contador, nearly entire cast of the 2006 Tour De France, and many others debased his entire sport, yet that does not mean that every cyclist is rotten to the core nor the sport in general.  'Clean athletes' exist, and they are the athletes we should focus our praises on, and who should bath in the limelight, besides I think all our lives could be benefited by the absence of yet another confessional interview.

Oprah and Lance kiss and tell.

The fact that Mr Armstrong has declined to take a quiet exit from public life in shame and disgrace has paved the way for draconian solutions to the doping problem.  Whilst one dick may have started this shameful episode in what has become a very popular sport, another Dick is determined to have the last word.  Enter Dick, Dick Pound.  The former President of the Anti-Doping Agency and a former Vice-President of the IOC, has waded into the row as men with macho names tend to.  His suggestion - ban cycling from the Olympics.  So basically cure the patient of the disease, by killing it, great idea.  Dick has been extremely zealous in his war against doping and should be commended for his efforts to eradicate it from the Sport in general, but one cannot help but think that Dicks reaction does seem somewhat, forgive me, rash and premature.

           "You’d think he’d be violating every virgin within 100 miles. How does he even get on his bicycle?"

Dick Pound commenting on Floyd Landis obscenely high testorone levels in the 2007 Tour De France.

The problems that Dick has spent a career battling and is trying to solve in the world of Sports will not be solved by an outright ban of the sport.  Indeed very little in this world is solved by banning something, in fact as soon as something is banned its application tends to proliferate, nuclear weapons are supposedly only allowed to be maintained by the Security Council yet we all know that just isn't so, similar comparisons can be drawn with alcohol in prohibition USA, and of course drugs.  Drugs are either an illegal or criminal substance the world over with some exceptions, yet they are used I dare say in every country, and probably in every sport.  The War on Doping may be just as futile as the War on Drugs at large, why not open up a two-tier system.  The first will be a competition for non-chemically enhanced athletes, the second for the dopers.  Both promise to be entertaining and will ensure that all athletes have an even playing field.  Perhaps it would even allow for a system where those who choose to dope can do so in the confines of a medically safe environment.  Its just a thought and one I hope that you - the reader - can engage with.  At least this way we won't have to go through a ridiculous process of punishing the honest to purge ourselves of the guilty.  Not to mention the practical implications of trying to track down all the those pedaling, at least in cycling.

Now to end on a note that will give hope to many remember this - Each and everyone one of you has won the same amount of Tour De France titles as Lance Armstrong - congratulations assuming of course Bradley Wiggins isn't subscribing to the feed, and if he is will he be able to confirm or deny the rumour that he is collaborating on a musical piece with the Mod-father himself?

Morose Mondays Part Deux

I hope that this sequel is better than the one I allude to in the title. Celebration and cheer takes hold of the population and infects the room as though it were a Manhattan influenza outbreak, why you ask?  Well in anticipation of a death most jovial of course, I know its disrespectful but the point of Morose Mondays is that the deaths featured here are either interesting of funny.  Who could forget last weeks Cannibalistic tale?  Well if you remember or not prepare to be wowed by this short, interesting, and hilarious story.  This weeks Morose Monday is dedicated to anybody in the sales industry and inspired by a conversation I had with a friend over the weekend who now works in said industry. When one must provide a product demonstration remember this brief tale when doing so - sometimes giving your all can result in you being turned into a collection of fresh pavement meat.

The year 1993, and 38 year old Canadian lawyer Garry Hoy from Toronto is giving some visitors a tour of the firms offices.  Now Gary happens to work in an impressive high story office tower, it was a particularly hot day and the attention turned to the buildings windows, would they open, and if so would they break?  Garry reassured the guests that the glass was "unbreakable".  Mere words would not do, a demonstration was required, Garry being the consummate professional launched himself against the glass, it didn't break, Garry had surely proven his point? Ever the lawyer Gary was determined to prove that the windows were unbreakable, one might say to the point where there could be no reasonable doubt.  Thus as he threw his body at the window, the pane of glass, dislodged itself from the frame, and poor Garry fell 24 floors to his untimely death.  Poor Gary.

In modern Mexican-Spanish the words Pena Ajena are apt, as far as I am aware there is no direct English translation, but loosely it describes the embarrassment one feels when watching the humiliation of another, essentially the kind of shirking laughter that is caused by watching a Ricky Gervais character, such as David Brent or by the realisation as an Arsenal fan that Tottenham are paying Emmanuel Adebayor a wage packet every week, the comical face palm moment.  It seems to fit here.

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/155020/butters-commits-suicide
See the link above for a partial reenactment, and remember no matter how well built, Windows will always crash.

Cinematic Musings...

Though no expert I do love cinema and film, (I prefer the word film to movie, movie seems such and ogreish like way of describing what you are watching "ug ug, picture move - movies, you get the gist). So I feel it wise to share some film news/opinions, as always comment is welcomed.

Friday 11th of January 2013.  A day that may mean little to some, means to me everything.  Universal studios - have finally announced that the dinosaurs are coming back...in 2014.  A blog post alone does not really express my excitement or joy at this news.  Therefore for the next week onward I shall be doing the dinosaur jig, (right foot, left food, back back back decapitate for those of you wondering).

Sure it will have plot holes, and the human actors may not be all that we wanted, and Spielberg won't be directing but for all you naysayers I would like to point out that there will be dinosaurs, that alone is justification enough for making a the film.

                                                           Sequels find a way...

Other film news that caught my eye this week included Quentin Tarantino's blasting of Channel 4's Krishnan Guru-Murthy.  It was largely predictable - Channel 4 go in for the heavy hitting question that really doesn't need asking and Tarantino's response makes us all laugh.  Krishnan attempting to prod some kind of admission of guilt for the connection between gun crime and violence in Tarantino's work.  I suppose by implication everyone who watches Schindlers List and the Pianist has uncontrollable urges to commit genocide, but do you see anybody asking Stephen Spielberg whether his films have influenced the likes of Slobodan Milosevic - I jest.  The good people at youtube provide us the flesh:

All that aside Django unchained is in my view fantastic and I thoroughly recommend it to anyone with a thirst for action, great dialogue and some brilliant acting performances.  Ignoring Tarantino's obligatory cameo Foxx and Walz pair up superbly, and DiCaprio makes a convincing villain without giving anything away it was a film he literally bled for.  Django deals with the dark and horrid Slave Trade, whilst finding time to bring to us characters we can get behind, admire, and loathe, all the while offering comic relief reminiscent of Blazing Saddles.  In all - Tarantino still has the gift, listen out for some great songs here as well, whilst theres nothing as memorable as Steelers Wheel, or Brothers Johnson, or Misirlou the soundtrack is apt, and a tasteful mix of modern and old.

On another note I turn to Lincoln.  A film that will surely win Daniel Day Lewis another Academy Award, and deservedly so - but I personally can't help but feel its another ordinary film made fantastic by a stellar cast.  The film itself is similar to watching BBC Parliament for nearly 3 hours, as a political/historical buff I found it enjoyable but perhaps not worthy of some of the accolades it will most likely receive in the coming award ceremonies.   Tommy Lee Jones is fantastic and the cast in general pull out all the stops in recreating Civil-War USA.

So - Dinosaurs are back, Django is a must see and Lincoln whilst well exectued, is a tad caught up in the paperwork.  I'm off to watch Chrisopher Walken do as Chrisopher Walken does, 7 Psychopaths await.  When it comes to slave-freeing Abe's how can anyone out do this all round nice guy- be happy and remember - comments welcome.

Morose Monday Part 1

My sense of humour is dark to say the least.  That is why every Monday I will post a short blog detailing an interesting death.  It has long been my opinion that when one has to deal with bad news, laughter is often the best coping measure.  It feels healthy and at the end of the day if your laughing then you certainly aren't crying right?

Whenever a celebrity dies we are flooded with details, most mundane, and so instead of adding to this cauldron of banal death, I want to share with the good readers an interesting death, in the vain hope that one day I will be able to bring to fruition a TV Show entitled - THE WORLDS MOST INTERESTING DEATH - all the death need be is interesting.

This week Morose Monday features the Alain de Monés, a French aristocrat.  This poor fellow had the misfortune to be cooked and eaten alive by villagers in Dordogne.  The culinary affair took place during a bout of mass hysteria, which makes is makes the fact that the villagers took the time to prepare the meat savage, but more importantly interesting.  Even in a state of 'mass hysteria' the French were concerned with what they were eating.  Even in a fit of cannibalistic rage, our continental... acquaintances...managed to stay classy and prepare their food to what I am sure was Michelin standard.

I wonder if Victor Hugo contemplated adding this little scene to his tale - would have loved to have had a crack at the song - and Anne Hathaway looks as though she could do with feeding, at least in the film.

For more details
http://books.google.co.uk/books/about/Village_of_Cannibals.html?id=7Caerdeu76IC

Until next Monday

Embarking on a side project...

My laziness knows no bounds, as proven by the fact that this is in fact only my second blog post!  Shameful! Given my recent employment status - that is unemployed one would think that I could find the spare time to complement the solitary and shambolic post here with another so here goes.

As its a new year I have made a vow to become more more interesting.  To accomplish this I have decided to sprout useless information, self publicize, and rant my way through 2013.  Though I fear this trinity will in fact confirm my worst fears, that I am duller than Ann Widdecombe sex life.  Which in hindsight is unfair to Ann I don't know her personally, and should refrain from making such disparaging comments, but as mentioned before my laziness knows no bounds, and my illogical nature dictates that I do not delete said comment.

Recently I have taken up writing in the fleeting hope that I can muster something entertaining and here comes the big word - original.  Its painstaking.  Though after getting some concepts down and after a painful struggle some words, the whole project has convinced me that I am in fact a genius and will shortly be sought after by the most prestigious publishing houses. Ahem - fat chance.

Provided here though is the opening paragraph to what will surely be a future Man Booker winner.

"He had enjoyed a flutter, ever since he was young.  He’d never had much money to speak of but for some reason, as soon as the money came in, be it from legitimate or illegitimate means there he would be, it fuelled him, gave him vitality, it could also cripple him, but he needed that too, losing was part of the product an integral part of the bargain he struck on an almost daily basis.  He wasn't educated per se; he had attended school for as long as he could stand it, and left with the minimum his potential afforded him, an achievement that still fell short of the government targets, though such targets are subject to change as they so often do, just like odds.  He never felt disadvantaged by that though.  But then he never had any great dreams, stricken by the poverty of ambition perhaps, but not of opportunity, or ability."

I have printed the material and being a former law student retain all copyright of this literature, any attempt to infringe it will be considered as a breach of my copyright and also a massive complement and or sign of mental instability as anybody that did try to pass this off as their own work must be either desperate or seeking to join my cult.  

More to come...in the words of Team America...I PROMISE.