Arkse

Thanks to City Life for the image.

The woman opposite me has a curious way of pronouncing the word 'ask'. It isn't the traditional 'akse' you sometimes hear, but has a longer vowel sound at the beginning. Her accent in general is hard to pin down - maybe German, maybe Australian, and she is an odd one. Most of her staff are of Portuguese or South or Central American origin and once she was talking to two of them about something or other, when the subject of women came up.

"You guys..." she said "always seem to like Eastern European girls..." The men looked at her and she went on: "You always have your fingers in Polish women." Amid the hubbub, nobody but me seemed to even notice that she'd said it, and I think the lack of fluency in English meant that the two blokes didn't really grasp what had happened. Nor do I believe that this was intentional bawd on her part. She spends ages on the phone talking to various people in loping, slow sentences, and chuntering to herself as she laboriously types up emails while sipping at her mug of tea.

Last Monday, once again off to the BBC Radio Theatre for a recording of Chain Reaction. If you've never been, I would recommend it. Free tickets can be obtained by joining the mailing list on the BBC website, although there is an element of luck involved, and - despite trying every time they come up - I have never managed to bag any for the News Quiz or Just a Minute. Advice if you do go: don't go in too early. There is a bar, but it is eye-wateringly expensive. The audience is forced to wait in a narrow corridor with no more than 6 chairs, and, with around 200 people crammed in, it really isn't a pleasant experience. More advice: don't have too much to drink (if you're that rich), because getting out of your seat is not easy, especially with so many highly sensitive microphones picking up your slightest exhalation. However...

Our show the other night (one episde airs Friday 19th Aug at 6.30, the other at the same time the following week - if you're interested. Peter Hook was doing JCC in the previous one, so well worth catching on iPlayer if you hurry) featured the talents of the actor Kevin Eldon, Mark Steel and the legendary John Cooper Clarke, fortunate as we were to be there for the recording (in the wrong order, which is very broadcast media, I'm sure you'll agree. This at least allowed for some amusing context private gags to tickle our fancy) of two consecutive shows. First, Eldon interviewed Steel and then Cooper Clarke interviewed Eldon. It was all so quintessentially R4, gently disparaging remarks about Kent, self-mocking nerdish obsessions and a heartfelt and hearty dig at Richard Starkey.

JCC was on fine form (especially bearing in mind - if Wikipedia is to be believed - the way he has spent the last 10 years or so of his life) with an extended riff on a film he is thinking of making - a sequel to Snakes on a Plane - called Parrot in a Car. He held it together (with some solid support from Eldon) for around 40 minutes before flagging and needing a nudge from the producer, but we in the audience had had a great time by then. Funny that I never managed to watch the guy when he stood up before the Pistols or the Clash, but have now seen him sitting in a chair shooting the breeze with another 50ish bloke.

The official @MCFC Twitter feed was set to beam its updates to my phone, but with no signal in the theatre, they all came in a mad rush - the first half at the interval while I queued for the toilet (0-0 and a tad concerned) and the second half as we were heading up towards Oxford Circus (4-0 and what a debut for Kun - even if it was only the bloody Taffs we were hammering) for the tube ride home and a closed chippy. It's going to be a good season.

Like a Trojan

I mentioned Greece in a previous post, and now the economic crisis there seems to be reaching some sort of denouement (though what this actually means seems to be anyone's guess. As far as I can make out, the French banks are going to make the sovereign debt disappear for 30 years - provided Greece shuts its mouth and takes its medicine). I'm mightily sick, by the way, of the forced references to Greek drama being employed everywhere. Last night really took the souvlaki though, when Jeremy Paxman sat there toing and froing with some twat in Athens and used the word 'catharsis' with a smirk on his smug face. Prior to this, I could scarcely believe my ears when he introduced the piece along the lines of: '... the Greek people are sitting in a rancid swamp of their own making, a result of their fecklessness and irresponsibility...'

I paraphrase, and can't honestly be sure, attending with half an ear as I was, whether he was a) quoting, or b) employing irony, rather than expressing his opinion in a surprisingly un-BBC sort of way, but the rest of the piece was revolting in its kow-towing to the ludicrous party line. The line that the 'austerity measures' are somehow going to fix the ills of the world economy. As if, by forcing people out of work and cutting all benefits, removing any vestiges of a welfare state by slashing spending on education and health, AND forcing those in work to accept less pay for more hours, while working longer into life. Somehow or other, this will turn Greece into a net exporter of goods and get it on its feet again. Clearly, the private sector which will emerge as a result of the dismantling of every single public service will gorge itself on this detritus, becoming bloated like a huge maggot, pumping its ichor into the country's GDP. Or something. In any case, this is such a good plan that every country in Europe is going to follow suit.

Some woman who has been brought in from the World Bank to sell the IMF's torture plan to the Greek people was saying that those opposed to the measures were simply angry (she may even have used the word 'annoyed', which does seem a trifle mild for a description of rampaging anarchists hurling petrol bombs, but there you go) and did not have any alternatives to offer.

In which, I think she may be wrong. It could be that those opposed to the cuts would wish to see a little less of the conspicuous, growing and shameful gulf between rich and poor. They might be keen on having somewhere to live, or a job, or somewhere to send their kids to school or their sick relative for care when taken ill. They could propose doing this by sharing some of the wealth clustered at the top of the tree a little more fairly. Type of thing. But this - needless to say - was hardly touched on by the 'economics journalist' who was reporting (quite light-heartedly, I thought) on the situation in Athens, and interviewing this tough cookie of a Greek politician with exaggerated deference.

I have always thought Paxo more a style man than a substance one (compare and contrast with the excellent Jon Snow, if you would) but I understand that telly people need some sort of gimmick, and actually didn't mind him terribly on University Challenge, but what I saw last night pissed me off I have to say. Not just him, but the crooked knee of the media establishment to the whole terrible lie of current economic models, and the fantasy that it's actually going to make any difference.

Vox Pop

Whether as a result of the ludicrous impartiality requirements of our broadcast organisations, or just a reflection of the general levels of stupidity inherent in the human race, the vox pop makes my blood boil.

I should make it plain from the start that I have nothing against the odd drink. However, I was watching a report on the proposal to allow Diageo to sponsor midwifery training in regard to responsible drinking for expectant mothers. Nobody in their right mind (and I most definitely exclude all members of the bloody Coalition from that category) could possibly think that such a proposal would be a good idea. Could they?

I mean, think about this for a minute. Diageo is a multi-national corporation which specialises in selling alcoholic beverages, and the idea is that they provide advice to medical professionals about the consumption of alcohol. This is not a sock puppet posting deliberately contrary statements to CiF, or some spurious medical research used to bolster the industry's PR ratings; it is direct payment from a drinks company to enable their message to be put across by people in whom we place a great deal of trust. It could not be any clearer as far as I'm concerned, and am stunned - if perhaps not surprised - that it is even being suggested with any seriousness. Am I wrong?

Well, back to the news report, finished off with the customary vox pop of selected females in some London street not too far from White City. For every woman who said that the Guinness sponsored training was wrong, another popped up to support it.

"Well," said one, "If there's money there to pay for the training, then it's a good thing, isn't it?"

"NO IT FUCKING ISN'T!" I yelled at the screen. "Can't you see that? Don't you think that a) it's wrong for us to even be thinking about sponsorship or corporate tie-ins for this kind of essential service and b) don't you realise that there is the potential for a serious conflict of interest here?"

It is a fait accompli, of course, another step along the road on which Cameron and his buddies want to drive us down, and it makes me very angry indeed that people are dumb enough to just wave it through.

Zen and the art of making TV programmes

With some interest, I was looking forward to the Zen series on BBC1 on Sunday nights. I have been a fan of the Michael Dibdin (dead these four years. How time flies...) books for quite a number of years, starting with either Cabal or Ratking (I can't remember which, but I think it might have been Ratking). In any case, and as a devotee of crime fiction, I thought the books were very fresh - readable yet cerebral enough; striking the right balance between the mundane and the suddenly terrifying; laced with a nicely understated dark humour, and usually formed around a well plotted and exciting crime story. Admittedly, not every Zen book held up quite as well, and Cosi Fan Tutti in particular was a bit of a stinker. I enjoyed though, most of Dibdin's non Aurelio Zen work as well, and was kind of looking forward (with that ever-present feeling of dread which bodes disappointment, about a book being made into a film or TV show) to the new series starting.

And then Rufus Sewell turned up on one of those Radio 4 shows that seems to meander along (Loose Ends, maybe? Or Broadcasting House) as a blatant bit of puff for Zen. What he was saying sounded fairly promising. At least, it seemed that he had read some of the source material, and he was keen not to overdo the Italian aspect - with the hand gestures and over the top accents. There was, it has to be said, a certain smugness about Rufus, but then he is an actor after all. So, my anticipation of the new series was slightly enhanced.

And the show was... OK I suppose. There were a few disappointments for me and a few irritations. Sewell was perhaps chief among these, as he hummed and mumbled his way through his lines and held overlong portnetous silences on the telephone. He comes across as being nervous of speaking, rather than just knowing when to hold his tongue. His griflriend is sexy enough, a pleasing bit of eye candy and clearly a hook for the gullible male viewer, but I became very annoyed with her accent. Judging by the boards on IMDb, I wasn't the only one. If everyone else (apart from Zen's mother - who is another major source of irritation for me) is speaking in an English accent, why does she say things like:

"Are we guing to ev an efferr?"

Finally, there was that bloke who turns up in so many bloody BBC dramas, usually as some senior Intelligence Officer or something. He has a voice like melting butter, does a lot of adverts, and can't act for toffee. Whatever his name is, he appeared as the villain of the piece, and from the moment I saw his face, I'd begun to lose faith in Zen. The second in the series was unfortunately worse than the first, and I found myself drifting away from the story before it ended.

I was somewhat pleased to read the Facebook status of a Jandrell acquaintance the day after which supported my critique.

The Paths of the Dead

Thanks to Lovely Old Tree for the image, though I suspect this was not the source...

You know me and the genius loci thing. Cor blimey, I love it! We get what we deserve, I suppose, and thank god at least that we are still alive. So it was with interest that I tuned into Start The Week last night on R4. Much as I do love spurious semi-scientific theories such as homeopathy for example (what's not to love about that shit, man?) I am no great fan of Andy Marr, 'cos he sums up for me the worst of the Beeb as far as I'm concerned. Makes a mockery of the 'left wing bias' criticism the Corporation so often faces with his la-de-dah voice and big ears, so he does.

Thanks to London Speaker Bureau for this one.

Hiyever, last night's programme (which had to have been put together at extremely short notice, given the topicality of the banter) was superb. It explored the geographical singularities of that cess pool which has become known as Whitehall, harking back to Henry's day to illustrate the longevity of these little rat runs between Monarchy and Parliament as they carry out their silly dances for power. The lovely Clegg was caught out, I heard, nipping out the back door of somewhere or other yesterday - purely by chance, as some hack happened to be passing by and got his BB out quick as a gun in Fallujah to let everyone else know - and the particular dark alley he had been scuttling along had been used since at least 1540. I urge you to podcast the show or iPlayer it, or anything. It's good.

In direct opposition, E20 has never existed. Least of all tonight, so the kids are of course asking:

"How long is this news???!!"

I for one welcome our new indistinguishable insect overlords.

Good at maths

I was never very good at maths. Apart from geography (which I now really like, btw) maths was my least favourite subject. My first ever detention (we in fact called it Late Room, which still carries a more sinister connotation when I think about it) was served as a result of the following excuse for not handing in my homework:

"Miss, we've been decorating at home and my Mum must have glued my homework book to the wall."

I have no idea whether this is or was an original excuse, but it seemed a stroke of genius to my 12 year old self. I think I may also have attempted to forge a letter from my mother backing up the story. Needless to say, Mrs Jones the maths teacher was not terribly impressed, did not believe that my mother had written the letter (the injustice of it!) and threw me in the slammer without a backward glance. I can't actually remember what it was I had to do in the 'after school club' so it can't have been too traumatic, but I do remember the sheer sense of hopelessness I felt when confronted with Venn diagrams. Long division still brings me out in a cold sweat.

So it was with a small shiver of pleasure that I watched the train wreck that was Carol Vorderman on Question Time the other night. As Richard Herring has attested, she may be good at maths, but she is nonetheless a total fuckwit. It was excruciating to watch her trying to come across as some sort of Carole Malone figure, outraged by the 'world gone mad' in which she lives. If you didn't watch it, I urge you to do so. Will Self and Dame Shirley Williams (to be fair) were excellent.

Torpor

Fuck this arctic weather pattern, rendering a coffee outside impossible. Fuck this snow, causing the old and infirm (and occasionally the young and fit - you know who you are) to fall down and strain, sprain or break things; leaving trails of salt all up the stairs; turning to filthy brown slush; balling itself up so that kids can throw it at buses; turning the news into endless pieces to camera by some idiot standing on a bridge over the M1 saying how cold it is in the Yorkshire Dales. Fuck it.

But worst of all are the postponements. The stupid bloody weather has stolen one of the few beacons of joy in the bleak, post-solstice world we find ourselves in by forcing the risk-averse 'managers' (I choose my words carefully) who seem so prevalent in life these days to cancel football matches. There is no justice. As some twat said on the BBC yesterday or one other day in the recent past - 'This is the 21st Century, and people want to know why we can't function normally just because a bit of snow falls'. Comparisons have been made with Novosibirsk, where everything runs smoothly in temperatures of minus 200 and octogenarians skip about in 6 feet of snow carrying 40lb backpacks full of coal. Which they will eat, rather than burn. Personally, I blame Fearne Cotton.

Anyway, as the City site says - somewhat dramatically - tonight's game GOES AHEAD! So, in the absence of any Gooner shite to show, I think I will take a punt that the local might manage to tune into ESPN and hie me down there to watch it.

Then tomorrow, with my injured ankle slowly improving, I will strive to emerge from the shell. If Carol on the weather this morning is to be believed, the temperature should be slowly climbing as we head through the week, so it will be time to put some air in the tyres, tighten the brakes a bit, don the gloves and hat and hit the road. I've had an idea to cycle to the end of each of the tube lines (with the exception of the Heathrow end of the Piccadilly, due to horrendous roads, though I may change my mind on that one, depending how the project goes) starting with the northern end of the Victoria Line. That shouldn't be too arduous from here, and will be a good introduction to the project. I will follow that with the northern end of the Piccadilly and work my way round from there, taking the odd picture and writing a few bits on here. Well, that's the plan anyway.

Class D

Listening to the Today Programme this morning on the bus, and couldn't help but snort loudly at an interview with some prick from the Magistrates' Association who was on to protest at the (further) re-classification of cannabis to a Class B drug. Not so much this, actually, as what he was decrying as the obfuscation of the issue by newly issued Home Office guidance on dealing with cannabis, which now recommends a fixed penalty for possession. His point, for what it's worth, was that this guidance was causing confusion amongst the morons in the chair at the Magistrates Courts and undermining the principles of community justice.

Whatever the rights and wrongs of the laws and the wars on drugs (and I think you might be able to guess on which side of the divide I sit) I found it to be incredibly insulting that, when asked, this pillar of the community didn't know which other drugs were also included in the B classification. Neither, as it happens, did Ed Sturton, so the matter was dropped. This is a paraphrase of the segment of the interview as I remember it:

ES: Just to clarify, what other drugs are included in Class B?

MG (Magistrate Guy): You've got me there. I'm not the sort of person to get involved with Class B drugs...

ES: No, neither am I. So, if you don't know, and I don't either, let's not go there.

Now, I wasn't fully aware of the drugs in Class B, but I thought (correctly as it happens) that speed might have been one of them. Here is the current Home Office guidance, which has since this morning been amended to reflect the changes discussed on the Today programme. Speed (unless used to inject) Ritalin and Pholcodine (whatever that is) are included. Magic mushrooms are Class A, while ketamine is Class C! I ask you.

Well, don't even get me started on the later interview about the DEC Gaza appeal with someone from UNRWA and a very shouty James Naughtie...

Darling happy anniversary

Another milestone, and it makes building up a blog history all the more attractive. A sense of perspective may be imparted by comparing one's current state of mind to that recorded in the past, as I'm sure Proust must once have said. I only wish I had been keeping this thing years before I actually did. About 25 years, to be exact.

It is now 12 months since I started my current job, and, reading back over my post a year ago, it's revoltingly cliched (not the post, I hasten to add, but the sentiment I'm about to speak of) but L.P. Hartley's opening salvo from the Go-Between rings true.

As for the future... I've often thought of using the game of Brick Breaker on the Blackberry as some kind of metaphor for management skills. There are countless decisions to be made in each game - go for the little rolling 'laser' barrel and risk the ball dropping off the bottom of the screen, or play conservative and miss the bonus? And, er, that's it. Apart from the fact that there are some seriously mad people playing this game. Apparently, as the Blackberry is mostly used by people in IT and in management, the game of Brick Breaker - and the incredibly sad community of people who have been playing a single game of it for several months (!) - attracts a certain type of clientele. So maybe not such a great idea for a concept after all then. I could have sworn that it had more legs than that the last time I sat on the tube clicking the little paddle back and forth. Ah well.

Perhaps a more apposite - though admittedly somewhat hackneyed - metaphor for life in the corporate jungle would be the greatest game of all. Chess. A game where I am far from the greatest player of all, despite years of practice and the odd library book. I even used to watch those programmes on BBC2 (The Master Game with Nigel Short, as my extensive research has revealed) during the Garry Kasparov/Bobby Fischer golden years, but was never really able to fully grasp the tactics. Thanks to one of those library books, I was always pretty reasonable in the opening stages (except when I suffered Fool's Mate against the teacher my first time at the school Chess Club when I was 13 or so. A very public, very nerdy, humiliation it was too. Come to think of it, this was just another example of the sadism displayed by many of those who have taught me. Did he really need to prove himself against such a callow youth? Anyway, no point in dwelling on these things, I suppose) with my Nimzo-Indian defence and some good knight work. I always fade miserably however in the middle and end-game, and am invariably left scratching my head as to what to do, leading to silly mistakes and the ultimate slow death.

Which kind of sums up where I am now, professionally speaking. Head on chin, staring at a multitude of options ahead of me and unsure as to what my next move should be. No doubt I'll be concentrating on the bishop and won't notice that I've left my queen horribly exposed. Or perhaps I'll just carry on with Brick Breaker and see if I can best my top score of 14,240, which now seems horribly inadequate also.

We shall see.

Shut yer fucking mouth!

Returning (somewhat topically) to one of my favourite bugbears, which is censorship. I read today that there is further 'fury' over the recommended songs on the GCSE AQA list. This follows the earlier 'outrage' sparked by the inclusion of The Leader of The Gang by Gary Glitter, which has now been removed from the list. Don't get me wrong, I'm not an apologist for paedophilia, though I don't subscribe to the pitchfork wielding paediatrician lynching mentality that the boys in Fleet Street seem to so enjoy encouraging among the great unwashed. I've got to say though, that banning one of Glitter's songs because he is a convicted paedo doesn't really make any kind of sense to me. Would we ban Johnny Cash songs because the guy was a pill head jailbird or Jimi Hendrix music because he choked on his own vomit (allegedly)? What about the Rolling Stones (who are featured on the list - see below) given some of the band's proclivities for young girls, or for that matter Jerry Lee Lewis because he married his 13 year old cousin?

So this, to my mind, is bad enough. That the likes of the Sun and the Daily Mail can spew venom about political correctness gone mad when it suits them, whilst at the same time dictating to us on these matters of taste in the name of protecting the innocents makes me want to go out and do physical violence with wild abandon. The fact that Leader of the Gang was (I think) the first single I ever bought may also play a part in my feelings on the matter.

The current proposed ban is, however, far more egregious because it is against the mighty Kanye, whose song Gold Digger has come in for opprobrium from the pinched lip brigade due to the fact that it contains multiple uses of the 'n-word' and that this, along with the references to, er, gold digging (WTF?) will corrupt the little kiddies as they flick through their playlists. What's most annoying about this is the po-faced refusal of the mouth frothers to understand that the word 'nigger' (or is it 'nigga'?) is in the process of expropriation by the target group of the oppressed, though this won't work until Tarantino stops using it for fun. And no, having Samuel L Jackson in your movies does NOT excuse you, Quentin.

Below is the recommended (somewhat lame, I thought) list of songs, each with a suggested reason for non-inclusion on the grounds of outraging moral decency, in the Popular Music of the 20th and 21st Century section of the GCSE AQA paper:

Come On In My Kitchen, by Robert Johnson. Johnson sold his soul to the devil, FFS!

You Upset Me Baby, by BB King. This ain't easy. Err, he's a vegetarian. Does that count?

Sunshine of Your Love, by Cream. There are drug references in there kids. Tut tut!

She Loves You, by the Beatles. Well, as we're on the subject of drugs...

(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction, by The Rolling Stones. Mandy. Smith. Say no more. The song also contains references to sexual intercourse.

Stairway To Heaven, by Led Zeppelin. Apart from the references to Celtic magic in the song, there's also the small matter of the outrageously promiscuous behaviour of the band during their heyday.

Gold Digger, by Kanye West. Nothing wrong with that. No sir!

Take A Bow, by Rihanna (scrummy!) Well, all I can really say about this is that she also did Umbrella, which is surely reason enough to remove anyone from any list? Isn't it?

Anyhoo, I say it again. Get your filthy hands off the music (and everything else) and leave us alone to make up our own minds.

MOTD2 LOFB

Now I'll freely admit that the news of Ramos' sacking and the midnight installation of Uncle Arry was big news. Even in the context of the current lunacy of the game, and the ongoing drama at the Lane, this was pretty hectic. Reading the match reports today, and watching the oleaginous David Bentley being interviewed by Gabby Logan, I'm convinced that the whole Spurs being totally Efan Ekuku thing was down to a player revolt in protest at Juande's dietary restrictions on them. They can be sure now that they'll be allowed back on the jellied eels and rubies, so they'll start twinkling their multi-million pound toes again. Plus, the dead cat bounce that gave Spurs their first league win of the season was also I suppose relatively interesting.

I'll even admit that Liverpool (bastards!) ending Chelsea's 'magnificent' record (I'm so sick of hearing the tributes to that already) of home wins probably merited their inclusion at the head of the running order on MOTD2. I fail to understand why the City highlights were on last, however. What with the clocks going back, I was fairly tired and was forcing myself to stay awake and catch Robinho's fantastic hat trick, only to find that we had been relegated to the end of the programme, just before the lame '2 Good, 2 Bad' bit. Sodding West Ham/Arsenal, bloody Wigan/Villa and even fucking Portsmouth/Fulham made it on before we did. There's no justice, I tells ya. Then again, it was only Stoke. Sorry Charlie.

In any case, a good win at home, and a small bit of breathing space between us and the bottom of the table. I'm not convinced though, and don't think I will be until Hughes goes.

Sick notes

Thanks to www.yachts.monacoeye.com for the picture above.

Off sick today - for the first time this year - with a cold and cough. It's been nice to take the time to read through the Guardian dead tree edition after a long gap, and now all that's left is the concise crossword. Also had the opportunity to listen to the Today programme and even watched the 'season finale' (another American term I detest, BTW, creeping its way into our living rooms) of the Life of Mammals. Splendid footage of Attenborough with orangs and Attenborough with chimps, and the usual depressing prognosis at the end. When DA goes, the world will be a much poorer place.

The story which has grabbed my attention today didn't make it into the dead tree GU, but has featured on Today throughout the morning, and is prominent in the online version of the paper - and no doubt pretty much everywhere else by now. It is the continued rumbling around the dripping of 'pure poison in the ear' bit over dinner in (on?) Corfu.

People on Radio 4 (well, Robert Peston anyway - is he the hardest working man on the Beeb, or what?) were referring to 'Nat' Rothschild and the allegations he has made that the Tories put out the begging bowl to a certain rich tovarisch - Oleg Deripaska - who is the owner of the luxury yacht, the Queen K. Conservative HQ naturally and strenuously deny the allegations as such behaviour would not only be immoral, but also illegal (not that that has necessarily stopped these people before, mind you)

Forgive my naivete, but I really do find it difficult to understand why Peter Mandelson - then EU Trade Commissioner; George Osborne - then, as now, Shadow Chancellor; Nathaniel Rothschild - then hedge fund manager, then and now fabulously rich scion of the Rothschild family; and Oleg Deripaska - then, as now, Russian tin foil magnate (arf); why all of these people were together on (in?) Corfu. Surely there's something inherently wrong in that fact alone? Why was Mandy having lunch with Osborne in order to be able to drip poison in his ear about Clunking Fist? Aren't they supposed to be political rivals? It's all very fishy if you ask me. And what has Rupert Murdoch's yacht got to do with it? H'mm?

Who cares?

The almost total lack of response to my last post clearly cannot be anything to do with the writing style, which was, I'm sure you'll agree, as sharp and incisive as ever. As with my beloved MeFi (which is admittedly US-centric, so posts tend to raise interest if they're about US politics (I couldn't help seeing the similarities between that interview and the hilarious Steve McClaren dodgy Dutch piece, BTW) Apple, Google or gaming) I've noticed that - alas - poverty doesn't sell sell sell.

So who does care? Really.

GB has been talking (the usual shite) about demanding price cuts at the petrol pump, while Ed is simultaneously bleating on about reducing carbon emissions by 80%. It just doesn't wash. As my dad said:

"If you put the whole lot of 'em in a sack and shook 'em up, you still wouldn't get one decent one out of it."

This very issue was being mooted on the Moral Maze last night on Radio 4 (yes, I really do have a crazy life) and I was unsure what the conclusion was. That's the trouble. There's often a great deal of fascinating discussion, but nothing ever seems to come of it. It's all talk. Plus, I fell asleep before it finished.

At least the footy will keep us interested. Up the Potters!

Just a goddam number

Another year ended. And a new one just begun.

Lennon should have called his song Happy New Year (War Is Over) shouldn't he? It doesn't really make sense to include those lines in a Xmas song, does it? But maybe I'm splitting hairs.

Anyway, New Year. Sucks. I was watching Jools Holland's Hootenanny - Hootenanny! - for want of anything better to do, but switched over to watch the BBC show from the Embankment. And what the fuck was that all about? Over 1 trillion tonnes of gunpowder every second or some shite, with two blokes dressed as walking light shows chugging down the Thames in a motor boat. Leaving aside the infantile commentary (if it can be graced with such a name) by the BBC twot on the night, the whole thing was a total waste of time and money.

I'm not against celebrating and reflecting on the passing of a year, and I suppose it makes sense that it's a communal experience, but it doesn't have to be on 31st December, does it? There is the pagan link to Xmas, with the solstice and all, but New Year is an entirely numerical and modern construct. Let's say that we have it on 1st August in the Northern Hemisphere and 1st January in the Southern. At least it would be nice and warm, and we would get two! Just like the Queen and her birthdays.

Don't let Lawro get you down

I wonder why Mark Lawrenson needs to 'talk to' someone in order to predict the scores of upcoming games? I'm familiar with the concept of ghost writers, of course, especially in the sports world, but isn't this going a bit far? When Lawro makes his predictions for the weekend's games, he is 'talking to Mike Burnett'

Here's an example:

"I couldn't believe Newcastle's performance against Liverpool last week - they just didn't play at all - so I'm going for a home victory."

Now, is that really an example of fine journalistic editing? What did Lawro actually say that required Mike Burnett to parse into the statement above? Something like:

"Mutter mumble... Newcastle were crap.. er, I fink the Rovers'll do 'em..."

I'm not a great fan of Mark's punditry, and agree with the TV satirists that his partnership with Motty for the Beeb is usually disastrous. I prefer (if possible) to hit the red button and get a smattering of Greeno and Butcher. However (apart from the fact that I am now a fan of his Facebook profile) I think he is fairly eloquent and quite capable of putting his point across on his own. So I can't really figure out why a cash-strapped BBC, already paying (I'll wager) Mr Lawrenson a more than decent fee, should shell out for the services of a hack to interpret these gnomic predictions every time the Premier League circus comes to town. It could be of course, that ML is illiterate, having failed to banish those gremlins during his time at Anfield. Maybe his Facebook profile (in case you missed it above, there's another chance to check it out) is also ghost-written?

This week, ML (or perhaps Mike Burnett) is going for a shock at the JJB, and predicting a 2-1 win to the Latics. I fear he may have a point, with Elano out with a hamstring. On top of that, last week, out of 10 predictions, he got 7 right, and three of those were with perfect scores. He knows his onions, even if can't write about them.

As a side note, I am also following BBC Footy on Twitter, so every time I log in, I see Mark Lawrenson's face down the page about 20 times. It's (almost) enough to make you want to stop. But not quite.