Who Hit Nijinsky?
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Peut-on s’extasier dans la destruction, se rajeunir par la cruauté! — Rimbaud, Les Illuminations
The punches you miss are the ones that wear you out — Angelo Dundee
Someday, they’re gonna write a blues song just for fighters. It’ll be for slow guitar, soft trumpet, and a bell.— Charles ‘Sonny’ Liston, World Heavyweight Champion 1962-64
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I can date my awakening interest in boxing pretty accurately: it was the first Henry Cooper – Cassius Clay (as he then was) fight in 1963 that sank the hook; (a fight, by the way, that most judges and aficionados gave to Cooper but was won by Clay when the fight was stopped because of Cooper’s bleeding cuts).
I like the fact that the house of Daniel Mendoza, heavyweight champion of England from 1792 to 1795 (and said to have been the first Jew to talk to the King, George III) is close to where I live. Complete with blue plaque, it sits in the middle of a row of Georgian houses on Paradise Row, overlooking a small park in Bethnal Green where I often stop for a smoke. After retirement, Mendoza ran a pub, The Admiral Nelson on Whitechapel Road. The building still stands although it closed as a pub in 1983.
I also like the fact that London’s premier boxing venue, York Hall, is nearby. I like taking my boys to fights there (to their mother’s enduring horror).
My pleasure in boxing has alarmed and baffled girlfriends and wives down the years.
‘Oooh, it’s so brutal…so primitive…so senseless…etc etc’, they would squeal, breathlessly aghast, entirely missing the point.
Certainly, bad fighters take a beating, in the same way that bad racing drivers crash, bad jockeys fall, bad writers produce unreadable crap, bad musicians produce turgid noise and bad film-makers make unwatchable dross.
But boxing isn’t about being hit; it’s about not being hit, or being hit where the damage will be minimal while at the same time, provoking your opponent into leaving an opening: you take a hit to return a better hit–therein lies the art.
The late A. J. Liebling wrote what I think is the finest work on boxing, The Sweet Science, actually a collection of his boxing essays that appeared in The New Yorker between 1951 and 1955. His introductory explanation of boxing’s attraction is worth quoting at length:
It is through Jack O’Brien that I trace my rapport with the historic past through the laying-on of hands. He hit me, for pedagogical example, and he had been hit by the great Bob Fitzsimmons, from whom he won the light-heavyweight title in 1906. Jack had a scar to show for it.
Fitzsimmons had been hit by Corbett, Corbett by John L. Sullivan, he by Paddy Ryan, with the bare knuckles, and Ryan by Joe Goss, his predecessor, who as a young man had felt the fist of the great Jem Mace. It is a great thrill to feel that all that separates you from the early Victorians is a series of punches on the nose. I wonder if Professor Toynbee is as intimately attuned to his sources. The Sweet Science is joined onto the past like a man’s arm to his shoulder.
I find it impossible to think that such a continuum can perish, but I will concede that we are entering a period of minor talents…
The immediate crisis in the United States, forestalling the one high living standards might bring on, has been caused by the popularization of a ridiculous gadget called television. This is utilized in the sale of beer and razor blades. The clients of the television companies, by putting on a free boxing show almost every night of the week, have knocked out of business the hundreds of small-city and neighbourhood boxing clubs where youngsters had a chance to learn their trade and journeymen to mature their skills.
Consequently the number of good new prospects diminishes with every year, and the peddlers’ public is already being asked to believe that a boy with perhaps ten or fifteen fights behind him is a topnotch performer. Neither the advertising agencies nor the brewers, and least of all the networks, give a hoot if they push the Sweet Science back into a period of genre painting. When it is in a coma they will find some other way to peddle their peanuts.
In truth, the kind of people who run advertising agencies and razor-blade mills have little affinity with the Heroes of Boxiana. A boxer, like a writer, must stand alone. If he loses he cannot call an executive conference and throw off on a vice president or the assistant sales manager. He is consequently resented by fractional characters who cannot live outside an organization. A fighter’s hostilities are not turned inward, like a Sunday tennis player’s or a lady MP’s. They come out naturally with his sweat, and when his job is done he feels good because he has expressed himself.
Chain-of-command types, to whom this is intolerable, try to rationalize their envy by proclaiming solicitude for the fighter’s health. If a boxer, for example, ever went as batty as Nijinsky, all the wowsers in the world would be screaming “Punch-drunk”. Well, who hit Nijinsky?
Liebling’s pessimism was well justified: professional boxing has, for the most part, become a sad travesty; licensed hysteria and brutality in the service of money. The heavyweight division has become a risible parade of bruisers and buffoons and the middle-weights aren’t much better. The only division that still produces fighters of skill and (to use an old-fashioned concept) honour is the lightweight division–the featherweights, bantamweights and flyweights. This is almost certainly because the big money is elsewhere. Money corrupts, in sport as it does in art and politics.
Liebling’s hero was the chronicler of boxing in Regency England, Pierce Egan. Egan’s four volumes of Boxiana, or, Sketches of Modern Pugilism, which appeared, lavishly illustrated, between 1818-24, was Liebling’s touchstone. Of it, he wrote:
Egan’s pageant of trulls and lushes, toffs and toddlers, all setting off for some great public, illegal prize-fight, are written Rowlandson, just as Rowlandson’s print of the great second fight between Cribb and Molineaux is graphic Egan. In the foreground of the picture there is a whore sitting on her gentleman’s shoulders the better to see the fight, while a pickpocket lifts the gentleman’s watch. Cribb has just hit Molineaux the floorer, and Molineaux is falling, as he has continued to do for a hundred and forty-five years since. He hasn’t hit the floor yet, but every time I look at the picture I expect to see him land. On the horizon are the delicate green hills and the pale blue English sky, hand-tinted by old drunks recruited in kip-shops (flophouses). The prints cost a shilling colored. When I look at my copy I can smell the crowd and the wildflowers.
As to those who find boxing too low-brow and brutish, I’ll leave the last word to Pierce Egan himself:
“To those, Sir, who prefer effeminacy to hardihood–assumed refinement to rough Nature–and to whom a shower of rain can terrify, under the alarm of their polite frames, suffering from the unruly elements–or would not mind Pugilism, if BOXING was not so shockingly vulgar–the following work can create no interest whatever; but to those persons who feel that Englishmen are not automatons…Boxiana will convey amusement, if not information…”
It is to be regretted that in boxing, as in so many walks of life, the automatons have, for the most part, taken over.
Verse on athletic endeavour, please.
Comments are closed.
Less athletic, more endeavour…
The PE hall was dank and cold
The mats on which we jumped and rolled
A grimy sort of grey, and damp
Their fibres no great feats foretold
But of feet they held the stenches
Wafting outwards towards the benches
Whose patina was worn thin
From the bottoms of weak wenches
Girls who menstruated daily
Sat aloft them, looking gaily
At their robust classmates’ antics
Until teacher looked, and frailly
They would double over then
Shiver, groan and count to ten
Then take a sip of water
And resume their sneers again
Yes, these hurlers on the ditch
Sniggered, whispered, had a bitch
While their friends bedewed with sweat
Forward rolled, their muscles rich
With lactic acid, their bottoms blue
Both of attire and of hue
Tumbled the wildcat one last time
Untwanged their knickers right on cue
With athletics I have no history
The appeal of it is a fucking mystery
Childhood illnesses put paid to running
Reading and drawing much more becoming
I can’t cheer on people to risk their health
Doing something I’d never ever do myself.
Have you ever watched stable-lad boxing? That’s really brutal and quite sickening. Many years ago a festival put us up in stable-lad’s accomodation by Carlisle racecourse. Plastic sheets on the beds , no curtains, no doors on the bedrooms, no privacy in the bathrooms and toilets. It was pitiful.
Many of the lads had been kicked around by horses and were not 100% there. Their boxing matches appeared to have no rules and looked like the human equivalent of dog-fighting.
That’s not boxing, Ed…that’s just brutality and exploitation. Boxing can be brutal and exploitative but ideally it isn’t. According to this piece in The Independent, some 500 boxers have died or been seriously hurt in the ring since 1884. That’s roughly 4 boxers a year, badly hurt or killed.
To put this in perspective, however, according to this list at wiki, as many if not more racing drivers have been killed while racing.
More to the point, why isn’t just driving a car classified as a dangerous sport, given that:
1.2 million people killed and 50 million injured in a year? …and people piss and moan about the dangers of boxing?
But never mind all that: it’s time to sanctify breakfast; can I get a witness?
I can appreciate enthusiasm for boxing but it really isn’t for me.
I’ve been once and liked the lights trained on the ring ( George Bellows did some great boxing paintings ) but really hated the audience getting worked up to such a degree – I’ve been to see wrestling too but there the whole thing is so staged that winding the audience up into a fever pitch didn’t seem as disturbing as a boxing crowd who were egging on one fighter to beat the shit out of one poor unfortunate who was carried out.
Of course in comparison to stable-lads boxing it’s the very picture of a civilised structured sport but so are most things.
I can appreciate your distaste for the audience, Ed. They are very often contemptible dolts. Of course, there are race ‘fans’ who like nothing better than a spectacular smash-up. I’d liken such people to the types who stand below potential suicides, urging them to jump. Aficionados of boxing or racing view them with disdain.
Have you been following the weird story of Charlie Brooks’ computers. His story is that a ‘friend’ dropped them off in the parking garage. Huh? Why the fuck would anyone do that? Brooks’ building has a 24-hour concierge. Very rum.
Oh, boy…
Unless the computers were delivered by that guy who left a priceless Stradivarius on the train last year it’s all rum with essence of rat if you ask me.
I was taken by Cameron’s use of language over the BsB conversations. If he is completely innocent ( unlikely ) he could have saved himself a lot of bother by using an unambiguous way of expressing his innocence.
I’ve a horrible feeling the chance to nail Cameron has gone but let’s hope Tom Watson and the Guardian ignore the “flogging a dead horse” mantra the Tories are parrotting to try and make this go away, risk unpopularity and delve even deeper. The Labour front bench are compromised but the back benchers may have room to move..
Here’s a laugh for you:
Priceless. So, telling the truth was a ‘strategy’ that had to be ‘urged’ on him by ‘advisors’? OK…I think I’ve got it. Left to his own devices, he would have lied his head off…which he did anyway. Great.
But…(and who didn’t see this coming, except the Murdochs, evidently), Tom Crone, former chief legal officer at the Screws is calling Boy James a liar. That idiot Robert Peston just said on The World Tonight, that it was a case of he said/they said…well, maybe…but Crone is a lawyer; I’d be very surprised if he didn’t have concrete evidence. Last week, Crone said that he wasn’t going to be anybody’s fall-guy. He meant it. More fun to come, I’m betting…
Hahahahahahahahahaha…comedy gold; they were worried about the £500 cost or roughly what 10 seconds of the military action in Libya has cost?
Oh, sure…that sounds plausible….hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha…
Cost of tweaking 10 Downing St. to Mr Cameron’s tastes –£500,000.
Cost to make No. 10 kitchen aesthetically pleasing –£30,000
Failure to pay the £500 cost to properly vet control of government communications with the media– priceless
I like watching a good fight. Hagler, Hearns and Robinson had some classic matches, though my favourite was Ali, more for his showmanship than boxing. I saw this HBO documentary Thriller in Manila, in which Frazier is poignantly revealed as a forgotten legend who the hype surrounding Ali cast as a black man who’d sold out to the ‘man’, but who was much more connected to the deprivations of the South and still lives in the Philidelphia ghetto to this day, in one room above his gym, still training boxers and unflinching in his bitterness towards Ali.
The fight was a proper grudge match on Frazier’s part, and he stubbornly refused to go down, pounding Ali’s body, hitting him to hurt him for all the taunts and mockery he had suffered. He was badly cut around the eyes and, as was revewaled in the documentary, was already almost blind in one eye, a fact he had kept from the boxing authorites in order to keep his lisence, and his corner man Eddie Futch stopped Frazier from going into the final round. Ali won, but immediately collapsed and was stretchered out unconcsious from the ring. In his dressing room after the fight, he told Frazier’s son to apologize on his behalf to his father, for all the things he had been saying about him; but as Frazier said, he should have told it to me himself. The answer message on his mobile, is a triumphantly bitter boast of having put Ali in the state he is. A fearless fighter, and great documentary.
Ali had some great lines ” I’m so mean I make medecine sick” and indeed “I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee” which has been done to death by others but still sums him up perfectly.
From those crazy, fun-loving scamps who brought you car bombers, shoe bombers and underpants bombers come…turban bombers. Talk about blowing your mind…travelling Sikhs had better get used to wearing baseball caps…
Why can’t they jusat take acid like everyone else?
Darts Regime
I usually train on sausage rolls,
but when the tournament gets near
I’ll switch to stew and suet pud:
we aim to meet several goals,
a really dense and solid rear,
a gut as hard as ironwood.
It’s the platform you need, you see,
like one of those gun emplacements:
your throwing arm being the gun,
the dart the shell, and your body
the seat and fulcrum of events.
This is rocket science, my son.
I’ll throw some arrows every day,
but I don’t like to do too much,
there’s always the risk of a strain,
and other stuff comes into play;
you can easily lose your touch,
or you might overtax the brain.
Lager is actually the key,
fifty pints a day is the price
I pay in order to compete:
it’s very hard, believe you me,
but you must make a sacrifice
to be a serious athlete.
Who hit Nijinksy
Was it Kandinsky
To make him see his point
Or toe his line?
Who hit Nijinksy
Was it Stravinsky
That he might better hear
His Firebird?
(Who hit Nijinsky
“Not I” said Lewinsky
“I was not on the bill
back then”)
None of these hit Nijinsky
He toed his own line en pointe
He was the firebird
Who always headed the bill
Neatly stitched, Re (and I’m glad to learn your word for that awkward knicker manoeuvre).
Just back from Maine with my dance festival sprite after three weeks of camp; our longest separation yet. We’re delighted to have her home.
Hot as Tofit here.
The featured performance last evening, which was bizarre in many ways, did have an interesting section of dance in simulation of a boxing match. The blows stopped just short, but everything else was portrayed. It must have been 100F and humid. I don’t know how they survived the exertion when we were expiring just watching them.
Even fanning myself seemed to be too much effort.
Must now drive an overheated man the six minute walk to the beach…
Glad to know she is safely home.
Poor darling, perhaps you will swim for him too. My very hungry man has just come home and I have cunningly phoned an obliging Indian who will be here presently bearing victuals.
An excellent plan. I could fancy a biryani later on if somebody else were to make it in some other kitchen.
No, my very brown spouse will be body-surfing and enduring the direct sun. The car said the outside temp is 105F, but there’s a new reading being reported called the ‘heat index’ which takes humidity into account and that’s even higher, so people are being advised to take shelter. I’ll swim when the sun goes down. The beach was mobbed; actually, by European standards there were several ample patches of available sand, but the din!
There’s nothing to be done now but get into the air-con car and procure the makings of G&Ts.
Never think of your car as a cold machine, but as a hot-blooded horse. — Juan Manuel Fangio (1958)
*words by Filippo Tommaso Marinetti and used without his permission, as he would have wished.
Wow wee. My minnows swim away in scarlet streams…
Amateur Boxing
Punching people in the face can be fun,
but I prefer a less formal venue
than the boxing ring: something more homespun,
like the car park of the Marquess Of Crewe,
for instance, with two stout chaps to hold the arms
of the focal point of my attention.
Hearing those grunts and snuffles has its charms:
there are other benefits I won’t mention.
It’s a real pleasure to see the claret flow,
to see the swelling rising on a welt;
there’s an art in landing a well-aimed blow,
no purse, no prize, no championship belt,
just the satisfaction of a job well done,
especially if the patsy is Cameron.
I take it you saw Cameron in that Commons debate last week as well MM.
Yes, the sofa cushions took a battering.
No human beings were harmed in the making of the above poem.
That may not apply to those who read it.
It’s not your words that hurt rather the lack thereof ;)
Your output is prolific since your return. I will not ask any direct questions but hope you are well. Green tiles always a cause for celebration.
The Man from Castleknock
It was clear he was an athlete
That his thighs were hard as rock
You’d just know the way he filled his jeans
The man from Castleknock
He rowed you see
The Liffey, he swashed winter and spring
A leading member of Wild Water
This muscled kayak king
He rowed alone on weekdays
But on weekends he was apt
To ride down in the Strawberry Beds
His waters gently lapped
On other shores on Sundays
He gave thanks to God above
For his many muscled blessings
And their capacity for love
That’s a cue for this one. How can I resist?
Lovely.
http://www.youtube.com/user/twinlights11?feature=mhee#p/f/114/4c8BVSR5Dc0
That looks wrong… here:
Ah, the chorus of that song is familiar to me but I didn’t know it was alternatively called the Strawberry Beds. The tourists love that kind of thing, I should learn a few of them and go busking on Grafton St. We live not far from the Strawberry Beds – still a pretty, tree-lined road that runs along the Liffey which I sometimes drive home through but marred, if one looks up, by a massive motorway bridge and now home to speed bumps every couple of hundred metres or so. *The kayak king is not known to me Garda.
Can I clarify before someone else points it out that my car is not amphibious and I mean I drive home through the Strawberry Beds as opposed to the Liffey – I omitted a dash from my aside?
Bore De France:
the unbearable excitement of cycling
In the valleys and over plains
through fields and forests they ride,
they go up the hills and mountains
and come down the other side.
It’s gripping stuff, I must admit,
if watching traffic is your game,
don’t worry if you miss a bit:
it all looks exactly the same.
At the end of this Tour-nament
I won’t raise as much as a peep,
such is my sense of excitement
I’m more likely to be asleep.
Anyone for Tennis?
Every end of June
By rotation of the moon
And elation at school’s end
We settled in for Wimbledend
Which is what my sister said
When she tumbled out of bed
Asked “Is Wimbledend on yet?”
“Yes, hurry up, it’s the first set”
“And it’s WimbleDON for God’s sake”
“Yeah, what difference does it make?
I think I’m getting tonsilitis…
Oh look, Vitas Gerulaitis!”
For weeks we sat there in a daze
Drinking coffee through a haze
Of teenage lust for foreign men
Cousins, friends and grown women
Swelled our ranks from time to time
As we watched the tensions climb
Bjorn and John, Ivan and Pat
Stefan, Yannick, Boris, Mats
In their pristine tennis whites
Serving up far flung delights
To the virgins of Mayo
Served them fast and served them slow
And we received them gratefully
Each had her favourite, which for me
Was Monsieur Noah, who knows why
His gappy teeth, his twinkling eye?
I dreamed of sailing on his ark
Into waters deep and dark
Speaking French, matching his aces
With my contented love ekphrasis
That’s an endeavour unfulfilled
To his touch I never thrilled
But I’ve played lots of tonsil tennis
From Valentia through to Venice
I’m afraid I don’t care for boxing, but earlier today I watched an excellent film called ‘The Story of G.I. Joe’, featuring former middleweight champion Freddie Steele. His performance was very good, and stood up well against those of Burgess Meredith and Robert Mitchum. I wonder how many other famous sports players have distinguished themselves as actors? Jim Brown springs to mind, and of course there’s Kareem Abdul-Jabbar’s appearance in ‘Airplane’.
The knee-jerk Islamophobia of certain sections of the British media has really been exposed, hasn’t it? Though I suppose it’s never been exactly subtle. As shaming of the press, in its way, as the hacking scandal.
Joe Namath ? comes to mind… how odd.
I don’t look at enough sectors of the British media to comment on them, Ned, but as for the Guardian, it’s much more normalising than anything I see in the US, where there’s little presence of anything Muslim other than ‘Airb extremists’ and ‘turrsts’.*
But then it seems there’s little in the news of any topics other than those which relate to the interests of Americanism.
Very irritating, and the reason I was initially so pleased to find the G had gone online.
A strange thing about the G in turn is that, for example, I posted here on PH about the heat wave in New England and then saw it in the headlines. Why?
There seems an equation of the progressive and liberal with over-fascination with the US. Linguistically and culturally that is to my mind a deranged error and otherwise just an ignorant one.
Public radio carries the BBC, but that’s pretty much it for international news sources on air unless one is prepared to go digging for obscure niche broadcasts.
* in American parlance, tourists and terrorists all sound the same: ‘turrsts’.
Even more depressing, Ned, are the numbers of people explaining why poor, confused young Anders was ‘driven’ to it. Check out threads at the Telegraph (although the same right-wing scum are posting on The Grauniad).
You see, Anders feared that his culture was being ‘swamped’ (that’s always the word) by Mooslums and, ya know…nobody would, like…listen; so he had to murder 100 people, many of them children; It turns out that, mirabile dictu, it’s all the fault of Mooslums (and the liberal Left) after all.
The Right really are the toxic dregs of humanity.
Odd how a blue-eyed Aryan boy goes on the rampage and Muslims get blamed.
It was the same with McVeigh the Unabomber wasn’t it? The ringing in the ears from the blasts had barely stopped before Muslim fanatics were dragged into it
I can’t get those young people or their parents out of my mind – your child goes off to camp and you assume they will arrive home safely full of joy. The accounts are horrific; the scary thing about right wing extremism/racism is how widespread it is, lurks very close to the surface of seemingly “normal” people.
Yet, I’m surprised whenever it pops out when speaking with ‘real’ people, and I suddenly come to regard them as curiosities.
Which reminds me… Earlier this month, I was in a queue waiting to board a boat, and the man behind me kept bumping into me with his gear, his camera, his arse, and he excused himself effusively each time. He announced that he was visiting from Texas, and all his attendant business, and his wife’s business, finally announcing with jollity that we were playing pinball. That was so repulsive a remark that I stopped my indulgent nodding and smiling and ignored him.
Once on board I joined a table with a couple who turned out to be from Bangkok, the husband Anglo/Canadian and the wife Thai. They were great company and we had sporadic conversation throughout. The Texans were at an adjoining table behind me. At one point, I came face to face with Mr Pinball and he sneered at me with such malevolence I was shocked. Then I realised it was because I had chosen to engage with the ‘wrong’ people.
Even in parts of the US that we think of as liberal such as Oregon or Massachusetts, it’s not unusual to encounter hostility to racially mixed couples, and not just from fools visiting from Texas.
Depressingly, Reine, the narrative of far-right types like Breivik closely resembles the editorials you might read any day of the week in the Daily Mail, Daily Express, Daily Telegraph or see expressed on Fox News (or, indeed, in the comments at The Grauniad).
The hate-fuelled diatribes of Zionist lunatics like Melanie Philips or right-wing thickos like Richard Littlejohn take the same line and a certain climate of paranoid ‘opinion’ (i.e. bigotry) has been made acceptable; respectable, even.
These vile people screech that criticism of immigration and ‘multi-culturalism’ is ‘forbidden’, even as they peddle such criticisms incessantly; they would have people believe that a ‘Liberal/ Left elite’ has foisted changes, unasked, on people; they rage about the alleged Islamification of society and culture (promoted by the ‘liberal/ left elite’, natch); they indulge constantly in a ‘wounded’ and furious ‘victimhood’ in which ‘decent, ordinary people’ are ignored. This, of course, leads otherwise ‘decent’ sorts like Anders to extremes.
The likes of Philips and her crew of hate-mongers actually make me feel physically ill: they have a lot to answer for.
Yes and there is absolutely no reasoning with them – even on a conversational level, they look at you with a kind of “another poor hoodwinked liberal leftie” expression and start citing chapter and verse to shore up their position. It is infuriating, frightening and, as you say, sickening.
Something that always makes me snort in exasperation is the incessant, disingenuous demand for an ‘open, honest debate’ about immigration. If there’s one subject political discourse returns to time and time again in this country, it’s immigration, and I haven’t noticed public figures and media institutions being particularly hamstrung by the supposed constraints they’re forever decrying. Do the shriekingly cretinous front pages of the Express, for example, provide evidence of any externally-enforced reticence in their language? Or are its journalists just very, very brave their fearless defence of free speech? What do these idiots want? The right to shout ‘Darkies out!’ without being called racist? It’s all very well for people to insist at the top of their voices that being critical of immigration policy does not necessarily make you a racist; that’s perfectly true. But beyond a few Dave Sparts on CiF, does anyone actually believe that it does? The idea that there’s a sinister liberal thought-police clamping down on freedom of expression is nonsense, but people trot it out again and again all the same. What is true is that whenever it is correctly pointed out that someone’s paranoid, ignorant, hate-filled, racist diatribe is indeed a paranoid, ignorant, hate-filled, racist diatribe, the wingnuts throw a hissy-fit.
The other factor in the rush to blame the attack on Muslims is the nature of today’s media, with its rolling coverage and insatiable demand for instant answers. When those answers cannot be immediately supplied in the form of facts, they are supplied in the form of speculation. Live reports tell us breathlessly that no-one has a clue what’s going on, and tell us the same thing fifteen minutes later. Distinguished experts are wheeled out to give us their best guesses, which no matter how wild, are treated with reverence and solemn nods of the head, until some tidbit of new information comes through which seems to contradict what the experts have said, so the experts are wheeled off and forgotten, and replaced with new experts who, with the benefit of the tidbit of new information, are able to give slightly better guesses until it’s time to return to the live reporter, who’s having trouble hearing what the anchor is trying to tell him, and doesn’t have anything new to add anyway, so states grimly that it’s a very serious situation and that things are changing very rapidly. Then it’s back to the anchor, who gives a summary of the little that’s known so far before we cut to shots of political leaders giving their heartfelt reactions, expressing their shock/outrage/sorrow and vowing to introduce much-needed reforms/bring the perpetrators to justice/pray for the victims and their families. We then have more distinguished experts who give their reactions to the reactions of the political leaders, and more groundless speculation, and more live updates that tell us nothing new, until there’s another breaking story to claim one’s attention, such as, oh I don’t know, a dead/drunk/cheating celebrity, which means that we get a whole new bunch of uninformative live reports, clueless experts and vapid reactions from political leaders, all about the dead/drunk/cheating celebrity. And now for the sport…
This rush to give us information that means objective news reporting gets churned up with speculation and opinion can seriously backfire too. It happened with the German government wanting to blame someone/anyone for the ecoli outbreak earlier this year.
Aren’t the Spanish in the process of sueing them for wrongful assertions about their cucumbers? ( A sentence I never thought I’d see myself write.)
I like to stare at the lacunae in cases like this. Mysteriously under-reported in the “mainstream” press are relevant items such as:
1. http://web.archive.org/web/20021211194136/http://www.norskisraelsenter.no/engl/auf-sharon-vg-engl.htm
2. “As foreign minister arrived Utøya he was met with a demand from the AUF that Norway must recognize a Palestinian state.
– The Palestinians must have their own state, the occupation must end, the wall must be demolished and it must happen now, said the Foreign Minister to cheers from the audience.
Earlier this week, when Palestinian President Mahmoud Abbas visited Norway, the Minister said to TV 2 news channel that Norway stands ready to recognize a Palestinian state . This he repeated during the debate on Utøya.”
And then, whaddya know, the very next day…
3. I’ve watched the Aryan Avenger’s video and near the end it makes a strong statement *against* “hate groups” (wow) such as “Islamism” and, erm, “Jew-hating Nazis”. Not very in-character for a defender of the pure-whiteness of the whitest people on Earth, I’d say. Genuine Aryan Berserker-Heroes don’t go around wagging their blood-drenched fingers at anti-Semites; anyone who has been online for long enough knows a genuine White Supremacist Weltanschauung when they see one… and this ain’t it.
I also like this, from Olivier Assayas:
“There is no terrorism. There is only state-terrorism. There are no furious individuals who decide suddenly one day to build some bombs; that is an invention of a rather naive mind. If it ever was true then maybe back in the 19th century. But not today. Terrorism is a message from one state to another state. It is not focused on the media, which is what many are led to believe. The general public doesn’t have to understand anything. The government is supposed to get the message. That is why you can never understand the logic of terrorism at the moment it is evoked. Since you never know how the cards are being mixed and by whom…”
I’m not sure which state something like the Real IRA are operating from. They almost seem like an IRA tribute band. I think in their heads they are operating as a state but it’s difficult to know whether they have a lot of grassroots support for what they are doing.
Fassbinder made a very interesting film “The Third Generation” about terrorism and how some of the groups today ( in the film’s case the early 80’s ) have the action and the postures down pat but don’t appear to have the thinking ( or whatever you might call it ) behind those actions and postures so it comes over as pure fashionable nihilism.
For some reason the end of my epistle got cut out. Anyone else finding that the twitter/facebook log in boxes sometimes superimpose themselves over comments?
Anyway the end read – in some odd way the Fassbinder film has a weird “kids of today don’t know they were born” message but it’s also an interesting and provocative film.
The Unreal IRA never seemed a credible organisation to me.
The Unreal IRA? Was that Gerry and the Peacemakers?
My coat’s already on
No, McGuinness Flirt.
I hate to say ‘I warned you…’ [Liar-Ed.], but:
Feets Don’t Fail Me Now
One foot forward, leads the other,
foot by foot but feet not fleet;
the path is long and stony, brother,
to the place the roads all meet.
Don’t look back, there’s something gaining;
hellhound; poodle: no-one knows.
Don’t beg pardon; no explaining;
the end’s the same in verse or prose.
We shall all meet at the terminus:
that’s where every foot descends;
there a hole’s torn in the universe
where this long, odd time-walk ends.
Beautiful and Inspiring!
Honestly, I get an education here.
I’ve been considering your boxing stance, Mishari. *ahem* I suppose you’ve likely seen this article?
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/jul/19/nfl-star-brain-injuries-destroyed?commentpage=1#start-of-comments
Not a bad idea for people to be aware of the deterioration of brain tissue over years of sustaining blunt traumas.
Despite the statistical risk, it’s some comfort to consider that when I’m driving, as opposed to boxing, the other drivers aren’t actively trying to hit me. I may be at high risk of an accident due to my driving habits/temperament and those of others, but I’m not subject to cumulative brain damage as if I were getting knocked about a bit every time I participate in the melee of Massachusetts roadways.
Ali has said he doesn’t want boxing to be blamed for his condition, rather the fact that he went on too long in the sport. How does one assess that for himself, I wonder?
A neighbour of ours who was a Boston College football star was given compulsory early retirement after his third or fourth (?) concussion, so that’s change for the better.
My bent is towards caveat emptor. The deep appeal of bread and circuses, of the adrenaline rush as drug of choice, the intoxication of high risk/stakes are not going to be mothered away.
I’d agree that going into a sport or venture with skill and preparation and not being stupid beyond ones depth is key. Who but the death-wishers (or the idiotic) want to invite being maimed or obliterated?
I hope to attenuate my kids’ exposure, to be a buffer so their maturity has a chance to keep up with their experiences.
While accepting the principle of free will in a wild world, that’s the best I can offer.
For myself, I’m averse to the attendant tension, and so, gradually have learned to court bliss rather than drama.
“I must court bliss not drama” is my new motto. Yes, indeedy.
But surely, hic, ‘bliss’ can only result from the resolution of tension: it can’t exist in a vacuum. In my opinion, virtually all art is the product of that dynamic–tension/resolution; tension/resolution…und so weiter…no?
I’ll have to think about how to answer you. My first impression is of the difference between
a Beethoven symphony and a sustained Ohm.
Ok so, to try to explain… my experience is of learning not to swing so wide with strivingrecovery, but to progressively in practice surrender whatever mental chatter arises while maintaining a central stillness.
(It’s probably closest to Taoism, though I’m not an adherent of any belief system.)
Becoming more centred and less reactive in fielding outside impulses as well has helped to relieve my migraine pattern.
It’s not that I’m in a perpetual state of bliss (obvious to everyone here!) but that I have a trodden path to find my way back when in what I’d call ‘homeostatic threat’.
In the tension/resolution cycle (if you’re still with me) what that means is achieving the resolution phase after less stimulus, or higher frequency with lower amplitude, so to speak.
Howzat?
Jon Snow just had a piece on C4 news about cycling accidents in London. Fatalities up 7% this year.
Oval Balls
It’s the game that made the British Empire;
spending your childhood on a windswept field
scuffling over a frozen quagmire
produces a solid if costly yield,
the spirit might sag and the bones might break,
but conquering the world’s a piece of cake.
From the sweating deserts of Rajasthan
across the lonely South African plain
up the high passes of Afghanistan
to the blood-spattered battlefields of Spain,
what made us History’s foremost slugger
was the theory and practice of rugger.
The world-view might be a team-mate’s bum,
and action limited to rucks and mauls,
but the infantry soldiers of the scrum
are the backbone where the grunt-work falls,
the solid foundation on which the backs
can bollocks up their cavalry attacks.
Fair play to the girls, the up-and-under
demolished the Russkis at Inkerman,
and maybe led to the Mahdi’s blunder
which gave us the winner down the Soudan;
but Zulu, Ashanti, Boxer or Turk
we won the day through first-class teamwork.
The grubber, the French switch, the dummy blind,
the crash ball which cuts the enemy’s line,
the pushover try and the pass-behind
the short-arm tackling which makes them whine,
in tactical terms the Imperial dream
was made in the brain of a rugby team.
Now the great British Empire has vanished,
the youngsters prefer their Facebook and drugs,
the amateur ethic’s been banished
and rugby’s a game for professional thugs,
the sporting spirit’s no longer a plus,
no wonder Johnny Foreigner’s caning us.
Who Hit Nijinsky?
He cantered from last in the Dewhurst that day
Two Thousand Guineas didn’t stand in his way
Just one pirouette and a balette of hay
Was more than enough for Nijinsky
Then up on the Downs he left others for dead
No taste of the whip or the whizz or the lead
Just murmurs from Piggott, so close to the head
Of the Ballydoyle favourite Nijinsky
With nary a kick nor a slap nor a whack
He romped through the Irish; ran wide on the track
To claim the King George and Leger back to back
As the Triple Crown fell to Nijinsky
Going neck and neck down the straight in the Arc
Lester drew the whip and his horse gave a start
That cost him the final immaculate mark…
But he never laid into Nijinsky
The question needed a poem and you delivered. I am pinning a virtual rosette on you Henry.
Ta. You don’t know how nice it is to be back nor how much I have missed you. I now reside in England, have spent a weekend in Cornwall and my upper forehead is peppered with English insect bites. Sweet penance, innit.
Or is that Penzance.
Poor wand’ring one. We’d better have a song for you too…
Glad to hear you are settled – hope the midges lay off; you might consider taking up pipe smoking. Be happy as the kids (or Helen Steiner Rice) say.
I trust your daughter got Daisy Goodwin smack in the eye with a tomato in Cornwall HLM.
Watched British Masters on BBC4 last night which managed to turn Francis Bacon into a British artist but also featured Keith Vaughn [John Keith Vaughan -Ed.]. Not the best painter but his diaries which I read years ago are extremely distressing.
He thought himself into a position where nothing could persuade him that life was worth living anymore so he killed himself. He took a handful of pills and a bottle of whisky and wrote calmly and lucidly til he drifted off. The documentary showed the actual handwritten diary where his writing just tails off into scribble.
It was a strange brew of lack of success he thought he was due, an understandable aversion to the shallow aspects of modern life and a growing inability to put things in perspective.
ET, I owe you worthy responses on so many different platforms that I’ll never catch up; will this non-sequitur do?
SA the slate is wiped clean ready to start again if or when possible.
Talking of Dublin places, this classic sung by Luke Kelly of the Dubliners, is self-explanatory due to the intro by Ronnie Drew.
If you want to hear Kelly’s voice at its finest, this one is among my own favourites.
I see George Osborne is blaming the Royal Wedding for the lack of growth in the economy. I thought they were meant to be a good investment. Turns out they are helping the country’s finances tank.
Weddings don’t come cheap, you know. Forty Chicken Kievs, ten crates of Asti and a mobile disco – that’s forty billion quid for starters.
Never having organised a wedding I hadn’t taken the mobile disco costs into consideration so I take your point.
But I think 39 ham and tomato sandwiches plus one egg mayonnaise sandwich for the uncle’s vegetarian daughter could have saved a bit of money on the food stakes. Once you’re into Chicken Kievs you’ve got dips to consider as well and before you know it your catering budget has ballooned.
Fair enough for run-of-the-mill aristocrats, I suppose, but we’re talking Royal here. At a certain Kuwaiti nobleman’s wedding it’s rumoured that 100,000 endangered (now extinct) hummingbirds went into the paté, and the champagne bottles were compacted to make a new Alp. Really, a bourgeois wallpaper manufacturer like George Woodchip, sorry, Osborne, simply has no understanding of savoir faire. He should save his complaining for the totally useless projects we pour cash into, like disabled people (they can’t work, so what’s the point of them?) or the NHS (it’s God’s will that people should be sick, unless they’re rich).
That hummingbird paté was delicious and their extinction was no loss. Cameron’s Bumsucker was a corpulent, drab bird that was more comfortable waddling than flying. Its long tongue was employed to lick the arses of corporate chieftains and the boots of bankers. The breed was an evolutionary dead-end: fuck ’em.
The humminbirds come with built-in toothpicks as well
Who hit Nijinsky? je ne sais pas
all fingers point to Ninette de Valois
She didn’t like his Rites of Spring
Less ballet more like a pagan fling
Who hit Nijinsky? I haven’t a clue
Rimsky Korsakov? he’ll have to do
Of Course Rimsky landed that knock-out punch
Impacting the skull with a sickening crunch
Leaving Nijinsky able to hover in the air
As if all sense of time was no longer there
His pas de deux became pas de douze
The ballet critics then started to enthuse
Who hit Nijinsky? We can’t be sure
The mystery will forever endure
He couldn’t dance like that naturally
It has to be down to a head injury
Mr Apollo
I’m six – four and one hundred ninety pounds,
my abdo muscle is totally cut,
I have a tight and very well – made butt,
I’m through Mr U’s preliminary rounds.
My pecs are probably my best feature,
though my general shape is pretty OK,
Eddie, my manager, he likes to say,
Bobby, you are a magnificent creature!
I don’t argue. He’s a great guy, Eddie,
he’s good with the diets and supplements,
man, I am so glad that I made the switch
from the last loser. We’ll take it steady,
says Eddie, only the prestige events.
I don’t like my voice. It’s kind of high – pitched.
WW (keeps on turning)
I’m wonder woman, pneumatic, you know the drill
Tea coloured tights with togs, licensed to thrill
A certain kind of guy, the bashful ones, the shy
Fellows who nail you on their bedroom walls and cry
It’s tiring, all this leaping about, beaming
Brazilianed for the high leg hike, teeth gleaming
Hair backcombed, held in place
With a tiara that helps hold up my face
Botox on the cheap, I call it, stamps out wrinkles
Which now I’m past my best match the crinkles
Beneath my corseted nylon – stinks by night’s end
But it’ll do tomorrow night again
After all, no one gets close enough to smell it now
Stale is as stale does, but the cash cow
Still suckles at my breast
Endeavour? I do my best
Mishari, would you please change lycra to nylon when you get a moment? I don’t think Lynda did lycra. R
I’ve just made a vow to never set foot in Italy or buy an Italian product again until Berlusconi and his gang of right-wing scum have been consigned to the cess-pit that they belong in.
Good Gawd.
Because that’s how the ‘…only democracy in the Middle-East (sic)…’ deals with ‘existential’ threats; by ‘storming’ theatres with commandos (because the luvvies can be very, very bitchy, you know); by burning Palestinian olive groves:
… poisoning Palestinian wells:
…and by forcing pregnant Palestinian women to miscarry at Israeli ‘checkpoints’:
Still, I suppose it’s an improvement on shooting Palestinian children:
The Palestinians must count their blessings daily to be living under a benign democracy like Israel’s.
The Man In The Middle
He does his training in the local park,
goes home, watches TV, eats a plate
of unsauced pasta and when it gets dark
jogs round the streets of his Barratt estate.
On Saturdays he’s out of bed at dawn,
and once the muesli and juice is dispatched
does a few stretches on the garden lawn,
then he drives the Mondeo to the match.
He’s the bastard in black, a fucking cheat,
he’s a streak of piss or he’s mega-fat,
he’s the biggest liar you’ll ever meet,
his mother’s a slapper who’ll shag you free,
he’s a cunt, a twat, he’s blind as a bat,
a mong and a knob, he’s a referee.
Until the pay-off, MM, I was assuming he was a politician…
That’s the same National Front that won 17% of the vote in the last French election. I’m really beginning to despair of the human race.
MM The arts officer for Carlisle in the early 90’s was an ex-referee who’d officiated high profile FA cup semi-finals, Premiership/First division as was matches on all the grounds and European fixtures.
He was a very nice guy but an incredibly nervous one too, so nervous you wondered how he got through matches with most of the crowd singing “Who’s the bastard in the black?” at him. We wondered whether he’d just decided to let his guard drop and relished not having to put up a front in order to keep control. If so perhaps he’d gone a bit too far the other way.
Apparently Paul Gascoigne was the best player he’d referee’d in terms of being skillfull and being funny.
It’s not a job I’d fancy. Even at youth level the abuse they get is very nasty indeed.
I stole the title from David Elleray’s book, which is intermittently diverting if you happen to come across it. The story of his relationship with Roy Keane (who he managed to send off four times) could make a book of its own.
Has anyone else noticed that the Grauniad’s book Muffia have completely taken over the book blogs? Aside from the token appearance of Richard Lea (who, as a Grauniad staffer, is an honorary girl, I suppose), every single article for the last few weeks has been by one of the usual (female) suspects, reflecting their middle-brow to low-brow interests (‘I simply adore…’ whatever dreary pukefest it is that they adore this week).
I suppose it’s jealousy that made Sarah Crown (who seems to write 8 out of 10 of the articles that appear) use the ‘re-design’ to consign Carol’s Poem of The Week (which God alone knows has slid a long way down the ramp since its lively heyday) to the blog-equivalent of the Kamchatka Peninsular. Finding it is like searching for The Lost Dutchman’s Mine.
She seems to have become a megalomaniac. Thanks to the Coña Nostra and the imbecile moderators, the book blogs have gone from lively to variable to tiresome to moribund. Why anyone would waste a minute reading that half-wit Damien Walter (who I suspect is Sarah Crown in disguise) explaining that Game of Thrones is ‘socially relevant’ or another beef-witted paean to some children’s author by AlisonClaireHannahJustineImogenSarahAuntyTomasinaCobblers and all is a mystery.
It’s probably just me…
I always thought of Sarah Crown as being what would have happened to Zadie Smith (related by scansion) if Smith hadn’t been born with a marketable back-story, or the ambition that the back-story provided. I could well imagine Crown (with just a few more IQ points) writing doorstops sopping with PC pablum and packed with “quirky” (TV-derived) characters and salted with smug undergraduate “knowingness” until she sank without a trace by aging out of her market.
If it weren’t for the invention of LitBlogs, we’d have had to have put up with Sarah’s type wherever we’d have congregated, I think, because they always end up running these things as a revenge/ consolation prize for not being of any importance. Being unimportant, on the other hand, suits me to a “t”… which is why I could never fathom the willingness to lick the number of asses Sarah’s type must lick before getting into a position to have their own asses licked by regulars in a comment thread, ferfucksake.
Damien is just a harmless fangit, his pseudo-utopian visions inspired by Saint Onan. Did you know, btw, M, that in the not-too-distant future, we’ll all be time-traveling immortals… even the poorest fucks among us? Gosh!
Damien Walter’s problem is that he doesn’t realise that it’s much more creative if you stay under the radar. The books he likes owe their qualities to an outsider position rather than one in the middle of it all.
To some extent I can see his point – there’s a lot of good work that gets ignored in the general summing up of things – but if you’ve got an audience, if you’ve figured out a way of making your work why the hell should you bother with what some stuffed shirt ( or buttoned up, round collared white shirt, no tie in a black Armani suit ) from a broadsheet thinks about what you do?
Ed, I can never forget (and I suspect that you and Steven remember it, too) Walter writing a long piece, about 3 years ago, on how the sheer volume of blogs and of people setting down the minutiae of their hum-drum existences ensured a higher quality of writing than the strait-laced, stratified world of conventional publishing would allow.
It was a thesis so fantastically imbecilic that I initially thought it must have been meant ironically…but, no: he meant every word.
I also remember him refusing to engage and explain his many bizarre assessments of various authors and their work, preferring to scuttle back to his lair (which I picture as his Mum’s basement, complete with life-size Star Wars cardboard cut-outs and models of Yoda that serve as lamps: dingy and dank it is, young Ed Walker…yes…hmmmm) while bleating that I was trying to trap him (or was it ‘ambush’ him?).
I forbore from pointing out that vegetables require a minimum of guile to trap or ambush…wasn’t that magnanimous of me? Well…that’s just the type of chap I am: soft as mush…stern but just, I am, young Inflatable Pig Walker…hmmmm…
…but I’ll bet his mobile phone plays the Star Wars theme as its ring-tone…hmmmm…noxious and infantile it is, young Whalley Range Walker…the farce is strong in him.
I remember it well errrm Yoda.
His blog articles come round every 6 months like the online Halley’s Comet of idiocy.
The last one I remember claimed that non-SF fiction of the last 100 years was either safe or just repeating itself. A point he very quickly climbed down from when the examples of authors like Foster Wallace, De Lillo, Nicolson Baker blah de blah take your pick were pointed out to him. Damien imagined that non-SF fiction was only the likes of Ian McEwan thus ensuring himself an easy ride BTL as people lined up to shoot a fish in a barrel.
I am on holidays, hurrah. Now, I may have a chance to read enough to keep up with the level of intellect here … I wouldn’t even qualify for the Muffia as it is.
Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo: I could belabour you about the head with a brick and you’d still leave that shower of ‘Daddy got me a job at The Guardian’ clones and ‘gels who were at Bedales/on mumsnet together’ standing.
Oh, I see. So, how many meetings did Richard ‘Dirty’ Desmond have with Liam Fox? He does, after all, own papers, magazines and a TV station.
Mind you, Desmond The Porn King (publisher of such deathless classics as Reader’s Wives, Big Titted Babes, Hot Asian Sluts, Back-Door Beauties and the gerontophile’s bible Pensioners On Heat) probably has less interest in ‘defence matters’.
So how about The Guardian, owners of papers, magazines and radio stations. Don’t they have an interest in ‘defence matters’?
Still, Conservative Party co-chairman, Sayeeda Warsi, said: “This Government is delivering unprecedented transparency; Ed Miliband now needs to come clean. Where is his list of Shadow Cabinet media meetings?”
Perhaps someone should take poor, dim Sayeeda aside and explain the difference between the government and erm…y’know…everyone else.
Jesus, I wasn’t fishing but thank you. Daddy got me a job in a supermarket owned by a friend of his when I was fifteen but by God I pack a bag of groceries well. Never ever take goods from the front of the shelves/fridges – the fresh stuff is always rearmost.
Daddy got me a job on an oil-rig when I was 17. Damn near killed me, although I suspect that was the plan…
I’ve always followed that mantra Reine but the cornershop by our workshop always puts the fresh milk at the front of the fridge.
You get so used to the opposite behaviour that you feel obliged to tell the shop owners that they are doing it wrong.
That is disconcerting Ed; at least if there’s a rule you know what to expect. Maybe word of their cunning sharp practice has spread and they are deliberately subverting.
Yeah, I noticed, and as poetic luck would have it, apologised to Carol on potw 400 and whatever, the Archbisop’s God one (I think), for calling her ‘an old bag’, many moons ago, and which I had been ashamed of meself for doin’ since that time a couple of years back, guv’nor, and which really set her against me and contributed, I am certain of it, to her calling me a ‘vile idiot’, which was a barb that hit the mark in the sense of making me feel a lot like one, in between my loutish bouts of milling barbs against the world conspiring against my genius, in the form of Sarah Crown, who sticks pins into an action man of me, I am sure of it, every night when she gets home from work and weeps over the wank she sucks the hole off for England on her drippy pages for extremely competitive middle class wannabe’s and wierdos with no discernible talent other than a pronounced ability for sounding jolly wocky yummy dummy ‘n so, up there you stupid bithneths.
I am well out of it. A four year experimental wank that ended in shooting blanks. I got my head out my arse the other week, copped on, got the gear – rack, pannier, trangier stove, cooking gear, tent, thermarest mat and sleeping bag, and started cycling out of Dublin, for the first time since I got here seven years ago. Tommorow I pick up from where I left off after cycling from Dublin to Kilkenny, via the Wicklow mountains, a campsite in Donard on Saturday night, six pints with the locals in this two pub village, and then 70km, via Carlow, to Kilkenny, where the town was hopping Sunday night and another brilliant night seeing the real Ireland.
I have sat-nav on my Nokia smartphone, and there’s a ‘walk’ option that tales you round, what prior to it would have been the fairy lanes Kavanagh wrote of getting lost on. All the mystic island nonsense. I just followed the directions on my phone and got refreshed travelling round the non-scumbag and non-scanger lands, and when I got back on the train from Kilkenny to Dublin on Monday, had my life turned round. I’m plotting the route for tommorow as we speak. Kilkenny to a campsite at Clogheen of Cahir tommorow, then a three day wind down to Glengarrif in Cork, where my folks, youngest sister, her hubbie and three kids, have a cottage booked for a week’s holiday.
It’s obvious now that Crown was the one keeping me off the pages, and though it may just be paranoia, I noticed that within a few days of mentioning to the audience, on a Poetry Society thread, that it is Crown, Flood and Lea who report UK po-biz gossip to the wider public; that Carol was moved off the front page and Crown started her blitzkrieg. She had obviously, for years, been sat on her fanny (as the Americans put it) fuming at her inability to join the fray as herself, and so spent four years building up to this, potentially shit move that will see her little empire crumble coz no cunt’s gonna wanna know about her posh bint self wetting her nickers over some fat, middle-aged beardy twat who writes shit poems.
oops, Clogheen or Cahir, not Clogheen of Cahir..
oops, meant to write, fat, middle-aged beardy twats who write shit poems, not, fat, middle-aged beardy twat who writes shit poems
Good move, Des. I’ve done plenty of stints as a ‘bicycle nomad’ myself and it’s great craic: the only better way to see a country is on foot…of course, the drawback on foot is that if you strike a right shit-hole, it takes longer to get away–on a bike, you can be a long way down the road in no time. Plus, it gets you fit as fuck. There’s no downside at all to cycling (except when some idiot in a cab opens a door in your face: unlikely in the Irish countryside, i should think).
“There’s no downside at all to cycling (except when some idiot in a cab opens a door in your face: unlikely in the Irish countryside, i should think).”
… you’d be surprised. Taxis turn up in the strangest places here, rarely at the appointed time or destination.
Here’s the funniest thing I heard today. You probably need to know the people involved and I cannot say much lest they ever wend their way here, highly unlikely but not impossible. One of my colleagues, a fellow of great gravitas in his own lunchtime, is going out with a good friend of mine (also a colleague). Here is an account of their lunchtime adventure as recounted to me by her. It was a glorious day here today.
My friend, we will call her Hilaria, and her boyfriend, let’s call him Sir Novelty Fashion, went to Merrion Park opposite work to have their sandwiches at lunchtime (SNF even had a picnic blanket, which looked a bit silly tbh and caused a flurry of mirth along the corridor). Anyway, they had just picked a spot from which to survey the scene and are unwrapping their sandwiches (his I can only guess was goat’s cheese with foie gras and burgundy jam) when a wasp makes a beeline (!) for SNF and will not be shaken off or deterred to the point that he has to get up and “run all around Merrion Park with the wasp chasing him Reine, not one of those wasps with the fur coats (bumblebees) but a really nasty one. He had no interest in me at all, even though I was wearing perfume, but he was determined to get SNF. I was just lying there laughing. Anyway he comes back and resumes eating his sandwich and there is a buzzing up his sleeve and he can’t open the shirt cos he has cufflinks on and the wasp “bites” (sic) him. He really had it in for him Reine”. Well, I haven’t laughed as much in ages although it would be my worst nightmare. Then he wouldn’t go to the chemist and get something for it but took two panadol (for fuck’s sake) eventually because he could “feel the venom shooting up and down his arm.” (Ah, it was a wasp SNF not a bloody rattlesnake). Hilaria was totally hilarious telling it, particularly funny was her mild chagriin that the wasp was not interested in her.
“chagrin even”. Howya Des, glad to hear you are in good form.
I’ll probably be struck down by a plague of wasps for my bitchiness above. Oh well, too late.
Wasps can be very hostile, unlike bees, which only really bother you if you’re threatening. I believe that many people bring it (the wasp aggression) on themselves (albeit unintentionally). As I’m sure you know, the social insects interpret the world through ‘smell’, i.e. chemicals.
We do too, to a much greater extent than we realise but at a subconscious level. With wasps, it’s the only level.
So, if yer man’s scared of wasps, he starts pumping out ‘fear’ pheromones, which are very similar to ‘aggression’ pheromones. The wasp gets a whiff and goes for the man. The man gets more excited/frightened/angry and pumps out more pheromones which gees-up the wasp even further: it’s bound to end badly.
Entertainingly described, though and made me laugh…
I used to do summer work for the forestry commission clearing weeds with a scythe so that the small pine trees wouldn’t get choked. You got paid by the acre. It was hot and the soil was slightly sandy thus ideal for wasp’s nests. You knew the probability of inadvertantly coming across a wasp’s nest was very high and that there would be the likelihood of encountering several nests over the many acres you had to clear.
As soon as you hit a nest you have to keep hold of your scythe and run like fuck. If you drop your scythe you have to go back and get it. Not especially good.
The wasps go for the nearest part of your body that gives out heat – usually the back of the leg behind the knee where the skin is thinner. Many’s the time I ran and when I stopped running looked down to see 10 or so wasps on each leg sticking their abdomens into my jeans to exact revenge. Luckily this was in the days of Levi’s which could stand up on their own and take 2 years to fade so the stings never got through the material.
The gamekeeper had been stung so often he was allergic to the stings.
That would fit the profile right enough.
Here’s fantasy Reine singing while wearing a beautiful dress and rocking the high hair look…
Offsprung’s namesake! (M, I’ve just sent you a 2-kilometer email)
Tasteful. You know what they say about men who send long emails…
Ah, Reine… you haven’t forgotten…
Ah, Lena Horne…lovely…and here’s something lovely for referee-haters:
Snow White and Rose, Redux
At the foot of the bed
Of Snow White and Rose Red
Lay a bear to whom they gave harbour
From winter’s long cold
Or so it is told
This bear had no need of a Barbour
For his coat cut a dash
Like an overgrown ‘tache
It covered the whole of his frame
And Rose Red and Snow White
Thought him quite a delight
Saying “Dear bear, do tell us your name”
Then one day he sloped off
With a wink and a cough
“Don’t worry, I’ll return by and by”
“I’ve a matter to settle
That’s tested my mettle
Please dear hearts, there, there, do not cry”
So they dried up their tears
And put on hold all their fears
Cold comfort replaced their old swoon
Now they watch every night
Hoping to catch sight
Of a bear by the light of moon
Sometimes they think it is he
And they call out shrilly
Their angst bursting forth in their breasts
But no growl is returned
Though they do not feel spurned
Knowing bear always acts for the best
That blog is drowning fast. Hopefully it will sink without a trace and Crown will become like that other GU hack Mish wrote of. The one who spent years waffling shite about a situation, only to be proved utterly wrong in the long run, and now devoid of all credibility excpet to gullible mugs who aint read ‘im.
And they are really failing to generate any buzz about the Poetry Society bollocks currently giving us a laugh. I listened to two hours audio of the EGM, that came about after the board of trustees had tried to pull a number on the quiet and when it all came crashing about their heads due to FB activists, tried to pass their own bunglings off as the mishandling of a ‘personality clash’ between Poetry Review editor Fiona Sampson, and PS director Judith Palmer. Palmer got an extra 100 grand a year off the Arts Council, and the board, according to their retroactive bit of fiction, decided she was stressed out and needed gardening leave, stopped her email access, told the rest of the staff to not let her in the office and spent 24 grand on the same lawyers Murdoch has, because, they claim, she made verbal threats to sue ’em for constructive dismissal, at a fucking party, after she’d been treated like a cunt by ’em.
Palmer released a very detailed statement earlier today, making plain the fact that a shit poet and PS trustee, Peter Carpenter, in cahoots with Chair of Trustees, Laura Bamford, tried to intimidate her into quietly accepting their desire to grant Fiona Sampson’s proposal to them, of becoming editor in perpituity of a rag the past editors had to be fucked out of after getting a three year extension to the, up till then, common practice of three year editorial tenureships.
Listening to the Bamford’s version of events and reading Palmer’s, it is clear a gang of po-biz duffers tried – and failed – to pull a stroke.
Does this spokestwit sound even remotely as though he’s speaking of poetry? Or, indeed, any art at all?
I mean: ‘…potential to lead in the sector…? …champion of excellence?’ Are you fucking kidding me? It’s impossible to take ACE/The Poetry Society seriously if they’re so deaf to language that they wheel-out this witless management-speak merchant…as their spokesman, for fuck’s sake.
He sounds like a language-terminator-android (‘I’ll be back…going forward…new paradigm…hasta la vista…in a very real sense, a new synergy’), sent from the future to kill the English language. No wonder Sarah Crown and her merry band of vapid ‘gels’ simply adore this lot: they’ve all had their ears made by the same carpenter.
Let’s ‘…take the lead in this sector…’ and ‘…champion the excellence…’ of flushing this whole clueless shower down the glory-hole of ‘potential’; these alleged ‘poets’ are no use to man nor beast.
With any dealings with the AC you have to encounter people who use this language.
It’s how they justify getting money out of the government. An endless parade of box-ticking exercises and “growing the sector” talk.
It’s public money so I’m not against certain checks to make sure you aren’t pissing it up against a wall. Although……
Right now if you want to justify public spending on arts the Arts Council are about the worst people to do it. Hung up on Facebook and Twitter, the Olympics and spending money on brochures with vacuous phrases spread throughout the copy like those mission statements in Starbucks. I dare say they are “passionate about…..fill in appropriate art-form” to boot.
With people like that at the helm I can’t see the AC lasting the next spending review. Which I think would be a shame but I probably would say that wouldn’t I? They aren’t putting up a very compelling case and they are alienating the people they are supposed to be helping.
On today’s Guardian Book Blogs, more exciting news for 12 year-olds as Alison Flood writes about Science Fiction & Fantasy, opening her piece with engaging candour:
“As someone who adores [What else?-Ed.] the classics of SF&F but knows little about them…”.
Coming from Flood, who thought that E. B. White was a woman, this is less than a traumatic shock to the system.
Also weighing in with more compelling developments in the world of fiction, Claire Armitstead tell us: “I discovered The Lord of The Rings in Lagos one sweltering summer…I was 13 and had never been to Lagos before”.
Boom…it’s a sharp jab to the jaw and my eyesight blurs; but can Claire deliver the knock-out punch? Oh, yes indeedy: “…Tolkien’s swords and sorcery will always speak to me more powerfully of the wars of post-colonial Africa…”. But of course they will, my dear.
I hit the canvas, begging for mercy: “No more, Claire…please…I give up…Uncle…”; but Claire is merciless and delivers the coup de grâce: “I’d always known ents – but in the north of Nigeria, they were the solitary giants…”
I sob brokenly as I crawl to my corner and remember that while Claire was discovering the exotically eunuchoid world of Tolkien with its ents, magic rings and races that procreated by pathogenesis (presumably), at the same age, I embarked, alas, on a rather different, rather more sordid, road.
At 13, I discovered (amongst others) Evelyn Waugh, Orwell, Maugham, de Maupassant, O. Henry, Ian Fleming, Aldous Huxley and Christopher Isherwood. Indeed, the decadent, twilit Weimar Berlin of Isherwood’s Mr Norris Changes Trains and Goodbye To Berlin will always speak to me more powerfully of the US’ catastrophic involvement in Vietnam.
I remember it well, as I packed my skateboard, my stamp collection and a box of Rice Krispies and boarded the Saigon-bound Air France Caravelle.
My mysterious mistress ClaireAlisonImogenSarahJustineHannah clung to my arm: “Do not go, dollink…you vill be dead…”. I gently removed her hand from my pocket and retrieved my wallet: “Grammar, my sweet, grammar; it is vital that we maintain standards, even in the midst of emotional turmoil…”. She gave an unearthly scream: “Dollink, I luff you und I carnut liff wizzout you…” and so saying, she placed my Walther PPK 7.65 mm to her temple and….. (continues until I run out of brandy)…
Oh shame. For me it was LOTR and Conan Doyle and TH White, and a little job ‘Daddy’ got me as a shop assistant.
Probably shouldn’t admit these things… I sold Delftware and clogs and related cultural bits and pieces for a Dutch lady who had enormous teeth (‘teet’) and necessarily a lip-defying overbite.
Redeemingly, I believe I’ve never said I ‘adore’ anything, or that inedible items are ‘yummy’.
Often finding the Books too rarefied for my capacities I muff over to the Life and Style. Recently, there was a fairy-cake of a lady showing how to make a tiered tea server with a special hardware fitting. I was interested to learn a tile-specific drill-bit is what I need if taken by the mood to drill plates.
I finally broke down and read ‘This Column Will Change Your Life’, a title embarrassing enough to keep me away til this week, but I enjoyed that too. Also found that I could teach the beauty guru a few things about packing toiletries for travel. No.1 tip, Sali: plastic zip-bags.
You too, Re; never know what you’ll need to have at hand in the wilds of Powys… a spritz of oud to keep the stinging insects at bay?
Not sure by what you mean ‘for me, it was LOTR etc…’, hic.
Do you mean you first read it at 13?
That’s not really an issue;(I was just being gratuitously cruel to SarahAlisonClaireImogenJustineUnaGaladrielElsaSheWolfOfTheSS).
I read it when I was 10 and adored it (retching noises as agreeable lunch flees an unworthy body). It was the longest and most complex book I’d ever read up to that point. I just get annoyed by people who are still reading it in their 20s and on and talking about it as though it contains some profound spiritual truths and wisdoms.
But you see my point about the Muffia and their unhealthy obsession with children’s literature? Week after week, we’re treated to a trip down memory lane to the books of infancy. Any other half-respectable books section would have knocked this nonsense on the head a long time ago. It’s embarrassing and makes The Crowned Hannahosaurus look like a nitwit.
Yes, it was the winter I turned 14 that I would come home from school, make a plate of cheddar cheese and dill pickles, and closet myself with the races of Middle Earth. When I was 10 it was Narnia, another scorned land.
Tolkien made much more sense to me. I read the Silmarillion when it came out, and reread the trilogy then. When the films were made, I snootily thought I’d hate them, but curiosity got the better of me. Once I dipped a toe in, I regressed and was completely absorbed.
I do see your point about the sorriness of carrying it all forward. I haven’t named my house Lothlorien or my child Frodo (more retching).
The one ‘truth’ that still impresses me was in the appendices when Aragorn and Arwen consciously decided when it was their time to die. I’ve known a few people who did just that in an elegant and peaceful way.
Speaking of kid-lit, in case your youngest hasn’t read The Little Grey Men by ‘BB’ it has my highest recommendation. It was the most read story for my three, until Harry Potter took over.
(8th time lucky)
Sorry Reine, I am alright at the mo, chara, though didn’t make it to Kilkenny today as I stayed up all night lashing nonsense into the comment box of a website where the ‘concerned’ members of UK Poetry ‘av gaver’d to be as one mass of middle-aged hippy wierdos wanting only what’s best for our sector, in a challenging environment, committed to the championing of excellence and awarding of assistance to innovative artistic strategies that address core issues and concerns of stakeholders and participing partners-in-bore, getting miffed should any of us go off-script and begin communicating in that scat-jive patois of a street-slick trakkie-clad scanger who plagues this (Hon) Dubliner’s mind wiv their ”fucken wha? ..oim norra fucken scumbag, yizza ‘avina blaid’n laf, roigh, up dur in de fuck’n doyle air’in, eatin yer fuck’n picnics in Mirriam-fucken-skwayer. You should be ashamed of yerself, you and Eamon fucken Dun-fee, ‘n Joe Duffy, ‘n Ryan Tubridy, and Mirriam-fucken-Calla-ham. If oi had my way, roigh, oid sack tha bitch and steriloiz ah.”
Yep, imbas forosnai, hidden behind the head behind the scribe behind the square behind the straight behind a fruity performer’s behind behind a curtain pulling strings that make us puppets know David Icke aint tellin’ lies, the lizards are in control of a mothership and Blossom Goodchild channelling the plans of the Plaedian Massive, has the paypal chakras from Gonal the Grey off-world non-biological entity here to help fairies in Russel Square, find our inner angel, asking only for lessons in light relief, fifty for a handjob, and a cottage to call our own, in a city filled with people like you, me and the rest of the contestants who, quite frankly Reine, need no help in the business of being a luvvie.
Yo Desmondo. It wasn’t a great day for the soikling anyway today I’d say. I spent a good deal of time driving round the Tallaght metropolis trying to find the house of a colleague whose father died suddenly. A grey old day. I found the house eventually but she wasn’t there although her husband leapt on my apple tart. Not code, it was an apple tart.
Des, Simon Frankly I’m Not Macbeth Hunter is coming to Dublin for a couple of days next week; we will be touring the hostelries on Thursday night. If you could bear the excitement of meeting us, let me know at oldactress@gmail.com where we might find you. R
In other news, I was standing at the kitchen window clearing up after dinner (as is only proper) and the neighbour waved in from his garden. Imagine our mutual surprise when I yelled out “Hello Mishari”. Jesus wept.
Is there a resemblance?
‘Hello, Mishari’? I almost fell out of my chair laughing at that. Ya littl darlin’, ya…
I hope you and Simon and Des get together for a drink. That’d be gas. I’d join you if I could. But I’m definitely going to come a-callin’ when things have settled and the children are back in school. I’ll take you out and ply you with strong drink and make you laugh so hard that champagne will shoot out of your nose…I’ll bet you can’t wait. So, Simon’s back for the summer, then? Is he going back to Qatar in the fall?
Alright NOW I’m jealous. It takes a lot to make me jealous, but there it is. Not merely envious, mind; I’m utterly green and admitting it before I go sulk forever.
Don’t fret, honey,…we’ll get you over here eventually, by hook or by crook: you’ll see…
Oh, thank you. Sorry for blubbering on your crisp linen shirt. I’m abashed to say so, but I do deeply need equal opportunity for champagne to spurt from my nose in the pleasure of your company. When the time is right, wild horses won’t keep me away… and honey assuages all sorrows.
Dive in sequence, then come up with a smile
and strike the chosen attitude. Sustain.
Synchronised swimming! How hard they must train!
Submerge, and allow the feet to surface
with all the elegance your plates contain.
Synchronised swimming! It’s sort of inane.
Good posture is absolutely key
as is the simper which you must maintain.
Synchronised swimming. It’s hurting my brain.
I don’t understand all that semaphore,
and I don’t want to see it again.
Synchronised swimming! It’s fucking insane!
Off to the Bavaria Book-Burning, sorry, Book, Festival. Back later.
Bon voyage MM. Raarrrr.
Do not be jealous Hic, he’s all talk that Mishari… mind you, if you are coming give me plenty of notice to titivate myself. I would love to see you and, of course, my dearest Hic would complete my joy. The neighbour bears no resemblance whatsoever but I had just read Mishari’s LOTR entry and he was on my mind. That’s my official line anyway.
Yes, I’ll definitely have a drink with Simon because he is staying here – I might need it to overcome my obvious shyness – and I hope we can meet Des.
Oh, yes, Simon is on leave for August. Back to Qatar thereafter as far as I know. I am a great girl for the champagne snorting out my nose so bring it on.
I’ll work on my technique… another flute please!
Señor Revisionist Running Dog MacHeath Hunter Romanov will be staying with you? Cool. Do you have a dungeon? There’s a small matter of the crown jewels that my comrades in the NKVD would like to raise with him and I want my hammer and sickle back.
No dungeon, a small spare room or a mattress in the attic in glorious suburbia. I won’t be searching about his person for the crown jewels but I will keep my eyes peeled and my wits about me. I’m off Wales-ward tomorrow and return Tuesday to make preparations. Goll ydych eisoes yn or words to that effect (Sorry Ned).
An interesting programme on C4 tonight about Nigerian internet dating agency scammers.
On the one hand your mind boggles at the guillibility of the women who don’t even wonder why a “Dutch business man with an ill daughter” has more than a slight West African accent before handing over all their life savings to them.
But it also found an ex-scammer in Lagos who talked about the increasing levels of guilt he felt as these relationships built up over the years ( yes indeed ) to the point that he just had to come clean and eventually paid the money back.
Then you start to think ” is he telling us the truth or just what he knows we want to hear?”
Trust flew out the window. My partner asked if I wanted a cup of tea ” what do you mean tea?” I snapped back, nervously checking my pocket to see if the money was still there.
Turns out I’ve been living for nearly 30 years.with a Scottish ex-headmaster with a crack habit who was sacked for financial irregularities.
The documentary was 30 minutes long but should have been longer.
Wait, Edward, forgive my asking point blank, but are you a committee member … and I’ve failed to give ‘partner’ the correct connotation?
Wild
Sidelines teach me what in childhood’s dream
I missed while traipsing woodlands with my dog,
or barefoot combed the landing, dammed the stream
for eels, or plundered frog eggs from the bog.
Sidelines: children surging up and down
the pitch, the track, the court, pool, dojo, rink
in uniforms of sponsor, school or town;
head-gear, cleats, bright jerseys’ numbers inked.
Sidelined fevered parents cite the scores,
watch the balls: hard, oblong, pebbled, pied;
the tries the shots the laps the runs: brief wars
enacted. Agitated have-beens bark: ‘Offside!’
Sidelined: on paddock rail, or bleacher seat…
cast back to hours on saddles, trampolines,
or exploring under water in the heat;
an unwatched child, in free and scoreless scenes.
I’ll have to get at least 5 votes before I answer that. But you’ve answered your own question.
I have? I did fail? But when … all along or just now? How many votes do I get?
A bear hug for you, in any case ;)
Did the Nigerian scammer (Nigeria leads the world in the production of same) mention Baby Jesus? I can’t help feeling that sincerely faked contrition requires the intervention of BJ…or perhaps that’s only in the US?
Grauniad non-entity Phil Daoust wrote a a boorish and un-witty review slating a performance by Australian comedian/musician Tim Minchin (I discovered this on that Billington thread that you commented on, Ed).
Minchin’s response was entertaining:
no Baby Jesuses I’m afraid. They were getting vulnerable middle-aged women to fall in love with them ( in their guises as white business men out of luck and down on their uppers ) and fall in love with them enough to eventually give them a “loan” to get them back on their feet.
Am half watching “The Happening” on Film4 it’s jaw-droppingly bad. By M Night Shylalalalaland who showed such promise with The Sixth Sense but who judging by this has lost it big-time.
Yes, I thought that The Sixth Sense was very good. The ending surprised me, even though I should have seen it coming a mile away and it was nice to see Willis get a chance to show that he’s more than just another action-movie meathead (I thought he was good in 12 Monkeys, too).. But…everything that Shamalamamama (who is evidently ego/megalomaniacal even by Hollywood standards) has done subsequently has been self-indulgent dross. Pity. The talent was there.
.
.
The Boy Stood On The Burning Duck
To Germany, old Mowbray wends;
high, low, arc mysterium;
to beard the Germans in their dens:
why Germany? Must be delirium.
First he’ll make a stop in Bonn;
High, low, arc mysterium;
turn Trudy’s fleshy love-light on;
why Germany? Must be delirium.
But Trudy’s sinning in Berlin;
high, low, arc mysterium;
with some chap, but it isn’t him:
why Germany? Must be delirium.
So with an oath, he hits Steckborn;
high, low, arc mysterium;
in search of cake and good, clean porn:
why Switzerland? Must be delirium.
The Swiss view his approach with fear;
high, low, arc mysterium;
‘He’ll eat our chocolate, drink our beer:
let’s drug the bugger’s food with Valium’.
Now Mowbray’s comatose in Linz;
high, low, arc mysterium;
sprawled out back, beside the bins:
In Austria, he’s found delirium.
They’re shipping Mowbray’s body home
high, low, arc mysterium;
the coffin’s made of Toblerone
by Swiss who said: ‘thank Christ we’re clear of him’.
I got the ending of the Sixth Sense ( the Third Policeman uses a similar twist and way of getting to it ) – my mum was a keen afficianado of crime films/series and crime novels and taught me how to spot misdirection, question why certain characters are given prominence and spot details That Must Be There For A Reason, she was a genius at working out whodunnit – but the film doesn’t rest on that twist . Something I think Shybutnotshyaboutcomingforward forgot in all his other films.
I have to say I’m totally allergic to Bruce but he does at least make interesting choices from time to time
That’s what impressed me about The Sixth Sense, Ed…I’ve been a keen reader/viewer of crime fiction for a few decades and I’d like to think that I’m as quick at spotting misdirection/red herrings as the next dope, but MNite-lite Shoobiedoobiedoobie lulled me into a sort of state of acquiescence, where I just absorbed the narrative without looking for inconsistencies/paradoxes/nonsense…not many films do that to me.
But as you say, the film doesn’t really hinge on that revelation; when it comes, it explains a lot but it isn’t the end all/be all…
I’ve always had a soft spot for Willis…unlike bona fide boneheads like Stallone, Seagal, The Stooge From Bruge et al, he always delivered a slightly sardonic, self-mocking performance. Stallone, by contrast, always seemed to think he was making The Battleship Potemkin…the putz.
I have to disagree with you about The Sixth Sense, I’m afraid. I thought it was a poorly paced, silly and self-important bit of blatant Oscar-bait. Bruce Willis meets the kid at his house, but how did he get in? If he had no idea that he was dead, he’d have gone to the front door, rung the bell and waited for the mother to let him in. But he couldn’t have done that because he’s a fucking ghost. A much better film involving supernatural shenanigans and a psychic little boy released the same year is Stir of Echoes, which has the great advantage of having Kevin Bacon in the lead rather than Willis.
Has anyone seen The Tree of Life yet? I have no idea whether it’s any good; all I can say is that after watching it, I wandered around in a daze for about fifteen minutes, and that I very much want to see it again.
Gobeithaf byddwch yn cael amser da yng Nghymru, Reine. Mae’r tywydd wedi bod yn ardderchog hyd yn hyn, ond yn anffodus nad yw’r rhagolygon yn edrych yn dda am y dyddiau nesaf.
Ah, but you see, Ned, the perfectly valid objections you raise (and more) didn’t occur to me while I was watching…that was what impressed me. Afterwards, I could blow holes in it big enough to drive trucks through and that’s what I usually do. I dunno…I only saw it once and perhaps my brain was on the fritz but by the standard of most Hollywood pap, I thought it was pretty good. Then again, I might watch it again and wonder what I ever saw in it.
A film that gave me the genuine creeps was a version of Henry James’ The Turn of The Screw called The Innocents with Michael Redgrave and Deborah Kerr. What was especially effective was the eeriness of the combined music/cinematography and the decision by director Jack Clayton to show nothing untoward but to imply and suggest all sorts of disturbing nastiness off-screen. Again, I haven’t seen it in over 30 years so maybe my memory’s playing me false but I remember being very impressed.
I’ve heard of Tree of Life but not seen it. I will now.
In the Sixth Sense I just liked the other inhabitants moving through the houses still unable to drop their obsessions. It’s been done before but I thought M Night Shitforbrains genuinely made the blood go a little cold in those scenes.
His next film Unbreakable is the most stupid film I’ve ever seen. Bruce Willis raising his arms as Christ was the final straw for me. There was a thread about it many years ago on CiF and I remember going off on one about how ridiculous it was to a degree that surprised even me.
I’ve read The Turn of the Screw but not seen the film and what disturbed me was that all the unpleasantness took place at dusk, Usually it’s night time when the horrors happen so it felt like you weren’t safe at any time.
ET, M and Cap’n N: I’m no defender of -(insert funnier spelling than I could come up with)-… I haven’t seen Unbreakable but The Village was the dumbest last-minute video rental *I’ve* ever seen (the logical-inconsistencies in that one would’ve irritated even G. W. Bush)… but I’d argue that BW’s character in Sixth Sense is in a sort of fugue-state of denial that goes nicely with the film’s thesis of The Afterlife-as-psycho-therapeutic crisis. He could’ve rung that door bell (doesn’t he smash real glass, with a real rock, at some point?) but it doesn’t necessarily violate the film’s own logic if he walks through a front door, in a ghostly manner, without noticing. Eerier still is Haley-Joel Osment’s (sp?) muted existence in the Afterlife of a child actor…
As long as we’re talking about “atmospherically terrifying”… I always “liked” (the original) “The Haunting” (starring Julie Harris as one of those Sylvia Plath fans you meet as an under-cautious freshman and…)
It’s Night of the Demon for me SA ( you may know it as Curse of the Demon.) Even with its obvious man in rubber devil costume at the end it’s a great film.
It took an outsider ( Jacques Tourneur ) to capture the English countryside’s spookiness to perfection.
I’ll be looking for that one, ET!
Ah, yes…the ever-fragrant Rees-Mogg, for whom the word ‘asinine’ could have been coined:
They don’t make ’em like that anymore…oh, wait…they do: shit.
The Times reporter’s barely concealed disdain for some of the pokier towns in Somerset is quite funny too.
The Innocents is indeed superb. Perhaps the spookiest film I’ve seen, though, is Dreyer’s Vampyr, which is an even better vampire movie than Nosferatu (either version). It’s hard to put a finger on what exactly makes it so eerie, but it has this amazingly dreamlike atmosphere a perfect feel for camera movement. I think it was shot in three versions: German, English and French (this was a fairly common practice in the early days of sound).
@Edward Taylor. Another foreigner, Roger Corman, made good spooky use of the English countryside in The Tomb of Ligeia, one of his Poe adaptations with Vincent Price. Price also starred in Witchfinder General, an excellent Hammer pseudo-horror that uses the English countryside to good effect. I think there were quite a few horror films made between the late sixties and early seventies that drew their inspiration from rural Britain, from its history, folklore and landscape. M.R. James must have been a big influence. There was a series of outstanding TV adaptations of his stories made at this time; Lost Hearts is scarier than any full-length horror film I’ve seen (funny how something as simple as smiling children with ashen faces and long nails can be so nightmarish). A Warning to the Curious is pretty creepy, too, and is stunningly photographed along the Norfolk coast.
I still find it hard to believe that some NHS money still goes towards providing homeopathic treatment. I find it even harder to believe that so many people take that nitwit Prince Charles at all seriously. Whenever anyone does criticise him – whether it’s about his dreary and constitutionally dubious meddling in architectural affairs, his ignorant support for all manner of quackery, his hypocritical environmental posturing, or for other things – the media reacts with almost as much fury as the preposterous Mr. Rees-Mogg, no matter how reasonable, how accurate the criticism. Slagging off the monarchy, it seems, can only be done by newspapers themselves. Charles is a buffoon, a menace, a feudal throwback (just think of all the land the bastard owns), and an all-round idiot.
I think it’s the black and white photography in Night of the Demon that makes it so effective for me Captain Ned. But Poe is one of those writers whose stories as much as the way he writes them worm their way into your subconscious. When I was about 10 I was really disturbed by the Tell-Tale Heart and the one where someone is buried alive.
I saw Dreyer’s Nosferatu with a live soundtrack one time. Not a hipster band beefing up their CV but someone who had obviously put a lot of time into thinking about the job. Very good too.
If there’s any saving grace to this shower of ‘low-octane duds in jodhpurs’ (in Edward Pierce’s matchless phrase), it’s that they will surely have driven the final nail into the coffin of the whole ‘royalty’ farce. Après Brenda, le déluge…
That the risible ‘views’ of a windy half-wit like Chas–on architecture, ‘alternative’ medicine, agriculture and Christ-knows-what –are taken seriously, even greeted with reverence and ululations of joy by J. Rees-Mogg (admittedly, a pig’s-bladder-on-a-stick) is enough to drive any civilised person to thoughts of a cull.
Save the badgers; let’s get rid of embarrassing buffoons like R-M, Chas, Princess Thingy of Whatsit, The Duke of Ambridge, Sir Ranulph Pongo Twistleton-Marmalade Fnar-Fnar of That Ilk and Simon ‘Look, look! I’m being contrarian!’ Jenkins .
Is there anyone (besides the tiresome Rees-Mugg) who views the prospect of Charles III with any relish? shudders and reaches for absinthe
…and speaking of good chiller/thrillers, Jacques Tourneur’s Cat People holds up pretty well. Infinitely better than the early-80s re-make:
If the absinthe hasn’t finished off your day early all I can say is I wish I could be optimistic about the UK kicking the Windsors into the long grass.
But the OTT subservient fuss over the recent marriage would appear to demonstrate that the population are still keen to spend money keeping this wretched family afloat even when Osborne names the wedding as a reason for the tanking economy.
You seem…troubled, Ed; perhaps you should see a homeopath:
Also watched the Happening. As soon as someone spoke the line ‘it appears there is an incident happening’ (or something like that) I knew we were in for something really special. Some of the scenes were actually quite creepy but the dialogue killed the whole thing, as if the words had been set in order by someone who had heard that ‘humans’ use them for communication and that it has something to do with ideas and feelings but couldn’t quite figure out the next stage. Comically bad.
Vampyr is indeed very spooky. I was given a great DVD edition with included a book about the film (which I haven’t read yet).
The fact that M Night Shyamalan gets to make his movies in Hollywood ought to be reason for cheering. The single director/writer whose vision is up there on the screen, seemingly uncompromised by producers and money men.
But it appears the vision is the main problem. He must have files of photos of Hollywood producers doing things that they wouldn’t even allow to be seen on their “unofficially” released sex-tapes.
We were at a Dusan Tynek Dance Theatre premiere Friday night in a small informal venue. He really is a genius.
It was raining, so we were indoors, too close to fully see the extraordinary group motion, but it was nevertheless intensely sublime.
I’m planning to go back tonight when they’re on the outdoor stage…
http://www.dusantynek.org/video_gallery.php