| Protracted Indisposition |
[Jul. 10th, 2009|09:55 am] |
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No sooner had I recovered from the summer flu than I caught a cold off Ourdert. Colds are not necessarily unpleasant. Yesterday afternoon, for instance, I was in a floaty, semi-detached condition which almost amounted to an altered state of consciousness- and altered states of consciousness are interesting. Ailz didn't think so- as she was trying to steer me round the supermarket at the time and I'd keep disappearing off down aisles- but we got the shopping done and I didn't buy anything stupid. I was fit enough to make tea- basa fillets with a crusty pesto topping- but after that my sinuses started acting up and I was fit for nothing but watching an ancient episode of Jonathan Creek on TV Gold- which was enjoyable in the way toasty soldiers spread with marmite are enjoyable By bedtime I was definitely feverish- and my dreams- all night long- centred on a Hollywood production of Twelfth Night starring John Wayne and Judy Garland- and featuring men in Hawaiian shirts. At one stage, unable to breathe, I came down stairs, made myself a cup of tea and read a few pages of Balzac. Yes, I'm back with Balzac again- specifically the Rise and Fall of Cesar Birotteau. The tea relieved my sinuses and I went back upstairs for more Shakespeare in beach wear. This morning I feel rougher than I've done at any stage of my protracted indispostion but- never mind- this too will pass. |
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| Torchwood: Children Of Earth |
[Jul. 9th, 2009|09:45 am] |
I've not liked Torchwood up until now, but the current five part mini-series is winning me over. Russell T and his team have made two significant changes to the format: The first is to cut the number of lead actors- so now we only have three characters to identify with instead of five- which was too many. The second is to commit, daringly, to a single five-hour story arc. Two hours have passed- and we still haven't met the big bads face to face- and suspense is building nicely. That's what you don't get when you try to tell this kind of a story in under an hour- suspense- and a sci-fi thriller without suspense is like a cheese and pickle sandwich without the cheese. Dr Who can just about get away with the short story format because the character of the Doctor is so compelling, but Torchwood doesn't have a Doctor figure- and can't. I used not to care about Jack, Ianto and Gwen but now that I'm getting to know them in more relaxed circumstances I find I'm growing quite fond. Eve Myles- I've realised- to my surprise- is especially delightful- with that expressive jolie-laide face of hers and her expert comic timing.
Early Torchwood sold itself as "grown-up" sci-fi. What this meant was plots quite as daft and juvenile as anything served up by Dr Who- big, stompy monsters and all- plus sex. The sex always felt bolted on. Torchwood was essentially a kids show, but with embarassing excresences. This series has largely dispensed with the sex. Jack and Ianto are now a couple- surely the first gay couple ever to lead a mainstream actioner- and we get kisses and discreet male nudity, but all in the flow of things and without the script pausing to go, "Ooh, look at this, isn't it saucy!"
I'm keeping my fingers crossed, but I think Torchwood has gelled. I wouldn't put it past Russel T to blow it in the last act- either with gooey sentiment or some preposterous deus ex machina- but for the time being we're chugging along nicely. It's bonkers, but not in the "I'm sending the entire Dalek and Cybermen armies to hell through a rift in space" sort of a way but in the "I'm going to rescue my boss whose been entombed in concrete by breaking into his prison with a fork lift truck then dropping him off a cliff" sort of a way. Strip it down and what you've got is a well-executed, Hitchcockian comedy thriller- in the vein of North by Northwest only with a sci-fi McGuffin- and (thus far) it's been nothing but fun. |
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| Carry On? No Thanks |
[Jul. 8th, 2009|09:09 am] |
I seem to have spent the night dreaming I was remaking the Carry On films- which was an odd thing for me to be doing seeing how much I hate them.
Actually that's not quite true. I don't hate them; I just wouldn't want to have to sit through a whole one. As socio-cultural artefacts that document the mid-20th century British obsession with bodily functions I find them fascinating. And the odd clip or two never did anybody any harm. "Infamy, infamy- they've all got it in for me!"- that's still the most outrageous joke ever committed to celluloid. But were we really all so gormless about sex on the cusp of the swinging sixties- so ineptly lubricious, so trouser-poppingly repressed? I'm sure I was. And that's probably why I can't bear to view them except at arms length- with tongs. Jim Dale, c'est moi. |
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| Brief Jottings |
[Jul. 7th, 2009|03:43 pm] |
I'll get over it, but it's still something of a marvel to me that I'm cooking the recipes I am. Last night we had chicken in an avocado and orange sauce and tonight I'm fixing a potato curry.
I listened to Mendelssohn's Italian Symphony yesterday. Happy music, dignified music- the music of urban civilisation.
I watched the clip of Michael Jackson's ghost stalking the empty rooms of Neverland Ranch. I'm assuming- until someone swears by something holy that the room was empty- that the moving shadow was cast by a production assistant.
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| The Greatest |
[Jul. 6th, 2009|10:08 am] |
Is Federer the best? The record book says so. Fifteen majors- one more than Pete Sampras. He wasn't at his most inspired yesterday- and he was facing an opponent who was playing out of his skin- but he still won. He makes victory look not easy exactly, but fated.
It was, as one of the papers said, an "ugly" win. There wasn't much artistry about it. Muhammed Ali, the prettiest fighter of them all, also won ugly towards the end of his career. Great champions are like that. When beauty deserts them they keep going on whatever's left in the locker- craft, character, will-power. There's something awesome, almost supernatural about the way a champion past his prime keeps on racking up the victories.
But Rafa wasn't there. Rafa was someplace else. Maybe on his fishing boat, puposefully not thinking about what might have been. And if Rafa had been there....?
You can only be the best on the day- against the opposition that presents itself. Federer was the best yesterday- on a lot of yesterdays- but there are lots of opponents he'll never meet. He will never meet Laver in his prime or Borg in his prime or any of those other great champions of the past- and we can only theorize about the outcome of such impossible encounters. We shouldn't let his greatness overshadow theirs. They too were the best on the day. The best on many days.
We like to make lists, grading things in order of merit. We find it comforting . We crave certainties. It's almost a religious thing.
But the certainties wobble when you look at them closely. Federer's pre-eminence is all about counting beans, about the number of days on which he turned up and was the best. He gets a prize for consistency. That's something, but does it add up to absolute greatness? The questions pile in. What if Laver hadn't lost 5 prime years to the the amateur-pro controversy? What if Rafa had been at Wimbledon this year? Thank goodness they do; otherwise we'd have nothing to talk about. |
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| The Men's Final |
[Jul. 5th, 2009|07:26 pm] |
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It was gruelling, and not particularly pretty- like two blokes in a John Ford movie trying to punch one another's lights out. It's always a littlle dull when games keep going with serve. At times I thought Roddick was going to win. He certainly put the work in. Federer, by contrast, hardly seemed to break sweat. In the end it came down to stamina and self belief. They were both tired, but Federer lasted longer. And maybe it's the case that sheer class will always win out over heart. Roddick has played wonderfully this tournament. After the match he paid tribute to the former champions sitting in the Royal Box- Borg, Laver, Santana, Sampras- and said he hoped he might one day have his name join theirs on the board. If he goes on playing the way he has played this week- against Hewitt, Murray, Federer- I don't see why that shouldn't happen. |
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| Moonwalker |
[Jul. 5th, 2009|10:24 am] |
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I caught the end of Moonwalker yesterday. Michael has just saved the lives of three Dickensian orphans- two older boys and a little blonde girl- by blasting an evil drug-dealer to bits. Transformed into a starship, he zooms off into space and is intercepted by a comet which scatters stars. The Dickensian orphans mourn him on the Dickensian streets of their Dickensian city. Then a leaf stirs in a supernatural wind and a dark silhouette is seen posing at the end of a foggy street. It's Him! He's back! He tells them he couldn't leave them. There are hugs, tears. He takes the children to the back entrance of a nightclub. The door opens and they are enveloped in billowing clouds of dry ice. Inside the children are scared by the creepy darkness, but they needn't be. They are greeted by an obese, pony-tailed roadie and reunited with a smelly-looking dog. The roadie escorts them to a vantage point in the wings of the theatre. There's a full house. Everyone is waving glowy green sticks. And here's Michael again, in a skin-tight, rhinestone studded uniform. And here's his band, all punky and fetished-up. They back him through a strutting, crotch-stroking version of John Lennon's "Come Together".
You want to know what the insides of Michael Jackson's head were like? Watch this film. |
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| Williams v Williams |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|04:50 pm] |
It wasn't a great match. Williams v Williams never is. There were few exciting passages of play- and once Venus's game started to sag in the second set there was little doubt about the outcome.
Afterwards the BBC commentators were saying how much better it would be if the women's final ran to 5 sets. I agree. Five sets might have allowed Venus to pick up form- as she seemed to be doing towards the end of the match- and give her sister a run for her money and the spectators something to cheer about. I can't conceive of an argument against it that isn't sexist, insulting and plain wrong. The women get the same prize money as the men; let them do the same amount of work. |
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| Waiting For The Finals |
[Jul. 4th, 2009|09:42 am] |
The phone rang the moment after Andy Roddick celebrated his Wimbledon semi-finals win by falling on his knees and showing us his cute butt. It was Ruth. "I'm so cross!" she said.
A lot of British people will have been feeling that way. We've been sold Murray as our first finalist in over 70 years and- like Henman before him- he's fallen at the penultimate fence. I'm afraid he looked a bit lost out there. Roddick had a game plan- which featured the un-Roddicklike strategy of coming to the net and volleying- and Murray didn't have whatever it takes to switch his game to match him. Murray's a fine player, with some elegant moves- his cross court passes are a thing of beauty and wonder- but is he a great champion? Not this year he ain't.
Roddick was terrific. That serve of his is a killer. Can he take Federer? On this form, perhaps.
The women's side of the tournament has been disappointing. All those cute little East European girls who are supposedly the best in the world got swept off court by the river in spate that is the Williams sisters. There's got to be something screwy about a ratings system that gives the number one slot to a player who has never won a major. The Williamses should be at one and two- and the only reason they're not is that they don't bother to show up for all the itsy-bitsy little tournaments. And why should they? They've got lives outside tennis- and nothing left to prove. I don't know which of them will win this afternoon. My head says Serena and my heart says Venus. We'll see. |
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| A Shaming Anniversary |
[Jul. 3rd, 2009|10:02 am] |
40 years since Armstrong's giant step- and we've been shuffling our feet ever since. Yes, we've built a space station, landed robots on Mars and sent probes to the outer planets, but where's the lunar colony that Kubrick and Clarke envisaged us building by 2001? Where are the manned expeditions?
I believe we've let ourselves down.
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| Home Economics |
[Jul. 3rd, 2009|09:27 am] |
Ourdert invited herself to lunch at short notice- but instead of panicking as I would once have done- or suggesting we race off to the chippie- I reached for a cook book and the store cupboard and- in about 40 minutes- threw together a very interesting little stew containing chicken, potatoes, tomato and lots of coriander. Where I lacked ingredients I improvised, throwing in a couple of chillies instead of a splash of tabasco sauce. This was a test of my confidence and resilience- and I believe I passed it.
I've learned how important it is to have a well-stocked kitchen. There are certain things one should never be without. They include chicken, vegetables in season, fresh herbs and a wide range of sauces and seasonings. The challenge- and this is going to take some smarts- is to balance the need to have all this stuff to hand against waste. I despise waste. I think it's immoral to throw food away.
But it must be doable. Our mother's couldn't afford waste- and they managed without fridges or freezers. I'm just old enough to remember a time when perishables were stored in a cool room- a sort of walk-in cupboard- called the larder. I guess I must have eaten a lot of rancid butter in my time.
We went shopping yesterday afternoon. We spent more than usual because it was a store-cupboard shop. I bought a chicken because I need to have chicken in the freezer. Also some lamb steaks and a piece of basa- also for the freezer. The basa (cheapest fish on the block) will go to make a fish curry or something along those lines. And I now own a bottle of tabasco. |
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| A Personal Landmark |
[Jul. 2nd, 2009|10:19 am] |
I turned the final page of the Hypnerotomachia last night. Polia disappeared from Poliphilo's arms just as they were about to comsummate their love- as we always feared she would. He writes her epitaph. Poliphilo was probably a guy called Francesco Colonna. Who Polia was is anybody's guess. It's possible she was merely a fictional device, but I doubt it.
Polia and Poliphilo
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| The Blessings Of Weak Government |
[Jul. 2nd, 2009|09:22 am] |
Two, big, macho government wheezes just got the chop. First to go was the plan to issue us all with ID cards. Next up was Mandelson's scheme to part-privatise the Post Office. I hated them both- and I'm very, very glad to see them go.
How does Brown put up with it? How can he bear to keep staggering from humiliation to humiliation?
For the rest of us it's nothing but good news. The power-crazy idiots have had their hands tied. We've endured a decade of strong government- and look what horrors it delivered! Now we have weak government- and it's humble and friendly and douce. |
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| A New Interest |
[Jul. 1st, 2009|10:47 am] |
I've been the family cook for years now. I was competent- and took a certain pride in my competence- but I didn't find it fun. I wouldn't experiment.
Now I'm reading recipe books.
Monday morning I was at a loose end, so I made a fritata. I had a slice for lunch- and we ate the rest cold when we came back from St. Helens. Yesterday I cooked a huge dish of moussakha. |
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| More Art |
[Jun. 30th, 2009|11:00 am] |
And on the way home we stopped at a garden centre- where we bought some straggly, cut-price violas and had a cup of coffee. Here too there was art on display.
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| The People's Carnival |
[Jun. 29th, 2009|10:13 am] |
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This was the weekend of the Oldham carnival, now renamed- in a belated echo of Nu Labour populism- "The People's Carnival". I wandered over to the park in the afternoon- and it was like tripping back in time. The rides, stalls and inflatables were the same rides, stalls and inflatables as last year- with the difference that the people- now the event had been renamed in their honour- hadn't bothered to show up. In the central enclosure a showman was trying to whip up enthusiasm for the Battling Cumberland Giants: there was Mighty Mick the local lad and Terrible Ted "who has a bad reputation"; they were asleep behing a screen and we needed to shout to wake them. I walked round the ground. The showman was really milking it. As I came away the Cumberland Giants still hadn't appeared- and a time-wasting clown called Handy Andy was doing wheelies on a motorbike with a sidecar. A couple of small boys accosted me on the road. "Is there a Carnival?" they asked. I said there was. "Is it any good?" I gave a Gallic shrug.
Shortly after I got home the rain began. It came down hard! Elsewhere in Greater Manchester football stadia were flooded and roofs caved in. |
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| This May Lose Me Some Friends |
[Jun. 28th, 2009|02:30 pm] |
The music never dies. It goes on and on and on. Ad nauseum. Someone switch the bloody thing off.
Jackson's work is kitsch. Even the better stuff is slick and empty.
Fred Astaire said Jackson was the greatest dancer of the 20th century. I refuse to believe he meant it.
Bad? Not in the way he wanted us to think.
I find it shocking that people make excuses for Jackson that they wouldn't dream of making for other middle-aged men who like to share their beds with children.
By the time of his death he was a freeloading junkie who indulged himself in every little whim- but couldn't be bothered to pay his staff.
Celebrity turns men and women into monsters. The strong-minded get out before it destroys every last scrap of decency and truth. Jackson wasn't strong-minded. |
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poliphilo's journal
