This ain't something else
Dear This Is This,
This morning there was no soap in the shower, so I had to use apricot scrub. I feel very uncomfortable among my colleagues because I smell, well, fruity.
What should I do?
Confused,
London
Actually the French have given us a lot of words. Not only is it the language of love, but it’s also the language of cooking. Sautee, bain marie, grill, boil, rotisserie, flambe, julienne, marinade, blanche, a la mode - all from the French.
As well as sex and food, it’s also the language of war. Ranks from private to general are from the French, including everything in between: corporal, segeant, lieutenant, captain and major.
Corps make up several divisions of regimental units which are divided into batallions which have companies which have platoons whose men, having parachuted in, fix bayonets and go on reconnaisance missions during their sorties to engage the enemy. They might hear artillery or encounter the cavalry and be forced to use granades before making a retreat.
Just as it’s impossible to talk about football in another language without using an English term, there’s no escaping French words when talking about the military.
Food and war. You have to love the language.
I have always avoided war, although I nearly joined the army, having gone through selection successfully and only bottled out on the day of the medical. I would be terrified in battle. I think I must have died in a past life or something.
My grandfather fought in the First World War, my uncle fought in the Second, my cousin fought in the Gulf. In my defense, none of them has ever made it past level 7 on Commandos 2: Medal of Honour.
The French are the worst at renaming places. Those guys will change the name of anything.
We, for the most part, respect their locations. OK, we pronounce Paris funny, but we spell it the same. And for some reason we often add an “s” to Lyon, and Marseille, but we don’t change the pronounciation and we even say Nice like Neece.
But the French naming of our places is random. If London is Londre, why isn’t Dover “Dovre”? Edinburgh is “�dimbourg”, for God’s sake. With an “m” and a “bourg” as in Strasbourg. The river Thames becomes the “Tamise”. And if Scotland is “l’Ecosse” and England “l’Angleterre”, why isn’t Oldham “Vieux Jambon” or Liverpool “Piscine de Foie”?
New Zealand becomes “Nouvelle Z�lande” but New South Wales isn’t “Nouvelle Pays de Galles Sud”. Newfoundland is “Terre Neuve” but you don’t hear of people going to “Nouvelle Yorke”, or “Les Anges” instead of Los Angeles, or “le Toc” instead of Tokyo.
The French are very protective of their words and I can understand why, because they didn’t invent radio or the Internet, but it’s a beautiful language. But guys, please make an effort.
When I am in a conference call with our US office, my counterparts across the water ask what “London” thinks of such and such an idea when they mean me. This is especially wierd when it’s I’m the only person from the UK in on the call.
Them: “Do we have London on this call?”
Me: “Hi, this is Cliff.”
Them: “OK, so London, we were wondering here…”
I feel like saying “That’s Mister London to you, Mister.”
Please don’t call me London any more.
I went back to Liverpool with my dad and his brother a few years ago. It had been more than 50 years since they walked to the streets where they grew up and they wanted to take a trip down memory lane.
Except memory lane wasn’t there. Or it was, but the name had changed and it looked different and they didn’t remember it. The street where they grew up, Arthur Street, had been bulldozed along with Herbert Street to make a spacious cul de sac called Herbarth Close. Close, but, as they say in France, sans banane.
Their old pubs had changed for no apparent reason. They were still the same pubs in the same places but the names had been changed. If a pub has been The Green Man for one hundred years, why does a landlord have to change the name to El Hombre Verde just because they put tapas on the menu?
I used to go to gigs at the Odeon. Now it’s called the Hammersmith Apollo, with I think means “Hammersmith with chicken”, or something.
Even the names of cities change. Saigon becomes Ho Chi Minh City, which by the way has a different name depending on what language you are speaking. The French call it Ho Chi Minh Ville. The Vietnamese, who you would hope know about such things, call it Th�nh pho Ho Ch� Minh.
New Amsterdam became New York. I kind of get that because it was a long time ago, but the Russions with their Tsaritsyn/Stalingrad /Collegegrad/Volgograd is just too confusing. To change it twice in one person’s lifetime is stupid. At least do the background check on the person you are naming it after to make sure he wasn’t a hate figure. For example, Colchester, in the early 1950’s, nearly became Bomber Harristown, before local planners discovered that Sir Athur was responsible for ten of thousands of innocent civilian deaths during the carpet-bombing of Dresden during World War 2.
Some poor old guy somewhere is reminiscing about how he used to drink coffee’s in the Coach and Horses in Constantinople and now for old time’s sake he has to go for a latte in the Fatwa and Firkin in Instanbul.
When did “I’m good” replace “no thank you”?
Did I miss something? The other day I asked someone who works for me if they wanted sugar in their tea and the answer was “I’m good”.
I thought he was going to ask me for a raise.
I’d like to try this speaking like this. As I glide (ok, hurtle) past thirty I become conscious of moving with the times, aware that the past might eventually become “my day”. So I see language as an organic thing but I’m afraid I’ll get it wrong, like:
Friend: “Are you absolutely 100 per cent sure you won’t have another drink?”
Me: “I’m VERY good.”
Because that would just sound creepy.
And if you’re not sure whether or not you want to accept something, do you say “Am I any good?” That could lead to disappointment.
On the other hand, if you would like something and you think it might be on offer, you could say: “I’m not very good.”
Although that could have mixed results in a dating environment and you probably don’t want to say it to your boss.
Soul-jolting stuff in the news to move and inspire. I saw this last week but I didn’t write it down because:
1. I was in the middle of my trilogy of stupid. Well, I posted part one, since things with three distinct parts technically can’t have a middle. It would be like half of The Bee Gees. You get Maurice and you either stop there or you get a full Barry. No half measures.2. Posting this after my day off antics and subsquent blogging makes it seem even more beautiful.
On the TV news on Wednesday night and there was a piece about how three people have contracted vCJD, a human variant of Mad Cow Disease, through blood transfusions.
The reporter’s voiceover described the case of one girl in her late teens who caught the disease many years after a she received blood from a donor. The cruel thing about vCJD is not just that it attacks your brain and motor functions, but that is can stay dormant for a decade.
In this case, the health service has written to the 100 people who may have been the possible donors for this girl’s transfusion all those years ago to warn them that they may, in time, be hit by the virus themselves, as the infected blood came from one of them.
The report showed her ageing mother and father feeding her in a specially designed bed, loving her as any other parent but trying many times harder to make her difficult life a happy one.
That’s not the incredible bit. It happens. We’re moved and we move on in care and in gratitude. We reason and we try and accept. It’s what happened next that got me and you will love it.
Her father did his bit on camera being interviewed by the reporter. Would he be outraged? Indignant? Defiant? Stoic?
Here’s what he said:
“It’s just terrible. To think someone out there is waiting to find out that they may come down with the same disease our daughter has must be very hard news to have to bear.”
Unreal.
The compassion. The humanity. The wisdom.
Hats off to the man.
The reasoning behind what he said was this:
His daughter took the transfusion to save her life. There was always a risk. She was extremely unfortunate but she lived. Now someone somewhere else will be unfortunate. The fact that it was their blood that infected the daughter is something that cannot be undone so our thoughts are with the donor, who after all is a good person and gave their blood because they were trying to save a life at a time when the medical establishment was largely unaware or the disease and not certain it could be transmitted via a transfusion.
But how did he see it that clearly when his own daughter has been disabled by the disease? His main sentient is actually benevolence towards one of those 100 donors even though no-one knows who it is yet.
He was not dwelling on the inevitable suffering of those closest to him but in living his life, practices compassion towards someone else.
And there’s me falling over and moaning for a laugh.
…Anyway….
Still on the day off right. After the mobile thing and the fall, I go round to Elliot’s to do some recording. His bigger house means his studio is actually a “studio”. As in recording suite. I wonder how I’ve come to deserve sitting behind a �500 microphone, let alone everything else (pre-amps, mixing desks, beautiful guitars on walls, production expertise) or free just because I wrote a few songs. I went round to do strings and backing vocals on Time Away. What could possibly go wrong?
Within ten minutes of being there I dropped a headphone jack on my cut toe. Not your little mini ipod headphone connectors, one of those large ones like they have on guitar leads.
I hopped around for a bit and got my melodica for the next track. I tried to put my headphones on while I was holding it, resulting in me smacking myself in the head with the instrument. These are made of heavy 1950’s plastic and they are heavier than they look.
Stupid things come in threes.
It was my son’s Sports Day at school, so I put the mobile phone thing behind me, we packed a picnic and went to his school. Nothing can explain the pride of seeing them having fun.
Then came time for the parents to race. I was weary but the mums did a nice gentle beanbag-on-the-head race, so when the dad’s turn to race came along, I was easily pursuaded.
Except there were no beanbags. It was just a simple pelt at full tilt down 100 yards of dry field, scorched rock-hard by the sun from a five day heatwave. You know where this is going, so I’ll get right to it.
Once I reached top speed, about 40 yards in, some ultra competitive dad knocked into me, because the running lanes were kid’s size, and I went down. Some people say I skidded, others say I rolled. Either way, the whole crowd gasped as I took the skin off my knee, grazed the underside of my arm, cut open my toe and friction-burned my elbow. I was dripping blood and dirt by the time I got back to my seat and all the mums offered bandages. Some offered wine, which went down well.
A week later and it hurts like hell. My kids, luckily, didn’t see it, but everyone else did. Part of being a parent is being grateful that they didn’t fall and at all and glad it didn’t spoil their day. I put of a brave face for the rest of the day, holding on to consciousness long enough to see my son finish the hoola hoop relays. If my wife were anything other than the beautiful woman she is, she would have said: “It always has to be about you, doesn’t it?”
I can’t straighten my arm because the 6 inch long scab has healed and it hurts when the skin pulls.
Stupid Things On My Day Off Part 3 - the levels of my painful-inflicting stupidity gets worse. Or funnier, depending on your point of view.
Back at work now, still feeling ropey.
On my day off last Thursday I performed three acts of perfect stupidity. It was going to be a good day last Thursday. A little time with the kids, catch up on some things, you know. And it was for the most part except from three things.
Such was the scale of these things I have broken it down into three parts. A trilogy of rubbish. The Bee Gees of stupid.
Stupid Things On My Day Off Part 1
I checked my phone after breakfast for any breaking news or overnight text messages and found that it was online to the mobile webstie. Whatever slip of the keypad let to this must have take place at least ten hours before, because that’s when I last put it down. I called my network and the conversation went something like this:
Me: “Hello, I am an idiot and have done something stupid.”
Orange: “One second, I’ll put you through to our idiot management department.”
Me: “Thank you.”
Orange (same voice, I’m sure of it): “Hello, I understand you’ve been online all night and don’t want to pay for it because you claim it was an accident.”
Me: “That’s right. Am I responsible for my own stupidity?”
Orange: “Yes.”
Me: “And how much does it cost to use the phone online.”
Orange: “Ten pence a minute.”
Me: “Great, thanks very much.”
So for minumum of ten hours, that’s 600 minutes at 10p a pop, that’s �60 ($100 USD). Brilliant. Go me.
Tomorrow: Personal Injury
That is, I still feel ill. I had to say that because in the title it looks like:
I Still Feel III
…the final installment of a trilogy in which a man who can’t express himself on any emotional level sets out to prove to those he loves that he is capable of sensory perceptions.
What? It could happen.
Anyway, still shivvering and this is only the second time I’ve been up in two days because I was sick of being horizontal. The scab on my arm is exactly the same shape as the Yucatan peninsula, but I’m feeling better.
Seriously ouch. The numerous cuts and grazes I got Thursday are starting to heal and scab over, which means I can’t bend a few limbs so I am walking around like C3-PO, complete with accent as well. (”We’re doomed.”)
I’ve been in a constant dull pain for 4 days now, and it’s gone into a kind of a fever and I’m picking up work emails before collapsing back into bed. I think the cuts may have infected and I feel angry and pathetic. I will write about it later, because it’s actually funny, but for now - groan.
Apologies to anyone reading this who is really hurt or has ever given birth or has some terrible disease. I am a moaning wimp.
1. When you have cut your toe, you will drop something on it or someone will stand on it at least once a day.
2. If I hold a baby for long enough, eventually a stranger will walk up to me and say: “Is that your baby?”
3. “Comedy” answers to this question are not funny.
4. You don’t have to take Linda McCartney Country Slices out of the cardboard box before you cook them.
Cruelty-free? Click picture for full-sized instructions.
5. British Muslims - you all don’t need disclaimers. This land, this life, is yours. If you’re cool, we dig you. That’s how it works. Good isn’t it?
Time was when bands had proper names. These days it’s all The Killers and The Cure and The Darkness and The Whatever.
1960’s - The Hat Trick
In the 1960’s and 70’s you had a lot of bands with three names. They carried authority more than a simple label did. Earth, Wind and Fire. It’s like a cosmic shopping list. Blood, Sweat and Tears. It’s a police report or a government white paper.
More Words and the Use Thereof
Things went even further towards the end of the decade. Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. The Bonzo Dog Doo Da Band. Was it because there was more room on the vinyl format? Or perhaps because it took up more room on the festival posters? Maybe it was an ancient rite of passage. The truth is we just don’t know.
What is clear, however, is that these longer names were so popular that bands who didn’t have them actually made their own ones up, like Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, or Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
Names
And if they couldn’t make them up, they just used their own names, and the longer the better and these were often better than band names. Have many people heard of “Tom and Jerry”? OK, what if I said Simon and Garfunkle to you? I thought so. When Crosby, Stills and Nash thought about taking on Neil Young, did they think about a band name? No. Without batting an eyelid, they became Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young.
The world was ready for it and the smaller rock bands were ripe for this convention. Count Basie tried it in the 1940’s but “Edison, Killian, Lewis, Clayton, Cuffee, Wells, Minor, Tate, Smith, Young, Warren, Washington, Byas, Green, Page, Jones and Basie” never really took off.
The Minimalist 80’s and 90’s
Then came the 1980’s, where in contrast to the greed displayed displayed by the western world, their band names became increasingly spartan. In fact, a lot of names weren’t even proper words. Eurythmics. Bananarama. Wham. This was followed by the indie 1990’s, where actual, shorter words were used. Pulp. Suede. Ride. Blur. Oasis. Verve.
The Present
This trend continued to evolved up to the present day, where although bands have used two real short words in the 90’s style, they combine them into a name which uses the 80’s device of stark meaninglessness: Coldplay, Razorlight, Nickleback, Stereophonics.
The Future
But what if we could make it different? What if, to quote Bono and get it wrong, the world could change music. Think about it.
“Hey, who’s this?”
“It’s the new Bono, Edge, Mullins and Clayton. I love them.”
“You too?”
The Proclaimers would become Reid and Reid. Keane would be Chaplin, Rice-Oxley and Hughes. In fact Keane is a surname, although admittedly not theirs, but it’s a step in the right direction.
But these are proper band titles, like law firms. Names you can trust.
Jagger, Richards, Wood and Watts would duly instruct you to vacate their cloud while informing you that they have been unsucessful in their attempts to obtain satisfaction and you would sit up and take notice.
They counted.
They counted the coats of paint.
Then they weighed it.
Then they posed.
Actually this page is even funnier if only for the line:
This is actually the second ball Mike has started. The first one is located in a museum in Knightstown, Indiana.
Stop the Internet, I’m getting off here.
OK - I wrote up a list of lots things about my favourite stuff, factoids about me, but it seemed like an invitation to stalk me, so I took them down.
So here are 5 interesting things you might not know.
1. I have a wierd effect on tv and radio reception. All my friends know this. Any aerials have to be readjusted when I enter a room, and a clear signal is impossible if I am moving around. I am grateful for digital and satellite TV, because people no longer have to look at me funny and say: “What is it with you?”
2. I have saved someone’s life and had my own saved (when I was a kid); both by quick thinking in an emergency.
3. I can read upside down just as well as I can the right way up. No, I have never practiced this, I’ve just always been able to do it.
4. I was once involved in an emergency landing and subsequent stranding in the Mojave Desert.
5. I overuse the words “nice” and “right” and end a lot of sentences with “umm….” It is very annoying.
It would be really cool if all these events were directly related, but they’re not.
Being on a train last week reminded me of something I used to do. About three years ago, I worked for a company who had an office in Leeds so I would go up there for the day as often as once a week.
Like London, Leeds has its own edition of Metro, which in case you didn’t know is a popular free tabloid newspaper and events guide aimed at commuters. You can pick them up from the piles at train and tube stations and catch up on the latest regional sport, local and national news. Both editions look identical, except the articles have sections relevent to their own particular city.
After my meeting in Leeds, I would grab a handful of papers and take them back down with me for the return journey. When I arrived back in the Big Smoke, I would put them on top of the pile of London editions in King’s Cross station.
The thought that some commuter would pick up the Northern edition and get the wrong news made me smile. I used to wonder how long it would take then to realise why their What’s On guide covered the Corn Exchange instead of the West End, and why there were articles about the big match of Leeds versus Bradford. Five minutes? Ten? Half a (tee-hee) hour? I wondered if they glanced over at their fellow commuter’s paper to compare and try and figure out why they were reading news about Yorkshire instead of London. Would they even notice at all?
It appealed to the benign anarchist in me. I wondered if, as I returned to London at the same time most weeks, it was the same guy picking up the Leeds editions every time and did he have conversations with his friends about the deep mystery and would they think he was making the whole thing up.
I was doing this when I was 30 years old! This is the first time I have mentioned this to anyone! It still makes me laugh!
I am sooo easily amused.
My company is hiring two of these, but I don’t know what they are.
Are paralegals the people who look after your case until the real legals arrive?
It resembles a jungle. On occasion I wonder how it is that I continue remain on the surface.
My dearest Stan, this is the final letter I shall write to your posterior.
I admire large bottoms and I am unable to tell falsehoods.
Currently many people care to have discussions as if they have something to say but there is no sound when they move their lips, just a bunch of poppycock. The matriphiles behave as if they are ignorant of Dre.
Release it as if it were stolen.
We continue to pass the majority of our existance residing in a haven for organised criminals.
1. A doll’s house with all the furniture and people removed. The only item in it is a plastic red jerrycan in the bathroom.
2. A large helicopter lying on its side. One of the propellers is bent; Tinky Winky and Minnie Mouse lie just outside the cockpit. Scoop the Bulldozer is nearby.
3. Hungry Hungry Hippos, from whom all the eyes have been carefully removed.
4. Assorted weapons: guns, laser blastes, swords and axes arranged in a small neat pile.
5. Away from all the other toys, a female doll lies naked in the middle of a frisby. On the edge of it sits a pink octopus, watching.
6. A snake wearing a cowboy belt next to another snake with a pony in its mouth.
7. Two Power Rangers lying face down, side by side in identical postions. Mr Incredible is running away from them, arms aloft and smiling.
8. Nemo wearing a cow mask.
9. Bagheera hiding inside a Slinky while nearby two unsuspecting My Little Ponies nibble the grass of a traffic island.
10. Cardboard cutouts of Thomas the Tank Engine, ripped and screwed up. Something unintelligeable has been written on them, as if in a rage.
I can, just choose not too. I have danced with my wife twice in the ten years we have been together.
I am like a non-danceaholic, in that at the drop of a hat I can conjure up dozens of excuses for not dancing. Luckily, I was at university, when most going out and dancing happens, when grunge was big, so I could go to gigs and nod my head and push into people while raising my fist in the air as a celebration of the Not Dancing. If I’d been born five years earlier or later, I would have been exposed to Euro House (the armjerk) or Britpop (arms aloft, walking in place and bobbing head singalong dance).
Even now, events at which dancing might be done loom on the horizon for me. When they do, I conspire to become the most helpful guy in the world. I offer to top up drinks, take coats, play music, man the barbeque. As a vegetarian, I would rather cook other sentient beings than be seen dancing with my own species. That’s how bad it is.
We’ve got a summer ball at son’s school coming up, with the theme as Casino Royale, so I will be happily working the tables at the event, encouraging people to gamble at a child’s school instead of dancing.
A nice day of cultural awareness and Buddhism with the Tibetan community of London to celebrate the 70th birthday of Tenzin Gyatso, better known as the Dalai Lama.
Happy biiiiirthdaaaaaay His Holineeeessssss…
Much blowing of dungchen (long horns), signing of petitions and a moving period of quiet reflection on the week’s events (while police helicopters hovered overhead because London’s still got the willies).
The Tibetans I spoke to were infectiously humble and friendly and politically charged without being pushy about independence after the Chinese invaded. Some weren’t even born in their home country but hope to die on their home soil one day, which seems to be the exact opposite of a lot of English people.
It was just what I needed and interesting for the kids too. My three year old daughter made me chuckle during the ceremony when she whispered: “Are they going to bring the cake out now?”
Son, 5, thought the Tashi Lhunpo monks were dressed as chickens because of the crests on their headdresses.
Son (while devotees prostrate before the picture of the Dalai Lama ): “Who is the man in the photograph?”
Me: “He’s …um.” (What will he understand? Spiritual leader of the Tibetan people? Head of the Government-in-Exile? The 14th reincarnation of the Boddhisattva of Compassion? Winner of the Nobel Peace Prize?)
Me: … umm… er….
Wife: He’s a friend of Buddha.
Son: Oh, ok.
And I laughed my socks off, realising the whole lesson of beginner’s mind. Right there, he understood more than me, because the basic truths are always more important than the peripheral stuff. In life, in your mind, in your relationships - it should always be about what it is rather than what it means. Sometimes the more you learn, the less you understand.
So never forget the innocence of your first enquiry. The informality and fresh attitude that includes both doubt and possibility will always help you to see things fresh and new.
Fine, fine, everyone I know is fine. I sent text messages saying “I’m fine” to everyone who didn’t know and might have wondered whether or not I was.
My neighbour who drives a tube is OK. Thanks to my friend Len in New York for his message. I mailed him after September 11 with similar questions.
The forces of evil behind yesterdays bombs would love for all of us to stop talking freely, to cease from seeing the beauty and humour in life. They want us to be scared and to hate them and they want to end our ability to express ourselves in ways they could only dream of. We must and will continue with dignity , courage, humour and love. Even saying “that’s what we will do” takes away from the act of just simply doing it. We just get on.
I was on a train on the same line between Russel Square and King’s Cross at the time of the explosion on Wednesday (the day before the bomb), heading to a meeting I’d been trying earlier this week to rearrange for Thursday because I had stupidly booked it for the same day as the Olympics decision and the start of the G8. Only a lack of planning and a degree of my trademark fuckwittery saved me from the fate of my fellow commuters.
Speaking of whom, how cool was it to be standing at a bus stop yesterday trying to get out of town when a car full of very posh people pulled up, rolled down the windows and a complete stranger said: “Anyone want a lift to Wimbledon?”?
I’m fine.
How are you?
They got London, just like I thought they would. The train station yesterday was crawling with police and sniffer dogs, but alerts come and go.
This morning I sat here updating the news like I do every day. Sometimes I do this thing where I imagine that I’m reporting the events that aren’t real. It’s a defense mechanism from that gets me away from the underlying fact that I make my life largely from the misery of others.
Suffering just happens. People suffer. That’s life. It’s the attachment to suffering that causes uphappiness - the second Noble Truth, right? Let it go and you’ll be fine son.
Most days casualty figures come to me and they go out. They are like sport scores or share prices. It’s important, but it means little. What else am I supposed to think?
Copy. Quotes. Pictures. Publish.
Load. Safety off. Fire.
But this morning there was no pretending. As I updated the story, the ambulances rushed by the window to rescue the people. My people. My fucking city.
I am well, but shaken up. Give me a second to think about how I’m going to write about this or how I am going to get home tonight.
There is nothing funny about today. I want to go home and hug my kids.
Take care everyone.
Yesterday I took a train up North from King’s Cross to meet a client as part of an excercise to put a face to an email. I like riding the rails up the country, leaving London behind, watching the land turn green and my thoughts to something other than work and house stuff for a bit.
You notice more that you would in a car. I was in a carriage which was called “the quiet coach”, in which people are asked to refrain from using mobile phones and listening to walkmen. It was billed as the cabin “for thoughtful people only”, which that sounded perfect. If I’ve got anything, it’s thoughts. I may not be a grea talker, but I’ve got thoughts to burn, including that one just then.
For example, at the station there was a stack of baggage trollies under a sign saying “Self Help Trollies”. As well as carrying your bags, did they also provide pyschoanalysis? I wondered if, when you put your luggage on them, they said: “I’m more interested in how you are going to get your suitcase to move forward.”
Anyway, one of the employees was nice enough to meet me at the station and drive me to their office. At 98 miles and hour. In a soft top. In the rain. I nearly kissed the ground when we arrived in one piece and I walked into the meeting room. When a big round of applause went out, we all looked at each other and someone said: “We got it!” I can’t remember who got up first, but we all ran into the Newsroom and watched Trafalgar Square going nuts on the screens to the news that London’s will host the Olympics in 2012. Dans votre visage, Paris!
Now - on budget and on time. Hmmmm.
Sorry, to break away from our normal coverage. More stuff about Live 8 tomorrow, including a rundown of the food I ate (in order of disappearance), how long it took me to buy a cup of tea and “Portaloos: great leaps forward in little wee houses”.
Only kidding, no more Live 8, I promise.
Son, 5, asked was in the bath with his sister and he was singing a song that went a bit like “the Lord keeps me safe, and I don’t need to be scared, the Lord is in my heart” thingy.
I was walking by when I heard this and stopped in my tracks, because he doesn’t get this from me but I’m keen to know what he’s picking up at school on the matter.
“Hey Tiger, what do you know about God?”
This is our first conversation about religion.
He turns to me and looks up from his bath toys. He’s really enthusiastic. “Did you know that God made me and the world and the planet Earth and everything.” It’s a question that he presents as a fact. I raise an eyebrow and present it as being impressed.
“And,” he continues, eyes wider than the Euphrates, “he even created the dinosaurs.”
“Right. Wow.”
The creationists might disagree. Besides, I didn’t want to discuss the Old Testament at bathtime. There are too many belly buttons on display and not enough answers.
Snoop Dog - and London duly puts its motherfucking hands in the air.
Some bloke called Bob Geldof?
Mariah - she makes Diana Ross look sensible.
Robbie - does she know something we don’t?
Good night Internet, we love you!
Live 8 was crazy. After working most of the day, Wife and I jumped in a cab in time to see REM take to the stage with a mighty “Hello. We’re REM and this is what we do.”
The VIP tickets rocked, and I’d like to thank my wife for bearing with me while I pointed out every other journalist, colleague and showbiz I knew over the 8 hours we were there, stretched out having a picnic in front of 190,000 other people. Folks behind us, I hear what you’re saying, but if you could have been in my shoes you would have. Besides, this was the only ticket I could get.
So here is my rundown, in order of appearance, of my highlights of Live 8:
REM
They were let down by their soundman, but they were OK. I would have wanted them to play something upbeat, like Orange Crush, King of Comedy, It’s Been A Bad Day, Stand or What’s The Frequency Kenneth, because I think they are a good soul-pop band, but they wear they settled for Man In The Moon and Everybody Hurts instead. Still, there’s something about Mike Mills’s voice that I really like, so they were good.
Travis - it really was this crowded.
Travis
A band I wouldn’t go and see on my own, but great in company. They had fun playing where others (Madonna) gave sincere performances.
The Killers
My new favourite band, who I couldn’t wait to see, played one song. It was the perfect crime, but a crime nonetheless.
Razorlight
Great band I’d never heard before. Boys with guitars, and why not.
Scissor Sisters
Good party anthems from a band I think are great. It’s not just because I fancy Anna Matronic (why does everyone else crave women who are too young and too thin - they look like boys, for God’s sake) but because they enjoy themselves.
Sting
Always a winner. I was the world’s biggest The Police fan and it was good to hear him play Driven To Tears.
The Who
Balls out British rock. Alan White is one of my favourite drummers from the James Taylor Quartet days, and now I’ve seen just about everyone I have ever wanted to see play live.
Roger Waters finally gets a decent crowd to witness his Frank Spencer impersonation.
Pink Floyd
Belting it out live to Wish You Were Here (”…two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl…”) was a great moment for us, which made it a great one for them. How can they feel that good and not smile? I’d be grinning like a loon. I’m sure Sid Barrett was watching. They always sound like the record live, so you get what you pay for with the Floyd. Since I paid nothing, I reckon I came out on top.
There will be a full Live 8 review shortly, but in the meantime here’s a picture of former government cabinet minster and current European Commisioner for Trade Peter Mandelson rocking out to Velvet Revolver.
Actually, he barely moved when they played, but he started dancing when Mariah came on.
But I’m on my way to Live 8. Right after I finish buttloads of work related to the event that I still have to do this morning, but I can turn up whenever and walk right in because I’m in the VIP area. Oh yes. I will probably miss Coldplay and U2, but so long as I’m there for REM, I should be OK.
Sometimes work both rocks and rolls. Watch it on tv - you can’t miss me. I’ll be down the front wearing a white band on my right wrist.
Son, 5, is learning about whales and dolphins in school, like I said back there.
He has been asked by his teacher to bring in from home any videos of whales or dolphins. Not only do I have film of both, but I have home movies that I made.
So last night, I dug out our camcorder tapes of the boat trip in Florida, featuring the playful antics of a pod of bottlenose dolphins leaping in the wake of our boat for a good 15 minutes. Even better, Son can be seen and heard calling out the them before they jump. His class is going to love this. They leap from the Gulf of Mexico every time he shouts to them. They seem to almost obey his command. This is a moment. This should win the kindergarten equivalent of the Grammies - the Peewees, or something. Anyway, I’m the about to be the best dad in the world, or so he will tell his class in the “none of this would have happened without…” speech when they tell him how cool he is. I transfer a few minutes from the camcorder onto videotape.
It’s time to break out the big guns. To follow it with the whales. The Pulp Fiction to my Reservoir Dogs. Seward, Alaska, 1999. The big adventure. The last fandango before the kids were born. The exact spot in the North Pacific where the Exxon Valdez disaster happened, ten years ago that week. The millions spent on cleaning it up the oil had paid off and the whales were back.
I fast forward past the eagles and otter, past the glacier and the sealions to the deep water. I catch a plume of water and there she blows. I hit play and and boat cuts her engines. Two humpback whales breach the water in the right hand side of the frame. They seem to move in slow motion, like beauty does. “Holy Shit! Look!” says Wife. Bear in mind this film is mean for my son’s five year old class.
I scan forward to the next bit, when the whales are right up alongside us. They are as big as the boat and they surface, flapping fins the size of canoes. There is silence in the awe of their powerful tenderness. “Bloody hell!” I yelp, “They’re fucking huge!”
And so it continues that every time these majestic beasts emerge, my wife or I are swearing like the sailors that we were. No records remain of that fateful voyage, not at least until my son starts swearing himself. So his class will miss out on the video of the whales, all because mummy and daddy couldn’t control their potty mouths. They would have learned about a lot more than whales if he had shown that.
Still, the dolphins were good. Voiceover work, anyone?