Thursday, December 16, 2010

Homosexual Frogs (1)

In principal, the former Soviet Union claimed not to censor the press. If a senior figure in the Party slipped over on a banana skin, the state media could report that a senior figure in the Party had slipped over on a banana skin. You had to make sure that your facts were correct, but facts were facts. 

However, the one thing the state media could not do was criticise Communism directly. Communism was true, and known to be true. Communism provided all the advantages that Soviet citizens enjoyed compared to the oppressed working class in the West. So of course you couldn't print a news story saying – or implying -- that Communism wasn't true, any more than you could publish a geography text book saying that Barnsley was the capital of the United Kingdom.

The news had to be factually correct: but it also had to be politically correct.

It is not quite clear when the expression Politically Correct made the rhetorical leap into the vocabulary of the British and American far-right. It also isn't clear whether there was an intervening stage when the political left used the expression in a neutral or even positive sense. I went to college in the People's Republic of Sussex at the height of the hated Thatcherist regime. The student Socialist Workers ("copy of this weeks...!") would occasionally complain that someone had used an imperialist codeword like "Falkland Islands" rather than a more neutral term like "Las Malvinas". Someone from the Women's Group might have once moaned that the hated patriarchal administration were perpetuating the phallocentric and indeed aristocratic hegemony by labelling bathrooms "Gentlemen" and "Ladies" (rather than "Male" or "Female"). But I never heard anyone saying that the offending words were Politically Incorrect. Lefties with a sense of humour, if you can imagine such a beast, sometimes complained that something was "ideologically unsound".

But it's perfectly possible that someone somewhere really did think that the Commies had had a point. There really are some ideas that are self-evidently false, and they really do need to be corrected whenever and wherever they occur. Of course you shouldn't publish a book which claims that women are natural home-makers and men are natural bread-winners, any more than you should publish a book that claims that the sun goes round the earth. And if you shouldn't say it outright then you shouldn't assume it or imply it, either.

And it's perfectly possible someone did, as part of this project, deliberately adopt cumbersome terminology in order to draw people's attention to just how many assumptions and implications "ordinary", supposedly "neutral" language contained. There would have been no point in using convenient gender-neutral phrases like "Paramedic" or "Firefighter": hardly anyone would have noticed. But "Ambulanceperson" and "Fireperson" are rather awkward to say. They draw attention to themselves. They force us to notice that we've been saying "Ambulance Man" and "Fire Man" for years. They make us ask ourselves "Is there any special reason why a woman can't carry a stretcher or operate a hose-pipe?"

English Ordinance Survey Maps have a special symbol for churches. Russian Communist maps didn't depict churches at all. It might be entertaining to draw a map which left out post offices and public toilets, but included violin shops and undertakers. Not because it would be helpful or sensible, but because it would force us to notice that maps are not merely neutral diagrams of what's there, but ideological statements about what ought to be there.[*]

But there seems to be precious little evidence that this kind of thing was ever at all widespread. I have heard people saying "differently abled" rather than "disabled", which is silly. There's a shop in Bristol which sells equipment for "less able" people, which is horrid. But what we've mostly done is replaced nasty expressions like "cripple" with neutral ones like ""wheel chair user" or simply "person who can't walk", not cumbersome ones like "ambulatorially challenged". All the really silly examples of Politically Correct Language -- "vertically challenged" and "chemically inconvenienced" and "chronologically superior" -- seem to have been made up by the far-right as a parody of what they saw as a creeping attempt to impose a Soviet style monopoly on public discourse.

A lady -- sorry, a female person -- was once told by a taxi-driver that before long, the Political Correctness Brigade would demanding equal rights for homosexual goldfish. This was a joke : not a very funny one, but a joke, nevertheless. But it was a joke that made the female person very angry indeed: 

"Gay goldfish? Was there such a thing? I had no doubt that if the Political Correctness Brigade could find a gay goldfish, this could become a reality instead of a throwaway line." 

She was so angry that she decided that it was her duty to campaign against any attempt to give equal rights to gay goldfish -- and also against the abolition of competitive sport from schools, the banning of Christmas, and lots of other things which haven't happened. Her name was Laura Midgley, and we shall learn more of her wisdom later.


[*] Come to think of it, the Student Union Guide at York University did say, in so many words (I still have a copy) "There is no Christian Union here", which makes me wonder what meetings I was going to in the chaplaincy building on Thursday evenings.
Jon Boden singing Jingle Bells. What more need be said?

Monday, December 13, 2010

At the moment, I am not very proud of the BBC at all

Some regular readers may have spotted that, in the last couple of years, I have developed a passing interest in English folk music. This is very largely down to a BBC local radio programme called Folkwaves, broadcast in a far away place called the the East Midlands. Two or three years ago, my knowledge of English folk music ran to a handful of Dylan records, a handful of Woody Guthrie records, and possibly a copy of The Big Huge. Stumbling on Folkwaves on what the presenters would doubtless call "t'internet" clued me in to what was out there -- and more importantly, to how many of the acts they played did gigs in small local venues. 

Someone called Spiers and Boden are doing a gig in the pub at the bottom of my street (the Croft) -- aren't they the ones that Mick and Lester interviewed, who sang that clever Robin Hood ballad? Better go along and hear them. Someone called Martin Simpson in a church hall in Southville -- isn't he the one who sings that song about his dad that Mick and Lester keep playing? That song that Mick and Lester keep playing about the guy who won't sell hs cottage to the man from London -- better find out if that singer sings anything else good. And don't Mick and Lester nag me every week to go and find some live music in my area?  Better give it a go.

The show covers the big names, of course, but it is long enough to cover lessor known singers, archive recordings and live perfomances which Mike Harding wouldn't go near. (Absolutely nothing against Mike Harding.) And it has that sort of shambolic intimacy which only local radio ever achieves: Mick and Lester have a nice line in banter, know what's going on in their local area, and are never phased when they accidentally put completely the wrong record on the CD player, or when the special guest doesn't show up because he can't find the studio. And of course, the whole point of radio is that you feel the presenter is talking directly to you; that you feel he's your friend.

So of course, the BBC has cancelled the programme (which has been going for about 25 years and had a worldwide reputation). 

There is apparently no place for "minority" interests like folk music on local radio. 


Bastards.



Save Folkwaves (facebook group)


"Without our stories or our songs / how will we know where we came from?"

Monday, December 06, 2010

Winterlude, Winterlude, My Little Daisy

 
We should actively celebrate the Christian basis of Christmas, and not allow politically correct Grinches to marginalise Christianity and the importance of the birth of Christ. The War on Christmas is over, and likes of Winterval, Winter Lights and Luminous deserve to be in the dustbin of history. Mr Pickles explained that the Christian festival has previously been ambushed by those intent on re-branding Christmas as a bland 'Winter festival' [continues]

In a major victory for common- sense, Local Government Secretary Eric Pickles said local authorities should not introduce politically correct versions such as “Winterval”....Birmingham’s annual Winterval festival was designed to appeal to all cultures, while Lambeth council in London sparked fury when it ordered its Christmas lights to be called “winter” or even “celebrity” lights to avoid upsetting other faiths.



Where are all those people who may be offended by calling Christmas, ‘Christmas’? What about the people who offend the Christian community when ‘they’ call it Winterval, again revealing this lack of quality of mind? Why is offence assumed before anything is spoken, written or visualised? Who indeed are the purveyors of PC [continues]

He said: "In Bradford we have celebrated Diwali, then Eid, then Christmas. If you drive through Bradford now, you will see the lights actually name them. We do not have some daft idea like 'Winterval' which nobody wants apart from a few secularists.


Except a leftie Christmas would be called "Winterval" as they would want to offend the oppressed ethnic minorities, despite evidence that many muslims and hindus celebrate Christmas.


And Birmingham City Council chiefs renamed Christmas as Winterval in 1997 and 1998. The move was heavily criticised by non-Christian and Christian groups alike as PC madness.

Christmas is a time to remember what and who Christ came for. In this age of Political Correctness we have people trying to use ‘Xmas’ and ‘Winterval’ for fear of causing offence to others who want to celebrate Christmas without the ‘Jesus’ bit. People who do not even recognise Jesus as their Lord and Saviour are trying to dictate to us how we should celebrate the birth of our Lord. Well we must be resolute in our [continues]

But it isn’t only the serious world of jobs and work where there have been changes. Some of our most famous holidays and celebrations have also received the PC makeover. Surely there’s nothing offensive about Christmas, you say. Not true. Apparently it might offend some people, so now it should be referred to as “Winterval” (that’s a combination of “winter” and “interval” in case you didn’t realise [or possibly from the word "festival"].) And Easter is now the “Spring Festival”, so that no one feels excluded. So, where’s it going to end? Will we one day be living in “The United Monarchdom” (instead of the “The United Kingdom“) [continues]

The battle in the United States usually concerns crèches on public property or carols in the schools, and is fought in the packed trenches of the federal court system by groups like the ACLU. In the UK the argument is over the replacement of Christmas by “Winter Holiday”, “Winter Festival”, or — worst of all — “Winterval”. 

Anyway, as it's Christmas time, Happy Christmas. Or Happy Winterval, if you'd prefer. I certainly don't prefer it, but that's the PC age we live in now.

So, this time next week, we’ll be in December, the festive month of Christmas (or Winterval, if we’re being abhorrently PC about the names of Britain’s festivities — I call it Christmas, and I don’t even like Christmas all that much)....


Councils up and down the country would prefer to bury Christmas under a blanket of PC nonsense and relabel it ‘Winterval’ or some other stupid name. We must make sure this does not happen and we can all play our bit in this. If you see signs of this nonsense in your borough you must complain about these quisling fascists. The foreigners that live here and do not celebrate Christmas are especially vocal here and we have to watch them like a hawk [continues]
London Patriot (a fascist site)


A clutch of councils have cancelled Christmas and replaced it with multicultural holidays in a bid to be right-on. Changes have included banning carols and even rebranding the celebrations “Winterval”.


YOU MEAN WE CAN A CHRISTMAS WITHOUT ALL THOSE TOUCHY FEELIE PC WORLD MORONS CALLING WINTERVAL?


BRING IT ON...


AND IF IT OFFENDS ANY OTHER CULTURE HERE...


Christians too, see their faith denigrated and marginalised. Local councils have banned Nativity plays. Christmas is rebranded by the PC loonies as ‘Winterval’. I understand people are angry. I understand why they fear the loss of their culture and identity. I share those feelings. The Koran is a hate-filled manual for conquering [continues]

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Follow Me Down

(from Private Eye)
Show of Hands
29 Nov 2010
Colston Hall

"At every trough you stop to feed..." sings Steve Knightley. "WITH WHAT!"

"With you arrogance and ignorance and greed" responds the audience.

"I pray one day we'll all be freed...from your absolute indifference, your avarice incompetence..."he sings.

"Your arrogance and ignorance and greed!" we all sing back.

"A.I.G" sighs Steve, post orgasmically, in case anyone who hadn't heard the song before had somehow missed the point.


"And will you be wearing your jackboots?" said a Certain Person the first time I mentioned that I was going to hear a Show of Hands Concert.

Hmm.

Trying to characterise the group to someone I was chatting to at another gig, I found myself saying "Their concerts can feel a bit like religious revival meetings."

Hmm, again.

I mean, lots of artists allow or encourage the audience to join in their songs. Spiers and Boden always use Bold Sir Rylas a-Hunting Went as a big all-join in set piece; Chris Wood's support guy tried to split the audience in two and get us to sing in harmony; Tom Paxton appeared to take it for granted that we knew all the words of all his songs and were going to go ding when it moved and pop when it stopped whether he told us to or not.

But you feel that Show of Hands numbers are positively written with audience participation in mind. That their studio recordings have an important element missing. That the would be no point in singing Cousin Jack without an audience to bellow along with the chorus. That during the chant bit in Country Life, they're playing the audience like an instrument. That the perfect performance of Roots would be the one where the congregation handled the sea-shanty bit and left the celebrants to do the political argument section by itself. Like I said about the madness which is Bellowhead: you haven't really heard the group unless you've heard them live. Orchastrating some sort of communal experience. The stuff in Roots about singing in pubs and cafes and being buskers true, and even though they're now playing in big venues, there's still something of the pub singer in the way they connect with the audience. "From the Albert Hole to the Albert Hall" as some wiseguy said.

Steve Knightley and Phil Beer fall into an Eric and Ernie routine, with Knightley slipping into the role of the clever, verbose onw whose ego is devastatingly pricked every now and then by the quiet violinist. "Phil is so overwhelmed that he has to leave the stage now" says Steve "Or he would be, if he has bothered to read the set list." This leads into the group's solo spots: Steve does an akapella trad song, the name of which entirely escapes me, about a lady whose sad because her true love has been pressganged; Mirands Sykes puts aside her double bass for a uke and sings something vaudavillish; and Phil does a quite brilliant jaunty fiddle reinvention of Dylans Seven Curses. But not before he's told the story of buisiness consultant who once gave Steve some free advise "Smile once in a while, you miserable bastard."



But there's still something -- uncomfortable? -- about the exercise. After the Bellowhead gig I complained that I wasn't really caught up in the emotion. After Show of Hands, I'm more inclined to complain that I was. Regular readers (Sid and Dorris Bonkers) may remember that after a superlative production of The Valkyrie (an opera), I found myself wondering whether Wagner really was a dangerous man after all: whether this music was literally too powerful to be played. I would hardly go that far about a man with guitar and man with a fiddle and lady with a double bass singing songs about how they once took a wild 16 year old to a festival and wonder what he's doing now, or a lady who won't except a fine silken gown from lovelorn noblemen, even if it does have nine yards drooping and trailing on the ground. I can get as misty eyed as the next man about tin mines and saffron toast: my father was Cornish; I've got ancestors who really did go off and look for gold in South Africa. And as long as you're just howling along, it's a fine song, better than a fine song. "I'm leaving the country behind / and I'm not coming back / so follow me down, Cousin Jack." But there's a nagging feeling: all this emotion is about what, exactly? What am I feeling nostalgic for? The tin mining industry? I heard Bob Fox the other week. His songs were nostalgic for the coal mines and ship yards: but they were real folk songs rooted in real experience written by or for people who had really been down the pits and really knew what it was like. Folk music is always open to the charge of sentimentality; of feeling sad and then feeling sad about the fact your are feeling sad. (So's opera. Wagner especially. So's everything which isn't a Radio 3 masterpiece called Opus 54 in B Sharp Flat.) But isn't there a world of differnece between, say "Whistle of the buzzer/ Time to rise and shine /How I long for Sunday,/When I'm going to the mine." and "Did Joseph once come to St Michaels Mount / Two thousand years pass in a dream/When you're working your way in the darkness,/Deep in the heart of the seam."

But it's an amazing song, and it's an astonishing feeling to be in a packed hall full of people who know the words and the tune. I compromised, this time, and wore the Union Jack tie with the F.A.F badge pinned to it, which hopefully sums up my ambivalnce.

Steve Knightley's son Jack has just ended a course of luekemia treatment at the Bristol Royal Infirmary, maybe five minutes walk from the theater. Of course he pays tribute to the hospital staff; of course he repeats the story of the gig three years ago, just after the diagnosis, where he walked from his son's bedside to the theatre and then back to the hospital. And then he goes into a spirited final encore of "Are we still all right / Are we still strong / We've got one last chance / Lets not get it wrong." Which is another great, fine, song which I happily joined in and sent me out of the theater with a spring in my step tinged with just the right amount of sadness, joy and pain are woven fine, and all that. (Last time I heard him perform in Bristol, he told the same story in the context of "The Dive") God knows one doesn't blame him for referring to his sons illness -- there's probably no singer on earth who wouldn't. But it still makes me uncomfortable. As if I've been manipulated into feeling a certain way about a certain song. Blackmailed, even. And yeah, manipulating feelings is a pretty good definition of what arts all about. Maybe I should shut up.

The support artist was one Rodney Branigan who in between perfectly decent songs in the "heartfelt" mode (a rather intense one about domestic violence stood out) performed guitar riffs which bordered on the tricksy. He finished his act by performing what he described as a song about schizophrenia, in which he started out doing that thang of playing entirely on the fret of the guitar, and ended up playing two guitars at once, swapping them over mid song, even (if what Cliff tells me is right) retuning one of them while playing the other. Clever stuff. Word to the wise, though -- I liked very much the Mexican inspired stuff where you partly use your guitar as percussion instrument, striking it faster and faster with your open hand very much. But describing it as "a song about spanking kids" probably goes down better in Texas than it does it Bristol.

"It doesn't mean he's got talent" says Steve "He just practices a lot".

It's a long time since I can genuinely say that I laughed so much it hurt.





Chris Wood
Colston Hall
Bristol
28 Nov

I don't really have anything to add to what I said about Chris Wood the last time I heard him. He really is on a whole different level to any other performer I've ever heard.


But I've seen no more than that little boy saw,
and I've certainly learned nothing new
The thinker sits on the brink of eureka,
dizzy with deja vue
 

*
 

We never did Shakespeare nor none of that stuff,
so this isn't no honey tongued sonnet
No sugar, no spice, no je ne cest que,
but doggerel with nothing much on it
 

*
 

Two widows talking:
by the strand they tell their story to a sailor
The sun will bleach their grief a little paler
 

*
 

Render unto Ceasar what is Ceasar's
Toss a coin into his moat
He can say anything he likes to try and please us
But don't dare ask for our vote
 

*
 

But sometimes I hear the story told in a voice that's not my own
It's a land of hope and glory voice an Anglo-Claxon overblown
Their's is another England that hides behind the red, white and blue
Rule Britannia no thank you
 



Kathryn Tickell
Bristol Folkhouse
Nov 22nd 2010

Kathryn Tickell plays the Northumbrian Pipes, which are like little bagpipes you hold under your arm and inflate with a bellows. You don't blow down them, so in principle you could sing and play at the same time. She appears in a group with a fiddler (her brother) a squeeze box player and a guitaraist. She sometimes plays the fiddle herself. Together they play tunes, some of which are traditioanl and some of which are new. They are very good indeed and I would like to hear them again some day. However, since I have no knack for dancing about architecture, I propose to not to say anything else.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010


Fish Custard is now available in cartons....

The Viewer's Tale volume 2 

Andrew Rilstone's collected reviews and digressions about Doctor Who series 5 (The One With The Guy With The Floppy Hair) is now available in book form from those nice people at Lulu.

Still available...

The Viewer's Tale volume 1
Who Sent the Sentinels
Where Dawkins Went Wrong



and while you are there, why not pick up a copy of Andrew Hickey's splendid book about "The Beatles" as well.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

You. Could. Not. Make. It. Up.

The timing of the wedding has yet to be fixed. In a bizarre twist, it falls on the same date as Adolf Hitler's macabre marriage to Eva Braun as the Third Reich collapsed. The Nazi dictator married his long-time mistress deep in the Fuehrer's bunker below Berlin as the Russians closed in and the pair committed suicide together the next day. William and Kate are said to be planning a 'very traditional' ceremony to show Britain 'at its best' and intend to have as many people as possible inside the Abbey.

"This is a sad, sad reflection on our times, when people must feed off the carcasses of beloved stories from their youths—just because they can't think of an original idea of their own, like I did with my Avengers idea that I made up myself."

Joss Whedon on the "reboot" of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
"I’ll be a story in your head, but that’s okay, because we’re all stories in the end. Just make it a good one, eh? Because it was, you know. It was the best. A daft old man who stole a magic box and ran away. Did I ever tell you that I stole it? Well, I borrowed it. I always meant to take it back. Oh, that box, Amy, you’ll dream about that box. It’ll never leave you. Big and little at the same time. Brand-new and ancient and the bluest blue ever. And the times we had, eh? Would had… Never had. In your dreams, they’ll still be there. The Doctor and Amy Pond and the days that never came."