Silly Hat Day

On Wednesday UCL made me wear a very silly hat for the purposes of getting my MA. My real reason for going was to see people I haven't seen in ages. Not everyone was there, what with flimsy excuses like "being in America" or "finishing my dissertation and not graduating 'till next year" being bandied about. I did get to see Trudie and Yvette, though, which was reason enough to go.

Thursday saw me taking the parents to bits of London they haven't seen in a while. When they lived in London, Docklands was somewhere no-one came back alive from. Shiny new buildings are quite a change. I also took them to Bloomsbury, not only to see Aliester Crowley's favourite pub, but also to visit the best second-hand book shop in London: "Judd Books" on Marchmont Street.

Flying home was strange. It was, to use the cliche of our age, "the first time I'd flown since September 11". Maybe that was why I was more nervous on the plane than I've been when I've flown before. Maybe at 23 I'm just feeling more mortal. Either way, we returned safely. Now I have to start getting ready to go to Liverpool.

Myself And Yvette At The Reception: Fear The Combined Power Of Our Mortar-Boards!

The Patron Saint Of Quality Footwear

Today I bring to you:

The Glam Rock Name Generator

My Glam Rock name appaers to be "Jupiter Crayons".

“Someone May Have Got A Guitar In The Face. We Apologise For That.”

So, on Thursday night I went to see The 5678s in Manchester. What’s that? You don’t like The 5678s? Then I suggest that you go and rediscover your sense of fun.

They were playing at The Roadhouse, one of the smallest venues in Manchester, and it was packed for this, thanks to Mr. Tarantino. First up, though, were “special guests” The Noise Explosion ("I'll 'noise explosion' you, young man"). Who were crap. Their innate badness was compounded by the fact that they were trying SO HARD to be bona fide rock stars. Too hard. I mean, Pete Townsend’s windmill-arm in the first song? Diving into the audience on the first song? It doesn’t look cool, it looks like you’re trying to distract attention from the music. Mind you, they did produce the evening’s killer line (see above).

Fortunately, The Noise Explosion made for a good opportunity to go to the bar before the main event, when the building was packed out. The 5678s aren’t a great band, but they are a lot of fun. The curious thing is that the act wouldn’t work if they weren’t Japanese. No one wants to see three American women playing rockabilly and surf-pop, but plenty of people want to see three Japanese women doing just that. It might be down to the singing of all their lyrics in that slightly warped English you last heard in Lost In Translation. It’s also that they’ve got that Japanese cut-and-paste approach down pat: at one point, much to my delight, they appeared to be about to do a version of “Prince Charming”. It turned out that they’d just appropriated the bassline, but I was still pleased.

So like I say, not the best band ever, but good fun. If you like Phil Spector (who seems to be turning out for Manchester United these days), The Ramones, The New York Dolls, Adam Ant, or, indeed, the soundtracks to Tarantino films, then go and see them.

Best T-Shirt of the Night: One that said "Save Ferris".
Worst T-Shirt of the Night: One that said "Punk Rock". My, how subversive you are, sir.

Reality/Fiction Interface

I wonder, if you tried hard enough, could you locate the exact point at which reality segues effortlessly into fiction? Leafing through Kenneth Anger’s “Hollywood Babylon II”, a book documenting Hollywood scandal and tragedy through the ages, I came across the following entry:

“GEORGE ZUCCO. This wonderful character actor, the High Priest of Satanic Atlantis, he of the disturbing glassy eyes, and quick, disconcerting gestures and cat-purr voice, ended his days in the lunatic asylum, after he began believing he was the crazed villains Monogram and PRC kept paying him to play. The High Priest of Mu/Egypt/Atlantis was led away by the fellas in the white coats, dressed to the nines in borrowed Monogram bogeyman finery.

George’s faithful wife and daughter moved into the asylum with him, hoping their presence would restore his grasp on reality. Quite the contrary. George Zucco slipped away in the Atlantic fogbanks, finally, one midnight dreary, working himself into a paroxysm of fear and loathing, screaming he was being stalked by the Great God Cthulhu!

George Zucco died in the madhouse, from fright. The following midnight, Mrs. Zucco and daughter, unable to live without their meal ticket, unable to face life in Tinseltown without George, joined him in death.”

Obituaries Are Entertaining

I’ve said this to some of you before, and you’ve looked at me like I’m mad, but here I have proof. From yesterdays Telegraph:

“Lieutenant-Colonel Frank Edge, who has died aged 73, was awarded an MC in 1961 while serving with a United Nations force in the Belgian Congo.

Edge’s company became involved in a fierce gun battle with a force of 600 tribesmen. Early in the fight, which lasted for six hours, Edge was shot in the stomach but despite being severely wounded, he continued to direct operations from the airfield’s control tower.

Bleeding heavily, he was exasperated when a native soldier who was close by his side made no effort to help him. ‘Don’t just stand there,’ Edge yelled. ‘Do something!’ The soldier made his apologies but explained that, for him, it was taboo to touch a dying man.

Nothing daunted, Edge continued to direct his men with the use of a loud-hailer until a cease-fire could be arranged. He was finally evacuated, bleeding badly, to the field hospital at Kamina for emergency surgery. His pilot during the flight was a Swedish count, Carl Gustav von Rosen, who was so impressed by the bravery of his passenger that he named his aircraft Major Edge of Manomo.”

The Myth Of Fingerprints

Korean film Memories of Murder manages somehow to give a new and interesting take on the hoary police-track-serial-killer genre. The action takes place in a small, rural Korean town where the police are corrupt, incompetent, or both. When a killer begins claiming victims, an upright, methodical big city detective arrives from Seoul. Tensions arise between him and the lead local cop.

So far, so like every other police thriller you’ve ever seen. What sets Memories of Murder apart is its take on investigations: there is doubt here as to whether any methodological framework actually works. Is a fortune- teller better than DNA evidence? Or are both useless fictions which are used to mask a more intuitive form of detection? Equally interesting is the film’s decision to move into black comedy every so often, particularly when dealing with police brutality.

In short, this is a wonderfully atmospheric film, taking you to the apocalyptic Korea of 1987, where schoolchildren are drilled in escaping chemical attacks, and police aren’t available to prevent murders because they’re needed to “suppress demonstrations”. This film comes highly recommended.

“He’s A Very Nasty Piece Of Work – You’re Lucky To Have Him”

I’ve just finished reading Piece of Cake, Derek Robinson’s controversial novel about the RAF in 1939 and 1940. Controversial because this is a bleak, cynical, and blackly comic look at flying in wartime. As such, it’s rather like Hornet’s Sting, the same author’s take on First World War flyers. Something about the setting makes this a much punchier effort, though.

The concept of “The Few” in the Battle of Britain is a core part of the British national myth, with the young fighter pilots of the RAF held to be examples of everything good about Britain and the British. Robinson’s view of “The Few” is that it consisted mainly of morally blank undergraduates, with a smattering of swaggering crypto-fascists and cold-eyed psychopaths for good measure. At the heart of the novel is Pilot Officer “Moggy” Cattermole, a sort of Flashman for the Twentieth Century – except that Flashman was always intended to be a loveable rogue, and there’s nothing loveable about Cattermole.

The author’s skill is that even though these pilots are painted in pretty dark colours, they still do things which you’d have to admit are heroic – like getting into an aircraft five times a day in order to take on odds of five-to-one. Does this make up for their deficiencies? Perhaps. As Robinson points out, the fact that the men who won the Second World War were so flawed doesn’t diminish their achievements, it makes them far more impressive.

I Made It All Up, And It All Came True Anyway...

I've just lent my dad From Hell, which many believe to be the greatest graphic novel of all time (Yes I know, Emily, but face it, you're wrong). Really I'm just returning the favour: he started buying me Tintin books when I was about six, after all.

Generally giving my dad something as postmodern as From Hell is a bad idea. I still remember when we watched The Usual Suspects. Things seem to be going quite well, though. We've had several debates about the architecture and alignments of Nicholas Hawksmoor's churches and their possible significance, for example. No, that isn't an unusual conversation for me and my dad.

In the meantime, over at N.A.O.W.F.I.T., another part of my life has been embellished and exploited for the tawdry purposes of fiction.

Let's Put The Future Behind Us

I decided a long time ago that that would be the title if I didn't get AHRB funding - and I didn't. Fortunately for you: if I got it the title was to be "Tomorrow Belongs To Me". Fortunately for me, my parents are better to me than I could ever deserve, so "private funding" will allow me to start the PhD in September.

Thinking about it, I should have used my AHRB application to make veiled threats. Which brings me to the List of Things To Do. Various people have been prodding me to reveal how I'm doing. I've done 5. My visit to Brighton saw me achieve #1 (Visit Brighton), #2 (Hike The South Downs Way), and #32 (Think of Something To Do With A Tainted Feng Shui Statuette). I notice that a local shop has the film "Dagon" on DVD for £3, so maybe that'll be the next thing I do.

Last night, courtesy of BBC1, I watched Hawk The Slayer. Which is rubbish. Watch Krull instead. Or Legend.

Massive Retaliation

Fahrenheit 9/11 is not Michael Moore’s best film. The reasons for this can be found in the opening section of the film, dealing with the dubious circumstances of the 2000 election and the close ties between the Bush and Bin Laden families. Moore insufficiently explores both of these topics, and the conclusions he draws are therefore highly speculative at best. For example, although he does demonstrate some suspicious factors in the Florida recount, he fails to explain precisely why the Democrats were unwilling to more fully contest the decision.

Similarly, although Moore manages to establish the staggering level of contact between the Bush and Bin Laden families, is this really as damaging as he would have us believe? Moore attempts to place George W. Bush and Osama bin Laden close together by claiming that several members of the Bin Laden family attended the wedding of one of Osama’s sons in Afghanistan, despite the family claiming to have cut off all ties. Arab families are vast, and that probably counts double in the case of dynastic families such as the Bin Ladens, keeping track of all of your relatives and what they do must be a near impossible task.

Fahrenheit 9/11 becomes a much stronger piece of work when dealing with the Iraq war and the corporate scandals that surround Bush, because there is more evidence to work with, and so less need to resort to hearsay. Particularly interesting in this section were the clips of interviews with soldiers. Warfare has now gone postmodern: two tank crewmen discussed how they could link a CD player to the communications system of their tank and have a suitable soundtrack to combat. Here are two guys like me, who’ve grown up with Vietnam films where GI’s are pursued thorough the jungle by acid rock. In the 21st Century, you can make your reality like a film.

The later section also sees some of the best comedy of the film, which has always been one of Moore’s strong points. The absurdity of the "War on Terror" is demonstrated by the fact that it is illegal to take five books of matches onto an aircraft. You can only take four. Contrast this with the fact that a stretch of Pacific coastline is guarded by one man. And he’s part-time.

Overall, however, my impression of Fahrenheit 9/11 is one of a sprawling film which lacks the focus of, say, Bowling For Columbine. When Moore does land telling blows they are devastating, but the overall impact is lessened by the poor journalism that characterises other parts of his thesis. I do highly recommend the film though: not only is it the highest grossing documentary of all time, it may yet play an important part in the Presidential election. Fahrenheit 9/11 may not be Moore’s best work, but it could turn out to be his most important.

I Was A Zombie For The FBI

I'm writing this from Stockport Library, having just been interviewed for a temp office job with Stockport Council.  Basically, I get called in if someone goes on holiday or if there's so much admin to be done they need temps.

A government job.  Stephen O'Brien: G-Man.

Brighton Rocks

So, having gathered my thoughts on last weekend, here's the story.  I went to see Jen & Timo, as I promised on my "Things To Do" lsit.  A couple of days before I went, I found out that Emily & Dex are now also Brightonians (Hove, actually).
 
Brighton seems a nice place, especially in summer, but I do worry that one day soon the seagulls will rise up and take over.  Brighton Pier really is just a pile of rusted metal sticking out of the sea.
 
By way of a day trip, me and Jen went to Lewes, which is a nice place, in a sleepy kind of way.  It has Anne of Cleves' house (although she never actually stayed there), a ruined abby (which you aren't allowed near, unfortunately, as I fancied stalking around it in a Byronic manner), and the site of a medieval battle which I'm told was Very Important.
 
DVD introduced Jen & Timo to French cannibalism.  Emily & Dex are the only people I know who own a life-size Facehugger.
 
Right now I'm finding a place to live in Liverpool.  With broadband, hopefully.  Stockport Council may have work for me.
 

Birthday Blog

Yes, this blog is one year old today! It's been an interesting year, taking in parties, drunkeness, medical records, Japanese fisherwomen getting intimate with squid, my impending mental collapse, Bronze Age warfare, socks, and the need for a wholesale slaughter of Europe's young men.

The weekend was spent in Brighton. A full report will follow.

The Weapon Of Choice

A question that may tell you a lot about yourself: if you were to learn a martial art, which martial art would you learn?

I'd go for Krav Maga, the martial art of the Israeli Defense Force. Why? Because should I ever need to deploy a martial art, I want to deploy one created by an organisation which has no concept of ethics or a fair fight.

Last night found me watching the first episode of The Long Firm on BBC2. It's generally a bad idea to watch adaptions of books you like, and I was a bit disappointed with this. The plot was fair enough, and fairly faithful to the book, but the directrion was all wrong. This sort of story needs the sort of whip-crack juxtaposition of glamour and violence that Scorsese brought to Goodfellas. What we got was a very pedestrian, very BBC, costume-drama.

Another problem was the number of characters freely deploying the word "fuck", no matter what the situation or their 1960s social class was. I blame Guy Ritchie.

They'll Fix You. They Fix Everything.

Robocop was on TV again last night. You probably think you know this film - crap 80s actioner, with all that entails. Sorry, you're wrong, or thinking of the (admittedly Godawful) sequels. Robocop is that rarest of things, an action-satire which is actually quite sharp and slick. Perhaps worryingly, it's also hardly dated at all. Watch it again.

My TV recommendation for the week is BBC2's adaption of The Long Firm. If this is anything as good as the novel it'll be well worth seeing. A British ripost to The Shield at last?

And, of course, my congratulations to the Greeks for their biggest victory since Marathon...

With Hindsight, Irradiating My Genitals Was A Mistake…

Yes, putting my phone in my pocket is A Very Bad Thing, say scientists. Ah well, I wasn't using them much anyway.

On a not-really-related subject, there are posters up all over Manchester advertising the “Ladyboys of Bangkok Thai Spice Tour” (Alan Partridge references at the ready, now!). My question is this: what happens in the show? We’re talking about people whose main talent is to be men who appear to be women. Do they stand on stage for two hours saying “I’m not really a woman, y’know!”? If so, I’m not sure it’ll work with a Manchester audience.

Yesterday I saw “Lost In Translation”. I quite liked it, even though the main story is hardly there. I did wonder about how the Japanese felt about being portrayed as a nation of raving lunatics who speak English hilariously. Fortunately, Bill Murray is great. I’m not sure I enjoyed it as much as that film with him and the elephant in, though.

No Future In England's Dreaming

So it turns out we are just another country. I knew these things of course, which makes my anger last night somewhat surprising. Most of you have never seen me angry, to quote a rubbish film. However, I did manage not to riot in the streetys, or taunt any Portuguese hotel workers.

Fortunately, light relief is provided by the Stockport Express, currently running with the headline "Heaton Chapel Man Is King of Chat-Ups". It's not me, if you were wondering.

In Which I Am 23

Yes I am. There is evidence that I'm now a grown-up in the presents that I got. My mum and dad, for example, gave me a copy of Fernand Braudel's "Memory and the Mediterranean".

I've just come from my new job in Marketing. By which I mean putting Vimto flyers in envelopes, obviously. Only two hours work, but better than nothing...

This Spectating Life

So, this weekend has been spent with The Uni People in Nottingham, and much fun was had by me. Hopefully by other people too. I ended up watching rather a lot fo sport. What with Sunday being such a nice day, I accompanied a mixed band of medics to Trent Bridge to watch the test. Gratifyingly, England managed to beat New Zealand on the very day we'd chosen to go.

Some of my foreign readers may require a few notes on the game of cricket. It is a sport which consists of micro-bursts of excitement encompassed within long periods of almost nothing happening. It was invented as a method of persuading English people to go outside during the summer, whatever the weather. It is therefore neccessary to invent your own excitement for some of the game. Hence the sub-sport of crowd-watching.

If I was much smarter than I am I'd probably say something frightfully clever about how you can see the class system in operation at cricket. In the pavillion sit the members, bedecked in Panama hats, who will under no circumstances join in a mexican wave. The rest of the stands are filled with comparativly normal people.

One stand, however, is filled with the beery, chanting mass of the "barmy army". "Barmy" enough to pay to go to a cricket match and then keep chanting "stand up if you love football". Alcohol plays an important part in their activities. As I was spending several hours sat in the sun, I didn't take advantage of the hideously-priced beer.

With hindsight, this was a mistake: if I'd drunk all afternoon I'd then have been able to piss it away, thus providing a handy bodily metaphor for the performance of the England football team on Sunday night.

Rising Sun/Midnight Sun, And Other Cliches

Sunday saw me and my Dad go to the City of Manchester Stadium to watch Japan play Iceland at football - don't ask why. It was a good enough game (Japan won 3-2, if you're insanely curious), but the crowd was really the fun part. Manchester's Japanese community was out in force, with digital cameras aplenty. Despite being vastly outnumbered, though, the Icelandic fans (all five of them) still managed to sing the loudest.

The other culture shock was the sheer number of attractive Japanese women in the stadium, which begs the question as to how one chats someone up at a football match. This isn't something most English people have any experience of, as English football crowds consist mostly of sweaty, hairy guys who are intent on consuming as many of the pies as possible.