At the start of last month, I followed the now very well-travelled route to Dortmund and a pilgrimage to the Westfalendstadion.
And, lets get it out of the way, yes, it was as awe-inspiring as everyone says; fantastic football, a goosebump-inducing atmosphere (admittedly aided by a 4-1 scoreline), a visually striking stadium, knowledgeable, friendly and generous fans – the complete package really.
But what really struck was how much of what was going on, if it had been taking place in and around an English football stadium, would be castigated as ‘plastic’ by a lot of English football fans:
-Club song played loudly over the speakers so an ‘organic atmosphere cannot be created’? Check.
-Flag-waving on the pitch? Check.
-Stadium announcer? Check.
-Supporters buying overpriced food and drink? Check.
-Every piece of branded tat imaginable (and a BVB version of Cluedo) in the club shop? Check.
But despite these perceived impingements on ‘real’ football culture, the revered BVB atmosphere remains (maybe it really is the right to drink booze in the ground...). It was all about working through a catalogue of songs and waving flags a lot no matter what was going on the pitch. Go 1-0 down? Keep singing. Striker miss a sitter? Restart the song where you left off.
Which I found rather unusual. For me it served to highlight, in an English football ground, the remaining need nearly always for if not an air of violence but certainly an antagonism and schadenfreude towards the ‘other’ (team or referee) to create an atmosphere.
This was particularly highlighted for me on Monday at the Bristol City – Reading game at the impressively refurbished Ashton Gate. Both of Bristol City’s goals were marked by many of their fans giving the big one to those in the away end and, subsequently, Reading’s comeback of three goals in 18 minutes to snatch a win also featured plenty of Vs flicked and wrists waved, though I’d say joy was probably the overriding emotion (as it should be with a last-minute winner).
In England, the noise from away followings is often similar to that of BVB fans in Dortmund; more or less detached to what is happening on the pitch (as away fans are usually the ‘hardcore’, there to make noise and enjoy the day regardless of the result).
It is the atmosphere created by home fans which is, with some honourable exceptions, anodyne, as you might have heard once or twice before. It is the stadiums and fans which have ‘plastic’ elements (Leicester’s happy clappy things, Crystal Palace’s flag culture) which generally are far noisier and atmospheric.
A lot has been said about what English football can learn from the culture of German cousins. Perhaps a precious attitude over who or what is allowed to make an atmosphere is something different to be taken on board.
Thursday, 5 January 2017
Sunday, 20 November 2016
The Dustbin Lid Challenge (that was its actual name)
Way back in March, before the uncertainty caused by Brexit, Trump and all that, it seemed perfectly OK to try an eating challenge as, unlike now, there was no danger of impending economic doom making food a scarce resource in the UK.
To be clear, I do find eating challenges morally dubious but we’re all hypocrites so pass the bib.
I and a couple of friends opted for a Flaming Grill pub in Reading (to give a venue where the toilet was flooded the title of a restaurant would be a stretch) and took on its Dustbin Lid Challenge.
It appears the Dustbin Lid Challenge is no longer served at Flaming Grill pubs, as far as I can see, so I cannot recall precisely what meat-based cholesterol enhancer was laid out before us. But, from memory, it was:
- a beef patty, chicken breast and a piece of gammon, each weighing some pounds, with various pieces of concessionary salad wrapped up a bun
-a set of beef ribs, presumably belonging to the cow equivalent of The Big Show
- strips of fried chicken
- onion rings
- a double portion of French fries
- a small bowl of disconcertingly cold pulled pork accompanied by cheesy nachos
- corn on the cob
- a portion of baked beans
Now, the fact it came served in a dustbin lid screamed that this was a bad idea. I mean, the only respectable individual to serve a meal on a dustbin lid was probably Top Cat, and he is a) fictional and b) would serve up something distinctly unappetising like a fish skeleton, immediately setting off imagery association issues in one’s head.
Regardless, we got underway. Now, I’ve watched enough Man Vs Food back in the day to know some consumption challenges tactics – leaves the starchy items to the end, choose a light drink to accompany your meal, keep everything moist to help force it down your oesophagus etc.
I promptly ignored all of these theories. Already I had bought a pint of moderately-priced lager first up for the simple reason my friend had and so male ego was in play and I dived in to the chips first up (I mean, there’s nothing worse cold chips, right?).
And progress was surprisingly smooth – down went the chips, the ribs, the onion rings, the pulled pork with nachos, the corn and the beans within 20 minutes or so and all was well with the world despite knowing our fellow diners were glancing over with feelings of equal part disgust and pity, looks usually reserved for pets that eat their own vomit.
But, looming, always unnerving in the consciousness like that chronic back pain you try to ignore, was the monstrosity of a beef, chicken and gammon burger. The increasingly room-temperature mountain of meat sat on the corner of my dustbin lid.
Steely-eyed, the time came to tackle this unnatural abomination. Break through the wall.
Two mouthfuls of eating this like a conventional burger simply did not work – richness erupted on the taste buds, beyond that which is pleasurable, as three types of meat fought for supremacy. There is a now obvious a reason why you get four-bird roasts and pigs in blankets but not hybrid cow/ pig/ chicken mixtures.
How about taking the deconstructing approach? The way to eat an elephant, after all, is one mouthful at a time.
We were getting somewhere; the chicken’s gone, so has the top half of the bun and the piece of lettuce and tomato slice which was buried in the meat mountain.
Leaving the doorstops of dense beef and gammon, the densest of all the foodstuffs on this offering. Easy. Or, with a brain slowly switching itself off from over-stimulation and a distinctly unhappy set of internal organs in my midriff, perhaps not.
And it came just like that. No mas. White flag raised. Its over.
A distinct self-loathing bubbling – at an inability to finish or to even try it in the first place, who knows. Time to pay the bill and slink off.
To be clear, I do find eating challenges morally dubious but we’re all hypocrites so pass the bib.
I and a couple of friends opted for a Flaming Grill pub in Reading (to give a venue where the toilet was flooded the title of a restaurant would be a stretch) and took on its Dustbin Lid Challenge.
It appears the Dustbin Lid Challenge is no longer served at Flaming Grill pubs, as far as I can see, so I cannot recall precisely what meat-based cholesterol enhancer was laid out before us. But, from memory, it was:
- a beef patty, chicken breast and a piece of gammon, each weighing some pounds, with various pieces of concessionary salad wrapped up a bun
-a set of beef ribs, presumably belonging to the cow equivalent of The Big Show
- strips of fried chicken
- onion rings
- a double portion of French fries
- a small bowl of disconcertingly cold pulled pork accompanied by cheesy nachos
- corn on the cob
- a portion of baked beans
Now, the fact it came served in a dustbin lid screamed that this was a bad idea. I mean, the only respectable individual to serve a meal on a dustbin lid was probably Top Cat, and he is a) fictional and b) would serve up something distinctly unappetising like a fish skeleton, immediately setting off imagery association issues in one’s head.
Regardless, we got underway. Now, I’ve watched enough Man Vs Food back in the day to know some consumption challenges tactics – leaves the starchy items to the end, choose a light drink to accompany your meal, keep everything moist to help force it down your oesophagus etc.
I promptly ignored all of these theories. Already I had bought a pint of moderately-priced lager first up for the simple reason my friend had and so male ego was in play and I dived in to the chips first up (I mean, there’s nothing worse cold chips, right?).
And progress was surprisingly smooth – down went the chips, the ribs, the onion rings, the pulled pork with nachos, the corn and the beans within 20 minutes or so and all was well with the world despite knowing our fellow diners were glancing over with feelings of equal part disgust and pity, looks usually reserved for pets that eat their own vomit.
But, looming, always unnerving in the consciousness like that chronic back pain you try to ignore, was the monstrosity of a beef, chicken and gammon burger. The increasingly room-temperature mountain of meat sat on the corner of my dustbin lid.
Steely-eyed, the time came to tackle this unnatural abomination. Break through the wall.
Two mouthfuls of eating this like a conventional burger simply did not work – richness erupted on the taste buds, beyond that which is pleasurable, as three types of meat fought for supremacy. There is a now obvious a reason why you get four-bird roasts and pigs in blankets but not hybrid cow/ pig/ chicken mixtures.
How about taking the deconstructing approach? The way to eat an elephant, after all, is one mouthful at a time.
We were getting somewhere; the chicken’s gone, so has the top half of the bun and the piece of lettuce and tomato slice which was buried in the meat mountain.
Leaving the doorstops of dense beef and gammon, the densest of all the foodstuffs on this offering. Easy. Or, with a brain slowly switching itself off from over-stimulation and a distinctly unhappy set of internal organs in my midriff, perhaps not.
And it came just like that. No mas. White flag raised. Its over.
A distinct self-loathing bubbling – at an inability to finish or to even try it in the first place, who knows. Time to pay the bill and slink off.
The postscript to all this is I barely slept that evening due to meat sweats, didn’t eat for around 36 hours after the effort and my colon was more packed than a London-bound train at 8am. It probably took a couple of hours off my life expectancy too so, at the very least, the whole experience is not a one-night only kind of deal.
Monday, 14 November 2016
The strange survival of the working man's club
Even of my generation, working men’s clubs conjure up images of pipe smoke-filled rooms, warm real ale, meat raffles, bearded men with more empties in front of them than teeth in their mouths, stained billiard tables and more wonderfully English things like these.
The kind of thing which now of course has to be seen as an anachronism – if there’s no such thing as a working class anymore, why would such an entity need their own club?
Recently, I’ve been going to a working man’s club - curiously retained in quite a leafy, well-to-do village - to spend a couple of hours getting progressively more pissed off at not being able to play snooker well (the loss of dedicated snooker clubs is less mourned than the decline of much else in this country. Now so many of the (chain-owned) remaining clubs rely on booze shifted during the showings of early hours of the morning boxing title fights to bring in the revenue; it makes it feel more like a last destination of the night bar than a snooker club).
Digression over. To return to my tracks, the working man’s club has been an interesting experience.
There is still some remnants of that old school vibe; the opportunity to go home victoriously clutching some sausages or a chicken carcass which by the time you leave have been sat at room temperature for a while, pints sold for less than £3 a pop, snooker cues which pre-date Windows’ 95, the only food being pork scratchings and a few regulars whose speaking voice is completely unintelligible (there was one bloke the other night who it took four “Sorry, what?”s to realise he was saying their was an overhead light for the pool table).
But, when all is said and done, it’s more or less a pub; empty on a Wednesday night but full on a Friday, a limited selection of quality-limited drinks (Fosters and Strongbow staples), the fruity sucking down cash in the corner and worn, worn carpets.
However, unlike your average underfunded, identikit pub, it’s friendly. The volume on the TV (unusually showing VH1 or some such rather than Sky Sports News) is down low, people talk to each other across tables and at the bar, there’s no scary looking fuckers who look like they’d rabbit punch you for glancing at their tattooed faces. The young people are tolerated, knowing the older clientele are the chiefs around these parts. Bar staff interact. The books and board games littered about the place are meant to be there, not a concession to artificial character or an ironic nod.
And when a place and its people are full of character, you don’t mind the rough edges or being charged a quid for guest entry (hell, when they forget to charge you, you give them the pound as you feel like you’re cheating someone as opposed to a business).
It’s fantastic.
The kind of thing which now of course has to be seen as an anachronism – if there’s no such thing as a working class anymore, why would such an entity need their own club?
Recently, I’ve been going to a working man’s club - curiously retained in quite a leafy, well-to-do village - to spend a couple of hours getting progressively more pissed off at not being able to play snooker well (the loss of dedicated snooker clubs is less mourned than the decline of much else in this country. Now so many of the (chain-owned) remaining clubs rely on booze shifted during the showings of early hours of the morning boxing title fights to bring in the revenue; it makes it feel more like a last destination of the night bar than a snooker club).
Digression over. To return to my tracks, the working man’s club has been an interesting experience.
There is still some remnants of that old school vibe; the opportunity to go home victoriously clutching some sausages or a chicken carcass which by the time you leave have been sat at room temperature for a while, pints sold for less than £3 a pop, snooker cues which pre-date Windows’ 95, the only food being pork scratchings and a few regulars whose speaking voice is completely unintelligible (there was one bloke the other night who it took four “Sorry, what?”s to realise he was saying their was an overhead light for the pool table).
But, when all is said and done, it’s more or less a pub; empty on a Wednesday night but full on a Friday, a limited selection of quality-limited drinks (Fosters and Strongbow staples), the fruity sucking down cash in the corner and worn, worn carpets.
However, unlike your average underfunded, identikit pub, it’s friendly. The volume on the TV (unusually showing VH1 or some such rather than Sky Sports News) is down low, people talk to each other across tables and at the bar, there’s no scary looking fuckers who look like they’d rabbit punch you for glancing at their tattooed faces. The young people are tolerated, knowing the older clientele are the chiefs around these parts. Bar staff interact. The books and board games littered about the place are meant to be there, not a concession to artificial character or an ironic nod.
And when a place and its people are full of character, you don’t mind the rough edges or being charged a quid for guest entry (hell, when they forget to charge you, you give them the pound as you feel like you’re cheating someone as opposed to a business).
It’s fantastic.
Thursday, 13 October 2016
Would public apathy be a good thing for the England football team?
There was a lot of talk
on Five Live last night about whether there is broadening sense of apathy
toward the England football team from the general public.
While Wembley crowd
numbers remain ridiculously strong, viewing figures for the Slovenia game were
less than half of that for the Great British Bake Off the evening after, and it
was was the same story with the figures for the Malta match versus The X Factor.
Paired with this was
anecdotal evidence from texters to the radio show, saying they didn’t watch the
Slovenia game, their little sons didn’t want to watch the game or ask for the
score and so on. Thinking about it, I had the first half on while I was doing
other things around the house, turned it off to read instead(!) and then
watched the last quarter of an hour.
All of this seems to add
up to a lower level of public interest. Putting this in to context though,
about 5m people still watched the Slovenia game which is roughly a tenth of
England’s population. And I can always recall there being a level of disconnect
between England’s fans and its football team in the aftermath of disappointing
major championship exits.
But this feels on
another level – losing to Iceland rather than a Portugal or Germany at a major
championship, the Sam Allardyce fiasco and seemingly never-ending listless
performances all contributing.
Ignorant booing and
social media abuse of Wayne Rooney aside, the passion seems dimmed.
However, is this truly a
bad thing?
Many reasons have been
put forward for England’s underachievement at international level – indulged
players, lack of English footballers in the Premier League, those English
players in the Premier League being made to look good by their foreign
counterparts, managers aren’t good enough, tactically inflexible, youth systems
aren’t producing and so on and on and on and on.
Another theory is the
amount of pressure and expectation on England to not only win but also win playing
in an attractive manner, especially against ‘smaller’ footballing nations. This
comes from both the media and the public, especially with the all-consuming
power of social media, with where it all starts rather unclear (though I
suspect it is more social media-led now).
It appears to be
self-perpetuating as the longer England go without winning a major tournament,
the greater the burden – 30 years of hurt has quickly become 50. Nowhere could
this been seen more than that night in Nice when English players seemed
incapable of passing the ball 10 yards without it winding up at the feet of an
Icelander.
But what if continued
and enhanced public apathy towards the England national football team gradually
reduces the pressure to the extent players do not wilt when wearing the England
shirt? What if they feel unshackled and can play their natural games?
There was an element of
this in the Euro 2016 qualifying campaign under Roy Hodgson where wins were
picked like ripe fruit and no-one really had much expectation for the most part
(partly due to Hodgson playing everything down).
Right up until the
moment England won 3-2 away in Germany and the weight of expectation returned.
But maybe, just maybe, extreme levels of
apathy might just be crazy enough to work.
Monday, 25 July 2016
Conflicted over Lewis
I’m conflicted about Lewis Hamilton and I’m sure that fact is keeping him up at night.
Hamilton has been the most exciting out-and-out racer in Formula One over the past decade or so, probably the best wheel-to-wheel racer in that time and comfortably is in the best three drivers currently featuring.
All in all, three world championships speaks for itself.
Beyond that, he is testament to the fact hard work can pull oneself out from a non-privileged background and (tax matters notwithstanding), I absolutely cannot begrudge a self-made man living his life.
He also transcends his sport by his association with a plethora of celebrities which has in turn opened up the sport to different markets. The latter is a foul word but we all know what kind of world we live in. People criticise him for this but a dash of the rich and famous has always been associated with Formula One – its what rich and famous is that has changed, not the sport.
It is not far from an exaggeration to say the sport needs Hamilton more than he needs it, certainly with regard to their respective futures.
But, on the flip side, he’s SO ANNOYING. I refer to a piece on The Telegraph website posted last year and his interview on Channel 4 on Sunday pre-race.
The telling people about all the parties he goes to but one being a works do and another a family get-together and the toe-curling cringe of the “guess how many hours sleep I get” line (more than notorious, riotous party animal Margaret Thatcher was said to get, it turns out).
With the incessant need to tell everyone about how much fun he is having – craving recognition - Hamilton might well be the first person to speak like an Instagram posts.
He’s literally like the guy at uni who has discovered alcohol after moving away from the stern family home and wants everyone to know how drunk he is.
Sure selling the exciting (and indeed not exciting) aspect of one’s life is how a lot of people earn a living these days but those people are usually the ‘famous for being famous’ sort unlike the talented Hamilton.
But the complexity of this comes in that the very fact he does party, mingle with celebrity friends, tries his hand at music, films himself doing extreme sports and so on makes him so different from everyone else on the F1 grid. They may well do similar, but we don’t know about it as it everything is so media-managed where for whatever reason Hamilton is comfortable flaunting it.
In turn, why does it have to be celebrity brashness that makes someone appreciated as different? Why not celebrate Max Verstappen’s balls-out precociousness, Sebastian Vettel’s nuanced, very German take on British humour and Kimi Raikkonen’s refusal to give a shit about anything? These aren’t the most interesting things in the world but again, this goes back to the media-management issue. When Raikkonen lived in strip clubs (as that’s how it felt given how much coverage was dedicated to it), he was feted as the maverick king of F1, the crown Hamilton now holds.
And someone in there features that very British thing to be mistrustful of success by one of our own, particularly when we do not feel that success has been earned by anything other than 24/7 dedication to the craft and hard work.
Usually when writing things down, you get a feeling for what side of the fence you ultimately fall on. After putting this down, I still feel divided over Lewis Hamilton. But I doubt I’m alone.
Hamilton has been the most exciting out-and-out racer in Formula One over the past decade or so, probably the best wheel-to-wheel racer in that time and comfortably is in the best three drivers currently featuring.
All in all, three world championships speaks for itself.
Beyond that, he is testament to the fact hard work can pull oneself out from a non-privileged background and (tax matters notwithstanding), I absolutely cannot begrudge a self-made man living his life.
He also transcends his sport by his association with a plethora of celebrities which has in turn opened up the sport to different markets. The latter is a foul word but we all know what kind of world we live in. People criticise him for this but a dash of the rich and famous has always been associated with Formula One – its what rich and famous is that has changed, not the sport.
It is not far from an exaggeration to say the sport needs Hamilton more than he needs it, certainly with regard to their respective futures.
But, on the flip side, he’s SO ANNOYING. I refer to a piece on The Telegraph website posted last year and his interview on Channel 4 on Sunday pre-race.
The telling people about all the parties he goes to but one being a works do and another a family get-together and the toe-curling cringe of the “guess how many hours sleep I get” line (more than notorious, riotous party animal Margaret Thatcher was said to get, it turns out).
With the incessant need to tell everyone about how much fun he is having – craving recognition - Hamilton might well be the first person to speak like an Instagram posts.
He’s literally like the guy at uni who has discovered alcohol after moving away from the stern family home and wants everyone to know how drunk he is.
Sure selling the exciting (and indeed not exciting) aspect of one’s life is how a lot of people earn a living these days but those people are usually the ‘famous for being famous’ sort unlike the talented Hamilton.
But the complexity of this comes in that the very fact he does party, mingle with celebrity friends, tries his hand at music, films himself doing extreme sports and so on makes him so different from everyone else on the F1 grid. They may well do similar, but we don’t know about it as it everything is so media-managed where for whatever reason Hamilton is comfortable flaunting it.
In turn, why does it have to be celebrity brashness that makes someone appreciated as different? Why not celebrate Max Verstappen’s balls-out precociousness, Sebastian Vettel’s nuanced, very German take on British humour and Kimi Raikkonen’s refusal to give a shit about anything? These aren’t the most interesting things in the world but again, this goes back to the media-management issue. When Raikkonen lived in strip clubs (as that’s how it felt given how much coverage was dedicated to it), he was feted as the maverick king of F1, the crown Hamilton now holds.
And someone in there features that very British thing to be mistrustful of success by one of our own, particularly when we do not feel that success has been earned by anything other than 24/7 dedication to the craft and hard work.
Usually when writing things down, you get a feeling for what side of the fence you ultimately fall on. After putting this down, I still feel divided over Lewis Hamilton. But I doubt I’m alone.
Tuesday, 31 May 2016
Being cultural and seeing a proper play at a West End theatre
As the kind of person who’s only visits to the theatre up until the age of 19 were for pantomimes and snooker matches, I feel uniquely qualified to comment on and review plays. Well, uniquely placed anyway. Uniquely meaning poorly, in this context.
So, being poorly placed to comment on and review plays, I nonetheless proudly present to you some words after I saw the Sir Kenneth Branagh production of Romeo & Juliet at the Garrick Theatre on Monday last week.
Even a local authority-run school alumni such as myself knows not just the plot but also the ins and outs of the themes of Rome & Juliet (thank ingyou GCSE English), so that saves us an awful lot of time here.
What I want to talk about is the language–the rhythmic, loping, bouncing language of Shakespeare which we all know but never appreciate. To go back to Year 10, reading Rome & Juliet off the page was a bore because not many 15-year-olds from Reading, generally speaking, have the ability to read 400-year-old soliloquies lyrically. Most struggle with reading Tweets.
In this production, the language of Shakespeare is so wonderfully retained but so perfectly boiled down to still challenge the listening audience to interpret the spoken word but also to ensure the production remains accessible to a wide ranging audience.
And the cast of this production is why there is a wider social spectrum in the audience. Or in the audience on Monday night anyway.
Richard Madden and Lily James play the star-crossed lovers and their TV back catalogue rakes in the younger audience.
Madden’s puppy-ish, devoted Romeo often dominates his swaggering teenager ego, not always a bad thing though as his lovestruck, brooding young man performance is strong but too much and it becomes mopey.
But James’ portrayal of Juliet is what keeps its all going – whether it be the champagne drunk on a balcony scene when she properly meets her Romeo, the on-the-cusp-of-orgasmic anticipation at seeing Romeo again after their secret marriage or the heart-rending dénouement, all are innocently lovely – wonderfully, recognisably teenager. Which is what this is all about of course, love and lust at a vulnerable time of our lives.
Elsewhere, Derek Jacobi’s Mercutio is wonderful – an unusual ‘fun, lecherous but non-threatening’ uncle approach to the role meant to be an age contemporary with Romeo which just works if not perfectly, then perfectly suited to the audience.
To go back to language, no-one does knob gags quite like Shakespeare and it is a joy the way Jacobi delivers them (and great when one works out the more complex knob gags. Complex knob gags indeed.)
However, as a result of this style, his death was sadly interpreted by some members of the audience as an exaggerated piece of physical comedy, beyond the moment he is stabbed and right up until the moment he is no longer speaking before the penny drops.
In a similar vein, Meera Syal’s Nurse was also a far more knowing, mischievously devious and encouraging confidante for Juliet than anticipated – playful but still deeply caring of her surrogate daughter.
All of this is set in a 1950s-style Venice filled with café culture, suits, sunglasses and a time equally as recognisable as male-dominated as the original play.
Without having much else to compare it to given limited theatre experience, it would be foolish to sum up this play in any other way than to say I quite liked it so…yeah…see it if its your thing. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. Its your choice really. Unless tickets are sold out, in which case you have no choice. That’s how it goes, I suppose.
So, being poorly placed to comment on and review plays, I nonetheless proudly present to you some words after I saw the Sir Kenneth Branagh production of Romeo & Juliet at the Garrick Theatre on Monday last week.
Even a local authority-run school alumni such as myself knows not just the plot but also the ins and outs of the themes of Rome & Juliet (thank ingyou GCSE English), so that saves us an awful lot of time here.
What I want to talk about is the language–the rhythmic, loping, bouncing language of Shakespeare which we all know but never appreciate. To go back to Year 10, reading Rome & Juliet off the page was a bore because not many 15-year-olds from Reading, generally speaking, have the ability to read 400-year-old soliloquies lyrically. Most struggle with reading Tweets.
In this production, the language of Shakespeare is so wonderfully retained but so perfectly boiled down to still challenge the listening audience to interpret the spoken word but also to ensure the production remains accessible to a wide ranging audience.
And the cast of this production is why there is a wider social spectrum in the audience. Or in the audience on Monday night anyway.
Richard Madden and Lily James play the star-crossed lovers and their TV back catalogue rakes in the younger audience.
Madden’s puppy-ish, devoted Romeo often dominates his swaggering teenager ego, not always a bad thing though as his lovestruck, brooding young man performance is strong but too much and it becomes mopey.
But James’ portrayal of Juliet is what keeps its all going – whether it be the champagne drunk on a balcony scene when she properly meets her Romeo, the on-the-cusp-of-orgasmic anticipation at seeing Romeo again after their secret marriage or the heart-rending dénouement, all are innocently lovely – wonderfully, recognisably teenager. Which is what this is all about of course, love and lust at a vulnerable time of our lives.
Elsewhere, Derek Jacobi’s Mercutio is wonderful – an unusual ‘fun, lecherous but non-threatening’ uncle approach to the role meant to be an age contemporary with Romeo which just works if not perfectly, then perfectly suited to the audience.
To go back to language, no-one does knob gags quite like Shakespeare and it is a joy the way Jacobi delivers them (and great when one works out the more complex knob gags. Complex knob gags indeed.)
However, as a result of this style, his death was sadly interpreted by some members of the audience as an exaggerated piece of physical comedy, beyond the moment he is stabbed and right up until the moment he is no longer speaking before the penny drops.
In a similar vein, Meera Syal’s Nurse was also a far more knowing, mischievously devious and encouraging confidante for Juliet than anticipated – playful but still deeply caring of her surrogate daughter.
All of this is set in a 1950s-style Venice filled with café culture, suits, sunglasses and a time equally as recognisable as male-dominated as the original play.
Without having much else to compare it to given limited theatre experience, it would be foolish to sum up this play in any other way than to say I quite liked it so…yeah…see it if its your thing. Or don’t, if you don’t want to. Its your choice really. Unless tickets are sold out, in which case you have no choice. That’s how it goes, I suppose.
Monday, 11 April 2016
Desensitisation, The Island and a sharp jab of reality
Desensitisation is one of those things you learn as you grow up – either consciously like how to make an omelette or undo a bra or subconsciously like how to talk to old people or how to pretend that troubling growth isn’t really there.
The proliferation of the screen is the big driver here, insulating ourselves from the real world.
While we are now sickened by the sight of some roadkill, if we see that roadkill through the medium of TV or the internet, all fine, bring on the goo. While the sight of some of ISIS’ atrocities would provoke physical sickness if most of us saw it in front of our very eyes, seeing them via a mobile phone clip gives it the effect of not being quite real; an Xbox game cinematic perhaps.
All in all, the effect of impact advertising and shock TV is diminished now to the extent that we could all probably eat our way through Ant barbarically killing Dec, broadcast in graphic, gory detail, provided we were given forewarning.
This is why charities have had to amend their advert MOs incidentally, most successfully done by Cancer Research UK, in my humble one.
But now and then, you see something through which cuts through all that mental conditioning to devastating effect.
The Island, if you don’t know (if you have been living on an island for the past few years for example) is a reality (critics argue constructed reality) show in which everyday British folk are dumped on a Pacific island by unpleasant situation enthusiast Bear Grylls to see how they survive.
A Lord of the Flies meets The X Factor kind of show, a brittle society emerges and the people who started out very annoying end up having some kind of epiphany about how they want to live their lives after stabbing a crocodile in the gut or wrestling a shark.
For the first few shows while everything settles down, most of the victims of this social experiment (which, to be fair, it usually is as there is a valid sociological aspect to it all beyond contemporary Big Brother-esque voyeurism) take on Jack Skellington-style body shapes due to a lack of calorific intake.
As an example of desensitisation, I am usually munching on some neatly-packaged item of food while watching this, without so much of a second thought.
However, in the most recent episode of the current series of The Island, a huge storm triggered flashbacks for Army veteran Hannah and subsequently an onset of phantom limb pain; she lost the bottom half of her right leg in a mortar blast during the Iraq conflict.
The emotions on her face during the storm and her indescribable and unimaginable experience with the bout of phantom limb pain was shockingly upsetting and uncomfortable to watch, scything through the desensitisation fog.
And that is the point here – this did not strike me as shock TV for the sake of shock TV. In the first episodes, great care was made to show Hannah wanted to take on the challenge of the show to push herself to survive in that harsh environment.
How difficult not just living with the physical aspects of trauma bought on by modern day warfare and being an amputee but also the mental aspects is a point which should be understood by us all given the sacrifices our Armed Forces make.
Messages delivered in a challenging and uncomfortable manner do hit home harder and bring that across through the prism of reality TV, when done right as The Island appears to this observer to have done, is an achievement.
One person’s anguish can help bring about a wider understanding of a complex issue.
The proliferation of the screen is the big driver here, insulating ourselves from the real world.
While we are now sickened by the sight of some roadkill, if we see that roadkill through the medium of TV or the internet, all fine, bring on the goo. While the sight of some of ISIS’ atrocities would provoke physical sickness if most of us saw it in front of our very eyes, seeing them via a mobile phone clip gives it the effect of not being quite real; an Xbox game cinematic perhaps.
All in all, the effect of impact advertising and shock TV is diminished now to the extent that we could all probably eat our way through Ant barbarically killing Dec, broadcast in graphic, gory detail, provided we were given forewarning.
This is why charities have had to amend their advert MOs incidentally, most successfully done by Cancer Research UK, in my humble one.
But now and then, you see something through which cuts through all that mental conditioning to devastating effect.
The Island, if you don’t know (if you have been living on an island for the past few years for example) is a reality (critics argue constructed reality) show in which everyday British folk are dumped on a Pacific island by unpleasant situation enthusiast Bear Grylls to see how they survive.
A Lord of the Flies meets The X Factor kind of show, a brittle society emerges and the people who started out very annoying end up having some kind of epiphany about how they want to live their lives after stabbing a crocodile in the gut or wrestling a shark.
For the first few shows while everything settles down, most of the victims of this social experiment (which, to be fair, it usually is as there is a valid sociological aspect to it all beyond contemporary Big Brother-esque voyeurism) take on Jack Skellington-style body shapes due to a lack of calorific intake.
As an example of desensitisation, I am usually munching on some neatly-packaged item of food while watching this, without so much of a second thought.
However, in the most recent episode of the current series of The Island, a huge storm triggered flashbacks for Army veteran Hannah and subsequently an onset of phantom limb pain; she lost the bottom half of her right leg in a mortar blast during the Iraq conflict.
The emotions on her face during the storm and her indescribable and unimaginable experience with the bout of phantom limb pain was shockingly upsetting and uncomfortable to watch, scything through the desensitisation fog.
And that is the point here – this did not strike me as shock TV for the sake of shock TV. In the first episodes, great care was made to show Hannah wanted to take on the challenge of the show to push herself to survive in that harsh environment.
How difficult not just living with the physical aspects of trauma bought on by modern day warfare and being an amputee but also the mental aspects is a point which should be understood by us all given the sacrifices our Armed Forces make.
Messages delivered in a challenging and uncomfortable manner do hit home harder and bring that across through the prism of reality TV, when done right as The Island appears to this observer to have done, is an achievement.
One person’s anguish can help bring about a wider understanding of a complex issue.
Tuesday, 5 April 2016
Another 750 words on Trump
I love but could never live with American-style politics.
It is a swirling, impossible to keep track with vortex of ludicrous storylines, subplots and tangents which neither satirist nor screenwriter would dream to write for fear of being classed as a loon. House of Cards started out so well as Frank Underwood’s actions were so outrageous but also faintly believable but when real-life pushes the envelope so more, what chance do TV producers have
I am not saying Donald Trump has pushed a reporter under a train, but a different kind of boundary is being pushed.
At the best of times, American politics is bizarre due to its focus on leadership politicians rather than policy but with the new wave of Republicanism, not only due to the odd world of Trump but the startlingly right-wing policies of Ted Cruz, it is entering frightening and dangerous territory.
But it remains what it has always been; interesting in a perverse, curtain-twitching kind of way.
A campaign official being charged with battery on a reporter would be enough for any British MP or leadership candidate to meekly resign, and that’s before even coming close to touching all the tubthumping vitriol Trump (whose few policies he has spoken about reveal education and healthcare as key pillars of government, rather un-right wing Republican as it happens) has spouted.
But no, the circus just carries on.
Same with Clinton’s links to Wall Street and email-gate, the attack ads on Trump’s wife by the Cruz campaign and more and more.
That’s why Brits find it so interesting, the discreetly hidden voyeur in us all. It is compelling as it is so different to our system where politicians hide their backers and who they are influenced by and any hint of controversy which could damage the all-important political party is swiftly dealt with.
As a result, most are robots with the same hair and suits and smiles and mannerisms like there is a factory somewhere mass producing them (there is, it’s called Eton, honk! Honk! Honk I say!).
Our answer to Trump or Sanders is the likes of Farage on the right or Corbyn on the left who both share that air of own brand about them and are both very British ways of interpreting the further outreaches of the political spectrum (ie, not in a particularly firebrand kind of way whatsoever.)
But still, can you imagine living with the never-ending cycle of coverage about the size of Trump’s hands and how Sanders is a communist insurgency leader?
Sure it gets people interested in politics but at the cost of turning them in to fanatical zealots it would seem, incapable of taking on board reasoned arguments against their chosen leader.
The ground swell of Corbynistas was an interesting counterpoint to post Milliband-Labour but it appears to have withered on the vine due to our fusty political system – would a similar thing happen to #feelthebern ?
It is all fascinating to watch the operations of Trump and Sanders and how traditional politicians like Clinton and Cruz cope, but only from the other side of the pond.
But it will soon affect us, it is happening in the most powerful country in the world after all
It is a swirling, impossible to keep track with vortex of ludicrous storylines, subplots and tangents which neither satirist nor screenwriter would dream to write for fear of being classed as a loon. House of Cards started out so well as Frank Underwood’s actions were so outrageous but also faintly believable but when real-life pushes the envelope so more, what chance do TV producers have
I am not saying Donald Trump has pushed a reporter under a train, but a different kind of boundary is being pushed.
At the best of times, American politics is bizarre due to its focus on leadership politicians rather than policy but with the new wave of Republicanism, not only due to the odd world of Trump but the startlingly right-wing policies of Ted Cruz, it is entering frightening and dangerous territory.
But it remains what it has always been; interesting in a perverse, curtain-twitching kind of way.
A campaign official being charged with battery on a reporter would be enough for any British MP or leadership candidate to meekly resign, and that’s before even coming close to touching all the tubthumping vitriol Trump (whose few policies he has spoken about reveal education and healthcare as key pillars of government, rather un-right wing Republican as it happens) has spouted.
But no, the circus just carries on.
Same with Clinton’s links to Wall Street and email-gate, the attack ads on Trump’s wife by the Cruz campaign and more and more.
That’s why Brits find it so interesting, the discreetly hidden voyeur in us all. It is compelling as it is so different to our system where politicians hide their backers and who they are influenced by and any hint of controversy which could damage the all-important political party is swiftly dealt with.
As a result, most are robots with the same hair and suits and smiles and mannerisms like there is a factory somewhere mass producing them (there is, it’s called Eton, honk! Honk! Honk I say!).
Our answer to Trump or Sanders is the likes of Farage on the right or Corbyn on the left who both share that air of own brand about them and are both very British ways of interpreting the further outreaches of the political spectrum (ie, not in a particularly firebrand kind of way whatsoever.)
But still, can you imagine living with the never-ending cycle of coverage about the size of Trump’s hands and how Sanders is a communist insurgency leader?
Sure it gets people interested in politics but at the cost of turning them in to fanatical zealots it would seem, incapable of taking on board reasoned arguments against their chosen leader.
The ground swell of Corbynistas was an interesting counterpoint to post Milliband-Labour but it appears to have withered on the vine due to our fusty political system – would a similar thing happen to #feelthebern ?
It is all fascinating to watch the operations of Trump and Sanders and how traditional politicians like Clinton and Cruz cope, but only from the other side of the pond.
But it will soon affect us, it is happening in the most powerful country in the world after all
Tuesday, 29 March 2016
I got 99 worries and my used car is one
There is no worry like a post purchase of a used car worry, except that intense split-second worry about what to say to someone you have already said “Morning” to that day as you again approach one another in the corridor.
Top tip, “Hello again” is a good one. Or, if you’re really lucky and enough time in the day has passed, you can say “Afternoon”. A tut and “We must stop meeting like this” is useful for a third awkward encounter. “You again” followed by a hearty laugh works for a fourth time. You’re on your own with a fifth meeting, maybe roll your eyes or stare at the floor intently or jump out of a window or fake a heart attack or never leave your desk ever again.
Anyway, where were we… Cat GIFs? Cleavage shorts? Cute dog pictures? Oh right, yeah, used cars. I’m not very adept at this driving web traffic thing.
A used car is the ultimate example of once bitten, forever shy. All the early confidence that cars are indestructible gradually evaporates as an increasingly varied amount of stuff goes wrong. Much like how your body refuses to do now the things it used to be able to do with consummate ease, only it’s a metal box incapable of thought and moods.
First car I ever bought - £600 on a 1998 Renault Clio which worked perfectly at the start and I assumed would work perfectly forevermore with very little or indeed no input from me, right up to the point two of the engine cylinders imploded due to a lack of oil. It is now shaped like a cube or is part of a new washer/dryer combo or something.
Second car - £900 on a 2003 Renault Clio which, in the course of nine months, needed a new cambelt, new clutch, one tyre, a new tesseract power source, new shock absorber and coil and various other bits and bobs which probably all added up to more than the initial outlay on the bloody thing. It is now with a new owner who will enjoy all of these fixes as I developed ‘the fear’ and hated the damn car despite it working properly by the end of it all.
‘The fear’ now remains despite buying a low-mileage used car with a new clutch and a clear MOT.
‘The fear’ means every cough, squeak and judder is an impending sign of vehicular doom, possibly with fire and lopped off limbs involved at some stage.
Oh, the accelerator pedal is vibrating a bit. Wait, what was that noise? Hmm, the engine wouldn’t start first time round. Oh crap, the car shook a bit while stationary. Is that smoke from the exhaust of the car in front?
Even a vehicle health check at the garage which resulted in only new windscreen wipers being slapped on merely acted as a temporary boost. The worry something terrible is likely to occur in the not too distant future remains.
There has been one positive though in the whole vehicle buying process – the car’s number plate as the last three letters of it are ‘FML’.
Already it has bought a smile to the faces of the good folk at Direct Line, the AA and my local garage and presumably anybody who has been stuck behind me in a traffic jam. My car cheers people up wherever it goes.
But it goes back to ‘the fear’. I firmly believe there is now a very real possibility of me at the side of the road, slumped over the roof, head cradled in my arms, in the pouring rain with that number plate firmly in frame being taken captured and instantly becoming a meme.
Fuck my life indeed.
Top tip, “Hello again” is a good one. Or, if you’re really lucky and enough time in the day has passed, you can say “Afternoon”. A tut and “We must stop meeting like this” is useful for a third awkward encounter. “You again” followed by a hearty laugh works for a fourth time. You’re on your own with a fifth meeting, maybe roll your eyes or stare at the floor intently or jump out of a window or fake a heart attack or never leave your desk ever again.
Anyway, where were we… Cat GIFs? Cleavage shorts? Cute dog pictures? Oh right, yeah, used cars. I’m not very adept at this driving web traffic thing.
A used car is the ultimate example of once bitten, forever shy. All the early confidence that cars are indestructible gradually evaporates as an increasingly varied amount of stuff goes wrong. Much like how your body refuses to do now the things it used to be able to do with consummate ease, only it’s a metal box incapable of thought and moods.
First car I ever bought - £600 on a 1998 Renault Clio which worked perfectly at the start and I assumed would work perfectly forevermore with very little or indeed no input from me, right up to the point two of the engine cylinders imploded due to a lack of oil. It is now shaped like a cube or is part of a new washer/dryer combo or something.
Second car - £900 on a 2003 Renault Clio which, in the course of nine months, needed a new cambelt, new clutch, one tyre, a new tesseract power source, new shock absorber and coil and various other bits and bobs which probably all added up to more than the initial outlay on the bloody thing. It is now with a new owner who will enjoy all of these fixes as I developed ‘the fear’ and hated the damn car despite it working properly by the end of it all.
‘The fear’ now remains despite buying a low-mileage used car with a new clutch and a clear MOT.
‘The fear’ means every cough, squeak and judder is an impending sign of vehicular doom, possibly with fire and lopped off limbs involved at some stage.
Oh, the accelerator pedal is vibrating a bit. Wait, what was that noise? Hmm, the engine wouldn’t start first time round. Oh crap, the car shook a bit while stationary. Is that smoke from the exhaust of the car in front?
Even a vehicle health check at the garage which resulted in only new windscreen wipers being slapped on merely acted as a temporary boost. The worry something terrible is likely to occur in the not too distant future remains.
There has been one positive though in the whole vehicle buying process – the car’s number plate as the last three letters of it are ‘FML’.
Already it has bought a smile to the faces of the good folk at Direct Line, the AA and my local garage and presumably anybody who has been stuck behind me in a traffic jam. My car cheers people up wherever it goes.
But it goes back to ‘the fear’. I firmly believe there is now a very real possibility of me at the side of the road, slumped over the roof, head cradled in my arms, in the pouring rain with that number plate firmly in frame being taken captured and instantly becoming a meme.
Fuck my life indeed.
Friday, 25 March 2016
March 25, 2006, at the Walkers Stadium, a decade on
From the most extreme emotional experiences, there tends to be a handful of freeze-frame moments which remain with you.
These are probably the moments that are said to flash before your eyes when you are about to meet your maker.
One of those experiences for me came ten years ago today – football is the most relevant irrelevance so there is no harm in a day as visceral, intense and joyous as March 25, 2006, at the Walkers Stadium, Leicester, being classed as an extreme emotional experience. Plus, I’m male so emotionally stunted; sport being one of the elements allowed to pierce that.
The key thing on the day was context – Reading did not need to win to guarantee promotion to the top flight for the first time. It was going to happen that season, in the coming games, regardless.
On the face of it, there was no need for emotional engagement with the day. No jeopardy; no risk; the only failure being losing a game and even that could have seen us promoted. Why the stress?
But, the context. Going for our first ever promotion to the top flight, residual resentment over the events of 1994/95 (I was four at the time but the one promotion place, 2-0 with a penalty and bloody Fabian de Freitas was ingrained) and that nagging, nagging feeling all football fans have that it just cannot be true.
Moment one
It shouldn’t feel strange to fall behind in a game of football but that was the kind of season we were having. Leicester City away was our 40th of game of the season and this was only the 12th time we had fallen behind in a game. 12!
Nothing of Iain Hume’s goal sticks in the mind’s eye but what does is a feeling of slight confusion and disbelief at half time to be 1-0 down. This was our day to party in what was becoming a perfect season and someone had taken a piss in the punch. We couldn’t lose and get promoted, not after how we had performed all year.
We were probably going to go up anyway but it didn’t feel like it – it wasn’t anger or annoyance, it was quiet and nervous.
A regular enough feeling but in the wider context of the day, enhanced.
Moment two
The equaliser.
Even the very best goals you ever see tend to be lost in the mists of time and you end up remembering them how you saw it on TV. But not Kevin Doyle’s that day.
I remember thinking we won’t score from a right-footed inswinger of a corner. James Harper rarely took corners that season – the oft masterful left-footed deliveries of Bobby Convey and Nicky Shorey were the usual set piece routines that season.
I remember the mesh of bodies in the box and thinking for a split second the ball will just get lost in there before it bounced through a man in a white shirt (I had no idea who) got his head behind it. Time slows.
The middle of the net ripples.
The rest, a blank.
Moment three
Two or three minutes previous, the message had come over the PA system that Watford and Leeds had dropped points. We had done enough to win promotion.
Two or three minutes of forgettable but unforgettable jumping around, shouting, singing, hugging the complete strangers in front, to my right and behind.
Two or three minutes of enjoying the loss of control that football brings.
Two or three minutes before feeling I had a lot of space on my left-hand side. I look down. I see my father sat with his head in his hands; not in a despairing way but simply to take some time to himself and remember all the years that had led up to that moment.
Context. Then, release, he joined in with the rest of the incoherent, unconfined joy.
Plenty more happened that day but it often takes the fan videos (still stored on my laptop from the wonderful webpage of resources which emerged after March 25) and the season’s DVD to recall them.It was a delight to discover one of the fan videos was taken from three seats to my right, a keen refresher to fill in the joy-caused blanks.
These are my memories from where I was stood that day – their value only sentimental to me but to others, I would hope they bring back their own freeze-frame moments from that unrepeatable day.
These are probably the moments that are said to flash before your eyes when you are about to meet your maker.
One of those experiences for me came ten years ago today – football is the most relevant irrelevance so there is no harm in a day as visceral, intense and joyous as March 25, 2006, at the Walkers Stadium, Leicester, being classed as an extreme emotional experience. Plus, I’m male so emotionally stunted; sport being one of the elements allowed to pierce that.
The key thing on the day was context – Reading did not need to win to guarantee promotion to the top flight for the first time. It was going to happen that season, in the coming games, regardless.
On the face of it, there was no need for emotional engagement with the day. No jeopardy; no risk; the only failure being losing a game and even that could have seen us promoted. Why the stress?
But, the context. Going for our first ever promotion to the top flight, residual resentment over the events of 1994/95 (I was four at the time but the one promotion place, 2-0 with a penalty and bloody Fabian de Freitas was ingrained) and that nagging, nagging feeling all football fans have that it just cannot be true.
Moment one
It shouldn’t feel strange to fall behind in a game of football but that was the kind of season we were having. Leicester City away was our 40th of game of the season and this was only the 12th time we had fallen behind in a game. 12!
Nothing of Iain Hume’s goal sticks in the mind’s eye but what does is a feeling of slight confusion and disbelief at half time to be 1-0 down. This was our day to party in what was becoming a perfect season and someone had taken a piss in the punch. We couldn’t lose and get promoted, not after how we had performed all year.
We were probably going to go up anyway but it didn’t feel like it – it wasn’t anger or annoyance, it was quiet and nervous.
A regular enough feeling but in the wider context of the day, enhanced.
Moment two
The equaliser.
Even the very best goals you ever see tend to be lost in the mists of time and you end up remembering them how you saw it on TV. But not Kevin Doyle’s that day.
I remember thinking we won’t score from a right-footed inswinger of a corner. James Harper rarely took corners that season – the oft masterful left-footed deliveries of Bobby Convey and Nicky Shorey were the usual set piece routines that season.
I remember the mesh of bodies in the box and thinking for a split second the ball will just get lost in there before it bounced through a man in a white shirt (I had no idea who) got his head behind it. Time slows.
The middle of the net ripples.
The rest, a blank.
Moment three
Two or three minutes previous, the message had come over the PA system that Watford and Leeds had dropped points. We had done enough to win promotion.
Two or three minutes of forgettable but unforgettable jumping around, shouting, singing, hugging the complete strangers in front, to my right and behind.
Two or three minutes of enjoying the loss of control that football brings.
Two or three minutes before feeling I had a lot of space on my left-hand side. I look down. I see my father sat with his head in his hands; not in a despairing way but simply to take some time to himself and remember all the years that had led up to that moment.
Context. Then, release, he joined in with the rest of the incoherent, unconfined joy.
Plenty more happened that day but it often takes the fan videos (still stored on my laptop from the wonderful webpage of resources which emerged after March 25) and the season’s DVD to recall them.It was a delight to discover one of the fan videos was taken from three seats to my right, a keen refresher to fill in the joy-caused blanks.
These are my memories from where I was stood that day – their value only sentimental to me but to others, I would hope they bring back their own freeze-frame moments from that unrepeatable day.
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