Balls

As one gets older the obligation at Christmas to spend a little more money and devote a little more effort on gifts for loved ones grows exponentially. At the age of 11 or 12 the need to buy a thoughtful present for your step-mother is nonexistent, but get to the ripe old age of 21 (by all accounts, a verified adult) and suddenly I’m expected to call my father ahead of time and double-check that he hasn’t already bought her the Keith Richards autobiography. Then again, she did buy me a Kindle for Christmas, so the ball is arguably in my court.

Being a male, I left the last of my shopping until the late afternoon on Christmas Eve. I expected the shops to remain open long into the night given the hordes of men like me who had failed to think of anything appropriate and decided to let department stores make those types of decisions for them. Alas, they closed early.

I am being rather harsh on myself; I did foresee the typical last-minute nature of Christmas shopping, so I hadn’t utterly rammed myself. One thing did frustrate me, however. Thinking of my beloved girlfriend’s father, and wishing to put forward the best possible impression as always, I’d compiled a shortlist, from which I’d later select the best option, of possible gifts that would present your humble blost as thoughtful, sophisticated, intellectual, but also slightly edgy. He readily admits that he rarely has time to read, so the normal route of book-buying was closed off. With that in mind, I’d chosen the following possibilities: a DVD copy of Kiyoshi Kurosawa's Pulse or George Sluizer’s The Vanishing, or perhaps Neutral Milk Hotel’s masterpiece, In The Aeroplane Over The Sea.

You, learned and educated reader, will sympathize and share in my outrage when you discover that I could find none of the above, anywhere. As Mark Kermode once declared, in “Film School 101” you watch The Vanishing. In the case of Pulse, it’s another film that has lingered in my mind ever since I watched it about a year ago. At the time, it was neither scary nor particularly attention-grabbing, and yet I would now consider it an absolute classic. Lastly, what more needs to be said about Neutral Milk Hotel? Well, their album was recently listed 16th in Q Magazine’s rundown of the best albums of the past 30 years, which, I do not need to confirm, is an outrage (it was placed behind two Oasis albums, two U2 albums, and a Coldplay record).

The shopping megaplexes of High Wycombe and Ealing offered no respite, to the detriment of my prospects with the future in-laws. I hereby broadcast my apologies. And so I’m left with another ball in the court of guilt and embarrassment.

Rabbit, Fly

During one of my many hours spent in airports over the seasonal period, which I will get to in another post, I browsed the books of Borders bookstore in Houston “George Bush” International Airport. Sifting my way through what I call the ”airport novels”, the ones with gold and heavily embossed lettering, a minimum of four hundred pages, and font you can read from ten paces, I found the debut novel of John Updike, Rabbit, Run. Motivated by an overwhelming sense of indignation and entitlement (more on that later), coupled with the Borders boycott promoted by Christopher Hitchens, I stole the book. I found an aisle away from the security cameras and tucked it into the back pocket of my carry-on as inconspicuously as my principled hands would allow. In retrospect I now realize how stupid that was. If I’d been caught I suppose I would have been told never to darken the terminal doors again with my thieving hands, let alone been allowed to get on my flight. But I got away with it, so it doesn’t matter (probably a mistake then to broadcast this information). Moreover, I can report, not without a tinge of pride, that the book is a masterpiece. From the first pages it grabbed me by the proverbials and never let go. Updike’s ability lies in the inimitable heft of his language. There are, admittedly, moments of drabness and unremarkability, but the periods of forehead-smackingly powerful description and psychological composition reverberate with such vigor that it’s like having your genitalia squeezed again and again with some respite, but without ever really letting go (in the best possible way, of course). An early scene in which our protagonist, Rabbit woos and makes love to Ruth, a woman who is, one would say, on the portlier side, is one such moment, and has revolutionized the way I shall read sex scenes from now on. To give you some idea of this, I’ll quote from the scene. Writing and describing sex, especially when seen out of context, always has the ability to repulse and induce the most ardent perverts into a cringe. Regardless, let’s see how this fares:

Rough with herself, she forces the dry other breast into his face, coated with pollen that dissolves. He opens his eyes, seeking her, and sees her face a soft mask gazing downward calmly, caring for him, and closes his eyes on the food of her again; his hand abandoned on the breadth of her body finds at arm’s length a split pod, an open fold, shapeless and simple. She rolls further, turning her back, cradling her bottom in his stomach and thighs. They enter a lazy space.

It takes a few pages to get the rhythm of Updike, but his use of the language is profound. Without wishing to spoil your reading of it, for those of you who haven’t already rushed to the shops, I shan’t ruin the ending, although it must not remain unsaid that the concluding denouement stands as a forerunner for the most saddening and heart-wrenching passage of literature I have ever read. It is hard to see, being up to now an Updike virgin, how he could possibly improve beyond this post of literary perfection.

The Salvation Army

Which army bears a red flag and a kettle? Which army propitiates Christian propaganda to the unfortunate young? The answer in both cases is the Salvation Army.

Performing my annual bout of charity for the seasonal period, yesterday I trotted over rather naively to the local outpost of the Salvation Army, and found myself in the company of a stout little woman (very pleasant) and a burly bloke with a handlebar moustache (very sinister). Both addressed each other as “captain”. They were, I assume, volunteers. This branch was solely concerned with the fostering of unfortunate children in the area, providing them with a play room, complete with games consoles, and ping-pong and pool tables, along with a decent sports hall. Apparently, the attendees are taught music, maths, and reading and writing. You will acknowledge my concern, therefore, to see the following words emblazoned in huge black lettering against the white walls of the sports hall, and below an ominously centered crucifix:

Blessed is the man who fears the Lord.

And, arguably worse:

The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

“The fear” sounds especially threatening, implying that fear itself is not adequate, but rather “the fear” that derives only from encounters of the divine sort will suffice. Both quotations are from Psalms. Next door to the sports hall and games room is a Chapel, and it was only after I noted the religious iconography that I spotted shelves of the Holy Bible lining the walls of the games room. I hope you’d agree that the nervousness I felt was understandable.

After a brief introduction to the kids, aged between about 5 and 15, in which they sang a splendid rendition of Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer in sign-language, my cohorts and I played a brief game of dodgeball with our new friends. One small boy did get gratuitously flattened by a ball to the face, but even so I think the game was cut suspiciously short by the handlebar man. The remaining hour was spent handing out Christmas gifts to the kids that had been donated by generous members of the community, to which we had contributed a few baseball gloves and footballs and so on. Somewhat disconcertingly, the gifts were amazing. Every message to Santa had been answered. Girls were receiving huge boxes of craft supplies, jewelry sets, and cosmetics. The guys were adorned with all kinds of action figures, board games, sports sets, K’nex and Mechano: all of it brand new. I quickly stifled my untoward sense of envy. For a moment, upon seeing the luminous faces of drooling and expectant children, I though a better name for the center might be the Salivation Army. My sense of pride, on the other hand, was impossible to stifle. Although we were brief in our visit, and somewhat detached in our manufactured friendliness, watching the children sing, applaud as we walked in, and take off like a kicked kitten when we played dodgeball was absolutely wonderful.

Meanwhile, the black words stared lingeringly back at the children, reminding them of the price they pay for their tight-trope walk of fortune and misfortune. What encouraged the owner-operators of this outpost to think that those words of scripture were appropriate for a place of learning, optimism, but, ultimately, poverty? Both quotations employ the word “fear”, surreptitiously and under-handedly tarnishing the joys and innocence of youth. Like a father baying after his daughter at a high school disco, the “fear of the Lord” preys on the unconscious mind of the kids. Not only do they find themselves on the lowest rungs of society, but also they must be inculcated into the most horrid, base, and sinister elements of religious ideology. Why? Where do these people, volunteers, carers, “captains” get off on terrifying those children? The more I ponder it, the more sickened I feel, and the more I regret not having confronted one of those responsible.

Should we be surprised, however? Was I ignorant to this sort of mass religious inculcation? Is it more widespread than I imagined? Does it, indeed, spread beyond Mormon and Catholic Missions to the impoverished of the planet and into our back yard? Is Christianity synonymous with the Salvation Army? So it seems.

While I type, these children are being handed gifts, amazing gifts, charitable gifts with one hand, and fed lies, threats, and horror stories with the other, all in the name of religion.

The Pot is Full

Looking back I was perhaps slightly dogmatic in my assertions yesterday, particularly now that I can't get a second allusion out of my head with regard to Greenwood's Be Good and Stay Quiet. Being a principled and experienced Radiohead exponent, I know all too well that to succumb to the almost overwhelming temptation to listen to bootleg recordings of unrecorded songs somewhat taints the end product. It's hard to explain exactly why that is, but Videotape is a case in point, although something like Nude is an exception. And so, when early performances of new songs trickle down through the ether in ever-increasing standards of recording, I tend to avoid as best as possible listening to them over and over again. Fellow fanboys will know the demands this makes upon one's person (see Give Up The Ghost, for example). With this in mind, it's notable that hearing Be Good and Stay Quiet ebbing and flowing through my speakers earlier today, Thom Yorke's obscure performance of an unnamed track in New York this year sprang resolutely to mind. Before today I’d only listened to this recording once. It's understandably been titled "Let Me Take Control", or "A Walk Down The Staircase" by fans, and unquestionably falls into the no-play bracket, being as unnervingly perfect as it is. Why has this track now invaded my previously untroubled listening of Greenwood’s piece? In what way does this unnamed song overlap with The Present Tense? Well, by Yorke’s own guarded and sarcastic admission, he “only [has] one trick on the guitar now” (see link below), and the creative output he enjoyed while touring with his band, Atoms for Peace, has led to more than a couple of songs similar to these two. Greenwood’s score, possibly without meaning to or even realizing, has synergized the two songs into a beautifully erudite and simple offspring. For reference, here is the video of Yorke performing the untitled song. (My heterosexuality has by now, been well evidenced, but I do say he looks rather delicious.)

Norwegian Wood

Jonny Greenwood's second movie score has surfaced as a CD in Japan, and it seems set to be released sooner or later to real people in England and stuff. Never to be outdone, however, trolling the web has proved successful, and I've nabbed myself a free copy. The soundtrack, which includes some old CAN classics such as Mary Mary So Contrary, was made for the Japanese film adaptation of Norwegian Wood, a novel I haven't read by Haruki Murakami (itself titled after The Beatles' track). 'Norwegian Wood' does sound like the name for a blue powder one might find on the top shelf of a secluded shack in the souks of Marrakesh, alongside things like ground rhino horn. Nevertheless, there are moments of supreme beauty on the album, even to the ears of a blost fairly unfamiliar with classical music. The track, I'll Come See You Again, for example, echoes the most ambitious and soaring tracks from Greenwood's previous score for There Will Be Blood. What stuck out from the soundtrack, however, was the track Be Good and Stay Quiet, an unusual piece, firstly because it employs a guitar, but primarily because it reminds me of something quite specific. When I posed this to The Dutton he suggested it sounded something like the first ten seconds of Radiohead's Jigsaws Falling Into Place, but admitted he wasn't fully content with this answer. Reliable and long-serving to the Radiohead cause as The Dutton is, I was rather surprised to find myself alone on this one. To me it sounds exactly like the chords of Thom Yorke’s as yet unrecorded song, The Present Tense, so much so that it raises interesting questions about the song’s origin. Indeed, before the second and final performance of this track in Boston earlier this year, Thom dedicated the song to his band-mate; “This is for Jonny”, he said. Was the dedication motivated by a sense of indebtedness to Jonny for composing the piece? Was it motivated by Jonny himself who so likes the track that he’s created his own rendition for a movie score? Either way, it’s a powerful track in its own right, and well-suited as an advertisement for the score as a whole. Seek it out.

Please Ask For One

This time last year a small circle of my friends and I went to see Stewart Lee perform his show, If You Prefer A Milder Comedian Please Ask For One, named after a less than satisfactory visit to a certain high street coffee chain. It so happened that we missed the opening thirty minutes of the show, and embarrassingly shuffled in only to find ourselves seated in the front row, and plum in the centre. This was due in part to our unanimous desire to eat our dinner, but principally because one of our team was reliably late (though so wayward and flagrant is he in his routine tardiness that he manages the paradox of being both reliable and unpredictable). Maintaining the stature of the professional, Lee barely broke his stride, although he did turn his back and walk conspicuously to the rear of stage, as though facing the without almost demanded he confront such arrant latecomers. The ensuing moments of suppressed laughter were rather contorting, it must be said, but also tinged with a subtle yet acute sense of guilt, so high is my admiration for Lee. Overall, my appreciation for the show was incomplete, circumcised as it was, until recently when I got my pirating mitts on a copy of his DVD (see below). It has been my long-held opinion that Lee should concentrate his commercial and merchandizing efforts on audio reproduction. His monologues are just that, and are rarely enhanced to a notable degree by the addition of visuals. This latest, however, is the exception and also perhaps his best. Regardless, in my clumsy and technically obtuse way I have carved the audio from its original and spliced it into chapters that would fit easily onto your iPod (other portable music playing devices are available). As a gift from me to you, in time for Christmas, here is a custom built zip file for your auditory pleasure. Indeed, it may help you to decide whether or not I should cast aside my loyalties and imbibe instead upon the royalties, and upload the full show to YouTube. The choice is yours.

If You Prefer A Milder Comedian

Hugh Laurie said recently that, as a teenager, he had listened to his Monty Python records so attentively and with such regularity that he could even hear the background fizz of tiny fuses being lit to create gunshot effects. In my case, the same is true of Stewart Lee, which is why he occupies a strongly contested seat among the heavyweights of the banner. His 2004 comeback routine, Stand-Up Comedian has passed through my speakers, in one form or another, somewhere between forty and fifty times. I know every line, every pause, every tonal inflection, every bout of laughter, and every round of applause (even if embarrassingly perpetrated by a single audience-member). And yet, dear reader, it never fails to make me laugh. Over the last couple of years, in which I've ventured forth to actually see him perform, he has mentioned on more than one occasion how some "cunts" have pirated his material online. Your humble blost felt it impossible not to writhe shrinkingly into his chair at these points, as I have, it is widely known, comprehensively circulated his 2007 show, 41st Best Stand-Up Comedian, in bitesize chunks around YouTube. One should be aware; I haven't profited from these videos in any way, and I've made sure not to succumb to the temptation to add the dreaded "advertising" that YouTube proposes on an almost daily basis in my inbox. Advertising on YouTube, as we all know, is a byword for thumb-screwing. I do, however, have his 2010 routine crudely chopped up and idly waiting to be uploaded to YouTube. My question to you, my most ardent and deranged followers, is: should I do it? Had it not been for Stewart's public reprimand I probably wouldn't think twice. Isn't it strange?

For now, never alone again.

Writer's block manages its own paradox: at once, a self-indulgent condition that barely passes for an affliction, let alone a reality, whilst also managing to be a euphemism of sorts. It is not simply a block, rather an active assault, debilitating, ravaging all capacity and lucidity of mind. I shall wait, however, until I have experienced it myself before writing more on it, as the hiatus you and I have experienced over these long and unnecessary months apart resulted from wanton laziness on my part for which there can be little excuse. Nevertheless, far from excusing myself, I shall go one better and tell you that I don't care. I observed the intervening months of silence and passivity with just that, garnished with a liberal handful of indifference. Writing, one must remember, should never become a crutch. It is a luxury and not something one should come to host with tired mundanity, regularity, or the ingratitude that's borne out of over-familiarity. It is precisely upon this principle that freedom of speech must be reinforced, not to resolve it as a right, but as a privilege (its exercises becoming that much sweeter as a result, like a chocolate bar enjoyed without having been paid for). As Roberto Bolaño concludes in his curious text, Antwerp, a collection of prose-poetry that, taken in one long and stuttering dose, begins to resemble a novella.

Of what is lost, irretrievably lost, all I want to recover is the daily availability of my writing.

Quite so. As if intoning the severity of the future maladies that would cut short his life, Bolaño views the "availability" of writing as of paramount importance to his existence. Allowing for the nuances and quirks of translation, one questions what is meant by "availability". Whatever form the challenge to that availability takes, it must be met head-on, and here it begins.

Really coming now

Coming.

I have not died. This blog shall return. Rest, humble followers, those weary hands. For those of you whose F5 has all but faded, do not fear. Your blost comes back online on the 21st, two weeks from today. Meanwhile, trouble yourself with support for two poor minions, already flagging, foolhardy in their ambitions, resorting to the final Rolo, flailing and thrashing in the depths of misery and waning sympathies. Give what you can. Robert Iddiols is currently reading 2666. You're welcome. If, none the less, you struggle without irregular gurglings from the lubricated and irrupting pits of his conscious "mind" then I can only recommend you listen to this, read this, and buy this.

Trailers

Movie trailers these days rarely provide the audience with anything of value. They either include all the best one-liners, or they reveal the entire plot (see the trailer for Quarantine, the remake of the sublime [rec.]). It just so happens that the original trailer for The Dead Zone was a bit of a masterclass of the art, revealing nothing, yet appearing to show everything, while lending a glimmering insight into the thematic discourse: religion, retribution, the problem of evil, etc.. It's also worth noting, and worth it for it's own sake because it contains the extremely powerful and terrifying image of a goldfish bowl at boiling point.

Less Than Dead

You may be wondering why, given that it was released over a week ago, I haven't already posted a five-hundred word review of Bret Easton Ellis' new novel, the sequel to 1985's Less than Zero, Imperial Bedrooms. Well, to tell the truth, it's been quite a while since I read LTZ, and I've since felt that I never really gave it the full due. And so, when I venture back to the old Heimat next week I'm going to take another run at it before picking up the almost disappointingly slender (192 pages) sequel. To quell the withdrawal somewhat I've read through the many author profiles and book reviews that appear on the Extras page of Ellis' revamped website. Jesse Katz, a very old friend of Ellis, transcribes a conversation they shared on the patio of L.A.'s Polo Lounge at the Beverley Hills Hotel. Interestingly, toward the end of the night, four tequilas in, Katz mentions a scene from Imperial Bedrooms that is set in the Polo Lounge:

The Polo Lounge makes its appearance on page 20 of Imperial Bedrooms, the setting for an awkward reunion between Clay and his troubled childhood friend Julian. Their conversation is cryptic, distracted, Clay already anesthetized from an evening of holiday parties. It’s that time of night when I’ve entered the dead zone and I’m not coming out.

Yesterday's film review of The Dead Zone didn't mention the title's signifcance but, as we're pushed, it refers to an unfulfilled premonition, a void where latency remains. Isn't it gratifying when these little coincidences occur? It's nice to think of Ellis' experiencing one of these moments for himself - the point of mild intoxication wherein one must decide whether to stop or take the proverbial plunge. The dead zone. I like that.

The Dead Zone

Expanding my knowledge of the Cronenberg oeuvre yet further, I've just watched The Dead Zone, based on the Stephen King novel by the same name. I can assure you, dear reader, it was absolutely superb, even by the very high standards of Cronenberg's catalogue of work. The plot owes much to Cronenberg's earlier classic, Scanners, which itself owes much to John Wyndham's brilliant novel The Chrysalids, but the film's success is indebted greatest to an engrossing central performance by a young Christopher Walken in the role of Johnny Smith. Looking like an intense James Spader, with windswept hair that was so de rigueur in the early eighties, Walken avoids the temptation to overact a role that many would have fluffed. It's a perfect example of flawless casting, and the love interest with Brooke Adams' character culminates in a wrenching denouement that poignantly and appropriately elevates the themes of forgiveness and retribution, love and tragedy to the forefront of the audience's awareness.

After a sudden car accident Smith is left comatose for five years. He awakes to find he has lost his job, his mobility, and most significantly, his loved one. He has, however, gained a curious psychic intuition. He resents his "gift" and rejects any notion of divine intervention. Indeed, perhaps the film's most powerful undercurrent confronts the Problem of Evil. Religion very delicately lingers in the background for much of the story, and is invoked acutely, though powerfully as Smith psychically witnesses a murder. Recoiling, he tells a police officer:

I was there. I saw him. I stood there. I saw his face. I stood there and watched him kill that girl. God. I did nothing. I stood there and watched him kill that girl. God. I stood there. I did nothing.

Smith appears shocked at his own inaction, his inadequacy when confronted with evil. There's a subtle overlap here. Of course, God's omnipresence should, we intuit, eliminate the potential for evil, yet evil remains. However, surely evil cannot exist, by definition, without it's opposite. One senses that this dichotomy plagues Walken's character as he proceeds to come to terms with his new life. It's a remarkable performance entrusted to a remarkable script, and, as always, Cronenberg stamps his brilliance over every scene.

For those who've heard the glory

For all the Neutral Milk Hotel fans who read this blog (I hope that's a few of you), here's Jeff Mangum in New York earlier this year (!). How on Earth did this pass me by? I'm assuming none of you knew about this; you would have told me, surely. This guy's still got it. Genius. On the one hand, we must concede we're blessed to have this footage, but on the other, it's tragic there isn't a soundboard (sans audience noise), close-up video to immerse oneself in. Know all your enemies. We know who our enemies are...

As Promised

It's unlike me to have a categorically dross meet, but I did have a fair old whack at the 100m Freestyle on the final day, the video of which I've generously posted below for your amusement. Heavily dosed up on home brand caffeine (600mgs), the energy complex provided by green Monster (1200mgs), ZMA and BCAA tabs, and the real possibility of taking the C-Final by storm, I went out like a champ, only to crash and burn in a spectacular explosion of bodily function. In old money, this sort of death is referred to as swimming Stroud-style. It's a great shame that I'm in lane 1, the furthest from the camera, and didn't get a name mention for my early heroics. Also, is it just me or did I have this one in the bag up until the 90 meter mark?

Santa Clara

Your humble blost is in Santa Clara for the weekend, beginning his annual foray into the Summer swimming season. Like last year I may post the odd video if I turn in a good showing, but otherwise you'll have to go without my sharp political voice ringing in your ear for the next few days. Wish me luck!

Into The Thick Of It

Like most sitcoms, The Thick Of It is couched in a naturalistic setting; we have to accept the premises and concept of the thing before we can really find it funny. Of course, political spin (one hopes) is not quite so venal and crass as it's portrayed in the show, but it does demonstrate quite plausibly how personal relationships, vested interests, and common greed and narcissism can disrupt the regular, however punctuated flow of media reportage. As we saw throughout the case of the boarded flotilla on its way to Gaza, political spin skews, corrupts, and in some sense, dampens true and reliable reportage, let alone commentary or analysis. The Thick Of It's creator, Armando Iannucci manages successfully to squeeze a lot of humour out of this basic media trait, and much of the awkwardness and slapstick of the show relies on the irony provided by the viewing audience. The plot construction is largely hyperbolic and tongue-in-cheek, but only because we're aware of it's plausibility. As Michael Totten pointed out in the case of the Mavi Marmara:

While much of the world howls in passionate, cynical, and sinister indignation at Israel for the flotilla incident on the Mediterranean last week, only nineteen percent of Americans blame the Jewish state for what happened. Only 26 percent of Democrats say it's Israel's fault, along with eleven percent of Republicans, making this a fringe position in both political parties.

(Further evidence that the left is losing its way.) What this markedly shows, however, is that the repeated flogging of Israel across western media outlets was, as Totten claims, a "fringe position". Indeed, bearing the wit and wisdom of The Thick Of It in mind, we've been given strong evidence that the media does not reflect reality, but, gladly, nor does reality reflect the media.

On the 'ed

Ahh, the banner, the beautiful banner. TheDutton came good on his promise and exceeded even our highest expectations, surpassing his own standards, and reinforcing his reputation as a perfectionist and all-round hero. I'll throw myself out there and say that, within a few years, his profile may even be afforded a place alongside the likes of Lee and Ellis. Wishful thinking, you say? I wouldn't bet on it.

YouTube Tuesday

Before I follow up on a few things, it's that time again. Sort of. First, England's indifferent performance on Saturday meant that many were despondent, inconsolable, and typically irate as they called in to Five Live's 606. Almost to the point of farce, Alan Green pursued his ongoing campaign of ensuring that his name is never mentioned alongside anything that may appear even slightly contentious. One good thing came out of the spectacle, however, and it was this gem from god-knows-who. Second, my favorite video at the moment, one that I like to enjoy on looped playback, is this. A black reporter working for Fox News in Texas overreacts rather brilliantly to a fly swooping into his mouth. All those painstaking hours of perfecting a semblance to Received Pronunciation are banished, replaced by the choirs of the ghetto. Lastly, here's a video that I posted myself, disappointed that no other uploader had valued the entire exchange. It's from The Thick Of It, a British masterclass in comedy. The context required for this video is that Glenn's son has learning difficulties. Enjoy.

England Fan

Your dearest blost was interviewed on local news the other day alongside my fellow swimmers to discuss the World Cup, something of which we know fairly little. We offered our two cents anyway, and it all got cut down to one cent as you may imagine, which was unfortunate. My bit doesn't really make sense without the preface from Jordan who went on and on about England's tendency to injure itself. I did like how they put my name underneath my face, with the addendum: 'England Fan', as if I'm some kind of skinhead hooligan, tramping the streets with a broken beer bottle in one hand and a bucket of vindaloo in the other (not that Americans know what that is). Here's the link (I think you have to have a Facebook account for now - sorry).

Waiting for the Barbarians

My infatuation for John Coetzee has now been well documented on this blog, and my homage is almost complete. In his third novel, Waiting for the Barbarians he develops the mode of Conrad and draws from his own debut, Dusklands, telling of the horrors of a directionless Imperial station in the middle of the nameless outback. Coetzee opens the first page with yet another example of his emphasis upon the face. Here, however, the face is obscured by some peculiarly unnamed objects.

I have never seen anything like it: two little discs of glass suspended in front of his eyes in loops of wire. Is he blind? I could understand if he wanted to hide blind eyes. But he is not blind. The discs are dark, they look opaque from the outside, but he can see through them.

Coetzee's great regard for the master, Samuel Beckett, is obvious if only through his intense, affectionate, and superb introduction to the fourth Centenary edition of Beckett's complete works. Indeed, the name, Waiting for the Barbarians may even be a slight nod in the direction of Waiting for Godot. The novel captures the absurdity, the cyclicality, the futility, and the horrors of Beckett's classic play. The existential question, also, does not go unnoticed. During a moment of not uncommon personal reflection, the nameless protagonist confronts the real possibility of being hanged for treason:

I truly believe I am not afraid of death. What I shrink from, I believe, is dying as stupid and befuddled as I am.

This concern for dying as though unprogressed becomes a repeated refrain throughout, and it brings to mind the lucid, brilliant, distillation of existential futility courtesy of Beckett. In Godot, Vladimir is heard to say:

Astride of a grave and a difficult birth. Down in the hole, lingeringly, the grave digger puts on the forceps.

P.S. What a wonderful word: "lingeringly".

Napalm

Always wanting to know what it feels like to be Napalmed, I've just splashed boiling oil all over my lower abdomen (one of my most prized bodily assets). I was squeezing some typically American meat from its plastic tube into my skillet pan, when, with all the gusto of a caged sex-offender, it all came gushing at once. In line with the laws of displacement, the sudden release sent a solid spoonful of searing vegetable oil within five inches of the crown jewels. I think I may have taken this fetish of cooking naked to its outer reaches. I'll be buying myself stockings and a gimp mask next. Now I know why chefs wear those faggy aprons. Still, it's my birthday coming up, and if anyone would like to buy me one of those aprons with a cartoon image of a naked chick on the front I'd be much obliged. In the meantime, I'll keep applying the whetted cloth.

Anti-Zionism

In hindsight I've realized that my railing against the ignorance of Israel's antagonists led to a slip of sorts. You'll recall that I wrote:

The left-wing apologism for Islamic promulgation has expanded to such an extent that not only, we're told, should the Palestinian population in Gaza be granted complete immunity from Israeli interference, but also that Israel represents an oppressive, almost fascistic state.

Given fascism's historical and almost inextricable link to anti-Semitism, that was daft of me, and I'm glad that none of you seemed to pick it up. Speaking of which, someone who did get caught out was this lady, American reporter Helen Thomas. As absurd and reprehensible as her comments were, I can't help but feel that she's being hounded as the scapegoat for all the falsehoods, lazy journalism, and media slant that we're only now realizing demanded closer inspection. The silly old bint probably got caught up in the furore of the whole thing, and thought that her anti-Zionist opinions would finally find a sympathetic audience. Alas, not so.

Gaza

Israel's refusal to host an independent international inquiry is being reported as yet another scandal. Was it not strange the way the boarding of the second ship, the Rachel Corrie, was treated by the media as a similar outrage? How dare the Israelis maintain a blockade! Once again, I recommend paying Michael Totten a visit. His aside about the hatemail he's been receiving is illuminating, yet unsurprising.

Staying with this topic, though changing tack somewhat, I bring you a poem I wrote about a year ago, inspired by the conflict between the Hamas militias and Israeli forces. It began as a simple exercise in controlled metre, written in sonnet form with strict iambic pentameter. As you'll notice, it deviates from the metric structure more and more as the poem progresses, and any future scholars may intone from this whatever they like. For you, on the other hand, have the iambic rhythm in the back of your mind: di-dum di-dum di-dum di-dum di-dum, and see where it takes you. It's called, Gaza.

The Gazans flee their burning homes in rags.
Set off on foot beneath a burning sky.
The evil bodies of afar attacking
The babies, children, mothers: pregnant all.
Hamas stands strong among the flaming rubble.
If only we could see such glee in fear.
Ignite the corneas of our sole foe,
And sing sweetly in the ears of terror.
The wailing echoes back and forth across
The billiard table of desert sands
Betwixt and framed by jagged mountaintops
Of sickly ash and smoldering lava.
The gates of Hell stand not much farther.
We trek the blackened baize of constant threat.

Israel

"Oh my God, he's defending Israel now", sighed satirist Chris Morris during an impromptu debate with Martin Amis in 2007, to which the audience applauded rapturously and en cue, presumably feeling a sense of righteousness with each coming together of their hands. The ongoing rhetorical attacks directed at Israel, as highlighted most recently by the media commentary of the conflict on board the flotilla on its way to the Gaza strip, has become the hallmark of pathetic and sundry quasi-liberalism of the posturing intellectual elite in Britain and America. Like it or not, Israel is an extremely important ally in the Middle East, presenting a democracy with a working parliamentary system amidst surrounding theocracies, dictatorships, and monarchist states. For some reason it has become the object of an ever-increasing and developing campaign of slander throughout the Western media.

Israel unilaterally withdrew all military occupation from the Gaza strip and the West Bank in the Summer of 2005. The Israeli military respond to gunfire, mortar-fire, and rocket-fire from the Gaza strip on an almost daily basis. The elected government of the Gaza strip, Hamas is a proxy for the Muslim Brotherhood, and was founded upon the principles of Islamism and the goal of establishing an Islamic state. The name itself means 'Islamic Resistance Movement', and is recognized by the European Union and the United States as a terrorist organization.

Alarmingly, however, when the news broke that a flotilla supposedly carrying aid to the Gaza strip was boarded and seized by the Israeli military, the event was presented in the media as another example of Israeli aggression, and serious cause for concern among Human Rights activists and for Western governments. The left-wing apologism for Islamic promulgation has expanded to such an extent that not only, we're told, should the Palestinian population in Gaza be granted complete immunity from Israeli interference, but also that Israel represents an oppressive, almost fascistic state that supports the "illegal war" in Iraq and the extinguishing of all Muslim self-rule.

To the contrary, it was the election of Hamas that reinstated a climate of military violence and hostility, and categorically froze all peace talks between Israel and the Palestinian population in the Gaza strip. Why then has Israel become a dirty word in the West, muddied by wayward and lazy accusations of Human Rights abuses, regional expansionism, concealment of their Nuclear weapons arsenal, and various other deviations from what's acceptable?

For those of us who have been following the flotilla fiasco from the start will have noticed the strange and risible turn the media coverage has taken since Monday morning. What began as reports of outrageous Israeli conduct (yet another example thereof) have gradually been exposed as falsehoods. Slowly and painstakingly the truth is coming out. Michael Totten, the master of such situations, has covered this from the beginning and it would be wrong of me to try to condense the invaluable range of reportage that he has drawn from. I urge you to visit his blog, scroll down to the bottom and read you way to the present. You may be struck by the divorce between the media's representation of events and reality. Even from constitutionally non-bias outlets like the BBC the skew on the events is transparent, unpardonable, and very worrisome.

Greeny

I'm sorry for the silence of the last few days but I was joined, rather abruptly, by an old cohort of mine: a certain Mr. Green. We hadn't seen each other in some two or three years and, although we used to play a bit of golf together some ten years ago, we haven't exactly kept in regular contact. How delightful it is then to re-establish a connection with someone whom you'd expected had only drifted away from you into newer and sprightlier circles. We gave American ale a run for its money and sampled the local hotspots, of which there are few, and so we became community folk-heroes for a few fleeting moments. This morning I sent him on his way toward the Grand Canyon courtesy of a Greyhound bus. I hope he won't mind me revealing this, but he's somewhat of a Blues fan. (We delighted some local characters one evening with a brief but heated debate regarding the existence or non-existence of a man named Robert Johnson.) And so, Greeny ventures across this great Republic in a mini-pilgrimage to the birthplaces of Blues: Austin, Texas and New Orleans, Louisiana. I wish him all the best. Remarkably, it will only be a few weeks before we see each other again at my 21st birthday bash. Already, I look forward to looking back.

Coetzee and Face

Continuing with the rather boppy theme of facial mutilation, we are forced to reckon with the ongoing and acutely wonderful canon of the work of J.M. Coetzee. My infatuation for Coetzee began with a hurried reading of Disgrace, the story of an ageing male professor enjoying a bout of uncontrollable lust for the younger members of the female sex. Those of you savvy enough to have read the novel, for which he deservedly received the Booker Prize in 1999, will know that my little synopsis is an extremely poor distillation of a masterwork of contemporary literature.

My sudden, impassioned regard for Coetzee has taken me through many of his earlier works of fiction. Here, chronology deserves our attention. Pineda's Face was published in 1984; Coetzee, as he writes in his foreword, first read the book in 1985, two years after the publication of the novel that first earned him the Booker Prize in 1983, The Life and Times of Michael K, but a year before the publication of his lesser-known re-imagining of Daniel Defoe's Robinson Crusoe, simply entitled Foe.

In 2003 the board of Nobel judges for literature, after awarding Coetzee the honor, issued, by way of brief explanation, the following appraisal of his work: “In numerable guises [Coetzee] presents the surprising involvement of the outsider.” The inimitable protagonist of Coetzee's fourth novel, Michael K is a classic outsider figure, shirking society, preferring to live a life of seclusion and self-sufficiency, a combination that proves rather demanding during the chaos of the South African civil war of the seventies and eighties. Setting Michael K apart, however, is his hare lip, "like a snail's foot", which he ardently refuses to have corrected. Coetzee's recognition of the importance of the face, then, is established.

Prior to this, his second novel, In the Heart of the Country tells the story of a female genius living as a housemaid in rural South-Africa, unable to articulate her fears and escape. She is noted for her mannish appearance, enhanced by a single eyebrow that stretches across the base of her forehead. It appears, therefore, that Coetzee's construction of the outward appearances of his protagonists greatly informs our understanding of their social standing. Indeed, during the pivotal set-piece, central to the thematic and narrative arc of Disgrace, our protagonist, David Lurie has his ear badly singed by fire. Facial misconfiguration, therefore, becomes somewhat of an index throughout Coetzee's novels, providing the acid test by which we assess and develop the protagonist at hand.

During his fictional reworking of the writing process behind Defoe's Robinson Crusoe (which, one might convincingly argue, could be labelled 'creative-fiction'), Coetzee takes the character of Friday, Crusoe's loyal manservant, and makes him a mute. How, exactly, Friday lost his tongue remains unclear, and the female protagonist, Susan Barton, struggles continually in her search for the answer. Obviously, unable to speak, Friday cannot explain the cause or the perpetrator that reduced him to such barbarism. Barton describes being positively repulsed by Friday upon learning of his affliction: a very similar repulsion described by the peers of Helio Cara in Face. Friday becomes an object of curiosity, revulsion, and exile. During a moment of speculation and attempted empathy, Barton ponders her lingering sense of disgust.

An aversion that came over me that we feel for all the mutilated. Why is that so, do you think? Because they put us in mind of what we would rather forget. […] Perhaps. But toward you I felt a deeper revulsion. I could not put out of mind the softness of the tongue, its softness and wetness, and the fact that it does not live in the light, also how helpless it is before the knife, once the barrier of the teeth have been passed.

The passage is notable not only for Barton's description, but also because it was written by Coetzee just after his first reading of Face, in 1986. The above examples of facial deformity, taken alongside this erudite, yet powerful exploration of the face's innate attachment to the human condition, lend some insight into Coetzee's obsession with the face, whilst expanding upon yesterday's theory of sameness.

Cecil Pineda's Face

In 1977 Cecile Pineda, then an aspiring journalist working in San Francisco, found a backpage news story originating from Brazil reporting on the tragic accident of a man who had, falling down a cliff, had his face torn from his skull. For two years she sat on the story, believing that a novelist would inevitably pick it up, transforming the facts into fiction. Nothing happened, but the memory of the story lingered and, she says, came to "fester like an unhealed wound". She took up the challenge herself, writing a breathtaking 200 page novel entitled, Face. The story is one of identity and insensitivity, recognition and representation, suffering and social acceptability. Following the accident Helio Cara, unable to afford reconstructive surgery, receives a rubber mask through which he can barely breathe. Wandering the backstreets of Rio de Janeiro's Whale Back slum, wearing a handkerchief where his face used to be, he invites the seemingly endless hostility and violence of his neighbours. He loses his job as a hairdresser, his girlfriend, and any sense of social identity. All react with revulsion and disgust. It is wrenching. Interestingly and importantly, as you'll see, the 2003 Nobel Prize winner, J.M. Coetzee writes in the book's foreword:

Helio Cara is a man who loses his face and learns what it is to live in a society that is neither particularly cruel nor particularly kind, just has no philosophy of the face, has given no thought to the face, and therefore reacts to facelessness with bewilderment and anger.

Indeed, this is the natural Human reaction to the unknown, but Coetzee suggests that there is a unique manifestation of this phenomenon that is reserved especially for the face:

What is this thing, this structure of skin and bone and gristle and muscle, that we are condemned to carry around with us wherever we go? Where does is it begin, where does it end? And why does everyone see it rather than seeing me?

My most recent professor of English, Carlos Gallego has an interesting theory on the subject. He claims that we are instinctively, yet also consciously repulsed by Human mutilation, particularly of the face, because it reminds us of our sameness. Articulating this concept is problematic. Human society and cultural ideology is heavily steeped in the concept of individuality. The fact that we are merely animals requires constant mental reinforcement. Identity and recognition provide the grounding upon which we construct our most elite notions of personal integrity, fortitude, and success. Gazing upon the viscera of a fellow Human's innards, therefore, acts an unwelcome reminder of the ultimate futility of individuality. The unpolished, unkempt, and stinking contents of one's gut, for example, are not nearly as revolting or terrifying as the prospect they conjure, not of death, but of sameness.

The Yard

As I mentioned earlier, Bryan Appleyard, or, as he's known to his antagonists, The Yard has reentered the blogiverse. He's a blost and writer with whom I find myself increasingly in disagreement. As Nick Cohen notes on his blogroll, Bryan is "Brilliant on everything except God". There's a very strong case to be made for this, but the strength of Bryan's perspective seems to lull significantly in ever more areas. I recall being rendered furious by his Sunday Times review of Lars Von Trier's Anti-Christ, in which he called for censorship, if not an outright ban. For all his faults, however, we forgive him because he can write. I first discovered The Yard through the (uniquely valuable) Clive James website where he's rightly listed among other guest writers who "are in touch with reality". He's a writer who gave me the tools and the courage to write how I've always wanted, and, for that alone, I pass on the highest of recommendations.

Spider

Courtesy of a nod in that direction by director extraordinaire, David Cronenberg, I've just read Patrick McGrath's Spider, an exploration of working class Britain and family breakdown through the perspective of a schizophrenic. It's a successful book successfully translated to the screen, partly due to the truthful performance of Ralph Fiennes, but mainly because Cronenberg understood the foundations upon which the novel succeeds: consistency of narrative voice. For a masterclass in the art of narrative consistency see Burgess' A Clockwork Orange, Easton Ellis' Less Than Zero, and, of course, Salinger's The Catcher In The Rye. Consistency requires a tremendous amount of self-restraint and, importantly, faith in the reader. Indeed, we learn of Spider's character, as we do of Clay in Less Than Zero, more from what remains unsaid, than from what we read on the page. In a glorious instant of sub-epiphanous understanding, Spider traces his sense of identity through a shift in personalities while writing in his journal; at once, his schizophrenia is bared before him, and yet he is unable to see it. (Coincidentally, it goes some way toward providing an insight into how I feel about blogging again.)

I begin to write. And as I do a strange thing happens, the pencil starts to move along the faint blue lines of the page almost as though it had a will of its own, almost as though my memories [...] were contained not within this stubbled leather helmet of this head of mine but in the pencil itself, as though they were tiny particles all packed together in a long thin column of graphite, running across the page while my fingers, like a motor, provide merely the mechanical means of their discharge. When this happens I have the curious sensation not of writing but of being written.

Banner

Before I go on, a word, if I may, on the banner. It's shit. Late last night, through the haze of tired eyes, wishful thinking, and general ineptitude, it looked alright. A replacement, I should hope, is imminent. I'm fairly happy with the general look and layout of the blog; it's a little frayed around the edges but it stands proud. The banner, however, could use a revamp. The Dutton, perhaps during a moment of unthinking generosity, has offered to do a proper one, minus the use of (as he rightly guessed) Microsoft Paint. Coming from the Man responsible for such examples as this, we wait with baited breath.

Tribulus Terrestris

Your blost returns, comrades, driven on by the return of the Yard, the undying, unquenchable compulsion to write, and the worried words of frustrated friends and loved ones. I barely have time to think, dear reader, let alone take pen in hand. Unperturbed, my knuckles twitch with anxious anticipation. The burdens of time hang over me like a heavy head. For someone who struggles to find time in which to masturbate (properly), I'm surprised at my lack of sexual, testosteronic vigour. Where is it all directed? All activity spurns the keyboard, preferring the sustenance of food and sleep. Hours seep into days, days into weeks. Afar are the days of regular updates and concentric discussion. An apology would be untrue. I return at last.

I Talk To The Wind

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Blost

I realise that I've been a shit blog host (or 'blost', as I'll be known henceforth) but the balance will be reset soon. Never fear, for here is The Hitch to mark the release of Hitch-22 (of which there seems to be an elusive, elitist second version).

For Poulter

The possibility of the impossible, which is exposed by every loving encounter, every scientific re-foundation, every artistic invention and every instance of emancipatory politics, is the sole principle - against the ethics of living-well whose real content is the deciding of death - of an ethics of truths.

~ Alain Badiou, Ethics.

Swimming

A fish rots, like a
Swimmer, from
The head down.

Whether your
Rise is strenuous,
Or your luck rotten,
One is glorious,
The other forgotten.

NCAAs Postponed - National News

Meet was delayed 24 hours courtesy of the NoroVirus. Win. I remain unscathed. Here's the video link. Again, finals start at 11pm UK time. Wish me luck! Gotta go.

NCAAs

Okay, I'm here in Columbus. My little endeavour to bring you all that's on the tip of my tongue proved optimistic, but never fear, it is not lost. More importantly, for now, the swimming proper begins tomorrow at noon, so 4pm UK time. More attractively for you, however, would be the finals session, where it's all gonna kick off football-fan style. All that gets underway sharpish at 11pm UK time. Here's the link for the live stream. It's quite nicely put together with professional graphics and audio link-ups. Look for Arizona in the white caps, particularly on the first relay, the 4x50 Freestyle, in which your humble servant's going to spray lead all over the vicinity. Enjoy.

PS. - You'll probably have to download Microsoft Silverlight to view the page (shit, I know), and that link is subject to change if I find a better one. Keep a look-out. Also, for the full results, go here.

Stewart Lee Again Again

I almost forgot; Stu appeared on Mastermind a while back and (who were we to doubt) he won the bloody thing. His chosen subject was the Life and Work of Derek Bailey, who I hadn't even heard of before he spouted all the answers. For me, it's no surprise that he got nearly all of them right. Someone of his calibre would have an obsessive mind. It's a shame there's no footage of his later questions, in which he was pretty good, though he wobbled near the finish line. I had the full broadcast at the time, and were I not such a nonce, I'd have spliced it down and uploaded it myself. Sorry. You'll have to make do with this version. Even the way he shuffles to the chair made me laugh out loud.

Stewart Lee Again

Let us apportion ourselves a fat slice of Stewart Lee. It was remiss of me not to write a brief and fawning review of my Christmas excursion to see Stu's latest show, If You Prefer A milder Comedian Please Ask For One, though it dawns on me now that most of the remaining readers of this blog were there with me anyway.

It's worth pointing you in the direction of the following two interviews that Stu submitted himself too about a month ago. In the first he talks about material for the show, his increasing popularity, and some of his projects in the pipeline. In the second he makes me feel rather uncomfortable by mentioning the widespread pirating of his material online. If you've seen my YouTube page you'll know that I am the principle distributor of Stu's material on YouTube. He talks quite candidly and reasonably about it, to be honest, which is slightly unusual considering how his livelihood depends upon selling DVDs and other merchandise. Also, it was confirmed very recently by Armando Iannucci, the producer of Stew's BBC programme, Stewart Lee's Comedy Vehicle, and the mastermind behind In The Loop, that a second series of Stu's six-part series has been confirmed by the bigwigs. Excellent.

Secondly, Stu has a book coming out, published by none other than Faber and Faber. It's a collection of his stand-up routines galvanised by his own matrix of margin-annotations, footnotes, and alterations that Stu gathers as he tests his material. He can explain it better than I, and, in his own words:

For Faber it's going to be the most low-brow book they've ever done, but in terms of a stand-up comedy cash-in book it's going to be the absolute Rolls-Royce. It's the most high-brow comedy book ever done, but simultaneously it's the shoddiest thing in Faber's catalogue.

What's more, contrary to the sentiments of his emotional tirade during the live show, it appears a live DVD will, in fact, get shot from this routine and hit the shelves, along with the book, entitled, How I Escaped My Certain Fate, later this year. For a portion, my favorite portion of Stewart Lee's last live show, in which he performs a tender version of Steve Earl's Gallway Girl, see the clip below. ("Do some rape stuff. Send us home laughing").

Kermode

As time has progressed, much of this blog's output has become either unnecessary or self-indulgent, or, yes, unnecessarily self-indulgent. Point proven. The rotisserie of this blog's manifesto feeds off of regurgitation and readvancement. The same five or six topics get sucked dry, beaten into submission until no more information can be drawn and updated. This is, I suppose, a personal blog, as delineated by the banner at the top, but it's getting farcical. I'll leave it to the professionals. Those of you who do not frequent the Kermode Uncut blog owe it to yourself to do so. It's becoming the international hub of elitist film criticism, as evidence more and more along the comment reels. Here's Kermode's latest offering, combining his signature wit with his irrepressible opinions. Alone, he doesn't quite produce the alchemy of his radio show with Simon Mayo, but he proves he can go it alone if he needs to.

I can't go on. I'll go on.

Right, gents, I appreciate that I haven't been the comeliest host these past few days, and in a vain attempt at apology, I shall strive to rectify the balance tomorrow. My efforts have been somewhat strained in the direction of one of my great passions, swimming, and, indeed, my efforts will not go misplaced. A marriage between success and your humble and reclusive host shall be forged in the belly of the competitive arena. Arizona, the Number 1 ranked team in the nation put that label to the test in Columbus, Ohio, beginning Thursday of the coming week. Rest assured, video links, live streams, results, and anything I can get my mitts on will show up on this blog soon enough. Needless to say, once the intellectual malaise of the past week has been transcribed to print tomorrow, I shall post the link to the live stream along with the recommended viewing hours (that is, of course, subject to the condition that you give a damn). More to follow...

Dragons and Farmers

The Tucson Festival of Books shacked up two days ago to draw in the eclectic bunch of "readers" that the locale has to offer. Philip Roth once pondered that, from a population of 180 million, only about 100,000 Americans go to bed with a book rather than a television set. I wonder how many of the number aren't complete nutboxes. Forced to meander my way through the malaise of tents, teepees, awnings and shacks, I took careful note of the type of person who frequents such a festival. Lonely women, often escorted by a dog, often wearing bandannas saunter from the mysticism section to the eco section. Readerless authors sit awkwardly alone at the signing tables, finding themselves mistaken in their careers, mistaken by passers-by for a lost-and-found representative. Odd and mismatched couples accompany a stroller. A child one can't help but pity. One half grotesquely overweight, the other thin. One white, balding, the other Asian, Chinese as a rule. One man dressed as a plastic Stormtrooper buys an expensively produced, ribboned copy of Dragons and Farmers, the latest, I'm told by a banner, from a local author and specialist of Medieval mythology. He has a long ponytail. At least he does trade. So too do shacks marked Spirituality, Asian Self-Realization, and (my favorite) Organic Buddhism. Surely these aren't the people Roth was referring to.

god is not good?

A few more titles that didn't quite make it, before they escape my memory.

Gone with the Breeze
The Dog of the Baskervilles
10 Leagues under the Sea
No County for Old Men
Brunch at Tiffany's
The Half-Brothers Karamazov.

PS. You guys are letting me down on this one.

Arizona v. Cal Dual Meet 2010

Last week's swimming could have gone better. Though, that being said, our focus since August has been on the NCAAs, coming up in two weeks, and that's how it's going to stay. There were a few decent races though and, when I get my hands on the footage, I'll do my best to upload it here. Before then, I've picked up the video archive of Arizona's historic comeback against California in this year's dual meet. With four events left to go, we found ourselves 40 points behind the hosts. In dual meet terms, that deficit is a mountain.

First, South African Jean Basson churned out a true captain's swim in the 500 Free. After getting trounced by three Cal swimmers in the 1000, he threw caution to the wind and set the ball rolling. Nimrod came in a solid second, touching out the Cal hopeful. (Arizona are in the odd lanes, and always wear the white cap.)

Then, in the biggest upset of the meet, our Fly swimmers went 1-2-3 in the 100, pipping the fading Cal swimmer. Note the panic stricken commentator when reading out the results.

The ball was in our court. Preceding the final two events is a ten minute break - not exactly what we wanted. Momentum played a role, and we knew we had the advantage even though we were still 17 points behind. The organizer's refused to read out the scores, but everyone knew the situation. Next was our strongest event and their weakest, the 400 IM. If we go 1-2-3 in this as well, it would tip the points tally in our favour for the first time in the meet.

And so, the climax of the afternoon. Both teams knew what was at stake, and the etiquette and routine of swim meets had long since gone out the window. Cal now had to 1-2 us in the 4x50 Free Relay to win, and they certainly had the capability, particularly in their trump card, Nathan Adrian, who's fast becoming the second greatest yards sprint freestyler of all time (Behind Cesar Cielo). The Arizona A team goes in lane 3, with your humble servant going third, and Cal's A team go in lane 6.

Book titles that didn't quite make it

Inspired by the old childish game that Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie used to play on lonely, more male-oriented nights in, I've been trying to add to the list of "book titles that didn't quite make it". Classic examples include:

Mr Zhivago
Good Expectations
The Big Gatsby

You get the idea. How about:

Some Ado About Nothing
Prince Lear
American Weirdo
Paradise Misplaced

It's a good one to play when lying awake at night, failing to fall asleep. Here are a few others that don't quite work:

Catch-21
1983
The Eustace Crystals

True examples, of course, require no explanation, such as:

Heart of Dimness
Petty Crime and Punishment
The Road to Wigan Jetty

Admittedly, that last one isn't my best. Any more? Try it.

Lollipops and Crisps

To round off the small matter of Thom Yorke's solo gig at the Cambridge Corn Exchange, here is a wonderfully shot video of the live classic, that sublime little masterpiece, True Love Waits, which hasn't changed a jot since it's first airing in 1995. For more of these videos, especially recommended for those who were there (Thom and Tim), go here.

ZONA ZONA ZONA

Tomorrow, dear reader, I bid you adieu once more for a few brief days. The team travel West to Long Beach, California, safe in the knowledge that we have a job to do. Cocksuckers-Anonymous (AKA Stanford) have a 27-year consecutive winning streak going on in this competition and, one way or the other, we're going to break it. The new, final rankings were published today, and guess who's on top. If they're going to beat us, they're going to have blood pouring out their ears. Wish me Heart Soul Passion Battle!

Damo

This video wins me over on a rainy day and seems to get better every time. I particularly like the bemused faces of the audience at the end, as if to say, Where the hell did that come from, Damien? It's tragic that Lisa Watson has left Damo to his own devices. This performance in itself was proof of their unquantifiable chemistry. Neither of their solo material will match up to their former creative glories. Maybe in future they'll put aside the buckets of sexual tension and reunite, but that's optimistic. Watch in full screen and max volume.

Yorke

I've been suffering from strange, recurring migraines for the last few days and, as with all migraines, the causes and triggers are totally unknown. I've got all the classic symptoms: sensitivity to light and sound, runny nose, acute unilateral pain around my eye, and yet I have no idea where I stand with it all. The drugs I've been given are fairly strong, inducing a ten-minute bout of nausea and lethargy on top of the pain, which isn't exactly wonderful, but I'm seeing some improvement. I think, however, I've found the cure. Thom Yorke's little solo gig at the Cambridge Corn Exchange last night threw up some classics in the space of half an hour. I turn away from the computer for a while to cook some dinner and, when I return, Thom has bestowed us with three never-before-heard songs. Well how about that. I forgot my misery and went in search of videos. Here they are. Dedicating a song to the "open-minded, liberals of this country" (worrying, I know) is a song that used to be known as A Pig's Ear, and hails from the blackboard days of 2005, well titled, The Daily Mail.

We also had something that, as far as I can see, hasn't cropped up anywhere in the back catalogue before, Mouse Dog Bird, which, upon first listen, is one of those...

Lastly, but notable for being my favorite, is Give Up The Ghost, the name of which has been circulating for a while.

In The Loop

Planning one's iPod playlist for a long-haul flight is a delicate task. Not only do you have to pick music that you like, or are particularly "into" at that moment, but the music has to be subduing, lulling you into a sense of contentment and tranquility. This aspect of one's journey can be carefully and meticulously planned in advance. Not so with in-flight entertainment. Cracking open the on-board magazine and scanning the cinema planner is like reading through a list of Mark Kermode's worst films of the year. It's very difficult to find something that you haven't anything to be dismayed about, so you resign yourself to watching something you've seen already. (All the more important, then, to pack that playlist to capacity.) Over the years, one of the exceptions to the rule, for me, was Armando Iannucci's reinvigoration of parliamentary drama The Thick Of It, into the feature length In The Loop. A satirical comedy that combines just the right amount of politics with unnecessary swearing courtesy of Malcolm Tucker, played by the brilliant Peter Capaldi, who based the character on Blair's infamous spin-doctor, Alistair Campbell. Ninety minutes flew by, and I was that much closer to home. For a montage of brilliant swearing, see below, but if you're American, and are averse to curse-words, you're better if in the company of Stephen Fry, who knows better. What's more, In The Loop features a superb little cameo performance by Steve Coogan, popular on this blog, indeed.

v.

Tony Harrison, a hero of Thom Yorke, manages to combine the tragic and the indifferent with a wry smile:

House after house FOR SALE where we'd played cricket
with white roses cut from flour-sacks on our caps,
with stumps chalked on the coal-grate for our wicket,
and every one bought now by 'coloured chaps',

dad's most liberal label as he felt
squeezed by the unfamiliar, and fear
of foreign food and faces, when he smelt
curry in the shop where he'd bought beer.

And growing frailer, 'wobbly on his pins',
the shops he felt familiar with withdrew
which meant much longer tiring treks for tins
that had a label on them that he knew.

And as the shops that stocked his favourites receded
whereas he'd fancied beans and popped next door,
he found that four long treks a week were needed
till he wondered what he bothered eating for.

Do I?

Classic Coogan...

Toyota

Are we really so stupid to believe that the US Congressional grilling of Akio Toyoda isn't, at least in part, motivated by the shadow of the irredeemable imbecility of the General Motors bailout? Does it surprise us that every other item on the CNN cycle has to do with the recall? Let's stir this up as much as possible to make our manufacturing industry seem a little less useless by comparison. Anything to slight those lousy foreign car makers, eh?

Mother Teresa Again

Eventually I relented and abandoned the urge to respond to my Mother Teresa antagonist, even after the most compelling piece of persuasion I could have received, courtesy of Thom:

I'm not particularly clued up on mother teresa, but you gotsta reply to that guy. Literally take out your intellectual cock and piss all over his faithful face.

Even that didn't crack my stubborn desire to let him stew in his pit of anger and frustration. Anyone with an ounce of sense and a search engine could have written a decent rebuttal to that dirge of slurrilous drivel anyway. That being said, Clinton gave a powerful defense of freedom of expression and it's inevitable (and necessary) corollary: debate.

If you need to be angry then be angry that too many of the world's population lives without clean water, basic shelter or power.
I cannot support the view that this suffering leads to some form of enlightenment. It is a stain on humanity and and humanity needs to work to alleviate this.
You are the generation that should be producing the great ideas, the passion and the motivation to solve these issues.
Get talking, get debating, don't accept everything you're told by professors, teachers, priests and other assorted wise men.
Come on, you're better than this.

The crux of the matter lies in this latter concept; never accept what you're told without first questioning it, or, indeed, applying itself to itself. Would Kant, Hegel, or Marx want you to take their teachings and philosophies ex nihilo? No, they wouldn't. I fear my antagonist fell prey to this tendency and I did, admittedly, enjoy rubbing his face in it. It's understandable, then, that he turned to resentment and frustration, which he, when pushed, regretted. Although I'm notably absent, the rest of the conversation that you couldn't read is posted below.

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Zachary Hojnacki
As a follower of God myself i must say both of you have strong points and the lives that were touched by Mother Theresa cannot be denied, nor can Rob's obvious examples of her darker side be ignored. But i must interject that I am slightly disappointed in the attacks on Rob in that, while he may or may not have an atheist agenda, it is the hypocrisy by the believer that keeps atheist like Rob from ever even considering our point of view. Both of you have no regard for the others opinion, but I would expect the religious individual to show some grace towards his atheist opponent, certainly before the opposite happened. If were to ever make any non believer believe then we cannot take a holier than thou approach and must show to them that we have something that they are lacking. When an atheist hears an enraged believer tell him his points are "idiotic" and "petty", it basically suggest that he is an inferior human being, and its no wonder he doesn't believe God exist. I am not saying I believe what Rob is saying is right, but there are better ways to go about solving disagreements, and I would expect a follower of Christ to show respect to all of God's people, not just those who share his beliefs.

Andrew Starbuck
For my part, I do apologize for letting things get too personal. It's so easy to fall into an eye-for-an-eye type of argument. I definitely don't feel any ill will towards Rob, even if I have problems with his beliefs on issues, and certainly wasn't feeling "enraged". If he is anything like me, he was probably just as distracted from whatever he should've been doing in getting into a good ol' debate as I was.

On the other hand, we must be careful that we don't confuse being a peace-loving, respectful Christian, with letting others disrespect our God and those who serve Him. Jesus made it clear that we would be hated for what we believe, but not to fall into the complacency of the World. "I come not to bring peace, but to bring a sword" - Matthew 10:34.

Zachary Hojnacki
I appreciate and respect the clarification and your apology

Jordan Smith
Rob has big muscles.

Zachary Hojnacki
its true.

Jordan Smith
You too Hoj

Zachary Hojnacki
thanks jordan i aspire to be as strong as you someday

Susana Helms
Over. This. Post.

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P.S. As if anything more need be said after that last remark from Dr. God.

Mother Teresa

Over the last 24 hours I've thrust myself into an argument about Mother Teresa. The exchange has taken place online, through Facebook, primarily between a 27 year-old Catholic minister and myself. He also happens to be the boyfriend of a friend of mine who I sit next to in class, so I didn't exactly give him both barrels. Below is the unedited transcript for your amusement; I'm assured it's rather entertaining. Being of the intelligent ilk, dear reader, I think I know who you'll be favouring, but I'd relish and wallow in your support nevertheless. Also, I haven't come back to him yet (as I'm quite tempted to leave him alone with his anger), but if you've got any suggestions or comments I'd welcome them.

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Susana Helms
"Don't give in to discouragement. If you are discouraged it is a sign of pride because it shows you trust in your own powers. Never bother about people's opinions. Be obedient to truth. For with humble obedience, you will never be disturbed." - Bl. Mother Teresa of Calcutta

Robert Iddiols
"I feel the greatest destroyer of peace today is abortion, because it is a direct war, a direct killing - direct murder by the mother herself." - Agnese Bojaxhiu. AKA Mother Teresa.

Paige Dowler
Me likes!

Susana Helms
I like that one Rob. Its powerful.

Robert Iddiols
I was actually trying to demonstrate that she was an idiot.

Susana Helms
Well it didn't work. You know me better than that Rob!

Andrew Starbuck
Rob - I don't understand how that quote would demonstrate to anyone with half a brain that Mother Teresa was anything other than brilliant. She had a knack for simplifying what society wanted to complicate.

Robert Iddiols
Are you suggesting that I have less than half a brain? There is nothing motherly about Mother Teresa. She was a fraud. A friend of poverty rather than a friend of the poor, who used and maintained the suffering of others to celebrate her position within the Catholic church, while espousing the most fanatical, backward teachings and ideologies that poison the wells of India to this day.

Paige Dowler
Robert.. uh.. buddy, I believe you're wrong.

Andrew Starbuck
"Used and maintained the suffering of others?" Haha. You are seriously mistaken. Mother Teresa was recognized again and again for her work with the poor, including a Nobel Peace Prize (which isn't much of an award anymore..but that's a different conversation entirely). Her sisters, following her example, have opened over 600 missions in over 100 countries, not including the countless schools, orphanages, and homes.

I assume, based upon your comments, that your ire towards this (soon to be) saint is based upon her beliefs on contraception and abortion. I gotta say, man, that you have a lot to learn. Concerning the spread of AIDS and other diseases, condoms deter but aren't enough of a prevention to be worth it. There are tons of testimonies about people getting HIV with consistent condom use, if you take the time to look.

As for pregnancies, the Church (and Mother Teresa) teach NFP techniques that are actually more effective than condom use...and cheaper. Of course, if you feel that no one should have to take personal responsibility...than there's not much to say here. The contraceptive companies and abortion mills make bank off of people with your beliefs selling eugenics to the world. I'm sure you feel its an injustice if innocents in Haiti are slaughtered by local militia, rightfully so, but do you not feel a thing for human beings being pulled apart in the womb?

But back to the point of Mother Teresa, you say she celebrated her position...when really she hardly sought any media coverage at all...and every time it was to plead for more aid in the poorest places. Sorry, Rob, but I don’t see you making any worthwhile arguments here. It’s obvious the many things the Sisters of Charity have done to help those in need, how about you?

Renise Alexis Rodriguez
whoa. that's all.

Ricardo Ramon Guzman
amen to that Starbuck

Robert Iddiols
Pleading for aid in the poorest places, indeed, and it’s Interesting that you should bring up Haiti. She visited Haiti in the 80s by invitation of the corrupt dictatorship lead by the Duvalier family, wealthy by virtue of stealing from the impoverished members of their country. She accepted a large donation from Jean-Claude Duvalier in exchange for a public declaration of the Duvalier's kinship with the poor. She said how wonderful the situation for the Haitian poor was, how they loved the Duvaliers, and how they loved them back.

This sort of bolshie claim was not unusual. At a press conference in 1981 she said: "I think it is very beautiful for the poor to accept their lot, to share it with the passion of Christ. I think the world is being much helped by the suffering of the poor people." Indian volunteers to the convents and clinics set up by Teresa describe them like they would a concentration camp: no chairs, only stretcher beds; no medical care or painkillers were administered beyond aspirin. As I said before, she was interested in the maintenance of the poor, not in their emancipation. She taught the suffering to “accept their lot”, and that it was a gift from God, often refusing to take them to hospital where curable diseases and ailments would have been dealt with easily.

It’s not as if she hadn’t the money to equip proper teaching hospitals, where the liberation of women living in patriarchal, third-world conditions could be instigated, educating them about PROPER family planning techniques, such as the use of condoms. Note also that when she got sick herself, she’d prefer the private clinics in California to one of the 500 convents bearing the name of her own order.

How did she get from Calcutta to Haiti? She used the private jet that Charles Keating gave to her along with $1.25 million. Keating served a ten year prison sentence for defrauding his investors of over $250 million in the 90s. When Judge Lance Ito wrote to Teresa asking for the money back he received no reply other than a scrawled message begging him to look into his heart and acquit Keating on account of his generosity.

I fear, however, there may be little audience for my argument, as there has been a stirring of fawning propaganda about this woman ever since her death, about which you do nothing other than fall prey.

I’m sure you’re aware that to be ascribed as a Saint by the Vatican you must purport a miracle, and in this instance I only urge you to look into the case at hand and you’ll see the obvious fakery. As for your comments about condoms and HIV (which I cannot fail to address, even flippantly), I feel you may be a lost cause.

Andrew Starbuck
Saintly behavior seems to be lost on you. Most certainly the grace involved in suffering. She was speaking about how, rather than being consumed by their poverty, it's beautiful to see them immersing themselves in life and really living. Being an atheist, you ignore the good that comes from suffering and how God allows us to suffer in order to really enjoy the life He made for us. Not much else to say on that, you simply can't comprehend it.

All of your "points" are about her accepting money from sinful people...so? She never changed her ideals or plans for that money, she just didn't judge them. Her focus was firstly on the poor. You say she "refused to take them to hospitals". What hospitals? A major reason for her mission was because these people weren't able to receive any care at all. Oh, did they not have chairs to sit on? Really? That's one of your points? So even though you admit that there was barely enough basic medicine to go around, she should've got some chairs? Petty. And the fact that you would compare any camp created to help people (regardless of your definition of "help") to a Nazi extermination camp is despicable.

I've got an idea. Ask the millions that have been through her convents and missions. Ask them if they think she was a monster. Ask them if they are grateful for this "minimum care" that you turn your nose up at. I can guarantee you that you'd have an overwhelming positive response. As a matter of fact, if you went into Calcutta and said the things you're saying you would probably get the crap kicked out of you. God bless America, right?

Finally, you should check your facts about her personal health care. Her first heart attack was in Rome when she was visiting the Pope and later she was ordered by the Pope to get treatment in the States. How can you judge her for being obedient? Again...pretty lame point.

You are right about one thing. There is no audience for your argument. Mostly because its an idiotic argument that is so petty its simply unbelievable. I think its even more contemptible since you're arguing against her becoming a saint...something that, in your case, shouldn't matter anyway. Atheists can be so quick to judge those with faith and love to push their anti-faith agenda down other people's throats...while screaming at anyone who happens to have or share faith. Take for example, the origin of this whole conversation. Sus, who you well know is a devout Catholic, puts up a quote that could possibly be the least debatable quote ever (it doesn't even really have a faith angle). Then you attack her, simply to start a debate, and insult someone she looks up to. This just shows a huge lack of respect for your friend and teammate, and it'd be the honorable thing to apologize to Sus.