ZONA #1

As if it were ever in doubt, dear reader, I return to you bathed in the fluids of glory and the sightly demure of heroism. Arizona maintained their unbeaten streak, toppling the Texas Longhorns to go, as they say in America, 7 and 0, and top in the nation. Our relay squads are all but invincible, and I'm slowly becoming a packhorse onto which the team's expectations are placed. Were it not for the tactical necessity to secure a legal finish in the closing relay of the afternoon we would have destroyed all Texan hopes. As it is, however, our enemy retained a degree of belief, if coloured by an added spoonful of reverence for the might of the Arizona Wildcats. The next time we meet will be at the national championships. Oh, I cannot wait.

Two for Tea

Can't stop now, friends. I'm currently in the mid-session interval of one of the biggest swim events of the season: Number 2 Arizona take on Number 1 Texas. Can we go top? Can we defeat them for the third year running, in our home pool? The points total at half-time, including the diving events, is 97-89. We have the margin but, oh, it's mighty close, dear reader. This is Chelsea v. United. England v. Germany. You name it; this is it. Back tomorrow...

Reading:

Bret Easton Ellis' twitter feed is updated fairly infrequently, providing almost no incite whatever into the future of his new novel or any one of his pipelined screen adaptations. It does however, if you squint, give you a sample of the life he leads: cultured, luxurious, American, laid-back, populist. It's a wonder he can motivate himself to write at all (having said that, it probably does explain the five year hiatus since Lunar Park). I see two months ago he wrote that he was reading, among other things, Robert Bolano's 2666, of which I have a copy perched beside me. I haven't picked it up yet, and I'm not likely to any time soon. It's over 1100 pages and my reading list for the next four months consists of about that many titles. On this endorsement, though, I may have to give it a go. Ellis style; I'm currently reading Faulkner's Light in August, Bronte's Jane Eyre, and Anderson's Winesburg, Ohio.

Fake Plastic Trees

If you're in love with Ed O'Brien, as anyone who's seen Radiohead in concert will be, you may like this video from last night's 'Radiohead for Haiti' charity gig in LA. You'll see what I mean. Trust me.

xx

Right, I haven't exactly developed blisters on my fingertips, and yet I have to leave you, albeit temporarily, dear reader. I travel tomorrow to Palo Alto, circumventing San Fran as best I can, for I see there's a drug resistant strain of HIV sifting around (of all places...what's Pat Robertson going to say?), in order to face the menace, the scum, the enemy under whome we unite, Stanford. We only just scraped them from the deck and now they want revenge in their home pool. We'll endeavor as always, if you'll pardon the expression, to fuck 'em. News to follow.

In the meantime, I shall leave you in the very capable hands of The XX. I know some of you switch off when I talk about music but this is less specialised. Hailing from southwest London, The XX released their debut album under the same name about seven months ago to what seems like universal acclaim. Indeed, it appears they're impossible to dislike. (As an aside, for a word on the development of the word "like", see Christopher Hitchens here.) Just as The Guardian noted when they awarded their coveted Album of the Year award to the band, what you most admire is their restraint. I quite like the chap's voice, displaying a maturity beyond his years, and developing the record's sense of intimacy. May I go so far as to recommend it for a late night frisson with a certain someone (not that I've tried it myself)? Either that, or let it wash over you, surround you as you sit alone waiting for the night bus in an empty shelter. Hit this link and knock yourself out. But first, here they are:

Chemical Ali

'Chemical Ali', the all-too jaunty nickname of General Ali Hasan al-Majid was sentenced to death by hanging in Baghdad yesterday for the fourth time. The third occasion came in June 2007, like the previous, for the gruesome extermination of close to six thousand Kurds in the town of Halabja but, unlike the fourth, was met with a knowing shrug by Hasan al-Majid. The failure of the international community to deal with this man lends a sickening and worrying degree of credibility to his premonitions. During a recording of a conversation with the former "King of Spades", he can be heard saying:

I will kill them all with chemical weapons. Who is going to say anything? The international community...fuck them.

In June 2003 Christopher Hitchens wrote that he hoped and believed, like many other Kurds, that Hasan al-Majid was "shredded by a laser-guided missile" in April of that year. Unfortunately, he was wrong. His description of the figure, however, is illuminating, shedding light on why this story surpassed the tales of tragedy from Haiti on its way to the front page.

General Ali Hasan al-Majid, a cousin of Saddam Hussein himself, was placed in charge of the occupation of Kuwait for four of those atrocious months. He had earned his rough promotion with some gusto, having commanded the ethnic cleansing of Iraqi Kurdistan between 1987 and 1988, during which time he boasted openly of his use of chemical techniques to suppress the population. [...] He was on every Human rights "Wanted" list in the world, for murder and torture and rape. And in March 2003 he was appointed to command the southern region of Iraq and to hold it for Saddam. An easy way to get a facial expression to change, in the flyblown streets of Safwan, was to mention the name of either man.

Border Control and Racial Profiling

As I brush the cobwebs from between my fingers and pry open my laptop I've decided to get the ball rolling by talking about something of which I know nothing, though have regular experience of. I'm talking, of course, about US border control. (The concession that I know little, you understand, hardly separates me from the crowd.) Were anyone to be reading this blog while sat in a US embassy awaiting approval for a Visa application, I can only warn that you haven't had the worst of it yet, dear friend.

During the brief window in early January wherein the British skies enabled a slight easing of the transportation backlog, I departed Heathrow, though not without some delay. Subsequent to the botched and, it would seem, rather pathetic attempt to bring down Northwest Airlines Flight 253 on Boxing Day, the theatre of security was pushing for an Emmy. Having relinquished my belt, my watch, the contents of my pockets, my shoes, my laptop, my jacket and the final shred of my waning patience, I still required a patting down (but not, notably, of the nether region). And yet, as I approached the gate, stood, as always, on the other side of the terminal, I was subject to another security check on account, I was told, of it being a flight to the United States. The security team seemed rather disinterested by the time I arrived, labouring with my documents even though they've seen 299 other passengers with the same thing. Not only that but I was also told to, once again, remove my shoes and my laptop. One of those silent, bored, morose, cleanly-shaven security men slid his grimy hand along this very keyboard as if it was a drinks cabinet, searching for the elusive dint through which havoc may break. I felt like making a joke but refused.

At last, I was on my way.

Passing through, as I usually do, Houston airport customs and excise, I was approached by a sniffer dog along with her trainer, a squat fat woman whose standard issue, two-piece brown smock made her the potential subject of a Harry Enfield sketch featuring The Twats. This is pretty common. The dog never pays much attention to me though and would do even less were it not for the fatty tugging it around. Later, as we all absurdly collect our baggage only to deposit it again fifteen feet away (though through a glass partition), I queued to hand over my completed customs declaration. Unusually, a security bloke was passing down the line asking random (or was it?) people to hand over their sheet to be pre-checked. He approached me and asked me where I was heading and what my purpose in the US was, but not before asking me how long I'd been in the country, which seemed to render the later question meaningless. Our friend, Michael Totten wrote about this very topic over Christmas. On the subject of profiling:

“Does anyone in Lebanon know you’re here?” they usually ask me. They’ve also asked if I’ve ever met with anyone in Hezbollah. I am not going to lie during an airport security interview, especially not when the answer can be easily found using Google. They know I’ve met with Hezbollah. That’s why my luggage gets hand-searched one sock at a time while elderly tourists from Florida skate through. I can’t say I enjoy this procedure, but I don’t take it personally, and it makes a lot more sense than letting me skate through while grandma’s luggage is hand-searched instead.

There is, however, no system. There should be. Ted Kennedy found himself on the no fly list in 2004 and, as you probably heard, Joan Rivers was held back recently because her passport looked fishy. Overkill? Underkill. As Totten writes, concerning alleged terrorist, Nigerian Umar Farouk "Pants Bomber" Abdulmutallab:

[He] did not have a passport, did not have any luggage, and bought a one-way ticket with cash. His name is in a database of possible terrorists.

The suggestion then is that criteria are avoided. May I postulate that this arises through fear of racial profiling? And yet, my experience in Houston was different.

I was flying on January 3rd, less than ten days after the failed terrorist attack over the Atlantic. In front of me in the line was a black man, shorter than myself but well built. He was young and looked pretty slick: kempt hair and a diamond stud in each ear, jeans and a dark blazer, dark suitcase, and a dark carry-on. After my new-found friend from customs handed back my materials he approached the man in front.

Where are you from?
Nigeria.

Not the best start, I thought.

What is your final destination?
The United States.
Where in the United States?
Here. Houston.
What's the purpose of you stay here?
Just visiting some friends.

Our security man scrawled something in black marker on the guy's customs slip and handed it back. I couldn't read what it said but it's purpose was pretty clear and immediate. As we reached the front of the line the Nigerian chap only had to flash his card towards the steward before he was forcefully directed towards a room with only one entrance and no windows. As I walked passed I glanced in. I saw rows of chairs filled with veiled women and black men, some Mexicans. I've been in one of these rooms before in Phoenix. Even as a young, sprightly, dashing and handsome white British male I was encased in that God-awful room for over four hours while, in front of me, victim after victim were sent on planes home. It's not an engagement I wish to repeat, I can tell you. Profiling? It's a tricky one. I'll leave the final word to Michael Yon, author of Moment of Truth in Iraq.

Got arrested at the Seattle airport for refusing to say how much money I make. (The uniformed ones say I was not “arrested”, but they definitely handcuffed me.) Their videos and audios should show that I was polite, but simply refused questions that had nothing to do with national security. Port authority police eventually came — they were professionals — and rescued me from the border bullies. . . . When they handcuffed me, I said that no country has ever treated me so badly. Not China. Not Vietnam. Not Afghanistan. Definitely not Singapore or India or Nepal or Germany, not Brunei, not Indonesia, or Malaysia, or Kuwait or Qatar or United Arab Emirates. No county has treated me with the disrespect that can be expected from our border bullies.

Suffer. No More.

Yes, I have returned to Tuscompton. I canny take it no longer. My fingers twitch uncontrollably, tapping, typing, imitating, mimicking Proust in my sleep and it all goes to waste. No Longer. Breathe through me, dear Muse. Arouse yourself. Shake the slumber. Aha! Come along, Meesta Gray. He is dead.

The time and place we are born, our parents, the language we speak - these are chance, not choice. It is the casual drift of things that shapes our most fateful relationships. The life of each of us is a chapter of accidents. [...] Choice has become a fetish; but the mark of a fetish is that it is unchosen.

'mon the Biffay

Biffy Clyro have since fallen in love with themselves, but before they did they produced songs like this. I saw them play at the old Electric Ballroom in Camden about seven years ago along with about a hundred other people, and it remains the yardstick to which all other (non-Radiohead) bands must be judged. They were absolutely awesome.