TV cont.

People who watch TV should be shot for breathing. I mean air is a valuable commodity. And space, they take up space. And if it takes eight times more stuff to produce a kilo of meat than a kilo of stuff think how much stuff it takes to add a kilo to a TV potato. No, shoot them and give real vegetables a chance. Take ‘Let’s dance for Comic Relief’ last night. OK it’s nice to see celebrities show fear and shame once in a while and it’s relaxing to watch comedy that doesn’t stimulate all the muscular activity required to laugh or even smile, but this yearly wince-in was the bleached bones of joylessness, a sort of ‘I’ll rub yours if you rub mine’ last gasp funereal copulation. No wonder Charlie Brooker vented his weekly spleen on the guy who suggested ten years ago, “Why not watch TV and write about it in the Guardian Guide? Should be fun.” Turns out the only fun was ripping its inane banality to shreds like a lion with chirpy jackal. And now as Charlie has gone the way of Mary Whitehouse, amusing but unheard, the slop, sorry slot, has fallen to Grace Dent. In her early weeks Grace was benign bringing the cogent balance of a reviewer, but as the weeks have gone by the spleen has grown. It must be like reviewing ‘The Mouse Trap’ on a weekly basis; an enjoyable who-done-it, an interesting if flawed plot, tedious predictable drivel, the woman in front of me had hiccups, why only one murder when I would personally kill the whole dam lot of them! Yes Grace has become her own master of the inventive pithy derisory phrase. You go girl!

Lanzaroti 4.

Today it’s a trip to Timifia National (Slag) Park with its geology only slightly older than me. The landscape is so different to anything I’ve seen comparisons come from strange places. From a distance it looks like a giant freshly ploughed field but close up it’s a mangled, burnt and crumbled chocolate cake of solid rock often caught for eternity in mid explosion, or melted ice cream or furry sided play-dough extrusions amongst splurges of tandoori coloured custard. Nothing comes close to what it actually is. The road, a single track of svelte tarmac, meanders through this inhospitable environment like a lunar scenic railway. A simple fall onto it would incapacitate one in lacerations leaving one’s body to mull over the experience for a hundred years. We avoided the camel ride assuming the motion wouldn’t sit well with the hangover. Strange beasts, camels, natural born poker players. Their teeth splay out like the bones of an exploded corset, their legs fold like scissor jacks and their stare sees nirvana in the distance. Nothing in that vacant gaze or constant tobacco chewing would give away a winning hand. And even on the rare occasions you did win they’d cover your face with spittoon soup and lope off with your winnings. No, sitting in with a table of camels on a Saturday night would leave one penniless and equally devoid of self-worth. And fresh from visiting earth’s jagged disinterest for the human race we hear of Japan’s earthquake, ants under a stampede of buffaloes. We receive revolving video clips of visual interest, morsels of misery and hardship. I reflect churlishly that I have an unpleasant pain in my neck. Two things strike me: the power of water and why is every vehicle in Japan white? How do you know which one is yours? Not that that’s now a relevant question. There’s no other way of saying it, and I’m not proud of it, but sitting watching other people’s suffering from your four star hotel bed before the all you can eat, half board late booking discount dinner is entertaining. Time enough for concern when it happens to me. 

Lanzaroti 3.

The Lanzaroti Princess is the place where one should send one’s aged, lingering parents. It may take a grand off your inheritance but you’ll get it quicker. It’s the only hotel I can think of that must have its own morgue. After a fortnight of full English’s, shrivelling sun and heart exploding dinners they must surely lose a few in a season. Sagging is natural but why get fat? I don’t see the points. It sucks as a lifestyle choice. After a third evening of football and Spurs through to the Europe quarter finals we go home and Mothermouse stubs her toe. It hurts a lot and she says she needs a plaster in case she rubs it on a sheet. That is understandable and deserving of sympathy. Unfortunately I heard, “in case I rub it on a sheep” which I found richly humorous and responded inappropriately. We all have a child that sometimes needs soothing. Today the sky is squeezing out a few drops of rain so we’re going back to bed. I’m attracted to Lanzaroti for the parking. Acres of free, pristine half empty car parks; it all appeals to the town planner in me, which strangely will be the reason I will enjoy leaving. They may lord the artist who laid down the rules and colour scheme of white some fifty years ago but overlook the fact that fate decreed he be killed by a tourist in a car accident; an irony I have yet to fathom. Here desire is channelled to a preordained plan like a walk round Ikea. It’s Butlins meets The Prisoner under the Atlantic sun, where couple who’ve forgotten their number amble aimlessly the environs of their captive half-board late booking discount comfort. 

Lanzaroti 2.

This afternoon we played Meerkats. This is a fun game where two or more stand in meerkat fashion, straight backed, paws up in amongst the sunloungers. The lead meerkat issues instructions quietly, “centre, quick left, slow to middle, quick right” etc. Having just invented it I haven’t seen anyone playing it but imagine it’s quite impressive from a distance. The other of course is repeatedly shouting, “Allen” to no one in the middle distance. Haven’t played this one but imagine it can backfire for obvious reasons. Then there was Norwegians. Actually a pizza then passing a bar showing Arse 1 Barsa 1 and a short walk to the Buskers Bar where it was Arse 1 Barsa 3 and the Arse was out of Europe. Van Percy was sent off for poor hearing and Venga turned all the colours of Joseph’s Dream Coat. Then Scotty, a seasoned entertainer and excellent guitarist, strutted his backing tracks on his square yard stage to me, Mothermouse, a couple from Leeds and three who hid then left. He began with a track from someone who’d just died, followed it by someone who was murdered and another who shot his own son. Music is a tough old business. Then there were Norwegians. About the point were Scotty must have been contemplating shooting himself fourteen Norwegians arrived in a flurry of blond haired beauty intent on drinking till their winter sun broke the horizon, approximately April. They were like a pack of puppies, eager, present and good-natured. One took over Scotty’s guitar and we all sang Norwegian songs. I realise Norwegian is the language I sing in when I forget the words; it’s like I have a special gift of speaking in tongues. When Scotty returned it was heart warming to realise “Alice, Alice, hoo da fuk ice Alice” is in its own small way uniting Europe. Around 1am Ady the bar owner revealed himself to be a trouser flapping crooner and we left to a heartfelt rendition of ‘My Way.’ Apparently after that the Norwegians did it their way and bought and largely spilt every can and bottle in the place. 

Lanzaroti 1.

On my way back from Romania I camped in a field behind a petrol station with only a dog on a chain and my motorcycle for company. In many ways I was at peace there more than where I am now, the Lanzaroti Princess Hotel, half board late booking discount. Here I sit staring full face into the four star luxuries that are the comforts of that slow run down to death, the pre-planned perfection that is the route to my own obsolescence. Sun, bird song, palms and cactus set in a concoction of concrete. Who would have thought there were enough seventy-year-old couples left to populate heaven’s waiting room; where every morsel of desire is catered for in the slow walk from breakfast to evening meal and bed. The Lanzaroti Princess is much like TV’s Hotel Babylon except that its guest are actually still ancient Babylonians. Set in a pile of earth’s excrement in the Atlantic famed for white paint and black and red gravel its perimeter must be about a mile. There has though been many subtle pleasures on our first day. The woman with Huntingdons attempting to self-serve herself jelly from the buffet, a sort of over enthusiastic salsa dancing couple micro fumbling. The buffet, in the centre of an aircraft hanger of gentile basking seals had an overall depressing feel, a sort of lifeless, ersatz opulence where life, so extremely provided for, became little more than heedless belly stuffing of free, as much as you can eat, food. If chi is life force then chi was absent. Then there was this morning’s welcome meeting. A blue chicken of a woman in Thomas Cook national dress gave us a chicken’s eye view of the island. Her Joyce Grenfill delivery was correct to the merest inflection, the upturn curlicues of enthusiasm and downs of concern. She mentions the free ‘Blanket Trips’ on Tuesdays and Wednesdays on which one is lulled into blissful stupor and then assailed with the blanket deal to end all blanket deals. Don’t sign anything! The small print will tell you, should you read it as I had to on our last visit, that to undo your ill-conceived purchase you will need to deliver a hand written note to a back street address in Bulgaria indicating your change of mind three days before you leave, thus dedicating the rest of your holiday to the task. 

Ah Diversity.

Ah Diversity. Aren’t we all different and can’t we all celebrate our differences and create unity? Well no. Yes it sounds all lovely jubbly and ‘Unity in Diversity’ has a nice ring to it but two thousand years of history have only proved the truth of Confucius’s earlier statement that, “All men are the same in spirit, only their beliefs divide them.” A cornerstone of human cognition is an awareness of difference; our very survival depends on it. If one can’t differentiate between a lion and a tabby one may well find oneself taken for a portion of ‘fresh meat’ Sheba. Another cornerstone is tribalism. It’s the same differentiation process applied to other people. We need a tribe to confirm and comfort our sense of self, and, as night follows day, those outside this confine are ‘the other’ if not ‘the enemy.’ So div-ersity is the recognition of div-ision. Thus ‘unity in the recognition of division’ is somewhat counter intuitive. It’s like Millwall and West Ham expressing their mutual love of football by beating each other up. Obviously not to mention Judaism, Christianity and Islam who have got it down to a fine art and use the latest weapons the planet has to offer. But it’s a simple cart before the horse mistake. The phrase should be, ‘Diversity within Unity.’ There is always a greater unity above our petty squabbles over divisive beliefs. When football supporters can see themselves as lovers of football, men and women, humans, participants in this glorious living planet, then these greater unities will bind them together in the pub after the match. Actually this has largely happened in football, all we need now is for religions to follow their lead.

The Sex of Science

This week’s Horizon featured Dr Alice Roberts asking the intriguing question, ‘Are we still evolving?’ Is it just me who’d rather see Dr Alice, a rather fetching young redhead, narrating this program in a bikini? I mean wouldn’t science be more appealing with a bit of plump, soft healthy brown flesh? I’m thinking blue with white spots. Black, a bit obvious, white, too dated, tassels? Well I have to admit it tassels always add a certain allure in a, ‘must be fun to slap a cow-girl in the hay’ sort of way. But not a thong, not on a serious science program. I’m think more a halter neck 'triangles on a string' design, classic, elegant and minimal. I’m now 27 minutes in and it’s about time she let loose her hair from its clip and shook her head like a filly in a Clarol ad so it falls soft and lustrous over her bare shoulders. But no she’s still banging on about lactose intolerance, and just asked the same question she started with for the n’th time. She may talk like class totty but I’m thinking she must be a bit thick. Oh God, now her hair’s scraped back in an elastic band. What can the producer be thinking about! And now the sound’s gone. Well I suppose it wasn’t that important. As I remember it Steven in Massachusetts was saying his calculations indicate the next generation will be slightly shorter and fatter, so I’m guessing in a million years we’ll all resemble a bowling ball. Not nice but interesting. And now she's back talking, well miming, to the guy with a face like a suit pudding. I mean he’s not going to make science hip, unless perhaps if you put his head in a microwave and it exploded. So that’s my education for this evening. ‘Are we still evolving?’ Well der. 

Dave needs Therapy.

Of our four cats Dave wears his heart on his stomach and Britney has a PhD in all things cat. In metaphorical geography Dave comes from Mugglethorpe Bottom and Britney from Newnham College, Cambridge. Breakfast time this morning, and Dave, Domino and Betty are tucking into their bowls of dried food on the floor. Dave finishes his and insinuates himself into the other two. Britney is looking out the front window confident of her non-reliance on human providence. When ready she makes her way onto the top of the fridge where we put the cup of excess; what’s left after the food’s been doled out. She delicately knocks it over and paws out a piece at a time until replete. Now Dave rarely leaves the floor, in fact he’s the only cat I know who you can hear coming, but this morning something set his heart beating like never before. Britney atop that white thing by the door had found the MAGIC CUP, the cup of ancient cat lore that is never empty, that provides endlessly, albeit one piece at a time. Drawn by his own insatiable appetite he mounted the settee in full on stealth mode, along and onto the worktop, back behind the bread bin, around the fruit bowl, sideways past the bowl of keys and sat in wonder watching Britney, the MAGIC CUP and the food delivery. After satisfying himself it was all true, not just a figment of his hungry imagination, he leapt the gap to the fridge top. In her usual nonchalant fashion Britney seemed to say, “Here want some, sure help yourself”, and leapt down from the fridge leaving Dave alone with the cup. Sure enough there in front of him as if in his wildest dream was one morsel fresh from the cup. He ate it and waited. He waited a little longer. Slowly a painful realisation, a sick saddening shudder permeated his being. HE COULD NOT WORK THE MAGIC CUP! I’ve never seen such a depressed cat. He leapt down with a loud thud and left to heal his soul on a chair by the fire, which was not lit. TYPICAL! Life’s a bitch and then you die.

Cameron, cont. cont. cont.

I don’t know why, I just like typing it. Anyway a subtle omission to Cameron, cont. cont. Parents love their children. Now poor parents are used to getting kicked in the teeth and being shafted. The limit of their horizons is getting food on the table, or the floor if they can’t afford a table. Their offspring’s are imbued with the same philosophy and used to limited opportunities and fast fattening food by their first Big Mac. But the Audi classes wish for their sons and daughters much in the same way of wheel-wear. For this class opportunity is an expected commodity. If their offspring’s are shafted on their way through uni and kicked in the teeth by only a check-out job, even in Waitrose, at the end of it their bloods will boil. The streets will not be full of easily dismissible students but also their irate middleclass parents as in Egypt. It’s funny how the E saves it. Without it it’s a veritable road accident of a typing mistake. Anyway this appears to me to be the tipping point. When Bertrand the bank manager’s son looks set for a postgraduate life in a cardboard box all hell will let loose. And make no mistake David, these people have the clout, intellect and horizons to be really revolting. I should know, I’m one. 

Cameron, cont. cont.

The root of Middle East unrest is their youth’s lack of money and opportunity. There seems to be a universal tipping point where morale gets so low it surges forth in a new direction. Egypt, Libya, Bahrain, et al were all long-standing military backed oligarchies of forty year gestation. That’s 15,000 days of infinitesimally small, imperceptible movement of the ruling class from heroes to despots, human cognition being comparative in nature and unable to perceive these slow, long-term changes. Through globalisation they have been able to draw to themselves immense power and wealth. Here again our comparative cognition is evidenced. Where they were once delighted to double their money from £1 to £2 they now find equal delight in doubling it from £1billion to £2billion. Thus the poor progress in £1’s and the rich in billions. Over forty years the difference becomes large enough to cause a revolution. The problem isn’t just difference but the capital tied up in this huge unused wealth. It sucks energy and opportunity out of the economy. But this isn’t just a problem for Arab countries we never visit; it’s much closer to home. In our developed countries, England, the US etc, pay differentials are near tipping point, the poor are struggling and our youth are seeing their future opportunities and prospects wilting in front of them. Here, though we have democracy, globalisation and our aging political systems seem unable or unwilling to stop us following this same direction. Instead of providing the young with their own opportunities to create their own wealth we give our own commercial oligarchs the opportunity to reward themselves. Differentials will rise, prospects will fall and an ever-greater percentage of our money supply will languish in large bank accounts. 

As food costs rise the intersection point A rises up the pay line until a sufficient majority fall behind it creating a revolutionary tipping point. Globalisation or ‘size-ism’ naturally favours the few over the many and, if unfettered by a free-market economy, becomes a strong destabilising force. So Cameron, if you’re listening, ask Bernie Ecclestone and Gaddafi. It’s not nice when the shit hits the fan.