Gertsamtkunstwerk

I'm giving up blogging...

...for the rest of the year.

Or in the immortal words of Fraser, bollocks to this, I'm off to Sale. You know, there's actually a sign on the A56 as it crosses the River Mersey saying "Welcome to Sale, Please Put Your Clocks Back Twenty Years".

I'm tempted also to nick Fraser's tagline for the week "Like Salam Pax, but reporting from Sale." The only thing is, my chances of connecting to the internet in my near week away are somewhat less than Salam's during a power cut that brings down the entire telephone network.

In the meantime, I remind you of your homework - I'll have no excuses, not even 'the goldfish was sick on it' or 'the level crossing over the airport runway was closed'.

Make it go away

I hate Christmas.

I spent Tuesday night/Wednesday morning with both ends of my stomach seriously malfunctioning - was it the Oysters on Monday or is it that two week gastro-enteritis that's going round.

And at the moment I so hate my love. He's gone to the pub. I don't want him back till midnight. He's being too bloody helpful. Tidying up and cleaning up. Trouble is - he pits things under the stairs that belong under the sink. Things in the shed that belong under the stairs. I haven't a clue where my bucket is.

My stomach feels crap. I'm thinking of getting very drunk and spending the next few days throwing up. I just hope I'm not slumping into depression. The signs are familiar. Maybe it's Late Onset SAD.

Mind you I had a useful conversation with my brother. He's as sick as me of this big 'get bossed around by big sister into spending far too much money on gift vouchers for each other'. Most of his friends are like most of my friends - buy something small and perfectly formed for adults. He would far rather spend the money on a weekend away. I shall speak to Mother next week and I am pretty sure that next Christmas Big Sister will be outnumbered three-to-one. Trouble is, she surrounds herself by people of limited outlook who swallow everything they read in the Daily Mail about what you have to buy for whom. She's even got my cousin (supposedly an unreconstructed cuddly Guardian-reading lefty) caught up in it - although he's got my nephew The Hobbit, even though I don't remember books being on the nephew's wish list...

Roll on 5 January when life can return to normal.

Bah Humbug

The Messiah

I booked the tickets a while ago. I had only been to the Royal Albert Hall once before, to see Human League. (Look, when I moved to London, it was all studying for CIPFA, then being on the Council. No social life, me).

And then, the realisation that, in effect, it clashed with England World Champs against the New Zealand Bar-Bars. Then relief that The Messiah nor most of his followers would be playing.

I knew the way to the Albert Hall was via the long tunnel from South Ken tube. shame the long tunnel was closed was due to flooding. (I ♥ London). Still, we got there just before the Doors Open time of 7.15pm. Well, it said that on the tickets. The previous show - Carols - had clearly indulged in too many encores. So it was quarter to eight when we got to near our seats (note to self - the circle in the RAH is way too high). The queue at the bar was impossible, obviously the queue in the Ladies was worse. Still, we got to our seats. Way too high. Mind you, what a fantastic view of the mise en scene - a choir of 500 voices, and a packed amphitheatre, luxurious in the splendour of the Victorian over-design. The orchestra were tiny dots in the disappearing distance. It was too far to hear each instrument articulating itself. We were in front of, and behind, couples which were clearly (like us) girlfriend taking boyfriend for a new experience. Unlike us, both couples decided to talk. The ones behind were of the "Oh not a lot's going on with this quiet music let's discuss what's coming up next." Grrrrrrrrrr.

Oh, and how many coughs does it take to fill the Albert Hall.

Factual stuff: Brian Wright conducted the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra; SATB were Rita Cullis, Jean Rigby, Timothy Robinson and Mark Stone. The choirs were Goldsmiths Choral Union, Highgate Choral Society and the English Concert Chorus.

I enjoyed it. Not tremendously, but IMO it is impossible to sit through The Messiah without getting repeated goose pimples and shivers of ecstasy. I looked forward with eagerness to my favourite bits by each of the soloists. Jean Rigby disappointed in O Thou That Tellest, Timothy Robinson was reasonable in Comfort Ye My People/Every Valley Shall Be Exalted and Rita Cullis equally good in I Know that My Redeemer Liveth, and But Thou Didst Not Leave His Soul In Hell. I was nervous about Why Do The Nations? and The Trumpet Shall Sound because I do so love these - I have a splendid tape playing right now which has Gwynne Howell singing in a wonderfully powerful bass way. So I was very pleased to hear Mark Stone exceed my expectations and emulate my hopes.

The combined chorus sang with vigour and passion; from our seats were probably the highlight of the evening. The organ was used, but sparingly. I have to say I am mighty impressed by its rumbling vibration, even though it was only used as part of the orchestra. I would really like to hear it opened full throttle.

I can't remember when I first heard The Messiah. I know it is by far the most outstanding work of the English Choral Tradition, and so accessible to everybody - even if you are not religious in a traditional sense, it combines some truly amazing music with gorgeous poetry.

A quick google on the US/International - as opposed to UK - flavour brings us

The most striking thing about The Messiah is its musicality. It is a string of magnificent musical offerings exploring the depths of despair (“For behold, darkness shall cover the earth”), joy (“For unto us a child is born”), quiet contemplation (the Pastoral Symphony interlude) and of course the energy and exuberance of the “Hallelujah” chorus.

from Good Music Guide which also says

Messiah was written for the masses and has remained popular ever since. Except, ironically, in England, where many thought it blasphemous that someone (a German no less) could plunder the bible and set it to music for popular consumption. It was forbidden to be performed in Westminster Abbey even as late as the nineteenth century.

Also a A brief history

And here is a version on Amazon featuring the brother of someone I was at school with.

So, for my Definitive Collection I will say The Messiah as a whole, but probably if I have to select one it's Kathleen Ferrier singing O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion.

Homework for the hols

Build a portal from Blogstyles and Sideblog

And your homework - (ha, you didn't think I'd let you off scot-free do you?) - I want you to come up with a list of New Year's Resolutions for me. The most splendid and the most ridiculous will win a small consideration off their Amazon wishlist, or an equivalent.

Judge's decision final and all that...

My Favourite Tunes

This is a work in progress

I am trying to do an updated list of tunes (and I do like that word, say it out loud a few times) that speak to me in a way I can't explain. About four years ago I went through a process of identifying about 100 songs that withstood repeated playing, and whittled it down on the eve of the Millennium to a top twenty, which then expanded by 10%. However, it is a narrow list, containing only stuff from the pop charts and covering little more than my lifetime.

I am trying to play through my entire record collection, which is difficult when I am playing the same few records over and over again. But, I swear, by the time I am forty, I will have done so!

I shall provide links, where possible, to the actual version of the tune as appears in my record collection, but there may be better ones out there.

So far, fall-in-love songs of Autumn 2003:

Benedictus from The Armed Man - A Mass For Peace - here you can hear a short excerpt of Hayley Westenra attempting to ruin it.

Bist du bei mir - Play Track 8 here - but it sounds a million times much better on my stereo than on Real Player from my PC *sigh*. And this excerpt does little to capture the sheer - I'm tempted to say sexiness, but it's not quite the right word - of the overall effect.

Travel travails

The schools have broken up and with them, half the non-essential workers in Christendom. Fantastic. Will make moving about London so much easier. She thought.

(You know what's coming next, don't you?)

Why is it, on schooldays, the bus takes thirty five minutes to get to Croydon, yet today it took an hour?

After my meeting I went to East Croydon station and was pleased to note that a train was due any minute. Although I was slightly perturbed that it was formed only of four carriages, not the usual eight or nine, or the highly desirable twelve, I was not too bothered - remember, the schools have broken up and half the essential workers with them. Not so happy when the PA system boomed into life with "We regret to announce that this train is reported as full and standing." Still, as it drew into the station, it clearly wasn't packed to the gunnels. I joined the queue at the door nearest to me, using my elbow tactically to dispel boarders - or, rather the woman who tried to push between me and the train. A woman sat just inside the door was complaining to the people in front of me. "Surely there are other doors on the train - can't you use the other doors?" A queue was formed at each door.

I managed to get inside, and realised that it would be impossible to reach the empty standing space because of the enormous suitcases lying in the aisle. One person managed to shout "Move down," and a couple of people got on behind me. Old bag (she was about my age, but an old bag) was still chuntering on about using other doors 'because of the amount of luggage in the carriage'. Oh, luggage randomly appearing in a bizarre act of god, or, in fact, luggage that had for the most part been plonked in the aisle by people recently arrived at Gatwick, cheapskates prepared to pay for a flight but won't use the Gatwick Express which has space to carry luggage. (When recounting this tale over lunch my colleagues suggested that I was being unreasonable - I protested my right to be unreasonable when I am being inconvenienced, besides these suitcases were enormous!). Old Bag Next th'Door had her own enormous suitcase sitting in a seat. A seat where I could have sat if it wasn't for the Very Large Suitcase. I tried to hold onto the luggage rack, but, being a very small blogger, it was difficult - my finger tips just managed to reach, but it was no way to support myself against the inevitable jolts and sways of the train. Instead I leaned against the Very Large Suitcase of Old Bag Next Th'Door, who kept glaring at me. I so wanted her to say something to me - I had my speech all rehearsed, perhaps something along the lines of "A modicum of meekness and humility would not be out of place from you." She didn't say anything. Another speech wasted! As an aside, looking round the carriage, I did wonder when the Railway By-law was abolished which said that children under five should not occupy a seat when fare-paying passengers are standing.

As I came out of the train at Covent Garden, there were repeated announcements that there are x (maybe 179, I'm not sure) stairs up, and this is the equivalent of a fifteen storey building, customers are strongly recommended to wait for the next available lift. Next to me was a mother and father and boys of 12 and 8, say. Mother asked how many the lift held. "All of us, no problem," I said. "Especially if people move in close. And if they don't, just shove." Eight year old looked at me in wonder and amazement, that lady is telling us to shove. So I turned to him, leaned down a little and conspiratorially said, "A few rugby tackles..." He giggled. His older brother helped me in shoving forward a few people taking up far to much space at the front of the lift - it was for the benefit of others...

After our team lunch I caught the Northern Line back. At Waterloo a man got on with a can of strong lager who was obviously quite lagered. He sat opposite me. He lunged at the woman next to him, who went and sat on the other side of her boyfriend. Drunk asked the man why she had moved - doesn't she like me? I think this couple were French or African and were trying to be polite in a bemused way, but were clearly uncomfortable with this guy. Next to me was a little girl, 4 or 5, with her mother, mid twenties, who was wearing a headscarf, probably Moslem. He leaned forward to the little girl and asked her if she was looking forward to seeing Father Christmas. The little girl moved closer to her mother who instinctively put a protective arm around her, drawing her in closer. The man tried the man on his other side, then, getting no reply, returned to the French/African man, who was looking increasingly awkward. "No eye contact," I thought, looking studiously into the next third-of-carriage, to the initial puzzlement of a man there who thought I was looking at him, but then noticed the drunk guy lurching in his seat.

As the train approached Kennington, the drunk guy, having failed to get my attention by calling me "Darling" or "Dear" or something, decided to attract it by pulling my trouser leg and rubbing my calf.

(Everyone who knows me has a tale to tell about going into one about inappropriate touching from strangers).

I went into one. Very dignified, entirely verbal. "How dare you touch me! You have no right to touch me. Don't ever touch me! Don't ever touch anyone like that!" He asked what he had done. "You're intimidating everyone around you."

We all got off at Kennington, because the train was terminating; he stumbles and falls over onto the other platform. Suddenly I'm surrounded by young men, one, an Aussie asking if I'm alright, and me explaining sheepishly it was nothing, he was intimidating other people, me I don't give a shit, and the man who was sat next to me, and the one opposite him (next to drunk guy) nodding vigorously backing me up. Just before the connecting train came again, the Aussie guy said he had reported the drunk guy to the station staff and the police had been called. Deeply embarrassed, I thanked the Aussie guy and explained about the couple and the mother with the young child.

I remembered in time that Brixton Station is closed for three weeks ("More Like Four" said an ole geezer when the announcement was made going home last Friday) for asbestos removal. I got out of Clapham Common and home without further incident.

The last few days before Christmas, the schools have broken up, and with them half the non-essential workers. Public transport is quiet.

Seasons greetings

Hope this time of year brings what you want for you and yours

Happy Christmas/Hannukkah/Solstice/few-days-off-work-that-doesn't-come-out- of-annual-leave

A Russian couple were walking down the street in Moscow one night, when the man felt a drop hit his nose.

"I think it's raining", he said to his wife.

"No, that felt more like snow to me", she replied.

"No, I'm sure it was just rain" he said.

Well, as these things go, they were about to have a major argument about whether it was raining or snowing. Just then they saw a Communist Party official walking toward them.

"Let's not fight about it", the man said, "Let's ask Comrade Rudolph whether it's officially raining or snowing". As the official approached, the man said, "Tell us, Comrade Rudolph, is it officially raining or snowing?"

"It's raining, of course", he replied, and walked on.

But the woman insisted: "I know that felt like snow!", to which the man quietly replied:

Christmas

My gut instinct is telling me to go 'Bah Humbug'. Look, I've written my Christmas cards, I just haven't addressed the envelopes. Yet. I will. Manana manana.

Logically, the way Christmas is celebrated in my world defies logic. Exchange of ideas for gifts. Wouldn't it be easier to just go out and buy what one wants, oneself? But then, it's the thought that counts, so clearly I love my loved ones if I can put up with the physical pain of going into extra-crowded shops to buy stuff they could probably source themselves much more cheaply.

And I love the endless social whirl - works do Thursday, his works do Friday, Messiah Saturday, works team do tomorrow. And there's the bright lights and the general cheeriness. Which is excellent, and, I suspect, closer to the 'real' meaning of Christmas ie a festival of lights (and much eating and drinking) to mark the Solstice. But then, I could have much eating and drinking anyway.

Okay, it will be nice to have a nice quiet day in on Thursday a deux. But do we have much choice? We couldn't really go anywhere, not with there being no pubic transport. There again, with a lot of pubs being closed, maybe we should just drive out somewhere - no problem about drinking.

I still can't decide whether Christmas TV is better or worse than normal. He's threatening to want to go to Mass. I said he's had his religion with the Messiah. That's bad of me. I'm sure I can just dangle the word 'pub' to change his mind. No, that's bad of me.

Maybe I resent the enforced jollity - the last few weeks have been difficult, so it will be nice to relax. Yeah, but maybe. Maybe I'm being a grump - perhaps it's good for our society to have shared community moments. But don't these happen spontaneously.

And all this relaxation. Bah humbug!

I said last week I won't have much time for blog reading. I doubt I will this coming week. And the next week I shall be visiting my computerless mama. Meanwhile, I'm still having that Catholic guilt thing. But if you want to let me know something good you've written, or somebody else has written, do drop a comment.

stands by for zero commentage as I float around oblivious to the fact that I am number one pariah in these parts

More on BJ

What consenting adults do in the privacy of their own home is their business etc. There is a danger if one condemns prostitution that one is seen to be on the side of the right-wingers who can’t bear the thought of anyone having sex.

Unfortunately, this idea that prostitution falls neatly into clear-cut categories of high-class tarts and crackwhores, and they have nothing in common. The truth is somewhat different. The relationship between prostitutes and punters is one of ‘use’. Perhaps, because they’re both using the other, it shouldn’t matter.

Being all liberal, we should applaud the so-called ‘Plat du jour’ because, obviously, she is a free person making a free choice. In endorsing this behaviour, we are, arguably, endorsing that which is far more exploitative. For example, child prostitution. Child prostitution covers both the teenage ‘crackwhore’ on street corners and the child smuggled in from Eastern Europe and Africa to be act effectively as slaves. You may argue that they’re not really connected – the key thing is the difference between consenting adults and exploited children. But a society that condones the objectification of women and the commercialisation of sex is not a society that makes me feel comfortable.

BdJ is all very peachy clean and non-threatening, unlike the existence of most prostitutes, even the ‘high-class’ ones. They are at high risk of being attacked and even murdered by punters, frequently raped. Furthering the myth that these women do it out of joy and pleasure is an easy way to relieve one’s conscience of the desperation that forces women into prostitution and absolves of us any responsibility. Whilst we endorse the transactional nature of high-class prostitutes I think we are also condoning the street prostitutes who proposition children, rob and blackmail random passers-by, and encourage pimps in their destructive behaviours.

And regardless of how well the writer of this work can use English, I don’t think it’s a blog and I think that anybody can write tillating stuff for a period. Keeping it up is much more difficult. So, jolly good fictional website, and let’s not allow any moral considerations interrupt our hedonistic twenty-first century existence. I know morality is passé and considered to be right wing, but the award to that site is a clear sign from the Guardians of their contempt for the weblogging community, such as it is.

Email to the Grauniad

Hello boys

Hope your erections have all subsided.

Why don't you just get the hell out of the blogosphere?

Alternatively, why don't you try reading some blogs and begin to learn about how weblogging actually works in Britain.

Fantastic - you give the award to a whore. A real slap in the fact to those of us whose lives are blighted on a daily basis by the used condoms, robbery and random violence associated with the world of whoring.

Why don't you all fuck off back to your silly little ivory tower and allow the rest of us to get on with real life.

Please grow up.

Lots of love.

A new convert to the Independent tabloid form.

Geraldine Curtis

Whoring one's so-called blog

We all do this blog thing for fun. We know that. So there's a bloody beauty contest. So, make it up, or whatever. Certainly don't have comments. Good god, no, not that interactive raw someone writing something you don't agree with. Way too risky.

Of course certain natioonal daily newspapers are ever so broadminded (And I don't mean the Daily Mail).

I'm not being funny, but I do think there is a betrayal of good faith. Oh gee, you're a journalist - you write well. Good.

So you're a whore and you provide an insight into a tiny part of existence. Hello, there are whores working on my street. Unfortunately, they're often fifteen years old, addicted to crack cocaine, taking advantage of sad losers whilst themselves being exploited by pimps and the whole cycle makes misery for far too many people. Shit, you shag for money. How cool is that? Someone I know got the clap from a whore. That was after she robbed him. When you wake up every morning to the knowledge that you could have a fresh used condom on your doorstep, you tend to have a fairly malign view of whores.

But that's okay, because your writing is beautiful, and it must have been so hard to keep it going for, ooh, all of three months. There again, I suppose it titillates those who don't understand about the connections between whoreing and drugs and violence and robbery.

Oh, wait a minute, I read the Guardian. How illiberal of me. Prostitutes are noble. Look, sister, you prostitute your body. Prostitute your soul as well. Never mind that your website isn't actually a blog. Let's see you still writing in six months time. And let's see some comments.

Obviously, some of the crack whores are victims of circumstancs. A lot more are just arrogant bitches who thought they were immune to narcotics. Let's face it, whoever has met a tart who hasn't been off her face on some narcotic or other. How big are you that you have to shag to earn a living. Some of us have studied hard. We'll be the ones laughing when you're syphillitic 'clapped out' old bag at forty mourning your lost looks and your black soul. Some of the rest of us are actually exploring the amazing world around us.

Hope you're paying tax on your whoring income.

Ooh look the grauniad has provided a glossary of blog terms. Well, allegedly blog terms anyway. Let's laugh.

The ethics of execution

When I see articles like this in the BBC Magazine, I know with absolute certainty that if the BBC didn't exist we would have to invent it.

I can't imagine a philosopher exploring the moral dilemma of executing Saddam on Sky, somehow. What, admit that things are often not black and white? Don't want to confuse the readers/viewers now, do we.

Bist du bei mir

Blogging is actually about logging links to useful pages one has read on the net. I happen to think that Bist du bei mir is a very sexy song.

File under wedding plans.

September, maybe. Brixton, or maybe Peckham, registry office.

Figaro

Monday night being Opera Night your blogger was perched in front of the TV watching The Marriage of Figaro, Mozart's sublime opera. I say sublime, because I'm sure all the purists will sniff and say it's barely a proper opera, totally non-intellectual, blah blah blah.  The one that people recommend you go to as your first, the one I went to as my first. You could be fooled into thinking it was a light-hearted trivial story -  hah, because it was based on a Beaumarchais play so seditious it was banned in 18th Century France. In the end, it has some of the mosty heaven-soaringly beautiful music imaginable, which sadly reminds me that today has been my Mozart day.

I am now older than Mozart ever was. He died a few weeks short of his thirty sixth birthday. He was an Aquarius, like me.  Look at what he achieved, look at what I have achieved.  Humiliating.

Mind you, he never had a blog.

The elusiveness of absolute fame

I had a bizzare conversation today. Apropos of some silliness about asterisks and stars someone said, "Everybody wants to be famous..." slightly disapprovingly - in much the same way that I disapprove of Fame Idol people who winge "I just want to be famous!"

Hm, I said, not quite everybody. I recalled in my mind a conversation earlier in the day about Chris Martin of Coldplay and how he really doesn't want to be famous, despite having just married Gwyneth Paltrow. But instead of Chris Martin, I mentioned Jonny Wilkinson.

"Who is he?" asked my interlocutor.

"He's a rugby player," I explained, with a hint of 'Duh!' in my voice.

"Is he famous?" I was asked. I explained that he is, yes, sort of, and quickly reeled off a week in the life of. Oh heck the Beeb has done it much better. I like the bit "at least Sir Steve was up there as well to help me through it", because last night I was shouting at the TV (I was quite drunk you know, there's far too much booze in this cottage) - go on Steve, have a word, tell him it eases off, tell him it's possible to live a normal life, tell him he doesn't have to be David Beckham.

Still, I wonder about people who really don't have a clue what's in the news outside of the big serious stories. Admittedly, we all have areas that don't interest us, but when something's news, it's news. Or maybe I'm just a news junkie.

Okay, I'll admit it. I am a bit obsessed by Jonny. But only slightly, and in a very detached "isn't it interesting when you can watch someone's life change before your eyes?" way.

(For those of you outside England and Australia, Jonny Wilkinson is the England fly-half who, twenty seconds from the end of extra time in the World Cup Final when Australia nd England were drawing 17-17, dropped the goal that won the World Cup. If you had tried to write it as fiction you couldn't have bettered it - especially as Australia had equalised in the dying seconds of full time. )

I'm not sure I have actually mentioned on this blog that England won the Rugby World Cup

They got him

Part of the reason that I didn't post yesterday was the news that Saddam Hussein has been captured.

I wanted to think about what it meant. It seems too easy to celebrate as if it is just a sporting occasion, and say "Ha - post hoc justification for the war." I was quite shocked to hear on the radio that this means that the war is over - it made me want to tear my hair out in despair.

It is merely another chapter in a long and sorry saga. Let's go back to the First World War, when Iraq, a made-up country with a made-up name, was created from the wreck of the Ottoman Empire. The Ba'athists came to power with the support inter alia of the CIA. For many years Saddam was the ally of the West - my enemy's enemy is my friend, and he was at war with Iran. We shipped weapons, overtly and covertly, to Iraq to aid the war against Iran. I was attacked as unpatriotic for saying that in the Southend smoking room during the 1991 Gulf War.

I will confess that the news of the gassing of the Kurds in Halabja in 1988 does not feature in my memory, nor, I suspect, my diary. Perhaps because it occurred the week after my father's death, so I was in no frame of mind to concentrate on world events. But, surely, if it was a big news story, it should have seeped into my consciousness. Perhaps it didn't get sufficient news coverage.

The history of the Nineties is a story of abject failure - the US Government giving Saddam a nod and a wink to invade Kuwait, then the arbitrary decision to go to war to defend Kuwait. The fiasco of the sanctions that had no effect upon the regime but condemned very many ordinary Iraqis to death and disability. I'm not even mentioning the effects of Depleted Uranium.

I am still not convinced of the case for war in Iraq this year. The capture of Saddam will be used in eternity to justify an otherwise disgraceful episode. The errors, blunders and trimming are legion - the lies about Iraq being behind Al-Qaeda (despite all the evidence showing that they were sworn enemies and as ideologically opposed to each other as they are to the West; the hurry to get the weapons inspectors out of Iraq in order to start the invasion; the lies that it would be clinical, with minimal civilian casualties; and most of all, the tissue of lies that attempted to justify a pre-emptive strike, an invasion of a foreign country, against all the principles of International Law.

The war is far from over, and, sadly, I cannot see Iraq finding closure soon. It was interesting reading Paddy Ashdown, High Representative for Bosnia and Herzegovina, saying that the Mistake made in BoH was to insist on establishing democracy before the rule of law. The same mistake is being made in Iraq - the concept of democracy is attractive, but is meaningless without the rule of law.

I appreciate that I am not being eloquent, or particularly insightful, but I just feel this need to record my gut feelings - gut feelings built up over fifteen years.

I also have to say that I am appalled by the thought that he will be executed. I guess it seems the least that can be done in vengeance for the thousands of brutal deaths for which he is responsible. But however evil the crime and the criminal, it still does not justify cold-blooded murder by the state. Those that execute in the name of law-enforcement bring themselves to the level of the genocidist.

Philosophically, is a death sentence a punishment one should relish more or less than life imprisonment? Death is so final, and satisfies the public because it is absolutely conclusive that that person can never do again what he has done before. To be imprisoned for life allows the opportunity to reflect and repent upon what they have done - if they are capable of such reflection, and such repentance. If one believes in the Judaeo-Christian-Moslem god, and the variations of perdition, is to die at the hands of a hated state a means of redemption, becoming, literally, a martyr?

Tempus fugit

I seem to be neglecting my reputation for blogorrhoea. I would love to woo and wow with you a dazzling parade of amazing things I have done. I have to say, the past few days have been enjoyable but not necessarily exciting and wooful. Dashing around at work - my task for Friday afternoon was to do a to do list, mainly to ensure I hit the ground running when I return after New Year. I didn't get that far.

On Thursday, I was at a social event where I was the only blogger present, yet there was a semi-intelligent discussion on blogging. There were two people present who claim to know Tom Watson.

Saturday was a TV day - firstly, Manchester United beating Manchester City by a comfortable three goals to one. Classic comments from yours truly. "That Ryan Giggs, he's turned thirty now - he's past his best." Ten minutes later: "Ooh, Ryan Giggs - he just gets better and better." Ha ha!

In the evening we watched The Pianist a stunningly moving film, set in the Warsaw Ghetto in the Second World War. At two and a half hours it is not a short film, but it never seemed to drag. I will definitely say a big-up to Sky Box Office. I would be surprised if such a film would be available to hire from my local home entertainment shop.

Sunday was Sainsburys, which was extraordinary quiet and really rather unhassled. In the evening we watched the Sports Personality of the Year. There was not a single award with which I disagreed. The highlights of the evening were the awards to the rugby team, (it was wonderful to see Jonny Wilkinson's face when Martin Johnson was announced as runner-up - the look of dread on his face that yet again he is back in the spotlight - he earlier had the grace to admit that he knows he looks uncomfortable in the spotlight - I'm sure he's getting used to it and will grow into his iconic role) and the crowning of Steve Redgrave - a truly deserved award, for his longevity, and for his tremendous achievement in winning gold in five successive Olympics, especially, latterly, with considerable medical challenges. Of course, something like that is always going to favour a recent winner, but, objectively, it would be difficult to find a more worthy winner. And doesn't he always look so proud when he receives accolades!

It was also excellent seeing the awards to Michael Watson and Lance Armstrong.

But the overwhelming moment was seeing the '66 team and the '03 team pose together (and George and Ben Cohen being asked whether there was a young Cohen with a talent for cricket...!)

Down with the 'Queen'

The Grauniad asks: Does Britain have the world's worst national anthem?

Regular readers will know that this is a lietmotif of this blog - here, here and here.

It's a bit pathetic that three quarters of a million people can take to the streets in a benign display of positive nationalism and not actually have a National Anthem. God help us if Swing Low is adopted, though. It sounds just about tolerable when sung by a gospel choir. Chanted tunelessly by a crowd of varying musical ability it really is quite awful.

Rugby parade

If you click, it'll take you to some more pictures from the day

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

Woooooot :)

I have a wonderful wonderful wonderful picture on my camera of Jonny holding the William Webb Ellis trophy. I also have a fab photo of 'Sir' Clive Woodward.

Unfortunately, I'm buggering off out of town for a couple of days so the earliest you'll get to see it is Wednesday.

I went to the parade. I'm a bit hoarse from singing *that* dirge. ButI can assure you that sinews were stiffened. It was jolly good. Mind you, I couldn't get to Trafalgar Square.

Supraventricular tachycardia (SVT).

So, another of my sporadic celebrity crushes has been treated in hospital for an irregular heartbeat, following on from Tony Blair.

I'm starting to worry - I thought it was entirely normal to have a racing heart after drinking caffeine, and, although older, these men are definitely fitter than me, and non-smoking.

Ooh, and do play Spot the Difference between Blair and Fergie.

Jack the Ripper condoms

I'm not quite sure how to react to this. I think it's funny, but my colleagues have told me it's sick, and I'm sick for finding it funny: Outrage at Ripper sex kit

Mother Xmas

This is not meant to be cruel.

I don't think my mother gets christmas. You would think, having a younger brother, three children and two grandchildren, with a combined age of 163 years, she might have got it by now.

The pressies are meant to be surprises.

Years ago my sister invented the list. (Amazon copied it). You make out a list of way too many things and it is organised. By my sister of course. The idea is, you're guaranteed to get what you want, but you don't know what or from whom.

A few weeks back I reeled off the list. Far too early, but never mind. Last week Mother phoned to say that she was having trouble getting what I had asked for in HMV in the Trafford Centre 'although they did have the three tenors DVD', and Pauline couldn't find it on Amazon. She said she could go into Manchester and try HMV there, or maybe Forsythes, and I had visions of her trudging down Deansgate on a fools' errand. "Don't worry," I said. "Forget about it - how about something from my Amazon wish list - Pauline can organise it (Pauline's the eldest of us three siblings. I'm not saying she's bossy but...).

On Monday, Mother phoned to say she had got it "And I know you're going to like it, it's very good" (bear in mind she doesn't have a DVD player).

I rang her today and she very nearly blurted out what it was. Okay I vaguely know, but the element of surprise is which one. She finally said "Okay, I won't tell you which one it is but you will like it!".

She has another three weeks not to tell me which one it is. It is so going to kill her. Every birthday and christmas she rings up just before and says "Just to let you know I got you XXXX."

"Mother! It's a christmas present! It's supposed to be a surprise!"

Hard to please

I was at the Festival Hall Last night for the Philharmonia conducted by Andras Schiff. The programme was Mozart's Symphony 25 in G minor; Mendelssohn's Piano Concerto No 2 n D minor; and Haydn's Symphony No 104 in D (London). All perfectly pleasant pieces, all quite jolly.

But I didn't come away with any great sense of excitement or passion. It might have been because I was sitting in the gods - not a good choice, I think. Or maybe it was because it was the night of the coughs. There was a very irritating woman who didn't seem able to stop coughing, especially during the slow movements. Shame she was sitting in my seat...Another woman actually left the hall for coughing and there came a point in the Haydn where I think half the audience just gave up any attempts to stop coughing. A couple of the orchestra also seemed to be drinking water at every opportunity. I think I shall conclude that although the 25th may be the first of Mozart's 'mature' (he was 17 when he wrote it...) symphonies, its pleasantness is without doubt, and I had a minor fit "Not another fucking 40" as I searched for a presumably long-ago chewed tape of it, I won't be in a hurry to replace it in my collection.

Although I think I am possibly listening to the worst ever 40, sounding like it was recorded onto Memorex tape from the other side of the room from a dodgy mono Autochanger record player - Von Karajan conducting the Orchestra Sinfonica di Torino dell'Eiar. Christ in a basket it was recorded in October 1942, and the one side of sleeve notes are in Spanish. Only. God knows where that CD came from. I wonder if I paid money for it? Good money? I bet it was only the reserves of the Orchestra, too. Ooh, look, the only bit of English says

Due to the antiquity of the Original Masters, we kindly ask the listener to understand that some of the pieces may present some deficiencies in the sound.

Actually, it may not be as Wolfgang, Herbert or God intended, but, you know, it has a certain charm... (the disc also contains 35 and 41)

Currently listening to...

The Joy of Christmas -a superb superb double CD I picked up by accident many years ago. It comes out every year. It combines the best traditional Christmas Carols with proper arrangements by David Willcocks and others (incidentally he's conducting some carols at St Martin in the Fields next Tuesday; I'm elsewhere); and some of the classics of the classical repertoire with a (sometimes tenuous) connection to Christmas.

This, along with candles, signifies the positive and exciting aspect of Christmas. The commercialism and the crap I would rather do without.

A feast for the eyes

I may moan about London, but I will say that the view last night from the Terrace of the Royal Festival Hall is quite simply the most beautiful man-made sight I have ever seen. Forget the Pyramids, forget the Manhattan skyline. To stand on the South Bank and see the world's most beautiful (to me...) city displayed in all its electrically-lit splendour is almost a spiritual experience. To count the number of fellow gazers out on December evening showed the universality of the feeling. To hear two teenage boys exclaiming that it was spectacular and stunning was poetry.

The Shell Electric Storm is worth seeing, too, although probably not worth travelling to see. It is nice to be able to see a wind turbine from my desk is an added little bonus.

Scheduling

It used to be the thing, when I were young, that the two major TV Channels used to pursue a strategy of deliberately going head-to-head in their TV schedules. Most memorable was the decision on Bank Holiday Mondays for both BBC and ITV included circuses at the same time. Not that I ever wanted to watch one circus, let alone two. It was even more ludicrous when both channels used to show, not only the FA Cup Final, but also four hours of talk and build-up.

BBC2/Channel 4 seemed to have abandoned their Friday night comedy head-to-head. Even then, although it was in an inyerface attempt to outdo each other, it could hardly be argued that Friends and Have I Got News For You were appealing to the same precise demographic.

In an era of multiple channels, it is impossible to avoid clashes. Tomorrow night, I could watch Sleeping Beauty on Artsworld or Manchester United v West Brom on Sky Sports. I would be mocked, and rightly, if I complained.

Artsworld covers - unsurprisingly - the Arts. Monday night is opera, Tuesday is obscure foreign language films etc. Performance features footage of live performances - a mixture of classical and pop, but focusing more on Frank Sinatra/Tom Jones than 50 Cent and Westlife?

Last night Artsworld showed The Magic Flute. Performance showed Don Giovanni. Both of these are by Mozart.

If you consider the number of people with digital Tv in this country. And consider how many of them are opera fans, which I suspect is a fairly small intersect. Further consider what proportion have the time to sit down on a Monday night (Or this specific Monday night) to watch an opera on the TV (2 and a half to 3 hours). You're not talking about a particularly large number of people. I can't help thinking that there was deliberate planning to put these two against each other in a petty little power struggle for ratings, pouring scorn on the little people who, conceivably, might want to watch both, and self-destructively, pretty much guaranteeing to halve their potential audience. Unless it's an even more cynical ploy, and the result of arm-twisting by the evil Murdoch empire to ensure that the target demographic, probably one with a fairly high disposable income, feels compelled to shell out even more money to Sky-plus.

Unbridled capitalism is pernicious.

The UK Bloggers Xmas party

Okay, I'm more or less lucid now. As much as I'll ever be.

I realise that in my last post I committed a cardinal sin of mentioning some names and not other. Better to mention none than miss some out.

There is a list of attendees here - non-exhaustive - at the moment it lacks Anna and Bobbie, Robin, Emma and Spengy

From there I spoke to Stuart Hydragenic; Adrian Sevitz; Ann Pixeldiva (I'm sorry, you got me at the drunk before sober stage); Cal Henderson (briefly); D Acerbia (briefly); Jackie Green Fairy; Julius Outwardly Normal (briefly); Karen and Pete Uborka (briefly); London Mark (briefly); Matt Webb Interconnected (briefly); Meg me(ish); Rich Wild FunJunkie; Stuart Autoblography (briefly); Tim Hall (briefly); Tim Ireland Bloggerheads - do read about South-West Trains; Tom Coates (I can't believe we were actually discussing the unmentionable, and it was very embarrassing when Meg joined the circle...); Tom Morris bbCity; Vaughan Wherever You Are (far too briefly); as well as the above-mentioned omittees, again far too briefly. And I am annoyed for missing Annie Mole from London Underground Blog.

It was too easy, and to enjoyable to stand by the bar. The people I was with were way too interesting. I think it's probably good form to circulate. But I'm not actually very good at social situations. I'm actually quite good at play-acting that I'm good at social situations. Not quite the same thing. I should have circulated.

Jackie is spot-on - there was a high hunk quotient there. Invidious and divisive to say which ones particularly attracted (in a purely aesthetic way, of course, you're all way too young or too married for me, and I'm not looking, anyway).

Thank you to the person (I forget whom!) who called me a token sex-symbol and stressed he meant token. Thank you to the person who told me I write too much. And sorry to everybody to whom I said "Do you want to see my scars?"

I'm also sorry for whinging and moaning about the price of drinks and the absence of cash machines - after arriving as the first 'chick', I made a dramatic exit to find money. It was good to have a dedicated venue, and I'm actually more irritated that the wine came in a thimble than it was four quid a throw. Oh, and thanks for the drinks people - they seemed to line themselves up on the bar and I don't have a clue where they came from. Thanks very much to Rich for organising it.

There are four photos on my camera. Three are blurred. *Sigh* I should have taken photos.

And, if I've missed you out, please slap me with a wet fish!

Certain absent bloggers were discussed, so don't worry. Again, invidious to mention names. But I'm sure you felt the love...