Gertsamtkunstwerk

Oysters on trains

ATOC’S position on Oyster Pay-as-You-Go

All London train operators will be responding positively to Transport for London’s (TfL) proposal for Oyster pay-as-you-go (PAYG) and want to move forward with discussions aimed at implementing it on the railway in London.

This is of considerable interest to me because I actually live nearer to Streatham Hill BR station than to any Tube, and as I work part-time I am an avid PAYG user. This has acted as a disincentive to use trains - although, in reality, they were great when I worked next door to Victoria station, not so great being quite a distance.

In an ideal world, there would be no reason not to have PAYG on trains, but I know how long already it takes to clear the platform at Streatham Hill in the evening as people file two-by-two up two flights of stairs (don't even mention accessibility). If gates were installed I doubt it would be clear before the next train arrived fifteen minutes later, even non-gated readers will slow the process down. There's a photo on the up-platform at Streatham Hill of the station in 1906; it hasn't changed in that time and is inadequate for current needs. But I'm not sure that rebuilding a station is a priority for infrastructure, especially if it would mean closing it for an extended period of time.

Johnny Johnny Johnny

England pick Wilkinson & Farrell

Jonny Wilkinson and Andy Farrell have both been named in Brian Ashton's England team to face Scotland in the Six Nations at Twickenham on Saturday. Fly-half Wilkinson has not played for England since the 2003 World Cup final because of injuries, and has only played 40 minutes in the last 12 weeks.

It will be worth switching the TV on just to see and hear the crowd reaction if he does run out of the tunnel at Twickers

L'elisir d'amore

  L'elisir d'amore is a gorgeous opera by Donizetti that I happen to have twice on DVD. The first version one of the early issues from the Del Prado 'A Season of Opera on DVD' that began nearly three years ago and continues relentlessly; the second I received down my chimney fallen off the back of a passing reindeer-hauled sleigh. For brevity, I shall refer to the Angela Gheorghiu-Roberto Alagna version as Lyons, and the Rolando Villazón-Anna Netrebko version as Vienna.

A comic opera, which doesn't mean you'll be rolling laughing in the aisles. A delightful tale of...well, not very much. Boy has crush on girl. Travelling salesman/conman comes to town and sells to boy aka Village Idiot an elixir which will cause women to fall in love with him.

Girl decides to marry visiting soldier to make peasant boy jealous. Boy signs up to army for more money to buy more of elixir. Boy inherits fortune from uncle - although he doesn't know it. All the girls want him; he thinks it's because of the Elixir. Finally, girl admits she's in love with him and it all ends happily ever after.

No great insight into the human condition and no great moral to the story. Other than the gullibility of people to magic solutions pedalled by spurious authority. It was obviously as common a problem in 1832 as it is in 2007.

What does characterise this is some wonderful numbers - arias, duets, ensemble pieces - interspersed with some gorgeous orchestra writing. Melody is at the forefront, but despite the apparent simplicity of the melodies, there is some complex and always pleasant, often delightful work in the orchestra. Partly the harmonies, but particularly the orchestration eg using the different tones and timbres of the instruments to create different parts of atmosphere. And most especially, the melodies that often compliment or contrast with the vocal line rather than merely accompany (or make the singing appear to be an optional extra). I want to describe it as very modern-sounding  but am conscious that that might be entirely misconstrued to mean serial, atonal, discordant. It's not really comparable to musicals or film music because there is a welcome absence of schmaltzy strings signposting two-dimensional emotions. I suppose it has the brightness of a poppy pop song with added virtuoso singing and intricate orchestra passages. Perhaps I mean 'timeless', rather than 'modern'.

Richmond Walk/Twickenham Question

We went for a really nice walk this afternoon. Nothing too strenuous, I can't do strenuous, and in total we were out of the house for about four hours.

But psychologically so important. Get away from the dreary depressing being inside doing very little. Get out into the light and the air, get the heart pumping and the adrenaline flowing.

Only to Richmond. It was a bit tedious walking down the shopping street, feeling pity and compassion for those poor people compelled to spend their Saturday afternoons in relentless shopping*. But we eventually got to the river, and there were a fair number of people with the same idea as us, just a nice stroll in the afternoon sunshine, mild temperatures, no one being in the slightest bit rude, obnoxious or annoying.

It's nice to be out walking, it doesn't cost the earth (literally or figuratively), and it  makes you feel good. I took a few photos, which are now queued for processing. The one below is probably one of the worst I took but it has left me puzzled. We were in Richmond and this building was on the Twickenham side of the river, but I can't work out from the A-Z or the internet what it is. This is only a section, it does spread for quite a way along the river.

* you know I'm such a snotty cow at times

Little things that annoy me

I know it's not important, and I don't want to be one of those people who write into Points of View/Radio Times complaining about a non-salient point of a TV drama.

Watching Waking the Dead the other night. They were interviewing a former Cabinet Minister, who mentioned that he had been working on a White Paper that had a Second Reading.

Wait on, I thought, White Paper: Second Reading. I don't think so. I know about Parliamentary procedure. But then I got to doubting my own knowledge. I ended up googling and wikipeding, and, of course, I was right. But there again, I ought to be right about the basic noddy stuff of Politics. But, surely, other people know this. Should I be surprised/shocked/appalled that seemingly, not one person involved in the making of Waking the Dead doesn't know something so basic? Surely I can't be the only viewer who has a basic understanding of Parliamentary Democracy.

Sometimes, I allow for poetic licence. Watching the Bill and seeing someone run down my road, and turn the corner onto a Thameside Path; this is a fictional portrayal of fictional Sun Hill. It's amusing but no more incongruous than the fact that time passes a lot more quickly on telly than in Real Life. Genuine continuity errors are funny - the famous episode of Yes Minister when Bernard's tie changed radically mid-conversation without human intervention.

I get annoyed at dated portrayals. Like in Judge John Deed, when various Senior Officials are all portrayed as dour men in grey suits, in cellular offices. Or when TV tries to portray an office setting, and has everybody talking fervently evangelically slightly rapidly and a bit breathlessly. Have they ever been in an office? I have never yet seen a portrayal of a local councillor and/or local politics that bears the slightest resemblance to reality. Don't they do their research? Dialogue in Eastenders is hysterically funny, all these half-wits sounding like they've been 20 rounds in psychotherapy and are so in touch with their feelings and able to articulate them in long words.

But paradoxically, I can take the unrealistic dialogue in most drama. The fact that everybody is capable of stringing words together coherently and logically. I don't know anybody who does that unfailingly. Even when I'm being articulate and in full flow, with someone a friend or a colleague who's likewise, we don't have a chess game of perfectly formed sentences and phrases. Sometimes we talk over each other; sometimes there's a verbal shorthand; half-expressed thoughts clarified by facial expressions or hand waving; misunderstandings quickly rectified; stroking words put in; someone momentarily dropping the concentration to take a sip of tea or wine. It's how it happens in real life, but I think it would make really bad TV.

I know ultimately these things don't matter, compared to how the drama plays and resolves or how the characters are portrayed.

But it still bugs me that they get basic facts wrong. Facts that everybody ought to know, and if they don't, they have no business writing about them in a Prime Time drama series.

Going out on a low note?

Sorry, couldn't resist that headline....

On Tuesday evening the lovely Jamie posted the comment

The new issue of opera has confirmed that Domingo will sing the TITLE ROLE in Simon Boccanegra at Covent Garden in 2009/10 season!

and my response was Oh Jamie, I am so so so so so so so so happy!!!!!!!!

So, you know, I was pretty chuffed to find confirmation of something that's been strongly rumoured for a couple of years. But I didn't think it was big news.

Domingo to take on baritone role

A tenor no more: Domingo to make switch to baritone

A New Low? Plácido Domingo to Sing Simon Boccanegra

Domingo jumps from the high C's into deeper waters

Domingo to become a baritone (his first tenor role was Borsa in 1959; Alfredo happened in 1961).

Clip from Radio 4's Today programme and Channel 4 News, which suggests that this will happen at New York's Metropolitan Opera, when all the other media sources say Berlin Staatsoper Unter den Linden, La Scala and the Royal Opera House.

And here's me thinking he's decided to turn into a Baroque specialist, what with Oreste in Iphigénie en Tauride, Bajazet in Tamerlano and Giove in Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria. Although, I wonder how many other singers have in their repertoire over the next couple of years roles from each of the 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th and 21st centuries. Or as one of those articles above says

As opera singers grow older, some of them even retire. That is clearly not an option for the evergreen tenor Plácido Domingo, who has sung an astonishing 123* roles in his 48-year career.

Update: What’s the story with . . . Placido Domingo? - this is so riddled with errors it's barely worth bothering with except that it made me realise that he's going for the 100 Stage Roles.

* approximately

Sex-obsessed bigots

I am sick and tired of people using the cloak of 'religion' to protect their hate-filled bigotry.

First, the trivial Muslim PC refused to shake hands

The woman's refusal was based on her view that her faith prevented her touching a man other than her husband or a close relative

- because she had to draw the logical conclusion that the mere act of shaking hands would cause Sir Ian Blair to leap on her and shag her senseless in front of hundreds in a public place...

What an impertinence.

The society in which she lives regards a handshake as a conventional way of expressing non-intimate good will. Refusal to shake a hand is a deliberate insult designed to indicate a lack of respect or a refusal (well-grounded or not) to accept a gesture of friendship. If somebody refused to shake my hand I would be mortified, and I really would not accept that their prejudices trump my feelings. Because, when I go to meetings - at work, as a private citizen or formerly as a councillor - it has never been my intention to cop off with the person I'm meeting.

Far more importantly, Catholic threat on gay rights law, where another set of sex-obsessed bigots reveal how they have caused unnecessary suffering to the most vulnerable children

The Catholic Church's agencies are said to handle 4%, or about 200, of all adoptions a year. However they handle about a third of those children judged difficult to place.

I think, in an ideal world, the best environment for a child to grow up is with both biological parents, who are capable of caring for them, and without any physical or mental disabilities, or anything that resembles poverty. Guess what, this isn't a perfect world.

A substantial body of evidence exists to show that the worst environment for a child is 'in care', (despite the best efforts of foster carers, many of whom do remarkable jobs). If a child cannot live with their biological families, the best alternative is for a knowledgeable and experienced professional social worker to select adoptive parents who have been through the most rigorous approval processes.

Gone are the days where there was a glut of perfect white babies ready for adoption at six weeks. Thank God.

Most children for adoption are older, often of school age, usually having suffered the trauma of dysfunction, or abuse or neglect. Or have profound multiple disabilities. These children do not require some nice middle-class middle-England straight married Catholic couple full of good intentions.

They need adoptive parent(s), straight gay whatever race whatever age who have the personal skills, dedication, patience, understanding - and love to be parents in a way that the vast majority of natural parents are never required to be. I think it's profoundly unfair to these children to be denied loving parent(s) just because some weirdos disapprove of their relationship.

The Catholic Church has revealed it has been taking adoption decisions that are not necessarily in the best interest of the child, and they wish to continue doing so. They should hang their heads in shame, that when purporting to be dedicated to the welfare of the most vulnerable, their squeamishness at sex is still more important. (isn't it bizarre that a Catholic marriage is deemed to be a lifelong all encompassing relationship, in which sex is just one part, but a gay relationship is considered to be just sex sex sex sex? Perverted bigots. Sex-obsessed.)

Fruit flies

I have never had such an experience of being over run by fruit flies. From time to time, if you leave a wine glass unwashed for a few days with dribbles in the bottom, you really notice them, especially in the heat of summer.

But it's getting ridiculous. Admittedly, we are not 100% operating theatre clean, but we are making a real effort at the moment to keep things clean. I poured myself a glass of wine, and left it for maybe five, ten minutes at the most, and six of the bastards had leaped in. It was a bloody good Shiraz...actually only a Vin du Pays D'Oc (but proper stuff from France, not the crap they pass off to supermarkets), and it was the last glass, so I'm a bit miffed.

I don't think I have ever have six flies in a wine glass. Certainly not in winter, certainly not indoors.

Jimmy thinks it's it do with the composting bin, which is kept at the bottom of the garden but not very far from the downstairs shower-room/loo.

I want to blame the bastard builders, but wonder if it's anything to do with the weird weather. I wonder if it's just us, or is it a widespread problem, and if we get the rumoured cold snap, they'll go away? Although, frankly, the forecast for night-time temperatures falling to - woo - minus one doesn't seem cold enough to me.

La fille du regiment

I went to see this at the Royal Opera House on Thursday evening. I'm going again next week and it's on the radio on Saturday, so this is just my initial impression. (Also rumours of a possible televising)

By Donizetti

Marie ...... Natalie Dessay
Tonio ...... Juan Diego Florez
La Marquise de Berkenfeld ...... Felicity Palmer
Sulpice ...... Alessandro Corbelli
Hortensius ...... Donald Maxwell
A Corporal ...... Bryan Secombe
Duchesse de Crackentorp ...... Dawn French

I enjoyed it. I really don't know the piece at all, save for that one aria 'Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête!' with its 9 High Cs. I'm not a high C freak at all, am entirely indifferent to interpolated high notes, and so on, but I will admit that in an aria with 9 of them coming in quick succession - as written - there is potentially a visceral thrill. And I might as well get it out of the way, now. JDF sang them all, brought the house down with applause, but didn't do an encore. It is a really great aria, and this is now the third time I've heard him sing it in six months, and he does it very well.

I thought the production was very good, but, having read a review that called it 'the best production at the ROH for decades' was rather red rag to a bull. For the record, it isn't...and it's not like I've seen many, but I have seen quite a few better.

And the music. As I had never heard it before I can only say it was consistently lovely without between memorable. Coincidentally, the latest in my alphabetical list of operas to be studied at home is L'Elisir D'amore, and what has really struck me about that is the intricate colours going in the orchestra. I noticed nothing of that on Thursday, but will be in a better position to comment next week. In fact, I didn't especially notice the orchestra (as distinct from the music) at all. Which isn't a bad thing, but isn't necessarily a good thing.

The performances were all of a high standard. No weak links, although apart from the two leads none really leaped out and grabbed me. I had not heard Natalie Dessay before, and I certainly found her impressive, vocally and dramatically - perhaps tending to the manic over-acting. I did notice that she seemed to nail the high notes more convincingly when she was supported by the chorus. I don't mean vocally or musically, i mean literally lifted off the ground and held aloft by the men of the 'regiment'. A lovely voice.

Juan Diego Florez was as to be expected a flawless performance. He is really the consummate professional performer, never a flubbed note, never a move out of place, looks good and moves elegantly, and I am a fan of his. And yet, there is something lacking. I wouldn't go so far as to say insincere or mechanistic, but it lacks a raw passion. Indeed I would say, 9 high Cs not withstanding, I would say his singing lacks raw passion. Plenty of finesse and beautiful to hear, which is right for the repertory he does.

The production was visually appealing throughout. The underlying theme was three maps/mats on the floor representing the Alpine Region in which it is set, undulating to represent the rugged surface of the alps. Although simple and figurative, I found it evocative.

The curtain opened to a wagon train of abused furniture - wardrobes etc neatly converted into covered transport for an army on the move. There was a call to arms, and the regiment armed themselves with kitchen utensils. Eventually, this caravan was moved, making the undulating maps the centre of focus. Various people came and went, and various bits were sung. Marie, the eponymous daughter of the regiment (she was found as a baby on the battlefield and adopted by the whole regiment...) was shown doing various humdrum tasks, such as ironing and peeling potatoes, and hauling in a whole washing line of long-johns.

In the second Act, the Covent Garden box was wheeled on, to rest on rolled-up maps and carpet oddments. Although, unusually, the box didn't have a lid, and was open on three sides. There were some odd goings on, the notary appearing through the fireplace (huh?). Various people came and went, yes, that is definitely my abiding memory - lots of entering and leaving. Dawn was entertaining in her small speaking role. A right snotty cow, if you ask me.

The idea was that Marie was to be married off to the nephew of the Duchess of Crackenthorp (by proxy), which didn't make her happy, because she was in love with Tonio, the peasant boy, who had enlisted in order to assist Marie's earlier promise that she would only marry one of the regiment. It was amusing seeing the wedding guests streaming up the alpine path to the back door of the mansion, all of them qualifying for "Ministry of Silly Walks" grants. For a moment, it evoked the freshness of sunlit alpine pastures, so that was nice. the best bit dramatically was when the regiment decided that Marie's impending marriage was not a good thing, and drove a tank towards the mansion. I'm afraid at that point the audience did a very un-British thing of actually applauding the scenery...oh, the shame of it...

Overall, an enjoyable evening without being moving and profound, and one that will look good on telly, if it's shown. The evening got a lot better when the people behind me stopped laughing in that smug, knowing way that people do when they know intellectually it's supposed to be funny, but in reality is less rib-tickling and more faintly amusing. on the other hand, it deteriorated seriously when the man behind my left ear decided to rub the nylon material of his trousers against his right knee in time with the music. Close to fingers on blackboard time and certainly as bad as tapping or even singing along. At least, I think it was his knee...

More thoughts actually on the music etc after next week. Just for the record, I didn't go to the Stage Door, because I thought I ought to hurry home because of a certain fiancé of mine, who shall remain nameless, had locked himself out of the house.

Mother says JDF was on Andrew Marr's show yesterday but that's a bit early for me. And she didn't actually see it because she had to go to Mass.

Update: I've just discovered the clip on line go to this link . It's right at the end of the programme (after the news, trailer for Heaven and Earth, and Ming Campbell discussing the Cheeky Girls and Charlie Kennedy) - position the 'play' counter approximately over the 'k' of "Back to launch page" . It will probably expire on Sunday 28th.

We love a girl in uniform, La fille du regiment, A nearly perfect delight, La fille du regiment, The Fat Lady Steals It ( a really quite ridiculous and factually incorrect headline from some smartarse sub-editor at the Home Counties Evening Sub-Standard), La fille du regiment and Lithe and Musical

Dear Diary

Thursday was not a good day. I was aware of the reports of storms crossing the country and the havoc, misery and death they were wreaking. I was aware of various colleagues checking out to see whether they could return home to the depths of commuter land. I heard of a couple of colleagues wanting to come home from Cambridge, a task made more difficult by the cancellation of trains.

Then I got a phonecall from Jimmy. He had locked the café and house keys in the café, the spare café keys in the house. I think he expected me to drop everything and go running. Not on your nelly. I suggested he came to me; he wouldn't. He said he would sleep in the car, or break into the house. Not bloody likely I said. I told him to speak to his brother who lives round the corner. My idea was "Do it now". His was, after I've had a few drinks, when I get round to it.

To cut a long story short, when I got home at past eleven he was in the car, shivering and freezing. His sister-in-law had left their house in the morning and managed to lock her keys in, so they ended up calling a locksmith. I was not happy at Jimmy. If he had been prepared to listen to me I would have suggested we met halfway for me to hand over keys.

I left the office with the intention of catching a bus. there was already minor excitement as a VVIP convoy traversed the crossroads. A police car as advance party, one leading and one following the convoy of three Range Rovers and an S Reg jag. Couldn't see who, but noticed a man in the back of one of the Range Rovers facing backwards and rapidly scanning the horizon. The vanguard stopped at the cross roads to block the crossroads and signal 'stop' to on-coming drivers. Not one but two cars decided to ignore this. I wondered what sort of idiot would ignore such a sign. Either someone who's not paying attention to the road or someone who is very stupid. In my mind, a police block is to be obeyed. Not especially in order to obey and help the police, but because it's possibly a sign of potential danger. In this instance the only danger was that of a head-on collision with a heavily policed convoy. This wouldn't be your standard prang. And I don't know if these VVIP police guards carry guns. I'd rather not find out.

The traffic was bumper to bumper on Millbank and no sign of buses, but plenty of people walking briskly to Parliament Square. Parliament Square was bumper-to-bumper. So was Whitehall. There were fire engines here, there and everywhere, probably attending alarms caused by the gales. I ended up walking all the way to Trafalgar Square, then, because it was only one bus stop's length, all the way to Covent Garden. From my desk to Il Ponti's in 45 minutes. Brisk march down Whitehall, I realised I was in step with everybody else. No pesky tourists, just workers wanting to get home or out for the evening.

Friday, the Sky man came. We got a new box. An 80 gig one to replace our previous 40 gig rubbish one. I knew it was rubbish because a) it wouldn't work and b) the engineer says there's a lot of problems with that model. Which I knew because I had read it on Digital Spy a year or more ago.

So I went out to the Sorting Office. Which isn't far, but it's uphill all the way back. I was out maybe half an hour. Which meant, coming on top of Thursday's yomp across London I was dead beat and totally knackered and aching.

Grrr. That really hacks me off.

Happy birthday Plácido

66 today

Peaceful Sunday...

   
      

Quote of the day

There are theories that Lewis Carroll knew what he was talking about when he had Alice eat pieces of mushroom, as advised by a hookah-smoking caterpillar, which made her grow and shrink.

Well quote of the day of 18 months ago. Made me laugh...

And another thing: Crystal meth made class A drug

I have to confess this covers two areas about which I am very hazy - drugs use and male sexual performance - but my understanding is that drugs like Crustal Meth enable three day sexual orgies. Every man I've ever met claims to have been a 7-a-nighter at 17, from which point it was downhill all the way. Past the age of, what, 19?, a major obstacle to male sexuality is recovery rate.

If drugs like 'crazy medicine' can address this obstacle, I would have thought there is a potentially enormous market for a fully researched, trialled and tested version of this drug.

So, (and don't feel shy to answer anonymously) does anybody have any experience directly or vicariously of how these clubbing drugs enable three day orgies - do they enable recovery and, er, stamina, and all that?

Sky update update

My third phone call was at 5pm. I recapped the day's events and was told that the engineer had gone home for the day. I said that I didn't especially care which engineer, I just wanted the problem resolved today, as implied in our contract.

Conversation with the person who took the call: I learnt that they have fulfilled their contract by sending someone out to attend to the box to the best of his abilities. Second is that they can only offer me an 'all day' call from Wednesday onwards. Also, that staff at the engineer's firm 'Custom', just like at my employer, have to take annual leave or lose pay when they take time off (funny that...).

I asked to speak to the supervisor who turned out to be the firm's manager, Daniel. Daniel-with-an-attitude-problem. Defensive and attacking. No, he can't give anything more than specific than 'all day', even though I specifically said my partner would be available from 3pm. No, he can't make a management decision to prioritise a call for someone who has already had a failed visit (so, not really a manager at all, I presume). It's not his fault. There is no contract to replace the box, I don't have a contract with them, I haven't paid them any money*. As far as he was concerned, it wasn't his problem. I'd have to get onto Sky. I'm just another irritating customer with the impertinence to expect a job completed on the appointed day. I did feel he wanted to say "Woman, know your place..."

I used Say not to 0870 and got through to the geographical number in amazingly quick time. I wonder if they have a special team set up for people 'saying no to 0870' because the chap I dealt with was an excellent Customer Service person, conciliatory and giving the impression of empathising, which is the basis of good customer service. Nevertheless, he was only authorised to give me a £20 credit, but even the way he said it was conciliatory - not defensive, not aggressive - so I was inclined to believe him (I know a tiny bit about delegated financial authorities).

I made a big deal about 'I suppose I can arrange to work at home on Friday' because that was obviously preferable to hanging around all day on Saturday (of course my manager would laugh himself silly at that concept)**, but the list of programmes I won't be able to watch is growing. I hope that is resolved by 4pm Friday because that will be my last chance to catch the JDF Barber of Seville. At least, until it's repeated again in a few months time, but a few months time isn't good enough. (if the reports from professionals and amateurs alike are anything to go by JDF is certain to be my Tenor of the Month*** (Under 65 category)****)

Because I work part-time, I have more time than many people to be making these calls, but I work part-time for a reason, my health, and Jimmy gets angry when he sees me dealing with muppets on the phone and watching the colour visibly drain out of me. It seems like all these matters are a war of attrition, and the big firms win by beating down the people who pay their wages/profits. It sucks.

* hasn't grasped the accruals concept; nor the basis of subcontracting - imagine if an airline used the excuse 'you're not our customer, you booked via a travel agent; or a 'name' food manufacturer said 'it's not our problem, you bought it from Tesco'
** Friday is not a 'working day' for me
*** Remember my other nom de net is La Donna Mobile
****Not that mobile

Sky update

I received the phone-call to say when to expect the Sky engineer. Fine. At about half way through the allotted slot, he phoned to say he couldn't find the place, so I gave him instructions. Because I was in a chirpy mood, I didn't say "Read the bloody A-Z," but instead gave detailed instructions. As he didn't turn up, I rang him, he had driven way out of the way, so I gave even more detailed instructions. Eventually he arrived.

Fiddled around for a bit, said that all it needed was a software update, and Sky should have done that over the phone. He updated the software, and the TV seemed to be receiving okay, which was a massive advance on last night. As soon as he had gone I set the Sky+ Box to record something, anything, not important, to see how it went. Guess what, it didn't record properly, so I called 0845 number of the company, and stated very calmly what the issue was, and I expected an engineer to call back today. He tried ringing the engineer, but had to leave a voicemail for him to call me. Half an hour later, no callback. So I call back. And I am going to call every half hour until I get a satisfactory response.

Needless to say, a missive will be despatched, but I'm holding fire until the end of the day to see whether the problem is resolved, or else I emphasise strongly exactly why this is far far far from satisfactory.

About a dozen years ago my friend had a whole sequence of incompetence and inefficiencies from a wide variety of companies purporting to offer a range of services. What made it worse was that it seemed that every time she switched the TV on, John Major proclaiming his desire to see the public sector working more like the private sector. As she said, "God help us..."

Am I being unreasonable in just wanting to receive the service I pay for? It's not even that I can cancel my subscription to Sky, because the only alternative is nothing. But then a supposedly highly competitive market such as broadband provision is demonstrated to be no better than the monopolies. I can't help thinking if someone like me feels constantly so frustrated, what happens to people without my advantages. And it's such an interruption. You spend so much time waiting for the next instalment, or timing your next move, or hanging on the phone, it's actually very difficult to get anything else done.

More on the First Emperor

Norwegian TV News carried a report of the livecast to a cinema in Tromsø. (thanks to Raffe)

I didn't listen to the live broadcast, but did record it. Unfortunately, with a knackered Sky+ box, the recording is less than perfect featuring frequent clicks and the occasional high pitched screech. I enjoyed it more on a second hearing, surprised at my ability to recognise many of the tunes from memory. I found the Beverley Sills lesson in how not to conduct an interview to be totally excruciating, but that's by the by. I had thought that the BBC were including Opera on 3 in their 'Listen Again' but I can't find a link, so, presumably not.

There is talk of the recordings of these livecasts being shown on TV in the USA, and hope that they will become DVDs. I don't recall any specific announcement from New York's Metropolitan Opera regarding DVDs, but presumably if they are shown on TV, DVDs will be available from the nefarious dungeons of the internet. If a DVD does become available, I'm getting it. In all honesty, I wouldn't, were it not for Plácido. But his presence certainly makes it worth my while.

Interestingly, most of the writing after the first night was negative, but subsequently, people have been more positive. Perhaps the critics reacted to the hyperbole relentlessly pushed out by the Met, which seemed to imply this was the greatest opera ever written; and perhaps the public reacted to the overly negative panning by the critics. SFist alludes to this.

Some interesting posts on Opera-L, such as these from Paolo and John

Most definitely worth a read is this detailed and evocative description from Rebecca.

The Met has a selection of clips from the December Press Conference on its website

Some photos - screenshots, I think - from Chinaview - press 'Next' rather than photo gallery, as I did.

And some thoughts from the blogosphere: Dr Dick and Dr Barbara, and Sexual Healing from Outwest Arts

Oh, and someone who demanded her money back because of the 'deflowering' scene - which is mentioned very clearly in the Met's online synopsis "The couple makes love passionately"- She was with her eleven year old daughter - who it seems she took to an opera expecting Disney...A couple of the comments are priceless:

• And I hate that sick feeling deep down in my stomach when my child has been exposed to something. We can't protect them from every thing, but we can sure try. :>);
• For heaven's sake. Is there nowhere left on this earth that it's still safe to take a young girl? How completely upsetting that must have been.
• Oh man. That's not good. I can imagine how horrified you must have felt. It's almost like we have to put ourselves in a bubble. There's just nowhere safe to go anymore.

Probably a good thing they didn't stay for the murders and The Composer ripping out his own tongue. Or perhaps that would have been acceptable fare for a child, whereas a (by all other reports) representational and fully clothed sex act wasn't? I'm sorry, but if you have such delicate sensibilities for yourself and your eleven year daughter, opera probably isn't for you, or at least you should do your homework first - eg read the Met synopsis or do a Google to find the soon-to-be-legendary phrase from Maury - "Paul Groves'...character fucks Elizabeth Futral so hard she can walk again".

Everyday minutiae

I went out. Not very far, because I couldn't. "Gert Cottage Boulevard" was blocked. Not just to vehicular traffic but also to lil' ol' me.

I requested the crane be moved and was told by a man high in the sky that it would be ten or fifteen minutes. I expressed my anger that ten or fifteen minutes was well beyond the bounds of acceptability. I had an angry confrontation with a man on the ground who sneeringly and patronisingly informed me that ten or fifteen minutes is what it takes to move such a vehicle. I dare say that's correct, but I aver there is a bigger point being missed. I said I was calling the police because he was holding me prisoner against my will (Drama Queen? Moi?)

I discovered that in actual fact I could exit by crossing the site. Nice of Arsehole-on-the-Ground to have told me. I went into the site office and played merry hell, explaining that it was in no way an acceptable situation. If a fire engine or emergency ambulance were to come, ten or fifteen minutes simply was not good enough. I was told that fire engines don't come in fifteen minutes. Thankfully I don't know the accuracy of this, but the last time I had an emergency ambulance it had arrived in about five; there was a news story the other day criticising a situation where an ambulance took 18 minutes. Besides, sometimes when one requires an emergency vehicle, sometimes it isn't possible to go out and give prior notice to Anti-Social Neighbours.

I went to the doctors for a discussion about my CICA claim, and on my return I attempted to gain access again to the site office, only to find the way blocked by a a sort of trolley/ladder thing. Another builder lacking the standard quota of braincells suggested that I squeeze and crawl under the mini-scaffold. As if...I then remembered that there was another entrance so I crossed the site - without challenge - and entered the office block, where yet another arsehole said in 'mocking tones' "What now?" . Sharply I told him there was no 'what now' about it when his company were trapping me. I spoke to the Como site manager, Tony, who on a personal level is a pleasant and friendly man, but, as I have said before, it's warm words and bullshit.

It is total lack of consideration for them to imagine that having a lorry blocking pedestrian let alone vehicular access to my home all day is not something I should be informed of in advance. As I explained,  it's partly about emergency access, which needs no explaining as being of paramount importance, but actually it's also about the trivial: shopping, deliveries, visitors. It does not require any great effort to knock on the door and pre-warn us.

I also said I was very upset by the rudeness and attitude of people on site. I should have added that the Poles and Indians are with exception polite and courteous, the English, almost without exception are patronising and insulting. In a sense,  the sneering and contempt is almost worse than the physical and logistic inconvenience.

In between, I went to the doctor's surgery and spent a while in the waiting room. For some reason, I decided to peruse the leaflets and posters. Bad move! Some were potentially relevant, such as pain management for fibromyalgia, and Restless Leg Syndrome, but when you imagine yourself to have malaria, erectile dysfunction, teenage pregnancy and info on the PCT in Portuguese it's time to put the imagination to sleep.

And the worst  - "Anxious about having your womb examined?" Well, I wasn't before, but now I jolly well am...!

Davy goes to Hollywood

Beckham agrees to LA Galaxy move

On the face of it, it makes no sense whatsoever. Certainly not in footballing terms, playing for a team in a country that doesn't get football as an adult male game.

There was a sort of explanation on BBC News 24 that said that it gives him full access to the income from his advertising, half of which currently goes to his club - and by implication that is the same for other footballers.

The way I see it, he could move to many Premiership or equivalent clubs in Europe and, being David Beckham, get a contractual clause to ensure that all his advertising revenue goes to him. So I don't buy that one.

No doubt, everyone's thinking what we're thinking: Madam Useless wants to break into Hollywood. If you're a young MAW, you move physically to Hollywood and you wait tables until the big break comes. But she's 33 this year and she's had three children. So she's way past it for thin decorative types. She's been around long enough that if some film director was really interested in signing her, they would have done so by now. They would have come to her. I assume her lip-synching days are over, her most recent records laughed out of town.

So why Hollywood?

My theory is that they're about to become full-time space cadets with the Scientologists. She's a desperately unhappy woman with no interests but in need of a crutch. Kabballah didn't work, and the rumours have been rife for a while that she's messing with Scientology - it's a bit more fashionable than Kabballah which is last year's fad. They attended the Tom Cruise-Katie Holmes wedding, further proof of their Thetan-like status.

And David gave an in-depth interview to BBC News where he kept referring to himself as 34. Which is strikingly bizarre for somebody who was born in 1975, and therefore, is currently 31 and will be 32 when this transfer happens. There seems no advantage in a sportsman and model raising his age, and if he's 34, that makes Victoria 35, and well past it for Hollywood starlet.

Mark my words, they are already being programmed by the Scientologists. Poor old David is so stupid in a likeable way but the Spice Woman is thibk in a dangerous way. Mark my words, Beckham Brat #4 will be a silent birth, with the placenta served up for David to eat, and before we know it, Posh will be lecturing us all about the evil of psychiatry or whatever in that unendearing stupid attitude of superiority she adopts.

I don't suppose the bank balance will be quite so healthy once the Scientologists have their hands on it.

Customer Service Rant

I really do not understand it.

Problems with Sky+ box, details are boring. Went through various suggested painless possible solutions to little avail. Decided that what is needed is a new box; to get one requires an engineer visit. (You can buy one for £150, but if the engineer calls, it's a £65 call-out charge).

To contact Sky is an 0870 number, which is 8p/5p/3p per minute depending on time of day.

I have spent, before today, approximately 4 hours on this number. On Monday, as my twittering crew will know, this included a two-hour stretch, but I finally got through and got an appointment booked for today. I was told that the engineer would ring me Wednesday night or Thursday morning to give me a time-slot.

No phone call last night; no panic. No phone call this morning. Huh? So I ring, and following the correct menu options, I am told that they are exceptionally busy and can't take my call. This happens three times, with intervals in between. the fourth time, I cheat and use the wrong menu options, to get through and be told that the call was booked for next Wednesday. I went ballistic in a controlled non-sweary way. (Although I did suggest the operator stopped calling me Mrs, as she had asked for the full title as on my account and that sure as hell ain't Mrs. I also asked she stopped implying I was a liar, which she seemed to concede I was not, when I repeated the message about expecting a call Wednesday night or Thursday morning).

I explained I had taken the day off work, now to no avail. I also explained that I have now run out of holiday allowance, which isn't quite true, because I still have a half day left, but I want to take a day for my birthday, which occurs before the new leave year.

We eventually agreed on a rescheduled day for this Monday, which happens to be convenient-ish, because I don't work Mondays as a rule.

And I know the simple answer, a letter of complaint to Sky. Which will happen. And, in fairness, the last time I complained to them, although their reply was not prompt, it was comprehensive, apologetic and included a refund of my call-out fee and a waiver of a month's subscription, which struck me as fair. (If they had prevaricated or evaded I would have gone the full 'my time costs this much,' but because they offered without being asked, I accepted. But why do I feel I have such a backlog of complaint letters to so many different money-grabbing corporations that are barely fit for purpose. Sigh.

I did point out that there is something really important I want to record off the radio on Saturday, and if that messes up, I will be upset. She did suggest I recorded it straight to video, by-passing the digibox, which hadn't occurred to me, but it's not an ideal solution, and I have to remember how to do that.

Thankfully, although there's loads of new exciting stuff on Artsworld, most of what they're showing between now and then is either already in my collection or else due to be repeated later.

News 24 Wallpaper

Rob over at EKN
reminds me of two ambiguous captions on BBC News this week.

Leaving the building during the Six O'Clock News Hour, my attention was drawn by a caption saying "Blair Talks". My first instant was "ooh, is Tony spilling the beans" and wondering how apt would be "Blair Coughs..." but I was confused by a picture of someone looking more Japanese than Blairite, then realised I had read "Noun Verb" rather then their intention of "Adjective Noun". I pondered it.

Last night, I had a similar one with "Offenders Row". My first thought was Henley Regatta, followed swiftly by "Is that like Death Row...?"

But Rob's are better.

Washington National Opera 2007-08

I'm actually not that interested, but I thought I'd post anyway...

National Opera to open season with "La Boheme" simulcast

The season also includes Domingo's American debut singing in the role of Bajazet in Handel's rarely performed work "Tamerlano,"* as the enslaved Ottoman emperor whose changing marital intentions lead to conspiracy and suicide. Domingo, who turns 66 this month, also will conduct a new production of Mozart's "Don Giovanni."

WNO Season to Include Domingo Singing Handel

Washington National Opera General Director Placido Domingo will make his first-ever appearance in a baroque opera** when he takes on the role of Bajazet in Handel's "Tamerlano" with the opera next spring. It will be the 127th operatic part that the tenor, who turns 66 on Jan. 21, will have sung in what will by then be a half-century-long career.***

Oh, and did someone say photos...

*(if I resolve my multiple financial problems, I'd like to see it in Madrid)
** Not actually true - he sang Rameau's Hippolyte in 1966...
*** Bit premature; I think we should only say 'half-century' in 2009!

How the media works

Three Rs

I've posted before about my disbelief of the naivety throughout the blogosphere about the way the Sunday Times treated this woman. For the record, I think it was despicable.

There is something inherent in the human character that manifests itself as a need for recognition. There was a very funny TV series a year or so ago, where this bloke would introduce himself in social situations as a Company Director - that mattered to him more than "I'm a likeable fun caring bloke". With many bloggers, the desire is for media recognition.

What worries me, even as people condemn the tactics of Nicholas Hellen, or indeed as they comment on the hounding of Kate Middleton, is some belief that this behaviour is novel or unusual, and still bloggers in general seem keen to have the media exposure which is oxygen for the compulsive writer.

There are very few scruples in journalism. The venal are those that prat on, confusing an expensive advertising campaign with a popular buzz 'everyone's talking about it'; less forgiveable are those that participate in the advertising campaign implying their words to be original and inspired without declaring what inducements in money or goody bags they have received in order to promote the product/TV programme, whatever.

The worst are those that use blackmail and bullying to achieve their ends, and disguise it as journalism.

But, in the end, they exist solely to sell newspapers, and nothing sells newspapers more than the intrusion into people's privacy, whether it's Abby Lee, Kate Middleton or some poor sap whose had something devastating happen to them and finds their extra-marital affair, age-old conviction for petty crime, or embarrassing health secrets splashed across the newspapers. I daresay there are honourable journalists - indeed I know there are in the specialist Press - but I do wonder what it means when intelligent, educated, mature, thoughtful, insightful and analytical adults are surprised at the snake-like media, when it's nothing new and has been happening as long as I can remember and, I daresay, much longer.

Political reporting

Maybe it's just me being cynical, but it's quite illuminating to watch a political news story develop in the media.

I really don't get it with all the TV news crews camped outside the building. Interestingly, it rarely happened at the old building, and I am convinced that an editorial decision is based entirely on the fact that there is a wide pavement, traversed by few people other than locals, outside a telegenic building.

Again, without being unduly cynical, I am curious as to what these so-called journalists are actually doing. If they are reporting from outside the building, they sure as hell aren't inside interviewing people with info. They do get admitted on occasion, but when there are TV crews outside every exit, I do wonder what they are adding to the sum of human knowledge. On the Ten O'Clock News last night Nick Robinson was reporting live from one place, and James Landale from another place just five minutes walk away. Giving the impression of thorough investigation. But ask yourself, if they were sitting on sofas in the studio would you feel they were less well informed? Would they in fact be less well informed.

I caught a glimpse of James Landale in the afternoon doing a piece to camera, being interviewed by the news anchor. Ooh, an in depth interview. He stated that the most important question was "Did the Secretary of State know?"

Well, without commenting directly, I would say that such a question is rarely the most important. Sure, in terms of accountability and democracy, there are textbook precedents about ministers taking the ultimate responsibility. On the other hand, anyone who has ever studied politics at school will know about Crichel Down, which states that not only need the Minister not have known but additionally, he need not have been in post at the time in order to be obliged to take responsibility. Which, in my opinion, is lunacy.

Whenever there is news story about maladministration, whether or not the minister knew is usually of secondary, or lower, importance to 'is the problem going to be resolved'. Obviously, if the minister knows, that enables the minister to give orders to sort the problem out. And, of course, if the minister had known, why didn't he give orders to sort it out.

Let's consider a theoretical example of which I know very little. A few months back there was some coverage in the media about the woeful lack of provision for sexual health. STIs are on the increase, and the Health Service is struggling - failing - to cope. I regard this as cause for concern.

Someone I know went to her GP complaining of pelvic pain and was offered a chlamydia test, then the GP read the small print and realised that it was only available for people under 25. This woman felt aggrieved. No such tests had been available when she was under 25, and she has been more sexually active since then than before. Furthermore, she argues that at her age, the need for diagnosis and treatment is far more urgent for her than it is for a woman fifteen years younger.

She feels that this is a scandal, and that she is being discriminated against on age grounds, and realises that this will be the pattern for life now. She is not entirely convinced by arguments that things are far better now, because chlamydia tests were simply not offered in the early-mid Nineties, so their availability to a small proportion is a massive step forward.

To her it's not good enough, and the failure to diagnose and treat is likely to have a devastating effect on her life.

So, turn this into a media story, and stick a few reporters in front of cameras on Whitehall and Millbank. Would you get a reporter implying that Patricia Hewitt has nothing else to worry about other than the availability of tests for one specific STI. Would questions be asked about the woeful lack of provision and treatment for one infection.

If someone working in the Department of Health were to say, well, the ministers are more concerned about deficits, MRSA, obesity, anti-smoking, blood donations, social care, effectiveness of treatment, access to costly drugs for terminal or long-term life-limiting conditions, would anybody really be surprised? Would anybody seriously imply that the Ministers or officials were being incompetent because a woman with pelvic aches was denied access to a test that might confirm the presence of an infection?

I recognise that my analysis is over-simplified, but there is a culture in the media, which really does influence politicians, is that the only subject that matters is the outrage of the day. In reality, in whatever department, the overwhelming vast majority of the time is devoted to the strategic issues which require a long term and joined-up approach. And, with the best will in the world, the Department of Health would find it difficult to prioritisesexual health over many other clinical needs.

My Kate Middleton Moment

Walking past the main entrance to our office today on the way home there were two separate TV News crews poised to take interesting pictures of our building lit up in the dark. (It's quite nice, but nicer in daylight).

I do wonder about the purpose of doing this. They must have plenty enough library shots by now; if not they have even more of the building we left almost two years ago.

But I suppose if they stand outside the building it makes it look as if they have gone out to do some real investigative reporting, rather than just googling what their rivals are saying and ringing up a Rent-a-Quote backbencher.

Walking along Brixton Road, lost in thought, pondering the great question of the day, should I blog it or Twitter it, I found myself staring alluringly into a film camera that was filming people walking along Brixton Road. I think it will make a good shot, because although I was looking directly at the camera, I was not aware of its presence for a good few seconds - which is a long time in film. I expect a call from a casting director any day...

But what I really really want to say about the future Windsor Brood Mare over on Have Your Say , why on earth can't the British public install a spellchecker into their browser. Every time you type in a submission-form, it underlines the mis-spellings. Believe you me, many of those contributors could do with one...

Interesting dilemma

Those of you pay attention know that I live up a private driveway in a socially and economically mixed area. We have had some problems over the years with street prostitution and general riff-raff; we've had incidents of burglaries and criminal damage, and a a prostitute being flung against or front door.

There has been a noise outside and myself and neighbour went to investigate. It turns out a 13-year old boy wants to chain his bike to the gate opposite, because it is less likely to be nicked from there than outside his flat on the estate opposite. He was polite and respectful, he gave a name and a school (Jimmy's old school as it happens). I'm not good at making decisions on the spot, but I don't see a problem, other than logistics of whether the paint shop people and the bastards Tesco would object.

Dunno what to do.

Twittering not Blogging, Spirit of 02

Tis weird. I found Twitter and my attitude to blog has changed drastically.

Back in the Golden Days of 2002, the most attractive blogs were those that wrote well about day-to-day life, both the mundane routine and the little and larger thrills that make it worthwhile. I used to think that 'mundane' was derived from Monday.

I now almost totally avoid mentioning work, except in a very vague way that could apply to any workplace rather than to my specific workplace. I tend to avoid talking much about Government policy. There is limited mileage and the risk of repeating when one blogs about one's encounters with customer service. Generally, my journey to and from work or going out is smooth and trouble free. I do not believe it's fair to write too much about Jimmy, or indeed about recognisable other non-celebrity people, without their express permission.

I could write about the everyday activities of my life, which today have involved a trip to the hairdressers, a couple of loads of laundry and the best part of two hours hanging on an 0870 number to arrange an engineer to come out, hopefully to replace our Sky+ Box.

Carefully crafted words of observation, my thoughts when idly browsing magazines in WH Smiths as to why there are so many copies of Farmers Weekly, Horse and Hound and World of Yachts in Streatham, an urban in-land town. Thoughts about the people that use the buses, or worries about the 'landscaped garden' being developed directly outside our living room window.

I could write about my sexual fantasies, or I could write at length about my manifesto for a Better Britain. I have various mini-series ongoing. But my sexual fantasies are better written in fountain pen in a glistening notebook. The more I reflect on politics, the more I realise there are no easy solutions. Last week at work, reading through my meeting notes from before Christmas, I thought 'but wouldn't it be easier if the government did this', before remembering that is exactly what is happening. Possibly that thought is worth expanding, some kind of understanding analysis of how to juggle three balls and a banana whilst riding a unicycle and flame-eating whilst singing along to four-part harmonies. A chap I did my professional studies with used to ride to college from his digs on his unicycle. He also juggled. Often he juggled whilst riding his unicycle. But never in Financial Accounting lectures.

I'm going through a period of regrets about choices I have made or efforts I have failed to take throughout my adult life. I think it might be because I am less than thirteen months away from being forty and I have singularly failed to fulfil any of my potential in life. Perhaps I burned out at 16. I no longer want professional or political success, but I want something that is stimulating and interesting. I expect what would fulfil me would be a move into a policy role in my own department. But a level transfer would mean a significant pay cut. Decisions decisions.

I'm nearly forty. In twenty one years I'll get my bus-pass and winter fuel allowance (Jimmy gets his next year...sssh I didn't tell you that). Twenty one years ago I was just about to become an adult. I am not where I hoped or expected to be, and yet, I am happy. I feel guilty that I am happy, and I can't work out why. Content and at peace, I think. Although becoming increasingly exasperated by my inability to get my arse into gear and get round tuit.

Life is puzzling.

Magnus Magnusson RIP

Magnus Magnusson dies at 77

Now he's finished.

Sad. One of the real stars of TV when I was young. They're describing him as 'stern' but when he was on Swap Shop and so on, he came over like a favourite uncle.

First Emperor

Alan on Opera-L writes:

Last night was the 5th performance of the new world premiere production of TAN DUN's THE FIRST EMPEROR at the Metropolitan Opera, and I must STRONGLY disagree with its detractors. The rainy weather had settled in, but the temperatures were in the 60's and perhaps all the illness that has been going around has died out. All the singers were in superb voice, and while I may not adore the score, this work combined with the magnificent production and truly inspiring conceptions of the entire design team gave us a truly wonderful spectacle.

and proceeds to describe the production in great detail.

Incidentally, the result of phonecalls and emails suggest very strongly there will be no opportunity to see the livecast of this in British cinemas next Saturday, which is very disappointing.

Picturehouse Cinemas told me on the phone that they intend to show some of the livecasts in late February and to check back the website at the start of February.

The Gate at Notting Hill emailed someone

Hopefully we will finalise a deal this week to take The Barber of Seville on 24 March and Il Trittico on 28 April.

and Greenwich emailed someone else

We screened The Magic Flute live from The Met on Saturday night and look forward to doing further screenings in the future however, there are currently no other shows confirmed.

As I said, disappointing, but, being an eternal optimist, hopefully matters will be better organised in future seasons. The pessimist in me feels that there's probably a natural reluctance to take a screen out of general viewing on a Saturday night...

Some more First Emperor Reviews etc

Epic Aspirations

'Emperor' stands tall (no crouching or hiding)

Plácido on what films influenced him

Weit weg vom Ruhestand: Placido Domingo - von Wagner bis zur Zarzuela

and a posting to ParlourofOperaLovers from Eric

Last night I was pleasantly surprised to see Ageless on the Conan O'Brien Show. Conan introduced the tenor as "One of the greatest opera singers of our time...no...One of the greatest opera singers of all time!". Placido's official reason to appear was to promote "The First Emperor", which I thought was quite significant, considering that, though I'd seen Ageless and other singers on late night comedy shows before, I'd never seen them officially promoting an OPERA. It was repeatedly pointed out that the show was already sold out, though the simulcasts were also plugged.

But Placido made quite an effort to plug opera as an art form, claiming several times that "Opera is getting bigger all the time", and saying that it was important that people knew what it was. Domingo was the featured guest, and stayed for two full segments. I only wish they'd had him sing....

and from alt.fan.conan-obrien

 

He could have been named Turbulendo.  They're filming an opera so that people who aren't up to the night-at-the-opera performance might be able to see it, except there's no tickets. Opera singers actually know how to sing; Conan's voice is trapped in the top of his throat.  Placido offers Conan advice in speaking.  ``That sounds very Irish, yes.''

Women ask Placido to sign their bodies, often arms.  He doesn't think you can sign other parts; Conan thinks he's missing the point.  He has the world's record for 101 curtain calls. Placido doesn't know why it went on so long, and he finally just went and sat in the orchestra pit and asked the audience to leave.  He now cuts audiences off around fifty.

Conan hasn't had a Muppet made of him?  You'd think he'd be a natural.  Placido Flamingo I haven't seen, but I haven't followed the Muppets closely in recent years.  The Muppet tried teaching Placido how to sing.

Asking whether it's easier to perform in a large or a small crowd is a good question.  I'm not surprised the larger crowds can be easier to play for.

Barbican Opera Gala

Raymond Gubbay Presents Dumbed Down Arias etc for the masses.

Or something like that. Of course the purist wouldn't attend, but what the heck...!

All very second rate in an enjoyable sort of way. The London Concert Orchestra and Chorus under Robin Stapleton, who's been around for ever and isn't bad. I suspect the orchestra was thrown together from myriad freelancers. The chorus contained various slightly familiar faces from various other choirs. Desperately under-rehearsed. All notes correct and on pitch and with faces buried deep in the scores.

A set of soloists from the file marked 'not quite top drawer'. Linda Richardson, Clare Shearer, Gwyn Hughes Jones and Jonathan Summers. None of them will ever be 'stars' but are exactly the sort of singers that the companies like ENO and WNO rely on. And I can't say that I was overwhelmed by any of them, yet they all showed excellent musicianship, reasonable stage presence, and pleasant voices true to pitch and so on. Four professional performances. What more can one want, except for that je ne sais quoi that distinguishes stars from mere professionals.

Of the four I think Gwyn Hughes Jones was my favourite, a sweet lyrical voice. At times beautiful. Hampered by a seeming complete absence of personality - of course, he could be a really interesting guy and great company down the pub but he seemed disengaged albeit in a concert setting. Jonathan Summers was entirely inaudible above the orchestra, which wasn't very large, yet when the orchestra shut up, there was no lack of volume from him. I thought Linda Richardson sounded nice but I was struck by this overall sense of mousiness that meant she never projected anything but voice beyond the footlights. Clare Shearer had the most commanding presence.

Of course what I mean by these two previous paragraphs is that even while can you enjoy such a performance it in no way compares to what the big star names (or most of them, anyway...) can pull off, seemingly without trying. Yet while they fell short of the standards set by the international superstars of opera, they were light years ahead of the wannabe one-tone no-emotion grunts so beloved of ClassicFM. Sometimes, I despair.

It was a populist-all-the-way programme, straight from a Classic FM Disc "Of all the nice bits in opera without worrying about the nasty plot lines." (Listed below the fold) but I have to say all of these pieces sound better with those ugly and sometimes brutal plot-lines round them. Well, apart from the Barber of Seville. I would happily take these two numbers, add in Una voce poca fa and call it quits on the Barber.

It strikes me as very unbalanced programme, and with such a light-weight middle-England selection, I would have expected a more light-weight audience. But actually, it was a very well behaved audience. No clapping arias in recognition "Ooh, it's that one off the telly" Perhaps Maestro had forestalled that by informing us that it was that one off the telly. No clapping before the final instrumental notes died away. No applauding the scenery. The bloke in front did decide to have a conversation during the Va pensiero. I vowed if he did it again, I would lean forward and enquire whether he required medical assistance to be summoned. But he didn't.

But, a pretty predictable programme, with the nearest to a surprise (IMO) being Stride la vampa and Softly Awakes My Heart. If I was programming such a concert, I would throw in a bit more Mozart, Wagner and Donizetti, and would cut the Puccini.

2007 already

Blimey...

Best laid plans of mice and men. We had plans galore for Christmas. In the end did bugger all. Walks in the country, tidying the house, wild rampant sex. All came to naught.

Vegetate, relax, eat, drink.

I'm sure it does us good. However, I am now convinced that alcohol is the root of all evil. Sadly, being approaching middle-aged, I am no longer capable of making a fool of myself with 'hol. Can't take the pace. Really can't take the pace. Two snowballs of an evening and the next day is ruined. Now, if I cut out alcohol completely, I'd be an energised raring to go bunny. Perhaps.

We had a quiet Christmas at home. We had a good New Years Eve at a lovely restaurant up at Crystal Palace

When appropriate I have people-watched and formed thoughts, arising from my observations. If I have any New Year Resolution at all it is to find a way. The thing is, I am sick of being put down by people of limited intelligence or sheer hypocrisy. When it turns out that I am right, or have the moral high ground, I do not know a way of informing them of this and their foregoing rudeness without being rude myself. Often in very trivial circumstances. It happened again at the Barbican on Saturday night. In a queue for the loos. There's no need to queue, but I'm insufficiently assertive. I asked the woman forming the queue whether there were any free cubicles. In the most patronising sneering manner and a voice full of plums - but with that characteristic inarticulacy of the posh and stupid - she said, "It seems not." She really wanted to add "You common urban person."

In marches a Dowager of 70, right past the queue and straight into an empty cubicle. Taking courage from the no-nonsense I don't give a shit attitude I so adore in women like that, I too went past the queue and, of course, found an empty cubicle. I wanted to turn to Mrs Snobby of Surrey and say something really rude. Or else find the appropriate snappy way of saying, "Look mate, it's all very well being posh and stuck-up and looking down your nose on the likes of me who propose solutions. But you're thick and clueless and very very rude." If it had been a Student of 20 rather than a Dowager of 70 I'm sure Mrs Snob of Buckinghamshire would have made remarks.

What I also don't like is oikishness. There was a huge crowd on the table behind us. A couple of men were so full of themselves. the sort of Gamma Minuses who need to prove their imagined Alpha Maleism to the sister-in-law. I shuddered as to how they addressed the waiting staff. "A bo'le of the house red darlin' " Ooh, classy. Then "Get the drinks down 'ere, girl." "Oi, are we ge'in' any drinks bibe?" Not aggressive as such, just oikish.

Whereas me, I'm "A bottle of ...whatever please." When it comes. "Thank you." A smile. Sometimes the please is followed by a nonchalant 'when you're ready...' Not because I'm a sweet humble person but because I'm self-interested. You see, pleases and thank-yous make an impact. An indication that you're not expecting them to run round like a headless chicken and offer obeisance works wonders. The wine comes more quickly. They are eager to catch our eye. We co-exist in that world of down-to-earth commercial transaction.

All I want to do is keep myself to myself, float along in pleasantness and good humour. And so do most people by my observation. Then the stupid or self-centred small minority act in an aggravating way, and you're left on the horns of a dilemma - do I adopt doormat mode or do I assert common sense.

Mind you, I'm still sniggering at the two gym-toned bimbos who turned up at ten for a plate of salad and a soft drink, glared at everybody who was smoking or drinking or talking or bursting balloons, and left at quarter past eleven. It's all very well working effortfully for the body beautiful and sneering at the slobbish lushes, but a) we're enjoying ourselves and b) we stand a chance of getting laid. Whereas you, you might be off to a party where you'll pick up a casual one night stand, if he's too pissed to notice how boring you are. But I'm not sure you'd know what to do when you did. And you're hardly a bundle of fun with your salads, soft drinks and car keys. Can't lose control. Resent other people having a good time.