Gertsamtkunstwerk

Guess who I saw this evening

   

I touched him, too. I was extremely ill-mannered and I took his hand, gazed into his eyes and said 'See you Tuesday'. He nodded and said, 'Tuesday'.

Jimmy took the photos. I put the camera on simple point-and-shoot, and he was trying to get a picture of me, next to Plácido in the car.Then some slightly unhinged woman started knocking on the car window, which in my book is bang out of order.

Jimmy says if there are any women on the internet who get pleasure out of these photos, he is available for weekends in various cities.  We then went to a bar and Jimmy was going on about how nice Plácido is, how kind, and patient, and how he has such a pleasant smile, and isn't unapproachable and doesn't behave with celebrity ego. And I was, 'yeah, whatever...this is exactly what I've been telling you all these years'

Oh, and by the way, in case you're wondering, yes that is sunburn on my neck and upper chest. Sorry to everyone in Britain, but the weather was hot hot hot in Madrid, at least during the day. I was overdressed, and, it seems caught the sun. And we sat outside eating until 11.30, when it did start to feel chilly. And even chillier hanging around outside the stage door without coat after midnight. But still a lot warmer than Blighty. I had hoped my sunburn would have turned brown by midnight but I suppose I'll have to sleep on it.

Celeb spotting

The reason we are in Madrid is slightly complicated. The reason for coming here, at this time, is to see Plácido in Tamerlano, but that's just an excuse for a long weekend/short week, a city break, some sight-seeing and hanging out.

As we were going to breakfast we met some people in the lift from Zurich that I know slightly from hanging round stage doors, a mother and son from Zurich, so we greeted each other, and they were 'we know where you're going this evening', so I was, well, actually, no, Tuesday.

That having been said, we did go to the box office this morning just to see if there were any tickets available. The woman on the box office gave us an amused smile as she said 'sold out'. Perhaps she assumed we were naive English tourists just thinking we'd maybe pick up a ticket for the opera as something different to do.

We spent quite a portion of the day sight-seeing, basically walking up to the Jardines del Retiro and round the boating lake. Strolling, admiring the architecture, and so on. And taking just short of a hundred photos. We stopped off somewhere or other for Tapas and wandered a bit more. There came a point where we were basically lost although not really lost, so a quick look at the map gave us our bearings and I was 'if we go through here and onto ther, we'll be there in no time'. As we approached our hotel we noticed a small crowd gathering outside the Stage Door of the Teatro Real. And we had literally just got there when Plácido arrived, so I flung my camera at Jimmy saying 'here, turn it on, take photos'. He later pointed out he had never previously turned my camera on. However, he did take some photos.  This is me waving my walking stick at Señor Domingo

   

This is me glowering at Jimmy while Plácido poses with a fan.

This is possibly a picture of Plácido and me together...

And this is a picture of the Teatro Real from my hotel room. He's in there somewhere. Well, by now (1907 hours), he'll be on stage, just about. As you can gather, I'm not in the theatre. I did go back to the box office at about six o'clock, but there was a long queue, and while I suppose I might have got lucky, I doubted that I would, and my feet are in a bad bad way, so I am sitting in my hotel room metres from an opera house where the greatest ever opera singer is performing. And that hurts a bit but I'm trying to be brave.

Notes from Madrid

You know, this is the first time I have ever blogged on a holiday. I am sitting in my hotel room while Jimmy has a siesta. It's not a bad hotel room. We have an 8th floor room with a terrace overlooking the Teatro Real. We also have a jacuzzi which is very acceptable.

The journey was relatively straight-forward. I tend to the view that if one is burning up the planet by flying, one at least ought to try to reach the airport by public transport. Which very nearly fell at the second hurdle, when we reached Clapham Common to be told that there were no trains between Stockwell and Oval. Thankfully that problem (radio breakdown) cleared before our train even left the station and it was plain sailing all the way to London City via Northern and Jubilee lines and DLR.

Gosh, were we grateful we didn't fly via Heathrow. I seem to recall it had been a finely balanced decision. I can't actually remember whether it would have been BA if I had chosen Heathrow. Jimmy was feeling very smug as we watched he news reports last night from T5; I told him not to speak too soon.

We did have opportunity to worry at LCY. Various flights were being announced as cancelled, due to crosswinds at the airport. I knew it would happen to us,and having got up way too early, I did not fancy making alternative arrangements. Our plane was announced as delayed, I couldn't tell if that was a good or bad omen. We watched a light plane come in, KLM, so maybe from the Netherlands and that made quite a few people queasy just watching it. Shaking from side to side, bouncing around. One guy on the phone was telling whoever he had seen a plane fail yto land before the end of the very short runway (it's a former dock, surrounded on three sides by water) and have to get airborne again. In the event we were called to our plane and ended up only being about half an hour late into Madrid.

In the early evening we went for a walk over to the Royal Palace and mosied around the Sabatini Gardens. We have only been here a few hours but we have both already decided we really liked Madrid. The buildings in particular: everywhere we look there is another delightful view.

I would write more, but it's half eight here, and I am yet to upload my photos or dress for dinner.

Laters...

Chase the Bunny

Someone I know...well, I'm not really sure I should admit to knowing him, he has a fetish for dressing up in rabbit suits. It's the sort of fetish that can land a bunny man in all sorts of trouble...oh, it would be easier to let him tell the story

From the Westminster Hutch

Although his oral narrative was somewhat embellished, including helicopters being scrambled and the Royal Parks Police being out on Def Con Delta

Oh, and his JustGiving page

Tamerlano Reviews

Plácido Domingo suma un nuevo reto con el debut, en 'casa', de su papel 127

It's going to be recorded for DVD release and it's going to be broadcast on the radio this coming Tuesday...when I shall be there!

Delicado Tamerlano - that blue elephant certainly looks right for DVD.

Plácido Domingo viaja al Barroco en el Teatro Real de Madrid con la opera más oscura y dramática de Händel

It's not actually strictly true that Handel only wrote two major tenor roles. I suppose if you stick with the strict description of opera, that might be true, but Handel only called Semele an oratorio so that it could be performed during Lent, and roles like Samson, Judas Maccabeus and Jephtha are all tenors.

More Tamerlano...

Including a video clip

I like what I hear and see, so far...I am like so in the front row in eight (count them....) days time. I do so like Handel, but I have seen so very few of his operas live (a few more staged oratorios). When I did my Music O-Level back in 1984, Handel was one of the set composers, but I don't recall us even mentioning his operas, or else it was 'he also wrote some operas but they're all forgotten now'.

Plácido Domingo regresa a la ópera barroca con el 'Tamerlano' de Haëndel

Some interviews with Plácido about Tamerlano

«No hay un día que no tenga miedo cuando canto»

Plácido Domingo habla con Efe de sus proyectos, entre los ensayos y las horas de estudio para el estreno el 26 de marzo de "Tamerlano".

"Ni viviendo dos vidas podría cantar todo lo que quiero"

Domingo viaja al barroco: El tenor protagoniza Tamerlano a partir del próximo miércoles en el Teatro Real

Tamerlano opens on Wednesday. I don't suppose I shall have time to look-up reviews because after work on Thursday I shall be packing for an early start on Friday to fly to Madrid for a spot of sight-seeing and most importantly, to attend Tamerlano.  I might take my lappy - there's Wi-Fi in the hotel - but I don't intend to waste valuable sight-seeing time, or even more valuable rest time in surfing the net. sigh

Five leaders of cultural Los Angeles weigh the city's past, progress and its potential

Stage named for opera singer

The next time Placido Domingo, the world's foremost operatic tenor, visits New Orleans, he won't have to look far for a stage.

He'll have his own.

Even though Domingo has never sung at the Mahalia Jackson Theatre of the Performing Arts, the New Orleans City Council voted 7-0 last week to name the city-owned theater's stage in his honor: the Placido Domingo Stage in the Mahalia Jackson Theatre in Louis Armstrong Park.

Such honors normally go to prominent local residents or national celebrities who were at least born in New Orleans, such as gospel singer Jackson and jazz great Armstrong.

Domingo, who at 67 is still one of the opera world's most in-demand performers, has never lived in New Orleans, though he appeared here frequently in the 1960s.

But Councilwoman Jackie Clarkson, sponsor of the ordinance naming the stage for the Spanish-born tenor, said she wanted to thank him for headlining a gala benefit concert the New Orleans Opera held in March 2006 at the New Orleans Arena. The event marked the company's revival after Hurricane Katrina flooded the Theatre of the Performing Arts and wiped out the opera's fall performances.

Clarkson said the concert, which drew more than 7,000 people, raised $700,000 for recovery efforts. Honoring the tenor "is repayment with gratitude," she said.

Eugene O'Sicknote

I should have blogged this last night, but I got home to find we had visitors, and as they had waited up for me to come home it would have been very rude to have gone straight onto the computer. When I got up this morning, I fired up the PC, then stood up to get something, and found that my place in the PC chair was taken by a succession of people.

I have more thoughts to write on Eugene Onegin the opera at a later stage - tomorrow? - but just for now, I need to record that Gerald Finley was not well last night. Before it began, Elaine Padmore appeared on stage to groans; when she said "Gerald Finley..." there were sighs. She explained that he had a bronchial infection but would sing.

It's a difficult one. Singers, just like ordinary mortals, are affected by whatever infections are flying around. Most of us survive by going into work and infecting our colleagues punctuating meetings with hacking and dashes for water. For singers, a cold-cough type illness is worse than an IT network crash is for an auditor. With auditors, the work can always be done tomorrow. For singers, the show must go on, with or without them. And always the debate rages - should they sing when under-the-weather. There is no simple answer.

Gerald chose to sing, and in retrospect it probably wasn't a wise decision. But if he had cancelled, people, including me, would have been disappointed, and questioned "Couldn't he have at least tried?" And he did at least try. However, whenever called onto sing out at length, he didn't sound good. He didn't sound bad - he has such a gorgeous voice that it would take more than a mere bronchial infection for that to happen. but at key times - after he had received Tatyana's letter and after the years-later encounter with Tatyana and her now husband Gremin - he sounded phlegmy and starined, and he cracked in that Act III arioso.

As we prepared for the final Scene I saw a stagehand bring something unfamiliar onto the stage and leave it at the very edge of the stage next to the wings. Through my binoculars it looked like a music stand and instinctively I knew what was happening. I did wonder that maybe it was the last performance in the run (it isn't) and there was going to be something (I don't know what, maybe a long-serving orchestra or chorus member retiring) afterwards, but I thought - they wouldn't let any post-performance shenanigans intrude into the actual procedings.

The Final Scene starts with Tatyana in Gremin's library. Eugene Onegin - Gerald Finley - walks on. And a man in dark mufti walks and places a score on the music stand. To cut a long story short, the mystery man, whoever he was, sang from the score in the wings whilst Gerald did the acting. And much as I love Gerald (and I do!) the stand-in sounded a lot better.

I don't know who the stand-in was. I don't think he was a Young Artist, because he doesn't look like any of them, and as far as I can gather from the ROH site, none of them is covering Eugene Onegin. And there is nothing on the ROH site to indicate who it was. He sounded bloody good though, even though he looked absolutely trembling with nerves through my binoculars.

I suspect from the fact that the understudy sang from the wings, from a score, that Gerald went on and performed in circumstances that if there had been a thoroughly rehearsed cover in the vicinity of the opera house (paging Mr Hvorostovsky, paging Mr Hvorostovsky), he wouldn't have done. I never criticise singers for being ill, anyway, and I certainly wouldn't criticise one for what seemed in retrospect to be a worng call when I don't fully know the circumstances. All I can say is that I am very pleased I saw it last Monday when Gerald was in stupendous vocal form. This evening he was still superb in his acting and character portrayal, but he was certainly not at his vocal peak. I am tempted to go and see it again. At the moment, there are tickets left at the end of the run, but I would wish to ensure that he is fully recovered - by which time they would have sold out!

Covent Garden, New Season

The Royal Opera House announces the 2008-09 Season

Thanks to Dominic for Facebooking me.

I'd say more, but, y'know, work 'n' all that

Wedding of the year

Juan Diego Flórez y Julia Trappe alistan la boda del año

Juan Diego Flórez llegó con novia rubia

April 5th, Lima Cathedral, the first religious wedding there since 1949 - now that surprises me, a cathedral in a capital city that doesn't do weddings, as a general rule.

I might be imagining this, but I'm sure that they got married last year. I presume that would be the civil ceremony, but it seems a long gap between civil and religious. Obviously, I;m not entirely familiar with the culture of separate civil and religious weddings, but I always thought it was usual to have them on the same day, or at least the same week.

20 Greatest Tenors

There are far too many people on the internet taking this exercise far too seriously and yet not taking it seriously enough to read the premise or the justification for the choices. Hint, it wasn't a poll on who has sang the loudest in narrow arbitrarily-selected rep at one provincial opera house during one short period of history. And some of those internet people lack the intellect to understand that while they may disagree with the final list, their own choices are no more 'correct'.

What it is is twenty 'experts' (including  two token women and a token Minority Ethnic) expressing their subjective views on tenors, of the recorded age, in opera and lieder and taking into consideration factors that some other people would consider irrelevant. It has no statistical justification; a significantly larger electorate would suffer from an injection of the Ignorance Factor. 'Greatest' in Art cannot be definitive; any such attempts are only an aggrandisement or aggregate of "My Favourite".

It would seem from the front cover picture that the "Greatest" is Enrico Caruso, but  he only gets second place.

The critics' number one choice written by Michael Tanner, Spectator opera critic

Plácido Domingo was born in Spain, officially in 1941, but many people claim that the date should be a year or more earlier than that. Even if the date he prefers is correct, he has preserved his voice in an extraordinarily energetic career for almost 50 years, having made his debut in 1959 in Mexico, where his family moved when he was eight. He is still singing, including such demanding roles as Siegmund in Wagner's Die Walküre, as well as in carefully selected Italian operas.

During the course of this enormous career he has always looked for new roles to challenge him, and has recorded over a hundred, performing an impressive proportion of these on stage. He begun with the usual Italian operas, primarily Verdi and Puccini, but moved back in time, the earliest of his roles being in Rameau's Hippolyte et Aricie. He has also sung a few contemporary operas, but only ones written in a fairly traditional idiom. What is most surprising is that, almost alone tenors who made their names in Italian opera, since he was about 50 he has been equally involved with German opera, primarily Wagner,  some of whose greatest roles he has not risked singing in the theatre, but has recorded in part or whole. He has even sung at the Bayreuth Festival, the ultimate accolade.

Nor has he neglected either French opera, including Berlioz and Massenet,  or Russian. And now he is moving into the baritone repertoire, with Gluck's Oreste already at the Met. A self-confessed workaholic, he also conducts opera, and is in charge of the Washington National Opera and the Los Angeles Opera, jobs which involve an immense amount of fund-raising. Quite apart from that, he was of course one of the Three Tenors, and has recorded Christmas albums and discs of popular Italian and Spanish songs.

With such a vast range of repertoire, it isn't surprising that we don't associate Domingo with particular roles, with the possible exception of Verdi's Otello, of which he has been the leading performer since Jon Vickers, Domingo's antithesis in many ways, retired. But even then, when one thinks of that role and the kind of voice and presence it requires,  Domingo's isn't necessarily the first name to come to mind. It's inevitable that he has been criticised for giving a standardised account of many roles - but then it's hard to see how individual you could be in many of Verdi's less famous works. The fact remains that when you listen to Domingo, you are guaranteed a flood of gorgeous sound, a sensitive musicianship, the security of voice so well looked after that nothing will go wrong and, if you are seeing him, a decent standard of acting.

Warmth, taste, commitment, understanding: these aren't the first things that spring to mind when you think of a tenor, but they are when you think of Domingo. The operatic scene since the mid 1960s is inconceivable without him, and the gigantic treasury of opera recordings will bear witness to future generations of his greatness. In an age when 'celebrity' has rightly become a word of contempt, Plácido Domingo's fame is an example of how once, a huge name was built on solid foundations.

In his own words
'My motto is "When I rest, I rust".'

Greatest Recording

Verdi: Otello

Sat-nav, and idiots...

There are many benefits of Sat-Nav in location finding and journey-planning. I wouldn't deny that.

Like so many clever ideas, though, these benfits are diminished when let loose in the hands of idiots.

Some time ago some moron made the national news when she drove onto a railway line 'because the Sat-Nav told me to'. In my opinion she ought to be banned from driving for life because she is clearly too stupid; she wasn't looking at the road ahead of her, she wasn't looking where she was going. She is a danger to other road-users, and to herself.

I read something recently that said the number of bridge-hits has increased exponentially recently, and most of them are a result of tall vehicles being directed under them by Sat-Nav, and their drivers ignoring the warning signs. Again, idiots who aren't fit to be on the roads. Last year, a train I was on was delayed by a van hitting a bridge. At the time I blamed it merely on dangerous stupidity and didn't even factor in SatNav. This then led to a situation where I was late, and made later by trams not running as a result of a separate dangerous driver incident, probably not Sat-Nav related, which then impacted upon the timetable of the people I was meeting.

There are numerous reports of small villages being blighted by through-traffic directed there by Sat-Nav, and of through traffic being directed along roads with precipitous drops or which are not made-up. Thirty or more years ago there were some TV series called, if I remember, Six English Towns, Six More English Towns etc, hosted by someone called Alex Clifton-Taylor, a historian, who highlighted the blight on picturesque towns caused by heavy traffic trying to squeeze through narrow mediaeval streets.

That was part of a wider movement that led to many by-passes being built, cutting a swathe through the countryside including Sites of Special Scientific Interest and Areas of Outstanding Natural Beauty, but at least removing the fumes, danger, noise and damage of heavy traffic from the homes and lives of ordinary people in small towns. Sat Nav has seen the return of this blight to the towns, as the by-passes have just generated increased volumes of traffic and are themselves congested, so the Sat-Nav finds way to by-pass the congestion by reverting to the ancient Roman Roads and Turnpikes built for horse-and-cart and designed to link towns to towns.

A few weeks ago I got a Sainsburys home delivery. He phoned to say he would be with me in twenty minutes. Twenty minutes later he phoned to say he was on my road but couldn't find my house. I directed him. It turned out he wasn't on my road, didn't know where he was. I gave the names of a few major roads, which meant nothing to him. In growing exasperation I said "Look at your map. My road is on the A-Z." He told me that he had SatNav, the SatNav told him he was outside my door. He wasn't. Nor was he at the end of the my drive. He insisted that his SatNav would lead him to my door. Eventually he arrived, having had to stop to ask a passer-by to direct him to a named road in order that I could then direct him from there. That was irritating, mildly annoying.

Middle England and Deepest Wales complain about the blight on their twee villages caused by SatNav (I bet many of their residents rely on it for their journeys, whereupon they blight other peoples' tweeness), and request for their villages to be removed from the scope of SatNav. This won't happen, reportedly, because Emergency Services rely on it to reach destinations. Which made me realise that the Sainsburys problem was merely an irritation, but translated to Emergency Services could literally mean the difference between life-and-death.

And this morning! One of those occasions I had my camera with me, was perfectly situated for a photo (on the top deck of the bus near the front) and didn't even think about it.

I was on the A23, not very farfrom the junction with the South Circular, two major roads of Regional significance. To my right a narrow through road that has traffic parked on either side, making it impossible for two Smart cars to pass each other except by strategic use of Passing Places (as in the Highlands and Islands of Remote Scotland).

This morning, on the narrow road facing the A23 Exhibit one a long wide flatbed lorry bearing a large piece of civil engineering. Trying to turn into narrow road was a long articulated container lorry, from its number plate (and the big sticker with a black-on-white "I") clearly not local. The container stretched across the entire Southbound carriage, the non-bus Northbond lane and most of the Northbound bus lane.

Both lorries stayed rooted to the spot. I expect the drivers were trying to outstare each other. Some of the Southbound traffic was U-turning onto the unsurprisingly empty northbound carriage (and doubtless vice versa). Most of the rest of the Southbound traffic just sat there. My bus, in the vanguard of Northbound traffic, sat there stationary for five minutes. Total impasse, a game of brinksmanship, no one going anywhere, all waiitng for someone to back-down.

Eventually my bus driver decided to drive onto the pavement, a pragmatic if illegal and potentially dangerous (especially at walk-to-school time) move.

I don't know for certain that the lorries were dependent upon SatNav, but I think they were. Topographically, it seems a logical route, but anyone with local knowledge or the ability to look out of their windscreen and see the road will know it really isn't good for heavy vehicles. But, relying on SatNav, they don't have an alternative. They "don't need" maps so don't carry them, and can't plan themselves out of a fix. The only direction is forward, no deviation, no independent thought. I imagine the SatNav was registering congestion (it was school run time), hence the alternative direction to avoid slow-moving traffic, and in doing that it compounded the congestion. Any cars, vans etc attempting to get round the obstacle would have risked a fine for driving in the Bus Lane before ten o'clock; their drivers would probably have complained, but continued to use their own SatNavs as a substitute for intelligent thought.

In the event my delay was minor, of the magnitude one should plan into any routine journey as a matter of course. I am not sure what would have happened if a fire engine on a blue light wanted to get past or through.

Signs one is getting old...

(Probably not the last blogpost with this title)

I hate Facebook. There is no other way to express it. I hate it. I was all thrilled for a few nano seocnds, then it dawned on me that I was getting spammed - by friends. Then it further dawned on me, it's communication and connectivity for the illiterate generation. Why compose a grammatically correct sentence in proper English when you can poke someone with a sheep.

Actually, I will qualify my remarks. Facebook is a reasonably good way of communicating one-to-many or many-to-many. I have seen this to some extent in my local CLP. However, long before Facebook, Web 2.0 or the www were invented, Constituency Labour Parties (and I daresay other political parties and similarly structured voluntary groups) managed to communicate - by paper and by phone, then by email and even Yahoo Groups back in the 90s. Facebook adds no functionality and although it increases communication, it does not improve it.  I maintain a Facebook presence in case someone from the past might decide to search for me, then we can have an online conversation which serves as a reminder that a shared past and a mutual affection are not sufficient for an active friendship.  It's also nice for looking at people's baby photos, where they might be reluctant to share them with the internet as whole but too shy to market them aggressively to all their friends/good acquaintances* and extended family.

Today someone sent me an email titled Facebook for the older generation. When I glanced at the title I thought that they might be drawing my attention to Saga Zone, perhaps because I might have mentioned that I am older than the core key Facebook demograph (too old for Facebook, too young for SagaZone...maybe we should print t-shirts, all us forty-and late-thirty-somethings), and I thought you cheeky young whipper-snapper (actually this person is only months away from outgrowing the key Facebook demograph).

Then I looked at the content and I was offended. Note to Sender: this does not mean that you personally offended me nor did I take offence; it means that objectively, studying the content, I considered it to be of an offensive nature.

I was thinking, this is offensive and ageist; if it was 'Facebook for N******" 'Facebook for P**** & D****" that person wouldn't have sent it to me, their sender wouldn't have sent it them, I wouldn't be uploading it to the blog (and forwarding it to #1 nephew**). I thought, I know lots of 'Silver Surfers' - and how patronising is that. My blogroll goes up to age 80. And so on.

And then I looked more closely and thought - elements of that resemble my life far more closely than a 'typical' genuine Facebook page.

If anyone wants the original, in better quality,  to forward onto friends just contact me (obviously, I haven't time to be forwarding to all and sundry, but any of the usual suspects of commenters, the blogrolled, RL friends and rellies and so on, you know,  people whose existence I'm already aware of)

* someone needs to come up with a good word to describe someone who is more than an acquaintance but not a close friend - people you share mutual friends with, or used to work with a few years ago.

** he's not on Facebook because he's too young, but some of his friends are, they lied about their age. Funny, Isaid, some of my friends have also lied about their age on Facebook

Roll on the revolution

Pupils 'to take allegiance oath'

Lord Goldsmith's stroke of genius.

I expect if you go round the blogosphere you'll find lots of bloggers jumping up and down in consternation at these proposals. The rightwingers will be exclaiming "It simply isn't enough! Tattoo a Union Jack on them, too". And many on the Left will be "What? Do me a favour!"

But me, I think it's a splendid idea. Most people, they get to adulthood and they don't really give it a second thought. Monarchy, whatever. Queen's on the stamps and banknotes. Whatever.

But this suggestion would mean that every snivelling teenager will be specifically asked to swear allegiance to the Queen. I admit it is some years since I was a teenager, and even so, my Republicanism hasn't progressed beyond the rhetorical. But I am pretty certain that if someone said "You have to swear allegiance to the unelected unaccountable Queen, who is totally disconnected with your life, and irrelevant to the challenges you face, or else..." I would have been pretty miffed. I know people who weren't allowed to join the Brownies or Cubs because of the oath of allegiance. Whether then, as a teenager, or now, as an adult, I don't feel any need to demonstrate my 'patriotism'. I think it's measurable by something other than waving a large Union Flag and going 'ra-ra-ra'. I certainly don't think it's up to anybody to define what is patriotic and isn't. (And I see no need for anybody to feel 'loyal' to a country, anyway - a false country like Great Britain United Kingdom?). I feel that I have sufficient track record (in the past) of contributing to my local community that I don't need anybody telling me to toady to someone who has no legitimacy.

Perhaps if you get more people to actually think about the role of the monarchy, maybe a lot more will think that it's about time to get rid.

Cielo e mar

A DG mini-site special on Rolando Villazón's new album. Not his debut solo album - I already have five solo albums from him. DG says it's released March, and it appears all ready for download, but I can't find it listed on any of my three usual sources for CDs.

However, there is film-footage on a launch event where Rolando sings. And the title track is conducted by Rolando's idol and my hero.

Marketing lesson #1: avoid DG (but he doesn't say 'the best conductor in the world", he says "best artist.." Subtle but important difference!)

Eugene Onegin

I went! It was a triumph. I heard people say Five Stars. I will do a more detailed review after I have been again. I love the opera anyway, I really like the production, even though there are a few minor details that irritate me slightly in their poor logic. The orchestra was fine, perhaps more under-stated than I would like, but subtle and tuneful. Piotr Beczala was fine as Lensky. Not enough to erase memories of Rolando from my mind (look at me, harking back to the Golden Age of 2006!) but definitely worthy. Hibla Gerzmava making her Covent Garden debut, as Tatyana was wonderful. I was chatting afterwards with a Russian woman who commented that Hibla's acting was a bit a vulgar, but agreed that she sang marvellously, although not as good as Marina Poplavskaya. Gorgeous voice, and moved naturally around stage, if not necessarily brimming over with charisma.

And Gerald Finley was just fabulous. What a masterful performance, moving from haughty in the first act to arrogant in the second to demented in the third. And always, vocally, so elegant. I asked the Russian woman how Gerald's pronunciation was and she said it was very good - and she wasn't just being polite because she mentioned that a couple of the smaller roles didn't have good Russian pronunciation.

I am so glad I booked to see this twice, because I thought I liked it before, and now I just adore it.

And hello to Janet and Janet's Mum who were sitting just in front of me - Janet runs A site dedicated to Gerald Finley.

Eugene Onegin

I'm going tonight and again next Thursday. A friend was there on Saturday and raving about Gerald Finley,which should be no surprise to anyone who saw him in ENO's production about three years ago.

Various 'First night' reviews are in - Music Criticism, with links to interviews with Finley, Poplavskaya and Beczala

Eugene Onegin at Covent Garden - the forecast is cold and wet

I have often thought about making a point of going to opening nights in order to be hot off the presses with a review. I recall some pretentious idiot on the Opera-L idiot list stating that he found it important to attend first night and/or the one that gets broadcast because it is more 'historically accurate'. I'm afraid that I tend to book performances that fit in with my diary. And I'm not convinced that the First Night sees the cast at their best (although,frankly, when there are only, say, six or eight performances, it's not good enough to be treating one - however subconsciously - as a glorified dress rehearsal).

Pelléas Et Mélisande is the Best New Opera Production

Pelléas Et Mélisande is the Best New Opera Production | Official London Theatre Guide

Nay nay and thrice nay.

How can this be? I have not encountered one single person who actually liked the production in any sense whatsoever, ranging from people who know and love the opera to people who know and hate the opera to people who don't know the opera and found the production no help in remedying that. There also seems to be a consensus that the cast were fabulous, despite the production, rather than because of. It was up against Fille du Regiment and Agrippina, both of which I saw and loved (interestingly, I liked Fille a lot less on TV) and Turn of the Screw which in the end Icouldn't make, much to my disappointment. I cannot in any way sense shape or form understand how Pelléas et Mélisande was regarded as better than Death in Venice, or my personal favourite of the whole year, Satyagraha.

I'd also quibble with Natalie Dessay winning 'outstanding achievement' . The other contenders were Angelika Kirchschlager and Gerald Finley - well, being in that execrable P et M is award-worthy in itself (so why no nomination for Simon Keenlyside) but in a field that also included David McVicar...hello, the man who single-handedly rules London opera? And what about John Tomlinson whose masterful performances in 4x3 Ring Operas should have surely scooped him the award.

Generally I read this thing and shrug; they may not be in exact coincidence with my views but are generally sufficiently in line for me to accept them. Oh well...

Photography and arse-crack woman

Nowadays, I rarely carry my darling camera with me when I'm on everyday business - it can double the weight of my rucksack on an ordinary workday.

In any case, if I were to carry it, it is too unwieldy for taking discrete photos of everyday subjects. I am torn between buying a decentish small camera or buying a phone with a decentish camera built in. I would of course retain my G3 and use it for holidays, days out, visits etc.

My phone is okayish for snapshots outdoors or in brightly-lit indoor conditions, and lighting aside, would be ideal for sneaky surreptitious photos like the one I took this evening.

This was the view throughout my entire three course meal. Someone else's arse-crack. She was wearing leather trousers and obviously aware of their non-fitting nature, because she put her hand down her arse to hitch up her grey nylon knickers; later after she had gone outside to take a call she pulled up leather trousers, but as soon as she sat down they rode down her bum again.

It's a conundrum, of course. On one level, she was doing no active harm, so I ought to be more tolerant. On the other hand, my eyes kept being drawn to this sight. I'm no prude and have no issues with nakedness in the right context. But there comes a point where gratuitous arse-cleavage and revealing of an half-naked arse is not ideal for the enjoyment of a meal.

Of course, one can't go up to her and ask, or instruct a waitperson to ask, her to put her bum away. Nor would I like some technical legalistic statement of public indecency blah-de-blah. But, she made it clear that she was aware of it, she wasn't flaunting it like some delusional middle-aged 'D'ya think I'm sexy'. I'm trying to be understanding and tolerant, but bottom line, so to speak, she was not dressed appropriately for a decent , civilised restaurant.

It's one of those situations - do I have the right to feel offended? I think I do, because it isn't normal in civilised society, away from beach/swimming pool to be confronted with naked arse-cleavage. It wasn't a passing sight - this was for three courses and two hours. I don't know the answer. As I say, it was pretty disgusting,  especially when she put her hand down there. I'm not suggesting she did she me any harm, yet it did rather mar my enjoyment. And I think the woman on the next table to me had a similar reaction.

Sex blogging

A year or two ago, I had a phase of looking at a number of sex blogs. What that taught me quite quickly is that there is little less erotic than reading mediocre writing of someone else's erotica, real or imagined. I even set up a sexblog of my own which I soon abandoned, started again,and abandoned again. I soon learnt that reading or writing about sex cannot be done in isolation; it requires a level of pre-existing arousal, and ultimately it fails to satisfy that most basic of physical need.

One by one, and then more quickly, most of the sex blogs I had added to Bloglines were removed, until only one remained:

Pretty Dumb Things NSFW/NSFU-18s. She writes about sex, she writes about her personal experience of sex and related emotions. But there is an extra element there which is missing in most sex blogs. She sets sex in a wider context, makes it something that isn't just a messy private personal thing that happens in bed, but a vital part of modern civilised civic society:

nine relationships even worse than yours

on his royal highness's royal boxers

a pervert's guide to good grammar: part 3, subordination and coordination

3 examples of how sex-blogging can teach me things I didn't know that I didn't know!

Salome

They said it was by Strauss, so I was expecting nice Viennese ball music and floaty frocks. Hmm, I think I've done that 'joke' to death.

Richard Strauss, after a German translation of Oscar Wilde's French play.

Disturbing is all I can say. And chilling, and macabre and grisly.

Only an hour and three quarters, and that's probably enough. I don't really know the opera, although I have seen it a couple of times on DVD. Definitely one to be seen live. This was a compelling production. There has been criticism that because the stage was divided into two levels, upstairs and downstairs, people in the Amphitheatre missed a lot of the action. I was in the Amphitheatre, albeit towards the front, and I didn't feel there was much to miss. It might be a case of 'you don't miss what you haven't got'.

So, despite there being an upstairs where the posh people were dining, most of the action took place downstairs, in the kitchen. I found the kitchen to be evocative and forbidding, dirty floor and a real cold feel. And, held prisoner in the cistern (ie the drain) was John the Baptist, or Jokanaan. Three main movements, the compelling duet between Salome and Jokanaan, when she tried to seduce him; the Dance of the Seven Veils, transformed into Dance of the Seven Rooms, achieved by having a set consisting of doors that periodically moved from left to right across stage to depict Salome dancing for Herod and then fleeing to the next room.

And finally, where Salome demanded her price for having danced for Herod. She would not accept jewellery, or peacocks, or half his kingdom. All she wanted was Jokanaan's head. Her mother egged her on, enraged by his accusation that her marriage was incestuous (she married her dead husband's brother). But Salome was not interested in that. She had touched his body and was not satisfied; she had touched his hair and was not satisfied. She needed to touch his lips.

So the Executioner aka a Human Statue from the Piazza took off his overcoat and descended naked into the cistern, to re-emerge blood-soaked and carrying the head of Jokanaan's. This set off Salome's utter debauchery and she caressed and kissed John's head, her white slip becoming blood-soaked, too. Her sexual arousal was obvious and clearly insatiable. She kissed his lips, she lay kissing him as she would have lain if she could have made love with his body. All around, the onlookers were disgusted, not least her mother and step-father. Disgusted but mesmerised.

Disturbing. She showed that she knew no shame, there was no limit to her debauchery and her self-debasement. Prior to this, and particularly in the Dance of the Seven Doors, there had been hints (big, unsubtle hints) that she had been abused by Herod for years. A possible explanation for her lack of self-awareness. That and that she was clearly spoilt and indulged, getting everything she wanted.

I thought Nadja Michael was fabulous. I have read the reviews that commented that her top was a bit weak, and I won't argue, but I liked everything else about her voice, the tone, the timbre, the pitch, and a lovely creamy sound at the bottom of the range. Michael Volle was impressive as Jokanaan, and although he wasn't around for long, I liked Joseph Kaiser enough as Narraboth to make me want to hear him again. There weren't any obvious weak links in the cast, the full details of which are copied-and-pasted below the fold.

Strangely, I don't really remember the music. I don't know the opera very well. On the way out I overheard three teenage boys. for one, it was his first opera. The other two opined it was a strange 'first opera' because he wouldn't be going out humming the tunes. True, but, actually, I would think, a great first opera for a teenage boy. Nothing silly or trivial in that story line. I do recall the orchestra being raucous, and enjoying the percussion. At times maybe too raucous, occasionally drowning out the singers. But it didn't drag. This morning I had not been looking forward to seeing it, but I'm glad I did. I might not even have booked if it wasn't that David McVicar was directing. And he didn't let me down.

Lots of pictures here

The Southbank show on Sunday (2310, ITV1) will document the two years David McVicar spent creating this

When it started I found it irritating that I couldn't properly hear the singers, and certainly couldn't see them. A man wandered onto the stage wearing a head-set and waving his arms around. The music stopped, and the curtains opened slightly to hint at the set. The chap said "Ladies and Gentleman I'm very sorry but we're going to have to start again because the set tracking is stuck..." (or words to that effect). Some moments later "Take it away Phil, it's all yours!", telling Philippe Jordan he could start stick-waving again.

Beforehand, I had surrendered my coat at the cloakroom, and turned round to find standing behind me someone pretty senior from work. I don't know him very well, but I gave him rather a hard time in a seminar a few months ago and ever since he's greeted me warmly round the office. So this evening, it was warm greetings all round, each of us registering a mild surprise at seeing the other, followed by slight amused embarrassment that we each knew the other was attending a somewhat pervy disturbingly erotic opera, slightly incongruous from our work acquaintanceship.

Ladette to Lady

I really really like this programme, although it contains a lot of elements of which I disapprove. It's Reality TV show, 'documentary' with very little of substance to be documented. It's a show that features people, and their weaknesses, without - I assume - paying them a wage for their time. It's a programme that shows some extremely bad behaviour but also illustrates the people who behave that way.

The last point applies especially to the headteacher, Mrs Hardcore. I have seen few people on TV - or in life - more snobbish than her. Her utter disdain for the behaviour and attitudes of the 'girls' (women, actually) even when it is moderate. Her knicker-wetting excitement that a dinner guest was a Baronet - a man of no distinction except being a successive elder son of an elder son of someone who bribed his way to an insignificant facsimile of a title centuries ago. I also don't like the voice-over commentary which describes the 'Eligible Batchelors' as 'Notorious Society blah-de-blah' which to my mind is loud, drunken, boorish and out-of-control, in other words, just like the common, female ladettes but male and posh. Or those twins being described as 'handsome' on account of being Ugly Trustafarians.

I had mixed feelings about the 'girls'. There was one who on the first day, after being told off, cried into her clandestine mobile phone and Mummy came to pick her up. She was on a Final Warning from Beauty College, and I was led to conclude that throughout her short and meaningless life she had been given her own way at every turn, and never been urged to stick at anything. There was the woman barred from every night club in Basildon (Basildon, I ask you!) who had never worked in her life. Jimmy wondered who was paying for her boozy lifestyle (over-indulgent parents); I wondered how inept one has to be to be unemployed in Basildon, not able even to hold down a basic shop job in Lakeside or the City.

Then there were the two Welsh women. One a nightclub bouncer, the other in the Territorial Army. Both jobs require a certain something. Bouncer, the ability to judge a situation, not to over react. The TA don't take just anybody. It requires discipline and taking orders, and staying cool under pressure. I could not understand why these women were so incapable of transferring those skills to everyday life.

I was troubled by the two youngest. They were both 18 and thus legally perfectly able to consent to being on Reality TV. But I did wonder whether they were old enough or mature enough to understand the possibly profound consequences of living under the gaze of the camera. And yet, these are the two who probably benefited the most from the programme. The young woman from Sheffield who wanted to be a lawyer yet kept deferring her A-Levels. It turned out that she was in emotional toil - meltdown - following an abortion and subsequent relationship breakdown. I felt the compassion with which Hardboiled Mrs Hardcore, and the cookery teacher Rosemary, handled her was exemplary.

And then we have Nicole, the ASBO'd ex-Druggie from Romford. Initially, we learnt that two brothers had died when she was young. I thought 'car crash' or somesuch. Turns out they both died of natural causes two years apart. Gradually, we got more and more hints at the impact of that unimaginable grief. As the weeks progressed, we saw a different person emerging, a hurt little girl becoming a woman. We saw her rediscover a previous love of horses, and I was delighted when she won. I found Mrs Hardcore's compassion to be immense, causing me to reflect that compassion and intolerance often go hand-in-hand. In order to be compassionate to the hurt and broken, one needs to have an instinctive understanding that they cannot help themselves. Which would make one impatient at people whose self-destruction is caused by laziness, greed, indiscipline or other human venalities.

All the ones that survived into the latter stages will take something valuable away from that. I am just very uncomfortable with two people's grief being exposed to hundreds of thousands - millions - of strangers. I also pause and wonder at how destructive some parents can be when they don't set boundaries, don't impose discipline, don't correct misbehaviour and don't make their children keep on trying for seemingly impossible goals.

I hope none of them actually turns into a Lady, because it's pretentious poppycock. But I hope that that sense of a goal and achieving something, and learning how to behave in public, and take the sensibilities of others into consideration, will make them into women of substance. I can see Louise the Glamour Model with the boob-job becoming a formidable business-woman. Nothing about her as shown on TV made me warm to her, but there seemed a steely determination hidden inside. Kelly from Basildon kept displaying behaviour that ought to have irritated me, but I couldn't find myself disliking her. The staff referred to her sense of humour, and it struck me that she was a warm person, a potential people's person, who would always be the life-and-soul of the party (for better and for worse...).

I don't like the premise of the programme, and I am frequently gob-smacked at the lack of life-experience/awareness that most of them display. So many object to be told what to do, oblivious that this is the reality of working life. Few of them can cook, nor do they seem to have have any knowledge of food. Or knowledge of anything. But then I look at the Posh people, and they are even more blinkered.

It seems so full of contradictions and it really must count as low-rent telly. But for some reason - editing, producing? - it manages to illustrate some fascinating aspects of the complexities of human nature.

Cameron fails to capitalise on Hodge's Own Goal

Update: Gordon Brown seriously pissed off with Hodge

Wealthy heiress Margaret Hodge proclaimed yesterday that Proms not inclusive saying

Tthe Proms was one of several major cultural events many people did not feel comfortable attending

Fantastic, I thought, at last someone is taking seriously the fact that the Albert Hall 'air-conditioning' is entirely unfit for purpose once the daytime temperature exceeds 25 degrees.

Oh, that's not what she meant.

The audiences for some of many of our greatest cultural events - I'm thinking particularly of the Proms - is still a long way from demonstrating that people from different backgrounds feel at ease in being part of this," she added

Implied is that because clearly 'ordinary people' can't cope with the Blue Peter Prom. Or maybe she hasn't heard of the Venezuelan Youth Orchestra, whose Proms last year under Gustavo Dudamel created such a buzz that Ed Balls has proposed introducing a similar 'sistema' into England - capturing children from deprived areas and training them as musicians to rival the best in the world, with the non-musical benefits being startling - amazing. To the extent that not adopting similar practices indicates a lack of commitment to the Social Exclusion/Anti-Drugs/Community Cohesion/Crime Reduction agendas and is tantamount to neglect.

What she actually means is that one half of one concert of over 80 that gets shown on BBC1 on a Saturday night at the end of a two month season is full of crap music catering to the lowest common denominator without any substance or value.

Old Etonian Cameron, married to a wealthy heiress, decides to run with this one. It's all about British values, he says. See above remark about the Venezuelan Youth Orchestra. Or maybe peruse the programme and consider whether the Concertgebouw, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Buskaid Soweto String Ensemble, Yo Yo Mar's Silk Road or Ravi Shankar are most representative of British values. Or perhaps that honour would go to the European Union Youth Orchestra.

Or perhaps they worry about the prohibitive cost of tickets - five or six pounds to stand, nearly forty pounds for the most expensive seats.

Lots of people feel uncomfortable going to football matches or night clubs. So what, are elitist fools Hodge and Cameron saying that they should change their essence to cater for people who aren't interested or can't be bothered. Or should they accept that in a heterogeneous society like Britain, different people have different tastes. What they're actually saying is

We're rich and well-educated and still incredibly thick, so we can't begin to understand how you little people without our obvious advantages need anything more challenging than Coronation Street. Just crawl back to your hovels please.

Rather at odds with Gordon Brown's belief that in cultural matters we should be striving for excellence.

The Virtual Stoa has pointed out two other statements by Hodge in the same speech, one just incorrect one horrendously idiotic.

The fact that Dumbed-Down Cameron didn't bother to comment on the howler that 'Henry VIII separated state and religion' means either it went straight over hi s head, or else he felt that the British public, especially potential Tory voters, are too thick to understand why that is so so wrong. And too brain-dead to contemplate why it might matter.

Update: More discussion at the Guardian. They interpret it as being Hodge saying Black People don't go to classical concerts. Well, a few weeks ago on a sunny Saturday, Jimmy and I went to Brockwell Park, in Brixton ie the capital of Black Britain. Hundreds of people had the same idea. Mainly white British. Quite a lot of Polish and French (white) people, a good number of Chinese, a few Asians. One family (Mum, Dad and two children) were black. Again and again we see this in parks and other attractions close to areas where large numbers of black people live, and in attractions where admission is free. I can barely guess the reasons why, but to change The Proms because not many black people go would be as stupid as proposing to build over Brockwell Park because black people don't go.

Oh, and the recent Brixton and Streatham Hill Branch Labour Party meeting I attended, I was surprised at how high a proportion of Black and Minority Ethnic people were there, in comparison to when I used to regularly attend, up until about four years ago, when it was overwhelmingly White.

I'm in the money

Last year I bought loads of Premium Bonds, in the vain hope of winning a big prize. Instead I keep winning small prizes (various multiples of £50), which is fun, but is no better Rate of Return than if I had stuck it in my low interest 'Reserve' account that I laughingly set up as a 'Savings Account' but is, in reality, an arms-length current account! And not that arms' length, considering the ease of ATM withdrawals and the simplicity of on-line transfers. This month I won one £100 prize, plus a £50 prize, too. (For my US visitors, at current rates of exchange that's equivalent to about $3 billion).

For some reason, I clicked on the list of National Savings & Investments - High value winners - £5000 or more. Not surprisingly, most of the wins were on bonds bought in the Noughties and Nineties. But one of the £100,000 wins was on a £10 Bond bought in 1965 by someone who lives in Glamorgan (or lived there the last time they notified National Savings of their address). I had a £10 bond for about twenty years until I upped it last year. In all that time, I didn't check its winning status once. I would imagine the person in Glamorgan hasn't checked theirs in decades.

We were trying to work out what sort of person this was. Maybe someone who had the Bond bought as a present as a child and is now forty something, feeling the effects of the credit crunch and mounting prices (I was told in Oddbins the other day that wine has gone up because of the world shortage of glass to make bottles...!).

Someone who bought it as an optimistic twenty-something and recently retired, realising that because of their redundancy from metal-bashing industry in the 80s and their series of insecure jobs ever since, they really don't have a decent pension, and are facing a rather bleak future.

Tuesday morning or Wednesday morning, the post comes; they lift it with heavy heart, another set of bills, too much junk mail, yet more mail-shots for short-listed candidates for Parliamentary selection...oh, that's just Streatham....and an unfamiliar letter. They don't recognise the Glasgow postmark and they open it with a slight frown. A slip of paper flutters out saying you've won the Premium Bonds. They snort in derision. Ten whole pounds of Premium Bonds they bought in the White Heat of Technology, when Harold Wilson had just served his first year in office, Aberfan was yet to happen, Ken Dodd's Tears was Number One*, and Manchester United were Champions (okay, some things stay the same). Never paid up a brass farthing. Well, farthings had stopped being legal tender just a few years before. But there were still twenty shillings in the pound and twelve pence in a shilling.

A warrant comes out of the envelope and printed on it is "£100,000". In an era of lottery wins of tens of millions, it may not seem much...but what a wonderful surprise to this person who had quite forgotten they owned a Premium bond. Or has spent 42 years muttering "I've never won a sausage..."

* cos the Sixties was rubbish for pop music. Fact

Thoughts on Harry

I have a lot of thoughts about the reason Harry Wales shenanigans.

I am not comfortable about the occupation of Afghanistan. I was broadly supportive of the effort to get rid of the Taliban and dig out Al-Qaeda and firmly of the view that if George W Gump hadn't gone ahead with his lunatic and illegal invasion of Iraq, the Afghanistan problem would have been over long ago.

I have no doubt that 'Our boys and Girls in Afghanistan' are doing a fine job and are brave, but I can't get very excited about the 'poor equipment' saga. A year or so ago I was sitting in the coffee bar at my local hospital and read a flyer celebrating that a new children's hospital had been built and there was now a voluntary fund-raising drive to find £1 million to equip it...

I think it's pathetic that the only job the Royals consider doing is Armed Forces. I kind of accept that there are reasons why they can't go into commerce or industry, but there are numerous ways they could occupy their time in public service outside of the army (navy/air force). Wouldn't it be cool if one became a fireman or an ambulance person? But perhaps it has been decided that these are jobs are too dangerous for Royals. There would be a pathetic irony in that.

I was gobsmacked that the news was extended on Thursday because it had been leaked that Harry was in Afghanistan. Jimmy was furious that Gordon Brown's keynote speech on Saturday was interrupted on BBC News 24 in order to show pictures of Harry arriving at an airport. Normally, Jimmy would be muttering about the time given over to an electioneering speech by a politician.

It is clear that the BBC, and the Establishment in general, expect us the public to show respect to Harry merely on account of him being the son of the son of the daughter of the son of...an institution and family who still believes it is God's will that they are where they are in society, through birth and nothing else.

For years rumours have been circulating that Harry is the son of some bloke that Diana had an affair with (Hewitt??). Some people say it's nobody's business. Perhaps he is, and Charles decided to treat him as his son. He wouldn't be the first, or the last, to do so, and normally, I would say it's nobody's business but the individuals concerned (mother, child, biological father, legal father). But when Establishment expects us to kow tow to this person on the basis of his genealogy, don't we have a right to know - to demand - whether he really is "worthy" of us kow-towing.

Burying the past

I so-hated Nicola the Bitch Dentist of Belgravia that I have already mentioned her three times on this blog

Nicola the Bitch Dentist from Belgravia told me if I didn't give up smoking I would have cavities by 40. I have just been to the dentist and back. Ha! I am forty. I have no cavities. Suck that Nicola Bitch Patronising Dentist from Hellgravia.

Quick poll: how many of my readers like me and two of my audit colleagues are also entirely without fillings?

What people do...

Jimmy has some friends we'll call Bert and Sid, to protect their identity.

One day in the pub, Bert happened to mention that he often walked round naked at home. Now, I don't find anything remarkable about this. I don't tend to very often, except for a few moments trivially, although I often walk round half-dressed. I find it to be of no interest whatsoever to know this about Bert; I would prefer not to see him naked, but I assume that if I went round his house, I would expect him to be dressed. However, Sid seems to find this extraordinary and freakish behaviour, unusual and puzzling.

One evening Bert heard a clattering noise outside his house and went out to investigate. To his surprise, he saw an over-turned bin and a grounded Sid. It did not take much deduction to work out that, for some reason, Sid had been climbing onto his bins.

On later questioning, Sid admitted that he had been trying to get a peek of Bert walking round naked.

A couple of weeks ago, we realised there was no beer in the house. As it was past closing time for the convenience mini-supermarkets, I suggested to Jimmy that he went to one to one of the local pubs to get carry outs. He said he didn't fancy going to a particular pub because there was a party going on. The part was for a chap we'll call Pat (to protect his identity, he's a postman). I said that maybe Jimmy could go to the party. He said he would rather not, because Pat and his wife are involved with this couple from Doncaster. Every other weekend either Doncaster comes to Brixton or Brixton goes to Doncaster for what Jimmy calls 'wife-swapping'.

Ugh, I said, I can't say I'd like to shag that Pat. I mean, I've never really thought of him as ugly or repulsive, but it's just struck me that he really isn't attractive in any way.

And his wife's ugly, too, commented Jimmy.

I have never done any swinging and I can't say it particularly appeals in practice, but there is a lingering attraction about it, one of those 'never say never' things like parachute jumping or snowboarding. But I suppose I have always assumed that if I were swinging it would be with a gorgeous couple. Or, at the very least, a couple with comparable gorgeousness to me (of course, I regard myself as well above average attractiveness; I suppose we all have to, don't we). It has only just struck me that probably the majority of people who actually swing are ugly, or rather repulsive, or not particularly attractive, or simply not attractive enough. Perhaps the reason that I don't swing is much the same as the reason that I have never been promiscuous, even when single, is that I am very very fussy, and couldn't shag anyone I didn't find extremely attractive. There are plenty of people, knowing them platonically or as friends, I will concede them to be presentable, good-looking, not bad-looking. But as soon as I consider them as theoretical sexual partners, my stomach churns, and I go right off sex.

A few years ago we were in a pub at Gypsy Hill, and this woman started talking to us. She struck me as dowdy, plain and rather mousy in character. She wasn't particularly interesting, but we were quite bored, so didn't mind a change of company. Slowly it began to dawn on us that she was trying to entice us back to her place for a spot of swinging. Soon, her husband arrived, and oh god, he was hanging. Again, mousy and insipid, a faint aura of anorak and nylon, and utterly lacking in charisma. We swiftly made our apologies and found another pub.

Many years ago a friend and I were in a City Centre Manchester pub. A woman started chatting to us; slowly it began to dawn on us that she was trying to get us interested in a threesome. Back then, I was lot more naive, and although I politically supported Gay Rights, I had never been chatted up by a woman and didn't even know any dykes. With the benefit of hindsight, experience etc, nope, I still wouldn't have responded positively. (I always have difficulty with the 'no, I'm not homophobic, it's just I could never fancy you').

I suppose out there are beautiful people wanting to have beautiful swinging sex, where I could enjoy both man and woman, without strings or emotional ambiguity, but somehow, I don't think I'll find them in seedy pubs in Central Manchester or suburban London. And as I'm not looking, it's academic, anyway.

Obscure musical borrowings

I am ever so slightly fascinated by how pieces of pop music derive form classical. Some are obvious such as Beach Boys' Lady Linda. In some people don't believe me - Bee Gees (and Steps) Tragedy from Siegfried's Funeral March. In Which Decade, Mike drew my attention to Saint-Saens "Organ" Symphony/ If I Had Words - Scott Fitzgerald & Yvonne Keeley with the St. Thomas More School Choir.

Last week I put on a CD of Tchaikovsky's Serenade for Strings, which I've had for years, and immediately thought "That's Deacon Blue's Goodnight Jamsie"

I am currently listening to Penella's Il Gato montes and I hear Sylvia Vrethammar's Y Viva Espana. I suppose it's conceivable they both 'borrowed' a folk tune.

Lucia di Lammermoor

I attended this at English National Opera on Monday and should have written my review within twenty four hours to make it meaningful,but sometimes life just gets in the way of blogging.

The reviews I had read had been extremely positive, with people on newsgroups urging readers to get there or regret it. One of the main reasons for it being so good was Anna Christy in the star role. Mark Stone was also praised. So it was with considerable disappointment that I learnt that both of them had cancelled due to Lurgy (Dreaded) which also affected me at its acutest between 1920 and 2215, although it has lingered ever since. Anna's replacement Lurelle Alefounder was also said to be not very well.

And therein lies the biggest problem of ENO's ridiculous policy of 'Opera in English'. David Stephenson gave an excellent performance as Enrico, but I'm afraid Lurelle Alefounder was not up to it. Reading her CV she has performed mainly in very small companies, which is an excellent apprenticeship for young singers. It is wrong to be over-critical, because she was a late stand-in, but I feel that she was singing a role of this size in this house about ten years too early. And I'm not even sure that it was the right role for her. Initially I was shocked at her wide and uneven wobble until it dawned on me it was an attempt to trill. And her top notes were shrieked. If ENO sang mainstream operas such as this in the original Italian it would be easy to fly in a more mature and experienced soprano from Germany or somewhere. Instead I have paid nearly a hundred pounds to hear a Leading Lady barely out of college. And I am obliged to write that she wasn't up to it, which seems unfair.

The reviews were generally in praise in production, although the newspapers gave the impression that it was all about incest and paedophilia. Or something, I'm a bit confused because I've been reading them in parallel to reviews of Salome at Covent Garden, which I go to on Thursday. I think that's paedophilia and necrophilia.

I also realised that I didn't know the opera as well as I thought I did. I have never seen it live. I have watched once a DVD starring the incomparable Joan Sutherland in the leading role (who had the great virtue that it didn't matter what language she sang it in,no one could ever distinguish the words!). And I have a CD set of the famous Cherry Strudel recording. Except that that I play it more often on my mp3 player, so I don't really have a clue in which order those wonderful numbers come in!

To start with I wasn't that impressed by the production. The opening scene seemed very static and dull, but as the evening progressed it really crept under my skin and I came away understanding why it had been so highly praised. I am at a loss to explain why without going into great detail which would be boring for you and as so much time has elapsed would be bound to be very inaccurate. Besides, there is plenty enough description elsewhere on the net. Suffice to say that I had never realised that Bel Canto could be so thought provoking and so complex - although people say that this is the opera where Donizetti foreshadows Verdi.

Barry Banks as Edgar was stand out. A beautiful voice and a commanding stage presence. Particularly impressive when he stormed through the window as an interloper at Lucia's Forced Marriage. I absolutely adore Tombe degl'avi miei, and he did not disappoint. The orchestra had been a bit hit-and-miss throughout, but they were splendid here. The other highlight was the glass harmonica, which I had never heard before; it was gorgeously ghostly and startling.

I don't think will go down as one of my opera highlights of 2008 and yet I wish I could attend another performance and hope that it will be revived again soon. I suspect that I missed out big time by not having the first choice soprano as Lucia.

Lots of pictures at ArenaPal