Gertsamtkunstwerk

Just what I like to read...

Plácido Domingo afirma que no piensa en la retirada

It must be Friday

Discussing Legal threat over transsexual show, one colleague says "Too right, they should sue." I say, "Oh come on - no one forced them to go on reality TV. They wanted money and fame." Another colleague says, "Fame costs..." "And right here is where you start paying," I agreed.

Noting the newspapaer headline, found in various places "Let It Bea" got me thinking. For lot of small kids of my acquaintance, one of the first rock bands they become aware of is the Beatles. In a few years time, "So, Dad, who were these Beatles?"

"Okay, daughter, there's something I need to tell you..."

"...so this all happened forty years before I was born, then?"

Then the sunbject moved onto Michael Howard, and the stupidity of the Tory party in once again not selecting Kenneth Clarke, or, at least Polly Portillo as leader. It was suggested that Polly's exotica may be a hindrance to him being Tory Party Leader - mainly the bisexuality, but also being a second generation immigrant. But there again, so is Howard. From Transylvania. It was pointed out that he Cheeky Girls are also from Transylvania. Perhaps the next Tory Party broadcast will feature the Cheeky Girls.

Week 2 at Uni October 86

I started with a Sociology lecture which was only an introductory, but quite difficult to follow. Then I went to a Politics – Tops (Theories of Politics). There are six of us in the class, which Professor Regan takes. I’m the only female there. Great, I don’t think! I then decided that being ten minutes late to a Maths lecture was not something to be done too often, so I decided not to go at all.

I went to a personal tutorial with Professor Regan. Because he was called out on other business he set me reading Hayek’s The Road To Serfdom. For “homework” he set me Animal Farm
.
I then went to the Health Centre and explained to Dr W that I had been feeling constantly thirsty and also needing to go to the loo frequently, so she told me to give a urine sample, and she tested it for sugar. There was a faint hint. So she said I’m to have a blood test to see if I’m a diabetic. That’s tomorrow. I don’t know what I’m scardest of, the blood test or the fact that I might have diabetes. I’m a bit upset about it.

I had a very welcome lie in, but then I went to he Health Centre for a blood test. I had been instructed not to have anything to eat twelve hours previously, so I was not at my best. The nurse couldn’t get anything out of my left arm, so tried my right arm, but to no avail, so she called Dr W, who after great difficulty managed to get a sufficient amount of me. I was told to go and get something to eat even if only a bar of chocolate or crisps.

I stood up, felt the room swimming, and was pushed into a chair, my head thrust between my knees, and then I was given a glass of milk and a biccy. I managed to struggle back to Willoughby, where I was able to unwind until lunch, after which I dashed over to PB for Labour Club. It was a business meeting (in a style reminiscent of Broadheath Labour Party) but they said that speakers that they have already lined up are Austin Mitchell, Gerald Kaufman and ….Derek Hatton.

I then went off to Sociology; I have an essay on Karl Marx to do. I then went back to the room of somebody called David T in Cripps. We were providing a shoulder for another fella from Cripps, who’s in my Soc. seminar (Chris S), and is very homesick. He went home on Monday night but was sent back by his parents. He said he’d be at the URN party, but he wasn’t, nor was he at the Pips lecture this midday.

After dinner I pogged off to PB to hear Simon Hughes (Liberal MP for Bermondsey) speaking. Most of what he said, I agreed with, which doesn’t mean I've become converted to Liberalism, nor does it mean that having led the split in the Liberals Simon Hughes has joined the Labour Party. It purely means that he was uncontroversial. I missed my opportunity to stick my neck in, and point out that the Alliance may be allied in places like Broxtowe, but how will they square their differences in places like Trafford.

I could have stayed for a Liberal Cheese and Wine, but I decided to go off to URN Cheese and wine – career move. It was fun, there was plenty of home-brew wine, and I had tremendously in deep discussions with people. I

I went to the bar and joined Jennie, Tracey, Lisa S and Sally. We decided to go for a pizza, and were joined by a bloke called Pete from Sally’s corridor (D floor). We were joined by Martin on Broadgate; he’d just been playing soldiers with the OTC, so was wearing a suit – have to look good in the officers mess. I had a prawn pizza – not bad, I must say!

I worked the bar, that was good fun, if tiring. I was hopeless at first, not being able to pull a pint, and getting a pile of abuse, but by the end of the evening I was quite reasonable. I’m just waiting for the money now.

I had a lie in after reading the papers, I pogged over to a Tops lecture with the extremely boring Mr McD. Then I spent the afternoon at URN which was WONDERFUL. I did a report on Karnival; I even read it live on the five o’clock news. Jon Munro who I think is something mega important, has suggested that I interview Michael Heseltine next week. Having been told that I can do it, I am absolutely determined to do it, and although, naturally, I am filled with trepidation as to whether I can actually succeed, I am filled with anticipation at the challenge - a real boost to my proposed career. So ambitious am I, that I've decided I don’t want to be Prime Minister at twenty five, I’ll stick to being a presenter of the ‘Today’ programme by the age of twenty three.

After my afternoon at URN, I rushed back to Willoughby to get poshed up in fifteen minutes flat. It was the formal dinner, and it was tremendous fun seeing everybody (nearly – not the bar staff not Ian as you will see later) out of their everyday clothes. Many of the blokes had dinner suits, all the rest had suits on, most of the women had dresses & heels, there was a lovely atmosphere, with people walking around with bottles of wine – either Schloss Willoughby which is like cats piss, or Sainsburys. I had Sainsburys Yugoslav Riesling.

The Duck Skwad arrived with their custard pies to get Ian , our delightful Hall President – he’s okay, actually & I got a good photo of him covered in shaving foam.

The cocktail bar opened; I started with a Mega Zombie Surprise (double gin, Martini & orange juice) which was gorgeous, but coming after half a bottle of wine and before half a pint of Becks made me slightly inebriated, enough for me to have a deep & meaningless conversation with a bloke called Chris who’s doing Archaeology, & I also had a pleasant conversation with Kevin (nice Kevin, from Bangor, Co. Down) – I really have desires on him. Simon L, our Hall treasurer, told me I was pissed, but that was okay, so was he. I ended up in the JCR flaked out, but joined a load of second and third years, including the mining bloke, Martin the action man, & big Mark, the bar manager.

I’m totally pissed off with United & totally over the moon, too. Jesper Olsen is deffo leaving after a punch up with Remi Moses the other day. Jesper has eleven stitches in his head. Things must be bad if the quiet man Remi’s fighting.
However, Manchester United actually won today, AND it was against Sheffield Wednesday. Stapleton, Davenport (2) and Whiteside scored. Forest, Liverpool & Everton lost, which is smart.

I have worked MOST of today, although I took a few photos of the Karnival Float, which didn’t win. Willoughby has won for the past nine years. Richard III Soc. won this year.

I did the Hall shop, and then chatted for ages to Mike. We ended up in party in Chris (heavy metal) room. Liz from the room next door to me was there. She won’t speak to me. God knows why. Bloody Boring Greasy Haired Rik Mayall John Boy Dave Bl was there.

I spoken to Lisa O for about half an hour. She’s into CND & to a lifestyle of not getting totally chummy with people immediately.

Agnetha Faltskog comeback

Bjorn Again

Let's hope that 'the blonde one', the recluse, isn't too embarassing in her comeback bid.

Democracy in Action

So, assuming that they dump IDS, basically, Michael Howard will assume the title without an election according to the Evening Standard - quite a throwback to the days when a Tory leader simply emerged. Ted Heath introduced voting by MPs; William Hague introduced voting by ordinary members of the Party. Now, they've realised they can't trust their own members, so will be selecting the leader by carve-up.

If they have that low an opinion of their members, imagine what they think of the electorate as a whole...?

Reminiscing Week One at Uni

written in very late September and early October 1986.

I have seriously edited out the endless lists of people, with their subjects, room numbers, town of parental residence etc. Reading through, I sense an absolute obsession with where people are from. Perhaps a natural reaction to moving away from the only home one has known. I also lost my tenuous grip on the proper use of English

Day one. First impressions! Wonderful. It’s strange, really, this morning my major interest was finding out what happened in Blackpool yesterday (Labour Party Conference). But now – all that seems to matter is being a Willoughbite - a resident of Willoughby Hall. I was really looking forward to arriving at the University of Nottingham. With Daddy I went up to my room C18 which means that I am on the second floor. The first impression was large – but Spartan. But no longer Spartan – it has my property scattered in a homely but not disorganised fashion. The view out of the window is beautiful - at the moment all I can see is a pair of purple curtains, but earlier today – trees. There’s a weeping willow outside the window but un-viewblocking, and the weather was sunny and literally hot – according to Radio Trent it was up to 70F; yet the trees are turning brown, gold and red.

Man Utd Reserves triumphant!

Leeds 2-3 Man Utd

I think it's our season to win the Mickey Mouse Cup. Not that I especially care one way or the other...!

Thinking woman's crumpet

It's one of those things that bugs me. Women, who are judged far more on looks than men are, are generally thought to have a 'best before' date. Rare is the woman who is thought sexually attractive, or indeed attractive, beyond un age certain. If they're actresses, they become 'past-it' or become character actresses. Female news readers tend to get the sack when they have passed the stage of pulchritude . Men are allowed to remain as their eye bags droop, and their pates become shinier. It is absolutely symptomatic of the double-standards inherent in a society where a woman's worth is measured by her ability to adorn.

Various conversations with women of maturity (ie over 35...!) and my own tastes have made it quite clear to me that very many women are attracted to the older man. Off the top of my head I can only think of one man under forty who sends me weak at the knees.

There are some men who I barely looked twice at when they graced the TV twenty five years ago, but today I go quite swoony when I see them. Admittedly, twenty or so years ago there were men maybe already in their forties who sent me quivery then and still do now. A quick list of men that I think are somewhat gorgeous is:

• Plácido Domingo - 62
• Paul McCartney - 61
• Michael Palin - 60
• Martin Shaw - 58
• Trevor Eve - 52

I'm sure I have forgotten some really obvious ones and will kick myself later...

Another night on the town...

Those neplings of mine are turning me into a dirty stop-out...

Caroline at work recommended the Rainforest Cafe, so we went along there, but the receptionist said it would be a two hour wait. I was aghast. On a Tuesday? Mind you, London seemed Saturday-busy, last night and tonight. A mixture of half-term (is it half term all over Europe?) and fine weather has brought the hordes onto the streets and into the restaurants mid-evening. there are children everywhere.

Instead we went to a proper restaurant, an Italian trattoria on Rupert Street. I think my favouritest restaurants of all are genuine Italians. I've never come away from one disgruntled. And I always think it's so funny when the macho waiters invariably go gaga over children.

Save IDS

Lets hope Ian Duncan Smith narrowly survives the vote of no confidence, with his leadership intact, but his credibility destroyed.

Accessibility of Art

Over the years I have had a numerous conversations with people who object to making art - as in, serious, or non-pop genres of fine art, music, drama, literature etc* - more accessible. Although, in principle, I tend to agree with them - a great work does not have to dumbed-down to enable people to enjoy it. A great play or opera does not have to be performed in modern clothes in an inner-city ghetto with the main protagonists all being crackwhores.

But I do like gateways to culture. Television is an excellent example - as are film and radio. They give access to arts that, for whatever reason, people cannot see live - we don't generally think the broadcasting of sports have led them to be dumbed down.

Television can sometimes be true to its Reithian heritage to "inform, educate and entertain". I am too young to have experienced Kenneth Clark's Civilisation or AJP Taylor's seeming ex tempore deliveries to camera. My TV watching is somewhat desultory.

However, even I have not failed to notice the BBC's Big Read. It came up in conversation yesterday with my 8-year-old nephew. My mother believes he reads far too little. Still, we discussed the Big Read. He's going to vote for Harry Potter, because he hates Jacqueline Wilson. And he doesn't like Catch-22. I said it's not enough to vote; he's got to read all 100 Books. He wasn't sure about that. I said - oh not just this year, you've got all of next year as well. "Hmm, I'm definitely not going to read Catch-22." I nodded - like, I've read it, right?

Now, with or without the Big Read, it would be ridiculously precocious to expect an eight-year-old to read Catch 22. But, maybe, in ten or more years time, he will have a distant memory and will decide to read Catch 22, or any one of the other books featured.

* I acknowledge totally the argument that art does not have to be high-brow; one could say, culture - I wouldn't, because culture is, to me, as much as about customes, rites,

City on fire

Taken at 1635 and 1707 today, looking West from my office crane. The latter was taken with half the Unit, it seemed, gathered round admiring the view and instructing me to get out my camera.

I spent some of lunchtime in the park. The light was fantastic; the shots, experimental candid shots of strangers were so-so. I reckon I have five half decent ones of the park.

2003, Live in the City of Light!

Catch up

On Saturday Manchester United lost 3-1 to Fulham, at home. I'm so seething about that I'm not even linking to it.

Jimmy said he would be at mine by half six. Quarter to seven, seven o'clock came, but no Jimmy. I was getting a bit annoyed, knowing that he would turn up on the doorstep drunk and argumentative and I could think of a million and one things I would rather do than skirmish with a drunkard. Quarter past seven I rang him; he said he was on his way - shorthand for "I can't talk - I'm driving." He arrived sober, explaining he had fallen asleep on the sofa at his Dad's. I already had my coat, and was on my way out. He said he'd drive to the restaurant; we could leave the car and pick it up in the morning.

Very pleasant meal in the always excellent Hung's in Streatham. I've been going there 12 years. We rounded off in the Crown and Sceptre, the Wetherspoons just near my house.

As we approached my house, Jimmy exclaimed, "Where's the car - I left it parked there! Someone's stolen it!" My mind clicked over, wondering whether he had locked it etc.

"It's in Streatham," I said. I made sure he felt a complete idiot!

As we lay on the sofa, I said I think I had left something in the car - could he go and check it.

We lay in bed and I expressed an urge to carry out an explicit sexual act, right now, in the back seat of the car.

In the morning, I got up just in time for the rugby. Cor, what a cliff-hanger - not so arrogant now, are we, after being run ragged by Samoa?

We went out to Streatham to do bits and pieces of shopping and eat. Jimmy dropped me home because I was planning to go to a concert with Ria, which he didn't much fancy, or rather, he didn't much fancy not having an early night. I lay on the sofa for a while, thinking "I am way too comfortable to go out into the cold dark night," but I mustn't let Ria down. At about quarter to six, Ria phoned, saying she was absolutely exhausted and couldn't go. I pondered whether I should go alone, anyway. I was still pondering when the phone rang again; it was Mother. By the time we had finished, it was way too late to go out.

So I didn't.

This evening I met up with sister-and-family. they are staying in a really rather nice hotel next-door-but-one to my last-office-but-one in Pimlico. It's only been open for six weeks. All rooms have E-TV (whatever that is) with DVD players and a plasma screen, plus CD players.

We caught the bus to Trafalgar Square and wandered around a little. Suddenly we found ourselves in Leicester Square. I can never work why some parts of London are so small and others are so big. We looked at various chain pasta/pizza places. Nephew saw the large numbers of people sitting outside - you know, the typical cafe society of London's West End in nearly-November. But my sister insisted we sat inside. We also suddenly decided we fancied Mexican - Niece had that well known Mexican dish, fish fingers.

There was a huge crowd outside gathered round railings and police officers. I asked the woman on the restaurant's front desk. She said that they were waiting for Tobey Maguire from Spiderman, although she doubted he would be dressed as Spiderman, unless he had a thing for wearing his Spiderman costume on an everyday basis.

The restaurant was Chiquito's, which was okay, although I wouldn't recommend it to Southern USA-ers, or indeed, to genuine Mexicans, if I knew any genuine Mexicans.

The craft of arguing

Discussing Christmas...

Him: Sharm el Sheikh
Me: Acapulco

Random conversations over the weekend...

Him: Sharm el Sheikh
Me: Acapulco

With apologies

Teenage revisited

I have just discovered a couple more days diary from October 1985 (Upper Sixth, rising 18). So, without further ado:

Today has been okay, only I know I ought to be working harder. Only, I can’t be arsed. I don’t even know if I want to go to Oxford. One thing I know for certain is that if I’m only offered a place at a women’s college, I’m going to turn it down. I don’t think I could I stand another three years of bitchy single sex education. Mind you, I did a little bit of Politics before the chart run down. I’m very pleased to see You Are My World in the charts, even if only just. With Cloudbusting, Don’t Break My Heart, a Good Heart and Nikita all going up as well, it’s just bad news that Alive and Kicking has gone down, and I’m waiting for See The Day to chart.

John S my father's colleague and friend came for dinner because he is taking Mummy to visit Daddy in hospital he was having tests which eventually led to him having a heart bypass this evening because she can’t otherwise get there because of the bus strike

I don’t think today is a working day (sorry Mrs Mc et al). After lunch I set out to Manchester on the 41. As I was walking down W. Lane, I noticed Norman Whiteside turning out of M Road.

On the bus it was quite good going through Rusholme etc, all that way, seeing all the students, both Uni and Poly, and just eaves-dropping on the conversations – so different from school people, if you know what I mean.

I alighted from the bus outside the BBC and reported to the receptionist, who told me to wait for Steve Ireland’s the producer of Look North West secretary. As I was waiting, I saw Denis Law. He was introduced to a receptionist as Denis Law and I commented to a man sat next to me that you can’t miss Denis Law. The man said he didn’t live in Manchester, but he had certainly heard of Denis Law. As I was speaking to this man, it struck me that I ought to know who he was – he seemed vaguely familiar, but I can’t for the life of me place him.

Steve Ireland’s secretary collected me and took me up to the second floor. Steve gave me a lecture on how competitive journalism is, how you must be prepared to start at the bottom and work up, how you mustn’t be too proud to do anything, how Simon Cole became head of programmes at Piccadilly because he begged for a job making tea etc.

I was taken to the newsroom, where I was handed over to a fella called David who is a producer’s assistant, but that’s pretty high up. After he had attempted phoning Derek Hatton’s secretary to find out what time Derek and friends are leaving Liverpool tomorrow, I was shown round the complex, and I sat in the vision control room watching Paul Newman interview Eric Heffer (who was in the Westminster studio). Parliament was prorogued today. I also watched John Mundy rehearse for, and then read the news. As I came out of the room he smiled at me.

I drifted around the newsroom, looking at what people were doing, reading all the telex stuff. I went to the vision control and from five o’clock watched preparation for the programme. Walking around, I had noticed Alastair McDonald a few times, and he had smiled. Paul Newman was exceedingly friendly, too, so was Colin Philpott, although I didn’t know it was he until somebody addressed him as Mr Philpott. I wasn’t very impressed by Stuart Hall. It would be unfair to describe him as rude, just uninterested – and very much the star. John was there from five o’clock, or before, getting ready and that, Stuart rolled up at quarter to six.

It was really interesting seeing the programme go out, the controlled panic just before going on air, the faces pulled by Stuart and John, off camera. What’s more, I know I want to be a journalist.

I caught the 41 which by chance came quickly. I was going along happily, just me and this fella upstairs, when suddenly it went off somewhere I didn’t recognise. I turned to this fella and said, “This is the forty one isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “it’s a detour.” Then a bus garage came into view, and we realised that the bus was going there, so we went downstairs and asked the driver what he was playing at. He wasn’t too charming when he said we ought to have looked at the front of the bus. I must confess I didn’t check the destination indicator, but I knew a 41 was due when it came, the timetable confirmed it was going to Woodheys, and it was a 41, not a 41x.

Well, me and this fella were totally lost. By asking about five separate people we ended up by the Post House, and walked right under Princess Parkway bridge to the nearest bus stop. There was a woman –girl –there. We asked whether the 41 had come, she said no, she’d been there since twenty five to waiting for the five to eight bus – it was now a couple of minutes to eight. The timetable said there was at five to, the bus stop said there was one at five to – we were obviously on the five to, he was obviously knocking off, and couldn’t be bothered going all the way to Woodheys and back.

Eventually the twenty five past came, and this girl who’s a first year at the Poly reading Education, this fella, Nick, and I got it. He seemed okay did Nick. He’s nearly twenty three and on the dole. He had no money, so I said use my Clipper Card. He was dead grateful, so I thanked him for getting me through the dark streets of Northenden.

I got home and being ravenous I tucked into a meal willingly and listened to Daddy’s story of hospital. He said there was a Northern Irish woman there, called Mrs McIlroy, who kept talking about ‘Our Sam.’ It wasn’t for a quite long that he realised she was talking about Sammy McIlroy, the one and only.

And, even though I don't do requests, I thought I would write up West Side Story for Jag, even though it took place in November

I got ready to go out, getting all tarted up in my NEW maroon skirt, and old shabby blouse. I was a bit hurried due to time, but I looked neither tarty nor frumpy. Daddy gave me a lift to Brooklands Station – well, the rest of the family were there, and were waiting for Chris, who was going with them to a bonfire. It was weird standing on the station – breezy, wet – in the dark, hearing the bangs of the fireworks. Mind you, my mind took it all in – storing it on the filing cabinet for future literary reference.

The train arrived and I made a special effort not to get in with everyone else, I didn’t fancy being part of a party of screaming school kids. The train got into Deansgate and I made a quick get away, conscious of people behind me. Magda was screaming about ‘where are we going?’ and ‘let’s follow Gert.’ I wasn’t fully aware of who was around. I knew for a fact that if Andrea, Louise and Sam only, I used their surnames were there, I did not want them relying on me to get there, after being so downright rude. In addition, Magda had hardly been decent to me either. I 'AS MY PRINCIPLES, you know. We generally got our way to the Opera House – me, Esther, Magda, Nicola and Steph O, Clare G, Sarah H, and Rachel - and took our seats – I was between Rachel and Sarah. Andrea, Louise and Sam arrived, and I couldn’t help thinking how BORING and STIFF they looked – like three old ladies. Michelle arrived with Terence her bisexual boyfriend, goodness knows what the old ladies thought of Terry – definitely camp, and definitely wearing make up.

West Side Story began, and it was fabulous. The dancing, the music, the scenery, the drama….Everytime the orchestra struck up, a tingle went down my spine. Some of the songs were excellent – the rest were brilliant! ‘Gee, Officer Krupke’ was really pzaz; ‘One Hand, One Heart’ was really sad; ‘Tonight’ was gorgeous, and ‘America’ was…well, it was ‘America,’ raucous, fun and Puerto Rica!

The music for the Dance at the Gym, real evocative 1940s/early 50s jazz. Oh I don’t know what was best. A lot of people went for Sam Williams, who played Riff, I personally thought Michael French (Tony) was more attractive, but for me the real star had to be Jan Hartley, who played Maria. She was so Hispanically dramatic; and she has a gorgeous voice.

I spoiled myself in the interval, buying a vodka-and-orange, and a strawberry ice cream. I had to laugh, I was stood by my seat sorting out my coat and cardigan. Louise, Andrea and Sam had to push past or say excuse me. Most people would have done one or the other; they stood there, obviously refusing either to speak to me, or to touch me.

Hmm, I think I was more concerned with fighting in the Upper Sixth Common Room than the Jets and Sharks....

Currently playing on repeat

You may have noticed that I rarely make musical recommendations. I like what I like and you can take it or leave it; my tastes refuse to be pigeon-holed. I am making a rare exception, I would really really recommend Karl Jenkins The Armed Man: A Mass For Peace which is excellently reviewed here

Here is the Official site - note the release date.

Update: Looking back, I realise - note the time - I didn't convey what I really wanted to. This is an amazing musical work, containing some marvellous tunes. The libretto is eclectic, sourced from the common of the mass, the Bible, the moslem call to prayers, Kipling, Dryden, Swift, Togi Sankichi (a poet from hiroshima who died in 1953 of leukemia), the Mahabharata, the memories of WW1 survivors, Malory and Tennyson. There is a narrative running through, the build up to war, the destruction of war, finishing with a glorious "Better Is Peace" , with words taken largely from Tennyson's In Memorium AHH.

The music was composed during the Kosovo conflict, and is dedicated to the victims of Kosovo.

The CD was released on 10th September 2001, which, to me makes it achingly poignant, and even more urgently necessary.

Yesterday

I was walking along the West corridor of the office at about half five and I glanced out of the window, where I saw the most amazing sunset...ever. The sky was exploding as the blood red sun sank below the horizon.

My camera was at home.

After work I met up with Jess, which was thoroughly enjoyable - great to see you Jess. It is beginning to dawn on me that I am perhaps the woest guide ever to London. I was rubbish with brother and sister-in-law the other week, I was rubbish with Jess, and I'm going to be rubbish with sister-and-family next week.

It's not my fault, I've only lived here twelve years...

Forgive me some tears

End of an era for Concorde - it will take some getting used to. I can't believe that I will never see or hear again that beautiful plane, which has just about grown up with me. Both of us products of a bygone age. As well as seeing her numerous times approaching or leaving Heathrow, I have seen her in the Manchester area a handful of times, and, once, coming out of JFK over the Hudson.

But I've never flown in her.

It really hurts.

Teenage angst from October 1985

As I will not be near a computer until Wednesday evening, at the earliest, I thought I would treat you to the entirety of the October 1985 diary extract, which shows me moving away from some old friends, one of whom had been my 'best friend' for eight years. It reads as more Primary Schooly than I remember, but it leads up to quite an amusing finale, which I had actually quite forgotten... I was in Upper Sixth, a few months short of 18.

So you don't have to read it in one sitting; I would be interested in your gut reaction, and don't hold back, because this was literally half a lifetime ago, so any judgement you make is not really on me, nowadays.

Hoffnung

Mike Troubled Diva's Aunt Cyn mentions Flanders and Swann, and helpfully provides a link to Amazon. Before I clicked on the link, I had a distant memory slide in from the recesses of my mind and googled for Gerard Hoffnung. For some reason, they are indelibly linked in my mind, a distant memory of an autumnal Sunday post-lunch when my father played his F&S and Hoffnung records (vinyl? They were 78s...) and I devoured the cartoons from the bookcase with the glass doors.

Amazon helpfully tells us that people who bought Flanders and Swann also bought Hoffnung. So it's not just me.

I. will. not. commit. more.money. to. Amazon.

Music is confusing...

What is it about music, that sends me cuckoo. There were some young crusty/hippy types controlling the juke box in the pub last night. I say young; they might have been my age.

I kept yelling at Kevin the Barman to turn up the jukebox because conversation was slightly too loud.

Still, the music included Good Vibrations, Twentieth Century Boy, People are Strange, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, I am the Walrus, She Sells Sanctuary, and Bat Out Of Hell (as loved by all crusty/hippy types...).

I think I worried all the old male bar propper-ups by dancing to She Sells Sanctuary and yelling that I was the only Goth in bright clothes, when I were a lass.

When we got home, I put on the White Album. We lay on the sofa, and eventually - after the entirety of Disc One (I have it on tape) - concluded that it is utter shite.

...coming for to carry me home

Subtitle: Go Johnny!

We were lucky. Still, you make your own luck, and as well as, in theory, creating a slightly easier path to the final, it also means that the big matches will be on Sundays, which will be good for Jimmy who works Saturday mornings.

Next match a week tomorrow against Samoa. It's at half nine but I think that's when the clocks go back, so it's like half ten.

Two questions...

...to ponder - and answer?

1. Have you ever had a piece a music or a whole CD that you absolutely have to listen to over and over again, and the more you listen to it, the more you absolutely love it, love it until it hurts, hurts until your muscles are tensing and you're listening to this as a physical experience

2. If you could have the choice to meet one celebrity, who would it be and what would you say to them?

Pale and interesting

All the rubbish I wrote yesterday about having a hectic social life is, of course, not true. I have been off sick with decidedly dodgy tummy and jelly-like legs, and have lain around the house being languid, playing a small selection of CDs repeatedly and desultorily surfing the interwebnet. I may struggle out to Matt and Abby's do tonight. Do All Bar One do water? Are their there toilets on tube trains?

My walkman is locked in my desk at work, so I shall be stuck in a hotel for two nights next week without music. Which is so unfair. Unless I manage to struggle into th'office over the weekend to pick it up. Can I survive sixty hours without hearing the CD I am totally obsessing about?

If you have found have reference to two books due to be published in "2003 (?)" and you have publishers and ISBNs, short of phoning up the publishers, how do you find out if they really are going to be published?

And as I'm feeling entirely devoid of creativity, I shall publish the next installment of my teenage diaries - well, it's the post below this one (look, I'm doing this for me, you're not obliged to read, normal content will return in, well, maybe you don't want normal content. Would it be very derivative to have guest bloggers?)

October 1984 Part 3

After school I went to help 1G get ready for the First Years Halloween Party. I had to put powder on the faces of Marion and Joanne, and spray the hair of Megan and Jackie. I decided to put a bit of green into my own.

We escorted them down to the Hall where they had a fancy dress parade. Andrea, Judy, Louise and I were lumbered with the job of controlling those waiting outside the crush hall. I was chatting to Miss D. She was asking me why I had been to UMIST, so I explained. She said that she thinks I would find Chartered Accountancy exceedingly boring.

When the little ones went to change, I was chatting to Mrs Mc. One girl had dressed as Margaret Thatcher and had left her mask lying around. Mrs Mc had tried it on, and was trying to persuade me to, but I refused.

Judy, Louise and I went to have a look at the snooker on the telly in the Chaplain’s room. We went down to the Common Room and acted as First Years in the dress rehearsal for the Ghost Story. We supervised the eats. They are real terrors, especially Amanda. She’s great – she’ll argue about anything – just like me. I think she’ll make a good Union leader or politician (Friends Reunited check - Living in Sydney, Australia and having a great time. I work in financial recruitment. I've been here for over 2 years now and not missing the UK too much!!!)

After clearing and washing up, we went to three sittings of the Halloween Story. The special effects were really good – synthesised music, search light, Esther falling out of a cupboard as a corpse, Angela S walking past the window with blood (sorry, tomato sauce) on her hand. 1G were really scared, 1J just laughed and screamed a little, whilst 1M were almost as good as 1G. Prior to that I had an exchange of views with Catherine K. Amanda and another girl wanted to go into the story again, so I let them, as long as they didn’t spoil it for 1M. Lady K wanted to go in as well, but I said no, because it was Amanda and her friend’s idea, and Catherine was just copying. Apart from anything else, she needs to learn that she can’t always get her own way. She went into a sulk, and said she is going to report me to Sr G. Oh dear, I must start worrying!

I went to Choral Society. Unfortunately, there was no Martin, but Angela (his sister) says he’ll be coming after half term. Various of the lads – Mike, Damian (yeah!), Daniel, Michael and Ian WERE there. We did a Byrd Mass, and something else by Byrd.

PS Someone in form one is so scared of the Loreto Ghost that she wants to leave and go to BTH.

The Stats lesson was really embarrassing. I had tackled a question differently from the method that Fiona B had shown to be the best method of getting an answer. I asked Cliffie how I had obtained that, and he tackled it. He spent ages on the blackboard, and just couldn’t get it. I was SO embarrassed.

Puwer was a pain. I was working through the work he had set us, and was far from easy. Andrea looked at my book and was criticising it. We were having a real slanging match. Poor old Cliffie was getting quite worked up, saying “Calm down, calm down, calm down.”

I spent about an hour drinking two cups of tea and conversing avec la famille (really gripping, I don’t think). I was most annoyed. They complain when I don’t stick around talking all day and when I do they criticise everything I say. Oh well, that’s life for you!

Daddy drove me to Judy’s. As Judy opened the door, she greeted me. So did Tommy, Susi and Max, the dogs. When I walked in the living room, Aisling and Andrea did too. Louise arrived later and eventually we went to he Indian Restaurant in Timperley Village. It seems quite a pleasant place. Whilst we were choosing we had a drink. I had an orange juice. We eventually decided on what we wanted. The waiter told Andrea and I we were brave ladies ordering a Madras curry. It wasn’t over hot, actually – just right. Andrea, Judy and Louise all had chicken curries, but I was awkward, I had prawn. Accompanying it, we had the house white. When we had finished an exceedingly tasty and filling meal, we had Gaelic coffee. I don’t like whisky, and I don’t usually like coffee with even a hint of milk or cream in it, but I must say that I approve of Gaelic coffee.

The conversation was excellent. Nobody said anything of absolute total marvellousness and profundity, but we were all ourselves at our best, and we had a thoroughly good time. No doubt the drinks helped in loosening our tongues.

Mother was going to Alty, so I got up and descended the stairs (you see, it’s the quickest way to the kitchen).

There’s pages and pages about me agonising about a situation – which didn’t come to pass – a problem, which a friend confided in me about. It makes good reading, but, it isn’t my business to publish on the Internet. Even nineteen years on.

I heard on the news that Indira Ghandi, Prime Minister of India, has been assassinated. I’m afraid to say it but she had it coming to her after her treatment of the Sikhs in the Punjab, including the storming of the Golden Temple.

I watched the beginning of Dallas, comedy show of the year, and then Superted, which is really groovy.

Next installment will be October 1985, where Gert does teenage angst in the style of an infant school child

Staten Island ferry crash

I am more than usually interested in Five dead in NYC ferry disaster because, when Helen and I visited New York in 1999, we stayed on Staten Island and used the ferry. Still, I don't think it merits lead story on the ITN News bulletin - if it had happened in a third world country ,or possibly even a European country, it would not have merited much of a mention at all. But UK news will always cover too much US news stories because, in the US, they are very good at getting footage, and most eye witnesses will speak English.

It was a bit silly of ITN to describe it as the ferry that tourists use to get to the Statue of Liberty, though. Basic factual inaccuracy.

Portillo as single mum

I've just been watching When Michael Portillo became a single mum.

It was a bit of a disappointment really, leaving me at the end saying, "So what...". I'm not quite sure what the point of it was. Was it to illustrate that there are poor people and they struggle to make ends meet? Was it to see whether a reasonably intelligent man, with a sharp awareness of his public image could get by for a week? I don't think it proved very much. The family selected were solidly respectable - clean, lively, bright children, with a mother who has two jobs, and, one felt from the sub-text, the result of a relationship breakdown rather than of random sprogging. The mother was nothing like the cow on last week's Wife Swap.

I'm sure my younger self would have ranted on at great length about the inequalities in society, and I am still concerned about inequality. But this family is not living in dire poverty, and, ultimately, there has to be a certain amount of inequality, to ensure that there are incentives and rewards for learning to do skilled work. And children are expensive. If people choose to have four children - as three separate friends of mine have - have to understand, as these friends do, that money will be tight. But there's no great moral to be drawn from this programme.

I could be cynical and say that in portraying Portillo as quite personable, and prepared to be shown up, it probably hasn't done his image any harm.

October 1984, Part 2

Today has been really eventful. I caught a 264 into town. I was really naughty, using my tenpence Clippercard. There were lots of posters on the bus about fare dodging, and I began getting a really guilty conscience. As luck would have it, an Inspector got on at Stretford Arndale. My heart beat faster and faster, and he approached me. He looked at my Clippercard and asked me where I was going. I said Loreto Manchester, thinking quickly. He asked me where my Pass was, and I turned very polite, deferential and apologetic, saying that I had left it at home. He left me, then came back later, gave me a lecture, and asked me to pay the difference.

I alighted from the train at Huddersfield and caught a bus to New Mill. It was a pleasant journey, through the picturesque Pennine Scenery. I was met there by Ann Taylor. She had been out visiting some miners, and realising that a bus was due, she waited for me. She’s very nice, very friendly, and exceedingly hospitable. After formalities, I got down to the business of interviewing.

She was very talkative and very interesting, but then I dried up, so she suggested we had a coffee. The coffee turned into lunch, over which we had quite a chat. I was asking about various things about the House and various MPs. She gets on well with both Neil and Roy – indeed, Roy Hattersley is her son’s godfather. She says the image of Neil portrayed by the media is a very real one- he is like that. He is very talkative to an extreme – won’t use one word where one hundred and sixty will do, and has been known to take quarter of an hour to ask a question – let alone answering it. Roy Hattersley isn’t as intellectual as he thinks he is.After lunch I interviewed her again. She then drove me into Huddersfield where I caught the train.

I watched the news. NACODS have voted to start striking on Thursday, which means that all the working pits will have to shut. It shows how bad things are – NACODS are anti-militant and upwardly mobile.

After History, I was talking with Mrs Mc. Mrs P had showed her my Question Time Essay. She wants me to do Politics at University. I was saying that if I did go to University I would do Politics but I don’t have any ambition to go to Uni. I’m not sure I like being discussed in this way.

In the evening I walked round to Una and Ray’s to wait for Gordon to arrive. We drove to Timperley Labour club for the branch meeting. It was interesting just seeing how the nitty gritty fundamentals of business works. It was nice meeting people. It was interesting seeing the general attitudes pro or con the miners.

Assembly was Lower Sixth. We did it on evil. Petra interviewed me – I was the devil. It went down really well – causing some laughter – and I felt the effect all round school today, with teachers congratulating us, and pupils making sarky comments – not that I mind, it shows they noticed, and it meant that I was a minor celebrity round school for the day.

Yeah, thanks for asking – I’m fine and groovy. When EVENTUALLY got up from my lovely warm bed into this cold, cruel, wet world, I had breakfast and dressed.

After lunch I went in the car with Math to Old Trafford. We were delayed going under that bit of building where they’re building, because the team coach was there (the United team coach – god knows why they came by coach). I only saw the back views of Arthur Albiston and Alan Brazil.

There was no sign of Jane by half past, so I went to get a programme for her. After I got back, I noticed that my friends from Longsight were there, so we went to join them, which was a good decision because Ashouk, Paul and Colin are a good laugh.

(Lots of narrative about the match, United beat Spurs 1-0).
After the match we caught the bus. Karen L was on. She was a bit flummoxed by the post-football crowd, but I looked after her. She had been in to town.

Papa drove Mother and me into town to the Free Trade Hall. We climbed to the top and down again, and took our seats. Magda’s parents arrived soon after us. The concert was fantastic, the conductor brought the best out of the Halle (the conductor was Jacek Kaspryk). The orchestra were rearranged, with the two bases behind the wind in front of the percussion. The trumpets were next to the flutes, and the French horns behind the cellos. It was a good effect!

After the tres boring National Anthem was Fingals Cave (Mendelssohn). This was fabulous. I really loved it. Magic, great. Ee, I can’t describe that evocation of tranquillity. The second piece was Rachmaninov’s Variation on a Theme of Paganini. This too was very good – excellent balance.

After the interval was Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique which is just out of this world. The music is just so descriptive and during the third movement, which is a day in the fields thinking of one’s lover, I let my mind wonder in time to music, I ended up thinking about Martin B. It gave me quite a surprise to realise that I was supposed to be thinking about that. The fourth movement was March to the Scaffold, which is superbrill.

At lunch I went to choir. We practised a suffragette March, and when most people had gone, Mrs Bt got a few people – Gabriel, Esther, Magda amongst others – to sing while I did a rhythm on the side drum.

After Italian, we actually recorded the Women’s March, assisted by Mrs Mc and Mr R.

Another day gone by, with very little achieved. No that’s a pile of bullshit, Gert, and you know it – you’re just wanting halfterm to hurry up and come.

I went to Alty to catch a train to Piccadilly. Petra and I walked to the UMIST Renold building. We met up with Jane Mt, who’s in Sixth Form at St B’s, because her father teaches there.

At two thirty a lecture on Chartered Accountancy began. It was a real insight into the workings of Chartered Accountants. We started with a film and then a second year student gave her perception of the work. A fella who has been qualified for two years gave us an amusing talk on Accountancy in general.
My general impression was that the work itself is wonderfully fascinating, absolutely intriguing, but it’s the thought of three years study POSTGRADUATE that rather puts me off.

I had a giggle on Oxford Road seeing a school party pushing around and fussing. I then realised to my horror that it was Loreto Second Years. They got on - some in my carriage and Mrs M and Miss D passed me and asked me what I had been doing.

...and profane

Last night I watched Panorama, which enraged me even though I already know. The smug men who sit there and proclaim that an eight or nine year old girl, or a fourteen year old raped by her own father must go through with her pregnancy, because of the rights of the unborn child. A church that speaks out against poverty yet is blind to the causes of poverty. A church that pays lip service to women's equality yet wants women to churn out child after child into a life of absolute poverty, malnutrition, disease and squalor, children who will never get much more than a basic education, if that.

I happen to support abortion. If I look at the context of the society with which I am familiar, urban England, my empirical observation is that safe legal abortion is necessary. Based just on the sample of people I know who have told me they have had terminations, I know that there are dozen reasons for having them, and I don't believe that any were done lightly, and without much soul searching. I support free, legal safe abortion because I firmly believe that no woman should be forced to go through with a pregnancy that will impose on their bodies, entirely transform their life and produce an unwanted child.

Even if I didn't believe that, I would still assemble a set of arguments that would demonstrate logically that abortion is an essential choice in our society. The three most convincing arguments are: a foetus which has been shown in scans etc to have no viable life outside the womb; a woman (or girl) who has been raped by a close family member; and the woman who has cancer that could be treatable by chemotherapy, but would die if she wasn't.

From each of those scenarios comes 'lesser' examples of the same vein. Many people who seek to delegalise abortion in Britain will concede that it is permissable in some circumstances - if the carrying of the foetus will kill the mother, or after rape. Of course, this does beg the question - what is rape? A court case to prove a rape may take some months to process; even if the perpetrator is found. What if the woman sincerely believes that she has been raped, but there is insufficient evidence to convict beyond reasonable doubt? Logically, it is not possible to frame a general law based on such premises, and, therefore, every case would have to be examined on its own merits.

However, I uncomfortable with late-term terminations. I understand that a child born at 25 weeks may survive with little or superficial damage, yet abortion is legal up to 24 weeks. My discomfort at late terminations is exactly why I support early abortion on demand. To get one at the moment, a woman needs the consent of two doctors and has to prove that having a baby would cause her or her family greater physical or mental damage than not having one.

Although I am absolutely clear and unshakeable in what I believe, I can sort of understand some people who oppose abortion - certainly, everybody has the right to believe that they would never have one themself.

I suppose therefore what makes me especially angry is the Catholic church's intransigent opposition to contraception. We had to learn all this at school, even though it was entirely contradictory to the realistic sex education we also received. We were taught that each method of artifical contraception has its drawbacks. (Our RE teacher also pointed out that the Church's adherence to natural contraception simply could not work for many people, in the real world). I have a real issue with the philosophical views behind the contraception ban. It is ludicrous, but ignored, in the West. In much of the developing world, it really is a matter of life or death.

I find it totally abhorrent that a group of men who have chosen not to enter into what they ironically believe to be normal human relations nevertheless believes that they are the experts on human sexuality. These men, these repugnant vile little men, who are either hateful, or stupid, or both, impose their perverted warped views onto a fifth of the world's ever growing population, and they think they are morally superior. They talk about morality but they are responsible for a genocide worse than any perpetrated by the the most evil 20th Century dictators.

I want to rant, and am speechless with anger, an anger I have felt for too many years. My only consolation is the hope that those truly evil men will burn for eternity in Hell.

Sacred...

I've always been very uneasy about religion. I think the blogosphere, or, at least, the sane part of it has an uneasy relationship with religion. I am currently listening to - playing over again - Sacred Songs, a CD I have previously blogged.

"In a sense, all music is sacred, because it seems to come to us from a divine source,� says Plácido Domingo.

I so want to agree. As I have previously blogged, I do regard myself as a Christian, if being a Christian means believing in God the Father, the Son, and Spirit, taking the words of the Gospel as, well, gospel, and believing in an hereafter. As I said in that post, I would like to worship god in the right setting. That setting might be in the great outdoors, or an urban park. Some of the very best music is music written for the purposes of conventional religion. This CD contains fifteen religious songs, and Climb Every Mountain, which is a worship of the great outdoors. Mozart's very finest, in my honest opinion, is his sacred music.

I wonder if my version of religion/spirituality is in fact pagan. Maybe it doesn't really matter. What I do know is that I want to be free to worship my god.