Gertsamtkunstwerk

Am I pisssed>?

They are fuv=cking marvellous marvellous people. Ig you wre ther e there there ou wouls understabd how fucking marvellou sth eUk blogosphere us - names too numerous to mention and links are well beoynd my ability - bit you know whjen Stuart and Vaugan arrrive together and you don't know whic to kiss to kiss firat, and that was after the marvellous Anna Little Red thingy. aND THE SHEER EXCITEMTNT OF 'THAT WOMAN' beiing Green Fairy. or AS everuyone said #"oooooh Grreeen Fairy!!!!!!", because you know suoerstardim when you see it , and the absolutely gorgeous Adrian Sevtz.com who's going to ne a vey nice husband for some young woman on day, butright now is one of the most inteeliigent and sensitivr if unable to spell ypung men in London toen. And D of Acsrbia whoo I donb't read because he is o above amy head and ever so young, and a really nic e bloke and Karen Uborka wore her sjoes while Pete Uborka did the old '*I c ondescejs because we met once,"

All olovwely lovely people and not one beliebed ne when I said I brken off off my engagemnt t be blogmeeting.

And yes the scars are wonderfuly are superficia;

And the sgeer motonicy pf th etyoing here nuyst hav eeliminated fme from any consideraton of Rauniad weblohing award thingy/ DO three fingers know what I mean.

Good night.

The day I became the postie's unpaid assistant

I don't feel particularly comfortable slagging off underpaid public sector workers.

Sometimes it just has to be done.

I got some post on Thursday. It included magazines that were due last Friday. and some of my neighbours' post.

At about half one today, sat at this computer just inside the front door, I listened and watched as mountains of post came through the door.

I picked up the first piece and realised it was for next door. A cursory glance realised that many more were for occupants past and present of the three other houses in my block, as well as for me.

I opened the door, the postman was still standing there preparing to shovel another pile of post through my door. I asked him to wait while I sorted out my neighbours' post. He asked me where was Danny's house - I explained it was next door (it's one number higher than mine). He went away and came back. I said that I'd really prefer not to receive my neighbours' post. Besides, I'm honest - not everybody is. He said that he didn't normally do this round but he just had to get it delivered and he didn't have time to go to every house.

I found something that looked like a payslip for one of my neighbours. I showed it (unopened, I hasten to add) to the postman, and said, "See this - it looks like an important document for my neighbour. Do you think he would be happy if he knew it was being delivered to my house?" The postman grunted.

He asked me again where 'X cottage' is: I explained it was behind the sign saying 'X cottage'. I also pointed out that 'Y cottage' was behind the sign saying 'Y cottage'. Contemptuously he said that he knew that. I asked sweetly why, therefore, he was delivering the post addressed to 'Y cottage' to my door. I also gently reminded him that his bag was on my wheelie bin "Don't forget it," I said. The look he gave me...

I know there are numerous problems in Royal Mail, but I really do not find this in the slightest bit acceptable.

The pianist is dressed by...

The Telegraph reviews a recital by Leif Ove Andsnes, whom I heard a couple of weeks ago, and like me, they also draw attention to his tailor.

In case you should ever need to know, Leif Ove Andsnes's biography, as printed in the programme book for this recital, now credits the supplier of his concert dress.

Beethoven Evening

To the Barbican for the Academy of St Martins in the Fields and a programme thus:

Beethoven - String Quartet No.12 in E flat major, Op.127 (arr. String Orchestra)
Beethoven - Piano Concerto No.5 in E flat major, ("Emperor")
Murray Perahia - Conductor & Piano

I had an excellent seat, circle, two thirds of the way back and almost exactly central.

The String Quintet was strange. To me, it did not seem right played by a string orchestra: 14 violins, 4 each of violas and cellos, and 2 double-basses, rather than the 2 violins, and 1 viola and 1 cello it was written for. Very pleasant piece of music - you can't go far wrong with Beethoven, in my view - but it just seemed top heavy on the violins, and for me, one of the delights of chamber music is being able to hear the timbre of the individual instruments. I also got the feeling that the orchestra was playing rather mechanically.

The second half was something I have just remembered is one of my favourite pieces of music ever. I am currently listening to it on a very old, very poor quality tape I bought for about £1.50 in March 1988. I bought it at the same time as my father's sixtieth birthday present; he died four days before his sixtieth birthday. but that does not stop me loving this concerto. I think I must I have a 'thing' for piano concerti.

It was quite strange to see Murray conducting from the piano. I know it used to be a very common practice in the 18th century, but I have never seen it done before. At first a little off-putting as he starts with a flourish and then lifts his hands from the keyboard and starts conduction. This also meant that he had his back to the audience, which again, I find a little strange. Just as a note, he conducted without a score, as Zoltán Kocsis did a few weeks ago. Is this a new thing? Mind you, it would never do for a pianist to bring a score to a concert. Many years ago, Peter Donohoe played from a score at the Halle proms, and it was really quite shocking - one of the girls in the year above me even broke off her crush on him as a direct result.

I was thoroughly captivated by the piano concerto, even though I am sure I heard a couple of duff notes. (No, I can't have done, my hearing must be at fault). It was just pure joy escapist music, sweet melodies played very sweetly by a small orchestra. Although not big on percussion it has one of the nicest timpani parts around (IMO). What I call easy listening. And he played my favourite passage, the lead up to the finale of the third movement magically - his fingers shimmered on the keyboard.

I was fascinated or horrified by the couple in front of me. A scruffy-tweedy couple. She slipped out as soon as the applause started at the end of the *quartet*, and did not return until the end of the interval. He sat there throughout the interval. Before the second half began she said she would like to slip away early to catch 'that' train. And she began looking for seats nearer the aisle. She found one, she triumphantly announced to him, he pulled a face. She then suggested moving further up the row, he pointed out that as the six or so seats to the right of them were empty it would actually make no difference. But she persevered, and found two seats by the aisle. He was unhappy at moving; and too right, she had already commented that the rickets were more expensive than normal. Why move to the edge when you are in the centre? I suppose if you go a lot and live out in the Home Counties it must be frustrating to keep missing 'that' train and having to wait around for ages, but, I think it's rather getting one's priorities skewed. I cannot stand people who leave concerts, plays, or matches early - I have only done it once, and that was Mansfield Town vs Bristol City on a bitterly cold day. I decided that I preferred to get the 1642 bus back to Nottingham rather than miss it by three minutes and have to wait for the 1742. I don't know whether this couple were married or friends or what, but if they are married, I think the marriage is over in all but name.

There were some home counties ladies behind me talking with those ghastly tortured accents and hackneyed phrases so characteristic of a 'type'. Although one was quite funny describing the teenage girl on her train who had a phone to each ear and was conducting two separate conversations simultaneously. Another of the Ladies was saying that there was a concert in her local hall the other night, given by four of the chorus from Covent Garden, and it was wonderful, but the hall was two-thirds empty. She was so embarrassed for them. The hall usually has a much lighter programme, so people who like opera would not have thought of looking for the programme, but it was very badly advertised. She was looking out for them in the car park to apologise - they won't be coming back.

The rest of the audience didn't seem at all Home Counties. Lots of black, Asian and Oriental people, and I heard very many American accents. Mainly 30-50 age range. Trust me to be surrounded by the worst sort of strangulated Englishness!

I had a fairly boring journey back - ten minutes wait for a tube, fifteen for a bus. It does so mar the magic of the evening.

Oh, and Manchester United won at Panathanaikos, which is cool, meaning we're through to the knock-out stage.

Counting them back in again

You kknow it's really fascinating overlooking Birdcage Walk. We stood watching the soldiers return. Band leader resplendent in red and gold tunic, the boys in their grey greatcoats. Behind the band, they carried stretchers, symbolic of the operational role played by the bandsmen in action. Behind them followed a procession of Ambassadorial cars. It's difficult to make out the flags from the 9th floor, but one definitely looked Argentinian.

Out the front for a quick smoke, RSA1 went past, flying the flag of South Africa. Only the chauffer was in it; presumably the Ambassadors are all having a sherry at The Palace. Y'know, spotting of Ambassadorial cars is proving a helluva lot more fruitful than Consecutive Number Plate Spotting - I've been waiting, in vain, for four weeks to find a thirty-one. Just yesterday, I think I spotted just about every other thirty. But not a thirty one.

I wonder which ambassador will be at tonight's concert. Two weeks ago it was South Korea, the week before that Hungary. I move in circles, y'know.

M'colleague, an ex-Army nurse was reminiscing about her early days at Chelsea. A Scots Guard was brought in after rehearsals for the State Opening. He had fainted.

Onto his bayonet.

Which penetrated his soft palate and nose.

I really must stop perpetuating the myth of London as a city of Pomp and Pageantry.

I'm probably due for a fucked up Underground episode soon.

Sex gods

Report from the Erotic Review on Britain's Top Sex Gods

I'd go along with Gordon Brown, Jeremy Paxman, probably Jude Law, possibly George Clooney. The rest, no.

(I know, I know - bit controversial, bit controversial...)

Royal Maul

You know, in a funny way, it's actually nice to come home and not have any junkmail or bills littering my doormat.

On the other hand, I pay £150 a year to get my New Statesman delivered through my door. And my employer pays much moolah so I can have Public Finance delivered through my door.

Then there is the three CDs from Amazon that went missing during the strike. And the book that was despatched last Thursday and, bizarrely, is scheduled to arrive next week or the week after.

So I phoned up the Royal Mail helpline. Apparently sick leave is 'above reserve level', which means that there is insufficient staff to cover absences, and the Expected Time of Delivery for my post code is 1400. Which wouldn't be too bad, but she didn't specify which week.

Perhaps if Royal Mail learnt a few things about staff management, and perhaps paid proper wages, they'd find sick levels remain 'below reserve level'. I wonder if they'll be taking on Temporary Christmas cover this year. I wonder if they will be able to recruit any.

It so makes me laugh when the skivers and scroungers round here complain that there aren't any jobs because 'they' (the immigrants) are taking them, yet Royal Mail can't manage a decent service, partly because they don't offer the wages that competing employers do.

The girl goes shopping

You know me - I so don't do shopping as a lifestyle choice. Not that I'm averse to the acquisition of expensive objects of desire, but you know, I'm simply not that sort of girly-girl. Heck, I don't even have a blog category called "Shopping".

But needs must. You know how it is when the polyester lining of your coat just melts and you have random burn marks down the right side. Well you can survive for a while with your fleece - first it's sick leave, then running around after George Bush in remarkably mild temperatures does work up a sweat. Then you realise. It's nearly December and you so need a winter coat.

Lunchtime saw me at Army and Navy. I so very nearly bought a totally gorgeous Windsmoor coat. Admittedly, £200 of soft cashmere gorgeousness. Unbelievably, it was the Size 16 that fitted me, whereas the high street chains tell me I'm a 20. You know, it's almost worth £200 just to shrink a couple of sizes. The only think that deterred me was that it was above-knee, rather than my favoured above-ankle.

As I left I spotted an outfit to die for in Country Casuals. An sumptuous royal blue velvet jacket with exquisite embroidery over a royal blue velvet dress. The jacket was only £190; the dress £110 (the approximate dolar/euro prices are 300 and 160). I thought, you know, if I had the right Christmas function to attend, that would be exactly the outfit.

I had a quick look in Next for coats. Not that they had any. And frankly, much of their clothes looked, you know, cheap. And rather, how do I put it...high street chainish. I decided - from now on, I shall be Woman at Country Casuals. It will be my new image.

After work I nipped up to M&S. I was disappointed. Sure, their coats looked elegant on the hangers. But on me? Let's just, I'm not a clothes hanger.

I walked back to Oxford Circus. Ooh, I thought BhS. It was a little scary going in. Quite possibly the most over-decorated Chritmas store I have seen outside of the USA (incidentally I have only visited the USA in June and August...!). It was almost kitsch in its over-the-topness. Bored and contemptuous I perused the coats.

I bought a coat. I do so like being woman at BhS. It really is my image.

Rugby is for toffs, really

In England,  rugby is deeply symbolic of class divisions. I say England, because I don't mean Wales, and I don't think I mean Scotland. I don't think that I mean that golden but relatively sparsely populated area of Gloucester/Bath either.

I don't want to place too much emphasis on the effect of one's childhood: still, I think it can be quite crucial in forming interests, habits and prejudices.
I grew up in a strange place at a strange time. The Borough I grew up in is the only one that has a Premiership football club, a Premiership rugby club, and a Test cricket ground/County Championship 1 team. When I was a teenager, we had the best non-League football team in the land. We also had two decent standard athletics clubs, two half decent ice-hockey teams and Britain's second best ice dancers. Yet, our local radio had Rugby League as our second sport.

Traditionally, rugby was played at grammar schools, and football at secondary moderns. That was very much the case for the boys I grew up with. Indeed, the three state grammar schools that many of my male friends used to attend still promote rugby above football.  I suspect that is unusual.

I haven't really done any research for the area in which I now live, but would happily place a bet that rugby is the preserve of the independent school sector. I see my cousins' old school still has rugby fields, but I expect it's a rare thing in the state sector.

Rugby can be a problem. Many of my contemporaries were pissed off at compulsory rugby - they were musical instrumentalists and refused to risk their hands in what to them was a display of macho brutality. My brother was not fond of rugby. By his time, they were more liberal, and he chose cross country rather than rugby.

The rugger buggers at University were notorious and deeply unpopular. Most of them were public-school educated louts, with a supreme belief in their superiority, which included displays of public nudity in the Buttery, physical harassment of disabled students, and trashing of the Portland building. If there was one event worse than an inter-University rugby match, when we entertained the thugs of Loughborough, Leicester and Sheffield was the Inter-Universities Mining Engineers Rugby Match. Run and hide.

Rugby gets very little coverage on TV compared to so many other sports, and, especially, football.  Most people have busy and/or fulfilled lives, and lack the time or inclination to follow closely every sport on the box. It's easier to follow football, because of the blanket coverage. How often do you walk into a pub and actually see a rugby match on? You generally do in my local, because there's a critical mass, and the middle classes flock from all over South-West Brixton Hill to congregate, mightily pissing off the Chelsea-borderline BNP contingent. But I can't remember ever walking into another pub and seeing rugby.

As I have said before, I am not a great rugby fan, but I grew up with it. My father, educated at minor public schools, much preferred it to football, which he tolerated for the sake of us three.  Most Saturday trips out in the winter would involve passing the playing fields of the then Sale Grammar School for Boys (now a hideous modern estate of aspirational homes for Classic FM people - they even renamed the Cock Robin to the Manor House...I feel rant).

I'm a girl, I don't have to understand the offside rule, and I get confused about when a penalty is awarded and when it's a scrum, and I still think it's four points for a try, and this World Cup has seen me show more interest in rugby than I have for years - although I did watch bits of the 99 World Cup.  I'm not pretending otherwise.  You probably won't see many more blog entries from me about rugby. Maybe I'm cynical - who's interested nowadays in ice-skating, be it of the Curry-Cousins or the Torvill and Dean variety. Does anybody even give a shit that Matthew Pinsent and James Cracknell would rather race in a four at the Olympics in Athens?

I would imagine that once the Victory Parade and Public Holiday, Sports Review of the Year (well, three of those awards are shoo-ins!) and New Years Honours are out of the way,  Jonny Wilkinson will continue to be an instantly recognisable celebrity, much like Steve Redgrave or Paula Ratcliffe. But there won't be a significant increase in people watching rugby, live or on telly.

Anticlimax of victory

Naturally I am delighted that England won the World Cup. The newspapers are full of it, and it is reason to be proud...

Except, except...

I am really pissed off with certain people. Let's start with the tabloid newspapers. They don't generally give a shit about rugby - how much coverage had they even given to the World Cup until England reached the semis? Very little. Because they know what sells newspapers. and it ain't rugby. Why not? Because your average tabloid reading punter in the pub knows fuck all about rugby.

Didn't stop them going down the pub on Saturday and watching it. Fair enough. But then to spend the rest of the weekend going on about it. Not about the match per se, just the result. Sure, it feels good to stuff the Aussies.

I'm not saying that only the die-hard afficinados should be allowed to watch the World Cup Final. The point of these global events is to catch the imagination of the part-timers, the bandwagon jumpers, the previously uninterested. I suppose it just pisses me off that suddenly, we have an England team that's won the World Cup, so they're everybody's England. Yet most of these people have probably never watched a Six Nations in their life. Couldn't have told you who was in the team two weeks ago. I'm not in any way claiming to be a passionate fan, or an afficinado, but I didn't suddenly jump on the bandwagon this week. And I certainly haven't been running round shouting "England" like some semi-house-trained moron.

When patriotism is ignorant, it's meaningless.

Still, it was pretty good the way it happened!

Horizontal weekend

Have you ever noticed that when the bleurch hits you it hits on a Friday? It makes you spend all Friday evening, mosts of Saturday and most of Sunday in a horizontal position, in bed or on the sofa?

And come Sunday evening you have a nasty feeling that you're no longer bleurchy enough to miss work tomorrow.

Cough cold earache. Sore scabby blister on neck.

Fingernails bitten to the quick.

ClassicCarCrash

A couple of weeks back I had a satellite dish and digibox installed, unwillingly but with a sense of having to bow to the inevitable.

(You know, isn't it weird how people complain about having to pay £112 per year for a TV licence to receive TV programmes, yet nobody seems to complain about the compulsion to pay at least £150 a year to receive digital TV.)

I knew already that there was endless amounts of drivel dressed up as entertainment: decorate you house this way - it's the key to happiness; look into the life of this 'celebrity' and yearn for their glamour; do this diet, dress this way, have this lifestyle. It's all bollocks, but if the sheeple want to fall for it, that's alright by me.

Since getting the satellite package, it has been mainly used for a clearer picture on terrestrial TV. A few episodes of the Simpsons , and two football matches - Manchester United and England. On Saturday night we saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding via Sky Box Office, but also watched LA Confidential on BBC1.

I have subscribed to the Arts Channel, and wish I had more time to watch it properly. Some other channels have their moments of brilliance, although I am puzzled why the only history worth covering seems to be WWII ad nauseam.

But amongst the brilliant, the good, the mediocre, and the dross, one channel stands out supreme:

Classic FM TV

I will freely admit to never having been a fan of Classic FM on the radio, whilst I also acknowledge that if it didn't exist someone would have to invent it.

It's probably me being a total snob.

I can't stand a certain demographic Above all else, they're aspirational. But not in any positive sense. They are economically in a higher social class than their parents were, but they forgot to get the education to go with it. Naturally, they live in faceless identikit suburban estates, because the city or the country is too eclectic or bohemian and requires one to be an individual. They will generally read the Daily Mail, not especially for its politics, but for its aspirational lifestyle. If they vote, which they probably only do at general elections, they will vote for the party they perceive as being the winner. They think they are above going on holiday to a Spanish Costa, so might go to Cuba, but only to an all-inclusive in Varadero, and it never crosses their mind that it isn't the real Cuba. In a sense it doesn't matter where they go, because wherever it is, the parallels with other abroad places will always be highlighted. After all, abroad is abroad, and can be all lumped together in a not-England way (because, obviously, once you've spent a week in Portugal, you're bound to know the customs of a Greek island...) They drink Chardonnay.

They're comfortable with Classic FM. By listening to it they can comfort themselves that they are cultured. And yet they don't have to think too much, it can be nicely spoon-fed to them, and they can buy the Classic FM compilation albums, safe in a hermetic bubble, not running the risk of anything challenging or atonal, or some of those ghastly operas with their stories of carnal lust, incest, revenge and murder, or long passages of narrative or recitative where not a lot happens, or the boredom of actually sitting through a whole symphony, which have whole movements that haven't been used in adverts.

I have a ghastly CD in front of me now which uses the phrase 'made famous' entirely inappropriately, as in:

Dvorak New World Symphony - Largo (excerpt) - made famous by the Hovis TV commercial
Grieg Morning (Peer Gynt) - made famous by the Nescafe TV commercial
Rachmaninov Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini (Variation 18) - made famous by the movie Groundhog Day
Verdi Anvil Chorus (Il Trovatore) - made famous by the Wranglers TV commercial.

I could go on, but won't; suffice to say that every single one of them was extremely famous long before TV advertising, or indeed, TV. This stupidity is aimed specifically at Classic FMers - too lazy, too stupid to look beyond a spoon-fed nice tune. And when I say ghastly, I mean the presentation and packaging, not the actual music.

Classic FM TV is close to being car-crash TV - so bad you have to watch. It's an endless loop of videos interspersed with adverts.

But remember, born from a radio station for the stupid, this is television for the stupid. Rather than having footage of an orchestra, bought from, say, the archives of Czech or Latvian State TV, they have videos. I think these are specially filmed, either for Classic FMTV, or as general promotional videos.

Having had my bath, we were channel flicking, and I suggested Classic FMTV. I explained to Jimmy that if he hung around for half an hour he would see a violinist with long hair done up to look sexy, a video containing some drama with no connection to the music, and Bryn Terfel.

The first that came on was some piano music, I don't know what, I was entirely distracted by the shots of the long-haired tarted up pianist interspersed with shots of her, or a similar looking woman, climbing a staircase.

Then there was the absolutely dreadful video of Lara St John and Goldberg 2. Trust me, it's a sexed up violinist, with a bit of, oh, I don't know, some sort of irrelevancy in the background. Truly horribilised. You can read an account here but it fails to capture the sheer stupidity of the orange pieces of silk material, and the dimly lit men with rippling torsos.

Next up was Bryn Terfel singing Shenandoah. Now, don't get me wrong - I have nothing against Bryn Terfel, but I think this is a dull song sung in a rather dull manner. I love the collection of Handel Arias I have in my collection. It's just that I think that Classic Fm, and, especially its TV channel is so celebrity driven, that maybe they think we will turn off if we don't get Bryn every half an hour. I didn't stick around for the compulsory Kennedy, Vanessa-Mae and Joshua Bell.

Aussie rugby jokes

I know, you've seen them all before...but the Evening Standard has published them.

Photos

I'm getting there. As of 2255 I have done all but the ones from this evening's demo - the biggest weekday demo ever in Britain.

You can find them at Bush Visits London

Update: I'm now really exhausted. I'm trying to get around the blogroll, and I haven't edited the demo photos, and I really ought to get to bed.

*Sigh*

March!

I stood on the corner of Parliament Street and Bridge Street, in the shadow of what's commonly, if incorrectly, known as Big Ben, for half an hour. An awful lot of people can pass by in half an hour. I have no idea of how many more passed before I even arrived.

The atmosphere was fantastic. The section that were due to pass as I arrived were led by a percussive band. A deep bass keeping an incessant rhythm, coupled with whistles and klaxons got the adrenaline flowing. Throughout that time, my friend the helicopter hovered over my head.

The crowd was a wonderful cross-section of the British public. Although the majority were white, there were plenty of black and Asian. Quite a few people were Mediterranean/Latino; I heard three groups of American accents. Obviously, there were lots of students, but also many 30-50s in their suits, having come from work, many many pensioners, numerous nuclearfamilies, with children ranging from a few months, through the primary school age, to a large group of raucous teenagers. Most of the placards were Socialist Worker standard issue, but many more were home-made. Some worked, some didn't. Many Labour Party, Union, CND, and Church groups brought their banners. A whole group travelled in rickshaws, another group dressed as clowns. A few effigies of Bush and many pretzels were carried.

It was tremendously good natured - it seems that the fringe extremists bent on destruction forgot to turn up and sent the ordinary people instead. The police were clearly enjoying themselves, laughing and joking with the marchers and hangers-on (myself included).

I suppose that the calls of the protestors have fallen on deaf ears, and no doubt the Murdochian press will be portraying the marchers as marginal, but it is so important to demonstrate - literally, 'to show'. Not because we're 'lucky' to have free speech, but because centuries of Radicals have fought for these rights, and will continue to do so.

Tomorrow, Bush is off to Sedgefield, and I'm off to Councillor Steve's 40th. But if you, or another blogger you know, is going to Sedgefield, do drop a comment...

Now, I've got to do some photo-editing...

Whitehall

Lunchtime and a stroll down to Trafalgar Square. As I emerged from the office, the bells at Westminster Abbey rang out and continued to ring out throughout my break. As I circled Parliament Square I passed the statue of Abraham Lincoln, and reflected how he had been assassinated at the hands of a relative of Mrs Blair. I was not permitted to walk up the left hand side of Whitehall – people with offices on that side were required to show their photo passes.
It was fairly slow going along the right side of Whitehall – it was not possible to stop directly opposite Downing Street and photograph - a policeman did ask me to keep moving. Opposite the Treasury I assaulted a policeman; he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps he noted a stray elbow as I slung my camera round my neck to protect it from the crowds rather than over my left shoulder to protect the blisters on my right neck.

A party was underway in Trafalgar Square, with some funky Arabic pop music blaring over the sound system. A giant screen displayed greetings from far afield, and pictures of giant Pretzels. I mooched around, looking at the variety of folks gathered – old and young, scruffy, casual and smart, a variety of races, different group affiliations.

I was there at approximately one o’clock. There was a sense of something in the air, but not, at this stage the most exciting. Writing now and monitoring the webcam, the crowd has grown significantly. This is before the arrival of the march. Who knows what numbers will assemble?

At the end of the Mall, near Admiralty Arch were a number of low loaders containing concrete barriers.

Meanwhile, my manager went over to the colour printer and found this. Shit! I thought, I wasn’t sure whether or not I had pressed print, but it certainly hadn’t come out on the b/w printer. He proceeded to pass it round the office to considerable guffaws from all and sundry. He guessed I was responsible…

Reporters' log

The reporters' log has changed its url for a new day: Bush in Britain

The Beeb needs to learn about static urls, I think!

Oh, and Chasing Bush is back after DoS attacks by, presumably a small minority of people who are so lacking in confidence in their views, views formed by swallowing shallow propaganda whole, that, rather than actually enter into debate about the actual issues, they just throw xenophobic abuse and burn books.

I don't suppose there is much purpose saying this here, because I can't imagine those headtheballs would read it, or if they did, they would be able to understand it. Everyone is entitled to their views. Sometimes those views may disagree with yours. Sometimes, if you listen to those opposing views, you may hear something which sheds a different light on something, makes you question, if you are capable, what you hold be true. If not you would wish to persuade people of your point of view. It seems elementary, but you rarely persuade people by yelling at them, and are more likely to do so by listening to thier views, empathising, and responding to the facts in a civilised way.

Maybe I'm just getting old...

Another minor celebrity spotted

I wasn't in an especially bad mood. It was just that, being in Starbucks, what sounded like a strangulated cow breathing its last to what vaguely resembled Silent Night made me state "It's far too early to play Christmas music; it's only November. Besides, this isn't music, it's awful." I then suggested that they might put the cardboard collars where 'people' can actually reach them (I don't even know why I go in Starbucks, it has the worst coffee in the neighbourhood; it just happens to do them big. I reflected ruefully that the next legitimate target will probably get my ire full throttle.

Guess whom I saw stepping out of his car? I followed him into the building, and as I passed through the security door, I realised I stood in grave danger of being in the lift with him. I hung back - after all, regardless of who it is, I don't make a habit of walking in front of blind people. But as I hung back, some aide waved me into the lift with a facial expression that said "It's okay, just because it's the Secretary of State doesn't mean that you can't get in the lift..." But the doors closed just before I made that crucial final step. (To call our lifts temperamental would be a kindness). So I laughed, and the aide laughed.

David, you had a lucky escape...!

Paranoia

I'm beginning to understand how psychological warfare works. Of course, rationally, I know it's not about me. But when you've had that thing whirring its noisy engines/rotor above your desk for seven hours, you really do start to get delusional. I went out for a cigarette, and it just hovered, above the pub opposite. I started yelling at it: I'm only having a cigarette! One colleague has mentioned surface-to-air missiles, another Vietnam, it's driving us all mad. I'm sure it will be making noises in my head when I get home.

Tomorrow will be fun...

Circus

Or at least, that what it felt like outside Buck House. The crowds circled the Victoria memorial and crowded on the corner where Constitution Hill meets The Mall by Green Park. I guess the crowd was 20% pro, 20% against and 60% lunchtimers/tourists/bloggers. It was boring hanging around waiting. I have never realised how kitcsh the Vic Mem is.

A veteran of drive-pasts, I knew that something was going to happen when a policeman held up the traffic, and a couple of police vans with flashing blue lights led a ridiculous willy-waving convoy of machisto vehicles, all overlarge, many with the windows blacked-out. There were actually two different convoys, so god only knows which one contained Bush. To be honest, I don't really care. Although, looking at the photos, I did get a picture of a hand waving from the front car of the first convoy. I'll analyse it more closely when I get home and can load it onto the PC. Still, I got a squirrel to pose for me in St James Park. "Fotogenica!" said an Italian woman.

A small heavily escorted procession of shouting and whistling cyclists has just passed below the window.

And that fucking helicopter hovering up above is doing my head in.

As it happens...

The BBC has a Reporters' log: Bush in Britain

Meanwhile, from my prime position in the heart of the Free Speech Zone, I can report that the Royal Standard over the Palace has grown to impressively ginormous standards, and a military band is currently playing. It might be our usual boys down below but I see no sign of them on the Parade Ground, so I assume it's from Buck House. If I recognised the tune, I'd tell you.

Oh, and in the coffee shop this morning, I spotted a man wearing a dark suit, with an earpiece dangling from his ear, so I presume he's one of those protestors pretending to be a Secret Service Agent.

On the way in, the Tube was swarming with teenagers. Judging by their conversation, I'm assuming it's Schoolies' Protest Day

Drama!

In which our intrepid reporter is forcibly removed from the main gate at Buckingham Palace:

(Police officer: Could you stand back please, Ma'am
Gert: nod and nervous smile, stands back)

Just a normal lunchtime, really. Wander through the park onto The Mall. A lone sandwich-boarded-and-placarded protestor strolls slowly along, sloganning for a free Palestine. A tanker sucks water from the drain. the lampposts are festooned with Union flags and Stars-and-Stripes. Police presence is evident, but relaxed.

A tented village with satellite dishes is erected in Green Park. The Victoria Memorial is boarded. A crowd of a couple of hundred - tourists and lunchtimers with cameras - mill around. The traffic is stopped by a police outrider; another police bike shepherds through the Prime Minister's Rover, coming east down Constitution Hill. Gert lingers freely on the Spur Road in front of the Palace. Down Buckingham Gate comes the Queen's Rolls Royce, with Royal Standard on the front, and an elderly woman in the back. No visible police escort, mingleing freely in the moderate traffic. A few minutes later, as I stand taking photos, I see the Roller again, this time no Royal Standard, no elderly occupant. This time I manage a photo as it waits at the Pedestrian crossing. Within a few minutes I was in range (theoretical, of course - I failed even to shoot a photo) of being able to assassinate the Head of State and Head of Government.

Welcome to Britain, Shrub.

Act 1 Scene 1

As the first battalion of the Irish Guards go through the motions of their normal Tuesday morning practice, the crowds begin to gather desultorily round the Palace forecourt. A police van, with bright orange stripe, and riot shield at the ready crawls incongruously through St James Park. Outside, as I sneak a quick cigarette, the street is alive with the lunchtime bustle of office workers. And the Czech Ambassador's car drives by...

Prelude

Situated as I am in the heart of London's Westminster village, a mere spit from Westminster Abbey, I shall try, to the best of my ability, and without compromise to my personal safety, to blog my impressions of what is happening.

At the moment, all is quiet. The Union flag flies over Buck House; a hideous marquee, perhaps in Stars and Stripes, or, maybe the Texan flag, has been erected out front. A steady stream of vehicles enters and leaves the Palace, but otherwise, all is calm.

Meanwhile, rumours are rife: the park is closed, or will be closed, all people will be X-rayed and their bags searched, or perhaps only as they approach the Mall.

Questions remained unanswered - how will we be affected when he visits Westminister Abbey? What Tube stations will be closed?

If you need any - reasonable - matters investigated, just leave a comment

He might be all we've got...

...but he'll do!

A few choice links:

Jonny Wilkinson from the BBC last week
Who's rugby's hottest hunk? asks today's Observer

Jonny's Times column from yesterday.

Famous Males has a selection of photos, with a promise of more to come: I want a picture of him psyching himself up to take a penalty (or a conversion, if only...) - which I reckon will become an iconic image.

And the important links:

Wilkinson kicks England to final, England back to their best, England into World Cup Final, Jonny Wilkinson kicks England into the final

Go, go, go, Jonny, go!!!

Wallabies destroy All Blacks

Well, bugger me backwards with a traffic cone. Who'd ever have thought it? The Kiwis were never really in the match. Not the most entertaining game of rugby ever, but thought provoking.

I don't really get emotionally involved in rugby. I enjoy it as a spectacle but wouldn't claim to be any sort of expert - I don't even understand half the rules. Still, I'm going to be so up for England-France tomorrow. I know all the world outside England want France to win, but I might even be digging out my England flag.

Things not to say on the phone...

When a fellow blogger, male, whom you have never met, rings you at nine o'clock in the morning it's probably best not to say, "I'm lying in bed right now..."

Hope you weren't embarrassed (but I'll spare the name, just in case...)

My alarm had gone off and I was smoking first cigarette of the day, but the brain hadn't entirely clicked into gear.

Gert's guide...

Clair asks in the comments below:

I've never been to see anything remotely classical....what would you recommend as your favourite piece/person/composer etc. to introduce to new people.

Which I think is a bloody good question.

The simple answer would be to go to something with which you're familiar, perhaps from your record collection.

Years ago one friend asked another friend and myself how to start a collection of classical music. My recommendation was to get compilation discs. The purists would sniff, but sod the purists. The other friend set about to compile a list of definitive pieces. We argued. But the two of them got married so it became an irrelevant issue. They have since divorced, so I don't know where that leaves them.

Amazon are currently recommending 100 Popular Classics and The Only Classical Album You'll Ever Need, both at £8.99. You could do a lot worse than purchase these. The first has so many tracks I expect they're old recordings of obscure performers. No matter. The second has thirty one tracks, performed by a collection of top names.

I have various compilations, including Cinema Classics -  there are 59 to choose from on Amazon; Classical  Chillout, which are deliberately compiled to include pieces that people are familiar with from TV, film, adverts etc

I started building my collection haphazardly. Most of what my parents had when I was in my teens was on 78s, which is a tiresome format. I think while we were growing up there really wasn't the money to be spent on records, which were relatively expensive - a vinyl LP in the 80s cost in cash terms pretty much what you would pay for a non-chart CD now.

I developed my taste partly by being in school choir/orchestra etc and by doing music at O Level.  So the first classical record I bought was Schumann's Kinderscenen because it was the first piece we studied on our syllabus.

As for concerts,  the Guardian has a list of venues in London and outside

Just picking the Barbican's December programme, I don't think anybody can not like The Messiah - (although it clashes with Planning Committee).

Around Christmas, most concert halls put on programmes of popular or short pieces. They tend to be aimed at schoolies, so you have to put up with large quantities of children, but can be fun.  I went to quite a few of these in my youth. The Mozart by Candlelight looks fun, but I shall probably be at Mother's then. However, the Bridgewater Hall has two excellent concerts that day, either of which I would recommend to a novice.

A lot of concerts try to combine a well-known piece, to draw people in, combined with something lesser known. My general advice would be not to spend too much money on going to see a star name - says me who's spending silly money to see/hear Murray Perahia in a programme of less than an hour's duration! This ticket is twice the price of last night's. 

There are sometimes freebies available from the BBC

The other consideration is where to sit. I spent my entire youth in the cheap seats in the balcony at the Free Trade Hall. First my sister, then I,  were members of the Halle Concerts Society, which meant that we got priority booking, and were rarely unable to get seats in the middle of the first or second row. This gave a wonderful view of the orchestra - I always have to see the percussion, my sister had a thing about conductors - and a fairly decent sound, although the FTH was criticised for its poor acoustics.  The circle tends to be the most expensive.

Of course, this is just my inexpert view and very Brit-centred - although I'm sure the same principles apply in much of the Western world and beyond.

Grieg and Mahler

Tonight at the Barbican for the London Symphony Orchestra for:

Grieg: Piano Concerto
Mahler Symphony No 5

Myung-Whun Chung conductor
Leif Ove Andsnes piano

I bought the ticket a couple of weeks back and buggered if I was going to miss it.

The programme amused me:

'All the right notes, just not necessarily in the right order.' These are the immortal words of Eric Morecambe, showing Andre Previn ('Mr Preview') how to play the piano in a classic 1970s Morecambe and Wise sketch...

So of course, during the opening bars, I had a vision of Eric and Ernie prancing round the kitchen to the Stripper.

I was also delighted to read that "Mr Andsnes's concert dress is provided by Issay Miyake". After the concert I could have queued to get his autograph. I didn't.

All that aside I enjoyed the concert. Both pieces have been in my collection a good few years now and have lasted for very many plays that have printed them indelibly on my mind. So it's always good to hear a different interpretation.

I had a reasonably good seat at the back of the circle, with an excellent view of the percussion - the Mahler was heavy on percussion, with four percussionists in addition to the timpani. In fact., I had a generally good view of the orchestra, which I like, because I like to watch as well as listen to the interaction between the instruments. It lacked the upfront and personal feel of Fairfield Hall stalls.

I was relieved to note that the audience spanned the age groups far more sensibly than the one last week. There were a lot of twenty-somethings, and a large school party, as well as retirees.

The Grieg is a great concerto that hangs together all the way through, and is dramatic, lyrical and lively. The Mahler starts well, then gets a bit ponderous, before moving into the Adagietto, which is very well known and rather beautiful and builds to a splendid finale.

Update : Look what I found on Amazon - a new CD where Leif Ove Andsnes plays Grieg's and Schumann's piano concerti. Considering that the versions I have of these were bought, on vinyl, in my teens, and have been recorded onto a tape that must be below prime condition, I have just added this to my wishlist.

Guardian Review of CD.

Tagline

Would it be derivative to change my tagline to "Not Troubled, Not a Duck"?

We could all do it: "Not Some, Not Thing"; "Not Boyfriend, Not Twat"; "Not You, Not Bjork".