Gertsamtkunstwerk

State of the Nation

Muslims 'right about decadent UK'

In a letter to The Spectator, six newly-elected (Conservative) MPs support criticism of the UK's "lawlessness, family breakdown ... binge drinking" and "brutishness".

, responding to comments by John Hayes MP (I used to know him years ago...).

My response is, Well, yes and no.

This is part of Boris's Britishness debate. It seems to have three elements: one, that the current pariah community holds values similar to 'decent Britons', that there is a cancer at the heart of British Society, and that is was never like that in the 'Old Days'.

The last is the easiest to address because it's so clearly untrue. In one of those moments where I wished I'd bookmarked or linked the article, I read something a few months ago where a journalist was relating a story from the memoirs of Robert Mark, ex Met Commissioner. As a young PC in Nottingham - in the Thirties? - there was a rumpus after Closing Time, where some young man was kicking off, so he was manhandled by a police officer and thrown through a plateglass window, later appearing on charges of assault and criminal damage. Mark's comment was that back in those days, men were men, and it would be very unusual for such a man ever to appear in court, because a Closing Time kick-off was normal, men fought each other and then went home to lick their wounds. Anyone who believes that Binge Drinking is a modern invention has clearly never read Sons & Lovers, and has a partial view of history - I think Hogarth's 'Gin Lane' or the Temperance Movement of the late 19th/early 20th Century as just two examples.

Is Britain brutish now? Of course. Hobbes said, in the 17th Century, the life of man is "solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short". We have come a long way from then. Yet we are regaled daily by media reports of people behaving against the public good. Violence, self-centredness, lack of self-discipline, greed, self-gratification. Not good. Of course most Moslems are concerned about this. Most people are.

But is it a result of woolly Liberal thinking?

I reject that. I am of the instant-gratification generation. My parents were always trying to dissuade me from that. That was not how they grew up. But I am Thatcher's Child. Instant Credit. Consumerism. Commodification. There is no such thing as Society. Acquisitiveness. Each man is an island. For me, this is the legacy of the Eighties.

We are currently exercising our thoughts and efforts about Islam, because Islam, along with Evangelical Pentecostal Christianity, is doing what the traditional organised religions of Western Europe are not doing - growing, and attracting young people into their grasp. The Organised Religions - at their best - do what most individuals are afraid or unable to do - articulate a clear difference between Right and Wrong. If we were all able to take responsibility for own actions and their consequences, we would have no need of Organised Religion. If we had courage to say "That is wrong," without fear of derision, we would not need out-of-touch men proclaiming that Sexual Behaviour is the root of all Immorality and Morality.

And make no mistake, when six Male Tory MPs (8 if you include Johnson and Hayes) proclaim on 'Liberal Thinking', and are agreeing with Organised Religious people, you can bet that the actual sub-text is "It's the fault of Feminism".

If women hadn't got uppity, families would never have broken down. There would not be disposable income for the lower orders to get drunk on. There wouldn't be teenage pregnancies. Or not visibly anyway - the products of such liaisons would be put up for adoption, the mothers locked away in Mental Asylums.

They condemn the licentiousness resulting from years of woolly-minded liberal thinking. Ask Oxford defines licentious as promiscuous and unprincipled in sexual matters - ORIGIN Latin licentiosus, from licentia ‘freedom’.

So, it's about sex, isn't it? It's nothing to do with the fact that all around we are bombarded with Capitalism's Brainwashing. Adverts are everywhere, selling a 'lifestyle', an image. The most offensive I have seen recently was one for Selfridges, which basically said "Spend money on something overpriced and unnecessary and you will find the key to happiness." No one I work with is prepared to accept that I do not watch TV ads. I think they think I'm weird. Except for the couple of extremely weird people who don't watch TV...!

We see Billboards advertising programmes; we read articles in newspapers previewing the programmes, usually written by so-called 'journalists' producing their 500 words, the quid pro quo for that ligging junket they attended complete with goody bag. We are fooled into thinking that 'there's a buzz' about this TV programme - Desperate Housewives, Lost. Who gives a shit? I won't watch them, because I'm being told to do so, in order that I can be brainwashed by the Capitalist propaganda. Parasites feed parasites.

But, according to Organised Religion and the Conservative Party, the cancer at the heart of Society is Women's Sexual Autonomy. Quite different from the 'Old Days' when no one had sex ouside of a Christian marriage.

Perhaps less Religion, and more History, Social Anthropology, Literature would better inform our wannabe leaders and moral guardians...

Air Strike

It dominates the news. BA flights from Heathrow grounded.

I always have a mixed reaction to news of this sort. My first reaction is, always, "I'm glad I'm not affected."

In fairness to BBC News24, they seem to have made a concerted effort to examine different aspects of the story. I didn't bother looking at Sky Newslite - there's a limit to the amount of lies, speculation and distortion a girl can take. And as for ITN, well, I keep forgetting that they also produce the rather good Channel 4 News. 7pm has never seemed the right time to watch TV news. Well, not since I got a computer, anyway.

There is a pattern in reporting airline disruptions, which always seems to feature voxpops from the most aggressive, arrogant, obnoxious, ignorant sort of Smug Middle-England Selfmade Businessman, and, true to form, he surfaced last night on BBC News 24 "Sack the lot of them, I say."

A mass gathering of the staff of Gate Gourmet at the factory gate, as they were being sacked by barely distinguishable megaphone announcement. Including those who were on Annual or Sick Leave. The panning shot of the crowd of workers showed them to be (almost?) exclusively Asian. I can see the reactions in Middle England now - "Bloody...". Need I spell it out? Presumably because an Asian, predominantly female workforce is prepared to work for lower wages than white men will accept in the Boom City that is Heathrow.

And the Baggage Handlers came out in support. My reaction "Cool!" Yes, I know, it's illegal, secondary, wildcat action. But I'm an Old Leftie.

Is it BA's fault? It's certainly BA's problem. Apparently Gate Gourmet lost £25 million last year. What that actually means I don't know. One year's loss (or profit) is a meaningless statistic. On turnover of what? Against assets and reserves of what? Before or after Special Items? A decision was made to cut labour costs. A rational business decision. I assume that GG are tied into a 3-year or 5-year contract with BA, Cathay Pacific and the other airlines. So they can't move on price.

But as far as I can see, the workforce is Unionised, which is a Good Thing. For far too long, sweatshops staffed by BME Women have been ignored by the Trade Unions. The Union Rep interviewed on the TV was intelligent and clever - rather than droning on with all sorts of trotskyite slogans he stated that the staff had been sacked, at the factory gate, by an announcement; that most people didn't know what was happening. Gate Gourmet say they have written to the staff, telling them of their sackings. I wonder to where the letters were sent - their home addresses? Or to the factory, from which they were locked out?

It's a game of Cat-and-Mouse: workers stage an unofficial strike, management sack them. There's no shortage of lowpaid menial work round the Heathrow area; if Gate Gourmet want a cheap non-unionised labour force to exploit they'll have to employ Eastern Europeans. Not from the new EU member states, you must be joking, they won't take those wages. From the non-member states.

What a stroke of genius the baggage handlers coming out! Big-up to the T&G. Now the customers are demanding that this is resolved pronto. It is going to force Gate Gourmet to the negotiation table.

United we Stand, Divided we Fall. There is such a thing as Society.

Of course, if I were flying today, I would be ranty and sweary. After all, we want our flights cheap, regardless of how that cheapness is achieved.

I don't see the need for catering on Domestic and Shorthaul Flights. But if I were flying Long Haul, the idea of a £30 voucher to spend at Burger King would leave me even more ranty and sweary.

Rigoletto at ROH

This review is almost a month overdue; I went four weeks and five weeks ago tomorrow, and so much has happened since. It gets more difficult to write a review as time passes, but I think it would be a serious lacuna to omit this one.

After I came out from this on 6 July, I decided that it was, without doubt, the best opera performance I had ever been to in my life. Two days later, it was no longer the best. But I wasn't complaining! I felt that overall, the performance of 6 July was better than the 13th, but I still very much enjoyed the 13th.

The cast was:

Duke of Mantua: Rolando Villazón
Rigoletto: Dmitri Hvorostovsky
Gilda: Ekaterina Siurina
Sparafucile: Eric Halfvarson
Maddalena: Viktoria Vizin

This was Cast B. I didn't get to see Cast A, which included Piotr Beczala, Paolo Gavanelli and Anna Netrebko, all getting good reviews,  in the main parts. There was some joking that the line-up I saw must be the best 'second cast' ever assembled, but I don't suppose it was ever the intention of ROH to suggest 'less good'. And people who saw both casts believed that Cast B shaded it.

When I heard Rolando Villazón eighteen months ago, I vowed that I would endeavour to see every production in which he appeared in London. Unfortunately, I fell at the second hurdle, when he provided a late replacement for two performances of La Bohème, by all accounts, superbly.

Occasionally one hears a voice and falls in love with it immediately: I certainly did with Rolando, and I love his Italian Arias CD. I have to confess the French one   does not thrill me as much, but is still pleasant.

It is difficult to find a review of Rolando that doesn't rave about him. Not just his voice, but also his stage presence, interpretation, musicality. A few people find his voice on the small side; perhaps they are only satisfied by stentorian foghorns. As far as I am concerned, it is big enough. Otherwise, the only downside is that he does bear a passing physical resemblance to Rowan Atkinson, although better looking. So if you can imagine the Duke of Mantua as Blackadder, or perhaps do I mean Blackadder as the Duke of Mantua...? But, of course, Rigoletto is no Baldrick. I have a DVD of Leporello Don Giovanni) in the style of Baldrick.

Rigoletto was played by Dmitri Hvorostovsky, whom I have never heard live. Recorded, he has never really done it for me, so I was curious as to how he would sound live. Critics say he is no Verdian. At the first performance he was fine; he was better for the second. He still doesn't do it for me, but I shall be booking to see him in Eugene Onegin in the Spring. I don't believe he will bear any comparison to Gerald Finley's portrayal at ENO, but it will be good to compare the two. (And Lensky will be played by Rolando...).

Some critics said Hvorostovsky played Hvorostovsky, rather then Rigoletto, which I thought unfair, but it wasn't the total portrayal as essayed by Paolo Gavanelli on the DVD, although people say Gavanelli is a barker, not a singer.

The revelation for me was Ekaterina Siurina. I saw here as Olympia in Les Contes d'Hoffmann last year, and I now recall that I did like her very much then. As Gilda, she was lovely. I am quite fussy about my sopranos - I like them to soar ethereally to a crystal clear sound at the top - any hint of squall and they've lost me. And I think 'squall' to me is 'body at the top' to many others. So I very much liked Ekaterina. I have never previously realised just how gorgeous Care nome is as an aria. And the love duet between her and the Duke of Mantua was moving in its beauty and sincerity.

To sum Rigoletto up is difficult. It is full of glorious tunes, coming one after the other. The storyline has elements in which are difficult to believe, but the overall story is a great morality of tale about love and human frailty/venality/evil.

The best tunes include Questa o quella. This is a light ditty; an ideal piece to be sung to the audience to show the lyricism of the tenor. But an intelligent acting singer has to portray the depraved cynicism of the Duke. Which Rolando did, so, on the first night, I felt slightly disappointed. But I understood better second time around.

The highlight of the opera, for me, and for many others, is  Bella figlia dell'amore, a quartet that contains perhaps the most achingly beautiful music of all that Verdi wrote (apart from all the others, of course...)

And, of course, the famous canzone La donna è mobile, the aria Verdi refused to let the musicians see until the last moment, and within hours of the premiere, it was being played by the street musicians.

I could not fault the orchestra under the baton of Edward Downes. I also liked the production - mainly - for the reasons that many people dislike it. Mainly because the opening scenes, in the court of Duke of Mantua contain nudity, including full-frontal, and simulated sex-acts, heterosexual and homosexual,  not all consensual. It seems a perfectly sensible way to portray sexual depravity. And, in general, I saw no inconsistencies or silliness in the actual production.

I just didn't like the set, which, for the first three acts was centred on a metal construction. It revolved from time to time - one side was the Duke's Court; the other side was Rigoletto's hovel. I found it neither court-like nor hovel-like: It puzzled me why Rigoletto only had one bedroom (And one bed) yet there was a convoluted series of stairs and landings to get there. And it failed to maximise the entire stage, which I also think is a shame, unless there is a specific dramatic reason in any specific scene or Act.

The production is available on DVD, but I preferred Rolando Villazón live to Marcelo Álvarez on video.

I also have a CD version I would highly recommend and another DVD, which I'd also recommend.

Plácido Domingo at the Waldbühne, Berlin

Regular readers of this blog will know that I had being looking forward to this concert in Berlin for many a month. Our tickets had arrived, by glorious serendipity, just minutes after I had returned home from seeing Plácido in Dublin. Since then, of course, I have seen him three times in Die Walküre. I did wonder if I was in danger of being complacent.

Nevertheless, I did experience a degree of audience-anxiety. I knew I would enjoy the concert, I was just anxious about Jimmy. Jimmy isn't a big fan of Plácido. Although he does like him, he would never have come to this concert but for me (nor would he go to one even in London). I so wanted him to enjoy it; I didn't want him thinking 'That was all right, but so what...!. And he had been suffering from aeroplane ears until we were halfway to the venue.

The seats we had were good, but not great. We had a clear view of the stage, but we were some distance. The actual programme is in the extended entry part of this post. It is similar, but not identical, to the concert in Dublin

I thoroughly enjoyed the concert, and, as far as I can tell, so did Jimmy. Plácido was just wonderful, although I would say that, of the five times I have seen him this year, this was probably the least wonderful. I think this is largely to do with acoustics. A voice as gorgeous as his doesn't need amplification in a 'normal' venue: at the Royal Opera House and the Albert Hall I could enjoy his unamplified voice, also at The Point because I was towards the front of the arena. Whilst amplification is necessary for a large, outdoor, venue, and, obviously, adds volume, I think it distorts and detracts from quality.

The orchestra were good. To me, they had a sound about them that was distinctly German, something about the tone of the lower brass and lower woodwind. Not a point I would wish to push too far, but it certainly got me pondering the extent to which orchestras, despite playing a universal international repertoire retain localised influences. Of the pieces they played, I am simply not overly keen on the Rakoczy March. I like the overture to the Sicilian Vespers; Jimmy loves it. To my mind, Verdi stole from it for La Traviata. This is not a bad thing. I also like the Candide overture whenever I hear it, but it's a tune that resolutely refuses to stick in my mind, despite the fact that I have it on a compilation CD I have played very many times over a dozen years or more.

I have to say that I was distinctly underwhelmed by Veronica Villaroel. To the extent that not only would I not go out of my way to hear her again, I would actively avoid her. She was really quite dreadful in the Charpentier, including an entirely missed high note which inspired winces from most people in my vicinity. The Cilea was dull and uninspiring. For me, probably her best bit was in the Meine Lippen sie küssen so heiss. Jimmy liked her in the I could have danced all night. I didn't. Admittedly this is a 'my song', one I have been known to break into spontaneous renditions of (usually when coming home from a pub...) but I think she just failed to 'get' the idiom. She was fine in De España vengo, soy española, but simply not a patch on Ana Maria Martinez.

As for the duets, she was adequate in both - although I have to say that Già nella notte densa is incredibly taxing for a soprano. When you hear someone, like Kiri or Renee. sing it well, you don't realise, but to hear a perfectly competent singer do it not frightfully well really makes one realise. In 'Tonight' she did enough - just. But her performance throughout was marred by straining for some notes, taking some others sotto voce and an ugliness of sound at the top, countered by a rich sonorous timbre in the lower register. During the encores, when she was waltzing, Jimmy felt that she seemed unable to respond to being led through a waltz (there were a good few thousand women in the arena who would have gladly changed places with her!).

As for Plácido, he was just fabulous. A consummate professional and entertainer, charming and smooth. When he arrived on stage, he kissed the hand of the Leader, causing amused 'oohs' from the audience. I don't know whether he stipulates that the Leader must be a woman, but there does seem to be a pattern...

I totally love O souverain, o juge o père, and no one sings it like him. He seems to sing it from the heart, like a prayer, and he has such a sweetness of tone. then there are the little touches - moving to a different microphone for the final verse, which has a lighter tone (and a different key?).

Winterstürme, perhaps surprisingly, sounded a little bit strange out of context, but it is a beautiful aria, from the moment the strings started their uniquely Wagnerian lilt. I have now heard him sing this five times this year, and, of the five, this was the least moving, but that is just a relative concept. Despite the grandiosity of Wagner, it is an extraordinarily intimate aria, well-served by set in the Covent Garden production, less well served by a glorious open-air arena in the setting sun.

Già nella notte densa is a wonderful way to finish the first half, the half of opera excerpts. From that evocative opening cello, to the final (because of what it anticipates) 'Ancora un bacio'. I love the way he just gets into the character (a character he sang frequently between 1974 and 2001) conveying all the pride, and doubt, of Othello. Even to the extent that his whole body language was portraying this.

(Plácido and Veronica had walked on stage arm-in-arm for this; Jimmy said 'He needs her to hold him up'. Just to wind me up, you understand. I had already promised that any remarks would be met with an elbow in the ribcage. He soon realised I meant it...!)

After the interval was Dein ist mein ganzes Herz. A lot of people seem to love this; I don't dislike it, indeed, it is pleasant, but I don't find it especially moving. His next number was Some enchanted evening, which he sang with the assistance of a music stand (for the music, or, more likely, for the words, I would guess). As he put his glasses on, he gave a little shrug, cute and endearing, but what is it with male vanity and glasses?

Tonight was almost the highlight of the second half. I didn't especially rate Veronica Villaroel in this, but I do so love Plácido singing this. It's perfect for his voice, and I like the way he really makes a contrast in tone, volume, emotion, between the opening and the closing parts, the aria and the cabaletta, if you will. However much I adore hearing him sing this, it also epitomised another factor of him I really appreciate. When he is earnestly expressing his love for 'Maria' his whole body language conveys an earnest young man fervent in his love. And there's something about the way he stands in adoration of 'Maria' that I find irresistible.

But the absolute highlight of the second half was No puede ser. There are people for whom this is their favourite aria in his whole repertoire, and although I don't actually agree, I don't make them wrong. The intensity and passion with which he sings this is astounding, and makes a fitting end to a lovely concert on some enchanted evening. Of course, Plácido is unceasing in his efforts - obsession? - to promote Zarzuela, and, certainly, the plot of La tabernera del puerto seems interesting; if No puede ser is representative of the music, I wouldn't reject it.

As the concert was over, there was much enthusiastic applause, a great number of camera flashes (as there had been throughout) and more sparklers, which I believe to be a custom at the Waldbühne - the woman next to me was waving a few about, which alarmed me slightly, but I resisted total panic...

Flowers were presented to the singers and the conductor; Plácido gave his to the orchestra leader. She seemed pleased...

But no concert is complete without encores. These followed a not dissimilar pattern to Dublin. He sang Amor, vida de mi vida, a beautiful lyrical song. Then he went off stage, and many people were wondering 'what's next'; indeed, a very very small handful of people left. I had a very strong suspicion of what was next, indeed, the orchestra began that familiar tune. And then the conductor stops - there's no singer on stage...! (yeah, yeah, seen it before...!). Plácido rushes on, and asks the audience if we know what the tune is - then he remembers, it's Granada..! And, oh my, how I love to hear him sing this. It's a fabulous song, one that he has been singing since he was child. And when he lets rip - well, that would have been a great ending!

And still, there was more to come. A waltz - although, as Jimmy pointed out, Veronica did not appear to be a natural waltzer and didn't seem to like being twirled round stage by Plácido...!

Then, the concert was over. He snatched back his flowers from the Leader, who jumped to her feet, annoyed (all totally spontaneously and unrehearsed, of course...!). So he gave them back to her, and took her by the arm, and led her off the stage, to good-natured calls from the audience.

A very very enjoyable night, and one I want to repeat, soon. He has a similar concert scheduled in Stavanger on Friday, and two in Montreal in November. But then, I don't know.

Just as a final comment, I find it interesting to see how different types of venues play their role in the performance . In Dublin, because, at least some of, the audience were close to the stage, he was interacting a lot with the audience, which adds to the fun. This wasn't so possible at the Waldbühne, where even the front rows are well set back from the stage, which is high up. Still, some fan threw him a present, which he caught (I suppose it would be embarrassing to miss a catch in front of an audience of 20,000).

Concert

I have things to do, places to go and people to see just now, so no time for any more blogging.

I took some photos at the Waldbuhne on Saturday night, but was too far away to really get any good ones. I think this was my favourite: Plácido singing Granada.

I was a bit perturbed to read on the BBC that he's 'close to retiring'. How close is close? Is this just thinking out loud? And is it consistent with plans for Il Postino in 2009?

Sightseeing in Berlin

We had a pleasant and trouble-free journey to Berlin - bus to Liverpool Street, train to Stansted, and check-in taking less than ten minutes. Going through security Jimmy was pulled over for extra checks. The problems seemed to be his phone, which he had switched off, and a metal lighter, both of which were scanned and swabbed.

No delays to the flight; we spent ages waiting for our luggage, then a quick and easy taxi into central Berlin. I always find it a dislocating experience arriving in a strange city in a foreign country, trying to see something of the city on a taxi-drive. Someone once suggested the best way of travelling Europe was by train - by the time you arrive at your destination you are broken-in to the differences. I once went to Geneva that way, and it certainly had its attractions, but that was before the era of cheap flights.

We wandered round a bit and found a bar for some beer. But we were sat outside and it looked like rain and we wanted to eat. Jimmy refused to eat from a menu purely in German. Considering I had left my dictionary at home and the Guidebook in the hotel, I think he had a point. Not wanting to tire ourselves out we decided to eat in the hotel restaurant, the Kempinski Eck, which was very nice. Despite vowing not to, I managed to get drunk...!

We spent the day on Saturday sight-seeing. I reckon if you are only in a city for a short period of time it's well worth getting guided-bus tours. It's a good way to ensure that you get at least a superficial glimpse of the main sights.

That having been said, I'm not entirely sure how I feel about sight-seeing. I enjoy doing it, and I'm good at letting out the exclamations of "That's nice! That's interesting! That's famous!" And one learns something about history, but most of all, about how much history, once learnt, is forgotten. Bismarck? I'm sure he was important!

Berlin is an unusual city, because it is nearly eight hundred years old, yet is extraordinarily new. So much of it was reduced to rubble in 1945, so it has fewer old buildings than just about any major city I have ever visited. A divided city for over forty years, I attempted to work out which bits were ex-East Germany and which were ex-West Germany, simply by the architecture. I don't think I got very far, because so much of the most impressive architecture is 1990s/2000s. We should have spent longer looking at the Jewish Museum. The Diplomatic area is fascinating, with most nations building new embassies in an attempt to represent their culture. That would have been worth a wander, if we had had the time. I particularly noticed the Indian Embassy, clad in alabaster from Rajastan. Perhaps India's first opportunity to portray itself as an economic Superpower.

We had a bit of a wander round Checkpoint Charlie, having seen the preserved sector of the Wall from the bus. It is important to preserve such a symbol of a divided city. Even though I could physically see the checkpoint, I nevertheless found it impossible to imagine the reality of living in a divided city. For the East Berliners, all the restrictions and oppressions that went with living behind the Iron Curtain; for West Berliners, the freedom to move, yet physically hemmed in by the wall, surrounded by a hostile nation. And entirely arbitrarily. If nationality is an arbitrary concept, imagine being divided into the 'Free' West and the Soviet East merely as a result of a postcode lottery by invading occupying troops.

Architecturally, I found the new business buildings, such as the Sony Centre, the most interesting. It will be fascinating to see whether, in twenty years or so, they have stood the test of time.

As we crawled down the Unter den Linden, we were on an open-top bus, and the weather began to spit. Finally, we reached the Brandenburg Gate, and Jimmy decreed we should find some shelter immediately. I just wanted a coffee, so our needs coincided. I was beginning to feel mentally exhausted. I have never studied German, and the little I know, mainly for reading purposes, comes from reading Chalet School books as a child, and from musical libretti. And I think the only phrase that remains from the Chalet School is 'Kaffee und Kuchen'. So I was extraordinarily relieved to be able to talk Italian in the coffee shop.

Once the rain had gone we wandered round some more, having a good look at the outside of the Reichstag. Again, it would have been nice to go in, but not when time was of the essence. I found the Soviet War Memorial most impressive architecturally.

We walked down to the Brandenburg Gate, me realising that the best photos would be got from wandering down the middle of the road. I'm not always the brightest button in the box. But I survived! We passed through the Brandenburg Gate. It's an interesting and imposing structure, and, of course, is iconic in the narrative of 1989, but, that's it. We noticed a heavy black cloud about to burst, so dashed into a nearby hotel (the Hotel Adlon) for coffee, and for me to add another chapter to being the World's Worst Stalker.

We completed the bus tour of Berlin and returned to our hotel. There was far too much information to take in, and most of it went by in a blur. But we were only in the city for forty eight hours, and sightseeing was not our prime objective. I would like to return one day, but not before I have seen many other of the great cities of Europe and beyond.

On the Sunday, we had the intention of going on a guided boat tour. I had the bright idea of walking through the Tiergarten, a good two or three mile walk. That was nice, a good healthy stroll in the fresh air. But, being of a short attention span, I got rather bored of the monotonous greenery. Every city needs its green lung, and the Tiergarten's attraction is how much of it is wild. But I needed a coffee.

The heavens opened, and we decided it was not a day for boat trips. I consulted my handy guide and discovered we could get Kaffee und Kuchen nearby. 'Astounding cakes' it said of the Operncafé. We actually went in the Operntreff, more elegant than the Café. And cakes to die for - if you have a sweet tooth, you will love it. How better to spend a Sunday afternoon than eating the most gorgeous cakes!

Then it was time to return home. We had the most farcical check-in, ever. The flight was at 7pm, so we arrived at the airport at 5pm. The check-in desk wasn't opened, so we found a bar. I get very anxious at airports, watching my watch, and I was a bit concerned that suddenly the time was 5.45.

We returned to the desk. It still wasn't open, but an enormous queue had formed. We saw no point in joining that, so we found another bar, close to the desk. Every ten minutes, we checked the queue. The desk opened at 6, and still the queue grew. It was still there at half six; we got talking to some men who were bitter because they had been queuing for an hour, and were annoyed to see that we still had our suitcase and were getting well sloshed. Finally, at 6.45, we felt it was time to join the queue. We were by no means the last, and in no sense had we done anything to delay. Checked in, and through security, we boarded one of those tarmac buses and waited until everyone was through. People glared at us as we were boarding; they must have thought we had deliberately delayed the plane. I was not sure what their problem was - if we had joined the queue like good girls and boys at five o'clock, there would have been somebody else boarding at five to seven.

The final irony was that the people who had queued dutifully for an hour and a half were all squashed up at the front of the plane. We had three seats between the two of us, and no-one behind us; we were served first with sandwiches, and more wine. And our suitcase was just about the first on the conveyor belt.

I finished my wine on the Stansted Express and by the time we reached Liverpool Street I was three sheets to the wind. Jimmy needed the Gents, and I waited for him with the bags at the top of the stairs. There was another woman waiting there, and we commented on the stupidity of having stairs down to the loos and why our men always have to go. She was a little bit tiddly and quite chatty. She said "So, you're heading home now, where have you been?" "Just Berlin," I replied. "Just Berlin!" she exclaimed. "Not bad! Any particular reason?" I explained we had been to a concert; she enquired more, so I said we had been to see Plácido Domingo. "Ooh! He's a bit of a dish!" she exclaimed. And then Jimmy reappeared and we went home.

In the next few days I shall be publishing some photos that tell the story better.

Albert...

...enjoyed the concert

We'd promised him for so long that he could hear that 'nice man who sings' it only seemed fair to give him an evening out to remember.

I took over one hundred photos over the weekend. Nearly ten may be fit to publish...

Back from Berlin...

Bloody good forty-eight hours.

I have an awful lot to write. At the moment, I am still trying to work out whether it was wise to have Wäldercremetorte and Marzipantorte at the Operncafe, Unten der Linden. It's sitting there, you know...

The concert last night?

Y'know, it was bloody good!

Plácido was utterly wonderfully fabulous. Very loud, y'know.

I didn't think much of the soprano, Veronica Villaroel. I can only hope she was very ill, because, otherwise, I will have to say, she was embarrasingly bad.

In future blogging, how only Gert & Jimmy can turn a simple journey to a concert and back again into an intrepid adventure and mission, involving cross-country yomping and out-of-service train lines.

It's a very special talent we have.

It's a very special and rare talent we have,

Being British

Boris Johnson is banging on about what it is to be British, and The Telegraph invited its readers' views.

This is the view of a right wing politician in a right wing newspaper.

I do not regard myself as 'British'. If asked, I am English. I am not sure that I am proud to British, or English. Nor am I embarrassed. For many of us, nationality is arbitrary, based upon where we were born, or where our parents were born.

For people who choose their nationality, I don't suppose the nebulous concept of Britishness is a deciding factor. More likely, people emigrate to Britain for a mixture of economic and linguistic reasons.

Not many Telegraph readers even know a constitutional definition of Britishness. My passport refers to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. I would imagine that Boris and his followers would insist that Northern Ireland is part of Britain, forgetting how their Blessed Margaret imposed a banning order on Sinn Fein politicians travelling to Britain. My father and I were outraged, as much as by the illogicality as by the actual ban. It seemed the Tories wanted to have their cake and eat it.

I know people who refuse to accept Britishness, or Englishness (Welshness, Scottishness) as a definition of them. They play with being European, or a citizen of the world, or just themselves.

I often define myself by a much narrower geography. In the past couple of months, I have referred to myself in conversation as a Cheshire girl, a Mancunian, a Lancastrian, a Londoner, a Brixtonian. All of them are at least partly true. But what do they mean? I don't think they mean anything, except in the contexts I use them - Cheshire Girl Gert is fascinated by horses; the Lancashire Lass loves red roses; the Mancunian - well, it's football. And it says Manchester on my passport. London - United, Pride, Defiant, blahdeblah. Brixton: it's where I live.

There are aspects of Britain that I love. The scenery. Being a small island we don't have extremes, but I do love the variety in a relatively small area, from the imposing mountains of the north to the verdant fields of the south. But it's a lot easier to say 'it's the best' if you haven't seen the rest.

I love the architecture. I am most familiar with London

and I love the way that it renews itself and stays constant.

Harry Potter and the, oh , the latest one

I have never read a Harry Potter book, and I really don't expect I ever shall. No particular reason, except that I have piles - literally and metaphorically - of unread books, and therefore HP is low priority. I think I've seen three films, and will probably see the rest. If you're a bit like me, there's a plot summary over at Four Cranks With Opinions: Not So Happy Days at Hogwarts: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, and some comments on their attraction to adults and children.

I first came across HP when my friend Helen read the first one on a Transatlantic FLight in 1999; a few weeks later I learned that my cousin's boy, then 9, was well into them. Interestingly, another cousin's boy, then 11, had received a copy from a publisher friend, long before they had hit the consciousness, with word that this was the next Big Thing. They had both (mother and son) tried reading it and had found it as dull as ditchwater. I think we concluded that some people are into fantasy/adventure, and some are not. Helen's a big Pratchett fan, which has never really appealed to me, either.

I'm not sure what fiction really appeals the most to me. My favourite book of all time, and well overdue a re-read is Wuthering Heights. I have read a few Dickens, and although it can take me months to get through the first half, I usually manage to devour the second half, and end up in blubs of tears, thinking it was well worth the effort. But I'd never call myself a Dickens fan. Elizabeth Gaskell is probbaly my favourite author, although a bit uneven.

I rarely read modern 'literature'. I suppose I ought to. I do like a certain amount of middlebrow chicklit - I'm a fan of Freya North (who emailed me once!), Marian Keyes and Mary Wesley. But I suppose I'm more a reader of factual. In the past ten years the best four books I have read have been Norman Davies' 'The Isles' and 'Europe', Peter Ackroyd's 'London The Biography' and Roy Jenkins' 'Winston Churchill'. I found them all impossible to put down. Pretty difficult to lift up, true, but bloody good reads.

I have found I have been reading less since Jimmy moved in. I used to go to bed and read for an hour or more most nights, but that's a luxury of singledom that has to be sacrificed for lurve. Perhpas I should get one of those lights that clips to a book.

This coming Saturday

I shall be in Berlin, at the Waldbühne, seeing my hero in concert, because it's so long since I last saw him...(over two weeks now!). Are any of my silent readers going to be there?

He did a concert in Budapest on Friday. I found a report. Mind you, I don't read Hungarian. And nor does Babelfish. But I find with foreign languages, if you look at them forlong enough, you tend to get the gist.

I don't know if the lovely Ana Maria will be there on Saturday.

I shall be going with Jimmy; we got ourselves a rather nice deal on a swanky hotel.

Rubbish photos

It seems that everybody now has a camera in their mobile phone. Quite a useful little gimmick accessory. If you're carrying your phone around, it's no more effort to carry a camera. If you have the phone handy for calls, by definition it's also handy to grab a snapshot. Very useful for instant documentary.

But are they any good?

We have been watching Tom Ang's Digital Picture of Britain. Fascinating. For each programme he gets three professional photographers and randomly distributes to them a digital camera, either a top-of-the-range professional SLR, a mass market compact or a phone, albeit a rather high-end phone. They make of it what they will. Being professionals, they take some reasonably good photos with the phones, but nobody's fooled as to the quality.

However, that doesn't stop the masses. We have people taking photos with their phones and publishing them to the web, sort of. Mainly using Flickr.

I have always loved photography. Even at the age of seven I was bossing my father around over what pictures to take. I didn't like his camera, far too fiddly, and, more importantly, way too heavy and cumbersome for my hands which were even ickler then than now.

Bizarrely, I didn't get my own camera until I was 16. A Boots Instamatic, using 126 film and flashbulbs. Some of my friends mocked - they had 110 (or, later, disc-cameras) with built in flash. But, actually, until the 135 compacts became affordable, the 126s gave the best quality photos. And the use of external flash, however primitive, avoided red eye. The trouble was, flashbulbs were so expensive. Film was expensive. Processing was expensive. One film of 24 exposures had to do for a whole holiday.

There was no opportunity to experiment, to take risks. Every failure cost money. My money. My pocket money.

Every photo had to be special. And had to be retained.

As it seems that everybody is publishing extremely poor quality photos taken with their phones, I thought I would pause and reflect on whether we have come far in 21 years.

I took a photo album off the bookshelf and scanned a few photos.

I feel rather proud of them. They are so spectacularly crap that I feel tempted to set up a Flickr account and claim I took them with my phone. Only I can't be bothered to set up ways to transfer photos from my phone to my PC. Much easier to scan in old photos.

I'm not saying that this will be a regular occurrence, but from time to time, some old photos will appear. Hopefully, as we hit the 90s the quality of photography will improve. Hopefully, by the time we hit the 20teens, the quality of mophlogging will improve.

Crown and Sceptre Food Poisoning

Whatever you do, don't ever eat at Wetherspoon's Crown and Sceptre pub on the borders of Brixton and Streatham (A23/A205).

We have been dissatisfied for a while. Portions getting smaller, chips getting crappier. A couple of weeks ago Jimmy sent back the Fish Pie because it was still frozen in the middle.

Tonight, he ordered a beefburger, I ordered a veggie burger. His beefburger was still pink in the middle. Which would be fine if it really were beef, but even their menu states that you can have a 'beef'burger for an extra pound.

The menu says the burgers come with salad. Practically a breach of the Trades Description Ac, as the so-called salad was inserted into the bun (which, for both of us was coloured black). The burgers were served on cold plates. I had to beg for cutlery. In consequence, the food was stone-cold by the time I came to eat it. And the portion of chips was insulting. Frankly, we could have got better VFM at McDs over the road. And that is saying something...

Being a fool, I then ordered a chocolate chip cheesecake.

It came.

On a hot plate.

I touched it. The pudding was cold. I sent it back, demanding a refund.

Never ever ask for a replacement. The kitchen staff will, generally, spit on it. Instead, they'll stick it in the fridge, and serve it to the next unsuspecting customer tomorrow. Having been touched by my hands, no doubt at least averagely dirty. An I probably put my hands in my hair, letting whatever's in there fall onto the cheesecake. And Jimmy has a cold which he may well have breathed over the cheesecake.

This was only after I had requested a spoon with which to eat my pudding. Sorry, fork isn't good enough.

If a place can get simple things wrong like serving hot food on cold plates, and cold food on hot plates, I really do not have any confidence in their basic food hygiene standards. I am never going to eat there again. I would seriously advise anybody else never to eat there.

Meanwhile, they have a magazine circulating where Tim Sanctimonious Martin, their CEO boasts of improving the menus in their groundbreaking no-smoking pubs.

Well, Martin, let me say this. the Crown and Sceptre was an early success for Wetherspoons. If this is the standards tolerated there, I can only assume that Food Poisoning is Company Policy at Wetherspoons

But I am never going to eat there again. You have neglected the core customer base, about whom you clearly don't give a shit. Too much preaching, not enough attention to detail.

Sorry, but there are more pubs than churches round here. And even more restaurants. I've been going in there 14 years.

Never, ever again.

Total shit, total disdain for the customers. Utter neglect for Food Hygiene. And they allow drug-dealing and -taking. Get a grip, the place has gone to the dogs.

Not taking me with it.

Bye bye and good riddance to Crown and Sceptre, Streatham Hill/Brixton Hill/Streatham Place. South Circular.

Fucking con merchants.

So up their arses with their no-smoking, they feel happy poisoning people with their so-called 'food'.

Can't even do their chips right...

I know the power of Google...

What I am listening to now

So far, not bad. I suspect I might listen to it again. Probably a bit not-work-safe...

In the same package, I also got

11.45 Update: O sink herneider Nacht der Liebe. Definitely not work-safe...

1330 Update: Fantastic! I was wanting to say "Sure beats masturbation" but that would be far too flippant. I love it. Not that I really have many other versions with which to compare it, but I don't feel greatly inclined to search...!

Day off

It's Jimmy's birthday today. His proper one, that is, not the pretend one he had last week. He was born during the London Olympics.

He's not a well boy. Stinking cold, thanks to certain over-indulgences last week. Let's gloss over, shall we.

I went to bed last night and was just getting to sleep, in a rather pleasant lucid dream phase. I now don't recall the dream but I do recall the sensuous snuggly feeling that comes from the feel of fresh bedding on skin. He started tossing and turning, and sneezing and coughing and generally making me feel sea-sick. Wide awake, I lay in bed thinking glumly I will never get to sleep. So I came downstairs, and returned at 4 am, when he gets up.

Currently, the car showroom outside my house is being demolished. They have an impressively manly tool that chops up concrete, reverberating around most of South London, literally shaking my house. I remind myself that having withstood V2s landing on the said car showroom site, a little bit of mechanical demolition is not going to harm it. They built houses to last in the days of King William. It also leaves a film of dust throughout the house. The old dilemma - keep dusting, or just leave it until they have finished.

Actually it's bloody annoying, and according to the newsagent, someone is going to complain because the dust is affecting her asthma. Apparently, they ought to have covered the site with tarpaulin - which, I don't think is customary. But despite its annoyingness, one can't really complain if they limit their demolition to 9-5 M-F, which, thus far, they do. I suppose I ought to take photos, but I can't be arsed.

So 9.30, I'm lying in bed feeling, literally, the earth move. Wondering about my chances of getting back to sleep. There's a loud knock on the door. I sigh, but feel I ought to get up. I pull on my dressing gown and am just halfway down the stairs when the knock comes again. "Coming!" I call out and open the door.

It's Mr Postman and he has a package I honestly did not think would be delivered until tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I would have no chance to listen to it.

But it came today, about which I feel slightly guilty, it being Jimmy's birthday.