Gertsamtkunstwerk

Lifetime Achievement at Classical Brits

Classical Brits award for Domingo

I'll be there! I'll be there! Did I mention that I was going to be there?

Actually, my mother decided ten days ago it was going to be a Lifetime Achievement award.

But I have to say that I am slightly worried by this quote

British Phonographic Industry chairman Peter Jamieson said: "We are delighted that the great Placido Domingo, an artist who excels not just as a tenor but as a conductor, will be joining us."

He'll be conducting. Which is just fine. Honest. Really. I don't mind seeing my favourite singer conduct. Honest.

There again, the article also says

It will be the 65-year-old Spanish star's only UK performance this year.

to which I can only say Check Your Facts.

He is wonderful. And it's not just me that thinks that My All-Time Favorite Celebrity - that is definitely one of my "OMG, I'm so jealous" moments. But in a happy-for-someone-else jealous way, not a nasty jealous way.

TV latest

Joe came round and used a super-douper meter to confirm that we are getting a strong signal into the house. He managed to get a picture on the box, by dint of fiddling, claiming that he has magic fingers...!

He is of the view that the crane should only interrupt momentarily as it moves. The particular make of box we have is First Generation and unpredictably erratic.

Jimmy and I strolled round to the red crane site and asked to speak to the site manager. He had had a message to call me, and I had done so this morning, but I must have been in the shower. He was a very nice man who immediately understood our problem and sympathised with our loss of telly - he would not have cared to miss Ireland winning the rugby over the weekend! He said he will make sure they park the crane in a position that is of assistance to us, although he warned it will swing round in the wind, it must do otherwise it will break and fall over. And there is a chance we will have interrupted service when it's working. But that sounds reasonable, if not ideal.

Later in the afternoon we settled down to watch the TV. From time to time we got a service interruption lasting from 10-30 seconds before returning. There have been no interruptions since half four. This is quite different from absolutely no service all last week irrespective of whether or not the crane was working or in what position it was.

Although I lack the technical knowledge I can only conclude that we have a minor, liveable with (grudgingly) problem with the crane and a more major problem with the box that means, perhaps, it can't be relied upon to regrab the signal after it's been interrupted. We are going to monitor it for a while, and see what happens. We may end up getting a new box, which will probably be on the cards anyway, seeing as though the model we have is reportedly barely fit for purpose.

I have written a firm but polite email to Sky outlining our problem and their failure properly to investigate it, and stressing the especial misfortune that it messed up this extra-special televisual weekend.

More Tv weirdness

We left our home today, driven out by the nadir of TV, desperate to avoid mention of the League Cup final I couldn't watch.

Note to any readers who may happen to be erstwhile Manchester United fans who traipsed into Wigan yesterday to buy a Wigan Athletic shirt...welcome to the Big League...We Won, You Didn't nur nur nununur!

The red crane had swung round about 80 degrees and was lying almost East to West, weather-vaning in the wind, as, reportedly, it's supposed to.

Still no TV reception.

I can only conclude, therefore, that if the mere presence of a crane interrupts satellite reception, it must surely be affecting dozens if not hundreds of households within the immediate proximity, and therefore, by logic, must potentially have affected thousands, if not tens or hundreds of, in varrious building schemes over the past 15-20 years, in so many different locations worldwide.

Tomorrow, back to the drawing board

Blessed peace

Of this I dream

Not especially world peace, or an end to hate crimes, or coherent communities. These, I think, are all possible.

No, just the ability to sit at home and experience quiet. Sometimes it happens. At times it can be extraordinarily quiet, more beautiful than the most beautiful music. The smug Project Manager of the nearby site seems determined to impress upon me that the new development will act as a barrier to the noise from the South Circular, little understanding that South Circular noise never affects me. Before I even made an offer on the house I sat in the back graden, startled at how quiet it is considering its proximity to a major trunk road. If I happen to be up at five o'clock, not a frequent event, I notice the start of the rush hour. I once heard a car crash happen directly outside my house. And I hear sirens, from all over the neighbourhood. Heck, at night I even hear trains, and once in a while, when the wind is in the right direction and my windows are open, I hear the Town Hall clock. Situationally, it's only helicopters that I hear, and even then I generally miss the air ambulance landing outside.

Nah, my problem is what other people do. Five and a half days a week we have building noise. I have already made up my mind to hate everybody who moves into the yuppie flats on my doorsteps, and, especially Tesco.

We currently have the house at the back being decorated and DIY-ed. It's disconcerting to have a man standing in the back bedroom looking directly at where I'm sitting. (I'm not saying he is looking, he appears to be working hard, but I am in his sightline, unless i shut the curtain at 1 pm...hello SAD). And it's a bit noisy. But I have decided to be a bit wise about this one. It almost certainly means that the terrorist barbequers have departed (Woot! Yay!). Hopefully, the weekend working means that it now owner-occupiers rather than the noisy barbequers from hell.

So why live in the Inner City?

I don't think there's a great many places once can go and escape noise. I have lived in surburbia. Every Summer Sunday as a teenager was disturbed by the lunatic at the back hammering his pigeon coop at 8.30. For fifteen minutes. The weekend after I dislocated my shoulder was entirely disturbed by the obsessive lawn-mowing and hedge-cutting which even edges out carwashing as a Sunday morning occupation in Dullsville-on-Mersey. People in the country complain about cocks crowing, cricket on the village green and the smell of muck-spreading. No-one has a lawn to mow around here. The nearest village green is a couple of miles away, and, anyway full of dubious massage parlours. When we had a stables they bagged up their muck to be sold for gardening rather than spread it randomly. And I imagine most hen keepers are currently keeping them indoors.

I just feel I am being forced out of my house. And I am not happy about it.

Dress down Fridays

Victoria Coren asks So what's the dress code?. She's taking the mickey, of course. As the British Naturism spokes said "In February, it simply isn't warm enough."

I'm a bit ambivalent to nudity. I don't find other people's nudity in the slightest bit erotic and I really would not want it in the workplace. I'm not just thinking of an office. Imagine going into a catering establishment...no, no, stop it now.

Damn, I've fallen into the traps I were trying to avoid, 'there's something rather disgusting about the human body' and 'I have an absolute right to determine how other people appear'

Naturism isn't about going off to live in a colony any more, but about the healthiness of fresh air on skin, respect among like-minded people, a lack of discrimination between different types of human body, and the environmental benefit of not having so many bathing suits to wash...'we were born naked, and there is nothing shameful about the body. Why spend hundreds of pounds at Calvin Klein to cover it up? 'These sound like excellent modern values to me. Eco-responsibility, mutual respect, additive-free health: you'd think the movement had been invented yesterday.

It's never going to catch on in Britain, really, not least because of the weather. But one thing I have noticed from years of lying inert on beaches during package holidays is that, in general, the people who seem to have the most inhibitions about stripping off are those that appear to be the most hung-up about their appearances. I wonder if, in being so apparently obsessed about how they appear to random strangers they fail to enjoy their bodies for their own sakes.

I wear low-cut tops to the office. I generally wear low-cut tops. This is because I am unsuited to polo neck jumpers because of my body shape and because of that weird 'don't touch my neck' thing (Actually, it's not so weird, I have a colleague similarly afflicted and the last time I was at the hairdressers the shampoo girl knew precisely what I was saying).

I have absolutely no desire to use my 'feminine wiles' on anybody in the workplace. And anyway, in the world of skilled professionals, it doesn't work. No doubt most people have entertained the occasional abstract fantasy, but the driving force is results, delivery, meeting objectives, efficiency. Why appoint someone who flashes a bit of cleavage when your own career prospects and bonus depend upon your ability to appoint someone to do the work?

The New East End

In the East End, they still hate means testing is Will Hutton's reflection on a new book about Kinship, Race and Conflict - 'must read' say both Trevor Phillips and David Wiletts.

It seems to me to be an example of what Social Science should be all about - incidentally, it is an update of Michael Young and Peter Willmott's Family and Kinship in East London from the 1950s. As a student I got imbroigled in a pointless discussion with a friend, an engineer, who claimed that the Social Science Faculty should be renamed, because it did not deal with facts. True that it did not deal in binary facts. there are rarely yes/no; on/off; black/white facts. And Hutton's sensitive piece acknowledges that. What the writers of the current book appear to have done is spend many years gathering and examining evidence, and analysing it in order to reach conclusions. But even the conclusions are not especially binary. Housing policy is Cinderella to the Key Issues of Education, Health and Crime, but perhaps more than those three is potentially the key to a prosperous cohesive society.

And it's only £16, which surprised me because academic tomes often require a second mortgage.

Bum bum bum Swear words

The Sky chap has been and has reconfirmed that the Digibox is working just fine.

He climbed the ladder onto the roof and confirmed that the satellite dish is working just fine.

The problem is, it is pointing straight at the boom of the crane. Only one thing separates my satellite dish from the Astra satellite positioned above Congo - that concrete weight that stabilizes the crane.

The dish and boom are circled

The Sky engineer, who used to be a crane operator, said I should ask them to park it East-West rather than North-South. He further said that it shouldn't be parked in a constant position, anyway, it should be able to weathervane, rather than resisting the wind, I should ask to park it so that I can get a signal. However, we both witnessed that the site was deserted at 4.45

I got onto the Project Manager, only he said the site has been divided in two and he is no longer responsible for the red crane. He said someone would be there until five. I wasn't sure whether I should have told him his boys had a POETSday. If the red-crane site is working tomorrow, we can try asking them. If not then there is no chance of the Flying Dutchman live from Cardiff tomorrow. Or the other Flying Dutchman (van Nistelrooy...okay, I had to try...) live from Cardiff on Sunday afternoon. The rugby's on terrestrial,  but we get a shit terrestrial signal anyway. and someone is going to have to crawl around the floor to get it to work, even in a shit way. Assuming that the crane isn't directly between us and Crystal Palace. sigh

If I'm this pissed off at missing Brynny on the telly, can you imagine how I would be if it were Gerry or Pláci...

I feel so impotent, so angry and so stressed.

Oh, and this is the view from my front path. This is all a consequence of a V1 (Doodlebug) landing rather inconsiderately on my doorstep in 1944...

Music in London

I keep forgetting to include Music OMH in my regular reads. It has a London Classical and Opera Preview for March and April

Of those listed, I have tickets for Eugene Onegin, Gotterdammerung and the Beethoven 9th - and I must absolutely concur with the comment there!

The article serves as a timely reminder to get a few ENO events booked as well as the Handel and Rossini (possibly - I'm not a huge Rossini fan) at the Barbican.

TV woes

Not a post moaning about the mindless quality of overhyped TV programmes.

More a moan about having no telly.

It went on Monday morning. Tried turning the Sky+ box off and on again. Tried resetting the settings. Phoned Sky; when I said I'd tried turning it off and on again, she sighed. She gave me a special reset to do and that didn't work, so she declared that we needed an engineer to visit. She then explained that the engineers will not carry cash or cheques, for safety, so the visit would have to be paid up front. On one level this is understandable and logical, and I don't have any particular objection to making a Switch payment over the phone.

Yet, there is something about it that seems to be a bit low-rent about it "You are peasants!" Sky declares. As an accountant, I can see the logic of demanding payment up front for a call-out, much more sensible than chasing debtors.

The only thing is that I - and I assume all Sky customers - have a Direct Debit arrangement with them, and each month they take an amount never less than forty pounds from my bank account, and often a great deal more if we PPV. Although there is no logical reason to object to paying up front for the callout, I don't like the whiff of allegations of peasantry about it.

I was told the engineer would come on Wednesday and would phone early in the morning to give a time. I gave them Jimmy's mobile number and said to contact him and he would let them in. We later decided that if the time was to be before eleven I would wait in; if later Jimmy would be available.

I suspect that we are relatively unusual. The nature of my work, where presenteeism isn't required, and the local culture allows for flexibility and makes me in charge of my diary, combined with the fact that he works locally and is busiest before eleven means that we can be flexible. But even so, it's not a free ride - if I am late in, I have to take a half day's leave, or make it up later. I did bring some work home, but I doubted that it would occupy me for more than an hour or two. And if he leaves the business early he has to depend on employees.

On Wednesday at 8 am, the Sky engineer phoned to say he would be in attendance between 5pm and 8pm. Actually, he phoned the home phone. Not the number that I had given to the call centre. I am not an early bird, and live close to work, so that's an okay time to call me. But a great many people leave for work well before 8.

I got to thinking. Is this really an acceptable way of conducting business? A great many people would have been forced to switch shifts or take annual leave to be in for the engineer. I might, on a different day, have had to rearrange meetings, perhaps having to delay them for two weeks. Imagine if your standard hours are 8-4 and you had switched shifts, only to find that the engineer was due long after normal getting home time. Many people don't get paid if they don't work. My soundbite reaction ready for blogging was "Do they think that every house a housewife sitting round all day waiting for the engineer?"

But that soundbite doesn't work, either. People who don't go out to work have different commitments and time demands. The parent of a small child has to be at the school gates or Nursery at a specific time. They might have made unnecessary arrangements for a friend or Grandma to substitute. Retired people often lead busy lives with commitments to voluntary work or Adult Education, or grandchild minding.

I appreciate that it is difficult to allocate exact time slots, but 'all day' is really not good enough.

Jimmy was in when the engineer came. Apparently the box is fine, so there must be a problem with the dish. However, he was not going to climb ladders in the dark. Which is fair enough. So Jimmy rearranged for him to come today, a day I don't work. I wondered if the reception problem might be affected by having a dirty great big crane right outside my house (I must photograph it). By chance, the crane driver was in the cafe yesterday, and he said that cranes can interfere with satellite reception, but only when they move, and that would be a loss of reception for a few moments, not a continuous loss of service. And anyway, I would think the block of flats that face down my private drive would be more affected than me, because of the angles and relative positions.

You may have gathered that I got somewhat sloshed last night. Indeed, I am having trouble remembering how I got home. I remember getting the bus on Millbank; I remember realising it had got to Vauxhall. I remember noticing that the pavement outside Brixton Tube was covered with sand, not a sight one sees every day (gritting after the snow flurry?). And I remember finding a particular piece of post when I got home. But I have no recollection of the Tube journey, the second bus journey, the walk up the road. The last being particularly a matter of concern. One of the names that kept getting cited at last night's quiz had impressed upon me in a meeting the importance of people retaining some fear of crime - what I call being street-wise - in order to stay safe. But I must have floated home on a fluffy alcohol-induced cloud of oblivion to all the bogeymen lurking in the shadows cast by the bumper-to-bumper parked cars, blissfully unaware of the potential threats to the hundreds of pounds worth of geeky gadgets in my handbag or to my virtue.

In short, I sort of woke up to the alarm this morning with a hangover and drifted back to sleep. Only to be woken again by the answerphone going into overdrive. In a state of panic I descended the stairs, and played the messages. It was Tom Baker personally calling me. Or rather, Sky had sent two text messages to the home phone saying what time the engineer will call today. So that's alright. Well, it might be. It had better be bloody fixed for the weekend, otherwise telly is out. We can't even watch that which is captured on the hard disc - what's that about? I will jolly pissed off if I miss the live Welsh Dutchman tomorrow night on S4C.

Still, listening to Messiah is a wonderful cure for a hangover...

Pláci in the headlines

Domingo's Contract Extended at Los Angeles Opera and Washington National Opera

Plácido Domingo's contract as general director of the Los Angeles Opera has been extended for five years through 2011, the company announced...According to the Washington Post, Domingo's tenure with the WNO will also be extended for five years, although the company has yet to make an official announcement.

Domingo Extends General Directorships at Los Angeles & Washington National Operas by Five Years

The Washington Post's headline is Domingo Re-Ups With Washington, L.A. Operas. Is that English? Re-ups? I have never encountered that phrase before, and, frankly, hope I never do again.

"Washington made a deal with the Los Angeles Opera that it would wait at least two days until after the announcement in California before making an announcement of its own," a WNO insider, who asked for anonymity because of the violation of that deal, said yesterday.

Press announcement on the LA Opera site, which, incidentally, has video clips from several recent productions, but none from Parsifal (the Sudoko-Toyota-Keiko Parsifal, as it was dubbed on mmofm)

Gert sulks...

There again, read the last few paragraphs in the LA Times

One less solid note in the opera's recent history has been the 65-year-old Domingo's health: The tenor suffered from tracheitis this winter and recently canceled European performances of Wagner's "The Valkyrie" in April, because of what he termed overcommitment. But Domingo insisted he is on the mend. "I can say that I feel much better," he said, adding that he was recently practicing for a March 8 performance of "Cyrano de Bergerac" at the Metropolitan Opera and sounded fine.

Now we have an explanation for Paris. I knew there was more to it.

He said he harmed his throat singing the title role in "Parsifal," which Los Angeles Opera mounted in a Robert Wilson production last fall. "I'm not used to singing without movement," he said of director Wilson's meditative, ritualistic production. "I need the movement."

Meanwhile, Norman Lebrecht writes How Domingo Killed the Three Tenors in La Scena. Meanwhile, the print ediiton of the Substandard (because London's 'newspaper' 's online presence is nowadays just advertising, has the headline on the same article "How Domingo saw off the Three Tenors"

Typically spiteful Lebrecht piece:

...the slinky Russian soprano Anna Netrebko and the Mexican tenor with the male-model (huh?) looks, Rolando Villazon...despite their inexperience, are being groomed as the new power couple to replace Angela Georghiu and Roberto Alagna, whose tiresome antics never matched their voltage...

then

Such is Domingo's magnetism that London tickets are virtually unobtainable and New York awaits his belated appearance – he missed the first run last month with a bad throat – with something resembling bated breath...Domingo, though he may have won the match, will sing unchallenged and send us to sleep. The Three Tenors lit up the world. One on his own is just another gig.

Such a shame the Letters' Editor of the Substandard has stopped pestering me for free copy. Ah well, I don't suppose "Lebrecht sucks" would be published anyway. And it's all been previously published on mmofm, anyway.

Me bad blogger sorry

I feel that I have been neglecting this, and, even more so, neglecting reading my blogroll.

Bad Gert, Bad Gert.

I was actually going to write this before I left work but I got distracted by something else. I was going to write that I was absorbed in "...insert corporate motto...", then I realised I couldn't remember the corporate motto. I could remember a corporate motto from years ago, but it's long time since I helped the nation spend wisely.

Something very dangerous is happening at work, and indeed in my life. I have been applying myself and concentrating, and not being beset by tiredness and lack of energy and that crap. Which is uncharacteristic. I was out Monday night, tonight; tomorrow is Quiz Night. Yeah, I'm pushing it, overdoing it. Next thing I know it will be back to Chronic Fatigue Syndrome all over again.

The Quiz should be...interesting. We have a team of six. One says she knows all about stuff in Heat Magazine and Coronation Street; one agrees she's much the same; another's not sure on Coronation Street; another was in a quiz a few months ago and got one question right, about New Zealand (her homeland). Then the fifth member knows about music, football and the news. And there's me, who knows about music, football and the news. It's probably going to be our team of six girlies up against Alpha Males. Should be a laugh anyway. and it's for charidee.

By 'eck, I've just spell-checked this and wouldya believe that Google Toolbar spellchecker doesn't recognise the word 'Zealand'.

This week's CD...

This CD arrived this morning, so I made haste to transfer it to my mp3 player, and I have been listening to it. Very nice, too!

A few minutes I was standing outside the office, as one does, and headbanging to Why do the nations so furiously rage together?, as one does, and some smug little git of a Tory MP walked by and looked at me with utter disdain and contempt. For a nano-second I was vaguely tempted to say "I'm headbanging to Messiah, actually" then I thought - it's irrelevant. If I was headbanging to Iron Maden, it would not give the prig the right to look at me in contempt. It must be awful to be an elected representative of the People and hold the People in such disdain.

Baritone stalking

Oh dear, oh dear. oh dear...

This evening, we went "baritone stalking" (It's not really stalking; we just waited for them at the Stage Door at the Royal Opera House....)

Erwin Schrott and Faye

Me, with Gerald Finley

I do believe there might be a circle of hell specially reserved for the sort of wanton woman who does such things.

And in the next few months there's quite a few delightful tenors scheduled. I thinkTenor Stalking merits an even lower circle...

Boring photos

Dudhsagar Falls

The photos of my holiday in Goa don't get any more interesting. Probably because on our one excursion out, we were too ill and can't-be-arsed to really take any decent photos of the monkeys. Nor did we go right up to the waterfall, or swim in its pool. We passed on the chance to ride an elephant; indeed it kept walking past a few feet away from me and I was too grotty even to get my camera out.  Then, with another couple who were heading for Mumbai that night, we commissioned a jeep to speed us back to Calangute, rescuing us from a bumpy ride in coaches without suspension on poor quality roads. The outward journey had made Jimmy very travel sick; I just had really bad constipation that made me feel faint, and come over in alternative hot and cold sweats and excruciating stomach cramps. I was petrified I was poised on the brink of an instant self-cure.

And that jeep journey almost did the trick as we approached  a lorry that was overtaking. Each of us heading towards each other at 60 mph; machismo dictating that neither should flinch. At the last moment the lorry pulled in. Later, we overtook on the brow of a hill. Jimmy reckons that the driver should be charged with attempted murder. I think it was what passes as good driving in Goa...

Dmitri Hvorostovsky in concert

I made a last minute decision to go and see him in concert at The Barbican. The programme is in the extended entry, although one of the pieces on the second half was replaced by a Katchachurian orchestral piece.

It was slightly odd having the first half of operatic arias and other classical pieces, and the second half Soviet war songs, but I enjoyed it more than I thought that I might.

The first half was pretty much unfamiliar to me, except for the Prince Igor, and even then it was the accompanying music rather than the aria that I know so well. And the second half was entirely unfamiliar. He used a microphone for the second half, although the amplification was not intrusive. The lighting was altered so that the orchestra and chorus were semi-lit and he shimmered in a relatively lighter spot. I wish he had used a period microphone, because he addressed the modern microphone in a style reminiscent of a 1940s crooner, down to the elegance of his stance and his body-language.

I am not a massive fan of Dima, respecting him rather than liking him. Other people were explaining to me that he is a lyric baritone, but I hear a voice that is quite gruff in the lower end of the range, and a lot of the colouring seemed (to me) at the lower end, towards the basso end where I start to find it quite difficult to hear music. That having been said, in one of the songs from the Great Patriotic War I had a momentary surprise that he didn't take it right up to the high C, then I remembered that he isn't a tenor. So I guess he must be a lyric baritone. It's a beautiful voice and superbly executed but it affects me on a cerebral rather than an emotional level.

I enjoyed the first half, a reminder that I have largely neglected Russian music of late. Which is silly, because Tchaikowsky is wonderful, and I really liked the Rubinstein arias, especially the Epitalama Vindex "Poju tebe Bog Gimeneja" from Nero.

I adored the second half. For some reason I had expected the songs to be turgid settings of unimaginative Soviet propaganda.The translations were projected on the surtitle screen And I found the words rather uplifting and at times moving. Frenkel's  'Zhuravli' Cranes was beautiful and Nozhkin's 'Posledniy Boi' The Last Battle brought tears to my eyes. I'm tempted to buy the CD. Perhaps I should have bought it last night and got him to sign it. Ah well...

What surprised me was how the songs inhabited the same sound world as many Western pop songs of the same era, think Casablanca, or I certainly did. One of my companions used the word 'evocative', which was spot-on.

In the interval, the One-Woman-Crusade-Against-Cr***o**r had expressed some dread at the thought of an entire half of cr***o**r, but I got quite animated in saying that folk isn't crossover. I did wonder whether it would class as 'World Music', then it struck me that World Music is other people's Folk. I don't know whether they are properly folk; I guess the litmus test would be whether they rose from the ordinary soldiers or whether they were commissioned by the Stalinist Propaganda Machine.

He was quite the Mr Haughty-Russkie in the first half, but he seemed to relax in the second half and appeared to be enjoying himself.

And afterwards he did a signing session, so we went baritone-stalking...

Rigoletto, Mafia-style, In English

English National Opera production at the Coliseum on Wednesday night.

A thoroughly enjoyable night out.

Rigoletto: Alan Opie
The Duke: Peter Auty
Gilda: Judith Howarth
Sparafucile:Brindley Sherratt
Maddalena: Leah-Marian Jones
Monterone: Hans-Peter Scheidegger
Marullo: David Stephenson
Borsa: Scott Davies
Ceprano: Paul Reeves
Conductor: Alexander Briger

Not exactly the star-studded cast that ROH fielded last summer. But if ENO was not so close geographically to ROH, we would be raving more about the high standards of performance there. As I explained to an Opera virgin smoker, ENO are an exceptionally good Regional company.

The production was brilliant, updated to a 1950s cocktail bar and mafioso-style characters. It has been in ENO's repertory since 1982, devised by Jonathan Miller. There was nothing in it that 'didn't work' and despite the updating, nothing that was inconsistent with the story as portrayed in traditional productions.

As in customary at ENO, it was sung in English. For the first time, they have a surtitle screen, which I believe to be a Good Thing. Officially, the surtitles are not launched until their next production Vaughan-Williams' Sir John in Love, and I did notice a few teething troubles, as the screen leaped ahead of the singing, or when there were small differences between the two scripts. But overall, not distracting, and an assistance to comprehension, although I would agree they were unnecessary for Alan Opie's superb diction.

I found the orchestra only mediocre. I did not notice them doing anything wrong, but it seemed one of their less inspired performances, a routine interpretation, bordering on the lack-lustre, but fortunately, nothing can destroy the music of Verdi. Rigoletto is a superb example of Verdi's most lyrical music at its best.

The star of the show was Alan Opie. Not a beautiful voice, but I don't think the role demands a beautiful voice. His portrayal of the hunchback jester bartender crossed the floodlights and grabbed the audience. To me a good Rigoletto is one who captures my sympathy, even though I know that he is not meant to be that sympathetic a character. And he, along with Verdi's poignant music, elevated me to tears at the end.

Peter Auty seemed to be playing the Duke as a caricature. Some bits were genuinely funny, especially the almost obsessive combing of his quiff, Fonz-style, but I felt that he was repeating a set of stage directions, and doing that well, rather than acting the role. It was difficult to believe he was a Great Seducer, certainly lacking in charisma, and thus it was difficult to understand why Gilda was besotted with him. I do not care for his voice. I could not fault him on technique or musical interpretation, and when he approached certain higher notes from just below pitch, I thought it was rational rather than random. But I felt that his voice was hollow; the Duke of Mantua is a lyric tenor role, and he lacked the lyricism. This was especially notable in the Bella Figlia Dell'Amore, which is a stunningly gorgeous quartet.

Gilda was sung by Judith Howarth who has a beautiful voice, despite a bit of squalliness towards the top. Her Caro Nome was - notwithstanding the ill-manners of the stupid ignorant rude sitting near me - a piece of transcendent beauty, in Bella Figlia Dell'Amore she was gorgeous. I thought her portrayal of Gilda was a bit two-dimensional and internalised, rather than projected to the audience; on the other hand, the character isn't complex and probably doesn't have much of a third dimension. She did expand the characterisation in the Final Act. I will forgive her the mediocre acting for the stunning musical delivery.

Special mention should go to Leah-Marian Jones as Maddalena. Only a small part but she has a gorgeous rich deep mezzo voice and a bubbly stage presence.

The musical highlights have already been mentioned. When the opening chords for La donna e mobile struck up, there was a rustle in the audience of 'I know this one'. It really is a fabulous tune. The trouble is, with tunes that everybody knows, it is because so many great and very good singers have recorded them, which just leaves the mediocre voice you hear live sound, well, mediocre.

As I explained to the smoking opera-newbie I enjoyed myself very much, even though it was a less then top drawer performance. It's nice when one does get a breathtakingly stunning performance, but they must not turn us into perfectionists and spoil an enjoyable evening at a brilliant opera performed well.

Other people, in public

It was always going to be one of those evenings.

Last week, .I discovered that ENO has adapted its online booking system to accept Maestro cards. I checked the dates of Rigoletto performances against my diary and decided to opt for the performance this Wednesday. Just as I pressed 'Confirm', I realised that I had actually selected the wrong date - I had booked a ticket for that evening. Only, I wasn't sure whether I had, because the page had frozen (this was the fault of the connection at work). The screen said if nothing happens, contact the Box Office. I prefaced my remarks with a warning that there was stupidity ahead. My transaction for that day had gone through, but it was absolutely no problem to change it to the day I actually wanted. The chap in the Box Office kept apologising, but I insisted that the fault lay entirely with me. It was nice that I could change the ticket at no extra charge, compared to earlier in the day when the Theatre Royal Haymarket had charged me an extra £3 per ticket on top of their advertised price, just for booking, without me making any mistakes.

I arrived horrendously early, a result of coming to a natural break in my work and finding a bus outside the office to speed me down Whitehall. I did think of going into the National Gallery, but decided that the hassle with bags and cloakrooms would take more time than I had for looking at pictures. I killed some time, and resisted spending money, in MDT.

I was stood outside the Coliseum having my last cigarette and I noticed a car pull up outside. If it had not stopped on the double yellows, I would not have even noticed. Indeed, if the passenger had just got out and the car had driven off, I still wouldn't have noticed. But it seemed to linger for a while, entering my consciousness. A man got out and I realised that I knew him. I expect my face registered that and he clocked that I recognised him. Just as I realised that it was off the telly. But at least I can say that I have stood just inches from Les Dennis! Could the evening get any better!

I went to take my seat before curtain up. To my left was a group of students, possibly Sixth Formers. I am always slightly wary of groups; I think in groups we all display less awareness of and consideration for those around us than we do in a twosome or foursome.

A party of faffers arrived to my right. There were three of them, but they were becoming anxious about the arrival of the fourth. They asserted confidently that he would be allowed in late because he was on the end of the row. They might be right, but I doubt it. ENO does not admit latecomers until a suitable break. I would be surprised if they made an exception for those on the end of the row.

I soon realised that I was surrounded by the Anti-Social morons from hell. Not the Students/Sixth Formers, to whom I was entirely oblivious throughout as they displayed the impeccable behaviour that ought to be taken as read for anyone in a theatre.

Before the opera began, there was the usual announcement about switching off mobile phones. ENO do it by playing two loud grating ringtones, which always gets a reaction from people with at least two braincells who have forgotten to switch theirs off. But the woman next to me exclaimed "I thought one couldn't bring mobiles in. I thought they were banned. It's outrageous if people are letting their phones ring." I was tempted to point out the message on the surtitle screen, but couldn't be bothered. I had already decided that she was one of those people who, realising that a good education would be wasted on her limited intelligence, had opted for Elocution lessons, the 'How to Sound Strangulated' class.

In front were four men, three middle-aged-ish and one who was a stereotype of how TV decides that a certain-type of 20-something gay man should be, his shallowness visible from ten yards in the dark. He turned to the chap next to him and simpered "But I love shows. I saw Martine McCutcheon in My Fair Lady, one of the few nights she was in it. And I've seen Mamma Mia three times." He proceeded to whisper loudly at various stages throughout. I hate being the sort of person who says "Ssssshhhhh" but it can be very distracting to have some twat constantly twittering away. During Care nome, one of the most sublimely gorgeous pieces of music in the entire operatic canon, he tweeted again, so I finally did my Sssshhhh, resentful that he felt he had the right to distract everyone around him. I want to explain, in a production such as this, not short of riveting stage action, when the Director (no less a person than Jonathan Miller) has opted to stop the action and allow the soprano more or less to stand-and-deliver, there is a reason for this. The reason is apparent if you listen to the music.

And the Mrs Stupid from Surrey exclaimed, in the loudest Stage Whisper, "Do you want to borrow my glasses?" to her husband - because he had discovered he could not read the surtitles. I did the sssshhing again, interrupting husband before he had barely begun his loud response.

At the first interval Mr And Mrs Surrey Stupid stood debating with their companions about whether they were going to swap around seating for the next Act. and stood and stood and stood, oblivious. Eventually Friend of the Surrey-Stupids said "I think this lady wants to get out". Mrs Stupid-Surrey turned to me and looked at me in the most condescending way "Oh, you want to get out?" in tones of utmost surprise, and as if she was set to challenge my right. Irritably I exclaimed "First you chatter away disturbing everybody else, then you stop people from getting out." I hate it when people's self-centredness turns me into a nasty person.

In the bar, a familiar voice caught my attention and I realised that I was stood right next to Shirley Williams. I remember her from when I was a child, someone I have always admired, and someone I regard as one of the most intelligent and principled politicians around, with whom I agree on a great number of issues. I also remember she had a reputation for being a bit unkempt, one newspaper cruelly called her a bag-lady. What I saw was a woman of seventy five looking fabulous. Smart, and surprisingly attractive. Ageing gracefully, not looking old but not pretending to be twenty years younger, and with a mellifluous voice. I felt that Mrs Stupid-Surrey, twenty years younger, could learn a lot.

The remainder of the opera went ahead without incident, although I had to laugh at Mrs Stupid-Surrey grandly announcing "This is the second interval" at the start of the second interval, just in case any of us were in any doubt. I don't know whether it was the effect of my ssshhhing but the Surrey-Stupids and Mr Shallow managed to keep their lips buttoned throughout. Of course, the Sixth Formers behaved impeccably throughout, and displayed charm and good manners in the trivial exchanges at the end of the intervals.

At the end I went to the Ladies. As I was coming out, I saw Shirley Williams and smiled at her, in my well-honed 'I recognise you as Someone Off the Telly and I am smiling to acknowledge that I have admiration for you but don't worry I'm not going to engage you in conversation' smile. She gave me a look of "I know you recognise me but that does not mean I have to acknowledge you." Whereas a couple of weeks ago, I walked past Clare Short and I gave her that same smile and she gave me a warm smile which said "I understand why you are smiling at me; I acknowledge and return it. I know you're not going to hassle me."

I caught the Tube home, by chance getting into a carriage with three very loud people. One was very drunk, as the other two reminded her frequently. She declared she wanted to be on a beach in Dubai, or to go to Petra, but it's really dangerous there because it's near Lebanon, and she has a friend whose girlfriend, who is really beautiful, is from Izmenistan, which is near Lebanon and dangerous and she is half Russian, half Arabic and half something else. "One of the Stans" suggested the Canadian bloke.

She engaged another threesome in conversation; one of the women asked Miss Drunk whether she spoke Spanish. "No, not really. Where are you from?"

"France," replied the woman.

"Really, France is really beautiful!"

"No, I'm from Spain, really." But her boyfriend was from France.

Spain is really beautiful. I'd love to be in Spain now because it's hot. And it's really beautiful.

"The weather's very cold in Spain at the moment," said the Spanish woman.

"Oh, maybe I could be in France. It's hot in France. And it's really beautiful in France. I love France. Don't you?"

"Not really!" exclaimed the French bloke.

"But it's really beautiful."

"It's full of French people!" explained the French bloke, causing most of the rest of the carriage to collapse in barely disguised laughter.

"Oh everyone's laughing at us. Maybe they're from Izmenistan, it's really beautiful there."

Time for the French bloke to change the conversation "So, what do you do?"

"Oh we're training to be opera singers, which is really beautiful because we go to operas every week. But I'm going home to see my Mum this weekend." And then it was my station.

Opera on TV

I am currently listening to last night's radio broadcast of Le Nozze di Figaro live from Covent Garden. Contrary to the email many of us received, it will not be shown on BBC2 on 25 February - Winter Olympics getting in the way - but apparently in April instead.

Meanwhile that evening, 25 February, S4C (available outside Wales on satellite) will be showing Wagner's Flying Dutchman live from Cardiff, starring Bryn Terfel. Reports from the Dress Rehearsal are that the production is utterly and unremittingly dreadful. But it has Bryn in it. And Gidon Saks. It starts just as Scotland v England finishes.

Minutiae of government

The 1944-45 Clothing Quiz is not as exciting as it seems.

If only the Colorado Beetle cards were attached...

Willcock v Muckle has become eerily topical.

If the War Office were wanting the Police's Automatic Pistols, what were the police doing with them in the first place?

No harbouring of deserters allowed. Them being over-paid, over-sexed, over here foreigners is no defence.

MP3 player

I love new toys. Especially when they have a functional purpose as well.

I have spent a lot of time being unconvinced about the need in my life for an MP3 player.

I am now an instant convert. And the sound quality at 96 mps is fine, the main limiter being earphones. Certainly doesn't seem any worse than listening to CDs on a Walkperson. Probably not for the audiphile, though.

Mine arrived on Friday and I have spent a lot of time since transferring a sliver of my CD collection there onto.

Apparently, it's already quarter full, but I feel as though I have barely skimmed the surface. That having been said, there's a lot of duplication. I mean how many times do I need one singer singer Una furtiva lagrima (probably four less than I have - but I'll have to do a comparative listen and decide which one to keep...)

The battery seemed to be getting low about mid afternoon, but actually it held out until halfway up Brixton Hill, so that was cool. I had it on shuffle and my colleague decided to Fast Forward through "Mozart, Mozart, Mozart...Cyndi Lauper...okay, interesting"

Later in the day, two of them burst out laughing at the sound of cRap emanating from my ears. I thought I had judiciously omitted all the dodgyness when I was uploading a few compilation CDs yesterday. But I had underestimated quite how grotesque Run DMC v Jason Nevin is, as I fought a sensory assault and couldn't fling the earphones off quickly enough to press pause/delete.

The runner up Song of the Day is Underworld's Born Slippy, which is just so weird. It has all this ambient stuff that gets me going, then suddenly it breaks into "lager lager lager lager Mega mega white thing Mega mega white thing". I don't think the lyrics hold up to scrutiny but it goes from being trance studenty music to the sort of thing that chav blokes shout in the pub thinking it makes them cool. But what the hell, good music transcends genre...

But my Song of the Day is one that arrived in the post this morning Rolando Villazón singing Com'è gentil from Donizetti's Don Pasquale. I must do a comparison against Juan Diego Florez's version. I am such an anorak.

World Cup concert

In conjunction with the World Cup, there wil also be a Cultural Festival, including l 3 Orchester und Stars concert in Munich, just before the tournament starts.

There's a programme now available. Gosh, that "Fußball Medley" looks fun...not...

Footballers in the News of the World

My site referral statistics are telling me some names....

Will Young
Matt Taylor
Jermaine Jenas
Cristiano Ronaldo
Alan Smith

Actually, those last two names have featured frequently in my site stats for a couple of weeks now...

Update: Incidentally, double standards alert having got all those search requests I felt the urge to click to the NOTW story. I'm neither linking or copying it; by next Sunday it will have disappeared out of cyberspace.

I happen to think that it's an example of tabloid journalism at its worst. Assuming the story to be true, and regardless of who the names may or may not be, it is absolutely not in the public interest to publish it - just because the public is, clealy and inevitably interested, I cannot find any justification for publishing what some young men happen to do in private. Indeed, it seems to me that it is an invasion of their privacy, with no justification.

There is a public interest to be served in outing politicians, journalists, religious people etc who preach homophobia in public and practice homosexuality in private. But a bunch of footballers and a pop star, who, if it is that one, we all know to be gay anyway, and to my knowledge has never demonstrated any hypocrisy about it. The footballers, whether they are genuinely bisexual or just bi-curious, experimenting, or whatever, so what. What is the problem?

Actually, the problem lies with many of those who are desperate to know the identities. Although we live in a society which (often grudgingly) accepts that some showbiz people and politicians are gay, we haven't been able to accept that sportsmen are (and we're a bit unsure about sportswomen, too).

It must be extremely difficult for a footballer who is young, who operates in that macho neanderthal largely homophobic world one moment and then goes to the trendiest nightspots in eg Manchester and discovers lots of other young men who are out gay, or relaxed about their bisexuality, or just totally metrosexual. Probably some of those footballers have non-footballing friends who are gay, but then a footballer or two gets 'found out' and they're up against the retarded views of the News of the World, when suddenly, it's quite a different deal from the designer bars of Canal Street.

In my ideal parallel universe I would love the News of the World to explainwhy this story matters. It is only printed to sell copies. Naturally, I didn't buy a copy, but my interest was stimulated. If their sex life interferes with their performance on the pitch, well, that's another matter, but one that could never be proved, and is likely to occur whether the sex is gay or straight, casual or in a committed relationship.

The Ultimate Captcha

CAPTCHA stands for Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart

Cropping up more and more frequently on blogs as a method to deter Comments Spam.

A randomly generated pattern of letters. When I spot them, I try to make a meaningful word from them.

Today I got "PMTPS"

On some days this could be strangely fitting. Those days when one's whole commenting pattern is nothing more than a PMT PS.

Non-thought for the Day

I am one of those people who would gladly see the back of the Today programme's Thought for the Day. (But to be active on it would turn me into one of those people who campaigns about Radio 4's output shudders...). When doctors ask that slightly embarrassing question about regularity, I'm often tempted to reply "during Thought for the Day..."

There are one or two worth listening to. I like Rabbi Jonathan Sachs. Okay, I like Rabbi Lionel Blue, too. So, perhaps we could rearrange it as Rabbi's Thought for the Day. There's a thought.

I can't stand the 'trendy vicars' be they Evangelical Christians or Sikhs, who use any excuse for a metaphor. When England won the Ashes, I nearly vomited at the twee allegories this produced from too many of the preachers that invade my bedroom uninvited.

There's another speaker who is often on, a chap called John Bell, who I usually find acceptable. I would still prefer to do without the homilies, but his outlook tends to be one of respect for the oppressed. So I was seething with anger yesterday when he raised the issue of the Cartoons. His argument seemed to be that printing these cartoons, which are deemed offensive to Moslems, was equivalent to printing cartoons satirising Jewish victims of the Holocaust or sexual abuse victims.

I simply cannot accept that analogy as valid in anyway whatsoever.

People choose to be Moslem. It is a belief system with an intellectual basis. Being a victim is not something that people choose, whether as a victim of the Holocaust, or of sexual abuse, or of anything else.

Not that I am saying that there is any justification for Religious Persecution. There is an element of Religious Hatred which is tantamount to racism, or, at least stems from the same hating gene as racism. This is recognised in English Law with discrimination against Jews and Sikhs being outlawed on the grounds of racial discrimination, as a way of ensuring that the law applies equally in the case of non-worshipping, non-believing Sikhs and Jews. A friend of Jimmy's, who is from a Hindu background, is concerned that the current furore and displays of anger will again make him target for the racism that is disguised as righteous protest against Moslems.

I am sorry I missed Newsnight the other night, which included a Roundtable Discussion between a spokeshench for that bloke with a hook who finally got convicted of being murderous bastard. Others in the debate included Ann Cryer, the estimable MP for Keighley, a former Conservative Parliamentary candidate - a Moslem woman - and a male Moslem academic from Oxbridge. I am reliably informed that the henchthug's arguments boiled down to the women being insufficiently covered and the chap having insufficient of a beard.

I wish I could remember on whose blog I read the comment "Were the Religious Hatred Bill to become law could people be prosecuted under it for bringing their own religion into disrepute...?" It would be interesting, but could the Court Service cope with the deluge?

And it's gold for Great Britain!

Winter Olympics | GB curlers awarded belated gold

Let's see how many more we win.

My prediction - one bronze...

Another Figaro review

I never realised that Socialist Worker did reviews of operas. Well, not from the Royal Opera House, anyway

...Mozart’s most overtly political opera...The struggle against aristocratic privilege it depicts clearly foreshadows the great French revolution of 1789.

The opera is filled with a sense of indignation against class rule and it expresses the 18th century Enlightenment’s optimism – the possibility of progress and a new, more just society.

Although there is an occasional commenter here whose partner has suggested selling copies of Socialist Worker in the Vilar Floral Hall.

A Man For All Seasons

You know, I really hate that celebrity worship thing when people book a theatre ticket just to see a star name.

In other news, I have just rung up the Theatre Royal Haymarket to book a couple of tickets for Robert Bolt's fascinating play about Sir Thomas More.

"May I have two tickets for..." I said

"Sure," said the woman. I felt a frisson of delight, thinking she had said...oh, never mind...

Thought for a Friday afternoon

I work in an organisation of 23,500 people, approximately. Not including the other, associated, bits which are in tens and tens of thousands.

To the best of my knowledge not one of my colleagues has a blog; nor am I aware of any one of them reading mine.

In a sense it puts the minisulity of blogging into perspective.

If you know any different, I would be curious. Confidentiality guaranteed if desired.

Brainwashing is us

This was on TV last week, and we recorded it, and I've just walked out of it.

Alternative Health: Healing

I think it makes me angry.

To me, it's obvious, that there are great number of low-level chronic conditions that are an interplay between mind and body. They mentioned eczema. I suffered it as a child; in theory I still do. At about age ten, my GP flippantly remarked it could be exacerbated by Manchester United losing, then checked he'd got the right team. But his flippancy aside, he was observing, even back in the Seventies, that psychology has a major influence over chronic conditions.

Some of us remember Pat "One in a million" Seed, who was supposed to have terminal cancer and die, but through sheer will-power and a determination to raise £1million, lived well beyond her prognosis, until her husband was killed in a freak methane gas explosion. Soon after, she died.

This programme started with footage of some dreadful hysteria-raising preacher who got people to walk out of their wheelchairs by saying "Hallelujah" a few times at a football stadium.

A couple of years ago my aunt had a hip replacement and said her recovery was down to religion or Holy Water or some such, to which my mother, really quite religiously obsessed herself, questioned "Wasn't it down to the NHS and advances in medical science?".

I'm not knocking any individual's personal religious beliefs. A great many of my best friends are people who are seriously spiritual Christians, Moslems, Hindus, Jews or whatever. I don't think there is one reader of this blog who knows what my spiritual beliefs are.

I find it extraordinarily arrogant that anyone can say with absolute certainty, that there is not a Higher Power out there, be it the literal God or Allah or G-d of the ancient scriptures, or a more difficult to define Mother Nature-type figure. I think that religion, more so than politics, or music, or even football, is an area where it is wise to accept the private beliefs of others without question and with tolerance.

What I find problematic is where people use their religious beliefs, whether of an old-fashioned centuries old world religion, or whether of a 21st Century New Age type, to oppress or brainwash others. From the few minutes I watched of this programme, until I walked out in disgust, I was appalled at how these evangelical preachers prey upon the poor, stupid and vulnerable, ultimately by taking far too much of their money. "Mind over matter" is an ancient proverb. If you believe you will be healed, you will be.

I knew a guy; when I first met him he had no hair. I didn't realise I had not seen him for some months; when I did, he had hair. He had cancer. He was not a spiritual person in any conventional sense, but he believed in humanity and he believed in the world. He seized each morning as a thing of beauty and lived each day as if it was his last. I don't know if he danced, because I wasn't watching. I don't know of he loved, but even though we were only neighbours, he obviously made an impact on my life, because I'm writing about him fifteen years later.

It makes me angry to see a GP in a polka dot bow tie (as an aside, what is that about) expressing his incredulity at faith healing. If he had been doing his job rather than accepting the payola of the drugs companies, he would have known that psoriasis, along with moderate depression and a host of other conditions, is far better healed by treating the patient holistically as a person rather than as a mere receptacle for prescription drugs. And that's what the faith healers do.

We were in conversation with someone a few weeks ago. (Actually, their friends, whilst tipsy, expressed they were never happier than when discussing their ailments; in J and me they found captive audience). The woman had been in a car crash forty years ago; as age crept up on her, she found greater problems with her musceo-skeletal system, until she found a sports therapist who was a qualified nurse and physiotherapist with a psychology degree. Within weeks, she had seen a marked improvement in the condition that had troubled her since university.

I find it frustrating that people are so busy filling their time with reality TV shows and Heat! magazine, they don't spare the time to find out about themselves. By not knowing about themselves, by being free-choosing agents of brainwashing by the forces of capitalism, they lack they intellectual rigour to recognise when they are the unwitting victims of brainwashing by the forces of Organised Religion.

I always try and distinguish between Organised Religion and personal spiritual belief. OR is a political party, the biggest, most totalitarian, the most oppressive , the most destructive and murderous force in the world, now and throughout history. Personal spiritual belief is what keeps one sane, what keeps one human, as long as it is accompanied by intellectual discovery and personal soul searching, rather than unquestioningly accepting the teachings of the vested interest as a lazy add-on to Reality Celebrity TV and vacuous conspicuous consumption.

One day, I expect, I shall wake up a Buddhist. It seems to make sense. But my intellect fights against being told a set of rules, when God, or g-d, or Allah, or Mother Nature, has given me the capacity to work things out for myself. For me, it would be the worst sin of all to ignore what my mind, unbidden, is telling me is right. And wrong.

The World's Most Boring Holiday Photos

I am slowly editing the photos I took on holiday in Goa. Not the most memorable holiday; one of wasted opportunities, and that is reflected in the appalling quality of the photos I took, when I could be bothered to. I haven't finished yet. I think I have photo-editor's block, not assisted by a mouse that is slightly broke. But I don't tend to replace things until they're totally broke. And I am horrified at how neglected my poor little photoblog is....

Jimmy took some pictures of me paddling topless in the sea, but I'm a bit shy to embed them in this entry, so if you want to see them, you'd best View this photo or View this photo

Don't look me, I'm boring. Don' t look at me getting my tits out, I'm shy