Gertsamtkunstwerk

I'm a sex addict!

The other week I was surfing teh intertubes and, for some reason, I got diverted into following links about sex addiction. After a while, I came to the startling conclusion that I am, in fact, a sex addict. This came as some surprise to me because I previously imagined that sex addiction, like other addictions, involves an excessive consumption of such product - an alcoholic drinks too much alcohol, a drug addict takes drugs etc.

I read on further and learned that addiction isn't necessarily measured by the amount that one consumes but about the control it has over one's life. I also learned that sex addiction, in common with over-eating addiction (and presumably other compulsive behaviours such as shopping and cleaning) in that it is necessary to find a suitable level, whereas it is possible to live without any alcohol, drugs etc.

What made me conclude that I am a sex addict is not that I am out screwing anything that moves, because I'm not. In fact, I do not think that I am revealing anything particularly personal by observing that I have been in a monogamous relationship for seven years.

What makes me a sex addict, apparently, is that I can tick the box for a number of questions. One of those is whether I think about more sex more frequently than actually doing it? Do I get aroused by pornography (bearing in mind that pornography doesn't just include pictures but also words - hmm, does it also include music?). Do my fantasies extend beyond the reality of my life. Well,yes...Oh, they mean specifically sexual fantasies? I'm not sure that one fantasising about fictional situations involving sex is radically different from one fantasising about fictional situations not involving sex, like, right now, I am fantasising I am lying on a yacht in sunny warm climes with a steady supply of low-alcohol cocktails.

I have to say that having read quite a lot of stuff available on the internet, I am unconvinced of the existence of such a thing as 'sex addiction'. At worst it is a way of saying "I am not responsible for my behaviour cos it's an addiction" or a way of saying "I behave in a way that is at odds with the dominant ethos of my community." I think in general most people behave in ways that they know is not their ideal. I did read one paper by a clinical psychologist who used case studies of actual sex addicted patients. This psychologist made the point that 'sex addiction' is often seen alongside other behaviours such as drug addiction, and that the drug addiction cannot be cured unless the sex addiction is. Or that many people who are diagnosed as sex addicts have a history of being abused. She cited a woman who during her residential treatment discovered that she was pregnant for the third time by someone other than her husband to whom she had been married also for her other adulterous pregnancies. I don't need it spelling out to me that that is a massive problem, but other stuff on the internet suggests that it's fairly common amongst women who just have a fling from a stale or disintegrating marriage (not that I'm condoning, but that appears to be factual).

I suppose what struck me most was the connection with religion. A great number of the solutions appeared to be based in religion. I know that many of the mainstream religious organisations do a great deal of excellent work in the field of substance abuse and other connected problems and I also know that quite a lot of the whacky ones are pretty good at getting people to relinquish their alcohol/sex etc crutch. But I do feel that they are simply replacing one crutch with another. And yes, we all need crutches, and they are only problematic when we rely on them too much to the detriment of other aspects of our lives.

What shocked me most was the subjective nature of a sex addiction diagnosis. I read one case study of a man who was diagnosed because as a teenager he thought about sex a lot, once got aroused when he saw his teenage cousin naked. At 20 he gave up Christianity and started masturbating, sometimes as much as twice a day. Then he got a girlfriend and wanted to have sex with her on a daily basis. He also used pornographic magazines (unspecified but I inferred we are talking Playboy or Penthouse rather than Illegal Hardcore). He got married and wanted sex with his wife. But then he got god again and no longer thinks about sex as much. I couldn't help thinking that he was at his most 'normal' and 'healthy' during his period of so-called sex addiction.

I'm not trying to trivialise the problems that people find in overcoming compulsive behaviour, and I would be naive to suggest that the solution is to do it a bit less. But I just think that the convenient labelling of unacceptable behaviour is just that - a labelling. If one feels that one's behaviour is out of step with the norm, it may be worth examining whether the norm is actually desirable. But it seems that certain behaviour - such as so-called sex addiction - is an attempt to mask other problems such as low self-esteem. I'm not sure that the best solution for deep-seated problems is curing the symptoms. And sometimes, people behave in a way that is almost deliberate in its capacity to hurt others. In fact, we all do up to a point. I am writing this on the computer while listening to music. That is time I could be spending being nice to my partner.

Oh heck, maybe I'm an internet addict, maybe it's a displacement activity for the rampant prolific varied sex that would scare me stupid if I had the opportunity to pursue.

Feeling rubbish

I just want to give up.

I have spent the last few weeks feeling as ess aitch one tee as I have ever felt in my life. I wish I could do something about it. I wish I could get better. I wish I could feel confident enough to make plans to do exciting things. Like, oh, I don't know go into work for a whole day. a whole week of whole days (where one week = 3 days). Or go to Sainsburys to get, you know, food. And cook it.

I wish I could drink the odd drop of alcohol without getting totally spaced out.

I might be the only person enjoying this monsoon summer (and heartfelt sympathy to anybody whose life is affected by flooding), because I, who used to be a sun worshipper is scared of the heat. It isn't so bad if I'm in an officially hot place - I who used to sneer at people who went on holiday just to lie on the beach can't do anything else - but in London, a city built on the assumption of constant mild drizzly weather, I can't cope. I have done bugger all today. I got up mid morning; I had a bath and a lie-down and now at not even ten o'clock I just want to go to bed and sleep. All my body aches, my heart keeps bursting out into rapid beating, and I am completely without energy. I would really like three months off work, even though that would mean three months without pay, followed by a P45 and eternal unemployability.

No need for sympathy. I think I actually need a good laugh, I need totally unconstructive advice, stuff coming in from left-field and totally taking the piss out of me.

I'm right fed up.

Two interviews with Plácido

Both in Spanish.

Plácido Domingo dice que 'en los próximos años, voy a tener bastante conexión con el teatro en Madrid'. I do like the way the writer mentions that he arrived alone at a Madrilenian hotel for the interview (although his grandson arrived at the end).

A longer interview in Elle. It says the full article is in the print edition but I couldn't find it in Smiths at Victoria Station yesterday :-(

Also contains a photo gallery

And a brief review of last Saturday's concert at the Teatro Real, including a couple of Baroque numbers.

Tuesday, Baden Baden. A week tomorrow Ravinia near Chicago. Then Salzburg. And then a couple of weeks off. In Acapulco I suppose.

Great Expectations

No, not the book. The album by Tasmin Archer. I look at the packaging and realised that it was produced in 1992. I have no memory of actually buying it, although I had not forgotten it was in my record collection. I expect I mosied along Streatham High Road one Saturday afternoon, and found myself perusing the racks in Woolies or Virgin and bought this on the basis of what seemed at the time to be a reasonably good single, Sleeping Satellite, I guess.

Taking this out of the case i immediately take a dislike to the packaging. An inlay card that contains lyrics. Generally, including of lyrics with a CD is there to aid understanding and thus enjoyment. I have nearly perfect vision, with my spectacles it is perfect. I really can't be bothered to read these, though. Tiny pitch, faint ink and worst of all total absence of capital letters. Pretentious tosh. Why write something and then make it difficult to read? Rudeness.

So, onto the music. Well, it's harmless and non-irritating. There are tunes. Not great or memorable tunes, but tunes. Too much computer-generated instrumentation and mindless dull repetitive drumbeat. She has a voice. A weak insipid voice but one that basically holds a tune.

I expect I shall play this again in about five years time, but I can't say that buying it, possessing it, or playing it has improved my life in any sense. Actually, it's quite irritating. I vowed when I started this nonsense all those years ago that I would play every record in my collection. No avoiding skipping or missing. And it is a matter of honour and integrity that I do so. It has struck me that - being fair and balanced - she has written these songs as a very personal outpouring of her emotions and experiences. I suppose for people that share those experiences this a very touching record, and I acknowledge that often music is a very constructive way of working through issues. But if one doesn't have those experiences or emotions it can be very alienating. Too harsh to say 'so what'. If it were great music and/or great poetry, the greatness would transcend the individual. But they're not so they don't. But maybe they hold meaning for other people. And that's good. Perhaps at the time I bought I was wanting to understand other people's lives and thought that disposable pop music was the key. And now I know it's not. Unless it's my life I need to understand. In which case there are more suitable pop artists.

Celebrities, dontcha luv em

So, Britney gets even more classy; first the marriage that didn't last long, then the one that everyone knew would be short-lived, and now she's pregnant again, but doesn't know who the father is.

Then Lindsay Lohan, apparently she's been in films, but none that I've seen, goes sunbathing in Malibu* but keeps her dress round her ankles to hide her tag she's picked up for drink driving. Then gets in a car and drives, and gets arrested. What is it with these people completely addicted to cars? Can't they, like, walk? Or with - presumably - her money, couldn't she have called a minicab?

But Celebrities of the Week must go to Jordan and Peter in their naming of their new daughter (have you noticed how these plastic clebs all breed like rabbits?)

We've put an accent over the first A to make it more exotic and two Is at the end just to make it look a bit different

. And her first name is 'Princess'! Ooh, nothing like damaging a child for life. Doubt she'll be getting GCSEs with a name like that! I remember that Wayne and Waynetta Slob called their child Spudulike because it was exo'ic! Classy!

* I thought that was a drink

Jealous steroids

I give you the mmofm 'Comment of the Week'. Strictly speaking, it is against the mmofm commenting policy because it insults my readers (and friends). But with kind permission of Giorgia and Silverfin, I bring you:

Hey! Gert, giorgia, silverfin

You jealous steriods are into yourself. What a Shame. Paul Potts identifies with a lot of people throughout the world. In this sad world he came along and lifted some hearts with joy, dreams, and hope. You steriods are a lost cause.

J. Bernard

Naturally, both of them wanted to know what a steroid is, especially a jealous one, and I only hope that Faye and Scary, who also commented on that post aren't jealous steroids at not being called 'jealous steroids'.

I always love it when criticism of the mediocre is labelled as 'jealousy'. It seems to me something limited to the fanatics of crappy cr***o**r shit singers - Potts, Dame Kathleen von Warbling-Barbie-Jenkins of Neath Port Talbot and Bridgend, and Andrea Senzatalento. I have written reviews of actual live performances, including even singers I adore (Nanci Griffith, for example) where I have expressed disappointment and criticism, and nobody has suggested jealousy. I am critical of footballers and football teams, politicians and political parties, vacuous journalists, dumbed-down TV, close personal acquaintances - and nobody has ever said that I am jealous. I would love to know what it is that I am jealous of.

I suppose it could be jealousy that someone with no discernible talent has made six-figure sums but it's been scientifically proven that pursuit of money creates unhappiness rather than happiness. How these frauds can look in the mirror in the morning is beyond me. Frankly, if I wanted to prostitute myself, I'd do it on my back in a sleazy hotel room rather than by obtaining money from the ignorant and terminally stupid under false pretences.

Meanwhile, we learn that Britons 'happy to own fakes' , which is rather proven by the presence of Potts the Pub Crooner at the top of the album charts. The pop album charts,naturally...

A day out

As the day progresses one has random thoughts and observations. Twitter can be quite useful in capturing and broadcasting in 140 characters.

I wonder how much I can remember from random thoughts and observations.

Sitting at the traffic lights in Brixton Town Centre I spotted Cllr Toren looking alarmingly and amusingly as if he didn't know his way around Brixton Town Centre, specifically that bit outside the Town Hall.

Topping up Jimmy's Oystercard at the Tube some bloke started begging. I assumed he was more specifically trying to distract and dip so I told him to 'go away' (yes, those were my actual words!). He then tried the people behind us, but not until they were ready to use the machine. The bloke engaged him in conversation being all apologetic. I wanted to clock him (the bloke behind). Any conversation only encourages them; don't be so naive to think that such a person is worthy of compassion - he's a robber looking to exploit weakness.

On the Tube I noticed a man about my age try to give up his seat to an older woman with a stick. She was only going one stop so declined.

There was a woman stood in front of me. Obviously a follower of fashion. I noticed that her top - as well as being about half a size too small - was appallingly badly made. All the hems were upturned and fraying. One more wash and it will fall apart. I also noticed that she had the hairiest back I have ever seen on a woman. At first I thought it was an extended hairline but it was definitely a back hairier than most men. Now, I know that women actually have as much body hair as men and that an obsession with total depilation is verging on disturbing infantilism, but if I had a back that hairy I would either wear my hair down (she had long hair, pinned in a chignon) or I would wear a higher top.

I was annoyed at Starbucks (it was a stupid place to go because their coffee is crap, but logistically it was convenient considering the time involved). I asked if they had any chilled water. They pointed at the fridge but the water wasn't chilled. I requested a refund because I had asked for chilled water, it wasn't chilled. Why people looked at me as if I was weirdo, I don't know. If I had wanted to pay £1.20 for warm water that's what I would have requested.

I came to the conclusion that it is no surprise that I am an alcoholic*. In the Floral Hall I made what I thought was a simple drinks request - an orange juice and lemonade. A baby bottle of each; standard bar order. Only, the bottles weren't chilled. I queried this, the bar staff said that some people don't like cold drinks. Actually, I tend to agree. So why does almost every bar consider it necessary to add ice - that's yer frozen tap water - into every sodding drink? If I wanted to drink tap water, I'd have asked for it. And then the drink didn't fit into the glass I was given, so I asked for a bigger one. No can do. So, Royal Opera House, you charged me way over the going rate for a warm orange juice and lemonade, served in an inadequate glass, diluted with tap water. It would have been far simpler for me to order wine. But not at 2.15 on a nearly empty stomach.

We sat outside a restaurant, under the awning, protected from the rain. We specifically asked if it was okay to smoke. The waitress specifically drew our attention to the provided ashtray. Someone came to sit on the next table. We lit up. This woman kicked up a fuss and demanded to be moved to another table - inside the half empty restaurant. So, you have chosen to sit at one of of four tables outside a restaurant on Bow Street where there is a constant procession of internal combustion engines belching out noxious fumes, but then you object to someone smoking. Get real and get a sense of perspective. (Or are you so thick you base your opinions on the latest media bandwagon). Oh, by the way, our bill came to over £60. You didn't stay long enough for a main course to be cooked; your entire bill was probably smaller than our tip. Oh, and you were rude to the serving staff. That is entirely unacceptable.

On the Tube going home, Jimmy gave up his seat to a man with a white stick. Later, on the next stage of the journey, two separate thirty-something men gave up their seats to women in their 70s.

On the bus, two children barely out of Primary School were playing cRap on their phones, loud. I decided I would go and have a word, but Jimmy wouldn't let me out of the seat, saying it's not worth it; the bloke in front - who turned out to be an off-duty bus driver - agreed it's not worth it. The other day some driver confronted some kids and they pulled a gun out of their bag (I'm sceptical - a knife maybe, but I doubt a gun very much). My attitude is that if no one in the community tells children that their behaviour is unacceptable (and that I had a better quality music player before their parents were born!), they escalate the anti-social element until it is knives and guns aimed at bus drivers. He said when he was young a good clip around the ear was all it took when he was young, but what else do you expect 'round here'. I said a clip around the ear just demonstrates that violence = power, and how dare he say that my neighbourhood deserves scum. In any case, most teenagers try it on, push the boundaries and act thoughtlessly, but aren't gun-wielding maniacs. I cited two incidents in the past year when I mildly rebuked teenagers, one at the bus stop, one on a bus, for throwing litter. They apologised and picked up their litter. I thanked them. I knew full well they had been properly brought up but away from the beady eye of MumandDad they forgot. I have every confidence such children are and will be positive members of society.

I went home and suddenly overcome by the effects of half a bottle of wine and a grappa I retired to bed for half the evening.

Tonight I am supposed to be going to a local meeting about our latest planning blight. I would feel a lot happier if I thought it would be over in an hour, but I have this dread that it will be three hours of talking I don't want.

* I'm not

My hero...

I seem to have accumulated links and photos in various parts of my computer that I really ought to have been blogging.

So here goes:

Plácido Domingo hizo todas las obras que soñó - he confirms that he intends to continue singing for some years more, although he has done all the roles he dreamed of doing but obviously there wasn't much Baroque around when he started off, requiring a change of career direction and a reassessment of dreams?

Report on a Big Screen Madama Butterfly in Madrid, conducted by Plácido: Miles de personas comparten con el Real una vibrante 'Madama Butterfly', although actually just a review of Madam Butterfly

The World's Greatest Singer gives an interview about...conducting - No creo en la tiranía del director de orquesta - somehow, I can't imagine him as a tyrannical conductor.

A great headline El irresistible carisma de Plácido Domingo

There's going to be a statue of him in Mexico City - Domingo inaugurará estatua con su imagen, because he is a great artist, a great singer and a great human being. More details Plácido Domingo, en bronce

No comment on this...

Update: A future appearance on The Simpsons

Homer becomes an opera star, and he has these groupies who are these middle-aged matrons that chase him around and Marge is really jealous.

Middle aged matrons? Oh, they're after Homer!

Purging

We are slowing exorcising the evil spirits from the house by expunging clutter and expiating it in the hope we can inter without fear of exhumation.

Quite why I have come up with such dramatic prose when all I am doing is clearing out the Filing Cabinet in the spare bedroom. The top drawer contains mainly detritus collected over 9 years in the Evil Audit Empire opposite Victoria Coach station. I decided to hang onto my training notes in case they come in handy. they haven't, not in 9 years. In any case teh internets eliminate the need for retention of reference materials. And Government Accounting has changed dramatically in that time.

I retained my entire personnel folder, including drafts of performance reports for staff I have long forgotten. And notification of my performance from as long ago as 1990. I have ditched my Training Log, but definitely kept two pristine copies of my CIPFA P3 Project, the ultimate test of professional competence, shows other accountancy institutes to be also-rans! I found a really nice and glowing reference from the lovely Wendy; I also found bad stuff. Evidence of poor management and victimisation from the early nineties*. What was most interesting was notes of a meeting with personnel from 1996 about sickness absence. It was agreed that 'aching legs' was a poor description on the sick form, and an inaccurate description of the complex symptoms I was suffering, which were remarkably similar to what I have been suffering since 2004...limb ache to the point of immobility and extreme drowsiness. Then I start remembering other things eg my poor attendance at the contracting job I had in late 1999. It's been a revelation, of sorts. But I don't know what to make of it. Except that in 1996 I was diagnosed by my GP as having a potassium deficiency, which frankly, is unlikely in someone who has a dislike of salt verging on intolerance.

Nevertheless, the bulk of junk from the Evil Audit Empire must be put into recycling, the rest has to go through the shredder. A sacrificial bonfire has occurred to me but that would make me an anti-social neighbour.

Perhaps the nightmares will stop...

I am sure somewhere there is paperwork for the defunct Streatham Women's Section and the Governing Body of the long-closed Ashby Mill School

* I was accused of a 'lack of commitment' for failing to go to the client's premises on a day that the IRA laid bombs on the only railway line to Client's Premises. Yes, that petty...As well as my failure to carry out 250 hours of challenging work in two weeks!

Don Giovanni

Not my favourite Mozart opera, even though 'the experts' claim it to be the greatest (they've obviously never heard Le Nozze di Figaro!).

It is a lovely work, but, relatively speaking, it has its longeurs.

Also, as I discovered as a result of two separate visits, it really can depend upon the conductor. The first time I attended it was conducted by Ivor Bolton. I might have been prejudiced by the reviews that I read previously ('not fit to conduct a bus') except that on the second hearing, I thought during the overture that it was much crisper and, generally, much better. I consulted my cast list and realised that the bloke with the baton was David Syrus. And even though I don't tend to notice - or at least can't really critique - the standards of conducting, I can definitely perceive a step-change in the performance of the orchestra and how the piece and the ensemble hang together.

I have already blogged my thoughts on the actual story of the opera. I do think that story-wise, it is in a small minority of non-Wagnerian operas with plots, story and characterisations that merit re-evaluation and discussion. I was struck by how the Don 's portrayal was slightly Aspergers/ADHD. A companion suggested that she found it difficult to believe that he would have just murdered the Commendatore. I think she was implying that he simply wasn't sufficiently evil, but I contend that it is a superb definition of amoral - a failure to understand the consequences of actions and how they impact others and, ultimately oneself. He killed the Commendatore because he got in the way. I read something recently about the spate of teenage gun/knife deaths and how these juvenile gang members simply do not understand that knives kill nor do they have any concept of the finality of death. And I felt the Don had that adolescent absence of empathy. Even his prolific shagging is not done with any thought as to whether it's right or wrong, it's just something he does.

I thought that in general the cast was excellent. Erwin Schrott as the eponymous hero was excellent. There is some debate about his method of delivering recitative. On the first occasion it was parlando, on the second less so. Unlike some others I don't think it detracts from his performance. I am certain it is a carefully considered interpretation. Vocally I could not fault him. I think he has a gorgeous voice and excellent musicianship,which are in themselves enough to make his performance a memorable Don. The fact that he also happens to be an excellent stage actor and somewhat aesthetically pleasing, too, is a bonus! Especially as his clothing gets less. In the scene when the stone statue of the Commendatore comes to life (except it doesn't in this production), he is dressed only in tight fitting crimson silk trousers, and insists on pouring wine down his chest and onto his trousers. which is just unnecessary, although perfectly pleasant to watch! And the very final shot is  a glimpse of him in hell, almost certainly wearing nothing at all, although holding a woman in a position sufficiently strategic to retain an element of doubt. Very unnecessary but perfectly agreeable. Whether that really is hell, I doubt, unless hell is about continuing one's earthly mistakes: a character like the Don may never find happiness, peace or self-awareness because of his insatiable libido.

Kyle Ketelsen was superb as Leporello, a fine singer, and managing to convey quite a complex contradictory character, clearly disapproving of the Don's performance, but whether from any moral grounds or merely because of the inconvenience and practical implications, it is difficult to say. I loved the way he delivered Madamina, il catalogo è questo was particularly impressive, making me conclude that it probably is the best - or equal best - number in the work.

Of the women I thought that Ana Maria Martinez was outstanding. I am still not entirely convinced that she is not a mezzo. What I am sure of is that she is a tremendous singer and a great comedy actress. I had not really previously thought of Donna Elvira as a comedy part, but Ana Maria played her convincingly so. I happen to think that Donna Elvira is the leading lady anyway, with far more interesting vocal bits and a fuller character, even though I often find her a bit pitiful - in this interpretation it was still a bit sad that she wanted Don Giovanni despite knowing about him what she did. But at least it was logical - as if she had calculated that his social status was worth marrying into, and in nay case he was better than being left on the shelf.

The peasant leads were played by Matthew Rose and Sarah Fox. I felt Matthew was under-parted, even though I really liked the way he played the not-very-bright character. I tend to agree with the critics who feel that Sarah was  a bit generic as Zerlina. That having been said, I do not think that she was helped on either occasion by the tempo in that very great duet La ci darem la mano which should have been much quicker. But it was obviously all about Don Giovanni, when it should have been partly about her.

Although Erwin Schrott was the lead role and clearly and unanimously the star of the piece, the star name was Anna Netrebko. She had missed the first couple of performances with a cold, and dropped out of the second half of my second performance, so I have to assume that she was cold-affected throughout the run, although I can't say I noticed. She was excellent, even though she obviously takes time to warm up. If you were judging solely on her first appearance, you wouldn't think much, but her big aria towards the end of Act I was a tour de force. Marina Poplavskaya was a splendid substitute in the second act of my second attendance. I would have liked to have heard her for an entire performance. She is clearly something special, and even though she is pretty wayward at the top of her range it doesn't seem to matter when the voice in general, the musicality, and the inhabiting the role are of such a high standard. I very much look forward to her Tatiana (Evgeny Onegin) and Elizabetta (Don Carlos) next season.

I had two different Commendatori; of the two Robert Lloyd was superb, and the other one wasn't.

I can't say I cared very much for the production. It did what it had to do, just about, but without anything particularly interesting. The set was a construction that dominated most of the stage, and for most of the time the singers were forced into a very small space at the front. There was nothing else in the way of set eg no furniture, abusable or otherwise. There was not much of excitement in the personenregie, I would dread to think how it would be if the cast were less instinctive actors. The final coup de theatre was fun,as the flames of hell rose up, but I don't think that one gimmick makes a production. I prefer Calixto Beito's English National Opera production by a degree of magnitude. One aspect that particularly annoyed me is what I refer to in my mind as the "Covent Garden Lower Orders Dance". It seems to me that the Royal Opera House Ladies Chorus, whenever they have to portray common people do so by a dance which involves holding their skirts. Just because it worked for "I'd Do Anything for You" in the film of Oliver! doesn't mean it has to be aped in every sodding opera. Stop it! Now!

There are lots of pictures at Playbill Arts and, of course at Arena Pal. My Stage Door Report

Exciting news on the new KatherineJenkins/Paul Potts duet

aka My Favourite French and Saunders sketch

So what was parody nearly twenty years ago becomes reality in the 21st century...

I Should be So Lucky

Paul Potts Pub Crooner

So the Toothy Wonder releases an album.

Don't all rush just yet.

In case you had forgotten exactly who Paul Potts is - and lord knows, I wish I had, but he keeps coming up in my Katherine Jenkins Google Alerts. He is the pub crooner of little talent who spluttered and warbled his way through almost a minute and a half of Nessun Dorma, sending the audience of musical ignorami into pant-wetting at their shock of hearing a tune (from the orchestra, well it wasn't an orchestra, it was a backing track of an orchestra). After one-and-a-half minutes of utter mediocrity, these people felt fit to declare on YouTube that Paul Potts has done more for opera than anyone and that he is the greatest opera singer of all time.

Incidentally, he marketed himself on this talent show as being shy and lacking in confidence, which seems bizarre for someone who stood as candidate for Bath City Council in 1995 (aged just 24) and again in 1999, getting elected for the Liberal Democrats.

In typical Lib Dim style, wanting to be all things to all people, in his CV for Bath Opera (by all accounts an amateur outfit for people prepared to pay to sing, much like a Sunday football team), he claimed to have studied for six months in Italy under Pavarotti. When it was suggested that this made him less of an untrained amateur than he had previously claimed, it quickly became that he had attended a masterclass held by Pav. Which was a good thing, because six months studying in Italy is six months not representing the electors of Bath. And as someone said on Facebook "Shy and humble my arse. I met him when he lurched up to London to sing for a certain North London opera company a few years back..."

Anyway, all that aside, the boy wonder, the best thing that has happened to opera since,oh well, you know, since somebody worked out how to hack gonads off choirboys, has released an album, filled with opera arias such as:

• Nessun Dorma from Puccini's Turandot,
• Time to Say Goodbye (Con te partiro) from some opera or other;
• Amapola, made famous by the Jimmy Dorsey Orchestra;
• Everybody Hurts (Ognuno Soffre) - that is an Italian (cos opera's Italian, innit) of REM's Everybody Hurts (Jesus Wept);
• Caruso - oh that's about a famous singer, so it's opera innit;
• Nella Fantasia, previously made famous by Dame Warbling Barbie of Neath Port Talbot;
• You Raise Me Up, also in foreign to be more sophistica'ed;
• My Way, in Italian, because it's a crap song in English that no one likes whether it be by Frank Sinatra or Sid Vicious;
• Cavatina, presumably from that well-known opera The Deer Hunter, and
• Music of the Night, made famous by Frank 'Ooh Betty' Spencer.

Sadly - or maybe not so sadly - I cannot find any excerpts online. It is my experience that new CDs usually include a track or two, or a promotional video, or 30 second excerpts of each track. However, despite searching Amazon, SonyBMG, PP's official website, PP's MySpace, I can't find a note of it. Perhaps it is so truly bad that they hope it will shift half a million to the thickos (by definition...), and he can fade back into the obscurity of 9-5. I suppose I could walk round to the Carphone Warehouse and buy a copy, but I think having to walk past past the newsagent and chemist makes it more of an effort than it's worth.

Although I am quite happy to pimp my ass to any mega media moduls for a consideration.

no idiotic comments, please

Defining the ages

Glastonbury organiser says festival is 'too middle-aged'

According to Michael Eavis, more tickets went to so-called middle-aged people this year because they were sold online and 'the middle aged' have better internet connectios that 16-18 year olds.

I suppose, because he is the organiser, he ought to know, but I don't follow this logic. Most 16-18 year olds are the offspring of 'the middle-aged' and presumably, therefore, on average, have the same internet speeds. Anyway, the internet experts keep telling us that teh internets are primarily for the youth market - based on MySpace usage or somesuch nonsense, I expect.

And finally, if middle-aged is those in their 30s and 40s, does ancient begin at 50?

There again, we had a discussion the other day about what constitutes a generation. I contended 20 years, my colleague said 25, then looked it up in his dictionary that said about 35, but my dictionary said 30.

I suppose my conclusion is - with so many things - age is a relative concept.

Bastille Day

I have no particular reason for celebrating Bastille Day. I do have a bit of French ancestry, allegedly, but I don't feel it. But I thought it would be a good excuse for playing the Marseillaise. Of course, if you are French, you never need an excuse. And if you live in a country visible from France that actually lacks a National Anthem, it's always worth playing the Marseillaise.

Oh, what the heck. It's almost nine minutes of stonking good music I found somewhere on t'internet and can't remember where...

Enjoy! this link from Rapidshare...

Lakmé

I went to see this last week at Opera Holland Park, quite possibly the most pleasant opera house in London, especially now it has a new auditorium and canopy and so on.

I knew almost nothing about Lakmé before I arrived, I even had to look up who wrote it: Leo Delibes. I did know one very pertinent thing about it and I think I disgraced myself by mentioning to my companion "British Airways". He was unfazed - we had already discussed how we would be half expecting 'The Pearlfishers' Duet'. But a couple of older blokes turned round and gave me that glare of "Get thee gone you ClassicFM lite person." I can't really blame them; I've used the same glare myself on occasion.

I soon learned that it is set in India in Monsoon season. Correction, it is set in Indian, and plays in London in Monsoon season. Fortunately, I managed to miss the worst of the rain, and would have missed it entirely if I had not insisted on stepping outside for a cigarette and a visit to the Ladies. I observed a woman arriving in a fairly posh frock and barefoot...carrying her sandals. I was rather pleased at being rather sensibly dressed for the office. But the canopy held the downpour off splendidly, and even seemed to shut up the peacocks.

The opera is quite pleasant, and I enjoyed it more than the previous night's Katya Kabanova at Royal Opera House. But I can see why it's rarely performed. Off the top of my head, there's only really three memorable numbers - the Flower Duet in the First Act (immortalised, it is said in the BA ad), the Bell song in Act 2 which has a spectacular and doubtless fiendishly difficult coloratura for the soprano in Act II, and a tenor aria in Act III.

Although I enjoyed the opera, the best bit for me was the dancing in the Temple in Act II - and as I look in the programme I find mention of Devadasis, of which I made mention on Sunday - so they must have been there in my subconscious.

On the plus side, I would give credit for producing a rarely-performed opera, and for an entertaining production. I don't know enough about India and Hinduism to guess how authentic it is, and the extent it was authentic I don't know was down to Delibes or resulting from multi-culturism. The cast was far from starry - the only name I recognised was Grant Doyle, but his role was insufficient to do full justice. Allison Bell was the eponymous heroine. She took a while to warm up, and was disappointing in the Flower duet, but very very impressive in the Bell song. I found the tenor, Philip O'Brien, disappointing. His CV states he was a finalist in a Wagner competition, and his roles include Don José and Florestan. I did not feel this role is suitable for a Don José/Florestan/Wagnerian. I felt there was too much strain from a basically uninteresting voice. And he committed the cardinal sin of a rubbish tenorial fall to the floor. Sort of bending his knees and staggering. More like a drunk than a tenor. And, at the end of the day, tenors must be judges by the way they fall to the floor, with bonus points for rolling around. I liked the mezzo, Antonia Sotgiu, and would like to hear her in a more substantial role (she has, for example, been Carmen for Mid Wales Opera).

All things considered, it was an enjoyable evening out at a lovely opera house. I wouldn't argue vociferously for this work to become a repertory mainstream but it is definitely enjoyable

MusicOMH, Evening Standard, Times

Rigoletto at Covent Garden

Just a quick hit-and-run review because I need to go to bed.

It was fabulous!

A great great opera and a good, intelligent production - I'm even getting to like the sets! A superb orchestral rendition under the baton of Renato Palumbo.

And a wonderful cast. Not exactly star names, but every single singer from the comprimarii to the three main roles were superb and just about perfect for their roles. Patrizia Ciofi as Gilda - gorgeous; Franz Grundheber in the title role - compelling; and Wookyung Kim as the Duke of Mantua... oh my god, so unbelievably gorgeous, his singing made me cry and then scream in applause. And a natural for the part, acting wise. More later (but not before I've written up Lakme and Don Giovanni from last week).

Definitely my best performance of 2007 at Covent Garden. And I've just booked two tickets for the Saturday matinee - restricted view but Stalls Circle. Wey hey!

Reasons to vote Tory

Brilliant idea, Jimmy and I can just slip down to Lambeth Town Hall and get married. We don't even have to tell you lot, or our families. It would probably cost us about £100 if we do it on the cheap.

And then the Tories would give us an extra £20 a week.

Brilliant! Payback period, just over a month. Sound investment. Ninety quid a month. A thousand quid a year. Free, gratis and for nothing.

It will change absolutely nothing.

Except my bank balance, of course. Which will be a package holiday a year better off.

Superb, Vote Tory! An extra cheap package holiday annually for Gert and Jimmy. That's going to strengthen society, isn't it!

Plácido in Munich

A Wagner Gala to be precise:

This must be opera heaven! – Meier, Domingo and Pape in Munich Wagner Gala

Then after the break – what most had been waiting for – Placido Domingo as Siegmund in Walkure 1st act (with Meier and Pape). Despite having grown up with his recordings for 25 years I had never seen him live before, and wasn´t exactly sure what to expect (he is 66 years old). But he didn´t disappoint – he was absolutely convincing as Siegmund, no reason to step down in the near future! His voice may have lost some power in the top register (no problems with the Wälse cry though), but honestly, it didn´t matter at all. However, the pictures you see of Domingo in press releases are not exactly recent! But still, he makes for the most beautiful sung an believable Siegmund I have heard.

Source

Review: Meier, Pape shine at Wagner Gala

It was more - as perfect an operatic evening as even a finicky Munich audience could hope for. More than five minutes of thunderous applause ended a much-too-short performance, mixed with prolonged foot stomping, Bavarian style.

In the first act of "Die Walkuere," Placido Domingo was in full Wagnerian voice as Siegmund, his timbre brassy when called for, his phrasing extended, with little trace of the baritone drag that comes with age. He cleverly paced himself, so when the time came to pull out all stops he delivered with spine-tingling intensity.

Waltraud Meier was his match as Sieglinde, Siegmund's sister-turned-lover. Her voice was the ultimate instrument, perfect in pitch and phrasing, alternately full-bodied and subtle. And she outshone Domingo in expression, her facial and body language complementing the drama of the siblings' first encounter since childhood - an encounter that leads to love.

A spectacularly awful photo

More photos: mixed...

Next stop Madrid, but mainly for conducting (Madama Butterfly), plus one concert on 21 July.

Meanwhile, look who's on TV in Spain - the 'granddaughter-who-removes-her-clothes', as someone once dubbed her on this site, as a judge on a reality TVshow

and being interviewed - about her grandfather, of course. There's even videos if you can get them to work. I couldn't, but I didn't try very much...

And on this bulletin board is a discussion of her knockers. Hmm. Plus a link to a video showing her on the said reality TV show, 'Nadie es perfecto'. Can't say I approve of people putting their cleavage on display like that. 

Furniture abuse

Months ago we decided we needed a new Unit in the back room. We quite fancied a Welsh dresser from John Lewis but was talked out of paying a grand and a half. We looked at IKEA but £60 didn't seem right, and we knew it would almost certainly be crap.

We spotted something on Debenhams and decided that it was mid-priced and seemed to be just the job. I googled to see if it was available direct from the manufacturers; it wasn't but instead, using the Google Product tab sourced from Marshall Ward for about 10% cheaper. I know what you're thinking, Marshall Ward, never-never catalogue for the uncreditable. And I started thinking that even though my original logic was: Debenhams sell it, so it's like we're getting it from Debenhams but cheaper. Jimmy said it would come flat-packed and we'd have to build it. I thought it would be chip board and ugly.

Well, it arrived. In four pieces, well 2x2 pieces, we decided to get two units. "That says glass handle with care this way up" as I said as 'thud' went the package Jimmy had thoughtfully inverted. Fortunately no harm done other than a broken lightbulb.

It didn't take much assembling - so I'm told, I buggered off to the hairdressers - just the top and bottom needed screwing together with 2x2 screws. And door and drawer handles needed reverting, and glass shelves attached. I spent the evening re-filling it with stuff from the old unit. I decided we were short of glasses, so Jimmy produced six crystal wine glasses, five crystal whiskey glasses,four stem cocktail glasses and a partridge ina pear tree. I lied about the pear tree, and the partridge.

It's twice the depth, almost 1.5 the width and about 120% the height of the old unit,and fits perfectly between the doors to the hall and the under-the-stairs cupboard. It holds so much more than before, not least my embarrassingly impressive collection of blank notebooks...

I originally decided that we would ask a charity placeto take it away. Jimmy decided that he would break it up, smash it under the hammer. I did suggest he invited furniture abuse fetishists around for the experience. But in the end, he decided it would go nicely in the shed. In place of the white two tier shelves which started life in my Streatham flat, then spent some time in the bathroom in Gert Cottage, and has subsequently migrated to the shed.

What this exercise has shown us is how much booze we have indoors eg seven bottles of vodka (four of them fancy Polish vodka), six bottles of rum, and, unbelievably, two bottles of cherry brandy. I am slowly drinking my way through sherry and port, but despite having 33 bottles of spirits, liqueurs etc, we have no Sloe Gin nor any Scotch whisky. Nor any Warninks Advocaat...

Send Sloe Gin now!

Morgane

The next long overdue episode in blogging all the women on my Wild Women t-shirt. Long overdue, because >this one really tripped me up, but thank you Mandy for giving me a steer!

According to Wikipedia, she is a  powerful sorceress and sometime antagonist of King Arthur and Guinevere in the Arthurian legend.

Over the years, I have failed at every level to engage in Arthurian Legend. It's one of those subjects that ought to be interesting. I have been diverted into reading about Guinevere, who was married to Arthur but had an adulterous affair with Lancelot. It reads sadly, because she was presumably in an arranged (or even forced) marriage with Arthur,and who can blame her for falling for gallant Sir Lancelot. I acknowledge that that represented a betrayal of Arthur and their marriage vows, and he could not bear the loss of face, but better to lose face than to lose a kingdom. And anyway, he can't have loved her if he had her burned at the stake. His hateful actions are a post hoc proof that she was right to go off with Lancelot.

Less of Guinevere and more of Morgane. According to Geoffrey of Monmouth, she was one of nine magical sisters who dwelt on Avalon and tended to Arthur's wounds after battle. I wonder what is the significance of nine sisters in mythology; are they more significant than Seven Sisters in the equally mythological North London?

In the 13th century, she is credited with a string of lovers, until expelled from court by Guinevere (ooh, the hypocrisy, I've gone right off Guinevere). I often think about women in history (ie prior to about the 20th century) who had strings of lovers, and wonder what they did for contraception. We know the Ancient Egyptians used crocodile dung and other  spermicides containing lactic acid. Modern centuries have condemned women with multiple lovers because of the economic implications of bearing children outside marriage or with disputed parentage. It is only recently  that contraception has become relatively safe and reliable and that illegitimate children, with or without an identifiable father, have become non-taboo. It is thought - wrongly - that Dr. Condom provided animal tissue sheaths to Charles II to prevent him fathering illegitimate children. And there is plenty evidence that abortion is as old as sex. There's an interesting page summarising  changing societal attitudes to fertility, contraception, and abortion over the centuries. These and other sources put a lie to the claim that sexual intercourse was invented in 1963 and promiscuity in 1997.

Thomas Malory's Morte d'Arthur had Morgan hating Arthur for his purity (yeah, right...) and

plotted with her lover, Sir Accolon, to steal both Excalibur  and the British throne. Arthur met Accolon in combat without his magical sword, but the Lady of the Lake helped him retrieve it and win the battle. In return, Morgan stole Excalibur's scabbard and threw it into the nearest lake. She eventually escaped Arthur's wrath by transforming her entourage into stone.

By a very circuitous route I came across mention of Devadasis, women who were 'married to the temple' by their families, a custom that over time became one of religious prostitution. In either case, it provides yet another historical example of the absolute subjugation of women.

I then came to Messalina, who I think I would put on my revised version of a Wild Women t-shirt. Most of the Roman women were a lot more exciting than the Arthurian women. I'm sorry, they just bore me. Isolde I can tolerate because of the mindblowing music, but give me an Egyptian or a Roman over an Arthurian any time.

I came a lot more stuff, too, about really wild women like Edna St Vincent Milay and Gala Dali, who are a lot more interesting., and a lot wilder than Morgane, IMO.

Katya Kabanova

An opera by Leos Janacek which I attended on Monday evening and didn't especially enjoy.

I will state upfront that the reasons for the non-enjoyment are all down to me. I accept full responsibility. Three quite separate people have told me that I would get a lot more out of it if I studied it and listened to it repeatedly. Intellectually, I accept that, after all, I do not believe that Instant Gratification is the Be-All and End-All. However, it was not the first time I have heard it. There are plenty of operas that even on first hearing I get a sense of "I don't really know what's going on, but this has hit me in a certain way, enough to make me want to get to know it better." Wagner is the obvious example of providing instant pleasure but also paying back the study. Donizetti, too.

I think that my main problem was that I could hear that there were some interesting things going on in the orchestra, but if I wanted interesting things in the orchestra, I would have gone to a symphonic concert. I did not care for the vocal writing at all. To me - and I stress the personal subjective - it was so unmelodious as to be a turn off. Added to the fact that I found neither the story compelling nor the characters appealing.

I appreciate that it was uniformly well-performed, orchestrally (under Charles Mackerras), vocally by a cast no longer listed on a seriously crappified Royal Opera House website, but including Janice Watson, Toby Spence and Felicity Palmer. The set was mildly interesting and the Production, as far as I can tell, was reasonable.

In a perfect world with oodles of time, money and energy I would settle down and, following the advice of people wiser than I, study and learn this. In the Real World I inhabit I shall chalk this up to experience and move on!

A big hello to Robin and Peter who came up and said hello on the Terrace. I hope we shall meet again soon!

The Guardian Review mentions that Charles Mackerras conducted the UK Premiere in 1951 - which for a bit of perspective, was the year of the Festival of Britain, when we were (briefly) a Kingdom, and when my mother did her O-Levels, something the Observer also mentions.

Dominated by desperate melancholy

Praise in the Times

Watson shines as Katya in remarkable opera

Music OMH

Musical Criticism

Interview with Toby Spence and Interview with Toby Spence

Around the blogs:

Intermezzo

boulezian

Tales of a Culture Hedonist

Stage Door Stalking

It's been a multi-hit few days.

Two weeks ago Saturday Jimmy and I were in the Piazza at Covent Garden, doing bits of stuff in town - I wanted to do a ticket exchange at the Box Office, we had already picked up his photos, we had spotted a premature 'End Brown's War' t-shirt near Parliament Square, and we later went to dinner at the Angela Gheorghiu/Roberto Alagna Tribute Restaurant. Crossing the Piazza, we bumped into Steve who mentioned that Faye and Helen were at the Stage Door, so we went round to say hello. As we were saying 'hello' Anna Netrebko arrived in a dreadful rush, and Jimmy later came out with his unstarstruck comment. This was followed a week later by him saying he had been watching CNN who had had a long feature on her. "She's a really big star, sells more records than pop stars, and here's me thinking 'who dos she think she is?' ". Jimmy went to the pub and Erwin arrived.

Last Tuesday after Don Giovanni we waited outside the Stage Door. This was possible on that particular evening because it wasn't actually raining! There are advantages and disadvantages in hanging back and being non-pushy. In general the advantages outweigh the disadvantages.

We had a really nice long chat with Kyle Ketelsen (Leporello) who came over as being pleasant and thoughtful. He mentioned that he is Escamillo next season, so we were chatting about the horse. He will have the opportunity for extra practice specially with the horse. He and Carla had a long chat about The Rake's Progress (2010) but as I don't (yet) know the work, it was well over my head.

Ana Maria Martinez was met by her cousin and therefore naturally was in a hurry to get away. I just said 'thank you' to her, and she thanked me, which was nice. Faye went inside to get Anna Netrebko's autograph. By the time Anna got outside onto Floral Street, she was disinclined to pause further, which is fair enough because a) she had spent a considerable time already inside the Stage Door a b) not one of them is under any obligation whatsoever to pause for one moment to sign autographs, pose for photos or chat (and I expect it can be mentally tiring especially for those who are neither native nor fluent English speakers).

Erwin emerged and we had quite a long chat with him. He was a bit cagey about future plans except a Figaro revival. He asked whether we had enjoyed the performance; I said I wasn't sure so I was coming back the next week to make sure, which in retrospect was a particularly stupid thing for me to say! I explained that I would have liked to take his photo but I had left the memory card for my camera at home! At one point someone came over and asked him a question (which year was it he won Operalia). When he had finished chatting with them he returned to us and said "Carla, you were saying..." I find him very impressive, quite apart from the excellent work he does on stage, because he oozes charisma and has a definite 'star presence' yet at the same time there is absolutely nothing primadonna-ish about him. Very down-to-earth, approachable; I feel chatting with him like I feel like I'm chatting with a colleague or a 'friend of a friend'.

On Monday, after Katya Kabanova we waited at the Stage Door briefly for Toby Spence. He was clearly in a hurry and under no obligation to pause, but he did. I took a photo of him and Faye, and he checked that it had come out all right and was patient and pleasant as I took a second one. I am not a massive fan, but I do think he is talented, I considered him the best of the pundits at Cardiff Singer, and although I did not especially enjoy Katya Kabanova (review anon) I do recognise that his performance was excellent. He is blond and pretty, and I did have a sense of him fulfilling an ex-public schoolboy stereotype but my albeit fleeting encounter has left me with an impression of a gentleman.

But Wednesday was the Big Night. To my surprise and relief the rain held off for a while, although as it happens, that was not an important consideration because we were inside the outer Stage Door. We knew not to expect Anna Netrebko because she had been taken off at half time with a metatarsal injury cold,  to be replaced by Marina Poplavaskaya who had scored a goal in time-added-on acquitted herself marvellously.

We had a chat again with Kyle Ketelsen. I wished him a Happy 4th July, and he pointed out that he was wearing Red, White and Blue, although he realised it was a bit pointless because our flag is the same colour. Faye suggested he had should have worn his flag at the Curtain Calls, as Bryn did in Die Walküre when Wales won the Six Nations. But as Kyle says - Bryn runs this place. We gave him advice on how to get tickets for Bryn's Sweeney Todd this weekend (I suggested he pulled some strings, this clearly hadn't occurred to him). Brenda commented that it would be quite quite wrong for an American to be flaunting a flag on American Independence Day in the UK (with which I agree; I had been at a professional  event and some prat had wished us all a 'Happy Independence Day' obviously too stupid to realise what he was saying). I got the impression that Kyle felt it would be a mis-step to flag wave (presumably as a well-travelled, sensitive, thoughtful American, he is aware of how such things can be massively misinterpreted). In any case I assured him that we are considering Revoking the Declaration of Independence.

Marina Poplavskaya emerged. She looked somewhat like a rabbit caught in the headlamps, a bit overwhelmed, although she had paused to talk with the gathered Russians. I said 'thank you' and she smiled and thanked me. I felt she thought that I was thanking her for 'saving the day' but in fact I would have liked to say "I think you're wonderful; I heard you as a Norn, I heard you at the Cyrano Insight evening, I was delighted to hear you as half of Donna Anna, and I am so looking forward to seeing you as Elizabetta". But I missed the chance to get her photo.

Robert Lloyd came out, and although I like him tremendously, I left him to Brenda who is a massive fan.

Then Erwin emerged and he stayed for ages, and we had such a good laugh with him. Whilst he was busy entertaining us, Ana Maria Martinez came out. I said how much I had enjoyed her performance, and also I had seen her in concert in Dublin  a couple of years ago and really enjoyed that. I don't think she particularly understood me, although I hope she understood that I was being positive and complimentary. I got the feeling that she was a bit daunted by the group of fans, although that may partly be the language thing.

Erwin was wonderful, putting on a show after the show. We asked him again about his future plans and he said that he had things pretty much sorted for 2009-12; he's intending to do Faust! At which I exclaimed "Ooh, the Dress!". Brenda suggested that his chest isn't hairy enough for The Dress, so she would buy him a chest wig, but he said "There's this thing called shaving!" He said he was only prepared to be Mephistopholes if he could wear High Heels and play it as Drag Queen, and he started mincing around as if he was in high heels - and very convincing, too. (later, Faye said 'I'm so looking forward to Erwin as Mephisto and I could have sworn she said Frankenfurter).

We did the photos. He congratulated me on bringing my memory card and teasingly made some comment about the mistake I had made in not bringing it. I did think of saying that the following day I had been thinking of heading to Downing Street but realised it was a bit pointless greeting a new Prime Minister without a memory card. But I didn't. He posed for a photo, saying "This is me as Don Giovanni!" So I said, "Take you clothes off, then..." (yes, I did, really...).

He insisted on posing first with Faye and then with me. He was showing us photos of his daughter; someone asked if she was going to be a soprano "God, I hope not, a mezzo I hope." But then said that most of her repertoire is bass-baritone and he treated us to an impromptu compilation of excerpts.

We were also talking about the astonishing numbers of singers emerging from South America,and he ws saying how the schools in Uruguay are filled with music, very small children actively making music. I should have asked whether this was like  Venezuelan 'El Sistema', which is the most amazing and remarkable social inclusion programme, being copied in many countries (including Scotland, but not  - yet - England...attention Ed Balls).

A woman arrived and said she had come from France for the performance and it had been worthwhile. He asked to sign her programme (I like the way he does that; it makes fans feel less like we are imposing!). He asked her where she was from, she said Chamonix, so he asked whether she was Linda di Chamonix. I think she was a bit bemused, being the late comer to what was becoming a party of much laughter. He asked me what was happening in London, and I made some comment about the rain, then realised he meant the security alert. I wasn't really sure what to say - other than something about comedy terrorists - because I am increasingly conscious of what should and shouldn't say. Also, I suppose, I've been in London 16 years, the South East 18, and frequent visitor prior to that, and regard security alerts as just a way of life. I'm not sure how long Erwin has been visiting London but I presume he wasn't around when security alerts were an everyday irritation that we just worked round. And, judging from the internet as well as my Real Life socialising, people are talking about the freak weather more than the failed terrorism.

I know some people think it is a bit adolescent to hang round the Stage Door; I also know that some people mistake the genuine warmth and friendly nature of many stars as being genuine friendship.  I sense that some performers, still on an adrenaline high after the show, actually enjoy the opportunity to shoot the breeze;  they wouldn't be human if they didn't also enjoy the admiration and adulation. I also respect that others want peace and quiet, or their trusted friends, or a meal, and being pestered by fans is a bit of an ordeal to be endured. And I do not for a moment think that having a chat and a laugh means we are best buddies, any more than I think that exchanging pleasantries with my auditees makes us friends, as such.

And one thing is absolutely certain, both from the performance of Don Giovanni and the post-show backstage, Erwin Schrott is megastar material.

The Mad Woman

I may have mentioned before my religious nutter neighbour who thinks she owns the neighbourhood. I don't think I have mentioned every aspect of her increasingly paranoid and unstable behaviour. I suppose I ought to feel sympathy for someone who is showing the early signs of dementia but she is such as smug cow, I lost sympathy a long time ago. I don't think I mentioned the recycling bag war. According to the legend on the recycling bags we are supposed to leave them just outside our property but if we do, she protests, saying we must leave them at the end of Gert Cottage Boulevard. If we do that, the newsagent gets stick from the paint shop. And anyway, Mr Patel will not take any nonsense from the Mad Cow, not after she in her stuck up cow way told him "This isn't Calcutta, you know...".

I'm not sure I told you of the time we left our old carpet out to be collected by Lambeth (a Bulk Collection we had pre-booked a fortnight in advance), and she decided at eight o'clock in the morning she would put it into the skip of the paint shop. (Her telling Jimmy this halfway through the morning was her way of having a dig and accusing us of dumping - no, we did it by the book, ringing Lambeth, and not putting it out until the night before in anticipation of a 6am - 6pm collection slot).

I don't think I mentioned the time she and the Patels were having a raised voice row outside my house. I stuck my head out to see what was going on: Raised Voices could mean Big Trouble. I half expected her to accuse me of nosiness; my comeback would have been Raised Voices May Mean Big Trouble.

Just before ten this evening, I hear a horn honking. And again. So I look out the window. She is sat in her car on her driveway; she's blocked in by another car which shouldn't be there, but as it's driverless, I am unclear what horn honking will do. And it's not as though her visitors have never blocked us in - there was blithering idiot visiting once who parked in such a way that we could not get out on foot, and he seemed oblivious to the fact that if we had been trying to get in we could not have knocked on any doors to ask for the car to be moved. Because that's what you do when blocked in. It's what happened in Streatham and Westcliff, and what I have done on occasion, for example when one of her priests blocked in my friend's car. The horn blew a third time so I went out and asked her to stop blowing her horn outside my living room window.

"Somebody's parked their car!" she whimpered petulantly.

"Well, it's not me," I said. "There's no need to blow your horn outside my living room window...you Selfish Anti-Social Nuisance Neighbour..." note absence of swearwords...

As I retreated indoors I heard her ghastly husband screaming "How dare you talk to my wife that way?" All I can say is that, good thing he's 80+, nearly blind and post-several strokes. Otherwise, he might just have got an even sharper end of my tongue. Or more. (She's younger, quite a lot of younger than my mother and not very much older than Jimmy, but dementia - diagnosed over the phone by my mother from my narrative - is no respector of mere numbers). Or I might easily have retorted "I dare because she has the temerity to honk her horn outside my window, which I interpreted as the sound of someone in danger or distress. (Which of course means if she does try to attract attention when in danger we might be minded to ignore it).

All really trivial and hardly the Neighbours From Hell. But I just resent her supercilious stuck up "We're Opus Dei Catholics so our shit don't stink oh and by the way we own you and you will bow down at our every whim." They used to ask us favours, and, being Good Neighbours, we would try and help - for example, agreeing to look after her husband when she went to some Holy Conference in Rome about Eradicating Safe and Reliable Contraception, Especially Condoms To Women At Risk From AIDS in Africa. She has to ask the neighbours because the weird drug dealer son has moved from leaching off the parents to being a constant absence and the son who never visits anyway is off studying to be a priest at Opus Dei College in Rome and not allowed back to Britain except for their funerals. Did I mention that part of her job in Eradicating Safe and Reliable Contraception is lecturing people on how to be parents? Jimmy has done quite a few odd jobs for her. I watered the garden and fed the cat when they had to go away, and, yes, they did give me the customary appreciation (a bottle of cheap undrinkable plonk), but it's all take take take and no give.

As I say, all terribly middle class and middle England. But I didn't move to Brixton to be part of Middle England, and if she wasn't such a hating and hateful person, I would find the palpable decline in her mental powers to be sad.

But she's always been a bitch. Years ago, my sister and family were staying. I was in bed, B-in-L was in the shower. Neighbour knocked on the door and demanded the car be moved. Sister, holding Nephew #1 in her arms, because he was, at the time, a babe in arms, said the car would be moved "When my husband gets out of the shower." Which wasn't good enough despite the fact that my sister was holding a baby. When B-in-L came out of the shower, he asked her what the problem was, he had deliberately parked the car to allow her plenty of room to get out, but she said that she couldn't, so he suggested that she learned to drive. Of course I was "oh my god, you can't say that, she's my neighbour, I have to live with her," but the paint shop men were applauding him for saying what they had wished to say for years!

And indeed before I had even moved in, and my vendor took me round for introductions, her only question was did I have a car, to which my reply was no, but I would not rule it out in future, and many of my visitors would have cars. She instructed me that they were not to be parked beyond a certain mark. When Jimmy had a car, she kept driving into it and telling him, pointedly, how she had scraped her paintwork on his car, as if it was his fault. To which his unspoken response was "she should learn to drive."

At least since the last row over her building noise, she has stopped dropping around on Sunday evenings and failing to take the hint that a) me in a dressing gown with wet hair b) the TV being paused and c) no offer of a drink meant that she was not over-welcome.

What I did tonight...

Admittedly, this is quite possibly the worst photo ever possible not only of me but also of the lovely Erwin Schrott. We met him - and many others of the cast of Don Giovanni at the Stage Door. I will write a report soonest - or, after I have written about Monday's Katya Kabanova and Tuesday's Lakme. Right now I am totally done in but have work tomorrow...

Green ink

A long long time ago I was in the Election HQ of a unnamed Constituency Labour Party on Streatham Hill. It was a great place to hang out stuff envelopes, and was well placed for the public. The public wandered in and asked sensible questions about polling station locations, policies, that sort of thing.

One man wandered in and made a beeline for me, explaining all his conspiracy theorists and saying in a confidential whisper how it was all Teresa Gorman's fault. He had written to her on several occasions to tell her. "In green ink" he added proudly, "so that she'll notice and know I'm being serious." Failing and seriously flailing, I turned around to seek comradely support from my comrades, but they had all mysteriously vanished into the back of the shop.

I am considering writing a letter to Prince William. I have never written before to Royalty, but assume that all letters get a standard reply along the lines of 'the contents of your letter have been noted'.

If I were to write it in Green Ink, would I a) diminish my chances of getting a reply and b) imperil my job security?

Little Earthquakes

As my quest to play - and blog - my entire record collection, alphabetically* by the age of 40, I next come to Tori Amos.

I was rather dreading the playing of this CD. I bought it at a time when I would wander into bricks-and-mortar record shops and just hoover stuff up. Which of course means that I have a lot of stuff which was once fashionable but being not very good, has failed to outlive its essential faddishness.

I had put Tori Amos into this category, because each time one of her tracks come onto my mp3 I fast forward. Yet, I played the CD three times in the past week. I have puzzled over this seeming contradiction.

I have now concluded that the music is sufficiently bland to act as wallpaper and thus actually be ignored when I'm doing else, but when forced into my lug-holes her voice is grating and yet otherwise without any colour as to be unlistenable at this proximity.

Some of the songs have quite thoughtful words but there's a limit to the angst one can take when one is approaching middle-age with angst-free equilibrium.

So, I expect when I re-do this as 'all the records by 50', I shall play this again. In the meantime it will sit in the nylon Case Logic CD case as a lasting testament to the thoughtlessness of my CD splurging in the early 90s. I am glad I have grown out of such trifles.

* perversely, with rock/pop CDs I started at Jones, so having gone to Z(ish) I'm back at A.

Gender

I picked this up from BW, who provides some relevant professional background. I stuck in two recent blog posts - All Change at the Top and La Fanciulla del West

I chose these as being the two of the most recent long posts consisting mainly of original thought and being about very different subject matter.

According to this analyser my political post is

Female Score: 872
Male Score: 1132
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: male!

and  my opera post is:

Female Score: 3020
Male Score: 2731
The Gender Genie thinks the author of this passage is: female!

Gordon comments on BW's that he and his tech writer chums got 'male' for professional writing and 'female' for leisure writing.

I don't know whether the algorithm designer set out with the premise that male and female brains are inherently different, and, if so, why. There used to be a feminist argument that women are no different from men, and thus should be doing exactly the same work. This has changed to a greater understanding that - in general - men and women have different strengths which they contribute differently to a workplace and that the tradition of only favouring 'male' skills has been to the detriment of the business, which would flourish better with a good mix of diverse strengths.

But even that doesn't fully address the flaws of a generalist approach, which is that while most stereotypes have an inkling of truth, that is not a universally applicable truth and is often (usually?) not relevant to specific individuals. BW refers to social conditioning, not a point I dispute, but I would also add that BW, Gordon, Gordon's tech writer colleagues and I have well above average use and understanding of language, and can tailor our writing to the specific circumstances - even within the same blog.

I am always very cautious of anything that ascribes certain characteristics to gender: ultimately, only physical characteristics are gender specific. A balanced  person tends to have a decent mix of 'male' and 'female' characteristics. A doctor needs technical know-how and bedside manner; an architect needs to understand structures and human behaviour.

I am quite pleased that two arbitrarily selected pieces of writing produce conflicting results, which I think demonstrates that, irrespective of my numerous weaknesses, I do have a good mix of seemingly conflicting characteristics.