Gertsamtkunstwerk

My new baby toy

I think I mentioned a few weeks I wanted a new camera. Well, yesterday I ordered one and today it arrived. In some ways it's very similar to my old, which is a Canon Powershot G3, universally acclaimed, in its time, and for many years after,  as the 'prosumer' camera.

For years, people lamented that the subsequent models didn't have the wonderful swivel screen of the G3, and I knew that, having used a swivel screen, I could never go back to a fixed screen. Just before Christmas, my brother mentioned he'd got a G11 and it has a swivel screen; just after Christmas, the zoom button finally seized up on the G3, as it had been threatening to do for several weeks. So, perfect serendipity.

Of course, when it arrived, I realised that not only was the battery different from the old one (but, at least, one was included) but it's a totally different memory card. That did annoy me, because I bought an 8 GB one at Gatwick just last September, and have now gone out and bought a 16GB. By the time I've bought a spare battery, a soft case and a remote switch, that's adding on £150 to the original price, all of which seems like redundant spend.

It took a bit of getting used to even doing basic stuff, although I was quite pleased that my hands have already started moving instinctively to certain buttons. I shall give it another couple of whirls in the next few days, taking photos that won't be irreplaceable. It seems smaller than the G3 although the main bodywork is pretty much the same size. But it doesn't have that Cyrano-type nose, or that annoying lens cap held on by a piece of string.

Anyway, I took some photos.

 

Jimmy, as usual being totally unphotogenic, but I almost like the way I framed this - in Franco Manca in Brixton market - that's my organic lemonade in the front

I took this, intending it to be an iconic shot of iconic Lambeth Town Hall - which I have never previously photographed from the outside - but rather than thinking these people and vehicles got in the way, decided they were more interesting than the clock tower.

After we got off the bus, we went to see Jimmy's sister-in-law Julie at New Park Fruiterers, so I took some pictures round the shop. These are my favourite:

 

For some reason, and this manifests itself most starkly in the red roses, the colour in the RAW file doesn't seem replicable in LightRoom - in the original they are more crimson, in this they look more scarlet

Update:  I finally got round to downloading the newer version of Lightroom and with no additional processing, I get this

Amazing!

Drumming

I went to the Queen Elizabeth Hall this evening for a nearly perfect week-night concert. £12 the ticket, an hour and five minutes of music, even allowing for the start being delayed by ten minutes, and biff bang boom home in time to make something of an evening at home. I mean, these operas and that are all very well but don't they go on? By the time you've shuffled and barged your way out of the opera house and into Covent Garden Station lifts (or given up on that and limped down to Leicester Square), you could be home and dry from a concert with the actual real composer alive and in attendance.

The piece performed was Steve Reich's 'Drumming' performed by The Colin Currie Group.

As the piece began with four percussionists each banging a bongo with one stick I began to draft a satirical blog post along the lines of 'all they did was bang their bongos with one stick - a child in nursery school could do that!'.

I do know the piece and I already knew that it was soon to gain momentum, and very soon I was sitting entranced by the repetitive rhythm - or, more strictly speaking, phased. I suspect that Steve Reich is a Marmite composer. I loved his music the first time I heard it. As I sat slightly rocking I did wonder if there is something in the music that appeals to the slightly autistic part of my personality.

I love the sense of rhythm and I love the music that is created from that. The bongos are different pitches (the man behind me joked rather sneeringly about them having to tune them), then the music is taken up by marimbas and voices, and then by glockenspiels, piccolo and whistle, and finally Tutti. Very clever, very mesmerising, and acoustically amazing.

The performance was amplified, not in a rock gig way but sufficient to give some feedback, especially from the glockenspiels. I was fascinated by the echoes bouncing off the lighting rig and round the hall , and the sounds I imagined to lie within them  - the aural equivalent of seeing definite shapes in abstract patterns on curtains and so forth. At one point I swore I heard the waves of a rough sea, another time human voices, as if a party is going on down the corridor and behind a closed door.

The whole thing was very civilised (I didn't stay for the discussion afterwards), just a shame about the miserable wet weather. In summer a short sojourn by the river on the way home would be perfect.

The only downer was the man behind me. He spent the 20 minutes or so before the concert started by trying to remember all the football trivia he had once known, probably as a set of exercises to try and halt the inexorable decline of his mind (years of drug abuse rather than Alzheimers, I suspect). That which he remembered he was getting wrong (the England manager is called Angelotti, no Ancelotti), and he was forgetting things like the name of that dark-haired Belfast boy who played on the wing for Manchester United and that manager of Liverpool who declared football to be more important than life or death.

Then he started snoring very loudly down my neck, causing the woman three seats away from me to look round and smile, well, trying not to laugh, nearly making me laugh. I shouldn't laugh, it's sad, maybe we'll all end up like that. Maybe the only thing that will keep us functioning is our little trips out, firmly escorted by our much older friend, who didn't look like he'd spent his entire life recovering from a bad LSD trip. I don't think you'd get that at an opera house.

Another thing that annoyed me. The thing about this piece is that it can end whenever the ensemble can decide it's going to end, not like a standard, say symphonic piece when anyone with half an ear for music can hear the climax being approached and keys being resolved and the end approaching. The end is really quite sudden. And then always has to be one, just one, arsehole who starts their clapping that fraction of a second too soon, as if he has been waiting poised to be the important person who can show off how clever he is to be the first to clap, rather than allowing for the music to end, the heart to beat, and then to clap.

Irresponsible headline

It shouldn't surprise to me find some so-called journalist distorting a story in order to get a sensationalist headline. It also shouldn't surprise me to find these journalists running a distorting headlines without a thought for the consequences of their actions.

I would like to say that it surprises me that this has happened on the BBC News web site, but I am afraid that the BBC News website is a watchword for poorly - hastily - written pieces. Normally, I just spot grammatical errors, paragraphs in the wrong order or references to something 'above' which has subsequently been edited out. Irritating, indicative of sloppy standards, but, ultimately inconsequential.

Then I see the headline

'Rape victims to blame' - survey.

I click to the story, headlined in  bold:

Women say some rape victims should take blame - survey

The opening paragraph says

A majority of women believe some rape victims should take responsibility for what happened, a survey suggests.

There is a massive difference between 'some...should take responsibility' to 'Rape victims to blame'

It's not just semantics to point out the massive difference between the initial headline on the front page and the actual substance of the story.

If you read the initial headline, you might subconsciously read it as ALL victims are to blame. 'Blame' is not 'responsibility'.

In reality most women - and men - take some responsibility for their own personal safety. Accepting our own personal responsibility can, I suppose, logically be transferred to criticising people who don't take that responsibility. But it's a very big leap of (illogic) to turn that into 'blame',  and a very very big leap to imply that all rape victims are therefore to blame.

When a crime is committed, the criminal is always to blame. We all have the opportunity from time-to-time to commit a crime against another; most of us don't.

There are many crimes of sexual violence where any detached observer can say "If she hadn't got into Situation A, Scenario B wouldn't have happened, and therefore Act C, the rape or assault wouldn't have occurred". Avoiding Situation A is about taking responsibility. Suggesting that the victim is to blame, because Act C is a direct and inevitable consequence of A, is downright irresponsible.

In any case, this only covers the fraction of rapes that are commonly known as 'date rapes'. If by writing that, I make it seem that a 'date rape' is trivial, I don't mean that. As long as it's properly defined.

Waking up in the morning regretting that drunken shag and calling it rape post-hoc is almost never justifiable, and that's where personal responsibility matters.

But to be on a date and to be violently assaulted, sexually or not, or to be violently assaulted within a long-term relationship. Well, we can all take a superior attitude, call it 'bad judgement', and so on, but to suggest that the victim is to 'blame' is generally unsustainable and unjustified. And, in any case, what we as individuals may say in private conversation, with the chance to discuss context for hours on end, is really quite different from writing a headline on the BBC News front page, especially when large numbers of the people who read the headline won't read the story.

Isn't it about the time that the BBC News online start taking responsibility or else I will blame them for reinforcing the widely-held belief that women are always to blame for being raped.

Splishy-splashy

There is a bit of a swimming crisis in South London. Unfortunately, the epicentre is pretty close to me.

So, let us take stock.

• Streatham Pool: closed, for Health and Safety, should have been completely rebuilt years ago, but the finance was via a deal with Tesco, who have been dilatory and recalcitrant;
• Clapham Pool: closed in order to be knocked down and rebuilt;
• Brockwell Lido and Tooting Bec Lido, both outdoors and unheated, and open only to members in the winter;
• Brixton Recreation Centre: currently having the Wetside changing rooms refurbished, meaning that swimmers have to change in the cramped conditions on the 6th floor and descend by stairs to the Pool on the 4th floor, also leading to limited opening hours - although not as limited as the propagandist agitators would have you believe*

Knowing that Brixton is a bit crowded, and not especially wanting to parade around in public half-naked**, I thought I would try:

•  Queen Mother Sports Centre which is near work, but closes at 7.30pm, no good for me if I finish at 6.30
• Balham, which is a little bit out of my way: closes at 6.30 pm

I thought to myself it's always better to go to an open pool than one that is closed, for whatever reason. So I went to Brixton. And it was okay. For the first two lengths. Then the disco music started, loud, so loud that people started shouting to each other. The Aquarobics arrived and took over the entire 'recreation' lane, 40% of the pool for 10% of the users. Stupid bloody activity anyway, Aquarobics. Learn to swim, not ponce around!

And the 'music' has a beat. I don't know about you, but whenever I hear a persistent dominant beat, I have to move in time to it. It's a fairly well observed phenomenon of crowds walking/marching etc. Trouble was, it was a bit too fast for my comfort, so there I was swimming faster and faster.

And just for good measure there was a man. It wasn't really his fault; by rights he should have been in the recreational swimming area, but he was slow. But I kept getting stuck behind him. Overtaking shouldn't have been a problem, because he was that slow. But he was so splashy, and then there was such a wake from the Aquarobics class that I felt like a little boat being buffetted on the sea, conscious that if I didn't get a move on, faster than the beat of the music that was too fast for me, anyway, there'd be someone coming up behind wanting to overtake me overtaking him.

Still, I got my arse into gear, refused to believe the lies of those with an agenda, and it's so easy once you get back into the habit! And I feel good.

* someone is Twittering as 'Brixton Recreation Centre' and claiming it's only open for one hour in the morning; that isn't true. What is true is that it is limited to schools and other lesons during the rest of the day, but re-opens for general admission at 6.30, and closes, I think at 10.00 pm (but why let facts  spoil a good story!)

** it's not actually a problem, it's down the back stairs, not the main ones, and you only encounter other people parading half-naked

Simon Boccanegra in the cinema

So many people have said to me how lucky I am that I was able to spend my birthday evening watching a live broadcast of Simon Boccanegra live from New York beamed into my local cinema - a performance of Simon Boccanegra starring my hero, Plácido Domingo.

I don't feel lucky. I ended up having my birthday meal at 4pm, and it was a bit rushed, and not necessarily in a place I would have chosen for a special birthday meal, but moaning about that would be churlish.

Put it simply, I drunk before, during and after. I was never steaming drunk, and wasn't even particularly drunk until much later. I was squiffy. I was able to concentrate on the performance, appreciate what was worth appreciating, and criticise that which needed criticising, but by the next day I was suffering memory loss.

In some ways I am kicking myself, but I am trying also to be wise. Better to have this amnesia now than in relation to a live performance. I know that I thoroughly enjoyed the performance (and myself), and in my 'live for the minute' philosophy that's what matters. Ultimately, it doesn't matter than I can't remember sufficient detail to write intelligently about it. It will appear on TV and/or DVD at some point, so it is not lost for ever; perhaps when I watch it again I will have my memory refreshed, or else I will be able to savour it anew. Either way, I have a future win!

I realise I don't know the opera as well as many other Verdi works, but I have seen it live and on TV. So I can't plead total unfamiliarity. The plot is a bit convoluted to explain, and I did realise I have misunderstood a few small details - for example, I thought somehow that Fiesco's daughter, Boccanegra's lover, and Amelia/Maria's mother died in childbirth. But I don't think that my mistaken assumption or the seemingly complicated nature of the plot is an excuse. Indeed, there are elements to the story that are absolutely compelling; the father/daughter recognition scene is one that people refer to constantly when discussing this opera, and I find it amazing every time I see it!

I do not advocate that all good operas need a tune to hum on the way out. When they do have a tune to hum, they aren't  necessarily operas (think of the number of rarely performed operas that have produced one memorable aria or duet!).

But I do think it's worth persevering with and getting to know better. I think it's on at Covent Garden this summer, so I suppose I might as well try and get a ticket for a performance or two. Although, dear reader, it will be shown on BBC TV, so I don't feel that you need bother getting tickets to see it live, when you can enjoy it from the comfort of your own home.

I found the supporting cast (ie all but the lead role) a bit ordinary. People had written that James Morris is past it, part of the voice gone, forcing him to speak the role. I noticed that and it didn't bother me greatly; he had impressive gravitas in the role . Adrianne Pieczonka was so-so. I thought her very squawky, especially when she was first singing in the garden. She got less squawky and did a decent job, but I can't see myself rushing to hear her again. Her facial acting was non-existent, her physical acting was largely a case of going through rehearsed roles.

I was pleasantly surprised by Marcello Giordani. I have never heard him live, and don't especially wish to. This was the best I have heard him in televised etc productions; I was a bit shocked to read that many people thought that this was one of his best performances ever. It was, just, okay. He hit the right notes with the right tone and dynamics, and I guess the core of the voice is essentially beautiful. But it's forgettable, and lacks subtlety, nuance, any real attempt to colour it or to project any sort of character.But I did find his diction clear and easy to follow (yes, I know he's Italian, but I don't always find Italians easy to follow in Italian any more than I find English-speakers necessarily easy to follow in English).

I thought the production was as dull as dishwater and flatter. I did like the garden scenery, but one decent set doesn't a production make. I can't really pull it apart and say - this was wrong, this was wrong, because there was no 'this' there. It was in effect a cast of characters in rather risible gowns moving fairly meaninglessly around the set, except for when they stood still. To some extent it was little more than a concert performance with scenery and costumes. (But I don't think the ROH production is any better).

I thought the Council Chamber was spectacularly tacky. In fairness, it was designed to be seen from afar within the house, rather than close up in HD on a cinema screen, but I was a bit gobsmacked when the audience applauded. I can kind of see the point of applauding the scenery on the first night of a new production, when the designers are in the house to hear it, but after so many years, such ill-timed applause simply drowns out the music which is supposed to be making an impact at the time.

I haven't much to say about the orchestral playing, and thus conducting. I had a very favourable impression at the time, but, in actual fact, notwithstanding my general memory loss, the most forgettable aspect was the music. In any case, I think this is where the cinema does fall down. Jimmy remarked, without my prompting,  that he missed the sound of a live orchestra, it sounded muffled; I had already decided that the resonance of the timpani was killed.

But of course, the highlight for me was Plácido singing Simon Boccanegra. I am very much looking forward to hearing and seeing him perform this live in London - which seems a long way off. He's also doing it in Berlin (again), Zurich, Milan and Madrid, but, with regret, I decided not to book for any of these, largely for financial reasons!

There has been criticism of the idea of him taking on the role, and some criticism, mainly from 'the usual suspects' of his actual performance, but overall the intelligent comment has been very positive. I do wonder why there is such a big deal about the difference between a tenor and a baritone: sopranos become mezzos and vice-versa, and take on each other's roles. There are roles that are performed by light baritones, 'Verdi' baritones, and bass-baritones. I do accept that there is a difference in tone and even colour between what one would expect from a baritone and hear from a tenor.

I suppose if I was mostly interested in the sounds that singers make, I would have grounds for criticising. But I don't ever see opera as being a display of sounds.

What was very striking about Plácido's performance was how he gets the basics absolutely right. The right notes in the right order, on pitch, without wobble, scoop, swoop or compromise and in delightful phrasing that is intrinsically musical. And it builds from there, vocally, yes, with lots of expression and variety, but also physically.

I felt he was a natural in the role. He did joke in the interview after the Prologue - apropos the rest of the opera being set twenty-five years later - that he would be getting closer to his real age. And, obviously, that helped. I didn't think much of the Act 1 sword fight, on the other hand, the final death scene was glorious. I am in awe of the way Plácido just falls to the floor. In contrast, the rolling is easy.

So, as I say, I enjoyed it while I was there, but there's no use me trying to make out I remember more than I did, when I didn't! I wish there was a 'replay' in the UK but as far as I can tell from the web, there isn't. I'm hoping it will be on SkyArts eventually, but that won't be for months.

Do check out remarks by commenter P-Dingo on the 25 January performance live in the house.

When we were away...

A couple of weeks ago, Jimmy and I went away for a few days, taking advantage of discounts available in the down  season of late January!

We didn't want to go too far afield; a bit of searching the internet found us the Flackley Ash hotel outside Rye. In the village of Peasmarsh; I only subsequently learnt that this is the village where Paul McCartney lives. We didn't see him walking round the village and there was no evidence of him in the village pub.

In retrospect it would have been slightly easier if we had stayed in the town of Rye, or had had a car. However, the hotel was excellent, we really couldn't fault it. We had a garden room ie one with French windows opening onto a private patio and a lawn/putting green surrounded by trees.

Being January we didn't really utilise the 'garden' aspect of the room, even so, it was a nice. The hotel had a pool, jacuzzi, gym etc. We took advantage of the pool and jacuzzi, although none of the other health club facilities. It's funny, I've stayed many times in hotels with saunas but I've never had a sauna in my life. I think part of the reason we didn't was because there were separate male and female saunas - why spend time apart when we could be together!

I know I spent the first evening tweeting the selection of 80s style liqueurs etc available in the hotel bar, but in fairness, no one makes a point of drinking in hotels. We couldn't really fault the food or wine selection.

On the first night I had grilled halloumi served on  roasted vegetables. I can't quite remember what the main course was - except that it was fish, halibut maybe. I suppose our biggest criticism was that the so-called 'local seasonal' vegetables were in fact French beans, mange tout and asparagus. There was an item on the local news saying how there is now an enormous greenhouse complex in Kent that can produce green beans even in January. But I'm not sure there is any 'green' advantage in these over asparagus and mange tout flown in having been grown in the sun in Kenya or wherever.  Vegetables have to be local and seasonal to really count as green; it also helps one to be in touch with nature and the turn of the seasons! But as a criticism, good quality well presented vegetables is minor!

My pudding, a butterscotch tart, was gorgeous, and I got lucky taking a snapshot of Jimmy's pudding - he's so predictable, he almost always goes for ice cream, as long as he can be confident that it's good quality.

On the second night, we ate at The Fish Cafe in Rye. The less said about that the better - or perhaps I should devote an entire blogpost to it. Suffice to say, when a restaurant cares more about an image or a concept than its customers, all its good work goes down the drain, and it just comes over as desperately small-town. I have never before had an arrogant waiter sneering at me. I don't really give a flying fuck that he's worked with Raymond Blanc; I've worked with some bloody good people, doesn't necessarily mean I'm good at my job.

On the third night we tried several restaurants in Rye that had been recommended repeatedly. One was closed on Wednesdays, one was closed on January weekdays for refurbishment, and one was just closing as we arrived, I would guess for lack of customers.

None of this was surprising in an out-of-season holiday town, and I certainly wouldn't hold it against the businesses. Nevertheless it was disappointing.

We got the taxi back to the hotel for last service. Thankfully, we had another good quality meal: I seem to recall I had scallops, then sea bass, finished with a chocolate fudge cake. Again, very good quality. No criticism of the hotel food, but part of the fun of being away, especially in a foodie town, is the chance to eat in different places. And, obviously, hotel dining rooms in down-season don't have the most sparkly exciting atmosphere.

On our two full days we caught the bus from the village. We learnt on the second day that we could ask the driver to drop us off opposite the hotel despite the lack of bus-stop; I suppose it might be possible also to flag one down, there, too. Just a bummer if it sails past and the next one isn't for a while!

On the first day we strolled round historic Rye and on the second we went to Winchelsea Beach via Hastings...as we entered the village of Winchelsea Beach we asked for the best stop for the beach and he didn't bother telling us, so off we went to Hastings, got a coffee and got another bus back! Daft day and we barely snapped at each other at all!

A serious case of neglect

Dear Blog

I have sorely neglected you. I am sorry. I have been distracted by other things, on the PC, and in real life. I have been unfaithful, flirting with Twitter and yet imposing Twitter on you.

Paul Newman said, on the subject of infidelity, 'why go out for hamburger when you have steak at home'.

I don't eat meat, but in blogging fidelity terms, I have not only gone out for hamburger, neglecting the steak at home, but I have actually procured takeaway hamburger to eat out of the paper wrappings at home while the steak watches forlorn and neglected.

Enough of stretched meat-based metaphors: people might get funny ideas about what goes on in my personal life!

There, it wasn't so difficult to open up the editing panel and write something. The key to curing writer's block is to write something, anything. Not worrying much about quality, the key is to write something, anything, that vaguely makes sense, and then, in the famous words of Wellington "Publish and be damned"

The Rake's Progress

Picture from ROH website

I attended this last night at the Royal Opera House. I wasn't really sure about it when I booked and even less sure about it as I was travelling to see it. But at £22 for my ticket, I had very little to lose and don't even have the obligation of trying to look intelligent in my review.

I don't like Stravinsky. I know this because I always fast forward through The Rite of Spring on Fantasia, and I heard some ballet music I didn't much care for.

This is a stupid way to form and sustain an opinion, so I thought I would give this a go. It was a revival of a production from a couple of years ago, which I didn't see, but there was something about the casting this time round that I found tempting.

As I Twittered on the way home, I did enjoy it, but it did not capture me in a way that would make me want to see it again. I did try to  do some homework, by watching a version broadcast on Sky Arts (from Glyndebourne), but I fell asleep during it, because I was very tired when I sat down to watch it, not necessarily because of the work, and then I never found the time to try again.

This causes a dilemma. I think the best way to see and appreciate a work for the first time is to do so live, but the best way to appreciate a work is through getting to know it and discovering the depths and twists beyond the superficial first impressions. So, perhaps I would enjoy it more if I took the time to get to know it. I certainly found the WH Auden/Chester Kallman libretto excellent.

I enjoyed it because it was a truly splendid production well performed by a strong cast. A million miles from the 'Popstar to Operastar' parody of opera as standing on a stage in sequinned gown bellowing into a microphone.

The audience seemed very young, at least from my seat and interval wanderings, with possibly up to a half being younger than me, and the age range fairly evenly spread between about 12 and over 80.  The people behind me included two 20-something men, one on his first ever visit to an opera, and he was saying that he deliberately chose something modern. I didn't want to correct him pedantically on the definition of 'modern' because I thought it an interesting point.

I think even more salient is that for people already interested in theatre, a lively and intelligent production is going to appeal more than a staid traditional stereotypical performance of a warhorse.

For me, the least appealing aspect was the music, but I didn't dislike it so it didn't mar my enjoyment. I simply can't see myself ever listening to it without the visuals. And, let's be honest, how many operas were actually written as 'listen only' experiences*?

Robert Lepage's production was superb and Carl Fillon's set designs even better. Even so, a small part of me wondered whether I would tire of the gimmicks if I saw it repeatedly. This has happened with several productions I have seen more than once.

I particularly liked Lepage's trademark use of video. It's quite common to see video used for background, in place of scenery, and he certainly did that, but there was more. I recall the way he used it to light a big blue oblong to resemble a swimming pool, and a delightful scene where Anne Truelove was driving in her onstage prop car with a video behind her and how the two merged, especially as her trailing scarf blew away, Isadora Duncan style. I thought it rather beautiful.

The setting was 1950s USA rather than 18th century London, and a literalist would find problematic the apparent inconsistency between stage action and libretto; literalists shouldn't really attend operas. The characters were larger than life, although ultimately two-dimensional, and I enjoyed all the performers. The music doesn't lend itself to beautiful showpiece singing, the perfect antidote to the dinosaurs who assert that opera is only about vocalism and singing. 

Nevertheless I found all singers to be flawless**. Kyle Ketelsen (Nick Shadow), a greatly underrated and highly intelligent performer was the stand-out. Toby Spence (Tom Rakewell) did a delightful job of portraying a blond English public schoolboy on a downward spiral of decline. I enjoy his voice, and he's good on stage, but I do think his voice lacks edginess and didn't always project well over the orchestra (I have sat in the same seat before and find it to be very good acoustically). Patricia Bardon was in her element playing the OTT Baba the Turk and Rosemary Joshua was delightful as the sweet, innocent Anne Trulove.

The staging had some wonderful gimmicks, not least an inflatable caravan. I also enjoyed the sceen in Mother Goose's brothel where Tom Rakewell shags MG on a bed that shakes like a water bed, collapses around and sucks them down below stage through a narrow slit. The coverings removed, the bed is ostensibly heart-shaped but the intention was clearly to convey Tom being swallowed by female genitalia.

I was a little confused about which angle to take on this production as a feminist. When dramas are set in the past, be they operas, plays, TV dramas or indeed novels, I expect them to reflect the mores and attitudes of that time. A 20th century work  can legitimately describe 18th century attitudes and imply 'we are different now'.

I am more comfortable with 18th/19th century pieces which use what we now consider sexism, racism, or support of judicial murder as fundamental to the tragedy than ones which imply that these are good, natural and desirable. Even without that, I can interpret it as being a strong piece of historical evidence to show how shit life was before feminism. (But there is a limit to how far one can accept odious attitudes as mere historical archive).

Being swallowed by a giant vagina was not the only scene open to several interpretations. The use of a buxom swimsuited blonde as auctioneers assistant was a more obvious parody of 1950s values. It's also difficult to say that women got a rum deal when Tom Rakewell was the anti-hero and Nick Shadow was the Devil himself. Nevertheless, I think that too many sexist images inserted in a knowing post-modern way can backfire and be normalised by an audience already bombarded by non-ironic sexism in the mainstream media.

I'm afraid I can't say anything intelligent about the orchestral playing under Ingo Metzmacher, but it would be ill-mannered not to acknowledge their contribution to an enjoyable evening.

How an opera cured me of being a rake -Toby Spence - The Times

Kyle Ketelsen- MusicOMH

Toby Spence on Stravinsky and Jacques Brel - What's on Stage

Interview: Patricia Bardon on The Rake's Progress at Covent Garden- Musical Criticism

The Rake's Progress: the TV vision of the world's greatest director - The Telegraph

The Rake’s Progress at Covent Garden, London WC2 - The Times

The Rake’s Progress at the Royal Opera House and Blessed Spirit at the Wigmore Hall- Telegraph (I still haven't written my impressions of Blessed Spirit)

The Rake's Progress - What's on Stage

London’s Rambunctious Rake - Opera Today

Royal Opera's Rake's Progress proves a Trial - Intermezzo

The Rake at Covent Garden: Too Spectacular for its own good? - Orpheus Complex

A trailer from the ROH website - with the 2008 cast. Not very good streaming media: it doesn't stream when paused, and when the 'play' overtakes what's streamed, it goes automatically to pause and then back to the beginning. Sigh

A Twitpic from Kyle's phone. Not a great photo but does show the on-stage cars wonderfully.

* except for certain 'oratorios' by eg Handel which were so written in order to comply with the ban on staged productions in Lent; in my opinion they benefit from at least a semi-staging

** a comment that must of course be qualified by my ignorance of the work

Happy Birthday Plácido: 69 today

I am sure that my many readers join with me in wishing my favourite singer and pin-up hero a very happy birthday.

He's singing Simon Boccanegra in New York tomorrow night, and I understand his party was last night: presumably taking it (relatively) easy today.

More later

Pop star to popera star

Well, I just watched it. In some ways it wasn't as bad as I dreaded and in so many ways so much worse.

It was literally, laugh-a-minute car crash telly. It sucked all the way from concept to practice via appalling scripting.

I do get annoyed when Katherine Jenkins is constantly described as an opera singer. Surely, she has veto over the scripts, but she just sits there and lets it go, even though in a subsequent interview, when it suits her, she'll deny ever having described herself as that.

Just for the record, Katherine Jenkins has never performed in an opera in her life. She has never appeared in a professional concert singing without a microphone. She has recorded and sings in concert a small number of arias from operas. Her technique and interpretation will not stand comparison against hundreds of lesser-known singers who actually do perform in operas.

The whole exercise is utterly pointless. I can see the idea behind it, but someone really needed to think it through properly. What are they trying to prove? Either that singing in opera is easy, anyone can do it. Or else it's so hard that despite intense coaching, even people with a track record of performing and in some cases with decent singing voices can't do it satisfactorily?

If you get some of them making a decent fist of singing an isolated aria into a microphone, so what? That's just the start of it. And in any case, I didn't notice any of them actually working from the score, just learning it by ear. If the point is to prove it's difficult, then the end result is caterwauling and anti-music.

If the objective is some stupid misguided attempt to bring opera to a ITV Friday night audience, that isn't going to work, either. There's no point saying that opera is about love, sex and death if you then get a bunch of amateurs failing to put any meaning into arias disconnected from their dramatic context and failing even to put surtitles on the screen. If you are sincere in that objective, you televise the very best singers performing well-rehearsed concerts, even if you're too scared to televise an actual opera with its sex and death and passion.

Why on earth should anybody without prior knowledge have a clue about the debauchery and cynicism of the rapist Duke of Mantua just from hearing a tune that's used for pasta sauce adverts? How can an audience judge whether the singer has conveyed the meaning of the song if they don't have any hint about the meaning? How can anybody fall in love with a song of any genre when it's badly sung? It wouldn't have taken much effort to have a brief description of the context; sub-titles would definitely have been a good thing.

I think, like Maestro, it may eventually demonstrate which of the contestants has innate musicality and which has a poor sense of pitch. But so what? They have their careers and their fans and they have demonstrated that they are good, or at least, successful, at what they do.

As for the panel, what can I say? Katherine Jenkins was out of her depth, even though she's pretty good at pretending. It's like someone's told her about her poor breath control and dodgy phrasing and it's now embedded in her head. And that's what she's going to keep going on about. She came over like a not-very-cool prefect on display at Speech Day and wanting the assembled parents and governors to know how seriously she takes her responsibility for the younger girls.

Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen's comments were bland and inconsequential. Meatloaf is on something. I found him very entertaining even though he really was talking total nonsense. Rolando Villazón was trying to be fair and critical at the same time; he had the 'audacity' to criticise Danny Jones from McFly (who was probably almost the worst of the lot) and got booed by a crowd of demented hysterical McFly groupies who don't have a clue. The trouble is, Rolando is speaking from the heart and from years of experience, but in the end, what does it matter?

And as for the pop singers. Darius came over the most instinctively musical although with zero personality. Alex James was the only one who seemed to care about the character he was portraying - and did a splendid tuneless patter. As for the rest, some clearly have decent basic voices, but in general I think they all did worst in the areas where they ought to have done best - keeping to the tune and on pitch, and projecting some sort of personality, some sort of stage presence, that je ne sais quoi where the performer connects with the audience, irrespective of what the performance is. But it's all relative: not one of them sang in a way that could honestly be described as adequate.

Alan Titchmarsh was less annoying than I feared he would be. Jimmy's admitted to a sneaking admiration for Mylene Klass even though he didn't know who she was when he met her last May.

But the single most annoying thing, even more annoying than Katherine Jenkins was that for each singer, they were permitted to sing the opening phrase of their aria or song, and then the audience broke into applause and cheers. What was that - tune recognition? Do people seriously have to shout out loud if they recognise a tune? Bizarre. And as for those McFly fans, oh dear. I'm sure it said on the ticket application that no one under sixteen was allowed in. The way they screamed, I'm sure it was a bunch of 13-year-olds.  And he wasn't any good. Bland, below pitch, and far too pleased with himself.

And then to cap it all, we had Camilla Kerslake singing. She is some 'soprano' discovered by Gary Barlow. I hadn't heard until I caught some of the Titmarsh show in the doctor's waiting room the other day. I have to say, dear reader, she actually makes Katherine Jenkins look polished; her high notes are thin and wavery, and although I suspect she was singing in English I simply couldn't tell a word she says.

Next week, Katherine Jenkins will be performing. The sado-masochist in me hopes it will be Una voce poco fa

Rolando's got Talent

I love this!

Una furtiva lagrima

The real reason for going to Rosenkavalier at the cinema

I am shameless. I read a few weeks ago that this transmission would be hosted/presented by Plácido, presumably because regular presenters Susan Graham and Renée Fleming were otherwise engaged, and he's in town anyway, due to conduct Stiffelio and sing Simon Boccanegra. I understand that he also presented the Thais last season. Of course, he is not associated as a singer with either of these operas; I'm not sure it would be a good idea to get him present something like Otello, Die Walküre or Tosca.

I'm not going to pretend:  I bought my cinema ticket specifically to see him presenting. I know it seems a bit petty and adolescent on my part; if you think that, you've got me bang to rights. However, I didn't cancel any alternative plans.

When I booked the ticket, I knew that Jimmy would be working, I knew that I wouldn't have been out for ages beforehand, I'm not due at another live performance for over a week. Although Der Rosenkavalier isn't my favourite opera, it's not like I was facing the prospect of Pelleas et Melisande or anything by Rossini that isn't Barber of Seville. So, although my motives are shameless, I did savour the prospect of the actual performance, too.

So, there I was sitting it Screen 2 at Brixton's Ritzy eagerly awaiting the start. the thought had occurred to me  - just because I read several weeks ago didn't guarantee that he's still going to be doing it: I wouldn't blame any singer for dropping out of a talking gig if they had a bit of a sore throat, for example.

So, the lights dim, blah de blah the titles roll, all the usual stuff, and this voice "Hello, I'm Plácido Domingo!" and more than half of the cinema went "ooh, ahh, sigh" (I kid you not!)

He introduced the opera and said "It stars two of my favourite ladies - Renée Fleming and Susan Graham as the lovers" (gasps from a decidedly non-Brixtonian* audience momentarily adjusting to the concept of two women being lovers!) "they there are looking very comfortable on the bed" to giggles all round.

I don't know if he does it on purpose. I think just about everybody who has ever met Plácido will attest to his flirtatiousness. He has this knack of saying things that, from  someone else would sound vanilla and inconsequential, but from him sounds laden with suggestion. He manages to couple this with an innocent, almost little boy, look.

He was looking good. In some ways he's showing his age - layers of make-up for the camera can't hide that his face looks weather-beaten, and he's not really greying so much as greyed to whiteness. But he's vibrant and energetic and enthusiastic, his eyes like pools you want to melt into. Looking trim and fit, dressed impeccably, in a shiny black suit and shiny royal blue tie.

At the end of Act 1 he interviewed Renée Fleming. As I tweeted, he's not a natural for reading off an Autocue and pretending he's ad-libbing. It's an art that few people can do convincingly. I can do it pretty well (but only in my native language!) - but you know, I don't think that makes me a better performer than Plácido Domingo!

He is a natural, however, for women positively throwing themselves at him. She really couldn't keep her hands off him. The interview was perfectly inconsequential. I don't like straight-off-the-pitch interviews in football, and I don't think they are any better in opera! I was amused when she was explaining how the Marschallin realises that she will have to let Octavian go, and it can be difficult when one realises that, but it has to be; he's nodding and empathising, and I'm thinking "Plácido, you've been married forty seven years..!"

Before the second act he interviewed Susan Graham, whom he introduced as one of his most favourite ladies. From some people it would just sound like showbiz gush, but it didn't from him. They were discussing her various roles, and he said to her "You've played my daughter in Idomeneo, my sister (in Iphigenie), when is it going to be more?" (at which point there was a general exclamation from the cinema: he's a tease, which some people get, but, obviously, others don't!). She deftly side-stepped the question by commenting that - dressed in her silver suit for presenting the rose - she doesn't look much like his sister!

Susan commented that she spends most of the opera on stage so at this point she gets jealous of Renée who gets to spend two hours in her dressing room 'typing emails'. There were splutters of laughter, perhaps as this sounded entirely incongruous coming from someone dressed in sumptuous 18th century attire.

At the end of the second act, someone from the Met broadcasting machine interviewed Kristinn Sigmundson. I thought "Oh, I see, Plácido doesn't get to interview men, cos he can't flirt with them like he can with the women!"

This broadcasting  person ("wardrobe by Valentino" - gah!) was more adept at reading from the autocue but had been scripted some pretty cheesy lines. Exclaiming her surprise that Kristinn has studied Biology at University (perhaps it's unusual in the USA but in Europe it's pretty common for people to study something that isn't music before turning to singing as a post-grad), and then asking him to say hello to people watching in the cinema in Reykjavik, like it was some 70s audience participation light-entertainment show!

Then she turned to interview Plácido, largely about Simon Boccanegra (which will be in cinemas on 6 February, my birthday - I've already got tickets for Clapham Picturehouse). He repeated what he has said elsewhere, how he had planned to sing this role at the end of his career but this doesn't mean his career is ending; that he doesn't pretend to be a baritone, but he is singing it as a tenor, pointing out that certain tenor roles such as Otello combine light notes with dramatic notes; how the role enables him to age twenty five years from the Prologue to Act 1, and how it's about the father-daughter relationship which was so important to Verdi, having lost two young children at about the time he wrote it.

He made reference to Verdi's intentions to write King Lear, and implied that Simon Boccanegra has echoes of Lear. The interviewer also mentioned that he is conducting Stiffelio; what is it he likes about Verdi. He mentioned how prolific Verdi's writing was, several operas written in a short period, and mentioned the melodies that Verdi wrote. The interviewer suggested that with singing and conducting he is the busiest person at the Metropolitan Opera, so he looked straight into the camera and said "I think when you arrive at the Met in the morning it is better to stay until the evening" - which caused a few 'oohs' among my local audience. 

Before Act III he interviewed Elina Garanca as a preview to next week's cinema transmission of Carmen. That was quite interesting; obviously she's very into the role (she was also Carmen at ROH a few weeks ago and I dare say she's sung it elsewhere recently, too) and he knows that opera inside out.

He then interviewed Christine Schäfer on her own and they were then joined by Renée and Susan again. Much flirting going on, and there was a discussion about whether it was love at first sight between Octavian and Sophie. Susan was of the view that it was; even though Octavian didn't actually realise in Act II, he has an inkling.

Then she turned to Plácido, looking him directly in the eye and said "I think everybody has experienced love at first sight." Not precisely flirtatious, it was heavier than that!

There was a certain amount of banter about Octavian (ie Susan Graham, in a trouser role) having to choose between her attraction to the Marschallin and to Sophie. It was all very 'innocent' but I detected that they were having a bit of fun, in a way that anyone in the audience could pick up on, if they wanted but not to offend anyone who would be inclined to offence. Plácido made some comment about the Marschallin being old at 32, although nowadays we don't consider 32 old, to laughter in my cinema which I don't think contained more than a dozen people under 40.

And then he introduced Act III by saying that Octavian (in disguise as a chambermaid) and Baron Ochs were set for a 'Hot date'.

I have to say, I don't think that Plácido is a great presenter. If I was in any doubt, this would have become clear when he was being interviewed. When he talks spontaneously about opera or about a specific opera, in this case Simon Boccanegra,  he is so eloquent and passionate and enthusiastic. His English is excellent but his pronunciation and cadences are wayward, which can be disconcerting at times.

But he looked lovely, and he's bundles of fun; he's very good at taking seriously what should be, but he's also light-hearted and always comes across as being singularly unegotistical, which is very endearing.

All the same,I was rather glad I wasn't there with Jimmy. when we watch a DVD and Plácido goes into seduction mode, Jimmy has a bad habit of saying "The creep. Grrr..." and I am pretty sure that would have been his reaction yesterday!

* I'm guessing: the only person in the audience I knew is a gay Claphamite I file under "Lambeth Labour friend" rather than "opera friend". Actually, the two women in front of me were carrying copies of the New Statesman, so I'm being very unfair on audience members!

Der Rosenkavalier in the cinema

I haven't gone to many of these cinema showings of operas, for all sorts of reasons. Perhaps I should go more often. The ones from New York show here on Saturday nights. Generally, Jimmy works Saturdays, so I might as well go to the pictures as sit at home alone. And there are two cinemas very close to me  that show them, so I'm short of excuses.

So, yesterday evening found me in a slightly snowy Brixton and settling down for Der Rosenkavalier. I don't know the opera in intimate detail, but I seem to remember there are lots of longeurs, so I was a bit anxious in case I got bored and fidgety. Actually, as it turns out, I know it a lot better than I thought I did -which still isn't enough to pass intelligent comment on the intricate details and subtle nuances.

I was trying to work out whether I have seen this exact precise staging before or whether there are several staid and unimaginative productions of the same opera available on DVD.

I will fully confess that I found the scenery beautiful and the costumes exquisite, but prettiness doesn't an opera production make. I suppose I came away with a very strong sense of a linear narrative and two dimensional characters. I am at a loss as to how to make the characters more rounded and sympathetic, but that's the director's role, not mine.

I have seen several versions on TV or DVD, and even though none was especially memorable together they have left sufficient of an impression for me to have some basis for comparison.

I thought Susan Graham was far -and- away the star. I've only actually heard her live in one part, in two locations! (Iphigenie) and I don't have much of her on CD or DVD, but what I know of her I like, and I thought she was very convincing as Octavian and mugged and hammed well. I suppose ultimately, her voice doesn't move me, but I find it unerringly pleasing. I did read someone mentioning her struggle with a few of the notes and I did notice this, but I'll prefer a singer, like her, who does these sotto voce rather than the screamers and shriekers.

I'm afraid I just don't get Renée Fleming and I am startled at descriptions about her epitomising the role. I tweeted frivolously about her resembling Mrs Robinson, startled at how well cast Renée would be (physically) as Iris (I am certain that Renée doesn't share the same hateful views). One of my Tweeps from outside the UK assumed, not unsurprisingly, I was referring to Mrs Robinson from The Graduate and commented that Renée has none of the class he would expect from the Marschallin. I'm not saying she was bad, and there was a welcome absence of her characteristic scoops and swoops and jazz style. And she is rather delicious looking.But she isn't quite the Marschallin one would desire.

I rather took to Kristinn Sigmundsson as Baron Ochs. I rarely make a point of commenting on the vocal qualities of basses but I think he was marvellously obnoxious, playing the role straight for the maximum of laughs.

Christine Schäfer was okay in places but I can't say she did much for me - which is a shame considering I have booked to see her six times in March! I am sure I would have preferred Miah Persson who appeared earlier in the run.  Unfortunately, Christine resembles Celia Imrie in a bad Victoria Wood* sketch, and I have to say I found most of Acts II and III to be pure provincial pantomime. To a certain extent Act III is meant to be, whereas I'm not sure Act II is.

That having been said, I think that the point of the opera is a satire on certain society mores and perhaps an innovative modern production would bring this out more. The pantomime mugging and hamming of Act II and the vague hints of grotesquery in Act III, all hinted at the work's potential, but I think probably just about everybody went away with a strong sense of this being about a love triangle in gorgeously pretty frocks.  I didn't see the ENO production of this work but I would expect a director of the calibre of David McVicar to pick up the undercurrent.

With ultra-traditional, ultra-conservative and very pretty productions, the devil is in the detail. For example, the Marschallin's breakfast is brought and she is poured a drink (turns out to be hot chocolate) from a china pot into a china cup with matching saucer. The pot was decorated with pink flowers, the cup and saucer were predominantly green.

I told myself not to be nit-picking, but I detected a fidgeting in the cinema, and one almost totally audible stage whisper from two rows in front of me "Teapot doesn't...tea-cup"

Another time, minor character Valzacchi was supposed to be opening the big heavy doors of Faninal Palace, only to reveal that they were light insubstantial things.

Overall I enjoyed the performance. I'm not sufficiently familiar to be able to say how the conducting and orchestra playing compared against the field. I didn't notice any bad moments, either flubs or strange tempi. But I also didn't find anything that revealed anything about the orchestra colours, layers and textures, which, ultimately, is the joy of Richard Strauss, and nothing that moved me to rapture.  So, given my caveats of ignorance, I would award it a good not great!

And I shall devote a separate blog post to other aspects of the transmission!

* I'm not suggesting Victoria Wood is bad, but she does parody the farcical, so imagine a bad version of a VW parody of farce

Why I love Brixton

It's like when you love a man; yes, you can see the flaws but you love despite, because of, regardless of them. It really is love at first sight. I think I decided in 1984 I was in love with Brixton, even though, as a streatham resident I didn't actually get selected until 1993 and didn't take up residence until 1995.

I love Brixton because it has two hundred years of crap architecture visible as you drive round the residential side road.

 I love Brixton because you sit on the bus and listen to the two women behind learning Spanish by reading Oscar Wilde's Fairy Tales with English on one page and Spanish on another. A white baby with a white Mum, sitting on Mum's back wrapped in an African-style papoose shawl, watches them absolutely entranced.

 I go to the crappy local flea-pit cinema for an HD live from NY of Rosenkavalier and bump into a member of Lambeth Labour. The tills aren't working and I tut at the half-wit who needs a calculate to work out the cost of 3 glasses of wine at £4.20 each.

I go to a backstreet pub and sit up at the bar, smoking (sssshhhhh!) while the jike box plays classic 50s Rock 'n' Roll plus (the two) Greatest Hits of Dr. Hook. Yeah, kind of random...

I pass the "West Indian Continental Grocery" and the Fairy Lights still illuminating the trees of Central Brixton. The cab-driver's music proclaims "Our God is an awesome God" - the music is shit, but, somehow I love it, because it's Brixton I love. Half one in the morning and people are still moving around on foot. Rush Common is beautiful with its thin veneer of snow - sod it, Rush Common is beautiful full stop, this long thin strip of green that gives lungs to the congested A23, makes us different from every other arterial road.

I know just about every problem that besets Brixton, the  poverty, the violence, the absence of hope. But for me, Brixton is the greatest town on earth. Above all, it's home!

And here's to you, Mrs Robinson

I am always of the view that if politicians screw around outside their marriage, so be it. It isn't normally relevant to their role as politicians, and shouldn't be regarded as any more heinous than any of the numerous other things that imperfect human beings do.

I also think that any politician who has cast judgement upon the sex lives of other people has surrendered the right to privacy in their private life.

So there is a large dollop of schadenfreude hovering over the revelations about Iris Robinson, considering her views in the past, in particular on homosexuality, but also on adultery.

There is a little part of me that is hesitant to wade into this: I am pretty damn certain that if it had been Peter Robinson having an affair with a teenage woman, there would have been less scurrilous sniggering. If women in private life are judged more harshly than men, then this goes with spades for women in public life*.

The 'Mental Health' card has been played, and it's wise not to wade into that minefield. For example, there was a ridiculous slur campaign a few months ago that 'insinuated' that the wifey of Oik Osborne has mental health issues. I believe that Oik's wife - who seems to stay well out of visible politics - is not a legitimate target, regardless of the incompetence and arrogance of Oik himself. I also believe that to using someone's illness, whatever the nature and cause, as grounds for attack is neanderthal.

For all I know, Iris Robinson may have a history of depression. It's not improbable - isn't 20% of the population at any time; also, with a husband away from home for long stretches, while she's stuck in some dreary backwater bringing up the children, and her being all into religion and that, it's almost a classic textbook case.

That having been said, it's almost like now we are supposed to be all sympathetic and understanding of mental ill health, it's become a convenient excuse.

During the Expenses Scandal, there were reports of MPs feeling suicidal. I can't really feel sorry for them, even though I (probably less than many people) know too well how awful it feels when the bills and debts are piling up and you can't see a way of settling them. Doing something wrong, and being found out, is never a good feeling. So I shall wade into that area!

It always makes me feel good when I see some self-righteous religious nutter - and the DUP epitomises religious nuttery - being hoist by their own petard.

It's easy when you have the nice life, the uncomplicated marriage where the man is successful in his career to be all smug and idealistic. I guess we all have some ideal of how life should be lived, but most of us acquire, from experience and observation, the wisdom that rarely do lives fall into the category of ideal. I suppose the religious nutters would condemn me for having an 'anything goes' mentality, and, actually, yes, I do more or less (with the usual caveat of consenting adults).

We are also the products of our society. Among my friends and peer group, there is a general acceptance that people's lives are messy. That isn't to say that there is endorsement of the messes that people make; there is also an absence of condemnation, because we all do stupid things.

I don't just mean sexually. Many of us have done messy things with career, finance, family/friendships and so on. Because we are human, we can't see into the future and know the consequences, because we are weak and give into temptation, because not having the affair would cause us to feel so miserable. And so on.

I guess that in the society they live, the knowledge of the wife having an affair, the husband being a cuckold, is hard to bear. Perhaps in other circles, it's one of those things that acknowledged but deemed diplomatic not to discuss at dinner parties. I wonder how much her contemplation of suicide was due to the knowledge that her public reputation would be ruined for ever. I have to say that as an MP she had barely scraped my radar at all. I remembering noticing that his wife had been elected, a rare woman from Northern Ireland, but I assume that she is a big cheese that matters in Northern Ireland.

I haven't even mentioned the financial impropriety which is, actually, the nub of the matter. No doubt some religious nutters would use this as proof that nothing good ever comes of extra-marital flings. They would say - perhaps with justification - that Iris Robinson wouldn't have made this misjudgement if she hadn't been blinded by the euphoria of a fling. But I would respond that plenty of people have shown themselves to be venal and corrupt without sex being the motivation. 

I would hope that some of these born-agains and rigid fundamentalists would use this incident to pause and reflect, and remember that we are all human, that human beings have human instincts, and that, often, to deny those instincts is to deny our essential humanity. Most of us try to muddle through, generally trying to avoid harm to those who haven't harmed us, and we all behave in ways that seem irrational to others.Creating an ideal and condemning those who fail to meet it makes all our lives more difficult. Ironically, it hits hardest those who have created and maintained the ideal, in their smugness, absolute conviction, and sheer stupidity, they don't realise that one day they will be killed by the sword they have yielded.

* Women politicians are criticised far more frequently for their appearance; my observation is that there are far more casual comments accusing women ministers eg of being 'annoying' or 'patronising' or 'in it for themselves' than of men; and the personal, domestic, family etc arrangements of female politicians are scrutinised more thoroughly than men. In the Great Expenses Scandal, the ghastly Julie Kirkbride was subject to far more (justified) criticism than her odious husband, who was complicit and equally guilty. (as an example)

Winter

It has to be said that winter, real snowy icy cold winter, has not featured very much in my life. Ironic, because I was born in a freak South Manchester snowstorm and the next day, when I made grand entrance into a cul-de-sac in Sale (then Cheshire, now Greater Manchester) where my mother still lives, my father and Grand Dad had to shovel snow to allow the transport access.

There was 1979 where the snow actually lay on the ground, for several days! This coincided with the oil tanker drivers' strike rendering my school closed for extra time after Xmas. Wins for Infant 1 to Junior 3; Junior 4s had to go to into a cold school for several mornings. This was to prepare for the twin ridiculousnesses that were the 11+. 11+ ridiculous, because how exactly do you prepare for verbal and numerical reading tests; confirmation - how ridiculous at 11 - daren't leave it until people are actually able to think for themselves in case some may actually abandon their soul to the devil and decide that they don't want to be any part of the Catholic Church. Guess what, it made no difference.

Ranting aside, I didn't really see significant snow again until I was at University and first learnt how snow can cause a standstill irrespective of widespread industrial action. Campus was covered, people even ski-ed, and Radio Trent were announcing the last buses out of town along Derby Road soon after 5pm.

I also had some bad experiences in the wrong type of snow in 1991; my plane being diverted to Bournemouth, then having to get a coach to Heathrow, and the realise there were no trains to Southend. Nice.

I experienced the one true snow-day earlier this year but have otherwise escaped.

I have heard several stories about the winter of 1963 and understand that it was very cold. Someone told me a story about how his mother dropped the backdoor key in the snow, locking them out until his father came home from work, and she had to take him for a rare treat to the cinema; it was another three months before the key was retrieved from the melted snow. That was in Southend, too. 

1963 just got mentioned on BBC News Channel, moment before I read this on a catch up of blog-reading:

My old school is a turning off and my memories of the Avenue are mixed – in the dire endless winter of 1963, when our playing fields in Regent's Park were still under snow, we were forced to run up and down the entire hill each week supposedly improving on our ‘times’, and how relieved we were when the thaw finally arrived.

My Grandad was a lorry driver in 1947, which was, reportedly, worse than 1963. He ended up stranded and had to spend the night at a girl's boarding school. Also in Essex, I believe.

Both my nephews seem to be having great fun in the snow, in the part of Greater Manchester that used to be Lancashire, and in West Yorkshire, but I'm rather glad I live in boring over-heated South London. A SnowDay is nice once in a while, but I don't want it to become a habit.

Concert at Angel de la Independencia, Mexico City

On 19 December  Plácido appeared in a free concert in front at 200,000 people at the Angel de la Independencia in Mexico City (his home city between the ages of 8 and 21)

Placido Domingo nombrado huésped distinguido de Ciudad de México

with video

Plácido tiene Ángel:Recital gratuito del tenor para expresar su cariño por México

Plácido Domingo, ovacionado en el Ángel

 

 

Mexico City Concert 19 December

Highlights

Amor, vida de mi vida

O souverain (and opening remarks)

No puede ser

Granada (if you can, close your eyes and hear the voice of a young man)

En la calle donde vives (even I can translate that back into English!)

Merry Widow Waltz

Ella, in mariachi costume with accompanying mariachi band

Me llamas Rafaelillo, from El Gato Montes - the camera pans away just as it looks like get steamy...

El Rey - more mariachi

The concert lasted nearly three hours and could have lasted longer, but they had run out of material they hadrehearsed, and it was cold.

There are plenty more clips on YouTube, but these are a selection of the best I could find.

Swan Lake - and crap sign

The eagle-eyed among you will have noticed a distinct lack of cycling posts since our epic excursion to Wimbledon in mid-October. It was only halfway down an extraordinarily steep hill that I remembered that my brakes desperately needed replacing.

I could not see how to do it, and was very frustrated because in the old days, replacing brake pads was a two minute job. Eventually I sussed it out, and although Jimmy insisted on doing it, I talked him through the process. But in between were weeks of prevarication, avoidance and so on. Also, my inner Pagan was telling me to hibernate as we approached the dead time of year and its partner, depression, was brought on by an abject fear of Christmas - or is the fear of Christmas brought on by the approaching Solstice?

But Solstice is behind us now and there is a palpable sense of renewal. Slowly, sunset is getting later (half four and there is still visible blue in the sky - just). Spring is still a long way away (and wouldn't the Vernal Equinox be a more meaningful celebration than the arbitrary changing of the date!), but nevertheless, there is hope in the air. (My birthday is five weeks away).

There will be snow and gails, and dull miserable rainy grey days, but that doesn't matter. Today has been bright, sunny and dry, even if it has been cold. But never mind the cold. One can't moan about grey, wet and miserable days and then stay sulking indoors on days like today. I had finally run out of excuses, and I got the bike out.

Basically, I went there and back, and, ouch, did it hurt!

Well, sort of. I was coughing my lungs up at one point, but in a very healthy way! But I never once had to get off and push, as I had been fearing when I set out, not even on that final killer incline that leads back to Gert Cottage.

I've read so much crap that says if you miss one day's 'training' it obliterates all the work you've ever done. For all I know that may be true of elite athletes, but for someone like me, it simply isn't true.

I can feel in myself how much better I am than when I first started the cycling. I can also see and feel how I've deteriorated since, say, September. In some ways that is dispiriting, but in many other ways it's encouraging.

I'm dissatisfied with the flab, but I know what the toned strong muscles felt like in September, and I want that again. It's an achievable target, and I think even in the five weeks between now and my birthday I can make a difference.

Even though I think that now is a bad time to be resolving on self-improvement!

I went to Tooting Common and paused by the duck pond, where I discovered that my beloved camera is no longer functioning as it should - the zoom lever gets stuck, and that's attached to the button that actually takes the photos, so actually getting the photo taken is hit-and-miss. I needz new camera.

The partially frozen pond

Wandsworth Council in their infinite wisdom put up a sign

and in more detail:

I detest signs like this. It gets certain things right: black on yellow and the word 'Danger' in bold black capitals.

The rest is just wrong. What the bloody hell are 'persons'. What the feck does 'prohibited' mean. And, like, you and whose army are going to enforce it. Oh, it's Byelaw 7. Who, apart from Anoraks in Public Administration actually knows what a Byelaw is?

Obviously, someone has decided - we must tell people it's illegal to go on the ice, because one thing that surely deters anyone (you know, teenage lads, that sort of person) is the fact that it's illegal (and there are no council operatives in attendance to enforce it).

First rule of communication: be direct. After 'Danger' say 'Do not go on the ice'. Simple. Requires only basic literacy or minimal understanding of English.

Find some way succinctly to say that you'd be a fool to even try it. Okay 'Danger' has said that, but no harm in reiterating that. Say something like 'It won't hold your weight and you might drown." Spells it out in words of one syllable, starkly and unambiguously.

Hey, why bother communicating when you can behind legalese bollocks!

If they want, they can add at the bottom 'You risk being prosecuted if you break Wandsworth's Byelaw 7'.

But, actually, they don't need to. Ignorance of the law is no defence; the byelaw isn't there to increase prosecutions for the sake of it, but to deter reckless people, such as teenage boys, from standing on thin ice which might crack and leave them drowning, or at least with a nasty case of Weil's Disease.

Oh, and while I think about it. Open message to the dumb bimbo jogging along the cycle path with noise-eliminating earphones for your mp3 player.

If you can't hear a bicycle bell, please review the preceding statement from 'along the cycle path' to 'noise-eliminating earphones'.

Just out of curiosity, was I supposed to a) swerve into the quagmire to my right b) swerve into the dog-walking pensioners on the footpath to my left c) career into your back or d) do what I actually did, slam on my brand new brakes in order to avoid catastrophe.

'Sorry' is insufficient when you are, in fact, a cretin.

Perhaps rather than trying to keep your ugly anorexic body even skinnier, maybe you should focus on your shortcomings in the common sense department. I know you're blonde and posh, but, even so, the world doesn't actually revolve around you - not when I'm in the vicinity, anyway.

Oysters on Trains

From today, Oyster Cards are acceptable on what I refer to as 'British Rail' trains ie choos-choos that aren't part of the Underground (including London Overground) network or DLR or Croydon Tramlink.

Previously, if one held a season ticket one could use it for a train journey as long as one remained in Zone. But as soon as one goes outside Zone, it is technically fare-dodging with a penalty fare - or prosecution. Prosecution is no joke for such an offence, which on a morality scale must rank far below parking on a double yellow line. But has to be declared, even when spent, for some employments.

I recognise that my situation is fairly unusual but not so freakish as to be worth disregarding. Where I live is in Zone 2. Technically, my road is the Zone boundary, which really used to matter when Zones applied to buses, but thankfully Ken Livingstone had the good sense to do away with that.

I live in that part of the Inner City without London Underground. Habitually, I travel into town from Brixton Tube. To get there is half an hour's walk, back is longer because it's up-hill, so, naturally, I tend to get the bus. Late at night I come home via Clapham Common, because of the door-to-door bus and related matters. Clapham South is also about half an hour's walk, and the one infrequent bus still requires a walk home up an incline which is a pain in the wrong shoes or carrying shopping.

My nearest station is Streatham Hill, where ex-BR trains run to and from Victoria via Clapham Junction and also to West Croydon.

I work in the Westminster area so every week or two I end up going home via Victoria, taking in a trip to M&S, Boots, Smiths, Whittards etc . Often, depending on the time, it would be most convenient to jump on a Southern train to Streatham Hill, avoiding the congestion of Victoria Underground, and having a door-to-door bus, or a much shorter walk.

What deters me from doing this is the need to buy a ticket. Not so much the cost as the inconvenience. The majority of people buying tickets from the ticket machine are visitors or infrequent travellers and it's a right pain having to wait behind people who can't work out how the ticket machines work - they aren't intuitive, and I can't really complain, remembering my struggles with one on the S-Bahn in Berlin. So 'hopping on' a train doesn't work.

Working part-time I tend to use the Oyster PAYG with Auto-top up, which caps my daily expenditure, debits my Oyster and then, when the balance falls below £5 credits it with a further £20 direct from my bank account. It works for me - on London Underground and London Buses, as well as on Croydon Tramlink were I to use that.

When I heard that Oyster was going to be extended to trains I was delighted. All my transport dilemmas solved. At Victoria, armed only with an Oyster PAYG, I can hop on the train to Streatham Hill and be home in a satisfying 25 minutes. EPIC WIN, as da kidz on t'interwebz say.

Except, it doesn't work like that.

In order to get that train I will need to get an Oyster Extension Permit, from a source that already sells Oyster Cards, so, presumably not a Southern Ticket machine. Having thought about this, of course I should get one now, so that next time I'm minded to jump on a train, I'm pre-armed. And with a newsagent just a few doors away I have no excuse.

However, you can only get one at a time, so every time I finish a train journey I have to remember to buy another OEP. This is easy if I'm not carrying loads of shopping and the newsagent is open, but realistically, who can remember the next morning? I can't even remember to sew a button back on my coat once I get home!

One of my most recent use of trains was back in September. We caught the train from Streatham Hill to Barnes Bridge, cycled to Richmond and caught another train. It's easy for Jimmy, he's one of those Pushy Pensioners who can go anywhere on their Freedom Pass, but I'm in the unfortunate position of being aged between 16 and 60!

This wasn't a straightforward return journey, and in any case, we didn't know when we set out where we'd end up - if the weather had been better we would probably have got to Kingston. So, each time required buying a ticket. At the time, Streatham Hill had a temporary entrance on a different road from the ticket office; it can be a pain abandoning the bike at Richmond to buy a ticket at something past five.

I have to admit that in the grand scheme these aren't major inconveniences, but surely, in this day and age, the authorities should be removing unnecessary obstacles to travel by Public Transport. Don't lecture me about the 'pointlessness' of having a bike and getting the train - it's the ability to do that that makes the excursions possible, irrespective of some hypothetical ideal.

And it is an unnecessary obstacle, because what does the Permit allow one to do? I don't get it.

It's not a permit to travel without a ticket because I have a ticket, pre-paid and ready to be charged. Why can't the ticket barriers at Victoria MainLine and Streatham Hill work exactly the same as the ones at Victoria Underground/ Brixton? My possession of a valid Oyster with a balance of between £5 and £25 is surely permission enough. I'm giving them access to my bank account, for heaven's sake, so my intentions are absolutely not fraudulent. Perhaps it is to deter me travelling to Brighton - but then, surely, I'd arrive at Brighton (or be inspected on the train) and be found lacking, with all the consequences.

Under the current system, I could face a penalty fare or prosecution for travelling between, say, Victoria and Battersea Park, or Waterloo East and London Bridge, whereas I can happily hop on a train at Heathrow and travel all the way to deepest darkest Essex or Hertfordshire perfectly legitimately as long as I swipe in and swipe out.

It strikes me as being yet another stupid transport wheeze dreamed up by people who don't actually use public transport. Just as foolish as designing buses with windows that don't actually allow a through breeze - and yet another idiot is set to introduce air-conditioning on these buses, whereas slidey windows would do the trick, like they used to.

They realised with ticket machines and ATMs that what may work on paper doesn't actually work when real people with no prior knowledge are let loose on them, so they get in actors to replicate what normal people do. There is another mechanism, called public consultation, but why do that when you can pay hundreds of thousands to 'consultants' to bugger about and come up with something stupid.

We've ben promised the Underground round here since the First World War, and there's even a plot of land set aside for a station a hop, skip and a jump away from Gert Cottage. It's unlikely ever to happen because of the disproportionate cost of building the infrastructure. So a far more sensible approach is to integrate and make accessible the existing means of transport.

Just before I moved to the area, they doubled the number of trains through Streatham Hill (under the Tories surprisingly, but pre-privatisation), thereby exponentially increasing their usage - quarter of an hour frequencies encourage people to turn up and wait, half an hour doesn't (source Lambeth Public Transport Group, sometime in the 90s) 

It's going to take a lot more to really make public transport accessible - I don't know if Streatham Hill refurbishment is complete, and whether it includes lifts. But accessibility isn't just about the physical environment, although that is important. It is about enabling people to use the network spontaneously without the need for pre-planning. The system already allows for integration, because of in-zone season tickets and Freedom Passes,  so what is the problem with out-of-zone and other PAYG, especially with auto top-up?

I hope that this OEP is only a temporary measure, until Boris and his cronies realise that it adds no value, and introduces no controls that don't already exist. I suspect they have bent over to please the Train Operating Companies without anyone having the nous to ask 'what is the purpose?'

Interview with Plácido at La Scala

Yeah, I'm a bit behind in my blogging. It's not like I've been doing anything recently!

Rubbish ways to spend New Years Eve

1. At home alone, watching TV - as I have done for the past two years. I also did this once back in the early 90s when I developed a desperately sore throat just after one of my siblings had been diagnosed with glandular fever and the other with 'query glandular fever'. It almost works if you have a backlog of films, but it still feels shite to know 'everyone else' is enjoying themself.
2. At home with one's mother watching TV. This is possible worse that 1,  because you don't even get to choose what you watch, so you have to sit through Clive James's Review of the Year and the Best of Val Doonican.
3. At a Raymond Gubbay New Year's Eve Classical Gala at the Barbican fetauring an unrehearsed pick-up orchestra and third-rate jobbing opera singers that no one has actually heard of*
4. At a 'bring-a-bottle' party where you only know the host, her partner and one other person, you're not single enough to be on the pull, it's too noisy and crowded to conduct a conversation, you end up drinking really acidy wine, and you still have to get home unmolested.
5. In a pub or even a restaurant full of random strangers who have received the message that tonight is the night to party and want to demonstrate how unconventional and rebellious they are by partying wildly and celebrating the amazing and extraordinary fact that December 21st is changing into January 1st

However, having given this due consideration, I have concluded that there is possibly a worse way to spend NYE, and I don't mean: in hospital, prison etc.

This morning, walking from Millbank to the office, I saw several piles of crash barriers and signs pointing to 'Fireworks Viewing Area', and it hit me.

Imagine spending New Year's Eve standing in a crowd of other people, kettled on Horseferry Road or some other Westminster backstreet, in order to watch 7.5 minutes of fireworks (reduced from 10 because of the credit crunch) and then walk amidst that same shuffling crowd of people to a tube or rail station to wait an hour or more to get onto an overcrowded train. All of this technically without (banned) alcohol and certainly without access to loos or seating areas.

Happy New Year everyone.

You may have gathered I'm not a big fan of NYE - forced jollity for no real reason, that only manages to happen because some people slog their guts out working in unpleasant conditions and where other people are forced to surrender their autonomy in order to survive or escape the wisdom of crowds.

I kind of get the point of why people party, but wouldn't it make far more sense to do so on the first day of Spring. In any case, does anybody actually describe a NYE party or event as fun, enjoyable or memorable - particularly in coparison to birthday and housewarming parties and spontaneous nights out! And, of course, the price for all this - Double Bubble!

*but are still far more talented that Katherine Jenkins

A weird journey

I didn't think that catching a bus from opposite my office to Victoria Station to do a bit of shopping would end up feeling quite so surreal. Some of the strangeness was predictable - shoppers, day-trippers and those with suitcases outnumbered those who were ending a day's work. Many of the workers, like me, were dressed down for the day. But to compensate for the lack of a normal rush hour (three hours...), the escalators between the Victoria and District/Circle lines are currently closed for refurbishing, forcing everyone changing lines to surface and go down again.

The bus was nearly empty, only 6 of us in the seating area at the back. Suddenly, one of the 6 asked the other 5 of us whether this was the right stop for the shops - in French. Two people stared at her as if she had come from outer space.

'Aw shit,' I thought. 'It depends whether she wants Army & Navy, or Cardinal Place, or Victoria Place. Three different stops are right for the shops.' But I can't say that in French! The man on the back seat explained in French that he is only a visitor to London so didn't know. Woman on the back seat went into a long explanation about there being various shops but best stay on until the next stop (Westminster Cathedral/Cardinal Place). She wasn't even French, but had lived there for a few months which is why her French is so good. I know that London is multi-cultural, but what were the odds of that?

I did my various bits of shopping. In Boots, the man behind the counter suddenly started talking to me in Italian, just for the sheer heck of it, so - in English of course - I told him about the French woman. He agreed that it was unlikely she would have got a response, although if he had been there he would have explained to her, but she ought to have asked in English. I said I thought it was worth a go.

Coming down the escalator the woman behind was chatting on her phone. She was saying how she had been sat in Trumpington Park & Ride for half an hour because the driver had to have a half hour break by law (she seemed calmly accepting of this). She then moaned about how long it (coach, I assume) took to get to Stratford, but she later found out the M11 was closed because a whole load of pigs had escaped onto it.

Before braving the sheer madness that is Marks and Spencer Simply Food I thought I would step outside for a fag and a quick check of my Twitter Stream.

A woman stopped in front of me. She was laden down with bags and packages attached to an old-fashioned thing with wheels you used to attach to a suitcase before someone had the ingenious idea of making suitcases with wheels. The bags and parcels made her look like a bag-lady but she and her clothes were neat, clean and respectable.

She asked me for a donation to (didn't catch it, never heard of it) which buys food for the Homeless. I noted the absence of visible ID etc and declined, carried on smoking my fag and checking my Blackberry. She then announced that that would make a great picture. Somewhat huffily I did the 'I'm sorry, what are you saying?' and she explained that from a photographer's point of view, the way I was standing, and what I was doing would make a great picture. I'm still not sure whether that's a compliment or an insult!

Other than all this, actually, the journey wasn't so weird, except that people were behaving like they didn't make this same journey day after day, week after week, year after year. Who'd have thought!

A Chav Visits

You may be familiar with my Tweets about the Chavs next door. It would be unfair to call them nuisance neighbours. Actually, scrub that, they are nuisance neighbours, but I know very well that compared to the hell that many people have to endure they are moderate and spasmodic.

It started with the party that went on until 5 am, despite the visit from the Noise Squad

There was the incident when their barbecue was blowing smoke into our house on a hot sunny day, and I politely asked them to put it out or at least move it away from the boundary fence - only to be met with sneers from their little friends. They didn't move it, and smoke continued to billow into the house for another hour or so. (I emailed the nuisance squad).

There have been numerous other incidents, too frequent and yet too trivial to mention. Each of them taken alone wouldn't be worth mentioning, indeed, a bit of neighbour noise is welcome; if the alternative is someone who demands absolute quiet all the time, you'd be terrified even to put the TV on.

This evening, I'm watching the Tsarina's Slippers on the Sky+, when there's a knock on the door.  I did what I always do: open the door without checking first. I know, me stupid. I thought it was probably my religious nutter neighbour, either wanting to know if it was my car blocking her access, or possibly, seeking help - with her husband over 80, practically blind and having had a couple of strokes, that's always a possibility.

Turns out it was one of the Chavs from next door. Asking me to turn my music down - because 'it's after 11 o'clock'.  Splendid, I thought, time for a bit of fun.

I said no.

She asked again, pointing out again that it's after 11 o'clock. A conversation ensued where I suggested she had a cheek, because of the 5 am party. She rudely interrupted me mid-flow, to point out that I had called the noise squad, which is what she was going to do on me. I knew full well that the Tsarina's Slippers had less than half an hour to go; I also know it generally takes the Noise Squad at least an hour to respond.

So, laughing contemptuously, I said "You're asking me a favour; when I asked a favour..."

She explained that she wasn't asking a favour, she was telling...then she said, 

"You ought to relax, you look like you're having a heart attack".

Now, remember I have a residual chest infection, that I had dropped what I was doing and stood up suddenly from the sofa, then opened the door to be met with very cold air blasting into my face, so I probably did look a bit taken aback.

But that was very rude. I don't like people who make rude personal comments. She doesn't know me, for all she knew I could have some chronic heart problem, Okay I don't, but she doesn't know that.

What a common little oik. She has this bleach blond expensive trendy haircut - looks a bit like Paula Yates before the drugs did for her - but underneath the thin veneer is one little madame. Accent is Old Kent Road on helium, with added whine and astonishing lack of inflection. Very strange body language, even stranger (lack of) facial expression. Weird. Which is all beside the point.

If you go round to someone's house and insult them on their doorstep, it's harassment. Obviously, not of a magnitude to warrant further action, but, nevertheless, noted in case it's the beginning of a campaign of harassment. Actually, I don't think it is. The three of them have proved over-and-again that they're not exactly the full shilling. She probably thinks that the best way to get people to co-operate with her is to be borderline intimidatory.

What she doesn't realise is that I am bored stupid with people who get their kicks out of putting me (and others) down. I went through a phase of trying to be nice to people, which is absolutely right for the vast majority of people.

But there is a certain type of person I encounter far too often. For whatever reason - and I think it's generally personal insecurity - they can only feel good about themself when they put other people down.

I don't think many of them actually realise they're doing it, it's a habitual defence mechanism, and it manifests itself differently in different people (or depending on the context). The trouble with such people is that it ends up that the only method of communication they really understand is one of competitive put-down.

For example, this Chav, it is completely pointless to try and say calmly "I think you are being unreasonable, given your past history" because she just wants to butt in with the next sneer. And yet, there's nothing to be gained by playing their game of sneer and put-down.

She asked me again to turn the music down, and I said 'No', she asked why not, I explained that 'I can't be bothered'. She actually staggered two steps back at that (she needs to relax, she looked like she was having a heart attack - not). It always pays to be honest. No point saying 'yes' and looking like you've given in; be honest, because many people can't actually cope with honesty. And if you don't want to be honest, behave with total apparent reasonableness (whilst thinking about completely unreasonable behaviour

She told me again I needed to relax, I look like I'm having a heart attack (clearly, she doesn't actually have the slightest clue what having a heart attack looks like, it's certainly different from someone with a chest infection gasping at the cold air).

And again she told me to turn it down, again I said I can't be bothered, I laughed, and I closed the door slowly and quietly but firmly.

I will fully admit that there were points in the Tsarina's Slippers which were really quite loud, and I had the TV volume set for the quieter moments. I will also accept that I have spent most of the past few days at home, I haven't really been out, and I suppose that either the stereo or the TV has been on most of the time between about midday and midnight, and they, too, have been in and out. Indeed, if I had a kind and considerate person living next door, my behaviour ie my sound levels would be different.

Jimmy's working tonight; he phoned me just after I finished watching the Tsarina's Slippers. He says I should never open the door to those awful people, and if they ever come round again, it is because they are intent on harassing me. He says I need to beware of New Year's Eve, and do not hesitate to call the Noise Squad the minute things get out of hand - because they've already been in trouble once, they're looking at much greater consequences than I am. 

It's a funny situation. I really don't need or want to get into a conflict with here-today, gone-tomorrow renters. It sounds a bit childish to say "They started it", but they did. After their party, if they had a modicum of intelligence, they would have arranged for a bunch of flowers or at least a card to be delivered saying "Sorry we got off to a bad start." But they didn't, they just hide their heads in shame and embarrassment every time we pass on the drive (except for the occasions when they are in their cups and walking along the road drinking!).

Again, if it had been a one-off, I could easily have said, they misjudged, they didn't realise the implications of inviting 'friends of friends' to a house party. Indeed, if they had STFU and called it a day after the Noise Squad had called round, all would have been forgotten. But the simple fact that as recently as Saturday Night/Sunday morning they had another party, albeit one without audible sound system, that led to me having to insert earplugs at 2 am, seems to me that they are happy to carry on capriciously and thoughtlessly.

If I was living next door to a kind and considerate neighbour, the request to turn down the music would have been reasonable. And indeed, my response would have been "Oops sorry, I didn't realise it was so loud." Acts can't be judged in isolation from context.

I just wish I understood their psychology. It's probably just down to them believing they have a right to party and sod everyone else, which, actually, I can understand. But for them to start retaliating on me, I wish I knew where this was going. Any campaign of harassment will be nipped sharply in the bud. Trouble is, they can bugger off in February, when, I assume, their lease runs out; they start again with new neighbours (and be replaced by people perhaps more repugnant). So, they can spend the next six weeks or so being total and utter bitches with little fear of facing the consequences.

Imagine

As promised, if belated, I have uploaded the recording of last week's Imagine, featuring Plácido Domingo.

This is in avi format. If you are unfamiliar with downloading videos, you need to click on the links and follow the instructions. I think if you are not a paid member of Rapidshare, you can only download 1 file per hour. Once you have all six, you need to join them together, using the free HJSplit application.

In order to play the files on the PC you may need to update your video codecs by googling video or DVD codec.

This can also be burned to DVD if you know how to and have the right software, but I am intending to upload a DVD-ready version - which I think will be Region 2 specific

http://rapidshare.com/files/324159126/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.001

http://rapidshare.com/files/324169469/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.002

http://rapidshare.com/files/324180202/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.003

http://rapidshare.com/files/324190457/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.004

http://rapidshare.com/files/324200043/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.005

http://rapidshare.com/files/324202499/Imagine_-_Placido.avi.006

For people in the UK, this is available on BBC iplayer for another week

Christmas Lunch at The Mango Tree

Oh dear.

To say it was a bit rubbish would be - about fair, I think.

It wasn't totally awful, but I'm unlikely ever to go back again, except if I was invited to join a party - if I had any influence I would try to persuade a change of venue.

There aren't many restaurants within walking distance of our office, and this just about counts as walking distance, although I went straight from home and just walked from Victoria Station.

I had been a bit anxious about it - although not in a panic attack way - trying to work out whether a Christmas meal for £38 before drink and service could possibly give value. For some bizarre reason we had opted for the Christmas special which seemed to offer a very small choice of dishes for what seemed like a lot of money.

I didn't want to push the point, because it's not difficult to rack up £38 for three proper courses a la carte in a proper restaurant, but most West End restaurants manage pre-theatre dinners for under £20, in some cases a lot under £20. And indeed, it was chosen on the basis of people who were satisfied at previous experience of two-for-one or dinner for a tenner offers.  It isn't actually a chain restaurant, but service was of that style - waiters with earpieces, no personal touch, very much being on a production line.

It wasn't until we sat down that we realised that we were going to be served a range of dishes, rather than having to choose one. Which rather buggered me. I eat fish but not meat so had to go vegetarian, which, I have to say, represented one of the biggest rip-offs going.

The starters weren't bad, two tiny spring rolls and a little kebab, plus lots of stringy things and bits of chopped vegetable in a peanut sauce. Not fabulous, not awe-inspiring, but decent.

The main course was a joke. Three lumps of butternut squash in an indeterminate yellow sauce, some noodles in a spicy sauce, some rice spooned into half a red pepper, and a few tiny broccoli florets and tiny strips of red pepper. I have been to Oriental restaurants where you end up getting maybe three prawns in a bowl of noodles and sauce - and you pay about a fiver for it and it 'does' because you know what you're getting at that price. I don't like restaurants that use strongly flavoured sauces to disguise the fact that there is no flavour in the actual food - such as it is. I abandoned it after swallowing a mouthful of salt; the taste lingers on.

As for pudding - a chocolate bread and butter that just didn't work (I wasn't the only one who abandoned it) and two pieces of agar-agar, one mango which was a bit meh, and another which was half coconut and half clear. The clear was pretty horrible although the coconut was good - and about the size of a coin.

The atmosphere and service was of the sort you'd expect at Pizza Express - one long room of tables, which was far too noisy, so I couldn't hear anything that three of our party of six were saying. Okay, maybe that's to be expected at a Christmas lunch, but it wasn't as if there was any loud larey obnoxious party there.

There was nothing remarkable about the decor, and a real lack of attention to detail. Any one of the factors I would have shrugged off, but taken together added up to poor service: -my knife had a very visible splash mark on it; I ordered wine, for T, S and me, D and R ordered beer, and M a lemonade. When the waiter brought the bottle, he offered it to R to taste; R pointed out that it was the three women having wine, which non-plussed the waiter, who then moved my arm, before he said 'Excuse me can I get to your glass'. There were two wine glasses at each setting, of different sizes; he poured white wine into the larger of the two (which is no big deal but surprised me). He then said "Shall I go and get an ice bucket?" I was a bit surprised that a bottle of wine over £20 should come with a screw top, although I know of course it is a perfectly acceptable way of bottling wine. I just like the theatre of the ritual of the wine being uncorked. In fact, I like dining as theatre and theatre was badly lacking.

We had to ask three times for tap water. I normally expect tap water to be served in a jug, with ice cubes, and usually, a slice of lemon, but instead they just poured some into a wine glass each. I'm sure if we had asked, refills would have been forthcoming, but it was indicative of the production line mentality. It was clear that they didn't want people lingering to savour the meal, which is typical of chain-type restaurants.

I was a bit surprised, although completely unbothered, that although they were advertising this as a Christmas meal, at considerable premium, they made no effort to provide crackers or streamers. What was more of a surprise was that they didn't bother even throwing a coffee into the deal.

It would be unfair to say it was completely bad, and if I had been paying Pizza Express prices I would probably have accepted a lot of the shortcomings. But it's very unusual for me to be hungry five hours after finishing a three course meal. All I can say is, it would have been a better dining experience at Pizza Express. The food in the staff canteen, at less than a tenner including dodgy plonk, was much better, although being self-service there are no grounds for comparison.

Here's their website for what it's worth - full of marketing guff The Mango Tree

The Alan Yentob and Franco Zefferelli Show

This should be read in conjunction with the previous post Imagine, The Fan Girl Review

I tuned in last night to watch 'Imagine' on BBC1, featuring my hero, Plácido Domingo. I do regard myself as something of an expert on the subject (not the ultimate expert, not more of an expert than you, but enough...), and I also realise it's never really a good idea to watch a TV programme when you know more about the subject than the presenter - when a subject I know well from work comes up on the TV I tend to shout at the telly because they get it just so wrong.

There were a few minor inaccuracies in the programme that irritated me but I let them go. For example, when they said he studied at the Conservatory in Mexico City where he met and married a fellow student, Marta, I knew that several key sentences had been omitted but realise that explaining the whole story of his life between 16-21 would have taken up too much time, even though it was actually quite crucial to his career.

I realise that TV programme makers set up shots for televisual effect. There was a clip of the Dress Rehearsal of Simon B, which I assume was supplied by the Berliner Staatsoper. Artful editing of the camera cutting away to the programme presenter sat in a box intensely watching the performance, in an otherwise empty house. Even when Dress Rehearsals are 'closed' I am certain that at least some of the stalls will be occupied by people involved in the production, house management, guests of cast members and the crew filming and recording stage proceedings.

Perhaps it was just a conceit to give the impression of totally exclusive access; but it's also deceitful, and when documentary-makers insert pointless deceits it creates doubt as to their reliability.

I was a bit surprised at the roles the programme chose to concentrate on. He has sung so many that it is a bit difficult to choose just a few handful.

Certainly Otello Cavaradossi, Don José, and I guess, Canio were excellent choices. But it was perplexing that the discussion on Wagner focused almost entirely on Lohengrin, with a just a passing reference to Parsifal. To focus so much time on Ernani was just weird. I deduced that the roles were chosen because the BBC had the rights to show them. I think it's remiss to  make a programme on Plácido Domingo,  that discusses his move into  Wagner, without even mentioning his great role of Siegmund.

The premise of the programme was a very well known tenor  taking an unusual step into a major baritone role, at the age of 68, after 50 years in the profession. The programme presenter made several mentions of the fact that he, nevertheless, is continuing to sing tenor roles. There was no mention of what the tenor roles are. Obviously, there is no place in telly for listing, but there should have been mention of the Baroque roles of Oreste and Bajazet.

I was curious as to the choice of some of the contribrutors. None of them was a perverse choice. Short archive clips from José Carreras and Luciano Pavarotti, naturally. Daniel Barenboim, because he was conductor of the Simon B. It's difficult to criticise the inclusion of Kiri Te Kanawa and Zubin Mehta. Kiri I think is an obvious choice, although must have been recorded several years ago, judging by her comments on Operalia - how it's a good idea and how she hopes these 'students' will become the stars of the future  (whereas,  as we know, many past winners and finalists are the stars of today!). And I guess Zubin is just as obvious a choice.

I really could have done without there being so much Franco Zefferelli. I know he's one of the biggest opera fans in the history of the world and is very knowledgeable, but it was almost like it was the FZ show. He never seemed to shut up, and, really, he didn't have anything of any worth to say, with the sole exception of saying that Plácido was traumatised after the earthquake. I'm really surprised that Zeff didn't mention Maria Callas, or maybe he did, but it was edited out. I just don't think he added anything to the programme, and his pointless meanderings just took up too much time.

The single biggest annoyance was the presenter and interviewer, Alan Yentob. He wasn't very good. I try not to be influenced by the general bad-mouthing of him I have heard and read from various BBC employees -  'the poor man's Melvyn Bragg'. But he's rubbish at interviewing.

Many of us know Plácido, from the TV and in person, as a fun, lively, funny, flirtatious person. Of course he also has a serious side, and he is at his most engaging (off-stage) when he mixes the serious and fun sides. But you wouldn't know from this programme what a warm and engaging person he is.  I didn't get the feeling that he was being deliberately defensive but I don't think he was relaxed. There were several times when he gave brief answers to questions, when on other occasions he would expand.

For example, Yentob mentioned that prior to being in Berlin, Plácido had been performing on several continents. It sounded somewhat barbed, like a criticism. Plácido explained that he had performed concerts in China, South America, Kazakhstan and Moscow, and left it at that.

On other occasions I am sure he would have been expansive on how wonderful it is to perform in front of so many people and how unbelievable the public are, and how by doing concerts in arena hopefully he can introduce people to opera, and so on.

Obviously, it's difficult to tell how much was edited out, and I do accept that brevity isn't always one of Plácido's strong points, but he is so eloquent when he talks about music, and even more so about the positive effect that music has on people, and how much he feels proud and privileged to be able to bring this joy to people - nothing of that in this programme.

In my view, apart from his singing, his musicianship, his stage presence and dramatic portrayals, his professionalism and dedication, one of the most remarkable aspects of Plácido is how he inspires affection, adoration and devotion. Again, this was barely touched on.

Imagine is billed as the BBC's flagship Arts programme, which, considering that the only competitor is Lauren Laverne's Lack-of-Culture Show, is pretty meaningless. Actually Lauren Laverne would have made a better job of it than Alan Yentob (and I hold her in total contempt after her interview with Billy Bragg when she asked such questions as 'what's Beethoven's 9th? I don't think I've heard of that' and 'what's a diminished 7th?').

I realise that it's never going to be like that wonderful 1994 documentary that shadowed Plácido for several months, at home and in rehearsal as well as on stage. He is an incredibly busy and elusive man; it is often reported how difficult it is to schedule an interview with him - because of his schedule, certainly not because he's difficult or unco-operative. I imagine that the interview only took half an hour, an hour at the most, to film, in two separate sittings.

But ultimately I didn't see the point of the programme; if it was supposed to be about the transition from tenor to baritone, this was barely touched upon, and certainly there was no explanation of why it should be so noteworthy.

If it was supposed to be a retrospective, it wasn't very well researched, and very patchy. I realise that a career so long and busy as Plácido's is difficult to sum up succinctly. I feel that if I had the opportunity to interview him, there's a whole load of questions I would ask him (no, no, not like that!).

I wouldn't be asking questions to make myself look clever, but ones that either pique my curiosity or I suspect would pique others. I am sure that in about 50 years time, when they'll have to show something as an obituary, it won't be this programme  (not that I'll be around to know, but he's intending to live until 120).

It's de rigeur to fill these documentaries with headshots of people giving opinions. I would make more an effort to get a wider variety of contributors - and not Franco bloody Zefferelli who appears on every single programme that's ever made about any opera matter.

I would seek out analysis, opinions and anecdotes that shed light on why he is - in the words of Zubin Mehta - the greatest singer of the 20th century. I would like to contrast his roles as singer and conductor, examine what motivates him to keep on and on, always being away from home, never resting. I would look at the influence on and inspiration to young singers, directly and indirectly.

I would even include thoughtful reasoned criticisms - such as that by singing so many roles, he risks not getting inside them all; how good a conductor is he - and more to the point, how much time is he able to devote to preparing an orchestra for a performance, or indeed, how can he impose his stamp on an orchestra when he spends so little time with any of the orchestras he conducts. And I would challenge him about aspects of crossover, too. (But I guess that's why I'm a lowly accountant and not a BBC Executive with three salaries).

Imagine, the Fan Girl Review

This should be read in conjunction with the next post, The Alan Yentob and Franco Zefferelli  Show

Last night BBC1 devoted an entire hour of programming to Plácido Domingo (my hero!). I found out several weeks ago that this was going to be on and of course I was looking forward to it.

By the time I got home yesterday, I wasn't feeling great and really just wanted to go to bed and sleep. But, heck, mere tiredness wasn't going to get in the way of watching my hero on TV. Recording it to watch at a later date wasn't an option!

As the evening progressed I got increasingly anxious. I've really got to do something about this. I have jokingly described before my 'audience nerves', but that applies to going to an opera house, having paid lots of money and committed time, effort etc. This was for a bloody TV programme. A certain amount of anxiety is justifiable - one never likes distortions and untruths, one never feels that the media are altogether trustworthy. But I was definitely suffering more than 'a certain amount'!

I did a few mindless chores round the house, then decided to occupy myself with Sudoku on my phone (I actually hate Sudoku and find it almost pointless; it sometimes serves to focus the mind!). I switched the TV on for the ten o'clock news and went back to my Sudoku. My concentration was shattered by this most gorgeous voice singing Vesti la giubba. I looked up - it was a trailer for the programme to follow after the news and came as a delightful surprise. Suddenly, all my anxiety dissipated into pleasurable anticipatory  excitement.

I was utterly delighted to be wallowing in the wonderfulness of His Wonderfulness having a whole programme devoted to him. It was billed as following him as he prepared for the baritone role of Simon Boccanegra, and although this subject was touched on, the programme tried to be a retrospective of his career so far.

It included some archive footage of him on-stage, and also off-stage - with Pláci jr and Alvaro when they were toddlers or a little older, and some from the programme that was made in 1994 - he and his three sons singing Sin ti karaoke-style in Acapulco. There was also video footage of his parents in Luisa Fernando; a sound-only recording of him singing in Lucia with Lily Pons (which was her last Lucia, she had sung her first with Gigli).

Interspersed with the performance footage were snippets of comment from various people in the opera world, all full of praise for him - of course - and, best of all, interview footage with him. A particular highlight was him giving a detailed commentary on the subtleties involved in singing the 'Flower' aria from Carmen, and I did think that that is my idea of aural bliss: Plácido Domingo talking (so softly so gently) over the sound of Plácido Domingo singing.

I suppose my ultimate highlights were the clips from the ROH Otello, the Hamburg Lohengrin, and the Tosca (in the time and place), all of which I have on DVD anyway.

I felt he was fairly guarded in the interview, really quite serious. He was asked about the Mexico City earthquake and I felt that he found it difficult to talk about it, indeed would rather not have.

He said that he feels that one should, to the limit of one's ability, do what one can to help. That one sentence was the absolute essence of the man.

I know he has a healthy ego and is not unduly modest about his considerable ability, rightly. Crucially, though, he never comes across as egotistical, boastful or arrogant; and this sense of duty, obligation or service is a very attractive characteristic.

He was expansive in his answers to very few questions; the interviewer said to him that, of course, his father was also called Plácido; so he replied that he also has a son called Plácido and a grandson, just a year old, who is Plácido the fourth. 

In terms of roles, and his career and so on, he seemed careful in what he said, although he seemed absolutely determined when he said that he had commitments up until 2014 when he will be 73. I have noticed before how he likes to give interviews at the piano, so that when he's talking about a piece of music, he plays it. I wonder if, subconsciously, it's a bit of a shield, too.

I felt that he was at his most expansive when talking specifically about music; I suspect he would have been even more careful in answering questions about the person behind the performer, the psychology, if you like, of someone who keeps going out on stage two or three times a week for fifty years, and continues to do so past the age when most people retire, and when he has no financial need to do so, let alone more personal questions.

I have only watched it the once and of course I shall watch it again. (I intend to put it onto DVD, but my DVD player is unlooped from the digibox-TV loop; I also intend to upload it to Rapidshare, so watch this space).I expect that at some point it will be available on YouTube.

My David Beckham spaghetti hoops have corroded...

...and are ready to explode.

I bought these to beat the Millennium bug. They actually expired in January 2002, but we've been keeping them for posterity. They predate Jimmy but only by a few months, so he's now got this idea he'll be next in the wheelie bin. Why throw him in the wheelie bin when we have a perfectly good patio?

Redemption by Love on the Southbank

Fairly lights and lanterns like icicles lent the approaches to the Royal Festival Hall a seasonal and un-Wagnerian etherealism.

When I bought my ticket a few weeks ago, I was very excited about the prospect of Wagner highlights. When Thursday came I was demotivated, the double-effects of gastrinal and gynaecological stomach cramps made me dread the Northern Line full of inevitable post-office-party hedonism, the wait in the cold at Clapham Common or the bus that suddenly decides to terminate one stop short of home, and leave me with a tedious uphill walk in the dark and cold.

I was tempted to skive off, but I had also been tempted to miss Messiah, which had provided temporary relief from the tedium of dull aches, so I mounted my winged horse masquerading as a sadly no-longer bendy 507, and found myself transported to Valhalla-on-Thames.

The hall was far from full; I had no one next to me, in front of me or behind me, which suited me fine but was disappointing. Bleeding chunks of Wagner do not satisfy many ardent Wagnerians, and do not appeal to the Classic For Morons brigade put off by Wagner's lack of chill-out relaxing classics as aural wallpaper.

Charles Mackerras, my second octagenarian conductor in a week*, walked onto the platform, looking frail. I noticed that he had a chair on the dais, and reflected that Colin Davis had shown no signs of needing one last week (and appeared to be some twenty years younger than his official age!). But just because Charles had a chair doesn't mean he used it much. Don't be fooled by appearances!

We opened with a concert version of Tannhauser prelude. I have a CD of Tannhauser highlights which I adore. I also have a performance sitting unwatched on the Sky box. I have never heard it in its entirety.

Once again employing my word of the week, this was pleasant, but after a while it dragged, seeming not to be going anywhere. I resigned myself to another pleasant evening - mustn't grumble!

A short first half was made up with Isolde's Liebestod, Christine Brewer doing the honours. I have mixed feelings about Christine; she was sensation both as Fidelio/Leonora and Gotterdammerung's Brunnhilde, but unsatisfying in Beethoven 9 and Britten War Requiem. I don't care for her stage demeanour, so row KK of the Rear Stalls was good. Having heard Nina Stemme perform this at the end of a gruelling staged T&I not so long ago, the bar was set high.

I don't think Christine Brewer matched Nina Stemme's brilliance, even if the comparison is unfair. As someone remarked afterwards, she was coming into it cold. Singing above an orchestra on the platform is more of a challenge than projecting over the pit. My niggle was a sense of squawling at the top, not pronounced or  pervasive, but the fact I noticed it emphasises that the performance failed to overwhelm me and draw me in.

If this reads as 'damning with faint praise' it should be regarded as a case of praising with faint criticism. My expectations have been greatly raised by three superb performances this autumn - Don Carlo, Tristan und Isolde and Otello.

I was not greatly looking forward to Götterdämmerung,  goings-on of the Norns that stretch the Prelude into eternity, or the tedium of shenanigans at Gibichung Hall.

I forgot something - the music!

Launching into Siegfried's Rheinfahrt, music that made me stretch my spine like a cat just after cream; into Siegfried's Death, with its otherworldliness, and into Siegfried's Funeral March, surely one of the greatest passages of music ever written.

Leitmotifs are being flung relentlessly at me, each one conjuring up recollections of the story unfolding for fifteen previous hours. A lump rises in my throat; I hope it isn't an imminent coughing fit. The timpani (two timpanists with five drums) beat out the poignancy. I know it's doom, doom we're all doomed but silly internet slang does not fit the solemnity of misery.The triangle, the most amazing of instruments, rang out in glory.

I luxuriated in the wealth of sound even from a diminished orchestra (a quick count estimated about 60 players), I planned my blogpost full of mentions of multi-textured orchestration, and always those leitmotifs.

Then something amazing happened. The concert would finish with singing - Brunnhilde's Immolation - and I feared it would break the magical spell cast by the orchestra. I even thought - well, the advantage Wagner has over Handel is the absence of Da Capo and ornamentation of that which has already been sung.

My eyes moistened, I studied the text, I marvelled in the eulogy to Siegfried, I listened to the glorious sounds being made, I sat back in my seat. I wallowed, loving the misery growing inside me.

Auch deine Raben hör' ich rauschen;
mit bang ersehnter Botschaft
send' ich die beiden nun heim.
Ruhe, ruhe, du Gott!

Your ravens too I can hear flapping their wings.
With news feared and desired
I'll send them both home now.
Rest, rest, you god.

The tears slipped down my cheeks, and I was transported out of myself. I have no memory of experiencing the music. I could not tell you how it went, were the instruments all together, were there flubs, how did Christine Brewer perform?

All such questions are irrelevant and unanswerable. The tears flowed freely, I was on the bank of the Rhine, there were flames, I recalled all that had gone before, and, then, the final redemption by love.

The last chord died away and a stunned silence filled the auditorium, not even interrupted by the arrogant self-serving bravo (sic) which had brought Isolde's Liebestod to a premature end. My guts were wrenched, Going through the emotional wrangle left me trembling; nothing good was ever going to happen again.

At last, the silence ended and the applause was enthusiastic and sustained, with some hearty cheering.

Writing about music is impossible and ultimately futile; describing emotions that can only be experienced, translating the visceral to mere black dots on the screen, rendering the sublime into prose. Walking to the station still in shock, unable to focus on thoughts, getting home on auto-pilot. For once, internet slang is apt: Awesome!

On the way to the station I overheard a miserable woman demand complainingly of her friend - "Can you hum any of those tunes, I certainly can't, waste of time?" I was not even tempted to turn round and order her back to the safety of Classic FM; instead I wept in pity that she was unable to join me on the journey to another world.

The other opinions:

Edward Seckerson, wordsmith of the month, writes:

lest it be suggested that at 84-years of age Mackerras no longer has the wherewithal to whip up a mean orgy I am here to tell you that it was instructional to see the great man rise from his sitting position and unleash a trumpet-topped whirlwind of sexual naughtiness with tambourines and castanets adding so quirkily to the headiness of it all.

Simon in What'sonstage (already previously linked): Creation to Twilight

blazing intensity

Brewer, Mackerras and the Philharmonia serve up some tasty Wagner chunks

They were on safer, well, chilling ground for the Trauermarsch and then the final scene. Brewer was perhaps on even finer form here, though it is true that it does lack the same impact as it would have with the whole of the preceding four hours, no matter how finely played and sung (and it was very fine indeed).

A Particular Pleasure

Whilst the closing moments of the vocal section did not overwhelm me the way Brewer and Mackerras had done in the first half, there is no doubt that this was one of the most finely sung accounts of the Immolation scene that I had heard. And the closing moments as the Rhine overflows its banks and floods the Gibichung Hall were magical.

Wagner: Quite Nice Really

So, that Wagner–quite nice and even a bit frisky in places, but nothing to get worked-up about…

* I can't think of any other profession where so many go onto such an old age; I have read that it is the rare combination of intellectual challenge and physical exertion that contributes to longevity