June 24th - June 30th 2002
Sunday Postal
Saturday AM irony
Friday A higher calling
Thursday Chris Price
Wednesday Ungaying Gaudi
Tuesday Here inside
Monday Faces
Sunday 30th June 2002
Whomsoever it was who had the bright idea of holding a series of concerts on the otherwise immaculately bland lawn at the foot of the towers deserves a gold star for bringing a touch of colour to the corporate canyons of Canary Wharf.
Unless and until you happen to find yourself perched halfway up one of said towers at eight in the evening, desperately trying to concentrate on your work whilst battered by the the squealing brass and half-heard high notes - like being trapped on the tube squashed up against a balding opera freak with ill-fitting headphones for two hours and no chance of escape.
As we stood at the windows in a deeply disgruntled row, staring down to the picnic patchwork fifteen floors below, a colleague mixed his metaphors to excellent effect: "If the fat lady doesn't sing soon, I'm gonna go postal."
Saturday 29th June 2002
There are days when I wake up as if docking at the end of a long sea journey, my bags safely stowed in the hold and a whole new world waiting outside my window.
And then there are the days when the previous few hours feel like a last-minute trans-Atlantic flight, squeezed between an overweight woman and a squalling child, with only lost luggage and long queues to look forward to.
Other awakenings feel like being thrown from a speeding car, or parachuting into a war-zone.
As today, when an early, too-early, call to my answering machine reminds me that I have a dental appointment on Monday and, immediately, someone starts up with their electric drill next door.
I do not appreciate irony before breakfast.
Friday 28th June 2002
Everyone, but everyone, has something to say about the mysterious photo of the baby bomber.Me, I feel sorry for the child: "My parents went to Palestine and all they bought me was this lousy suicide bomber outfit."
Enron was outrageous - with a side-order of delight in watching a multi-national firm of accountants getting an kick in the head.
WorldCom was outrageous - with more than a touch of relish in rolling the overweening arrogance of that corporate nomenclature around the mouth ("They call me Com.. WorldCom").
And do I hear a third?
Oh yes. Please welcome the Xerox Corporation.
Pull up a seat, guys. And kick that thoroughly discredited firm of accountants out of the way as you do so.
But never mind all that, answer me this: is there any evidence that anyone with an ounce of intelligence is in charge of what George Bush says in public these days?
Anyone who realises that public utterances get taken down, get reported, get - god help us - analysed?
If so, how on god's green earth does the President of the United States get away with stating that:
A higher calling. A higher calling?
Do I have this right? Massive corporate fraud is, well, kinda ok in an everyday sorta way (a billion here or a billion there, whatever) but its not, y'know, the whole picture?
This is the nation that takes it on itself to tell us who has the right to rule in a nation half way round the world?
Not for the first time when it comes to American politics: I despair.
Not, I should add, that this tiny island has anything to be proud of, with its recent pre-occupation with nano-spin:Its loud concern as to whether or not Blair should apologise personally for a perfectly reasonable private enquiry about the political allegiance of vocal critics of the government
Its rush to the moral high ground on the question of whether the Prime Minister did or did not consider walking to the Queen Mother's funeral (aka 'lying-in-state-gate')
Its knickers-in-a-twist about a thoroughly reasonable off-the-cuff remark from Mrs PM on the subject of Palestinian terrorism...
Guys, guys, guys: I know it's the silly season, I know we're allowed to get aerated about total nonsense round 'bout now, but please: Get A Grip.
Writing in The Independent, David Aaronovitch comments: "We need a media debate, and we need one badly...In debates between politicians and the media, the media always wins, because the media writes the stories."
His implicit question - who can we turn to talk us out of this nonsense? - finds a potential answer across the pond at salon.com, where Scott Rosenberg argues that "..the fire-in-the-belly of the blogging movement is less a matter of left or right than of a more free-floating anger at the professional media's penchant for making mistakes and not owning up to them."
Shame, then, that Salon has just announced that, in order to survive, "it would need to raise additional cash within three to four months, but had no guarantees it would be able to do so."
Says who?
Thursday 27th June 2002
Three recent stories that were widely reported, but which you wouldn't want to miss:
A forensic pathologist told Westminster coroner's court that popular gay TV presenter Christopher Price died from an extremely rare brain disease, meningoencephalitis.
So he didn't commit suicide and he didn't take an overdose of drugs - as suggested by stories about his 'mysterious' decease in newspapers for whom the only happy homosexual is a dead one.
The Korean footballer Ahn Jung-hwan played for Italian team Perugia.
Naturally enough, in the World Cup he played for South Korea - and scored the goal that successfully eliminated his opponents from the tournament.
South Korea were playing Italy at the time. Ahn Jung-hwan no longer plays for Perugia.
The Magna science centre in Rotherham has been running a public experiment demonstrating how they are teaching robots to think for themselves.
Last week one of the robots broke out of its protective paddock, escaped down a concrete ramp, left by the front door and was later found heading for the car park - where it narrowly avoided being run over by a visitor who had come to see the exhibition.
Wednesday 26th June 2002
Watching Oz last night, it struck me that there's an interesting case of compare and contrast to be had.
Last night's episode brandished two penises, one attempt at forced fellatio and a graphic male rape; did Prisoner Cell Block H ever manage that?
The Catalan architect Antoni Gaudi was an inhibited loner whose repressed personality contrasted with the voluptuous sensuality of his buildings.
Or so we thought. A big hand, please, for Gaudi: The Musical, a £1.6m production opening in Barcelona this autumn.
The producers [have] tweaked the truth to create a vibrant spectacle based on Gaudi's love for three women. This may surprise those who believe his indifference to women and sex indicated a suppressed homosexuality.
'We haven't lied or made anything up,' [said the composer]. 'We've just exaggerated a little.'
(Fuller version here)
Tuesday 25th June 2002
Monday 24th June 2002
Yesterday was great day for finding, and losing, friendly faces.
Waiting for the Walk for Life to start: Saunders, glimpsed from a distance and never seen again
Crossing Westminster Bridge: the cute guy in glasses that I stared at for ten minutes on the DLR just a few days ago
Waiting to get into the post-walk party: Andy and the long-lost Louis plus a Joiners contingent
Lounging on the grass by the funfair: Neil - sadly misplaced thereafter, so I never did get to see the new dog
At Marcus' flat: the absurdly attractive Martin
At the Vauxhall: all the usual suspects plus Weakest Link winner Nigel, his boyfriend and their friend, gratifyingly alarmed by their first exposure to full-on RVTness
At Dukes: oops, I don't remember
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