Countdown and out

Eight years ago BBC Birmingham relocated from Pebble Mill to the Mailbox. BBC boss Greg Dyke enthused staff with the benefits of the move, using catchy slogans such as Project Countdown and Making It Happen. It turned out to be the trumpeting of a white elephant.

Pebble Mill had plenty of studios and a nominal rent. The Mailbox has a swanky city-centre location. Sadly, the joys of sharing a wind-tunnel with Harvey Nicks have not compensated for spiralling costs and the loss of studio space. My sources tell me the Beeb has now decided to close BBC Birmingham (who’d have guessed it) and move things to Bristol.

I wrote a piece at the time of the move from Pebble Mill, which a friend proposed to post on a Tolkien fan website. It may be there (I haven’t looked) but it is certainly here.

One Ring

Obi Nobi knocked the scroll out of the flames with his stick.  “You see,” he said, “it cannot be destroyed so easily.” 

He carefully unrolled the parchment, and read out the mystic words which appeared.

“One ring to fax them all, two rings to phone them.”

“But what can it mean?” exclaimed Beebo.

“It’s part of a longer document called Project Countdown,” replied Obi.

“Project Countdown!  It sounds exciting and awesome,” said Beebo, wide-eyed.

“It is,” nodded Obi.  “It is thrusting and innovative.”  And a strange stillness came over the room as the old man, as if in a trance, recited the words:

            Four for the nation’s favourite Aunt;

            Three for her emergence from the Age of Stone;

            Two for Public Service with a nice new slant;

            One for the Dyke Lord on his Dyke Throne -

            In the land of Mailbox where the studios aren’t.

            One ring to fax them all, two rings to phone them,

            One call to axe them all and have the exit shown them,

            In the land of Mailbox where the studios aren’t.

“Gosh,” whispered Beebo, suitably impressed.

“As you so succinctly express it: Gosh,” said Obi Nobi.  “We don’t quite know what it all means, but it is clearly a prophecy of some sort, and we are committed to making it happen.”

“Whatever it is,” said Beebo.

“Whatever it is,” agreed Obi. 

“There’s just one thing - ”  began Beebo hesitantly.

“And what is that?”

“What does the W stand for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The notice on your door,” explained Beebo.  “It says: Obi W. Nobi.  I’ve always wondered: what does the W stand for?”

“Some things it is better not to ask,” said Obi Nobi.

Ten days to save the Euro

The headline above appeared in yesterday’s newspapers. It makes me think of a James Bond figure arriving as the clock ticks down, and saving the world by shooting the bad guys. (45 minutes to disarm the Weapons of Mass Destruction.) Sadly, this approach may not be helpful on this occasion.

Tory MP Douglas Carswell has said that the break-up of the Euro is inevitable. This may or may not be so. The pros and cons of the Euro (and indeed of the EU and Britain’s participation in it) have long been debated. I am struck, however, by what Carswell said next. 

He said: “Adding debt to countries simply makes them even more impoverished. ... I hope eurozone leaders will begin the process to allow countries to default on their debts.”

This seems reasonable and humane. It is also what the Jubilee Debt Campaign has been saying for 15 years about our dealings with the world’s poorest (and most indebted) nations. If Greece is in a financial pickle, what about Liberia?

(The Jubilee campaign takes its name from a set of commandments in Leviticus. Debts were to be cancelled, slaves set free, and land restored to those who had lost it. These laws reflect a care for the poor which is evident on every page of the Jewish Scriptures, and bear careful reading: by churches claiming to believe the Bible, and by nations claiming the Bible as part of their heritage.)

Countries in the developing world are paying many times more in interest on their debts than they ever receive in “aid”. We are also able to bully them into adopting our favourite economic policies. The debt and the bullying contribute to frustration and instability in regions of the world where we might prefer to see peace. (They also incidentally contribute to starvation.)

And, as we are discovering, the economic policies themselves turn out to be of dubious value.

Let's get our priorities right. Save the Euro, by all means. Yippee. But let's get serious about debt cancellation. I don't often agree with Tory MPs: but it is surely time "to allow countries to default on their debts". 

Alive and well and sharing a flat with Salman Rushdie

I’ve just seen an advert describing Lee Evans as the Elvis of comedy.

I saw the same thing said about Bernard Manning after he died. Which I thought was ridiculous. Fair enough, he was a fat clapped-out has-been: but he wasn’t a junkie.

Then when Michael Jackson died, people were comparing him to Elvis Presley, too. “Outrageous dance moves,” they said of Jackson, or it may have been Presley. “White man with the voice of a black man,” they said of Presley, or possibly Jackson.

Still, at least in Jackson’s case we are comparing like with like. But comparing Lee Evans to Presley? What next? Stephen Hawking – the Napoleon of astrophysics. Bernard Matthews – the Gabriel Garcia Marquez of turkey farming. Moses – the Ronnie O’Sullivan of Jewish lawmaking.

Even within a field, I’m not sure of the value of this kind of comparison. For twenty years after his retirement, English cricket looked in vain for “the next Ian Botham”. Any youngster who could bowl a bit and bat a bit was laden with near-messianic expectations.

(India seems to do this differently. Tendulkar is so revered – indeed, worshipped – that they specifically do not look for anyone like him to appear. Instead, a promising young batsman will be spoken of as potentially “the next Dravid” or “the next Laxman”. It is taken for granted that there will not be another Tendulkar.)

Did I say “messianic” just now? Jesus (unlike Elvis) has promised that He will return: but neither has been seen on earth recently. And in both cases, some folks have difficulty with this. And so sects grow, investing messianic hope in a living individual. I don't envy that person. If it is hard to be touted as the next JK Rowling, how much harder to be hoped on as the returning Christ.

Of course, if the man the Moonies look to turns out not to be Jesus, after all – well, it won’t be the end of the world.

Sons and daughters

16 Commonwealth nations have decided, without fuss, to allow sons and daughters equal rights to succeed to the British throne. The lack of fuss was surprising and quite pleasing. It is notoriously difficult to get nations to agree – and commit themselves legally – to anything.  (Other than fat subsidies to French micro-farmers.) Kyoto? Jubilee? Even something as self-evidently splendid as the invasion of Iraq didn’t get the nod.

The decision itself, it must be admitted, doesn’t affect most of us (except paparazzi or assassins, who in pursuit of their quarry are now equally likely to have to hide in the Ladies or the Gents): but it feels like the fair and “modern” thing to do.

Mind you, questions have been asked about the fairness or modernity of having an unelected monarch in the first place. And it’s a funny sort of “equality” that allows a certain thing to him (or indeed to her), but not to me.

But I believe our monarchy in fact safeguards our democracy. It is extremely useful to have a head of state who is chosen randomly (or providentially) but clearly and unequivocally: and for that person to have no actual power.

Like it or not, the head of state embodies the state. That function is a very useful one, and needs insulating from real power. A Blair or a Thatcher cannot claim to embody the state, since the Queen does that. This limits the damage they can do – compared with a Stalin or a Mugabe, who in the absence of a monarch can claim that their opponents are enemies of the state. 

(Incidentally, check out the role of Juan Carlos II during Tejero’s attempted coup in Spain in 1981. The attack was upon the parliament, not the King: and the King, in defying the armed insurgents, had nothing to gain politically – since he was committed to returning Spain to democratic rule after the Franco years. But if the king had been killed, Spanish democracy would have died with him.)

The smoking gun

“Teenagers who watch films showing actors smoking are more likely to take it up,” says the BBC today. The experts who discovered this amazing fact say that it should be reflected in film classification.

There are some surprising things in this news story, but the central claim is not one of them. The whole advertising industry – and possibly our whole envy-driven economy – is built on the premise that our choices can be influenced by what we see. To devote research resources to stating the obvious looks crazy ... until we see the pro-smoking flat-earthers trying to deny it.

The question is rather one of nuts and sledgehammers, or gnats and camels. Should films depicting smoking carry a 15 (or 18) rating? The same debate has been heard in relation to on-screen violence, where the issue is perhaps more worrying. DVD boxes also routinely warn us about sex and swearing.

But what about vengeance, bullying, financial greed? To take one example of many: there’s a film called The Heist, in which the main character (I won’t call him a hero) sees his friend killed and his wife run off with another man. But he is shown as the winner – partly because he has killed his enemy, but mostly because he ends up with the gold. I suspect we are meant to share his satisfied smile: to approve the goal he pursued, the means he used, the cost he deemed worthwhile.

Indeed, what about the general level of unpleasant behaviour seen in most soap operas? This seems to escalate of its own accord, like inflation or bankers’ bonuses: but even before it reaches GBH and arson, there is a constant undercurrent of selfishness, scheming, lying, cheating, and just plain hatred. Without a censor's rating to worry about.

(Oh, and don't get me started on the daytime chat output: freak-shows in which all manner of stuff is "normalised". 100 housewives who have shagged the milkman discuss why it's a good idea.)

And now the TV channels bring an argument opposite to the one we started with: that programme-makers who see certain patterns of behaviour in society are more likely to include the same in their TV shows.

I am reminded of the story of the TV forecaster who warned of a severe winter, because he had seen Native Americans gathering a lot of wood. And he kept seeing them gather more and more wood. So his weather warnings became more and more severe: because the Native Americans obviously knew something. And eventually he asked them: “How do you know it’s going to be a bad winter?” And they replied: “From watching your forecasts.”

But of course the story must be a myth. Because if it were true, it would mean that we can be influenced by what we see. And we know that’s not true. Right, children?

The plot thickens

The ribbon headlines on yesterday’s TV news were intriguing. First, they said that rebels had entered Gaddafi’s compound, but there was no sign of Gaddafi. Later, they said that Gaddafi’s golf buggy had been found in his compound.

I’m not sure how much the story is advanced by the second piece of news. I suppose we can conclude that he isn’t at one of Libya’s many golf courses – which narrows the search. All the rebels need to know now is: which of Gaddafi’s recreational vehicles isn’t there? Then they can just comb the area for his toboggan or his skateboard.

Unless of course it’s a double-bluff. He could be roaming a Tripoli golf course in a borrowed (or stolen) buggy. Have they found his membership card?

The Stupid Advertisement Awards

The other day I went past Jekyll & Hyde, a local gin palace. (There’s a nostalgic term, redolent of a Hogarth print.) And I was pleased to note that a certain advert has been taken down from their window. It was one of the two stupidest and most irresponsible adverts I have ever seen.

Of course, killjoys and Communists have asked questions about the whole advertising industry, and the culture which feeds it. But the drive to economic growth demands that we make more, or at least consume more: so advertising serves a purpose by encouraging us to treat as essential many things we never knew we needed. And this must surely be a good thing. How long we can go on like this before we run out of oil, trees and fish is not a question we should ask. The clever scientists will sort it: and meanwhile our duty is to consume – for GDP’s sake.

Again, some individual adverts may look a bit silly. The idea that we would buy a product because it is endorsed by footballers or (going back a while) Martians or chimpanzees seems far-fetched. And yet ... Someone I knew insisted he’d overheard this conversation in a supermarket:

-          What was the name of the tea those monkeys were advertising on television?

-          I think it was PG Tips.

-          Well, I think we ought to buy some. They spoke very highly of it.

No: the stupidity of the adverts I have in mind is of a different magnitude.

In second place (cue X-Factor pause) is a series of TV ads run by Toyota. I haven’t seen one just lately, so maybe they’ve given up on the campaign. In each advert, someone offends a Toyota owner in some way. (Perhaps they brush the car with muddy trousers as they walk past.) And in each case, the car owner takes elaborate and often dangerous revenge. (E.g. removing the ladder from below someone working on a house roof.)

I will not dignify the adverts by trying to draw out a serious and coherent message about the product. Nor will I indulge the creators by joining them in saying: “Just havin’ a larf, innit?” (which is probably what the kids are saying who are being jailed for arson after the recent riots in London and elsewhere). Vengeance is a singularly nasty trait in a motorist, and any advert glorifying it should be quickly banned.

But the winner is …

The advert in the gin palace was based on publicity for Jim’ll Fix It. For those under a certain age or outside the UK, this was a TV programme in which viewers wrote to presenter Jimmy Savile as if to Santa Claus, saying: “I want to be sent in the post to my girlfriend” or “I want to do an army assault course” and the BBC fixed it for them. Programme publicity featured Savile, smiling and waving a cigar.

The advert kept the picture of Savile, but cleverly changed the slogan to Gin’ll fix it.

Of course no-one suggests gin will help you to do an army assault course (although I dare say scientific testing has not been done). But you can imagine the problems gin is asked to fix. “I have a boring job.” Gin’ll fix it. “I fought with my wife/husband again.” Gin’ll fix it. “The bailiffs are coming in the morning.” Gin’ll fix it.

No, it won’t, and I’m very glad to see the advert has disappeared from the gin palace window. Mind you, they might want to change the name of the gin palace. We’ve all met people who rely on gin (or similar) to “fix it”, and Jekyll & Hyde more or less sums them up.

Sniggering Philistines

Once when I'd just started judo classes, the tutor divided us into teams and paired us randomly. My opponent was twice my size and wore a green belt at somewhere near my eye level. There were embarrassed titters on his side of the hall as we took our positions, such as were probably heard in the Philistine lines as Goliath approached David.  

Of course with judo, the fact that your opponent weighs 100 kilos doesn’t have to be a problem. In fact, it can be his problem. Green Belt didn’t seem to know this, and closed in on me with confidence.

The bout lasted about three seconds. I landed on my head.  As someone (Runyon? Thurber?) once said: “The race is not always to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, but that's the way to bet.”

Fast forward to this summer, and Britain v Luxembourg in the Davis Cup. Laurent Bram can’t have enjoyed being triple-bagelled: and conversely it’s tiring for British fans to see our team as a whole in such straits. But I found myself identifying with Green Belt’s friends. What embarrassed was the ease of Murray’s victory.

Or again, the second Test against India. I travelled through rain on the Monday and checked the score in the evening – wondering whether England had declared and how far Tendulkar & co had got towards a (hopefully) distant target. To find that the match was over with a day to spare was somehow disappointing.

I suspect it may be an English thing, to be uncomfortable with total dominance. Well: with total English dominance. We love Pele’s Brazil: we grudgingly admire Manchester United (who admittedly aren’t that English, but they fly an English flag).

We seem to warm to heroes who prevail after disappointment (Kelly Holmes), against the odds (Dennis Taylor – again, and like Andy Murray, not actually English), or at least at evident cost (Steve Redgrave). Best of all we love heroes who totally don’t prevail (Tim Henman, Eddie the Eagle). I mean, name a polar explorer.

As I write, England are starting the third Test as they finished the second. By the end of the summer maybe we’ll learn to relax and enjoy it – convinced as we are that it isn’t normality. The Three Musketeers’ watchword was: “All for one, and one for all.” Ours seems to be: “Just for once, and not for long.” And on that basis, we can enjoy the good times when they come.

By contrast, I somehow imagine after all that the Philistines weren't sniggering in English embarrassment:  but laughing out loud and taunting, like Australians. Much good it did them.

Flo-Jo and BoJo

Tabloids have a problem with long words. And the problem is: they don’t fit on the page. (At least, not once the headlines are in suitably large letters.) So if I criticise Manchester United, however gently, the headline screams KOMLA SLAMS MAN U.

People’s names get abbreviated. A few years ago, the usual thing was to change the end of the name to –zza. Paul Gascoigne became Gazza; Michael Heseltine became Hezza.

This probably still happens. (Muzza?) But a different sort of abbreviation is taking over.  The first example I’m aware of was Florence Griffith-Joyner, which is obviously far too many letters. So she of course became Flo-Jo. It took a while for it to catch on: but now we have had J-Lo, SuBo, SamCam, BoJo, A-Rod (and A-Bog) and I don’t know how many others. SyCo carries an additional joke, but is patterned on the same thing. And the first question I have is: does this have a name? (Any linguistics professors out there?)

My second question is more open. It could be an interesting game to imagine ourselves as tabloid editors, and make up short forms for famous people’s names. These don’t have to be current celebrities. Several examples spring to my mind which are somewhat backdated. For example:

·         Go-Bro (= Gordon Brown)

·         J-Sta (= Joseph Stalin)

·         Wammo (= Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart)

Any other suggestions?

Weird alien egg thing

When I was learning Spanish, the tutor gave me a cartoon strip to write about. In the strip was a strange alien egg thing (a bit like Ludwig, perhaps) and I had to say what it was.

I wrote that it was a Mechanical Philosopher. It was able to consider the Big Questions. More than that (and with a nod to Douglas Adams), it knew what the Big Questions were. But best of all, it could not speak. So whatever cogitations occured within its impressive brain, it kept to itself. For it was the very best and most beneficial sort of philosopher: a silent philosopher.

In the years since then, I have had an unknown number of thoughts. I do not claim for them the status of Cogitations: and I certainly make no claims to being a Philosopher. But I have largely been Silent, perhaps beneficially so, like the alien egg. Until now!