BNP leader Nick Griffin was among guests appearing on Question Time this evening.
It has been the most talked and written about TV event of the week already and it will be no surprise to find the panel show receiving a far higher audience share than usual.
Hundreds of anti-fascist campaigners protested outside Television Centre during the show's recording, while 25 protesters successfully broke police lines to enter the Wood Lane building.
The show has not yet been broadcast at the time of writing, but BBC News 24 has been trailing clips of the show. Griffin comes across as smugly repellent and laughably anachronistic as ever.
His racist views are loathsome and idiotic to anyone but committed monoculturalists, but who wants to be one of the those? OK, six per cent of people who voted during the European elections. More fool them.
But Nick (how convenient it is that your name rhymes with the slang term for a male member), you may be proud of the publicity this mainstream media appearance has won you and your party. You may win the odd seat with the support of bigots, but you will never gain power in London. After all, this city's residents number than 50 non-indigenous communities of more than 10,000 people and comprise a population which speaks 300 languages.
While I'm caning your forename out of spite, there is something interesting about your surname. A griffin is a fictional beast that guards treasure.
Maybe I'm clutching at straws but with your dedication to an imagined time of racial purity, you're a real Griffin that guards what you innacurately believe to be treasure - a nation of white people.
Confused, sad and woefully misguided. You make Boris Johnson look like a model politician.
On a lighter note. If I was in a band, we would use this as our intro music. Imagine walking on to this. Wicked.
Thursday, 22 October 2009
Sunday, 11 October 2009
Bloomsbury Bowled over
Bowling is a relatively marginalised recreational activity in the UK. One hesitates to call it a sport because it’s possible to get drunk while doing it.
Admittedly, if practised at a hopeless, novice amateur level it would just about be possible to get laggin’ while playing football, rugby, cricket, tennis, curling, jujitsu and many others. Competing in the 110-metre hurdles or hurling a javelin while supping from a toxic tin of Super T would surely take more impressive dexterity, but you get the gist.
In the US bowling tournaments are big events, where participating Septics can win enough to keep themselves in cheeseburgers and Oreos for at least half an hour.
Not all of our transatlantic cousins take the game of frantic frames and fancy jackets seriously. The Farrelly Brothers’ ‘Kingpin’ is perhaps the most underrated of the aforementioned sibling’s films but is a minor comedy classic and arguably responsible for the artistic rehabilitation of curmudgeonly comedy icon Bill Murray. Highly arguable, given that ‘Groundhog Day' came out the year before, but I digress.
‘Kingpin’, the occasional episode of The Simpsons and the odd scene in Peep Show notwithstanding, 'The Big Lebowski' provides the most hilarious and best fictional portrayal of bowling in the States.
This latter Coen Brothers’ cult fave screens on a loop above the pins at the end of five lanes at Bloomsbury Lanes.
A knowing and playful touch of irony which helps the WC1 joint stay a step ahead of competition such as the reliable Rowan’s Bowl in Finsbury Park and the down-at-heel Lewisham AFL in the league of London’s top alleys.
Bloomsbury has long been beloved of the now-not-quite-as-cool-as-they-used-to-be Shoreditch hordes because of its karaoke lounge (replete with thousands of retro and indie tunes) and occasional new band performances and this too is a boon.
It was somewhat unsettling to bowl two yards behind an avant-rock skinsman/guitarist cranked out Battles-esque experimental sounds at John Peel Day last night (Saturday 10 October).
The alley’s website lacks full information about our unknown man’s stage name, but this will be appearing here soon. I never met Peel but listened to his consistently interesting shows occasionally and got the impression he would have enjoyed and been invigorated by the music played in his name.
Many other patrons did and were, not least the staggering casualty who could barely speak coherently or walk two steps without spilling his recklessly-nursed bottles of Asahi…
Admittedly, if practised at a hopeless, novice amateur level it would just about be possible to get laggin’ while playing football, rugby, cricket, tennis, curling, jujitsu and many others. Competing in the 110-metre hurdles or hurling a javelin while supping from a toxic tin of Super T would surely take more impressive dexterity, but you get the gist.
In the US bowling tournaments are big events, where participating Septics can win enough to keep themselves in cheeseburgers and Oreos for at least half an hour.
Not all of our transatlantic cousins take the game of frantic frames and fancy jackets seriously. The Farrelly Brothers’ ‘Kingpin’ is perhaps the most underrated of the aforementioned sibling’s films but is a minor comedy classic and arguably responsible for the artistic rehabilitation of curmudgeonly comedy icon Bill Murray. Highly arguable, given that ‘Groundhog Day' came out the year before, but I digress.
‘Kingpin’, the occasional episode of The Simpsons and the odd scene in Peep Show notwithstanding, 'The Big Lebowski' provides the most hilarious and best fictional portrayal of bowling in the States.
This latter Coen Brothers’ cult fave screens on a loop above the pins at the end of five lanes at Bloomsbury Lanes.
A knowing and playful touch of irony which helps the WC1 joint stay a step ahead of competition such as the reliable Rowan’s Bowl in Finsbury Park and the down-at-heel Lewisham AFL in the league of London’s top alleys.
Bloomsbury has long been beloved of the now-not-quite-as-cool-as-they-used-to-be Shoreditch hordes because of its karaoke lounge (replete with thousands of retro and indie tunes) and occasional new band performances and this too is a boon.
It was somewhat unsettling to bowl two yards behind an avant-rock skinsman/guitarist cranked out Battles-esque experimental sounds at John Peel Day last night (Saturday 10 October).
The alley’s website lacks full information about our unknown man’s stage name, but this will be appearing here soon. I never met Peel but listened to his consistently interesting shows occasionally and got the impression he would have enjoyed and been invigorated by the music played in his name.
Many other patrons did and were, not least the staggering casualty who could barely speak coherently or walk two steps without spilling his recklessly-nursed bottles of Asahi…
Sunday, 4 October 2009
Tube-ular Bells
It's not fair to generalise about the differences between north and south London but true Londoners will always specify a favourite side of the river.
Last night on the Northern Line (one of the few things Islington and Lambeth have in common) my own belief in southern superiority was reinforced by other passengers of the kind I've only ever seen or met in an N postcode.
A white, bald and drunk Scottish man with a tattoo on his ear embarked at Old Street, played a Rangers anthem out loud through his mobile phone and sung along with it in ragged fashion.
Playing music through a mobile on public transport is usually the preserve of boisterous bus-riding teens into urban music, but the Scotsman's differing genre interests and transport method made no difference. It was annoying to hear a Caledonian football song played through tinny speakers on the tube. But is it best to ignore a Saturday night pisshead's foible?
Rangers fan and his pal were about to leave the tube at Camden Town when I decided to speak up, although not in the manner of a Grumpy Old Men contributor.
"You've got better music than that in Glasgow, man."
"[Indecipherable Glasgae muttering] You must be one of them."
After a second to think about the religious and sexual connotations of being described as "one of them" by a Rangers fan, I replied: "One of them? What, person with musical taste?"
Soon another man stepped into the carriage with a tattooed face but at least he declined to inflict his dubious musical and sporting taste on the rest of the weary Underground users in the carriage.
With a face covered in ink which doesn't rub off, though, there is no need to make an audible statement. You've already shown the world exactly how you refuse to kowtow to accepted decorative body norms.
Or rather, illustrated that the only jobs you'll ever be fit for are boxer, tattoo artist or thrash metal band roadie.
Last night on the Northern Line (one of the few things Islington and Lambeth have in common) my own belief in southern superiority was reinforced by other passengers of the kind I've only ever seen or met in an N postcode.
A white, bald and drunk Scottish man with a tattoo on his ear embarked at Old Street, played a Rangers anthem out loud through his mobile phone and sung along with it in ragged fashion.
Playing music through a mobile on public transport is usually the preserve of boisterous bus-riding teens into urban music, but the Scotsman's differing genre interests and transport method made no difference. It was annoying to hear a Caledonian football song played through tinny speakers on the tube. But is it best to ignore a Saturday night pisshead's foible?
Rangers fan and his pal were about to leave the tube at Camden Town when I decided to speak up, although not in the manner of a Grumpy Old Men contributor.
"You've got better music than that in Glasgow, man."
"[Indecipherable Glasgae muttering] You must be one of them."
After a second to think about the religious and sexual connotations of being described as "one of them" by a Rangers fan, I replied: "One of them? What, person with musical taste?"
Soon another man stepped into the carriage with a tattooed face but at least he declined to inflict his dubious musical and sporting taste on the rest of the weary Underground users in the carriage.
With a face covered in ink which doesn't rub off, though, there is no need to make an audible statement. You've already shown the world exactly how you refuse to kowtow to accepted decorative body norms.
Or rather, illustrated that the only jobs you'll ever be fit for are boxer, tattoo artist or thrash metal band roadie.
Sunday, 27 September 2009
Blood and bikes on Waterloo Bridge
Just after seven pm last Friday (25 September) a man called Steve was riding southbound across Waterloo Bridge when he hit a bump in the road and fell of his bike.
Blood started flowing out of his right eyebrow and ear as he lay on the floor and a small crowd gathered to see if he was hurt.
I called an ambulance while a man called Phillip and a woman called Anna-Lise moved him and his bike onto the pavement. I took instruction from the emergency services phone assistant and passed on messages to Steve, while Anna-Lise and Phillip checked him out.
We waited with Steve while a paramedic came. He bled on the white barrier at the side of the bridge, the pavement and himself but rested his head on his bag while laying on the ground in good spirits.
The paramedic drove passed us and I had to call 999 again but once again a calm, professional emergency services bod straightened things out and got a message to the paramedic.
A few minutes passed and Anna-Lise, Phillip and myself waved our arms around in a line to ensure we weren't missed on the paramedic's return.
We weren't, so after performing some important checks the man in green thanked us for waiting with Steve and let us go while he and Steve waited for an ambulance.
As Philip and I walked off northbound towards Aldwych the flashing lights of an ambulance sped by going north, did a U-Turn at the traffic light junction by the strand and zoomed passed back passed us south to pick up Steve.
It felt good to get involved and help someone for once, even if all I did was make a couple of phone calls. Steve might have had a long wait in St Thomas's on Friday night and they might have had to keep him in for observation but I'm pretty sure the fella's going to be OK.
During our wait Steve told us he'd fallen off his bike badly before, albeit injuring his hip.
No serious bike rider goes through life without getting a few scrapes of varying severity, but Steve should probably think about some protective headgear when he takes to wheels.
Shortly afterwards I was walking westbound along William IV Street recounting the above story on my phone in loud, excited and extremely animated fashion. A belligerent middle-aged Irishman spouted some "feck, drink, girls," crap at me as I walked passed him, but his wife quickly chastised him.
Pah, you do one good deed in a lifetime of ill behaviour and some joker won't even let you bell your mum to tell her without sticking his unwanted nose in.
Blood started flowing out of his right eyebrow and ear as he lay on the floor and a small crowd gathered to see if he was hurt.
I called an ambulance while a man called Phillip and a woman called Anna-Lise moved him and his bike onto the pavement. I took instruction from the emergency services phone assistant and passed on messages to Steve, while Anna-Lise and Phillip checked him out.
We waited with Steve while a paramedic came. He bled on the white barrier at the side of the bridge, the pavement and himself but rested his head on his bag while laying on the ground in good spirits.
The paramedic drove passed us and I had to call 999 again but once again a calm, professional emergency services bod straightened things out and got a message to the paramedic.
A few minutes passed and Anna-Lise, Phillip and myself waved our arms around in a line to ensure we weren't missed on the paramedic's return.
We weren't, so after performing some important checks the man in green thanked us for waiting with Steve and let us go while he and Steve waited for an ambulance.
As Philip and I walked off northbound towards Aldwych the flashing lights of an ambulance sped by going north, did a U-Turn at the traffic light junction by the strand and zoomed passed back passed us south to pick up Steve.
It felt good to get involved and help someone for once, even if all I did was make a couple of phone calls. Steve might have had a long wait in St Thomas's on Friday night and they might have had to keep him in for observation but I'm pretty sure the fella's going to be OK.
During our wait Steve told us he'd fallen off his bike badly before, albeit injuring his hip.
No serious bike rider goes through life without getting a few scrapes of varying severity, but Steve should probably think about some protective headgear when he takes to wheels.
Shortly afterwards I was walking westbound along William IV Street recounting the above story on my phone in loud, excited and extremely animated fashion. A belligerent middle-aged Irishman spouted some "feck, drink, girls," crap at me as I walked passed him, but his wife quickly chastised him.
Pah, you do one good deed in a lifetime of ill behaviour and some joker won't even let you bell your mum to tell her without sticking his unwanted nose in.
Saturday, 26 September 2009
Jo Hamilton takes The Tabernacle
When trying to make a name for yourself as a cool new singer-songwriter talent and tunes obviously help.Jo Hamilton has these and fortuitously had an exquisitely chosen party venue for the launch of her debut LP Gown.
The Tabernacle is a beautiful, mysterious and spookily inviting building and just the ticket for a certain intriguing, serious but friendly gig.
Hamilton was raised in the far, isolated north of Scotland and there's definitely a delicately unhinged Celtic otherness to her music, whether or not this is deliberate.
'Pick Me Up', which began her 14-song set on Tuesday (22 September), is arguably more tender beast live than in its recorded version but still packs a hefty punch, especially when it's augmented with bowel-loosening bass.
Five songs in 'All In Adoration' proves to be a subtle but welcome diversion. Powerful but nuanced vocal artistry from Hamilton and a by turns quaint, then enigmatic blend of sounds blend to create what is arguably the best tune of the two short sets.
She ends with 'Think Of Me', a lullaby of subtlety and emotional depth, which proved as popular in Notting Hill as it did when Jo performed the song at Bromyard Folk Festival earlier this month.
Next stop for Hamilton is Union Chapel on 6 December. Another London building originally used for praising god given over to musicians in search of their own adulatory audience. On the strength of her W11 smarts, the N1 faithful should warm to her with equal enthusiasm.
Here's a Soweto Kinch-adorned version of 'Paradise'.
Monday, 21 September 2009
Unexpected lunchtime penis
The unclothed body is nothing to be ashamed of or squeamish and should be celebrated.
But it was somewhat shocking to see a whacking great cock projected on a wall in the name of art today in Tate Modern.
A recent BBC London TV news report claimed the venerable South Bank institution was the world's most popular art musuem* and the former power station is certainly a great destination for weary screen addicts on a balmy September afternoon.
But US artist Paul McCarthy's Projection Room (1971 – 2006) is disconcerting if you weren't expecting it. Perhaps even accutely disturbing to the prudish.
The Tate themselves say the piece is:
And:
But it was somewhat shocking to see a whacking great cock projected on a wall in the name of art today in Tate Modern.
A recent BBC London TV news report claimed the venerable South Bank institution was the world's most popular art musuem* and the former power station is certainly a great destination for weary screen addicts on a balmy September afternoon.
But US artist Paul McCarthy's Projection Room (1971 – 2006) is disconcerting if you weren't expecting it. Perhaps even accutely disturbing to the prudish.
The Tate themselves say the piece is:
An installation combining seventeen of McCarthy’s early videos produced between 1972 and 1978, as well as 170 slides documenting performances from the same period.
The selection is highly personal: most of the videos were made in the intimate settings of McCarthy’s homes and studios in Pasadena and Los Angeles. The participants are generally close friends, including Karen McCarthy, his wife of 40 years, and the artist Allan Kaprow.
And:
Paul McCarthy’s intense video, performance and installation works are rooted in taboo subjects such as sexuality, violence and repression. Since the late 1960s, McCarthy has explored Abstract Expressionism, Pop and Conceptual art, Minimalism, Body Art, and experimental film.To relate this back via my own limited appreciation and knowledge of art, I can only justifiably compare the sinister nudity, entrails and viscous fluids of McCarthy's home movies to a brilliant, if twisted satirical horror movie.
He combines these diverse approaches with references to television, pornography, horror films, amusement parks and fairy tales to provoke reflection on the social and psychological impact of the media. Using bodily fluids, paint, and food, McCarthy creates elaborate and grotesque explorations of family, childhood and dysfunction. His body becomes a canvas and a stage to lay bare the dark, disquieting corners of society’s subconscious and the pervasive infantilism of American mass culture.
Much time has passed since I saw Society but it's one of those films which never quite leaves you. There aren't any scenes as brazenly full frontal as what can currently be seen in Level 3, Room 9 but fans of body horror should make their own minds up and check out both.
*no link to reinforce this yet. The heads over at White City may or may not be willing to back up their reporter's claim with hard facts such as footfall etc but I will find out the truth and post it here.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Royal Mail morons
I've not been recovering in The Priory* or short of things to blog about, life just got in the way... so.. A first post in nine days should not be about a hopelessly idiotic public service but on this occasion it must be.
There should obviously be some level of difficulty in redirecting your mail from an old address to a new one in case some scallywag rips off your post and steal your identity.
But it'd be easier and more convenient to teach a badger jujitsu than redirect mail via the Royal Mail site. Verification is harder than Joe Calzaghe.
The only other way is to go to a local post office and queue up like people did in the dark ages with forms and 27 different proofs of identity. No wonder the service is hemorrhaging money. I've nothing against postmen 'cause all the ones I've met are stand-up blokes. But, to coin a phrase, this is bollocks.
*neither the infamous rehab centre nor the Stockwell boozer.
There should obviously be some level of difficulty in redirecting your mail from an old address to a new one in case some scallywag rips off your post and steal your identity.
But it'd be easier and more convenient to teach a badger jujitsu than redirect mail via the Royal Mail site. Verification is harder than Joe Calzaghe.
The only other way is to go to a local post office and queue up like people did in the dark ages with forms and 27 different proofs of identity. No wonder the service is hemorrhaging money. I've nothing against postmen 'cause all the ones I've met are stand-up blokes. But, to coin a phrase, this is bollocks.
*neither the infamous rehab centre nor the Stockwell boozer.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
