Here's my latest piece for TotallyMoney - an interview:
Are squatters criminals? Ask a squatter
In other news… I've been offered a job in journalism.
"Can it be true?" (my mum, freaking out), YES. I can't tell you a huge amount about it yet, as the news platform is completely new, but when we are launched, I'll share my work here…
The timing couldn't be more fortunate! I was displaced recently: For those of you that don't know, I've been one of those dreadful unemployed graduates and a serial intern, trying to "make it" in the capital while crashing at different people's houses. My favourite haunt's been a lovely shed (more like a summerhouse) owned by a friend's parents, who are exactly like old-school heroes in children's novels. They've even got a cat, and a grandfather clock.
The idyll ended for a good long while at 4am last Thursday, when their 20-something son burst back onto the scene from Romania, with two friends. All of their rent had fallen through - the landlord put it up by 30%.
Needless to say I hadn't been expecting them at that hour…
"Argh, sorry," he said. "I didn't think anybody would be in here."
"It's fine it's fine it's fine…" I staggered out of bed, wide awake all of a sudden. He retreated back to the house, but the birds were already singing. I bundled everything into a beach-bag, preparing to head to my sister's sofa, feeling a bit homeless.
… But now I have a job. *Beams*. One of the side-effects of being happy is that more people talk to me, including a massive bloke who squashed in beside me on the bus yesterday with an iced drink. He sucked through a straw and the cup gurgled. We exchanged one of these 'well, this is awkward,' smiles.
"Want some?" he said
"I'm OK thank you."
"Are you sure? There are two straws…"
Ah no, no thankyou.
"Just making conversation. How are you?"
"I'm OK." I contemplated telling him all about my life, and why not… "I've got a job!"
"Really?"
"I've been unemployed for a year, so, it's pretty cool."
"And how are you feeling?"
"Tired."
He asked me if there's anything that I've written that he would've read. I said probably not, but told him about Tim Minchin anyway, (I tell everybody about Tim Minchin).
"And what do you do?"
It turns out that this guy is a youth worker, performer, and ex-offender.
"Wow! That's really interesting." I beamed, although I stopped short of asking him what he was inside for. I love traversing London with former criminals? This sort of thing should happen more often.
It could, actually, because he gave me his card and his youth work looks interesting. Check it out.
Also, Sleater-Kinney:
Tuesday, 5 July 2011
Monday, 6 June 2011
Poppy; Perlin; print journalism
Hello there, it's been more than a month hasn't it…
Did you know the Poppy Project, which gives shelter to trafficked women, is under threat because its funding has been cut? This is almost as worrying to me as Mark Townsend's piece about the lack of protection for trafficked children.
As it happens, I know a woman who was trafficked. I didn't remotely suspect it, but one day she admitted to me that she couldn't read English - she looked upset. I offered her reading lessons and in the course of an evening she told me her history.
She'd been packed around the world from Thailand, confined for nine years with other domestics. It was bad in New Zealand, she said, but it was much worse in Britain.
Because once they were in England, they weren't allowed to do their own shopping - they were hidden in a house, forbidden from going out. Sometimes they were only given floor cleaning products to wash themselves with. The men in charge were cruel. They had her passport and her papers; they used these things to control her.
She escaped, eventually, when a woman befriended her from the outside, but she still feels trapped sometimes and she still knows when snake-head gangs are nearby - she can feel it.
She gave me two huge servings of roast chicken, a hug and showed me how to write words in Thai.
Save Poppy.
I'm up to my elbows in job applications, helping out Eat Me food and culture magazine and blogging for Totally Money dot com, a handy little part-timer. Here's one entry I'm particularly pleased with:
Tips on surviving unpaid internships.
I've picked up a copy of Jilted Generation and am looking forward to reading it… I've also become a fan of Ross Perlin having seen him speak at Hackney Pages on Tuesday. Intern Nation's the obvious thing to check out by him, but I also rate this piece he did last year for Lapham's quarterly, Riding the Godless Express:
Besides writing about internships, and how to have cheap fun in London, I've mostly been writing about food. :) See Issue 5 of Eat Me food and culture magazine. It's very good. You should buy it online or in WHSmith for £4:
I particularly enjoyed the cover interview with Ainsley Harriott, a man as warm as he is tall.
I would also like to thank these people for stellar work:
Photographers
Alexander Missen, Reynaldo Ortiz, Lauren Mclean and Oscar May
Writers
Timothy Franklin, Sam Kinchin-Smith, Sam Bompas, Florence Hillier, Dominique Hopgood
Artists
Juliana Wang, Lydia Crook
It's a strange, unsettling world. China's prisons are being used for MMO gold farming.
Here's something my dad spotted last month when he went out shopping:
First things first
Did you know the Poppy Project, which gives shelter to trafficked women, is under threat because its funding has been cut? This is almost as worrying to me as Mark Townsend's piece about the lack of protection for trafficked children.
As it happens, I know a woman who was trafficked. I didn't remotely suspect it, but one day she admitted to me that she couldn't read English - she looked upset. I offered her reading lessons and in the course of an evening she told me her history.
She'd been packed around the world from Thailand, confined for nine years with other domestics. It was bad in New Zealand, she said, but it was much worse in Britain.
Because once they were in England, they weren't allowed to do their own shopping - they were hidden in a house, forbidden from going out. Sometimes they were only given floor cleaning products to wash themselves with. The men in charge were cruel. They had her passport and her papers; they used these things to control her.
She escaped, eventually, when a woman befriended her from the outside, but she still feels trapped sometimes and she still knows when snake-head gangs are nearby - she can feel it.
She gave me two huge servings of roast chicken, a hug and showed me how to write words in Thai.
Save Poppy.
And as to me…
I'm up to my elbows in job applications, helping out Eat Me food and culture magazine and blogging for Totally Money dot com, a handy little part-timer. Here's one entry I'm particularly pleased with:
Tips on surviving unpaid internships.
I've picked up a copy of Jilted Generation and am looking forward to reading it… I've also become a fan of Ross Perlin having seen him speak at Hackney Pages on Tuesday. Intern Nation's the obvious thing to check out by him, but I also rate this piece he did last year for Lapham's quarterly, Riding the Godless Express:
For the atheist pilgrim there are no shrines, no temples, and no holy relics. He might glimpse a godless Genesis in the suburbs of Geneva, where particles race and clash in the tunnels of the Hadron Collider. The Great Rift Valley might feel like coming home, if he knew where to look. Perhaps he could visit the shores of Libya, where Theodorus the Atheist first challenged Zeus—or the German town of Naumburg, where Nietzsche took the pulse of God and found it stopped…Quite poetic, isn't it.
Time for a random picture:
 |
| (Mmm, chocolate) |
Besides writing about internships, and how to have cheap fun in London, I've mostly been writing about food. :) See Issue 5 of Eat Me food and culture magazine. It's very good. You should buy it online or in WHSmith for £4:
I particularly enjoyed the cover interview with Ainsley Harriott, a man as warm as he is tall.
I would also like to thank these people for stellar work:
Photographers
Alexander Missen, Reynaldo Ortiz, Lauren Mclean and Oscar May
Writers
Timothy Franklin, Sam Kinchin-Smith, Sam Bompas, Florence Hillier, Dominique Hopgood
Artists
Juliana Wang, Lydia Crook
On a final note
It's a strange, unsettling world. China's prisons are being used for MMO gold farming.
Here's something my dad spotted last month when he went out shopping:
 |
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Food and folk
This blog has been quiet for a while, because I launched myself into work on Issue 5 of Eat Me magazine.
I took on Food and Culture editorship at the end of January, was deliciously deluged with tasks and the fruits of my labour will be on the shelves later this Spring. Until I actually see the magazine and have it in my hands, I don't think I will fully believe it, so am nervous about giving an exact date.
Incidentally, the new website mentioned on that link is in development currently. I am writing and commissioning articles and recipes for it! And it will launch again very soon.
Have I mentioned before that I love food? Before moving on with this blog post I should perhaps share tips, some gained on the magazine, others prior to it:
A mouthful of advice…
Avocados. Just, eat them, mash them up, use them as an ingredient; they're great.
Coconut milk is wasted uncooked but an excellent base for boiling pretty much anything.
An electronic spice-grinder can also be used for nuts, and this is good for devising gluten-free, milk-free, egg-free fruitcakes. I discovered this when I had a housemate allergic to wheat, milk and eggs…
Passion fruit with sugar is a good quick dip for drop scones.
The Apple Charlotte recipe in this book is even better if you add raspberries.
This dessert wine is delicious.
Foodie aside satisfactory? Good. On to the next thing!
I have some music to recommend…
Mid-February, I wrote but didn't publish a music review I wanted to submit to a wonderful blog called For Folk's Sake. My attempt at a deadline failed largely because I worked on it in a pub close to the venue. As I scrutinised which picture I should attach, a Man-U game started, a crowd of red-and-white-clad fans dislodged me from my seat and my article fell by the wayside. I will use artistic license and blame football hooliganism.
I hope you enjoy it though.
This is the Kit + Michael Wookey @ Union Chapel 12.02.2011
Union Chapel is my favourite folk venue. They sell delicious quiche and homemade brownies (on this particular day, the seller seems to make his mind up how much they cost on the spot), and they host some really interesting artists as part of the Arctic Circle gig events called ‘Daylight Music’.
Folk gigs can be tedious. I don’t have a lot of time for soppy, safe artists lacking a sense of humour or a willingness to subvert ye olde tradition.
I do however have time for Michael Wookey,whose banjo has a sticker on it politely stating ‘Yes, I am Mormon.
“Hello,” he says, shyly. “My name’s Michael…” The pews nod and smile back at him. His microphone emits a sudden BANG! And he jumps.
“Fu- I meaaaaan… Sh-ooooot… Sorry God… Sorry…” he whispers. “I feel really bad now.”
Michael’s first song alienates me slightly with its David Grayish aspect – how many boys these days can rattle out the same old romantic sentiments, grimacing slightly, with their eyes closed?
But I’m won over by his creative instrumentation and his slightly playful boyish demeanour (he has a rainbow pin badge and a military-style red jacket like you’d find in an antique fancy dress box). His charm is clearly amplified by a large collection of toys: A table harp, a calculator synthesiser, a toy piano that chimes to the touch, a large metal music box, which he’s made himself:
Most fascinating, however, is an antique Salvation Army pump organ that folds, delightfully, into an old battered suitcase:
The organ's woodwork creaks with genuine age, having been inherited from his grandfather when Michael was 15. It has a history in the fields of war.
Overall, though his set ranges freely across historic inventions and could be described as VINTAGE-FUSION. Cameos of aged toys are interspersed with synthesiser sonatas. He's even bodged together one of these synthesisers himself and a mess of wires extend from one end. What a polymath.
His unique blend of angst and wonderment is a hard act to follow for a comparatively kook-less band called The 99 Call. They are very nice, but I don't feel an urge to shout about them. Given that this is my blog, I won’t, but listen to them, by all means.
For me, the real treat of a set comes from This Is The Kit.
“This song is called waterproof,” Kate Stables says “and we will dedicate it to the roof.” Her gaze wanders between the stained glass windows as she sings in bell-like tones, at home in surroundings that yawn with numinous light.
These folk songs, with pared down melodies and a slightly Celtish aspect to the vocals, really fly in the reverent air of the chapel. They remind me, too, of solitary walks, the sound of the wind on a hillside, and the fact that the stones of this building were extracted from the Earth.
I don’t think you'll want me to blather on further about the poetry of the performance. This is the Kit are ethereally charming. Again, a clip of this performance is YouTubed, much as my camera doesn't do it justice… But if that doesn't satisfy your curiosity, this is their MySpace.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Internship notes: Jools Holland's loves and hates
I first encountered Jools Holland when I was a small child and therefore perceived him as a tall man dressed in black, outside Blackheath Conservertoire of Music, accompanied by a little boy who shared my sisters' drum teacher. Our paths would occasionally cross.
My dad would say: "That's Jools Holland."
This meant nothing to me at the time, but when I got older I became a devotee of Later With Jools Holland, recognising that a great pianist was introducing a wider variety of artists than those I'd seen on other music shows.
His set-up has a relatively intimate feel, which might be why Later has featured some of the most affecting televised performances I've ever seen.
Adele, for example
I'm not usually a fan of ballads, as they aren't very socially responsible. What if Adele's sobbing, lonely, pyjama-clad fans followed her example and loomed at the object of their heartbreak suddenly out of the darkness?
What would happen next? Please try it and tell me. The internet needs to know.
Adele singing on Later is amazing, though, and makes me cry. If it doesn't move you, then your soul is gone, man. So gone, that it will create an anti-soul black hole and soon, you are going to turn inside out under the pressure and become an ethereal hoover, blasting noise out of one end and sucking the whole fabric of meaningful existence into the other.
Divas and crooners would no longer exist. Lovers would have to make do with DJ Otzi, circa 2002. Remember him?
What I'm basically saying is if Adele's voice leaves you cold, it's a serious matter and you need to get an exorcist. ’Nuff said?
My review of me interviewing Jools Holland
The conversation proceeded briskly. The words 'brisk' and 'proceed' and also 'hootenanny' capture Jools I think. His answers were off-kilter (I laughed a lot) and he speaks much, much faster than eighty words a minute, as I realised when I transcribed the interview.
He was effusive and witty discussing his Loves and noticeably uncomfortable when I got to the tail end of his 'Hates', insisting that he didn't hate anything really, so trying to come up with a fifth, unique thing that annoyed him was tricky.
Were there any places he didn't like?
No… in fact he likes most places, most objects, most animals, most kinds of clothing, all kinds of music and most experiences…
'Nose pokers,' he announced triumphantly. 'People who poke their noses into other people's business.'
'Can you be more specific?' I needed something that could be illustrated…
He ummed and ahhed. 'They know who they are.'
Did he mean journalists? I asked, being a total nose-poker at this juncture, so he narrowed it down.
I was most pleased to be recommended some music. I've since checked out the Unthanks Sisters and Imelda May and will leave you with Imelda appearing for the first time on his show:
My dad would say: "That's Jools Holland."
This meant nothing to me at the time, but when I got older I became a devotee of Later With Jools Holland, recognising that a great pianist was introducing a wider variety of artists than those I'd seen on other music shows.
His set-up has a relatively intimate feel, which might be why Later has featured some of the most affecting televised performances I've ever seen.
Adele, for example
I'm not usually a fan of ballads, as they aren't very socially responsible. What if Adele's sobbing, lonely, pyjama-clad fans followed her example and loomed at the object of their heartbreak suddenly out of the darkness?
He
Why are you here
out of the blue, uninvited
in your pyjamas
in the night
outside my window
with gin?
She
I couldn't stay away
I couldn't fight it.
I thought you'd see my face
and that you'd be reminded
that for me, it isn't over.
What would happen next? Please try it and tell me. The internet needs to know.
Adele singing on Later is amazing, though, and makes me cry. If it doesn't move you, then your soul is gone, man. So gone, that it will create an anti-soul black hole and soon, you are going to turn inside out under the pressure and become an ethereal hoover, blasting noise out of one end and sucking the whole fabric of meaningful existence into the other.
Divas and crooners would no longer exist. Lovers would have to make do with DJ Otzi, circa 2002. Remember him?
[The Anti-Jools?]
What I'm basically saying is if Adele's voice leaves you cold, it's a serious matter and you need to get an exorcist. ’Nuff said?
My review of me interviewing Jools Holland
The conversation proceeded briskly. The words 'brisk' and 'proceed' and also 'hootenanny' capture Jools I think. His answers were off-kilter (I laughed a lot) and he speaks much, much faster than eighty words a minute, as I realised when I transcribed the interview.
He was effusive and witty discussing his Loves and noticeably uncomfortable when I got to the tail end of his 'Hates', insisting that he didn't hate anything really, so trying to come up with a fifth, unique thing that annoyed him was tricky.
Were there any places he didn't like?
No… in fact he likes most places, most objects, most animals, most kinds of clothing, all kinds of music and most experiences…
'Nose pokers,' he announced triumphantly. 'People who poke their noses into other people's business.'
'Can you be more specific?' I needed something that could be illustrated…
He ummed and ahhed. 'They know who they are.'
Did he mean journalists? I asked, being a total nose-poker at this juncture, so he narrowed it down.
I was most pleased to be recommended some music. I've since checked out the Unthanks Sisters and Imelda May and will leave you with Imelda appearing for the first time on his show:
Also, the finished article:
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Yay, Tim Minchin
If you don't know who Tim Minchin is, it's about time I introduced you:
This was my favourite phone interview as an intern at Seven, where we'd got Tim lined up for a 'perfect Sunday' piece to promote his DVD, his musical (Matilda at the RSC) and tour.
Since interviewing him, I've trawled dreamily through YouTube clips, watched two hours of 'Tim Minchin: Live' on New Year's Eve and despite my lack of fun-funds, considered buying a ticket to one of his shows, without really having been aware of him before. He was charming.
Here is an abridged version of my transcript, as a bonus feature for you lovely people, because the conversation was actually five pages long. I had a hand in editing most of my interviews, but not this one and there was a lot of good material that couldn't fit in the column.
(Only some of my words are there, in purple, as a street map to wordy wit)
Tim Minchin
(on family life, sexual fantasies, stargazing, and wicked soirées)
It’s complicated when you’ve got children, because your ideal Sunday would involve waking up without them… But, assuming that it’s taken as given that I want my children in my life, my ideal Sunday would be to wake up late, and alone with my wife.
Although… probably…
People talk about their ideal Sundays in a very suburban way.
My ideal Sunday would probably begin with me waking up surrounded by beautiful naked women, but that’s not what people want to hear is it? We’re meant to lie about that stuff.
So it's going to be complicated. I want to wake up:
With beautiful women of every race, nationality and creed throughout history.
And: just my wife.
And: with my children.
And: not with my children.
Whereabouts?
Denmark, West Australia, is that really boring? ’Cos it’s my home. Well, it’s not my actual home, I come from Perth; but the next sort-of city from Perth of any size is about the distance to London from frickin’ Rome.
We happen to have a family home in Denmark, which is sort-of embedded Karri forest ocean-side, right on the bottom of West Australia. It’s beautiful, with the best beaches in the world. It’s full of hippies – Reiki healers and shit – but that's only in town. We have a Round Earth house, on ten acres of karri forest near this ridiculous, naturally protected bay with rock formations that stop the ocean coming in.
What would you have for breakfast?
Croissants and a glass of champagne. You have to start the drinking really early for it to be a good Sunday.
And, then what?
Go back to bed…
For how long?
For however long it takes to have sex with beautiful women of each nationality, race and creed throughout history. I reckon an hour?
(*Giggles*) Where would you go, with this horde of women?
Haha! We’d have a bus. No, we wouldn’t have a bus. We’d all have individual hovercrafts and I guess we’d go to the beach, but it’d be simultaneously sunny and shady so that the flies don’t come. If you could arrange that for me, that’d be good. I think it might cause some sort of terrible wormhole flux, but we should try it if we’re going to have a perfect Sunday.
I'll do my best to sort that out for you.
Thanks. My horde of women can go away now because it’s starting to sound a bit stressful. The trouble is, if you buy the Antarctic lady an ice cream, the Japanese lady would want an ice cream and then before you know it, everyone would want an ice cream.
We should dump the horde of women because that’s all so superficial. Maybe I’d start feeling guilty about all the women, and inadequate. So they’d have to go away on their hovercrafts, and then maybe I could just have my wife back again. That’d be good.
And, maybe my children could come for a visit and go away again – with somebody to carry my son, who’s so fat he can’t walk. That way I don’t have to have a sore back. They could bring him to me, and I could say: ‘hello, fat son'.
What would you do?
We'd go swimming. I’d be a really good swimmer, like a dolphin. Not like Ian Thorpe, like a dolphin. It’d be good if it was effortless so that you could go underwater for an hour.
We’d have a really long lunch, a basic Italian ploughmansy salad-based lunch, but it’s the wine that matters and I don’t know if it’s Pinot Grigio, but it’d be dry and summery… Maybe Rosé? Maybe both.
I like playing sports, so we could play volleyball. All the beautiful women could come back to play volleyball, in just enough clothes that it’s scintillating but not so few that it’s pornographic.
Then what?
Then bed.
How long for?
Two hours. I think.
(*Giggles*)
To sleep. None of this perverted stuff you keep encouraging. Because, after all this morning booze, and swimming and volleyball, you’d be shattered… maybe just an hour and a half, because otherwise we’re not going to have time for whatever else we’re going to do.
What do you like doing in the evenings?
I don't know, performing live comedy in front of large crowds? It is quite fun, my job, although the trouble with my job is that I actually like doing it more than anything else. But it'd mean I was stressed for the whole day beforehand, so I don't want to do a gig.
I think, having my twelve best friends for dinner on a long table, starting at five with bubbles, and then…
That’s what I like best: dinner parties.
It should be a round table. I have a great frustration with dinner parties because people are always inclined to pair off, and that shits me. I like parties where it’s all-in and there’s a conversation that everyone’s contributing to.
Although… Some of the best parties in my life have been with about twenty people, in shearing sheds. Shearing shed parties.
I've never heard of one of those. What's a shearing shed?
A shearing shed’s where you shear sheep! My granddad had a farm in Chittering, which is near the Swan Valley in West Australia. He had this shearing shed that he and my dad built with their bare hands in the sixties – huge shed.
And, when the century clocked over, we had a party. All my friends had loads of gear and we had a huge PA and strings of party lights.
You walk about fifty metres out, away from the shed, out into the night, out into the darkness and you look back. There’s glowing lights and your friends are all there dancing on bales of wool…
You can see stars. If you come from the UK, especially London, stars like you would never have seen in your life. It’s ridiculous.
Wow.
Yeah. They’re wicked. Your friends need to be close friends and you need to be isolated from urban areas. You need to put yourself out in space, because you want to get in that sort-of reflective, semi-morose at the passing of time, semi-elated by the passing of time, mood.
And I’m not a drug-taker myself, so, just a couple of beers and cool music that’s iconic.
What's your favourite band?
My favourite band? Well it’s complicated because I don’t listen to music, ever. I probably listen to ten hours of music in a year. I don't know why. That’s probably just a weird thing about people like me who spend eight hours a day writing music.
What kind of music would you have, then?
You need a gay DJ, otherwise it’s not going to work. I’ve just written a song called "If the Pope owned a disco", and it’s about how if the Pope owned a disco, no-one’d come to the Pope’s disco ’cos there wouldn’t be any gays to start the dancing. I don’t even know if that’s offensive, I can’t tell any more, I’ve stopped worrying. If I start offending the wrong people, please let me know. I think I’m offending the baddies. Am I?
Um, I think so?
Good. If I start offending the wrong people, let me know.
I'll give you a bell.
Haha yeah drop me a text: 'Tim… Tim… You’ve lost your way. Why that orphan song?'
I have got a song called In Defence of the Fence, it’s an anthem for ambivalence. It’s a little bit about outrage at the cat bin lady, and Russell Brand, and people dividing the world into black and white instead of having a considered viewpoint. I go pretty hard at Che Guevara and the Dalai Lama.
Where do you see yourself at this party? Do you like to be the centre of attention?
Nobody’s going to say yes to that question, because you sound like a fuck-head. I’m perfectly happy holding court if I’m in a funny mood, but I’m not often in a funny mood. I’d rather be listening to other people and laughing. I get plenty of attention at the moment if I’m honest.
Anything else?
I really believe in lighting. You should light every moment of your life, with discretion.
So yeah there would be cool lighting and, err, what else? Booze…
And, a bit of nude soccer. It’s good getting drunk and playing nude soccer in the night under a floodlight – not a very good floodlight.
I spent a lot of time getting nude in my youth. That’s something that doesn’t really happen so much in the UK. We had another party, in a different country setting on a different New Year’s, where we all ended up nude on a rock. It was like a scene from Hair, but slightly less twee… no it was about as twee. About the same twee.
Where was the rock?
Ha! The rock was in York, another Western Australian town named after a European place.
You could get fans going on pilgrimages.
To my parents? To the rock? See, I’m going to start sounding like landed gentry. My parents have a house in York, on a rock. It’s made of corrugated iron and glass. It's just like a shed, on a rock, but it’s fuckin' wicked. More stars. It’s about stars.
Coming from country Australia, having experiences in your youth of desert stars. You get pretty attached to that, as the source of a sense of self.
Is there anywhere you’d recommend?
For scouting for stars?
Yep.
Everyone should drive across the Nullarbor Plain. You drive across the desert in Australia, from Perth to Adelaide, and stop on the Great Australian. Pull off the highway on the Nullarbor Plain, into a car park. It's just a car park, but there’s a sheer drop of a hundred metres or so into the southern ocean.
There’s no lights or electricity or anyone there. It feels a bit murdery, which I don’t think happens as often as [indistinct] has you believe, but it’s pretty wicked.
You spend the night there, and get up when the sun comes up. It’d take two days to get there so we’d have to have more magic transport.
Would you end the day there?
I think a day, ending with friends, sitting outside under the stars with wine is good. It’s not quite as stupid or interesting as waking up with a menagerie of beautiful women but if we’re going to start sexist we might as well end sentimental eh.
Where would you go to bed?
If we could just be magically transported back to my London house because I just moved house four days ago and now I’m in Stratford-Upon-Avon. I really want to be back in my bed in my new house, so…
That’s boring. I’d like to go to bed in… I like… It’d be quite good to go to bed under a mosquito net in aforementioned outdoor setting. Have you ever slept on a beach?
No, I'd really like to.
Maybe we should go down to the beach and go to sleep there, but you’ve got to get it right. It’s a romantic idea but it’s just shit and sandy, so you’d want a sort of raised platform. Logistics always get in the way.
There’s a place called Woody Island off the south coast of Australia that the seals go to. They have quite a lot of eco, semi-camping experiences you can do, and lots in the dead centre of Australia as well, where you can stay in luxury tents: permanent tents on wooden platforms with mosquito nets.
It’s pretty cool. If you like the idea of camping but don’t like the logistics of camping – blow your money on one of those things.
So, I don’t know! Just stick me somewhere in bed, Alex. As long as I can wake up magically with no hangover and do it all again.
(*Nervous laugh*)
Did I pass?
Well, I thought that was brilliant.
Good. I hope you have fun writing that up.
This was my favourite phone interview as an intern at Seven, where we'd got Tim lined up for a 'perfect Sunday' piece to promote his DVD, his musical (Matilda at the RSC) and tour.
Since interviewing him, I've trawled dreamily through YouTube clips, watched two hours of 'Tim Minchin: Live' on New Year's Eve and despite my lack of fun-funds, considered buying a ticket to one of his shows, without really having been aware of him before. He was charming.
Here is an abridged version of my transcript, as a bonus feature for you lovely people, because the conversation was actually five pages long. I had a hand in editing most of my interviews, but not this one and there was a lot of good material that couldn't fit in the column.
(Only some of my words are there, in purple, as a street map to wordy wit)
Tim Minchin
(on family life, sexual fantasies, stargazing, and wicked soirées)
It’s complicated when you’ve got children, because your ideal Sunday would involve waking up without them… But, assuming that it’s taken as given that I want my children in my life, my ideal Sunday would be to wake up late, and alone with my wife.
Although… probably…
People talk about their ideal Sundays in a very suburban way.
My ideal Sunday would probably begin with me waking up surrounded by beautiful naked women, but that’s not what people want to hear is it? We’re meant to lie about that stuff.
So it's going to be complicated. I want to wake up:
With beautiful women of every race, nationality and creed throughout history.
And: just my wife.
And: with my children.
And: not with my children.
Whereabouts?
Denmark, West Australia, is that really boring? ’Cos it’s my home. Well, it’s not my actual home, I come from Perth; but the next sort-of city from Perth of any size is about the distance to London from frickin’ Rome.
We happen to have a family home in Denmark, which is sort-of embedded Karri forest ocean-side, right on the bottom of West Australia. It’s beautiful, with the best beaches in the world. It’s full of hippies – Reiki healers and shit – but that's only in town. We have a Round Earth house, on ten acres of karri forest near this ridiculous, naturally protected bay with rock formations that stop the ocean coming in.
What would you have for breakfast?
Croissants and a glass of champagne. You have to start the drinking really early for it to be a good Sunday.
And, then what?
Go back to bed…
For how long?
For however long it takes to have sex with beautiful women of each nationality, race and creed throughout history. I reckon an hour?
(*Giggles*) Where would you go, with this horde of women?
Haha! We’d have a bus. No, we wouldn’t have a bus. We’d all have individual hovercrafts and I guess we’d go to the beach, but it’d be simultaneously sunny and shady so that the flies don’t come. If you could arrange that for me, that’d be good. I think it might cause some sort of terrible wormhole flux, but we should try it if we’re going to have a perfect Sunday.
I'll do my best to sort that out for you.
Thanks. My horde of women can go away now because it’s starting to sound a bit stressful. The trouble is, if you buy the Antarctic lady an ice cream, the Japanese lady would want an ice cream and then before you know it, everyone would want an ice cream.
We should dump the horde of women because that’s all so superficial. Maybe I’d start feeling guilty about all the women, and inadequate. So they’d have to go away on their hovercrafts, and then maybe I could just have my wife back again. That’d be good.
And, maybe my children could come for a visit and go away again – with somebody to carry my son, who’s so fat he can’t walk. That way I don’t have to have a sore back. They could bring him to me, and I could say: ‘hello, fat son'.
What would you do?
We'd go swimming. I’d be a really good swimmer, like a dolphin. Not like Ian Thorpe, like a dolphin. It’d be good if it was effortless so that you could go underwater for an hour.
We’d have a really long lunch, a basic Italian ploughmansy salad-based lunch, but it’s the wine that matters and I don’t know if it’s Pinot Grigio, but it’d be dry and summery… Maybe Rosé? Maybe both.
I like playing sports, so we could play volleyball. All the beautiful women could come back to play volleyball, in just enough clothes that it’s scintillating but not so few that it’s pornographic.
Then what?
Then bed.
How long for?
Two hours. I think.
(*Giggles*)
To sleep. None of this perverted stuff you keep encouraging. Because, after all this morning booze, and swimming and volleyball, you’d be shattered… maybe just an hour and a half, because otherwise we’re not going to have time for whatever else we’re going to do.
What do you like doing in the evenings?
I don't know, performing live comedy in front of large crowds? It is quite fun, my job, although the trouble with my job is that I actually like doing it more than anything else. But it'd mean I was stressed for the whole day beforehand, so I don't want to do a gig.
I think, having my twelve best friends for dinner on a long table, starting at five with bubbles, and then…
That’s what I like best: dinner parties.
It should be a round table. I have a great frustration with dinner parties because people are always inclined to pair off, and that shits me. I like parties where it’s all-in and there’s a conversation that everyone’s contributing to.
Although… Some of the best parties in my life have been with about twenty people, in shearing sheds. Shearing shed parties.
I've never heard of one of those. What's a shearing shed?
A shearing shed’s where you shear sheep! My granddad had a farm in Chittering, which is near the Swan Valley in West Australia. He had this shearing shed that he and my dad built with their bare hands in the sixties – huge shed.
And, when the century clocked over, we had a party. All my friends had loads of gear and we had a huge PA and strings of party lights.
You walk about fifty metres out, away from the shed, out into the night, out into the darkness and you look back. There’s glowing lights and your friends are all there dancing on bales of wool…
You can see stars. If you come from the UK, especially London, stars like you would never have seen in your life. It’s ridiculous.
Wow.
Yeah. They’re wicked. Your friends need to be close friends and you need to be isolated from urban areas. You need to put yourself out in space, because you want to get in that sort-of reflective, semi-morose at the passing of time, semi-elated by the passing of time, mood.
And I’m not a drug-taker myself, so, just a couple of beers and cool music that’s iconic.
What's your favourite band?
My favourite band? Well it’s complicated because I don’t listen to music, ever. I probably listen to ten hours of music in a year. I don't know why. That’s probably just a weird thing about people like me who spend eight hours a day writing music.
What kind of music would you have, then?
You need a gay DJ, otherwise it’s not going to work. I’ve just written a song called "If the Pope owned a disco", and it’s about how if the Pope owned a disco, no-one’d come to the Pope’s disco ’cos there wouldn’t be any gays to start the dancing. I don’t even know if that’s offensive, I can’t tell any more, I’ve stopped worrying. If I start offending the wrong people, please let me know. I think I’m offending the baddies. Am I?
Um, I think so?
Good. If I start offending the wrong people, let me know.
I'll give you a bell.
Haha yeah drop me a text: 'Tim… Tim… You’ve lost your way. Why that orphan song?'
I have got a song called In Defence of the Fence, it’s an anthem for ambivalence. It’s a little bit about outrage at the cat bin lady, and Russell Brand, and people dividing the world into black and white instead of having a considered viewpoint. I go pretty hard at Che Guevara and the Dalai Lama.
Where do you see yourself at this party? Do you like to be the centre of attention?
Nobody’s going to say yes to that question, because you sound like a fuck-head. I’m perfectly happy holding court if I’m in a funny mood, but I’m not often in a funny mood. I’d rather be listening to other people and laughing. I get plenty of attention at the moment if I’m honest.
Anything else?
I really believe in lighting. You should light every moment of your life, with discretion.
So yeah there would be cool lighting and, err, what else? Booze…
And, a bit of nude soccer. It’s good getting drunk and playing nude soccer in the night under a floodlight – not a very good floodlight.
I spent a lot of time getting nude in my youth. That’s something that doesn’t really happen so much in the UK. We had another party, in a different country setting on a different New Year’s, where we all ended up nude on a rock. It was like a scene from Hair, but slightly less twee… no it was about as twee. About the same twee.
Where was the rock?
Ha! The rock was in York, another Western Australian town named after a European place.
You could get fans going on pilgrimages.
To my parents? To the rock? See, I’m going to start sounding like landed gentry. My parents have a house in York, on a rock. It’s made of corrugated iron and glass. It's just like a shed, on a rock, but it’s fuckin' wicked. More stars. It’s about stars.
Coming from country Australia, having experiences in your youth of desert stars. You get pretty attached to that, as the source of a sense of self.
Is there anywhere you’d recommend?
For scouting for stars?
Yep.
Everyone should drive across the Nullarbor Plain. You drive across the desert in Australia, from Perth to Adelaide, and stop on the Great Australian. Pull off the highway on the Nullarbor Plain, into a car park. It's just a car park, but there’s a sheer drop of a hundred metres or so into the southern ocean.
There’s no lights or electricity or anyone there. It feels a bit murdery, which I don’t think happens as often as [indistinct] has you believe, but it’s pretty wicked.
You spend the night there, and get up when the sun comes up. It’d take two days to get there so we’d have to have more magic transport.
Would you end the day there?
I think a day, ending with friends, sitting outside under the stars with wine is good. It’s not quite as stupid or interesting as waking up with a menagerie of beautiful women but if we’re going to start sexist we might as well end sentimental eh.
Where would you go to bed?
If we could just be magically transported back to my London house because I just moved house four days ago and now I’m in Stratford-Upon-Avon. I really want to be back in my bed in my new house, so…
That’s boring. I’d like to go to bed in… I like… It’d be quite good to go to bed under a mosquito net in aforementioned outdoor setting. Have you ever slept on a beach?
No, I'd really like to.
Maybe we should go down to the beach and go to sleep there, but you’ve got to get it right. It’s a romantic idea but it’s just shit and sandy, so you’d want a sort of raised platform. Logistics always get in the way.
There’s a place called Woody Island off the south coast of Australia that the seals go to. They have quite a lot of eco, semi-camping experiences you can do, and lots in the dead centre of Australia as well, where you can stay in luxury tents: permanent tents on wooden platforms with mosquito nets.
It’s pretty cool. If you like the idea of camping but don’t like the logistics of camping – blow your money on one of those things.
So, I don’t know! Just stick me somewhere in bed, Alex. As long as I can wake up magically with no hangover and do it all again.
(*Nervous laugh*)
Did I pass?
Well, I thought that was brilliant.
Good. I hope you have fun writing that up.
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Internship notes: Pam Ferris interview
I have just finished a three month internship at the Sunday Telegraph's Seven magazine, and am uploading my interviews here.
First up, Pam Ferris…
She stormed into my childhood as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda, and I recall the mixture of glee and horror with which I watched her sniff out children and devour chocolates in their wrappers. A character actress, she told me she had been acting since she was fourteen when she was simply 'driven' to do it.
Pam was stonkingly direct. On answering the phone I'd suppressed a panic, because I hadn't been told to expect the call that day, but she seemed unruffled and waited while I flapped around for a dictaphone.
The 'loves and hates' interviews are often frivolous but Pam's was quite political. One hate that didn't make the final edit was 'organised religion'. She came across as a woman of conviction - her love for carers was founded in empathy, and struck a chord. What couldn't be conveyed on paper is how warm the timbre of her voice is, and how often she laughs.
First up, Pam Ferris…
She stormed into my childhood as Miss Trunchbull in Matilda, and I recall the mixture of glee and horror with which I watched her sniff out children and devour chocolates in their wrappers. A character actress, she told me she had been acting since she was fourteen when she was simply 'driven' to do it.
Pam was stonkingly direct. On answering the phone I'd suppressed a panic, because I hadn't been told to expect the call that day, but she seemed unruffled and waited while I flapped around for a dictaphone.
The 'loves and hates' interviews are often frivolous but Pam's was quite political. One hate that didn't make the final edit was 'organised religion'. She came across as a woman of conviction - her love for carers was founded in empathy, and struck a chord. What couldn't be conveyed on paper is how warm the timbre of her voice is, and how often she laughs.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
I just read this great article by Amelia Gentleman.
My own feelings about the impact of sexual assault are quite passionate, as I know at least three victims personally. When somebody gets mugged late at night, there's never any question of interrogating the victim- but when I spoke to victims of rape, they've tended to feel a pressure - that they might be judged.
One spoke about the episodes of post-traumatic stress that have affected her since the crime:
“I woke up about four hours outside London, next to train tracks,” she said. “I had no idea how I got there. I’d gone on this crazy rampage. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. I’m now back on track, but I am disabled because these problems affect my ability to work – My life has been set back by at least three years.”
“At the moment it seems that unless somebody actually walks in when it’s happening, there’s not enough evidence in rape cases. But I have a new-found respect for the police. I met some really decent officers and I might even want to seek work with them in the future, which is something I never thought I’d say, to help other victims.”
The other girl had a bad experience with the police, feeling intimidated by them when she refused to make a formal statement:
She said: “"The kind of men that will rape you aren’t about to say ‘I’m going to rape you now’. Instead they say things like ‘I know you want to. You know you want to. You’re dressed like you want to. You move like you want to.’ They mess with your head. The main reason I didn’t report what happened was because of worrying about the impact on other people. And it’s hard to give an accurate police statement when you’ve blocked so much of it out. You know you’re going to be really grilled and you don’t want to talk about it. You just want to forget it."
The first concurred with this, having spoken to a lot of other victims:
“Generally, I find that when you report a rape, you’re treated as the guilty party. The Sapphire Unit, where I went, are different, adopting what you might call a doctor’s bedside manner, and they never wear uniforms. I found that having to talk about what happened –that brought on flashbacks – but I think it taught me to confront problems and avoid being a victim of life.”
Three years after the event, she is still grappling with post-traumatic stress and feels ‘really, incredibly angry’ because the Crown Prosecution Service rejected her case, on the grounds that there was not enough evidence to proceed.
“I would love to see this guy go to prison, but what really needs to change is the culture in which people feel it is OK to do this. Graffiti artists can go to prison for two years just for painting on walls, but a rapist can walk away after giving a life sentence to somebody else. It destroys that person. It affects everybody around them. It screws up their relationships."
I was haunted by this interview which increased my urge to campaign on the subject. But when getting into questions of 'culture' - again you're in a debate about the correct way to portray sex and different genders and quickly find yourself in a psychological bog, removed from the issue of our justice system.
Even so, I asked a friend if he thought violent porn was part of the problem.
"I really wouldn't know anything about porn," he said.
Google's opinion on this subject ranges from 'all men consume porn' to '8% of male internet users consume porn' with any number of hypotheses about the effects, good or bad… We don't know, basically, but judging from a tortured chorus on forums, people worry about it either way.
(by the way, I'm sure this isn't a *man problem*, because when we're talking about the corrosive judgement that victims worry about, that can be judgement from women just as much as from men. Moreover, men are abused, too, and that's rarely talked about).
My own feelings about the impact of sexual assault are quite passionate, as I know at least three victims personally. When somebody gets mugged late at night, there's never any question of interrogating the victim- but when I spoke to victims of rape, they've tended to feel a pressure - that they might be judged.
One spoke about the episodes of post-traumatic stress that have affected her since the crime:
“I woke up about four hours outside London, next to train tracks,” she said. “I had no idea how I got there. I’d gone on this crazy rampage. I didn’t want to die, but I didn’t know how to live, either. I’m now back on track, but I am disabled because these problems affect my ability to work – My life has been set back by at least three years.”
“At the moment it seems that unless somebody actually walks in when it’s happening, there’s not enough evidence in rape cases. But I have a new-found respect for the police. I met some really decent officers and I might even want to seek work with them in the future, which is something I never thought I’d say, to help other victims.”
The other girl had a bad experience with the police, feeling intimidated by them when she refused to make a formal statement:
She said: “"The kind of men that will rape you aren’t about to say ‘I’m going to rape you now’. Instead they say things like ‘I know you want to. You know you want to. You’re dressed like you want to. You move like you want to.’ They mess with your head. The main reason I didn’t report what happened was because of worrying about the impact on other people. And it’s hard to give an accurate police statement when you’ve blocked so much of it out. You know you’re going to be really grilled and you don’t want to talk about it. You just want to forget it."
The first concurred with this, having spoken to a lot of other victims:
“Generally, I find that when you report a rape, you’re treated as the guilty party. The Sapphire Unit, where I went, are different, adopting what you might call a doctor’s bedside manner, and they never wear uniforms. I found that having to talk about what happened –that brought on flashbacks – but I think it taught me to confront problems and avoid being a victim of life.”
Three years after the event, she is still grappling with post-traumatic stress and feels ‘really, incredibly angry’ because the Crown Prosecution Service rejected her case, on the grounds that there was not enough evidence to proceed.
“I would love to see this guy go to prison, but what really needs to change is the culture in which people feel it is OK to do this. Graffiti artists can go to prison for two years just for painting on walls, but a rapist can walk away after giving a life sentence to somebody else. It destroys that person. It affects everybody around them. It screws up their relationships."
I was haunted by this interview which increased my urge to campaign on the subject. But when getting into questions of 'culture' - again you're in a debate about the correct way to portray sex and different genders and quickly find yourself in a psychological bog, removed from the issue of our justice system.
Even so, I asked a friend if he thought violent porn was part of the problem.
"I really wouldn't know anything about porn," he said.
Google's opinion on this subject ranges from 'all men consume porn' to '8% of male internet users consume porn' with any number of hypotheses about the effects, good or bad… We don't know, basically, but judging from a tortured chorus on forums, people worry about it either way.
(by the way, I'm sure this isn't a *man problem*, because when we're talking about the corrosive judgement that victims worry about, that can be judgement from women just as much as from men. Moreover, men are abused, too, and that's rarely talked about).
Saturday, 23 October 2010
bada-ba-da-badada… assorted notes
"So," I said, "how did you get into swing?"
"Well," he said. "When I was in Canada two years ago, I was seeing this girl and we went dancing. She started jumping from side to side and then she was jumpin' all over me.
I said: What the feck are you doing?
She said: I'm swing dancing.
I haven't looked back since."
I have been learning to dance the charleston in London and it's the cutest thing I've ever done. The charleston at its best plays out like a good joke.
I use this to illustrate my point. Something to aspire to:
Here is something else amazing. It made me laugh my head off, and fall in love with Jen Kirkman just a little bit.
A SIDE NOTE… To re-cap on my last post, I found out that Hampshire Constabulary do have women on their 'Galaxy' rape investigation unit. This pleases me.
I'd like to spend a day with them, journalistically, but I am currently working in London.
Existentially…
Last night my father was in London and we went to see Krapp's Last Tape. There are a few things I noticed. Firstly, Gambon does a lot of acting with his fingers, moving them in a fascinating way, with his face crumpled and papery with emotion.
Secondly, his voice is amazing. He imbued a sonorousness in this line that spoke to me of old houses and the ticking of grandfather clocks:
"Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited."
Farewell Grahame Holmes…
I've shed a fair few tears thinking about what makes a good life, recently, because one of my favourite musicians passed away this week. He was a conductor, a teacher and an inspiration to everyone. It had been years since I last saw him conduct, but he had an extraordinary warmth for others, lighting up in response to a single hint of interest from a student.
He possessed the strength of assuming the best of everyone, and this faith was returned. I think it takes a great person to abandon all misgivings and remain open to the world.
Most of all I remember being moved to tears in rehearsal by Grahame's devotion to feeling things deeply, as a way and a creed. Every Saturday, hands raised, he would entreat us to play with feeling.
"If you don't have passion, you don't have anything."
-Grahame Holmes.
"Well," he said. "When I was in Canada two years ago, I was seeing this girl and we went dancing. She started jumping from side to side and then she was jumpin' all over me.
I said: What the feck are you doing?
She said: I'm swing dancing.
I haven't looked back since."
I have been learning to dance the charleston in London and it's the cutest thing I've ever done. The charleston at its best plays out like a good joke.
I use this to illustrate my point. Something to aspire to:
Here is something else amazing. It made me laugh my head off, and fall in love with Jen Kirkman just a little bit.
A SIDE NOTE… To re-cap on my last post, I found out that Hampshire Constabulary do have women on their 'Galaxy' rape investigation unit. This pleases me.
I'd like to spend a day with them, journalistically, but I am currently working in London.
Existentially…
Last night my father was in London and we went to see Krapp's Last Tape. There are a few things I noticed. Firstly, Gambon does a lot of acting with his fingers, moving them in a fascinating way, with his face crumpled and papery with emotion.
Secondly, his voice is amazing. He imbued a sonorousness in this line that spoke to me of old houses and the ticking of grandfather clocks:
"Past midnight. Never knew such silence. The earth might be uninhabited."
Farewell Grahame Holmes…
I've shed a fair few tears thinking about what makes a good life, recently, because one of my favourite musicians passed away this week. He was a conductor, a teacher and an inspiration to everyone. It had been years since I last saw him conduct, but he had an extraordinary warmth for others, lighting up in response to a single hint of interest from a student.
He possessed the strength of assuming the best of everyone, and this faith was returned. I think it takes a great person to abandon all misgivings and remain open to the world.
Most of all I remember being moved to tears in rehearsal by Grahame's devotion to feeling things deeply, as a way and a creed. Every Saturday, hands raised, he would entreat us to play with feeling.
"If you don't have passion, you don't have anything."
-Grahame Holmes.
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
London my old friend
"CanIhave80p?"
"Sorry?"
"CanIhave80p?"
"What are you saying?"
"CanIhave80p?"
"I don't understand."
He took a moment, then tried again.
"I need 80p."
"Oh." I looked at his face, which was half asleep.
We were outside Sainsburys, where I'd sat down, having just spent £3 on 2 smoothies.
I'd been wondering, while sipping my vanilla bean concoction, whether this was decadent for an intern that hasn't sorted out a Saturday job.
"Take this instead," I said, thrusting the second smoothie into his hands.
Cranberry-blueberry…
"I've not got any change," I added, smiling.
"Thanks," he mumbled, but didn't move. His dazed look intensified and he gestured to his lips.
"You've still got milk 'round your mouth," he managed.
"Oh." I wiped it off.
With great effort, he winked. It reminded me of the way old fashioned doll-babies wink, one eyelid following the other…
I started my internship today - four celebrity interview transcripts in one afternoon. Quite fascinating, as I feel like I've been socialising with them in depth.
I also ate some cake and applied for some things. It's been a good day.
Check out my VB report about cold cases of rape being investigated in Hampshire…
I noted at the briefing that all four police officers were men, while all five journalists were women.
Is there a shortage of female detectives? Possibly - I don't know .
The question of whether there are any women on Operation Galaxy's team only occurred to me afterwards. I don't know anything about the balance of gender in investigating rape cases but I've sent a follow-up email because I suspect it's an important question.
Oh dear it's past 1 already. Time for bed.
I will leave you with an amusingly erotic secretary (or intern?), courtesy of Belle and Sebastian.
"Sorry?"
"CanIhave80p?"
"What are you saying?"
"CanIhave80p?"
"I don't understand."
He took a moment, then tried again.
"I need 80p."
"Oh." I looked at his face, which was half asleep.
We were outside Sainsburys, where I'd sat down, having just spent £3 on 2 smoothies.
I'd been wondering, while sipping my vanilla bean concoction, whether this was decadent for an intern that hasn't sorted out a Saturday job.
"Take this instead," I said, thrusting the second smoothie into his hands.
Cranberry-blueberry…
"I've not got any change," I added, smiling.
"Thanks," he mumbled, but didn't move. His dazed look intensified and he gestured to his lips.
"You've still got milk 'round your mouth," he managed.
"Oh." I wiped it off.
With great effort, he winked. It reminded me of the way old fashioned doll-babies wink, one eyelid following the other…
I started my internship today - four celebrity interview transcripts in one afternoon. Quite fascinating, as I feel like I've been socialising with them in depth.
I also ate some cake and applied for some things. It's been a good day.
Check out my VB report about cold cases of rape being investigated in Hampshire…
I noted at the briefing that all four police officers were men, while all five journalists were women.
Is there a shortage of female detectives? Possibly - I don't know .
The question of whether there are any women on Operation Galaxy's team only occurred to me afterwards. I don't know anything about the balance of gender in investigating rape cases but I've sent a follow-up email because I suspect it's an important question.
Oh dear it's past 1 already. Time for bed.
I will leave you with an amusingly erotic secretary (or intern?), courtesy of Belle and Sebastian.
Sunday, 26 September 2010
"Is this actually legal?"
I went to an Isle of Wight Council meeting recently and came home feeling angry for vulnerable people again threatened by cuts.
Controversy reigns over the proposed closure of Westminster House, a respite care home for adults with learning difficulties. The story is cogently outlined on Ventnor Blog.
The proposal, supposedly put forward by a representative group of carers (the Whole Life Working Group - expert branding), but actually pushed through by the Isle of Wight Council, is that respite services are moved to a basement of another care facility.
Cowed by the scale of protest, the Council have postponed the final verdict for 90 days while they engage in 'consultation' with service users.
Here is some of my shorthand from the heated meeting:
Cllr Mazillius said: "We wish to have complete confidence that all people who use the service have had the opportunity to [voice] any further comments or concerns."
"Until now you haven't listened to a word we've said."
"We have, through our officers, through our members, through open sessions and private sessions. We will leave no stone unturned[…] We've absolutely nothing to hide."
In the corridor afterwards, I passed a group of blasted-looking stakeholders embracing one another on sofas, faces drawn.
One stakeholder said: "My understanding is that legally the council needs to consult all users and carers before decisions being made. Although we have been invited to those meetings, they have amounted to the council telling us their plans. Is this actually legal?"
I'm not sure, but the dictionary might help:
consultation: the act of referring or consulting; "reference to an encyclopedia produced the answer"
A consultation produces an answer, the intrinsic implication being that it does not foist an answer on anybody. This exchange made me cross:
Mazillius: "The purpose of the ninety day consultation is to ensure that the concerns of the people that use the services are addressed before a final decision is made."
Ms. Hawkins: "So are you saying then, Councillor Mazillius, that there will be proper consultation before any decision is taken to close Westminster House and all the service users and all their concerns will be fully addressed? With the possibility of not relocating Westminster House?"
"Mrs Hawkins, if this authority wanted to brush anything under the carpet we wouldn't have introduced the ninety day consultation. […] I assure you that professional officers will make sure that every avenue is looked at."
[comment from gallery: 'he still hasn't answered the question']
Ms. Hawkins insisted that Cllr Maz. answer the question…
"We clearly have a preferred option […] we will fully consult on that option. But this vote will be decided by the forty members of this chamber, not by me and not by you, madam."
Yet, obviously, he is one of the forty members of the chamber, and she is not.
A lady called Hazel Wyld has convincingly condemned the Council for their pretence at consultation so far. I have some hope of her campaign having an impact on what happens next…
I will give her the final word on this subject (I would extend it to anybody downplaying the vulnerability of the vulnerable at this time). She is addressing Isle of Wight Councillors.
Banking - alchemy in real terms?
My sense of indignation has expanded through reading Whoops! by John Lanchester, an amusing unpacking of the credit boom and bust.
My biggest mind-expansion so far came in the chapter called 'rocket science' which outlines the full implications of 'credit default swaps' (CDSs) - a groundbreaking mathematical strategy that transferred to insurers the risk that a person, or company, would not be able to pay back their loan.
Controversy reigns over the proposed closure of Westminster House, a respite care home for adults with learning difficulties. The story is cogently outlined on Ventnor Blog.
The proposal, supposedly put forward by a representative group of carers (the Whole Life Working Group - expert branding), but actually pushed through by the Isle of Wight Council, is that respite services are moved to a basement of another care facility.
Cowed by the scale of protest, the Council have postponed the final verdict for 90 days while they engage in 'consultation' with service users.
Here is some of my shorthand from the heated meeting:
Cllr Mazillius said: "We wish to have complete confidence that all people who use the service have had the opportunity to [voice] any further comments or concerns."
"Until now you haven't listened to a word we've said."
"We have, through our officers, through our members, through open sessions and private sessions. We will leave no stone unturned[…] We've absolutely nothing to hide."
In the corridor afterwards, I passed a group of blasted-looking stakeholders embracing one another on sofas, faces drawn.
One stakeholder said: "My understanding is that legally the council needs to consult all users and carers before decisions being made. Although we have been invited to those meetings, they have amounted to the council telling us their plans. Is this actually legal?"
I'm not sure, but the dictionary might help:
consultation: the act of referring or consulting; "reference to an encyclopedia produced the answer"
A consultation produces an answer, the intrinsic implication being that it does not foist an answer on anybody. This exchange made me cross:
Mazillius: "The purpose of the ninety day consultation is to ensure that the concerns of the people that use the services are addressed before a final decision is made."
Ms. Hawkins: "So are you saying then, Councillor Mazillius, that there will be proper consultation before any decision is taken to close Westminster House and all the service users and all their concerns will be fully addressed? With the possibility of not relocating Westminster House?"
"Mrs Hawkins, if this authority wanted to brush anything under the carpet we wouldn't have introduced the ninety day consultation. […] I assure you that professional officers will make sure that every avenue is looked at."
[comment from gallery: 'he still hasn't answered the question']
Ms. Hawkins insisted that Cllr Maz. answer the question…
"We clearly have a preferred option […] we will fully consult on that option. But this vote will be decided by the forty members of this chamber, not by me and not by you, madam."
Yet, obviously, he is one of the forty members of the chamber, and she is not.
A lady called Hazel Wyld has convincingly condemned the Council for their pretence at consultation so far. I have some hope of her campaign having an impact on what happens next…
I will give her the final word on this subject (I would extend it to anybody downplaying the vulnerability of the vulnerable at this time). She is addressing Isle of Wight Councillors.
"Hear it from the horse’s mouth
We are the most directly involved, we care on a daily basis, we strive to do the best we can for our never going to grow up children. You who do not live with this can, with all due respects, have no idea of how our lives are governed by having to care for a grown up child, who changes our lifestyle in a way you can not even begin to imagine.
Along with that comes the sadness that they will never live the lives your children have, they won’t go to University or away with their pals on a holiday, or back pack round the world, marry and raise grandchildren for us to enjoy.
We are very aware that very little is given to them and when we see that as threatened, of course we get angry."
Banking - alchemy in real terms?
My sense of indignation has expanded through reading Whoops! by John Lanchester, an amusing unpacking of the credit boom and bust.
My biggest mind-expansion so far came in the chapter called 'rocket science' which outlines the full implications of 'credit default swaps' (CDSs) - a groundbreaking mathematical strategy that transferred to insurers the risk that a person, or company, would not be able to pay back their loan.
"These new financial instruments were very, very clever, but they had an unfortunate side-effect: they broke banking. […] The whole idea that a banker looks a borrower in the eye and takes a view on whether he can trust him came to seem laughably nineteenth century."There was little way of refereeing this new game, and it was HUGE:
"By June 2008, the International Swaps and Derivatives Association or ISDA […] was estimating the total size of the market as $54 trillion, $54,000,000,000,000, close to the total GDP of the planet".
"This tool, the CDS, which had been invented as a way of making lending safer, turned out to magnify and spread risks throughout the global financial system. It's as if people used the invention of seatbelts as an opportunity to take up drunk driving."
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