I recently took out a subscription to Britbox.co.uk. A joint venture by the BBC and ITV (Channel 4 may 'come on board at some stage') to rival such services as 'Netflix'. While the BBC (iPlayer) and ITV ('itvhub') have their own streaming services, this tends to be somewhat limited; mostly showing, 'on catch-up', orogrammes, which have been aired recently on terrestrial TV on the broadcasters' multiple channels 'Bitbox' gives one the opportunity to view the entirety of multiple seasons, for little more than the cost per year of an eight or ten season on DVD, from the very beginning. I thought this 'worth a punt'. No more buying 'on spec' or by Amazon reviews of quality; I could make up my own mind. However, at the back of my mind, is the promise of all seven seasons of 'Hill Street Blues'; only the first two are on DVD.
I spent much of the nineties and subsequent decades devoid of a TV set. Why would I buy a £500 'consumer durable', purchase a licence every year (required by UK law) to watch one (or maybe two at a push) programmes a week? No; I had no time for this! I watched the DVDs that I had bought (mostly 50's or early 60's), a few streaming, low-quality porn videos on-line in miniscule 240 windows and a plausible, yet unattainable, vision of my future.
And then I watched 'Spooks' ('MI-5 in America) as my 'guide' to what might be on 'Britbox',
The first episode confirmed my worst fears about how low 'British' drama could sink; a hackneyed remake of 'The Sweeney' with 'Counter Terrorism' replacing Regan and the Flying Squad. However, I wanted, needed it to be better and so I persevered. Happily, it seemed to improve, although perhaps I lowered my expectations unwittingly.
What struck me was how leading characters, characters that the audience had perhaps invested in, were routinely killed off (literally); actors were lucky if they survived a season without being killed! Was this intentional from the start? Or just something that grew out of an actor's wish not to continue with a role beyond a limited 'run'.
(An aside, Hermione Norris is both an accomplished actor and still, despite her age, absolutely drop dead gorgeous! And Nicola Walker, equally talented and strangely, equally attractive to me, although I have no idea why. She is no 'beauty' in any conventional sense! Perhaps her talent is more than enough for a 'hard on'!)
So why the interest in prime-time, 'vulgar' television?
Because of what it says, despite itself perhaps, about lies and deceit!
Spies, undercover cops, anybody pretending to be not what they are because of their job, has to be a potential victim of their job. Can one live with the deceit that one ladles out to all and sundry including those closest to you.
We are all guilty, to a larger or lesser extent, of 'fabricating' events in our lives; embellishing some real event with a degree of artistic licence or simply making the whole thing up as one goes along. Memory is a fallible thing and, unwittingly, one can often be seduced by how events play out in memory not the actual reality of that event and the more you tell yourself or others the 'story', the more 'fixed' it becomes so that you can 'tell' it in no other way.
However, what happens when you fabricate an existence, which you know to be untrue; can you ever go back to being 'yourself'? Someone you might recognise from a previous time? Somebody that embodies the 'real' you? Surely, the longer that the duplicity becomes 'your life', the greater the chance of losing 'yourself' in the 'lie'.
This happens to most of the major characters and even when they try to 'come clean', it invariably ends badly. Cynical scriptwriters or just an observation on life and an admonishment to always tell the truth. Sometimes, even prime-time and 'vulgar' television can be more 'intelligent' than we give it credit for.
Thursday, 26 March 2020
Sunday, 22 March 2020
Scary monsters (and super creeps), Atomic Rooster and the enigma of memory
Does it never trouble you; how memory works? How the brain makes connections between seemingly unrelated aspects of one's life?
I have been watching, a second time around, 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to ashes', which play out in a cornucopia of popular music from the time in which each 'series' is set. I had no problem with 1973; I recognised every track, even Atomic Rooster! But the 1980s? Bar a few snatches of Donna Summer and the Human League, the only track that I recognised was David Bowie's 'Scary Monsters' and that weirdly took me back to 1969.
Robert Fripp is probably the most under-rated and under-appreciated guitarist of his, or any other, generation. Why 1969? Because, in the words of Melanie Safka; 'to be there was to remember'. He was good then, sitting on his stool; he is awesome now!
I know that Fripp played guitar on the track and so it makes sense that it would take me back to Hyde Park and King Crimson blowing the Stones off stage but why would that dredge up memories of some middle-aged, balding plumber offering me money (a lot of money) to have me ejaculate in his mouth? And why would that make me think about S1, whose lips would never touch my cock, or S2, who could, seemingly, never get enough. Always swallowed, did S2.
Did she really enjoy it. They say that they do but can you believe them? "No, not love" she said.
"Don't you know that it's different for girls?"
And so, where does that leave me? An ageing misanthrope with nothing but memories. Perhaps. But I remember the love, not the sex. And the love sustains me; however cold it might be.
"I'll spend my whole life, just making the time right. But I'll still have a bowl of that leftover wine." Why does that song still haunt me after 40, 50 years. Perhaps, not for the first time, you never threw the dice and prayed for 'lucky seven'. Maybe, that was the night. I doubt that it was but, if it was, I am sorry Marianna!
Lost opportunity. Tell me about it! I could write the book!
Like today, no kidding.
I came out of the 'corner shop' and there was a mother, a baby and a puppy; I bent down to stroke the puppy (I am a fool for dogs) and the dog was suddenly whipped away from me. Why?
And there it was; the cafe on the opposite corner. The one that I had never entered in the four years since they opened despite the fact that they sold Segafreddo espresso. So why then? I have no idea. The woman with the baby and the puppy followed me in about a minute or two later. (Don't despair, I did not think she was actually following me for the prospect of a night of unbridled passion.) But as I sat there alone, nursing my two double espressos (I later had a third, I am a fool for caffeine as well), I stared out of the window and I became lost in seemingly disconnected memories; memories, entirely unconnected, except as a part of my life,
The night that she crept into my sleeping bag, half naked, with mischief on her mind; my very own Faerie Queen. The evening I spent eating rose petals washed down with pints of ale, pregnant with anticipation but fearful nonetheless. The night that I spent in the cells at Holborn 'nick' fearing the worst. The day spent trudging through the snow, blinded by the unseasonable, spring blizzard on the road to the defunct Leica factory in Wetzlar merely to pay homage. A restaurant in Zakynthos sipping Pina Colados, a cava chilling in the bucket, courtesy of the house, fresh lobster topped by a small firework and the best damn sunset you will ever see. The night that I sat by the 'phone with a (very) sharp knife and a bath full of water with memories of her and the 'Roman way' of dealing with it all.
I have a vague, and I am sure misguided, idea of how the brain works. Cells 'fire' across the synaptic gap, creating electrical impulses by chemical means. Quite possibly, memories are stored in a 'daisy-chain' cascade of multiple neurons; not just a single transfer. Perhaps I am wrong but surely unconnected memories cannot be invoked by one single memory. But perhaps the brain is far more interconnected than I imagine and the paths, which that 'final firing' neuron in the sequence is able to avail itself of many other connections, which the 'originating' neuron has no access to.
Borges hit the nail on the head with his 'Garden of the Forking Paths' Perhaps I have read too much Borges!
I have been watching, a second time around, 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to ashes', which play out in a cornucopia of popular music from the time in which each 'series' is set. I had no problem with 1973; I recognised every track, even Atomic Rooster! But the 1980s? Bar a few snatches of Donna Summer and the Human League, the only track that I recognised was David Bowie's 'Scary Monsters' and that weirdly took me back to 1969.
Robert Fripp is probably the most under-rated and under-appreciated guitarist of his, or any other, generation. Why 1969? Because, in the words of Melanie Safka; 'to be there was to remember'. He was good then, sitting on his stool; he is awesome now!
I know that Fripp played guitar on the track and so it makes sense that it would take me back to Hyde Park and King Crimson blowing the Stones off stage but why would that dredge up memories of some middle-aged, balding plumber offering me money (a lot of money) to have me ejaculate in his mouth? And why would that make me think about S1, whose lips would never touch my cock, or S2, who could, seemingly, never get enough. Always swallowed, did S2.
Did she really enjoy it. They say that they do but can you believe them? "No, not love" she said.
"Don't you know that it's different for girls?"
And so, where does that leave me? An ageing misanthrope with nothing but memories. Perhaps. But I remember the love, not the sex. And the love sustains me; however cold it might be.
"I'll spend my whole life, just making the time right. But I'll still have a bowl of that leftover wine." Why does that song still haunt me after 40, 50 years. Perhaps, not for the first time, you never threw the dice and prayed for 'lucky seven'. Maybe, that was the night. I doubt that it was but, if it was, I am sorry Marianna!
Lost opportunity. Tell me about it! I could write the book!
Like today, no kidding.
I came out of the 'corner shop' and there was a mother, a baby and a puppy; I bent down to stroke the puppy (I am a fool for dogs) and the dog was suddenly whipped away from me. Why?
And there it was; the cafe on the opposite corner. The one that I had never entered in the four years since they opened despite the fact that they sold Segafreddo espresso. So why then? I have no idea. The woman with the baby and the puppy followed me in about a minute or two later. (Don't despair, I did not think she was actually following me for the prospect of a night of unbridled passion.) But as I sat there alone, nursing my two double espressos (I later had a third, I am a fool for caffeine as well), I stared out of the window and I became lost in seemingly disconnected memories; memories, entirely unconnected, except as a part of my life,
The night that she crept into my sleeping bag, half naked, with mischief on her mind; my very own Faerie Queen. The evening I spent eating rose petals washed down with pints of ale, pregnant with anticipation but fearful nonetheless. The night that I spent in the cells at Holborn 'nick' fearing the worst. The day spent trudging through the snow, blinded by the unseasonable, spring blizzard on the road to the defunct Leica factory in Wetzlar merely to pay homage. A restaurant in Zakynthos sipping Pina Colados, a cava chilling in the bucket, courtesy of the house, fresh lobster topped by a small firework and the best damn sunset you will ever see. The night that I sat by the 'phone with a (very) sharp knife and a bath full of water with memories of her and the 'Roman way' of dealing with it all.
I have a vague, and I am sure misguided, idea of how the brain works. Cells 'fire' across the synaptic gap, creating electrical impulses by chemical means. Quite possibly, memories are stored in a 'daisy-chain' cascade of multiple neurons; not just a single transfer. Perhaps I am wrong but surely unconnected memories cannot be invoked by one single memory. But perhaps the brain is far more interconnected than I imagine and the paths, which that 'final firing' neuron in the sequence is able to avail itself of many other connections, which the 'originating' neuron has no access to.
Borges hit the nail on the head with his 'Garden of the Forking Paths' Perhaps I have read too much Borges!
Saturday, 7 March 2020
Keeley Hawes, an apology and a dilemma
First, an apology; to Keeley Hawes.
When I first wrote about 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', I praised Philip Glenister for his wonderful performance as DCI Hunt; the 'keeper of the keys' of the 'coppers' purgatory'. I omitted to mention Ms Hawes. 'Ashes to Ashes' is nothing without an actor of her calibre.
She fisrt came to my attention in TV's adaptation of 'Tipping the velvet'. Keen to see how far British mainstream TV would go with lesbian sex (not as far as Swedish TV if 'The girl with the dragon tattoo' and its sequels are anything to go by). I found myself captivated by the drama, not the sex.
She next came up on my radar in 'Line of Duty'. As Denton, one so wanted to believe her; that she was a victim, pure and simple. Hawes played the ambiguity to perfection!
And then 'Ashes to Ashes'. You know, after 'Life on Mars', that she's dead and is never going home and you know that there can never be a romantic relationship between her and DCI Hunt and the scriptwriters do not dissuade you from that view. But is it yearning that I see in Keeley Hawes' eyes? Lauren Bacall had it, Jodie Comer has it; Keeley Hawes has it in spades! To say so much with a look?
(Oh, and by the way, she is drop dead gorgeous!)
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' merely brought home a question, which I had never felt posed before the 'fantasy era', the age 'post-Tolkien' but which niggles me still. The time when I first read Donaldson's 'The chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the unbeliever'. What happens when you don't believe the reality that you perceive is your actual reality. What happens when you cannot tell 'fantasy' from 'reality'. Rape is a possible consequence.
Is this not a sign of madness?
I find the dilemma of Thomas, Sam and 'Bolly keks' so interesting. How do you define a morality in an 'alien' world, so different from the one, which you know; does your morality have a place in that 'world'? That is a question that I think that it is worthwhile to ponder in 'the alone of your time'
Is our current, middle class morality valid in all possible worlds? We would like to think so but isn't it just a hangover from a Christian morality, which no longer has any bearing in a post-religious realm?
The fact that Ashley Pharaoh et al chose to couch their fantasy in allusions to Christianity, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory makes me think that the myth is a long time dying and is not dead yet. And yet, the myth can still teach us something.
We are responsible for what we do and think. Whether we are 'punished' or 'rewarded' in Heaven, Purgatory or Hell makes no difference; what matters is this life.
And is this not what those fantasies are trying to tell us? Whatever reality you are in; be true to yourself. Hold on to what you believe to be good. Do whatever you believe to be right.
When I first wrote about 'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes', I praised Philip Glenister for his wonderful performance as DCI Hunt; the 'keeper of the keys' of the 'coppers' purgatory'. I omitted to mention Ms Hawes. 'Ashes to Ashes' is nothing without an actor of her calibre.
She fisrt came to my attention in TV's adaptation of 'Tipping the velvet'. Keen to see how far British mainstream TV would go with lesbian sex (not as far as Swedish TV if 'The girl with the dragon tattoo' and its sequels are anything to go by). I found myself captivated by the drama, not the sex.
She next came up on my radar in 'Line of Duty'. As Denton, one so wanted to believe her; that she was a victim, pure and simple. Hawes played the ambiguity to perfection!
And then 'Ashes to Ashes'. You know, after 'Life on Mars', that she's dead and is never going home and you know that there can never be a romantic relationship between her and DCI Hunt and the scriptwriters do not dissuade you from that view. But is it yearning that I see in Keeley Hawes' eyes? Lauren Bacall had it, Jodie Comer has it; Keeley Hawes has it in spades! To say so much with a look?
(Oh, and by the way, she is drop dead gorgeous!)
'Life on Mars' and 'Ashes to Ashes' merely brought home a question, which I had never felt posed before the 'fantasy era', the age 'post-Tolkien' but which niggles me still. The time when I first read Donaldson's 'The chronicles of Thomas Covenant, the unbeliever'. What happens when you don't believe the reality that you perceive is your actual reality. What happens when you cannot tell 'fantasy' from 'reality'. Rape is a possible consequence.
Is this not a sign of madness?
I find the dilemma of Thomas, Sam and 'Bolly keks' so interesting. How do you define a morality in an 'alien' world, so different from the one, which you know; does your morality have a place in that 'world'? That is a question that I think that it is worthwhile to ponder in 'the alone of your time'
Is our current, middle class morality valid in all possible worlds? We would like to think so but isn't it just a hangover from a Christian morality, which no longer has any bearing in a post-religious realm?
The fact that Ashley Pharaoh et al chose to couch their fantasy in allusions to Christianity, Heaven, Hell, Purgatory makes me think that the myth is a long time dying and is not dead yet. And yet, the myth can still teach us something.
We are responsible for what we do and think. Whether we are 'punished' or 'rewarded' in Heaven, Purgatory or Hell makes no difference; what matters is this life.
And is this not what those fantasies are trying to tell us? Whatever reality you are in; be true to yourself. Hold on to what you believe to be good. Do whatever you believe to be right.
Sunday, 1 March 2020
Melons, lychees and a lesson to be learnt
Memories are strange things and the things that invoke such memories are even stranger.
It was drizzling today; not an uncommon occurrence in Britain in February. High winds and rain are the usual fare for winter veering into spring in this sceptered isle.
For some reason, I know not not which, I had a hankering after slices of melon; perhaps it was a desire for a summer, which might never come. I was immediately transported back into a time in which slices of near ice-cold melon were as gratifying as ice-cold Dutch lager (brewed no doubt elsewhere 'under licence') but without the alcohol; perhaps more suited to 11am than a post-prandial afternoon.
Anyway, I started to remember those mornings on the beach, the soft sands sucking you in like 'quicksand', the hot sun on your face, the sweat under the arms, the thirst. Melons, like cucumbers, are mostly water but sweet not bitter. But melons are big; you have to slice them; they are too big to eat alone, even two would struggle. Cover them in 'cling film' and refrigerate and it's still not the same as the first time that you slice them. Some water evaporates.
So, I usually opted for a smaller melon; a honeydew; ripe, possibly over-ripe, but manageable. We would spoon out the contents of each half, spitting the seeds into the sand. This thought led to the 'lychee man'.
I have only been on one 'exotic' holiday in my life; Mauritius. One rises early, you have to, if you are to beat the Germans desire to have skin baked like coffee beans. Horses must be ridden, especially galloped, before 7am; before they become too 'hot'. So we would have breakfast as soon as it was available; the fruit 'pyramid' was awesome. (But no muesli; shame!) You could even have a 'full English'! So, what are you going to do but hit the beach; at 8:30 or 9:00.
The Lychee Man would hit the beach an hour or two later!
Now, here's the thing. Mauritius is a tropical paradise, no? Well, not quite. In order to paddle in, or go swimming in, the waters close to shore (at shore's edge), one is advised to wear 'jelly sandals', otherwise one is likely to get 'stung' by some nefarious or noxious beastie. A very real threat, I assure you.
We had no 'jelly sandals' and there were none to be had. Not a problem, you might think. However, the Lychee Man's fruit was crawling with ants; they had to be washed off; killed with salt water!
And so, for the first and only time, in my life, I 'stepped up to the plate'! I waded into the water, up to my waist, sans 'jelly sandals', and washed the Lychee Man's fruit and rid them all of those pesky ants! The things we do for love, ay?
Which leads me onto . . . (you can tell how my brain works, ay?)
In such climes, one scarcely ventures out between the hours of twelve and three; too damn hot. And don't, for goodness sake, attempt to play squash unless you want to provoke a heart attack!
Well, we were sitting in one of the hotel's many restaurants, eating our 'croque monsieurs' and drinking our beer, when one of the 'tourist' fishing boats pulled in. A big, burly man (six feet plus and pecs like Schwarzenegger, biceps to match) lurches onto the dock seemingly much the worse for wear. They sat at the table closest to the dock, next to us.
Why, I enquired, would somebody spend so much money hiring a boat, even if South African, just to get drunk? Oh no, his pals replied, he is simply exhausted. He had been 'playing' the marlin/swordfish for over three hours and, just when he thought it 'beat', it leapt out of the water and 'threw the hook'. He was still shaking when we left him at three.
And, as Vonnegut would have it; so it goes.
I was in a fishing tackle shop in Norfolk one day, looking for bait and some hooks; elvers have a tendency to swallow size 24 hooks, and there was a 'little old lady', five feet nothing and limbs like pipe cleaners, looking to buy a rod and a reel for her great grand son. We got talking.
"What's the largest fish you've ever caught?" she asked. Me, I was a fisherman! I had a 29lb pike, a 34lb carp, a 3lb roach, a 4lb perch to my name. I was so full of myself; I was so proud!
She invited me back to her house for a cup of tea; just for friendship's sake. Along the walls of her hallway were photographs of her standing beside marlin, swordfish. porbeagle sharks! "That's what I meant by 'biggest'.
It was drizzling today; not an uncommon occurrence in Britain in February. High winds and rain are the usual fare for winter veering into spring in this sceptered isle.
For some reason, I know not not which, I had a hankering after slices of melon; perhaps it was a desire for a summer, which might never come. I was immediately transported back into a time in which slices of near ice-cold melon were as gratifying as ice-cold Dutch lager (brewed no doubt elsewhere 'under licence') but without the alcohol; perhaps more suited to 11am than a post-prandial afternoon.
Anyway, I started to remember those mornings on the beach, the soft sands sucking you in like 'quicksand', the hot sun on your face, the sweat under the arms, the thirst. Melons, like cucumbers, are mostly water but sweet not bitter. But melons are big; you have to slice them; they are too big to eat alone, even two would struggle. Cover them in 'cling film' and refrigerate and it's still not the same as the first time that you slice them. Some water evaporates.
So, I usually opted for a smaller melon; a honeydew; ripe, possibly over-ripe, but manageable. We would spoon out the contents of each half, spitting the seeds into the sand. This thought led to the 'lychee man'.
I have only been on one 'exotic' holiday in my life; Mauritius. One rises early, you have to, if you are to beat the Germans desire to have skin baked like coffee beans. Horses must be ridden, especially galloped, before 7am; before they become too 'hot'. So we would have breakfast as soon as it was available; the fruit 'pyramid' was awesome. (But no muesli; shame!) You could even have a 'full English'! So, what are you going to do but hit the beach; at 8:30 or 9:00.
The Lychee Man would hit the beach an hour or two later!
Now, here's the thing. Mauritius is a tropical paradise, no? Well, not quite. In order to paddle in, or go swimming in, the waters close to shore (at shore's edge), one is advised to wear 'jelly sandals', otherwise one is likely to get 'stung' by some nefarious or noxious beastie. A very real threat, I assure you.
We had no 'jelly sandals' and there were none to be had. Not a problem, you might think. However, the Lychee Man's fruit was crawling with ants; they had to be washed off; killed with salt water!
And so, for the first and only time, in my life, I 'stepped up to the plate'! I waded into the water, up to my waist, sans 'jelly sandals', and washed the Lychee Man's fruit and rid them all of those pesky ants! The things we do for love, ay?
Which leads me onto . . . (you can tell how my brain works, ay?)
In such climes, one scarcely ventures out between the hours of twelve and three; too damn hot. And don't, for goodness sake, attempt to play squash unless you want to provoke a heart attack!
Well, we were sitting in one of the hotel's many restaurants, eating our 'croque monsieurs' and drinking our beer, when one of the 'tourist' fishing boats pulled in. A big, burly man (six feet plus and pecs like Schwarzenegger, biceps to match) lurches onto the dock seemingly much the worse for wear. They sat at the table closest to the dock, next to us.
Why, I enquired, would somebody spend so much money hiring a boat, even if South African, just to get drunk? Oh no, his pals replied, he is simply exhausted. He had been 'playing' the marlin/swordfish for over three hours and, just when he thought it 'beat', it leapt out of the water and 'threw the hook'. He was still shaking when we left him at three.
And, as Vonnegut would have it; so it goes.
I was in a fishing tackle shop in Norfolk one day, looking for bait and some hooks; elvers have a tendency to swallow size 24 hooks, and there was a 'little old lady', five feet nothing and limbs like pipe cleaners, looking to buy a rod and a reel for her great grand son. We got talking.
"What's the largest fish you've ever caught?" she asked. Me, I was a fisherman! I had a 29lb pike, a 34lb carp, a 3lb roach, a 4lb perch to my name. I was so full of myself; I was so proud!
She invited me back to her house for a cup of tea; just for friendship's sake. Along the walls of her hallway were photographs of her standing beside marlin, swordfish. porbeagle sharks! "That's what I meant by 'biggest'.
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