Monday, April 27, 2015

We were only being boring...for a reason

The general consensus this morning, following yesterday's predictable 0-0 draw between Arsenal and Chelsea, is that the Blues are boring. Oh, what delightful irony.

No one is any doubt that yesterday's match at the Emirates lacked goals - actually, it lacked shots on goal, too - but it certainly didn't lack excitement. Barclays Premier League football simply can't. The pace and physicality alone means that you'll always have something to keep you occupied. Of course, we don't watch football for the spectacle of two teams going at each other like rutting wildebeest. Goals, and preferably spectacular goals, have to be a part of the entertainment.

And, despite the bilious nonsense about Chelsea killing football from those flooding radio phone-ins, Twitter and comment boxes yesterday evening, it shouldn't be forgotten that in being ten points clear at the top of the league, Chelsea have taken 65 goals from 33 games, and have a positive goal difference of 39, five more than Manchester City. That doesn't strike me as particularly boring, although I'll readily concede that Chelsea were at the most entertaining best up until Christmas, with Costa scoring almost every time he was on the pitch, and Fabregas providing some of the best delivery play I've seen Chelsea produce in the 35 years I've been visiting Stamford Bridge.

But yesterday, with the Premier League's runaway leaders and a resurgent Arsenal going up against each other just over a month from the end of the season, what were people expecting? Free-flowing carelessness?

That the blame for a 0-0 result should fall solely on José Mourinho is ludicrous. It takes two teams to make a game and Arsène Wenger would have - or, at least, should have - known that this fixture would have found Mourinho at his most infuriatingly pragmatic.

If it hadn't been apparent in the build-up, it was certainly obvious when the teamsheet was posted: no recognised striker (albeit the ageing Drogba on the bench), a frontline featuring the mercurial Hazard (and, now, deserved PFA Player of the Year) flanked by the increasingly anaemic Oscar and the talented but uneven Willian, Matic and Fabregas holding the midfield, and the Premier League's most efficient back four behind them.

Let's not be naive: if you or I were managing Chelsea, sitting on top of the league since God-knows when and with points to spare, the electric striker who mostly put you there out injured, and the rest of the squad visibly looking jaded, what else would you do, when a prize that has eluded them since 2010 lay so tantalisingly close? You wouldn't want to blow it now.

I won't deny that the game lacked flair, or that Mourinho packed the midfield, but that should have been Wenger's problem to solve. Arsenal have clearly shown their mettle in recent weeks, and have been particularly good at home. But yesterday they simply didn't ask enough questions of Chelsea. They just didn't have the approach. I've seen the same at home: teams coming to Stamford Bridge simply to park the bus and thwart their hit-on-the-break play. Thus, there have been times when I've trudged out of the Bridge, just about happy with three points from a goal nicked in the final minutes after an hour or more of similar to what we saw yesterday, albeit with the bus parked by the visitors.

At the Emirates, Chelsea were disciplined: John Terry defied his age to earn Man Of The Match with distinguished aplomb, with Cesar Azpilicueta, in particular, brilliantly solid at left back. Their organisation overall, as the visiting side, was impeccable. And Arsenal? They are the side people should find frustrating. They have the talent - their league position says so - but they lacked the nouse to unlock Chelsea. They've won just two of their last 13 league games against the Blues, and have gone eight hours without even scoring against them. Add to that, they've had just one shot on target in their two league fixtures against Chelsea this season.

Arsenal and Chelsea: "what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object"

Can Chelsea be "blamed" for that? Well, sorry if I misread the instructions, but I thought the object of the exercise was that one side aims to score more goals than the other in order to win. Which, if I understand the principle further, means that each side has to do as much as it can to prevent the other from scoring.

Somewhere between the two, I agree, should be exciting attacking football. And if not, we end up with, to quote The Joker, "...what happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object."

If, as expected, Chelsea do win the Premier League this season, there is only one message for the teams around them who failed to beat them: do better next season.

Monday, March 30, 2015

Six weeks of misery begins here

When I left Britain 16 years ago for a new life abroad it was hardly an emigration to the farthest ends of the Earth. It was, in fact, to Amsterdam, which meant I was only a 40 minute flight away from those things I still held dear - my family, my friends, and Stamford Bridge, where I'd prudently taken out a season ticket some years before.

A couple of years later, I moved further afield, to California, but yet thanks to the Internet and its world-shrinking prowess, I was hardly disconnected from the home island for long - an eight-hour time difference the only real physical barrier.

Now I'm in Paris, and in principle, a two-hour train ride from London, if I miss anything at all, it's not that big a deal. In fact, it's probably easier to get to London than it is from Birmingham. Or, for those who still commute into London to work, its outer suburbs.

One thing, however, I can say - H on H - is that I haven't missed British politicians. They're no worse elsewhere in the world, of course, but I say that in the comfort of having been kept well clear of local politics elsewhere thanks to constitutional restrictions.

But now, as the countdown to the 2015 General Election has officially begun (even though it feels like it's been dragging on for months), I find myself oddly disenfranchised from the country of my birth, and one in which I have been entitled to vote for almost 30 years. Because, having lived outside of the UK for more than 15 years, I am, apparently, no longer eligible to vote.

I could get seriously up in arms about this, but, frankly, it's just not worth it. I know that sounds democratically irresponsible - my parents' generation fought for such freedom, and all that - but by being formally refused the vote, I have been freed of the responsibility of worrying about sending a boob to 10 Downing Street. Or No.11. Or whatever arrangement they came to last time.

It must be said that I have long held a healthy and underlying disregard for politicians. All of them. In fact, they are my least favourite species to this Earth born, after rapidly mutating viruses, mosquitoes and salesmen. I have yet to encounter one politician - either via the media or in person - with whom you'd willingly wish to spend any time with.

I'm sure there are some perfectly decent politicians, earnest individuals seeking the best for their constituents via worthy deeds, but unfortunately, those who rise to prominence or, even worse, the top, seem to be cast from the same mold of narcissistic, self-serving ego-maniacal weasels who have taken up politics in response to some deep childhood issues.

So, back to the election. Britain faces an impossible choice on May 7. Because national politics has descended into the same vanilla mediocrity as Saturday night television. Even the means of electing a future government has taken on the superficiality of American electioneering, with a lot of fuss about TV debates turning the whole process into The X Factor (or should that be Britain's Got Absolutely Zero Political Talent - arf!).

I don't wish to come across as dewy-eyed and nostalgic, but British politics has lost its personalities. Even Margaret Thatcher - as much as I loathed her doctrine - stimulated discussion, debate, anger, hatred, a rise in blood pressure or, for those who adored her, a figurehead.

And today? If the primary options are Cameron, Clegg and Milliband, you have three virtually indistinguishable versions of each other. Bland, bereft of charisma and more intent on saying what they've been instructed to say rather than any discernible conviction, lest they upset the grandee factions that hold together the fragile structure of their respective parties.

After the last general election Britain ended up with an absurd forced marriage of a government, run by two such ideologically mismatched parties I'm surprised they didn't install relationship counsellors from the off. But to make it work, we were treated like dumbasses and made to believe that the Conservative/Lib-Dem coalition was a beautiful "partnership".

The best take on this came from the brilliant American comedian Rich Hall. Spreading his time between rural Montana and a home in the UK, Hall returned to Britain after the last election to be surprised to find the country being run "by a couple of gay antique dealers”.

As Prime Minister and deputy, they have been the 'taupe' premiership (though, to be fair, the PM does change hue for his annual summer holiday, when he can be seen pointing at dead fish while wearing a considerable amount of navy casualwear). Undistinct, uninteresting, uninspiring.

"Call me Dave" Cameron has done little to dispel his Harry Flashman image, leading an obsequious gang of elitist throwbacks who have ended up in a coalition with all the ridiculous contradictions, compromises and conveniences these tend to generate. That includes making Nick Clegg the second-most powerful man in the country. I've met him, and can vouch say that, even for politicians, he is one of the dullest you could ever encounter. Seriously, charisma-free and, apparently, equally under-endowed on the policy front, too.

Don't, however, think for one minute that I'm letting Ed Miliband off, either. Has there really been a less electable leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition since Michael Foot? Blair might have sold Britain down a river of deceit with his misadventure in Iraq, but in 1997 Labour - under him - reversed 18 years of Conservative misery. He was a truly viable opportunity to revitalise a moribund Britain and its political life. And, yes, he had charisma. All that Cool Britannia nonsense did, partially rub off. Britain felt good again (though I do have to acknowledge that I left it two year later...).

Can anyone truly see Milliband as Prime Minister? Does he really have the chops to represent the UK at the highest level, as a statesman and political equal? Sorry, but no. Britain doesn't need a leader who comes across like the head prefect of a progressive North London comprehensive school.

I have, I note, been alarmingly traditional so far. What about other parties? No disrespect intended to those who fall under the 'Other' category, but the only other party to consider, in the interests of balance, is UKIP, especially as it is currently third in the latest opinion polls. Which is remarkable, when you consider how much dysfunction Britain's self-appointed loony right have within its ranks, no sooner weeding out one nutjob for another to appear, foot - or worse - in mouth.

Much of that dysfunction must be attributed to Nigel Farage, UKIP's bug-eyed, ale-supping, nicotine-stained, tweed-clad, Home Counties golf club captain of a party leader.

He is more caricature of himself than anything else: all clubhouse bonhomie, a posh spiv always ready to be pictured with a pint like a "regular Joe", as they'd say in America.

Farage's aim may be to challenge the apparent domination of British politics by a metropolitan elite, but this Middle England-orientated self-image masks a danger.

And here's why: "It took me six hours and 15 minutes in the car to get here [Port Talbot in Wales]. It should have taken three and a half to four. That has nothing to do with professionalism. What is does have to do with is a country in which the population is going through the roof, chiefly because of open-door immigration, and the fact the M4 is not as navigable as it used to be."

For the record, the UKIP leader, a Eurosceptic MEP, is married to a German, is of Huguenot-French descent, and had a German great-great grandfather. I suppose he's entitled to his opinions. I just wish he didn't forced it down the throats of the rest of us.

So, if I were still able to place a vote that would, somehow in the UK's arcane electoral system, elect the next government of my home country, the world's sixth largest economy, I would be truly stumped: a choice between the taupe twins, Gromit's erstwhile human friend, and a man constructed largely from Benson & Hedges and Greene King IPA.

Forgive me, then, if I can't help feeling like Britain is screwed. Leave the Tories in power much longer and, like starving lions, they will soon turn on each other. A mess, a power vacuum and then what? Elect the Lib-Dems? Wet paper bags are more adept at governing. Labour? Even they've reduced themselves to an homogeneity of windy rhetoric that varies as far as bland and blander. And UKIP? Vote them in and the lunatics really will have taken over the asylum.

So what is Britain left with? Not much, really. Come May 7, the country will trudge off to church halls, libraries, school gyms and all the other venues that double as refuges in times of natural disasters to place a tick next to the name of that baby-kissing, eager-to-please reformed (or partially reformed) bed-wetter who came to your front door one evening, or you ran into handing out stickers in the high street. And here's where the bizarre crapshoot begins. The candidate you actually vote for might not make the slightest bit of difference to who actually walks through the door of 10 Downing Street on May 8.

Between Britain's batshit-mad electoral system, and the array of blandness on offer as eventual beneficiaries of it, I could be forgiven for giving a cynical sneer to the next six weeks and its outcome. Knowing that I have no say in it, and not much if I had, has left me in a state somewhere between calm and caustic. It will be nigh on impossible to avoid the coverage and the glorified circus that the parties will run as they present themselves as governing material. But I will soldier on. Happy in the knowledge that a Netflix subscription will see me through until the fuss has died down (though I will, for obvious reasons, be avoiding House Of Cards...).

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

You say "fracas", I say "punch-up", let's call the whole thing off

And so, an alleged incident last week gets reported by the Radio Times (didn't it used to be a TV listings magazine?), and before you know it, BBC upper management has the excuse it has been waiting for to formally discipline Jeremy Clarkson.

Curious. And on the day after Rona Fairhead, head of the BBC Trust, came under fire for her relationship with the scandal-hit bank HSBC. Seeing as Clarkson's alleged "fracas" last week was only reported by the BBC's own publication yesterday, with the corporation suspending him soon after, you could forgive the suspicious for thinking they'd caught a whiff of conspiracy.

It was, though, Or, at least, a bit of a joke, given the Beeb's choice of "fracas" to begin with. How very British. How very PR. A fracas is defined as "a noisy, disorderly disturbance or fight", so no doubt lawyers came up with the word as a polite catch-all.

The facts of the case, however (and despite apparent chapter-and-verse details reported in today's newspapers), are not yet fully clear. Stories vary from Clarkson merely remonstrating with the assistant producer, Oisin Tymon, over, apparently, the absence of catering at the end of a Top Gear shoot in Newcastle, to Clarkson "aiming a punch at" him, to Clarkson actually hitting the producer. No doubt there is a span of reality between all three.

All of this reminds me of the incident many years ago in which two Sky News presenters, Chris Mann and Scott Chisholm, got into a proper fight. This was no "fracas", no "disagreement", "brief exchange of opinions" or any other PR euphemism. Even "altercation" sounds like Victorians observing Queensberry Rules. No, this was an actual punch-up. A Ron Burgundy-style face-off. A burly scot and a burly Scott (and both colleagues of Kay Burley) rolling down an Osterley corridor like clothed versions of Alan Bates and Oliver Reed. The pair were suspended with immediate effect, but not without Sky enduring ceaseless ridicule from every newsroom between London and Sydney.

If the Sky dust-up had taken place in any other office, it would have barely bothered the pages of a local rag. And to be honest, at the time, Sky was still in its infancy, and neither Mann or Chisholm were big names outside their own self regard.
Clarkson is different. He is, to all intents and purposes, Top Gear. And Top Gear, in the 'new' format he and executive producer Andy Willman created 12 years ago, has become a global hit making oodles of money for the BBC from show syndication, DVDs, iTunes downloads, Stig toys and all the other Christmas-bound detritus that has built up around what is essentially Last Of The Summer Wine with cars - three blokes "cocking around", as they like to describe themselves.

I can understand those who don't like Clarkson, Top Gear or both. He is/it is decidedly blokeish, at times painfully scripted, 22 seasons in, very formulaic, and in Richard Hammond, televises some of the most exaggerated mannerisms in the industry. But I also get its appeal: its high production values make for some genuinely excellent television. The specials, challenges and longer-form films have been brilliant. And, no, it doesn't take itself seriously. If you're going to be offended by the things Clarkson says, you're going to be offended by Alf Garnett, which means that you're missing the joke entirely.

That said, clearly Clarkson - for it is almost always him - knows how to get dangerously close to the line, one that - like guard fences in World War II POW camps - has a minefield either side of it. The "slope" joke during the Borneo special was appalling and actually offensive, and the excuses made by the BBC in its wake were just as bad. And I'm still hugely suspicious that the 'H982FKL' number plate of the Porsche driven by Clarkson in Argentina was no accident.

It's exactly this sort of thing that divides opinion so. Much - if not most - of Top Gear's personality is Clarkson himself. And readers of his weekly column in The Sunday Times will see no difference, either. He is partly a caricature - public schoolboy (Repton), politically incorrect, probably a Tory, hangs on to being a professional Yorkshireman saying shocking things to scare old ladies, not, for effect, either, and has spent the better part of three decades (since his first appearance on 'old' Top Gear) nurturing this image of belligerence.

Some say, if I can use those words, that it is calculated. It's not. Clarkson is Clarkson. For every tweet calling for him to be reinstated there have been those congratulating the BBC for finally calling their "vial" [sic] cash cow to account (an ironic typo given the toxic associations of such a vessel).

If the BBC does sack Clarkson, his somewhat sanguine banter on Twitter last night suggests that he's not bothered, and nor are co-stars Hammond and James May who have been anchored around him. Even though Clarkson and Willman sold the rights to Top Gear back to the BBC, lawyers will no doubt find a way to move it to Sky, who would kill to have such a property. ITV, too, could do with something to replace the Champions League for advertisers seeking to reach the sort of demographics Top Gear connects with on BBC2.

All this, though, does dangerously detract from the core of the issue. It doesn't matter who you are, or what you do for your employer, you can't go around punching colleagues. The 'don't fire Clarkson' campaign seems to be worryingly overlooking this fact. It might have held true for some of the near-knuckle things he's said in the past, but if his fist did connect with Tymon, there is no justification - Top Gear's commercial importance, a tired and famished presenter, even incompetence - that can stand in the way of punitive action against Clarkson, who might also face a chat with Inspector Plod, too.

Thursday, February 19, 2015

Mama, we're all racists now.

© The Guardian

So, ha-ha, very funny. No sooner had video appeared apparently showing Chelsea fans on a Paris Métro train singing about being racist while one appears to prevent a black commuter from boarding, the Photoshop wags were already at it.

Via memes depicting John Terry's face superimposed on the heads of those at Richelieu-Drouot, en route to Chelsea's Champions League encounter with PSG, social media suddenly become a braying mob every bit as crass as the song being sung and those who were singing it.

The logic that followed is that Chelsea Football Club is a racist club, captained by a racist, and supported by racists. Which makes me a racist, along with every single one of the near-42,000 people at Stamford Bridge each weekend, and the millions of others around the world who follow the club.

It also means that everyone on the staff at Chelsea is a racist, including Didier Drogba, Willian, Ramires, Kurt Zouma, Nathan Ake, Loic Remy and other black players, who are clearly so hateful of their racist captain that they train with him every day, run out for games with him, embrace him at the end of every match, go out to dinner with him, and generally tolerate his congenital racial intolerance 24 hours a day, seven days a week, and without a tweet or a comment to a foreign football magazine that they know will get back to the British press.

Don't get me wrong: if Terry used the words he is said to have used towards Anton Ferdinand, then the punishment and removal as England skipper was more than justified. But to see Terry made into a Mosley-esque lightning rod for the understandable disgust at this latest example of moronic football fans abroad is, at the very least, a fundamentally misplaced understanding of the notion of "banter" between fans.

I have no doubt that Chelsea - as every club, quite frankly - still has its neanderthal element. But the idiots on Tuesday night's Métro train were no more representative of the club they purport to support than the Aberdeen and Dundee fans arrested in January for fighting, the Brentford fans arrested last weekend in Watford, the Egyptian fans in Cairo two weeks ago, the Manchester United and Manchester City fans last November, the "barbaric" fans of Equatorial Guinea and Ghana who clashed the other week during the Africa Cup of Nations semi-final, or the Lincoln City thugs who attacked Luton Fans in a family pub two years ago and who are now doing 31 years in prison for their cause.

Of course, Chelsea as a club isn't blameless. All they can do is to try and identify the individuals captured in that video footage. Perhaps they'll get lucky: they were on a modern piece of Métro rolling stock, so perhaps the CCTV system will be good enough to match faces and open mouths during the vile singing to passport photos. It's unlikely, let's face it, that any of the pack of yobs would step forward and name names.

Because that is exactly what it was. This was no NF rally, no BDL march. These were the swollen egos of people who, with the safety of numbers, behaved as they want. Ironically, after PSG fans celebrated their Ligue 1 title two years ago, they came marauding down my street from Trocadéro, smashing shop windows, tipping over cars and looting supermarkets. Mob rules, right?

It doesn't take a doctorate in social studies to see that the pack mentality on that train was hewn from the same lump that sends drunken Brits out on to the streets of their own towns at the weekend and, even worse, out onto the streets of Aya Napa and Magaluf from May to September. I'm sure the core of that cretinous group on the Métro were racist, but I'm also sure they were accompanied by cowards who joined in because they could get away with doing so.

Chelsea has done much, as every club in fact, to transform the fan experience. Compared with my first taste of Stamford Bridge in the early 1980s, when fights broke out all around you as you stood in The Shed amid some turgid Second Division fixture, the Bridge today is - as away fans like to point out - oh-so-quiet.

Compared with the debut of Paul Canovile, which was disgracefully accompanied by bananas and monkey chants from his own club's support (sadly, I was there to witness this), Chelsea's multinational squad today enjoys the respect and dignity their professionalism and skills deserve. Does that mean that Drogba doesn't face racially-themed barbs? No, any more so than Jose Mourinho doesn't get the odd reference to his "swarthy good looks", a description as intentionally racist as it is cute.

While we can hope that police endeavour will bring those Métro idiots to account, the image they projected around the world of Chelsea and English football will, unfortunately, have done its damage, much the same as the institutional racism we've seen at matches in Spain, Poland, Russia, Serbia, the Netherlands and even Germany, the last place where such behaviour should be tolerated.

All of which will revive the arguments about whether racism and football hooliganism is football's problem or society's problem.  I will always argue that if it is football's problem, it's society's problem also.

As an expat for the last 16 years, it's been hard enough trying to convince those I integrate with that we Brits don't all wear frock coats and religiously drink tea at four o'clock, or that our lives are not a hilarious cross between Benny Hill and Mr. Bean. And, no, life in the UK is not a vomit-strewn tirade of drunken violence.

But I digress. If nothing else, Tuesday night's circumstantial evidence informs us that racism is still football's problem, just as an alcoholic is still an alcoholic long after giving up drink. It's not just Chelsea's, but also the problem of all those clubs whose fans piously claim are racism-free. Because dig a little under the surface, and you'll find racism running through society like smouldering rivers of magma. It's the undercurrent that has UKIP's gormless leader blaming Welsh immigration for the M4 being slow, or all the other nasty little right-wing movements stoking things up in Europe. Football is merely the outlet.

Thursday, January 22, 2015

It's a cover-up

For the last 44 years, van drivers, men in barbershops and frustrated teenagers desperate for a furtive glimpse of bare breasts have made The Sun their daily destination. Ever since Sir Larry Lamb (not to be confused with the dad from Gavin & Stacey) decided, somewhat randomly in November 1970, to plonk a topless picture of 20-year-old German model Stephanie Rahn over the length and breadth of the tabloid's third page, "Page 3" has virtually become a generic noun for one of the most controversial features in British newspaper history.

In The Sun's mindset - one that is permanently set in the early 1960s, the Carry On Britain where "Miss" remains anachronistic Sun vernacular for all female teachers and snackfood is still referred to routinely in the context of wartime rationing as a "tasty treat" - Page 3 has been "just a bit of fun".

The Sun's view is that Page 3 is something to put a smile on Britain's face each morning. Because, as we all know, a pair of naked norks are absolutely hilarious.

Here in continental Europe, nudity in any form is never an issue. Shower gel commercials on TV don't cover anything up, and you'll never see a newspaper drawing juvenile attention to a "nipslip", much for the same reason that Europeans don't, generally speaking, have quite the same issues with the human body and its functions as we Brits famously have.

I have no particular opinion on the sexual politics of Page 3. Visual sexism appears everywhere - you're either offended by it, or it simply doesn't bother you - but I do think that Page 3 lost any relevance on the day after Lamb introduced Britain to Frau Rahn.

Because Page 3 is, let's face it, a fairly ludicrous newspaper concept: on Page 1 you have your splash headline - 100-point type, with two sentences of the story squeezed underneath; Page 2, a continuation of the story plus a selection of shorts' (usually of global importance) and the weather forecast; and then Page 3, with three columns filled with a picture of "Curvy Cathy" or "Sexy Suzy" and a sunny but vacuous accompanying caption; on Page 4, the rest of the newspaper begins.

So, what purpose does a mildly titillating bridge between pages 2 and 4 serve at all? Do people still buy The Sun because of it? No, and they never did: the TV section always used to be the biggest sales draw, with Mystic Meg's stars and the sports pages in close competition.

Spend any amount of time in The Sun newsroom, and you understand where Page 3 comes from, and why it has remained. Despite its adjacency to more highbrow stablemates like The Sunday Times and The Times, The Sun has always prided itself on being staffed by journalists from similar social backgrounds to its readers. It has always revelled in an egalitarian culture, though it has never sought to play up working class credentials in the same way as the Daily Mirror has, under editors like Kelvin MacKenzie, The Sun enjoyed baiting its loftier peers, part of the occasional boorishness of British tabloid life (and one indulged by both male and female participants).

Page 3 played its part in this. Its models have always been deliberately drawn from the The Sun's very readership, girls from the UK's industrial heartlands, whose dads drunk in pubs that sold bags of peanuts advertised, incongruously, by women in bikinis, and whose mums thought nothing weird about sending in Costa del Sol holiday snaps of their daughters as auditions for "Britain's brightest daily read".

The argument against Page 3 has, for those who defend it, come from those who wouldn't normally read it. The paper has always maintained that The Sun maintains its audience quite nicely, thanks (pre-Internet it would regularly sell four million copies each day and be read by 12 million), and those who don't like it should stick to The Guardian.

And while Page 3's most vociferous opponents have been drawn from the hardcore PC left, a new, more straight-forward opposition has emerged in recent years. One that simply says that, like any movie featuring Robin Askwith and a window cleaner's ladder, Page 3 is ridiculous throwback to a Britain that has long since disappeared, along with Timothy Whites and Green Line buses in the London suburbs.

Sadly, The Sun and, ultimately, its owner Rupert Murdoch, who still calls the shots, hasn't moved on. This week, it was suggested that Page 3 was no more. Or at least the Page 3 Girl would be no more. After a mysterious absence, prompting the media elite to break into fully-blown chatter mode, with even The Times running a piece saying that the daily feature was being "quietly dropped".

Today it returned less than quietly, with The Sun bringing back a topless model to Page 3 -  "Nicole, 22, from Bournemouth" - and even going out its way to goad the anti-page 3 campaign.

"WE'VE HAD A MAMMARY LAPSE", a teaser on the front page facetiously pointed out this morning. Yesterday evening, The Sun's own PR person provocatively tweeted: "I said that it was speculation and not to trust reports by people unconnected to the Sun. A lot of people are about to look very silly ...", a forewarning reminiscent of Saddam Hussein's former Information Minister, Mohammed Saeed al-Sahhaf - or "Comical Ali" as he was better known - who adopted a similar "you're all going to look like idiots" stance towards the Western media. Thinking about Iraq now, he may well have been right.

As for The Sun, one wonders, then, what Rupert Murdoch himself, thinks about the return of the Page 3 model. He was said to have favoured dropping it for being anachronistic and out of touch with modern public sentiment. It would appear that his own editorial team at The Sun have different ideas.

Monday, January 12, 2015

Monsters ink

To have a parent or older relative suffer from dementia - including its most common form, Alzheimer's disease - means losing a loved one over the cruellest of terms, a slow fade-to-black, a life gradually fading, like Marty McFly running out of time, only permanently.

It is, of course, no more cruel than cancer, heart disease or any of the other scythes that take our closest - and, let's face it, ourselves, eventually - from us. But to witness your own flesh and blood being deleted pixel-by-pixel is hard to take on board.

Perhaps I'm lucky: my father's Alzheimer's is in the early stages, and the progress is relatively slow, which is not to say that it won't speed up down the line, and the degradation of life becomes more apparent. But it will happen, and the soul-searching that will have begun as inevitable murmurs in the mind, will crank themselves up.

Which is what has moved me to reproduce, in full and unedited, this note, Monsters, written by my dear friend Saskia den Hollander and posted on her Facebook page the other day just as she and her family were contemplating the progress of the disease in her own father.

She wrote it for her own benefit, to try and come to terms with the profound sense of loss that comes from seeing a man gradually disappear into themselves. But having read so many things about Alzheimer's - news reports, medical studies, other blog posts - nothing nailed it quite like this did. Nothing has moved me more, either. Thanks Sas. x


You're gone. But you're still here.
You're here. But you have gone to a place where you are fighting. But it's a fight you cannot win. It's a fight we cannot help you win. It's a fight we are losing as well. Where we are losing you.
We are losing you to a vicious monster.
The monster which makes you forget. The monster which is changing you.
Which is changing your personality, your intellect and every other thing you stood for.
A monster which is degenerating your brain to the brain of a child.
A 79 year old child.
I'm trying to console myself with the idea that the one thing we, as grown ups always regret we lost, our child within, you are about to get back.
But who am I kidding.
There's nothing soothing about this monster. No good part nor does it have a better side.
The only resemblance of a child I recognise in you is the part where you behave as a child, because the monster has taken away your ability to express yourself in a different way.
You simply cannot understand anymore why things are happening to you, what is happening around you. What is happening?
So you cry.
Like a child. Like a 7 year old child.
And this monster makes us respond to you as if you are a child. We use our friendly voice. We try to comfort you. We distract you. We dry your tears. We try to make you understand that there's no need to cry.
You're crying but what are you really trying to express?
I understand that you are crying because you feel helpless. Because you do not know what to do.
And so do we. Cry. Feel helpless.
Don't know what to do.
You still know who I am.
But I know that the monster will take this away as well.
I'm trying to stare this monster in the face with all my fears and shouting at it
what are you waiting for?
why don't you take all of him?
You already took away a proud man.
You took away a husband. A father. A granddad.
His ability to remember.
His ability to remember what he wants to say. What he was saying. And why he was saying it.
By now he doesn't remember why he started a conversation, let alone how to finish it.
His ability to do things. Even the simplest things. Play cards. Play games. Play guitar. Do groceries. Cook. Count. Write. How to dress himself, although he fought a very long and a very good fight there.
You took away his memories.
The very short ones flew out of the window like this.
The longer term ones, now, like that too.
You're taking away his definition.
You're taking away his dignity.
You're giving him in return
You are making him feel lost.
It just doesn't matter how hard we try to find him. Try to bring him back. Even if he has to borrow our memory. But we are lost together with him.
If you are not taking him away in one go, please take him to a place where he doesn't have to feel like that anymore. Take him to that void of emptiness where there are no memories of what has been.
Just don't let him hang around like this.
Don't let him be stuck between nothing and something.
An undefinable anything.
Let him please find that place where the sky is blue, clouds are slowly drifting by and where blue birds sing.
Let us know that there is some sort of redemption while losing so much. Show us. Reassure us of his acceptance of his loss. Our loss.
But maybe you just did.
Is that what you tried to show me this evening?
Just before I left to go home and kissed him goodnight?
I acted silly, trying to make him laugh, in the same way as he did when I was a child.
You made him give me, an almost empty look. And you made him ask me, why are you doing this?
I said; "because this is what you thought me dad, you always did this when I was a child."
And you replied: "what has been has been."
And right there I could feel it. I could feel you. More present then ever before. You stared straight into my eyes. My mind. My heart.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Je suis...libre

© Simon Poulter 2015

In the end, it wasn't just about a magazine staffed by prototypical reactionaries, goading religious fanatics to carry out their murderous spree. It wasn't just about three dead police officers. It wasn't just about supermarket shoppers slaughtered while fetching in their shabbat supplies.

This was about ordinary people. Men, women, children, grandparents, babies in high-end buggies, the mildly aggrieved and the permanently enraged, the duffel-coated politicos, some who'd never been to any sort of political event before, and those who turned up just to see what the fuss was about.

It was a family day out, full of bonhomie. There were no tears, or none that I saw. There was no anger, no bile of hatred. Kids' faces were painted with le tricolore. There was communal singing of La Marseillaise. They stood, they clapped, they shuffled their feet when they could, they came to a halt again, they chanted "shar-lee, shar-lee, shar-lee". Some attempted to shove their way along. This was a French event, after all.

© Simon Poulter 2015
There were flags of every country - even, bizarrely, one representing North Korea. Christian, communist, republican, Israeli, Palestinian - name the persuasion, there was a flag evident.

Above us, TV cameras poked out of sixth floor windows overlooking the square, gesticulating reporters desperately trying to fill precious live satellite minutes as the estimated million-plus shuffled past at a tectonic pace. Traditional French impatience was suspended as this enormous tide moved like a mud slick from the rallying point at République on up Avenue de la République, in what ultimate direction, no one really knew. Perhaps it was meant to end at Nation, perhaps at Bastille. Even now I still couldn't say.

"Une journée à nulle autre pareille - ran the caption on one of the local TV channels. A day without parallel. Certainly it wasn't just the end to a weekend that concluded the first working week of January. And, by the way, how did that week go for you? Back to the rigmarole of commuting? Back to the disorientating fog of managerial dysfunction? Back to wasting energy trying to unjam the photocopier, again?

And what about all those tedious meetings? Probably, I suspect, they weren't interrupted by thugs spraying bullets about because of something that appeared on the cover of a magazine.

Almost 48 hours after two-and-a-half days that scared Paris, shocked France and stunned the world, this afternoon felt like the forced awakening from a nightmare. Or at least taking temporary reprieve from it.

© Simon Poulter 2015
It is, though, too soon to make any real sense of what happened last week. Of course, we know what happened - we saw much of it on YouTube, on CNN, on the BBC, on just about every video medium on the planet. Or at least we saw the inevitable, bloody denouement. This afternoon, however, wasn't about trying to solve anything. This was about solidarity and, yes, a public wanting to feel better about itself while sending a message. Because, cynics, believe it or not, behind the carnival spirit and cute kids on their dads' shoulders holding pencils aloft, there was a genuine belief in liberté, egalité, fraternité.

Which is why France may know how what happened did so, but it is still trying to consider why. Why its enshrined right to free speech met the infuriated assault rifle of jihad; why the lesions of social and racial division have been abruptly opened; why festering distrust and lingering anti-semitism has resurfaced and where will it go next; and why an underclass living within the boundary of a city famous for its bejewelled avenues should be compelled to upgrade from petty crime to radicalised mass murder.

Freedom of speech and freedom of expression shouldn't cost a thing, let alone someone's life, the sanctity and preservation of which is the common denominator of all religions, all faiths, all belief systems. It allows me to write this and you to read it. It allows for healthy debate, exchange of ideas and, critically, the ability to offer a counterpoint with the only retribution being disagreement.

Freedom of speech allows anyone to ask if Charlie Hebdo had gone too far, as much as for the magazine to go too far to begin with. And what is too far? Who sets that threshold? Who has the true moral authority to say too far is too far? Certainly not the self-appointed executioner emptying his AK47 at cartoonists exercising their right to free speech with nothing more lethal than felt-tipped pens and pencils.

Charlie Hebdo may well have crossed a line of taste or public sensitivity or even the expression of opinion - albeit in the form of a socially provocative cartoon - but did they cross into territory warranting a lethal response? Of course not.

© Simon Poulter 2015

In response to Wednesday's atrocity, historian Simon Schama wrote in the Financial Times: "Magazines such as Charlie Hebdo are in the business of taking liberties, even outrageous ones, but they exist so that we never take the gift of disrespect for granted."

A fair point. But one that takes a higher level than was needed. The Guardian's cartoonist Steve Bell brought things more appropriately down to earth, telling the BBC: "We’ve got to stand up for the right to take the piss out of these monsters, these idiots, these fools, these posturing maniacs who strut around in their black gear as a kind of death cult trying to frighten us all."

That's what today was about. The greatest defence against those who say "you can't say that" should always be "yes, I can, because I live in a society that allows me to chose what I believe and freely say what I think" - no matter how far you test the elasticity of the principle.You can't place any metric against offence. You are either offended or not offended. And if you are, feel free to complain about it. It's your right.