So Richard and Judy is finally finishing forever, Judy presumably leaving for an old people’s home and Richard going back to school as the age gap between them widens impossibly.
I won’t miss them and I’ve already made it quite clear why.
But, as a whole era of daytime TV (apparently) comes to an (apparently) tragic close, let us just for a moment consider what a fantastic programme it would have been had it been presented by Richard Burton and Judi Dench.
If you’d like to listen to Mascagni’s very beautiful opera Cavalleria Rusticana but can’t be bothered to go out and buy the CD, you can currently listen to the whole thing by phoning the ENO box office on 0870 145 2200.
Sure, it’s not the best sound quality ever, and somebody does keep interrupting it to inform you that “we are currently experiencing a high volume of calls, please continue to hold and someone will be with you as soon as possible” – but you definitely get the flavour of the opera, and the rising frustration you’ll feel at your inability to actually book tickets coincides nicely with the hysteria caused by Lola’s adultery and culminating in Turiddu’s death, making for a much more intense experience.
Certainly it looks like it’s the closest I’m going to get to actually seeing any kind of opera the ENO have on offer.
From my 2004 diary, during the period when The Uncertainty Division were rehearsing for An Extremely Memorable Emergency:
“We thought it would be quite funny if George Carey and Jim Carrey had been mixed up at birth and ended up doing each others’ jobs.”
I’m now wondering if it would really have made that much of a difference.
Last night I was the victim of what can only be described as anti-anti-Rutter snobbery snobbery.
Let me make this clear: I have nothing against John Rutter. He is a composer who has crafted many a pretty melody and if pretty is what you want, he sure as hell gives it to you. If you want harmonic richness or depth, there’s not a lot going for it. Moreover it’s technically pretty inept. He is a songster, not a great composer – and to give him his due, he’s never claimed otherwise.
Hold fire before you call me snobbish; I don’t see “songster” as a negative word (I myself am one), there’s nothing wrong with “pretty” (it is another quality which I have at times been labelled with) and there is no reason why all music should have depth harmonic richness or depth (I am myself a particular devotee of the superficial charms of Bonnie Tyler). But personally, whilst I respect everyone’s right to get off on Rutter (and I admire and envy his impressive commercial appeal), I find most of it dull and mawkish.
(And I don’t need anybody else to sagely inform me that I “really ought to listen to his Requiem though, you’ll be surprised how good it is” – I’m listening to it now and if one of my students handed this in to me I’d cover it in red ink and give it a 2.2 for stylistic inconsistancy, directionless harmony, lack of structure and poor word-setting. It’s pretty, though.)
So at the planning meeting for the St Mark’s carol service yesterday evening somebody vaguely suggested Rutter’s particularly trite ditty the Shepherd’s Pipe Carol (I believe I’ve blogged about it before – oh yes, “cleverly chosen to rival the campness of the panto cast”), I quickly nipped the idea in the bud by hinting that if they insisted on putting that in they might need to find another choir director (particularly as my alotted quota of choir items in this year’s carol service has been slashed to just five, but that’s a different gripe).
At which point the Vicar became suddenly animated and declared “oooohhhhh, I’m so fed up of this anti-Rutter snobbery, we had some students at the vicarage last week and they were all mouthing off about him, it makes me so mad.” Another of the people present shook his head and chuckled wisely, saying “they’re young – they’ll learn.”
A judgement I presume I was at least partially subject to, having (apparently) provoked the anti-Rutter snobbery complaint. And whilst I am always flattered to be described as young, what I’d like to know is what exactly I am expected to learn? Is the theory that as I throw off the shackles of my musical education and reach adulthood I will gradually lose my objective discernment and appreciate things for their superficial prettiness whatever their technical shortcomings? Should I expect my musical tastes to become so dulled that I prefer to listen to watered-down candy floss (sorry, that is not only a mixed metaphor, it’s a stupid one as well) than to immerse myself in the complexity and richness of Bach, Bruckner, Britten or Berg?
Mind you, if last night’s company was indicative of the trajectory my old age will take, I’ll also be drinking decaffeinated coffee and getting Bible readings from The Message, so maybe Rutter will be all I can handle.
That giant of journalistic prowess, Metro, informs me that George W Bush’s biographer believes the American President to be, contrary to popular belief, extremely clever. This Robert Draper says “he has a visceral intelligence at odds with his image”.
Metro explains that Mr Draper formed this opinion when he interviewed Bush and found him to be “chatty, charming and unshakeably confident in his abilities and decisions”.
I would point out to Mr Draper that Jade Goody is also chatty, David Beckham is considered by many to be charming, and Boris Johnson is without doubt unshakeably confident in his abilities and decisions – but these qualities do not necessarily amount to intelligence, visceral or otherwise.
Draper admits that this self-assurance does have its liabilities: “a tendency for opinions to harden, an unwillingness to consider alternative points of view and also the facts”.
An unwillingness to consider the facts???? Mr Draper, the word for what you appear to be describing is STUPIDITY.
Today I watched the first episode of the BBC’s new Robin Hood series, now gloriously available to people refusing to buy a TV license on the grounds of “TV is mostly crap” through BBC iPlayer (which both negates the need for a license and confirms the reason for not having one).
The first series of Robin Hood began before such enlightened times, but I do remember reading about how it was going to give a fresh new insight into the legend of Robin Hood, with groundbreaking social realism and topical references to terrorism that would completely re-imagine the tired old story. Gadzooks, they even had a Robin Hood with an authentic Northern accent.
So I’ve been slightly surprised by what the episode actually contained: Robin Hood hitting unlikely targets with his absurdly accurate bowmanship, his gang hiding under equally unlikely trap doors in Sherwood Forest, Little John sporting an unkempt beard and wielding a staff, Maid Marian kicking the shit out of people and clinging to her independence whilst essentially being both a bit girly and a huge liability. Hands being chopped off, houses being burned down, hooded nobles conspiring to hire a mercenary army to gain control of the country. And the biggest giveaway: a camp-as-tits Sheriff of Nottingham constructing whole scenes of dialogue out of one-liners.
Yes – this is not so much a drama built around the legend of Robin Hood as it is a drama built around the legend of Robin Hood – Prince of Thieves. Even the incidental music’s the same.
The biggest disappointment (aside from the fact that after watching the episode I found myself wishing I had watched the film instead) was that they didn’t go further. Several scenes would have been hugely enhanced by crowds of dirty extras in the forest shouting “Bollarks!” and I feel that Hood’s motivational speeches would have been much better with a Canadian accent.
But if they really wanted to bring the show into the 21st century, there are some obvious things they could have done:
1. Little John could have been played by Richard Littlejohn, who would spend every episode telling people the country was going down the pan and it was really all due to the Muslims.
2. An openly gay Will Scarlett. Wearing scarlet.
3. The position of Sheriff of Nottingham could come up for re-election and the outlaws would suddenly realise that, machiavellian though the Sheriff was, at least he had ideas and knew how to implement them, whereas his blond floppy-fringed rival might turn out to be really as stupid as he appeared.
4. King Richard could return from the Crusades declaring them an absolute success and the Holy Land a free, democratic state. Cut forward to the present day and King Richard could be posthumously tried for war crimes.
5. Instead of having end credits accompanied by a Bryan Adams, they could use the modern counterpart and have a song by Ryan Adams.
As it stands, the only thing that really sets the series apart from anything that has been done before is the occasional eccentric fast-cutting editing of action sequences that gives it the instant look of television drama that will have dated about five years from now.
For the first time in over two months I have been at home for more than a couple of days in a row, and it seems to be business as usual at Victoria Street. By which I mean, excrement spewing from the toilet (I returned from Edinburgh to discover that in my absence we had acquired £600 worth of bathroom damage) and Ambassador Swindle Monkeys, as Alastair succinctly puts it, screwing us with our pants on.
In fact I’ve seen an awful lot of people screwed with their pants on recently; a cast member of Tony Blair – the Musical was screwed with his pants on by the Great North Eastern Railway in front of my very eyes, and the Vicar of Trumpington, a long-term acquaintance of mine and thoroughly nice chap, was screwed with his pants on not only by four families in his Parish but by Cambridge Evening News, who reported certain spurious allegations as if they were fact. All this has led to me wasting whole days writing angry letters which have achieved precisely bugger all, except for me getting a letter back from GNER which none-too-subtly hinted that both the friend they had screwed with his pants on and myself were habitual liars – so in a sense taking the opportunity to give me a lazy screwing through my own underwear.
So when Natwest tried to screw me with my pants on only yesterday, they chose the wrong person to pick on. Because I am pretty jolly fed up of all this screwing and was pretty damn determined not to let them penetrate my pants without putting up a pretty jolly damn good fight.
Because, yes, I have received a bank charge. I won’t bother you with the details, except to say that nobody except Ricky Gervais comes back from Edinburgh loaded with money, and a late payment of expenses for another job caused my outgoing rent to take my bank account over its allotted overdraft limit for 24 hours. Only 24 hours, mind.
This has resulted in a bank charge of a staggering £38. Which is not a huge amount of money for a bank (except perhaps Northern Rock at this stage), but for little old me, with my freelancing lifestyle and general lack of money, £38 is a whole week’s worth of eating and drinking. Or enough DVDs to last me a month. Or two trips to London. £38 is worth fighting for.
And anyone who has read a newspaper recently will be aware – as I was – that bank charges like this are essentially illegal. A bank is entitled to charge you for administration costs resulting from a misdemeanour (which in my case will, at most, have amount to the printing and posting of a letter to tell me that I have exceeded my overdraft limit – something which wouldn’t cost £38 even if they couriered the letter to me, which they clearly haven’t as I’ve not received one yet). Anything above these costs amounts to a punitive fine and they’re not allowed to do that.
Armed with these facts, I set out to Natwest this afternoon all set to avert another screwing.
The woman at the information counter listened briefly to what I’d come about then disappeared into an office for half an hour, emerging eventually with a blond, tall man whose entire appearance seemed to be designed for banking or presenting a shopping channel. He greeted me with a grin and showed me into his office. “Nice to meet you, mate,” he said with an Australian accent, and shook my hand, trying to befriend me prior to another attempted screwing.
He then proceeded to interrogate me. He kept up the pally language, calling me “mate” throughout, whilst looking through my bank details in puzzlement, trying to find a point at which money had actually entered my account at any stage.
“How do you usually…er…get paid?” he asked, which I felt was a slightly irrelevant query from a bank which had just robbed me.
I got to the point and asked him very nicely if he could undo the bank charge since the limit had been exceeded for only one day through sheer mistiming.
He said that he saw my point (mate), but that it was out of his hands and the bank wouldn’t be able to undo it because that’s just how it works.
I fixed him with my steely eyes and explained that I had read a newspaper recently and was fully aware that bank charges such as these were not legal, so would he please refund my money.
To which he responded, “nah, nah mate, that’s different I’m afraid, the charges can only be refunded if the bank makes them in error, but, you know mate, this charge, it’s part of the system, yeah? You see? If you want a refund it’s like, it’s handled by a different organisation, right, cos the bank can’t reverse it I’m afraid. Mate.”
At which point, in the parallel universe of what James Lark should have said next, I responded “on the contrary, it is in fact the bank’s legal responsibility to either justify the fine of £38 or to admit that it is a punitive charge and refund it, so either you are bullshitting me on behalf of the bank or you are worryingly ignorant to have an office in this establishment. Which is it, please?”
In real life, what I said was “thank you”, after which I gave him a tight-lipped smile and left, with him almost certainly under the impression that he had successfully screwed me with my pants on.
But I did hurry home, check my legal information on the internet then pen an angry letter telling Natwest in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t going to sit down and let them screw me. And dammit, this time I’m really not. Every website on the subject is urging me to stand up for my rights; they all tell me that the bank will try to bluff me into believing that the charge is legal, a response I have tried to counter-predict in my letter, though I imagine they will skim through it and send a standard response, so I’m guessing I’m in for the long haul. Verily, even unto the courts. £38 would be a very small claim even by the standards of the small claims court, but I’m almost hoping it goes that far because then I can be some kind of working class hero stroke martyr and maybe over time bring to light the other multiple screwings I’ve been enduring.
Which is not to say a simple apology and a cheque for £38 wouldn’t go unappreciated.
Congratulations to the Guardian for printing possibly the most meaningless headline I have ever read. Their front page today reveals the shocking news that:
Al-Qaida has revived, spread and is capable of a spectacular
Well! That’s exciting, isn’t it? Let’s just hope it’s a spectacular along the lines of Les Miserables, or Michael Flatley’s Feet of Flames…
It seems like a good idea to post something on this blog, for the summer months are coming to an end and the traditional excuse of Tony Blair – the Musical won’t hold for much longer. Both Alastair Bennett and John Finnemore have been doing better than me recently, which is a bit of a wake up call.
Naturally, having attained international fame (alas no fortune yet) doing that show, I’m hoping to cement my reputation with a big Hollywood blockbuster or something, and the closest thing to come along so far is the part of Socrates in a production of Aristophanes’ Clouds, which I can promise will be a hugely entertaining. They are building me a flying machine and everything. I’m currently in the midst of rehearsals as I type, so…er…I may not be able to blog very much over the next month.
But I had a good dream about Neighbours last night, which combining as it does at least two of my pet blog subjects ought to make for a month’s worth of reading satisfaction, yes? In my dream, Helen Daniels announced to Madge Ramsay on the eve of Scott and Charlene’s wedding that she was pregnant. So far, so predictable, but it was Madge’s response that had me punching the air in my sleep and thinking “the scriptwriting on Neighbours is so witty and well-crafted!”: after a pause to assimilate Helen’s bombshell, Madge announced “that’s the thing about Tuesday mornings”, and I continued to chuckle for several minutes after I awoke before realising that it was neither a funny line nor a sensible one.
Talk To Rex 