Author: James Lark

I haven’t been in London since 7th July, so apologies if you are familiar with the situation and this all sounds a bit distasteful. But today being the first time I have used the underground since all of that nastiness, I was slightly appalled to find myself eyeing with suspicion anyone with either a rucksack or a dark face.

Between Oxford Circus and King’s Cross a man with a terrorist haircut clutching a large rucksack on his lap made my palms go all sweaty. But did I have the balls to ask “did you pack that bag yourself?” The hell I did.

Now I’m rather glad that I did not. In retrospect the rucksack he was clutching probably contained his lunch box, and his haircut – well, we’ve all had unfortunate haircuts at one time or another, haven’t we.

If I have been terrified into becoming a habitual racist and rucksack-hater, does that mean the terrorists have won?

Batman, eh. What is it that makes a grown man dressed up as a bat so appealing. What?

As a young person (and oh those years seem increasingly distant) Batman was always my favourite superhero. The cool kids all liked Superman, but I was the one as school that liked Batman. I even made a Batman mask out of cardboard and – possibly the best thing I ever made as a kid – I made a utility belt. Which I wore around the house. When my parents got a new washing machine the box became the Batcave. (My brother got to be Robin, and I fear he got a raw deal.)

And I’m surprised to discover that the character still fascinates me. I saw Batman Begins yesterday and, Katie Holmes’ nipples aside, I thought it was a wonderfully crafted film. I could go into the reasons why, for individual performances, cinematography and direction, I thought it was a fine film. but that still wouldn’t explain why I came out of the cinema wishing I could start avenging crime dressed as an oversize flying mammal.

But nearly all the Batman films did that to me. I love the 1966 film (the scene where Batman tries to dispose of a bomb remains one of the funniest scenes in cinema history as far as I’m concerned) and to my mind the Tim Burton films near perfection. You can keep the Schumacher films (well, there’s a single scene in Batman Forever involving the Riddler and Two-Face which I like, but I’ve never made it past the first fifteen minutes of the dismal Batman and Robin).

And I’ve never read any of the famous graphic novels, for, out alas, having delusions of culture I tend to read real novels. But maybe I should change. I like looking at pictures, after all. And I do have fond memories of Batman comic strips. There was a great one where Batman proved a man innocent of murder in a court scene by showing that the defendent couldn’t possibly have killed his victim without crushing his hat in the struggle, yet the hat was uncrushed.

But a man dressed as a bat in a court of law – how stupid is that? And even in my pre-teens I was faintly aware that his defence had certain holes in it.

So why on earth did the concept appeal to me? I would love to reference the Christopher Nolan interest in Bruce Wayne’s loneliness, so brilliantly brought to the screen in the latest flick. And a Batman annual detailing the origins of the character did make a lasting impression on me – after all, Bruce Wayne’s parents are shot in front of him, that’s pretty nasty. Also the loneliness of Batman and his desire to fight injustice are things he shares with the other great love of my youth, Dr Who.

But I fear that’s not the real reason I loved – and love – Batman. No, on reflection I think the real reason I love Batman is that I think it would be so much fun to dress up as a bat and have all those brilliant toys. No other superhero has so many toys. Or a utility belt. And let’s face it, that’s the only element that’s consistent throughout the franchise.

There you are. I’m not automatically drawn to human suffering, the fight against injustice and the pain of existence. I just have a shallow desire to dress up and play with toys.

If Mr Blair is going to keep on using the term “evil ideology”, he should at least learn how “ideology” is pronounced.

So apparently weblogs are a bit passé now. The newest way to alert web-surfers to your deepest thoughts is with “podcasts”.

What are podcasts? Well, essentially they are the same as what I used to do in my youth with a tape recorder – pressing record and saying whatever came into my head. Only instead of playing the resulting musings back to an audience of one (i.e. myself), “podcasts” have a potential audience of millions, thanks to the world wide web.

Oh how annoying that I wasn’t able to broadcast my own childish ramblings in this way back in the 1980s. I fear I no longer have the time to do it, and in any case I’d only be tempted to do silly voices and it would lose all the charming sincerity of bona fide podcasting.

On the other hand I still have the tapes. Perhaps I could belatedly podcast them to the world now?

Maybe it lacked the excitement and portentousness of Live Aid. Maybe it was mainly old men up on the stage. There certainly weren’t high points as breathtaking as in 1985 – nothing even came close to touching Queen, whatever Robbie Williams hoped to prove by singing We Will Rock You (though if I ever need a second rate host for kareoke I know where to find one).

But I think it was, on the whole, a Good Thing. For a start, anyone who saw Sting, or Madonna singing Like a Prayer, or the improbable rendition of Comfortably Numb near the climax of the concert, will know that it wasn’t entirely bereft of musical brilliance. Also, as an event to raise the awareness of the issues around G8 it must surely count as an unqualified success. Cynics who claim that Bob Geldoff has a naive understanding of said issues are simply wrong – sure, there are complexities in the details of world debt and trade laws that he doesn’t understand, which indeed I don’t understand, and which I bet Tony Blair doesn’t understand either. But on a general level, Geldoff’s political awareness is higher than most people’s – you might disagree with his conclusions, but don’t think he hasn’t done his research.

If you do feel the need to be cynical, how about this: it matters not one whit how much awareness of Africa’s poverty and the possible solutions are raised, but if the most powerful man in the world is a narrow-minded fool who is only interested in the welfare of his own country then many of the problems will not be addressed. In recent interviews George W. Bush has made it very clear that he believes America is already giving more than enough aid to Africa, and that he has no interest in changing trade laws. And judging by previous experiences, Bush is not the type to have his mind changed by minor political leaders like Tony Blair, large-scale rallies and lefty celebrities.

A positive outcome of the whole Make Poverty History campaign is that aid will undoubtedly be increased by many of the G8 leaders and much of the debt will certainly be dropped. Unfortunately, in the long-term it is the trade laws which will continue to have the most crippling effect on Africa. With George W. Bush resolutely insisting it is not in America’s interest to do anything about them, it seems possible that we’ll be having yet another rock concert in twenty years to try and help the same people. Imagine how old and wrinkled Paul McCartney will be then – it scarcely bears thinking about.

Though I didn’t personally stay up for the rousing finale to Live 8 – Hey Jude is one of my least favourite songs of all time, and nothing was ever going to top Pink Floyd.

But is it free cash? IS IT?

Because I used this machine and was disappointed to find that the cash I took out had been removed from my bank account nevertheless.

This reported on Radio Cambridgeshire earlier:

“American researchers claim that taking regular showers could cause brain damage.”

There was a bit of technobabble to explain why they think this, but really… Just how many things are we going to be stopped from doing in this age of enlightenment? Are we going to bring up children with warnings to only gently sponge themselves clean? (“DON’T stand under the running water. I know it’s fun, but do you want to end up like Grandad?”)

Don’t these researchers ahave anything better to do?

…I’ve been a bit slow on the uptake, but I’ve finally realised that’s what it is.

So apologies for the late warning, but there’s still time for you to join in with the fun if you haven’t already criticised me!

You may wish to contribute a criticism on behalf of a large group, such as those I have received from folk at St. Mark’s church (see previous notes) or at BBC Radio Cambridgeshire. Or perhaps you would like to make your criticism more personal – I’m thinking of the very specific criticisms I received at the hands of fellow actors on tuesday night for my inability to hold alcohol (mixed with regular ribbings about dubious markings which I shall not elaborate on); or the volley of hurtful comments that were made about my frankly disastrous attempt to make a pudding on wednesday evening.

The complete list of those who have made this a week to remember will be printed in the Daily Telegraph on monday, so hurry while you still have a chance to get into it! Feel free to leave comments below, or email me with further criticisms, or just come up to me in the street and give me a good kicking.

I can’t wait to see what’s coming next!

Being a choir director occasionally, very occasionally, fills me with despair. This is sometimes because the choir are unaccountably rubbish, or because I am unaccountably rubbish, or because God stops feeling real. But none of these things are the norm, I am glad to say, and they are but infrequent stumblings of fallible man in an imperfect world. That’s fine.

But one slightly more regular source of despair is complaints from the congregation about my choice of music. Oh, not complaints, sorry – “friendly advice”. Either the music’s not happy clappy enough, or it’s too happy clappy, or most often of all they “don’t know the tunes”.

As I have to explain to them, if they don’t know the tunes of some of the finest hymns written over the last 300 years, which I, a youthful 25-year-old am familiar with, then it’s hardly my fault. I’m constantly amazed by the blank looks a decent hymn will receive – perhaps I’m just choosing things that are not on Songs of Praise enough.

But you can’t do Bread of Heaven every week. And I always try to choose hymns which are a) of musical merit, b) conveying something meaningful and c) of relevance to the church calendar and the readings being used on any given sunday. It’s not the easiest of things to get right, but I like to feel I’ve done a conscientious job. So when I received a little more “friendly advice” today that I ought to make sure my hymns fit the church calendar, I nearly burst a blood vessel. That is what I have been doing. That, in fact, is possibly the reason why the congregation just occasionally have to face up to something a little bit obscure. But in the process they are getting exposed to some fine music, fine literature and most importantly to Sunday morning services that actually mean something.

But every time somebody knocks my carefully planned music list, I am tempted to pack the whole thing in and make them do All Things Bright and Beautiful, How Great Thou Art, Amazing Grace and – ooh, Shine Jesus Shine, every week. No more of this quality control. No more thought going into the meaning of the words and their relevance to the Gospel reading, the sermon or the liturgical year. Just the same old uninventive dreary familiar hymns, week in, week out. No care, no meaning, no life.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how the Methodist Church began.

Today I meandered through Regent’s Park listening to Gustav Holst’s The Perfect Fool and it gave the whole experience a rather wistful, haunting feel, as if I was in the final third of a low-budget arty film about something sad. The sky clouded over as I wandered and I felt as though my whole life had slipped away without my even noticing it. Perhaps it was just because earlier it had been sunny and I’d felt young and carefree.

Later still it rained on me heavily and I am now extremely damp.

In between the two events I met up with some actors and drank a lot. But there is nothing as sobering as the stopping service fom King’s Cross to Cambridge, especially when there is a replacement bus service from Royston.