thoughtcat archives

Further to the government's recent announcement of £8m worth of "common sense" (for which read "fatuous") instructions on what to do in the event of a terror attack (for which read "alarmist propaganda"), today's Times has a great riposte by Giles Coren, who isn't usually my cup of the old lapsang suchong but he hits the right notes here, if that isn't mixing metaphors. Actually John O'Farrell was also very funny the other day in the Guardian on the same topic.

I couldn't resist this item from the BBC website today reporting that the editor of weekly newspaper Southern Reporter has resigned over photograph captions which ridiculed people in the Borders. One caption to a photo of something called St Ronan's Games Week and Cleekum Ceremonies read: "Caption Caption: about these pious little bleeders and the lady Busser doing that interminably boring thing so cherished by Border festivals. What on earth is going on in this picture - these people have got to get out more often for their peace of mind and sanity." A great and rare overspillage of reality into the media there, methinks. Funnier though is this response to the captions outrage from an organiser of said games: "Whoever wrote these words must be at least in league with the devil." At least?!

This story in fact reminded me of a similar incident that occurred in my misspent youth, or should I say a previous life as a secretary for an estate agency. Just after I started work at the company in about 1990 - it was my first proper job - the firm dragged itself into the 20th century and bought a primitive computer system specifically designed for estate agents. No, I don't mean it sat around swearing, farting, stuffing its face, making sexist remarks and ripping people off - we had more than enough human beings for that - but rather that it was a simple database system allowing us to keep tabs of applicants (people who wanted to buy houses) and vendors (people who wanted to sell them). The latter part of the system featured database fields for the name, address and contact details of each vendor, as well as for information about the respective property we were supposedly selling on his or her behalf. The property records also had a field for a brief description of the property, which would end up being reproduced word-for-word in the firm's weekly local newspaper adverts of selected houses and flats. If you'll forgive me for adding to the estate agency jargon here, a substantial number of our "instructions" were "subs" from other agencies - in other words, while we didn't have sufficient kudos to attract high quality and expensive local properties direct from the vendors, our contacts at other agencies who did have decent (or at least posh) reputations but who were located miles away from the actual properties would drip-feed us some of their instructions to market locally for a split on the commission. This was always done in a completely unofficial capacity, on the strict proviso that the posh agency's vendor never got to know about any such underhand dealings with dodgy local wide-boy firms like us, and certainly that we as the sub-agent never advertised those vastly more prestigious properties in the local paper - as tempting as it was to do so because it might actually make us look like a half-decent real estate firm rather than the barrow-boys we were. Because of this arrangement, and because I was the member of staff charged with filling in the computer records with the summaries of all the instructions (whether they were subs or not), and because I was such a comedian, I would enter in the property description fields for the sub-instructions deliberately daft (and honest) stuff to tickle the office staff, on the basis that the description would never end up in the public domain... in theory, anyway. One afternoon, several months after having left the firm following a year and a half of this sort of puerile behaviour, the manager rang me to take me to task over "my" advert that had appeared in that week's local paper and was causing outrage in the town. He was too apoplectic to explain exactly the sin I'd apparently committed, so I ran out and obtained a copy of the paper and found that one of the original jokey texts I'd written for a hugely expensive sub-instruction had somehow ended up in its very pages. It was such a classic of its kind (even if I say so myself) that I cut out the advert and put it in my wallet, where it stayed for years before being tragically lost when my pocket was picked in Athens. I think I can more or less remember it, though - it went something like this:

[photo of a gorgeous 18th century mansion on Richmond Green with an asking price about £1,300,000]

* An absolutely stunning 8 bedroomed detached Georgian town house in the heart of Richmond *

* This gaff is so mind-blowingly fabulous that it defies my small vocabulary to say how orgasmic it really is *

Apparently the agency had been beseiged that day by calls, although not exactly of the kind it wanted - most were from other local agents saying how much they'd enjoyed it (i.e. thanking their lucky stars it wasn't them who'd made the gaff gaffe), while one was from the owner, who was utterly explosive. As for the manager, I tried to explain to him that having left the company several months before, I could hardly be held responsible if a jokey text managed to bypass the attentions of both him, his new staff and the local newspaper... but would he have it? Would he buggery - he was an estate agent, for chrissakes!

The real punchline to this story though is that the house in question was eventually bought by Rolling Stones guitarist Ronnie Wood. I'd like to think he bought it on the basis of the advert, or even maybe that he had the advert in a frame in his toilet or something, but it's unlikely - as far as I know, to add insult to injury to the firm I used to work for, he didn't even buy the place through them. Hah!

I'm afraid I still haven't updated my report on the New York Leonard Cohen Event, as events, so to speak, have overtaken me recently and I just don't have as much time these days - oh, life is hard! But thankfully the estimable Jarkko of the Leonard Cohen Files has compiled several pages of photos and accounts of the various activities, which can be seen here.

Talking of Leonard Cohen, further to the email I received from his ex-backing singer Julie Christensen supporting Thoughtcat's review of the Cohen tribute gig in Brighton in May, I received another "celebrity communiqué" this week, this time from one Prentiss Mann, who appears to represent Cohen's other legendary singer Perla Batalla. Prentiss comments thus:

Thanks for the review of the Brighton show. However the passage below is not accurate:

'Julie Christensen then performs Anthem, which is for me the highlight of the show. "You know, it's amazing how many of these songs sound like they were written yesterday, but Leonard has that knack," notes Julie C before singing the song. The arrangement is rich, almost like a ballad from a stage musical, and her voice is high and clear. But the lyrics bear out what she said in her introduction, particularly "I can't run no more/ with that lawless crowd/ while the killers in high places/ say their prayers out loud.
But they've summoned up a thundercloud/ and they're going to hear from me." At this point, a few voices from the audience whoop in agreement, presumably thinking of the political resonance of the song in relation to Iraq. Julie responds by calling back "And I hope from you too!" to applause from the crowd. A powerful moment.'

More specifically, the lyric, "I can't run no more/ with that lawless crowd/ while the killers in high places/ say their prayers out loud. But they've summoned up a thundercloud/ and they're going to hear from me" was sung in fact by Perla Batalla (Not Julie as you wrote.)

It was then Perla not Julie who responded to the audience by calling back "And I hope from you too!"

Your notes and reviews are so impeccably detailed that I'm certain you would want to correct this for your readers.

Thoughtcat is very happy to put the record straight and has amended the review accordingly.

I don't remember blogging this at the time, but a few months ago "Alastair Campbell" was the answer to a Mastermind general knowledge question (about a civil servant, or thereabouts, who had run the London Marathon in aid of leukaemia research). Last night the same question came up as a starter on University Challenge, and when the team got it right a further three questions were asked about the spinmeister's career. Whether the BBC, post-Gilligan, are subliminally keeping Campbell (and, by extension, 10 Downing Street) sweet, or the man himself secured a secret deal with the corporation to be mentioned regularly on its quiz programmes so that he's never off the air for too long may never be known. Personally though I think it's another example of the BBC dumbing down...

Went to see Fahrenheit 9/11 tonight - an uneasy mixture of the highly entertaining and the hugely shocking. As serious as the implications of the documentary are, you couldn't help laughing, especially at the small-town mechanic who buys right in to US propaganda when he says "You can't trust people you don't know these days - and even the people you do know, you can't really trust them either." The "Secret Service" turning up, complete with sunglasses, within minutes of Moore's camera crew arriving outside the Saudi Arabian embassy in Washington, spoke volumes about the nation's real "special relationship". And of course practically everything Dubya said and did made you wonder if this wasn't the blackest comedy in US history.

On the down side, I felt Moore could have made much more of the level of Iraqi casualties - or at least have numbered them. This was a confusing omission, as it wouldn't have been inconsistent in any way with his anti-war agenda. By leaving out those numbers in favour of emphasising the human cost to the US military and the terrible futility, waste and hypocrisy of sending young men to die in a completely unnecessary war, he opened himself up to criticisms of parochialism. Obviously he did conceive the film to be seen by Americans, who after all are the only people with the ability to vote out Bush in November, and accordingly there was a pressing need to show them exactly to what extent the Prez has been playing with their sons' lives in a phoney war. But surely Moore isn't saying Americans are so insular that their emotions are going to be stirred more by the loss of their own than of the civilians of some country in the Middle East? Come on, Mike - it was a waste of all lives. That's the whole point.

I also found the labyrinth of information connecting Bush with the Bin Ladens at the beginning a bit disorientating. Of course it didn't help my concentration that the bloke sitting next to me kept nodding off and then snoring himself awake again. Okay, the documentary wasn't perfect, but it wasn't that bad!

The other weird thing that happened this week took place at a Japanese restaurant. The wife and I went out for lunch at Wagamama last Sunday with my mum and dad to celebrate their anniversary. Mum and I ordered the same fried rice dish, but when it came along the rice seemed rather undercooked - almost as if it had been fried but not boiled first. However, because it was still chewable, we made a game attempt to eat it, thinking in our inexperience of Japanese cuisine that this was how Japanese rice was supposed to be cooked (and being English, very reluctant to complain or show our ignorance). After a while though it became obvious from the rice's indigestibility that something might be up. Mrs Thoughtcat took the initiative and mentioned the matter to our waitress, who apologised profusely, took both dishes away, had them cooked again for us, this time with fried rice that was completely normal (and delicious), and blamed the mistake on a new member of kitchen staff. Even better, she took both dishes off the bill. All that was pretty good in itself, but what got us was the fact that I'd managed to eat half of mine by the time we said anything. God knows what they must have thought of us in the kitchen...

Actually there is one other thing that occurred that I'd like to mention, although it's not strictly weird or unexpected or bizarre. I went to my local Apollo video rental shop, initially to hire a copy of Mulholland Drive which I still haven't seen. They didn't have a copy, so I rented Young Adam instead, and enjoyed it very much, depressing and bleak as it was - Ewan McGregor's amoral central character was compelling, despite how meaningless his life seemed, and David Byrne's soundtrack was just right. Even better, while I was browsing in the shop, the staff were playing a lovely record I'd never heard before, and, after being compelled - very unusually for me - to ask the assistant what it was, I was informed it was Colour The Small One by Sia. When I got home I ordered it from Amazon straightaway. Impulsive, or what?

Oh, and one other thing, I finally (finally!!) managed to finish Dave Eggers' A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Length, and have now started DBC Pierre's Booker-winner Vernon God Little, which is shaping up to be predictably dazzling, and very funny.

I'm afraid the New York Report hasn't been updated this week because I've been too busy, but I hope to find some time later in the week, so watch this space, pop-pickers!

I just noticed today that former Leonard Cohen backing chanteuse Julie Christensen, whom regular Thoughtcateers may recall contacted me a few weeks ago following my posting of a review of the Cohen tribute concert in Brighton in which she starred, has in turn posted a copy of said review, together with a flattering introduction, under the "news" section of her own website. Cheers Julie, you're a card! (PS. Say hello to Len for us.)

Incidentally I still haven't got round to writing about the other Cohen tribute gig in New York, at which JC also sang (Julie Christensen that is, not Jesus Christ Himself), in my account of the whole New York trip, although this is gradually coming together under the 27th June entry below. It will happen however, albeit in nowhere near as much detail as the Brighton gig, for the simple reasons that (a) I don't want to become one of those people who's always writing endless and pedantic reviews of Leonard Cohen tribute concerts and (b) I was having far too much of a good time at the NY show to spend it scribbling stuff. Yes - it really was that good!

Belated congratulations to Thoughtcat co-conspirator Dave Awl for having a short story published last month in Blithe House Quarterly. Dave describes Love The Shirt as "a silly little comedy about a man whose shirt is more popular than he is". Know the feeling. It's very funny, so please read it.

Incidentally I couldn't help but be reminded by this of another shirtular item by another Dave, Eggers in this case, on page 171 of A Heartbreaking Work of Blah Blah Blah, which I'm still hacking my way through to decreasing degrees of enthusiasm several weeks after starting it somewhat more enthusiastically (but then again Eggers himself does say in his own pre-ramble that the 450-page book is "kind of uneven" after about page 123, so I guess I only have myself to blame for finding some of the subsequent pages ludicrously self-indulgent, repetitive, paranoid, turgid and/or fatuous, none of which has anything whatsoever to do with the fact that McSweeney's didn't publish a short submission of mine a few weeks ago). Anyway, here's the Awlesque Eggers passage I was thinking of before I so rudely interrupted myself. (I'm not incidentally suggesting that Dave All's story was at awl influenced by Dave Eggers' book - it's just one of those random connections that occasionally happens in a mind.)

Style-wise L.A. is so '80s, because here, in stark contrast [to New York], there is no money, no-one is allowed to make money, or spend money, or look like you've spent money, money is suspect, the making of money and caring about money - at least insofar as having more than, say, $17,000 a year - is archaic, is high school, is completely beside the point. Here there are no clothes that are not preworn - when a shirt is not a used shirt, when a shirt has cost more than $8, we say:

Meanwhile, talking of New York, which we weren't really but what the hell, Thoughtcat's account of his brief, Leonard Cohen-flavoured June jaunt to the Big Apple continues...

This week's cat, the Pink Panther, was inspired by something that happened on the tube the other evening on the way home from work. A busker got on at Ravenscourt Park, several stops shy of the train's (and my) destination, and after a rambling - and rather embarrassing - attempt at an amusing introduction, he proceeded to play a great version of Turning Japanese, followed by an obscure Madness B-side which wasn't quite as good but was still a cool and unusual choice. When he finished the second song however we were still half-way to the next stop, and so rather than stand there doing nothing (which for buskers is akin to an actor corpsing) or start another full-length song which he wouldn't have time to finish before the train stopped, he filled in the gap with nothing less than the theme song to the 1970s Pink Panther TV cartoon - you know, not the done-to-death sax theme from the Peter Sellers films but the song that goes "He's the pink pink panther, the rinky-dink panther, he's as plain as your nose..." It was a truly inspired bit of busking and a real blast from my own cartoon- and TV-loving childhood. All that busker needs to do now is stop embarrassing and berating his potential donors with unfunny between-and pre-song "comedy turns" - the height of which was something like "Kew Gardens is so posh you feel the people who live there have servants to speak for them, what what!" - and he might go far. In fact Thoughtcat predicts this bright young busker will take the musical world by storm in the next few years, and That's enough predictions, Ed.

Apologies to any visitors who find that the Thoughtcat archives pages are missing some images - I've had to take a load off because I'm running out of web space and am too tight to pay for more. You weren't missing much anyway.