song of the week: the gift
I buy my lunch on the way into work each morning. At the start of the week I pick up salad, humous, maybe some swiss cheese, apples, crisps - all the good stuff, and then buy fresh bread each morning. It's much easier than making lunch the night before and less stressful than leaving my desk at lunch to fight with the other suits in Tescos. It also makes me look like an angelic goody two-shoes at work who's so dedicated that she couldn't possibly take a break from the office. Little do they know that the only reason I no longer go out for lunch is that I'm trying to break off my love affair with Lucky Strike and I don't wish to tempt myself with British American Tobacco by leaving the strictly non-smoking premises.
Anyway, by the time I've walked to the Sainsbury's by Brixton tube to buy lunch, I am well and truly plugged into my i-pod. However, I think it's rude not to remove at least one headphone when paying, although two shows you care.
Anyway, my song of the week is
The Gift by
The Velvet Underground, a Lou Reed short story, read by John Cale and set against chugging, squeaking electric guitars. It tells of the tragic love of Waldo Jeffers for Marsha Bronson, and Waldo's very sticky, spraying, bloody end.
There are some beautiful details in Lou's story, including:
- The 'Awww' when Waldo realises that Marsha 'needed him, and he wasn't there'.
- Bill's post-coital words, remembered by Marsha the morning after the night before
- the dialogue between Sheila Klein (Marsha's 'very, very best friend') and Marsha
- the fact that Waldo both mows and etches the Edelson's lawn for a dollar fifty
- Sheila's fateful words to Marsha 'Here, you do it, I'm gonna die'.
The guitar part is beautifully menacing, unabashedly heavy, and perfectly imperfect, and ends so abruptly, and yet casually when the story's over that it leaves you before you've stopped gasping or giggling, depending on your temperament.
But, for me, it's all about John Cale's voice. I'm not especially sold on Welsh accents, but John Cale's little Valley lilt with a hint of East Coast drawl is, as they say, to die for.
fidelity
worry
pleated
America
daiquiri
icky
cuticle
nailed
breathe
through
morning
just words when said by anybody else, but said by John Cale, they're like chocolates.
And best of all, when Sheila Klein says 'Oh gawd, it's absolutely maudlin outside!' John Cale makes it sound like she's saying 'Oh gawd, it's absolutely modern outside!', which is a much better statement, especially when Marsha agrees that it makes her feel 'all icky!'.
So imagine my delight when, buying my lunch, I unplugged myself from my I-Pod, losing the chugging guitars for a moment, and was left with just John, telling me all about postal delivery services.
Yep, they split up the instrumental and the spoken word on the reissue. I swear my lunch tasted better that day.
beware the emo
hard hitting journalism from
the daily mail again....
i don't know where to start with this one.
Read it and weep sweet tears of laughter
next customer please
in response to, and in conjunction with minifig's post of 23rd august - from Prof. John Sutherland's guardian column, from way back when i was a student.
i would like to make one thing clear before i start - i'm on his side.
Next customer please
The consumerisation of higher education means the traditional relationship between lecturer and student has been irrevocably eroded, writes John Sutherland
Friday March 5, 2004
A student (American, high-fee-paying) has not realised that he has - as my 'tutee' - to introduce himself and write a couple of essays for me this term. He emails me (weeks late and out of the blue) to say that he has a couple of spare hours, later in the week, when it will be quite convenient (for him) to see me. My convenience? Forget it. Reply ASAP, he implies; his time is valuable.
Another tutorial student (English, very bright, likely to do well in her finals) emails me about the essay I have set her to write on Chaucer and Boece (Chaucer's prose translation of Boethius's Consolation of Philosophy - a standard topic):
Quote
I'm writing because I'm a little confused as to what I'm actually supposed to do for my essay on "Chaucer's Allegorical Description of Philosophy in Boethius". I'm obviously not going to read the whole Boece as it is long, laborious and even more boring than most of Chaucer.
Unquote
"Even more boring than most of Chaucer"? So much for what you've spent most of your professional life doing, Sutherland, is boring, boring, boring. And don't 'you' tell me what to read. Or what to write. Who do you think you are?
A third student (English, first-year) who has yet to turn up (six weeks into term) for a tutorial, or write an essay, or apologise for the delay in delivery, and who - facially - I don't know from Adam - writes:
Quote
Dear John, I can't quite understand what I'm to write in the essay you set about Wordsworth's revision of the Prelude ...
Unquote
"Dear 'John' - what is this, an AA group?
I feel like replying to student 1: Sod your convenience, lad. I'm the professor here; to student; 2: My God, if the greatest poets in the English language "bore" you, go off and do Beckhamology in the media studies programme at wherever; and to student 3: feel free to call me Professor or Doctor Sutherland, won't you? And I'll feel free call you Mr Find Yourself Another Tutor, You Insolent Puppy. I don't of course reply any of those things. I merely seethe.
Sniffy, I know. And who, after all, do I think I am? Well: I occupy a Privy Council Chair of English Literature. Hard won, I have to say. A small heap, but I'm on top. Can't I expect, if not obsequiousness (and God knows I wouldn't turn that down nowadays) some modest formality of address? As it is, these students treat me as if I was going 10-pin bowling with them that night and they were not sure they wanted my company. Whatever happened to deference? The same thing, I suppose, that happened to spats, sock suspenders, and furled brollies. Things of the past.
It was, of course, different "in my day" (the day of the furled brolly, that is). I would, as an undergraduate, no more have taken that familiar tone with the head of my department (the austere Prof, Arthur Humphreys) than I would have knocked a policeman's hat off and piddled in it before handing it back. And as for calling Chaucer "boring" I would have thought it philistine to think such a thing and suicidal to utter it to the teacher who was grading my essays and marking my final exams.
Why aren't students polite any more? Why are they so lacking in politesse as to verge on downright rude? Is it me? I don't think so. I explain at the outset to tutorial students that I'm not their therapist, their buddy, their counsellor but their teacher. That's 'all' I do. The success or failure of our relationship is dependent purely on whether they write better essays at the end of the year. And, in my view, teaching works best if you observe your respective roles. With the stress on "respect".
Every Victorian thinker would recognise immediately what has intervened to corrode the old hierarchical role-relationship between staff and student: cash nexus. It used to be that one "gave" tutorials, lectures, and seminars. Students "took" them. Now teaching is "sold". Students "buy" it. They are, in short, customers in a marketplace. Higher education - thanks to fees - is "customerised" [sic].
Nowadays, especially when I get emails like the above, I think of that scene in the movie Falling Down where D-fens (Michael Douglas) goes into a fast food franchise outlet, asks for breakfast, and is told he is too late. The witching hour is past. Lunch only. D-fens pulls out an Uzi and asks, quizzically, "Are you aware of the expression, 'the customer is always right?' Well, I'm the customer, and I want breakfast". Or a tutorial, or a seminar, or a lecture.
My students don't pull guns on me. But I feel that they are now calling the tune because they are, so expensively, paying the piper. This year's intake can expect to graduate with an average debt of £20K plus. It changes things. Less so for me, perhaps. I'm the senior member of my department (the Lord Muck Professor, etc) and professionally untouchable (so long as I don't touch a student unprofessionally). Colleagues beginning their career will, probably, be warier and less crotchety than I can afford to be. The customer is not only always right: so right, they can get you fired. Them fired, I mean. Me they merely annoy.
Customerisation is advocated in the business world because it focuses the commercial mind. Railway announcements, nowadays, address not "passengers" but "customers" (typically to apologise for the non-departure of the 9:05). Restaurants and pubs do not have "patrons" (politely requested not to drop fag-ends in the urinals) but "customers". And university teachers do not have students - they too have customers. It not only sharpens minds, but relationships.
Customerisation in the university has, as I observe it, three malign consequences. Most damagingly it corrodes truth in judgment - marking, that is. When you're "John" (as opposed to Professor X), and a "service provider" it's that much harder to give an honest low mark (let alone flunk someone). You need protocol for the same reason that a judge in court has a wig and gown (and, in the good old days, a black hat in his chambers).
The second malign consequence is more insidious. You can't "marketise" one sector of higher education (student fees, for example) without, eventually, marketising the whole system. Already, as I observe, academics are stirring uneasily thinking: if the students are paying so much, why am I being paid so little? Why should I be 'giving' a service (for less than its economic value) when they are paying full whack for it? In the very near future there will be either rebellion or wholesale demoralisation among university teachers.
The third malign consequence is that marketisation and customerisation takes all the pleasure out of teaching. "Next customer, please". No fun in that.
everything in its right place
when i am king, he will be first against the wall
....for a great big fat MWAH x
A slight tan and one torrential downpour provided the backdrop to the finale of the great british summertime, serenaded out by
Morrissey warbling
How Soon Is Now - yep, V festival wasn't bad at all.
Predictably, Branson's little shindig is one of the most cheesily corporate music events around:
Come and drink our piss-poor Virgin Cola!
Have an amazingly wild time sponsored by Bacardi!
Free gifts for Virgin mobile customers!
Come and throw a free Gola frisbee - such fun!
Nosh on an eco-trendy Quorn veggie meal!
Guzzle all the Carling in the world - oh! except if you're heading into the Strongbow tent to see
Hayseed Dixie, in which case a big beefy bouncer makes you pour your lager into a Strongbow branded plastic glass.
hmmn. Friendly - but hey, watcha expect, kids?
Well, I expect water by the toilets so you can wash your hands, and when a festival takes place in August I expect running water in the camp site. bastards. I also expect signs to be punctuated properly - 'mens toilets' and 'Due to health and safety regulations. Bags may be searched' - moronic.
But, to be fair, V festival wins all the prizes for best toilets - cleaned regularly, well stocked with loo roll and, by the VIP area, watched over by stoned toilet attendant, Jamie - what a nice guy.
However, those crafty V villains switched the stages round this year, so you can no longer sprint between the main stage and the second stage during headliners, shooting past the 'VIP' section. Incidentally, do Big Brother contestants count as VIPs? Very Insipid Person? Still, celeb spottingremains a key sport at V Festival. This year i am proud to report that I spotted the beautiful Lauren Laverne, Alex Zane (who?, exactly) and Finn from Hollyoaks - twice. But, shock horror - no BB contestants this year. My heart is officially broken.
so, the music.
SaturdaySeth Lakeman in the Virgin union tent (bleurgh) played for a far-too-short twenty minutes , drawing an impressive and well-deserved crowd for so early in the day. With a gorgeous voice that drifts into
Jeff Buckley territory and virtuoso violin skills,
Seth Lakeman deserves only great things - listen to
Kitty Jay if you don't believe me - that's one violin you can hear...
The Divine Comedy were quite earthly really, not so divine - but certainly not hellish. They didn't play
Billy Bird, though, which was disappointing.
The Magic NumbersThe first time i saw this band supporting
Athlete with my sister (she's a bit obsessed with
Athlete - I am emphatically not, but I'm sure they're nice boys), I was really impressed by their fluffy melodies. However, I was bored stiff by them at V festival last year. Thankfully, a few beers, a sunny day and plenty of room to groove made this a rather enjoyable, if lightweight, set - but then, that's the point.
CaptainBy all accounts if this band were body language, they'd be a shrug, as that seems to be most reviewers' reaction to them. A little bit
Prefab Sprout, a bit
Ooberman -
The Big Issue says they're a bit
Beautiful South, although I believe that's taking things too far, surely. Having seen them live now, I too, shrug. I won't be buying the album: its obviously full of quite nice, mediocre tunes, sung by the guitarist, despite it being blindingly obvious that the girl on the keyboards has the better voice. And she's much cuter. ho-hum. But that still doesn't change the fact that their single
Broke is shaping up to be one of the singles of the year.
Art BrutAww, cute. Very studenty, noisy, boisterous, but brilliant. Should do a
Kaiser Chiefs next year. (i.e. blow every other band out of the water at all festivals before everybody gradually realises they only have a handful of decent tunes)
KeaneHeard from the loo, the best place for them. (er....although
Bret Easton Elliswas inspired by
Somewhere Only We Know when writing
Lunar Park, which i have just finished and was impressed, entertained, intrigued and rather touched by, dammit.)
Beck*big sigh* Beautiful
Beck and his band, all of whom look like they have been lifted from the cover of ID, performed a set accompanied by a troupe of replica puppets (and their master puppeteers) performing a miniature copy of
Beck's set. Half way through,
Beck played some mellow acoustic tunes from melancholy album
Sea Change as the rest of the band tucked into a silver service dinner onstage. Stupidly brilliant.
RadioheadSetlist:
01 Airbag
02 2+2=5
03 The National Anthem
04 My Iron Lung
05 You and Whose Army?
06 Bodysnatchers
07 The Bends
08 Nude ["a new bugger." Thom]
09 No Surprises
10 The Gloaming
11 Paranoid Android ["You can take your hoodie off Jonny." Thom]
12 All I Need
13 Pyramid Song ["Glad you can appreciate a good song." Thom]
14 Lucky
15 Just
16 Idioteque
17 Street Spirit
Encore 1:
18 A Wolf At The Door
19 There There
20 Karma Police
21 True Love Waits/Everything In Its Right Place
Encore 2:
22 Creep [Thom didn't play guitar]
In my idea of heaven, not only are all my nearest and dearest around me, but John Cale reads me bedtime stories and Thom Yorke and I go dancing. I LOVE Thom Yorke dancing. I also love him standing, sitting, singing, breathing, sleeping, reading, writing, ironing etc etc etc.
Once again,
Radiohead play with uncommon passion and understated grace. Perhaps not the best I've seen them, but that still puts them streets ahead of every other live band in the country. If only the drunken morons staggering and chatting throughout their set hadn't been there.... kicking, screaming gucci little piggies. ...(grumble, grumble) when i am king....
Sunday A big fat loada nothing for most of the day. I was bored by
The Rifles, jaded by
The Feeling, mildly distracted for two minutes by
Jim Noir. Thankfully,
Hayseed Dixie whipped up a hillbilly storm in the nasty Strongbow tent. I began the gig sober and left it tipsy - perfect.
Paul Weller was livened up by the interference of a man in the crowd, brandishing a plastic womble, who managed to terrify my sister by sneaking the womble onto her shoulder and performing a war dance by her ear. Unfortunately, one man and his womble proved much more entertaining than
Weller, whose solo stuff
is as tedious as I remember it from the mid '90s. He did, however, redeem himself with
Town called Malice.FaithlessI saw
Faithless years ago in the middle of the day one V festival and thought they were brilliant. Exuberant and energetic live,
Faithless are very good at disguising the fact they have built a successful career from only one good song, released no less that three times to devastating effect. You'd think
Sister Bliss would have figured out her keyboards could make a different sound by now, but then again, with that much cash, why bother? (to be fair,
Faithless actually have two good songs, but
Don't Leave hardly counts). Anyway, as a result of this, I have taken to making like
Elias Canetti and watching
Faithless from a distance, for better than being in the crowd for
Faithless, is watching the crowd for
Faithless. So many hands waving in unison, so many bodies dancing - so what if they've only got one song - these one-hit wonders know how to work the crowd. Watching them temporarily restored my faith in human nature - sure, we're a bunch of aimless sheep, but happy little sheep, with good rhythm.
MorrisseyAlthough there is something weird and a bit grubby about seeing
Morrissey pimping the latest download of his next single at V festival, he was still a joy to watch. Horrifically, the crowd was thinner than it had been for
The Divine Comedy during Saturday lunchtime as everybody had foolishly monged off to see
Razorlight plagiarise more good songs, or shake their ass to
Groove Armada (which, i must admit having done it, is fun). Still, there's no accounting for taste. Flamboyant, dry and with remarkable abs for a man approaching middle age,
Morrissey met my expectations (not having seen the genius in the flesh before). Full points awarded for showmanship too, with
Morrissey performing in front of a giant picture of
Oscar Wilde with a band dressed purely in white suits. Quote of the weekend has to come from a friend of a friend, an english graduate who, on seeing the stage, drunkely howled, 'who's that
Johnathan Ross lookalike?' Magic.
It doesn't seem fair to choose one song for the entire festival, so please allow me the indulgence of five, as follows:
5. Town Called Malice - Paul WellerHe was a bit rubbish really, but you can't argue with the Billy-Elliot-groove-inducing potency of this song.
4. The New Pollution - BeckAlthough standing slapbang in front of a set of enormous bass speakers wasn't what I'd call comfortable, there is something vaguely exhilarating about feeling the ear wax vibrate inside your skull as blood trickles out of your ear and down your neck (that didn't actually happen, but if I'd given it a few more minutes I think it might have)
3. Kitty Jay - Seth LakemanA man who can make a lone violin sound like an orchestra. Talent in its rawest, purest form.
2. Panic - MorrisseyMinutes earlier I had vehemently chastised my sister's boyfriend for suggesting that
Morrissey might play this. How pleased I was to be proved wrong when the crooner opened with this.
1. Everything in its Right Place - RadioheadAlongside the new tracks
Radiohead played, this song perfectly demonstrates how much better
Radiohead's new output is post
OK Computer. I think the fact that
Radiohead played so many old tracks is proof of their confidence and security in their new material, as they are no longer competing against so many creepy iron lungs. I can't wait for the new album, and I can't wait to see them live again. gush gush gush
so, in short:
veggie cornish pasty - an exortionate £3.80
bottle of water - a jaw-dropping £2.00
crappy plastic lanyard - a rage-inducing £10.00
Thom Yorke dancing - PRICELESS
and for everything else, there's mastercard - and thank fuck - it's the end of the month y'know!
your definitive festival packing list
so, it's that time again. in the absence of glastonbury, the distance of bestival, the lack of organisation to cambridge folk festival and the nastiness of reading, minifig and i are trundling off to v festival shortly. it's the easiest (and most half-hearted) festival of the bunch, full of daytrippers and posh nosh, but beck, radiohead, morrissey, art brut and girls aloud are playing - what more can you reasonably ask for, eh?
so, out it comes...the festival packing list i put together several years ago when i realised to my peril what you actually need for a weekend of inebriated filth and poor sound systems. this is the all eventualities packing list - but if you're going to chelmsford this weekend, then you'll probably know it's set to piss it down - yippee rah yey.
Red wine - box of & plastic cups if it's a social affair
Loo roll
Sleeping bag (and fleece liner if its going to be chilly)
Pillowcase - stick spare clothes in this for a comfy pillow
Towel & toiletries / soap etc - seriously, wash your face and hands everyday - esp. if you're planning 5 days at glastonbury
Pyjamas - yes, pyjamas - if it's pissed it down all day, the last thing you'll want when you get into your sleeping bag is wet trews
Wellies/Dr martens
Trainers - flip-flops might seem like a cute idea if it's warm but your feet will freeze at night...and you have to use the nasty loos in the dark at night
Dry shampoo - yep, it's disgusting and used by proper soap dodgers, but it'll make you feel like the timotei woman
Wet wipes - plenty of. You can also now buy that weird hospital sani-gel stuff in superdrug
Jeans / trousers - 2 pairs in case one is soaked in the rain
Party dress - it's an extra layer if nothing else
2 Jumpers - one if brave
Many vests
t-shirts for as many days
underwear - lots - and nice pants
socks - tons
rain mac
plasters
duct tape
non-fiction book of collected essays / letters - novels rarely work - too many distractions
pack of cards - top trumps recommended above all else - be prepared to lose some
ibuprofen / cough sweets / indigestion tablets
chewing gum
hairbands / hats
pair of tights
torch and spare batteries
cigarettes and lighters (note the plural)
cereal bars
tent - obviously
happy camping kids!
song of the week: i just can't be happy today
My song of the week is dedicated to Alexandra, author of a blog I have recently become addicted to, it’s title being ‘I just can’t be happy today’.
It is Alexandra’s fifteenth birthday today, and to honour this special day, it seems only right that song of the week has to be the damned’s I just can’t be happy today - a fantastic song any week, and perfect for a birthday...
Anthemic yet understated, both dry and histrionic, pissed off, rebellious, and grand to dance to, with a monster monologue, throwaway hand-claps, some superior keyboard action, and masterly vocals (as always) from Dave, i just can't be happy today made a perfect partner to the apocalyptic thunderstorm over brixton this afternoon. global warming anyone? plus, the single also features a b-side cover of ballroom blitz with lemmy on bass – what more could you ask for, eh?
(un)happy birthday alex – your public loves you!
to commemorate a tremendously ick day at the office
note to self: stop taking work so seriously.
second note to self: refill wine glass
Several cannibals were recently hired by a big corporation. "You are all part of our team now," said the HR rep during the welcoming briefing. "You get all the usual benefits and you can go to the cafeteria for something to eat, but please don't eat any of the other employees."
The cannibals promised. Four weeks later their boss remarked, "You're all working very hard, and I'm satisfied with you. However, one of our secretaries has disappeared. Do any of you know what happened to her?"
The cannibals all shook their heads no.
After the boss had left, the leader of the cannibals said to the others, "Which one of you idiots ate the secretary?" A hand raised hesitantly, to which the leader of the cannibals continued, "You jackass! For four weeks we've been eating Managers and no one noticed anything, but noooooo, you had to go and eat the secretary!"
time for the naughty corner
gina ford threw all her toys out of the pram when she found to her shock and horror that online mums' community
mumsnet.com included criticism (heaven forbid!) of her own brand (and believe me, it is a brand) of 'calm and confident parenting'.
not having children myself, oh, like gina ford, i have no idea if her parenting advice is worth listening to. all i do know is that taking the decision to threaten to close down a website read by, and contributed to, by thousands of conscientious mums, simply because it criticises and makes fun of your books is not only arrogant, reactionary, bratty and bullying, but also, from where i'm sitting, looks a lot like shooting yourself in the foot.
instead of pandering to ford's temper tantrum, i think mumsnet.com, (or more to the point, their spineless service provider) should take a leaf out of adorable supernanny jo frost's book and make ford stand in the naughty corner until she calms down, for all our sakes.
wot i did in my summer hols
yep, i helped decorate this. ain't i a clever gurl.
just to clarify, it's a life-size cake replica of a gee-tar
- i didn't make an actual gee-tar
song of the week: ain't no other man
In my humble opinion, there have only been three truly great, truly timeless pop singles released this century that are guaranteed to go down in classic pop history.
Kylie Minogue's Can’t Get You Out of my Head, Beyonce's [feat. Jay Z] Crazy in Love, and my song of the week, after weeks of compulsive tail-shaking, Christina Aguilera's Ain’t No Other Man.
