Oh RyanAir, what next?

On Wednesday, I flew with Ryan Air for the second time in as many weeks. Same destination (Bezier, south of France), same inflight magazine, same booking fiasco (this time the website locked me out seconds after clicking ‘proceed’ on the payment page. Had no idea if my flights were confirmed, or whether I was going to be able to check in online. If I’d been bothered enough, I could have called the £1 a minute helpline. Budget airline? Ha. We should be so lucky).

Anyway, I’m not sure if you’ve flown with them recently, but RyanAir have started doing something so utterly ridiculous that it makes me laugh each time it occurs. And I’m not talking about being charged £10 to check a bag in, £5 to check yourself in online, or the £5 for paying with anything other than Visa Electron. No, no although that is pretty funny. It gets even better than that when you land. The captain announces that you’re about to land, the wheels come out and you touch down, feeling the rush of the plane roaring along the runway as it slows and eventually comes to a halt. No doubt about it, you’ve landed. You check your watch, change the time. You’re not late, there has been no problem. Let’s leave it there, eh?

Not quite.

It’s at that moment that RyanAir have decided to go a step further. Suddenly, a trumpet fanfare sounds out across the cabin. DOO DOO DOO DOOO DOOOOOOOO! YOU HAVE ARRIVED ON TIME AT ANOTHER RYAN AIR DESTINSATION! Then it launches into a summary of how much more on time they are than any other airline, or something. To be honest, I’m already laughing with the rest of the cabin at the triumphant bellowing that they now play at ear splitting volume at the end of every flight. Yes, we’ve landed – but it’s an aeroplane, isn’t that a given? (Don’t answer that, I’ve still got to get back yet) Isn’t landing the point? Isn’t that the least they can do? More to the point, is the trumpet really necessary, you smug bastards? I half expected a collection pot to come round, all proceeds going to the clever captain who managed to get us to France. What a gem he is.

So I was wondering if anyone’s been on a RyanAir flight that wasn’t on time, and whether they can confirm that, instead of a happy little trumpet tune, they played a farting raspberry noise, or something similar? A long, drawn out “Wa, Wa, Waaaaaaaah” perhaps? Answers on a postcard, or a RyanAir scratch card (they’ll be coming round mid-flight).

That’s quite enough thinking for one day, I’m going back to the pool.

Fall of a King, and the end of a saga…

As I sat to write my blog for this week, I was thinking about a couple of topics, mostly centering on the present situation in Westminster. Upon hearing a certain piece of news on the radio, however, I deleted everything I’d started writing and decided that I really had nothing new to say about politics or MPs, but did have something to say about the passing of a living legend… into the ranks of afterworld luminaries. An event that seems far more important than I thought it would.

That legend is/was Michael Jackson.

Say what you will about that man – and everyone has plenty to say, some of it unkind – there is no disputing that he is the single greatest and most relevant figure in the history of pop music, and possibly of pop culture itself.

At a time of such public obsession with celebrity culture, and a time when we’re forced to watch, listen to, or read about, scores of fourth and fifth rate ’stars’ and pop idols, the passing of Michael Jackson can maybe act as a reminder of what real and genuine stardom is; not just stardom itself, but star quality, and, most importantly, actual talent. A genuine, bona fide genius of his field, who without doubt WARRANTS his massive fame and status.

Also, at a time when words like ‘icon’, ’star’ and ’superstar’ and the like are bandied about like STDs, we are forced to remember what a real, genuine ‘icon’ really is; and Michael Jackson is exactly such an icon, musically, culturally, and historically. And, as sad as his death is (as well as the circumstances of the passed decade of his life), it will be refreshing in these next few days to have media and newspaper coverage of our cheap celebrity non-entities Paris Hilton, Katie Price and Susan Boyle (to name just a few) eclipsed by tributes to one of the scant few real stars left in our time, whose accomplishments, and whose contributions to our culture are beyond question.

Talk will continue for years and years; about his death, about the controversies and lingering mysteries about his life. A figure always veiled in enigma will continue to fascinate the world long after you and I have departed from it, and his extraordinary back catalogue will be given the kiss of life that for years has been denied it due to the controversies of certain court cases and allegations. His life has long been, and now always will be, a testament to the psychological dangers of that kind of superstardom, as well as to the unkindnesses of base-level journalism, mass media bullying, and gold-digging hangers-on.

Comparisons inevitably are being made to the death of Elvis Presley; but Michael Jackson will, in the years to come, eclipse Presley’s legacy. The even more resonant analogy would be to the tragic Judy Garland, who died forty years ago this week, the last decade or so of her life marred by suicide attempts, drug and alcohol problems, depression, and unfavourable media coverage. Jackson’s love of Judy Garland only makes the comparison more poignant.

Whether the armies of detractors, naysayers and bullies, will cease their attacks on him remains to be seen; but they probably will for at least a few weeks.

In some strange way, dying at 50 may be the best thing that could’ve happened, purely in terms of Michael Jackson’s legacy. As Neil Young wrote (and Kurt Cobain bleakly paraphrased); ‘better to burn out than to fade away’. After a slow and painful decline (on numerous levels), Michael Jackson has gained that magical transformative elixr of all enduring legends; the premature death, that represents a rebirth and the apotheosis that was always due him.

Michael Jackson was a one-off. There can never be another like him (particularly given how different the structure of the music industry is quickly becoming). In a world devoid of superstars in the true sense of the word, he was a unique unequalled phenomenon, and there won’t be another. It’s questionable whether the future music industry will even be capable of producing a figure anywhere NEAR on that level of stardom, and certainly not on that that level of longeivity. And it is entirely possible no single pop star will ever be that universally famous again. If Elvis is universally accepted as the King of rock n roll, Michael Jackson’s status as the King of Pop, in the words of Elizabeth Taylor, is non-revokable.

Michael Jackson, the enigma and the legend, will live forever. Michael Jackson, the pop musician and the man, is dead.

How To Break Fast

There are very few feasts which contend with the calorie laden joy of the full English breakfast.  The three types of pig treat, bacon, sausage and black pud, the fried egg with a runny yolk, the vegetable factor, grilled tomatoes and fried mushrooms, the skinheads on a raft (beans on toast), and the enigma wrapped in a riddle which is simply known as ‘bubble’.  For those of you who do not understand the concept of breakfast, chips do not fit in here, ok?  A pile of buttery toast on the side, and the choice of builders tea or milky coffee. 

 

Served by an old East end dear who calls everyone “love”, has more make up that Super drug and looks like she could take on every builder in the café.  The corner stone of healthy living for anyone who wears a high visibility jacket to work, and a rehab centre to anyone who has had too much booze the night before.  Where you don’t need to spend more than five minutes pondering a complicated menu, as there are only five or six set meals to choose from, depending on how adventurous you’re feeling.

 

Last Sunday I awoke feeling parched and peckish with a similarly ravenous individual of less than honourable distinction in my bed.  Together we ventured into the dark heart of middle Sunday in search of somewhere to repent our sins and gauge on the finest food stuffs on offer.

 

Finding ourselves a window seat to watch the world go by, I wasted no time on ordering myself a Set 6 with all the trimmings and no holding back.  It arrived on an oval platter and looked like it could feed a Texan trucker.  Not being one to be beaten by my own foolhardy bravado, I wasted no time in unwrapping my cutlery from its serviette cocoon and getting my elbows greasy.  At about half time I had a short break to sip my coffee which was still peaking at lava temperature (how do they do that?), hyperventilate and wipe the meat sweats from my brow.  I lasted the full twelve rounds, but finally triumphed and left a streaked white, porcelain oval spinning on the table before me.

 

On later contemplation, I’m not sure if I did beat the breakfast, or if the breakfast beat me.  For a week after this incident I have had an irritating pain burrowing into the back of my neck, which I can only put down to repeated internal stabbings to the back of my throat with a fork.  And my digestive system is still in shock, it doesn’t know how to handle even the tiniest morsel anymore, my intestines and my colon hate me, and I don’t blame them.

 

I have however learned an important lesson from this experience.  Next time, I’ll have a Set 5 instead.

HJfry-up

A tale of two cities…

Two major news stories this week evoke two entirely different reactions; one inspiring optimism and even pride in the human spirit and the prevailing ideals of common humanity, the other provoking only disgust and lamentation of the lingering sicknesses of the human being and the idiot rabble.

The latter is presently unfolding in Northern Ireland, the former in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Scenes of Romanian settlers being burnt out of their homes en masse in Northern Ireland were enough to turn the stomach and sicken the spirit. You had to wonder if you were watching something from the Middle Ages, or from nineteen thirties Germany. It was one of the most disgusting indictments of a modern society to be witnessed in modern times. But this was not Iraq, or Zimbabwe, or Burma; this was in the British Isles. A putrid warning that racism and extreme xenophobia is alive and well in Britain in the twenty-first century, and that large masses of people are still more than capable enough of de-evolving into peasant-headed villagers trying to burn witches.

One would fervently hope nothing of the sort would ever happen in England; and I maintain – even in spite of the results of the European elections last week and its implications – that nothing of the sort ever will. But when one sees scenes like that, one wonders. And one wonders, further, how much we really have evolved. The real danger is not the uneducated viewpoints of individual people, but the effects of mass hysteria involving large groups of people, egging each other on and feeding off each other’s zeal. The history of fascism in Europe and generally of mass hysterias throughout history suggests a root in relatively small-scale and perfectly ‘reasonable’ xenophobic attitudes; attitudes that are easy to glibly justify, leading to behaviour that far exceeds any justification.

The image of so many people, including women holding babies, being forced off their land like cattle, really does provoke. Once the vaguely ludicrous Python-esque connotations fade away (and they fade quickly), the mind tends to drift towards scenes from Kosovo or from Bosnia in the nineties, or even of Jewish communities in Europe in the forties. It’s a harrowing, upsetting state of affairs.

Perhaps in the future Northern Ireland will seal its borders and keep out all the terrible foreigners. In a worst case scenario, if presently xenophobically-inclined elements of British society take their democratic power further in the future, Britain as a whole will move towards doing the same. And, perhaps, in a world that once looked like it was coming closer and closer together into a global community, the reverse will come to pass. What a wonderful world that would be. A world of closed borders and self-enclosed countries and societies, in which people can’t seek new lives in greener pastures, can’t better themselves, and can’t seek asylum from persecution or hardship in liberal, friendly countries, because no such countries will exist.

As gloomy and damning as all of this has been, a relative ray of light has briefly shone out amid the dimness in Iran. The dramatic fallout from the Iranian elections – rigged or not – has acted as a testament to the passion of the Iranian people and the politicisation of the Iranian youth, who took to the streets in their thousands. Their passion and convictions are an inspiration to idle and fallow populations everywhere, particularly given how dangerous such behaviour can be in that country, and a monument to a universal thirst for liberty.

In a week that has seen mobs taking to action for the sake of humanity’s baser instincts of racism and pitiless xenophobia in one part of the world, we have also seen a zealous mass taking to action for the sake of humanity’s higher instincts for freedom and liberty, and for civilised and enlightened government.

It’s just a shame that it won’t have made the slightest bit of difference to the election result or to Iranian politics, at least not in the foreseeable future. But, in the long term, perhaps it is a potent sign that Iran’s future may be reclaimed by a generation of forward-thinking, modernising, non-fundamentalist youth with no apetite for the Ayatollah-led, Israel-hating, West-provoking politics that has characterised the Islamic Republic for so long.

Seventy percent of Iran’s population wasn’t alive when the Shah was overthrown. A fading generation of intemperate fundamentalists will only be able to propagate its policies via the amenability of the rising generation. Without that support mechanism, the system will collapse deservedly, and a new day might dawn under the Persian sun. The protests this passed week were an optimistic appraisal and promise for the future, if not for the circumstances of the moment.

Criticism of the Iranian authorities’ response to the demonstrations, valid as it is, has been notably muted in some quarters. And there’s been little or no comment concerning the validity or alleged invalidity of the election result. If Ahmedinijad isn’t the legitimate winner of the election, he might take heart in the success and longeivity of other illegitimate leaders elsewhere in the world, of which there are more than a few. Al Gore’s usurping opponent of 2001 springs to mind. But there are plenty of others, whether dictatorial or ‘democratically’ elected. Our own nation is led by an unelected Prime Minister, albeit under a very different set of circumstances.

In regards to Iran, one can only watch and hope that power sooner rather than later comes into the hands of those who deserve their time.

Given resemblances to the public unrest and dissatisfaction that led to the revoultion thirty years ago, this situation may end up as a reminder of the cyclical nature of history and politics, possibly even resulting in a new revolutionary climate (though, we’d hope, one not nearly as bloody). History does seem to repeat itself, or perhaps more accurately recycle itself over certain phases of time, which would make the more philosophically inclined wonder if there’s some programme written into the fabric of destiny that perpetuates it. The Iranian situation is a positive example of that impetus at work; but situations elsewhere in the world, and even in these British Isles, may represent the negative side.

In any case, it’s been a grim couple of months in the UK, as far as political and social implications are concerned. Let’s hope things can pick up in the other direction for a while…

I think this is going to be a classic…

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Bruno Movie Trailer

You want me to show you tough? I’ll show you tough….

Sarkozy says burqas have no place in France

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President Nicolas Sarkozy lashed out Monday at the practice of wearing the Muslim burqa, insisting the full-body religious gown is a sign of the “debasement” of women and that it won’t be welcome in France.

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“Play Me, I’m Yours”

In 1993, some bright spark decided to unleash 300 bicycles onto the streets of Cambridge as part of a Green Bike Scheme. The idea was that the bikes would be free for the public to use and shared around for those in need of two wheeled transport. You find a bike, you use it, you leave it for someone else. Nice idea eh? Wouldn’t be out of place in an episode of The Waltons. Imagine the scene, you’re late for a meeting and there’s a brand spanking new bicycle just sitting there; handlebars winking, beckoning you onto its comfy little triangular seat.

Unfortunately, they all got nicked. The scheme’s embarrassing failure turned Cambridge into a laughing stock, and rumour has it that every night for the next month, all the other English cities rallied around it, pointing, giggling and taunting the esteemed city with jibes about its mother.

So, it is with great Dickensian expectations that this weekend, London is introducing 30 pianos onto its streets. Having already been a success across the world and in other British cities such as Birmingham, it’s now London’s turn to get down with Luke Jerram’s ‘Play Me, I’m Yours’ arty party. Scattered everywhere from Camberwell Green to Smithfield Market, the pianos are there for the public to play, decorate and enjoy until July 13th. The first 15 pianos arrived in the City of London on Friday, and the final 15 arrive on Monday and Tuesday.

Street piano in use at Smithfield Market, 19th June

Street piano in use at Smithfield Market, 19th June

So with the idea of ‘community’ on its way to becoming obsolete, only time will tell whether this big, anonymous city will embrace these 30 instruments. Will Londoners use them to represent the areas that they’re placed into, or will they just be another community scheme gone wrong?

For more information on the project, including maps of where the pianos will be and galleries where you can upload your own photos (or performances, if you’re feeling brave) check out the Play Me, I’m Yours website. I for one will be wondering the streets of London this weekend and causing a stir with my very own rendition of Chopsticks.

Let’s hope that decoration doesn’t become vandalism and crucially, that London doesn’t become Cambridge.

Noel’s a crybaby, Paris loves fame, Strength for Sonique & More Li-Lo drama…

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Noel Gallagher just may be the newest ‘male diva’. Apparently during the Oasis gig at Manchester’s Heaton Park earlier this month, the band were forced to leave the stage twice due to power cuts. The band went on to play their full set but then decided to offer concert goers their money back. Good idea? Well maybe not so good afterall since about 20,000 fans took them up on this offer. This didn’t sit too well with Noel and he was sure to make this known on his blog where he wrote, “It seems that around 20,000 of you have asked for a refund from that night at Heaton Park, 20,000, so you were genuinely disappointed?”… “I don’t recall seeing a 20,000 gap in the crowd. Cheeky ****s. Tsk … some people.”
Well Noel, in case you haven’t realized it by now, the words ‘credit crunch’ are on everyone’s mind so if given the chance to claim a refund then there aren’t many people that won’t jump at it. Maybe things are different in your tax bracket but these days every little counts! Stop being a big baby and next time do not make offers that you’re not genuine about! Let’s not forget that fans made you rich in the first place. SOURCE

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How does Paris Hilton manage to stay in the spotlight? I mean really, what is it that she does? Let’s see; actress – horrible, singer – yawn*, do nothing club goer – bingo! So now she’s latching onto footballer Ronaldo for a spotlight renewal. Is this to be the start of a new generation of WAGS, I hope not. After she was photographed getting close to Ronaldo in a Los Angeles nightclub, she initially denied rumours of a romance and insisted that they were “just friends.” Now it seems she has announced that she has booked a holiday to Spain to see the Portuguese star when he starts with football club Real Madrid later this year. Somehow I feel this is just a bit PR stunt for her…speaking of which, has anyone seen Tinkerbelle lately? SOURCE
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Our prayers are with Sonique as she undergoes a second round of breast cancer surgery. The 40-year-old singer/DJ’s first operation at a clinic in Harley Street, central London, was on Monday, less than a week after discovering that she had the disease.
Spokesman Stuart Watts said: “Sonique has been taken back into theatre for another operation this morning as the cancer has spread.”
I can remember jamming to her hits ‘I Put A Spell On You’ and ‘It Feels So Good’ back in the day. I was always hoping she would grace the stage again at some point.
We wish her the best as she goes through this rough time. SOURCE
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As if bad press couldn’t get any worse for Lindsay Lohan, it just did. The 22-year old actress did a photo shoot for Elle magazine at Big Sky Studios in north London on June 6th however after the shoot the diamond necklace and earrings she modelled were missing.
The jewellery was loaned to the magazine by fashion house Dior who reported it missing two days later. “It is alleged it is a necklace and earrings with diamonds with an estimated value of £250,000.” Scotland Yard is due to interview the actress and some others in connection with this incident. SOURCE

Crazy Talk

During a recent visit to my favourite local charity shop, I came across a black tee-shirt with the words “KTO NIE MA BRZUCHA TEN KIEPSKO R…” emblazoned across the front.  Of course I bought it, it was a good fit, quirky and different, and a bargain at only 99p.

 

It was only a matter of time before someone asked me the meaning of this slogan that I was advertising, they seemed more surprised than disappointed when I admitted I had no idea.  I liked the idea of wearing a statement that I couldn’t decipher.  I thought that maybe someone would understand it walking passed me one day, and stop me to congratulate me on my courage to display such a noble opinion.

 

My curiosity eventually triumphed recently.  Assuming it sounded Polish, I typed it into online English – Polski translator, and sure enough it came up with an answer.  I discovered that I had been wondering the streets telling Polish people “DOES NOT HAVE WHO STOMACH IT SCRATCHILY”.

 

I didn’t think scratchily was even a real word, but it’s in the dictionary so who am I to argue?  What I think their trying to say is “HE WHO DOES NOT STOMACH IT SCRATCHILY”, which still doesn’t really make much sense.  Or maybe “HE WHO DOES NOT SCRATCH HIS STOMACH”, which makes much more sense, but still isn’t the kind of thing any sane human would think of printing onto a garment of clothing.

 

Some things are best left alone.

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