When I started this incarnation of Wrinkled Weasel I deliberately went a bit anti SEO (search engine optimization). I wanted something stripped down and easy to read on little phones. I hope that is the case. However, I still find that the old blog still gets more hits than this one. That is partly to do with the number of posts and topics and also to do with things like photos and videos and music.
People do read this, but not many. I wonder if I should worry? I suppose my main concern is the amount of time and effort I put into the posts. (Yes, it doesn't always show, does it?) Having said that, I discern that the readers, the regular readers, are probably the kind of people I would like to meet in real life - not just those who are searching for nude photos of Lady Diana. (There goes the SEO!)
This year for me and mine is, or should be, something of a watershed, a point of self-actualisation. I have finally acknowledged to myself that this is where I live (Scotland) and this is where I expect to die. In a few weeks I shall be moving to what I also expect will be "my final resting place" as I call it; a small hamlet in the Scottish Borders.
I mention this because I see in myself, and some of my friends, a tacit acceptance of the way that this road along which I travel is running out. This is not to be maudlin or to capitulate. Not at all. I actually feel rather free now that the ordinary things of life; having a family, where you live, what you do, have all mostly been sorted out.
I can wake up in the morning and say to myself, "what shall I do today?" And that, dear reader, is possibly an even greater challenge than what has gone before.
As Sophocles said: "A man growing old is like a child again". How very true
Tuesday, 15 January 2013
Monday, 14 January 2013
The vanished green to mourn
It does not take a rocket scientist to see why Jessops, the camera store and HMV, the music store have both gone to the wall. These once mighty high-street giants have gone into administration and of course the reason is the technology revolution.
I sometimes wonder if our revolution felt the same as the industrial revolution which took place in the second half of the 18th Century, along with the Acts of Enclosure that changed the landscape forever.
Whilst cottage industry, rural dwellers were made to leave (as economic migrants) their quiet villages and set up home in the big cities, their old haunts and their way of self-sufficiency was being taken from them with the removal of common land and the important rights of use that went along with it.
Of course, the erstwhile life was a subsistence life. Even today, with all the advantages of 21st century husbandry a Scottish crofter can be not much more prosperous than Jethro Tull, and must mostly seek other forms of income in order to survive.
Cottage industry has returned as a result of our revolution, but it is more a function of our economy than of lifestyle choice. We can simply have more of what we want because in relative terms, our disposable income is considerable. The choices are legion and our way of life has become a confusing search for the best holiday on Trip Advisor or the best Tablet on Cnet. The jumper that Sophie Grabol wears in The Killing was originally hand-knitted in the Faroe Isles and for all I know, still is, but the company that sells it, Gudrun and Gudrun is now a world-wide enterprise. It's an example of some incredible changes in the way one person with a pair of knitting needles has effectively tapped into a global market.
What are the lessons to be learned from the demise of shops such as Jessops and HMV? Well, obviously, don't invest in a product that is vulnerable to technological advance on the scale we are experiencing at the moment. In a way, these stores are like the music hall acts who toured the same 20 minute spot for their whole careers, or at least a few seasons, doing the same jokes or tricks or whatever. In the old days, you went into the hardware store and bought a toaster. Or you ordered a telephone from BT. Or you bought your knickers from Marks and Spencer. In those days, you got toasters made by Morphy Richards and the phone was the same phone everyone had because only BT let you have one.
Strangely, only Marks and Spencer seem to have hung on to the knicker monopoly and perhaps that is why you might still see them, in one shape or form, for some years to come.
As for the future, it may well find a clue in the past since the technology revolution has torn down the fences and monopolies of old, perhaps signalling the beginning of a return to some of the better aspects of the old ways of life;
I sometimes wonder if our revolution felt the same as the industrial revolution which took place in the second half of the 18th Century, along with the Acts of Enclosure that changed the landscape forever.
Whilst cottage industry, rural dwellers were made to leave (as economic migrants) their quiet villages and set up home in the big cities, their old haunts and their way of self-sufficiency was being taken from them with the removal of common land and the important rights of use that went along with it.
Of course, the erstwhile life was a subsistence life. Even today, with all the advantages of 21st century husbandry a Scottish crofter can be not much more prosperous than Jethro Tull, and must mostly seek other forms of income in order to survive.
Cottage industry has returned as a result of our revolution, but it is more a function of our economy than of lifestyle choice. We can simply have more of what we want because in relative terms, our disposable income is considerable. The choices are legion and our way of life has become a confusing search for the best holiday on Trip Advisor or the best Tablet on Cnet. The jumper that Sophie Grabol wears in The Killing was originally hand-knitted in the Faroe Isles and for all I know, still is, but the company that sells it, Gudrun and Gudrun is now a world-wide enterprise. It's an example of some incredible changes in the way one person with a pair of knitting needles has effectively tapped into a global market.
What are the lessons to be learned from the demise of shops such as Jessops and HMV? Well, obviously, don't invest in a product that is vulnerable to technological advance on the scale we are experiencing at the moment. In a way, these stores are like the music hall acts who toured the same 20 minute spot for their whole careers, or at least a few seasons, doing the same jokes or tricks or whatever. In the old days, you went into the hardware store and bought a toaster. Or you ordered a telephone from BT. Or you bought your knickers from Marks and Spencer. In those days, you got toasters made by Morphy Richards and the phone was the same phone everyone had because only BT let you have one.
Strangely, only Marks and Spencer seem to have hung on to the knicker monopoly and perhaps that is why you might still see them, in one shape or form, for some years to come.
As for the future, it may well find a clue in the past since the technology revolution has torn down the fences and monopolies of old, perhaps signalling the beginning of a return to some of the better aspects of the old ways of life;
Now this sweet vision of my boyish hoursJohn Clare.
Free as spring clouds and wild as summer flowers
Is faded all - a hope that blossomed free,
And hath been once, no more shall ever be
Inclosure came and trampled on the grave
Of labour's rights and left the poor a slave
And memory's pride ere want to wealth did bow
Is both the shadow and the substance now
The sheep and cows were free to range as then
Where change might prompt nor felt the bonds of men
Cows went and came, with evening morn and night,
To the wild pasture as their common right
And sheep, unfolded with the rising sun
Heard the swains shout and felt their freedom won
Thursday, 10 January 2013
Yer acksual mull ee cull sheral Bri'ann
News today that Birmingham, Luton and Leicester no longer have a majority white population may have sown fear in the hearts of Daily Mail readers, but not me.
Ever been to these places? Ever thought, "Oh, Luton is such a paradigm of picturesque tranquility, a joy to behold and just the place to see out the winter of my years"?
No. I thought not. The fact is, in places like Bristol, which boasts something in the region of 25,000 failed asylum seekers, is and always was and always will be a shit hole. Of course, it is their own fault. Bristol council is full of credulous lefty idiots and their MPs are just as bad. I know, I lived there for 15 years, right next to the road where the animal rights nutters exploded a car bomb and injured a baby. It all thrives there and Bristol people deserve what they get. Somehow, the council tends to regard all these people as heroic and people being people, the City is a magnet for all those types you would really want to avoid.
But back to the Daily Mail and the fear. Or, if you are a leftie, the Phobia.
The time will come of course when the sheer weight of numbers begins to undermine democracy. But thankfully it will be severely limited to the kind of places that most people will avoid.
I used to think that demographic inevitability would undermine our democracy and to some extent it will, but in the end, if people who refuse to become British take over Birmingham, Luton and Leicester (and that by no means means all non-white citizens) they will always remain a minority by virtue of our First Past the Post voting system. Thank God.
Ever been to these places? Ever thought, "Oh, Luton is such a paradigm of picturesque tranquility, a joy to behold and just the place to see out the winter of my years"?
No. I thought not. The fact is, in places like Bristol, which boasts something in the region of 25,000 failed asylum seekers, is and always was and always will be a shit hole. Of course, it is their own fault. Bristol council is full of credulous lefty idiots and their MPs are just as bad. I know, I lived there for 15 years, right next to the road where the animal rights nutters exploded a car bomb and injured a baby. It all thrives there and Bristol people deserve what they get. Somehow, the council tends to regard all these people as heroic and people being people, the City is a magnet for all those types you would really want to avoid.
But back to the Daily Mail and the fear. Or, if you are a leftie, the Phobia.
The time will come of course when the sheer weight of numbers begins to undermine democracy. But thankfully it will be severely limited to the kind of places that most people will avoid.
I used to think that demographic inevitability would undermine our democracy and to some extent it will, but in the end, if people who refuse to become British take over Birmingham, Luton and Leicester (and that by no means means all non-white citizens) they will always remain a minority by virtue of our First Past the Post voting system. Thank God.
Tuesday, 8 January 2013
England, 40 years ago
Cigarette smoke. Everywhere. Nobody complained either. There were non-smoking carriages on the railways that guaranteed you always got a seat. (It was where all those people you did not want to sit next to sat.)
In 1973, most adult men had been in the armed forces, either doing National Service, or the real thing, 1939-45. It is almost impossible to explain the extent to which this affected every day life. For a start, the service industries were packed out with men who polished their shoes to within an inch of their lives. Their hair was dripping with Brylcreem. They always called you "Sir", even if you were a spotty, long-haired youth. Of course, there were many ways to say, "Sir". You could make it sound civil or as sarcastic as hell. I remember trying to pay for a British Railways dining car meal with a cheque. In those days you could still just about get away with putting your address on the back. The steward, in reply to my request to pay by kite, replied, "If you wish.....SIR". It was a stab in the back. An affront to my class and his position. The import was clear and immaculate. I was doing a very bad thing. The steward could do nothing about it but he made it very clear how he felt. It was the kind of magic of social discourse, between those of the servers and the served, which I so enjoyed. Of course the roles were reversed in Harrods, when one was always served by an assistant whose suit and shirt were better than yours and who was clearly an aristocrat fallen on hard times. You were, in this instance, called, "Sir" with the kind of sneer that Jeremy Paxman does so well on Newsnight.
I don't remember there being a lot of cosmetics. These days our bathroom has overflowed into a large cupboard, filled with enough chemicals to make Big Pharma alarmed about its monopoly. You got soap, shampoo and bubble bath if you were lucky. In 1973, had you asked an assistant in Boots for After Shave Balm, they would have called the Cops. Moist lavatory tissue was the kind of thing people would have thought impossible - rather like levitation and time travel.
Nobody had AIDS. But then again, nobody had sex either.
There were no celebrities. You got "famous" people, but they were usually famous for actually doing something. As someone said at the time, Television is for appearing on, not watching.
A word about the rest of the world. Imported items had the word "foreign" stamped on the bottom. This was tantamount to an admission of social deprivation. Perhaps even worse was anything "made in Hong Kong" - then a synonym for tat. People even looked upon Japanese machinery with disdain. Jap bikes were still a bit, you, know, edgy, and there were men who would never buy a Japanese car because they had been guests of the Japs in 39/45 and did not like it. Not being made in England was a huge perceptual mountain to climb for foreign manufacturers. The only person I knew with a BMW was a film director. I did know someone who owned a Messerschmitt KR200 Kabinenroller, but she was the wife of a Mercedes dealer, so it didn't count. Most people drove a Ford Popular or a Zephyr or maybe an Austin with leather seats and little woven rope pulls in the back.
In 1973 I had about 20 LPs. Most of them had been gotten from bargain bins in Smiths. Consequently I had a very unusual collection of stuff that now fetches hundreds of pounds on eBay. If only I had kept them. I bought my first version of the Sibelius Symphony No2 around this time (see posts passim) for about 40p and the Bruch Violin Concerto which very nearly got me laid.
I dropped out of Art College after two years and had to get a job. I turned up at the Regent Palace in Piccadilly Circus and worked as a porter. All life was there. I loved it. Apart from being pestered by rent boys and punters on my late night journey back to Surrey. (In those days I had long golden, curly hair, a slight figure and a tendency to look like a poof.)
The Regent Palace was full of former Corporals and Sergeants. It was all run along military lines and I was never addressed by anything other than my last name. I never felt that my human rights or my dignity were impugned for this, either.
The clash of cultures in the early Seventies is difficult to sum up. On the one hand you had men who had saved this country from Hitler and on the other, poovy young men like me who wore floral t-shirts and espoused free love.
I wonder, looking back 40 years, who won? Who won?
In 1973, most adult men had been in the armed forces, either doing National Service, or the real thing, 1939-45. It is almost impossible to explain the extent to which this affected every day life. For a start, the service industries were packed out with men who polished their shoes to within an inch of their lives. Their hair was dripping with Brylcreem. They always called you "Sir", even if you were a spotty, long-haired youth. Of course, there were many ways to say, "Sir". You could make it sound civil or as sarcastic as hell. I remember trying to pay for a British Railways dining car meal with a cheque. In those days you could still just about get away with putting your address on the back. The steward, in reply to my request to pay by kite, replied, "If you wish.....SIR". It was a stab in the back. An affront to my class and his position. The import was clear and immaculate. I was doing a very bad thing. The steward could do nothing about it but he made it very clear how he felt. It was the kind of magic of social discourse, between those of the servers and the served, which I so enjoyed. Of course the roles were reversed in Harrods, when one was always served by an assistant whose suit and shirt were better than yours and who was clearly an aristocrat fallen on hard times. You were, in this instance, called, "Sir" with the kind of sneer that Jeremy Paxman does so well on Newsnight.
I don't remember there being a lot of cosmetics. These days our bathroom has overflowed into a large cupboard, filled with enough chemicals to make Big Pharma alarmed about its monopoly. You got soap, shampoo and bubble bath if you were lucky. In 1973, had you asked an assistant in Boots for After Shave Balm, they would have called the Cops. Moist lavatory tissue was the kind of thing people would have thought impossible - rather like levitation and time travel.
Nobody had AIDS. But then again, nobody had sex either.
There were no celebrities. You got "famous" people, but they were usually famous for actually doing something. As someone said at the time, Television is for appearing on, not watching.
A word about the rest of the world. Imported items had the word "foreign" stamped on the bottom. This was tantamount to an admission of social deprivation. Perhaps even worse was anything "made in Hong Kong" - then a synonym for tat. People even looked upon Japanese machinery with disdain. Jap bikes were still a bit, you, know, edgy, and there were men who would never buy a Japanese car because they had been guests of the Japs in 39/45 and did not like it. Not being made in England was a huge perceptual mountain to climb for foreign manufacturers. The only person I knew with a BMW was a film director. I did know someone who owned a Messerschmitt KR200 Kabinenroller, but she was the wife of a Mercedes dealer, so it didn't count. Most people drove a Ford Popular or a Zephyr or maybe an Austin with leather seats and little woven rope pulls in the back.
In 1973 I had about 20 LPs. Most of them had been gotten from bargain bins in Smiths. Consequently I had a very unusual collection of stuff that now fetches hundreds of pounds on eBay. If only I had kept them. I bought my first version of the Sibelius Symphony No2 around this time (see posts passim) for about 40p and the Bruch Violin Concerto which very nearly got me laid.
I dropped out of Art College after two years and had to get a job. I turned up at the Regent Palace in Piccadilly Circus and worked as a porter. All life was there. I loved it. Apart from being pestered by rent boys and punters on my late night journey back to Surrey. (In those days I had long golden, curly hair, a slight figure and a tendency to look like a poof.)
The Regent Palace was full of former Corporals and Sergeants. It was all run along military lines and I was never addressed by anything other than my last name. I never felt that my human rights or my dignity were impugned for this, either.
The clash of cultures in the early Seventies is difficult to sum up. On the one hand you had men who had saved this country from Hitler and on the other, poovy young men like me who wore floral t-shirts and espoused free love.
I wonder, looking back 40 years, who won? Who won?
Saturday, 5 January 2013
The Year in View
I made a half-assed effort to think about what I have learned over this year. It does not amount to much, but I put it down here for your amusement.
Musically I have turned, more often than not, to classical works. In 2012 I managed to go to three concerts (at least, I only remember three). One was Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore, then a selection of Scandinavian stuff. (See reviews passim) and early on in the year an exception; Steve Hackett, ex Genesis. After getting my fingers badly burnt upon seeing Crosby, Stills and Nash on their "We are only in it for the money" tour, I was loath to shell out money on more ageing rockers, but Steve was an exception, partly because Steve invited me and the tickets were free and partly because he is a musician for whom I have a great deal of respect. Hackett does two hours of immaculate material. It's a good show and I can only recommend it. Any Genesis fans will love it and anyone who likes Prog should love it too.
I have otherwise been disappointed by the offerings of other Old Grey Rock Gods. There is an exception, and that is Led Zeppelin. I happened to catch some of their 2007 O2 concert on the BBC and then went out and bought the DVD/CD box set (Celebration Day). They don't over-expose themselves, but when they do re-appear, it is dynamite. The whole thing sent shivers down my spine. The other big surprise for me has been Madness. I got hold of The Liberty of Norton Folgate and now I realise how much I have been missing all these years.
2012 also marked my debut appearance on an album, but the less said about that the better.
2012 was the year we decided to move homes and very soon we shall do just that. A place in the Scottish Borders where I can grow old out of the glare of publicity.
The Political Scene has become hugely boring for me and that has a lot to do with being in Scotland, even though the issue of independence seems to be a hot topic. Whatever people say, I find this country mostly friendly, less stressful and pleasant to look at and enjoy. If the weather wasn't so terrible it would be near perfect. If a few more restaurants learned how to cook food and serve it efficiently, it would be heaven.
The only thing of lasting interest I believe in past 12 months has been the beginning of the end of the BBC. After the Savile crisis, and a number of other problems, I cannot see how it can survive in its present form for much longer. If nothing else, it will be eaten up by technological advance that will render the need to buy a licence fee obsolete. As for Cameron & Co, I am largely unimpressed, except to say that at least the egregious descent into Labour inspired madness has, to some extent been slowed down. At least, in theory, if a burglar enters my home I can take a pop at him, rather than offer him counselling and a short seminar on safely breaking and entering, or sympathise with the stressful business of being a burglar, as one judge recently did. Of course, the tide won't turn. Labour made sure that the decline of this country was irreversible.
I intend to devote the coming year to Archery, Scalextric, Painting and Hill-Walking and the promulgation of world peace. Upcoming musical treats shall be Stenhammar, Moeran and Alfven. Continuing my studies in WW2, I have ordered a couple of Hugh Trevor Ropers and I shall keep on trying to plough through The Golden Bough and From Ritual to Romance (the Grail Legend), both the latter being highly cited as influences on Eliot's The Waste Land.
Now excuse me while I fish out my green tights.
Musically I have turned, more often than not, to classical works. In 2012 I managed to go to three concerts (at least, I only remember three). One was Gilbert and Sullivan's Ruddigore, then a selection of Scandinavian stuff. (See reviews passim) and early on in the year an exception; Steve Hackett, ex Genesis. After getting my fingers badly burnt upon seeing Crosby, Stills and Nash on their "We are only in it for the money" tour, I was loath to shell out money on more ageing rockers, but Steve was an exception, partly because Steve invited me and the tickets were free and partly because he is a musician for whom I have a great deal of respect. Hackett does two hours of immaculate material. It's a good show and I can only recommend it. Any Genesis fans will love it and anyone who likes Prog should love it too.
I have otherwise been disappointed by the offerings of other Old Grey Rock Gods. There is an exception, and that is Led Zeppelin. I happened to catch some of their 2007 O2 concert on the BBC and then went out and bought the DVD/CD box set (Celebration Day). They don't over-expose themselves, but when they do re-appear, it is dynamite. The whole thing sent shivers down my spine. The other big surprise for me has been Madness. I got hold of The Liberty of Norton Folgate and now I realise how much I have been missing all these years.
2012 also marked my debut appearance on an album, but the less said about that the better.
2012 was the year we decided to move homes and very soon we shall do just that. A place in the Scottish Borders where I can grow old out of the glare of publicity.
The Political Scene has become hugely boring for me and that has a lot to do with being in Scotland, even though the issue of independence seems to be a hot topic. Whatever people say, I find this country mostly friendly, less stressful and pleasant to look at and enjoy. If the weather wasn't so terrible it would be near perfect. If a few more restaurants learned how to cook food and serve it efficiently, it would be heaven.
The only thing of lasting interest I believe in past 12 months has been the beginning of the end of the BBC. After the Savile crisis, and a number of other problems, I cannot see how it can survive in its present form for much longer. If nothing else, it will be eaten up by technological advance that will render the need to buy a licence fee obsolete. As for Cameron & Co, I am largely unimpressed, except to say that at least the egregious descent into Labour inspired madness has, to some extent been slowed down. At least, in theory, if a burglar enters my home I can take a pop at him, rather than offer him counselling and a short seminar on safely breaking and entering, or sympathise with the stressful business of being a burglar, as one judge recently did. Of course, the tide won't turn. Labour made sure that the decline of this country was irreversible.
I intend to devote the coming year to Archery, Scalextric, Painting and Hill-Walking and the promulgation of world peace. Upcoming musical treats shall be Stenhammar, Moeran and Alfven. Continuing my studies in WW2, I have ordered a couple of Hugh Trevor Ropers and I shall keep on trying to plough through The Golden Bough and From Ritual to Romance (the Grail Legend), both the latter being highly cited as influences on Eliot's The Waste Land.
Now excuse me while I fish out my green tights.
Thursday, 27 December 2012
Fontella Bass and the royalties
Last month I sent off a couple of royalty cheques to my musical associates. A modest amount by rock star standards, but enough to make it worth their while to walk to the bank. I mention this because so many in the business lost out on royalties for their compositions. We have just lost Fontella Bass, at the age of 72, who co-wrote the million selling, multi-covered, Rescue Me. A brilliant song and one which is soaked in black American soul feeling. Fontella hardly got a cent from Rescue Me until decades later and much litigation. Florence Ballard of the Supremes was living on welfare when she died. Others cheated out of royalties include Merle Haggard, Meatloaf and Tom Petty, but they are a handful among a cartload of artists who have routinely been denied their fare share.
The record companies simply drag their feet and in the worst cases, just clear off with the money.
Artists will readily admit that they are as lambs to the slaughter. All the ones I have talked to about this recommend that up and coming musicians prioritise the finance side as a number one issue because they knew sod all about it in the beginning.
I have to relate a related, if not on-topic story: Some years ago a friend of mine hung out with a band called The Move. He was also, for reasons he could never quite fathom, a favourite of Don Arden, who at that time was managing The Move. Don Arden is perhaps only known today by some as the father of Sharon Osbourne, but back in the Sixties he was a very serious manager and fixer, having signed Gene Vincent,The Small Faces and the Move. Arden had brought Sam Cooke to England, along with Little Richard and Brenda Lee. He was not one to suffer fools, or indeed to suffer at all. He had a reputation for being very heavy and famously had Robert Stigwood dangled from a balcony by his ankles for attempting to lure the Faces away from Don.
My friend had written a song called Something and it had been recorded along with a Roy Wood number called Blackberry Way. Don turned to my friend and asked which song should be the "A" side, "Something" or "Blackberry Way". My friend thought for a moment and told Don that Blackberry Way was probably the better song, despite having written "Something". The rest, as they say is history. In February of 1969, "Blackberry Way" went to number one.
If you ever have the time, look up "Something". It's a great song, and sung by Carl Wayne, it could have been keeping my friend in decent red wine if he had been perhaps a little less modest in the self-belief department.
"Record companies use questionable accounting tactics and contractual provisions to get away with unconscionable things," said accountant Wayne Coleman, whose St. Louis firm has recovered more than $100 million in unpaid royalties for clients, including Haggard. "Of the thousands of royalty compliance audits I've conducted over the past 30 years, I can recall only one instance where the artist owed money to the company." (LA Times)
The record companies simply drag their feet and in the worst cases, just clear off with the money.
Artists will readily admit that they are as lambs to the slaughter. All the ones I have talked to about this recommend that up and coming musicians prioritise the finance side as a number one issue because they knew sod all about it in the beginning.
I have to relate a related, if not on-topic story: Some years ago a friend of mine hung out with a band called The Move. He was also, for reasons he could never quite fathom, a favourite of Don Arden, who at that time was managing The Move. Don Arden is perhaps only known today by some as the father of Sharon Osbourne, but back in the Sixties he was a very serious manager and fixer, having signed Gene Vincent,The Small Faces and the Move. Arden had brought Sam Cooke to England, along with Little Richard and Brenda Lee. He was not one to suffer fools, or indeed to suffer at all. He had a reputation for being very heavy and famously had Robert Stigwood dangled from a balcony by his ankles for attempting to lure the Faces away from Don.
My friend had written a song called Something and it had been recorded along with a Roy Wood number called Blackberry Way. Don turned to my friend and asked which song should be the "A" side, "Something" or "Blackberry Way". My friend thought for a moment and told Don that Blackberry Way was probably the better song, despite having written "Something". The rest, as they say is history. In February of 1969, "Blackberry Way" went to number one.
If you ever have the time, look up "Something". It's a great song, and sung by Carl Wayne, it could have been keeping my friend in decent red wine if he had been perhaps a little less modest in the self-belief department.
Sunday, 16 December 2012
A Killing
In our household there has been much talk of killing. There has been more talk of The Killing, Series 3 than the killings in Connecticut.
Before I try and explain why this is, perhaps its worth getting the trivia out of the way. I am not going to spoil it for people who haven't seen the marvellous Norwegian crime show, except to say that the end was shocking and put a conclusive end to any speculation that there might be a series 4. It was a Reichenbach Falls moment, in which the author has effectively, if not in fact, killed off the main protagonist. (Of course, Conan Doyle tried to kill off Sherlock at the Falls and as we know, had to resurrect him due to the outraged calls of his fans.) Some of us have become utterly fascinated by these Nordic Noir thrillers. I think it is because for me personally I feel I have something deeply connective with that kind of tired resignation, that lack of surprise when people do very bad things, and an almost perverted fetish for expensive lighting and woolly jumpers. It also bears no relation to the real kind of killing - for example that of Norwegian, Anders Breivik, whose identity was not a mystery and whose apprehension was not an exercise in forensic detective work.
As for the mass murders in Connecticut, the death of 27 people, by a lone gunman, barely out of childhood himself, it seems too distant and also so overwhelmingly real. From a news perspective, this kind of thing seems to happen with depressing frequency. The perpetrator is always a freak, a loner with imagined issues to resolve by the use of indiscriminate violence. The act is banal in its execution and yet so violent and so obscene that it becomes difficult to give it more than a fleeting thought, for, to dwell upon the reality, the loss of life, the heartbreak, the sense of utter despair, is to become helpless with emotion. My knowledge of these killings will not do much more than make me feel how evil can momentarily triumph. It may make me angry. It may make me sick. Whatever it does I am certain I cannot do anything about it.
Or perhaps I can. Perhaps we all can.
Everyone has a breaking point. Some of us have been there. Sure, most of us have not become mass murderers but we may have gotten close to being destructive at some low point in our lives. How we treat each other, how we use every single encounter in our lives may impact profoundly on another person. A kindness, a forgiveness, a leg up, a bit of generosity or honesty - just finding a wallet in the street and returning it - could tip the balance.
For those of us who are wearied with the less positive elements of life, perhaps the answer to our putative helplessness over the killing of innocents, is to make sure we are not guilty of tipping someone we know over the edge. Perhaps I have over-simplified an issue that is primarily about a very disturbed young man who has destroyed many lives and perhaps there is nothing any of us can do about it, but we are after all, the sum total of our encounters and life choices. Why not make those choices good ones, for ourselves and those around us?
Before I try and explain why this is, perhaps its worth getting the trivia out of the way. I am not going to spoil it for people who haven't seen the marvellous Norwegian crime show, except to say that the end was shocking and put a conclusive end to any speculation that there might be a series 4. It was a Reichenbach Falls moment, in which the author has effectively, if not in fact, killed off the main protagonist. (Of course, Conan Doyle tried to kill off Sherlock at the Falls and as we know, had to resurrect him due to the outraged calls of his fans.) Some of us have become utterly fascinated by these Nordic Noir thrillers. I think it is because for me personally I feel I have something deeply connective with that kind of tired resignation, that lack of surprise when people do very bad things, and an almost perverted fetish for expensive lighting and woolly jumpers. It also bears no relation to the real kind of killing - for example that of Norwegian, Anders Breivik, whose identity was not a mystery and whose apprehension was not an exercise in forensic detective work.
As for the mass murders in Connecticut, the death of 27 people, by a lone gunman, barely out of childhood himself, it seems too distant and also so overwhelmingly real. From a news perspective, this kind of thing seems to happen with depressing frequency. The perpetrator is always a freak, a loner with imagined issues to resolve by the use of indiscriminate violence. The act is banal in its execution and yet so violent and so obscene that it becomes difficult to give it more than a fleeting thought, for, to dwell upon the reality, the loss of life, the heartbreak, the sense of utter despair, is to become helpless with emotion. My knowledge of these killings will not do much more than make me feel how evil can momentarily triumph. It may make me angry. It may make me sick. Whatever it does I am certain I cannot do anything about it.
Or perhaps I can. Perhaps we all can.
Everyone has a breaking point. Some of us have been there. Sure, most of us have not become mass murderers but we may have gotten close to being destructive at some low point in our lives. How we treat each other, how we use every single encounter in our lives may impact profoundly on another person. A kindness, a forgiveness, a leg up, a bit of generosity or honesty - just finding a wallet in the street and returning it - could tip the balance.
For those of us who are wearied with the less positive elements of life, perhaps the answer to our putative helplessness over the killing of innocents, is to make sure we are not guilty of tipping someone we know over the edge. Perhaps I have over-simplified an issue that is primarily about a very disturbed young man who has destroyed many lives and perhaps there is nothing any of us can do about it, but we are after all, the sum total of our encounters and life choices. Why not make those choices good ones, for ourselves and those around us?
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