Keen followers of Essex cultural life have been having a good run of it lately.
Stacey Solomon, 19, of Dagenham, is the last girl left in X Factor, and the prospect of romance with Olly Murs, also of Essex, is the talk of the trashy mags.
Brit-flick, Fishtank, set on the Mardyke Estate, Rainham, telling the story of what is known in those parts as a ‘gobby cow’, is winning awards left, right and centrte.
A quick glance at the football league tables shows Dagenham & Redbridge in their highest ever position, at the top of Division 2.
And this week , in addition to this great swirl of cultural activity, enters Peter White, 26, of Romford. This hitherto unknown unemployed man hit the front page of the Daily Express on Tuesday, under the banner headline:
OUTRAGE AT
‘PARASITE’
ATTACK ON
THE QUEEN
http://express.co.uk/posts/view/140813/Outrage-at-parasite-attack-on-the-Queen-
It turns out that young Peter was aiming to stand as a local councillor at the next general election in the very ward in which I grew up: South Hornchurch.
The hotblooded male had waded into the Queen on none other than Andrew Rosindell MP’s facebook page. The Romford MP thought we should have a day off next year to celebrate the Queen being on the throne for 300 years (or something). White thought not, and called QEII a parasite and, even more intemperately, vermin.
The brave, but foolish, Peter has now apologised for his honestly held opinions. His republican outburst has been snuffed out by that great defender of the monarchy, Andrew Rosindell (with help from his British bulldog).
Yes, Peter has been rattled and may never surface from his parents’ house again. But it shows, once again, that all the best things come out of that much-maligned conurbation that joins Dagenham and Romford and Rainham.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
The pleasures of south London commuting
Some people hate their commute. Really hate it. They wake up in the morning and think, ‘not that again’. I can’t face another day of this. Miserable London, too many people. Moan moan moan.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
But there is an exclusive club of people who really rather enjoy their daily commute. No, we are not masochists. We are the passengers on the X68 service which rolls in from the nether-regions of south London into the very heart of the city.
For those who are not familiar, the X68 runs from South Croydon, up to Russell Square. Nightmare, you might think. But note the ‘X’. This stands, if you will, for express. This service runs, and you’ll need to follow me closely now, nonstop, between West Norwood, where I pick up the service, and Waterloo.
No stopping for the people of Tulse Hill, Herne Hill, Camberwell, or Walworth. They can stick their thumb out; they can try to flag it down. But the X68 will roll on by, oblivious to their entreaties.
This divine route means the travellers on-board have something of a camaraderie. You have that feeling of being above the hoi polloi as they struggle onto trains and buses, all elbows and knees and bags and sweat and the hopeless struggle to avoid eye contact.
The X68 takes you back to the good old days, by which I mean those days which never really existed, of people sitting in comfort as they are taken swiftly to their desk job.
Naturally, the same faces are seen every day. A group of middle aged Asian men get on the bus and acknowledge each other with a look which says, ‘Oh, so you take the X68 as well, you wise old thing.’
At West Norwood Station, the stop after mine, the bus driver calls out: ‘Next stop, Waterloo.’ And on occasion, in those moments of rich humour for the commuter, a lady frantically gets to her feet, and calls out, ‘WAIT!’ And the rest of us quietly chuckle to ourselves and enjoy seeing someone scramble off of our pleasant double-decker.
These are the quiet pleasures of south London suburban living.
Wednesday, 14 October 2009
Tampering with genius: the 'new' Hitchhiker's book
When looking at books to buy, I always become somewhat suspicious when I see two authors on the front page. Not a co-authoring project, but a 'brand' name at the top, and the real author at the bottom.
This is the kind of thing which happens with thriller writers like James Patterson. It is a commercial enterprise: Patterson outlines the plot, and the hack writer churns out several hundred pages of thriller. Patterson gives it his seal of approval and it's on your supermarket bookshelves a few weeks later.
That's fine. James Patterson is alive. He is making no bones about the fact that his creative juices overflow so wildly he cannot possibly write down all of his ideas for trashy thrillers himself.
But when I find Britain's best-loved author of the twentieth century, Douglas Adams, fronting a book by Eoin Colfer, I become shocked. Adams is dead. He can't give that seal of approval. He can have no say over the product bearing his name.
I become even more shocked - appalled, even - when I see that Colfer has picked up the thread of the work for which Adams is known, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. Colfer has written part six of three. This is a crime.
Euan Ferguson wrote a review in the Observer:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/oct/11/and-another-thing-douglas-adams
He said the book is really quite good. I believe him. But that is not the point. This is a series of books with which millions of people have fallen in love over the years. It shouldn't be expanded on, extended or tampered with. These are Adams' characters. This is his universe which he chose to share with us. It is not for another author to come along and bandwagon the operation, a few years after the author's death, and carry on the franchise. The whole thing seems crass.
It is so crassly commercial that nobody even in the world of rap music has attempted it. Yes, Tupac and Biggie have both had flourishing careers after their untimely deaths. But not even Puff Daddy has attempted to create a Notorious BIG album, with no real material from the rotund rapper himself. He just samples a bit of Biggie rapping, brings in an alive rapper and a honey-voiced singer, and he has the 'Duets' project. That is honest by comparison.
There is no suggestion, even, that Adams was thinking up a final book and Colfer is picking it up. No, he feels the man's muse and writes a book in Adams's name. And, worse still, there may be more to come.
Ferguson says this in the Observer:
Colfer has given us a delight, and an eye-opener, and hope, and, close as this book does on the line "The end of one of the middles", the near-promise of more to come.
This is not a near-promise. When I saw the advert for the book on the tube, I felt a nagging distress, a feeling that one of my heroes was being tampered with, with no chance of recourse.
Who knows if Adams would mind. Many splendid creative types take horrific decisions late in their career (see Beatles video game for evidence). Adams' wife did sanction the project.
But I'm sure many, many fans of the Hitchhiker's series of books mind very much. The best way to put a stop to this tawdrey enterprise is to avoid buying or reading Colfer's book, and hope it disappears, with no more additions.
This is the kind of thing which happens with thriller writers like James Patterson. It is a commercial enterprise: Patterson outlines the plot, and the hack writer churns out several hundred pages of thriller. Patterson gives it his seal of approval and it's on your supermarket bookshelves a few weeks later.
That's fine. James Patterson is alive. He is making no bones about the fact that his creative juices overflow so wildly he cannot possibly write down all of his ideas for trashy thrillers himself.
But when I find Britain's best-loved author of the twentieth century, Douglas Adams, fronting a book by Eoin Colfer, I become shocked. Adams is dead. He can't give that seal of approval. He can have no say over the product bearing his name.
I become even more shocked - appalled, even - when I see that Colfer has picked up the thread of the work for which Adams is known, the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy series. Colfer has written part six of three. This is a crime.
Euan Ferguson wrote a review in the Observer:
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2009/oct/11/and-another-thing-douglas-adams
He said the book is really quite good. I believe him. But that is not the point. This is a series of books with which millions of people have fallen in love over the years. It shouldn't be expanded on, extended or tampered with. These are Adams' characters. This is his universe which he chose to share with us. It is not for another author to come along and bandwagon the operation, a few years after the author's death, and carry on the franchise. The whole thing seems crass.
It is so crassly commercial that nobody even in the world of rap music has attempted it. Yes, Tupac and Biggie have both had flourishing careers after their untimely deaths. But not even Puff Daddy has attempted to create a Notorious BIG album, with no real material from the rotund rapper himself. He just samples a bit of Biggie rapping, brings in an alive rapper and a honey-voiced singer, and he has the 'Duets' project. That is honest by comparison.
There is no suggestion, even, that Adams was thinking up a final book and Colfer is picking it up. No, he feels the man's muse and writes a book in Adams's name. And, worse still, there may be more to come.
Ferguson says this in the Observer:
Colfer has given us a delight, and an eye-opener, and hope, and, close as this book does on the line "The end of one of the middles", the near-promise of more to come.
This is not a near-promise. When I saw the advert for the book on the tube, I felt a nagging distress, a feeling that one of my heroes was being tampered with, with no chance of recourse.
Who knows if Adams would mind. Many splendid creative types take horrific decisions late in their career (see Beatles video game for evidence). Adams' wife did sanction the project.
But I'm sure many, many fans of the Hitchhiker's series of books mind very much. The best way to put a stop to this tawdrey enterprise is to avoid buying or reading Colfer's book, and hope it disappears, with no more additions.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
The strange similarity of GPs and IT support
Walking up to the doctor, my hobble became slightly less so. This is a recurring theme for me. You wake up and think, 'I really do need a trip to the doctor'. And then, when faced with the GP, you think, 'perhaps I didn't need to visit the doctor quite so much'. It's as if by sheer force of seeing these highly-paid public servants, you get a bit better.
That said, my knee was making a funny clicking sound, and I was having trouble descending stairs. A lifetime of hearing about footballers doing their anterior cruciate - a six month layoff at least - meant I should get it checked out.
The doctor was a young Asian woman, perhaps younger than I. She sat at her desk with that posture and look on her face which spoke of confidence, almost arrogance. I eased myself into the seat, making a thing of it.
I explained the situation. Trip to the Lakes; Scafell, Striding Edge (yes, that's right, both in two days). Subsequent knee pain. She was unimpressed. It was clear that if you didn't have cholera or plague, you were wasting her time.
She got me on the bed, and waggled my knee about. I yelped. She said there wasn't any fluid - and left it at that. Had I not done my cruciate? Would I not be out from my desk job for the next six months?
The doctor went back to her desk; I followed, gingerly.
She told me I had a bit of swelling, and I should take some paracetemol for a week and if things had not improved to come back. She turned back to her computer as a way of concluding our interview.
Feeling shortchanged from my free appointment, I reflected that GPs often dealing with people very much as IT support staff do. GPs suggest a week of paracetemol just the same as IT support suggest switching your computer off and turning it back on again.
And the galling thing is that it nearly always works.
That said, my knee was making a funny clicking sound, and I was having trouble descending stairs. A lifetime of hearing about footballers doing their anterior cruciate - a six month layoff at least - meant I should get it checked out.
The doctor was a young Asian woman, perhaps younger than I. She sat at her desk with that posture and look on her face which spoke of confidence, almost arrogance. I eased myself into the seat, making a thing of it.
I explained the situation. Trip to the Lakes; Scafell, Striding Edge (yes, that's right, both in two days). Subsequent knee pain. She was unimpressed. It was clear that if you didn't have cholera or plague, you were wasting her time.
She got me on the bed, and waggled my knee about. I yelped. She said there wasn't any fluid - and left it at that. Had I not done my cruciate? Would I not be out from my desk job for the next six months?
The doctor went back to her desk; I followed, gingerly.
She told me I had a bit of swelling, and I should take some paracetemol for a week and if things had not improved to come back. She turned back to her computer as a way of concluding our interview.
Feeling shortchanged from my free appointment, I reflected that GPs often dealing with people very much as IT support staff do. GPs suggest a week of paracetemol just the same as IT support suggest switching your computer off and turning it back on again.
And the galling thing is that it nearly always works.
Thursday, 8 October 2009
the staffordshire hoard
Walking through Birmingham town centre, I saw a good old-fashioned queue patiently formed. It was a bit cold, a bit wet; a typical Birmingham day. It was one of those queues you rarely see any more. It was an experience in itself. The people in it felt they had little prospect of reaching the front, and when there, they would have quite forgotten what purpose they had in mind.
I tried to work out what the queue was for. It could have been the post office, but the days of the really good post office queue are over. No one knows where their local one is, and the places are so forbidding and lacking in value that only those on a serious nostalgia trip would think of going there on a Monday morning.
No, it had to be something else, something really good. I carried on walking and saw a big sign advertising the wonders of Matthew Boulton. As a former employee of the Science Museum, my heart leapt at people from Boulton's home town still being so inspired by this titan of the industrual revolution, that they would wish to queue for several hours on an autumn weekday for a look at a steam engine.
I wandered round the corner and saw the queue was indeed leading to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. I walked up to the entrance, a move which aroused some consternation among the queuing public.
"You here for the gold?" said the lady from the museum.
"I'm here for Boulton," said I.
"Well walk straight in, then, and keep to the right."
"What's the gold you are referring to?"
"It's the Staffordshire Hoard," said the lady, impatiently. This was clearly common knowledge.
"And how long is the queue?"
"About three-and-a-half hours."
"Is it always that long?"
"No, if you come at 9am, you might only have to wait for an hour-and-a-half."
I decided I was better off spending some time with Matthew Boulton, and walked into the desolate gallery. I reflected that this was one of those great British events, the one that everybody had spotted. It was the combination of the lucky find, the anglo-saxon hoard, much bigger and of more value than anyone had thought. Quickly dusted off and put on public display, the Brummies, seeing the Staffordshire hoard as a local history find of unparalleled importance, had seen that here was really something. Here was a once in a generation opportunity to queue.
I tried to work out what the queue was for. It could have been the post office, but the days of the really good post office queue are over. No one knows where their local one is, and the places are so forbidding and lacking in value that only those on a serious nostalgia trip would think of going there on a Monday morning.
No, it had to be something else, something really good. I carried on walking and saw a big sign advertising the wonders of Matthew Boulton. As a former employee of the Science Museum, my heart leapt at people from Boulton's home town still being so inspired by this titan of the industrual revolution, that they would wish to queue for several hours on an autumn weekday for a look at a steam engine.
I wandered round the corner and saw the queue was indeed leading to the Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery. I walked up to the entrance, a move which aroused some consternation among the queuing public.
"You here for the gold?" said the lady from the museum.
"I'm here for Boulton," said I.
"Well walk straight in, then, and keep to the right."
"What's the gold you are referring to?"
"It's the Staffordshire Hoard," said the lady, impatiently. This was clearly common knowledge.
"And how long is the queue?"
"About three-and-a-half hours."
"Is it always that long?"
"No, if you come at 9am, you might only have to wait for an hour-and-a-half."
I decided I was better off spending some time with Matthew Boulton, and walked into the desolate gallery. I reflected that this was one of those great British events, the one that everybody had spotted. It was the combination of the lucky find, the anglo-saxon hoard, much bigger and of more value than anyone had thought. Quickly dusted off and put on public display, the Brummies, seeing the Staffordshire hoard as a local history find of unparalleled importance, had seen that here was really something. Here was a once in a generation opportunity to queue.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Brixton Urban Green Fair
"This isn't good enough. These olives, they're sticky."
"That's an outrage. I've never been so insulted in all my life."
The woman jabs at the olives.
"They're sticky. I want my money back."
Urban Green Fair, Brixton. The home of drum workshops, holistic massage, and falafel. Christians and Buddhists. The Brixton Pound brigade. And lots of green groups.
Picking my way through the crowd, through to the Friends of the Earth stall where I am putting in a shift, I am reminded of just how many green organisations there are. Greenpeace are there, worrying about fish and nuclear warheads, World Development Movement are concerned about international finance, Climate Camp are against 'clean' coal, and Transition Town Brixton want to reduce dependance on oil. Friends of the Earth are campaigning about the food chain ie. that feed for animals here should be produced here and not on rainforest land.
The event is pleasant, filled with cycling vegetarians, of which I am one, talking genially about allotments and rearing chickens. Many times I start chatting to people about the meat and dairy issue and they raise a hand and say, 'I know.' The phrase 'preaching to the converted' comes up more than once.
It is a harmless exercise in the concerned few having a day signing their support for each other's campaigns. But without other things to draw people to the event, namely Chucklehead cider, a feature of the Lambeth Country Show, most people will generally not bother attending.
That seems a shame. Better to expand the remit a bit, get some traders and tunes, and give the green groups a chance not just to chat to their own. Otherwise the only argument you will hear at the Urban Green Fair will be about the quality of the olives.
"That's an outrage. I've never been so insulted in all my life."
The woman jabs at the olives.
"They're sticky. I want my money back."
Urban Green Fair, Brixton. The home of drum workshops, holistic massage, and falafel. Christians and Buddhists. The Brixton Pound brigade. And lots of green groups.
Picking my way through the crowd, through to the Friends of the Earth stall where I am putting in a shift, I am reminded of just how many green organisations there are. Greenpeace are there, worrying about fish and nuclear warheads, World Development Movement are concerned about international finance, Climate Camp are against 'clean' coal, and Transition Town Brixton want to reduce dependance on oil. Friends of the Earth are campaigning about the food chain ie. that feed for animals here should be produced here and not on rainforest land.
The event is pleasant, filled with cycling vegetarians, of which I am one, talking genially about allotments and rearing chickens. Many times I start chatting to people about the meat and dairy issue and they raise a hand and say, 'I know.' The phrase 'preaching to the converted' comes up more than once.
It is a harmless exercise in the concerned few having a day signing their support for each other's campaigns. But without other things to draw people to the event, namely Chucklehead cider, a feature of the Lambeth Country Show, most people will generally not bother attending.
That seems a shame. Better to expand the remit a bit, get some traders and tunes, and give the green groups a chance not just to chat to their own. Otherwise the only argument you will hear at the Urban Green Fair will be about the quality of the olives.
Wednesday, 16 September 2009
Goldacre debate with science minister
I've just been down to the Royal Institution where Ben 'Bad Science' Goldacre was debating the quality of science journalism with science minister Lord Drayson. Simon Mayo chaired.
Lord Drayson was 'for' science journalism and Goldacre, inevitably, 'against'. Paul Drayson's argument was that there was a low point in science journalism in 2002/03, with MMR stories scaring parents into not taking their children for the vaccine. He said things have improved since then. He also made a case for sensationalism, because it gets so many more people talking about science, citing end of the world fears about the Large Hadron Collider project which made people aware about physics.
Goldacre, a chirpy, lively character whose fans filled the auditorium, said there should be more for the nerd in the media. He made a case for more features about general trends in science, rather than news stories about research being published. That seems unrealistic and a recipe for dullness.
He was dismissive of the Daily Express's science coverage. Today's front page was mentioned which talks of research into a new cancer drug which could help thousands. His criticism was of the Express generally, not of the story in particular. However, this story, from Breakthrough Breast Cancer, for whom I work as press officer, showed good quality journalism from the Express.
The story was well-written, with a good explanation of the research. It cited the peer-reviewed journal in which the research was published and quoted the scientists who led on the research, Professor Alan Ashworth and Dr Chris Lord.
Michael Hanlon, from the Daily Mail, made a stout defence of his newspaper's journalism. He said while his paper does sometimes write conflicting stories, that reflects research published in journals such as Science and Nature.
James Randerson, from the Guardian, said that a recent survey had showed that the vast majority of scientists were happy with how research was represented in the media. He also disliked the suggestion from Goldacre that there was something wrong with a journalist picking up a piece of research, quickly familiarising themselves with the story, conducting interviews and then writing it up within a few hours. ie he was defending the daily news journalism process.
Both Paul Drayson and Ben Goldacre shifted towards the common ground through the debate. Both have a role to play: the minister in promoting groundbreaking research and quality journalism where he sees it, Goldacre in scaring everyone in the media and science PR to do the best job they possibly can.
I think that Goldacre's appeal for more journalism for the nerd is unrealistic. Science is more often than not funded by ordinary non-scientists who raise money for research in the name of a good cause. These millions of people need to hear about the research, so they can see the benefit of the money they are raising. Without their money, many scientists would be out of a job, and we wouldn't see progress made in treatment of diseases like cancer. We need to see science not relegated to a niche, but promoted as being important and interesting for everyone.
Result of the debate: a high scoring match, edged by Paul Drayson.
Lord Drayson was 'for' science journalism and Goldacre, inevitably, 'against'. Paul Drayson's argument was that there was a low point in science journalism in 2002/03, with MMR stories scaring parents into not taking their children for the vaccine. He said things have improved since then. He also made a case for sensationalism, because it gets so many more people talking about science, citing end of the world fears about the Large Hadron Collider project which made people aware about physics.
Goldacre, a chirpy, lively character whose fans filled the auditorium, said there should be more for the nerd in the media. He made a case for more features about general trends in science, rather than news stories about research being published. That seems unrealistic and a recipe for dullness.
He was dismissive of the Daily Express's science coverage. Today's front page was mentioned which talks of research into a new cancer drug which could help thousands. His criticism was of the Express generally, not of the story in particular. However, this story, from Breakthrough Breast Cancer, for whom I work as press officer, showed good quality journalism from the Express.
The story was well-written, with a good explanation of the research. It cited the peer-reviewed journal in which the research was published and quoted the scientists who led on the research, Professor Alan Ashworth and Dr Chris Lord.
Michael Hanlon, from the Daily Mail, made a stout defence of his newspaper's journalism. He said while his paper does sometimes write conflicting stories, that reflects research published in journals such as Science and Nature.
James Randerson, from the Guardian, said that a recent survey had showed that the vast majority of scientists were happy with how research was represented in the media. He also disliked the suggestion from Goldacre that there was something wrong with a journalist picking up a piece of research, quickly familiarising themselves with the story, conducting interviews and then writing it up within a few hours. ie he was defending the daily news journalism process.
Both Paul Drayson and Ben Goldacre shifted towards the common ground through the debate. Both have a role to play: the minister in promoting groundbreaking research and quality journalism where he sees it, Goldacre in scaring everyone in the media and science PR to do the best job they possibly can.
I think that Goldacre's appeal for more journalism for the nerd is unrealistic. Science is more often than not funded by ordinary non-scientists who raise money for research in the name of a good cause. These millions of people need to hear about the research, so they can see the benefit of the money they are raising. Without their money, many scientists would be out of a job, and we wouldn't see progress made in treatment of diseases like cancer. We need to see science not relegated to a niche, but promoted as being important and interesting for everyone.
Result of the debate: a high scoring match, edged by Paul Drayson.
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