I Get Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman!

Feminism is a curiosity for many young people today; something ugly that's curled in a corner, to be prodded with a stick because they don't quite know how it's going to react. To be honest the extent of my knowledge of what feminism stands for, or who a feminist actually is, goes no further than expressions of powerful female iconography that I've been exposed to through pop culture whilst growing up. Madonna grabbing her crotch whilst wearing underwear as outer-wear. The Spice Girls pulling peace signs whilst declaring 'Girl power!' Lady Gaga being... Lady Gaga. But is Madonna really a feminist when she's still having to sexualise her performances by having her tits peeking out of a blazer? Surely the five 'categories' that the Spice Girls were organised into only serves to present woman as a one-dimensional being? And as much as I love Lady Gaga, she has settled herself so snugly in an alternative niche - through her imagery particularly, often standing outside of what could be easily classed as any clearly defined gender - that is she really representative of a modern woman? The stereotypical bra-burning movement was a little before my time, and so with a liberal mind and heart my interpretation of what feminism stands for is restricted to what I've absorbed from the early 90s onwards.

Obviously there's room for debate within any of those claims, but then thank God for Caitlin Moran's How To Be A Woman for helping clear up some of the hazy finer points of feminism. With chapter headings as pronounced and loud as her Twitter posts ('I Start Bleeding!', 'I Don't Know What To Call My Breasts!'), it essentially goes like this:

Put your hand in your pants.
a) Do you have a vagina? and
b) Do you want to be in charge of it?

If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist.

It's not exactly earth-shattering stuff, but then what's enjoyable about How To Be A Woman is that it focuses on one much-needed thing: clarity. Moran writes in a brash, over-exaggerated tone that is accessible to all. In fact, it reads like it's basically just you and her, in some dingy little pub, putting the world to rights after too many bacardi and cokes. Part autobiography, part feminist mission statement, you stumble through each chapter confronted by various feminist issues, such as sexism in the workplace or the trickiness of high heels, until Moran pulls you back and says: 'Do you know what? None of this really matters. As long as you're doing it because you want to, then it's neither here nor there.' She quickly denounces the ridiculousness of Katie Price and her alter-ego Jordan as a successful businesswoman as little more than a phoney and a fraud; dismisses girls who are paying their way through university by stripping for money; and exposes the absurdity of spending £6,000 on a designer handbag ('If I'm honest, the handbag I would probably like most is a big, hollowed-out potato with handles on it. A giant King Edward with satchel straps. Then, in times of crisis, I could bake and eat the handbag, and survive the winter. That is the way of my people.")

All this is done with so much loling and roflment - indeed, the chapter 'I Get Married!' reduced me to such hysterical giggling as Moran documents the developing armageddon that was her wedding day, that I genuinely thought I was going to have to pop a valium - that it is a joy to read. It also reinforces the notion that Moran believes we should approach 'serious' topics such as feminism with a good smattering of humour, thrown in for healthy measure.

But it is the last few chapters that talk about giving birth, question the assumption that all women will have children, and Moran's decision to have an abortion upon discovering she is pregnant for a third time which are the most revealing. The biggest challenge of the 21st century will be shattering pre-conceived ideas of not only women and feminism but identity in general, focusing on offering anyone, whether female or male, the respect and opportunity to make their own choices, free from any set agenda. Upon discovering Germaine Greer, Moran invites all women to stand on a sofa and shout, 'I AM A FEMINIST!' By the time you've reached the end of How To Be A Woman, it becomes clear that Moran is simply advocating anyone and everyone to have the balls to stand up for themselves and purely create themselves in their own image. To this end, I will go one better than Moran. I will gladly join her up on that sofa but instead I will scream, 'I AM A FEMENIST!' Not to change the term to include the word 'men', but rather to change the term to include the word 'me'. See - free from any set a-gender.

That's Life

A year's hard work at Staffordshire Life magazine has reached its conclusion due to my contract coming to an end. It's been a memorable year, where I've gladly put up with all kinds of shenanigans being thrown my way. I guess not many people can say in their professional career that they've undertaken work that includes falconry, theatre, artists, cookery schools, musicians, museums, MPs, forests, canals, local businesses, Bentley, fashion, weddings, hospices, press trips, archaeological discoveries, festivals and even a trip to France.
It's been brilliant. And I hope that whoever's flicked through the magazine over the past 12 months has got just as big a kick out out of reading the features as I did writing them.
Still, onwards and upwards. Who knows what's next?

Ich trag den namen monster

On the one hand Gaga, I had geared myself up to sit you in the naughty corner. I was ready to put on my serious face, stand over you and, quite honestly, give you a good telling off. Hyping the new album up beyond belief? That lacklustre first single, which leans a little too much on Mother Madonna's shoulders? And don't get me started on the Radio 1 Big Weekend set. That was the final straw which really broke this camel's back. Diverting into free jazz? Throwing some of your biggest hits (Telephone, Poker Face, Alejandro) away in a medley that wasn't really a medley because you had breaks in-between each one (!), before undertaking a ridiculous cover of Orange Colored Sky in homage to Will and Kate? And for the love of Gaga, stop rhyming things with Gaga! I've already composed 'Gaga Black Sheep'. I'm onto you.
Of course, these bad moments were interspersed with instances of genius (incubating yourself in an egg being at the top), but generally there was a feeling of setting yourself up to fall. "You're going to sit here and think about what you've done," I would say sternly, whilst little Gaga would look up with wet eyes and a trembling lip.

But you see, there's a glitch in the plan...  your new album is actually rather good. Certainly, it doesn't live up to the hype but then that was all a load of blah-blah anyway. When the album does shine however, it burns bright like a red-hot smoking pipe of pop porn. And it'll confuse you if I punish you for doing something right - right? Poor doll.

Granted, it could've gone a bit further. You could have taken a few more risks musically. Monsters who thought you were heading towards a harder, more 'industrial' sound will be left disappointed. It's pretty much par-for-the-course in terms of drum machines and catchy hooks, all wrapped in a bangin' electronic shimmer with a cherry cherry boom boom on top isn't it? But the quality throughout is top-notch, with several really beating their chests loudly. Government Hooker begins with an eerie operatic wailing before descending into a moody ditty about, as far as I can tell, politicians and their whores. "Put your hands on me, John F Kennedy," you drawl. Nice shout-out. Scheiße is a strutter's wet dream, screechy synths set over a dominating talk-rap in German. Hair is a shoe-in for a future Glee episode and Bad Kids is a simple, carefree ode to loving yourself no matter what. Outstanding.

So, no naughty step today but I'll be keeping a close eye on you. That saxophone seems to be creeping into far too many songs for my liking. Milk and cookies Gaga?

Download: Government Hooker, Hair, Scheiße, Bad Kids

Journey's End feature

It seems only appropriate that I am forced to go on a literal journey of discovery for the text Journey's End.
Rising at 6am on a dark January morning to travel to Vimy, north France, was certainly an eye-opening experience.
It was to be a tour of the locations that had inspired the monumental play by R. C. Sherriff, Journey's End. From the dramatic Vimy Ridge to the awe-inspiring Notre Dame de Lorette, the sights that had such a vital impact on Sherriff's text were all explained with the aid of David Grindley, who is directing the upcoming stage production.
Brought to life in 1928 by R. C. Sherriff, Journey's End is an important play. Its insistent tension, which quietly bubbles under the surface throughout the three acts, and astonishing commentary on the human condition is, even today, movingly pertinent.
Set in the trenches of Saint-Quentin, Aisne, in 1918 before the end of the First World War, Journey's End consists of a group of British officers on the front line. The play begins with the arrival of Raleigh, an 18-year-old officer fresh out of English public school, to the besieged company, which is led by a man named Stanhope.
As the plot unfolds, we discover Raleigh knows Stanhope from his former public school days. Three years older than Raleigh, Stanhope was previously his 'hero'.
The central crux of the story is driven by the transformation that Stanhope has undergone during his time on the front line...



Stanhope, left, and Osborne in Grindley's production

Journey's End has had an enormous influence on director David Grindley.
Following its original success when it was performed in 1928 (with Laurence Olivier at the helm as Stanhope, no less), the play became a staple in theatre for some time. However, each progressive interpretation of Journey's End gradually became tired and a little uninspired.
It wasn't until Grindley successfully revived the play in 2004 that the production breathed a stunning new lease of life.
The production received rave reviews, ran in London for many months, went out on tour twice and even travelled to Broadway.
Now, Grindley is bringing Journey's End back to theatre-goers who wish to have a second helping. Under an entirely new cast, Journey's End will be showing at Stoke's Regent Theatre from Tuesday, March 29 to Saturday, April 2.
"It's an amazing piece and I can't seem to leave it alone," says David. "It's been such a big part of my life. With the first production we were only meant to play eight weeks - in the end we played 18 months!"
It was David's original trip to Vimy himself that inspired his re-telling of the story to such a powerful extent.
"If you look at pictures of the original production, it's quite spacious and has a theatrical feel. I was very keen to make it real. It's a play with a very real context and that's something I've researched with my designer, going out to France, visiting Vimy Ridge and other sites. We wanted to know just what Sherriff's battalion had been through."
The intense power of Journey's End lies in the fact that Sherriff himself served in the First World War.
He went to war with his local regiment as a 20-year-old subaltern. Arriving in France in September 1916, Sherriff was stationed here for ten months before he was invalided home with facial wounds received in the opening battle of Passchendaele.
The play is founded upon his experiences while fighting alongside 'C company' of the 9th Battalion of the East Surrey regiment.
Importantly, it is worth noting that this trip did not take me to where Journey's End itself is set but rather where Sherriff himself fought.
"When I first did the play I came back in an absolute blind panic that I didn't know enough about the First World War," explains David. "Fortunately I realised that I just need to know about what this group of men went through. I'm not wanting to be ignorant, but I want their knowledge to be very specific. I don't want them to know everything."
As I disembark at Vimy Ridge, the colossal effect of war is still marked across the landscape.
In March 1916 the trenches here were taken over by the British. The area had been one of aggressive mine warfare between the French and Germans, and this bombardment continued to ravage the site.
Each side continually tunnelled under enemy lines in an attempt to create underground chambers that could be filled with explosives, destroying whatever lay above them.
The ground has been utterly disfigured by the intense mine warfare. Craters litter the land; huge depressions in the earth that expose the strength of the explosions.



Craters made by shells and mines at Vimy Ridge

Gazing out across this battle-scarred scene, I can't help but feel incredibly small. How soldiers managed to stand up against this level of bombardment is baffling.
"When I was there for the first time, I really had a sense of looking out over the distorted landscape," David considers. "At the time, it would have just been mud, no greenery, desolate and completely devastated. Your senses would have to negotiate with the smallest bit of beauty: bird song, blue sky, beautiful sunlight on your face...
"The smallest things will become absolutely essential to maintaining your humanity in that hell hole."
The main impression Vimy Ridge forces upon the mind is just how all-consuming the war environment must have been; attacking the senses and playing cruel tricks on the mind.
This is demonstrated to great effect in the underground tunnels of Vimy Ridge. The chalk in the ground below made it an ideal area for tunnelling and extensive networks were constructed, eventually creating a system that extended for many miles and included headquarters, hospitals and communication centres.
These tunnel systems allowed troops to move about in safety below ground, and it was possible to accommodate 11,000 men in underground barracks. Conditions were dank, cramped and cold.
At one point while I traverse the confined tunnels, the lights are switched off. Suddenly, it is as if all that is good has been sucked out of the world in the fraction of a second; it is disorientating and, quite frankly, frightening. An unpleasant reminder of how bleak life must have been in these conditions, the descent into darkness is only temporary as the switch is quickly pressed back down and light floods the underground trench once more.
"The intimacy of the living conditions, the oppressiveness, the claustrophobia..." David Grindley struggles to convey the physical and mental challenges that the soldiers would have had to face. "The British and Germans have absolutely distorted and re-created that landscape. It is a completely different environment now than it would have been before the war."
The director feels the play is one of endurance.
"I'm very aware of seeing these characters as ordinary people. Cultural and social barriers break away. They recognise that the only people they can trust to survive is each other. This is a play about these men binding together in the light of these psychological pressures to make the best out of the situation they're in."



Trenches at Vimy Ridge

When Raleigh enters the company in Journey's End, the character Osborne warns him that he will find his childhood hero Stanhope much-changed from how he remembers. 'You know you mustn't expect to find him quite the same,' Osborne utters in one telling line of the text. 'You see, he's been out here a long time. It tells on a man - rather badly.'
As a coping mechanism, Stanhope has sought comfort in an unrelenting supply of whiskey.
"We can't imagine what it must have been like for Stanhope: all the losses he encountered, all the men that served under him and had been slain on his watch," says David.
"It's a tipping point, and only whiskey can insulate him from his experiences. It's not fear, it's just the sheer weight of responsibility that he feels for all the men serving with him."
Each individual copes with the terror of the front line in a different way.
Osborne listens. He emerges himself in other's tales, so as to direct his thoughts away from the horrors of the war.
The character Trotter tells jokes. Laughter is his medicine, a means of escaping the stark reality the soldiers find themselves in.
And then there is Hibbert; someone who finds the ordeal of war impossible to comprehend. In one of the most unnerving scenes of the play, the primitive instinct of fight or flight is tested between Stanhope and Hibbert.
"Hibbert is utterly desperate," says David. "He has no moment-by-moment diversion, so he can't find any way of mitigating his fear.
"A salient point to remember is that these are men and women, just like us, who find themselves at the front line."
As we move on to the the Notre Dame de Lorette, this becomes ever more obvious.



The Notre Dame de Lorette

The Notre Dame de Lorette is a huge ridge that, at its peak, stands at 165 metres high.
During 1914 and 1915, the French fought a series of battles in the area, known as The First, Second and Third Battles of Artois. In 1916 the British took over from the French, fighting a series of local engagements and then launching a crucial attack on the Germans during The Battle of Arras in 1917.
Now, the Notre Dame de Lorette is also the name of the site for the French National Memorial and Cemetery.
Shockingly, the cemetery contains almost 40,000 graves - half of which are unknown soldiers - and an ossuary containing the bones of those whose names were not marked.
The chapel and lighthouse tower dominate the ridge, which was one of the major objectives for both sides due to its vantage point.
Seemingly limitless lines of graves have been erected with a simple cross headstone. Even now, it is as if these soldiers killed in the war are standing to attention in strict, regimented rows, with the proud buildings acknowledging their sacrifice at the front.



40,000 graves in the cemetery at the Notre Dame de Lorette

"That concentration of the dead really affects me," comments David.
In one scene in Journey's End, Stanhope speaks of looking up at a wall of mud compacted in front of him. He sees 'the worms wandering about round the stones and roots of trees'.
"He's not just talking about worms," David says heavily. "The earth is alive. He's talking about worms going through the eye-sockets of skulls. He can see bones... the dead that's accrued over the last four years of the war. It's that kind of visceral impact that I had when I was in the cemetery for the first time."
To the rear of the cemetery is a war museum, containing the rusted artefacts of artillery and barbed wire that were used during the First World War.
"The sheer physicality," David stresses. "The metal is so heavy, so dense. If you had that exploding and any small bit hitting you, the potential damage is very difficult to come to terms with."



The kind of heavy machinery used in the First World War

The trauma that everyday men must have faced is unimaginable.
In Journey's End, the two central protagonists Stanhope and Raleigh are only 21 and 18-years-old respectively, a fact that is brutally hammered home by the young cast that performs Grindley's intense production.
"It was very important in the casting that hopefully young people will come to the show and recognise Stanhope and Raleigh are representing them," says David. "It's a moment to reflect on what you would do if you were put in their shoes."
Stripped to its core, David claims Journey's End is the story of two boys. "It's about Raleigh having a baptism of fire where he realises Stanhope is as human as everyone else. He's flawed, and not as perfect as you think he is. It's their story."
As my time in France comes to an end, I cannot help but think it is 'our' story. Journey's End is a play that speaks of camaraderie, trust and asks just what makes a 'hero'.
The tale of these two young men is a concentrated story of experience that expands from one to the many; not only the numerous brave men that fought in the First World War, but to all of us as ancestors of these great men that created our life as we know it today.
Surveying the great sea of graves at the peak of Notre Dame de Lorette, it is clear that their story needs to be told.



18-year-old Rayleigh in Grindley's production

Journey's End is showing at Stoke's Regent Theatre from Tuesday, March 29 to Saturday, April 2. To book tickets, visit www.ambassadortickets.com/stoke or call the box office on 0844 871 7649

Victory!

Following the remarkable scenes of uprising against Mubarak in Egypt, today has seen another political triumph - but this time for the British. The government's u-turn on the unnecessary selling off of the public forest estate should be greeted with giddy elation. These are some of our most valuable natural treasures, a constant source of escapism and enlightenment. In times when so many people feel disenchanted, stripped of their own democratic voice, then there is truly cause to celebrate this victory. It has shown that we do have a say, and our country would be a far more engaging and liberal place if we decide, every day, to clear our throats and speak that little bit louder.

In progress?

We will meet where the lights are/The defenders of the faith we are/Where the thunder turns around/They'll run so hard we'll tear the ground away.

Four become five. It’s an emotional and significant album for Take That. In-band squabbles and differences have been put aside to celebrate the good times, and all this has been condensed into an album that suggests they could actually have a future together as a five-piece.
Those expecting a rehash of Beautiful World or The Circus are in for a shock/treat (delete as appropriate). Gone are the middle-of-the-road ballads and in their place is a contemporary euro-pop album that consistently plays on your belief that you’ve come to know what to expect from Take That. This is 100% a very good thing. Personally, I don’t know if I could stomach a CD of lighters-in-the-air anthems, while Robbie stares lovingly at Gary and all is forgiven. Instead, what we have is an album that boldly dares to write the next chapter in Take That’s history, documented in a collection of ten perfectly-formed tracks.

SOS is like ABBA on steroids. The chorus is a whirling cry of disarray, and disorder has never sounded so catchy. Kidz, not to be confused with Williams’ solo hit of (almost!) the same name, sizzles over a thumping electro stomp whilst Mark mumbles anti-establishment sentiments of “kings and queens and presidents, ministers of government” and such, before Williams grabs the issue by the crotch and roars, “There’ll be trouble when the kids come out/There will be lots for them to talk about”, to which Mark retorts a few “hey hey heys”. It’s quite a departure from Take That’s typical soundscape and, as such, is one of the best tracks here. Consequently, Kidz is an obvious contender for follow-up single to The Flood.
Meanwhile, Pretty Things is a soothing lullaby lost in clouds of synthesizers - fronted almost entirely by Williams again – whereas Happy Now is a ray of euphoric pop that is almost as jubilant in its sentiment as Do What You Like… but then again, nothing ever is.

Howard and Jason hustle their way to the mic on Affirmation and hidden track Flowerbed respectively, both songs positioned in the rear of the track listing. Both tracks do the job however, and will hush detractors that say the vocals should be spread more evenly.
And what about Gary? Well, he is here, most obviously on The Flood and official album closer Eight Letters. Otherwise, he tends to take more of a back-step. ‘Mutiny!’, I hear you all cry. Not quite, as Barlow’s influence can be heard melodically throughout Progress, in the urgency of SOS’ furious beats per minute’s right through to the exuberant harmonies of Happy Now. The decision to step aside and allow Williams and Owen the majority of lead vocals was certainly a brave one, but one that I think pays off when you consider the addition of Stuart Price too.
This year alone, Price has played the part of producer extraordinaire for Kylie, Scissor Sisters and Brandon Flowers’ first solo LP. Here, Progress is enveloped in a layer of warmth that actually contrasts well with the vocals of Owen and Williams. Owen’s voice is an unusual one, which forces its way out in a slightly tense pitch, whilst Williams can let loose with thundering power. The verses of Kidz could not have been done by any other member than Mark, and it is Robbie’s call-to-arms vocal that crash against The Flood which make it such an epic comeback single. To this end, production and vocals are suitably matched, but it is the absence of Gary’s vocals that will cause the biggest upset with fans, rather than the shift in sound.

Some of these songs will sound huge live, and with the album cover depicting the five members in the various stages of mankind whilst lyrics speak of “divine intervention” and “preparing for apocalypse”, Take That can really go to town on the theatrics when their 2011 tour roles around. Progress is a fiery disc of molten brilliance, shot out from the centre of the earth. Well done boys.

Popstar 101

The big buzz over Lady Gaga's new video for Alejandro has finally began to subside but, with it clocking over 17 million views on Youtube currently, debate is sure to continue on whether the promo clip is a work of art, or just hard work.

Following the success of the Telephone video, I had a new-found respect for all things Gaga. Telephone, which I posted my thoughts on at the time, was a hit because it didn't take itself too seriously, whilst at the same time taking its role as a music video very seriously indeed. The feature was ironically iconic, and served as the perfect platform for Stefani Germanotta to display the art(ist) she had created. Even the exaggerated nine and a half minutes running time did not matter, as it simply affirmed the fact that this video was a proper pop event by a proper popstar, not a run-of-the-mill club scene like carbon videos a, b and c (or should that be J, L, S? The only thing that club is alive with is the sound of far too much autotune).

Furthermore, the decision to get Steven Klein on-board should have been a masterful move. Klein is, much like Lady Gaga, a brilliant manipulator of exhibition, and working hand-in-hand they should have produced something worty of a follow-up to the Telephone clip.

For all the desire to create something that is original, unexpected, striking, and multi-layered, Lady Gaga forgot to consult the Popstar 101 Handbook (if it doesn't exist, then it should do). And rule number one: entertain. A criteria so key and essential in this line of work that to forget it is nothing short of blasphemous. You see, I admire how the video's been shot. The art direction is certainly very good. And the choreography is arguably the best we've seen from Gaga. But from watching the video I was pretty, well... bored. And it comes as a suprise, because up until this point 'boring' was never a word that could be directed at the woman.

From watching, you get the distinct impression that there is supposedly some sort of plot beneath all the moody frames, but after numerous viewings all I am able to grasp at is a collection of random images that provide no kind of cohesive narrative and no semblance of a unified message. I would never be one to say that the visuals should explicitly match-up with the lyrics of a song, and to my mind it is always a plus for a piece of cinematography to allow multiple readings, but if the impression a viewer is left with is one of mild bemusement - that awkward burrow of the brow, coupled with a raised eyebrow - then I can't help but feel Lady Gaga has fallen short of the mark in delivering this time around. It takes over eight minutes to say very little at all.

The execution of the video is as cold and stark as the warehouse in which the performance takes place. Klein's direction just comes across as a repeat of the work he has previously done with Madonna, particularly the photoshoot that was used for her 2004 Re-Invention Tour. The imagery is less of a re-invention and more of a re-hash.

Klein has attempted to justify the scenes of religion, saying: "The religious symbolism is not meant to denote anything negative, but represents the character's battle between the dark forces of this world and the spiritual salvation of the Soul."

He continues: "Thus, at the end of the film, she chooses to be a nun, and the reason her mouth and eyes disappear is because she is withdrawing her senses from the world of evil and going inwards towards prayer and contemplation."

How well this convoluted explanation directly tackles some of the issues in the clip is difficult to say. Are the dark forces in this world the throng of naked man prancing around her? Or perhaps it's the pudding-bowl haircut that she finds herself with? But just how far Gaga et Klein can defend the religious symbolism is questionable when the video includes her dressed in a nun's attire emblazoned with an upside-down cross that points to her crotch.

For the video for Telephone, I applauded the length of it. The high production values, and the fact that it was like a short feature film, meant that it injected a new lease of life into what was becoming a sterile medium. Lady Gaga has up until this point ensured that the music video is still an important component of the 'pop package', something that record labels have been pushing to one side in more recent years, as it is unlikely the return on them actually warrants the costs spent. The opposite is true here. With no sense of direction, Alejandro does not make for compulsive viewing. Rather, it is a chore to sit through, certainly in contrast with her previous offerings.

The best thing that Gaga can possibly learn from this is that producing a perfectly complete three-and-a-half minute pop video can actually be a work of art too, and that she would not be sacrificing her artistry in doing so. Sometimes Gaga, less is more.

The black billowing cloud

I always tend to be wary of things when they're considered popular. There's something inside me that ticks like a bomb, albeit one that is cushioned by a hundred used mattresses, or spun in bubble wrap and then discarded at the bottom of nobody's basement; but my body still tenses at that consistent, however muffled, ticking. It's as if I think no-one and no thing can be truly popular without some form of deception or cruelty or foul-play taking place. I don't judge myself to be naturally distrustful. I believe in many things, I suppose - what about you?

Upon waking to the news of the volcanic ash that's drifting ever closer, my immediate thought was of Don DeLillo's White Noise, and the airborne toxic event that he describes.

'...we saw a remarkable and startling sight. It appeared in the sky ahead of us and to the left, prompting us to lower ourselves in our seats, bend our heads for a clearer view, exclaim to each other in half finished phrases. It was the black billowing cloud, the airborne toxic event, lighted by the clear beams of seven army helicopters. They were tracking its windborne movement, keeping it in view. In every car, heads shifted, drivers blew their horns to alert others, faces appeared in side windows, expressions set in tones of outlandish wonderment.

The enormous dark mass moved like some death ship in a Norse legend, escorted across the night by armored creatures with spiral wings. We weren't sure how to react. It was a terrible thing to see, so close, so low, packed with chlorides, benzines, phenols, hydrocarbons, or whatever the precise toxic content. But it was also spectacular, part of the grandness of a sweeping event, like the vivid scene in the switching yard or the people trudging across the snowy overpass with children, food, belongings, a tragic army of the dispossessed. Our fear was accompanied by a sense of awe that bordered on the religious. It is surely possible to be awed by the thing that threatens your life, to see it as a cosmic force, so much larger than yourself, more powerful, created by elemental and willful rhythms. This was a death made in the laboratory, defined and measurable, but we thought of it at the time in a simple and primitive way, as some seasonal perversity of the earth like a flood or tornado, something not subject to control. Our helplessness did not seem compatible with the idea of a man-made event.'

So, I guess I believe in fiction.


Banksy: 'They exist without permission. They are hated, hunted and persecuted. They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth. And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees. If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.'

I've always been a fan of Banksy's art, and not just the curious suspicion it evokes in modern-day principles, but the means in which Banksy as an artist operates. To work with the medium of graffiti should be problematic for an artist, what with the obvious time pressures and legal issues that abound, not to mention the notion of whether it should be deemed 'art' at all by many individuals ('People look at an oil painting and admire the use of brushstrokes to convey meaning. People look at a graffiti painting and admire the use of a drainpipe to gain access'). I'm sure Banksy doesn't call it art. And yet it is obviously the means itself with Banksy that imbues his pieces with something more pertinent. His work is raw and angry, terse but suggestive. They stand as venomous advertisements, motifs of disillusionment and quiet violence. By scrawling it across a battered tube train on the District Line, or the empty canvas of a forgotten white-washed wall in Bristol, Banksy is asking for our distrust to the same degree as all those big-buck businesses are crying out for our hand via their next advertising campaign. His role as a graffiti artist is as much about reclaiming the streets from the rodents as it is about letting them loose from the stinking sewers. Are the rats those corporate companies and politicians that run riot, or is it the ordinary man, left squatting in his own mess? Surely it can't be a coincidence that 'rat' is an anagram of 'art'?


Tonight I will be watching the first televised political debate between the three main parties. I don't know who to vote for. I've questioned whether to vote at all. Then I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't know or understand enough, which basically translates as they haven't tried to know or understand enough. I get angry at people who say they won't be voting because they don't believe it will make any difference, which actually means they don't want things to be any different. Everyone is claiming that this is the most exciting election in a long time because the race is so narrow but, when you think about it, it's actually the most unexciting because people just don't care who wins. The state of things hasn't quite reached the level of an 'airborne toxic event' yet, but it's certainly more than a 'feathery plume'; I'd say it's at the stage of a 'black billowing cloud', but one that is getting progressively closer and darker.

Banksy: 'Imagine a city where graffiti wasn't illegal, a city where everybody could draw wherever they liked. Where every street was awash with a million colours and little phrases. Where standing at a bus stop was never boring. A city that felt like a party where everyone was invited, not just the estate agents and barons of big business. Imagine a city like that and stop leaning against the wall - it's wet.'

Universally challenged

Maths was never my forte. It always seemed a barrage of abstract symbols and numbers, and the only weapon I was able to arm myself with was a protractor. Who ate all the pi's? Not me. I understand how a select few might be that way inclined; how the thought of either being wrong or right is comforting. The idea of being held lovingly in the bosom of long division or a quadratic equation as a beacon of logical astuteness, the only way that could rationally and practically explain why x plus y equals... well I don't know, I said I was never very good at this. Obviously, I aligned myself with all those artsy-fartsy subjects, i.e. the ones potential employers don't really have any interest in.

There's an article in today's Daily Mail titled 'Why so many University Challenge champions fail to win in life'. Yes, I laughed too. Two quotes that have been emboldened during the course of this piece are even better. The first states, "I spend a lot of my time having to dumb myself down". The second: 'Winners tend to graduate to mediocrity'. Frankly, there's a simple equation that doesn't add up here: that intelligence should result in success.

It seems obvious enough. But is it? One contestant, John Burke, who helped the Open University to win the show in 1999, is now working as a postman. He says: "I'm certainly capable of a lot more than delivering papers. I've got a lot of other capabilities that I'm not really fulfilling." Another is Thor Halland, a participant of the winning Birkbeck Team of 2003, who 'experimented with cocaine, heroin and LSD in an attempt to 'fix' his brain'. Apparantly a sharp intellect needs 'fixing'. To be honest, I'm still transfixed by the fact that his first name is Thor. So why should intelligence equate success? The notion of being an intellect has always bugged me. People always refer to it as an intrinsically natural state, one that you're either predisposed to at birth or you're not. The fact that we now grow up having, oh I don't know, something termed 'an education' is skimmed over. And the argument that we're all either business-minded or creatively inclined...? That we're all habitually more adept with one side of our brain than the other...? No we're not. I've always said I'm proud to be a humanities student, but that doesn't mean I'm more artlessly gifted with verbs and adjectives than algebra and sums; I just decided at some point, in the grandly pointless narrative of my life, that I preferred abc to 123.

Halland goes on to say: "People like successful people, but they don't really like intelligent people. There's a little bit of jealousy." Really? Surely there has to be a marriage of the two, success and intelligence, at some point? You have to be intelligent to be a success at the end of the day, don't you? The problem occurs when people think that being academically gifted is going to reap bountiful years of indulgent success. You need to be smart across the board, in all sorts of frustratingly generalised areas - communicatively, technically, geographically, linguistically, pragmatically, etc - if you're going to stand out from the crowd. To expect that you will get ahead due to merely knowing about astrophysics is a little, well, stupid isn't it? Even Jeremy Paxman acknowledges that the kind of person University Challenge tends to attract is a particular character: "It is disturbing how many times students will confide, "It's been my lifetime ambition to get on to University Challenge." You want to scream: For heaven's sake, it's only a bloody quiz.""

If an intellectually bright individual 'fails to win in life', then surely the blame can only really be laid at the aforementioned person? So, not that bright then?

Desperately seeking

My brother is presently trying to help me write this Pop post. The absence of recent posting has been due to a week of 'self-improvement', for lack of a better, cohesive term: internship interviews, radio shows, tearing my CV apart and building it up again. Today I'm attending a 'CV Clinic', if you can believe it. Quite whether my CV is so ill it needs to see a doctor is debatable to my mind, but we'll see. And the lack of posting is set to continue into next week, as I'm off to Portugal for 6 days (OBRIGADO!), so apologies for that too.

It was my brother's idea to write about my CV. "Write about," he says, "how we're in an academic sweatshop; we're having to be sold as a commodity. Working for 'The Man'? Who's the bloody man?!" Indeed.

The fact that everyone is so manufactured these days is a bit of a worry. 22, university degree, desire to succeed, GSOH... I feel like I'm playing the dating game, rather than at the start of a career. If this is the case, my CV is, without question, a slag. Do you realise how many times it has been whored out to prospective partners (i.e. 'The Man') in the past? To set it apart in the future, I will print it on good quality cream paper, send it out in A4 envelopes (so that it's not folded up and creased), and attach a super-smiley picture of myself, to add a more 'personal' touch. Yes, this slag is getting desperate.

And it's hard to not feel deterred at this stage of the game, which becomes even more frustrating when 'this stage of the game' is actually prior to the whole process of your career even beginning. And that word, 'career'. It's toxic. This moniker brings to mind etheral imaginings of sowing the educational bean, climbing that bewitched career ladder, and entering into the magical kingdom of Job.

Luckily, youthful optimism shines through. In my mind, and the minds of countless others, that magical kingdom still awaits. Except this fairytale is not made up of Prince Charming and the Princess, but the Tyrannical Corporate Capitalist and the Slag. But I think we all know which story will sell more copies. And they all lived happily ever after...?

Head first in love

Purchasing a CD has become, and I'm sure I speak for many, a bit of a rarity these days. The reason why was perfectly illustrated today, when I snatched myself a copy of Goldfrapp's new album Head First (Goldfrapp are of course an exception to the rule, being one of those bands where I have to own every one of their LPs). When I got home, I burnt the CD into my iTunes, so that I had the songs on my laptop. Then I connected my iPod up, so that I had the tracks on this all-important device too. And then I stored it on my family's central music system, so that all the many people who inhabit this house - a grand total of three - can listen to the album wherever they jolly well want to as well. Satisfied, I finally placed the CD on a shelf. Thank you decomposition, please take place quickly now.

And it's such a shame, don't you think? Everything is so crisp and untouched, and if Apple has anything to say it will continue to remain crisp and untouched. Everything about a CD in its physical form is a work of art. From the carefully conceived design of the packaging, to the liner notes full of lyrics and little thank you's and production credits, and then the perfectly circular disc that's held in place by those tiny plastic diamonds. Even the process of the CD spinning, and the stereo reading the music as it turns...? Spins my head right round like a record, baby.

A duo such as Goldfrapp, for all their progressive pop moves, make me pull back to listening to a CD as it was intended. This is an organic record through and through. No matter what sonic landscape they decide to create, it's still structured around soaring pop melodies and joyful harmonies - the simple things that are essential if a pop song is to be sincere. And if a pop song needs anything in abundance, it is sincerity. Head First embraces a gorgeously realised state of euphoria; 80s synths that shimmer and soft beats that fizzle with warmth. Alison Goldfrapp, if rumours are to be believed, is in love, and it shows. 'Believer' is drenched in optimism, a spritely feel-good anthem to the joys of keeping the faith; 'Alive' could be Olivia Newton-John having the best time of her life; and for those of you who enjoyed Supernature, 'Shiny And Warm' is the sloshed sister of 'Satin Chic', a splendidly dizzy romp with Allison basically getting off on the drive home to her lover. The album melts in hues of pink and blue, with a consistency in sound that I have not heard over the length of an album for a long time. And by clocking in at 39 minutes, its duration is sweetly on point.

Alison has commented that "'Head first' means to go into something without fear - head first in love. It's not trivial. I think it's more celebratory." And with this wave of deliriously dreamy sounds, what's not to celebrate?

Please dial again

Something pretty exciting happens when you watch the music video for Lady Gaga's 'Telephone'. In fact, that entire sentence is so understated as to render it absolutely redundant. It's less a run-of-the-mill 'music video', and rather a 9 and a half minutes tour de force spectacular, a post-modern pastiche of what a promo clip should be. This clip is not observed; you become fully immersed in its idea of 'celebrity' - executed in such a way that its satire is anything but satirical - and the present landfill of product placement is acknowledged, trashed, spat back out, and recycled. 'Something pretty exciting happens' when you make a sandwich, doesn't it?

And that's not all. Its length hints back to a time when the release of a new video by a popstar was a big event; iconic promos such as Michael Jackson's 'Thriller', which displays artistry and ambition that is still lauded today. With our continuous crop of 'here-to...-oh-you've-already-gone' music acts, a video such as 'Telephone' stands out, with its synergy of pop artist and pop culture which can only truly occur when a thing is actually 'popular'.

Do I sound gaga? Maybe, but 'Telephone' proves that we want literal popstars, astronomically exaggerated human beings that have been shot out of the centre of the universe. I want someone wrapped in nothing but police tape whilst wearing a telephone on her head, thankyouverymuch!

Not who, but how

FPTP. AV. PR. EH?

It was a month ago that Gordon Brown broadcast his plans to reform the current voting system, from first past the post (FPTP) to an alternative vote (AV). The tension between the talk of reform and the impending elections has meant that I can't help but ponder, with my limited political understanding, the more simplistic facts of our voting system, rather than all its many intricacies. And what has bewildered me is why it is put in the hands of the government to decide how we vote.

In the proposed referendum, we would have the option of either FPTP or an AV. If common sense prevails, surely proportional representation (PR) is the nearest means of creating a clear democratic process in Britain? This is my opinion, and others may feel differently. What seems ridiculous is that the public don't even command the right to address what election process we vote under. Why is it not put to us as to what voting system we favour? FPTP is heavily criticised... so why do we still have it? Why should I choose between FPTP and AV if I believe proportional representation is the fairer system? Because a government who was elected into power through FPTP says so? An open choice of how we vote may even inspire more people to get involved in politics if they felt their voice counted for something. Currently, I feel it's less about who we vote for, and more to do with how.

Let them eat cake

Ellie Goulding is like a cake. From a distance you spy the ridiculous packaging, all blown-up and outrageous. Made out to be more than it actually is. Marketed as the 'Critics Choice' of cakes. Then you get a little closer, and it doesn't even look particularly appetizing. They've taken quite an ordinary victoria sponge and pumped gallons of squirty cream in there just to fill it out; to give it another layer which it doesn't even need. But you're forced to buy one because it's all the rage. Everyone you know is chomping on this cake at the moment, and you don't want to be left out. You pay for it at the checkout, pretending you're the toast of irony, when really you're just the bastard that bought the same victoria sponge as everyone else.

As you cut yourself a slice, you know it won't be as good as last year's 'Critics Choice' cake: this one's no ginger nut cake. That one may have been a bit of a fruit-loop, fed with so much brandy that even Mrs Scroggin's wouldn't know what had hit her, but at least it was truly deserving of the title. Tangy and rich, it certainly left you wanting more.

You slowly move the helping to your mouth, bite down and digest. It's stodgy, and a bit sickly, but the actual sponge isn't too bad. In fact, it's pretty good. But all this extra cream and jam...? You wipe it off, scoffing only the light, pleasant sponge.

When you see past the hyperbole in the media about Ellie Goulding, you come to realise she's not half bad. Nice enough pop melodies that include hints of pop, electro and folk. It's not groundbreaking stuff, but what she's meant to do she does well. But the marketing circus surrounding the release of her debut is a farce. I understand the reason behind a 'Critics Choice' record, but the artist has yet to prove anything worthy of such a high accolade. Under The Sheets is a good song, but if it wasn't for the Brits award would anyone be taking any notice of Goulding's bed-linen dramas? Of course, that's not to say that the recognition is not warranted, just that it's been dressed up as more than it is.

It's the equivalent of being force-fed that victoria sponge. Just a little too hard to swallow.

The First Inquest

Talk about uncomfortable.

There I was - all high and mighty - envisaging myself as a journalist of the highest order, taking on the world with my ideas of justice and sound moral code. Today was the day of 'The First Inquest', that pivotal event when my shorthand practice and sharp news writing skills would culminate in a bedazzling 200-word article of beauty.

My shorthand fell to pieces. I didn't know what information to take down. I could hardly translate what I had back. I couldn't find an 'angle' for the piece. It was a mess.

But, most significantly, it felt wrong. An inquest is a public hearing to determine the cause of an unusual death, where journalists have every right of being there. So why did this 'right' feel so, so wrong? Marilyn, the subject of this particular inquest, suffered from depression and paranoid schizophrenia, had undergone electric shock treatment, a total of 3 failed marriages under her belt, an alcoholic, and victim of domestic violence.
I understand that a journalist should have the privilege of sitting in court, yet I can't help believing that this freedom should not extend to inquests. Ascertaining the cause of a death is not the same as passing judgment on a crime or incident, and following today I feel quite strongly that, unless it is on a matter of public concern, an inquest should be a private affair between those that are directly involved.

Right to be wrong?

I'm not a cynic. No, really! I'm not. But there's something about February 14th that just does not sit right with me. I can barely stand to look at it, let alone allow it to sit in my lap. Some see candy and flowers and birds. I tend to see so much sugar I wanna be sick, profits that, er... roll like puddings and roadkill (RIP Pidgey).

The idea of romance is vastly overrated, particularly in this day and age. Romance is just not the same, and pledging my allegiance to Valentine's day would be like sleeping with Tiger Woods: just doing something because apparantly everyone else is. Let's take a look at modern love shall we? In the past week we have had the breakdown of John Terry's marriage due to his indiscretions with a teammate's ex-girlfriend; a 19-year-old girl in New Zealand who has sold her virginity for £20,000 to pay for university tuition fees; and the Pope denouncing equal rights for gay members of the public. Not that I'm condoning the Black-Eyed Peas, but come on: where is the love?

And it's reasons like this that make real love today so important. We don't need it to be sold to us. I'm a single man, but if I was lucky enough to find someone that little bit more sparklier than the average chap, I wouldn't want it shoved down my throat in the shape of some over-priced, over-iced cookie. Love is not a business, and thus businesses need to mind their own business.

The solution? Aside from embracing spinster-hood in all its vodka-fuelled glory, I would suggest a trip to Liverpool's A Foundation on the night of the 13th or 14th. Presenting an alternative view of love, it promises to get your heart racing in other ways, through a mixture of live art performances and installation pieces. Titled 'Wrong Love', DazedDigital have interviewed Travis Street, the Texan artist who's put together this true labour of love http://www.dazeddigital.com/ArtsAndCulture/article/6449/1/Wrong_Love

Pyjama-rama

Apparantly it's not limited to a selective few oddballs. It's not even an act that is considered embarrassing. In fact, it's supposedly becoming a national phenomenon. I'm referring to Britain's movement towards a more pyjama proud populus - specifically in the aisles of our fruits and veg. Supermarkets have had to explicity state on signs outside their doors that customers must be wearing appropriate dress and footwear, i.e. not your slips and nightgown. Some customers have remarked that those who shop in their loungewear cause them to be "embarrassed" and "offended".

I can't decide what to make of this. On the one hand, the image of myself doing the weekly shop in my pyjama top and bottoms causes my face to screw up in dread and I can't suppress the instinctive reaction to snort in derision. But I also can't help but enjoy the fact that people feel comfortable enough with what they are wearing (albeit not much) to go out in public like this. To be honest, with the recent surge in popularity of those grey trackie bottoms that every man and his dog seem to be wearing, coupled with the resilience of the fuggin' ugg boot, it's not suprising that we're taking things back to basic. Emphasis on casual comfort and... wearing what you sleep in? Perhaps this is a new market the fashion industry can tap into a little more. It's the only item of clothing that's still not produced in any manner that can really be considered 'high fashion', isn't it? Hell, if Britain is known for its multi-culturalism, perhaps it can be known for its 'multi-couturism' too...?

Walk this way

I really will go to one of these someday.

As usual in times of panic (I have my first NCTJ exam tomorrow), I decide to turn to pretty things. There's been a buzz on the net over the recent Paris and Milan fashion weeks, so I thought I'd casually cast my critical eye over what the designers were offering up this time round.

In my extremely unprofessional view, three designers stood out: Prada, Rick Owens and Hermes. Prada showed in Milan, with a collection that possessed a classic masculinity, with sharp lines and defined silhouettes, that still sneaked in some mottled knitwear in jaded bubblegum and arctic blues. The short, quite feminine cut and fit of the knitwear worked really well with the tailored trousers and suit jackets. Following Burberry's lead, the outerwear also seemed to over-exaggerate the collar, with the snow white coat being my favourite.

In the opposite direction was Rick Owens' collection. A brave cross between mythical drapes and forward-thinking shapes and lines, the designer's showing was a simple palette of blacks and whites, with some fur and snakeskin thrown in to liven things up a bit. The beastial 'coat' and smooth minimalist black jacket with the belt over the top are eye-catching but understated. It's a look that might not be to everyone's taste, but it has some kind of dream-like hold over me everytime I glance at it. And check out those gloves!

And finally, Hermes presented a look that is, in contrast to Owens, very wearable and durable. There are flashes of flamboyancy with long scarves perfectly placed and sorbet red velvet trousers, but the basics remain quite simple. However, the fact that one model manages to wear a parka jacket and still retain his credibility deserves immediate applause. The metallic mac is also a winner.

What do you think? All pictures are courtesy of GQ.

Sign of The Times

The Times is reportedly in discussions over ending the daily features pull-out, Times2. Apparantly the idea is to simply incorporate the features into the main body of the paper, but the redesign might mean that more space is given to its football supplement The Game and the weekly property section Bricks & Mortar.

This cannot be allowed. Denying readers of the features pull-out renders the whole process of reading a newspaper completely redundant. Why else would I wade through endless atrocities and disasters - for a bloody football?! I think not. It's like missing out on the sweet and being left with the sour; the ying without the yang, if you will. And particularly with news being so freely available on the internet, it is a serious error to suppose we need more print space for it. Nor do we need to surrender the supplement for further coverage of football or property developments; we have Sky Sports News and Kirstie and Phil for that.

And please do not suggest that The One Show is an adequate replacement for my Times2 fix...

Why I love fashion

Tanya Gold is a peculiar woman. On one hand, she can write witty little wisecracks about the the liberating pleasures of living by oneself (exhibit A - "I am a snoring, farting walrus/wildebeest-type creature, lying on melted chocolate buttons with a copy of Hello! scrunched between my thighs") and the difficulty of letting a man into this space (exhibit B - "Sleeping next to Man, I feel threatened. I have awoken to find myself punching people in the face"). And yet it appears she is also capable of throwing together some absolute tosh.

Case in point: a piece that was published in Thursday's copy of The Guardian, entitled 'Why I Hate Fashion' http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2010/jan/22/i-hate-fashion-tanya-gold (exhibit C).

To summarise, the points Miss Gold makes:
1) Fashion is elitist, unaccessible, and purely there for profit.
2) Fashion was responsible for the death of a 16-year-old girl in West Sussex.
3) Fashion made one 16-year-old model miserable.
4) Fashion decrys Tanya's new-found weight, and has kicked her out of its exclusive club.

There is a lot wrong with the fashion industry, but Tanya Gold must surely be the true definition of a 'fashion victim'. It annoys me how so many people are snobbish about an industry that is founded upon everyday life and a wealth of creativity.

The tale of the two girls is silly and short-sighted. The true beauty of fashion is that it is (secretly, it seems) anti-elitist, expressive and available for all bodies and builds. It might be there for profit, but at the end of the day so are all commodities, and when you're living in these items day-in and day-out, surely they must be seen as investments? Fashion is one of the most open clubs in town; it's your own fault if decide not to step through the door.

The best bit, however, in all of this is the picture.

I mean, OH MY. I wheezed.
Can you imagine the photographer? "What we've gone for here is a unique take on the Lily Allen 2006 look, teaming a khaki ocean with some very chic Primark trainers; it shall be called bag-lady. Right, now that's it, hunch over a little more. Let's try again, but can you look a little bit more shit darling...?"

(You may also notice Tanya look decidedly more glamorous for the contributor image on the Guardian's website...)

Those mannequins are brilliant however, filled with a venomous disgust of what has fallen before them. The only thing that can save Tanya Gold now is if one of the mannequins (or both, if they so wish) would do her the courtesy of stepping out of the window and providing her with a quick wallop about the face with a Chanel handbag, or a fast jab to the knee with a Wang heel.