Just the Two of Us

It’s been strange living in a Labour stronghold like Leeds since the confirmation of the new order, mainly because you can’t imagine what life must be like outside of your own bubble to realise where the hell all those Tory votes came from, and how we ended up with a PR man running the country. Sorry, make that two PR men.

A week is a long time in politics, and for proof of this, simply look at last week’s blog, when Labour where still (technically) running the country. Now look at them all: you might even clock Gordon Brown in a pub somewhere and think, “don’t I know you from somewhere?” Buy him a drink if you do. He looks like he needs one. But wasn’t his quick resignation speech lovely? His sense of relief was palpable, as if he just couldn’t wait to grab the kids and chart a flight to the furthest beach on the planet.

Despite my bias on this, I think the media have been a bit glib during such a monumental shift in our British political system. It could have been much worse, people: a centre right coalition will wean out the more extreme policies on either side, and although the Lib Dems may have sacrificed a lot in the process, they are still instrumental in putting their key manifesto pledges into action and will finally have a voice on the national stage. The media offence was initially caused by the pally nature of David Cameron and Nick Clegg's first press conference together, in which most left wing newspapers commented on the scene's homoerotic overtones, which was just borderline offensive: would the same have been said if it was Clegg and Brown instead? Yes, their camaraderie was precisely staged and the two seem to already be morphing into the same person, but those on the left shouldn't be too glib: no one who saw those scenes couldn’t have been reminded of the burgeoning years of New Labour with its rolled up sleeves, hearty handshakes and smiles for the cameras. Only now, instead of one Tony Blair, we seem to have two.

Anyway, with the press already stoking the fire of division within the new system (Conrats? Liberatives? Condems? Let's work on a name for next time), I think we should give this whole thing a chance, because given the budget deficit, rising sea levels, mass unemployment, a huge national distrust of politicians following a succession of scandals, division in the eurozone, mammoth environmental catastrophes and a volcano spewing a debilitating ash cloud into our jet engines, they will need all the help they can get, especially while Labour are deciding which half of Jedward to support in order to secure another term in office.

This is my last full week in England, as the next blog will be written from Australia, but that may depend on whether planes are being allowed to leave the ground by then. (Forgive my ignorance here on the intricacies of aviation, but can’t they just fly a little bit below the ash cloud?) This gives me the chance to talk about Swindon again, which is where I’ve just come back from. Obviously putting nostalgia aside, the old streets are just the same as I remember, but there appear to be new toy towns springing up everywhere. The old site of Princess Margaret Hospital (where many of my friends were born) is now a boxy, beige bricked commune called Royal Mead (something we locals like to describe as ‘flats for twats’, which Swindon seems to be full of. Flats, I mean).

Why, when given the opportunity to turn a blank canvas of derelict land into something iconic or even inspiring, do we choose to build these identikit, flat-packed, Ikea saturated, soulless estates with their measured rosebushes and driveways? You think that we would have learnt from our exploits in Milton Keynes, but obviously not. And then these suburban holes have the gall to be provisionally planned on green belt areas, thus encroaching on the surrounding splendour of the landscape. I know people need a place for their Audis and flat screen televisions, but it just doesn’t seem right to me.

Before I move on from this, need I remind you that it’s a big game for Swindon Town tomorrow: a second leg play off encounter with Charlton Athletic, who we beat on Friday thus furthering our chances of promotion into the Championship. I actually prefer to observe the team from a distance now for fear of suffering any inevitable bout of depression following any high profile defeat, a feeling of which is akin to the death of a much loved pet. Detachment like this isn’t desirable, but it can certainly help to reduce the stress levels.

Russell Crowe walked out of an interview with Mark Lawson this week when the prominent critic said he thought the actor’s interpretation of Robin Hood sounded a bit Irish in Ridley Scott’s new, big budget version. The disgruntled Aussie spent a long time trying to get his tongue around a northern accent, apparently, and from the clips I’ve heard, his voice seems quite indistinguishable from any other Russell Crowe voice.

This got me thinking about the worst accents in movies, which is a fun thing to do, if you have a few minutes to spare. Leonardo diCaprio struggled with Irish in Gangs of New York, including his co-star Cameron Diaz, who seemed to give up trying altogether about halfway through the movies. Dick Van Dyke’s ‘mockney’ chimney sweep in Mary Poppins obviously takes some beating, but little is mentioned here about Kevin Costner’s interpretation of a British accent in his attempt at Robin Hood in the early 90s, which seemed to stump the actor so much that he didn’t even bother. It was Nottingham by way of Los Angeles. At least Crowe deserves some credit for even giving it a stab in the first place.


And to add a more personal element to this, I would like to say a hearty thank you to everyone who paid a visit to the last live Wintermute show on Wednesday night. An emotional event, undoubtedly, and not just for us in the band, but there is some solace that can be taken from the knowledge that the people you meet in life, through whatever circumstance or instance, can ultimately and intrinsically become some of your closest and treasured friends, and that bonds like this are truly unbreakable. The music may be over, but I very much look forward to seeing everyone again - the people whose love and support have been a constant throughout my time here in England - and that they will forever remain in my thoughts.