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.

Spain for Pleasure

Corvera is a sleepy (and I use this term with complete accuracy) byway in the dusty south eastern tip of Spain which appears to have been largely ignored by just about everybody. There are cars parked on the streets but seemingly no people to drive them, but if they choose to, at least Corvera has a petrol station and a road which will lead them to the bustling university city of Murcia, which is about 10 miles north. Corvera’s only cab driver, Juan, has one arm (I suppose you could call him a ‘Juan-armed-driver’). Demand for his services are slight (probably wise), and we’re told Juan only recently entered the taxi trade to supplement his haulage business, which perhaps prove Spain’s slightly cavalier approach to road safety.

We’re here during the May bank holiday for Mercia’s SOS 4.8 festival, a non-stop two day event which set us back the measly price of €35. A relatively young cultural event combining visual and performance art with live music, SOS 4.8 mixes an odd collection of British artists (Hot Chip, Mystery Jets, Madness) with the sort of Spanish pop which wouldn’t look out of place on ‘The Fast Show’. Listening to this stuff makes you realise just how important the UK music industry really is, and there is great pride to be had in watching a 30,000 strong crowd of Spanish locals singing along, in interpretive English, to the songs of Franz Ferdinand. As a tourist, and as one of the very few English at the festival, one can take solace in the fact that drunk teenagers are pretty much the same all over the continent, no matter what language barrier, with fashions and behaviours reminiscent of just about any other UK festival that I have had the mortally hung over pleasure to have endured.

The festival’s main beer sponsor, Estrella Levante, aren’t particularly prolific outside of Spanish speaking regions, and can’t therefore afford the global marketing costs of something like Heineken’s Benicàssim festival, which attracts British drugheads in their droves. Mind you, SOS 4.8 isn’t by a beach (although it is located on a car park, like the festival in Benicàssim) and can’t quite boast the same expanse of artists, but it does share that unique Spanish sensibility of forcing its visitors to dance until they’re unconscious, or at least until they can’t quite take anymore. Last night, for instance, Fatboy Slim took to the stage at 4.30am. Let me repeat that. 4.30am. This fact alone puts your average English festival to an embarrassing shame.

Given the educated nature of the predominantly student crowd, a basic grasp of English is clearly a prerequisite, and I wish I could say that this is reciprocated. My limited grasp of Spanish mostly includes repeatedly denouncing myself as ‘Anglaise’ and being able to ask for coffee with milk. Yet the attitude towards the English appears to be quite envious. ‘Anglaise?’ a barmen exclaims, ‘Ci, muy buena!’ My politeness extends to the local townsfolk, one of which clocks me near a petrol station and asks me something I don’t understand. When I point out that I’m English, she asks again. “Blow job?” she says. And being as awkwardly English as you could possibly imagine (particularly when being confronted by a prostitute), I thank her for the offer but politely decline.

Back in Covera, we’re told that the region will soon have sufficient financial support from the PGA who plan to build a top international golf course in the region, something which entrepreneurial ex-pats have taken to heart by quickly assembling a new apartment complex, which is where we are having the pleasure of staying. It has been built like a mass-security compound in a deserted, sandy outback and is therefore, I can only imagine, not dissimilar to Guantanamo Bay, only with better parking. This was built back when moving to Spain for most Brits was almost part of your retirement package, the results of which have seen versions of Little Britain dotted up and down the south coast, where Guinness is served on tap and bars have songs like ‘Sweet Caroline’ on their karaoke roster. But since recession-hit Brits have stopped buying up land for their bespoke villas and swimming pools, unemployment has rocketed here. During our stay at the resort, we only see approximately ten other human beings, including staff.

It's bloody luxury, though, although clearly not quite to the high standards of my mother. “Where’s the bidet?” she asks in all sincerity. Sometimes you don’t realise just how horribly middle class you are.

Gordon Brown’s ‘bigotgate’ gaffe reminded me of that scene in The Naked Gun, which in itself is a joke that is almost as old as the hills. At a press conference featuring top international delegates, lieutenant Frank Drebin takes a prolonged moment of anguished relief in the gents toilets only to discover upon his return that all of his extended lavatory behaviour has been beamed out live across a stunned conference thanks to his tie mic. Surely Brown’s mishap displays the sheer amount of exhaustive cross-country badgering that all party leaders are currently going through: after all, I certainly know that if I were in the same position, I wouldn’t just accidentally forget that I was wired up to a Sky News microphone and that every word that I was saying was being recorded by journalists who have been spending every waking hour trying to screw me. So, really, he should have known better.

Still, a priceless moment nonetheless, and one that further confounds those bullying allegation that many found so unpalatable. He looked so infuriated with himself when he was exposed on the Jeremy Vine show (pictured above) that you wondered whether he might just completely flip out, rip off his shirt and start tearing up the studio. But calling the incident a game changer is short sighted: let’s recall Neil Kinnock’s arse-over-tit routine on Brighton beach during the 1992 Labour campaign, which didn’t singularly lose him the election, but did contribute to a mounting catalogue of errors, which made him look more like a clown at a kid’s birthday party than a viable PM contender. Brown committed the ministerial equivalent of sending a text message to the person that you were meant to be discussing with somebody else. It’s not an excuse, of course, but we’ve all done it.


I failed my driving test on Wednesday. No great shame in that, but it would help if driving instructors told you just when the testing officially starts and ends. As a preamble, I merely happened to comment how hot it was inside the car, to which the official questioned how to turn on the air conditioning. Not knowing the answer to this, or whether we were still engaged in some form of gibbering nervous small talk, I continued to drive and completely avoided answering his question. I had been advised that conversing during the test can help with cooling any built up anxiety, but in hindsight, it’s probably best to just shut up and drive.

Potential Suitors

I was approached by Real Radio the other day to discuss the fashion of our three would-be leaders on the campaign trail – Messrs Brown, Cameron and Clegg. Cameron looked positively presidential when he was in Leeds recently, mucking in and shaking hands with his sleeves rolled up, tie off with top button undone like he'd just returned from a particularly stressful chess match, revealing white shirts with no blazer. We think his team may be studying the Obama camp quite closely.

He's not the only one who's been taking fashion cues from America, of course. Remember Tony Blair? Anyone? He was around a few years back? Do you remember that quickly assembled press conference held outside Number 10 when Leo was born, and he bandied out of the house with the sort of windswept grin and ruffled formality of a man who may have just possibly delivered the baby himself. I can picture Cameron doing the same thing, maybe heroically jumping in front of traffic to save an old lady on a bicycle in the process. Accusations of airbrushing won't help Cameron with regards to his latest campaign posters, although kudos is due on his mini-quiff – which is hardly the sort of post-modern hair do that you'll find Brown striking up in the run up to May 6th. Although slowly creeping further up his forehead (that's called a recession, surely?), the look is both contemporary and adaptable for a busy, 24 hour media roll call. Blair had a similar look, funnily enough.

I maybe sounded a bit too harsh when addressing Our Great Leader, Gordon Brown, who I said "probably shouldn't smile so much." That's unfair; he can't help it that smiling seems to go against every muscle on his face, only for it to quickly disappear as soon as it's arrived. Brown should stick to playing it serious. His wardrobe surely matches: office tailoring at its most monochrome, like a politician from the forties. This works, I guess, as there is a war on. I even saw him on telly wearing a blue tie. Tory colours, of course; does this instigate a break from traditional standard issue colours? Maybe, yes. After all, when did you last see Cleggover brandishing a liberally bright yellow tie and pochette combination? I quite like Nick Clegg, but he's starting to resemble a Geography supply teacher.

Of course, more attention is being paid towards the leader's wives: SB, SamCam and The Other One. I read that a leading national fashion glossy is ringing each party head office every morning to find out what the three women are wearing. I quite like The Other One, who isn't playing ball in the slightest and still going to work as per usual. And just so you know: her name is Miriam Gonzalez Durantez, a Spanish catholic, who bizarrely resembles Cherie Blair. SamCam and SB are undergoing much bigger media campaigns in rather inoffensive high street clothing, but if they really wanted to court some serious press attention, may we suggest a House of Gaga makeover like Beyonce in the video for 'Telephone'? Or is that image just too much to comprehend?


I think that ‘Live from Studio Five’ is fast becoming my favourite early evening TV show. It’s just about the funniest thing that Channel Five have ever broadcast. A light entertainment panel show which eschews the pressing issues of the day in favour of the sort of idle chatter that you’d (quite rightly) walk away from if you overheard it at a bus stop. These stories usually involve a celebrity who said something to someone else that may have been taken badly and forced the aforementioned celebrity to go on a diet/get a divorce/hide in a jungle/write a book about it, or they might tackle a Burning Issue (akin to the BBC’s painfully awful high brow if better represented version 'The One Show') and vox pop members of the public to offer no resounding opinion or shed any light on the debate whatsoever. I’m amazed that the presenters can even read. It’s hosted by Ian Wright, supported by Kate Walsh from 'The Apprentice' to his left, and a guest numb nut in what appears to be a revolving dunce’s chair now that Melinda Messenger has wisely scarpered. (For not getting on with Ian Wright, apparently. She’s from Swindon, you see, and we can spot possible career ending humiliation a mile off).

But it’s the level of over enthusiasm from the presenters which is so compellingly, idiotically brilliant. Take Wright, for example, who appears to just say whatever words happen to pop into his head at any given moment, and, during an item regarding forty-something actress Jennifer Aniston who is still (shock horror!) single, Wright can’t help but yelp out the word “fit” every now and then, before he actually makes a point: “she’s clearly obsessive or something.” His input during a wine taste test has him shouting (actually shouting) words like “woody” and “body” repeatedly, like his batteries might need changing. Kate’s no better, who seems to be excited about absolutely everything, even during an interview with Amanda Byram, who presents the cataclysmic thunder dump 'Total Wipeout' on the BBC in which athletic morons jump from large apparatus into pools of water, repeatedly, over and over and over, but the hyper trio of babbling presenters gush so much that they’d have you believe it was the best piece of theatre since Gielgud. By the way, all of this happened on the same show.

I know that Charlie Brooker has said all of this before but frankly it can’t be said enough. Honestly, just stick it on next time you get home, and if you can survive the first five minutes (this is usually regarded as the breaking point for most of television’s worst programmes, where you feel so physically disgusted that you might actually consider setting fire to the whole lot and locking the door behind you), then I can assure you that you’ll never be caught watching ‘The One Show’ ever again.

April Fool

I was well and truly duped on April Fool’s Day this week, thanks in no small part to our design team (the head of the connivers being Matt ‘the bastard’ Andrews) who had me quite implausibly convinced that I had deleted all of the content from our website. The trick played out over several eager hours and, in my naivety, had me believing that not only was someone else operating my computer but, also, that a virus which I may have instigated was in threat of jeopardising our whole content management system. In my defence, if I wasn’t so busy at the time I might have in fact registered the absurdity of the charade and clocked on, but this is unlikely: I naturally take things at face value, can be a little too trusting maybe, and the set up was faultless.

The Guardian had fun on Photoshop manufacturing Labour Party poster campaigns which played upon the recent Gordon Brown bullying stories, using superb taglines like “Do you want some?” and “Step outside posh boy.” It’s been a viral smash, and to my surprise, the odd person even fell for it: “I wholeheartedly approve,” says one comment, “Excellent decision by the Labour team.” You see, it’s that easy. Other newspapers were less political: the Daily Mail went with an “AA rocket man” story - a new patrol of mechanics in jet packs - while the Sun brilliantly gauged the intelligence of its readership by getting people to lick one of its pages, claiming it had perfected a new printing technique which could inject flavours into the paper. And the name for the process: “Flair Spool”. Tasty.

Of course it’s hard for me to judge anybody given the circumstances, so if you sat there on your lunch break licking your copy of the Sun on Thursday then don’t worry, you’re not a fool in my eyes, you’re actually quite a trusting person, so well done you.

As an Easter treat for all Swindon Town fans (and there aren’t as many as you think), the Robins managed to tuck three goals passed a flailing Leeds United yesterday at Elland Road. We managed to get three seats in the away stand, despite some difficulty in trying to order them using a Leeds postcode. Clearly the Swindonian on the opposite end of the telephone had fears that we might be Yorkshire hoodlums in disguise looking to stir up some trouble amongst the away fans (a friend of mine tried to order tickets using his Leeds postcode when United came to Swindon, but also made the mistake of asking to sit in the Don Revie stand, which is at Elland Road and is named after the manager of Leeds United’s trailblazing team of the 1960s and 70s, instead of asking for the Don Rogers stand - a Swindon Town legend - which is what he clearly meant to say. Bizarrely, they still sent him the tickets).

I’m a firm believer that you should support the football team of where you were born, and through no fault of my own, this happens to be Swindon. Having watched them for many years at the County Ground with my Dad, with a Mars bar in my pocket for half time, through dominating Division 1 with Glenn Hoddle to promotion at Wembley Stadium into the burgeoning years of the Premiership, followed by a disastrous shit-storm of decline and relegation two seasons on the trot, I’ve kept a beady eye on their progress since leaving the town nearly seven years ago. Thanks to Leeds United being quite awfully shafted by just about everyone from the Chairman to the tea lady, their decline has meant that I’ve been able to watch a Swindon team of varying degrees of quality strut out onto Elland Road for the past three seasons in League One, only for our boys to be generally outplayed in the process. Leeds with delusions of greatness; Swindon, with their dedication and very limited skill.

But not yesterday, oh no. Experienced manager Danny Wilson, who is no stranger to top flight football after a spell at Charlton, has galvanised the players into a tight unit, forgoing the old tactic of booting the ball up the pitch for a spectator to retrieve in row J, to a cool, composed passing of the ball. Our forwards are good, too; Billy Paynter now back from injury and looking dangerous, scoring the first of our two goals. But it is Charlie Austin who grabs the headlines, scoring our third goal with a strong header, which is not bad for a player who was working as a bricklayer at the start of the season, plucked from non-league obscurity following a spell at Poole Town.

A word should be said about Leeds United, who have slipped considerably having been almost home and dry before Christmas. They’re now 11 points behind top of the table Norwich and fourth in the league. Swindon are now second - not bad for a team that have always been the underdogs for, well, just about as long as I can remember. Which is why yesterday was a proud day for anyone who has had to sit through years of soggy pies and consistent mediocrity. We’re now second in the league with a chance of automatic promotion. Maybe, just maybe…

We went to a press event for the Leeds and Reading festivals on Monday, and our editor couldn’t help but notice how old it made him feel, and he’s only 26. We normally go because the Cockpit in Leeds put on a good spread and you can drink free bottles of Tuborg. He’s right, of course, on two levels: the festival is essentially a mucky rock mosh for NME readers, so the turnout was suitably aged, but the line up doesn’t help. The Saturday at Leeds reads like the same line up from about ten years ago: Cypress Hill are there, for one, a hip hop troupe synonymous with many hazy prepubescent memories. Guns N’ Roses? Please. Limp Bizkit? Blink 182? And people are paying £200 for this?

Blink 182 are like one of those bands that you actually quite liked as a kid when you wore baggy skater jeans and DC shoes, but you couldn’t possibly admit this nowadays in front of, like, normal people for fear of extradition. They would drop their glasses in disgust, the room would turn silent: “I’ll get my coat.” And they’re headlining? Last year it was Radiohead for Christ's sake. Has our longing for nostalgia and irony stooped this low? Singing about going down on your best friend’s mum when you’re in your late thirties is no way to act - surely if you still listen to albums like Enema of the State then you should do that in the privacy of your bedroom without having to inflict such punishment on the rest of us. Honestly.

Four Eyes Only

A quick comment regarding 3D films. They're everywhere at the moment and, if the line up of summer blockbusters are anything to go by, there seems to be no end to this pandemic. I immensely enjoyed Tim Burton’s deranged yet wholesome take on Alice in Wonderland, although I must admit to growing increasingly weary of all the 3D effects which, if anything, causes more of a strain than a spectacle.

Is it just me? Avatar was excruciating, too, but largely due to being hideously long. Personally, I can’t imagine any film that would actually be improved by being in 3D. Alice would be just as enjoyable without having to don large horn rimmed geek specs, and, yes, it’s certainly better than the green and red frames that everyone used about 50 years ago, but let's be honest, this special effect doesn’t help to make films look any more real at all. So I hope this stops soon, and I haven't even started on the prices: at a 3D screening of Disney’s Up a few months ago in London, two tickets came to £24. I mean, honestly.


I’m a stickler for order and planning, but can occasionally do something quite spontaneously that surprises even myself.

Thursday saw the launch of this year’s Bradford International Film Festival, now in its 16th year, and by all accounts this one looks set to trump even the efforts of the recent Leeds International Film Festival last November. Big names are crucial at these things: there are retrospectives with Imelda Staunton and John Hurt, who, rumour has it, knows someone on the board and clearly wasn’t up to much at the weekend, not to mention evenings with Fernando Meirelles, Jenny Agutter and Chris Morris.

The movie chosen for the glitzy red carpet launch was Ian Fitzgibbon’s Perrier’s Bounty, a good natured Irish crime comedy of the Guy Ritchie variety which, at least, is better than anything Ritchie has ever done. The cast were absent along with the director, but the film‘s producer Stephen Woolley was there and he gave a polite introduction, explaining how he‘d "left his suit on the train", which seems now like an implausible excuse.

After the screening and with handfuls of cheap champagne and canapés (including miniature Yorkshire favourites like fish and chips and, bless, toad in the hole), we got talking to a slightly inebriated film scholar, who turned out to be the head of the National Film and Television School, Nik Powell. We smoked his menthol cigarettes before, low and behold, Stephen Woolley approaches us and we shake hands. Powell is staying with Woolley in Bradford for the night and asks if we fancy sharing a cab to grab drink in their bar. And feeling spontaneous: “yes, that would be lovely.”

It was a delightful evening full of wine and film talk, in which we discussed favourite movies growing up (The Princess Bride, of course), the merits of British cinema and why we haven’t made a decent British pub movie - but what about Shaun of the Dead, I proffered? Also in attendance was Steve Abbott, chair of Screen Yorkshire who is mostly famous for working with the Monty Python team, producing movies like A Fish Called Wanda and Brassed Off and was very close friends with, it turns out, George Harrison.

I should mention at this juncture that, like most journalists, I work better in the secure environment of procedure, and have been lucky enough to be involved in conversations with some quite prominent figures, from politicians to celebrities, but always with a trusty and dependable arsenal at my disposal: a Dictaphone, a notebook and, as is always the case, a scheduled allotted time. This is what I mean by order and planning: it’s about control, it’s about calling the shots, and it explains why journalists are usually pricks. Without these defences, and in certain social situations - the high pressure ones where you want to be both respected and slightly aloof but at the same time - sometimes the gravitas of the situation can take hold, you panic, and sit in the corner mumbling to nobody while the conversation passes you by. I’m no Winston Churchill and I certainly don’t profess to being a great wit or anything, but I’d like to think that I can hold my own while conversing with just about anyone, whether the talk is being recorded or not. (Although I could tell you a story about being quite embarrassingly stumped for words when meeting the beautiful Nell McAndrew who, I might add, was only wearing her pyjamas at the time, but, alas, that is for a completely different occasion.)

So when a rather awestruck journalist, himself a script writer in the process of pitching to Nicolas Roeg, asked me on the night, “you do realise who these people are, don‘t you?” I shrugged and said confidently, why yes, of course. But it’s worth clarifying these things. So I Google’ed Stephen Woolley when I got back into the office the next day, possibly still a bit drunk. And, for your information: Stephen Woolley worked with director Neil Jordan on Oscar nominated films like The Crying Game and Interview with the Vampire, he managed the Scala Theatre in north London, has directed his own features, most recently the Brian Jones biopic Stoned, as well as produced films like Fever Pitch, Mona Lisa, Michael Collins and many, many more. I attach a picture of him to this blog purely as a way of realising just who these people are.


The papers are already setting out their biased news agenda as we edge ever more closely to an election. Elections, more than decades, help to define eras. The contrast between Major and Blair couldn’t have been more apparent; the sleaze and loud shirts of the Tory 90s, and the slick media operation of Blair’s terrorised nu-millennia. Chances are David Cameron will win, if you believe the 'man on the street', but there are no clear cut winners and a judgement is still too early to call.

Traditionally, of course, the Tories shoot themselves in the foot in the run up to elections, like Amanda Platell’s ill-advised press campaign for William Hague which had a clearly intelligent politician look so much like a pre-pubescent lummox that there must have been calls of sabotage back at Tory HQ, thinking that maybe Platell was being slipped fivers from John Prescott to make Hague look like an even bigger tit.

But now we’re seeing the more personalised side of politics, clearly stolen, like most things, from America, which attempts to make celebrities out of our politicians, resulting in really hideous things, like Gordon Brown being interviewed by Piers Morgan, and their wives and children being paraded before the public to discuss how great they are at cleaning the kitchen and playing football. Why not be done with it and just stick Brown in a military style power jacket and have him dancing like Cheryl Cole on 'Sport Relief'?

If Cameron is the equivalent of Blair in this election, then surely Brown is Major - both are recession hit, both inheriting conflicts in the Middle East and both, although this is probably just speculation, tuck their shirt into their underpants. That was never proven, by the way, despite what some lobby journalists have since commented, but surely the image goes a long way to explaining how even minute details of a politician’s life can be skewed, interpreted, spun out of control and eventually cost elections.

So whoever wins, this clearly isn’t going to be a clean fight.

Political Heavyweights

Andrew Rawnsley, an Observer journalist, is staunchly standing by his allegations that Gordon Brown has a particularly volatile side. In his book The End of the Party, he claims that upon hearing the news that confidential data had gone missing, Brown leapt across the room to grab Gavin Kelly, his deputy chief of staff, by the lapels and screamed “They’re out to get me!” In another incident, Brown punches the back of a car seat. In my personal favourite, he hounds a secretary for not typing fast enough. Despite the fact that Rawnsley is vehemently defending his sources, Jacqui Smith is having none of it, although she did admit that Brown can be “glowering” in a Radio 4 interview this morning. On ‘The Andrew Marr Show’, Peter Mandelson agreed that he is “impatient” and “gets angry”, which hardly exonerates his boss, although the Labour camp are proving quick to deny any kind of violent streak.

But I quite like the thought of Brown as some sort of Rutles-esque Ron Decline figure, storming around the office while terrified co-workers leap out of the nearest windows. Brown hardly radiates a sunny disposition, so its not too hard to believe that he’s a very “serious man”, but bounding across a room to rough up his colleagues? If there is one thing that Brown doesn’t do and that’s ‘bounding’. Of course if the polls are true and Brown is exiting Downing Street within the next few months, dare we propose a sideline as part of a WWE tag team alongside John Prescott? After all, we’ve all seen what he’s made of.


I’ve been reading about tigers, who are as equally cute and loveable as they are lethal. There’s something quite comforting about that. Yet they can’t compete with a team of heavily armed poachers, who hunt wild tigers for their value on the black market, where everything from the animal’s bones, skin and penis are sought after by eastern herbalists who believe that the animal can cure many human dysfunctions. The nose is used in treatments for epilepsy, the penis is used in soups as an aphrodisiac, and the meat is even sold to restaurants who specialise in ‘wild’ dishes. Although outlawed by official Chinese medics, you can still find the bones of tigers in Chinese markets, which are ground up and used to treat rheumatism.

WildAid have just secured the marketing rights of Jackie Chan as the face of their new awareness campaign, which is logical given the fact that the Chinese are currently celebrating the Year of the Tiger, although Chan’s philanthropy couldn’t quite save Woolsworths, so lets hope he does better with this one. Especially as I’ve just read an incredibly conflicting story that the Chinese are still considering legalising the trade, hoping to supplement the demand for tiger parts from animals bred in captivity. The 1993 ban has allegedly seen tiger numbers in India (the home of many of the world's last remaining wild tigers) dwindle from 3,000 to 1,500 in only ten years. In China, three species of tigers are already registered as extinct, and the gorgeous South China tiger has not been seen for years. As for the Amur tiger - the ones that can grow up to three metres - recent estimations say that there are probably only about 20 of them left.

Which all makes for quite sobering reading, especially given the somewhat senseless requirement for their killing. But at least China are acting on this, even if their conservation methods may only help to adhere them closer to the global community, as many fear that its probably already too late to conceivably save these incredible creatures. Given the motivation for such decreasing numbers, lets contrast this with China’s appalling human rights record, which still sees journalists imprisoned and the death penalty exacted on somewhat dubious grounds. If only they showed as much compassion for their human citizens.


On Tuesday, I interviewed Paul Daniels, who is preparing for a UK variety tour with (among others) The Krankies, Syd Little (from Little & Large) and Christopher Biggins. He doesn’t much care for David Blaine, the US illusionist who, in an attempt to become a modern day Houdini, has hung upside in New York for 60 days, lived in eight feet of water for seven days, and suspended 30 feet over the Thames in a box for 44 days.

Apart from being a colossal waste of time, I should point out that during his exercise in hanging upside down, Blaine was released every hour for a medical check up, a quick stretch and a trip to the loo. As for living underwater, he was taken out of his submerged state when doctors noticed signs of liver failure and skin abnormalities, while his box stunt in London received the sort of dignified response that you would expect to see from the English: he was pelted with eggs, paint, lemons, sausages, and all manner of missiles. At the end of the 44 day fast, he was subsequently hospitalised - an extraordinary length to go to sell a DVD.

But Blaine’s bombastic approach is completely at odds with the sort of magic that Daniels championed in his heyday: anyone who owned a Paul Daniels Magic Set can attest for that. I had one, and subsequently attempted to master the sort of tricks that would really test the patience of even the most devoted of parents. It was pretty crap, to be honest, and certainly wouldn’t contravene any kind of Magic Circle codes of practice. One of the tricks, I distinctly recall, wasn’t so much a trick but a mere test of perception: by simply wobbling a solid wand at its tip, this creates the illusion of it being flexible. You can do it with a pen and it’s not even mildly impressive. The rest of the kit included double sided coins and a neat knot trick. I spent many hours trying to conquer that one. I’d like to see Blaine release an equivalent: no doubt a set of straightjackets and a cyanide chamber. Get out of that one, kids.