Vocal Point

The cultural delights on offer in Leeds never fail to surprise me. Having enjoyed Northern Ballet Theatre’s updated version of Romeo & Juliet, we were lucky enough to pop across to the Howard Assembly Rooms to catch the last day of Janet Cardiff’s rather stirring sound installation ‘Voices: A Forty Part Motet’. Forty individual speakers magnificently capture the solo intricacies involved in Thomas Tallis’ piece ‘Spem in alium’, originally designed for eight choirs of five voices. Sit, or lie (as many visitors do) in the middle and it is the closest thing, I can only imagine, to being within the booming epicentre of a real choir. If you chose to inspect individual speakers, you can not only grasp the intricate measure and tonal perfection of each voice, but also, if you catch their idle chatter before the piece begins, you can even hear them cough, advise and talk to one another. An invigorating experience, I hope it comes back.

As for the ballet, I was amazed to discover that the Northern Ballet Theatre - based in Leeds and possibly the country’s most pre-eminent dance company spanning a globe-trotting forty years - prepare for their next ballet while simultaneously performing their current one. Not only that, but the performers mix up the roles, so depending on which performance you see, my Mercutio could be your Romeo. I guess this helps to balance what must be a rather punishing schedule, and goes a long way to understanding the abundance of talent there is within the company.


I feel that I should jump to the defence of Lady Gaga, not just because she’s clearly ace and possibly the most interesting thing to happen to pop music since Madonna did all that monochrome stuff during her Exotica period, but mainly because some slightly misguided scribes have really been sticking the Stilettos in of late. Apart from a couple of good tracks, I don’t really get Ms Gaga’s musical appeal, but I certainly get everything else: the outlandish “oh no she didn’t” get up, enough to make Liberace look like a soiled tramp, and her equally cryptic and compelling persona, brilliantly personified in her teacup sketch on ‘Friday Night with Jonathan Ross', which saw the TV host squirm in his seat and first enamoured this batty woman into all of our humdrum British hearts.

But “so much for Lady Gaga’s feminist credentials”, says Hermione Hoby in last Sunday’s Observer, who was heartbroken to find Gaga cupping her bosom in a topless photo shoot for Q magazine. Before I get into questioning what on earth a once Britpop-championing institution like Q is doing putting pop’s first Lady on their cover (following on from a previous issue's dubious choice of a black leather porcupine-esque Cheryl Cole with the caption “Cheryl rocks” - like, what the hell is happening here?), it’s the misogynistic lads mag appeal that Hoby is taking offence too, and more specifically, that her “jutted hip, parted lips and vacuous expression tick the remaining boxes that constitute the mainstream image of sexy.”

But I don’t think Hoby is giving Gaga even half as much credit. Someone who went out in Knightsbridge the other day wearing a lobster on her head and a transparent nurse outfit with electrical tape over her nipples is evidently someone who is challenging “the mainstream image of sexy” and this is something that she has done from the start - clearly Hoby must have held her in much higher feminist regard beforehand, you know, when she did all those gigs in nothing but a turquoise leotard. And it’s quite impossible to clearly define someone like Gaga who goes out her way to avoid "ticking the boxes": yes, she’s clearly topless on the cover of this month’s Q, but I’m pretty sure her elongated fingers are down the front of her trousers, producing a dildo-shaped dong in her pants. Well, you certainly won’t find that on the front of Nuts magazine, that’s all I’m saying. Perhaps in Hoby’s too-quick-to-judge riposte she may have slightly missed the point. Here's the original article anyway: http://www.guardian.co.uk/music/musicblog/2010/feb/28/lady-gaga-feminist-credentials.


In Radio Head: Up and Down the Dial of British Radio, John Osborne sums up BBC 6 Music as bridging the gap between people who feel too old for Radio 1, but not yet old enough for Radio 2. People like me, basically. It plays an eclectic mix of mostly great music from some of the country's best DJs, and George Lamb. As well as the brilliant Adam and Joe, there is also Steve Lamacq, Gideon Coe, Stuart Maconie, Lauren Laverne: all exceptional talent who clearly revel in working within an environment that doesn't seem to be too hung up on playlists or minding your manners.

DJs of this calibre are hardly going to be left homeless in a year's time when the station is set to be decommissioned, but I find it hard to believe that these personalities will suddenly be happy to start hawking the latest Taylor Swift single when they've been able to play the Pixies for the past few years. Which makes the whole decision of cutting 6 Music and BBC Asian Network (not to mention a vast percentage of the BBC's online content) to focus more on their main radio stations (that’s Radios 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5) even more perplexing. So, let me get this right, in order to be more brilliant, the BBC is cutting things that are already brilliant? Eh?

The arguments in favour of this decision talk of the benefits for commercial radio, and given that the BBC own so much of the radio pie their competitors have to fight for the remaining slices. This is felt more at a regional level, where commercial stations are really struggling. But who is saying that there needs to be a limit on these things? Digital stations and the internet has blown radio wide open. Surely now only the best radio stations with the best content and a complete understanding of their market will be sure to survive. This again makes the elbowing of 6 Music and BBC Asian Network even more confusing. Being so niche, I hardly think that stations like Virgin and Magic are going to benefit from their absence whatsoever. Get rid of the local stations and, yes, maybe they would.

Surely in this global audio market where it is very easy people to listen to what is being broadcast right now from Iraq to Israel, from Norwich to Nebraska, the fact that the Beeb should be at their best is even more relevant, not downsizing in an attempt to filter their content. In Radio Head, Osborne asks the radio critic for the 'Radio Times', Jane Anderson, whether there are too many radio station. "That's like saying there are too many books." So if this was merely a cost-cutting exercise, can't we just assume that they will spend the money improving stations that are already fine as they are? Maybe Radio 2 can fill the 6 Music void and I'm just getting in a bit of tizz over nothing. But I find it very hard to imagine Steve Wright discussing the importance of The Wedding Present before spinning the new Peaches single.


I managed to humiliate myself quite convincingly on BBC Leeds the other day, where I present a 20 minute, fortnightly look at the new cinematic and DVD releases. An impromptu Oscar-related quiz occurred after ‘Brown Eyed Girl’ by Van Morrison, and I lost to Johnny I’Anson’s ever-pleasant co-host Isma Almas. For someone who is recruited for their knowledge of film, this is humiliating to say the least. I’ve always watched people squirm under the pressure of answering seemingly redundant questions on TV shows normally presented by people like Ant and Dec and Dale Winton and yelling at the screen for knowing the answers to the easiest of questions, but I have now developed renewed sympathy for the sort of pressure these people must be under.

So I’ll offer my predictions for tonight’s Academy Awards, which I’ll be watching, more for revision purposes than entertainment. And if any of them are indeed correct, try not to act too surprised.

Best Picture
My choice: The Hurt Locker - A real seat-of-the-pants nerve jangler set during the Iraq war which, for such a relevant concept, side steps political comment in favour of the psychological repercussions of conflict and the relationship between recruits.
And the Oscar goes to… Avatar - For costing so much bloody money

Best Actor
My choice: Colin Firth - Sensitive, intelligent, well-measured and well-tailored performance in A Single Man from an actor who hardens his synonymously wet Brit routine into something altogether more troubling.
And the Oscar goes to… Jeff Bridges - He’s an all round good egg and plays his own country music.

Best Actress My choice: Carey Mulligan - Bolstered by a Nick Hornby script for An Education, she’s a newbie with plenty of charm and talent, but perhaps an Oscar is stretching it a bit.
And the Oscar goes to… Sandra Bullock - Have you heard her Texan accent? That ought to just about tip it.

Best Supporting Actor
My choice: Christoph Waltz - For being the most sublimely creepy Nazi since that guy who’s face came off at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark, he was easily the best thing in Tarantino’s absurdist war comedy.
And the Oscar goes to… Christoph Waltz - Easily, I should imagine.

Best Supporting Actress My choice: Mo’Nique - She’s a stand up comedian, believe it or not - her snarling, aggressive turn as the mother of Precious in Lee Daniels’ intense poverty piece is just about as bad as a mother can get.
And the Oscar goes to… Mo’Nique - And she doesn’t even plan on shaving her legs.

Best Director My choice: Kathryn Bigelow - For making great use of location, timing, and maintaining a knife-edge approach to suspense instead of investing all energy into bangs and whistles. Unlike her ex-husband, James Cameron, who will win this one easily.
And the Oscar goes to… James Cameron - He did spend a hell of a lot money.

Inspired by Real Events

Mark Kermode, the BBC 5 Live film critic and 'Culture Show' presenter, is not one to mince his words. He famously described Keira Knightley as 'Ikea Knightley' - a reference to her wooden acting - and so incensed documentary filmmaker Nick Broomfield that he walked off stage during a live interview. (In reference to the biased Kurt & Courtney, he told Broomfield that he didn't think it was fair to accuse a woman with whom he hadn't interviewed for the film that she may have been complicit in the death of the father of her child).

At a talk earlier in the week at the Hyde Park Picture House (a delightful old cinema in Leeds which will be celebrating it's centenary next year), he repeated the old mantra of "if you can't say something to someone's face then you probably shouldn't say it at all." This is clearly a direct criticism of online bloggers (people like me), who make opinions about all kinds of things (again, people like me), and then neglect to include their real names. Unlike me. I agree with Kermode - if you are going to make a bold claim in any form of journalistic capacity, you have to be able to substantiate these claims when they are addressed.

This reminds me of an incident in which I wrote a (rather accurate) diatribe on a new bar in Leeds, which not only charged extortionate rates for a board of cold meats ripped from the shrink wrap of a supermarket packet but had also chosen to deck it's halls with a gross pink and leopard print colour scheme. My criticism was just, and unsurprisingly the manager took umbrage. Of many accusations, the main debate was one of integrity, and alluded to the notion that many critics are too eager to "pick fault rather than present genuine opinions." I have the comments somewhere and when enough time has passed I might put them up here. I treasure it more than my positive feedback, of which I've had surprisingly less. The bar no longer exists, by the way. Probably because - as I may have suggested in my original piece - it was shit.

Kermode told a related anecdote involving Her Majesty Dame Helen Mirren who, at a star-studded awards bash, berated the film critic for his comments regarding The Queen, which he described as "not being a real film" and that it felt more like a TV movie. He's completely right, of course. He makes an articulated argument in the face of clearly irritated royalty, but could unfortunately be seen physically shrinking in her presence. The image is a funny one and proves that although sometimes you must face the victims of your critique, you can't always control your bodily functions when you do.

Unsurprisingly, Kermode followed the talk with an extended cut of his favourite film, The Exorcist, which doesn't appear to lose any sense of immediacy or shock by being an extra ten minutes baggier, although it does include a brief moment of dialogue which director William Friedkin cut in his eagerness to not disturb the perplexities of the film's message. In it, the two priests who conduct the exorcism ask why the devil has chosen to possess a small and innocent girl, thus unravelling the story's main anomaly. "I think the point is to make us despair, to see ourselves as animal and ugly. To make us reject the possibility that God could love us." It's a good line, and you can't help but feel if Friedkin had kept it in it may have saved him an awful lot of bother.

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.

Can't Buy Me Love

OK, so Valentine’s Day is a shameless cash-in fronted by unscrupulous merchandisers to sell guilt to (mostly male) participants who actually believe that they need a day to force them to, you know, do stuff with their partner, other than watch television and empty the dishwasher. But then some people do need reminding, and lets not speak of those separated in faraway locations, like soldiers fighting abroad, who are away from their beloved through the most testing of circumstances. So, happy Valentine’s Day, if you actually hold some weight behind these things. I’ll be spending today updating this blog, so clearly any cynicism, I think you’ll agree, is completely justified.


The news of Lee Alexander McQueen’s suicide reached us just as we had gone to print with our latest fashion-led issue featuring a photo shoot on the designer’s latest spring/summer trends. Our model wears a typically outlandish pair of strappy heels with an eye catching yellow base and a knuckle duster clutch bag, no bigger than a schoolboy‘s pencil case complete with his skull and crossbones motif, which alone fetches somewhere in the region of £850. For menswear, we use stained denim and quirky bowtie Ts. McQueen made bold, statement fashion which always elevated a somewhat standard shoot into something quite intriguing; it’s both unique and stylish, which is a hard thing to master as we’ll no doubt see in the upcoming fashion weeks in both London and New York. He will certainly be missed.

While we’re on the subject of fashion, my hunt for a nice brown brogue has led me, quite accidentally, to a new clothing line from (wait for it) Manchester United defender and new national team captain Rio Ferdinand. He’s launching his own range called ‘Five’ pretty soon. See www.fivebyrioferdinand.com if you don‘t believe me. Its been acquired by the LXY brand and there’s not a fluorescent bib or shin guard in sight. Rio’s sidelining doesn’t end there - his online magazine (called #5) is actually quite brilliant, and certainly one of the better designed multimedia platforms that I’ve seen for a long time. Not bad for someone who appears to have the resounding intellect of a gnat. Go here and enjoy a rather inspiring browse: www.rioferdinand.com.


Clarence Dock in Leeds is “like a ghost town”, according to Conservative councillor Andrew Carter, who I’ve met several times and has always seemed pleasant and genuinely concerned with the future development of the city, even if he did once mistake me for a different journalist at the Yorkshire Post. And with regards to Clarence Dock, he’s bang on the nail. I’ve been to livelier funerals. Even the Starbucks there has had to close, and when the world’s leading franchise of lovely things like hot milk and blueberry cheesecake can’t survive, you know you’re in doldrums.

The dockside development was opened with much fanfare a few years ago by none other than bespectacled chic geek Gok Wan and billed as the new Leeds development which would combine high end leisure facilities with tower blocks of waterside apartments, not to mention a giant casino and a Mumtaz curry house. The development looks fantastic - sleek, modern and perfectly pleasant with a marina and idyllic fishing spots - and I defended it live on the BBC in an interview with Liz Green (http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/p0069p2w/Liz_Green_12_02_2010/).


The problems that many face are its overpriced parking facilities (£5.50 for four hours), which is an issue when people clearly can’t face that extra ten minute walk from the city centre. In regenerating a derelict and forgotten part of the city, the planners could not have done a better job. The turnaround has been quite extraordinary. But the problem has clearly been enticing people to stay there, other than a quick spin on a roulette wheel, a slap up curry and some hot milk.

It will need more than a publicity stunt for it to shrug off its “ghost town” status. Maybe more attractions, landmarks and amenities would help, or something of cultural significance other than expensive clothing.


I must admit to a rather naïve middle class error this week; of turning up to a wine and cheese party without either of the aforementioned items. I stuck to the excuse that I had heard about the event late (which I had) and didn’t have the time to pop to the shops for camembert and Rioja. There was still enough to go round, and found myself discussing some quite severe kitchen horror stories with a chef from Harvey Nichols in Manchester.

The worst I can remember from my formative years as a rather inept if polite waiter was that of a chef (I never saw this myself) who would stand on a steak if it was returned to him from the restaurant for being undercooked. I have never sent anything back for this very reason alone.

But the chef barely flinches at this. He’s heard of much, much worse. I have since wondered whether the most deplorable kitchen stories are indeed just fabrications that have become like grim folk tales, handed down from people who have never actually seen them first hand. I could go into more detail but you might have food nearby. Needless to say it will be hard to imagine seeing a sliced watermelon in quite the same way again.

As for the cheese, I’ll certainly be enjoying more of the deliciously tangy St. Agur with a dollop of homemade cranberry and orange chutney. Ours is produced locally from the Yorkshire village of Knaresborough, although I’m sure you can find it in supermarkets.

On The Road Again

I don’t normally read a novel after I’ve watched the film. The reference points are already established, for starters, so when you’re reading Harry Potter you picture Daniel Radcliffe’s face and Alan Rickman in a wig, and thinking things like “that doesn‘t happen in the film” and other such irrelevances. There’s a reason for this - books are not films, for one, and what works in writing doesn't always work on the screen. Anyone who’s seen the film version of Patrick Süskind’s sensual if sickening Das Parfum can vouch for this - a valid cinematic attempt, but on the whole it stinks.

Having just finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, I’m pleased to say that John Hillcoat’s film version is just as unsettling, paranoid and heartbreaking in one of those rare cases where the film version does justice to the book. The story itself is very visual, which helps, but I think Hillcoat has done superbly well in capturing the right tone and mood - of human survival in a post-apocalyptic world and the emotive plight of a father and son. It's a story which resonates and I can't recommend it enough.


The news that footballers have affairs has been met with a baffling amount of gullibility. Have we forgotten the Manchester United Christmas party? It was certainly no game of charades in the boot room, if you recall. In Mark E. Smith’s sublime autobiography Renegade, he recalls meeting George Best for the first time where he had an assortment of dolly birds on each arm.

The married Terry has been rightly dismissed as captain of the national team as the alleged affair was with the ex-girlfriend of a former team mate. Capello has made the right decision because such illicit relations questions not just the player’s integrity but also brings into question his leadership capabilities, especially during a pivitol World Cup year.

Terry has proven to be a bit of an idiot, to say the least, and this instance has made me think of a university colleague of mine (now a sports reporter) who, when following up on the story of two ex-Leeds United footballers involved in a racially motivated off-the-ball incident at a Leeds nightclub, told me that, “football is a simple game that attracts simple people.” The comment has stayed with me, although I should also mention that he is a very keen rugby fan.


In local news, Leeds’ ill-fated Lumiere skyscraper (which was scheduled to be the tallest residential tower in the whole of Europe) might now, alas, not be going ahead after all. The recession-hit building sight is still a gaping eyesore in the centre of town, virtually untouched for two years. I don’t know why the council haven’t agreed to do a similar turnaround like that at the Holbeck Urban Village, where another credit crunched development has been transformed into a landscaped garden, much to the appreciation of those working nearby.

The handling of the Lumiere development is clearly a farce, and given its location right next to the station, in full view of any potential passing trade, lets hope something (or someone) quickly steps in to fill the gap.


My colleague and friend Annie Moss has a wheat intolerance. This isn’t the start of a joke or anything. She is so annoyed at how both restaurants and supermarkets appear slow to highlight her gluten-free needs that she’s started blogging about it. She also has a fantastic appetite for puns. Visit it here: www.musingsofmoss.blogspot.com

Isn’t It A Wonder

There’s a website which is encouraging people to vote for their new, updated Seven Wonders of the World (apparently the Pyramids are just so 2000 BC). There are plenty of natural phenomena which are worthy of great praise, like the Grand Canyon, Mount Kilimanjaro and Vesuvius, and you can cast your votes now at New7Wonders.com. But clearly they’ve made quite a few rather glaring omissions. Here are our personal top seven.

The Newbury By-Pass - The largest cardio-vascular surgery ever attempted on a Cotswold town.

The Leaning Tower of Weezer - Located in Los Angeles, this manmade structure is over 3,500 ft high and made entirely from unsold reissues of the album ‘Make Believe’, the 2005 album from California rock band Weezer.

Sidney Opera’s House - An attractive and exciting real estate opportunity in an up and coming area. Master en-suite, spacious living area, kitchen/diner, good sense of humour, likes long walks and going to the cinema.

The Tomb of Terry the Terrible - Buried under 2,000 tonnes of hay, Terry Godwin was posthumously found not guilty of stealing the remains of Tudor monarch Edward VI, the bones of which were later revealed to have belonged to a mandrill.

Toad in the Hull - A giant amphibian stranded in the River Humber which can be seen from space.

Viagra Falls - This large gathering of millions of mostly elderly, impotent gentlemen, crowd at the edge of these Eastern-Canadian cliffs, furiously ridding themselves of their excess potency, brought on by over indulgence in the over prescribed, illegally distributed drug.

Mount Boff - A giant, encapsulated, underwater fart left dormant for centuries. It has been predicted that if this active fart were to erupt it could cause the equivalent devastation of a thousand Pompeii’s.

Dark Side of the Moon

Given the extent of talk regarding the 40th anniversary of the moon landing, I have, quite inevitably, been drawn towards the conspiracy theorists. There is quite a spread of opinion out there, many of which do formulate some adequate motives: a rush to fulfil JFK’s initial prophecy; a means of getting one over on the Russians at the height of the Cold War; an elaborate distraction from failure in Vietnam. Plausible, but too far fetched. I particularly like the opinion of crackpot forum AboveTopSecret.com who say, “NASA is full of Masons and Nazis.” Then there is the scientific argument, most if it seems slightly ill informed: there is too much radiation up there; the astronaut suits were flimsy and impractical. And then there is the photographic evidence: there are no stars in any of the pictures; the flag flaps slightly between different shots, despite there being no wind on the moon. Back to AboveTopSecret for this one: “They had enough money and technology to put men on the moon, but they couldn’t spring for some color video?”

These conspiracy theorists may be seen as nonsense on planet Earth (according to a 1999 poll by The Gallup Organization, 89% of Americans are said to be convinced that we walked on the moon), but the sheer weight of these opinions prove a more abundant truth: that we seem to carry a huge amount of mistrust towards the authorities that rule over us. It’s true that these conspiracy theories quickly followed on from the Watergate scandal, when the inner machinations of Nixon’s government were exposed as one steeped in corruption and sleaze. It’s easy to see, during the hardnosed activism of the 1970s, how the hippy generation borne of the 1960s would turn against their former leaders, but the trait has evidently continued ever since. Spin and manipulation is generally seen as a part of our current political landscape, utilised by leaders to twist the truth, while even your slightly amateur neurotic conspiracy theorist will tell you confidently that the CIA killed Kennedy, Diana was mowed down by Prince Phillip and Elvis was poisoned by a rival peanut butter company. That last theory is one of mine, and as such is completely unfounded. Not that any hard evidence is particular important when it comes to these things, so it doesn’t matter what you say: I heard that Buddy Holly‘s plane crashed while trying to avoid Chubby Checker, who was putting off the pilot by doing the twist on the top of a telegraph pole. It‘s complete bollocks.

It seems implausible that a government would spend $30 billion on a giant swindle, and one that would inevitably involve up to thousands of participants. But then I would say that, because I don’t have a subscription to ’X Files’ magazine, and I don’t make my own 9/11 documentaries on YouTube. But it is reassuring to know that there are people out there who, no matter what, will actively go against the tide of public opinion and dare to question the reality of the world that we are so blindly presented with. It’s a trait that we should all regularly indulge in - within the boundaries of basic sanity, obviously.

Off the Planet

Judging by the wealth of well wishers and endless talking heads, general consensus is that Michael Jackson, who died aged 50, passed away while still having so much more to give. Granted, in terms of years, Jackson could have continued to work for many more decades. But in sheer exuberance and creativity, it doesn’t take hours in an oxygen tent to realise that Jackson’s zest for life had extinguished many years ago. His constant reissuing of a limited back catalogue proved that his days as a prolific pop songwriter were dwindling, while his proposed 50-date London residency was billed as his very last. “This is it,” he squeaked through gritted teeth and a clenched white fist, but there was something about that solitary figure that not only eluded to a rapidly degenerating life support, but also to a growing frustration that he evidently wanted to anywhere but here.

There were rumours surrounding the preparation of his final tour suggesting that he had argued with his management regarding the preposterous number of live dates that he had been signed up to, not to mention the constant rumours of ill health. This was nothing new with Jacko, of course, who openly encouraged the self styled image of ‘Wacko Jacko’ amongst the press with stories involving chimpanzees, face masks and Uri Gellar, not to mention all that plastic surgery which turned the super cool, moon walking young black man into a white version of Diana Ross. Following two accusations of child abuse, one of which was settled out of court, the other in which he was acquitted following a lengthy and invasive trial in 2005, the gates of Neverland were pillaged and Jackson’s all-powerful world began to crumble. Only his most hardcore fans (the ones who dress like him and faint when he’s on TV) were left to sing their sycophantic praises.

It was around this time when the moral acceptance of Jackson’s credibility was brought into question, and the lines blurred between the young singer of old - the groin-grabbing, sequin suited cha’mone motherfucker - and the creepy whitewashed vision of his later self, the one who believed the hype and lost the plot. The irony is that now, following his passing, it seems that Jackson will forever be remembered as the way that he always wanted us to think: as a complete mystery, an enigma.

And few iconic celebrities can manufacture this kind of status, let only a pop singer. Madonna, Paul McCartney, Elton John, all probably just as famous as Michael Jackson, but for some reason these performers seem more tangible, less isolated, more 'human'. Few people really got to know Michael Jackson, and by avoiding interviews, the singer had the time to cultivate his own media image. The problem for Jackson seems to have been in perpetuating and living up to the myth that he had created, coupled with a destructive strive for perfection which was evident in every nuance of his dance moves to the production of his music and his undeniable need to please. It was this that ultimately drove him to his own demise.

I should point out here that Jackson and I go back a long way. I’m hardly one of those crackpot fans, but I’m certainly a fan nonetheless. Let me share with you a few confessions: yes, I did wake up especially early to buy his long awaited 2001 album ‘Invincible’ at 9am from a HMV store in Swindon. Yes, that’s me performing a Billie Jean routine aged 15 at high school. I own the History: Volume II video cassette, not to mention the book ‘Moonwalker’, his 1988 autobiography. And yes, I even managed to get hold of a ticket for one of his live shows in August 2009 at the 02 in London, finally obtaining the opportunity to see the man in the flesh, and I couldn’t care less if he had mimed.

Because it’s interesting to note that many of the critics who argued that Jackson was long past his prime may be some of the same voices who believe that he did indeed have a lot more to give. 50 is too young to die, but despite the number of years that he was with us, Jackson will forever be remembered as someone way ahead of his time. One look at any clip from his creative and performing best will prove this. For me, and for many nostalgic fans of my generation, Jackson will always be remembered as the archetypal pop star, full of extravagance and intrigue. More importantly, he will be remembered for being solely responsible for bringing unrivalled joy to millions of people across the world. It is this reason why many people have taken the shocking news of his death so personally, and why it will be hard to imagine a world which Michael Jackson will no longer be a part of.

Trail Blazer

Anyone who has a penchant for clichés (and I hardly try to avoid them like the plague) will love the one about teaching an old dog new tricks. I just love the image of a withered old German Shepherd sat in a quarantined, security operated lock up for the canine elderly wearing tweed patches and learning how to operate an iPhone, as if age will have quashed what little is left of its hand-eye coordination. Surely the lack of opposable thumbs will see to that. The crux of the matter is that there is nothing new anymore that hasn’t been recycled from all the old crap that old dogs used to bang on about. Because before our old dogs were sat in a canine state of comatose daytime drudgery, they were using quills and ink spots to dot the letter I, communicating through string lined tin cups and using the postal service to tell people things that were actually worth telling people. No use for an iPhone in the 1940s, unless you needed a door wedge for your air raid shelter.

According to Harvey Nichols’ new Spring Summer menswear collection, stack-jawed socialites the country over will be hitting the beach, the club and the sports hall in the most traditional of attire: the humble, smart and particularly effortless blazer. This is far from a new trick: blazers have hung from the shoulders of everyone from Abe Lincoln to Lionel Ritchie, from marketing execs to t-shirt combos on Primani students. It’s certainly a proud day for all those old dogs who will notice - as they tune in their wireless into a remix of the theme tune from Housewife’s Choice - that things, particularly in fashion, haven’t moved on that much at all.

If a guy really wants to look smart, then you can’t go wrong with a blazer. It may scream of a slightly arrogant public schoolboy, a relic of the classroom that outlived even the chalk board, but there is no denying that even the most snotty of vagabonds will look a million times better in a suit, even if it is just half of one. Justin Timberlake went from a prepubescent Mickey Mouse dweebo to the king of cool when he stole Michael Jackson’s dance moves (mostly performed in a blazer, I might add, only with more sequins) and modified the trend with converse and stubble. Sinatra held his over his shoulder, while many have tried to replicate the way that President Bartlet in The West Wing threw his on in one swift motion, less of a simple pull over and more of a poetic moment of cocksure showboating.

The new Harvey Nichols blazer showcase ranges from Paul Smith to D&G and incorporates the sort of bygone tailoring plucked from a different age, when men dressed smart for not just their wedding day, but also the beach and the football match. This season, lads, the old dogs really do know best.

Universally Challenged

It's been one of those great weeks for snobbery, the kind we stiffen our upper lips for in Britain. I remember clearly incidents at school where in order to hide one's intelligence, one would have to imitate a cockney rebel yelp when reading Oliver Twist aloud in class for fear of a behind-the-shed drubbing. A violently yanked tie could break a boy’s windpipe - a nasty trick, that one. Of course, I’m not suggesting that the likes of trailblazing clever clogs Gail Trimble would ever have been so unceremoniously tunnelled in a ladies lavatory at somewhere like Corpus Christi, but maybe her University Challenge team mate Sam Kay may wish to take a different bunk upon his return to campus for fear of itching powder in his pillow case. He may feel that he had overstayed his welcome, which he clearly has, because it was revealed this week that Kay isn’t even at university anymore, and instead has a job at PricewaterhouseCoopers. The Beeb, sensing a Uni-gate backlash of Daily Mail proportions, quickly robbed Oxford of their title and handed it over to Manchester, the show’s runner up, who have diplomatically remained quite blasé about the whole thing. Surely the biggest regret regarding this whole affair is the overshadowing of Trimble’s terrific trail blazing: she scored more points than her three team mates put together, which begs the question that it probably wouldn’t have made much difference if the rest of her team hadn’t even bothered to turn up at all, let alone graduate. Next year, expect to see Trimble alongside a plumber from Dorking, a Sussex bee keeper and Wonky the Clown.

So the snob-bashing continues, mostly from those sorts who confuse intelligence with arrogance, particularly in an over educated news week of endless repetition where it was not only announced that GCSEs are so easy that one day, pupils won’t even have to turn up to sit them, and will instead just get their cats to text in their answers. That isn’t true, of course, but in a world where Liverpool Hope University are offering an MA in Beatles Studies (yes, look it up), then you do have to question these new levels of absurdity. We’re great at taking money from thick kids, but what good, honestly, is a degree in Beckhamology, knitwear and golf course management? (They're not made up, either). Well, obviously, the answer to this starter for ten is quite simple: these students could easily form three successful spare parts for Trimble’s next university pub team. As long as they were still students, of course.