Music Millionaires

At a time when we are constantly being told how those record company big wigs have been haemorrhaging cash and jobs due to people not buying CDs anymore and turning to the internet and, more specifically, illegal downloading as a means of bypassing large store prices and as a way of discovering new music, it’s interesting to read the Sunday Times British Music Millionaires list, which puts Edgar Bronfman and co, chief executive of Warner Music Group, at the top of its rich list with an income of £1.6 billion. I know, how can you not help but feel sorry for them?

Warner own the like of Led Zeppelin, Michael Buble and Burt Bacharach. Maybe their fans just don’t know how to use Spotify yet, or maybe it’s a bit more complicated: clearly the only people making money out of the music industry at the moment are the select few (let’s call them, for arguments sake, the ‘Simon Cowell’s’ of this world, who, incidentally, was at number 11), who get to carve up a sizeable empire in a dwindling economy while the artists are the ones being dropped, sacked and generally shafted. The closest thing to an artist in the top five is Lloyd-Webber at number three. Sir Paul drops to number five. Ahead of him, the head of Zomba and Jive Records, Clive Calder, and theatre plugger Sir Cameron Mackintosh.

And, excuse me, but where are all the women? Out of the top 30, there is not a single female act, and the only ones mentioned are those benefiting in conjunction with their husbands: Sharon Osbourne, Victoria Beckham, Olivia Harrison (widow of George). This is an incredibly depressing thought, especially when considering how such a bias could be readdressed. So, I guess the lesson is that if you want to make money from music, don’t bother starting a band, or even learning an instrument for that matter. It’s not about the music anymore, kids, so wear those trousers high.

They love Amanda Holden in America, so much so that she looks set to present ‘The Early Show’ on CBS. Quite a leap, I think you’ll agree, given her resounding grasp of American current affairs, and despite being the ker-razy token every-WAG on a Simon Cowell bossed reality show like ‘Britain’s Got Talent’, the only show where the contestants still manage to better the accumulative talents of the expert panel just by, I don‘t know, farting the national anthem or something. Overseas they, like, totally love her accent, but if that were the sole prerequisite of presenting a popular American network breakfast show, then why not get someone like Boris Johnson to do it? Or, better still, get Bernard Cribbins. You can’t get more British than that.

Of course, the real reason isn’t just because of her accent, although I’m sure that helps. It’s mainly because she’s pretty, prissy, size zero blondness, just like Cat Deeley was before her. On the plus side, we’ll be seeing a lot less of Holden over here, who is so dedicated to being all things to all people in America that she’s even planning to record a country album. And the record label releasing this? That would be the Warner Music Group, thus quite aptly proving my point. Again.

Here’s a dream come true for all you distracted students, particularly the ones who are up in time: Channel Five are holding open auditions, via YouTube, for people to appear in an episode of ‘Neighbours’. The winner of Be A Star on Neighbours gets to fly out to Melbourne for six weeks to play Poppy Rodgers, a made up character who is apparently Mal Kennedy’s best friend. If you fancy it, simply learn the script (which is here: http://assets.five.tv/fivetv/beastar/PoppyRogers_AuditionScene.pdf), film it, and the producers in Australia might even look at it, or just hope that at least more than a thousand people enter, which is probably the equivalent of the show’s current TV ratings.

Poppy’s a bit of a mentalist by the looks of things, trying to convince Karl to jump out of a plane and asking where the nearest nudist beach is (“Oh Karl, you are such a prude.”). As you’ll only be there for six weeks, my guess is that all of Poppy’s extreme sporting interests will eventually collide in a horrible cliff hanger episode where her parachute fails to open as she rapidly descends at terminal velocity into a sand dune on a Queensland nudist beach. I’m personally feeling a bit cheated, as are no doubt many other guys, who will be looking forward to Channel Five’s search for a male actor next time: an extreme surfer perhaps, who steals Toadie’s beach towel and goes into hiding in Susan’s garage, or maybe you could befriend Paul Robinson in return for shares in Lassiter’s. Which will then probably explode. You could be back doing your old job in no time.

Ashes to Ashes

You won’t catch me getting on one of these outbound flights from Glasgow at the moment, what with a giant plume of volcanic ash lurking over the country like something out of Independence Day. It does make you realise how completely vulnerable we are to ol’ mother nature. A similar incident on a truly catastrophic scale helped to wipe out the dinosaurs, lest we forget, when a meteorite collided with the planet creating such a dust storm that blocked out the sunlight for two whole years. This kind of thinking helps to put a late running bus or bad haircut into some perspective.

But I’m a nervous flyer at the best of times and, within the next four weeks, I’ll be heading out to both Almeria and back, and then a week later to Brisbane. I usually end up sitting next to the sort of frequent flyer who seems to think that the whole idea of travelling in a pressurised container hurtling 400 miles an hour over 30,000 feet in the air is some form of grave personal inconvenience, like a traffic jam, while I’m reading over the safety instructions and clenching tightly throughout. And I completely refute those people who tell you that the more you travel the easier it gets. Sit them in the priority seats near the emergency exit, then, and see how the sudden weight of responsibility sits on their shoulders; and during that brief moment before all hell is unleashed, everyone will turn to you as you fumble about with the handle and scream “I only sat here for the leg room!”

And that’s without an apocalyptic cloud of dust clogging up the engines. So, no thanks, I’ll be fine down here for the time being.

The UK’s first televised party debate featuring our three would-be leaders would hardly have contested ‘Britain’s Got Talent’ in the entertainment stakes, although during Cameron’s impassioned closing statement (the bit where he said he’d “support us” when we start a family, perhaps by altering the mood lighting in the lounge or warming the bed up), it did look for a brief moment that he might break into a rendition of ‘I’ll Be There’ by the Jackson 5. That would have been quite a nice way of ending it, actually, particularly when they were all shaking hands at the end. Did you see Brown quickly launch off the stage to talk to the studio audience, leaving Cleggover and DC looking like they were waiting for the father of the bride to return to have his picture taken with the rest of the guests.

Clegg certainly looked fresh, savvy and not even half as sidelined as many people would have thought, like he was the head boy who had been invited to ride at the front of the coach with the teachers, and probably won over many “hearts and minds” in the process (a terrible cliché, so overused that you’ll now hear it to describe new managerial recruits on ‘Football Focus’ almost as much as within the halls of Westminster), but did you notice how he continually looked down the camera lens and directly into our slightly befuddled, over thinking faces, instead of the “old parties” (Clegg’s words), who darted around the room like they were addressing a party conference. When Brown and Cameron were throwing muck at each other, Clegg bizarrely seemed to adopt the high ground, even nonchalantly putting his hands in his pockets at one point, like he was down the pub.

Brown was assured but prone to backlash tactics, dismissing the Tories for their healthcare reforms and ways to address the deficit. David ‘Call Me Dave’ Cameron used a puppy dog expression throughout with all the sincerity of a talk show host. I should point out that I am writing this on the evening of the debate and have therefore not been subjected to the inevitable barrage of media scrutiny over every minute detail, from the colour of Brown’s tie (pink, not red, why?) to whether Clegg seemed to drinking more water than the other two. Whether decisions will be made on the basis of such idiosyncrasies is debatable, but it will be intriguing to see whether such a hyped TV debate which garnered such tremendous viewing figures should consequentially pay dividends on polling day.

And it wasn’t much a debate, either, with an audience too self-conscious to even uncross their legs in case an audible creak of their chair might contravene some pre-arranged gagging order. Jerry Springer, this wasn’t, not that ITV’s Alistair Stewart isn’t prone to certain theatrics, bellowing cue commands like the voiceover on ‘University Challenge’. But still, this was a landmark occasion, one that will no doubt be the norm from now on, turning our politicians into personalities in the process. And a landmark for another occasion: not a single advert shown on ITV for over 90 minutes!

Of course, I know the real reason why you people keep reading this blog. It’s because of the bees, right? Well, now that you mention it, the Sunday papers are urging us to not cut back our shrubbery this summer for fear of disturbing our limited number of bees from aiding the pollinating process. The number of bees has dwindle frightfully in recent years (I would imagine in direct correlation to how we continue to build on things that we probably shouldn’t), which is quite scary considering their importance in the general fabric and make up of life itself. But since returning from my regular Sunday jaunt it appears that bees are thriving alongside our nearby allotments, which is pleasing to see, even if they do like to fly directly into your face. And that’s the thanks we get.

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.

This is the Neeewwwws

How refreshing, to come into contact with your heroes and not have to endure the metaphorical equivalent of a custard pie in the face. I had spoken to a few journalists before the appearance of Chris Morris at the Bradford International Film Festival on Thursday who had told me that, in the past and on numerous occasions, Morris was a loose canon in interviews, unpredictable. The rumour was that Morris wouldn’t even attend the festival as himself, instead donning the costume of a middle aged woman and conducting the whole ceremony in character. Absurd, yes, but not completely beyond the realms of possibility. This is the same man who sabotaged his own career at BBC Radio Bristol by pumping helium into the newsroom.

Morris was in town for the UK premiere of his new and fairly unique jihadist comedy Four Lions, and upon arriving on the red carpet, I bump into friends Larry and Paul, who have their own show on the commercial Leeds station Radio Aire. (Larry, incidentally, was half way through a 24 hour charity broadcast at the time for Magic, designed to raise money for the station’s Cash for Kids foundation, and his ability to be coherent after such a length of time without sleep is truly commendable, especially considering that most of this time was being spent live on air). We quickly run through a few questions to ask Morris, the most obvious ones being, “What is the letter of the law?” and, one of my favourites, “Do you think people spend too long saying things?”

Of course that kind of behaviour (ie. quoting ‘The Day Today’) would really piss you off after a while, which is no wonder why Morris is rarely seen giving interviews. Actually, let’s rephrase that, he’s rarely seen at all. Which is why the prospect of 15 minutes, one to one, with the man himself seemed unlikely. And it was, because the interview was cancelled, and we ended up loitering on the red carpet like scornful lovers after being stood up on a date.

But Morris did appear, both to introduce the film and for an interview at the end of the screening. The film is pure farce, as hilariously acerbic and on-the-button as Morris’ most potent work, even if it’s bumbling bombers plot does slightly confuse itself between actually making a point and relentlessly hammering at your funny bone. Morris was erudite, funny and intelligent when it came to explaining the movie, merely feet away from my seat on the front row. Does he feel that the film is an insult is Islam? “I would like someone who actually thinks that to ask me that question.” Could the Americans get away with making a comedy about terrorism? “They have. Did you not see United 93?” Is it right to make a comedy about something so real as home grown Islamic fundamentalism? In preparation for answering this one, Morris met relatives of the victims of the 7/7 bombings (of which the film is most closely associated, from the homemade bombs to the northern accents) and discovered that, of the few he did meet, overall consensus was one of apathy, just “as long as it’s done well.”

I have written a more detailed review here for Leeds Guide magazine (http://www.leedsguide.co.uk/review/film-review/four-lions/14035), but suffice to say that the film went down a treat in Bradford. Watching it with a mostly Asian audience (the screening included a break for pray, which is the first time I have experienced this in a cinema), the film is broad and far from a slight against Islam: in fact, I would go so far to say that I’m yet to see a more accurate, detailed look at what it must be like to be a young, disaffected, second generation British Muslim living in the UK today. It’s as relevant as East is East, and a lot funnier.

The knives will be out for Morris (again) over this one - mostly by those folks who haven’t actually seen it yet - but you have to commend him on being brave enough to have even made the film in the first place. He seemed humbled when facing his audience, and in case you’re wondering, no, he wasn’t in drag: a mop of curly hair, skinny jeans and worker boots make him look evidently more fashionable than most men approaching 50, especially when fellow script writers Sam Bain and Jesse Armstrong join him on stage, both formidable comedic talents, but practically crusty by comparison.


I don’t think I’ll be spending money to read the rest of the content on the Times website; the BBC and Guardian tend to be my personal favourites, and they’re free. For the time being, of course, unless Murdoch gets his own way which, as we know, he normally does. After all, we’ll be seeing the BBC limit their online funding by 25% in the next few years, thus purposely downgrading their service for reasons that seem ultimately quite baffling: is it to pre-empt and tally favour with a new government who will probably hit the license fee pretty hard when they come to power? Or perhaps it really is to do with the Beeb’s current monopolising of the market, thus making it unfair for private companies and competition to flourish in a rapidly commercialised broadband environment? If the comment and analysis that you find in the Times is your favourite source of journalistic nourishment, then why shouldn’t you pay for it, like you would a newspaper?

With newspapers now being handed out on street corners, the idea of the so-called ‘fourth estate’ being as viable a business as it once was has become a nonsense, it is a false economy, and who can blame those media men for trying to find a quick buck in the millions that have already been lost. Which is why the Times, I fear, is only the first in a long line of websites that will start to charge for their content, and this could indelibly alter the way we read and interpret the news in the future.

Of course if I started charging for these Toxic Math updates, just think of the routes of expansion open to me on the web today: regularly updated newsletters to always keep you in the loop, instant messaging to your Twitter and Facebook accounts. I’m sure my advertisers could slip in discounted products and giveaways for my most valued customers. But then you’ll probably delete my iPhone app when you get a bit bored and something better comes along, like a virtual online toilet which allows you to take a piss so you don’t have to physically use the bathroom anymore, or something. We‘re a fickle lot these days, and therein lies the problem - just ask Bebo, just ask Yahoo, just ask MySpace, still ploughing on but usurped by things that we hold with a much greater short term value.


I thought this was a nice story to follow on from my blog a few weeks back regarding Mother’s Day, and the film Motherhood starring Uma Thurman, which appears to have only made £88 in its opening weekend. Of course, there are numerous reasons for why something like this could have happened, far above and beyond a film just being really, really bad - because Motherhood isn’t actually that bad at all, and I know this because I appear to be have been one of only a handful of people in the country to have seen it. The marketing for it was misleading, focusing more on the knockabout comedic elements of the movie and the chaos of controlling pesky children rather than the more introspective look of a young career woman struggling to find purpose within the traditional family unit. That’s what they should have done, and I guess only sending it to a few selected Apollo cinemas didn’t help much either. Anyway, here’s the link, read and LOL: http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2010/mar/26/uma-thurman-motherhood-flop

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.

Word To Your Mother

Hurray for our mothers, who will no doubt be unwrapping their Engelbert Humperdinck CDs and being treated to vaguely patronising lunches on this day, of all days, Mother’s Day. Mine lives in Spain and I rarely get the chance to see her unless it’s through the pixelated lens of a cheap webcam. I love her dearly, though, and miss her company a lot: it’s probably down to her sheer passion for writing that got me scribbling away in the first place. All I seem to have offered in return is debt and dirty washing. Who’d have kids, right?

There is a new film coming out called Motherhood that tackles this very question. Uma Thurman plays a New York urban mommy juggling two small children while barely finding enough time to update her blog - think Sex and the City but with kids. She is frayed, scatty and constantly on the brink of a complete emotional breakdown. It’s a pretty decent stab at an adult family comedy and is essentially about finding harmony and balance in a busy, chaotic world where mothers seem to adhere to somewhat self-imposed pressures of being everything to all people: a doting parent, chief organiser, caretaker, inspiration for her kids as well as stern matriarch and, when daddy comes home, a promiscuous partner. It’s a lot to cram into one day, but despite the film’s smug snapshot of contemporary motherhood, I don’t think that the emotional burdens of raising children have altered too much. What clearly has changed is the greater pressure today for career mothers to excel in their work while still maintaining a good home life balance. My Mum stayed at home to raise a family until she felt ready to go back into work, but not every mother can afford such luxuries, particularly young families who have yet to have an opportunity to get a substantial hold on the career ladder.

Knowing my mum she would probably say that it was much easier raising kids when she was younger, which, if she says so, is probably true. After all, mother knows best.


The new Gorillaz album is superb. I have a habit of changing my Favourite Record of the Year So Far almost weekly, but I might stick with this one. Damon Albarn is clearly a genius. His third simian side project leaps from a poppy throwback synth sound to collaborative efforts with some of the best names in hip-hop (Snoop Dogg, Mos Def and Kano) and a plethora of musical legends (Lou Reed, Mark E Smith, Bobby Womack) to create a refined sound that’s altogether selfless, contemporary and progressive. And this is the same kid who wrote ‘Girls and Boys’. Buy it now. Right now.


I’m not sure what to make of this current trend for abbreviations. Jedward are to blame, but at least that worked as a joke, as the off-key karaoke twins were practically indistinguishable in both looks and talent. In fact, I blame the media portrayal of shows like The X Factor which have acted to popularise the trend: SuBo (Susan Boyle), PieMo (Piers Morgan), SiCo (Simon Cowell). This has now, annoyingly, moved into politics. In yesterday’s Guardian I read some more rather dubious work: you couldn’t move for references to ‘SamCam’ on an article referring to David Cameron’s wife, Samantha Cameron. I’m looking forward to the electoral candidate debates on TV - when GorBro, DC and Cleggo will render Paxo and co into LOLing, mumbling press idiots, talking in Tweets rather than proper words. Can this nonsense stop now, please?


I’ve always been slightly in love with Billie Piper. She’s from Swindon, you know. We were born in the very same hospital. If it wasn’t for the two year age gap, I like to imagine that we might have met after school once, or got drunk in an alleyway before heading to the Mission nightclub, maybe share a kebab on the way home.

Despite what could have been, I’ve always followed her career intently, which even meant sitting through the first series of ‘Secret Diaries of a Call Girl’, despite it being quite awful. (An oddly hypocritical show, that one, which offers about as much insight into prostitution as a copy of Swank magazine). She’s now an actress of considerable talent, and quite brilliant in Kay Mellor’s new Leeds-based, two-part TV drama ‘A Passionate Woman’. It will be broadcast in April, but luckily the BBC treated guests to a very special preview screening in Leeds at the Hyde Park Picture House.

In an interview after the screening, Mellor was quite teary eyed when discussing the film with ‘Look North’ presenter Christa Ackroyd. It is based on her mother’s ill-fated affair with a young Polish immigrant and set in a 1950s version of Leeds. Billie plays Mellor’s mother as a young, excitable yet sexually repressive housewife in the first part and Sue Johnston takes over in the follow up. The program is filmed in Leeds at various locations including the Town Hall, Roundhay Park and, of course, the Hyde Park Picture House, and it is a testament to the quality invested in the BBC Drama department. And I’m pleased to say that for a Swindon girl, Billie’s grasp of the northern accent is faultless. But as I said, I might be slightly in love.


Another week and, sorry, another Lady Gaga story. There was an awful lot of fuss regarding her new video with Beyonce Knowles (receiving half a million hits within the first 12 hours) - a 9 minute film to promote Virgin Mobile, Diet Coke and a rather limp song called ‘Telephone’, which drew slightly presumptuous comparisons to the ‘Thriller’ video for being the Best Music Video Of All Time, or something equally absurd. It’s not, of course, but thank God for Gaga and completely raising the bar so high that even Beyonce Knowles can't keep up, and she’s actually in the bloody thing.

It’s probably the closest thing to actually wandering around Lady Gaga’s head, with so many great bits to choose from: starting with Gaga’s incarceration and subsequent strip search (“I told you she doesn’t have a dick”), to the lesbian kissing while wearing sunglasses strapped with lit cigarettes (this must have been a continuity nightmare), then Beyonce crops up like a dominatrix to spike the drink of rapper Tyrese (“I knew you’d take all my honey, you selfish motherfucker”) and the two ride out in the Pussy Wagon from Kill Bill in a suicidal homage to Thelma and Louise. It’s certainly an outrageous approach and really great fun. Here’s the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQ95z6ywcBY


The more observant of you would have noticed that out of my six Oscar predictions from last week, I managed to get four correct. Thank you. I’d like to thank God and my agent.

The two I got wrong seem to have stemmed from my own cynicism, but clearly I failed to give the Academy even half as much credit, feeling that they would plump for the baggy, bogged-down CGI master-trump Avatar over Kathryn Bigelow’s tense Iraq war film The Hurt Locker. Luckily, I was wrong, and James Cameron, despite spending the GDP of a small country on his 3D Smurfs-at-war film, had to settle for a few prizes for special effects.

The ceremony received complaints for being a bit of a yawn, but then it is every year. It’s too formal, and the comedy exuberance of Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin couldn’t have helped. They should just get Chris Rock to do it every year. “Our next presenter is the first woman to ever breast-feed an Apple… Gwyneth Paltrow.” Ba-doom!

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.