Not the New York Secret Service Association (Nyssa1968)

Why I am striking today (30 November 2011)

2011-11-30T07:46:00.001Z

Today I am joining hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of British workers who have taken the difficult decision to lose a day's pay in order to stand up for our rights. Not only our rights, but, as the picketer in the picture here is showing - it's for the services we provide, too. We are painfully aware of our former colleagues who have already lost their public sector jobs and are faring in different ways. To those of you still looking for work, my thoughts and best wishes are with you. Also to those who lost their private sector jobs and have yet to find employment again, and those who have yet to get their first job, or get on the first rung of their career ladder. All made far more difficult due to the global financial crisis, now in its fourth year.

Yes. The strike today is about public sector pensions. A subject guaranteed to make many people yawn. Or, unquestionably follow the path laid by the insinuations by government ministers. I have seen angry tweets and heard angry rants on buses and trains about the inconvenience caused by lazy public servants taking a day off, when all the government is trying to do is fix the economy. There's a deficit that needs cutting, after all, and we're all in it together to weather these bad times.

Or, they're furious because why should they, as private sector workers, pay for the amazing 'gold-plated pensions' of the non-taxpaying lazy public sector 'workers'.

I am striking today for many reasons, some of which should be obvious from this blog.

Taxpayers

First up, I am a taxpayer. Every public servant is a taxpayer. In fact, it is far more difficult for us to evade paying tax than it is for a lot more people in the private sector. Not that I would want to avoid paying tax, because, actually, paying taxes is cool.

Seriously.

Without taxes, there would be no roads for you to use, your health care would be a lot worse (doubt me? Look at the USA. Brilliant health care for those who can pay for it...), and even if you hated school, education is actually a good thing. If you are reading this, you benefitted from your education. Even if you went to a private school in the UK (and Australia), taxes contributed directly towards your education. There's loads more that taxes go to that you use, by the way.

Oh, and taxes go towards private sector pensions, too.

But, it's not just about taxes. It is all just a little bit more complicated than the soundbites and headlines.

This is obvious, but seems to get trampled on in the race to demonise the strike today.

Private sector employees are paid from the money made by the enterprise that employs them. In the UK, those are mostly service sector (tourism, retail, food - that sort of thing), with some manufacturing. They all rely on consumers buying a service or a product. And, who are the consumers again? Oh, yeah. The people who live in the UK. So, in other words, both public and private sector employees, and benefit recipients, pay for the salaries and pensions of those in the private sector. Through tax, all taxpayers (both in the private and public sectors) pay for the salaries and pensions in the public and private sectors.

So, can we please stop reacting to the deliberately divisive rhetoric from those who are partisan and ideological (i.e. the politicians)? It is their job to be partisan, by the way. As citizens, it's our job to question them and make up our own minds. The economy isn't the easiest (or interesting) of subjects, so let's not get distracted by stupid furphies like this.

Gold-plating

I get a fairly decent wage for what I do. I have just recently achieved a promotion, but the increase in my pay will actually mean that my pay will stay roughly what it was should the government's proposed pension and salary changes come in. That leaves me personally better off than many of my colleagues, for which I am grateful, but I do wonder at the justice of it.

But, when I compare it to what people get in the private sector for my skills, experience and capability, it's painfully tiny. Oh, and that's factoring in the work done outside contracted hours. Actually, though, there are so many things to consider when comparing private and public salaries, again the deliberately divisive rhetoric becomes nonsensical.

I don't have the time to work it out for myself, but I trust the various sources I've read who know statistics and how to compare them. According to them, the average public sector pension is about the same as comparable private sector schemes. Regardless, and I know so many people have tried to point this out - yes, there are worse schemes. Or, worse, no schemes in some private jobs. I add my voice to what they say: why does that justify making yet more people worse off? Why aren't those poor performing companies being asked to better look after their workers?

And there is the deafening silence around the MPs and their pensions. I'm someone who does appreciate the tough job MPs do, and I fully support the sensible remuneration of MPs designed to ensure people really do have the chance to stand for public office. And, yes, that includes their pensions.

But, if the government was serious about the reasons they give for why they have to take such drastic action against pensions that the Hutton Report, the National Audit Office and the Public Accounts Committee of MPs have shown are affordable and sustainable, then why haven't they looked at reviewing the incredibly generous pension scheme that MPs are entitled to? Even when they are millionaires independent of their MP-derived salary and pension?

Oh, and a final bit of myth-busting here in terms of the image of the retired public servant off on permanent five star holidays thanks to their over-generous pension - the current average public sector worker/middle manager's pension, when added to the basic state pension, is not even five pounds above the official government poverty line. What will the cuts do to that?

Shifting Blame

Listening to the government since it has been in power, one would be forgiven for thinking that the recession we're not actually in (although the OECD does think we're back in recession) was caused by the unusually early snow last year (it was snowing in the UK this day in 2010), the euro, or the irresponsible and mad spending by the last government.

Oddly, they don't mention the big banks and other global financial institutions and their irresponsible and (as is being proven in courts) criminal activities throughout the last decade. They don't seem overly fussed that even the executives in the banks that were bailed out by taxpayers received eye-watering bonuses this year.

No, it seems the only solution is to cut everything that supports the arts, poor people, etc. The things that don't really result in savings... Certainly don't revive the economy... The drive, though, does seem to be towards privatising everything, worryingly including parts of the public services left alone even by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher because even she seemed to understand the British Constitution, and how it's a fine balance between law makers (parliament), law reviewers (the judiciary) and law enforcers (the police). The cuts in the criminal justice systems are mind boggling.

Another question that would be good for this government to answer: is the cutting of the public sector pensions an early stage in preparing them to be privatised?

Big Society

Every time I see the Big Society mentioned, I must confess to raising my eyebrows and shaking my head a little sadly. It's not because I think it's a bad idea. I don't. I used to be an active part of it, before it got its name. That was before I got my first full time job, back in Australia. I was looking forward to getting more involved with volunteering as time progressed and my work-life balance could re-balance again. Even though my retirement is a good few years off, occasional thoughts of which charities to support through donating my time, experience, skills and labour did cross my mind.

One of the things I love about the UK is the third sector. The support of charitable causes both in donating money, but also time. All the things the 'Big Society' is, as I understand it, meant to be. Personally, I don't think there's anything wrong with a government labelling one of the things that does make the UK a great place to be. What niggles is a political party taking credit for something already there, muddling away without any party-political basis.

What angers me is that so much of what this government is doing - and the attacks on the public sector pensions is only one example - is actually destroying any chance of building what they have chosen to call the 'Big Society'. The pay cuts my public sector colleagues and I have already taken have led to us seriously considering those charities we support. Oh, and before you think we must be on bloody good salaries to choose to donate hundred of pounds to a range of charities... no, we're talking about relatively small amounts to already carefully selected charities.

The Unions

Today, looking at some twitter feeds, I have 'learned' that my 'union masters' get more than pay than the 'evil bankers' with their bonuses. Those feeds then charge into a litany of anti-union invective where the 'what have the unions ever done for us?' is the least offensive.

In all my working life, I have been a member of the union that covered my workplace. But, I have never stood for any official post. My career path has just never gone down that way.

I am fully aware of the shortcomings of the union movement as a whole, and even more keenly aware of some of the shortcomings of the unions to which I have belonged. But, while I am no expert on labour law or history, I am aware of the basics. It is true that without unions the average worker would be a hell of a lot worse off.

To those who ask, so why do we need unions now? Look around you! It is not just this government that is taking away those hard won rights to reasonable pay, a pension for when you leave work, and reasonable working hours - and that includes the number of days a week worked, not just the hours worked during those days. To those who say, but I work unreasonable hours for nothing, I say - why? Is it really doing you any good? And how's your health? Your social life?

I admire my many friends who are freelance worker, and because I've looked into that myself, I appreciate the difficulties. My choice is to draw a wage, in a sector I've chosen for a lot more reasons than just financial benefit. I love my job, not least because it directly contributes to making the country I've adopted as my home better. I don't like the contempt my sector is viewed by the government (I also didn't like that in the last government, by the way, and that party's continuing lack of support for this strike action is perplexing even though I know the reasons they give).

Just so you know, there are unions in the private and freelance sectors. Check them out. You don't have to go it alone, even if you're self-employed. I'm already a member of one that actively works to ensure writers actually get paid a decent income for their work.

As for the nonsense about democracy in the unions... and the voting... and how the majority don't support the strikes. In the UK, it's not compulsory for people to vote (I grew up in Australia where it is). The majority of people don't vote in general elections, or council elections. Unions aren't allowed to ballot at workplaces - it's all postal votes, with all the problems that causes. But, the basic principle in common with general elections remains: the winner of the vote is the simple majority of those who cast votes. The whole then go with the majority, even if they voted against it. That's how the democratic systems works. It distresses me that people don't understand the democratic principles people died for - and continue to die for all around the world. It also distresses me that people can't be bothered to vote in any election, including union ballots if they're a member.

My union balloted us in advance of the 30 June 2011 strike, which carried over to this one because it's about the same issue and they didn't want to spend more money when it wasn't needed. Interestingly, those unions that balloted their members more recently have had much higher turnouts, and overwhelmingly higher support for striking today. Those unions include a few that have never been on strike before.

I've heard the question: Why don't the unions negotiate with the government? They have been. What doesn't help is when the government issues statements or media releases suggesting they've tabled amendments to their proposals. That's not negotiating. That happened back in June, and has happened again in the lead up to today. And the media need to check their facts and report responsibly.

The government has also been excited about the 'irresponsibility' of the strike, and minimising disruption. Trust me when I say this, emergency cover has been organised where it needs to be. I know my union and department have agreed principles in place respecting the right to strike. But, the point of a strike is to cause disruption. It was said back in June, and anecdotally the response to this strike seems even more panicked, the fact the government are announcing such bizarre things shows that actually the strike actions are achieving one aim, which is to get the issues out there. I remember the media barely reporting on strikes called under the previous government (fact fans, I've been on strike five times since arriving in the UK.)

Fortunately, a lot of people I follow on Twitter have been really cool. Caitlin Moran posted this morning the wise words, 'workers have to strike for what executives just help themselves to.' Ian Martin said, 'This is not just about pensions. It's about who we are and what we value.'

You want more info?

Good. I urge you to head to the union websites - e.g. PCS, TUC, Unison - and to Hansard for the official record of Parliament, to find out for yourself what has really been going on, and what this strike is really about.

Re stats, do check out Ben Goldacre's twitter stream over last weekend for a non-partisan, questioning look at the stats. Not just for what he said, by the way. There were some fascinating links.

Little Reminder: this is my personal blog and is a bit of a ramble. It doesn't cover everything. It can't. The issues are complex, and made even more complex by the insinuations and misrepresentations. Figures recorded in parliament have been questioned for their veracity.

My blog is political, but not party political. I'm a union member, and supporter, but not a union stooge. These are my views, my opinions, based on my observations. I do believe there are other ways to address the economic problems in the UK. A start would be collecting the taxes owed by those at the top. And, there are questions about restitution from those individual businesses bailed out by taxpayers that this year paid such high bonuses and increased salaries without addressing the problems that caused the financial crisis in the first place.

I welcome comments, but do moderate them (having received way too much spam in the past). I also welcome views contrary to mine, but I have a zero tolerance of 'flame wars' and 'trolls'.

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Phew. Maybe time to blog again...

2011-11-28T19:34:00.000Z

Gosh. July was a while ago. It has been a very busy year. But a fairly good one. I have a plan to tidy up this blog, and to get back into a pattern with writing it.

Yes. I did NoWriMo again. Just got through the 50,000 words, which is actually about two-thirds of the way through the novel I'm writing. It's book two of the trilogy I started during last year's NoWriMo. What was cool about last year's attempt was a publisher who read it and provided incredibly useful comments on it. Encouraged, the trilogy continues.

What was different between this year and last was the existence of two NoWriMo buddies - one a good mate in Australia, the other a good mate in London. I know we egged each other on via Twitter. I had three really productive writing "sprints" in the pub with my London mate. And fantastic natters about the weirdness that is novel writing.

To busy to blog...

2011-07-27T20:14:00.000+01:00

Apologies for not blogging too often lately. I'm writing something for the Mslexia novel competition, which is taking up a lot of my time.

But, in the meantime, do check out a book about to be released, but can pre-ordered at Amazon. It's called Braaaiiinnnsss!: From Academics to Zombies and features essays showcasing various academic disciplines using Zombies as examples. I've read some of them, and their top fun. Highly recommended.

Review: British Museum Treasures of Heaven Exhibition

2011-07-10T12:00:00.000+01:00

My dad has an interest in Christian art and iconography. He was visiting London at the end of June this year, and happened to have a clear diary on the day the British Museum’s new exhibition opened. I decided to go along with him, as it’s always extra enjoyable to see an exhibition with someone who knows a little about the subject. Not that you need to with this exhibition. The explanatory notes were more than adequate. What I particularly liked about them, too, was how they were informative, cheerfully written and - in common with the exhibition as a whole - didn’t have a proselytising agenda.

The exhibition showcases over 150 objects from around the world, including drawing on the British Museum’s own collections. Among those were the Roman mosaic depicting Christ as featured in the BBC Radio 4 / British Museum History of the World in A Hundred Objects. The Vatican and other major museums around the world also loaned some fascinating examples of exquisite art.

The exhibition takes a chronological approach. The older examples are simpler, possibly because at that stage Christianity was an underground religion in Roman Europe. The Medieval period is when things get excessive, and heading into the Reformation arguably ludicrous. It was fascinating to see how branches of the church started to blatantly make stuff up in order to increase pilgrimages and sell more stuff. I had quipped to Dad about if all the bits of the “one true cross” peddled in this manner were put together, it would have been huge! Then turned the corner to see a quote from one of the major reformers saying pretty much the same thing, only about how many heads some saints may have if you put together all the bits of skull purporting to be them.

Other reviews (e.g. Londonist, 24-VI-2011 and the Economist at about the same time) have made a note of the staging of the exhibition. It’s in the old Reading Room, and unlike some of the other exhibitions I’ve seen there this one does use the space and existing architecture to great effect. The music is suitable, too, being monastic chants.

All in all, if you are at all interested in the art inspired by Christianity - regardless of what you think about the religion itself - then this is a recommended exhibition.

Official website: http://www.britishmuseum.org/whats_on/exhibitions/treasures_of_heaven.aspx
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You Can't Teach Kids to be Gay

2011-07-02T08:28:00.005+01:00

Human sexuality is varied. That’s obvious.

Human sexual orientation, in contrast, is relatively limited. You’re either attracted to people who are the same sex as you, or the opposite, or both. Right? Well, it does dismiss people who are attracted to animals. It also discounts people who might be diagnosed as paraphiliac. It also waves aside people who genuinely are simply not interested in sex with anyone or anything.

Which actually means sexual orientation is also pretty amazing in its variations.

I am gay. I am a lady who likes ladies, “that way”. As it happens, I do wear comfortable shoes and don’t wear make-up or typical women’s clothes. I know plenty of ladies who like ladies who adore wearing and collecting high heels and feel odd without make-up or wearing trousers. That doesn’t make them any less gay or me more gay.

I know I was born gay, but I had boyfriends when I was a teenager because when and where I grew up I had to. My first official boyfriend was a Christian. So was I at the time. Comfortably, it meant sex was off the agenda. I don’t remember ever speaking about it with him, but the no-sex-before-marriage thing was convenient for me. My second boyfriend was delightfully camp-as and I wasn’t surprised when years later I found out he was gay. My third boyfriend, and actually the only one really worthy of that title, is bisexual, not that either of us knew that at the time. We had fun, we experimented, but looking back I know one of the reasons we got on so well was because sex itself wasn’t really an issue. I could write thousands of words as to why.

I went to uni in a different city to the one where I grew up, and I lived in the colleges. While I officially had a boyfriend in Sydney, my life on campus was quite different. I was still extraordinarily naive about my own sexual orientation, but I was beginning to learn about it all. Among my friends, there were two who stand out in terms of this. An Aussie lad and an American lass (an exchange student) who grew close, but were never actually boyfriend / girlfriend. The American returned to the States, and I became even closer friends to the lad. Even though we weren’t “going out” with each other, other students began to think we were fiances. Or, at least, would be once we graduated. It was on some level even then a convenience to us both - when we both reconnected some years out of uni when I was back in Sydney it wasn’t that surprising that we were both gay. (Post note: the American isn’t.)

Even though I know I was born gay, I didn’t realise it until I was 25. No point of reference, see. I knew about gay men (I was a teenager during the 1980s when AIDS was “the gay disease”; meaning, a disease only gay men got - not that it was, but it’s what people thought at the time). I didn't know about lesbians; this was a decade before gay women started to come out.

Kinsey is, so far as I know, the only vaguely scientific study into this, therefore the rest is anecdote. But, all that points to the idea that humans who like humans, “that way”, tend to be orientated towards the same sex, the opposite sex, or both sexes. If Kinsey’s research hold true, most people are more likely to be oriented to both sexes to varying degrees of fluidity. There is amazing variation that I personally know of through talking to people, listening to their stories, and reading about others experiences - throughout history. And not just in the West. It’s human, regardless of the colour of skin, language, culture. And humans aren’t unique. Many other animals exhibit sexual behaviours beyond male-female-for-procreation-only.

But, yet, there persists the bizarre notion that people can be taught to be gay, and therefore kids need to be “protected” from gay teachers and gay role models.

You can’t teach kids to be gay. That’s why there is no point in trying to stop educators from mentioning the realities of human life. In fact, it’s life threatening to do so. There are numerous studies on the numbers of suicides, self harm, bullying, assaults and murders that are the results of futile efforts to deny biological, observable facts.

Fortunately, now, in answer to anti-gay rants, there is the “it gets better” campaign. There are also Pride events, like the one in London today, which is where I’m heading.
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Doctor Who: Year 48 part 1

2011-06-20T20:57:00.003+01:00

Rather than reviewing each episode as aired like I normally do, this time I’m doing it altogether in blocks. If you’ve not seen the episodes, and want to, then don’t read this. It will spoil the surprises, and probably spoil the enjoyment you might well have otherwise got from this series.

There’s also speculation. And, actually, that tells you something about how I’ve reacted to this half of the season. I want to speculate. I can’t help but to play around in what Steven Moffat and the team have created.

The Impossible Astronaut starts with the Doctor being killed by an astronaut in a lake in an American desert. Only there are two Doctors. Two different time streams. And River Song. Possibly two of her (but you won’t know that until the end of this block, and are we really sure that’s the case anyway?). Amy and Rory have been home in married bliss. They, along with River, get a note. Unsigned, but they all think it’s from the Doctor. The note tells them to be at a precise set of co-ordinates at a precise time - Utah, 2011. The Doctor’s also got a note. And so has an old man named Canton Everett Delaware III. Everything is set up to ensure the viewer thinks the Doctor is dead. He can’t regenerate. His body burned, Viking warrior style. (Oh, I think I might understand something - Rory suggested that. They’re killing the warrior Doctor…). But there is still the younger Doctor, blissfully ignorant of his older self’s fate (or so we understand), and thus the TARDIS (well, River’s better at guiding her) is able to take the younger Doctor, River, Amy and Rory to 1969 Washington DC. The Oval Office, in fact, in the White House of President Nixon, briefing the young Canton Everett Delaware III to investigate mysterious phone calls he’s been getting from a “little boy” (so Nixon thinks). And just who or what are those creatures Amy keeps spotting, but vanish from her memory? Oh, and she might be pregnant.

The series opener has a lot going on. Frenetic activity, some great jokes (the whole scene with the Doctor first meeting Nixon is brilliant), and the Silence are an astonishingly good idea for a monster.

Day of the Moon is the concluding part of The Impossible Astronaut. There are answers, of a sort, and more questions. I think they are questions deliberately left to be picked up later. Unusually for a Doctor Who story, it starts three months later. Defeating the Silence is going to take a lot of ingenuity - even the Doctor forgets about them when he looks away. Just not quite as much as the humans do. So the set up is complicated, even though the solution is perhaps fairly easy. Kill the Silence. Genocide at the launch of Apollo 11. Hmm.

There’s other stuff going on, too. Amy is both pregnant and not, not that she knows that. She is plagued by images of a woman with an eyepatch looking through what looks like a prison door hatch. The child calling Nixon is the little girl inside the spacesuit. She escapes and at the end of the episode seems to regenerate.

I watched The Curse of the Black Spot pretty much straight after watching Robot and Pyramids of Mars. I think that’s the reason I rather enjoyed it. After the twists and turns of the first two weeks, this one was pretty straightforward adventure with a few scares and laughs along the way. I thought the explanation for the Siren was pretty cool (certainly less daft than the reveal that Kettlewell is a fascist scientist after all) and missed the mystery disappearance of the Boatswain.

I’ve read a few Neil Gaiman books, and enjoyed them, but I can’t call myself a fan. I was curious about his script for Doctor Who, given his reputation, and was one who loved The Doctor’s Wife. Having had a chat with the only person I know who didn’t enjoy it, I realise that a large part of my enjoyment was because I’ve always thought of the TARDIS as a sentient being. Well, okay. Not always. But since the early 1990s when I was writing Doctor Who short stories for fanzines and novels for the Virgin New Adventures range. When writing a bit of “adult material” (Nyssa and Tegan getting it on) I included the suggestion of the TARDIS being a bit pervy… I had no idea where that came from, but this story showed that wasn’t just me. Loved it, and not least because of where my brain took me - if the TARDIS responds better to River Song as she caresses her… Do I need to continue? Nah, didn’t think so.

The Rebel Flesh begins with what looks like an industrial accident. Fascinating mix of concern and what looks like callousness. Then the explanation. Then lots of running around a spooky old castle in the rain with doppelgangers a-plenty. The Almost People is the direct sequel and, nicely, didn’t suddenly change mid-step. It had some good ideas in it, and generally was well-done. Except for the weird CGI monster. Er, why? I thought the humanness of the Gangers, including the Ganger-gone-mad (and went physically monster-y), was actually scarier. But, one (or two) dodgy effects does not ruin Doctor Who stories for me. Oh, and I suspect the slightly odd left-hanging feel of the Ganger plot might turn up again. I don’t know this, it’s speculation.

Then there was the final scenes to do with Amy. The obvious explanation, really, and I thought beautifully played by all concerned.

Having thought about how a Good Man Goes to War begins, I understand the Cyberman thing, but it still leaves me cold. As in, I don’t really care. Perhaps a reference to the genocide that occurs in the first story of the season - oh, but I quip back to myself, the Silence are so forgettable. Cybermen aren’t, but they are “invincible”. But, that scene is but a single quick moment of a lot of moments of what I felt and thought were pure, brilliant, roller coaster. And I loved them, and the way they were all put together. The Sontaran was best in terms of what I mean - it’s like the amazing sequence in the film Up! in that you get the sense of a whole life in a relatively short time. There are glimpses of important things, both humorous and sad, and actually important for later (ah, story-telling). A Sontaran warrior-nurse telling Rory, the nurse-warrior, a few key things about healers and warriors. Well, I think they’ll turn out to be key.

I also loved Lorna, and my take on that was that she’s the “real Christian” among an army of zealots for daring to question the orthodoxy, the received wisdom.

Madame Vastra and Jenny are screaming out for their own BBC2 series. Seriously. It’d be better than Sherlock, which I love, by the way, and Tipping the Velvet combined. With a cheeky bit of V (the original, natch) thrown in.

It’s a good thing DVDs don’t wear out :-)

One thing has lodged in my mind and won’t let go. Too many of my friends hate Amy. Less so this series, but the hatred is still there. It’s a strangely intense hatred, that when questioned about it the response I tend to get is a, “Well, it should be self-evident why we hate her. She’s hate-worthy. In the same way as everyone hates Fear Her.” Only one mate has made any attempt to explain what in the character he doesn’t like (with some interesting points). What niggles me is that all these mates of mine are gay guys. Lesbian friends and acquaintances have a whole other reaction to Amy, and it’s not just Karen Gillen’s looks. There’s a similar thing with River Song (who I adore, and loved from her first appearance).

River Song says she’s in prison because she killed “a good man”. I am presuming that means the Doctor as a good man who goes to war. Healer/warrior - killing the warrior to save the healer? The Doctor? To get back to uncomplicated adventures?

We’ll find out in the northern autumn.
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ANZAC Day Dawn Service, London

2011-04-26T07:37:00.002+01:00

Yesterday was ANZAC Day. Last year I had plans to go to Hyde Park Corner at dawn to commemorate ANZAC Day. I didn’t make it for various reasons. But, as I wrote last year, I still marked the day.

This year I woke up at 3, walked to New Cross Gate to catch the 4 o’clock 36 bus. On the way, I dodged the drunken ravings of a white lad who had spotted I’m a lesbian and decided to shout his observation to whoever would care. Even his drunken friend seemed embarrassed.

It was unpleasant. Stupid (him, not me). I survived unscathed.

Being on a ‘night bus’ in reverse is odd. The mix of night life staggering about, living their lives.

At Oval, about 30 people got on the bus and they didn’t have to open their mouths for me to guess correctly they were Aussies and Kiwis. Sure enough, we all piled out into the pre-dawn cold at Hyde Park Corner. Nice to be in a throng as we made our approach to the little island with the various war memorials.

Quite a crowd gathered in front of the Australian war memorial, with the Union flag, Australian flag and New Zealand flag at half mast. So many others in the crowd were wearing medals, and it was with a little jolt I realised that many of these young men and women were wearing their own medals and not those of their grandfathers or great grandfathers.

As an atheist, the religiosity was difficult, but a small sacrifice when thinking of what happened at Gallipoli that day in 1915, which was the reason for being there at 5 am. And the speeches were balanced by a sense of loss, and of mourning. Not a celebration of martial pride, but of mateship in adversity. It was only marred by a reference to World War I being about a fight for liberty against tyranny when it was actually about empires.

A few speakers talked about Christchurch and Queensland and the mutual assistance given by the ANZAC descendents. One mentioned peacekeeping in Timor Leste and the Soloman Islands. They all mentioned Afghanistan, but no one mentioned Iraq.

I’m pleased I went, but I doubt I’ll go again. I’d much rather commemorate quietly and in solitude. And listen to the Pogue’s sublime version of Eric Bodle’s perfect And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda, which is all about ANZAC Day.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
Lest we forget.

Elisabeth Sladen, RIP

2011-04-23T17:00:00.005+01:00

Since Tuesday, 19 April 2011, many thousands of words have been written and said about Elisabeth Sladen. In the news, BBC websites, blogs, Twitter, Facebook – private and very public. Video tributes on YouTube, and profile pictures changed to show Lis as Sarah Jane Smith. An extraordinary outpouring of feeling. Tears shed. Memories shared. A feeling of shocked numbness.

Then there’s Tom Baker’s words, and the words of many, many children.

There are a few themes and common stories emerging. You will not read anything different here. I am not alone in not being easily moved to tears over the deaths of people I barely know. I feel regret, empathy of their passing. Possibly a twinge of cosmic angst… but as I’m writing this, several days later, my eyes are still prickling when I think of Lis.

I am of that generation of Aussie kids who was at exactly the right age to experience what seemed to be the endless repeat cycle of Doctor Who in the late 1970s – starting with Spearhead from Space, diving directly to the Jo Grant stories, then Sarah Jane, and lost Jon for Tom many times. We missed some stories – Invasion of the Dinosaurs, Brain of Morbius – because they fell victim to the Australia censor or a concern that we couldn’t cope with black and white TV. Without needing the nascent personal recording technologies, we grew to know and love those stories of a plucky little journalist whose ambitious drive threw her into adventures beyond her wildest dreams.

Scott Matthewman captured the charm beautifully in his obituary when he described how when Sarah Jane was scared it became okay for him to be scared, too. But, more importantly, she tried to do what was right. It’s best if you read his words directly.

Oddly, I think I now really understand something intrinsic about what makes Doctor Who work. Yes, the companions are ciphers. They have to be. They are the audience identification points. The hooks to get a wide audience normally resistant to Sci-fi and fantasy into a realm of impossibilities. I’m not sure any of the actors who played any of the companions were particularly brilliant, but pretty much each one did have a particular quality in common – they were people who were believable. People in whom the audience could identify something and thus be drawn into the perils of the adventure.

I don’t buy the whole Doctor Who girl was a screaming bimbo myth. Not now I’ve watched quite a few stories from the 1960s. That’s not to say that Doctor Who was a trailblazer in feminism – far from it – but that each actor was enough of a performer to have made their mark.

So, what made Sarah Jane Smith so special? I think in part it is a generational thing. So many of us who are now middle aged adults were kids when Sarah Jane was travelling in the TARDIS. She’s ‘our’ girl. We weren’t fans then, but kids, absorbing what was going on. And John Nathan Turner brought her back three times, and Lis was there those times, and threw herself back in the part. We were older then – either fans, or becoming fans, and absorbing it all in a different way than when we were kids – and we remembered Sarah Jane. I first saw the Five Doctors on a stormy night in Sydney in 1983. I was excited to see some of the companions I only knew through the Target novelisations but had never consciously seen; but Sarah Jane Smith was welcomed as someone familiar to see again after (for us) a brief break.

So, of course she was the one who Russell T. Davies would turn to as a bridge to the old series from the new. And Sarah Jane came back into our lives and brought adventure into the lives of our generation’s children, who are of that age when they’re absorbing those stories as kids, but not yet as fans…

But, it’s not the loss of Sarah Jane Smith I mourn. She will live on, thanks to DVD, the books, and the creativity of the thousands of people involved in making the magic that is Doctor Who.

It’s the loss of Lis.

I was lucky to meet her a few times. First in 1996 when she, Brian Miller and their daughter Sadie were guests of honour at Whovention in Sydney. I was on the organising committee for that convention and so got to have dinner with them a few times and chat a little behind the scenes. Lis was everything that so many others have written about – warm, charming, welcoming. She paid attention to you, and would remember you. Her smile was always full and lit up her whole face. She put so many people at ease you felt like you could have a chat and on some level you were friends. I had thought I might have been a little starstruck with her, but because of how she is, that never happened.

About a year later I was at the last Manopticon in Manchester with my then partner. We were in the bar chatting to some friends, when Lis arrived. She saw my then partner and I and came over to give us a big hug. She insisted that we catch up when we could during that weekend. We did, and we were glad to. She never had to do that, but she did. And at subsequent conventions when we met, or during trips to the UK and she was around, she was always generous with her time.

But, she was also fiercely protective of Sadie, and a fierce businesswoman. Looking back, I feel that made her more human, somehow. Yes, she was an actress, a performer, at once open but private. She could be a luvvie with the best of them, but at the end of the day, it was a job and she needed to get the best for her and her family.

When the news came through this Tuesday just gone, I was, like so many, utterly gutted.

The number of messages by children left on the BBC website, and the tributes and obituaries by people no longer children is testament to the love people felt for someone who gave so much to more than one generation of kids. Others have put what I feel much better than I can.

Thank you, Lis, for everything.

Twit-twit-too-woo

2010-12-28T11:09:00.002Z

I became aware of Twitter a few years ago. I think it was @riayn who first told me about it, but I can’t be sure. I do remember her describing this thing about text messages being sent over the internet. It intrigued me, but not enough to get myself an account. As time went on, other friends joined. Their stories about “following” Stephen Fry were interesting, especially when he was on his travels. My phone at the time, though, would not have been able to cope and my internet access was too sporadic.

Then I bought my iPhone 3Gs. I joined Twitter. I love it, and not just for being able to keep up with friends in a way that I prefer to, say, Facebook. Now, don’t get me wrong. I still quite like Facebook, but I do get annoyed by how it appears on its website. I far prefer the iPhone app where I don’t get bombarded by the stuff that Facebook seems to think people like me might like. Actually, I probably would give up on Facebook, except that it’s the best way to keep in contact with quite a few of my friends in a way that Twitter and email just don’t quite do.

What fascinates me about Twitter is how it’s conversation, but in a different way to most other ways we have conversations. While with Direct Messaging (DM) it can be one person to one person, that’s not really the point. Restricting your profile limits who can take part in your conversations, but that’s also different to conversations in the real world. It might be a bit like being at a private party, but there are factors like time delays at play, and who is paying attention to what thing people are saying.

The default Twitter setting is that someone makes a statement, or asks a question. It follows the basic structure of one thought per tweet. That is broadcast, effectively, to anyone who might happen to catch it. But, that’s not really how it works. If you have an account, you elect to “follow” other people. It’s those thoughts you see, and it’s those thoughts you can choose to engage with. Or, you can join a hash tag discussion and respond to people – friends and complete strangers - there. In both cases, the person you might respond to may or may not respond to you. I don’t get the impression people take to much umbrage at being ignored as they would, perhaps, in a situation where they were physically talking to each other. I like to think most people are reasonable enough to know that @stephenfry is not going to respond to every single one of his two million followers.

The other bizarre thing about Twitter is the strange voyeurism of being able to “eavesdrop” on other people’s conversations, both of people I know and those I don’t. It’s fascinating to get an insight into journalists’ lives outside their columns. You can tell those who truly tweet, and those who employ someone to do PR. I don’t follow the PR types. Advertising is dull, opinion and fact-sharing aren’t. Twitter’s good for both, and I follow those who tweet the latter two more than the first.

Twitter is, I think, a writers’ medium. By writer, I mean people who are interested in communicating ideas and observations, regardless of how profound, or trivial, it might seem.

Stepping back from the 140 character tweet, I am fascinated by the way Twitter is continually evolving in terms of etiquette. I’ve blogged before about the rules that are evolving about “spoilers”. There are loads of other rules being formed as people react to things that irk or annoy, and those things people approve. Greater writers than I have already commented on the “power” of Twitter in events like the aftermath of elections in Iran and the rebellion in Burma. As a Londoner, I’m aware of how Twitter helped in bringing witnesses forward in the case of Ian Baynham’s murder. On a more mundane level, it has helped people navigate transport during the heavy snow this December when the official communication channels seemed to collapse.

I am puzzled about the apparent optimism of spammers in using Twitter to advertise. They may follow you, but unless you follow them you don’t see their advertisements. Trying to guess just what tweet it was that caused a male only gym in Phoenix, Arizona, to follow me, a gay woman living in London can be amusing. But, really, in my culls of bizarre followers, I take slightly more delight in reporting them for spam. Even though I don’t know how effective that really is.

But, perhaps what fascinates me most is how the people who don’t understand Twitter react to it. There seems to be quite a few people who seem threatened by it. Just as the internet as a whole became the bogeyman for what is shared on it, the same is occurring with Twitter (as well as other social networking). On the immensely positive side, knowledge is power, especially when that knowledge leads to action to make things better or even just less bad. Burma and Iran are examples, as are the student and anti-tax dodging demonstrations in the UK. The negative is the way the information people mistake for knowledge is falsified, or is actually opinion dressed up as knowledge, and then people act on that. Putting a thought into 140 characters (or so) is a discipline, but it can mean more complex ideas are misrepresented. Those who I regard as expert Twitter users are those who capture a point, and then link to where the idea is explored in greater depth if need be. The other side of the contract is for readers to read the full article before assuming something that might not actually be there.

Of course, Twitter is not only about the serious side of life. Despite strange legal decisions in the UK lately, Twitter is a great place for jokes. Good jokes. By allowing links to pictures and video images, it’s a brilliant way for people to see the wonder, the weirdness, the funny things that happen on this planet of ours, as well as the horror.

On your marks, get set... WRITE!!

2010-12-04T23:25:00.007Z

About seven years ago friends of mine told me about this thing that had started in the USA and had built up a bit of a following via the internet. It was called NaNoWriMo, which expanded out to National Novel Writing Month. I've always had a problem with the 'national' bit. It's not limited to one nation even the website comes in several languages now. Either drop the 'national', or change it to 'Int' - internet / international. Please. [Bleat over.]

I didn't do it then. Not because I was irked by the title of the thing, but because I'd been told about it halfway through the month of writing. The next year I was in the throes of emigrating to the UK and didn't have an internet connection, really, and after that I lost track or didn't have the time.

This October another friend mentioned he was going to give it a go. Inspired by him, I went and had a look at the NaNoWriMo website, checked out the rules, and signed up.

In the days leading up to November, I followed some of the links to writerly websites. I loved the range offered. I followed a few on Twitter, enjoying those that tweet quotes from writers about their craft. Seen with a closed mind, they're contradictory. Seen through a mind open to the rich diversity of human thought captured through the centuries, it's a reminder of brilliant wit and sagacity. Even if a quote is something I disagree with, I have still enjoyed reading them.

Writing is the slow capturing of rapid thoughts and flitting ideas. Medical diagnostic technology is showing what our brains do when we talk and when we write, but it's writers who are exploring what that means. More, too, of course.

I downloaded the Storyist software (Mac only, for now), which was free for the month of November as a trial version. I liked using it so much I've bought it, and I suspect my current version of MS Office for the Mac will be the last version of that I'll buy. Don't get me wrong, MS Office is useful, it's just that Storyist is better suited to what I use my MacBook for and I know I've barely unleashed its potential.

This year I fit the writing in around my work and social calendar. Next year I am going to book a week or two off work. This year was a struggle, to be honest, but I did do it. So did the friend who inspired me.

Other blogs, and some newspaper articles, debated the pros and cons of NaNoWriMo. You can go hunt those arguments down for yourself, if you like. Some of them were a bit Stepford Wife in their praise, but others seemed intent to trash the concept. What's the point, say the naysayers, of raising the hopes of thousands who might "win" but never find a publisher? It's a valid point, until you actually read what's on the site and follow their links and suggestions. And they don't say it in a scared-we're-gonna-get-sued kind of way.

What I got out of the experience was what I hoped I would: a first draft of a novel from a collection of notes I'd been carrying around for a while. From that, a sense of achievement. However, I am very well aware there is a lot of work to do before it will see the light of day. But, I now know the ideas work as a story, and I like the characters. I want to put in the work to build it properly and then to start the process of trying to sell it.

What I found most useful about NaNoWriMo was the competition. The part of the website I used most often was the statistical bit. It felt good to have my daily word count above the target line. When it dipped, that spurred me on. The fact that it was on a website hosted by friendly strangers was more encouraging than if, say, I worked out my own formula. I liked the little pep-talk emails, too. I had been dubious about them, but when they started to arrive at a pleasant rate I read them and was entertained. More than that, they showed a vulnerability in the authors, and that in turn served to reassure and inspire.

NaNoWritMo is not for every writer, and nor should it be. Commissioned authors writing to a contracted deadline don't need to do it. What NaNoWriMo does is give you a similar set of conditions, but with a supportive community to combat those doubts of whether or not writing is work. Of course it is, even if it might not be paid work. Yet.

Depending on what's happening in my life next year, I may well sign up for a second time.

ADDENDUM

In March 2011, I submitted a sample from a polished up version of what I completed for NaNoWriMo to a publisher who had opened up their submissions policy for that month. In July 2011, I was asked to send them the full manuscript. That's absolutely no guarantee of a sale, mind, but I'm utterly delighted by the news. Even if that publisher ends up deciding the novel isn't for them, the simple fact is that NaNoWriMo was the spur to get me to finish that first draft, and that feeling of initial success I wrote about in this blogpost the spur to polish it up and submit it.

Oh, and software-wise, I've now discovered Scrivener. Cool program, which for me just edges ahead of Storyist.
.

Done...

2010-11-28T15:32:00.003Z

November

2010-11-02T21:55:00.001Z

Review: Mark Gatiss' A History of Horror

2010-10-30T12:33:00.004+01:00

BBC4, the digital TV channel, recently showed the three hour long instalments of Mark Gatiss’ A History of Horror. The ‘A’ in the title is important. As Gatiss says in the first, it’s his history, based on what he likes and how he viewed it. It is personal. I thought that approach was key in making the series such a lovely and enjoyable little trip through three main eras of horror in the cinema: the silent era films and the very first exploration of sound and film; the British post-war reconnection with gothic traditions; and the 1970s American and Canadian obsession with ultra-violence and demonic possession culminating in the “slasher” and "splatter" films. Gatiss concludes his history with the observations that there hasn’t been anything new since, and that the established fan base ironically means there is no need for anything new.

When I was at university as an undergraduate I kept being mistaken for being things I was not. My two favourites were being a Law student (more amusingly that was always with the observation that it was because I wear glasses, only I don’t and never have) and being a horror fan.

The latter came from me liking TV series Doctor Who (yes, really) and V, and the films Alien and Aliens.

Age is important here, I think. Horror appeals most to teenagers because that’s when you’re most able to, in Gatiss’ words, “lap up” the gore. He says he’s finding his appreciation of his own mortality affecting his desire to watch new horror films, which do seem to be humourless scenes of in-your-face torture and dismemberment. I’m thinking of the Saw series, and the Hostel films. Not all modern horror is quite like that, of course. The Descent (2005) had its moments, as did Severance (2006), the latter of which is probably just over the boundary into comedy along the lines of Shaun of the Dead.

I was slightly too young to get hooked by Halloween, the Omen, the Exorcist, Friday the Thirteenth. I was aware of them; all were popular culture juggernauts in the 1970s. The films that continued those traditions when I was of the target age were Poltergeist and the A Nightmare on Elm Street series. I remember seeing the Howling on video with school friends: I loved it, they didn’t. I knew it was a spoof, they didn’t.

I remember seeing the first Frankenstein film, which is a classic, and then catching up with many other classics only a few years ago. If people thought I was a horror buff, I might as well find out more about the genre. The Omen films are fascinating: the first is the best, but the sequels are perhaps more interesting than most sequels to horror films. The Exorcist deserves its place, although perhaps it has dated, and I would add Carrie to that. Of Cronenberg’s oeuvre, I have only seen Scanners. From the clips in Gatiss’ history, I have no desire to see Shivers. I couldn’t get into Halloween despite having a thing for Jamie Lee Curtis. The Shining, not mentioned in Gatiss’ history, I was pleased to have seen, but once you know what’s going on there’s no point watching it again. Romero’s Zombies are really interesting, and I found the first two of his films very difficult watching. Not because of the gore, oddly enough as that is extreme, but the film-making style. Of the earlier British films explored by Gatiss, both the Witch Finder General and the Wicker Man are fascinatingly disturbing. I’m not in love with the Hammer films, but I have seen some pretty good ones from that house.

Horror intrigues me, but I am not what I would call a fan. Of all the different types of horror, I think I prefer the films and stories that concentrate on psychological terror and manages to explore humanity. I’m not really into the gore and splatterfests of some films, less so now. Unless there's a sense of humour, or something else going on, frankly, in-your-face gore for the sake of it I find just a bit boring. Personal choice, of course.

I've not had the pleasure of meeting Mark, but I do have some mutual friends. On the strength of this excursion into what he likes in his horror films, I'd quite like to meet him to have a chat. And that neatly summarises this series: an interesting little chat about something Mark enjoys. I'm glad to have found the time to watch it.

First World Risks in the 21st Century: Spoilers!

2010-10-30T12:16:00.005+01:00

When I was growing up in Sydney during the 1970s and 1980s, the pattern was this: my friends and I would watch our favourite shows on the telly, or go see a film (usually together in a rowdy group, sometimes with a date…), or *gasp* read a book. We would then talk about it, either at school the next day or in those endless phone calls teenagers seem to be particularly good at.

I discovered fandom in my early teenage years and as such I had a pretty active pen pal list, first with Doctor Who fans around Australia and in the UK, and then with V fans in the USA, Canada and Puerto Rico. There was time lag in the letter writing game, and also with when TV shows were broadcast, films released and books published. Somehow, we coped.

TV was watched when it was on. Twenty years ago, that was self-evident, but now it’s not so much. My family bought a VCR back in the 1980s, but we didn’t have many blank videotapes and the timing mechanism was something I can’t remember using. Perhaps it wasn’t there in our first machine. Renting movies was great, but buying them out of the question. And we still had to wait for the British release of any books to make it out to their former colonies… unless a certain bookstore in Sydney managed to beat Australian Customs and get some US releases on the shelves.

Fact was, the concept of “spoilers” was non-existent. It’s only looking back now just how much that was the case. Despite being a fan hooked into fandom at the time, I had no idea about the adversaries in Doctor Who’s "Earthshock", nor the fate of one of the regular characters. I also had no idea about the ending of Blake’s 7, even though my friends and I knew it was the last episode. I experienced both those things, and many more besides, as intended. My memories of those stories are bound up in the emotional experience I had as a kid when I first saw them. Post-viewing discussions in the school yard or on the phone helped cement those experiences, felt through the mad cocktail shake of hormones. If you missed an episode, you missed it. In those days, the concept of catching up with a repeat, or a video release of a TV show, just wasn’t there. Before our VCR arrived, it was years before I saw some episodes of Doctor Who, and my experience of them was a mixture of listening to an audio recording, talking to friends who had seen it, and reading reviews and synopses, then the novelisations.

The increasing prevalence of VCRs, and broadcasting politics, changed things in slow time. Some people were able to get videotapes of TV shows from overseas and small groups started to watch them together. Previews started to appear in fanzines. There was still a time lag, but I don’t remember any protests about advance news spoiling the stories. My memories are of being hungry to know what was going to happen… But maybe there were those who didn’t want to know. They didn’t let the fanzine editors know; maybe they just didn’t read the previews, which were clearly headlined as such.

The internet and illegal downloads changed all that through speed and accessibility.

My Masters was all about how audiences interact with TV, specifically Doctor Who. I did the bulk of my research during the latter years of the 1990s, when the internet was starting to become a household thing. No longer the domain solely of geeks, but ordinary people being able to access the Web. I completed my thesis in 2000; broadband had yet to replace dial-up access in any major way. A decade on, most first world homes have broadband access, and the power of computers now as I write this blog were unimaginable ten years ago. Watch a full length TV episode on my computer? Pure science fiction then, but now I have a legally purchased copy of the original V miniseries on my phone.

The technology has driven change in the way we watch, listen and read things, but the etiquette connected to the social interaction generated by how we watch, listen and read things is still being developed. It’s happening, and it’s happening in a patchy way, which is to be expected. Some spaces online have established the rules, and happily act to ensure those rules are followed. It’s not perfect. The ability to be anonymous online means there are those who feel safe in playing their games to get a reaction. Trolls are a well-known phenomenon in chat rooms and on discussion boards, and in the comments in blogs. It’s one of the reasons for being able to moderate comments and online discussions.

I don’t know when the term “spoiler” emerged to mean what it does now. It’s not yet in the Oxford English Dictionary in the context of “broadcasting” a fact that ruins the surprise in a movie, TV show or book. By “broadcast”, I mean including the fact in a subject line of an email sent to a mailing list, or in a post to a newsgroup, a Facebook status update, a tweet on Twitter… I love how the word “spoiler” has become a catch-phrase of River Song in Doctor Who.

TV, films and books have employed twists and suspense as part of their hook to get and keep interest. If people know the big reveal, what’s the point in watching or reading? Soaps rely on that concept, as do thrillers. Most fiction does. This doesn’t explain the pleasure many people have in re-watching and re-reading things, but that’s a different type of enjoyment, and not affected by the subject of this piece. I always think of the Buffy The Vampire Slayer episode “I Was Made to Love You” as the perfect example of what I mean. It’s a rather daft episode, until the Big Thing happens, which makes it amazing TV. I was lucky in that I avoided any knowledge of the Big Thing; I don’t like watching that episode in re-watching the series because I know what’s coming and the rest of the episode is just not really very good. Because I know what’s coming, the emotional engagement is no longer there.

There are degrees of spoiler, and at this stage I think reaction is subjective. I know some people who become hermits to avoid news of casting decisions published in the media generally; I know others who will not watch the trailers for what’s coming next week. I have some sympathy for the latter because some trailers I’ve seen have been pretty poor and have given away surprises. Generally, though, I am pretty happy to accept that what’s put out there in the world by the producers is deliberate and thus won’t affect my enjoyment negatively. I do get annoyed, though, by people outside of the production process who announce surprises publicly.

I’ll share a recent example. This week I watched [Spooks] as it aired on BBC1. I was also following Twitter and Facebook on Tweetdeck. A surprise occurred. I tweeted my delight: “Oh. My. #spooks”. Someone else revealed the surprise, in caps, no less, with the hashtag, in such a way as to be available to anyone reading Twitter. I chided the Tweeter, gently but pointedly, and they protested, saying it was fair game to tweet what they’d tweeted during broadcast of the show. Someone else saw our exchange and tweeted, “I say tweet about enjoyment but not spoilers…”

Different people have different standards, and I think an acceptable etiquette will be worked out. We’re in that interesting place where social rules are being worked out. I happen to agree with my defender on Twitter in that example: it’s fine to share enjoyment in real time (one of the changes with the internet – no meaningful time lag any more), but be aware not everyone is able to watch a show going out on its first broadcast but may be keeping up with their Twitter feed in any one of a variety of ways. In my case, my normal habit on Monday nights is to miss [Spooks] because I’m not home but continue to check my Twitter feed on my phone. I don’t normally view the hashtag feeds, but in this case if I’d followed my normal pattern I would have been badly spoilered because at that stage I was following the spoiler-tweep. The spoiler-tweep didn’t understand that, and I do think the balance will be more in my favour than in theirs. However, I’m aware there are others who may think what I had done was too much. After all, it gave away that about half way through something worth tweeting about occurred.

I feel the balance, though, is more in my favour not just because of my defender but through the behaviour of those who I follow and my friends in our discussions in real life. In real life we check to see if our friends have caught up on something, or if they don’t mind being spoilered, and adapt our conversation to suit. That seems to work. The difference is that online the numbers who can “overhear” are unknowable. “Overhear” is not really what’s going on, of course, because on Twitter, Facebook and other social networking sites most “conversation” is in public. It’s not the same as being down the pub, or at a friend’s home at a party, or even walking down a crowded street.

Finally, I hope you appreciate how I resisted spoilering those Doctor Who, Blake’s 7, [Spooks] and Buffy episodes.

Review: NYman With a Movie Camera

2010-10-23T12:22:00.005+01:00

I discovered Peter Greenaway in 1988 while I was at the Australian National University (ANU) as an undergraduate. I was interested in film in that pretentious way many students have, although I did also have some commercial nous. I had joined the ANU Film Club in 1987, which at that stage had a pretty decent sized screen and lecture hall in which they screened usually a feature on Tuesday nights, Thursday nights, and two features on Sunday afternoons during term times. The theatre was actually bigger than the two theatres at the Electric Shadows art house cinema in central Canberra, which was the main competition. The Club was saving up to buy proper Dolby sound. The committee had got it into their heads that they would be able to do that by getting the usual number of students as members (expected) and took advantage of the free films on offer from the Australian Film and Sound Archive. It was sound logic; the problem was that the types of films that the Archive had for free rental were the types that would only appeal to a fairly narrow audience. I suggested that instead they could increase the membership base by spending a bit of money on a few recent blockbuster releases, but then have the rest as the freebies. I remember it was a heated discussion, but their hiring of Top Gun, and Alien and Aliens as a double worked. So did getting the Star Wars trilogy in honour of the first film’s tenth anniversary. The Dolby was purchased a semester early.

A Zed and Two Noughts (also rendered as A Z+O+O) was not one of the blockbusters chosen by the committee, but nor was it one of the freebies. I can’t remember what attracted my attention to it. Maybe I just wanted to zone out that Thursday night and let someone else’s imagination take me away from whatever troubles I had in my second year of university. I do remember being astounded by it from the opening scene. One of those films where everything was just extraordinary. I remember seeking out my friends Alistair and Grace immediately when I returned to the college where we lived. Of all my friends at the time, they were the only ones I thought would have a hope of understanding just what an experience A Z+O+O was.

Greenaway’s films are intellectual films. They are more like moving canvasses than films, although they have characters and stories in them. Those characters and situations are often grotesque, and usually hyper-real in a bizarre way. I say they are intellectual films because unlike most films that seek some kind of felt reaction in the audience (laughter, tears, shock), Greenaway’s films predominantly seek to engage the intellect in puzzling out the games being played, or being seduced by the visual and aural patterns. It’s not to say they don’t also engage with things visceral. I suggest that anyone whose stomach doesn’t turn at the dog shit and cannibalism of The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover and the mass rape in the Baby of Maçon are severely empathetically challenged.

Integral to Greenaway’s films are the musical scores. Michael Nyman provided the musical soundtracks for The Draughtsman’s Contract, A Z+O+O, Drowning by Numbers, The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover and Prospero’s Books. For me, falling in love with the films meant falling in love with the music.

Nyman abandoned Greenaway due to “creative differences” coming to a head during the production of Prospero’s Books. Nyman is a prolific composer and performer and has also written and recorded the soundtracks to other films like Gattaca, The Piano and contributing to many more. He has also done operas and other albums unconnected to films.

He is what musicologists call a minimalist composer. Think Philip Glass and John Adams for other examples. I love the rhythm. The soothing repetitive cycles of pure sound not drowned by multiple instruments. It means the sound is pared back to single instruments. Nyman has what he calls his band, not an orchestra of any description.

By fluke, I saw that the Michael Nyman Band was going to be premiering Nyman’s latest work, NYman With a Movie Camera on 17 October 2010 at the Barbican. I immediately bought a ticket.

While I was at the ANU I read Politics and History. It was the mid-to-late 1980s and the Cold War was drawing to a close, but we didn’t know it at the time. I was doing a BA. I had the luxury of a father who was a lifelong academic and who therefore knew that university is not solely meant for vocational studies. But, thinking of a career still influenced my subject choices. Without any firm plans, or knowledge, a public sector career was always there for me. A friend was career goal orientated, her heart and mind set on being an expert in the USSR and thus employable in Australia’s Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade. She was even learning Russian. I wasn’t quite that dedicated, but I was taking units in Soviet history and Soviet politics.

Soviet art is one way in to understanding the Revolution; how and why it happened, and what those involved hoped for it. One of our lecturers decided to show us examples of some of the Soviet movies to contrast the social realism form and futurist avant garde styles.

She chose Dziga Vertov’s Man With a Movie Camera (Russian title: Человек с киноаппаратом) as an example of the avant garde. I was captivated. Up until that point, all the films I had ever seen were stories with a fairly straightforward narrative structure. Even the pure art house of Greenaway’s films were telling stories in a recognisable way.

Man With a Movie Camera was a silent film released in 1929. It had no inter-titles (the slides in silent films explaining key scenes or snippets of dialogue), no story and no actors. Vertov was the director, his wife Elizaveta Svilova edited it, and Mikhail Kaufman was the cinematographer. It was produced by the Ukrainian VUFKU studio and filmed in Odessa and some other Soviet cities. It shows the people living and working in those cities, and the machinery of those cities. It experimented with a wide range of cinematic techniques: double exposure, fast and slow motion, jump cuts, split screens, etc, etc, etc. Vertov and Kaufman filmed random clips of life without any conscious effort in finding any kind of narrative. Only a few of the clips were staged in any way: cameras in the late 1920s were large and noisy, far from being unobtrusive. But most were shot in ways to limit any form of staginess. Svilova took approximately 1,775 clips and edited them together into the film as released.

Upon the official release of Man with a Movie Camera, Vertov issued a statement at the beginning of the film, which read: "The film Man with a Movie Camera represents AN EXPERIMENTATION IN THE CINEMATIC TRANSMISSION Of visual phenomena WITHOUT THE USE OF INTERTITLES (a film without intertitles) WITHOUT THE HELP OF A SCRIPT (a film without script) WITHOUT THE HELP OF A THEATRE (a film without actors, without sets, etc.) This new experimentation work by Kino-Eye is directed towards the creation of an authentically international absolute language of cinema – ABSOLUTE KINOGRAPHY – on the basis of its complete separation from the language of theatre and literature."

The film was shot and made in the decade following the Bolshevik revolution and formation of the USSR, but just before the tyranny of Stalin took an iron yet bloody grip on the country. Experimentation was rife, as was debate about the different forms of artistic experimentation. Vertov’s film is in the documentarist tradition, but resists even the narrative structure of most documentaries. It has no one story thread running through it, but there are hundreds of points where stories exist.

Unsurprisingly for such an important film in the history of cinema, there have been relatively frequent re-releases. It is a silent film, and modern releases include a variety of soundtracks. Love it or hate it, the 1984 release of Metropolis with the crude synth Giorgio Moroder soundtrack and barmy colourisation did show that people were quite happy to see silent classics with a makeover. Even if you loathe it, without that release arguably the subsequent releases of fuller prints would not have graced movie screens in the decades hence.

In 2003 the British Film Institute (BFI) asked Nyman to do a new soundtrack for a DVD release of Man With a Movie Camera. It was the first time Nyman had seen the film. According to the Barbican’s notes about NYman With a Movie Camera, Max Pugh first saw Vertov’s film in 2009. From 2007 Pugh had been working editing Nyman’s odd collection of film snippets he had been making mostly on digital cameras since the early 1990s. Pugh noticed the similarity of Vertov and Nyman's attitude to "life caught unawares". NYman With a Movie Camera was thus inevitable.

For me, this was amazing, and the performance did not disappoint. It was not a shot-for-short remake in the sense of the remake done of Psycho a few years ago, where each scene was remade and re-shot based slavishly on the original. But, the sense of each piece was preserved. Some of Vertov's original film appears to remind the audience of where Nyman's work is drawn. Importantly, though, Nyman's takes place now, and it is about him and his experiences: where he has been with his digital camera taking random shots perhaps with no particular project in mind. As a result, the places Nyman takes us are very different to Vertov's locations. Iran, Mexico, the USA, the UK, Italy and Tunisia exist in Nyman's footage. Inserted, too, are scenes of prisoners in the Birkenau Concentration Camp, which sent a chill through my heart. It made me think of how Vertov's film was before all that horror, and just before Stalin's purges. It made me think of how vigorous Vertov's film is in capturing Soviet life when there was still the democratic hopes of the revolution that had toppled the Tsarist dictatorship.

Like Man With a Movie Camera, NYman with a Movie Camera is art and as such is not something that would grip everyone the same way it did me. I'm very aware it resonated with me for numerous reasons, including that curse of the middle-aged - nostalgia.

The Proms

2010-10-13T12:38:00.002+01:00

I attended the Last Night of the Proms in Hyde Park on 11 September 2010. The Proms were something I’d known about forever, but I have no conscious memory of becoming aware of them. I have no memory of my parents watching them, and because they would have been screened by the Australian Broadcasting Corporation, it is very doubtful my grandparents would have ever watched even though they are precisely the type of thing my grandmother would have loved.

As an adult I have watched the Last Night in the past. I don’t mark the date in my diary, or regard it as “must watch TV”, but if it’s on I won’t turn away from it. I know most of the rituals of that last performance of the season. The costumes people wear. The flags and the bunting. The singing along to Jerusalem, Pomp and Circumstance (aka Land of Hope and Glory), Rule Britannia and God Save the Queen.

My mate @nimbos goes. A bunch of us decided to join him this year, and I suspect it won’t be our last time. We all had such a fantastically good time I can see the addiction. It’s not necessarily the music, or the acts, but the amazingly relaxed nature of the crowd. It’s a picnic in Hyde Park, where you can bring alcohol, and you get wonderful entertainment by amazingly diverse acts.

Intellectually, it’s something I should hate. On paper, it’s jingoistic nationalism gone nuts. However, there’s a sense of the ridiculous about it, and people from other countries turn up to wave their flags, too. I got into an interesting Twitter conversation in Dutch with a chap in the Netherlands who was following it on the TV and via the Twitter stream. He told me he wished the Dutch had something similar, I told him I thought Koninginnedag (Queen’s Day) is the equivalent. I enjoy that, too, for similar reasons as this Last Night of the Proms. Yes, they are nationalism and flag waving, but the way I’ve experienced both they are celebrations, with an air of self-deprecation that’s hard to pin down.

The flag in the picture above is the Royal Standard. We were the only ones in the Park with it, which made it handy to point out and to find in the BBC coverage of the event. It belongs to @nimbos, which did not surprise, but what did was how many Brits present who had no clue as to what it was. I'm not really sure what that quite means...

It’s not my Bull

2010-09-15T22:20:00.007+01:00

I was brought up as a Presbyterian Christian in Australia, and I had amazing good fortune with my Minister during my impressionable years. He went out of his way to teach us about other Christian denominations, and other religions. Of course it wasn’t in great detail: you can’t impart the doctrines of centuries or millennia old belief systems in 50 or so minutes. But, I respected his honesty and his genuine attempt to explain, not judge. I remember those lessons with fondness, and actually now recognise how his approach demonstrated a humble self-assuredness, a confidence in his own beliefs.

I left the Christian church because I didn’t like the directions in which other Ministers I had were taking it, which led to me questioning my faith, questioning the reason for faith, and deciding that neither God nor any other gods actually exist.

I am, therefore, atheist.

I believe that faith, or non-faith, should be a personal thing. It shouldn’t be about who is right, and who is not, but about what’s right for you. It was how I was brought up. I never had the “our church is better than your church” competition when I was a teenager or younger, which was one of the reasons I ended up leaving another church when I was emerging from my teenage years. I remember encountering it numerous times in Sydney by people meaning well but operating on the assumption that because they didn’t know me (i.e. I wasn’t in their group) I needed saving (in some cases the intention was to get me to hand my savings over to them).

Evangelism of any kind leaves a very bad taste in my mouth. I realise now that it’s because I don’t like being confronted by someone who thinks they are right about anything, and that I must be wrong by virtue of my existence and experience. I don’t like being lectured at about what I must think and believe. I am an atheist because that is where my path has led me. I don’t believe I have the Truth, but it is my truth.

I do like talking with people who like to share their learning, their knowledge and their ideas, and this can be about things I don’t believe in. I like learning about the richness of human experience. Not to store up ammunition with which to score points, but because I’m genuinely fascinated by what makes us tick as human beings. And I’m fascinated by the different ways in which we view and interpret the world, and make sense of the things that happen.

I reject the idea of there being one universal truth about anything. More precisely, I don’t believe that human beings as we are can experience existence in one universal way.

I interpret the world as I interpret the world, as I exist in it, at this time. You interpret the world as you interpret the world, as you exist in it, at this time. They interpret the world as they interpret the world, as they exist in it, at this, or any other, time.

That’s the ultimate in post-modernism, if you want to apply a theoretical framework to it. To me it’s a reductionist truism, it’s self-evident, and yet when you start to really grapple with what that means, it stretches the mind so far it either snaps or, more often, it freezes and skips to something else easier to deal with.

I am a gay female, white-skinned, born in Australia in 1968 to a mother who spoke English as a first language and a father who spoke English as a second language. I speak English as a first language, understand a second language to a reasonable degree, and can get by very haphazardly with a few others. I have a Bachelor’s degree in politics, and a Master’s in cultural studies. I’m a writer and researcher, trained in comparative analysis, which is a fancy way of saying that I try to interpret the actions of others through as many different points as view as possible.

When I get stuck on the question of why someone else can’t see my point, I take a breath and remember how difficult it is for me to fathom how anyone can possibly enjoy sex involving a penis (sorry, guys). Actually, it’s impossible for me. Yet, intellectually, I know I’m in a minority. That mental exercise allows me to open up my mind again to re-tackle the problem of being understood.

I write all that because I want to make it clear that while I am an atheist, I can understand on an intellectual basis the fact that there are those with a true faith in God – whether that God be the Jewish God, the Christian Holy Trinity, or the God of Islam – or a pantheon of gods. But I cannot share that faith. I did, once, so I know what it feels like… for me. It’s something that’s utterly alien to me now, as though my teenaged self was not me at all. As Christopher Hitchens in his Hitch 22 (2010) points out, what’s the definition of self when you reach an age when every cell in your body is not what you had when born several times over?

Yeah, that’s one of those mind-freezing moments. I’ll skip ahead.

I don’t object to the Pope’s visit to the UK this month on religious grounds. What right do I have to deny those who follow Roman Catholicism their access to their church leader? I do, though, add my voice to those who have denounced the public funding of the visit and the classification of it as a state visit. Given the massive spending cuts to public services, how can Britain justify spending even a few million pounds on protecting a man who has some serious questions to answer about a global cover-up of some very serious crimes. That’s actual crimes, actually being investigated by police in several countries. Let alone the dreadful public stance against effective ways to at least slow the spread of HIV/AIDS; calling the UK’s landmark Equality Act into question because it dares to afford many of the same rights as heterosexuals to lesbians, gays, bisexuals and trans people (yet, still, not all the same rights); and then there’s where women fall on the scale of inherent evil.

What was Gordon Brown thinking? What is David Cameron thinking?

I find myself agreeing with pretty much everything Polly Toynbee wrote in the Guardian, 15 September 2010, which is, for me, a first. There is danger in the strident tones of religion demanding power disproportionate to their true influence. There is danger in those who claim religion to shut down any and all dissenting voices. The one positive of all this, as Toynbee writes, is that these issues are being debated. Not just debated; there are some fascinating observations coming out. There is dialogue happening.

I just hope more of the media – broadcast TV and radio in particular – gets on board with more sophisticated engagement. I entertain the notion of being stopped and asked questions by TV reporters: “What do you think of the Pope’s visit?” “Well,” say I, “given that I’m a gay woman who’s an atheist and who thinks condoms do work to prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS, I don’t think I’m top of his most favoured list.”

And somehow I think that won’t get aired.

Review: Millennium Trilogy Books 2 and 3

2010-09-12T01:32:00.005+01:00

I have finally finished reading Stieg Larsson's Millennium trilogy that began with The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo. The time it took was not because I found them a hard slog, but time and place intervened. I like to take disposable books with me when I’m on holidays and the trilogy are books I want to keep.

The first book, which I reviewed along with the Swedish film, could be a stand alone. Its story is very much about the Vanger Corporation. Characters – both individual human beings and corporations – are introduced. There are some hints of situations and facts about some of those characters that will become important in the last two books, but, really, aside from some mysteries about Lisbeth Salander, there no real need to pick up the last two.

However, you do need to have read the first one to read and fully enjoy the last two, The Girl Who Played with Fire and The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest. The last two books depend on each other, too. Book 2 ends with a cliff hanger; Book 3 picks up right where Book 2 left off.

Book 2 begins with Salander pissed off with Blomkvist, though really at herself for falling for him and then seeing him with Berger. Through a neat bit of hacking to bring down Wennerström, the industrialist nemesis of the first book, Salander is rich. Very rich. She’s also dealt with her guardian, Advokat Bjurman, so he ceases to be a problem for her. She goes to the Caribbean.

This is a fascinating character portrait of Salander, though she remains enigmatic and troubled. The lengthy passage does nothing to add to the plot, and perhaps would have been lost in a judicious edit. That, I think, would have been a shame. It’s an engrossing vignette of a Swede abroad and her interactions with black and white, as well as giving us more of an insight into her extreme complexities. Salander is not an easy woman to get to know, or like. As I alluded to before, in a way she veers between being a ridiculous caricature to someone who is fundamentally different to most other people. And dreadfully misunderstood, which sounds too pat to do these books justice.

In Sweden, Blomkvist is back at Millennium working on a story to do with human trafficking and corruption. Some other investigative journalists have made contact with a story that is just right for the magazine. Things are going well, and then they get murdered. The police immediately suspect Salander due to circumstantial evidence. She’s back in Sweden, avoiding Blomkvist, and enjoying sex and a relationship with the wonderful Miriam Wu. The police and judge get things horribly wrong, accusing Salander of being an insane killer. There’s a national hunt on, and during the events Blomkvist comes to realise that Salander is caught up in the entire deal, but perhaps not quite in the narrative everyone – even he – thinks until quite late into the second book. In fact, while he’s the one who perhaps comes the closest to unravelling the whole story, I’m not sure he has got it entirely right. And that is, I think, one of the true complexities of these books.

The bare bone facts are that Salander is the daughter of a state secret that turned very, very embarrassing and has to be covered up at all costs. The obvious heart of the novels is the theme about the Swedish view of human rights and the balance of that against such national secrets. Larsson is blatantly on the side of human rights, which is not a bad thing, of course, but the third book does lecture the point somewhat.

The prose is generally not good, but I do still think this is from a decently written manuscript delivered and not really edited given the author’s untimely death and his standing in Swedish publishing. The English translation, which is what I have read, is again decent, but suffers also from not being well edited. It’s not bad, as such, but it is well below what it perhaps should be and could have been. Perhaps for those reasons if you don’t want to slog through the books, on the strength of the first Swedish film, do go see the Swedish versions of the other two parts of the trilogy.

All in all, a very good read. Salander is an amazing character who rightly generates a lot of discussion. There is a fair bit that remains ambiguous, but sign-posted.

(I shall add a review of the films once I catch up with all of them.)

11 September 2010

2010-09-12T01:12:00.006+01:00

Today* is the ninth anniversary of when al Qaeda sent two aeroplanes into the World Trade Centre in Lower Manhattan and another plane into a field in Pennsylvania, short of the Pentagon in Washington DC. It’s a date that rightly should commemorate those who died then, and later of injuries sustained on that day; those who remain injured – either in body, mind, or both; those who have family members and friends who were directly affected.

Yet, only nine years on, it’s been hijacked for crude and crass politics.

Proposals to improve a building owned by an Islamic centre in Lower Manhattan have been lied about under headlines of a monstrous mosque in the ghostly shadow of where the World Trade Centre towers stood. Those lies have whipped up a storm of protests and anti-Islamic fervour from coast to coast USA. Violence has been perpetrated against Moslems, or people suspected of being Moslem, when Moslems should be able to celebrate Eid and the end of Ramadan without fear. The story of a strange bloke calling for “Christians” to burn copies of the Koran to celebrate “9/11” has taken on a horrifying life of its own and, unsurprisingly in the context of the other anti-Islamic violence, has inspired others to threaten to do the same. News of all that has generated violence against the USA and the west, and Christians, in countries including Afghanistan where there has been at least one death.

That’s the negative. Fortunately, there have been lots of calls to end this nonsense. American Christians have decried the anti-Islamic acts as “anti-American”, as anti-Christian, as a stain on the memories of those who ought to be commemorated. The threat these actions pose to the USA and the “Christian west” by suggesting that all of us hold Islam in contempt, or worse, has been acknowledged publicly by Barak Obama, Hilary Clinton and others. They’re saying it to not just to try to calm a volatile situation down, but because the opposite is true. Hatred is not okay and flies in the face of American values. Of the west's values.

Most people are generally okay about getting on with other folks. It’s not to say that lots of people aren’t susceptible to being whipped up into a frenzy when they are made to feel fear about someone else. My recent trip to Nürnberg in Germany reminded me of the strategies the Nazis used to generate the hatred needed for the awful war and genocide. For the Nazi plans to work, the Jews could not be seen as real people, as real human beings. They were caricatured, long-term stereotypes played up and exaggerated even more. German, and other so-called Aryan children were exposed to cartoon monsters from a very young age. Real Jewish people were moved from where they could mix with the populations the Nazis regarded as superior. They were put first into ghettoes, then to the camps. It’s easier to kill people when you don’t think of them as people. It takes away the ability most people have to empathise with other people.

It’s not unique to Germans, and it’s not unique to white-skinned people, and it’s not unique to any religion (or none) or politics. There’s an argument that Zionist Israelis have caricatured all Palestinians as terrorists and thus the murder of little Palestinian girls are excusable; and of course Hamas and the other actual terrorist groups employ similar techniques to justify their carte blanche attacks on Israeli citizens. In another long-term “war” called "cold" because the nukes didn't go off, 11 September 1973 was when an at times irrational fear of communism was victorious against a democratically elected Socialist government in Chile. The military dictatorship that took power then under General Pinochet tortured and murdered thousands, all in the name of being against the despotism of communism.

The pattern seems to be that an individual or small group has a megalomaniacal vision. They are charismatic enough to start to attract supporters. There is a level of rationality that keeps those people with them, and that is combined with the gratification of one or more things – it could be wealth when they had none, reassurance of them as people, as sexual beings, whatever. The individual’s influence grows. Fear becomes a tool to wield to ensure obedience of the followers. That’s often fear of punishment, fear the good things will disappear, and fear of others. It’s no accident that those weird religious cults all exaggerate the threats posed by family members, other people from a person’s past, other beliefs (who never interpret The Truth in the right way, unlike our leader).

Hatred seems easy, but once it starts leaking out into a wider world it can have consequences impossible to control.

Al Qaeda is such a thing. It purports to be Islamic, but is it? Is it more of a runaway movement of hate, generated by the vision of Osama bin Laden and a small group of “mullahs”? I raise these as questions because there has been so much written and said about al Qaeda in English that are lies or half truths. I do know that they spread hate and manipulate the disaffected in much the same way as so-called Christian “churches” that preach hatred and death to homosexuals and doctors who perform abortions. In much the same way as Hitler, Pol Pot, and others did and do within their political and social “truths”.

The needless tragedy of this anniversary of “9/11” is the giving of oxygen to a small town megalomaniac, and some others like him, to stir the same kind of hatred that caused the injuries and deaths nine years ago. I know I am not alone in being disturbed and worried by how politicians in the USA who should know better are trying to harness the hate-mongering of these certain individuals. While it seems that in most primaries in this election cycle, sense prevailed and the politics is about things that matter but aren’t going to destroy people’s lives just for short-term power-reassurance. But there are enough who have got through to contest the elections, and who might win if not enough people who care about US democracy get out and vote wisely. My American friends, please don't ignore these mid-term elections this November.Just as al Qaeda does not speak for all Islam, those who want to (and have) burn the Koran do not speak for all Christianity.

* I wrote this on 11 September 2010 in London, but due to technical reasons it was not posted until 12 September, British Summertime.

Review: Britain by Bike

2010-08-31T21:24:00.006+01:00

I love cycling. I came to it late, though, because the house where I grew up in Sydney was located on a terribly dangerous road. It was bad enough for motor vehicles, and I have a memory of at least one cyclist who came, covered in blood, to our door to ask if he could call an ambulance. Needless to say, requests for bicycles were not greeted positively by my parents. I was about 14 when a school friend decided to teach me how to ride a bike, and then my grandmother gave me her old beast to ride at her place. A mountain bike it was not, but its simplicity of design did mean I could - and did - treat it more like a BMX than it had ever been intended. I was saddened when a bike shop took advantage of my grandmother and stole all the good stolid parts and made it virtually unusable for when I went to university in bike friendly Canberra. She had asked them to make sure it was roadworthy. It had been, really, and only needed a new chain.

After I left home and started to live in Surry Hills I bought my self a green Avanti hardtail mountain bike. I lived quite close to Centennial Park and I discovered the world of road racers, and despite being on mountain bike wheels I started to go quite fast behind the lady cyclists. But I digress. I also started to use my bike to commute around Sydney. When some bastards stole the green bike, I bought a red Avanti Montari, which is also a hardtail mountain bike. I named her Max, and she has emigrated with me to the UK. I took her for a few spins around Birmingham, making it along the canals to Stratford-upon-Avon and also a round trip taking in Kenilworth Castle. I also purchased a silver Birdy fold-up bike, which I used quite a bit in the Netherlands. Sadly, since moving the London I haven't really been able to keep up the cycling.

My enthusiasm has been reignited by Clare Balding's rather lovely little six part BBC TV series Britain By Bike. I caught up with them via BBC iPlayer and I've invested in the book (written by Jane Eastoe).

The series is based on the post-WW2 writings of Harold Briercliffe, a journalist and keen cyclist who published a series of travel guides in the late 1940s and early 1950s. Balding's taken these books as a starting point and followed his wheels, on one of his old bikes. That was a nice touch, actually.

It's the countryside that grabbed me, and Balding's enthusiasm for it. I want to make one of my next holidays the Exmoor Cycle Route. The Isle of Wight also beckons, as do the Scottish Highlands (so close to the Isle of Skye), and the Cotswalds. I've been to Haworth, but by car, so perhaps by bike would be a real treat.

This series reminded me of the BBC's series based on the books by Alfred Wainwright. Presented by Julia Bradbury, those series introduced me to that other writer who was also a fell walker and sketcher of some pretty amazing parts of the world. The difference with Balding's biking series is that she took the time to stop off the saddle and check out some of the stories in the places she's riding near. Bruce Chatwin is one of my favourite writers for his clean, precise, yet incredibly evocative style. I was amazed to see her stop at the place where he wrote On the Black Hill and spoke at length with his biographer.

I heartily recommend this series to dip into. Rather pleasantly, there's no need to watch them in order. Equally as pleasantly, they're not repetitive. The overall feel is like an amiable chat, with very pleasant views, and a few fun facts about literature, geography and history. It's balanced between not being taxing on the intellect, yet also not treating the audience like idiots with barely any attention span.

Little update on a story connected with this: a columnist in the UK's Sunday Times (no link because it'll take you to a site where you have to pay) reviewed this series in July and used the opportunity to disparage Clare Balding on the grounds of her sexual orientation. Balding complained to the UK's Press Complaints Commission, who in September upheld her complaint, saying that the words used were gratuitous and demeaning.

Clare Balding said:

"It was important for me and, crucially, for millions of other people quietly going about their work, to make the point that we deserve to be judged on our ability to do our jobs and not on the basis of our race, religion, gender or, in this case, sexual orientation.

"I would like to thank all those who offered their support via e-mail, letter and Twitter - they gave me the strength to stand up and be counted.

"I hope that this decision shows we are moving on from the days when derogatory comments about a person's sexuality were regarded as clever or funny."

Shakespeare at the Globe, London

2010-08-30T09:27:00.005+01:00

It is one of those ridiculous facts of a first world life that if you live in a place, even for a few months, unless you force yourself you don't always avail yourself of the entertainments. I've lived in the UK now for over five years. June this year saw my first trip to the Globe.

I went to see Henry IV Parts I and II, and then The Merry Wives of Windsor.

I had never read any of these plays, nor seen or heard them performed previously. I didn't even really know what the plot was for any of them, aside from the broad historical context of how Henry V came to the throne. The credit is all to the cast and crew for how easy it was to understand the plot, and get into the language so quickly.

I've seen quite a bit of Shakespeare performed over the years, and at school had to read King Lear. Fortunately, I had a good enough English teacher to make it not dull, and an even better Theatre teacher who took us to see some pretty good performances of it. Yes. Plural. Part of the point Mrs Starr wanted to make was that each performance reinterprets what is one the written page. I still really enjoy Lear, and was disappointed at myself for failing to go see it at the Globe when it was on.

For those of you who haven't been to the Globe, it is a recreation of the type of theatre that existed fairly close to where the current one stands, where Shakespeare and his company performed. There's a large stage surrounded by three tiers of seating. Audiences can also stand in the yard, which is how I've seen these plays at the grand total cost of £10. While it can be tough to stand for the three hours, or so, the advantages are that you can usually walk around quite easily.

All three performances were very physical, and the actors brought to life the characters, and the language. All three have a high level of comedy, and the Merry Wives included some delightful slapstick. I think the nature of the theatre itself, with its pared down yet very clever staging, becomes part of the show.

Now I've been, I'll definitely be making attendances a fairly regular part of my summer calendar.

Travels: Köln (Cologne), Frankfurt am Main, Nürnberg (Nuremberg), Dresden, Praha (Prague) and Kutná Hora

2010-08-23T21:29:00.014+01:00

On Sunday, 1 August 2010, I left London on the Eurostar for a bit of a central European adventure. Two weeks, give or take, and travelling by train the whole way apart from the return to London by plane at the end. Given that it’s August, which means summer holidays in Europe, I was not overly surprised to find my Eurostar carriage to be quite full. I had a table seat, but going backwards. I’ve done this trip to Brussels Zuid a few times now, so pulled out my paperback novel and just read. It was Karen Rose’s first crime thriller/bodice ripper, Don't Tell. That makes it seem better than it really was: set in Chicago and North Carolina, it’s about a woman who escaped from an abusive husband, who finds out she’s not dead, and he goes after her. Anyways, the book was a diversion from the long tunnels and one I had no problems with leaving in a hotel room along with the bible. Actually, quite a fitting book to leave with the bible.

Brussels Zuid is a station I have grown to not really like terribly much. It stems from arriving very late one night en route to Hamburg, needing the loo but none were open, and having to translate the Flemish announcements to German and American travellers who knew no French or Flemish. I had low hopes for a Sunday afternoon, and as a result wasn’t disappointed. Fortunately, not long to wait, and I must say that the staff were extremely helpful this time. A chap was asking disembarking passengers if they were continuing their journeys, and if so providing information about where and when to catch their next trains. I bought some chocolate for a friend, and meandered about for the 90 minutes I had spare.

My next train was the Thalys, of which I am not a fan. I am always amazed by how much luggage travellers cram into the carriages, and the disregard to booked seats. I was pleasantly surprised that no one was in my seat, and that I was able to put my backpack close by. Win. It arrived into Köln a little late, and due to a tip from my friend, M, I headed straight to the taxis and caught one to the hotel. It cost about 10 Euros, which was pretty reasonable. Checked in, freshened up, went hunting for food.

The reason why my friend had advised on catching a taxi was the construction zone along Severinstraße, which was concentrated (so it seemed) directly around the hotel where we were staying. The hotel’s sound-proofing was pretty good, really, and it was only once when the drilling got through to annoy. To be fair, a hangover was making my head just that little bit more sensitive.

Food was found in a Vietnamese place on Mühlenbach. I had a simple noodle dish and Tsing Tao beer, which did the job. I then met up with M and her friends who were heading into the centre for some food.

The reason we were in Köln was the Gay Games, which I’ve blogged about separately. M and her friends were competing for a Sydney team in Martial Arts. They were mixed lesbian, gay and transgender. They were brilliant, and I have made a bunch of new friends. I am grateful for Twitter and Facebook for letting us keep in touch!

We walked up to Neumarkt where the Gay Games had set up shops, food stalls (quite a few run by Dutch people; I spied a stall selling poffertjes and made an appointment for trying some of them out). We meandered through, having a bit of a bop to Björn Again, eventually finding a bar still serving food. Because I’d eaten already, I sampled my first Kölsch. Kölsch is the local Pilsner style beer that they serve usually in smaller glasses. I quite liked it, and there’s quite a few different breweries around the area. Over the course of the week I sampled about five.

Next day while the team went out to do some training and receive some instructions about the tournament taking place on Tuesday and Wednesday, a new friend, B, and I headed to the Dom, the River Rhine and the old part of the city. My anaemia meant there was no way I was going to climb the tower, but B did, and I went inside.

The Dom dominates, and inside it is massive and dark. There were quite a few people about inside, but it didn’t feel crowded. It’s very Catholic, I think; it certainly had none of the Protestant austerity I’ve seen in Dutch churches of a similar ilk. The windows are a mix of old and very new, abstract designs, as is some of the other art. Restoration was in full swing on some of the statues quite high up in the central sections. B and I took a few pictures outside, sheltering from a rain shower. Unsurprisingly, the Dom outside is covered by both gargoyles and grotesques, which I love. Quite a variety of them. Some of the statues outside have been replaced by quite modern interpretations of the saints and other religious persons. A Kölner told me that quite a lot of cleaning work had been taking place on them, and the difference between the cleaned ones and ones yet to be cleaned was stark.

B and I had lunch in one of the touristy old bars looking out at the river in the old town. I had a rather good bratwurst, sauerkraut and potato with a Kölsch. We then meandered about the old town, taking photos, and then up into newer areas looking for bits of old wall and other potentially interesting things. The sun was out, and we stopped at a cafe for a cold drink and to watch the locals. After a quick dinner with B, M and the others, B and I went to the Blue Lounge, described by my Guide Book as ‘popular with lesbians’. A cabaret performer entertained us as we drank Kölsch and Talisker whisky waiting for some of B’s other friends. We tried to not have too late a night – needed to pace ourselves. It was only Monday!

One thing that surprised me having lived in a country that’s banned smoking indoors for some years now is the mixed nature of German clubs. The Blue Lounge was one where smoking was allowed inside. It’s a small space, and even though the amount of smoke wasn’t the thickest, it did remind me about how unpleasant it is.

Tuesday and Wednesday were taken up by the Martial Arts competitions and other Gay Games events. B had to leave Köln on Wednesday to return to work.

On Thursday, M, K, S and I headed to the Lindt Chocolate Museum on the river, which cost us 7.50 Euros each. It’s mostly aimed at kids, which is fair enough, and is good at explaining where chocolate comes from and how it is made. It shows many of the production steps, has a bit of a history of how it has been marketed over the decades in Europe. Most of the displays had the explanations in German and English, but there were some amusing typos and some of the translations were not quite there. The best was the whole section devoted to Cult Chocolate, which had us intrigued, then flummoxed when we reached it. Then it dawned: of course, they meant the iconography of chocolate. More specifically, it was about the advertising that has become part of everyday life now, like the Kit Kat ‘have a break’ slogan and the Milka purple cow. The shop was as I expected it to be, although it had some frightening things on sale: I said no to chocolate beer and chocolate wine. Actually, I thought it was quite pricey and didn’t buy any from there.

In the evening, M, K, S and I met up with A, C and D for our last dinner together as a group. We went to a great place called Dohmen’s in the old town. It was a pretty traditional German place owned by a gay guy who, it seemed, had taken a real liking to A and C, a lovely bear couple.

Friday for me was pretty much a wiped out day, and Saturday was taken up a bit by domestics. That included a trip to the Laundromat, where a local chap had a chat to M and I. He seemed a bit concerned that locals had ignored, or worse, the Games and were rude to the all the visitors. I thought most people had been lovely and welcoming, and while they might not have attended events in droves I had no sense of them protesting it either.

I decided to visit the Römisch-Germanisches Museum near the Dom. It cost 6 Euros, and unless you have a deep fascination with Roman pots I, sadly, wouldn’t recommend it. There is a lovely mosaic, but you can see it from the outside, which tour leaders demonstrate with no shame whatsoever. I don’t like saying that, because it deprives a museum, and its connected research, of income.

On Sunday, 8 August, M and I began our rather intense week of train travel by walking to Köln Hauptbahnhof, or main railway station, finding the next train to Frankfurt am Main. It was one of the splendid ICE trains destined for München (Munich). Our trip took a bit over an hour, and we walked from Frankfurt’s main station to our hotel. This was one of three I had booked using Lastminute.com and things didn’t really bode well from the lackadaisical behaviour of the guy at reception. He wasn’t rude, just didn’t seem to know (or care overmuch) about anything that was going on. Over our stay it was apparent it was how he was to everyone – including Germans. We were too early to check in, though, but dumped our bags and meandered into the main part of town. It was getting dark with clouds, which broke in a near tropical downpour, but we were able to shelter. We found a bar in the main square near the Rathaus where we had Frankfurters, of course, and I had a local Pilsner. We wandered back to the hotel to check in; room was okay, but the hotel insisted I hadn’t paid yet (I had, as you do through Lastminute.com) and demanded my credit card. I had no choice but to give it over, but making notes of everything to take up with Lastminute.com once I was back home (I have; they’re on to it). The hotel just seemed incredibly incompetent. Friendly, but incompetent. Anyway, the room was okay, and we were only staying one night.

Dinner was schnitzel in a Turkish run place not far from the hotel. As more rain didn’t eventuate and it was a quite pleasant evening, we went for a stroll to the River Main via the European Central Bank to see if we could get some photographs of the city lights. Interestingly, many of the skyscrapers had their lights off – bad for photography, but better for the environment. It did mean the light pollution wasn’t as bad as other places and we could actually see some stars. We also saw many rabbits in the park just outside the Bank.

I had booked seats on the 3pm train to Nürnberg (Nuremberg) so on Monday morning we walked up to the Frankfurt Opera House for a look there. Grand is the best word for it. We had lunch in a bar called Kakadu near the train station because, as Aussies, we felt it would be the right thing to do.

The Nürnberg-bound train was another ICE and took about an hour and a half. It arrived beautifully on time. The hotel was again near the station, and this time Lastminute.com had done it as a mystery one. It was 4 star, and I had paid very little for it. The staff were professional, friendly, and obviously knew how hotels ought to be run. It had been rebuilt not that long ago, and the rooms were pleasant, but the bathroom had a frosted window into the bedroom area. Odd. After a brief freshen up, we headed to the old part of the city through the city walls.

The first part had things like a Burger Kings and some chain German / Spanish places. Down a little further and you get to the old squares which are beautiful, but perhaps a little bit mad. We walked up the hill to the Kaiserburg Imperial Castle, which had closed by the time we got there. We still gawped at the amazing twilight view of the old city for a little while. We had dinner in a German bar nestled in just under the castle. The place should have been a complete tourist trap, but although we weren’t alone in that category, there seemed to be a few locals there as well. The food was excellent, as was the local Pilsner.

We had all of Tuesday in Nürnberg. In the morning we navigated the tram system (a German visitor couldn’t understand the ticketing or maps either, which left us feeling quite good about working it out!) to the Dokumentationszentrum and Reichsparteitagsgelände in the south of the city. This area is perhaps best known as where the Nazi Party held their massive rallies during the 1930s, some of which were captured in TV broadcasts and the extraordinary film Triumph of the Will. The Doku-Zentrum (as it was abbreviated to on the tram) could be described as a museum, but really it’s more of a place documenting the Nazi rise and fall, concentrating particularly on trying to get to grips with how Hitler’s megalomania affected so many German people (and others). The Doku-Zentrum is mostly boards of information about various aspects of how the Nazis built their powerbases, how the cult of Hitler was established, and their genocidal drive. The audio tour is the translation of this information, and the translations of various video snippets. The few artefacts on display were things that showed horrific examples of local anti-Semitism (again making the point about how the Nazification process reached into the lives of the very young to breed hatred, and how effective it was); you couldn’t find anything that excused or glorified. It was exhausting. Towards the end of the displays is a walkway out into the never finished Congress Hall, of which the Doku-Zentrum occupies a tiny part.

M and I walked outside and around the lakes to find the Zeppelin Field. Around the turn of the 19th to 20th century the grounds had been used for recreational activities like sailing, etc. The locals are steadily reclaiming them for that, and they are lovely, despite never being able to lose the Congress Hall through the trees. That looked like an oversized modern Coliseum, which was the point.

The day we were there the sun was beating down and it was hot. Yet, I felt a chill when we walked out of the forest and saw the concrete steps. Despite the changes over the last 80 or so years, it was recognisable as the place where Hitler held his storm troopers to attention for hours on end while he ranted and raved about his plans to exterminate the “inferior people” – the Jews, Slavs, Communists, people with disabilities, homosexuals… you know the list.

I understand that Stephen Fry filmed a documentary that included material about this place. I understand that he couldn’t bring himself to go up those stairs, and couldn’t bring himself to stand on that podium. I didn’t know that when I was there, but I felt that same oppression. That same horrible, crushing weight of history. That same revulsion of knowing what Hitler’s ranting did to millions of people. When I was told the story about Stephen Fry I fully understood it in such a visceral way I cannot criticise him or think of him in any negative way for it. I, though, chose to not let those ghosts weigh down. I noticed that while there were quite a few other people up there, there was a hush, like it was difficult for anyone to say anything trivial or dismissive. I also defeated my demons about standing on that podium. I noticed that two women had declared their friendship in a graffito that made me wonder if they might be lesbians. I tweeted that I hoped they were. I pondered about the nature of victory over oppression, and that while I believe that humanity will always win over dictatorships of whichever political colour, it will always take immense struggle.

It’s used now for motor racing, and is the source of constant argument: destroy and rebuild, or keep as is as a reminder of what, as they describe it, megalomania can do? Chilling, despite the heat. Then, when we were back in Nürnberg proper, I realised why the Hauptmarkt, the main square, looked so familiar – I knew it also from The Triumph of the Will and other surviving reels of Nazi propaganda film and television. This time, though, we had timed it to go into the Holy Roman Empire HQ of the Imperial Castle. Forced to do a tour, which was entertaining and moderately informative, and stifling hot. Beautiful views of the Aldstadt from there, though. Dinner at a touristy place, but we didn't feel like pizza which seemed to be the only other option on offer. I had Nürnberger Rostbratwursten and Weinsauerkraut for dinner, with a Pilsner. Silence of the noms indeed.

Back at the hotel we watched the latest Star Trek movie, which was in its original English, except for the captions used which had been translated into German. Boggling.

Wednesday morning and we grabbed breakfast at the train station and then caught our train to Dresden. It was a four and half hour journey on a slightly rickety train where we had scored some good seats.

When I was researching for the trip all the guidebooks were suggesting that Dresden is a bit of a nothing place. Then at the Games people were telling us what to go and see. The Zwinger was one, the old town the other. We walked through a construction zone from the central station, then the Altmarkt, up past the Zwinger to our hotel. We checked in with no problems. The bathroom also had a window looking out to the bedroom! We freshened up a bit and headed to the Zwinger, grabbing a late lunch on the way. The Zwinger is this mad large palace that houses a few different galleries. We dived into an exhibition of old guns, swords and armour while a rain storm bucketed down outside. We had a better dinner than lunch, and took photos of the mostly rebuilt old town as the sun disappeared for the night. The gulls did a mad Sydney fruit bat-like squawky trip around one of the large churches.

We had a train at 11am for Praha on Thursday, 12 August. We walked, and I spotted the remaining mural of Communist era glories. The fascinating thing about Dresden is that they have aimed to rebuild it to what it was pre-1945 and have largely succeeded. They are discussing, apparently, about whether or not to keep any of the DDR-built places, and so far the tourist/concert booking place has survived. The piles of rubble have vanished, and were used to rebuild what the Allies destroyed in the controversial reprisal raids of 1945. It strangely works, as far as me as a visitor who was there for less than 24 hours total. I liked Dresden, though, and the people seemed rather friendly in quite a different way to those in Köln and the west.

The train was more old-fashioned and quite crowded. I was pleased to have spent that little bit extra paying for the booking! The Elbe River looked quite flooded as it raced along. The countryside surrounding it looked gorgeous and I’m entertaining the concept of hiking in the hills there one year. While, I tried, I couldn’t get any decent photographs because the train windows were filthy.

The real 21st century meant my phone company texted me to tell me when we crossed the border from Germany into the Czech Republic. There were no passport controls, no big sign outside, certainly no fences or whatever. The language in the signs outside was very different, and someone else came to check our train tickets. The villages we passed through did seem a little greyer than their German equivalents, though M and I noticed that the habit of each village having at least one house painted in hideous lime green prevailed.

I was surprised by how run down Praha central station is, but M very quickly found the currency exchange place (which was excellent given how much it could have been an utter rip off), and sorted exactly how to navigate the subway and streets to our hotel. It was another good little one, and we were pleased to have no window in the bathroom! We did have to deconstruct the two single beds that had been converted in typical central European style to a double. Didn’t take long and we were out to hunt some lunch. We got some Thai food – rather good, too! We survived a rain shower, and headed to the Charles Bridge via the main square and astrological clock.

Friday the 13th seemed an appropriate date to go to an ossuary! This train was a very old style one with compartments. It took about an hour to get to Kutná Hora, and a small walk past a Philip Morris Cigarette Factory (and museum!) from the station to the chapel. Both M and I took loads of photos because neither of us had ever seen such a place. I was surprised that they allowed flash photography, and one chap was using his tripod. It is certainly not for everyone, but I found it easy to disassociate myself from the fact these were once people because of the history being so many generations back. These people were victims of plague. Yet, it is still an odd sensation being in a chapel decorated by thousands of human bones. It has made me think about history, and why it is that the horrors of Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot and their cronies affect me whereas I can’t get emotional about the victims of, say, the Romans or early Christian churches torturing and massacring their way across the world.

We left on the 1pm train. Back in Prague, we walked down to the Charles Bridge, crossing it again, and heading up to the Palace. Rain started up again, unfortunately, but it did make everything over the city look all misty. The rain then got really heavy so we retreated to the hotel to pack. Dinner was quite pleasant in a place near the hotel, and we had an early night after we booked the taxi for the airport the next morning. We got up at 4.45 am to get the taxi for an 8am flight to Heathrow. That was my first flight of the trip, and it was amazingly on time and we were very quickly processed in London with no dramas.

All in all, a wonderful two weeks that has left me feeling weary but in the best possible way.

The Gay Games

2010-08-18T20:53:00.007+01:00

My first experience of the Gay Games was in September 2002 when Sydney hosted them. I was involved with Sydney Spokes, a local lesbian cycling group, who hosted the cycling events. I was one of the leaders for a social ride around the eastern beaches, which was just gorgeous. I have many very fond memories of the week tens of thousands of poofs and dykes (etc) invaded Sydney to achieve their personal best, and the support shown by many and varied people of Sydney – even though the Federal Government with John Howard as Prime Minister was hostile in its silence.

The Gay Games were first held in San Francisco in 1982. They were the result of an American Olympian, Dr Tom Waddell, who dreamed of Games of genuine inclusion and of people of all walks of life genuinely being able to compete to the best of their ability. That’s really what these Games are about, and as a result the two I’ve now attended have generated incredible feelings in me. The Olympics were fun, and the achievements of those involved are amazing, but the achievements in the Gay Games are inspiring. Oh, and before you dismiss them as just “special Olympics for the Gays”, or titter at the oh-so-funny jokes about jism spitting events, world record breakers were included among the medal winners in Olympic standard sports like swimming and athletics at Köln.

I went to Köln because my friend M was competing in the Martial Arts competition. It was for her, and a bunch of new friends I now have, that I spent a day and a half at the competition.

Day one (Tuesday) was taken up first by weapons forms, then empty hands forms, where various individuals from various clubs representing various styles of martial arts demonstrated their ability at their grades. I’ve always been interested in martial arts, especially those from China (what the west call Kung Fu), but other factors of my life kept intervening in any of my attempts to find a Si Fu from whom to learn and a group with whom to train. My actual experience was limited to learning elements of Tai Kwon Do from a High School Maths teacher who was determined to equip us girls with some kind of self-defence nous. I’ve read a lot about Kung Fu, partially because of my fascination with Taoism but also research for a novel I’ve written. I was fascinated by the performances of each of the groups, and through my amateur interest had a clue, but generally my judging of those who did well – especially among the black belts – was more to do with how much they were arresting of my attention. Perhaps it was because it was just so flowing and beautiful, but the two men doing Tai Chi with swords were captivating. So was the woman from the Preying Mantis Kung Fu school in Germany who did an extraordinary kata. The Sydney team, my new friends, did not disgrace themselves in terms of medal tally.

Day two (Wednesday morning) was devoted to combat in the form of non (or minimal) contact sparring. Unfortunately, almost no one was called on the contact that did occur so some of my new friends went away sporting some very impressive bruising. It must be a residual animal thing the fascination we humans do have, if we’re being very honest, with fighting. I am being very honest when I write that while the beauty of the good performances on Tuesday meant I was far from bored, the conflict was simply more interesting to watch. Especially when I was supporting one over the other. Again, the Sydney team did not disgrace themselves, even though that didn’t translate into medals for everyone.

Of the sports, I saw some synchronised swimming practice. Okay, that’s a sport I’ve never understood, even though on an intellectual level I’ve understood the physicality of it. Well, having watched some of the practice, my understanding has become more certain. Like ballroom and ice dancing, and gymnastics, I’ll never be a fan, but I appreciate the sheer athleticism of those who do these sports. And one thing I thought while watching the French men practicing their routines, they seemed like they were having fun, which might not always be the case in the Olympic Games.

In the same venue, I saw a little bit of water polo. While we attempted to get to see some swimming (at a different venue), that was one of the few events where observers would have to pay for tickets. We did see some track and field, including a chap born in 1935 (do the maths!) running the 400 metres in a pretty respectable time. Certainly faster than any of us could manage. See. Achievement. That’s what the Gay Games are all about. We also watched some of the women’s Handball, and were amazed by just how good the Köln team were. Go here for more the history and sports that are in the competition at the Gay Games.

Of course, the Gay Games are not just about the sport. We missed all the cultural events, but did have a chat with a New Zealander chorister on his way to perform at a concert. I did sample some of the nightlife, going to the Blue Lounge on both Monday and Tuesday nights. Then on Wednesday night, M, K, S and I went to an amazing converted 1950s cinema where a German chick was performing Melissa Etheridge and other classic lesbian rock and pop songs, joined on stage by someone from LA with the news that California’s attempts to have same-sex marriage legally recognised had taken a step forward – thunderous applause! The DJ played the Taylor Daine anthem (enough, already), some Lady Ga Ga, and quite a few rather wonderful pop-dance tracks. Best bit was watching M, K and S doing synchronised kata moves to one of the songs. We had an audience. It was an utter, brilliant blast.

Köln appeared to embrace the Gay Games taking over their city for a week. Both the Games banners and the rainbow flag were flying throughout the major mainstream shopping streets, outside the Rathaus (town hall) and along the main bridge across the Rhine. Some of the posters up had some kind of graffiti scrawled on them, but that was about the only specifically anti-gay stuff of which I was aware. We had no trouble with any restaurants, shop keepers or even locals. I’m not prepared to say there was no trouble – just that I personally didn’t encounter any, and nor did any of my friends.

Because, of course, that’s one of the other points about the Gay Games. A fundamental part is about tackling discrimination and hatred. I remember being quite shocked to learn back in 2002 in Sydney that quite a few athletes from various sports (I know cycling and swimming were two) were forced into the situation of not being able to publicly support the Gay Games, let alone take part in them, because the governing bodies of their sport had pretty much adopted an anti-gay stance: if you’re Out, you’re out. I don’t know how much that has changed, but I did have that little familiar chill on my spine when I learned that an Olympic medal winner from the USA was openly partaking in the promotional events.

I hope that is progress against some pretty bizarre and petty prejudices.

The other type of chill I felt is the mixed emotions of seeing people from countries where homosexuality is either specifically or effectively a crime, or where it might be legal but the culture means murder, assault and rape are everyday occurrences for gay and trans people, and those who are perceived to be gay or trans. I feel intensely supportive of these strangers for their bravery, especially those who are open. I feel intensely sad at the precautions others have to take to just be there. That is a reminder of how much work has to be done to ensure basic human rights of safety are there for people I’ve shared a dance floor with, or who I’ve watched compete to be the best they can be – and are.

In both Sydney and Köln what I loved best was the feeling of joy everywhere. Yes, there was competition between individuals, their personal bests, world records, teams, cities, countries… but, there was also shared admiration. People would congratulate anyone and everyone who was wearing their medals, not through some awkward and patronising way, but genuine admiration of what people had achieved. People were grateful when members of other teams gave them t-shirts, caps or badges from their teams. And I knew from the Martial Artists that generally there was a buzz about gay and lesbian martial artists from Australia, Germany, England, the USA, Taiwan, etc, being able to talk to each other on a level that is just not possible in the straight competitions. I got the impression that had to do with a shared understanding from shared experiences, even though the specifics would be unique. There was not the teasing or discriminatory edge to the proceedings because every single lesbian there didn’t have to put up with crazy, irrelevant insinuations about them being less than human because they were daring to do a “man’s” sport. I got the impression people performed better because they didn’t have to hide who they were.

My new friends and I have made a pact. We’re going to go to Cleveland, Ohio, for the next Games. We’re going because the Gay Games mean a lot of different things to each one of us, I’m sure, but ultimately the Köln Games created and cemented in less than a week friendships that will endure. At least, I hope they will.

And the Award for best Political Journalist goes to…

2010-07-28T20:14:00.005+01:00

I’ve written about journalism, reporting and the state of the news media before. A friend’s comments on Facebook in the light of the recent shootings in Northumbria that resulted in the murder of Chris Brown, and the serious injuries of Samantha Stobbart and police officer David Rathband by Raoul Moat, who committed suicide on 10 July 2010, has inspired this blog. My friend posted a link to the Independent’s Johann Hari 8 July 2010 article about what we know about violent death – suicide, mass murder, shooting sprees – and media reporting on it. To very crudely summarise the research he cited, mostly from Dr Park Dietz, reporting on these incidents in a way that glamorises and sensationalises them leads to more such violent acts. When restraint is exercised, there is a demonstrable decline in such acts. The reason why is fairly simple: the person might already be heading towards some sort of self-destructive act, but lacks a script involving killing other people, too. When the media provide the script with someone they identify as like them, is it any wonder they take the opportunity to act?

It’s the sensationalising that is the key to this. Part of the reason why I try to actively avoid the TV news media in the UK was the BBC’s reaction to the Virginia Tech shootings in the USA. The BBC have journalists in the USA who had covered it more than adequately. There was no reason to send a crew out there to cover “it” 24/7, but they did. There was nothing to cover. The dreadful event was over in less than one day; probably over in less time than it took for the crew to scramble over to an airport and get a plane to Virginia. They did exactly what the American Psychological Association said not to do in the aftermath of that awful event.

The shootings in Cumbria last month demonstrated that the UK media did not learn from the US examples, or the Chinese examples, or the Scandinavian examples…

In answer to my friend’s question, I posted that the UK media has chosen “blood” in order for higher ratings and higher readership.

It’s not that they should avoid reporting such events, but they should be aware of their effects when they report the way they do. To quote Hari, “In general: play down the coverage. Don’t give the killer what he wanted.” It’s not like there isn’t credible guidance out there. But their reaction is like they want more blood to generate more stories for them to cover…

I’m also reminded of another friend’s comments about why she never wanted to be a journalist or work in news television. Yet, she got a job in that field a few years ago when she was living in London. She told me of the glee “journalists” had when they got a clip of particular cruelty and gruesomeness. Even though they would never be able to show it, it meant to them kudos, ratings, the scent of blood for the possibility of an award. The climatologist Stephen Schneider described what drives the English-speaking media as “titillation, not complexity” when he was interviewed by Philip Adams on LNL on 29 June 2010.

Fortunately, not all news media is like that.

I watch MSNBC’s Rachel Maddow Show on download via iTunes. It’s free, so people don’t have any excuse to not give the show a go. Just a couple of weeks ago she did two shows from Afghanistan, with a load more on the website. At the end of day two she pointed out the role journalists are playing in that war, and stated how aware she is of her own role as a journalist. When she’s broadcasting from the USA she fairly often criticises the US media for not doing their jobs properly, for getting stuck on “beltway wisdom” in spite of the facts, and for not doing basic checks of facts. She’ll admit when she makes mistakes, and wears her liberal (noting the US definition of that word) bias on her sleeve. She’s constantly talking about how she’d like the right-wing people she talks about to come on her show so she can interview them. And that is interview them, not just tear them to shreds or talk over them. I’ve seen her interview one or two who have been genuine enough to turn up, and she tries to get them to get their views across and she does challenge them, but she treats them with respect.

Not that this is a blog capable of giving awards, and no doubt there are others out there doing what journalists ought, but some of the media pundits out there who I respect are:

Rachel Maddow – she might be a usually studio-bound journalist, but she is a refreshingly honest journalist not afraid to admit when she’s wrong. It helps she’s very easy on the eye, but she’s great because she lives and breathes the politics of the USA but is also aware of the greater world out there. I follow her on Twitter.

Johann Hari – a columnist for the UK’s Independent newspaper who has written some crackingly good articles of late. I’ve just started following him on Twitter.

Robert Fisk – a long-time correspondent who works in the middle east. He had worked for the Times, but shifted to the Independent after Murdoch took over the Times. In his journalistic life time he’s had some amazing scoops and been in some amazing places during some amazing times. Blissfully, he’s collected some of his writings into a few books.

Philip Adams – a commentator from Australia who presents the ABC’s Late Night Live on Radio National, which is downloadable for free. I’ve always respected his ability to get people to talk, and he’s not afraid of asking some very difficult questions. The topics covered are wide-ranging, and I love the updates of Australian politics by Laura Tingle and Christian Kerr, US politics by Bruce Shapiro (interestingly counterpointing the observations by Rachel Maddow) and British politics by Greens member Bea Campbell.

The Economist – brilliant newspaper. The paper version maintains extremely high standards as far as writing is concerned, but yet, it’s far from fuddlesome. George Orwell recommended their writers’ guide, and Orwell, frankly, despite his quirks and perhaps inconsistent politics, would win my award for journalism.

I don’t always agree with the things each of these write or present. That’s really not the point. I don’t even always agree with their broad politics. What makes me respect them is their honesty, their intelligence and their ability to get to the heart of a story. They are also self-aware and, as far as I’m aware, respectful of their subjects.

They are people I happily call political journalists. People who are continuing a long and fascinating tradition of research and comment.

Travels: The Isle of Skye, Scotland

2010-07-26T21:04:00.006+01:00

One of the reasons why I moved to the UK was for the opportunity every so often to take myself off to a different place for a week or so to ramble, to take photographs, to read, to chat to strangers and to write. I plot where to go by Youth Hostel (or similar cheap accommodation) and by accessibility by public transport. From 13 to 19 June 2010 I was based in the village of Uig on the north western shores of the Isle of Skye, the Inner Hebrides, Scotland.

The indigenous peoples of Australia call it “country”: that pull the country has on them and their place in it. English is poor at describing it, and I’m afraid I only know the concept through books and talks on the radio in English. Even when it is Aboriginal people talking or writing about “country”, it’s in English.

Yet, the words I have heard spoken and sung, and read written down, as imperfect as I believe them to be, so beautifully describe the feelings I have had (and attempted to articulate) for many years when I travel to certain places.

I was born in Australia. I have lived there most of my life. The half of my genetic make-up that comes from my mother and her family has lived in Australia for generations. I share what I have learned by osmosis (a metaphor!), but I have always felt like the country and I are not as one. I love it, but it’s just not my country (in the Aboriginal sense as I understand it, not the jingoistic nationalist sense).

Northern Europe, however, that is a whole other matter. Even, weirdly, the Netherlands, which has substantial parts – the polderland – built entirely by humans in the last few hundred years.

I have a fair bit of Celtic and Scandinavian blood in me. I’ve been to Ireland, Wales and Scotland, and I love what I’ve seen of each. The wildness, the grey, the wet inhospitality. Not of the people, I hasten to add, but of the country. The people tend to be incredibly friendly and welcoming, but perhaps a little wary at first of strangers. I’ve never lived in any of those countries, so perhaps trying to settle there might be a little different.

Water sings in my veins, but it’s water of river barges rather than sailing ships on the open seas. It’s the water of the small fishing trawlers and boats of the lobster men. The water of the peat, the heather, falling as rain and flavouring the ales and whiskies.

Uig is in the north western part of Skye and it was the first time I’ve ever been that far north. I was a week out from the northern summer solstice and the length of daylight hours was amazing. Only about two hours of darkness, and that was with cloudy days and nights.

I travelled up by the Caledonian Sleeper from London Euston to Inverness, catching another train to Kyle of Lochalsh, and then the bus to Uig. The skies were blue, reflecting in the lochs and making them glow. The green-grey of the rocks and heather, lifted by the yellow of gorse in bloom, and the reds and purple-blues of other flowers. It is the clichéd explosion of colour in a place I normally associate with various hues of grey.

Once we got on to Skye we were halted by a traffic accident, which was an interesting introduction to the people of Skye. They were concerned to the level of working out what had happened, but when they got word (somehow) that while the helicopter was on its way to pick up some injured people, there had been no deaths, and the bus driver and various other islanders visibly relaxed and enjoyed the sun during the unexpected break. The problem for some of my fellow passengers was that they would miss their ferry from Uig. But, what could they do? Nothing, but sort out alternative accommodation (which didn’t seem to be a problem). Once we got going again we were dropped off at Portree, the capital of the island, and had to wait for a local bus to take us to Uig. That, too, wasn’t something worrying about. It happens. Go with it. Where we were waiting was a quite pleasant little square bathed in sunshine and no midges about.

The bus eventually showed up, and turned out to be the school bus. One thing I learned during my week is that there are only a few busses in the Uig end of Skye: the morning school runs, the afternoon school runs, and one service at about lunch time, all going both clockwise and counter-clockwise. I felt like I got to know Morag, one of the drivers, quite well… The kids were generally well-behaved, loved Doctor Who(!), and it was fascinating to watch the family dynamics.

I was dropped off right outside the Scottish Youth Hostel that sits quite high on one of the hills that surrounds Uig Bay. I climbed up the hill to wait for a bit. It’s one of those hostels that opens after 5pm for a few hours. But, the sun was still in full glorious force and there was a wooden picnic table-and-bench affair outside with a lovely view of sheep in heather fields on one side, and the bay on the other. I was joined by a chap who was obviously walking a long way. The only words we exchanged were about the whether the hostel was open yet or not. He then lay himself on the grass and started to snore pretty much straight away.

5pm came, and I checked in. Grabbed myself a bunk and made it up, then dumped my stuff, and headed into Uig to grab some food. Oops. The shop was closed. Down to the pub, which called itself an inn, and got a meal and some local ale. Bit pricey, but not bad. Discovered another shop down near the docks, but it was just closing up, too. Ah well. Opening times logged for the next day to grab breakfast to go, and closing times logged to buy food supplies for the next few days. Read for a bit in the evening back at the hostel, turning in not too late, and falling asleep pretty much straight away.

My plans for Tuesday was to go for a walk following the coastal road to see how far I could go and have reasonable time to turn back. I bought some supplies on the way at the post office / shop, and set off following the road. It was a grey day, but not actually raining, and the road basically room enough for one vehicle with plentiful passing spots. Once I got up the main hill leading out from Uig Bay, the road was fairly even. Loads of sheep about, mostly of the local black face breed. One place that made me laugh was a sign saying “not suitable for pedestrians”, which didn’t seem to be any different from the other places. There was no alternative but to keep going and I escaped from the “danger” unscathed.

I was fascinated by a symbol on my map saying “souterrain”. It turns out it’s an iron age storage bunker and evidence of a settlement. Very neat the way the local archaeological society has dealt with it. They ask for a pound, and leave a few hard hats and a torch so people can try to crawl in to have a look. Crawl is right, it’s a tiny space.

I managed to walk up to the island’s historical site, which is a recreation of a settlement. In other words, stone cottages with thatch roofs, and various bizarre models and loads of text. In a field below it were Highland cattle (hurrah to see them where they should be. I’ve met some before, but incongruously in the sand dunes north of Scheveningen in the Netherlands). Quite cheap, which was good, because for what it could be it was very disappointing. The rain came while I was there, but I still walked all the way back to Uig. I did my shopping, and then popped into the Inn for a drink before heading back up the hill to the hostel. While I was at the pub, my GP called to tell me I was severely anaemic and asked whether I’d felt more tired than normal… er, sort of, but I’d obviously been working out ways to cope. Because there was decent internet connectivity, I did a bit of instant research using my iPhone.

Next day was the bus to the Old Man of Storr. Those of you who have seen the original Wicker Man film will know it from the opening shots. It was quite tough going in a way up a hill through pine forests and clearings. The pine forest parts were deliciously cool, but the midges were out in force. I’d been lulled into a very false sense of ease with them and that day was the only day I hadn’t brought my midge repellent. Hmpf. My consolation was that at least they were getting a pretty bum deal from my blood. The clearings alternated from bright and hot sunshine and rain. Awesome views. Fascinating place.

I then caught the bus through to Portree to have a look there. I ended up buying some Talisker whisky, which is one of my favourites. Portree is not exactly a thriving metropolis, and there were quite a few tourists there. I caught the bus back to Uig to cook myself a simple dinner.

On the advice of two chaps staying at the hostel who I’d first met on the bus, I planned to go to Flodigarry to walk up and along the amazing rock ridges called the Quiraing. Here I got adopted by a ewe and her lamb, finally managing to shake them when I climbed a stile. Beautiful day, beautiful scenery. I took all day to what would normally take only a few hours, but I was very pleased to have done it. Only one really tricky place over a small river that had cut quite a deep gorge into the side of the rock and no crossing made. On one face of the rock (where I’d started) it had been sunny; turn a corner I walked into a bank of clouds. Rain the whole rest of the way until I emerged from the clouds into the sun again. Waited for the bus, and had a little snooze at the hostel before heading to the Inn for a proper dinner. I had local mussels (small, but very tasty), local salmon lightly poached (delicious), washed down by the local dark ale called Black Face after the local sheep variety, and then a local single malt whisky not made by Talisker. Hm. That’s a mystery, and annoying because it was seriously nice stuff.

Friday came around too fast, really. I left early in order to spend a bit of time in Kyle, which is a bustling place compared with anywhere I’d been to on Skye. I dumped by backpack at the railway station, had a lovely lunch at a strange hotel on the waterfront and watched the advance parties of a race between various rigid hull inflatable boats (RHIBs) arrive. I had a little look in the railway museum, and then just basically read a not bad first novel set on the Shetland Isles I’d picked up from the hostel. Train was on time, and the switch at Inverness seamless. Again I was not sharing my berth. Happy dance. I slept quite well on the sleeper to London, where we arrived fantastically on time.

Brilliant little holiday. Not repeatable, but recommended.