Octulips.
Some poor lady in California has just given birth to eight little blooms, apparently.
Let's hope all of them make it to the spring; they've arrived a little early.
But I'm not sure it was so sensible for someone trying to conceive a family to have been necking Baby Bio – I think she's obviously got the wrong end of the training cane.
Little Shop of Horrors indeed. Crikey.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
Word.
Word.
Down.
Microsoft Arse is what it should be called; I've long said it.
Having to make a load of templates in the damned thing. >GAAKKK!!<
Cack-handed crap. Unintuitive, artificial... – NOW what's it done?! AARGH!)
Down.
Microsoft Arse is what it should be called; I've long said it.
Having to make a load of templates in the damned thing. >GAAKKK!!<
Cack-handed crap. Unintuitive, artificial... – NOW what's it done?! AARGH!)
---
At least I've turned some entirely pointless frustration into some purposeful frustration. Maybe. This morning I was considering banging my head on the bedside radio, listening to Beeb DG, Mark Thompson, make a giant political mountain out of the DEC appeal molehill.
I know that the situation's a minefield for journalists, but Mr T's managed to do more to politicise the BBC's decision by not showing the thing. It would have been so much easier to argue against any criticism the other way. It would have slipped past with less fuss, I think.
Think about it. Is he ultimately worried that there's a risk of condoning aid getting to huge numbers of women and children if Auntie runs the appeal – because of who they are? Because of where they find themselves?
Who could argue sensibly against the Disaster Emergency Committee's aid? If they'd never been broadcast by the Beeb before, then making this the first ever would look a bit partisan, to be sure. But they've been screened after the Ten and the Six and in all manner of other BBC slots umpteen times over the years – and understandably. UK people see need and tend to give, recession or not. And the DEC know what they're doing, or so the BBC always appeared to think before.
Arguing against the DEC's aid aims in Gaza is to essentially declare some version of the idea that Gazan's wholesale 'brought this suffering on themselves' and so are unworthy of the help. Disqualified. All of them.
Is that how humanitarian aid is apportioned?
The thing is, now there's a political lobby trying to bully the Beeb into screening the bleedin' thing, I kind of think they have to stick to their guns, days into the bickering, or they'll look persuadable in all directions. People certainly know about it now.
It seems like a toughie, but I've spent less time figuring it out than I have trying to figure out Microsoft Bloody Word.
It's all very well coming up with something that technically works, but proper solutions are shaped around human beings.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Balance.
Balance.
Interesting. Tracking some of the responses to Channel 4 News' interview with Mark Regev and some of Jon Snow's blogging about the situation in Gaza – as well as some of the reactions to the Beeb's increasingly publicised stance on the DEC Gaza appeal – there are more than a few typed voices singling out issues of bias against Israel and blindness towards Hamas. Some outright slamming of C4 for living in a 'left wing bubble'.
Interesting too is watching that C4N interview again. Mark Regev was for much of it more controlled in his manner than I remember, and I can see how someone rooting for his point of view would read bias into Jon's energy and line of questions.
My point here is point of view. We bring our own filter to everything always.
Even trying to be objective, far away, I came away from Thursday's piece feeling angry – piecing together the scenes of utter destruction with an apparent arrogance of tone from the representative of those who wrought this particular round of destruction. Did I leap a little further than the facts alone, in front of me on the TV, should have taken me?
If I'm doing it, living miles from the conflict with no direct involvement, how much is everyone on the ground filling in perception and fueling passions with their prejudices?
---
Jonathan Miller's report on the misuse of certain weapons in 'civilian' areas had been discussed in that interview with Mr Regev, being cited by the Israeli spokesman as a case of naiivety.
"Of course the people your respected reporter spoke to couldn't say what they really thought – Hamas is an intimidating military regime." He said. "Do you deny that Hamas is an intimidating military regime?"
"So you're saying their injuries, which they told us were from Israeli weapons, were actually from Hamas fighters using intimidation?" Jon replied. "Are you saying Hamas used the white phosphorus and flechette weapons?"
"No, I'm not saying that, you're putting words into my mouth, sir. I'm saying Hamas uses intimidation and you therefore cannot be sure what people tell you in Gaza." Mark Regev replied.
The order and precision of the dialogue I've put here isn't accurate, but this is some of what was exchanged. And in a subsequent report on Friday night's programme, Jonathan Miller spoke to some Gazans who said that Hamas had indeed intimidated their way into some people's homes in order to launch rockets from them – even shooting one witness' son in the leg when he begged them not to turn his family home into a military target.
---
But here's the thing.
My view of either of these people doesn't change their humanity. Doesn't alter it one jot – in the outside world. To the reportable truth. But it does in my head.
In the head of the Gazan Hamas freedom fighter, the Israeli occupiers are genocidal aggressors to be resisted in all possible forms. It is a glory to die in the pursuit of that freedom, all civilian infrastructure can be apportioned for the struggle however it's needed, and anyone from the bitter rival party, Fatah, could well be a collaborator and might well need to be shot in the name of security and the ultimate good for Palestinians.
In the head of the Israeli defender, the Hamas terrorist is an indiscriminate killer, in power by military coup, using civilian areas as weapons caches and human shielding, who will never accept the democratic right of Israel to live in peace and who will never stop mindless murder unless stopped once and for all. However bad the death of children sounds, the Palestinian people either voted for these self-proclaimed extremists or refused to organise themselves a better democratic alternative, and so brought a measure of this on themselves.
So are we stuck forever?
Surely not. The key is still responsibility. Proportionality.
---
Both sides have inculcated some ugly normalities in their views of the other. Enough to hide the humanity and common sense going on, on either side of the wall.
Ultimately, both party leaders appear care little, in tactical terms at least, about the death of children in the struggle – a dreadful thing to say, unhelpfully loaded, but observationally true to the outside world. Yet we can never solve a crisis of passions without asking why each side feels those passions. Why these ugly cultural normalities took root. Why is the word. And that word is only a link word to actual dialogue – because it must be followed by listening.
Democracy and nuclear capability each bestow on Israel an expectation of a high moral standard. But not an empty piety. To an Israeli official spokesperson I would say that if Israel thinks Hamas is beneath speaking to, she should ironically have the superior confidence to talk to them. What would there be to fear? If Israel knows what it's doing, it will know that the superior strategy is dialogue. Winning over your opponent.
Instead it has always chosen military strategy. More than that – and this is, I believe, Isreal's core cultural problem – it has always defined itself by military strategy. Best form of defense is offense.
Occupied land, blast walls, initiated wars, check point choking, daily humiliations. All of it sounds strategically legitimate if you believe you are at war. If you define yourself by the fight. By the enemy. As might suicide bombing, to someone's particularly ugly normality. Hamas' very creed is to destroy Israel – it couldn't exist at all without its enemy. It sends its sons and daughters to blow themselves to pieces fighting its enemy. So we're back to a stalemate of definition. If those understandings of each side are the only truth of them. Back to an ugly balance of pain and blame.
All these political tactics and cultural outlooks do is breed fighters. Angry killers, defending their right to exist at any cost.
Dialogue, on the other hand, means having the guts to see your opponent as human. If you once do that, rather than villifying them into hateable cartoons, the military conviction to kill them begins to break down. If you define your identity by hating them, there's no way you can talk to them. Because you won't know who you are any more.
And you'll be admitting you'll have to live with people who see the world differently to you.
---
If, despite the stalemate of cultural outlooks, both parties really do want to see something other than total annihilation of the other happen, in the game of who goes first, Israel has always held the controlling power. By far.
If I were talking to the UK's democratic partner in the Middle East, I would say to her that Israel needs to depower Hamas by gradually showing its violent methods to be void. Defunct. Out of time.
By opening the flow of movement, by aiding in the rebuilding of Gaza, by ultimately opening talks with Hamas leaders – who are the elected representatives of Palestinians in Gaza right now – Israel will begin to take the heat out of the rockets.
By using its great power to humanise the empoverished Palestinians in its own mind, Israel will begin to build peace. By treating them not as victims or villains but partners in the region, it might start to build real security. By giving back some of the land that is blatently contentious, by trying to build dignity into its dealings with its neighbours, by coming ever closer to being able to say sorry for certain things, Israel will begin to silence its critics around the world.
By defining itself by the fight, by always claiming moral high ground but refusing to dismantle its own war machine – the machinery of intimidation and humiliation and provocation – Israel fuels the militant opposition. And then blames it.
Who shoots a human shield to get at the terrorist hiding behind it? Someone who sees the military victory as more important than the human concerned.
If leaders can one day be found in the Kenesset who will begin to voice a whole new lexicon of dialogue with the situation – rather than voting for spectacularly disproportionate death tolls – less and less people outside the situation will be able to say: 'what is Israel really up to?' Because it will be obvious. Israel will be actually doing something about the situation.
---
But, back on planet Earth, where big dreams begin, the human reality is that tone of voice is as vital as choice of words in communicating. My job tells me this every day. If I were in charge of Israel's security, I might be be keeping Mark Regev away from cameras and microphones.
What matters the label, Left Wing, Israeli, Palestinian, to humanity? Nothing. Not a bloody thing.
Of course the BBC should broadcast the DEC's appeal. It's the DEC, for God's sake. It's children, for God's sake. The decision not to broadcast it has sounded like one of the most partisan, unbalanced things I've ever heard.
Interesting. Tracking some of the responses to Channel 4 News' interview with Mark Regev and some of Jon Snow's blogging about the situation in Gaza – as well as some of the reactions to the Beeb's increasingly publicised stance on the DEC Gaza appeal – there are more than a few typed voices singling out issues of bias against Israel and blindness towards Hamas. Some outright slamming of C4 for living in a 'left wing bubble'.
Interesting too is watching that C4N interview again. Mark Regev was for much of it more controlled in his manner than I remember, and I can see how someone rooting for his point of view would read bias into Jon's energy and line of questions.
My point here is point of view. We bring our own filter to everything always.
Even trying to be objective, far away, I came away from Thursday's piece feeling angry – piecing together the scenes of utter destruction with an apparent arrogance of tone from the representative of those who wrought this particular round of destruction. Did I leap a little further than the facts alone, in front of me on the TV, should have taken me?
If I'm doing it, living miles from the conflict with no direct involvement, how much is everyone on the ground filling in perception and fueling passions with their prejudices?
---
Jonathan Miller's report on the misuse of certain weapons in 'civilian' areas had been discussed in that interview with Mr Regev, being cited by the Israeli spokesman as a case of naiivety.
"Of course the people your respected reporter spoke to couldn't say what they really thought – Hamas is an intimidating military regime." He said. "Do you deny that Hamas is an intimidating military regime?"
"So you're saying their injuries, which they told us were from Israeli weapons, were actually from Hamas fighters using intimidation?" Jon replied. "Are you saying Hamas used the white phosphorus and flechette weapons?"
"No, I'm not saying that, you're putting words into my mouth, sir. I'm saying Hamas uses intimidation and you therefore cannot be sure what people tell you in Gaza." Mark Regev replied.
The order and precision of the dialogue I've put here isn't accurate, but this is some of what was exchanged. And in a subsequent report on Friday night's programme, Jonathan Miller spoke to some Gazans who said that Hamas had indeed intimidated their way into some people's homes in order to launch rockets from them – even shooting one witness' son in the leg when he begged them not to turn his family home into a military target.
---
But here's the thing.
My view of either of these people doesn't change their humanity. Doesn't alter it one jot – in the outside world. To the reportable truth. But it does in my head.
In the head of the Gazan Hamas freedom fighter, the Israeli occupiers are genocidal aggressors to be resisted in all possible forms. It is a glory to die in the pursuit of that freedom, all civilian infrastructure can be apportioned for the struggle however it's needed, and anyone from the bitter rival party, Fatah, could well be a collaborator and might well need to be shot in the name of security and the ultimate good for Palestinians.
In the head of the Israeli defender, the Hamas terrorist is an indiscriminate killer, in power by military coup, using civilian areas as weapons caches and human shielding, who will never accept the democratic right of Israel to live in peace and who will never stop mindless murder unless stopped once and for all. However bad the death of children sounds, the Palestinian people either voted for these self-proclaimed extremists or refused to organise themselves a better democratic alternative, and so brought a measure of this on themselves.
So are we stuck forever?
Surely not. The key is still responsibility. Proportionality.
---
Both sides have inculcated some ugly normalities in their views of the other. Enough to hide the humanity and common sense going on, on either side of the wall.
Ultimately, both party leaders appear care little, in tactical terms at least, about the death of children in the struggle – a dreadful thing to say, unhelpfully loaded, but observationally true to the outside world. Yet we can never solve a crisis of passions without asking why each side feels those passions. Why these ugly cultural normalities took root. Why is the word. And that word is only a link word to actual dialogue – because it must be followed by listening.
Democracy and nuclear capability each bestow on Israel an expectation of a high moral standard. But not an empty piety. To an Israeli official spokesperson I would say that if Israel thinks Hamas is beneath speaking to, she should ironically have the superior confidence to talk to them. What would there be to fear? If Israel knows what it's doing, it will know that the superior strategy is dialogue. Winning over your opponent.
Instead it has always chosen military strategy. More than that – and this is, I believe, Isreal's core cultural problem – it has always defined itself by military strategy. Best form of defense is offense.
Occupied land, blast walls, initiated wars, check point choking, daily humiliations. All of it sounds strategically legitimate if you believe you are at war. If you define yourself by the fight. By the enemy. As might suicide bombing, to someone's particularly ugly normality. Hamas' very creed is to destroy Israel – it couldn't exist at all without its enemy. It sends its sons and daughters to blow themselves to pieces fighting its enemy. So we're back to a stalemate of definition. If those understandings of each side are the only truth of them. Back to an ugly balance of pain and blame.
All these political tactics and cultural outlooks do is breed fighters. Angry killers, defending their right to exist at any cost.
Dialogue, on the other hand, means having the guts to see your opponent as human. If you once do that, rather than villifying them into hateable cartoons, the military conviction to kill them begins to break down. If you define your identity by hating them, there's no way you can talk to them. Because you won't know who you are any more.
And you'll be admitting you'll have to live with people who see the world differently to you.
---
If, despite the stalemate of cultural outlooks, both parties really do want to see something other than total annihilation of the other happen, in the game of who goes first, Israel has always held the controlling power. By far.
If I were talking to the UK's democratic partner in the Middle East, I would say to her that Israel needs to depower Hamas by gradually showing its violent methods to be void. Defunct. Out of time.
By opening the flow of movement, by aiding in the rebuilding of Gaza, by ultimately opening talks with Hamas leaders – who are the elected representatives of Palestinians in Gaza right now – Israel will begin to take the heat out of the rockets.
By using its great power to humanise the empoverished Palestinians in its own mind, Israel will begin to build peace. By treating them not as victims or villains but partners in the region, it might start to build real security. By giving back some of the land that is blatently contentious, by trying to build dignity into its dealings with its neighbours, by coming ever closer to being able to say sorry for certain things, Israel will begin to silence its critics around the world.
By defining itself by the fight, by always claiming moral high ground but refusing to dismantle its own war machine – the machinery of intimidation and humiliation and provocation – Israel fuels the militant opposition. And then blames it.
Who shoots a human shield to get at the terrorist hiding behind it? Someone who sees the military victory as more important than the human concerned.
If leaders can one day be found in the Kenesset who will begin to voice a whole new lexicon of dialogue with the situation – rather than voting for spectacularly disproportionate death tolls – less and less people outside the situation will be able to say: 'what is Israel really up to?' Because it will be obvious. Israel will be actually doing something about the situation.
---
But, back on planet Earth, where big dreams begin, the human reality is that tone of voice is as vital as choice of words in communicating. My job tells me this every day. If I were in charge of Israel's security, I might be be keeping Mark Regev away from cameras and microphones.
What matters the label, Left Wing, Israeli, Palestinian, to humanity? Nothing. Not a bloody thing.
Of course the BBC should broadcast the DEC's appeal. It's the DEC, for God's sake. It's children, for God's sake. The decision not to broadcast it has sounded like one of the most partisan, unbalanced things I've ever heard.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Poppet.
Poppet.
Lilly Allen. Never met the girl.
Don't know any gossip, if there is any. But her new single - let's just agree, shall we, that the more you hear The fear the more meaningful and moving it seems. Pop at it's most articulate. Geist of the zeit indeed. I think I love it.
She's a proper talent, and perhaps a poppet. But nobody's pop pet.
> OK, WHILE WE'RE HERE...<
Puppet.
Check out Thursday's Daily Show. Jon Stuart interviewing Gitmo, the Guantanamo glove character.
I don't know where to go with this.
Lilly Allen. Never met the girl.
Don't know any gossip, if there is any. But her new single - let's just agree, shall we, that the more you hear The fear the more meaningful and moving it seems. Pop at it's most articulate. Geist of the zeit indeed. I think I love it.
She's a proper talent, and perhaps a poppet. But nobody's pop pet.
> OK, WHILE WE'RE HERE...<
Puppet.
Check out Thursday's Daily Show. Jon Stuart interviewing Gitmo, the Guantanamo glove character.
I don't know where to go with this.
Lost.
Lost.
I staggered in from circuits lastnight to catch the end of an interview that Jon Snow was conducting with Israeli government spokesman, Mark Regev.
I've never seen Jon Snow shut down an interview before.
It should have no bearing whatsoever on the reporting of facts, but the shouty arrogance of the individual in this case began to take over from any fact finding. Began to distract from the debate. The line he took though, heat of delivery aside, was the real thing to make blood eventually boil.
The flat, outright, F**k You denial.
It seemed undeniably there in the flat words, as well as the fired tone.
Not knowing what else to do, I posted something feebly on Jon's Snowblog at C4:
Lastnight's interview with Mr Regev was a tough one to sit through, and people will make of it various opposing things, I suspect.
But I suspect too, Jon, that you'd say your concern in your work is simply reporting the truth, as far as we can get at it.
Mr Regev's aggression of tone is one thing - we can judge it however. But the responses themselves, transcripted, seem to illustrate Israel's apparently consistent official practice, at least whenever I'm watching - answer direct questions by pointing elsewhere. The question: "Did you do X?" might be met by the answer: "We didn't start it."; "Did you do Y?" by: "What about North Korea?". "Did you do Z" may even just get talked over.
Passion is one thing. It's obviously hard to hold in, in the face of such events and issues. Nor should it always be, I think. But decisions and actions taken are reportable truth. So too should be responsibility.
As ever, thanks for doing your best in the middle of the issues, Jon. It surely says as much about passion as it does professionalism.
Yes, of course it's sycophantic - I want Jim to fix it for me to go to the Channel 4 News offices and meet everyone. I want to stand in front of the big man in bright socks, purse my lips awkwardly, and shiftingly tell Jon I think he's a ruddy hero.
But what I want to know in the real world is: when will a political leader start helping Hamas to stop shooting rockets? And when will a political leader outright condemn Israeli government tactics? Not to do so, on some level, is to not help anyone.
Who knows what I would feel if I were born and raised in an Israeli suburb. But if I was still essentially me, I can only say I'd be very concerned at the way Mr Regev spoke for my country. And insensed at the strategy he represented for my security. I'd be surely be f***ing livid, wouldn't I? ..Wouldn't I?
---
Interesting that many other people expressed similar incredulity on Jon's blog. But it's true to say that Mr Regev's views and tone do represent a lot of people. The comments accusing C4 of bias and clear anti-Israeli sentiment are many.
But they all take the same line, essentially: "You just hate us, and we didn't start any of this." The answer to over 300 dead children, bulldozed infrastructure, a systematically traumatised population and blanket ban on live reporting in the theatre of conflict seems to be: "Hamas is a dictatorial regime that that rules by military coup and fires rockets into Israeli back gardens." Without heat or passion, these appear to be the facts on the ground.
That filter is the thing many people look through at the situation - who they think Hamas, or the Palestinians are. That's enough. They see the rockets land and that's evidence enough for any reprisal. But have they walked through Gaza and seen it themselves? Have they sat down with Palestinians - or, dare I say it, someone affiliated with Hamas - to talk with them about it?
Bloody f***k, this is hard. This is hard to put right.
Harder to hear, however, is the possibility that the BBC and Channel 4 refused to air a Disasters Emergency Committee appeal on behalf of the people of Gaza, for fear of appearing biased.
Could this really be true?
Excuse me being a child, but why can't this be about human need, human suffering and human injustice? What difference should a sodding flag make - Palestinian, Israeli, Iraqi or British?
Is the truth completely lost? Can no one speak for it? Because if we choose to hide the truth of one group of people, we surely lose the right to have it disclosed for ourselves.
I staggered in from circuits lastnight to catch the end of an interview that Jon Snow was conducting with Israeli government spokesman, Mark Regev.
I've never seen Jon Snow shut down an interview before.
It should have no bearing whatsoever on the reporting of facts, but the shouty arrogance of the individual in this case began to take over from any fact finding. Began to distract from the debate. The line he took though, heat of delivery aside, was the real thing to make blood eventually boil.
The flat, outright, F**k You denial.
It seemed undeniably there in the flat words, as well as the fired tone.
Not knowing what else to do, I posted something feebly on Jon's Snowblog at C4:
Lastnight's interview with Mr Regev was a tough one to sit through, and people will make of it various opposing things, I suspect.
But I suspect too, Jon, that you'd say your concern in your work is simply reporting the truth, as far as we can get at it.
Mr Regev's aggression of tone is one thing - we can judge it however. But the responses themselves, transcripted, seem to illustrate Israel's apparently consistent official practice, at least whenever I'm watching - answer direct questions by pointing elsewhere. The question: "Did you do X?" might be met by the answer: "We didn't start it."; "Did you do Y?" by: "What about North Korea?". "Did you do Z" may even just get talked over.
Passion is one thing. It's obviously hard to hold in, in the face of such events and issues. Nor should it always be, I think. But decisions and actions taken are reportable truth. So too should be responsibility.
As ever, thanks for doing your best in the middle of the issues, Jon. It surely says as much about passion as it does professionalism.
Yes, of course it's sycophantic - I want Jim to fix it for me to go to the Channel 4 News offices and meet everyone. I want to stand in front of the big man in bright socks, purse my lips awkwardly, and shiftingly tell Jon I think he's a ruddy hero.
But what I want to know in the real world is: when will a political leader start helping Hamas to stop shooting rockets? And when will a political leader outright condemn Israeli government tactics? Not to do so, on some level, is to not help anyone.
Who knows what I would feel if I were born and raised in an Israeli suburb. But if I was still essentially me, I can only say I'd be very concerned at the way Mr Regev spoke for my country. And insensed at the strategy he represented for my security. I'd be surely be f***ing livid, wouldn't I? ..Wouldn't I?
---
Interesting that many other people expressed similar incredulity on Jon's blog. But it's true to say that Mr Regev's views and tone do represent a lot of people. The comments accusing C4 of bias and clear anti-Israeli sentiment are many.
But they all take the same line, essentially: "You just hate us, and we didn't start any of this." The answer to over 300 dead children, bulldozed infrastructure, a systematically traumatised population and blanket ban on live reporting in the theatre of conflict seems to be: "Hamas is a dictatorial regime that that rules by military coup and fires rockets into Israeli back gardens." Without heat or passion, these appear to be the facts on the ground.
That filter is the thing many people look through at the situation - who they think Hamas, or the Palestinians are. That's enough. They see the rockets land and that's evidence enough for any reprisal. But have they walked through Gaza and seen it themselves? Have they sat down with Palestinians - or, dare I say it, someone affiliated with Hamas - to talk with them about it?
Bloody f***k, this is hard. This is hard to put right.
Harder to hear, however, is the possibility that the BBC and Channel 4 refused to air a Disasters Emergency Committee appeal on behalf of the people of Gaza, for fear of appearing biased.
Could this really be true?
Excuse me being a child, but why can't this be about human need, human suffering and human injustice? What difference should a sodding flag make - Palestinian, Israeli, Iraqi or British?
Is the truth completely lost? Can no one speak for it? Because if we choose to hide the truth of one group of people, we surely lose the right to have it disclosed for ourselves.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sworn.
Sworn.
Who can work? The boy's about to be sworn in. Number 44.
Hard to take in the humanity of the vibe, apparently everywhere in America. When did we have such a touchy-feely-poeticy inauguration? When did the prayers of a pastor over the new Commander in Chief sound as much like the prayers in local church?
"Our father, who art in heaven..." leads Rick Warren.
"Sweet land of liberty..." sings Aretha Franklin.
"Holy, blubbing cow..." chokes some bloke in Bournemouth.
But let's not forget.
Baz?
This is a guy who's about to define the word 'pressure'.
Who can work? The boy's about to be sworn in. Number 44.
Hard to take in the humanity of the vibe, apparently everywhere in America. When did we have such a touchy-feely-poeticy inauguration? When did the prayers of a pastor over the new Commander in Chief sound as much like the prayers in local church?
"Our father, who art in heaven..." leads Rick Warren.
"Sweet land of liberty..." sings Aretha Franklin.
"Holy, blubbing cow..." chokes some bloke in Bournemouth.
But let's not forget.
Baz?
This is a guy who's about to define the word 'pressure'.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Sand.
Sand.
We traipsed a few grains of seafront sand into London over the weekend. A little symbolism.
The time had come round all too soon to wassail a few hearty hurrahs and bon voyages to Jules and Angela, as they prepare to move life to Bahrain - a country familiar with sand. The capital was suitably wet and windy to wish them off.
Their flat was heaving. And still half full of people wanting breakfast by Sunday morning. But even a hearty Sardinian sausage can't properly compensate for losing your chums to warmer climes. But, in the end, Mr and Mrs CJ had, as ever, simply created another excuse to get a good group together to enjoy themselves.
It's obvious a lot of folk will miss you in London, chaps. If any of our gang in Bournemouth decided to follow a star to the Middle East, or even Middle England, I know it'd be a trauma for the rest of us. Great holiday opportunities not withstanding.
Stiff upper lip, everyone.
---
This week is another one creaking at the seams here. Strategy and branding stuff close to delivery, plus various bits of artwork to get in shape and some more research to do for a music job. No complaints at being kept so reassuringly in shape in such tricky times. My brain may be close to full, but it's a much appreciated problem for as long as it lasts. The problem or the brain.
But it's a challenge coming up with good thinking while being mentally in a number of places at once. You have to keep coming back to things. Hoping you remember where you left them.
With all the GISBBI* running around already this year, though, sad to say that the laptop has been an invaluable way to make the most of time on trains and boats at least, if not beaches (you have to draw a line in the sand somewhere).
(*Gosh I'm So Busy Being Important)
We traipsed a few grains of seafront sand into London over the weekend. A little symbolism.
The time had come round all too soon to wassail a few hearty hurrahs and bon voyages to Jules and Angela, as they prepare to move life to Bahrain - a country familiar with sand. The capital was suitably wet and windy to wish them off.
Their flat was heaving. And still half full of people wanting breakfast by Sunday morning. But even a hearty Sardinian sausage can't properly compensate for losing your chums to warmer climes. But, in the end, Mr and Mrs CJ had, as ever, simply created another excuse to get a good group together to enjoy themselves.
It's obvious a lot of folk will miss you in London, chaps. If any of our gang in Bournemouth decided to follow a star to the Middle East, or even Middle England, I know it'd be a trauma for the rest of us. Great holiday opportunities not withstanding.
Stiff upper lip, everyone.
---
This week is another one creaking at the seams here. Strategy and branding stuff close to delivery, plus various bits of artwork to get in shape and some more research to do for a music job. No complaints at being kept so reassuringly in shape in such tricky times. My brain may be close to full, but it's a much appreciated problem for as long as it lasts. The problem or the brain.
But it's a challenge coming up with good thinking while being mentally in a number of places at once. You have to keep coming back to things. Hoping you remember where you left them.
With all the GISBBI* running around already this year, though, sad to say that the laptop has been an invaluable way to make the most of time on trains and boats at least, if not beaches (you have to draw a line in the sand somewhere).
(*Gosh I'm So Busy Being Important)
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Straight. And Soft.
Straight. And Soft.
Now, I don't know if it's because of being so generally loose and floppy-haired and unshaven and late for things, or whether it's inexplicably at odds with it, but I'm famously one for straight lines and right angles and generally lining things up. Makes me rub my thighs a little.
So at the weekend, away from the studio and normal stuff, I was almost beside myself.
I'll explain, if I can.
Getting lost for hours in over-working the production on a piece of music is probably one symptom of liking considered engineering. Tidying my studio floor or doing the washing up before I can think straight is probably as much a symptom of putting off work I don't fancy doing as any neatness compulsion, but it's there too. But it is, of course, working as a designer that tends to most bring out my nerdy tendency to attach everything to grids.
Lining up, making it match, underscoring uniformity... don't get me started. Why do I love this? I need to sit down.
In practical terms it's all about legibility of course - making an ad or a poster or a brochure or a website intuitive to read. It's about ensuring stuff is easy to use by people.
But I'm hardly a slave to practical, am I? It's more than that. It's some weird, personal compulsion to drool over signage and airport graphics and that kind of strictly uniform stuff that is beautiful, precisely because of its functionality.
Which would sound odd if you'd ever actually seen me. You could starch me into a naval dress uniform and rivet me to a deck ladder and I'd still find a way to lean. I don't usually look right with the top button done up.
But give me the Helvetica family and the colours black and white and a strict No Curves rule and I'm likely to have a ball. A square one.
---
It is, at risk of puncturing my impending profound thesis on the subject, ultimately all to do with a conviction that the very best design makes a single statement. An immediate, instantly appreciable identity.
Logo, website, advert, car - even a pop tune. With the good stuff, you know instantly that it knows what it is. To me, that clarity shows good creative; it's what I'm always trying to do.
And, pertinently to this story, I'd say it's a conviction that certainly applies to one of the hardest but most important things to do this with.
Buildings.
---
First full week of oh-nine was largely about preparing for a particular branding presentation. A client I've been working with for a few years had commissioned Momo to develop the branding for their partners across Europe, and subsequently invited me to present the conclusions to their head office in France, at their annual new year kick-off meeting.
"Hoorah" I remember thinking coolly, as the head of the company was originally rounding on asking me to do this, during his call before Christmas, "..go on, go on - invite me to Paris. Give me an actual reason to say I'm bloody well going to Paris on business..." I don't believe I said any of this out loud.
"This year we're meeting somewhere else for a change" he said. "Le Havre. Thought it would make life easier for you. ..Can you make it?"
"Yee-uh. ..Er, yeah. I can make it. To Le Havre."
"Great. Just great. ..You'll need to catch the overnight ferry. Meeting's first thing and you're on right at the start. See you then" he said nicely, ringing off.
---
Despite the uncomfortably rapid from-the-cabin-bunk-straight-into-the-room-full-of-expectant-French-people-who-are-decidedly-unsure-about-this-whole-branding-business segue that morning, my enthusiastic apologies to the room, en Français, for being able to do nothing more than apologise en Français, seemed to work. I saw a few smiles and a few laughs at my universally understood William Shatner impressions. Which I'll explain some other time. But yes, it was an actual business presentation I was doing.
Caroline was with me on this trip, to prolong the trip into a night away and a subsequent morning properly off, loafing around French cafés. Which is, as you know, largely why I go to work in the first place. We were both welcomed into a friendly environment and fed a smart, friendly three course lunch and encouraged to not worry about clearing off again in the afternoon to enjoy our hotel room without bothering any more about work. I do so love the French.
"Where are you staying tonight?" one of the chaps asked Caroline warmly.
"Le Havre" she answered sweetly. She says his face flickered momentarily.
Given that we were, that morning, in the pretty little seaside town of Trouville, set in the rolling, relaxed Normandy countryside bathed in frosty winter sunshine, he could easily be forgiven for wondering if we were off our bleedin' chariot.
---
But here's the deal. And I mean, who knew.
Le Havre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. A whole central chunk of it.
Hard to imagine, as you swoop over the Seine estuary through a forest of lekky pilons and belching refinery chimneys and squatting gas reservoirs, that anything of such impressive-sounding renown should be so well hidden in this busy, traffic-vomitting artery of the channel. But it's there. Unhidden, once you've found it.
Auguste Perret's vision appears to be one of straight lines. Blocks of right angles and perpendicular lines. And I was sort of in heaven, the more we walked around it.
Now, it's not the sort of heaven that most people would get. We would have sounded fantastically like we were convincing ourselves, as we wandered and pondered and pontificated on the ponts and quais. UNESCO badged the the city centre in 2005 for its "innovative utilization of concrete's potential." But fans of Communist social architecture and/or Thunderbirds might understand.
I was obviously weak at the knees.
The 133-hectare space is, according to UNESCO, "an exceptional example of architecture and town planning of the post-war era" - and it really, distinctively, oddly is.
It's rare to come across such a large geographical area that seems so born of a single idea. So controlled and planned. For all the variety of details, the whole seemed wonderfully, to my mind, single-minded. Complete.
Msr Perret apparently once employed a cocky young upstart called Le Corbusier. Who learned from who, I don't know, but wandering around Le Havre is a bit of an architect's wet dream. Not because it's any of the finest individual architecture you've ever seen, but because of the sheer scale of the vision they managed to actually deliver. It's a whole fifties toy town. Vast boulevards, arrow-straight to the sea front, large properly square squares - and all of it low, at only five or six stories. It gives you loads of hopeful sky to look at. (..Mercifully distracting you from all the concrete, perhaps. Cynic.)
The merrits of concrete as a material to actually live with are, yes, debatable. And you might also point out that the entire vision here is really of the motor car - it's all designed to be watched from a moving window, sliding gracefully past in continual, shifting, perpendicular perspectives.
But it feels very airy. And purposeful. With very tall shop frontages, there's plenty to keep the human eye-level occupied, without looking up. But when you do, from wherever you are, you see the looming, moderno-gothic imposition of Saint Joseph cathedral - which looks like it should peel open robotically and reveal a giant rocket with CCCP and a red star on it. To do what, who knows. Who cares? To just show off.
Fantastic.
It's all quite surreal. But in the sunshine at least, all quite something.
The thing is, something about the clarity of the single idea here is comforting. The design places you well - you can always see where you are in relation to something distinctive, but more than that, you feel you are somewhere very definately sure of itself. Somewhere that knows exactly what it is. And this is a surprisingly fundamental human need - to feel placed.
---
Our hotel was an unexpected temple to this modern dream - a recently converted Ministry of Finance building. And as a consequence of all those Fibonace squares and perfect proportions, the rooms were huge and angular and just FULL of straight lines. Square taps, rectangular lamps, risque 'diagonal' throws. And all with a spa on the other side of the choridor. They had to drag us out of the place.
The thing is, as Caroline and I swapped notes - urban designer to graphic designer - the interlocking issues between the disciplines that we'd so often mused (oh the long winter evenings just fly, etc...) were just obvious, writ large all around us. Space, place, legibility, identity.
And most important, after all, was how the space was being used. For right in the centre of town, set in a vast public square, was the Hotel de Ville - the town hall. It had a huge square clock tower you could place for miles around, and a wide open frontage designed very firmly to do one thing - one especially French thing. Encourage people to gather.
As we stood and watched the growing hoards of people with Palestinian solidarity banners, chanting for 'les enfants de Gaza', reminding us of the smashed, chaotic streets and decrepit, jagged, infrastructure of a strip of land so small you can see all it's boundaries from the top of a tower block, yet has a million and a half people living in it, on top of eachother, locked in and unable to leave, I knew the graphic design of the city we were standing in must be working on some significant level. I stopped looking at it.
I stopped thinking about right angles and straight lines and hard materials and got lost thinking about the soft tissue of people.
We came home feeling oddly clear-headed.
Now, I don't know if it's because of being so generally loose and floppy-haired and unshaven and late for things, or whether it's inexplicably at odds with it, but I'm famously one for straight lines and right angles and generally lining things up. Makes me rub my thighs a little.
So at the weekend, away from the studio and normal stuff, I was almost beside myself.
I'll explain, if I can.
Getting lost for hours in over-working the production on a piece of music is probably one symptom of liking considered engineering. Tidying my studio floor or doing the washing up before I can think straight is probably as much a symptom of putting off work I don't fancy doing as any neatness compulsion, but it's there too. But it is, of course, working as a designer that tends to most bring out my nerdy tendency to attach everything to grids.
Lining up, making it match, underscoring uniformity... don't get me started. Why do I love this? I need to sit down.
In practical terms it's all about legibility of course - making an ad or a poster or a brochure or a website intuitive to read. It's about ensuring stuff is easy to use by people.
But I'm hardly a slave to practical, am I? It's more than that. It's some weird, personal compulsion to drool over signage and airport graphics and that kind of strictly uniform stuff that is beautiful, precisely because of its functionality.
Which would sound odd if you'd ever actually seen me. You could starch me into a naval dress uniform and rivet me to a deck ladder and I'd still find a way to lean. I don't usually look right with the top button done up.
But give me the Helvetica family and the colours black and white and a strict No Curves rule and I'm likely to have a ball. A square one.
---
It is, at risk of puncturing my impending profound thesis on the subject, ultimately all to do with a conviction that the very best design makes a single statement. An immediate, instantly appreciable identity.
Logo, website, advert, car - even a pop tune. With the good stuff, you know instantly that it knows what it is. To me, that clarity shows good creative; it's what I'm always trying to do.
And, pertinently to this story, I'd say it's a conviction that certainly applies to one of the hardest but most important things to do this with.
Buildings.
---
First full week of oh-nine was largely about preparing for a particular branding presentation. A client I've been working with for a few years had commissioned Momo to develop the branding for their partners across Europe, and subsequently invited me to present the conclusions to their head office in France, at their annual new year kick-off meeting.
"Hoorah" I remember thinking coolly, as the head of the company was originally rounding on asking me to do this, during his call before Christmas, "..go on, go on - invite me to Paris. Give me an actual reason to say I'm bloody well going to Paris on business..." I don't believe I said any of this out loud.
"This year we're meeting somewhere else for a change" he said. "Le Havre. Thought it would make life easier for you. ..Can you make it?"
"Yee-uh. ..Er, yeah. I can make it. To Le Havre."
"Great. Just great. ..You'll need to catch the overnight ferry. Meeting's first thing and you're on right at the start. See you then" he said nicely, ringing off.
---
Despite the uncomfortably rapid from-the-cabin-bunk-straight-into-the-room-full-of-expectant-French-people-who-are-decidedly-unsure-about-this-whole-branding-business segue that morning, my enthusiastic apologies to the room, en Français, for being able to do nothing more than apologise en Français, seemed to work. I saw a few smiles and a few laughs at my universally understood William Shatner impressions. Which I'll explain some other time. But yes, it was an actual business presentation I was doing.
Caroline was with me on this trip, to prolong the trip into a night away and a subsequent morning properly off, loafing around French cafés. Which is, as you know, largely why I go to work in the first place. We were both welcomed into a friendly environment and fed a smart, friendly three course lunch and encouraged to not worry about clearing off again in the afternoon to enjoy our hotel room without bothering any more about work. I do so love the French.
"Where are you staying tonight?" one of the chaps asked Caroline warmly.
"Le Havre" she answered sweetly. She says his face flickered momentarily.
Given that we were, that morning, in the pretty little seaside town of Trouville, set in the rolling, relaxed Normandy countryside bathed in frosty winter sunshine, he could easily be forgiven for wondering if we were off our bleedin' chariot.
---
But here's the deal. And I mean, who knew.
Le Havre is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. A whole central chunk of it.
Hard to imagine, as you swoop over the Seine estuary through a forest of lekky pilons and belching refinery chimneys and squatting gas reservoirs, that anything of such impressive-sounding renown should be so well hidden in this busy, traffic-vomitting artery of the channel. But it's there. Unhidden, once you've found it.
Auguste Perret's vision appears to be one of straight lines. Blocks of right angles and perpendicular lines. And I was sort of in heaven, the more we walked around it.
Now, it's not the sort of heaven that most people would get. We would have sounded fantastically like we were convincing ourselves, as we wandered and pondered and pontificated on the ponts and quais. UNESCO badged the the city centre in 2005 for its "innovative utilization of concrete's potential." But fans of Communist social architecture and/or Thunderbirds might understand.
I was obviously weak at the knees.
The 133-hectare space is, according to UNESCO, "an exceptional example of architecture and town planning of the post-war era" - and it really, distinctively, oddly is.
It's rare to come across such a large geographical area that seems so born of a single idea. So controlled and planned. For all the variety of details, the whole seemed wonderfully, to my mind, single-minded. Complete.
Msr Perret apparently once employed a cocky young upstart called Le Corbusier. Who learned from who, I don't know, but wandering around Le Havre is a bit of an architect's wet dream. Not because it's any of the finest individual architecture you've ever seen, but because of the sheer scale of the vision they managed to actually deliver. It's a whole fifties toy town. Vast boulevards, arrow-straight to the sea front, large properly square squares - and all of it low, at only five or six stories. It gives you loads of hopeful sky to look at. (..Mercifully distracting you from all the concrete, perhaps. Cynic.)
The merrits of concrete as a material to actually live with are, yes, debatable. And you might also point out that the entire vision here is really of the motor car - it's all designed to be watched from a moving window, sliding gracefully past in continual, shifting, perpendicular perspectives.
But it feels very airy. And purposeful. With very tall shop frontages, there's plenty to keep the human eye-level occupied, without looking up. But when you do, from wherever you are, you see the looming, moderno-gothic imposition of Saint Joseph cathedral - which looks like it should peel open robotically and reveal a giant rocket with CCCP and a red star on it. To do what, who knows. Who cares? To just show off.
Fantastic.
It's all quite surreal. But in the sunshine at least, all quite something.
The thing is, something about the clarity of the single idea here is comforting. The design places you well - you can always see where you are in relation to something distinctive, but more than that, you feel you are somewhere very definately sure of itself. Somewhere that knows exactly what it is. And this is a surprisingly fundamental human need - to feel placed.
---
Our hotel was an unexpected temple to this modern dream - a recently converted Ministry of Finance building. And as a consequence of all those Fibonace squares and perfect proportions, the rooms were huge and angular and just FULL of straight lines. Square taps, rectangular lamps, risque 'diagonal' throws. And all with a spa on the other side of the choridor. They had to drag us out of the place.
The thing is, as Caroline and I swapped notes - urban designer to graphic designer - the interlocking issues between the disciplines that we'd so often mused (oh the long winter evenings just fly, etc...) were just obvious, writ large all around us. Space, place, legibility, identity.
And most important, after all, was how the space was being used. For right in the centre of town, set in a vast public square, was the Hotel de Ville - the town hall. It had a huge square clock tower you could place for miles around, and a wide open frontage designed very firmly to do one thing - one especially French thing. Encourage people to gather.
As we stood and watched the growing hoards of people with Palestinian solidarity banners, chanting for 'les enfants de Gaza', reminding us of the smashed, chaotic streets and decrepit, jagged, infrastructure of a strip of land so small you can see all it's boundaries from the top of a tower block, yet has a million and a half people living in it, on top of eachother, locked in and unable to leave, I knew the graphic design of the city we were standing in must be working on some significant level. I stopped looking at it.
I stopped thinking about right angles and straight lines and hard materials and got lost thinking about the soft tissue of people.
We came home feeling oddly clear-headed.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Screenwipe.
Screenwipe.
Charlie Brooker. Am I right to be applauding him on?
I'm becoming increasingly unsure whether watching his show is standing against the gradual, erosive downfall of civilisation or hastening it.
Watch the current episode on BBC iPlayer in disbelief.
..Why would they make Konnie Huq do that? Why?
Charlie Brooker. Am I right to be applauding him on?
I'm becoming increasingly unsure whether watching his show is standing against the gradual, erosive downfall of civilisation or hastening it.
Watch the current episode on BBC iPlayer in disbelief.
..Why would they make Konnie Huq do that? Why?
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Pressure.
Pressure.
Technically, we're half way through Week 2 of January. Already. Enjoying being back, so far?
To a background of job losses and teary Woolies employees, my own pressured first full week back in the saddle can only be a blessing. There's a reassuring amount for Momo to be pre-occupied with as the year starts, and it's been nice seeing some of my clients and work chums again already.
But the studio's certainly changed back from a bouncing New Year dancefloor to an arena of plate-spinning. Honestly. ..It feels like Imperial Rome does The Generation Game.
With clever-sounding presentations to write and clever-looking creative to pull out of the air, I fear for my Quality Street-addled brain. And I think the rest of me is still a few per-cent proof - I seemed to keep dropping things in meetings yesterday. Knocks the edge of your winking finger pistol when you simultaneously throw your pen across the room.
---
As I soldier on manfully through a pressured long one today then, as pre-occupied as I am, I can't keep other news out of mind. Isreal. As far away as the situation is, all the usual joke-making here feels a little uncomfortable.
Not that this seemed to affect me when my father died, of course.
You have to get on. Of course.
But. Shit. It's an Orwellian hell out there. Just an ever-worsening madness. I can't compute it. What's anyone, like, doing?
Having to get on with what's in front of us and not think about it, mostly.
We have deadlines.
This post from Iloveravi on Current.com was interesting, I think:
Technically, we're half way through Week 2 of January. Already. Enjoying being back, so far?
To a background of job losses and teary Woolies employees, my own pressured first full week back in the saddle can only be a blessing. There's a reassuring amount for Momo to be pre-occupied with as the year starts, and it's been nice seeing some of my clients and work chums again already.
But the studio's certainly changed back from a bouncing New Year dancefloor to an arena of plate-spinning. Honestly. ..It feels like Imperial Rome does The Generation Game.
With clever-sounding presentations to write and clever-looking creative to pull out of the air, I fear for my Quality Street-addled brain. And I think the rest of me is still a few per-cent proof - I seemed to keep dropping things in meetings yesterday. Knocks the edge of your winking finger pistol when you simultaneously throw your pen across the room.
---
As I soldier on manfully through a pressured long one today then, as pre-occupied as I am, I can't keep other news out of mind. Isreal. As far away as the situation is, all the usual joke-making here feels a little uncomfortable.
Not that this seemed to affect me when my father died, of course.
You have to get on. Of course.
But. Shit. It's an Orwellian hell out there. Just an ever-worsening madness. I can't compute it. What's anyone, like, doing?
Having to get on with what's in front of us and not think about it, mostly.
We have deadlines.
This post from Iloveravi on Current.com was interesting, I think:
"I agree that Israel should go after the Hamas soldiers
launching rockets into Israel.
Fucking right. Go get them.
But if you start killing innocent people including kids
then you loose your moral high-ground. Fast.
Israel has had enough of being afraid of rocket
attacks and has taken action.
Sadly the action they have taken is way, way,
way off the fucking deep end.
They are using weapons that most of the world
has agreed are too horrible to use EVEN in war.
They are using these weapons on civilians.
On children. They are killing hundreds of innocent
people without regret.
This is wrong no matter what your motives are.
Israel has transformed from a people with a
legitimate complaint to a dangerous and violent
monster that needs to be stopped.
I just hope the international community gets their
shit together before it is too late."
launching rockets into Israel.
Fucking right. Go get them.
But if you start killing innocent people including kids
then you loose your moral high-ground. Fast.
Israel has had enough of being afraid of rocket
attacks and has taken action.
Sadly the action they have taken is way, way,
way off the fucking deep end.
They are using weapons that most of the world
has agreed are too horrible to use EVEN in war.
They are using these weapons on civilians.
On children. They are killing hundreds of innocent
people without regret.
This is wrong no matter what your motives are.
Israel has transformed from a people with a
legitimate complaint to a dangerous and violent
monster that needs to be stopped.
I just hope the international community gets their
shit together before it is too late."
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Wirelarse.
Wirelarse.
So anyway. You watch the news and you feel several serious shades of something unpleasant. Angry and pissed off and all that useless stuff. So you write an angry, pissed-off blog, hit Post, and flick on the radio for some light relief.
Next thing you know, in an uncomfortably obvious emotional volte-face, you find yourself being recorded on a hip, electro-beat, youth radio programme, sounding far too pleased to be on it.
Tragic.
Naturally, most people don't expect the phone to ring while doing the washing up of a Friday evening to have Radio 1 ask if they'd like to pop on air with their amusing anecdote-come-obviously-hip-music-choice. But I quietly patted my hands dry, cleared my throat imperceptibly and coolly took the call. Obviously.
We think Annie Mac is a poppet for being nice about some old bloke ruining the feel of her show.
Momo on the Mash Up
So anyway. You watch the news and you feel several serious shades of something unpleasant. Angry and pissed off and all that useless stuff. So you write an angry, pissed-off blog, hit Post, and flick on the radio for some light relief.
Next thing you know, in an uncomfortably obvious emotional volte-face, you find yourself being recorded on a hip, electro-beat, youth radio programme, sounding far too pleased to be on it.
Tragic.
Naturally, most people don't expect the phone to ring while doing the washing up of a Friday evening to have Radio 1 ask if they'd like to pop on air with their amusing anecdote-come-obviously-hip-music-choice. But I quietly patted my hands dry, cleared my throat imperceptibly and coolly took the call. Obviously.
We think Annie Mac is a poppet for being nice about some old bloke ruining the feel of her show.
Momo on the Mash Up
Saturday, January 03, 2009
How the other half live. Apparently.
How the other half live. Apparently.
Picture the scene.
Nice suburban home, nice couple, nice kids playing in the lounge as the family are interviewed by a radio reporter. Birds in the sunny garden keep up a calming chirrup of atmosphere among the citrus trees, through the open patio doors. Fresh juice clinks on a tray as the nice young mum sets it down.
It's a home you want.
"Tell me what it's like to live here" says the radio reporter.
"Well," begins the young lass beside her husband, with a tip of her head and a slightly forced smile, "after eight years, you begin to plan around it." She then laughs a little what-can-you-do laugh. A serious gesture.
"We tell the kids that if they ever go anywhere, they must always run if they're outside. No hanging around. And if they're at home, they must stay downstairs and not stray too far down the garden from the house. We only get about ten seconds warning."
She shrugs. Her husband picks up: " Of course we have some sympathy - they're being brutalised by their leaders. But, y'know, they voted for them. And these same leaders want to see our children dead."
His wife interjects: "Yes, we have sympathy - of course we do. But they had warning of our strikes. We texted them. Our planes ticker-tape dropped thousands of leaflets telling them we only wanted to target military installations and that they should leave those areas. They had warning."
"Then we hear of the family of five children sleeping across the road from a munitions stash... and so, what can you do? When this is over, it will be quiet again for us. At last. My kids will be able to play in their own garden safely."
---
It's hard to imagine anyone sitting by quietly if rockets dropped on Southbourne for eight years. I look out of the studio window at all the homes of decent, moderate people I see around my streets every day, and understand this decent family's honest defiance. It sounds like something anyone around me here would say. What I would say, in their shoes.
This young couple from somewhere like Sderot in the western Negev, heard interviewed this morning on the Today programme, sounded more together and resolved and, well, 'normal' than many of the region's similar residents. They're taking sleeping pills and arguing and seeing their house prices plummet and their marriages fragment. They're worn down by the endless threat of rocket attacks by Hamas, from the Gaza strip just a short drive away. These are people like you and me who want to get on with their lives and not be traumatised.
Who can blame them for wanting something done?
---
The other report, run back-to-back with this one this morning, was from Gaza. On the dawning of Day Eight of the Israeli attacks on the Palestinian enclave, a local radio producer interviewed people there.
It was hard to hear some of the recorded responses over the thumps, roars and sometimes blasts of the fighter planes and missile strikes. Plus, of course, some of them responded in Arabic and so needed the voices of translators fed over the top of their own.
"I am standing here talking to you now," said one doctor, in English, "but I honestly don't know what could happen in the next five minutes."
"We have some supplies, but no electricity. Water has been cut off too. But we have God. He will protect us, and he's all we have. We will be okay."
Another aid worker, English sounding, said: "We brought in a family this morning that had been hit by a missile attack. Little (name) who is four died in front of us from her injuries. Her sister, (name) was brought in dead on arrival. Their brother, (name) we thought would be okay. He was brought in breathing. He died this morning, however."
"Some are calling in the streets for revenge on Isreal. Some are calling for God's mercy." said the Gaza-based reporter calmly, in English. "Hospitals are over-run and infrastructure demolished. The death toll is reported as in the many hundreds now. Humanitarian efforts are being badly hampered by the situation." In the background was the sound of more thumping explosions, and of people wailing and shouting.
---
Ed Stourton was reporting from a cafe on the border. Those same birds from the family's back garden seemed to be with him there, calming the morning sunshine as troops sat around near him, playing cards and laughing.
"It's all very pleasant here" he said. "There's even a promising looking garden centre just over the road." He then added: "Gaza is half a mile away. I can see the planes and I can hear the constant crump of missile strikes."
And I could exactly picture it.
Israel can seem so pleasant, so relaxed. So darned congenial. Everyone, on each side of the cultural divide, can make you so glad you visited. And you can find youself sitting there, in a citrus grove, with a cup of mint tea, birds lulling you, mediterranean breeze caressing you, and not feel the reality of the war zone walking distance away.
This is probably true of many war zones - especially domesticated ones like this.
Gaza is, as Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg put it impromtu on the radio this morning, half the size of the Isle of Mann, with one and a half million people squashed into it. How easy are 'surgical strikes' on such a theatre of operations? However seriously, humanly, the F16 pilots take their role.
It's not just any strip of land though. It's not like someone just declared war on Boscombe. (No jokes, locals. I shop there willingly.) This is a strip of land that's been cut off from the outside world for the last umpteen months. If not years, practically. It's had at best intermittent electricity and water and food. It has been a humanitarian crisis, according to the UN, for a long while. It is a people living in enforced poverty. In enforced misery. In an enforced fucking war zone.
---
The issue here isn't the politics of Olmert vs the Likud in looming Isreali elections. It isn't the politics of Bush's last days of US presidency and his proudly pro-active support for Israel's government. It isn't about Fatah's decades of corrupt incompetence undermining the Palestinian cause, or the PLO's cultural complacency over the same time. And it isn't about Hamas' violent rhetoric against Israel's right to exist.
The issue is about what we are told. And not told. About how we hear stuff. All of us. How it's edited.
So, in Israel, the issue is that decent people can live in pretty houses with their children shelling distance from a war zone and have never seen it. That ordinary tax-paying families can hope for military action against neighbours they've never properly met. Who's anhialated streets they've never walked down. Who's stories they've never listened to.
I can't imagine the fear of living under bombardment in the nice little streets around my house. I mean, somebody text me WTF. I can't imagine what it would do to my thinking, can you?
I can't help feeling though that, once the present flames are out, a practical tonic for some beleaguered Israeli residents might be to walk around Gaza for a day, and share a glass of tea or two with some of its residents.
Now. I'm off to a nice cafe.
Picture the scene.
Nice suburban home, nice couple, nice kids playing in the lounge as the family are interviewed by a radio reporter. Birds in the sunny garden keep up a calming chirrup of atmosphere among the citrus trees, through the open patio doors. Fresh juice clinks on a tray as the nice young mum sets it down.
It's a home you want.
"Tell me what it's like to live here" says the radio reporter.
"Well," begins the young lass beside her husband, with a tip of her head and a slightly forced smile, "after eight years, you begin to plan around it." She then laughs a little what-can-you-do laugh. A serious gesture.
"We tell the kids that if they ever go anywhere, they must always run if they're outside. No hanging around. And if they're at home, they must stay downstairs and not stray too far down the garden from the house. We only get about ten seconds warning."
She shrugs. Her husband picks up: " Of course we have some sympathy - they're being brutalised by their leaders. But, y'know, they voted for them. And these same leaders want to see our children dead."
His wife interjects: "Yes, we have sympathy - of course we do. But they had warning of our strikes. We texted them. Our planes ticker-tape dropped thousands of leaflets telling them we only wanted to target military installations and that they should leave those areas. They had warning."
"Then we hear of the family of five children sleeping across the road from a munitions stash... and so, what can you do? When this is over, it will be quiet again for us. At last. My kids will be able to play in their own garden safely."
---
It's hard to imagine anyone sitting by quietly if rockets dropped on Southbourne for eight years. I look out of the studio window at all the homes of decent, moderate people I see around my streets every day, and understand this decent family's honest defiance. It sounds like something anyone around me here would say. What I would say, in their shoes.
This young couple from somewhere like Sderot in the western Negev, heard interviewed this morning on the Today programme, sounded more together and resolved and, well, 'normal' than many of the region's similar residents. They're taking sleeping pills and arguing and seeing their house prices plummet and their marriages fragment. They're worn down by the endless threat of rocket attacks by Hamas, from the Gaza strip just a short drive away. These are people like you and me who want to get on with their lives and not be traumatised.
Who can blame them for wanting something done?
---
The other report, run back-to-back with this one this morning, was from Gaza. On the dawning of Day Eight of the Israeli attacks on the Palestinian enclave, a local radio producer interviewed people there.
It was hard to hear some of the recorded responses over the thumps, roars and sometimes blasts of the fighter planes and missile strikes. Plus, of course, some of them responded in Arabic and so needed the voices of translators fed over the top of their own.
"I am standing here talking to you now," said one doctor, in English, "but I honestly don't know what could happen in the next five minutes."
"We have some supplies, but no electricity. Water has been cut off too. But we have God. He will protect us, and he's all we have. We will be okay."
Another aid worker, English sounding, said: "We brought in a family this morning that had been hit by a missile attack. Little (name) who is four died in front of us from her injuries. Her sister, (name) was brought in dead on arrival. Their brother, (name) we thought would be okay. He was brought in breathing. He died this morning, however."
"Some are calling in the streets for revenge on Isreal. Some are calling for God's mercy." said the Gaza-based reporter calmly, in English. "Hospitals are over-run and infrastructure demolished. The death toll is reported as in the many hundreds now. Humanitarian efforts are being badly hampered by the situation." In the background was the sound of more thumping explosions, and of people wailing and shouting.
---
Ed Stourton was reporting from a cafe on the border. Those same birds from the family's back garden seemed to be with him there, calming the morning sunshine as troops sat around near him, playing cards and laughing.
"It's all very pleasant here" he said. "There's even a promising looking garden centre just over the road." He then added: "Gaza is half a mile away. I can see the planes and I can hear the constant crump of missile strikes."
And I could exactly picture it.
Israel can seem so pleasant, so relaxed. So darned congenial. Everyone, on each side of the cultural divide, can make you so glad you visited. And you can find youself sitting there, in a citrus grove, with a cup of mint tea, birds lulling you, mediterranean breeze caressing you, and not feel the reality of the war zone walking distance away.
This is probably true of many war zones - especially domesticated ones like this.
Gaza is, as Lib Dem leader Nick Clegg put it impromtu on the radio this morning, half the size of the Isle of Mann, with one and a half million people squashed into it. How easy are 'surgical strikes' on such a theatre of operations? However seriously, humanly, the F16 pilots take their role.
It's not just any strip of land though. It's not like someone just declared war on Boscombe. (No jokes, locals. I shop there willingly.) This is a strip of land that's been cut off from the outside world for the last umpteen months. If not years, practically. It's had at best intermittent electricity and water and food. It has been a humanitarian crisis, according to the UN, for a long while. It is a people living in enforced poverty. In enforced misery. In an enforced fucking war zone.
---
The issue here isn't the politics of Olmert vs the Likud in looming Isreali elections. It isn't the politics of Bush's last days of US presidency and his proudly pro-active support for Israel's government. It isn't about Fatah's decades of corrupt incompetence undermining the Palestinian cause, or the PLO's cultural complacency over the same time. And it isn't about Hamas' violent rhetoric against Israel's right to exist.
The issue is about what we are told. And not told. About how we hear stuff. All of us. How it's edited.
So, in Israel, the issue is that decent people can live in pretty houses with their children shelling distance from a war zone and have never seen it. That ordinary tax-paying families can hope for military action against neighbours they've never properly met. Who's anhialated streets they've never walked down. Who's stories they've never listened to.
I can't imagine the fear of living under bombardment in the nice little streets around my house. I mean, somebody text me WTF. I can't imagine what it would do to my thinking, can you?
I can't help feeling though that, once the present flames are out, a practical tonic for some beleaguered Israeli residents might be to walk around Gaza for a day, and share a glass of tea or two with some of its residents.
Now. I'm off to a nice cafe.
Friday, January 02, 2009
New year re-delusions
New year re-delusions
So, here we are on the second day of a new year - and some things are just scrolling back to the beginning again. Some things don't know how to do anything else.
I don't know about you, but the change in the air at the end of the year had given me a faintly hopeful mood against all the odds looking into '09. About I don't know what, really. But one situation seems monumentally doomed to cyclical failure. Say it with me: Israel.
Oh sodding shit. Oh effing bloody eff. Even were I to spell out all the bitter Anglo Saxon I could think of, I wouldn't cover it. And I don't propose to work myself up into a lathering fit pointlessly.
Fight and strike and hit and hate and blast and fire and smash and choke and punch repeatedly until swollen, broken and split open - use all the simple aggressive verbs you like, Isreal's political leaders keep swelling the dictionary of fear. But they do nothing to solve their problem. When all the jagged, concrete of frail Gazan infrastructure is collapsed, the fear will still stand, a monument. The ignorance kneeling in front of it.
I hate the sound of empty anger like this. People running from the rockets have shouted louder and with more conviction and not been heard. Why bother.
---
A press conference today brought together the sort of uncomfortable bed-fellows that only a truly hideous event can - Annie Lennox at one end and George Galloway at the other. Just speaking up about the military strikes in Palestine.
Somewhere in the middle, Alexi Sayle spoke with customary intelligence about Jewish people's need to speak out against Israel. Observantly, he then said quietly: 'Israel has the mentality of the rapist, the murderer, the bully. It sees itself as the good guy and blames the victim for making it take their life.'
Tragically spot on.
I'm tired of it. Are you? I'm tired of not being able to keep up with it emotionally. Of having to switch off. Of not being able to do a sodding thing. Of it all being so wrong and so far away.
Tonight, there it is on the BBC news homepage: 'The UN warns that Palestinians in Gaza face a serious health and food crisis as Israeli air strikes continue for a seventh day.'
Seven days of airstrikes on a strip of land a mile wide? Over four hundred children, women and men dead? Overwhelming ground forces massed on the border to go in? Tanks queueing up on the scrubby grass like Veedub campers at a festival.
When will Israel understand the very simple, very old truth - dehumanise your neighbour and you both become monsters.
Provocation does exactly what it says on the tank.
Don't state the obvious. Don't. Hamas, rockets, corruption, cultural blindness, blah. And duh. Tell me who has the more pressing moral responsibility - the bloke with the flick knife or the bloke with the sawn-off and six mates?
The thinking of Israel's leaders seems lost; as lost as it's ever been. Just deluded. How many young people are also lost now to the process of talking and listening? Of building peace?
Well, I know there are people in the region who want peace and who recognise the humanity in those around them. Who see themselves in the victims. Israel's leaders have built a culture of blindness - to humanity and to effective strategy. What they're doing won't work. It will do the opposite of working.
As the year dawns, no one can question their resolve. No one can question them at all, it seems.
So, here we are on the second day of a new year - and some things are just scrolling back to the beginning again. Some things don't know how to do anything else.
I don't know about you, but the change in the air at the end of the year had given me a faintly hopeful mood against all the odds looking into '09. About I don't know what, really. But one situation seems monumentally doomed to cyclical failure. Say it with me: Israel.
Oh sodding shit. Oh effing bloody eff. Even were I to spell out all the bitter Anglo Saxon I could think of, I wouldn't cover it. And I don't propose to work myself up into a lathering fit pointlessly.
Fight and strike and hit and hate and blast and fire and smash and choke and punch repeatedly until swollen, broken and split open - use all the simple aggressive verbs you like, Isreal's political leaders keep swelling the dictionary of fear. But they do nothing to solve their problem. When all the jagged, concrete of frail Gazan infrastructure is collapsed, the fear will still stand, a monument. The ignorance kneeling in front of it.
I hate the sound of empty anger like this. People running from the rockets have shouted louder and with more conviction and not been heard. Why bother.
---
A press conference today brought together the sort of uncomfortable bed-fellows that only a truly hideous event can - Annie Lennox at one end and George Galloway at the other. Just speaking up about the military strikes in Palestine.
Somewhere in the middle, Alexi Sayle spoke with customary intelligence about Jewish people's need to speak out against Israel. Observantly, he then said quietly: 'Israel has the mentality of the rapist, the murderer, the bully. It sees itself as the good guy and blames the victim for making it take their life.'
Tragically spot on.
I'm tired of it. Are you? I'm tired of not being able to keep up with it emotionally. Of having to switch off. Of not being able to do a sodding thing. Of it all being so wrong and so far away.
Tonight, there it is on the BBC news homepage: 'The UN warns that Palestinians in Gaza face a serious health and food crisis as Israeli air strikes continue for a seventh day.'
Seven days of airstrikes on a strip of land a mile wide? Over four hundred children, women and men dead? Overwhelming ground forces massed on the border to go in? Tanks queueing up on the scrubby grass like Veedub campers at a festival.
When will Israel understand the very simple, very old truth - dehumanise your neighbour and you both become monsters.
Provocation does exactly what it says on the tank.
Don't state the obvious. Don't. Hamas, rockets, corruption, cultural blindness, blah. And duh. Tell me who has the more pressing moral responsibility - the bloke with the flick knife or the bloke with the sawn-off and six mates?
The thinking of Israel's leaders seems lost; as lost as it's ever been. Just deluded. How many young people are also lost now to the process of talking and listening? Of building peace?
Well, I know there are people in the region who want peace and who recognise the humanity in those around them. Who see themselves in the victims. Israel's leaders have built a culture of blindness - to humanity and to effective strategy. What they're doing won't work. It will do the opposite of working.
As the year dawns, no one can question their resolve. No one can question them at all, it seems.
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