AV - 2nd past the post?

And so the juggernaut gets under way. On 5 May Britain will vote whether to adopt AV for Westminster elections. As ever, a certain drowsy numbness pains my sense (Keats? Can't bother to look it up, I'm afraid) when confronted with the need to master this kind of issue. How much time d'you have to put in before you can justify making the trek to the polling station? How is it the intellectual faculties required can still be demanded of the middle-aged, faculties last given a gallop at the towering fence marked "quadratic equations", and ever since then immured in a darkened stable?

OK. I confess. I actually have thought about AV a bit, and here is my gift to the No campaign.

If AV means anything, it means that the candidate with the second largest number of 1st preference votes can win. This happens because if the "winner" gets less than 50%, 2nd preference votes are taken into account as well. And they are given the same weight as 1st preferences.

Why does this matter? Because the likelihood is that people will have put a cross by their 1st preference candidate with a great deal more enthusiasm than for their 2nd preference candidate. To put it another way, why should my vote for the candidate I really wanted to win count for no more than your vote for the candidate you could just about tolerate?

In some cases 3rd, 4th and 5th preferences will be taken into account too. Here it's even worse. Here my 4th preference vote for a candidate I wouldn't touch with a bargepole counts just as much as yours for the candidate you really wanted.

There are a number of other arguments against AV. The counting arrangements will be more expensive. The results will be more susceptible to delay. The Lib Dems will probably do better and a hung parliament will be more likely. Of these, the possibility of not liking the result seems to be the weakest. But the strongest is the sheer unfairness of the process set out above.

Enthusiasts for AV say that the public is crying out for electoral change, and that it's necessary for rejuvenating faith in the political process. Really? Seems to me that what destroys faith in politics is politicians relying on spin, refusing to give straight answers, fiddling their expenses, saying one thing in opposition and doing another in office, preferring lies the public will swallow to hard truths, and putting short term electoral gain ahead of long term benefit to the UK. These are the things destroying faith in politics, not the electoral system.

Still confused? OK. Here's a much easier test. Which side are the Luvvies on? You can save yourself a lot of effort in these situations by simply voting against the people with most Luvvies on board. Because they are almost certainly wrong.

The No to AV campaign have a mixture of politicians from Right and Left, but no one beautiful.

But the Yes campaign! John Cleese, Joanna Lumley, Eddie Izzard and Stephen Fry! And Helena Bonham Carter! And Colin Firth!

That clinches it. AV = 2nd past the post. You read it here first.

Steve Coogan and the Mexicans

"Court bans man with low IQ from having sex", read the headline on the Torygraph's website.

Afraid of what this might portend for my marriage, I clicked instead on a story about the Top Gear presenter Richard Hammond, who had uttered the following on a recent show: "Mexican cars", said the Hamster, "are just going to be lazy, feckless, flatulent, overweight, leaning against a fence asleep looking at a cactus, with a blanket with a hole in the middle on as a coat".

This laboured piece of invective has provoked an angry reaction from, amongst others, the comedian Steve Coogan. Writing in the Observer, Coogan laid into this "casual racism" and lambasted the BBC as "pitiful" for defending it.

Lacking the required interest in cars, I am not a Top Gear fan; but there is something wrong here and it is not necessarily Richard Hammond.

Firstly, is it racist to say what he did about Mexicans? The overwhelming majority of people in Britain - and in particular those who inhabit media-land - have long got over the idea that a person with a certain skin colour or width of nose is going to have certain behavioural characteristics (penchant for ponchos, perhaps). So it seems unlikely to me that Hammond was making a racial point; I'd be willing to bet that some of his best friends are black. Much more likely that Hammond was making a cultural one; and it doesn't seem to me wrong to criticise or lampoon someone else's culture. In parts of Muslim North Africa, for example, forced clitirodectomy of young girls is compulsory. If we are free to deplore this choice cultural practice, surely we should be free to criticise any other?

In his Observer article Steve Coogan unwittingly acknowledges this. He cites the BBC apology to the Mexican ambassador, which compared Hammond's remarks with "the more benign rivalry that exists between European nations (ah, those arrogant French, over-organised Germans)", and deplores it for "neatly sidestepp(ing) one hugely important fact – ethnicity. All the examples it uses to legitimise this hateful rubbish are relatively prosperous countries full of white people."

But Coogan has driven coach and horses through his own argument. If he can accept that remarks about white people might have been legitimate comments on a country's culture, why does he automatically assume that similar comments about the inhabitants of Mexico must be racist? Would it have been OK to poke fun at the food and clothing of white Mexicans? And if so, what difference does skin colour make? It begins to look as if it is Coogan who is making race matter here, not Hammond or the BBC.

To be clear, I'm sure Hammond's remarks were offensive. And? There is no right not to be offended. Moreover, in a properly functioning democratic society, the freedom to criticise or make fun of someone else's habits, is not just desirable but essential. That's how we stop, say, forced clitirodectomy happening here. On this occasion Top Gear's biggest crime was just not being very funny.

Sure, the programme is often crass and pleased with itself, but for every Top Gear there are hundreds of TV shows which are so bland that, far from holding the ring fairly between competing opinions, they actively promote a PC view of the world which is of itself an opinion. In this context Top Gear strikes a rare note of authenticity and freedom. That's why so many people like it.

A final note about Steve Coogan. Mexico is mired in corruption, lawlessness and violence because of the activities of the drug cartels. These cartels thrive and prosper because Mexico is the main conduit for illegal drugs into the USA over the border to the North. No doubt many imported drugs are taken by deadbeats, seeking to inject some excitement into their mean existence. But many are also taken by celebrities like Mr Coogan, seeking to inject some excitement into, er, their pampered and self-indulgent lives.

I said like Mr Coogan, but actually I meant including Mr Coogan. For if you google "Steve Coogan cocaine" you will find a variety of news stories (including some on his own website) detailing the great man's use of the drug. These range from hotel room sessions with lapdancers to binges with Hollywood actor Owen Wilson. Even Courtney Love, veteran of a relationship with Kurt Cobain (found dead with grammes of heroin to hand) feels moved to tell a magazine, "I tried to warn Owen (about Coogan). I tried to warn his friends. I hope from the bottom of my heart that Owen stays the hell away from that guy".

In doing his bit to ensure there's plenty of demand for the drug cartels' wares, Coogan is in no position to pontificate about doing right by Mexicans. Comically unaware of the abyss of hypocrisy yawning beneath him, he writes in the Observer, "I can tell you from my own experience, living in the US, Mexicans work themselves to the bone doing all the dirty thankless jobs that the white middle-class natives won't do." Like polishing the glass tables after you've been snorting off them, Steve?

"Court bans man with low IQ from having sex", read the Telegraph headline. If I were Coogan I'd be looking over my shoulder.

yet more sexism in the workplace ....

I'm not at all surprised that football pundit Andy Gray was sacked for inviting a female colleague, Charlotte Jackson, to stick her hand down his trousers to adjust his microphone. My sympathy for him is limited. So is my sympathy for Ms Jackson. Did she get the job because she knew lots about football? Or could it have been because she was blonde and sexy?

No-one deserves to be spoken to like Andy Gray spoke to Charlotte Jackson; but perhaps she has less right to complain than she would have if she hadn't accepted substantial sums of money for appearing thus to readers of Loaded magazine:

Actually Ms Jackson hasn't complained at all, which is greatly to her credit. Perhaps she senses the weakness of her position.

But what about Richard Keys? All of his published utterances make him sound like a very unattractive personality. And yet. Being sexist is one of life's opinion options. It certainly isn't confined to Mr Keys, and it isn't confined to men either - has anyone watched Loose Women recently? And just as I am appalled at Gray and Keys's sexism, I have absolutely no doubt that I have opinions which a lot of other people find offensive. Should I lose my job for uttering them?

Being a grown up means being willing to mix with other people you don't agree with and don't like. That's true for anyone whose work and leisure activities bring them into contact with others. Seeing the self-righteous monstering inflicted on Mr Keys by the media generally and by Jane Martinson and Tanya Gold in particular in this morning's Guardian, the faintest stirrings of sympathy for Keys and dislike for those standing over him administering the kicking begin to arise.

Here's Jane Martinson -

If these remarks go some way towards changing behind-closed-doors behaviour, we can all claim a victory.

And here's Gold -

It will no longer be possible to casually spout your prejudice at work and feel secure.

Yes, Gold thinks that's a good thing. And Martinson wants your behind-closed-doors behaviour to change. If she doesn't like what she thinks you're doing.

The line between doing what Gray did and doing what Keys did is a fine one; but it's there, just. One person's prejudice is another person's opinion. And the day when having the "wrong" opinions gets you the sack is a bad day, not a good one.

lucky Miriam O'Reilly

So Miriam O'Reilly won her case against the BBC for age discrimination. Good for her. Obviously it's wrong for people in her sort of job to be sacked for being too old.

But was that really why she was sacked? I found myself thinking this morning about good old Robin Day. The bow-tied curmudgeon got into a lot of hot water once for suggesting that Anna Ford, pulchritudinous 70s newsreader, had only got her job because men wanted to sleep with her. The spirit of the age was against Day, and he was duly shouted down, but I suspect that he was right.

That's not to say that Ms Ford was incompetent; far from it. But perhaps she got the job because, of all the outstanding candidates for it, she was the sexiest. And this is TV after all. Perish the thought, it might even be the case that one of the other applicants - someone else a bit less heavenly looking - could have done it better.

What's this got to do with Miriam O'Reilly? I have never watched Countryfile (although my wife, an insomniac, tells me that she was a dreary and hectoring presenter on Farming Today), but judging from the pictures in the paper this morning, she must once have been a bit of a looker. And the thought did cross my mind that perhaps a few years ago Ms O'Reilly got the job rather than anyone else because she was nice-looking; and that complaining about losing it when she was no longer quite so nice-looking might be a bit rich.

This morning Ms O'Reilly will be coasting downhill with the wind of bien-pensant opinion in her sails and a few extra quid in the bank; but I think she lived by the sword and died by it. Lucky Ms O'Reilly.

Paying for Mr Pappano

In the wake of Arts Council cuts, it was no surprise to read press reports the other day that the BBC is willing to talk to other beleaguered arts bodies about orchestral funding. Whilst inherently sympathetic to their plight, I was reminded of another story last week about the salary earned by Antonio Pappano, MD at Covent Garden. I forget the exact figure commanded by Mr Pappano, but the sum which has stuck in my mind is £690,000. Now Pappano is no doubt a fine musician, but is he really worth the best part of £700k? To put it another way, could another musician, perhaps equally fine, have been found to do the job for, oh I don't know, £500k? £300k? Might not Pappano himself have been prepared to do the job for a lower sum?

For my work on the day of a concert an amateur orchestra generally pays me about £250 (yes, that's £250, not£250k). I am not suggesting that I could do as good a job as Mr Pappano (although I'd be willing to give it a shot), but one thing I have learned since I started conducting is that there are, even in amateur music circles, an awful lot of very fine conductors out there. And that's just in NW England. The idea that there is only a small group of people in the world who are capable of leading a top opera company (or a professional symphony orchestra, whose conductors are paid comparable sums), and that salaries like Mr Pappano's have to be awarded to secure their services, is pure tosh. The reality is that in every country there are dozens and dozens of terrific musicians who would do the job for less. Some of them would do it for next to nothing. If I did not have to eat, I would organise, rehearse and conduct great music free of charge. In fact if I had to, I would crawl over broken glass to do it. The experience is its own reward.

Why does any of this matter? Surely it's up to the ROH to decide how much it pays its Music Director? Well no. Firstly, Pappano's salary is obscene when compared with the wages of the players, which will be less than a tenth of the amount (extras at one of Manchester's professional orchestras are paid about £100 per day, and I believe it's among the most generous). Secondly, there's something rather horrible about anyone earning this kind of money when many ordinary people, who couldn't afford to go to the Royal Opera even during the good times, are losing their jobs.

And thirdly, the ROH receives public money. Yes, you and I are paying taxes in order to help the Royal Opera pay Mr Pappano £690k p.a. That makes me feel quite bad.

Should any organisation which has so little idea how to run a tight financial ship that it pays its chief the best part of a million quid a year really be getting a penny from the public purse?

in the shadow of the wizard

During the interval of a concert on Saturday, my mother came across a crusty old battleaxe she knows from her weekly French class. This lady, starchy, faintly condescending, played the fiddle professionally in various London orchestras thirty or forty years ago. They agreed that it was a fine concert - they'd just heard a performance of Mozart's magisterial Sinfonia Concertante in E flat K364 by the Athenean Ensemble - and after praising the soloists, Jonathan Martindale and Lucy Nolan, my mother's friend singled out the conductor, who had apparently done a fine job too. For Mum, fifty odd years of disappointment fell away in a moment, all the effort and sacrifice of parenthood made worthwhile by the open goal now facing her. "Actually, he's my son", she said.

I have conducted the Sinfonia Concertante once before, in a half-empty Victoria Theatre in Halifax. But here in Didsbury every seat in the church was taken, and there were people standing at the back; at the end, a kind of roar went up from the audience, the sort of response you very rarely get at a classical concert, and one I don't think I've ever heard whilst conducting (and I've done some rabble rousing stuff, from Bruckner to John Williams and back via the Dambusters March). What an exceptional piece K.364 is, and what a privilege for me, Lucy, Jonathan and the players, to walk, for the half an hour it took to play it, in the long shadow of the Salzburg wizard.

Caliban's Day

The biggest belly laugh in the production of Alan Bennett's The Habit of Art comes when Humphrey Carpenter, arriving to interview W.H. Auden, is mistaken by the elderly poet for a rent boy. "But I'm from the BBC", expostulates Carpenter, to general hilarity. That this sub-Terry and June bit of knockabout should be the funniest line says a good deal about the standard of the rest of Bennett's play.

Of course, technically it isn't his play, but a play which one of Bennett's characters has written entitled Caliban's Day, which we see being rehearsed backstage at the National Theatre. The dried-up Auden, a randy, unwashed intellectual bully, is visited by Benjamin Britten, an old friend from the 1930s, and in the core of the inner play the pair of them muse on art and sex (to no great effect, I thought, but that's not the point of this post). The Caliban referred to is the rent boy, who (once we gratefully realise is not going to be fellated by Auden onstage) acts as an antidote to the clipped vowels and middlebrow intellectualising of Bennett's protagonists.

Bennett wants us to like Auden - funny, rumbustious, unrepentant - and so he has to make us tolerate his use of male prostitutes. So the rent boy is not a damaged individual, a victim of childhood sexual abuse or a drug addict. He isn't even a boy. No, he's a jolly outgoing charmer in his twenties who just loves to service eminent washed-up poets whose trousers smell of urine.

I found this male version of the old tart-with-a-heart lie both creepy and repellent.

What did the critics make of it? The man from the Times wrote that Bennett's depiction of the rent boy was " an unconvincing shovelling of A Sympathetic Member of the Working Classes into these cosy proceedings, to make some point about inequality, social injustice and so forth. It’s all as woolly as a Marks & Spencer cardie." But he still gave it four stars.

My wife's theory, that Bennett is a national treasure and therefore immune to criticism, was borne out by the Telegraph - "Alan Bennett, that most cherished of national treasures, is now 75", began its five star review. The Guardian didn't mention the rent boy at all: Michael Billington gave it four stars.

I was at school with someone who ended up as a rent boy. More typical than Bennett's evasion, he was a sad individual who died of Aids before he was 30.