At the time of writing this, England's attempt to score 340-odd in the fourth innings to beat South Africa and thus retain their status as the world's No. 1 Test nation is foundering under the pressure of both the Proteas' bowling and the stress inherent in chasing such a large total. England might have had a bit more chance had Kevin Pietersen been playing, but KP, as he likes to be known, has been dropped following revelations that he had texted derogatory comments about his team-mates to his fellow South Africans.
To remind non-cricketers, Pietersen is a South African. But he's playing for England. How has that come about? Because the ECB's rules allow naturalisation after four years' residence. This is an aspect of the game's laws that has allowed a number of overseas cricketers, most recently Pietersen, Jonathan Trott and Craig Kieswetter, to turn out for England despite, in some cases, having represented their own countries at junior level. South Africans have been particularly adept at shape-shifting in this way, firstly because for years the apartheid boycott kept their country out of international sport, latterly because the quota system has seen some of their most talented cricketers kept out of the international side in favour of non-whites.
My sympathy for them is limited. Pietersen is an unattractively egotistical goon who has simply followed his ambition, which was to stride the big stage. He has often been colossal, but although he had three lions tattooed on his shoulder, his loyalty to England is skin deep. Why should we be so surprised to find that, come the crunch, his loyalties are not to his team mates but his fellow countrymen? That is actually as it should be. The whole point of international sport is that it should take place between the people of one country and another.
But that begs the question, what does "of one country" mean? My personal preference would be for a birth qualification, but if it has to be residence then four years is way too short. The ECB has recently recognised this and upped it to seven. But that still means that a South African could represent his country at U-15 level and then play for England at 22. Not good enough.
Monty Panesar, a Sikh from Luton, is English through and through. So is Ravi Bopara and so was Mark Ramprakash. But Pietersen, Kieswetter and Trott are South Africans and, wherever they live, should be playing for South Africa. The present arrangements mock the rationale, such as it is, for competitive sport between nations (incidentally, Rugby Union is just as guilty of this too).
It's not often that I agree with Peter Oborne, but the journalist said that he would rather watch a proper England team lose than one stuffed with opportunists and mercenaries win. This fact will be of little interest to the ECB. But perhaps more pertinently, I'd be more likely to pay to go and watch a team full of Englishmen, no matter whether they won or lost.
Wednesday 29 August 2012
Monday 27 August 2012
New location for British capital
I was lucky enough to go to the Olympics, twice, mainly because my wife is adept at getting me to do things I’d never do if left to my own devices. The atmosphere, as everyone keeps saying, was fantastic; in fact, feats on the track notwithstanding, it struck me as being our greatest achievement. After all, if you take a medium-sized country with a sporting tradition of sorts and chuck money at it, common sense would suggest you’ll get a crop of Gold and other medals (I’d like to take this opportunity to thank people who have less money than me for buying all those Lottery tickets; even though it is depressing to see such a woeful collective misunderstanding of the way probability works). Of course we were likely to do well. And we duly did.
But the volunteers were something else again. I have heard people say that their conduct was a triumph of multiculturalism; actually I wonder whether the reverse is the case. As I walked around the Olympic Park what struck me about the cheery, slightly self-conscious, self-deprecating humour emanating from the faces in the queasy taupe and magenta Games uniform was, notwithstanding their bewildering variety of colour and racial feature, how British they all were.
It’s rare for me nowadays to have the slightly welling-up feel-good surge that Liberals must have all the time when they consider immigration policy and its consequences, but I did last week. Or nearly. These people, or more likely their parents or grandparents, came to this country from all over the world. But nevertheless their culture, expressed in their attitudes, demeanour and language, was palpably mine.
I am sceptical about most things, as befits a grumpy old man, and downright pessimistic about a world mired in consumerism and debt, complacent about population levels and at best only a stone's throw away from barbarism. But within that pre-apocalyptic context I actually feel quite optimistic about Britain. Our capital, it seemed to me walking round Stratford and Greenwich, was not in London; it lay, if you'll forgive the pun, in the culture which is all around us.
But the volunteers were something else again. I have heard people say that their conduct was a triumph of multiculturalism; actually I wonder whether the reverse is the case. As I walked around the Olympic Park what struck me about the cheery, slightly self-conscious, self-deprecating humour emanating from the faces in the queasy taupe and magenta Games uniform was, notwithstanding their bewildering variety of colour and racial feature, how British they all were.
It’s rare for me nowadays to have the slightly welling-up feel-good surge that Liberals must have all the time when they consider immigration policy and its consequences, but I did last week. Or nearly. These people, or more likely their parents or grandparents, came to this country from all over the world. But nevertheless their culture, expressed in their attitudes, demeanour and language, was palpably mine.
I am sceptical about most things, as befits a grumpy old man, and downright pessimistic about a world mired in consumerism and debt, complacent about population levels and at best only a stone's throw away from barbarism. But within that pre-apocalyptic context I actually feel quite optimistic about Britain. Our capital, it seemed to me walking round Stratford and Greenwich, was not in London; it lay, if you'll forgive the pun, in the culture which is all around us.
Thursday 23 August 2012
Philip Hensher, Pierre Boulez, Twitter and losing the plot.
Recently a friend sent me a link to a Philip Hensher article in the Independent entitled "Will nobody mourn the death of classical music?" Google it if you're interested, but if time presses, Hensher concludes by writing, "...in a hundred years . . . it will be incomprehensible, dead, and gone, and very few people will care". You get the picture.
I was reminded of this when, driving up the M74 the other week to climb yet more grey Scottish mountains, I listened to Donald Macleod interviewing Pierre Boulez. The East West Divan Orchestra under Daniel Barenboim was playing a series of Boulez pieces in its week-long programme of Beethoven symphonies at the Proms.
Macleod began by saying something rather daring. A composer friend of his, on being told that Macleod was going to be interviewing Boulez, had remarked that the Frenchman’s music was “decadent”. Boulez dealt with this observation graciously enough by not dealing with it at all, gently heading the discussion off in the direction of other less tendentious terms like “baroque” and “rococo”. Macleod did not persist with the “decadent” line, leaving me to wonder exactly what his friend had meant, and whether there might be any sense in which the term was just.
That night’s Boulez piece had one of those titles beloved of late 20th century composers, something like “Diversions II”. It beebled and burbled, shrieked, twisted and turned. For the first ten minutes at least. Then I switched it off. Feeling that I was going to be sitting in the car anyway, and I might learn something, I switched it back on. The piece was doing pretty much the same thing as it had been when I switched it off. I turned over to Radio 5 instead, with its inane chatter about the forthcoming Olympics and whether Brad Wiggins would win the Tour. Eventually, tiring of that, I switched back to the Boulez. It was still burbling and shrieking, only this time with a bit more cello.
I am well into the second half of my life now, and I do not want to spend any more than I have to of the years that remain listening to music I don’t enjoy, so I switched it off for the last time.
I have for years been arguing that there are precious few objective standards in art, and so I am not going to fall into the trap of saying that this Boulez piece (or the others I heard in the following days) was bad music. I just don’t like it. It might however be interesting to set out something of why I don’t like it, or to be more accurate, why I don’t think it works.
Deprived of the gravitational pull tonality affords at both the micro and macro levels, Boulez’s music lacks a sense of harmonic direction. And writing in a language in which any combination of pitches (apart from the triad, of course) is permitted, it also - paradoxically - lacks harmonic variety. After all, one atonal six note cluster is quite like another. When regular rhythm is shunned, distinctions between fast and slow music disappear; the listener is left with a musical landscape which is, paradoxically, one-paced. Because melodic ideas aren’t audibly repeated it’s very hard for the listener to get a hold of any structural features. In short, I find it a language in which opportunities for variety and contrast seem to have been carefully excised, with tedious results.
But none of these things would matter if I liked the material from moment to moment, and I guess this is the key. There are plenty of composers who are not terribly interested in construction (or not very good at it), but whose material I find irresistible – Schubert, Rachmaninov, Mahler, Grieg, John Williams, amongst others – and it is a coincidence that the composer I most admired as a teenager – Sibelius – turns out not only to have written material I find deeply stirring but also to be one of the greatest constructors of any kind of music at any period.
We all know that most people who like classical music don’t like Boulez (read this sentence again carefully if you think you disagree with it). Of those, I suspect that the overwhelming majority don’t give a fig for (and aren’t even aware of) the technical points I mentioned. Like me, they just don’t like the material.
Back to Philip Hensher. I have written before about the decline in classical music in Britain, but I don’t quite share Hensher's apocalyptic view. I think classical music is rescuable given a sensible education policy and, just as crucial, a sensible programming policy. We aren’t likely to get either any time soon, of course.
In any other artistic discipline the idea that you might promote something audiences don’t like just for the sake of it would be laughed to oblivion. Not so in classical music. And this brings me to the question of Pierre Boulez’s decadence.
I don’t think Boulez is a decadent composer. Not remotely. One of the great things about being a composer (and I guess an artist of any kind), is that in contrast to the many constraints we all experience in our lives, in art we are, at present in the West, free to create whatever we want. If Boulez likes writing his sort of stuff, good luck to him.
But I suppose you might argue that, in a context where the audience for classical music is ageing and declining, it is decadent to insist on performing music that people, on the whole, don’t like.
And when opportunities for putting on new music before a mass audience are rare, you might argue that it was double-plus decadent to insist on performing Boulez, repeatedly, at a festival paid for, on the whole, by the general public, who like it even less.
It might be laudable to play it a few times, to see how it goes down. But when it becomes apparent that they don’t like it after, oh I don’t know, fifty years or so, you might also argue that it was decadent to keep on ramming it down the public’s throats, particularly when there exist reams of other new music that they might like and that could be put on instead.
You might further argue that, when it’s felt that a helpful moment-to-moment explanation on the Proms’ Twitter feed (and no, I am not making this up) is necessary while the beebling and burbling is going on, the plot – as well as an opportunity - has been well and truly lost.
For whatever else you can say about it, art whose advocates acknowledge the need for a written explanation while it's going on is palpably Not Working.
I was reminded of this when, driving up the M74 the other week to climb yet more grey Scottish mountains, I listened to Donald Macleod interviewing Pierre Boulez. The East West Divan Orchestra under Daniel Barenboim was playing a series of Boulez pieces in its week-long programme of Beethoven symphonies at the Proms.
Macleod began by saying something rather daring. A composer friend of his, on being told that Macleod was going to be interviewing Boulez, had remarked that the Frenchman’s music was “decadent”. Boulez dealt with this observation graciously enough by not dealing with it at all, gently heading the discussion off in the direction of other less tendentious terms like “baroque” and “rococo”. Macleod did not persist with the “decadent” line, leaving me to wonder exactly what his friend had meant, and whether there might be any sense in which the term was just.
That night’s Boulez piece had one of those titles beloved of late 20th century composers, something like “Diversions II”. It beebled and burbled, shrieked, twisted and turned. For the first ten minutes at least. Then I switched it off. Feeling that I was going to be sitting in the car anyway, and I might learn something, I switched it back on. The piece was doing pretty much the same thing as it had been when I switched it off. I turned over to Radio 5 instead, with its inane chatter about the forthcoming Olympics and whether Brad Wiggins would win the Tour. Eventually, tiring of that, I switched back to the Boulez. It was still burbling and shrieking, only this time with a bit more cello.
I am well into the second half of my life now, and I do not want to spend any more than I have to of the years that remain listening to music I don’t enjoy, so I switched it off for the last time.
I have for years been arguing that there are precious few objective standards in art, and so I am not going to fall into the trap of saying that this Boulez piece (or the others I heard in the following days) was bad music. I just don’t like it. It might however be interesting to set out something of why I don’t like it, or to be more accurate, why I don’t think it works.
Deprived of the gravitational pull tonality affords at both the micro and macro levels, Boulez’s music lacks a sense of harmonic direction. And writing in a language in which any combination of pitches (apart from the triad, of course) is permitted, it also - paradoxically - lacks harmonic variety. After all, one atonal six note cluster is quite like another. When regular rhythm is shunned, distinctions between fast and slow music disappear; the listener is left with a musical landscape which is, paradoxically, one-paced. Because melodic ideas aren’t audibly repeated it’s very hard for the listener to get a hold of any structural features. In short, I find it a language in which opportunities for variety and contrast seem to have been carefully excised, with tedious results.
But none of these things would matter if I liked the material from moment to moment, and I guess this is the key. There are plenty of composers who are not terribly interested in construction (or not very good at it), but whose material I find irresistible – Schubert, Rachmaninov, Mahler, Grieg, John Williams, amongst others – and it is a coincidence that the composer I most admired as a teenager – Sibelius – turns out not only to have written material I find deeply stirring but also to be one of the greatest constructors of any kind of music at any period.
We all know that most people who like classical music don’t like Boulez (read this sentence again carefully if you think you disagree with it). Of those, I suspect that the overwhelming majority don’t give a fig for (and aren’t even aware of) the technical points I mentioned. Like me, they just don’t like the material.
Back to Philip Hensher. I have written before about the decline in classical music in Britain, but I don’t quite share Hensher's apocalyptic view. I think classical music is rescuable given a sensible education policy and, just as crucial, a sensible programming policy. We aren’t likely to get either any time soon, of course.
In any other artistic discipline the idea that you might promote something audiences don’t like just for the sake of it would be laughed to oblivion. Not so in classical music. And this brings me to the question of Pierre Boulez’s decadence.
I don’t think Boulez is a decadent composer. Not remotely. One of the great things about being a composer (and I guess an artist of any kind), is that in contrast to the many constraints we all experience in our lives, in art we are, at present in the West, free to create whatever we want. If Boulez likes writing his sort of stuff, good luck to him.
But I suppose you might argue that, in a context where the audience for classical music is ageing and declining, it is decadent to insist on performing music that people, on the whole, don’t like.
And when opportunities for putting on new music before a mass audience are rare, you might argue that it was double-plus decadent to insist on performing Boulez, repeatedly, at a festival paid for, on the whole, by the general public, who like it even less.
It might be laudable to play it a few times, to see how it goes down. But when it becomes apparent that they don’t like it after, oh I don’t know, fifty years or so, you might also argue that it was decadent to keep on ramming it down the public’s throats, particularly when there exist reams of other new music that they might like and that could be put on instead.
You might further argue that, when it’s felt that a helpful moment-to-moment explanation on the Proms’ Twitter feed (and no, I am not making this up) is necessary while the beebling and burbling is going on, the plot – as well as an opportunity - has been well and truly lost.
For whatever else you can say about it, art whose advocates acknowledge the need for a written explanation while it's going on is palpably Not Working.
Tuesday 24 July 2012
Questioning Aditya Chakrabortty
My favourite economics commentator, Aditya Chakrabortty, has provided some more innocent entertainment for the discerning.
Writing in G2 this morning, Chakrabortty has had another go at flaying George Osborne's economic policy. To paraphrase, tomorrow's GDP figures will show the UK is still in recession, cuts are wicked, and there is "no real reason this unprecedented schedule of pain, imposed by a coalition with scant ministerial experience, should be taken as inevitable".
I read the article - more than a dozen paragraphs - hoping to see Chakrabortty setting out the alternative to the Chancellor's policy. But there was nothing. Nada. Silence. Osborne has got it wrong. That's all.
To be fair to Chakrabortty, it's possible to infer from his previous outpourings that he sympathises with what might be called the Balls Position, namely that the government will be more successful in getting the deficit down if it spends more money. He has however been slightly coy, unlike Balls, in what this will mean. More borrowing.
To summarise, the argument runs "In order to get out of a mess caused by too much borrowing, we need to borrow more". I always hope that someone will utter this praece out loud so I can hear their voice tail off at the end of the sentence.
Actually Ed Balls is shameless enough to do something pretty close, although as a consummate politician he shows no sign of unease . Again and again we hear him saying, "Government policy is not working because the economy isn't growing and, look, they are borrowing more than they said they would". Now the second part of this sentence is true, but, awkwardly for Labour, its own policy is to borrow more than the Tories. And extra borrowing doesn't seem to be having the desired effect.
This is slightly embarrassing for the Tories too, because they said if we borrowed more the sky would fall in. Bond yields would shoot up and we would rapidly do the Mediterranean shuffle toward the abyss. Of course bond yields might well have been lower if we had borrowed less and reduced the deficit faster, but nevertheless they are quite staggeringly low.
If I were George Osborne I would, faced with this argument, point out that we have pumped well over £300 billion into the economy by way of QE and it has had no discernable effect. Just how much extra do Balls and Chakrabortty want us to borrow? Last year's deficit was about £126 billion, down from about £140 billion at its peak. Should we go back up to £140 billion? Would the extra £14 billion make any difference? £300 billion didn't get things going again after all: what price the lesser sum? And what if the markets thought, "These people aren't serious about getting the deficit down. That makes lending to them riskier. Let's charge them a bit more."
But the point of this blog is not to focus on the flaws in the Balls Position, but rather in Chakrabortty's analysis. Firstly he has asked, "Is the economy growing?", to which the answer is of course "No." QED, he says.
Well not so fast. What if he has asked the wrong question?
In a context in which Europe's banking system is teetering on the edge, in which sovereign states are on the verge of collapse, in which I can get a mortgage at a cheaper interest rate than Spain (please read that clause, astonishing but true, again), a better test of whether Osborne's economic policy is working might be to ask, "Can we actually borrow money on the gilt markets at a rate we can afford?" The answer to that is a ringing yes. And if you want another question, how about this - "Is the deficit coming down?" The answer to that is yes as well. It's coming down in real terms, in nominal terms, and as a percentage of GDP. That looks to me pretty much like success.
But what about the workers? What about the people losing their jobs and houses because of the cuts? What about the people whose lifelines from the state have been cut off? In most cases that will be a tragedy. But we have long passed the point at which fixing the problems with the UK's economy can be made without collateral damage. There is simply no magic button which can be pressed which will take us back to dry land without pain. This is particularly true as long as the Eurozone is paralysed by uncertainty and incompetence.
This is Chakrabortty's second conceptual mistake. Those like him who pretend that there is something dead easy the Government could do to make things right are not just mistaken, they are helping slow the process of dawning realisation that's required on a national scale. We have been living on massive borrowing; it can't go on forever; and what can't go on forever must stop.
The credit crunch has made fools of us all, but the Guardian's Chief Economics Leader writer more than most.
Writing in G2 this morning, Chakrabortty has had another go at flaying George Osborne's economic policy. To paraphrase, tomorrow's GDP figures will show the UK is still in recession, cuts are wicked, and there is "no real reason this unprecedented schedule of pain, imposed by a coalition with scant ministerial experience, should be taken as inevitable".
I read the article - more than a dozen paragraphs - hoping to see Chakrabortty setting out the alternative to the Chancellor's policy. But there was nothing. Nada. Silence. Osborne has got it wrong. That's all.
To be fair to Chakrabortty, it's possible to infer from his previous outpourings that he sympathises with what might be called the Balls Position, namely that the government will be more successful in getting the deficit down if it spends more money. He has however been slightly coy, unlike Balls, in what this will mean. More borrowing.
To summarise, the argument runs "In order to get out of a mess caused by too much borrowing, we need to borrow more". I always hope that someone will utter this praece out loud so I can hear their voice tail off at the end of the sentence.
Actually Ed Balls is shameless enough to do something pretty close, although as a consummate politician he shows no sign of unease . Again and again we hear him saying, "Government policy is not working because the economy isn't growing and, look, they are borrowing more than they said they would". Now the second part of this sentence is true, but, awkwardly for Labour, its own policy is to borrow more than the Tories. And extra borrowing doesn't seem to be having the desired effect.
This is slightly embarrassing for the Tories too, because they said if we borrowed more the sky would fall in. Bond yields would shoot up and we would rapidly do the Mediterranean shuffle toward the abyss. Of course bond yields might well have been lower if we had borrowed less and reduced the deficit faster, but nevertheless they are quite staggeringly low.
If I were George Osborne I would, faced with this argument, point out that we have pumped well over £300 billion into the economy by way of QE and it has had no discernable effect. Just how much extra do Balls and Chakrabortty want us to borrow? Last year's deficit was about £126 billion, down from about £140 billion at its peak. Should we go back up to £140 billion? Would the extra £14 billion make any difference? £300 billion didn't get things going again after all: what price the lesser sum? And what if the markets thought, "These people aren't serious about getting the deficit down. That makes lending to them riskier. Let's charge them a bit more."
But the point of this blog is not to focus on the flaws in the Balls Position, but rather in Chakrabortty's analysis. Firstly he has asked, "Is the economy growing?", to which the answer is of course "No." QED, he says.
Well not so fast. What if he has asked the wrong question?
In a context in which Europe's banking system is teetering on the edge, in which sovereign states are on the verge of collapse, in which I can get a mortgage at a cheaper interest rate than Spain (please read that clause, astonishing but true, again), a better test of whether Osborne's economic policy is working might be to ask, "Can we actually borrow money on the gilt markets at a rate we can afford?" The answer to that is a ringing yes. And if you want another question, how about this - "Is the deficit coming down?" The answer to that is yes as well. It's coming down in real terms, in nominal terms, and as a percentage of GDP. That looks to me pretty much like success.
But what about the workers? What about the people losing their jobs and houses because of the cuts? What about the people whose lifelines from the state have been cut off? In most cases that will be a tragedy. But we have long passed the point at which fixing the problems with the UK's economy can be made without collateral damage. There is simply no magic button which can be pressed which will take us back to dry land without pain. This is particularly true as long as the Eurozone is paralysed by uncertainty and incompetence.
This is Chakrabortty's second conceptual mistake. Those like him who pretend that there is something dead easy the Government could do to make things right are not just mistaken, they are helping slow the process of dawning realisation that's required on a national scale. We have been living on massive borrowing; it can't go on forever; and what can't go on forever must stop.
The credit crunch has made fools of us all, but the Guardian's Chief Economics Leader writer more than most.
Wednesday 18 July 2012
Barclays, cheating, and Bradley Wiggins
I have developed a man-crush on Bradley Wiggins.
It's not that the leader of the Tour de France is remotely physically attractive - bushy sideburns don't do it for me (how did bewhiskered Victorian men ever get beyond first base?) - but Wiggins is everything a Beta Male could conceivably want in a sporting hero. He looks slightly weird. He has terrible facial hair. He is a funny shape. He is clever. He is funny. He is what I might have been like if I had been cleverer and funnier. And better at riding a bike.
Specifically, he is not one of those handsome, athletic and aggressive goons who always got the girls when I was young. If Mark Cavendish, acting selflessly as one of Wiggins' super-domestiques in Team Sky, was at the front, I would still want him to win; but Cavendish is a Jock, as the Americans say, whereas Bradley looks like a misfit loser who writes maudlin ballads at the piano in his spare time.
Except that he has won several Olympic medals, and it now looks as if he might just win the Tour.
The foreign press have been reporting and fostering rumours that Bradley is cheating. This is the kind of thing guaranteed to rile a red-blooded Englishman, until this one reflects that our previous best rider, Tom Simpson (no relation) died on the Tour in the 60s with a cocktail of amphetamines in his bloodstream. Historically, cheating has been rife, and only this week one of the Schleck brothers briefly became another Famous Belgian by being kicked out for having a banned diuretic in his bloodstream (diuretics are popular with cheats because they flush other banned substances quickly out of the system). Actually I believe the Schlecks are from Luxembourg, but never mind. Several riders in the current Tour have been banned previously for doping, receiving bans for eighteen months or two years - little more than a slap on the wrist and an invitation to come back the year after next.
The Tour is probably cleaner than it was, because testing regimes are better than they were, but nevertheless cheating has always been part of cycling culture, and that raises the question of whether cheating's really cheating at all if everyone is doing it.
Now clearly taking performance enhancing drugs is breaking the rules. But that's not the same as cheating. Cheating is behaviour outwith that tolerated by your peers. If most of your peers are taking drugs, you might well do it yourself without feeling too bad about it. After all, rules are made by old men in blazers who used to be good at your sport thirty years ago.
(There is a striking parallel here with the Barclays bankers who manipulated the Libor rate - it was seen as normal by their peers. So what if it was against the rules?)
This argument works until you consider that the people who are really being cheated are the public. If everyone took whatever drugs they liked, we would applaud the winner's effort knowing that there was a level playing field. But the presence of even one clean rider amidst a field all of whom protest their abstinence means a) we don't know which one he is, and b) whether he would have beaten the others without their pharmaceutical props.
To be honest, we don't know whether Wiggins is a cheat or not. And that uncertainty has been placed in our minds by all the others - Simpson, Schleck, Floyd Landis, Alberto Contador to name but four - who got caught; now, perhaps, inevitably, the finger is at last being pointed at Lance Armstrong, the greatest Tour cyclist of all. At the moment.
But that won't stop me rooting for Wiggins, a man who lambasted British culture for being "built on people being famous for not achieving anything"; who slowed the peloton down when his closest rival Cadel Evans had a puncture to allow Evans to catch up; and who, in response to a question about how his dead father would have responded to his success, replied, "It depends if he was sober".
Go Bradley go!
It's not that the leader of the Tour de France is remotely physically attractive - bushy sideburns don't do it for me (how did bewhiskered Victorian men ever get beyond first base?) - but Wiggins is everything a Beta Male could conceivably want in a sporting hero. He looks slightly weird. He has terrible facial hair. He is a funny shape. He is clever. He is funny. He is what I might have been like if I had been cleverer and funnier. And better at riding a bike.
Specifically, he is not one of those handsome, athletic and aggressive goons who always got the girls when I was young. If Mark Cavendish, acting selflessly as one of Wiggins' super-domestiques in Team Sky, was at the front, I would still want him to win; but Cavendish is a Jock, as the Americans say, whereas Bradley looks like a misfit loser who writes maudlin ballads at the piano in his spare time.
Except that he has won several Olympic medals, and it now looks as if he might just win the Tour.
The foreign press have been reporting and fostering rumours that Bradley is cheating. This is the kind of thing guaranteed to rile a red-blooded Englishman, until this one reflects that our previous best rider, Tom Simpson (no relation) died on the Tour in the 60s with a cocktail of amphetamines in his bloodstream. Historically, cheating has been rife, and only this week one of the Schleck brothers briefly became another Famous Belgian by being kicked out for having a banned diuretic in his bloodstream (diuretics are popular with cheats because they flush other banned substances quickly out of the system). Actually I believe the Schlecks are from Luxembourg, but never mind. Several riders in the current Tour have been banned previously for doping, receiving bans for eighteen months or two years - little more than a slap on the wrist and an invitation to come back the year after next.
The Tour is probably cleaner than it was, because testing regimes are better than they were, but nevertheless cheating has always been part of cycling culture, and that raises the question of whether cheating's really cheating at all if everyone is doing it.
Now clearly taking performance enhancing drugs is breaking the rules. But that's not the same as cheating. Cheating is behaviour outwith that tolerated by your peers. If most of your peers are taking drugs, you might well do it yourself without feeling too bad about it. After all, rules are made by old men in blazers who used to be good at your sport thirty years ago.
(There is a striking parallel here with the Barclays bankers who manipulated the Libor rate - it was seen as normal by their peers. So what if it was against the rules?)
This argument works until you consider that the people who are really being cheated are the public. If everyone took whatever drugs they liked, we would applaud the winner's effort knowing that there was a level playing field. But the presence of even one clean rider amidst a field all of whom protest their abstinence means a) we don't know which one he is, and b) whether he would have beaten the others without their pharmaceutical props.
To be honest, we don't know whether Wiggins is a cheat or not. And that uncertainty has been placed in our minds by all the others - Simpson, Schleck, Floyd Landis, Alberto Contador to name but four - who got caught; now, perhaps, inevitably, the finger is at last being pointed at Lance Armstrong, the greatest Tour cyclist of all. At the moment.
But that won't stop me rooting for Wiggins, a man who lambasted British culture for being "built on people being famous for not achieving anything"; who slowed the peloton down when his closest rival Cadel Evans had a puncture to allow Evans to catch up; and who, in response to a question about how his dead father would have responded to his success, replied, "It depends if he was sober".
Go Bradley go!
Tuesday 17 July 2012
John Terry - sweeth tooth
Oh blimey: it's all kicking off.
Following John Terry's acquittal the other day of using the word "black" between "f&$%ing" and "c$%t", Rio Ferdinand has re-tweeted (think repeated) some other twitterer's description of Ashley Cole as a "choc ice".
Cole, you will remember, gave evidence on Terry's behalf at the trial.
Leaving aside the question of whether "choc ice" is an offensive term (What does it matter if you're white on the inside? Anyway can skin colour really determine interior personal characteristics? Does anyone else benefit from this row other than the BNP?), this represents a worrying escalation of the dental health aspect of the John Terry saga.
After Anton Ferdinand made a gesture implying that Terry had halitosis (or was it the other way round?), now comes the suggestion that his breath problems might have arisen because of close proximity to another Chelsea footballer with strong links to sweet chocolate covered frozen confectionery.
Some busybody has now referred the matter to Derbyshire police. Let's hope they take action. After all, calling someone a "c$%t" is small beer in comparison with this.
Following John Terry's acquittal the other day of using the word "black" between "f&$%ing" and "c$%t", Rio Ferdinand has re-tweeted (think repeated) some other twitterer's description of Ashley Cole as a "choc ice".
Cole, you will remember, gave evidence on Terry's behalf at the trial.
Leaving aside the question of whether "choc ice" is an offensive term (What does it matter if you're white on the inside? Anyway can skin colour really determine interior personal characteristics? Does anyone else benefit from this row other than the BNP?), this represents a worrying escalation of the dental health aspect of the John Terry saga.
After Anton Ferdinand made a gesture implying that Terry had halitosis (or was it the other way round?), now comes the suggestion that his breath problems might have arisen because of close proximity to another Chelsea footballer with strong links to sweet chocolate covered frozen confectionery.
Some busybody has now referred the matter to Derbyshire police. Let's hope they take action. After all, calling someone a "c$%t" is small beer in comparison with this.
Monday 16 July 2012
Edward Elgar and Wolf Hall
While the middle-classes may be reading Fifty Shades of Grey in private, in public they are devouring Bring Up the Bodies, Hilary Mantel's sequel to the much-read Wolf Hall. Mantel is engaged in a trilogy documenting the rise and subsequent fall of Thomas Cromwell, secretary (and schemer, and fixer) to Henry VIII through his disastrous marriages to Catherine of Aragon and Anne Boleyn.
Despite its gripping story and virtuoso narrative style - a kind of intimate third person, with its protagonist almost invariably referred to as "he" rather than "Cromwell" - Mantel's portrayal has been criticised for failing to get under Cromwell's skin. We learn that Cromwell is willing to manipulate and intimidate on Henry's behalf, but not much about why. Affection for Henry? Loyalty? Greed? Lust for power? Mantel doesn't give us much of a clue.
I enjoyed both books, but I thought there was a deeper flaw, one which, oddly enough, came to mind while I was watching the opening Prom on Friday. It was an all English programme of very mixed quality - on the plus side Cockaigne and Tippett's quite wonderful Suite for the Birthday of Prince Charles, and on the minus an opener by Mark Turnage which somehow managed to be boring even before its three minutes were up, Delius's Sea Drift,inflating a very average poem by Walt Whitman into a turgid half-hour for baritone, chorus and orchestra, and last - and worst - of all Elgar's quite staggeringly bad Coronation Ode, a monumental piece of jingoistic sucking-up written for the Coronation of Edward VII in 1902.
If those who have experienced the remoter corners of Elgar's work thought nothing could top (or do I mean bottom?) the execrable poem the Worcester wizard set in The Music Makers (stand up and hang your head Arthur O'Shaughnessy), the poet A.C.Benson had prepared a nasty surprise for them in the Coronation Ode.
"Crown the King with Life!", the opening number begins. "Through our thankful state / Let the cries of hate / Die in joy away / Cease ye sounds of strife! / Lord of Life, we pray, Crown the King with Life!" And so rumty-tumty on for a further six stanzas. The second movement, inserted when poet and composer realised they had forgotten to mention the new Queen Alexandra, praises "True Queen of British homes and hearts / Of guileless faith and sterling worth / We yield you ere today departs / The proudest, purest crown on earth!"
My wife, groaning into her knitting by now, said, "Just you wait, there'll be a bit about smiting Johnny Foreigner in a minute". And so there was. "Britain", demanded an aggressive-looking baritone, "ask of thyself, and see that they sons be strong / Strong to arise and go / See that thy sons be strong / See that thy navies speed, to the sound of the battle song / Then, when the winds are up, and the shuddering bulwarks reel / Smite the mountainous wave and scatter the flying foam / Big with the battle-thunder that echoeth loud and long."
"See that thy squadrons haste", he burbled, eyeing the Arena sternly, "when loos'd are the hounds of hell / Then shall the eye flash fire / and the valourous heart grow light".
Now bad words do not necessarily make bad music - I went to see Opera North's Valkyrie on Saturday, and Wagner triumphantly transcends the daft story - but Elgar padded this flannel with music in his Imperial manner, which gave the piece an air dated, sycophantic, banal and trite where not downright offensive.
Of these "dated" is perhaps the least important defect, but "dated" brings me roundly back to Hilary Mantel.
Elgar's Ode, written only a decade before the First World War, offers a view of monarchy, of empire and of war which induces gasps in the modern listener, so utterly alien is its world-view. In very short order the application of industrial methods to the battlefield made not so much "the valourous heart grow light" as scatter it to a bloody pulp on the fields of Flanders; as to Empire - it was gone within fifty years, regretted by few of the people that had to put up with it; and the monarchy is tolerated by Britons because its present incumbent has done the job with a dignity and tact that her successors will struggle to repeat. What seemed to two intelligent minds a little more than a century ago to be the natural order of things has been blown apart in a matter of a few decades.
If our outlook can change so profoundly in such a short period, what chance does Hilary Mantel have of making us see authentically through the eyes of a Royal Courtier at over four-hundred years' distance?
For me Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies make the fatal mistake of assuming that people in the 16th century behaved like we do, minus the electrical gadgets. But a society which thinks it legitimate to hang, draw, quarter and eviscerate its transgressors, whilst at the same time offering itself as pious and devotional, is not a society like ours. Moreover, its willingness to do such things must have manifested itself in other less bloody aspects. To work out what this must have been like would require authorship (and scholarship) of a very high order, producing a result that would astonish the modern reader. Actually these two novels conjure up a world that is implausibly like our own; much more like it even than Elgar and Benson's alien planet only a hundred years ago. Mantel is a very good writer, but on this score I think she has failed.
I still prefer her failure to Elgar's, mind.
Despite its gripping story and virtuoso narrative style - a kind of intimate third person, with its protagonist almost invariably referred to as "he" rather than "Cromwell" - Mantel's portrayal has been criticised for failing to get under Cromwell's skin. We learn that Cromwell is willing to manipulate and intimidate on Henry's behalf, but not much about why. Affection for Henry? Loyalty? Greed? Lust for power? Mantel doesn't give us much of a clue.
I enjoyed both books, but I thought there was a deeper flaw, one which, oddly enough, came to mind while I was watching the opening Prom on Friday. It was an all English programme of very mixed quality - on the plus side Cockaigne and Tippett's quite wonderful Suite for the Birthday of Prince Charles, and on the minus an opener by Mark Turnage which somehow managed to be boring even before its three minutes were up, Delius's Sea Drift,inflating a very average poem by Walt Whitman into a turgid half-hour for baritone, chorus and orchestra, and last - and worst - of all Elgar's quite staggeringly bad Coronation Ode, a monumental piece of jingoistic sucking-up written for the Coronation of Edward VII in 1902.
If those who have experienced the remoter corners of Elgar's work thought nothing could top (or do I mean bottom?) the execrable poem the Worcester wizard set in The Music Makers (stand up and hang your head Arthur O'Shaughnessy), the poet A.C.Benson had prepared a nasty surprise for them in the Coronation Ode.
"Crown the King with Life!", the opening number begins. "Through our thankful state / Let the cries of hate / Die in joy away / Cease ye sounds of strife! / Lord of Life, we pray, Crown the King with Life!" And so rumty-tumty on for a further six stanzas. The second movement, inserted when poet and composer realised they had forgotten to mention the new Queen Alexandra, praises "True Queen of British homes and hearts / Of guileless faith and sterling worth / We yield you ere today departs / The proudest, purest crown on earth!"
My wife, groaning into her knitting by now, said, "Just you wait, there'll be a bit about smiting Johnny Foreigner in a minute". And so there was. "Britain", demanded an aggressive-looking baritone, "ask of thyself, and see that they sons be strong / Strong to arise and go / See that thy sons be strong / See that thy navies speed, to the sound of the battle song / Then, when the winds are up, and the shuddering bulwarks reel / Smite the mountainous wave and scatter the flying foam / Big with the battle-thunder that echoeth loud and long."
"See that thy squadrons haste", he burbled, eyeing the Arena sternly, "when loos'd are the hounds of hell / Then shall the eye flash fire / and the valourous heart grow light".
Now bad words do not necessarily make bad music - I went to see Opera North's Valkyrie on Saturday, and Wagner triumphantly transcends the daft story - but Elgar padded this flannel with music in his Imperial manner, which gave the piece an air dated, sycophantic, banal and trite where not downright offensive.
Of these "dated" is perhaps the least important defect, but "dated" brings me roundly back to Hilary Mantel.
Elgar's Ode, written only a decade before the First World War, offers a view of monarchy, of empire and of war which induces gasps in the modern listener, so utterly alien is its world-view. In very short order the application of industrial methods to the battlefield made not so much "the valourous heart grow light" as scatter it to a bloody pulp on the fields of Flanders; as to Empire - it was gone within fifty years, regretted by few of the people that had to put up with it; and the monarchy is tolerated by Britons because its present incumbent has done the job with a dignity and tact that her successors will struggle to repeat. What seemed to two intelligent minds a little more than a century ago to be the natural order of things has been blown apart in a matter of a few decades.
If our outlook can change so profoundly in such a short period, what chance does Hilary Mantel have of making us see authentically through the eyes of a Royal Courtier at over four-hundred years' distance?
For me Wolf Hall and Bring Up the Bodies make the fatal mistake of assuming that people in the 16th century behaved like we do, minus the electrical gadgets. But a society which thinks it legitimate to hang, draw, quarter and eviscerate its transgressors, whilst at the same time offering itself as pious and devotional, is not a society like ours. Moreover, its willingness to do such things must have manifested itself in other less bloody aspects. To work out what this must have been like would require authorship (and scholarship) of a very high order, producing a result that would astonish the modern reader. Actually these two novels conjure up a world that is implausibly like our own; much more like it even than Elgar and Benson's alien planet only a hundred years ago. Mantel is a very good writer, but on this score I think she has failed.
I still prefer her failure to Elgar's, mind.
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