The Obscurer

Friday 10th February 2006

Jeffrey, With One F, Jefrey

Jarndyce has gone into semi-retirement, again, and I know the feeling; but I don’t think I will ever follow suit because I will never stop shouting at the telly, I will always have something I want to get off my chest. I think this blog will just continue in its erratic and irregular nature, occasionally going quiet for weeks and perhaps even months at a time when inspiration and interest desert me. I won’t be going anywhere, but I may not be coming here regularly for all manner of reasons; this past week for example, I haven’t been blogging because I have been busy working, socialising and engaging in discussions with a two year old about why, although “please” is the magic word, it is not so magic that it will produce a biscuit when a) there are no biscuits in the house, and b) you have eaten eight biscuits already today and are subsequently in real danger of actually turning into a biscuit. Such things often crush the possibility that I can comment topically on a subject of interest, while I seem to have loads of time on my hands when nothing is happening in the world to get vexed about. And what is the point of writing a post today about something I heard on the radio nearly a week ago?

I don’t know, but here it is anyway.

I have never listened to Jeff Randall’s Weekend Business on Radio FiveLive before; in part because I have always been doing something else, but also I have never held Mr Randall in very high esteem. When he regularly popped up on the news as the BBC’s business editor he always struck me as a bit of a bumbling and incompetent buffoon; I even remember Andrew Neil ticking him off on The Daily Politics for not having any statistics with him to support his take on some business story or other. However, I recently read this article in The Observer where I learned that he is now the Daily Telegraph’s editor-in chief, and indeed that he has had a pretty successful career. The Observer summarises

Jeff Randall, 51, studied economics at Nottingham University and lectured briefly before switching to journalism. He worked on trade titles before joining the Sunday Telegraph as a business reporter in 1986. From 1989 to 1995 he was City editor of the Sunday Times, then briefly joined PR firm Financial Dynamics as chairman. He returned to the Sunday Times as assistant editor and sports editor in 1996 and was launch editor of the Barclay brothers’ Sunday Business in 1997.

So it seems that being a bumbling and incompetent buffoon needn’t be a barrier to success in the media. Perhaps I should make the switch.

Anyway, last Sunday I listened to his radio programme and it was actually quite interesting, and unintentionally amusing. A cast of business leaders were interviewed on the programme, all perfectly nice people I thought, but what was notable, if perhaps not exactly surprising, was how many of them spoke managerial English in rounded pseudo accents. Much of their talk was liberally peppered with the usual clichés about visions, journeys, environments and experiences, throughout which you could hear the faint echo of the public speaking course. I can only imagine that these people only ever move in circles where such speech is the norm, and that no one ever points out how we talk in the real world.

The most interesting part of the programme, however, was when they discussed this news story about an accountant who sued a management training company when she injured herself on a team building exercise where she had to walk over hot coals. Jeff questioned John Holden of Resource Development International, another training company, about the worth or otherwise of these courses. Jeff did alright I guess, questioning what fire-walking actually has to do with team building, how relevant it all is to the office or shop floor, and about the cost of these exercises, while John Holden trotted out the managerial speak; these courses are about personal developmental processes and journeys, they are about challenging self limiting beliefs and breaking down the barriers in your mind, that wise companies pay a lot of money for these courses because people are a scarce resource.

It is nice that the staff are valued so highly that firms are expected to waste money on this nonsense. The nearest I have been to this sort of thing was on one course where juggling was used at the start as an “ice breaker”. This was a particularly weird set up, as I went on this course with about fifteen people I knew from my office; we were then split up and put on different tables with staff from other offices and had to engage in this farce in order to get to know each other. If my office colleagues and I hadn’t been split up in the first case we could have dispensed with this ice breaker bollocks altogether and just cut to the chase; but then a two hour presentation wouldn’t get stretched out into a whole days training, and that would never do.

Anyway, some plastic balls were placed in the middle of each table and some trainers instructed us all on the basics of juggling; then it was our turn. The “point” of this charade was that we would learn that what had seemed impossible at the start of the lesson was actually far easier than we thought once we applied ourselves. Now in my case all I actually learnt was that I can’t juggle (or perhaps that I don’t apply myself) but even if I had succeeded in this pointless task just how was this seriously meant to affect me? When struggling at work, trying once more to match the quart of workload to the pint pot of resources, is it expected that I will think, “But hey, I can juggle! I can do this”? Probably, but I am never going to; that is never going to happen.

And that’s the real point; through all the talk of valuing teamwork and fostering self awareness there was no attempt on the part of John Holden to explain just how walking on hot coals, or juggling, has ever been of any actual practical assistance to people in their working lives, or if there is evidence of any tangible success for these courses. More interestingly, perhaps, Jeff Randall, a journalist with an impressive CV and an apparent extensive knowledge of business practices, didn’t think to ask.

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Saturday 4th February 2006

Fishing For Fascists

Whilst I applauded when the government was defeated in parliament over the law on inciting religious hatred, the failure to convict the BNP’s Nick Griffin and Mark Collett for the existing crime of inciting racial hatred shows how difficult these things are to enforce in the first instance, and that concerns over the bills’ implications for freedom of speech, while genuine, may not be as strong as suspected. If you can’t convict BNP leaders for being racists then these laws seem as pointless as they are wrongheaded.

But perhaps the worst thing about these laws, as I argued over a year ago, is that they are counterproductive; that they give the BNP and their ilk the opportunity to cloak themselves in respectability. This court case has allowed the BNP to stand proud as bold advocates of free speech, as the agents of liberty, as the persecuted purveyors of truth.

It is not just that I think free speech should extend to the BNP for its own sake, though, just because I believe in free speech as a principle; I personally think that Nick Griffin and his associates should be in the media far more often than they currently are. Rather than trying (and failing) to use the law as a sledgehammer to protect the public from the BNP, we should be putting Griffin on TV and radio daily to show him for what he is; the man is a fool. For example, when interviewed on FiveLive by Peter Allen the other day, Griffin said that race relations in this country were leading to a future Bosnia, indeed that just prior to the war in Bosnia that country “was probably in some ways less unstable than parts of Europe and parts of Britain are now”. When Allen said “so you’re seriously saying, and you are the leader of the party, that the BNP believes that this country is in danger of civil war” Griffin sort of paused and had to check himself, aware how melodramatic such a statement would sound to the majority of the public. He then admitted that there was no immediate danger and that we probably had a good 30 years to prepare for becoming an Islamic republic.

The problem is that such debates with the BNP are rare; too often their statements and complaints go unchallenged and unanswered by the media and mainstream politicians, their pronouncements exist in an echo chamber. When the media do cover the BNP, rather than tackle the details of what they actually say the media are often more interested in challenging the morality of what the BNP stands for; as such they make it easy for the BNP to present itself as a defender of freedoms cowed by a liberal establishment.

With news programmes last night showing the BNP as the epitome of free speech, juxtaposed with pictures of Muslims around the world protesting about the re-publication of a crap cartoon (which has allowed some to dust off their Islamophobia; as if believers in other religions never overreact) some people are likely to become quite confused; and the confused, I imagine, form a large part of the BNP’s constituency. If we allow the BNP to have their say then we strip them of their image as free speech martyrs and simultaneously allow their statements to be fully scrutinised and challenged which rarely happen now; in effect we give them enough rope. Allow them the oxygen of publicity and with luck they will be left flapping about helplessly like fish on the shore.

Friday 3rd February 2006

Joey

If I still sound a little hoarse it is because I spent much of Wednesday evening booing Joey; no, not the Ginsters Pasty sponsored Friends spin-off (which I have never seen) but Mr. Barton, footballer, currently of Manchester City.

Actually, I didn’t even do that, but many people did jeer him half-heartedly throughout City’s 3-0 P45-inspiring victory over Newcastle, until he was finally substituted to generous applause because of his pretty good performance that night. I didn’t see the point of booing him during the game; would you boo him if he was clean through on goal, or if he cleared the ball off the line, or was about to take a penalty? Apart from not helping the team, those who booed him through the match really were hostages to fortune.

The reason for City fans’ chagrin is that Barton has asked for a transfer because he wants more money than the club are prepared to pay him, a measly £28,000 per week according to reports. Of course, Joey has claimed he wants to leave for all sorts of other reasons, claiming the club lacks ambition, but in the end it comes down to the fact that he thinks that merely being offered more per week than the average worker earns in a year is “insulting”. This would be less galling if it wasn’t for the fact that were he not a half decent footballer you can imagine Joey would be grateful just to receive a fortnightly giro.

Is Joey pleading poverty? Not quite, but his antics have made me think about the term, or rather about two terms; absolute poverty and relative poverty. The former is a measure that defines those whose level of income has fallen below a definitive poverty line, the latter is usually used to refer to those who earn less than 60% of the median average income. There are arguments over which measure is the best one to use when discussing poverty.

Personally, I favour using absolute poverty; relative poverty seems to be a bit of a statistical conceit. I wince whenever I hear Labour politicians talk about having “taken a million children out of poverty since 1997” when you know they may just be talking about some statistical jiggery-pokery; but then again I wince when I hear Labour politicians talk most of the time anyway. If we are talking about actual poverty then I think we should look at how well off people really are, rather than just how they compare with the average. For example, the number of people in relative poverty will reduce if the poor’s income were to remain static while the median average income falls, which seems nonsensical to me; if this were to happen then you could cheer a cut in levels of poverty, when in fact to me the poor would still be just as poor as before while the average worker would actually be worse off, which seems little cause for celebration.

But there are some misunderstandings about relative poverty; one being that, as those who are poor are defined as earning 60% or less of median income, “there must always be some proportion in poverty”. It is surprising how often I have heard this statement, as if it is proof that relative income is a political tool to ensure there are always some poor to fight for; but even I, as a very poor mathematician, know that if everyone were to earn the same then as a result everyone would earns the median income, therefore everyone must earn more than 60% of the median wage (because everyone would be earning exactly 100% of the median income). If you can accept this as a possible, if unlikely, scenario, then you must accept that there may be numerous other occasions where relative poverty could be zero.

In fact, as my above example shows, relative poverty seems if anything to be more of a guide to inequality; and call me old fashioned but I still think that inequality is something to be concerned about. I may prefer absolute poverty as a definition of poverty, but I do think relative poverty is a useful statistic on its own terms; our relative incomes do affect our access to goods and services and our opportunities in life, we do judge how well off or otherwise we are by comparison with others rather than by an objective assessment of our material wealth. If anything I just think that “relative poverty” is a misleading term, perhaps “inequality index” would be better; either that or people make it crystal clear what they mean and which term they are using when they talk about poverty. The problem with two definitions of poverty, as with two or more definitions of anything, is that people will always choose the one that best supports their case.

But if you think that relative poverty doesn’t matter at all then just have a word with Joey Barton. Actually, if you see him, don’t bother having a word as I wouldn’t expect to get much sense; if you do see him, just give him a slap, and say it’s from me.

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Monday 23rd January 2006

The Hollow Men

In between criticising the mainstream media, many bloggers admit that given the chance they would like to be columnists on a broadsheet newspaper (that is, if the term hasn’t yet lost its meaning in this age of “compacts” and “berliners”). Some, however, seem to be setting their sights a little lower while the rest of us are looking at the stars.

A case in point being the recent actions of Guido Fawkes and Recess Monkey. Last week they apparently published a podcast of their dried voices discussing political gossip. When Mark Oaten subsequently resigned from the Lib Dem’s leadership race, and then from the party’s front bench due to tabloid allegations, Guido for one gleefully claimed the credit announcing that “Its the pod what did it”; although surely that should read “it’s the ‘cast what did it”? Either way, although I have been aware of Guido’s blog for a while I’ve never really read it, and now I know why. Some bloggers want to be a Monbiot or a Krugman, other clearly fancy themselves as a 3am girl. Well each to their own.

Guido’s argument is that his blog is a tabloid affair, the stuff of gossip and rumour mongering; and if that was all then I could happily just ignore him and I wouldn’t be writing this post. What I find difficult to ignore is how someone can so proudly claim responsibility (erroneously I suspect) for the week’s events. It is one thing to revel in tittle-tattle, quite another to cheerfully gloat about your own part in potentially destroying another man’s career and family life. Whatever gives you a rosy glow, I guess.

Oaten is of course largely the author of his own destruction, and it is wrong to lose sight of that. If you have such a skeleton in your closet, and yet still run for the leadership of your party knowing what you know about the press in this country, then you have got to expect a bit of trouble; it is certainly a high-risk strategy. The primary reason I have not made myself rich and famous is because the last thing I want to come back and haunt me is the fact that I spent much of the ‘eighties poking badgers with spoons; I won’t be running for high office.

But who is really the more unpleasant character here; Oaten or Guido? For example, take two people, one who says in private that “I think that Quinn is a twat”, and another who comes up to me and says, “X says he thinks you’re a twat”. I may not personally like the first person but he is perfectly entitled to his opinion, while the second is a sneak who should be shunned by all. If my analogy reminds you of the school playground, then that is little wonder.

In his comments on Chicken Yoghurt, Guido explains his raison d’etre thusly

To follow the money, hypocrisy and dishonesty of those who want to be our masters in an amusing accessable populist tabloid fashion. The whole lobby keeping secrets thing undermines democracy. A pox a the lot of them

So he is doing this for us, and in defence of democracy, is he? Well I’m all for holding politicians to account, I have a pretty low opinion of them myself, but I’d rather criticise them for their policies and public pronouncements than for what they do in their private lives, which has fuck all to do with their competence as elected representatives.

Guido is entitled to say what he likes, but I can’t see the point in having a pop at politicians for being sleazy when all you are doing is engaging in sleazy mudslinging yourself. I don’t understand the idea of setting yourself up as some sort of anti-establishment rebel attacking “our masters” if you are then going to defend your blog on the grounds that it is “popular”, with a “six-figure readerships per month”, and to dismiss “most of the criticism” you receive because it only comes “from bloggers with 7 readers”*. What’s that about “the slave begins by demanding justice…”?

The final word though must go to Guido, from the comments on his own blog. He advises those who don’t like his style to “Fuck off and read the Indy”. Now that sounds like an excellent idea. With luck our paths won’t cross again.

*Guido can’t be referring to me here, as I still aspire to getting seven readers; although I love each and every one of you.

This whole sordid business could put me off blogging, but that would be quite wrong, for while Guido is raising his glass to celebrate his own part in wrecking a family, Occupied Country, in two posts, opens his heart over the recent trials involving himself and his parents. It is moving and humbling to read Steve’s posts; it shows just how blogging can be a sharing and (hopefully) cathartic exercise, and reminds you of how there are much more important things to be concerned about. Best wishes, Steve, to you and your family.

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Saturday 21st January 2006

The Obscurer Awards 2006

Welcome once again to this historic 1920’s ex-council semi, and more specifically to the prestigious “Pantry Room”. Until early 2003 this room languished as just a storage space for the hoover, the ironing board and last Christmas’s wrapping paper; but a sympathetic renovation that year saw it transformed into the computer room for the new PC. Since August 2004 it has become the home of The Obscurer, and tonight it is the venue for the second annual Obscurer Awards!

(APPLAUSE)

And so without further ado, let us announce the winners.

Best Single – Razorlight/Somewhere Else. It is quite unusual for me to buy singles, but I bought this one in part because this song wasn’t included on Razorlight’s so-so debut album “Up All Night” (one of those records where you find when you buy it that you know all the good tracks already, although it has grown on me since). Great start to the song with chiming oriental bells, then a strummed acoustic guitar reminiscent of The Beatles “Things We Said Today”, and then the song builds, quietly at first as it tells it’s odd tale of boy meets girl, then gradually growing in volume and intensity as Johnny Borrell’s singing becomes more frantic and raw, throwing out lines of poetic guff about “catching the sparks that flew from your heels” until the song gallops to its conclusion. Just over three minutes of pure pop, the way it should be.
Best Album – Doves/Some Cities. A fantastic return to form from fellow blues Doves after their previous album “The Last Broadcast” saw them treading water to some extent. This time round rather than get too complicated and write “Lost Souls III” they have developed a far more subtle and simplistic sound, but all the more innovative and sophisticated for all that. It also must have earned them a fortune from its use as background music all over the place, so you probably know half the stuff here even if you don’t realise it. You’ll know you know “Black and White Town”, the first single from the album that hits the ground running sounding like the bastard child of “Lust For Life” and “Heatwave” and was an early contender for single of the year, but the rest of the album is more than a match for it. And it sounds like an album too; I enjoyed Kaiser Chiefs “Employment” (Blur, if they’d been inspired by Freddie and The Dreamers rather than The Kinks) and Gorrilaz “Demon Days” (Blur, but armed with a Casio VL-tone), but they do seem like just a collection of individual songs; on “Some Cities” tracks perfectly flow into one another like they are part of some divine running order, and when listening to the whole thing from beginning to end you feel you are getting more than the sum of its parts, as is the case with the best albums. Standout tracks for me are “Almost Forgot Myself”, “One Of These Days” and “Someday Soon”; best title of a track is “Shadows Of Salford”, because it must be inspired by mishearing the line “shadows of sulphur” from Beck’s song “Lazy Flies” from “Mutations“, as I do every time I listen to that song.
A worthy mention also for The Boo Radleys “Find A Way Out”, sadly not a new album but a fine greatest hits package nonetheless. I was a fan of the band from 1991 when their second EP inspired a trainspotterish devotion in me; they were one of those bands that could do no wrong in my eyes. When they briefly hit it big with “Wake Up Boo!” I was delighted they had developed from minor shoegazers to (almost) pop chart-toppers; when they responded to that success by coming out with the raucous anti-pop of “C’mon Kids” (their finest album) I again dutifully agreed with the path they were taking. “Find A Way Out” has clearly been compiled by someone who knew what they were doing; it includes the obvious singles, but also the finest album and b-side tracks, as well a few songs even I don’t have (a version of “Tomorrow” from Bugsy Malone for Gods sake!). It should find a space in everyone’s record collection.
Best Book – David Clayton/Kinkladze: The Perfect 10. Some of the biggest names in literary fiction brought out novels last year. I bought “Saturday” by Ian McEwan, “Never Let Me Go” by Kazou Ishiguro and “Arthur and George” by Julian Barnes. Didn’t read them though. Fingers crossed I will deal with them when I go to Cornwall in May (although Ishiguro’s “When We Were Orphans” went with me on about three holidays before I finally dealt with it, and wished I hadn’t bothered. He’s on a final warning). So last years “Best Novel” award has been re-titled as “Best Book”, but unless you have a special interest in the subject then you probably won’t want to read my choice anyway. On the other hand if you were one of the troops of Man City fans who questioned their sexuality during the three years Georgi Kinladze starred for the club (I know lads who sent him Valentines cards) then this book is for you, and me. It isn’t the best written of books by any stretch of the imagination; I can see why the author thought it necessary to include a brief history of Georgia in the book, but it is clichéd and needn’t be there. Similarly, the section on Georgi’s early life and times reads more like a school creative writing exercise than part of a published work (“not long after they returned home (from hospital when Gio was born), incredibly, Georgi began crawling” – bollocks he did. “As soon as he could stand up on his own, Robizon (Gio’s father) rolled a football to the infant and the two year old Georgi trapped it with his left foot” – no he didn’t. And you’re saying he crawled immediately but only stood up at two? “Georgi was also a very good arm wrestler, and whenever the kids in the street would challenge him, Georgi was always the best.” – don’t you mean bestest in the world ever ever?) But once we get Kinky to City either David Clayton’s writing improves or I just don’t care anymore as we re-live all those memorable moments; that first game against Spurs when the new signing with the unpronounceable name seemingly had the ball glued to his foot, until he passed it perfectly with a nonchalant flick; the Southampton goal when the whole of Maine Road seemed to crowd under that stands to watch it again on telly at half time; those other classic goals against Middlesbrough in the league and West Ham in the cup; and the sight of him trudging off the pitch at the Britannia Stadium in Stoke as we went our separate ways, Gio to Ajax, City to the second division. I think that Clayton is mostly spot on with his observations, although he does avoid the fact that many City fans (though not me) were questioning his contributions towards the end, saying he was a luxury when we needed battlers (as if football isn’t intended as a spectator sport). He is also an effective apologist for Kinky’s latter days; arguing that his Ajax career (where he was bought as a replacement for Jari Litmanen) was scuppered first when Litmanen stayed and then when the manager who bought him left; and how his time at Derby was hugely hampered by injury (though he still won a player of the year award) then fucked up good and proper by the outstanding work of some of his many agents. As a Kinkladze fan I am inclined to unquestioningly believe this as being an accurate account of Kinky’s difficulties, but Clayton doesn’t gloss over the infuriating way Gio’s career has turned out, a tragic case of potential unfulfilled, and I think there is enough in “Kinkladze: The Perfect 10” to interest any football fan.
Best Film – I haven’t been to the cinema at all this year. After last years default win for Fahrenheit 9/11 I think this category is pretty much defunct.
Best Sporting Moment – 2nd Ashes Test, Edgbaston. Liverpool’s jammy victory in the European Cup was looking good as the most remarkable sporting moment of the year, until the England cricket team started acting up. After the expected defeat in the first test at Lords (another tradition fucked up for no good reason; Lords should always be the second test), the clever money was on an Ashes whitewash to Australia. Sure, perhaps England could be a match for the Aussies in a few years time, after the retirement of Warne and McGrath, but not just yet. And it was McGrath’s intervention before the game had even started that helped swing the match England’s way when he stood on a loose cricket ball while warming up, so ruling himself out of the game; I showed my disappointment at the news the only way I knew, by punching the air repeatedly. England batted first and seemed to treat it as if it was a one-day game scoring a ridiculous 407 all out on the first day, playing Australia at their own game; it was particularly great to see Flintoff and Pietersen together at the crease and getting good scores, twatting the ball all over the shop. In reply Australia made 308, Warne memorably giving his wicket away hilariously by charging down the pitch to Giles, missing with his slog and being clean bowled. England, then, were in the unlikely position of having a first innings lead, but made a poor start to their second innings as wickets tumbled to Lee and Warne and you could see it all slipping away; that is until Flintoff arrived and crashed a rapid 73 off 86 balls, an absurd way to play considering the state of play in the game but it did the trick, and assisted by Simon Jones for the last wicket stand they gave England something to bowl at. Australia made a decent start to their second innings and gradually began to eat into their target, but dropped wickets along the way. It was looking delicately poised, but when Harmison bowled Clarke with the last ball of the third day it looked like England had just about done enough; Australia needed 108 to win with just 2 wickets left and many (though not me!) were already talking of England having levelled the series. In the event the fourth day of play on Sunday was excruciating; while my son watched Cbeebies I listened to the radio as Australia calmly rattled towards England’s total. It was the pace as much as anything that depressed; they scored runs at a steady clip and slowly it began to look inevitable that they would win. Hopes were raised when Warne trod on his stumps for 42, but last wicket pair Lee and Kasprowicz carried on where Warne and Lee had left off, advancing relentlessly towards their target. When my son graciously fell asleep I watched the closing stages on Channel 4 and I was resigned to defeat, watching the TV screen through my fingers as Australia moved within 2 runs of England’s score, thoroughly depressed as I just couldn’t see how England would ever get into such a good position against the Aussies again. I knew the old cliché that we only needed one good ball to win the game but it didn’t look like coming as Australia barely put a foot wrong until Kaspowicz “gloved” the ball high in the air for Geraint Jones to take the catch (for once) and I danced and leapt about the living room, whooping and hollering, looking like a complete knob, whole my son continued to sleep on the settee.
Best TV Moment – Casanova. I was looking forward to watching Archangel one Saturday; scripted by Ian Le Frenais and Dick Clements, based on a Robert Harris novel a friend had recommended (but which I hadn’t read), it looked like it couldn’t fail. It was all action but totally unengaging, and after half an hour I was fast asleep. It was so bad that the following day I approached “Casanova” with caution, wondering if I could ever find any interest in TV drama again. Five minutes in and “Casanova” changed all that; it was simply fantastic. The script and dialogue from Russell T Davies sparkled, the performances from all were inspired, the whole look and feel of the production was top notch. There wasn’t a lull through all 3 episodes but the highlight must be the final scene when Edith (Rose Byrne) speaks to the old Casanova (Peter O’Toole) on his deathbed. The emotions unfurled as love and death crash headlong into one another in the scene were so powerful that I cried like a baby, great big sobs that caused my shoulders to heave and I burbled “this is ridiculous” as I smeared great wells of tears from my eyes. Now I’m not immune from having a good cry occasionally, “It’s a Wonderful Life” is my all time favourite film, but nothing has ever affected me quite like that. It was a remarkable end to a remarkable serial.
Best Radio Moment – Jonathan Ross on Radio 2. I only really instituted the radio award last year to commemorate the end of Mark and Lard’s Radio 1 show; long term I think this one may go the way of the Film award. I can’t think of a specific radio moment, but this year has seen me listen fairly regularly to Jonathan Ross’s Saturday show on Radio 2. I had meant to listen to it for ages, but three Saturday mornings on the trot spent driving long distances in the car (going to holiday in Perthshire and then the Lakes) meant I had the chance to get a bit of serious radio listening done, and it is a habit I have managed to continue at home. Ross is definitely at his best on radio; while his TV chat show can get a bit irritating and feels staged, everything seems far more natural on radio and the whole show flows better, as if he doesn’t have to try too hard. He also has fewer “celebrity” guests on radio, so the people he does interview are usually all the more interesting as a result. Can you imagine him talking to David Gedge on the telly, or to Nancy Dell’Olio on radio? No, neither can I. I know which I prefer.
Best Blog Post – The Sharpener/From the Office of Sleazy Intelligence. A new category this year, by a blogger I don’t often read but should (Jamie K) from a group blog I do always read (The Sharpener). This is just an inspired piece of creative writing, as the author imagines a life of espionage in dubious service of these fair isles, engaged in “double crosses, triple thinks and quadruple bluffs”. What do you want to do with your life? Jamie seems to hanker after being a rumpled and sordid Noel Coward figure in a Graham Greene novel; if he never manages it then I hope he can be content with being a fantastic writer.

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