The Obscurer

White Light / White Heat

Chemical weapons is yet another subject on which I have little knowledge. I know they are bad things, and illegal, but that is about it. As a result I have kept out of the debate over the use of white phosphorus in Iraq. If more knowledgeable people (not difficult) defend it’s use by saying that it is an incendiary rather than a chemical weapon, and that its use can be legal, then I have to take that on trust.

What doesn’t seem to be in doubt however is just what an unpleasant substance it is, and what a hideous effect it can have when it comes in contact with skin. For me it seems strange that when pro-war bloggers have defended its use (Scott Burgess at The Daily Ablution in particular has gone into great detail, and has summarised his views at Tech Central Station) there doesn’t appear to have been any disquiet at all in doing so. Rather than tackle the morality of using the ammunition in the way the Pentagon has now admitted, the pro-war commentator have instead picked holes in the opposing arguments. That is fine as far as it goes – to correct errors and deceits, to tackle the moral equivalence of comparing the use of WP with the chemical attack at Halabja – but it doesn’t deal with the principal concern that “our side” has used a weapon that burns the flesh off peoples’ bodies. Just saying that we are not as bad as Saddam doesn’t really cut it with me; it’s not a great defence.

In a strange inversion, and in contrast to the pro-war arguments made in the run up to the war, there has been no plea to the moral high ground on this one; those arguments have been sidelined. Rather we have heard plenty about technical definitions, and a detailed insistence on the weapons legality as enshrined in international conventions. Ironic, really, to compare then with now. Ah well, any port in a storm.

iMeme

Steve over at Occupied Country looks to have a bit of a meme in the making. Inspired by Word magazine he suggests you set your iPod or MP3 player to shuffle and see what comes out.
The problem in my case is that I don’t have an iPod of my own, rather I have half inched a half gig or so of my wife’s; furthermore, if you were to draw a Venn diagram of our musical tastes you would find only a tiny overlap where it says The Divine Comedy (although with the exception of Pixies and Pavement my wife is generally more tolerant of my music collection than I am of hers). So with that in mind, let’s see how it goes.

1. Joss Stone – You Got Me
One of my wife’s. You probably know this song already, if you know any of Joss Stone’s stuff at all. She can certainly carry a tune and this song follows the usual funky, soulful pattern of her output. It’s alright; I can take it or leave it, but given a choice I would leave it. Next.

2. Robert Johnson – I’m A Steady Rollin’ Man
As promised in this post, I finally bought my Robert Johnson CD and loaded it on the iPod, and the iPod thanked me by putting it second on the shuffle. This song is not one I am that familiar with, but it is instantly recognisable as the great man himself. Sure, most of his songs sound pretty much the same, following the rough and raw 12 bar blues template so beloved, but when the template sounds this good, why muck about with it?

3. David Gray – We’re Not Right
Another one of my wife’s; my heart sank when it popped on the iPod and I anticipated the usual David Gray dirge. I thought about skipping it, but when I saw its running time is less than 3 minutes long I decided to give it a try; and I am glad I did. Gray really seems to sing with feeling on this one, the song fair clips along with a great fuzzy bass line and what even sounds like a theramin solo. Perhaps I’d better give him another chance.

4. Crowded House – Not The Girl You Think You Are
One of “my” bands, but this is really a joint favourite. Their final single, I think, and one of their best, full of melodies reminiscent of Lennon, as usual. It provides many memories for me of the Hole in’t Wall pub in Bowness-on-Windermere which featured this song on its jukebox for many years, and which we played to death whenever we stayed in the Lakes.

5. Eliza Carthy – Willow Tree
Another one of my wife’s choices, but one I really like. Inspired by watching a BBC Four documentary on Martin Carthy and his family, we bought his daughter Eliza’s CD Anglicana and took it down to Cornwall when we holidayed there a few years back. The folky sound of the album was spot on while we stayed in a cottage in the middle of the countryside during a baking hot summer, and this up-tempo track was probably my favourite. There is a downside to listening to this CD however; once it gets into your head it is impossible not to slip into singing made-up-on-the-spot cod folk songs at the drop of a hat.

So perhaps our musical tastes aren’t too incompatible after all. Mind you, the next track up on the iPod was a 10 minute offering from Dido, definitely one of my wife’s choices, and someone who I cannot abide; so perhaps we just struck lucky.

So there you have it; give it a go yourself or don’t bother, as you see fit. It’s up to you.

Walls

Why is this post entitled Walls? There may be a number of reasons. Perhaps it is because one summer, a few years ago, I had the pleasure of working for Unilever at their Wall’s factory in Hyde. I still like to recall that, like Chris Waddle, I used to work in a sausage factory. A few things from that period stick in my mind; the exemplary level of hygiene in the food areas of the plant which was hugely impressive and commendable; the mind boggling amount of waste and inefficiency there, unrivalled by any of my subsequent or previous employers; and most memorably the way that pork sausage wastage was swept up off the floor and fed to the pigs, a fact which still turns my stomach (although I have no idea whether this practice still goes on). But as interesting (or not) as these observations are, the title of this post is Walls plural, not Wall’s with a possessive apostrophe, so there must be some other reason.

Perhaps it is an allusion to prison walls, and therefore a reference to the recent government defeat in its terror bill which sought to allow the police to hold suspects for 90 days without charge? But that is a tenuous link, and anyway it is old news now and I have little to add to the debate. There seemed to be a three line whip across the blogosphere with almost everyone (barring the usual pro-Blair suspects) opposing the new legislation, and I am certainly not going to step out of line. To the best of my knowledge, not one person detained for the full 14 days under the current legislation has had to be released without charge so I cannot see a reason for any extension whatsoever, and I think we got the right result. Admirable as it was, though, for 49 Labour MPs to oppose the bill, that still leaves a lot of sycophantic sheep who voted for something you cannot imagine they would have supported had it been proposed by a Tory government, but we are well used to that by now; like the pigs at the end of Animal Farm, the Labour leadership long ago became almost indistinguishable from the previous masters. More surprising was all the Conservative MPs voting against a measure they would have gladly passed when they were in power. I felt certain the 90 day extension would get through because of some Tory defectors, but thankfully, on this occasion, party politics won out over conscience. It is odd though; a generation of first time voters could grow up viewing the Conservatives as staunch defenders of civil liberties. They’ll get a hell of a shock should they ever gain power.

I didn’t comment on the terror bill at the time because I was away on a short break in York; that famous walled city, and hence another likely reason for the title of this post. We were housed in a Travelodge to the south of the city, just along from Fishergate Bar, site of the only remaining barbican in England, and we had a fantastic time. I didn’t really know what to expect from York before I went, perhaps that it was a similar place to Chester, which I love; but it surpassed any expectations I’d had and knocked Chester into a cocked hat. I think I could spend the rest of my life just wandering around the ancient streets such as Shambles and Stonegate, enjoying a quiet pint in a cosy old tavern like Ye Olde Starre Inne, or demolishing a bottle of red in a modern bar like The Capital with its views across the River Ouse. York is now jostling with Prague and Edinburgh for the coveted third place in my list of favourite cities in the world (Barcelona being first, with London in second place; at the moment). In case you haven’t guessed, I loved it, and recommend it.

When we got home from York we dumped our stuff and set off for the Trafford Centre, for a meal at Cathay Dim Sum with my sister-in-law and her husband, a pleasant way to eke out our holiday. Great food and service, as ever. Then, when we got home and pulled onto our drive, we discovered that our garden wall had been kicked over; the fourth and most compelling reason for the title of this post. Our good humour crashed down like a ton of bricks. The wall was not quite as historic as the famous ones in York; it was just 2 weeks old and replaced the previous wall that had been pushed down only a month before. Bastards bastards bastards. As a gut reaction I briefly thought about extending police powers, or even taking the law into my own hands; but only briefly. I don’t know who is responsible and if I pick a likely suspect there is every chance I may get the wrong person. Even if I do find the guilty party and administer the proverbial clip round the ear that is unlikely to be the end of it; (over) reacting on the basis of a blind if justifiable fury may just mean that the people who are currently only kicking over my wall will start throwing bricks through my windows. It is likely to only make the current situation worse; and I think there is probably a lesson in there, somewhere.

Red Devil's Advocate

Congratulations are due, after a fashion, to Manchester United for beating Chelsea yesterday in the premiership. I didn’t see much of the game, being engaged for most of the day at a naming ceremony for my mate’s daughter, but the consensus of opinion seems to be that Chelsea were the better side while United dug in to get a result and just about deserved it. Rumour has it that this match was one of those rare occasions where neutrals support United; if that is the case then include me out, although as a City fan perhaps I don’t count as a neutral in the first place. However, putting my objective hat on for a moment the result does fleetingly keep the title race open for a little while longer which must be a good thing; my one hope is that if United have kept the door ajar then it is only for Arsenal to charge through and take advantage of the result.

On 6-0-6 and the like Reds fans have been understandably crowing, and quite right too; but I wonder if, like me, you have noticed an inconsistency in many of their responses. How many United fans do you think have spent the past week defending Roy Keane’s censored outburst on MUTV where he is reported to have slagged off his team mates and named names? All the fans I know have sought to justify Keane’s antics, arguing that he was just saying what every supporter has been thinking. How many Reds fans have subsequently confirmed this view by joining in with Keane to criticise most of Alex Ferguson’s recent signings, then gone on to question his current tactics and even to wonder aloud just how long he can stay in his job? Again, the United supporters I’ve surveyed have argued these very points to a man.

So it will be interesting to see just how many United fans will now concur with the current popular opinion that with the Chelsea match the Reds have turned round and answered their critics in the best possible way, proving the doubters wrong. They will mean the evil media of course, and fans of other clubs, indicating that the recent pressures on the team has been unfair, undeserved and exerted from afar; wilfully ignoring the fact that in the past week much of the insurgency has been generated from a little closer to home.

Update 9/11/05: My thanks to Ken Owen for selecting this post for his brilliant new SportBlog Roundup feature. Most kind. If you have written a post about sport then why not send it in to Ken? It looks like it is going to be a fortnightly affair; next submissions to be in by 22nd November. Just cut ‘n’ paste your sporting post’s details and send to sportblog at googlemail dot com.

Get A Life

Let’s hear it for Westlife; something like seven years into their music career and yet still releasing records that jolt to Number 1 in the charts, as I learned when I watched Top Of The Pops yesterday for the first time in an age. In the fickle world of manufactured kiddie pop, their longevity is both remarkable and impressive.

They have broken all the rules and expectations of their musical genre. By now the typical boy band will have sacked their management and tried to run their own affairs (proving that as businessmen they make great pop idols); they will have experimented with different looks and sounds (with disastrous consequences); they will have tried to write their own songs (and will have failed, but still released them as singles); the interesting one in the band will have left for a solo career (an option not open to Westlife, who never actually had an interesting one); and then they will have split up (hurrah!).

But not Westlife; oh no, not they. Westlife have steadfastly and unquestioningly put into practice everything their management have instructed them to do. They are still wearing matching clothes as if dressed by their mothers, they still plonk themselves on stools while they intone their treacly ballads like some latter-day choreographed Val Doonicans (until they all stand up in unison for the “dramatic” final verse, like a troop of formation…oafs) and they are still happy to record insipid songs as chosen exclusively by their record company, be it cover versions unworthy of revival (eg. Mandy, Against All Odds) or “original” tracks that appear to have been written by committee (eg. Flying Without Wings, whose title even conjures up an image of a corporate brainstorming session, complete with flowchart, trying to combine the counterfeit emotion of Wind Beneath My Wings with the sheer blandness of I Believe I Can Fly).

Yes, congratulations Westlife, and many happy returns; now we know how Boyzone’s career would have turned out if they had been paying attention in class.