Managed to get through about two thirds of this on the train this morning before Russell relating the tale of how his recently emasculated cat previously possessed a pair of balls like "little black bumblebees" reduced me to helpless self-conscious hysterics, forcing me to stop listening and turn to the latest 'From Our Own Correspondent' instead. Very funny.
It's been a while since I've seen or read a Pinter play, but tonight's marvellous dramatisation of his 'Celebration', starring - amongst others - Michael Gambon, Clin Firth and James Bolam was truly brilliant - funny and vicious, and hugely entertaining. Pinter is pretty much unique, and his approach is devastating.
The final part of a hugely impressive three-parter documenting Ibn Battuta's wayward pilgrimige to Mecca via most of the Eastern world - a fascinating meditation on Islam, travel and the compulsion to seek knowledge. Expertly and winningly presented by Tim Mackintosh-Smith. Ace.
Listening to Hefner on the way back from Dave's tonight - funny how Hefner weren't a great band, but they managed occasional moments of real real brilliance. 'The Hymn For The Alcohol' is one. I wrote a song for my band, John Wyndham, which totally ripped off this song. Amazing lyrics.
"Don't start me on the rum
because it makes me numb.
Start me on the whiskey.
I know whiskey is his drink.
You never drank it with me,
but now you drink it with him.
I’m not good enough for whiskey,
not good enough for you.
Let's start drinking wine,
we used to all the time.
It used to go to our heads
but then you went to his bed.
If the wine stains your lips red
then tonight you might forget,
You might not go home to him
you might stay here with me.
It is just wishful thinking
that all this hard drinking
might lure you back to my ramshackle stable,
There's no point in trying,
the debutante was lying
when she said that she did something that your lips could never do.
And if you know whats true...
then you know I love you.
It's six months since you left,
you must be truly blessed,
Cause you look no less pretty,
in fact maybe even more so,
If you reap the seeds that you sow,
Oh we both know, you are going straight to hell
It is just wishful thinking
that all this hard drinking
might lure you back to my ramshackle stable,
There's no point in trying,
the debutante was lying
when she said that she did something that your lips could never do.
And if you know whats true...
then you know I love you".
Rageh Inside Iran was the TV show I've been looking forward to most this year, so I was really upset that my hard-drive recorder somehow conspired to not record it last week. Yesterday evening I found it here, however - and can report that it was well worth the waiting; a vivid, lively, complex film about a country just as exciting and complicated. Really really really worth watching if you can find the time.
Currently reading (amongst other things) Robert Irwin's For Lust of Knowing: The Orientalists and Their Enemies - how delightful that a book so serious and scholarly can also take time out to be so hilarious in places; Irwin is enormously insightful but most importantly he's a damn fine writer.
The first book I've read in a single sitting for a long time, Maggie Gee's most recent novel is super - a really lovely book about a mother whose son sinks into depression, so she calls in her old cleaner from Uganda, whom he loved as a boy. It's really good, funny and moving - kind of like Margaret Atwood meets the Ladies detective agency stuff. Gee is excellent on racism, as she is on minute observations of every day life. Brilliant stuff.
"The sounds in the village were always the same. The city is a muddle of shouts and machines, but the sounds in the village spoke to me. The thump of the wooden pestle on its mortar as the women crushed ground-nuts for ground-nut sauce. Thud-ah, thud-ah like the beats of my heart. And little quick voices of weaver birds. They dart through the branches like bright yellow thread."
I remember watching one of Morgan Spurlock's patchy but interesting 30 Days episodes last year - on illegal immigration - and being impressed by it. Noticed that it was in the schedules again today so took another look. Why? Cause I remembered how tasty the daughter, Armida was. Gosh, I'm an intellectual.
I'm rather ashamed to say that I thoroughly enjoy Harry Hill's TV burp, but I do. It's certainly as good as Charlie Brooker's TV Burp, over on highbrow BBC4 (or do I mean Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe? - can't be sure). Hill is occasionally very funny - for the last few weeks he's been picking on the TV show Weird Creatures, presented by Nick Baker - wherein the protagonist goes looking for rare animals... and never finds them. What's the point, Hill asks? This week Baker was looking for a basking shark. Here's a bit of dialogue from his analysis:
Hill: But hang on, he's found one! Hasn't he?
Footage plays of Baker spotting something in the sea.
Baker: "We've hardly left Penzance harbour and we already have what has to be the second weirdest fish in the world after the basking shark. It is the sunfish".
Hill (disappointed): Oh, no, it's the sunfish. What about over there?
Cut back to the footage
Baker "Well, that's our consolation prize - we have a grey seal".
Hill: A seal? I thought we were looking for a shark?
Back to the footage.
Baker: "The otters more than make up for our limited success with the shark".
Hill: No they don't! I tuned in to see a four and a half metre shark. It's a shark programme. If you'd have told me it was a seal and otter programme I wouldn't have bothered!
Cut back to Baker pointing out specific breeds of gulls, circling over the sea.
Hill: Seagulls!? You're just filming anything now!
Cut back to a bit of Baker's film - he's filming another boat and there is a dog aboard.
Hill (incredulously): That's a dog!
Now Baker's film shows him swimming in the water. He points at the coast.
Baker: "That's Cornwall".
Hill (outraged): That's not even an animal!!!
Maybe that doesn't work unless you saw it, but it was very funny - certainly now that David Attenborough has filmed everything beautifully in one series or other, TV nature shows these days all seem to be about filming the unfilmable and the obscure - jaguar hunting in South America or whatever. Never mind that - just show us some cute monkeys. Don't bother with the sharks, though, we've given up on them.
Wow, that's what BBC4 is for - half hour long AC/DC concerts from 1977. Have to admit to loving every second of this, I'm afraid.
Stefan Gates' food programmes have - somewhat surprisingly - been my hit of the year so far. A host of fascinating destinations and alarming foodstuffs have so far been explored, from Chernoybl to Uganda and Afghanistan to Korea. Tonight Stefan was in Northern Canada exploring foodstuffs in the Arctic circle. I've long been fascinated with Inuit culture, from architecture to food, so I was delighted with this. Most unusual in terms of gastronomy was the Igunak; rotten walrus - eaten raw after being buried in ice for a year. Good lord.
The brilliance of Life On Mars - and it is brilliant - is the simplicity of the story line. Despite a tricksy, fascinating first series, the tagline actually tells you everything you need to know, meaning that every episode, while part of a wider story arc, is brilliantly self-contained. "My name is Sam Tyler. I had an accident, and I woke up in 1973. Am I mad, in a coma, or back in time? Whatever's happened, it's like I've landed on a different planet. Now, maybe if I can work out the reason, I can get home."
Actually, scratch that, the brilliance of Life On Mars is that Philip Glenister's character, Gene Hunt, is the best TV character ever.
Louis Theroux has been away and now he's back, and oh, look, he's still as charming as ever, and gently teasing his subjects into opening up. His new show is as downbeat as ever, hardly revelatory, but it's message is clear - people like gambling a lot, but they always lose. The government, meanwhile, thinks casinos are the answer to their economic problems. Sigh.
Lipstick Jihad: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America and American in Iran by Azadeh Moaveni is a lively biography from someone of an unusually tender age for this type of thing. But Moaveni is a wise 24 and her story is a colourful one - so it's well worth a read.
Compiled from the reality TV show episodes, The Armstrongs: The Movie is obviously very funny, but I didn't expect to find it as sad as I did. Perhaps because I was feeling ill when I watched it, I remember it as very queasy viewing. Wikipedia has collected up some marvellous quotes from it, though.
"We could get rid of Sally and make the others think 'shit'. It’ll be like taking dynamite to a naked flame festival."
"Fame is a funny old business. It can open doors for you. Me and Ann went for a meal recently and Ann got extra mash and I got an egg. I thought 'I like this'."
"We're trying to make paper airplanes out of concrete."
"You're really smart, you're like the man from Burtons. I'm like the man from ... not Burtons."
"What was was, and now what is is, and is tomorrow a new day? Yes it is."
Never mind high culture, I got stuck on a long train journey yesterday and I'd finished my book - so I downloaded The Sims 2 onto my mobile phone. I've never played the proper game, and obviously this was just a very simplistic java game for phones, but it was great fun for about an hour. Mildly addictive for another half hour after that. And boring after that. But better than reading 'The Metro' or something.
Ranting from Pinter aside ("boom, boom, boom boom... boom boom boom") Lebanon, Lebanon is a lovely collection, although it suffers from a little raw sentiments towards Israel in places.
Very impressed with the new BBC3 documentary series Sweet Sixteen so far. Tonight's was brilliant and yet rather sad - a documentary about a sixteen year old Turkish boy in London who was very clever but going off the rails; it showed his school and his sisters trying to steer him through his GCSEs, but having to combat the fact that he was absolutely obsessed with - not girls or gangs or drugs - with being famous.
He said he already thought of himself as a celebrity, and was bunking school to attend X-Factor auditions, appointments with modelling agencies. It quickly became apparent that he was neither talented nor anything approaching good looking enough to be a model. Neither of his parents engaged with him and spent most of their time in Turkey. Eventually he tracked his dad down (he thought he was working in a shop in Archway but it turned out he was in Istanbul) and convinced him to pay for him to have a (completely unnecessary) nose job.
He missed three weeks of school as a consequence and nearly missed his exams (although luckily he was intuitively bright enough to pass them in the end); then went back to all the agencies and drama schools that rejected him, confident that they'd say yes this time. Of course, none of them did. Awful.
Another really sad thing was that he was so obsessed with his career and used it as an excuse to keep saying "my mum and dad want me to get married but I've so much to do first that I'm not marrying 'til I'm 40". Couldn't help wondering if so much of his attraction to the world of drama was influenced by the fact that he seemed quite obviously to be gay, but of course in his traditional family couldn't probably even consider facing up to it.
It ended with one of those painful, defensive rants we're becoming so familiar with: "I will be famous, and everyone will be sorry - I'm totally unique, there's no-one like me, my name should be the first and last thing everyone says every day" etc... agh.
Six Feet Under is an odd one; I've been watching it a lot, as More4 is showing one a night, and my initial apathy has progressed through wild enthusiasm to furrow-browed ennui. Perhaps its the effect of watching an episode a night, but it's a show which seems to age rapidly.
Pamela Hansford Johnson is one of my very favourite authors, but I've picked up 'The Holiday Friend' on several occasions without it sticking. I don't suppose it will now either, as I picked it up this morning as a diversion from weightier stuff. Still, PHJ is a wonderful writer.
The last film by the makers of last night's 'The Trial of Tony Blair' was last year's Blunkett satire, 'A Very Social Secretary', and given that that piece was a bit of a disappointment - a kind of blunt, heavy Adrian Mole - I wasn't expecting too much of the new film, although that instinct was tempered somewhat by the knowledge that by far the best aspect of that film was Robert Lindsay's unexpectedly brilliant portrayal of the Prime Minister. Last night Lindsay took on the lead role and the film was, rather surprisingly, rather brilliant.
Obviously any film that features Tony Blair being extradited to the Hague on charges of war crimes is pretty close to the ultimate left-wing fantasy, but the film was not merely a document of wish-fulfillment, but also a tightly scripted and brilliantly performed drama, which eschewed - a couple of predictable jokes at Cherie Booth aside - heavy satire in favour of a light comedic touch which saw Lindsay's Blair comically refusing to acknowledge his sins. Set in 2010, with a stubborn Blair finally handing over to a vindictive Brown (whose involvement in the plot admittedly stretches the boundaries of plausibility) and converting to Catholicism, the film's really about the denial of responsibility, although Lindsay, no fan of Blair, gives a sympathetic account of the PM's faults. The answer the film really wants to know, of course, is one we may never find out - whether Blair is haunted by guilt and by the images of the countless dead. In 'The Trial Of Tony Blair', he is. In real life, who knows?
I watched the first episode of Life On Mars again tonight - it's being repeated on BBC4. God, what a brilliant programme; well scripted and beautifully acted, but the real feat is the idea - we've got used to the idea of concept drama recently, but this is the first time that ... oh fuck it, alright, tonight I derived the most pleasure from watching Eddie Murphy in Coming to America on ITV2. There, I said it.
A slow day, and one during which I chose to do nothing much more than sit through four hours of period drama - the BBC's recent version of Jane Eyre, which was predictably wonderful; a tremendous, tremelous Jane and a Rochester whose every emotion is violently visible - cracking stuff.
More lovely writing from Laura Barton in the Guardian today:
"By the age of 16, I knew it took precisely four seconds to hop from my bed to the tape player. I knew just how long it took to rewind the Pixies' Hey. And I would make this little journey, back and forth, back and forth, the way a sparrow collects twigs, as if I were building a nest up there on my eiderdown".
Brilliant as ever.
The Odessa Files
You can't beat Nazis as bad guys in films. The Odessa Files is something I half-watched and enjoyed a year or two ago, so it was good to watch it again properly - its the kind of long, taut thriller that seems to be a speciality of 1970s cinema - it sags a little towards the end but it's still thoroughly enjoyable sick bed viewing, which is what I did with my day today.
