A cleansing sort of cold

In May, while driving around the county, I turned off from the Roman road and went down an interesting-looking lane that took me to a hilltop village (not a very high hill). I stopped to look round the church, which was a considerable distance from the lane, along a gravel drive. I wasn’t expecting much, so I was completely unprepared for the architectural encounter.

On an elevated position over-looking open countryside, the tiny building was in a classical style, built mostly in red brick with a magnesium limestone façade that included Tuscan columns. The roof was lead, with a small wooden cupola at the west end. Standing on the front steps I had a wonderful view of the rounded slope of the hill (Aberdeen Angus cattle lazing in the sun) and the way the gradient fell gently down to the plain.

The interior was staggeringly beautiful, and the completeness of the design had rationality, integrity, and modesty among the baroque flourishes. The font was a simple marble bowl. An egg and dart frieze ran along the top of the Reader’s desk. I loved the way the pulpit was only two steps up from the floor, which implied humility. The walls were painted cream, with an exquisite white and gold east end apse (matched by two white and gold chandeliers in the main body of the church). Right at the back, in the north corner, was a manorial family pew (the last of the line died in 2004) - this was a wooden kiosk screened by blue curtains which gave it a theatrical air (when the family was seated and the curtains opened it must have resembled a Punch and Judy booth).

The church was so beautiful I wanted to come back for a service (when the church would come to life).

So this morning I got up early and drove for an hour back to the village.

Turning off the Roman road I drove along the bosky straight lane, which looked slightly different from my May visit - now wild columbines were in the hedgerows, poppies were scattered along the verge, green corn stood in the fields.

I parked my car in the lane and walked along the wide gravel path to the church. Mild sunshine. Pine cones underfoot, blown down from a line of specimen trees.

The congregation was tiny, but very friendly and intimate. The (female) Reader arrived and greeted me (Readers are lay ministers who are theologically trained and licensed by the Church of England to take services). A single bell was rung, making a measured ding-ding-ding sound.

I was given a service sheet and a copy of the BBC Songs of Praise hymn book. I sat near the back of the small building, and experienced a sense of presentiment as I looked towards the altar. Most of the congregation stood talking at the west door until 9.30 when they came in and took their seats.

The service was Morning Prayer. It was a fine day, so the west door was left open, allowing birdsong to punctuate the quiet moments. At the back the organ began and we sang O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing (we all struggled with the Wesleyan scales).

Two readings, and then Psalm 65 which included the lines: Happy are they whom you choose and draw to your courts to dwell there. They will be satisfied by the beauty of your house, by the holiness of your temple.

In her sermon the Reader talked about the polite English restraint of “not talking about religion” and how we should possibly talk about religion a bit more. She emphasised the importance of reading the Bible, and the hope of starting a Bible study group in the parish. She confided her feeling that a great spiritual harvest was waiting to be gathered in.

We said the Intercessory Prayers (for those who were ill, for those who found themselves caught up in violence, for the overseas bishops staying in the diocese prior to the Lambeth Conference). We sang the hymn Dear Lord and Father of Mankind. I began to feel cold (but it seemed a cleansing sort of cold, although this could have been my metaphysical imagination).

After the service I stood at the west end chatting for a few minutes and then went out into the warm sunshine. The hazy light made the landscape look pastel grey-green in colour. The cows looked at me impassively.

The service at this little church helped to define in my mind an idea that has been forming for some time - in terms of aesthetic experience (16th century literature, sacred music, ancient buildings, incomparable locations, humility of the clergy, subtle “energetics” of the services) the Church of England is arguably the world’s most beautiful religion.

I returned to my car an elderly lady walking alongside said she was sorry there hadn’t been more people there. This issue of attendance has been much in the news recently. In my opinion the worried questionings in the Sunday Telegraph (and sneering in the Times) about whether the numbers are viable misses the point. The Anglican religion is not about numbers. From a theological point of view Christ is present whenever two or three are gathered in His name. And in the Book of Genesis God promised Abraham that if only ten “righteous” people could be found, the whole community would be saved.

Some pictures:



Above: the building was constructed of red brick and magnesium limestone.



Above: View from the front steps - I took this picture back in May and you can see the hawthorn blossom in the hedges.



Above: the door was left open during the service.



Above: there was a sense of presentiment as I waited for the service to begin.



Above: the hymn book was BBC Songs of Praise.



Above: the Reader’s Desk had an egg and dart decoration.



Above: two modest steps led up into the pulpit (note the marble font).



Above: family pew at the back, like a little puppet theatre.



Above: chaste memorials were on the walls (also two hatchments).

When you work in an agency you have a perpetual fear of losing clients - the past week at work

Monday

Heavy showers on Sunday had made the lawns greener and the air fresher when I left for work this morning. Despite the pain of actually waking up at 6am, I enjoy being out and about early, before everyone else. And also, for some reason, I feel more in control of my life (possibly I no longer care whether I go on working at the agency or not).

On the train I began re-reading Edward IV by Charles Ross. It is quite demanding as it is an academic book, and I had forgotten how disciplined you have to be (most academics are not great stylists, so you have to pay attention to every sentence to get the meaning). Also, it is a dated biography, but probably still the best.

In the agency Ian (MD of our division) and Paul (graphic designer) were still on holiday. Joey (freelance designer) was covering for Paul in our studio. He looked suspiciously dark-tanned since last Friday but protested it was all natural (“I was kicking a ball about most of Saturday, it was lovely weather windy and sunny… got really wet Sunday night going around different places…”).

My hire-car was ready in the back mews, having been collected by Ben (Ian’s son, and photographer in the downstairs studio). He brought the keys to my desk ignoring Pete (who has started an “affair” with his partner Sarah, who is also our Receptionist - we are a very incestuous company). Pete was upset because Alan (Director) had taken Angela (new Assistant Account Executive) off to see a new client.

Late morning I drove up to Watford to see my biggest client BQW, taking them some campaign designs. My main contact there is Steve C who is very rude and difficult. Therefore I was not surprised to get to BQW only to be told at Reception that the meeting had been cancelled (no warning ’phone call, no apology). I retaliated by taking the designs back with me, knowing that Steve C would have nothing to show his boss. This sort of brinkmanship would put the deadlines at risk, but I was sure I could extend them. On the drive back I invented all sorts of reasons why I will not be able to send Steve C the designs by pdf (or if he forces the issue, so small and low res he can’t use them in his presentation).

In the afternoon I went to my Entertainments client in west London. This is probably my nicest client. The Director, John R, is normally very unserious, but at this meeting he suddenly said out the blue:

“I can tell you’re not happy with your job.”

He then began to discuss in detail his management structure. I was puzzled by this. Was he trying to offer me a job - and if so, why didn’t he just say it plainly?

Tuesday

Because I was going straight to a client I didn’t need to get up until 7.45 (I had driven home in the client car yesterday). I could also take my time over breakfast. In the garden the roses were covered in raindrops from a sudden shower.

I drove northwards from my house to an industrial port. This client is a sub-division of BQW, but very easy to handle. We spent about two hours discussing an exhibition they want to have a presence at in Bahrain.

Afterwards I took the contact (Guy, good-natured, aged about 55) across to a dingy pub (his choice) for a pint of beer and some microwaved lasagna. There was no carpet on the floor of the pub, only bare boards. He wanted to talk about gardening, his children’s education, and what I knew about BQW head office politics.

Most of the afternoon was spent driving down to London - a rather pointless exercise, but I had to take the hire car back.

In the agency I told Joey and Kate I was half-thinking of looking for another job. He told me about vacancies he had heard of at another agency he does freelance work for (being a freelance he gets to hear about lots of vacancies before they are formally put out for recruitment). Kate rang them up and they e-mailed her an application form (there is more than one job, so we both might apply).

Wednesday

It was cold in the office during the morning. The weather is very unpredictable, one moment warm and sunny, the next pelting down with rain. Joey described how his car had broken down Tuesday evening (“my mobile was flat so I had to go into this old people’s home for help - I was only wearing a pair of shorts”).

Kate said she had broken up with her boyfriend - this news was immediately all over the agency, all floors, with almost all the women saying (nastily) “now she’ll be on the rebound”.

Mostly it was a quiet day. When you work in an agency you have a perpetual fear of losing clients, so silences are ominous. I rang a couple of people who are normally regular with their work, just to make sure they were not using anyone else.

The only appointment I had was right at the end of the working day, with a big client based near Old Street. I am liasing with a fairly new manager with the company - short, blonde, aged about 25, very serious, very anxious to make an impression with her boss, rather inexperienced in marketing. Her inexperience leads her to overcompensate by talking about marketing theory rather a lot. I sat by her cramped desk in the big open-plan office, drinking instant coffee from a mug. We have had several meetings, and gone over some interesting assignments, but none of them have come to anything. She seems unable to get things approved by her boss (possibly she is too young and attractive for him to take her ideas seriously).

Thursday

I had a lot of media booking to do, which was tedious. Alan made a complete fool of himself by accusing Joey of deleting some artwork from the central server the designers use. He insisted that Joey recreate it, but when it was finished the original was discovered.

Kate talked to Joey on so many occasions during the day that the female warnings seemed to be right (“now she’s on the rebound”). He described going to a nightclub last night (“nice music, nice atmosphere”). She asked him about his life - his elder brother is a paint sprayer, his younger brother is a plumber, they all live at home in south London (“I’ve never picked up an iron in my life… I get steak almost every night…”). Kate described how her dog had been killed on the roads a few weeks ago. Joey packed up his things to go early. When he passed my desk he gave the thumbs-up sign.

Friday

Ben (Ian’s son) came to my desk and shyly asked if I had any photographic assignments. He has never done this before, so either they are short of work downstairs or he is making an effort to be sociable (the strained relations between him and Pete and Sarah are very noticeable). I have told Pete that I am not taking any sides, and when he tries to talk about “the situation” I change the subject.

Some work came in for three different clients - Point Of Sale materials (which we will put out to a specialist as our designers can’t handle it), a poster campaign to go on bus shelters, some visuals for a supermarket promotion (retail work is horrible - everything changes and keeps changing right up to the last minute).

Early afternoon I went to the advertising department of a national newspaper - a smart building that was a complete mess inside.

Late afternoon I went to see the Entertainments client. It was a completely farcical meeting. Director John R wanted me to arrange for a beard to be photoshopped onto a picture of his Cartering Manager (do I charge them for this, or put it down as “goodwill”?).

Afterwards I walked along Earls Court Road in the warm dusty evening, the light having a tired quality as if the day had exhausted itself.

Scarsdale Villas

Walking along Scarsdale Villas in the late summer evening (hot, arid, airless) I was impressed by this front garden on the corner plot. Filled to bursting with old-fashioned flowers (in old-fashioned colours), just to look at it was a refreshing tonic. Roses, hollyhocks, foxgloves, geraniums, a spiky white flower I couldn’t identify, green foliage grown for its own sake.

In his (revolutionary) 1919 book Garden First in Land Development William Webb argued that the working poor created cottage gardens for their sustenance, the aristocracy created pleasure gardens for their private enjoyment, but only the middle classes created showy front gardens to share with the world.

Increasingly front gardens in London are being tarmac-ed over to provide parking spaces for four or five car families. It’s a selfish and self-defeating trend. Community covenants need to protect the gardens that remain.

More on the development of this corner of London: http://www.british-history.ac.uk/report.aspx?compid=50321

Suitably Orwellian

Above: I think this article was in The Times - interesting bit about the CCTV graphic.

Today is the day of the Haltemprice & Howden parliamentary by-election.

At first I strenuously tried to keep politics out of this blog, but now I realise that politics is crucial to understanding popular culture. However much we may dislike and distrust politicians, we are obliged to watch what they do. Otherwise the result is almost always disaster.

The Haltemprice & Howden by-election was called when Tory MP (and Shadow Home Secretary) David Davis resigned his seat and then immediately stood for re-election, saying it would be a verdict on the government’s introduction of 42-days detention without trial. David Davis has assumed the role of principled champion against the tyranny of an oppressive state. As the Labour party is not contesting the election presumably they are conceding the point of his argument.

However, David Davis is an arrogant and vain attention-seeker. Before resigning he was very careful to do a deal with the Liberal Democrats, thus ensuring he was not really risking his seat in Parliament. He is probably doing the right thing for the wrong reasons.



Above: Banksy mural in Newman Street (by the Post Office Sorting Office - he painted it under the gaze of the security camera).

David Davis is doing the right thing because British society is increasingly becoming one of surveillance, restriction and petty bureaucracy. Anyone who has read Orwell’s 1984 will be struck by the similarities with today: ubiquitous surveillance cameras, politically correct “thought crimes”, politicians spouting “doublespeak”, an endless war being fought overseas, an endless internal war being fought against a shadowy seditious organisation, individuals who “disappear” into the system etc etc. In his video Sandstorm (url below) Darude captures the popular mood that many people feel - life is an exhausting dash for freedom pursued by authoritarian “them” figures.



Above: pathetic gesture though it might be, I have finally cut up my Tesco Clubcard.

Huge quantities of information are being collected on everyone within the United Kingdom, with no meaningful veto by the individual on how that information might be used. The Data Protection act is supposed to protect people from intrusive use of their personal details. In reality, companies ignore the act, preferring to risk paying the (minimal) fines if caught - although in all my (considerable) experience of direct mail campaigns, I have never known an offending company to be prosecuted.

I stopped using my Tesco Clubcard about a year ago when I began to suspect that company was becoming too powerful. I finally cut the card up today. It was my Winston Smith moment of rebellion (in my day-job I am fully implicated in the collection and use of consumer data).



Above: within days the current Channel 4 series of Big Brother had attracted 1,500 complaints to Ofcom.

Orwell’s concept of Big Brother has been reinvented as a reality TV show. A dozen or so contestants are locked into a confined set of rooms under constant television surveillance for about three months. The programme “reveals” what we already know - without the restraints and inhibitions of our two-thousand-year culture ordinary people will regress to animals (those who are different will be rejected, those who are weak will be bullied and manipulated, gangs will form and define themselves by hatred of the “others”, gangs will seek to control the food supply, paranoia will become an all-enveloping mood, hostile behaviour will be sparked by the most trivial of reasons etc).



Above: the Ofcom offices in Southwark.

Ofcom is a suitably Orwellian diminutive of the independent regulator and competition authority for the UK communications industries. The Chief Executive of Ofcom (a pathetically ineffective organisation) is Ed Richards, who was previously in his career an adviser to Gordon Brown. As it is almost a certainty that Labour is not going to win the next election one of the most useful things they could do in their last two years or so would be to break-up and destroy News International in the United Kingdom (surely this would have cross-party support?).

Big Brother’s two minute “Hate” followed by the anthem of Oceania: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J7Kznmrc3o4

Ad inspired by the film: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OYecfV3ubP8

Darude’s Sandstorm: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=erb4n8PW2qw

More about Ofcom: http://www.ofcom.org.uk/

Prime Minister’s Questions 9th July 2008

Above: entrance to Black Rod’s garden at Westminster (my photo).

Prime Minister’s Questions today did not involve questions put to the Prime Minister, who is in Japan at the G8 summit. Instead Leader of the House Harriet Harman stood in for Gordon Brown and William Hague stood in for David Cameron. In the studio Guardian journalist Michael White stood in for BBC correspondent Nick Robinson.

On the government front bench Home Secretary Jacqui Smith was poker-faced with occasional smirks, Chancellor Alistair Darling was inscrutable, Secretary for Transport Ruth Kelly smiled continuously as if amused by the whole performance, next to her perky Hazel Blears, cut in half by the camera, seemed to bob up and down very slightly and shake her bright-red hair when giggling or whispering asides.

Most of the questions tended to be worthy but dull - the incidence of “vibration white finger” (an industrial injury); the importance of Working Men’s Clubs in small towns (under threat because of the smoking ban); worries over what would happen to the hunting ban when/if Labour are turfed out of office.

One Labour backbencher urged Harriet Harman to “keep the NHS sparkling” (an odd adjective to use, since the rate of hospital infections indicates the hospitals are anything but sparkling).

Most important issue of the day was raised by Labour backbencher Clive Efford, who asked about “youth crime” in London but in such a partisan way that it seemed as if he was blaming the London Mayor (who has been in office only a few weeks). Clive Efford urged Harriet Harman to “bring together communities” (Terry: “Is the problem inter-communal violence? This is a new admission. I thought the problem was inter-gang violence”). In reply Harriet Harman wittered on about the importance of teachers and parents in solving the problem of knife crime (Terry: “she should ask Teddy Taylor about how the razor gangs in Glasgow were defeated” note - Teddy Taylor is a former MP, now retired).

The exchange between Harriet Harman and William Hague was in two parts. William Hague asked in sober measured tones about the preparations the government were making to manage the economic downturn. This was a clever barb designed to needle Harriet Harman (if she took it seriously it would look as if we are indeed heading for recession, if she laughed it off it would look as if she were in cloud cuckoo land). Harriet Harman gave an unconvincing spluttered reply about how the government would “see the country alright” (my précis). Liberal stand-in Vince Cable asked about the housing crisis. Harriet Harman gave a pedestrian reply, then added as a sort of afterthought (as if she had just remembered her lines) that the opposition was “talking the economy down” (this is one of the thinnest of all defences, and she should be embarrassed to come out with this line).

Harriet Harman told the House a joke (aimed at William Hague) about women bishops, which fell completely flat (timing is everything on these occasions).

In the second tranche of questions William Hague asked about Prime Minister’s strictures on not wasting food, relating it to the rise in the hospitality budget during the time Gordon Brown was Chancellor of the Exchequer. He produced the impressive alliterative phrase: “preaching prudence and practicing profligate waste”. He finished by wishing Harriet Harman well in her personal campaign (according to newspaper reports) to undermine and depose Gordon Brown - Harriet Harman stumbled and stuttered in reply, looking down all the time and refusing to make eye-contact (looking very guilty even though she may be innocent).

More: http://www.number10.gov.uk/output/Page306.asp

Ready to hear about austerity

Above: at last someone is talking sense.

The Prime Minister has told us all off for wasting food. It is a message that has captured the popular imagination (the newspapers are full of it, and in the G2 section of the Guardian today Laura Barton has written a guide to using up left-overs and not shopping in supermarkets). In the office this afternoon Judy was re-using tea-bags when making tea.

On one level Gordon Brown’s advice is clearly absurd. No-one in this country goes without food. Whatever the shortcomings of the welfare state it is not possible to starve in the United Kingdom (unless by choice, and even then an army of social workers, NHS nutritionists and assorted state “nannies” would probably nag you to death first).

On a deeper level I think people are ready to hear about austerity.

Speaking generally, during the boom years everyone has eaten too much, drunk too much, wasted too much. Bought far too many things we do not really need. Gone on too many excessive “trophy” holidays.

Above all borrowed too much (far, far too much).

Many individuals are now ready to cut down on waste (food, packaging, car journeys), take simple sensible exercise to get themselves fit, make a strenuous effort to clear their debts etc.

The trouble is that as a “lifestyle choice” this abstemious behaviour would open them up to ridicule or (even worse) imply that they were losers in the game of life.

By packaging austerity as a patriotic duty (perhaps with a goal of clearing the national debt within five years) political leaders can make the inevitable economic down-turn a desirable social experience (desirable because the inevitable will be seen as “fair”; and also desirable because the enforced social interaction will improve society).

I havn’t done a survey on the subject, but my guess is that even quite extreme measures would be accepted, possibly even welcomed (with grumbling) - petrol rationing, energy rationing, limited conscription to achieve social objectives.



Above: cast-iron version of a favourite Victorian “value”.

But as an economist friend told me: “We don’t have a production problem. The West could feed the whole world with very little effort. We only have distribution problems - social, geographical and political.”

It is an addiction

Above: Charing Cross Road, from near Leicester Square, looking towards Centre Point.

When I go to see my West End clients I usually walk rather than get the tube (although the recent sudden showers make this risky).

Charing Cross Road is famous for its bookshops. I must have spent a fortune on books from these shops over the years. I have calculated that I now have more books waiting to be read than I could possibly get through in the years ahead (assuming one book per two weeks and that I live another fifty years). And yet I am still buying books (and being given books). It is an addiction. I can’t even check into somewhere like the Betty Ford Clinic for help.

It was in a bookshop in Charing Cross Road that I bought the Short Stories of E Phillips Oppenheim. And Derwent Miall’s Strange Case of Vincent Hume. And The World of Marcel Proust by André Maurois.

Charing Cross is marked at its south end by a statue of heroic nurse Edith Cavell (who features in Gordon Brown’s book on Courage). At the northern end the Centre Point building (designed by Seifert and described by Pevsner as “coarse in the extreme”) was constructed at the end of the 1960s property boom and remained empty during the subsequent crash, attracting many conspiracy theories. 84 Charing Cross Road is no longer a bookshop.

This sort of survival is priceless

Saturday afternoon. A warm and sunny day (a heavy shower at lunchtime and then the sun came out hotter than before, so that the air became humid). I drove into the central hills.

I arrived at a tiny village - so small it does not feature in Mee, and Pevsner only gives it a paragraph. The little valleys here are remarkable for the way in which they have preserved specific natural features - goshawks (although no-one admits to having seen them), crested dogs tail grass, shelled slugs that only come out on damp nights etc.



Above: the landscape is composed of steep ridges inbetween small valleys that are alternately wooded or given over to crops. The small population of this area has distinctive physical traits (particularly hair and eye colour, and also a shortish wiry build) indicating intermarriage among the farming families over the generations. I visited five farms, and was received very well (three I had written to previously, the other two I had to knock and explain myself).



Above: field of goats. According to local tradition white goats are served at wedding “breakfasts” (this was last done in 1965, so not sure if we can say the custom is still extent). The butter made from goat’s milk is white.



Above: the architecture of the area consists of small square farmhouses and cottages. Incomers are relatively rare, and naturalise very quickly. Note the washing streaming in the wind (the wind is a continuous presence on the ridges, even on fine days, and when the wind drops the stillness and silence becomes a little unnerving).



Above: typical church in the area - simple structures, towerless (except for one village) and without aisles, built at high points on the ridges. Scots pines planted in the churchyard. The deciduous tree in the foreground cast shadows that made the sunlight shimmer in the wind.



Above: inside the church was a display of original old photographs, illustrating local characters and the cycle of valley life. This sort of survival is priceless to the amateur historian and anthropologist. Ideally each of the pictures should be followed up and the subjects interviewed (but when would I have the time?).



Above: the celebration of Empire Day was abandoned in 1959. The day seems to have been an attempt to perpetuate the memory of Queen Victoria (it was instituted immediately after her death, and held on her birthday 24th March). Possibly this is a example of the compulsive and instinctive ancestor worship of tribal chiefs mentioned by Sir James Frazer. Locally the day was characterised by a half-holiday. Schoolchildren took part in tableaus. Chocolates and books were given as gifts.



Above: along the altar rail in the church were a row of hand-embroidered kneelers. They were very faded and seem to date from the 1940s. I must apologise for my appalling photography which makes them look even more washed-out. The kneelers contained eighteen views of village life. Landscapes, buildings, people all appeared in an idealised format. The borders were filled with the birds, animals and insects seen in everyday life.



Above: I found the survival of this embroidery very touching. It allowed me to look at the local environment through the eyes of its people. At a time of (relative) hardship they chose to represent their world in a lyrical visual style - starry nights, rainbows, sheep grazing peacefully. Again this artefact should be thoroughly documented. I barely had time to take these photographs, but someone should go back and record it properly. I wondered whether the molluscs featured on the border included the “shelled slugs” of damp nocturnal appearances.

Monday

You know that summer has arrived when it is already daylight when you get up at six, and you can step out of the back door and not notice any change in temperature. It’s also nice to get home at 7.30, and sit out on the lawn with a cup of tea. It makes long-distance commuting much more bearable.

Ian (MD of our division and a Director of the agency) was on holiday this week (“does anyone notice any difference” said Tony W, media buyer and print buyer plus also he has been calling himself “Traffic Manager”). Paul (graphic designer) is also on holiday so freelance Joey worked full-time in the “studio” (the area by the back windows). Joey was limping up and down the floor, having injured his leg in a boxing match (“spent Saturday night in Casualty, missed the wedding of a good mate, I’m still in pain despite the pain-killers…”).

Late morning I was called suddenly to Rocket to in Holland Park take a brief. Rocket has been very quite for several months, so that I had begun to feel we had lost the client. Their reactivation is encouraging as they are big spenders.

I arrived at their offices and all the old nausea returned (they are very unpredictable and a nightmare to handle). I met with Rosina, who is Rocket’s marketing manager (aged about forty, short, overweight, black permed hair, podgy fingers so that her gold rings are almost enveloped in flesh, wears a dark navy suit that resembles the sort of uniform worn in retail outlets). She rushed through the brief, which was very involved.

In the afternoon I had to calm down Pete (my “assistant”) who was angry and scandalised that Angela, Ian’s PA, has been promoted to Assistant Account Executive (Pete’s title). Pete had been very quite since this was announced formally last week, so that I thought he had taken the news well. In reality he had been bottling it all up, and poured out his worry and frustration to me (as if could do anything about it).

I took him into the small meeting room where we could talk privately. He was very paranoid about his job, saying that Angela had been given all the accounts he had hoped to get. He thought he was being pushed out of the agency (this is almost certainly true as he has started an affair with Receptionist Sarah who is the partner of Ian’s son).

Tuesday

Looking at the profits from my account list for June, things look very healthy. This is also true across the agency, and so far we seem to be unaffected by the down-turn. Kate said June had been one of the best months for the new clients she has brought in (“this company is run by idiots but we are still making lots of money”).

Joey’s arrival has changed the character of the agency, mainly because he feels the need to vocalise his every thought, loudly expressing himself in a sarf London accent. He described how he intends to go swimming every evening (the only sport he can do with his bad leg). Mid-morning he limped out to a newsagents and came back with lots of magazines, looking through them for lay-outs he can rip-off.

In the afternoon Kate sat on the edge of my desk and we had one of the little private conversations we sometimes have. She wanted to know how secure she thought our jobs were. I thought how beautiful she looked with her wavy blonde hair and concerned expression, her pale face only inches away from me.

Last thing I went to see an Entertainments client in west London. They are probably my favourite client. Pleasant and undemanding, they have interesting briefs and never ever complain.

Wednesday

Joey described his visit to a physiotherapist yesterday afternoon. “I had to take me kecks off and everything and get face down on the table. Then loads of people came in to watch - he was giving a class!”

Most of the morning spent with Alan and Angela in the upstairs Board Room, briefing Angela on the clients she will have to handle (under supervision). She was concerned about who would do Ian’s PA work now she has been promoted (no-one has given any thought to this, which is absolutely typical). Sheila (Office Manager) was brought in to discuss the issue and instead of recruiting a new PA she proposed using temps under Angela’s supervision - which did not please Angela at all.

We went downstairs again. A general discussion developed on knife crime. Joey blamed the Macpherson Report for making the police afraid to tackle inner city gangs.

In the afternoon I went to Rocket again for a suddenly-called meeting. The meeting was held in the office of Rocket MD Geoffrey K, and while we waited for Rosina to join us I sat in a chair directly opposite him. He was pretending to work, but I could see that he was looking at meaningless papers.

Thursday

Kate told me that Ben (Ian’s son and Sarah’s partner) had caught Pete and Sarah kissing in the Haagen Daz café in Leicester Square. As the Haagen Daz café is a favourite haunt of agency staff it seems unwise for them to have met there. Ben and Sarah are still living together, and Ben had been hoping for a reconciliation (none of this would be important except that it has created a peculiar atmosphere in the office.

Friday

I am having to pressure Joey so that he does not slacken on the Rocket work. “I realise of course that Rome wasn’t built in a day” I said, trying to sound understanding. “Nah, it would look like Catford it ’ad been.”

I am also having to pressure Sheila over provision of a car. Normally I borrow Ian’s but he is on holiday and I have some out-of-London client visits next week. Eventually she hired a Ford Focus for two days.

Another rushed visit to Rocket - the project grows and grows. I managed to negotiate an extension to the deadline as we are going in many more publications. This in turn took the pressure off Joey so that he didn’t need to work over the weekend.

Later Joey showed me his on-line portfolio (nothing remarkable - mostly defence industry work). He said he had enjoyed working at the agency each day. He had gone to an interview recently as he preferred regular hours to freelance work:

“He wanted to meet at The Royal Oak, and I’m not being funny or nuffin but it was gay night and he was half an hour late, the bastard. I kept feelin all these blokes were eyeing me up. I had to leave my drink in the end and go and stand outside.”

Why isn’t all advertising witty, informative and multi-layered?

Above: there is no ambiguity about this brand name!

Earlier today I read this blogpost (among several blogs I look at each morning as part of my routine procrastination about actually starting work):

http://makemarketinghistory.blogspot.com/2008/07/power-of-discovery.html#links

It raises the issue of customer loyalty (which everyone is looking for) and links it to the idea of making the customer work to discover why a particular brand is right for them (as well as underlining the obvious, but often ignored, advice that having established a brand you shouldn’t then undermine it by inconsistent pricing, sponsoring reality television, exploiting child workers in the third world etc etc).

I subscribe to the view that brands should encode their marketing with multiple layers of meaning, so that you don’t see everything at once. As the customer “interacts” with the brand, over time they should discover new and interesting messages (level one would be to tell them the product benefits are right for the needs they have; level two would be to reassure them that the product is right for their particular socio-economic and cultural position; level three would be to suggest that consuming the brand is an integral part of who they are etc). Like a great work of art, you should be able to return to a TV commercial (or press ad or DM literature) and find subtle new things you didn’t notice the first time round.

Having made the effort to discover the message, and having been rewarded by Csikszentmihalyi’s “flow state” (when effort expended exactly matches effort required), your commitment to the brand will be all the stronger.

The problem is most clients won’t buy this la-di-da London nonsense.

At almost every (initial) client meeting sooner or later someone will tell you that the advertising they most admire is Ronseal-does-exactly-what-it-says-on-the-tin (as well as telling you that they, personally, are never influenced by advertising).

The rhetorical response (rhetorical because I would never dare say it out loud) is to ask Mr or Ms Client: If you were a tin of wood varnish what brand would you be? Ronseal (C2)? Dulux Woodsheen (C1)? Colron high-gloss quality yacht varnish (only As and Bs need apply)? They are all chemically the same and the only difference is the way you perceive the branding and how it relates to you.

Or to take another example, why do I buy my sandwiches every Wednesday (I am a person of habit) from Pret-a-manger and not EAT? Pret-a-manger implies so many different and flattering messages (you are a person of intelligence because you understand Pret-a-manger is a French phrase; you are a person of distinction because you know French cuisine is the finest in the world; you are a person of open-minded tolerance because you are prepared to eat “foreign” food etc). Whereas EAT simply commands you, in C2-ish language, to stop what you are doing and eat.

So why isn’t all advertising witty, informative and multi-layered? Why are the Ronseal fans still in the ascendant? Why is Alan Sugar admired as a genius of the business world?

Secretly the majority of people are filled with doubt, anxiety and fear. They don’t want to work things out (no matter how rewarding it might be). They would much rather someone told them what to do.

That is why Churchill Insurance tells the (disgracefully stereotyped) under-achieving young removal man he won’t have to fill in any forms. That is why political dictatorships are so seductive. That is why Vincent Van Gogh killed himself.

Caveats:

Don’t take anything I say too seriously.

I might have the entirely opposite view tomorrow.

All of the above is (quite likely) the sort of manipulative twaddle that Roy Hattersley would spit at (except that political parties are among the most ruthless and rapacious of marketing machines - particularly the one he deputy-led for so many years).

More on flow state: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mih%C3%A1ly_Cs%C3%ADkszentmih%C3%A1lyi

The Challenge Churchill ad: http://www.tellyads.com/show_movie.php?filename=TA0149 (obviously this commercial does have multiple layers of meaning but I include it for the representation of the removal person who doesn’t like “fillin’ in forms”).

More on the death of Vincent Van Gogh: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM

Prime Minister's Questions 2nd July 2008

Above (my picture): statue of Richard the Lionheart outside the Houses of Parliament. The sword held by King Richard would have been used more for slashing rather than stabbing. Weapons used routinely by gangs in inner cities include swords (both of the slashing and stabbing variety), machetes, knives and guns.

Most of the morning I was in a meeting with Alan and Angela, discussing the distribution of the new accounts (Angela has been promoted to Assistant Account Executive and each of us are giving her a few accounts to get her “list” going).

Inevitably in this situation you think of the three clients you would most like to get rid of, but giving Angela the big BQW account (a poisoned chalice by any assessment) wasn’t an option.

I had deliberately chosen the upstairs Boardroom for the meeting so that we could have the television on, the sound turned low, and we half-watched the screen while talking through the various job bags (and in any case we had finished the serious briefing by eleven o’clock and were just working our way through the second pot of coffee).

At eleven-thirty the Daily Politics programme came on (a precursor to Prime Minister’s Questions). The panel began discussing the latest knife crimes, which have become an everyday occurrence in London. No-one seemed to know what to do.

“They are all tiptoeing round the elephant in the room, afraid to mention the people who are doing most of these stabbings” said Alan. “It’s always society’s fault. No-one mentions which part of society is most responsible for inner city gangs.”

“The police have a statutory obligation to say the opposite” said Angela, displaying a sophisticated grasp of Home Office policy that surprised me.

“If they can’t define the problem properly they are never going to solve it” said Alan.

The studio discussion rumbled on until twelve, when the cameras went live to the House of Commons for questions to the Prime Minister.

While Gordon Brown droned through his introductory remarks (his droning has a comforting quality, like the Shipping Forecast) we could see a shuffling of seats on the bench behind him, an anonymous-looking man being ushered along to sit next to Chancellor Alistair Darling.

“Who IS that man?” said Alan, “we see him every week.”

None of us knew who the man was. He settled himself down between the two most important offices in the land. Aged in his late sixties he had a kindly face and reminded me of a once-important board director who has retired and been forgotten but then comes back to the office for the day and whom no-one knows quite what to do with.

There was a stir when Leader of the Opposition David Cameron produced a leaked letter from the government Chief Whip to the oily Keith Vaz, apparently promising “appropriate rewards” in return for Keith Vaz finessing a narrow majority in the 42-days-detention-without-trial vote. In an untruth Gordon Brown denied there had been any deals in the run-up to the vote. Then in an apparent Freudian slip he spontaneously denied buying the votes of the Ulster Unionists (David Cameron hadn’t said anything about the Ulster Unionists).

In an inexplicable last-minute riposte to David Cameron’s final question, the Prime Minister accused the Leader of the Opposition of “acting soft on terrorism” (did he really mean to say this, or did it just come out?).

Questions were called from the backbenches.

A question was asked about rocketing oil prices, and the Prime Minister responded, without a hint of self-deprecating irony, by talking about “our draught-proofing programme”. This is the sort of thing he does best. In a time of war, famine and economic turmoil it is comforting to know our national leader is concerned whether we are sitting in a draught or not (I don’t mean this sarcastically).

In a scripted question (obviously scripted - this is not how normal people speak) Labour MP Shona McIsaac placed NHS poly-clinics in an interesting context, but then ruined the ending with some unfortunate last-minute pointing (which had an intimidating effect through the camera).

Sir Peter Tapsall, Conservative MP for Louth & Horncastle, stood bolt upright and said what most people privately think - the war in Afghanistan is un-winnable (not least because there are no clear objectives to “win”, because the resources are not being committed to the campaign, and because the idea of a thirty-year war has no popular support).

The questions came to an end and the cameras went back to the studio. By this time our meeting had morphed into lunchtime, and others had come into the Board Room. On the screen there was a debate about social mobility, with Mancunian radio presenter and socialist Terry Christian complaining that the Labour party had been worse than the Tories in helping the working class.

Guest politicians Hazel Blears (Labour) and Chris Grayling (Conservative) debated this point.

Chris Grayling was moderate, effective, reasoned - but did not make any commitments.

Hazel Blears comes from the Comical Ali school of politicians (and like the Iraqi former minister of propaganda she cheerfully pretends everything is going swimmingly while the invaders are bursting into the citadel, fire is falling from the skies, and her colleagues are running away in panic).

Watch PMQs for yourself: http://www.number-10.gov.uk/output/Page306.asp

Read that letter: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newstopics/politics/labour/2236713/Keith-Vaz-fighting-to-keep-his-job-over-Geoff-Hoon-anti-terrorism-vote-'rewards'-letter.html

“No, don’t do that!”

If you wanted to you could go to a different village show every weekend between now and the end of September. I like them because they make me feel close to the land. You also get to see and talk to farmers en masse (farmers are “real” people, uncorrupted by urban life with all its sham fakery and over-hyped materialism).

On Sunday afternoon I went to a show at a big village on the plain (actually its located on the slopes that are the start of the upland heaths). It was a very professional event, which is not always a good sign (when you see car-dealers have taken stands you know it’s getting too commericalised). About a thousand people were milling around.

In the vegetable tent an old codger (wearing old codger clothes) was proud of all the different produce he had grown in his garden, especially the runner beans.



Old codger: “The weather has not been kind to growers of any crop this year. Not round here onyroad [“any road”, meaning anyway] . March was cold hereabouts and the Spring was late. We had the driest April for many a year. Then in May the temperature rose and fell like billyo. In my garden I have over fifty different types of potato and all of them have been affected…”

I agreed absently and moved to the next table, the old codger accompanying me.

Old codger: “Look have you seen these baby turnips? These ones are very sweet. Gorgeous in a good stew” [ the man had the county accent and his pronunciation of the word “stew” defies phonetic translation] .



I took a picture of some cabbages.

Old codger: “Ye can see here the Spring cabbage which has a lovely crisp heart, ’specially boiled up with caraway seeds and a bit o’ butter. This is the Walking Stick Cabbage which I grow high. An’ this is the Sea Cabbage - best to steam these leaves.”

We moved on to the carrot table.

Old codger: “I grow white carrots, which are the good old English carrots. The orange ones are all Dutch. Came in with William of Orange.”



We came to the Green Peas.

Old codger: “Most folks boil ’em unripe, but I like ’em dried an’ then cooked in a mush. Or you can boil up the whole pod if you catch it young enough. What the French call maayn-jey-toot.”



I moved from the vegetable section into the Flower Show (same marquee, but divided by a wall of canvas). The air was fresh and sweet, with the varied scents of the flowers. Some of the plants looked a bit forced.

Already crowded, the Flower Tent became even more congested as people took refuge from a sudden heavy shower outside. Ten minutes passed and still the rain fell. People stood around looking at one another with expressions of amused boredom.

The roof of the tent began to sag down ominously in one corner as a huge volume of water collected in the canvas. Eventually the roof came down to within touching distance. Most people moved away from that area but a teenage girl went and stood right under the bulge, laughing across at her sister.

She was aged about fourteen. She looked the sort of girl who has been doted on since birth by her parents (who possibly haven’t noticed her metamorphosis into an attention-seeking teenager). Giggling the girl raised her forefinger and pushed upwards at the swollen sac of water.

“No, don’t do that!” a commanding woman shouted.

At that very moment the canvas roof burst open and a DELUGE of water fell down upon the girl, completely soaking her. She stood there with a glassy grin on her face, everyone else in the tent looking at her with horror. She then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

Euro 2008

Above: Freudians would point out that the excitement of holding the Euro 2008 cup represents a tiny fraction of the glory and catharsis experienced by child footballers when winning their first trophies (and all the subsequent careers of professional footballers are a futile attempt to recapture that first innocent rush of exhileration and omnipotence).

Euro 2008 came to an end earlier this evening.

Spain beat Germany.

As the game progressed Michael Ballack’s heavy brow ridge become increasingly furrowed. Xabi Alonso’s expressionless face showed brief moments of satisfaction. In the interval Alan Shearer said wise and interesting things in a completely monotone voice.

The preamble to the game, which was shown on BBC1, had been awful. As well as the kitsch performances in the stadium (what looked like extras from the film Amadeus releasing coloured balloons as Enrique sang in English) the BBC had added a sort of historical perspective. This consisted of an echoing Brummie accent delivering cringe-making historical generalisations in a sub-Kiplingesque style.

Is this what the jingoism of the new European state is going to sound like?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dtrt1ijYoBc

Royal Academy Summer Exhibition

One of the nice things about the agency (as opposed to the many nasty things) is the way in which we are encouraged to think laterally and try to identify cultural trends before they go “mainstream”.

Terry (our Managing Director) likes everything that is new and innovative. He likes us to do things first. He never criticises work for being “too creative” (even though it might be wacky, weird and hopelessly off the brief).

Terry has been to every Royal Academy Summer Exhibition for the past thirty years. The bookcase in his office is full of old exhibition catalogues. He used to buy one painting from each exhibition (that’s a lot of RAs!) until he ran out of wall-space.

Therefore all of us are encouraged to go to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition each year to look at two-dimensional images and get a feel for the sort of cultural representations that will be filtering through to society over the next year. Two-dimensional images are actually highly-artificial ways of creating the illusion of reality, and there is no such thing as a purely “realist” way of representing the world as it “really is”. Artists show us how to look at society, and the techniques they use (the lines, the colours, the textures) need to be incorporated into the latest creative “product” of the agency, suitably amended for the commercial world.

So on Friday afternoon, when things were a little slack, I went to the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition with Paul (graphic designer), Rachel (Account Executive), Caroline (Account Executive) and Angela (Ian’s PA - I will explain her presence in the group in a later posting).



Above: there was a floral garland on the statue of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the courtyard of the Royal Academy.

Caroline paid for all of us on her company credit card. We went into the exhibition and walked around the crowded rooms in a group. I think we would have seen more had we split up (but by staying close to Caroline we could make sure she paid for tea and cakes at the end).



Above: the latest catalogue was added to Terry's collection.

I have to be honest and say that I didn’t like most of the art that was on show (I know how bad this sounds, but I am at heart a stuckist). Rachel liked a painting by David Gleeson and nearly bought it (it was one of the few works that didn‘t have a red “sold“ sticker on it). Paul liked Gus Cummins, Jennifer Dickson, Leonard Rosoman. Caroline liked Lisa Milroy. Angela liked “everything, all of it”. And I liked Anthony Green and Simon Palmer.

The fashion of pink Sancerre

Suddenly pink Sancerre is everywhere in London:



In Westminster...



In Great Portland Street…



Even in Fortnum & Mason (“approval of what is approved of…” and all that).

I wish I had the time to research the cultural connection between the quaffing of pink wine and the end of days (the end of Bush, the obvious end of Brown after the fifth-place-behind-the-fringes humiliation, the end of the NICE economy, the end of the soccer season, the end of the Ulysses space mission, the end of the career of Paris Hilton* etc etc). More than purple, to me palest pink seems to be the colour of over-ripe decadence (pink champagne is drunk at the Hotel California, that mythical hotel being a metaphor for the current condition of western society). Like the medieval morality story about gilding the lily, the suddenly fashionable drinking of rosé Sancerre is a warning that sophistication has gone too far.

To paraphrase the first book of Corinthians: the trumpet shall sound, and we shall all be sitting around drinking pink Sancerre and sighing about our fallen house prices.

More on the trumpet sounding: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CYTQ6gpcuYA

More on the fashion of pink Sancerre (Victoria Moore is one of the best writers on wine today): http://shopping.guardian.co.uk/food/story/0,,2105828,00.html

A definition of gilding the lily: http://www.bartleby.com/59/4/gildthelily.html

Hotel California:
http://video.aol.com/video-detail/the-eagles-hotel-california-live-1994/1248207877?icid=acvsv3

*the Paris Hilton bit was just wishful thinking.

Midsummer Party

Above: there was something about the cover of the latest National Geographic that I found disturbing. It bothered me for some days. Until I remembered, in my grandparent’s house in Norfolk, a pile of ancient National Geographic magazines with one of them featuring an article on the summer solstice at Stonehenge.

Saturday 21st June - the Longest Day. The day of Marie-Astrid’s Midsummer Party (although Midsummer is not actually until the 24th). In the evening I drove over to the town where Marie-Asrid lives, on the western edge of the county.

Marie-Astrid’s parties always have an unexpected element. Sometimes they are biggish events with seventy-plus people milling around. Other times they are the same small familiar group that meets up month after month, year after year.

The other notable aspect of her parties is the number of “new” people she manages to produce. You can almost guarantee that there will be at least one person you havn’t met before. Just as abruptly as she takes people up, she drops them again, so these “new” people tend to disappear after a few weeks.

I was the first to arrive. Marie-Astrid’s house is a big suburban 1970s building, plain but comfortable, with large badly-proportioned rooms. Across the back of the house is a long lounge about fifteen feet wide, but because of its length the room looks narrow and awkward.



Matching the long lounge is a long lean-to conservatory where a table had been laid for eight places (so obviously this was going to be one of the more intimate parties). I talked to Marie-Astrid’s partner Dave while Marie-Astrid was upstairs with her six-year-old daughter who was having a sleepover with her friend Lucy. The doorbell rang and Sharon came in - overweight, opinionated and (I remembered from a previous encounter) obnoxious.



Next to arrive were Sophie and Nadia, work colleagues of Marie-Astrid, both aged in their mid-twenties, slim, long-legged (Sophie a strawberry-blonde, Nadia with long black hair). I got Sophie and Nadia glasses of punch, the cloth on the side table decorated with representations of the Danish flag (Marie-Astrid has Scandinavian ancestry). Dave talked about how well he was doing despite the credit crunch - as financiers always claim to be doing well, it was impossible to know whether “the worst has passed” or not.

Marie-Astrid came downstairs having changed for dinner. We sat around talking for about a quarter of an hour. The doorbell rang and Emily and Dan came into the house.

Emily is only aged about forty, but her attitudes and manners are those of a past age. She always wears long formal dresses which makes other women feel she is trying to upstage them (whereas in reality she probably doesn’t like to show her legs in public). She is very shy, and together with her dignified personality this is often misinterpreted as condescending froideur.



Marie-Astrid lit candles all around the lounge and conservatory. The candles had little Norwegian flags stuck into them. The two six-year-olds appeared, wanting to see everyone, but Dave ordered them upstairs with such sternness I was surprised Marie-Astrid didn’t rebuke him (they are not his children).

A feature of Marie-Astrid’s past Midsummer parties has been the Danish cuisine, but this year there was a change. Dave had given her a copy of a Nigella cookbook, and so we had: green beans with almonds; pasta shells stuffed with spinach and ricotta; mashed sweet potato; crispy onion rings; honey chocolate cake; zabaglione. Marie-Astrid also produced a huge home-made ice-cream, turned out of an elaborate mould and decorated with angelica (“basically it’s just cream and icing sugar”). To drink a bottle of trockenbeerenauslese - although it was very sweet it seemed to go well with the vegetarian meal (I made one glass last the whole meal).

Dave had warned me that the punch was very strong, but Sharon didn’t seem to have received this information. Obviously tipsy, over dinner she told us about her experiences internet dating, and her amorous meetings with “Fat Fingered Sean”. Emily said (dryly) that the only safe way to meet other people was to be introduced to them by one’s friends.

We talked about the economic situation. We talked about the government. Sharon talked about three closures of local companies - she works in a government unit that counsels employees involved in medium-scale redundancies.

“Most of them won’t travel to get new jobs” she said dismissively, as if washing her hands of them.

By this stage in the evening I had reached a point where I was determined to disagree with everything Sharon said, so I praised the loyalty these workers had towards their communities, and their decision to stay put.

“It’s their right to stay where they are” I said (other conversations were going on at the same time - it wasn’t as if our bickering was disrupting the party).

“Actually, it’s not their right” said Sharon. “They have to be prepared to take jobs that are offered to them. They just want everything handed to them on a plate.”

Then Sharon told us the “inside story” about council attempts to force a bus route through a pedestrian area. I opposed this bus route without really knowing what I was talking about. Sharon became very agitated about the pensioners who need the bus to get to the main post office (I pointed out that they wouldn’t need to go to the main post office if all the small post offices hadn’t been closed - four in the town we were discussing).

After the meal we had coffee by candlelight at the other end of the conservatory where four sofas had been arranged in a square. Outside it began to rain, and despite being the longest day the sky became dark from the rain clouds. The children came downstairs again and were given some ice cream.

Later we moved into the long lounge. I played Wii tennis with Nadia and then Sharon (room for manoeuvre was so limited she was hitting me with her Wii racket - possibly not accidentally). At the other end of the room everyone else danced around to Kylie (In My Arms), Bass hunter (All I Ever Wanted), Darren Styles etc.

These songs are the ones I remembered most from the party (I don’t usually listen to dance music):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RE8EAqneUbM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l--UJwBFCV0

Prime Minister's Questions 25th June 2008

Above: ham salad sandwich, mango and passion fruit panna cotta, Still Sea Breeze to drink (followed by a coffee, followed by a glass of water, followed by a shared packet of crisps).

Wednesday lunchtime, and a disappointing Prime Minister’s Questions. This should be an opportunity to ask the most powerful person in the country to explain his policies, account for his decisions, apologise for his mistakes (if any). Instead we had time-wasting, posturing, and planted questions of the “I’m very glad my honourable friend raised that important point” variety.

A stuttering Labour MP began the questions today by asking about Zimbabwe. Black mark to David Cameron for joining in this posturing about a situation we can do nothing about. The news bulletins and newspapers have been filled with repetitive reports about Zimbabwe which tell us nothing except that Robert Mugabe is a monster (and most people knew that already). BBC reporters are not allowed into Zimbabwe and so we see their clandestine correspondent “somewhere” in southern Africa whispering from the shadows about how bad things are (although given the history of finchamesque fakery, it could all have been mocked up in the studio). The opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai is optimistically represented as a saviour figure, and yet he will probably behave as badly as Mugabe once he has got into power (I am basing this on the experiences of Uganda after Amin, Kenya after Moi, Zaire-Congo after Mobutu etc). The situation is tragically sad, but do we really want to employ our politicians in pointless hand-wringing instead of getting on with their day-jobs?

Liberal leader Nick Clegg asked (yet again) about the so-called grievances of the Ghurkhas, who want backdated special treatment (more money, pensions, residence rights etc). Did no-one explain to them the compensation package when they first signed-up? I do not want my money spent on open-ended commitments of this kind (or Iraqi interpreters - Mr Blair should compensate those from his vast personal fortune).

Zimbabwe, the Ghurkhas and two Labour questions (ie planted questions about oil speculators and child poverty targets) and we had reached the half-way mark. Fifteen minutes had passed with no effective questioning of the Prime Minister on issues relevant to ordinary people. The Speaker did nothing about this situation.

The second half was not much better. There was a spectacularly theatrical question from the Labour farthest benches about the wisdom and sagacity of the Prime Minister in continuing to ensure the continuation of the NHS in its 60th year. Twenty-three minutes after the start of PMQs and the Speaker at last called a second Tory questioner (not that I am especially keen to hear Tories, but as things stand at the moment that is the only direction questions critical of the government are going to come from).

Then things fizzled out.

Probably the most interesting question of the day was asked by Andrew Neil back in the studio - why do “husband and wife team” Sir Nicholas and Lady Ann Winterton still have the Tory whip after their grossly immoral expenses claims were revealed (and later today were reports that Labour “husband and wife team” Ed Balls and Yvette Cooper were doing something dodgy over second home expenses - these “husband and wife” teams seem to be all over the place, as if the House of Commons was some extended episode of the game-show Mr & Mrs).

Today’s PMQs: http://www.number-10.gov.uk/output/Page306.asp

More on jackpot game-show Mr & Mrs: http://www.ukgameshows.com/page/index.php?title=Mr_and_Mrs

Only eat food when it’s in season

Above: usually I call once a week at one of the many farmshops near where I live (the pies are made at the local pub).

I am struggling to keep to my resolution to only eat food when it’s in season. Broadly I have three guidelines for the weekly shop: 1) unlimited amounts of fruit and vegetables when in season and bought locally; 2) sparing amounts of exotic fruit (oranges, peaches, the occasional lemon) bought from European countries with the vague and well-meaning hope that they have been transported by train; 3) very small amounts of exotic fruit that cannot be grown in Europe (bananas, coconuts, passion fruit) - organic and fair trade wherever possible. I have stopped eating apples out of season.

Tinned produce from across the world, frozen New Zealand lamb, New Zealand butter are all in my “exempt from restriction” category.

It is a struggle to keep to these guidelines.

I would like to shop only at farmshops and family-owned stores, but this is not always possible. Sooner or later, because of time constraints, I find myself doing a big shop in one of the supermarkets. That is when the horror and madness and cruelty (in the case of meat products) of the international food trade begins to hit you.



Above: these raspberries are in season, and Tescos makes a virtue of telling us so. But courgettes are also in season, yet Tescos is importing them from half-way across the world. Artichokes are also in season, but Tescos doesn’t stock them (except tinned).



Above: although it is difficult to shop locally and in season, it is also very rewarding. I especially enjoy learning about where the food I am eating comes from, and how it has got to me. For instance, the Daily Telegraph magazine had this fabulous article, written by Dan Lepard, about Buckinghamshire cherries - but Tescos has decided we have to make do with tasteless Italian cherries, or bottled cherries from Poland.

Not sure who Dan Lepard is, but he is a very fine writer. A Google search indicates he is represented by talent agency pfd. pfd has just been bought by Andrew Neil.

PS I know I decided a couple of years ago NEVER to shop in Tescos again, but I have now fallen out with Asda and have decided to give Tescos one last chance…

More on Dan Lepard: http://www.pfd.co.uk/clients/lepardd/b-aut.html

RL Quins vs Leeds 14th June 2008

We left the office about 4 (being a Saturday we were on our own time, so keeping hours didn’t matter). To Waterloo and a train to Twickenham. The late afternoon had become very warm - humid and sticky.

At Twickenham there was no problem finding the stadium as a steady stream of fans (both Leeds and Quins) was walking from the station along suburban semi-detached streets to the stadium (the Stoop Stadium in Langhorn Drive, not the national stadium).

We paid our money and went in at the south east corner (persistent smell of fried onions). We got ourselves a drink. We walked round to the Lexus stand and found our seats half-way up on the right.

Not impressed with Douglas’s two rugby mates who seemed a bit juvenile. The sun came down really hot (it was nearly six o’clock by this time). Nickleback’s Rockstar bawled out of the sound system.



On the pitch the long-haired Quins cheerleaders were performing their routines. Some of the players were warming up, lying on their backs on the grass and raising their pumped-up limbs like hydraulic weeble men. All around us the seats were filling up.



At six exactly the teams formally ran out onto the pitch, holding hands with the tiny mascots. Coloured tickertape fell down on them. Loud cheers around the stadium, everyone standing up.

The only players I recognised were Henry Paul (famous for being the brother of Robbie Paul) for RL Quins and Jamie Peacock for Leeds. Although they are physically tall, all the players looked short from where we were sitting because of the way their arm and leg muscles bulged out sideways. The game got off to a slow start, and then started to speed up.

On television rugby league looks a claustrophobic game because of all the close-ups, so I was surprised at how fast it was, and the distances the players covered. Generally Quins got the better of Leeds. At every Quins success dance music (Watch Out by Alex Gaudino) played loud over the sound system.

Half-time we went down to get some more beer. Everyone seemed to be drinking beer and eating chips. Tiffany (I think we’re alone now) played loudly.



Number 15 (Chris Melling) was the most impressive Quins player, with many flashes of real brilliance and the speed the crowd wanted. Unselfish, courageous, intelligent, he crashed into the Leeds opposition with a juddering impact you could see was inflicting pain and consternation. When a vicious little fight broke out he tried to calm things down (the referee sent one of the Leeds players into the sin bin).

Towards the end of the match it became obvious RL Quins was going to win. The chanting and singing in the Lexus stand became continuous. “Stand up young London” the sound system ordered, and everyone in the Lexus stand stood up and clapped and cheered.

RL Quins beat Leeds 28 - 24.



This was the first rugby league game I had been to. I was aware of rugby league from occasional stars like Sean Long and Robbie Paul (still famous for his performance in the 1996 Challenge Cup). Plus I had read This Sporting Life by David Storey.

Jamie Peacock’s autobiography No White Flag has just been published: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Jamie-Peacock-No-White-Flag/dp/0752446126

He obviously got the title from the Dido song, which is one of my favourites: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMB4xtnFlvo