The Ministry Of Truth

The CNN-YouTube debates.

What an excellent way to get young people interested in politics.   This week- the Democratic candidates face up to questions from punters delivered on a big screen by YoTube.  Feel the fear.

Diary of the wet days by Armando Iannucci.

Monday I wake to scenes of natural devastation. All around me I see flood victims weeping, and all of them saying one thing: Why isn’t David Cameron here? Some of them, stuck in their upstairs bedrooms, have improvised makeshift signs from wallpaper and blood, spelling out IT’S IMPERATIVE THE LEADER OF THE OPPOSITION IS IN THIS COUNTRY TO TELL US WHAT HE’D DO IF HE WAS IN CHARGE.

I am no Ingmar Bergman afficionado; I think I’ve only seen one of his movies in its entirety, Fanny & Alexander, and that was at least a decade ago.  News today of his death, though, made me think, “I must catch part of the season of his films that will inevitably follow.”  But then I realised TV no longer indulges in such frippery as film retrospectives.

As recently as a decade ago, when a director of Bergman’s stature or a revered actor died, a season of his films would appear on the BBC within a couple of months.

Now, no dice.

I’m aware that some of the retrospectives were tenuous in the extreme but, given the proliferation of digital BBC channels, I’m astonished and deeply disappointed that no time can be found amid the repeats of Two Pints Of Lager… and Fuck Off, I’m Fat on BBC3 or the repeats of Fantabulosa! and documentaries about gay politicians on BBC Four for occasional retrospectives on the likes of Bergman.

I fully appreciate that a series of Bergman’s Greatest Hits is not suitable for ITV or Sky Movies – but isn’t that precisely why public service broadcasting was invented?

A cultural weekend.

First, the movie of the musical remake of the movie Hairspray: very good indeed.  This movie was everything that the execrable movie of Chicago, for example, was not – ie vibrant, well directed and choreographed (both roles performed by Adam Shankman) and very well sung, danced and acted.  John Travolta is no more convincing as a drag queen than Divine but attacks the role with some vigour; Michelle Pfeiffer (who, unlike Travolta, clearly hasn’t even been in the vague proximity of a pie this past decade) is delicious as a human Cruella De Ville.  And the kids are almost uniformly excellent.  Cheesier than the Cheshire Cheese Festival.

Secondly, the first episode of the much-anticipated-in-our-household Studio 60 On The Sunset Strip.  While the pilot episode didn’t exactly blow our minds, it already seems sad that something that started so promisingly (and it was a most auspicious pilot) could have died on its arse within a couple of months and been cancelled after just 22 episodes.  One interesting morsel to emerge from the pre-publicity is that Studio 60 was the top rated show in the US last autumn for those using digital video recorders such as TiVo and its ilk and, therefore, was attractive to the higher-end demographic.  There seems no doubt that there is a market for intelligent drama on mainstream television but it’s clearly not a market that can be easily reached within the confines of the traditional content delivery model.  Another one for the DVD box set, I suspect.

Interesting, too, that it is the second Aaron Sorkin drama (after the massively underrated Sports Night) about the machinations of network television that has died at the hands of, er, network television executives.  Perhaps the truths are a little too close to home for the likes of ABC and NBC to tolerate.

The first episode is available for free streaming on 4OD for the next few days – if possible (and it won’t be for anyone running anything other than Windows XP on a PC…) watch the first few minutes because the exhilarating opening – the superbly-cast Judd Hirsch’s Peter Finch moment – is absolutely great:

This is not going to be a very good show tonight and I think you should change the channel. Change the channel - go ahead, right now. Better yet, turn off the TV, OK? Hell no, I know it seems like this is supposed to be funny but tomorrow you’re going to find out that it wasn’t, and by that time I’ll be fired. Now this, this is not sup… this is not a sketch.

This show used to be cutting-edge political and social satire. But it’s gotten lobotomized, by a candy-ass broadcast network hellbent on doing nothing that might challenge their audience. We were about to do a sketch that you’ve seen already about 500 times. Yeah, no one’s going to confuse George Bush with George Plimpton. Now, we get it.

We’re all being lobotomized by this country’s most influential industry, that’s just thrown in the towel on any effort to do anything that doesn’t include the courting of 12-year-old boys. Not even the smart 12-year-olds – the stupid ones, the idiots, of which there are plenty thanks in no small measure to this network. So why don’t you just change the channel? Turn off your TV? Do it right now. Go ahead.

They say there’s a struggle between art and commerce. Well, there’s always been a struggle between art and commerce and I’m telling you, art is getting its ass kicked. And it’s making us mean and it’s making us bitchy; it’s making us cheap punks. That’s not who we are. People are having contests to see how much they can be like Donald Trump?! We’re eating worms for money?! “Who Wants To Screw My Sister?” Guys are getting killed in a war that’s got theme music and a logo.

That remote in your hand is a crack pipe. Oh yeah, every once in a while we pretend to be appalled. It’s pornography, and it’s not even good pornography. They’re just this side of snuff films and friends, that’s what’s next ‘cos that’s all that’s left.

And the two things that make them scared gutless are the FCC and every psycho religious cult that gets positively horny at the very mention of a boycott. These are the people they’re afraid of. This prissy, feckless, off-the-charts ,greed-filled whorehouse of a network, I do believe, is thoroughly unpatriotic, mother— [show cuts to title screen]

Thirdly, I’m discovering The Wire, HBO’s lauded-to-the-skies cop show – three years later than the rest of the world, but better late than never, eh?  The FX Channel is repeating the entire series from the first episode.  So far (after one episode), so mediocre.  But sufficient people whose views I respect insist it’s the best thing ever to heat up a cathode ray tube that I will persevere for a while yet.

Finally, we also went to see The Simpsons Movie.  It’s good but not great.  If you like The Simpsons on the telly, you’ll like the movie – though the relegation of series regulars like Montgomery Burns and Apu to bit part players is a disappointment.  If you don’t like the TV series, then the movie is not going to convert you.

On the drive home from the cinema I looked in the rear view mirror to see a silver Audi being driven by a thirtysomething man, with a larger-than-lifesize inflatable Homer Simpson in the front passenger seat.

There are times you can’t help but wonder if universal suffrage is quite as good an idea as it’s cracked up to be.

A short while ago a man from Facilities came up to my desk holding eight riser blocks, as requested by the man who carried out my workstation ergonomic assessment.

My desk has five legs.

The chap from Facilities sucked his teeth and said, “I’ve only got eight blocks and I need ten for this desk.”

The man from Facilities put five of the blocks in place, one under each desk leg, and went off to talk to HR.

The man from Facilities came back a few moments later with a woman from HR.

“They told us to order eight blocks but we need ten,” the woman from HR said to me.  “I wouldn’t mind but we incur a £12 carriage charge every time we place an order.”

“I’ve got an idea,” said the man from Facilities as he walked off again.

A few moments later the man from Facilities reappeared brandishing the Yellow Pages.

The man from Facilities fitted the eight riser blocks to four of my desk’s legs and jammed the Yellow Pages under the fifth.

“Great,” I said, rocking the desk for stability and getting not one millimetre of movement.  “It needs to go up another couple of inches but it already feels much more comfortable.”

“I’m not sure that’s stable,” said the woman from HR.

The woman from HR turned to the man from Facilities: “I’m not happy leaving it like that.  And it certainly can’t go any higher.  Besides, we might need that Yellow Pages.”

So the man from Facilities removed all the riser blocks, and the Yellow Pages, and my desk returned to its original height.

“I think we might need to get you a new desk,” said the woman from HR.  “That was the other recommendation but we thought we’d try this first.  Margaret will be back in next week so I’ll make a note to talk to her about it then.  Bear with us.  We’re getting there slowly.”

“Don’t worry,” said the man from Facilities cheerfully, before proceeding to tell us about how he’s 5′8″ tall but can’t fit in the back seat of a Ford Fiesta because, like me, he’s got short legs and a long body.

Then the man from Facilities and the woman from HR both went away.

“I don’t suppose that Yellow Pages has any listings for physiotherapists, does it?” I asked, but the woman from HR had gone and could not hear me.

Sometimes in life you suffer moments of such toe-curling, ball-shrivelling, embarrassment, you never forget them. A few hours back I had one of these out-of-body experiences. They are just that because you look down at yourself fumbling and floundering like a fool. I was sitting at my desk in an office on the outskirts of a Northern Home Counties town minding my own business when out of nowhere an email arrived from a so-called friend. Now I would have continued minding my own business had that email not…

Oh, fuck it.  Nick“y” Fcuking Campbell, you are a pus-oozing, gangrenous cock and you deserve to end your days working in HR.

The Department for Work and Pensions confirms that my JSA claim was “terminated” on 28 June.

The Department for Work and Pensions does not know why that terminated claim was not “processed” at the time.

The Department for Work and Pensions confirms that, as the termination of my JSA claim was not processed, my final JSA payment and my P45 have not yet been issued.

The Department for Work and Pensions believes there is a reasonable chance that I should have my P45 by the middle of next week, meaning I’ll only pay emergency tax on one month’s salary.  So that’s alright, then.

The Department for Work and Pensions does not feel the need to apologise for any inconvenience caused.

Bullseye.

On the steps of the presidential offices in Kigali, sheltered by a pergola from the burning midday sun, David Cameron turned to face a Rwandan television reporter. First, she wanted to know about his efforts to out-trump Labour on international development, and then she asked: “What do you have to say about continuing with your visit to Rwanda when part of your constituency is currently devastated by floods?”

The Conservative leader is not the first, or the last, politician to travel abroad and be dogged by questions on the home front; he might, however, be forgiven for not expecting a curve-ball to come from the direction it did.

A burst of surprised laughter went through the British media. With Rwanda’s president, Paul Kagame, by his side, the Tory leader smiled wanly and dead-batted the question.

Eventually this post will relate to togger, but for the moment bear with me.  I’ve wanted to write these thoughts down for a while.  This post may well be longer than the Minister’s more pithy rants as well.

Cycling is for me the ultimate sport.  It combines the best aspects of every sport, and adds a unique, stunning quality of its own.  Yes football will always be my first love, and quite frankly too much cycling would be tedious.  However once a year I am reminded that a football game is but a 3 minute pop song when compared to the Mozart symphony of the Tour de France.

Yet once again drugs casts a shadow.  Vinokourov was already out of the running by the time he rolled down the ramp for Saturday’s time trial. The thirty or forty stitches he needed after a crash to stop his kneecaps falling on to the road put paid to any chances he had. Yet for whatever reason, he would appear to have someone else’s blood in him on Saturday. I’d love to see the explanation for that. It is still difficult to fathom why he would do this at this point in the race – he really was never going to overcome the deficit he had accrued, particularly as he lost nearly 30 minutes the next day.

The Tour started with drugs being an issue as technically there is still no winner of the 2006 Tour de France.  This is because last year Floyd Landis failed a urine sample after hauling back an 8 minute deficit in an otherwise heroic ride. Much of his winning margin was down to the tactical farce that his rival teams acted out that day, but it would appear (subject to a forthcoming judgement) that that little extra bit was down to an injection. And yet, and yet….

David Duffield, Eurosport’s (very) veteran cycling commentator does not believe Floyd Landis would have doped himself. This is because as he put it, it would be suicidal. The day he failed the test was the last chance Landis had to win the Tour. Put simply he had to win that day, and by a significant margin, or lose the Tour. But given that was his mission, the one thing he could guarantee is that he would be dope tested at the end of the day.  This is because whether you win a stage or you are leading overall you will be tested (plus 20 or so others each day). The current leader, Michael Rasmussen, has been tested 14 times in 15 competitive days. Three of those have been blood tests. And he will have been blood and urine tested in the days leading up to the start of the Tour.  It would appear that for cyclists the testing now revolves not round steroids, masking agents or diuretics, but their very DNA.

So in a way it goes back to what Goethe said – “We see what we look for and we look for what we know.” Perhaps the best that can be said for cycling is that it knows it has a problem, looks for it, and sees it.

Sadly togger does not. (I told you I’d get round to it eventually). The Italian FA dope tests were introduced as a result of the Festina drug scandal in the 1998.  They test two players from each Serie A team who have played in each match. It’s perhaps because of this that the Italian FA has caught more high profile cases than any other FA. They would appear to know they have a problem and find it.

Sadly others do not.  After all, it is hard to believe that Jaap Stam started to play under the most stringent drugs testing rules in football and only then decided to take drugs. (To stop the Minister breaking out in a nervous sweat, I will point out that I am not suggesting anyone at MUFC or others connected with Jaap Stam would be involved in the supply of performance enhancing drugs).

Equally, while Rio Ferdinand was shinning over a wall at United’s Carrington training ground, David Millar was in a police station admitting to taking EPO despite never having failed a drugs test.

And therein lies the difference – culturally cycling has moved to a point where at least some people will admit without failing a test; football has only recently, and reluctantly signed up to WADA.  David Millar had to speak to the police; Rio Ferdinand didn’t speak to anyone.  David Millar got banned for 2 years despite not actually failing a test; Rio Ferdinand only got an 8 month ban for failing to even take a test.  Team CSC will commission 800 independent drugs tests on their riders this year; the FA does not allow clubs to test their own players at all. Team CSC is putting the results of drugs testing on its website; the latest results on the FA website are for the 2002/2003 season.  Vino’s team, Astana, has already left the Tour without waiting for the results of the confirmatory B sample; in contrast can you name an athlete or sports player who has not pushed their case to the very last appeal before accepting the evidence?

However, the FA will tell you that their’s is the better system because it tests at all levels.  Actually the number tested in the 12 months 2006-7 was 1645.  1645 out of every single player who played any role within an FA sanctioned game at any level in the country.  Given that the top four English leagues make 24,288 player selections between them each season, and approximately 3.6 million people play the game according to Sport England, that is a genuinely pathetic attempt to police a problem.  And quite frankly, who gives a monkey’s if the inside left for the Dog and Duck second XI had a bit of blow the night before?  I want to know that when I buy my season ticket I’m not paying to watch us win unfairly or lose unjustly.

And to cap it all, I’ve just seen Colin Moynihan saying that British Athletics may look at removing its life ban for those who fail to take 3 drug tests.  The point is, Lord Subbuteo, that techology means the dopers are always one step ahead of the testers, but you are infinitely less likely to catch them if there is no punishment for failing to take the test in the first place.

As a wise person said when asked if all cyclists were on drugs, “If only they were, it would make things so much simpler.”

I am not a Harry Potter fan.  I tried to read one of the books but I found it precisely what it is – a book for children that sparked no intellectual interest in me and wasn’t actually all that well written.  I went to see one of the movies but I found it precisely what it is – a kids’ movie with mediocre child actors and a lot of CGI to distract attention from the spaces where the plot, characterisation, dialogue and story should be.

I find it risible to take a train journey (as I did on Sunday) and see more adults in my carriage reading the new Potter book than kids: I do not “get” why the books should appeal to anyone who has gone through puberty with the exception of those who started reading the series as 10-year-olds in 1997 and now, at 20, want to see how things end.

Don’t get me wrong – I am in favour of literacy among children.  I am, however, more in favour of children reading children’s books than I am of adults reading children’s books.  I am 35 years old: if I were to be in the moshpit at a boy band concert or playing on the swings in the park alongside some nine year olds I would be reported to the police.

I also do not believe that it is the role of the BBC to hype commercial ventures to the sky by devoting countless broadcast hours to something that should rise or fall on its own merits or on the basis of paid advertising.  I switched on BBC Radio 3 on Saturday morning and – fuck me gently with a chainsaw – it was playing music from the Harry Potter movies.  (This is not a Potter/Rowling-specific complaint; the breathtaking amount of time handed over to Alistair Campbell to promote the self-admittedly incomplete diaries of an unelected official was, to my mind, at least as shameful an episode for the BBC as its fiddling of Blue Peter phone-ins.)

The really interesting thing to me is that the latest Potter book sold only 2.7 million books in the UK in its first weekend.  It’s a phenomenal amount of books but I say “only” because, by way of example, last night’s Big Brother was watched by 3.1 million people.

The nauseating blanket media coverage attracted by Big Brother is routinely criticised as disproportionate to its commercial appeal.  There are over 60 million people in the UK, so 57 million of them were, after all, doing something other than watching Channel 4 at 9pm last night – yet Big Brother continues to generate daily four-page supplements in the redtops and is deemed worthy of a realtime blog on the Guardian website every eviction night.

If 2.7 million Britons have bought copies of Harry Potter And You Think This Is The Last One But I’ve Left The Door Open For Another Volume In Ten Years’ Time If In Case I Get Down To My Last Forty Million Quid, then 57.5 million Britons haven’t.  Yet to judge from the media coverage, you would think that the figures should be reversed.

Nothing exists in this country unless it exists in the eyes of the people who comprise the media.  And nothing exists in the media unless it is celebriticised and hyped.  So well done Bloomsbury on milking the cow for the last time for a while.  And well done “Dame” Jo Rowling – didn’t she look lovely at the National History Museum reading at the weekend?

I want nothing this society’s got…