W T F?

British journalism: The rampaging lion of integrity.


I can’t believe what I’m having to listen to/read/see.

I am not a political being at all, but the eulogizing of David Cameron in the majority of Britain’s press makes me distrust this country’s ability to govern itself.  Day after day, I am subjected to some  the most partial cloying reportage under the tattered banner of ‘free press’.  Witness today’s  article in the Evening Standard, by Vassi Chamberlain:

Okay so SamCam is not quite first lady yet but here’s one prediction we can unilaterally call: the frumpy political wife is out. Our Jackie O and JFK moment is nearly upon us. Finally, we can boast of the loveliness that is likely to be our new prime minister’s wife.

Does that girl ever look tired? Does she have a bad angle? Does she ever dress badly? Just look at last night: while Sarah Brown looked neat but dull in a short red mac and Miriam Clegg dowdy in cardi and messy hair, a pregnant Mrs Cameron was luminous, pretty and groomed in her purple shift.

Disgusting on several grounds.  First:  utterly subjective.  Second:  utterly irrelevant.  Third:  Criminally chauvinist (women beware women).  Fourth:  widely distributed!  The Evening Standard is given out f. o. c near tube stations, a welcome piece of tat to fill the commute home with.  Really, keep your fanzine pap to yourself in future,  Chamberlain – you demean the profession of journalism with your puerile adolescent simperings.

And the Standard’s article is the soft stuff, the filler, at the other extreme we have the font page of Murdoch’s Sun (see picture), so desperate to hammer its colours to the mast that it seems to have forgotten that its primary function is to report current events and has turned itself into a Tory jazz mag.

God I’m angry.  Give me news, not shit opinion.  Not your opinion.

This election has totally swung on what the majority of the right wing press in this country has churned out and while it is a shame that a section of the public hasn’t developed their own point of view and choose to vote according to what the Sun tells them, I vow to never again, even in jest, turn to a free paper or Murdoch ordained news source for my information on how the world is turning.

Sadly I can’t vouch the same for my compatriots.  And therefore, we can pretty much welcome in 5 years (at least) of Tory rule.

Amateurism rules!

Thick and fast at the moment, eh? An impressive rush of what Julia Cameron (no relation to David, thank God) would call abundance.  Here’s today’s missive.

Still on a bid to do better, be better – took myself on a jog round the park, finally used the incredible Japan Centre near Picadilly to buy wonton wrappers, lovely fresh sushi and a can of oolong tea – just soaking up London on the first warm day of the year.  And then I did the unthinkable – I entered the ICA.

Unthinkable because the place is so bloody aloof.  Firstly, the door is small, more of a portal, so you never sure what awaits you – in fact all you can see is a large white desk with an aloof intellectually coiffed person sat behind it.  They don’t want you to come in – you’re wearing trainers, not brogues and may smell of sweat.  Not the welcome I imagine Billy Childish would want, and it was his exhibition that I wanted to see.  So I made it through the door, did some pretend texting while I got my bearings (no way was I going to ask one of the desk people, they would probably point out that they were part of the exhibition and I was an idiot for not understanding).  Finally, after much pretending to look at phone while actually peering through my jogger’s fringe (in your face art person!)  I located the gallery, established that it was free and entered.  Tentatively,  behind a robust German family who had felt no need to indulge in any performance art to find it.

I really like Billy Childish – I don’t know anything about him and the ICA keep you guessing by leaving out those effusive notices that accompany exhibitions at the Tate and tell you everything about the artist, the picture, the medium, the response, the period.  I think I heard on the radio that the ICA is a bit hard up, so the only introductory note points you towards a perspex box  full of leaflets on the wall and suggests that if you want to know anything, pay a quid and read away.  Being a student, I declined – not only do I not have any money – I also have the brains (what with being a student) to work my own narrative out.

The first room I enter is some of his more recent paintings and they’re stunning – really bold, a crazy palette, often appearing unfinished, but great.  They contain stories, relationships that you can invent, not in that abstract wanky whistle on a toilet bowl way, but including things like shadowy half glimpsed figures near a dead body – Kent noir. I’ve been reliably informed by the art critic (my boyfriend) that his paintings are shit, but I disagree.  I liked looking at them up close and at distance and when I left the room I kept peeking my head round the corner to reconsider.

Then I have to bury my head back in my phone as I try to work out where the rest of the exhibition is (this place is so arch and unwelcoming).  I end up in a cafe where people are sitting with Apple Macs.  Clearly whatever they are ‘working on’ is dull, as their heads tilt upwards whenever the next stranger stumbles in. I pretend text my way up some stairs into two rooms joined by a flamboyant yellow suit with an arm band emblazoned with ‘British Art Resistance’.  Turns out Billy’s a big one for causes and movements and then rejecting said causes and movements.  I like him.  One room is dedicated to his poetry and these woodcut frontispieces he designed for his publishing house, Hangman – so there’s writing and art – the poetry celebrates his dyslexia, pays no attention to punctuation or spelling and is quite conversational but never derivative.   Next door is playing Billy’s tunes on a loop and displays much of the artwork he came up with for his many albums.  And I had no idea he was so prolific!  More guises than Prince!

The music supports the impression that I’m building up of Billy (no thanks to the ICA leaflet) – its ‘jangly and shouty, but melodic, not arty Fourtet weirdness.  Eminently danceable.  There are two people with fifteen haircuts apiece on their head and they’ve decided to glue themselves to headsets attached to a video display of Billy Childish moving around on a screen.  I can’t be bothered to wait.  I think Billy would approve.  Actually, he’d possibly stage his own live performance art in the opposite corner (time to pretend text?), but I decide its best to go.

I liked the artist so much, I looked him up on Wikipedia.  He’s big into Amateurism, which I am translating as ‘having a bash’ – this I like, be it attempting to make dim sum or performing feminist cabaret.  I am an acolyte and I have found my true leader.  Childish, this one’s for you.

Things I talk about when I talk about sitting on my arse

So.  I’m reading ‘What I talk about when I talk about running’ by Haruki Murakami.  Have you heard of it?  Its a really lovely, meditative read which makes me feel grounded and like I have space in my life and …yeah its a good read.  It basically Murakami’s elegy to running, why he loves it, where he does it, how it makes him feel, how he got into it…but its, like, SO much more than that, man.  You should read it.

So, I’m reading it and in it, Haruki is talking about how he handles that time honoured question which all runners face from non-runners – ‘What do you think about when you’re on a run? All that time, on the road?  On your own?  What’s in your head?’  And he answers ‘nothing’ – his mind goes nowhere – for him, the process of running allows him to switch off more successfully than any attempt at yoga or rhythmic breathing would do.

And I’m like SNAP!  Me too!  that’s what mine does!  Once I get going, I just zonk out.  I feel validated – like I’m in the club now because my mind goes nowhere when I run and so does Murakami’s.  That’s not a coincidence.  For long periods of time, we are zoned out together, just running.  I’m already planning the joint interview in Runner’s world.

Just as I’m about to search flickr for potential photographers for a shoot in the Gobi dessert to accompany said article, I actually bother to finish reading the paragraph.  Murakami is talking about the absence of thought for a period of HOURS, not minutes.  He is running marathons in a state of blissful calm.  I currently average about 25 minutes, tops – a mere powermince around a (rapidly decreasing) circumference patch of Hyde Park, before I start looking at pigeons and staring at other people who are running more succesfully than me.

I am calling off the shoot AND joint interview.

This summer I would like to attempt 10km – I currently manage 3.5 km.  Its not a matter of stamina – its boredom – i simply cannot zone out for the required length of time (nothing to do with fitness, no, no) and this is what is holding me back from becoming a top class runner (nothing to do with haphazard training routine and trainers that were last fit for purpose when I was climbing up an apparatus wall in primary school ).  No.  Its to do with the ZONING OUT.  My mental capacity is not sufficiently adjusted.  Aha.

So I see 2 paths before me – do I push for it, follow Murakami’s example and press on through the boredom factor that mindless jogging involves? Or do I give up and sit on the sofa, where I find I can zone out successfully without the undue effort of moving my limbs in the open air?

To misquote Robert Frost, I choose the path more arduous.  Not a massively bloggy choice is it?  You were hoping perhaps for a list of inane telly viewed and junky activites engaged in, that prevent me from trying to get better at something and  wrap me in a cynical knowing pop cultural bubble, where i talk only in phrases borrowed from old episodes of Blossom.  Guess again.  I am trying now to expand horizons – watch less shit, do more stuff.

Keep visiting – I promise to update and let you know how my aimless, unplanned and unclear manifesto for ‘being better’ is faring……including efforts at running and yoga and radio 4 and early nights and black and white films and learning spanish podcasts and all that honest improvement type of stuff…

True beauty lies within (a plastic packet)

Number 2 in my occasional series of things I love and why:  Cheap food.

And I don’t mean the kind of cheap food extolled by gastronomes in the Sunday supps – not for me home made scotch eggs or a hundred ways with chitterlings.  No, I mean genuinely cheap, processed food, that comes ready wrapped in aluminium or plastic as brightly coloured as the sauce it contains,preferably with an ingredients list in an obscure language, the sort of stuff you can only buy in bulk, 5 for £1, generally from a late night corner shop or discount store.  In fact they have to be from here- when I see these beauties on the shelves in Tesco – I feel a sort of regret, I can’t look them in the eye.  They look out of place, like porn would in a doctors surgery.

So what am I talking about?  I’m talking about cheap packet noodles, tinned breakfasts, Fray Bentos pies, tuna mayo in a can, campbells meatballs, dusty smash packets, crusha milkshake mix.  Gorgeous, the taste of youth, real youth, not in the poetic sense of  apples from the tree and tiffin.  I mean real youth.  Nostalgia food – my overriding childhood memory?  Eating noodles on a Friday night watching Golden girls.  Rock and roll.

I was an adventurous child and am still happier to eat something that resembles nothing than something that resembles something too closely (Pigs ear?  No thank you.  Bacon grill?  2 slices!) I appear to have given up most of my adolescent savourings, but I still get excited in corner shops at the strange things you can get on shelves – I swear that  the pickled eggs over the road are the same tin from when I first moved here.  I’m going to put a small undetectable-to the-human-eye mark on said tin and follow its movements….

One thing that has stayed with me is my love of the packet noodle, particularly chicken or curry flavour.  Basically because they taste the same – brothy chicken bovrily goodness wrapped around the slinkiest blandest of wheat based wiggles…delish.  I’m happy now.  I had them earlier.  With this in mind, I’m goin to share with you my classic recipe for eating these noodles, Aldi Ramen (giving provenance – Aldi – and style,  Ramen – after Wagamama)

Aldi Ramen

1 x packet noodles (Koka are good, not super noodles)

1 x tin tuna in oil

Spinach leaves (or if you’re really going for the cheap food angle, tinned chopped spinach works well).

Cook noodles according to packet instructions.  Add tuna (drained if preferred).  Add spinach (drained).  Keep heating for a bit till its all mixed in and lovely.  Add soy sauce if you want.

Pour into serving bowl.  Leave to cool for a bit.  Switch on Murder she wrote, eat noodles and enjoy.

My guilty secret.

Stuff these up your jacksi, Blumenthal.

A call for positivity

This is my promise to you, cybersphere.  I, Nefny, do promise to try and be a little less cynical in my daily goings around town and will try and see the light side of life and people, again.  In order to maintain this change in perspective and hopefully help my optimism blossom, I will keep an occasional series of blogs about things I love  and why i love them  …in no apparent order, on no apparent theme, with no apparent reason.  Just things I love.

Number 1.  Kurt Russell

5 words.  Big.  Trouble.  In.  Little.  China.  A great film, made even greater by Kurt’s willingness to send himself up.  Bruce Willis would have been too knowing, van Damme and his ilk too self-believing but Russell MAKES this film.  He’s a trucker, for godsake!  When will action stars realise that they genre that they work in is high camp and by aiming to promote some sort of zen message (I mean you Seagal), they make themselves ridiculous?  When?  This is surely one of the biggest concerns that our planet currently faces!

But…Kurt.  He’s just wonderful in this film, and pretty much everything else too.  Point in hand – he turns up in films which I’d forgotten he was in and its always a nice surprise!  Stargate anyone?  Had too much of James Spader?  Lets cut to a shot of Kurt to liven things up.  Even my boyfriend greets him like a long lost darts partner in the pub;  ‘Ah, Mr Russell, forgot you were in this’.  We know there are some quality moments ahead.  The fact that he topped the Onion’s underrated actor list says it all.  Never won a major acting award?  Who cares when you’ve got some hot wheels and are welcome at every roadhouse in the state……..

No one else would be as good in The Thing or Escape from LA.  He genuinely seems to have fun in his roles. He is the thinking woman’s Patrick Swayze.  All hail the Kurt!

All hail the Kurt!

A little list

5 things to do on the tube whenyou’ve finished your book, your ipod has run out and the games on your mobile are crap  (this list may expand as I discover more….)

1.  Play which of your fellow tubefarers would you eat first if the carriage got stuck underground for a long period of time and you went mad and couldn’t get out and had to eat someone to survive?

2.  Play which of your fellow tubefarers could you beat in a fight? (Perhaps the same answer as question number 1)

3.  If your opposite passenger was an animal, which animal would they be.

4.  Bet on whether the new entry to your carriage will make it to the seat in time or…. oh no….fall over into adjacent passenger’s lap.

5.  Play ‘spot the stylist’ shoe’. This involves browsing whichever shit free paper is lying around at your feet, identifying starlets on the red carpet who are wearing shoes that are visibly too big for them (usually a big gap at the heel of the shoe which should be filled with ankle).  So called as they are clearly the quarry of some harrassed stylist’s assistant who has picked up the nearest stillie and shoved on starlet’s foot to complete the ensemble, regardless of shoe size – foot incompatibility (see visual).

6.  Guess the smell.

Okay, that’s 6, but I knew it was a grower.Rocking the stylist shoe

Suggestions welcome.