Le petit Nicolas schemes his way back to the top, despite his criminal cases. Will he be given another chance? Will it make any difference to France’s failing fortunes and Europe’s little local difficulties? Probably not, mes amis.
The gardening lobby are a dismissive lot. According to them everything else is as exciting as watching paint dry. Bog Sage, these are the people that watch grass grow!
A garden should consist of a flat lawn and that’s it. Nice and simple, nothing fancy but the world is full of would-be Percy Thrower’s. Who really wants the hassle of extra work and of doing it outdoors? Mowing, sowing, cutting, potting, digging, raking- boring. All those -ings are nothing more than a recipe for sleeping. Endlessly working, always renovating, this gardening charade is nothing more than being an eternal horticultural barber. Just give it a Kojak and be done with. Read more…
In case no-one knows, today Oz is going to the Polls. It’s a bit different from the UK.
Polling Day is always a Saturday, the polls open at 8.00 am and shut at 6.00 pm and voting is compulsory – fines apply for not voting – and every polling station has a sausage sizzle (no fines apply for not buying or eating the same). Read more…
“Unlike the truest kind of genius, he did not grow artistically”
These words of critic, John Simon, on the shortcomings of the career of Tennessee Williams could be applied to the musical form that is self-proclaimed as classical. Classical, my baroque left Bechstein pedal.
The classicists are stuck in a time warp. They listen, over and over again, to the same pieces of orchestral music; a blaring maelstrom of noise. And they party like it’s 1799. Honestly, some of the ghastly tunes sound as if they’ve been composed by a deaf man. And the titles are boring New York street numbers: Mozart’s piano concerto no.25, Haydn’s symphony no. 76, Bach’s cantata no. 211, Balfour’s bagpipe quartet no.1872.
This dripping tap is driving me Miss Daisy. Is there a plumber in the house? Help!
The day the music died. Again.
Good evening, all you old rock ‘n rollers, it’s the resident music editor here with all the gen on the latest in the world of rock. The experimental rock band, Radiohead, have released their ninth studio album, A Moon Shaped Pool, to much admiration from the critics. Radiohead’s jagged alternative music with its subliminal lyrics, nasal singing and robotic humming reference points has always left my ears unamused. I’m going to play the irony card: they’re too cheery for me. Yet, the hypnotic quality of the sounds draws me back to them time and time again. There must be something in the grooves.
Now onto serious matters. The name of Radiohead can be added to the list of victims in this age of terror. Those of you that follow the news will have heard of the Radiohead fans that were attacked by Islamists in a record store in Istanbul while they were listening to a stream of the new album. These fundamentalists didn’t like that the fans were drinking alcohol and listening to music during the holy month of Ramadan. There you go, you’re not even safe in the secular state of Turkey.
A much less serious problem concerns the video for their new single, Burn the Witch. The inspiration for this animated film was an old TV programme for children. The creators of the original work are unhappy that their copyright was used without permission. They weren’t chuffed either with the dark tones of the story. It could end in court. The video also pays homage to an old horror classic. I’ll let you watch to find out what it is.
Play it loud and prepare to be hypnotised.
With the whole world now revolving around the times of 3pm CET, 6pm CET and 9pm CET important duties have to be sandwiched between the Euro 2016 games or discarded altogether. Discarsions, for me, have included no trampolining practice or parkouring. Other pieces of business have to be rushed. Blogging has been put on the Croatian flares backburner.
Then a window of opportunity presented itself. Right now.
Pass the open window
For it bodes ill
The sash could break
Your neck on its sill
The Oscar Pistorius show is back for a re-run. It made fascinating telly the first time, combining the salty ingredients of celebrity, disabled sport, gun mania and the South African judiciary. But its story-line was flawed, allowing the anti-hero to escape with a soft sentence.
Common-sense prevailed though when it came round again. People who fire guns into small rooms, suspecting they are occupied, know they can kill –dolus eventualis. And Oscar did just that.
Now it’s round three, a determined recycling of the evidence for the benefit of a court that obviously can’t read transcripts too well. Does every murderer in SA get such considerate, elaborate treatment? I hope so but I doubt it.
The teacher that ran our school football team was ahead of his times; he made us warm up before a match. We would do stretches and shuttle runs. Our opponents would mock us for this ridiculous new science. Nowadays only a fool doesn’t warm up. Even our five-a-side team of crocks bend their arthritic bones before an important fixture.
It’s not just sports that you need to prepare your organs for the big event. Vocalists have to exercise their tonsils by tuning up with a scale of doh, ray, me, fah, soh, la, ti (at this point the joker in the band will stand on the singer’s toes) DO-TOH.
Old cars had to be warmed up. You had to choke them.
Even writing blogs needs a warming hand. Your fingers hover over that big, empty page like a skier at the top of the piste. 1,2,3 you’re off, banging the keys until you reach the bottom.
Sometimes you make gold, other times…