Archive for the ‘Random’ Category

Little England

Monday, August 25th, 2008

We found ourselves in the Berkshire town of Beaconsfield this weekend. We were there to visit Bekonscot, a model village built by a bored London accountant in 1929 to entertain his friends. The folly started off as a few houses in his garden but wound up as a series of 6 inter-connected model villages over 1½ acres.

By some strange co-incidence we discovered whilst there that Beaconsfield was noneother than the home of Enid Blyton. And what a perfect coupling. Like Enid Blyton, Bekonscot Model Village seeks to ‘depict an idealised view of life in the 1930s’ - in other words the kind of England where the people who voted for Enid Blyton as their favourite author might aspire to live.

The England where:

  1. Everyone lives in thatched roof cottages (even if they are fire prone)
  2. Happy families pose by their Aston Martins
  3. Fox hunting is fine way to spend a weekend
  4. Evangelical missionaries can be found converting the villagers
  5. Morris dancers are given free reign in the traffic-less town square

To be fair though, Bekonscot Model Village does have a colliery - its tucked away in the corner on the way out, just past the cable car…

Lashings of ginger beer

Wednesday, August 20th, 2008

I’m sorry to be getting all angsty this past week, but what is wrong with this country at the moment?

It was only earlier this week that I was bemoaning the fact that nearly half of the British population allegedly believe that the BBC isn’t good value for money. Now I discover that the nation’s favourite author is Enid Blyton.

Now, I’ve nothing against Enid Blyton. I devoured her books when I was a child and there will always be a very firm place in my heart for the faraway tree, the wishing chair, Mr Meddle, Mr Pink Whistle, the naughtiest girl in the school, Julian, Dick and Anne, George and Timmy the dog et. al.

Enid taught me all about the mysterious ‘English’ world of ginger beer, school monitors, lacrosse, conkers, bluebell woods, secret passwords and hidden passageways, wobbling blancmanges, sugar mice, moors, mists and marshes and outsmarting smugglers  - but I would never say that she was my favourite author.

Although I loved her imagination and her alternate world where fairies bake ‘pop biscuits’ and children are always right, even as a child I knew that Enid’s stories were simplistic, repetitive and churned out at a rate of knots.

Citing Enid Blyton (or indeed Roald Dahl and JK Rowling, second and third on the list respectively) as your favourite author when you’re over the age of 12 is more than just longing wistfully for some nostalgic past that never existed, it’s a refusal to engage with adult issues full stop. Surely the people who voted for her don’t still read about the adventures of the Secret Seven with a torch under the blankets? Haven’t they moved on?

On the positive side, it’s nice that people don’t have to pretend that they love Chaucer or Shakespeare; they can unashamedly state that their favourite author is the woman behind the ghastly Noddy…

Rant over. Normal service (i.e. boring anecdotes about public transport etc.) will resume next week.

To license fee or not to license fee

Monday, August 18th, 2008

I read in today’s Guardian that their exclusive poll (aren’t they all?) reveals that 47% of respondents disagree that the BBC license fee is good value for money.

Are these people the biggest bunch of cheapskates ever?
And what the heck do they think is good value for money?

The license fee presently costs £139.50  a year. For that you get ten ‘interactive’ TV channels, a plethora of radio stations and a pretty damn good internet service - all without ads. Granted, there is some absolute tosh on the BBC which I do resent paying for, but there is also some great stuff as well and, as an entertainment / information / learning resource, I think that the BBC does pretty well.

To put it into perspective, £139.50 (at London prices) gets you approximately one of the following:

  1. 50 pints and min. 25 evenings of pub politics
  2. 18 mid-priced CDs
  3. 5 trips to see a typical band or comedy act at a typical mid-capacity venue
  4. 18 trips to the movies
  5. 116 chip butties
  6. entry to 12 ‘blockbuster’ exhibitions at the British Museum, Natural History Museum or V&A
  7. 3 quarters of a typical 12 week language course

OR

a whole year of all of:

  1. the Today programme
  2. Gideon Coe, Gilles Peterson, Steve Lamacq, Tony Blackburn, Stuart Maconie and Mark Radcliffe
  3. Later… and Just a Minute
  4. Mark Kermode’s film reviews and repeats of the proper Batman on BBC4
  5. Masterchef and the Food Programme
  6. Simon Scharma, David Starkey, David Attenborough and Melvyn Bragg
  7. excellent online language learning support materials

But then again I live in London so, according to the survey, I would say that.

How would you describe your ethnic background?

Friday, August 15th, 2008

Such a simple question, such big issues. For much of my working life I have had to deal with the inevitable ‘ethnicity’ questions which are a fact of life for anyone who deals with statistical monitoring in the public sector, or indeed for any organisation who cares about who their users are.

For despite what various members of the general public think, it is actually useful for organisations to know who their users are - the age groups they fall into, the areas they live, whether they have a disability or not, and yes, their ethnic or cultural background. It gives you an indication of whether your products or services are appealing to all of the different people who live in this country - which, if you’re receiving your funding from the tax payer, is the responsible thing to do.

Yes, the categories for ethnicity that are forced upon us from central government are crude, presumptuous and tiresome. They expect people to fall neatly into categories like White (British, Irish, ‘Other’), Black (Caribbean, African, ‘Other’), Asian (Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi, ‘other’), Chinese, ‘Mixed’, ‘Other’ etc. etc. and don’t separate ‘ethnic identity’ from ‘cultural identity’ (e.g. people born in another country, but who consider themselves to be British).

But people can always write in their own description and, even if they’re limited and not as precise as we would like, the categories do have their uses. They allow you to compare your organisations data to the national average for example.

Still in the organisations I’ve worked for,  users routinely take matters into their own hands, crossing out the standard government classifications and writing in their own versions. Typical responses I’ve seen over the years include:

  1. crossing out British and writing in English, Welsh, Scottish
  2. crossing out British and writing in Yorkshire, Essex etc.
  3. crossing out British and writing in Londoner, Glaswegian etc.
  4. crossing out everything except ‘White’ and annotating it e.g. I’m not British, I’m a London, a white Londoner, one of a dying breed.
  5. the life story. e.g. my mother was Russian, my father is Spanish, his mum lived in Malaysia etc.
  6. the novelty response e.g. ‘I live in my own little world, but it’s alright, they know me there.’
  7. the indignant response e.g. ‘I do not like filling in ethnicity - we are all human beings, whatever creed, colour or race’
  8. the paranoid torrent of abuse e.g. ‘*£$&% you! I will not be spied on by you or anyone else’

As I go through the responses, I’m always alternately fascinated / disturbed about, not just what the responses say about how people feel about national identity, but being asked about it. No one ever complains about questions asking whether they have a disability or not, or even if they live locally, but there is something about the ethnicity question which just touches a nerve with people. And it can’t just be the limiting tick-box categories.

You read books?

Monday, August 11th, 2008

An excerpt from a conversation between myself and an advertising sales person for a certain well-known free newspaper available in London:

Them: So you read X newspaper?
Me: Actually, I don’t. Not frequently anyway.
Them: You don’t? Do you live in London?
Me: Yes.
Them: And you travel on the tube?
Me: Yes.
Them: And you don’t read X?
Me: No.
Them: Really?
Me: Yes.
Them: You must read Y [well-known rival London freesheet] then?
Me: No, I don’t really read that either.
Them: What do you do on the tube then?
Me: I read my book…
Them: Really… You read books? Well, I guess you could do that… But let me just confirm - you don’t read X?
Me: No.
Them: Or Y?
Me: No.
Them: You read books?
Me: Look, would you just send me your rate card?
Them: Certainly, but you really should read X when you’re next on the tube.

After my experience with the Chancer last week, I’m beginning to feel like I live in an alternative travel universe. Or is reading a book on public transport actually really weird and I just haven’t realised it yet?

The Swift family

Sunday, August 10th, 2008

Photo from Jeff Blincow, Science Museum

On Saturday morning our house awoke to the sound of silence for the first time in months. This could only mean one thing - the family of swifts that have been living outside of our bedroom window have set off on their migration back to Africa.

Since arriving to their summer home in our roof eave in May, the swifts have been noisy, early rising visitors with no qualms about sharing their overexcited screeches with the world at 4am. But despite wanting to kill them on more than one post-late-night-at-the-pub occassion, I have grown rather fond of them.

Over the past 3 months I have watched the parents go hunting, heard the noise double in decibels as their eggs hatched and demanded feeding, and marvelled as the family dived around the skies.

And now they’re gone. They’re off on their 22,000 kilometre journey to Southern Africa where they won’t touch the ground all Winter. I hope that they make it and are back safely next summer.

www.londons-swifts.org.uk

I hear there’s a sports festival happening…

Friday, August 8th, 2008

Ah, the Beijing Olympics are finally upon us. And considering my attitude to the Games (glorified sports day for weirdo sports) I’m taken back by how interested I am in the damn things this year… I think it’s the political side of things, the fact that China is considerably more interesting/contentious than Athens, Sydney or Atlanta could ever be. I am just dying to know how it will go and whether China will emerge from the end of Olympic juggernaut with the kudos it so desperately longs for.

What has really struck me so far is the complete lack of buzz in the UK about the core element of the Olympics - sport. There is little mention of sport, the hype is all around pollution and politics.

This is best exemplified by the fact that major news outlets (BBC news, Newsnight, Channel 4 news etc.) have had teams of reporters in Beijing all week updating us on protests, human rights, Tibet, censorship, pollution etc. but there is only minimal sports coverage planned for prime time. We get one hour of highlights each evening at 7pm on BBC1. They aren’t even showing a complete replay of the opening ceremony, the most expensive and most fretted about opening ceremony of all time.

In Australia, the Games would be clogging up the airwaves all night, every night across two channels. There would be no escape from relentless analysis about the swimming team’s swimsuits and the weightlifting team’s weight. But here, no one seems to particularly care.

God, I love this country.*

 
* Except when its airwaves are clogged with up European football tournaments that England and Scotland haven’t even qualified for.

The chancer

Tuesday, August 5th, 2008

Another train journey, another encounter with a fellow Londoner. This time I was walking through the station when a middle aged man came up to me. He was wearing a suit and looked relatively normal. Not that this means anything.

‘Excuse me’  he says ‘but do you know how to get to Holloway from here?’
‘Not exactly, but I think there is a bus. The guys who work here at the station will probably know the number.’
‘Thanks.’

I assume the encounter is over and think nothing of it. He however, has had a bright idea:

‘Do you want to come for a drink?’
‘No, sorry.’
I say.
‘What, don’t you like Holloway?’
‘No. I just don’t want to go for a drink. I’m going home.’
‘Are you gay?’

Obviously I must be. Not wanting to go for a drink in Holloway with some random bloke I’ve exchanged two sentences with at the station clearly indicates that I am gay. If only all things in life were so easily determined.

‘I’m going now.’  I say as I turn to leave.
‘Please tell me you’re gay.’ he sighs as I walk away.

Would it have been kinder to tell him I was?