Cocktails and Records

I don’t particularly like ITV’s celebrity reality show I’m a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!. This is for a number of reasons, none of which have anything to do with me being hugely adverse to ‘reality’ formats - I’d be the first to admit that I’ve had my moments of serious addiction to Big Brother, Celebrity Big Brother, Wife Swap, Faking It, The X Factor, Pop Idol et. al. (and thankfully, I’ve been able  to successfully recover from all of them).

I’m a Celebrity has always irked me though.

Allow me to come over all po-faced for a moment, but Australia and Australian wildlife really doesn’t deserve to be associated with useless B grade celebrities.

The centrepiece of I’m a Celebrity is the bush tucker trials where viewers vote to submit the celebrity kicking-bag of the moment to torture via native animals. So we have celebrities wading through swarming angry insects, eating live wriggly worms and being covered in curious creeping beetles. Of course, we’re meant to laugh at the hapless celebrity, but I’m guessing that the animals don’t particularly like it either.

Obviously I didn’t grow up in a rainforest (or an ITV jungle filmset in Queensland for that matter), but I did spend my formative years in a typical Australian country town. At school, on TV and in first-aid classes we learnt about our country’s insects and animals, including some of the nastier ones. We discovered how they sustain an fascinating and distinctive eco-system, how they’ve provided a food source for Aboriginal people for thousands of years and exactly what to do when a box jelly fish decides to attack you.

There is a peculiar populist British media view of Australia as a land of non-stop sunshine, where blonde-haired, BBQ loving, lager drinkers constantly risk being eaten by sharks and crocodiles as they go swimming during their lunchbreaks. And with its portrayal of Australia’s wildlife as something to gleefully torture celebrities with, I’m a Celebrity isn’t really doing much to help the cause.

Yes, Australia does have lots of creepy crawlies, but apart from a few notable exceptions, they do mostly keep to themselves and are a vital part of what makes the country unique. They deserve better than being eaten by Robert Kilroy-Silk.

We went to see Robert Peston, the BBC’s Business Editor, speak at the London School of Economics on Monday night.

Lets look at the good things first. Robert Peston is an excellent speaker who clearly, precisely and humorously detailed exactly why he thinks we are in the current economic predicament that we are.

Unfortunately, what he had to say was pretty depressing. To sum up his analysis of the causes of the world financial crisis in 3 over-simplified points:

1. Greed - we all wanted too much and borrowed too much. 125% unsecured mortgages indeed.
2. Ignorance - nobody, from bankers and hedgefund managers to politicians and journalists, ever really understood what the hell was going on. This is the ‘Grandma Test’, Robert Peston says, where if you can’t explain what a collateralised debt obligation is to your Grandma and how many you’ve got, then don’t do it.
3. Naivity - our illustrious leaders stuck their heads in the sand for too long, never believing that it could all go pear-shaped. i.e. they really, really did believe that Alan Greenspan was right, the City was great and that there would be no more boom and bust cycles.

Like how you learn the textbook causes of World War I and II at school, Robert Peston had no problems outlining step-by-step how we got into this recession. Yes, it’s all clear now. So why wasn’t it at the time? Economics always works best in hindsight, doesn’t it?

It is Mickey Mouse’s 80th birthday today.

Now I was never a huge fan of Mickey. He’s always been just a bit too much of a goody-two-shoes for my taste. Donald Duck was always my favourite in the ‘Disney family’. If there was anyone who could be relied on to completely screw up everything and respond in the most extreme and stupidly funny way possible it was Donald. Mickey is just too reliable, predictable and dull. Watching a Mickey Mouse cartoon is kind of like what it would be like watching a cartoon about me. i.e. boring.

Still I have a soft spot for Mickey, mainly because for me he symbolises a mystical mid-century America that I’ve long been entranced with. I grew up watching repeats of Disney cartoons from the 40s and 50s and fell in love with that land of neat template houses, wirelesses playing Rosemary Clooney, big beautifully polished cars, cheeky talking squirrels and domestic bliss. Everything was neat, orderly and nice in Disney cartoons.

Some might say this was just unrealistic and dull, but I loved this mythical world of mid-period Disney. That’s my Mickey Mouse and my Disney. I find most Disney cartoons since 1970’s The Aristocats insipid and sickly (except for Toy Story). Nothing compares to childhood illusions, eh?

When I was forced to spend time with the Careers Advisor in high school we were taught about ‘transferable skills’. Mr Shaddock told us that things like ‘report writing’, ‘timekeeping’ and ‘having initiative’ were useful assets to have and that once we had gained experience demonstrating them in one job, we would be able to use this to get another one.

In these celebrity filled days of ours it seems that the best skill to have is ‘being famous’. Once you are famous in one domain, you can apply your fame to any other post requiring that that skill:

• John Sergeant is a news reporter, therefore he is qualified to host comedy panel programmes.
• Ann Widdecombe is an MP, therefore she is perfectly suited to presenting TV documentaries and providing ‘Dear Deirdre’ style problem page advice.
• Vinnie Jones can play football, therefore he can sustain an acting career despite not being able to act.
• Boy George, Paul Weller, Mica Paris etc. can all sing, therefore they have all managed to present rubbish radio shows on Radio 2.
• etc. etc.

I don’t know why, but this really, really annoys me. Probably because I am jealous - I have a number of random skills which I think could easily be applied to other jobs:

• My ability to look contemptuously at people (e.g. who who block entrances and exits on trains) is a fine skill for any job in an independent music shop.
• My general ineptitude at maths combined with my confidence with pointless management jargon should easily snare me a senior role at any top bank.
• And my talent for lying (‘you really look fabulous in that merangue wedding dress’) surely qualifies me for a career in politics.

I’ve been feeling incredibly tired all week. I’ve slept, but not soundly, because for reasons known only to itself, my night time brain appears to be deliberately sabotaging my sleep.

On Sunday night I dreamt that I was at a Jason Donovan concert. Despite the fact that I’ve never seen him live, own none of his music and have failed to sit through a full episode of Neighbours yet, it felt disturbingly accurate.

On Monday night I woke up at 3am with ‘Don’t Give Up On Us’ by David Soul on repeat in my head. This tiresome load of sap managed to keep me unnecessarily awake for a good hour.

In a Tuesday night dream I found myself happily swinging on some swings in a local park with comedian Paul Merton as the Bay City Rollers played at the nearby bandstand.

And this morning, as if it could possibly get any worse, my brain decided that a good way to start the day would be to sing long-forgotten Stock, Aitken & Waterman wonder ‘I’d Rather Jack’ by The Reynolds Girls over and over again.

What is going on in my sub-conscious? Why is it torturing me like this? Can it possibly get any worse than The Reynolds Girls? And whatever happened to them anyway?!

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, 1720

Over the years my view of hospitals and indeed, much of the medical profession, has largely been shaped by three things: 

1. 18th century novels where nasty, bulbous nosed surgeons gleefully hack off people’s legs to the sounds of bloodcurdling screams
2. sensationalist news items where bed-less patients line filthy corridors, constantly fending off the superbugs which lurk in every corner
3. university years spent with med students and student doctors who spent more time imbibing illegal substances than studying.

So, as you might have gathered, I tend to avoid the places.

However I seem to have spent too much time in hospitals over the past few days. This has given me the opportunity to reassess my opinion of hospitals, albeit from two completely different and unfairly matched experiences …

Example one
UCL Hospital, Euston

A friend is currently laid up on the 14th floor of this brand spanking new hospital. When he’s bored with the superb view of London and the Post Office Tower from his bed, he kicks back and enjoys the hospital entertainment system. Although most of his ward is silent and empty, everything in it sparkles except the racist orderlies*.

He says has been grilled by concerned medical consultants in a way he has never experienced before and now feels more confident about his medical condition. He seems happy and is feeling better. I didn’t see any hung-over student doctors or hear any bloodcurdling screams.

Result: positive (apart from the racism).

Example two
St. Barts, Smithfields

I took my ailing knee to this ancient London hospital for extensive prodding and poking. The building may have ‘a sense of history’ about it, but I sadly failed to appreciate this during my visit. Finding the correct part of out-patients to go to was a quest in itself and when I finally emerged from the rabbit warren, the Receptionist spent five minutes struggling with the NHS computer system and moaning to me about the other patients.

As I lay back in the treatment room, I watched the same sense of history help the ceiling come away and the paint peel off the walls. But the surroundings were clean, the nursing staff were lovely and unanesthetised amputation was not suggested.

Result: positive (apart from the ‘challenging’ building and risk of falling bits of ceiling undoing the good work of the staff).  

 
*I should point out that this was racism directed at other staff members, rather than patients, but still…

Liverpool Street station by Norman Walsh

Last week, somewhere between the couch and the TV set, I managed to trip, twist my leg and do some damage to a ligament in my knee. The result of this was four days trapped inside the house and several days of gingerly stepping into the outside world.

Apart from the pain, the benefits of the former were quite good (working from home, being able to watch Danger Mouse and the Flintstones on BBC morning TV). However, the benefits of the latter have been more mixed. I have been rewarded with a horrible insight into what must be the realities of daily life for many people (not to mention the chap with the bad leg the other week).

The discomforting thing is not the now occasional tweak of pain in my knee. It is the fear. I am petrified of public transport, busy stations and bustling streets.

I have to walk slower than usual and on stairs I find myself clinging to the rails. As other people wizz by and push past, I feel buffeted about by their speed. At this slower tempo, I seem separate to the crowd, almost like I’m invisible. Knowing that my reflexes are not yet back up to speed, I feel completely and utterly vulnerable. It’s like with one accidental push I’d be flat on my face. And no one would probably notice. 

Could this be what old age is like? Scary.

I was also going to wax lyrical this morning about the earth-shattering, history making event that is Barack Obama winning the American presidential elections, but something way more important than that has come up.

Cocktails and Records has been selected as a mundane blog over at the ultra-mundane website. Funnily enough, they picked the recent post about banking, rather than any of the usual boring public transport anecdotes or even the ever-popular Paul Weller hair strand (309 hits and counting).

Being a shallow marketing person, I obviously think that any publicity is good publicity, so I’d like to take this opportunity to sincerely welcome any new readers to my world of mundanity…

Can I ask you a personal question? Do you like work? I mean, apart from the practicalities of your pay packet, do you actually need the thought of work to get you out of bed in the morning and through the day?

I don’t. For me, there are a million better things to fill my time with - there are books to read, languages to learn, music to play, gardens to dig, museums to visit, films to watch, meals to cook, walks to enjoy, opinions to blog, short courses to study, daytime Radio 4 to be listened to etc. etc. I don’t hate my job by any means but quite frankly, I find that it gets in the way of life. If I could feasibly quit tomorrow and have nothing to do with the world of work ever again, I would.

I’d always naively assumed that everyone shared this fantasy. But suddenly I keep meeting mothers on maternity leave who can’t keep away, retirees who aren’t coping, people who work on the weekends for fun and others who simply admit that they need its structure to give their life value and meaning. Fair enough, I suppose, but this all still feels completely and utterly foreign to me.

So am I in some kind of weird minority here? What do you think?

In 1946 George Orwell wrote an essay called ‘Books v. Cigarettes’. In the essay he examines his personal expenditure and works out that he spends around £25 a year on books and magazines. This might seem excessive to some people but, he concludes, compared to the £40 he spends on alcohol and cigarettes (a packet of woodbines every day and half a pint of mild six days a week), the cost of reading is pretty reasonable.

Inspired by this, I decided that it would be interesting to work out my own spending habits. Of course, the minute I even started thinking about how much just one recent excursion to the excellent Gerry’s Wines and Spirits emporium in Soho had set me back, I concluded that this probably wasn’t a good idea. I couldn’t face the truth.

Instead, I turned to the trusty National Statistics site for some national figures. The 2007 Family Spending survey tells me that the average yearly household expenditure for cigarettes and alcohol is £577.20 (of this, £234 is on ciggies) and for books, newspapers and magazines a lowly £176.80.

Orwell himself dug up the national stats from 1944. These revealed that individual spending on booze and smokes was around £23 per head per year. With no figures available for book sales, Orwell speculates on how much the British public spends on books -  £1 a year, on around three books, is a reasonable assumption he decides.

So taking into consideration that these figures come from the midst of World War II and that books are most likely cheaper now, the market for books has actually improved. But probably not so much in other, less financial, ways. To sum up his essay Orwell writes:

‘…[this] is not a proud record for a country which is nearly 100% literate and where the ordinary man spends more on cigarettes then an Indian peasant has for his whole livelihood. And if our book consumption remains as low as it has been, at least let us admit that it is because reading is a less exciting pastime than going to the dogs, the pictures or the pub, and not because books, whether bought or borrowed are too expensive.’

Or perhaps as delightfully snobby Guardian writer and English Professor, John Sutherland, says in his 2006 book How to Read a Novel, ‘90% of books are crap’.