Peru, the Nazca Lines and Greenpeace

Southern Peru’s cultural and historical legacy includes two items of particular interest, both of which I am privileged to have seen. It is hardly surprising that the first of these, the Nazca Lines, was designated a World Heritage Site in 1994. The plant and animal geoglyphs, including the famous hummingbird, can only be fully appreciated from the air. It will be for evermore debated how an ancient civilisation could have been so ingenious as to create something of such lasting wonder.

Not quite so well known, but just as intriguing, is “Mummy Juanita”, the remnants of a teenage girl now at rest in the Museo Santuarios de Altura in Arequipa, long after her ritual sacrifice on the top of the Ampato mountain 500 years ago. As legend would have it, this was all part of Incan tradition involving the duty to appease their gods. Juanita’s fate was a single blow to the head, in marked contrast to other sacrificial victims who were strangled or buried alive at the top of the peak.

So if we now fast forward to the present day, and read about the act of vandalism that Greenpeace activists inflicted upon the Nazca Lines in their quest for publicity alongside the Lima climate conference, we might ask exactly how much appeasement the Incan gods might be entitled to call for. One or two ideas spring to mind…

Delilah and the Despots

No, that’s not the name of a new band of X Factor hopefuls, however amusing it would be to see the reaction of the judges’ panel when they turned up for their first audition. And indeed to see the subsequent look on Louis Walsh’s face if they made it through to the judges’ houses round and he was yet again chosen to mentor the groups.

What feelings come to mind, however, when the Tom Jones classic hits the airwaves? They might include “what a singer – these talent show kids aren’t fit to polish his shoes” or “oh God, not that dreary old ballad again”, or even “I prefer the Alex Harvey version.” They certainly wouldn’t include “that song encourages domestic violence, it’s unfit to be used as a Welsh rugby anthem.”

Or maybe, as this Telegraph article reports, they would…..

I wonder if it is now time, in the face of laughable but ever increasing nonsense of this kind, to coin a new phrase to describe the individuals who seem to make it their life’s mission to go around looking for signs of offence in everything they see, hear or read, desperately seeking something new to condemn or to ban? Given the surreptitious growth of what might very reasonably be labelled the Dangerously Earnest Squadron of Professional Offence Takers, how about “DESPOTS”? Well, they do so often appear to be dead set on wielding absolute unlimited power over those whose written and spoken communication is not entirely to their liking…

And if we go one step further, how about a rallying call for the oppressed victims of professional offence taking, otherwise known as the overwhelming majority of the British public? There’s certainly a case for “Stand up to the DESPOTS – you know it makes sense”.

Now, all we need is a brave politician to champion the cause of eradicating DESPOTism. Anyone know one?

Plebgate: Taking On The Patricians - and a New Insult

So the judge in last week’s Plebgate trial concluded in his judgment that Andrew Mitchell MP did, on the balance of probabilities, use the word ‘pleb’ when he had his Do You Know Who I Am moment with the Downing Street policeman.

In its modern setting, the P-word (no, not policeman) is clearly equated by its users with yob, oik, chav, lout and similar short and punchy terms for the user’s perceived inferiors. Let’s not stray into the scope for adjectival embellishment, which proved to be David Mellor’s undoing when he chose the wrong taxi driver to pick on, and let’s instead take a step back to ancient Rome.

For who stood above the plebeians in the Roman pecking order? The patricians did. Going back to the very origins of Rome, the pleb class included any tribe without advisers to the ultimate leader of the city state, whereas the patrician class had such advisers. Shades of the political class of modern times, it would appear, Or to be really cynical, the governing class in contrast with the governed class.

But all was not lost for the average plebeian. Despite the burden they faced of not being permitted to know the laws by which they were governed – now it’s beginning to sound like the EU, and the manner in which our political class do their best to brush this painful truth under the carpet – they were able to pursue upward mobility. The great military leader Gaius Marius was a pleb, as indeed was the celebrated advocate Cicero. They could be landowners. They had at their disposal the ultimate weapon of the ‘secessio plebis’, a staged withdrawal from the city in the manner of a general strike, and in time the ‘tribunus plebis’ (tribune of the plebs) role developed, whereby their appointed leader could veto acts of the Roman state and could on rare occasions impose a blanket veto over all government functions. Hmm. In modern times, the rallying call ‘Farage for Tribunus Plebis’ might sound rather clunky, but then again…

One further thought. There was a Roman class even lower than the plebeians, the non-landowners described as ‘capite censi’ (tr: chosen by the head – that’s where ‘headcount’ comes from – and both Cs are hard). Gaius Marius brought them into prominence by allowing them to enlist into the army. So is there scope to introduce a new insult from classical times into the English language? “Get out of my way, you horrible little capite census” – note use of singular – might attract blank looks at first but it could be away for the Mitchells and Mellors of this world to portray themselves as even more superior to those on the receiving end of their talking down. Maybe in due course we could just abbreviate it to ‘capcen’. You saw it here first.

Anyone looking for further modern day tales about conflict between patricians and plebeians could always try either of my books Hatred Ridicule & Contempt (especially as that also involves a libel trial) and Infernal Coalition – prologues above, purchase links on the side.

UK Overseas Aid for.....France?

‘The growing unease over Britain’s continued commitment to overseas aid targets, regardless of the massive ongoing budget deficit, intensified today as news broke of the latest projects underwritten by UK taxpayers. Reports that British cash had been lavished on water standpipes in Toulouse, newly developed vaccines in Lyons, tattoo removal clinics in Cannes and emergency food drops in the Paris banlieues, over and above the irrigation projects bringing new hope to the impoverished French farming community, were badly received, with consternation in the Commons and demonstrations in Whitehall.

Beleaguered Secretary of State Justine Greening, defying calls for her resignation, asserted that there was little difference between the latest donations and those that had gone very recently to emerging superpowers and space programme pioneers India and China. “Charity does not begin at home. Britain is not an island. We all need to dig deep to support the victims of unforeseeable natural disasters. They were stupid enough to elect Francois Hollande in the first place…hang on, I think that should have been edited out.” Austin Mitchell’s interruption of Miss Greening’s statement with “Entente cordiale my arse” earned him expulsion from the Chamber.

Backbencher disquiet was not calmed when it emerged that the distribution of British aid had fallen to the sole discretion of a shadowy non-government organisation known only by the letters EU, its reputation notorious for the administrative expenses regularly offset from funds flowing into its coffers, and for the lifestyle enjoyed by its hierarchy…’

Yes, it’s only satire. But when we read about the EU’s peremptory demand for the UK to pay £1.7 billion into its coffers, in consequence of the British economy having performed better than expected, and the news in parallel that France is set to benefit to the tune of £790 million worth of rebates in the course of the UK surcharge being redistributed, isn’t there an echo of the old saying that today’s satire is tomorrow’s reality?

And tomorrow may be sooner than you think, Mr Cameron. What will you do about it? There’s still time for you to be a nonconformist. But not much.

Lady Gaga: Artrave Birmingham Review

Long ago, hell might have frozen over before I could ever have contemplated attending anything like a Lady Gaga concert. Not any longer. There’s no denying the talent of a genuinely versatile singer, songwriter and pianist whose first three albums speak for themselves and whose ability to capture media interest is legendary. But what about a full on live performance, especially the opening date of her UK tour in Birmingham? What chord would this strike with someone more deserving the label of big dinosaur than little monster?

Not the most promising of starts, regrettably. Two eminently forgettable support acts. The first, well meaning but out of his depth. The second, a painfully thudding and excruciatingly loud synthesised beat accompanied by a crazed performer whose sole contribution appeared to be waving her arms by way of accompaniment. Insider tip: arrive at 8.45 ready for the full two hour Gaga set, or just spend the first hour playing a private game spotting the fan best dressed for the occasion. Plenty of competition.

So what to expect when the curtain dropped and Gaga herself appears through the stage set tunnel, accompanied by a battalion of dancers and dressed in the first of many outrageous costumes, launching straight into a sequence of songs from her latest album Artpop? Thankfully, no diva behaviour and no lip synching. Just raw focused energy, hitting all the right notes. All the more so when the music briefly paused and she gave the first of her mini speeches, proclaiming forcefully that no artist needs managers or record labels. Will this deter Simon Cowell from pulling every string he can to get her on the X Factor live shows this time around? I rather doubt it. She’d be a match for him.

Anyone hoping for a break from the new material after Venus (and the seashell bikini) would soon have been reassured via Just Dance, Poker Face, Telephone and Paparazzi in quick succession. Soon followed by my own choice for song of the night, You and I – Gaga the born again rock chick, as she worked the crowd alongside the guitarists who had followed her to the end of the walkway? Well, any song that begins with ‘Been a long time…’ with a fast lead guitar solo midway through is going to have a certain attraction. If there’s any truth in the suggestion that her next project, hard on the heels of her jazz duet collaboration with Tony Bennett, is going to venture into classic rock, it’s going to be well worth the wait.

Back to the Artrave, with a slow piano version of Born This Way, not forgetting the two gay fans invited up from the audience to sit beside Gaga by way of thanks for their fan mail. Bang Bang was undoubtedly a tribute to Cher, not just the song but the costume and giant black wig, even if Judas might have been a less complementary gesture in Madonna’s direction. No further explanation needed for Bad Romance, before Swine (‘you’re just a pig inside a human body’ – wonder who that one was really meant for?) to end the main set and a final piano solo performance of Gypsy for the encore. Not forgetting the last costume change, the long white flowing number.

The true little monsters will have loved it. The undecided and the curious will have experienced a full blown assault on the senses. But in an undeniably positive way. I’m glad I went. And if Gaga’s next project is going to involve classic rock, there really will be no stopping her.

Happy Golden Wedding Anniversary, Charlie Watts

Cast your mind back to the English music scene in the 60s and 70s. Think for a moment about the aspiring rock bands who wanted nothing to do with the squeaky clean, goody two shoes, boy next door appearance of many of their rivals, and how they set about the task of proving themselves as nonconformists. It might start with a sneering image or a more defiant dress sense. It might then progress to destruction of their instruments on stage at the end of their live shows, and onwards to the use of hotel corridors for Harley Davidson trials, and hotel bedroom windows for the ejection of clunky old style TV sets from high floors. Not to mention the groupies and the opportunities to take advantage.

So how would any of those musicians achieve, in turn, the unlikely accolade of nonconformist within a nonconformist band? Let’s leave aside the fact that some of the present day survivors from old times would go back to their hotels after the show and tidy the rooms. Back to the past we shall go. As legend would have it, one particular member of a ‘bad boy’ group spurned the wild party and the groupies and went to bed at a civilised hour. Upon being rudely awakened by a 3am phone call, he is said to have washed, shaved, and put on a suit, before descending to the ground floor and expressing his displeasure with the antisocial caller. No doubt we can forgive the fact that he did so by punching the miscreant in the face, requesting in rather robust terms not to be described as ‘my drummer’ by ‘my singer’ ever again.

And on that rather contrived note, what better way to congratulate Charlie Watts of the Rolling Stones on celebrating his 50^th wedding anniversary, a truly rare milestone for any member of one of our long established rock bands?

Scotland Decides: a Blackadder flashback

With the Scottish Independence Referendum campaign drawing to a close, it is time to resurrect a long forgotten episode of the much underrated Blackadder 1, Born To Be King, and update one of the closing scenes where Prince Edmund has unwisely challenged Lord Dougal McAngus, Duke of Argyll, to a duel.

With Edmund’s feeble weapon having been shattered by one blow from McAngus’ broadsword, leaving Edmund cowering before McAngus’ feet begging for mercy, let us update the characters: -

McAngus/Salmond: Right now, let’s see the Black Adder wriggle out of this one.

Edmund/Cameron: No, wait! I’ll give you everything I own. Everything.

McAngus/Salmond: Uh-huh?

Edmund/Cameron: Yes. I’m hardly a rich man.

(Voice offstage: You’re hardly a man at all.)

Edmund/Cameron: But my horse must be worth a thousand ducats. I can sell my wardrobe, the pride of my life, my swords, my curtains, my socks, and my fighting cocks, my servants I can live without, except perhaps he who oils my rack. And then, my most intimate treasures. My collection of antique codpieces. My wigs for state occasions, my wigs for private occasions, and my wigs for humorous occasions... (ad nauseam)

McAngus/Salmond: Ha ha ha ha ha ha. No, that’s nowhere near enough. (He rises to strike, and then stops.) I’m only kidding. I’m quite interested in the wigs. I hope life doesn’t get too dull for you, not being able to pass laws over Scotland any more. Ha ha!

Edmund/Cameron: Yes. Ha ha ha ha. (To himself.) I wouldn’t pass water over Scotland.

It may, of course, be a step too far to move on to the closing scene, where Edmund/Cameron carries out a cunning plan recommended by Baldrick/Boris some time before the St Leonard’s Day Celebrations/Scottish Independence Referendum, involving the accidental insertion of a certain Scotsman’s head into a loaded cannon, followed by a mighty boom. So I will simply close, in the face of our PM having all but entirely debased himself this week with the offers he has made (regardless of what Parliament might think) in support of a No vote, with an observation that I can see many attractions in Scottish independence. But I will keep them to myself.