Digital Theatre

In The Sunday Times I write about Digital Theatre.

The Catholics are Coming

Good grief! Benedict's cunning Rock Cakes are tapping up our boys! Now this is what Oik Nick should be getting upset about. It is, after all, a back-door attempt to drag us into the clutches of Europe. Today a few vicars, tomorrow rabid dogs, Silvio Berlusconi and smells and bells in all things. But, then again, I don't suppose Neckless Nick much likes the havering Anglos. A touch of the Vatican lash could be just the thing.

Spitfires

Thanks to the pheasant fiasco, I missed Nick Griffin on Question Time. A pity, it sounded like fun. I'm interested in his fondness for the idea of the racial purity of the English. Racial purity is a laughable concept to anybody who knows anything about genetics, almost as laughable, in fact, as that creepy obsession with ancestry. Go back a few hundred years and everybody is descended from everybody else. Family trees are a joke and I reckon I should be King, but so, probably, should you. Anyway, claiming racial purity for the English is more than just laughable, it's insane. We are such hopeless mongrels, as Daniel Defoe pointed out with riotous good humour (thanks, Andrew). Of course, there's cultural Englishness, involving mild depression, good humour (again) and general bafflement, and I'm all for that. But this Griffin oik seems to have none of these qualities. He seems to think our natural condition is flying Spitfires and Lancasters. But we only do that when we are really pissed off and even then with great reluctance.

Philosophy and the Pheasant

My determination to post again is proving hard to sustain. I was going to discuss Galen Strawson's views on death, but, immediately, two things went wrong. First, I realised the essay was philosophy for the sake of it, a terrible thing. I remember Galen at Cambridge. He had immensely long and thick blond hair. I wonder if this affected his subsequent intellectual development. The second thing that went wrong was that Blogger told me I was suffering from an error called bX-9d2teg, which I then learned doesn't exist. It was my very own error. I ground to a halt. But then I realised I have long nurtured strong feelings about pheasants. I was at a grand London club last night and I made the mistake I usually make at such places. I ordered the pheasant. It always feels like the right thing to do. The bird was, as usual, disgusting. Pheasants are not made to be eaten. In fact, the only reason they are eaten is that treating them as food justifies shooting them. People shoot them because they are big, dim-witted and slow-moving birds. I don't believe anybody not actually blind or paralytically drunk has ever fired at a pheasant and missed. Were it not that they are so common, we would appreciate their exotic beauty and the gentle comedy of their desperately slow and wildly-flapping take-off. Pheasant shooters would then be seen for the cads they are.

Smith, Gladwell, Humphrys and the Empty Restaurant

Okay, okay, here's a blog post. I had lunch with my new friend Robert Rowland Smith yesterday. It was all perfectly postmodern, aided by the fact that we were, for most of the time, the only two people in the upstairs restaurant at the Groucho. All the 'specials' were just for us. Anyway, Robert was on Today this morning talking to the increasingly postmodern John Humphrys. (I'm worried about this word, postmodern. I'm reading Naomi Klein and she uses it to describe the neolibs and necocons. I can see what she means, but surely it fits more comfortably with anti-ideologues like me and Robert. Or perhaps not. Being postmodern, I don't know anything.) Judging by his blog post, Robert wasn't entirely happy with the way the interview went. He says, in response, '... what we need, in a world of increasingly narrow thinking styles, is to keep our minds open not just to new ideas, but new ways of knowing in general.' Having read that I came across this from Malcolm Gladwell - 'Aspiring journalists should stop going to journalism programs and go to some other kind of grad school. If I was studying today I would go get a master's in statistics, and maybe do a bunch of accounting courses and then write from that perspective. I think that's the way to survive. The role of the generalist is diminishing. Journalism has to get smarter.' Well, I agree with Robert (he was a Prize Fellow at All Soul's so disagreeing with him takes preparation) and I don't agree with Gladwell, though if it's just a question of survival and making loads of wonga, then I guess Malc knows a thing or two. Robert's for open-minded generalists, Malc's for specialists. Being a generalist myself I don't doubt that our role is diminishing, but I don't get the assumption that being smarter means studying statistics, accounting, whatever. That, in my book, sounds dumber. In a sense, the whole point of being a journalist lies in not being a specialist and the whole point of our contemporary predicament is that we are surrounded by specialists - pundits - who, as we know, are almost always wrong about everything. Generalists may not get things exactly right but they seldom gets things exactly wrong. Anyway, I just thought I'd say that because people have been moaning that I haven't been posting and now I am.

Richard Wilson

In The Sunday Times I interview Richard Wilson.

Mantel and Simspons

In The Sunday Times I interview Hilary Mantel, Booker Prize winner. I also review John Ortved's Simpsons Confidential but it does not seem to be on the web site. Ah, thanks, Johnny.

Mandelson and Rankin

In The Sunday Times:

*I travel to China with Lord Mandelson in the course of which trip he says something rather surprising.

*I talk to Ian Rankin about graphic novels.

Wild Horses

It has come to my attention that Subo covers Wild Horses on her first album. This was a song written by Mick 'n' Keef when the latter was inspired by the great Gram Parsons. It is, I note, 334th in the Rolling Stone list of greatest songs of all time, a list which mysteriously excludes Schubert's An die Musik. Wild Horses is a fine country song with exceptional lyrics. I text Nige with the Subo news. 'I wish I didn't know that,' he replies.

Generation A

Sorry. Busy. But, meanwhile, you should read my interview with Douglas Coupland and Ironic Daughter's Spectator article on Damien Hirst at St Paul's.