September 2011 Archives

Since last week's post about my mum on Facebook I've been doing some deeper thinking about identity; I probably shouldn't have bothered.

Perhaps part of my resistance to accepting her as a Facebook friend was to do with my own sense of self. Even at this age there are probably still sides to my character that I wouldn't share with my mum. I think also that everyone's online character is in some way an exaggeration of themselves, it may be real-time but it is not entirely real.

My mum has joined Facebook; no good can come of this. My daughter has already had to 'clean up' her wall to avoid potential embarrassment or awkward questions from her nan.

I only know about the 'clean up' as she told me, I wouldn't otherwise since I'm not allowed to be her Facebook friend. Using this principle - eldest child rejects parent - I could similarly ignore my mother's request. It speaks volumes that I wonder if she'd actually notice.

The service manager on this morning's train had a pleasant voice. He exhibited the clear enunciation once displayed by BBC announcers before a drive for regionalism took hold. He was also aware of his 'talent' taking every opportunity to demonstrate it.

Consequently those of us on the train for a long time got to hear the list of upcoming stations at very regular intervals.

His fault was in Tring. The train doesn't usually stop there but today was doing so for some never-specified reason; it did give him an extra couple of opportunities to demonstrate his vocal qualities though so he was probably secretly happy. The fault was in his choice of words as we would today apparently be also 'touching-down in Tring'.

It was probably the lure of alliteration that trapped him, he couldn't resist it. Sadly this particular train never goes fast enough to touch-down anywhere and whilst he may have the voice of a pilot, it just made him sound like he was showing off.

A bit more wit and we'd all have welcomed his interruptions. To later tell us that the delayed arrival was due to the unavoidable stop at Tring was to compound the problem, since no-one had told us why we were stopping there in the first instance. Is anything entirely unavoidable? We don't usually stop there so it is easily avoided. Had he added some local knowledge or riffed upon the onomatopoeic qualities of the town's name he could've saved the day.

I didn't need any further proof that impressive delivery without equal content eventually fails, certainly not during my commute.

I have been resisting the temptation to write about West Bromwich Albion. Though they always say you should write about 'what you know', it just seemed that to do so is to extend the agony. I had no desire to think any more about them or waste even more time or energy on the topic.

I managed to avoid the subject for the best part of last season, a season that had started brightly enough before slumping in the middle, leading to the departure of yet another manager. I wasn't sure about that decision but it seemed we'd replaced Roberto with someone who at least got the team organised and into winning ways.

I have regularly commented upon the Mercury Music Prize, usually at some point around the nominations or event and if I wasn't suffering from post-holiday-lethargy I'd probably link to those pieces here. To summarise them all though, I've generally been fairly dismissive about the random nature of it all and the dubious prospect of comparing different genres within one award.

Some of that critique possibly still holds water and you wouldn't compare carpet with chocolate, but since they would obviously argue that all music is an audio art form perhaps you can make a judgement on which is the best, or most artistic.

In retrospect it was a bit like shooting fish in a barrel or punching Piers Morgan in the face, too easy and too obvious. Indeed with the 2011 award going to PJ Harvey you might think that a pattern is starting to emerge where I'd initially claimed there was none. If the 'MMP' has a function it may be in recognising music that challenges, that has an artistic purpose beyond sell-out-commerciality.

It wasn't only the start of a new term, but a new school year and the introduction of a new uniform. It seemed to matter little that one 'child' had only started at the school last year and had a relatively new set of clothes, nor that the other young adult was diametrically opposed to the concept of uniform.

The recently appointed headmaster has a vision of the school being viewed as a first-class educational establishment and the apparent outward appearance of this is in the presence of 1500 identically-clad children wandering the dilapidated corridors of the school's crumbling interior.