Another quote

Something happened to the battery

Stuart thought messing with the wires was a good idea.
Photograph: Helen Archer
Image modification: Billy Mann

15 Minutes of Helen

While on a tour of the United States, Helen felt the urge to tip her hat to the memory of Andy Warhol

What is the BBC for?

There has been a lot of moaning recently about the BBC. The award winning writer/producer/broadcaster/'funnyman' Armando Iannucci has been swinging his verbal axe across the airwaves and in print saying HANDS OFF, you motherfuckers. This is because some members of the current government see the Corporation as an outrage, a lefty mouthpiece and a socialist thorn in the side of the free market. Well, they would, wouldn't they? The BBC is funded through an annual licence fee. This is a compulsory payment that entitles the license holder to own and use devices that can receive radio and TV transmissions. In other words, if you don't buy a licence, you can't listen to the radio or watch the telly. I am not sure what the rules are concerning the use of computers and the world wide web to access these products, but to enemies of the BBC, it is seen as a crafty form of taxation, and one that in a fair world would be replaced by a subscription system, in which customers can pick and choose their broadcasting according to taste. In other words, if you don't want Strictly Come Dancing, you will not be asked to pay for it.

On the surface, this does not sound too outrageous. Subscriptions are, after all, optional, a contract enterered into freely, supply and demand, etc. But that, for me, is not the chief issue here. To illustrate my position, think for a moment what kind of society we would have were, say, education delivered in the same way. Or health, or refuse collection, or wars in other people's countries? There are many aspects of modern life that come to use via the mechanisms of state and local agencies. If Tony Blair had asked each and every one of us to 'subscribe' to the Iraq War, would you have said yes and reached for your wallet?

So maybe it is best not to think of the BBC as a service in the active, transactional sense but as a cultural investment that safeguards a way of life and a desire for some kind of interesting, entertaining and educational circumspection. In other words, you might not like all of it, all of the time, but you know it is good to have and to have around for future generations to make use of (yes, even CBBC), so shut up and cough up the annual £140, or whatever it is. Be thankful it exists, because if my parents had been asked to pay as you go on Jackanory (https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackanory), I am not sure I would be the person I am today.

FURTHER READING

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The Irish Question

On a recent visit to Ireland, I managed to get all boiled up about several things, but the one that pissed me off the most was being unable to top up my phone account at an ATM.

The background, briefly, is this: whenever I go on holiday in Europe, I do not add an Internet Booster to my account until I arrive, check out the local wi-fi possibilities, and decide what my requirements might be for the duration. No sweat, usually, because, you can buy Boosters as you go.

Unfortunately, in this case, the purchase of my first Booster (looks like wi-fi is not a big priority in smalltown Ireland) cleaned out my account, so I needed to top up. Stupidly, I confess, I had forgotten my account details, so I could not use SMS to top up. So the only answer I could see was to find an ATM and top up there. Cue the bad temper.

I could not find an ATM anywhere that offered phone top-up. And before you jump on me with the very sensible statement of the bleeding obvious that not many smalltown ATMs ANYWHERE offer phone top-up, I even tried a bigger town (Portloise) and what I think is actually a city (Galway) ... But now I am starting to sound patronising.

Oh, well, in for a penny. The thing is, the problem with Ireland is that in many respects it resembles mainland Britain. They have the same models of cars, they are gluttons for the pub lunch, they watch crap telly. But in other respects it is very different. In fact, it's another country. They prefer brown bread. Their moral compass is still in the hands of the church. And they are not that bothered about connectivity, it seems. Hats off to them, I say.

Logic tells me that the blame for my irritation lies squarely with ME. But I just can't resist having a playful pop at the Irish. I think I probably feel kind of entitled, in a smug way, especially since Liverpool took so many of them into the bosom of the north docks area in 1846 (or was it 1847?) after the Spud Famine. So on that note, I will end on a well-worn Irish joke. Q: What did the Kerry fella call his pet zebra? A: Spot.

2B or not 2B

Bendy does it for me

Can't believe the outrage that has been voiced in the media world over the "to be, or not to be?" bit  being shunted to the front of the play in a production of Hamlet currently playing at London's Barbican theatre. This all came straight after the very first performance, and the producers later relented and moved the scene to its more traditional position in the play. And now the 'official' press reviews are in. I can't say I have finished swimming through that particular pool of mud just yet, but I have already noticed a common media trend in action. Which is: don't go kicking someone who is obviously a people's favourite, which Benedict Cumberbatch has become since appearing in the BBC series Sherlock. 

We attended the first night of his Hamlet on 5 August and I immediately found that seemingly audacious placing of the "to be, or not to be?" line at the opening  remarkably fitting. It features the Danish prince Hamlet (Cumberbatch), contemplating and fingering some of his dead father's possessions. The "to br" speech in this poignant moment seems perfectly natural and marks out the production from the start as existential. This version explores the complextities of the parent-child relationship in ways I had not considered before, so for that reason alone it gets a thumbs up from me. And congratulations also to the hoards of Bendettes who managed to contain themselves until the very end of the play. Only then did they consider the question, "to squeal, or not to squeal?"

Book: The Short Weekend

A killer chase through the streets of postwar Madrid has Billy Mann reaching for a stiff drink

By TS Strachan

It's a good trick if you can pull it off. Place your reader straight into the shoes of the protagonist. So, there you are, lounging at a street café in early 1950s Madrid, waiting for your new best friend Rodolfo to arrive, when a total stranger invites himself to sit at your table and proposes an intriguing project. All he wants you to do is bump off some fatcat American general, who is shortly to arrive in the city to pave the way for the establishment of US military bases on Spanish soil. Just as a side issue, there is a massive pay packet attached to the endeavour, and if you don't say yes, you will be forced to return to your native Britain, which is still wallowing in a mood called Postwar Grim. Plus, you will have to "face the music", which in the case of the book's hero and notional killer, Tom Field, are the consequences of writing dodgy cheques. It's a no-brainer.

Much as I would like to, I can't say I have ever been very clued up about postwar(s) Spain and life in the dark corners of the Franco regime. I still don’t know much, but in The Short Weekend some of the details hit home. In T S Strachan’s Madrid you can smell the fear. It's right there, hanging in the air of conspiracy. If there is a sense of place, it is more psychological than physical. Yes, this is Madrid, and it feels like a city emerging from trauma. Yet the mood is the thing. Here we witness Tom Field being jerked around endlessly by his conspirator-assassins. They drive around a lot, slipping envelopes of money back and forth, hammering out the precise methodology of murder they intend to unleash on the visiting Yank when he arrives at the train station. Field pulls a practical joke on his new employees when they foolishly hand him a grenade and ask him if he knows what it is. And always in the background there is Field’s belief that he is constantly being watched and sized up for the task in hand. He visits a local prostitute, Pili, and we sense trouble immediately. He will fall in love with her, won’t he? Or will he be forced to kill her? Can there be a happy ending to this tortured venture?

If it’s cloaks and daggers you are after, there are plenty here. Everywhere you look there are shifty-looking characters, fags hanging from their lips, muttering stuff out of the side of their mouths about overthrow and revolution. And there is an epic chase that will have you spinning this way and that, wondering who is still alive and who is hiding where, and did they have a gun? The word mêlée doesn’t even begin to describe it. It is a quick read, quite visual, as if the story might better have been a movie (in black and white, of course).  

But there are some things movies can’t do and one of them comes in a description towards the end, when Field finds himself stranded helpless in a church and face to face with the resident clergyman, Father Ramón: "He had that not unpleasant odour that priests often have."