I am talking, of course, about the Victoria and Albert Museum's early medieval galleries, which I properly visited for the first time today.
"What they really need to do is to demonstrate the enamelling techniques, so I can do more than wonder, openly gobsmacked, at the beauty of the cloisonne panels on this tabernacle - so that I can appreciate it."
And just round the corner - a really well made video demonstrating the same. It made me want to throw in my job and run away and join the, erm, enamellers.
"All these so-so ivory plaques - why all the cracks? Age, or elephant tooth decay?"
And just round the corner - samples of ivory to touch and feel, smooth and cracked, with explanation.
You get the picture. It's one thing to be competent, another to apply competence and erudition to beauty.
I then went to spiritually recharge at the Devonshire Hunt Tapestries. Seriously, I can't write about them now, the memory of them makes me want to cry. Another day.
Go, do go, before the Big Society restricts this, and much more, to a small elite.
Oh, sorry for the break in service.
*Yeah, really stupid title for this post, but I thought if there were ever a book about pre-modern drunkenness. Well I laughed.
Monday, 5 September 2011
Thursday, 23 December 2010
Shirk-Life Balance
Back at work for a while now.
I started back with such good intentions, too. My clothes would be ironed and ready the night before, lunch prepared and ready in the fridge. I would be cheerful to my loved ones in the morning.
A week or two later, and, well, I iron my clothes, in a manner of speaking, before tumbling out of the door. The other stuff? Aspirations, I think. When it gets to the point that I know what day it is by what soup Prêt has on that day, I will kick myself back into focus. Cheerful to the peeps? Yeah, whatever.
The big aspiration was, of course, a whole new attitude to work. Work was going to be X hours of fulfilling focus per day. But work would have its strict limits and I would find that elusive balance.
The trouble is, work has a way of ingratiating itself in the inner core bit of you that you want to keep inviolate. Some traitorous nugget of your conscious somehow manages to find aspects of the work attractive and it then forces its way to the front of your priorities.
The kind of work I do involves a mix of data and legal analysis, client contact and dispute resolution. The sensible bit wants to stop at 1 o’clock and pray, and eat, and live...The fifth column bit insists on digging deeper, widening the scope of my analysis, finding that acute argument, and before you know it it’s 5.30pm and you should have gone home half an hour ago. The dry sandwich has lodged itself in your upper gut, your eyes are dry and you wish you had taken your shoes off, like, ages back. But, but...you just had to go on and finish off, didn’t want to interrupt that all important flow
This is how modern work culture cunningly co-opts our better nature, our best intentions, our sense of self worth, all in the aid of –well, not me, I think.
I have to get better at getting worse.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Missing the point: part 1 - Nandos
...And now on Radio 4, the first part of an occasional series about aspects of the British Muslim Experience (TM) that have been overlooked by the commentariat...
Well, a man can dream.
Anyway, a question: what has been the most significant change in British Muslim social behaviour and habit over the least 10 years? Increased/decreased mosque-going? Perhaps engagement/disengagement with radical politics?
Answer: Nandos.
Why would a South African-inflected, Portuguese-motiffed (spelling?) chain of franchise grilled chicken outlets influence the daily lives of UK Muslims. Oh hell, this is starting to descend into Thomas Friedman territory (iswadda wajhuh), so let's get back to basics.
If you were a normally observant, halal-eating, suburb-dwelling British Muslim before Nandos, and you went out for a meal, you either ended up at an IndoBangloPak place, and you ate what you ate at home. Or, you might be daring and go to, say, Pizza Hut. Confronted with the menu, our practiced bon-viveur does the immediate ocular winnowing to knock out all the meat items, before deciding between the, say, two options left for the halal eater. GastroMuslim then swallowed his doubts about carelessly shared kitchen implements and the perils of pig molecule pollution on his plate.
Not much table service eating out happened, to the undoubted benefit of our collective iman.
Nandos changed the rules by using halal chicken in many of its restaurants. Unwittingly or not, it did so at a time when a new generation of British Muslims were showing signs of wanting of to go out and have, well, fun. A safe fun. Safe in two ways. Laudably safe in the sense of wanting to keep to halal meat. And safe in the sense of not challenging our suburban sensibilities too much. Whatever you think of the food, a visit to any Nandos gives ample demonstration of an aesthetic of safe corporate funkiness-think jokey menus, informal waiting staff, MOR rock. This is an experience that has been cold bloodedly designed to encourage its customers to kick back and relax a bit.
When it comes to the food, GastroMuslim can now gaze down at the laminate and can choose anything on the menu. I don't know what it says about me that sort of feels like progress, of some sort. There's a far fetched metaphor in there to do with coming in from the margins and taking our place at the table, but it's a silly metaphor, and we're not anywhere bloody close yet, in any case.
So on any given night, you can see many Visibly Muslim Muslims enjoying a chicken dinner. But you just want to know how this measures on the integrationometer, don't you? Well, I'll say that this perfectly reflects a pattern of increased eating out in urban Pakistan. We are becoming more Pakistani in a different way. So there.
Well, a man can dream.
Anyway, a question: what has been the most significant change in British Muslim social behaviour and habit over the least 10 years? Increased/decreased mosque-going? Perhaps engagement/disengagement with radical politics?
Answer: Nandos.
Why would a South African-inflected, Portuguese-motiffed (spelling?) chain of franchise grilled chicken outlets influence the daily lives of UK Muslims. Oh hell, this is starting to descend into Thomas Friedman territory (iswadda wajhuh), so let's get back to basics.
If you were a normally observant, halal-eating, suburb-dwelling British Muslim before Nandos, and you went out for a meal, you either ended up at an IndoBangloPak place, and you ate what you ate at home. Or, you might be daring and go to, say, Pizza Hut. Confronted with the menu, our practiced bon-viveur does the immediate ocular winnowing to knock out all the meat items, before deciding between the, say, two options left for the halal eater. GastroMuslim then swallowed his doubts about carelessly shared kitchen implements and the perils of pig molecule pollution on his plate.
Not much table service eating out happened, to the undoubted benefit of our collective iman.
Nandos changed the rules by using halal chicken in many of its restaurants. Unwittingly or not, it did so at a time when a new generation of British Muslims were showing signs of wanting of to go out and have, well, fun. A safe fun. Safe in two ways. Laudably safe in the sense of wanting to keep to halal meat. And safe in the sense of not challenging our suburban sensibilities too much. Whatever you think of the food, a visit to any Nandos gives ample demonstration of an aesthetic of safe corporate funkiness-think jokey menus, informal waiting staff, MOR rock. This is an experience that has been cold bloodedly designed to encourage its customers to kick back and relax a bit.
When it comes to the food, GastroMuslim can now gaze down at the laminate and can choose anything on the menu. I don't know what it says about me that sort of feels like progress, of some sort. There's a far fetched metaphor in there to do with coming in from the margins and taking our place at the table, but it's a silly metaphor, and we're not anywhere bloody close yet, in any case.
So on any given night, you can see many Visibly Muslim Muslims enjoying a chicken dinner. But you just want to know how this measures on the integrationometer, don't you? Well, I'll say that this perfectly reflects a pattern of increased eating out in urban Pakistan. We are becoming more Pakistani in a different way. So there.
Thursday, 9 December 2010
On hating Billy Elliot
At the risk of being topical, I was reminded today of my utter loathing for the film 'Billy Elliot'. A sidebar link on Youtube was enough to set me off.
Being the worthless sort who seeks reinforcement through the prejudices of others, I googled "I hate Billy Elliot". There were slim pickings. I didn't search for manifestations of online love for BE-there aren't enough bricks in the world to throw, and my laptop has only the one screen.
The problem is political.
BE sets out to establish, in no uncertain terms, the utter futility and wrong-headedness of working-class solidarity and socialist engagement in the real world. The sheer togetherness of working class communities acting together to defend their livelihoods is seen as something that represses 'the individual', and is shown to hinder the full flowering of a person's talent-unless that person's talent lies in angry parading on windswept cobbles.
BE shows us the violence of the striking miners, as set against the violence of the police. The true violence was that embodied by the destructive policies of the Thatcher government, but this wilfully myopic narrative can't deal with that.
So when your tastefully derelict surroundings are laid waste, and the basis of your community's identity is ripped up, what's a young man to do? Why, become a metropolitan ponce, of course. No, really, that is exactly what it is saying: you can't do productive work with your neighbours, so come and cavort for the amusement of the ruling class.
It's a pity that the title character didn't hang around for few years in Grimethorpe, or wherever the hell it was, because he might have been able to get a temp part-time non-unionised job in a lottery funded arts centre cafe. I reckon it would be called (lower-case) 'slagheap'.
BE is at once willingly stupid in its politics, and extremely politically engaged, and in that sense its closest rival is that Tom Hanks thing from around 1994-'Forrest Gump'. Which leads me to the worst thing about BE- for such a political film, it fails to openly commit to its own reactionary politics.
One good thing about BE. In the mid-90s, it was handy quick way to tell whether you were talking to an idiot: "Oh, I love Billy Elliot". Yes, I bet you do.
Being the worthless sort who seeks reinforcement through the prejudices of others, I googled "I hate Billy Elliot". There were slim pickings. I didn't search for manifestations of online love for BE-there aren't enough bricks in the world to throw, and my laptop has only the one screen.
The problem is political.
BE sets out to establish, in no uncertain terms, the utter futility and wrong-headedness of working-class solidarity and socialist engagement in the real world. The sheer togetherness of working class communities acting together to defend their livelihoods is seen as something that represses 'the individual', and is shown to hinder the full flowering of a person's talent-unless that person's talent lies in angry parading on windswept cobbles.
BE shows us the violence of the striking miners, as set against the violence of the police. The true violence was that embodied by the destructive policies of the Thatcher government, but this wilfully myopic narrative can't deal with that.
So when your tastefully derelict surroundings are laid waste, and the basis of your community's identity is ripped up, what's a young man to do? Why, become a metropolitan ponce, of course. No, really, that is exactly what it is saying: you can't do productive work with your neighbours, so come and cavort for the amusement of the ruling class.
It's a pity that the title character didn't hang around for few years in Grimethorpe, or wherever the hell it was, because he might have been able to get a temp part-time non-unionised job in a lottery funded arts centre cafe. I reckon it would be called (lower-case) 'slagheap'.
BE is at once willingly stupid in its politics, and extremely politically engaged, and in that sense its closest rival is that Tom Hanks thing from around 1994-'Forrest Gump'. Which leads me to the worst thing about BE- for such a political film, it fails to openly commit to its own reactionary politics.
One good thing about BE. In the mid-90s, it was handy quick way to tell whether you were talking to an idiot: "Oh, I love Billy Elliot". Yes, I bet you do.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Boiling Mud
A conversation with my son, age 4, on volcanoes, turned difficult when he asked why they spouted out all that lovely dramatic looking lava. There was no level on which I could provide a half adequate answer- I don't know enough about the 'science bit' to say why. As for the deeper why, there's no denying the challenge of attributing everything to God's inscrutable will-or rather, conveying that to a child who does plenty of scruting. This got me to thinking-why is His will as manifest in Nature so often, well, dramatically not nice? I'm talking about floods, earthquakes etc. I am struggling hard to think of a sudden dramatic event in nature that obviously reveals God's benevolence. That is, as opposed to the undeniable constant unfolding of His mercy in so many small, quotidian and undramatic ways. That is, in a way that can easily be impressed on my 4 year old!
Anyway, when that all got too challenging, I pushed the boat out by introducing mud volcanoes into the mix. Well I like them-the idea of them. My son was impressed, unfortunately the children's encyclopedia we were looking at provided no pictures of this aesthetically more subtle type of volcano- and that's what I am after now: pictures or video of seething, bubbling cauldrons of mud.
We then went onto trains. But that goes without saying.
Anyway, when that all got too challenging, I pushed the boat out by introducing mud volcanoes into the mix. Well I like them-the idea of them. My son was impressed, unfortunately the children's encyclopedia we were looking at provided no pictures of this aesthetically more subtle type of volcano- and that's what I am after now: pictures or video of seething, bubbling cauldrons of mud.
We then went onto trains. But that goes without saying.
Friday, 3 December 2010
Arancini
Arancini are deep fried balls of risotto, and I had my first today. Went past a 'real food' exhibition thing outside the Southbank Centre, and prepared to sneer at the morally-correct marmalade and other such daftness. However, I managed to get a grip and just looked around like most normal folk would.
The arancini stall was intriguing, and what with a bit of charming chat from Australian ball frying man plus my innate gluttony, it all upended my better self and I was forced to order an arancini garlic wrap.
This was a wheat wrap out of a packet, arancini, lettuce, tomato, apple and garlic mayonnaise.
Summary: this was fried cheesy carbs coated in breadcrumbs (more carbs) wrapped in carb. Of course it was bloody lovely.
Specifics:
garlic mayo-was prepared to be disappointed, but surprisingly nice and not at all kebab shop.
apple-worked really well, another surprise.
arancini-deep fried risotto balls sounds like a 2 a.m. experiment, but came out really well, and surprisingly crispy on outside and soft and yielding within. Like me.
Wraps out of a packet-never a huge fan, but what's a stallholder to do?
This was all courtesy of an outfit called Arancini Brothers, and indoor unfreezing eating facilities by the lovely tolerant people at the RFH.
The arancini stall was intriguing, and what with a bit of charming chat from Australian ball frying man plus my innate gluttony, it all upended my better self and I was forced to order an arancini garlic wrap.
This was a wheat wrap out of a packet, arancini, lettuce, tomato, apple and garlic mayonnaise.
Summary: this was fried cheesy carbs coated in breadcrumbs (more carbs) wrapped in carb. Of course it was bloody lovely.
Specifics:
garlic mayo-was prepared to be disappointed, but surprisingly nice and not at all kebab shop.
apple-worked really well, another surprise.
arancini-deep fried risotto balls sounds like a 2 a.m. experiment, but came out really well, and surprisingly crispy on outside and soft and yielding within. Like me.
Wraps out of a packet-never a huge fan, but what's a stallholder to do?
This was all courtesy of an outfit called Arancini Brothers, and indoor unfreezing eating facilities by the lovely tolerant people at the RFH.
Monday, 29 November 2010
Hampstead Heath
A walk on HH today, a first for me. Yes, I don't get out much.
A day as cold as iron, frozen paths as hard as steel. Ice on the ponds as hard as solder.
I was accompanied by a cross section of the North London middle class. The moitie-bourgeoisie are handily interchangeable. All so respectable and sober in polar fleecy things, No, I'm just being silly-unreasonable to expect nighties and cans of Tennants on a day like this.
God love 'em for their well behaved dogs, though. Like their children, when they deign to have them. How they manage to breed into them a blend of disciplined playfulness-the dogs, I mean? I expect the children just get given Jumbone.
Really surprising? The gulch-like canyon-ness of the place, deep wild ravines that cry out for abandoned cars and nests of outlaws.
In summary, beautiful and sort of wild and reachable by Travelcard.
A day as cold as iron, frozen paths as hard as steel. Ice on the ponds as hard as solder.
I was accompanied by a cross section of the North London middle class. The moitie-bourgeoisie are handily interchangeable. All so respectable and sober in polar fleecy things, No, I'm just being silly-unreasonable to expect nighties and cans of Tennants on a day like this.
God love 'em for their well behaved dogs, though. Like their children, when they deign to have them. How they manage to breed into them a blend of disciplined playfulness-the dogs, I mean? I expect the children just get given Jumbone.
Really surprising? The gulch-like canyon-ness of the place, deep wild ravines that cry out for abandoned cars and nests of outlaws.
In summary, beautiful and sort of wild and reachable by Travelcard.
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