It's a Fair Cop

There was a bit of intellectual foot-gazing in the press here in Inglaterra the other day about Iranian court's decision to sentence a man to blinding. He'd been found guilty of assaulting a woman who'd spurned him. He threw acid in her face during the attack, permanently blinding her. The Iranian judicial system apparently sets great store by retribution because it decided that what's sauce for the goose etc...

Here in the west there was muted uproar. Not even the world's wettest liberal could dispute the vile nature of his act or deny the pleasing cosmic symmetry of his punishment. I think it was the fact that a government (even one in a rogue state) had meted out such old testament punishment that troubled. Had this fellow tripped while legging it from the scene of the attack and fallen face-first onto a pair of resting hedgehogs thereby blinding himself, no-one would have given a shite. I dare say even Michael Foot would have spat something along of the lines of "Good. He deserved it, the twat." on being told the news.

Iran's policy on these matters does raise an interesting question though: what would they do were someone found guilty of genocide? If they're being consistent, they have to wipe out perpetrator's race. This thought *must* have occurred to some young (Iranian) Turk in the legal profession there. I imagine his line manager puts him in his place by saying "Well, I think we'll cross that bridge should we ever reach it. Don't you?"

You Gotta Have...

The wife and I popped to the pub on Saturday evening with a couple of old friends. As the night wore on, more and suspiciously well dressed young persons kept turning up. Each wandered through the public bar before disappearing downstairs to a basement room. It turns out the pub had a resident northern-soul deejay, who was down there spinning discs furiously.

It leaves me absolutely cold, northern soul. Any sub-genre that so wilfully wallows in obscurity is on thin ice from the off. And NS aficionados do love to score points with the rarity of their vinyl. They might deny it, but it's what drives them One can only imagine the self-satisfied sashaying that goes on when the deejay plays a track so overlooked by history that even the recording artist it can scarcely recall murdering it.

The reason the tracks are obscure is that all were originally considered second-rate at best, so that only seven copies were pressed. (In fairness to Barry Gordy's musical judgement, most did then go down like the Hindenburg upon release). Worse still, some didn't even get that far - the record company deciding that upon mature reflection, one might just as well try and market bowel gas. Whatever your take on soul music, I think you'd agree that Motown knew its onions. They produced wonderful, joyous and accessible pop music. When, therefore, they decide something stinks, stink it does. All the expensively-shod preening to the contrary won't change that.

Also, if NS were objectively any good, the phenomenon would have spread far and wide - at least as far as the Capital. No. Apart from the occasional misguided pub in Clerkenwell, northern soul's spiritual home consists of wretched northern mining towns and Butlins in Caistor.

I'll Drink to that.

I was in the States recently, not on a fact-finding mission of national importance or anything, but on hols. Mrs O and I had intended to visit Japan, but that was lidder-ally blown out of the water. (Don't look at me like that. Humour's all they've got left.) As Wilde famously observed (Oscar, not Kim), Britain and the United States are two great nations divided by a common language. This is less true now, perhaps, that it's ever been, due to instant mass communication. However, there are other areas in which the vide between ourselves and our cousins across the pond appears wider than ever. One such area is beer.

We are middle-brow tourists at best, Mrs O and I. We generally eschew museums and galleries in favour of down-at-heel supermarkets and bars. I've concluded from my travels over the years that you only get to see a country properly when in locales like this, when the natives have their guard down and don't expect to meet foreigners. It's pointless visiting a bar in Times Square for example; you'll be served German beer by a Pole. I could experience that in Beckton were I minded to. No, you need to seek out the grubbier quarters.

I shouldn't dress these actions up entirely as a work of social anthropology. We both like a drink and bargain, so it does pay to go off piste like this. But while doing so, we did learn that modern America is in thrall to Newcastle Brown Ale. It's everywhere - and not in the slightly shame-faced way it is in the UK, where it's kept hidden on low shelves in pubs in case someone brings his mother in for a sherry before dinner. They not only stock it in the States; they celebrate it. There are giant promotional bottle tops emblazoned with the blue star on every bar wall.

Needless to say, I didn't feel tempted to sample any while there, but it did raise an interesting question: if they can misjudge us and our culture so completely, might we be doing the same to them? I suspect yes.

Before I visited America for the fist time, I thought I knew their beer. It would be straw-coloured, fizzy piss. In fact, they have a wonderful range of fascinating ales to try - wheat beers, honey beers, porters etc. And yet we picture them in dungarees and baseball caps, drinking Bud Light at kegger parties (I have no real idea what a kegger party is incidentally).

I remember an Australian friend of mine telling me that on arriving in London for the first time, he'd been horrified to find that Britons believe he and his kind drink nothing but Fosters. According to him, only confused old woman and infants would even consider touching it, such is its lowly status.

It's a minefield.

That reminds me: I was at a party some years ago, to which someone brought four cans of Special Brew. He was English, so had no excuse for this unconscionable breach of etiquette. He was quite unapologetic too; he parked himself on the sofa and placed his booty on the coffee table just in front of him. Then all we early arrivees sat around chatting and drinking as we waited for the party proper to kick in. A friend of mine arrived a little time later. He spotted the SBs on the table, pointed at them, and shouted "Who the FUCK brought those." Which is what each of us wanted, but was too repressed, to say.

Springtime for Hitler and Germany

The weather in London at the mo is splendid - warm, sunny and basically a joy. It's that period of the year when you sense the sap rising, which makes it difficult to concentrate on the usual emetic impedimenta that life habitually hurls at one. Collective thoughts turn to boozy picnics in parks and walks along the river with physically attractive companions.

Experience suggests we should savour these spring days as the actual summer in this country (England) tends toward the underwhelming. It's all chewing-gum grey skies and tepid humidity in these parts come June. It does go to show, however, that happiness is all about managing expectations, which is why my default position is to assume that absolutely everything will be shite. Due to this, I am rarely disappointed, and just occasionally delighted by the fates. I'll settle for that.

If we took a holiday...ooh yeah, ooh yeah

I'm just back from a long weekend in Ireland, visiting my parents. I always sleep like a new born when I'm there. It's difficult to pin the very welcome blame for this on one cause; it's probably a combination of events: the clean air, the peace, the restful ambiance, the good food and the heavy consumption of Guinness. Each plays its part I suppose.

The odd thing is though as soon I step back onto English soil I'm unable to slumber, which makes no sense. Take last night for example. I spent the majority of the day in Ireland, so I had a plenty of exposure to clean air. I ate well, and because of the travelling, I arrived home in a fatigued state. The wife and I then popped out for a couple of sharpeners before dinner to bring the curtain down on the festivities. But could I sleep last night? Could I feck. The only conclusion I can come to, therefore, is that I'm allergic to England. It could be London I suppose. But I'd need a control group to be certain. Perhaps I should relocate to Leicester for six months? That's a high price to pay for catastrophic fatigue though; I think I'll just make do and mend.

Remember whotsisname? We were like brothers.

There was another leaving presentation at work today. It was the usual well-worn path of card, whip-round and ill-chosen words. In fairness, the chap who's leaving worked in a department who all seem very close, so the address was rather more heartfelt than is usually the case in these matters. Said leavee is moving to Australia, which makes the "you must come and visit" platitude ring even more hollow. Both parties know that "must" is a euphemism for "won't".

It's strange and worrying just how quickly genuine affection for long-standing colleagues is lost when they go. You spend the majority of your time with these people. This is normally a recipe for disaster, so when characters do actually chime, you have to suppose that it's a lasting kinship. No so. Our Botany Bay emigré will be forgotten by Tuesday next week. And unless his new life hits the Aussie buffers, he'll forget us. It's a necessary evil I suppose; no-one likes a moper in the workplace.

...I wrote "au revoir" in the card initially, but hastily revised it to "goodbye". I thick it for the best.

Football Pie

Being a dyed-in-the-wool lover of the beautiful game (no, not darts this time, football) like what I am, I feel duty-bound to at least attempt to get a ticket for Leyton Orient's upcoming FA Cup tie with north London's pre-eminent poseurs, Arsenal.

To make things fair (and expensive), Orient have decided that you must have tickets for the two Tuesday night home fixtures that precede the cup tie. They dropped this bombshell the day before the first game. This means then that I've had to shell-out for a ticket I can't use. Even then, I'm only buying the right to queue for a cup ticket. If they're gone before I pitch up at the box office, I'm screwed. But what can one do? If I leave the sauce alone, I might live another thirty-five years, and not see Orient reach these dizzy heights. They've got me over a barrel. I must attend.

All football clubs do this of course, but generally it's the reserve of the top-flight clubs to wring quite so much financial advantage for a single game comme ça. It's unusual for the blood-letting to descend to League One. Consequently, the wound is a little sore. Come on, you Os.