Posted in musings

The quick and dirty no-cook pizza sauce

pizza-1Readers of The Pizza Bible will know that there is within it an excellent no-cook pizza sauce recipe. If you have the time and the ingredients, it’s definitely worth making.

Some of the time, however, I find I haven’t quite got around to it, and I need to improvise something quickly. This one is quick and easy, but also makes a great sauce. You need:

  • 1/2 a small (350g) jar of Cirio Passata Rustica
  • 1/2 a jar of Sacla sun dried tomato paste
  • Pinch of salt
  • Squirt/glug of olive oil
  • generous pinch of marjoram or oregano

Add everything to a small bowl and then stir it around quickly with a spoon. And that’s it. You need a couple of generous dessert spoonfuls per pizza.

Posted in entertainment, music, musings, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – part 3

Part 2 is here… and Part 1 is here.

The Weight of these Wings – Miranda Lambert

This is too new and, because it’s a double album, too extensive for me to have anything more than a vague impression so far, but this is Miranda Lambert, so of course it’s on the list. With 24 songs, coming in at an hour and a half plus, this is a monster. A lot of column inches have been expended on the very public breakup of her marriage to Blake Shelton, but I’ve never been interested in all that. Nevertheless, a double album is a statement of some kind. Her previous album, Platinum, had a feeling about it that indicated a loss of patience with an industry – especially radio – that wasn’t willing to give women a fair hearing. Her career has seen an uptick since then, but she’s still the woman who walked out of her first recording session, dissatisfied with the material she was being offered, and she’s now very much in control – and probably the pre-eminent female artist in the industry. Not bad for a third place finisher in the Nashville Star talent show. This set feels edgy and raw, as well as effortlessly confident. Lead single “Vice” sets the tone, while tracks like “Tin Man”, “Six Degrees of Separation” and “Keeper of the Flame” show the breadth and depth of the heartbreak.

Down to My Last Bad Habit – Vince Gill

Still one of the greatest soul singers in Nashville, as well as one of the best guitar players, Vince Gill’s latest set is a welcome collection of emotional songs and tasteful playing. There are a number of collaborations (I think Gill is the collaboratingest artist on the scene) with the likes of Little Big Town (Take Me Down), Cam (I’ll Be Waiting for You) and Chris Botti (One More Mistake I Made), but really he doesn’t need anyone else. Download the title track, plus “Reasons for the Tears I Cry”, “Me and My Girl” and “When It’s Love” and feel the power of that voice.

This is Where I live – William Bell

Best known for a couple of hits back in the day, and for songs like “Born Under a Bad Sign”, which were covered by others, William Bell’s career stretches back to that period between Elvis going into the Army and the Beatles’ first LP. “You Don’t Miss Your Water (Till The Well Runs Dry)” came out in 1961, and his career was then interrupted by military service. So it wasn’t till the later 60s that he finally released his debut album, Soul of a Bell. Another near-decade later, he had a hit with “Tryin’ to Love Two”. He was always a man out of synch, his timeless country soul musical style not dependent on passing fads. His new album, This Is Where I Live, is his first in a decade, and it’s a fine collection of classic sounding soul music which could have been released at any time in the past 50 years. It includes a version of his own “Born Under a Bad Sign”, but I also recommend the track above, “The Three of Me”, the title song, and “All The Things You Can’t Remember”.

Posted in entertainment, music, musings, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – part 2

Part 1 is here

El Rio – Frankie Ballard

Frankie Ballard’s third album builds on the success of his second, with a stronger set of songs, including a Bob Seger cover (You’ll Accomp’ny Me) and a Chris Stapleton song (El Camino) or two (Cigarette). He continues to follow in the footsteps of Keith Urban, though with a stronger voice and less emphasis on lead guitar. He bears an odd resemblance to my best friend from school, lo those many years ago, down to the apple cheeks and the bandana/scarf. The cover art could come from back in the 70s, too: a slightly out of focus portrait, which looks like the kind of scuffed vinyl cover you might find in a second hand record store. Recorded in Texas, this has a slightly different vibe to most mainstream country. Lots of strong tracks but consider downloading the above, plus “L.A. Woman”, “Wasting Time”.

Love and Lovely Lies – Imogen Clark

This release from the Australian singer-songwriter is more of a double EP than an album (like the original Magical Mystery Tour, I guess). A strong voice laid down with fashionably light reverb against largely acoustic instruments, this is a pleasant diversion, with familiar chord sequences. Download: “You’ll Only Break My Heart” and “Drawing Hearts”, “Here Goes Nothing”.

Ripcord – Keith Urban

Keith Urban’s latest seems to have a harder edge than his more recent work, though there are still nods towards the poppy end of the market, with EDM sounds lurking in the background (“Wasted Time”). This is a tight set, no flab, with some of the tracks coming in under 3 minutes. It’s light on lead guitar but strong on musicianship. Seeing him swap lead guitar for bass on “John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16” was a revelation (and it’s amazing how many ways country artists come up with celebrating the same things). “Blue Ain’t Your Colour”, “Habit of You” and “Boy Gets a Truck” are worth downloading.

Reckless – Martina McBride

Martina McBride is one of the few top female singers of the 90s and early 00s still hanging in there with regular album releases. Yes, I’m looking at you, Faith Hill, Trisha Yearwood. While Wynonna’s 2016 outing was disappointing, McBride is still reaching the heights – especially with the tour-de-force vocal on the title track, which might be my favourite song of the year. Worth the price of admission for the title track alone, but also download: “It Ain’t Pretty”, “Diamond” (featuring Keith Urban), and “That’s the Thing About Love”.

Part 3 to follow…

Posted in entertainment, music, Review

Music Downloads of 2016 – Part 1

In alphabetical order:

Cold Snap – Anthony D’Amato

New Jersey Native with some Springsteen influence, D’Amato is a singer-songwriter who paints on a wide canvas. Sounds are a pleasing mix of rock guitars and drums, mandolin, and a young-sounding vocal. Watch the creepy video below for “Rain on a Strange Roof” and also consider downloading: “Oh My Goodness”, “Ballad of the Undecided”, and “I Don’t Know About You”.

Big Day in a Small Town – Brandy Clark

This follow-up to 12 Stories is another strong collection of songs, with slick commercial production that does the songs justice. For me, Clark has a voice with real depth and power that makes Kacey Musgrave seem a little one dimensional in comparison. Her lyrics, too, are more layered and complex. Take away the production and the songs can still punch you in the gut. You’ll see what I mean if you watch the acoustic live performance of ‘You Can Come Over’ below. The whole album is great, but consider these: ‘Soap Opera’, ‘Girl Next Door’, ‘Love Can Go to Hell’, and ‘Daughter’.

Skeletons – Connor (Christian)

Don’t know what it is about Connor Christian, or just Connor, as he’s currently styling himself. Three albums, all in a similar style, but under three different identities/brands. The Southern Gothic, Connor Christian and Southern Gothic, and now this. Rolling piano, acoustic and electric guitars, strong fiddle playing. He’s as good as ever – and deserves a wider audience – but I’m concerned that with such a generic name, he’s hard to find, even if you go looking. The lyric video for “Every Song”, for example, has had (drumroll) 144 views. And only 6 likes (7 now). Consider downloading: ‘Run To’, ‘Georgia Moonshine’ and ‘Say It to Me One More Time’.

Fighter – David Nail

David Nail’s new album sounds instantly familiar, and doesn’t represent much of a progression from his previous outing. But of all the country singers out there singing about trucks and blue jeans, he’s the most acceptable, managing to attract collaborations from the likes of Lori McKenna (‘Home’) and Vince Gill (‘I Won’t Let You Go’), and a surprising tendency towards the ballads. I suspect legions of female fans are enjoying the likes of ‘Champagne Promise’. His pleasant voice is matched with strong melodies and highly competent musicianship. By way of contrast with Connor above, Nail’s video for “Night’s On Fire” has over 8 million views.

Hard Trouble, Ain’t Settled – Donovan Woods

Our third beard in a row, Donovan Woods is the songwriter behind Tim McGraw’s compelling hit ‘Portland, Maine’. His album features his strangely soft and sweet voice accompanied by tightly strummed and muted acoustic guitar and ambient, atmospheric pads. Download: ‘Between Cities’, ‘May 21, 2012’, ‘The First Time’.

Posted in musings, Review

Philips Oneblade trimmer and shaver

81sckf4kznl-_sl1500_Here’s a product I ordered on a whim a while ago, which has quietly revolutionised my life.

I’ve always been a wet shave guy, mainly because every electric razor I ever tried gave me a rash, but I’ve always hated the colossal faff involved in shaving. The only thing worse than shaving is having a beard, which (for me) is also itchy after a while. This is possibly because my hair is curly, and even my beard grows in random directions.

I’ve tried a compromise, various degrees of stubble, but my neck especially is prone to itch/rash because of upward or inward growing hairs, so I have to keep that trimmed. Anyway, I ended up in a messy trade-off involving beard trimmers, razors, shaving gels and oils, after shave balms, and so on.

And then I saw an offer on the Philips Oneblade system and ordered it. The immediate objection to this system is the cost of replacement blades (£11.99 on Amazon), which is a shocker. But, and here’s the thing, a single blade lasts up to 4 months (based on 2 shaves per week), which means that the two that came with my kit should last up to 16 months, given that I’ve been using it just once a week. And instead of a draw/shelf full of creams, balms, blades and so on, I just have this thing and its plastic combs (mine came with 4). In any event, four Gilette Fusion blades costs £12.59, so it probably works out a lot cheaper.

I was skeptical. How could one thing act as a beard trimmer and a regular razor? But it really does. It’s smooth over your skin and doesn’t cause a rash, can be used wet or dry, and can be easily cleaned by rinsing under a tap. It really couldn’t be more straightforward. So I can shave with it, or put on one of the combs and just trim the beard. I’m only using it once a week, and it’s so fast that I’ve honestly only had to charge it up once since I bought it. It’s convenient for travel, too. I reckon I could charge it before leaving home and use it in France for the whole of the summer holiday.

I didn’t write a review straight away because I’ve bought so many things over the years and abandoned them, so I didn’t quite believe in it, but I was walking past the shaving section in the supermarket the other day and kind of automatically paused. Do I need anything…? Oh. Of course not. I don’t ever need to get that stuff.

All I need now is the patience to bother making my beard symmetrical.

 

Posted in musings, Television

CMA Awards: state of the union

simpsons-milestones

You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

Finally got a chance to watch the highlights of this year’s CMA Awards, which took place about a month ago, a few days before The Cataclysm. Although the 90-minute edit I watched was mainly of performances, it’s still a good opportunity to read the chicken entrails of the music industry, as is traditional on this blog.

I’ve been watching the CMAs for 25 years now, so for about half it’s 50-year run. This year was the meaningless milestone featuring a 5 and a 0, so there was a deal more wallowing in nostalgia than usual — which is saying something, where country music is concerned.

Invented by radio, featuring something that was – even in the 1920s – characterised as ‘old time’ music, country has always-already been a nostalgic genre, its history peppered with emblematic crises. As early as the 1950s, the so-called Nashville Sound was an attempt to protect the genre by providing slick, commercialised competition for the burgeoning pop and rock genres. In the 1970s, the Outlaws provided a more ‘authentic’ alternative to the slick Countrypolitan sound. In the 1980s, the ‘Neotraditionalists’ claimed their own version of the elusive ‘authenticity’ for a new generation. And so it goes, into the alt.country era, and the Americana movement.

What the CMA Awards show represents, every year, is a compass pointing in the direction the industry is heading. Around 2013 and 2014, I almost gave up on the genre, because there were too many mullets and baseball caps, driven by the Bro Country movement, and too many songs about blue jeans, beer, and pickup trucks on dirt roads. In the background, women were struggling to get airplay on the radio, which meant they were struggling to get marketing push, and the UK iTunes store was a stagnant swamp of cardboard cutouts catering to a lowest common denominator of drunken galoots in football stadia.

Last year’s show, with the astonishing performances of Chris Stapleton and Justin Timberlake, and the shock board-sweeping win for Stapleton and his album Traveller was the break we needed. Stapleton had received virtually zero airplay or record company support, and yet the buzz around the album was such that, by November, the night was his. Stapleton himself, with his mountain man beard, his bulky frame, and crushed-looking hat, is the antidote to the baseball capped pretty boys.

So to 2016, the year America elected a fascist. What gives in country music? The 50th anniversary show featured a high number of medleys, and as well as the nostalgia, tributes to the likes of Merle Haggard, who has departed this world, and Dolly Parton, who has not.

What interested me this year was a feeling of pulling up the drawbridge and bringing into the fold exemplified by the presence of artists who are rarely (if ever) seen at this most Establishment of award ceremonies. Garth Brooks, for example, was front and centre (and won Entertainer of the Year) in a way that I’ve never seen – even in his heyday. When he was breaking all the records for album sales back in the 90s, he was too big for the CMAs. Later on, he was too retired. Now he’s back, along with Trisha Yearwood, who has also rarely been seen at the show. One of the medleys featured Dwight Yoakam, who has never been a Nashville guy; and Clint Black, who was a staple of the show in the early 90s, but hasn’t been seen in the Brad Paisley/Carrie Underwood era. Even Randy Travis, who was big in the 80s and 90s, but whose career (and health) nosedived, was back on the stage, still evidently recovering from his stroke, but able to sing the single word, ‘Amen.’ And then out came none other than Taylor Swift…

But the enfolding of the outcasts and outlaws was nowhere more evident than in the performance of the Dixie Chicks (with Beyoncé). The Dixie Chicks were banned from most country radio and ostracised by many of their peers after they dared to express dissent about George W Bush. It has been over 10 years, but they seem to be back in favour and back on tour. (I’m still bitter, however, that they haven’t put out any new music since 2006.)

The Chicks and Beyoncé was supposed to be this year’s Stapleton/Tiberlake, but it didn’t quite work for me – largely because they still haven’t got anything new to sing, but also because it seemed over-rehearsed and backy tracky. The beauty of last year’s S/T pairing was the improvisational musicianship and the glorious spontaneity. Still, it was probably the most controversial part of the show, due to the inevitable outpouring of hate on social media.

Apart from that enfolding atmosphere, the semiotics of this year’s show were fascinating. I didn’t see a single baseball cap (loud cheers), but there were lots of cowboy hats. Luke Bryan still got a look-in, but appeared capless and extremely lightweight compared to just about every performance on the night. Eric Church was also capless, though still insisted on wearing his mirrored sunglasses – so I will not be buying his album. Brad Paisley and Carrie Underwood took on a medley of costumes from across the eras (Paisley included at least one hilarious mullet wig), and there were fewer people exiled to performing on little stages at the back of the crowd.

My favourite moment, for sheer class, was when Garth Brooks was announced as the winner of Entertainer of the Year. He went to hug each of the other nominees in turn before taking the stage in what seemed to be a genuine show of love and respect. As far as performances went, the best this year was Keith Urban, who performed ‘Blue Ain’t Your Colour’, a nice follow-up to last year’s ‘John Cougar, John Deere, John 3:16’.

So the trend is back to the hats, and Don’t Mention The Apocalypse.

Posted in Review, Television

Gilmore Gone Girls

landscape-1476795534-gilmoregirls-1sht-fall-uk

As a recent convert to Gilmore Girls, I am of course fully qualified to comment on the Netflix revival A Year in the Life.

I became aware of this show only through its occasional positive mentions in passing on the Incomparable network. It’s hard to imagine I would otherwise have caught it. It was broadcast on the satellite channels Nickleodeon and Hallmark before being rebroadcast on E4 and now 5*. Neither of the latter are channels whose listings I check (not target demo). Anyway, knowing the revival was forthcoming, I decided to try it out and ended up bingeing the first seven seasons on Netflix.

What makes Gilmore Girls great is – obviously – the snappy, witty dialogue, reminiscent as it is of classical Hollywood screwball comedy. It’s Cary Grant, Katherine Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Rosalind Russell. The scripts are breathless, pages and pages longer than standard minute-per-page screenplays, stuffed with witty repartée. In television terms, you can draw a line from Buffy through Gilmore Girls to Laura Mars. And just like those other shows, Gilmore Girls manages to create huge emotional beats, seemingly out of nowhere. The special sauce of the show is the way you can be hit sideways by the impact of one of these emotional moments. They’re earned, too, not the result of shameful manipulation but growing out of the ongoing storylines and character developments.

There were some problematic elements. The almost overwhelming whiteness of the cast, for example, with Yanic Truesdale the sole person of colour in the regular credits. Then there’s the occasional whiff of whiny white privilege. Lorelai turns her back on her privileged upbringing, but her daughter Rory more or less embraces it wholeheartedly, sitting on the edge of a crowd of money-no-object types with no steel in her backbone. But these were minor quibbles, mere backdrop to the more uplifting parts of the show.

So it’s hardly surprising I watched the latter seasons of the original show through a veil of tears. I know people often say that Season 7 is barely canon, but (the brief and forgotten marriage aside) even Season 7 isn’t that bad. It’s mostly guilty of prolonging the Lorelai-Luke standoff for 22 episodes too many.

So to the four extended episodes of the Netflix revival, and the Ten Years After of Gilmore Girls. The headline news is that original showrunner Amy Sherman-Palladino is back, and so able to give the show the ending she was unable to give it for Season 7.

What do we find? For me, there were two and a half decent episodes in the four, interspersed with some ill-advised self-indulgencies. The show always hinted at an interest in musical theatre but perhaps never had the budget nor episode time to indulge it. Freed by the Netflix dollars and the double-length episodes, the producers threw in a couple of extended song/dance sequences which just didn’t belong. Add in some false relationship peril, a couple of unnecessary side trips, and Rory’s apparent ability to commute freely to and from London with no jet lag effects (not to mention no job), and there’s too much cruft here. My least favourite interlude featured the spoilt brats of the Life and Death Brigade, who could have ended up on the cutting room floor with no regrets.

Once you get past the distractions wrought by ageing, weight loss, possible botox, and unconvincing hairpieces, it was enjoyable enough, though never reaching the heights of the original series. Everybody wanted to know what the last four words were. My bet was wrong on that. I’d watch it again if they made more. On the other hand, there’s something to be said for the forever youngness of cancelled shows.

 

Posted in entertainment, Review, Television

The Grand Boor (review)

grand-tour-20I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it, as the Top Gear schtick wore thin a long time ago, but I took a look at the first episode of The Grand Tour to see how Amazon had spent my licence fee Prime subscription.

The opening scene features Clarkson leaving Broadcasting House, handing over his lanyard, and walking away through the rain. As soon as my daughter saw this, she said, “This is just narcissism,” which was exactly right. Here’s a bully and a boor, a self-righteous, self-mythologising bore, indulging his own fantasy as the hero of his own narrative. In Clarkson’s hero’s journey he’s not the racist, sexist, apologist for neo-liberal elites whose ego became so inflated with success that he began to behave like a celebrity prima donna who can’t believe people don’t know who he is. No, he’s the poor, put-upon and misunderstood host of a harmless little TV show which gives pleasure to millions and is persecuted by the po-faced PC Brigade.

Of course, $160 Amazon dollars and a year or so later, we have realised that the world we are living in is Trump’s World, Boris’ World, Brexit World, and the power that Clarkson has, as apologist-in-chief, is immense. Only losers are offended by Clarkson. The struggling Guardian, which continues to pretend it is ‘fearless and independent’ publishes as much Clarkson clickbait as it can, because the truth is that – like Trump – there is literally nothing Clarkson can do that will turn his legion of fans off. He can punch, lie, exaggerate, get drunk in airport lounges, and he still has his bully pulpit in The Sun, and he still has his Amazon cash to wave in our faces like a Harry Enfield character come to horrific, warty life.

So to The Grand Tour, with his sniggering foils, and his booming voice and his ridiculous supercars and his sycophantic audience who will boo a Prius to order. It’s every bit as bad and as boring as I thought it would be. God, the sheer tedium of watching a middle-aged white man drive a fast car around and around, up and down, back and forth. The blatant filler, as cynical and contemptuous as Woody Allen’s recent Amazon outing: instead of racing three cars down a track once, why not do it a dozen times? These morons will watch anything.

You feel sorry for the audience, really. You can’t help, in your liberal humanist way, have a degree of sympathy for the brainwashed. You know that the hypnotised never lie. Their function is to go along with the gag, to be convinced that it’s okay to dismiss minorities, or climate change, or wildlife – anyone who is not them – and to cheer a millionaire as he burns rubber and petrol and sneers at the people who facilitate his indulgences. Even Clarkson is just a cog in this machine, his role to be the entertaining front of the hegemony, to show how having horrible opinions is no barrier to success. He’s not much more important than the token black woman, positioned as she was to be visible in the background, over Clarkson’s shoulder, a smiling indulgence to his past racism and misogyny.

But is that some desperation I can detect, underneath the noisy bluster? I think it is. Clarkson’s voice is shot, his instrument broken, sounding permanently as if he is losing it through shouting. As a teacher, I know what that broken voice means. It means you’ve been struggling with your Year 9s, or 10s, your naughty Year 8 group. You’ve been having to raise your voice to be heard, to insist on getting your way. Clarkson’s voice has been broken by his trials. And in the tent/studio, it’s all a little more shouty and stiff and awkward. No more strolling about from point to point: they’re fixed behind a shit table on a shit stage, sitting on shit chairs, and that’s where they stay for the live portion of the show, sharing their angry banter. But it’s clear: there really is no friendship there, and the famous chemistry has not survived the controversies. The tinker-engineer and the local radio DJ are simply there to be foils to the bully and they know it, and we know it, and it’s embarrassing.

If Trump goes after Amazon it will be a sort of poetic justice. You want Amazon’s TV offerings to be as interesting as Netflix’s, but they’re just not. They mostly have a nasty undercurrent, a lack of taste, making Amazon the Microsoft to Netflix’s Apple. And the fact that Amazon have given Clarkson a platform means that they are participating in the oppression of everything decent and kind in our cruel world.

Posted in bastards, musings

Shifting paradigms while Rome burns

k41. Copernican revolutions

Changing people’s minds is a hard, hard thing. When Copernicus correctly identified our heliocentric solar system, it was not an overnight “revolution” as it is often characterised, but the culmination of over a thousand years of observations not matching the dominant model. The Ptolemaic model lasted from the 2nd century to the 16th. All the observations, all the maths, were telling scientists that their paradigm was wrong. Geocentric astronomy was the “fake Facebook news” of its day. Copernicus simply made the mathematical model match the observations. Even so, his “revolution” did not lead to an overnight change in the dominant paradigm. Copernicus died 20 years before Galileo, who was still persecuted (albeit for political reasons) when he used his observations to confirm Copernicus’ work. It wasn’t until 100 years after Galileo’s death that the Church lifted the ban on books advocating heliocentrism.

So much for your overnight revolutions.

2. Not feeding the trolls

The lesson that people’s minds are hard to change was learnt – with difficulty – in the first years of the public internet and World Wide Web, when forum and chat room moderators first encountered trolling, flame wars, and Godwin’s Law, which asserts that,

“As an online discussion grows longer, the probability of a comparison involving Hitler approaches 1

So it went and so it goes. Whether you’re in a 1994 vintage AOL chatroom, or on The Facebook or the Twitter, you will encounter people who are immune to the figurative Copernican maths. Immune to the facts, or science, statistics, the evidence of their own eyes, or whatever else you care to throw at them.

As Robert M. Pirsig put it in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, the only way not to lose this fight is not to enter the arena. In other words, don’t feed the trolls – especially the ones that reside in your own head.

3. We built our own dystopia

Over the past 25 years, those online virtual spaces that were once called things like Second Life, have steadily leaked into the so-called real world and become not secondary but primary. Second Life is now just life. Those online flame wars have become modern political discourse. The made-up facts, the agent provocateurs (trolls), the inevitable comparisons to Hitler, the trading of insults and disrespect, have become normalised. The leopards have broken into the temple and have now become part of the ritual.

Back in 2010, when Twitter was young and the Arab Spring was in its early flowering, I was naive enough to believe that Twitter was a potential force for change we could believe in. Obama, against all the perceived wisdom and seemingly against all the odds, had been elected President of the United States. Smug Britons, who were used to casually branding Americans as ignorant racists, were brought up short by the realisation that it was eminently more possible for there to be a black US President than it was for there to be a black British Prime Minister.

And then there  were the democratic uprisings across North Africa and in the Arab world, and it seemed as if the people were able to organise themselves more effectively with social media tools, and that the tyrants’ days were numbered. Even here, in the UK, it was apparent that smart protestors could outwit the police and bypass the kettling, by sharing instant information based on tweets and maps. The future was here, the future was a flashmob.

But here’s the thing.

Flashmobs, as conceived by Larry Niven in his short fiction, are dystopian. And the tools that allow students and other citizens to organise protests can be used by everyone, including the nastiest people in the world.

And so – like a monster from the id come to life – an internet troll who starts flame wars and is always, inevitably, compared to Hitler has become the President of the United States. That style of online discourse – driven by anonymity, intolerance, and hate – is now just discourse. And your paradigm, my paradigm, about how politics would be changed by social media, is wrong.

I started to suspect I was wrong in 2010 when – in spite of the economic disaster visited upon the world by the bad actions of the banks – a hard-line neoliberal government was elected in the UK. I knew I was wrong in 2015 when – after five years of malicious cuts to public services and widely publicised suffering – they were re-elected with a proper majority.

And then Brexit, and now Trump.

All of the tweets that shared the suffering of disabled people over the bedroom tax, all of the publicity about cuts to the NHS, or housing benefit, or people being told they were fit for work when they were clearly not: useless. No matter how many times you retweet the fact that thousands of people are depending on food banks: it changes nothing.

It’s not just that you’re living in an echo chamber. It’s that everything you say and do online is a waste of time and energy – and it may even be counterproductive. The people who are doing this to their fellow human beings cannot be made to care. They are conscience free and actually glad to hear that unemployed people are having their benefits cut. They are secretly – and not so secretly – gleeful when the bodies of refugees wash up on beaches. They are full of hate, and they are not listening to your facts about the earth circling the sun. Twitter is just another medium designed to entertain and distract you, like a Soap opera, the news, or Game of Thrones.

4. While Rome burns

Is there an answer? I dunno. I’ve been on the edge of giving up the Twitter, not that I tweet much about politics or expect anything I say to even be seen by most people. (I’m muffled by the algorithms, not important enough to appear in people’s feeds.)

But given what a lot of hot air it all is, I’m suppressing the politics on my feed. Nothing anyone says is going to make me any more left wing than I already am. Nothing you tell me about how awful this government (or Trump) is behaving is going to make my opinion any lower than it already is. What do I do with all the upset and the outrage that these tweets create? I’m as powerless to do anything about Trump’s fascist advisors as I am to fix an earthquake in Italy. It’s just more news, and the ultimate effect is to make me feel helpless. So I’m unfollowing all the political twitterers (most of whom don’t follow me, so no impact there) and muting people who are just upset and angry at the moment and therefore venting a lot.

It takes me back to the last royal jubilee and my feeling that people tweeting about the fucking queen when they clearly hate the monarchy aren’t really helping themselves or the rest of us: giving headspace to your foe is to give them part of yourself.

The only thing that will ever have an impact on the powerful and the wealthy is for people to start smashing things up: not on the internet, but out on the streets. And if that happens there will be gas, batons, firehoses and all the other apparatuses of state oppression, of course there will. Because while they don’t give a shit about people, they do care about property. Which is why smashing it up is the only way to get their attention. Everything else is twittering while Rome burns.

Posted in bastards, Television

“I would like to adjust my programming”

ptolemy-slocum-as-sylvester-leonardo-nam-as-lutz-and-thandie-newton-as-maeve-credit-john-p-johnson-hboI was watching Westworld, and it struck me how, like the robots, we’re all subject to our own particular programming, and we’re all trapped in some kind of narrative, leading lives of torment or quiet desperation. The narrative has got us in its grip, and once it has taken hold it is so hard to fight against. Telling the truth, or supplying facts, or whatever else you try to do won’t have an impact on people who are being driven by the power of narrative, no matter how false.

I didn’t post anything about the US election in the run-up, and there’s not much need in the aftermath. What have now become the usual observations apply. Although they’ve now been discredited (UK General Election 2015) and discredited again (Brexit 2016), people were still giving too much credence to opinion polls. I visited my placeholder Facebook page earlier, and there was a promoted link to Nate Silver’s page. Hilarious! As John Oliver’s show might ask: FiveThirtyEight.com – how is this still a thing?

Then there’s the Twitter, which the day after the election was a pathetic shambles of self-pitying complaint. One couldn’t help but wonder, what if Twitter had been around in 1979 for Thatcher (my Vietnam), or in 1980 for Reagan? What would Twitter have made of Dan fucking Quayle? Or Nixon, when he was illegally bombing Cambodia and Laos? As everybody knows by now, Twitter is an echo chamber. There was surely nothing more useless or pointless than the endlessly repeated exhortations to VOTE! Who’s reading those tweets, exactly? Yeah, your followers, who are people who think like you and tweet the same kind of things as you.

You couldn’t fight Trump on Twitter. We’ve known since 1996 that trying to win an online argument is a pointless waste of time. And as for the bulk of Trump’s supporters, those white Middle Americans convinced that Sharia Law is just around the corner, they’re not on Twitter. Twitter’s user base is notoriously static and restricted to a subset of the chattering classes.

Crowing online about how Beyoncé and Jay-Z, or Bruce, or Alec Baldwin were endorsing Hilary while Trump could only manage Scott Baio is to massively miss the point that those ‘deplorable’ Red State people feel nothing but contempt and resentment towards those metropolitan sophisticates squeezed up against the East and West coast. The more you parade your celebrity endorsers in front of them, the more they’re going to vote against you.

Anyway, even though the election season was ridiculously long and tedious, there was never going to be enough time, or enough tweets, or enough celebrities, to undo the damage that has been done – over years by the likes of Fox News. On the one hand, the strident outrage of paid-to-have-opinions pundits; on the other, the whisperers… The eight years of economic pain since 2008; the eight years of naked racism directed towards Obama; the fifteen years of anti-muslim rhetoric since September 2001; the 35 years of steadily declining middle class incomes since the end of the Keynsian post-war consensus.

There’s a narrative out there. It’s in the heart of Brexitland, it’s in Le Pen’s France, and it’s in those Red States, of which there are increasing numbers. The narrative takes the undeniable evidence of people’s blighted economic fortunes, ever-increasing burden of debt, lack of options, and it whispers (sometimes shouts) the blame. These people, with their alien religion, want to introduce their Sharia Law, here, in deepest Wisconsin. Or these other people, who want to stop the police from doing their job. Or these people who are stealing American jobs. Or these others, who want to take away your guns, or your freedom to say whatever the hell you want: all of them are collectively to blame for the shitty way you feel, for the way you feel uncomfortable, or embarrassed, for holding your opinions.

We can’t help it: none of us are immune to the power of narrative. We’re all just helpless robots, programmed to respond. The neoliberal consensus has been programming us all since the 70s, but since 2008 they’ve gradually lost control of the narrative. The banks were blatantly, obviously to blame for the financial crash. But the working classes were blatantly, obviously made to pay the cost. This injustice created a whirling, white-hot vortex of resentment and anger which made people receptive to the quiet comfort of an alternative narrative in which blame was apportioned. So people have followed their programming to its logical conclusion: first Brexit; and now Trump, the rampaging monster from America’s id. Trump is the robot uprising, the one we’re waiting for in Westworld.