gominokouhai: (Default)

To understand who he was you have to go back to another time, when the world was powered by the black fuel and the deserts sprouted great cities of pipe and steel. Gone now. Swept away. Without fuel they were nothing. They had built a house of straw. The thundering machines sputtered and stopped.

On the roads it was a whitelined nightmare. A whirlwind of looting, a firestorm of fear. Men began to feed on men. The gangs took over the highways, ready to wage war for a tank of juice. And in this maelstrom of decay, ordinary men were battered and smashed. Men like Max. The warrior Max.

I love me a bit of prophetic dystopia, I do.

Happy Stanislav Petrov Day, everyone, but the way things are going I'm starting to think we might all be better off if he'd just pushed that damn button.

gominokouhai: (Khaaan!)

There's plenty of scope in current events for a constructive and far-reaching debate about cultural appropriation versus cultural appreciation, but naturally I'm going to take this opportunity to talk about how much of a dickhead Jamie Oliver is.

TL;DR: it's a lot.

It's fair enough to say that all cuisine is stolen from somewhere. We've been cooking for at least 1.8 million years and pretty much everything has been done before by someone somewhere. This is especially true in GB, where our native produce consists entirely of watercress and mammoth meat with absolutely everything else having been imported from somewhere. Apples come from China, dormice came over with the Romans, fish & chips are Jewish. There's no such thing as authentic British cuisine, and we like it that way. The cultural appropriation is the bit that makes it delicious.

There are considerations to bear in mind, though. Nobody seems to mind cultural appropriation when it's done with a modicum of respect for the source culture, and/or if it's done well, and that's what's lacking on this occasion.

This latest flap involving the fat-tongued mockney twat is amusing precisely because it's so clear-cut. Jamie's punchy jerk rice is not jerk, and it's barely even rice. Jerk is a meat marinade based on citrus juice, allspice, and scotch bonnets, none of which appear in this travesty. What Jamie has done, as is his wont, is whack a bit of this in and a slosh of that, and probably a luvverly good glug of olive oil because it's Jamie and he can't help himself, all without the remotest concern for the people he's ripping off. And then he calls it jerk not out of any respect for the culture that served as his inspiration, but because putting words on things sells units.

Crucially, apparently the result is disgusting, because amongst all of his myriad other faults, Jamie is a terrible cook.

As we all know, he's not only a terrible cook but also a terrible human being. This is clearly evidenced by every action he has ever taken in his worthless life, not least the smug, sanctimonious attitude, the arrogance, the hypocrisy, the poverty-shaming, the fat-shaming, and the constant moral crusades against anyone who's insufficiently upper-middle-class for his Winchester-addled tastes. But the specific example of his odious nature which is most pertinent right now is his cluelessness. Faced with the prospect that he might have made a teensy social misstep, backed with the weight of plenty of evidence and the outrage of the British Afro-Caribbean community, Jamie's only response is to double down, and call his detractors mad. So now we can add mental-health-shaming to the list.

Far be it from me to encourage Britons of Jamaican origin to take up the torches and pitchforks and show Jamie what a real barbecue looks like, from the inside. But if you all would choose to do so, I'd consider it an added bonus.

If like me, this whole controversy has just left you craving proper jerk, the Irish Times has a recipe.

gominokouhai: (Default)

In 1787, Robert Burns the Ploughman Poet walked along the riverside by the Falls of Bruar. Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exceedingly picturesque and beautiful; said he, misspelling ‘Atholl’ as he did so, but their effect is much impaired by the want of trees and shrubs. Thus inspired to action, he did what any of us would do. He wrote a poem and addressed it to the landowner.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadow's wat'ry bed:
Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,
My craggy cliffs adorn;

and so on and so on

There was already a birk adorning those cliffs, but he'd gone home to write a poem.

As a result the Duke of Atholl instituted a massive tree-planting programme. Because some inkstained twit wrote a poem. Is that how you get a public works project approved? Is some latter-day Bard even now penning A Humble Petition to just get the damn trams finished already? Or is that, as I suspect, a niche that these days is filled by the letters page of the Scotsman?

Nonetheless, a couple of weeks ago I popped up north to view the result. The Falls of Bruar is an area of outstanding natural beauty, and these days you can't see any of it because there are trees everywhere.

IMG_6897

There's some scenery behind here, but you can't tell.

I already can't stand Robert Burns. Now he's actively ruining things I like to do (viz., looking at waterfalls). I'm inclined to start taking this personal.

I can't write like Burns (thank Christ), so perhaps a humble petition after the style of Scotland's other favourite son will suffice.

Ohh, 'twas in the month of July two thousand and twelve,
Into the woods around the Falls of Bruar did we delve,
And tho' the scenery was beautiful like a painting or a frieze,
None of it could we see because of all the bloody trees,
and ooowhhh ...

I may have slipped into a Milligoon voice towards the end there, but in my defence, it's hard not to.

Remainder of the photoset is here. I had to climb down slippery rocks on cliff edges to get some of these shots. Rabbie is actually trying to kill me.

Emails

Wed, Oct. 27th, 2010 16:49
gominokouhai: (Default)

Hello Paul, your Star Trek costume has arrived. Bloody hell, my life just took a weird turn. However it's just a top, so if you could please wear black trousers and shoes... welcome to the wonderful world of movie stardom. Please provide the bottom half of your own spacesuit.

Has anyone seen my legs? They don't appear to be below my waist, where I normally keep them.

Playing the Star Trek psycho (it's just occurred to me: That Scene with Janet Leigh wouldn't have worked nearly so well with a sonic shower) tomorrow and Friday, and then, on Friday, I have to change out of the Starfleet uniform and run off to audition for a completely different piece. Specifically, I need to stop killin' dudes, cross town, and do a romantic scene with a beautiful twenty-year-old. I can't see this ending well, and not only because the romance is written by Dostoyevsky.

I mean that quite literally. Dear old Fyodor Mikhaylovich is not particularly renowned for his mastery of the screenplay as an artform, largely due to his untimely death some years before the genre was invented. This script is lifted straight out of the book into a single fixed scene, one set, one shot, no direction, and no regard given to how films work. I gather this company have previously only done stage work: it shows. More work for me. Would be a good part, though.

~

At regular pays-the-bills work today I've received a single-sentence email (Can you please confirm that we have a reservation with you for 2 people for 2 nights Nov 11-12) in 100-point Arial text, taking up four screens and requiring me to scroll. I don't respond well to being shouted at. I've considered answering in 200-point ALL CAPS AND BOLD FOR GOOD MEASURE, or maybe whispering a reply in Flyspeck-3. Neither option amuses me sufficiently. I think I'mma sophisticate this up.

my dear mister price
your reservation stands firm
like the ancient oak

Better idea: commission Brian Blessed to phone him up and reconfirm.

gominokouhai: (Default)

Apparently they're remaking The Day of the Triffids. I loved the book: I remember reading it on my way home from school. That wouldn't be a particularly interesting story, but I cycled.

The franchise is rather beloved across the pond, witters patronizing Yank David Ehrlich, and maybe the closest thing the British have to a genuinely iconic monster. I'm not so sure about that. We've got Daleks and Cybermen. We've got Sontarans, Haemovores, Silurians, Sea Devils, Rutans, Terileptils, and the Nestene Consciousness. I could go on for some time in this vein, from Autons to Zygons, so perhaps I should move on.

The British need a mobile nettle as their iconic monster? We've got Mr Hyde. We've got freaking Dracula. (Okay, Bram Stoker was Irish. It's close.) And we gave the world Margaret Thatcher. We're doing pretty well for monsters.

The 1962 movie took huge liberties with the book and is notable only for having Janette Scott in it, whom, it should be noted, I really got hot when I saw. Based on the trailer, though, it seems that all she gets to do is swoon over Howard Keel. I think I can safely give that a miss.

I'm off to watch the 1981 BBC adaptation again. There are two seconds of sub-par special effects and one bad hairstyle, but apart from that, it's pretty much perfect.

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