Thanks to John Hooper for making me look beautiful.
Friday 5 August 2011
William James Holland, Aged 26⅓
Thanks to John Hooper for making me look beautiful.
The News
I love watching the news. I mean BBC or Channel 4, of course, I'm not daft.
People used to remember where they were when major events happened; JFK's assassination, the Moon Landings, Elvis's death, etc. Indeed, I remember exactly where I was during every world-changing occurrence since Mrs Thatcher left Number 10: sitting watching the television news in the living room.
The international operation of bringing live pictures and immediate, reliable reportage from every conceivable corner of the planet is staggeringly impressive. To those with an enquiring mind, it's essential.
But something changed. It's difficult to pin down when it happened, but I've got two possibilities; (a) Diana's death, or (b) the production meeting when some smart-arse decided it would look good if the newsreaders were allowed to get up from behind their desks and walk around on-set or - worse - perch on the edge of the aforementioned desks. This was fucking fatal.
Between New Labour's first election victory and '9/11', the great newsreader shift occurred.
We had been accustomed to getting our fill of news from steady, dull, trustworthy men and women who sat still, and read out what the BBC's news editor considered to be facts. This was interspersed with film pieces that had been put together by the fearless roving reporters, which they described with their own succinct voice-overs.
And now what do we have? Showy, coiffured, Americanised toss-pots who seem to believe that they are more important than the stories they are relating. You never caught Angela Rippon having an opinion or Peter Sissons plastering his views over the screen. Don't get me wrong, they weren't passive, but they'd needle the Labour [shadow-]minister in interviews just as much as they would the Tory. Nowadays, after they've nigh-on accused the coalition cabinet member of crimes against humanity, they'll ask Ed Miliband what he had for breakfast.
I'm exaggerating, but I'm allowed to; I'm scrawling a blog, not reading the news.
It stands to reason that as soon as these 'journalists' were permitted to stand up, and jauntily promenade around the studio, the power went straight to their heads.
I don't want to know what you think, thanks, I just want to know what happened.
Aljezeera's on Freeview now, so pull your finger out, BBC, or you'll lose me.
People used to remember where they were when major events happened; JFK's assassination, the Moon Landings, Elvis's death, etc. Indeed, I remember exactly where I was during every world-changing occurrence since Mrs Thatcher left Number 10: sitting watching the television news in the living room.
The international operation of bringing live pictures and immediate, reliable reportage from every conceivable corner of the planet is staggeringly impressive. To those with an enquiring mind, it's essential.
But something changed. It's difficult to pin down when it happened, but I've got two possibilities; (a) Diana's death, or (b) the production meeting when some smart-arse decided it would look good if the newsreaders were allowed to get up from behind their desks and walk around on-set or - worse - perch on the edge of the aforementioned desks. This was fucking fatal.
Between New Labour's first election victory and '9/11', the great newsreader shift occurred.
We had been accustomed to getting our fill of news from steady, dull, trustworthy men and women who sat still, and read out what the BBC's news editor considered to be facts. This was interspersed with film pieces that had been put together by the fearless roving reporters, which they described with their own succinct voice-overs.
And now what do we have? Showy, coiffured, Americanised toss-pots who seem to believe that they are more important than the stories they are relating. You never caught Angela Rippon having an opinion or Peter Sissons plastering his views over the screen. Don't get me wrong, they weren't passive, but they'd needle the Labour [shadow-]minister in interviews just as much as they would the Tory. Nowadays, after they've nigh-on accused the coalition cabinet member of crimes against humanity, they'll ask Ed Miliband what he had for breakfast.
I'm exaggerating, but I'm allowed to; I'm scrawling a blog, not reading the news.
It stands to reason that as soon as these 'journalists' were permitted to stand up, and jauntily promenade around the studio, the power went straight to their heads.
I don't want to know what you think, thanks, I just want to know what happened.
Aljezeera's on Freeview now, so pull your finger out, BBC, or you'll lose me.
Wednesday 3 August 2011
Pub Quizzes
I love quizzes. Any type really, but the mixture of booze, trivia and a neighbouring table surrounded by moronic Australians always makes for an exquisite night out.
My local quizmaster is a pro, clearly in love with his job. The comical quips, the witty assides and the X Factor-esque heartbeat sound effect when reading out the results produce a lively and truly competitive atmosphere.
I generally shy away from public competitiveness (I tend to stand back and pour silent scorn on my fellow citizens/subjects) but in a pub quiz situation, I'm in my element. I'm socially allowed to show off (by demonstrating my knowlegde of African flags, Winter Paralympic host cities and the back-catalogue of Whigfield), to chortle at the idiocy of Antipodean opponents and, most importantly, to go head-to-head with the Harry, Ollie and Barnaby types of this world.
The joy - the utter joy - of getting the the right answer to a tricky question that the over-privileged douche on the next table is convinced he's got the right answer to and hasn't, and he knows that I know he's made a complete tit of himself in front of his 'chums'... Oh! it's bliss.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to heartily congratulate someone who's pulled a great answer to a stinging question out of the bag.
Just not very often.
My local quizmaster is a pro, clearly in love with his job. The comical quips, the witty assides and the X Factor-esque heartbeat sound effect when reading out the results produce a lively and truly competitive atmosphere.
I generally shy away from public competitiveness (I tend to stand back and pour silent scorn on my fellow citizens/subjects) but in a pub quiz situation, I'm in my element. I'm socially allowed to show off (by demonstrating my knowlegde of African flags, Winter Paralympic host cities and the back-catalogue of Whigfield), to chortle at the idiocy of Antipodean opponents and, most importantly, to go head-to-head with the Harry, Ollie and Barnaby types of this world.
The joy - the utter joy - of getting the the right answer to a tricky question that the over-privileged douche on the next table is convinced he's got the right answer to and hasn't, and he knows that I know he's made a complete tit of himself in front of his 'chums'... Oh! it's bliss.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to heartily congratulate someone who's pulled a great answer to a stinging question out of the bag.
Just not very often.
Monday 1 August 2011
Friends, Londoners, Countrymen... Lend me your ears!
Until very recently, I was very sceptical about computery things like blogs.
Of course, I've been a 'member' of the Facebook family for years (after naively dallying with MySpace) and recently I've even lost my Twitter virginity. But - as it initially was with cigarettes and Jägerbombs - I only entered into these worlds under the pressure of my peers and the neverending need to keep up with the Joneses.
I was quite happy with my old Nokia. But now I couldn't cope without my iPhone. I used to be desperate for Tube rides to end because I couldn't cope with the eye-contact-avoiding, should-I-offer-my-seat-to-this-woman-or-will-she-be-offended, has-that-guy-never-heard-of-Sure-For-Men-ness of the journeys. But now I'm simply eager to see some daylight, coax my signal bars upwards and find out who's What'sApp'd me or if my latest Tweet has been Retweeted.
I used to chastise my mother for smoking; now I champion its cause to every Think Of The Children nutjob I meet. Similarly I dismissed computery things as pasttimes for those people, those who couldn't converse in real life. I know now, I was wrong.
I can be an ultra-critical and cynical person, but never without a dose of wit (I hope). And I have the right to change my opinion, as I did with blogs.
Through Bill's Bloggage I hope to relate the extended versions of the thoughts my mind ponders upon, the thoughts that usually get spat at the television in a profanity-riddled rage.
Of course, I've been a 'member' of the Facebook family for years (after naively dallying with MySpace) and recently I've even lost my Twitter virginity. But - as it initially was with cigarettes and Jägerbombs - I only entered into these worlds under the pressure of my peers and the neverending need to keep up with the Joneses.
I was quite happy with my old Nokia. But now I couldn't cope without my iPhone. I used to be desperate for Tube rides to end because I couldn't cope with the eye-contact-avoiding, should-I-offer-my-seat-to-this-woman-or-will-she-be-offended, has-that-guy-never-heard-of-Sure-For-Men-ness of the journeys. But now I'm simply eager to see some daylight, coax my signal bars upwards and find out who's What'sApp'd me or if my latest Tweet has been Retweeted.
I used to chastise my mother for smoking; now I champion its cause to every Think Of The Children nutjob I meet. Similarly I dismissed computery things as pasttimes for those people, those who couldn't converse in real life. I know now, I was wrong.
I can be an ultra-critical and cynical person, but never without a dose of wit (I hope). And I have the right to change my opinion, as I did with blogs.
Through Bill's Bloggage I hope to relate the extended versions of the thoughts my mind ponders upon, the thoughts that usually get spat at the television in a profanity-riddled rage.
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