Commenting? Follow my advice …

Tom van Aardt, Communities Editor at BBC’s Future Media & Technology department works terribly hard. I know because of his various twitter updates and because from time to time he and I have meetings. (He’s terribly busy, terribly effecient and frightfully reliable by the way).

Just this weekend he’s been working on a blog posting about the future of commenting across BBC Online.

Just how should the BBC cater for members of the public to comment via the BBC’s online provision? What does the audience think?

I hesitated before I left a comment, partly because I was reading the posting shortly after he’d published it, partly because as BBC staff it may look a little odd if I’m the first person responding, but mostly because the thing uppermost in my mind was the best one minute of radio I’ve ever heard from comedy gods Mitchell and Webb.

Not only did I hesitate before posting a link to a YouTube video which I think perfectly sums up a few people’s preoccupation with finding out what the audience thinks, the blogging technology used by the BBC actually prevented me from including any links too. Thank God for that. My job should be safe (for the time being at least).

Still, Tom’s question got me thinking about the very same issue I’ve been confronting since Christmas 2007. Do I allow comments after I’ve approved them? Do I allow them automatically? Or do I prevent anyone from leaving comments full stop?

Last Christmas I was a serial Yahoo 360 blogger. There was a network attached to it. I established what felt like strong friendships with a number of random people across the world. I loved my Yahoo blog. People started leaving comments for each posting. I felt encouraged to blog more. I grew to appreciate the network of friends I established on it. One hand washed the other.

But something went wrong around Christmas 2007. In the run up to my most sensitive time of year I began to read quite a few sneery remarks being left by a handful of people. I hated that. I was caught between being painfully aware of my own ability at projecting emotions and having to grapple with the very real possibility that there were some people out there who relished the opportunity of leaving derogatory comments on my posts.

I was only writing to satisfy my own creative urges, not to satisfy an audience. So to read those potentially (almost certainly) negative comments pissed me off no end.

If you’ve not got anything nice to say don’t say anything. Don’t attack me. I’m only writing this stuff because I like writing.

Inevitably, I dealt with the situation in a fairly predictably *adult* way. I disabled all commenting and shut down my blog. I’ll lick my wounds, I thought. Sod them.

A few months went by. I start realising I miss blogging and then I set up this wordpress blog making sure I tick the “don’t allow comments” box when I set it all up.

It’s only recently I’ve unchecked the box, pressured into doing so by an internal voice urging me that if I don’t I’m unlikely to get any links back to my blog and thus will spectacularly fail in driving any traffic to my work.

It was a difficult decision to enable commenting. What if noone left a comment? Would people drop by my blog, read a posting and then think “Well, he’s obviously not very good at what he thinks he’s good at .. he’s got noone commenting. If he’s got noone commenting then noone can be reading this twaddle.”

That’s how I’m gradually seeing commenting, you see. It’s one way of an audience measuring just how popular a blogger is. It’s a way of determining whether this blog you’re reading is really worth reading. After all, if noone else is reading it, what’s the point in sticking with it?

But there’s another, slightly more worrying aspect to commenting and audience interaction which I’ve observed in the past twenty-four hours.

Only yesterday a newly-discovered blogger left a comment on a posting of mine about Mumbai. Despite my protestations, my heart races when someone does leave a comment. There is, quite unexpectedly, a flutter when you see that someone – for what ever reason – has felt they want to leave a comment. It’s a stroke, an encouraging gesture. It flicks a switch in the back of your head which says “keep looking around for stuff to write about.”

As someone who loves writing that feeling is terribly important. But given that I am my own worst enemy and one who understands himself better than any psychiatrist, I’m at pains to point out that the blogger/reader relationship may seem useful initially, but it will only lead to a dangerously dependant relationship in the future.

Frankly, I’d prefer to be self-sufficient.

Christmas: Mother better eat the picalilli

Mother better eat the picalilli, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

A pungent combination of white wine and malt vinegar gently simmering on the hob is producing a gaseous nightmare in the kitchen. It is, consequently, completely out of bounds on matters of health and safety. Thus, I remain in the lounge warmed by a glowing fire updating on this year’s Christmas preparations, waiting for the toxic smell to dissipate.

This is the final phase in a weekend production line which has seen the kitchen window-sill fill up with jars of marmalade, Christmas chutney, cucumber pickle and lethal chilli jam. The last part of this year’s Christmas hamper is the piccalilli.

Had I been born female, I am almost certainly someone who would have chosen to live in the country so as to be able to join the Women’s Institute. My pickles and preserves would have been the stuff of legend had been able to join the WI.

Previous years have seen me knuckle-down for the Christmas holidays indulging a slightly odd interest in candle-making. Refusing to get sucked into purchasing all of the vital equipment, I gingerly melted candle-wax and stearin in a bain-marie and poured the resulting mixture into old ramekins. The results were reasonably successful, although a search deep in the under-stairs cupboard would reveal a number of unlit candles, possibly because those I tested didn’t burn terribly well.

Following my own advice, I’ve embraced pickling and preserving in the run up to this year’s festive season.

There’s something reassuringly therapeutic about the whole process. First there’s the research – hours spent curled up on the sofa reading over recipe books or browsing the internet.

What quickly became apparent reading over Gary Rhodes’ New British Classics (the place to go for piccalilli), Delia Smith’s Cookery Course and this month’s BBC Good Food magazine was that the process of preserving in advance of Christmas is only any fun if there are some unsuspecting people to give the finished product to.

Imagine the hideous situation where your first batch of marmalade looks good in the jar but, but the first taste confirms it isn’t up to much. Then you find yourself lumbered with a cupboard of reasonably attractive looking preserve which should really have a warning label on it: Don’t Eat This.

That’s when a distribution network is vital. If you’ve made fourteen jars of the stuff at least you can experience the joy of gratitude on thirteen other people’s faces when you dish it out in the weeks before Christmas. At least that you’ve only got the one jar to get through or throw away if it doesn’t turn out to be terribly good.

With a distribution network decided upon (mine started off being quite grand but has quickly been de-scoped to feature only my parents – my sister, if she’s really lucky) there is, inevitably the need for a test-phase.

The piccalilli I spoke of earlier was tested a few weeks ago. Sadly, I failed to dry off the cauliflower and cucumber sufficiently well. Hence the two oversized jars in the fridge have vegetables sitting in a yellow sauce with a layer of water sitting on top. Believe me, they don’t look very appetising.

Still, it provided me with the opportunity to go through the process early and thus legitimately extend the Christmas preparations earlier than in previous years.

But perhaps the thing I’m most looking forward to – and perhaps what has driven this surprisingly pleasurable process over the past few weeks – is the opportunity to serve up what my own mum did when I was younger.

When I was in my teens it was my mum who would set aside two days before Christmas day to start cooking and baking like a demon, making cakes and Christmas puddings and jams and bread before placing the results of her handiwork in a festively decorated box. It was then left to me and my older to distribute the gifts amongst various lucky recipients in the village.

Both of us hated the task, partly because we weren’t necessarily the best company for one another but also because I wanted to be at home following the very full tele-viewing schedule I had drawn up using the Radio Times. Delivering food parcels to recipients in the village was not something I wanted to be doing.

Obviously, things have changed somewhat now. The growing realisation that I’ll probably never be very good with money has shifted focus. I realise now I’ll never feel comfortable aimlessly wandering around a shopping mall for hours so I can shuffle home laden with ridiculously oversized bags. I want to derive pleasure from my Christmas giving.

I’ve spent too many Christmases agonising over whether I’ve got the appropriate value present for a particular individual, worrying whether I’ve got too much or too little, or thinking about how big that credit card bill will be in the new year.

Now, as the kitchen window-sill fills up with jars of goodness for this year’s Christmas, I stand back with my arms folded and the pungent gases in the kitchen gone and feel just a little bit smug.

Next Sunday I’ll deliver a box full of stuff I’ve made for my mum. She tells me her diabetes won’t be a problem for any sweet stuff I have in mind. Apparently the drugs work really well.

And frankly, it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t like them or can’t eat it. If the jars remain unopened in a cupboard before they’re thrown away, I won’t care. It’s the process of making and giving the stuff I’m interested in. And, if she’s tasted one and realises she can’t eat them without risking a diabetic coma, she can always give them to someone else. I won’t mind.

Mumbai on the move

One look at my diary this morning – it’s only recently I’ve got in to the habit of using my Outlook calendar – and the prospect of four meetings in the space of five hours made it almost a guarantee I’d find it difficult to keep on top of what was going on in Mumbai.

I wanted to know more. I wanted to follow everything. It was almost as though I wanted someone standing next to me the whole day giving me an update on what was going on each and every moment.

What was my motivation exactly? I kept asking myself the same question all day long. Twelve hours later I’m still not entirely sure why.

Was it a mawkish fascination with the emerging story coming out of India ? Was it a genuine interest in news – one which has surfaced over the past couple of days as a result of work ? Was I really a news junkie who was coming to terms with what had formerly seemed like an underlying interest in news ? Or was I, in fact, feeling the effects of the social networking tools such as Twitter or Facebook, getting the news from the web and responding to events on a minute by minute basis?

Shortly after my first meeting just off Shepherds Bush, I retrieved my mobile from my coat pocket. Compared to the difficulties I’d experienced connecting to the internet with my laptop, my mobile was considerably more reliable.

I stumbled on a live update page on the BBC website. I bookmarked it. I was hooked the entire afternoon.

There are obvious caveats which need to be spelled out here. I work there and on that basis I’m biassed. I’m bound to go to the employer for the news. But, for the rest of the day I wanted to keep checking in, checking to see what had happened, what had developed, if the death count had risen, if things had subsided. I wanted things to wind down. I wanted it to be over. I wanted people to be safe.

What transpired – as a consumer of news – was that this particular event was expanding. This made it an unsual experience. Far away in what feels like a distant land, we weren’t learning about what had occurred, but through minute by minute updates we read about a constantly unfolding series of events. It felt like I was there. It felt like this was a battle, or a war. It felt like it has happening just down the road. It felt real.

Looking back on today I can say with certainty that this bizarre method of retrieving news on events shifted focus. Today was about Mumbai, about India, about innocence gunned down, about anger and pain.

As the fast train from London Charing Cross pulled into Hither Green station, I switched on the six o’clock bulletin on the radio, keen to get some kind of summary of events.

I got the snapshot I was looking for and a bit more. British eyewitnesses were returning home.

One man explained how he had barricaded himself in his hotel room, switched off the lights and kept quiet until the worst of it was over. What had begun as a brisk walk from platform six to the ticket hall slowed to a sombre pace.

Here was someone from the UK – completely unknown to me – recalling the experiences he had in a country that felt like it was far, far away in such a way that I felt immediately protective and defensive for him and all those who had suffered like him.

It was an incredible day for an outsider like me and, no doubt, something a whole lot worse for those who experienced it first hand.

If I truly am a news junkie then I hold my hands up in shame. Don’t – please – feel bad of me if that is the case.

Personally, I prefer to think of myself of a normal human being, horrified by what feels like totally unexpected and at times surreal events.

But if there’s one thing I’m certain of after the past couple of days it’s this: my susceptibility to such harrowing events precludes me from ever being a journalist.

Mumbai on the tube

Front page of the Times, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

The most striking newspaper image I’ve seen in a long time adorned the copy of The Times I scrounged from the lady sat opposite me on the tube this morning.

In fairness she had finished browsing the paper when I carefully removed my headphones, leant forward and asked, “Excuse me, could I possibly borrow the newspaper if you’ve finished with it?” She seemed happy to oblige and blissfully unaware of the news from India.

I didn’t want to read about the shootings in Mumbai. I didn’t know very much about what had happened. I’d stumbled on the breaking news by watching the news live on the internet the night before. I’d seen looped shots of a burning hotel in Mumbai. I’d heard about 80 or so people having died, seen a clip where someone had said “they seemed to be asking for people with American or British passports.”  I’d scrambled to find what facts were available on the internet and quickly followed up with a handful of texts to friends whose friends and associates were based in Mumbai.

All were safe. That was the extent of my research.

This morning, however, trundling to work on the tube my gaze landed on the front cover of The Times. Something about the front page drew my eye. I looked more closely and soon found myself looking at the lady holding the paper, a large and the extremely approachable looking black woman complete with impeccably applied make-up and an adorable hat. I watched as she passed over every page.

I found it almost impossible to stop looking at the front page of the newspaper. Was it a policeman or a soldier leading an elderly looking woman across a blood splattered floor? I couldn’t tell. Where was that? Why were the bags left that way? Did someone really get shot there? Is that really how much blood can come out of a human body when a bullet rips through it?

It all looks so quiet. It all looks so final. India looks so damaged.

Richard Hickox

In the relatively small world of the classical music world, the untimely death of conductor Richard Hickox has taken everyone by surprise.

I can’t claim to know him. The only link I have with him is an interview I attended to work for the City of London Sinfonia in the summer of 1991. I didn’t get it.

That’s what we all do when we scrabble around to justify the sadness us bunch of classical music fans feel when a member of the club suddenly drops off the radar.

What are you thinking? Where are you going? You’ve got years in you yet.

What I’ve been touched by is to what extent I start checking to see who’s heard and who hasn’t. I messaged a mate at work to see if he’d heard. Checked in on Facebook to see a journalist I knew of old had registered the same level of surprise. Only this evening I made a point of trotting over to Tommy Pearson’s One More Take. They all said the same. They were all feeling really rather surprised.

It came as a surprise the man was 60. It was a shock to discover he died of a heart attack. It was somehow unnerving and reassuring all at the same time to discover he died only a few hours after doing a recording session of Holst’s Choral Symphony in Cardiff. If you’re going to go, surely the best way is to take your bow and run off the stage in a flash.

Worse than that is the sad truth it’s only in the event of someone’s death that I begin to learn what they achieved in his or her life.

Hickox was one of our stars. He founded the City of London Sinfonia in 1971 at the tender age of 23. The band continues today. I can’t think of anything I did thirteen years ago which still works today.

Ten years later he was serving as Artistic Director of the Northern Sinfonia at a time when most people perceived orchestral life to be centred solely in the main UK cities.

And in case you’re wondering whether this is all sounding quite regional (and shame on you if you are), Mr Hickox was associate guest conductor with the London Symphony Orchestra from 1985 until his death and principal guest conductor with the BBC National Orchestra of Wales from 2000 until 2006.

This man worked hard and went out like a light.

In tonight’s In Tune presented by Petroc Trelawny on BBC Radio 3, pianist Imogen Cooper played some keyboard music by Bach transcribed by Kurtag. I’m not sure whether it was a deliberate choice on her part, but if I’m ever famous enough so that my death features in a radio programme, I wouldn’t mind having Imogen Cooper do the same as she did in this particular broadcast. Breathtaking.

TV: Survivors (1 – 23 November 2008)

Good show, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Rather enjoyed Survivors on BBC One this evening. I was surprised. I heard of one review which was quite damning of it. Sadly, I can’t retrieve the link now, the bad review was one of those “word of mouth things”.

Doesn’t matter now. I don’t really care. I know I enjoyed it. I was gripped. I rather liked Max Beesley (and his character), the woman from in Bonekickers now playing the lead in Survivors and was rather pleased to see Doctor Who’s Freema again too. This bloke seemed good too although annoyingly I had to rely on the website to remind me where I’d seen him before – in Nip/Tuck.

In fact, everyone and everything seemed pretty damn good. So much so, I took a picture and titled it thus. I’m shameless me.

Naturally, I think it’s important to source other’s almost real-time assessments. Apart from @aarons whose opening gambit left me confused, I’m delighted to discover that @penelopeese registered a strong reaction. @millymum gave the first episode a good score. @sicross seemed to like it too. I hope @markiddon sticks with it.

More here.

Sausages with Onion Gravy *

6 sausages
2 medium onions
brown sugar
salt
butter
some green beans to serve

 

Put the sausages in the pan with some oil. Fry them. Keep an eye on them. Don’t let the skins burn before the “meat” inside has cooked through.

Slice the onions roughly – be quite cavalier – and add to the pan. (I put some butter in at this point because I do rather like to see it bubble and foam.)  Sprinkle some brown sugar on top. Stir, stare and marvel. If necessary, add salt repeating the stir,stare and marvel cycle.

When the sausages are cooked (just poke them), start blanching a packet of green beans. When the water’s boiling, remove the sausages and onions from the pan and serve them in dishes.

Pour some already mixed instant gravy into the frying pan. Mix it all together. Pour the resulting onion gravy over the sausages and onions and serve with the beans.

We really enjoyed making and eating this and thus ended up feeling quite smug.

* Assuming my colleague Tom isn’t a vegetarian, I think he really ought to make this tonight. He absolutely deserves the comfort food.

Drama in W12

John Sergeant’s departure from Strictly Come Dancing wasn’t the only drama at the BBC today. In the spirit of transparency, I figure it’s vital to explain what happened to me this afternoon..

I’ve started a new job just recently. It’s been in the BBC newspaper and everything. It explained exactly where I was leaving and what I was moving on to do (so why did a former colleague still ask me if I still remained a member of staff at the BBC now that I’d left the department we used to work in together? Goodness only knows.)

This new job has seen some changes for me. First are my efforts – on the whole successful – trying to get into work for 10.00am. Second, my attempts to be a little more professional in my dealings with people. Some people have commented on how much smarter I look and how much better I look clean shaven. One even commented on how much younger I look.  How very flattering. I’m sure it wasn’t a come on. He’s married, after all.

The most challenging aspect of this new role however, has been grappling with the new toilet arrangements.

Back where I used to work big, plush and modern Media Centre the toilet experience is a secluded one. Each cubicle is cut off from the rest of the world behind a heavy door, the perfect location to shut out the rest of the world and ponder on the day’s trials, tribulations and resulting personal insecurities.

In stark contrast – and like the very worst kind of time-travelling adventure – my new job sees me working in the impenetrable fortress known as the White City building. The lifts aren’t regular, the staircases difficult to locate and get the wrong floor and you’ll spend the rest of the day wandering around looking like an idiot. I know this because I have.

But worst of all are the toilets, reminiscent of old-school cubicles with a gap at the top and the bottom of the doors and partitions. They’re a nightmare. If I’m in need of using the facilities, the prospect of using the White City toilets fills me with fear and dread. On the few ocassions I’ve used them, I’ve sat in one of the narrow cubicles and waited for an opportune moment to do what I have to do. It’s so annoying, so tiresome .. so very humiliating. In short – as expertly summed up by a friend who also works in White City – I suffer from severe performance anxiety.

That’s why, a little after six this evening having spent a great deal of time thinking over potential solutions to the day’s challenges, I shut down my computer and took myself off back to the Media Centre – in the opposite direction to my journey home – in order to use the toilets there. Even at the end of the day the prospect of using the nearby toilets made me feel quite nervous.

I leapt across the square in W12 and settled myself down. The door was shut. Here was an opportunity to have a spot of me time, ponder on the day’s events. Was John Sergeant right to quit or should he have stuck it out? Had the judges pushed him too far? Could he have made more of an effort? Was it important he read the Guardian?

Mid-way through my effort, I became aware of a number of ladies standing outside. “Are you waiting too?” said one to another. “Yes,” she replied, “How long have they been occupied?” asked the other, “No idea,” came the reply.

There was I, sat on the toilet bowl keen to complete the operation I’d started and flush, painfully aware that the secluded cubicle lacked a throughput of air and probably wouldn’t be in a fit usable state if I was to vacate it immediately. There was no way I was going to finish proceedings, flush, wash my hands and then leave risking seeing the faces of people who could well make use of the same cubicle earlier than advised.

I needed a delaying tactic and opted – for some utterly bizarre reason – to start running a sinkful of soapy water with the intention of washing my face. This I did almost convinced that one of the other cubicles would become free or maybe they’d make the effort and climb the few short steps to the first floor and use the toilets there.

No such luck.

I adopted a second measure washing my face again and then my hands and then face once more, before spending considerably more time than I anticipated drying my face with a paper towel.

Still no joy.

I rolled a cigarette. And then another. The voices were gone now. I was certain I could hear just one pair of feet pacing up and down the corridor.

It was a good ten minutes after I’d entered the cubicle and finished my business that one of the other cubicles finally became vacant and my not-unjustifiable embarrassment was avoided.

Note to self: make sure all ablutions are carried out fully before the end-of-day rush hour. I’ve run out of plausible delaying tactics. Probably best not to blog about it either. I bet John Sergeant doesn’t have that problem.

Beetle Juice, Elfman & Pearson

I’ve been a little busy this evening. I’ve been editing a video. It’s what I refer to as extra-curricular work. I’m rather loving it.

I tend to work on my home PC with my work laptop set up to one side. It’s a nod to the geek I like the idea of being but don’t dare of actually trying to pull off for fear of being found out to be a complete and utter fraud.

However, it is because of this setup that I find myself blogging about something I’ve discovered on the internet *whilst* doing my extra-curricular work, thereby proving to my boss (if he does read this) that I can multi-task like a pro.

Tommy Pearson – him of Stage and Screen Online fame and former Radio 3 presenter-chappy-who-drinks-beer – has an exclusive interview with composer Danny Elfman. You know – the bloke who is the master at conveying exactly the right musical effect in the space of 30 seconds.

You may not know who the hell I’m talking about. If you don’t, then think The Simpsons, Desperate Housewives and – total-blast-from-the-past – my memorable teenage film Beetle Juice.

Elfman is the master of concision. On that basis I should hate him.

I don’t however. Elfman is one sickening wonderful musical hero.

Go listen to Pearson’s interview. *

* In the interests of balance, Pearson too is quite good at what he does.

Slideshow: Children in Need 2008

Also available at Flickr

Me and a Celeb

Me and a Celeb, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Pudsey agreed to have his picture taken at Children In Need 2008.

I didn’t spend very much time in his company. He was very busy.

Still, he did agree to have his picture taken. And I can confirm he did seem like a nice bear.

TV: Graham Norton Show (4.7 13 November 2008)

Get him on TV more, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Robin Williams was the only guest on the Graham Norton Show this week – any other guest would have been sidelined – in what often felt like a treat of a show, not least because we don’t see the man on screen anywhere near enough.

Sure, his voice-overs in various Disney films has kept the man gainfully employed, but there’s absolutely no substitute for seeing him do his usual shtick in person.

Nice music from Estelle at the end of the show too. If there’s one thing Mr Norton’s show can be relied on, it’s the quality of the musical contributions.

More here.

Helping out Pudsey

Proudly worn, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

I have a spring in my step at the moment. Not only have I finally managed to get into work on time on three consecutive days (something of a rariety for me) but I’ve cracked on with a recently self-appointed task.

Progress has been slow but sure. There’s been a lot of mouse clicks, tutting, puffing and moaning on my part, not to mention innumerable windows alerts ringing in my headphones whenever I click on the wrong thing.

Even so, I am sniffing the very real smell of nearby smug self-satisfaction. The task is nearing completion. I feel like awarding myself my very own certificate, framing it and attaching it to my desk divider. Although, on second thoughts, it’s probably “cooler” to dream about Friday evening instead.

Friday evening, you see, sees quite an exciting event for me. I was reminded about it when I received an email from a colleague inviting me to a meeting to discuss the “Children in Need Backstage Photography Schedule”.

It’s a simple and relatively uninspiring task – certainly not one you’d immediately imagine would inspire a blog posting. Me and a bunch of similarly helpful and charming volunteers will be documenting backstage goings on at this year’s Children in Need fundraiser. I’m told that the good shots will appear on the website. I advise you here and now that I’m doing this for charidee.

It’s not, as you might be thinking, the opportunity to meet celebrities. Whilst there will be a number around – although at present noone’s telling me who exactly as everything’s strictly embargoed – I always find myself over-compensating when I see them. Treat them normally, I reassure myself. They’re not that special. It’s not like they’re gods or anything. They’re just human beings who, when prodded, will turn to the camera, plaster on a smile and wait for the shutter to clunk open and shut.

What gives me the buzz is the prospect of hanging around a live television event. There’s something inexplicably exciting about being present in and around

the vicinity of something occuring in a studio. The opportunity to witness people running around in an organised panic, with earphones clamped to their ears,walky-talkies hanging out of their back-pocket is something too good to miss.

And then there’s Television Centre on a Friday night. The audience arrives, queuing up in the chilly air on Wood Lane. You start recognising people whose names are a complete mystery. There’s an urgency in the air. Areas of the building previously accessible by anyone with a pass are unexpectedly roped off.

Portable TV lights are set up in weird and seemingly unnattractive places. In short, Television Centre and its environs is turned into one massive TV set.

There’s a buzz about the place in all its weird, grey iconic sixties-designed madness. It’s the place to be to feel a part of things during a live event. It is perhaps the time and place when the BBC truly comes alive, when it’s raison d’etre becomes obvious to even the most hard-hearted individual.

“Helping out” at Children in Need is something of a perk working for the BBC. For most people I suspect that White City is the last place they’d want to be late on a Friday night. I’m rather looking forward to it myself. I shall wear my Team Pudsey t-shirt with pride, even if I will end up blending seamlessly into the background amongst the hoards of other people decked out the same. I do hope the kiddies appreciate it.

Heavy rain in W12

I bought a layered prawn salad (or is it a prawn layered salad?) today from the supermarket inside the White City compound. And, as I made my way out through the exit intent on leaping back to my desk for an early lunch, I came face to face with the today’s big event in W12.

It was raining. Heavily.

“I’m not going out in that,” I said to a lady with her BBC pass hanging around her neck.

“No. Neither am I.”

I would normally have stopped and engaged with her. Never one to miss an opportunity to network (or rather, make mindless small talk in the hope that I might make a new pal), I always look on such chance happenings as being laden with future possibilities.

The truth was, I wasn’t in the mood to chat. I figured I’d make do with peering at the name on her pass. Could I work out her name and what job she did ?

I always play that game, you see. Sometimes I’ll stand in the lift and let my eyes wander to people’s waists. I’ll usually try in vain to focus on the name printed on the card. Sometimes I’ll question whether the person in the picture actually bears any resemblance to the owner in real life. Sometimes the lift journey offers insufficient time to be as thorough as I’d like to be.

It never works, of course. If former-colleague George was right, it was Greg Dyke who brought in the “we’re names not numbers” edict on the work pass. The only problem was, of course, that he insisted the first name was larger than the surname. What good is it knowing the person standing behind you in the queue at the canteen is a “Jon” when I can’t make out the surname and thus won’t be able to search for them on the email address list?

I know I could just ask even if I do risk being considered a little nosey. Perhaps I could just stop thinking about everyone else and just get on with the job in hand. Perhaps … it’s actually quite a good thing I can’t make out people’s surnames. I probably save myself quite a lot of embarrassment.

Remembrance Sunday

Remembrance 11th November 2007, originally uploaded by johnthurm.

Remembrance Sunday used to be something I observed on TV.

There was something appealing about the solemn coverage. The sight of sharply cut Portland stone towering above a silent and reverential London appealed to my patriotism. Craggy-faced ex-servicemen stood proudly shoulder to shoulder alongside an ever diminishing number of compatriots, all of them now battling painful memories and the promise of oncoming loneliness.
 
Those of us at home looked on in sadness and gasped as we observed grey-looking politicians accompanied by members of the royal family slowly step forward and lay down their wreathes. Everything looked so appropriate. Everything was so painstakingly choreographed. All of it accompanied by a brass band with an unfeasibly realistic ambient wildtrack.

It was TV. It was meant to be like that. I just didn’t realise it when I was eight years old.

When my voice broke, I was elegible and required (by virtue of there not being sufficient tenor voices in the school chapel choir) to participate in a more local Remembrance Day service. We remebered ex-pupils who served in both wars. This was our connection. We remembered our school history and those ex-pupils’ bright educated lives cut short by the war.
 
A mansion house with its own church set in 400 acres of land itself larger than the village it was in, the school was the perfect backdrop. Senior school boys dressed in Harris Tweed jackets and long overcoats, poppies immaculately pinned to their lapels, accompanied upper school girls in skirts and tights, hair tied back gripping their music. A biting wind stirred brittle autumn leaves. It was an elegant sight.

We’d sing in the church on the school grounds and then proceed to the village memorial to observe solemn faced representatives of the local community lay their wreathes. Were they actually remembering or re-enacting something they’d seen on the TV?

I had no connection with the First World War. If there are any dim and distant relatives who signed up never to return to Britain, none of my family know of them. Their stories haven’t emerged from spoken family histories.

So, what was I feeling when I participated in those acts of remembrance ? If there was no personal connection, how could this ritual benefit anyone? What was it achieving? Was I just making up the numbers? Was I a rubber-necker? Or was I participating in a solemn event in what felt like the perfect setting?

The sharp cut stone. The images in my head of former battlefields. These seemed like potent images at the time. I relied on them when I stood, head bowed during the silence.
 
We all stood motionless, welcoming the nothingness, thinking about something certain the person standing next to us was focussing on a fallen soldier.

As I moved further through school and on to university, so the appeal of this simple theatre gradually slipped away. The sense of occasion was lost somehow. There was no collective experience to be had with contemporaries. School commerations were history. Television coverage sidelined to recovering from a hangover. This was the reality of the Remembrance Day service to a student overcoming the effects of yet another hangover.
 
John Lichfield (Independent Magazine, 1 November) suggests a renewed interest in genealogy and the personal connections family historians have made with the Great War partially explains a renaissance in commemorating the fallen in the First World War.

Nice try, but I’m still finding it difficult to engage with Remembrance Sunday.

Over the years I have become increasingly disconnected from it. The traditional two minutes silence competes with a growing and insistent desire to mark what is all too often regarded as present-day society’s own life-changing events.

Football stadium and ferry disasters, coach and train crashes, the death of Diana, the London bombs. These were all shocking and heart-breaking events. They all touched all of us when we heard about and continue to haunt the victim’s families still now.

But unlike the First World War (and even 90 years on the potency of that event feels like it could be finally waning), those modern day life-changing events feel like they have a shelf-life. 

The desire to remember the event has passed because we want to forget it or because it doesn’t touch us the way it did at first. We’ve marked it’s passing. We’ve grieved enough.

To me Remembrance Sunday has become nothing more than a box of paper poppies sat on a reception desk or ticket barrier. Dare to shake the collection pot and I bet you’ll shiver when you hear just how few coins rattle in the plastic container.

The imagery of my Remembrance Sunday is gone and with it the genuine motivation to mark the silence. Such shameful inaction is doing present-day servicemen and women (not to mention those who lost their lives over the past 90 years) a huge disservice.
 
Do something bold this Remembrance Sunday. Stand and remember those who lost their lives. Don’t let their families feel the loss of their loved ones has been lost on the rest of us..

How I heard about Obama’s win

   

Just like Christmas Day, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

It’s 5.30pm on a dark Wednesday afternoon. The traffic I can see out of my new office window is bumper to tail. It always is. It could be just another normal weekday although unusually for me, I can barely keep my eyes open.

I’ve spent most of the afternoon yawning. My new boss (who I understand went to bed at 10.30 last night) was able to see right into the inside of my mouth. For all I know he did. If he did then I feel a bit embarrassed. It can’t have been a pretty sight. I had red leicester and spring onion mayonnaise in my wholemeal bap today. That and it’s only my third day in the job too.

There is good reason for me being tired. Like many moved by events in America over the past 24 hours, I am an US election victim.

Embarrassingly however, I also ended up going to bed quite early – shortly after the results programme kicked off here in the UK. I was all set to stick with the results process, wanting to share in a moment of potential collective euphoria if and when Barrack Obama but I ended preferring the comfort of a firm mattress, a double duvet and two lovely black cats.

Safely ensconced, I switched on the radio and waited for James Naughtie on Radio 4 to lull me to sleep. As I slowly drifted off, one horrible thought crept into my mind.

I was certain Obama would win. It felt like he would. It felt like he’d won the Presidency of the United States last week, to be honest. I can’t put my finger on exactly why. I just knew it.

But wait … the last time I was thinking like that was when I drifted off to sleep the same night when we waited for the 2004 result? Four years ago I seem to remember being certain George Bush would be ousted.

When I woke up the morning after the 2004 vote, I was a little surprised.

Would the same happen again this time? Did I dare to go to sleep and risk waking up the following morning and experiencing some kind of Groundhog Day thing where the guy I was expecting to win it, failed?

I reached out and patted the thick fur of our larger cat Cromarty, noting the slightly slimmer one – Faero – laying at the foot of the bed keeping watch.

What felt like hours later, the lovely Simon is shaking me by the shoulders. What the hell is he doing? What time is it? Why is he doing this? 

I avoid opening my eyes. I don’t want to wake up. I don’t want to move.  

“He’s won! Obama’s won!”

That’s all I remember now. And if it’s the only thing I remember about today then I’ll definitely always remember today because of it.

Aside from the fact that Obama cut a dashing look on the regal, arc-lit podium from where he gave his victory speech and clearly looks the statesmen, he also inspires when he speaks and makes me feel excited about the future. 

More importantly, at some point in the future the fact that he’s America’s first black President will have passed from being the breathtaking statement that it is and move to becoming par for the course.

TV: Graham Norton Show (4.5 : 30 October 2008)

Graham Norton serves up the most beautiful woman in the world (his words and mine), a distressing yet honest looking Mickey Rourke and a pair of fluffy handcuffs.

Watch the entire show here.

Free Thinking Festival: 24 Weeks / Marchant

I spoke to writer Tony Marchant, director Kate Rowland and cast a few hours before Saturday’s performance and recording  of specially commissioned Radio 3 Free Thinking Drama, 24 Weeks. Watch video interview here.

Listen to the drama on the BBC iPlayer here from 1 hour 17 minutes and 30 seconds in. 

**** 

One of the lasting memories of this year’s Free Thinking Festival for me at least will undoubtedly be the time I spent in the company of the production team for Radio 3’s Free Thinking drama “24 Weeks”.

Written by Tony Marchant – his first radio drama – the play tackles the issues surrounding abortion and specifically the 24 week debate. The gritty subject material certainly fits in with Radio 3’s committment to challenging drama but interestingly, this production was to be recorded in front of an audience. What would be the impact of this on the actors and the resulting recording?

The opportunity to sit in on some of the rehearsals proved interesting. I was especially taken by the speed at which the production was put together. The video interviews with Marchant, director Kate Rowland and the cast reveal the almost 36 hour turn around and how the actors were experiencing their first radio drama recording in front of an audience. 

Most striking was the quality of the performances I saw in rehearsal. The play is essentially a two-hander between a married couple – Sarah and Robert. There are various points where raw emotion between the couple powers through as they confront their feelings about Sarah’s pregnancy. 

It was these scenes which prompted an entirely unexpected emotional response in me. Seeing an actor cry on stage in the way that Sean Gallagher (Robert) did during rehearsals resulted in one reaction for me: I cried too. 

The fact that I continued snivelling when the actors finished rehearsing said much for their obvious ability at grappling with the parts. All this after only a day of familiarising themselves with the script.

I did wonder whether my appreciation for the production was skewed because I had access to the production team and cast. It was only when I heard the entire performance back on the radio a night later that I realised my view wasn’t biassed. 

“24 Weeks” was gripping drama and earth-shatteringly executed by it’s stellar cast. OK, so I’m biassed a bit. But I did hear it and I cried that time too.

Me Time

An evening spent consuming a much-needed meal during my weekend at the Free Thinking Festival in Liverpool saw me indulge in a spot of me time. (It feels like it’s been a long time since the last time although in truth it’s only been three weeks or so.) Nothing especially indulgent other than pouring over the Saturday Guardian which had laid unread on my bed all day.

God bless Marina Hyde. After a week of wall to wall Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand, it’s felt like a real relief to hit the weekend and start consuming the longer range coverage and comment this story has inspired. As an employee, it’s been a little surreal. Marina’s piece was one of the more striking ones.

More reassurance to be found in the story on page 16 highlighting the glaring translation error made by Swansea council.

In the Family section (usually dismissed by most) there’s an interesting piece on Storybook Dads. Positive, forward-thinking rehabilitation work.

In the John Lewis catalogue (I’d given up on the Sport, Review and Work section of the paper), I was surprised and ultimately confused to see a fully reversible christmas tree for sale at John Lewis. Why ON EARTH would you want one exactly, unless of course you fear stony silences when people visit your home over the Christmas holidays and you need topics of conversation?

In the Guardian Christmas Books catalogue (no, this blog posting isn’t a blatant attempt to suck-up to the Guardian) I notice a book I’d quite like to receive for myself, one I’d wouldn’t mind giving my sister, one for my brother-in-law and one I will definitely be giving “someone” this holiday.

Oh, and getting on to the Guardian Weekend, I do rather like this aftershave based on the wipe-your-wrist-like-a-lady strip inserted into the magazine.

Free Thinking Festival: Is Privacy Dead?

Is it wrong to be blogging about an event which has been recorded for radio not intended to be broadcast until Monday 3 November at 9.15pm? Am I revealing something I shouldn’t be even though I know it will happen because I sat in a room and listened to a man tell me and one hundred or so other people ?

It’s a question I’m thinking about having come out of a debate at the Free Thinking Festival which posed the question “Is Privacy Dead?”

In an age of online communities, blogging, micro-blogging and picture sharing, I find myself thinking intensely about my personal activities online. It’s scary. I can’t get it out of my head.

What should I reveal about myself? What do I reveal about myself online? Do I reveal too much? Am I revealing my true self or, a convenient skewed image of myself? Should I be more private? Should I reveal more? Would anybody read anything I wrote if I did?

And if it is I have an online persona and a real one (and personally, I would argue that they are one and the same otherwise both pursuits would be absolutely agony day to day) are there times when I don’t want to participate online ? Are there times when my mood, my insecurities and fears curtail my online activities? Thinking about those specific things, should I in fact be more careful about how I conduct myself online in an act of much-needed self-preservation?

Don’t you loathe people who ask too many questions and can’t/won’t/can’t be bothered to provide any answers? Well, the truth I feel the pressure of time on me. There’s no time to answer the questions even if I knew the answers. It’s a fast moving world. The bar here at the Free Thinking Festival is buzzing – the “Speed Date a Thinker” crowd are busy preparing for their hour of fun and there’s a competition going on between me and another other chap sat across from me busily tapping away at his laptop.

What I’m struck by – yet again – is how a relatively brief session listening to the likes of Bill Thompson, psychologist Sonia Livingstone, Cultural Historian Jonathan Sawday and Geoffrey Rosen has set my mind buzzing with excitement.

The most pointed example raised in the hour long debate hosted by Philip Dodd was this. Geoffrey Rosen explained how some students he knew of would take to live-blogging lectures and seminars. Was this a use of technology which was to be welcomed?

The fact is it’s here. We all do it. Those of us who use the internet rely on opportunities like these. There’s a buzz. A desire to provide a personal response to events as we witness them. We want to share where we are at any given moment in time even if the majority of the audience don’t care or would rather prefer it if we didn’t clog up the internet with our ill-considered babble.

The answer is impossible to arrive at. My interviews kick off in around fifteen minutes time and the speed daters are about to start their speed dating session.

I also have to get this blog published as quickly as possible. I have to beat the bloke sitting opposite me. I know he’s blogging about it. I just know. Why would he look so intently at his laptop in the way he does? I must beat him to it. Seeing as he’s Bill Thompson, the need seems inexplicably even greater.  

Disappointingly it appears I’ve failed. Mind you, it might have helped if I’d been a little less verbose.

You can hear the Free Thinking Debate “Is Privacy Dead?” on Monday 3 November at 9.15pm on BBC Radio 3.

Free Thinking Will Self

Will Self has been a genuine surprise. A considerably more learned friend of mine suggested that Self was a master in making most people feel as though they really hadn’t studied enough. I could see what my friend meant.

Self takes dryness to a new level. He’s off the dry-scale. Whenever I’ve seen him on Newsnight Review I’ve never really been sure quite how to take him. In fact, if memory serves me correctly I may possibly have turned to long-suffering partner (from hereonin referred to merely as LSP) and said “The man doesn’t like anything, does he?”. I had this assessment in my head when I went along (almost too late) to the opening lecture in this year’s Free Thinking Festival at the Bluecoat, Liverpool on Friday 31 October.

I was, of course, being a fool. In his lecture, Self deftly illustrated the striking the differences between the thoughts we read about in our favourite novels and the reality of our own day to day thoughts. In so doing he skilfully demonstrated his mastery at the English language and why he is the successful novellist and literary anti-celebrity he is. Oh, and I almost forgot, he made me laugh like a queen too.

There’s something special about the Free Thinking Festival. It’s almost impossible to put my finger on. It’s something to do with the location and the fact that I feel as though for the rest of the year I’m starved of the kind of intelligent feeding of the kind there is on offer during this all-too-short weekend.

At first I reckoned referring to what struck me as the mere simple and possibly middle-aged pleasure of sitting and listening to a speaker read out his thoughts in front of an audience as something of an indulgence. 

Now, having listened to the same lecture back a second time during the relayed broadcast on Radio 3, it feels more accurate to refer to these events as a treat. Hearing and seeing someone speak makes for a personal experience. It’s something we just don’t get very much of. Or, at least, it’s something I don’t do enough of.

Self’s appearance this evening has changed my views about him. Not only that, but the criteria he’s using to judge whether his contribution to this year’s festival has been a success or not presents me with an interesting challenge.

Does his illustration of what the reality of human thought is make the likes of Jane Austen’s naturalism nothing but therapy for the reader? I can’t wait to pick up a copy and see for myself. Well done Self.

Will Self’s opening lecture in this year’s Free Thinking Festival is avalailable for the next seven days on BBC iPlayer or via /programmes. Go listen.