Jimmy Mizen verdict

Jake Fahri,the nineteen year old found guilty of murdering South East London teenager Jimmy Mizen last year, was described by the Detective who led the investigation as “an aggressive young man who throughout his life demonstrated an inability to control his emotions and restrain his temper.” Fahri was given a life sentence with a minimum 14 year term at the Old Bailey today.

During a press conference after the verdict was delivered, Mizen’s parents demostrated their courageous attitude once again.

“Let’s be honest,” said Margaret Mizen calmly, “How do you think Mrs Fahri is feeling today? Her son has been found guilty of murder. How would you feel if your children had been found guilty of murder?”

Such stoicism is remarkable. So too their resistance to show anger when most of us would surely jump at the chance to voice our deepest bitterness and pain at having a loved taken away. It is as difficult to watch their press conference as it is to read over the detail of Jimmy Mizen’s final moments in the Three Cooks Bakery in Lee, South East London let alone look at the reconstructed dish the Daily Mail included in it’s report. If I find it difficult to contemplate the minutae of the case, how can Mizen’s parents do it so admirably.

Out of the hideous results of a series of circumstances the day after Jimmy Mizen’s 16th birthday, comes inspiration from his parents. You may not have been touched by a murder in your vicinity. And I don’t live as close as some, it has to be said. One blog post from the neighbourhood brings the reality of such events in the community home.

If people like the Mizens can carry themselves off in the way they have since the news of Jimmy’s death on 10 May 2008, then the rest of us may well have something to learn from them.

I’d like to think I’d display the same strength of character. I’m not so confident I would, however.

Jade Goody

“It’s all bollocks!” was my considered response to a colleague when I found myself skating towards a conversation about Jade Goody I didn’t want to engage in.  

I didn’t mean the Jade Goody machine per se, more the story in which the OK! production team defended the early publication of “that” tribute issue saying that the Goody family supported it. It did all seem like bollocks to me. Bollocks because it was a redundant act. I didn’t want to hear about it.

Marina Hyde’s column in the Guardian on Saturday reassured me, indicating the family’s feelings may not have necessarily been as accurately portrayed in the OK! press release as first thought. Who knows. I mean really. Who knows and, given that Goody died this morning. who really cares now?

Paddy O’Connell on Radio 4’s Broadcasting House described the Big Brother star as someone who polarized opinion, something borne out even this morning on Twitter by @almostwitty. @rfenwick tweeted this account of a Bishop giving his view on Sky News.

There are others, of course, who don’t necessarily feel the same way. At the time of writing a an emerging trend on Twitter was “RIP Jade Goody”. People might be tired on celebrity news and celebrity exclusives, but it seems as run of the mill and relatively common experience death is, it is her final act which is connecting people. The Canon at Motherwell church invited prayers to be said in her memory during Radio 4’s morning service this morning.

What BBC London’s Leslie Joseph described as the “sweet irony” of Goody’s death coming in the early hours of Mothering Sunday makes her relatively bizarre life to some extent even more enthralling.

Born in South East London, plucked from obscurity and thrust into the bright lights of the mainstream media as a result of an appearance on Big Brother in 2002, Goody exploited the notoriety she achieved as a result of the personal traits she was criticised for.

We became hungry not just for the salacious detail or the disparaging comments (itself nothing more than a way to feel better about ourselves), but also to figure out whether we were being conned by a well-oiled, self-publicising machine. Was she really that dim? Or did she know exactly what she was doing and was milking it for all she was worth? Little wonder some people’s views are negative this morning.

As much as some may wriggle uncomfortably at the success she has achieved and the way she has achieved it, as well as the attention her life will continue to get, in playing out her death in the mainstream she has succeeded in doing one of many things.

Apart from the obvious financial benefits for her family after her death and the raised profile for cancer prevention and treatment in the UK, Goody has held up a mirror on society, forcing us to look at the way in which they react to her and the Goody machine.

Did she deserve to be on Big Brother? Did she deserve to get the media attention she did because of it? Were we applauding mediocrity and did the industry feed the mediocrity? And in dying did we owe her more respect or might she have forgiven us for being a little bit bemused and confused about how it was her life panned out ?

TV: Obama on HD

Obama swears the oath, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Technically I should have been in the office during the 56th Inauguration but when I learnt it would be on the BBC HD channel I had to go home and watch it there. I’m glad I did. His inaugural speech was something to behold .. especially on a 50inch HD screen.

In the event that you find yourself speaking to my boss or want to call the BBC, be assured that I will make up the time tomorrow and the next day.

It’s been quite a special day. Now to work President Obama.

Review: 2008

When I draw back the curtains to reveal a dull grey south-east London on 1 January with the New Year’s Day concert live from the Musikverein in Vienna on in the background, it always feels like the start of something new, something exciting. I’ve got the opportunity for a new start. Everything from the previous year can, should and will be forgotten. At least that’s what I hope every 1 January.

In anticipation of that (and in a desperate bid to find something to write about two days before the end of 2008) I took myself off to our new hideaway and made a few notes. What were the things which I would remember 2008 for? Scribbling my answers down didn’t take long.

1. Jimmy Mizen
2. Eurovision
3. The BBC Proms

The list is both short and uncomfortable. The small handful of people who read this will, no doubt, note with interest the weird yet predictable juxtapositioning of a serious news event, alongside fundamentally inconsequential fluff and inevitable self-indulgence.

Truth is, I don’t have any other stuff on my list. Those three things really do sum-up 2008 for me.

Jimmy Mizen

Jimmy Mizen’s murder in May 2008 wasn’t the first teenage stabbing in east London this year. It was in fact the 13th.

There were 27 other teenage stabbings in East London this year. There have been plenty of others in previous years. Stabbings and murder and attacks were normally the stories which failed to grab my attention. So what makes 2008 so different from the rest?

Proximity was the most potent factor. Mizen died in Lee, an area in south-east London I often pass through on my way to the supermarket. Many people say it and a lot of us gloss over it, but it’s true when I say that 16 year old Mizen’s senseless death in the Lee bakery seemed all the more tragic because it was so painfully local. He worked there to get some extra cash. He was 16. The murder happened just a few miles away. That kind of thing isn’t meant to happen.  

Get a grip. This is London, after all. Surely a stabbing shouldn’t really be that incongruous against the backdrop of a supposedly violent capital?

Mizen’s mother delivered a clear message to all, something which I had forgotten about until I viewed the video clip on this page. Now I watch it again I’m struck by her strength. Her message is unusually inspiring. She isn’t angry (or if she is she’s avoiding it spectacularly) and doesn’t want others to be angry with the perpetrator’s parents. She even goes as far as to say “leave them alone”. That is admirable. There’s much to be drawn from the strength she displays only seven days after the death of her 16 year old son, a week after his birthday. She is to be applauded.

Eurovision collides

Around about this time, I was mid-way through a project at work which I’d always wanted to work on.

I’d followed the Eurovision for years. I’d even gone to Latvia to do a spot of naiive investigation during the 2003 contest. I rather like the Eurovision, you see. And I’d quite like us to win. 

As a result of finally getting a job at the Beeb in October of 2007 and (in precisely the right department) I shamelessly locked all of my self-promoting skills in gear and ended up working on the Eurovision website.

I wouldn’t want anyone to think it was plain sailing, or that everyone was necessarily as excited and relieved as I was to work on it. In retrospect, enthusiasm and passion isn’t necessarily something everyone applauds. One or two people hated me. There were one or two heated conversations/steaming arguments in corridors as a result of it. One fairly senior person accused me of being of a maverick as I stood in the corridor with a coffee in my hand. I was a little taken aback, to say the least. No-one has ever described me as a maverick before. Most deliver their assessment with an air of indifference.

I’d been working on the Eurovision site since late February. I delivered a smallish effort in early March (I did stamp my foot quite a few times) and following a series of false starts and one or two agonising nights failing to get to sleep, I ended up working on the main site during the run up to the main even in mid-May.

It was a hideous time.

A week before the Eurovision final (which happened to be the end of the Eurovision website project) I took myself off to Suffolk to see my parents. Work had become way too much for me to handle. I needed a break. I needed comfort food. I needed my teddy bear.

I was working harder than I’d worked in a long time (if ever there was a justification for the line “careful what you wish for” it was then) and it showed. My mother was quite worried about the colour of my skin. Now I come to look at the picture, I think she was right. 

I drove up to Suffolk to see my Mum on Saturday 17 May 2008. The journey started in south-east London. I headed towards Kidbrooke roundabout for the Blackwall tunnel. Lining the roads on the South Circular close to where I live in Hither Green, south-east London people walking solemnly in the same direction, all of them dressed in black.

Where were they going? They were heading towards Jimmy Mizen’s memorial service in nearby Lee High Road.

BBC Proms

The Eurovision came crashing to the ignominous end we’ve all grown accustomed to here in the UK around about 2am on Sunday 26 May 2008. It was then the website producer said “Yes, OK. We’ve got the finals scores up on the website. Everything’s done. We’re finished. Are you happy Jon?”

No. The answer was no. Not only had we come last but I’d had to code up a page which detailed exactly which country had come in which place. Typing the UK’s pitiful result last seemed like such a mean thing to have to do. Both of my friends who had accompanied me through the hell they knew it would be were now asleep on the sofa downstairs. The night was a right-off.

You’d think I’d have been happy to have finished something I’d always wanted to work on, wouldn’t you? You’ve done that Jon .. now sit back and feel proud.

The problem with me is that when I’ve been ridiculously busy for a couple of months, the resulting lack of something to do is the very worst thing for me. I start thinking when I don’t have enough to do and when I start thinking I start moaning. And when I start moaning everyone else around me starts thinking (and in some cases saying) “Would you be good enough to stop being so bloody morose about everything?”

It was Monday 27 May 2008 when I fired off an email to Radio 3 Interactive asking them if they were interested in some more Proms related videos.

With Eurovision 2008 a dim and distant memory, I was keen to look forward to the next big event and to see whether I might crowbar my way into that too. The response was favourable and despite one or two scary moments warranting enormous amounts of wine, charm and reassurances on my part, all turned out well. Everything turned out very well. In fact, it wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration to say that it turned out to be the best summer ever.

You need to be aware of the people who made it the best summer ever – or at least those people who were involved need to know I’m thinking of them – them lovely people being Andi, David, Ashley, Dean, James, Roland, Roger, Simon and, of course, myself. It’s a team effort this.

Far from a hard-hitting news review, is it? It’s not meant to be. These are the things which, as 2008 draws to a close, are flagged up as the most important. I only hope that when 2009 draws to a close any review I might choose to do will see me feature considerably less, if not at all.

Happy New Year.

Oh, and in case you’re interested, the UK’s 2009 hunt for someone game and able to represent us in the forthcoming Eurovision Song Contest in Moscow – Eurovision: Your Country Needs You – starts on Saturday 3 January (yes really, that soon). Or at least the first installment is the sort of “this is what we’ve done so far” programme before the main event begins the following week.

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.

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.

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.