Remembrance Sunday: It’s the very least we can do

“Did they mark 2 minutes silence here?” I asked the lady sat at the checkout in Lee Sainsburys.

“Yes. They always do. They’re good like that. Where were you?”

I hadn’t been at Sainsburys. Had it not have been for me getting lost on what I thought was the familiar journey from Lewisham to Landmann Way Reuse and Recylcing Centre I probably would have been home participating in the moment in the warmth of our central heated living room, watching proceedings on BBC HD.

As a piece of radio, the Ceremony of Remembrance from the Cenotaph was surprising. Nicholas Witchell annotated the solemn event in a reassuringly British way and yet hearing it on radio revealed the hour long broadcast for what it really was: a script whichreminds us about the military comittments this country is engaged in, with some interviews, ambient sounds and music played by a military band.

Proms 2009: Prom 56 – Chopin Piano Concerto No. 2 \ Lang Lang Staatskapelle Dresden

He doesn’t realise it, but pianist Lang Lang faced his toughest gig at the Proms when he set foot on the platform and thundered through Chopin’s second piano concerto.

I didn’t go. I didn’t want to. The Royal Albert Hall feels like a hostile location at the moment. I wanted to keep it at a discreet distance. South East London, in fact, from where I could watch the live BBC Four broadcast.

One of the main points of interest for me was the interval piece. I’m a media junky after all. The only way to learn about TV production and presentation is to see how other people do it.

I watched like a hawk for tips, observed an impressive and highly informative two-way between presenter @zebsoanes (who consistently demonstrates his commitment to sporting a stylishly smart yet casual look) and Radio 3 In Tune chappy Petroc Trelawney.

Joining the broadcast part-way through I only caught the last part of the piano concerto. True to form I brought issues to what little of the performance I heard and found myself making typically superficial judgements about what I saw.

I’m not a big fan of over-expressive facial expressions, I have to confess. Such overt musicality jarred on the 42” screen I was watching on. So too, Lang Lang’s choice of jacket. I can just tell when something doesn’t work and it didn’t. White is never a good look. Never.

The performance of the Chopin wasn’t the greatest I’d ever heard, it has to be said. This is in part due to the nature of the concerto. The work – pleasant enough in it’s complete inoffensiveness – doesn’t really do anything. It’s the kind of work which might be offered up as a last-minute-I-don’t-know-what-to-get-you-but-you-say-you’d-like-more-classical-music-cds present. Maybe it’s because of its inoffensiveness and resulting familiarity that the moments of rocky ensemble playing saw my backside momentarily leave the sofa and with my head in my hands.

Such a reaction is perfectly understandable given the potential pitfalls of a live performance. It’s also acceptable because I did it at home (even if I am blogging about it publically now).

What seemed extremely discourteous in comparison however, was the heckling Lang Lang found himself subjected to moments before he began his encore. According to my scouts who were there, the voice emanated from somewhere reasonably close to the front of the arena as the pianist prepared himself to play the Chopin etude. “Oh no.” said the voice. And then again .. “Oh no.”

Lang Lang’s obvious ease and charm dealing with such behaviour is a lesson to all of us who stick our heads above the parapet in pursuit of creative satisfaction. His skill was also evident on screen (in that it was televised). That doesn’t make the heckling OK however.

Given the opinion often trotted out that classical music needs to combat the supposedly stuffy image it has, the most predictable outcry to what follows might be ”Loosen up.” Still, I feel it necessary to spell out the bottom line.

There is a basic etiquette adhered to in the concert hall manifested in a basic level of respect. This is not because of the perceived conservatism of the classical music world, but merely the result of being polite.

Such a core aspiration (which should not restricted to the domain of the concert hall) should be especially borne in mind depending on proximity to the stage. A decision to voice one’s opinions in such a crass way should be made only if you consider yourself skilled enough (and with an opportunity to prove it) to pull off a better performance than the one you’ve just heard. If you fail to meet this criteria I would humbly suggest you set up a Twitter account or – if you’re as verbose as I am – consider writing a blog.

To do otherwise just seems rude, ungrateful and ultimately objectionable not only to the performer, but to those around you who demonstrate a considerably more firm grasp of the basics of human nature.

The result of all this is, inevitably an appreciation of Lang Lang as a performer which transcends the superficial judgements about his platform etiquette and the criticisms of the live performance of the Chopin. Based on that and the exquisite encore, I’m inclined to expand my collection of piano music as a result starting with Lang Lang’s list of recordings.

Oh .. and whilst I’m on the courtesy bus, pushing in is another thing I’d add to the etiquette help file I’m compiling, so too a heartfelt but equally unequivocal growl that flash photography isn’t on inside the auditorium either. It’s a concert, not a trip to the zoo.

Proms 2009: Best listen from home?

It’s only day two of the Proms and I’m reminded of one of a handful of reasons I occasionally feel uncomfortable in the Royal Albert Hall.

Yesterday (the First Night of the Proms) was a mish-mash of experiences. First was the genuine (even if it seemed a little bizarre to everyone else) euphoria of the season starting again. I wasn’t the only one, it seemed. Then there was the sight of strangely familiar faces all greeting one other with the same thing words: “Happy New Year!” There’s the foldable chairs and chilled bottles of wine. Homemade sandwiches and flasks.

The combination of all these familiar sights and sounds made me feel at home. There was a feeling that no time had passed since we all queued up for the Last Night the previous year. I felt part of the special Proms group.

I wasn’t perhaps as in the clique as I might have hoped however. One man was insistent he knew my name already and didn’t need me to introduce myself saying, “You’re Mr You Tube, that’s who you are”. When I protested adding that “No, I think you’ll find my name is Jon” he insisted, “No, it’s Mr YouTube.” I didn’t register a tongue in cheek tone and didn’t recall receiving any compliments either. Draw your own conclusions.

It reminded me of a man the previous year who went to great lengths to explain to me in the Last Night queue why it was he felt the video work I’d done was inapprorpriate. I was a little taken aback. Quite apart from the day to day challenges faced by all of us as we grapple with our insecurities (and yes, we all have them), to be on the receiving end of negativity whilst I was under the influence of one or two glasses of wine wasn’t the nicest of things. Although robust and good-hearted in my response, his words still hurt, there’s no shame in confessing it.

My mother was suitably cavalier about this when I relayed the experience, asking me “you don’t pay for your ticket do you ? You do claim it back on expenses?” I suggested to her that it was extremely unlikely I could justify claiming for a season ticket purely on the basis that I love the Proms season. She reluctantly conceded when I went for the purist’s approach, pointing out that if I were to claim the money back that would change the whole experience, I explained to her. I would quite understandably end up taking the ticket for granted. The summer would never be quite the same again if I did that.

And yet, I’m beginning to wonder whether I might have been a little hasty where that’s concerned. Take the following, most recent personal experience.

Yesterday, during the First Night of the Proms, I find myself totally enthralled by the pyrotechnics of the Labeque sisters whose performance of the Poulenc Double Piano Concerto I knew I was looking forward to anyway but which totally swept me off my feet. In light of my habitual blogging practice using a variety of different methods, I suddenly felt inspired to write something. I made a quick assessment, picked up my bag, headed for the crush bar and scribbled down some notes. It’s a diary thing after all. I want to catch the moment for my own posterity’s sake.

Perhaps unfairly, I abandoned the rest of the concert only hearing the remainder of the concert this morning via BBC iPlayer. I was stunned by the relative blandness of Elgar’s composition In the South (something I remember feeling some time ago) and only just engaged with Brahms‘ Alto Symphony when chorus and soloist joined forces in the conclusion in the major key at the end of the piece. When I listened to that in bed this morning one simple thought came into my head: I know it’s deliberately written that way and I know Brahms was trying to get over the news of his love Schumann’s betrothal to someone else, but really, I’ve struggled to remain captivated until the end. I’m fairly certain, I thought, I’d have found it even more difficult if I was standing up in the arena after the spectacle of the Poulenc.
I was going to write that in a follow up but didn’t get around to it. I caught up on a few emails and perused a few cake recipes I was considering trying for a reception I’m going to tomorrow.

Then I read this comment left in response to the Prom 1 posting:

“Those who “dutifully” remained saw the highlight of the evening with the Brahms. What sort of deluded narcissist would consider their unsolicited opinions to be more important than that? I have nothing but pity for anyone so beige as to be titillated by the risible antics of K Lebeque who, as usual, just looked like she would rather have been a rock star.Surely any one of the 5 or 6 thousand people who could be bothered to stay til the end has a more relevant opinion than yours?”

Of course. Pete Lazonby is correct in some respects. I am a total nobody who isn’t paid to voice his opinions nor am I recognised for having especially erudite, well-researched or academic assessments. And surely as he implies, it was a bit of a schoolboy error to pass judgement on a live concert without having heard all of it.

Or was it?

The fact is, that’s it not whether or not I should have remained in the concert hall which bothers me – the Proms offers something for everybody, there are no rules about getting there at the beginning (plenty of people get there late) nor about having to listen in the Hall all the way until the end or listening on the radio. This is a democratic festival (in that it is made accessible to as many people as possible).

I’m even less bothered that my liking the Labeque sisters performance over something I only heard on the radio – even then streamed back via iPlayer.

What disturbs me most is the extent to which a comment like that alienates. Such opinions (in my opinion, albeit unsolicited and almost certainly beige) do reinforce the view of classical music world as stuffy and impenetrable. It’s as though there is a rubriq for attending a concert and if you are to do anything outside of that you can’t call yourself a classical music lover still less write about it. It is very sad. And – unless I’ve misunderstood that opinion and I am happy to concede I may have done – that’s an opinion which may originate from another part of the arena.

And if that’s the case I think I’d really rather listen on the radio if you don’t mind.

No really, I hope Bob Crowe gets what he wants

I seriously doubt RMT Union leader with an undeniably suitable face for radio Bob Crowe (left) will care two hoots for the kind of day I’ve had. In comparison to many other Londoners I’m sure my day will seem spectacularly normal. And yet I find myself foaming at the mouth with rage having experienced the some of the impact he and his dubious call for strike action has caused on London’s commuters. 

It goes like this. 48 hours ago a colleague leaned over my desk and asked one simple question. “What are you going to do about the tube strike?” she asked with a big grin on her face. 

I pointed out that as far as I was aware, sorting out the tube strike didn’t form part of the responsibilities detailed on my job description but that if she was asking me whether I would make use of alternative forms of public transport in order to go from South East London to White City then the answer was very nearly 99% no. 

I did hesitate before committing myself fully. The alternative to not going into work was to work from home using my work laptop and connecting up to the network. I hesitated not because I don’t like being at home but simply because when I am I nearly always feel incredibly and inexplicably guilty for being there. I always assume others will assume I’m sat with my feet up watching TV. Thus I usually end up working harder than I ever do at work. I did exactly the same yesterday when I did end up working from home. By the time I’d finished work at 8pm I was absolutely exhausted. 

I knew I couldn’t do the same today. I had a meeting at 11am (cancelled first thing by a colleague who had declined the meeting on account of public transport) and a conference call at 1pm. I had to pick up some equipment from the office so it seemed sensible (even if it was a little 0dd) to go across to west London to attend the conference call. I had to go on a train to London Bridge, change for London Waterloo East, walk to Waterloo, train from there to Clapham Junction and then wait another 20 minutes to get on a train for Shepherds Bush. The entire journey took me nearly an hour longer than it normally would and this wasn’t at peak time either. Conference call over I then get in a taxi with a camera, a tripod, a suitcase and a stills camera and head towards Liverpool Street train station in time to catch the 4pm. 

The Polish taxi driver laughed hysterically when I said when my train was departing. “You’re giving me an hour to go from White City to Liverpool Street,” he laughed, “in this traffic?” He declined my offer to drive the car myself, turned around to face the windscreen and got on with the job in hand. 

As it turned out the taxi driver did do rather well getting me to Liverpool Street station five minutes before my train was due to depart. Sadly, I was unable to find the ticket machine where my tickets were dispensed and was then forced to buy the excess of £33 to get on a train half an hour later. 

I cursed Bob Crowe’s name when I reluctantly handed over my credit card to pay the extra money. The lady behind the counter smiled adding, “I was a member of the RMT Union but I let my membership lapse. They let me down. And, if I was still a member I wouldn’t have agreed to strike. They don’t pay you when you go on strike you know.” 

It was an interesting piece of information I hadn’t considered. If it was indeed the case, it seemed that strike days aren’t days off from work, the jollies, the faux-”working from home” statements I had previously assumed them to be. They are, presumably, times when those who feel aggrieved have their chance to state their case. The fact they’re unpaid for it surely makes their call all the more resonant. Doesn’t it?

Well no, actually. No it really doesn’t. Far from it in fact. And no, I don’t have statistics or trends, or quotes or speeches to link to to back up that argument. I have one simple anecdote which has changed my mind entirely about the entire union, their actions over the past couple of days and the leader who kicked off the entire thing in the first place. 

On my walk into work from Shepherds Bush train station, one reasonably sized but certainly well-packed suitcase trundling at speed behind me I end up walking past one entirely closed tube and another (White City) partially closed. Outside the latter station are two burly looking men decked out in their fluorescent orange high-visibility jackets, “RMT Union” printed on their backs. Both of them catch sight of me walking along the pavement, hot, sweating and demonstrating signs of being late and a little bit stressed. 

The burlier of the two men smiles momentarily, raises his empty drink can in my direction as though he was toasting my good health and shouts, “Give us a smile mate. It’s a lovely day you know. Things can’t be all that bad.”

I should have held back. I should have bit my tongue. But I couldn’t.

“You wouldn’t need to tell me to smile if you lot hadn’t agreed to strike for 48 hours.”

It won’t have made an impact. Those kind of people are so incredibly thick skinned it would take years using the very latest in drilling equipment to find anything approaching anything like a heart. 

Of course, I could be entirely wrong about that RMT Union member outside White City tube today. I could be entirely wrong about Bob Crowe (although somehow I doubt it). But if I’m not and we were to unfairly assume that everyone who chose to strike considered it somehow OK to display the same level of arrogance masked as some kind of lack of self-awareness, then frankly I say don’t let them have a penny more. 

Mind you. That’s just my opinion. And I’m only basing it on anecdotal evidence.

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 ?

When to apologise

I know about apologies. I was a serial apologiser in my youth and long into my adulthood too. Some might even argue that I always assume everything that’s wrong or anything that goes wrong is down to me show through from time to time. It’s something I’ve spent many years trying to iron out.

When I was at school my grasp of basic mathematics was pretty poor, so much so that when I entered the middle school I was judged to be so bad at it that my membership of the C-Group Maths was justified.

Fortunately, however, us dregs of teenage humanity were blessed with a brilliant and unfeasibly old mathematics teacher. He might have felt denied the opportunity to teach advanced mathematics to the intolerable swots sitting in the classroom up the corridor, but us bunch were transfixed.

Our teacher made us laugh and kept us in control. He made sure we paid attention. He drilled into us the importance of SOHCAHTOA. This man inspired us.

Being old as he was, his retirement from teaching was closer than we’d expected. In the final year of our GCSE studies he was replaced by a younger, slightly odder looking man with a receding hairline, wearing shoes which we suspected he’d purchased from a safety clothing catalogue. He had no discernible sense of humour either.

Judging by our new mathematics teacher he also had plans for the future which went further than teaching us the subject. There was more than a sniff of a desire for world domination, it seemed to me.

“Things are going to change around here,” he snapped when the class failed to pay him due reverence during the first lesson. “None of you are very good at maths and that’s displayed in your marks last year. So get used to it. You’ve got between now and half term to buck your ideas up. I’ll be writing a half-term assessment and sending them to your parents. Don’t think I won’t.”

The class veered between taking him deadly seriously and sniggering uncontrollably.

Then came the final death blow.

“I don’t know what your previous teacher was doing but he doesn’t seem to have done much good.”

Jaws dropped to the floor. What did he say? Had he met our previous teacher?

Collective shock slowly passed as the stark reality of the situation hove into view. Within the space of only ten minutes or so, he’d not only failed to assert control but also spectacularly failed to ingratiate himself by insulting his much-loved predecessor.

Two members of the class looked at one another across the sea of desks, one privately deciding to take action.

“Sir,” I said standing in front of his desk as the rest of the class filed out, “I really don’t think you can say the things you did in class just now. There isn’t an assessment before half-term. No other teacher does it. The reports go out at the end of term. You can’t say things like that which aren’t true.”

I stood resolute in front of his desk, staring him in the eyes certain that he would understand the error he had made and rescind on his threat.

He wasn’t quite as open to me questioning his new regime as I hoped he might be.

The man went ballistic. I saw a white, slightly gnarled looking face turn bright red in a matter of seconds. He slammed the board rubber down on the desk and shouted.

“You don’t speak to me like that, my lad,” he bellowed in my face, “kids like you obviously don’t have any respect for authority. It’s about time you learnt some? Who do you think you are speaking to me like that?”

“All I’m saying is …”

“Get out!” he screamed back at me, pointing to the door.

I was petrified by his response. I had been scolded severely with the power of words and the sight of someone’s unusual physical manifestation of anger. I’d never seen that before, not to that extent. Although completely unexpected at the time, I now realise that perhaps me challenging the accepted convention of the teacher-pupil relationship may have had something to do with it.

I was embarrassed too. My contemporaries had witnessed from the relative safety of the corridor. I was an individual as opposed to being part of the crowd. This little escapade wasn’t going to help with my popularity.

I shuffled up to the dining room for lunch alone, still shocked from the incident and wondering if there was anyone who would signal their support for me.

Queuing up for lunch, I glanced at the head of the mathematics department. Normally a jolly individual who usually smiled and said hello to me, at this moment in time his face looked like thunder. He came straight up to me and made his feelings quite clear.

“There’s nothing to say to you Jacob apart from this. Your behaviour was totally inappropriate. Now go and apologise.”

I did. I did it straight after lunch standing in front of my weird looking maths teacher, my tail between my legs. I can’t remember what I said or what he said in return but I know I did it.

Now I come to look on that incident I wonder whether I had anything to apologise for. What had I said that was so incredibly wrong? I might have been cheeky but I hadn’t been rude. I hadn’t sworn or insulted him or waved my genitalia in his face. Did I feel guilty at having made my new maths teacher lose his temper? Hardly. I didn’t know him and based on the first lesson I’d had with him I didn’t particularly like him either.

So why was I apologising? I felt ashamed for something which someone else (the head of the department who didn’t witness the incident) felt embarrassed about. I ended up apologising because the head of the department was the last person I wanted to upset. I was expecting him to provide support not to find that I had seriously annoyed him too.

Thinking back on that incident I realise one absolute truth. The person who should have been apologising was my new maths teacher, not me. His reaction was totally disproportionate to what I had said. I ended up feeling scared as a result of that disproportionate reaction as though I was the entirely to blame for the situation arising.

He may well have had a serious problem with anger – it would be unreasonable to judge entirely on the basis of one incident, although it’s interesting to note that as I recall he didn’t stick around on the staff for long -and in that moment totally lost it with a kid who had been a bit cheeky (albeit extremely protective of the memory of his previous teacher).

I wouldn’t have done it any differently but still it underlines something a lot of people forget: apologies are difficult things to handle and they should be asked for lightly. The effects can go on for a lifetime.

Obama’s Inauguration

We don’t have to play the waiting game over here in the UK in the event a new Prime Minister is voted in during a General Election. Votes are cast during the day and counted during the evening. Once the result is known camera crews scour the country looking for a look of despair one of elation.

That’s why Inauguration Day always seems like a ridiculously long way off when the final count is announced and the loser concedes.

When you find yourself – as I did – swept along by that pivotal moment when it was confirmed Obama was the 44th President, then the idea of waiting such a long time before he’s ushered into office seems ridiculous.

And yet that 60 day or so wait has had its effect. It’s provided the big man with the time to get his cabinet in place, get his inauguration speech prepared, get his daughters settled into a school near to the White House and go on a train journey to Washington D.C.

He’s not my President. I didn’t vote for him. I’m not black either, so I don’t feel as though I can lay claim to a share in the inevitable euphoria surrounding his victory. I am, in some senses, merely an observer. This is someone else’s party.

Still, I can’t help looking forward to the event. As much as some commentators, advisers and legislators may want to play down the monumental day Obama’s inauguration, it’s almost impossible not to be affected by what midday on Tuesday 20 January 2008 signals.

Obama will be marking the beginning of his tenure by laying out his vision tomorrow lunchtime. It feels like new year’s eve or an opportunity for a fresh start. We won’t remember anything of today come tomorrow.

Crazy talk. Of course we will. But still I find it difficult to resist not laying down one or two hopes for the future too even if its so I can come back to them in four or eight years time and see if they’ve come good. 

Wars will surely still rage somewhere in the world. There will surely still be poverty somewhere too. But could there be less fear? Could there be more of a feeling of respect for one another? Might world leaders take inspiration from Obama’s oratory and the enthusiasm he has promoted?

If and when it goes wrong for Obama, could we resolve not to strike him down from the extremely high pedestal we’ve currently got him displayed from? And could we – with absolutely no disrespect to the black, mixed race or any other ethnic group come to that – find ourselves in the enviable position in four or eight years time of not thinking it noteworthy to draw attention to the colour of someone’s skin if only so that we’re no longer forced to pigeon hole a person.

If there’s one thing I really wouldn’t mind it would be the latter. Surely the key to equality in the world is not just applauding the fact that someone “different” is in a position we never thought possible, but to be in a position where the perceived difference is of no significance to people at all.

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.

TV: Queen’s Christmas Message

Queen’s Christmas Message, originally uploaded by Thoroughly Good.

Christmas Day was rather busy what with preparing for Christmas lunch, cooking it, serving it and then watching the likes of Doctor Who and Wallace and Grommit.

All in all, a truly fab day spent in the company of family and friends.

In light of the heavy workload and rather tight schedules on the day, the only opportunity I had to observe that other Christmas tradition – the Queen’s speech – was when I sat in the bath.

I’d hate for the Queen – or the royal message – not to be a part of the Christmas Day celebrations, but the truth is that having watched it twice now I’ve got to confess that a lot of what was said was really quite a lot of white noise. This may have something to do with the fact that Her Majesty does rather have to tailor her words (assuming she actually writes the script – I suspect not) to appeal to as many peopile who are probably enebriated or stressed or sleeping off their high carb intake.

In comparison to the Pope’s poorly effort earlier in the week, Queen Elizabeth did alright spectacularly breaking the 3 minute video rule I’ve heard so much about this year, delivering her conclusion at a mere 7 minutes 30 seconds.

But for sheer punchiness and effectiveness, the Archbishop of Canterbury gets the top vote for conveying something fitting and quite possibly lasting.

Far from adhering to the religious aspect of his Christmas Day address, I was more struck by the frighteningly effecient headline message encouraging us to make “small and local gestures”.

It’s a soundbite which appeals to my self-satisfying “less is more” personal mantra. Well done Archbishop of Canterbury sir.

<a href=”http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/episode/b00g7rh5/The_Queen_2008/”>The Queen on TV</a>

The Queen on Radio (available outside the UK, I believe I’m right in saying).

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..