Tuesday 22 May 2007

Porn: the poor man's bordello

People criticise the porn industry all the time - it is fashionable, you see. It's taking up too much space on the world's servers. Some have even accused me of putting porn on my website http://www.goslitski.net but if the truth be told, it is that there is a fine line between porn and nude art. Unfortunately it depends on the fastidiousness of the viewer, or the suspicions of the accuser. Misunderstanding is probably the world's biggest bad habit. For some it serves an underhand purpose. For others it merely proves how small-minded people can be, not just in the context of porn, but from everything from politics to relationships to professional life.

Porn has been around since Homo Sapiens scrawled drawings on cave walls. I am sure Homo Sapiens scrawled everywhere but cave images have survived due to there being no weather and little or no light to erase them after thousands of years. The male of the species has always proven the more visual of the two genders, the female the more audial and yet with a keener eye for detail. However when it comes to porn, the male is the major player, both as maker and viewer. I have often wondered why this should be. If one takes a trip to strip clubs, it is noticeable that women make a hell of a lot of noise verging on the hysterical but men generally sit calmly and watch. Are men's fantasies and imaginations greater? Do women cover up their embarrassment by making fun from what has stereotypically and unjustly been a man's domain?

I think it is much, much deeper than that. Men and women have different biological setups. Women can remain turned on for longer whereas men are frightened that their libido will desert them if they let things get out of hand (so to speak). Many men therefore try not to get carried away too quickly. This can frustrate and cause men to go further in their search for greater sexual pleasure.

Rape is a sordid and demeaning act, mainly for the man. And this is why porn serves the community in its role as a sort of extinguisher of the male hormonal fire. We may all have our opinions about porn, but it has done a lot to stop this most vile of crimes. Rape is committed by all sorts of men - deluded individuals who think a woman secretly likes him; perverts whose weird and depressed personalities can't get them a serious relationship; crazed people who have a hormone imbalance; even married men who have a less fulfilling relationship. But rape is committed so frequently most of it is not reported. Women are either too scared or shocked to do anything about it or they fear nobody would believe them. Many times rape is carried out by pillars of the community, men who have such a spotless reputation, nobody would ever suspect them. This is where criminal trials should be solely based on evidence, not personalities.

Unfortunately, porn does not serve everyone's purpose, but it quells the desires of many men who could end up making criminals of themselves. With the growing ubiquity and rising use of the Internet in the last decade, porn has become so popular that some may even put rape down to its presence at one click of the mouse. I however wish to partly disagree. I am certain some see porn as an "hors d'oeuvres" to the act, or even the start of the downward spiral leading to rape, but for the vast majority it is the thing which keeps the hormonal temperature steady.

If it were controlled, or even censored, I wonder what message we would be giving out. If we take a look at countries where certain products are outlawed or seen as taboo by controlling governments, there is an almost mystical desire to have those things. The UK has some of the most draconian alcohol laws on the planet - result? More drunken teenagers than anywhere else. If the attraction were taken out of it, there would be no reason to do it. In Prague and Amsterdam, where prostitution laws are lenient, the majority of people who visit brothels are foreign tourists. On a recent visit to Maastricht, I visited a coffee shop (where the sale of soft drugs is permitted). Not one of the approximately forty people there was Dutch. I heard French, German, British and American English, Spanish, Italian and Polish speakers in there, the only non-foreign person was serving at the bar.

If you tell a child not to go in a particular room without saying why, what is the first thing the child will do? Enter the room, of course!

There is no good reason why governments should believe they know better by telling people drugs, tobacco, prostitution and alcohol are off-limits to some and not to others, just because of which country you live in. Not everyone can afford to go to a bordello either. For this reason porn serves a very important purpose not only as a dampener on some men's sexual desires, but also as a confirmation that sex is, in fact, the greatest disappointment on the planet. And this is why some men seem to be obsessed with sex: because they just don't realise that there are better pleasures in life than that, and the pursuit of permanent happiness is a far nobler deed than seeking temporary gratification.

Thursday 17 May 2007

Travelling is good for you: Tatarstan

As a seasoned nomad, I like to think of myself as well-travelled. But I am not really. I've been as far east as Kazan on the river Volga, as far west as Dublin, as far north as St Petersburg and as far south as Málaga. My scope is therefore pretty limited. But I'd bet a lot of money that I've had more fun than most while doing them...

Just before Christmas 1994, as a student in Moscow, a Dutch friend Maarten and I decided to do something we were advised not to do by everybody who had any brains: go to a railway station and take a train eighteen hours in one direction or another. What we were banking on was going to a place where the local mafia was not so hot. Unfortunately, we chose the worst of the whole lot: Kazan, capital of the Autonomous Republic of Tatarstan, a semi-Islamic state with serious plans on declaring independence from Russia, and prepared to go the same way as Chechnya was at the time. The whole idea in the first place was to get away from Moscow. The trip will forever remain memorable, for many reasons. The train, this time with sleeper wagons, was far superior to anything built in the west of Europe. It had immaculately vacuumed carpets on the floor and the wall. There were net curtains, each compartment had a lock, a spyglass and was well heated. To go a thousand kilometres by train and feel like you were on a moving hotel was quite a change from the moving slums used in the south east of England, where the trains that go fast do the stopping services and the older, slower trains do the long runs made me wonder how the hell we were paying $20 for the ticket. It was simply amazing.

Let me explain the class system on Russian trains: there is the third class, yes, segregation in Russia existed under the communists. It involves bedding down with forty other people travelling across the continent, and this train was going to the far expanses of the Siberian forests and on to Vladivostok. That was five days away. The contents of these carriages were pretty scary: the odd thief, undercover assassins, peasants, alcoholics, and yet there were also women, children, old grandmothers and grandfathers, the poorest of the poor, all travelling together. The noise at night from the compartments was tremendous. Think yourself lucky if you only have one snorer in the house. Here, there was a pride of lions with sinus problems taking a night’s rest. Travellers were stacked on one side in sixes, three each side of a partition wall where the beds hung off. On the other side was a thin corridor where the guard would bustle on up and down. After half an hour, the windows had steamed up, so what would it be like after a few days in there?

The reason I know this, was due to a trip I took in one overnight to St. Petersburg. To go the whole way on one of these would have driven me nuts, so for the journey there, we chose second class. This was a normal couchette, but you took pot luck on who else you were going to have. Russians sell tickets by the couchette/seat number, not the availability of space, so someone was bound to come in. We just hoped, that when we re-emerged from the buffet car, there would be a nice, quietly sleeping person. The buffet car had the charm and elaboration of a transport café with designs on becoming a place where E-coli bugs could claim asylum and served only onion and cabbage soup with egg in it. We dived in to this sumptuous yet unelaborate meal. The liquid refreshment was blackberry compote, warmed up on a gas stove just visible from where we were sitting and which took on the shade of sacrificed sheep.

We hurried back to our compartment to find a man in his late fifties travelling as far as Omsk with breath like the downwind of a water recycling unit, sinus that rattled and whistled and spherical stomach attached to his knees. He just would not stop talking. He kept on telling us about his family and showing us photos. His wife, incidentally, was twenty years younger than him and expecting their third child. The wedding photo he showed me convinced me that beautiful Russian women marry ugly men because at least they are less likely to have an affair, although with the evidence shown to me from the parties back at our hostel in Moscow, I just thought Slavic women in general were deranged nymphomaniacs, and that is from someone who does not believe in stereotypes. So much for my own principles.

Besides, there was a trip to be experienced. At three in the morning, we arrived at our first destination. It was a large station, probably Gorky. The thing was, it could have been the rush hour. There were street sellers everywhere. They were flogging anything they could get away with: chandeliers, crystal vases, heirlooms, sewing machines, Olympic teeshirts for Moscow 1980, picture frames, dessert spoons, milk, coca-cola, underwear, even a set of tyres. They were, of course, all desperate to earn some money. Most of them had not been paid for several months and this was to be the best way of earning extra cash. I bought a bottle of spring water and an empty four-litre bottle of Bell’s whisky.

The next day, we were awoken by the noise of Tatarstani pop playing on the internal radio. Russian trains are well equipped in this way. The scenery had changed on the outside: there were fields laden with permafrost. when I say fields, I do not mean thay had cute hedges around them intertwined with small wooden thickets. No. The fields here were the size of the Isle of Wight and were marked off by barbed wire fences or just had different colours. I remember seeing one farmhouse over the course of a hundred kilometres. This was extensive farming at its most impressive. Imagine owning a bit of land bigger than Switzerland. That is what I call a waste. Not having two brass coins to rub together, but enough land to solve the problems of overcrowding in India or China. After a long haul through the picturesque scenery of Chuvashia, the river Volga came into view. It was more like the Isle of Wight than I thought. Looking out across to the other side of the river was about as far as Cowes to Portsmouth only there was an interconnecting bridge. The bridge is not classed as the world’s longest because it is actually built on a series of small islands.

The train rattled on at its steady pace. Crossing the river seemed to take up the morning. It was time to eat something. The buffet car was full of hungry Russian peasants waiting for their onion and cabbage soup with eggs. We passed on this course and tossed a coin between the cabbage and onion omelette or the fried egg with onion. If we asked nicely, they were willing to add some cabbage at no extra cost. We enquired as to whether this was a Tatar dish. Yes was the reply and we could look forward to more when we arrived in Kazan. We were elated at the prospect of a few more days of this. I enquired as to what they would serve on their way over to Vladivostok. They said that they changed the culture of the meals depending on which city was next on the list. So, between Kazan and Omsk, they would prepare boiled egg cut up and placed on a bed of cabbage and onions. When they were going over the central Siberian leg, they would prepare golubtsy, cabbage balls with egg inside. As for the approach to Vladivostok, there were not so many passengers left, so they would cook fishcakes. A tremendous variety of cuisine, fit for any number of discerning gourmet chefs.

Once in Kazan, we were glad for a walk. The first thing to do was to find a hotel. Direct in the centre was Hotel Tatarstan, the tallest block of cracking cement around and seriously empty looking. However, beds were $20 per night including breakfast, and we could have done with a little dietary change. At the counter was a rough looking woman with a brown uniform and purple jumper over the top. “What do you want?” she screeched. When she saw we were foreigners, she asked us where our visas were. Our visas only covered the Moscow region, so we were relying on her “kindness” to allow us to stay there. This was like relying on a rock star to stay celibate while on a concert tour of girls' schools. She called over a security guard and spoke about us. She obviously wanted us to pay her off or go and find somewhere different. We were having none of it, and both started speaking subtly but audibly in English, fitting words and acronyms such as “CIA”, “military police” and “American Embassy” randomly into the conversation we were having about whether to go to another place. They were slightly alarmed about this and stuck us in a hotel suite on the eighth floor. It was small and smelled of the last client, who was probably a dung beetle breeder.

After serious contemplation that we would not speak a word in the room for fear of incrimination, we set off for a walk aronud the city of Kazan. It was a beautiful day but it was in the minus twenties. Our first port of call was a café, where we moresomely tucked into a plate of cabbage with grilled onion and egg sauce. It was the perfect start to our stay there. What a variety of gastronomic delights we were getting! On our way out of the restaurant, we decided to get a bus to the river to see it for ourselves. While sitting there arguing about the direction, someone said, “Get off at the next stop, and wait for bus number sixteen.” We were both startled by this welcome intrusion into our row that we got talking and she left the bus with us. She was approximately thirty years old and had a son, Timur, whose name fit the description, as Timur means Iron, and boy, was he hard. He was very young, only five, but he had a real hard streak in him. He would pull you as hard as he could until you played with him and did not take no for an answer.

Alla, the kind lady, showed us the main touristic sites of Kazan: the university where Lenin himself studied, the main church with a solid wall of gold and the river, which in my mind, was really an inland sea on the move. The French have two words for river: rivière, a river that is either a tributary of another or has just a puny estuary, and fleuve, a larger river with mouth, like the Seine or the Rhine. But nothing prepares you for this and there is not yet a word that could describe the Volga. It may not be as long as the Nile, but it is bloody awesome. It's like God's hosepipe. Alla then took us back to her house for something to eat, seeing as we had not seen anything more different than onions, cabbage or eggs, and I was beginning to crave anything, even radioactive fish from the Volga. She served us up some Borshch, or beetroot soup, which contained potatoes, beef, carrots, onions (although we fished them out), and plenty of charming herbs that went down a treat. She followed this up with a pork escalope and started talking about the possibility of marriage with a guy from the West. She needed someone who would keep the Iron Kid, who during this conversation, was in the other room shifting the wardrobes around, in his place and a father figure would have been nice, but Timur’s biological father ran off three years earlier. Oh, how nice it would be to have a Western man, who, not thinking in the least about the monetary aspect, could bring Timur up to be a lumberjack or a removal man instead of the mafia joint bouncer he was destined to become.

Goodness, this was time to leave the establishment if this was the alterior motive, but just before saying this, she asked us if we could find someone for her in Europe. Phew... We had a longer chat and seeing that the sun was ebbing away, we resolved to go and find a place to have a drink. Alla recommended a place in town. It was incredible, but the population of Kazan is about one and a half million and yet on the map, it reads Kazan whereas my university town, with only a quarter of a million people, looks more like WOLVERHAMPTON. Never trust a map. Most cartographers cannot even tell the difference between the capital city of Tatarstan which is a huge metropolis and a piddling little brewery town which was ranked only third most important place in Staffordshire until the County Council was too confused to keep it any more and gave it to the West Midlands. Map drawing must attract some weirdos.

Wednesday 16 May 2007

Keep people away from other languages or they'll know too much

You simply cannot learn another language unless you have a basis in your own grammar. It's as plain as that. In my opinion this is a fundamental reason why grammar has slipped so far down the list of priorities of governments' education priorities - if people know other languages, they might watch TV from other countries which might mean they'll hear about events which concern them but might lead to them Knowing Too Much...

TV news in the UK is parochial. Protection of English in popular music in the UK is the equivalent of certain countries protecting their wines and cheeses through heavily subsidising their own and taxing imports. Speaking a foreign language in the UK is as exotic as a Japanese girl playing the bagpipes (and I really DID see one of them three weeks ago at the Leuven Easter Festival). Even French, the most taught foreign language in Britain.

You see, if British people are to take their place in the EU and forget about their suspicions, they have to know what's going on in the outside world. But even on BBC news, you will rarely see a foreign news report from outside the Middle East or the US unless there's something really important, and then only limited so as not to force people into thinking there's a world beyond Westminster or the White House. So I was pleasantly surprised to find the French election got top billing recently. Highly unusual.

Anyway, back to my main point. Why do I link grammar with learning a foreign language? If you don't understand how your own language works, you're not going to understand another language. Can you drive a car just because you can navigate a boat? Can you make a soufflé just because you can fry an omelette? Nope, and you wouldn't be expected to. Grammar is not hard to learn, nor is it hard to teach. It just looks it, especially if you have an excruciatingly boring teacher. The fact of the matter is it's just the way it's communicated to the student.

Another problem for English speakers learning foreign languages is that English is so simple, apart from its spelling. So simple, in fact, that it's almost too difficult. It's therefore hard for learners to grasp small or larger differences in their languages, for example infinitives - in almost all languages, the infinitive is one word, but in English it's two:

English
To read
French
Lire
Dutch
Lezen
Russian
Chitat'

If you make it difficult for people to grasp their own language, thus making them uncaring about its spelling, pronunciation, word order and grammar, you create a barrier to learning. Some of the emails I get from people, sometimes adults, is shocking. They don't know when to use an apostrophe (to reduce words like "not" and "is" to make them sound like they are spoken and as possessives, e.g. Ronald's book, Microsoft's headquarters); they don't know where to place full stops; they don't know how to spell and where to put capitals. It is all the more shocking when you see whole sentences and texts with these mistakes.

But this is all good news for governments who want to keep their population in the dark. It means they can manipulate the news, make people disinterested in other countries and cultures but most of all it means people have to learn their language to make any progress. Why has English become so big? Well, not only through what I have just mentioned. Normally if you want to sell to the world, you need to learn the language of your clients. Not so for English: they've set it up so nicely, that they've persuaded their clients over the whole planet to learn it. How remarkable. This can be achieved in two easy steps:

1) You sell expensive-to-make, over-priced (because expensive is good quality, don't forget) films and music, marketed so heavily that they become irresistible. People want to learn the lyrics of the song and they want to hear the actors speaking in the o.v. Furthermore, a great amount of software and Internet info is exclusively in English, so to operate it, it is advisable to know that language. Of course, foreign music in the UK and US is total rubbish. Foreign films are for intellectuals and people who can read subtitles fast. Another nail in the coffin of the foreign import. The fact of the matter is that French films, Belgian films, Italian films, Chinese films, Argentinian films and Moroccan films can be so much more spiritually uplifting than the moralising, message-in-the-story American movie, but hey, it's not in English!

Spanish music, Italian music, Serbian, Polish, Russian music, Portuguese, Brazilian music, African music, and many other kinds of music can be so much more melodious, meaningful and passionate even if you don't understand the words, but that's not the point. It's not in English, stupid! How many songs does the average British person listen to in foreign languages? Probably only those they hear on holiday in Torremolinos or Corfu each summer. I mean, what's the difference between a song without lyrics and one in a foreign language? Does it really make a difference?

It's also about marketing though - I'm sure Maná, Herbert Grönemeyer, Ich Troje or Zucchero could become huge stars in the Anglophonic world if only they'd sing in English. Because to the average Anglophone, foreign languages are no-go zones. Places of risk, and they'd look far too intelligent having that kind of stuff lying around where everyone can see. If you make intelligence uncool, that also helps limit the amount of foreign languages people want to know.

2) You make your own people stupid, or at least not as intelligent as their brain capabilities are. When I was at university, there was a group of Russian students in the economics department, the same age and year as the British ones. I remember them well, because they used to help the lecturer to stop them getting bored. They told us that what the economics students were doing then, in the second year of university, they had done at 15 in school.

A further point on this is that having seen first hand the real lack of ambition in the average British child in the area where I was raised, it just shows you what the scenario must be UK-wide, bearing in mind I was raised in quite a well-to-do area. Most kids prefer to leave school at 16 and work so they can buy their own trainers, cars, clothes, iPods and music. They can afford their own social lives and the rest is immaterial. They don't want to see the Kremlin in Moscow, or the Coliseum in Rome. They just want their own limited, handlable little worlds. Some people I grew up with now work in the supermarket in the village. Another is the local area manager of McDonalds. And further one is the clubhouse assistant at the municipal golf course.

It's not their fault, of course, they've just been made to think they're going nowhere firstly by their peers who they wouldn't like to offend, by going on to further their lives and secondly by a government education policy which does more bad than good, although admittedly it does encourage students into vocational study once a talent has been uncovered.

Where does grammar fit in here? Well can you imagine, that in about 10 years from now, the English language will be more comfortably and better spoken by non-native speakers? I can. I have seen it first-hand. It is time to put good grammar and punctuation at the top of the agenda again, and let foreign languages take on more importance. Failing that, the Anglophone world will remain longer in the dark, its speakers alienated from the wider international discussion and still fearing foreigners. Its language will be better spoken in Scandinavia, the Low Countries, the Far East and the Commonwealth. It will take a whole generation to recover the ground lost, but it is worth doing. More on this subject soon, but remember, lack of language knowledge can be key to ignorance and fear.

Sunday 13 May 2007

Eurovision: time to pull out or throw some out

I promise, this is my final article on the Eastern European Song Contest...

...and the final time I watch it until they change the voting system. OK, the best song always wins, and this was in no doubt tonight, as Serbia's simple act made a change from the usual circus acts we've been witnessing since Dana International. In some ways, Marija Šerifovic's performance was a little like Katrina and the Waves: a solid voice, an anthem which always does well, and the conviction to say who she is without trying to play to the crowd with little gimmicks. But on the other hand, every country in the top ten found its way there through its geographical position and its friends or expats. And this is what gets on my nerves more than anything else.

I was listening to Sir Terry Wogan on BBC1 and I got the feeling he's had enough of it. It's not about the song any more, it's about where you live. The crowd booed each time a neighbourly vote was cast. Russia, who could send Vlad Putin's cleaning lady along, will always get maximums from it's neighbours, to some of their inhabitants' great shame. The Baltics have up to 40% Russian expats, and there's nothing more those expats like than embarrassing their host countries' indigenous population.

I don't mind a little light patriotism, but blatant vote-rigging is definitely out. I agree that Marija Šerifovic's song was a worthy victory, and Ukraine genuinely deserved high scores, but honestly - does anyone believe that Russia, Belarus and Turkey should have been in the top six? I am from the UK, so I'm guaranteed to see my country in the final anyway, but I'm just disappointed that countries like Denmark, Switzerland, Andorra and Poland didn't make it to the final because of the alliances throughout Europe. OK, there are alliances in western Europe too, like Malta, Ireland and the UK, or Germany, Austria, the Netherlands and Turkey, the Scandinavians or the Iberians, but it's disappointing when so many good songs don't get far because of block voting.

Anyway, here's what I would do from now on:

No more semi-finals, where the original members can get humiliated. Let's have regional song contests (possibly by jury), with the top 6 going through to the final. I would do it along these lines, keeping some together and splitting some up:

Belarus, Russia, Ukraine, Moldova, Armenia, Georgia, Turkey, Israel, Bulgaria, Serbia, FYR Macedonia, Montenegro

Finland, Latvia, Lithuania, Estonia, Sweden, Norway, Iceland, Denmark, Ireland, Netherlands, Belgium, Poland, Czech Republic

Hungary, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia-Hercegovina, Switzerland, Austria, Romania, Portugal, Malta, Cyprus, Greece, Andorra

Let them all battle it out amongst each other - they wouldn't be so friendly then, would they? Then in the final only those countries which qualified can vote individually with a double-pointer for a block vote of all those who didn't make it.

Germany, France, the UK and Spain automatically go to the final as they pay for the event. And here lies the irony - the subsidisers of the whole thing consistently get left out in the cold because of the huge block voting. It only takes one of those broadcasters to say "OK, we've had enough", and the whole thing will be in trouble. Maybe Russian TV should now do its part and become a major sponsor, seeing as it's the one with the most points accumulated since the decade started.

Another thing I noticed, which I felt was unfair, was some acts were miming. If they weren't then there was some serious time difference between the mouths opening and the voices reaching us...

Either change the voting system or watch the quick demise of this great European institution.

Final scores (notice the ones in bold and underlined):
Serbia 268
Ukraine 235
Russia 207
Turkey 163
Bulgaria 157 (how?!)
Belarus 145
Greece 139
Armenia 138
Hungary 128
Moldova 109
Bosnia/Herzegovina 106
Georgia 97
Romania 84
Macedonia 73
Slovenia 66
Latvia 54
Finland 53
Sweden 51
Germany 49
Spain 43
Lithuania 28
France 19
United Kingdom 19
Ireland 5

Saturday 12 May 2007

Eurovision: final predictions

I've calmed down a bit since my last article, but I'm still not going to pass final judgement until later this evening, when the winner is finally announced. Anyway, I wanted to at least provide my predictions, considering I've been right about the eventual winner since 1997. Modesty apart, of course... Admittedly, it depends on the performance (and camera angles) on the night, but generally beforehand there are several telltale signs. My senses are immediately attracted to the quality of the songs in the middle-end of the draw:

Starting with Sweden's The Ark, singin "The Worrying Kind", another Euro-Scandi-Cliché of the blandest order, I think it kicks off the section where the winner will sprout from, simply because the following songs and the order they're in will either make the viewer slowly wish to switch off or prepare the viewer for what's to come. After that, Les Fatals Picards, France's best chance for decades, singing "L'amour à la Française", even breaking with tradition and singing partly in English, will appeal to a lot of the madder ones out there.

However, then the area most likely to produce a winner begins - Latvia's wonderful "Questa Notte", a romantic neo-classical number with a great deal of charm and sophistication. Following them there's Russia's sassy Serebro, with "Song #1", which of course will do well, firstly because the Russian diaspora vote will guarantee them a handful of 8, 10 and 12-pointers, especially from the Baltic countries, Belarus, Ukraine and probably Bulgaria, and secondly because they're t.A.T.u. in disguise, and a lot more sophisticated.

Following on Russia's coattails is Germany. Roger Cicero's "Frauen Regier'n Die Welt" is another typically original German entry. Germany has nearly always received a vote from me because they put out such original numbers, but nobody gives them enough credit. Last year's country & western song by Texas Lightning only got them to 14th spot. Three years ago Max's "Can't Wait Until Tonight" managed them a creditable 8th position. In 2000, "Wadde Hadde Duda Da" (yes, that WAS the title) by Stefan Raab, who is still very popular in Germany, came 5th and the year before in Israel, "Journey To Jerusalem" came 3rd. Guildo Horn's "Guildo Hat Euch Lieb", with his manic act, came 7th in Birmingham in 1998. All-in-all, quite a lot of good finishes, but never the Big One. Well, this year, Roger Cicero has a belter of a song and I hope he gets a top-5 finish.

I don't think he'll win, because up next is "Molitva", by Marija Šerifovic, is a simple song, sung by a simple woman in ordinary clothes, but it is, like every year, another wondersong from Serbia. Definitely top-5 if sung well. But even SHE might not win, because the following song is Ukraine's Verka Serduchka, with "Dancing Lasha Tumbai", which sounds like "Russia Goodbye", and might be a subliminal message, but the song is so awfully kitsch, that such in-your-face nonsense is surely going to go high.

Out of the Big Four, the UK's group of pseudo-kitsch trolley dollies, pretending to be cabin crew, will stand out like a piece of horse manure on a dinner table, coming just after Ukraine. Their "Flying The Flag (For You)" won the UK finals when Terry Wogan, God Bless Him, announced the wrong act, which I personally think should have gone through. Maybe he tried to fix it because even HE was embarrassed by it.

A little further on near the end is Bulgaria's "Water", a drum-banging acoustic arrangement which should feature highly.

A special mention goes out to Hungary's Magdi Rúzsa, singing in 8th position. Her delightful "Unsubstantial Blues" is my second-favourite of the night but I don't tip her for the top-5 (but I hope I'm wrong) because she's singing too early, and with all the weirdos and entertainers packed into the 12th to 18th position, I can't see Europe's new short concentration-span viewers remembering back that far. Unfortunately.

Another not-so-special mention goes to Belarus (who will receive top marks from Russia). The boy thinks a lot of himself. He says he looks like Princess Diana, and his act is cool. In my opinion his James Bond act is a great big steaming pile of doodoo and his cheap backing singers, who look like his hair and make-up assistants (and to save a proper costly talent search probably are). I hope his song nosedives. In 3rd position, he's likely to get few heavy scores, but I think he'll still scrape into next year's event without going into the semi-finals. But I hope I'm wrong.

So, summing up, my top 5 are (in no particular order) Russia, Ukraine, Latvia, Serbia and Bulgaria or Georgia. Note the geographical position of these countries. One worry I have is that some of the more original songs will not make it forward far enough to encourage future diversity, simply because of their lack of friends. Anyway, my other slight worry is that one of the tacky rubbishy numbers will win because of the diaspora vote. I hope not, because Eurovision lovers, some of whom I know, are already preparing to boycott the competition if that occurs.

The quality is high this year, very high. The bar has been raised. I just hope it doesn't get knocked off by some witless politics. But the mouth-watering prospect of seeing Lordi present the trophy to Verka Serduchka is making me itchy!

Thursday 10 May 2007

Eurovision: the Warsaw Pact returns

I take it all back. The Eastern-Eurovision Song Contest has replaced the festival of music we all know and love(d).

Musical ability doesn't count when partisan vote-rigging takes precedent above all. Of the ten qualifiers, only Turkey (whose song I really didn't rate at all) is not an ex-socialist or Balkan representative.

Denmark, Israel, Andorra, Poland and the Netherlands deserved at least to qualify in place of the entries from FYR Macedonia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Slovenia and Georgia. The hall also seemed to agree, with a mass booing at the end followed by the quickest emptying of the venue I have ever seen. Normally there's a party afterwards, but the place just evacuated like a fire drill had been announced.

However, considering the rest of the qualifiers, Hungary was for me the most meaningful, Serbia the most deserving and Latvia the best potential. But still New European countries - what about the Old Europe, the founding members? Well Belgium's entry should have had a chance tonight but the cartel won out. France has a chirpy number which stands a chance of getting in the top ten. Germany is a hot favourite, the UK's ditty has no chance and Spain is just another mamma's boy in a vest. Ireland has a good folky number but a little too cliché. Sweden is again typical Scandi-pop and Finland obviously doesn't want to win twice in a row.

Tonight's article is intentionally short as I don't wish to waste my typing on the shocking results announcement I've just witnessed. But for the credibility of the contest, I hope the EBU changes the preliminary voting.

If you split the continent in four so the ex-Soviets, Balkans, Mediterraneans and Old Europeans all had to battle it out for places in the finals, plus reduce voting rights from the non-qualifiers, so their maximum was six points instead of twelve, we might get some more justified results. And they wouldn't be so friendly to each other then, would they? Or if it went back to juries with a 50-50 split with the public vote, we might get rid of some of the nonsensical cartels which have risen up. The Soviet Union has a lot to be responsible for - the amount of expat Russians in European countries means their votes will assure Russia of a top-five finish even if they sent the Cacophonic Barking Stray Dog Chorus of Magnitogorsk.

It's no fun any more - it's political and it's maybe time to dump a few countries. I mean, what's Armenia doing there, in the name of Terry Wogan's toupée? Only EU countries to participate maybe? Never, I'm afraid - not if marketing in Russia and the Balkans would suffer, God forbid.

At least if the best song wins on Saturday, we might have a chance of salvaging its reputation. My money's on Ukraine, Hungary, Serbia or Germany (although unlikely seeing as they don't have a load of expats spread all through Europe).

I'm off to put my Eurovision fan club membership card next to my gas cooker - if it all goes political on Saturday, it's getting roasted.

Wednesday 9 May 2007

Eurovision: when music becomes political

Eurovision is coming on to a screen near you tomorrow and Saturday for the 52nd time. This show is older than the European Union by two years and has changed just as much. In the beginning in Lugano, Switzerland, it had just fourteen participants. The UK should have made it fifteen, but the BBC was unusually late in its application. The winner was announced without the long scoring system: just read out by the chairman of the jury, Mr Rolf Liebermann. Everyone else was second and the ranking has never been revealed. The year after in the Großer Sendesaal des Hessischen Rundfunks in Frankfurt, juries sat in sealed-off rooms without knowledge of the way others had voted or how the audience had received the song and decided the winner by long-distance (in those days!) telephone call. The scoreboards were changed by hand, using number cards hanging on hooks. The winner was the Dutch song, "Net Als Toen", by Corry Brokken.

The quality of the songs was not particularly high and the event was quite formal and dull, but just as today, not all the winning songs went on to be famous melodies. In 1958 in Hilversum's AVRO studios, a young man called Domenico Medugno sang "Nel blu dipinto di blu", these days known as "Volare", but he came third. He embarrassingly had to sing it twice, once more at the end of the presentations, because some countries had lost transmission during his performance. The winner was André Claveau from France, with a song called "Dors mon amour". "Volare" went on to be copied by many after, including the Gypsy Kings, Frank Zappa, Louis Armstrong, David Bowie and Dean Martin. Until he moved to Italy, the Arsenal supporters used to serenade Patrick Vieira with the melody: "Vieira, oh-oh, Vieira, woh-oh-oh-oh, he comes from Senegal, he plays for Arsenal!"

However, Medugno won an award at the first Grammys and the song's popularity still endured in 2005 when at the 50th anniversary party in Copenhagen, it was voted second favourite entry of all time, but in some ways first, because everyone knew anyway which song was going to win. André Claveau has not been heard of much outside of his native land since. Medugno can be described as the first Eurovision star. Nobody would have his impact until the late 60s, when France Gall (Luxembourg, 1965), Sandie Shaw (UK, 1967) and Lulu (UK, 1969) represented their countries. In 1969, Lulu came joint first with the representatives of Spain, the Netherlands and France. After that, the rules were changed to prevent it ever happening again. The winners, incidentally, had 18 points each, which today would guarantee you a bottom-10 finish.

The seventies brought with them first wins for Ireland with Dana's "All Kinds Of Everything" and the Greek Vicky Leandros, singing for Luxembourg in Edinburgh. Ms Leandros was another international star, although she had been famous even before through Eurovision, coming fourth in 1967 and made shows in Germany, the UK and even in North America. She also made a commercial success of her song, "Après Toi" or "Come What May", selling in a total of seven languages, netting her the accolade of best-selling singer of that year. It was in 1974 in Brighton that Eurovision metamorphosed from a prestigious, yet formal, music competition into a cult show with worldwide following. The band was Abba and the song was "Waterloo". It took the world by storm and made Abba instant heroes. However, Abba's endurance is the one thing which keeps Eurovision going: the contestants' hope that they could follow the same path taken by Benny, Agnetha, Anni-Frid and Björn.

They are the sixth best-selling artists of all time after Elvis Presley, The Beatles, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra and Michael Jackson and have reportedly sold more than 350 million records. Even I have a CD somewhere!

Teach-In ("Ding-a-Dong") and Brotherhood of Man ("Save All Your Kisses For Me") followed them to victory in the two years after, in some ways riding on the fame Abba had brought to the competition. After then it was another few years until another Eurovision great was discovered: Johnny Logan. The Irish crooner was actually born near Melbourne, Australia, but moved to the Republic when he was only three. His father was a famous singer, who had performed in the White House in front of three US Presidents. Johnny Logan won the competition twice as a singer and once as a composer, earning him the title "Mister Eurovision". He was also a panel member for VRT in the 2006 Belgian national selection. He disagreed with the others' choice to represent Belgium and he was proved right, when Kate Ryan, Belgium's entry, although tipped for success, didn't even make the final.

The 1980s also saw other well-known flashes-in-the-pan, like Bucks Fizz (UK, "Making Your Mind Up") and Sandra Kim (Belgium, "J'aime La Vie") but Eurovision's greatest product of that decade won in 1988, a year after Logan's second triumph, with "Ne Partez Pas Sans Moi". Céline Dion was born in Francophone Canada and rose to become one of the world's leading song artists. She has sung at Olympic closing ceremonies, made the music for the Oscar-winning film Titanic, and has a sell-out show in Las Vegas. She used her fame to speak out on issues close to her heart, and is or has been involved with Cystic Fibrosis charities and World Children's Day. Her friend Elton John filled in for her in Las Vegas when she went on sabbatical. Now that's quite a replacement!

The 1990s was the Irish decade. It started with Italian Toto's anthemic "Insieme: 1992" and finished with Sweden's Charlotte Nilsson with "Take Me To Your Heaven". However, in-between, Linda Martin, Niamh Kavanagh, Paul Harrington & Charlie McGettigan and Eimear Quinn won in 1992, 1993, 1994 and 1996 respectively to make four Irish wins in five years, interrupted by Secret Garden's Neo-Classical "Nocturne" from Norway, and even then one of the musicians was Irish. This was the decade which saw the number of participants grow inexorably. In 1992 a united Yugoslavia appeared for the final time. The year after Bosnia-Hercegovina, Croatia and Slovenia all entered separately. It was also the year of the first preliminary competition where some new members competed to make it to the final. In fact, it was these three countries which won the preliminaries. 1993 also provided Eurovision with its smallest-ever location: Millstreet in Ireland. A rich country gentleman offered RTÉ the use of his farm for the competition, as it would save the broadcaster millions - winning for the second time meant hosting costs would harm the broadcaster's programming quality for a whole year. After the fourth win, RTÉ was even offered Belfast as a venue in the UK with the costs picked up by the BBC. It took place in Dublin anyway, but RTÉ took no chances and made sure their song was a no-hoper.

The nineties was a very good decade for Eurovision, in terms of the event's proliferation but also the records it broke, the cultures it modernised and the milestones it surpassed:
Katrina and the Waves made history in 1997 with the record points score of 227, singing "Love Shine A Light", probably the finest performance of recent years, and the following year in Birmingham in front of a record crowd Dana International won for Israel with "Viva La Diva", the first transsexual to enter the competition, once and for all labelling the show as an extravaganza of kitsch. Riverdance brought folk dance to new heights, bringing tradition and popular culture together. 1999 saw the dropping of the national language rule (in my opinion a fatal mistake) but the boldest move was the introduction of televoting.

Televoting has had mixed results. On one hand it takes the emphasis away from juries and gives ordinary people a democratic choice, but on the other it has made a mockery of the political and demographic issues of Europe. You can guarantee that Germany will always give 12 points to Turkey, that the ex-Yugoslavs will scratch each others' backs and Russia will receive near-maximums from the Baltic states, Ukraine and Belarus, where they have large Russian communities. The result is that countries whose songs may have been excellent quality but have few or no alliances of expatriate groups in Europe have no chance of scoring high. Poland, for example, has had some excellent entries over the last few years but has consistently been left behind.

Another side-effect has been the need for a semi-final due to the high amount of countries participating: 37 last year in Athens, Greece. The countries receiving the fewest votes the year before have to enter a preliminary sing-off on the Thursday before the main event, except for the EBU's main sponsor countries, the Big Four (France, Spain, the UK and Germany), who get an automatic pass to the final night. The main problem with this is that the Thursday night singers get to perform, giving them an advantage on the Saturday, as their acts will have already been heard once. Most recent winners have come out of the Thursday night semi-final. The other result of this is that 1998 is likely to be the last time a Big Four country wins until the rules are changed, because despite their patronage being the main reason the festival continues, the public resentment of their participation only on the last night has caused votes to decline. In 2005 all Big Four countries found themselves at the bottom.

One thing I would add to this though is that no matter how much political and tactical voting goes on, the best song has always triumphed, and the new millennium in Stockholm assured us of that: The Olsen Brothers, two middle-aged showmen from Denmark, sang "Fly On The Wings Of Love" to assure us of a new-record crowd in the Parken Stadium in Copenhagen in 2001. Faith was briefly restored that the song, not the act, was the most important element to the show. Although I have to say it was just a break in the trend. Since then, the acts have tended to be just as important to the success of the song.

But folk music and dance has had a great effect on it too. Serbia & Montenegro's entry "Sane Moje" came second in 2004, a haunting folk ballad with a powerful anthem. But the winner that year was Ukraine's warrior princess, Ruslana, with her "Wild Dances", based on her own experiences of Ukrainian folk song and dance. Folk has played the greatest part in recent Eurovision contests, from the initiators, Riverdance, who were only the intermezzo but went on to greater success than most winners, to Urban Trad's second-placed "Sanomi" in 2003, to Elena Paparizou's winning Greek dance instrumental in 2005, to the grandmother of the Moldovan singer banging a drum, also in 2005. Folk music plays a subliminally important part in the hearts and minds of Europeans - seen popularly as outdated, viewers consistently vote for that genre even though they don't realise.

However, 2006 saw a sea-change in the contest, when Finland's first victory came in the form of Lordi's spectacular freak-show "Hard Rock Hallelujah", which won with 292 points, another new record. I was delighted at Lordi's win, as although I don't really like metal, that song brought hard rock to the people. Usually the stage for love songs and colourful kitsch, Eurovision became universal. Lordi has opened up the competition to all kinds of music potential and this year's entries are proof of that. Germany's Roger Cicero's catchy blues number and Latvia's Italian serenade should prove that the endurance of Eurovision will live on through its ever-adapting variety.

New firsts for this year: the Czech Republic and Georgia are joining in, and Montenegro and Serbia have entered independently since their separation.

However, despite the new styles and pioneering performance of Lordi, I believe folk will win once again on the night - look out for Ukraine's catchy earworm "Dancing Lasha Tumbai", a mix of ultra-modern electronic sound and deep-rooted folk with the added Euro-glamour provided by the singer, Verka Serduchka, a... well what can I say? Man dressed in a shiny costume! Serbia's Marija Šerifovic has a powerful ballad with folk traces called "Molitva", and Ireland's Dervish, singing "They Can't Stop The Spring" also have good chances.

However, after all that, I have a funny feeling that Eurovision is once again going to Kiev next year...

Tuesday 8 May 2007

A salute to the game of snooker

"Snooker isn't a sport!" said one of my students, when I told her I wanted to rush home to see the world championship final in the Crucible Theatre, Sheffield, on television yesterday.

"Ah, but it is," I replied. "At least in English. In most other languages, sport is about physical exercise, which to some even implies going to the gym. But in the English language, it means competition, skill and fair play." Therefore darts, golf and even chess could be considered sports. And if anyone had watched the final on TV last night, they would have said it could also provide us with just as much excitement as rugby, football and tennis. In the latter's case, a LOT more, but that's just my personal view.

Let me set the scene: this is the longest-running single event to take place in the same location in the world. Eighteen days in total. The Tour de France is the only other event which goes on longer, although it's not in the same location, unless you include the whole of France as a venue. During the rounds, many big names fell early on, except for John Higgins, winner once before, and Mark Selby, a 23-year-old rookie who needed to play qualifying rounds in non-descript box rooms at a holiday camp just to get to the televised stages. He defeated Stephen Lee, Peter Ebdon and Ali Carter to get to the semi final. Once there, he was not in front for any part of the match until the very last frame, where he won with a 64 clearance. He did it with style, humour and character, three words which have not always appeared together in sportspeople's descriptions.

Getting to the final in his first year must have already made him proud. But after the first day, he was 12-4 down, and needing a miracle to reach the 18-frame winning mark. He battled his way back in the afternoon session on the last day, taking all six frames, and at one stage was only one frame behind. His choice of shots was breathtaking, his communication with the crowd heart-warming and his strategy play impeccable. One frame lasted almost an hour. Where most people would have called it a night and headed off to bed, that one frame provided us with the greatest advert for the game. I doubt many viewers switched over. I had to get up this morning, but even I couldn't go to bed, despite knowing that if it went the full distance I would be there until possibly 4 in the morning.

However, just at the moment when he could have levelled the match at 14 each, he made what seemed a terrific safety shot. John Higgins could only reach one ball, and he was hampered by the edge of the table. But he managed to pot it and with it took the frame. Higgins went on to win 16-13, and although I was relieved I would get at least seven hours' sleep, I was quite disappointed the match finished the way it did.

During the ensuing interviews, John Higgins admitted he had to play the best snooker of his life. The winner on the night was snooker, and Mark Selby will have gained a lot of friends over the course of the tournament. When you're one mistake away from losing the final and you try a four-ball plant, you have guts. Selby's nickname is the "Jester from Leicester", but on that evidence he's the best thing to happen to snooker since the late Paul Hunter, and a welcome addition to the great characters which have graced the sport: Alex Higgins, Jimmy White, John Virgo to name a few. I wish him all the best and I hope he goes on to win snooker's most prestigious event in the near future.

The problem with people's criticisms of a lot of sports, especially snooker and cricket, is that they don't know the rules, nor do they know any of the history or events surrounding them. Before people claim a sport is boring or too complicated, I would just mention that many require not only those playing, but also the viewers, to have a good concentration span. Sports like curling are tremendous fun to watch when you realise that not all sports are about end-to-end action. I remember the 2002 Olympic women's curling final between Great Britain and Canada in Salt Lake City. It was the middle of the night, but millions stayed up to watch it. If only the detractors would see the wonder of the moment and not seek to take the romance out of it.

Monday 7 May 2007

Do they think I'm rich?

This last quarter, I have been inundated with bills. Not any old bills for gas, electricity and the like - I can manage them. But bills whose legitimacy I wonder about. One is called a "schuldzaldoverzekering". Yes, blind me with science if you want, but what in the name of Wolfowitz is that? Apparently, I have to pay it to the bank as an insurance against the house I sold in December. It amounts to about 500 euro.

Along with that, I have been sent a bill to insure my house against fire and another against robbery. OK, I'll pay them even though I don't own the house where I live. I decided to sell and rent for a while until the right house came along, because the last one definitely wasn't. I had so many costs, mainly for renovation, that along with the bills it just got out of hand.

On top of those, which amount to about 170 euro, there is the social security, which I need to pay myself as a freelancer. This comes to approximately 600 euro, payable every quarter. So let's say 200 a month. However, as a freelancer, it means I can't claim unemployment benefit and my state pension is lower than others because according to the government I'm stinking rich and able to afford it.

Like my plumber. I had a blocked kitchen sink and after pouring every conceivable liquid into it, putting balls on string in there until there was a noise, all types of efforts, nothing surfaced, only the dirty water, which drained away almost glacially down the hole. He came, poured some of his own product (imported from Italy, priceless stuff apparently) into the pipe and sent me his bill of 145 euro for 15 minutes' chat and 3 minutes' work. Yes, this type of pricing is surely why the government thinks I can afford to contribute so heavily to the economy as well as sacrifice my pension to fill a hole in society so some workshy couch potato can put an extra bet on the horses and buy bottled Stella instead of canned.

So far, the amount has reached 1270 euro. Now we turn to the little matter of the insurance claim by the bus company, who thinks I owe them 245 euro worth of paint for an accident where a stick of about 50cm long and made of MDF was catapulted out of the container I was throwing stuff onto, hitting the... wait for it... WINDOW of the bus. If they had sent me a bill for broken glass, I would have paid immediately, but as it was for paint I've replied rather unrepentantly on a few occasions to their threatening literature. In a few days' time, apparently, I'm going to receive a court summons.

My household bills add up to about 1300 euro (rent, cable TV, Visa, energy), so that brings the total up to 2815 euro. And I'm supposed to pay to travel to work each day, buy lunch there, invest in clothes; oh yes, and buy food for the rest of the daily meals. So we're looking at a further 330 euro approximately. We've hit the three-thousand mark and gone above it and landed at 3145 euro.

Fortunately, I'm not tempted by the consumer ads which try to persuade me to buy any number of things which I might need one day, like electric blankets, garden gnomes, clocks which tell you the date, temperature and current weather conditions (look outside your window, stoopid!), Xboxes, MP3 players (burn them!) and sunglasses whose shades automatically darken when you turn into the sun. Because if I were, I'd be making plans to auction off this computer to subsidise my retail obsession.

By the way, I received a tax bill of 5300 euro, because apparently I can afford it. So if any of you reading this who know me wonder why I haven't seen you for a while, it's because it's expensive when you're presumed to be rich...

Saturday 5 May 2007

A short advert for parental education

Education and upbringing just isn't what it used to be. People don't have respect for one another, don't seem to care about the community spirit of past generations. The solidarity of the social states has given way to materialism, selfishness and decadence. Although most remain good mannered people at heart, there is a tendency towards the attitude that it's not worth being too helpful, because you're sure you wouldn't get it back.

There are several layers of this social inertia - on one hand whilst some smile or say hello to you, half of the time you don't receive a greeting back. On another hand this is minor compared to the following, which is my pet hate and, I honestly believe, the root of our social ills today:

MP3 players on public transport. I hate them. I despise everything about people who feel the need to let the rest of the bus hear the "music" these individuals need to listen to in order to feel like they're still at the weekend's party and looking forward to the next one. I feel nothing but contempt for those who destroy the peace. I can't concentrate on reading my book when I hear these noise machines blasting out their satanic messages. Can't these people find something else to do? Read a book, for example. Although by the look of them I'm not sure they have a concentration span long enough to manage. But we can tie other anti-social, or even aggressive, acts in with this: feet on the opposite seat, talking loudly on the mobile phone, putting bags on the seat beside, talking loudly to others, refusing to get up for an old person or pregnant woman, spitting chewing gum on the floor, etc. If you do one of these things, you'll probably do the others.

And why? It came to my attention on the number 44 tram the other day - a woman of about 30 was occupying a four-seat section with her 9 or 10-year-old child next to her. The tram was quite empty to begin with but the amount of passengers built up gradually. Nothing unusual yet. Until you note that she allowed her daughter to put her feet on the chair opposite her and she kept her handbag on the seat next to her, thus occupying three of the four seats. If the parents don't say anything, the children think it's OK to carry on doing these things.

Another time I witnessed a family of four out for lunch - but that quickly became three when the youngest, no older than 6, got up to run off his half-eaten sausage and chips. The mother called the child back to finish off his "meal" but was ignored. So she got out a sweet and said he could have it if he sat down again. Nope. The boy carried on running. The plates were taken away and
the little shyster carried on annoying people. Mum and dad continued their chat as though everything was all right. That was, until one of the clients got up to complain to the parents.

He told the mother that the child was really disturbing him and the others around him by staring at them and every now and again shouting, running away in that heavy-footed way kids like to make noise. The mother was so astounded at this unusual and daring act that she even raised her voice to the child. But still she didn't get up. It took the little blighter to have an accident with the waiter carrying empty cups back to the bar for her to motivate herself. The child was unhurt, the waiter only unbalanced, but the cups had made a heavy landing on the concrete. Now he was seated, he began to clap his hands, put his fingers in his warm and gasless fanta drink and make monosyllabic outbursts but the parents did not tell him to be quiet. I then wondered why potential stepparents are unable to adopt children without the most rigorous of tests, but anyone with the right sexual organs can just make their own.

A third event took place last week when I was in Germany. I was at a village celebration where they set fire to a load of wood to commemorate the arrival of spring. They had set up a bar in an open tent and tables and chairs were placed outside to sit and have a good drink and chat. I noticed that all the adults were sitting or standing around getting slowly unconscious on alcohol while the kids were running about the field, playing with the fire and putting drinks down each other's shirts. I remembered one of the children from a previous visit and had got chatting to her - her friends were interested in the arrival of a foreigner so we all had a chat in the dusk light. Some of the questions were typical of kids to try and embarrass you, but I handled it fairly well, considering German is one of my weaker languages. When I said goodbye to them and headed back to the house I was staying in, two of the less-than-vertical fathers shouted at me to stop where I was. One asked, "what have you been doing with our children?" I didn't quite understand the nature of the question and felt quite threatened, so I asked the spokesman to repeat it. He said he didn't like strangers hanging round the kids and wondered what I was doing with them. If he had looked up from his glass, he would have seen. I told them what happened and they went away.

However, I felt like saying, "and what did you do with them?" Because it was plain to see that they just parked their kids on the grass while they went off to get drunk. Saves on the babysitting costs.

But I didn't, because we don't, do we? We don't correct others because it's not our responsibility. We are too shy to interfere in the lives of others for fear of upsetting them, or even worse, being the victims of violence. And the only thing the police would do is tell you to keep your nose out.

[That reminds me of the ultimate keep-your-nose-out example: not so long ago, in Brussels, a family called the police because the television had been on in the house next door all night for the past two weeks, and there was a terrible smell of rubbish. What they found was horrific. The old man who lived there had been dead for two weeks at least and had obviously passed away while watching the television. God help us if that is the way of the future. I think we need to make subtle inquiries into the health, wellbeing and stability of those around us. If we carry on getting more and more insular, we will end up all in a dysfunctional society, with relationships and families where we barely communicate to each other.]

Parents have great responsibilities to society as a whole - they need to pass on the social and moral ethics which allow our society to function. But many don't, or cannot. Many are far too lenient. In the case of the child in the restaurant, if that had been me as a boy, I'd have got a slap. Oh damn, we can't punish physically any more because some researchers told us it could psychologically damage you in later years. It didn't damage me. It didn't damage my father, who had it far worse. In fact, out of all the people I know who were punished as children, they have turned out far more balanced than those who grew up without it. Bullying damages you, punishment does not. It puts you in your place. Having a sense of justice helps, but these days, teachers are losing control of the classrooms, parents need to work all day because they can't live off one salary and so friends, computer games, DVDs, TV and the Internet take over the role of chief educator and kids create their own Lord-of-the-Flies view of the world.

I am not a traditionalist, but I firmly believe that a return to stay-at-home parents is a must for the future, but it is not important which parent stays at home. The main obstacle is the lack of policy to bring this about. I believe that the unemployment figures can be dramatically reduced and the amount of parents bringing up their children at home can be raised in one go by creating a partnership between the government and the business world where companies who offer an employee whose spouse quits work to look after their children a significant rise in salary. The companies taking part are offered tax breaks of the equivalent amount or more to compensate. This not only places the family at the heart of government policy, it also creates space for another potential employee who would be otherwise unemployed. This could have knock-on benefits, for example an incentive to produce more children, thus an upturn in population figures setting off the aging population.

This will not happen though, because governments of our day are only interested in offering cheap, temporary and diluted policies. They need to continue filling big business with tax incentives and helping reduce expenditure. The age of the benevolent government is over, stand by for the end of society.

Friday 4 May 2007

Perfidious Alba - biting the hand that feeds it

More politics today, I'm afraid. It seems that quite a lot of people in Scotland, on the fringes of the European continental shelf, have voted for the Scottish National Party, known as the SNP. Well, let them go. I mean, for 300 years they've grumbled, moaned, patronised and suffered their way through that Union, claiming they're under-represented, they don't get heard, feel that they're living in the shadow of Big Brother England. So let their leader, Alex Salmond, have his way in government. Let him steer the Scottish ship out of the British harbour. And then stand back and wait for the bang.

Because that is what will happen. I don't think he's thought it out properly. On a recent BBC programme on the Scottish election, old fishface Salmond said he'd retain the pound as the main currency of Scotland. Well pardon me Al old boy, but you're missing the point here. Scottish independence means you get your own currency, set your own foreign policy and trade with other nations alone. How ideal would that be for him? It seems he wants his own little domain without the unpopular drawbacks economic policy would bring to his door. Let London take the blame. Is it because even he realises Scotland would have the economic power of Latvia if he set his own currency up?

Scots, like the Irish and the Welsh, have continually gone in for some hard England-bashing. They seem to find it fun to mock those south of the border, preferably those in the south east corner, the ones with the wrong accent who subsidise their free university education while those in England pay thousands to send their offspring off to get degrees.

Of the £8680 of tax money most earners pay on middle-income salaries that was spent by UK central government in the year 2006, £1120 get put towards the health service (fair enough); £763 will go to local government (to help towards services such as police and education); £440 on education; £343 on defence; £135 on Northern Ireland; only £75 on international development and £4200 are left over for fluctuating expenditure like social security and infrastructure. But a massive £520 gets put aside on regional expenditure in Scotland and Wales. That means if the UK let Scotland go its own way, the English would all have a rebate which would certainly add to the Christmas present fund or a little extra pocketmoney for the summer holidays.

So this also means Alex Salmond wants English tax to carry on subsidising his little fiefdom up there, because if he did get full independence, Scottish income tax would make Belgium and Sweden look like Monaco. You've certainly done the maths, Al. After trying to negotiate independence his way, England would basically be paying for him and his little Scotlanders to carry on feeling sorry for themselves and congratulating each other on being able to continue ranting at the English at their expense.

I mean, what would an independent Scotland bring to the world? Let's look into it:
  • Another Eurovision entry: whilst re-applying for membership of the EU, which when considering the queue in front of them (Croatia, Macedonia, etc.), might take a while, they can get fast-track membership of the EBU and possibly get just as badly blown away by voters' bias as the others. As long as they get more points than England, it doesn't matter, eh?
  • Another EU Commissioner: what portfolio would they get? They were hard-pushed to find one for the Romanian Commissioner Leonard Orban - eventually, Multilingualism was scraped off the bottom of the barrel for him. So let's give the Scots control of a Complaints department. They'd be good at that.
  • Exporting quality TV: once the BBC is broken up into the SBC, EBC and so on, they can try and raise enough money to put together some interesting shows and documentaries that other countries would want to buy. If not, there's always YouTube.

Excuse my chagrin in this matter, but I feel I'm losing my identity because some starry-eyed utopians want to turn the north of the UK into a huge kibbutz. I am British. My surname is Goslitski. My Polish grandfather was involved in the D-Day landings. My family's other side is mainly Irish, but the point is here that I am NOT happy being called English. For in order to feel English I would need Anglo-Saxon or Norman blood, which I have precious little of. The British Jamaicans, Nigerians, Australians, Zimbabweans, Indians, Pakistanis and Bangladeshis in the UK may also know what I mean. "British" is a universal word, an all-encompassing pair of syllables which give us that little bit of freedom to feel what we are. Why do some Scots feel so put out by it?

When I was younger, I remember the Scottish, Welsh and sometimes even the Northern Irish qualifying for the European Football Championships or the World Cup. The consensus in most of England was to share out the support for the "Home Nations". Yet up in Scotland, many made the opponents of England teams, whether cricket, rugby or football, honorary Scots for the day. It used to be meaningless banter, but recently it has become more personal, and many English people I know have withdrawn any support they would have offered them. Trivial example, I know, but it shows you the ill-feeling flowing through the land.

Do I detect a bit of historical retardedness? Some little Englanders still revel in Germany-bashing or Argentina-baiting, which I find quite petty, but at least the events related to their behaviour are not too far back. The Scots have been roasting the English since Bannockburn in 1314. Isn't it time to bury the past? Who do these people think they are? And why do they insist on hlding grudges over things their ancestors, now definitely dead, might have done to them through the ages? Are we going to write to the city council of Rome and ask them for compensation because they once ruled over England 1600 years ago? Or for that matter, do you think we should lobby the UN to bring sanctions on France for all the battles over the centuries? No. Because we're past that now. It has nothing to do with people alive today. In the same way I find it vulgar that many English until recently used to bang on about the Second World War, I find it even more repulsive that some Celts of whichever denomination keep pounding the English, laughable even, considering how far in the past it was. The Union works well NOW. Doesn't that count for anything?

The UK is not London-centric. In fact, it heavily favours the Scots and Welsh: their Members of Parliament can vote on English matters, which the English ones cannot. The Scots get free university education. They have their own newspapers, can print their own money and get preferential treatment in many other issues. Many of them still want more. For example, when London's candidature was put forward for the 2012 Olympic Games, many outside the capital, including some English, claimed London bias. Why not Glasgow, or Edinburgh? Because those cities are not anywhere near equipped enough to deal with such an enormous event. The UK applied before with Manchester and Birmingham. The French tried with Lille. The Germans with Leipzig. The Japanese with Osaka. But the IOC stated that only large cities with the correct infrastructure would have any chance. In Europe only Barcelona, Munich, St Petersburg and Milan would have any chance of defeating capital cities and two of them have had the Games already. London won and the other cities didn't.

I am not anti-Scottish, but I can't stand it when people stereotype a whole nation as evil bad guys. These people can't see a successful marriage: the United Kingdom has a lot going for it. Together, it punches above its weight in international affairs, it shares equality with France, Germany and Italy in the EU, it has greater credibility in this globalised world. "British" has long been a word to inspire, has been a symbol of a quality product, has for centuries turned "me" into "us". Why should this be different now?

But if the Scots want to go, let them. And in 10 years, when their foreign debts become too high, when their infrastructure needs repair and there isn't enough money, when their main source of income is wind energy (and we all know you need a lot of those expensive propellors to even charge up a phone battery), when their population ages but their pensions are minute, when their citizens are queuing at banks to withdraw their savings before the crash, let those of us who still believed in the Union say with one voice, "we told you so".

Thursday 3 May 2007

Mrs Blair vs Mr Thatcher: the French presidential candidates

So the French elections are entering their final episode, when the proud people of that nation cast off the 5th Republic's statuesque leadership and finally enter into the political world of the 20th century. They have been waiting for this moment since the massive strikes of the nineties. France is no longer the place it used to be: people accept the need to make their country relevant outside Europe. They also know they have some problems internally. But do they?

Let's look at the facts:
France has one of the best health services in the world
It is one of the leading tourist destinations, battling Spain and the United States for supremacy
It has a reputation for fine wines and aesthetic food
It has the highest amount of people taking part in sport in Europe
The architecture and infrastructure of most of its towns are very nicely organised
This means a high standard of living
It has a world-class working ethic, balancing family and profession

But:
It has a high ethnic minority population which feels disenfranchised from the "real France"
It suffers from high unemployment and a flagging industry sector
It subsidises agriculture to the point where it is no longer to produce food, but to keep angry militant farmers in jobs
It props up all types of meaningless traditions, jobs and ways of life to stop its members revolting
It boldly tries to form an alternative to the "American Way", and would have great success, but for nobody taking it seriously enough

And this is where the problem lies: France doesn't really have anything to worry about, none of its problems can be solved overnight, but not all of them are incurable. Its people are just suffering from a temporary inferiority complex brought about by the realisation that they are no longer major players in Europe or the world at large. This realisation came in two waves. Firstly, in its drop from on high:

- When London won the bid for the 2012 Olympic Games, France understandably went into a period of inward-looking self-pity, thinking that the "Anglo-Saxon" (as some of the detractors like to call the UK and the US) hegemony was dangerously extending into deep-seated French creations like the modern Olympic movement. I seriously believe London won simply because its final presentation focused on the Games themselves, not on the smiling faces of its inhabitants in the videos which accompanied them. Paris was a gimme until that final moment.

- Another was its loss of linguistic and political power in the European Union. Until the arrival of the 10 newcomers, France and the French language were in control of most of the European debate. With the arrival of countries like Estonia, Slovakia, Cyprus and Malta, where French has few learners, let alone speakers, the shift eastwards meant English was now the only realistic working language of business and politics in Europe. More importantly, it also meant the European monetary mentality and political mindset had shifted from social state to market economy.

Its second realisation was waking up to find its young people, its unemployed but most of all its minorities feeling threatened and intimidated. The future of France, excluded from the workplaces and ignored in discussions on its direction, left outside of any meaningful roles to play. Cities quaked with fear as cars were set on fire, shops looted and what were communal areas became empty by day and fraught with lawlessness by night. The French way of life was taking a battering. Those with jobs knew they had a job for life no matter what, as long as they didn't rock the boat or challenge their bosses. The hierarchy ruled and those below waited until a place became free to move up. The rest just stood in line catching the leftovers thrown from those on the ladder of employment.

These two factors have pushed France to accept it needs to change, but nobody has a plan yet. Ideas are abundant, opinions everywhere, but actions are not forthcoming.

Enter the two candidates:
Mrs Blair, alias Ségolène Royal
Mr Thatcher, alias Nicolas Sarkozy

Ms Royal has so far shown she is a listener and a sympathetic mother-figure who wants to reform the country but she has not set out any policies in stone yet. She has attacked Mr Sarkozy for his immorality and bloodthirsty ambitiousness but she has tried to copy Mr Blair's image-conscious election campaigns and vague election promises. Mr Sarkozy on the other hand has shown his hand and nailed his flag to the mast. He seems to have some draconian views on France's problems and his popularity has risen, Thatcheresque, by his controversial views and hard-line reform packages. Like Mrs Thatcher, he has gained further popularity by his sheer bloody-minded insensitivity to what people think of him.

If France is to change, it is going to have to put up with a lot of pain. It seems the country is bent on re-invention but this may just come with a change of leader and the rest will take care of itself. Alternatively, the new leader may seek to curry favour with the whole population and continue to give in to the unreasonable demands of its more militant inhabitants. I think it will depend on who gets his/her message across better when in power. Sarkozy is likely to be blunt, forthright and obstreperous in his pursuit of overhauling the system. Royal will probably be explanatory in her vision yet vague in the way she wants to do it, in order to persuade the population to adopt her methods.

Mr Sarkozy's main downside is himself. If he can get through the message that he is serious about his policies, some (like his reduction of tax, which seems unrealistic at this juncture) which curry favour with the honest worker and some (no Turkey in the EU) which further disenfranchise the minorities, there could be some turbulence ahead.

Ms Royal's main problem is her much-too-benevolent ideas ("consolidate" the 35-hour week, raise the minimum wage by 250 euro) which seem to just make a mockery of France's need for reform.

Whoever wins in the early hours of Monday morning, one thing is for certain: both will be accused of u-turns and lies to win the Elysée. For Royal to further subsidise the poor and for Sarkozy to maintain tax levels to support his agenda, I fear nobody is fooled by the insincerity and idealism. They will both have a shock when they see the small budget they have to carry out their plans.

Wednesday 2 May 2007

How life changes...

Did you know I used to cut grass to earn some extra pocket money? Not when I was a teenager, but after university, even after my first full-time job at a pharmeceutical research company. I was unemployed for over a year and fed up with sitting at home. It was not for the want of trying either. I sent 40 application letters and received two reject letters. The rest couldn't be bothered. I realise now I had taken the wrong course of action: in our Brave New World we have to rely on ourselves, not on the grace of others. When I finally did get a break, I really enjoyed my job, working on a multilingual helpdesk where I met some of my most long-standing friends.

Relying on myself became a principle I have tried so hard to enforce in my everyday life, but it is often difficult to avoid the help of friends and colleagues. Upon moving up the ladder to the City, where I worked in a foreign bank, I realised I was not going in the right direction. I was hired as a multilingual internet banking interface (or something like that) but I spoke only English at work and when I actually did my multilingual interface role, it was for only five minutes of the day, and even then the client insisted on trying out his/her English. So I contacted the human resources department, told them I was unhappy with my position and I wanted a transfer, and went on holiday. Upon my return, the papers were ready to sign. An effective way to conjure up your own dismissal.

I had by then learned from my awful mistakes the first time round and had saved up a little nestegg, which I used to get something more fitting. Speaking several languages and only speaking your own in your job can be a mighty cold shower when you spent years learning them. I found myself in Prague over New Year 2001, listening to a jazz band and drinking glühwein in the Old Town Square, when my phone rang. It was the head of unit for an official European organisation involved in the control of air traffic, seeking a multilingual contact point for central and eastern Europe. The wages were astronomical, almost unrealistic, and the working hours so unlike anything forced upon you in workaholic London.

I accepted there and then on the phone in Prague, oh and by the way, could I start in 11 days? Naturally! And that's how I ended up in Belgium. I ended up in Leuven, not Brussels, through an old university friend from the Netherlands, who had settled here with his Spanish wife. In 1999 I had taken an EU Institutions exam in Brussels and had followed them back to Leuven for dinner after the gruelling 6-hour tests. I really liked the place from first view and vowed to live here in the future if I ever got a job which permitted me to do so. The European organisation was on the Leuven-Brussels railway line, and without hesitation I arrived, on a rainy 14th January 2001 at the hotel opposite the station while I sorted out an apartment.

It doesn't end there... This was 2001, the year of The Event in the aircraft industry and so when the panic set in, changes were made and excuses were found to shove the newcomers out onto the streets. I had a lot of adjusting to do: going from earning in 4 days what most earned in a month to not earning anything at all meant I needed to move out of my marble-floored, two-bathroomed semi-penthouse with balcony overlooking the historic centre into a clumsy duplex two-roomed shoebox on a thoroughfare opposite the prison, next to a hotel, a hospital, a bordello, and round the corner from a school. Needless to say I was kept awake by the delivery vans, buses, patients, schoolkids, police escorts, ambulances and visitors to the ladies of the night (whom I never saw, of course).

I started to panic when I was down to my last 300 euro and the rent needed paying, so I went back to what I know best - language training. I love it. There's nothing nicer than giving people who are interested the benefit of your knowledge. It all began as a sort of cottage industry: in Belgium, due to the high number of people requiring language skills, most trainers are independent, not employees. Language training is also VAT-free, unlike translation, which while more profitable, is also a damn sight more boring. Relying on myself seemed surely the right way to go after being let down by so many others. I got my break through Marc Smekens, a jolly, charismatic and hard-working self-made Christian rock singer with his own language training company. Originally giving lessons for his outfit, I gradually picked up my own speed until I ended up on the 22nd floor of the second highest tower in Brussels, that of Belgacom, Belgium's monopolistic telecommunications company.

I didn't think it would all explode in my face, until the day I was accused of something which in fact my students had requested. I showed them my photographic website - one of them was going to Slovakia and wanted to see some photos of the place. But because there are photos of models on another section of my website, the potential catastrophe of them catching a glimpse of a scantily clad young lady whilst working drove the training department to pull the plug on me. So I decided to rely on myself once more and get my own clients. Having built up a nice little empire, master of my own domain, I spotted a call for trainers at the European Institutions, only requirement, a degree in languages. There was to be a seminar on the procedures and structures of the Institutions which I found to be quite daunting but within two months I was propelled into the European Commission's training department. I remained there for two and a half years before diversifying to the European Parliament and the Commission's interpretation centre.

I meet people from every country in the EU, who do all kinds of tasks from political advisers to European budget regulators, from MEPs to ushers, from conference interpreters to extra-governmental trainees from outside the EU. I give them all kinds of training from giving presentations and speeches to negotiating in English, from dealing with high-level correspondence to simple grammar courses. No day is ever the same. No semester is ever the same. I have been blessed (so far) with a happy and interesting course in life, which I hope will remain for as long as the contract is renewed.

Liverpool FC: history, tradition and reputation

This will not be a long blog, as I've just come back from Brandenburg in Germany, trying to beat the traffic in order to watch the Champions League semi-final. Olaf, my German friend in the driver's seat, managed an average speed of 150 km/h including breaks: for me that's not driving fast, but flying low...

Anyway, what a match it was: the build-up was nasty, with José Mourinho and Rafa Benítez giving each other some stick: "Liverpool are favourites because in the year 2007, we've played 27 matches and Liverpool play three or four," being the Special One's cue for a verbal pie-throwing competition.

Let us not take anything away from José Mourinho - he's the best thing to happen to Premiership football in a long time, and long may he remain in his job - but Rafa brings something to the European table that all that Russian money can't buy: the best fans in the world, who sing the most recognisable footballing anthem "You'll Never Walk Alone", the most stable régime in the game (Man Utd apart) but most of all they bring their reputations. Chelsea plays strategically, Man United with flair, Arsenal with... euhm... something anyway, but Liverpool play with their hearts and their supporters assure us of an incomparable atmosphere only matched by the Celtic faithful.

In the 1977 European Cup final, their supporters travelled en masse to Rome for the match. It might as well have been a home game. According to one of the players that day, the team was overwhelmed by the mass of red in the stadium. Their opponents, Borussia Mönchengladbach, were outplayed but also outsung by the Liverpool faithful, losing 3-1 on the night. Since then, they have won four more European Cups. Real Madrid, with nine, is the only team that has won more, but since 1966 only three, making Liverpool FC the most decorated European club in the last 30 years.

Looking through some of the names past and present makes impressive reading: Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Emlyn Hughes, Graeme Souness, Bruce Grobbelaar, Steven Gerrard, Kenny Dalglish, Alan Hansen... The list goes on. But what stands out most for me is the kit. That all-red strip which strikes fear into many opponents in European football. It was, in fact, born in the mid-sixties when Bill Shankly tried out red shorts on one of his players. They were white before then. It was suggested to change the white socks to red and that sealed it. They went out to face Anderlecht dressed for the first time in that renowned outfit.

Despite their reputation in the competition, Liverpool FC might not win the Champions League this year as I've always fancied the winners of Milan and Man Utd to go on to lift the trophy no matter who won the match tonight, but I'm delighted that Liverpool made it there. Although I hope I'm wrong about my prediction! Chelsea is a very defensive team and their supporters pretty subdued. The Reds getting to the final in Athens will mean that at least the atmosphere will be tip top and it should be a much more open game.

I cannot finish this article without a short word about some of the players in the current team: Steven Gerrard is by far superior to Frank Lampard and should always take precedence over him in England matches - he has been their hero on numerous occasions and his never-give-up attitude exemplary. José Reina is one of the top goalkeepers in Europe right now, but with Jamie Carragher in defence, you know the backup is first class. For me, he is the player of the tournament. He has risked injury to clear dangerous balls. He has attempted to defend his goal with military precision and he is not afraid of the odd foot in the face. If he goes down, it's because he really is injured.

So, whoever wins the other semi-final, we are guaranteed a superb final: if Man United get there, the flair of Ronaldo and Rooney will make a photogenic display; if Milan are successful, the skills of Kaká and the sheer doggedness of Gattuso will give us a memorable night. All-in-all, if Liverpool do win the final, it will prove their greatness once and for all.