Meet the Natives

A lot of tv documentaries pretend to be insightful, retrospective shows designed to enlighten us on human existence but actually turn out to be gawp-fests a few elephants short of a freak show. However, Channel Four have come up with some reality programmes which undermine our desire to poke and prod the freak under the microscope. This time, the finger is turned on us.

Meet the Natives was aired a while ago, but thanks to 4od I was able to watch the whole series in one big hit. The four part documentary begins in Tanna, an island in the South Pacific and we are introduced to five members of the community who adopt the role as ‘ambassadors’ on a journey in and around England. Although the Channel Four film crew are clearly present taking backdrop shots and capturing the odd native dance in a village hall, the ambassadors are given their own hand held cameras, allowing them to observe and narrate the entire documentary themselves, which leads to interesting results.

In episode one, the men enjoy a short stay at a pig farm in Norfolk. This description makes it sound like a hovel of mud, but surprisingly the ambassadors find themselves in a rather luxurious farm house littered with scatter cushions, mood lighting and numerous bedrooms. The men are told that this is the ‘middle class’ way of living. Yes, middle class in that sort of cuddly 1950s ‘oh goodness, we are in the splendid countryside!’ kind of way. I’ve known plenty of farmers and they sure as hell don’t ramble in water logged fields by day and rest their feet on velvet cushions under glowing chandeliers by night.

Of all the families that the men stay at, the pig farm proves to be the most socially awkward. One of my highlights was upon the arrival at the house, the Tannese glance about and comment on the number of ornaments and decor. ‘This house is filled with crap,’ they say, or at least they would say if their language wasn’t so beautifully poetic. And quite rightly too. It made me observe my own bedroom, a lair of unwanted gifts, ornaments and trinkets that just fill up the place with a sense of disgust.

The ambassadors warm up to the man of the house, mister pig farmer himself and the groundskeeper for his traditional, bunny bludgeoning ways, although the farmer’s wife is a different story. At the initial dinner, the chief gives a heartfelt speech of how thankful the men are for being so well looked after, and his belief that the white and black people shall merge like ‘ink on white paper’. An awkward silence prevails, and is broken by the wife asking in her plummy accent whether anyone would like a drink. In fact, she pretty much interrupts all the pivotal moments by questioning a need for beverages, but it’s a behaviourism all us British are guilty of. When times get tough and we feel uncomfortable or unable to deal with intimate conversation, we inquire about tea.


Next on the agenda for the Tannese was a trip to Birmingham to live with a working class bi-racial family on a jolly looking estate. The men are thrilled to be staying in all the same room which resembles sleeping habits back in Tanna, and the family greet them with ease in their humble surroundings. There’s a lovely moment when the husband, a taxi driver is showing the men how to clean his mini cab using a jet spray, but manages to cover himself with blobs of foam. The men burst into infectious laughter with the Brummie, slapping thighs and holding their sides in pure ecstasy. You forget that these are islanders from the other side of the world who have never set foot in the Western world before, just a bunch of blokes sharing a joke. In fact, there isn’t a moment where the men are not smiling, laughing or enjoying the little quirks and oddities of British life. They describe themselves as ‘the happiest people in the world’, and it’s probably true.

The ambassadors are treated to KFC, after meal ciggies (apparently in Birmingham they are shared about like After Eight mints) and a trip into the city centre. They are shocked at the great number of homeless people shacking up in cardboard boxes or selling the Big Issue. When they question this, the husband merely states that although we are a rich country, some people are still very very poor and can’t afford to live in houses. It seems the family and the crew seem cautious not to tell the islanders the real reasons of homelessness: drug addiction, broken homes, domestic abuse. It’s all glossed over, perhaps in a bid to prevent over exertion on the Tannese’s part. Regardless, the men presume that our society has no interest in the welfare of its poor, and it is a sight which they never forget and tell to their people back at home, the shortcomings of the English.

On their final journey they head to Northumberland to stay with Sir Something-or-rather in Chillingham Castle. Because, you know those crazy aristocrats! They all live in dirty great castles in the middle of nowhere with only their vintage musket collection for company. The islanders follow Sir Bobby-Pin or whatever his name was around the stone mansion in horrified silence. Mounted animal heads, weapons and torture devices adorn the walls like a personal homage to Marquis Du Sade.

Sir Snuffle-Nose teaches the ambassadors the all important rules of fine dining and etiquette, and they stare in bafflement as they are instructed to use the stabby and pokey eating tools ‘from the outside in.’ These displays are indeed ludicrous, but the men listen and respect the rules because they are long standing tradition, something the Tannese deeply honour within their culture. Later they witness fox hunting, or should that be in sarcastic inverted quotes ‘fox hunting’ which involves chasing a quad bike instead of small ginger animal. The islanders are curious to know why this tradition in carried on in such an odd manner, a waste of time to some.

Before their departure, the ambassadors perform the native dance as they showed the previous communities they visited, except this time it’s part of an upper class black tie dinner. You think to yourself, oh, this is going to be awkward, if the middle-classers stood around nervously chewing their mouths, the poshos will be much worse. Rather refreshingly, the chanting commenced and the aristocrats were up and dancing along to the beat, and enjoying it too. Their host gave a heartfelt speech this time. No patronising, no humouring the islanders; but a sincere thanking of the people who travelled so far to come and dance in their stone halls.

After a special visit in England, the ambassadors return home greeted by a wave of grass skirts, singing and dancing. As inventive and insightful as the documentary had been, I couldn’t help thinking Tanna was represented like a colour book of what native people should be like. Happy, plump brown skinned people in straw houses and beautiful tropical landscapes. The Tannese are never homeless, they care for each other, look after their animals and there is never any crime. Perhaps the Tannese choose to skim over the unfavourable details, maybe they see their world without flaws. Perhaps they really are the happiest people in the world.

The crowded island

There's just too many men, too many people making too many problems and everyone hates each other. I may be paraphrasing Genesis's anti-Thatcherite song 'Land of Confusion', but I find no other way to say, there is just too many fecking people on this island.

I live just outside of a former industrial town in essex which remained generally unoticied for decades until the London overspill, an airport and a snobby outlet village lured in the masses. Anytime of the day the roads are congested, and I, the eternal pedestrian avoid near death on a daily basis by dodging the frustrated drivers. Is it just me or is everyone behind the wheel betting on who can run over my legs in the shortest time? Since when is it ok for drivers to hurtle down a road then suddenly blast their horn at a unsuspecting pedestrian who was crossing at a clearing?

We are told humans are social beings, we crave social surroundings, we must exist around other existence otherwise what's the point of existing? Am I some social outcast because I like to have space and quiet by myself? Whoever says they enjoy the elbow jamming and obnoxious shoving in nightclubs is either a liar or an idiot. A young Amish girl commented on the crowds of London in a recent Channel Four documentary, "I notice that one out of three (communters)have headsets on, isolating themselves. It's kind of amazing how you can be in such a big crowd and be totally isolated."

I can't even walk into town without being bundled by a herd of old grannies. As painfully inhumane to even mention, old people just don't die anymore. They are on calorie controlled and heart disease busting diets, pepped up with supplements for every dodgey bone and ligament, and although they are hobbling about like extras from Dawn of the Dead and quality of life has rapidly decreased, hey, at least they are alive! I'm not suggesting that everyone go to the old folks home and smother great aunt Doris, just be aware of who is really clogging up the earth. And causing all that extra methane in the atmosphere. Its not the cows.

But the real cause of overpopulation is startingly obvious: reproduction at an excessive level. For some reason these days just having one of something isn't enough. People have to have more than one car, people are not satisfied with owning just one fat smelly labrador, they have to collect at least three, like gargantuan Pound Puppies, and people have to have more than one child to make a family.

Urgh, I see babies and children everywhere I go, all dribbling and gawping, and peppering every toilet, shop and street with sweet wrappers. For someone who has a general bewilderment and/or fear towards these small creatures, I seem to have landed myself a temporary job that demands constant involvement with children and their tiny acrid feet. Millions of them plunder into the shop. Flustered parents block walkways with giant buggys, causing kids and shop assistant alike to perform a rather clumsy dance along the floor. Children run around the shop picking up shoes and helpfully dropping them elsewhere. I get whacked on the head by a set of keys given to a baby while he or she is repeatedly kicking in my general direction whilst I strap a foot down. Its like trying to measure a very angry, very alive eel. The end of the day the assistants are lying unconscious on the ground blanketed in shoes and sweet wrappers.

The trouble is, there are just too many children in the world, or indeed in the UK. Britain's sides are bulging with the whining devils, they render every simple joy renderless. I can't go to a toy museum or see a Disney movie at the cinema without the sheer irritation of a child's incessant cry. Perhaps I'm going to the wrong places.

I think for Britain we must invest in an idea brought forward by Karl Pilkington, the 'round-headed bufoon' of The Ricky Gervais Podcast. He notes that the overpopulation dilemma could be solved if everyone could go through single procreation i.e we all live until 78 and when we die we subsquentally give birth to a baby, and the cycle continues in a strict, unmessy fashion without fear of using up all our resources and damaging the earth in one big hit. Brilliant idea, and I hope scientists make an advance on this. For me, its either reincarnated pod people, or moving to Canada.

The Tennanite age of irritation

I've been on a Doctor Who marathon, possibly the greatest time waster to repeatedly watch episode after episode, box set after boxset, but this now means I've somewhat an expert of the revamped series, in particular the Tennant age. However fantastic and lovable Tennant is, and even though he was become some sort of national treasure thanks to Doctor Who, there are some rather annoying aspects to series two to four.

Doctor smart-arsery

As noted by TV critic Charlie Brooker, Tennant's doctor is a bit of a smug know-it-all, and so he should be too seeing as he is a timelord and all. But his infuriating constant dribble of enlongated words and exclaimations, 'Oh, it's space!' leaves the assistants, Rose in particular with their brains oozing out thier skulls.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry'

Right, stop there. Please stop saying sorry to everyone you meet, how is that helping anyone on the brink of death, enemy or otherwise? 'I'm so sorry you are dying' 'Oh it's ok Doctor,' says a humanoid in the process of gooeyfication 'I feel much better now you said that!'

Kill them while you can!

On a similar point, stop the whole reptance nonsense. Stop giving people second chances or trying to negioate/hug/kiss a dalek. Don't you remember what they did to your planet? Your enemies wouldn't waste a second in killing you once your back is turned, so what's all this softie forgiveness crap? I seem to recall in Tennant's first appearance as the Doctor he said 'No second chances.'

The idolisation of Rose Tyler

The doctor and Rose had this wierd, totally unconvincing romantic relationship which seemed to delight the modern audience, however I found it too soppy for my taste. Soppiness without the snogging and midnight fumblings, like watching Twilight. When old blondie got pulled into the paralel world, suddenly she became some legendary woman which no assistant could ever live up to again. She was the Rebecca (a Du Maurier reference!) to Martha's role as new and supposedly inferior wifey. When Rose comes back in series four the legend crumbles. Somehow her face is more contorted than I remember, and her accent is flirting between recieved pronounciation and that of an East London returning from a trip to the orthodontist.

Diabolical doubles

Yes, ok its perfectly acceptable in the world of DW to use the same actors for a number of roles, but its so bleeding obvious who they are, I feel the magic is lost a little. Oh, there's that girl who got killed by the Cybermen, she looks the spitting image of Martha, but no, she's a cousin...ooh clever! Ah and there is Chinese bug girl Chantho in Turn Left looking and sounding pretty much the same despite not being blue. And Amy must have had a great great great great great great great aunt in Pompeii because that soothsayer that keeps cropping up looks distinctly like her.

Continuity Error

The Doctor spent a whole scene in The Fires of Pompeii explaining to Donna that the Tardis translates nearby conversation for them and they in turn can speak said language without knowing it. And that if they try to speak the language themselves i.e dolce vita in ancient Italy, they end up speaking gobbledy gook. They seem to have forgotten this important element when the Doctor meets the Judoon in The Stolen Earth and speaks both English and Judoon right in front of the Tardis.

What did we talk about when Twilight wasn't around?

Ok, so I've succumbed...I'm writing a blog about Twilight. It's a painful decision to make, but rather than telling you all how much I love or loathe it, I'm going to moan about the people who do.

Everyone has an opinion on it, and I really don't. The people who bitch about it are contributing even more to the vortex of spinning commentary, criticism and fandom of the saga which is cropping up bloody everywhere. I'm convinced the over compensating waffle will eventually collapse on itself, creating a black hole for any credible journalism out there.

Sadly even my bitterly enraged hero of media, Charlie Brooker has given up hope and wrote a Twilight hating article for the Guardian website, I was sorely disappointed. It doesn't say much about yourself if you are a gabbling vampire obsessed cretin who thinks dead people, looking sour-faced and throwing yourself off cliffs is sexy, nor does it show any intellectual capacity if you are an adult spewing intense hatred at a franchise aimed at misfit teenage girls.

I've read the first two books and watched the complimentary books. I've seen the merchandise, the t shirts, the soundtracks, the sparkly 'Edward' dildo, and you know what my immediate response is? Meh. Just meh. I don't love it, I don't despise it, its a nothingness to me, its irrelevant to the rest of my film/book experience. I experience it then I move on. I don't really understand the whole hype myself, perhaps it's been a while since the whole vampire thing emerged again, maybe the last ulimate sex symbol for tweenagers was Donny Osmond, perhaps half the population has a blood fetish, who knows.

So please, if you are a Twi-lover, stop ramming it into peoples faces, the books are poorly written and as original as the fifieth film version of A Christmas Carol. Commentators, stop taking the intellectual highground and spreading your snobbery to those who enjoy the books and films, you are just as bad as each other, and may I suggest that you both try reading some Austen, she's pretty good you know.

Fluffy female viewings

It is me or has rom-coms, chick flicks and general fluffy films designed for the femail audience got dumber over the years? In 1995 we had Clueless, a surprisingly satirical stab at LA vapidity, and underneath its skin lies the bones of Jane Austen's vanity driven Emma. So the film works on all levels, teenagers can enjoy the hypnotic technicolour characters, and older viewers watch it knowing it's taking the piss out of materalistic American culture.

The 1990s was a successful era for rom coms, especially British productions like Four Weddings and Funeral and Notting Hill, but I really loved the kooky American films like Ten Things I hate About You, which was yet another teen comedy based on British canon Literature (Shakespeare's The Taming of the Shrew). It's true, these seemingly pulpy chick flicks owed their success to a backbone of timeless stories. Baz Luhrmann's Romeo and Juliet, a rather theatrical yet stylish and contemporary take on the well versed play made it a blockbuster hit.

Sadly today, movie makers have either run out of illuminating plotlines or simply want to mass produce a ton of flaky, predictable guffage to subdue the female audience. Blokey films went through a dumb stage in the late 1990s with American Pie, Scarey Movie and Dude Where's My Car? Ok so most comedy is dumb in some format, but none so much as the dopey school kid on a mission to shag anything that moves.

Thankfully the late noughties/early tennies...whatever you wish to call them brought about nerdy dudey films with the likes of Michael Sera, Seth Rogen and Jason Segel. Superbad, Fanboys, Pineapple Express - these are blokey films that don't reduce its male characters to dribbling, sexually deviant monkeys. Yes the men are stupid and immature but are also lovable and foolish little boys. It's a bit inaccurate to say these are totally blokey films, and unfair to say Forgetting Sarah Marshall and Juno appeals to girls only. Bless the person who burned all concept of 'dude' movies in this decade.

Unfortunately, pure chick-flickdom hasn't died yet...there are too many women still watching them! They are churned out at a rapid speed and repeat the whole tedious storyline again, and again and again! i.e successful single business woman gets into a spot of bother which can only be resolved by dumb hunky guy who reveals later on he's not so much of a tool, woman falls for him, yadda yadda pass the sick bucket etc. The whole hate transforming to love thing possibly came from the spiky relationship between Benedict and Beatrice in Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, although the constant rehashing of this makes me want to pummel my own brains out with the blunt end of a pencil.

Usually the rule of thumb is to never see a movie with Katherine Heigl, Sandra Bullock or Kate Hudson in it...and most importantly Matthew McConaughey who is possibly the most irritating actor of all time. I just don't understand how people get entertainment from these shameful acts of filmaking. I was even disappointed by both Sex and City movies. The series is slick and rather scathing towards men and aspects of modern sex and society, but the movies were one big porno for designer shoes, clothes and swanky resorts. as Charlie Brooker says when commenting on aspirational television (Dallas, The OC etc)instead of making us feel part of the fantasy world, we feel isolated by it. Why can't we have hot shot friends milling about after us and stupid sexy men grovelling at our feet? Then women feel the need to buy luxury items to be part of that aspiration. Fluffy hair, now fluffy brains.

Childrens' TV of the 90s

Here is a run down of just a few of my favourite television shows as a child. Some of them have come and gone without notice, others have lived on to legendary status with those of us in our mid to early twenties, hope you enjoy it!

Animals of Farthing Wood

This was a rather bleak cartoon of the 90s, but was immensely popular during its airing. Not just a drama about a bundle of cute cuddly creatures but a severly cruel stab about the realities of being a woodland creature; death, death and more death! Some scenes haunted me as a child, like the death of pheasant, who is so scared hiding from hunters she flies off and is instantly killed by gunshot. The series had a grim outlook on life, but it also had a degree of intelligence, it didn't patronize kids and showed the need for diplomacy and leadership in small societies a la Watership Down and Animal Farm. My favourite characters were Badger, a wise elderly creature and the weepy, clingy Mole who spent the majority of his journeys on top of Badger's head. Aesthetically, the cartoon stood out with its quality artistry and colourful landscapes, a feature which was slowly dying out as commissioners realised sketchy japanese imports were much cheaper to air on UK television.

Noah's Island

By the same people who made Animals of Farthing Wood, Noah's Island was similar in design and messages of teamwork and relationships, except with a much lighter tone. The Badger-Mole relationship was recreated with polar bear Noah and Sacha, a Russian Desman (type of mole) who perched on Noah's head, ending each sentence with 'ski!' much to the other animals' annoyance. Unlike Farthing Wood where each and every animal knew their place, Noah's Island was comprised of a mix of exotic animals, all striving to be of great importance on the island. The series was amusing, thoughtful and poignant in parts, I miss it so!





The Moomins

This cartoon both mesmerised and terrified me as a kid. Strange plump hippo creatures living in a picturesque Nordic land. The cartoon series was developed by Dutch and Japanese companies which gives the series an odd blend of stylistics and cultural references. The stories include many Finnish folktales including the creepy Groke, a silent aubergine like monster which hovers plants and living things, killing them with its frost. One very irritating character was Little My, a small human girl adopted by the Moomins and although not intentionally scary, her horrible giant angry eyes haunt me to this day.

Power Rangers

The epitony of the 90s kid. Watching Power Rangers on CITV and trying to recreate battle scenes with friends. The bizarre ranking of colours, like a caste system for the infantile race meant as a child I fought tooth and claw to play the pink power ranger(the pretty one) or the yellow one (token ethnic female minority. For the lads, if you were not the red power ranger, or the ultimate white one (aka 'Tommy') you might as well live at the slimy end of the gene pool.





The Demon Headmaster

The story: an evil non human entity in the shape of a headmaster posesses pupils through the art of hypnosis do to his wicked bidding. The series had an overall Doctor Who-ishness where one minute the kids were normal happy gurgling urchins and the next, souless human husks. I never knew the exact reasoning for the headmaster's motives (take over the world one child at a time?) but his character was played with demonic perfection by Terrence Hardiman, possibly the most creepy looking man on British television. Years after the children's series, whenever I see Hardiman's expressionless face and cold pale eyes on TV I stagger back from the set, exclaiming 'Christ, it's him!'

Hey Arnold

Purely brilliant, and totally watchable even as a 22 year old. Set in a run down neighbourhood in New York, Arnold and the rest of his cartoon pals help solve dilemmas and personal problems of others within the tight knit community. Almost every minority is shown and the series deals with some adult issues such as immigration and depression. I loved the character of Helga, a blonde girl in a pink dress, but with the face, voice and soul of a rabid monkey. Helga is a girl with issues, shes in love with Arnold but is so scared of rejection she hides her feelings behind a constant explosion of abuse. Everytime Arnold is out of earshot, she grabs a heart shaped photo of him and whispers sweet nothings to it, heck the girl even has a shrine for Arnold hidden in her bedroom. I loved her because she's so easy to associate with, she doesn't act like a little girl should, shes mouthy, angry and resents her older sister for being a picture of perfection in her parents eyes. Hey Arnold is riveting stuff.





Come Outside

A delightful educational programme involving apple-faced Lynda Baron as cheery Aunt Mabel and her scruffy mutt Pippin. The duo go on mini adventures in a spotty aeroplane whilst learning at the same time! Ok so its stretching it a bit calling them 'adventures', 'Come Outside' is more like a school trip around the faltering, rather mundane side of British production. For example, Mabel and Pippin visit the Golden Wonder Crisp factory (gasp!), The Council is called out after Mabel spots a broken street lamp (wha?!) and a fruit salad is made, minus the apples (No way!). However the show is charming in a truely British way that celebrates drugery, only an English kid can get excited to find out how a teapot is made. A favourite episode of mine is 'Sewage', where predictably mabel and Pippin find out what happens to poo once it's been flushed away - cut to plump jolly lady strolling along in delight and awe within a shit infested sewer - only in Britain!

So many programmes worth a mention, but I doubt I will ever get this blog done if I continue to list every single show of my childhood! I hope it floods back oodles of nostalgia to those who read it.

Modern life is rubbish

Technology hates me, and this is a fact. When I'm around something remotely electronic, it fizzles out and dies without even a hint of an internal error. In the last three years I've broken three television sets, two computer monitors, two phones, two cameras (although I suspect a friend sat on one and didn't own up)and an ipod within three months of having it. It makes my life seem even more pathetic, that I'm so awful to be around even non senitent beings would rather top themselves that hang out with me.

Trouble is I love technology, my Ipod touch is the greatest possession I have. I can read emails, watch youtube, make to do lists, write poetry, navigate through the star system, look at a map, play a fuck load of games...oh and listen to music. I also love my pc and all those unproductive hours searching wiki for interesting articles or watching tv online. Everything can be done with such ease. Unfortunately, with ease comes a newly developed ignorance of basic human interaction.

I've been in correspondance with an investigation team and have done some voluntary research work for the team. Trouble is the 'manager' is a complete moron who despite sounding coherant on the telephone, cannot write for shit. Oh it just aggravates me to no end reading his poxy, idiot infested emails. It's a puddle of words, jumbled up, repeated, spewed out in bad grammar, lack of paragraphing and no punctuation except a full stop where a full stop has no right to be. The man thinks 'no' is the same as 'know'and I don't think I could ever trust a grown man who spells television as'telivision'. He also had the rudeness to reply to one of my subtle please-stop-writing-like-a-coma-patient emails by sending everything I wrote back, only inserting large angry capital lettering in between, insinuating (if I knows what that is) that I was the dumbass!

I don't like the way technology governs our lives. If someone my age doesn't get a text all day, they assume something awful has happened. I dislike having a phone a lot of the time, it means I never have an excuse to call back or have a day free of pestering relatives or sales calls. I hate how mobile phone adverts always show some poncy git in a blazer with a bumfluff beard being all 'social' because his phone has video messaging, twitter and facebook. It's like you are not allowed to walk out your house without being a networking whore. Are we so devoid of internal thought that we must never ever be alone? I just don't understand why people need Facebook on their mobile, I've known people who I've gone for a night out with, and no matter how brilliant or awful it was, they rush home to check their Facebook like a mother who's just realised they left their baby in a park.

I admit I use Facebook, and Twitter, and Livejournal, but only ever to connect with friends and gloat about my life. If you are at a party and you update 'lol I'm at a party, and it's fucking nuts!' you are probably the one standing alone in a corner or checking out your rubbish hair in the mirror.

I'm not a big fan of Satelite TV. Unfortunately as is the case anywhere you look, he more choice you are given, the more faff you have the wade through. Sky TV is brilliant if you enjoy watching endless repeats of American TV or excessively dull reality TV and documentaries. Or maybe just watching roulette wheels go round and round, or chubby dog-eared lap dancers' bottoms go round and round, whatever flots your proverbial boat. As mentioned in my previous moan, English television is a bore, but sometimes the boringness of a show i.e Big Brother is so boring it sucks you in, like when you stick your foot under the hot tap and eventually it feels cold.

Technology is wonderful, the internet in particular. It lets irritating, grumpy people like me go on and go about their thoughts, much to the pleasure of their audience and what can be wrong with that?

Going Postal

As part of an ongoing Pratchett Project, Sky One presented a live action television series of Terry Pratchett's 'Going Postal'. Previous Discworld stories that were retold in crisp high definition movies were 'Hogfather' and 'The Colour of Magic' but somehow they didn't quite portray the subtle humour and rehashed satirical stabs at English culture featured heavily in Pratchett's written work.

Going Postal is the story of a young conman, Moist Von Lipwig who not only has the most ridiculous name in English literature but is one of the best fraudsters and pickpocketers in the Discworld. However his luck begins to run out as he is linked to a huge banking scam and ends his criminal life hanging on the end of a noose. This wasn't the end for Lipwig, who escapes just an inch of his life and is taken in by statesman Lord Vetinari who gives him the ultimate choice: death by deep pit, or save the Post Office. Lipwig not quite ready to give up on life takes the latter, but it takes more than a few preforated stamps to restore the post office in the city of Ankh-Morpork.

Lipwig is played by Richard Coyle who makes a welcome return to television after gaining recognition as the daft Welshman Jeff in Coupling over a decade ago. Coyle at 38 is perhaps a little too old to play Lipwig, but he carries the character off with great energy and vigour so in some shots you would mistake him as a twenty somthing. Other than the relatively unknown Claire Foy as spiky love rival Adorabelle Dearheart, the cast is a plethora of disguished English Actors; David Suchet as diabolical frontman of the clacks (Discworld instant messaging with lights and things) Charles Dance as Veternari and a surprising appearance by Andrew Sachs as crusty postman Mr Groats.

I can't pick fault with sets on the series, every detail of the streets of Ankh-Morpork are beautifully crafted. Sure, it doesn't look like a real town, but the point is to make it as quirky and reminscient of 'Ye Olde Englande' as much as possible. There is also a lack of special effects, only when absolutely necessary which is a relief to see. A favourite aspect of this mini series is the portrayal of the Golem. Taken straight out of Jewish folklore, the Golems are clay based humanoids who can be 'employed' to do work for people in the city, but they prove to be faithful, morally righteous creatures who don't mind doing a bit of hard work. Lipwig is watched by golem 'Pump 19' or 'Mister Pump' who protects him from death and makes sure he doesn't scarper under Veternari's orders. I really loved the look of the Golems in the series, a simple case of putting men in large bulky costumes and walking heavy footed around the city. Who needs CGI?

Despite the great cast and fantastic scenery of Going Postal, it just doesn't have the comedic effect of the novel itself. The writers with the help of Pratchett himself have portrayed the main plotline faithfully, but it made the adaptation more of a period drama than a satrical stab at our own mundane lives. In fact, forgetting the presence of the golems and the odd appearance of Ridcully from the Unseen University, you would forget that the story is set in the fantasy realm of Discworld. Perhaps without all the little in jokes the writers are trying to appeal to a larger audience, which is obvious enough but I felt there wasn't much of a nod to the fans, except a cameo of Mr Pratchett himself at the end.

The series, although only in two episodes was far too lengthy and didn't have enough backbone to make the second half in particular, a riveting affair. I think the problem is not in the acting, writing and directing, it's just one of those literary genres that isn't easy to show in a different medium. Comedy is a bugger to bounce from written word to dialogue so I will still take off my overly large crooked wizard hat to the makers of Going Postal.

Psychic Night

This was a feature that I wrote for January's edition of the Maldon and Burnham Standard, covering a psychic fair which was the first of its kind to be held.


Being in a room of psychics and spiritual healers would deter most people, but it takes a lot to scare me.

It’s all too easy to snub the work of clairvoyants, healers and alternative therapists as money making schemes.

We have seen the likes of Derek Acorah and Colin Fry, who have become celebrities in their own right, publishing autobiographies and how-to books and appearing in TV shows, but how are these spiritual therapists helping us improve our own lives?

I went to Afternoon for a Change event in Maldon's Town Hall which offered a number of relaxation workshops and demonstrations to help “ease body and mind“.

For a reasonably-priced £8 entry, you could get tarot card readings, massage, reiki healing and much much more, with all the proceeds going to Farleigh Hospice.

This was the first time Maldon has seen such an event take place, and organisers Wisdom 36 hope that the evening will be a success in years to come.

Jules Gibson, 44 of Little Baddow is a psychiatric nurse who deals with children with emotional problems. She spent three stressful weeks planning the event and explained why she got involved.

“Since being a qualified psychiatric nurse I've always seen how stress and emotional impact on the body are intrinsically linked,” she said.

Jules, who practices spiritual therapies, is also part of Buddhist Esoteric Meditation Centre in Little Baddow.

“I've always been interested in mediumship, clairvoyance, tarot card reading and meditation, it's always been a big part of my life.”

“London hospitals have now started employing people to be alternative therapists so I think there has been a massive shift in medicine.”

“We can have surgery and treatment, complimentary healing and therapies to help you get better quicker and it is well researched that if your mind and body are in harmony you heal much faster.”

Whether or not you believe in mediumship or holistic health, it seems to benefit many people dealing with emotional trauma.

Ruth Aiken from Mundon, who has been a medium for over 25 years, explained her reasons for becoming a professional clairvoyant.

“I've always been psychic ever since I was a child. What actually got me into professional mediumship was when my husband at the time died suddenly 27 years ago,” she said.

“I had a lot of phenomena happening at that point, so I went to a medium myself to see what was going on, he told me that I would be working as a medium as well, I thought I don't think so, but lo and behold.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way, it's not an easy job to do but you get so much reward from it and helping people through tough times.”


Amelia Altuna, a masseuse from Angel Cottage Holistic, a small family run therapy centre in Chelmsford believes the physical nature of her job helps people with emotional and spiritual blockages.

“There is a satisfaction in helping people, it's non invasive and extremely beneficial to helping the body to get back to a natural state. It also has spiritual functions too,” she said.

Jules believes events like Maldon‘s Afternoon for a Change will help people lead healthier lives, both physically and mentally.

“I think it benefits everyone, no matter if you just want to wander around and have a chat, whether you want massage or meditation that you've always wanted to try but been a bit too scared,” she said.

“You are giving money to charity and have to option to try lots of different things. It's a big win win for everyone.”


Nerissa’s Verdict

I’ve been known to dabble with tarot cards, Buddhist meditation and psychic workshops, but I still remain slightly sceptical about a stranger having the ability to relieve my emotion and stress in a matter of minutes, but I remained open minded nonetheless.

As soon as I walked through the door, Sam Whitwell, a chakra healer from Little Waltham approached me with a pack of cards. I picked one out which read 'follow your true feelings', which seemed a little too vague to hold any meaning for me. Sam offered me a chakra healing, which I happily accepted. She sat me down on a chair and placed her hands a few inches above my head and shoulders.
Admittedly I found it difficult to switch off with the noise and bustle of the room, but after about five minutes I began to feel incredibly relaxed and like my head was floating away from my body. When the session was over, Sam told me I had a lot of activity around my head, no surprise there! And that the spirits “wanted to open me up”. She also told me that I jolted when her hands were near the heart chakra, meaning I had a lot of emotional issues to deal with. Spiritual messages aside, the therapy did make me feel so relaxed that I had trouble keeping my balance as I got up and walked around the room!

The tarot card reading, held by Ruth Aitken was very enlightening. As soon as I sat down, she told me she could see my grandfather next to me, which obviously made me smile. She picked up on a lot of current issues, including my prospects of travelling and publishing a book. This is perhaps not such a revelation, being a journalist after all, but it was quite comforting to be told that my plans for the future will work out as well as I hoped.

My favourite artists of all time

Inspired by the latest Doctor Who episode which featured non other than Vincent Van Gogh, I have decided to share with you my favourite artists of all time and how they have made a great influence on my own work.




William Blake

To some a visionary, to others a over zealous spiritualist, Blake was an early Romanticist who spread his talent over three mediums: painting, poetry and printing. Blake carried a strong, almost anarchic voice throughout his work, a voice disgusted with sexual inequality, slavery and rigid social structures of the time, such as marriage, class and education. Despite Blake's modern outspokeness, he was a devout Christian and his archaic depiction of angels, demons and figures from the Bible reappear again and again in his work. Aesthetically, Blake had an extraordinary talent in watercolours and was able to depict dramatic scenes with body, texture and rhythm in this difficult medium usually associated with the realism movements. Blake's early life as an engraver lent to a blending of mediums, using his engravings to illustrate beautiful hand written copies of his poetry. Perhaps a favourite painting of his has to be 'Pity', and ink and watercolour epic which portrays an angelic rider galloping across a midnight sky, scooping up a baby from his dead mother lying on the ground. The stark contrast of inky blue sky and the luminous bodies show a overwhelming sense of sorrow and mysticism.



Vincent Van Gogh

As mentioned before, Van Gogh is another inspiration of mine, and yet another mad man added to the list. Sadly Van Gogh exists more of a name than a credible artist these days. Recently the press have been filled with new stories of Van Gogh's ear incident, proclaiming that it was Paul Gaugin, fellow artist who cut off said ear in a fight. This of course has little to do with Van Gogh's talents, which should exist on their own. Van Gogh experimented with compositon and technique, but I feel his earlier work inlcuding his Japanese wood prints were too forced and fashionable to create any resonance. 1888 was Van Gogh's penultimate year. An array of quickly created pieces, with looser compositions, heavy textured brushwork and vivid hues lent himself to become the most easily recognised painter of our times. Van Gogh was able to portray the bleakest, most depressing and mundane of scenes such as 'Still Life in Absinthe' and 'At Eternity's Gate'but also create spectacular, beautifully joyous impressions like 'The Starry Night' and 'Road with Cypress and Star' - landscapes turned fantasmagophical through the eyes of manic.



Wassily Kandinsky

I have had the pleasure to see Kandinsky's paintings in the flesh at Tate Modern and they certainly don't disappoint. Russian born Kandinsky formed an alliance other expressionists from Germany to create 'Der Blaue Reiter' (The Blue Rider)group which focused on presenting spiritual truths in their work. The group disbanded following the outbreak of World War I but Kandinksy continued to paint, concentrating now on abstract pieces. Kandinsky named the grandfather of abstract was inspired by music to create large canvases of clashing colour, shapes and squiggles which from afar look improvised, but at closer viewing you can see every shape was perfectly outlined to make this visible ochestra of colour. The childish, simple military theme of'Cossacks' and the complex blendings in 'Composition VII' Show Kandinsky as an experimental artist never afraid of modernity.



Franz Marc

Possibly my favourite artist of all time, Franz Marc's work has inspired my style unlike no other. Marc was another member of Kandinsky's 'Der Blaue Reiter' group and went on to paint some of the most iconic canvasses of the early Expressionism movement. Marc was obsessed with animals and their pure energies and was notable for painting in thick primary colours, limiting his palette to only the necessary colours of life. Blue was the most spiritual colours of all for Marc, and he usually limited this precious colour to the masculine strength of horses, which are predominant in his work. Likewise, it's contrasting colour yellow, was a symbol of spiritual femininity. 'Yellow Cow' painted in 1911 supposedly depicts Marc's joyous matrimony to Maria Franck. Marc's life came to a sudden end with the approach of the First World War. He was labelled a degenerate artist by the Nazis and many of his works were taken from museums in Germany. In 1916 Marc was one of the first Germans to be killed at the Battle of Verdun in France. Perhaps Marc's most poignant pieces is 'Fate of the Animals'painted in 1913 which depicts a number of animals caught in a cataclymsic rush of energies. Marc saw himself saw this piece as a fore-telling of the great war, 'It)is like a premonition of this war - horrible and shattering. I can hardly conceive that I painted it.'

There are so many more artists who I sadly do not have time to mention, but I consider these four the most prominent within my own work. For me the turn of the century, late 1800s, early 20th century was a pivotal moment for art. It was the beginning of modernity as society began to accept art as an expression rather than a two dimensional mirror of our lives. All these painters were revolutionaries in their own rights, and I hope in the future we can more artists who step up to the challenge.

Good tv, bad tv...

I don't understand reality TV, nor do I enjoy it, and believe me I have given it a try. I cannot think of a situation for harrowing than sitting in on a saturday night to watch a has been pop star struggle to force a kangaroo anus down his gullet. I know I'm not the first to say this, but UK television is at a definate low point, and its dragging us down.

Britain's Got Talent; on the exterior a warm, fuzzy hearted programme showcasing ordinary people and their party tricks, reminiscent of a Butlins holiday your grandma will remember. But this is hardly the case, a row of sneering self important C-list celebrities poke and prod their on stage victims, laughing relentlessly at the poor buggers who believed faithfully in their own miniscule talents. Is it their fault they delude themselves in the first place? I was appauled watching the footage of the first Susan Boyle performance, a relatively normal looking, slightly chubby lady walks on stage and immediately gets a bout of jeering and disgusted looks from both the audience and the sickening slimeball judges. Of course attitudes changed as soon as she opened her mouth, and everyone gave themselves a little slap on the wrist for assuming 'ugly' people can't sing, but that was not what upset me. What would have happened if she opened her mouth and the musical equivalent of lumpy blamange fell out? The jeering would have continued, people would shake their heads and call her deluded and pathetic, she would be buzzed off stage without a hint of optimism. I know what I find incredibly pathetic; the constant rehashing and pimping out of shows that should have been washed out last decade.

Sadly with the instant following created out of reality TV and it's considerably smaller budget, most of our dramas have sunk into oblivion. The BBC used to lovlingly create family dramas which were fun, whimiscal and perfectly sewn together. Snigger as much as you want, but the 1995 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was absolutely brilliant. Sure, a few sexy alterations were made (who's complaining?) but it consisted of a bright, talented cast in some beautiful surroundings. I was only a kid when I used to watch the show, but I loved it because it was a mirror image of my life as a squabbling sibling, only with fancy dresses and lengthy speeches. Although saying this, a decade later the BBC brought Dicken's Bleak House onto our screens; a long winded but complex drama which was faithful in almost every aspect.

Kids shows have changed too. When I was one of these dwarf people about a decade ago, television was magical. The Magicians house, The Queen's Nose,Bernards Watch, Carrie's War. Even the cartoons were sophiscated, like the cruel realism of Animals of Farthing Wood and the social dilemmas faced in Noah's Island. For those of you have never heard of it, it was about a polar bear called Noah who found himself along with a load of other animals shipwrecked on a mysterious island during a zoo transportation. The creatures of all shapes, sizes and intelligence have to survive on the island by diplomacy and team work, as organised by the reluctant leader, Noah. Basically it is Lost, except with animals and structured, credible storylines.

The only programme I truly look forward to watching these days is Doctor Who. The new season with Matt Smith has started off strongly and so far each episode has carried an exciting plot, fantastic backdrops (Venice, Van Gogh's France, civilisations within the core of Earth, war time England to name a few!)And a youthful cast (Matt Smith and Karen Gillan) who have proven themselves to not only fill the shoes of Tenant, but to out do most of the previous regenerations and thier assistants...or so I am told, I'm not a Doctor nerd.

Next time you turn on the television, do everyone a favour and switch over when Big Brother or Wife Swap are on. I believe good television is good for the soul, and I think we need a bit of optimism and positive aspiration in our lives.

Don't go travelling without your towel!

"Time is an illusion, lunch time doubley so." - the immortal words of Betelgeusian Ford Prefect.

Yes it's towel day, the world wide celebration of The Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy and rememberance of it's creator, Douglas Adams who passed away on May 11, 2001. A day when self proclaimed nerds can show their love of Adam's stories which have spanned radio, books and television for the last thirty years. I am myself wearing a towel over my shoulder, and true to Adam's words it has been more than useful over the day.

I was first introduced to Douglas Adams when I began playing Starship Titanic twelve years ago. I loved the quirky oddball humour of the game, it had the large budget and graphics of an epic American video game, but it certainly didn't take itself seriously. I began reading the Hitchiker books when I was fourteen. Although my parents revelled in the television show, I was unaware of the kind of impact these stories made on the nation.

It's the pure, unglamourised Britishness that makes Hitchikers so accessible to it's English audience. We can all relate to despondant Arthur Dent, a man who simply wished to potter around his little house who ends up travelling the lengths of the galaxy in his dressing gown. He fumbles along in these adventures, pausing to gawp wide mouthed at life's little annoyances (i.e the world being destroyed) protesting to have a little lie down when things get tough and the ever lasting search for a good cup of tea.

Adams was famous for his style of improvised writing. His fluency and unique flair for combining the genres of comedy and sci-fi made his books an engaging read for the teenage me. However Adams who was well reknowned for writer's block and procrastination, "I love deadline, I love the whoosing sound they make as the fly by." The last books of the series; "So Long and Thanks for all the Fish" and "Mostly Harmless" did not reach critical acclaim and were based sketchy subplots of his creations from the previous series, although Arthur and his hapless friends are given their final curtain call.

In 1981 the BBC broadcast a television series of HHGG which thanks to a brilliant casting (I'm convinced Simon Jones really is Arthur Dent) and some fantastic hand made illustrations disguised as computer graphics, it is a very faithful adaptation of the story. The choice to use American "squeaky-tonsils" Sandra Dickinson was a brave one, seeing as Trillian was originally an "arabic looking" astrophysicist from England, but I wouldn't want to argue with Adams's decision.

The Hitchikers Guide to the Galaxy epitomises what it is to be British: eccentricity, an overwhelming desire to drink a good cup of tea, being overwhelmingly startled at change but giving small responses like "Oh dear." HHGG philosophises about our very existence, how insignificant and mundane our lives are, but how wonderfully funny they are. Adams was never afraid to stare into the seemingly bleakness of life and laugh. There might not be a god, there might not be any rime or reason why some of us get shitty jobs, repulsive family members or get our houses crushed by a demolition squad, but we might as well have a giggle. Happy Towel Day!

Hello I'm me, who the hell are you?

Perception is one thing, all us as conscious beings cannot escape. Not to say that some people haven't tried.

To us normal blimps of existence, the famous are there for one gastronomical reason, for us to judge, prod and poke them until they don't look like us anymore but a group of plastic aliens that descend to earth for a while until we get bored of them.

I've been intrigued by the personality created around Jim Morrison, in fact I'm not at all sure that such a person ever existed. It's like every fan, critic or friend own a small piece of a jigsaw and squeeze them all together to make the paradoxical Frankenstein that is Morrison. He's either a sex symbol or a melancholic poet, a menace to society or an icon of revolution, a philandering bastard or a vulnerable young man. Morrison himself created an enigma around his past life, declaring his parents dead and that he was traumatised by a horrific car accident witnessed at the age of four. It turned out that his parents were very much alive (but estranged from their son and his bohemian lifstyle) and that alledgedly the accident involved no fatalities, just an old Pueblo man crying on the side of the road. But why do people care if these stories were true or not? why do I care? It's the strange insatiable desire we all have to figure out these percieved gods.

Another perception gripped strongly by the public is that of Sylvia Plath and her husband Ted Hughes. Plath remains an enigma too, a young talented and beautiful woman who is bizarrely obsessed with death. Hughes adultery was blamed for Plath's suicide, although it is forgotton that Plath was suicidal from her early years as a teenager. We like paint a picture of the shy, vulnerable women being abused and abandoned by the tyranneous Hughes, it's easy for us to understand, easy to create a victim and a bully. During her lifetime Plath fought against perceptions placed on her. In 1954 after intensive electroshock treatments, Plath bleached her hair blonde and made a name for herself at Harvard, winning poetry prizes and exceeding in her studies. Plath said she wanted to make a 'new persona' for herself, although clearly she did not rid herself of all her demons.

Modern celebrities, as we all know are created entirely on perception than any recognition of their art. A pop star is not just a singer, they are an image perfectly honed (and sometimes destroyed) for the viewing pleasure of the public. It's interesting to see how the tide turns for some celebrities. Seven years ago Cheryl Cole was the arrogant foul mouthed member of a girl band who racially attacked a black woman in a restuarant. But after her husband's adultery in 2008 Cole was thrust into tv shows, adverts, her own successful solo career because she was now a 'nice northern lass' Her public image took a U-turn so much so that she won 'Most Inspirational Woman of the Decade.' Heck. The same couldn't be said for pop road-kill Britney Spears who continues to grapple to the top of her failed career but slides back down again. It's inevitable that once Spears pops her clogs she won't be the pot bellied red-neck mad woman but a poor desolate girl who was pushed to become the best by all those around her then laughed at on her way downwards like a circus freak show by all of you, you bastards!

I could go into the whole 'celebrity culture compensating for structural religion debate' but it's obvious to everyone. Let's just say that judgement is what we all do best, as soon as we learn to speak we are saying what we like and don't like, we love examining others, doing a bit of pop psychology on them because we all know somewhere in the world someone is doing that to us as well.

Milking our ovaries: Womb envy in folklore

Fairytales have not always been the fluffy Disney-esque stories we read to our children at night, once upon a time they were unpleasant stories of rivalry, jealousy and an incredible amount of violence and debauchery.

When I was a child fairytales bored me, they were flat, meaningless stories that preached crusty morals about being do-gooder females. Our revolting folklore tales were cleaned up by 18th century storyteller Charles Perrault in order to entertain French aristocrats who were so gentille the mere mention of blood or copulation would make a lady keel over. In turn the Brothers Grimm took many of Perrault's adaptations and a handful of German folklore and mashed them up into a bright ball of fluffiness.

Sadly these tales stripped of thier crude motifs lose a lot of their intial meaning. Freud may have coined the phrase 'penis envy', but looking back at the attitudes towards women in these old tales its easier to believe that men have been(and perhaps still are)scared, envious, intriguded and fearful of the power of the womb.

Bruno Bettlehein explored how fairytales become symbolic of children growing into adults. Every single heroine in the fairytales of the Western world are pretty industrious girls no older than 13. Snow White, Little Red Riding Hood, Rapunzel were all supposed to be girls reaching menstruation, and with menstruation comes the ability to bear children. Of course these girls never follow a smooth course to a happy ending, they are obstructed by people jealous or frightened by their developing sexuality, namely old crones or promsicious men. Little Red Riding Hood is the obvious example, a girl who conspiciously wears the colour of menstruation whilst wandering around a wood completely alone save for the ravenous male wolf whos enticed by the sight and smell of this young woman. Bettlehein suggests the absence of parents in these tales plays upon a bildungsroman theme, that by removing guardians (or making them utterly useless) it shows how young women must make their own decisions in life.

There is however a recurring theme of parental neligicance in womb envy, being incestuous fathers. In The Bear by Giambattisa Basile a king seeks out a new wife after being widowed, and looks towards his own daughter as his bride. He keeps her locked within the castle and her only escape is by wearing a bearskin (or donkey, or goatskin depending on the variations)to avoid having sex with her father. The entrapment of the pubescent daughter shows the father is aware of the girl's sexuality, sees it as a threat to his own power as a man so he decides to keep her for himself.

Basile also recorded the earliest version of the sleeping beauty story, named Sun Moon and Talia. The father is distressed when the heroine, Talia pricks her finger on the spindle, the spindle being a phallic symbol and the blood drawn from Talia showing a loss of innocence. The King presumes she is dead and sends her body to a country estate to never be seen again. However another king finds Talia in the estate, and not being able to wake her, decides to rape her in her sleep. What a lovely tale to tell the kids! Talia gives birth, still comatose to twins who wake her up by sucking the poision out of her finger. The princess's deep sleep marks her period into sexual maturity, the rape is an act of dominance and power of the male upon a dormant womb. When Talia wakes up and seeks out the king who violated her, she comes across his evil wife who also shows womb envy because after years of marriage she remains barren while Talia gives birth to twins in her sleep.

It's interesting to note in The Grimm's 'cleaned up' version of the tale, the young girl in her comatose state is made unttainable by being placed in the top room of a tower surrounded by a thicket of thorns. The thicket is a protective barrier against the girl's virginity that only the most virtuous of men can enter . In a more literal interpretation, the thicket is the virgin's freshly grown pubic hair which acts as the gateway to a princess's womb.

Our fairytales were not born out of social niceities as we know them today. It wasn't about morals and karmic outcomes for do-gooders, they were tales about humanity. Jealousy, anger, betrayal, courage, friendship, family roles and restraints. They were about real people in bizarre fantasy landscapes which mean to tell us more about human behaviour than what we should or shouldn't do. Sexuality is the greatest motivaton in the human psyche, and to those male storytellers all those years ago, the womb and feminine sexuality was an admirable mysterious and unattainable quality. Sex is all about the hidden, fetishes are fetishes because we don't understand them, they are secrets. In folklore the womb is a secret and all men want to know.

Drawing the Curtains: Frusciante's life through the albums Part Three

Next follows A Sphere in the Heart of Silence, which was released in November of the same year and is one of Frusciante's albums which closely resembles his first recordings over a decade ago. The album is a joint effort with multi-faceted musician Josh Klinghoffer whose childlike high pitched vocals lends a ethereal quality to the album's melancholia. The album contains only seven tracks at an average of five minutes each which is a bold move even for an experimental artist like Frusciante.
The album is deeply electronica influenced with synthesisers and electronic drums as primary instruments. Frusciante returns to his trademark caterwailing from Niandra in "Walls" blended with heavy electronic beats in a somewhat painful track you wouldn't want to be seen listening to unless people already find you disturbing. "Afterglow" is arguably the most inspiring track on the album, finding a perfect balance between a fast paced dance backing and haunting vocals. "Shadows casting bodies, who knows which way things will go?" Frusciante's take on electronica is undoubtedly fresh and complexing for the listener but I feel the man works best when he keeps his music raw and untampered.

Curtains is the final quick release album of 2004, and rather aptly named too. Frusciante seems to have pulled himself from the depressive Sphere in the Heart of Silence towards a more acoustic orientated album. "The Past Recedes" is a predictable, soft centred track that is a little too perfect sounding for a Froo fan like myself. An official video for The Past Recedes was created, but it is a rather uninspiring piece where cameras pointlessly follow Frusciante round his boring LA house doing boring things like getting out of bed, eating a rissole and taking a nap. Watch out for some exciting shots of his kitchen sink and try not to hyperventilate! Joking aside the album is a massive improvement from "Sphere" and illustrates in finer detail how simplicity and unrefined peformances of songs leads to a purer and enjoyable sound. A clear example is "Ascension" which in no way is perfect (Frusciante's count up to the song is heard and the acoustics of the room are tinny) but it is a warm, bittersweet and spontaneous song that shows seems to wrap up the whole message of the album, that the deeply flawed side of humanity is the purest inspiration.

Although the six month album stint ceased here, it certainly wasn't the end of Frusciante's solo efforts. January 2009 saw the release of The Empyrean, a musical masterpiece to start the end of a decade. The record has been named a concept album by Frusciante himself, but it perhaps more subtle in its storyline than the more famous examples from prog rockers Pink Floyd and Genesis. The Empyrean is supposidely the story of two characters existing within a man's mind throughout his lifetime. It's not quite clear how this conclusion is met simply by listening to the album, like previous works of Frusciante his songs express a plethora of atmosphere without any tangible meaning. It's probably why his work remains so compelling.
The Empyrean literally means the highest point in heaven, and backed up by a string quartet and a handful of prominent musicians (Flea, Josh Klinghoffer and Johnny Marr from the Smiths) the album develops a celestial silky smooth weightlessness to Frusciante's sound.
Frusciante's cover of Tim Buckley's "Song to the Siren" is a beautiful rendition and although it doesn't quite capture the intimacy and grief of the original, Frusciante makes it his own. It is an apt song for Frusciante who like Buckley was plunged into heroin addiction and it's references to Greek mythology link nicely with the Milton/Blake-esque theme of the album.
"Unreachable" is a quietly spectacular song and a pivotal scene in the story of The Empyrean. the protagonist wakes from the lull of "The Siren" and realises he is disconnected from everyone in the world. In "God" we see Fruscinate playing the role of the big man himself, explaining to the protagonist why he even creates life in the first place and not to give up just yet.
"So each day would be new I build you to sleep. That's the idea of dying but you'll just have to see." Of all of Frusciante's works, "God" a melodic feathery piece is the artist's own reconcilication with spirituality after a destroyed youth.
"Central" at 7.16 minutes long is the most lengthy and powerful song in the album, illustrating the protagonist's sudden desire to rid himself of apathy and fear to progress to his own Empyrean.

Essentially The Empyrean is a story of personal enlightenment, attaining heights that seemed impossible at one point. Being comfortable with your own existence and not denying yourself to life. Frusciante's style in The Empyrean is refined without an obsession over perfection. Vocals are distorted and instruments experimentented with but the album has a solid backbone which stretches his style into the sublime. Indeed it's Frusciante's greatest effort as of yet.

From the Shadows: John Frusciante's life through the albums Part Two

By 2004 Frusciante reached his musical peak, but it certainly wasn't the end of the road. Years after rehab and dental surgery Frusicante was ganing confidence in his talents and of all albums, Shadows Collide with People was the one that gave recognition of his songwriting talents, briefly glimpsed at in previous records. The flurry of guitar chords and electronic stratching in "Carvel" builds up to reveal Frusciante's voice has drastically improved since Niandres. The man hits high and low notes with ease, growls and roars the lyrics and is complimented by a high scaling pop sound. If I had one word to describe this album it would be "healthy". Frusciante is still concerned with his own journey and his climb back into normality, but the album gives us a sense he already climbed that steep slope. Shadows is a deeply honest, profound yet beautifully mellow record from a man who has been given a second chance for life.

Despite the success of Shadows, it was an incredibly costly and time consuming album to produce. Frusciante then decided he would go against the grain of pop album recording to write, produce and perform on six consecutive albums over six months. the idea would be that he would create a sound that was raw, minimal and spontaneous. The Will to Death was the first of these six albums and personally a very high scorer in my books. Unlike Shadows every song is stripped down to it's fundamental core. No backing vocals, no layering of sounds.Just Frusciante and his friend Josh Klingoffer performing on a maximum of two takes for each song. The nakedness of the album gives a strange ethereal quality to every song, the lack of 'noise' means Frusciante's voice is shown to have matured and developed so much that it could carry the whole album by itself, and indeed listening to the vocals through one ear phone proves my theory. The short, slightly angsty "The Loop" is the birthplace of Frusciante's strange and paradoxical lyrics enterwined with built up vocals and guitar. Somehow it works. My favourite song of all of Frusciante's back catalogue is on this album, "The Days Have Turned." Turn it up high on your headphones at 2 in the morning and you might just get a glimpse of the quiet yet beautiful melancholia of the song.

Skipping the Ataxia albums (Frusciante and Klingoffer's sporadic band) we reach Inside of Emptiness released in October of the same year. Frusciante's sound hasn't changed much from The Will to Death, even the album is packaged in the same textured cardboard and eerie front cover. The album lacks the entertainment factor of Shadows and the innovation behind The Will to Death but each song has its own uniqueness and style. "A Firm Kick" is a pivotal song on the track list. It begins as a simple acoustic song, focused on his past regrets and misgivings (as many Froo tracks on the album do) but halfway in appears some poignant lyrics doubled with a beautiful electronic messy noise.

"I will play some light from the sun
The world by my side
I will see down as a forlorn maiden in the sky
And I will play a song of thunder you may recognize
You make a never
Thats forever
Knowing what you deny."

Frusicante has that special talent of making his music accessible and dare I say it, comforting in a way an audience can understand emotionally, but not figuratively. His lyrics are vague and whimsical, by not saying a lot, they somehow paint a masterpiece in the mind's eye.A Firm Kick is like a static white staircase ascending into the clouds then crashing down suddenly at your feet. It's a peculiar, mesmerising album, definitely worth a number of listens.

New York Kid to LA prodigy: John Frusciante's life through the albums

John Frusciante remains much of an enigma in the UK. Many people will know him as the guitarist from Red Hot Chili Peppers and being the man responsible for the rise and rise (the fall being his departure in 1992)of the band's popularity, but little know him as the well established solo artist that have many American RHCP followers into Froo fans, as I like to call them.

Frusciante's first solo album, Niandra Lades and Usually Just a T-Shirt in 1994 wasn't the success many budding Froo fans expected to hear. Excessive drug taking and the overwhelming nature of sudden fame meant Frusciante, who was only 18 when he joined the band became disillusioned by the successes he achieved. Niandra Lades is a painful record to listen to. It almost feels intrusive to listen to Frusciante's wailing nonsensical words over his beautiful yet deeply melancholic guitar riffs, like rubbernecking at a roadside accident. Prominent songs on the album include "Mascara", which begins with with a methodical rhythm but slowly uncoils into a confused tangle of lyrics and melodies not unlike Fruscinate's own life unravelling at the seams. The creatively named "Your Pussy's Glued to a Building on Fire" with it's simplicist melody showcases more of Frusciante's powerful vocal talents which are ever more present in his later albums.

Niandra Lades was an album about a lifestyle choice gone wrong, a man on the brink of death. Luckily Frusciante managed to pull himself out of a serious heroin addiction, reunite with RCHP bandmates and release his solo debut From the Sounds Inside in 2001. The album which was free to download from his website meant Frusciante was reconnecting with fans after the alienation caused by Niandra Lades and second album Smile from the Streets you hold.

In the same year he released his third offical album, To Record Only Water for Ten Days which was astoundingly different from any previous releases. My strange habit of keeping labels on my albums tells me that I bought it for £16.99, a ludicrous amount of money for a CD, but that was the early noughties before anyone even heard of downloads. To Record is an album deeply influenced by synth pop and electronica as Frusciante experiments with a more concentrated and controlled sound. "Going Inside" is a fantastic kick off for album which illustrates to the listener Frusciante's need to take perspective of the past. The instrumental "Murderers" and "Ramparts" evoke a sense of eeriness through methodical synthsised drum beats but much of the album is very claustrophobic and dense with self absorption to listen to as a whole.

This concludes part one of my review of Frusciante's back catalogue, I will update with part two very shortly!

Ceremonies in the desert

“Long time ago
In the beginning
there were no white people in this world
there was nothing European.
And this world might have gone on like that
except for one thing:
witchery.”

Since reading Leslie Marmon Silko's Ceremony well over two years ago I've grown a fascination with New Mexico, USA. Even as the name suggests it has no individual identity, it's a state torn apart and sewn together with a plethora of conflicting races and nationalities.

Silko's novel written in 1977 tells the story of Tayo, a mixed race Pueblo man returning to Laguna, New Mexico after fighting in the second world war. Tayo is traumatised from his experiences, in particular the death of his cousin, Rocky who was fighting alongside him in the Philippines.

Tayo's desire to return to his homeland soon develops into a restlessness he cannot shake off. He and the other Pueblo veterans returning from the war realise the 'war hero' status is not theirs to own, it is the white man's. The Pueblo consciousness has been gradually eroded away and smoothed over by white ideologies. Ownership,boundaries. The life of the land becomes obsolete.

Silko intends to show New Mexico through a thick weave of stories and tales which expand, alter and intertwine to create the real consciousness of the state. Tayo's story is predominately linear but is littered with quick flashbacks of pre-war New Mexico and war time jungle conflicts as Tayo struggles to reclaim his roots in Laguna. Silko also merges ancient Pueblo stories within the novel, a central one being the story of the drought caused by Reed Woman leaving the earth.

The crux of Ceremony is the importance of these tales and the ability for Native Americans to adopt new ones. Tayo is shunned by many of his Pueblo contemporaries because of his half European, half Native American background. Like attitudes towards Tayo's bi-racial status, the Pueblos see the white man impregnating native land as a sign of change for the worse.

With the help of an Elder named Betonie, Tayo learns to deal with his post traumatic stress as brought on by the horrors of the war and the death of his cousin. Betonie is the true personification of New Mexico, of mixed Mexican and Pueblo decent he practices the native religion in a shack filled with Western pop cult: coca cola cans, newspapers, magazines overlooking white man's territory. Clearly the novel cannot avoid the overwhelming melancholy of the Pueblo in a land which is becoming unrecognisable to them, but Silko is optimistic (as a mixed race American herself) that a kind of acceptance and absorption of Western culture is necessary to progress.

Since reading Ceremony I have been mesmerized by the magical quality of New Mexico. From playing Uru (initially set in modern day New Mexico) to touring the plains on Google Maps for hours, it has been an obsession of mine to visit the state which boasts a whole load of nothingness (much of the desert remains uninhabited) but is brimming full of old world magic, stories and ceremony.

Uru Live: A game that ought not to be myst!

Adventure/logic game nerds have warmly welcomed the relaunch of Myst Online: Uru live. Me included.

Ok so it started in 2003 and despite the seven year gap not a lot has changed, but who's complaining? The Myst/Riven/Uru storylines have always been an integral part of the games as we see the developing and declining relationships with Atrus and his family in the bittersweet plot.

The original Myst and Riven games always had difficulty fitting the player into the plot. You have no name, no back history, not even a face, heck even the characters have no idea who you are. You are constantly approached with a suspicious sideways glance. "Who's this guy?" they say "Oh never mind, just fix this contraption for me will you?" In Uru live you and other players are special individuals called in to save the old civilisation of the D'ni by solving a number of logical puzzles.

What makes the story much more compelling is that instead of immersing the player into the beautiful, yet wholly fictional and unexplainable ages, the story of the D'ni interwines with the 'real world'. You begin the journey in New Mexico where remains of the D'ni civilisation were found in modern day, therefore sparking a development studio to create an educational video game called Myst. Nice twist eh?

Yeesha, Atrus's daughter from Myst III and IV appears in hologram form and fills you on your purpose to rebuild the D'ni Civilisation. "Sure, why not?" you say to yourself, "Nothing good on TV these days anyway."

Another difference from the original games is that it is set up in 3rd person format, i.e you create an avatar of yourself and watch your own bum wiggling in front of you as you gallop across the landscape. Granted, this had to be done to differeciante yourself from other online players but it rather strips the romantic mysterious nature of the game. Plus not a great deal of effort was made on characterisation, I feel like a Sim that has just eaten some bad ramen and had a bad trip into a psychdelic mindfield. This is why I keep 1st player mode on.

Ok so the biggie of the game, the online feature of course. It sort of works. Basically you can visit ages and solve problems on your own as normal without being disturbed by irritating people, but you can if you wish visit public ages where you can socialise with other players, get help for puzzles or frolic in buttercup fields with them, whatever. There is nothing worse than playing an MMORPG like World of Warcraft and being constantly ganked by some adolescent ass for lols or having to endure harassment from a gamer with a elf fetish. Uru is for the intellectual online gamer. You know the type, that mild mannered guy from accounting who sits at home in his M&S dressing gown reading War and Peace during game loads.

Don't let the online tag put you off if you are an avid Myst fan. The graphics are not as top grade quality as the previous games as expected in an RPG, but at least it gives you the freedom of exploring every weeny detail you couldn't beforehand. Plus the game and every age you visit is pretty damn huge.

Not bad at all for a game is which at present completely free to play online. Take that Wow, Conan, LOTR and all you other subscription games!

An Evil Cradling

"I think it was D.H Lawrence, speaking about the act of writing, who said that writers throw up their sickness in books."

Brian Keenan was a Northern Irish school teacher who came to Beruit, Lebanon to teach at it's prominent university in 1985. He certainly knew the dangers of working in country wrapped in political chaos, but he had no idea how much it would impact his own writings, teachings and relationships.

Keenan was captured and taken hostage by the Shi'ite the same year, and was passed about among several terrorist groups around Lebanon for five years before his safe release. In 1992 he wrote down his experiences in An Evil Cradling.

I was adamant to hate the book from first glance. I was assigned to read it for an English course at the time that Ken Bigley was captured and executed in Iraq. I was angry that the college would want to play on the sensationalist media ring around Bigley's death to encourage us to read about Keenan's hostage crisis, which occurred two decades ago. It didn't feel right for a 17 year old student to imagine themselves in Bigley's or Keenan's shoes like it was a museum of horrors.

Despite my intial misgivings I warmed to the book like I never thought I could. Keenan takes you right from the beginning of his life, he shows you he was no pompous self important Westerner poking about in another country's dealings. He grew up in a working class family in Belfast, he knew the terrors of living in a war strife country because he ws born in one. He was simply "jumping from one fire into another".

Keenan was captured on his way to work by a group of men with guns leapt out of an old Mercedes and bundled him into the back. Keenan spent his first few months of incarceration alone in a tiny cell with no explanation of his kidnapping. Chapters Into The Dark and Music are the most proflic within the book. As Keenan's rational mind begins to accept his situation, his semi conscious one takes flight. He begins to hallucinate and dream, he sinks himself into the microscopic world of his cell and is lulled into this new kind of reality. This explains the title of the book, An Evil Cradling, the familiarity and boundaries of an imprisoned man can make him fearful of ever leaving. In Music, Keenan listens to the rattling of the pipes and fans in his slapdash concrete hole and dances to an audial hallucination which seems to finally wake him from his adopted state.

The greatest introduction ever in the history of storytelling (and apparantly all true) is John McCarthy's first greeting to Keenan.
"Fuck me it's Ben Gunn." Gunn, being the wild straggly haired man in Robinson Crusoe who was forgotten by man, time, and readers of the book it seems.

It's more likely that you have heard of McCarthy, who was a 29 year old English television journalist when he was taken hostage. His position in the media and the furious release campaigns held by then girlfriend Jill Morell meant you couldn't read a newspaper or switch on the TV in England without hearing his name.

As the book progresses you learn more about Keenan and McCarthy's struggles. The beatings, the guards and their conflicted minds, the fear of never seeing the sunlight before they died. However terrible these things were, a love story begins to emerge. Despite Keenan's archetypal Irishness and resentment towards middle classers like McCarthy, their friendship evolves so much so that even a look or a insulting joke to one another would soothe the worst tortures the guards could offer. Keenan takes on a fatherly stance and urges the youthful McCarthy to have courage at the lowest points, and McCarthy checks Keenan's stubborness and aggressive stance when it could lead him into trouble.

The two men are moved into new cells around the country, sometimes joined by the American hostages and even Terry Waite, former spokesperson for the Archbishop of Canterbury, who despite travelling to Lebanon as an envoy became a hostage too. The interactions with the other imprisoned men shows just how Keenan and McCarthy's platonic relationship became an unconditional source of companionship which helped the men accept their situation.

These events happened almost three decades ago, and an Evil Cradling almost two, but it is still a relevant read. I am glad I never turned away from the book after all, because it has been the single most important piece of writing I have ever read. Keenan says he threw up his 'sickness' to write this memoir, to relive these awful events to act as a kind of therapy. He needed to do this to validate his experiences and to release them from his body and into a more universal consciousness. An Evil Cradling reveals the toxic existence of humanity, whether in lies in the East or Western world, but more importantly it shows companionship and unrelenting love are essential for human survival.