During the January trip to Florida, Jack and I ended up telling Thurston about the plight of the indigenous British red squirrel in the face of the imported American grey squirrel. We'd started talking about this during a discussion of what would actually make an appropriate emblem for Britain in the world today, and the squirrel seemed to sum up the tragi-comedy of the whole thing.
Well, I decided to do a quick search on what's being done to help our little fellas, and the craziness of the interweb didn't disappoint me. It turns out that since 1991 there's been an anonymous email address advertised, offering to whack any offending grey squirrels for you (squirrelproblem@airriflehunter.co.uk) and a website that helpfully mentions that a conservation group, the Esme Kirby Trust, is willing to pay you for 'scalps'.
Monday, March 28, 2005
Kilroy meets the Gypsies
Yes, Robert Kilroy-Silk has decided to spend several days living with the travellers for the purposes of a Channel 4 documentary to be aired during April (see title link). All very nice, and I'm sure it'll be entertaining in a Louis Theroux's Wierd Weekends style, but something jumped out of the text of the Guardian article that's interesting:
'Matters are not helped when Clifford tells him he cannot use his bathroom, because it goes against the strict customs of the community. "It is not because we think you are dirty, it is just to maintain the purity of our unit as Romany Gypsies," he explains.'
Consider that gypsy and other travellers are arguing that they should be able to pursue their way of life (setting up camps, in some cases without planning permission) partly on ethnicity grounds, with the assistance of the Commission for Racial Equality; why has noone pointed out the absurdity of maintaining 'the purity of the unit as Romany Gypsies' - talk of purity in these terms (note the capitalisation) doesn't fall far short of racism.
'Matters are not helped when Clifford tells him he cannot use his bathroom, because it goes against the strict customs of the community. "It is not because we think you are dirty, it is just to maintain the purity of our unit as Romany Gypsies," he explains.'
Consider that gypsy and other travellers are arguing that they should be able to pursue their way of life (setting up camps, in some cases without planning permission) partly on ethnicity grounds, with the assistance of the Commission for Racial Equality; why has noone pointed out the absurdity of maintaining 'the purity of the unit as Romany Gypsies' - talk of purity in these terms (note the capitalisation) doesn't fall far short of racism.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Welcome to Boom Town
I've spent the past week at my parents' house in Cardiff, splitting my time between sleeping, eating and singing at the Cathedral. It's been a good week, and, rarely, all 5 of us have been in the same place at once.
Coming home always seems to be different each time, yet still it's somehow reassuring, and it always makes me compare my experience of London (and Oxford before that) with Cardiff, since those are the only places I've ever lived.
As I got off the train and exited the station this Monday, I was struck by the freshness of the sea breeze and the high quality of the air, made apparent to me after having been away for about 3 months, since I went to Florida.
Then, as I walked through the city centre, I observed other changes. The centre Cardiff I very quiet at 10 a.m. on a Monday. I'd never noticed this before. Making my way down Mill Lane, I spotted that one of the nightclubs had a sign that boasted it's "Cardiff's London-style club". What the hell is that supposed to mean? That the drinks are over-priced, or that London is somehow some magic Dick Whittington metropolis? It reminds of that brilliant episode of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin where Perrin decides to have an anti-sale, increasing the prices of goods at his shop, a shop based on the premise of selling only absolute rubbish [media link]. In the case of the club it appears that if you advertise that you're more expensive, people will buy it. Such is the perversity of human nature.
As the week's progressed, I've noticed other things that are changing here. House prices and rents, for one. Jack came to visit for the day on Wednesday, and we went down to Cardiff Bay. I was astonished to see in the window of an estate agent that an ordinary one-bed flat was going for £650 a month. That doesn't place it far behind London prices at all, considering that I'd paid £600 per month for my studio in Cricklewood. Then yesterday, a medium latté (or whatever retarded Spanish-Italian-French-Esperanto hybrid term they use for 'medium' in that particular coffee chain) cost me £2.19 at Costa. They were charging £1.60 for own-brand muffins as well.
All of this wouldn't be quite so crazy if wages kept pace with those in the Smoke, but it's a completely different story. Looking at jobs advertised in the South Wales Echo this week, it seems that the contractor for rail staff is paying around £10K salary for a full-time assistant station manager. Contrast that with the London Underground worker who was in the press earlier this year for taking stupid amount of time on the sick, and was on a £32K salary as a driver of tube trains.
It's the inconsistency that's baffling. It would appear that there's some group that has enough money to pay London prices for houses and consumer goods and services, despite the enormous wage disparity between the two capitals. I can only guess that Cardiff prices are being driven up by some combination of equity in properties already owned, the rentier buy-to-let brigade (curse them), and the stupid levels of consumer credit available in this country (Britain now has a higher amount of personal debt per capita than the USA, which in turn is well above mainland Europe). It's not a pretty picture, and I am sorry to see this sort of ludicrous price inflation is now affecting even the Principality I call home.
Coming home always seems to be different each time, yet still it's somehow reassuring, and it always makes me compare my experience of London (and Oxford before that) with Cardiff, since those are the only places I've ever lived.
As I got off the train and exited the station this Monday, I was struck by the freshness of the sea breeze and the high quality of the air, made apparent to me after having been away for about 3 months, since I went to Florida.
Then, as I walked through the city centre, I observed other changes. The centre Cardiff I very quiet at 10 a.m. on a Monday. I'd never noticed this before. Making my way down Mill Lane, I spotted that one of the nightclubs had a sign that boasted it's "Cardiff's London-style club". What the hell is that supposed to mean? That the drinks are over-priced, or that London is somehow some magic Dick Whittington metropolis? It reminds of that brilliant episode of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin where Perrin decides to have an anti-sale, increasing the prices of goods at his shop, a shop based on the premise of selling only absolute rubbish [media link]. In the case of the club it appears that if you advertise that you're more expensive, people will buy it. Such is the perversity of human nature.
As the week's progressed, I've noticed other things that are changing here. House prices and rents, for one. Jack came to visit for the day on Wednesday, and we went down to Cardiff Bay. I was astonished to see in the window of an estate agent that an ordinary one-bed flat was going for £650 a month. That doesn't place it far behind London prices at all, considering that I'd paid £600 per month for my studio in Cricklewood. Then yesterday, a medium latté (or whatever retarded Spanish-Italian-French-Esperanto hybrid term they use for 'medium' in that particular coffee chain) cost me £2.19 at Costa. They were charging £1.60 for own-brand muffins as well.
All of this wouldn't be quite so crazy if wages kept pace with those in the Smoke, but it's a completely different story. Looking at jobs advertised in the South Wales Echo this week, it seems that the contractor for rail staff is paying around £10K salary for a full-time assistant station manager. Contrast that with the London Underground worker who was in the press earlier this year for taking stupid amount of time on the sick, and was on a £32K salary as a driver of tube trains.
It's the inconsistency that's baffling. It would appear that there's some group that has enough money to pay London prices for houses and consumer goods and services, despite the enormous wage disparity between the two capitals. I can only guess that Cardiff prices are being driven up by some combination of equity in properties already owned, the rentier buy-to-let brigade (curse them), and the stupid levels of consumer credit available in this country (Britain now has a higher amount of personal debt per capita than the USA, which in turn is well above mainland Europe). It's not a pretty picture, and I am sorry to see this sort of ludicrous price inflation is now affecting even the Principality I call home.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
This Ain't Vegas
Tonight will be the first gig I've done with Action and Action for a few weeks now, and I'm really looking forward to it. All the moreso because we'll be playing with the excellent This Ain't Vegas.
If you're reading this before it happens, and are at a loose end for Saturday night, it's at Nambucca on Holloway Road, London, and entry is free before 8.
I'm excited, and also a little nervous.
If you're reading this before it happens, and are at a loose end for Saturday night, it's at Nambucca on Holloway Road, London, and entry is free before 8.
I'm excited, and also a little nervous.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Underground, underwater
On Sunday evening, travelling up to meet up with some friends near Finchley Road, I experienced powerful feelings of dread about the idea of terrorists planting a bomb that would cause the river Thames to flow into the Underground. Thinking about the scale of such a catastrophe, I can imagine that the water pressure would force the water down each of the tunnels and out pretty much as far as where I was soon to alight from the train (alight - a word very much loved by Transport for London - I bet they're ever-grateful for the richness of the English language), i.e. right the way out as far as the tube lines emerge over-ground.
My other thought was that it probably wouldn't even be that difficult for terrorists to do this - consider the number of subcontracted workers who end up in positions of authority for work on the various lines (see the Camden derailment last year, for instance). I don't even think I'm just scaring myself with all of this. The prospect of such a man-made disaster seems very plausible.
My other thought was that it probably wouldn't even be that difficult for terrorists to do this - consider the number of subcontracted workers who end up in positions of authority for work on the various lines (see the Camden derailment last year, for instance). I don't even think I'm just scaring myself with all of this. The prospect of such a man-made disaster seems very plausible.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Trivial Pursuits
Was I the only person who watched the news a week or so ago and was unimpressed and unexcited by the prospect of Ellen MacArthur having succeeded in her round-the-world sailing attempt?
Maybe it's me, and my own disillusionment with the whole idea of competitive sport (that set in when I was about 12), but I struggle to understand the importance that people attach to these sporting activities, never moreso than in relation to the nautical ones which don't even satisfy a tribal instinct in the way that , for instance, football teams do.
In fact, apart from wasting vast amounts of money (provided for by corporate sponsors, usually - couldn't they lower the prices of their products instead, please?), my other feeling about these sorts of endeavours is that they're so unnecessarily dangerous. Poor kids might join the army at a low level, whereas the children of the well-off go into these risky sports activities. It reminds me of the time Prince Charles and a load of his cronies went off skiing somewhere they shouldn't have and ended up having to get mountain rescue out to save them. I certainly don't think the taxpayer should have to pick up the tab for that sort of thing - if people require mountain rescue, or the RNLI, to save them, chances are they've been off somewhere doing something dangerous based on a lack of danger and uncertainty in their real lives. Ditto for all of those middle-aged men who go off trying to reach the North Pole or whatever. They're the product of a generation that never had to fight a war and therefore has to invent its own dangers.
And while I wouldn't detract from MacArthur's good works at a human level - her charitable foundation is a worthy cause - the idea of her being some kind of heroine just doesn't stack up, for me. Somebody who slogs his/her guts out to feed the children is far, far more remarkable.
Maybe it's me, and my own disillusionment with the whole idea of competitive sport (that set in when I was about 12), but I struggle to understand the importance that people attach to these sporting activities, never moreso than in relation to the nautical ones which don't even satisfy a tribal instinct in the way that , for instance, football teams do.
In fact, apart from wasting vast amounts of money (provided for by corporate sponsors, usually - couldn't they lower the prices of their products instead, please?), my other feeling about these sorts of endeavours is that they're so unnecessarily dangerous. Poor kids might join the army at a low level, whereas the children of the well-off go into these risky sports activities. It reminds me of the time Prince Charles and a load of his cronies went off skiing somewhere they shouldn't have and ended up having to get mountain rescue out to save them. I certainly don't think the taxpayer should have to pick up the tab for that sort of thing - if people require mountain rescue, or the RNLI, to save them, chances are they've been off somewhere doing something dangerous based on a lack of danger and uncertainty in their real lives. Ditto for all of those middle-aged men who go off trying to reach the North Pole or whatever. They're the product of a generation that never had to fight a war and therefore has to invent its own dangers.
And while I wouldn't detract from MacArthur's good works at a human level - her charitable foundation is a worthy cause - the idea of her being some kind of heroine just doesn't stack up, for me. Somebody who slogs his/her guts out to feed the children is far, far more remarkable.
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