Posts by JackElder
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Our older boy entered the world to the sweet, sweet sounds of Sonia Pottinger and the Treasure Isle catalogue.
We had a soundtrack sorted out for the birth of our eldest. My wife wanted the delivery to be to the sound of The Darkness' (it was 2004) classic track "Get Your Hands Off Of My Woman, Motherfucker".
In the end, she had an emergency c-section and we got the musical choice of the surgical team. Bloody Dido.
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I found it weird that he would have the same childhood memories that I do.
I get that a bit with my kids. For instance, my daughter loves the Muppet Show.
Then again, my dad did the same thing with me. I grew up reading books and listening to radio shows he loved as a kid. I worked my way through all the William and Jennings books, and listened to a lot of Goon Show. Never did me any harm, and it means that we can connect over a shared set of media. Not too different to the young 'uns being told the traditional stories by the clan elders, really. One of my favourite moments was watching Snow White with my kids; a movie that came out in 1937, meaning she's not just going to have the same childhood memories as me, she's going to have the same ones as her grandparents. The escape scene in the woods scared her, just as it scared me, just as it scared my dad.
Plus, they're getting new stuff as well. They didn't have Shaun the Sheep or the Madagascar Penguins when I was a kid; both of which are incredibly fun shows, both of which I can sit down and watch with my kids and enjoy. Culture rolls on. It's not like they're repeating my childhood: there's vast swathes of crap that I sucked up in the 80s that has been left to die a reasonable death.
Plus, kids are often engaging in media in ways you may not expect. My 5-year old daughter's exposure to Star Wars was by way of me being given some Star Wars lego for my birthday. She got hold of the set, put it all together, and spent a lot of time playing with the little Darth Vader. Now, I was obsessive about Star Wars when I was a kid; but I wasn't sitting there with a toy Darth Vader telling it "Look, there you are on the TV... I'll help you find that princess!"
And as regards the toys: why get angry that the cynically marketed injection moulded plastic your kids want is based around the cynically marketed injection moulded plastic you wanted in the 80s?
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Mind you, I can't imagine objecting to a portrait of an ancestor of mine that took care to notice how prodigiously physically gifted he was, especially in the trouser department.
A few years ago there was a heavily (and very obviously) fictionalised biopic of Jeffrey Archer (Jeffrey Archer: The Truth, by the BBC). Many and varied historical liberties were taken with a variety of characters, many of whom are still living (some of whom are still members of the Royal family), all of whom are in a position to sue for defamation. The producers' main defence was two-pronged:
1) The events were clearly, blatantly, fiction, and:
2) They made Jeffrey being unfeasibly well endowed into a subplot. At one point, he's standing at a urinal and a black man next to him glances down, does a double-take, and says "Respect, man!" Subtle stuff, but from the heart.The thinking behind this was that you can say anything about someone as long as you also say they've got a big knob.
When my mother (Lynley Hood) was researching her Minnie Dean book, she found that a British official involved with the relief effort for the Irish potato famine was Lord Pinetree-Coffin. A fiction author remarked that they could never have called a character in that role such a name.
I commend you to the memory of Sam Duddy; by day a propagandist for the Ulster Defence Association, one of the more vicious protestant paramilitary operations during the Troubles. By night, drag queen. There's nothing so strange as the real world.
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I did my first year at uni in 93. I paid fees, had the option of a loan but didn't take it. Can't recall if the fees were means-tested or not.
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Could someone smooth the pillow of my dying culture on the way out? Thanks.
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Grand Designs works because it's a combination of:
* Middle class wish fulfillment. Who among us hasn't watched at least one episode and thought, "God, I'd love to give that a go?"
* What my wife refers to a schadentelly: watching unpleasant people get themselves into trouble.Not each episode has both qualities, but there's a leavening of both. I find myself watching to see whether the people are going to build a huge monstrosity, whether it's going to go wrong, and how badly they're going to go over budget. It's also comforting: "Why," you think to yourself, "am I so craven that I'm not doing this? I'd love to build my own home. These people are doing it. I'm at least as smart, and better-looking, and I've got much better taste." Then you watch the build go from an easy project to an 18-way clusterfuck, see the people weeping over the problems, watch them go cap in hand to bank manager to get the cash to finish their monstrosity, and you think "Ahhh... so I'm not craven, I'm sensible to be avoiding all that pain", and you sit back and relax.
Don't miss an episode myself. Though I must admit, I do rather prefer the Revisited version: too often, the normal show just rushes in right at the end of the build, so any teething problems with the house haven't become apparant. The revisits give you more of an idea of how the people are using the house as an actual space to live in, rather than as a project to complete.
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Just realised: does this make Emma one of the Ladies Who Launch?
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Well they do serve their chips with gravy, but now I think you'll find the most scary people in it are public servants.
Well indeed. The only time I've actually drunk in it, I was a public servant, and it was a "strategy meeting" at 4pm on a Friday.
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How solid do we need to RSVP? Keen but unlikely to know until fairly shortly before whether I'll be able to attend (nebulous commitments e.g. children, work, bicycle, etc).
I remember the Thistle Inn back in the 80s, when it scared the stuffing out of me as a kid. Big scruffy dodgy wharfie hangout. Mind you, those were the days when the Thorndon Tavern was still open - it was a different world then. Much less intimidating since I left primary school.
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I was refused a drink at a pub in Northern Transvaal once because the barman thought I was Indian.
In the late 70s, my parents stayed at a small B&B in Wales. The proprietor and his wife were surly and noncommunicative. After a day, as they were leaving the building, the wife asked if they were going "back home to England". My mother said yes, but they were actually from New Zealand. Two minutes later, as they were getting in their car, the proprieter ran up, knocked on the car window and said "New Zealand - the All Blacks is it?" in a friendly manner, and was polite and welcoming from then on. I've had several similar experiences in Europe when people assumed I was English. It's one reason why backpackers sew NZ flags on their packs...
Humanity, eh?