M.J. - Remember The Time

The Glastonbury festival wasn't properly underway when the news of Michael Jackson's death broke. There was no official announcement, just growing mutterings which many, myself included, dismissed as fabrication. Only days before, I had read that Cliff Richard is rumoured to have died every year, as a Glastonbury standard. I assumed this was a variation on the theme.

Only once I had wriggled into my sleeping bag (with little prospect of sleep given the hoard of drunkards surrounding me), did I receive a text repeating the allegation, followed by a call from Her Indoors, confirming that he'd had a heart attack and was definitely deceased.
Further confirmation arrived in text form from 8 a.m. on the Friday morning, when the first of half a dozen appalling jokes appeared, courtesy of Gloucester's premier barber and dodgy joke-merchant.

It was a surprise, of course, but barely a shock. Media speculation about Jackson's health had been rife for years and Ladbrokes had been taking bets on whether he'd ever make it onto the London stage. They paid out too.

As with most celebrity-related issues, one's view on Michael Jackson the man is informed only by the speculation of a media which can sell copy, advertising minutes or whatever on the back of scandal. At best, though, he was extraordinarily naive and/or badly advised in the conduct of his private life. It is certainly possible to share a bed with a child in all innocence, but if you're a D-list has-been, let alone one of the world' biggest stars, you can rely on someone trying to make a fast buck from selling a story, however innocent the truth. There is no way of assessing that innocence from suburban Gloucester. Suffice to say that he was never convicted of anything (although some accusations were settled out of court).

Michael Jackson the artist, by contrast, was and is public property, for us to analyze and celebrate 'til the cows come home. I saw him perform live twice, an experience which elevated my view of him as a mere pop star to concede that he was indeed special.

The first time at the old Wembley Stadium in 1988, still licking my wounds after the surprise departure of the first Mrs G. (no problem finding someone else who'd have her ticket!), I was in the mood for some light entertainment. And I was well and truly entertained. The moonwalk was literally unbelievable, to a point at which I had convinced myself that there was some unseen conveyor-belt device hidden in the stage! There wasn't.

He was promoting the Bad album, which I still prefer to the more popular Thriller. His voice was clear and all the "vibes" were positive. He knew how good he was and did everything to demonstrate it.

Fast forward a few years and we're back at Wembley for the Dangerous tour in 1992. The album had been a bit of a disappointment but on the strength of my previous encounter I was still hopeful that a breath-taking performance would be forthcoming. It was, but with significant reservations. On several occasions MJ feigned "collapse", freezing, between songs and even mid-song, as if he could no longer continue, inviting the audience to cheer him back into action. This was in addition to slow set and costume changes, far removed from the slickness shown four years earlier. I didn't buy it, and was quite bored with it by the end of the gig. The performance remained special but the attitude had deteriorated to a victim schtick which was unworthy of his talent.

Nevertheless, the second half of his adult life pretty much endorsed the portrait of the artist as misunderstood victim. While the last twenty years saw little "product" of note, his untimely exit, before the undignified milking spectacle that the imminent O2 series of concerts threatened, ensures that, with image so much the core of any pop career, his reputation will survive.

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Incidentally, only with his death have I realised that Michael Jackson was a few months older than me. How anybody, let alone someone with such a frail physique, could have hoped to perform fifty high-energy sets at anything approaching the standard which the public would expect of a man who they remember from videos made when he was half the age, is a mystery. That he was persuaded to try (by debtors, management or whoever) is as worthy of investigation as any witchhunt of his medical team.

Glastonbury: The Pros and Cons

A week ago I was watching Crosby Stills and Nash from a sunny hillside, sipping cider and wishing it would last forever (the event, not just the cider). This despite the dismal sanitation, sleep deprivation and enough rain to render Worthy Farm squelchy for much of the weekend. So it must have been a good experience, even though I was unable, by my return on Monday, to commit unequivocally to repeating it. Indeed, my observation to a fellow camper, returning to a car near mine at sparrow's fart on Monday morning, that it must be like childbirth, demanding a refusal to repeat until the pain is forgotten, seems to have been on the money. I can now say, with a week's hindsight, that it was great and that I would go again. Why's that then?

The music was, predictably, a big part for me, and put crudely, if you add up how much I'd have had to spend to see the acts I enjoyed individually, it must be well over twice the cost of attending the festival. Plus patience is rewarded by allowing the stalwart field-stander to get very close to the performers, even with those massive crowds.

Secondly, the atmosphere is, as everyone insists, special. Very little aggravation, the shared experience apparently sufficient to allow conversation between strangers that would be rare in normal social situations. Just as well, given I was alone for most of the time.

Thirdly, there's stuff you're just not likely to see anywhere else. The fancy dress, the art displays and the musical acts that you chance upon and enjoy, though you never would have looked for them deliberately.

Finally, being out in fresh air for four days is not something that happens to me very often, and is probably therapeutic even if it may have contributed to the tiredness.

From those pluses we must deduct the following:

1) It is a HUGE site, miles from end to end, and if you want to take full advantage of it you're going to walk a long way. I'll take a pedometer next time, but there's no doubt that I walked miles, not a problem but for having to wear wellington boots for so much of the time. Hikers next time, maybe.

2) Not all of your fellow campers qualify as well behaved. Consequently they add to the inevitable mess in the toilets which simple over-use would dictate, and relieve themselves into beer cups before slinging them at those further forward in the crowd. Nice!

3) Many of them are inconsiderate noisy bastards whose "good time" will not be compromised by respect for others and their sleep. So you'll be lucky to average four hours a night.

4) Finally, while the toilets may be "much improved" over the past few years, support for Water Aid's campaign for worldwide sanitation is not going to be furthered by giving people a first-hand experience of third world conditions. No, they probably aren't that bad. Not quite.

For me, the first list comfortably outshoots the second, but I would have to respect anyone for whom the reverse was true. The sanitation issue would be more significant for many women, I'd guess.

Broooooooce!

'Tis the day after my return from the Glastonbury Festival 2009. I was not in a fit state to write yesterday, mostly due to a cumulative lack of sleep and the distraction of feet that have seen more use than in many a year and are suffering the consequences!

I might write a few pieces based on my Glasto experience, what with it being possibly the most interesting thing to happen to me this year. That's is if I remember I'm supposed to be writing a blog, which on past evidence is hardly a given.

Anyway, as the title suggests, I'm starting at the top, with festival headliner Bruce Springsteen. Had I not seen him play Cardiff Millennium stadium last summer, I might not have been able to persuade myself that £200 for a festival ticket would be money well spent (£175 on the face of it but there are so many extra charges...). As it was, the combination of The Boss and Neil Young in one weekend, along with various other luminaries finally got me off my arse instead of sitting in front of the extensive BBC coverage mumbling "maybe next year".

Why should this be? He is quintessentially American, blue collar in sentiment if not status and while as a fan I'd be thrilled to meet him, I doubt we'd have much in common to discuss beyond a shared love of music. A friend asked me quite recently why I liked Springsteen when the rest of my musical taste seemed sound, a question which reflects a fairly common situation. On Bruce Springsteen there is no middle ground. Like Marmite, it seems most people who have heard him either love him or hate him.

A large part of this comes down to trust and belief. Is he sincere? If you think so, and are touched by the power and sentimentality of his lyrics, predominantly narratives on ordinary folk struggling with ordinary situations, far removed from a mansion in New Jersey or touring on room service, you'll be bowled over by his live presentation. On the other hand, if you find a multi-millionaire in jeans insisting that "tramps like us were born to run" just a bit far fetched, you are going to struggle!

Now, I'm not known for my fondness of kitsch, but I find myself a believer. Some of this is based on logic. Said millionaire doesn't have to play energetic three hour sets as he approaches his sixtieth birthday, but he does. He engineers a seemingly spontaneous choice of songs from a repertoire covering the best part of forty years, where most of his contemporaries are content to churn out the hits on autopilot and watch the bank balance swell still further. Some of the material is less anthemic than the majority, but this maintains a sensible balance between the frantic and the reflective moments, of which The River has been the highlight on each of my three encounters so far. If Springsteen is merely an actor, he's a bloody good one, more plausible than many an angry younger man elsewhere in the music scene. Each of my Springsteen gigs has left me overwhelmed that a man over 10 years my senior can generate more energy than I ever could have. Consequently, I have no problem with his label as The Boss.

Death & Taxes

Bloody Hell! I've just done my V.A.T. return to discover that I owe them. I know that might be the normal expectation, but because I mostly sell zero-rated goods (comics) and pay V.A.T. on certain overheads (storage costs and stationery, mostly), I've become used to paying no more and even a small rebate every quarter. Not this time. It all comes of trying to rid myself of some of the vatable residue still hanging about from the shop and the years thereafter when I was still "doing" models. No, not that kind of model, unfortunately. Up to a point, this is actually good news, as I can't afford to hang on to them for the rest of my life and on average I'm probably getting back most of what they cost me. Still, paying more tax....

Of course someone needs to be paying tax, indeed we'd better all start paying more soon, however much we'll moan about it, as government borrowing seems just about stretched to breaking point.

A recent feature on The Daily Show demonstrated an American's mock outrage at the tax rates in Scandinavia and confusion at the population's contentment with their higher levies. It illustrated a point which I think the LibDems have been trying (and clearly failing) to make over the past few years. People will accept taxation if they are happy with the corresponding expenditure. In this country we are not.

Everything - transport, defence, healthcare, education to a lesser extent, is done on the cheap i.e. not as well as it could be. Then we moan about how much it cost to deliver mediocrity. If we spent more and had the standards that would satisfy the majority, we would have to pay more tax. We might resent it less than paying what we do for transport that's clogged, worn out armour and understaffed hospitals. But who's going to risk putting that in a budget?

It's exactly the policy Obama claims to be following and for which the right are labelling him a socialist. Sticks and stones. He'd rather be mis-labelled and get the desired result. I doubt that we have any politicians this side of the pond ready to stick their necks out, so it's mediocrity or worse for the forseeable future....

Stoutness Exercises

I've been going to the gym for nearly six months. I joined in early December, partly because I didn't want to get caught up in the post-Xmas rush, and partly because my conspicuous and depressing lack of fitness required urgent attention. Never thought I'd see the day, but I have Tim Wilton to blame/thank for putting me up to it. It had so clearly done him good that I went for it almost spontaneously.

I'm about to set off for my first visit in over a week, though, which is Not Good Enough. There have been a few such interludes, but this is probably the first that has been extended by straightforward laziness. It started off with having toothache and being concerned that writhing about clutching my jaw every ten minutes might be bad form, but once that recovered I just couldn't be bothered. The previous breaks have all had more genuine reasons associated with them - minor injuries and being away, but while I could have made it twice earlier in the week I didn't.

It's not just laziness, although that's certainly a component. It's also boredom. They do their best to make it "fun" by piping up-tempo pop everywhere and providing televisions to watch - usually Sky News in my case. But this does not detract sufficiently from the sheer tedium of plodding away on a cross-trainer or tugging at a few weight plates. The staff are almost worryingly cheerful, which is fine when you're "up" too, but slightly irritating if not. The showers are O.K. but someone seems to wander through with muddy feet every now and again (how? why?) so that despite constant cleaning they never quite make the grade.

It's got to be done though. Type 2 Diabetes, "dangerously high" triglycerides and barely controlled blood pressure suggest that without it I can look forward to a heart attack or stroke pretty soon otherwise. Just don't ask me to enjoy it. I do wonder how honest the people who say they do enjoy it are, to themselves as much as to other people. It's uncomfortable at best, mildly painful at worst, and a lot less fun than watching a DVD with a glass of wine. So don't give me all that "warm glow" guff. It's a necessary evil.

Breaking The Mould

Following on from News addiction, whilst The Telegraph may have done us all a favour by showing us who our elected representatives really are, the original story is running out of steam. There may be new "revelations" on a daily basis, but the message that our M.P.s have been engaged in wholesale misbehaviour got through a week ago. There are a couple of points here.

First, the M.P.s who say they have done nothing wrong by claiming, as those claims were approved as being within the rules, may be legally right but are morally wrong. A plasma T.V. is not essential to the conduct of parliamentary business. It is not, therefore, a morally justified business expense, even if the "watchdog" approves it. These M.P.s either lack a moral compass or choose to ignore it and are therefore unfit to govern and should be summarily dismissed.

Second are those, like our own in Gloucester (so far anyway) who not only seem to be doing their job, but have not abused the system. This is where further enquiry would be justified. Didn't they know what the others were up to, and by turning a blind eye to it, weren't they tacitly condoning it? If so, you might argue, they have failed in their duty and also deserve to be slung out of office. Without inside knowledge of the day-to-day running of the "Westminster Village", it is difficult to guess how genuinely innocent this second group, or individuals within it, are.

For instance, can we believe that none of this group knew that some of their colleagues claimed second home expenses for property barely closer to Westminster than their "main" homes? Didn't some of them wonder how their colleagues could afford to finance lavish lifestyles both in London and at their country mansions? They may say not, and as they haven't worked the system to their advantage we may have to give them the benefit of the doubt. But that doubt remains.

Here Is The News

This has been far too introspective for its own good so far, so let's see what we can do to bring the rest of the world down to the same level.

I am addicted to The News in most of its various forms. T.V. is simplest, with no effort or imagination required, but I seem to be spending more and more time on the BBC web pages, and then there's Facebook. It's still news, but much of it dreary minutiae. This is redeemed by the first opportunity to see the latest additions to people's families and assess just how drunk the youth of today were last weekend. And some of it is funny, like conversation can be in a pub - not worth remembering but a pleasure as it happens.

Physical print may be threatened by the opportunity to read from the web, but the words still spill forth by the bucket-load. A recent trend is for BBC reporters to use their blogs as scripts; their commentary on the days events appears mid-afternoon and they regurgitate it at six and ten for the computer illiterate.
Yet I still buy a paper (The Guardian) several times a week, not for the stuff I already know about, because it happened yesterday and I've seen/heard the news ten times since, but for the peripheral, obscure content for which there's never time on the airwaves. Increasingly this, too is being provided on the web, but so far it lacks the cohesive house style that you get from a paper. Guardian readers, with our beards and love of real ale, are members of a gentleman's club and more legitimately than our Members of Parliament, for we pay to join!