"Asteroid" by Pete Moore

Dodging adverts on telly is childs’ play, and it has been fairly easy ever since video cassette recorders came in.  Every time someone asks me if I’ve seen the one with the meerkats, or the opera singer, or the gorilla playing Phil Collins’ drumkit, I can honestly answer “no”.  I’m of the belief that if I want something, I’d go out and buy it (budget permitting) – or, at least, that’s what I’ve convinced myself.

Of course, if you were brought up to think that ITV was a bit common then the job was already done for you by the BBC channels, and still is.

Radio’s even easier, especially since the mergers and takeovers in UK commercial radio have led to so many similar channels that I would never want to listen to anyway.  Capital (no prizes for guessing its comedy name) is a London station that is spreading itself over the Earth’s surface like a fungus from outer space.  Its rivals are much the same.

The one place where consumerism has me captive is at the pictures.  It’s rather tricky to blunder through a darkened cinema, looking for a free seat, when the adverts and trailers have nearly finished but the film has yet to start.  The timing isn’t easy either if in a multiplex, especially when my home town boasts Europe’s tallest cinema and I have to go up several floors from the box office to the screen.

I should have known we were in trouble when Pearl and Dean were sidelined from view.  It’s still a very important advertising carrier for many British cinemas, but in the 1970s, with a (Britpop-era) revival in the mid-1990s, it was a very visible presence on screen.

If you’re too young, or too foreign, or suffering from memory loss, this lot:

The jokes about the adverts they used to carry have gone way beyond observational comedy and into folklore.  The generic series of still photographs of people enjoying a meal that would lead to a clumsily inserted caption advertising a Chinese or Indian restaurant “just minutes from this cinema”.  The pornographic enjoyment of the sort of hotdogs that could only ever be bought in fairgrounds or, unsurprisingly, at the pictures during the interval.  (Yes, you read me correctly.  Films were often run with an INTERVAL.)

All this may sound daft, and like some logical extension of a Donald McGill seaside postcard, but it was pretty harmless and sufficiently clumsy and unconvincing to not really jar with the film itself.  Star Wars, or the latest Disney feature, was at a good arm’s length from it all.  And the Pearl and Dean brand itself was not obtrusive – the jingle above (all 18 seconds of it) was out of the way in a flash.

Now, regardless as to whichever film I see, I’m confronted with endless presence of these bastards:

So imagine the scene; I’m settling into my seat to watch some realist drama about a  Parisian child protection unit, or something, and two oversized sweeties come on to plug the latest Big Momma’s House sequel for what seems like an age.

They are like some CGI version of the Chuckle Brothers, there to shatter the illusion of any film that comes within their range (and it’s a very big range) and I really do wish they’d fuck off.

Strangely, I don’t mind the Orange film spoofs.  But despite the message behind them, people still don’t switch their bastard phones off.

The Hairy Cornflake

I've been meaning to post this for some time but this week's British visit by Aung San Suu Kyi has finally prompted me.

I'm going to say nice things about Dave Lee Travis.

Like any of the veteran presenters who still had programmes on Radio One when the BBC had its Night Of The Long Knives in the mid-1990s, he was painted as an anachronism, the very sort of creature that Harry Enfield and Paul Whitehouse set out to mock with their Smashey'n'Nicey sketches.

The reality is rather grubbier. Workplaces aren't supposed to be run on a basis of whose face fits, and the BBC is no exception. Take a look at this. If I worked in a place like that, I'd think it ugly too.

The own goal in the remodelling of the station, regardless as to its musical intentions, is that the replacements were no better. Travis may have had a few gimmicks but he had a deep-rooted love of music that showed through - much of it period stuff, admittedly - whenever he was given a bit of freedom on air. I have never once thought this about Chris Moyles.

The other side to this is that I have come to have a bit of respect for old school entertainers. Dave Lee Travis, when he first heard that his old programme on the BBC World Service was a boon to Aung San Suu Kyi while she was under arrest, was quite public in his surprise. He doesn't "do" politics, and never has. My teenage self would have taken this as evidence that he was part of the establishment, a puppet of The Man. Thirty years of Bono later, I've come to admire any public figure whose beliefs are their own and who has the self control not to beat others over the head with them.

Going on at this rate, it'll be Terry Wogan next.

Mr Eurovision Song Contest Man

I've posted here before about Engelbert Humperdinck, of all people, and here we are again.

If you look at UK chart statistics over the last 30 years, there's a definite trend where mainstream pop music and the Eurovision Song Contest part company, until the point where Eurovision doesn't appear to matter at all.  Imagine a world where the X Factor winner is watched by millions on a Saturday night, but barely anyone buys their record - that's exactly the way that the Eurovision Song Contest worked for years in the UK.

 My memories of the Eurovision Song Contest, as a youngster, were Brotherhood Of Man onwards, where Britain's entry was a tailor-made act for the competition, rather than an established, popular act.  Although this sometimes won the competition, it could sometimes be seen as the British not taking the thing seriously, and the lack of points on the night was deserved.  There have been attempts to reverse the trend - involving Andrew Lloyd Webber and Jonathon King, for instance.  This year, a veteran UK singer with a wide appeal abroad has been entered.  I've listened to the song - it's the sort of slug-paced ballad I'd expect from the Spanish entry.  There are other, livelier entrants and I don't expect the British one to win.

Of course, the golden age of Eurovision for my parents' generation would have put Engelbert Humperdinck up for the contest when he was still having regular hit singles.  What I never realised about 60s and early 70s Eurovision is that the British entries - Lulu, Sandie Shaw, Cliff Richard, and so on - weren't just bankable pop stars, but they actually had their own television series at the time.  Eurovision is a deal between broadcasters, not record companies.  We're talking about the BBC here, not ITV in any shape or form - so other possibilities would have included Cilla Black, Dusty Springfield or even Scott Walker, but not, say,  Tom Jones.

By the mid 1970s, the idea of a popular musical act having their own television programme in the UK was on the wane.  The only ones I can remember having that sort of primetime slot as a kid were Shirley Bassey (who could have made sense in a Eurovision context, given the right song) and The Black and White Minstrels (the mind boggles), which might explain the switch to the tailor-made acts like Bucks Fizz.

Or there's always this bloke:

We don't need no education

The chorus from "Another Brick In The Wall Part 2" was always bait to my mother, as though the double negative somehow undermined the message.

I'm in education myself - I'm an engineering lecturer at the University of Plopsaland. Among the students I dealt with this week are two that I will call X and Y, however mathematically clichéd that seems.

Student X is from the Home Counties of England - the largely rather affluent region that surrounds, but does not include, London. X has been an award-winning student since enrolling here. X has a family background that includes other successful career engineers.

Student Y is from some shit-hole just off the motorway.

Student X gave a presentation this week based on a lab experiment done earlier in the trimester. My colleague and I struggled to find anything wrong with the presentation at all. It was one of those rare pieces of work that are worth 100%, or something very close to that.

On the same day, the last day of any teaching before the second trimester exams start, student Y handed in a withdrawal notice. After struggles with attendance and coursework deadlines, Y has decided to throw in the towel, despite being able to salvage whatever he/she can from the second trimester exams and the August resits.

Student X is almost certain to graduate with a decent class of degree with very real career prospects. But it's student Y who really needs it.

Lazy YouTube follow-up to last rant

It looks like there are a few clips out there that back me up.

Item number one - spank me vicar, that'll be those popstars being shocking again:

It's a pity that there's only this version around. My only problem with Flanders and Swann is Flanders and Swann themselves - I've always found their delivery camp and knowing where playing straight would have worked better. Many of their songs were popular on BBC children's television when I was growing up and, on the whole, I'd rather hear Johnny Ball sing "A Transport of Delight" than its writers. It's like the old cliché about Bob Dylan songs sounding better when done by others.

Item number two - where swears might just be the point rather than the easy path to steet credibility

JCC (guesting on Neil Innes' programme) tries manfully against the broadcasting rules of the day, but it doesn't really work, does it?

This used to be a fun house, but now it's full of sweary clowns

My daughter had to come up with a dance routine at school today. She chose "Funhouse" by P!nk, which I believe is pronounced "pink". It would be easy money to play the bewildered dad act, so I won't lie - I knew of the song. But we don't own a copy, and it was needed on a CD this morning.

Of course, I was told this at twenty past eight.

Not wanting to set a bad example to my children, I then went looking to buy the song as a download. I've had problems with burning CDs from files with digital rights management protection, so iTunes was ruled out. All other versions available had the warning that they were "explicit".

Let's make this clear: I'm not Mary Whitehouse. I can eff and jeff as much as anyone. I just don't expect to be PAID for it. We're not talking about "Evidently Chicken Town" by John Cooper Clarke here; "Funhouse" has a single swear two minutes in that adds nothing. I'd have laughed if the radio version had bowdlerised the line to "burn the bugger down", but my sense of humour doesn't travel.

The singles chart is absolutely full of this stuff - the mild thrill of BBC radio having to mask any instance of Paul Weller singing "shit" in a Jam song is in the distant past. I've had to tell my kids that this isn't the sole preserve of professional misanthropes like Eminem - chart music is either obsessed with sex or peppered with oil rig vocabulary. Or both. A recent Cee Lo Green single was called "Fuck You". It may as well have been titled "Piss Poo Bum Snot".

I just downloaded the radio version of Funhouse off YouTube in the end. If you feel like reporting me, phone the police. You know their number.

The Censor's Shite

+++++++++++++SPOILER ALERT+++++++++++++++
The following rant reveals a few things about a film called "The King's Speech". You may have heard of it. Indeed, what I have to say is about published spoilers in unexpected places. As I am aware of the irony in all this, I'll warn you that if you haven't already seen the film and want to, you should keep yourself clean and read no further. To protect you, here's a nice picture of Dani Harmer before the rant starts:

Here in Britain, we rely on an organisation called the BBFC to ensure that our cinema films, DVD releases, etc. are restricted to certain age groups, if anyone at all. I appreciate that they're in a difficult position as they are under pressure from both sides, either from organised prudery to ban everything or from liberal progressiveness to not even exist. However, a BBFC habit that has emerged in recent years is proving to be a pain.

Since films like Jurassic Park, deemed suitable for families but likely to scare young children, the BBFC has included text advice alongside its certificates. This has gathered momentum since they replaced the rather straightforward "12" certificate (nobody under 12 allowed in) with the "12A" (the A presumably standing for "apology"), where under 12s may enter accompanied but the accompanying adults are warned about anything contentious.

The King's Speech is a 12A. It's been playing to packed cinemas (I don't call them "theatres", and don't get me started on the US spelling of that word) and is likely to hoover up any number of awards internationally. This is partly because it's a very well acted and put together film, but also because people expect British cinema to be about the emotional constrictions of the ruling class and this doesn't disappoint in that department.

The 12A certificate is for language reasons. We all know that in BBFC-talk "strong language" means that somebody says "fuck" and "extremely strong language" means somebody says "cunt". But here they had to embellish; "strong language in a speech therapy context", it says on every poster. You've guessed it - one of the funniest moments in the film has now been telegraphed to you by our moral guardians; Bertie Windsor momentarily becomes Sammy and His Stammer out of Viz Comic.

F-F-F-Fuck Off indeed.