Songs to love sunshine by

Me, when the sun shines

This top 20 list – a scarily effective editorial trope used by lazy journalists everywhere (ahem *clears throat*) – is a propos of nothing except the fact that, after weeks of bone-crushingly, spirit-sappingly terrible weather, the past few days have been gloriously, fabulously, holiday-in-the-Med, sandcastles-on-the-beach hot, across the whole of the UK.

Nothing cheers me up like a bout of hot weather.

I truly feel like a completely different person when the days are long, the evenings are warm, and the sun beams resolutely through the clouds with a perpetually happy glow.

None of the things I’d been struggling with before the sun decided to shine have really gone away – I still don’t sleep enough, I still struggle with my weight, I still worry about making the right career choices and about money, I still never have enough time to do stuff and I still don’t update this blog enough, but frankly ‒ as I sit here writing this on my lunch break, in the nearby park, undisturbed and with the sun on my warm legs, as people sit, sunbathe, read, eat, laugh; dogs play; birds sing; and sunlight dapples the grass under the trees’ cool shade ‒ I genuinely don’t care.

For now, bathed in light, life in London is good, the living is easy, and my ‘problems’ have been replaced with songs ‒ songs of summer – in my head and on my iPod.

This list isn’t in any particular order, nor is it ‘bang up to date’, ‘fresh’, or full of new and undiscovered artists. But the songs are my favourites, and what I’ve been singing to myself near-constantly since the hot weather came along and cheered up the whole of London.

Of course, this list could have been nearly endless – but these particular songs, in all their cheesy, well-played, much-loved, embarrassingly popular brilliance ‒ speak to me unmistakeably of the long, hot, carefree and glorious days of summer. Long may they last!

Obviously, in a list this short, there are bound to be massive omissions! I’d love to hear other people’s summer songs too – if anyone’s reading, please, feel free to add your own song suggestions below…

1. Summertime, by Ella Fitzgerald




2. Free Electric Band, by Albert Hammond Jr.




3. Pack Up Your Troubles, by Eliza Doolittle




4. Hey, Soul Sister, by Train




5. Buffalo Soldier, by Bob Marley




6. Smooth, by Santana




7. Fever, by Peggy Lee




8. Baker Street, by Gerry Rafferty




9. The Boys of Summer, by Don Henley




10. Bamboleo, by The Gypsy Kings




11. Sweet Home Alabama, by Lynyrd Skynyrd




12. One Hand In My Pocket (Acoustic) by Alanis Morrissette




13. Night Fever by The Bee Gees




14. Maria Maria, by Santana




15. Summer of ’69, by Bryan Adams




16. Kiss Me, by Sixpence None The Richer




17. The Village Green Preservation Society, by Kate Rusby




18. Save Tonight, by Eagle Eyed Cherry




19. Hotel California, by The Eagles




20. Represent Cuba, by Orishas feat Heather Headley




Tags: city, happy, I love, London, music, summer, summertime, sunshine

Inspirational Quotes on Simplicity

Reblogged from heallovebe:

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“Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are.  When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” – Lao Tzu

Read more… 8 more words

Found this blogpost soon after I published a post on 'finding happiness', and especially found the 'Someone else is happy with less than what you have' to be especially relevant to my own life - also, the one about the dog. I really want a dog!

Book Review: Half The Human Race by Anthony Quinn

Half the Human Race, by Anthony Quinn

Set against the eventful years both pre-and-post World War One, this story of personal and public struggle, tender love and political upheaval touches upon many issues of gender, relationships, loneliness and standing up for what you believe in, while also providing a gentle, compelling and absorbing read.

It’s not the most incisive of books on the subject of the suffragettes, and the story’s strength fades out towards the end, but Quinn’s vivid descriptions of such varied settings as central London, Holloway prison, Paris, the Western front and the traditional British country house, as well as his deep ability to portray humanity and inner conflict, make Quinn’s characters memorably and convincingly real.

In fact, the characters’ believability is the best part of the book.

Will and Connie (or William Maitland, cricketer and army officer, and Constance Callaway, thwarted would-be surgeon, bookseller, nurse and reluctantly-militant suffragette) are stubborn, strong-minded and outspoken – and yet as doubting of themselves as the next person. They frequently do things that they don’t entirely understand and can’t wholly justify to themselves: a very human trait that allows the reader to empathise with them. We see them as real people, rather than just plot devices or simplistic ciphers in Quinn’s tale of the social and political conditions surrounding the suffragette movement of the early twentieth century.

Fighting against the system

Will, his traditional background, his leaning towards quietly conservative values, and his focus on the hierarchical, traditional world of cricketing, seemed at first at odds to the overall focus of the book on the suffragette movement. However, it soon becomes clear that giving Will a ‘cause’ – although he himself says he has never had one ‒ allows us to explore more aspects of his character, as he stands up for what he believes in – friendship, honour, respect ‒ through his cricket, in the same way as Connie does through her Votes for Women campaign. That he fights for what he sees as important against a clearly demarcated ‘system’, allows us to root for him, and draw parallels between his character and Connie’s (who we are clearly supposed to empathise with – and successfully do), even as he behaves poorly towards her.

This careful, not-always-straightforward build-up of Will’s character allows us to see that, despite in some ways being the typical man who just takes it as read that a woman will defer to him, need rescuing, defending, speaking for, and give up her job on marriage (without being especially hard-line about it), he is not a harsh, cold man, but simply a product of his time, and, given the chance, is actually able to change his mind about votes for women and see women’s autonomy as a force for good, both on a professional (when Connie’s nurse training saves his life) and personal (when he longs for her autonomy in his relationship) level. Will provides a contrast to the hard-core anti-suffrage politicians of the day while also providing a contemporary context to other, less-typical viewpoints such as that of fellow, star cricketer and lonely, deeply-caring ‘Tam’, or Brigstock, Connie’s liberal artist friend, who offer little real resistance to the idea that women should be granted emancipation.

Connie Callaway: effective and strong

Votes for Women!

Connie’s character is equally as effective, if not more so. Casting her as a militant suffragette, albeit a slightly reluctant one unwilling to cause real harm or commit herself utterly to nothing but the cause, allows Quinn to demonstrate the different elements of the movement. Through her, we see the aristocratic (Connie is friends with an upper-class yet militant organiser), the hard-line (Connie meets the humourless and incredibly-focused Ivy in prison, who is later at the centre of a bomb plot that Connie herself flees), and the middle-of-the-road, in which throwing stones and selling newspapers is the more acceptable, understandable face of what was ultimately an illegal campaign.

The book’s tendency to always describe Connie in relation to other men, be it her late father, Will, Brigstocke, or Tam, also achieves several aims relating to the women’s struggle: namely that how suffragettes (and their non-militant counterparts, suffragists) didn’t exist in a bubble, but had to involve themselves with men in an establishment in which that sex ruled.

Contemporary suffragette cartoon – one of many ridiculing the suffragettes, who they were as women, and their political struggle

It also allows Quinn to show how the women involved in militancy weren’t hard-line women incapable or unwilling to enter into that perennial and contemporary  signifier of ‘femininity’ or ‘social acceptability’ – relationships with the opposite sex. Nor were they scary, manic terrorists that no-one could relate to, but women just like any other, who faced that timeless struggle between wanting companionship and the domesticity they had been brought up to expect, and the deep feeling that there is something more to be had: autonomy and the pursuit of personal justice at the expense of taking on the submissive role traditionally assigned to women at the time.

Rejection and conviction

The scenes in which Connie rejects Will, despite half of her desperately wanting him, are very affecting and extraordinarily well-described, as we see Will’s expectations that love will conquer all coming face-to-face with Connie’s steadfast attempts to hold on to the independence which she – all in possibility, rightly – accepts will be diminished should she marry. (Quinn’s hints at the conflicting depths loneliness can reach mark one of the standout strands running throughout the book.)

Will’s reaction at seeing Connie in prison, and his subsequent behaviour, is difficult for the reader to take, and yet it is only through such struggle that the full extent of Connie’s self-belief and courage is brought to light. Connie, a product of her time just as much as Will, is unable to articulate exactly what she is feeling, yet knows that she wants something more than the cosy, materially-assured life her sister, like so many others, has chosen.

Indeed, many of Connie’s choices, while being placed at a very different time, echo many of those still faced by many women today, such as, putting their own education or career on hold in favour of that of men, and facing a choice between personal autonomy and deference to the confines of domestic life.

Connie’s surprise at finding that the expensive car outside her parental home is that of her married sister and much-disliked (but rich) husband, coupled with her sorrow at their wedding, resonated particularly with me – as Connie is drawn to the car and wedding, noticing them for their conspicuousness and social acceptability, while being simultaneously repelled by their showy conformity.

Brigstocke: the meandering artist

Brigstocke, Connie’s artist friend, is an especially intriguing character. Sitting as he does on the creative fringes of society, a ‘typical’ artist who sketches women from life and sees himself as free from societal or political pressure, his is a rather ambivalent viewpoint. While not necessarily caring about the political morals of society or women’s rights as such, he manages to befriend women and paint them for who they are, without seeing them necessarily only as objects, or possessions to be disrespected and dismissed.

His ability to capture a woman’s essence without merely demeaning her character is played out very well in the scenes in which Will gets drunk, and ever-more-furiously offers money to Brigstocke in exchange for his portrait of Connie. Unsuccessful, Will is forced to realise that, despite his money and stubbornness, Connie is not a possession he can buy, or an argument he can win.

Coupled with the touching scenes during the war, in which Will is highly yet controversially moral, standing up fruitlessly for what he believes in, ending up injured and near-death at the mercy of female doctors and nurses, (and Connie’s feelings for him), Quinn’s steady yet compassionate depiction slowly builds up our view of Will’s character throughout the book – almost as if Quinn is making him prove his suitability for Connie’s independent heart, which could have been so easily taken instead by the doomed but intensely moral and loving Tam.

Historical descriptions: a triumph

Force-feeding women on hunger strike in prison: A suffragette poster

Quinn is clearly keen to demonstrate his understanding of the often-conflicting motivations behind the suffragette movement. He paints a convincing portrait of the contemporary view of militant suffragettes as law-breaking and unladylike nuisances, and displays with appalling precision the violence inflicted on such women by the police forces and prison officers of the time.

Quinn’s triumph is that, despite my knowing in some detail what happened to women in prison who went on hunger strike, his descriptions make it fresh and shocking, while the research about the notorious Holloway prison in particular sounds extremely convincing.

In a few short chapters we learn of the food the women were given, the conditions of their cells and day-to-day lives, the types of people who were imprisoned within, and the hostility – and possible empathy ‒ shown towards the unconventional inmates by the guards.

Quinn has that rare ability to present an atmosphere, a feeling, an unsaid thought or conflicted viewpoint without bludgeoning a sledgehammer through the narrative. His work is colourful, but gentle, always preferring to retreat quietly into a character’s own thoughts rather than hammer the story home with superlative plotlines or gratuituous events.

Compelling – but not flawless

However, despite this careful and affecting portrayal, peppered with compelling hints of drama and pathos – such as Connie’s throwing of wine in an MP’s face, her arrest, her conviction, her flight to Paris in the driving rain – Quinn’s book is not flawless.

Compelling as it is, certain elements seem rather tired and superfluous – with Will’s overbearing and disapproving mother a rather predictable trope of a conservative ‘older generation’ woman who sees militancy as contrary to the ‘respectable’ notions of the time – and the book does unfortunately seem to lose momentum slightly towards the end.

For example, after the war scenes, Connie’s commitment to the cause seems less strong, even though the suffragette movement did continue to exist after 1918. Readers of this book only hear about the granting of the vote to propertied women over thirty incidentally, through a fairly lacklustre conversation about Connie’s age, rather than through her own inner monologue or someone’s heartfelt relief or triumph at the new law, as we might have come to expect given the content of the book thus far.

Given the characters’ focus on the cause up to this point, I felt a little nonplussed at the ‘follow-up’ of the previously-compelling struggle, and felt that it betrayed the strength of feeling that had been seen so vibrantly at the beginning of the novel.

Historical holes

Votes for women – a contemporary WSPU badge

Also, it’s unfortunate that despite the evident extent of Quinn’s research in some places, the book’s conclusion is fairly historically simplistic, with the characters basically acknowledging that the vote was granted to women simply because of the ‘war work’ they did. That, my own studies have shown me, was certainly not the whole story – and, some historians contend, not the story at all.

For a start, only propertied women over thirty were given the vote in 1918; franchise on an equal par with men didn’t come in full for another ten years (1928), and the slow concession of rights to women was arguably much more about controlling the ‘lower classes’ and those without property or other demonstrable social standing (to show they could be ‘trusted’ with the vote), than it was about giving the vote to the many young women under thirty who had ‘done men’s jobs’ during the war.

Women’s war work – a contemporary Government poster

‘Men’s jobs’ was also something that I felt Quinn could have given more space to in the book:  despite going into some detail about Connie’s work in the women-run hospital, I felt that there could have been more said about the extent to which women took over men’s positions, and the reaction many had to giving up their jobs when the men ‒ many of whom were brutalised ‒ returned home wanting them back.

The complex situation, which actually saw many women gratefully return home, was much more than a case of ‘oh well, the women have shown they can work, so let’s just give them the vote’, although admittedly it did open the door for emancipation and women’s greater role in public society.

But Connie’s character still seems to lose its way, I felt.

She registers no indignation that, as a thirty-year-old, she is still much older than men have to be before being allowed to vote, and at this point in the novel seems far more distracted by Will and Tam than she ever had been before.

Quinn, while clearly developing the character and perhaps showing the extent to which her priorities have changed after the brutality and horrors of war, still comes perilously close to showing Connie’s previous actions as the ‘silly’ whims of a young, pre-war youth, and those of a post-war Connie, more concerned with health and marriage, as the ‘grown-up’, sensible adult.

This ending strikes me as somewhat disappointing, as I’m still not entirely convinced that Will has understood or changed enough to ensure Connie’s intellectual freedom won’t be compromised once she is a wife.

Like talking to an elderly relative

However, the characterisation, description, conflicts and scope of the book mean that this somewhat flat ending doesn’t ruin the experience overall. I was still left with the impression that this is an understanding, compassionate, affecting, compelling, empathetic and ultimately extremely memorable novel, which successfully explores historical concepts of gender, politics, militancy and relationships without ever becoming too heavy-handed, slow or damagingly simplistic.

I grew to love the characters and feel their humanity, and when I turned the last page, I was sad, and felt I’d emerged from the book gently educated about people and relationships in general, even despite the flaws, and wanted to know more – rather as one might after speaking to an elderly relative who gets some of the facts wrong yet describes an extraordinarily lively and fascinating memory nonetheless.

I highly recommend this book for anyone remotely interested in the suffragette movement, early twentieth-century politics, the concepts of loneliness and love, and, of all things (and which I never thought I’d say), cricket.

 4 out of 5 stars

Half The Human Race, by Anthony Quinn (2012, Vintage)

Tags: Anthony Quinn, book review, characters, equality, feminism, history, I love, suffragettes, war work, women, work, writing

Happiness: the antidote to an overloaded brain?

Happiness? What does it all mean?

I am interested in a lot of things. Clearly, there are also a lot of things I couldn’t give a toss about. But as things go, between history, music, art, travel, literature, film, crafts, cooking, writing, journalism, media and popular psychology, I seem to have far more in the way of interests than I do in time, and in trying to pursue them all, I teeter dangerously on the edge of that well-known backhanded compliment, ‘Jack-of-all-trades, master of none’.

And that’s putting it politely – in my desperation to try and learn more about everything I find interesting, I barely feel I’m managing the ‘jack’ part, never mind ‘master’.

My longings may require funds that I don’t have but this is only incidental; I hardly ever lust after possessions – I lust after experiences and feelings – such as wonder, intrigue, satisfaction, and, ultimately, though often elusively, contentment.

Florence…so beautiful! Let’s go tomorrow!

For example, while a trip round Italy – hey, why not an entire year in Italy? Or two? Or maybe, why not, a trip round Europe; teaching in Europe, writing in Europe, why not, I ask you, why not!? ‒ may require money and planning and time, I wouldn’t go just so that I could ‘say I had’, or visit the best hotels or eat the best food simply because I could. I’d want to go so that I could experience that art, culture, landscape, weather; taste the food, learn the beautiful language, feel the freedom of travelling around, being alive.

It sounds cheesy as hell, but I’m like this about everything I find interesting – like a hounddog, I get a whiff of something, and I’m off, dreaming about what that could be like, without any real idea of how to achieve that dream, and more often than not feeling disappointed at my lack of wherewithal to actually pick ONE THING and make any of it actually happen.

Apparently, you have to make money in this world, and can’t follow every whim you may have. Sigh, and double sigh. As the famous song goes, ‘they may say I’m a dreamer’, and while I may not be the only one, I often feel like the only one unable to actually make a go of anything.

When I grow up

Maybe it’s a symptom of being young, but as every year goes past, I feel less and less young, and am still haunted by the sense of depression and inertia that only seems to come from a seemingly incurable desire to do everything.

I’m twenty-four now (I swear I was only just twenty-one), and rather pathetically quite a large percentage of my thoughts start with the words ‘When I grow up/start my real career/get a boyfriend/find a flat/learn that language/do that course/get out of here/move there/figure out what I want to do with my life, I will…’.

Oh holy hell, this can’t be good.

Generally, I am always half concentrated on the task in hand, half dreaming about something else I want to do, something else I’d love to pursue, something else I’d love to know more about had I more time, money, energy, support.

As is often the refrain heard from people who know about these things when describing people like me: I end up wanting to do everything so much that I usually find myself completely paralysed, not knowing which way to go, and ending up doing next-to-nothing. This sets the vicious cycle in motion once more, and I get nothing done, yet accumulating more and more ideas of things I’ve love to do, if I had the time, knowledge, skill, money or, crucially, energy.

Not getting up today, OK?

Crucial, because sometimes, having such a vast array of interests but no real idea of which to actually favour, can provide me with the fuel I need to get up every day, the mental animation to an otherwise inert, grey day; the motivation and inner dreams; the sugary syrup to life’s otherwise bitter fruit (otherwise known as commuting, rain, alarm clocks, and the terrible chasm between how good that chocolate fondant tastes vs how bad you know it is for your health).

But, sometimes, the feeling of always chasing some new idea, some new thought; interest, desire, tidbit of knowledge and interesting fact or concept you didn’t  know before but which might just hold the key to unlock the door to your own inner understanding and peace, can be thoroughly exhausting, and leaves me wanting to do nothing more than turn over and go back to sleep – something which, in itself, isn’t conducive to getting a whole lot done, and helps drag me listlessly into a deep depression of inertia and black self-doubt.

Happiness

Ultimately though, this much I know: in my crazy pursuit of all things ‘interesting’, I am really only after one thing. Happiness and contentment. Everything else is extra.

Happiness, as far as I can tell, is a state of mind. In my more peaceful moments, I can convince myself that nothing else matters: as long as I can sit quietly for a while, I can be happy. But it seems to be more than that and must be, I reason, at least somewhat related to what’s important to you. While pursuing achievement in itself can be a toxic ambition, happiness can’t be just good breathing and sitting still – but at the moment, I’m feeling utterly overwhelmed at my inability to put my finger on what else it is.

Could helping myself understand how to be happy also help me understand how to stop my thoughts and desires running away from me in a depressive maelstrom of tangled, half-formed, half-baked ideas?

‘Happiness’ has become a pretty big deal in the past few years. Blame it on the recession – I don’t know – but it seems that just as I myself ‘grew up’ (ha), graduated from University, needed to figure out my own way in the world and realised that the pursuit of money, possessions and fancy jobs wasn’t what was going to bring me happiness, a whole community of people saying the same thing suddenly became popular as well.

Adulthood…oh, the joys (from the hilarious Xkcd)

Maybe it’s just how it looks to me, but in the past few years, this ‘pursuit of happiness’ has seemingly exploded – there are now internet sites, blogs, podcasts, books and online courses, among booklets free with newspapers, or magazines such as the wonderful Psychologies, which go beyond traditional, cheesy ‘self-help’, and actually seek, often without much, if any, financial sacrifice, to help you re-train your brain, master your thoughts, question the status quo; reject the capitalist, consumerist society that always demands that you buy more, want more, without ever giving anything back to your own piece of mind.

There are now mental health courses based on Cognitive Behavioural Therapy available on the NHS – I mean, you could hardly get more mainstream, and rightly. Finally, the barriers to mental health, the stigma surrounding it, and the enormous and nebulous question of what it actually means to be happy – rather than just ‘successful’, i.e. rich ‒ in today’s world, is finally being asked and tackled, by thinkers, doctors, philosophers and writers far more erudite and qualified than little old confused me.

But while this all sounds fantastic, unsurprisingly, given my preponderance for indecision (see above for further details), I find that this in itself can be a double-edged sword.

Happiness – just Google it, that will solve it

Just another thing to think about?

Because in some ways, searching for what will make me ‘happy’; this ‘pursuit of happiness’ ‒ wondering about the best way to meditate or do yoga; which philosophy to follow, if at all, what motivational thoughts to learn, whether to embrace meditation or mindfulness (or both; are they the same thing?), what to write in my daily ‘journal’, whether by podcast, by newspaper, by magazine, by book, by online course ‒ looks dangerously like another swirling Aladdin’s cave of ideas and unhelpful but dazzling red herrings that I don’t need in my overloaded brain, which, as I’ve mentioned, is already groaning under the weight of things undone, languages unlearned, weight unlost, foods untasted, books unread, blogs undiscovered, roads untravelled – not to mention the crushing, ever-niggling guilt I feel at having such middle-class, first-world problems in the first place.

Is there really room in my life for discovering how to be happy, as well?

Well, I would contend that, with a little help, there is.

You may have guessed that another issue I have on a daily basis (add that to the to-do list) is not updating this blog enough, and often, it’s because I’m not sure what to prioritise, what to put, what tack to take – not to mention not physically having enough time to actually sit down and write in the first place.

But woefully unloved though it may be, this blog is if nothing else, a space for my thoughts. And since a good deal of my thoughts focus on a) how to be happy b) how to achieve what I dream about and c) how to deal with having so many thoughts in the first place, I will be cataloguing, as much as I can, my journey through happiness, my attempts to grapple with the overload of information in which I currently feel I may drown.

This may include ‘happiness’ book reviews, snippets of inspiring sentences I’ve found; new avenues out of the frequently-deafening mental din that I, usually entirely unnecessarily, make around myself, and, tiresomely, keep finding myself in almost as soon as I thought I’d found a way out.

Suzy Greaves – Author and creator of ‘The Big Leap’ book and blog programme

It will document the new, free ‘Big Leap’ course that I’ve signed up for (entirely the work of the brilliant and scarily-inspiring Suzy Greaves, who I’ve been lucky enough to chat to in person and who is as genuine as she is enthusiastic), as well as the meditation ‘Headspace’ programme by former Buddhist monk Andy Puddicombe.

A quick Google will reveal that I am by no means the first to try and do this; there are countless (literally, countless, it’s pretty overwhelming) other blogs out there focusing on these subjects; many other ‘happiness projects’ where fantastic, organised and eloquent bloggers deal deftly and regularly with these issues with humour and style – but rather than seeing them as competition, or as evidence that I shouldn’t even bother, I’ve decided to see them as fellow ‘happiness seekers’ – all trying to find the definition of the word that works for them.

At the moment I’m making none of the rigid promises that other successful bloggers on this theme have done – e.g. ‘happiness tip of the week’, or ‘inspiration of the month’ ‒ because frankly, I don’t trust myself to keep to that schedule nor feel remotely qualified to offer up any real advice.

All I’m trying to do is keep track of my own attempts at happiness and what that could mean – and maybe, through this, anyone who happens upon this blog (hello, if you’re reading, thanks and congrats on getting this far) might start thinking about their own meaning of happiness too.

Because after all ‒ despite my always wanting to be doing something else, being somewhere else, discovering, learning, trying, experiencing something new – no matter who you are, what you want, what you believe in, what drives you ‒ isn’t happiness all there is?

Tags: blogs, depression, explore, happiness, I love, overwhelmed, writing

My TV: online and on-demand

Apparently, recent research has found that 1 in 4 British people (26%) now claim to spend more time watching TV through ‘on-demand’ services, such as BBC’s iPlayer, YouTube or Channel 4’s 4OD, than they do watching traditional ‘linear’ broadcast TV. Among young people ages 18 to 24, the figure jumps to a substantial 41%.

Frankly, though, as far as I can see, the only surprising thing here is that the figure isn’t higher.

I can safely say that I never, ever watch television when it’s actually on.

BBC iPlayer – ever-changing portal into all the latest TV

BBC iPlayer, and its (sadly inferior) cousins, are a permanent fixture on my computer, be it stored up in a list of tabs I’ve collected while browsing, saving them for later when I’ve got time to sit down and watch them properly, or actually playing – in the background as I potter around doing things, behind my Word document as I write, perched on my bed as I snuggle down for the evening, catching up on all the great programmes I’ve ‘missed’.

Except, I don’t actually consider myself to have ‘missed’ them – because that would suggest that I aimed to watch them live, when first broadcast, and failed.

I didn’t – on demand services have completely revolutionised the way that I – and people like me ‒ watch TV, to the point where I don’t even try to watch programmes live anymore.

Going out or staying in?

Gone is the feeling from years ago of having to ‘stay in’ and watch things, of having to choose between going out, or following your favourite show. I remember when I was growing up, for example, I used to love watching that paragon of televisual perfection (ahem) Casualty, but not only could I not keep up with it because of missing every other Saturday, but I also suffered the crushing social humiliation (sob) of having people mock me because I’d prefer to spend a night in front of the TV than go out (such a cool kid).

Nowadays, I can go out without a thought for what might be on TV, and can also watch all the utter rubbish I like without anyone knowing (unless I write about it, of course – a whole other issue). Bliss!

I wouldn’t dream of scheduling my life around television anymore.

Sky+ HD box…record away

My house does still have a television, but I don’t watch live TV on that either. We happen to have Sky+, but there are a multitude of others providers available – TiVo, Virgin Media, to name a few ‒ that allow you to record programmes and watch them later on. If I lived alone, I would probably dispense with the TV altogether, save myself the licence fee, and watch everything online.

(The only problem I can foresee in such a model is that if everyone did that, there would be no licence fee and the BBC would cease to function. Perhaps if the industry reaches that stage, anyone watching iPlayer, live or not, would have to pay – and really, I think that would probably be perfectly fair – I’d certainly be willing to pay even if I only watched the BBC online.)

Nowadays, I rarely go straight home after work. I usually go out somewhere, with friends, to an event, to my barbershop choir practice, to the gym.

And then there’s over an hour’s trip home, not counting the quick dash around the supermarket on the way out of the station, the walk back, or the making of dinner and tomorrow’s lunch as soon as I walk through the door. That’s before I’ve even eaten the dinner, tidied up the kitchen, or spoken to anyone in my house.

It’s no surprise, really, that most nights I’m not free to actually watch a thing until at least half 9, if not half 10 or later. If I only had live television to choose from, I’d catch programmes as they were finishing at best; completely miss everything worth watching at worst.

Televisual greats

TV, as old-fashioned as it sometimes seems, with its potential to fade in the digital Internet age, is still absolutely a thriving medium.

The glorious Mary Beard on the equally fantastic ‘Meet The Romans’, BBC 1

Innovative programmes pop up all the time, programmes that seem to re-invent the wheel, and stay on top. Witness recent greats – both intellectual, highly-entertaining and/or ratings-winning ‒ such as Mary Beard’s Meet The Romans, BBC One’s The Voice UK, ITV’s Downton Abbey, BBC stalwart David Attenborough’s fantastic HD shows such as Life and Frozen Planet, to name but a few ‒ all nestling successfully among old favourites such as the tired-but-still-fighting Top Gear, iconic football roundup Match of The Day, or weekend perennial Saturday Kitchen with its new sister show, Saturday Kitchen Best Bites or political commentary AM with Andrew Marr ‒ all proving that audiences still aren’t bored of genres that one might otherwise have argued were on their way downhill.

I might rebuke traditional viewing, but I am still a TV-lover, and will scour the schedules for anything that takes my fancy.

Rachel Khoo in her ‘Little Paris Kitchen’

I look forward to the latest episode of my new TV favourites that I can catch online – which in recent weeks and months have included (among many) Downtown Abbey, The Romans, Rachel Khoo’s The Little Paris Kitchen, Ewan McGregor’s Cold Chain Mission, The Voice UK, Saturday Kitchen (as ever), James Martin’s Operation Hospital Food, Two Greedy Italians: Still Hungry, Sicily Unpacked, legal drama Silk, Shakespeare in Italy as part of the BBC’s absolutely wonderful ‘Shakespeare Unlocked’ season, Rick Stein’s foray into the American Deep South blues culture Rick Stein Tastes The Blues, his fabulous Spain series, Jamie Oliver’s Jamie’s Great Britain programmes, Great British Menu, Masterchef, the brilliant Call The Midwife, Indian Ocean with Simon Reeve, Louis Theroux’s incredible documentaries on autism and dementia, BBC Three’s fascinating I Woke Up Gay, and the recent BBC documentary on Fleetwood Mac…at great length, I could go on.

Of course, you can see a theme here:  my choice of programmes primarily centre around food, history, travel, culture and sometimes music ‒ and this in itself proves that for me, as my life is now, there is absolutely no reason to watch television as it’s on, bar perhaps having to avoid the news for a while so I’m not inadvertently informed of who’s been voted off The Voice.

As anyone can choose what they want to watch in much the same way when doing so online, I see no reason why anyone would need to always watch TV only when it’s first on.

I can still get my fill of fabulous programmes, tailored pretty much exactly to my tastes, watched soon after their initial transmission date, free from the dictations of having to watch live. I can escape adverts, long waits between shows; the rush to get home before I miss the beginning or indeed, the entire thing.

I can join in with the online and/or media debate surrounding programmes; add to the topical discussions at work or home, agree or disagree with my fellow watchers, deplore or adore programmes to my heart’s content, all without feeling tethered to my television like some prisoner on house arrest.

I can read reviews and arguments before I’ve seen the show in question, pressing play on my screen with the smug satisfaction of someone who has had read around the subject and is now ready to make their own judgements.

I can go out, stay in, play, replay, without fear that I’ve missed a crucial twist in the story – my only worry being that there will be too much to watch, and I won’t manage to get through it all before the cruel, cruel iPlayer controllers whisk it off the schedule before I’ve had a chance to indulge.

Mind the age gap

However, among all this wonder, it seems that the ease with which I manipulate the schedules for my own viewing pleasure – a revelation, and indeed, the only way I can watch TV due to the hectic, commuting lifestyle I share with millions of others – is woefully yet to spread among the majority of the public.

Not only does the research suggest this, but my mum – by no means representative alone but spouting an opinion which seems to be shared by a fair few, especially those of her age group – maintains that, despite our Sky+ recordings, if she doesn’t catch a programme as it’s on, that’s it; she probably won’t see it. Basically, this means that she doesn’t see much at all. Some might say that makes her more discerning – but actually, I just see it as someone who is wilfully missing out on a whole world of fabulous, armchair travelling, intellectually-stretching, eye-opening, culturally-enriching and entertaining golden nuggets of information, which also happen to be easily accessible and totally free to watch.

This saddens my heart.

The Internet as innovation

The Internet…oh, how things have changed

Long since promoted from the darkened bedrooms of sad, lonely, middle-aged blokes, the Internet is now rightly heralded as a force for creativity, allowing new connections, new communities and outlets to thrive; providing a window on to a growing scene of innovation and social commentary that would have remained hidden and undeveloped but ten or fifteen years ago.

People my age often do everything on the Internet (or digitally, in some respect) – and people younger than me definitely do so. I shop, write, keep in touch with friends, buy holidays, flights, train tickets, books and magazines online.

I read newspapers, listen to the radio, find out the weather forecast, help prepare for my tutoring lessons, translate languages, settle arguments, set up dates, suggest meet-ups with friends, keep up with what old school and Uni mates are doing, all online.

I can find new music, new books, new movies; discover lyrics, songs, theories or historical documents; pursue philosophical arguments, follow style, psychology, history, journalism, science and happiness blogs; I can meet and talk to people interested in the same subjects as I am, both online and, because of a meet-up arranged online, often continue the conversations in person.

So why, pray tell, would I not watch TV online also?

Ladies and gentlemen of the still mainly live-watching public – I implore you: find that record button, type in that web address.

You have nothing to lose but your TV guides.

Tags: BBC iPlayer, Carluccio, fabulous, films, food, Gennaro Contaldo, I love, Italy, Mary Beard, Rachel Khoo, research, television, The Voice, time

Dear The Huffington Post: A letter I wish I didn’t need to write

Dear The Huffington Post,

It pains me that, in 2012, I need to write this, but, surprise, if Bar Rafaeli tweets that she had a pat-down at the airport that made her uncomfortable, then that’s it. End of story. If anything, such a revelation prompts an investigation into the practices of American frisking staff, and emphatically NOT the incredibly misjudged, misogynistic and utterly mind-baffling array of ignorance that you actually published, which went far beyond the value of the non-news story you were trying to mock.

Yes, Bar Rafaeli is a supermodel with dubious choices in fashion, underwear and frankly occupation. Yes, she’s more traditionally ‘beautiful’ than most other people getting a pat-down in your average airport queue. Yes, she’s using a very public forum to air her view, so is technically giving people the right to discuss what she may or may not have meant, or why she’s chosen to air her views in that way, without her having the opportunity to reply.

But the news that a woman – hell, a person ‒ whoever she or he is, felt uncomfortable during what should be an entirely perfunctory and routine check to ensure safety and nothing more (I’ve been frisked at airports loads of times and never once felt uncomfortable with the actions of the woman doing it), does not give you free rein to suggest that, perhaps because for some, she is easy on the eye, she is ‘humblebragging’, or in any way deserved it.

Leaving your frankly startling (if, admittedly, illustrative) mangling of the English language there for the moment, to suggest that a woman is drawing attention to something she felt uncomfortable with as a backhanded way to ‘big up’ her own beauty is utterly patronising and contemptuous. Nothing in the tweet suggests that Rafaeli meant it in that way ‒ granted, if she had signed off saying ‘Just got groped #itsahardlifebeingthisgorgeouslol’, I’d be writing a very different article. But she bloody well didn’t.

Unfortunately, it pains me to inform you that you haven’t succeeded in writing the witty article you thought you had. Instead, you’ve come within a string-bikini’s-breadth of suggesting that because Rafaeli is traditionally good looking (and yes, trades off those looks, which is a whole other subject), she deserves a grope, and should expect it, suggesting therefore that it is the woman (or man’s) fault when they are a victim of serious harassment.

Good looking or wearing revealing clothes? Expect a grope in the airline queue, ladies!

Oh yeah, let’s set the cause for equal rights back a hundred years, shall we? If a girl has the temerity to be a woman dressed in anything less than a sack, she is asking for it, right?

Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I’m certain you wouldn’t want to imply that just because someone is rich, mildly famous and models underwear, they shouldn’t be allowed to whinge about an unwanted sexual grope now and again, right? Right?

Erm, no, absolutely fucking not. You don’t even need me to go in to the woefully low rates of conviction regarding sexual assault and rape ‒ or highlight some of the hideously immoral governments around the world (including some slightly closer to home than we’d all like to admit) that continue to enshrine in law the view that the blame for the mainly male-perpetrated, disgusting gender-related sexual crimes that take place against women on a daily basis lies with women themselves ‒ to describe how much that answer is no, right?

Harassment, intimidation, victimisation or rape, to use those examples in this case, in any form, is the fault of the perpetrator. Always, no ifs, no buts. End of story.

Whether the pat-down was entirely routine and Rafaeli misjudged its intention doesn’t even come into this. If she was made to feel uncomfortable, she was, and it shouldn’t have happened, and shouldn’t be allowed to happen to someone else (the unwanted touching, not the pat-down ‒ airport security is a whole other can of worms – smaller than 100ml and packed in a square plastic wallet, obviously). As I said at the beginning of this, the only thing it possibly merits is an investigation into the practices of airport security officers, if that.

To suggest that Rafaeli a) was bragging about being inappropriately patted-down, b) should expect it because she’s good looking and famous and/or c) deserves to have tunes offered up on the world’s smallest violin for her trouble, is fucking offensive, and I would have expected better from a usually interesting, forward-thinking and erudite publication such as yourselves.

Also, to insinuate that Rafaeli has no complaint purely because she got a foot massage the next day is so mindblowing stupid I don’t even know where to start. So I’ll end – restless in the knowledge that until this kind of bullshit stops getting published on usually-upstanding high-profile blogging sites such as yours, and added to in all manner of utterly shortsighted ways by equally misguided below-the-line commenters, feminism and all its followers still have a heck of a job to do.

Yours sincerely,

This blog.

Tags: annoying, body image, feminism, journalism, tired, vacuous crap, women

TV review: BBC 1′s fabulous new talent show: The Voice UK

The Voice UK

The fact that The Voice focuses on talent rather than the sheer batshit-mental, ‘eccentric’ types we’ve had the misfortune to see on other shows, makes it seem fresh, exciting, nurturing and fun – everything you’d want in a talent show, basically (…and having the lovely Danny O’Donoghue as one of the judges may also have something to do with it)

Again, I’m revealing the fact that I’ve been away, and when it comes to TV, I’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Happily, I’ve not been disappointed – the Easter bank holiday weekend plus the terrible weather has given me no shortage of time to check out all the shows I’ve been missing, and The Voice UK is one of the programmes that has really hit the spot.

I’ll admit I had been avoiding this programme, simply out of sheer fatigue at more bloody ‘talent’ shows. From being an avid X Factor fan a few years ago, in more recent years I have found myself getting too bored to watch; too jaded and too disappointed with the cynical, point-and-laugh formula that the Simon Cowell juggernaut kept pushing out with energy-sapping regularity. The over-the-top music, the focus on ‘sob-stories’ rather than talent, the emphasis on the judges rather than the acts, the hysteria over the US version, the less-than-inspiring competitors, the similarity to all-round freak show Britain’s Got Talent, and the frankly medieval penchant for laughing at hopefuls without a snowball’s chance in hell; it was all too much, and I could no longer be bothered (nor was I the only one – even Cowell didn’t turn up to the last series, and viewing figures plummeted as Gary Barlow and the forgettable other three took over the show’s listing reins).

Actually, as I pressed play, I didn’t expect The Voice to be that different. However, its unique selling point of not showing the judges the singers until they’d heard their voices, seemed a tantalising and worthy attempt at reversing some of the superficiality of the aforementioned show, and I wanted to see just how it worked.

Pretty much instantly, I was hooked. Gone were the ridiculously shouty intros, the operatic music introducing the judges as if they were gods, the over-the-top sob stories, and the truly awful competitors who couldn’t sing a note.

Here were four judges, managing, despite their huge fame, popularity and status, to stay on the right side of humble, the right side of interested in the music; and while the set is predictably massive and the contestants’ family and friends are still filmed screaming slightly too-loudly backstage, for me the show’s format of not letting mentors see the acts until they’ve already decided that they like them, works impeccably well.

The Voice UK judges - Jessie J, The Script's Danny O'Donoghue, the legendary Tom Jones and one quarter of US group The Black Eyes Peas, Will.I.Am

Not only are the judges eminently likeable, the fact that they are denied what the audience can immediately see, puts them refreshingly on the back foot as we and they are forced – unlike in so many other shows ‒ to focus on the hopeful’s talent and vocal ingenuity, rather than pointing-and-laughing at their boring/tarty/ridiculous/old/young/fat/thin look. And this means that the judges have to swallow their egos, shut up, listen, and consider the candidate purely based on their voice, rather than making a biased decision before the poor person on stage has even opened their mouth. Suddenly, it’s about the music again, as it was supposed to be right from the beginning, when Cowell’s original Pop Idol was but an infant format just hoping to take off (ah, those halcyon days).

Watching The Voice, I’m suddenly interested in the person’s vocal agility, their musical inspiration – who are they hoping will turn around? Which of the judges, and their varying musical backgrounds, will be most suited to mentoring the fresh hopeful standing vulnerably on the stage? Is there any similarity between their voice and those of the four people with their backs turned? It forces you to listen, and to appreciate the person’s looks and moves second. It’s a singer’s dream.

And while pop stars are, of course, all about the image as well as the voice (Jessie J, Will.I.Am, Tom Jones and Danny O’Donoghue are hardly sitting there looking like geography teachers, now are they?), it’s clear that this show is more interested in longevity (Tom Jones, I mean you) as well as nurturing real talent, than its ‘talent search’ predecessors. After all, anyone can get a stylist – but not everyone has the vocals to deserve one.

It certainly helps that the producers of this show seem far more interested in sourcing talent than securing controversial talking points in tomorrow’s papers. While a few hints of a sob-story do manage to eke their way in to some of the pre-song videos at times, it always stays manageable, and we still want the contestant to do well not because of a supposed ‘tragic’ past, but because we see how much it means to them, and how they’ve worked for their act. There’s also far more talent on show even at this stage, and I was never troubled by that sinking, uncomfortable feeling that I was bearing witness to the cat-strained vocal stylings of an unsound mind. It’s crazy that I’d even have to say it, but the fact that The Voice focuses on talent rather than the sheer batshit-mental, ‘eccentric’ types we’ve had the misfortune to see on other shows, makes it seem fresh, exciting, nurturing and fun – everything you’d want in a talent show, basically.

The fact that the chairs the judges sit on are just so freaking cool – bash! Around they go, a rollercoaster seat lit with lightsabers, ringing to the sound that a super-hero makes as they jet off into space ‒ is but a super ass-kicking addition to what has become a new and guilty televisual pleasure. I was on the edge of my (sadly way less cool) seat waiting to see which judge would turn round, which would stay still, and what their faces would look like when they saw the act that I’d already started to cheer on with the rest of the audience.

That the show is on the BBC and therefore blissfully unabridged by inane, head-banging-into-wall adverts every fifteen seconds, also helps my enjoyment enormously (while the fact that Danny O’Donoghue melts my heart and mind with every move, smile, swagger and head-nod is, obviously, neither here nor there.)

Looks versus talent?   

Prior to watching, I’d read a lot of criticisms about The Voice – all of which pretty much centred upon the fact that they judges DO eventually see the contestants, DUH, because they turn around, thereby, it has been alleged, negating the show’s whole USP.

But I was pleasantly surprised to find that this judgement actually, I think, falls flat given that the judges see the contestants only when they’ve already made a decision. Of course they see them – attempting to hide the singers away forever would be nonsensical and ignoring the fact that image is still important when it comes to acts; which is, I hasten to add, not necessarily a bad thing. (This post isn’t the place to go in to a full-blown discussion about it, and of course there are serious issues inherent within the act of emphasising a singer’s look to the expense of their sound, sexing them up and styling them to the point where their raw talent is all but obliterated, but in this case, that Tom Jones looks different to Will.I.Am is just common sense, not to mention indicative of the kind of artists they are.)

Basically, the fact that the judges have to make a decision before setting eyes on the hopefuls gives the fledgling singers a chance, and allows their raw style (if it’s there) to come through, putting the judges firmly in their place, giving the floor (and sometimes, the power to choose which mentor they have) back in the hands of the singer themselves. It is sad that some of the more memorable and promising contestants aren’t chosen, but that’s the intriguing point of The Voice – someone who on other programmes might have been whisked through to the next round purely thanks to their crazy look or desperate eyes, just doesn’t cut the mustard on this particular show.

Sometimes, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense – it was certainly weird when Kerry Ellis, a fantastically powerful singer who has sung accompanied by Brian May from Queen and is well-known in the West End for her many roles on some of the most famous musicals ever, didn’t get through. But perhaps she just wasn’t original or interesting enough  – after all, the judges can still enjoy a singer without feeling compelled to push the button in desperate hope that they will be given the chance to mentor that particular talent. In a twist that makes the show even more watchable, the judges don’t merely have to say whether they like an act or not – they also have to believe in them enough to actually want to mentor them. The stakes are higher – and I love it.

With the ‘Blind Auditions’ nearly over (although I’ve got one episode to go before I’m fully caught up with the rest of the nation), I can’t wait to see what happens next.

Will the show descend in to arguments between judges, fights over style; battles of wills as the huge egos of judges and contestants alike become tangled in sad, slippery tugs-of-war that end in over-the-top TV sending viewers turning off in droves? Will the show lose its unique and heartfelt selling point now that we can see what the singers actually look like? Will the talent, so raw and stunning at the beginning, become forgotten as the ‘mentoring’ kicks in?

Who knows – but I truly hope not. Of course, The Voice is but a TV show, and can’t escape all the cynical, money-making publicity/ratings battle/music industry problems inherent within that fact. But if, despite this, it manages to stay true to the ideals that ostensibly set it apart from The X Factors of this world, then good on it – I’ll keep watching.

Because, if The Voice succeeds, it will have done something amazing (as well as bringing Danny O’Donoghue’s delectable demeanour and heart-wrenchingly beautiful Irish accent onto primetime TV where it so obviously belongs): it will have resurrected a TV format that we all thought was gone and dead in the water – and put centre stage what has long been forgotten.

Not the ridiculousness of the person’s look, the obnoxiousness of their act; the madness of their approach; the dollar-signs shining in the eyes of their cynical producers; the extent to which they can garner baffled column inches and incredulous laughs; but something altogether more pure, interesting, creative, artistic and human: their voice.

The Voice UK continues on Saturday, 7pm on BBC 1

See the show’s website here

Tags: BBC, Danny O'Donoghue, favourite, I love, Jessie J, music, Singing, television, The Voice UK, The X Factor, Tom Jones, Will.I.Am