A painted house

Well, I don't have anything to say today, so in the absence of any coherent words, here's a pretty picture I took in Oriel Square this afternoon on my way to the shops in Cornmarket Street.

David Beckham and the Crock of Hype

Few things in life are guaranteed to irritate me more swiftly than ill-founded cultural elitism. Actually, well-founded elitism doesn't sit any better with me, but in this instance I am thinking of the kind of culture Nazi who embarks upon unprovoked assaults on your taste in music or movies or books, whichever they consider their personal area of artistic expertise. As much as I love Oxford there is no pretending the city is not awash with such pseuds - I know one or two of these specimens personally, one in particular who feels it's his mission in life to deride music he doesn't approve of. Perhaps I'm excessively touchy about this sort of thing, but I fail to see how you can avoid taking this as a personal slight since taste is highly personal, especially your taste in things in which you are particularly interested.

Regardless, such criticism betrays an unpleasant arrogance and willingness to offend, often in wildly inappropriate circumstances. I was in the pub with a bunch of friends and ex-colleagues in Jericho a few months ago. We all left pretty late and I offered three of them a ride home to save them considerable time waiting for buses or a few quid on a cab ride. No sooner had I turned the key in the ignition than our self-appointed arbiter of taste decided to protest vigorously at what's in my CD player. Perhaps thirty seconds of "Are You Gonna Move It For Me" had elapsed before a snort of "What the hell's this rubbish?" emerged from the back seat. Instead of either snapping "It's the Donnas, and they fucking rock" and cranking it way up or inviting him to consider whether now was the time to be impersonating Lester Bangs in light of who was giving whom a ride, I merely sighed and punched a random button on the autochanger and we got a blast of Rammstein instead, Sehnsucht as I recall, which met with a little less disapproval.

However, I digress. At the risk of sounding like the kind of culture fascists who so arouse my ire, I found myself nodding in agreement throughout the whole of this article by David Aaronovitch in today's Observer Review section regarding the nauseatingly excessive marketing of both the new Harry Potter book and David Beckham's transfer to Real Madrid this week. Like Aaronovitch, my problem is not that I dislike Harry Potter or think the books are rubbish, or that I regard Beckham as mediocre. I've read the first couple of Potter books and enjoyed them immensely and as a season ticket holder at another Premiership club I've seen Beckham's considerable talents up close a number of times and even enjoyed them on occasion, despite the skewering of my team they orchestrated. The issue I have is that the hype regarding both is so overbearing that it renders both a matter of supreme indifference at best, more likely intense irritation.

To remark upon the coverage of Beckham's move rather than the Potter publication, the coverage has been incessant and increasingly pointless - and anyone who thinks this is an oxymoron hasn't been watching Sky Sports News this last week, as they reported breathlessly upon Manchester United's acceptance of a bid on behalf of Barcelona from a man who wasn't even a club official, read aloud rumours direct from the back pages of the tabloids and treated the views of barely lucid ex-players with the gravity which current affairs programmes accord to heavyweight political commentators.

There was nothing to say. It was transparently obvious that United were going to sell Beckham rather than keep him. It was equally obvious that the number of realistic likely destinations was less than two, given that Barcelona had no Champions League participation to offer and that AC Milan repeatedly stated that they weren not interested in him. Only Real Madrid had the required money and profile. Who the hell cares so much that this obscene level of coverage is warranted? I'm a committed and active football fan and a big admirer of Beckham but I couldn't care less. Yet in this age of the three-minute attention span we were expected to maintain a ludicrous level of fascination for over a week with the less-than-enthralling non-saga of the transfer of a gifted footballer from one wildly successful and un/popular corporate entity to one even more so.

What probably irritates at least as much is the fact that even the broadsheets who are deriding such blanket coverage are indulging in it themselves. A glance at the Guardian Football site today shows no less than eleven headlines on the subject, none of which had anything new to report or offered an interesting alternative view of the whole charade. Whichever way you look at it, no news is still no news. And if there's no news, why print it?

Love is like a butterfly

Thecko: Moths piss me right off.
snappish: Me too. I hate the flappy little bastards. If I was God there would be a jihad against moths.
Thecko: This one's crawling about on my monitor ... reluctant to swat though - LCD screen, don't wanna damage it.
snappish: What am I talking about? If I was God there'd be no need for a jihad, I would just uncreate them.
Thecko: I could do with a blow torch in here ... "fly into that, bastard!"
snappish: Can there be a common insect as annoying as moths? They're worse than Geordies.
Thecko: Scousers maybe?

We are an uncle!

I am delighted to announce the arrival at 00:47 BST, June 17, 2003 of my nephew Alexander James Johnson, weighing 8lbs despite being absolutely tiny.

He was delivered by Caesarean operation, having inconvenienced my sister by refusing to show up for the thick end of 48 hours. Mom, Dad and son are doing great nonetheless - not that Dad contributed much besides not having enough petrol in the car to get them to the hospital on Sunday morning after the waters broke, perhaps not his finest moment :-) Mom is somewhat tired, son is positively serene and Dad is learning to change nappies.

The radio plays Roy Orbison singing for the lonely

Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band
Crystal Palace National Sports Stadium, London, Monday/Tuesday May 26/27
Lancashire County Cricket Club, Manchester, Thursday May 29

So I spent most of last week concentrating on Bruce Springsteen. Because of the number of gigs I've been going to lately the E Street Band concerts rather crept up on me. The shows were unbelievable. I've seen him six times before, three in 1988 and three in 1993 and these shows were not only the best of all, but the best shows I've seen in my life. Each show was substantially different, especially the two nights in London, with Bruce complementing the songs from The Rising by pulling out songs I'd never heard him do and thought I'd die before hearing; most of which were among my all-time favourites - "The Ties That Bind", "Darlington County", "Candy's Room", "Night", "Jungeland","Racing In The Street", "Sherry Darling", the marvellous "Devil With The Blue Dress" medley that he's hardly ever played in Europe and probably best of all "4th Of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)" which hadn't appeared anywhere on the tour. Over the first two nights in London alone he played all but two songs from Born To Run and managed to air half of Darkness On The Edge Of Town.

The choice of non-Rising songs was almost spooky; on the way to the first London show I was listening to The River as I bowled down the M40 and was reminded of how much I loved "The Ties That Bind" which was the first non-Rising song that night, after opening with "The Rising" and "Lonesome Day". On the way the next day I listened to "Sherry Darling" thinking what a shame it was that I'd never hear it live. It's been among my favourite Bruce songs since I first listened to him 18 years ago and for me sums up in four joyous minutes pretty much everything that makes Bruce and the E Street Band great: the sound of riding in cars with the windows down, the sun blazing and rock'n'roll music on the radio; what Bruce himself once described as "that rollerskating sound". And there it was in the middle of the show. Then he threw the "Devil With The Blue Dress" medley into the encores which I loved maybe even more because I was so convinced I'd never hear it. And then the first encore he did in Manchester was the 30-year-old "4th Of July, Asbury Park (Sandy)" from The Wild, The Innocent & The E Street Shuffle, which must be one of the best-loved of all his songs among the long-term fans.

And then there's the legendary and ludicrous energy level he puts in every night. He ran around the stage and sang at the top of his voice for three hours and ten minutes in Manchester (and bear in mind that he longer takes an interval). No wonder he looked absolutely knackered. I hope I'm even half that fit when I'm 53 years old. Not only that but without having to arrive at the venues obscenely early I was still lucky enough to be very close to the front each night with a clear unimpeded view of all ten members of the band. Even the weather was great - bright and sunny on Monday, dull but dry and warm Tuesday and blazing sunshine yesterday - in Manchester, the rain capital of England! Just an utterly wonderful week. If you didn't make it, here are the setlists to make you jealous :-)

London, May 26
London, May 27
Manchester, May 29