Who Are the Dopes - The Brits or the Rest of the World?

                              

With just seven months to go before the biggest sporting event in the world comes to London, British athletes are divided over whether their strong stance against drugs in sport should be matched by the rest of the world’s weaker ruling, or vice versa.

As the rules stand now, British drug cheats will be prevented from competing in their home Olympic Games even though they have served a two-year world wide ban.  They will watch other offenders from elsewhere, such as American Lashawn Merritt, who will defend his 400 metres Olympic gold medal despite being caught using performance enhancing drugs after the Beijing Games in 2008, lining up at London 2012 in search of medals, fame and mass financial reward. 

Although all athletes in Olympic sports are banned for two years for most doping offences once the suspension is completed they are allowed to return to action. It is only the British Olympic Association (BOA) that prevents British athletes who have been banned for drugs from competing at any Olympic Games.

This year, more than ever, the British stance has come into focus, not only with those British former cheats hit by the BOA who realise a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to perform at a home Olympics has been taken away by their National Olympic Committee (NOC), but also with the World Anti-Doping Agency (WADA) which has declared that the BOA’s lifetime ban violates their anti-doping code and is “non-compliant.”  In other words, the British are being condemned by the global body against drugs cheats in sport for being too hard line against the dopers.

The issue has come to a head because of the Court of Arbitration for Sport’s (CAS) ruling in October that the International Olympic Committee’s (IOC) own doping regulation, which barred offenders who had received bans of longer than six months from competing in the next Olympic Games, was unenforceable. This allowed Merritt, and others, to start planning for London. The BOA, in dispute with WADA, will now test its legal right to maintain the ban by taking its case also to CAS in Lausanne.

Amid all the growing rancour, British athletes are left arguing over which is the best outcome. Some, like former Olympic silver medallist and three time European javelin champion Steve Backley, believe the BOA are wholly justified in their approach and that the world should follow suit.

“Drug cheats are like a parasite feasting on the soul of the sport, killing it from its core,” says Backley.  “The BOA is a leading light in the fight against drug abuse and if its rule is changed by force it will devalue what the Olympics stand for, what people respect and the appeal of watching clean, competitive sport.

                               

“Clean athletes need protecting. They need a louder voice than the cheats. I have a message to our world bodies. Please challenge other countries to adopt the same stance as us here in Britain, which is a zero tolerance approach. Bank robbers don’t become bank managers, and no policemen have criminal records. Sport needs the same level of regulation and its athletes who prepare within the rules to celebrate their talent and stand proud in the greatest sporting arena of all.”

Dai Greene, the current world 400 metres hurdles champion and favourite for gold in 2012, could run against Merritt inside London’s Olympic Stadium if they are both, as is likely, selected for their 400 metre relay teams. He is not afraid to condemn such a prospect.

“I think it’s terrible that Lashawn Merritt will be at the Olympics,” he insists, taking time off from crucial winter training. “I don’t condone it at all. I just don’t think there’s any place for drugs cheats in sport.

“I work so hard to get to the top and these people cheat their way to the top. They are taking away a gold medal moment from someone else.  They are taking a final position away from someone who finished ninth, and potential sponsorship money. They’ve effectively stolen money from other athletes. For that reason I’m fully behind the BOA on this. I think sanctions aren’t tough enough in general on drugs cheats.”

Other successful Olympians agree, too. “Whatever happened to drug-free sport?” asks double Olympic swimming champion Rebecca Adlington via Twitter. “I can’t actually believe this has become an issue.”

Yet Backley, Greene and Adlington find themselves in direct conflict with high-profile teammates from the past and present who are opposed to drug cheats but believe Britain’s stance is unfair to its own athletes.

Christian Malcolm is the current Team GB athletics captain who won a silver medal in the 200 metres at the 2010 European Championships. He falls into this compromising category.

“It’s not that I don’t agree that sanctions should be put in place but the way the rest of the world are going I believe it would be best if we all fell in line with WADA,” admits the Welshman.

“Don’t get me wrong. If athletes have taken drugs then of course they should be punished but, at the same time, everyone deserves a second chance in life, a chance for redemption.”

He is joined by some high-profile colleagues. Jessica Ennis, the European and Commonwealth heptathlon champion, believes it is wrong to uphold a rule not applied elsewhere. “It should be a standard rule and it should be the same for everyone,” she argues.

Paula Radcliffe, the women’s marathon world record holder, has been a long-time activist against drugs in sport, but even she believes the BOA stance is unfair towards athletes such as Dwain Chambers, the British sprinter and a recent world indoor 60 metres champion who served a two-year ban for his part in the BALCO laboratory scandal in San Francisco that also led to the criminal conviction of American Olympic champion sprinter Marion Jones. He is back competing in Britain but, under BOA rules, cannot run at the 2012 Games.

                            

“It’s not right to have people in Britain banned from the Olympics whereas if they were from other countries they’d be able to compete,” she states. “I’d rather see everybody take the BOA’s rule but, if not, then I believe you need to be sympathetic towards Dwain and the situation he faces. Drug testing needs to be fair.”

A third argument has now emerged from the debate, one represented by, among others, Mark Cavendish, the current world road race cycling champion who is favourite to strike gold on the streets of London next July.

He believes that a two-year-ban is sufficient, especially if like his cycling compatriot David Millar, who served a doping ban and will miss the 2012 Games under current BOA regulations, the athlete has shown genuine contrition.

“I would love to see David on the start line in London,” says Cavendish, who also took the green jersey in this year’s Tour de France. “He’s a massive anti-doping campaigner and in my eyes has redeemed himself. I’ve talked to David a lot about the past and he’s always been extremely honest and open. He deserves another chance.”

Not surprisingly, Millar is in agreement. “There is a place for lifetime bans in sport, but I’d like to think what I’ve been through is a shining example of being worth a second chance,” opines the Scottish cyclist.

“I push hard to educate people on the complexities of doping within sport but it seems to me only fair that every country should act under the same umbrella.”

Both he and Chambers will be eligible to compete for Britain at the London Games if the BOA is forced to drop their lifetime Olympic bans, but this will only happen after a fight from the BOA’s Chairman, Lord Colin Moynihan.

“We now have a situation where drug cheats are allowed to compete at the London Games because of the IOC ruling collapse,” says the former Minister for Sport during Margaret Thatcher’s government. “For the time being at least British drug cheats will not be competing there. Now sport must make a decision. Is the answer really a watered-down, toothless gesture towards zero tolerance, or do we actually want zero tolerance?”

The man who also won an Olympic silver medal as a rowing cox may be standing firm, as indeed are many of today’s and yesterday’s British Olympic stars, but the unity has gone from the British cause and the first streams of doubt appear to pouring through the breaking dam.  

                             

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Hollywood's Gay Abandon

Has Hollywood finally embraced homosexuality? The answer, belatedly, appears to be “yes” if the new biopic of J Edgar Hoover is anything to go by. Clint Eastwood’s biopic of the controversial and all-powerful founder of the FBI sees Leonardo DiCaprio in the title role hinting at a gay relationship, providing yet more comparatively recent evidence that Hollywood is bending over backwards to accommodate a relaxed liberal approach to homosexuality. This, palpably, was not always the case.

                          

Hoover has always been a figure of immense interest, debate and disagreement. He may have founded the FBI, contributed to its success and to its controversy via corruption and illegal harassment, but the biggest question has always seemed to be - was he or wasn’t he? This is of course referring to Hoover’s sexuality and cross dressing which seems to be the most prevalent concern of the American Press. Luckily J.Edgar has been written by the talented Dustin Lance Black who wrote the script for Milk so it may be expected that the subject-matter will be approached with sensitivity and respect.

What makes this so interesting is that the film is a take on a man who impacted enormously on modern American history who was possibly homosexual. It is not necessarily a major part of the story yet Di Caprio and Eastwood have been providing interviews about their feelings on gay marriage and Hoover’s sexuality.

Is it because Hollywood is now more politically correct and eager to showcase just how far it has come?  Many Americans, although more accommodating now, appear to have  a fascination with homosexuality. In Hollywood through the ages, homosexuality is either portrayed hideously, a vehicle for malice or a sentimental journey of martyrdom.  British films on the other hand treat homosexuality with blasé candour and do not see it as quite as controversial.

In a Hollywood film the depiction of homosexuality is often one-dimensional, pandering to the stereotypes fictionalised by the fearful public. This leads to fascinating correlations between almost a hundred years of gay portrayal on film. Even as far back as the 1920s, characters such as ‘the sissy’ were given a platform to indoctrinate and dictate to the masses.  Gay characters were villainized, (Rope 1948), murdered, (Suddenly Last Summer 1959) insane, (Rebecca 1940) or had to engage in self flagellation to redeem their ‘troubled souls’ (The Children’s Hour 1962).

Even when Hollywood creates films with positive portrayals of homosexuality there are still fundamental flaws that betray an underlying discomfort. For example Philadelphia was seen to be a groundbreaking film in constructing a sympathetic approach to homosexual relationships and compassion for the AIDs epidemic of the 1980s. Whilst the heart of this film is not brought into question, it is true to say that  the safety casting of all American good guy Tom Hanks was used to ease the American public into an unthreatening homosexual world. And whilst Andrew Beckett succeeds in obtaining the justice he so rightfully deserves from his bigoted boss, he still follows the pattern of many homosexuals depicted on screen by dying. In this case he is almost martyred as a pin up for ‘normality.’  There is little subtlety.

                             

Once again in Brokeback Mountain, hailed as being pioneering, the heroic lovers did not enjoy a happy ending. Beautifully shot, scripted and acted as it was, the story still followed the pattern of Hollywood films by allowing Jake Gyllenhaal’s character Jack Twist to be brutally murdered.

Comparing American films with British films regarding homosexuality leaves no doubt of their contrasting approaches. On the one hand the American ‘sissy’ was never explicitly exposed as gay, but the nasty characterization left no doubt in the audience’s mind of what in their eyes he was, a snivelling, wimpy effeminate.

In the groundbreaking British film Victim, noted for being the first English language movie to say the word “homosexual,” Dirk Bogarde is a gay barrister who falls for a younger man. In this film Bogarde, who was a homosexual in real life, was showing a sexual passion which was honest and powerful yet subtly nonchalant. This non-sensationalized film was banned in America. The British film industry has tried harder with undoing stereotypes such as John Hannah’s character in Four Weddings and a Funeral,  who delivers a moving eulogy to his deceased gay partner played by Simon Callow. They had a normal, loving relationship that transcends the stereotype. Ian McKellen lauded Callow’s and Hannah’s performances claiming that “they had done a hundred times more for homosexuals than Philadelphia”.

Why is this difference so obvious? Perhaps the British are not naive to homosexuality or pretend it is not there so do not find it a shock when they see it represented on film. This may in part be due to our long-standing thespian culture and camp love for drag and pantomime. Looking at a microcosm of American culture would show that this free expression has not been assimilated quite so easily in Hollywood. In fairness to Hollywood there have been some brave exceptions with mavericks fighting the censorship.  Gore Vidal envisaged Ben Hur as a gay love affair and, to an extent it was, although he just did not tell the audience. Charlton Heston was not made aware of Vidal’s intent, but Stephen Boyd who played Messala, Ben Hur’s ‘lover,’ was well aware of Vidal’s intention and milked the close ups in the film, showing passionate desire for Ben Hur in non so subtle looks to the camera.   Vidal, himself homosexual, was ironically mocking an audience who thought that they were witnessing a macho epic, but any discerning eye could work out the homosexual connotations implied. It was so wonderfully deceiving and also constructive in showing that men could be the butch idol and gay. 

                             

A recent work that deserves praise is Milk, the caring and affectionate film by Gus Van Sans about the first gay politician Harvey Milk. Although not a ballsy defiance of censorship, due to the modern times we live in, it was finally a realistic, moving portrayal of an incredibly influential man. It showed his relationships to be loving, normal and uses humour as a device most effectively to make the audience feel a part of Milk’s life and his posse of activists.

So in light of this success perhaps Hollywood has turned the corner on its murky past and even all those years ago when Hollywood was calling the shots in demonising homosexuality there was hope in British films. Only time will tell if Hollywood breaks the formula for homosexual depiction on film. We can only hope. Perhaps Di Caprio’s recreation of J Edgar Hoover will speed up a process of realistic interpretation that American cinema, at last, appears to have begun.  

This Sporting Life (or lack of).

My hatred of physical exercise stems from childhood. I mean it sucks. It is pressurising. It is responsible for your social standing at school. I blame the time honoured tradition of sports days. School sports days are satanic. There is no other way of putting it. They are put in place solely to commit evil, to pick out the weaklings and stamp all over what remains of their dwindling self esteem. It is the teacher’s revenge. There are always two camps of children that take part in sports days. A) The popular, healthy sprightly child who always gets top billing in the school plays, and B) the spotty, slightly podgy kid who always plays livestock in the school plays. Usually sheep, perhaps a reindeer in the nativity if lucky. Guess which one I was?

                             

Now you might think, given my searing good looks and devilish figure that I was child A) but I must disappoint. I hated sport and it all stems from bloody sports day.

                         

 I mean, isn’t it cruel enough to force the unsporty kids to take part in the 100 metre sprint, even more so the long distance. Everyone laughs and cheers as the chubby little blonde kid with a blotched red face (not dissimilar to a boozy Glaswegian on a winter pub crawl) is overlapped by child A. The parents laugh and cheer, the child’s testosterone fuelled father has his head in his hands. It’s all over. He will never see his son on the rugby team. Does the alternative mean drama? Or joining the choir? Dear god, it doesn’t bear thinking about. He might as well come out now!

Alas, the worst is still to come. To the truly terribly unsporty children, they must pay for their lack of co ordination, their lack of endurance and their disgusting lack of competitiveness. Welcome the obstacle relay race... Tubular bells. I’d rather be put on the rack, dunked and disembowelled than participate in an obstacle relay race ever again. To engage children in self flagellation via obstacle courses is pure barbarity of medieval levels! I was eight years old. My race ended in disaster. After successfully putting on five layers of clothing, not dropping the egg in the egg and spoon race and progressing to the rubber ring over the waist sprint, I realised I was miles ahead of the other ‘reject’ kids. Fantastic. This was my big chance. Alas I was thwarted. Some stupid (cunning?) mother had provided a baby’s rubber ring in my lane, a ring so small that I couldn’t get it past my bloody thighs. Cue very embarrassing prolonged twoddle to the finish line, last by a mile, where a baying mob exploded with laughter as two teachers mustered all their strength to attempt to release me from the ring. They eventually had to deflate it to get me out.

Since that horrific experience, forever ingrained in my mind, I have had a very lack lustre approach to sport my whole life. I hated swimming because I belly flopped when I dived. Hockey was good for rage but incredibly tedious. Netball was the girls ‘elite’ sport and I had butter fingers. I was, for a short period, good at rounders due to being left handed, but as soon as the fielders cottoned on, they always caught me out. The more sports we did, the more I hid in the toilet. I never went to the gym in my late teenage years and had a serious aversion to anything strenuous. This attitude progressed to university where the most amount of exercise I ever got was running to One Stop during the X Factor breaks to procure space raiders.

In light of my unhealthy past, I decided to join the gym down my road.  However this provided other issues. A rant is brewing up. Firstly I had to have a stupid induction where I was patronised by some foetus boy, barely out of nappies who was explaining to me what a rowing machine was with the pomposity of a disc jockey who had just ‘discovered’ a new band. He then proceeded to write me out a card of his recommendations. Apparently I am only fit for 15minutes of exercise per day. After expelling all my mental energy on imagining foetus boy in painful scenarios (mainly involving a baby’s rubber ring on sports day) I caved in but gave him what I hoped was my most effective Stafford dirty look. Since then I have been going to the gym semi regularly and as a result have now acquired some gym pet peeves. They are, as follows:

1)      Those private school, stay at home mums who have spent so long in the gym that their arms are nothing more than a sinewy mat of crossed veins and tissue-like stringiness. That combined with the walnut fake tan that they seem to love so much, makes for uncomfortable viewing. Think Madonna meets Bride of Chucky.

2)      Those private school, stay at home mums who bring their twelve year old daughters to the gym and plonk them on the treadmill whilst discussing the merits of last week’s colonic irrigation. Children are impressionable and insecure and should be nowhere near a gym. These Stepford Wife drones must be thwarted before they corrupt the next generation. It is wrong. End of.

               

3)      People who spend longer than 30 minutes on the easy exercise bike because they want to finish watching Countdown. For god’s sake, stop hoarding the easy bike! I’m going to miss Horrible Histories!

4)      The young girls who wear a full face of make up to the gym. What is the point! Unless you are coming from work there is no excuse. I found a fake eyelash on a treadmill once, and immediately my imagination went into overdrive. They have finally found a reptilian way to shed skin. Do you really think that the melted baddies from Raider of the Lost Ark look is seriously a better alternative to au natural? Get a grip.

5)      Like a toddler who has just made his first turd in the toilet and is looking for praise, those pumped up men waiting for women to coo and aaah at their steely torsos. If only their brains were as big as their pecs.

                  

Of course this bitterness stems from the fact that I and the dog are both on diets. And despite him thieving a tub of flora off the worktop and finishing off my sandwich, he is still beating me! My new fangled gym membership has failed. Perhaps a tapeworm is all I can hope for now. That or heartbreak.

Frohliche Weihnacten!

                          

Greetings earthlings! Frohliche Weihnachten! That is Merry Christmas in German, oh uncultured ones. (I took the initiative and asked Jeeves). I have just returned from the land of gluwein and goulash with a giant Tyrolean jumper. I mean a proper one, with a reindeer pattern, a George Michael in the ‘Last Christmas’ video one. I’m sure it will make men quiver with lust on viewing. Disastrously I was in Innsbruck and only Salzburg has the Sound of Music tour but what’s a girl to do. So, my days have been fruitful and merry. And by that I mean that they have consisted of wandering around Austrian markets scoffing my face with bratwurst. Naughty!

                         

Still I was feeling Christmassy. It was snowing, there was yodelling, what more could you possibly want?  Well there was one problem.

The main issue arising from spending time in a snow clad ski resort is that if you don’t ski you look A) like a bit of a loser/wannabe middle class joy rider and B) you will be lacking in entertainment and variety big time! As a result, going up the cable car without skiing equipment in a very dodgy looking puffa jacket raised a few eyebrows from the too cool for school Austrian teenagers. Well screw them! If I want to go to the top of the mountains and pretend that they are the misty mountains of Mordor then that is my prerogative/sad state of affairs. I got to the top, or near to the top. Actually not very near the top. I sat on a bench near the café. I yelled a bit under the pretence of feeling the great might and awe of nature but really I just wanted to avalanche the Austrian teenage skiers into oblivion. You see, despite being terminally middle class, as a ski novice I have no notion of ski etiquette, particularly regarding the chair lifts which look like a particularly dangerous staircase to heaven. I decided in a moment of madness that it would be fun just to ride the ski chairs a couple of times. Who cares if I didn’t have skis or a snowboard, how discriminating! They go round and round like a conveyor belt so what harm could it do? Ski chairs are perfect for an over imaginative disposition. I was thinking along the lines of a fantastic James Bond moment when Roger Moore (it would be far too silly for Sean Connery) escapes the villains after some impressive skiing moves with a very ‘realistic’ body double and is subsequently propelled by an effective gadget onto the chair lift. After burying his victims in the snow, Roger Moore raises an eyebrow and utters, ‘Well, they’ve found themselves snowed under!’ chortle, chortle, sexist remark, smoulder. This is what I was thinking when I attempted to embark on my mission. I swaggered over to the skiers and tried to jump onto the ski chair. I was met with a very loud and angry Austrian man who promptly stopped the whole ski chair circuit. The party of skiers hanging in mid air were not impressed. Apparently if I had got on without skis I would have had to jump off at the top which, without skis, could have sent me hurtling down the mountain, or I could have stayed on the chair lift which turns upside down on the way back which would have sent me hurtling down the mountain. If I were James Bond I would have had a jet ski in my rucksack and would have reached the ground to safety just in time to bed the bimbo before the credits roll. Unfortunately I had no jet ski and left with my tail between my legs off the mountain under the gaze of the furrowed brow of the livid Austrian. Party pooper.

                      

In an attempt to redeem myself in Austrian etiquette, I thought I would take in a traditional Austrian classical concert. How civilised! Unfortunately for me I have not had much experience in this field of music. The last ‘classical’ concert I had been to was when I was 10 years old and playing the clarinet in one of those poorly organised school affairs where parents watch with glazed eyes and cotton wool shoved in their ears. I had been taking joint clarinet lessons for a year with a friend. She had progressed far quicker than me and had been given the coveted role of playing Elvis Presley’s ‘Love me Tender’ on the clarinet. Not wanting to leave me out, (although in retrospect I bet she wished she’d had) my teacher excitedly informed me that my great sonata would be the Eastenders theme tune, a piece revered by audiences all over and renowned in classical circles as being akin to Chopin, Schubert and Bach. So the big day arrived and my proud parents, brother and grandfather all took the front row to support my great talent. A lot of kids went before me, doing nice twiddly bits on the piano, whilst their pushy parents whooped and hollered at them like dissident politicians in PM’s question time. I think the only thing I thought I could do to alleviate this dire situation was to attack the ‘piece’ with force. I played the Eastenders theme tune with gusto but unfortunately was far too over exuberant and forgot to suck in my cheeks. I ended up looking like a blowfish on ecstasy and swiftly left the stage to lack lustre applause. More embarrassment was to follow. The next boy on the stage was clearly very nervous and clearly took music very seriously. He spent ages tuning up his oboe and clearing his throat authoritatively. Just when he was about to play the first note, my younger brother, who is an expert in spontaneous flatulence produced the greatest, longest, loudest rattler that I have ever heard in my entire life. Deathly silence followed. The boy on stage looked bewildered. Cue my dad, who could never resist playing the comedian. He ushered the immortal line ‘what a bum note’. I sunk deeper in my chair and hid my face in my hands. Everyone exploded with laughter and my music teacher gave my family a look of absolute disgust. It was as though we had wiped our arses on a Mozart script.

Massive digression but the point is….. well there is no point really. I just wanted to get a fart joke in. The festive spirit of Innsbruck is contagious and I am now spending my nights dreaming of Captain Von Trapp in lederhosen. I mean he is divine, no wonder Maria didn’t want to be a nun. She practically had an orgasm every time he blew that dog whistle! (this is a reference to the film and not some fetishistic innuendo).
 
                      
Quite frankly the Austrian concert passed without any amusing incidents and was dull as dishwater. I think next time I’ll stick to the old boy with a zither. He was high on a hill with a lonely goat herd……

Disclaimer: Contrary to what this blog might have you believe, I did not travel to Austria by myself on a Mr Bean style holiday.

                     

I love my friends!

"I do not wish to treat friendships daintily, but with the roughest courage. When they are real, they are not glass threads or frost-work, but the solidest thing we know."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

      

 As Emily Dickinson says, ‘my friends are my estate.’ I love my friends, so here is a little humorous look at all the different friend types I have been blessed with in my life. Some are generic, others you may be able to work out! All were written with affection.

The Cameo:  The friend that is flakier than a 99p flake. This is the kind of person that rocks up to pre drinks an hour late, downs a bottle of wine, and then wanders off never to be seen again. Often found passed out in bushes, their company is fleeting yet rewarding. This friend often makes outlandish excuses to get out of social occasions. For example, he/she was supposed to look after his/her mother’s favourite houseplant and it died. They now have to go out and purchase a cactus to replace the plant with a more exotic counterpart. Which will mean flying to Mexico. Sorry.

The Pseudo Intellectual: The friend, usually a male, who fancies himself as a smarty pants but in reality is a little bit of a phoney. Usually found misquoting Nietzsche, this friend can fool many, but you’ve got him sussed! He is frequently found watching foreign films and documentaries about the Atom Bomb. He thinks that Tolstoy’s War and Peace is the dog’s bollocks….despite only reading the first 100 pages ... and he never has a structured an argument to back up his elaborate points. He usually illustrates his ‘intellectualism’ with flowery vernacular not dissimilar to the assertive feminist. He protests about Tibet. He is a friend who goes through many phases to make himself stand out. He might participate in ju jitzu, learn Klingon or read Chomsky in his spare time. He is also a big fan of travelling, however only if it is for spiritual or intellectual ‘enlightenment’.  He has sampled cuisine from all five continents and frequently whips up Asian inspired entrees. He believes that he is the thinking woman’s crumpet. Wears waistcoats.

The Early Riser: This is the friend, usually a girl, who has a tattoo of carpe diem on her foot. Every day is a challenge, an opportunity to be seized. She revels in achievement from dawn til dusk. She has never got up past 9am in her life, even with mammoth hangovers. In these situations, when everyone else has lost the power of speech and are attending to their panda eyes, this friend has been up for two hours, washed her hair, got dressed and done a few sudokus.  A mesmerizing force of optimism and energy. She usually has an actual talent, a talent that makes your year 5 rendition of the Eastender’s theme tune on the clarinet at a concert deplorable. Occasionally displays geeky tendencies that are not discernable to the naked eye. You know though, you’ve seen her sci-fi collection in her room!  

The Love/Hate pairing: The two friends in your friendship group that simultaneously love and hate each other. It’s all a game of cat and mouse and pig-tail pulling, as they pretend to argue about everything! Music, politics, comedy, adverts. When I say pretend, I mean pretend. These two friends probably have more in common than Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee and clearly enjoy some good sparring. There are lots of affectionate insults flung around and the sharp tongued jibes are laced with sexual tension. Of course the love/hate friends are unaware of this tension, but that’s what makes it all the more entertaining. You have always found it amusing that for two people who vehemently express their loathing for each other, they spend an inordinate amount of time in each other’s company….  

The Genius with no common sense: This friend, it has to be said, is usually a male. He is possibly considered one of the great minds of the day, has studied medicine, law, economics at a prestigious University. He has probably already had something significant published in a journal. He excels at all academia, and yet he is an idiot of unquantifiable proportions. He lacks a lot of social awareness, is tactless and cannot hold his drink. Usually oblivious to his surroundings, this friend will lie across a tram track after a glass of shandy and pass out at inappropriate occasions. Often wears oddly matched socks.

The Whimsical Daydreamer: This is a floaty type of friend, usually a girl, who seems to exist in her own mind. Often adorned in hippy attire, this girl seems to glide into a room, like a bat in a poncho. She is distressed because the last leaf of the sycamore tree in the garden has fallen. This represents destruction. This friend often has a quiet, silvery voice and makes her own jewellery. She likes art house films and conspiracy theories, particularly if they indicate that the end of the World is nigh. She likes clothes with toggles on them. Toggles.

 The Singing Sensation:  This is a friend who sings everywhere! In their room, in the shower, on the toilet, in the garden, walking to work, walking from work, in the living room and over the TV. This friend probably loved musicals as a child and still has dreams of Broadway. Unfortunately this friend is completely unaware that his/her singing sounds like a bag of cats been thrown against a brick wall and unassumingly irritates you all with his/her less than perfect pitch. Probably owns a guitar. Probably can play the guitar much better than he/she can sing. He/she is unaware of this. Extremely complex songs are often attempted with disastrous consequences. Dido should never ever be attempted if you have a flat voice!

The PR Guru: Your friend, who outside your friendship group may be referred to as a control freak. This friend could rule the world, like Pinky and the Brain but the Brain does not like to share power with Pinky. In this metaphor, we, as the ‘other’ are Pinky. This friend is an organising machine and occasional megalomaniac, it’s his/her way or the highway. This friend is obsessed with tiny details and woe betide anyone who does not live up to expectations. However he/she is the first to organise surprise birthday parties and ‘spontaneous’ city breaks. This friend always gets the drink to nibble ratio at parties right, and is a connoisseur when it comes to diplomacy. This friend is fabulous at advising how to avoid tricky social situations and is swiftly turning PR Guru for your friendship group. Move aside Max Clifford.

The Assertive Feminist: Ah, the female friend who is extremely fierce. Not Beyonce fierce. Like scary fierce. She is usually known for being a master of the eye roll. She is pretty good at the eyebrow raise too. This usually occurs after a misogynistic comment by a male. A misogynistic comment she feels was masquerading under the pretence of laddy banter! She is a fan of Germaine Greer and spends a lot of time reading feminine discourse and defending her sex. She is probably an expert in the field of forced female circumcision. As a result she over compensates in the aggression department on occasions and scares a lot of men. Ironically though, most of her friends are men as she regards overly girly behaviour as something that must be thwarted. Despite this, she is genuinely nice to her few girl friends. Opinionated, sharp, and sarcastic, this girl uses unnecessarily elaborate vocabulary to make her point. She does not understand most of it. For the few who know her well, she is actually a massive baby and can often be found crying to Joni Mitchell and Eva Cassidy. She has a penchant for stray dogs. Oh, this friend type is often placed in the love/hate pairing.

The One with Peter Pan syndrome:  Usually a male friend who is not growing up at the same rate as most of your friendship group. It’s the end of university and most of your friends are settling down with long term girlfriends, getting jobs but this boy is still planning the next chunder induced pub crawl. This friend usually accuses other male friends who have serious girlfriends of turning into dullards. He resents change, and quite frequently harbours Freudian  homoerotic desire for his ever dwindling circles of lads. This friend mainly sees relationships as suffocating, but does not mind an anonymous tryst now and then. Often found smacking the gluteus maximus of a trampy, inebriated fresher at the student ‘cheese’ night. Despite such flaws, this friend is endearingly vulnerable due to his childishness and flocks of premature mother hen types rush to his assistance…. He usually seduces them. 

One Man, Two Guvnors Review

                        

One Man, Two Guvnors is a modern play written by Richard Bean, which has been adapted from the 1859 Italian Renaissance farce commonly known as The Servant of Two Masters. Bean has set the play in early 1963, between the end of the Chatterley ban and the Beatles first LP.  It is on the cusp of the swinging 60s and the play is interjected with smut, musical interludes, charismatic thugs and bawdy humour. British comedy has always found a place in its heart for slapstick and, like its Italian forefather, One Man, Two Guvnors masters physical comedy with ease. Throw in some crafty witticisms and flamboyant characters and this has all the makings of a modern classic.   

The plot, like most renaissance farces, is hard to decipher, but follows the traditional structure of a classic case of mistaken identity, in which a plucky jester-type figure attempts to use the confusion to his advantage. James Corden plays Francis Henshall, an ousted skiffle player with an insatiable appetite who ends up working for two ‘guvnors’. One is Rachel Crabbe (Jemima Rooper), who has disguised herself as her recently murdered gangland twin brother Rosco, and the other is Stanley Stubbers, (Oliver Chris) a smooth talking, arrogant toff who murdered Rosco and is also Rachel’s secret lover. They are oblivious to the fact that Henshall is working for them both and hilarity ensues as he desperately tries to keep them apart as the lies and confusion mount up. Henshall’s motive is to put food in his belly, later followed by the lust for a woman and it is refreshing to see a modern play keep the farcical tradition intact.

Whilst I have never been a massive fan of James Corden’s celebrity persona, I have always admired his theatrical talent since his critically acclaimed role in The History Boys. In One Man, Two Guvnors, Corden commandeers the stage with ease and flourishes in a role that could seem hammy and one dimensional. His delivery is impeccable and the energy he brings to Francis Henshall’s optimistic ne’er-do-well makes the character endearingly genial. In one scene Corden displays some impressive slapstick comedy in which the two sides of Henshall’s conscience fight each other. Watching Corden repeatedly slap himself with force and roll around on the floor banging into dustbins takes some endurance and dedication. It is extremely funny and a nostalgic reminder of the bygone age of the vaudeville. Corden also has excellent reflexes when it comes to audience participation as some lucky people on the front row found out. Such is the talent of his acting that the audience automatically assumed that he was engaging in spontaneous improvisation and not, in fact, intricately woven dialect to throw off the plays timing. 

             

This is undoubtedly the James Corden show. However, there are two supporting actors who deserve much praise. Daniel Rigby plays Alan Dangle, an aspiring thespian whose mannerisms are influenced by the old style school of acting. Rigby is wonderful in this satirical role as the flamboyant Alan who has histrionic fits and comically puts great emphasis on ridiculous dialogue. One of my favourite parts of the play is when Rigby delivers the immortal line ‘Love is fluff, very fluffy fluff’ with sincerity and a dead pan face.  It is also amusing to see Rigby use dramatic extensions of his arms for everything his character Alan deems to be profound.

Another magnificent performance is by Oliver Chris, who plays toff Stanley Stubbers to great effect. Stanley is a testament to public school boy arrogance.  Stanley swaggers around the stage in a manner which should be abhorrent but it is down to Chris’s fantastic acting that the character is ultimately loveable. Chris allows us to revel in his gleeful school boy charm and then tut when his snooty vernacular rears its head. He is portraying a character we all know so well so there is added pressure not to fall for the obvious stereotypes, such as the gregarious snot drinking jugs of Pimms at the Local Hunt Ball. Placing Stanley in Brighton, away from his London idyll makes him slightly vulnerable, yet he always delivers the goods with some top toff lingo. His constant yup yup yup’s and exclamation of ‘Britain, what a CUNTry’ was a hilarious addition.

One Man, Two Guvnors is refreshingly traditional in its structure. Bean has done Goldoni proud because it really has embodied the heart and soul of a farce. It has been expertly adapted for a modern audience. Its humour is whip smart and its rubbery physical comedy gives it a unique edge. I think, most importantly, this play is brave. One Man, Two Guvnors is uplifting and unashamedly so, something which seems to be lacking in so much modern theatre. In the doom and gloom of credit crunch Britain, it lacks the cynicism of our age … or just covers it up very well.

John Lewis- The Devil in Disguise

                         

I have a bone to pick. A big one. You may think I will be reflecting on the Euro crisis, Greece in turmoil, Libya, Syria, student protests, James Murdoch, phone tapping, or any other crucial news story to hit Britain this past month. After all, these factors are shaping a New Britain. A Britain existing entirely of euro sceptics, media cynics and curmudgeonly worriers. Well, important they may be, but I apologise. Something far less important has pissed me off. Are you ready? Drum roll….. John Lewis. Bloody John Lewis. And what are they guilty of? Corporate sentimentality in the first degree. I mean really, their adverts are vomit-inducing. This violent reaction may seem unfairly misanthropic and I probably now appear to be a heartless bastard. Well I am a bastard but I’m certainly not heartless. Lots of things make me cry. Here’s a list. Old men alone in pubs (we’ve covered this one before), animals being tortured/killed in films, animals being ridiculed in films, animals winning their freedom in films, animals being picked on by their peers, animals proving their worth to their peers, Piers Morgan, ‘The Elephant Man’, ‘The Great Escape’ (why do all the Brits die and all the Americans survive?), the outcast child playing alone in the playground, the outcast teenager sitting alone for lunch, Ludovico Einaudi, ‘Watership Down’, boiled eggs and the acting prowess of Nicholas Cage. See, I have feelings. I’m not a drone, hell bent on sucking the joy out of life. I am a drone hell bent on bringing down John Lewis’ reign of sugary sweetness. Good grief, when I saw their first advert, you know the ‘she’s only a woman to me’ one, I was certain it was about cancer. Definitely a cancer advert. Or a Tena lady advert….. But more likely to be cancer, it was that sentimental! I really thought it was gearing up for a climatic ending, I was preparing myself. My bottom lip was wobbling; I had a twitch in the left eye, a glisten of a tear in the other. Oh God she’s going to die. It makes perfect sense. Except it didn’t make perfect sense. It was about John Lewis. You know that huge billionaire shopping chain. Exploitative drivel, I was expecting a death! No advert that sentimental should be about a department store! It should be about cancer, or Africa, or donkey charities.  Though that advert enraged me, more insanity was to follow. Next was the overly simpering Christmas advert of 2010. An advert that will forever be engraved in my memory for being cruel to animals. Yeah everybody is having a hunky-dory Christmas inside, with the warm log fire burning, presents galore, grandpa asleep in the armchair after pigging out on sprouts, you know the usual. But where is the dog? Oh he’s only outside alone in Siberian winter conditions.  Seriously I’m surprised I didn’t see icicles clinging onto to his shaggy coat. But wait, a small child has recognised the dog’s plight. He’s coming out to bring him back in to the house. Hooray! Oh no, no he’s going to taunt the animal by hanging a stupid stocking up in the medieval looking kennel, and then leave with a sarcastic wave.  And then John Lewis has the temerity to leave you with the ironic tag of ‘For those who care about showing they care.’  Pah!  

                    

 That’s not very Christian. But then Christmas isn’t very Christian either these days.  Warped Christmas spirit has overtaken the real importance. Spread a little good will, just as long as it comes with a 30 return day back guarantee.  So really, advertising is just feeding on the beast within.  Corporate Christmas has been kicking around for a while, but nothing has caused more of a stir than the new John Lewis 2011 Christmas advert. I have been told by numerous people how moving it is, and that it will definitely reduce me to tears. I finally saw it. Wow. First of all, I think this is dangerous. Parents all over Britain will be comparing their own brats to the John Lewis angel incarnate wishing to god that little Wayne will morph into a loving, unselfish child of unbelievable proportions. The prognosis of this ever happening? Not good. Particularly if you have called your kid Wayne. Seriously, children like that do not exist. For one thing, a child that young would not have the foresight or the ability to go out and buy a present by himself. Take it from me. My parents bought my presents for them till I was about sixteen! So we can really look at the advert as child cruelty. Both parents are clearly oblivious that their child has been wandering around John Lewis alone looking for the perfect gift. Or, even worse, he has been surfing the net for some deals. Who knows what he might have found! He may now have an addiction to ebay. Terrible parenting. Also I am 100 percent certain that if John Lewis had picked a fugly, British cynicism would have kicked in and we would have ridiculed this advert. But no, give the public a mop top with Bambi eyes and everyone melts. Seriously people get with it! It is not being heartless. It is seeing it for the smug, knowing, commercial tug at the heart strings that it is. Don’t give in, that’s what they want! God I’d rather have the Frosties ‘they’re going to taste gggggreat’ kid back! Obnoxious, self satisfied, he’s the perfect parallel for advertising agencies.

Also he is worth crying about. I’m sure after that advert he has become a social pariah and now is the outcast teenager eating alone at lunch. Now that advert can be added to my crying list. Sob.Anyway I’ve got to go. It’s breakfast time. They’re going to taste great, they’re going to taste great. I can hear the sound of Frosties hitting me plate! Seriously, that is the line! Who the bloody hell eats Frosties off a plate! So stupid and yet completely and utterly preferable to John Lewis’s adverts. At least it wallows in it’s own corporate cynicism. John Lewis is the evil enforcer of fake sentiment. John Lewis’s child is the devil incarnate. And on that note I am off to sip a victory cup of Starbucks coffee. Golly I hate corporate consumerism.