Thursday, 25 November 2010
Two very good Stand-Up gigs to go to.
Friday, 12 November 2010
IRONY or PSYCHOPATH: 2, Nigella Lawson
Okay, so writing about how Nigella speaks is a little passé – passé like, say, Alistair McGowan and his FUNNY FUNNY IMPRESSIONS are passé. However. At the seventeen minute mark of the seventh episode of Nigella’s Kitchen, which aired last night, there was this amazing little moment where her fattened, opulent syntax revealed, to our mind, a side to Nigella’s HAPPY SUCCESSFUL LIFE that we’re not sure we’ve seen before:
It’s the cooking that needs precision and a great deal of pernickety detail – that is enough to send me over the edge. But then [turning to the camera and smiling with all her teeth] that’s not very hard.
You see what we mean – it makes us rather suspect that Nigella is one of two things: deeply, deeply unhappy or actually mentally ill. Sardonically ironic, then, or a psychopath? Let us consider the evidence, all taken from last night’s episode:
At the end of a busy week, I love a bit of hunter-gathering so that I can grab the wherewithal for a really relaxing weekend of cooking and eating. PSYCHO
Though I say peas, they are in fact petit pois, that’s what it says on the label and they are indeed very small peas. PSYCHO
It feels wrong, and yet good [using a gigantic knife to cut a big pile green beans inside their packet]. PSYCHO
If anything is guaranteed to get my children coming to the table promptly, and nothing is really guaranteed to do that. IRONY
It’s like a holiday without leaving the kitchen and without the hell of air travel. IRONY
My ideal way to spend my Sunday is just giving myself up in the warm embrace of the kitchen. HOW VERY SYLVIA PLATH OF YOU. PSYCHO
I am thinking of everything here. PSYCHO
I want a flat oval-ish. I don’t want any geometry professor telling me this isn’t an oval. It’s my meatloaf. IRONY
Inside my meatloaf are jewels. And these jewels are eggs. Hard-boiled eggs. PSYCHO
And now [talking to meatloaf] this baby just needs swaddling. And what I’m swaddling it with is bacon. PSYCHO – this one made me think of Nigella cooking children, like the witch in Hansel und Gretel.
The thing about meatloaf, it comes from a time when food was fuel. IRONY
I feel a sense of Sunday lunch splurge coming on. PSYCHO
To give this the consistency of dressing, I need a quick trip to the frigo. IRONY
Try and be patient, to be as serene as this sauce looks. PSYCHO
Look at this, just ready to be dolloped on a baked potato. I say, let’s cut out the middle man [licking cheese and buttermilk off the spoon]. IRONY
Friend at dinner: I haven’t heard of a strawberry crumble. Nigella: You haven’t lived. PSYCHO
Endnotes: Nigella’s Kitchen is the only show on the BBC to have it’s own ‘focus-puller’ and two ‘home economists’ – the latter of which suggests, a la Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman being taught how to fuck gracefully in preparation for Eyes Wide Shut, Nigella needs to be taught how to make it look like she has a happy home life. Also, as ever, episode seven concludes with a post-credits sequence featuring Nigella returning to the ‘frigo’ at the dead of night for a wee snack. This time, she decides on an entire slice of bacon-wrapped, egg-studded meat loaf between two slabs of bread. She takes a bite, spreading her fat lips a width that would absolutely dislocate my jaw. PSYCHO, mos def.
A very strange, very troubled woman who has suffered her fair share of tragedy and has lived her entire life named after one of the biggest douchebags this country’s ever been governed by, has definitely been sent over the edge. ‘Try to be patient, to be as serene as this sauce looks’ – she manages for half an hour a week. But when the cameras stop rolling, all bets are off. Good luck Charles, keep an ‘emergency bottle’ of gin handy yeah?
Tuesday, 9 November 2010
Filing: some points and notes
We at the Mansion have a lot on our plates. It’s not all swearing and snarking here. The hard-nosed world of business is something that we have to treat with as much care as that of the soft-snout slobbery puppy dog. Specifically, we thought we’d get onto the unaddressed issue of filing. Yes, that’s right.
And so it goes… For those of you not in the know, or perhaps those who think hitherto that they are, the below is for you. Filing essentially involves two major areas of file organisation, divisible into one of either (i) inter-file or (ii) inner-file. The first is the sorting of different objects that constitute a whole, distinguishable body distinct from other objects of a very similar or very different kind.
The second… OK, we may be slightly disingenuous here as the latter could be sub-divided into entrance and ordering, which could open the second area into perhaps two whole areas. However, we think the two-areas distinction still holds up when we take note of the fact that the act of entering paper (or what have you) into the file is so great a part of the filing process — not only of time, but also of energy. We know we’ll be preaching to the converted when we ask: did you ever notice how you get past that 700-page mark, entering pages and some strange cramps and aches begin in muscles that you didn’t even know were muscles?!… Yeah? Recognise that? God, that’s a bitch, are we right? We sure know Paul from accounts knows the ol’seadog! (See you next week for lager-lager, Paulio?)
Of course we’re right. Now, the entering part needs emphasis. We think it has been undersold in the promotion of filing, its advertisement in culture generally, and in press commentary on the issue.
Check out those staggered organisational tags.
Let’s paint a particular example to make our point. Say you have, ooh, 89 Office Depot-brand, 30 sleeve, clear plastic A4 files, with blue flexi-plastic cover (including removable bind label). You’ve also got into each has to go, in a specific order, 25 various-coloured printed A4-pages to constitute 89 booklets.
How are you to go about placing these pages into the files? A pertinent question in the field of file entering, indeed!
Now, you don’t have all the space in the world, here. In fact space is limited to a small-sized office desk, around two metres squared. You also have to be wary of the folding. You can roll and unfurl each page to ease the passage of entering. Or, you can slightly lean the edges in to ease said passage. The perils of getting fold-lines in your pages need not be extensively considered here, so suffice to say that we must be vigilant at all times.
Thumbs up, indeed!
So the first option that’s out is sorting all the booklets into respective individual order, and then beginning the entering, there’s simply no space! (One page at a time increases the risk of fold-lines f/y/i.)
Second option: enter the pages page one into booklet one, page one into booklet two, right through to the last page, then begin page two into booklet two, booklet three, and so on. Now that’s just way too slow, there’s the opening and closing of the files for each single one. Completely inoperable and inefficient!
The third option: enter all the pages into one booklet-file, then move onto the next booklet. Here the issues become where to place the files and the entering pages according to seated or standing position… the height differential between the enterer and their desk… whether you’re a right- or left-handed enterer… and anything else one can recall to think.
Now, what order you are required to enter makes huge sways upon whether you can enter page-by-page or conglomerate two pages back-to-back and enter them into one sleeve. It’s either a stroke of luck or an inspiration business tactic (we’re not sure which yet) if you can, because your efficiency savings are going to be mind-blowing — the sort that’d have Paul celebrating in ways we all know we should keep out of forums like this. What’s more, your rivals will be seething that they, unlike you, couldn’t reach these heady heights.
We hope this goes someway to redressing the balance in the filing field. It’s an issue that reaches far-out from the specific profession and into our culture widely. We’re excited at the news that a think-tank may be starting-up to lobby the Lithuanian parliament for a monument to be erected in each township as a movement into file-entering becoming one of the three national sports. Hopefully we can take the journey further from the inroads being made on the continent, to the power hubs of
Thursday, 21 October 2010
Spend some FaceTime with Infinity: Apple, BT and some other stuff
As it's cut off half of it, just double-click on the video to watch it on Youtube. Sorry.
Well, anyway, it’s a lot like another iPhone ad that we saw in the paper which the characters are using the same app[lication] to talk, yet again to someone who gone done broke a limb (see below). This time it’s a kid with an injured his arm (tibia or fibula we assume) showing the cast to a guy who looks like a cross between Karl Pilkington and the evil Dad in This is England '86. We are left to connect the dots and hazard a guess that this is a father-son moment (“good” adverts always like to leave you to fill in the back story). This guess is only an educated one in so far as paedophilia in advertising is not going to win anyone over. Though, there is a side-effect in that paedophiles will see these technologies as a new avenue to explore their abuse. (We’re not joking around when we mention this by the way. It’s just true.)
Only one word could be read: End
The tagline is: “Introducing FaceTime video calling. Smile.” The name - FaceTime - is a pretty blatant signal as to what these adverts are getting at. Spending time face-to-face, meeting-up, catching-up, quality time together, etc. etc: i.e. all the very things that, according to common perception, iPhones and their techne brethren are preventing within the family unit. ("Smile." is a bit of good ol'passive-aggressive dictatorial advertising added on for good measure: DO THIS, BUY THIS, and so it goes on.)
We all know how the argument goes visa-vis the idea that we all just sit around, watching different programs on different TVs, when we want, not when it’s scheduled… We’re on the internet talking to our friends rather than being out with them in the park on the merry-go-rounds… We don’t even talk on the ‘phone anymore, we just send each other pictures of our genitalia in various postures and poses, replete with ironic accoutrements and now these expressionist dick-dances are superseding oral conversation as the main mode of communication for today’s youth...
So this is exactly what the iPhone adverts avoid like the fucking plague. They don’t want to evoke the image of technology actually in the home, when the members of this family are actually all together, at one time, in the fucking building—precisely because it’ll seem so unreal to people (the people at home) that these people (the people on screen) would actually spend time together.
And it’s not strictly the fact —DEERRRR— that no company would make a phone advert where the characters are not using their phones. Rather, these ads are directly taking on the idea that technology is pulling everyone apart. And this isn’t just Apple. Loads of companies are in on it; BT foremost among them (as we mentioned before). Across the spectrum is the narrative that we’re all apart in our lives so get this product, it’ll bring you and whoever together, OK?
As it's cut off half of it, just double-click on the video to watch it on Youtube. Sorry.
With this loneliness written into every advert, there’s no way we can look at the BT Infinity adverts and think of anything apart from the fact that the seemingly happy couple are looking to the future, and to INFINITY, because they, like everyone else in the ad, want to die. BT has hit upon the core of modern life, surely? No matter how joyous and content we may appear, we’re all so desperately sad and lonely that we haze longingly into the infinite, colourless nothing that is our death. The children of the famous BT couple have gone — where we do not know — and now they seem to be contemplating some suicide pact or waiting for the new BT to arrive. So, it’s either death or BT’s version of Infinity. The choice is yours.
We’ve got Virgin Media.
Monday, 18 October 2010
Here's to Strange Powers
We don't often go to the cinema alone. In fact it was our first time this week (OK, excuse the mixed up pronouns here). It was also part of the BFI London Film Festival to boot, which made it a little more acceptable. 'Cause, let's face it, if you're that one guy sitting on their own watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire then people are far more likely to take a disapproving view of it than seeing something really arty on the Southbank.
Not that Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and The Magnetic Fields was a particularly arty movie. A documentary about--just as the name suggests--the genius (yep, genius) behind a band who have turned out much over their some 18 years, Strange Powers really tapped into our fan boy love of the band. It foregrounded Merritt's hilarious responses to interview questions or shout-outs from gig audiences, and some amazing live performances:
'Yeah! Oh Yeah!' in Cambridge
'Born on a Train' in Cambridge, again, but not the same gig
Tending more towards biography than music/ social study, this long-form film covering the creative period (and the background of) Stephin Merritt centred itself on the former's relationship with his band mate and manager Claudia Gonson. It did so without being sappy and without being too idolising. Probably this is down to the fact that it was made by a few of Stephin's friends. But that's no bad thing for the project that was undertaken.
Anyway, we thought we'd do a little "hooray" for The Magnetic Fields along the lines of a Spotify mixtape. It takes a song from each of their albums (3 for the three volumes of 69 Love Songs) as a nod to Strange Power's range. Just click on either one of the links below to get all the Magnetic goodness:
Here's to Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and The Magnetic Fields
Here's to Strange Powers: Stephin Merritt and The Magnetic Fields
Thursday, 7 October 2010
"Stan, don't forget to poke your grandmother"
Maureen, Maureen, I'm beggin' of you, please don't take my band
And, as Petridis points out, this isn’t exactly unexpected. Rightly or wrongly, there’s outcry whenever a previously radical figure suddenly appears head in The Man’s lap, throat-deep on his profit margin. Whether they’re voting for George W. Bush (yes, we’re looking at you Tom Wolfe), or gadding around LA with their puppet-self in a roofless car insured by Swiftcover, there’s a sense of betrayal— that their idols have gone against, maybe even reversed, those anti-conformist freedoms they typified, restructuring the staid taboos and rigidities that they uprooted as often as their genital appendages (we do wonder what Iggy’s puppet penis is like b/t/w).
Now, that a woman named Maureen is the latest subject at the epicentre of this cultural conjuncture should be restated. We’ve got a neighbour named Maureen; she’s a lovely old lady who we’d suspect never spent days on end stratospherically-high on LSD playing second-sexual-fiddle to Nico in one of the most celebrated rock bands of the last century. She’s kind and always asks us how we’re doing. Her husband’s a decent guy. We don’t think she likes the Tea Party. But you never know.
For the theory buffs out there, the names Slavoj Zizek, Judith Butler and so on should ring a bell as these guys have been arguing for this way better than we ever could and concerning far more ubiquitous shit than Adam Curtis. But let’s not tumble into that whole area and let’s get back to Maureen.
To remind ourselves of just how good The Velvet Underground were, we went to listen to some CDs we found back in our old rooms (from a time before we became pirates). We listened to White Light/ White Heat and remembered that it’s actually pretty awesome—the muffled production’s pretty charming and it has a lot of the repetitive swirling melodies that they’re famous for yet they’re far more docile than is the case elsewhere which then work into the noisy finale of ‘I Heard Her Call My Name’ and ‘Sister Ray’.
BUT, after that we discovered that the & Nico disc was missing. We hate that. Why not put it back in its box? It’s not hard is it? For fuck’s sake, some people have no respect for our personal, private property! Fucking hippies.